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diff --git a/47047-8.txt b/47047-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 7ca11f0..0000000 --- a/47047-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,14877 +0,0 @@ - BROTHERS - - - - -This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at -http://www.gutenberg.org/license. If you are not located in the United -States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are -located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: Brothers - The True History of a Fight Against Odds -Author: Horace Annesley Vachell -Release Date: October 04, 2014 [EBook #47047] -Language: English -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BROTHERS *** - - - - -Produced by Al Haines. - - - - - - BROTHERS - - THE TRUE HISTORY OF - A FIGHT AGAINST ODDS - - - BY - - HORACE ANNESLEY VACHELL - - - - LONDON - JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET - 1905 - - - - - FIRST EDITION . . _May_ 1904 - Reprinted . . _June_ 1904 - Reprinted . . _August_ 1904 - Reprinted . . _November_ 1904 - Reprinted . . _December_ 1904 - Reprinted . . _The same month_ - Reprinted . . _January_ 1905 - - - - _Copyright in the United - States of America by - Horace Annesley Vachell_ - - - - - TO ALL MEN AND WOMEN - WHO HAVE STRIVEN: - TO THE STRONG - WHO HAVE ATTAINED THEIR GOAL, - TO THE WEAK - WHO HAVE MADE THE RUNNING FOR THE STRONG, - AND IN PARTICULAR TO THOSE - WHO HAVE CONFRONTED ILL-FORTUNE, ILL-HEALTH, - AND DISAPPOINTMENT - WITH FORTITUDE AND SERENITY, - I DEDICATE THIS - BOOK - - - - - _BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ - - A DRAMA IN SUNSHINE - JOHN CHARITY - THE PROCESSION OF LIFE - LIFE AND SPORT ON THE PACIFIC SLOPE - THE SHADOWY THIRD - THE PINCH OF PROSPERITY - - - - - *PREFATORY NOTE* - - -It is likely that the brothers in this book will be recognised by some -readers who may indict the good taste of revealing a secret guarded -jealously during many years. To these let it be said that the brother -who attained to the highest honours and dignities of his profession -earnestly desired that the truth concerning certain incidents in his -earlier career should be told in a biography. A desire he was -constrained reluctantly to forego. The story of the Samphires satisfies -adequately enough the exigencies of a peculiar case. The many are not -concerned; the few will discern truth through the thin veil of fiction. - - - - - *CONTENTS* - -CHAPTER - -Prologue - - I. Bubble and Squeak - II. Billy's *v.* Bashan's - III. Which contains a Fortune - IV. Miss Hazelby is Shocked - V. Valete - VI. At Burlington House - VII. The Hunt Ball - VIII. Barbizon - IX. At King's Charteris - X. After Three Years - XI. In Love's Pleasaunce - XII. Betty in Stepney - XIII. Bagshot on the Rampage - XIV. A Moral Exigency - XV. Aphrodite Smiles and Frowns - XVI. Westchester Cathedral - XVII. Surrender! - XVIII. Ariadne in Naxos - XIX. A Sanatorium in Sutherland - XX. Betty sees a Sprig of Rue - XXI. Recuperation - XXII. On Ben Caryll - XXIII. Hymeneal - XXIV. A Red Tie - XXV. Mark Hears a Bleating - XXVI. Readjustment - XXVII. In Grub Street - XXVIII. A Sunday in Cadogan Place - XXIX. The Procession of Life - XXX. A Note of Interrogation - XXXI. Betty sees Danger Signals - XXXII. Betty makes Good Resolutions - XXXIII. Illumination - XXXIV. Charing Cross - XXXV. Chrysostom Returns to Chelsea - XXXVI. Fenella - XXXVII. Poppy and Mandragora -XXXVIII. Gonzales - XXXIX. At the Miraflores - XL. "Come!" - XLI. The Power Behind the Throne - - - - - *BROTHERS* - - - - *PROLOGUE* - - -Mark Samphire clutched tightly his mother's hand, as the big room began -to fill with people. Some he knew, and these he feared: because they -might speak to him, and then he would stammer, and choke, and make a -piteous spectacle of himself. He wished that he were his brother, -Archibald, standing on the other side of his mother, Archie, the -pink-skinned and golden-haired, a tremendous fellow clad in a new sailor -suit, and tolerably self-possessed, but pinker than usual, because a -lady in lavender silk had hugged him and called him "a darling." Nobody -called Mark a darling except his mother, and that only when they were -alone. The fat butler kept shouting out more names. Mrs. Corrance and -Jim arrived. Mark hoped they would sit near him. Jim was his own -age--a ripe seven--and a sworn friend. Lord Randolph talked to Admiral -Kirtling, the funny man who made everybody laugh. Ah! Jim had pushed -his way through the crowd. In a minute the two boys were whispering -together, nineteen to the dozen, for Mark seldom stammered when he -talked to Jim. - -An older person than Mark would have seen on the faces of the assembled -company an air of expectation. Big folding-doors, now shut, divided the -drawing-room from the library. Upon these the eyes of the women -lingered, for behind them stood mystery and--so it was reported--beauty! -Meantime they chattered, talking for the most part about the house, -newly built, and well named The Whim. Miss Selina Lamb, one of the Lambs -from Cranberry-Orcas, who had so many relations that she was never out -of half-mourning, gave information to the Dean of Westchester. - -"I assure you, Mr. Dean, that it is a fact. The dear Admiral got into a -fly at Westchester--he carried nothing but a white umbrella, and told -the man, Thomas Pinnick, who has driven me a score of times, to take him -to 'some salubrious locality.' Thomas, quite properly, drove him here -across the downs. The west wind was blowing strongly, and the dear man -thought he was in the chops--it is chops, isn't it?--yes, in the chops -of the Channel. He gave Thomas Pinnick a sovereign, and bought this hill -within the week. Now he has built this remarkable house." - -The Dean smiled, admitting that the house might be described as -remarkable. Bedrooms covered the ground floor; above these the -sitting-rooms commanded a fine view of the pastoral county of Slowshire; -at the top of the house were the kitchen and servants' offices! - -"I understand," said Mr. Dean, "that food descends like manna from -above, and that the common odours of leek and cabbage ascend, and are -smelled of none, save perhaps the skylarks." - -"You always put things so poetically," murmured Miss Lamb. "Yes, you -are right. The still-room is just above the library." - -"Where it should be, my dear Miss Lamb. I hope the Admiral's -housekeeper wears list slippers." - -Miss Lamb, sensible that the Dean was making a joke which she could not -quite understand, smiled, showing large even teeth, and asked if Mr. -Dean had ever met the young lady in whose honour they had gathered -together. Mr. Dean had not met the young lady, but he had known, -intimately, her mother. Miss Lamb blushed. - -"She was charming," murmured the Dean absently, "the most fascinating -creature." - -The spinster sniffed her surprise, reflecting that her companion was a -radical. A true blue, the bishop, for instance, would not have -mentioned the mother at all. She felt it her duty to bleat a feeble -protest. - -"She behaved so shockingly, Mr. Dean." - -"True, true, but she was very young, Miss Lamb. Poor, pretty creature! -And now--dead!" - -Miss Lamb closed her thin lips, and her large, too prominent, china-blue -eyes settled upon a portrait just opposite: the portrait of Colonel -Kirtling, the Admiral's elder brother, the father of the mystery behind -the folding-doors, and the husband of the pretty creature who had -behaved so shockingly. The picture, painted by Richmond, was not unlike -the famous portrait of Lord Byron. Colonel Fred Kirtling had been one -of the handsomest men in the Guards. Richmond reproduced his curling -auburn hair, his short upper lip, his finely modelled nose, his round -chin with a distracting (the adjective was Lady Blessington's) dimple in -it, and his "wicked" (Lady B. again) eyes. - -"Did you know Colonel Kirtling, Mr. Dean?" - -"Yes. A sad scamp, Miss Lamb, a scamp when he married--at sixty!" - -He began to speak of the Kirtling family. Admiral Kirtling was the -fourth son of the sixteenth Lord Kirtling, of Kirtling, in the county of -Cumberland, who married a Penberthy from Cornwall, an heiress with a -large fortune settled upon herself and her children. The seventeenth -lord inherited whatever his sire had been unable to sell: Kirtling -heavily mortgaged and stripped of its huge leaden roof (gambled away at -hazard) and the wild moors which encompass it. This nobleman lived and -died in chronic resentment against the poverty his father had inflicted -upon him. His brother succeeded, and was the father of a son whom we -shall meet by and by. Fred, the third brother, who had a royal duke for -a godfather, married Louise de Courcy, a beauty with French blood in her -veins. It is certain that she married Fred for love and against the -wishes of her parents; and it is equally certain that she left him--just -four years afterwards--because she loved somebody else much better. -This somebody, who happened to be a peer and a famous soldier, offered -Fred such satisfaction as one gentleman, even in those latter days, -might tender an injured husband. Fred, however, wrote in reply that he -was under an obligation to his lordship for taking off his hands the -most ungrateful hussy in the kingdom. Fred's word, be it added, was -little better than his bond (the children of Israel knew that to be -worthless); and it is significant that Mrs. Kirtling's family, both -French and Irish, abused Fred to all-comers: asserting that he had -deceived dozens of women in his time, and none more cruelly than his -charming wife. Death shut the mouths of the gossips by carrying off both -Fred and Louise within six months of the latter's elopement. - -By this time the Admiral, a bachelor of some eccentricity, had just -settled into his new house at King's Charteris, near Westchester, and -was known to be averse to leaving it. Yet he had to answer the -question: "Who will take care of Fred's baby?" Lady Randolph, a -kinswoman, was called into council. - -"Children are the devil," said the Admiral gloomily. "Think of my -nymphs." (He had some beautiful china). - -"This one may prove the prettiest of them all," said Lady Randolph. - -"Yes, yes; father and mother the handsomest couple, even if forty years -were between 'em. Well, well, I lean on you, dear lady." - -Lady Randolph did not fail him. She fetched the child from town, gave -the nurse, an impudent town minx, twenty-four hours' notice, and -installed in her place a respectable girl, Esther Gear, out of her own -village of Birr Wood. - -So much, and little more, was known to the company assembled in the -Admiral's drawing-room. - -Presently the big folding-doors were flung open, and Lady Randolph -passed through, leading by the hand little Elizabeth Kirtling. A buzz -of admiration greeted Betty. She wore a delicate India muslin frock, -encircled by a rose-coloured sash. Rose-coloured shoes embellished her -tiny feet, and a knot of the same coloured riband glowed in her dark -curls, which framed an oval face. The Admiral had told Esther Gear that -he would tolerate no black, which came, he said, into people's lives -soon enough. Round her neck was a string of coral beads which matched -the tints of her cheeks. Her great hazel eyes shone demurely beneath -their thick black lashes, and when she smiled her lips parted, revealing -a fairy's set of teeth between two dimples. The Admiral met his niece on -the threshold of the room, took her hand, and patted it softly. Then he -led her forward. The finely proportioned saloon, filled with rare and -beautiful things, the silver light of an October afternoon, the many -faces--young and old alike touched and interested--served as a setting -for the grizzled veteran, with his whimsical weather-beaten face seamed -by a thousand lines, and the diminutive creature at his side. Mrs. -Samphire let two tears trickle unheeded down her thin cheeks, but her -pretty mouth was smiling. Mark felt that his mother's grasp had -tightened. Perhaps she foresaw, poor lady, that the time appointed for -her to leave her sons was near at hand. Mark stared hard at the little -girl as if indeed--as was true--he had never seen her like. - -Now it seems that the Admiral had told his niece, with a twinkle in his -kind eyes, that the drawing-room was her room: the state apartment of -the only lady of his house. And so, when Betty looked up and saw many -strange faces about her she recalled an adjective too often in her -father's mouth, and said clearly and loudly: "Uncle, what are all dese -dam peoples doing in my room?" - -When the laughter died down, the Admiral said with his queer chuckle: -"Egad! this is a maid of surprises"; but he was careful to explain to -his niece that his friends were her friends, to be honoured and loved by -her. The child's mouth puckered, and her great eyes were troubled. - -"I can't love all dese peoples," she protested, on the edge of tears. -The Admiral laughed. - -"You must pick and choose, Betty. 'Tis the privilege of your sex. Come -now, who pleases you best?" - -She understood perfectly: examining the company with dignified -curiosity. Finally, her eyes rested upon the three boys at Mrs. -Samphire's side. - -"I like dem boys," she said clearly. - -The three boys were confused but charmed. - -"She likes the boys, the coquette!" exclaimed the Admiral. "And which -of the three, missie, do you like best?" - -The boys blushed because the company stared at them. Archie, the -handsome one, stood nearest to little Betty, and seeing her hesitation -held out his hands; Jim Corrance smiled invitingly; Mark, the stammerer, -attempted no lure, dismally conscious that he could not compete against -the others, but his forget-me-not blue eyes, the only fine feature he -possessed, suffused a soft radiance. - -"I love him!" cried Betty, running forward. She passed Archie and Jim, -flinging her arms round Mark's neck, who bashfully returned her eager -kisses. - -"Um!" said the Admiral, half smiling, half frowning, "as I remarked just -now, here is a Maid of Surprises." - - - - - *CHAPTER I* - - *BUBBLE AND SQUEAK* - - -This is the history of a fighter, a fighter against odds, whose weapons -were forged at Harrow-on-the-Hill. Afterwards, in Mark Samphire's eyes, -all school buildings, even the humblest, had a certain sanctity, because -they are strewn with precious dust, the _pulverem Olympicum_, so pungent -to the nostrils of a combatant. To him, for instance, the ancient -Fourth Form Room at Harrow was no battered mausoleum of dead names, but -a glorious Campus Martius, where Byron, Peel, and other immortal youths -wrestled with their future, even as Jacob wrestled with the angel. - -Mark and his friend Jim Corrance became Harrovians when they were -fourteen, taking their places in the First Shell, the highest form but -one open to new boys. Archibald Samphire, their senior by eighteen -months, had just reached the Upper Remove, two forms ahead of the First -Shell. - -The three boys travelled together from King's Charteris to London; but -at Euston Mark and Jim were bundled by Archie into a first-class -carriage, with instructions to sit still and not "swagger." Archie -joined some swells on the platform. One of these Olympians lighted a -cigar, which he smoked for a couple of minutes, throwing it away with -the observation that really he must tell the dear old governor to buy -better weeds. - -"How do you feel, Mark?" whispered Jim. - -"If I l-looked as small as I f-f-feel," said Mark, "you wouldn't be able -to s-s-see me." - -An hour later they stood in the schoolyard. Here "bill" was called; -here yard-cricket, beloved by many generations of boys, was played; -here, peering out of his cell, might be seen the rosy, clean-shaven face -of old Sam, _Custos_, as the Doctor called him; that sly old Sam who -sold all things pertaining to Harrow games at a preposterous profit; who -prepared the rods, who was present when those rods fell hurtling upon -the bare flesh--Sam of the fair, round belly, Sam of the ripe, -ruby-coloured nose, who has led bishops, statesmen, field-marshals, -peers and baronets, members of Parliament, members of the Bar, members -of the Stock Exchange--to the BLOCK! Can it be possible that Sam has -passed away? Surely not. Is he not part and parcel of the Yard? And -when the Yard lies silent and deserted, when the moonbeams alone play -upon it, when the school clock tolls midnight, does not the ghost of old -Sam fare forth on his familiar rounds, keeping watch and ward in the -ancient precincts? - -From the Yard Archibald escorted Mark and Jim to Billy's, their -boarding-house, where the boys found themselves joint tenants of a -two-room, a piece of good fortune (for there were several three-rooms -and one four-room) which they owed partly to Archie, as he was careful -to inform them, and partly to the high places they had taken in the -school. Long and narrow, with a door at one end and a window at the -other, this room contained two battered fold-up bedsteads, two -washhand-stands, two bureaux, a shabby carpet, a table, a fireplace, and -three Windsor chairs. Here the boys were expected to work, to sleep, -and to eat breakfast and tea. No room, according to Mark, has since -given him the pleasure and pride which he derived from this. And Jim -Corrance, after he had made his enormous fortune, liked to speak of the -first sporting-prints which he bought and of the moth-eaten head of a -red deer, a nine-pointer, found in an attic at Pitt Hall, the home of -the Samphires. - -This first summer half was as pleasant as any Mark spent at Harrow. He -learned to swim in "Ducker," the school bathing-place, a puddle in those -days, but since greatly enlarged and improved; he was taught to play -cricket with a straight bat; he lay upon the green slopes of the Sixth -Form Ground and ate ices; he spent his _exeat_ at Randolph House in -Belgrave Square, and witnessed at "Lord's" the defeat of the Eton eleven -from the top of Lord Randolph's coach, returning to Harrow with a -sovereign in his pocket, pride in his heart, and heaven knows what -mixture of pie and pudding and champagne in his small stomach! - -At Billy's the colour, tone, and texture of the "house" were -exceptionally good. Billy treated his boys as gentlemen. Some dominies -play the spy, thereby turning boys into enemies instead of friends; -Billy always coughed discreetly when making his rounds. And if he had -reason to suspect a boy of conduct unbecoming an Harrovian, he would -send for him and speak to him quietly, or perhaps, if the offender was a -good fellow, ask him to breakfast or dinner, heaping food upon his plate -and coals of fire upon his head. His favourite warning may be quoted: -"I have had my eye on you for some time." But Mark knew, even then, -that Billy's eyes were none of the best, and that often they pretended -not to see much that a wise man overlooks. - -The first year passed quickly. Mark and Jim found themselves in the -Lower Remove at the beginning of the winter half, where they achieved -the distinction of a "double," jumping over the Upper Remove into the -Third Fifth, known as "Paradise," a place so pleasant that some boys -refused to leave it. One could say to aunts and uncles, "Oh, I'm in the -Fifth," and few were unkind enough to ask, "Which Fifth?" Here they -found Archie and a friend of his, Lubber West, who in these latter days -doubtless would have been superannuated, and not without cause. Archie -and the Lubber practised what they called the "co-operative system of -work." They would come to Mark's room and sit upon the sofa with a -large gallipot of strawberry-ice between them. Then Mark and Jim were -instructed to "mug up" forty lines of Euripides. This took time, and -meanwhile the ice was consumed and anything else in the form of light -refreshment which might be offered. When Mark was ready to construe, -Archie and the Lubber produced a couple of battered books, and listened -attentively enough to what Mark had to say, noting in light pencil marks -unfamiliar verbs and nouns. In this way, as Archie observed, much -valuable time was saved, and the lesson honourably learned. Archie had -a number of "cribs," but, as elder brother, he denounced their use by -Mark as immoral. "Samphire major has given us a very 'Smart'[#] -translation," was one of Billy's bon mots, not original with him by any -means, but accepted by his pupils as proof of wit and gentlemanlike -satire. - - -[#] Horace was translated by Smart. - - -During this half, Archibald was working hard at cricket, under the -kindly eyes of those famous coaches, the late Lord Bessborough and Mr. -Robert Grimston. He had more than a chance of playing for the school; -and accordingly he pointed out to Mark that it was the minor's duty to -help his major with Greek and Latin. "If I do get my straw,"[#] he -said, "you will reap your reward." This unconscious humorist was now a -glorious specimen of Anglo-Saxon youth. He had crisp yellow hair, -curling tightly over a round, well-proportioned head, the clear, ruddy -skin which from the days of David has always commanded admiration, and a -tenor voice of peculiarly fine quality. Mark was his humble and adoring -slave. Now, it chanced that in a shop half-way down Harrow Hill two -young women possessed of bright complexions and waspish waists served -hot chocolate and buttered toast to boys coming up from the playing -fields, and in particular to certain boys of Billy's. Behind the shop -was a back room, into which two or three big fellows were admitted. In -a certain set it became the thing to drop into Brown's at half-past four -and have a lark with the girls. The girls were able to take care of -themselves; the boys lost their heads. Because Archie's head was a -pretty one, the girls were not particularly anxious that he should find -it. During the Christmas term he and a boy from another house were in -and out of Brown's half a dozen times a day, and the school wondered -what would happen. - - -[#] The black-and-white straw hat only worn by members of the school -eleven. - - -"I l-l-loathe those girls," said Mark; "one b-b-bubbles and one -squeaks." - -Billy's seized the phrase. Within a week the girls were known as Bubble -and Squeak. One of the fags pinned a card to Archie's door:-- - -"Which do you like best: chocolate and buttered toast or Bubble and -Squeak?" - -"What can we do?" said Mark to Jim. - -"Is it Bubble or Squeak?" Jim asked. - -"I d-d-don't know or care; they're vulgar b-b-beasts. Old Archie has a -lock of hair. They've given away tons of it: enough to stuff a sofa." - -"They can get more from the same old place," said Jim. - -"Oh, it's their own," said Mark. "I hate marmalade-coloured hair--don't -you?" - -It was after this brief dialogue that Jim noticed a falling off of -Mark's interest in his work. For the first time a copy of Iambics -deserved some of the remarks which the form-master made upon them. -During the next fortnight this negligence, coupled with his stutter and -a temporary deafness, sent Mark to the bottom of his class. Jim asked -for an explanation. - -"It's old Archie. He's playing the devil with himself." - -"Let him," said Jim, who was no altruist. "What's the good of worrying? -We can't do anything." - -"Perhaps we c-c-can," said Mark. "We _must_," he added. - -"You have a scheme?" - -Mark nodded. "I d-d-don't know w-what you'll say to it." - -"I can't say anything till I hear it." - -"S-suppose I give Billy a hint?" - -The scheme was so alien to a boy's conception of the word "honour," such -a violation of an unwritten code--in fine, such a desperate remedy--that -Jim gasped. - -"D-don't look like that!" said Mark sharply. "C-can't you see that I -loathe it--as--you do. If m-mother were alive I'd write to her. But if -I told father, he would come bellowing down, and behave like a bull in a -china shop. There would be a jolly r-r-row then." - -"Mark," said Jim, "Archie is big enough to look after himself." - -"It's worse than you think," Mark said. "He's meeting this g-g-girl -after lock-up. He gets out of the pantry window. I daresay he's -squared one of the Tobies" (Toby was the generic name for footmen). "And -it's frightfully r-r-risky. If he's nailed, he'll be sacked." - -"What a silly old ass!" said Jim. - -"He runs these frightful risks--for what? To kiss a girl who bubbles at -the mouth!" - -"It's the one who squeaks," Jim amended. "And she's an artful dodger. -She thinks he'll marry her. All right, I'll go with you to Billy after -prayers to-night." - -"I'll go alone." - -"You won't." - -"I will." - -"No." - -"Yes; yes; yes." - -Jim's obstinacy prevailed. After prayers, the boys waited in the -passage. Jim had been swished by the Doctor in the Fourth Form Room, -and his sensations before execution reproduced themselves. Mark seemed -cool and collected. - -"Sit down," said Billy. "Open your books." - -Mark laid his Thucydides upon the table. - -"Bless my soul!" ejaculated Billy. He had pushed up his spectacles -while he was speaking. Now, he polished a pair of pince-nez and popped -them on his nose. Nervousness is contagious. - -"We have c-c-come here to t-t-tell you, s-sir, s-s-something which you -ought to know." - -The house-master blinked, and glanced at both doors. One communicated -with the passage, the other opened into the drawing-room, where his wife -was playing one of Strauss's waltzes: _Wein, Weib und Gesang_. Whenever -Jim heard this waltz he could conjure up a vision of that square, cosy, -book-lined room, the big desk littered with papers, and behind it the -burly figure of Billy, his eyes blinking interrogation. He let Mark -take his own time. - -"Something wrong in the house?" said Billy. - -"Yes, sir." - -Billy seized a quill pen, and began to bite it. - -"Isn't this a serious step for you boys to take?" he asked suddenly. - -"Yes, sir." - -His gravity became portentous. Perhaps he feared an abominable -revelation. - -"You both understand," he coughed nervously, "that I may be compelled to -act on what you choose to tell me; and if what you have to say -implicates--er--others, if others may--er--have to--er--suffer, perhaps -severely," he nodded so emphatically that his pince-nez fell off, "it -may be well for you to--er--in fact--to," he blew his nose violently, -"to bid me--Good night." - -"Not yet," said Mark firmly. - -Billy's hesitation vanished. - -"Go on," he said curtly. "Speak plainly, and conceal nothing." - -Mark told his story. He made no mention of the pantry window, nor of -the meetings after lock-up. For the rest, he spoke with a conciseness -and practical common sense which filled Jim with admiration. As he was -concluding, Billy began to smile. - -"You are both good fellows, and I'm obliged to you. You must dine with -me. I shall pull a string or two, and our--er--marionettes, mark that -word; it is pat; our marionettes shall dance elsewhere." - -"Not Archie?" gasped Mark. - -"No. We can't spare Archibald. I undertake to handle him. Silly -fellow, very silly fellow! His father and mother put a better head on -your shoulders, my boy"; he tapped Mark's cheek. "And now open old -Thicksides. Eh, what? you know your lesson? Then let's hear it." Jim -got rather red. "I shan't put you on, Corrance, but Samphire minor and -I will construe for your benefit. Fire away, Samphire minor." - -The boys went back to their room to find Archie at full length on the -sofa. His greeting justified Billy's sagacity in keeping Mark to -construe Thucydides. "What a time you fellows have been! I suppose -Billy gave you half a dozen readings. Well, let's have 'em, late though -it is. I must get my remove this half." - -So no suspicion was excited. - -Within the week Bubble and Squeak mysteriously disappeared, and Samphire -major had an interview with his house-master. What passed was not -revealed at the time, but, later, Archie gave Mark some details, which -are set down with the premiss that a minor canon of Westchester -Cathedral is speaking, not a Fifth Form boy at Harrow. - -"Do you remember those girls at Brown's?" he said. "Well, I fell in -love with one of them. What? You knew it? Oh! Oh, indeed! The whole -school knew it? Ah, well, Billy knew it too. Sent for me, and behaved -like a gentleman. Made me blubber like a baby. I give you my word I -never felt quite so cheap. It wasn't what he said, but what he left -unsaid. And I promised him that I would have nothing more to do with -Squeak. He told me a thing or two about her which opened my eyes; she -was a baggage, but pretty, very pretty: an alluring little spider. I -felt at the time I would go through fire and water to her----" - -"Not to mention a pantry window," said Mark, grinning. - -"You don't mean to say that you knew that too? Well, well, it might have -proved an ugly scrape." - -For a year after this incident, the sun shone serenely in the Samphire -firmament. The brothers moved up out of Paradise, into the Second -Fifth, Paradise Lost, and thence into the First Fifth, Paradise -Regained, singing pæans of praise and thanksgiving. This was at the -beginning of Mark's third summer half, the half when Archie made a great -score at Lord's, carrying out his bat for eighty-seven runs in the first -innings; the half, also, when Mark received his "cap,"[#] the night -before the match wherein Billy's became cock house at cricket! - - -[#] The "cap" is the house cricket-cap, given to members of the house -eleven. - - - - - *CHAPTER II* - - *BILLY'S *_*v.*_* BASHAN'S* - - -During this summer half Mark and Jim built some castles, in which, as -you will see, they were not called upon to live. If Fate made men dwell -in the mansions of their dreams how many of us would find ourselves -queerly housed? Mark's castles were military fortresses. He had the -pipeclay in his marrow, whereas Jim saw the Queen's red through his -friend's spectacles. The boys studied the lives of famous captains, -from Miltiades to Wellington, and at tea and breakfast would fight the -world's great battles with such well-seasoned troops as chipped plates -and saucers, a battered salt-cellar and pepper-pot, a glass milk-jug, -and a Britannia metal teapot, which would not pour properly. India, and -in particular the Indian frontier, was their battlefield: the scene of a -strife such as the world has not yet witnessed; a struggle between the -Slav and the Anglo-Saxon for the supremacy of the world. Mark boldly -reached for a marshal's _bâton_; Jim modestly contented himself with the -full pay of a general, the Victoria Cross, and a snug little crib in a -good hunting country. - -Sometimes Archie deigned to listen to them, but he was not encouraging -in his comments. - -"You, a soldier!" he would exclaim, looking at Mark's narrow chest and -skinny arms; "why you'd die of fatigue in your first campaign. I advise -you to be a schoolmaster." - -"You have f-f-forgotten" (most boys would have said "you don't know"), -"you have forgotten," Mark replied, "that Alexander was a small man; and -Nelson, and Napoleon, and Wellington." - -"Pooh, they were hard as nails." - -That same evening Mark said: "I'm g-going to the Gym" (gymnasium) "every -day, till I get hard as nails." - -"Not in the summer?" Jim exclaimed. - -"Yes; I'll have the place to myself--so much the better." - -He worked indefatigably, and Jim was asked to feel his biceps about four -times a day. - -About the middle of June Jim made a discovery. High up, on one of the -inside panels of his bedstead, he found the name of a gallant fellow who -had fought gloriously in the Indian Mutiny. - -"I'd like to sleep in his bed," said Mark. - -"What a rum chap you are!" Jim exclaimed. - -"If I sleep in his bed I may d-dream of him," Mark replied. - -They changed beds with mutual satisfaction; for Jim's had a trick of -collapsing in the middle of the night. - -Later on Jim made another discovery: subjective this time. Mark was -overdoing himself: working mind and muscle too hard. Never was spirit -more willing, nor flesh more weak. One day, a sultry day in the middle -of July, he fainted in school. That night Billy detained Jim after -prayers. - -"_Entre nous_, I am uneasy about Samphire minor," he said. "And as two -heads are better than one I've sent for you, his friend and--er--mine. -What do you suggest?" - -At that moment Jim would have gone to the rack for Billy. As Jim -suggested nothing, Billy continued: "The case presents difficulties, but -difficulties give an edge to life--don't they?" - -"Sometimes," said Jim cautiously; for Billy had a trick of leading -fellows on to make fools of themselves. - -"Samphire minor goes too fast at his fences." - -Billy knew that any allusion to the hunting-field was not wasted on Jim. - -"And the fences," continued Billy thoughtfully, "are rather big for -Samphire minor." - -"And he won't ride cunning," added Jim. - -"Just so. Thank you, my dear fellow; you follow me, I see. Now -Samphire major, big though he is, takes advantage of the--er--gaps." - -"Rather," said Jim. - -"Humph!" Billy stroked his ample chin. Jim was reflecting that his -tutor was too heavy for a first-flight man, but that in his day he must -have been a thruster. - -"In fine, not to put too fine a point on it, _we_ must interfere." - -"Yes," said Jim, swelling visibly. - -"We must head him off, throw him out, teach him that valuable lesson, -how to _reculer pour mieux sauter_." - -If Billy had a weakness (a _faible_, he would have said), it was in the -use of French, which he spoke perfectly. - -"Ye-es," said Jim, not so confidently. - -"Now, how would you set about it?" - -"I, sir? If you please, sir, I don't see my way, but I'll follow your -lead blindly, sir!" - -Billy smiled, and polished his pince-nez. - -"We shall move slow. The blind leading the blind. Both of you expect -to be in the Sixth next September? Yes. Suppose--I only say -suppose--suppose you were left--where you are?" - -"Oh, sir!" - -"Come, come, I thought Paradise Regained was the jolliest form in the -school." - -"It is," said Jim, "but----" - -"You are rather young and small for the Sixth. Why, God bless me! only -the other day you were fags. Now, if I gave you my word that there -would be no real loss of time, that you would fare farther and better by -taking it easy, what would you say?" - -"I say--all right, sir." - -"Good boy! Wise boy! Leave the rest to me! I shall see that Samphire -major goes up, which is fitting. The height will give him--er--poise, -not _avoirdupois_, of which he has enough already. Samphire minor will -not complain if you keep him company. Good night. _À propos_--will you -and Samphire minor dine with us next Tuesday? A glass of champagne will -do neither of you any harm." - -Next term Mark became less angular, and some colour came into his thin -cheeks. Both Jim and he played football hard in the hope of obtaining a -"fez."[#] Harrow, like Eton and Winchester, has a game of football -peculiarly its own, differing from "socker" in that it is lawful to give -what is called "yards." A boy, for instance, dribbling the ball, may -turn and kick it to one of his own side. If this manoeuvre be executed -neatly, the other boy catches it and yells: "Yards!" Then the opposite -side retires three yards from the spot where the ball was caught, and -the catcher is given a free kick, which at a critical point of the game -may prove of value. In Billy's brute force rather than finesse informed -the play, a fact which had not escaped Mark's notice. - - -[#] Worn by members of the house football eleven. - - -"We lose lots of goals," said Mark to Jim, "because we try to rush 'em, -instead of giving 'yards' and taking it coolly. Let's you and I -practise 'yards' till we have it p-pat. Our best players f-foozle -awfully." - -Accordingly they bought a football and kicked it secretly and -assiduously, Mark insisting that "yards" should not be given by them in -the ordinary house games till they were masters of a wet, slippery ball. -Then one afternoon, when Billy came down to see how his house was -getting on, both boys gave "yards," in the forefront of the battle. As -they panted up the hill after the game, Archibald, in the school -flannels, asked if they were much the worse for wear. In giving "yards" -where the advantage was greatest, they had been knocked down several -times. - -"You fellows played up," said the great man. "If you go on like that, I -may give you a chance next Saturday." - -"Thanks awfully," said Mark. - -Saturday came, and with it the first of the series of house-matches. -When the list went up on the old landing at the head of the rickety -stairs, and when Mark's and Jim's names were seen, a howl of -remonstrance was heard. - -"They'll be getting babies to play next," said many whose names were not -on the list. - -Archibald sent for Mark and spoke a sharp word: "They accuse me of -favouring, the silly fools, as if my brother wasn't the last fellow in -the house I'd think of favouring." - -"I know that, Archie." - -"You see," Archibald explained, "this match with Bashan's doesn't count. -We must give 'em a licking, and afterwards it will be just as easy to -let you drop out, as it was to stick you in." - -The school, however, were of opinion that this match might prove a -surprise for Billy's. Bashan's was not a first-class team, but there -were big fellows in it who had the reputation of playing a savage game. -Bashan's, it was said, would sell their souls and bodies to lower -Billy's pride, and Billy's would sell theirs as cheerfully rather than -Bashan's should triumph. Billy's included two members of the school -eleven, Archie and the Lubber; Bashan's had one, but he was reckoned the -finest player of his generation. - -The game began. Half the school was present, including Billy, who was -known to miss many things in life, but his house-match--never! Behind -the crowd of boys the austere figure of the Doctor sat erect on his -brown horse. - -Archie kicked off. The wind carried the ball to Bashan's top side. -There a lean, long-legged, long-winded Bashanite stopped it, kicked it, -and swooped after it like a lurcher after a rabbit! By virtue of his -speed he shot by Billy's top-side men before they had got into their -stride; in another second he had kicked the ball again--and again. It -rose slowly, sailed over the head of the back--who was not quite -back--and just fell between and through the goal-posts. - -Bashan's bellowed itself into a frenzy. Billy's smiled coldly and -critically. Archie had a vacuous expression, as of an ox stricken by a -pole-axe. Mark's eyes were shining. - -"We are going to have a f-fight," he said. - -Within ten minutes Bashan's had kicked a second goal almost as "flukey" -as the first. Stupor spread like a London fog. Billy's was -demoralised. At times bad luck paralyses mind and muscles. On such -occasions the man of finer clay than his fellows seeks and finds -opportunity. Mark, for instance, rose to and above this emergency. He, -the smallest player on the ground, the one, physically speaking, least -well equipped for the task, thrust himself into the breach between -promise and performance. In the brief interval, after the second goal -had been kicked, he went up to Archie and the Lubber, who were standing -apart, inert and speechless. - -"I s-say," stammered Mark, "you must change your tactics." - -The Lubber raised his heavy head. - -"Shut up, Mark!" said Archibald. - -"I won't," said Mark. "These Bashanites haven't a chance if _you_ -d-d-do the right thing." - -Archie scowled; but the Lubber, who had reason to respect Mark's -abilities as a scholar, growled: "Well, what is the right thing?" - -"The Bashanites are like a lot of helots, drunk with success. If we go -canny, they'll play themselves out. Then we can trample on 'em. Don't -attack a victorious enemy! Defence is our game. Pull our fellows -together! Tell 'em to keep c-cool and quiet for ten minutes; close in -the top sides; keep the whole eleven in front of our g-goal; forbid -individual effort till you give the word!" - -"By Jove! he's right," said the Lubber. Archie kicked off for the -second time; and the Bashanites fell on the ball, kicked it hard, and -charged furiously. Met by a solid phalanx, hurled back, bruised and -broken--they charged again and again, panting and bellowing; but Billy's -held together. Doubtless Billy himself fathomed the plan of campaign, -for when the fry of his house began to complain, when cries of "_Follow -up! Follow up!_" were heard above the yells of the Bashanites, when -shrill voices screamed, "Now's your chance!" or, in disconsolate wail, -"Why don't you run, you idiot!" or, in still more poignant accents, -"Good Lord! what is the matter with the fools?"--then, above these -heart-breaking cries, boomed a big bass voice: - -"Steady, Billy's! Well played! Steady! Steady there!" - -Within ten minutes of half-time it was plain that the enemy was -exhausted. Wild eyes, heaving chests, pallid faces confronted a team -full of running and brimful of hope. At the next pause Archie moved -along the line. _Orders to charge_. And didn't Billy's charge? Didn't -every boy's heart thrill to that whispered word? Charge? Aye, with a -yell which must have echoed in the Fourth Form Room, nearly a mile away. -Charge? Yes--with the fury of the Light Brigade at Balaclava! And the -Bashanites bowed down before that charge like the worshippers of Baal -beneath the sword of the Prophet! It was Homeric, worthy, so Billy -said, of the finest traditions of the house. - -One goal to two--and half-time. - -While Billy's sucked the lemons which the fry hurled at them, Jim found -time to observe to Mark: "I say, so far _we_ haven't scored." - -"N-n-not yet," said Mark. - -Bashan's kicked off after ends had been changed. They had got their -second wind, and also sound advice from their captain, a man of guile, -who has since been seen and heard at Baba Wali, at Abu Klea, and at -Suakin. The Bashanites herded together, bent on retaining the advantage -of their one goal, not daring to risk it in pursuit of another. Once, -twice, thrice, Billy's swept up the field, to be driven back and back -when within a dozen paces of the Bashanite citadel. And then, at the -fourth essay, Jim's chance came. He had the ball between his legs. -"Kick it, kick it!" screamed Billy's. "_Yards_," whispered Mark. Jim -turned mechanically, kicking the ball into Archie's outstretched hands -as the leading Bashanite rolled him head over heels in the mud. - -A silence fell on players and onlookers. Archie took his time, eyeing -anxiously the distance between himself and the goal-posts. Jim shut his -eyes, which in point of fact were nearly closed already. A roar of -applause from Billy's, a despairing groan from Bashan's, proclaimed the -accuracy of the kick. - -Two goals all, and twenty minutes to play! - -The Lubber sauntered up, sucking a lemon, and stolid as usual. - -"Well," said he to Mark, "what'll happen now?" - -"Why they'll play up like m-mad, of course. They've everything to gain, -and precious little to lose. We ought to go back to our defensive -tactics. Let 'em p-pump 'emselves out, and then smash 'em." - -"Good kid," said the old Lubber; "if your body was half as big as your -brain, you'd be a corker." - -He was seen talking to Archie; and Archie was nodding his handsome head, -as if in accord. Before the ball was kicked off, word was passed round -to play on the defensive. These tactics may seem elementary to the -modern player, but five-and-twenty years ago football on both sides of -the Atlantic was go-as-you-please--a succession of wild and -unpremeditated rushes, with much brilliant individual work, but lacking -in strategy and organisation. - -Within a few minutes of resuming play, the Lubber stupidly interposed -his ankle between a boot and the ball, forgetting that his skull was the -most invulnerable part of his person, with the result that Billy's lost -his services and weight when they were most needed. Archie, too, was -slightly disabled and more than slightly dismayed. Bashan's pressed -their advantage with vigour. - -"It's all right," Mark panted. - -Archie had the ball and was away, his side streaming after him. Down -the field he sped, faster and faster. The biggest Bashanite met him -shoulder to shoulder in full career. The Bashanite reeled over -backwards; Archie hardly swerved. On and on strode that glorious figure -in the violet-and-black stripes. Only one more Bashanite stood between -him and the goal; but he, crafty as Ulysses, was quick to perceive what -must be done. The ball rolled between him and the all-conquering -Archie. He rushed forward. Archie crashed into him. The Bashanite -fell, but the ball sailed towards a group of battered gladiators, who, -having abandoned pursuit, were awaiting just such a piece of good -fortune as now befell them. - -"Get back!" yelled the fry. - -Billy's got back in the nick of time, mad with disappointment. The -Bashanites retreated, cursing. In a minute "Time" would be called. At -this moment Mark darted out of a scrimmage dribbling the ball. - -A second later he turned his back upon three big fellows who were within -ten feet of him, knowing that they would meet with irresistible force on -the spot where he was standing, and knowing--who better?---his own -feebleness of bone and sinew. He turned and gave "yards." - -Jim looked down. - -When Jim looked up a pile of figures lay upon the wet, mud-stained -grass, and the ball was in the hands of a sure and safe player. And -then, as a roar of applause ascended from the throats of everybody on -the ground, the word "Time" fell like a thunderbolt. - -The match was over. Bashan's had tied Billy's. - -But the eyes of the crowd rested on the pile in front of Bashan's goal. -Three figures rose silently; the fourth lay face down in the mire. -Archie touched his brother lightly. - -"You're all right, old chap, aren't you?" - -Mark did not answer. His arm was turned outward at a curious angle. - -"Back," said Archie, as the two elevens surged forward. "Back!" - -He faced them, terror-stricken, and Jim Corrance had never admired him -so much nor liked him so well, because his strong voice trembled and his -keen blue eyes were wet. - -"Mark," he cried, kneeling down, "don't you hear me? Don't you hear -me?" His voice broke. "My God!" he exclaimed, "he's dead!" - - -The face upturned to the chill November skies was of death's colour; the -eyes stared glassily; the livid lips were parted in a grim smile -heart-breaking to see. The two elevens formed a ring around the -brothers and Billy, who had his fingers on Mark's pulse. Beyond this -inner circle was the outer circle of spectators. One boy began to -sneeze, and the silence had become so impressive that his sneeze seemed -a personal affront, an unseemly violation. Archibald was crying as men -cry--silently, with convulsive movements of the limbs. - -Just then the school surgeon hurried up. Fortunately he was on the -ground, but had retired with the Lubber to a distant bench, busy in -bandaging that giant's ankle. Kneeling down, he laid his ear to the -small blue-and-white striped chest. - -"I can't feel any pulse," Billy growled. - -The doctor's head was as that of a graven image. - -"Why don't you do something?" Archibald demanded, giving expression to -the unspoken entreaty of three hundred boys. - -The surgeon paid no attention; he was listening for that murmur of life -which would justify his doing anything. - -"He is coming to," he muttered. - -"He is coming to" passed from lip to lip. The school sighed with -relief. The clouds above let fall a few drops of rain. - -"A hurdle," commanded the surgeon, "and some coats!" - -Billy was the first to pull off his overcoat. The surgeon touched -Mark's body in a dozen places. Mark gasped and gurgled; then he tried to -sit up--and succeeded. - -"Back's all right," said the surgeon. "Keep quiet, my boy! You're a -little the worse for wear. There, there, shut your eyes and believe that -we shall hurt you as little as possible. Your arm is broken." - -The news spread while the hurdle was being brought. Mark closed his -eyes and lay back. The captain of Bashan's stepped forward. - -"May _I_ help to carry the hurdle?" he said. - -The biggest swells were proud to carry that hurdle! The school formed -itself into two long lines; and when Mark passed through--pale, but -smiling--some chord was struck, which thrilled into sound. - -"_Three cheers for Samphire minor!_" - -The brave shout rolled over the playing-fields and up Harrow Hill, past -the Music Schools which recorded it; past the Chapel, where its subtle -vibrations were enshrined; past the Yard, which gave back the glad -acclaim of valour; past the Vaughan Library, startling, perhaps, some -bookworm too intent upon what has been to care greatly for what is and -may be; down the familiar street, where countless generations of ardent -boys had hastened to work or play; on and on till it reached -Billy's--Billy's with its hoary traditions of innumerable battles fought -and won, Billy's shabby and battered, scarred within and without, -Billy's--dear old Billy's--where it became merged but not lost, in the -whole of which every valiant word or deed or thought is an imperishable -part! - - - - - *CHAPTER III* - - *WHICH CONTAINS A FORTUNE* - - -At lock-up Billy announced that Mark's injuries, albeit severe, were not -such as to cause his friends serious anxiety. And so, when Archie came -to Jim's room with a face as long as the catalogue of ships in the -_Iliad_, and when the two boys present got up and left hurriedly at his -impatient nod of dismissal, you may believe that Jim's heart began to -thump and his eyes to pop out of his head with interrogation. - -"I dropped in to tell you, you could get your 'fez,'" said Archie. - -"Oh, thanks awfully. And--and Mark?" - -"I bought one for him and sent it in. He got it after his arm was set." - -Jim's heart warmed to the big fellow. "I'm glad you thought of that." - -"His advice saved the match, and--and--and--" his voice had a curious -quaver in it--"and it's no good. Mark can never play footer again." - -He sat down and laid his curly head upon a Greek lexicon. - -"You see," Archie continued heavily, "I thought Mark would step into my -shoes." - -"Good Lord!" said Jim, seeing Mark's foot. "He'd lose himself in 'em." - -"The Lubber says he'd have made a great player, a great captain." - -"So he will--yet. Footer's not the only game." - -"That's true. There's cricket." Archie's face brightened. "I must -push him on at that. The governor might get a 'pro' to bowl to him -during the Easter holidays. He shall, by Jove! Yes, you're right. I -was a fool not to think of that. And when he leaves there will have -been three Samphires of Pitt Hall in the school eleven. I'll go now. -I've got to tackle a nasty bit of Æschylus. You played up like fun -to-day. I told the Doctor you came from our part of Slowshire. He said -something in Greek which I couldn't make head or tail of; but I grinned, -because I made certain it was complimentary. I say--don't be in too -much of a hurry to get into the Sixth. A fellow can't work and play -too. And I didn't come to Harrow to be killed by Greek tragedians. -By-the-by, if you could go down and give the old Lubber a 'con,' he'd be -grateful. He'd come up, as usual, only he doesn't want to climb these -stairs. Good night. We're to see Mark to-morrow, if he has a decent -sleep." - -After Archie had left the room, Jim rose to go downstairs to the Lubber, -and in rising his eye caught a picture of Mark's mother, which hung to -the right of the head of the nine-pointer. On the other side was a -picture of the Squire, a capital portrait of that fine specimen of the -country gentleman. From time immemorial the owners of Pitt Hall had -sought wives in Slowshire; but Mark's father went a-wooing in London and -married a delicate creature of sensibility, refinement, and culture, the -daughter of an eloquent and impecunious member of Parliament, a friend -of Cobden and Bright, with some of Sheridan's wild blood in his veins, -tempered, however, by a tincture of John Wesley's. This lady bore her -husband three sons: George, cut to the old Samphire pattern (whose -fortunes do not concern us), Archibald, and Mark, the stammerer. Then -she died, and in due time the Squire of Pitt Hall married again, -selecting Miss Selina Lamb, of Cranberry-Orcas, of whom mention has been -made. - -Jim stared at both portraits, seeing dimly the gulf between husband and -wife, realising that Mark was his mother's child, even as Archie was as -truly the son of his burly father. Mrs. Samphire's pathetic eyes seemed -to pierce his heart, so poignant was the reflection that the mother's -fine qualities of head and heart had been reproduced faithfully, and -with them her infirmity of body. Then he blundered out into the dimly -lit passage and stumbled against Nixon minimus going to supper, although -he was as full of tea and potted meat, and hot buttered toast, and -strawberry jam as a Fourth Form boy could be. - -"I say," whined Nixon minimus, "I wish you'd look and see whom you're -shovin' into." - -"I am looking," said Jim. "Unless I'm vastly mistaken, I heard you say -to me this afternoon: 'Why don't you run, you silly fool?' I'm going to -answer that question now. I didn't run because I was playing to orders. -Later, when I was lying flat on my back, with the wind squeezed out of -me, you specially urged me to get up and play up. Yes, you didn't mean -it, of course, but I happen to want to kick somebody, and I'm going to -kick you, you spoiled infant, you! Take that, and that!" - -Jim went on his way relieved in mind and uplifted. The Lubber welcomed -him warmly, looking very funny, with his swollen foot in a footbath and -a huge piece of sticking-plaster across his nose. On his lap lay a -battered volume of Livy and a crib. - -"I can give you a rare good pie," he said; "if you're hungry, stick your -nose into that cupboard!" - -Jim declined this hospitable offer, and picked up the Livy. - -"These cribs aren't much help," growled the Lubber. "It's the verbs and -idioms that flummux me. Eh? What? Oh, done it before! Bless you--a -dozen times; but my memory is rotten. As Billy said in pupil-room last -week, 'You'll forget your own name some day. West, and sign it North.' -Rather bad form making puns on a fellow's name. By gad! I'm glad you -came. No, hang the 'con'! I'll chance it. I want to have a yarn with -you about the Kid. Awful--wasn't it? And Archie says he won't be -allowed to play footer again. Old Archie has taken it hard. Not a bad -chap, Archie, but a bit stodgy--like me. It's on my mind that I've had -a hand in the overdoin' of the Kid. He's a corker is the Kid. I must -be blind as a bat, not to have found that out before. But he must go -slow, or he'll break down. Now it wouldn't surprise me if the Kid made -a mark. What? A joke? Not I. Never made one in my life--except by -accident. I mean he'll turn over some big things some day." - -"He seems to have turned over some big things to-day. The three -Bashanites weren't small." - -The Lubber laughed. - -"To relieve your mind," Jim continued, "I don't mind telling you that -Billy has his eye on the Kid. He won't break down in his training." - -The Lubber accepted this assurance with the faith of a child; then he -looked at the cupboard. - -"I think," said he, "that if you don't mind hauling out that pie, I'll -have a go at it. Somehow, I couldn't tackle my tea. You'll have some -too, eh? That's right. I never feel quite myself when my tummy's -empty." - -Next day, after dinner, Archie saw Mark. He was in bed, and above the -bed hung his "fez," placed there by the matron. Archibald tiptoed into -the room, feeling rather uncomfortable. Mark, he feared, would be -miserable. To his surprise, he was greeted with a grin. - -"You don't care----" - -"I've thought it out--with Billy. He was here before dinner. I slept -like a t-top last night, and when Billy came in I read his face. He was -awfully d-decent. It's a pity he has only a daughter, although, -perhaps, that makes him extra nice to the sons of other people. He said -that I was strong enough to know the truth. And the truth is that -footer isn't my game. Well--I knew it. But I wanted to get my 'fez,' -and--and there it hangs, and there is this. Billy must have had it -engraved the f-first thing this morning." - -He put his hand under his pillow, and pulled out a small hunting-flask. -Upon it was inscribed his name, and beneath, in small script, the line -from Horace: - -"_Palmam qui meruit ferat._" - -"He gave me this," said Mark, "and with it a jolly good jaw. He m-made -me see that w-w-weakness is part of my kit, and the w-weak make the -running for the strong; and it's no use messin' about and trying to do -what others can do much better. And he s-said that a fellow who rebelled -and sulked was a silly ass--and--by Jove!--he's r-right!" - -Mark recovered quickly, and was treated as an honoured guest by his kind -hostess, who played and sang to him every day. Boys, particularly -English boys, are not taught to express their gratitude in happy -phrases, but perhaps it is none the less on that account. If the lady -who played Strauss's waltzes to Mark Samphire should chance to read -these lines, let her believe that the memory of her kindness has ripened -with the passing years. - -After the Christmas holidays Mark and Jim found themselves in the Sixth, -privileged to "fag," and accepted by Billy's as Olympians. It was a -pleasant half, and at the end of it Archibald won the school mile. Mark -trained him. Most of the boys who trained, trained too hard; and here -again Mark's weakness developed his brother's strength: they took their -"runs" slowly, but regularly. During these spring afternoons more than -fresh air was imbibed. Mark had capacity for absorbing information -about places and people. To him an ordinary cottage was a volume of -romance; a man asleep by the roadside quickened speculation; a -travelling van held inexhaustible material. One day they came upon an -encampment of gipsies. Mark insisted upon stopping to speak to an -onyx-eyed urchin, who asked for coppers, and while they were talking a -handsome girl of sixteen lounged forward, addressing Mark as "my pretty -gentleman." - -"Go along with you," said Mark. "I'm as ugly as they make 'em." - -"You are not," the girl replied, staring impudently into his eyes. -"Them eyes of your'n are bits of heaven's own blue; and the women will -look into them and love you." - -Mark turned scarlet. - -"And you," the hussy turned to Archie. "Ah, you're a real beauty, but -your brother's eyes are handsomer than your'n." - -"How do you know he's my brother?" said Archie. - -"We Romanies know many things. Give me half a crown, and I'll tell you -both a true fortune." - -"Shall we take a bob's worth?" said Archie. "Sixpence each?" - -"I'll read your hand for a bob," said the girl, "and his," she nodded at -Mark, "for nothing." - -Archie produced a shilling. The girl took his hand between her long, -slender fingers, and gazed at the lines on it. - -"Well," said a harsh voice, "what do you see?" - -An old hag, possibly the girl's grandmother, had approached silently. - -"Hullo," said Archie, "I suppose you're the queen of the gipsies. -Mother Shipton herself," he added _sotto voce_. - -"I'm a Stanley," said the old woman, not without dignity. "You're one -as looks for queens on thrones. The greatest queens, my pretty sir, -don't sit on thrones. Go on--tell his fortune! A child could read that -hand and face." - -"I see a long life and a full one," droned the girl. "You will get what -you want, because you will want it so badly." - -"A true fortune," mumbled the old woman. - -"Your turn, Mark," said Archie. "Hold out your paw!" - -Reluctantly, Mark obeyed. The girl took his hand as she had taken -Archie's, very delicately, and smoothed the palm with a touch that was -not unlike a caress. A puzzled smile curled her red lips. The old -woman peered over her shoulder. Again the girl stroked the boy's palm, -and he winced. - -"Shrinks from a woman's touch," said the old woman. - -"You tell it, mother," said the girl. - -The old woman bent down. - -"A happy hand," she muttered, "a happy hand, the hand of the free giver, -the blessed hand, the kind hand, and the strong hand. Ah, but what is -this? Sorrow, suffering, disappointment! And love," her harsh voice -softened: "you will love deeply and be loved in return. You are the -child of love----" - -"I see more," said the girl softly, taking Mark's hand again. "This is -the hand of a fighter, mother." - -"Ay, so 'tis, so 'tis." - -"A fighter and a conqueror." - -Before Mark could draw his hand away, she had bent down and kissed it. -Then she laughed and tossed her pretty head. - -"He'd like a kiss on the mouth," she said, eyeing Archie saucily, "but -he won't get one from me." - - - - - *CHAPTER IV* - - *MISS HAZELBY IS SHOCKED* - - -Betty Kirtling, when a child, had been heard to say: "I like girls, but -I love boys." Perhaps, beneath the smiles of the prim little English -misses who came to play with her, she perceived jealousies and meanness, -whereas the boys displayed hearts full of love, with no room for -anything else where she was concerned. The second Mrs. Samphire -maintained Betty to be a spoiled beauty before she was out of pinafores; -but Lady Randolph, a finer judge of character, held the contrary -opinion. The Admiral, it is true, set his niece upon a pedestal: an -action of which the nurse, Esther Gear, took fair advantage. "Lor bless -me, Miss Betty! what would your uncle say? You know he thinks you one -of the angels," was a phrase often in her mouth, and one not to be -disregarded by a child who valued the good opinion of others. "My -dear," Lady Randolph would add, "you must never disappoint your uncle. -If he knew you had told a fib, it would make him very unhappy." When -the time came to choose a governess, she selected a lady of strong -character, whose seeming severity was tempered by a sense of humour and -justice. Betty hated her at first, and then learned to love her. -Almost irredeemably ugly, with a square masculine head surmounting a -tall, lean, awkward figure, Miriam Hazelby made the large impression of -one hard to please, but for whose affection and esteem it were worth -striving. Her manner, however, was repellent. The austerity of feature -and deportment chilled a stranger to the marrow; her harsh voice, -emphatic in denouncing humbug and vanity and luxury, only softened when -she was speaking of suffering; then a quick ear might catch minor -harmonies, captivating because elusive. - -During the Easter holidays following the term when the Samphires met the -gipsies, Mark was set upon procuring some eggs of the stonechat, which -nests in certain sheltered spots upon the Westchester downs. Mark had -told Betty--now a girl of fourteen--of his proposed expedition, and she -expressed an ardent wish to accompany him. Miriam Hazelby, however, -permitted nothing to interfere with lessons. Betty said sorrowfully: - -"I don't suppose Lanky" (her name for Miss Hazelby) "would let me go -alone with you; she thinks you a young man, and I'm told twice a week -that I'm a young lady. But what a splendid time we would have had!" - -Next day, Mark tramped off alone, taking the lane which leads to the -downs, and as he was passing the chalk-pit to the right of the village, -Betty sprang into the road with a gay laugh. She carried a basket and -wore an old pink linen frock. - -"Betty," said Mark, "you've run away." - -"Yes. Isn't it fun? Shan't I catch it from Lanky when I get back. -I've lunch in this basket. Two big bits of Buszard's cake, some -tartlets, sixpennorth of chocolate, four apples, and four bottles of -ginger-pop. Catch hold!" - -The girl was in wild spirits. It happened to be a day of late April -when the sun, pouring its rays into the moist fresh earth, brings forth -spring, the Aphrodite of woods and fields, with the foam of milk-white -blossoms about her, and a cestus of tender green. As they passed out of -the lane on to the soft turf of the downs, the landscape widened till it -became panoramic. Behind lay King's Charteris encompassed by hanging -woods now bursting into leaf; beyond were rolling downs, wide breezy -pastures, sloping southerly and westerly to the sea, which gleamed, a -thread of silver, through an opalescent haze. - -"Isn't it heavenly?" Betty cried. - -"It is r-r-rather jolly!" - -"R-r-r-ra--ther jolly," she mimicked him to the life, rounding her -shoulders and slouching forward in an attitude which Mark recognised, -not without dismay, as his own; "ra--ther jolly, awfully jolly, beastly -jolly. How Lanky would love to hear you." - -"S-s-shut up, Betty!" - -"What! You address a young lady in that manner! I must beg you"--she -had caught the accent and intonation of the excellent Miriam--"to speak -English. Young people, nowadays, are unintelligible. My father, in -whose presence I never ventured to take a liberty with the English -language, would not have believed it possible that a gentleman could use -such expressions...." - -Mark tried to pull her hair, but she ran like Atalanta, Mark following -encumbered with the basket. Soon the business of the day began: the -finding of the stonechats' nests. Presently they sat down in the shade. - -"Let us have a 'beyondy' talk," said Betty. - -"A what....?" - -"Oh, when talk is about things we can't see, I call it 'beyondy.' I -say--tell me, what--what are your besetting sins!" Then she laughed. -"We'll play 'swops.' I'll tell you my sins one by one, if you'll tell -me yours. Only you must begin. It will be splendid fun, and, as Lanky -says--improving. She says one ought to know oneself. I suppose you--a -grand Sixth Form boy--know yourself in all your moods and tenses. Give -us a lead. It would be so nice to find that you are wickeder than I." - -"I am," said Mark. - -"No humbug--and 'bar chaff,' as dear Lanky would not say." - -"I'm v-very ambitious, Betty." - -She was lying full length on the grass. Now she sat up, opening her -eyes very wide. - -"Are you really? Ambitious--eh? That's very interesting. I'm not -ambitious, not a bit. I'm greedy." As she spoke she set her pretty -teeth in an apple. "I'm greedy, and I'm fond of lying in bed. Lanky -says these are awful sins. Oh, dear, I've given you two sins to one. -Never mind. Lanky says a woman ought to give more than she gets. I -say, eat fair with the chocolate. You big boys pretend to despise -sweets, but I notice they go jolly quick when you're about. Yes; -greediness and sloth. It's horrid, but it's true. You see, I'm bound -to be wicked." - -"Why?" - -"Mother was wicked. I know it. I heard Lady Randolph say--oh, years -ago--that she hoped what was bad in the Kirtlings would kill what was -worse in the De Courcys. I'm not sure what she meant, and I dared not -ask her, because she thought I was looking at some photographs, but it -wasn't complimentary--was it?" - -"No," said Mark, getting rather red. - -"You are blushing," said Betty. "I do believe that you know something. -What is it?" - -She turned a coaxing face to his, being one of those distracting -feminine creatures who have a thousand caresses distinctively their own. -Her touch was different to the touch of other girls--more delicate, more -subtle--an appeal to the finer, not the grosser side. - -"What do you know?" she murmured. - -"I c-can't tell you," Mark began bravely, and then ended with a -feeble--"m-m-much." - -"Boys never can tell much," said Betty disdainfully. "Go on." - -"Your m-m-mother ran away." - -"Is that all? Why I know more than you. Yes; she ran away. I can't -think why she did, because father was so handsome. I often look at his -miniature; and he must have been the most fascinating man that ever -lived. Uncle calls him sometimes that 'rascal Fred.' Now what does he -mean by that?" - -"Betty," said Mark desperately, "this talk is too b-b-beyondy for me." - -She paid no attention whatsoever. - -"I spoke to Lanky about it," she continued gravely. "She was nicer than -I had ever seen her. 'Betty,' she said, 'remember that it is not for you -to judge your parents. They may not have had your advantages.' Well, -that made me think a bit, and then I hoped their sins would not be -visited on me." - -"W-w-what did she say to that, Betty?" - -"She nodded that long head of hers in a terrible way. 'We all suffer,' -she growled, 'for the evil that others do.' Do _you_ think I must -suffer for what they did?" - -"No, no," cried Mark. "Why, Betty, to me you are the princess who -l-l-lives for ever and ever, fair and happy." - -She smiled. - -"I love you when you talk like that," she murmured. "And---- Good -gracious me!" She dashed some tears from her eyes and sprang to her -feet. "Look here, we have that long strip of gorse to do before lunch. -Come on! I'll hop you down the hill. One--two-three--OFF!" - -Away she went, laughing gaily, leaving care in the shade, and Mark after -her--a boy once more, but with an ache at his heart none the less. - -At luncheon Betty speculated upon the nature of the punishment which -awaited her, assuring Mark that she did not care a hang, revelling the -more joyously in the present, because a cloud lay black upon the future. - -Presently they discovered that the sun was declining into the soft haze -of the western horizon. - -"We must run," cried Betty. - -They ran and rested, and then ran again till they came to the sharp -incline from the downs into the valley which holds the village. And -here bad luck tempted them to link hands and race down a slippery, -grassy slope. Perhaps Mark went too fast. Betty fell with a dismal -thump, and a poignant note of anguish fluttered up from a crumpled heap -of linen. - -"Are you hurt, Betty?" - -"I have twisted my ankle," she groaned, her face puckering with pain. - -Mark took off her boot and stocking. The ankle was already swollen and -inflamed. What a catastrophe! But Betty assured him she could limp -home leaning on his arm. They started very slowly and in silence. A -brook bubbled in front of them, and at Mark's advice Betty thrust her -foot into the cool water. - -"What a horrid ending," sighed Betty, on the verge of tears. "This is -the punishment. Lanky will do nothing now." - -"I should think not," said Mark indignantly. Presently he began to dry -her foot with his handkerchief. It lay soft and white in his hand. She -was sitting higher up on the bank, so that she looked down upon him. - -"I like you better than Archie," she said slowly. - -"W-w-why?" he stammered. - -"You are so much more--sensible." - -"Sensible?" - -"Yes. Archie," she blushed faintly, "and that stupid old Jim Corrance -say they're in love with me! Isn't it absurd?" - -Mark grew scarlet. He would have liked to say what Archie and Jim had -said, but a lump in his throat made him speechless. - -"I feel that you are a real friend," pursued Betty. "Now we must be -getting home." - -They set out slowly: Betty leaning on Mark's left arm and limping along -in silence. Presently Mark became aware that she was leaning more -heavily. Then he looked down upon a white, agonised face. They had -just reached the small hill whereon The Whim is set. Mark wondered -whether he could carry her to the summit of it. A feather-weight, this -dainty creature, but Mark was no colossus like Archie. Still, exercise -in the gymnasium and elsewhere had hardened his muscles. He bent down, -picked her up, and breasted the hill. Her arms were round his neck; his -arms held her body. But how heavy she grew with every step upward! How -Mark's back and loins and legs ached! How his heart beat! But he -reached the front door and set her down. And in the twilight she held -up her face and kissed him. - -"Now," she commanded, "run home before they open the door." - -"Leave you? Not I." - -He was proof against persuasion, and simulated anger. The Admiral must -hear their misadventure from his lips. - -"You obstinate wretch!" said Betty. - -When the Admiral did hear the story, some three minutes later, he roared -with laughter, although he grew grave enough towards the end, and sent -his butler, hot-foot, for the village doctor. Nor was Mark permitted to -leave The Whim till that gentleman had pronounced the injury a trifling -affair, which time and cold compresses would set right. At parting the -Admiral admonished Mark solemnly. - -"We must have no larks of this sort, my boy. What! _My_ niece -gallivanting about the downs with a lively young man! Miss Hazelby is -inexpressibly shocked. A rod has been pickling the whole day, you may -swear. And she says that you boys make love to the child. Do you?" - -"I'd l-l-like to," said Mark abjectedly, "but I haven't--yet." - -The Admiral paced the room slowly, as if it were a quarter-deck. His -grey beard lay upon his broad chest; his red weather-beaten countenance -was heavy with thought. - -"Look ye here," said he at length. "This is serious, and I take it -seriously. I am tempted to call you a--jackanapes. As it is, I prefer -to say--nothing, except this: you ought to be birched." - -"I f-feel as if you were b-b-birching me." - -His face relaxed. - -"My boy, I'm sorry for you. You may not believe it, but when I was -seventeen and in the Mediterranean squadron"--the Admiral's voice became -reminiscent--"I had the doose of an affair. I suffered like any Romeo, -and my Juliet was only eight-and--er--twenty! Well, sir, I fought and -conquered, and so must you, by God!" - -"I have f-f-fought, sir; and I am c-c-conquered." - -"You're glib with your tongue. I daresay Betty thinks you a tremendous -fellow." - -"She thinks us--very s-s-silly." - -"Us? Miriam Hazelby was right. The little baggage! A De Courcy from -tip to toe already. Well, my boy, shake hands! You've made a clean -breast of it, and I respect you for that. And you're in your salad -days, too. So--no more! If you choose to sigh for the moon I can't -prevent you. Good night." - -Mark went home, humble as Uriah Heap. None the less, he made a -tolerable dinner, and felt happy and hopeful after it. And that night -he dreamed he was illustrious--a great soldier, a ruler amongst men. -But, high though he climbed, aye, even to the Milky Way itself, where -honours gleamed innumerable, he could not attain to the object of his -dreams--the lovely Moon! - - - - - *CHAPTER V* - - *VALETE* - - -It was now definitely decided that Archibald Samphire must go into the -Church, and in due time hold the snug family living. The Squire, -however, was of the opinion that Her Majesty's scarlet would mightily -become his handsome second son, whereas the black of a Clerk in Orders -would do well enough for Mark. Archie, to his father's surprise, chose -the sable instead of the gules. Amongst the Samphires it was a -tradition that the second son always became a parson. Archie had a -respect amounting to veneration for tradition. - -"Suit yourselves," said the Squire of Pitt Hall to his sons. "I should -have liked to have seen Archie on a charger." - -"But what a leg for a gaiter," said Mark, hinting at episcopal honours. - -Archibald was now a very big fellow indeed, so big that when he went in -to bat at Lord's, as captain of the Harrow eleven, a small Eton boy, not -far from Lord Randolph's coach, called out shrilly: "I say, Samphire, -how's your wife and family?" This was the famous year when Eton was -beaten by five wickets, having suffered defeat during four previous -summers. And the only thing that marred Archie's triumph was the fact -that Mark, despite the services of a professional during the Easter -holidays, had not a place in his eleven. On the eve of the great match -one vacancy remained to be filled. It became certain that either Mark -or Jim Corrance would fill it. Jim has confessed since with shame that -he was miserably jealous of Mark, that for a dreadful three weeks this -feeling strained their friendship. And he knew that Mark was the better -cricketer; more, that he had made his friend a better cricketer, that -Jim's understanding of and skill in the game were due to Mark's precept -and practice. Mark would whip a cricket-ball out of his pocket, -whenever five minutes could be spared, crying, "Come on, old chap, you -muffed an easy one yesterday--_catch_!" And the ball would whizz at -Jim's toes. But during the last trial match Mark fainted from the heat, -and Jim took his place in the slips. That night Archie sent for Jim. - -"You can get your 'straw,'" he growled. - -"But Mark----" - -"Won't take it." - -"Won't--take--it?" - -"He's right. He hasn't the strength. He might faint at Lord's. We -can't run any risks." - -Jim went back to his room--confounded. Mark met him and gripped his -hands. - -"You've g-got it," he cried. "I _am_ glad. Isn't it glorious?" - -"_Glorious?_" - -Jim sat down and blubbered, like a Fourth Form boy. - - -However, it seemed certain then that another year would place Mark in -the eleven, and also amongst the monitors, but this happy end to his -Harrow career was not to be. Archibald, Jim, and he left Billy's at the -end of the Easter half. In those days it was hardly possible for a boy -to pass into Sandhurst direct from a public school. Billy said that -Mark could do it--at the expense of his health; for extra subjects, like -geometrical drawing, English literature, history, and so forth, would -have had to be learned in addition to the regular school work, which in -the Upper Sixth was as stiff as it could be. - -"I'm very sorry to lose you," said Billy, when the brothers bade him -good-bye. "Samphire major's future I am not concerned about. But I do -worry about you, Samphire minor, because you attempt too much, -you--er--so to speak--strain at the camel and swallow the gnat. Well, -well," he fumbled with his glasses, "I should like to give you the -benefit of my experience, but," he pursed up his lips, "I am not -sanguine enough to hope that you will profit by it. Some excellent -people think I take my duties too lightly. Perhaps I do, per--haps I -do. A big house like this represents a force against which one -individual is expected to pit his strength. But I realised long ago -that what energy I could spare must of necessity -prove--er--intermittent, the undisciplined, amorphous resistance would -be constant. You--er--take me? Yes. So I governed myself accordingly. -The great force which I was invited to control sways hither and thither, -veering now to the right, and now--er--to the wrong. The swing of the -pendulum, in fine. When it swings to the right I push it, so it swings -a little farther; and when it swings the other way I pull behind, and -perhaps it does not swing quite so far; but I don't try to stop the -swing, because I know that such a feat is beyond my powers. I trust you -are following me, Samphire minor. You, I fear, will recklessly expose -yourself--and be rolled over, as happened in our house-match against -Bashan's. There--I have warned you." - -He signed to Archibald to remain behind. For a moment there was -silence. Billy leaned back in his chair polishing the lenses of his -pince-nez with a fine cambric handkerchief. - -"If Mark had your body," he began absently, then, faintly smiling, he -added: "Ah, what possibilities lie in that 'if,' which it were vain, -quite vain to consider. Well, I hope that nothing will come between you -and him, that your brotherly love, which has been a pleasant thing to -witness, will continue to grow in strength. Mark has an extravagant -affection for you--the greater because he does not wear it on his -sleeve. Your success here has sweetened the bitterness of his many -disappointments. You will get more from him than you give." - -Archibald felt his cheek beginning to burn. - -"Don't distress yourself on that account," said Billy kindly; "only take -what he gives, _generously_, and so you will best help him to play his -part in life." - -After this interview followed the farewell supper in the common-room, -with its toasts and speeches. Archie made certain that he would break -down in his speech. And before the fags! He could see and hear the -heartless little beasts snickering! As captain of the eleven and of the -Philathletic Club, he was expected to speak about games; as a monitor, -it was no less a duty to mention work. Finally he wrote out his speech -and submitted it to Mark. - -"Just what they'll expect," Mark observed. "You j-j-jolly well crack -'em up, and then let 'em down a peg or two. You tell 'em what they know -already--that Billy's is the best house in the school; and then you hope -that it will remain so after you have left. No doubt without your moral -and physical support, Billy's is likely to go to p-p-pot." - -"You make me out an ass." - -"Most Englishmen either grunt or bray when they get on to their legs to -m-m-make a speech." - -"And what are you going to say?" - -"Nothing. Mum's the word for a stammerer. I shall bid 'em good-bye, -that's all." - -Thanks to Mark's criticism, Archie saw and seized an opportunity. He -told the house he was convinced that its present prosperous condition -was entirely due to his personal exertions, that he trembled for its -future after he had left, that, if possible, he promised to run down -from time to time for the purpose of giving advice to the Doctor, which -he was sure would be appreciated--and so forth. Billy's roared with -laughter, although the sneering voice of Nixon minimus was heard: "I -say, he's trying to be funny!" When Archie sat down, the head of the -house proposed Mark's health. The old common-room rocked with cheers. -None doubted his popularity, but this deafening roar of applause lent it -extraordinary significance, because such tributes were reserved for -famous athletes, and for them alone. - -"Thank you," he began; "thank you very much. I suppose you have believed -all the p-pleasant things that the head of the house has just told you -about me..." Here a dozen voices interrupted, "Yes, we do"; "He didn't -lay it on thick enough"; "You're a beast to leave us," and the like. -Mark continued, and in his voice there was a curious minor inflection -which held attention and silence in thrall: "I am glad you believe them, -although he has laid it on too thick. You see we can't get away from -f-f-facts, can we? And the fact is I've been a f-f-failure." He -paused. "I wanted to play in a cockhouse m-match at footer; I w-wanted -to w-win a school race; and I w-w-wanted--by Jove! how b-badly I -w-wanted that--I wanted my 'straw.'" - -"It was offered him," said Archie. - -"It was offered me," repeated Mark. "And if I'd taken it, it might have -p-proved the straw which breaks the camel's back. Jim Corrance got it, -and we know what back he broke--eh? The b-b-back of the Eton bowling." -(A terrible din followed, during which Billy appeared, holding up a -protesting hand: "My dear fellows, unless you are more careful you will -destroy this ramshackle house!") - -Meantime Mark had sat down, but every boy in Billy's respected his -silence. He did not wish them good-bye, because he couldn't. - - - - - *CHAPTER VI* - - *AT BURLINGTON HOUSE* - - -You may divide the world into those who pipe and those who dance. The -pipers, for the most part, envy the dancers; but many a dancer has -confessed that the piper, after all, has the best of it. - -Mark and Jim Corrance, at this period of their lives, were dancers to -lively measures. They lived at home for a year, emancipated youths, -enjoying the pleasures of Arcadia. Three times a week they rode across -the grey, green downs, "that melt and fade into the distant sky," into -Westchester, where a scholar of repute undertook their preparation for -Sandhurst. Other days they worked at home, not too hard, and played -much tennis--a new game then--and practised arts which please country -maidens, amongst whom Betty Kirtling was not. For the Admiral, having -no stomach for immature Romeos, sent his niece abroad (in the company of -Miss Hazelby) to Dresden and Lausanne, whence letters came describing -queer foreign folk with sprightliness and humour, and always ending -"your most affectionate--Betty." - -As the months passed, Jim became aware how strenuously Mark's heart was -set on a soldier's career. One night, for instance, the young fellows -were dining with the Randolphs at Birr Wood, when a famous general was -present. Mark confessed himself aflame to meet the hero; and the hero, -when he met Mark, became interested in him. Who shall say there is not -some subtle quality, undetected by the common herd, which reveals itself -to genius, because it is part, and not the least part, of genius? And -you will notice that if a great man be speaking in general company, his -eyes will wander here and there in search of the kindred soul, and when -that is found, they wander no more. On this occasion a chance remark -led the talk to India. Lord Randolph regretted that so brilliant a -soldier as Hodson should have slain the Taimur princes with his own -hand. The hero, who had known Hodson intimately, said that the princes -had been given no assurance that their lives would be spared, and that -their escape would have proved an immeasurable calamity. As he went on -to speak of Nicholson and the siege of Delhi, the buzz of prattle round -the big table ceased. - -"He suffered excruciating pain" (the general was alluding to Nicholson), -"but not a complaint, not a sigh, leaked from his lips. During nine -awful days of agony, his heroic mind fixed itself upon the needs of his -country, to the very last he gave us sound and clear advice. When he -died, the grim frontier chiefs, who had witnessed unmoved the most -frightful atrocities, stood by his dead body with the tears streaming -down their cheeks...." - -"What a man!" exclaimed Mark. - -"Ay," said the general. He stared at Mark, and continued, giving -details of what followed the fall of Delhi: then unpublished history. -The speaker had marched with the column despatched to the relief of -Cawnpore. "We could only spare," said he, "seven hundred and fifty -British and one thousand nine hundred native soldiers, and--let me -see--how many field-guns?" He paused with his eyes still on Mark. - -"Sixteen field-guns," said Mark. - -"Yes, you are right. Sixteen field-guns." Then as he realised from -whom he had received this piece of information, he broke into an -exclamation: "God bless me! How did _you_ know that?" - -"I've read the d-despatches," said Mark, blushing. - -After dinner the general came up to Mark and asked him if he were going -to be a soldier. On Mark's eager affirmative, he said deliberately: -"When you are gazetted, my boy, come to see me. I'd like to make your -better acquaintance." - -For a week Mark could talk of nothing save the Indian Mutiny. - -"You're too keen," said Jim. "Suppose we don't pass?" - -"Not p-p-pass? That's a dead certainty." - -"If we did not pass----" - -"We could enlist, Jim. I say, you're not going into the Service -because, b-b-because I am?" - -"You lit the match," Jim admitted. "A fellow must do something. -Soldiering's as good as anything else." - -"Ten times as good as anything else," Mark exclaimed. - -Jim nodded, sensible that Mark cast a glamour over the future. As a -child Jim could never listen to tales of smuggling, of hidden treasure, -of Captain Kidd and the Spanish Main, without feeling a titillation of -the marrow. And now that he was eighteen, with fluff on his lip, Mark -could provoke this agreeable sensation whenever he pleased. That he -could fire Jim was not surprising, for Jim was tinder to many sparks, -but he could fire Archibald also. - -"I back you to win big stakes," he would say. "W-w-what did the gipsy -predict? You will g-get what you want, because you want it so badly. -You've a leg for a g-g-gaiter. And your voice, your v-voice is amazing. -I'd sooner hear you sing r-rot than listen to Lord Randolph talking -s-sense. You must have the best of singing lessons. Why--you'll charm -the b-birds off the trees." - -Archie did take lessons; and began to warble at many houses ballads such -as "'Twas in Trafalgar's Bay," "Sally in our Alley," and "I saw from the -Beach when the Morning was Shining." He grew bigger and stronger and -handsomer every day, and Mark's pride in and affection for this splendid -elder brother became something of a thorn in the side of his friend Jim. -Mark had an ingenuous habit of putting wise words into the mouth of this -Olympian. "Old Archie," he would observe, with a beaming face, "thinks -so-and-so...." Jim was sorely tempted to retort: "If old Archie thinks -that, why the deuce doesn't he say it?" It was plain to Jim that -Archie's brains were of a quality inferior to Mark's, but Mark would not -allow this, and always waxed warm if anyone dared to speak slightingly -of the colossus. Archie, for his part, returned his minor's affection, -and not only sought for, but accepted graciously that minor's advice. - - -A year later Mark and Jim went up to London for the competitive -examination, lodging at a family hotel in Down Street, an old-fashioned -inn where the name of Samphire was known and respected. The Squire -offered to accompany them, but Mark begged him to stay at Pitt Hall. -Mark and Jim unpacked their traps, and then looked out of the window -over the great world of London. - -"Too much smoke for me," said Jim, seeing nothing but dun-coloured roofs -and chimney-pots innumerable. - -"But think of the f-f-fires," said Mark, "and of the faces round the -fires. I am sure I should learn to like London, if it were not so -beastly dirty. Why, there are smuts on my cuffs already." - -They had a luncheon such as boys love: chops fizzing and sputtering from -the gridiron, a couple of tankards of stout, a tart with Devonshire -cream, and some Stilton cheese. - -"Are you nervous?" said Mark. - -Jim admitted a qualm or two. - -"We ought to come out amongst the first twenty." - -"If I am dead lag, I shall be jolly thankful," said Jim. - -After lunch they took a turn down Piccadilly. Mark talked: "I say, what -a glorious b-buzzing, like a swarm o' bees in June, and we're in the -hive--eh?" - -Presently they entered the Burlington Arcade, exchanging greetings with -old school-fellows; some of them forlorn of countenance; others bubbling -over with self-assurance. The Medical Board had to be passed that -afternoon. Disjointed phrases flitted in and out of Mark's ear. "Not -got a chance, I tell you, but it pleases my people to see me make an ass -of myself--Fancy a rank outsider like that wanting to go into the -Service--Yes; seventy-nine, not out--and first-class cricket--Who are -those fellows with dirty collars?