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- float: left; - margin-right: 1em } - -.align-right { clear: right; - float: right; - margin-left: 1em } - -.align-center { margin-left: auto; - margin-right: auto } - -div.shrinkwrap { display: table; } - -/* SECTIONS */ - -body { margin: 5% 10% 5% 10% } - -/* compact list items containing just one p */ -li p.pfirst { margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0 } - -.first { margin-top: 0 !important; - text-indent: 0 !important } -.last { margin-bottom: 0 !important } - -span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 1 } -img.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.5em 0 0; max-width: 25% } -span.dropspan { font-variant: small-caps } - -.no-page-break { page-break-before: avoid !important } - -/* PAGINATION */ - -.pageno { position: absolute; right: 95%; font: medium sans-serif; text-indent: 0 } -.pageno:after { color: gray; content: '[' attr(title) ']' } -.lineno { position: absolute; left: 95%; font: medium sans-serif; text-indent: 0 } -.lineno:after { color: gray; content: '[' attr(title) ']' } -.toc-pageref { float: right } - -@media screen { - .coverpage, .frontispiece, .titlepage, .verso, .dedication, .plainpage - { margin: 10% 0; } - - div.clearpage, div.cleardoublepage - { margin: 10% 0; border: none; border-top: 1px solid gray; } - - .vfill { margin: 5% 10% } -} - -@media print { - div.clearpage { page-break-before: always; padding-top: 10% } - div.cleardoublepage { page-break-before: right; padding-top: 10% } - - .vfill { margin-top: 20% } - h2.title { margin-top: 20% } -} - -/* DIV */ -pre { font-family: monospace; font-size: 0.9em; white-space: pre-wrap } -</style> -<title>BROTHERS</title> -<meta name="DC.Creator" content="Horace Annesley Vachell" /> -<meta name="PG.Released" content="2014-10-04" /> -<meta name="PG.Id" content="47047" /> -<meta name="DC.Language" content="en" /> -<meta name="PG.Producer" content="Al Haines" /> -<meta name="DC.Created" content="1905" /> -<meta name="DC.Title" content="Brothers The True History of a Fight Against Odds" /> -<meta name="PG.Title" content="Brothers" /> -<link rel="coverpage" href="images/img-cover.jpg" /> -<meta name="PG.Rights" content="Public Domain" /> - -<link href="http://purl.org/dc/terms/" rel="schema.DCTERMS" /> -<link href="http://id.loc.gov/vocabulary/relators/" rel="schema.MARCREL" /> -<meta content="Brothers The True History of a Fight Against Odds" name="DCTERMS.title" /> -<meta content="/home/ajhaines/brothers/brothers.rst" name="DCTERMS.source" /> -<meta name="DCTERMS.language" content="en" scheme="DCTERMS.RFC4646" /> -<meta name="DCTERMS.modified" content="2014-10-04T22:43:32.942022+00:00" scheme="DCTERMS.W3CDTF" /> -<meta content="Project Gutenberg" name="DCTERMS.publisher" /> -<meta content="Public Domain in the USA." name="DCTERMS.rights" /> -<link href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/47047" rel="DCTERMS.isFormatOf" /> -<meta content="Horace Annesley Vachell" name="DCTERMS.creator" /> -<meta name="DCTERMS.created" content="2014-10-04" scheme="DCTERMS.W3CDTF" /> -<meta content="width=device-width" name="viewport" /> -<meta content="Ebookmaker 0.4.0a4 by Marcello Perathoner <webmaster@gutenberg.org>" name="generator" /> -</head> -<body> -<div class="document" id="brothers"> -<h1 class="center document-title level-1 pfirst title"><span class="x-large">BROTHERS</span></h1> - -<!-- this is the default PG-RST stylesheet --> -<!-- figure and image styles for non-image formats --> -<!-- default transition --> -<!-- default attribution --> -<!-- -*- encoding: utf-8 -*- --> -<div class="clearpage"> -</div> -<!-- -*- encoding: utf-8 -*- --> -<div class="align-None container language-en pgheader" id="pg-header" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> -<p class="noindent pfirst"><span>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 </span><a class="reference internal" href="#project-gutenberg-license">Project Gutenberg License</a><span> included with -this ebook or online at </span><a class="reference external" href="http://www.gutenberg.org/license">http://www.gutenberg.org/license</a><span>. 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.</span></p> -<p class="noindent pnext"></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<div class="align-None container" id="pg-machine-header"> -<p class="noindent pfirst"><span>Title: Brothers -<br /> The True History of a Fight Against Odds -<br /> -<br />Author: Horace Annesley Vachell -<br /> -<br />Release Date: October 04, 2014 [EBook #47047] -<br /> -<br />Language: English -<br /> -<br />Character set encoding: UTF-8</span></p> -</div> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="noindent pfirst" id="pg-start-line"><span>*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK </span><span>BROTHERS</span><span> ***</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="noindent pfirst" id="pg-produced-by"><span>Produced by Al Haines.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="noindent pfirst"><span></span></p> -</div> -<div class="align-None container titlepage"> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="xx-large">BROTHERS</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="x-large">THE TRUE HISTORY OF -<br />A FIGHT AGAINST ODDS</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">BY</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="large">HORACE ANNESLEY VACHELL</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">LONDON -<br />JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET -<br />1905</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -</div> -<div class="align-None container verso"> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="small">FIRST EDITION . . </span><em class="italics small">May</em><span class="small"> 1904 -<br />Reprinted . . </span><em class="italics small">June</em><span class="small"> 1904 -<br />Reprinted . . </span><em class="italics small">August</em><span class="small"> 1904 -<br />Reprinted . . </span><em class="italics small">November</em><span class="small"> 1904 -<br />Reprinted . . </span><em class="italics small">December</em><span class="small"> 1904 -<br />Reprinted . . </span><em class="italics small">The same month</em><span class="small"> -<br />Reprinted . . </span><em class="italics small">January</em><span class="small"> 1905</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><em class="italics small">Copyright in the United -<br />States of America by -<br />Horace Annesley Vachell</em></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -</div> -<div class="align-None container dedication"> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">TO ALL MEN AND WOMEN -<br />WHO HAVE STRIVEN: -<br />TO THE STRONG -<br />WHO HAVE ATTAINED THEIR GOAL, -<br />TO THE WEAK -<br />WHO HAVE MADE THE RUNNING FOR THE STRONG, -<br />AND IN PARTICULAR TO THOSE -<br />WHO HAVE CONFRONTED ILL-FORTUNE, ILL-HEALTH, -<br />AND DISAPPOINTMENT -<br />WITH FORTITUDE AND SERENITY, -<br />I DEDICATE THIS -<br />BOOK</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -</div> -<div class="align-None container plainpage"> -<p class="center pfirst"><em class="italics">BY THE SAME AUTHOR</em></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span>A DRAMA IN SUNSHINE -<br />JOHN CHARITY -<br />THE PROCESSION OF LIFE -<br />LIFE AND SPORT ON THE PACIFIC SLOPE -<br />THE SHADOWY THIRD -<br />THE PINCH OF PROSPERITY</span></p> -</div> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">PREFATORY NOTE</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CONTENTS</span></p> -<p class="noindent pnext"><span class="small">CHAPTER</span></p> -<p class="noindent pnext"><a class="reference internal" href="#prologue">Prologue</a></p> -<ol class="upperroman simple"> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#bubble-and-squeak">Bubble and Squeak</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#billy-s-v-bashan-s">Billy's *v.* Bashan's</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#which-contains-a-fortune">Which contains a Fortune</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#miss-hazelby-is-shocked">Miss Hazelby is Shocked</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#valete">Valete</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#at-burlington-house">At Burlington House</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#the-hunt-ball">The Hunt Ball</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#barbizon">Barbizon</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#at-king-s-charteris">At King's Charteris</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#after-three-years">After Three Years</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#in-love-s-pleasaunce">In Love's Pleasaunce</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#betty-in-stepney">Betty in Stepney</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#bagshot-on-the-rampage">Bagshot on the Rampage</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#a-moral-exigency">A Moral Exigency</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#aphrodite-smiles-and-frowns">Aphrodite Smiles and Frowns</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#westchester-cathedral">Westchester Cathedral</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#surrender">Surrender!</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#ariadne-in-naxos">Ariadne in Naxos</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#a-sanatorium-in-sutherland">A Sanatorium in Sutherland</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#betty-sees-a-sprig-of-rue">Betty sees a Sprig of Rue</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#recuperation">Recuperation</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#on-ben-caryll">On Ben Caryll</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#hymeneal">Hymeneal</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#a-red-tie">A Red Tie</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#mark-hears-a-bleating">Mark Hears a Bleating</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#readjustment">Readjustment</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#in-grub-street">In Grub Street</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#a-sunday-in-cadogan-place">A Sunday in Cadogan Place</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#the-procession-of-life">The Procession of Life</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#a-note-of-interrogation">A Note of Interrogation</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#betty-sees-danger-signals">Betty sees Danger Signals</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#betty-makes-good-resolutions">Betty makes Good Resolutions</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#illumination">Illumination</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#charing-cross">Charing Cross</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#chrysostom-returns-to-chelsea">Chrysostom Returns to Chelsea</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#fenella">Fenella</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#poppy-and-mandragora">Poppy and Mandragora</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#gonzales">Gonzales</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#at-the-miraflores">At the Miraflores</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#come">"Come!"</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#the-power-behind-the-throne">The Power Behind the Throne</a></p> -</li> -</ol> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="prologue"><span class="bold x-large">BROTHERS</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">PROLOGUE</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You always put things so poetically," murmured -Miss Lamb. "Yes, you are right. The still-room -is just above the library."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Where it should be, my dear Miss Lamb. I -hope the Admiral's housekeeper wears list slippers."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She was charming," murmured the Dean absently, -"the most fascinating creature."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She behaved so shockingly, Mr. Dean."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"True, true, but she was very young, Miss Lamb. -Poor, pretty creature! And now—dead!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Did you know Colonel Kirtling, Mr. Dean?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes. A sad scamp, Miss Lamb, a scamp when -he married—at sixty!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Children are the devil," said the Admiral gloomily. -"Think of my nymphs." (He had some beautiful -china).</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"This one may prove the prettiest of them all," -said Lady Randolph.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, yes; father and mother the handsomest -couple, even if forty years were between 'em. Well, -well, I lean on you, dear lady."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So much, and little more, was known to the company -assembled in the Admiral's drawing-room.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can't love all dese peoples," she protested, on -the edge of tears. The Admiral laughed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You must pick and choose, Betty. 'Tis the -privilege of your sex. Come now, who pleases you -best?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She understood perfectly: examining the company -with dignified curiosity. Finally, her eyes rested -upon the three boys at Mrs. Samphire's side.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I like dem boys," she said clearly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The three boys were confused but charmed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She likes the boys, the coquette!" exclaimed the -Admiral. "And which of the three, missie, do you -like best?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Um!" said the Admiral, half smiling, half -frowning, "as I remarked just now, here is a Maid -of Surprises."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="bubble-and-squeak"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER I</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">BUBBLE AND SQUEAK</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">pulverem Olympicum</em><span>, 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How do you feel, Mark?" whispered Jim.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If I l-looked as small as I f-f-feel," said Mark, -"you wouldn't be able to s-s-see me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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, </span><em class="italics">Custos</em><span>, 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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">exeat</em><span> 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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="noindent pfirst"><span class="small">[#] Horace was translated by Smart.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="noindent pfirst"><span class="small">[#] The black-and-white straw hat only worn by members of the -school eleven.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"I l-l-loathe those girls," said Mark; "one -b-b-bubbles and one squeaks."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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:—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Which do you like best: chocolate and buttered -toast or Bubble and Squeak?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What can we do?" said Mark to Jim.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is it Bubble or Squeak?" Jim asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"They can get more from the same old place," said Jim.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, it's their own," said Mark. "I hate -marmalade-coloured hair—don't you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's old Archie. He's playing the devil with himself."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Let him," said Jim, who was no altruist. "What's -the good of worrying? We can't do anything."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Perhaps we c-c-can," said Mark. "We </span><em class="italics">must</em><span>," -he added.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You have a scheme?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark nodded. "I d-d-don't know w-what you'll -say to it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can't say anything till I hear it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"S-suppose I give Billy a hint?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mark," said Jim, "Archie is big enough to look -after himself."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What a silly old ass!" said Jim.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He runs these frightful risks—for what? To kiss -a girl who bubbles at the mouth!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'll go alone."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You won't."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I will."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes; yes; yes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sit down," said Billy. "Open your books."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark laid his Thucydides upon the table.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We have c-c-come here to t-t-tell you, s-sir, -s-s-something which you ought to know."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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: </span><em class="italics">Wein, -Weib und Gesang</em><span>. 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Something wrong in the house?" said Billy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, sir."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Billy seized a quill pen, and began to bite it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Isn't this a serious step for you boys to take?" -he asked suddenly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, sir."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His gravity became portentous. Perhaps he feared -an abominable revelation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not yet," said Mark firmly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Billy's hesitation vanished.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Go on," he said curtly. "Speak plainly, and -conceal nothing."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not Archie?" gasped Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So no suspicion was excited.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not to mention a pantry window," said Mark, -grinning.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You don't mean to say that you knew that too? -Well, well, it might have proved an ugly scrape."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="noindent pfirst"><span class="small">[#] The "cap" is the house cricket-cap, given to members of the -house eleven.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="billy-s-v-bashan-s"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER II</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">BILLY'S </span><em class="bold italics medium">v.</em><span class="bold medium"> BASHAN'S</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">bâton</em><span>; Jim -modestly contented himself with the full pay of a -general, the Victoria Cross, and a snug little crib in -a good hunting country.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sometimes Archie deigned to listen to them, but -he was not encouraging in his comments.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Pooh, they were hard as nails."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>That same evening Mark said: "I'm g-going to -the Gym" (gymnasium) "every day, till I get hard -as nails."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not in the summer?" Jim exclaimed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes; I'll have the place to myself—so much the -better."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He worked indefatigably, and Jim was asked to -feel his biceps about four times a day.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'd like to sleep in his bed," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What a rum chap you are!" Jim exclaimed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If I sleep in his bed I may d-dream of him," -Mark replied.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They changed beds with mutual satisfaction; for -Jim's had a trick of collapsing in the middle of the -night.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">Entre nous</em><span>, 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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sometimes," said Jim cautiously; for Billy had -a trick of leading fellows on to make fools of -themselves.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Samphire minor goes too fast at his fences."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Billy knew that any allusion to the hunting-field -was not wasted on Jim.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And the fences," continued Billy thoughtfully, -"are rather big for Samphire minor."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And he won't ride cunning," added Jim.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Rather," said Jim.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"In fine, not to put too fine a point on it, </span><em class="italics">we</em><span> must -interfere."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," said Jim, swelling visibly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We must head him off, throw him out, teach -him that valuable lesson, how to </span><em class="italics">reculer pour mieux -sauter</em><span>."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>If Billy had a weakness (a </span><em class="italics">faible</em><span>, he would have -said), it was in the use of French, which he spoke -perfectly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ye-es," said Jim, not so confidently.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Now, how would you set about it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I, sir? If you please, sir, I don't see my way, -but I'll follow your lead blindly, sir!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Billy smiled, and polished his pince-nez.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, sir!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Come, come, I thought Paradise Regained was -the jolliest form in the school."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is," said Jim, "but——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I say—all right, sir."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 -</span><em class="italics">avoirdupois</em><span>, of which he has enough already. -Samphire minor will not complain if you keep him -company. Good night. </span><em class="italics">À propos</em><span>—will you and -Samphire minor dine with us next Tuesday? A -glass of champagne will do neither of you any harm."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="noindent pfirst"><span class="small">[#] Worn by members of the house football eleven.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You fellows played up," said the great man. -"If you go on like that, I may give you a chance -next Saturday."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Thanks awfully," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"They'll be getting babies to play next," said -many whose names were not on the list.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know that, Archie."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We are going to have a f-fight," he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I s-say," stammered Mark, "you must change -your tactics."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The Lubber raised his heavy head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Shut up, Mark!" said Archibald.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I won't," said Mark. "These Bashanites haven't -a chance if </span><em class="italics">you</em><span> d-d-do the right thing."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Archie scowled; but the Lubber, who had reason -to respect Mark's abilities as a scholar, growled: -"Well, what is the right thing?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 "</span><em class="italics">Follow up! Follow up!</em><span>" 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:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Steady, Billy's! Well played! Steady! Steady -there!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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. </span><em class="italics">Orders to charge</em><span>. 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>One goal to two—and half-time.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>While Billy's sucked the lemons which the fry -hurled at them, Jim found time to observe to Mark: -"I say, so far </span><em class="italics">we</em><span> haven't scored."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"N-n-not yet," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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. "</span><em class="italics">Yards</em><span>," -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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Two goals all, and twenty minutes to play!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The Lubber sauntered up, sucking a lemon, and -stolid as usual.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well," said he to Mark, "what'll happen now?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Good kid," said the old Lubber; "if your body -was half as big as your brain, you'd be a corker."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's all right," Mark panted.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Get back!" yelled the fry.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Jim looked down.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The match was over. Bashan's had tied Billy's.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You're all right, old chap, aren't you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark did not answer. His arm was turned outward -at a curious angle.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Back," said Archie, as the two elevens surged -forward. "Back!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can't feel any pulse," Billy growled.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The doctor's head was as that of a graven image.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why don't you do something?" Archibald -demanded, giving expression to the unspoken entreaty -of three hundred boys.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The surgeon paid no attention; he was listening -for that murmur of life which would justify his doing -anything.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He is coming to," he muttered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He is coming to" passed from lip to lip. The -school sighed with relief. The clouds above let fall -a few drops of rain.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A hurdle," commanded the surgeon, "and some coats!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The news spread while the hurdle was being -brought. Mark closed his eyes and lay back. The -captain of Bashan's stepped forward.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"May </span><em class="italics">I</em><span> help to carry the hurdle?" he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">Three cheers for Samphire minor!</em><span>"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="which-contains-a-fortune"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER III</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">WHICH CONTAINS A FORTUNE</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">Iliad</em><span>, 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I dropped in to tell you, you could get your -'fez,'" said Archie.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, thanks awfully. And—and Mark?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I bought one for him and sent it in. He got it -after his arm was set."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Jim's heart warmed to the big fellow. "I'm glad -you thought of that."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He sat down and laid his curly head upon a Greek -lexicon.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You see," Archie continued heavily, "I thought -Mark would step into my shoes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Good Lord!" said Jim, seeing Mark's foot. -"He'd lose himself in 'em."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The Lubber says he'd have made a great player, -a great captain."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"So he will—yet. Footer's not the only game."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I say," whined Nixon minimus, "I wish you'd -look and see whom you're shovin' into."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can give you a rare good pie," he said; "if -you're hungry, stick your nose into that cupboard!