CHAPTER XXVIIIN GRUB STREETMark's short story had been duly printed and published in Conquest's magazine. About the time of its appearance (midsummer) Mark called on Conquest, and the acquaintance then made ripened into a sort of intimacy. Conquest, quick to perceive that Mark had "stuff" in him, and learning that Mark was writing a novel, expressed a wish to read it in typescript."I advised you, you remember, to write a novel and burn it.""I have done so," said Mark quietly.A big, burly man, with a rugged, leonine head, Conquest liked to be told he resembled Landor. With this robust physique went a singularly feminine apprehension and appreciation of details. The enormous amount of work he could accomplish, his grasp of technicalities, his knowledge, amounting to intuition, of what the public wanted, his power of attracting and dominating young men of talent, and, above all, his encyclopædic memory, made him invaluable to the firm who employed him.Mark submitted his novel. Conquest read it, and sent for the author. Mark found him in the editorial chair, surrounded by books, papers, manuscripts, press-clippings innumerable—a chaos out of which the master alone could evoke order. In the room beyond, two type-writing machines were clicking savagely. Here Conquest's "sub," a secretary, and half a dozen myrmidons were hard at work. The "sub" and his assistants looked pale and thin; Conquest alone seemed to thrive and expand in an atmosphere impregnated with the odour of tobacco-smoke, damp paper, and printers' ink."Sit down! And listen to the words of the ancient! This is the place where I do the talking. When I stop, you must go.Shall the Strong retain the Spoil?is d——d good and—don't look so pleased!—d——d bad. There's hope for you. We'll publish if you like to pay half the printer's bill. Mind you, the book has but a ghost's chance of catching on; but I don't want it altered. You'd cut out the best stuff and leave the trash.Ired-pencilled your short story, but I can't afford the time to prune this—and you wouldn't like it. Leave it here, and I'll send you our regular agreement to look over and sign. You are under no obligations, remember, to publish with us. Good morning. Dine with me next Tuesday. Eight sharp!"Mark found himself walking down a steep flight of stairs, and heard Conquest's strident tones echoing after him. He could not remember that he had accepted the offer made to him, but he was sure that Conquest took such acceptance for granted.When Tuesday came, he told Conquest that he had read and was willing to sign the agreement which had been sent him. Conquest nodded in an off-hand manner, and did not allude to the subject again. But he pressed upon Mark the expediency of joining "The Scribblers," a club newly organised, and likely to become a power. Mark consented, pleased and flattered that a celebrity should exhibit such interest in him. He was put up and elected the same week. Conquest introduced him to half a dozen members, most of whom took an early opportunity of congratulating Mark upon his friendship with the great man."He's a wonder," said a popular author, "but, mind you, he works for Wisden and Evercreech, and he'll squeeze you like an orange, if you give him the chance."The others winked at each other, but said nothing. Tommy Greatorex, a small, pale man, with very bright dark eyes which redeemed his face from insignificance, began to talk loudly. Mark had watched him gnawing nervously at his nails when Conquest's name was mentioned."Oh—these editors!" he exclaimed, shaking his fist. "Wouldn't I like to tell some of 'em what I think of 'em! Yes; there are exceptions—thank the Lord!—but Samphire will soon find out that most of 'em are pinchers. Six men in this room sling ink for a living. Is there one who can stand up and swear that he's not been squeezed?" Not a man moved. "You see—they sit tight. In this trade of ours the worker is not paid for his work when it's done. He has to wait for his pennies, poor devil, although he may be starving. And often he isn't paid at all. A paper goes to pot, or the special article he has been asked—asked, mind you—to write is pigeon-holed and doesn't appear, or there is a change of management. Any recourse? Why, man, if you send one of 'em a lawyer's letter, you may get your cheque by return of post, but never a line will you write for my gentleman again. Never more, as the raven said! One can't afford to quarrel with 'em. And don't they know it—don't they know it, as they blandly turn the screw? Now, in America, with the big magazines, it's different. You submit your stuff, and if it's available a cheque comes along with the acceptance, and a good cheque too. Over here, a few writers, of course, dictate terms, but the many take what they get with a humble if not a grateful heart. If you've private means of your own, you're all right, but if you have any idea of supporting yourself with the pen—why, God help you!—for the editors won't.""Cool yourself with a whisky and soda," said the popular author, touching the electric bell. "Our profession," he looked at Mark, "is like all others, overcrowded, and editors and publishers carry on their business along business lines. I'll admit that most authors are not fit to deal with them in a business way. They don't like to haggle, and they don't know how to haggle. Personally, I employ an agent.""That's all right for you," Tommy retorted, "but an agent's not much use unless there's an established market for one's wares. What's this book of yours about, Samphire?""The East End," said Mark."Um—the slums treated humorously?""I've tried to stick to the facts.""And you expect to sell 'em as fiction? Oh—you optimist!""A play's the thing," observed another scribbler. "Write plays.""Any fool can write a play," said the little man, very scornfully. "I—mot qui sous parle—have written plays, but it takes a diplomatist to get them read and a genius to get them accepted."Mark returned to Weybridge rather despondent.Immediately afterwards he received his first instalment of proofs from Wisden and Evercreech. Correcting these proved a painful pleasure. Conquest's judgment coloured and discoloured every sheet. What was good—what was bad? For his life Mark was unable to criticise his own work. Some of the bits he had liked when he wrote them now seemed crude and trite. His dialogue, he decided, was fair, but the narrative lacked distinction. Before beginning another novel, he would study the best models in French and English. Meantime he would turn out a story or two. These were written, despatched to Conquest—and returned with a printed slip politely setting forth the editor's regret that they were unavailable. When he met Conquest some ten days later, the great man vouchsafed a few words."Sorry to return your stuff. We shall publish the book in October. Have you thought of a subject for another? You seem to have gripped conditions in the East End. How about a novel in rather lighter vein dealing with the adventures and misadventures of a millionaire who has turned philanthropist and wants to spend his pile in Stepney? Or—happy thought!—make your millionaire a millionairess—a good-looking spinster paddling her canoe through the slums. That would be capital. What do you say?""I'll think about it," said Mark hesitatingly. "I'm awfully obliged to you, Conquest.""That's all right. By the way, I can use an article on your brother, two thousand words. Make it very personal, and secure good photographs of him and his church.""But he mightn't like it, you know."Conquest roared. "I say—that's immense—immense! Not like it? A popular preacher! Ha—ha—ha! Why, it's incense to 'em, man alive. Ask him, at any rate. If he doesn't jump, call me fool. Can you see him at once?""If you wish it."Somehow, to Mark's disgust, Archibald did jump. The article appeared in a Church paper and led to an incident of much greater importance. Conquest wired to Mark to come up to town on business. Mark was given a capital luncheon at Dieudonne's restaurant, but not till the coffee was served did Conquest speak of the matter in hand."I suppose you know," he said carelessly, but keeping his eyes on Mark's, "that I pull many strings. Now this is between ourselves, in—the—strictest—confidence. I want to pump you. Bless you, it always pays to be frank. How do I stand with your brother? Does he like me?""I'm sure he does," said Mark warmly. At Conquest's desire he had introduced him to Archibald. Conquest had dined in Cadogan Place."I can help him—materially. Of course there's something in it for me, but there's more in it for him, and I thought that you might be willing to act as a go-between. Have you noticed a big Basilica which Lord Vauxhall is building in that part of Chelsea where his new houses are? You have? A fine thing—hey? Oh, you don't admire the Byzantine style. Well, that church is the biggest advertisement in London. Shush-h-h! I don't want to be misunderstood. Vauxhall, who is a friend of mine, understands the value of churches. And he's a Churchman, too. He felt it to be his duty to build that church, andIsay, not he, that it's a thundering big 'ad' for the neighbourhood. Now Vauxhall is immensely struck by your brother's eloquence. Vauxhall always wants the best of everything, and he pays for it, cash on the nail. He would like to offer the Basilica and fifteen hundred a year to your brother. Now the cat's out of the bag. What d'you think of her?"Mark