--If you try to crib and get nailed, -you're done--Hullo, Samphire minor! you're going to pass in first, I -know--I say, I saw your aunt the other day--What dead?--And a jolly good -thing, too--One of the biggest duffers in the school, I tell you--With -windgalls and an awful splint--Played for the 'Varsity--And, as luck 'd -have it, he hit her favourite cat----" - -Outside the Arcade, they shook themselves free of the chatterers. - -"I am in a beastly funk," said Jim, as they went up the stairs of -Burlington House. - -"Funk of what?" Mark answered impatiently. - -"I don't know," Jim muttered vaguely. - -They entered a long, ill-lighted room, and waited their turn. Boy after -boy came out grinning, and buttoning up coat and waistcoat. - -"Rather a farce this medical exam," whispered Mark; and then, as he -spoke, his voice broke into a stammer: "I s-s-say--w-w-who's this?" - -A fellow they had known at Harrow was coming through the great double -doors. His face was white as a sheet and his lips blue. He was -hurrying by, when Mark called him by name. - -"They won't have me," he gasped. "I--I thought I was all right," he -added piteously, "but I ain't." - -"What's wrong?" said Mark. - -"Heart. I asked 'em to tell me. They were rather decent, but I'm done. -If you don't mind, I'll hook it now. No, don't come with me. I'm not -as bad as that. Only it will, it may--grow worse." - -He shambled away with the step of an old man. Mark's face was working -with sympathy. - -"How b-b-beastly!" he said. "And it m-m-might be one of us." - -They passed through the doors into a larger room beyond. Here a score -or more boys in all stages of dressing and undressing were dotting the -floor. Near the window a big, burly man was testing the sight of a -slender, round-shouldered youth. "How many fingers do I hold up?" Jim -heard him say; and the unhappy youth replied: "Three!" The big man -laughed grimly. "Wrong. Come a little nearer, and try again." - -Jim was confoundedly pale. - -"Pinch your cheeks," Mark whispered. - -They were told to strip, and did so, but waited for some time, while the -wind from an open window blew cold on their bare backs. - -"Let's slip on our coats," Jim suggested. - -"The others don't do it," said Mark, glancing at a row of shivering -boys, "and we won't." - -After what seemed an interminable interval, Jim's name was called. The -doctor into whose hands he fell made short work of him. He clapped a -stethoscope to his chest and back, looked at his legs, asked a few -questions, and smiled pleasantly. "If you can see and hear, you're all -right," said he. "_Next!_" Jim went back to where his clothes lay in a -heap on the chair. He knew that his sight and hearing were excellent; -but why in the name of all that was hateful did not Mark come back? -Half-way down the room Jim could see him, standing in front of a small, -ferret-faced man, who was talking quickly. Now, Jim had not been asked -to run round a table or to perform any other strange exercises, but Mark -was treated less kindly. Jim saw him jump on and off a bench; then he -began to run, and Jim caught the quick command: "Faster, sir, faster!" -And then the stethoscope was laid upon his heaving chest. Jim watched -the doctor's impassible face. Suddenly the doctor looked up and -beckoned to the man who had examined Jim. The second doctor put his ear -to the stethoscope. - -"Catch him!" yelled Jim. - -A hush fell upon the big room as Jim sprang forward, half clothed and -choking with excitement. He had seen Mark quiver and reel, but the tall, -thin doctor had seen it too. When Jim reached them, Mark was on his -back on the big table. The ferret-faced man was smiling disagreeably, -and tapping the palm of his hand with the end of his stethoscope. - -"Absolutely unfit," Jim heard him say. "Not a surgeon in London would -pass him." - -"Not pass him?" Jim said furiously. "He's only fainted; he's done that -before, that's nothing." - -"Isn't it?" said the little man drily. Then he added malevolently: -"When I am ready to receive instruction from you, young sir, I will let -you know." - -When they got back to the hotel and were alone, Mark flung himself into -an armchair. Presently he said quietly: "Let's get seats for the play"; -so they walked as far as Mitchell's in Bond Street, and bought two -stalls for the _Colleen Bawn_, in which Dion Boucicault was acting. -Then they strolled on to Regent's Park. Not a word was said about what -passed in Burlington House till they were crossing Portland Place, where -a cousin of Mark's had a house. - -"I shan't go back to Pitt Hall till your exam is over," Mark said. "I'd -sooner stop up here with you." - -"I don't care a hang about the exam now," Jim blurted out. - -"I know you don't," Mark replied. "All the same, you must do your level -best." - -This calmness surprised Jim. But after the play, as they were strolling -home through the crowded, gas-lit streets, Mark whispered fiercely: "I'd -like to get drunk to-night." - -"Let's do it," said Jim. - -"Good old chap! Do you think I'd let you do it?" He glanced at a -handsome roysterer, who was reeling by on the arm of a girl as -reckless-looking as her companion. "I can guess how _they_ feel, poor -devils!" - -"We'll have a nightcap, anyhow," said Jim. - -So they turned into one of the Piccadilly bars, full of men and women, -and ablaze with light reflected from a thousand glasses and mirrors. -Mark had never set foot in a London bar at midnight. The roar of the -voices, interpenetrated by the shrill laughter of the women, the -clinking of glasses, the swish of silk petticoats, the white glare, the -overpowering odours of the liquors and perfumes, the atmosphere hot on -one's cheek--these smote him. Yet the sensation of violence was not -unpleasant. He was sensible that he might yell if he liked, and that no -one would heed him. They edged up to the bar, squeezing through the mob -till they were opposite a young woman whose plain black dress and -immaculate apron were crowned by a mop of chestnut hair. - -"Why it's--it's Squeak," Jim said to Mark. - -She recognised them at once. - -"Hullo, Mr. Samphire minor--why ain't you in bed?" - -They demanded whiskies and sodas. - -"You can tell that 'andsome brother of yours that I'm here," said -Squeak, as she pushed the drinks across the bar. - -"I'll mention it to him," said Mark. - -"I want to see him, to thank him. He got me this job. Don't worry! I -mean that if I'd not got the chuck from Brown's I shouldn't be 'ere, but -there. I've not seen 'im. He's one of the kind that loves and runs -away." - -She laughed shrilly, staring with angry eyes at the young men. Her -complexion had lost its freshness and delicacy; her eyes were no longer -clear and bright. Mark's impassive face exasperated her. - -"Tell 'im to send back all the 'air I gave 'im," she continued -viciously. - -"You have not quite so much left," said Mark. - -"Don't look at me like that, you kid, you! I know you're thinking," she -spoke very low, bending across the bar, "that I'm not any younger, or -prettier, or better be'aved. Well--I ain't. And that's why I want to -thank your brother." - -"I shall not forget to tell him to come to see you. It will be safe -enough--now." - -They dropped back into the crowd. By this time Mark was able to take -note of his surroundings. Squeak, so to speak, had given him bearings. -The faces, in relation to hers, had a certain resemblance, as if those -present belonged to the same family. Next to Jim stood an obese -Israelite, puffy of face, with thick, red lips shining through an oily, -black beard. Jim felt a mad impulse to kick him on the shins. Beside -him was a tall, thin youth of the type known in the seventies as the -la-di-da young man. His pallid, clean-shaven face, his light-blue eyes, -his closely cropped flaxen hair, his delicate features were all in -striking contrast to the Jew's gross, corpulent person. The hands of -each were as different as could be: the Jew's short and thick, and none -too clean, with a couple of big yellow diamonds blazing on them; the -youth's long and thin, very white and bony, with polished nails. And -yet the pair were as twins, for the same evil spirit leered out of their -eyes. - -"Come on," said Mark. - -Outside the air was delightfully fresh and cool, but the crowd seemed to -have thickened. A tremendous human tide ebbed and flowed between the -tall, dark houses. Jim's eye caught a white feather in the hat of a -girl, which tossed like foam upon troubled waters. Suddenly the -fascination of the scene gripped him. This was London--_London_, the -city of millions; and he stood on the pavement of its most famous -thoroughfare, of it and in it, whether he loved it, feared it, or hated -it. And at the moment, so overpowering was the sense of something new -and strange and terrible that he could not determine whether his feeling -for the capital of the world was one of attraction or repulsion. - -Mark and he moved slowly on, till they came to the wall which -encompasses Devonshire House. At the corner stood a huge policeman, -grimly impassive, one of London's hundred thousand warders, and an -epitome of all. - -"When is closing time?" said Mark to the constable. - -"Quarter-past twelve, sir." - -Mark looked at his watch. - -"Five minutes more. I'm going back." - -"Where?" - -"To that girl--Squeak." - -"What on earth for?" - -"I spoke brutally. I shall beg her p-pardon. Don't come with me!" - -"You're as mad as a hatter." - -Jim went on to Down Street, ascended the stairs, and began to undress, -thinking of two things which obliterated all others--the slender figure -of Mark when it reeled back into the arms of the tall, thin surgeon, and -the white feather wavering hither and thither above the turbulent crowd. - -Half an hour passed, and Mark did not return. Jim grew apprehensive. If -Mark had fainted--if he had fallen into coarse, gross hands such as -those of the Jew. Then he thought of the colossus at the corner of -Devonshire House, and took comfort in him--the Argus-eyed, the -omnipresent and omnipotent. - -"Not in bed yet?" said Mark. - -"By Jove, here you are! I saw you trampled under foot." - -"I'm glad I went back. The girl's a good sort--silly, vain, terribly -ignorant, but not without heart. I promised to see her again. It -wouldn't be a b-bad bit of work to get her out of that--hell." - -"You're a rum 'un," said Jim, for since they had parted Mark's face had -resumed its natural expression--that look of joyousness which redeemed -the harsh features and sallow skin. - -"A rum 'un--why?" - -"Well, I supposed, you know, that you'd be thinking just now of--of -yourself." - -"I'm rather s-sick of that subject." - -He flung off his clothes and turned out the gas. Jim slipped into bed in -the adjoining room. He couldn't sleep for an hour or two, wondering -whether Mark would break down when he found himself alone, listening -with ears attuned to catch the lightest sigh. To his astonishment, Mark -breathed quietly and regularly. He must be--asleep! Jim waited for -another ten minutes; then he slipped out of bed. The moon was throwing a -soft radiance upon Mark's figure. He lay flat on his back, with his -arms straight at his side. _He was smiling_! But his fists were -clenched, and the jaw below the parted lips stood out firm, square, and -aggressive.... - -Jim watched him lying thus for several minutes; then he stole back to -bed--no longer a boy, but a man. By many, doubtless, the step between -boyhood and manhood is taken at random, and forgotten as soon as taken; -or it escapes observation altogether. But Jim was shown, as in a vision, -the past and the future: the green playing-fields, the happy lanes of -childhood, and beyond--the hurly-burly, the high winds and whirling -dust-clouds, the inexorable struggle for and of Life! - - - - - *CHAPTER VII* - - *THE HUNT BALL* - - -At Harrow, Mark had been told by the drawing-master that he had great -talent as a draughtsman, and possibly something more. The vague -"something more" kindled possibilities which smouldered, and burst into -flame when the doctors at Burlington House pronounced him unfit to serve -his sovereign. The Squire suggested the Bar, a bank, or a junior -partnership in a brewery. Mark shook his head. Briefs--supposing they -came to him--bullion, beer, left fancy cold. But to paint a great -picture, to interpret by means of colour a message vital to the world, -this indeed would be worth while! - -Mrs. Samphire bleated dismay and displeasure; but much to the Squire's -surprise, Lady Randolph sustained Mark's choice of art as an avenue to -success. - -"Fame's temple," she said, "lies in the heart of a maze to which -converge a thousand paths--most of 'em blind alleys. Mark may try one -path after another, but in the end--in the end, mind you--he will choose -the right one." - -After a few months' work in South Kensington, Mark went to Paris, where -he became a pupil of the famous Saphir at the École des Beaux Arts. -Saphir looked at his studies and shook his head. He was of opinion that -Mark had better join Julian's for a year; the standard at the Beaux Arts -was very high. Mark showed his disappointment. - -"Oh, monsieur, I am so anxious to be under you." - -"Have you no better reason than that?" said the great man. - -"Our n-n-names are alike," stammered Mark. - -"_Tiens_! Any reason is better than none. _Samphire et Saphir_." - -"And the l-l-less," said Mark, "includes the g-g-greater." - -Saphir laughed at the compliment, and told Mark he might join his -_atelier_. "Only you must work--work--work. That is my first word to -you--work!" - -Mark worked furiously. Many well-informed persons believe that an art -student's life in Paris (particularly that part of Paris which lies on -the left bank of the Seine) is a sort of carnival--a procession up and -down the Boul' Mich', varied by frequent excursions to the Moulin Rouge -and other places of entertainment in Montmartre. Of the unremitting -labour, of the grinding poverty, of the self-denial cheerfully -confronted by the greater number, an adequate idea perhaps may be -gleaned from Zola's _L'OEuvre_, which sets forth, photographically and -pathologically, French art life as it is. _L'OEuvre_, however, deals -with the struggle for supremacy between the academic and the "_plein -air_" schools. When Mark entered the Beaux Arts, this struggle, although -not at an end, had become equalised, the balance of power and popularity -lying rather with the _plein air_ party, of which Saphir was the bright -particular star. Saphir introduced Mark to Pynsent, then considered one -of the rising men. Born in the East of America, related on his mother's -side to two of the Brook Farm celebrities, Pynsent had renounced a -promising career as a lawyer in the hope of making his fortune out West. -In California he lost what money he possessed trying to develop a -"salted mine." Then he "taught school" for bread and butter--a foothill -school on the slopes of the Santa Lucia mountains, where the pupils were -the children of squatters, and "Pikers," and greasers. Here he found -his true vocation. For a couple of years he denied himself the -commonest comforts, living on beans for the most part, saving his -pitiful salary. Then he worked his passage round the Horn in a -sailing-ship, and began at thirty years of age to draw from plaster -casts! Since, he had taken most of the prizes open to foreigners at the -École des Beaux Arts! - -Pynsent found Mark a lodging and studio in the Rue de l'Ancienne -Comédie, not far from the famous Café Procope, the café of Voltaire and -Verlaine. With Pynsent as guide, he learned to know Paris--the Paris of -the Valois and Bourbon, the Paris of the Terror, of the Empire, and of -the Republic. Pynsent had a prodigious memory, and an absorbing passion -for colour. He was always hopeful, generous, proud, inordinately -ambitious, and willing to sacrifice everything to his art. He exercised -an enormous influence upon Mark, making plain to him the virtue which -underlies so much that is vile and vicious on the surface. - -"Men fail here," said he, "not so much from incapacity as ignorance. I -could not interpret Paris to you or to myself had I not served my -apprenticeship in California. Because my energies were misdirected -there, I have learned to direct them here. Great Cæsar's ghost! What -mistakes I have made! But you can bet your life that the fellow who -makes no mistakes is either a parasite or a jelly-fish. Tell me what a -man's mistakes are, and I'll tell you what he is." - -"Am I making a mistake?" said Mark. - -He had worked--furiously, as has been said--for two years. Pynsent -smoked his cigarette for a full minute before he replied: "I don't know -yet. I shall know soon." - -"When you do know, tell me," said Mark. - -Meanwhile Archibald Samphire was occupying a corner of that famous -quadrangle of Trinity College where Byron, Newton, Macaulay--and how -many more?--have kept their terms. Archie was considered by impartial -judges to be a distinguished young man. A "double blue," he represented -his University at cricket and as a runner; he was certain to take a good -degree; he could sing charmingly; he was handsome as Narcissus. At the -end of the second year's work in Paris, Mark and Archie and Jim Corrance -made a tour of France, with the intention of visiting the Gothic -cathedrals; but, as a rule, after the dust and glare of the French -roads, both Archie and Jim Corrance would seek and find some cool café. -Mark, however, would hurry off to the nearest church, and return raving -of foliations and triforia and clerestories--empty words to Philistines, -but to him documents of surpassing interest. Archibald was going to -take Orders, not swerving by a hand's breadth from his goal; but Jim, -after a year at Sandhurst, had resigned his commission. - -"I'm no soldier," he told Mark. "I went up for my exam because you -fired me. I want to make money--a big pile." Mark said nothing, but he -thought of Betty Kirtling, now eighteen, and still abroad. Jim had -mentioned (with a flushed cheek) that Betty was coming out at the -Westchester Hunt Ball, always held in New Year's week, and Mark had said -that he would assist at that and other festivities. - -When Christmas came Mark crossed the Channel. He brought Pynsent with -him as a guest. Mark was now twenty-two, but he looked older. You must -imagine a long, thin, sallow face, illumined by two splendid blue eyes -and a wide mouth filled with white even teeth. The hair was dark brown, -and the eyebrows were arched, like the eyebrows of the poet Shelley. -His nose was too long--so Pynsent said--and the chin was too prominent, -the eyes set too far apart, the brow too wide. For the rest the figure -was tall and slight, with finely shaped extremities. Curiously enough, -although ninety-nine out of a hundred persons would have pronounced Mark -an ugly man; yet, dressed in petticoats, judiciously painted and -bewigged, he made a captivating woman. At a dance in one of the -studios, he impersonated an American heiress with so much spirit and -appreciation of the attention he received, that before the night was out -he had promised to become the wife of an impoverished French count: a -prank provoking a challenge, which Mark accepted and which doubtless -would have ended in a duel, had not Pynsent explained to the victim of -the joke that if Mark was killed, the slayer of so popular a person -would have to fight his friends, man by man, till not one Englishman or -American was left alive in Saphir's studio. "It is the woman in Mark's -face," said Pynsent, "which gives it charm and quality; but the man, -strong and ardent, looks out of his eyes." - -Mark did not meet Betty till the night of the Hunt Ball. He was -standing beside Archie and Pynsent, as she entered the room. - -"Great Scott--here's Beatrice Cenci!" said Pynsent. - -The artist was thinking of the fascinating portrait which hangs in the -Barberini Palace, not of the wooden counterfeit presentment so familiar -to buyers of cheap chromo-lithographs. - -"It's our Betty," said Archie. - -"As if it could be anybody else," Mark added. - -Betty advanced, tall and slim and pale: her great hazel eyes sparkling -with pleasure and excitement. Beside her, beaming with pride, walked the -grey-headed, grey-bearded Admiral; behind came two nice-looking youths, -fingering their highly glazed Programmes and gazing at the milk-white -neck and shoulders in front of them. The big room was full of people: -men in the "pink" of four hunts, officers in scarlet, officers in dark -green and silver, dignitaries of the Church, bland and superior; lesser -luminaries, such as canons and archdeacons; masters from the college, -supercilious gentlemen for the most part, and the sisters and wives and -cousins of these. A roving eye might detect the difference between those -of the county and those of the town, dividing the latter again into -those of the barracks, the close, and the college; and a stranger might -have whiled away the evening, even if he did not dance, by noting the -subtler distinction between the wife of a rural dean and the mistress of -a country vicarage, or between Lady Randolph, the wife of the -Lord-Lieutenant, and Lady Bellowes, whose husband was a baronet of -recent creation. - -The first dance had just come to an end, so the floor was comparatively -clear for the passage of Betty and her squires. Archibald went forward, -smiling, to greet her, followed by Mark and Jim Corrance. - -"I've saved three dances apiece for you," said Betty. - -One of the young men behind, Lord Kirtling's eldest son, protested -loudly: "Oh, I say--and I'm a cousin." - -"A cousin!" cried Betty gaily. "Why, these are my best and oldest -friends. We've sucked the same acidulated drop." - -Mark introduced Pynsent. Then Lord Randolph came up; and Betty was -escorted in triumph to the corner sacred to the magnates, where her card -was almost torn in pieces by the young men. - -"Never saw such a pair," said Pynsent to Mark, indicating Archie and -Betty. - -Archibald, in the scarlet coat with white facings of the Quest Hunt, was -standing beside Betty, who wore a pearly brocade embroidered with true -lovers' knots. - -"Dear old Archie looks splendid," said Mark. - -A set of lancers was being formed. Mrs. Samphire, discovering that Mark -had no partner, begged him to sit down beside her. The years which had -passed since she married the Squire had turned her from a thin, prim, -slightly acidulous spinster into a plump, smirking matron, whose skin -seemed too tight for her face, even as her bodice seemed too tight for -her figure. A voluble talker, she was never known to listen to any -person save her superior in position or rank. Lady Randolph's lightest -words she cherished and generally repeated them afterwards--as her own. - -"I've hardly had time to say anything to you," she bleated. "How well -Archibald looks to-night! It distresses me dreadfully to think that he -will never wear pink again. Betty is very handsome. What do you say? -A beauty? No, no. I can't agree with you. And I always admire -blondes. All the Lambs are blondes." - -"No black sheep in your family?" said Mark. Lady Randolph, who was near, -smiled. - -"Black sheep? Never! Dear me! Who is that? Oh, Harry Kirtling. What -a nice-looking young fellow! One guesses why he is here. Our dear -Admiral is anxious to see a coronet on his niece's head. Don't move, -Mark! Ah! there is Lady Valence and her blind husband. Do tell me--I -am so short-sighted--who is that very common young man with them? What? -Oh, oh, indeed! The Duke of Brecon! I must say a word to dear Lady -Valence." - -She bustled across the room. Mark turned to Lady Randolph. - -"Have you any m-m-mint s-sauce? There is s-something about all the -Lambs which----" - -"Does not bring out our great qualities," said Lady Randolph. "See! -She has put the Duke to rout, and he is going to take refuge with me." - -Mark glanced up, noting that the Duke's feet were flat and turned out at -an absurd angle, giving him a shuffling and awkward gait. - -"He is a better fellow than he looks," whispered Lady Randolph. - -"Will you do me a favour, Lady Randolph?" The Duke's voice was very -pleasant. "Perhaps you can guess the nature of it?" - -"An introduction to Miss Kirtling, of course." - -"Of course," he repeated, laughing. - -The lancers was just over, and across the room Mark could see Betty and -Pynsent deep in conversation. Pynsent, he had heard women say, was a -fascinating man, the more so because heretofore he had been proof -against the assaults of the fair. Hullo! Lady Randolph was crossing the -floor with her Duke--confound him! And now Betty was smiling at him. -Yes, he had secured a dance; somebody else's probably. What an -insufferable silly grin he had! Jim Corrance interrupted his thoughts. - -"I say, Mark--isn't Betty a wonder?" - -Jim began to rave about her. The Duke and Lady Randolph passed on; -Betty leant back in her chair, while Pynsent talked. It seemed to Mark -that Pynsent was making the effort of his life. - -"I'm glad you brought Pynsent from Paris," Jim was saying. "It will do -him good. Like all Americans who live in Paris, he is ignorant of the -best side of English life. Eventually he must settle in London. And -he'll paint the portraits of all the swells. He tells me that already -he's in love with----" - -"Betty!" exclaimed Mark. - -"With my mother," said Jim, grinning. - -Mark was dancing the next valse, and had to seek his partner, who--it is -to be feared--did not find him as agreeable as usual. Moreover, she too -prattled of Betty, of the great match she ought to make, and so forth. -Fortunately a polka gave an opportunity of letting off steam. After -that, and a cooling glass of cup, Mark felt more hopeful and in better -humour. Indeed, by the time his dance with Betty was due, he was -himself, and beginning to enjoy the ball. - -"Your friend, Mr. Pynsent, is perfectly delightful," began Betty. - -"I thought you found him so." - -Betty smiled demurely. - -"He talked in the most interesting way about----" - -"Himself," said Mark. - -"No." - -"About you?" - -"Wrong again! He talked, nearly all the time, about a dear friend of -mine whom I had not seen for years." - -"I suppose you have dear friends in every town in Europe," said Mark. - -The shameless coquette nodded. How her eyes sparkled. - -"And who is this dear friend Pynsent knows?" - -"Mr. Pynsent was talking about--_you_," said Betty. - -"Betty, dear, forgive me! I am an ass, a silly, jealous ass. And -seeing you to-night I--I----" - -A kind pair of eyes warned him to say no more. For a moment there was -silence. Then--they fell to talking of the old days, capping stories, -and laughing at ancient jokes. When Mark left her in the hands of her -next partner, he was more in love than ever, and knew that Betty knew -it, and that the knowledge was not displeasing to her. And she had made -plain, without words, that this meeting of friends had stirred her to -the core, quickening all those generous emotions of childhood which -older people are constrained sorrowfully to stifle and destroy. While -Mark was sitting beside her he realised how little she had changed from -the girl who had played truant on the Westchester Downs, and yet between -them lay a blackthorn fence of convention and tradition. - -Meantime he danced gaily every dance, and at the end of the ball got -into a dogcart to drive home with Pynsent, feeling, perhaps, more alive -than he had ever felt before. Pynsent offered him a cigar, and lighted -one himself. - -"This Hunt Ball has been a new experience," Pynsent said, as the cart -rolled up the High Street. "And it means work. Lady Randolph has -commissioned a portrait. I go on to Birr Wood after leaving you." - -"If you satisfy her, Pynsent, she can help you enormously. She knows -all the right people." - -He heard Pynsent's pleasant chuckle. - -"'The right people.' I always scoffed at that phrase. But I found out -what it means to-night. Well, I hope to satisfy Lady Randolph. What I -see I can paint. I wonder if Miss Kirtling would sit. Would you ask -her?" - -"Can you see her?" - -"The finer lines are blurred. I might fail on that account. It would -be no small thing to set on canvas the 'unexpectedness' of her face. -She's going to surprise all of you before she's many years older." - -"She will marry a swell and become like everybody else," said Mark -nervously. - -"A marriage of convenience! That would indeed be surprising. No, no; -she is likely to marry the wrong man, but not from any ignoble motive; -she is capable of a great passion, which, mind you, is more physical -than mental, nine times out of ten. I'd like to make a study of her for -a head of Juliet, but I should want her to be thinking of Romeo, who, I -take it, has not yet made her acquaintance." - -Mark shuffled uneasily, and began to drive a willing horse too fast. - -"My brother, Archie, will sit as Romeo." - -"Ah! When they were standing together to-night, somehow I thought of -Verona at once." - -"Pynsent," said Mark desperately, "I may as well tell you that I--I -l-l-love Betty Kirtling. I loved her when she was a b-baby. I loved -her when she was a g-girl. And it all came back to-night. There never -has been anyone else." - -"Um," said Pynsent. - -"Tell me frankly what's in your m-mind." - -"I'm trying to fit you into it--as Romeo." - -"I'm an imbecile, of course, but I f-feel like Romeo. There--it's out." - -"So is your cigar. Take a pull on yourself, man, and on that horse, -too! You're not an imbecile. Alps lie between you and Miss Kirtling, -but the Alps have been scaled before and will be again." - -"If I could paint a great picture----" - -Pynsent was silent. - -Mark continued keenly: "And I feel in all my bones that I shall get -there, as you put it--with both feet. I say--you're not very -encouraging." - -"You must try for this next Salon." - -No more was said. But when Mark found himself alone in the room at Pitt -Hall which he always used, he lit the candles on each side of the -old-fashioned mirror. Then he examined himself, frowning. - -"Romeo!" he exclaimed disgustedly. "Good heavens!" - - - - - *CHAPTER VIII* - - *BARBIZON* - - -After the Hunt Ball Betty Kirtling was whisked away on a round of -visits. Jim Corrance accepted a clerkship in a big firm on the Stock -Exchange. Archibald was reading hard for his degree. Mark returned to -Paris and work. - -Acting under Saphir's advice, he went to Barbizon with the intention of -painting a picture for the Salon. In those days every man who went to -Barbizon painted one picture at least in accordance with certain -well-defined Barbizonian rules. At the top of the canvas was a narrow -strip of sky put on boldly with big brushes and a palette-knife. -Invariably, the sky was of a tender, pinky-grey complexion, hazy, but -atmospheric, hall-marked, so to speak, by Bastien Lepage. Below this -strip of opalescent mist, in solid contrast, were painted the roofs of -the village. These, too, were handled capitally even by the beginners. -The foreground represented a field full of waving grasses, grasses from -which the sun had sucked the chlorophyl, leaving them pale and -attenuated. In this field grew one tree, looking much the worse for -wear. Under the tree sat or stood a woman, a peasant wearing the -_coiffe_ of the commune and heavy sabots. This woman always had a -complexion of the colour and texture of alligator-skin, and her back was -bowed by excessive labour. A pretty maid waiting for her lover would -have been deemed rank blasphemy against the traditions of the place -where the "Angelus" of Millet had been conceived and painted. - -Mark worked hard at just such a picture during half of January and the -whole of February. A dozen friends were painting similar masterpieces -in a fine frenzy of open-air excitement. Saphir himself was at Gretz, -but he came over to Barbizon, breakfasted _chez_ Siron, and examined his -pupils' canvases with kindly, twinkling eyes. Then he went back to -Gretz. - -"He says we are all monkeys," observed a big Canadian. - -"So we are," cried Mark. "We're trying to copy what one man has done -s-s-superlatively well." - -Later, he took the Canadian aside. Saphir had talked alone to him; and -Mark had overheard his own name. - -"What did he say to you about--m-m-me?" - -"Oh, nothing." - -"I w-want the facts." - -"Well, he did ask me if you had private means, and I told him your -father made you a good allowance." - -"Go on!" - -"And--and he said that was fortunate. Of course he meant that--er--it -takes time to arrive--eh?" - -"Quite so. A lifetime if you happen to choose the wrong r-road." - -About the beginning of March Pynsent arrived from England. - -"I've caught on," he told Mark. "I shall certainly take a studio -somewhere in Kensington. Lady Randolph has found me a score of patrons. -What are you doing?" - -Mark produced his big canvas. Pynsent stared at it, pursing up his -lower lip and frowning. Mark's hopes oozed from every pore. The -picture exhibited pitiful signs of excessive labour. Pynsent obtained -his best effects with bits of pure colour laid on with amazing -precision. Mark's colour looked like putty. - -"Are they all as ugly as that?" said Pynsent, indicating the model. - -"I got the ugliest in the v-v-village. There's a lot in her face." - -"A lot of dirt." - -"I don't allow her to wash it. Can you read her 1-life's history?" - -"I'm hanged if I can." - -"You see n-nothing in her eyes?" - -"Nor in her mouth. She's lost all her teeth." - -"Knocked out by a b-brutal husband," said Mark, grinning, but ill at -ease beneath Pynsent's chaff. - -"What are those stains on the apron--red paint?" - -"Sheep's blood. I rubbed it on myself." - -Pynsent roared; he was not a Barbizonian. - -"Great Scott! You fellows take yourselves seriously." - -"Honestly," said Mark. "What d'ye think of it?" - -"It's good--in streaks," said Pynsent solemnly. Then his eyes flashed. -"Look here, Mark, they won't hang that. But I've told Lady Randolph and -Miss Kirtling that you will have a 'machine' in the Salon. Now, have -you the pluck to scrape this and paint it out--_to-night_?" - -"Yes," said Mark. - -Next day Pynsent led the way into the forest of Fontainebleau, Mark -following like a faithful spaniel. They walked for miles. Finally, -Pynsent discovered a bank of cool-looking sand in the heart of a pine -wood; upon the sand were wonderful shadows and reflections. - -"_Voila notre affaire!_" exclaimed Pynsent. - -"But the m-model----" - -"I have wired to Paris. These Barbizon peasants make me tired." - -That evening the model arrived--a girl. Within twelve hours Mark was at -work. Pynsent posed the girl upon the bank. She sat with her elbows on -her knees and her face between her hands, staring helplessly and -hopelessly out of an unknown world. - -"We'll call it '_Perdue_,'" said Pynsent. "The subject is trite, but -the treatment will redeem that. I spotted that girl last year in the -Rue du Chat qui Peche. Aren't her eyes immense?" - -Mark protested in vain. Pynsent ordered him to begin work. In eight -days the picture was painted. Pynsent had not laid a brush upon it, but -Mark was miserably conscious that his friend's genius informed almost -every stroke. For hours Pynsent stood at his side, exhorting and -encouraging. - -"It's really good," said Pynsent, after he had forbidden his pupil to -add another touch. - -"But it's not m-m-mine, Pynsent." - -"What?" - -"I couldn't have p-painted it without you." - -"Pooh!" - -At Siron's Mark's friends predicted success, a place on the line, -honourable mention, a prize, possibly. Saphir saw it and whistled. - -"You painted that--you?" - -They were standing in the dining-room, panelled with studies, some of -them signed by famous men. Mark's friends were all present, and in the -background Madame Siron smiled genially, murmuring that monsieur -certainly must add a tiny sketch to her little collection. Mark glanced -from face to face. The general expression was not to be misinterpreted. -In the eyes of those present he had "arrived." - -"_Tiens!_" said Saphir; "it is not signed. You must sign it, _mon -garçon_." - -A bystander produced a brush and palette. - -"It grows upon one," said Saphir, shading his eyes. "He has lots to -learn in technique, but the feeling which cannot be imparted is there. -_Saperlipopette_! It brings tears to the eyes. And look you," he -addressed Pynsent and Mark in broken English, "I am not easily moved--I! -When I lose a friend of ze blood--how do you call it?--a relation, yes, -ze tears do not come--no! And when I hear Wagner--_zoum, soum, -zoum_--ze tears do not come, no! But when I hear Rossini, -Bellini--rivers, _mes amis_, rivers!" With a large gesture he indicated -a tropical downpour; then he continued: "It is ze melodie. Is it not -so, _mes enfants_?" - -He appealed to the circle around him. Mark listened, stupefied, to a -clamour of congratulation. - -"Sign it--sign it!" they cried. - -Mark took the brush with a queer smile upon his wide mouth. The others -fell back to give him room. - -"_Dieu de Dieu!_" ejaculated Saphir. - -Mark had copied cleverly Pynsent's bold signature; below it in small -script was: "_per_ M. S." - -Pynsent bit his lip, frowning. The others stared at Mark, who met the -startled interrogation of their raised brows with a nervous laugh. - -"The f-f-feeling you speak of," he turned to Saphir, "is his," he -indicated Pynsent. "I cannot s-send it to the Salon as my work, but I -shall k-keep it and v-value it as long as I live." - -Saphir held out his hand. - -"My friend," he said in his own tongue, "if you were not an Angliche, I -should ask to have the honour of embracing you." - -"He's a quixotic fool," Pynsent growled; "I never touched the canvas." - -The others vanished, put to flight by an intuition that something was -about to happen. Mark addressed Saphir. - -"When you were here last you s-said to a friend of mine that it was -fortunate for me, that I had private means. You are my master; you have -seen everything I have done. This, you understand, does not c-c-count. -Pynsent knows my work, too, every line of it. I ask you both: Am I -w-w-wasting my time?" - -Neither answered. - -"No mediocre success will content me," continued Mark. "I ask you -again: Am I w-w-wasting my time?" - -"Yes," said Saphir gruffly. He put on his hat and went out. - -"He's not infallible," Pynsent muttered angrily. - -"Then you advise me to g-go on? No; you are too honest to do that. I -shall not go on, Pynsent; but I don't regret the last three years. They -would have been wasted indeed if they had b-b-blinded me to the truth -concerning my powers." - -"What will you do, Mark?" - -"I don't know--yet," said Mark. - - -Mark returned to England, where he learned of Betty's conquests. The -Duke of Brecon, so Lady Randolph told him, had to marry a million, -otherwise he might have offered Miss Kirtling the strawberry leaves. -Harry Kirtling, the cousin, very handsome, and a passionate protester, -wooed in vain, much to the Admiral's dismay, a dismay tempered by -Betty's assurance that she did not wish to leave her uncle for many a -long year. A prosperous rector proposed in a letter which began: "My -dear Miss Kirtling,--After much earnest thought and fervent prayer, I -write to entreat you to become my wife...." This gentleman was a -widower on the ripe side of forty. Pynsent, too, confessed that had he -not been bond to Art, he might have become Betty's slave. - -Mark saw her on the day when she was presented at Court, on the day when -she held a small court herself at Randolph House, after she had kissed -her sovereign's hand. Like the young man in the parable, Mark went away -from Belgrave Square very sorrowful, because Betty seemed so rich and he -was so poor. - -About this time he met the future Bishop-Suffragan of Poplar, David -Ross, then head of the Camford Mission. A man of extraordinary personal -magnetism, Ross had begun by challenging public attention as the -champion middle-weight boxer of his year. He possessed a small forest -in Sutherland and abundant private means; but, to the amazement of his -friends, he took Orders and accepted a curacy in the East End. His -lodge in Sutherland was turned into a sanatorium, whither were sent at -his expense clergymen who had broken down in health. David Ross had the -highlander's prophetic faculty and intuition. Where others crawled, he -leaped to conclusions respecting his fellow-creatures. When he met -Mark, for instance, he divined his mental condition: the suffering -denied expression, the disappointment, the humiliation. But he divined -far more--something of which Mark himself was unconscious: a religious -mind, religious in the sense in which Bishop Butler interpreted the -word--submissive to the will of God. This quality in combination with a -passionate energy and determination to win his way arrested Ross's -attention and captivated his interest. He asked Mark to become a guest -at the Mission. - -Here the almost invincible odds against which a dozen men were -struggling whetted to keen edge Mark's vitality and love of fighting. -Listening to David Ross, it seemed incredible that he should have pinned -his ambition to the painting of a picture. At the end of a couple of -months' hard work in the slums he said abruptly to Ross: "If I can -overcome my confounded stammer, I shall take Orders." - -Ross held his glance. - -"Do nothing rashly," he said gravely. - -Time, however, strengthened Mark's resolution. He set to work to -overcome his stammer. When he told his family of his intention to take -Orders, each member in turn protested. - -"You--a parson?" The Squire was scarlet with surprise. - -"There is only one living," bleated Mrs. Samphire. - -"Oh, I shan't compete with old Archie," said Mark, smiling. - -Lady Randolph, however, said to Betty: "He is the right man to -lead--_lead_, mind you--forlorn hopes." - -"And be killed," Betty answered vehemently. - -"I don't think he will be killed, my dear." - -For many months after this he worked with Ross, seeing but little of his -family and friends. - - -In the following February the Admiral died after a short sharp attack of -pneumonia. Mark attended his funeral, and exchanged a few words with -Betty, to whom was left everything the kind, eccentric old man -possessed. Betty broke down when she saw Mark's sympathetic face. She -had nursed her uncle faithfully; she had loved him very dearly; she -realised that she was alone in a world which held pain as well as -pleasure. Mark tried to comfort her. - -"You have so many friends, Betty." - -"Friends?" She smiled through her tears. "Friends are like -policemen--always round the corner when most wanted. I might want you, -and you--you--would be somewhere in Whitechapel." - -Mark opened his mouth, and shut it again resolutely. - -During that week he saw her twice. It was settled that The Whim should -be let till she came of age; Betty living, meanwhile, with her guardian -and trustee, Lady Randolph. Miriam Hazelby helped Betty to pack up the -Admiral's china, and, when Mark called, played watchdog. She liked Mark -and respected him; but she respected also the late Admiral's wishes. -Mark noted that Miss Hazelby's affection and sympathy for Betty did not -obscure her powers of observation. - -"Betty," she said to Mark, "has a mind which till now has been a -sundial: recording only the bright hours. I confess that I am anxious -about her. When I left her I told the Admiral that she carried too much -sail and not enough ballast. As a seaman he approved my trite little -metaphor." - -Mark began to praise Betty. - -"Oh," said Miss Hazelby drily, "she has been fortunate in knowing good -people to whose standard she tries to attain. It has been easy for her -to avoid evil in King's Charteris, but in Belgrave Square----" - -The excellent lady sniffed. - -"Lady Randolph will keep an eye on her," said Mark. - -"She'll need both eyes," retorted Miss Hazelby. - - - - - *CHAPTER IX* - - *AT KING'S CHARTERIS* - - -Two years later, in April, Mark Samphire preached his first sermon at -King's Charteris. He had wrestled with his stammer as Christian did with -Apollyon, and he told Archie that he had reason to believe it was -mastered when the brothers met at Pitt Hall upon the Saturday preceding -Mark's appearance in the village pulpit. - -"I passed some severe tests, before they admitted me to deacons' -orders," he said. - -Archie stared curiously at an unfamiliar Mark. "You don't look very -fit." - -"I've been like a bird in the hand of a fowler, a fluttering tomtit -trying to escape. Ross rescued me. You must get to know Ross: he's a -splendid fellow. I've talked to him a lot about you." - -Archibald nodded, well pleased to find Mark's eyes lingered upon his -handsome face and imposing figure with the same pride and affection as -of yore, out he was conscious also of a mental change in his brother, -divined rather than apprehended. Mark spoke with enthusiasm of work in -congested districts, he gave lamentable details, he indicated colossal -difficulties. - -"And this sort of thing satisfies you?" said Archie heavily. "Although, -as I take it, the results are visible. I like to see results. I keep a -diary--of results. You were telling me just now of the difficulties of -dealing with a shifting population: the people, for instance, round the -London Docks. I couldn't undertake that sort of work." - -"You want to count your sheaves," said Mark. - -"I am ambitious," Archie admitted. "Aren't you?" - -"Oh, yes. If I told you that I felt it in me to become a preacher, you -would l-laugh perhaps." - -"You've always had plenty to say, Mark." - -"And if, one day, I could stand in the pulpit of such a fane as -Westchester, if----" - -"Why not?" said Archie. - -"I try not to think of that. But those spires and pinnacles--I see them -as in a vision." - -"What will be your text to-morrow?" - -"That verse from Isaiah: '_A man shall be as an hiding place from the -wind, and a covert from the tempest._' I shall not t-touch upon the -prophetical interpretation. I want to show that any man, the humblest -and weakest, may prove a shelter to others." - -Archie caught his enthusiasm. - -"It is in you, Mark." - -"In me, yes; but suppose it won't come out." - -"Do you know that Betty Kirtling is here?" - -"Here?" He turned to hide his flushed cheeks. - -"She is with Mrs. Corrance. We are asked to lunch there to-morrow. I -accepted for you. Betty ran down from town yesterday on purpose to hear -your first sermon." - -"Oh!" - -"It's a great compliment; for she has become a much-sought-after person. -I see her name continually in the papers. Lady Randolph tells me that -you refuse all invitations to Randolph House. Is that wise?" - -"Wise?" Mark laughed, and thrust out a lean leg. "Is this a leg for a -gaiter?" - -"That joke is worn threadbare," said Archie, with a slight frown. "I -can't see why your work should cut you off from old friends who have -your welfare at heart. Lord Randolph got me my present curacy. He would -do as much and more for you." - -"I shall certainly stick to Ross." - -Next morning Mark rose early after an uneasy and almost sleepless night. -He had been obsessed by a spirit of Betty. Whenever he closed his eyes -she came to him. "She is the creature of my dreams," he told himself -impatiently. None the less she dominated his waking hours, she stood -behind that ever-increasing hope of becoming a great preacher. He had -consumed gallons of midnight oil in the composition of sermons declaimed -in unfrequented spots of Victoria Park. Now, the thought of preaching -to the woman he loved filled him with bitter-sweet excitement. He -dressed and went out into the park. Presently he came to an elm out of -which flew some jackdaws chattering volubly. Their harsh notes brought -back a morning when Archie and he, small schoolboys, had scaled this -very tree in search of jackdaws' eggs. Yes; there was the hole, high -up, out of which Archibald by his superior height and strength had -secured the spoil. - -Mark sat down, despite the protests of the jackdaws, and faced his -thoughts. The talk with Archie of the night before came back to him. -He had heard Archie preach. Archie's matter, perhaps, to the critical -mind left something to be desired; but his manner was admirable and his -voice clear, persuasive, melodious, an instrument of incomparable power -and delicacy. Did Mark envy his brother? Did he grudge him a success -already achieved? Did he grudge him--a subtler point--the greater -success which undoubtedly he would achieve? To these questions he -answered sincerely--"No." - -Leaving Archibald, his thoughts flew straight and swift to Betty. She -had come to King's Charteris to hear him preach? Why? His heart -flamed; for Archie had preached his first sermon in the village church. -Had Betty travelled from town to hear Samphire major? No. - -When he returned to Pitt Hall, he had made a sort of compromise with his -pride, his conscience, and his God. Time was when he abhorred -compromise, but David Ross had said that a life without compromise must -prove entirely selfish or so selfless in its aims as to be abnormal. -Mark admitted the possibility of breakdown. And if silence were -imposed, he must shoulder the burden. Speech, on the other hand, if it -were truly his, included speech with Betty. He felt assured that she -expected him to speak, that she had travelled to King's Charteris to -hear him speak. He could not have said why this conviction thrilled -every nerve in his body; it simply was so. - - -During the first part of the service, Mark found time to study the faces -of the congregation. Betty, sitting beside Mrs. Corrance, looked pale -and anxious. Mark remembered that she had not entered the church since -the Admiral's funeral. Having keen sight, he detected traces of tears, -which moved him profoundly. Behind her, with his broad back against one -of the pillars, sat the Squire, rigidly upright. He had come prepared to -hear his boy--"the best boy in the world, sir"--preach a fine sermon. -During the rector's long and somewhat dry discourses, the Squire always -assumed an attitude of profound attention, his fine head inclined upon -his massive chest, his eyes and lips meditatively closed. If suspicious -sounds had not escaped through his nose, none would have dared to accuse -him of napping. But everybody, from the rector to the latest breeched -urchin, knew that the dear man slept like a humming-top from -introduction to peroration. He would not sleep to-day. Expectation, -tempered by anxiety, informed his expression, the expression assumed by -him at Lord's, when his sons were walking to the wicket. Literally -interpreted, it said: "A Samphire may fail, but it is not likely to -happen." Mark glanced from his father to Mrs. Samphire. Her prominent -eyes, set too far apart, like a sheep's, were slightly congested; her -puffy cheeks were flushed. It struck Mark that she would accept failure -on his part with Christian resignation. She resented the fact that Mark -was the favourite son of the Squire, who may have seen the quality in -his youngest born which distinguished the mother, and which Mark alone -inherited. Mrs. Samphire was inordinately jealous of the first wife. - -Mark's thoughts wandered with his eyes. Just below the pulpit he saw -Wadge, the head keeper, a thin, hard-bitten, sharp-featured man, whose -brown face was framed in bushy red whiskers. Many a day's sport had -Mark enjoyed with Wadge. He recalled a frosty morning when Jim -Corrance, indiscreetly thrusting his hand into a burrow, had been nailed -by a ferret. Behind Wadge was Bulpett, the butcher, a burly man, one of -the churchwardens, and reputed to be worth a snug ten thousand pounds. -What a lot of rats there used to be in his old slaughter-house before it -was pulled down! Once Bulpett had caught Archie and Mark peeping -through a chink in the slaughter-house at a calf he was about to kill. -What silly idiots they felt when Bulpett politely invited them to come -inside. And then Bulpett had laughed and said that he would send a nice -piece of veal to Pitt Hall. - -The rector gave out the psalms of the day. Archie's splendid voice -filled the church. And who was this singing so shrilly and so -abominably flat? Why dear old Ellen, to be sure--his first nurse--who -must have walked all the way from Cranberry-Orcas. Ellen lived in a -cottage near Cranberry brook, wherein Archie and he used to catch trout -by the willow at the foot of her cabbage patch. She had been maid to -the first Mrs. Samphire; and when Miss Selina Lamb came to Pitt Hall, -Ellen married a porter, who had waited for her fifteen years. Mark knew -the porter well. He was not an agreeable person, being rheumatic and -asthmatic--and crusty in consequence--but at the time of the marriage -the Samphire boys agreed that Ellen was wise in preferring him to the -Ewe, their nickname for the stepmother. - -How his thoughts were wandering! - -With an effort he led them from the nave into the chancel. In this -church a famous poet and scholar had ministered for more than a quarter -of a century. The ancients from the workhouse, who sat in the front -seats of the aisle, wearing white smock frocks, had been ruddy-faced -youths when the poet first came to King's Charteris. And in the village -the influence of this saint remained a vital force, although he had been -dead nearly twenty years. This thought moved Mark to pray that he might -be given the gift of tongues, which is not the faculty of speaking many -languages, but the infinitely greater power of making our -fellow-creatures feel what we feel--of touching them to issues finer -than those which ordinarily engross them, of so setting forth what is -strong and tender and true that other things, no matter what they may -be, shrink and shrivel into the trivial and insignificant. - -The psalms came to an end. Standing at the great brass lectern, Mark -read the lessons without stutter or pause in a voice slightly harsh, yet -susceptible of modulation. Later, in the same harsh, penetrating tone -he gave out his text. The scrapings of feet, the rustle of skirts, the -occasional cough were silenced. Mark began his sermon by asking his -hearers to consider man's relation to others: a theme informed by him -with phrases and illustrations drawn from personal observation of -village life. Betty Kirtling felt as if she were peering into a magic -mirror, wherein she saw herself illumined by a strange light, and this -shining image was no phantom of the imagination, but her true -substantial self, the woman as God intended her to be, with finite aims -and appetites subordinate and subservient to the majestic design and -purpose of the Infinite. - -To her right were the village boys, a mob of sluggish-minded urchins, -the raw material out of which is fashioned the Slowshire yokel. But -each boy--so Betty noted--was gazing at Mark with intelligence and -affection. He held them in thrall. The hard lines about Mrs. -Samphire's eyes and mouth softened. The Squire was staring into the -face of the preacher--seeing, hearing, feeling the mother of his son. - -And then, when the great thing for which Mark had laboured as patiently -as Demosthenes, seemed within his grasp, when he had proved to the -meanest understanding that he had something to say which the world would -hear gladly, his infirmity seized him. In the middle of a phrase he -began to stutter. His face grew convulsed, his thin hand went to his -throat, as if seeking to tear from it the abominable lump. But no -articulate word followed. Only a stutter falling with sibilant hiss upon -the dismayed congregation. - -At that moment a nervous, hysterical girl tittered. The woman seated -next to her glared indiscreet rebuke. The wretched creature burst into -discordant laughter. Betty heard the girl's laughter and saw Mark's -twisted face. His eyes met hers in a glance which she could not -interpret, as the girl who had laughed was led weeping from the church. -The great oak door clanged behind her, and in the silence which followed -Mark attempted to continue his sermon, but the last desperate effort to -conquer a physical disability cannot be described. Betty covered her -face. Old Ellen burst into piteous sobs. Mark turned towards the altar, -the congregation rising. Then, with a firm step, he descended the steps -of the pulpit. - - -The brothers came out of the vestry together, passed in silence through -the churchyard, where Easter flowers were shining in the shadows cast by -the lindens, crossed the village street, and strolled up the lane which -led to Westchester Downs. In the street a small crowd had collected, -including Wadge and Bulpett. Further down, by the lychgate, stood the -Samphire landau. Mark saw a burly figure, and a face, redder even than -usual. When the Squire perceived that his sons were crossing the street -he got into the carriage. - -"It's hard on him," said Mark. "The dear old man was so certain I -should score." - -The crowd made way; all the men touched their hats; upon every face was -inscribed sympathy and affection. Bulpett advanced, holding out his -huge hand. "Gawd bless ee, sir, we be tarr'ble sorry we be; but try -again, Master Mark, try again!" - -"Thank you, Bulpett," said Mark, without stammering. He glanced at the -circle of kindly faces. "By Jove! it's good to have such friends." - -The brothers walked on till they reached a bank flaming with primroses, -and sloping to the old chalk-pit, where as boys they used to find -fossils. - -"You _will_ try again?" said Archie nervously. - -"Again and again," Mark answered. "All the same, I have the feeling -that I shall never be a preacher." - -The words burst vehemently from his lips. He was very pale, but calm. -Archibald seemed quite overcome. Mark then said slowly: "I am not fit -to preach." - -"What?" - -"I--I felt this morning a desire for material success which appalled me. -I had touched you--all of you--to something fine, but--I cannot talk -about it, even to you." - -He paused with his eyes upon a distant cloud. - -"That wretched girl!" groaned Archibald. - -Mark's quietness seemed to exasperate the elder brother. - -"I can't follow you," he said irritably. "Why shouldn't one want the -good things of this world: power, position, honour?" - -"Don't I want 'em? Great heavens! don't I hunger for 'em? But if they -are not to be mine, what then?" - -"You kiss the rod? In your place I should be furious, beside myself -with resentment." - -"Good old Archie," said Mark, taking his brother's hand and pressing it. - -He stood up, reminding Archie that Mrs. Corrance had asked them to lunch -with her. - -"Betty cried like a baby," said Archie irrelevantly. - -Mrs. Corrance received them in the small hall of her house, welcoming -Mark with a mute sympathy more eloquent than words. Mark broke the -silence as Betty came forward. - -"I made a sad mess of it," he said, smiling genially. - -But as he was washing his hands in Jim's room upstairs, his face -hardened. He went to the window which overlooked Mrs. Corrance's -rose-garden. At the end of a _pergola_, glorious in June with the -blossoms of an immense Crimson Rambler, he could see a small arbour -wherein Mrs. Corrance was in the habit of sitting whenever the day -proved fine. This arbour was the prettiest thing in the garden, and the -one which brought most vividly to mind his childhood. Here, many and -many a time, Mrs. Corrance had read to and played with Jim and the -Samphire boys. He could just remember how dreary and neglected this -garden had been when the arbour was built. Out of a chaos of weeds and -stones and broken crockery (for the outgoing tenant had used this -backyard as a dumping-ground for rubbish) Mrs. Corrance had created a -lovely little world, a tiny domain peculiarly her own, fragrant with -memories sweet as the thyme and lavender of its herbaceous borders. As a -boy, Mark often wondered why time and care were lavished upon a piece of -ground so insignificant. Now he knew. Mrs. Corrance had had the joy of -fashioning beauty out of ugliness. - -At luncheon he told some anecdotes of life in Stepney. Archibald's -gloomy face and Betty's tell-tale eyelids kept his tongue wagging, but -his thoughts were in the pulpit of King's Charteris Church or in Mrs. -Corrance's rose-garden. The one seemed to have affinity with the other. -Would his life remain a wilderness of weeds and broken crockery? - -After luncheon he found himself alone with Betty in the arbour. He had -dreaded this moment; so had she; and yet each was sensible of a harmony -no more to be interpreted than the murmur of the wind in tall grasses. - -"What are your plans?" she asked. - -Indirectly he answered by speaking of life at the Camford Mission. She -listened, computing the distance between Randolph House and Bethnal -Green. - -"You talk as if work--such work, too,--were all that is left." - -He was silent. Her face, delicately flushed, brimming over with a -tender and imaginative pity, implored him to speak. - -"Work lies between me and what is left," he answered slowly, watching -the pulse beat in the blue veins of her white neck. - -"You may be famous yet," she whispered. "This morning when you began -I--I almost forgot that it was you. And when I looked round, everybody, -even the village boys, were spellbound." - -"But when I f-f-failed," said Mark hurriedly, "you, you felt what I -f-f-felt, that, that----" He put his hand to his throat, unable to -finish the phrase because of the detestable lump rising and swelling in -his throat. - -"You thought _that_ because I cried." - -He nodded, seeing again her despairing gesture. - -"I am sorry I was such a poor friend," she said quickly. "I ought not -to have cried. I behaved like a weak fool. You will succeed yet, Mark. -I know it; I know it." - -The lump in his throat seemed to dissolve. - -"But," she continued, "if--if it should be otherwise, do you think that -I would care? Do you measure my friendship for you by the world's -foot-rule?" - -Mark seized her hands. - -"God bless you!" he said passionately. "God bless you, dear, dear -Betty!" Then abruptly, with a strange smile, he added, "Good-bye!" - -He had gone before she could recover her wits or her voice. She stood -alone, a piteous figure, truly feminine inasmuch as she was not able to -pursue the man. - -"Oh, oh!" she cried, covering her face as she had done in the church. -"I cannot bear the misery behind his smiles." - - - - - *CHAPTER X* - - *AFTER THREE YEARS* - - -"I am growing older and older," said Betty Kirtling. - -Lady Randolph, looking up from a paper, peered through her glasses at -charms which Time had embellished rather than diminished. Betty had -passed her twenty-second birthday; she had begun her fifth season; but -by virtue of high health and spirits she still retained the bloom and -freshness of the _débutante_. She stood at the middle window of the -morning-room of Randolph House, the big brown house at the corner of -Belgrave Square, from whose hospitable doors Archibald and Mark Samphire -had driven to Lord's Cricket Ground when they were Harrow boys. -Outside, a May sun was shining after a shower; and in the puddles on the -balcony some sparrows were taking their bath. Betty was reflecting that -London sparrows must be very uncomfortable in a dry summer. - -"Are you wiser?" Lady Randolph asked. - -"I know that sparrows wash themselves, and that skylarks don't," Betty -replied. "I suppose the London sparrows had to bathe, and that they -learned to love it. How jolly they look, splashing about. That must be -a cock bird. Do you see? He takes a whole puddle to himself." - -Lady Randolph laid down the _Morning Post_. - -"Archibald Samphire has been made a minor canon of Westchester," she -said abruptly. - -Betty slightly turned her head. Lady Randolph perceived a faint pink -blush tinging the whiteness of her neck. - -"And Jim Corrance is coming here to luncheon--to-day." - -Betty's exclamation at this must be explained. Jim had spent three -years in South Africa, buying and selling gold-mines. He was now a -junior partner in the great firm which he had entered five years before -as a clerk. - -"I shall ask Archibald Samphire and Jim to come to us at Birr Wood for -the Whitsuntide recess. Do you think Mark would join them!" - -"Perhaps; if you were careful to make no mention of me." - -"Betty?" - -"He shuns me as if I were a leper. I've not seen him for eighteen -months. Yes--ask him. Make him come! I should like to meet those -three once again." - -She ran from the room, laughing. Lady Randolph frowned. "Does she care -for Jim?" she was reflecting, "or is it still Mark? Or--is it -Archibald? She has always been loyal to her boy lovers." Her wise old -eyes began to twinkle. Many men, some of them irreproachable from the -marriage point of view, had fallen in love with the Kirtling girl with -the De Courcy eyes, but in vain. "And yet she is not cold," mused her -friend; "a passionate nature if ever there was one. How will it end?" -She often told herself that this ever-increasing interest in Betty made -life worth the living. She recognised in her qualities which invited -speculation. Betty had a sense of religion lacking, or let us say -elementary, in Lord Randolph's wife; on the other hand, the girl's sense -of humour was less keen than her own. Pynsent--she liked Pynsent--always -spoke of Betty's unexpectedness. So far, what she had done and said had -been more or less conventional. That indicated Irish blood--the wish to -please those with whom she lived. - -Her reflections were interrupted by Jim Corrance. He explained that he -had landed at Southampton within the week. - -"I saw this house last night," he concluded, "and it brought back the -days when you were so kind to us. So I asked if you were at home. And -I was delighted to get your wire this morning. Is Betty here?" - -"No." His face amused his old friend, but she added quickly: "She is -upstairs, prinking--for you. Have you seen Mark Samphire?" - -"I saw him yesterday, and I shall see him again this afternoon," said -Jim gravely. "Mark is overworked, you know." - -"I don't know," said Lady Randolph drily. "Tell me about him." - -Jim began to describe the difficulties against which Mark was -contending. Lady Randolph's eyes lost their sparkle. - -"Do you believe all you say?" she asked when Jim paused. "You indict -Mark's common sense and worldly wisdom, but are you as sure as you seem -to be that he is tilting at windmills?" - -Corrance was silent. - -"I have used your arguments a thousand times," continued Lady Randolph, -"and always, but always, I have doubted their real value. And I am -supposed to be a scoffer, a freethinker, a woman of the world. It is -amazing that I can sympathise at all with Mark, yet I do, and so do you, -my friend. You are no more sure than I that he is not right in -sacrificing the things which we rate so highly. When I last saw him his -face was haggard and white, but he looked happier than you." - -Jim stared at the pattern in the carpet, till an awkward pause was -broken by the entrance of Betty, a radiant vision from which the young -man laughingly shaded his eyes. Her welcome was so warm, that Lady -Randolph made certain the girl's heart was untouched so far as Jim -Corrance was concerned. Soon after the three joined Lord Randolph in -the dining-room, where Jim was persuaded to talk of what he had done and -what he hoped to do. The sun had been shining on him steadily during -three years; and its glow illumined the present and the future. - -"You look pink with prosperity," said Betty; then she added: "Have you -heard of Archie's preferment? he has been made a minor canon of -Westchester." - -"Archibald Samphire is the handsomest young man in the Church of -England," observed Lord Randolph. - -"Mark always said that Archie had a leg for a gaiter," Corrance -remarked. - -"A well-turned leg," said Lady Randolph, "carries a man into high -places; and Archie is hard-working, discreet, and ambitious. He will -climb, mark me." - -Obviously Jim was delighted to hear of his friend's success; but Betty's -expression defied interpretation. - -"It's queer," said Corrance, "but old Archie has always got what he -wanted. Some fellows at Harrow called it luck. I don't believe in -luck." - -"I do," cried Betty. "So did Napoleon. Archie is lucky. Do you know -that he has come into an aunt's fortune--about eight hundred a -year--which ought to have gone to the eldest son--George? Archie won the -old lady's heart, when he was a boy, by writing her a wonderful letter; -George pinched her pug's tail, or threw stones at her cat, or something. -Archie behaved nicely, and his letter, I believe, was a model." - -"Well--I'm hanged!" exclaimed Jim. "Was it Aunt Deborah Samphire? It -was--eh? Well, I remember that letter quite well. Mark dictated it, -for a lark. And I contributed a word or two. She sent Archie a fiver -when he got into the Sixth, and he came to us. Mark said that Aunt Deb -should have a letter which would warm the cockles of her heart. It was -a masterpiece." - -"Um!" said Lord Randolph. "This young fellow is certainly a favourite -of the Gods. Luck? Good Gad--who can doubt it? There was that -scoundrel Crewkerne----" - -He plunged into a story which began behind the counter of a -haberdasher's and ended in the House of Lords. - -"Crewkerne had the devil's own luck," Lord Randolph concluded; "and luck -seems to sit beside young Samphire and you, my boy, but the other lad, -Mark, the fellow with the eyes, is one of the unlucky ones. That first -sermon of his now----" - -"Which was also his last," said Betty. - -"Eh--what?" Lord Randolph stared. "You don't mean that. He has tried -again--surely?" - -"Again--and again," said Betty, "but his stammer always defeats him." - -"And he had the real stuff in him," said Lord Randolph. "What a pity it -was not allowed to come out!" - -"The real stuff always comes out," said Lady Randolph, rising. - -When Jim took his leave a few minutes later, he was under promise to -spend Whitsuntide at Birr Wood. Lady Randolph commissioned him to -persuade Mark to be of the party. Archibald--she felt assured--would -join them. But it must be made plain that a refusal from Mark would be -considered an offence. - -Outside, Jim lit an excellent cigar which he smoked as a cab whirled him -eastward. Years afterwards he remembered that drive: the swift -transition from Belgrave Square to the Mile End Road. He had seen Mark -the day before, but only for a few minutes, because some poor creature -had come running for his friend. But those few minutes stood out sable -against the white background of their previous intercourse. Never could -he forget Mark's delight at seeing him: the light in his blue eyes, the -grasp of his thin hand, the thrill of his voice. And yet, to offset -this, was the grim fact that his friend's health and strength were -failing. And this failure, measured by his (Corrance's) success, seemed -tragic. Yet was it? The question festered. And that long drive, the -gradual descent of the hill of Life, lent it new and poignant -significance. If Mark had forsworn all Randolph House included--and it -held Betty Kirtling--what had he gained? - -The well-bred grey between the shafts of the hansom sped on past the -houses of the rich and mighty, and plunged into the roaring world of -work. Here, on both sides of the street, in flaming gold letters for the -most part, were the names of the successful strivers, the prosperous -tradesmen, merchants, and bankers. Farther on, in Fleet Street, might -be seen other names--those of the heralds and recorders of human -effort--the famous newspapers. Jim's eyes sparkled, and his heart beat -faster. For the moment he forgot the dun streets behind these -resplendent thoroughfares--the interminable miles and miles of houses -which shelter the millions who toil and moil out of sight and out of -mind! - -Passing the Mansion House, the grey knocked down a ragamuffin. Corrance -was out of his cab in a jiffy, but the urchin scrambled up, apparently -unhurt. Jim gave him half a crown and a scolding, much to the amusement -of the burly policeman, who was of opinion that the young rascal might -have done it on purpose. Jim was horrified. "Bless yer, sir, they'd do -more than that to get a few coppers." These words stuck in his -thoughts. - -When he reached the Mission House he was received by one of the younger -members--a deacon full of enthusiasm which flared, indeed, from every -word he spoke. Corrance was struck by the lad's face--his bright -complexion, clear eyes, and general air of sanity. Some of the men at -the Mission were ill-equipped for the pleasures of life, and therefore, -perhaps, more justified in accepting its pains in the hope of -compensation hereafter. They, to be sure, would have repudiated -indignantly the barter and sale of bodies and souls. None the less, the -self-sacrifice of one pre-eminently qualified to win this world's prizes -became the more remarkable. - -"Samphire will be here in five minutes," said the young fellow. "Can I -offer you anything--a whisky and soda, a cigarette?" - -"If you will join me." - -"I shall be glad of the excuse," replied the other frankly. "It is -horribly thirsty weather--isn't it? And a thirst is catching. I've been -working amongst the navvies this morning. Glorious chaps--some of them! -I attend to the games, you know--cricket and football." - -He plunged into a description of the men with whom he had dealings; and -from them, by a natural transition, to David Ross, who had just been -ordained Bishop of Poplar. For David Ross great things were predicted. - -"It's like this," he concluded: "Our people are waking up. Time they -did, too. And the men who will fill the big billets will be those who -have seen active service. I don't sneer at the scholars, but a bishop -nowadays must be more concerned with the present than the past. Ross -chucked the schools, and he was right; he has given his attention to -conditions of life amongst the very poor, and I believe he knows more -about 'em than most men of twice his age and experience. Samphire's -friends may think he's wasting his time--from a worldly point of view, I -mean--down here in the slums, but he isn't." - -Mark's entrance cut short this conversation, and the speaker withdrew at -once. - -"Nice boy," said Mark. "The sort we want most, and so seldom get. Half -our fellows are discouraged, and show it; but I'm not going to talk shop -to you, old chap." - -"I saw Betty Kirtling to-day," said Jim abruptly. "It's amazing that she -is still Betty Kirtling." - -Mark said nothing. Jim, after a keen glance at his pale face, began to -speak of the Whitsuntide party, which at first Mark refused to join. -Jim grew warm in persuasion, accusing Mark of churlishness, making the -matter one personal to himself. Finally, Mark consented to spend four -days at Birr Wood. - -"We shall hear Archie preach in Westchester Cathedral," Mark said. - -"I wish it were you," Jim replied quickly. - -"I shall never p-p-preach," stammered Mark. - -A few minutes later the friends were on their way to one of those -squalid courts which lie between the Mile End Road and the river. To -Jim the dull uniformity of the houses indicated a life inexorably drab -in colour and coarse as fustian in texture. But Mark had the -microscopist's power of revealing the beauty that lies imprisoned in a -speck of dust. Seen by the polarised light of his imagination these -dreary dwellings showed all the colours of the spectrum. Here lived a -family of weavers; there, behind those grimy windows, were fashioned the -wonderful hats--the bank-holiday hats of Whitechapel. Of every trade -pursued in this gigantic hive he had the details at his tongue's tip; -and through the woof of his description ran golden threads. More than -once Corrance touched upon the obstacles--the ever-shifting population, -the indifference which lies between class and class, the drunkenness, -the premature marriages of penniless boys and girls. - -"These are mountains--yes." - -"You have set your face to the stars, and you do not look back--eh?" -Corrance said quickly. He was sorry he had put the question, for he -felt that Mark would not try to evade it. - -"Look back?" cried Mark. "Aye--a thousand times; and, perhaps, as one -climbs higher the pleasant valleys will grow dim. I'm not high enough -for that," he added hastily. - -"You have climbed far above me," said Jim vehemently; "and far as you -have climbed I have gone twice as far--down hill." Then, reading dismay -in Mark's face, he added with a laugh: "Don't speak; I have said too -much already. You have the parson's power of compelling confession. -Tell me more about these weavers!" - -Mark obeyed, conscious that troubled waters surged between himself and -his old