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Jim declined this hospitable offer, and picked up -the Livy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He seems to have turned over some big things -to-day. The three Bashanites weren't small."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The Lubber laughed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The Lubber accepted this assurance with the faith -of a child; then he looked at the cupboard.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You don't care——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">Palmam qui meruit ferat.</em><span>"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Go along with you," said Mark. "I'm as ugly as -they make 'em."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark turned scarlet.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And you," the hussy turned to Archie. "Ah, -you're a real beauty, but your brother's eyes are -handsomer than your'n."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How do you know he's my brother?" said Archie.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We Romanies know many things. Give me -half a crown, and I'll tell you both a true fortune."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Shall we take a bob's worth?" said Archie. -"Sixpence each?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'll read your hand for a bob," said the girl, -"and his," she nodded at Mark, "for nothing."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Archie produced a shilling. The girl took his -hand between her long, slender fingers, and gazed -at the lines on it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well," said a harsh voice, "what do you see?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>An old hag, possibly the girl's grandmother, had -approached silently.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Hullo," said Archie, "I suppose you're the -queen of the gipsies. Mother Shipton herself," he -added </span><em class="italics">sotto voce</em><span>.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A true fortune," mumbled the old woman.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Your turn, Mark," said Archie. "Hold out your paw!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Shrinks from a woman's touch," said the old woman.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You tell it, mother," said the girl.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The old woman bent down.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I see more," said the girl softly, taking Mark's -hand again. "This is the hand of a fighter, -mother."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ay, so 'tis, so 'tis."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A fighter and a conqueror."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Before Mark could draw his hand away, she had -bent down and kissed it. Then she laughed and -tossed her pretty head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He'd like a kiss on the mouth," she said, eyeing -Archie saucily, "but he won't get one from me."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="miss-hazelby-is-shocked"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER IV</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">MISS HAZELBY IS SHOCKED</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Betty," said Mark, "you've run away."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Isn't it heavenly?" Betty cried.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is r-r-rather jolly!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"S-s-shut up, Betty!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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...."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Let us have a 'beyondy' talk," said Betty.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A what....?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No humbug—and 'bar chaff,' as dear Lanky -would not say."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm v-very ambitious, Betty."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She was lying full length on the grass. Now she -sat up, opening her eyes very wide.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No," said Mark, getting rather red.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are blushing," said Betty. "I do believe -that you know something. What is it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What do you know?" she murmured.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I c-can't tell you," Mark began bravely, and -then ended with a feeble—"m-m-much."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Boys never can tell much," said Betty -disdainfully. "Go on."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Your m-m-mother ran away."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Betty," said Mark desperately, "this talk is too -b-b-beyondy for me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She paid no attention whatsoever.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"W-w-what did she say to that, Betty?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She nodded that long head of hers in a terrible -way. 'We all suffer,' she growled, 'for the evil that -others do.' Do </span><em class="italics">you</em><span> think I must suffer for what -they did?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, no," cried Mark. "Why, Betty, to me you -are the princess who l-l-lives for ever and ever, -fair and happy."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She smiled.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Presently they discovered that the sun was declining -into the soft haze of the western horizon.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We must run," cried Betty.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Are you hurt, Betty?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have twisted my ankle," she groaned, her face -puckering with pain.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What a horrid ending," sighed Betty, on the -verge of tears. "This is the punishment. Lanky -will do nothing now."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I like you better than Archie," she said slowly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"W-w-why?" he stammered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are so much more—sensible."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sensible?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes. Archie," she blushed faintly, "and that -stupid old Jim Corrance say they're in love with me! -Isn't it absurd?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark grew scarlet. He would have liked to say -what Archie and Jim had said, but a lump in his -throat made him speechless.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I feel that you are a real friend," pursued Betty. -"Now we must be getting home."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Now," she commanded, "run home before they -open the door."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Leave you? Not I."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He was proof against persuasion, and simulated -anger. The Admiral must hear their misadventure -from his lips.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You obstinate wretch!" said Betty.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We must have no larks of this sort, my boy. -What! </span><em class="italics">My</em><span> 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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'd l-l-like to," said Mark abjectedly, "but I -haven't—yet."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I f-feel as if you were b-b-birching me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His face relaxed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have f-f-fought, sir; and I am c-c-conquered."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You're glib with your tongue. I daresay Betty -thinks you a tremendous fellow."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She thinks us—very s-s-silly."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="valete"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER V</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">VALETE</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Suit yourselves," said the Squire of Pitt Hall to -his sons. "I should have liked to have seen Archie -on a charger."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But what a leg for a gaiter," said Mark, hinting -at episcopal honours.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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—</span><em class="italics">catch</em><span>!" 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You can get your 'straw,'" he growled.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But Mark——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Won't take it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Won't—take—it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He's right. He hasn't the strength. He might -faint at Lord's. We can't run any risks."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Jim went back to his room—confounded. Mark -met him and gripped his hands.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You've g-got it," he cried. "I </span><em class="italics">am</em><span> glad. Isn't -it glorious?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">Glorious?</em><span>"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Jim sat down and blubbered, like a Fourth Form boy.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Archibald felt his cheek beginning to burn.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't distress yourself on that account," said -Billy kindly; "only take what he gives, </span><em class="italics">generously</em><span>, -and so you will best help him to play his part in -life."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You make me out an ass."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Most Englishmen either grunt or bray when they -get on to their legs to m-m-make a speech."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And what are you going to say?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Nothing. Mum's the word for a stammerer. I -shall bid 'em good-bye, that's all."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.'"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It was offered him," said Archie.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!")</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="at-burlington-house"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER VI</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">AT BURLINGTON HOUSE</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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...."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What a man!" exclaimed Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sixteen field-guns," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 </span><em class="italics">you</em><span> know that?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've read the d-despatches," said Mark, blushing.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For a week Mark could talk of nothing save the -Indian Mutiny.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You're too keen," said Jim. "Suppose we don't pass?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not p-p-pass? That's a dead certainty."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If we did not pass——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We could enlist, Jim. I say, you're not going -into the Service because, b-b-because I am?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You lit the match," Jim admitted. "A fellow -must do something. Soldiering's as good as -anything else."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ten times as good as anything else," Mark -exclaimed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Too much smoke for me," said Jim, seeing -nothing but dun-coloured roofs and chimney-pots -innumerable.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Are you nervous?" said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Jim admitted a qualm or two.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We ought to come out amongst the first twenty."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If I am dead lag, I shall be jolly thankful," said -Jim.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Outside the Arcade, they shook themselves free of -the chatterers.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am in a beastly funk," said Jim, as they went -up the stairs of Burlington House.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Funk of what?" Mark answered impatiently.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't know," Jim muttered vaguely.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They entered a long, ill-lighted room, and waited -their turn. Boy after boy came out grinning, and -buttoning up coat and waistcoat.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"They won't have me," he gasped. "I—I thought -I was all right," he added piteously, "but I ain't."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What's wrong?" said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He shambled away with the step of an old man. -Mark's face was working with sympathy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How b-b-beastly!" he said. "And it m-m-might -be one of us."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Jim was confoundedly pale.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Pinch your cheeks," Mark whispered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Let's slip on our coats," Jim suggested.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The others don't do it," said Mark, glancing at a -row of shivering boys, "and we won't."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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. "</span><em class="italics">Next!</em><span>" 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Catch him!" yelled Jim.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Absolutely unfit," Jim heard him say. "Not a -surgeon in London would pass him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not pass him?" Jim said furiously. "He's only -fainted; he's done that before, that's nothing."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">Colleen Bawn</em><span>, 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I shan't go back to Pitt Hall till your exam is -over," Mark said. "I'd sooner stop up here with you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't care a hang about the exam now," Jim -blurted out.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know you don't," Mark replied. "All the -same, you must do your level best."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Let's do it," said Jim.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 </span><em class="italics">they</em><span> feel, -poor devils!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We'll have a nightcap, anyhow," said Jim.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why it's—it's Squeak," Jim said to Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She recognised them at once.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Hullo, Mr. Samphire minor—why ain't you in bed?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They demanded whiskies and sodas.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You can tell that 'andsome brother of yours that -I'm here," said Squeak, as she pushed the drinks -across the bar.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'll mention it to him," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tell 'im to send back all the 'air I gave 'im," she -continued viciously.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You have not quite so much left," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I shall not forget to tell him to come to see you. -It will be safe enough—now."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Come on," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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—</span><em class="italics">London</em><span>, 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"When is closing time?" said Mark to the constable.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Quarter-past twelve, sir."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark looked at his watch.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Five minutes more. I'm going back."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Where?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"To that girl—Squeak."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What on earth for?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I spoke brutally. I shall beg her p-pardon. -Don't come with me!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You're as mad as a hatter."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not in bed yet?" said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"By Jove, here you are! I saw you trampled -under foot."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A rum 'un—why?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, I supposed, you know, that you'd be -thinking just now of—of yourself."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm rather s-sick of that subject."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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. </span><em class="italics">He was smiling</em><span>! But his fists were -clenched, and the jaw below the parted lips stood out -firm, square, and aggressive....</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="the-hunt-ball"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER VII</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">THE HUNT BALL</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, monsieur, I am so anxious to be under you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Have you no better reason than that?" said the -great man.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Our n-n-names are alike," stammered Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">Tiens</em><span>! Any reason is better than none. </span><em class="italics">Samphire -et Saphir</em><span>."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And the l-l-less," said Mark, "includes the -g-g-greater."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Saphir laughed at the compliment, and told Mark -he might join his </span><em class="italics">atelier</em><span>. "Only you must -work—work—work. That is my first word to you—work!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 -</span><em class="italics">L'OEuvre</em><span>, which sets forth, photographically and -pathologically, French art life as it is. </span><em class="italics">L'OEuvre</em><span>, -however, deals with the struggle for supremacy -between the academic and the "</span><em class="italics">plein air</em><span>" 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 -</span><em class="italics">plein air</em><span> 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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Am I making a mistake?" said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"When you do know, tell me," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark did not meet Betty till the night of the Hunt -Ball. He was standing beside Archie and Pynsent, -as she entered the room.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Great Scott—here's Beatrice Cenci!" said Pynsent.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's our Betty," said Archie.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"As if it could be anybody else," Mark added.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've saved three dances apiece for you," said -Betty.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>One of the young men behind, Lord Kirtling's -eldest son, protested loudly: "Oh, I say—and I'm -a cousin."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A cousin!" cried Betty gaily. "Why, these -are my best and oldest friends. We've sucked the -same acidulated drop."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Never saw such a pair," said Pynsent to Mark, -indicating Archie and Betty.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Dear old Archie looks splendid," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No black sheep in your family?" said Mark. -Lady Randolph, who was near, smiled.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She bustled across the room. Mark turned to -Lady Randolph.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Have you any m-m-mint s-sauce? There is -s-something about all the Lambs which——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He is a better fellow than he looks," whispered -Lady Randolph.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Will you do me a favour, Lady Randolph?" The -Duke's voice was very pleasant. "Perhaps you -can guess the nature of it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"An introduction to Miss Kirtling, of course."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of course," he repeated, laughing.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I say, Mark—isn't Betty a wonder?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Betty!" exclaimed Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"With my mother," said Jim, grinning.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Your friend, Mr. Pynsent, is perfectly delightful," -began Betty.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I thought you found him so."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Betty smiled demurely.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He talked in the most interesting way about——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Himself," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"About you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Wrong again! He talked, nearly all the time, -about a dear friend of mine whom I had not seen for -years."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I suppose you have dear friends in every town -in Europe," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The shameless coquette nodded. How her eyes -sparkled.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And who is this dear friend Pynsent knows?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mr. Pynsent was talking about—</span><em class="italics">you</em><span>," said Betty.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Betty, dear, forgive me! I am an ass, a silly, -jealous ass. And seeing you to-night I—I——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If you satisfy her, Pynsent, she can help you -enormously. She knows all the right people."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He heard Pynsent's pleasant chuckle.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Can you see her?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She will marry a swell and become like everybody -else," said Mark nervously.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark shuffled uneasily, and began to drive a willing -horse too fast.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My brother, Archie, will sit as Romeo."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah! When they were standing together to-night, -somehow I thought of Verona at once."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Um," said Pynsent.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tell me frankly what's in your m-mind."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm trying to fit you into it—as Romeo."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm an imbecile, of course, but I f-feel like -Romeo. There—it's out."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If I could paint a great picture——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Pynsent was silent.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You must try for this next Salon."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Romeo!" he exclaimed disgustedly. "Good heavens!"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="barbizon"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER VIII</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">BARBIZON</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">coiffe</em><span> 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 -</span><em class="italics">chez</em><span> Siron, and examined his pupils' canvases with -kindly, twinkling eyes. Then he went back to -Gretz.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He says we are all monkeys," observed a big -Canadian.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"So we are," cried Mark. "We're trying to copy -what one man has done s-s-superlatively well."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Later, he took the Canadian aside. Saphir had -talked alone to him; and Mark had overheard his -own name.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What did he say to you about—m-m-me?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, nothing."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I w-want the facts."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, he did ask me if you had private means, -and I told him your father made you a good allowance."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Go on!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And—and he said that was fortunate. Of course -he meant that—er—it takes time to arrive—eh?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Quite so. A lifetime if you happen to choose -the wrong r-road."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>About the beginning of March Pynsent arrived -from England.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Are they all as ugly as that?" said Pynsent, -indicating the model.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I got the ugliest in the v-v-village. There's a -lot in her face."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A lot of dirt."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't allow her to wash it. Can you read her -1-life's history?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm hanged if I can."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You see n-nothing in her eyes?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Nor in her mouth. She's lost all her teeth."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Knocked out by a b-brutal husband," said Mark, -grinning, but ill at ease beneath Pynsent's chaff.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What are those stains on the apron—red paint?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sheep's blood. I rubbed it on myself."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Pynsent roared; he was not a Barbizonian.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Great Scott! You fellows take yourselves seriously."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Honestly," said Mark. "What d'ye think of it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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—</span><em class="italics">to-night</em><span>?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">Voila notre affaire!</em><span>" exclaimed Pynsent.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But the m-model——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have wired to Paris. These Barbizon peasants -make me tired."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We'll call it '</span><em class="italics">Perdue</em><span>,'" 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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's really good," said Pynsent, after he had -forbidden his pupil to add another touch.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But it's not m-m-mine, Pynsent."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I couldn't have p-painted it without you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Pooh!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At Siron's Mark's friends predicted success, a -place on the line, honourable mention, a prize, -possibly. Saphir saw it and whistled.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You painted that—you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">Tiens!</em><span>" said Saphir; "it is not signed. You -must sign it, </span><em class="italics">mon garçon</em><span>."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A bystander produced a brush and palette.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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. -</span><em class="italics">Saperlipopette</em><span>! 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—</span><em class="italics">zoum, soum, zoum</em><span>—ze tears do not come, -no! But when I hear Rossini, Bellini—rivers, </span><em class="italics">mes -amis</em><span>, rivers!" With a large gesture he indicated -a tropical downpour; then he continued: "It is ze -melodie. Is it not so, </span><em class="italics">mes enfants</em><span>?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He appealed to the circle around him. Mark -listened, stupefied, to a clamour of congratulation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sign it—sign it!" they cried.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark took the brush with a queer smile upon his -wide mouth. The others fell back to give him room.