flushed. Conquest was his host."I think she's mangy.""Good," said Conquest, in no way perturbed. "I wanted an honest opinion.""As I understand this," said Mark, "Lord Vauxhall offers my brother a bribe to boom his new neighbourhood."Conquest shrugged his mighty shoulders."You are a young man," he said drily. "Beware of hasty judgments. It's my experience that motives are generally mixed. Vauxhall has built and endowed a magnificent church. He offers it to your brother, or rather he empowers me to offer it, if there is a likelihood of the offer being accepted. Perhaps I had better speak to your brother myself.""I should prefer that," said Mark.When he saw Archibald, some days later, he was quite sure, from his knowledge of Conquest, that the matter had been broached, but Archibald said nothing to him about it. Betty, however, talked as if no change was impending, so Mark inferred that she was either without her husband's confidence or that Lord Vauxhall's offer had been refused. Betty was full of plans connected with the parish, and busy organising a large charity concert. Jim Corrance told Mark that he (Jim) had misread Betty's character and temperament."She's happy with her husband," he declared. "He has a way with him—women can't resist parsons when they're good and good-looking. One must concede that Archie is both."Mark said nothing. He was quite unable to determine whether Betty had found happiness or not. Sometimes, when alone with husband and wife, he marked an irritability not without significance. Archibald had acquired, since he came to London, a certain air and deportment common to many successful men. Betty chaffed him, called him "Sir Oracle," and when he protested against these quips, she would frown and bite her lip. Archibald was very particular about the antecedents of the people invited to his house. Some of Betty's acquaintances were banned. Lady Randolph had a word to say on this."Archie is quite right, my dear. He's not going to imperil his preferment by hobnobbing with such frisky folk. It pays to be exclusive. Look at those Bertheim women! They were—well, we know what they were; but when they married rich men, they refused to entertain any matron who was not immaculate. Now, to be seen at their houses is a patent of virtue!""Archie," said Betty, "is governed by the highest motives; still, I should like to see this house open to a few nice sinners: painters, writers, musicians; but Archie says they are all freethinkers or Laodiceans. It is a great grief to him that Mark gave up his Orders. He offered to take him as secretary."Lady Randolph stared. There were times when she felt that Betty was an unknown quantity."You allowed him to make that offer?"Betty turned aside her eyes. "I did not know that it was made. Of course Mark refused—would have done so in any case. I mention it to show you what manner of man Archie is. I don't think you do him justice. You spoke just now as if he were a time-server. His whole life is devoted to others.""Does he—know?" said Lady Randolph, alluding to what had passed at Birr Wood."Why should I tell him?""Why, indeed, my dear?""It would distress him infinitely. And it might lead to a breach between the brothers. Mark comes here. He has changed greatly. I don't think that anything interests him very much except his literary work.""He looks a different man," said Lady Randolph absently."If it had not been for that breakdown in those horrible slums, if——" Betty bit her lip. Lady Randolph pretended that she had noticed nothing unusual, but when she said good-bye she kissed Betty twice and whispered: "If I were you I should not encourage Mark to come here.""Encouragehim?""If he needs no encouragement—so much the worse."Betty laughed nervously. Mark's companionship was a pleasure she would not forego. She was interested in his book; she liked to hear his talk, his gossip of Grub Street; his descriptions of the Dews, mother and daughter; his adventures in search of material. Behind this lay the comfortable assurance that she had adjusted a difficult situation. She had lost the lover of her youth, but she had gained a good husband, a brother, and a friend. So she told herself that she was rich, repeating the phrase, till she came to believe it true. One day she said to Mark, "I suppose you would call me a rich woman, using the adjective in its widest sense.""We are all rich—and poor," Mark replied evasively. "What rich man is not poor in some respect; what poor man is not rich in another? This is an age of classification. We go about sticking labels on to our friends and ourselves. If you honestly think yourself rich, you are so."Sometimes he wondered if she could measure the violence of feeling which had driven him from the Church. She never spoke of his change of cloth; still she eyed his red tie askance. Archibald had said something when he came back from his honeymoon."At King's Charteris you could keep a curate. The pater said that he had spoken to you. And it's the family living.""I'll say to you what I didn't like to say to the pater: 'Drop it.'""Certainly," Archibald replied. "But it's a pity your powers of organisation should be wasted." Then he made the offer which had provoked astonishment in Lady Randolph. It astonished Mark also, revealing as it did his brother's lack of insight where he (Mark) was concerned."You could help me enormously," Archibald concluded."I am going to help myself," said Mark.Just before the novel was published, Archibald let fall a hint that Conquest had spoken to him. Betty happened to be present, but Archibald addressed himself to Mark."Have you ever met Lord Vauxhall?""No.""A very charming man—and a Christian. He dines here next week. I should like you to meet him. By the way, he's a friend of Conquest.""Ah!" said Mark."I like Conquest immensely," said Archibald suavely. "He has the larger vision.""Betty—do you like Conquest?" said Mark abruptly.She answered promptly: "No.""Why not?" her husband inquired."He's an Octopus man, with his tentacles waving in every direction. And his mind is like a big room handsomely furnished, but without a fireplace in it. Certainly—he's been sweet as Hybla honey to me, and I ought to like him, but I don't."CHAPTER XXVIIIA SUNDAY IN CADOGAN PLACEIn late October, when pages fall as thickly from printing-presses as leaves do from trees,Shall the Strong retain the Spoil?appeared. During the preceding Spring many of the best publishers had withheld books which were now offered to the public. Conquest predicted a glutted market, and no sales for wares bearing obscure brands. Mark, he said, might compass asuccès d'estime—nothing more. He added that the time had come to pull strings, if strings were to be pulled."I don't quite understand," said Mark."Get so-and-so," he named a popular author, "to enlighten you. Look here, Samphire, you're a man of good family, your people know numbers of swells, that brother of yours is hand in glove with some bigwigs. Stir 'em up with a long pole. I don't suppose you care to fork out for such advertising as our friend I mentioned uses. Paragraphs and all that.""He pays for paragraphs?""Directly and indirectly—you innocent! I see you are disgusted. That's all right. I mentioned the matter, because I could steer you a bit, if you wished to spend say—fifty pounds. We shall advertise the book, of course, in the regular way. It's the irregular way, my boy, which brings in the dollars.""The book must sell on its merits," said Mark."As you please," said Conquest.Shortly afterwards, the first notices were sent to him by the Press Clipping Agency to which he had become a subscriber. Mark was told that his work showed extraordinary promise, that he would take high rank, when he had found himself, that he was a master of dialogue and dialect, the author of a powerful and convincing study of conditions which challenged the attention of every thinking man and woman, and so on and so forth. He rushed up to town, showed the clippings to Betty, who seemed to be more excited and pleased than he was himself, went on to Wisden and Evercreech, and thence to his club, where he found Tommy Greatorex, whiter and more nervous than usual, sitting alone by the fire in the library. To him the clippings were presently submitted with an apology. Tommy took them with an ironical smile."They're always kind to a new man if he shows any ability." He glanced at the clippings, flipping them with his lean delicately shaped fingers. "You are subtle, I see, and daring, and brilliant—and strong! By Jove, Samphire, I'll bet a new umbrella, which I want badly, that you didn't know you were such a ring-tailed squealer—hey? Don't blush, my dear fellow. Wait till your stuff sells, and then read what they'll say about it. Ha—ha! Listen to this! One of 'em says: 'Mr. Samphire is evidently at home in some of the sordid scenes which he describes with such power and pathos; we take it that he has spent many years in the slums.' So far—so good. It's more than likely that the fellow who wrote that is a member of this club and in the know. Here's another, next to it, egad! 