friend. - - - - - *CHAPTER XI* - - *IN LOVE'S PLEASAUNCE* - - -Birr Wood lies within three miles of Westchester upon the banks of the -Itchen. The house itself--the home of the Randolphs for four -centuries--was rebuilt by Inigo Jones, and has been mentioned by Lord -Orford as being one of that great architect's best works. Like many of -Jones's palaces, Birr Wood is a show place. The magnificent avenue, the -Italian gardens, the terraces, the disposition of the trees in the park -are mere accessories to the vast white pile which dominates the whole--a -glittering monument to rank and wealth and power. - -Pynsent, who had painted four members of the Randolph family, admired -the house enormously, but he maintained that it must remain greater than -any man who might inhabit it. The splendid columns and pilasters, so -expressive of what is enduring in Greek art, were designed obviously to -last for ever, albeit the Randolphs themselves, once so numerous, so -vigorous, and so pre-eminent, were dwindling to extinction. Pynsent, -possibly because he was an American, failed to apprehend the pathos of -this. Mark Samphire said to him: "It is so horribly sad to think that -soon there will be no Randolphs at Birr Wood." - -"Um," replied the painter, "how much sadder it would be if there were no -Birr Wood for the Randolphs, or those that come after them. Suppose it -burned down--eh?" - -Mark was silent. - -"I have heard you say," continued Pynsent, "that the work, the best work -of men's hands, is greater than the men themselves. And you are right. -To me Birr Wood is not the ancient home of the Randolphs, nor the -masterpiece of Inigo Jones, but a materialisation, adapted to modern -needs, of the spirit of Greek architecture. For my part, kind as our -friends have been, much as I like them as individuals, I feel that their -house is, in a strained sense perhaps, profaned by the presence of an -hereditary disease. The Randolphs Van Dyck painted were worthy to live -at Birr Wood." - -This talk took place upon the terrace facing the Italian gardens upon -the Friday preceding Whit Sunday. The Samphires, Pynsent, Jim Corrance -and his mother, Betty Kirtling, young Kirtling (now Lord Kirtling), and -three fashionable maidens made up a party which had assembled on that -day, and would disperse upon the following Tuesday. - -Jim had not met Archibald Samphire for some three years. Archie, Jim -said to himself, might be only a minor canon, but already he had the air -of a great gun. He spoke little, and it was understood that he was -thinking of his sermon in Westchester Cathedral. After dinner, in the -red saloon, he sang three songs: one a lyric, a Frühlingslied sweetly -pastoral and simple; the second a love song by an eminent French -composer; the last that hackneyed adaptation of Bach's lovely prelude, -Gounod's "Ave Maria." When he moved from the piano the girls surrounded -him, prattling thanks and entreaties for more. But Betty, so Corrance -noted, sat still, with a faint flush upon her cheeks and a suffused -light in her eyes. - -"He sings extraordinarily well," said Jim. - -"Yes," Betty sighed. - -Just then Mark came up, rubbing his hands. His delight in his brother's -voice struck Jim as being pathetic. - -"It's the quality that does it," Mark explained. "That second song of -his--rubbish--eh? But it thrilled--didn't it, Betty? And the tragic -note, the note of interrogation: the forlorn 'why'--you heard that?" - -"Yes, yes," said Betty hastily. - -"A vocal trick," Jim observed, rather abruptly. Then he moved away, -surrendering his seat to Mark, who dropped into it. - -"Well?" said Mark, following Corrance's figure with his eyes. "What do -you think of old Jim?" - -"I am thinking of the new Jim," Betty answered. "And I suppose I can -measure the change in myself by the change in him. Archie has changed -too. Only you, Mark, remain the same." - -She flashed a blinding glance upon him. Somehow Mark realised that the -glance was an indictment. - -"I have changed," he replied quickly. - -"No--no. You are the same Mark, with the same ideas, the same ideals of -years ago." - -"Ideals?" The expression on her face bewildered him. Not a score of -feet away the others were buzzing about Archie, but Betty and he seemed -to be alone. "You used to share my ideals, Betty." - -"You mean you shared them with me, but when you went away you took them -with you. Now they are like you--out of sight." - -"I am here now," he replied. - -"Because your brother is here. You did not come to see--me." - -"Perhaps I did," he murmured, his thin face aflame with colour. Betty's -cheeks were pale, but her bosom heaved. - -"If that be really true, I forgive," she whispered. "Only--prove it!" - -She leaned towards him. - -"Betty," he said hoarsely, "you know why I have stayed away from you." -He looked so distressed that she feared the eyes of the others. - -"You shall tell me that and more--to-morrow," she murmured, rising. "My -cousin is crossing to us." - -Young Kirtling wanted her to sing, but she refused. - -"You always say 'No,'" he growled. - -Pynsent joined them, followed by Archibald and the others. Lady -Randolph seated herself beside Mark. - -"We have not had a chat for an age," she began, and then went on -abruptly: "How do you like my guests?" - -Mark's eyes rested for an instant upon young Kirtling's handsome but -rather saturnine features. Lady Randolph laughed and tapped Mark's hand -with her fan. - -"I didn't ask him. He asked himself. He is still mad about our Betty, -but she flouts him. The Admiral wished it, as you know." - -"And you," said Mark. - -"I want the girl to be happy. And I shall be satisfied if she finds her -peer outside the House of Lords. She has plenty of money and can marry -whom she pleases." - -For the second time that evening Mark's cheeks flamed. - -"She beguiles all hearts," continued Lady Randolph, looking at Mark out -of the corner of a shrewd grey eye; "Jim Corrance makes no secret of his -feelings; and your handsome brother sang for her and at her--to-night. -Somehow I can't conceive of her as the wife of, let us say, a bishop." - -"There are bishops and bishops," said Mark. - -"Just so. I am told that a certain person who has been labouring in a -field which--which does not smell as one that the Lord hath -blessed--may, if he continues to display his remarkable powers of -organisation, wear lawn some day." - -Then she spoke discreetly of other things, seeing that Mark's lips were -quivering and his eyes shining; while the young man listened, hearing -her pungent, pleasant phrases, but seeing only Betty--Betty--Betty! - -Meantime that young lady had left the saloon accompanied by Pynsent, -Kittling, and Jim Corrance. Mark could hear their voices in the room -beyond, and Betty's voice, Betty's laugh, came clearly to his ears above -the chorus, even as the silvery notes of a flute float upward from the -clashing cymbals and roaring bassoons. Mark rose quickly and slipped -away into the moonshine of the terrace. - -For three years he had told himself daily that the woman he loved could -never be his. Now--he drew a deep breath--she had come once more within -his grasp. More, the world, in the person of his shrewd old friend, -recognised that he, the failure, had not really failed, that he might -have to give, even from the world's point of view, something worth the -taking. And here, where material things possessed such significance, he -could measure what he had accomplished with a detachment unachievable in -Stepney. A thousand details presented themselves: a summons to the -house of a great minister, an interview with a prince, who professed -interest in the better housing of the poor, letters from celebrities -asking for information, and his ever-increasing friendship with David -Ross--now famous. The power of the orator had been denied him, and -perhaps on that account he had been the keener to practise what -otherwise he might have been content to preach. - -He walked slowly down the terrace and into the garden which lay below, a -conventional garden cut and trimmed to the patterns set by Le Nôtre at -Versailles and known to the passing tourist as Love's Pleasaunce, -because it was embellished by marble statues of Venus and attendant -Amorini. In the centre sparkled a sheet of water wherein and whereon -the fountains played on high days and holidays. Mark knew that the key -to the middle fountain was concealed in an Italian cypress. Often as a -boy he had begged permission to turn this key, and always, he -remembered, there had been a certain disappointment because the English -climate so seldom lends itself to such a scene, for instance, as -Aphrodite rising from the waters. Now he reflected that he had never -seen the fountains play by moonlight. The whim seized him to turn the -key. A second later he was gazing spellbound at the goddess in the -centre of the pool. At the touch of the shimmering waters the white -image thrilled into life. Clothed with silvery tissues, which revealed -rather than concealed the adorable grace of her limbs, Aphrodite smiled. -Beneath the dimpled surface of the pool, her feet twinkled into a dance, -a measure of the moon, slow, rhythmic, and set to the music of the -fountain. Beyond, in the shadow of the cypresses, Mark caught a glimpse -of two nymphs: one playing the double flute dear to Thebans, the other, -seated, sweeping the strings of the Homeric phorminx. From these, -surely, floated the liquid notes, the trills and cadences, which had -stirred to movement the feet of the goddess. Mark touched the key -again. The music died in a sigh. Aphrodite hid herself in the cold -marble. The pool, so sweetly troubled, became still. Mark smiled and -released once more the goddess. But the illusion had lost its spell. -Mark touched the key for the last time, reflecting that Aphrodite rises -once only for mortal men. And the pleasaunce, now, had a forlorn -aspect. A cloud obscured the moon, so that the silver of the scene -became as lead and the shadows grew chill and amorphous. Mark walked -slowly away towards the lights of the house which held Betty. - -On the terrace he paused, startled by a deep voice. Archibald was -calling him by name. - -"You here?" said Mark. - -Archie was seated on a stone bench, which stood in the shadows. - -"Yes. Sit down!" - -"You are in trouble," said Mark quickly. "Dear old fellow--what's -wrong?" - -"My sermon." - -Mark sat down, saying: "Tell me about it." - -Archie began to speak with a dogged intonation which recalled Harrow -days. As he indicated the scope of the sermon already written out, Mark -drummed with his foot upon the terrace. - -"I know it," groaned the elder brother. "It will send the Dean to -sleep, and Lord Randolph will twiddle his thumbs, and my lady will smile -ironically--and Betty----" - -"Yes." - -"Betty will pity me." - -A silence followed. Mark was reflecting that Betty's pity without -Betty's love would be hard to endure. - -"You care for her?" he muttered. - -"Oh, yes," said Archibald impatiently, "but she says 'No' to me and -everybody else. How I have loved that witch," his voice grew -sentimental, "and how I should like to show her that I can preach. And -so I can for ordinary occasions, but when it comes to a big -thing--somehow I don't score. I'd like to score this time--eh? And -if--if you could help me, why--why, it might make all the difference." - -"About Betty?" Mark's voice was thin and strained, but Archie was too -engrossed with his own thoughts to notice that. - -"Betty? I'm not thinking about Betty. I mean that next Sunday may be -the making or marring of my career. - -"Oh!" - -"I put my profession first, as you do, Mark. I can say to you what I -would admit to no other, that success in it is vital to me. I've worked -hard, and of course I've a pull over most fellows, for which I'm -sincerely grateful; but I've not your brains." - -"It happens," said Mark after a slight pause, "that I have written a -sermon about Westchester Cathedral. You might find something in it; not -much, I dare say; but a hint or two. As--as I shall never preach it, -why--why shouldn't you have it?" - -"I'd like to see it, Mark. Some of my best sermons have been -suggested--only suggested, mind you--by reading others. Robertson is a -gold-mine--and Newman. Where is your sermon?" - -"Locked up in my desk at the Mission House." - -"Oh!" - -"I can nip up and get it," said Mark, after a pause. - -"I couldn't allow that, Mark. You're on a holiday and----" - -"There's stuff in that sermon," Mark interrupted. "I'd like you to see -it. Holiday be hanged! I'll fetch it to-morrow." - - - - - *CHAPTER XII* - - *BETTY SPENDS AN HOUR IN STEPNEY* - - -Betty Kirtling came down to breakfast the next morning in her prettiest -frock, and with her prettiest smile upon a glowing face. Indeed, Lord -Randolph, meeting her in the hall, held up his thin, white hand, and -confessed himself dazzled. Betty laughed when he quoted a line of -Dryden, sensible that only a poet could do justice to her looks if they -reflected faithfully her feelings. Perhaps the philosopher, with his -faintly ironical smile, knew better than the poet that "the porcelain -clay of human kind" is easily broken, and (being a collector) he may -have remembered (which accounts for the shadows in his eyes) that rare -pieces seldom escape chipping. He followed the girl into the -dining-room, and saw that she seated herself next the chair which had -been taken by Mark the morning before. Mark, however, was not in the -room, his absence being accounted for by young Kirtling, who had met him -driving to the station. - -"To the station?" echoed Betty. - -Archibald Samphire added that he was charged by his brother to make the -proper excuses. Mark had gone to town on an important matter, and would -return that evening before dinner. Lady Randolph frowned. - -"'Pon my soul," she exclaimed, "our young man takes himself too -seriously." - -"He's the best and kindest fellow in the world," said Archie. Then he -hesitated. He could not explain the nature of Mark's errand without -exciting curiosity about himself and his sermon. - -"What were you going to say?" whispered Betty. - -"Mark has gone to town to do me a service," said Archie. - -She pouted: "I believe Mark would do anything for you." - -With his eyes on his plate, Archie slowly answered, "Yes." Then seeing -that Betty was trifling with her bacon, he added in a different tone: "I -advise you to try this omelette. Shall I get some for you?" - -Betty said "No" somewhat tartly, wondering why Mark had left Birr Wood. -"He might have told me last night at dinner," she thought. - -After breakfast she escaped from young Kirtling and Jim Corrance, and -betook herself to a secluded spot in the gardens, where she sat staring -at a pretty volume of verse--held upside down. It was intolerable that -she should be sitting here and Mark sixty miles away. Then she smiled, -remembering that only yesterday the distance between them had seemed -immeasurable. And a word, a glance, had bridged it! What a miracle of -Cupid's engineering! Her cheeks were hot as she wondered whether she -had given herself away too cheaply. If propriety faltered "Yes," -generosity thundered--"No." She was sure she understood Mark better -than any creature living, and certainly she understood herself. Always -she had wanted him, but always--always! And he had wanted her, and -would want her for ever and ever. It will be our object to show Betty -Kirtling as a young woman of many facets illumined by lights and -cross-lights; but for the moment she is presented beneath the blaze of -Love, which, like the sun, eclipses other luminaries. Betty was an -adept at, if not the mistress of, many accomplishments. She had been -told that she might excel as a musician, a painter, or a writer, if she -chose to give any one of these arts undivided attention. She preferred -to play with all rather than work with one, and wisely, for her -admiration of what others had done was certainly a greater thing than -what she might have done herself. And, perhaps, because she had -scattered her own energies, she was the more keenly appreciative of -sustained endeavour wherever she found it. Young Kirtling, for -instance, aroused interest because he hunted his own hounds as well as -any man in England; Jim Corrance whetted mere affection into something -with a sharper edge to it, inasmuch as he had sought fortune in South -Africa and had found it; Archie was singing himself steadily and -stolidly into such exalted places as the pulpit of Westchester -Cathedral. - -Sitting there in May time encompassed by Arcadian scents and sounds, -Betty found herself speculating upon the mutual attraction of man and -maid. Young ladies kill time with such meditations as pleasantly as men -kill partridges. Betty, however, while sipping the sweet, made a wry -face over the bitter. Mark's work in the slums stood between her and -him, a mystery which she must accept, knowing that she could never -understand it. The horrors amongst which Mark moved revolted her; the -contrast between her life and his pierced imagination, and left it to -bleed; pity, sympathy, the woman's desire to minister to infirmity, were -drained, glutted, by the incredible demand upon them. - -These meditations were disturbed by Lady Randolph. Betty, as soon as she -saw her kind friend, remembered that Lady Randolph had shown her this -delightful nook, and had said that she (Lady Randolph) was in the habit -of sitting here. - -"You--alone?" said Lady Randolph. "I have just passed Harry Kirtling. -He asked me if I knew where he could find you. Shall I tell him?" - -"Pray don't," said Betty, making room for her friend on the stone bench. -"And besides," she added, letting a dimple be seen, "you could not tell -him where I was. I have spent the last hour in Stepney." - -"I can't see you in Stepney, my dear." - -"I thought you would say that," said Betty, nervously playing with the -laces on her frock; then, reading the sympathy in the other's face, she -burst out: "Oh--I'm a coward, a coward! I loathe Stepney." - -Lady Randolph wondered whether it would be wise to speak. She cherished -the conviction that when in doubt it is better to say nothing; and yet, -in the end, despite a strong feeling that her advice would be wasted, -she said quietly: - -"I knew your mother." - -"Am I like her?" interrupted Betty. - -"I have often thought," continued the elder woman, ignoring Betty's -question, "that if Louise de Courcy had had your upbringing her life -would have been so different----" - -"You mean she would not have married my father." Betty's voice -hardened. "Well, if she felt as--as I feel, she would have married him -anyway, if she loved him." - -"She would not have loved him," said Lady Randolph with emphasis. "We -women love the things which we are taught to believe are lovable. You, -Betty, have been trained, trained, I say, to love things and people of -good report. It was otherwise with your mother." - -"And my father," added Betty. "I have always known that I was -handicapped. Yes; I have been trained to see--it's a question of -observation, isn't it?--to see and admire what is good in everything and -everybody, but you don't know what a materialist I am. I delight in -your flesh-pots. Why just now, when I was trying to walk with Mark -through those horrible slums, I found myself thinking of what----? That -delicious _macédoine_ we had last night!" - -Lady Randolph laughed. - -"It's no laughing matter. I'm greedy; I spend too much time thinking of -_chiffons_; and I spend too much money buying them; I adore great -things, but I cannot give up small things. I want to run with the hare -and course with the hounds. Lots of girls try to do both--and succeed -in a feeble sort of way: a fast on Friday and feast on Saturday -diet--eh?" - -"In Stepney----" began Lady Randolph. - -Betty seized her hands. "Why should I go to Stepney?" she whispered, -blushing. "I'll be honest with you." - -"I hope so, my dear." - -"Mark is going to ask me to marry him. It may be to-day, or to-morrow, -or the day after, but it's coming; and I shall fling myself into his -arms." - -"Betty!" - -"I haven't a spark of pride left. His long silence smothered it. Do -you know that I have been at the back of all his ambitions? He wanted -to be a famous soldier, because when we were babies I said I must marry -a fighting man." - -"If he isn't a fighting man I never saw one." - -"Thank you. You always appreciated him. When he was spun for the army -he thought he had lost me. I read despair in his eyes, and he, poor -dear, couldn't read what was in mine. And then came that awful scene in -King's Charteris Church. He gave me up then, but I stuck to him. And -now--now," her eyes filled with tears although her lips were smiling, -"he shall know that success or failure counts nothing with me. I want -him--him. And anything which stands between us I abhor." - -Lady Randolph's attempt to reduce this speech to its elements found -expression in a simple: "You will ask him to give up Stepney?" - -"I shall ask him to seek work in some place where you do not smell fried -fish. There is plenty to do west of Temple Bar." - -"And the others? You have flirted with all of them, Betty; don't deny -it!" - -"But I do deny it." - -"You encouraged Harry Kirtling the season before last." - -"As if he needed encouragement!" - -"He nearly persuaded you to marry him." - -"Yes, he did," she confessed, blushing furiously. "I burn when I think -of that Ascot week. Bah! what fools girls are! Mark never came near -me, answered my letters with post-cards. I give you my -word--post-cards. I sent sheaves and received straws. And Harry makes -love nicely." - -"You gave him lots of practice," Lady Randolph observed drily. - -"He wanted me so badly that he offered to give up his hounds and settle -down wherever I pleased." - -"And Jim and Archibald." - -"My oldest friends." - -"Ah, well," sighed Lady Randolph, "you are a lucky girl, Betty. Four -good fellows want you." - -"Archie wouldn't tell me why Mark went to town," said Betty absently. -"What a voice he has! When he sings I feel like a Madonna. And his -face----! A man has no business to be so good-looking. I am shameless -enough to confess to you, only to you, that his good looks appeal to me -enormously. It annoys me. I find myself staring at him as if he were a -sort of royalty. And when other girls do it, I think them idiots. -Well, for that matter I have never disguised from myself, or you, that I -am a bit of an idiot." - -"You are very human." - -"I am not all you think me," cried the girl. "And yet you read me -better than anyone else, but there are pages and pages turned down. I -peep at them sometimes, and am quite scared. Mark shall tear them out -and tear them up. Dear me! I am making myself ridiculous: chattering -on and on about myself." - -"One is never ridiculous when one is young," said Lady Randolph -solemnly, "and I hope, my dear, you will let me read the turned-down -pages before they are torn up. I used to say to myself that I should -like to begin life again, to have one more chance. And, listening to -you, I feel that I am beginning again. It is exciting. Only I hope -that sometimes you will listen to me, and try to profit by my experience -of a subject on which you, Betty, are so amazingly ignorant." - -"That subject's name is Legion." - -"That subject's name is Man. You have tried, I dare say, to measure -Mark with a girl's rule of thumb, to weigh him in virgin's scales, but -his dimensions remain an unknown quantity." - -For answer, Betty kissed her. - -"Tell me," she whispered, "all you know that I do not know." - -"We should sit here for forty years! Our world says you ought to marry -Harry, and our world is always more than half right. Harry has -entertained you with a vast deal of talk about himself, and perhaps you -think you know him. Ah! you nod your head with all the cocksureness of -ignorance! You spoke of his giving up his hounds--for your sake, -because you might find Kirtling a far cry from Bond Street. Oh, the -conceit of the modern girl! My dear, Harry knew well enough that if you -became his wife, no such sacrifice would be demanded. The hounds would -remain at Kirtling--and so would you. If you were beautiful as Helen of -Troy, and fascinating as Cleopatra, you could not root out that passion -for hunting his own hounds. It is a master passion--and always will be -so long as he can sit in the saddle. And in your heart of hearts you -respect and like Harry the more because he does that one thing really -well." - -"I am sure you are right," said Betty humbly. - -"Well, my dear, what hunting the fox is to Harry, so is the hunting of -vice, and ignorance, and dirt to Mark Samphire. The masculine ardour of -the chase possesses both, and each will hunt the country he knows best." - -Betty's silence provoked her friend to say more. "You are in for a -fight, child." She took Betty's hand, which seemed cold, and pressed it -gently. "On your own confession you are unfit to be the wife of the man -you love, and who loves you; and so--pray don't ask me for -congratulations." - -"You did not marry for love," cried Betty. Then she paused, ashamed. -"Forgive me!" - -"It is true." Lady Randolph turned a grim face to the girl, and her -voice was harsh. "I did not marry for love. Shall we say that I lacked -courage, or did I see clearer than you mountainous differences of -temperament, taste, and opinion, which my love was not strong enough to -scale? Was I a coward because I turned back? I do not say Yes or No. -The man I loved had the brains, but not the body of a conqueror. Do you -think that I was right or wrong because I refused to add burdens to a -back already bowed?" - -She spoke with such vehemence that Betty was frightened. - -"I d-d-do not know," she stammered. - -"_I_ do not know," repeated the other fiercely. "When these mysteries -between our lower and higher natures are revealed, I _shall_ know, and -not till then--not--till--then!" - -Her lips closed violently, as if speech were alarmed into silence. - - - - - *CHAPTER XIII* - - *BAGSHOT ON THE RAMPAGE* - - -Alone in his room at the Mission, Mark read over the sermon he had -written upon Westchester Cathedral. Then he stared at the bare boards, -the whitewashed walls, the narrow camp bedstead, the Windsor chairs: -things eloquent of a renunciation which he had found sweet a week ago. -Here he had been well content to live, here he had known that he might -die. And now in these same familiar surroundings he felt another man; -the tides of another life ran breast high to meet the quiet waters. Was -it always so, he wondered? Did love, such love as he felt for Elizabeth -Kirtling, such love as she felt for him, exact sacrifice? Must it be -purged and purified in the flame of renunciation? And the answer came -at once--Yes. Perhaps the answer always does come, if we put the -question fairly and frankly to the Supreme Court of Appeal. Mark never -doubted, then or thereafter, that if he took Betty and left his work, it -would be ill for both of them. This conviction was buttressed by a -half-score of proofs, trivial indeed in themselves, yet in their sum -confirmation strong. Beneath his hand lay a memorandum-book. Mark -opened it. On the first page was a list of names--drunkards all of -them, many women, a few boys and girls. These poor creatures leaned -upon him. Each week they brought to him such of their earnings as -otherwise would be spent in drink. With each Mark had fought--and -prevailed. He alone held the master key to their hearts. People who -live within a mile or two of the slums may sneer at a repentance or -reformation founded upon an influence merely personal, which may be -withdrawn at any minute. But those labouring among the very poor and -ignorant are well aware that this personal influence, this amazing power -and attraction which one soul may exercise over another, is the first -lever by which ignorance, and poverty, and sin may be raised to the -level whence the Creator is dimly seen and apprehended through the -created. Mark knew, and every fellow-worker in the Mission knew, that -personal influence may, and often does, soften the hard surface upon -which it shines, so that other rays may penetrate, but he knew also that -if personal influence be withdrawn before that softening process is -complete, induration follows. Mark read over the names in the little -book, and closed it with a sigh as a knock at his door was heard. The -handsome young deacon entered the room. - -"Hullo!" he cried, "I am glad you're here." - -"What's up?" said Mark. - -"Bagshot is on the rampage." - -"The miserable sinner!" - -"He got his wages last night, and came round as usual to give 'em to -you, but he wouldn't give 'em to me. Then he went off." - -"Didn't you go with him?" - -"I wish I had thought of it," said the other ruefully. "He went -straight from here to the 'Three Feathers,' and stayed there till -closing time." - -Mark looked at his watch. His train left Waterloo in an hour. He had -time to see Bagshot, although such time would probably be wasted. -Bagshot was a brand snatched from the burning some six weeks before: a -big, burly, blackguard of a navvy, strong as Sandow, weak as Reuben, -reasonable enough when sober, a madman drunk, with a frail wife and five -small children at his mercy. - -"I'll go alone," said Mark, as the young fellow reached for his hat. - -He hurried off, followed at a discreet distance by the deacon. The -Bagshots lived not far from the Mission, in Vere Terrace, a densely -populated slum. Mark tapped at the door of Number 5, opened by a -tattered girl of twelve, whose fingers and face were smeared with paste. - -"Where's your father, 'Liza?" said Mark. - -"Dunno," replied 'Liza. "'E's drunk, wherever 'e is. Would yer like to -see mother, Mr. Samphire?" - -Mark followed the child into the living-room of the family. Coming -straight from Birr Wood, contrast smote him with a violence he had never -before experienced. The Bagshot family sat round a rickety table making -matchboxes. Deducting the cost of paste (which the matchmakers supply), -these bring less than fourpence a gross, and a handy child of ten or -twelve can make just about that number in a day's hard work! Facing -Mark, stood an old-fashioned mangle, seldom used, because it took two -strong women to turn it; to the right was a chest of drawers in the last -stages of infirmity, crippled by ill-usage and long service, stained and -discoloured like the face of the woman who was proud to own it; to the -right a small stove displayed a battered assortment of pots and pans. -The window, which overlooked a court, was propped open with an empty -bottle. Into the court, half filled with rubbish and garbage, the May -sun was streaming, illuminating an atmosphere of squalor and -unhomeliness which hung like a fetid fog between the crumbling ceiling -and the rotten floor. - -"'Ere's Mr. Samphire, mother," said the girl. Already her thin, nimble -fingers were at work, while her eyes sparkled with excitement. In the -congested districts of the East End the decencies of life go naked and -unashamed. 'Liza knew that her mother would burst into virulent speech, -and was not disappointed. Bill was drunk again, and violent. She bared -a part of her neck and bosom, showing a hideous bruise. 'Liza stuck out -a leg not much thicker than a cricket stump, and offered to pull down -her stocking. Another child had an ugly lump within three inches of his -temple. - -"It wos quite like ole times larst night," said 'Liza, grinning. "'E -giv' us all what-for--'e did." - -In answer to a question concerning Mr. Bagshot's immediate whereabouts, -the wife replied sullenly that she neither knew nor cared; then, -remembering Mark's efforts on behalf of the family, she added curtly: -"I'd keep out of 'is wy if I wos you. 'E might drop in any minnit." - -"And yer've got yer best clothes on," added 'Liza curiously. "Goin' -beanfeastin' I dessay, or to a weddin'--yer own, my be," she added -sharply. - -"Stop yer noise, 'Liza," commanded the mother, wondering vaguely why her -visitor was blushing. - -"We wos goin' to Chingford to-dy," said the child with the lump on his -head; "and mother promised us chops and mashed pertaters--didn't yer, -mother?" - -"I'd like ter eat chops and mashed pertaters for ever and ever," 'Liza -said. Then, meeting Mark's eyes, she added: "That 'ud suit me a sight -better than a golden 'arp or a 'evingly crown." - -"You shall have chops to-day," said Mark, producing a florin. "Cut -along and buy them." - -"Mebbee yer aunt 'll let you cook 'em," said Mrs. Bagshot significantly. -'Liza nodded her shrewd little head and vanished; but a minute later she -appeared, breathless. "Father's comin'. Yer'd better tyke yer 'ook, -sir." - -Mark said gravely he would stay. The children were despatched to the -aunt's house. - -"Yer'd better go, sir," said the wife, now pallid with fear. Mark -smiled confidently, shaking his head. The drunkard's heavy, uncertain -step was heard in the passage; his voice, thick and raucous, called for -his wife. - -"A word with you, Bill," said Mark, as the man's huge body darkened the -doorway. The giant stared stupidly at the only fellow-creature he -respected. Then his hand went mechanically to his head and removed a -greasy cap. The woman sat down and began making a matchbox. "I beg -your pardon," continued Mark, holding out his hand; "I told you that I -would take over your wages each week, and last night I failed you. I am -very, very sorry." - -His blue eyes expressed much more. The heavy, bloodshot orbs of the -huge navvy sought slowly the latent spark of ridicule or contempt. He -was just sober enough to understand in some inexplicable way that the -tables had been turned. When he saw the parson he had prepared himself -for everything except this. Very awkwardly he took Mark's hand in his -own enormous paw. - -"Wot yer givin' us?" he growled. - -"If the money is not all gone, Bill, I'll take what is left--now." - -"Will yer?" said Bill. - -"Yes." - -Quality confronting quantity smiled steadily, reassuringly. Quantity -scowled, wriggled uneasily, and quailed. A chink of silver and copper -proclaimed the moral victory. - -"Only seven-and-fourpence," said Mark. "You can't go to Chingford with -that." - -Bill said something which need not be recorded. - -"It is like this," said Mark. "I failed you, and you failed me, and -your wife and your children have suffered. I can see that you have a -splitting headache, and I believe the forest air would do you good. Will -you take Mrs. Bagshot and the children to Epping if I pay the piper? I -ought to be fined for my part in this." - -Bill nodded, none too graciously, and some money was given to Mrs. -Bagshot. - -"I'm going out of town myself," added Mark, as he took leave of the -giant, "but I know I can trust you, Bill." - -Mr. Bagshot grinned sheepishly. It is possible, although not very -probable, that he had an elementary sense of humour. Mark hurried away -looking at his watch. Just round the corner he charged into the deacon, -who offered up fervent thanks that he was unhurt. "I must run," said -Mark, pushing on, "or I shall miss my train." He did run till a hansom -was found in the Mile End Road. Into this he jumped, bidding the driver -use all reasonable haste. None the less as Mark appeared on the platform -at Waterloo the Westchester express was rolling slowly out of the -station. - - -"Close shave that," said a quiet voice; "you might have been under the -train instead of in it. Was it worth while?" - -Mark sank, gasping, on to the cushions. - -"Yes; it was worth while," he exclaimed, and then fainted. - -When he recovered consciousness the train was running through Clapham -Junction. Mark smelled brandy, and saw the impassive face of a tall, -thin stranger bending over him. No other person was in the carriage. - -"Keep quiet for five minutes," the stranger commanded. - -Mark closed his eyes. His heart was thumping, but his brain worked -smoothly. When he saw the train rolling out of the station he had been -seized with an absurd conviction that he must overtake and travel by it -to the great happiness awaiting him at Birr Wood. What followed was a -blur, only, strangely enough, the voice of the tall, thin man was -familiar. He had heard his calm, authoritative accents before; by -Heaven! he had heard that voice repeating the same words: "_Keep -quiet._" And they had been spoken to the accompaniment of a thumping, -throbbing heart and horrible physical weakness. Who--who was the -speaker? Ah...! He remembered. The long, lofty room at Burlington -House, the boys in all stages of dressing and undressing, the amazement -and dismay on Jim Corrance's face--these unfolded themselves like the -shifting scenes of a cinematograph. - -"You are Amos Barger," he murmured. - -He introduced himself to the surgeon, and spoke of the examination at -Burlington House. - -"You were very kind," said Mark, "but it was an awful experience for a -boy, because now----" He paused to reflect that the man opposite had -not asked for his confidence. - -"Yes--now?" repeated Barger. - -"Now, the sense of perpetual imprisonment"--he brought out the grim -words slowly--"would not convey such a sense of loss." - -The surgeon was not sure that he agreed. Could a young man, a boy, -measure his loss? Was the capacity for suffering greater in youth? - -"I am thinking of one thing," Mark replied, "liberty, the darling -instinct of the newly fledged to fly. When you clipped my wings, I had -the feeling that I should never move again. The pain was piercing: one -could never suffer just such another pang." - -"Have you learned to hug your chains?" - -"I do not say that. They gall me less." - -"But as one grows older"--Amos Barger's face was seamed with -distress--"one sees what might have been so clearly. You say I was -kind; the other surgeon was and is one of the cast-iron pots. Well, I -expect no credit for such kindness. In you I see reflected myself. I -am of the weaklings, to whom some incomprehensible Power has said: 'Thus -far shalt thou go--and no farther!' And I might have gone far had not -my feet, the lowest part of me, failed. I am halting through life when -every fibre of my body tells me I was intended to run." - -Mark was trying to adjust words to his sympathy, when the other -continued abruptly: "Don't say a word! We are poles asunder and must -remain so. I am surprised that I spoke at all. You have a faculty, Mr. -Samphire, of luring Truth from her well." - -The two men looked at each other. Upon the one face disappointment had -laid her indelible touch; upon the other glowed the light of hope and -faith. - -"Before we settle down to our papers"--the surgeon indicated an enormous -pile of magazines and journals--"let me remind you that we spun you for -the Service because you cannot run, with impunity, to catch trains--or, -indeed, anything else." - -He picked up a review as he spoke and opened it. Mark eyed him vacantly, -reflecting that he had run to catch Betty, not the train. And he had -spoken of this meeting as coincidence. Was it coincidence? His heart -began to thump once more. When he spoke his voice was hoarse and -quavering. - -"Thank you. I suppose just now you had time to make a rough-and-ready -sort of examination?" The surgeon nodded. "Is--is there anything -organically wrong with my heart?" - -"Um. It is organically weak--you knew as much before, but you may live -to be sixty if you take care of yourself--which you won't do." - -"If others were dependent on me I would take care of myself." - -"Oh!" Barger frowned. "You are married--got a family--eh?" - -"I have been thinking lately of--of marrying." - -The surgeon's face was impassive. Mark looked out of the window at the -pleasant fields of Surrey, through which the train was running swiftly -and smoothly. Was Fate bearing him as swiftly and inexorably out of the -paradise wherein he, poor fool, had already lived in anticipation many -years? - -"I infer from your silence," he said, "that if you gave a professional -opinion it would be against marriage--for me?" - -"I do not say that," replied the other, shrugging his shoulders; "but it -will be time enough for me to give a professional opinion when you ask -for one in a professional way. I'm running down to Bournemouth for a -holiday, but I shall be at home next Tuesday. Come and see me. I'll -look you over, and answer that question to the best of my ability." - -"I'll come," said Mark. - -"Afternoon or morning?" asked the surgeon, whipping out a pencil. "Book -your hour!" - -"Will three suit you, Mr. Barger?" The surgeon's pencil scratched upon -the paper. Mark added: "I shall be punctual." - - - - - *CHAPTER XIV* - - *A MORAL EXIGENCY* - - -Archibald met his brother at Westchester Station, and drove him towards -Birr Wood as the shadows lay long and cool upon the white road. A sweet -stillness hung over the ancient capital--the stillness which in -springtime is eloquent of strife. Everywhere the sap was forcing its way -upward; buds were swelling, leaves were bursting from their bonds. And -an ethereal mildness permeated the atmosphere, suffusing in golden haze -the setting sun. - -"Pull up," said Mark. - -"Eh?" - -"I should like to read you my sermon here and now, within sight of the -cathedral. We can walk across the downs afterwards, and arrive in -plenty of time to dress for dinner." - -"All right," Archie replied, "I'm keen enough to hear it. Was it hot in -town? You look rather done." - -A groom took the reins and drove off. Mark stared at the cathedral. - -"It lies in a golden chalice," he said, indicating the haze which -obscured the insignificant buildings of the town while lightening and -revealing the splendid mass of stone, too heavy, too colourless when -seen beneath grey skies. - -"Good point that," said Archie, nodding his handsome head. - -The brothers walked across a strip of down, and found themselves near a -clump of trees. Mark pulled from his pocket a sheaf of manuscript, and -read aloud. - -Archie lay flat on his back. Presently he sat up, staring at the -cathedral. Then he fixed his eyes on Mark's face, where they remained, -fascinated, till the last word was said. - -"Now," Mark commanded, "I want you to declaim a bit of it--standing. -You can give it all I cannot. Do you mind?" - -Archibald took the manuscript, sensible of emotions and thrills never -experienced before. Dominating these was the wish to do as he was -asked--to declaim a part of the sermon. He felt a desire to possess -himself of it, to incorporate with it his own physical attributes. - -"Let yourself go," said Mark. He watched his brother's face intently, -thinking that he would exchange the brains which had composed the sermon -for the body now bending over it in envy and admiration. Archie had a -gift for committing verse to memory. At Harrow he often boasted that he -could read through a long ode of Horace and repeat it without making a -blunder. - -Presently Archie stood up, his massive proportions outlined against the -amber-coloured sky. Although barely thirty, he had acquired a certain -dignity of deportment, an air of maturity, in curious contrast to -blooming cheeks and shining eyes. This aspect is not uncommon in young -clergymen who take themselves seriously. Looking at Archibald Samphire, -one might predict that in a few years he would assume the solidity of a -pillar of the Church. Already, in the eyes of the spinsters in and -around Westchester Close, he was regarded as a staff upon which the weak -might safely and gratefully lean; already, when he gave an opinion, soft -eyes gazed upward suffused with moisture. - -He began to declaim Mark's peroration in a slow, impressive voice, the -kind of voice which seems to fill the corners of the soul with echoes at -once strange and familiar. The late Mr. Gladstone possessed such a -voice. Mark stared at his brother, absorbing every note and gesture. -What aptitudes were his for such a part. Listening to him, the younger -brother forgot that he had written the phrases which fell with sonorous -significance upon the silence of the fields. He was able to judge of -what he had done, as if he were hearing the sermon for the first time. -Playwrights experience this bitter-sweet pleasure. Lines laboured at -for many an hour, become in the mouth of a great actor or actress so -changed, so sublimated by the touch of genius, as to prove -unrecognisable, even as a child of peasants adopted by persons of rank -may so dazzle the eyes of its mother that it appears for the moment as a -stranger. And who shall interpret that same mother's feelings when she -sees lavished upon her darling gifts beyond her power to bestow--gifts -which serve as symbols of her loss and another's gain? - -Mark Samphire listened to his brother with ears lacerated by envy; and -because devils tore him he was the more determined to exorcise them, in -the hope that what he did and said might hide what he felt. When Archie -finished, the younger brother sprang up and seized his hand. - -"From the bottom of my soul," he exclaimed, "I believe that this voice -of yours will be heard not only in Westchester, but in every cathedral -in England." - -Archie answered, dully, "If you had my voice, Mark----" - -"Ah!" gasped Mark, "if--if----" He paused, and ended quietly, "We need -not speak of that." - -"You could read this sermon." - -"Even that is denied me. I can read the lessons or anything else save -what I write myself. Oh, I have tried and tried. Always the lump comes -in my throat--and I hear the laugh of that girl. You remember?" - -Archie nodded, betraying his sympathy with a shudder. "It was awful," -he said, "awful." - -He handed the sheets of manuscript to Mark, adding, "It has helped me -enormously. I will avail myself of some of your ideas." - -"You will redrape my ideas with your words." - -"I couldn't use yours, you know." - -Mark gazed abstractedly at the cathedral; then he turned to his brother. - -"Look here--I give it to you. Do what you like with it. I can't preach -it myself. It's not b-b-bad." - -He paused as the stammer seized him. "Not bad?" echoed Archibald. "Why -it's splendid--splendid!" - -"And why shouldn't I help you--my brother?" His voice softened, as he -stretched out his thin hand and touched Archibald's mighty arm. "Take -it!" - -Archie hesitated, staring inquiringly at Mark. Mark had always been such -a stickler for plain-dealing. Then he remembered what Billy had said: -"Take what he gives, _generously_, and so you will best help him to play -his part in life." - -Mark, meantime, was reflecting that he should like to read in Betty's -face the recognition of talents which he was not allowed to proclaim to -the world. - -"Take it," he repeated. "And, look here, I shall sit beside Betty -Kirtling, and afterwards I shall tell her that I wrote it and persuaded -you to preach it. No one else shall know." - -Archie, unable to determine the ethics of the matter, sensible in a -dull, inarticulate way that he ought to say NO, said--YES. His own -sermon was inadequate; there was not time to prepare another; and he -lacked the power of interpreting the message of those grey stones -yonder. This and more flitted through a mind large enough but somewhat -conventionally furnished. - -"But what has Betty Kirtling to do with it?" he concluded heavily. "Why -tell her? If this is to be between you and me, Mark--why tell her?" - -Mark put up his hand to hide a smile. - -"It may not be necessary to tell her," he said quietly. "She might -guess." Then seeing consternation on Archie's fine brows he added: "No -one else will guess, but she--well, she has intuitions." - -"Is she going to marry Kirtling?" - -Again Mark smiled at his brother's lack of perception. He fenced with -the question: "You ought to know; you've seen more of her than I have." - -"She's a bit of a flirt." - -"No." - -"I say--yes. She has flirted with Kirtling, with me, with Pynsent, with -Jim Corrance, and with you. I sometimes think that she likes you best, -Mark. She might take you, because----" - -"Go on!" - -"Because," Archie explained, "there are two Bettys: the Betty of Mayfair -and the Betty of King's Charteris. I heard Mrs. Corrance say that, and -it struck me as worth remembering. Most women would only see the Betty -of Mayfair, but the other Betty, who takes some finding, has an -extravagant admiration of good and a morbid horror of evil. A girl -running from evil is likely to rush into the arms of good. I saw my -chance there," he added thoughtfully, and again Mark smiled. "I said to -myself that the time to catch the witch was just after the London -season. I don't mind telling you that I asked her to marry me the day -she came back from Goodwood last year. And I was careful about choosing -the right place. Depend upon it that tells in these affairs. I chose -the Dean's garden: there isn't a sweeter, more peaceful spot under -Heaven. But I wasted my time. Hullo! what's the matter?" - -"Nothing." - -"You're white as a sheet. You ought to take more care of yourself, my -dear fellow. I do Sandow's exercises every morning and evening. And I -take a grain of calomel once a week. You look liverish. I find that my -mind does not work properly unless my body is in tiptop condition. What -were we talking of? Oh, yes--Betty Kirtling. Do you know that Harry -Kirtling has proposed about five times--generally out hunting? But she -laughs at him. She cried in the Dean's garden." - -"Ah?" said Mark softly. - -"She won't laugh or cry when the right man speaks, and if you are he the -sooner you speak the better. She's an enchantress," Archie concluded, -"and her money would come in very handy--wouldn't it?" - -"Confound her money!" said Mark violently. - - - - - *CHAPTER XV* - - *APHRODITE SMILES AND FROWNS* - - -When Betty met Mark just before dinner the story of the Bagshots was -told briefly. - -"Is that why you look so discouraged?" she whispered. - -He laughed, not quite naturally. - -"Surely to--to me, you may show your true feelings. Or do you count me a -fair-weather friend?" - -Before he had answered Lady Randolph came up and said that Mark must be -introduced to the lady he was destined to take into dinner. Mark found -himself bowing before an ample matron who prattled of herbaceous borders -and conifers for nearly half an hour. Betty sat beside him, listening -to Jim Corrance. Not till the first entrée was handed did she find an -opportunity to repeat her question to Mark: "Am I a fair-weather -friend?" - -Mark met her glance; then before answering, he allowed his eyes to rest -upon her gown and the opals at her throat. She was wearing a frock of -filmy tissues, made, so her dressmaker informed her, in Tokio, and known -to the fashionable world as rainbow tulle. The general effect of this -gown, like the jewels which glittered above it, was that of change, and -Betty had christened it the Chameleon, because in certain lights it was -softly pink, in others a misty blue, in others, again, amber or palest -green. Lady Randolph smiled when she saw this wonderful frock, because -it suggested certain phases of character of the girl who wore it. Mark, -knowing nothing of the relationship between a woman and her clothes, -was, none the less, aware that this gown must have cost a deal of money -and had not been chosen for wearing qualities. - -"You make one think of May," he replied. - -"You look at my frock, not at me. Well, if it comes to that, I have a -stout tweed upstairs, which defies hurricanes. I know what you're -thinking--and you're wrong. I prefer my Harris tweed, but you don't -expect me to wear it in May--do you?" - -"Contrast tickles you, Betty." - -"How am I to take that?" - -"You like an ice with a hot sauce." - -"No doubt, _you_ prefer fried fish." - -She glanced at him roguishly, leaning slightly towards him, so that the -sleeve of her gown touched his coat. From the airy tissues floated a -faint fragrance of roses, and then, drowning it in pungent fumes, came -that sickening odour of the slums. - -"I loathe fried fish," he whispered. Betty smiled as the lady on the -other side of Mark asked him if he knew Father Dolling. Nor was Stepney -mentioned again, although it obscured the future in yellow fog. Betty -was conscious that Mark eyed her with a persistency for which she could -not quite account. The same expression may be found on the faces of -emigrants setting sail for a new country, yet looking back on the old, -which holds all they know of life and which they may not see again. -Betty had never set foot on the deck of an emigrant ship; but she was -vaguely apprehensive that this persistency of glance was ominous. Her -bosom was heaving when she asked him: "Why do you look at me so -queerly?" - -"I beg your pardon." - -"Why should you? You must know by this time that I don't object to -being looked at--by you." - -If the words were slightly flippant, the tone in which they were spoken -was serious enough. She continued: "Your look is that of a man -hesitating to leap. When you were a boy you went free at your fences." - -Mark caught his breath. Her meaning was unmistakable. She held out -white arms to him--the syren! - -"They were dear old days," he murmured. - -"You rode hard and straight. Many a lead you gave me. When are we -going to have a nice long talk?" - -Her voice was trembling. And he stammered as he replied: "T-to-night, -if you l-l-like." - -"It will be heavenly on the terrace," she whispered. "I saw you slip -away last night, and I was tempted to follow you." - -"Why didn't you?" he blurted out. Last night--he was reflecting--he had -been free. - -"I have some pride, Mark. Not much, perhaps." - -"I saw Aphrodite by moonlight. She was wonderful." - -"She is wonderful," Betty murmured. "Is love dead that you use the past -tense? Will you take me to the fountain after dinner?" - -"Yes." - -A minute later Lady Randolph and the ladies left the dining-room. Mark -poured himself out a glass of port. The men were talking of the -approaching meeting at Ascot, where one of Lord Randolph's horses was -likely to win the Gold Vase. Mark listened to Harry Kirtling's eager -voice. How keen he was, this handsome lad! What a worshipper of horse -and hound! And his host--old man of the world who had drunk of many -cups--seemed to covet this gold vase as the one thing desirable. And -when he had won it, the cup would glitter upon his sideboard among a -score of similar trophies unnoticed and forgotten. - -"I have the sermon almost by heart," Archie whispered to his brother. -"I read it over three times before dinner. It's odd your treatment of -the theme did not occur to me, particularly as I live in the Close." - -"One doesn't see the Matterhorn when one is climbing it," Mark observed. -"If you want to love Westchester live in Whitechapel." - -"I couldn't live in Whitechapel," Archie replied; "it wouldn't suit me -at all. Still, as a means to an end--Lord Randolph says that -you--er--know what you're at." - -"Do I?" said Mark. Then he laughed and struck his brother genially on -the shoulder, adding: "At any rate, you know what you're at; but to men -like me ignorance of the ultimate aim has its value. Perhaps because I -don't quite know what I'm doing I take pleasure in doing it." - -"You're a queer chap," said his brother, "and you grow queerer as you -grow older. You mean that you would sooner have two birds in the bush -than one in the hand." - -"The nightingales in the bush--for me," cried Mark. - -"I want the bird in the hand," said Archibald solemnly. - -"You will cook your bird, old fellow, and eat it with all accessories: -bread sauce, rich gravy, the succulent _salade Romaine_, but you will -never hear it sing. A bird in the hand never sings." - - -The night was very still when Mark and Betty descended the stone steps -which led to the fountain: a lovers' night, fragrant with a thousand -essences. Silvery shafts of moonlight pierced the darkness of the park, -and fell tenderly on the nymphs about the fountain. But Aphrodite was -not yet revealed, for her pool lay in shadow guarded by sentinel yews -and cypress. - -Mark disappeared for a moment; the surface of the pool was troubled; -then, with a soft, sibilant sound, the waters rose and enveloped the -goddess. - -"We are in the nick of time," whispered Mark. - -As he spoke the moon topped the trees. For a moment a white flame -seemed to sparkle round the brows of Aphrodite; then the features were -revealed: the languorous half-opened eyes, the dimpled cheeks, the -adorable mouth with its shy smile. The sculptor had suggested the -admixture of fear and delight, a shrinking from the embrace of the -unknown element, a virginal protest indicated by a gesture of taper -fingers and slender shoulders, a protest overpowered by a subtle -relaxing of the whole body, the nymph surrendering herself to Life and -Love. - -Mark turned to Betty. She met his eyes and then turned aside her own. -The nymph with the phorminx smiled. And the _amorini_ looked on -approving. Mark had the hunger of Romeo on his thin face, the hunger of -the beggar who has seen white loaves through the windows of a baker's -shop. At Milan there is a hole in the wall whence, long ago, unhappy -prisoners looked out upon tables spread with savoury viands: wretches -condemned to starve--within sight and smell of baked meats and sparkling -wines! - -Mark looked again at Betty's face, now pensive, although the dimples -were deepening. The elusive tints of the gown, transmuted by the -moonbeams into a silvery radiance, shimmered like the watery tissues of -the goddess; the opals at her throat might have been dewdrops. - -"Dear Betty," he whispered. - -She lifted her heavy lids. The eyes beneath were dark as the shadows -cast by the cypress, and troubled as the waters of the pool. What -darkened and troubled them? What intuition or premonition of sorrow and -suffering? But Mark saw the underglow which reflected the flames of his -heart. - -As they gazed at each other the moon glided discreetly behind a cloud, -and a soft darkness obscured all things, out of which came the music of -the fountain; a symphony of kisses falling with melodic rhythm upon the -face of Aphrodite. In a clump of syringa beyond the Italian garden a -nightingale trilled. - -He knew that he had only to speak the word, to hold out his arms, and -she would come to him. She was smiling, but with a sadness which -underlay joy: such sadness as may be seen sometimes in the face of a -child, who, coming into possession of a long-desired object, is -confronted with the possibility of losing it. - -He took her hand, gripping it. - -"Mark--what is the matter?" - -Her voice rose in a crescendo of distress, as Mark staggered, gasping -for breath. Terror-stricken, she supported him to a stone bench hard -by, upon which he sank. - -"It is a p-p-passing weakness," he stammered. "I am better already." - -"You have been overworking yourself in those detestable slums," she said -vehemently. - -"That is the truth," he answered. "I shall take a holiday." - -"A long holiday," she whispered, meeting his eyes. But he saw the face -of the tall thin doctor and his lean hand raised in protest. "And you -must have someone, some dear friend, to look after you." - -Her fingers pressed his arm. - -"Yes," he said eagerly. "With such a friend I should grow strong -again." - -"There are places, earthly paradises, which I've read about. In Samoa -or Tahiti----" - -He interrupted her, passionately. - -"Don't speak of them--_yet_. Betty, I must turn the key of the -fountain. I cannot speak for--for a few days. Do you understand? If -you could read my heart. If--if----" - -She saw that his excitement was overmastering him. - -"Mark, I do understand. We understand each other. You are right. The -key of the fountain must be turned. I'll do it, not you." She sprang -up lightly, ran to the cypress, and turned the key. When she came back -he was staring at the goddess, white and shivering. - -Before she went to bed, Betty was cross-examined by Lady Randolph. - -"Then he hasn't actually spoken?" - -"He will," Betty declared. "And within a week." - -"And Stepney?" - -"I'd sooner live with him in Stepney----" - -"And eat fried fish?" - -"And smell fried fish--it's the smell I hate--than live in a garden of -roses by Bendemeer's stream with anybody else." - -"My poor Betty, you have the disease badly." - -Betty, however, did not mention Mark's physical weakness to her friend. -Instead, she prattled of love for nearly an hour. - -The elder woman told herself that she was listening to an idyll; but, -vividly as the tale was presented, a sense of unreality pervaded it; the -conviction that, as a child would put it, the story was too good to be -true. But because of its goodness Lady Randolph was the more touched by -it. Your honest cynic respects good, although he rails against its -counterfeit. Moreover, in this joyous acclamation of love, Lady -Randolph resumed for a few moments her own youth. It seemed incredible -that she should have grown old, and critical, and distrustful. Love -touched her with healing fingers, and she became as a little child, free -from the dull limitations of age and experience. - -"You have been so sympathetic," said Betty, when she bade her old friend -good night, "but I know, of course, that in your heart of hearts you -think us two fools." - -"Not fools, Betty. Babes in the wood, perhaps, playing amongst the rose -leaves. Good night, my dear; go and dream of your lover." - -But when the door was shut, the woman of the world sighed, and her -shrewd face puckered into many wrinkles. - -"Am I a fool?" she asked herself. "Should I have stopped this? I fear -that it will come to nothing, but then it will be everything, -everything, everything to them--while it lasts." - -Meantime, Archibald was in Mark's bedroom, talking of the sermon to be -preached on the morrow. He had a score of unessential corrections to -suggest. A slight amplification here, another word there, an apt -quotation, revealed the student of effect, the rhetorician. Mark -admitted that his brother had improved the manuscript. - -"I have thought of nothing else," said Archie. "At first I disliked -preaching another man's sermon, but now I feel as if a lot of it were -mine." - -"It is all yours," said Mark, smiling. "I have given it to you, haven't -I? Only, remember, Betty must know." - -"Why?" demanded Archie. "Women will talk and----" he shrugged his broad -shoulders. "If the Dean heard of it---- The Dean, you know, is civil, -but he has a cut-and-dried manner which I find rather trying. He's a -radical, too. We always have had radical deans at Westchester. With my -political views, my faith in institutions, and--er--so forth he is not -in accord. He told me with really amazing candour that I owed my -preferment entirely to my vocal chords. I should have thought a -Samphire of Pitt had claims, but no--he repudiates all that. His own -father was quite obscure: a bookseller, I've been told, only don't quote -me. One can't be too careful in a cathedral town. Well, not to put a -fine point on it, the Dean underrates me. I've felt it keenly. When I -was singing to him the other night, in his own drawing-room, he went to -sleep: he did, indeed. Still, to give him his due, he is almost a -monomaniac on the subject of the cathedral, and this sermon ought to -surprise him...." - -Mark nodded absently. His face seemed thinner and paler since he had -parted from Betty less than an hour ago. As in a dream, he heard -Archie's voice droning on about the Dean and his Chapter, but he saw -only Betty's face, Betty's eyes, which seemed to fill the universe. She -loved him! Infirm of body, halting of speech, he had been able to -inspire passion in so splendid a fellow-creature. The glory of it -filled his soul. - -Archie, who must not be blamed for enjoying the sound of his own voice, -talked on and on. It was past midnight. Down in the smoking-room young -Kirtling, one could wager, was holding forth on the subject of -fox-hunting. Jim Corrance, with an ironical smile upon his slightly -melancholy face, was listening politely, thinking, no doubt, of some -future "coup" in the money market. Lord Randolph, with a long, thin -cigar in his mouth, was certainly alive to the possibility of a -political crisis. Pynsent, watching the three other men from the depths -of an immense chair, was busy fitting their faces into a picture. All -this, and much more, passed through Mark's mind. - -"Good night," Archie was saying. "We've had a long yarn, haven't we?" - -He stood up, extending his hand, which Mark grasped. Opposite to the -brothers stood a large cheval glass. Mark's eye fell on this, and -straightway the gracious image of Betty vanished, and in her place he -saw himself and Archie standing beside each other with linked hands. -The contrast between the brothers was so startling that the younger -allowed an exclamation to leap from his lips. - -"Look," he said, when Archie lifted his handsome brows in interrogation; -"who would believe that the same mother bore us?" - -The mirror, indeed, seemed to take pleasure in making more of Archibald -and less of Mark than was warrantable. The fine massive figure, the -smooth, fresh-coloured cheeks, the flaxen curls of the one accentuated -the leanness, the pallor, the fragility of the other. Only when you -looked at the eyes you recognised the vitality of spirit in Mark. Lady -Randolph described the eyes of the brothers aptly enough, when she said -that Mark's reminded her of fire and Archie's of--water. - -"You will fill out," said Archibald, placidly regarding the curves of -his person. - -Mark laid his fingers upon his brother's chest. - -"Forty-three inches," said Archie. "I had a doctor look me over the -other day. He said I was as sound a specimen as he'd ever examined." - -"Good night," said Mark abruptly. - -When Archie had left the room, Mark returned to the mirror. - -"Am I envious?" he muttered. "Not for my own sake, God knows, but for -hers. If I were only strong----" - -He began to undress, thinking of the doctor and the train. Curiously -enough the two were connected. The train rushing on and on through the -quiet landscape, the doctor and he whirled on with it, fellow-passengers -for a few brief minutes, meeting, parting, and meeting again in -obedience to some Power who rules that good shall triumph ultimately -over evil. To Mark this was and always had been a sheet-anchor. At -Harrow, at Barbizon, in the pulpit of the church in King's Charteris, he -had submitted to the Divine Will; but, now, if the greatest thing on -earth were denied him would he be able to bow his head in resignation? -Every pulse in his body throbbed a passionate--"No." - - - - - *CHAPTER XVI* - - *WESTCHESTER CATHEDRAL* - - -It happened that Lord Randolph was anxious to consult the Dean of -Westchester upon some point of municipal philanthropy, so he drove into -the town earlier than usual on Whit-Sunday. Archibald accompanied him, -Lord Randolph driving his own pair, which were never driven by anybody -else. When the horses were working well into their collars, Lord -Randolph turned to the preacher-elect and described, not without humour, -his own pangs before the delivery of an important speech in the House of -Commons. - -"Only I," he concluded, "had the impending horror of a scathing reply -from the other side. You black-coated gentlemen have an immense -advantage there, an advantage which I hope you, my boy, will never -abuse. Is it indiscreet to ask what theme you have taken?" - -Archie answered the question by repeating a phrase of Mark's, which -summed up, aptly enough, the scope and purpose of the sermon. Lord -Randolph raised his grizzled brows. - -"Um! I like to see a young man tackling a subject bigger than himself: -and the bigger the man, the bigger ought to be his subject. Often," he -concluded abruptly, "it is the other way. You are ambitious, -Archibald?" - -"Yes," the minor canon confessed; and then, afraid of saying too much, -he held his tongue. Lord Randolph respected his silence, supposing that -the preacher was occupied with his thoughts. Nor did he mention that he -expected to meet the Prime Minister at the deanery, who doubtless would -attend service in the cathedral. If this young fellow acquitted himself -with distinction, his sermon might prove a stepping-stone to great -things. A week ago no man knew that a maker of prelates was coming to -Westchester, certainly not the Dean, otherwise he might have elected to -preach himself. Lord Randolph smiled with a slightly cynical curl of -the lip. The Dean, as has been said, was radical in politics, but he -probably foresaw that his party, now in power, was not likely to endure -for ever. - -Lord Randolph left his horses in charge of the groom, and descended at -the ancient gate which leads to the Close. At the same moment two -figures emerged from the shadows of the deanery porch. "There is the -Prime Minister," said Lord Randolph. "I shall have pleasure, Archie, in -introducing you to him." - -"By Jove!" exclaimed the young man. - -A moment later the most eloquent speaker in the kingdom was holding -Archibald Samphire's hand and peering into his face. The great man had -appreciation of physical beauty, and an eye for a personality. Archie -blushed: a tribute ever welcome to genius. - -"Our preacher to-day," said the Dean. - -"Indeed?" - -The young man's hand was retained in the ample grasp of the Prime -Minister, who asked a dozen questions, enveloping Archie with that -magnetic current, which seemed to emanate from him in fuller measure -than from any other of his generation. - -"I shall look forward to your sermon," he concluded. "I am sure it will -be worthy of this place"--he spoke with solemnity--"and"--his voice -changed--"and of--you. You have the gift of eloquence: the lips, the -eyes, the brow. I hope we shall meet again soon." - -He passed on, smiling genially, leaving the gratified Archie alone with -his thoughts. Lord Randolph might have told him that the speaker -scattered seed of kindly words wherever he went, and who shall say--even -now--what they brought forth? A kindly word lingers in the ear when a -kind action may be lost to sight. - - -The party from Birr Wood entered the cathedral some five minutes before -the time when service began. Betty knelt down to repeat the prayer -which she had learnt when a child from Mrs. Corrance. She was about to -rise, when she happened to steal a glance at Mark kneeling beside her. -At that moment she became sensible of what may be termed spiritual -giddiness. She seemed to be transported to heights where head and heart -failed. A glimpse of the world unseen was vouchsafed her: an empyrean -in which she and Mark moved alone amongst the hosts of Heaven. The -vision was so vivid, so seizing (to use the word in its French -significance) that she felt herself trembling beneath the awe and -mystery of it. And then an impulse, which, in its material aspect, had -assailed her once before when attempting to scale a certain peak in the -Alps, constrained her to look down into what seemed a fathomless abyss. -In the mist and shadows of this vast gulf a dull, opaque object -challenged attention, and she knew this was the earth: a pin's point in -the celestial horizon, borrowing aught it possessed of light and heat -from the place wherein she stood. And with this knowledge fear became -articulate. The horror of giddiness which paralysed her was not due to -the fact that she had been whirled to heights, but to the sense that she -might fall headlong from them! - -The deep notes of the organ put to flight the vision. Still kneeling, -she looked upward into the roof of the chancel, with its delicately -carved and gilded ornaments, thence passing to the radiance and -simplicity of the nave beyond. Above her head, upon the stone -partitions on each side of the sanctuary, stood six carved and gilded -mortuary chests, surmounted by the crowns and inscribed with the names -of the Saxon princes whose crumbling bones they contain; at her feet -almost was the tomb of a great king, slain in the plentitude of his -strength and power; hard by were the magnificent chantries of the -prelates who sanctified their time, their talents, and their money to -the embellishment of this house of God. In one of the chantries, where -during his lifetime he spent, daily, many hours of devotion, lies the -figure of a man, represented as an emaciated corpse wrapped in a -winding-sheet. He it was who caused to be carved on the soaring roof of -the choir the sorrowful emblems of our Lord's Passion: the crown of -thorns, the nails, the hammer, the scourge, the reed and sponge, the -lance, the cross. And who can doubt that he was inspired to so exalt -these symbols of the suffering which redeemed mankind? Who can doubt, -gazing at the shrunken limbs and careworn features of the prelate, that -his untiring labour had caused him innumerable hours of pain serenely -endured because he knew that by pain alone Man is purified. He and his -successors and predecessors, and the armies of masons they employed, had -lived and died that this, the work of their heads and hands, might -endure for generations, a monument of the faith which can move mountains -of stone and change them into forms of surpassing loveliness. Had they -laboured in vain? - -Betty rose from her knees as the choir entered the sanctuary. At the -same moment Mark touched her arm and glanced across the chancel. -Following his eyes, she saw the familiar face of the Prime Minister. -Other eyes lingered upon that notable head, now bent in meditation upon -the tomb of the king. Mark touched her again. Archibald Samphire was -passing by, stately in surplice and hood. The statesman raised his -head, and stared keenly at the priest. A half-smile of recognition and -encouragement curved his thin lips. Archie, conscious, perhaps, that -the eyes of the mighty were on him, looked neither to right nor left. -His face was as that of a graven image. "He is cold," thought Betty. -"Does he expect, I wonder, to warm others?" - -The service began. At that time a certain boy was singing in the -Westchester choir who became famous afterwards as the finest treble of -his day, combining, till his voice broke, the freshness of youth with -the art which crowns a long and patient apprenticeship. Already musical -folk were talking of the lad and coming from far to hear him. The choir -sang in unison the first verse of the _Venite_, but above their voices, -above the sonorous peal of the organ, floated the aerial notes of the -boy. So sublimated was the quality of this child's voice that -Betty--and many another--looked up, believing for the moment that these -flakes of melody were dropping from heaven. The joyousness which -informed each crystalline phrase electrified the ear. This indeed was a -clarion call to rejoice! The pain and perplexity in Betty's soul fled, -exorcised by this glad spirit, blythe as a skylark carolling in the -skies. She glanced at Mark. His eyes were shining, his face aglow with -pleasure. Farther down stood Harry Kirtling, unmoved; and on each side -were rows of men and women, some perfunctorily praising God, others -gazing with lacklustre eyes into the past or future, a few touched to -the quick by the message and the instrument by which it was conveyed. -Amongst these, one face stood out of the crowd, conspicuous by its -pallor and the lines of suffering which scored cheek and mouth and brow. -Unmistakably, Death had marked this victim of an incurable malady for -his own. Yet, excepting Mark's, no countenance in that great -congregation revealed more clearly the happiness and contentment which -proclaim success. Here was the vitality of the life immortal flaming -upon the ashes of the dead; here was one rejoicing in the salvation of a -soul, caring nothing because the body was about to be destroyed! - -The choir sang on together till the eighth verse was reached: - - "To-day, if ye will hear His voice, - Harden not your hearts!" - - -These lines were delivered in _recitativo_ by the basses, and then -repeated by the choir. "_Harden not your hearts!