CHAPTER XXIVA RED TIEArchibald had ordered a coupé to be ready for him at Westchester, but when the Bournemouth express dashed up, the stationmaster was obliged to confess that a blunder had taken place; no coupé was on the train. A first-class carriage was found, in which two seats were already occupied."Somebody ought to be censured for this," said the bridegroom, as the train slid out of the station. "It's inexcusable carelessness. I shall write to the directors about it.""Pray don't," said Betty. "The matter's not worth a penny stamp.""We shall find a coupé at Victoria," he whispered, bending forward. They wereen routefor France, having agreed to spend their honeymoon in Touraine. Betty glanced at the elderly couple, whose curiosity had been quickened. Archibald drew back with a slight frown. "I shall write from Dover," he said. "I regard it as a duty."Betty pouted, surprised that he should treat her injunction so cavalierly. Men, she reflected, were men, and must be humoured. After all, her husband's annoyance was a compliment to her. She blushed as she lay back against the cushions, shutting her eyes. Herhusband! She repeated the word very softly, the colour ebbing and flowing in her cheeks, as she gave herself up to the thought of him. Archibald said nothing; that was tactful. He had plenty of tact—a great gift—and most agreeable manners. Suddenly she realised that she was making an inventory of his good qualities, repeating them to herself like a parrot. She sat up, opening her eyes, opening them indeed wider than usual when she saw what had happened. Archibald had risen early; he had spent a busy and exciting morning; he had made an excellent breakfast, although, being a total abstainer, he had refused the Pomméry and Waterloo brandy. Now, not being able to talk to his bride in the presence of strangers, seeing that she wanted to rest and reflect, he had settled himself comfortably into his corner and—had fallen asleep!Betty eyed him furtively. She did not like to wake him, but his appearance distressed her. She bent forward and touched his arm."Dear me," he said. "I saw you close your eyes, Betty, and I closed mine. You did right to wake me.""I couldn't help it," she replied. "Your hat had fallen over your left eye. It made you look—ridiculous."They spoke in whispers, leaning forward, so that their heads almost touched. But at the word "ridiculous" the bridegroom winced.Betty had pierced a sensitive skin. Seeing this, she tried to turn the incident into a joke, laughing lightly, sorry that she should have hurt him, yet still seeing the hat tilted over the left eye.At Victoria the coupé was awaiting them. The train, however, had only just backed into the station and would not leave for a quarter of an hour. Archibald and Betty arranged their belongings, and proceeded to walk up and down the platform. A great station was a never-failing source of interest to Betty. The infinite variety of faces, the bustle, the pervading air of change and motion, even the raucous, ear-splitting sounds, stimulated her imagination. Nothing amused her more than to invent stories concerning fellow-travellers. She brought to this an ingenuity and an insight which had often delighted Lady Randolph. Now, as usual, her eye drifted here and there in search of some attractive lay figure. As a rule she selected someone out of the ordinary groove. The flare of an eye, the twist of a moustache, a peculiarity in figure or gait instantly aroused her interest. Passing the bookstall, she saw a man in an Inverness cape made out of Harris tweed. Because he had the appearance of coming straight from Scotland, she examined him more closely. At the moment he turned, and their eyes met. The stranger was very brown of complexion and wore a beard, but the eyes, blue eyes with sparkling pin-points of frosty light, were Mark's eyes."That's Mark!" said Betty excitedly, clutching her husband's arm. "Look—look!"Archibald looked and laughed."You have an amazing imagination, my dearest Mark? That man in homespun, and a red tie! He's twice Mark's size, and he wears a beard. I noticed him just now. Mark? Why Mark's in Sutherland.""I was mistaken," said Betty absently. She walked on quite sure that the man's eyes were following her. She was sure of it, although her back was turned to him. A minute before Archibald had asked her if she would like a tea-basket. The refreshment-room was just opposite. An impulse seized her."I think I should like a tea-basket," she said, pausing. "Will you get one? I'll go back to the carriage."Archibald obeyed, unsuspecting. Betty turned and ran to the bookstall. The man was no longer there. She looked right and left. That was he—disappearing, melting into the crowd outside. Without a moment's hesitation she hastened after him, came up behind, plucked at his cape. He turned at once. It was Mark."You?" she gasped. "You—here?"Her eyes, wide open, glaring interrogation, fell before his. He took her hand, grasping it firmly."I can explain. I heard of your plans from Mrs. Samphire. I knew that you were leaving by this train. I came on the off chance of getting a glimpse of you.""You are well,strong!"She raised her eyes, devouring him. He could see that people in the crowd were nudging each other, grinning and pointing. He drew her aside."Yes; I am strong." As he said it, he realised that he would need all his strength. What a mad fool he had been to come, to risk so much. "Look here," he said harshly, "you must go back to Archie. Tell him—tell him that I couldn't come to his wedding, because, b-b-because I've left the Church. I wasn't going to set every tongue wagging in Slowshire. Do you see? Do you understand? Now—go—run!"He almost pushed her from him. Her eyes never left his face."Can't you see me to my carriage?"This, the obvious thing, had not occurred to him. He walked beside her. As they passed into the station, Archibald appeared on the platform, followed by a boy carrying a tea-basket."ItisMark," said Betty, as her husband joined them. They walked towards the carriage, the most amazing trio in that vast station. Mark repeated his reasons for not taking part in the wedding. Archibald looked confused."You have left our Church?"He repeated it three times."Yes; yes—we can't go into reasons here and now.""What are you going to do?""I am writing."The guard began to slam the doors. He came up to the brothers, smiling, seeing the bride, feeling in his broad palm the tip of the bridegroom."Better get in, sir," he said to Mark, who, in his Inverness cape and rough cap, looked the traveller.Archibald pushed Betty into the coupé and shook hands with Mark."You must tell us everything when we get back. It has been a great shock," he stared at the red tie; "but I'm delighted to see you looking so well."He sprang into the coupé as the train began to move. Betty pushed him aside and leaned out of the window. Mark never forgot the expression on her face framed by the small, square window. The engine was screeching lamentably, like a monster in agony. Another train was entering the station, adding its strident note to the chorus, filling the atmosphere with clouds of white steam. A third-class carriage full of soldiers glided by. The soldiers, mostly boyish recruits, were singing at the top of their voices, "Good-bye, my lover, good-bye." A girl standing near burst into hysterical sobbing. Mark noted these details, as a man notes some irrelevant trifle in a dream, which remains part of that dream for ever after. But his eyes were on Betty's face. She had been borne away by a force slow but irresistible, the relentless Machine, the symbol of progress, of Fate, if you will, which tears asunder things and men, and brings some together again, but not all, nor any just as they were before. The face was white and piteous, the face of an Andromeda. Upon it, in unmistakable lines, were inscribed regret and reproach. Mark turned sick. He had wished to save this woman; had he sacrificed her?Betty heard her husband say, "This has been very upsetting." Immediately she laughed, withdrawing her face from the window. Nothing else, probably, would have erased the tell-tale lines. She thought that her laugh was a revelation of what was passing in her mind; but Archibald took other notice of it."You laugh?" he said heavily. "I know what has happened. I am not much surprised. Mark has gone over to Rome. Really, my dear little woman, you must not laugh like that. I give you my word that I am terribly distressed. That red tie!""The scarlet woman.""Pray don't joke! This is most upsetting."She laughed again, knowing that she was on the verge of hysterics, trying to control herself. The train, rushing on out of the mists of London into the splendid May sunshine of the country, rocked violently as it crossed the points. Betty fell back upon the cushions, still laughing and repeating Archibald's words."Upsetting? I should think so."Like Mark, she was reflecting that Force was bearing her away, whirling her asunder, leaving heart and soul here, flinging her body there. The irony of it was stunning in its violence. She covered her face with her hands, pressing her finger-tips upon her temples, but she did not close her eyes, which followed Archibald's slow, methodical movements. He was arranging the baggage—her handsome travelling-bag, a wedding present from the Squire, his own massive suit-case, the parasols and umbrellas, the tea-basket. In the contracted space wherein he moved he loomed colossal. She felt herself shrinking, collapsing. In a minute, a moment, he would turn, he would take her cold hands in his, removing them gently but masterfully from the face quivering beneath. Then he would surely read and know. He had nearly finished his fiddle-faddling arrangements. He took his hat from his head, looked at it, brushed a few specks of dust from the crown and rim, and placed it carefully in the rack. Out of the pocket of an overcoat he drew a soft travelling cap, putting it on deliberately, making himself comfortable. At last he was coming towards her, the tea-basket in his hand, a smile upon his face, an endearing phrase upon his lips. Betty closed her eyes. The words of the marriage service sounded loud in her ears, rhythmic, like the roar of waves breaking on an iron-bound coast: the echo of her oath before the altar thundering down the empty corridors of the future—"From this day forward ... to love, cherish, and to obey till Death us do part!"Archibald dropped the tea-basket with a crash. His bride had fainted.CHAPTER XXVMARK HEARS A BLEATINGTwo days later Mark Samphire called upon Jim Corrance at his chambers in Bolton Street, Piccadilly. Here Jim lived when he was not making money or playing golf at Woking. He played golf regularly to keep himself fit. He also played whist and billiards. Whatever he did, work or play, was characterised by a dexterity and fertility of resource which generally ensured success.Jim's chambers were furnished comfortably but conventionally. As a matter of fact, he had told a famous firm of decorators to do the best they could for a certain sum of money. Jim added a few pictures and engravings, some books, and an impeccable manservant, Tom Wrenn. He did not look at the pictures or read the books, but he studied Wrenn, an interesting document, and mastered him. Wrenn, for his part, had nothing but praise for a gentleman who bought the best of wine and tobacco and entrusted them