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">Dieu de Dieu!</em><span>" ejaculated Saphir.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark had copied cleverly Pynsent's bold signature; -below it in small script was: "</span><em class="italics">per</em><span> M. S."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Pynsent bit his lip, frowning. The others stared -at Mark, who met the startled interrogation of their -raised brows with a nervous laugh.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Saphir held out his hand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My friend," he said in his own tongue, "if you -were not an Angliche, I should ask to have the honour -of embracing you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He's a quixotic fool," Pynsent growled; "I never -touched the canvas."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The others vanished, put to flight by an intuition -that something was about to happen. Mark addressed -Saphir.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Neither answered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No mediocre success will content me," continued -Mark. "I ask you again: Am I w-w-wasting my time?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," said Saphir gruffly. He put on his hat -and went out.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He's not infallible," Pynsent muttered angrily.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What will you do, Mark?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't know—yet," said Mark.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Ross held his glance.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do nothing rashly," he said gravely.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You—a parson?" The Squire was scarlet with surprise.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There is only one living," bleated Mrs. Samphire.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, I shan't compete with old Archie," said -Mark, smiling.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Lady Randolph, however, said to Betty: "He is -the right man to lead—</span><em class="italics">lead</em><span>, mind you—forlorn hopes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And be killed," Betty answered vehemently.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't think he will be killed, my dear."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For many months after this he worked with Ross, -seeing but little of his family and friends.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You have so many friends, Betty."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark opened his mouth, and shut it again resolutely.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark began to praise Betty.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The excellent lady sniffed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Lady Randolph will keep an eye on her," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She'll need both eyes," retorted Miss Hazelby.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="at-king-s-charteris"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER IX</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">AT KING'S CHARTERIS</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I passed some severe tests, before they admitted -me to deacons' orders," he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Archie stared curiously at an unfamiliar Mark. -"You don't look very fit."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You want to count your sheaves," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am ambitious," Archie admitted. "Aren't you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, yes. If I told you that I felt it in me to -become a preacher, you would l-laugh perhaps."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You've always had plenty to say, Mark."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And if, one day, I could stand in the pulpit of -such a fane as Westchester, if——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why not?" said Archie.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I try not to think of that. But those spires and -pinnacles—I see them as in a vision."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What will be your text to-morrow?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That verse from Isaiah: '</span><em class="italics">A man shall be as an -hiding place from the wind, and a covert from the -tempest.</em><span>' 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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Archie caught his enthusiasm.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is in you, Mark."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"In me, yes; but suppose it won't come out."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you know that Betty Kirtling is here?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Here?" He turned to hide his flushed cheeks.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Wise?" Mark laughed, and thrust out a lean -leg. "Is this a leg for a gaiter?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I shall certainly stick to Ross."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>How his thoughts were wandering!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's hard on him," said Mark. "The dear old -man was so certain I should score."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Thank you, Bulpett," said Mark, without stammering. -He glanced at the circle of kindly faces. -"By Jove! it's good to have such friends."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You </span><em class="italics">will</em><span> try again?" said Archie nervously.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Again and again," Mark answered. "All the -same, I have the feeling that I shall never be a -preacher."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He paused with his eyes upon a distant cloud.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That wretched girl!" groaned Archibald.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark's quietness seemed to exasperate the elder -brother.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can't follow you," he said irritably. "Why -shouldn't one want the good things of this world: -power, position, honour?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't I want 'em? Great heavens! don't I -hunger for 'em? But if they are not to be mine, -what then?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You kiss the rod? In your place I should be -furious, beside myself with resentment."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Good old Archie," said Mark, taking his -brother's hand and pressing it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He stood up, reminding Archie that Mrs. Corrance -had asked them to lunch with her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Betty cried like a baby," said Archie irrelevantly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I made a sad mess of it," he said, smiling genially.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">pergola</em><span>, 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What are your plans?" she asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Indirectly he answered by speaking of life at the -Camford Mission. She listened, computing the -distance between Randolph House and Bethnal Green.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You talk as if work—such work, too,—were all -that is left."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He was silent. Her face, delicately flushed, -brimming over with a tender and imaginative pity, -implored him to speak.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Work lies between me and what is left," he -answered slowly, watching the pulse beat in the blue -veins of her white neck.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You thought </span><em class="italics">that</em><span> because I cried."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He nodded, seeing again her despairing gesture.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The lump in his throat seemed to dissolve.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark seized her hands.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"God bless you!" he said passionately. "God -bless you, dear, dear Betty!" Then abruptly, with -a strange smile, he added, "Good-bye!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, oh!" she cried, covering her face as she had -done in the church. "I cannot bear the misery -behind his smiles."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="after-three-years"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER X</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">AFTER THREE YEARS</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"I am growing older and older," said Betty -Kirtling.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">débutante</em><span>. -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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Are you wiser?" Lady Randolph asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Lady Randolph laid down the </span><em class="italics">Morning Post</em><span>.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Archibald Samphire has been made a minor -canon of Westchester," she said abruptly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Betty slightly turned her head. Lady Randolph -perceived a faint pink blush tinging the whiteness of -her neck.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And Jim Corrance is coming here to luncheon—to-day."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Perhaps; if you were careful to make no mention -of me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Betty?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her reflections were interrupted by Jim Corrance. -He explained that he had landed at Southampton -within the week.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No." His face amused his old friend, but she -added quickly: "She is upstairs, prinking—for you. -Have you seen Mark Samphire?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I saw him yesterday, and I shall see him again -this afternoon," said Jim gravely. "Mark is -overworked, you know."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't know," said Lady Randolph drily. -"Tell me about him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Jim began to describe the difficulties against which -Mark was contending. Lady Randolph's eyes lost -their sparkle.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Corrance was silent.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Archibald Samphire is the handsomest young man -in the Church of England," observed Lord Randolph.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mark always said that Archie had a leg for a -gaiter," Corrance remarked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Obviously Jim was delighted to hear of his friend's -success; but Betty's expression defied interpretation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He plunged into a story which began behind the -counter of a haberdasher's and ended in the House -of Lords.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Which was also his last," said Betty.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Eh—what?" Lord Randolph stared. "You -don't mean that. He has tried again—surely?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Again—and again," said Betty, "but his -stammer always defeats him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And he had the real stuff in him," said Lord -Randolph. "What a pity it was not allowed to -come out!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The real stuff always comes out," said Lady -Randolph, rising.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Samphire will be here in five minutes," said the -young fellow. "Can I offer you anything—a whisky -and soda, a cigarette?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If you will join me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark's entrance cut short this conversation, and -the speaker withdrew at once.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I saw Betty Kirtling to-day," said Jim abruptly. -"It's amazing that she is still Betty Kirtling."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We shall hear Archie preach in Westchester -Cathedral," Mark said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I wish it were you," Jim replied quickly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I shall never p-p-preach," stammered Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"These are mountains—yes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark obeyed, conscious that troubled waters surged -between himself and his old friend.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="in-love-s-pleasaunce"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XI</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">IN LOVE'S PLEASAUNCE</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark was silent.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He sings extraordinarily well," said Jim.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," Betty sighed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Just then Mark came up, rubbing his hands. His -delight in his brother's voice struck Jim as being -pathetic.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, yes," said Betty hastily.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A vocal trick," Jim observed, rather abruptly. -Then he moved away, surrendering his seat to Mark, -who dropped into it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well?" said Mark, following Corrance's figure -with his eyes. "What do you think of old -Jim?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She flashed a blinding glance upon him. Somehow -Mark realised that the glance was an indictment.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have changed," he replied quickly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No—no. You are the same Mark, with the same -ideas, the same ideals of years ago."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am here now," he replied.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Because your brother is here. You did not -come to see—me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Perhaps I did," he murmured, his thin face -aflame with colour. Betty's cheeks were pale, but -her bosom heaved.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If that be really true, I forgive," she whispered. -"Only—prove it!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She leaned towards him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You shall tell me that and more—to-morrow," -she murmured, rising. "My cousin is crossing to us."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Young Kirtling wanted her to sing, but she refused.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You always say 'No,'" he growled.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Pynsent joined them, followed by Archibald and -the others. Lady Randolph seated herself beside Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We have not had a chat for an age," she began, -and then went on abruptly: "How do you like my guests?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And you," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For the second time that evening Mark's cheeks flamed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There are bishops and bishops," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>On the terrace he paused, startled by a deep voice. -Archibald was calling him by name.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You here?" said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Archie was seated on a stone bench, which stood -in the shadows.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes. Sit down!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are in trouble," said Mark quickly. "Dear -old fellow—what's wrong?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My sermon."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark sat down, saying: "Tell me about it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Betty will pity me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A silence followed. Mark was reflecting that Betty's -pity without Betty's love would be hard to endure.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You care for her?" he muttered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"About Betty?" Mark's voice was thin and -strained, but Archie was too engrossed with his own -thoughts to notice that.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Betty? I'm not thinking about Betty. I mean -that next Sunday may be the making or marring of -my career.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Locked up in my desk at the Mission House."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can nip up and get it," said Mark, after a pause.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I couldn't allow that, Mark. You're on a holiday -and——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There's stuff in that sermon," Mark interrupted. -"I'd like you to see it. Holiday be hanged! I'll -fetch it to-morrow."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="betty-in-stepney"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XII</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">BETTY SPENDS AN HOUR IN STEPNEY</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"To the station?" echoed Betty.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'Pon my soul," she exclaimed, "our young man -takes himself too seriously."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What were you going to say?" whispered Betty.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mark has gone to town to do me a service," said -Archie.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She pouted: "I believe Mark would do anything -for you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Betty said "No" somewhat tartly, wondering why -Mark had left Birr Wood. "He might have told -me last night at dinner," she thought.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can't see you in Stepney, my dear."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I knew your mother."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Am I like her?" interrupted Betty.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 </span><em class="italics">macédoine</em><span> we had -last night!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Lady Randolph laughed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's no laughing matter. I'm greedy; I spend -too much time thinking of </span><em class="italics">chiffons</em><span>; 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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"In Stepney——" began Lady Randolph.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Betty seized her hands. "Why should I go to -Stepney?" she whispered, blushing. "I'll be honest -with you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I hope so, my dear."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Betty!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If he isn't a fighting man I never saw one."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Lady Randolph's attempt to reduce this speech to -its elements found expression in a simple: "You -will ask him to give up Stepney?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And the others? You have flirted with all of -them, Betty; don't deny it!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But I do deny it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You encouraged Harry Kirtling the season -before last."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"As if he needed encouragement!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He nearly persuaded you to marry him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You gave him lots of practice," Lady Randolph -observed drily.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He wanted me so badly that he offered to give -up his hounds and settle down wherever I pleased."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And Jim and Archibald."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My oldest friends."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah, well," sighed Lady Randolph, "you are a -lucky girl, Betty. Four good fellows want you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are very human."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That subject's name is Legion."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For answer, Betty kissed her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tell me," she whispered, "all you know that I -do not know."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am sure you are right," said Betty humbly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You did not marry for love," cried Betty. Then -she paused, ashamed. "Forgive me!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She spoke with such vehemence that Betty was -frightened.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I d-d-do not know," she stammered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">I</em><span> do not know," repeated the other fiercely. -"When these mysteries between our lower and -higher natures are revealed, I </span><em class="italics">shall</em><span> know, and not -till then—not—till—then!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her lips closed violently, as if speech were alarmed -into silence.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="bagshot-on-the-rampage"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XIII</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">BAGSHOT ON THE RAMPAGE</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Hullo!" he cried, "I am glad you're here."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What's up?" said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Bagshot is on the rampage."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The miserable sinner!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Didn't you go with him?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'll go alone," said Mark, as the young fellow -reached for his hat.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Where's your father, 'Liza?" said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Dunno," replied 'Liza. "'E's drunk, wherever -'e is. Would yer like to see mother, Mr. Samphire?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It wos quite like ole times larst night," said -'Liza, grinning. "'E giv' us all what-for—'e did."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Stop yer noise, 'Liza," commanded the mother, -wondering vaguely why her visitor was blushing.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You shall have chops to-day," said Mark, -producing a florin. "Cut along and buy them."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark said gravely he would stay. The children -were despatched to the aunt's house.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Wot yer givin' us?" he growled.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If the money is not all gone, Bill, I'll take what -is left—now."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Will yer?" said Bill.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Quality confronting quantity smiled steadily, -reassuringly. Quantity scowled, wriggled uneasily, -and quailed. A chink of silver and copper -proclaimed the moral victory.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Only seven-and-fourpence," said Mark. "You -can't go to Chingford with that."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Bill said something which need not be recorded.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Bill nodded, none too graciously, and some money -was given to Mrs. Bagshot.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm going out of town myself," added Mark, as -he took leave of the giant, "but I know I can trust -you, Bill."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"Close shave that," said a quiet voice; "you might -have been under the train instead of in it. Was it -worth while?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark sank, gasping, on to the cushions.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes; it was worth while," he exclaimed, and then -fainted.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Keep quiet for five minutes," the stranger commanded.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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: "</span><em class="italics">Keep quiet.</em><span>" 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are Amos Barger," he murmured.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He introduced himself to the surgeon, and spoke -of the examination at Burlington House.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes—now?" repeated Barger.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Now, the sense of perpetual imprisonment"—he -brought out the grim words slowly—"would not -convey such a sense of loss."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Have you learned to hug your chains?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I do not say that. They gall me less."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If others were dependent on me I would take care -of myself."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh!" Barger frowned. "You are married—got -a family—eh?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have been thinking lately of—of marrying."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I infer from your silence," he said, "that if you -gave a professional opinion it would be against -marriage—for me?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'll come," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Afternoon or morning?" asked the surgeon, -whipping out a pencil. "Book your hour!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Will three suit you, Mr. Barger?" The surgeon's -pencil scratched upon the paper. Mark added: -"I shall be punctual."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="a-moral-exigency"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XIV</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">A MORAL EXIGENCY</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Pull up," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Eh?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"All right," Archie replied, "I'm keen enough to -hear it. Was it hot in town? You look rather done."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A groom took the reins and drove off. Mark stared -at the cathedral.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Good point that," said Archie, nodding his handsome -head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Now," Mark commanded, "I want you to declaim -a bit of it—standing. You can give it all I -cannot. Do you mind?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Archie answered, dully, "If you had my voice, -Mark——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah!" gasped Mark, "if—if——" He paused, -and ended quietly, "We need not speak of that."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You could read this sermon."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Archie nodded, betraying his sympathy with a -shudder. "It was awful," he said, "awful."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He handed the sheets of manuscript to Mark, -adding, "It has helped me enormously. I will avail -myself of some of your ideas."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You will redrape my ideas with your words."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I couldn't use yours, you know."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark gazed abstractedly at the cathedral; then he -turned to his brother.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He paused as the stammer seized him. "Not -bad?" echoed Archibald. "Why it's splendid—splendid!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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, </span><em class="italics">generously</em><span>, and so you will -best help him to play his part in life."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark put up his hand to hide a smile.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is she going to marry Kirtling?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She's a bit of a flirt."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Go on!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Nothing."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah?" said Mark softly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Confound her money!" said Mark violently.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="aphrodite-smiles-and-frowns"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XV</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">APHRODITE SMILES AND FROWNS</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>When Betty met Mark just before dinner the -story of the Bagshots was told briefly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is that why you look so discouraged?" she whispered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He laughed, not quite naturally.