_" The injunction -rolled down the aisles and transepts; it broke in thunder against the -hoary walls, as it has broken for two thousand years against the -faithless generations; and then, in the silence which followed, there -descended a flute-like echo, emphasising the opportunity and reimposing -the condition. To-day, this moment, _if_ ye will hear his voice, harden -not your hearts! - -Psalms and Lessons succeeded. Archie read the latter. Betty, who had -not heard him read since his appointment as minor canon, amended her -conviction that he could not warm others. He had that persuasiveness of -diction which drapes even the crude and commonplace with samite, and, so -garbed, passes like an angel through all doors. - -"For to be carnally minded is death, but to be spiritually minded is -life and peace." - -If this indeed were true, how many of those around Betty Kirtling were -of the quick, how many of the dead? How many, again, were asleep, -lulled to slumber by indifference? She saw Pynsent staring at Archie's -face. Unconsciously he had raised his right hand, as if it held a brush -poised above a canvas. Beside him sat Jim Corrance engrossed in -thought. Jim was frowning; his lips were shut, as if he feared that -information of commercial value might leak from them. It struck Betty, -with a certain poignant suddenness, that Jim, dear old Jim, had lost his -look of youth, and she wondered vaguely whether or not his mother had -marked the loss--and regretted it. Was his face becoming hard? Was it -setting into that inexorable mask of death of which the apostle spoke? -She shivered and looked away, meeting the curious gaze of Lady Randolph. -Then with an effort she restrained her vagabond thoughts and eyes, and -listened attentively to the voice of the reader. - -Afterwards she wondered if what followed would have impressed her so -profoundly had it not been for what went before. At the moment she was -merely sensible that her perceptive and intuitive faculties were -sharpened to keen edge. She knew with conviction that a veil had been -lifted, that she saw clearly and in true proportion what was vital and -everlasting. - -When Archie ascended the pulpit, Betty prepared herself for an -anti-climax, Lady Randolph, for a nap. "_Ye also as lively stones are -built up a spiritual house._" The preacher repeated his text, and -paused. The Prime Minister inclined his ear in a gesture familiar to all -who knew him; the Dean polished his spectacles and replaced them, as if -seeking to see more clearly what hitherto had been obscured. Silence, -always significant, suffused itself throughout the cathedral! - -The sermon began as a history of the cathedral, presented with a -dramatic sense of the relation borne by Gothic architecture to the -renaissance of spirituality in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. -But soon the preacher passed from the sanctuary in which he stood -straight to the hearts of the congregation. It has been well said that -neither writer nor painter lives who can set forth adequately on paper -or canvas what such artists as Wykeham and Fox expressed in stone. And -who dares to portray the house spiritual: the house hewn out of living -stones under the direction of the Supreme Architect? But if the whole -transcends description, the parts invite it. Archibald paused before -taking the stride from the abstract to the concrete. When he spoke -again his voice was troubled. Smooth persuasiveness gave place to a -rougher eloquence. So far, admirable and inspiring though the sermon -had been, it revealed rather the scholar and idealist than the practical -man of the world. The cathedral, for instance, interpreted the past. -It enshrined the faith and patience of yesterday. What message did it -hold for the strivers of to-day? - -Archie answered that question in the last half of the sermon, and, -answering it, displayed a knowledge of humanity which Mark had gleaned -in Stepney and Whitechapel. All that is affecting and pathetic in life -was laid bare, but with a delicacy of phrase, a poignancy of suggestion, -a sense of proportion, which thrilled rather than dismayed. A sane -optimism informed even deformity. It was characteristic of Mark (and -most uncharacteristic of the preacher) that he dwelt tenderly upon the -inglorious parts of the temple: the rough flints, the bricks, the clay, -the mortar! Of the glittering ornaments he said little, of the stone -which the builders rejected much. His congregation listened with an -attention which never waned. The children stared spellbound at the -splendid figure in the pulpit. To them, as to their elders, came the -assurance of work to do worth the doing, and the conviction that such -work, however slight, brought with it a reward: the Pentecostal gift. -Here Mark had attempted to define the unpardonable sin: the rejection of -the spiritual and the acceptance of the carnal life. And then followed -the apostrophe. When it was delivered, smiles curved the children's -lips; men felt the current of their blood flowing strong and free in -their veins. For a sound as from heaven had filled the house where they -were sitting, and gladness of heart scourged once more from God's temple -disease and despair and death! - - -After the service, the Dean took Archie's hand and congratulated him. -"You have spoken with tongues," he said, in his too cold voice, which -impressed but never thrilled. Archibald hesitated, flushed, clutched at -opportunity and missed it. The Dean turned aside as others approached. -To them Archie listened, wondering if Betty knew. The Dean, watching -him, amended previous estimates. "The man is really modest," he told his -wife at luncheon. "He blushed and stammered when I spoke to him." - -Archie went into the Close, accompanied by a prebendary, whom, as it -happened, he had slight reason to dislike. As he left the cathedral he -saw a small group: the Prime Minister, Lord Randolph, and Lady Randolph; -Pynsent and Jim Corrance were standing beyond these. The Prime Minister -acclaimed the preacher in Latin, holding out both hands: - -"I salute Chrysostom," and then he added simply: "Thank you--thank you!" - -Once more Archibald clutched at opportunity, but the prebendary, eyeing -him with jealous glance, stood between him and confession. Then Lord -Randolph and his wife, Pynsent and Corrance, swelled a chorus of -felicitation. Archie was feeling that the truth must be written on his -scarlet face. But his friends, like the Dean, attributed confusion to -modesty. - -"Here he is!" - -Betty's voice rose above the chorus. Pynsent made way for her. Mark -followed, looking pale and worn. - -"Oh, Archie, what can I say?" Her face was radiant. He did not suspect -that she wished to apologise for every idle jest at his expense, for -every thought and word (and there were many) which now seemed to stain -not him but her, the shallow-witted creature, seeing the ludicrous and -blind to what lay beneath. "I shall never chaff you again, never." - -Archie, however, was looking at Mark. At the moment he realised that -unless he spoke, Mark would hold his peace. Mark had not told Betty -yet. The group around him was breaking up. The Prime Minister had his -watch in his hand. Lord Randolph had turned his back. Betty began -again, excitedly: - -"And I might have missed it. Aren't you going to shake hands with him, -Mark?" - -Silently Mark extended his hand. At his brother's touch Archie -stammered out: "I owe everything to Mark: he helped me; he has always -helped me." - -Mark's eyes demanded more; his grasp tightened. The others, hearing but -not understanding, shuffled somewhat impatiently. Betty frowned, -wondering why Mark was so unresponsive. Surely he would say something. -Then she remembered that since they left the south door of the cathedral -he had said nothing. Was it possible that he grudged his brother this -triumph? From any other man such jealousy would have provoked pity and -sympathy, but she had loved and respected Mark because she had never -been able to conceive of him as being mean or petty-minded. Yet, long -ago, he had confessed that ambition was his besetting sin! - -"We shall not be home till two," said Lady Randolph. "Come, all of -you!" - -She bustled away, followed by the others. Archibald dropped his -brother's hand, and strode off in the direction of his lodgings. He -would not join the party till after the afternoon's service. Betty -glanced at Mark. - -"You never congratulated him. He went away hurt, poor fellow! -Mark--how could you? And it was your praise he wanted. I saw that. He -looked hungrily--at you." - -Then Mark laughed, while the shadows in Betty's eyes deepened. That she -was perplexed he saw, that she was deeply distressed he had yet to -learn. And to give him his due he was thinking at that moment not of -Betty, nor of himself, but of Archie. He regretted that he had not told -Betty the truth, but her admiration had been so great, her praise so -extravagant, that he had shrunk from the assertive: "I did it. I wrote -it." Now, if he spoke, Betty being a woman of likes and dislikes, would -scorn his brother and make no effort to hide that scorn. All this -whirled through his brain while he laughed, because she had -misinterpreted the expression of hunger in Archie's eyes. - -"Don't laugh!" she enjoined sharply. "Did you not think his sermon -splendid?" - -"It sounded better than I expected," he said, wondering if she would -guess. He made so certain that she would guess. It amazed him that the -lynx-eyed Lady Randolph, her sagacious lord, Pynsent, Corrance had been -so easily befooled. He had yet to learn that the world is equally prone -to believe that a fool may prove a sage as a sage a fool. The -unexpected excites and disturbs the reason. - -"We have all underrated him," she rejoined, more gently. - -At tea-time Lord Randolph returned to Birr Wood, bringing Archibald with -him. After tea Lord Randolph drew Mark aside and told him that the -Prime Minister had asked many questions concerning the Samphires of -Pitt. - -"I told him," said he, "that your maternal grandfather had a strain of -Wesley's and Sheridan's blood. It seems that he knew and loved him. He -must have been a remarkable man." - -"My mother adored him," Mark replied. "I can just recall some of the -things she said about him." - -"Justice was not done him, I fear. He served faithfully ungrateful -masters. Perhaps he ought to have been a preacher. At any rate his -mantle seems to have descended upon your brother." - -He moved away, wondering why Mark had shown so little enthusiasm. - -Presently Lady Randolph, under cover of the chatter, said a few words: - -"I account for our surprise this morning in one word: Inspiration. -There was Goldsmith, for instance. Not that I wish to make comparisons. -Archibald is no idiot to be sure, very much the contrary, still I never -gave him credit for being a humourist." - -"A humourist, Lady Randolph?" - -"What? You missed the humour in his sermon--you? Why if I hadn't cried -I must have laughed. What was the keynote of that sermon? Renunciation. -Eh? The word was not mentioned. Very true, but it informed every -phrase. It might have been written by a man who had failed in this -world, but who knew that elsewhere his failure would be reckoned as -success. The stone that the builders rejected became the head of the -corner. Well, so far as this world is concerned, Archie has always -succeeded. He has genius in being able to put himself in the place of -the man who has failed." - -"And the humour?" - -"I am coming to that. I go the round of this huge house every Saturday -morning, and the house-keeper will tell you that my eyesight is -unimpaired. I went into your room, sir, and what did I see?" - -"Spare me," said Mark. - -"_Soit_! I went into your brother's room. I declare he has prettier -things on his dressing-table than I have on mine. And well-cut boots in -trees, eau de Lubin on his washstand, and on his chest of drawers--a -trouser-press! Oh! there's no harm in such things, of course, but that -sermon this morning and the trouser-press! The golden sandals--treed! -The halo sprinkled with eau de Lubin! And yet, and yet he made me cry: -hardened old sinner that I am! So I say that he is a genius, and an -unconscious humourist, and a Chrysostom, and altogether a most amazing -person. Now, go and talk to a younger woman." - -Mark obeyed. His old friend eyed his thin figure as he crossed the -room. - -"How much help did he give his brother?" she muttered to herself. - -Archie was surrounded by joyous prattlers. Harry Kirtling, Pynsent, and -Jim Corrance were with Betty. - -"We are still jawing about your brother's sermon," said Harry Kirtling. -"I am sorry to say I missed the first part. A line from my stud groom -this morning rather upset me. Dear old Trumpeter has navicular. My best -gee--worst luck! Well, by Jove! that sermon cheered me up; it did, -indeed. I felt confoundly ashamed of myself and my own small affairs. -That was the effect it had on me. But Corrance and Pynsent say it made -'em blue." - -"Every man worth his salt wants to be at the head of the procession -here," Pynsent explained, in his slightly nasal New England accent. - -"Archie stuck his knife into me and turned it," said Corrance. - -"You've misinterpreted the whole thing," Mark replied eagerly. "Every -man has his work here, but who knows what relation it may bear, if any, -to the work which comes after? Great achievements dwindle into -insignificance within a d-decade. Why, then, should we t-tear ourselves -to p-p-p----" - -Meeting Betty's eyes, the abominable lump came into his throat. He -paused abruptly, turning aside. Archie, who had joined them, said with -authority: - -"Mark is right. We make a mad effort to scribble our names upon the -quicksands of time." (Mark, with his back still turned to the group, -smiled.) "And we die wretched," Archie went on, "because Time's tides -wash out our writing within an hour. This struggle after personal -recognition is a certain sign of decadence in a nation." - -Mark looked at Betty, who was listening to the speaker with faintly -glowing cheeks. Pynsent and Corrance seemed to be impressed, because -Archie as preacher (thus Mark reflected) had bewitched them. Yesterday, -only yesterday, an obscure minor canon would not have so delivered -himself; if he had, the others would have scoffed at him as a prig. - -"Are we to fight without pay, my dear boy?" - -Lord Randolph had approached, cynical, yet interested. - -"Forlorn hopes were led before the Victoria Cross was given," murmured -Archie deferentially. Then he remembered that Mark had said this, and -that Mark was present. At this thought he blushed vividly, once more -confirming an impression of modesty. He tried to make amends to Mark. -"Why, Mark and I were speaking of this only last night. What did you -say, Mark?" - -"N-nothing worth r-repeating," stammered Mark. - -"He said that a desperate enterprise never lacked men to attempt it. -And what allures men to almost certain death? The pay, Lord Randolph? -You would be the last to affirm that. Have we not heard of many a noble -fellow falling, maybe, within a few feet of the goal, seeing with dying -eyes comrades triumphantly scaling the heights, knowing that the success -of those comrades was rooted in the bodies over which they had passed to -victory? And these--the failures--have died with a glad shout upon -their lips; they have been found horribly mutilated, but with a smile on -their dead faces. Shall we pity such men, Lord Randolph, or envy them?" - -Mark slipped from the room before Lord Randolph replied. Outside the -door he discovered that his fists were clenched. - - - - - *CHAPTER XVII* - - *SURRENDER!* - - -On the following Tuesday, when Mark reached Amos Barger's house, he was -told that the surgeon could not see him for a quarter of an hour. Mark -followed a manservant into a back dining-room ponderously furnished with -mahogany and horsehair. The paper on the wall was hideous in pattern -and colour; the wainscoting was grained in imitation of oak; on the -square table in the centre of the room lay the comic papers and some -society weeklies, amongst them _Kosmos_ and _Mayfair_. Under the latter -was _The Bistoury_. Mark paced up and down, pausing now and again to -look out of a window which commanded a prospect of dingy back-walls and -chimney-pots. From the front of the house a charming glimpse of the -trees in Cavendish Square redeemed the dull uniformity of the street. -Mark had noticed how green was their foliage, recalling the fact that -soot is as Mellin's food to the vegetable world. His fancy seized this -fact and played with it. Soot, the most defiling of things, transmuted -by some amazing process into a brilliant pigment! What a text for a -sermon! Presently Mark approached the book-case--a solid, glazed affair -as heavy, doubtless, as the works within. To his surprise, he found the -lightest of fiction, and every volume showed signs of use. Barger, he -reflected, was a wise man to laugh with Anstey and Frank Stockton, but -he ought really to buy some new furniture. Then he remembered that -Barger had admitted failure, more or less. Possibly, these grim Penates -had been taken at a low valuation from the outgoing tenant. With these -fugitive speculations he escaped from his own thoughts and fears. - -When he went upstairs the surgeon, while shaking hands, eyed him keenly. - -"I am the better for my holiday," said Mark. - -Barger nodded, and pointed to a chair. - -"You said in the train I might live to make old bones. Weakness of -heart is not a bar to marriage--is it?" - -"Very much the contrary," said the surgeon grimly. "And if you are -sound in other respects----" - -"I have never known what it is to be really ill," said Mark eagerly; -"and I don't think I've had breakfast in bed since I left Harrow." - -"And not often there--eh? Never shammed at school did you when the -first lesson was a bit stiff?" - -"The first lesson never was very stiff--to me," Mark replied. - -Barger, with impassive face, began an examination, which lasted longer -than Mark expected. At the end Mark said nervously: "The heart is not -weaker than it was?" - -"Your heart need not cause you any serious anxiety," said the surgeon -slowly. - -"Thank God!" exclaimed the young man. "From your face I feared a -different verdict." - -"There is other trouble, Mr. Samphire." - -Then Mark smiled pitifully. His premonition of disaster was justified. - -"You can speak f-f-frankly," he stammered. - -The surgeon spoke frankly, making plain in his precise phraseology what -was and what might be. "You will take another opinion," he concluded, -"but it is not a matter of opinion, but of fact. These," he pointed to -some reagents, "never lie. Doctors do--sometimes." - -"I thank you for not lying to me," said Mark gravely. - -Barger fumbled with his test tubes, and then burst out vehemently: - -"Your only chance lies in the most careful diet, a life in the open air; -and even then the issue is doubtful." - -"And--marriage?" - -"Out of the question." - -"But if I got better? Should I be justified in asking a woman to wait?" - -His voice was dry and husky. Barger shook his head. The trouble might -be staved off for a time, hut there was always the probability of -return. - -"You have neglected your body," he said irritably. "You have defrauded -it of all things essential, and it has taken its revenge. Oh, you -parsons who think of others, why can't you see that you would serve the -world better if you thought more of yourselves?" - -Mark could read the sympathy and pity latent beneath frowns and -irritability. He held out his hand. Barger continued: - -"You must go to a physician. Yours is not a case for a surgeon. You -might try Sir John Drax. He's a specialist. Shall I write him a note? -He lives near here, in Welbeck Street." - -Berger scribbled a few lines, and handed them to Mark. - -"See him at once," he commanded; "suspense is unendurable." - -Mark went his way, so blinded by misery that in crossing the street he -barely escaped being run over by a big van. He sprang to one side in -obedience to the instinct of self-preservation. - -Within half an hour Sir John Drax had confirmed Barger's diagnosis and -prognosis. Then he asked bluntly if his patient had independent means. -An affirmative simplified the case. He, too, prescribed fresh air, -simple food, and moderate exercise. - -"If I stick to my work in Bethnal Green?" - -"You will find yourself in Kensal Green." - -"And marriage----?" - -"Madness, my dear sir, madness!" - -Mark climbed on to the top of the first 'bus which was rolling eastward. -As he did so he heard a small boy proclaiming the name of a winner. The -name seemed familiar. Then he remembered that it was one of Harry -Kirtling's horses. He could see Kirtling's square, stalwart body and -the handsome sun-tanned face above it. Of all the bitter minutes in his -life, this one seemed to be the bitterest. - -When he reached the Mission, pressing work distracted his attention for -some hours. He did it as thoroughly as usual, wondering what he should -write to Betty when he was at liberty to go to his own room. He -wondered also that his friends made no comment upon his appearance. -Surely he carried scars. A small glass hung in the committee-room where -he was sitting. He glanced at it. Outwardly he was unchanged. - -Not till the clock struck nine did he find himself alone. He wrote a -letter to Betty, a long letter, which he read and destroyed. The next -letter was short, curt, cold: he burned this also. A few minutes later, -feeling pain in his hands, he discovered that his nails had lacerated -the flesh. Then he knew that a fight for life and reason was beginning. -The demons were crying "Surrender!" If he died to-night, Betty would be -free; if he lingered on for half a dozen years, she might deem herself -bond to a dying man. Virility repudiated such a sacrifice. - -"O God," he cried, "let me die to-night!" - -Outside, the world of Whitechapel roared in derision. All Mark had -known of poverty, of vice, of squalor, swelled into a chorus of despair. -Here, in the heart of the slums, in an atmosphere tainted by the dead -bodies of hundreds of thousands who had perished cursing God and man, he -felt that he was choking for fresh air, that the pestilential fumes of -every evil place into which he had entered were destroying him. - -He sat down limply on the edge of his bed, wondering whether the end -would come soon, telling himself that he was dead already. At any rate -his work was done; he would leave the Mission on the morrow. The animal -instinct to slink off to some lonely spot where none might witness his -misery became overpowering. But a letter to Betty must be written -first. He crossed to his desk, where Betty's face smiled out of a -silver frame. Gazing at this, he became so absorbed that three sharp -taps on the door were unheeded. The Bishop of Poplar entered the room, -pausing when he saw the head bent over the table, the thin fingers -clutching the silver frame. He closed the door, crossed the room, and -laid his hand upon Mark's shoulder. - -"You are in sore trouble." - -Mark started to his feet with an exclamation compounded of fear and -surprise. - -"You--David----?" he stammered. "What b-brought you here?" - -"You shall answer that question yourself," said Ross gravely. - -The men confronted each other. Great as the contrast was between the -robust health of the one and the infirmity of the other, a critical eye -might have detected a similarity in the two faces--a resemblance the -stronger because it was born of the spirit rather than the flesh. - -"I was crossing Welbeck Street this afternoon," said Ross, "when I saw -you leave one of the houses. It was in my mind to follow and speak to -you, but I was hastening to an appointment for which I was late, and -leaving town for Scotland at eight. But it happened that I had noted the -number of the house you were leaving, and I looked it up in a directory -on the platform at Euston. Mind you, my train was about to start, and I -had taken my ticket, but when I found out that you had seen Drax, I -guessed what had happened. I let the train go on without me, and came -on here. Was it coincidence that led me into Welbeck Street this -afternoon, or something more?" - -"I am under sentence of death," said Mark. - -"Tell me all about it." He grasped his friend's hand. - -Mark obeyed. "She has always cared for me," he concluded, "always, you -understand: ever since we were boy and girl. Many want her. Gorgeous -insects have buzzed about her, but she flew to a poor drab-coloured -moth. And I"--his voice shook--"I had fluttered about in the outer -darkness----" - -"Was it darkness, Mark?" - -"I should have said twilight." - -"Then she was your sun?" - -Mark paused before he answered slowly: "God made the sun." - -"You try to slip by me," replied the other quickly. "Have I misread you? -It seemed to me that you had ideals, standards, rules higher than the -average, that for you the light shone more clearly, revealing what lay -beyond. Was that light the glamour in a woman's eyes?" - -"The light was reflected in her eyes. You press me hard, David. Shall -I plead that the light, no matter whence its source, dazzled me. There -have been times when I seemed to see the other shore: an enchanted land, -so desirable that I wondered why men preferred to linger here. But -now"--his voice grew harsh and troubled--"I want this earth. I want to -live and love--here." - -"What do you propose to do?" David asked. - -"Do?" Mark laughed bitterly. "What can I do, but die--the sooner the -better? You are a strong man, David; it is hard for you to stand in my -shoes; but if you were I you would surrender." - -"What?" - -"Shall I say--everything." - -"You cannot surrender what you have done already, whether good or ill." - -"I have to surrender love," Mark muttered. "What do you know of that, -David?" - -"I loved a woman," Ross replied, "and I love her still, although she is -but a memory"--his voice softened--"a memory of what might have been, -and what will be. And shall I say that this love has fortified me, -because I see it as the reflection of a greater love? The love you talk -of surrendering is an imperishable possession." - -Mark said nothing. - -Ross continued: "Drax is a great authority, but he does not know, as I -know, that you have never given your body a fair chance. Now--my word -to you is FIGHT. Fight for life, fight for health, fight to save -yourself as you have fought tooth and nail to save others! Again and -again I've begged you to go to my lodge in Sutherland. Go there with me -to-morrow! Drax prescribes fresh air, plain food, complete rest. These -may be straws, but clutch them--clutch them! Why, man, I have towed -worse wrecks than you into dry dock, and I've seen 'em sail out of -harbour with every stitch of canvas set staunch and seaworthy craft! Be -my guest for six months! Mark, Mark, my dear, good, foolish, gallant -Mark--_Fight!_" - -"Thank you, David," Mark replied. Then the smile which Bagshot knew -well lit up the thin haggard face, as he added slowly: "I d-d-don't -think it was c-c-coincidence which led you into Welbeck Street this -afternoon." - - -Next day Mark went North with David Ross. Before departure he wrote a -letter to Betty, which successfully obscured the facts. He feared that -Betty might insist upon appointing herself his nurse. And if she came -to him, would he have strength to send her away? Once she had spoken -shudderingly of a friend married to a hopeless invalid: a poor wretch -lingering on, half dead, changing day by day into something -unrecognisable in mind and body. - - -"You have the right," he wrote, "to demand an explanation, which I must -give. I am and shall remain outside that garden into which we strayed -last Saturday. What more can I say? Nothing. Try to think of me as a -boy who was near and dear to you...." - - -The letter was filled up with details concerning his work. Reading it, -the conclusion was inevitable that the writer had become absorbed in -such work. He hinted at the possibility of taking a vow of celibacy. - -Betty kissed this letter before she broke the seal, making sure that it -was a love-letter. Then she read it, with perceptive faculties blunted -by shock. Lady Randolph found her in the Italian garden, staring at the -figure of Aphrodite. - -"You were right," she exclaimed passionately. "Mark prefers his work -to--me." - -Lady Randolph kissed her. - -"I have been a fool," said Betty, bursting into tears. - - - - - *CHAPTER XVIII* - - *ARIADNE IN NAXOS* - - -Lady Randolph wisely said nothing, but she wrote to Mark. He replied by -return of post. - -"I love her devotedly, but I have an almost incurable disease: the -result of neglect. Don't let my people know of this. I had the -presumption to believe that the sacrifice of the flesh was a sort of -burnt-offering to God. The folly of it is hard to bear. Many men here -are in a like self-crippled condition, and the doctor in charge, a good -sort, makes scathing remarks. David Ross warned me several times; as -did his successor at the Mission. Betty, of course, must never find out -the truth, which I could not withhold from you, my kind friend. You can -best serve her and me by finding her a good, faithful husband, such a -fellow as Harry Kirtling, or Jim Corrance.... She is made for the -happiness which marriage brings. I can take comfort in the thought that -another may give her what is not mine to offer." - -Lady Randolph's eyes were wet, as she locked up this letter. Mark had -not mentioned Archie as a possible husband. "That would break his -heart," she muttered to herself. - -Betty and she returned to London, where, during the month that followed, -Betty's simulated high spirits and inordinate appetite for excitement -provoked a warning. - -"If you don't bend, you'll break." - -"I am broken in pieces, like Humpty-Dumpty, who ought to have been a -girl. Men don't break when they tumble off their castle walls. I've -stuck myself together, but I'm a cracked vessel." - -Lady Randolph wrote a note that evening to Mrs. Corrance. She had faith -in the balsamic virtue of the atmosphere in and around King's Charteris, -and she knew that Jim spent two days out of each week with his mother. -Mrs. Corrance begged Betty to pay her a visit. - -"Shall I go?" said Betty. - -"I need a rest-cure," Lady Randolph replied pointedly. - -So Betty went down into the pleasant Slowshire country, where the warmth -of her welcome gave the girl a curious thrill. The kisses of the -gentle, grey-haired woman sounded deeps, although they could not touch -bottom, for the motherless girl has deeps unplumbed by any -fellow-creature. Tea was set out in the pretty old-fashioned -drawing-room with its freshly calendered chintzes, its quaint Chelsea -figures, its simple dignity of expression. Mrs. Corrance possessed some -Queen Anne silver, which she had used daily ever since Betty could -remember anything. It sparkled softly like the rings upon the white -hands that touched it, shining with a subdued radiance of other days. -Betty saw the same quiet glow in her old friend's kind eyes: the peace -on the face of age which passes the understanding of youth. - -Hitherto she had regarded Mrs. Corrance with grateful affection, but as -one to whom the wind had been tempered, one who lived in a fold seeing -little beyond save Jim. Betty had always thought of her as mother. -Now, she found herself wondering what part this quiet lady had played as -sweetheart and wife. Tempests might have raged and died down, before -she (Betty) was born. Mrs. Corrance's mind, like her house, was full of -charming nooks, cosy corners, so to speak, wherein a tired spirit might -take his ease, but perhaps there were also bare chambers into which none -was allowed to enter. Into these, if they existed, Betty felt a -shameful curiosity to go. - -While they drank tea Mrs. Corrance asked no questions. Betty listened -with interest to an account of Jim and his doings in the markets of the -world. - -"He would like to instal me, me, my dear, in a fine house in some -fashionable quarter." She laughed, and Betty laughed too, seeing that -the mother was delighted secretly that her son should desire to lavish -his wealth upon her. - -"Do you despise the world, that you live out of it--always?" said Betty. - -"I love the country," replied the elder woman evasively; then she added, -as if the possibility had just occurred to her: "I hope you won't find -it very dull here." - -"Not with you," said Betty, slipping her hand into her friend's. - -Next day, Mrs. Samphire drove over from Pitt Hall. She looked pinker -and plumper than ever, and her hair--arranged in Madonna bands--gave her -the vacuous expression of a stout Dutch doll. When the name was -announced, Betty rose to fly, but Mrs. Corrance entreated her to remain. -While Betty was hesitating, fearing the voluble tongue of Mark's -stepmother, the lady herself bustled across the lawn to the chestnut -tree beneath which Mrs. Corrance was sitting. In a moment the pleasant -silences were shattered. - -"How cool you look! And this is dear Betty Kirtling. We never expected -to have the honour of seeing so smart a lady in our humdrum circles. -Thank you, my poor husband is only so-so. The doctor has prescribed -golf. We have laid out a small links in the park. I think golf such a -charming game--don't you? I love to look on at it. You agree with me, -I'm sure." - -Mrs. Corrance tried to lift this interjectional babble out of the rut. - -"I suppose," she said reflectively, "that with us middle-aged women -looking on at games is an inherited instinct. We have always looked -on--haven't we? But Betty, I expect, likes to play golf." - -Betty, however, unkindly said nothing, while Mrs. Samphire bleated: "Oh, -yes, I do like to see the Squire play golf. Although, when he misses -the ball, he does--well, I mustn't tell tales out of school--must I? -How is dear Lady Randolph? Did you have a large party for Ascot? Was -the Prince there? I have seen your name in the Marlborough House lists. -Really, I wonder you speak to me at all." - -"I haven't said much yet--have I?" said Betty. "Last time we met you -were suffering horribly with neuralgia. Is it better?" - -"I'm a martyr now to dyspepsia. I'm trying light and colour, Babbit, -you know. If your poor, dear uncle were alive, how interested he would -be. I'm wearing red next the skin." - -"In July?" ejaculated Mrs. Corrance. - -"And I've changed the paper in my boudoir, which used to be a depressing -blue, to bright yellow. All the water I drink is acted upon by a red -lens. I want Mark to read Babbit. He has had a sort of breakdown. You -heard of it?" - -"A breakdown?" exclaimed Betty. "Did you say a--breakdown?" - -Light flashed upon her. Why had she not thought of this? Her thoughts -crowding together clamoured so shrilly that she could barely hear Mrs. -Samphire's querulous reply. - -"We learned, quite by chance, that he was in a sanatorium in Sutherland. -He ought to have come to Pitt Hall." - -"Have you asked him?" said Betty in a low voice. - -"He would come to us if he wanted us." - -Shortly after Mrs. Samphire took her leave. - -"Can Mark be seriously ill?" said Betty. - -Mrs. Corrance's clear eyes lingered for a moment on Betty's flushed -cheeks; then she said tranquilly: "It is not impossible. If so, I don't -blame him for going to Scotland." - -"He ought to be at Pitt Hall," said Betty. "I think I shall take a -brisk walk." - -Two days later Betty met the Squire in Westchester. She soon discovered -that he was hurt because his son had not come home. - -"Perhaps he was anxious to spare you--and others. That would be like -him." - -"Yes, yes; he's the best boy in the world. But I'm sure there's nothing -serious the matter. We Samphires are as hard as nails." - -"If he--died up there without making a sign." - -The Squire stuttered and choked. - -"God bless me! you alarm me. I must write at once. I shall insist on -his coming home. Has he taken you into his confidence, my dear?" - -"No." - -"Um! I thought once that--well, I shall write." - -Betty felt that her heart was beating. - -"He will pay no attention to a letter. Why not go to him yourself, Mr. -Samphire?" - -"By God!--I will." - -Betty smiled faintly, for the Squire, when he set his mind to a thing, -was easily turned aside. - -Then she went her way; and Mrs. Corrance noted in her diary that Betty -seemed quieter, more like her old self. - -On the following Saturday Jim arrived from town, exhaling and exuding -Capel Court. He strolled with Betty through lanes, where they had -picked primroses and blackberries long ago; and the familiar trees and -hedgerows stood like sentinels of the past, guarding simple joys, which -Betty told herself could never return. Jim reminded her that a -missel-thrush had built in the old pollard close to the village pound, -and that the eggs, when about to be blown, proved addled. - -"You were very keen about eggs," she said. - -"I've always been keen," said Jim. "By Jove!--it was a sell about those -eggs. Well--I still collect eggs, and some are addled! That Cornucopia -mine, for instance...." - -He plunged into a description of a mining deal which had proved -disastrous. - -"But I got it back, and a lot more in six weeks." - -"Which excites you most--winning or losing, Jim?" - -"One gets accustomed to winning," said the successful speculator, "but -losing is heart-breaking, particularly when you are unable to guess what -the loss will be." - -"Ah," said Betty. "What do you do with your gains?" - -"Let 'em increase and multiply. The mater won't live in a better house, -I mean a larger, and she refuses, in advance, all the presents that I've -not given her." He laughed, then he continued in a hard voice: "That -question of loss interests me." - -He looked at Betty, who slightly lowered her parasol and made no reply. - -"I never forget my losses." - -"Because they have been few?" - -"Because they have been heavy. The fellows in our market would tell you -that I have a very serious failing: I don't know when to let go." - -"I call that a virtue: in a word, you don't know when you're beat." - -"No," he said steadily. "I don't know when I'm beat." - -A silence followed, during which the tamer of bulls and bears -decapitated a few dandelions. Betty watched him out of the corner of -her eye. A certain dexterity and ruthlessness in Jim's use of his cane -had significance. Then she found herself wondering what Jim looked like -when he was a boy. She could not recall her old playmate, being -obsessed for the moment by the man beside her. Some men always retain -the look of youth--Mark was one of these; others would seem to have been -born old; many, like Jim Corrance, assume early a hard and impenetrable -crust of middle age. Jim's face was thin and lined, although he had the -square figure of an athlete. One could not picture him as a -rosy-cheeked urchin, nor could one believe that he would grow feeble, -and bent, and white-haired. And yet, despite his strength and success, -Betty felt poignantly sorry for him. And being a woman she showed her -compassion in a score of inflections, gestures, which were as spikenard -to the man who loved her. - -"I wonder you are so nice to me," he said presently; then as she raised -her delicate brows he added quickly: "I've cut loose from so much you -revere. It's a pill for the mater, but I couldn't play the humbug. I -look at life as it is: as it appears, I mean, to me--a place where the -devil takes the hindmost." - -"And those in front----" - -"Oh--I dare say the devil takes them also--later." - -Betty changed the subject, not because it was distasteful, but for the -subtler reason that she feared her own thoughts, which stuck in a slough -of despond. For the rest of the walk they prattled gaily enough of the -pranks they had played as boy and girl. Jim's face insensibly softened, -so that Betty caught a glimpse of the Harrovian. Then, at the mention -of Archie's name, the talk flowed back into the present. - -"I never asked you what you thought of that wonderful sermon of his." - -Jim admitted surprise. "Old Archie has come on," he added. "He's a -plodder, and he's good to look at, and he means to 'get there.'" - -"To get--where?" - -"To the bench of bishops." - -"I used to underrate Archie, but there's a lot in him." - -"A lot of him, too. Oh--you needn't frown, Betty. I think that Archie -makes a capital parson; and I dare say he'll personally conduct a select -party of you Slowshire people to heaven." - -"How bitter you are, Jim." - -"I won't be bitter when I'm with you," he promised. "I say, there's the -bush where we caught the Duke of Burgundy fritillary. I saw it in the -old cabinet the other day. You nailed it with your hat and gave it to -me, although you wanted it yourself. I felt a beast for taking it, but I -adored you for being so unselfish." - -"You offered me your Purple Emperor next day." - -"And you refused it," said Jim quickly. - -"So I did. I must tell everybody that I have refused an Emperor." - -"Not to mention smaller fry. Three months ago I thought you meant to -marry Harry Kirtling, and he thought so too, by Jove!" - -"You dare to insinuate that I encouraged him?" - -"You have a way with you, Betty." He glanced at her ardently, but she -looked down, faintly blushing, as he continued: "You are not one of -these modern young women who can stand alone." - -"That is true," she said simply. "I am not strong enough to stand -alone, and I admire in men the qualities lacking in myself. We had -better go home; your mother will be waiting for her tea." - -Jim said no more, but in the evening he asked his mother if she had any -reason to suppose that an understanding existed between Mark and Betty. - -"When she refused Kirtling, Pynsent and I made certain she was engaged -to Mark. Now he has gone to the uttermost ends of the earth, and she -never mentions his name to me." - -"Nor to me," said Mrs. Corrance. Then she touched her son's shoulder -very gently. "Do not make ropes out of sand, dear." - -Jim went back to town on Monday morning, but he returned to King's -Charteris the following Friday, and walked once more with Betty in the -lovely woods which lie between Westchester and the New Forest. Naturally -and by training an acute observer, although a keener judge of men than -women, Betty puzzled him. He saw that she was slightly contemptuous of -the material side of life, although willing to listen by the hour to his -presentment of it. This, however, might be a phase, a mood. He felt -assured, now, that Betty would have married Mark had he asked her to do -so, and he lay awake at night wondering whether she would marry anybody -else. For the rest he determined that he must make haste slowly. He -would give the girl the fellowship she craved without defining its -elements. That she was grateful for such abstinence her manner proved. -She became at once open, candid, a delightful companion. - -Meantime the Squire had not left Pitt Hall. When he met Betty, he said, -with some confusion, that the "Madam" (as he called Mrs. Samphire) had -opposed so long a journey; one, moreover, which was like to prove a -fool's errand. He excused himself by complaining querulously of an -estate which exacted constant supervision. His face was even more -florid than usual, and his manner less complacent. When Betty mentioned -this to Archie (who rode over from Westchester on a well-bred cob), he -expressed a fear that his father was losing money. - -"He spoke of going North," Betty said, after a pause. "If Mark is -really ill, surely he ought to be nursed by--by his nearest and -dearest?" - -Archie betrayed astonishment. - -"Ill? Really ill? I've heard nothing of serious illness, not a word. -How do you know, Betty?" - -"I have guessed," she answered vehemently. "He has slipped away to--to -_die_, perhaps!" - -Archie showed a most lively concern. - -"No, no, you exaggerate. Look here, Betty, if someone ought to go -North, I'll go." - -"Oh, Archie--if you would." - -"Dear old Mark! Of course I'll go. It happens that I can get a week's -leave. I'll bring him home with me." - -He spoke in a warm, sympathetic tone, kindling Betty's gratitude and -affection. Never had she liked Mark's brother so well. - -"You can spare the time, Archie?" - -"Yes, yes; I'm so glad you spoke to me. By the way, I've a piece of -news for you--great news, too. I am commanded to preach at Windsor." - -"Oh, Archie, I _am_ pleased to hear that. It will mean so much--won't -it." - -"Yes." - -She asked questions: Was the date set? Had he a theme? and so forth. -"You know," she continued gravely, "I shall never forget your -Westchester sermon. Many sermons touch one, but that gripped. Often, -I've not been quite fair to you, and now I'm horribly ashamed of myself. -You forgive me?" - -"My dear Betty! I say--was there so great a difference between that -sermon and others I have preached?" - -"Why, Archie, how modest you are! Don't you know that you climbed to -the heights that Whit-Sunday? Before, you seemed to be rambling about -on the comfortable plains. Oh, I know we can't scale mountains every -day. Lord Randolph said as much----" She paused. - -"What did Lord Randolph say?" - -"He did not intend that it should reach your ears." - -"Betty--you will do me a favour by repeating what he said as he said it. -I am not thin-skinned." - -"Well, he said that beer was good liquor, and that spirits should be -used sparingly. You couldn't preach such a sermon as that every -Sunday." - -"Not I," said Archie. - -"The great thing is that you can stir up hearts when the occasion comes. -I feel sure you will surpass yourself at Windsor." - -"I wish _I_ felt sure, Betty. Well--I'll do my best to persuade Mark to -return with me, but he's obstinate as a mule where his health is -concerned. Shall I give him any message from you?" - -"You can give him--my love." - -She spoke with assumed lightness of tone. Archie found a phrase. - -"A man would travel farther than Sutherland to receive that." Then he -took his leave, gravely smiling. - -"He's a good sort," said Betty. - -None the less she told herself that her intuitions in regard to men were -fluid. Again and again she tried to grasp them, to mould them into -permanent form, into definiteness; always they flowed away--peaceably -sometimes, with a sweet melodic cadence, as of a Scotch burn, but more -often roaring, like the same burn in spate; in either case leaving but a -small silt behind. - -The two days following Archie's departure she spent alone in the woods -(for Mrs. Corrance seldom left her pretty garden), seeking from Nature -an answer to the problem in her heart. The great oaks and beeches -preserved an inviolate silence in those languorous July days, but the -pines seemed to have a message for an attentive ear. Their sighs were, -perhaps, the warning voices of the innumerable dead, hushed and (to most -mortals) inarticulate. Here and there amidst this rich pastoral country -Betty found sterile acres where even the hardy fir failed to find -sustenance. These patches in the landscape had a weird fascination. -Betty perceived beauty, dignity, in their subtle, faded tints, their -delicate greys and shadowy browns. Once upon a time, doubtless, these -barren spots had bloomed, too luxuriantly, perhaps; in due time they -would bloom again in splendid resurrection. In the centre of one of the -stony places a young birch tree of great beauty stretched slender limbs -toward the green paradise which encompassed it, inclining slightly to -the south. - -"I am like that birch," said Betty. - - - - - *CHAPTER XIX* - - *A SANATORIUM IN SUTHERLAND* - - -Archibald Samphire took with him to Scotland a suit-case and a small -handbag. After leaving Perth, where he made an early breakfast, he -opened the bag and pulled out a roll of foolscap covered with neat, -scholarly handwriting. The reading of this MS. seemed to give him -pleasure; but presently his fine brow puckered into wrinkles, and an -excellent cigar was allowed to go out prematurely. - -"It's not as good as I thought," he murmured; and he was not speaking of -his cigar. - -Presently he lit another cigar and reread the MS.--the sermon prepared -for Royalty. When he wrote it, he told himself it eclipsed the one -preached on Whit-Sunday at Westchester. Afterwards, rereading it in -cold blood, he had come to the conclusion that it did not quite "grip," -as Betty put it, although sound to the core doctrinally, and discreet; -better suited, perhaps, for august ears than the other. Now, in this -clear, cool northern air, judgment was of a less sanguine complexion. -The theme warmed into life in the Close at Westchester lacked vitality -in the Highlands. Mountain and moor made it seem anæmic. Archibald -looked out of the window, which was open, and inhaled the fresh, pungent -air. Not a house was to be seen, not even a shepherd's hut; the moors -spread a purple carpet on which no human creature walked; the mountains, -vast, rugged, solitary, encompassed the moors. Yet in the heart of this -lonely wilderness men had swarmed together in conflict. These mountains -had not barred the progress of an army. Guns, horses, transport waggons -had defiled through the passes and across the treacherous peat bogs. -That clear burn yonder had run red with blood. Here was fought the -battle of Killiecrankie! Archie thought of these things as he sat with -the sheets of his sermon in his hand. He bundled the MS. back into his -bag, and closed it with a snap, divining his inability to deal -adequately with what was primal! - -He had wired to Mark that he was coming North; accordingly, at Lairg he -found a "machine" awaiting him, a ramshackle cart drawn by a sturdy -pony, whose attempts to leave the rough roads and plunge on to the moor -indicated that he was more at ease beneath a deer packsaddle than -between a pair of shafts. The driver eyed somewhat derisively Archie's -clerical garments. "Ye're no a meenister?" he asked; and receiving a -reply in the affirmative, added with emphasis, "Ye're verra young for -that." A minute later he asked if his passenger were college-bred. - -"I took my degree at Cambridge," said Archie. - -"Indeed. A'm interested in the Punic Wars. Yon Scipio Africanus was a -gran' man. I'd be obliged if ye'd tell me all ye ken aboot him." - -Archie changed from pink to the colour of Turkey twill. What he knew -about Scipio Africanus could have been put into a grain of millet seed. -In some confusion--not wasted upon the critical Scot--he explained that -the Punic Wars were beyond his horizon. The driver nodded -compassionately, expressing no surprise at the Sassenach's ignorance. He -was thin and angular; his grey eyes had curious flecks of brown in them; -his face and hands were very red and hairy, and beneath the red hair -Archie detected a certain amount of dirt. This restored the minor -canon's sense of superiority. The Scot, however, wore stout homespun -and superb stockings. - -"You wear good clothes," said Archie. - -"D'ye think they're too guid?" - -"Certainly not," said Archie hastily. "Your Highland sheep look in fine -condition." - -Once more the driver's queer eyes met his. The brown flecks danced in -the grey. - -"They're no mine, and they cam frae Teviotdale--they white-faced sheep." -The contempt in the man's voice was unmistakable. - -Archie wondered if the man also came from the border; he did not look -like a Highlander; Highlanders always said "whateffer." He wished to -ask questions about Crask, Ross's lodge, but the brown flecks in the -small, closely-set eyes were oddly disconcerting, so he stared at the -face of the landscape instead of that of the man. They were driving -over a bleak moor which stretched, far as the eye could reach, to some -delicately blue hills fringing the western skies. The scene was -panoramic and indescribably desolate. Along the road black posts, set -at intervals, served as guides to such travellers--shepherds for the -most part--who were obliged to cross the moors in winter-time, when snow -covered all things. Archie thought of November and shivered. Presently -they passed a small slate-tiled cottage built of rough grey stone and -surrounded by a grey stone wall. Peats were piled close to a vast -midden, on which some hens were scratching; beyond the peat stack stood -the byre; garden, ornamental or useful, there was none. As the pony -came to a sudden halt, three rough collies rushed out, barking -furiously. The driver spoke to them and got down; he strode into the -house, remained there ten minutes, and came out wiping his hairy chin. -Archie smelled whisky. The driver picked up the reins, the collies -barked, the pony shambled forward. Evidently the whisky had had an -effect, for the Scot became communicative. - -"He's a verra mean man, yon," he said, jerking his head in the direction -of the house. "We were tasting the noo, and I said, as he was filling -the glass--'Stop!' And wad ye believe it, the brute stoppit?" - -Mark would have laughed. Archibald remained calm. - -"There's too much whisky drunk in Scotland," he said. - -"There's' mair drunk oot of it," retorted the driver. - -Archie refused to enter into argument, and the driver filled a black -cutty with evil-smelling tobacco. After the moor was crossed, the -character of the scenery changed. The road wound its way beside a -charming burn to which heather-covered hills sloped steeply. Farther -on, a loch reflected the saffron splendours of the sky. A splendid -mountain--Ben Caryll--towered to the right. - -"Yon's the hoose," said the driver. - -The house crowned a small spur of Ben Caryll. At one side stood a small -wooden chapel embellished by a diminutive bell-tower, in which hung a -single bell of great sweetness of tone. A big lawn lay on the other -side of the house, and Archie noted with surprise that tennis-courts -were marked out. He noted also, with equal surprise, the profusion of -flowers and flowering shrubs and the care which allotted to each its -particular place in the general plan of the garden. The house looked -grey and grim, like all houses in this part of Scotland, and the windows -had been enlarged, giving the building somewhat the appearance of a -small factory. Behind the tennis-courts stood a row of rough sheds -covered with creepers and facing the south. In the sheds he caught a -glimpse of tables, chairs, sofas, and other simple furnishings. - -Archie rang the bell, which jangled discordantly. The door was opened by -Mark, who held out both hands, smiling. "It's awfully good of you, old -fellow," he said. "I don't know how to thank you. You're just in time -for supper. Here's the Bishop. He's up for a day or two." - -David Ross nodded cordially and gripped Archie's hand. Two men came -forward and were introduced. One shouldered the big suit-case and went -upstairs with it, ignoring protests. Archie followed, carrying his -small black bag and feeling that he had come on a fool's errand so far -as Mark was concerned. Dying? Why, he looked stronger than he had -looked for months. As soon as the brothers were alone Archie said as -much. - -"I suppose it's the air," Mark explained. "I'm out-of-doors night and -day. My trouble is scotched." - -"I can't understand how you can joke about it," said Archie. - -"A vile pun, but irresistible. I say, wash that frown off your face and -come down. We'll have a pipe and a good jaw afterwards. If you think, -by the way, that I do look better, you might say so to David Ross. He's -been awfully kind." - -"Why didn't you go home?" - -"I c-c-couldn't," said Mark shortly. - -In the refectory, a long, low annexe to the house, the Bishop's guests -sat at meat. Some of them were ruddy and robust; others looked thin and -white, but not one, so Archie remarked, wore the sable of discontent. -The eyes that met his were candid and clear--the eyes of men satisfied -with their lot in life. At the foot of the table sat a little fellow -with a big head, which waggled comically. Archie wondered where he had -seen him before; then he remembered. The little man looked like Mr. -Pickwick, although he lacked that illustrious character's deportment and -dignity. - -"Who is that?" he whispered to Mark, who sat beside him. - -"That's Stride, our resident doctor. He's mad keen about the open-air -cure. He got his ideas from Father Kneippe." - -In those days neither Father Kneippe nor his ideas were famous. The -open-air treatment for disease was practically unknown. Mark explained -Stride's methods: his theories on diet and physical culture, facts now -familiar to everybody. - -"Stride lives here all the year round, you know. David Ross comes and -goes at long intervals." - -"It must be desolate in winter." Archie gave his impressions, including -a description of the house with the huge midden. "It was larger than -the cottage," he said in great disgust, "and the drunken savage who -drove me wanted to learn what I knew about Scipio Africanus and the -Punic wars. Punic wars indeed!" - -"I like the country and the people," said Mark, "but you have to climb -to get at either." - -After supper the guests marched outside and settled themselves in the -sheds, which were lit with lamps. Some read, some played chess, some -listened to Stride, who talked unceasingly. The Bishop led Archie aside -and asked him if he would like to smoke a pipe on the lawn. - -"I'll smoke a cigar," said Archie. "Can I offer you one?" - -"I prefer a pipe," said the Bishop. - -They strolled together on to the lawn. Although it was nearly ten, -twilight still lingered about the landscape, as if loath to leave a -scene so fair in darkness. Archie listened attentively to what his -companion was saying. - -"Your brother has neglected his body." (Ross had been warned by Mark to -say no more than this.) "In such cases more or less of a breakdown is -inevitable. I am delighted that you see a change for the better. Six -months up here, under Stride, may set him up." - -"I hoped to take him back with me. I came up for that purpose." - -"Your brother can return with you, if he wishes, but would it be wise?" - -"Perhaps not, perhaps not," said Archie. "We did not know that you were -prepared to offer so generous a hospitality." - -"He will be a paying guest in more senses than one. I dare say you -would like to talk to him. Good night! I have an immense pile of -letters to answer. I hope you will stay with us as long as you please." - -He grasped Archie's hand, and strode off. Archie watched him for a -moment, enviously. Ross gave the impression of power in action. It was -certain that his amazing stride would take him far on any road--and -always _upward and onward_: the motto adopted by his followers. - -When he found himself alone with Mark, in the bedroom assigned to him, -Archie said: "Ross seems to think that you are doing better here than -you would, for instance, in Slowshire." - -"Why, of course. I'm mending rapidly. One cannot do anything rapidly -in Slowshire. It's not even a place to die in. One would dawdle over -it." - -"You will speak with such levity----" - -"I've not your gravity, my dear old fellow. Now then, tell me about -yourself. What are you doing?" - -"I've been commanded to preach at Windsor." - -Mark was so eager and warm in his congratulations that Archie found it -easy to go on. - -"I've brought my MS. with me. I want you to skim through it." - -"I must read it at once. This is wildly exciting." - -Archie paced up and down, while Mark sat on the bed reading the sermon. -Judging from his face, the fare was proving unpalatable. Archie saw -that he was frowning and fidgeting with his fingers, as he used to do at -Harrow, when he was looking over his major's verses. This familiar -expression made the big fellow feel ludicrously like a boy. He half -shut his eyes and waited for the inevitable: "I say, you know, this is -awful bosh," of the Fifth Form days. Mark read the MS. through, and -then glanced again at certain passages, before he said a word. - -"Well," said Archie nervously, "will it do?" - -Mark slid off the bed, put his hands in his pockets, and stared at his -brother. - -"That depends. It will do to light some fires with; but it won't set -the Thames, near Windsor, ablaze." - -"Call it 'bosh' and have done with it." - -"It's not bosh. You've taken one of the Beatitudes." - -"The Dean suggested that. He said it would please. Of course he -knows." - -"The text is the most inspiring in the New Testament, but you've treated -it conventionally. Now look here----" He paused to collect his ideas. -Archie saw that his eyes were shining with that suffused light which -betokened in him mental or spiritual excitement. He began to pace up -and down the narrow room; then he burst out: "You lay stress on the -reward hereafter; a hereafter which the finite mind is unable to grasp. -_The pure in heart shall see God in His Heaven_. Don't you know that -the pure in heart see God here? That He is revealed, and only to the -pure, in everything that lies around us. Ah, that is a theme, a -celestial theme: the revelation of the Creator in the things created. -And impurity blinds us. We look up to God, if we do look up, through a -fog. You must take that line, Archie. Burn this--and begin again. And -be sure that you define purity of heart aright. Don't confound it with -purity of body. You are eloquent on the purity of a child. Why, man, -the purity which knows not impurity is emasculate compared with the -purity which knows impurity, which has fought with impurity, and yet, in -the end, after conflicts innumerable, vanquishes impurity! I tell you -that what men and women want to-day is substance. An ideal Heaven, an -ideal earth, appeal to us, yes, but they charm as a mirage charms; they -melt and fade as the mirage does. What you have written here," he -tapped the foolscap impatiently, "might feed saints, but flesh-and-blood -sinners would go empty away. By Heaven! if I had your voice, I would -make the sinners hear." - -"You must help me," said Archie in a low, hesitating voice. - -"Why not?" said Mark excitedly. "Give me the night to think. To-morrow -we'll put our heads together and the sparks shall fly. I haven't used -my brains for a month. This will do me good." - -"Will it?" said Archie doubtfully. Already Mark's face was drawn and -haggard; he looked ten years older than his brother. - -"What is life," said Mark contemptuously, "if the salt of helping a pal -be taken from it? I'm not useless yet. Good night. I sleep in a shed, -you know. And I can see the stars whenever I open my eyes." - -"It's so cloudy here," said Archibald. - -"I can see through most clouds, but s-s-some----" - -Mark paused abruptly, the light faded in his eyes, as he turned and left -the room. - - - - - *CHAPTER XX* - - *BETTY SEES A SPRIG OF RUE* - - -Archibald returned to Westchester some three days later. In the small -black bag was another MS. quite as bulky as the first, and covered with -Mark's handwriting. Blots and smudges deformed it; the edges were -dog-eared, whole sentences were excised, red pencil marks flamed amidst -the black. Yet Archibald read it through again and again, smiling, and -nodding his handsome head. He was not alone in his first-class -carriage, and his companion, a shrewd Scotch lawyer, guessed why the -minister kept moving his lips as he read his MS. In fancy he was -declaiming it. - -The day after his arrival at the lodge the elder brother had said to -Mark: "By the way, Betty Kirtling sent her love to you. Have you any -message for her?" - -"None," said he slowly. "I hope she is well." - -Archie, not detecting the anxiety in his tone, thought Betty was looking -very well. Then he mentioned Jim. - -"He comes from Friday to Monday, every week. He wants Betty, but I don't -fancy he'll get her." - -"Have you any reason for saying that?" Mark asked, wondering whether -Archie was clearer-sighted than he had supposed. - -"Jim is a materialist." - -"Oh, come now!" - -"A money-grubber and an agnostic." - -"One of the best of fellows. Ross never appeals to him in vain." - -"As if any rich man couldn't write a cheque. Betty ought to marry -somebody very different." - -"Don't abuse him to Betty." - -"Betty is rather--undisciplined." - -"You can say that of all of us. I hope to God she won't marry a -schoolmaster." He glanced at his brother with an eye that flamed. He -had been smitten by the fear that Betty might marry Archie. - -"What strong expressions you use, Mark. It doesn't sound quite--how -shall I put it?--well, seemly, for a man who holds Orders. I see no -chance of Betty marrying a schoolmaster. I have great hopes that she -will choose wisely. She said 'No' to Harry Kirtling, and she will say -'No' to Jim Corrance." - -"And she said 'No' to you," Mark reflected. - - -Within the week Archibald rode over to King's Charteris, where he found -Betty in Mrs. Corrance's garden gathering roses. He had wired that he -was returning without Mark. She took the telegram to her room, where -pride dried her eyes and hardened her heart. That night Jim told -himself he had a chance. She had never been so kind to him, so -understanding, so alluring. But on the brink of declaration he -hesitated, fearing to leap. Afterwards he wondered what might have -happened if he had--leaped boldly instead of looking and longing. - -Betty received Archie with the question, "Is Mark really ill?" - -Archie hesitated. - -"He looks stronger," he said slowly. "And he is in his usual spirits: -the life and soul of the place. There can't be anything really wrong. -In fact he joked about his health. He doesn't take anything very -seriously, you know. David Ross told me that he had overworked -himself--more or less." - -"You gave him my love?" Betty murmured lightly. She had the faintest -tinge of colour in her cheeks, but her voice was almost cold. - -"Yes." - -"And I hope he sent a nice message to me in return?" - -"No. He asked if you were well. I said--yes. You do look uncommonly -well, Betty." - -She wore white, which set off the delicate tints and admirable texture -of her skin, but her hat was black, giving a necessary note of contrast. -At her throat, holding together a _jabot_ of creamy laces, sparkled an -old-fashioned enamel ornament set with tiny brilliants. Standing on the -sloping lawn, her figure defined against a towering yew fence, and -holding in her hand the roses she had just gathered, the girl made a -picture which lured Archie's thoughts even from Windsor. - -"I suppose a country life agrees with me." - -"You are wonderful." - -She moved to a bench, the young man following her with eager feet and -eyes. He could not see that her heart was beating, nor did he notice -that the brilliancy of her eyes was due to an abnormal enlargement of -the pupil. She sat down, smiling derisively. Then she bade him tell -her about the sanatorium. When he had finished, she said quietly, "You -were very, very kind to take that long journey." - -"It's easy to be kind to people like you--and Mark." - -His delightful voice softened, because when he mentioned his brother's -name the memory of what that brother had done on his behalf filled him -with gratitude. - -"I hear you are kind to everybody. All Slowshire sings your praises." - -Archibald shook his head, wondering whether Betty would mention the -sermon. He was burning with impatience to try on, so to speak, some of -its phrases, to watch the effect of them on a woman who had listened to -the Gamaliels of the day. Betty possessed sincerity, imagination, -sympathy. These would flow freely at the touch of a friend's hand. - -"If it would not bore you," he said, "I should like to talk over the -Windsor sermon. You can help me----" - -"I? Help--you?" - -"You can, indeed"; his voice grew eager. "Whatever I say will be the -fresher and purer if it passes through your mind before it is given to -the world." - -"My mind _is_ a sort of filter." She laughed. None the less she was -pleased and flattered. Archibald began to speak in a soft monotone. -Betty half closed her eyes and the lines of her figure slightly relaxed -beneath the caressing inflections of the speaker's voice. Whenever -Archie sang she was affected in the same way. A languor overcame her. -For the moment she was not attempting to grasp the meaning of his words, -which, even as inarticulate sounds, possessed value and significance. -But, soon, she opened her eyes wide and sat up. By this time Archie was -at the core of his theme, and his treatment of it was so masterly that -Betty found herself thrilling with surprise and delight. A few minutes -before life had seemed empty. Now it was full again, brimming over, -bubbling, with possibilities swelling from shadow into substance. -Archie, be it remembered, was not preaching the sermon. He was rather -submitting the material, the tissues, the threads, the patterns, out of -which a fine piece of work had been already fashioned. Now and again -Betty was invited to choose, to select, out of these wares some one -which pleased her fancy. She realised that Archie had more of Mark in -him than she had deemed possible. Once or twice she seemed to hear -Mark's eager tones. - -"You say that like Mark." - -"Has Mark talked to you on this theme?" - -"Oh, no," Betty replied, "but he pours out his ideas, as you do." - -"Mark and I have talked about this. He helped me. He always does." - -Archie spoke hesitatingly, on the edge of full confession. He had a -genuine desire to tell Betty the truth. The words formed on his lips. - -"Yes, yes," said Betty absently. "Mark has helped me too, many a time; -but he's in Sutherland." Her voice became cold as she recalled his -letter. "I feel as if he were at the North Pole! Well, Archie, I've -enjoyed our talk immensely." - -"And when may I come to talk to you again?" - -"You are not going--now?" - -The "now" brought a sparkle to his eyes. - -"I must. I'm one of the busiest men in Westchester." - -"I shall run down to Windsor to hear your sermon," she said. - -"Our sermon, Betty." - -"That's rubbish. You must never pay me compliments, Archie. I couldn't -stand them from you----" she broke off, irrelevantly: "How did you -attain to your pinnacle? I suppose you've been climbing ever since we -were children. It's quite wonderful. Don't come Friday or Saturday. -Jim will be here. Poor, rich Jim! What do you think of Jim?" - -Archie remembered, in the nick of time, what Mark had said about not -abusing Jim. - -"I think what you think," he said slowly. "Poor, rich Jim!" - -After he had gone, Betty picked no more roses, but sat down on the -bench, feeling rather forlorn. Archibald had taken something away with -him. What it was she could not define precisely. For instance--was it -Jim's character? He had said nothing. Nothing--except her own words: -"Poor, rich Jim." Jim had been his friend, although the men had now -little in common. Of course, he would not speak unkindly of an old -schoolfellow. Yet as a preacher of Christ's gospel, he must in his -heart rank Jim amongst Christ's enemies. Jim was not with Christ. He -did not believe in Christ. The conclusion was obvious: he must be -counted as an enemy. An enemy? Poor Jim! - -She was still thinking of Jim, when his mother came towards her. She -seemed to ascend the grass slope with difficulty; so Betty ran forward -to offer an arm, which was accepted. As they moved slowly on, Betty -glanced at the quiet face so near her own. Again, curiosity devoured -her. She observed a faded look which she tried to interpret. Did it -spell disappointment? Were the last draughts of life proving bitter? -Perhaps she felt that her work was done, that her little world would wag -on without her. They sat down, and Mrs. Corrance produced her needle, -her silks, and a piece of embroidery from the old-fashioned velvet bag, -which she always carried on her arm. Betty, who never sewed, wondered -if the day would ever dawn when she would find solace in such trivial -occupations. Then Mrs. Corrance asked for news of Mark. After that was -told, silence fell on both: the silence which precedes the breaking of -barriers. Then Betty said softly: "Are you glad that you have lived--or -sorry?" - -The frail hands, poised above the delicate embroidery, sank upon it, and -remained still, while faint lines of interrogation puckered the placid -forehead. Betty continued: "I ought not to ask such questions. I rush in -like a fool. But then I am a fool, although I long to be wise. There -is so much a girl like me wants to know, but if you tell me to hold my -tongue I shall not be surprised or offended." - -"I'm glad that I have lived, Betty." - -"That is because you have loved. Your love for Jim has filled your -life, ever since I have known you. If--if--oh, I am ashamed to put it so -brutally--but if you lost Jim, or if Jim had never been born--what -then?" - -"My dear, you press me too hard. I can hardly conceive of life without -Jim," she smiled. "He came when all was dark, and there has been light -for me--ever since." - -"When all was dark----" repeated Betty. She knew that Jim's father had -died when Jim was a small boy. - -"Yes. My married life was not happy. Perhaps I expected too much, as -is the way with women; perhaps it was not meant that I should be happy." - -"Not _meant_?" Betty spoke with impatience. "Surely the design, the -intention, includes happiness, only we mar it." - -"All young people think that," said Mrs. Corrance, "but as we grow older -we see so little real happiness that we must believe, if we believe in -the mercy of God, that, save for the few, happiness on earth is not to -be enjoyed but earned rather, so that it may be enjoyed, without alloy, -hereafter. And I believe that to everyone a glimpse of happiness is -vouchsafed. Were it not for that, how many would struggle on?" - -Betty asked no more questions. The youth in her rebelled against this -placid acceptance of suffering and strife. She told herself that she -had enormous capacity for enjoyment. Politics, literature, history, -sport: all were fish to her net. But religion, and in particular that -concrete presentation of it by the Church of England, had, so far, left -her cold. She seemed to have touched but its phylacteries, out of which -came no virtue. She had met many clever men who confessed themselves -agnostic. Her kind friend, Lady Randolph, never spoke of religion, -either in its wide or narrow sense. Certainly she did her duty without -aid or formulæ. In fact, when Betty came to think of it, some -freethinkers of her acquaintance lived more Christian lives than many -Churchpeople who took the Sacrament every Sunday. This was puzzling. On -the other hand, the life she had led since the Admiral's death, the life -of Mayfair, of big country houses, of race-meetings, of perpetual -pleasure-seekings, had begun to pall. The grandmothers--some of -them--who gambled, and made love, and over-ate themselves, revolted her. -That they were at heart discontented and unhappy she could not doubt. -Finally, she had just come to the trite conclusion that, in or out of -the fashionable world, the people least to be pitied were those who had -some definite object in view. Politics, for instance, had probably -saved Lord Randolph from the hereditary curse of his family; fox-hunting -made Harry Kirtling ride straight and walk straight; Jim Corrance -admitted that money-grubbing kept him out of mischief. These pursuits, -however, led to negative results: being preventive of evil, not -productive of good, except indirectly. Mark Samphire not only avoided -evil, but did good, as dozens were eager to testify, including herself. -When with Mark she had always been conscious of his power to bring out -the good in her. And this afternoon, listening to Archie, she had felt -the same thrill, the same irresistible yearning to ascend, to scale the -heights. None the less, she was whimsically aware, being a creature of -sense as well as sensibility, that Mark cast a glamour. She loved him, -and, loving him, loved what he loved, tried to see Heaven's wares with -his eyes, and succeeded, so long as the magician remained at her side. -When he was at work in Whitechapel and she was shopping in Bond Street, -Heaven, somehow, seemed distant. At such times she looked at a set of -sables or a diamond ornament with a pleasure which proved that the clay -within her was very far from being purged. - -Upon the following Saturday, when Jim asked her to become his wife, to -share the fortune which would be no fortune without her, she said No, as -kindly as words and looks could say it. Her distress at the pain she -inflicted touched him profoundly. - -"I shall remain your pal, Betty," Jim declared. "The other thing was -always a forlorn hope. Is it any use saying that I have known for years -that I wasn't first, and that I was sanguine enough to believe that if -the first failed, I might be second? Isn't half a loaf better than no -bread, dear?" - -She let him take her hand, but she turned aside eyes full of tears. - -"We'll go on as before. The mater needn't know--eh? It has been a great -thing for her having you here." - -"And a great thing for me," said Betty unsteadily. "I wish I could marry -you, dear old Jim, but I can't--I can't." - -She broke down, sobbing bitterly. Jim patted her hand, wondering what -he could say to comfort her, but the words which came into his head -seemed inadequate. If he had taken her face between his strong hands, -kissed away her tears, and sworn passionately that he would love and -cherish her so long as she lived, she might have changed a mind which -was less strong than her body. While she sat weeping beside him, she -was thinking not so much that she had lost Mark, but that she had lost -love. The woman within her groaned, the flesh and blood protested. She -saw herself as in a vision, treading the dreary years alone, with no -strong arm to protect and defend, with no tiny hands to cling to and -caress her. And at the end of the pilgrimage stood old age, grim and -grey, carrying a sprig of rue in palsied shrivelled hands! - - - - - *CHAPTER XXI* - - *RECUPERATION* - - -Mark went North with David Ross convinced that his months, if not his -days, were numbered; but as time passed, this conviction passed with it, -and hope once more fluttered into his heart. Stride took extraordinary -interest in his case. - -"You must become an animal and remain an animal till I give you leave to -assume again the man," he told Mark after Archibald had left Crask. "I -don't know what you and your brother have been up to, but you've had a -relapse. You must go on all-fours till I tell you to walk upright." - -Mark promised, but he added: "I feel an animal--an ass!" - -Stride growled out something about dead lions, and set Mark to work in -the garden, bare-legged and bare-headed. The work was light, but it -strained every muscle in Mark's body. Then he was made to lie down in -one of the sheds. After such rest came refreshment--easily digested, -nourishing food, taken in small quantities, but often. During this -month Mark reckoned that he was sleeping fourteen hours out of the -twenty-four. At the end of each week Stride weighed him and applied a -number of tests to determine what strength he had gained. There was a -sort of rivalry between the patients. Dick who had gained two pounds -crowed over Tom who had gained one. Into this competition Mark entered -with boyish keenness. Stride said he was the star pupil of the class. - -By the beginning of October, a radical improvement had taken place. The -cold weather set in sharply, but Mark, always susceptible to atmospheric -change, braved the frosty nights with impunity, sleeping in the sheds -with the winds howling about him. He had the confidence in Stride that -a well-trained dog has in his master. Some of Stride's "animals"--as he -called them--proved at first unmanageable. Coming, as most of them did, -from the strenuous life of crowded cities, accustomed to and yearning -for the stimulus of constant mental action, such stagnation as Stride -enforced seemed insupportable. These kittle cattle were yoked for a -season with Mark. - -Meantime he had received many letters from his friends, but none from -Betty, who had returned to Lady Randolph. Jim wrote that he had been -rejected, but made no mention of Archibald, who was often seen crossing -the downs between Westchester and Birr Wood. As a matter of fact, Jim -was not aware of these rides. He remained in London making money. From -Pynsent Mark learned of the enthusiasm aroused by Archibald's Windsor -sermon. - - -"Reading in the paper" (he wrote) "that your brother was preaching in -St. George's Chapel, I went down to Windsor yesterday to hear him. He -is quite amazing. What he said and the way he said it took us by storm. -The Whitsuntide sermon gave only a taste of his quality. Out of the -pulpit he has always struck me as being the typical English parson of -means and position; in it he is--_apostolic_! I can find no other -adjective to describe his persuasiveness, sincerity, and power. Lord -Randolph tells me that it made a profound impression in the highest -quarter. I saw Betty Kirtling and Lady Randolph in the knights' -stalls...." - - -Mark thrust the letter into his pocket with an exclamation which made -the man working next to him raise his brows. - -"Anything wrong, Samphire? No bad news, I hope?" - -Mark blurted out the truth. His companion, broken down by hard work in -Manchester, had sympathetic eyes and lips which dropped compassion upon -all infirmities save his own. - -"I've had good news, Maitland: my brother has preached a great sermon at -Windsor, and--and there is something wrong with me. I have the damnable -wish that he'd failed--as I failed." Then he laughed harshly, bending -down to pick up his spade. - -That afternoon he climbed the mountain, which sloped steeply to the -loch. The air, he felt, on the top of Ben Caryll would purge and -purify; the panoramic view would enlarge the circle of his sympathies. -And so it proved, although a materialist might assign another cause. -When Mark reached the highest peak he became aware that he had -accomplished a feat of physical endurance beyond such powers as he -possessed two months before. He was not aware of undue fatigue; on the -contrary, a strange exhilaration permeated mind and body. He could have -danced, but he sat down, soberly enough, and reread Pynsent's letter. -When he had done this, he tried to transport himself to Windsor. He -wanted to sit with Betty in the knights' stalls, beneath the gorgeous -silken banners, and the emblazoned shields of the princes of the world, -under the eye and ægis of a living sovereign. But fancy left him--in -Sutherland. He gazed upon moor and mountain whitened here and there by -snow. He looked into the pale, luminous skies above, into the frosty -opalescent mists to the westward, through which the sun glowed like a -red-hot ball, and wherever he looked Betty was not. For the moment he -could not recall her face. It seemed as if he were seeking a stranger -with a written description of her in his hand. - -Sitting there, some voice whispered to him that Betty wanted him, that -he must descend the mountain and go to her. Then he told himself that -he was mad. If he obeyed this beguiling voice in his ears, if he went -south--what then? The hope in his eye and heart would kindle like hope -in her, and such hope was a will-o'-the-wisp flickering above--a grave! - -When he came down from the mountain, he found Stride busy in his -laboratory. Stride possessed a magnificent Zeiss microscope and all the -accessories--incubating ovens, sterilising apparatus, stains, and -reagents--for the highest bacteriological work. Of late, Mark had given -the little man some help in staining and mounting preparations. - -"We are out of one world," Stride had said, "but I will introduce you to -another through an apochromatic lens. You will find yourself quite at -home, my friend. Here, in this drop of water, you will note the same -struggle for existence, the same old game as it is played in Whitechapel -or Whitehall." - -When Mark began to understand something of the technique of the -microscope, when Stride had shown him its uses, for instance, in the -analysis of diseased tissue or blood, and revealed its magical powers of -diagnosis, Mark asked a question: "How can any doctor work without one?" -Stride laughed at such innocence. - -"It takes up too much time. No hard-working practitioner ignores the -value of it, but he cannot use it. When necessary, he sends -preparations to some specialist. A microscope exacts more attention -than a wife. That is why I"--he slapped his chest and winked -furiously--"have remained single." - -This devotion to his work strengthened the chain which linked patient to -doctor. Stride--Mark felt assured--might have secured fame and fortune -in London. Yet he chose to remain unknown and poor in Sutherland. - -Mark told him that he had climbed Ben Caryll, and felt none the worse -for it. Stride shook his big head. - -"You oughtn't to attempt such walks--yet." - -"Then the time is coming. I shall regain my health?" - -He had never put the question so directly before. Stride eyed him -attentively, hearing a new note in his voice. - -"Per--haps." - -"If I asked for leave of absence----" - -"It would be refused--peremptorily," said Stride. "Why, man, you'd douse -the glim which I've been coaxing into flame all these weeks. What -magnet draws you from Crask? A woman?" - -"Yes--a woman." - -"Oh, these tempestuous petticoats! Now, Samphire, I'm not a fool, and I -guessed, when you came here, that you left a girl behind you. You are -not engaged to her?" - -"No." - -"Good! Now, listen to wisdom. If everything goes well with you--if -fresh air and simple food and freedom from worry make you whole, you may -marry some day--but you'll have to wait a long time, so as to make sure, -and even then, after years of comparative health, you may break down -again. Will this young lady wait for you--indefinitely?" - -"I should never ask her to do that." - -"Um! I daresay she's flirting with someone at this very minute. Eh? I -beg pardon, Samphire. Your goddess, no doubt, is an exception; but few -women, if they are women, can get along without a man. And now you must -leave me. I'm on the edge of a small discovery. I've done some good -work to-day." - -"Your good work will tell, Stride." - -"What d'ye mean? Recognition? If it comes, so much the better; if it -doesn't, I've had 'the joy of the working'--eh?" - -Next day, a letter from Archibald gave many details. He had enjoyed the -honour of meeting his Sovereign, who said gracious things; he had dined -with a Cabinet Minister; he had been interviewed at length by a -reporter. The letter concluded as follows:-- - - -"I cannot doubt that my sphere of influence and activity is about to be -enlarged. If so, I shall count upon your help. I am deeply grateful -for what you have done already. I recognise in you, my dear, dear -brother, an insight into human life and character wider than my own. You -have come into contact with what is primal and elemental: an experience -lacking as yet to me. I have spoken of this to all our friends, -acknowledging frankly my debt to you...." - - -Mark's smile, when he read these lines, was not easy to interpret, but -the sense that, for a brief hour, he had grudged his own flesh and blood -a triumph, made him reply cordially and affectionately. He ended his -letter by assuring Archibald that such help as one brother could give -another would always be at his disposal. - -About this time, feeling stronger day by day, he began to wonder what -work he should do in the future. Stride was emphatic that life in the -East End would mean a return of his malady. Not being able to preach, a -country curacy was unavailable; and in any case Mark told himself that -such work would be distasteful. Stride startled him by saying abruptly, -"Why don't you write?" - -"Eh?" - -"It's in you, I'll swear. It would be only a crutch, at first, but you -have private means. You can write out-of-doors. You will be your own -master. You can take proper care of yourself...." Stride waxed -eloquent, and Mark listened with a curious exaltation. - -"By Jove!" he said, drawing a deep breath, "I believe I can write." - -"Everybody writes nowadays," said Stride, "but I have the feeling that -you can write what a lot of us will want to read. Think it over!" - -Mark thought it over for a week. Ideas inundated his brain, clamouring -for expression. He begged permission to try his hand at a short story: -four thousand words. Stride gave a grudging consent. - -"Mind you," said he, "you're not fit for any sustained mental exertion, -but go ahead--full steam, if you like, and we'll see what will happen." - -Mark wrote his story, and submitted both it and himself to the autocrat. -This was a week later, and the scales proclaimed a loss of two pounds. -Stride pursed up his lips and waggled his big head. - -"Back you go to the garden to-morrow," he growled. "I'll read your -stuff to-night, and tell you what I think of it. It's almost certain to -be rubbish." - -In the morning, however, he had nothing but praise for the author, whose -mind was by no means as familiar to him as his body. He beamed and -gesticulated as if he had discovered a new bacillus. The story was -despatched to an editor, Arthur Conquest, whom Stride knew, and Mark was -enjoined to think no more about it. Think about it he did, naturally. -The possibility of doing good work in a new field filled him once more -with the ardours of youth. He told Stride there was a certain -inevitableness about his failures. What had gone before--all trials and -disappointments--were part of a writer's equipment. He could not doubt -that he had found at last a strong-box, so to speak, for such talents as -he possessed. Action had been denied him, articulate speech was not -his, the power of putting a noble conception on to canvas he lacked; but -he could, he would, he should write according to the truth that was in -him, so help him God! - -Stride warned him that the odds were greatly against his manuscript -being accepted. The editor, however, read the story himself, and -promised to publish it. His letter contained a message to Mark. - - -"Will you tell Mr. Samphire" (wrote Conquest) "that I am going to -red-pencil his story, which I take to be a first attempt. He must serve -his apprenticeship, which in his case needn't be a long one. I can see -that he sets for himself a high standard. If he means business I should -advise him to write a novel and burn it. When he comes to town, I hope -to make his acquaintance." - - -"Conquest is cold-blooded," said Stride, "but he has a prescient eye. -All the same, if you have business dealings with him--look out! And -now--go back to your cabbages." - -Mark told Maitland what had passed. Maitland entered with sympathy into -his plans, confessing that he had tried writing as a trade. - -"Grub Street is a long lane with no turning in it for nine-tenths of the -foot passengers. I hope you'll gallop down it, Samphire, not crawl as I -did." - -Maitland looked, so Mark reflected, as if he had gone afoot down many -paths. Failure was branded upon his pale, too narrow face, his stooping -shoulders, his large, clumsy hands: all thumbs, and crudely fashioned at -that! But Ross, who was no longer at Crask, had told Mark that Maitland -filled a very large place in his huge Manchester parish. - -"What made you go into the Church?" Mark asked abruptly. - -"I had to earn my bread and--scrape; but afterwards----" - -"Yes?" - -Maitland's dull, sallow complexion seemed to be suffused with a glow. -It struck Mark that between his face as he was accustomed to see it and -as he saw it now lay the difference between a stage-scene lighted and -unlighted. - -"Afterwards," said Maitland, "I knew that the choice of my profession -had been determined by a Power infinitely greater than my own will. I -became a parson from ignoble motives. I was soured, bitter, sick in -mind and body, unfit for the duties I undertook. And then suddenly--one -hardly likes to talk about it--my eyes were opened. I came into contact -with hundreds worse off than myself. Some of them bore their burdens -with a patience, a serenity, an unselfishness that were a revelation--to -me. And then I realised that no life is a failure which brightens -however faintly the lives of others. Napoleon is the colossal failure -of history, because he darkened a continent. I would sooner be a beggar -sharing a crust with a child than such as he." - -"If you were offered preferment----?" - -"I hope to live and die in Manchester." - -"You nearly did die. Suppose you were not strong enough to go back? -You wince, Maitland. That would try your faith. You have been frank -with me; I shall be frank with you. I have always wanted one thing, and -because I wanted it so much, I tried to bargain with Heaven. I said, -'You shall do what you like with me, only give me, give me the woman I -love!' Well, Heaven seemed to take up the challenge. You know my -story. I was defeated again and again. And I said to myself I'll grin -and bear it, because she is mine. Ah, if you could see her, Maitland, -as I see her, if you knew what I have f-f-felt, when I saw her image -f-f-fa--fading----" He paused, overcome by his stammer, controlled it, -and continued quietly, "I was told that I must die. Ross found me in -despair. I--I do not know, but the river was close at hand, -and--perhaps--at any rate he rescued me, brought me here, and now, now, -I am beginning to live again. I see God in His Heaven. And I see my -angel in mine." - -He was so excited that Maitland entreated him to be calm, introducing, -as an anticlimax, the cabbages to be cut and carried in. - -Shortly after this Stride allowed him to begin his novel. After the -first distress of beginning it became plain that this work agreed with -him. Weight and appetite increased as the manuscript grew fat. He was -out all weathers, and his face became tanned like that of a North Sea -fisherman. Stride rubbed his hands chuckling, whenever he saw him. - -During these months Mark told himself that it was impossible for Betty -to write to him till he broke the silence which he had imposed. -Meanwhile, he heard that Archibald had accepted a London living: St. -Anne's in Sloane Street. Mrs. Samphire sent Mark a long cutting from the -_Slowshire Chronicle_, a synopsis of his brother's labours in and about -Westchester. As secretary, and member of many committees, as a lecturer -on Temperance, as a pillar of the Charity Organisation Society, as the -first tenor of the Westchester Choral Association, Archibald Samphire -had honestly earned the gratitude of the community and the very handsome -salver, which embalmed that gratitude in a Latin sentence composed by -the Dean. Archibald had been asked to preach four Advent sermons in -Westminster Cathedral. Mark suggested a theme, revised the sermons, -interpolated a hundred passages, cut and slashed his brother's beautiful -MSS., and when the sermons were preached and attracted the attention of -London, wrote a letter of warm congratulation to his "dearest old -fellow." He had taken greater pains with these sermons than with his -own novel, because--as he put it to himself--he had grudged his brother -a triumph which Betty Kirtling had witnessed. - -One week after the New Year, he was writing the last lines of his book, -when Stride came into the room and flung down a letter in Archibald's -handwriting. Mark glanced at it, and at the pile of MS. beside it. - -"Is the _magnum opus_ done?" said Stride. - -"Very nearly," Mark replied. - -"Are you going to take Conquest's advice and--burn it?" - -"I shall let Conquest see it first," said Mark. He rose from his chair, -crossed the room to where Stride was warming his hands at the fire, and -laid his hand upon his friend's shoulder. "It's not bad," he said -slowly; "I know it's not bad; and I owe it all to you, Stride." - -"What is it about?" said Stride, repudiating the debt with a shake of -his head. Mark had not shown him any portion of the MS., nor discussed -the theme. - -"It's the story of a faith that was lost and found," said Mark. "I can -say to you that it is part of my own life, red-hot from my heart, the -sort of story that is written once, you understand, and I have the -feeling that it could have been written only here, in these solitudes." - -"I hope it ends happily," said Stride. - -"It ends happily," said Mark, staring at his MS. - -Stride filled his pipe and then moved to the door. - -"It's going to snow," he said. "We shall have a heavy fall, unless I'm -mistaken. It was just such a night as this, last year, when we lost our -shepherd on Ben Caryll." - -He went out, whistling. The door slammed behind him, and the draught -from it fluttered the pages of foolscap lying loose on the table. Mark -stared at them, smiling, with such a look on his face as a mother -bestows on her first-born, when she is alone with him. Then, still -smiling, he picked up his brother's letter and broke the seal, the seal -of many quarterings, which Archibald habitually used. - - -"My dear Mark" (he wrote): "I am the happiest as well as the luckiest of -men. Betty Kirtling has promised to become my wife. We shall be -married as soon as possible, before I settle down to my new work in -London...." - - -The letter fell from Mark's hands. He bent down, trembling, picked it -up, and reread its message. Then, crushing the letter into a ball, he -flung it into the fire, and watched it crumble and dissolve into ashes. -As the flame licked the white paper, the face that stared into the fire -shrivelled into a caricature of what it had been a few moments before. -The lips were drawn back from the teeth in a snarling grin; colour left -the cheeks and flared in purple patches upon the brow. The slender -limbs shook as with a palsy.... - -Suddenly, the silence was broken by a laugh: the derisive laugh of the -man who knows that his heavens have fallen. The sound of his own -laughter seemed to move Mark to action. He seized the manuscript, and -thrust it into the flames. When it was destroyed, he laughed again, -crossed to the door, opened it, and passed out--still laughing--into the -driving wind and rain. - - - - - *CHAPTER XXII* - - *ON BEN CARYLL* - - -Mark stood still for a moment, as the wind whipped his face. Then he -strode towards the burn which runs into the loch at the foot of Ben -Caryll. He was meeting a north-easter, which drove the rain, now -turning into sleet, with stinging violence against his face. When he -reached the burn he saw that it was beginning to rise. It would be in -spate in an hour or two if the storm continued. The big -stepping-stones, shining through the mists, were almost covered by the -peat-stained, swirling waters, as Mark sprang from one boulder to the -other. Having reached the other side, he paused and looked at the burn. -Above it widened into a broad, deep pool, with flecks and clots of white -spume lying like cream upon its chocolate-coloured surface. Below, it -narrowed, running foaming through steep rocky banks, and falling some -twenty feet into a bigger pool. Standing where he stood the roar of the -fall drowned all sounds. His blood was cooler now; he was able to -think. He stared at the stepping-stones. Had his foot slipped, the -raging torrent would have whirled him over the falls. If he returned an -hour later the ford would be impassable. He would have to go round by -the bridge some two miles higher up. With this thought lurking in but -not occupying his mind he breasted the heather hill immediately to the -right, fighting his way against the wind. He plunged on until he -reached some peat hags, when he paused to recover breath. The blood was -racing through his veins. Never had he felt so alive, so strong; and -yet poison was consuming him. What poison? An answer came on the -roaring blast. _Hate_! Hatred of his brother. He threw out his arms -towards the darkening skies. - -"Curse him!" he cried. "Curse him! Curse him!" - -Then he crossed the hags, and gained a small turf-covered plateau, -whence Ben Caryll rose steeply and stonily. This part of the mountain -was known as Eagle Rocks, because for many seasons a pair of golden -eagles had nested on one of the crags. On a calm day it was no easy -feat to scale these rocks. Tourists, for instance, always went round by -a deer path, which the gillies used also. Mark laughed. He felt strong, -a man: here was an opportunity to test his strength. He grasped a tuft -of heather and swung himself to the top of the first rock, but when he -tried to stand upright the wind wrestled with him and prevailed. He was -constrained to crouch and crawl, clinging to every stick and stone which -hands or feet could find. But the spirit within would not allow him to -turn back. Foot by foot he ascended the face of the precipice, knowing -that if a stone turned, or a tuft gave way, he must fall on the sharp -rocks below--knowing and not caring. When he reached the top he was -perspiring, breathless, bleeding and spent. He lay still, letting the -sleet lash his face. When he felt able to move he sat up and looked -across the corrie which lay to the left of the Eagle Rocks. Beyond this -stretched a gigantic spur of the mountain; and immediately below lay the -strath, with the Crask burn curling down the middle of it. As he looked -a veil of mist and scud swept over the mountain. When it seemed -thickest, the wind took it and tore it asunder. Glimpses of objects -familiar to him during the past five months succeeded each other in -procession, filing by to the roar of the wind and the voices of the -mountain. In like manner glimpses of his past life presented themselves -for an instant, only to be wiped from memory and obliterated as swiftly. -Out of the mirk soared the spire of Harrow Church. In the Yard below -the boys were cheering a school-fellow, who ran bare-headed down the -steps and into the street. It was Archibald, newly elected a member of -the school eleven. He saw him again, as he stood in the pulpit in -Westchester Cathedral. Again and again, in the arms of Betty! - -Suddenly he became aware that the wind had moderated somewhat in -violence and that snow was falling. He recalled what Stride had said, -as he rose, stretched his stiffening limbs, and turned to the huge spur -which led to the bridge across the Crask burn. The snow fell in larger -flakes. The wind moaned like a woman who has no strength left to -scream. - -After stumbling on for a mile or so amongst the rough heather, Mark was -obliged to sit down in the lee of a "knobbie." With the waning light of -a Highland winter's afternoon, the air had turned cold; and it seemed to -have thickened, so that Mark breathed as a man breathes in a close and -stifling room. This rapid fall of temperature and wind produced weird -effects. The voices of the mountain changed their note. Defiance died -away in a diminuendo. Mountain rills, trickling from a thousand springs -to join the burn below, purred beneath the touch of the snow. The roar -of the falls came faintly to the ear. After strife and confusion, -Nature was crooning a lullaby. - -Exhausted by what mind and body had endured, Mark fell asleep. The snow -fluttered down, thickly, silently, as the minutes passed. The cold grew -more intense. Night came on. Mark stirred in his sleep; he uttered -inarticulate words; he frowned; he smiled. And then, as if touched by -some warning hand, he woke. He stared round him, seeking some familiar -face. When the snow fell into his eyes he rubbed them, and stared -harder than before, trying to pierce the shadows. Then he cried in a -troubled voice: - -"Who touched me?" - -No answer came out of the white silence. - -"Who touched me?" he cried again. - -His ears caught the purr of the rivulets and the muffled roar of the -burn in spate. He knew where he was. And then, for a moment, he -hesitated. A pleasant languor was stealing over him. Let him sink back -upon his feathery bed--and sleep. No--no! He had waked to live. - -The instinct of life began to throb when he realised the imminence of -death. Fatigue left him as he strode forward, quickening his pace, -where the ground permitted, to a run. It was difficult to see, but -salvation lay down hill. He staggered on, peering to left and right, as -the faint light that remained slowly failed. Before he reached the burn -it had failed entirely. He was now in a sore predicament, for the -ground no longer descended sharply, but sloped in undulations. He began -to grope his way like a blind man, walking in circles. The roar of the -falls far away to his right could no longer be heard. - -He was lost! - -He stood compassless in a desert. No friendly ray from a lantern could -pierce this white horror. If his friends discovered his absence, which -was unlikely till too late, what could they do? Search Sutherland in a -snowstorm for one man? - -Staggering on through drifts and hags, he realised that the time was -fast approaching when his muscles would fail. - -Did he pray for deliverance? No. If at that moment one thought -dominated another, it was the conviction that God, if a God existed, had -forsaken him. The struggle for life involved a paradox with which his -brain could not grapple. Life had become sweet because it seemed -inevitable that he must die. - -Stumbling over a tuft of heather, a cock grouse rose, cackled, and -whirled away. The vigour of the flight, the vitality of that defiant -note, stimulated the jaded man. He chose at random a direction, and -began to run, stopping now and again, straining his ears to catch the -sound of the burn. - -Presently he stopped altogether, sinking inert, hopeless, spent, upon -the soft snow which received him wantonly, touching him with a caress, -winding itself round him. He lay still, submitting to Nature, stronger -than he, confessing himself vanquished, and asking that the end might be -speedy. With death impending, he turned his thoughts towards the woman -he loved--the woman about to marry his brother. He would die, as he -wished to die, gazing into her face, feeling the cool touch of her -fingers, hearing her voice with its tender inflections and modulations. -And her image came obedient to his call. Her eyes, with their beguiling -interrogation, showing the full orb of the irid between the thin black -lines of the lashes, looked into his. For the last time he marked the -pathetic droop of the finely curved lips, coral against the ivory of -cheek and chin, lips revealing the teeth which were such an admirable -finish to the face. Her dark hair, with the dull red glow upon it, -curving deliciously from the forehead, was held together at the top by a -white niphétos rose he had given her. She was like the rose, he -reflected, a blossom of the earth, sweet, lovely, ephemeral. He could -not conceive her old, faded, crushed beneath the relentless touch of -time. - -The fancy possessed him that she was his, to be taken whithersoever he -might go. He stretched out his hands, trembling with passion, and the -vision melted. He grasped the cold snow, not the warm flesh. - -At this moment, out of the suffocating silence an attenuated vibration -of sound thrilled his senses. Instantly he was awake, alert--conscious -that help was coming; how and whence he knew not. The sound permeated -every fibre, but, numbed by exposure and fatigue, he was unable to -interpret its message. Such as it was, it possessed rhythm--a systole -and diastole, like the laboured beating of his heart. Was it merely the -heart, recording with solemn knell the passing of a soul? No--no! He -sprang to his feet, aflame once more with the lust of life. The sound -he heard was no delusion of a fanciful brain, no fluttering of a -moribund heart, but a clarion note from without, steadily increasing in -volume, forcing a passage through the blinding snows--the Crask bell! - -But at first he was unable to localise the sound: plunging madly this -way and that, settling down at length to his true course, which brought -him within half an hour to the bridge across the burn. Even then he -strayed again and again from the road, led back to it as often by the -voice of the bell, growing clearer and louder with every step he took. -Presently he heard voices, hoarse shouts, which he answered in feeble -whispers; then a yellow light swinging to and fro shone through the -darkness. He staggered on to meet it, falling fainting into the arms of -Stride. - - * * * * * - -Stride asked no questions. Mark was put to bed, and lay still for some -four hours: then he began to grind his teeth, to clench his fists. -Stride sat beside him watching his friend and patient, with eyes half -shut, like a purring cat's, the pupils narrowed to a black slit. -Presently he went to the window. The wind had ceased. Outside, in -silence, the snow kept on falling, spreading its pall upon the world, -while the cold grew more and more intense. The crystals were forming -upon the pane, and despite the big peat fire, the temperature in the -room fell point after point. Staring through the pane, Stride could see -nothing save the piled-up snow on the sill, and the myriad fluttering -flakes beyond: each, as he knew, a crystal of surpassing symmetry and -loveliness, each fashioned by the Master in His sky and despatched to -earth, there to be destroyed, trodden, maybe, into mire and filth, and, -rising again, seeking the skies anew, to be transformed by the same Hand -into rain, or dew, or sleet, or snow, ordained to fall as before, and as -before to rise, the eternal symbol of the soul which descends into the -clay, softens it, is tainted and discoloured by it, and then, in -glorious resurrection, ascends to be purged and purified in the place -whence it came. - - - - - *CHAPTER XXIII* - - *HYMENEAL* - - -Upon the morning of his wedding-day, Archibald Samphire went into the -church of King's Charteris and prayed before the altar. While he was -praying, Jim Corrance pushed aside the heavy curtain of the west door -and peered in. A whim had seized him. He, the freethinker, the -agnostic, had said to himself that he would like to spend a few minutes -alone in the church where he had been baptised and confirmed. Rank -sentiment! But Jim at heart was a man of sentiment, although he took -particular pains to prove to the world that he was nothing of the sort. - -When Jim saw Archibald's fine figure he frowned, thrusting forward his -square chin, and the short hair on the top of his head bristled with -exasperation. Upon each side of the kneeling man were ferns and palms, -whose fronds touched overhead. The priests' stalls were ablaze with -daffodils and primroses picked by the school-children in the water -meadows and woods near Pitt Hall. Through the east window a May sun -streamed in full flood of prismatic colour. The pure rays of the sun -passing through the gorgeous glass absorbed its tints and flung them -lavishly here and there, staining with crimson, or blue, or yellow, the -white lilies which stood upon the altar. Jim smiled derisively. The -fancy struck him that Archie's prayers would absorb, so to speak, the -colours of his mind. The words of the General Thanksgiving occurred to -Jim. - - -"And we beseech Thee, give us that due sense of all Thy mercies, that -our hearts may be unfeignedly thankful, and that we shew forth Thy -praise, not only with our lips, but in our lives; by giving up ourselves -to Thy service, and by walking before Thee in holiness and righteousness -all our days." - - -Surely this set--so Jim reflected--forth Archibald Samphire's pious -ambition. Doubtless he did aspire to give himself to God's service, -particularly that form of it which is held in cathedrals; and he -intended, honestly enough, to walk before Him (and before the world) in -holiness and righteousness all his days (which he had reason to believe -would be long and fruitful). - -Archibald rose and walked down the aisle. Jim hid himself behind the -tall font, but he stared curiously at his old school-fellow. -Archibald's face had lost its normal expression of a satisfaction too -smug to please such a critical gentleman as Mr. James Corrance. His -massive features were troubled. He looked humble! Why? Surely the -crimson carpet beneath his feet, bordered with flowers, over-shadowed by -exquisite ferns and rare shrubs, indicated the procession of a -successful life: a majestic march through the hallowed places of Earth -to the Heaven of All Saints beyond! - -Had Jim been able to peer within that mighty body, he might have seen a -self-confidence strangely deflated, a conscience quickened by pangs. -The colossus, whose physical prowess had become a glorious tradition at -Harrow and Cambridge, knew himself to be a moral coward, inasmuch as he -had withheld a vital truth from the woman he loved. Fear of losing, -first, her good opinion of him, then the greater fear of losing the -woman altogether, had withered again and again the impulse to say -frankly: "Mark wrote the two sermons which have made me what I am." -Unable to say this, realising that the many opportunities for speech had -passed, he had just vowed solemnly that his transgression should be -expiated by hard work in his new parish. Truly--as Lady Randolph had -said--was Archibald Samphire an unconscious humourist! And before we -leave him to return to Jim, let it be added that the big fellow did not -know (and being the man he was could not possibly have known) that he -had wooed Betty with Mark's words, that he would have wooed in vain with -his own. Not unreasonably, he was absolutely convinced that the -qualities which had won success in everything undertaken by him had -assured this also, the greatest prize of all, a tender, loving wife. - - -Jim waited till five minutes had passed, then he strolled back to his -mother's house, telling himself that he was a brute, a dog in the -manger, because he had misjudged a God-fearing fellow-creature, -immeasurably his superior, who had won in fair competition a prize -beyond his (Jim's) deserts. - -When he returned to his mother's house a trim parlourmaid handed him a -note. She told him at the same time that Mrs. Corrance was taking -breakfast in her own room. Jim nodded, and broke the seal: a lilac -wafer with Betty Kirtling's initials entwined in a cypher. - - -"Dear old Jim" (Betty wrote): "please come up after breakfast and take -me for a walk. - -"Your affectionate Betty." - - -Betty was installed in The Whim for her wedding; and the Randolphs and -Harry Kirtling--not to mention other relations--were keeping her -company. Since her engagement had been announced, Jim had scarcely seen -her. He had taken the news hard. His clerks, and the jobbers with whom -he dealt found him difficult to please, argumentative, contemptuous, and -a glutton for work throughout that Lenten season. - -As Jim approached The Whim, Betty joined him on the drive. He saw that -she was very pale. - -"How good of you to come," she exclaimed. - -"Good!" growled Jim. "As if I wouldn't cross the Atlantic or the Styx -to walk with you. Where shall we go?" - -Betty took a path which led to the lane running at right angles to the -Westchester road. High hedges bordered this lane, with ancient yew -trees at uncertain intervals. To the right lay the best arable land in -King's Charteris, rich alluvial soil, now green with spring wheat; to -the left, the ground ascended in undulating slopes of pasture till it -melted in the downs beyond. - -"Sun is going to shine on you," said Jim. - -The sun was blazing in a sky limpid after a week's heavy rain. Beneath -its warm beams the soaked landscape seemed to be smiling with -satisfaction. A peculiar odour of fertility, pungent and potent, -assailed the nostrils, the odour of spring, the odour of earth -renascent, rejuvenated, once more a bride. - -"I wish it were June instead of May, Jim." - -"That's the most absurd superstition." - -"Jim, I want to ask a question. Have you seen or heard of Mark?" - -Jim looked cross. - -"He's in Sutherland." - -"Go on, please." - -"He doesn't answer my letters," said Jim, after a pause. - -"He writes to nobody." - -"Did you expect him to write?" - -"Yes, I did," said Betty vehemently. "If it had been an ordinary man, -but Mark--Heavens! Why should I beat about the bush with you, Jim? -Once I wanted to marry Mark! You know that. But he didn't want--me." - -She paused, blushing, her eyes, pools of brown light, opened wide with -their strange look: entreating, interrogating. - -"Which was a woman's reason, I suppose, for engaging yourself to -somebody who did." - -The words slipped from him. Caring for Mark, how could she have -accepted Archibald? That cried to Heaven for explanation. He stared at -her, seeing no reproach in her eyes, only a soft shadow of wonder--or -was it regret--or something subtler than either. - -"Oh, Jim, feeling as you do about religion, you can't understand. I was -looking down, down into the depths. Archie taught me to look up." - -"To him?" - -"To God." - -"You say that Archibald Samphire revealed God to you?" - -"In that sermon at Windsor--yes. If you had heard it----" - -"I heard of it. You will be the wife of a bishop some day." - -He tried to give the conversation a lighter turn, fearing that she would -speak again of Mark, understanding at last that Mark, standing under -sentence of death, had deliberately hidden his heart from her. What else -could such a man have done? And if Betty realised this, even now, at -the eleventh hour, she might refuse to marry the silver-tongued brother. -And because the temptation to tell her the truth was so poignant, he -resisted it. It lay on his tongue's tip to exclaim: "Good Lord! Is it -possible that you, with your intuitions and sympathies, have failed to -divine Mark's love for you? Can't you understand that his love keeps him -in Sutherland, that he dares not write for fear that he should reveal -it?" At the same time, he knew that marriage between any young woman -and a man suffering from an almost incurable malady was unthinkable. -And if Betty could not marry Mark, was it not better from every point of -view that she should marry his brother? Would not he (Jim) be taking -upon himself a terrible responsibility if he broke the silence which -Mark's self-sacrifice had made sacred? These, and a thousand other -thoughts, jostled each other in his brain. - -"That sermon touched me at first, because I thought it was Mark -speaking. Not till then had I realised that Archie possessed the -wonderful power of making life easier, happier, ampler; but why does -Mark, if he cares nothing for me, stand aloof, why--why?" - -"It is strange," he admitted slowly. - -"Ah," she cried, "you say that reservedly. You, too, have guessed or at -least suspected----" - -"What?" - -"That Mark is--jealous--of--Archie." The words dropped from her lips as -if she loathed them, as if she loathed herself for speaking them. She -continued quickly: "At Westchester, he was alone with me. I was -thrilling with surprise and admiration. We had underrated Archie; you -know that, Jim. And he had vindicated himself so gloriously. Well, Mark -said nothing, not a word of praise. Oh, it was ungenerous--abominable! -But I did not think so then. But now, what other interpretation can I -put upon his silence?" - -When she paused, Jim burst into a vehement defence of Mark. He spoke as -he spoke to his clerks, clenching his fists, thrusting out his chin, -repeating his phrases: "What? You say that? You use such words as -abominable, ungenerous? You, Betty Kirtling? Abominable? Ungenerous? -Well, if he be jealous, is it surprising, is it not most natural? -Abominable? Great Scott! He looks at the man, the brother, who has -everything, everything which he lacks--the physical strength, the -persuasive voice, the luck--the devil's own luck--I don't pick my words, -Betty Kirtling! Why--if he were not jealous, if envy at times did not -tear him, he would not be Mark at all, but some impeccable, immaculate -humbug! Abominable! From--you!" - -Betty turned her back, and walked down the lane; Jim hesitated, and -pursued. - -"Betty, forgive me! I'm a brute, and this, this is your wedding-day. -Here, give me your hand, both hands! That's better. Tell me I'm a -beast. I deserve kicking. I'll lie down and let you wipe your boots on -me. Your wedding-day--and I've treated you to this." - -The feeling in his face went straight to her heart. - -"It's all right, Jim," she whispered, half crying, half laughing. "And -I take back--abominable." She sighed, gazing towards the downs where -she and Mark had played truant. Then, with quivering lips and wet eyes, -she murmured, "Poor Mark--poor Mark!" disengaged her hands, and ran down -the lane and out of sight. - - -After the wedding there was an old-fashioned breakfast at The Whim, with -toasts, speeches, cutting of cake, and so forth. Slowshire came in -force, ate largely, drank deeply, and made merry in the solid, stodgy, -Slowshire way. None the less, to Lady Randolph and other less acute -observers, the function was somewhat depressing. The Whim, where so -many cheery gatherings had taken place, had been sold. The furniture -was to be moved into the Samphires' London house, while the bride and -groom were on their honeymoon. The Squire's wife, in purple satin -slashed with heliotrope silk, supplied every guest who belonged to the -county families with details. - -"The dear couple will be so comfortable. No--there is no rectory. They -will live in Cadogan Place. Lord Minstead was glad to sell the lease. -They say, you know, that he--pst--pst--pst----" The speaker's prominent -blue eyes seemed positively to bulge from her plump, pink cheeks, as she -whispered Minstead's unsavoury story into attentive ears. "But, as I was -saying, our dear couple--really the handsomest couple I ever saw in my -life--will be _très bien installés_. I am to find them a -cook--fifty-five pounds a year--do you know of one? She must be a -_cordon bleu_. Yes, a kitchen _and_ a scullery-maid. They are very well -off, very well off indeed. It is expected that they will entertain----" - -The Squire, meantime, exchanged a few words with his old friend Lady -Randolph. His face was flushed and his eyes congested and very puffy -below the lids. Lips and chin, too, had a faint purplish tinge, always -seen on the faces of those afflicted by a certain form of heart disease. -He was certainly failing, Lady Randolph reflected. Still, he had lived -his life, enjoyed the cakes and ale--too much of them!--and might reckon -himself amongst the lucky ones. Pomméry had loosened his tongue. - -"They will have--this between ourselves, my dear lady--nearly five -thousand a year. Archie has done well. I am very proud of Archie--a -fine fellow--hay? You may call him that--a fine fellow--a very fine -fellow indeed! Sound"--the Squire thumped his own broad chest--"sound -as I am, sound as a bell, and likely to make old bones." - -Lady Randolph, with eyes half closed, nodded, wondering if this pitiful -assumption of high health were genuine or assumed. Surely the Squire -must know himself to be no sounder than a big pippin rotten at the core. -He stood beside her, tall, portly, scrupulously dressed as a country -gentleman of the old school; and the purple flush deepened and spread as -he talked. - -"Archibald will be a bishop. Do you know that his portrait is coming -out in _Vanity Fair_? The Chrysostom of Sloane Street they call him. -His Advent sermons have been widely discussed. And he will have no land -to bother him. These are hard times for us landowners. Is Randolph -pinched? Of course, he has his town property; but it's different with -me; it's the very deuce with me. I'm worried to death about it." - -What was fermenting in his mind had come, as it generally does with such -men, to the surface. Lady Randolph looked unaffectedly sorry, and -expressed her sympathy. The Squire plunged into the interminable -subject of falling prices, rates, impoverished soil, the difficulty of -finding good tenant farmers, and so forth. Not till the bride entered -did he cease from his jeremiads. - -"Here is Betty," said Lady Randolph. - -She wore a travelling dress of pale grey cloth edged and lined with -lavender silk. Betty had refused to adorn herself in bright colours, -which happened to suit her admirably. A parson's wife, she observed, -should dress soberly, and she quoted the Vicar of Wakefield, to Lady -Randolph's great amusement. A controversy had arisen over this -particular frock. Betty, however, seconded by the dressmaker, had her -own way about it. Now Lady Randolph was certain that her protests had -been justifiable. The dress, lovely though it was in texture and fit, -had a faded appearance; it suggested autumn instead of spring, dun -October, not merry May. - -Betty tripped here and there, bidding her friends and neighbours -good-bye, while Archie stood smiling at the door. He looked very large -and imposing in a rough grey serge suit, which fused happily the -clerical garb with that of a bridegroom. Calm and dignified, he -received the congratulations of the men. Once or twice he drew a gold -watch from his pocket--a present from the Dean and Chapter--opened it, -glanced at it, and closed it with a loud click. He had never missed a -train, but the possibility of doing so now impended. - -Mrs. Samphire held her handkerchief to her face. Mrs. Corrance's -handkerchief was in her pocket, but her kind eyes were wet. The young -men from the barracks were laughing loudly, cracking jokes with the -bridesmaids, "whooping things up a bit." The elderly guests smiled -blandly, thinking possibly of their own weddings. The children alone -really enjoyed themselves. Jim Corrance waited till the bride had -passed him; then he rushed into the dining-room, where he found two -generals and an Indian judge solemnly employed in finishing the -Admiral's famous Waterloo brandy. - -"Wonderful stuff," said the judge, as he passed the decanter to Jim; "it -puts everything right--eh?" - -Jim nodded. Through the open doors, leading into the hall, he could see -Betty run down the stairs, followed by Archibald. - -The Squire called after her: "God bless you, my dear! God bless you!" - -She was gone. - -Jim went out of the dining-room, which was situated, it will be -remembered, at the top of The Whim. Most of the guests had followed the -bride and groom downstairs. Upon the Persian carpet lay a small spray -of lilies of the valley, fallen from Betty's bouquet. Jim glanced to -right and left. Nobody was looking at him. Furtively, scarlet in the -face, he stalked and bagged the spray of lilies. He placed it carefully -in his pocket-book. - -"That's the last of our Betty," he said. - - - - - *CHAPTER XXIV* - - *A RED TIE* - - -Archibald had ordered a coupé to be ready for him at Westchester, but -when the Bournemouth express dashed up, the stationmaster was obliged to -confess that a blunder had taken place; no coupé was on the train. A -first-class carriage was found, in which two seats were already -occupied. - -"Somebody ought to be censured for this," said the bridegroom, as the -train slid out of the station. "It's inexcusable carelessness. I shall -write to the directors about it." - -"Pray don't," said Betty. "The matter's not worth a penny stamp." - -"We shall find a coupé at Victoria," he whispered, bending forward. -They were _en route_ for France, having agreed to spend their honeymoon -in Touraine. Betty glanced at the elderly couple, whose curiosity had -been quickened. Archibald drew back with a slight frown. "I shall -write from Dover," he said. "I regard it as a duty." - -Betty pouted, surprised that he should treat her injunction so -cavalierly. Men, she reflected, were men, and must be humoured. After -all, her husband's annoyance was a compliment to her. She blushed as -she lay back against the cushions, shutting her eyes. Her _husband_! -She repeated the word very softly, the colour ebbing and flowing in her -cheeks, as she gave herself up to the thought of him. Archibald said -nothing; that was tactful. He had plenty of tact--a great gift--and most -agreeable manners. Suddenly she realised that she was making an -inventory of his good qualities, repeating them to herself like a -parrot. She sat up, opening her eyes, opening them indeed wider than -usual when she saw what had happened. Archibald had risen early; he had -spent a busy and exciting morning; he had made an excellent breakfast, -although, being a total abstainer, he had refused the Pomméry and -Waterloo brandy. Now, not being able to talk to his bride in the -presence of strangers, seeing that she wanted to rest and reflect, he -had settled himself comfortably into his corner and--had fallen asleep! - -Betty eyed him furtively. She did not like to wake him, but his -appearance distressed her. She bent forward and touched his arm. - -"Dear me," he said. "I saw you close your eyes, Betty, and I closed -mine. You did right to wake me." - -"I couldn't help it," she replied. "Your hat had fallen over your left -eye. It made you look--ridiculous." - -They spoke in whispers, leaning forward, so that their heads almost -touched. But at the word "ridiculous" the bridegroom winced. - -Betty had pierced a sensitive skin. Seeing this, she tried to turn the -incident into a joke, laughing lightly, sorry that she should have hurt -him, yet still seeing the hat tilted over the left eye. - -At Victoria the coupé was awaiting them. The train, however, had only -just backed into the station and would not leave for a quarter of an -hour. Archibald and Betty arranged their belongings, and proceeded to -walk up and down the platform. A great station was a never-failing -source of interest to Betty. The infinite variety of faces, the bustle, -the pervading air of change and motion, even the raucous, ear-splitting -sounds, stimulated her imagination. Nothing amused her more than to -invent stories concerning fellow-travellers. She brought to this an -ingenuity and an insight which had often delighted Lady Randolph. Now, -as usual, her eye drifted here and there in search of some attractive -lay figure. As a rule she selected someone out of the ordinary groove. -The flare of an eye, the twist of a moustache, a peculiarity in figure -or gait instantly aroused her interest. Passing the bookstall, she saw -a man in an Inverness cape made out of Harris tweed. Because he had the -appearance of coming straight from Scotland, she examined him more -closely. At the moment he turned, and their eyes met. The stranger was -very brown of complexion and wore a beard, but the eyes, blue eyes with -sparkling pin-points of frosty light, were Mark's eyes. - -"That's Mark!" said Betty excitedly, clutching her husband's arm. -"Look--look!" - -Archibald looked and laughed. - -"You have an amazing imagination, my dearest Mark? That man in -homespun, and a red tie! He's twice Mark's size, and he wears a beard. -I noticed him just now. Mark? Why Mark's in Sutherland." - -"I was mistaken," said Betty absently. She walked on quite sure that -the man's eyes were following her. She was sure of it, although her -back was turned to him. A minute before Archibald had asked her if she -would like a tea-basket. The refreshment-room was just opposite. An -impulse seized her. - -"I think I should like a tea-basket," she said, pausing. "Will you get -one? I'll go back to the carriage." - -Archibald obeyed, unsuspecting. Betty turned and ran to the bookstall. -The man was no longer there. She looked right and left. That was -he--disappearing, melting into the crowd outside. Without a moment's -hesitation she hastened after him, came up behind, plucked at his cape. -He turned at once. It was Mark. - -"You?" she gasped. "_You_--here?" - -Her eyes, wide open, glaring interrogation, fell before his. He took -her hand, grasping it firmly. - -"I can explain. I heard of your plans from Mrs. Samphire. I knew that -you were leaving by this train. I came on the off chance of getting a -glimpse of you." - -"You are well, _strong_!" - -She raised her eyes, devouring him. He could see that people in the -crowd were nudging each other, grinning and pointing. He drew her -aside. - -"Yes; I am strong." As he said it, he realised that he would need all -his strength. What a mad fool he had been to come, to risk so much. -"Look here," he said harshly, "you must go back to Archie. Tell -him--tell him that I couldn't come to his wedding, because, b-b-because -I've left the Church. I wasn't going to set every tongue wagging in -Slowshire. Do you see? Do you understand? Now--go--run!" - -He almost pushed her from him. Her eyes never left his face. - -"Can't you see me to my carriage?" - -This, the obvious thing, had not occurred to him. He walked beside her. -As they passed into the station, Archibald appeared on the platform, -followed by a boy carrying a tea-basket. - -"It _is_ Mark," said Betty, as her husband joined them. They walked -towards the carriage, the most amazing trio in that vast station. Mark -repeated his reasons for not taking part in the wedding. Archibald -looked confused. - -"You have left our Church?" - -He repeated it three times. - -"Yes; yes--we can't go into reasons here and now." - -"What are you going to do?" - -"I am writing." - -The guard began to slam the doors. He came up to the brothers, smiling, -seeing the bride, feeling in his broad palm the tip of the bridegroom. - -"Better get in, sir," he said to Mark, who, in his Inverness cape and -rough cap, looked the traveller. - -Archibald pushed Betty into the coupé and shook hands with Mark. - -"You must tell us everything when we get back. It has been a great -shock," he stared at the red tie; "but I'm delighted to see you looking -so well." - -He sprang into the coupé as the train began to move. Betty pushed him -aside and leaned out of the window. Mark never forgot the expression on -her face framed by the small, square window. The engine was screeching -lamentably, like a monster in agony. Another train was entering the -station, adding its strident note to the chorus, filling the atmosphere -with clouds of white steam. A third-class carriage full of soldiers -glided by. The soldiers, mostly boyish recruits, were singing at the -top of their voices, "Good-bye, my lover, good-bye." A girl standing -near burst into hysterical sobbing. Mark noted these details, as a man -notes some irrelevant trifle in a dream, which remains part of that -dream for ever after. But his eyes were on Betty's face. She had been -borne away by a force slow but irresistible, the relentless Machine, the -symbol of progress, of Fate, if you will, which tears asunder things and -men, and brings some together again, but not all, nor any just as they -were before. The face was white and piteous, the face of an Andromeda. -Upon it, in unmistakable lines, were inscribed regret and reproach. -Mark turned sick. He had wished to save this woman; had he sacrificed -her? - -Betty heard her husband say, "This has been very upsetting." -Immediately she laughed, withdrawing her face from the window. Nothing -else, probably, would have erased the tell-tale lines. She thought that -her laugh was a revelation of what was passing in her mind; but -Archibald took other notice of it. - -"You laugh?" he said heavily. "I know what has happened. I am not much -surprised. Mark has gone over to Rome. Really, my dear little woman, -you must not laugh like that. I give you my word that I am terribly -distressed. That red tie!" - -"The scarlet woman." - -"Pray don't joke! This is most upsetting." - -She laughed again, knowing that she was on the verge of hysterics, -trying to control herself. The train, rushing on out of the mists of -London into the splendid May sunshine of the country, rocked violently -as it crossed the points. Betty fell back upon the cushions, still -laughing and repeating Archibald's words. - -"Upsetting? I should think so." - -Like Mark, she was reflecting that Force was bearing her away, whirling -her asunder, leaving heart and soul here, flinging her body there. The -irony of it was stunning in its violence. She covered her face with her -hands, pressing her finger-tips upon her temples, but she did not close -her eyes, which followed Archibald's slow, methodical movements. He was -arranging the baggage--her handsome travelling-bag, a wedding present -from the Squire, his own massive suit-case, the parasols and umbrellas, -the tea-basket. In the contracted space wherein he moved he loomed -colossal. She felt herself shrinking, collapsing. In a minute, a -moment, he would turn, he would take her cold hands in his, removing -them gently but masterfully from the face quivering beneath. Then he -would surely read and know. He had nearly finished his fiddle-faddling -arrangements. He took his hat from his head, looked at it, brushed a few -specks of dust from the crown and rim, and placed it carefully in the -rack. Out of the pocket of an overcoat he drew a soft travelling cap, -putting it on deliberately, making himself comfortable. At last he was -coming towards her, the tea-basket in his hand, a smile upon his face, -an endearing phrase upon his lips. Betty closed her eyes. The words of -the marriage service sounded loud in her ears, rhythmic, like the roar -of waves breaking on an iron-bound coast: the echo of her oath before -the altar thundering down the empty corridors of the future--"_From this -day forward ... to love, cherish, and to obey till Death us do part!_" - -Archibald dropped the tea-basket with a crash. His bride had fainted. - - - - - *CHAPTER XXV* - - *MARK HEARS A BLEATING* - - -Two days later Mark Samphire called upon Jim Corrance at his chambers in -Bolton Street, Piccadilly. Here Jim lived when he was not making money -or playing golf at Woking. He played golf regularly to keep himself -fit. He also played whist and billiards. Whatever he did, work or -play, was characterised by a dexterity and fertility of resource which -generally ensured success. - -Jim's chambers were furnished comfortably but conventionally. As a -matter of fact, he had told a famous firm of decorators to do the best -they could for a certain sum of money. Jim added a few pictures and -engravings, some books, and an impeccable manservant, Tom Wrenn. He did -not look at the pictures or read the books, but he studied Wrenn, an -interesting document, and mastered him. Wrenn, for his part, had -nothing but praise for a gentleman who bought the best of wine and -tobacco and entrusted them unreservedly to his man. - -When Wrenn ushered Mark into the sitting-room, he exhibited no surprise, -but his master stared at his old friend as if he (Mark) had risen from -the dead. Mark, bearded, brown, sinewy, larger about the chest and -shoulders, confounded Jim--and he said so in his usual abrupt, jerky -fashion. Then he noted the rough tweeds and the red tie. Wrenn -lingered for a moment. - -"Wrenn," said Jim, "bring some whisky and mineral waters, and the -Rothschild Excepcionales!" Wrenn vanished silently. Jim seized Mark by -the coat. - -"Why, this howls for explanation. You've chucked your black -livery--_you_?" - -The emphasis laid on the pronoun expressed surprise, incredulity, and -amusement. - -"Yes. I've come here to tell you all about it." - -Wrenn appeared with a tray and a long, shallow box of cigars. Mark, -however, preferred to light his pipe. As soon as Wrenn had left the -room, he plunged into his story. - -"There was just the possibility, you understand, of recovery. Archibald -came up. He wanted me to go home, and he brought a message from -Betty--her love. She was stopping with your mother. That message either -meant everything or nothing. I knew that it meant--everything. Now, -while Archibald was with me I did a bit of work, brain work, the first -since the smash. It knocked me out--knocked all my hopes to -smithereens. Would you under such conditions have sent back your love -to Betty?" - -"No," said Jim; "but--well, never mind; go on----" - -"After Archibald had left Crask I took a big turn for the better. I -suppose that glorious air and the simple food and Stride's knowledge of -my case worked the miracle. And then I began to hope again; and I began -to work." He told Jim about the first short story and the novel, but he -did not mention the Advent sermons of his brother. "Time slipped by, -Jim. I was awfully keen about my work." - -"I'll bet you were," said Jim. - -"You always chaffed me, because I said that in my philosophy things -turned out for the best. I told myself that every incident in my life, -every trial and infirmity, had meaning. Can a man write what is really -vital unless he has striven and suffered and seen others striving and -suffering? I say--no. God knows I longed to be a man of action. That -was denied me. The desire to paint, to express what was in me on -canvas, proved fruitless. Then the Church opened her doors--I saw a -goal, but my stammer choked me at the start. All the same, the work in -Stepney warmed me to the core. I was up to my neck in it." - -"And Betty?" - -"Ah--Betty. She was out of sight, Jim, but never out of mind. A -thousand times I told myself she was unattainable; that a man was a -sickly anæmic ass who allowed a woman to interfere with what he had to -do." - -"Right," said Jim. "That's gospel." - -"All the same, she was back of everything. Then came last -Whitsuntide----" - -He paused. Jim continued: "I know about that. I suppose you learned, -then, of this cursed mischief inside you?" - -"I suspected something; I went to Barger and Drax. They told me -marriage was madness." - -"Great Scott!" - -He was more agitated than Mark, thrusting out his chin, shaking his -shoulders, clenching his fists: gestures familiar to Mark since the -Harrow days and before. It struck Mark suddenly that this scene was -recurrent, the ebb and flow of the heart's tide breaking on rocks. -Could anything be more futile than talk: the interminable recital of -what was and what might have been? His voice, as he continued, lost its -tonic quality: - -"There is not much more to tell. Just as I began to hope that my life -might still hold Betty, the news came of her engagement----" - -Jim looked at the red tie. - -"And then you saw red," he spluttered, "you saw red." - -"When that letter came, I could--have--killed--my--brother." - -The two men had risen and were staring at each other with flaming eyes. - -"I could have killed him," Mark repeated sombrely. "You know, Jim, what -Archie was to me at Harrow--and long afterwards?" - -"The greatest thing on earth," said Jim. "I used to be awfully -jealous." - -"I loved him for his beauty," said Mark drearily, "for his strength and -for his weakness. I loved him the more because in some small ways I -could help him. I grudged him nothing--I swear it!--nothing, _nothing_, -except Betty. I could have let her go to you or Harry Kirtling; but to -him who had all I had not, my b-b-brother----" - -His stammer seized him, and he trembled violently. - -"We'll drop it," exclaimed Jim. He had turned away from Mark's eyes, -reading in them the hate which was not yet controlled. "You don't -feel--er--that way towards _her_?" - -"Never, never!" His eyes softened at once; then he broke out abruptly: -"What made her take him?" It was out at last. He expected no answer -from his friend, but Jim said simply: "Surely you know?" - -"It's darkest mystery." - -"Why, man, she told me that he dragged her out of the depths." Jim -repeated what Betty had said. "You know what women are. A petticoat -flutters naturally towards a parson whenever the wind blows. That did -me. _I_ couldn't promise to personally conduct her to--Heaven. Yes, -his sermons, particularly that Windsor sermon, captured her." - -"The Windsor sermon! You say the Windsor s-s-sermon?" Mark stuttered -out. - -"Yes, the Windsor sermon. I'm told it was wonderful. He's a bit of a -prig, but he can preach, and no mistake! Why, look here! Have you seen -this? Out this morning!" - -He took up the current _Vanity Fair_ and displayed a caricature of -Archibald Samphire--the Chrysostom of Sloane Street. It was one of -Pellegrini's best bits of work, but the "fine animal" in Archibald had -been slightly overdrawn, unintentionally, no doubt, on the artist's -part. The florid complexion, the massive jaw, the curls, the lips, were -subtly exaggerated. None would be surprised to learn that Chrysostom -lived in Cadogan Place with a _cordon bleu_ at fifty-five pounds a year. -Mark gazed at the cartoon and then laid it, face downwards, on the -table. - -"The thing's wonderful," he said slowly, "but it will hurt Betty." - -Jim Corrance shrugged his shoulders. He had come to the conclusion that -a touch of the animal in men was not a disability where women were -concerned. - -"I saw them at Victoria," said Mark. - -"What?" - -Mark explained, blaming himself. - -"You've given yourself away," said Jim disgustedly. "She had got it -into her head that you didn't care, but the man who doesn't care would -hardly travel from Sutherland to London to catch one glimpse of another -fellow's bride. Lord! You have made a mess of it. And what are you -going to do now? Have a drink, and tell me your plans." - -"I'm going to write." - -"Have you rewritten the novel you burnt?" - -"No; but I'm half-way through another." - -"You may as well camp with me. Why not?" - -Mark had several reasons "why not," but he gave one which was -sufficient: "I mean to eat and sleep and work out-of-doors." - -The two men talked together for an hour and then parted. - -"By the way," said Jim, as Mark was taking leave, "the Squire is looking -rather seedy. I fancy he's something on his mind. Are you going down -to King's Charteris?" - -Mark shook his head impatiently, hearing a terrible bleating; but as he -passed through the Green Park, on the way to his lodgings, he reflected -that he would have to go to Pitt Hall sooner or later. Why not sooner? -He would run down the next day. Then, he repeated to himself what Jim -Corrance had said about Archibald's sermons, and their effect on Betty. -Looking back now, with an odd sense of detachment, he realised how much -of these sermons had been his, how little Archibald's. For this he -blamed himself. His brother had asked for an inch. He had given gladly -an ell. But if--the possibility insisted on obtruding itself (an -unwelcome guest)--if Betty discovered the truth, what would happen? - -When he reached his lodging he wrote a letter to the Squire, saying that -he was running down on the morrow and preparing him for a change of -cloth. - - -"I no longer count myself of the Church of England" (he wrote), "but you -will be doing the wise thing and the kind thing if you ask no -questions." - - -This bolt from the blue fell on to the breakfast-table. Mrs. Samphire, -like Archibald, jumped to the conclusion that Mark had gone over to -Rome. - -"I knew how it would be," she said acidly, "from the very beginning. I -dare say he will arrive with his head shaved and wearing a cowl. And -you were saying only yesterday that he could have the King's Charteris -living, now that Archie is provided for." - -"The boy is a good lad," said the Squire heavily. "I shall talk to him. -He must take the King's Charteris living, he _must_. I shall make a -point of it. He can keep a curate to preach. It's the obvious way out -of the wood." - -"Then he won't take it." - -She burst into detraction of the boy who was like the woman the Squire -had loved. The Squire listened moodily, eating his substantial -breakfast of kidneys and poached eggs and a slice from the ham of his -own curing. - -"He is not a Samphire at all," concluded the lady, as she rose from the -table, leaving the Squire still eating, very red in the face where the -colour was not purple, and showing a massive jowl above his neatly -folded white scarf. Left alone, he cut himself another slice from the -huge ham, and then reread Mark's letter, staring at it with congested -eyes, and muttering: "Yes, yes--it's the obvious way out of the wood, -the obvious way out of the wood. He can keep a curate who can preach. -Four hundred a year, even in these times, and a capital house, a really -capital house, in first-rate repair. I shall talk to him. The Madam -doesn't like him--never did! But he'll listen to his old pater. It's -the obvious way out of the wood." - -Mark arrived in time for tea. Mrs. Samphire received him in the long, -narrow drawing-room; and Mark was conscious that his red tie was to her -as a red rag to a bull. When she spoke, sniffs were audible; and Mark -kept on telling himself that he had been a fool to come. The Squire -seemed very robust. What did Jim mean? The congested eyes, the purple -tinge, conveyed no meaning to a man who had never learned the meaning of -health's danger-signals. - -After dinner father and son found themselves alone. The Squire had -ordered a bottle of '47 port to be decanted, almost the last that was -left in the bin. He had to drink most of it, and while he did so -complained of the changes since _his_ day. - -"Archie is teetotal," he said. "Well he's playing his own game his own -way, and scoring too, no doubt o' that. I dare say you forget that now -he's provided so well for himself, you can step into the King's -Charteris living, which in the nature of things must soon be vacant. -Nearly four hundred a year--and a capital house, in first-rate repair. -You can hire a curate who can preach." - -The words came out very fluently, for the Squire had repeated them to -himself a dozen times since breakfast. As Mark made no reply, he -repeated them again, adding, however, somewhat confusedly: "It's the -obvious way out of the wood." - -"Eh?" said Mark. "What do you mean, pater?" - -The Squire coughed nervously. He was not clever at making explanations. - -"Oh," he replied testily, "I take it we needn't go into that. Times are -hard. The allowance I have made you and Archie has crippled me. Archie -gave up his when he came into Aunt Deb's money--and in the nick of time, -egad!" - -"I can get along with a hundred a year," said Mark quietly. - -"Rubbish, my dear lad, rubbish! But the living's a good 'un, and the -house in capital repair. You would be very comfortable; and," he eyed -Mark pleasantly, "and you'll be following Archie's example--hey? Marry -a girl with a bit o' money! There's Kitty Bowker, and----" - -"Pater--we won't talk of that." - -"We? I'm talking of it. I don't ask you to say a word, not a word. -Oh, I know why you didn't come to Archie's wedding, but bless you, -Betty's not the only nice girl in the world. I'll say no more. I'm glad -to see you looking so fit. That slumming in the East End disgusted -you--drove you into that tweed suit--hey? But it'll be quite different -at King's Charteris. You can manage a day's hunting a week and a day's -shooting throughout the season. Kitty Bowker looks very well outside a -horse--and she likes a man who goes free at his fences as you used to -do. Your letter this morning, you know, startled us a bit. The Madam -thought of Rome. Nothing in that--hey?" - -The Squire looked hard at the decanter which indeed was quite empty. - -"Absolutely nothing," said Mark absently. - -"I told the Madam I'd say a word, and there it is: a capital house, in -excellent repair, with----" - -"The present incumbent still alive," said Mark. - -"True, true--we'll say no more, not a word. Shall we go into the -drawing-room?" - -He rose with a certain effort and moved too ponderously towards the -door. For the first time Mark realised that his father must soon become -an old man. A wave of affection surged through him. - -"Pater," he said, touching the Squire's massive shoulder, "how are you -feeling? Any twinges of gout or--er--anything of that sort?" - -"I'm sound as a bell, Mark. Of course I have my worries. There are -three farms on my hands, and the price of corn lower than it has been -for years. I don't know what George will do after I'm gone. That is why -I--um--spoke of the obvious way out of the wood. Put on a black tie -to-morrow morning, my dear lad, and--er--a grey suit, to--to oblige me." - -"All right," said Mark. "I'm going to write, you know." - -"Write?" the Squire turned, as he was passing into the hall. -"Write--what?" - -"Novels, short stories, plays perhaps." - -"Oh, d----n it!" said the Squire ruefully. - - - - - *CHAPTER XXVI* - - *READJUSTMENT* - - -After Mark's return from Pitt Hall, he called on Barger and Drax, who -overhauled him and pronounced him a new man. Drax, in particular, took -extraordinary interest in the case, refused a fee, and begged Mark to -come and see him at least once a quarter. - -"I never thought I should speak to you again," he said frankly. "It's -the _vis medicatrix naturæ_. You went back to the simple primal life. -Well--stick to it! A winter in Sutherland! Phew-w-w! Kill or cure, and -no mistake. I should like to meet your friend, Doctor Stride." - -The question now presented itself: where should he pitch his tent? Such -work as he had in mind must be finished in or near London. His -half-completed novel, _Shall the Strong Retain the Spoil?_ dealt with -Londoners; the scene of it was laid in London. Finally, after some -search, he found a camping-ground in a small pine wood crowning a great -ridge which overlooked the Thames Valley and the Surrey heaths. - -He discovered this spot, which suited him exactly, by accident. Just -outside Weybridge he punctured the tyre of his bicycle. While repairing -it, he smelled the balsamic fragrance of some pines to his right, and -Longfellow's lines came into his mind:-- - - "Stood the groves of singling pine trees, - Green in summer, white in winter, - Ever sighing, ever singing." - - -The west wind was blowing, and from the pine-tops floated a lullaby, -soothing and seductive. Mark sat down, listening to this alluring song, -absorbing the scents and sounds. Presently he climbed a rough fence and -wandered down one of the many aisles. The carpet beneath his feet was -soft as velvet pile, a carpet woven by the years out of the myriad -leaves dropping unseen and unheard. Passing through the wood, he saw -the Thames Valley. A silvery mist was rising out of it. On each side -of the river were green meadows, bordered by poplars and willows. The -tower of a church could be seen amongst a group of fine elms. This was -such a spot as he had hoped to find. Regaining the high-road, he pushed -his bicycle to the top of the hill and stopped opposite a pretty cottage -standing in a garden gay with old-fashioned flowers. Above the gate was -a sign: _Board and Lodging_. Mark stared for a moment at the sign, -smiling, because he had expected to find it there. If the tiny wood -belonged to the owner of the cottage, the matter was clinched. - -He left his bicycle against the palings and walked through the garden -and up to the door. He had time to note that the cottage was built of -brick. Some of the bricks had a vitreous surface, which caught the -light and suffused a radiance over the other bricks. The general effect -was ripe, mellow, rosy. The sills and casings of the lattice windows -were painted white; the door was a bright apple-green, with a shining -brass handle, bell, and knocker. The cottage was heavily thatched. - -In answer to Mark's ring and knock the door was opened by a girl, whom -Mark guessed to be a daughter of the house, not a servant in any sense, -save the one that she served. Mark lifted his cap. - -"Is that wood yours?" he asked. - -The girl seemed amused, but she said: "Oh, yes; everything inside the -paling belongs to mother." - -"And you have rooms to let?" - -The girl asked him to come in and see them, but she added doubtfully: "I -don't think they'll suit you." - -"I haven't seen them yet," said Mark, "but I'm sure they will." - -The rooms included a small sitting-room and bedroom. Mark looked at -them with an indifference which brought disappointment to the face of -the girl. - -"Can I speak to your mother?" - -"She's an invalid--and in bed, to-day. If you want to talk business you -must talk with me." - -Mark explained that he was anxious to build a shelter in the garden, at -the edge of the wood. He added that unless the weather was unusually -severe he should sleep, and eat, and work there. The rooms would do for -a friend, who might come to see him from Saturday to Monday. He should -want the simplest food, and so forth. The girl said that the carrying -of meals to the shelter would be a nuisance, especially in rainy -weather. Mark compromised by offering to eat indoors if the weather -became wet or boisterous. A bargain was made in three minutes. - -"When will you come?" said the girl. - -"To-morrow. My name is Mark Samphire." - -"Mother's name is Dew. I am Mary Dew." - -"Mary Dew," repeated Mark. He had a tobacco-pouch in his hand and was -filling a pipe. A pun occurred to him, execrable and therefore -irresistible. "Honeydew is my constant companion," said he; "it is quite -certain that we shall be friends." - -Mary laughed. - -"I hope so," she said frankly. "It's dreadful waiting on people one -doesn't like. Last summer we had a gentleman who----" - -"Yes," said Mark, lighting his pipe. - -"Who wasn't a gentleman--and I hated him." - -She looked serious. Her face was charming, because the texture of skin -and the colouring were so admirable. For the rest she was about middle -height, of trim figure, neither thin nor plump: her eyes were of a -clear, intelligent grey, shaded by short black lashes which gave them -distinction and vivacity. Long lashes may be a beauty in themselves, -but they conceal rather than reveal the eyes behind them. Mary had -brown hair, and plenty of it, simply arranged; her mouth was wide and -amply provided with white, even teeth; her nose was certainly -tip-tilted. Altogether a young woman at whom most men would look with -pleasure. - -As she stood in the garden, the May sun falling full upon her, every -line of face and figure suggested Spring: Spring in Arcady, fresh, -joyous, radiant. Mark was artist enough to perceive the delicious -half-tones, the tender shades beneath the round chin and about the -finely modelled cheeks. If Pynsent saw her, he would be mad to paint -her, there, in the crisp sunlight, amongst the honeysuckle, with the -pines "ever sighing, ever singing" behind her. - -Suddenly, a thin, querulous note seemed to pierce the silence of the -garden. - -"Mary--Mary!" - -"Mother wants me. Good-bye, Mr. Samphire." - -Mark held out his hand. - -"Good-bye--till to-morrow." - -He turned and moved down the path. Again that thin, querulous note -pierced the silence. _Mary, Mary!_ an appeal from age to youth, ay, and -a protest, a far-reaching protest, of pain against pleasure. Mark -pictured the invalid mother, bedridden, possibly, dependent upon the -ministrations of others, calling out of the dismal seclusion of her -chamber to the young, healthy creature in the garden. He mounted his -bicycle, wondering whether Mary had grown accustomed to that -heart-piercing note, speculating vaguely in regard to its meaning for -her and for others. - - -Within a week the shelter was built. Stout posts upheld a roof of -tongue-and-groove boards spread with a rough thatch; the floor was -boarded also and covered with sailcloth, which could be washed and -scrubbed like the deck of a ship. Two walls were also boarded. These -were lined with shelves, which contained a miscellaneous collection of -some four hundred books. The south and west sides of the shelter were -open to the wind and sun, but could be closed, if necessary, by -sailcloth curtains. A large table stood in the centre; a bed, serving -as a sofa in daytime, occupied one corner; in another were an exerciser, -a punching-ball, and some light clubs and dumbbells; chairs, a -typewriter, a small stove, and a huge chest completed the furnishings. - -When it was finished Pynsent and Jim Corrance were invited to inspect -and criticise. Pynsent brought with him a couple of _mezari_, those -quaint, decorative shawls worn by the women of Genoa, and draped them -cleverly; Corrance brought an Indian rug. Both men were charmed with -the cottage, the garden, the grove, and the view. Pynsent, as Mark had -foreseen, wanted to paint Mary Dew, but every hour of the weeks between -June and August was engaged. "You're a tremendous worker," said Jim. - -"So are you, Corrance. A man must work nowadays, if he means to keep -his place in the procession. The competition is frightful all along the -line. I shall paint Mary Dew in the autumn. What do you call her, -Mark?" - -"Honey. Honey Dew. Do you see? A poor pun, but my own. She's sweet -as honey and fresh as dew, but her mother is a terrible person." - -He described an interview with Mrs. Dew. - -"Mary told me that her mother wished to see me. I found her in her own -sitting-room, the prettiest and most comfortable room in the cottage. -Everything deliciously fresh--chintzes, flowers, paper on the wall, -matting--and in the middle Mrs. Dew: faded, peevish, puckered, old -beyond her years. Picture to yourselves a puffy, yellow face with dim, -shifty eyes peering out restlessly between red, swollen lids, a face -framed by mouse-coloured hair and surmounting a great, shapeless body -clad in black alpaca." - -"Good! I see her," said Pynsent. - -"I was prepared to sympathise. She has some ailment, poor creature, a -chronic dyspepsia and a grievance as chronic against destiny. One could -pity her if she said and ate less. Her daughter admits that she would -be a different woman if she kept on the muzzle. She calls herself a -lady, and told me that she married beneath her. Dew, I fancy, was a -petty tradesman. He left his widow this small property and a tiny -income. Mary has a tremendous struggle to make ends meet means. She's -one in ten thousand." - -"Um!" said Pynsent. "Don't fall in love with your Honey Dew!" - -"Don't talk rot, Pynsent!" Mark replied sharply. Jim Corrance frowned at -the painter, who realised at once that he had said something -_mal-à-propos_. - -"I shall cut a lettuce for you fellows," said Mark. - -As he left the shelter, Jim turned to Pynsent. - -"You put your hoof into it," he growled. - -"I did," said Pynsent. - -"I say--is Mark going to take a front seat?" - -"I don't know." - -Mark came back carrying a bottle of Sauterne and a noble _Romaine_, -which he handed to Pynsent, who was famous for his salads. Mary entered -a minute later with a well-basted chicken and a great dish of peas. The -trio fell to their luncheon with appetite. Mary added a tart, some -excellent cheese, and the best of coffee. - -"I've enjoyed myself immensely," said Pynsent. "You're in Arcady, Mark. -You ought to write an idyll here: Aucassin and Nicolete--hey?" - -They moved up into the pine grove, talking about books and art. Jim -Corrance listened, smoking his big cigar. Pynsent, who smoked Caporal -cigarettes which he rolled himself, spoke volubly in a sharp New England -twang: - -"People prate about giving the world what the world wants. An artist -gives what's in him to give. I say that nothing else is possible, -whether the world likes it or whether it doesn't. And, luckily, the -world that buys pictures and books is catholic in its tastes. All the -same, just at present there is a big demand for stuff which is signed. -You know what I mean. The crowd clamours for individuality. I was -standing in front of a picture of mine at the Academy last year, and a -cleverish-looking girl said: 'That's a Pynsent. I like his work because -I always know it, not because I understand it.' I nearly asked her to -shake hands. It's the same with books. There's an immense quantity of -well-written, interesting novels published every year, but you'll find -that the few which sell are stamped on every page with the author's -name. The brand does it, first and last." - -"I only read books that amuse me," said Jim. - -"You're a man. Men read books sometimes, but women buy them. Let's -hope that Mark's stuff will please the women. Then he will arrive." - -While they were talking, a young man passed through the gate and up the -garden to the cottage door. - -"Hullo! Who's this?" said Pynsent. - -Mary answered the question by coming out of the house in a becoming -frock and hat and joining the young man. Together they strolled down -the path. The three men stared at each other. It had not occurred to -any of them that Mary might have a young man. And this particular one -seemed to be the typical young man, always seen of a Sunday arm-in-arm -with a pretty girl: commonplace, smug, self-assured. While they looked -Mrs. Dew's thin querulous voice filtered through the sunlit space of the -garden-- - -"Mary, Mary--don't be away too long!" - -Mary's fresh voice came from behind the palings-- - -"Of course not, mother. I shall be back to make your tea at four." - -"Our Jill has her Jack," said Pynsent. "That was a becoming hat." - -"She made it herself," Mark observed. - -"Then she likes her Jack. Such a girl would not prink to please a man -to whom she was indifferent." - -Jim Corrance thrust out his big jaw. "Mary may have made that hat to -please herself. If I'd her face, by gad, I'd make just such a hat and -enjoy myself with a looking-glass." - -"So would I," said Mark. - -Pynsent and Jim returned to town before dinner. They promised to come -again, and often, but Mark guessed that such promises were written in -ink, blue and variable as a May sky. He expected to be much alone, and -during the months that followed was not disappointed. From his friends -at the Mission he held aloof. He knew they would ask questions, deeming -it a duty to argue and reprove. - -Mark had written the truth to David Ross after the night on Ben Caryll. -In reply, David wisely made no protest against Mark's determination to -leave the Church. That he would speak in due time Mark was -uncomfortably aware, and he learned--not without a feeling of -relief--that his old chief was the busiest man in Poplar. - -May passed quickly, devoid of incident and accident. Towards the end of -it, however, Mark, reading his morning paper, was horrified to learn -that Bagshot, the man he had tried to reclaim, had murdered his wife in -a drunken fit. He hastened to London, saw the prisoner--an abject, -cowering wreck of what he had been--and listened to his dreadful story. -The poor fellow had struggled hard against the craving for drink, yet in -the end he had slain the woman he loved. It was heartrending--the -triumph of evil over good. - -After seeing Bagshot, Mark reread that battered memorandum-book which he -had carried through terrible slums. Once more, the appeal of the -friendless and helpless stirred him profoundly. Very stealthily, like -"humble Allen," he began to revisit some of his waifs; most of them had -disappeared; others as wretched and forlorn occupied their place. But -his ministrations--necessarily ill-sustained and intermittent--appeared -ineffectual. The joyous confidence of former days had departed. The -squalor seemed invincible, the forces against which he contended so vast -and ungovernable that sense and sensibility revolted. Only faith could -remove such mountains, and faith had forsaken Mark Samphire. None the -less, he persevered. - -About the end of June Archibald and his wife came back from France and -settled down in Cadogan Place. Archibald asked Mark to meet them in a -long letter, full of a description of Chenonçeau. At the end was a -postscript in Betty's handwriting: "_Please come._" Mark obeyed--a prey -to feelings which cannot be set down. For six weeks he had seen Betty's -face looking out of the window of the train, white, piteous, despairing. -But when they met he was amazed to find her rosy and smiling, full of -plans, in high health and spirits. Then he remembered that his own -health was excellent. Archibald made him welcome, entreated his advice -about the arrangement of books and engravings, begged him to hang his -hat on his own peg, and alluded only vaguely to the red tie. - -"You will come back to us," he said confidently. - -Betty held his hand tight at parting. "Don't slip out of our lives!" -she whispered. - -Mark had a glimpse of the face seen from the train, and hardly knew to -what he was pledging himself when he stammered: "N-n-no, -n-n-no--c-c-certainly not." - -After this first meeting it became easy to drop in to luncheon or tea. -The novel was under revision, and several passages describing certain -streets and localities had to be rewritten. Mark had the artist's -passion for truth, carried possibly to excess. One of his characters -was a shopgirl who worked in Edgware Road. Mark spent three days in -Edgware Road, notebook in hand, greedily absorbing the light and colour -of the great thoroughfare. But he made a point of returning to -Weybridge each night and slept, whenever it was fine, in the grove, -lulled to sleep by the pines. - -Curiosity took him to St. Anne's in Sloane Street, when Archibald -preached his first sermon. It was crowded with a fashionable -congregation, some of whom came to hear the music--as fine as could be -found in London outside the cathedrals; others, no doubt, were attracted -by a new and eloquent preacher; the rest attended divine service in -their parish church, and would have been in their places, cheered and -sustained by the reflection that they were doing their duty, if the -rector had had no palate to his mouth and the choir had been composed of -village boys squalling free of charge to the accompaniment of a -harmonium. Mark sat in the gallery, whence he could see Betty occupying -a pew not far from the pulpit. He wondered what sort of sermon -Archibald would preach. And he wondered also how it would affect Betty. -Meantime, he examined the congregation. All these fine folk were -possessed of substantial incomes. The struggle for daily bread was an -experience unknown to them. The men seemed to be fathers of families -for the most part, portly squires of ripe, rosy countenances, -many-acred, and duly sensible of the position and station in life to -which it had pleased God to call them. They put gold into the offertory -bag, and could be counted upon to subscribe handsomely to parochial -charities. In striking contrast were the brothers and lovers of the -beautifully gowned women beside them. All, to a man, were frock-coated, -patent-leather-booted, exquisitely cravatted--gilded youths, indifferent -to music or sermon, worshippers in form only, because "it pleases the -mater, you know," or "Dolly expects it," or "I must make myself solid -with Aunt Sarah." Mark noted their well-cut, impassive features, their -resigned air, and their contemptuous negligence of the responses. The -women, on the other hand, displayed a certain ardour of devotion -tempered by a lively interest in their neighbours' clothes. A few -prayed long and fervently, giving themselves up to the emotions inspired -by the lovely music and splendid ritual; the many were intermittent in -their attention. It was plain that a girl just below Mark, who sang -delightfully, was distracted from thoughts of heaven by the difficulty -of determining whether the cape of a friend across the aisle was trimmed -with sable or mere mink. But what struck Mark more forcibly than -anything else was an expression common to all the faces when in repose. -While the lessons were being read, men and women alike suffered their -features to relax into a normal look of discontent. Mouths dropped; -heavy lids veiled tired eyes; dismal lines appeared upon fair faces. - -When Archibald ascended the pulpit, a thrill vibrated through his -congregation. Mark perceived at a glance that the Rector of St. Anne's -had secured the goodwill and enthusiasm of the women. They stared at -his fine head, their eyes suffused and shining, their lips slightly -parted, a-quiver with anticipation. - -"_Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like -his._" - -After a moment's pause, Archibald repeated the text with a different -inflection. Then, leaning forward, speaking without notes, he began his -sermon. Mark noted certain mannerisms common to many preachers. -Archibald hoped that his brothers and sisters in Christ would bear with -him while he laid before them a few thoughts. The thoughts appealed -emotionally to a congregation who had consecrated their energies and -potentialities to the art of living. To such, death, especially a -painful death, is horror. The preacher pictured the last hours of the -righteous man, the faithful servant, conscious that his task has been -accomplished in this world, and that in the next a place is awaiting -him, where, under freer, fuller conditions, he may still carry on the -Master's work. Then, changing his tone, Archibald portrayed the -death-bed of the evil-liver--hopeless, faithless, God-forsaken! - -The sermon made an impression. As the congregation streamed out of -church into the sunshine, Mark caught words, phrases, ejaculations which -showed plainly that the new rector had at least satisfied expectation. -But Mark told himself the fringe of a great subject had been -touched--and no more. Archibald's manner almost suggested the -detestable adjective--melodramatic. His power was that of an actor -rather than an evangelist. Above and beyond Mark's recognition of this -was the certainty that Betty recognised it also, albeit, possibly, not -so clearly. Mark had kept his eyes on Betty's face. More than once -some subtile inflection of the preacher's voice had thrilled her; but -towards the end of the sermon her attention and interest had waned. -Instinctively Mark groped his way to the conclusion that if Archibald -had gained his wife's love and esteem by the use of another's brain, he -might find it difficult to hold by the strength of his own. - - - - - *CHAPTER XXVII* - - *IN GRUB STREET* - - -Mark's short story had been duly printed and published in Conquest's -magazine. About the time of its appearance (midsummer) Mark called on -Conquest, and the acquaintance then made ripened into a sort of -intimacy. Conquest, quick to perceive that Mark had "stuff" in him, and -learning that Mark was writing a novel, expressed a wish to read it in -typescript. - -"I advised you, you remember, to write a novel and burn it." - -"I have done so," said Mark quietly. - -A big, burly man, with a rugged, leonine head, Conquest liked to be told -he resembled Landor. With this robust physique went a singularly -feminine apprehension and appreciation of details. The enormous amount -of work he could accomplish, his grasp of technicalities, his knowledge, -amounting to intuition, of what the public wanted, his power of -attracting and dominating young men of talent, and, above all, his -encyclopædic memory, made him invaluable to the firm who employed him. - -Mark submitted his novel. Conquest read it, and sent for the author. -Mark found him in the editorial chair, surrounded by books, papers, -manuscripts, press-clippings innumerable--a chaos out of which the -master alone could evoke order. In the room beyond, two type-writing -machines were clicking savagely. Here Conquest's "sub," a secretary, -and half a dozen myrmidons were hard at work. The "sub" and his -assistants looked pale and thin; Conquest alone seemed to thrive and -expand in an atmosphere impregnated with the odour of tobacco-smoke, -damp paper, and printers' ink. - -"Sit down! And listen to the words of the ancient! This is the place -where I do the talking. When I stop, you must go. _Shall the Strong -retain the Spoil?