'This story reveals imaginative powers of a high order, for it is plain that the author has never set foot in Stepney....' Ha—ha—ha! Now sit down, stand me a drink, and tell me how many copies have been sold.""A hundred copies were sold the day before yesterday," said Mark."Now, that's a little bit of all right, and no mistake. I'm delighted to hear it. I congratulate you—con fuoco! That means business. One—hundred—copies inoneday! Whew-w-w! Hang it, why don't you rejoice?""Because," said Mark, "I found out that the hundred copies were bought by one man for one man. A friend of mine on the Stock Exchange took the lot. The book is not selling.""Sorry," said Tommy quietly. "I've read it. I've reviewed it. This," he tapped one of the clippings which he still held in his hand, "is mine. I got for it a few shillings, already spent, and the book which I shall keep, because it is written by a good fellow. It's not what's in the book which appeals to me, but what's in the writer, and which will come out—some day.""Thank you," said Mark.He returned to luncheon at Cadogan Place, humbled, and therefore, in a woman's eyes, meet for sympathy and encouragement."In any case," said Betty, "you have had the delight of writing the book. And itisstrong and subtle; but, Mark, few people are interested in slums. Your book made me cry, and I want to laugh. Life is so sad, why make it sadder?"Mark had listened to interminable arguments upon this vexed question. But in Betty's tone and manner he caught a glimpse of a spectre."Your life is not sad," he said."I'm one of the lucky ones," she replied hastily "We were speaking of your book.""Hang the book," said Mark impatiently "What is that to me in comparison with——" He stopped abruptly, got up from his chair, paced the length of the room, and came back."You are happy—are you not?" he asked. They were alone in the drawing-room, filled with the pictures and china which had come out of the saloon at The Whim. Archibald was presiding over one of his innumerable committees. Looking at Betty as she sat amongst things familiar to Mark from childhood, it was difficult to believe that she was a married woman. She still retained a bloom of maidenhood, a daintiness and freshness. Her face suggested the nymph rather than the matron."Of course I am happy," she replied; then she added in a whisper: "Mark, I ought to be happy, but I am a rebel.""All women are rebels, Betty. Against what in particular do you rebel?""I oughtn't to tell you, but—but I must. I suppose I am the many-sided woman, who ought to have half a dozen husbands. I am interested in so many things. I like to browse here and there. But Archie doesn't care about anything or anybody outside his own vineyard. He is going up and up and I am—falling! Oh, I'm disloyal, but I must speak. It comes to this: Archie loves me and of course I love him, but we—we have nothing to say to each other when we're alone."She sat, twisting her fingers, staring forlornly at the carpet. Mark burst into speech. At the sound of his voice, still so youthful in quality, she raised her head, smiling, eager, intent."Why, Betty, we all get blue at times, and sigh for what we've not got. There are women, no doubt, who are fatly content with their lives, but I don't suppose they go up or down. One pictures them in one spot, doing the same stupid thing, saying the same stupid thing for ever and ever. I think you're in a healthy state. When we feel that we are going down, we begin to beat our wings and flap upwards. Some saints, possibly, might be justified in taking a rest-cure; they are the ones who never do it."He rose to go, not daring to stay."When are you coming again, Mark? You always do me good. Can't you spend next Sunday with us? By the way, have you ever been to our church?""Yes; the first Sunday Archibald preached.""Oh! The sermon about Balaam.""Yes.""You know, he says that he's uneven. But the women in this parish think him wonderful. Some of them, who sit near the pulpit, make a point of crying whenever he gives them a chance. One told me that when he pronounced the Benediction she felt purged of all sin! I could have bitten her."Mark promised to spend the following Sunday in Cadogan Place, and duly accompanied Betty to morning service. For nearly thirty minutes Archibald preached to a crowded congregation, who listened intently to a conventional theme, treated conventionally. Coming out Mark heard a tall, thin man, with a striking face, whisper to the woman beside him: "I came for bread; he gave us pap—in a golden spoon.""Did you hear that?" said Betty, a moment later."Yes."Some friends greeted Betty, and no more was said till luncheon, to which the Chrysostom of Sloane Street applied himself, as usual, seriously and silently. He looked slightly puffy and his eyes were losing their clearness and sparkle. Mark asked abruptly if he were overworked."Every minute is filled," said Archibald heavily. "Overworked? I can stand a lot of work.""He would be miserable without it—and bored," said Betty. "He won't even come to concerts with me now.""It's the work that tells, nowadays, my dear. Preaching gives a man a start, but it's the steady strain of parochial organisation which brings one to the top of the hill.""You are neglecting your sermons," said Betty. "For several Sundays they have struck me as being—how shall I put it—uninspired. They hold one's attention, yes, but they do not grip; they touch, but they do not penetrate."Archibald nodded, frowning and crumbling the bread beside his plate."The Duchess," he said, "stopped me this morning after church to tell me that she liked the treatment of my text immensely.""Oh—the Duchess!" exclaimed Betty."I've so much on my mind," said Archibald, turning to Mark. He rose, looking at his watch. "I must go now to hear a man sing in Upper Tooting. The cigars are in my room."He went out. As the door shut behind him, Betty turned a contrite face to Mark's."I hit him when he was down. What a beast I am!"At that moment it became a conviction to Mark that Betty loved an ideal husband, who would fall from the pinnacle on which she had perched him. A feeling of pleasure at this impending catastrophe almost turned him sick. Then, very slowly, he resolved that the powers within him should be devoted to the preservation of an ideal, so vital to the welfare of the woman he loved. Betty began to speak of his literary work."When I read your book," she said, "I had an intuition that one day you would write a play."Mark quoted Tommy Greatorex. "That's an easy job.""I have a motif for you. The emotional treatment of religion. Look at the success of this new book,Robert Elsmere! The same success awaits the dramatist who can use like material. I should make the principal character a woman of passion with a strong sense of religion.""A sinner?""Yes. It seems to me that sinners on the stage have great opportunities. The world must listen to what they have to say. In real life the good people do all the talking, the moral talking, I mean; an honest sinner holds his or her tongue. It's such a pity, for I'm sure your honest sinner loathes his sin. In my drama the sinner is saved, because the sense of what she has suffered, her personal experience of the horror and misery of sin, make for her salvation.""The right man could do something with it, no doubt.""Why not you, Mark?"He fell into a reverie, staring into the fire. Betty perceived that he had wandered out of the world of speech into the suburbs of silence, where visions of what might have been come and go. Presently he said abruptly:"Shall we walk?""There's an east wind blowing, evil for man and beast.""You're neither. Come on."They crossed the park, skirting the Serpentine, a dull, leaden-coloured lake wrinkled by the keen wind. On some of the benches sweethearts were sitting, serenely unmindful of the blast."They feel warm enough," said Betty, laughing. "Well, I'm in a glow, too."When they returned to Cadogan Place, Archibald had just arrived from Upper Tooting. He said that he had found a superb tenor, whom he had engaged."He sang 'Nazareth'—quite admirably."Betty, teapot in hand, looked up, interested at once."Oh, Archie, you have not sung 'Nazareth' for months. Do sing it after tea!""Do!" Mark added. "I haven't heard you sing for a year."Finally, after a little pressing, Archibald seated himself at the piano, a beautiful Steinway. As he touched the keys, Betty's face assumed the expression of delighted receptivity so familiar to Mark. She glanced at the singer between half-closed eyes, lying back in her chair in an attitude of physical and mental ease. One hand drooped at her side, and as Archibald sang the fingers of this hand contracted and relaxed, keeping time to the rhythm of the song. Mark felt that her pulses were throbbing, quivering with delight and satisfaction. The music touched him also, stirring to determination his desire to help and protect the woman he loved. But when his thoughts turned, as they did immediately, to Archibald, they became of another texture and complexion. He had not prayed to God since that night on Ben Caryll. Now, beneath the spell of the music, he repeated to himself: "Oh God, take this hate from me; take this hate from me!"When Archibald stopped singing, he said that he must go to his study for an hour's work before evening service. Mark accompanied him. As soon as they were alone, he blurted out what was in his mind."I say, Archie, if you want a little help, I'm your man. I suppose work means the preparation of your Advent sermons. I helped you last year. Shall I help you this?"Archibald's face flushed."I don't know what's wrong with me," he muttered; "but ideas don't flow. If you would help—but, but you have your own work.""My work! Well, it's lucky I've an allowance, or I should certainly