unreservedly to his man.When Wrenn ushered Mark into the sitting-room, he exhibited no surprise, but his master stared at his old friend as if he (Mark) had risen from the dead. Mark, bearded, brown, sinewy, larger about the chest and shoulders, confounded Jim—and he said so in his usual abrupt, jerky fashion. Then he noted the rough tweeds and the red tie. Wrenn lingered for a moment."Wrenn," said Jim, "bring some whisky and mineral waters, and the Rothschild Excepcionales!" Wrenn vanished silently. Jim seized Mark by the coat."Why, this howls for explanation. You've chucked your black livery—you?"The emphasis laid on the pronoun expressed surprise, incredulity, and amusement."Yes. I've come here to tell you all about it."Wrenn appeared with a tray and a long, shallow box of cigars. Mark, however, preferred to light his pipe. As soon as Wrenn had left the room, he plunged into his story."There was just the possibility, you understand, of recovery. Archibald came up. He wanted me to go home, and he brought a message from Betty—her love. She was stopping with your mother. That message either meant everything or nothing. I knew that it meant—everything. Now, while Archibald was with me I did a bit of work, brain work, the first since the smash. It knocked me out—knocked all my hopes to smithereens. Would you under such conditions have sent back your love to Betty?""No," said Jim; "but—well, never mind; go on——""After Archibald had left Crask I took a big turn for the better. I suppose that glorious air and the simple food and Stride's knowledge of my case worked the miracle. And then I began to hope again; and I began to work." He told Jim about the first short story and the novel, but he did not mention the Advent sermons of his brother. "Time slipped by, Jim. I was awfully keen about my work.""I'll bet you were," said Jim."You always chaffed me, because I said that in my philosophy things turned out for the best. I told myself that every incident in my life, every trial and infirmity, had meaning. Can a man write what is really vital unless he has striven and suffered and seen others striving and suffering? I say—no. God knows I longed to be a man of action. That was denied me. The desire to paint, to express what was in me on canvas, proved fruitless. Then the Church opened her doors—I saw a goal, but my stammer choked me at the start. All the same, the work in Stepney warmed me to the core. I was up to my neck in it.""And Betty?""Ah—Betty. She was out of sight, Jim, but never out of mind. A thousand times I told myself she was unattainable; that a man was a sickly anæmic ass who allowed a woman to interfere with what he had to do.""Right," said Jim. "That's gospel.""All the same, she was back of everything. Then came last Whitsuntide——"He paused. Jim continued: "I know about that. I suppose you learned, then, of this cursed mischief inside you?""I suspected something; I went to Barger and Drax. They told me marriage was madness.""Great Scott!"He was more agitated than Mark, thrusting out his chin, shaking his shoulders, clenching his fists: gestures familiar to Mark since the Harrow days and before. It struck Mark suddenly that this scene was recurrent, the ebb and flow of the heart's tide breaking on rocks. Could anything be more futile than talk: the interminable recital of what was and what might have been? His voice, as he continued, lost its tonic quality:"There is not much more to tell. Just as I began to hope that my life might still hold Betty, the news came of her engagement——"Jim looked at the red tie."And then you saw red," he spluttered, "you saw red.""When that letter came, I could—have—killed—my—brother."The two men had risen and were staring at each other with flaming eyes."I could have killed him," Mark repeated sombrely. "You know, Jim, what Archie was to me at Harrow—and long afterwards?""The greatest thing on earth," said Jim. "I used to be awfully jealous.""I loved him for his beauty," said Mark drearily, "for his strength and for his weakness. I loved him the more because in some small ways I could help him. I grudged him nothing—I swear it!—nothing,nothing, except Betty. I could have let her go to you or Harry Kirtling; but to him who had all I had not, my b-b-brother——"His stammer seized him, and he trembled violently."We'll drop it," exclaimed Jim. He had turned away from Mark's eyes, reading in them the hate which was not yet controlled. "You don't feel—er—that way towardsher?""Never, never!" His eyes softened at once; then he broke out abruptly: "What made her take him?" It was out at last. He expected no answer from his friend, but Jim said simply: "Surely you know?""It's darkest mystery.""Why, man, she told me that he dragged her out of the depths." Jim repeated what Betty had said. "You know what women are. A petticoat flutters naturally towards a parson whenever the wind blows. That did me.Icouldn't promise to personally conduct her to—Heaven. Yes, his sermons, particularly that Windsor sermon, captured her.""The Windsor sermon! You say the Windsor s-s-sermon?" Mark stuttered out."Yes, the Windsor sermon. I'm told it was wonderful. He's a bit of a prig, but he can preach, and no mistake! Why, look here! Have you seen this? Out this morning!"He took up the currentVanity Fairand 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 acordon bleuat fifty-five pounds a year. Mark gazed at the cartoon and then laid it, face downwards, on the table."The thing's wonderful," he said slowly, "but it will hurt Betty."Jim Corrance shrugged his shoulders. He had come to the conclusion that a touch of the animal in men was not a disability where women were concerned."I saw them at Victoria," said Mark."What?"Mark explained, blaming himself."You've given yourself away," said Jim disgustedly. "She had got it into her head that you didn't care, but the man who doesn't care would hardly travel from Sutherland to London to catch one glimpse of another fellow's bride. Lord! You have made a mess of it. And what are you going to do now? Have a drink, and tell me your plans.""I'm going to write.""Have you rewritten the novel you burnt?""No; but I'm half-way through another.""You may as well camp with me. Why not?"Mark had several reasons "why not," but he gave one which was sufficient: "I mean to eat and sleep and work out-of-doors."The two men talked together for an hour and then parted."By the way," said Jim, as Mark was taking leave, "the Squire is looking rather seedy. I fancy he's something on his mind. Are you going down to King's Charteris?"Mark shook his head impatiently, hearing a terrible bleating; but as he passed through the Green Park, on the way to his lodgings, he reflected that he would have to go to Pitt Hall sooner or later. Why not sooner? He would run down the next day. Then, he repeated to himself what Jim Corrance had said about Archibald's sermons, and their effect on Betty. Looking back now, with an odd sense of detachment, he realised how much of these sermons had been his, how little Archibald's. For this he blamed himself. His brother had asked for an inch. He had given gladly an ell. But if—the possibility insisted on obtruding itself (an unwelcome guest)—if Betty discovered the truth, what would happen?When he reached his lodging he wrote a letter to the Squire, saying that he was running down on the morrow and preparing him for a change of cloth."I no longer count myself of the Church of England" (he wrote), "but you will be doing the wise thing and the kind thing if you ask no questions."This bolt from the blue fell on to the breakfast-table. Mrs. Samphire, like Archibald, jumped to the conclusion that Mark had gone over to Rome."I knew how it would be," she said acidly, "from the very beginning. I dare say he will arrive with his head shaved and wearing a cowl. And you were saying only yesterday that he could have the King's Charteris living, now that Archie is provided for.""The boy is a good lad," said the Squire heavily. "I shall talk to him. He must take the King's Charteris living, hemust. I shall make a point of it. He can keep a curate to preach. It's the obvious way out of the wood.""Then he won't take it."She burst into detraction of the boy who was like the woman the Squire had loved. The Squire listened moodily, eating his substantial breakfast of kidneys and poached eggs and a slice from the ham of his own curing."He is not a Samphire at all," concluded the lady, as she rose from the table, leaving the Squire still eating, very red in the face where the colour was not purple, and showing a massive jowl above his neatly folded white scarf. Left alone, he cut himself another slice from the huge ham, and then reread Mark's letter, staring at it with congested eyes, and muttering: "Yes, yes—it's the obvious way out of the wood, the obvious way out of the wood. He can keep a curate who can preach. Four hundred a year, even in these times, and a capital house, a really capital house, in first-rate repair. I shall talk to him. The Madam doesn't like him—never did! But he'll listen to his old pater. It's the obvious way out of the wood."Mark arrived in time for tea. Mrs. Samphire received him in the long, narrow drawing-room; and Mark was conscious that his red tie was to her as a red rag to a bull. When she spoke, sniffs were audible; and Mark kept on telling himself that he had been a fool to come. The Squire seemed very robust. What did Jim mean? The congested eyes, the purple tinge, conveyed no meaning to a man who had never learned the meaning of health's danger-signals.After dinner father and son found themselves alone. The Squire had ordered a bottle of '47 port to be decanted, almost the last that was left in the bin. He had to drink most of it, and while he did so complained of the changes sincehisday."Archie is teetotal," he said. "Well he's playing his own game his own way, and scoring too, no doubt o' that. I dare say you forget that now he's provided so well for himself, you can step into the King's Charteris living, which in the nature of things must soon be vacant. Nearly four hundred a year—and a capital house, in first-rate repair. You can hire a curate who can preach."The words came out very fluently, for the Squire had repeated them to himself a dozen times since breakfast. As Mark made no reply, he repeated them again, adding, however, somewhat confusedly: "It's the obvious way out of the wood.""Eh?" said Mark. "What do you mean, pater?"The Squire coughed nervously. He was not clever at making explanations."Oh," he replied testily, "I take it we needn't go into that. Times are hard. The allowance I have made you and Archie has crippled me. Archie gave up his when he came into Aunt Deb's money—and in the nick of time, egad!""I can get along with a hundred a year," said Mark quietly."Rubbish, my dear lad, rubbish! But the living's a good 'un, and the house in capital repair. You would be very comfortable; and," he eyed Mark pleasantly, "and you'll be following Archie's example—hey? Marry a girl with a bit o' money! There's Kitty Bowker, and——""Pater—we won't talk of that.""We? I'm talking of it. I don't ask you to say a word, not a word. Oh, I know why you didn't come to Archie's wedding, but bless you, Betty's not the only nice girl in the world. I'll say no more. I'm glad to see you looking so fit. That slumming in the East End disgusted you—drove you into that tweed suit—hey? But it'll be quite different