_ is d----d good and--don't look so pleased!--d----d -bad. There's hope for you. We'll publish if you like to pay half the -printer's bill. Mind you, the book has but a ghost's chance of catching -on; but I don't want it altered. You'd cut out the best stuff and leave -the trash. _I_ red-pencilled your short story, but I can't afford the -time to prune this--and you wouldn't like it. Leave it here, and I'll -send you our regular agreement to look over and sign. You are under no -obligations, remember, to publish with us. Good morning. Dine with me -next Tuesday. Eight sharp!" - -Mark found himself walking down a steep flight of stairs, and heard -Conquest's strident tones echoing after him. He could not remember that -he had accepted the offer made to him, but he was sure that Conquest -took such acceptance for granted. - -When Tuesday came, he told Conquest that he had read and was willing to -sign the agreement which had been sent him. Conquest nodded in an -off-hand manner, and did not allude to the subject again. But he -pressed upon Mark the expediency of joining "The Scribblers," a club -newly organised, and likely to become a power. Mark consented, pleased -and flattered that a celebrity should exhibit such interest in him. He -was put up and elected the same week. Conquest introduced him to half a -dozen members, most of whom took an early opportunity of congratulating -Mark upon his friendship with the great man. - -"He's a wonder," said a popular author, "but, mind you, he works for -Wisden and Evercreech, and he'll squeeze you like an orange, if you give -him the chance." - -The others winked at each other, but said nothing. Tommy Greatorex, a -small, pale man, with very bright dark eyes which redeemed his face from -insignificance, began to talk loudly. Mark had watched him gnawing -nervously at his nails when Conquest's name was mentioned. - -"Oh--these editors!" he exclaimed, shaking his fist. "Wouldn't I like -to tell some of 'em what I think of 'em! Yes; there are -exceptions--thank the Lord!--but Samphire will soon find out that most -of 'em are pinchers. Six men in this room sling ink for a living. Is -there one who can stand up and swear that he's not been squeezed?" Not -a man moved. "You see--they sit tight. In this trade of ours the -worker is not paid for his work when it's done. He has to wait for his -pennies, poor devil, although he may be starving. And often he isn't -paid at all. A paper goes to pot, or the special article he has been -asked--asked, mind you--to write is pigeon-holed and doesn't appear, or -there is a change of management. Any recourse? Why, man, if you send -one of 'em a lawyer's letter, you may get your cheque by return of post, -but never a line will you write for my gentleman again. Never more, as -the raven said! One can't afford to quarrel with 'em. And don't they -know it--don't they know it, as they blandly turn the screw? Now, in -America, with the big magazines, it's different. You submit your stuff, -and if it's available a cheque comes along with the acceptance, and a -good cheque too. Over here, a few writers, of course, dictate terms, -but the many take what they get with a humble if not a grateful heart. -If you've private means of your own, you're all right, but if you have -any idea of supporting yourself with the pen--why, God help you!--for -the editors won't." - -"Cool yourself with a whisky and soda," said the popular author, -touching the electric bell. "Our profession," he looked at Mark, "is -like all others, overcrowded, and editors and publishers carry on their -business along business lines. I'll admit that most authors are not fit -to deal with them in a business way. They don't like to haggle, and -they don't know how to haggle. Personally, I employ an agent." - -"That's all right for you," Tommy retorted, "but an agent's not much use -unless there's an established market for one's wares. What's this book -of yours about, Samphire?" - -"The East End," said Mark. - -"Um--the slums treated humorously?" - -"I've tried to stick to the facts." - -"And you expect to sell 'em as fiction? Oh--you optimist!" - -"A play's the thing," observed another scribbler. "Write plays." - -"Any fool can write a play," said the little man, very scornfully. -"I--_mot qui sous parle_--have written plays, but it takes a diplomatist -to get them read and a genius to get them accepted." - -Mark returned to Weybridge rather despondent. - -Immediately afterwards he received his first instalment of proofs from -Wisden and Evercreech. Correcting these proved a painful pleasure. -Conquest's judgment coloured and discoloured every sheet. What was -good--what was bad? For his life Mark was unable to criticise his own -work. Some of the bits he had liked when he wrote them now seemed crude -and trite. His dialogue, he decided, was fair, but the narrative lacked -distinction. Before beginning another novel, he would study the best -models in French and English. Meantime he would turn out a story or two. -These were written, despatched to Conquest--and returned with a printed -slip politely setting forth the editor's regret that they were -unavailable. When he met Conquest some ten days later, the great man -vouchsafed a few words. - -"Sorry to return your stuff. We shall publish the book in October. -Have you thought of a subject for another? You seem to have gripped -conditions in the East End. How about a novel in rather lighter vein -dealing with the adventures and misadventures of a millionaire who has -turned philanthropist and wants to spend his pile in Stepney? Or--happy -thought!--make your millionaire a millionairess--a good-looking spinster -paddling her canoe through the slums. That would be capital. What do -you say?" - -"I'll think about it," said Mark hesitatingly. "I'm awfully obliged to -you, Conquest." - -"That's all right. By the way, I can use an article on your brother, -two thousand words. Make it very personal, and secure good photographs -of him and his church." - -"But he mightn't like it, you know." - -Conquest roared. "I say--that's immense--immense! Not like it? A -popular preacher! Ha--ha--ha! Why, it's incense to 'em, man alive. Ask -him, at any rate. If he doesn't jump, call me fool. Can you see him at -once?" - -"If you wish it." - -Somehow, to Mark's disgust, Archibald did jump. The article appeared in -a Church paper and led to an incident of much greater importance. -Conquest wired to Mark to come up to town on business. Mark was given a -capital luncheon at Dieudonne's restaurant, but not till the coffee was -served did Conquest speak of the matter in hand. - -"I suppose you know," he said carelessly, but keeping his eyes on -Mark's, "that I pull many strings. Now this is between ourselves, -in--the--strictest--confidence. I want to pump you. Bless you, it -always pays to be frank. How do I stand with your brother? Does he -like me?" - -"I'm sure he does," said Mark warmly. At Conquest's desire he had -introduced him to Archibald. Conquest had dined in Cadogan Place. - -"I can help him--materially. Of course there's something in it for me, -but there's more in it for him, and I thought that you might be willing -to act as a go-between. Have you noticed a big Basilica which Lord -Vauxhall is building in that part of Chelsea where his new houses are? -You have? A fine thing--hey? Oh, you don't admire the Byzantine style. -Well, that church is the biggest advertisement in London. Shush-h-h! I -don't want to be misunderstood. Vauxhall, who is a friend of mine, -understands the value of churches. And he's a Churchman, too. He felt -it to be his duty to build that church, and _I_ say, not he, that it's a -thundering big 'ad' for the neighbourhood. Now Vauxhall is immensely -struck by your brother's eloquence. Vauxhall always wants the best of -everything, and he pays for it, cash on the nail. He would like to -offer the Basilica and fifteen hundred a year to your brother. Now the -cat's out of the bag. What d'you think of her?" - -Mark flushed. Conquest was his host. - -"I think she's mangy." - -"Good," said Conquest, in no way perturbed. "I wanted an honest -opinion." - -"As I understand this," said Mark, "Lord Vauxhall offers my brother a -bribe to boom his new neighbourhood." - -Conquest shrugged his mighty shoulders. - -"You are a young man," he said drily. "Beware of hasty judgments. It's -my experience that motives are generally mixed. Vauxhall has built and -endowed a magnificent church. He offers it to your brother, or rather -he empowers me to offer it, if there is a likelihood of the offer being -accepted. Perhaps I had better speak to your brother myself." - -"I should prefer that," said Mark. - -When he saw Archibald, some days later, he was quite sure, from his -knowledge of Conquest, that the matter had been broached, but Archibald -said nothing to him about it. Betty, however, talked as if no change -was impending, so Mark inferred that she was either without her -husband's confidence or that Lord Vauxhall's offer had been refused. -Betty was full of plans connected with the parish, and busy organising a -large charity concert. Jim Corrance told Mark that he (Jim) had misread -Betty's character and temperament. - -"She's happy with her husband," he declared. "He has a way with -him--women can't resist parsons when they're good and good-looking. One -must concede that Archie is both." - -Mark said nothing. He was quite unable to determine whether Betty had -found happiness or not. Sometimes, when alone with husband and wife, he -marked an irritability not without significance. Archibald had acquired, -since he came to London, a certain air and deportment common to many -successful men. Betty chaffed him, called him "Sir Oracle," and when he -protested against these quips, she would frown and bite her lip. -Archibald was very particular about the antecedents of the people -invited to his house. Some of Betty's acquaintances were banned. Lady -Randolph had a word to say on this. - -"Archie is quite right, my dear. He's not going to imperil his -preferment by hobnobbing with such frisky folk. It pays to be -exclusive. Look at those Bertheim women! They were--well, we know what -they were; but when they married rich men, they refused to entertain any -matron who was not immaculate. Now, to be seen at their houses is a -patent of virtue!" - -"Archie," said Betty, "is governed by the highest motives; still, I -should like to see this house open to a few nice sinners: painters, -writers, musicians; but Archie says they are all freethinkers or -Laodiceans. It is a great grief to him that Mark gave up his Orders. -He offered to take him as secretary." - -Lady Randolph stared. There were times when she felt that Betty was an -unknown quantity. - -"You allowed him to make that offer?" - -Betty turned aside her eyes. "I did not know that it was made. Of -course Mark refused--would have done so in any case. I mention it to -show you what manner of man Archie is. I don't think you do him -justice. You spoke just now as if he were a time-server. His whole -life is devoted to others." - -"Does he--_know_?" said Lady Randolph, alluding to what had passed at -Birr Wood. - -"Why should I tell him?" - -"Why, indeed, my dear?" - -"It would distress him infinitely. And it might lead to a breach -between the brothers. Mark comes here. He has changed greatly. I -don't think that anything interests him very much except his literary -work." - -"He looks a different man," said Lady Randolph absently. - -"If it had not been for that breakdown in those horrible slums, if----" -Betty bit her lip. Lady Randolph pretended that she had noticed nothing -unusual, but when she said good-bye she kissed Betty twice and -whispered: "If I were you I should not encourage Mark to come here." - -"_Encourage_ him?" - -"If he needs no encouragement--so much the worse." - -Betty laughed nervously. Mark's companionship was a pleasure she would -not forego. She was interested in his book; she liked to hear his talk, -his gossip of Grub Street; his descriptions of the Dews, mother and -daughter; his adventures in search of material. Behind this lay the -comfortable assurance that she had adjusted a difficult situation. She -had lost the lover of her youth, but she had gained a good husband, a -brother, and a friend. So she told herself that she was rich, repeating -the phrase, till she came to believe it true. One day she said to Mark, -"I suppose you would call me a rich woman, using the adjective in its -widest sense." - -"We are all rich--and poor," Mark replied evasively. "What rich man is -not poor in some respect; what poor man is not rich in another? This is -an age of classification. We go about sticking labels on to our friends -and ourselves. If you honestly think yourself rich, you are so." - -Sometimes he wondered if she could measure the violence of feeling which -had driven him from the Church. She never spoke of his change of cloth; -still she eyed his red tie askance. Archibald had said something when -he came back from his honeymoon. - -"At King's Charteris you could keep a curate. The pater said that he had -spoken to you. And it's the family living." - -"I'll say to you what I didn't like to say to the pater: 'Drop it.'" - -"Certainly," Archibald replied. "But it's a pity your powers of -organisation should be wasted." Then he made the offer which had -provoked astonishment in Lady Randolph. It astonished Mark also, -revealing as it did his brother's lack of insight where he (Mark) was -concerned. - -"You could help me enormously," Archibald concluded. - -"I am going to help myself," said Mark. - -Just before the novel was published, Archibald let fall a hint that -Conquest had spoken to him. Betty happened to be present, but Archibald -addressed himself to Mark. - -"Have you ever met Lord Vauxhall?" - -"No." - -"A very charming man--and a Christian. He dines here next week. I -should like you to meet him. By the way, he's a friend of Conquest." - -"Ah!" said Mark. - -"I like Conquest immensely," said Archibald suavely. "He has the larger -vision." - -"Betty--do you like Conquest?" said Mark abruptly. - -She answered promptly: "No." - -"Why not?" her husband inquired. - -"He's an Octopus man, with his tentacles waving in every direction. And -his mind is like a big room handsomely furnished, but without a -fireplace in it. Certainly--he's been sweet as Hybla honey to me, and I -ought to like him, but I don't." - - - - - *CHAPTER XXVIII* - - *A SUNDAY IN CADOGAN PLACE* - - -In late October, when pages fall as thickly from printing-presses as -leaves do from trees, _Shall the Strong retain the Spoil?_ appeared. -During the preceding Spring many of the best publishers had withheld -books which were now offered to the public. Conquest predicted a glutted -market, and no sales for wares bearing obscure brands. Mark, he said, -might compass a _succès d'estime_--nothing more. He added that the time -had come to pull strings, if strings were to be pulled. - -"I don't quite understand," said Mark. - -"Get so-and-so," he named a popular author, "to enlighten you. Look -here, Samphire, you're a man of good family, your people know numbers of -swells, that brother of yours is hand in glove with some bigwigs. Stir -'em up with a long pole. I don't suppose you care to fork out for such -advertising as our friend I mentioned uses. Paragraphs and all that." - -"He pays for paragraphs?" - -"Directly and indirectly--you innocent! I see you are disgusted. -That's all right. I mentioned the matter, because I could steer you a -bit, if you wished to spend say--fifty pounds. We shall advertise the -book, of course, in the regular way. It's the irregular way, my boy, -which brings in the dollars." - -"The book must sell on its merits," said Mark. - -"As you please," said Conquest. - -Shortly afterwards, the first notices were sent to him by the Press -Clipping Agency to which he had become a subscriber. Mark was told that -his work showed extraordinary promise, that he would take high rank, -when he had found himself, that he was a master of dialogue and dialect, -the author of a powerful and convincing study of conditions which -challenged the attention of every thinking man and woman, and so on and -so forth. He rushed up to town, showed the clippings to Betty, who -seemed to be more excited and pleased than he was himself, went on to -Wisden and Evercreech, and thence to his club, where he found Tommy -Greatorex, whiter and more nervous than usual, sitting alone by the fire -in the library. To him the clippings were presently submitted with an -apology. Tommy took them with an ironical smile. - -"They're always kind to a new man if he shows any ability." He glanced -at the clippings, flipping them with his lean delicately shaped fingers. -"You are subtle, I see, and daring, and brilliant--and strong! By Jove, -Samphire, I'll bet a new umbrella, which I want badly, that you didn't -know you were such a ring-tailed squealer--hey? Don't blush, my dear -fellow. Wait till your stuff sells, and then read what they'll say -about it. Ha--ha! Listen to this! One of 'em says: 'Mr. Samphire is -evidently at home in some of the sordid scenes which he describes with -such power and pathos; we take it that he has spent many years in the -slums.' So far--so good. It's more than likely that the fellow who -wrote that is a member of this club and in the know. Here's another, -next to it, egad! 'This story reveals imaginative powers of a high -order, for it is plain that the author has never set foot in -Stepney....' Ha--ha--ha! Now sit down, stand me a drink, and tell me -how many copies have been sold." - -"A hundred copies were sold the day before yesterday," said Mark. - -"Now, that's a little bit of all right, and no mistake. I'm delighted -to hear it. I congratulate you--_con fuoco_! That means business. -One--hundred--copies in _one_ day! Whew-w-w! Hang it, why don't you -rejoice?" - -"Because," said Mark, "I found out that the hundred copies were bought -by one man for one man. A friend of mine on the Stock Exchange took the -lot. The book is not selling." - -"Sorry," said Tommy quietly. "I've read it. I've reviewed it. This," -he tapped one of the clippings which he still held in his hand, "is -mine. I got for it a few shillings, already spent, and the book which I -shall keep, because it is written by a good fellow. It's not what's in -the book which appeals to me, but what's in the writer, and which will -come out--some day." - -"Thank you," said Mark. - -He returned to luncheon at Cadogan Place, humbled, and therefore, in a -woman's eyes, meet for sympathy and encouragement. - -"In any case," said Betty, "you have had the delight of writing the -book. And it _is_ strong and subtle; but, Mark, few people are -interested in slums. Your book made me cry, and I want to laugh. Life -is so sad, why make it sadder?" - -Mark had listened to interminable arguments upon this vexed question. -But in Betty's tone and manner he caught a glimpse of a spectre. - -"Your life is not sad," he said. - -"I'm one of the lucky ones," she replied hastily "We were speaking of -your book." - -"Hang the book," said Mark impatiently "What is that to me in comparison -with----" He stopped abruptly, got up from his chair, paced the length -of the room, and came back. - -"You are happy--are you not?" he asked. They were alone in the -drawing-room, filled with the pictures and china which had come out of -the saloon at The Whim. Archibald was presiding over one of his -innumerable committees. Looking at Betty as she sat amongst things -familiar to Mark from childhood, it was difficult to believe that she -was a married woman. She still retained a bloom of maidenhood, a -daintiness and freshness. Her face suggested the nymph rather than the -matron. - -"Of course I am happy," she replied; then she added in a whisper: "Mark, -I ought to be happy, but I am a rebel." - -"All women are rebels, Betty. Against what in particular do you rebel?" - -"I oughtn't to tell you, but--but I must. I suppose I am the many-sided -woman, who ought to have half a dozen husbands. I am interested in so -many things. I like to browse here and there. But Archie doesn't care -about anything or anybody outside his own vineyard. He is going up and -up and I am--falling! Oh, I'm disloyal, but I must speak. It comes to -this: Archie loves me and of course I love him, but we--we have nothing -to say to each other when we're alone." - -She sat, twisting her fingers, staring forlornly at the carpet. Mark -burst into speech. At the sound of his voice, still so youthful in -quality, she raised her head, smiling, eager, intent. - -"Why, Betty, we all get blue at times, and sigh for what we've not got. -There are women, no doubt, who are fatly content with their lives, but I -don't suppose they go up or down. One pictures them in one spot, doing -the same stupid thing, saying the same stupid thing for ever and ever. -I think you're in a healthy state. When we feel that we are going down, -we begin to beat our wings and flap upwards. Some saints, possibly, -might be justified in taking a rest-cure; they are the ones who never do -it." - -He rose to go, not daring to stay. - -"When are you coming again, Mark? You always do me good. Can't you -spend next Sunday with us? By the way, have you ever been to our -church?" - -"Yes; the first Sunday Archibald preached." - -"Oh! The sermon about Balaam." - -"Yes." - -"You know, he says that he's uneven. But the women in this parish think -him wonderful. Some of them, who sit near the pulpit, make a point of -crying whenever he gives them a chance. One told me that when he -pronounced the Benediction she felt purged of all sin! I could have -bitten her." - -Mark promised to spend the following Sunday in Cadogan Place, and duly -accompanied Betty to morning service. For nearly thirty minutes -Archibald preached to a crowded congregation, who listened intently to a -conventional theme, treated conventionally. Coming out Mark heard a -tall, thin man, with a striking face, whisper to the woman beside him: -"I came for bread; he gave us pap--in a golden spoon." - -"Did you hear that?" said Betty, a moment later. - -"Yes." - -Some friends greeted Betty, and no more was said till luncheon, to which -the Chrysostom of Sloane Street applied himself, as usual, seriously and -silently. He looked slightly puffy and his eyes were losing their -clearness and sparkle. Mark asked abruptly if he were overworked. - -"Every minute is filled," said Archibald heavily. "Overworked? I can -stand a lot of work." - -"He would be miserable without it--and bored," said Betty. "He won't -even come to concerts with me now." - -"It's the work that tells, nowadays, my dear. Preaching gives a man a -start, but it's the steady strain of parochial organisation which brings -one to the top of the hill." - -"You are neglecting your sermons," said Betty. "For several Sundays they -have struck me as being--how shall I put it--uninspired. They hold -one's attention, yes, but they do not grip; they touch, but they do not -penetrate." - -Archibald nodded, frowning and crumbling the bread beside his plate. - -"The Duchess," he said, "stopped me this morning after church to tell me -that she liked the treatment of my text immensely." - -"Oh--the Duchess!" exclaimed Betty. - -"I've so much on my mind," said Archibald, turning to Mark. He rose, -looking at his watch. "I must go now to hear a man sing in Upper -Tooting. The cigars are in my room." - -He went out. As the door shut behind him, Betty turned a contrite face -to Mark's. - -"I hit him when he was down. What a beast I am!" - -At that moment it became a conviction to Mark that Betty loved an ideal -husband, who would fall from the pinnacle on which she had perched him. -A feeling of pleasure at this impending catastrophe almost turned him -sick. Then, very slowly, he resolved that the powers within him should -be devoted to the preservation of an ideal, so vital to the welfare of -the woman he loved. Betty began to speak of his literary work. - -"When I read your book," she said, "I had an intuition that one day you -would write a play." - -Mark quoted Tommy Greatorex. "That's an easy job." - -"I have a motif for you. The emotional treatment of religion. Look at -the success of this new book, _Robert Elsmere_! The same success awaits -the dramatist who can use like material. I should make the principal -character a woman of passion with a strong sense of religion." - -"A sinner?" - -"Yes. It seems to me that sinners on the stage have great -opportunities. The world must listen to what they have to say. In real -life the good people do all the talking, the moral talking, I mean; an -honest sinner holds his or her tongue. It's such a pity, for I'm sure -your honest sinner loathes his sin. In my drama the sinner is saved, -because the sense of what she has suffered, her personal experience of -the horror and misery of sin, make for her salvation." - -"The right man could do something with it, no doubt." - -"Why not you, Mark?" - -He fell into a reverie, staring into the fire. Betty perceived that he -had wandered out of the world of speech into the suburbs of silence, -where visions of what might have been come and go. Presently he said -abruptly: - -"Shall we walk?" - -"There's an east wind blowing, evil for man and beast." - -"You're neither. Come on." - -They crossed the park, skirting the Serpentine, a dull, leaden-coloured -lake wrinkled by the keen wind. On some of the benches sweethearts were -sitting, serenely unmindful of the blast. - -"They feel warm enough," said Betty, laughing. "Well, I'm in a glow, -too." - -When they returned to Cadogan Place, Archibald had just arrived from -Upper Tooting. He said that he had found a superb tenor, whom he had -engaged. - -"He sang 'Nazareth'--quite admirably." - -Betty, teapot in hand, looked up, interested at once. - -"Oh, Archie, you have not sung 'Nazareth' for months. Do sing it after -tea!" - -"Do!" Mark added. "I haven't heard you sing for a year." - -Finally, after a little pressing, Archibald seated himself at the piano, -a beautiful Steinway. As he touched the keys, Betty's face assumed the -expression of delighted receptivity so familiar to Mark. She glanced at -the singer between half-closed eyes, lying back in her chair in an -attitude of physical and mental ease. One hand drooped at her side, and -as Archibald sang the fingers of this hand contracted and relaxed, -keeping time to the rhythm of the song. Mark felt that her pulses were -throbbing, quivering with delight and satisfaction. The music touched -him also, stirring to determination his desire to help and protect the -woman he loved. But when his thoughts turned, as they did immediately, -to Archibald, they became of another texture and complexion. He had not -prayed to God since that night on Ben Caryll. Now, beneath the spell of -the music, he repeated to himself: "Oh God, take this hate from me; take -this hate from me!" - -When Archibald stopped singing, he said that he must go to his study for -an hour's work before evening service. Mark accompanied him. As soon -as they were alone, he blurted out what was in his mind. - -"I say, Archie, if you want a little help, I'm your man. I suppose work -means the preparation of your Advent sermons. I helped you last year. -Shall I help you this?" - -Archibald's face flushed. - -"I don't know what's wrong with me," he muttered; "but ideas don't flow. -If you would help--but, but you have your own work." - -"My work! Well, it's lucky I've an allowance, or I should certainly -starve. Archie, I'd like to help you. I ask it as a favour. Come on; -what's the use of jawing? What's it to be this Advent? I thought of -something in church this morning which you might lick into shape." - -He filled his pipe, talking in his hesitating yet voluble way. -Archibald, the practical, took a pad to jot down notes in shorthand. -Mark began to pace the room as his ideas flowed faster. It seemed to -him that he had dammed them up for many months; now they came down like -the Crask after a big rain, a cleansing flood, carrying away all refuse, -all barriers. When he had finished, Archibald arose ponderously and -shook his hand. - -"You're a wonderful fellow," he said slowly; "the hare you, the tortoise -I. It was always so." - -"The tortoise won the r-r-race," said Mark. - -When he went to bed that night he flung open wide the window of his -room. Outside, the night was inky black and tempestuous. Not a star to -be seen above, and the lamps below burning dimly, throwing pale circles -of light upon the wet, muddy street. Mark stood inhaling the fresh air, -drawing long and deep breaths, saturating himself with it. Presently he -muttered: - -"I may be happy yet." - - - - - *CHAPTER XXIX* - - *THE PROCESSION OF LIFE* - - -Late in May Betty was expecting to be confined; and Mark could see that -Archibald tried in vain to conceal his anxiety. "One never knows how -these affairs will end," he said a score of times to his brother, who -replied, "Betty is strong; she will do well; you are foolish to borrow -trouble." None the less, Mark's anxiety quickened also as the time -approached, becoming the more poignant, possibly, because the birth of -this baby emphasised his own isolation and loneliness. Betty as -mother--and he felt sure that she would prove an admirable -mother--appeared indescribably remote. Archibald as father, babbling -already about his _son_, obstructed the horizon. - -"The boy may reign at Pitt Hall," said Archibald. "George has written to -say that he hopes it will be an heir--_his_ word--because then he will -feel at liberty to remain a bachelor. Do you think that Betty is as -prudent as she ought to be?" - -"She will do well, she will do well," Mark reiterated. - -"You will come to us, Mark. I shall want you, you know." - -"If you insist----" - -"I don't think I could face it without you." - -Betty added her entreaties. "I'm not afraid," she maintained; "but -Archie is behaving like an old woman. Lady Randolph will be with me; I -should feel easier if you were with Archie. How devoted you brothers -are to each other!" - -Mark hastily put up his hand to cover a smile which he felt to be -derisive. Then he muttered awkwardly, "All right, I'll c-c-come." - -Again he wondered whether she had suspected the hatred within him. -Surely a creature of her intuitions and sympathies must know. And if -she did know, and, knowing, faced the facts, trying to adjust the -balance, piecing together the fragments of broken lives, was it not his -duty, however painful, to help her and the man she had married? And -perhaps she had foreseen that any peril threatening an object dear to -both brothers might serve to unite them. The woman who had whirled them -asunder must cherish the hope that she alone could bring them together. - -When the hour came, when he was alone with Archibald at midnight, -straining his ears for that thin, querulous wail of the newly born, he -forgot everything except that Betty might be taken away. The doctor -bustled in from time to time, cheery and sanguine at first, but as the -hours passed betraying uneasiness and anxiety. Towards morning, when -the whole world seemed to have grown chill and dreary, he asked for a -consultation; and a servant was sent hot-foot for the most famous -accoucheur in Harley Street. - -Archibald rushed upstairs. He crawled down them a few minutes later, -ghastly, trembling, the scarecrow of the prosperous Rector of St. -Anne's. Mark, as white as he, seized his arm. - -"Well, well, how is she? That fool of a doctor has exaggerated. They -always make out everything to be more serious than it is." - -"She is going, she is going," the husband muttered. - -Mark shook him violently. - -"Archie, you must pull yourself together. Do you hear?" - -"It's a judgment, a judgment." - -"What do you say?" - -"I never told her about those two sermons. I'm a coward, a coward. You -despise me--I have felt it." - -The big fellow had collapsed, shrunk incredibly, depleted of windy -self-assurance and vanity. Mark's hate and scorn and envy began to ooze -from him as the old love, the virile instinct of the strong to comfort -and protect the weak, gushed into his heart, suffusing a genial warmth -through every fibre of his being. - -"I gave them to you freely," he said. "I urged you to preach that first -sermon. Put what is past from you." - -But Archibald shook his head. Now that the silence was broken, he -wished to speak, to give his shame and trouble all the words so long -suppressed. In a pitiful manner he began a self-indictment--_qui -s'accuse s'excuse_. - -"If Betty is spared, I shall tell her the truth," he concluded. - -Mark frowned, trying to measure the effect of such a belated confession -on Betty. Then he heard his brother saying in the tone of conviction -which so impressed his congregations, "Of course, Betty did not marry me -because I preached those sermons." - -Mark started. Temptation beset him to answer swiftly: "She did--she -did. I know she did. Had it not been for my words in your mouth, she -would have waited for, she would have married--me." - -He turned aside his face, twisted and seamed by the effort of holding -his tongue. Archibald continued: "It has been a secret sore. I thought -hard work--I have worked very hard--would heal it. If--if she is spared, -I shall speak for all our sakes." - -Mark's voice was quite steady when he replied, "For all our sakes. You -take me into account?" - -"Why, of course. Don't you remember? You wished her to know. You said -you would tell her. Why didn't you?" - -"Why, indeed?" Mark echoed fiercely. Then, with a sudden change of -manner, he went on: "You must do what you think best. Betty has placed -you on a pinnacle. See that you don't topple over! Practise what you -preach. Then you will save her soul and your own." - -"We talk as if she were not dying." - -"She will not die," said Mark solemnly. At that moment he was sure that -Betty would live, must live, because (and the reason illumines the dark -places through which Mark had passed), because it would be so much -better for her if she died. - -Just then the consulting surgeon arrived. Archibald took him upstairs, -and returned to Mark within a quarter of an hour, saying that the case -was even more serious than had been supposed. - -"Drax sentenced me to death," said Mark, "but I'm alive and strong." - -Archibald fell on his knees in an agony of supplication. Mark watched -him. Suddenly the husband looked up. - -"In the name of God, pray," he entreated. "You are a better man than -I--pray!" - -But Mark remained standing. - -He desired to pray, but above this desire and dominating it was the -vivid horror of that evil spirit, which had so lately fled and which -might come back. A sense of unworthiness prostrated his spirit, but not -his body. He glanced at Archibald, and left the room. - -Outside, the gas in the hall and passages seemed to be struggling -helplessly against the light of breaking day. Familiar -objects--furniture belonging to the Admiral--loomed large out of a -sickly, yellow mist. Mark found himself staring blankly at an ancient -clock ticking with loud and exasperating monotony. It had so ticked -away the seconds, the minutes, the hours of more than a hundred years! - -The next objects that caught his eye were two umbrellas. They stood -side by side, curiously contrasted: the one a dainty trifle of violet -silk and crystal, encircled with a gold band; and the other large and -massive with a symbolic shepherd's crook as a handle. These arrested -Mark's attention. He remembered that he had chaffed Betty about her -umbrella, telling her that it was too smart for a parson's wife, and -absurdly frail as a protection against anything save a passing shower. -She retorted that a wise woman never braves a storm, and then she had -said with the smile he knew so well: "My umbrella, which, after all, is -an _en tout cas_, is just like me: made for sunshine rather than rain." - -He sat down, waiting, staring at Betty's umbrella. When he looked up -Lady Randolph was coming down the stairs very slowly--a white-haired old -woman. Something in her face choked the question which fluttered to his -lips. To gain an instant's time, he opened the library door and called -to his brother-- - -"Archie!" - -Archibald appeared instantly. - -"A girl has been born," said Lady Randolph, "but she is dead." - -"Dead?" repeated Archibald. - -"And Betty?" Mark demanded hoarsely. - -"The doctors think she is safe." - -The three passed into the dining-room, where some food had been laid -out. Lady Randolph gave details in a worn voice. Betty's pluck had -been amazing; she had displayed a fortitude lacking which she would -probably have succumbed. The consulting surgeon, who entered shortly -afterwards, assured the husband that, humanly speaking, the danger was -over. Almost at once Archibald recovered his normal composure and -dignified deportment. Mark, on the other hand, exhibited signs of -collapse. He sat down shivering, as if he had been attacked by -malignant malaria. - -Next day he saw Betty for a couple of minutes. She smiled and thanked -him, intimating that Archibald had told her that the suspense would have -been intolerable had not Mark helped him to bear it. Of the loss of her -baby she said nothing, but before Mark left the room she exacted a -promise that he would come to see her during the period of -convalescence. - - -About this time he began his third novel, _The Songs of the Angels_. -Conquest asked him if he were setting to work on the theme suggested by -him, and when Mark pleaded inability to guide a young and beautiful -heiress through the slums of Stepney, the great man shrugged his -shoulders--a gesture now associated in Mark's mind with derision and -contempt. Conquest then demanded what he was doing, and hearing the -synopsis of the new story shrugged his vast shoulders once more. - -"That won't sell," he said. "You could have handled my theme--if you -had tried. By the way, that brother of yours has jumped at Vauxhall's -offer. I knew he would. He'll go very far, that young man. Even the -Basilica won't be big enough to hold him." - -He laughed loudly and strode away. - -During July Mark saw Betty regularly twice a week. Archibald was -working harder than ever in and out of St. Anne's parish, but of the -Basilica, now nearing completion, not a word was said by either husband -or wife. Mark wondered if Betty knew. Her recovery was slow and -intermittent. - -"Are you worried about anything?" Mark asked one day. - -"Yes," she admitted, after a minute's hesitation; then she continued -quickly, "Have you noticed another falling off in Archie's sermons?" - -"He's unequal, of course," Mark replied. "And the best brains refuse to -work in a tired body." - -"I wish you'd say a word about that. He'd take anything from you." - -Again she caught a glimpse of that derisive smile of Mark's which she -could not interpret, as he promised to speak to his brother. Did he -reap his reward when Betty said, three weeks later, "Archie has preached -splendidly the last two Sundays. Has he told you that he has been -commanded to preach again at Windsor?" - -Mark nodded rather coldly, so Betty thought. He reflected that he was -the man with one talent. How much better that it should be given to the -man who had ten rather than be atrophied by disuse, buried, so to speak, -in one upon whom silence was imposed. Every pang of envy which twisted -his heart he tried to assuage with the anodyne of kind actions. But the -faith which had never failed him when he was sick seemed to have -forsaken him utterly now that he was whole. - - -When _The Songs of the Angels_ was half written, telegrams summoned Mark -and his brothers to Pitt Hall, where the Squire lay dying, senseless and -speechless. He had been seized with a fit, after returning from a long -day's hunting on Christmas Eve. The doctors said at once that nothing -could be done. Pitt Hall was hung with holly and mistletoe; and Mark, -coming out of the room where his father lay dead, saw the servants -pulling down the decorations. It seemed to him that the old house would -never be the same again. It never was--to him. - -The will revealed a terrible state of affairs. After the widow's -jointure was paid, only enough money would be left to keep the estate -out of the market. George, in any case, would have to let it for a term -of years and economise closely, if he hoped to cancel the mortgages. -Low prices, bad years, and a disastrous attempt to recover losses by -speculation had almost wrecked one of the finest properties in -Slowshire. The younger sons, as residuary legatees, found themselves -absolutely unprovided for. This, it is true, made no difference to -Archibald, but Mark told himself ruefully that he only possessed his -books and simple furnishings and some ninety pounds. George was unable -to do anything; but Archibald offered his brother the same allowance he -had been in the habit of receiving. Mark refused it. - -"I think I can pay my way," said Mark. - -"I owe you that--and more too." - -"Oh, rubbish!" - -"If you would live with us, and become my paid secretary. You could -have your afternoons and evenings free." - -"I shall not leave my pines," said Mark. "Many thanks, but I'm going to -score off my own bat." - -This conversation took place upon the afternoon of the funeral. That -evening, in the smoking-room, the question of the living again presented -itself. George Samphire had inherited his father's manner and ideas, the -latter tempered, possibly, by life in a cavalry regiment. - -"By Jove!" said he, "there's King's Charteris for you, Mark. The -rector, they tell me, won't see Easter. It's the very thing, and you -can keep an eye on my tenant. That's settled, thank the Lord!" - -An awkward pause followed. At his father's grave Mark had worn, and -wore still, black clothes of clerical cut. - -"I am a layman," said Mark. - -"What? You've chucked it! But you can't--can he, Archie? Once a -parson, always a parson. Archie can arrange anything." - -"True," said Archibald, "but----" He glanced at Mark, who had risen. - -"Don't badger me, George," Mark said quietly. "You must find a better -fellow than I for King's Charteris. It's been a terrible day. I'm off -to bed." - -He marched out of the room, leaving George agape with astonishment. - -"What the devil's the meaning of this?" he asked of Archibald. - -"I'm afraid he's an agnostic." - -"Ag--wha-a-t!" - -Archibald explained the meaning of the word, not so familiar then as -now. George listened, frowning, interjecting many an "Oh!" and "Ah!" -and "By Jove!" as the speaker delicately conveyed the impression that he -did not despair of leading this errant sheep back into the fold. - -"Mark," he concluded, "has shown a great deal of right feeling, my dear -George. I cannot doubt but that it will be well with him. But he is -not one to be pressed." - -"That's sound enough, old Slow-and-Sure, and I suppose we can get some -fellow to keep King's Charteris warm for him--eh? And they tell me -you'll have livings to give away one of these fine days. Good Lord! -what a mess the poor governor has made of things!" - -Saying this, the new squire of Pitt Hall sighed, poured himself out a -whisky and soda, drank it, lit a candle, and went to bed, followed by -Archibald. - -Within the week Mark saw Conquest, by appointment, and told him what had -happened, asking at the same time for a settlement of his small account. -To his dismay he learned that he was in the debt of Wisden and -Evercreech. What was due for his first short story and the illustrated -interview with the Rector of St. Anne's was swallowed up in the bill for -printing the novel. Of this, not counting press copies, some three -hundred and fifty had been sold, of which--as had been said--Jim -Corrance bought one hundred outright. - -"Our bill needn't bother you," said Conquest. "And the novel may square -it yet. You ask for my advice. Frankly, then, I say--journalism, but -it's uphill work. You've got to make a special study of editors--and -what they want. The stuff which Jones prints and pays for, Smith, -perhaps, won't even take the trouble to return as unavailable." - -"Can you give me anything?" - -"Nothing except advice, Samphire, and a letter or two. We are chock -full. Of course I'll always consider what you send me, but we have our -regular staff, and fifty besides waiting to step into their shoes." - -"If I could get a sub-editorship?" - -"Ask for the moon at once. You don't know the ropes. Every fool thinks -he can edit or sub-edit a paper, but the proprietors are not of their -mind. You're a clever fellow, Samphire, but you'll pardon me for saying -that you're kinky, and you seem to possess a vermiform appendix of a -conscience. You can support yourself with your pen, when you know how -to use it." - -"I'm much obliged to you," said Mark humbly. - -Conquest sent him half a dozen letters, which were presented in person. -The editors, somehow, managed to convey the impression that they were -obliging Conquest rather than the bearer of his credentials. Each -promised, more or less courteously, to consider any work submitted. -Tommy Greatorex, the pessimist, proved an unexpected source of sympathy -and help. He learned that Mark spoke Italian. Together they explored -Eyre Street Hill and the purlieus about Hatton Garden, an expedition -which took concrete form in the shape of a paper dealing with the -ice-cream vendors, the plaster-cast image sellers, and the like. Tommy -sold the paper for twenty guineas, and divided the cheque with Mark. By -chance Conquest learned of this, and wired for Mark. - -"Greatorex says you talk Italian like a Dago. Would you care to -translate an Italian novel for us? We'll pay you sixty pounds." - -"Thank you very much," said Mark. - -Conquest handed him the proof sheets of the novel. - -"You must translate with discretion," he said carelessly; "but don't -emasculate it! After all, we are not publishing for schoolgirls." - -Mark left Paternoster Row, and mounted a 'bus in St. Paul's Churchyard. -When he had taken his seat, he looked at the sheets and began to read -them very rapidly. Tommy Greatorex was waiting for him at the -Scribblers. - -"Has Conquest given you Nespoli's novel?" - -"It's in my pocket," said Mark, rather red in the face. "And it ought -to be in the public sewer. I shan't translate it." - -"Phew-w-w!" said Tommy. "What's the use of being so bally particular? -What did he offer? Seventy-five? Oh, sixty--the Shylock. Well, old -chap, if you don't take the job, somebody else will." - -"There's not a particle of doubt about that," said Mark. - -But when he returned the novel to Conquest, he saw that he had offended -the great man, who shrugged his shoulders and said curtly that Mark had -better buy a little lamb and play with it. This was too much. Mark -flamed. - -"I've stood your sneers long enough, Conquest," he said. "You've done -me some good turns----" - -"Hold on," said Conquest, black and grim. "Don't flatter yourself that I -did them for you. You are the brother of Archibald Samphire, and that's -about the only claim you have to _my_ consideration. Now then--march!" - -He pointed insolently to the door, towering above the slight figure -confronting him. Mark recovered his temper. - -"I'd hit you," he said politely, "if you were smaller, but I can't reach -your brazen face, you b-b-bully and b-b-blusterer. And I couldn't -injure your thick skin with an axe." - -The door between the sanctum and the room where the typewriters were -clicking stood ajar. When Mark ended his sentence a sound of giggling -was heard. Conquest, cursing, turned and kicked the door with violence. -Mark laughed and disappeared, leaving an unscrupulous enemy behind him. - -Misfortune, however, introduces us to friends as well as enemies. Mark -had been hurt because Jim Corrance had not repeated his visit to -Weybridge. Jim, he had said to himself, was cold, absorbed in -money-getting, unmindful even of his mother, dear soul, who must often -yearn for the companionship of her son. But when Jim heard of the -Squire's will, he rushed down to Weybridge, taking with him an enormous -hamper. Mark told Betty what passed. - -"Jim arrived with a hamper. I believe he thought I was starving. He -brought champagne, cigars, and every potted thing which grows in Fortnum -and Mason's. And he told me that he was looking for a confidential -clerk at five hundred a year. And would I do him the favour to take the -billet. By Heaven--his face warmed my heart through and through." - -"You look," said Betty, "as if someone had left you a fortune! Those -potted things may come in handy, if you insist on refusing the help -which your friends are only too glad to offer." - -"I shall make my way, Betty." - -Her eyes were troubled, as she said hurriedly, "Are you sure of that, -Mark? If--_if_ you should break down again. Oh, I know what's in your -mind. You are going to drudge. And why should you, when Archie and I -would be so delighted to have you here? You could help him. He has -told me----" - -"What has he told you?" - -His sharp interrogation slightly puzzled her. - -"Oh, he says that your hints have been invaluable." - -So Archibald had withheld the truth. He heard Betty's voice entreating -him to come to Cadogan Place. His heart was throbbing. Perhaps she -wanted him. - -"I c-c-can't," he stammered. "I have my p-pride." - -"So had Lucifer," she retorted. - -That she supposed him cold, he knew. When they parted, he smiled to -himself because she said angrily: "You think of nothing but your _Songs -of the Angels_!" - -"Angels won't sing in London," he said. - -Shortly after this he received a letter from Dudley McIntyre, the head -of an historic publishing house. McIntyre had read the novel which would -not sell, and begged to have the pleasure of meeting the author at an -early date. This again was a piece of luck which Mark discovered, -later, to be due to Tommy Greatorex. Tommy, who loathed Conquest, had -told McIntyre of what had passed. McIntyre had no love for Conquest and -despised his business methods. When he met Mark, he took a fancy to -him. Mark, for his part, was charmed with McIntyre, who represented the -publisher of the old school: being all that Conquest was not: courteous, -sympathetic, speaking with precision in well-chosen words untainted by -slang. McIntyre, however, published _belles lettres_, biographies, -books of travel, rather than novels. Still, he expressed a wish to see -_The Songs of the Angels_, and said that the theme appealed to him. - -"Not that I pretend to be a judge of what will sell or not sell," he -concluded. "And I seldom pass an opinion upon a manuscript." - -"I should be glad to undertake translations," said Mark. - -"Will that be worth your while, Mr. Samphire?" - -Mark frankly explained his position. He thought he was qualified to -translate either French or Italian books. McIntyre said he would make a -note of it, and did so, entering Mark's address in a small pocket-book. - -"Finish your novel," said he at parting. "And give it undivided -attention." - -Accordingly, Mark remained at Weybridge. He realised that if this novel -failed, he must become, as Betty said, a drudge; and he was certain that -hack-writing meant the sacrifice of higher literary ambitions. McIntyre -was right. He must make the effort of his life to grasp something -substantial. If he failed, let him clutch at straws! - -Necessity lent edge to the enterprise. Each morning he woke with an -appetite for work which seemed to increase rather than diminish. He -became so absorbed in his task that everything and everybody became -subservient to it. Archibald had taken Betty abroad; Pynsent was in -Paris; Jim Corrance had been summoned to New York; David Ross still held -aloof. So, for six weeks or more, he was undisturbed by the claims of -friendship: the only claims at that time which he would have considered. - -But to such a temperament as Mark's, speech is vital. Having no one -else, he talked with Mary. He told himself that Mary was a remarkable -girl, endowed with a fund of practical common sense upon which he was -entitled to draw. Mary walked every other Sunday, if it was fine, with -the young fellow of whom mention has been made. The rest of her time -was spent with her mother and in the prosecution of duties which lay -within the apple-green palings of her home. Mrs. Dew kept one servant, -a cook; Mary worked in the house and in the garden. - -The Dews, mother and daughter, knew that Mark was a writer. Mrs. Dew, -however, considered literary work not quite "genteel." When Mark said -to her: "You know, Mrs. Dew, that I'm an author," she sniffed and -replied: "I didn't think you liked it mentioned." - -It is curious and instructive to trace any friendship to its source. -Mark had a character in his book not unlike Mary. The reviewers of his -first novel agreed that Mark drew men with a firm touch; his women, on -the other hand, were unconvincing, artificial, idealised. It was the -most natural thing that he should say to Mary in his pleasant, friendly -voice: "I s-s-say, Honeydew, if you found yourself in such-and-such a -quandary, what would you do?" - -Mary answered this first question so simply and convincingly that it led -to many others. Mark ignored her sex, talking to her as he talked to -Pynsent and Corrance. - -"Such a lot depends upon the success of this book," he told her. -"Journalism means bread-and-scrape, at best cakes and ale, but I'm -hungering for the nectar and ambrosia of Literature. I feel my power -with the men, but with the women--I grope. What I don't know about your -delightful sex, Mary, would fill an encyclopædia." - -He eyed Mary with wrinkled irritability as a type of composite -womanhood. After all, he reflected, "Judy O'Grady and the Colonel's -lady are sisters under their skins!" Mary was a bridge by which a poor -ignorant man might cross the gulf which separates the sexes. _The Songs -of the Angels_ was a love story. He submitted the plot to Mary, who -confounded him by an apt suggestion. - -"By Jove, Honeydew, you know all about it. I suppose you've had half a -dozen lovers?" - -Mary blushed. - -"Only Albert Batley." - -He spared her confusion, but Mrs. Dew supplied details. Albert Batley -had a nice growing business, as a contractor, in and about Weybridge, -where houses were popping up like mushrooms in a night. Mrs. Dew -fretfully complained that Mary did not know her own mind. Albert, it -appeared, was quite willing to accept a mother-in-law as a permanent -guest, if Mary would only accept him. "But naturally I'm not -considered," she concluded, in that querulous whine which penetrated so -far. - -"Now, Mrs. Dew," Mark replied, "that won't do with me. Mary is as good -as gold and your faithful slave." - -"She won't have me long, Mr. Samphire. I'd like to see her settled, -before I die." - -Mark had met Albert, and been much entertained by him. Without wasting -time in superfluous verbiage, Mr. Batley had given Mark to understand -that he was ready to buy a wedding-ring, not to mention other trinkets, -as soon as Mary gave him the word. If ever man was deeply, inextricably -in Cupid's toils, Mr. Batley was he. _À propos_ of this Mark said one -day: - -"You see, Honeydew, when a man is in love, he knows it." - -"It works the same way with a woman," said Mary. "Only more so." - -"Eh?" said Mark. - -Mary explained that a girl really and truly in love was of necessity -aware of her condition, because the fermentation, so to speak, took -place in the bottle, instead of in the barrel with the bung out. "With -men," she concluded, "it often bubbles away." - -Mark detected a note of pain. - -"My poor little Honeydew," he said, with warm sympathy. "You have -suffered. Some day you must tell me about it." - -"I cared for a man," she murmured, "who cared nothing for me; but that's -over and done with." Then she added, blushing: "Albert knows all about -it, and he says he doesn't mind." - -"There's no chance of the other----" - -"No, no," Mary interrupted. "He married." - -"You will make Albert very happy," said Mark; "and you will be happy -yourself." - -"I am happy now," she replied with conviction. - -Mark said no more; but Mary's words gave him pause. She called herself -happy. Happy--in what? Only one answer was possible. Inasmuch as she -had given in fullest measure to others, happiness had been given to her. - - - - - *CHAPTER XXX* - - *A NOTE OF INTERROGATION* - - -The Samphires returned to Cadogan Place in November. It was now settled -that Archibald should take the Basilica whenever it was finished, but -the world knew nothing of this till after Christmas, when there appeared -paragraphs in the papers controlled by Conquest. One of these caught -the eye of Betty, and she took it to her husband, with the direct -question: "Are you thinking of leaving St. Anne's?" - -He replied with a certain air of restraint: "Yes." - -"Why?" - -"My dearest, I can do better work there than here. I had not meant to -speak about it to you--yet. Lord Vauxhall has paid me a very great -compliment." - -"What sort of compliment has he paid me? Did he ask you to keep so -important a matter from your wife?" - -"I so understood him." - -"And your word is pledged?" - -"Yes." - -"Has he offered you more than you receive here?" - -"We shall be richer by some hundreds a year." - -"I am sorry," said Betty, with heightened colour. "Lord Vauxhall is -shrewd. Had you seen fit to consult me, I should have implored you to -remain where you are. Money is no object to you." - -"True. But preferment----" - -"Preferment! Promotion! That implies service. You have only been here -eighteen months. There will be gossip about this." - -"As if I cared for gossip." - -"We will say no more about it," said Betty; "but I tell you frankly that -I am hurt!" - -She turned and left the room. That he should not have trusted her was -hard to be borne; yet later she made allowances for him. Doubtless, -Lord Vauxhall had insisted upon secrecy. Her husband's sense of honour -had closed his lips. She had been unjust, unkind, a disloyal wife. She -had even insulted him, hinting that an increase of income had lured him -from duty. At this point she bathed her eyes, arranged her hair, and -ran downstairs to beg pardon and entreat forgiveness. Archibald was -magnanimous. - -"You have shown the right feeling, dear Betty, which I knew you -possessed. I am acting according to my lights." - -Next day the Rector of St. Anne's wired to Mark to come to town; Mark -replied that he had had a bad bout of influenza, in those days a new and -virulent disease. Archibald, nervous about his Lenten sermons but -laughing to scorn the possibility of catching influenza, went down to -Weybridge in the afternoon. He found Mark looking pale and thin, but -otherwise in good spirits, and on the high road to recovery. - -"You're a valiant man to visit me. This confounded disease is so -infectious. You laugh? You'll cry if you get it! I've been as weak as -a baby. If it had not been for Honeydew----" - -He spoke enthusiastically of all his nurse had done for him. Archibald -nodded absently, turning over in his mind certain possible themes which -he wished Mark to consider. - -"Yes, yes," he interrupted. "She did what she could, I make no doubt." - -"She's one of the very best," cried Mark. "I say--it was awfully good -of you, old Archie, to run down here. I expect work has piled up." - -"It has; it has. I want to speak to you about that." He paused for a -moment, as a smile flickered across Mark's lips. Archibald, Mark was -reflecting, had an axe to grind. He had not left home merely to visit a -brother laid by the heels. Suddenly his feeling which had flamed grew -chill. He listened perfunctorily to some introductory remarks. - -"My Lenten sermons are giving me grave anxiety; I find that something -out of the common is expected. If you will bear with me, I'll walk over -the--er--course which I've marked out." - -"Cut along!" said Mark. - -Archibald winced. Mark had no sense of the fitness of things. He spoke -at times as if he (the Rector of St. Anne's) were a boy in his teens. -Perhaps a word in season might---- - -"_À propos_," he said, with dignity, "don't you think, my dear fellow, -that it is time for you to put away certain childish--you will pardon -the adjective--certain childish expressions. It's absurd to talk of a -man of my weight--'cutting along'...." - -"True! You can stroll if you like, as the placid Pecksniff strolled. -You have put on weight, Archie." - -Archibald, indeed, was broader and thicker about the neck and shoulders. -He had lost the look of youth; the hair on the top of his head was -thinner; his eyes were less clear; his fine skin had become redder and -coarser in texture. - -"I carry great burdens," he replied. "Perhaps I ought not to ask you to -share them." - -Mark responded instantly, touched by this unexpected solicitude: "I'm -all right." - -"You might come to us for a week. Betty will nurse you." - -"That is impossible. I must finish my book." - -"Oh, yes--your book. I am looking forward to reading that. But I wish -you would turn your talents to something more serious than fiction. -I----" - -"Shall we talk about your work?" - -Archibald smiled, but Mark fidgeted and frowned, as carefully culled -platitudes fell upon his ear. Archibald was indeed strolling placidly -down familiar paths to the great festival of Christendom. The very name -of Easter had always quickened Mark's pulses. Hitherto he had hastened -to the feast, the most joyful of pilgrims. Now he was shut out; or -rather, the door stood wide open, but he dared not pass it. The ban lay -upon him--and upon how many thousands? His imagination flared, -revealing a multitude staring with yearning eyes at tables spread for -others. Archibald, in his silky tones, was enumerating celestial joys. -His words flowed like a pellucid stream. - -"What are you smiling at?" he asked abruptly. - -"I beg your pardon," Mark replied, "but you remind me of an alderman -reciting to a starving mob the names of the dishes to which he and his -corporation are about to sit down." - -Archibald had wit enough to see and feel the point. He saw, too, that -Mark was moved. - -"You have an idea. I should like to hear it, although----" - -"Although I am without the pale, you would say. Archie, if you would -descend from your pulpit and walk in the shadows with me for a little -while--and if then you could set forth my doubts and perplexities, how -many, think you, of your congregation would not say: 'I, too, have -wandered in those blind alleys.' And having pierced the crust of their -indifference with your sympathy and insight, if then you could transmit -the light which seems to have always blazed on you, this Easter would -indeed be a Day of Resurrection to hundreds who now lie cold and dead." -He paused, gazed keenly at Archibald, and continued: "But you--you -cannot do that. You have not trod the wilderness...." He covered his -face with his hand. - -"It is true," said Archibald, in a low voice, "that I do lack an -experience common, I fear, to hundreds of my parishioners. And if I -cannot open their hearts, and you can, lend me your key." - -Mark was silent. Then, as before, the sense that he had envied and -hated this once dearly beloved brother made him generous. - -"I will write down and send what is in my mind. No--don't thank me!" - -He began to talk briskly of other things. Presently Mary came in and -reminded him to take his medicine. Archibald had not seen her before. -Twice during the previous summer Betty and he had come to Weybridge, but -each day had been spent upon the river. Mark went into his bedroom, and -Mary disappeared, to reappear a moment later with a tea-tray. Archibald -was alone with her for a couple of minutes. She arranged the tea-things -with quick, deft fingers, displaying the admirable lines of her figure -as she moved to and fro, now standing upright, now bending down. In the -soft light of the spring afternoon she looked charming, with the -inexpressible freshness of youth and health. Archibald addressed her. - -"You are," he was about to say "Mary," but changed it to "Miss Dew." - -"Oh, no, I am Mary," she replied, smiling. "Your brother calls me -'Honeydew.'" - -"My brother calls you a ministering angel." - -His soft voice had that fluid quality which percolates everywhere. He -meant to be polite, nothing more; he wished to thank a pretty girl who -had nursed a brother: but to Mary his words had other significance; his -glance became an indictment, his tone inquisitorial. Without reason, -her cheeks flamed. Archibald turned aside, murmuring a commonplace. -When he looked at her, after a discreet interval, she was composed but -pale. She went out of the room and did not return. - -"Um!" said Archibald to himself, "I must speak to Betty about this." - -Not, however, till late did he find an opportunity. Harry Kirtling was -dining in Cadogan Place, and loath to say good-night. The young fellow -had crushed a muscle of his leg out hunting, and had come up to London -to see a famous surgeon, who prescribed gentle walking exercise and -massage. Harry complained bitterly of the hardship of spending a -fortnight away from his kennels, but was consoled by Betty, who promised -to entertain him. Despite his injury, he looked astonishingly well, and -brought with him from Cumberland a breezy atmosphere of mountain and -moor which Betty inhaled gratefully. He had managed to make it plain -that he was still her devoted slave--a tribute which the best of women -accept without scruple. And he had asked her advice upon a score of -matters connected with Kirtling. - -When Harry had taken his clean, lean body out of her drawing-room, Betty -turned rather impatiently to Archibald. - -"Has anything happened? You have been so glum. Surely you do not -resent my asking Harry to dine without consulting you?" - -"Harry?" His tone was heavily contemptuous. "Harry can waste as much of -your time as you like to give him. Yes; something has happened." - -He told his story. - -"I don't believe it." - -"The girl is attractive. Her mother, I am told, reckons herself a lady. -Something must be done. I give you my word that I am not mistaken." - -"I don't believe it," Betty repeated. - -None the less, she did believe it. Here again Archibald's voice -beguiled her understanding. He had acquired that power, invaluable to a -clergyman or a barrister, of making every statement sound as if it were -irrefutable fact. - -"I went down to Weybridge to see Mark on important business, and for a -quarter of an hour he sang this girl's praises. It is obvious that he -wished to impress me, to make me see with his eyes." - -"What is she like?" Betty asked, shortly. - -Archibald described her with a deliberation which annoyed his wife. - -"The girl is very comely, my dear; alluring, many men would call her. A -seductive figure--round, but not too plump; the complexion of Hebe." - -"That's enough," said Betty. - -"I tried to do the girl justice," replied her husband with dignity. -"Personally speaking, her type of beauty does not appeal to me, but as a -man of the world I cannot deny that it may appeal irresistibly to -others!" - -"You call yourself a man of the world," said Betty suddenly. "You do -not preach to us as a man of the world. If this girl loves Mark, if he -has made her love him, you ought to be the first to urge him to marry -her. From a pagan point of view such a marriage may seem disastrous, -but from the Christian's----" - -She confronted him with heaving bosom and flaming eyes. Her agitation -and excitement amazed him. But he grasped the essential fact that he had -blundered, that it might be difficult to retrieve the blunder. He was -aware that some of his sermons moved his wife to the core, for she had -told him so a score of times. He was also aware, but as yet in less -degree, that as mere man he had aroused without adequately satisfying -her expectations. - -"If you choose to misinterpret me----" he began. - -"But I don't choose. I ask you, you the preacher and teacher, to make -plain a puzzle which you, not I, have propounded. Let us admit what you -tell me. Heaven knows that Mark has lived a lonely and forlorn life. -Never has he complained to me; but I have guessed, I have felt -that--that--beneath the mask he chooses to wear a devil tears him. That -devil drove him from the Church. Well, we know that misery loves -company. He has talked to me about this girl. She is a plucky -creature, like Mark, inasmuch as she faces adversity with a smile. She -has a selfish, querulous mother to whom she is devoted. Such a girl -would appeal to such a man. And now you tell me that she is attractive. -It is significant that Mark never mentioned that to me. I take back -what I said. I believe you are right. Mark _has_ learned to love this -girl, and she loves him. And what are you going to do about it? And in -what capacity? As a man of the world? Or as a priest of the Most High -God? - -"I beg you to compose yourself." - -"You can compose me by telling the truth----" - -"You dare to imply that----" - -"I dare be honest with my husband. I have not been happy for some -weeks, and you must have noticed it. Sometimes, particularly of late, I -look for the man I married, and I find somebody else. Let me finish! I -am too conscious of my own shortcomings not to be aware that between -most husbands and wives lie troubled waters only to be passed by mutual -faith and patience. Why, happiness is faith; and women, I often think, -are on the whole happier than men, because their faith is stronger. A -woman can believe in her child, in her husband, in her God. Well, as -years passed, my faith in God grew dim, and you restored my sight. But -now, somehow, I no longer see so clearly. Is it my fault or yours? I -listen to your sermons, and then I come back to this luxurious house, -and somebody tells me that you are _persona grata_ at Windsor--that you -are sure to be made a bishop, as if preferment were salvation; and----" - -"My dear!" said Archibald, "it is late, and I have half a dozen letters -to write. You have been talking in an unrestrained manner. You are not -yourself." - -He left the room, erect, impassive, master of himself, but not of her. -She gazed defiantly after him, clenching her slender fingers. Intuition -told her that this man was trying to serve God and Mammon, but when he -came to bed an hour later, she owned herself humbly in the wrong. Again -Archibald was magnanimous, assuring his dearest Betty that already he -had forgiven and forgotten her offence. The "forgotten" sounded -patronising. As if he, with his memory, could forget! She lay awake, -perplexed and dismayed, for she knew that Mark was still so dear to her -that the thought of his caring for any other woman was insupportable. - - - - - *CHAPTER XXXI* - - *BETTY SEES DANGER SIGNALS* - - -Second thoughts constrained Archibald not to interfere with Mark. He -told himself that he had been alarmed unnecessarily. Mark was in no -position to marry a penniless girl; the infatuation--if infatuation had -been aroused--would subside, the more quickly, doubtless, if -undisturbed. Moreover, he was too busy to give affairs other than his -own more than a passing thought. Four days after the visit to Weybridge -he received from Mark a huge envelope filled with rough notes and -suggestions for a course of Lenten sermons. With these (and -supplementary to them) were a score of sheets of foolscap setting forth -the phases of modern unbelief, or want of belief. Archibald read this -record with a keen appreciation of its dramatic value, but--it would be -unfair to suppress the fact--touched to issues higher than those -involved in rhetoric. His extraordinary "flair" had not been at fault. -Mark had given him more than ideas: insight into a human heart. And -whatever he saw Archibald could describe with emphasis and effect. At -once the plan and purpose of his sermons were made clear. He would take -infidelity as his theme, and treat it synthetically, putting together -all forms of unbelief, and exhibiting them as the root from which evil -sprang and flourished. Faithlessness was the common denominator of -suffering and sin. He remembered what Betty had said about happiness in -women being dependent on faith, and told her that wittingly or -unwittingly she had hit a truth. But if he expected her to hit another, -he was disappointed. She said quietly that she had drawn a bow at a -venture. - -About this time she paid a visit to Weybridge, Mark still pleading work -as an excuse for not coming to Cadogan Place. Archibald awaited her -report with awakened interest. Betty told her husband that Mark was -certainly madly in love--with his heroine. - -"And he tells me," she concluded triumphantly, "that Mary, who seems a -nice modest girl, is going to marry a Mr. Batley. When _The Songs of -the Angels_ is sent off to his publisher, he will come to us." - -About mid-Lent the novel was despatched to town. After a few days a -letter came from McIntyre, accepting the MS. and offering better terms -than Mark had expected--fifty pounds upon the day of publication and a -royalty upon a sliding scale. An American publisher, Cyrus Otway, who -had large dealings with McIntyre's house, happened to be in England. He -offered Mark similar terms for the American rights. Mark was jubilant, -but McIntyre predicted limited sales. - -"It will be well received," he said. "My readers have no doubt on that -point, but we do not expect it to be popular. You have an admirable -style, but your subject--eh?