starve. Archie, I'd like to help you. I ask it as a favour. Come on; what's the use of jawing? What's it to be this Advent? I thought of something in church this morning which you might lick into shape."He filled his pipe, talking in his hesitating yet voluble way. Archibald, the practical, took a pad to jot down notes in shorthand. Mark began to pace the room as his ideas flowed faster. It seemed to him that he had dammed them up for many months; now they came down like the Crask after a big rain, a cleansing flood, carrying away all refuse, all barriers. When he had finished, Archibald arose ponderously and shook his hand."You're a wonderful fellow," he said slowly; "the hare you, the tortoise I. It was always so.""The tortoise won the r-r-race," said Mark.When he went to bed that night he flung open wide the window of his room. Outside, the night was inky black and tempestuous. Not a star to be seen above, and the lamps below burning dimly, throwing pale circles of light upon the wet, muddy street. Mark stood inhaling the fresh air, drawing long and deep breaths, saturating himself with it. Presently he muttered:"I may be happy yet."CHAPTER XXIXTHE PROCESSION OF LIFELate 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 hisson, obstructed the horizon."The boy may reign at Pitt Hall," said Archibald. "George has written to say that he hopes it will be an heir—hisword—because then he will feel at liberty to remain a bachelor. Do you think that Betty is as prudent as she ought to be?""She will do well, she will do well," Mark reiterated."You will come to us, Mark. I shall want you, you know.""If you insist——""I don't think I could face it without you."Betty added her entreaties. "I'm not afraid," she maintained; "but Archie is behaving like an old woman. Lady Randolph will be with me; I should feel easier if you were with Archie. How devoted you brothers are to each other!"Mark hastily put up his hand to cover a smile which he felt to be derisive. Then he muttered awkwardly, "All right, I'll c-c-come."Again he wondered whether she had suspected the hatred within him. Surely a creature of her intuitions and sympathies must know. And if she did know, and, knowing, faced the facts, trying to adjust the balance, piecing together the fragments of broken lives, was it not his duty, however painful, to help her and the man she had married? And perhaps she had foreseen that any peril threatening an object dear to both brothers might serve to unite them. The woman who had whirled them asunder must cherish the hope that she alone could bring them together.When the hour came, when he was alone with Archibald at midnight, straining his ears for that thin, querulous wail of the newly born, he forgot everything except that Betty might be taken away. The doctor bustled in from time to time, cheery and sanguine at first, but as the hours passed betraying uneasiness and anxiety. Towards morning, when the whole world seemed to have grown chill and dreary, he asked for a consultation; and a servant was sent hot-foot for the most famous accoucheur in Harley Street.Archibald rushed upstairs. He crawled down them a few minutes later, ghastly, trembling, the scarecrow of the prosperous Rector of St. Anne's. Mark, as white as he, seized his arm."Well, well, how is she? That fool of a doctor has exaggerated. They always make out everything to be more serious than it is.""She is going, she is going," the husband muttered.Mark shook him violently."Archie, you must pull yourself together. Do you hear?""It's a judgment, a judgment.""What do you say?""I never told her about those two sermons. I'm a coward, a coward. You despise me—I have felt it."The big fellow had collapsed, shrunk incredibly, depleted of windy self-assurance and vanity. Mark's hate and scorn and envy began to ooze from him as the old love, the virile instinct of the strong to comfort and protect the weak, gushed into his heart, suffusing a genial warmth through every fibre of his being."I gave them to you freely," he said. "I urged you to preach that first sermon. Put what is past from you."But Archibald shook his head. Now that the silence was broken, he wished to speak, to give his shame and trouble all the words so long suppressed. In a pitiful manner he began a self-indictment—qui s'accuse s'excuse."If Betty is spared, I shall tell her the truth," he concluded.Mark frowned, trying to measure the effect of such a belated confession on Betty. Then he heard his brother saying in the tone of conviction which so impressed his congregations, "Of course, Betty did not marry me because I preached those sermons."Mark started. Temptation beset him to answer swiftly: "She did—she did. I know she did. Had it not been for my words in your mouth, she would have waited for, she would have married—me."He turned aside his face, twisted and seamed by the effort of holding his tongue. Archibald continued: "It has been a secret sore. I thought hard work—I have worked very hard—would heal it. If—if she is spared, I shall speak for all our sakes."Mark's voice was quite steady when he replied, "For all our sakes. You take me into account?""Why, of course. Don't you remember? You wished her to know. You said you would tell her. Why didn't you?""Why, indeed?" Mark echoed fiercely. Then, with a sudden change of manner, he went on: "You must do what you think best. Betty has placed you on a pinnacle. See that you don't topple over! Practise what you preach. Then you will save her soul and your own.""We talk as if she were not dying.""She will not die," said Mark solemnly. At that moment he was sure that Betty would live, must live, because (and the reason illumines the dark places through which Mark had passed), because it would be so much better for her if she died.Just then the consulting surgeon arrived. Archibald took him upstairs, and returned to Mark within a quarter of an hour, saying that the case was even more serious than had been supposed."Drax sentenced me to death," said Mark, "but I'm alive and strong."Archibald fell on his knees in an agony of supplication. Mark watched him. Suddenly the husband looked up."In the name of God, pray," he entreated. "You are a better man than I—pray!"But Mark remained standing.He desired to pray, but above this desire and dominating it was the vivid horror of that evil spirit, which had so lately fled and which might come back. A sense of unworthiness prostrated his spirit, but not his body. He glanced at Archibald, and left the room.Outside, the gas in the hall and passages seemed to be struggling helplessly against the light of breaking day. Familiar objects—furniture belonging to the Admiral—loomed large out of a sickly, yellow mist. Mark found himself staring blankly at an ancient clock ticking with loud and exasperating monotony. It had so ticked away the seconds, the minutes, the hours of more than a hundred years!The next objects that caught his eye were two umbrellas. They stood side by side, curiously contrasted: the one a dainty trifle of violet silk and crystal, encircled with a gold band; and the other large and massive with a symbolic shepherd's crook as a handle. These arrested Mark's attention. He remembered that he had chaffed Betty about her umbrella, telling her that it was too smart for a parson's wife, and absurdly frail as a protection against anything save a passing shower. She retorted that a wise woman never braves a storm, and then she had said with the smile he knew so well: "My umbrella, which, after all, is anen tout cas, is just like me: made for sunshine rather than rain."He sat down, waiting, staring at Betty's umbrella. When he looked up Lady Randolph was coming down the stairs very slowly—a white-haired old woman. Something in her face choked the question which fluttered to his lips. To gain an instant's time, he opened the library door and called to his brother—"Archie!"Archibald appeared instantly."A girl has been born," said Lady Randolph, "but she is dead.""Dead?" repeated Archibald."And Betty?" Mark demanded hoarsely."The doctors think she is safe."The three passed into the dining-room, where some food had been laid out. Lady Randolph gave details in a worn voice. Betty's pluck had been amazing; she had displayed a fortitude lacking which she would probably have succumbed. The consulting surgeon, who entered shortly afterwards, assured the husband that, humanly speaking, the danger was over. Almost at once Archibald recovered his normal composure and dignified deportment. Mark, on the other hand, exhibited signs of collapse. He sat down shivering, as if he had been attacked by malignant malaria.Next day he saw Betty for a couple of minutes. She smiled and thanked him, intimating that Archibald had told her that the suspense would have been intolerable had not Mark helped him to bear it. Of the loss of her baby she said nothing, but before Mark left the room she exacted a promise that he would come to see her during the period of convalescence.
CHAPTER XXVII
IN GRUB STREET
Mark's short story had been duly printed and published in Conquest's magazine. About the time of its appearance (midsummer) Mark called on Conquest, and the acquaintance then made ripened into a sort of intimacy. Conquest, quick to perceive that Mark had "stuff" in him, and learning that Mark was writing a novel, expressed a wish to read it in typescript.
"I advised you, you remember, to write a novel and burn it."
"I have done so," said Mark quietly.