at King's Charteris. You can manage a day's hunting a week and a day's shooting throughout the season. Kitty Bowker looks very well outside a horse—and she likes a man who goes free at his fences as you used to do. Your letter this morning, you know, startled us a bit. The Madam thought of Rome. Nothing in that—hey?"The Squire looked hard at the decanter which indeed was quite empty."Absolutely nothing," said Mark absently."I told the Madam I'd say a word, and there it is: a capital house, in excellent repair, with——""The present incumbent still alive," said Mark."True, true—we'll say no more, not a word. Shall we go into the drawing-room?"He rose with a certain effort and moved too ponderously towards the door. For the first time Mark realised that his father must soon become an old man. A wave of affection surged through him."Pater," he said, touching the Squire's massive shoulder, "how are you feeling? Any twinges of gout or—er—anything of that sort?""I'm sound as a bell, Mark. Of course I have my worries. There are three farms on my hands, and the price of corn lower than it has been for years. I don't know what George will do after I'm gone. That is why I—um—spoke of the obvious way out of the wood. Put on a black tie to-morrow morning, my dear lad, and—er—a grey suit, to—to oblige me.""All right," said Mark. "I'm going to write, you know.""Write?" the Squire turned, as he was passing into the hall. "Write—what?""Novels, short stories, plays perhaps.""Oh, d——n it!" said the Squire ruefully.CHAPTER XXVIREADJUSTMENTAfter Mark's return from Pitt Hall, he called on Barger and Drax, who overhauled him and pronounced him a new man. Drax, in particular, took extraordinary interest in the case, refused a fee, and begged Mark to come and see him at least once a quarter."I never thought I should speak to you again," he said frankly. "It's thevis medicatrix naturæ. You went back to the simple primal life. Well—stick to it! A winter in Sutherland! Phew-w-w! Kill or cure, and no mistake. I should like to meet your friend, Doctor Stride."The question now presented itself: where should he pitch his tent? Such work as he had in mind must be finished in or near London. His half-completed novel,Shall the Strong Retain the Spoil?dealt with Londoners; the scene of it was laid in London. Finally, after some search, he found a camping-ground in a small pine wood crowning a great ridge which overlooked the Thames Valley and the Surrey heaths.He discovered this spot, which suited him exactly, by accident. Just outside Weybridge he punctured the tyre of his bicycle. While repairing it, he smelled the balsamic fragrance of some pines to his right, and Longfellow's lines came into his mind:—"Stood the groves of singling pine trees,Green in summer, white in winter,Ever sighing, ever singing."The west wind was blowing, and from the pine-tops floated a lullaby, soothing and seductive. Mark sat down, listening to this alluring song, absorbing the scents and sounds. Presently he climbed a rough fence and wandered down one of the many aisles. The carpet beneath his feet was soft as velvet pile, a carpet woven by the years out of the myriad leaves dropping unseen and unheard. Passing through the wood, he saw the Thames Valley. A silvery mist was rising out of it. On each side of the river were green meadows, bordered by poplars and willows. The tower of a church could be seen amongst a group of fine elms. This was such a spot as he had hoped to find. Regaining the high-road, he pushed his bicycle to the top of the hill and stopped opposite a pretty cottage standing in a garden gay with old-fashioned flowers. Above the gate was a sign:Board and Lodging. Mark stared for a moment at the sign, smiling, because he had expected to find it there. If the tiny wood belonged to the owner of the cottage, the matter was clinched.He left his bicycle against the palings and walked through the garden and up to the door. He had time to note that the cottage was built of brick. Some of the bricks had a vitreous surface, which caught the light and suffused a radiance over the other bricks. The general effect was ripe, mellow, rosy. The sills and casings of the lattice windows were painted white; the door was a bright apple-green, with a shining brass handle, bell, and knocker. The cottage was heavily thatched.In answer to Mark's ring and knock the door was opened by a girl, whom Mark guessed to be a daughter of the house, not a servant in any sense, save the one that she served. Mark lifted his cap."Is that wood yours?" he asked.The girl seemed amused, but she said: "Oh, yes; everything inside the paling belongs to mother.""And you have rooms to let?"The girl asked him to come in and see them, but she added doubtfully: "I don't think they'll suit you.""I haven't seen them yet," said Mark, "but I'm sure they will."The rooms included a small sitting-room and bedroom. Mark looked at them with an indifference which brought disappointment to the face of the girl."Can I speak to your mother?""She's an invalid—and in bed, to-day. If you want to talk business you must talk with me."Mark explained that he was anxious to build a shelter in the garden, at the edge of the wood. He added that unless the weather was unusually severe he should sleep, and eat, and work there. The rooms would do for a friend, who might come to see him from Saturday to Monday. He should want the simplest food, and so forth. The girl said that the carrying of meals to the shelter would be a nuisance, especially in rainy weather. Mark compromised by offering to eat indoors if the weather became wet or boisterous. A bargain was made in three minutes."When will you come?" said the girl."To-morrow. My name is Mark Samphire.""Mother's name is Dew. I am Mary Dew.""Mary Dew," repeated Mark. He had a tobacco-pouch in his hand and was filling a pipe. A pun occurred to him, execrable and therefore irresistible. "Honeydew is my constant companion," said he; "it is quite certain that we shall be friends."Mary laughed."I hope so," she said frankly. "It's dreadful waiting on people one doesn't like. Last summer we had a gentleman who——""Yes," said Mark, lighting his pipe."Who wasn't a gentleman—and I hated him."She looked serious. Her face was charming, because the texture of skin and the colouring were so admirable. For the rest she was about middle height, of trim figure, neither thin nor plump: her eyes were of a clear, intelligent grey, shaded by short black lashes which gave them distinction and vivacity. Long lashes may be a beauty in themselves, but they conceal rather than reveal the eyes behind them. Mary had brown hair, and plenty of it, simply arranged; her mouth was wide and amply provided with white, even teeth; her nose was certainly tip-tilted. Altogether a young woman at whom most men would look with pleasure.As she stood in the garden, the May sun falling full upon her, every line of face and figure suggested Spring: Spring in Arcady, fresh, joyous, radiant. Mark was artist enough to perceive the delicious half-tones, the tender shades beneath the round chin and about the finely modelled cheeks. If Pynsent saw her, he would be mad to paint her, there, in the crisp sunlight, amongst the honeysuckle, with the pines "ever sighing, ever singing" behind her.Suddenly, a thin, querulous note seemed to pierce the silence of the garden."Mary—Mary!""Mother wants me. Good-bye, Mr. Samphire."Mark held out his hand."Good-bye—till to-morrow."He turned and moved down the path. Again that thin, querulous note pierced the silence.Mary, Mary!an appeal from age to youth, ay, and a protest, a far-reaching protest, of pain against pleasure. Mark pictured the invalid mother, bedridden, possibly, dependent upon the ministrations of others, calling out of the dismal seclusion of her chamber to the young, healthy creature in the garden. He mounted his bicycle, wondering whether Mary had grown accustomed to that heart-piercing note, speculating vaguely in regard to its meaning for her and for others.Within a week the shelter was built. Stout posts upheld a roof of tongue-and-groove boards spread with a rough thatch; the floor was boarded also and covered with sailcloth, which could be washed and scrubbed like the deck of a ship. Two walls were also boarded. These were lined with shelves, which contained a miscellaneous collection of some four hundred books. The south and west sides of the shelter were open to the wind and sun, but could be closed, if necessary, by sailcloth curtains. A large table stood in the centre; a bed, serving as a sofa in daytime, occupied one corner; in another were an exerciser, a punching-ball, and some light clubs and dumbbells; chairs, a typewriter, a small stove, and a huge chest completed the furnishings.When it was finished Pynsent and Jim Corrance were invited to inspect and criticise. Pynsent brought with him a couple ofmezari, those quaint, decorative shawls worn by the women of Genoa, and draped them cleverly; Corrance brought an Indian rug. Both men were charmed with the cottage, the garden, the grove, and the view. Pynsent, as Mark had foreseen, wanted to paint Mary Dew, but every hour of the weeks between June and August was engaged. "You're a tremendous worker," said Jim."So are you, Corrance. A man must work nowadays, if he means to keep his place in the procession. The competition is frightful all along the line. I shall paint Mary Dew in the autumn. What do you call her, Mark?""Honey. Honey Dew. Do you see? A poor pun, but my own. She's sweet as honey and fresh as dew, but her mother is a terrible person."He described an interview with Mrs. Dew."Mary told me that her mother wished to see me. I found her in her own sitting-room, the prettiest and most comfortable room in the cottage. Everything deliciously fresh—chintzes, flowers, paper on the wall, matting—and in the middle Mrs. Dew: faded, peevish, puckered, old beyond her years. Picture to yourselves a puffy, yellow face with dim, shifty eyes peering out restlessly between red, swollen lids, a face framed by mouse-coloured hair and surmounting a great, shapeless body clad in black alpaca.""Good! I see her," said Pynsent."I was prepared to sympathise. She has some ailment, poor creature, a chronic dyspepsia and a grievance as chronic against destiny. One could pity her if she said and ate less. Her daughter admits that she would be a different woman if she kept on the muzzle. She calls herself a lady, and told me that she married beneath her. Dew, I fancy, was a petty tradesman. He left his widow this small property and a tiny income. Mary has a tremendous struggle to make ends meet means. She's one in ten thousand.""Um!" said Pynsent. "Don't fall in love with your Honey Dew!""Don't talk rot, Pynsent!" Mark replied sharply. Jim Corrance frowned at the painter, who realised at once that he had said somethingmal-à-propos."I shall cut a lettuce for you fellows," said Mark.As he left the shelter, Jim turned to Pynsent."You put your hoof into it," he growled."I did," said Pynsent."I say—is Mark going to take a front seat?""I don't know."Mark came back carrying a bottle of Sauterne and a nobleRomaine, which he handed to Pynsent, who was famous for his salads. Mary entered a minute later with a well-basted chicken and a great dish of peas. The trio fell to their luncheon with appetite. Mary added a tart, some excellent cheese, and the best of coffee."I've enjoyed myself immensely," said