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Surely to—to me, you may show your true feelings. -Or do you count me a fair-weather friend?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You make one think of May," he replied.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Contrast tickles you, Betty."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How am I to take that?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You like an ice with a hot sauce."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No doubt, </span><em class="italics">you</em><span> prefer fried fish."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I beg your pardon."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why should you? You must know by this time -that I don't object to being looked at—by you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark caught his breath. Her meaning was unmistakable. -She held out white arms to him—the syren!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"They were dear old days," he murmured.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You rode hard and straight. Many a lead you -gave me. When are we going to have a nice long talk?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her voice was trembling. And he stammered as -he replied: "T-to-night, if you l-l-like."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It will be heavenly on the terrace," she whispered. -"I saw you slip away last night, and I was tempted -to follow you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why didn't you?" he blurted out. Last night—he -was reflecting—he had been free.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have some pride, Mark. Not much, perhaps."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I saw Aphrodite by moonlight. She was wonderful."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She is wonderful," Betty murmured. "Is love -dead that you use the past tense? Will you take me -to the fountain after dinner?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"One doesn't see the Matterhorn when one is -climbing it," Mark observed. "If you want to love -Westchester live in Whitechapel."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The nightingales in the bush—for me," cried Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I want the bird in the hand," said Archibald -solemnly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You will cook your bird, old fellow, and eat it -with all accessories: bread sauce, rich gravy, the -succulent </span><em class="italics">salade Romaine</em><span>, but you will never hear it -sing. A bird in the hand never sings."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We are in the nick of time," whispered Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark turned to Betty. She met his eyes and then -turned aside her own. The nymph with the -phorminx smiled. And the </span><em class="italics">amorini</em><span> 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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Dear Betty," he whispered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He took her hand, gripping it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mark—what is the matter?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is a p-p-passing weakness," he stammered. -"I am better already."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You have been overworking yourself in those -detestable slums," she said vehemently.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That is the truth," he answered. "I shall take -a holiday."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her fingers pressed his arm.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," he said eagerly. "With such a friend I -should grow strong again."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There are places, earthly paradises, which I've -read about. In Samoa or Tahiti——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He interrupted her, passionately.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't speak of them—</span><em class="italics">yet</em><span>. 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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She saw that his excitement was overmastering him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Before she went to bed, Betty was cross-examined -by Lady Randolph.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then he hasn't actually spoken?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He will," Betty declared. "And within a week."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And Stepney?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'd sooner live with him in Stepney——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And eat fried fish?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And smell fried fish—it's the smell I hate—than -live in a garden of roses by Bendemeer's stream with -anybody else."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My poor Betty, you have the disease badly."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Betty, however, did not mention Mark's physical -weakness to her friend. Instead, she prattled of -love for nearly an hour.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not fools, Betty. Babes in the wood, perhaps, -playing amongst the rose leaves. Good night, my -dear; go and dream of your lover."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But when the door was shut, the woman of the -world sighed, and her shrewd face puckered into -many wrinkles.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is all yours," said Mark, smiling. "I have -given it to you, haven't I? Only, remember, Betty -must know."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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...."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Good night," Archie was saying. "We've had -a long yarn, haven't we?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Look," he said, when Archie lifted his handsome -brows in interrogation; "who would believe that -the same mother bore us?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You will fill out," said Archibald, placidly -regarding the curves of his person.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark laid his fingers upon his brother's chest.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Good night," said Mark abruptly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>When Archie had left the room, Mark returned to -the mirror.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Am I envious?" he muttered. "Not for my -own sake, God knows, but for hers. If I were only -strong——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="westchester-cathedral"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XVI</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">WESTCHESTER CATHEDRAL</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"By Jove!" exclaimed the young man.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Our preacher to-day," said the Dean.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Indeed?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">Venite</em><span>, 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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The choir sang on together till the eighth verse -was reached:</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>"To-day, if ye will hear His voice,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Harden not your hearts!"</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>These lines were delivered in </span><em class="italics">recitativo</em><span> by the -basses, and then repeated by the choir. "</span><em class="italics">Harden -not your hearts!</em><span>" 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, </span><em class="italics">if</em><span> ye will hear -his voice, harden not your hearts!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"For to be carnally minded is death, but to be -spiritually minded is life and peace."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>When Archie ascended the pulpit, Betty prepared -herself for an anti-climax, Lady Randolph, for a -nap. "</span><em class="italics">Ye also as lively stones are built up a spiritual -house.</em><span>" 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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I salute Chrysostom," and then he added simply: -"Thank you—thank you!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Here he is!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Betty's voice rose above the chorus. Pynsent -made way for her. Mark followed, looking pale and -worn.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And I might have missed it. Aren't you going -to shake hands with him, Mark?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We shall not be home till two," said Lady -Randolph. "Come, all of you!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't laugh!" she enjoined sharply. "Did -you not think his sermon splendid?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We have all underrated him," she rejoined, -more gently.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My mother adored him," Mark replied. "I can -just recall some of the things she said about him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He moved away, wondering why Mark had shown -so little enthusiasm.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Presently Lady Randolph, under cover of the -chatter, said a few words:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A humourist, Lady Randolph?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And the humour?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Spare me," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">Soit</em><span>! 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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark obeyed. His old friend eyed his thin figure -as he crossed the room.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How much help did he give his brother?" she -muttered to herself.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Archie was surrounded by joyous prattlers. Harry -Kirtling, Pynsent, and Jim Corrance were with -Betty.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Every man worth his salt wants to be at the head -of the procession here," Pynsent explained, in his -slightly nasal New England accent.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Archie stuck his knife into me and turned it," -said Corrance.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Meeting Betty's eyes, the abominable lump came -into his throat. He paused abruptly, turning aside. -Archie, who had joined them, said with authority:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Are we to fight without pay, my dear boy?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Lord Randolph had approached, cynical, yet interested.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"N-nothing worth r-repeating," stammered Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark slipped from the room before Lord Randolph -replied. Outside the door he discovered that his -fists were clenched.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="surrender"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XVII</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">SURRENDER!</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">Kosmos</em><span> and -</span><em class="italics">Mayfair</em><span>. Under the latter was </span><em class="italics">The Bistoury</em><span>. 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>When he went upstairs the surgeon, while shaking -hands, eyed him keenly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am the better for my holiday," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barger nodded, and pointed to a chair.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You said in the train I might live to make old -bones. Weakness of heart is not a bar to -marriage—is it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Very much the contrary," said the surgeon -grimly. "And if you are sound in other respects——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And not often there—eh? Never shammed at -school did you when the first lesson was a bit stiff?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The first lesson never was very stiff—to me," -Mark replied.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Your heart need not cause you any serious -anxiety," said the surgeon slowly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Thank God!" exclaimed the young man. "From -your face I feared a different verdict."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There is other trouble, Mr. Samphire."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then Mark smiled pitifully. His premonition -of disaster was justified.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You can speak f-f-frankly," he stammered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I thank you for not lying to me," said Mark gravely.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barger fumbled with his test tubes, and then burst -out vehemently:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Your only chance lies in the most careful diet, a -life in the open air; and even then the issue is -doubtful."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And—marriage?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Out of the question."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But if I got better? Should I be justified in -asking a woman to wait?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark could read the sympathy and pity latent -beneath frowns and irritability. He held out his -hand. Barger continued:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Berger scribbled a few lines, and handed them to -Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"See him at once," he commanded; "suspense is -unendurable."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If I stick to my work in Bethnal Green?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You will find yourself in Kensal Green."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And marriage——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Madness, my dear sir, madness!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"O God," he cried, "let me die to-night!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are in sore trouble."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark started to his feet with an exclamation -compounded of fear and surprise.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You—David——?" he stammered. "What -b-brought you here?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You shall answer that question yourself," said -Ross gravely.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am under sentence of death," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tell me all about it." He grasped his friend's -hand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Was it darkness, Mark?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I should have said twilight."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then she was your sun?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark paused before he answered slowly: "God -made the sun."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What do you propose to do?" David asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Shall I say—everything."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You cannot surrender what you have done -already, whether good or ill."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have to surrender love," Mark muttered. -"What do you know of that, David?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark said nothing.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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—</span><em class="italics">Fight!</em><span>"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="smaller">"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...."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You were right," she exclaimed passionately. -"Mark prefers his work to—me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Lady Randolph kissed her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have been a fool," said Betty, bursting into -tears.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="ariadne-in-naxos"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XVIII</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">ARIADNE IN NAXOS</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Lady Randolph wisely said nothing, but she -wrote to Mark. He replied by return of post.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If you don't bend, you'll break."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Shall I go?" said Betty.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I need a rest-cure," Lady Randolph replied -pointedly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you despise the world, that you live out of -it—always?" said Betty.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not with you," said Betty, slipping her hand -into her friend's.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Corrance tried to lift this interjectional babble -out of the rut.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I haven't said much yet—have I?" said Betty. -"Last time we met you were suffering horribly with -neuralgia. Is it better?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"In July?" ejaculated Mrs. Corrance.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A breakdown?" exclaimed Betty. "Did you say -a—breakdown?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We learned, quite by chance, that he was in a -sanatorium in Sutherland. He ought to have come -to Pitt Hall."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Have you asked him?" said Betty in a low voice.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He would come to us if he wanted us."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Shortly after Mrs. Samphire took her leave.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Can Mark be seriously ill?" said Betty.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He ought to be at Pitt Hall," said Betty. "I -think I shall take a brisk walk."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Two days later Betty met the Squire in -Westchester. She soon discovered that he was hurt -because his son had not come home.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Perhaps he was anxious to spare you—and -others. That would be like him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If he—died up there without making a sign."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The Squire stuttered and choked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Um! I thought once that—well, I shall write."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Betty felt that her heart was beating.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He will pay no attention to a letter. Why not -go to him yourself, Mr. Samphire?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"By God!—I will."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Betty smiled faintly, for the Squire, when he set -his mind to a thing, was easily turned aside.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then she went her way; and Mrs. Corrance noted -in her diary that Betty seemed quieter, more like -her old self.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You were very keen about eggs," she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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...."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He plunged into a description of a mining deal -which had proved disastrous.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But I got it back, and a lot more in six weeks."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Which excites you most—winning or losing, Jim?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah," said Betty. "What do you do with your gains?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He looked at Betty, who slightly lowered her -parasol and made no reply.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I never forget my losses."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Because they have been few?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I call that a virtue: in a word, you don't know -when you're beat."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No," he said steadily. "I don't know when I'm beat."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And those in front——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh—I dare say the devil takes them also—later."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I never asked you what you thought of that -wonderful sermon of his."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.'"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"To get—where?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"To the bench of bishops."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I used to underrate Archie, but there's a lot in him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How bitter you are, Jim."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You offered me your Purple Emperor next day."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And you refused it," said Jim quickly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"So I did. I must tell everybody that I have -refused an Emperor."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not to mention smaller fry. Three months ago -I thought you meant to marry Harry Kirtling, and -he thought so too, by Jove!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You dare to insinuate that I encouraged him?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Nor to me," said Mrs. Corrance. Then she -touched her son's shoulder very gently. "Do not -make ropes out of sand, dear."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Archie betrayed astonishment.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ill? Really ill? I've heard nothing of serious -illness, not a word. How do you know, Betty?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have guessed," she answered vehemently. -"He has slipped away to—to </span><em class="italics">die</em><span>, perhaps!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Archie showed a most lively concern.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, no, you exaggerate. Look here, Betty, -if someone ought to go North, I'll go."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, Archie—if you would."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He spoke in a warm, sympathetic tone, kindling -Betty's gratitude and affection. Never had she liked -Mark's brother so well.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You can spare the time, Archie?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, Archie, I </span><em class="italics">am</em><span> pleased to hear that. It will -mean so much—won't it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My dear Betty! I say—was there so great a -difference between that sermon and others I have -preached?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What did Lord Randolph say?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He did not intend that it should reach your ears."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Betty—you will do me a favour by repeating -what he said as he said it. I am not thin-skinned."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not I," said Archie.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The great thing is that you can stir up hearts -when the occasion comes. I feel sure you will -surpass yourself at Windsor."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I wish </span><em class="italics">I</em><span> 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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You can give him—my love."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She spoke with assumed lightness of tone. Archie -found a phrase.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A man would travel farther than Sutherland to -receive that." Then he took his leave, gravely -smiling.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He's a good sort," said Betty.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am like that birch," said Betty.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="a-sanatorium-in-sutherland"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XIX</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">A SANATORIUM IN SUTHERLAND</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's not as good as I thought," he murmured; -and he was not speaking of his cigar.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I took my degree at Cambridge," said Archie.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You wear good clothes," said Archie.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"D'ye think they're too guid?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Certainly not," said Archie hastily. "Your -Highland sheep look in fine condition."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Once more the driver's queer eyes met his. The -brown flecks danced in the grey.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"They're no mine, and they cam frae Teviotdale—they -white-faced sheep." The contempt in the -man's voice was unmistakable.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark would have laughed. Archibald remained calm.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There's too much whisky drunk in Scotland," he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There's' mair drunk oot of it," retorted the driver.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yon's the hoose," said the driver.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I suppose it's the air," Mark explained. "I'm -out-of-doors night and day. My trouble is scotched."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can't understand how you can joke about it," -said Archie.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why didn't you go home?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I c-c-couldn't," said Mark shortly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Who is that?" he whispered to Mark, who sat -beside him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's Stride, our resident doctor. He's mad -keen about the open-air cure. He got his ideas from -Father Kneippe."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Stride lives here all the year round, you know. -David Ross comes and goes at long intervals."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I like the country and the people," said Mark, -"but you have to climb to get at either."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'll smoke a cigar," said Archie. "Can I offer -you one?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I prefer a pipe," said the Bishop.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I hoped to take him back with me. I came up -for that purpose."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Your brother can return with you, if he wishes, -but would it be wise?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Perhaps not, perhaps not," said Archie. "We -did not know that you were prepared to offer so -generous a hospitality."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">upward and onward</em><span>: the motto -adopted by his followers.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You will speak with such levity——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've not your gravity, my dear old fellow. -Now then, tell me about yourself. What are you -doing?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've been commanded to preach at Windsor."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark was so eager and warm in his congratulations -that Archie found it easy to go on.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've brought my MS. with me. I want you to -skim through it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I must read it at once. This is wildly exciting."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well," said Archie nervously, "will it do?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark slid off the bed, put his hands in his pockets, -and stared at his brother.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That depends. It will do to light some fires -with; but it won't set the Thames, near Windsor, -ablaze."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Call it 'bosh' and have done with it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's not bosh. You've taken one of the Beatitudes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The Dean suggested that. He said it would -please. Of course he knows."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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. </span><em class="italics">The pure in heart shall see -God in His Heaven</em><span>. 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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You must help me," said Archie in a low, hesitating voice.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Will it?" said Archie doubtfully. Already -Mark's face was drawn and haggard; he looked ten -years older than his brother.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's so cloudy here," said Archibald.