A big, burly man, with a rugged, leonine head, Conquest liked to be told he resembled Landor. With this robust physique went a singularly feminine apprehension and appreciation of details. The enormous amount of work he could accomplish, his grasp of technicalities, his knowledge, amounting to intuition, of what the public wanted, his power of attracting and dominating young men of talent, and, above all, his encyclopædic memory, made him invaluable to the firm who employed him.
Mark submitted his novel. Conquest read it, and sent for the author. Mark found him in the editorial chair, surrounded by books, papers, manuscripts, press-clippings innumerable—a chaos out of which the master alone could evoke order. In the room beyond, two type-writing machines were clicking savagely. Here Conquest's "sub," a secretary, and half a dozen myrmidons were hard at work. The "sub" and his assistants looked pale and thin; Conquest alone seemed to thrive and expand in an atmosphere impregnated with the odour of tobacco-smoke, damp paper, and printers' ink.
"Sit down! And listen to the words of the ancient! This is the place where I do the talking. When I stop, you must go.Shall the Strong retain the Spoil?is d——d good and—don't look so pleased!—d——d bad. There's hope for you. We'll publish if you like to pay half the printer's bill. Mind you, the book has but a ghost's chance of catching on; but I don't want it altered. You'd cut out the best stuff and leave the trash.Ired-pencilled your short story, but I can't afford the time to prune this—and you wouldn't like it. Leave it here, and I'll send you our regular agreement to look over and sign. You are under no obligations, remember, to publish with us. Good morning. Dine with me next Tuesday. Eight sharp!"
Mark found himself walking down a steep flight of stairs, and heard Conquest's strident tones echoing after him. He could not remember that he had accepted the offer made to him, but he was sure that Conquest took such acceptance for granted.
When Tuesday came, he told Conquest that he had read and was willing to sign the agreement which had been sent him. Conquest nodded in an off-hand manner, and did not allude to the subject again. But he pressed upon Mark the expediency of joining "The Scribblers," a club newly organised, and likely to become a power. Mark consented, pleased and flattered that a celebrity should exhibit such interest in him. He was put up and elected the same week. Conquest introduced him to half a dozen members, most of whom took an early opportunity of congratulating Mark upon his friendship with the great man.
"He's a wonder," said a popular author, "but, mind you, he works for Wisden and Evercreech, and he'll squeeze you like an orange, if you give him the chance."
The others winked at each other, but said nothing. Tommy Greatorex, a small, pale man, with very bright dark eyes which redeemed his face from insignificance, began to talk loudly. Mark had watched him gnawing nervously at his nails when Conquest's name was mentioned.
"Oh—these editors!" he exclaimed, shaking his fist. "Wouldn't I like to tell some of 'em what I think of 'em! Yes; there are exceptions—thank the Lord!—but Samphire will soon find out that most of 'em are pinchers. Six men in this room sling ink for a living. Is there one who can stand up and swear that he's not been squeezed?" Not a man moved. "You see—they sit tight. In this trade of ours the worker is not paid for his work when it's done. He has to wait for his pennies, poor devil, although he may be starving. And often he isn't paid at all. A paper goes to pot, or the special article he has been asked—asked, mind you—to write is pigeon-holed and doesn't appear, or there is a change of management. Any recourse? Why, man, if you send one of 'em a lawyer's letter, you may get your cheque by return of post, but never a line will you write for my gentleman again. Never more, as the raven said! One can't afford to quarrel with 'em. And don't they know it—don't they know it, as they blandly turn the screw? Now, in America, with the big magazines, it's different. You submit your stuff, and if it's available a cheque comes along with the acceptance, and a good cheque too. Over here, a few writers, of course, dictate terms, but the many take what they get with a humble if not a grateful heart. If you've private means of your own, you're all right, but if you have any idea of supporting yourself with the pen—why, God help you!—for the editors won't."
"Cool yourself with a whisky and soda," said the popular author, touching the electric bell. "Our profession," he looked at Mark, "is like all others, overcrowded, and editors and publishers carry on their business along business lines. I'll admit that most authors are not fit to deal with them in a business way. They don't like to haggle, and they don't know how to haggle. Personally, I employ an agent."
"That's all right for you," Tommy retorted, "but an agent's not much use unless there's an established market for one's wares. What's this book of yours about, Samphire?"
"The East End," said Mark.
"Um—the slums treated humorously?"
"I've tried to stick to the facts."
"And you expect to sell 'em as fiction? Oh—you optimist!"
"A play's the thing," observed another scribbler. "Write plays."
"Any fool can write a play," said the little man, very scornfully. "I—mot qui sous parle—have written plays, but it takes a diplomatist to get them read and a genius to get them accepted."
Mark returned to Weybridge rather despondent.
Immediately afterwards he received his first instalment of proofs from Wisden and Evercreech. Correcting these proved a painful pleasure. Conquest's judgment coloured and discoloured every sheet. What was good—what was bad? For his life Mark was unable to criticise his own work. Some of the bits he had liked when he wrote them now seemed crude and trite. His dialogue, he decided, was fair, but the narrative lacked distinction. Before beginning another novel, he would study the best models in French and English. Meantime he would turn out a story or two. These were written, despatched to Conquest—and returned with a printed slip politely setting forth the editor's regret that they were unavailable. When he met Conquest some ten days later, the great man vouchsafed a few words.
"Sorry to return your stuff. We shall publish the book in October. Have you thought of a subject for another? You seem to have gripped conditions in the East End. How about a novel in rather lighter vein dealing with the adventures and misadventures of a millionaire who has turned philanthropist and wants to spend his pile in Stepney? Or—happy thought!—make your millionaire a millionairess—a good-looking spinster paddling her canoe through the slums. That would be capital. What do you say?"
"I'll think about it," said Mark hesitatingly. "I'm awfully obliged to you, Conquest."
"That's all right. By the way, I can use an article on your brother, two thousand words. Make it very personal, and secure good photographs of him and his church."
"But he mightn't like it, you know."
Conquest roared. "I say—that's immense—immense! Not like it? A popular preacher! Ha—ha—ha! Why, it's incense to 'em, man alive. Ask him, at any rate. If he doesn't jump, call me fool. Can you see him at once?"
"If you wish it."
Somehow, to Mark's disgust, Archibald did jump. The article appeared in a Church paper and led to an incident of much greater importance. Conquest wired to Mark to come up to town on business. Mark was given a capital luncheon at Dieudonne's restaurant, but not till the coffee was served did Conquest speak of the matter in hand.
"I suppose you know," he said carelessly, but keeping his eyes on Mark's, "that I pull many strings. Now this is between ourselves, in—the—strictest—confidence. I want to pump you. Bless you, it always pays to be frank. How do I stand with your brother? Does he like me?"
"I'm sure he does," said Mark warmly. At Conquest's desire he had introduced him to Archibald. Conquest had dined in Cadogan Place.
"I can help him—materially. Of course there's something in it for me, but there's more in it for him, and I thought that you might be willing to act as a go-between. Have you noticed a big Basilica which Lord Vauxhall is building in that part of Chelsea where his new houses are? You have? A fine thing—hey? Oh, you don't admire the Byzantine style. Well, that church is the biggest advertisement in London. Shush-h-h! I don't want to be misunderstood. Vauxhall, who is a friend of mine, understands the value of churches. And he's a Churchman, too. He felt it to be his duty to build that church, andIsay, not he, that it's a thundering big 'ad' for the neighbourhood. Now Vauxhall is immensely struck by your brother's eloquence. Vauxhall always wants the best of everything, and he pays for it, cash on the nail. He would like to offer the Basilica and fifteen hundred a year to your brother. Now the cat's out of the bag. What d'you think of her?"
Mark flushed. Conquest was his host.
"I think she's mangy."
"Good," said Conquest, in no way perturbed. "I wanted an honest opinion."
"As I understand this," said Mark, "Lord Vauxhall offers my brother a bribe to boom his new neighbourhood."
Conquest shrugged his mighty shoulders.
"You are a young man," he said drily. "Beware of hasty judgments. It's my experience that motives are generally mixed. Vauxhall has built and endowed a magnificent church. He offers it to your brother, or rather he empowers me to offer it, if there is a likelihood of the offer being accepted. Perhaps I had better speak to your brother myself."