Pynsent. "You're in Arcady, Mark. You ought to write an idyll here: Aucassin and Nicolete—hey?"They moved up into the pine grove, talking about books and art. Jim Corrance listened, smoking his big cigar. Pynsent, who smoked Caporal cigarettes which he rolled himself, spoke volubly in a sharp New England twang:"People prate about giving the world what the world wants. An artist gives what's in him to give. I say that nothing else is possible, whether the world likes it or whether it doesn't. And, luckily, the world that buys pictures and books is catholic in its tastes. All the same, just at present there is a big demand for stuff which is signed. You know what I mean. The crowd clamours for individuality. I was standing in front of a picture of mine at the Academy last year, and a cleverish-looking girl said: 'That's a Pynsent. I like his work because I always know it, not because I understand it.' I nearly asked her to shake hands. It's the same with books. There's an immense quantity of well-written, interesting novels published every year, but you'll find that the few which sell are stamped on every page with the author's name. The brand does it, first and last.""I only read books that amuse me," said Jim."You're a man. Men read books sometimes, but women buy them. Let's hope that Mark's stuff will please the women. Then he will arrive."While they were talking, a young man passed through the gate and up the garden to the cottage door."Hullo! Who's this?" said Pynsent.Mary answered the question by coming out of the house in a becoming frock and hat and joining the young man. Together they strolled down the path. The three men stared at each other. It had not occurred to any of them that Mary might have a young man. And this particular one seemed to be the typical young man, always seen of a Sunday arm-in-arm with a pretty girl: commonplace, smug, self-assured. While they looked Mrs. Dew's thin querulous voice filtered through the sunlit space of the garden—"Mary, Mary—don't be away too long!"Mary's fresh voice came from behind the palings—"Of course not, mother. I shall be back to make your tea at four.""Our Jill has her Jack," said Pynsent. "That was a becoming hat.""She made it herself," Mark observed."Then she likes her Jack. Such a girl would not prink to please a man to whom she was indifferent."Jim Corrance thrust out his big jaw. "Mary may have made that hat to please herself. If I'd her face, by gad, I'd make just such a hat and enjoy myself with a looking-glass.""So would I," said Mark.Pynsent and Jim returned to town before dinner. They promised to come again, and often, but Mark guessed that such promises were written in ink, blue and variable as a May sky. He expected to be much alone, and during the months that followed was not disappointed. From his friends at the Mission he held aloof. He knew they would ask questions, deeming it a duty to argue and reprove.Mark had written the truth to David Ross after the night on Ben Caryll. In reply, David wisely made no protest against Mark's determination to leave the Church. That he would speak in due time Mark was uncomfortably aware, and he learned—not without a feeling of relief—that his old chief was the busiest man in Poplar.May passed quickly, devoid of incident and accident. Towards the end of it, however, Mark, reading his morning paper, was horrified to learn that Bagshot, the man he had tried to reclaim, had murdered his wife in a drunken fit. He hastened to London, saw the prisoner—an abject, cowering wreck of what he had been—and listened to his dreadful story. The poor fellow had struggled hard against the craving for drink, yet in the end he had slain the woman he loved. It was heartrending—the triumph of evil over good.After seeing Bagshot, Mark reread that battered memorandum-book which he had carried through terrible slums. Once more, the appeal of the friendless and helpless stirred him profoundly. Very stealthily, like "humble Allen," he began to revisit some of his waifs; most of them had disappeared; others as wretched and forlorn occupied their place. But his ministrations—necessarily ill-sustained and intermittent—appeared ineffectual. The joyous confidence of former days had departed. The squalor seemed invincible, the forces against which he contended so vast and ungovernable that sense and sensibility revolted. Only faith could remove such mountains, and faith had forsaken Mark Samphire. None the less, he persevered.About the end of June Archibald and his wife came back from France and settled down in Cadogan Place. Archibald asked Mark to meet them in a long letter, full of a description of Chenonçeau. At the end was a postscript in Betty's handwriting: "Please come." Mark obeyed—a prey to feelings which cannot be set down. For six weeks he had seen Betty's face looking out of the window of the train, white, piteous, despairing. But when they met he was amazed to find her rosy and smiling, full of plans, in high health and spirits. Then he remembered that his own health was excellent. Archibald made him welcome, entreated his advice about the arrangement of books and engravings, begged him to hang his hat on his own peg, and alluded only vaguely to the red tie."You will come back to us," he said confidently.Betty held his hand tight at parting. "Don't slip out of our lives!" she whispered.Mark had a glimpse of the face seen from the train, and hardly knew to what he was pledging himself when he stammered: "N-n-no, n-n-no—c-c-certainly not."After this first meeting it became easy to drop in to luncheon or tea. The novel was under revision, and several passages describing certain streets and localities had to be rewritten. Mark had the artist's passion for truth, carried possibly to excess. One of his characters was a shopgirl who worked in Edgware Road. Mark spent three days in Edgware Road, notebook in hand, greedily absorbing the light and colour of the great thoroughfare. But he made a point of returning to Weybridge each night and slept, whenever it was fine, in the grove, lulled to sleep by the pines.Curiosity took him to St. Anne's in Sloane Street, when Archibald preached his first sermon. It was crowded with a fashionable congregation, some of whom came to hear the music—as fine as could be found in London outside the cathedrals; others, no doubt, were attracted by a new and eloquent preacher; the rest attended divine service in their parish church, and would have been in their places, cheered and sustained by the reflection that they were doing their duty, if the rector had had no palate to his mouth and the choir had been composed of village boys squalling free of charge to the accompaniment of a harmonium. Mark sat in the gallery, whence he could see Betty occupying a pew not far from the pulpit. He wondered what sort of sermon Archibald would preach. And he wondered also how it would affect Betty. Meantime, he examined the congregation. All these fine folk were possessed of substantial incomes. The struggle for daily bread was an experience unknown to them. The men seemed to be fathers of families for the most part, portly squires of ripe, rosy countenances, many-acred, and duly sensible of the position and station in life to which it had pleased God to call them. They put gold into the offertory bag, and could be counted upon to subscribe handsomely to parochial charities. In striking contrast were the brothers and lovers of the beautifully gowned women beside them. All, to a man, were frock-coated, patent-leather-booted, exquisitely cravatted—gilded youths, indifferent to music or sermon, worshippers in form only, because "it pleases the mater, you know," or "Dolly expects it," or "I must make myself solid with Aunt Sarah." Mark noted their well-cut, impassive features, their resigned air, and their contemptuous negligence of the responses. The women, on the other hand, displayed a certain ardour of devotion tempered by a lively interest in their neighbours' clothes. A few prayed long and fervently, giving themselves up to the emotions inspired by the lovely music and splendid ritual; the many were intermittent in their attention. It was plain that a girl just below Mark, who sang delightfully, was distracted from thoughts of heaven by the difficulty of determining whether the cape of a friend across the aisle was trimmed with sable or mere mink. But what struck Mark more forcibly than anything else was an expression common to all the faces when in repose. While the lessons were being read, men and women alike suffered their features to relax into a normal look of discontent. Mouths dropped; heavy lids veiled tired eyes; dismal lines appeared upon fair faces.When Archibald ascended the pulpit, a thrill vibrated through his congregation. Mark perceived at a glance that the Rector of St. Anne's had secured the goodwill and enthusiasm of the women. They stared at his fine head, their eyes suffused and shining, their lips slightly parted, a-quiver with anticipation."Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like his."After a moment's pause, Archibald repeated the text with a different inflection. Then, leaning forward, speaking without notes, he began his sermon. Mark noted certain mannerisms common to many preachers. Archibald hoped that his brothers and sisters in Christ would bear with him while he laid before them a few thoughts. The thoughts appealed emotionally to a congregation who had consecrated their energies and potentialities to the art of living. To such, death, especially a painful death, is horror. The preacher pictured the last hours of the righteous man, the faithful servant, conscious that his task has been accomplished in this world, and that in the next a place is awaiting him, where, under freer, fuller conditions, he may still carry on the Master's work. Then, changing his tone, Archibald portrayed the death-bed of the evil-liver—hopeless, faithless, God-forsaken!The sermon made an impression. As the congregation streamed out of church into the sunshine, Mark caught words, phrases, ejaculations which showed plainly that the new rector had at least satisfied expectation. But Mark told himself the fringe of a great subject had been touched—and no more. Archibald's manner almost suggested the detestable adjective—melodramatic. His power was that of an actor rather than an evangelist. Above and beyond Mark's recognition of this was the certainty that Betty recognised it also, albeit, possibly, not so clearly. Mark had kept his eyes on Betty's face. More than once some subtile inflection of the preacher's voice had thrilled her; but towards the end of the sermon her attention and interest had waned. Instinctively Mark groped his way to the conclusion that if Archibald had gained his wife's love and esteem by the use of another's brain, he might find it difficult to hold by the strength of his own.
CHAPTER XXIV
A RED TIE
Archibald had ordered a coupé to be ready for him at Westchester, but when the Bournemouth express dashed up, the stationmaster was obliged to confess that a blunder had taken place; no coupé was on the train. A first-class carriage was found, in which two seats were already occupied.
"Somebody ought to be censured for this," said the bridegroom, as the train slid out of the station. "It's inexcusable carelessness. I shall write to the directors about it."
"Pray don't," said Betty. "The matter's not worth a penny stamp."