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can see through most clouds, but s-s-some——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark paused abruptly, the light faded in his eyes, -as he turned and left the room.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="betty-sees-a-sprig-of-rue"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XX</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">BETTY SEES A SPRIG OF RUE</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"None," said he slowly. "I hope she is well."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Archie, not detecting the anxiety in his tone, -thought Betty was looking very well. Then he -mentioned Jim.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He comes from Friday to Monday, every week. -He wants Betty, but I don't fancy he'll get her."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Have you any reason for saying that?" Mark -asked, wondering whether Archie was clearer-sighted -than he had supposed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Jim is a materialist."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, come now!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A money-grubber and an agnostic."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"One of the best of fellows. Ross never appeals to -him in vain."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"As if any rich man couldn't write a cheque. -Betty ought to marry somebody very different."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't abuse him to Betty."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Betty is rather—undisciplined."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And she said 'No' to you," Mark reflected.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Betty received Archie with the question, "Is Mark -really ill?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Archie hesitated.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You gave him my love?" Betty murmured -lightly. She had the faintest tinge of colour in her -cheeks, but her voice was almost cold.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And I hope he sent a nice message to me in -return?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No. He asked if you were well. I said—yes. -You do look uncommonly well, Betty."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">jabot</em><span> 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I suppose a country life agrees with me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are wonderful."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's easy to be kind to people like you—and Mark."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I hear you are kind to everybody. All Slowshire -sings your praises."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If it would not bore you," he said, "I should -like to talk over the Windsor sermon. You can help -me——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I? Help—you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My mind </span><em class="italics">is</em><span> 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You say that like Mark."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Has Mark talked to you on this theme?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, no," Betty replied, "but he pours out his -ideas, as you do."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mark and I have talked about this. He helped -me. He always does."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And when may I come to talk to you again?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are not going—now?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The "now" brought a sparkle to his eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I must. I'm one of the busiest men in Westchester."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I shall run down to Windsor to hear your -sermon," she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Our sermon, Betty."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Archie remembered, in the nick of time, what Mark -had said about not abusing Jim.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I think what you think," he said slowly. "Poor, -rich Jim!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm glad that I have lived, Betty."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"When all was dark——" repeated Betty. She -knew that Jim's father had died when Jim was a small -boy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not </span><em class="italics">meant</em><span>?" Betty spoke with impatience. -"Surely the design, the intention, includes -happiness, only we mar it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She let him take her hand, but she turned aside -eyes full of tears.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We'll go on as before. The mater needn't know—eh? -It has been a great thing for her having you here."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="recuperation"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XXI</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">RECUPERATION</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark promised, but he added: "I feel an -animal—an ass!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="smaller">"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—</span><em class="italics smaller">apostolic</em><span class="smaller">! 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...."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Mark thrust the letter into his pocket with an -exclamation which made the man working next to -him raise his brows.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Anything wrong, Samphire? No bad news, I hope?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark told him that he had climbed Ben Caryll, -and felt none the worse for it. Stride shook his big -head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You oughtn't to attempt such walks—yet."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then the time is coming. I shall regain my -health?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He had never put the question so directly before. -Stride eyed him attentively, hearing a new note in -his voice.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Per—haps."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If I asked for leave of absence——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes—a woman."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I should never ask her to do that."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Your good work will tell, Stride."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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:—</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="smaller">"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...."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Eh?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"By Jove!" he said, drawing a deep breath, "I -believe I can write."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="smaller">"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."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark told Maitland what had passed. Maitland -entered with sympathy into his plans, confessing -that he had tried writing as a trade.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What made you go into the Church?" Mark -asked abruptly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I had to earn my bread and—scrape; but afterwards——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If you were offered preferment——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I hope to live and die in Manchester."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He was so excited that Maitland entreated him to -be calm, introducing, as an anticlimax, the cabbages -to be cut and carried in.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">Slowshire -Chronicle</em><span>, 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is the </span><em class="italics">magnum opus</em><span> done?" said Stride.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Very nearly," Mark replied.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Are you going to take Conquest's advice and—burn it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I hope it ends happily," said Stride.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It ends happily," said Mark, staring at his MS.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Stride filled his pipe and then moved to the door.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="smaller">"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...."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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....</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="on-ben-caryll"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XXII</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">ON BEN CARYLL</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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. </span><em class="italics">Hate</em><span>! Hatred of his brother. -He threw out his arms towards the darkening skies.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Curse him!" he cried. "Curse him! Curse him!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Who touched me?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>No answer came out of the white silence.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Who touched me?" he cried again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He was lost!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Staggering on through drifts and hags, he realised -that the time was fast approaching when his muscles -would fail.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span>* * * * *</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="hymeneal"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XXIII</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">HYMENEAL</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="smaller">"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."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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).</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="smaller">"Dear old Jim" (Betty wrote): "please come up after -breakfast and take me for a walk.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span class="smaller">"Your affectionate Betty."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>As Jim approached The Whim, Betty joined him -on the drive. He saw that she was very pale.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How good of you to come," she exclaimed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Good!" growled Jim. "As if I wouldn't cross -the Atlantic or the Styx to walk with you. Where -shall we go?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sun is going to shine on you," said Jim.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I wish it were June instead of May, Jim."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's the most absurd superstition."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Jim, I want to ask a question. Have you seen or -heard of Mark?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Jim looked cross.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He's in Sutherland."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Go on, please."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He doesn't answer my letters," said Jim, after a pause.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He writes to nobody."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Did you expect him to write?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She paused, blushing, her eyes, pools of brown -light, opened wide with their strange look: -entreating, interrogating.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Which was a woman's reason, I suppose, for -engaging yourself to somebody who did."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"To him?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"To God."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You say that Archibald Samphire revealed God -to you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"In that sermon at Windsor—yes. If you had -heard it——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I heard of it. You will be the wife of a bishop -some day."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is strange," he admitted slowly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah," she cried, "you say that reservedly. You, -too, have guessed or at least suspected——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Betty turned her back, and walked down the lane; -Jim hesitated, and pursued.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The feeling in his face went straight to her heart.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 -</span><em class="italics">très bien installés</em><span>. I am to find them a cook—fifty-five -pounds a year—do you know of one? She must -be a </span><em class="italics">cordon bleu</em><span>. Yes, a kitchen </span><em class="italics">and</em><span> a scullery-maid. -They are very well off, very well off indeed. It is -expected that they will entertain——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Archibald will be a bishop. Do you know that -his portrait is coming out in </span><em class="italics">Vanity Fair</em><span>? 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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Here is Betty," said Lady Randolph.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Wonderful stuff," said the judge, as he passed -the decanter to Jim; "it puts everything right—eh?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Jim nodded. Through the open doors, leading -into the hall, he could see Betty run down the stairs, -followed by Archibald.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The Squire called after her: "God bless you, my -dear! God bless you!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She was gone.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's the last of our Betty," he said.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="a-red-tie"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XXIV</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">A RED TIE</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Pray don't," said Betty. "The matter's not -worth a penny stamp."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We shall find a coupé at Victoria," he whispered, -bending forward. They were </span><em class="italics">en route</em><span> 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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">husband</em><span>! 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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Betty eyed him furtively. She did not like to -wake him, but his appearance distressed her. She -bent forward and touched his arm.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Dear me," he said. "I saw you close your -eyes, Betty, and I closed mine. You did right to -wake me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I couldn't help it," she replied. "Your hat had -fallen over your left eye. It made you -look—ridiculous."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They spoke in whispers, leaning forward, so that -their heads almost touched. But at the word -"ridiculous" the bridegroom winced.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's Mark!" said Betty excitedly, clutching -her husband's arm. "Look—look!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Archibald looked and laughed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I think I should like a tea-basket," she said, -pausing. "Will you get one? I'll go back to the -carriage."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You?" she gasped. "</span><em class="italics">You</em><span>—here?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her eyes, wide open, glaring interrogation, fell -before his. He took her hand, grasping it firmly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are well, </span><em class="italics">strong</em><span>!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He almost pushed her from him. Her eyes never -left his face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Can't you see me to my carriage?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It </span><em class="italics">is</em><span> 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You have left our Church?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He repeated it three times.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes; yes—we can't go into reasons here and now."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What are you going to do?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am writing."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Better get in, sir," he said to Mark, who, in his -Inverness cape and rough cap, looked the traveller.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Archibald pushed Betty into the coupé and shook -hands with Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The scarlet woman."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Pray don't joke! This is most upsetting."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Upsetting? I should think so."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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—"</span><em class="italics">From -this day forward ... to love, cherish, and to -obey till Death us do part!</em><span>"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Archibald dropped the tea-basket with a crash. -His bride had fainted.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="mark-hears-a-bleating"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XXV</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">MARK HEARS A BLEATING</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Wrenn," said Jim, "bring some whisky and -mineral waters, and the Rothschild Excepcionales!" -Wrenn vanished silently. Jim seized Mark by the coat.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, this howls for explanation. You've -chucked your black livery—</span><em class="italics">you</em><span>?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The emphasis laid on the pronoun expressed -surprise, incredulity, and amusement.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes. I've come here to tell you all about it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No," said Jim; "but—well, never mind; go on——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'll bet you were," said Jim.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And Betty?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Right," said Jim. "That's gospel."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"All the same, she was back of everything. Then -came last Whitsuntide——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He paused. Jim continued: "I know about that. -I suppose you learned, then, of this cursed mischief -inside you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I suspected something; I went to Barger and -Drax. They told me marriage was madness."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Great Scott!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Jim looked at the red tie.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And then you saw red," he spluttered, "you saw red."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"When that letter came, I could—have—killed—my—brother."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The two men had risen and were staring at each -other with flaming eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I could have killed him," Mark repeated -sombrely. "You know, Jim, what Archie was to me at -Harrow—and long afterwards?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The greatest thing on earth," said Jim. "I used -to be awfully jealous."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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, -</span><em class="italics">nothing</em><span>, 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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His stammer seized him, and he trembled violently.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 </span><em class="italics">her</em><span>?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's darkest mystery."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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. </span><em class="italics">I</em><span> couldn't promise to personally -conduct her to—Heaven. Yes, his sermons, particularly -that Windsor sermon, captured her."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The Windsor sermon! You say the Windsor -s-s-sermon?" Mark stuttered out.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He took up the current </span><em class="italics">Vanity Fair</em><span> 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 </span><em class="italics">cordon -bleu</em><span> at fifty-five pounds a year. Mark gazed at the -cartoon and then laid it, face downwards, on the table.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The thing's wonderful," he said slowly, "but it -will hurt Betty."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I saw them at Victoria," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark explained, blaming himself.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm going to write."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Have you rewritten the novel you burnt?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No; but I'm half-way through another."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You may as well camp with me. Why not?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark had several reasons "why not," but he gave -one which was sufficient: "I mean to eat and sleep -and work out-of-doors."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The two men talked together for an hour and then -parted.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="smaller">"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."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The boy is a good lad," said the Squire heavily. -"I shall talk to him. He must take the King's -Charteris living, he </span><em class="italics">must</em><span>. I shall make a point of -it. He can keep a curate to preach. It's the obvious -way out of the wood."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then he won't take it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">his</em><span> day.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Eh?" said Mark. "What do you mean, pater?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The Squire coughed nervously. He was not -clever at making explanations.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can get along with a hundred a year," said -Mark quietly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Pater—we won't talk of that."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The Squire looked hard at the decanter which -indeed was quite empty.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Absolutely nothing," said Mark absently.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I told the Madam I'd say a word, and there it is: -a capital house, in excellent repair, with——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The present incumbent still alive," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"True, true—we'll say no more, not a word. -Shall we go into the drawing-room?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Pater," he said, touching the Squire's massive -shoulder, "how are you feeling? Any twinges of -gout or—er—anything of that sort?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"All right," said Mark. "I'm going to write, -you know."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Write?" the Squire turned, as he was passing -into the hall. "Write—what?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Novels, short stories, plays perhaps."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, d——n it!" said the Squire ruefully.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="readjustment"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XXVI</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">READJUSTMENT</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I never thought I should speak to you again," -he said frankly. "It's the </span><em class="italics">vis medicatrix naturæ</em><span>. -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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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, </span><em class="italics">Shall the Strong Retain the Spoil?</em><span> -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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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:—</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>"Stood the groves of singling pine trees,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Green in summer, white in winter,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Ever sighing, ever singing."</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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: -</span><em class="italics">Board and Lodging</em><span>. 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is that wood yours?" he asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The girl seemed amused, but she said: "Oh, yes; -everything inside the paling belongs to mother."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And you have rooms to let?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The girl asked him to come in and see them, but -she added doubtfully: "I don't think they'll suit -you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I haven't seen them yet," said Mark, "but I'm -sure they will."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Can I speak to your mother?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She's an invalid—and in bed, to-day. If you -want to talk business you must talk with me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"When will you come?" said the girl.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"To-morrow. My name is Mark Samphire."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mother's name is Dew. I am Mary Dew."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mary laughed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I hope so," she said frankly. "It's dreadful -waiting on people one doesn't like. Last summer -we had a gentleman who——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," said Mark, lighting his pipe.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Who wasn't a gentleman—and I hated him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Suddenly, a thin, querulous note seemed to pierce -the silence of the garden.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mary—Mary!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mother wants me. Good-bye, Mr. Samphire."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark held out his hand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Good-bye—till to-morrow."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He turned and moved down the path. Again that -thin, querulous note pierced the silence. </span><em class="italics">Mary, -Mary!</em><span> 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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>When it was finished Pynsent and Jim Corrance -were invited to inspect and criticise. Pynsent -brought with him a couple of </span><em class="italics">mezari</em><span>, 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He described an interview with Mrs. Dew.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Good! I see her," said Pynsent.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Um!" said Pynsent. "Don't fall in love with -your Honey Dew!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't talk rot, Pynsent!" Mark replied sharply. -Jim Corrance frowned at the painter, who realised -at once that he had said something </span><em class="italics">mal-à-propos</em><span>.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I shall cut a lettuce for you fellows," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>As he left the shelter, Jim turned to Pynsent.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You put your hoof into it," he growled.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I did," said Pynsent.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I say—is Mark going to take a front seat?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't know."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark came back carrying a bottle of Sauterne and -a noble </span><em class="italics">Romaine</em><span>, 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've enjoyed myself immensely," said Pynsent. -"You're in Arcady, Mark. You ought to write an -idyll here: Aucassin and Nicolete—hey?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I only read books that amuse me," said Jim.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>While they were talking, a young man passed -through the gate and up the garden to the cottage -door.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Hullo! Who's this?" said Pynsent.