"I should prefer that," said Mark.
When he saw Archibald, some days later, he was quite sure, from his knowledge of Conquest, that the matter had been broached, but Archibald said nothing to him about it. Betty, however, talked as if no change was impending, so Mark inferred that she was either without her husband's confidence or that Lord Vauxhall's offer had been refused. Betty was full of plans connected with the parish, and busy organising a large charity concert. Jim Corrance told Mark that he (Jim) had misread Betty's character and temperament.
"She's happy with her husband," he declared. "He has a way with him—women can't resist parsons when they're good and good-looking. One must concede that Archie is both."
Mark said nothing. He was quite unable to determine whether Betty had found happiness or not. Sometimes, when alone with husband and wife, he marked an irritability not without significance. Archibald had acquired, since he came to London, a certain air and deportment common to many successful men. Betty chaffed him, called him "Sir Oracle," and when he protested against these quips, she would frown and bite her lip. Archibald was very particular about the antecedents of the people invited to his house. Some of Betty's acquaintances were banned. Lady Randolph had a word to say on this.
"Archie is quite right, my dear. He's not going to imperil his preferment by hobnobbing with such frisky folk. It pays to be exclusive. Look at those Bertheim women! They were—well, we know what they were; but when they married rich men, they refused to entertain any matron who was not immaculate. Now, to be seen at their houses is a patent of virtue!"
"Archie," said Betty, "is governed by the highest motives; still, I should like to see this house open to a few nice sinners: painters, writers, musicians; but Archie says they are all freethinkers or Laodiceans. It is a great grief to him that Mark gave up his Orders. He offered to take him as secretary."
Lady Randolph stared. There were times when she felt that Betty was an unknown quantity.
"You allowed him to make that offer?"
Betty turned aside her eyes. "I did not know that it was made. Of course Mark refused—would have done so in any case. I mention it to show you what manner of man Archie is. I don't think you do him justice. You spoke just now as if he were a time-server. His whole life is devoted to others."
"Does he—know?" said Lady Randolph, alluding to what had passed at Birr Wood.
"Why should I tell him?"
"Why, indeed, my dear?"
"It would distress him infinitely. And it might lead to a breach between the brothers. Mark comes here. He has changed greatly. I don't think that anything interests him very much except his literary work."
"He looks a different man," said Lady Randolph absently.
"If it had not been for that breakdown in those horrible slums, if——" Betty bit her lip. Lady Randolph pretended that she had noticed nothing unusual, but when she said good-bye she kissed Betty twice and whispered: "If I were you I should not encourage Mark to come here."
"Encouragehim?"
"If he needs no encouragement—so much the worse."
Betty laughed nervously. Mark's companionship was a pleasure she would not forego. She was interested in his book; she liked to hear his talk, his gossip of Grub Street; his descriptions of the Dews, mother and daughter; his adventures in search of material. Behind this lay the comfortable assurance that she had adjusted a difficult situation. She had lost the lover of her youth, but she had gained a good husband, a brother, and a friend. So she told herself that she was rich, repeating the phrase, till she came to believe it true. One day she said to Mark, "I suppose you would call me a rich woman, using the adjective in its widest sense."
"We are all rich—and poor," Mark replied evasively. "What rich man is not poor in some respect; what poor man is not rich in another? This is an age of classification. We go about sticking labels on to our friends and ourselves. If you honestly think yourself rich, you are so."
Sometimes he wondered if she could measure the violence of feeling which had driven him from the Church. She never spoke of his change of cloth; still she eyed his red tie askance. Archibald had said something when he came back from his honeymoon.
"At King's Charteris you could keep a curate. The pater said that he had spoken to you. And it's the family living."
"I'll say to you what I didn't like to say to the pater: 'Drop it.'"
"Certainly," Archibald replied. "But it's a pity your powers of organisation should be wasted." Then he made the offer which had provoked astonishment in Lady Randolph. It astonished Mark also, revealing as it did his brother's lack of insight where he (Mark) was concerned.
"You could help me enormously," Archibald concluded.
"I am going to help myself," said Mark.
Just before the novel was published, Archibald let fall a hint that Conquest had spoken to him. Betty happened to be present, but Archibald addressed himself to Mark.
"Have you ever met Lord Vauxhall?"
"No."
"A very charming man—and a Christian. He dines here next week. I should like you to meet him. By the way, he's a friend of Conquest."
"Ah!" said Mark.
"I like Conquest immensely," said Archibald suavely. "He has the larger vision."
"Betty—do you like Conquest?" said Mark abruptly.
She answered promptly: "No."
"Why not?" her husband inquired.
"He's an Octopus man, with his tentacles waving in every direction. And his mind is like a big room handsomely furnished, but without a fireplace in it. Certainly—he's been sweet as Hybla honey to me, and I ought to like him, but I don't."
CHAPTER XXVIII
A SUNDAY IN CADOGAN PLACE
In late October, when pages fall as thickly from printing-presses as leaves do from trees,Shall the Strong retain the Spoil?appeared. During the preceding Spring many of the best publishers had withheld books which were now offered to the public. Conquest predicted a glutted market, and no sales for wares bearing obscure brands. Mark, he said, might compass asuccès d'estime—nothing more. He added that the time had come to pull strings, if strings were to be pulled.
"I don't quite understand," said Mark.
"Get so-and-so," he named a popular author, "to enlighten you. Look here, Samphire, you're a man of good family, your people know numbers of swells, that brother of yours is hand in glove with some bigwigs. Stir 'em up with a long pole. I don't suppose you care to fork out for such advertising as our friend I mentioned uses. Paragraphs and all that."
"He pays for paragraphs?"
"Directly and indirectly—you innocent! I see you are disgusted. That's all right. I mentioned the matter, because I could steer you a bit, if you wished to spend say—fifty pounds. We shall advertise the book, of course, in the regular way. It's the irregular way, my boy, which brings in the dollars."
"The book must sell on its merits," said Mark.
"As you please," said Conquest.
Shortly afterwards, the first notices were sent to him by the Press Clipping Agency to which he had become a subscriber. Mark was told that his work showed extraordinary promise, that he would take high rank, when he had found himself, that he was a master of dialogue and dialect, the author of a powerful and convincing study of conditions which challenged the attention of every thinking man and woman, and so on and so forth. He rushed up to town, showed the clippings to Betty, who seemed to be more excited and pleased than he was himself, went on to Wisden and Evercreech, and thence to his club, where he found Tommy Greatorex, whiter and more nervous than usual, sitting alone by the fire in the library. To him the clippings were presently submitted with an apology. Tommy took them with an ironical smile.
"They're always kind to a new man if he shows any ability." He glanced at the clippings, flipping them with his lean delicately shaped fingers. "You are subtle, I see, and daring, and brilliant—and strong! By Jove, Samphire, I'll bet a new umbrella, which I want badly, that you didn't know you were such a ring-tailed squealer—hey? Don't blush, my dear fellow. Wait till your stuff sells, and then read what they'll say about it. Ha—ha! Listen to this! One of 'em says: 'Mr. Samphire is evidently at home in some of the sordid scenes which he describes with such power and pathos; we take it that he has spent many years in the slums.' So far—so good. It's more than likely that the fellow who wrote that is a member of this club and in the know. Here's another, next to it, egad! 'This story reveals imaginative powers of a high order, for it is plain that the author has never set foot in Stepney....' Ha—ha—ha! Now sit down, stand me a drink, and tell me how many copies have been sold."
"A hundred copies were sold the day before yesterday," said Mark.
"Now, that's a little bit of all right, and no mistake. I'm delighted to hear it. I congratulate you—con fuoco! That means business. One—hundred—copies inoneday! Whew-w-w! Hang it, why don't you rejoice?"
"Because," said Mark, "I found out that the hundred copies were bought by one man for one man. A friend of mine on the Stock Exchange took the lot. The book is not selling."