"We shall find a coupé at Victoria," he whispered, bending forward. They wereen routefor France, having agreed to spend their honeymoon in Touraine. Betty glanced at the elderly couple, whose curiosity had been quickened. Archibald drew back with a slight frown. "I shall write from Dover," he said. "I regard it as a duty."
Betty pouted, surprised that he should treat her injunction so cavalierly. Men, she reflected, were men, and must be humoured. After all, her husband's annoyance was a compliment to her. She blushed as she lay back against the cushions, shutting her eyes. Herhusband! She repeated the word very softly, the colour ebbing and flowing in her cheeks, as she gave herself up to the thought of him. Archibald said nothing; that was tactful. He had plenty of tact—a great gift—and most agreeable manners. Suddenly she realised that she was making an inventory of his good qualities, repeating them to herself like a parrot. She sat up, opening her eyes, opening them indeed wider than usual when she saw what had happened. Archibald had risen early; he had spent a busy and exciting morning; he had made an excellent breakfast, although, being a total abstainer, he had refused the Pomméry and Waterloo brandy. Now, not being able to talk to his bride in the presence of strangers, seeing that she wanted to rest and reflect, he had settled himself comfortably into his corner and—had fallen asleep!
Betty eyed him furtively. She did not like to wake him, but his appearance distressed her. She bent forward and touched his arm.
"Dear me," he said. "I saw you close your eyes, Betty, and I closed mine. You did right to wake me."
"I couldn't help it," she replied. "Your hat had fallen over your left eye. It made you look—ridiculous."
They spoke in whispers, leaning forward, so that their heads almost touched. But at the word "ridiculous" the bridegroom winced.
Betty had pierced a sensitive skin. Seeing this, she tried to turn the incident into a joke, laughing lightly, sorry that she should have hurt him, yet still seeing the hat tilted over the left eye.
At Victoria the coupé was awaiting them. The train, however, had only just backed into the station and would not leave for a quarter of an hour. Archibald and Betty arranged their belongings, and proceeded to walk up and down the platform. A great station was a never-failing source of interest to Betty. The infinite variety of faces, the bustle, the pervading air of change and motion, even the raucous, ear-splitting sounds, stimulated her imagination. Nothing amused her more than to invent stories concerning fellow-travellers. She brought to this an ingenuity and an insight which had often delighted Lady Randolph. Now, as usual, her eye drifted here and there in search of some attractive lay figure. As a rule she selected someone out of the ordinary groove. The flare of an eye, the twist of a moustache, a peculiarity in figure or gait instantly aroused her interest. Passing the bookstall, she saw a man in an Inverness cape made out of Harris tweed. Because he had the appearance of coming straight from Scotland, she examined him more closely. At the moment he turned, and their eyes met. The stranger was very brown of complexion and wore a beard, but the eyes, blue eyes with sparkling pin-points of frosty light, were Mark's eyes.
"That's Mark!" said Betty excitedly, clutching her husband's arm. "Look—look!"
Archibald looked and laughed.
"You have an amazing imagination, my dearest Mark? That man in homespun, and a red tie! He's twice Mark's size, and he wears a beard. I noticed him just now. Mark? Why Mark's in Sutherland."
"I was mistaken," said Betty absently. She walked on quite sure that the man's eyes were following her. She was sure of it, although her back was turned to him. A minute before Archibald had asked her if she would like a tea-basket. The refreshment-room was just opposite. An impulse seized her.
"I think I should like a tea-basket," she said, pausing. "Will you get one? I'll go back to the carriage."
Archibald obeyed, unsuspecting. Betty turned and ran to the bookstall. The man was no longer there. She looked right and left. That was he—disappearing, melting into the crowd outside. Without a moment's hesitation she hastened after him, came up behind, plucked at his cape. He turned at once. It was Mark.
"You?" she gasped. "You—here?"
Her eyes, wide open, glaring interrogation, fell before his. He took her hand, grasping it firmly.
"I can explain. I heard of your plans from Mrs. Samphire. I knew that you were leaving by this train. I came on the off chance of getting a glimpse of you."
"You are well,strong!"
She raised her eyes, devouring him. He could see that people in the crowd were nudging each other, grinning and pointing. He drew her aside.
"Yes; I am strong." As he said it, he realised that he would need all his strength. What a mad fool he had been to come, to risk so much. "Look here," he said harshly, "you must go back to Archie. Tell him—tell him that I couldn't come to his wedding, because, b-b-because I've left the Church. I wasn't going to set every tongue wagging in Slowshire. Do you see? Do you understand? Now—go—run!"
He almost pushed her from him. Her eyes never left his face.
"Can't you see me to my carriage?"
This, the obvious thing, had not occurred to him. He walked beside her. As they passed into the station, Archibald appeared on the platform, followed by a boy carrying a tea-basket.
"ItisMark," said Betty, as her husband joined them. They walked towards the carriage, the most amazing trio in that vast station. Mark repeated his reasons for not taking part in the wedding. Archibald looked confused.
"You have left our Church?"
He repeated it three times.
"Yes; yes—we can't go into reasons here and now."
"What are you going to do?"
"I am writing."
The guard began to slam the doors. He came up to the brothers, smiling, seeing the bride, feeling in his broad palm the tip of the bridegroom.
"Better get in, sir," he said to Mark, who, in his Inverness cape and rough cap, looked the traveller.
Archibald pushed Betty into the coupé and shook hands with Mark.
"You must tell us everything when we get back. It has been a great shock," he stared at the red tie; "but I'm delighted to see you looking so well."
He sprang into the coupé as the train began to move. Betty pushed him aside and leaned out of the window. Mark never forgot the expression on her face framed by the small, square window. The engine was screeching lamentably, like a monster in agony. Another train was entering the station, adding its strident note to the chorus, filling the atmosphere with clouds of white steam. A third-class carriage full of soldiers glided by. The soldiers, mostly boyish recruits, were singing at the top of their voices, "Good-bye, my lover, good-bye." A girl standing near burst into hysterical sobbing. Mark noted these details, as a man notes some irrelevant trifle in a dream, which remains part of that dream for ever after. But his eyes were on Betty's face. She had been borne away by a force slow but irresistible, the relentless Machine, the symbol of progress, of Fate, if you will, which tears asunder things and men, and brings some together again, but not all, nor any just as they were before. The face was white and piteous, the face of an Andromeda. Upon it, in unmistakable lines, were inscribed regret and reproach. Mark turned sick. He had wished to save this woman; had he sacrificed her?
Betty heard her husband say, "This has been very upsetting." Immediately she laughed, withdrawing her face from the window. Nothing else, probably, would have erased the tell-tale lines. She thought that her laugh was a revelation of what was passing in her mind; but Archibald took other notice of it.
"You laugh?" he said heavily. "I know what has happened. I am not much surprised. Mark has gone over to Rome. Really, my dear little woman, you must not laugh like that. I give you my word that I am terribly distressed. That red tie!"
"The scarlet woman."
"Pray don't joke! This is most upsetting."
She laughed again, knowing that she was on the verge of hysterics, trying to control herself. The train, rushing on out of the mists of London into the splendid May sunshine of the country, rocked violently as it crossed the points. Betty fell back upon the cushions, still laughing and repeating Archibald's words.
"Upsetting? I should think so."
Like Mark, she was reflecting that Force was bearing her away, whirling her asunder, leaving heart and soul here, flinging her body there. The irony of it was stunning in its violence. She covered her face with her hands, pressing her finger-tips upon her temples, but she did not close her eyes, which followed Archibald's slow, methodical movements. He was arranging the baggage—her handsome travelling-bag, a wedding present from the Squire, his own massive suit-case, the parasols and umbrellas, the tea-basket. In the contracted space wherein he moved he loomed colossal. She felt herself shrinking, collapsing. In a minute, a moment, he would turn, he would take her cold hands in his, removing them gently but masterfully from the face quivering beneath. Then he would surely read and know. He had nearly finished his fiddle-faddling arrangements. He took his hat from his head, looked at it, brushed a few specks of dust from the crown and rim, and placed it carefully in the rack. Out of the pocket of an overcoat he drew a soft travelling cap, putting it on deliberately, making himself comfortable. At last he was coming towards her, the tea-basket in his hand, a smile upon his face, an endearing phrase upon his lips. Betty closed her eyes. The words of the marriage service sounded loud in her ears, rhythmic, like the roar of waves breaking on an iron-bound coast: the echo of her oath before the altar thundering down the empty corridors of the future—"From this day forward ... to love, cherish, and to obey till Death us do part!"
Archibald dropped the tea-basket with a crash. His bride had fainted.
CHAPTER XXV
MARK HEARS A BLEATING
Two days later Mark Samphire called upon Jim Corrance at his chambers in Bolton Street, Piccadilly. Here Jim lived when he was not making money or playing golf at Woking. He played golf regularly to keep himself fit. He also played whist and billiards. Whatever he did, work or play, was characterised by a dexterity and fertility of resource which generally ensured success.
Jim's chambers were furnished comfortably but conventionally. As a matter of fact, he had told a famous firm of decorators to do the best they could for a certain sum of money. Jim added a few pictures and engravings, some books, and an impeccable manservant, Tom Wrenn. He did not look at the pictures or read the books, but he studied Wrenn, an interesting document, and mastered him. Wrenn, for his part, had nothing but praise for a gentleman who bought the best of wine and tobacco and entrusted them unreservedly to his man.
When Wrenn ushered Mark into the sitting-room, he exhibited no surprise, but his master stared at his old friend as if he (Mark) had risen from the dead. Mark, bearded, brown, sinewy, larger about the chest and shoulders, confounded Jim—and he said so in his usual abrupt, jerky fashion. Then he noted the rough tweeds and the red tie. Wrenn lingered for a moment.