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mary, Mary—don't be away too long!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mary's fresh voice came from behind the palings—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of course not, mother. I shall be back to make -your tea at four."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Our Jill has her Jack," said Pynsent. "That -was a becoming hat."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She made it herself," Mark observed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then she likes her Jack. Such a girl would not -prink to please a man to whom she was indifferent."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"So would I," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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: -"</span><em class="italics">Please come.</em><span>" 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You will come back to us," he said confidently.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Betty held his hand tight at parting. "Don't -slip out of our lives!" she whispered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my -last end be like his.</em><span>"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="in-grub-street"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XXVII</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">IN GRUB STREET</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I advised you, you remember, to write a novel -and burn it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have done so," said Mark quietly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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. </span><em class="italics">Shall the Strong retain the Spoil?</em><span> -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. </span><em class="italics">I</em><span> 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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The East End," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Um—the slums treated humorously?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've tried to stick to the facts."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And you expect to sell 'em as fiction? Oh—you -optimist!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A play's the thing," observed another scribbler. -"Write plays."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Any fool can write a play," said the little man, -very scornfully. "I—</span><em class="italics">mot qui sous parle</em><span>—have -written plays, but it takes a diplomatist to get them -read and a genius to get them accepted."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark returned to Weybridge rather despondent.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'll think about it," said Mark hesitatingly. -"I'm awfully obliged to you, Conquest."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But he mightn't like it, you know."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If you wish it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm sure he does," said Mark warmly. At -Conquest's desire he had introduced him to -Archibald. Conquest had dined in Cadogan Place.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 </span><em class="italics">I</em><span> 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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark flushed. Conquest was his host.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I think she's mangy."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Good," said Conquest, in no way perturbed. -"I wanted an honest opinion."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"As I understand this," said Mark, "Lord -Vauxhall offers my brother a bribe to boom his new -neighbourhood."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Conquest shrugged his mighty shoulders.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I should prefer that," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Lady Randolph stared. There were times when -she felt that Betty was an unknown quantity.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You allowed him to make that offer?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Does he—</span><em class="italics">know</em><span>?" said Lady Randolph, alluding -to what had passed at Birr Wood.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why should I tell him?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, indeed, my dear?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He looks a different man," said Lady Randolph -absently.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">Encourage</em><span> him?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If he needs no encouragement—so much the worse."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"At King's Charteris you could keep a curate. -The pater said that he had spoken to you. And it's -the family living."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'll say to you what I didn't like to say to the -pater: 'Drop it.'"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You could help me enormously," Archibald concluded.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am going to help myself," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Have you ever met Lord Vauxhall?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah!" said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I like Conquest immensely," said Archibald -suavely. "He has the larger vision."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Betty—do you like Conquest?" said Mark abruptly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She answered promptly: "No."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why not?" her husband inquired.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="a-sunday-in-cadogan-place"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XXVIII</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">A SUNDAY IN CADOGAN PLACE</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>In late October, when pages fall as thickly from -printing-presses as leaves do from trees, </span><em class="italics">Shall -the Strong retain the Spoil?</em><span> 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 </span><em class="italics">succès d'estime</em><span>—nothing more. -He added that the time had come to pull strings, if -strings were to be pulled.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't quite understand," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He pays for paragraphs?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The book must sell on its merits," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"As you please," said Conquest.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A hundred copies were sold the day before -yesterday," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Now, that's a little bit of all right, and no -mistake. I'm delighted to hear it. I congratulate -you—</span><em class="italics">con fuoco</em><span>! That means business. One—hundred—copies -in </span><em class="italics">one</em><span> day! Whew-w-w! Hang it, why -don't you rejoice?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Thank you," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He returned to luncheon at Cadogan Place, -humbled, and therefore, in a woman's eyes, meet -for sympathy and encouragement.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"In any case," said Betty, "you have had the -delight of writing the book. And it </span><em class="italics">is</em><span> 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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark had listened to interminable arguments upon -this vexed question. But in Betty's tone and manner -he caught a glimpse of a spectre.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Your life is not sad," he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm one of the lucky ones," she replied hastily -"We were speaking of your book."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of course I am happy," she replied; then she -added in a whisper: "Mark, I ought to be happy, -but I am a rebel."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"All women are rebels, Betty. Against what in -particular do you rebel?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He rose to go, not daring to stay.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes; the first Sunday Archibald preached."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh! The sermon about Balaam."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Did you hear that?" said Betty, a moment later.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Every minute is filled," said Archibald heavily. -"Overworked? I can stand a lot of work."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He would be miserable without it—and bored," -said Betty. "He won't even come to concerts with -me now."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Archibald nodded, frowning and crumbling the -bread beside his plate.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The Duchess," he said, "stopped me this morning -after church to tell me that she liked the -treatment of my text immensely."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh—the Duchess!" exclaimed Betty.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He went out. As the door shut behind him, Betty -turned a contrite face to Mark's.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I hit him when he was down. What a beast I am!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"When I read your book," she said, "I had an -intuition that one day you would write a play."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark quoted Tommy Greatorex. "That's an easy job."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have a motif for you. The emotional treatment -of religion. Look at the success of this new -book, </span><em class="italics">Robert Elsmere</em><span>! 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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A sinner?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The right man could do something with it, no doubt."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why not you, Mark?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Shall we walk?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There's an east wind blowing, evil for man and -beast."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You're neither. Come on."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"They feel warm enough," said Betty, laughing. -"Well, I'm in a glow, too."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He sang 'Nazareth'—quite admirably."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Betty, teapot in hand, looked up, interested at once.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, Archie, you have not sung 'Nazareth' for -months. Do sing it after tea!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do!" Mark added. "I haven't heard you sing -for a year."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Archibald's face flushed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You're a wonderful fellow," he said slowly; -"the hare you, the tortoise I. It was always so."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The tortoise won the r-r-race," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I may be happy yet."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="the-procession-of-life"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XXIX</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">THE PROCESSION OF LIFE</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">son</em><span>, obstructed -the horizon.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The boy may reign at Pitt Hall," said Archibald. -"George has written to say that he hopes it will be -an heir—</span><em class="italics">his</em><span> 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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She will do well, she will do well," Mark reiterated.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You will come to us, Mark. I shall want you, -you know."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If you insist——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't think I could face it without you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, well, how is she? That fool of a doctor -has exaggerated. They always make out everything -to be more serious than it is."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She is going, she is going," the husband muttered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark shook him violently.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Archie, you must pull yourself together. Do -you hear?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's a judgment, a judgment."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What do you say?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I never told her about those two sermons. I'm -a coward, a coward. You despise me—I have felt it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I gave them to you freely," he said. "I urged -you to preach that first sermon. Put what is past -from you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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—</span><em class="italics">qui s'accuse s'excuse</em><span>.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If Betty is spared, I shall tell her the truth," he -concluded.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark's voice was quite steady when he replied, -"For all our sakes. You take me into account?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, of course. Don't you remember? You -wished her to know. You said you would tell her. -Why didn't you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We talk as if she were not dying."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Drax sentenced me to death," said Mark, "but -I'm alive and strong."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Archibald fell on his knees in an agony of -supplication. Mark watched him. Suddenly the husband -looked up.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"In the name of God, pray," he entreated. "You -are a better man than I—pray!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But Mark remained standing.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">en tout cas</em><span>, is -just like me: made for sunshine rather than rain."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Archie!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Archibald appeared instantly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A girl has been born," said Lady Randolph, -"but she is dead."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Dead?" repeated Archibald.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And Betty?" Mark demanded hoarsely.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The doctors think she is safe."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>About this time he began his third novel, </span><em class="italics">The -Songs of the Angels</em><span>. 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He laughed loudly and strode away.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Are you worried about anything?" Mark asked -one day.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," she admitted, after a minute's hesitation; -then she continued quickly, "Have you noticed -another falling off in Archie's sermons?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He's unequal, of course," Mark replied. "And -the best brains refuse to work in a tired body."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I wish you'd say a word about that. He'd take -anything from you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>When </span><em class="italics">The Songs of the Angels</em><span> 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I think I can pay my way," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I owe you that—and more too."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, rubbish!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If you would live with us, and become my paid -secretary. You could have your afternoons and -evenings free."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I shall not leave my pines," said Mark. "Many -thanks, but I'm going to score off my own bat."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>An awkward pause followed. At his father's -grave Mark had worn, and wore still, black clothes -of clerical cut.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am a layman," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What? You've chucked it! But you can't—can -he, Archie? Once a parson, always a parson. -Archie can arrange anything."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"True," said Archibald, "but——" He glanced -at Mark, who had risen.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He marched out of the room, leaving George -agape with astonishment.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What the devil's the meaning of this?" he asked -of Archibald.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm afraid he's an agnostic."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ag—wha-a-t!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Can you give me anything?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If I could get a sub-editorship?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm much obliged to you," said Mark humbly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Greatorex says you talk Italian like a Dago. -Would you care to translate an Italian novel for -us? We'll pay you sixty pounds."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Thank you very much," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Conquest handed him the proof sheets of the novel.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You must translate with discretion," he said -carelessly; "but don't emasculate it! After all, -we are not publishing for schoolgirls."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Has Conquest given you Nespoli's novel?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There's not a particle of doubt about that," said -Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've stood your sneers long enough, Conquest," -he said. "You've done me some good turns——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 </span><em class="italics">my</em><span> -consideration. Now then—march!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He pointed insolently to the door, towering above -the slight figure confronting him. Mark recovered -his temper.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I shall make my way, Betty."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her eyes were troubled, as she said hurriedly, -"Are you sure of that, Mark? If—</span><em class="italics">if</em><span> 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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What has he told you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His sharp interrogation slightly puzzled her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, he says that your hints have been invaluable."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I c-c-can't," he stammered. "I have my p-pride."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"So had Lucifer," she retorted.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>That she supposed him cold, he knew. When -they parted, he smiled to himself because she said -angrily: "You think of nothing but your </span><em class="italics">Songs of -the Angels</em><span>!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Angels won't sing in London," he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">belles lettres</em><span>, biographies, books of travel, -rather than novels. Still, he expressed a wish to -see </span><em class="italics">The Songs of the Angels</em><span>, and said that the theme -appealed to him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I should be glad to undertake translations," -said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Will that be worth your while, Mr. Samphire?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Finish your novel," said he at parting. "And -give it undivided attention."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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. </span><em class="italics">The Songs of the Angels</em><span> was a -love story. He submitted the plot to Mary, who -confounded him by an apt suggestion.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"By Jove, Honeydew, you know all about it. I -suppose you've had half a dozen lovers?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mary blushed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Only Albert Batley."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Now, Mrs. Dew," Mark replied, "that won't do -with me. Mary is as good as gold and your faithful -slave."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She won't have me long, Mr. Samphire. I'd -like to see her settled, before I die."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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. </span><em class="italics">À propos</em><span> of this Mark -said one day:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You see, Honeydew, when a man is in love, he -knows it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It works the same way with a woman," said -Mary. "Only more so."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Eh?" said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark detected a note of pain.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My poor little Honeydew," he said, with warm -sympathy. "You have suffered. Some day you -must tell me about it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There's no chance of the other——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, no," Mary interrupted. "He married."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You will make Albert very happy," said Mark; -"and you will be happy yourself."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am happy now," she replied with conviction.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="a-note-of-interrogation"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XXX</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">A NOTE OF INTERROGATION</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He replied with a certain air of restraint: "Yes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What sort of compliment has he paid me? Did -he ask you to keep so important a matter from your -wife?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I so understood him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And your word is pledged?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Has he offered you more than you receive here?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We shall be richer by some hundreds a year."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"True. But preferment——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Preferment! Promotion! That implies service. -You have only been here eighteen months. There -will be gossip about this."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"As if I cared for gossip."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We will say no more about it," said Betty; "but -I tell you frankly that I am hurt!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You have shown the right feeling, dear Betty, -which I knew you possessed. I am acting according -to my lights."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, yes," he interrupted. "She did what she -could, I make no doubt."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Cut along!" said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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——</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">À propos</em><span>," 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'...."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"True! You can stroll if you like, as the placid -Pecksniff strolled. You have put on weight, Archie."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I carry great burdens," he replied. "Perhaps I -ought not to ask you to share them."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark responded instantly, touched by this -unexpected solicitude: "I'm all right."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You might come to us for a week. Betty will nurse you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That is impossible. I must finish my book."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Shall we talk about your work?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What are you smiling at?" he asked abruptly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Archibald had wit enough to see and feel the -point. He saw, too, that Mark was moved.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You have an idea. I should like to hear it, -although——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark was silent. Then, as before, the sense that -he had envied and hated this once dearly beloved -brother made him generous.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I will write down and send what is in my mind. -No—don't thank me!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are," he was about to say "Mary," but -changed it to "Miss Dew."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, no, I am Mary," she replied, smiling. -"Your brother calls me 'Honeydew.'"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My brother calls you a ministering angel."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Um!" said Archibald to himself, "I must speak -to Betty about this."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>When Harry had taken his clean, lean body out of -her drawing-room, Betty turned rather impatiently -to Archibald.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Has anything happened? You have been so -glum. Surely you do not resent my asking Harry -to dine without consulting you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Harry?" His tone was heavily contemptuous. -"Harry can waste as much of your time as you like -to give him. Yes; something has happened."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He told his story.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't believe it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't believe it," Betty repeated.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What is she like?" Betty asked, shortly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Archibald described her with a deliberation which -annoyed his wife.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's enough," said Betty.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If you choose to misinterpret me——" he began.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 </span><em class="italics">has</em><span> -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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I beg you to compose yourself."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You can compose me by telling the truth——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You dare to imply that——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 </span><em class="italics">persona grata</em><span> at -Windsor—that you are sure to be made a bishop, as if -preferment were salvation; and——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="betty-sees-danger-signals"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XXXI</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">BETTY SEES DANGER SIGNALS</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And he tells me," she concluded triumphantly, -"that Mary, who seems a nice modest girl, is going -to marry a Mr. Batley. When </span><em class="italics">The Songs of the -Angels</em><span> is sent off to his publisher, he will come -to us."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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...."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A hundred pounds is not much," said Betty -doubtfully.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It will last me a year," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark was now absorbed in writing another novel, -and in the correction of proofs. </span><em class="italics">The Songs of the -Angels</em><span> 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I should hope not," said Betty. "If a quarter -be true, she is dyed scarlet."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have," said Lady Randolph.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At once Betty began to praise the </span><em class="italics">Songs</em><span>. 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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ay, say you so? Dear me—that's a pity. But -there's stout stuff under the surplice."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Stout?" Lady Randolph smiled. "You have -hit the word, Randolph. Stout—and growing -stouter. And some of the stuff is—stuffing."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My dear, you are severe. </span><em class="italics">Who drives fat horses -should himself be fat</em><span>. 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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">pâté</em><span> with a -be-diamonded countess who admitted frankly that she -lived to sup.