--is sublimated: over the heads of many. -And the story is sad. The public likes a happy ending. Other things -being equal, the story with the happy ending sells four to one at least. -Mr. Cyrus Otway would like to meet you." Mark lunched with Cyrus Otway, -and was entertained handsomely. - -"I'll be frank with you, Mr. Samphire," said the Boston publisher, a -thin, pale, carefully dressed man, with a typical New England manner as -prim and precise as a spinster's, and very bright, restless eyes. "This -is an experiment on our part--a leap in the dark. Our people, sir, know -a good thing when they see it. But the difficulty lies in making them -see it. Have you done any dramatic work? You have not. Ah, there's a -goldfield! And, if I may be allowed to say so, I think that you would -strike rich ore there. You have dramatic power and a re--markable -insight into character...." - -Mark repeated this conversation to Betty. He was staying at Cadogan -Place and in high spirits. The drudgery of hack-writing no longer -impended. Already he was in a position to do the work he liked best -where and when and how he pleased. - -"A hundred pounds is not much," said Betty doubtfully. - -"It will last me a year," said Mark. - -Meantime, Archibald's Lenten sermons were filling St. Anne's every -Sunday and exciting widespread comment. Mark had seen and revised the -first three before he left Weybridge. The others were prepared and -written out under Mark's eye in the comfortable library at Cadogan -Place. The Rector of St. Anne's made no scruple of accepting what help -his brother could give him. Mark honoured all cheques, reflecting that -this was a labour of love, which made for his happiness as well as -Betty's. It never struck him that he was compounding a moral felony. -Such knowledge came later; but, at the moment, had any person--Lady -Randolph, for instance--pointed out what he was doing, he would have -indignantly (and honestly) repudiated his own actions. - -Betty listened to every word of these sermons and told herself she was -the wife of an evangelist. None the less, she did not ignore the fact -that a sharp distinction lay between Archibald as Man and Archibald as -Priest. One day she said to Mark, "Somehow one does not expect a great -preacher to lose his temper because the cook has sent up cod without -oyster sauce." - -"Oh, his little weaknesses ought to endear him to such a woman as you -are. He tells us each Sunday what a man ought to be, and on weekdays he -shows us what a man is. A preacher without his little infirmities would -be as uninteresting as--as cod without oyster sauce." - -After Easter, Mark returned to Weybridge. Betty missed him so much that -she had a fit of nervous depression which lasted two days. She made a -resolution to devote herself to parochial work, to begin a course of -stiff reading: pamphlets dealing with the better housing of the poor, -and kindred subjects. - -Mark was now absorbed in writing another novel, and in the correction of -proofs. _The Songs of the Angels_ appeared simultaneously in New York -and London upon the first of May. Mark wrote to Betty that he had never -felt in such good health, or more sanguine about the future. He was -living in the open air, and had the appetite and complexion of a gipsy. - -Archibald, meanwhile, was working hard on committees, hand-in-glove with -a ducal philanthropist, whose music-loving duchess declared that Mr. -Samphire had the best tenor voice in the kingdom. In return for this -high compliment, the Rector of St. Anne's was persuaded to sing at the -duchess's small dinner parties; and this led to a widening of a circle -of acquaintance, which now included some very great people indeed. -Betty found herself dining out three days in the week, and was amazed to -discover that her husband enjoyed this mild dissipation. As a celebrity -he began to be courted wherever he went, and his photograph embellished -certain shops. Young women entreated him to write in their albums. - -The world said that Chrysostom was a good fellow and still unspoiled, -but his wife noted an ever-increasing complacency and compliancy which -gave her pause. He had begged her, it will be remembered, to keep at -arm's length certain frisky dames whom she had met at Newmarket and -Monte Carlo, when she was under Lady Randolph's wing. These ladies were -of no particular rank or position. But when Lady Cheyne, notorious all -over Europe before and after she married her marquess, called upon Mrs. -Samphire, Archibald insisted upon Betty returning the call and accepting -an invitation to dine at Cheyne House. Betty protested, but he said -blandly: "I have reason to know that Lady Cheyne is an indefatigable -worker in Chelsea. She will be a parishioner of ours when we go to the -Basilica. Personally I do not believe half the stories they tell about -her." - -"I should hope not," said Betty. "If a quarter be true, she is dyed -scarlet." - -Often she talked to Lady Randolph, but never with the candour of bygone -days. Intuition told her that her old friend had no great liking for -Archibald, although she rejoiced at his success. - -"You were at Cheyne House last night," said Lady Randolph, with the -twinkle in her eye which Betty knew so well. "I dare swear the dinner, -my dear, was better than the company." - -"Archie says the dinner was perfection." Then she flushed slightly, -remembering that her husband ought to know, for he had spared but few -dishes. "Have you read Mark's new book?" - -"I have," said Lady Randolph. - -At once Betty began to praise the _Songs_. It was to be inferred from -her sparkling eyes and eager gestures that Mark's success had become -vital to her. Lady Randolph drew conclusions which she kept to herself. -But that night she said to Lord Randolph: "I saw Betty Samphire this -afternoon. It is as I feared. Her parson, the man beneath the surplice, -never inspired anything warmer than respect." - -"Ay, say you so? Dear me--that's a pity. But there's stout stuff under -the surplice." - -"Stout?" Lady Randolph smiled. "You have hit the word, Randolph. -Stout--and growing stouter. And some of the stuff is--stuffing." - -"My dear, you are severe. _Who drives fat horses should himself be -fat_. I have noticed that your good round parson is the most popular; -your lean fellow makes everybody uncomfortable. Archibald is thought -highly of. He is approachable; he has great gifts of organisation; he -is liked by Nonconformists and Roman Catholics." - -"No doubt," replied Lady Randolph impatiently. "In a word he can lunch -at Lambeth and dine at Cheyne House, but I am thinking of Betty. A -sword impends." - -In a vague, mysterious way Betty herself was conscious of danger. As a -girl the pageant of the London season had excited her. Her -sensibilities, too keen, her adaptability, her faculty for enjoyment, -inevitably were overstrained during those feverish months between April -and August. When she married a clergyman she told herself that she was -out of the rapids and at rest in a placid backwater. Now, -involuntarily, she had been sucked into the current again. And -curiously intermingled with the feeling of apprehension was a thrill. -At times the desire to let herself go, to fling herself, like a Mænad, -into the gay crowds, to be reckless, as they were, became almost -irresistible. The devil-may-care temperament of the De Courcys set her -pulses a-tingling. But so far she had restrained these longings. And -then one night, in late June, Harry Kirtling met her at a ducal house to -which Archibald deemed it a duty to go. A splendid entertainment had -been provided. A famous prima donna and a brilliant violinist enchanted -lovers of music; a French comedian travelled from Paris to recite; minor -luminaries twinkled round these fixed stars. A few choice spirits, -however, had withdrawn to a small room set apart for cards, wherein a -young guardsman had opened a bank at baccarat. This was in flagrant bad -taste, for both host and hostess detested gambling. Yet it lent a spice -to the adventure. Lady Cheyne told her cavalier that she felt as if she -were meeting a lover in a church. When the fun was getting furious, -Betty and Kirtling came in on the heels of curiosity. Betty drew back, -but Harry held her arm. A moment later he was recognised and invited to -try his luck. Always easy-going and thoughtless, he pressed forward, -half dragging Betty with him. Lady Cheyne looked up, saw Betty, and -screamed with laughter. Her mocking laughter roused the devil in Betty. -She had not gambled since her marriage; and gambling in all its forms -was regarded by Archibald as a deadly sin. Upon the Sunday succeeding -Derby Day he had preached upon this very subject. He had shown that -betting had become a national vice; he had described with dramatic force -its moral effect upon servants and children. This was one of a series -of sermons upon the sins of the day, in the preparation of which the -Rector of St. Anne's needed no assistance from others: culling his facts -from pamphlets and Blue Books, and marshalling them with the skill which -comes from long practice. To such sermons Betty lent an indifferent ear. -They were of the Gradgrind type: too didactic, too florid, too obvious, -to appeal to the intellectual members of his congregation. He preached -in the same Cambyses vein upon drunkenness and gluttony. When Lady -Cheyne laughed, Betty was vouchsafed a vision of her husband as she had -seen him ten minutes before, sharing a _pâté_ with a be-diamonded -countess who admitted frankly that she lived to sup. - -"You must not peach, Mrs. Samphire!" cried Lady Cheyne, turning up her -impudent nose. - -For a moment the game was stopped, and those present stared at Betty. - -"Peach?" echoed Harry, who had certainly taken more than his allowance -of champagne. "Not she! Come on, Betty, let us venture a sovereign!" -He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a five-pound note. -"Halves?" Betty nodded. "When it's gone, we'll stop--eh?" - -Betty nodded again, beginning to laugh. One of the young men offered -her his chair. - -"You play," said Harry. "I'm such an unlucky beggar." He pushed the -counters which he had received in exchange for his note in front of her. -The dealer picked up the pack in front of him, and began to deal. Up -till then he had won. Now his luck deserted him and fell on Betty. - -"_Tapez sur la veine_," said Harry. "Pile it on, Betty!" - -By this time Betty was sorry she had sat down. In the hope of losing -what she had won already, she did pile it on, the banker making no -objection. But still she won, and won, and won. And then, in the -middle of the noise and laughter, the host walked in--and out! But the -expression on his face put an instant stop to the proceedings. The -young guardsman, looking exceedingly foolish, pulled out a pencil and -began computing his losses to Betty. - -"I make it seventy-five pound," he said. "I'll send it to you -to-morrow, Mrs. Samphire." - -"No, no," said Betty. - -"Pooh," said Harry. "You forget that I'm your partner. We'll have a -spree together with this ill-gotten gold." He laughed, and the others -joined in, but Betty smiled dismally. All London would be prattling of -this escapade within a few hours. - -Going home in the brougham she told Archibald what had passed. The -light inside the carriage was dim, but she felt rather than saw his face -stiffen into amazed displeasure. - -"And the Duke came in?" - -She understood from his tone that being caught was not the least part of -the offence. - -"I have said that I am very sorry." - -"You have made me ridiculous," said Archibald in a tone she had not -heard from him before. - -"You will make yourself ridiculous," she retorted, "if you take this too -seriously." - -He exclaimed hotly: "I would not have had it happen for five hundred -pounds." - -The opportunity was irresistible to murmur: "The moral obliquity of it -seems to have escaped you." - -"What? You laugh? You sneer? This is too much, too much." - -"Much too much," Betty answered disdainfully. "I said I was sorry. -Well, I'm nothing of the kind--now. I'm glad. And I shall play again, -if I choose, and back horses, as I used to do, when I was a happy -sinner." - -To this Archibald made no reply, and Betty told herself that she was a -shrew. As the brougham stopped she said in a low voice: "Archie, I -apologise." - -Her husband, in a voice colder than liquid air, replied: "I accept your -apology, Betty, but let me beg that nothing of this sort occurs again." - - - - - *CHAPTER XXXII* - - *BETTY MAKES GOOD RESOLUTIONS* - - -During July a deanery in the West of England fell vacant and was offered -to Archibald Samphire. Conquest, acting on a hint from Lord Vauxhall, -came post haste to Cadogan Place. It happened that he was shown into -the drawing-room, and it also happened that on the balcony Betty sat in -a chair, fast asleep, with a dull novel on her lap. The balcony was a -pretty place, protected from the sun by a striped awning and filled with -palms and plants. - -Conquest looked more enormous than usual in a light grey frock-coat, -open in front, revealing a vast extent of white waistcoat. His eyes -sparkled keenly beneath the heavy black brows. Archibald found himself -shirking these piercing eyes, as he explained that his library was -filled with a deputation of working men, from whom he had escaped with -difficulty. Conquest nodded impatiently as Archie's polished periods -fell softly upon the air heavy with the heat of summer and the perfume -of many flowers. - -"Yes, yes," he said; "I'm obliged. I hate to be kept waiting. About -this deanery--hey?" - -"I am giving the matter earnest consideration." - -"You can't afford to take it," said Conquest abruptly. "If you go -there, you'll stay there, mark my words! That'll be the end of you. I -told Vauxhall you'd too much common sense to chuck him. If it were a -bishopric, of course, Vauxhall would not stand in the way. I can't pick -my words. And by this time you and I understand each other." - -He spread out his broad, pudgy hands in a gesture familiar to Archibald. - -"How did you hear?" - -"It's my business to hear things. I've a hundred eyes and a thousand -ears. Well?" - -"It's great preferment." - -"You will be 'Mr. Dean' of course. But you'll be out of sight and out -of mind. How did you get this offer? By being on the spot. I'll say a -word more, only you mustn't give me away. You met the Prime Minister at -Belgrave House the other day. My friend, he had heard you preach a -certain sermon at Westchester, but, by gad! he'd forgotten you." - -"Forgotten me?" exclaimed Archibald. "Why, he came up as soon as the -ladies left the dining-room, and was most civil." - -"He can be civil when he likes," said Conquest drily. "All the same, he -had forgotten your name; he did not know what you were doing. The -Duchess, who is a capital friend of yours and a good creature although -she does sniff, sang your praises for five minutes. And that did the -trick. Of course, he made inquiries; he satisfied himself that you are -a corking good worker and a discreet fellow, and all that, but, bless my -soul, aren't there hundreds of such? Lord--yes. But they don't dine at -Belgrave House. Now, look here, I've no time to waste. I came here to -do you a friendly turn. You will gain far more than you will lose by -refusing this so-called preferment. And I'll see that your -self-sacrifice is duly recorded. Trust me for that. You think you've -made a mark. So you have; so you have; but you must deepen the -impression. You've a magnificent voice, but, man--it won't carry four -hundred miles. If you want it to be heard by the right people you must -preach in a London pulpit." - -"My dear Conquest, I really----" - -"Pooh, pooh! You don't like me the less because I talk straight when no -one is listening. Now--stand and deliver a monosyllable. Are you going -to chuck Vauxhall? Yes--or No?" - -"I have no intention of chucking Lord Vauxhall or anybody else." - -"Right. That means No. Good-bye. You'll see a leader in next -Saturday's _Mercury_ which will warm the cockles of your heart." - -Before Archibald could reply, Conquest was out of the room. For a big -man he could move--when he so chose--with amazing quickness and -lightness. He disappeared, leaving a vacuum which Betty filled. As -Archibald turned, after ringing the bell for a servant to show out -Conquest, he saw his wife standing in the window, framed by the ferns -and palms. - -"Betty!" he exclaimed. - -"Why didn't you kick that--that beast downstairs? I heard what he said. -He insulted you. I was asleep outside. His voice woke me. For your -sake, not mine, I resisted the temptation to come forward, and--oh, I -could have flown at him!" - -Her bosom heaved; her eyes sparkled. Archibald stared at her dully, -wondering what words would meet this emergency. - -"Have you nothing to say?" she cried. - -"My dear," he said, "you do not understand." - -"Then explain--explain!" - -"Conquest means well. He is our friend; a rough diamond, I grant you, -but he means well. He is our friend." - -He repeated the words, sensible that they were inadequate, yet unable to -find others. - -"Save us from such friends!" - -"I had almost decided to send a refusal." - -"Why--why, only last night you were on edge to accept. You gave me a -dozen _pros_ against my two or three _cons_." - -"And perhaps," said Archibald, in what Betty sometimes called his -"antiseptic" manner, "those _cons_ outweighed the _pros_, although -numerically less. Conquest takes your view of the matter. He feels that -I have undertaken a task here in Chelsea, which cannot be abandoned. -He----" - -"He tells you to _reculer pour mieux sauter_," said Betty derisively, -"to refuse a deanery and accept a bishopric later! He--the apostle of -expediency, of diplomacy, of compromise! Well--I do not judge him. But -he counts you to be of his own opinion. He brands you as a time-server, -a worldling, a parasite. And you let him do it--and shake hands with -him! And, on next Saturday--you will read a leader in the _Mercury_ -which will warm the cockles of your heart." - -"Protest would have been wasted," said Archibald. "If you will excuse -me, my dear, I will go downstairs. The deputation is waiting for me." - -"One moment," said Betty. "I have something to say which must be -said--here and now. Last night you spoke eloquently enough of that west -country and the life we might lead there. And I--I," she faltered and -blushed, "I was not honest when I urged you to stay here. I am drifting -into the old hateful whirlpool from which I thought I had escaped for -ever. I pictured to myself life in a cathedral close--stagnant, -dun-coloured, full of uninteresting duties--and I recoiled from it. I -smelled that old smell of cleaned gloves at all the parties. I thought -of myself, not of you. But now, I beseech you to consider what London -means to both of us--to you and to me. And if Mr. Conquest is right, if -your sacred profession is a trade, if great success in it can be -achieved only by such self-advertisement as he thinks justifiable, is -such success worth having to a Christian gentleman?" - -Archibald frowned. Then, feeling that his powers of speech had returned -to him, he answered at length, citing certain prelates whose piety, -sincerity, and humility were above reproach. Conquest took the -worldling's view. He was more than half pagan, and he posed openly as a -scoffer and a cynic. Still, he was right in contending that the great -places in the Church's gift were held by those whom a wide knowledge of -the world had equipped. Such knowledge was not to be gleaned in a -cathedral close lying in the heart of a sleepy west country town. He -hoped that his dearest Betty would not misunderstand him when he -confessed frankly that he did aspire to the highest positions, not for -what they might hold of honour or emolument, but for the power they -conferred of doing widespread good to others. Warming to his theme, he -flooded Betty's perplexed mind with scores of ready-made -phrases--phrases laboriously accumulated: stones, so to speak, with -which he had fortified his own position. - -"Oh--I am muddled, muddled," said Betty. - -"I have been muddled myself," her husband admitted. "Modern life must -perplex and distress the wisest. And all of us at times feel a desire -to get out of the hurly-burly. Shall I say that last night, feeling -worn out and discouraged, I did long for the quiet and peace of that -west-country deanery; but this morning--now," he expanded his chest, "I -am myself again." - -He smiled assuringly and left the room. - -When he had gone, Betty went back to the chair among the ferns and -palms. She tried to go over what her husband had said, to look at the -matter fairly from his point of view. But the effort was greater than -she could compass. She felt as if she had been submerged in a torrent -of words, and of these words nothing was left--only a sense of -desolation and isolation. - -When she saw Mark a few days later, the article in the _Mercury_ had -been published. Conquest was given to boasting that he could "boom" an -author with such subtlety that none, not even the man himself, suspected -what was being done. The readers of the _Mercury_ rose from the perusal -of the article in question convinced that a seasonable and well-deserved -tribute had been paid to a saintly and self-sacrificing preacher of -Christ's gospel. Archibald, reading it, was aware that his cheeks, as -also the cockles of his heart, were very warm indeed. Betty did not -read the article. Mark, however, was full of it, not knowing that -Conquest had written it. - -"The truth is," he told Betty, "the truth is, Betty, that I did not like -his acceptance of the Basilica. It bothered me a good deal. Now this -proves plainly that Archie is above worldly considerations. Not another -man of his age would have refused such an offer." - -Betty asked for news of the _Songs_. - -Of this Mark had nothing very encouraging to tell. The book, handsomely -received by the Press, was in fair demand at the libraries, but less -than two thousand copies had been sold. In America as yet it had not, -so Otway wrote, "caught on." The new novel, _A Soul Errant_, was sure -to be a success. He talked with animation for half an hour, describing -his characters. - -"You live for this," said Betty abruptly. - -"Do you blame me," he answered quickly, "because I make the most of what -is left?" - -"I beg your pardon," she replied. - -Later, she inquired after Mary Dew. - -"She's having a better time of it," Mark declared. "I don't mind telling -you, Betty, that I've tackled her mother. I told her she was a -slave-owner, a despot, and a bully. She took it like a lamb, and things -at Myrtle Cottage are easier, I can assure you." - -"And Albert what's-his-name, who is going to marry your paragon----" - -"Albert Batley is making money. He has a big building contract near -Surbiton. He will give Honeydew all she wants, and deserves." - -"You know nothing of women, Mark." - -"So the critics say--confound 'em; but I tell you, Betty, I know a good -woman when I see her." - -"There you are; displaying your ignorance. You talk in that foolish -masculine manner of good women, as if good women were in a class by -themselves, and different from all others. Why good and evil are such -relative terms that sometimes I can't tell one from the other." - -"Then you're a miserable sinner, and blind to boot. Good, the genuine -article, can never be mistaken for evil, although evil, I grant you, may -counterfeit good. Bless me! I've been puzzled a score of times by -sinners, but I never mistook a saint." - -"How many have you met?" - -"More than you think," he replied gravely. - -"And where do you place me? Among the sheep or the goats?" - -Mark wondered why her lips trembled. She looked tired and pale, much -paler than usual. - -"What a question!" he said lightly. - -"I'll answer it myself, Mark. I have an extraordinary appreciation of -good. There are times when I have soared--yes, that's the word--into -another world. I had dreams, visions if you like, when I was a girl, -but the most vivid experience of the kind came upon me unexpectedly--in -Westchester Cathedral, upon the day Archie preached his sermon. I -grasped Something that morning which cannot be described, but It was -real substance. I grasped It, and I let It go. Since I have wondered -what It was. Perhaps I--touched--God." - -"Ah!" said Mark. "Go on, go on!" - -She saw that his eyes were shining, that the expression which she had -missed from his face since her marriage had come back. - -"Go--on," she sighed. "I am going back. Can you help me?" - -She turned to him with a pathetic gesture of entreaty. The light faded -in Mark's face. He began to stammer. - -"If I c-c-could----" - -"You believed once. And now your faith is gone! Why? How? You _must_ -tell me." - -In her excitement she laid her hand upon his wrist, clutching it -fiercely. He felt that her fingers were burning, that the fire in them -was fluid, that in another moment the flame would flare in him, -consuming them both. He rose, releasing his wrist with violence. - -"I c-c-can't tell you that." He moved half a dozen paces from her, -before he turned. When he spoke again his voice was quite steady. -"Faith oozes from some people imperceptibly: there is a steady drain of -which they may be unaware, but my faith left me in an instant. It may -come back as suddenly. It may be redeemed. I have thought sometimes -that faith is God's franchise which is given freely to all, and taken -away from the unworthy. And once taken away, it is never given again, -never. It must be ransomed--paid for." - -As he spoke he was aware that at any cost to his own feelings the talk -must be turned into safer channels. His first impulse had been one of -unreasoning fear and horror. When she touched him, he lost for a -terrible moment his self-control. Love is a despot whose lightest word -may make the bravest coward. Seeing her distress, hearing her quavering -voice, feeling her trembling fingers, he had divined his own weakness. - -"Paid for?" She echoed the words. "How?" - -"By sacrifice," he answered slowly. "By blood sacrifice." - - -When he had gone, she went to her room and locked the door. Alone, her -face flamed with anger against herself. Had she betrayed her secret? -She could not answer the question. Had he spoken coldly, precisely--on -purpose? Nine women out of ten distrust a man's works, and have absurd -and infantile faith in his words. But Betty had had a surfeit of words -from her husband. Of late, much of her leisure had been wasted in -trying to determine their value. Archibald's works were -self-explanatory. He was indefatigable as parish priest and -philanthropist. Such work could be measured; it lay within a circle, -say the inner circle of the Underground Railway. But his sonorous -phrases, his dogmas and doctrines, were immeasurable: including this -world, past and present, and the world to come. It was natural, -therefore, that finding herself compassless in a sea of sentences, she -would steer by the light of such fixed stars as frequent communions, -charity organisation, the visiting of the sick, and the crusade against -alcohol. In a word, she had come to the conclusion that it did not -matter very much what a man said, but that what he did was vital to his -own welfare and the welfare of others, the true expression of his -character and temperament. Whenever a woman touches the fringe of such -a commonplace, you may be sure that she will watch a man's actions, the -more closely, perhaps, because she has become too heedless of his words. -Betty had seen Mark shrink with a violent effort from her touch; he had -kept out of Cadogan Place during the summer; he had lost faith in -revealed religion. What if these effects were to be traced to one -cause--herself? - -When she was able to think articulately, pleasure in her discovery was -obliterated by pain--the bitter pangs of retrospection. Why had she -doubted him--and herself? By what irony of fate had she given herself -to Archibald? But almost instantly she curbed these unavailing regrets. -The past was irrevocable. What did the future hold for Mark and for -her? One thing was certain: they must meet but rarely, perhaps not at -all. - -And then ensued a struggle, from which she emerged weak indeed, but -triumphant. Once again she was conscious of that sense of detachment, -of looking in spirit upon the flesh; once again a strange giddiness -warned her that only in fancy had she attained to the heights, that the -cliffs were yet to be scaled. - -When she met her husband that afternoon a closer observer than he might -have detected a tenderness in her voice and manner: the first-fruits of -a resolution to do her duty as wife to a good man. That night, when she -said her prayers, she thanked God passionately, because she could esteem -and respect the Rector of St. Anne's. - - - - - *CHAPTER XXXIII* - - *ILLUMINATION* - - -In August the Archibald Samphires moved from Cadogan Place to a house on -the Embankment, which belonged to Lord Vauxhall, and was part of that -property which he was so anxious to populate with the "right kind of -people." The house faced the Thames and contained some charming rooms, -which combined the quaintness and fine proportions of the old Chelsea -houses with such modern luxuries as electric light and radiators. The -house in Cadogan Place had been papered and decorated by a former -tenant, whose taste was severely æsthetic. Betty abhorred the -olive-greens, the dingy browns, the sickly ochres of the Burne-Jones -school. But she had accepted them philosophically, reflecting that -houses in London must be repapered and decorated more often than in the -country. None the less, she sometimes told herself that certain fits of -depression were due to her bilious-coloured walls, and that Babbit's -theories, as set forth by the Squire's widow, were worth consideration. - -Now she had been given a free hand, at a moment when fashion was -changing with Protean swiftness from darkness to light. Rose-red and -yellow, delicate greens, ethereal blues, and white-enamelled woodwork -wooed the fancy of housewives. Betty told Lady Randolph that she was no -longer a woman, but a colour scheme diffusing prismatic tints. - -"The rainbow after the storm." - -Betty glanced up quickly. Did her old friend guess that she had passed -through a storm? Or was it a happy allusion to that frightful -bistre-coloured paper in her bedroom in Cadogan Place? - -"I shall be happy here," she said gravely. - -They were standing in the drawing-room of the new house. The Admiral's -Chippendale furniture was in its place, delicately revealed against -lovely white panelling. The walls were rose-coloured, of a paper whose -texture was as that of brocade. The general effect was fresh and -joyous: vernal in the delicacy of its tints, without a hint of the -_bonbonnière_. Outside, the sun was declining in the west, and the river -ran all golden past the trees and meads of Battersea Park. Some barges, -laden with hay, were gliding by on the ebb-tide. - -"Archie's room will be ready to-morrow," said Betty, "and we ought to be -in the day after. You have all pitied me, but I have enjoyed the dead -season immensely." - -Lady Randolph, who was passing through town on her way to Scotland from -Birr Wood, nodded understandingly. - -"The room is just like you, Betty, and that is the prettiest compliment, -my dear, I have ever paid you. And I must say that the dead season has -agreed with you. I never saw you look more alive." - -"The fact is," said Betty seriously, "I have been setting more than one -house in order." - -Lady Randolph smiled. "I have seen--I have guessed---- Ah, well, we -wives try to remould our husbands, and the time is not wasted if we -succeed in remoulding ourselves. My dear, I must fly. Can I give you a -lift?" - -Betty said that much remained to be done, but after her friend had gone -she showed no inclination to set about doing it. Instead, she sat by -the open window, gazing at the river flowing slowly and silently to the -sea. Already she had come to regard this as the great waterway of her -thoughts. She rejoiced because she was about to live upon its banks; -she recognised its suggestion and symbolism, its myriad beauties, its -mystery and power. - -At this moment she was reflecting that the Thames was a source of -pleasure and profit to man, because man, as embodied by the Thames -Conservancy, controlled it. When it burst its banks, the abomination of -desolation followed. Without the innumerable dams and locks cribbing -and confining it, these splendid waters would be wasted. Now they -percolated everywhere, into hundreds and thousands of homes. - -Would it be so with her own life? It ran in a channel other than the -one she would have chosen, had choice been given her; it was diverted to -uses she had not apprehended; it was likely to be diffused infinitely, -trickling here and there, instead of rushing free and untrammelled over -a course of its own making. Since that memorable interview with Mark, -Betty had accepted the limitations which duty imposed. She had not -shirked the trivial tasks of a parson's wife, albeit she was tempted to -spend more time (and money) than was lawful in alluring shops. She had -not seen Mark alone. She had put from her comment and criticism of her -husband: striving to think of the strength that was in him rather than -the weakness. - -Now she was aware that these efforts had not been made in vain. Life -had become easier, happier, more profitable to herself and others. She -dared to look forward, and refrained from looking back. - -Presently she rose up, glanced, smiling, at the pretty room, and leaving -it reluctantly went downstairs. Archibald was out of town for a few -days on duty in the Midlands, and by the morrow she hoped that all his -furniture would be moved. Part had come from Cadogan Place that -afternoon, and, before returning home, she wished to see it placed in -the right room. In the hall she met one of the servants, who was acting -as caretaker. In answer to a question, the man said his master's desk -had arrived in the van which was leaving. Betty entered her husband's -room trying to remember the exact spot where Archie wished his desk to -stand. It was an immense affair, with a fluted, revolving top, which, -when closed, locked itself and all drawers. As she crossed the -threshold of the room, she remembered what Archibald had said. The desk -had been placed in the wrong position. - -"Oh, Dibdin," she exclaimed, "that will never do. Have the men gone?" - -Dibdin said respectfully that the van was still at the door, but -suggested that the men should move the desk on the morrow. Betty, -however, was anxious to see how it looked in the place her husband had -chosen. So the men were summoned. Doubtless, they were tired, and -possibly sulky at being called as they were about to drive away. The -desk was very heavy and awkward to move; it stood on a rug upon a -slippery parquet floor. The men, using unnecessary violence, canted it -slightly forward. In the effort to steady it, their feet slipped, the -desk fell forward with a crash, and burst open: the fluted lid flying -back, and the contents of a dozen pigeon-holes and drawers being -scattered over the floor. However, upon examination it was found that -no damage had been done. The desk was lifted and placed in the desired -position, and the men dismissed. Dibdin looked so dismayed that Betty -laughed. - -"Why, Dibdin, all's well that ends well." - -"Master is so particular about his desk," said Dibdin. He had been with -Archibald before his marriage. "He'd never allow me to touch his -papers." - -"You shan't touch them now," said Betty. "I'll arrange them, Dibdin, -before I go home." - -Dibdin went out, leaving his mistress sitting on the floor surrounded by -notebooks, cheque-books, manuscripts, and all the accessories which -usually cover a busy man's desk. As she began to arrange these, she -reflected that the best-laid plans gang agley. Archibald had insisted -upon locking up everything, and yet, despite precaution--his precious -desk had burst open. What a lot of MMS. to be sure! And she had not -the vaguest idea into what drawers and pigeon-holes they ought to go. -Archibald had a reasonable dislike of being disturbed when at work, and -when he was not at work the huge desk was always locked. - -Betty recognised an enormous pile of papers as sermons. Some were -typewritten, date and text being inscribed upon the outside. Betty -touched them tenderly: her husband's title-deeds, so to speak, to the -honour and respect she bore him. Looking at them she blushed faintly, -thinking of the warmer sentiment they had provoked. As she blushed her -glance fell upon the sermon she had just picked up. This bore no text, -but across it, in Archibald's handwriting, were two words: _Whit-Sunday, -Westchester_. - -The words provoked a score of memories. Once more she knelt in the -chancel of that splendid fane, hearing the flute-like notes of the boy; -once more she was conscious of being whirled aloft to ineffable heights. -Then she dropped to earth as suddenly, with a vivid realisation that if -this sermon had never been preached, she would not be here in this -house, the wife of the preacher. With this reflection came a desire to -read the sermon. She laid it aside, while she finished the work of -replacing the other MSS. Then she closed the desk, and discovered that -the lock was hampered. She was wondering whether she ought to seal it, -when she remembered that it would be easy to lock up the room. The -light was failing, yet the fancy took her that she would like to read -her husband's sermon in her own room, overlooking the river as it flowed -to the sea. - -She went upstairs carrying the MS. in her hand, and sat down. The sun -was about to set; and the river ran red, no longer golden. Shadows -obscured the city beyond. A mist was stealing up from the east, and the -barges floating into it were swallowed up. - -Betty unrolled the MS., spread it upon her knee, and began to read. But -at the first glance she blinked, as if her eyesight were deceiving her. -Then with a muttered exclamation of surprise, she held the sheets of -blue foolscap to the light, and examined them attentively. The MS., -from beginning to end, was in Mark's handwriting. Here and there words -were interpolated or excised. In the margin were her husband's notes, -but the MS. was Mark's. What did it mean? - -She read it through. Yes: as it was written, so it had been preached, -and it had been written by Mark! - -Why had she not guessed as much before? She rolled up the MS., tied it -with the red tape which the orderly Archibald used, and went downstairs. -The only other sermon in Mark's handwriting was the "Purity" sermon, but -many were covered with his notes. Again and again a phrase remembered, -a thought treasured--because it revealed the man she had chosen as wise, -and noble, and good, and therefore justified that choice and silenced -any doubts she might have entertained regarding it--stood out as Mark's. -Again and again she read some common-place, some compromise, some -paragraph which rang false, slashed by Mark's red pencil. Once or twice -she held up the sheets, examining closely the condemned passages; -smiling derisively as she perceived the violence of protest in the -broad, deeply indented excoriations. Suddenly Dibdin appeared, bland -but surprised. - -"Shall I bring a lamp, M'm?" - -"Bring me a basket, Dibdin, and then whistle for a hansom." - -She put the sermons into the basket and went back to Cadogan Place, -where a cold supper awaited her. The footman told the cook that his -mistress had eaten nothing, but had called for a pint of champagne. The -cook expressed an opinion that nothing in the world was so upsetting as -a "move"; which turned everything and everybody upside down, and -produced "squirmishy" feelings inside. Presently Betty's maid went -upstairs, and returned with heightened colour. Her mistress, so she -reported, was as cross as two sticks. - -Betty, indeed, was pacing up and down her bedroom in a fever of -indecision and unrest. The husband she had honoured was destroyed. The -ghost of him inspired repugnance--a repugnance which found larger room -in the new house. The pleasure she had taken in furnishing became pain, -inasmuch as not a chintz had been chosen without the reflection that she -was recovering what was dingy and discoloured in her life, substituting -for the old and worn the fresh and new. And now, in the twinkling of an -eye, her good resolutions, her hopes and aims, her readjusted sense of -proportion--had vanished. She was in the mood to set ablaze that dainty -room in which in fancy she had passed so many happy hours, to tear down -and destroy the tissues through which she had looked out upon a future -as rose-coloured as they. - -She passed a sleepless night, got up feeling and looking wretched, gave -her servants certain hasty directions, and drove to Waterloo. In her -hand she carried a small bag containing the Westchester and Windsor -sermons. - -From Weybridge she walked to Myrtle Cottage, and the exercise brought -colour into her cheeks. She was sure that she would find Mark in the -shelter, so she approached it from the side of the grove, being -unwilling to face Mary's clear and possibly curious eyes. - -Mark was at his typewriting machine when she saw him, and as usual so -absorbed in his task that he never perceived her. Betty reflected that -he could not have approached her without her being aware of it, but men -surely were fashioned out of clay other than what was used for women. - -"Mark!" - -He sprang up, with a startled exclamation, and came forwards, holding -out both hands. - -"What has happened?" - -As he spoke her indignation began to ooze from her. Intuition told her -that the expression upon Mark's face revealed intense sympathy. Her -trouble, whatever it might be, had moved him to the core. Suddenly, a -light flickered out of the darkness. For the first time, she saw herself -and him alone together, shut off from the world. It came upon her with -a shock that she was glad that Mark, not Archibald, had written the -sermon. Only he, the lover of her girlish dreams, could have found the -words which had stirred her so profoundly. Mark repeated the question, -"What has happened?" - -"You wrote this?" she cried, holding out the Westchester sermon. - -He nodded, realising the fatuity of denial. For a moment they gazed -into each other's eyes. Then she said slowly-- - -"You wrote the 'Purity' sermon?" - -"M-m-m-most of it," he admitted reluctantly. - -"You have helped him ever since?" - -"I have revised some of his work." - -"And I never guessed it," she exclaimed passionately. "If I had thought -for a moment I must have known that it was you--you--you, not him. Oh, -my God, I shall go mad! I married him because you--you had tricked him -out in a garment of righteousness! Had you come forward at the eleventh -hour and spoken I should have thanked you and blessed you. Why did you -hold your tongue--why--why--why?" - -"I thought you l-l-loved him," he stammered. - -"Loved him?" The scorn in her voice thrilled his pulses. "I loved what -he said, which was yours. Why did you not say it yourself?" - -"Because," his infirmity gripped him, "I c-c-c-couldn't." Her face -softened, and the lines of her figure relaxed. - -"It is my fault," she said, gazing at him through tears; "I ought to -have guessed." - -"Betty"--he had recovered his self-control, now that she was in danger -of losing hers--"Betty, I have done you a wrong. I withheld the truth, -because truth, faith, love had gone out of my life, blasted -by--b-b-by----" - -"By me?" - -"No--n-n-no." - -"By whom?" He paused, and she continued vehemently: "Mark, I want the -truth. Nothing else is possible between us. What killed your faith? -You have never answered that question. What changed you from the man -you were to the man you are?" - -"Hate." - -She recoiled at the grim word, recoiled, too, from the expression on his -face. - -"You hated--your brother?" The words fell from quivering lips. He saw -that she was about to swoop on the truth he had hidden so long. He was -impotent to avert discovery. She came very slowly towards him, her eyes -fixed on his. The expression in them bewildered him. She raised both -her arms and laid her hands upon his shoulders. - -"You hated him. Then you loved--me." - -"Always," he answered. "To me you came out of Paradise, and brought the -best part of it with you." - -"Say it again," she whispered. - -"I loved you--always: as child, as boy, as man." - -She smiled piteously. "As child, as girl, as woman I have loved--you. -And yet loving me like that you could believe that I loved him. Ah, -love is blind indeed." She held him with her eyes and hands, speaking -softly and quickly: "And because you loved me you gave him what he -lacked. That was like you. But did it never strike you that I might -find out?" - -"Not till too late. Betty, I have behaved like a fool. I gave him that -sermon which I would have given my right hand to preach. But I had not -foreseen its effect. Having given it, I could not take it back." He -went on to describe his breakdown, the scene with Ross and the doctors, -the silence which he dared not break, his slow recovery, the renascence -of his hopes and their destruction. A dozen times his stammer stopped -him, as many times he was made aware that this abhorred weakness bound -him the closer to the woman who loved him. When he had finished his -story she looked up. - -"What shall we do now?" she asked. - -Above, the song of the pines rose and fell in melancholy cadence. The -day was hot, and would become hotter, but here in this sylvan temple the -air flowed in cool and fragrant currents. Mark was silent, reflecting -that always he had known this hour would come. From the moment he had -read Archibald's letter announcing his engagement, Destiny, with the -leer of some hideous gargoyle, had decreed that he should hate his -brother and love his brother's wife. Up to the present moment both -passions had been controlled and confined. The unforeseen had turned -them loose. - -"What shall we do now?" - -She stood before him absorbed in the love which at last had found -expression. What else the world might hold for her was not. - -So standing, delicately flushed, but with eyes which neither faltered -nor fell beneath his, the daughter of Louise de Courcy awaited Mark's -answer. - -"You are my brother's wife," he said slowly. - -Betty shrugged her shoulders. The gesture, almost piteous in its -shrinking protest, moved Mark more than any words she had spoken. - -"If--if I asked you, you would come away with me?" - -She nodded, meeting his passionate glance, facing, as he did, the issues -involved. Her hands moved towards him--timidly, but with unmistakable -invitation. - -"Betty," he cried, "Betty!" - -"Ah! you want me. You do want me--you do, you do!" - -"Want you?" his voice broke. Instantly she had seized his hands, -drawing him towards her. He held her firmly--at arm's length. In that -supreme moment he was perhaps stronger than he had been ever before, -inasmuch as the faith which once had fortified him was his no longer, -and yet without it, believing in nothing, holding in derision God's law -and man's, he resisted her, because he was counting the cost to her. -Then, reading his thought, she inclined her head, whispering, "If there -is a God, and if he bade me choose between life here with you and life -hereafter without you, not being allowed to have both--do you know what -I should say?" - -"Do not say it," he entreated. His face was so twisted by the -consciousness that he was taking advantage of her weakness that she -thought he was ill. When he remained rigid, she added gently, "Let us -go to some place where my love shall make up to you for every pang you -have suffered." - -"Stop!" he cried hoarsely. "Apart from our love, you have not -considered what this means: to me, the man, nothing; to you the loss of -everything which women hold dear. You must not decide -rashly--you--must--take--time." - -She laughed derisively. - -"I will take anything you like, so long as you take me." - -He caught her to him, closing her mouth with kisses. - - - - - *CHAPTER XXXIV* - - *CHARING CROSS* - - -Betty returned alone to London before mid-day. Mark decided to follow by -an afternoon train. They had agreed to meet at Charing Cross, to cross -that night to Ostend. Then, in some remote corner of the Ardennes, they -expected to make plans for the future. The "move," as Betty had pointed -out, covered anything that might appear odd to the enlightened Dibdin. -Her divided household would understand that she was going to a friend's -house for the few hours during which her own bedroom furniture was being -shifted. - -Mark accompanied her to the station, returning home to pack a -portmanteau. What doubts he had entertained were dispersed. He swore -that he would look forward, never backward, and found himself whistling -as he climbed the hill to the cottage. - -In the shelter, the first object that he saw was Betty's handkerchief -lying in the corner of a chair. He picked up the small, square piece of -cambric and put it to his lips. A faint essence reminded him that -fragrance had come again into his life. Then he began to arrange his -papers. When Mary came in to arrange the cloth for luncheon, he told -her that he was going away for a few days. She expressed no surprise. -Why should she? It lay on his tongue's tip to say: "I have been -wretched: now I am going to be happy. Let us shake hands!" Watching -her moving here and there he was sensible of an impatience, an -irritability almost impossible to suppress. Mary subtly conveyed an -impression of protest. He told himself that this was absurd. Suddenly -her eyes met his. - -"What have I done?" she faltered. - -"Why, nothing," he answered. - -"You were staring at me so queerly," she answered. "The business which -takes you away is pleasant, isn't it?" - -He smiled reassuringly. - -"Connected with your work, I suppose?" - -Her curiosity was natural. He always spoke of his work to her. - -"No," he said shortly. "It is not. I dare say you think that I could -not be really keen about anything or anybody outside of my work. If I -told you----" - -He closed his lips, wondering why the truth had so nearly leaked from -them. His joy had expanded so quickly, that it exacted a larger -habitation. - -"I have nothing to tell yet," he said confusedly, "but I may write; you -shall hear from me; I shall be frank--with you." - -He fell into a reverie, as she left the shelter. In a minute she -returned. - -"There is a gentleman to see you, Mr. Samphire. Shall I bring him here?" - -She handed him a card. A cry escaped Mark's lips. - -"David!" - -The card fell to the ground. For the moment he felt as if some icy -finger had been laid upon his heart. He had not seen David since the -Crask days. And he had told himself that this old friend had held -sorrowfully aloof, because he had divined that intercourse between the -faithful and the faithless, between Christian and pagan, would prove -(temporarily at least) inexpedient and abortive. - -"Please ask his lordship to come here," he said, frowning. - -Mary glanced at his face and withdrew. Mark followed her with his eyes -as she crossed the pretty garden between the shelter and the cottage. -Not a cloud, he noted, obscured the soft azure of the skies; upon all -things lay the spell of summer. - -"Why has he come?" - -Instinctively he armed himself for conflict. It was curious that he -associated the Highlander and his strange powers of second sight with -the quiet English Mary. The impending fight would be two against one. -Good would side with good, although evil might array itself against -evil. - -These thoughts flitted through his mind as David was advancing. Mark, -summoning up a smile of welcome, met his friend, who smiled back, -extending both hands. - -"Mark," he exclaimed, "I am glad to see you. Thank God, you're well." - -"And stronger than I ever was in my life," said Mark. "You'll lunch -with me, David. I must go to town this afternoon, but we can have an -hour together." - -"I must go to town too," replied David. "You look a different man, -Mark." - -"I am a different man." - -David followed him into the shelter and sat down, with a puzzled glance -at his surroundings. During luncheon both men were conscious of a new -and disagreeable sense of restraint. - -"Have you another novel on the stocks?" - -"Yes." - -David jumped up, eager, vigorous, impetuous. - -"I have come a long way out of my road to ask you a question." - -"Ask it," said Mark. - -"When are you coming back to us?" - -"Can God only be served in cassock and surplice?" - -"You evade my question," said David. "Mark, I have had the feeling that -you were in trouble: ill, dying perhaps. I--I had to come to you. But -I find you a strong man, and "--he glanced round at the pleasant -garden--"and wasting time. Don't mistake me! You have been working -hard, no doubt, but at work which others can do as well. You have -recovered your health and----" - -"Go on." - -"The work God intended you to do is being left undone," said David. -"Why?" - -"If we are to remain friends, David, you had better not press this -question." - -"If we are to remain friends, I must. You have resigned a stupendous -responsibility--why?" - -"Shall we say--incapacity to administer it?" - -"Give me the true reason." - -"Can't you divine it?" - -"I have divined it," said David, after a long pause. "You sneer at a -gift which is given to few; but you, of all men, ought to know that it -has been given to me. And I have divined more. I know that you are on -the edge of an abyss which may engulf you and another." - -"You have divined that?" - -The sneer had left him; amazement, incredulity took its place. David -must have heard some idle rumour. He asked him at once if it were not -so. - -"I have heard nothing." - -"On your oath?" - -"Certainly--if you wish it." - -Mark paced the length of the shelter; then he turned and approached -David, who was watching him. When less than a yard separated them Mark -stood still and pulled his watch from his pocket. - -"It is now two o'clock," he said. "At half-past six this afternoon I -meet the woman I love and who loves me at Charing Cross. To-night--we -leave England--together." - -The relief of speech was immense, but with this, and dominating it, was -the fierce desire to confront David with the truth, to invite his -arguments, so as to trample on them. - -David said hoarsely: "The woman is your brother's wife. You--you--Mark -Samphire, the man I thought so strong, will do this shameful thing? -_Impossible_!" - -Mark laughed. - -"I'm going to speak plainly, David. For the first and last time I mean -to let myself r-r-rip!" He drew in his breath sharply. "You shall see -me as I am. I appeal not to the Bishop, not to my old friend of the -Mission, but to a more merciful judge than either--a man of flesh and -blood." - -He paused, frowning, trying to compose, to marshal his thoughts. Then -he began quietly, exercising restraint at first, but using increasing -emphasis of word and intonation as he proceeded. - -"You say it is impossible that Mark Samphire should do this thing. -Strange! You have intelligence, sympathy, intuition. Impossible! Oh, -the parrot cry of the slave of convention and tradition, of the -worshipper of his own graven images, bowing down before them, unable to -look beyond the tiny circle wherein he moves and thinks. Impossible, you -say? Impossible for Mark Samphire to run away with his brother's wife!" - -"Incredible then," Ross interrupted. - -"Incredible. It's incredible you should use such a word with your -experience. Can't you realise that the same strength which made me -struggle up towards what you call good or God is driving me as -relentlessly down the other road? I am not the Mark Samphire of the -Mission days, but the Mark Samphire who came from Ben Caryll knowing -that if he had met his brother alone upon that mountain he would have -killed him, or been killed by him. And having felt that, do you think I -would stick at running away with his wife?" - -His tone was so bitterly contemptuous that Ross could only stammer out: -"I have never understood why such love as you bore him turned to such -hate." - -"Let your God answer that question. As man to man I swear to you that -my brother's extraordinary success in everything we undertook together, -and my own failure, did not sour me. I grudged him nothing--except her. -And I could have let her go to any other. I tell you, David, I've been -tried too high. The irony of fate has been too much for me. A time -comes to the stoutest runner when he falls. Then the fellows who have -been ambling along behind trot past blandly complacent. They are not -first, but they are not last. The man who might have been first is -last. I fell at a fence too big for me--and I broke my neck. We've -said enough, too much, about that, but the fact that I could love as few -love ought to be proof to you that my hate would be as strong." - -Ross saw that he was trembling violently. - -"If you had written to her----" - -"If? That 'if' is crucifixion. Yes; yes; if I had written one line, -whistled one note, held up one finger--she would have come to me. But -then hope had scarcely budded. My life was so pitiful, so frail a thing -to offer. And, voluntarily, she had engaged herself to him. He had won -her, as he had won everything else----" - -"Fairly." - -"No. Not fairly." - -Briefly, but in vehement words, Mark told the story of the sermons, -concluding with Betty's discovery of the truth. - -"And now," he demanded, stretching out his shaking hands, "do you see -the real Mark Samphire? Is your finger on the pulse of a poor wretch who -tried to do his duty and--here's the rub, David--who was punished the -more heavily on that account? If I had played the world's game, Betty -would be my wife. Archibald would be still minor canon of Westchester." - -Ross took the outstretched hands. - -"My poor Mark," he murmured. - -"Thanks, David; but don't pity me! I envy no man living. You have -listened to my story, patiently. One thing more remains to be said. If -Betty had not discovered the truth, I could have held aloof from her to -the end. On her account, not because she was my brother's wife, I -respected the law. But now," his voice was triumphant, "she wants me. -Do you hear? She wants me. I'm necessary to her. And because of that, -and for no baser reason, I am going to her--to-night." - -Ross met his eyes. - -"In a word," said he, "you refuse to protect the woman you love against -herself?" - -"Once, I should have used that very phrase. What an ocean flows between -us, David!" - -"In six months," continued Ross, "you and she will be tormented in a -hell of your own making. There are men and women, thousands of them, who -can steep themselves in the life of the senses. You are not of them, -Mark, nor ever will be; nor is she." - -Mark smiled derisively. - -"She and I," he retorted, "are two of the myriad insects crawling upon -one of a million worlds. Something within both of us bids us make the -most of our hour. We shall do so. You mean well, David, but you rack -me--you rack me. Go!" - -"So be it," said David. - -As he was turning, Mark clutched his sleeve. An expression in David's -eyes--the expression which refuses to acknowledge defeat, which -indicates unknown resources--alarmed him. - -"You are not going to Archibald," he said hoarsely. - -David's face was twitching with emotion, but his voice was firm and -even. - -"You must know where I am going," he said simply. "I have -failed--through my own weakness--as I have failed before, as I shall -fail again and again, but I believe that He, whose help I am about to -implore, will not fail. You will not leave England to-night." - -When Mark looked up the speaker was gone. - -During the next hour preparations for the journey occupied his -attention. But after his portmanteau was strapped and a fly had been -ordered to take him to the station, nearly an hour remained. Mark went -into the grove and flung himself at length upon the soft carpet woven by -the singing pines. He closed his eyes, invoking the alluring image of -Betty. Instantly she came with outstretched hands and shining eyes, but -between them, a grim and sombre figure, knelt David Ross, his face -upturned in supplication. Mark found himself straining his ears to -catch the words of the prayer, but they escaped, fleeting upward whither -he dared not follow them. - -Presently he seemed to hear voices other than David's, and like his -inarticulate, although familiar. In his room at the Mission he had often -listened to such voices. What man of ethereal attributes has not? But -since that night on Ben Caryll these sounds had ceased. - -He told himself, irritably, that once again he had fallen a victim to -nervous imaginings, echoes of the material world rather than spiritual -communications. Barger had told him that it was easy--given certain -purely physical conditions--to hypnotise oneself, to sink into a -subconscious coma vibrant with sensations and sounds subject to -scientific analysis. But even Barger had never denied the -transcendental gift of David Ross, even Barger believed firmly in the -Seer of Brahan, whose predictions concerning the Seaforth Mackenzies had -been verified so marvellously. - -It was impossible to ignore the coincidence of David's visits. Twice -David had sought him out, when he was in sore straits. - -At whose bidding? - -The question could not be exorcised by sneer or sophism. Mark had -compared himself to an insect, a metaphor used ten thousand times by the -agnostic school and properly, since none other is more expressive of the -insignificance and ephemeral nature of man's body in relation to the -universe. None the less Mark was aware that moral or spiritual facts, -as a writer puts it, have no relation whatever to physical size, and -that a man's soul can no more be measured with a yardstick than the -cardinal virtues. - -At whose bidding had David Ross been sent? - - -He travelled to London by a train which reached Waterloo just after -five. As he neared the city his mood changed from one of doubt and -perplexity to reckless satisfaction. The hansom which took him to -Charing Cross passed over Waterloo Bridge and down the Strand, always -crowded at that hour of the afternoon. Twice the hansom was stopped by -the uplifted hand of a policeman. Each time it drew up opposite a bar -to which thirsty souls were hurrying. Mark's ears could catch the sound -of ice tinkling in long tumblers. Corks were popping intermittently. A -woman's laugh rang out above the buzz of innumerable voices. Mark -stared at the faces of the foot-passengers. Most of the men were -returning from work. An air of relaxation informed them. The day had -been insufferably hot, but now a breeze from the river was flooding the -streets, deliciously cool, astringent, tonic. - -The hansom turned in at the station gates, and a moment later a porter -was asking Mark his destination. Mark gave the man instructions as he -handed the cabby a florin. - -"Thank ye, sir. 'Oliday times, sir." - -"Yes," said Mark, smiling. All round him were men and women, -hard-working Londoners, about to escape into the country or to the -seashore after a year's unremitting grind. The great summer exodus was -now at its height. Some of the humbler folk carried articles wherewith -to beguile the leisure hours: musical instruments, shrimping-nets, -spades and buckets, telescopes, and the inevitable hamper of food. - -Mark, with time to spare after he had made arrangements for a coupé to -Dover, caught the contagion of excitement and gaiety, and could enter -into the feelings of an octogenarian who was renewing his youth by -playing a penny whistle. Couples were numerous as birds in pairing-time. -Mark looked at these with sympathetic interest. They drifted by, pair -after pair, an eternal procession of Jacks and Jills. It struck Mark, -not for the first time, that these couples were very youthful. And he -felt that Betty and he shared their youth, that they had not waited too -long. Presently a man of his own class approached, peering eagerly to -right and left, consulting first his watch, and then the great clock. -Mark watched him and followed him. The man was excited and nervous. -Suddenly his face brightened; he ran forward, with both hands extended. -"You have come at last," Mark heard him say. A pretty girl, her face -suffused with blushes, murmured something, and the man answered -hoarsely, "If you had chucked me, I should have cut my throat." Then -they passed, arm in arm, laughing and chattering, into the crowd and out -of sight. Mark looked at his watch. In less than ten minutes Betty -would be here; she also would blush and smile; her hand would be on his -arm; and together they would pass out of the noise and confusion into -sweet, secluded spaces beyond! - -His train backed into the station, and passengers began to take their -places. Mark made sure that his coupé was reserved for him, but he -would not allow the porter to put his traps into it. - -"I am expecting a friend," he said; and the porter grinned. He walked -back to the trysting-place under the clock, one of half a dozen who had -agreed to meet beneath it. Overhead, the great dial recorded the flight -of time with inexorable, inhuman deliberation. Mark was fascinated by -the minute hand, creeping on and on, nearing the appointed hour. Betty -was running things rather fine, he reflected. In less than seven -minutes the train would be despatched. - -Five minutes more glided by. The discordant noises of the station fell -like the boom of distant breakers upon an ear attuned to the sound of -one voice which out of all the voices in the universe was now mute. The -porter approached, anxious and insistent. Mark stammered out a score of -questions. The porter shook his head dismally. - -"She must come," said Mark harshly. - -As if in derisive answer, the locomotive of the train about to start -whistled. Doors banged. The long line of carriages began to move. - -"'Ere she is," said the porter phlegmatically. - -Mark turned with thrilling pulses. A woman had rushed up to him, out of -breath and scarlet in the face. That she had missed her train, and was -distressed inconceivably, no one could doubt; but she was not Betty. -Mark could have struck her. She stared stupidly at the vanishing train. - -"It's gone," she said. - -"Yes," said Mark grimly. - -He turned from her to meet the inquisitive stare of a messenger boy. -The boy stared unblinking, and then said, "You're Mr. Samphire?" - -"Yes," said Mark. - -"I'm to give you this." - -He held out a letter. Mark took it, broke the seal, and read it, -unmindful of porter and boy, who exchanged glances and winks; then he -turned to the porter. - -"Put my things into a hansom," he said in a dull voice. - -"Yes, sir," said the porter. - -The boy took one more look at Mark. - -"That was a knock-out," he murmured to himself, "a knock-out--sure!" - - - - - *CHAPTER XXXV* - - *CHRYSOSTOM RETURNS TO CHELSEA* - - -Betty returned to Cadogan Place, conscious of an extraordinary buoyancy -of spirit, of a gaiety even which made her demure maid stare. "Getting -out o' this dirty old house makes you laugh, ma'am," she remarked. - -"Yes," said Betty; "it makes me laugh." - -When the maid left the room, Betty sat down by the window which -overlooked the gardens below, the gardens typical of such houses as the -one she was leaving--conventionally laid out, fenced with sharply -pointed iron palings, pleasure grounds wherein no person, out of their -teens, took any pleasure whatever. Betty could see two children and a -gaunt governess walking primly along one of the broad well-swept paths. -One child, a nice fat little girl, escaped from bondage, hiding behind a -bush. Betty could hear the voice of the governess calling to her, and -then a sharp rebuke, as the truant came toddling back to the path. - -"If my baby had lived----" - -She put the baby out of her thoughts. If it had lived, she and the -child might have remained inside iron palings. - -Then, very deliberately, she faced the future. Her money was settled on -herself. Mark and she could live where they pleased, as they pleased. -If one place proved disagreeable they could move on and on; the world -was wide. - -She smiled happily and contentedly. Many women, at such a moment, would -have been distraught by anxiety and fear. But Betty was gladder than -she had ever felt before. Indeed, she was triumphant. She told herself -that every instinct she had tried to suppress was vindicated gloriously. -To such a proud, refined woman the memory that she had flung herself at -Mark's head had been always a dire humiliation, the more so because she -had never measured the width and depth of his feeling for her. She -repeated the phrase, "He has always loved me," again and again, letting -the sweetness of it linger upon her lips. - -The inevitable sacrifice--the fact which Mark plainly pointed out that -she, the woman, had more to lose than the man--was acclaimed. Hitherto, -love--whether love of niece for uncle, of friend for friend, of wife for -husband--had exacted nothing from her. She had been extremely generous -with her money, giving away far more than the tithe. But the signing of -cheques had not included one genuine act of self-denial on her part. -Whatever she had done had been accomplished without effort, without -pain. - -Her thoughts turned from herself to Mark. Immediately the smile faded -from her face. - -How cruelly he had suffered! And with what a pleasant smile, with how -gay a laugh he had confronted ill-health, ill-fortune, and -disappointment! - -"I shall be so good to him," she swore beneath her breath. "I shall -make it up to him--and I know how to do it." - -Here, again, what had gone before might be reckoned as fuel for the -feeding of love's flames. She was no green girl, but a woman who -understood men, who could speak the right word at the right time, and -had learned to hold her tongue. - -"We shall be the happiest pair in the world." - -Presently her eye fell upon the small bag she had carried to Weybridge. -In it were the two sermons. She rose from her chair, hesitated a moment, -and opened the bag. The sermons, she decided, must be locked up in one -of the trunks she was leaving behind. The first sermon she had read the -night before, but the second she had not read. - -She looked at her watch. Then she picked up the Windsor sermon, and sat -down to read it, because, reading it, she would hear not Archibald's -voice, but Mark's. - -The text met her eyes. _Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall -see God_. - -She read no further. The MS. fell from her fingers, and rolled upon the -carpet. Betty did not see it, because she saw nothing. The familiar -room, the gardens below, the great city beyond, faded from her vision. -Darkness encompassed her. And out of the darkness, like the writing -upon the wall of Belshazzar's palace in Babylon, flared the words of the -text. - - -Suddenly, with a violence of contrast which convulsed her, the darkness -was dispelled, and she saw, even as Saul of Tarsus saw, a great light. -If she read Mark's sermon, if she listened to the pleading voice of the -priest, she would fail to keep tryst with the man, not because she -feared for herself, but because this question could not be evaded: "Will -my impurity prove a curse to him?" - -Bending down, she picked up the sheaf of papers, and thrust them -fiercely into the trunk, which stood open near the window. Then she -sank back into the chair, covering her face with her hands.... - -So sitting, she was transported to the ancient, banner-hung chapel, -wherein her husband had preached before his sovereign. But in the -pulpit stood Mark, not his brother, and Mark as she remembered him long -ago, the Mark of King's Charteris days, thin, pale, strong only in -spirit; yet how strong, how valiant in that! - -But he was mute, save for the pleading of the eloquent eyes. Beneath -the spell of these Betty rose once more, and stood beside the trunk, -staring into it. - -Thus standing, she heard the clock in the tower of St. Anne's strike -four. At that moment David Ross was praying for her and Mark, praying -and believing that his prayer would be answered. - -Betty picked up the MS., locked the door, fell on her knees, and read -the sermon through. - - -She was still kneeling when the clock struck five. One hour had passed. -Mark was nearing Charing Cross. She rose from her knees, and sat down -to write a letter: an intolerably difficult task, which must be -accomplished in a few minutes. She stared dully at the blank sheet of -paper in front of her; then she wrote:-- - - -"I have read your sermon, the one preached at Windsor. Because of that I -cannot come to you, and I entreat you not to come to me. Mark, my best -beloved, I tempted you. May God forgive me! And I know--I _know_, I -say--that He has stretched forth His hand to save us. And He willed -that your words--what is best in you--the greatest thing you ever -did--should stand between us. I cannot lower the Mark who wrote that -sermon to my level. Oh, Mark, will you curse me as faithless? Or will -you know that it is not my wretched soul I seek to save, but -yours--yours. - -"As soon as this is sent off I shall go to a friend's till Archibald -returns. I must tell him the truth." - - -Archibald Samphire returned from the Midlands to find a new house set in -order and his wife awaiting him. He advanced to greet her with a warm -word of affection and congratulation. But she held up her hand, and -before the distress in her eyes he recoiled, astonished and dismayed. - -Although Betty knew that the lapse from honour involved in preaching -another's sermon was as nothing compared with the sin she had -contemplated, still she felt that the charge against her husband must be -dealt with first. In a few words she told him of the breaking open of -his desk and the discovery of Mark's MSS. He exhibited no confusion, -but his expression changed and in a manner so amazing that Betty let -fall a sharp exclamation. - -"I am glad you know," he said simply. - -His voice, his face, his fine massive figure expressed relief. She -repeated his words: - -"You are glad that I know?" - -She had made sure that he would excuse himself blandly, with dignity, -looking down upon her; and she had told herself that his carefully -chosen words would flood her with contempt, the stronger because her own -speech would prove halting and unrestrained. - -"Yes, yes. I was a coward. I meant to tell you: I swear it, but I -couldn't." Then he repeated the phrase he had used to Mark: "God knows -it has been a secret sore." - -"Why couldn't you tell me?" she asked. - -"Because the right moment for doing so slipped by me." - -"You married me under false pretences." - -"Eh?" - -"You wooed me with Mark's words." - -"Wooed you with--Mark's--words? I can't follow you." - -And here he stated a fact. He had neither the ability nor the intuition -to follow a woman down the tortuous path of her feelings and -aspirations. But at this moment he became aware that something dreadful -remained to be said. Betty's pale, haggard face, her trembling fingers, -her panting bosom, revealed an agitation which communicated itself to -him. Let us be fair to a man with inexorable limitations. He had -always believed that Betty married him for love. And he too had married -for love--and other things which he valued; but the other things without -love would not have tempted him to a mere marriage of convenience. And -marriage with Betty had seemed at the time and afterwards the one thing -needful: rounding a life too square, lending colour and sparkle to a -profession whose habit is sable. If at times he had been vouchsafed a -glimpse of barriers between his wife and himself, he attributed these to -difference of sex. But till this minute he had believed her love as -much an inalienable possession as his name. There was no love in the -face half turned from his. - -"You can't follow me," she repeated slowly. "That is true enough. Years -ago, when we were children--babies--I loved Mark, and he loved me." - -"Paul and Virginia!" - -"Yes, yes, Paul and Virginia." - -"We all knew that. At one time I thought you would marry Mark." - -"He never asked me," she replied, with blazing cheeks. "If he had, I -should have married him, sick or well. I supposed that he didn't want -me." - -"Why, so did I." - -She met his eyes fiercely. - -"You swear that?" - -"Certainly. Great heavens! You don't think that if I had thought -otherwise I should have tried to supplant him. He went away and left -the field open to all comers--Jim Corrance, Harry Kirtling--and me." - -"I have done you an injustice," Betty faltered. - -At this Archibald's sense of what was fitting asserted itself. "Come, -come," he said, "I regret profoundly that I did not frankly avow those -two sermons to be Mark's. I do not expect you to forgive me in a -minute, but you are generous, sensible, and my wife. We must take up -our lives where we left them less than a week ago." - -"That is impossible," said Betty. - -She felt a great pity for him. The blow must fall with hideous -violence, shattering the man's just pride in what he had accomplished. -His extraordinary success seemed of a sudden to be transformed into an -immense bubble about to be pricked by a word. - -And when the word was spoken, when he knew everything, Betty saw what -Mark had seen upon the night that the baby was born--the collapse of a -personality. The big man who was to fill Lord Vauxhall's Basilica -dwindled into a boy with the puzzled, wondering eyes of youth confronted -for the first time with what it cannot understand. Betty felt old enough -to be his mother, when he stammered out: "You--_you_ have done this -thing?" - -"I might have done it," she answered gently. - -He broke down. - -"I have lost my brother and my wife," he groaned. "my brother and my -wife." - -Instantly Betty realised what Mark had always known--the weakness of the -colossus. And this knowledge that she was the stronger took the chill -from her heart, restoring magically her moral circulation. Looking at -him, she wondered how she could have blinded herself to his true -proportions. She had deemed him a Titan! - -"What are you going to do?" he asked presently. - -"That is for you to say. If you choose to put me from you----" - -He interrupted her. - -"You would go to him." - -"No." - -He rose up and began to pace the room, glancing furtively at his wife, -who never moved. Suddenly, seizing her arm, and speaking in a loud, -trembling voice, he exclaimed: "Mark is dead--you understand that? Say -it; say it!" - -"Mark is dead," she repeated sombrely. - - - - - *CHAPTER XXXVI* - - *FENELLA* - - -Mark went abroad immediately after the events narrated in the last -chapter, and remained abroad for many months, trying to drown -recollection of Betty in printer's ink. By a tremendous effort of will -and unremitting grind he nearly succeeded, but at times he could see -nothing save her face, hear nothing save her voice, feel nothing save -the touch of her lips upon his. After these visitations he was beset by -a Comus' crew of spectres: the innumerable disappointments of his life: -_toute l'amertume et tout le déboire de mille événements fâcheux_. - -However, Compensation ordained that his _Songs of the Angels_ should -please a certain section of the American public, and a substantial -cheque crossed the Atlantic in a letter from Cyrus Otway, who asked for -another novel. Mark had learned to use his pen (as Conquest once put -it); but recognition--the acclaim of the multitude--seemed indefinitely -remote. _A Soul Errant_ appeared, and was pronounced by reviewers an -admirable piece of work, but its sales were limited to a few thousand -copies. - -From George Samphire, Mark learned that Archibald and Betty had -entertained royalty upon the occasion when the first service was held in -the Basilica. Tommy Greatorex wrote: "Your big brother is booming -Vauxhall's new neighbourhood, and no mistake!" From Betty herself came -no word whatever. Archibald, so Mark told himself, had forgiven her, -determined to preserve appearances, to keep the wife with wealth and -beauty, to guard her zealously from the man who had tried to deprive him -of so valuable a possession. Once again, hatred of Archibald consumed -him. In his heart he knew that Betty was pining for one line--the -generous "I forgive you. I understand." But these words he could not -write. He believed that she had failed him, that she had lacked -courage, and lacking it, had grasped the first excuse pat to lip and -hand. It seemed incredible that a sermon should stand between a woman -and the man she loved. Curiously enough, he could not recall a line of -this sermon thrown off, as it had been, in a brief fever of excitement -and enthusiasm. Again and again, he repeated to himself the beatitude, -and wondered what he had found to say about it. - - -On his return to England he moved from Weybridge to Hampstead, where -another shelter was built in a small garden overlooking the Heath. - -Meantime, Mary Dew had married Albert Batley, and when Mark paid her a -brief visit he found the bride beaming, obviously content with her lot, -and very proud of her husband's success as a contractor. Mrs. Dew -explained matters: - -"You see, Mr. Samphire, it's like this: Albert Batley just worships -Mary, and she makes him very comfortable. Tasty meals go a long way -with men who have a living to earn in this cruel, hard world." - -Just as he was leaving Mary said shyly: "I hope, Mr. Samphire, we shall -hear of your getting married. If ever a gentleman wanted a wife to look -after him, you are he." - -Mark laughed; then he replied in his easy, genial way: "Yes, yes; if you -had a twin sister, Honeydew, I should ask her to live up a tree with -me." - -Alone at Hampstead, he wondered whether a wife was waiting for him -somewhere: a kind, sweet creature, who would teach him to forget. Drax -had told him that, humanly speaking, he was now free from that insidious -disease which spares so few of its victims. With care he might live out -his three-score years and ten; he could marry--if he so pleased. And -for the first time since his father's death, a balance, steadily -increasing, lay at his bankers. - - -About midsummer he began his first play--a comedy, which had been -simmering in his brain for many months. He showed the scenario to -Greatorex, who was not encouraging. - -"You've immense difficulties ahead of you. Your unknown playwright must -write his play for one actor-manager, whose ability it illumines" (Tommy -was quoting from an article of his on the modern drama), "and whose -weakness it obscures. And your moral purpose must be disguised, so as -to give the dramatic critic a chance to discover it. Personally, -there's nothing I enjoy so much as discovering in a play something which -the author never thought of. Now, then, having written your play, you -must persuade your actor-manager to spend some thousands in producing it -adequately. All said and done, I'd stick to novels, if I were you." - -"I must write this play," said Mark. - -He wrote it and rewrote it. Then he read it aloud to Greatorex, who -pointed out many technical blunders. Not till the play was actable in -every detail would Tommy pass it as fit to be sent the rounds. - -And then followed interminable, heartbreaking delays and -disappointments. Actors and actresses, with rare exceptions, keep plays -for months without reading them, answer no letters, and unhesitatingly -break all promises unprotected by iron-clad contracts. Finally, the -comedy, returned for the sixth time, was flung by Mark into a drawer and -forgotten. - -Next summer Mark read in his morning paper the announcement of a son -born to Archibald. A son! It was enough that the fellow should desire -anything, anything, for the object to fall into his grasp! Then, in a -passionate revulsion of feeling, wondering how Betty fared, he hastened -to Chelsea and furtively interviewed Dibdin, who assured him that his -mistress was doing not only as well as, but better than, the doctor -expected. Mark gave Dibdin a sovereign and instructions to report once -a day by letter for three weeks. Dibdin, an old friend and as discreet -as an archbishop, promised to write, volunteering the information that -the baby was an "uncommon fine boy, a Samphire every inch of him." From -Jim Corrance, later, Mark learned that Betty was likely to prove an -adoring mother. Jim had seen her with the urchin. "She has changed," -he told Mark, in his blunt fashion. "It's natural, I suppose; one -couldn't wish for anything else; but the Betty of King's Charteris is -out of sight. As for Archie--he looks patriarchal." - -If Jim wondered why Mark never entered his brother's house, he was too -shrewd to ask questions. Perhaps he guessed more or less accurately at -the truth. A score of times, Mark was tempted to take his arm and tell -his old friend everything. Betty, however, could not be betrayed; and -speech with reserves, with abysmal silences, would avail nothing. But if -he could have unburdened his soul, what a relief, what a balm it would -have proved! - -After writing some pot-boiling short stories and articles, he plunged -into a second play, a tragedy, dealing with the inevitable surrender of -woman to tradition and convention. In accordance with Tommy Greatorex's -advice, this play was built up for Mrs. Perowne, an English -actress-manager, who had recently returned from an enormously successful -tour in the United States and Australia. Mark went to see her act again -and again, fascinated by her methods, which were those of Duse, and by -her vivid and extraordinary beauty. She had red hair, a milk-white -skin, a Spanish cast of features, the spirits and inconsequence of a -child, and amazing physical and intellectual activity. Mr. Perowne, an -American, had divorced her after a very stormy year of marriage. Since, -he had died. - -This second play, _Fenella_, was written in a spirit compounded of -recklessness and patience. Mark was reckless inasmuch as his money was -nearly gone; patient, because the artist within him told him that he -must make haste slowly. But at the back of this supreme endeavour, -ever-increasing and all-absorbing, was the determination to achieve a -success which would surpass that of his brother. Archibald and he never -met, for Mark saw none of his old friends save Pynsent and Jim Corrance, -but Archibald's name and fame were for ever in his ears. A great -reputation is hard to make in England, or elsewhere, but once made it is -easily sustained. The Basilica was crowded every Sunday morning. Mark -slipped in one day, wondering what sort of fare would be provided. He -found it nicely flavoured to the palate of the town. Jim Corrance -growled out, "Archie gives 'em easily digested food. Of course he -hasn't time to prepare such sermons as that Westchester one. He's up to -his eyes in parochial work. That's what makes bishops nowadays." - -Mark saw Betty in her pew without being seen by her. She looked pale -and thin, but not unhappy. - -After the visit to the Basilica Mark worked even harder than before, -although he worked in the open air, and with due regard for his health. -If that failed again, he was conscious that he would be bankrupt indeed. -Accordingly, he lived a life of Spartan simplicity, and played golf -regularly with Jim or Tommy Greatorex. But _Fenella_ obsessed him. He -told Jim that he was glad the comedy had not been produced, because -_Fenella_ was stronger and better written. Tommy growled out protests -and warnings: "_Fenella_, whose acquaintance I'm anxious to make, may -prove an ungrateful hussy. For Heaven's sake don't pin your hopes to her -petticoat!" - -When the fourth act was nearly finished, Sybil Perowne appeared in a new -play, an adaptation of a French drama, which had enjoyed a _succès fou_ -in Paris. Mark and Tommy went to see it and found an audience cold and -indifferent. As they came out of the theatre, Mark heard a stout -dowager whisper to her daughter, "My dear, I don't know what it means, -but it's taken away my appetite for supper." - -"There you are," said Tommy. "Beware, Mark, of tampering with the -British playgoer's appetite for supper. This thing is too sad. It -won't go. Ah, well, the shrewdest managers make abominable mistakes, -and the most successful is the fellow who makes least." - -"_Fenella_ is sadder than this." - -"Um!" said Tommy. "Sorry to hear that, my boy." - -But when the tragedy was read aloud, Greatorex professed himself amazed. -He jumped up excitedly. - -"I believe you've found yourself, 'pon my soul! And Sybil is mad keen -for a new play. Hullo! Phew-w-w!" - -Mark had fainted. - -When he came to himself he admitted that he had been unable to sleep for -several nights. Tommy talked like a sage, advising moderation, but -knowing--none better--that _Fenella_ could never have been born without -pangs. With his sense of the dramatic he perceived that Mark in his -present condition would be likely to impress the actress, herself highly -strung and emotional. The good fellow took pains to arrange an -interview, obtaining permission to call and bring a friend. - -"I've cracked you up as the coming novelist, who's dying to make her -acquaintance. I said in a postscript that you raved about her." - -"She is magnificent," said Mark. - -"She never reads plays. But you must corner her. Spar free! I tell -you frankly she's a slippery one. I was her Press agent for a season. -If possible, I want her to hear all about her part before she hands the -play on to that scoundrel Gonzales." - -Gonzales was Mrs. Perowne's manager. Mark frowned when his name was -mentioned. He had heard of Gonzales. - -Mrs. Perowne made the appointment for three. At two Mark met Greatorex -in his rooms. Tommy was in his oldest clothes and hard at work. - -"I'm not coming," he announced. "Never meant to, either. Why, man, I -should wreck your chance. Here's a letter with a gilt-edged lie in it. -Have you the play? Yes. Now, look here; leave it in the hall with your -overcoat. Persuade her, if you can, to listen to the last scene of the -third act. Don't leave the house without giving her some of it, if you -have to force it down her throat. She'll respect your determination. -Report here." - -"I c-c-can't r-r-read it," stammered Mark. - -Tommy hit his desk so hard with his fist that the ink bespattered it. - -"Mark," he said solemnly, "I am counting on your making an exhibition of -yourself. Be sure to stammer, burst a blood-vessel, faint, have a fit, -but stick to your job. Now--go!" - -Mark was pushed out of the room by his friend. When the door slammed -behind him Greatorex burst out laughing. "He won't stammer now, and -he'll read his play." - -Mark was shown by an irreproachable butler into a small room hung with -silk and filled with Japanese furniture. The dominant note was the -grotesque if not the monstrous. Everything--from the embroideries on -the walls to the tiny carved figures in the cabinets--indicated the cult -of deformity. - -He was examining a bit of enamel when Mrs. Perowne came in, holding out -both hands. - -"Tommy's friends are always welcome here," she said graciously. "That's -a nice bit--isn't it? It's not Japanese at all, but Byzantine, as I -dare say you know." - -Mark confessed that he knew nothing of enamels. He sat down, glancing at -his hostess, who was not unconscious of his scrutiny and surprise. -Always, men meeting her for the first time off the stage were amazed at -her appearance of youth. She braved the light from the window with -impunity. Hair, complexion, eyes might have belonged to a maiden of -twenty. But the mouth--her most remarkable feature--betrayed the woman -of maturity. It was large, finely curved, and mobile. Her eyes were of -a rich chestnut tint. - -"You want to tell me about a play?" she said, with a low laugh. - -"How did you d-d-divine that?" - -"The expression of a man who has written a play is unmistakable. Well, -I am in a charming humour this afternoon. What is the play about? _À -propos_--are you the famous Mr. Samphire's brother?" - -Unconsciously Mark winced. - -"Yes," he said shortly. - -"Tell me about your play." - -"I c-c-can't," he said. For a moment he hesitated, feeling the lump -rising in his throat; then some emanation from the woman opposite--a -sense of sympathy--restored his confidence. His face--so plain when -troubled--broke into a smile. "It's like this," he continued: "I hate -to give you a synopsis of it. L-l-let me read a scene or two. You can -make up your mind in a jiffy whether it pleases you or not; and if it -doesn't, I'll go at a nod from you." - -"But I never listen to plays. Surely that wretch, Tommy, told you. I -talk