"Wrenn," said Jim, "bring some whisky and mineral waters, and the Rothschild Excepcionales!" Wrenn vanished silently. Jim seized Mark by the coat.
"Why, this howls for explanation. You've chucked your black livery—you?"
The emphasis laid on the pronoun expressed surprise, incredulity, and amusement.
"Yes. I've come here to tell you all about it."
Wrenn appeared with a tray and a long, shallow box of cigars. Mark, however, preferred to light his pipe. As soon as Wrenn had left the room, he plunged into his story.
"There was just the possibility, you understand, of recovery. Archibald came up. He wanted me to go home, and he brought a message from Betty—her love. She was stopping with your mother. That message either meant everything or nothing. I knew that it meant—everything. Now, while Archibald was with me I did a bit of work, brain work, the first since the smash. It knocked me out—knocked all my hopes to smithereens. Would you under such conditions have sent back your love to Betty?"
"No," said Jim; "but—well, never mind; go on——"
"After Archibald had left Crask I took a big turn for the better. I suppose that glorious air and the simple food and Stride's knowledge of my case worked the miracle. And then I began to hope again; and I began to work." He told Jim about the first short story and the novel, but he did not mention the Advent sermons of his brother. "Time slipped by, Jim. I was awfully keen about my work."
"I'll bet you were," said Jim.
"You always chaffed me, because I said that in my philosophy things turned out for the best. I told myself that every incident in my life, every trial and infirmity, had meaning. Can a man write what is really vital unless he has striven and suffered and seen others striving and suffering? I say—no. God knows I longed to be a man of action. That was denied me. The desire to paint, to express what was in me on canvas, proved fruitless. Then the Church opened her doors—I saw a goal, but my stammer choked me at the start. All the same, the work in Stepney warmed me to the core. I was up to my neck in it."
"And Betty?"
"Ah—Betty. She was out of sight, Jim, but never out of mind. A thousand times I told myself she was unattainable; that a man was a sickly anæmic ass who allowed a woman to interfere with what he had to do."
"Right," said Jim. "That's gospel."
"All the same, she was back of everything. Then came last Whitsuntide——"
He paused. Jim continued: "I know about that. I suppose you learned, then, of this cursed mischief inside you?"
"I suspected something; I went to Barger and Drax. They told me marriage was madness."
"Great Scott!"
He was more agitated than Mark, thrusting out his chin, shaking his shoulders, clenching his fists: gestures familiar to Mark since the Harrow days and before. It struck Mark suddenly that this scene was recurrent, the ebb and flow of the heart's tide breaking on rocks. Could anything be more futile than talk: the interminable recital of what was and what might have been? His voice, as he continued, lost its tonic quality:
"There is not much more to tell. Just as I began to hope that my life might still hold Betty, the news came of her engagement——"
Jim looked at the red tie.
"And then you saw red," he spluttered, "you saw red."
"When that letter came, I could—have—killed—my—brother."
The two men had risen and were staring at each other with flaming eyes.
"I could have killed him," Mark repeated sombrely. "You know, Jim, what Archie was to me at Harrow—and long afterwards?"
"The greatest thing on earth," said Jim. "I used to be awfully jealous."
"I loved him for his beauty," said Mark drearily, "for his strength and for his weakness. I loved him the more because in some small ways I could help him. I grudged him nothing—I swear it!—nothing,nothing, except Betty. I could have let her go to you or Harry Kirtling; but to him who had all I had not, my b-b-brother——"
His stammer seized him, and he trembled violently.
"We'll drop it," exclaimed Jim. He had turned away from Mark's eyes, reading in them the hate which was not yet controlled. "You don't feel—er—that way towardsher?"
"Never, never!" His eyes softened at once; then he broke out abruptly: "What made her take him?" It was out at last. He expected no answer from his friend, but Jim said simply: "Surely you know?"
"It's darkest mystery."
"Why, man, she told me that he dragged her out of the depths." Jim repeated what Betty had said. "You know what women are. A petticoat flutters naturally towards a parson whenever the wind blows. That did me.Icouldn't promise to personally conduct her to—Heaven. Yes, his sermons, particularly that Windsor sermon, captured her."
"The Windsor sermon! You say the Windsor s-s-sermon?" Mark stuttered out.
"Yes, the Windsor sermon. I'm told it was wonderful. He's a bit of a prig, but he can preach, and no mistake! Why, look here! Have you seen this? Out this morning!"
He took up the currentVanity Fairand 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 acordon bleuat fifty-five pounds a year. Mark gazed at the cartoon and then laid it, face downwards, on the table.
"The thing's wonderful," he said slowly, "but it will hurt Betty."
Jim Corrance shrugged his shoulders. He had come to the conclusion that a touch of the animal in men was not a disability where women were concerned.
"I saw them at Victoria," said Mark.
"What?"
Mark explained, blaming himself.
"You've given yourself away," said Jim disgustedly. "She had got it into her head that you didn't care, but the man who doesn't care would hardly travel from Sutherland to London to catch one glimpse of another fellow's bride. Lord! You have made a mess of it. And what are you going to do now? Have a drink, and tell me your plans."
"I'm going to write."
"Have you rewritten the novel you burnt?"
"No; but I'm half-way through another."
"You may as well camp with me. Why not?"
Mark had several reasons "why not," but he gave one which was sufficient: "I mean to eat and sleep and work out-of-doors."
The two men talked together for an hour and then parted.
"By the way," said Jim, as Mark was taking leave, "the Squire is looking rather seedy. I fancy he's something on his mind. Are you going down to King's Charteris?"
Mark shook his head impatiently, hearing a terrible bleating; but as he passed through the Green Park, on the way to his lodgings, he reflected that he would have to go to Pitt Hall sooner or later. Why not sooner? He would run down the next day. Then, he repeated to himself what Jim Corrance had said about Archibald's sermons, and their effect on Betty. Looking back now, with an odd sense of detachment, he realised how much of these sermons had been his, how little Archibald's. For this he blamed himself. His brother had asked for an inch. He had given gladly an ell. But if—the possibility insisted on obtruding itself (an unwelcome guest)—if Betty discovered the truth, what would happen?
When he reached his lodging he wrote a letter to the Squire, saying that he was running down on the morrow and preparing him for a change of cloth.
"I no longer count myself of the Church of England" (he wrote), "but you will be doing the wise thing and the kind thing if you ask no questions."
This bolt from the blue fell on to the breakfast-table. Mrs. Samphire, like Archibald, jumped to the conclusion that Mark had gone over to Rome.
"I knew how it would be," she said acidly, "from the very beginning. I dare say he will arrive with his head shaved and wearing a cowl. And you were saying only yesterday that he could have the King's Charteris living, now that Archie is provided for."
"The boy is a good lad," said the Squire heavily. "I shall talk to him. He must take the King's Charteris living, hemust. I shall make a point of it. He can keep a curate to preach. It's the obvious way out of the wood."
"Then he won't take it."
She burst into detraction of the boy who was like the woman the Squire had loved. The Squire listened moodily, eating his substantial breakfast of kidneys and poached eggs and a slice from the ham of his own curing.
"He is not a Samphire at all," concluded the lady, as she rose from the table, leaving the Squire still eating, very red in the face where the colour was not purple, and showing a massive jowl above his neatly folded white scarf. Left alone, he cut himself another slice from the huge ham, and then reread Mark's letter, staring at it with congested eyes, and muttering: "Yes, yes—it's the obvious way out of the wood, the obvious way out of the wood. He can keep a curate who can preach. Four hundred a year, even in these times, and a capital house, a really capital house, in first-rate repair. I shall talk to him. The Madam doesn't like him—never did! But he'll listen to his old pater. It's the obvious way out of the wood."
Mark arrived in time for tea. Mrs. Samphire received him in the long, narrow drawing-room; and Mark was conscious that his red tie was to her as a red rag to a bull. When she spoke, sniffs were audible; and Mark kept on telling himself that he had been a fool to come. The Squire seemed very robust. What did Jim mean? The congested eyes, the purple tinge, conveyed no meaning to a man who had never learned the meaning of health's danger-signals.
After dinner father and son found themselves alone. The Squire had ordered a bottle of '47 port to be decanted, almost the last that was left in the bin. He had to drink most of it, and while he did so complained of the changes sincehisday.
"Archie is teetotal," he said. "Well he's playing his own game his own way, and scoring too, no doubt o' that. I dare say you forget that now he's provided so well for himself, you can step into the King's Charteris living, which in the nature of things must soon be vacant. Nearly four hundred a year—and a capital house, in first-rate repair. You can hire a curate who can preach."
The words came out very fluently, for the Squire had repeated them to himself a dozen times since breakfast. As Mark made no reply, he repeated them again, adding, however, somewhat confusedly: "It's the obvious way out of the wood."
"Eh?" said Mark. "What do you mean, pater?"
The Squire coughed nervously. He was not clever at making explanations.
"Oh," he replied testily, "I take it we needn't go into that. Times are hard. The allowance I have made you and Archie has crippled me. Archie gave up his when he came into Aunt Deb's money—and in the nick of time, egad!"
"I can get along with a hundred a year," said Mark quietly.
"Rubbish, my dear lad, rubbish! But the living's a good 'un, and the house in capital repair. You would be very comfortable; and," he eyed Mark pleasantly, "and you'll be following Archie's example—hey? Marry a girl with a bit o' money! There's Kitty Bowker, and——"
"Pater—we won't talk of that."