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You must not peach, Mrs. Samphire!" cried -Lady Cheyne, turning up her impudent nose.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For a moment the game was stopped, and those -present stared at Betty.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Betty nodded again, beginning to laugh. One of -the young men offered her his chair.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">Tapez sur la veine</em><span>," said Harry. "Pile it on, Betty!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I make it seventy-five pound," he said. "I'll -send it to you to-morrow, Mrs. Samphire."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, no," said Betty.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And the Duke came in?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She understood from his tone that being caught -was not the least part of the offence.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have said that I am very sorry."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You have made me ridiculous," said Archibald -in a tone she had not heard from him before.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You will make yourself ridiculous," she retorted, -"if you take this too seriously."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He exclaimed hotly: "I would not have had it -happen for five hundred pounds."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The opportunity was irresistible to murmur: "The -moral obliquity of it seems to have escaped you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What? You laugh? You sneer? This is too -much, too much."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="betty-makes-good-resolutions"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XXXII</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">BETTY MAKES GOOD RESOLUTIONS</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, yes," he said; "I'm obliged. I hate to be -kept waiting. About this deanery—hey?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am giving the matter earnest consideration."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He spread out his broad, pudgy hands in a gesture -familiar to Archibald.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How did you hear?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's my business to hear things. I've a hundred -eyes and a thousand ears. Well?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's great preferment."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Forgotten me?" exclaimed Archibald. "Why, -he came up as soon as the ladies left the -dining-room, and was most civil."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My dear Conquest, I really——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have no intention of chucking Lord Vauxhall -or anybody else."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Right. That means No. Good-bye. You'll see -a leader in next Saturday's </span><em class="italics">Mercury</em><span> which will warm -the cockles of your heart."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Betty!" he exclaimed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her bosom heaved; her eyes sparkled. Archibald -stared at her dully, wondering what words would -meet this emergency.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Have you nothing to say?" she cried.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My dear," he said, "you do not understand."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then explain—explain!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Conquest means well. He is our friend; a -rough diamond, I grant you, but he means well. -He is our friend."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He repeated the words, sensible that they were -inadequate, yet unable to find others.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Save us from such friends!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I had almost decided to send a refusal."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why—why, only last night you were on edge to -accept. You gave me a dozen </span><em class="italics">pros</em><span> against my two -or three </span><em class="italics">cons</em><span>."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And perhaps," said Archibald, in what Betty -sometimes called his "antiseptic" manner, "those -</span><em class="italics">cons</em><span> outweighed the </span><em class="italics">pros</em><span>, 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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He tells you to </span><em class="italics">reculer pour mieux sauter</em><span>," 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 </span><em class="italics">Mercury</em><span> which will warm the -cockles of your heart."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Protest would have been wasted," said Archibald. -"If you will excuse me, my dear, I will go -downstairs. The deputation is waiting for me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh—I am muddled, muddled," said Betty.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He smiled assuringly and left the room.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>When she saw Mark a few days later, the article -in the </span><em class="italics">Mercury</em><span> 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 </span><em class="italics">Mercury</em><span> 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Betty asked for news of the </span><em class="italics">Songs</em><span>.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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, </span><em class="italics">A Soul Errant</em><span>, was sure to be a success. -He talked with animation for half an hour, describing -his characters.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You live for this," said Betty abruptly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you blame me," he answered quickly, "because -I make the most of what is left?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I beg your pardon," she replied.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Later, she inquired after Mary Dew.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And Albert what's-his-name, who is going to -marry your paragon——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Albert Batley is making money. He has a -big building contract near Surbiton. He will give -Honeydew all she wants, and deserves."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You know nothing of women, Mark."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"So the critics say—confound 'em; but I tell you, -Betty, I know a good woman when I see her."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How many have you met?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"More than you think," he replied gravely.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And where do you place me? Among the sheep -or the goats?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark wondered why her lips trembled. She looked -tired and pale, much paler than usual.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What a question!" he said lightly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah!" said Mark. "Go on, go on!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She saw that his eyes were shining, that the -expression which she had missed from his face -since her marriage had come back.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Go—on," she sighed. "I am going back. Can -you help me?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She turned to him with a pathetic gesture of -entreaty. The light faded in Mark's face. He -began to stammer.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If I c-c-could——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You believed once. And now your faith is -gone! Why? How? You </span><em class="italics">must</em><span> tell me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Paid for?" She echoed the words. "How?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"By sacrifice," he answered slowly. "By blood -sacrifice."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="illumination"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XXXIII</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">ILLUMINATION</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The rainbow after the storm."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I shall be happy here," she said gravely.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">bonbonnière</em><span>. -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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Lady Randolph, who was passing through town -on her way to Scotland from Birr Wood, nodded -understandingly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The fact is," said Betty seriously, "I have been -setting more than one house in order."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, Dibdin," she exclaimed, "that will never -do. Have the men gone?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, Dibdin, all's well that ends well."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You shan't touch them now," said Betty. "I'll -arrange them, Dibdin, before I go home."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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: </span><em class="italics">Whit-Sunday, Westchester</em><span>.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She read it through. Yes: as it was written, so -it had been preached, and it had been written by Mark!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Shall I bring a lamp, M'm?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Bring me a basket, Dibdin, and then whistle for -a hansom."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mark!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He sprang up, with a startled exclamation, and -came forwards, holding out both hands.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What has happened?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You wrote this?" she cried, holding out the -Westchester sermon.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He nodded, realising the fatuity of denial. For -a moment they gazed into each other's eyes. Then -she said slowly—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You wrote the 'Purity' sermon?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"M-m-m-most of it," he admitted reluctantly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You have helped him ever since?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have revised some of his work."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I thought you l-l-loved him," he stammered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Because," his infirmity gripped him, "I -c-c-c-couldn't." Her face softened, and the lines of her -figure relaxed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is my fault," she said, gazing at him through -tears; "I ought to have guessed."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"By me?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No—n-n-no."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Hate."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She recoiled at the grim word, recoiled, too, from -the expression on his face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You hated him. Then you loved—me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Always," he answered. "To me you came out of -Paradise, and brought the best part of it with you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Say it again," she whispered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I loved you—always: as child, as boy, as man."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What shall we do now?" she asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What shall we do now?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She stood before him absorbed in the love which -at last had found expression. What else the world -might hold for her was not.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So standing, delicately flushed, but with eyes -which neither faltered nor fell beneath his, the -daughter of Louise de Courcy awaited Mark's -answer.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are my brother's wife," he said slowly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Betty shrugged her shoulders. The gesture, -almost piteous in its shrinking protest, moved Mark -more than any words she had spoken.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If—if I asked you, you would come away with me?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She nodded, meeting his passionate glance, facing, -as he did, the issues involved. Her hands moved -towards him—timidly, but with unmistakable -invitation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Betty," he cried, "Betty!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah! you want me. You do want me—you do, you do!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She laughed derisively.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I will take anything you like, so long as you take me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He caught her to him, closing her mouth with kisses.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="charing-cross"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XXXIV</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">CHARING CROSS</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What have I done?" she faltered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, nothing," he answered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You were staring at me so queerly," she -answered. "The business which takes you away is -pleasant, isn't it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He smiled reassuringly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Connected with your work, I suppose?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her curiosity was natural. He always spoke of -his work to her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have nothing to tell yet," he said confusedly, -"but I may write; you shall hear from me; I shall -be frank—with you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He fell into a reverie, as she left the shelter. In -a minute she returned.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There is a gentleman to see you, Mr. Samphire. -Shall I bring him here?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She handed him a card. A cry escaped Mark's lips.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"David!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Please ask his lordship to come here," he said, -frowning.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why has he come?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mark," he exclaimed, "I am glad to see you. -Thank God, you're well."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I must go to town too," replied David. "You -look a different man, Mark."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am a different man."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Have you another novel on the stocks?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>David jumped up, eager, vigorous, impetuous.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have come a long way out of my road to ask -you a question."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ask it," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"When are you coming back to us?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Can God only be served in cassock and surplice?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Go on."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The work God intended you to do is being left -undone," said David. "Why?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If we are to remain friends, David, you had -better not press this question."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If we are to remain friends, I must. You have -resigned a stupendous responsibility—why?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Shall we say—incapacity to administer it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Give me the true reason."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Can't you divine it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You have divined that?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have heard nothing."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"On your oath?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Certainly—if you wish it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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? </span><em class="italics">Impossible</em><span>!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark laughed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Incredible then," Ross interrupted.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Ross saw that he was trembling violently.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If you had written to her——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Fairly."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No. Not fairly."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Briefly, but in vehement words, Mark told the -story of the sermons, concluding with Betty's -discovery of the truth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Ross took the outstretched hands.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My poor Mark," he murmured.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Ross met his eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"In a word," said he, "you refuse to protect the -woman you love against herself?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Once, I should have used that very phrase. -What an ocean flows between us, David!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark smiled derisively.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"So be it," said David.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are not going to Archibald," he said hoarsely.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>David's face was twitching with emotion, but his -voice was firm and even.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>When Mark looked up the speaker was gone.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was impossible to ignore the coincidence of -David's visits. Twice David had sought him out, -when he was in sore straits.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At whose bidding?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At whose bidding had David Ross been sent?</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Thank ye, sir. 'Oliday times, sir."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She must come," said Mark harshly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>As if in derisive answer, the locomotive of the -train about to start whistled. Doors banged. The -long line of carriages began to move.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'Ere she is," said the porter phlegmatically.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's gone," she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," said Mark grimly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He turned from her to meet the inquisitive stare -of a messenger boy. The boy stared unblinking, -and then said, "You're Mr. Samphire?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm to give you this."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Put my things into a hansom," he said in a dull -voice.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, sir," said the porter.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The boy took one more look at Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That was a knock-out," he murmured to himself, -"a knock-out—sure!"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="chrysostom-returns-to-chelsea"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XXXV</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">CHRYSOSTOM RETURNS TO CHELSEA</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," said Betty; "it makes me laugh."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If my baby had lived——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She put the baby out of her thoughts. If it had -lived, she and the child might have remained inside -iron palings.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her thoughts turned from herself to Mark. -Immediately the smile faded from her face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We shall be the happiest pair in the world."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The text met her eyes. </span><em class="italics">Blessed are the pure in -heart, for they shall see God</em><span>.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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....</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Betty picked up the MS., locked the door, fell on -her knees, and read the sermon through.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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:—</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="smaller">"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 -</span><em class="italics smaller">know</em><span class="smaller">, 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span class="smaller">"As soon as this is sent off I shall go to a friend's till -Archibald returns. I must tell him the truth."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am glad you know," he said simply.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His voice, his face, his fine massive figure -expressed relief. She repeated his words:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are glad that I know?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why couldn't you tell me?" she asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Because the right moment for doing so slipped by me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You married me under false pretences."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Eh?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You wooed me with Mark's words."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Wooed you with—Mark's—words? I can't -follow you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Paul and Virginia!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, yes, Paul and Virginia."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We all knew that. At one time I thought you -would marry Mark."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, so did I."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She met his eyes fiercely.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You swear that?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have done you an injustice," Betty faltered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That is impossible," said Betty.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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—</span><em class="italics">you</em><span> have done this thing?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I might have done it," she answered gently.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He broke down.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have lost my brother and my wife," he groaned. -"my brother and my wife."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What are you going to do?" he asked presently.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That is for you to say. If you choose to put me -from you——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He interrupted her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You would go to him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mark is dead," she repeated sombrely.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="fenella"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XXXVI</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">FENELLA</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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: </span><em class="italics">toute l'amertume et tout le déboire de mille -événements fâcheux</em><span>.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>However, Compensation ordained that his </span><em class="italics">Songs -of the Angels</em><span> 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. </span><em class="italics">A Soul Errant</em><span> appeared, and was -pronounced by reviewers an admirable piece of work, -but its sales were limited to a few thousand copies.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>On his return to England he moved from Weybridge -to Hampstead, where another shelter was built -in a small garden overlooking the Heath.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I must write this play," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This second play, </span><em class="italics">Fenella</em><span>, 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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark saw Betty in her pew without being seen by -her. She looked pale and thin, but not unhappy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">Fenella</em><span> obsessed -him. He told Jim that he was glad the comedy had -not been produced, because </span><em class="italics">Fenella</em><span> was stronger -and better written. Tommy growled out protests -and warnings: "</span><em class="italics">Fenella</em><span>, whose acquaintance I'm -anxious to make, may prove an ungrateful hussy. -For Heaven's sake don't pin your hopes to her -petticoat!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>When the fourth act was nearly finished, Sybil -Perowne appeared in a new play, an adaptation -of a French drama, which had enjoyed a </span><em class="italics">succès fou</em><span> 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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">Fenella</em><span> is sadder than this."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Um!" said Tommy. "Sorry to hear that, my boy."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But when the tragedy was read aloud, Greatorex -professed himself amazed. He jumped up excitedly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I believe you've found yourself, 'pon my soul! -And Sybil is mad keen for a new play. Hullo! -Phew-w-w!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark had fainted.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">Fenella</em><span> 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She is magnificent," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Gonzales was Mrs. Perowne's manager. Mark -frowned when his name was mentioned. He had -heard of Gonzales.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I c-c-can't r-r-read it," stammered Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tommy hit his desk so hard with his fist that the -ink bespattered it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He was examining a bit of enamel when Mrs. Perowne -came in, holding out both hands.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You want to tell me about a play?" she said, -with a low laugh.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How did you d-d-divine that?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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? </span><em class="italics">À propos</em><span>—are -you the famous Mr. Samphire's brother?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Unconsciously Mark winced.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," he said shortly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tell me about your play."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes—fetch it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The first act is capital. When will you come -and read the others?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"At any hour you choose—day or night."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"To-morrow at twelve then. You must stay to -luncheon afterwards."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="poppy-and-mandragora"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XXXVII</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">POPPY AND MANDRAGORA</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mark," he said, dropping the end of his cigarette, -"you are desperately keen on this?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He meant his words to be taken as affirmation or -interrogation, according to Mark's mood. He never -invited confidences withheld.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," Mark replied.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Which it is——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And if once I could hold it in my hand, if I could -say to myself, I have it—it is mine—why then——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He paused.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You care so much for fame—you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't set your heart on this play being produced!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I </span><em class="italics">have</em><span> set my heart on that, Tommy."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If Sybil takes a fancy to you——" he paused.