He travelled to London by a train which reached Waterloo just after five. As he neared the city his mood changed from one of doubt and perplexity to reckless satisfaction. The hansom which took him to Charing Cross passed over Waterloo Bridge and down the Strand, always crowded at that hour of the afternoon. Twice the hansom was stopped by the uplifted hand of a policeman. Each time it drew up opposite a bar to which thirsty souls were hurrying. Mark's ears could catch the sound of ice tinkling in long tumblers. Corks were popping intermittently. A woman's laugh rang out above the buzz of innumerable voices. Mark stared at the faces of the foot-passengers. Most of the men were returning from work. An air of relaxation informed them. The day had been insufferably hot, but now a breeze from the river was flooding the streets, deliciously cool, astringent, tonic.The hansom turned in at the station gates, and a moment later a porter was asking Mark his destination. Mark gave the man instructions as he handed the cabby a florin."Thank ye, sir. 'Oliday times, sir.""Yes," said Mark, smiling. All round him were men and women, hard-working Londoners, about to escape into the country or to the seashore after a year's unremitting grind. The great summer exodus was now at its height. Some of the humbler folk carried articles wherewith to beguile the leisure hours: musical instruments, shrimping-nets, spades and buckets, telescopes, and the inevitable hamper of food.Mark, with time to spare after he had made arrangements for a coupé to Dover, caught the contagion of excitement and gaiety, and could enter into the feelings of an octogenarian who was renewing his youth by playing a penny whistle. Couples were numerous as birds in pairing-time. Mark looked at these with sympathetic interest. They drifted by, pair after pair, an eternal procession of Jacks and Jills. It struck Mark, not for the first time, that these couples were very youthful. And he felt that Betty and he shared their youth, that they had not waited too long. Presently a man of his own class approached, peering eagerly to right and left, consulting first his watch, and then the great clock. Mark watched him and followed him. The man was excited and nervous. Suddenly his face brightened; he ran forward, with both hands extended. "You have come at last," Mark heard him say. A pretty girl, her face suffused with blushes, murmured something, and the man answered hoarsely, "If you had chucked me, I should have cut my throat." Then they passed, arm in arm, laughing and chattering, into the crowd and out of sight. Mark looked at his watch. In less than ten minutes Betty would be here; she also would blush and smile; her hand would be on his arm; and together they would pass out of the noise and confusion into sweet, secluded spaces beyond!His train backed into the station, and passengers began to take their places. Mark made sure that his coupé was reserved for him, but he would not allow the porter to put his traps into it."I am expecting a friend," he said; and the porter grinned. He walked back to the trysting-place under the clock, one of half a dozen who had agreed to meet beneath it. Overhead, the great dial recorded the flight of time with inexorable, inhuman deliberation. Mark was fascinated by the minute hand, creeping on and on, nearing the appointed hour. Betty was running things rather fine, he reflected. In less than seven minutes the train would be despatched.Five minutes more glided by. The discordant noises of the station fell like the boom of distant breakers upon an ear attuned to the sound of one voice which out of all the voices in the universe was now mute. The porter approached, anxious and insistent. Mark stammered out a score of questions. The porter shook his head dismally."She must come," said Mark harshly.As if in derisive answer, the locomotive of the train about to start whistled. Doors banged. The long line of carriages began to move."'Ere she is," said the porter phlegmatically.Mark turned with thrilling pulses. A woman had rushed up to him, out of breath and scarlet in the face. That she had missed her train, and was distressed inconceivably, no one could doubt; but she was not Betty. Mark could have struck her. She stared stupidly at the vanishing train."It's gone," she said."Yes," said Mark grimly.He turned from her to meet the inquisitive stare of a messenger boy. The boy stared unblinking, and then said, "You're Mr. Samphire?""Yes," said Mark."I'm to give you this."He held out a letter. Mark took it, broke the seal, and read it, unmindful of porter and boy, who exchanged glances and winks; then he turned to the porter."Put my things into a hansom," he said in a dull voice."Yes, sir," said the porter.The boy took one more look at Mark."That was a knock-out," he murmured to himself, "a knock-out—sure!"CHAPTER XXXVCHRYSOSTOM RETURNS TO CHELSEABetty returned to Cadogan Place, conscious of an extraordinary buoyancy of spirit, of a gaiety even which made her demure maid stare. "Getting out o' this dirty old house makes you laugh, ma'am," she remarked."Yes," said Betty; "it makes me laugh."When the maid left the room, Betty sat down by the window which overlooked the gardens below, the gardens typical of such houses as the one she was leaving—conventionally laid out, fenced with sharply pointed iron palings, pleasure grounds wherein no person, out of their teens, took any pleasure whatever. Betty could see two children and a gaunt governess walking primly along one of the broad well-swept paths. One child, a nice fat little girl, escaped from bondage, hiding behind a bush. Betty could hear the voice of the governess calling to her, and then a sharp rebuke, as the truant came toddling back to the path."If my baby had lived——"She put the baby out of her thoughts. If it had lived, she and the child might have remained inside iron palings.Then, very deliberately, she faced the future. Her money was settled on herself. Mark and she could live where they pleased, as they pleased. If one place proved disagreeable they could move on and on; the world was wide.She smiled happily and contentedly. Many women, at such a moment, would have been distraught by anxiety and fear. But Betty was gladder than she had ever felt before. Indeed, she was triumphant. She told herself that every instinct she had tried to suppress was