"We? I'm talking of it. I don't ask you to say a word, not a word. Oh, I know why you didn't come to Archie's wedding, but bless you, Betty's not the only nice girl in the world. I'll say no more. I'm glad to see you looking so fit. That slumming in the East End disgusted you—drove you into that tweed suit—hey? But it'll be quite different at King's Charteris. You can manage a day's hunting a week and a day's shooting throughout the season. Kitty Bowker looks very well outside a horse—and she likes a man who goes free at his fences as you used to do. Your letter this morning, you know, startled us a bit. The Madam thought of Rome. Nothing in that—hey?"
The Squire looked hard at the decanter which indeed was quite empty.
"Absolutely nothing," said Mark absently.
"I told the Madam I'd say a word, and there it is: a capital house, in excellent repair, with——"
"The present incumbent still alive," said Mark.
"True, true—we'll say no more, not a word. Shall we go into the drawing-room?"
He rose with a certain effort and moved too ponderously towards the door. For the first time Mark realised that his father must soon become an old man. A wave of affection surged through him.
"Pater," he said, touching the Squire's massive shoulder, "how are you feeling? Any twinges of gout or—er—anything of that sort?"
"I'm sound as a bell, Mark. Of course I have my worries. There are three farms on my hands, and the price of corn lower than it has been for years. I don't know what George will do after I'm gone. That is why I—um—spoke of the obvious way out of the wood. Put on a black tie to-morrow morning, my dear lad, and—er—a grey suit, to—to oblige me."
"All right," said Mark. "I'm going to write, you know."
"Write?" the Squire turned, as he was passing into the hall. "Write—what?"
"Novels, short stories, plays perhaps."
"Oh, d——n it!" said the Squire ruefully.
CHAPTER XXVI
READJUSTMENT
After Mark's return from Pitt Hall, he called on Barger and Drax, who overhauled him and pronounced him a new man. Drax, in particular, took extraordinary interest in the case, refused a fee, and begged Mark to come and see him at least once a quarter.
"I never thought I should speak to you again," he said frankly. "It's thevis medicatrix naturæ. You went back to the simple primal life. Well—stick to it! A winter in Sutherland! Phew-w-w! Kill or cure, and no mistake. I should like to meet your friend, Doctor Stride."
The question now presented itself: where should he pitch his tent? Such work as he had in mind must be finished in or near London. His half-completed novel,Shall the Strong Retain the Spoil?dealt with Londoners; the scene of it was laid in London. Finally, after some search, he found a camping-ground in a small pine wood crowning a great ridge which overlooked the Thames Valley and the Surrey heaths.
He discovered this spot, which suited him exactly, by accident. Just outside Weybridge he punctured the tyre of his bicycle. While repairing it, he smelled the balsamic fragrance of some pines to his right, and Longfellow's lines came into his mind:—
"Stood the groves of singling pine trees,Green in summer, white in winter,Ever sighing, ever singing."
"Stood the groves of singling pine trees,Green in summer, white in winter,Ever sighing, ever singing."
"Stood the groves of singling pine trees,
Green in summer, white in winter,
Ever sighing, ever singing."
The west wind was blowing, and from the pine-tops floated a lullaby, soothing and seductive. Mark sat down, listening to this alluring song, absorbing the scents and sounds. Presently he climbed a rough fence and wandered down one of the many aisles. The carpet beneath his feet was soft as velvet pile, a carpet woven by the years out of the myriad leaves dropping unseen and unheard. Passing through the wood, he saw the Thames Valley. A silvery mist was rising out of it. On each side of the river were green meadows, bordered by poplars and willows. The tower of a church could be seen amongst a group of fine elms. This was such a spot as he had hoped to find. Regaining the high-road, he pushed his bicycle to the top of the hill and stopped opposite a pretty cottage standing in a garden gay with old-fashioned flowers. Above the gate was a sign:Board and Lodging. Mark stared for a moment at the sign, smiling, because he had expected to find it there. If the tiny wood belonged to the owner of the cottage, the matter was clinched.
He left his bicycle against the palings and walked through the garden and up to the door. He had time to note that the cottage was built of brick. Some of the bricks had a vitreous surface, which caught the light and suffused a radiance over the other bricks. The general effect was ripe, mellow, rosy. The sills and casings of the lattice windows were painted white; the door was a bright apple-green, with a shining brass handle, bell, and knocker. The cottage was heavily thatched.
In answer to Mark's ring and knock the door was opened by a girl, whom Mark guessed to be a daughter of the house, not a servant in any sense, save the one that she served. Mark lifted his cap.
"Is that wood yours?" he asked.
The girl seemed amused, but she said: "Oh, yes; everything inside the paling belongs to mother."
"And you have rooms to let?"
The girl asked him to come in and see them, but she added doubtfully: "I don't think they'll suit you."
"I haven't seen them yet," said Mark, "but I'm sure they will."
The rooms included a small sitting-room and bedroom. Mark looked at them with an indifference which brought disappointment to the face of the girl.
"Can I speak to your mother?"
"She's an invalid—and in bed, to-day. If you want to talk business you must talk with me."
Mark explained that he was anxious to build a shelter in the garden, at the edge of the wood. He added that unless the weather was unusually severe he should sleep, and eat, and work there. The rooms would do for a friend, who might come to see him from Saturday to Monday. He should want the simplest food, and so forth. The girl said that the carrying of meals to the shelter would be a nuisance, especially in rainy weather. Mark compromised by offering to eat indoors if the weather became wet or boisterous. A bargain was made in three minutes.
"When will you come?" said the girl.
"To-morrow. My name is Mark Samphire."
"Mother's name is Dew. I am Mary Dew."
"Mary Dew," repeated Mark. He had a tobacco-pouch in his hand and was filling a pipe. A pun occurred to him, execrable and therefore irresistible. "Honeydew is my constant companion," said he; "it is quite certain that we shall be friends."
Mary laughed.
"I hope so," she said frankly. "It's dreadful waiting on people one doesn't like. Last summer we had a gentleman who——"
"Yes," said Mark, lighting his pipe.
"Who wasn't a gentleman—and I hated him."
She looked serious. Her face was charming, because the texture of skin and the colouring were so admirable. For the rest she was about middle height, of trim figure, neither thin nor plump: her eyes were of a clear, intelligent grey, shaded by short black lashes which gave them distinction and vivacity. Long lashes may be a beauty in themselves, but they conceal rather than reveal the eyes behind them. Mary had brown hair, and plenty of it, simply arranged; her mouth was wide and amply provided with white, even teeth; her nose was certainly tip-tilted. Altogether a young woman at whom most men would look with pleasure.
As she stood in the garden, the May sun falling full upon her, every line of face and figure suggested Spring: Spring in Arcady, fresh, joyous, radiant. Mark was artist enough to perceive the delicious half-tones, the tender shades beneath the round chin and about the finely modelled cheeks. If Pynsent saw her, he would be mad to paint her, there, in the crisp sunlight, amongst the honeysuckle, with the pines "ever sighing, ever singing" behind her.
Suddenly, a thin, querulous note seemed to pierce the silence of the garden.
"Mary—Mary!"
"Mother wants me. Good-bye, Mr. Samphire."
Mark held out his hand.
"Good-bye—till to-morrow."
He turned and moved down the path. Again that thin, querulous note pierced the silence.Mary, Mary!an appeal from age to youth, ay, and a protest, a far-reaching protest, of pain against pleasure. Mark pictured the invalid mother, bedridden, possibly, dependent upon the ministrations of others, calling out of the dismal seclusion of her chamber to the young, healthy creature in the garden. He mounted his bicycle, wondering whether Mary had grown accustomed to that heart-piercing note, speculating vaguely in regard to its meaning for her and for others.
Within a week the shelter was built. Stout posts upheld a roof of tongue-and-groove boards spread with a rough thatch; the floor was boarded also and covered with sailcloth, which could be washed and scrubbed like the deck of a ship. Two walls were also boarded. These were lined with shelves, which contained a miscellaneous collection of some four hundred books. The south and west sides of the shelter were open to the wind and sun, but could be closed, if necessary, by sailcloth curtains. A large table stood in the centre; a bed, serving as a sofa in daytime, occupied one corner; in another were an exerciser, a punching-ball, and some light clubs and dumbbells; chairs, a typewriter, a small stove, and a huge chest completed the furnishings.
When it was finished Pynsent and Jim Corrance were invited to inspect and criticise. Pynsent brought with him a couple ofmezari, those quaint, decorative shawls worn by the women of Genoa, and draped them cleverly; Corrance brought an Indian rug. Both men were charmed with the cottage, the garden, the grove, and the view. Pynsent, as Mark had foreseen, wanted to paint Mary Dew, but every hour of the weeks between June and August was engaged. "You're a tremendous worker," said Jim.
"So are you, Corrance. A man must work nowadays, if he means to keep his place in the procession. The competition is frightful all along the line. I shall paint Mary Dew in the autumn. What do you call her, Mark?"
"Honey. Honey Dew. Do you see? A poor pun, but my own. She's sweet as honey and fresh as dew, but her mother is a terrible person."
He described an interview with Mrs. Dew.
"Mary told me that her mother wished to see me. I found her in her own sitting-room, the prettiest and most comfortable room in the cottage. Everything deliciously fresh—chintzes, flowers, paper on the wall, matting—and in the middle Mrs. Dew: faded, peevish, puckered, old beyond her years. Picture to yourselves a puffy, yellow face with dim, shifty eyes peering out restlessly between red, swollen lids, a face framed by mouse-coloured hair and surmounting a great, shapeless body clad in black alpaca."
"Good! I see her," said Pynsent.
"I was prepared to sympathise. She has some ailment, poor creature, a chronic dyspepsia and a grievance as chronic against destiny. One could pity her if she said and ate less. Her daughter admits that she would be a different woman if she kept on the muzzle. She calls herself a lady, and told me that she married beneath her. Dew, I fancy, was a petty tradesman. He left his widow this small property and a tiny income. Mary has a tremendous struggle to make ends meet means. She's one in ten thousand."