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark's ingenuous stare was disconcerting. He -continued lightly: "I warn you that she may like you -better than </span><em class="italics">Fenella</em><span>. It would not surprise me if she -liked you rather too well."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't be a fool," said Mark angrily.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">kimono</em><span> of some -silvery tissue embroidered in gold, with her hair -done </span><em class="italics">à la Japonaise</em><span>, 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 </span><em class="italics">kimono</em><span> and all other women whom he -had known. Mrs. Perowne smiled, reading his -thoughts.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am quite, quite different to all the others," she -said softly. "I ought to have lived in the days of -Herod Antipas."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark read his play.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am a woman of impulse," she cried. "I will -produce your play."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark stared at her, not believing his ears.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You will p-p-produce it?" he stammered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She held out her hand. Mark had an intuition -that she wished him to kiss it. He raised it -gratefully to his lips.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At luncheon she asked a score of questions about -his work and life.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Last night," she said, "I read </span><em class="italics">The Songs of the -Angels</em><span>. You have heard these songs yourself, eh? -But—do you hear them now?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She held his glance, faintly smiling at the colour -which rushed into his cheeks.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There are angels and angels," he said evasively.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Hardly," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark knew that she had challenged him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Out of the makings of a saint," he said curtly, -"the devil fashions the greatest sinner."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You believe in the devil?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark shrugged his shoulders.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The devil is 'evil' with a big D before it. I -certainly believe in evil."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I do," he said hastily; but he asked no questions.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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—</span><em class="italics">sort</em><span>. I have a sound body, of which I -take the greatest care, and a sane mind; but I was -born without a soul. </span><em class="italics">Enfin</em><span>, the conclusion is -inevitable—for me—I do not believe in the soul but -you do?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I did," he answered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">Fenella</em><span>.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You wrote the part, you say, for me; but you -have drawn </span><em class="italics">Fenella</em><span> from life."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark denied this.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I suppose the adequate mounting of it will be -costly."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Between three and four thousand pounds," said -Mrs. Perowne carelessly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You don't think——" began Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But if your lawyer——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can't afford to make an enemy of the -actor-manager who </span><em class="italics">still</em><span> 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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You feel it?" said Tommy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Eh?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Success tickling the palm of your hand?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I shall mark this day with red, of course!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If we were in the West of America," said Greatorex, -"we should paint the night as red as </span><em class="italics">la belle</em><span> -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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He's had a four-act play accepted," Greatorex -explained. "There's no more to tell yet."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">bonne</em><span>, 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">Rue de l'Ancienne Comédie</em><span>. -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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>After a whiff or two, the </span><em class="italics">Rue de l'Ancienne -Comédie</em><span> 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">Une petite surprise pour Monsieur—et Madame</em><span>."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Betty!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mark!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You never wrote," she faltered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Was it likely? How is the boy?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I expected a word of—forgiveness. The boy is -very well."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is he like you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Everybody says so."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of course," said Betty in her ordinary voice. -Pynsent dragged a canvas across the studio and -placed it on the easel.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There," said he, "what do you think of that?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"For whom are you painting it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Vauxhall," repeated Mark stupidly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The face is strange to me," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This piece of news effectively cloaked his nervousness. -Pynsent and Betty expressed their pleasure -and congratulation. Mark shook hands and escaped.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She answered his sharp "eh" and still sharper -glance with a constrained "N-n-no."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="gonzales"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XXXVIII</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">GONZALES</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 </span><em class="italics">am</em><span> glad to see -you——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Talking volubly, he insisted that Mark must lunch -with him, although Mark protested that he had no -appetite. But Jim, when he heard that </span><em class="italics">Fenella</em><span> 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He doesn't look clever," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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....</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 -</span><em class="italics">Fenella</em><span>.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Alfred Gonzales has read it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What does he say?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He finds it too serious. He says there's no -money in it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark gasped.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But Alfred is not infallible," she added. "I -mean to produce </span><em class="italics">Fenella</em><span>. It may be wise to throw -it first to the dog." This meant a first performance -in the provinces. Mark burst into excited speech.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sit down," she said, smiling. "Why, what a -boy you are. I-I like boys."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He sat down, trembling, wiping the perspiration -from his forehead.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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—</span><em class="italics">hein</em><span>?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The foreign word of interrogation had a soothing -sound. Mark placed himself in her hands -unreservedly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I trust you," he said simply.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He saw her into her brougham.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Gonzales showed his teeth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 -</span><em class="italics">Fenella</em><span>, 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. </span><em class="italics">Entre nous</em><span>, these confections will cost us -nothing, not a </span><em class="italics">sou</em><span>. 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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark curtly stated the object of his visit. Gonzales -shrugged his shoulders.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The contract? Is it not early to talk of that?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="at-the-miraflores"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XXXIX</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">AT THE MIRAFLORES</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I loathe cruelty," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Gonzales is cruel," she replied irrelevantly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But you like him?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I hate him—sometimes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He divined in her a desire to talk about Gonzales.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I hate him always," said Mark. "I don't -want to hear his name mentioned. I know he is a -beast."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Would you like me to dismiss him?" she asked -softly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He stared at her in astonishment.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Could you? I understood that he was -in—indispensable, as actor and manager."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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, </span><em class="italics">yet</em><span>, has proved himself indispensable, -but——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I must go," he said abruptly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But you will come to-morrow?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">Fenella</em><span> 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why do you look at me like that?" she asked -in a tone absolutely free from sentiment.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am trying to find the real Sybil."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sybils are mysteries," she said lightly. "Besides -you come here to talk about the play—</span><em class="italics">hein</em><span>? not -about me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I come here to talk about the play," he answered -slowly, "but I go away to think about you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And the thoughts are not always pleasant ones?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not always."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are truthful."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Am I?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Most men are such liars. Gonzales, for example—ah, -well, we won't talk of him. But the others—oh, -the humbugs!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"This is caricature," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Studies from life."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm glad I don't know those—gentlemen."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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...."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark repeated some of her phrases to Tommy Greatorex.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark was scarlet.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I say—you're not interested, are you? She's a -wrong 'un. I warned you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She has good in her."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Greatorex laughed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She has been very kind to me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am going to ask Mrs. Perowne to marry me," -Mark replied slowly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Phew-w-w!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">marmite</em><span> -was swallowed did Greatorex give his perplexity -words. Then he said abruptly—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You painted Mrs. Perowne?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You bet I did—inside and out."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Did she make love to you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"N-n-no," Pynsent replied, not quite readily.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why not be frank? I can hold my tongue."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She has captivated and is captivated by Mark -Samphire. He is going to marry her."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mark—Mark!" Pynsent kept repeating stupidly. -"It is incredible. Mark Samphire—and Sybil -Perowne!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She has never denied herself anything."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She'll suck every ounce of good blood from his -body. It would be kindness to knock him on the -head."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It would be pleasure to knock her on the head," -said Tommy gloomily.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Or with the right one," said Greatorex, frowning.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Aren't you fellows making a mountain of a -molehill?" he asked. "And, besides, what can old -Mark offer Sybil Perowne?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A new sensation," said Tommy grimly. His -face impressed Corrance. Pynsent nodded gloomily.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There's David Ross," said Jim.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The Bishop of Poplar?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"At one time Mark and he were hand-in-glove. -He used to be a wonder-worker."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, he is still," said Greatorex. "I thought -we should get something out of you, Corrance."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But a parson——" began Pynsent doubtfully.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That is what I say," Pynsent added.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We may as well admit, Jim, that we're -cold-blooded, you and I——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"For the sake of argument—yes. Go on!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You had better have another whisky and potass."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Thanks. I will."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Shut up, you miserable materialist!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can't afford to be anything else—nor can -Mark, poor devil!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I beg your pardon," said Pynsent hurriedly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's old Harry," said Corrance to the painter. -"He runs this place. Hullo, Harry, how are you? -Big house to-night."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Big house every night," said Harry complacently. -"You know that, Mr. Corrance. It's prime—prime. -I never get tired of watching it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He rubbed his plump white hands together, -beaming like an aged cherub.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Holy Moses!" exclaimed Pynsent. "You -never get tired of watching—this?" He indicated -the promenade in a derisive gesture.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's meat and drink, old chap, isn't it?" said -Corrance.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've got just where I wanted to be," Harry said -solemnly. "The boys call me king of the music-halls."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We're saprophytes," burst out Pynsent.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't know what that means," said Jim, "but -it sounds something nasty."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="come"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XL</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">"COME!"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"All I can get and all I can't get."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I shall have to send you a cheque," Jim growled. -"I tell everybody you're the dearest friend I've got. -Good-bye."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm going fishing," he said, "and, confound it! -I've no bait."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You went to Betty," he said fiercely.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She failed me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes; she failed you, thank God."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What brings you here?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You know perfectly well."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But this is intolerable, this interference! Will -you understand, Ross, that I insist upon your -leaving me alone?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That is impossible, Mark. Why, I want you to -come and stay with me for a month."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I wonder they ordained you a bishop," said -Mark. "I thought they made a point of choosing -men of—tact."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've any amount of tact," said David cheerfully. -"Mark, you're a madman, and in your soul you -know it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tommy Greatorex sent you on this fool's errand?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes; Greatorex and Jim and Pynsent. Your -friends love you well, Mark. Have you no love -for them?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He moved towards the door.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"David!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can't let you go like that," said Mark. "For -all you have done and would do, I—thank you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">unreal</em><span>, a phantom -of the past, flitting from him into impenetrable -shades.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 -</span><em class="italics">Globe</em><span> 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—</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="smaller">"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."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Next day the </span><em class="italics">Times</em><span> 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. -</span><em class="italics">And so forth</em><span>....</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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:—</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="smaller">"Our readers will learn with deep sympathy and regret -that the health of the future </span><em class="italics smaller">châtelaine</em><span class="smaller"> of Parham Castle -is causing her husband and many friends grave anxiety."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>An hour later Dibdin's answer came—</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span>"Very ill indeed. Typhoid."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">malaise</em><span> 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Lady Randolph is upstairs, and master is in the -library," said Dibdin. "Won't you see him, Mr. Mark?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark hesitated.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," he said nervously, "I will. Show me in, Dibdin."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Archibald, who was writing at his desk, rose to -receive him. As the door closed behind Dibdin, -the eyes of the brothers met.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If she asks for me, you will send?" said Mark, -moving a step nearer.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Go," Archibald replied, trembling and turning -aside his eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not till I have your promise. She may not ask, -but if she does, by Heaven! you must, you shall -send. Swear it!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Go, go!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But Mark advanced, omnipotent by virtue of the -passion within him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Swear it!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I swear it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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. -</span><em class="italics">Fenella</em><span>, 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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>We are told that Chinese malefactors condemned -to die by the abominable torment of </span><em class="italics">Ling</em><span>—the death -from a thousand cuts—only suffer up to a certain -point. Then insensibility dulls the knives of the -executioners.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Jim was asking himself the question: "Will -Mark cease to feel?" when a telegram from -Archibald reached Hampstead, containing one word, -"</span><em class="italics">Come</em><span>."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="the-power-behind-the-throne"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XLI</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">THE POWER BEHIND THE THRONE</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Lady Randolph was awaiting Mark in the -pretty drawing-room overlooking the river.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Archibald has his son," Mark said hoarsely.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mark followed her upstairs.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mark, Mark, Archie has forgiven you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And he has been so good to me, so—good," she -faltered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Again he kissed her fingers.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I shall not leave you, dear, dear Betty."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah, but I must leave you. And I'm afraid."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If I could go too——Shall I? Would it make -it easier?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The life raging in him communicated itself to her. -A faint colour flowed into her cheeks, her eyes -sparkled.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You would do that?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Gladly."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The words dropped one by one from her pallid -lips, slowly, faintly, yet with indescribable emphasis.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You must—wait," she whispered. "Promise -me that you will wait. Quick!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Betty whispered: "You know now why I couldn't come."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is getting very dark," said Betty.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," he replied.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Suddenly the finger stopped.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>As suddenly, something seemed to break in Mark's -heart.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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....</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Outside the nurse and Lady Randolph waited, -listening. In the library below sat Archibald -Samphire and David Ross. Presently Lady Randolph -went downstairs.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The doors are locked," she faltered. "And -there isn't a sound. I fear—I fear——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The others understood instantly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, my God—not that!" exclaimed Archibald.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We must break in," he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's it, Betty—capital! Pop it over his head! -Good! Ha—ha! old Archie, that did you. I say, -I am thirsty...."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He imagined that he was at Pitt Hall playing -lawn tennis.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why have you stayed away so long?" he asked. -"You're not going to leave me, old chap?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, no," stammered Archibald.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I say, it is jolly seeing you again."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He stretched out his lean, shrunken hand, which -Archibald took. Presently Mark's vagabond wits -wandered to Lord's Cricket Ground.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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—</span><em class="italics">well played</em><span>!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The tears fell down Archibald's cheeks.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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, </span><em class="italics">this</em><span>—— It must be a comfort -to you...."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He will not die," he said, with conviction, albeit -the two doctors in attendance held the contrary -opinion.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Have I been ill?" he asked gravely.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She rose at once, bent over him, touched his hand, -and murmured: "Very ill. Brain fever. Keep -quiet."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But Bagshot killed his wife," said Mark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>David changed the subject. When he said good-bye, -Mark said curtly: "I've been a beast to you, -Davie. Is it all right?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You were never easy for a moment," she -concluded, "unless your brother was with you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And he——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It gave him real comfort to wait on you, poor -gentleman!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Thank you," said Mark. "Good night, nurse!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you see much change?" he asked the nurse.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I hardly recognise you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Others will r-recognise me," he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mark!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He stood upon the threshold, staring. Mark smiled.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>A year later Pynsent wrote to Jim Corrance from -Parham Castle.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="smaller">"Parham has gained far more than Literature has lost. -Here, Mark is the power behind the throne. </span><em class="italics smaller">À propos</em><span class="smaller">, -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. </span><em class="italics smaller">The man looks years older</em><span class="smaller">. 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."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Jim showed this letter to his mother.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"All the same," he remarked; "Mark ought to -have married Betty. I am sure of that."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span>THE END</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="small">PLYMOUTH -<br />WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON -<br />PRINTERS</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 6em"> -</div> -<!-- -*- encoding: utf-8 -*- --> -<div class="backmatter"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst" id="pg-end-line"><span>*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK </span><span>BROTHERS</span><span> ***</span></p> -<div class="cleardoublepage"> -</div> -<div class="language-en level-2 pgfooter section" id="a-word-from-project-gutenberg" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> -<span id="pg-footer"></span><h2 class="level-2 pfirst section-title title"><span>A Word from Project Gutenberg</span></h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span>We will update this book if we find any errors.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This book can be found under: </span><a class="reference external" href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/47047"><span>http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/47047</span></a></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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™ -electronic works to protect the Project Gutenberg™ concept and -trademark. 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