"Sorry," said Tommy quietly. "I've read it. I've reviewed it. This," he tapped one of the clippings which he still held in his hand, "is mine. I got for it a few shillings, already spent, and the book which I shall keep, because it is written by a good fellow. It's not what's in the book which appeals to me, but what's in the writer, and which will come out—some day."
"Thank you," said Mark.
He returned to luncheon at Cadogan Place, humbled, and therefore, in a woman's eyes, meet for sympathy and encouragement.
"In any case," said Betty, "you have had the delight of writing the book. And itisstrong and subtle; but, Mark, few people are interested in slums. Your book made me cry, and I want to laugh. Life is so sad, why make it sadder?"
Mark had listened to interminable arguments upon this vexed question. But in Betty's tone and manner he caught a glimpse of a spectre.
"Your life is not sad," he said.
"I'm one of the lucky ones," she replied hastily "We were speaking of your book."
"Hang the book," said Mark impatiently "What is that to me in comparison with——" He stopped abruptly, got up from his chair, paced the length of the room, and came back.
"You are happy—are you not?" he asked. They were alone in the drawing-room, filled with the pictures and china which had come out of the saloon at The Whim. Archibald was presiding over one of his innumerable committees. Looking at Betty as she sat amongst things familiar to Mark from childhood, it was difficult to believe that she was a married woman. She still retained a bloom of maidenhood, a daintiness and freshness. Her face suggested the nymph rather than the matron.
"Of course I am happy," she replied; then she added in a whisper: "Mark, I ought to be happy, but I am a rebel."
"All women are rebels, Betty. Against what in particular do you rebel?"
"I oughtn't to tell you, but—but I must. I suppose I am the many-sided woman, who ought to have half a dozen husbands. I am interested in so many things. I like to browse here and there. But Archie doesn't care about anything or anybody outside his own vineyard. He is going up and up and I am—falling! Oh, I'm disloyal, but I must speak. It comes to this: Archie loves me and of course I love him, but we—we have nothing to say to each other when we're alone."
She sat, twisting her fingers, staring forlornly at the carpet. Mark burst into speech. At the sound of his voice, still so youthful in quality, she raised her head, smiling, eager, intent.
"Why, Betty, we all get blue at times, and sigh for what we've not got. There are women, no doubt, who are fatly content with their lives, but I don't suppose they go up or down. One pictures them in one spot, doing the same stupid thing, saying the same stupid thing for ever and ever. I think you're in a healthy state. When we feel that we are going down, we begin to beat our wings and flap upwards. Some saints, possibly, might be justified in taking a rest-cure; they are the ones who never do it."
He rose to go, not daring to stay.
"When are you coming again, Mark? You always do me good. Can't you spend next Sunday with us? By the way, have you ever been to our church?"
"Yes; the first Sunday Archibald preached."
"Oh! The sermon about Balaam."
"Yes."
"You know, he says that he's uneven. But the women in this parish think him wonderful. Some of them, who sit near the pulpit, make a point of crying whenever he gives them a chance. One told me that when he pronounced the Benediction she felt purged of all sin! I could have bitten her."
Mark promised to spend the following Sunday in Cadogan Place, and duly accompanied Betty to morning service. For nearly thirty minutes Archibald preached to a crowded congregation, who listened intently to a conventional theme, treated conventionally. Coming out Mark heard a tall, thin man, with a striking face, whisper to the woman beside him: "I came for bread; he gave us pap—in a golden spoon."
"Did you hear that?" said Betty, a moment later.
"Yes."
Some friends greeted Betty, and no more was said till luncheon, to which the Chrysostom of Sloane Street applied himself, as usual, seriously and silently. He looked slightly puffy and his eyes were losing their clearness and sparkle. Mark asked abruptly if he were overworked.
"Every minute is filled," said Archibald heavily. "Overworked? I can stand a lot of work."
"He would be miserable without it—and bored," said Betty. "He won't even come to concerts with me now."
"It's the work that tells, nowadays, my dear. Preaching gives a man a start, but it's the steady strain of parochial organisation which brings one to the top of the hill."
"You are neglecting your sermons," said Betty. "For several Sundays they have struck me as being—how shall I put it—uninspired. They hold one's attention, yes, but they do not grip; they touch, but they do not penetrate."
Archibald nodded, frowning and crumbling the bread beside his plate.
"The Duchess," he said, "stopped me this morning after church to tell me that she liked the treatment of my text immensely."
"Oh—the Duchess!" exclaimed Betty.
"I've so much on my mind," said Archibald, turning to Mark. He rose, looking at his watch. "I must go now to hear a man sing in Upper Tooting. The cigars are in my room."
He went out. As the door shut behind him, Betty turned a contrite face to Mark's.
"I hit him when he was down. What a beast I am!"
At that moment it became a conviction to Mark that Betty loved an ideal husband, who would fall from the pinnacle on which she had perched him. A feeling of pleasure at this impending catastrophe almost turned him sick. Then, very slowly, he resolved that the powers within him should be devoted to the preservation of an ideal, so vital to the welfare of the woman he loved. Betty began to speak of his literary work.
"When I read your book," she said, "I had an intuition that one day you would write a play."
Mark quoted Tommy Greatorex. "That's an easy job."
"I have a motif for you. The emotional treatment of religion. Look at the success of this new book,Robert Elsmere! The same success awaits the dramatist who can use like material. I should make the principal character a woman of passion with a strong sense of religion."
"A sinner?"
"Yes. It seems to me that sinners on the stage have great opportunities. The world must listen to what they have to say. In real life the good people do all the talking, the moral talking, I mean; an honest sinner holds his or her tongue. It's such a pity, for I'm sure your honest sinner loathes his sin. In my drama the sinner is saved, because the sense of what she has suffered, her personal experience of the horror and misery of sin, make for her salvation."
"The right man could do something with it, no doubt."
"Why not you, Mark?"
He fell into a reverie, staring into the fire. Betty perceived that he had wandered out of the world of speech into the suburbs of silence, where visions of what might have been come and go. Presently he said abruptly:
"Shall we walk?"
"There's an east wind blowing, evil for man and beast."
"You're neither. Come on."
They crossed the park, skirting the Serpentine, a dull, leaden-coloured lake wrinkled by the keen wind. On some of the benches sweethearts were sitting, serenely unmindful of the blast.
"They feel warm enough," said Betty, laughing. "Well, I'm in a glow, too."
When they returned to Cadogan Place, Archibald had just arrived from Upper Tooting. He said that he had found a superb tenor, whom he had engaged.
"He sang 'Nazareth'—quite admirably."
Betty, teapot in hand, looked up, interested at once.
"Oh, Archie, you have not sung 'Nazareth' for months. Do sing it after tea!"
"Do!" Mark added. "I haven't heard you sing for a year."
Finally, after a little pressing, Archibald seated himself at the piano, a beautiful Steinway. As he touched the keys, Betty's face assumed the expression of delighted receptivity so familiar to Mark. She glanced at the singer between half-closed eyes, lying back in her chair in an attitude of physical and mental ease. One hand drooped at her side, and as Archibald sang the fingers of this hand contracted and relaxed, keeping time to the rhythm of the song. Mark felt that her pulses were throbbing, quivering with delight and satisfaction. The music touched him also, stirring to determination his desire to help and protect the woman he loved. But when his thoughts turned, as they did immediately, to Archibald, they became of another texture and complexion. He had not prayed to God since that night on Ben Caryll. Now, beneath the spell of the music, he repeated to himself: "Oh God, take this hate from me; take this hate from me!"
When Archibald stopped singing, he said that he must go to his study for an hour's work before evening service. Mark accompanied him. As soon as they were alone, he blurted out what was in his mind.
"I say, Archie, if you want a little help, I'm your man. I suppose work means the preparation of your Advent sermons. I helped you last year. Shall I help you this?"
Archibald's face flushed.
"I don't know what's wrong with me," he muttered; "but ideas don't flow. If you would help—but, but you have your own work."
"My work! Well, it's lucky I've an allowance, or I should certainly starve. Archie, I'd like to help you. I ask it as a favour. Come on; what's the use of jawing? What's it to be this Advent? I thought of something in church this morning which you might lick into shape."