"Um!" said Pynsent. "Don't fall in love with your Honey Dew!"
"Don't talk rot, Pynsent!" Mark replied sharply. Jim Corrance frowned at the painter, who realised at once that he had said somethingmal-à-propos.
"I shall cut a lettuce for you fellows," said Mark.
As he left the shelter, Jim turned to Pynsent.
"You put your hoof into it," he growled.
"I did," said Pynsent.
"I say—is Mark going to take a front seat?"
"I don't know."
Mark came back carrying a bottle of Sauterne and a nobleRomaine, which he handed to Pynsent, who was famous for his salads. Mary entered a minute later with a well-basted chicken and a great dish of peas. The trio fell to their luncheon with appetite. Mary added a tart, some excellent cheese, and the best of coffee.
"I've enjoyed myself immensely," said Pynsent. "You're in Arcady, Mark. You ought to write an idyll here: Aucassin and Nicolete—hey?"
They moved up into the pine grove, talking about books and art. Jim Corrance listened, smoking his big cigar. Pynsent, who smoked Caporal cigarettes which he rolled himself, spoke volubly in a sharp New England twang:
"People prate about giving the world what the world wants. An artist gives what's in him to give. I say that nothing else is possible, whether the world likes it or whether it doesn't. And, luckily, the world that buys pictures and books is catholic in its tastes. All the same, just at present there is a big demand for stuff which is signed. You know what I mean. The crowd clamours for individuality. I was standing in front of a picture of mine at the Academy last year, and a cleverish-looking girl said: 'That's a Pynsent. I like his work because I always know it, not because I understand it.' I nearly asked her to shake hands. It's the same with books. There's an immense quantity of well-written, interesting novels published every year, but you'll find that the few which sell are stamped on every page with the author's name. The brand does it, first and last."
"I only read books that amuse me," said Jim.
"You're a man. Men read books sometimes, but women buy them. Let's hope that Mark's stuff will please the women. Then he will arrive."
While they were talking, a young man passed through the gate and up the garden to the cottage door.
"Hullo! Who's this?" said Pynsent.
Mary answered the question by coming out of the house in a becoming frock and hat and joining the young man. Together they strolled down the path. The three men stared at each other. It had not occurred to any of them that Mary might have a young man. And this particular one seemed to be the typical young man, always seen of a Sunday arm-in-arm with a pretty girl: commonplace, smug, self-assured. While they looked Mrs. Dew's thin querulous voice filtered through the sunlit space of the garden—
"Mary, Mary—don't be away too long!"
Mary's fresh voice came from behind the palings—
"Of course not, mother. I shall be back to make your tea at four."
"Our Jill has her Jack," said Pynsent. "That was a becoming hat."
"She made it herself," Mark observed.
"Then she likes her Jack. Such a girl would not prink to please a man to whom she was indifferent."
Jim Corrance thrust out his big jaw. "Mary may have made that hat to please herself. If I'd her face, by gad, I'd make just such a hat and enjoy myself with a looking-glass."
"So would I," said Mark.
Pynsent and Jim returned to town before dinner. They promised to come again, and often, but Mark guessed that such promises were written in ink, blue and variable as a May sky. He expected to be much alone, and during the months that followed was not disappointed. From his friends at the Mission he held aloof. He knew they would ask questions, deeming it a duty to argue and reprove.
Mark had written the truth to David Ross after the night on Ben Caryll. In reply, David wisely made no protest against Mark's determination to leave the Church. That he would speak in due time Mark was uncomfortably aware, and he learned—not without a feeling of relief—that his old chief was the busiest man in Poplar.
May passed quickly, devoid of incident and accident. Towards the end of it, however, Mark, reading his morning paper, was horrified to learn that Bagshot, the man he had tried to reclaim, had murdered his wife in a drunken fit. He hastened to London, saw the prisoner—an abject, cowering wreck of what he had been—and listened to his dreadful story. The poor fellow had struggled hard against the craving for drink, yet in the end he had slain the woman he loved. It was heartrending—the triumph of evil over good.
After seeing Bagshot, Mark reread that battered memorandum-book which he had carried through terrible slums. Once more, the appeal of the friendless and helpless stirred him profoundly. Very stealthily, like "humble Allen," he began to revisit some of his waifs; most of them had disappeared; others as wretched and forlorn occupied their place. But his ministrations—necessarily ill-sustained and intermittent—appeared ineffectual. The joyous confidence of former days had departed. The squalor seemed invincible, the forces against which he contended so vast and ungovernable that sense and sensibility revolted. Only faith could remove such mountains, and faith had forsaken Mark Samphire. None the less, he persevered.
About the end of June Archibald and his wife came back from France and settled down in Cadogan Place. Archibald asked Mark to meet them in a long letter, full of a description of Chenonçeau. At the end was a postscript in Betty's handwriting: "Please come." Mark obeyed—a prey to feelings which cannot be set down. For six weeks he had seen Betty's face looking out of the window of the train, white, piteous, despairing. But when they met he was amazed to find her rosy and smiling, full of plans, in high health and spirits. Then he remembered that his own health was excellent. Archibald made him welcome, entreated his advice about the arrangement of books and engravings, begged him to hang his hat on his own peg, and alluded only vaguely to the red tie.
"You will come back to us," he said confidently.
Betty held his hand tight at parting. "Don't slip out of our lives!" she whispered.
Mark had a glimpse of the face seen from the train, and hardly knew to what he was pledging himself when he stammered: "N-n-no, n-n-no—c-c-certainly not."
After this first meeting it became easy to drop in to luncheon or tea. The novel was under revision, and several passages describing certain streets and localities had to be rewritten. Mark had the artist's passion for truth, carried possibly to excess. One of his characters was a shopgirl who worked in Edgware Road. Mark spent three days in Edgware Road, notebook in hand, greedily absorbing the light and colour of the great thoroughfare. But he made a point of returning to Weybridge each night and slept, whenever it was fine, in the grove, lulled to sleep by the pines.
Curiosity took him to St. Anne's in Sloane Street, when Archibald preached his first sermon. It was crowded with a fashionable congregation, some of whom came to hear the music—as fine as could be found in London outside the cathedrals; others, no doubt, were attracted by a new and eloquent preacher; the rest attended divine service in their parish church, and would have been in their places, cheered and sustained by the reflection that they were doing their duty, if the rector had had no palate to his mouth and the choir had been composed of village boys squalling free of charge to the accompaniment of a harmonium. Mark sat in the gallery, whence he could see Betty occupying a pew not far from the pulpit. He wondered what sort of sermon Archibald would preach. And he wondered also how it would affect Betty. Meantime, he examined the congregation. All these fine folk were possessed of substantial incomes. The struggle for daily bread was an experience unknown to them. The men seemed to be fathers of families for the most part, portly squires of ripe, rosy countenances, many-acred, and duly sensible of the position and station in life to which it had pleased God to call them. They put gold into the offertory bag, and could be counted upon to subscribe handsomely to parochial charities. In striking contrast were the brothers and lovers of the beautifully gowned women beside them. All, to a man, were frock-coated, patent-leather-booted, exquisitely cravatted—gilded youths, indifferent to music or sermon, worshippers in form only, because "it pleases the mater, you know," or "Dolly expects it," or "I must make myself solid with Aunt Sarah." Mark noted their well-cut, impassive features, their resigned air, and their contemptuous negligence of the responses. The women, on the other hand, displayed a certain ardour of devotion tempered by a lively interest in their neighbours' clothes. A few prayed long and fervently, giving themselves up to the emotions inspired by the lovely music and splendid ritual; the many were intermittent in their attention. It was plain that a girl just below Mark, who sang delightfully, was distracted from thoughts of heaven by the difficulty of determining whether the cape of a friend across the aisle was trimmed with sable or mere mink. But what struck Mark more forcibly than anything else was an expression common to all the faces when in repose. While the lessons were being read, men and women alike suffered their features to relax into a normal look of discontent. Mouths dropped; heavy lids veiled tired eyes; dismal lines appeared upon fair faces.
When Archibald ascended the pulpit, a thrill vibrated through his congregation. Mark perceived at a glance that the Rector of St. Anne's had secured the goodwill and enthusiasm of the women. They stared at his fine head, their eyes suffused and shining, their lips slightly parted, a-quiver with anticipation.
"Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like his."
After a moment's pause, Archibald repeated the text with a different inflection. Then, leaning forward, speaking without notes, he began his sermon. Mark noted certain mannerisms common to many preachers. Archibald hoped that his brothers and sisters in Christ would bear with him while he laid before them a few thoughts. The thoughts appealed emotionally to a congregation who had consecrated their energies and potentialities to the art of living. To such, death, especially a painful death, is horror. The preacher pictured the last hours of the righteous man, the faithful servant, conscious that his task has been accomplished in this world, and that in the next a place is awaiting him, where, under freer, fuller conditions, he may still carry on the Master's work. Then, changing his tone, Archibald portrayed the death-bed of the evil-liver—hopeless, faithless, God-forsaken!
The sermon made an impression. As the congregation streamed out of church into the sunshine, Mark caught words, phrases, ejaculations which showed plainly that the new rector had at least satisfied expectation. But Mark told himself the fringe of a great subject had been touched—and no more. Archibald's manner almost suggested the detestable adjective—melodramatic. His power was that of an actor rather than an evangelist. Above and beyond Mark's recognition of this was the certainty that Betty recognised it also, albeit, possibly, not so clearly. Mark had kept his eyes on Betty's face. More than once some subtile inflection of the preacher's voice had thrilled her; but towards the end of the sermon her attention and interest had waned. Instinctively Mark groped his way to the conclusion that if Archibald had gained his wife's love and esteem by the use of another's brain, he might find it difficult to hold by the strength of his own.