them over before they're written. I've got someone coming in -three-quarters of an hour to talk over an unwritten play. The hundreds -which are sent to me to read are always passed on to Alfred Gonzales." - -Mark felt his confidence oozing from every pore. In another minute his -hostess would be bored. At this ignominious probability his fighting -instincts asserted themselves. - -"I wrote this play for you," he said slowly. "I can't see another woman -in it at all. And somehow,"--he stretched out his lean, finely formed -hands with a dramatic gesture--"somehow I seem to have gripped you, -elusive though you are. Tommy says you're a good sort. Be good to -me--for ten minutes. The play's downstairs in the hall. Let me fetch -it. Shall I?" - -"Yes--fetch it." - -He ran like a boy from the room. Mrs. Perowne got up, glanced at -herself in a small mirror, and sat down in the seat which Mark had just -left. The change was not without significance. Before, she had wished -to be seen; now she wished to see. When Mark came back she said quietly: -"Begin at the beginning." - -At that moment Mark felt once more the accursed lump in his throat. His -face contracted. The woman closely watching him rose and laid her hand -upon his shoulder. - -"You have an impediment of speech," she whispered. "Take your time. You -have interested me. I like men who surmount obstacles. I'll sit here -till you can read your play. I'm going to mix two tiny cocktails, -Martigny cocktails: mild as Mary's little lamb." - -When she came back Mark was at his ease; she had ceased to be a -stranger. He drank the cocktail, and began the first act. Mrs. Perowne -lay back in her chair, watching him with half-closed eyes. She never -moved, absorbing in silence every word and intonation. When Mark had -finished, she nodded gaily. - -"The first act is capital. When will you come and read the others?" - -"At any hour you choose--day or night." - -"To-morrow at twelve then. You must stay to luncheon afterwards." - - - - - *CHAPTER XXXVII* - - *POPPY AND MANDRAGORA* - - -Half an hour later Mark was describing what had passed to Greatorex, who -listened with an odd smile upon his ugly, intelligent face: the smile -which is typical of so much that is left unsaid, the smile of a -knowledge and an experience which cannot be imparted. Greatorex had -appetite for such food as Mark was giving him, and he demanded every -crumb. While Mark was speaking the journalist smoked. The smoke -ascended in fragrant clouds, melting into the thickening atmosphere of -the room. It struck Greatorex, not for the first time, that the reek of -good tobacco manifested all the things for which men strive and to which -it would seem to be predestined that they should not attain. Greatorex -asked himself what life would be without the fragrance of hopes and -ambitions which float from us and vanish. And how stale, how offensive -their odour becomes unless the windows of the mind be flung wide open! - -"Mark," he said, dropping the end of his cigarette, "you are desperately -keen on this?" - -He meant his words to be taken as affirmation or interrogation, -according to Mark's mood. He never invited confidences withheld. - -"Yes," Mark replied. - -"Why?" - -When the eyes of the two men countered, a third person would have -remarked in them an extraordinary difference in colour and quality. -Greatorex had the onyx eyes of a gipsy, bright yet obscured by -mysterious flickering tints, the eyes which conceal and so seldom reveal -the thoughts behind them. Mark's blue eyes had that candid expression -which pertains to children's eyes. - -"Why?" Mark repeated the pregnant word. "I think you know why. I have -failed in everything I have undertaken. I have pursued success as if it -were a will-o'-the-wisp----" - -"Which it is----" - -"And if once I could hold it in my hand, if I could say to myself, I -have it--it is mine--why then----" - -He paused. - -"You care so much for fame--you?" - -"I ask for recognition, not because recognition is in itself a hall mark -of success, but because without it labour would seem to be wasted. What -is the use of a great poem, a great book, which remains unread? A -gospel is no gospel until it is preached to thousands." - -"Don't set your heart on this play being produced!" - -"I _have_ set my heart on that, Tommy." - -"If Sybil takes a fancy to you----" he paused. - -Mark's ingenuous stare was disconcerting. He continued lightly: "I warn -you that she may like you better than _Fenella_. It would not surprise -me if she liked you rather too well." - -"Don't be a fool," said Mark angrily. - -"If I could only be a fool," Greatorex murmured. "Depend upon it fools -have the best of it. And they live, some of 'em, in the only paradise -to be found on this planet. Well, I have spoken, I have warned you." - -Upon the following day Mark returned at the hour appointed to Mrs. -Perowne's flat. The butler, impassive as the Sphinx, showed him into -the same room with its curious atmosphere of the East. In a few minutes -the actress appeared in a _kimono_ of some silvery tissue embroidered in -gold, with her hair done _à la Japonaise_, and embellished with barbaric -ornaments. Clad in this she became a part, and the greatest part, of -the room. Looking at her, Mark felt ill at ease in his blue serge suit. -At the same time he tried to measure the difference between the woman in -the _kimono_ and all other women whom he had known. Mrs. Perowne -smiled, reading his thoughts. - -"I am quite, quite different to all the others," she said softly. "I -ought to have lived in the days of Herod Antipas." - -When she spoke of Herod, Mark remembered that she had Jewish blood in -her veins. Her father had been a well-known English picture-dealer; her -mother, a famous dancer, a Spanish Moor. Her Moorish ancestors, of whom -the actress boasted, were Jews to the marrow, although living in Spain, -outwardly subject to the faith of most Catholic monarchs. For -generations these people had lived and died incomparable actors, -sustaining from the cradle to the grave a rôle above which glittered the -knives of the Inquisition. Mark began to understand that the woman -smiling at him was natural, most true to herself, when playing a -part--and yet beneath a thousand disguises throbbed the heart of the -Jewess, the child of all countries and of none. - -Mark read his play. - -As he read it, he realised how poor an instrument lay in his throat. He -was hoarse from a neglected cold, and his voice, though flexible, -betrayed the effort made to control it. But the stammer spared him. To -Sybil Perowne, familiar with and therefore slightly contemptuous of the -arts of the elocutionist, this rough, uneven inflection and articulation -had something of the charm of a disused viol or harpsichord, whose -frayed, worn strings still hold jangled echoes of cadences melodic and -harmonious long ago. She had the perceptions of the artist, and that -feeling for art which is partly a gift and partly the result of patient -training. Her perceptions enabled her to see Mark Samphire as he was, -the man who had fought against odds; her feeling for art approved his -work as the epitome and expression of that fight dramatically set forth -in admirable English. At the end of the second act the reader looked up -for a word of approval: "Go on!" she said. The climax of the third act -provoked an exclamation at Mark's physical distress. She brought him a -glass of champagne and insisted upon his drinking it. But he saw that -her eyes were shining. He plunged into the fourth act and stumbled -through it: every word rasping his throat. When he had finished she -jumped up as Greatorex had done. - -"I am a woman of impulse," she cried. "I will produce your play." - -Mark stared at her, not believing his ears. - -"You will p-p-produce it?" he stammered. - -"Yes," she answered. "I don't say there's money in it; I don't say it -hasn't faults and crudities; but I do say it's a play--and it pleases, -it touches, it thrills--me." - -She held out her hand. Mark had an intuition that she wished him to -kiss it. He raised it gratefully to his lips. - -"And now," she said gaily, "luncheon! I am famished. There is no sauce -like emotion. That is why Spanish people eat so much at funerals." - -At luncheon she asked a score of questions about his work and life. - -"Last night," she said, "I read _The Songs of the Angels_. You have -heard these songs yourself, eh? But--do you hear them now?" - -She held his glance, faintly smiling at the colour which rushed into his -cheeks. - -"There are angels and angels," he said evasively. - -"But, if I have interpreted your meaning, the angels you write about are -heard only by the--shall I offend you if I say--the saints. You are not -a saint?" - -"Hardly," said Mark. - -"But you might be," she murmured; "that is why you interest me"--she -paused, sighed, and finished the sentence--"so much. I have never met a -saint; I have never met a man who had the makings of a saint in -him--till to-day." - -Mark knew that she had challenged him. - -"Out of the makings of a saint," he said curtly, "the devil fashions the -greatest sinner." - -"You believe in the devil?" - -Mark shrugged his shoulders. - -"The devil is 'evil' with a big D before it. I certainly believe in -evil." - -"I have to drag answers from you. Do you dislike this sort of talk? -Perhaps you think me indiscreet, impudent; but I like to get my -bearings. It saves bother. You can ask me anything--anything, if, if -you regard me as a friend." - -"I do," he said hastily; but he asked no questions. - -"I don't quite understand you," she said slowly; "and of course you -don't understand me. I am sure, judging from your book, your play, -and--and your face, that you have an extravagant admiration for what you -think to be good women. Is it not so? You needn't take the trouble to -say 'yes.' And I'm only a good--_sort_. I have a sound body, of which -I take the greatest care, and a sane mind; but I was born without a -soul. _Enfin_, the conclusion is inevitable--for me--I do not believe -in the soul but you do?" - -"I did," he answered. - -She offered him a cigarette, and lit one herself, as the Sphinx-like -butler brought coffee and liqueurs. The luncheon had been very simple. -Sipping her coffee, the actress began to talk of _Fenella_. - -"You wrote the part, you say, for me; but you have drawn _Fenella_ from -life." - -Mark denied this. - -"You may have done it subconsciously, but you've done it. Now tell me, -have you worked out the technical details? Have you estimated the -probable expense?" - -"I suppose the adequate mounting of it will be costly." - -"Between three and four thousand pounds," said Mrs. Perowne carelessly. - -Soon after he took his leave. The play remained in the actress's -possession. No mention was made of terms. Mrs. Perowne had said that -Gonzales would look it over. Greatorex expressed astonishment that the -affair had come to a head so suddenly, and congratulated Mark; but he -added that a contract must be signed as soon as possible. - -"You don't think----" began Mark. - -"My dear fellow, I know a poor devil whose first play was accepted six -years ago. It has not been produced yet! Strictly between ourselves, I -don't mind telling you that I'm the man." - -"But if your lawyer----" - -"I can't afford to make an enemy of the actor-manager who _still_ has -it! I blame myself; I had no contract. We'll prepare a corker for you. -I take it that you want nothing if the thing fails, and a fair profit if -it goes--eh? Just so. When do you see the fascinating Sybil again? -To-morrow. Have you made love to her? She expects it from every man. -Not many disappoint her." - -He laughed at Mark's confusion, and compared him to the infant Moses -found by Pharaoh's daughter in the bulrushes. The friends celebrated -the acceptance of the drama at a restaurant, and Mark made merry. - -"You feel it?" said Tommy. - -"Eh?" - -"Success tickling the palm of your hand?" - -"I shall mark this day with red, of course!" - -"If we were in the West of America," said Greatorex, "we should paint -the night as red as _la belle_ Sybil's hair. This sort of thing has -only a tinge of pink in it. Have you ever let yourself go, Mark? Of -course not! There is nothing of the beast in you. You might kill -yourself, or somebody else, but I can't fancy you on all fours." - -They returned to the club, where some choice spirits were discussing art -and literature in a fog of tobacco-smoke. But Mark, who joined them, -saw no fog--only the sun, shining upon all things and all men. - -"He's had a four-act play accepted," Greatorex explained. "There's no -more to tell yet." - -Several of the men shook Mark's hand. Glasses were replenished, fresh -cigars lighted. Mark laughed as gaily as any, delightfully aware that -he was receiving something--so to speak--on account, a few pieces of -silver, cash down to bind a bargain. Some of his companions were -celebrities. It seemed to him that for the first time he was of them as -well as with them. These Olympians asked for his opinion, laughed at -his jokes, approved his suggestions. The hours passed swiftly and -pleasantly. - -But walking home to Hampstead, beneath the stars, in an air purged by -frost, his triumph dwindled to mean proportions. He considered the -events of the day. Out of these, now become shadows for the most part, -the face of Sybil Perowne stood out substantially: a fact to be reckoned -with. He asked himself if he liked her. Was he attracted by her beauty -and cleverness? No; these had not touched him. Yet he was -attracted--and by what? A vision of the Japanese room revealed the -fascination, so mysterious, so alluring to the imagination, of the -occult. The sorceress beguiled the fancy of a man who had only cared -for good women. He found himself speculating in regard to her. -Doubtless the Sphinx-faced butler could tell some tales--an he would! - -If he saw much of her, would he forget Betty? The child of the Moorish -dancer gave poppy and mandragora to those who sought her. - -He had made an appointment with Mrs. Perowne in the afternoon, but in -the morning, having nothing to do, he thought he would like to see -Pynsent. Pynsent owned a queer old-fashioned house in Kensington. Mark -rang the bell, which was answered by a delightful French _bonne_, who -made the best omelette in the world and worshipped Pynsent. Certainly, -Monsieur would be charmed to see his friend. Alas! yes; the dear studio -in Paris had been abandoned. She, Francine, was desolated, but what -would you? Monsieur Pynsent made gold in this detestable London instead -of silver in enchanting Paris! So chattering, she conducted Mark to the -big studio, which was found to be empty. The master had slipped out for -a minute. Would Monsieur Mark sit down? Before he had time to smoke a -tiny cigarette, his friend would be shaking both his hands. She gave -Mark the cigarettes, the potent Caporal cigarettes, handed him the -latest Paris paper, popped a log on to the fire, and bustled away. - -Mark looked about him. The studio, simply furnished, bare of those -tapestries and properties which most painters buy as soon as they begin -to earn money, was, in short, a workshop full of ingenious appliances -for obtaining curious effects of colour, light and shade. In the middle -of it stood a huge oak easel. Several large canvases were turned to the -wall. An open paint-box, a palette, a bowl full of the coarse, broad -brushes which Pynsent used, told Mark that work was about to begin. -Pynsent took few holidays. Work had become to him not a means to an -end, but the end itself. But then such work as his was an end, an -accomplishment, a victory. Finality distinguished every touch. Mark -lit one of the French cigarettes, because he knew the fumes of it would -bring back the pleasant days in the _Rue de l'Ancienne Comédie_. He -wondered whether Pynsent--the least sentimental of men--smoked Caporal -tobacco for the same reason. Possibly. But more probably because he -was a man in a groove. One could not conceive of Pynsent with a butler -and footmen. He lived now as he had always lived, regardless of Mrs. -Grundy, who said tartly that the great painter was a pincher. - -After a whiff or two, the _Rue de l'Ancienne Comédie_ revealed itself as -it appeared one morning when a couple of brother students were removing -themselves and their belongings from one studio to another. Mark had -lent two willing hands and a tongue which outwagged a terrier's tail. -The students possessed a chest full of costumes. In these their friends -had arrayed themselves. From several adjoining studios came other -students and their models, all anxious to help--or hinder. Every -article was carried in procession down the narrow street to the sounds -of loud laughter, of banjo and mandoline, of drum and cornet, and of -various songs. A diminutive Frenchman, beardless as a baby, had taken -off most of his clothes and was sitting cross-legged in the middle of a -large flat bath, which four of his friends were carrying, arm-high, down -the street. The little man had robed himself in a rough towel; he wore -a sponge-bag on his head; and he hugged to his bare chest an enormous -sponge. All down the street, windows were flung up. Everybody joined -in the fun. - -"_Une petite surprise pour Monsieur--et Madame_." - -The voice of the good Francine put to flight the joyous procession. -Mark rose up, flung away the half-smoked cigarette, and saw Betty -advancing into the studio. Francine hobbled away. She knew that Betty -had married Mark's brother. - -"Betty!" - -"Mark!" - -"Don't go," said Mark, as she paused irresolute. "Pynsent is painting -you, I suppose. He will be here in a minute. I'll go." - -"You never wrote," she faltered. - -"Was it likely? How is the boy?" - -"I expected a word of--forgiveness. The boy is very well." - -"Is he like you?" - -"Everybody says so." - -He was silent and very pale, whereas Betty's face was suffused with -delicate colour. He was trying to resist an overmastering impulse to -take her in his arms, when he heard Pynsent's step, and a moment -afterwards his clear incisive voice. - -"I am ashamed that I was not here to receive you, Mrs. Samphire. But I -know you'd sooner talk to Mark than me. I'm painting her, Mark. You -shall give us your opinion. I've not seen you for a coon's age. What? -Nonsense, my dear fellow. I can paint just as well while you're here. -You must stay as long as you possibly can. Mustn't he, Mrs. Samphire?" - -"Of course," said Betty in her ordinary voice. Pynsent dragged a canvas -across the studio and placed it on the easel. - -"There," said he, "what do you think of that?" - -Mark approached the easel, as Betty turned to remove her hat and jacket. -The portrait, almost completed, was three-quarters length: a daring -study in what at first glance seemed to be black-and-white. As a matter -of fact, black, as pigment, was not used at all. The effect of it was -produced by the admixture and contrast of colour. Looking into the -translucent shadows the eye detected brilliant tints. - -"It's one of the best things I've done," said Pynsent. "It's kept me -awake nights, this portrait. I got that shadow under the chin by a trick -I learnt in Florence. You lay three colours one on top of the other. -It's great. The fellow who discovered it can't draw; he'd be a wonder -if he could----" - -Pynsent went on talking, unaware of what was passing in the minds of his -friends. Betty sat down on the model's dais, and Pynsent arranged her -hands, still talking volubly of light and colour effects. Mark remained -staring at the picture. "You haven't said what you think of it," -concluded Pynsent, as he picked up his palette. - -"For whom are you painting it?" - -"It's an open secret, isn't it?" said the painter, glancing sideways at -his model. "The grateful Vauxhall wishes to give it to your brother. -But I had difficulty in persuading Madame to sit." - -"Vauxhall," repeated Mark stupidly. - -"Archie, they say, has put thousands into his pocket. He boomed the -price of all bricks and mortar within a mile radius of the Basilica. -Well--your opinion, my dear fellow." - -Mark still hesitated. Pynsent was famous for his delineation of -character. He had the power of seizing and transferring to canvas those -delicate shades of expression which reveal the real man and woman. In -pourtraying Betty, he had emphasised the mother in her at the expense, -possibly, of the wife. The portrait was hardly flattering in the -generally received sense. The face was troubled; lines and shadows lay -on it. Betty's youth and beauty were subdued, as if beneath the touch -of suffering rather than time. But the general effect remained that of -a grace and loveliness independent of colour and texture. The admirable -contours, the delicate modelling of cheek and brow and chin, indicated a -noble maturity not yet attained but certain to be attained. Not at that -moment, however, did Mark realise that Pynsent's portrait was an -incomparable likeness of the Betty who had failed to keep tryst because -the higher nature had overcome the lower and baser. But he did grasp a -part of the truth. He told himself that if Betty had not suffered, -Pynsent would have painted another and a different portrait. - -"The face is strange to me," said Mark. - -"What?" Pynsent exclaimed, staring at the speaker. "You, you say that? -Why of all men, I----" He broke off abruptly, sensible of some -psychological disturbance, puzzled and distressed. Mark laughed harshly. -He had almost betrayed himself. Then he glanced at Betty. Her likeness -to the picture was extraordinary. - -"You m-m-misunderstand me," he stammered. "I meant to say that you had -painted a woman who has changed. We all change. I hardly recognise my -own f-face. This picture is, as you say, the b-b-best thing you've -done, and I congratulate you warmly. I'd like to see it again. But now -I must r-r-run away. I d-dropped in to tell you that my play is -accepted." - -This piece of news effectively cloaked his nervousness. Pynsent and -Betty expressed their pleasure and congratulation. Mark shook hands and -escaped. - -"I thought he was not himself," said Pynsent, picking up his palette. -"This will make up for a good deal, won't it? I know exactly how he -feels. Great Scott! It seems only yesterday that I had my first picture -hung in the Salon. I was skied, but I was the happiest man in Paris. -All the same, Mark did not strike me as looking happy--eh?" - -She answered his sharp "eh" and still sharper glance with a constrained -"N-n-no." - - - - - *CHAPTER XXXVIII* - - *GONZALES* - - -Mark plunged into the obscurity of the underground railway, cursing the -impulse which had taken him to Pynsent's studio. Betty had suffered, -but what was her suffering compared with his? - -He repeated this to himself again and again, as the train bore him -eastward. Then he remembered Jim's phrase: "Our Betty is out of sight." - -Thinking of Jim, he got out at the Mansion House and walked to the Stock -Exchange. Five minutes with Jim might blow some cobwebs out of his -mind. He reached the huge building and called for James Corrance. The -porter bade him wait near some glass swinging-doors through which -hatless men were continually passing. Whenever these opened a dull roar -of many voices fell on Mark's ear, a menacing growl as of an angry -beast. In his present mood Mark welcomed any strange noise as a -distraction from the buzzing of his own thoughts. This beast of the -markets made itself heard. Mark wondered vaguely whether it drowned, to -such men as Jim, all other sounds. - -While he stood, peering through the glass doors, a sharp thud, as of a -mallet striking a panel of wood, smote his ears. In an instant, as if -some wizard had waved a wand, silence fell upon the crowd within the -building, a silence inexpressibly strange and awe-inspiring. Again the -thud was heard, louder and more articulate. Mark guessed what was -happening. A member of the Stock Exchange was about to be "hammered." -The silence, Mark noted, was partially broken by a shuffling of -innumerable feet, as men pressed forward to catch the name of the man -who had failed. The hammer struck for the third and last time. Mark -could see that every face was turned in one direction; upon each lay a -grim expression of anxiety. Then a hoarse voice said in a monotone: -"Mr. Caxton Bruno is unable to comply with his bargains." A roar of -voices succeeded the announcement, as the crowd resumed the business of -the minute. The glass doors swung open; and Jim Corrance appeared. - -"You heard poor Bruno hammered," he said. "Dramatic--eh? It always -thrills, because one never knows. That cursed hammer may sound the -death knell of a dozen firms. I _am_ glad to see you----" - -Talking volubly, he insisted that Mark must lunch with him, although -Mark protested that he had no appetite. But Jim, when he heard that -_Fenella_ was accepted by Mrs. Perowne, declared that a bottle of -champagne must be cracked. He carried Mark off to his City club, where -scores of men were eating, drinking, and talking. Jim pointed out the -celebrities. - -"That fellow is a famous 'bear,'" he indicated a short, thick-set, -rather unctuous-looking Jew. "In the long run the 'bears' have the best -of it." - -"He doesn't look clever," said Mark. - -"Clever? He's stupid as an owl outside his own special business. It -isn't the clever ones who arrive. I know men with all the qualities -essential to success, but the luck goes against 'em every time. They -ought to get there with both feet, but they don't. You must have a glass -of that old cognac, Mark. A play is not accepted every day, by Jove! I -tell you what I'll do, my boy. I'll give a dinner in honour of the -event. We'll get Pynsent, and Tommy Greatorex, and the rest of 'em. -Why not nip over to Paris for it? Eh? What are you mumbling? All take -and no give. What infernal rot! Well, I won't take no. As if it -wasn't an honour to entertain so distinguished a gentleman." - -Mark's spirits began to rise. After all, the world was not such a bad -place. And the luck which Jim spoke about had certainly changed. The -play would be produced within the year. Thoroughly warmed by Jim's -hospitality, and promising that he would reconsider his refusal to dine -in Paris, he left the City to keep his appointment with Mrs. Perowne. -But the atmosphere of the underground railway, raw, fetid, thick with -smoke, brought back the misery and despair of the morning. He found -himself reflecting that life after thirty was an underground procession, -a nauseating vagabondage in semi-obscurity, stopping now and again at -stations artificially illumined, garishly decorated, reeking with -abominable odours, crowded with pale, troubled strangers jostling each -other in their wild efforts to hurry on to some other place as -detestable as the one they were leaving.... - -As for the play upon which so much was staked, was he not a sanguine -fool to take a woman's word that it would be produced? And production -did not mean success. But here he paused. Production to him did mean -success. It was good, good, good! It had thrilled two persons who knew. -Greatorex, the cynic, the reader of innumerable plays, and the actress, -the woman of genius. - -On this occasion Mrs. Perowne received him in her drawing-room: a -conventional room, white-and-yellow, filled with absurd knick-knacks and -too many flowers, principally exotics of overpowering perfume. She was -wearing a large hat which overshadowed her face. Her dress and jacket -of the plainest cloth and cut were trimmed with sable. Mark had passed -her brougham, drawn up a few yards from the entrance of the building, -and guessed that she was going out. She began to speak about _Fenella_. - -"Alfred Gonzales has read it." - -"What does he say?" - -"He finds it too serious. He says there's no money in it." - -Mark gasped. - -"But Alfred is not infallible," she added. "I mean to produce -_Fenella_. It may be wise to throw it first to the dog." This meant a -first performance in the provinces. Mark burst into excited speech. - -"Then you d-d-don't mean to ch-chuck me. You've raised me to the -heights, Mrs. Perowne. Don't drop me! I m-m-mean that I'd sooner know -the worst now. You said you were an impulsive woman. Perhaps your -impulse overstepped the b-b-bounds of prudence, you know. And, if so, -we'll call the thing off. But don't drop me later. I couldn't stand -that. Am I speaking out too plainly? You've been very kind, very kind -indeed; I shall always be grateful, b-b-but I can face disappointment -better now than l-l-later." - -"Sit down," she said, smiling. "Why, what a boy you are. I-I like -boys." - -He sat down, trembling, wiping the perspiration from his forehead. - -"You are as emotional as I am," she murmured in a caressing voice. -"Now, I've an appointment which I must keep. You can believe that I'd -sooner spend the afternoon with you. I really mean it. I have to -recite at a bazaar. Which bores me horribly. Now do you believe that I -am your friend, that I like you, that you interest me? And will you be -furious if I add that I like you better than your play--good though it -is? I prefer the man to his work, the artist to his art." - -She paused, glancing at him through half-closed eyes. There was -something feline about her expression and pose. Her voice had a purr in -it. Mark did not know what to say or do. - -"I should like to help you to a real success," she continued. "And why -not? Your play might be made into a masterpiece. At present it is -uneven, amateurish, crude in parts. Alfred put his finger on the weak -spots. He says that the fourth act ought to be rewritten. Shall we -rewrite it together? I mean, will you let me help you to make it just -what it ought to be?" - -"Why, of course," said Mark eagerly. "I am not fool enough to suppose -that the thing can't be improved. Your help, your hints, your -experience would be invaluable. I was counting on them at rehearsal." - -"But we haven't come to that yet. I don't hold with altering plays at -rehearsals. After the first night or two, revision may be expedient. -One never knows. Scenes may drag, or they may be too short. We needn't -go into that now. But my point is that the thing should be as perfect -as the author can make it, before it is read to the company. You agree -with me--_hein_?" - -The foreign word of interrogation had a soothing sound. Mark placed -himself in her hands unreservedly. - -"I trust you," he said simply. - -She nodded, showing her lovely teeth in a smile. Then she pointed out -that nothing could be done till the piece in which she was acting had -been taken off. She expected to be quite free in a fortnight's time. -After Easter she would appear in a rôle which required little -preparation. During Lent she might go abroad. But all details could be -settled later. Would he drink tea with her and talk everything over the -day after to-morrow? - -He saw her into her brougham. - -"Your play is in Alfred's hands," she said, as she bade him good-bye. -"He is going to make some notes for us. Have you met him? Go and see -him. He's at the theatre now." - -She murmured something he did not catch, as the brougham rolled silently -away. She was right. He ought to see Gonzales. The business connected -with the play, the contract and so forth, must be done through him. -Doubtless that was what she meant when she urged him to go to the -theatre. He took a 'bus to the Alcazar and sent up his card. Presently -word came down through a tube that Mr. Gonzales would be disengaged in -less than ten minutes. Mr. Samphire might care to look over the house? -Mark assenting to this, a youth connected with the manager's department -escorted him through the building, which had been built for Mrs. Perowne -"regardless of expense," as the youth said, and "replete with every -modern appliance." Mark wondered at the beauty of the decorations in -parts of the theatre other than the auditorium, where lavishness was to -be expected. The stage was already set, and the youth told Mark that -the "Empire" furniture had adorned the palace of one of Napoleon's -marshals. - -Further details, setting forth the thousands lavished upon scenery and -costumes, gave Mark a dismal impression that the play itself was the -least part of a modern theatrical performance; this impression was -deepened when he met the manager, whom he disliked at the first glance. -Gonzales, it was said, had lured Mrs. Perowne from her husband, holding -out the bait of fame. She first appeared in one of his adaptations from -the French, a melodrama built about a head of red hair. Mrs. Perowne's -red hair had been the feature of posters six yards long, designed by -Cheret. In America, the yellow press had asserted that Gonzales was in -the habit of dragging his pupil across her room by her flaming locks. -Her screams echoed from Maine to California, and filled every theatre -with curious crowds, who believed the stories when they saw the red -hair. - -Gonzales was big and burly, with a close-clipped black beard, through -which protruded a red lower lip. His face indicated power, cruelty, and -a brutal self-assurance. He was smoking a very thick cigar, which he -held, when he spoke, between white, fat fingers. His voice, however, -was charming; melodious, persuasive, with the intonations and -inflections characteristic of the Latin races; and his eyes, heavily -lidded, were finely formed and of a clear umber in colour. He began to -praise Mark's play with an insincerity which revolted. Mark, sensible -of an overpowering desire to escape, listened to interminable phrases. - -"You are soaping the ways," he said, when Gonzales paused. "I -understood from Mrs. Perowne that you saw no m-money in the thing. You -can tell me frankly what you think of it. I am not thin-skinned, and I -hope you d-don't take me for a f-fool." - -Gonzales showed his teeth. - -"One has to be careful with authors," he said. "I write myself, -trifles," he shrugged his shoulders, "adaptations, as you know, which -have had a measure of success. And I can't bear to have them -criticised, these adopted children of mine. I think them perfect, -perfect. But you--you are of colder blood--and you say you prefer the -truth which I speak sometimes," he smiled disagreeably. "Well, then, in -my opinion, you have just missed a big thing. There's dramatic power in -every line of _Fenella_, and in Paris it might catch on, but here -tragedy is played--out. Still, I don't say that with judicious cutting, -and a slight strengthening of the love interest, and--in short I told -Mrs. Perowne that we could make something of it, if you gave us a free -hand. Oh, there's plenty of action, and a freshness of treatment, but -look here----" He made a couple of suggestions, so admirable, so -luminous of his insight into dramatic possibilities, that Mark admitted -at once the man's cleverness and knowledge of what was good work. But -when he had, so to speak, given this sample of his ability, he added -with an odious sneer: "After all the public, our public, asks for -something absolutely different. For example, I am in treaty now for a -comedy in four acts. Mrs. Perowne will wear eight dresses, furnished by -the four leading dressmakers of Paris. _Entre nous_, these confections -will cost us nothing, not a _sou_. They will be an immense 'ad' for the -dressmakers and for us. The comedy must be constructed round these -dresses. As an artist I deplore such methods, but a successful manager -is forced to employ them." - -Mark curtly stated the object of his visit. Gonzales shrugged his -shoulders. - -"The contract? Is it not early to talk of that?" - -Words flowed like a stream of milk from his mouth. In the "profession," -he explained, one could not move in haste. Mrs. Perowne had engagements -to be filled. It was absurd to talk of producing a play on a certain -day. It was bad business to take off a paying piece. And Rejane might -lease the Alcazar. No, no, he gave Mr. Samphire credit for a certain -delicacy. He was dealing, remember, with a lady, whose judgment--the -truth was best--he had taken by storm. As her manager, he had implored -her again and again to read no plays till he, the speaker, had looked -them over. Finally, Mark took his leave, conscious that he had been -defeated, that this man of many words could warp him to his will. He -carried away with him, moreover, a conviction that Gonzales was his -enemy, and that the stories about him and Mrs. Perowne were true. - - - - - *CHAPTER XXXIX* - - *AT THE MIRAFLORES* - - -During the fortnight that followed Mark saw Mrs. Perowne every day. The -actress exercised over him strange powers of attraction and repulsion, -which he tried to analyse: sensible that the repulsion was subtle and -negative, whereas the attraction was obvious and positive. She had a -score of charms; but beneath them lay something secret and hateful; -possibly a cruelty not alien to red hair and red lips. By chance, one -day, Mark said that strong smelling-salts held beneath the nose of a -bulldog would make him relax his grip of another dog when more violent -measures had failed. The actress had a Chow for whom she expressed -extravagant affection. Before Mark could interfere, she had called the -dog to her side and thrust beneath its sensitive nostrils some strong -spirits of ammonia. The poor animal snuffed at them, and was almost -strangled by the fumes. Mark, furious at such unnecessary cruelty, made -hot protest and then got up to leave the room. Mrs. Perowne entreated -forgiveness, pleading ignorance and thoughtlessness. Mark saw tears in -her eyes; suborned witnesses, no doubt, but deemed honest by an honest -man. - -"I loathe cruelty," said Mark. - -"Gonzales is cruel," she replied irrelevantly. - -"But you like him?" - -"I hate him--sometimes." - -He divined in her a desire to talk about Gonzales. - -"I hate him always," said Mark. "I don't want to hear his name -mentioned. I know he is a beast." - -"Would you like me to dismiss him?" she asked softly. - -He stared at her in astonishment. - -"Could you? I understood that he was in--indispensable, as actor and -manager." - -"No man is indispensable to--me," she said angrily. Then her face -changed and softened, suffused by an extraordinary radiance of youth and -vitality. "I mean to say," she murmured, "that no man, _yet_, has -proved himself indispensable, but----" - -She looked at Mark, who got up and began to pace the room, much -agitated. Her lips were parted, revealing the small, white, -resolute-looking teeth. She was reflecting, not without a sense of -humour, that Mark was the first man of the many she liked who refused to -dance to her piping. The fact allured her. - -"I must go," he said abruptly. - -"But you will come to-morrow?" - -He hesitated, blushing like a girl, but on the morrow he came and found -her friendly, genial, the "good sort": a rôle she could sustain to -perfection. Mark, on the other hand, felt himself to be dull and -irritable. Even the all-absorbing _Fenella_ failed to quicken his wits -or pulses. He answered absently some suggestions in regard to the -fourth act, staring at the speaker's eyes, as if trying to read their -message instead of that of the lips. - -"Why do you look at me like that?" she asked in a tone absolutely free -from sentiment. - -"I am trying to find the real Sybil." - -"Sybils are mysteries," she said lightly. "Besides you come here to -talk about the play--_hein_? not about me." - -"I come here to talk about the play," he answered slowly, "but I go away -to think about you." - -"And the thoughts are not always pleasant ones?" - -"Not always." - -"You are truthful." - -"Am I?" - -"Most men are such liars. Gonzales, for example--ah, well, we won't -talk of him. But the others--oh, the humbugs!" - -In fluent, even tones, she began to speak of the men she knew -intimately, the higher Bohemians of art and literature. It was -impossible not to be amused by her sketches. - -"This is caricature," said Mark. - -"Studies from life." - -"I'm glad I don't know those--gentlemen." - -"You are a man of limitations; and you see others not as they are but as -you would like them to be. That is why your books do not sell. Your -characters are strongly drawn, but their strength is a reproach and an -exasperation to readers of weaker clay. In books, as in real life, we -like to meet people no better and perhaps worse than ourselves. You are -handicapped by ideals, which bankrupt your ideas...." - -On this theme she spoke volubly for some minutes. Mark listened, amazed -at her perceptions, at her grasp of life as it is lived in London, at -her audacity in dealing with problems. - -"You look astonished," she concluded, "but nowadays revolt is a synonym -of intelligence. As for me I revolt against stupid traditions and -conventions. They are to me like those hideous horse-hair sofas and -chairs upon which our grandfathers sat so stiffly. What? Good wear in -them? I dare say they served their purpose, but now they are banished -to obscure lodging-houses." - -Mark repeated some of her phrases to Tommy Greatorex. - -"She's as clever as she can stick," Tommy admitted, "but it's surface -cleverness, like surface water, tricklings from a thousand sources more -or less polluted. She's interested in you because you are different -from--the others. Of course you're not interested in her--apart from -her profession, I mean. I sent you to her because I knew you would be -proof against her sorceries--the witch. Hullo!" - -Mark was scarlet. - -"I say--you're not interested, are you? She's a wrong 'un. I warned -you." - -"She has good in her." - -Greatorex laughed. - -"Good? A needle in a haystack. Seriously, Mark, you mustn't burn your -fingers. Lord! I was so sure of you. I foresaw that you would excite -her curiosity and interest; I knew that she would like you, as I said, -better than your play. In a word I pulled the strings, but I thought I -should make her dance, not you." - -"She has been very kind to me." - -"What have you been to her? Tell me to mind my own business, if you -like. It's not worth minding, but that doesn't matter." - -"I am going to ask Mrs. Perowne to marry me," Mark replied slowly. - -"Phew-w-w!" - -Instantly, Mark took his hat and marched out of the room. Tommy bit his -nails till it occurred to him to light a pipe. Then he tried to -continue his work, a special article, but he found it impossible to -write a line. Mark's face and eyes disturbed him. Finally, he flung -down his pen in a rage. - -"I thought I knew him," he muttered, "I thought I knew him. This is the -bottomless pit, and I led him blindfold to the edge of it." - -Suddenly he bethought himself of Pynsent. Pynsent knew Mrs. Perowne, had -painted her portrait--a revelation of character in colour. Accordingly -he wired to Pynsent, asking him to dine at a small restaurant in Baker -Street, and mentioning that a subject of importance was to be discussed. -Pynsent wired back an acceptance for the same evening, and the men met -at eight o'clock. They sat down to sharpen their appetites upon some -excellent salted fillets of herring. Not till the _marmite_ was -swallowed did Greatorex give his perplexity words. Then he said -abruptly-- - -"You painted Mrs. Perowne?" - -"You bet I did--inside and out." - -"Did she make love to you?" - -"N-n-no," Pynsent replied, not quite readily. - -"Why not be frank? I can hold my tongue." - -"I think," Pynsent admitted cautiously, "that she expected me to make -love to her, but I didn't. I took a dislike to the woman. And it came -out in the picture. Unpleasant things were said about it at the time, -but she liked it. She told me I had succeeded. And--Great Scott!--so I -had." - -"She has captivated and is captivated by Mark Samphire. He is going to -marry her." - -"What?" - -"It is partly my fault, but I was so sure of--him." He told the story -at length. "And now what are we to do?" - -"Mark--Mark!" Pynsent kept repeating stupidly. "It is incredible. Mark -Samphire--and Sybil Perowne!" - -"She has never denied herself anything." - -"She'll suck every ounce of good blood from his body. It would be -kindness to knock him on the head." - -"It would be pleasure to knock her on the head," said Tommy gloomily. - -"We can do nothing," said Pynsent, at length, as he lit one of his -Caporal cigarettes, which he smoked between the courses. "There was -Maiden. When I studied at the Beaux Arts, Maiden was the coming man. By -Jove! he had come. I remember his big picture in the Salon of '79. -Crowds stood in front of it, jabbering like monkeys. It was great, -great. And France bought it. It hangs in the Luxembourg to-day. Well, -Maiden had a model, a queer little devil of a girl with huge black eyes -whom he stuck into all his pictures. He bought her from her mother out -of a slum, the Rue du Haut-Pavé, close to the cabaret du Soleil d'Or, -and she followed him about like a spaniel, all over Normandy and -Brittany. We wondered what would happen when the child became a woman. -Gad! we might have guessed for a year and a day and never hit the truth. -Maiden married her! He, the wit, the scholar, the gentleman, married -that guttersnipe. And he hasn't painted a picture for fifteen years! I -tell you, Tommy, that it's impossible to predict what any man will do -when he comes in contact with the wrong woman." - -"Or with the right one," said Greatorex, frowning. - -They drank their coffee, and by mutual consent went to the Miraflores -Music Hall, feeling that anything which might distract their thoughts -from Mark would prove a relief. The place was crowded as usual, and -Pynsent, pulling out a pencil, began to draw heads upon a piece of paper -placed in his hat, while Tommy watched his facile fingers, much amused -by the remarks which punctuated every line. - -"People must relax," the painter was saying. "These places would be -empty if we lived normal lives. A self-respecting savage would be bored -to death here." - -"True," said Tommy. "If you want to find sense nowadays you must hunt -for it in the South Pacific, in the islands which Captain Cook and Mr. -Thomas Cook did not find. Hullo, there's Jim Corrance." - -"Why not tell him," said Pynsent quickly. "He's Mark's oldest friend; -he'd do anything for Mark; and he's a practical sort of chap, too." - -Jim joined them with alacrity, obviously glad to see Pynsent, who, of -late, had dropped out of his file. The three secured a table in the -corner of the foyer, where they could talk without fear of being -overheard, for the noise--the shrill laughter of the women, the deep -notes of the men, the blare of the band--was deafening. Jim, however, -not knowing Mrs. Perowne, save by reputation, was unable to realise the -gravity of the situation. - -"Aren't you fellows making a mountain of a molehill?" he asked. "And, -besides, what can old Mark offer Sybil Perowne?" - -"A new sensation," said Tommy grimly. His face impressed Corrance. -Pynsent nodded gloomily. - -"There's David Ross," said Jim. - -"The Bishop of Poplar?" - -"At one time Mark and he were hand-in-glove. He used to be a -wonder-worker." - -"Oh, he is still," said Greatorex. "I thought we should get something -out of you, Corrance." - -"But a parson----" began Pynsent doubtfully. - -"He was the amateur middleweight champion before he took Orders," said -Corrance, "and it's the pugilist in him, not the parson, which has made -him the man he is. He'll tackle Mark, never fear. He tackles -me--periodically, but all the same, if this thing is serious he will -accomplish nothing." - -"That is what I say," Pynsent added. - -But Tommy, the smallest and weakest of the three, doggedly persisted. -Finally he persuaded Corrance to seek out the Bishop of Poplar. Having -extracted a promise to this effect, he took leave of the others, for his -article, due on the morrow, had to be finished that night. Pynsent and -Corrance remained together. As the little man plunged into the crowd, -Pynsent said: "Tommy Greatorex would cut off his right hand for Mark, -but I've heard men call him selfish and self-centred." - -Corrance at once began to analyse this indisputable fact, sticking out -his chin, and talking with an aggressive frankness which much amused the -painter, who said presently: - -"We may as well admit, Jim, that we're cold-blooded, you and I----" - -"For the sake of argument--yes. Go on!" - -"Partly because of that we've succeeded. I can't see myself, or you, my -boy, chucking our work to help others, although after the work was done -we might write a cheque--eh?" - -"You had better have another whisky and potass." - -"Thanks. I will." - -They watched the Miraflores ballet from a couple of balcony stalls. -Fabulous sums had been spent upon the costumes of the dancers, who -represented flowers and butterflies. Pynsent became absorbed in the -spectacle of light and colour and movement. Now and again he jogged -Corrance with his elbow, calling his attention to this effect and that, -muttering inarticulate exclamations. The lights in the theatre were -turned low, so that the stage, a blaze of golden splendour, attracted -all eyes. Then, suddenly, like a sun in eclipse, the stage itself was -obscured. One saw luminous shadows through which floated spirits of the -air, mysterious winged beings; the butterflies seeking the flowers at -the approach of night. Impenetrable darkness succeeded as the band -stopped playing. In the foyer, men and women crowded together craned -their heads in one direction, awaiting the supreme moment. It came. -Out of the darkness glided a dazzling creature, veiled in what seemed to -be a tissue of diamonds. From her alone emanated light, a myriad -sparkles. She advanced slowly with white, outstretched arms, a smile -upon her face. At the edge of the stage she poised herself for flight. -Not a sound broke the silence, but one felt the throb and thrill of a -thousand hearts. Then a faint strain of music suffused the air, as the -creature took wing. She soared upward and forward, following the curve -of an ellipse. Thus soaring, she scattered flowers which fell -everywhere, filling the house with perfume. In the dome of the building -she vanished. A sigh of pleasure escaped the lips of the spectators. -The vision reappeared, gliding forward as before out of obscurity. Once -more, for the last time, she soared upward and vanished. - -"Let us go," said Pynsent. "That was the immortal spirit of Love. And -she vanished--no wonder--in this temple of----" He shut his lips, for -his neighbours were staring at him. - -Corrance rose, muttering: "The expenses must be stupendous; but -Miraflores shares are at 219. I bought a nice little block at 127 -eighteen months ago." - -"Shut up, you miserable materialist!" - -"I can't afford to be anything else--nor can Mark, poor devil!" - -"I beg your pardon," said Pynsent hurriedly. - -They pushed their way through the crowd, pausing at the top of the broad -stairs which led to the street below. The atmosphere, charged with -odours of musk and patchouli and reeking of strong cigars, was -overpoweringly oppressive. But on almost every face, pale beneath the -glare of the electric light, flamed a curious satisfaction, curious -because with rare exceptions it was artificial. The exception may be -mentioned. A thick-set man, remarkable by reason of his white hair and -pink smooth face, stood at the entrance, bowing and beaming. The -habitués knew him, and nodded carelessly as they passed by. Some -exchanged a few words. The man seemed to be counting: reckoning the -numbers present, computing gains. - -"That's old Harry," said Corrance to the painter. "He runs this place. -Hullo, Harry, how are you? Big house to-night." - -"Big house every night," said Harry complacently. "You know that, Mr. -Corrance. It's prime--prime. I never get tired of watching it." - -He rubbed his plump white hands together, beaming like an aged cherub. - -"Holy Moses!" exclaimed Pynsent. "You never get tired of -watching--this?" He indicated the promenade in a derisive gesture. - -"Never," said Harry, opening his blue eyes in childish astonishment at -such a question. "Why this is my show. I planned it. I stand here -every night." - -"It's meat and drink, old chap, isn't it?" said Corrance. - -"I've got just where I wanted to be," Harry said solemnly. "The boys -call me king of the music-halls." - -"Good-night, your majesty," said Corrance, beginning to descend the -stairs. "There's one that's happy and content," he added, as Pynsent -and he strolled down the corridor. - -"We're saprophytes," burst out Pynsent. - -"I don't know what that means," said Jim, "but it sounds something -nasty." - - - - - *CHAPTER XL* - - *"COME!"* - - -True to his promise, Corrance sought out the Bishop of Poplar, and -delivered himself of his message. David Ross nodded, but his fine eyes -were troubled. - -"What's happened to Mark?" said Corrance irritably. "D----n it all--I -beg your pardon, David, but Mark would make you swear, bishop though you -are." - -"I'll see him," said David; "but I--I don't know--I fear----" He broke -off abruptly. Then his eyes flashed. "What's happened to Mark? - -"As for me," said Jim, "I can see, but Mark, the blind fool, wants a -nurse or a keeper. He's half child, half lunatic. I'll go now. You're -up to your nose in work, and so am I. I suppose you want money, you -shameless beggar?" - -"All I can get and all I can't get." - -"I shall have to send you a cheque," Jim growled. "I tell everybody -you're the dearest friend I've got. Good-bye." - -He retreated hastily, fearing a lecture. David returned to an enormous -correspondence with which his secretary was endeavouring to cope. The -poor man nearly burst into tears when his chief told him that he might -be absent for several hours. David put on his hat, deaf to a score of -protests. - -"I'm going fishing," he said, "and, confound it! I've no bait." - -Corrance had told him that Mark lunched at the Scribblers. To that club -the Bishop took his way. There he learned that Mark was writing in the -silence room. David walked in, unannounced, holding out his hand, which -Mark refused to take. - -"You went to Betty," he said fiercely. - -"No." - -"She failed me." - -"Yes; she failed you, thank God." - -"What brings you here?" - -"You know perfectly well." - -"But this is intolerable, this interference! Will you understand, Ross, -that I insist upon your leaving me alone?" - -"That is impossible, Mark. Why, I want you to come and stay with me for -a month." - -"I wonder they ordained you a bishop," said Mark. "I thought they made -a point of choosing men of--tact." - -"I've any amount of tact," said David cheerfully. "Mark, you're a -madman, and in your soul you know it." - -"Tommy Greatorex sent you on this fool's errand?" - -"Yes; Greatorex and Jim and Pynsent. Your friends love you well, Mark. -Have you no love for them?" - -"I'll tell you something, Ross; it may save you time and trouble. The -love I had for you fellows is dead--dead." Then, as a gesture of dismay -escaped the Bishop, Mark added: "I cannot love anybody. If it could come -back, if--but it won't. That's why I've kept away from most of you. -You--you all bore me. Oh, it's my fault, I know. I've become a -one-idea'd man. I can think of nothing but my play and the woman who is -going to produce it, to give it life. She's become part of it, do you -understand, part of me--me. I can't lie to you; but I'd like you to try -to realise that the Mark Samphire you once knew is dead. Who killed -Cock Robin?" he laughed. "I can't answer that question." - -"You mean you won't," said the Bishop steadily. "Well, I believe in the -resurrection of the dead. You will come to life again, Mark Samphire, -but not at my touch." - -He moved towards the door. - -"David!" - -The familiar name thrilled upon the air. It was Mark, the old Mark, -speaking. In an instant the hands of the two friends were locked. - -"I can't let you go like that," said Mark. "For all you have done and -would do, I--thank you." - -A few days passed without incident. Spring was abroad in the fields and -woods, hailed by twittering birds and white blossoms. Mark felt her -caress, and was sensible of that amazing calm which succeeds and -precedes any strenuous effort. He let himself drift with the current, -lulled almost to sleep by the lilt of the stream which bore him to the -troubled waters beyond his ken. - -Someone has said that a fine quality in a human being may become the -source of disaster as well as triumph. One might go further, and add -that a fine quality denied its triumph, may be wrecked in disaster. -That love for others with which Mark had been endowed would have -increased and multiplied in marriage. The man had the best qualities or -a husband and father. He apprehended this with his reason, even as -Betty apprehended it intuitively. But such manifest destiny had been -denied him, as in like manner it was denied to his friend David Ross. -But David had been given his triumph. His power of loving, purged from -the taint of selfish emotion, had expanded enormously, incredibly, -suffusing itself, divinely fluid, over vast areas, transmuting -everything it touched, producing and reproducing with inexhaustible -energy and fertility. Mark's love might have flowed into as many and -diverse channels had it not been dammed by its bastard brother -passion--hate. - -Now, standing (as Greatorex had put it) on the brink of the bottomless -pit, he was conscious that not only was love, the higher love, dead, but -that hate also was moribund. He could think of Archibald as of one at -an immeasurable distance--a shadowy figure, a blur upon the horizon. -And since his meeting with Betty in Pynsent's studio, she also had -faded, and become _unreal_, a phantom of the past, flitting from him -into impenetrable shades. - -This feeling of remoteness from the persons whose lives had been so -interwoven with his own underwent a crucial test that same afternoon. -In the _Globe_ Mark read that the see of Parham had been offered to and -accepted by Archibald Samphire. His brother had reached the apex of his -ambitions; he was the bishop-designate of a famous diocese in the North -of England! Lower down, in the same column, was another paragraph-- - - -"Mrs. Perowne is leaving London for the Continent. The famous actress, -we are given to understand, has accepted a play by one of our rising -novelists, a play which those who have read it declare to be quite out -of the common." - - -Mark recognised the finger of Tommy in this, as well as the long arm of -coincidence. Upon the page opposite the column of personal paragraphs -was a sketch of his brother's life and labours. Mark laughed. The -Bishop of Parham. A spiritual peer! And what a leg for a gaiter! He -laughed again, reflecting that other paragraphs might be printed -concerning a famous actress and a rising novelist. My lord would read -them with horror. - -Next day the _Times_ had a long leader about the Chrysostom of Chelsea. -The late Bishop of Parham, an old infirm man, had distinguished himself -as scholar, and then extinguished himself as prelate, lacking those -powers of organisation which do not, perhaps, lend themselves to -biblical exegesis and the Higher Criticism. His diocese--of great -extent--had of late years increased enormously in population. The -discovery of coal and a certain kind of clay had brought about an -upheaval: the pastoral industries, which supported a few farmers and -shepherds, still flourished, but side by side with colossal commercial -enterprises. Towns, black with the smoke from a thousand factories, had -sprung up like mushrooms upon turf that had never known a plough; -railroads ravaged the face of the landscape with indelible lines; half a -dozen fishing villages bade fair to become seaports of importance. With -these new and complex conditions, the aged scholar had tried in vain to -cope. Upon his death, at an advanced age, it was felt at headquarters -that a young man must be selected to grapple with them: an athlete of -tried physical strength, an abstainer (for the statistics in regard to -drunkenness were appalling), an organiser, and above all things an -eloquent preacher. For such a task no better nor abler man than -Archibald Samphire could be found in the kingdom. The Prime Minister -had made a wise selection, which the Dean and Chapter of Parham would, -doubtless, approve and confirm. _And so forth_.... - -Mark bought other journals and read what was written about Parham and -its bishop-designate. In each a few lines were accorded to the wife, -who, by happy chance, was descended from the most ancient and -distinguished of the border families. One paper contained the -following:-- - - -"Our readers will learn with deep sympathy and regret that the health of -the future _châtelaine_ of Parham Castle is causing her husband and many -friends grave anxiety." - - -Mark sprang to his feet with an exclamation. Betty--ill! In an instant -he felt his blood circulating violently, stinging him to wild and -over-powering excitement. The bishop-designate of Parham remained an -attenuated shade; his wife was clothed with palpable flesh and blood. -Ill? She? Incredible! - -He despatched a telegram to Dibdin, the butler, and waited for the -answer, pacing up and down the Finchley Road, regardless of a shower -which wetted him to the skin. While he waited, one of the telegraph -boys who knew him came up with a despatch. Mark tore open the envelope. -The telegram was from Sybil Perowne. She had reached Paris and was -going to Fontainebleau. Mark stared stupidly at the message. Then he -murmured between his teeth: "I wish she was going to Jericho." - -The actress had become as remote as Betty had been a few hours before. -Between Sybil Perowne and him stretched the long years of youth and -childhood, never to be forgotten--the years which belonged to Betty. He -went back to meet Betty in a thousand familiar places; she ran to meet -him, her eyes radiant with pleasure, her lips parted in joyous -acclamation. - -An hour later Dibdin's answer came-- - - "Very ill indeed. Typhoid." - - -Mark went to Chelsea in the first hansom he saw. At his brother's house -carriages were coming and going upon the straw which had been laid down. -Dibdin gave details. His mistress had complained of headache and -general _malaise_ for some ten days, but had refused persistently to see -her doctor. Finally, she had taken to her bed, ravaged by fever. She had -eaten some oysters sent as a present to the preacher by an ardent -admirer. Archibald also had eaten the oysters, but with impunity. - -"Lady Randolph is upstairs, and master is in the library," said Dibdin. -"Won't you see him, Mr. Mark?" - -Mark hesitated. - -"Yes," he said nervously, "I will. Show me in, Dibdin." - -Archibald, who was writing at his desk, rose to receive him. As the -door closed behind Dibdin, the eyes of the brothers met. - -"If she asks for me, you will send?" said Mark, moving a step nearer. - -"Go," Archibald replied, trembling and turning aside his eyes. - -"Not till I have your promise. She may not ask, but if she does, by -Heaven! you must, you shall send. Swear it!" - -"Go, go!" - -But Mark advanced, omnipotent by virtue of the passion within him. - -Archibald retreated. Did he fear violence? Or did he read in his -brother's eyes a power of will against which he was helpless. Pale, -shaken as by a palsy, he stammered out: "I w-w-will s-s-send." - -"Swear it!" - -"I swear it." - -Mark went back into the hall. Dibdin mentioned, with a pride which at -any other time would have tickled Mark's humour, that everybody in -London wanted the latest news. He and George, the footman, were almost -worn out answering inquiries. Princes of the blood, the House of Peers, -the House of Commons, Royal Academicians, county families, had learned -with infinite regret of Mrs. Samphire s dangerous illness. Mark -listened with eager ears. And what did Dibdin himself think? Dibdin, -like all of his class, was lamentably pessimistic. "In the hall, we -entertain no hope, no hope," Dibdin murmured. "And to think of that -beautiful castle at Parham without the mistress is breaking our hearts -in two, sir." - - -A terrible ten days passed. At the beginning of the first week Mark -received a letter from Mrs. Perowne. Between the lines of it an even -more distracted vision than Mark's might have caught a glimpse of the -Fury. Mark read it, wondering what charm he had perceived in her, and -thankful that no links stronger than words bound him to the witch. He -had asked no questions concerning Mrs. Perowne's past; and she had asked -none concerning his. The postscript to her letter was very imperative: -"Come to the woman you love, if you are alive." He replied simply: "The -woman I loved as a boy and a man, the woman I love still, is dying. -Think what you please of me, and forget me as soon as possible." By -return of post came his play with a brutal line across the title page: -"Take this to her; I have no use for it." Mark tossed the typescript -into a drawer with a laugh. _Fenella_, the graven image of success which -he had set up and worshipped, had become a thing of absolutely no -importance. But he remembered the Chow and the spirits of ammonia. His -dear love, who lay dying, had saved him from--what? - -Meantime, his friends sought him out, but he sent away David, and Tommy -Greatorex and Pynsent. Jim Corrance, however, refused to leave him, -although Mark ignored his presence for twenty-four hours. Then, very -gradually, he thawed into speech with his old friend. Together they -awaited the bulletins. The disease was running its slow, tortuous -course. One telegram spelt hope in capital letters; another--despair: -each rose and fell with Betty's temperature. Mark's self-control -distressed poor Jim unspeakably. His face, which had lost the -expression of youth, always so captivating, wore an iron mask of -impassivity. And yet Jim knew that the intermittences of Betty's fever -imposed themselves on Mark. - -We are told that Chinese malefactors condemned to die by the abominable -torment of _Ling_--the death from a thousand cuts--only suffer up to a -certain point. Then insensibility dulls the knives of the executioners. - -Jim was asking himself the question: "Will Mark cease to feel?" when a -telegram from Archibald reached Hampstead, containing one word, -"_Come_." - - - - - *CHAPTER XLI* - - *THE POWER BEHIND THE THRONE* - - -Lady Randolph was awaiting Mark in the pretty drawing-room overlooking -the river. - -"Nothing can save her," she whispered. "She is alive because she could -not die without seeing you. What is left is yours. You understand. -Archibald has been generous." - -"Archibald has his son," Mark said hoarsely. - -"She was not herself till last night, when the fever burnt itself out. -But, Mark, always, always she raved of you. Husband and child were -never mentioned. It was terrible for him--poor fellow--terrible!" - -Mark followed her upstairs. - -Betty lay in bed, the light from the windows, which were opened wide, -streaming upon her emaciated face. A clean, sweet perfume of violets -filled the air, and whatever might have indicated a long and terrible -illness had been removed. - -She met his glance with a strange smile, as he stumbled forward, falling -on his knees at the bedside, saying nothing, but kissing the hand lying -limp upon the coverlet. Betty spoke first: - -"Mark, Mark, Archie has forgiven you." - -Mark said nothing. His brother's forgiveness came upon him at this -moment as a meaningless blow on the cheek. What did he care for -Archie's forgiveness? But he understood instantly what it meant to -Betty. It explained the smile with which she greeted him. The question -in her eyes slowly burnt its way to his heart. - -"And he has been so good to me, so--good," she faltered. - -"Yes, yes," he said hastily. Should he lie to her as she lay dying? -Should he swear, if need be, that he, too, was purged of hate and envy? -Why not, if such empty words had any virtue in them for her? But the -lie could not leave his lips. A minute or two passed in silence. Then -she whispered: "You will not leave me, Mark?" - -Again he kissed her fingers. - -"I shall not leave you, dear, dear Betty." - -"Ah, but I must leave you. And I'm afraid." - -"If I could go too----Shall I? Would it make it easier?" - -The life raging in him communicated itself to her. A faint colour flowed -into her cheeks, her eyes sparkled. - -"You would do that?" - -"Gladly." - -"I knew you would say it. But I am not afraid for myself. I -am--afraid--for--you. And if--if you went with me, we should part on -the other side." - -The words dropped one by one from her pallid lips, slowly, faintly, yet -with indescribable emphasis. - -"You must--wait," she whispered. "Promise me that you will wait. -Quick!" - -He obeyed, awestruck, for she had closed her eyes, and he feared she was -gone. After a pause she spoke of his sermon: "It is -here--under--my--pillow. Will you read the last two pages to me?" - -He consented reluctantly, obedient to some spiritual authority. At the -sound of his broken, troubled voice, harsh, but vibrant with that -strange arresting quality which always had thrilled her, she smiled and -sighed. Mark read the manuscript, unable to recognise it as his own. -But reading on, he leaped the years which had passed. The sermon closed -with a passage of great beauty and power. When he finished, he said -wonderingly: "Did I write that?" - -Betty whispered: "You know now why I couldn't come." - -Mark remembered his own aphorism: that the best work of men is greater -than themselves. And, if so, the conclusion followed inevitably: this -sermon, infinitely greater than himself, must have been inspired not -from within, but from without--by the Infinite! - -"It is getting very dark," said Betty. - -"Yes," he replied. - -The sun had not reached its zenith, but it was dark indeed for the -speaker. Betty's breath came and went with difficulty, as the heart and -lungs slowly failed. Mark raised her head. Her fingers felt for his -hand. He perceived that she was making a sign on the back of it. At -first he thought it was a caress, but the fingers traced the same sign -again and again--a cross. - -He wished to speak of love, but the dreadful lump filled his -throat--strangling him. She was dying, slipping from his grasp. If he -could have believed that a meeting was possible elsewhere, still the -doleful certainty possessed him that the flesh-and-blood woman was -departing for ever. Revolt raged within him, while her finger traced -the symbol of the faith he had abjured, the symbol of the love which -vanquishes hate and death. - -Suddenly the finger stopped. - -As suddenly, something seemed to break in Mark's heart. - -"Betty," he cried, "Betty--do you hear me? I am glad you didn't come. -I shall live to thank God you didn't come." - -She opened her eyes, and for the last time he noted that curious -intensity of interrogation by which the full orb of the irid was -revealed. He saw that she could not speak; he knew with conviction that -no speech was necessary. Her lips parted in a faint smile, as if the -last flickering doubt were escaping. Then, with a little shiver, with a -sigh of contentment, her lids fell.... - - -Outside the nurse and Lady Randolph waited, listening. In the library -below sat Archibald Samphire and David Ross. Presently Lady Randolph -went downstairs. - -"The doors are locked," she faltered. "And there isn't a sound. I -fear--I fear----" - -The others understood instantly. - -"Oh, my God--not that!" exclaimed Archibald. - -He ran upstairs. At Betty's door he paused, inclining his ear. The -silence within the room chilled him to the marrow. He called Mark by -name, at first in a whisper, then louder, at the last his voice rang -through the house. - -"We must break in," he said. - -At the first glance it seemed certain that both Mark and Betty lay dead -on the bed. Even the trained eye of the nurse was deceived. But after -a stimulant had been administered, Mark recovered semi-consciousness. -When he opened his eyes he began to speak in his natural voice; then he -laughed--gaily, youthfully. - -"That's it, Betty--capital! Pop it over his head! Good! Ha--ha! old -Archie, that did you. I say, I am thirsty...." - -He imagined that he was at Pitt Hall playing lawn tennis. - - -Brain fever set in within twenty-four hours. During his delirium he -called impatiently for his brother, who came trembling. Mark saw only -the boy. - -"Why have you stayed away so long?" he asked. "You're not going to leave -me, old chap?" - -"No, no," stammered Archibald. - -"I say, it is jolly seeing you again." - -He stretched out his lean, shrunken hand, which Archibald took. -Presently Mark's vagabond wits wandered to Lord's Cricket Ground. - -"Well played!" he screamed. "A boundary hit, by Jove! That's my -brother, you know, old Archie. Isn't he splendid? Isn't he a slogger? -There he goes again. What a smite! Well played, Samphire major! Well -played, sir--_well played_!" - -The tears fell down Archibald's cheeks. - -"He's been going on like that all night," whispered the nurse; then she -added gently, "He seems to have a wonderful love for you, sir." She was -another nurse, just called in, still ignorant of such gossip as -circulated in the servants' quarters. Constrained to listen to hideous -raving, to heartrending revelations, this delirium of love touched her -to the core. She knew that the famous preacher's wife lay dead in the -next room, and being a tender-hearted woman, strove to comfort him. - -"I hear so much that is so shocking," she whispered. "Only the other day -I was nursing a gentleman who cursed his brother, who--died cursing him! -And after that, _this_---- It must be a comfort to you...." - -For a fortnight the fever raged. During long hours each day the -brothers were together, united by the mocking fiend of delirium. And -during those hours Mark lived again his youth. Nothing seemed to be -forgotten. But delirium achieved more than reproduction--revelation. -Mark, like all healthy boys, had concealed his love for his brother. Of -the nature and extent of that love the elder had formed no -conception--till now, when its steady stream poured down in flood. - -After the first shock of seeing his brother's senseless body, Archibald -told himself (and had said as much to David Ross) that it would be well -if Mark departed in peace out of a world wherein he had suffered -cruelly. But David Ross shook his head. - -"He will not die," he said, with conviction, albeit the two doctors in -attendance held the contrary opinion. - -And then, gradually, Archibald came to regard his brother's ravings as -the shadows of an inestimable substance. Computing his gains, he -discovered with poignant consternation, that his losses far outweighed -them. His name was in men's mouths; he held power, wealth, health in -the hollow of his hand. But was there one fellow-creature who truly -loved him? Day after day, Mark's innumerable friends came to the door: -Pynsent, confessing that he was unable to work from anxiety; Jim -Corrance, haggard with sleeplessness; Greatorex, who seemed to spend his -time on the doormat; Albert and Mary Batley. And besides these, humbler -friends: waifs and strays, reclaimed drunkards, factory girls, who had -read in the papers that the man who had been kind to them lay dying. - -Always Archibald had obtained what he desired; but it never occurred to -him that he desired mean things, or rather that the things so desired -were mean in comparison with other things which he had ignored. None -the less, the habit of seeking strenuously what he coveted remained. He -realised, inexorably, that he coveted his brother's love. And if Mark -died, that love once given so freely, then changed into hate, and at -last given back in awful mockery, would perish with him. - -It is possible, of course, that David Ross cleared his vision. He told -David the little which David did not know. In a moment of profound -humiliation he professed himself willing to resign his see. David -indicated other penance, not alien to Christian sense. In and around -Parham, he pointed out, a transgressor might bow the neck beneath the -yoke of a labour harder than any to be found even in convict -establishments. That Archibald should question his fitness for the task -assigned him convinced David of the magnitude of the change within him. - -Upon the day, however, when the doctors agreed that the crisis of the -disease was approaching, Archibald's misery reached its culminating -point. Returning life meant sanity. Mark would awake from a sleep which -had lasted forty-eight hours to the realisation of the past, or he would -sink into the coma and collapse which precede dissolution. - -After some discussion it was agreed that Mark's eyes, when they opened, -should rest on a face dear and familiar to him, yet dissociated from the -events which had succeeded Betty's marriage. Mrs. Corrance had come to -town; she had helped to nurse Mark; she was staying in the house and -could be summoned at any moment. Accordingly, when at length Mark -Samphire returned from his wanderings, the first person he saw was his -old friend, as she sat sewing at the foot of his bed. She smiled -serenely, waiting for him to speak. None the less, he kept silence so -long that her hand began to tremble. She was sure that he was conscious -and that he must be thinking of Betty. - -"Have I been ill?" he asked gravely. - -She rose at once, bent over him, touched his hand, and murmured: "Very -ill. Brain fever. Keep quiet." - -She laid the tips of her fingers upon his eyelids, gently pressing them -down. He let them fall, and asked no more questions. But later, after -he had taken some food, he said with a smile: "Betty told me that I must -wait." - -Within twenty-four hours word went forth from those in authority that he -would live; but to Archibald's recurrent question, one answer alone was -possible. Mark had not spoken his brother's name. Archibald's anxiety -became hourly more poignant. If a glimpse of love had been vouchsafed -him, in order that he might realise that it lay for ever beyond his -reach, then of all men he would reckon himself the most unhappy. - -Mark did not break silence, when he learned that he was in his brother's -house. David was allowed to visit him, but the bishop spoke only of the -waifs from the slums around the mission, who had not forgotten an old -friend. - -"But Bagshot killed his wife," said Mark. - -David changed the subject. When he said good-bye, Mark said curtly: -"I've been a beast to you, Davie. Is it all right?" - -Ross repeated Mark's words to Archibald, who was waiting in the passage: -"I think it is all right," said he. Then he added, pressing the other's -hand: "He is asking for pardon." - -That night the nurse who had come to him first, and who had tended him -so skilfully, sat alone with him. Her perceptions had warned her that -she was in a house where tragedy had been enacted. She knew that her -patient had been found, stricken down upon the death-bed of his -brother's wife, that the husband had held aloof at that most solemn -hour. - -Presently, as she was giving Mark some broth, he asked if he had raved -in his delirium. Other questions followed. He learned of Archibald's -presence at his bedside, of his ministrations. Incredulity melted into -astonishment and then into an expression which the nurse could not -define. - -"You were never easy for a moment," she concluded, "unless your brother -was with you." - -"And he----?" - -"It gave him real comfort to wait on you, poor gentleman!" - -"Thank you," said Mark. "Good night, nurse!" - -Next morning he asked for a mirror, exclaiming, when he saw his face: -"What a scarecrow!" Later, he begged the doctor to allow him to send -for a barber. For some years he had worn a beard, which, however -closely clipped, had greatly altered him. When the man came, Mark -ordered him to shave all hair from his face. This done, he called again -for the mirror. - -"Do you see much change?" he asked the nurse. - -"I hardly recognise you." - -"Others will r-recognise me," he said. - -With his back to the light he looked the Mark who had ascended the -pulpit at King's Charteris. His face was thin, pale, and hollow-cheeked. -The fever had taken from him the flesh and colour which life in the open -air had given him. Presently David Ross called and was admitted. - -"Mark!" - -He stood upon the threshold, staring. Mark smiled. - -"Will you do me a favour?" he said, as the nurse slipped from the room. -"I have not seen," he paused for a moment, nervously, "m-m-my -b-b-brother yet. Will you ask him to c-c-come to me?" - - -A year later Pynsent wrote to Jim Corrance from Parham Castle. - - -"Parham has gained far more than Literature has lost. Here, Mark is the -power behind the throne. _À propos_, I have painted Archibald on his -throne in the sanctuary of Parham Cathedral. Everything, however, is -subordinated to the face, upon which a ray of light falls obliquely. The -expression you will hardly recognise, till you come here. When it was -done, Archibald stared at it for many minutes. Then he said in his -rather heavy way: 'It's a portrait; you have looked beneath these.' He -indicated the robes. _The man looks years older_. But Mark has got -back his youthful appearance, his high spirits, his keenness, his power -of getting enjoyment out of what most of us would consider tedious and -disagreeable. As his brother's secretary and confidential adviser, he -knows that he has found himself. Archibald reaps all the honour and -glory: and the sheaves are heavy. If praise, as Keble says, be our -penance here, the Bishop of Parham will wear a hair shirt till he dies. -He tells everybody, with pathetic earnestness, that his brother is the -senior partner in the firm--and, of course, nobody believes him. Mark -sticks to his red tie, and hunts once a week with Kirtling's hounds. He -stammers worse than ever when he gets excited. It may seem amazing to -you--it is certainly amazing to me--but Mark has the look of a happy, -healthy man; and his nephew, so curiously like Betty, adores him." - - -Jim showed this letter to his mother. - -"All the same," he remarked; "Mark ought to have married Betty. I am -sure of that." - -Mrs. Corrance laid down her embroidery. She and Jim were keeping house -together: it being agreed that the winter should be spent in town and -the summer in the country. - -"I am not sure," she answered slowly. "I used to pray that Betty would -marry you, but how many have profited by my 'losing of my prayers'? -David Ross might make a guess." - -Jim flushed. Only his mother knew that he had contributed large sums of -money and much time to the Bishop of Poplar's East End enterprises. - -"My dear son," Mrs. Corrance touched his hand with her delicate fingers, -"try to believe that Betty died in order that the three men who loved -her might live." - - - - - THE END - - - - - PLYMOUTH - WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON - PRINTERS - - - - - - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BROTHERS *** - - - - -A Word from Project Gutenberg - - -We will update this book if we find any errors. - -This book can be found under: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/47047 - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so -the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. -Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this -license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg(tm) -electronic works to protect the Project Gutenberg(tm) concept and -trademark. 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