He filled his pipe, talking in his hesitating yet voluble way. Archibald, the practical, took a pad to jot down notes in shorthand. Mark began to pace the room as his ideas flowed faster. It seemed to him that he had dammed them up for many months; now they came down like the Crask after a big rain, a cleansing flood, carrying away all refuse, all barriers. When he had finished, Archibald arose ponderously and shook his hand.
"You're a wonderful fellow," he said slowly; "the hare you, the tortoise I. It was always so."
"The tortoise won the r-r-race," said Mark.
When he went to bed that night he flung open wide the window of his room. Outside, the night was inky black and tempestuous. Not a star to be seen above, and the lamps below burning dimly, throwing pale circles of light upon the wet, muddy street. Mark stood inhaling the fresh air, drawing long and deep breaths, saturating himself with it. Presently he muttered:
"I may be happy yet."
CHAPTER XXIX
THE PROCESSION OF LIFE
Late in May Betty was expecting to be confined; and Mark could see that Archibald tried in vain to conceal his anxiety. "One never knows how these affairs will end," he said a score of times to his brother, who replied, "Betty is strong; she will do well; you are foolish to borrow trouble." None the less, Mark's anxiety quickened also as the time approached, becoming the more poignant, possibly, because the birth of this baby emphasised his own isolation and loneliness. Betty as mother—and he felt sure that she would prove an admirable mother—appeared indescribably remote. Archibald as father, babbling already about hisson, obstructed the horizon.
"The boy may reign at Pitt Hall," said Archibald. "George has written to say that he hopes it will be an heir—hisword—because then he will feel at liberty to remain a bachelor. Do you think that Betty is as prudent as she ought to be?"
"She will do well, she will do well," Mark reiterated.
"You will come to us, Mark. I shall want you, you know."
"If you insist——"
"I don't think I could face it without you."
Betty added her entreaties. "I'm not afraid," she maintained; "but Archie is behaving like an old woman. Lady Randolph will be with me; I should feel easier if you were with Archie. How devoted you brothers are to each other!"
Mark hastily put up his hand to cover a smile which he felt to be derisive. Then he muttered awkwardly, "All right, I'll c-c-come."
Again he wondered whether she had suspected the hatred within him. Surely a creature of her intuitions and sympathies must know. And if she did know, and, knowing, faced the facts, trying to adjust the balance, piecing together the fragments of broken lives, was it not his duty, however painful, to help her and the man she had married? And perhaps she had foreseen that any peril threatening an object dear to both brothers might serve to unite them. The woman who had whirled them asunder must cherish the hope that she alone could bring them together.
When the hour came, when he was alone with Archibald at midnight, straining his ears for that thin, querulous wail of the newly born, he forgot everything except that Betty might be taken away. The doctor bustled in from time to time, cheery and sanguine at first, but as the hours passed betraying uneasiness and anxiety. Towards morning, when the whole world seemed to have grown chill and dreary, he asked for a consultation; and a servant was sent hot-foot for the most famous accoucheur in Harley Street.
Archibald rushed upstairs. He crawled down them a few minutes later, ghastly, trembling, the scarecrow of the prosperous Rector of St. Anne's. Mark, as white as he, seized his arm.
"Well, well, how is she? That fool of a doctor has exaggerated. They always make out everything to be more serious than it is."
"She is going, she is going," the husband muttered.
Mark shook him violently.
"Archie, you must pull yourself together. Do you hear?"
"It's a judgment, a judgment."
"What do you say?"
"I never told her about those two sermons. I'm a coward, a coward. You despise me—I have felt it."
The big fellow had collapsed, shrunk incredibly, depleted of windy self-assurance and vanity. Mark's hate and scorn and envy began to ooze from him as the old love, the virile instinct of the strong to comfort and protect the weak, gushed into his heart, suffusing a genial warmth through every fibre of his being.
"I gave them to you freely," he said. "I urged you to preach that first sermon. Put what is past from you."
But Archibald shook his head. Now that the silence was broken, he wished to speak, to give his shame and trouble all the words so long suppressed. In a pitiful manner he began a self-indictment—qui s'accuse s'excuse.
"If Betty is spared, I shall tell her the truth," he concluded.
Mark frowned, trying to measure the effect of such a belated confession on Betty. Then he heard his brother saying in the tone of conviction which so impressed his congregations, "Of course, Betty did not marry me because I preached those sermons."
Mark started. Temptation beset him to answer swiftly: "She did—she did. I know she did. Had it not been for my words in your mouth, she would have waited for, she would have married—me."
He turned aside his face, twisted and seamed by the effort of holding his tongue. Archibald continued: "It has been a secret sore. I thought hard work—I have worked very hard—would heal it. If—if she is spared, I shall speak for all our sakes."
Mark's voice was quite steady when he replied, "For all our sakes. You take me into account?"
"Why, of course. Don't you remember? You wished her to know. You said you would tell her. Why didn't you?"
"Why, indeed?" Mark echoed fiercely. Then, with a sudden change of manner, he went on: "You must do what you think best. Betty has placed you on a pinnacle. See that you don't topple over! Practise what you preach. Then you will save her soul and your own."
"We talk as if she were not dying."
"She will not die," said Mark solemnly. At that moment he was sure that Betty would live, must live, because (and the reason illumines the dark places through which Mark had passed), because it would be so much better for her if she died.
Just then the consulting surgeon arrived. Archibald took him upstairs, and returned to Mark within a quarter of an hour, saying that the case was even more serious than had been supposed.
"Drax sentenced me to death," said Mark, "but I'm alive and strong."
Archibald fell on his knees in an agony of supplication. Mark watched him. Suddenly the husband looked up.
"In the name of God, pray," he entreated. "You are a better man than I—pray!"
But Mark remained standing.
He desired to pray, but above this desire and dominating it was the vivid horror of that evil spirit, which had so lately fled and which might come back. A sense of unworthiness prostrated his spirit, but not his body. He glanced at Archibald, and left the room.
Outside, the gas in the hall and passages seemed to be struggling helplessly against the light of breaking day. Familiar objects—furniture belonging to the Admiral—loomed large out of a sickly, yellow mist. Mark found himself staring blankly at an ancient clock ticking with loud and exasperating monotony. It had so ticked away the seconds, the minutes, the hours of more than a hundred years!
The next objects that caught his eye were two umbrellas. They stood side by side, curiously contrasted: the one a dainty trifle of violet silk and crystal, encircled with a gold band; and the other large and massive with a symbolic shepherd's crook as a handle. These arrested Mark's attention. He remembered that he had chaffed Betty about her umbrella, telling her that it was too smart for a parson's wife, and absurdly frail as a protection against anything save a passing shower. She retorted that a wise woman never braves a storm, and then she had said with the smile he knew so well: "My umbrella, which, after all, is anen tout cas, is just like me: made for sunshine rather than rain."
He sat down, waiting, staring at Betty's umbrella. When he looked up Lady Randolph was coming down the stairs very slowly—a white-haired old woman. Something in her face choked the question which fluttered to his lips. To gain an instant's time, he opened the library door and called to his brother—
"Archie!"
Archibald appeared instantly.
"A girl has been born," said Lady Randolph, "but she is dead."
"Dead?" repeated Archibald.
"And Betty?" Mark demanded hoarsely.
"The doctors think she is safe."
The three passed into the dining-room, where some food had been laid out. Lady Randolph gave details in a worn voice. Betty's pluck had been amazing; she had displayed a fortitude lacking which she would probably have succumbed. The consulting surgeon, who entered shortly afterwards, assured the husband that, humanly speaking, the danger was over. Almost at once Archibald recovered his normal composure and dignified deportment. Mark, on the other hand, exhibited signs of collapse. He sat down shivering, as if he had been attacked by malignant malaria.
Next day he saw Betty for a couple of minutes. She smiled and thanked him, intimating that Archibald had told her that the suspense would have been intolerable had not Mark helped him to bear it. Of the loss of her baby she said nothing, but before Mark left the room she exacted a promise that he would come to see her during the period of convalescence.