vindicated gloriously. To such a proud, refined woman the memory that she had flung herself at Mark's head had been always a dire humiliation, the more so because she had never measured the width and depth of his feeling for her. She repeated the phrase, "He has always loved me," again and again, letting the sweetness of it linger upon her lips.The inevitable sacrifice—the fact which Mark plainly pointed out that she, the woman, had more to lose than the man—was acclaimed. Hitherto, love—whether love of niece for uncle, of friend for friend, of wife for husband—had exacted nothing from her. She had been extremely generous with her money, giving away far more than the tithe. But the signing of cheques had not included one genuine act of self-denial on her part. Whatever she had done had been accomplished without effort, without pain.Her thoughts turned from herself to Mark. Immediately the smile faded from her face.How cruelly he had suffered! And with what a pleasant smile, with how gay a laugh he had confronted ill-health, ill-fortune, and disappointment!"I shall be so good to him," she swore beneath her breath. "I shall make it up to him—and I know how to do it."Here, again, what had gone before might be reckoned as fuel for the feeding of love's flames. She was no green girl, but a woman who understood men, who could speak the right word at the right time, and had learned to hold her tongue."We shall be the happiest pair in the world."Presently her eye fell upon the small bag she had carried to Weybridge. In it were the two sermons. She rose from her chair, hesitated a moment, and opened the bag. The sermons, she decided, must be locked up in one of the trunks she was leaving behind. The first sermon she had read the night before, but the second she had not read.She looked at her watch. Then she picked up the Windsor sermon, and sat down to read it, because, reading it, she would hear not Archibald's voice, but Mark's.The text met her eyes.Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.She read no further. The MS. fell from her fingers, and rolled upon the carpet. Betty did not see it, because she saw nothing. The familiar room, the gardens below, the great city beyond, faded from her vision. Darkness encompassed her. And out of the darkness, like the writing upon the wall of Belshazzar's palace in Babylon, flared the words of the text.Suddenly, with a violence of contrast which convulsed her, the darkness was dispelled, and she saw, even as Saul of Tarsus saw, a great light. If she read Mark's sermon, if she listened to the pleading voice of the priest, she would fail to keep tryst with the man, not because she feared for herself, but because this question could not be evaded: "Will my impurity prove a curse to him?"Bending down, she picked up the sheaf of papers, and thrust them fiercely into the trunk, which stood open near the window. Then she sank back into the chair, covering her face with her hands....So sitting, she was transported to the ancient, banner-hung chapel, wherein her husband had preached before his sovereign. But in the pulpit stood Mark, not his brother, and Mark as she remembered him long ago, the Mark of King's Charteris days, thin, pale, strong only in spirit; yet how strong, how valiant in that!But he was mute, save for the pleading of the eloquent eyes. Beneath the spell of these Betty rose once more, and stood beside the trunk, staring into it.Thus standing, she heard the clock in the tower of St. Anne's strike four. At that moment David Ross was praying for her and Mark, praying and believing that his prayer would be answered.Betty picked up the MS., locked the door, fell on her knees, and read the sermon through.She was still kneeling when the clock struck five. One hour had passed. Mark was nearing Charing Cross. She rose from her knees, and sat down to write a letter: an intolerably difficult task, which must be accomplished in a few minutes. She stared dully at the blank sheet of paper in front of her; then she wrote:—"I have read your sermon, the one preached at Windsor. Because of that I cannot come to you, and I entreat you not to come to me. Mark, my best beloved, I tempted you. May God forgive me! And I know—Iknow, I say—that He has stretched forth His hand to save us. And He willed that your words—what is best in you—the greatest thing you ever did—should stand between us. I cannot lower the Mark who wrote that sermon to my level. Oh, Mark, will you curse me as faithless? Or will you know that it is not my wretched soul I seek to save, but yours—yours."As soon as this is sent off I shall go to a friend's till Archibald returns. I must tell him the truth."Archibald Samphire returned from the Midlands to find a new house set in order and his wife awaiting him. He advanced to greet her with a warm word of affection and congratulation. But she held up her hand, and before the distress in her eyes he recoiled, astonished and dismayed.Although Betty knew that the lapse from honour involved in preaching another's sermon was as nothing compared with the sin she had contemplated, still she felt that the charge against her husband must be dealt with first. In a few words she told him of the breaking open of his desk and the discovery of Mark's MSS. He exhibited no confusion, but his expression changed and in a manner so amazing that Betty let fall a sharp exclamation."I am glad you know," he said simply.His voice, his face, his fine massive figure expressed relief. She repeated his words:"You are glad that I know?"She had made sure that he would excuse himself blandly, with dignity, looking down upon her; and she had told herself that his carefully chosen words would flood her with contempt, the stronger because her own speech would prove halting and unrestrained."Yes, yes. I was a coward. I meant to tell you: I swear it, but I couldn't." Then he repeated the phrase he had used to Mark: "God knows it has been a secret sore.""Why couldn't you tell me?" she asked."Because the right moment for doing so slipped by me.""You married me under false pretences.""Eh?""You wooed me with Mark's words.""Wooed you with—Mark's—words? I can't follow you."And here he stated a fact. He had neither the ability nor the intuition to follow a woman down the tortuous path of her feelings and aspirations. But at this moment he became aware that something dreadful remained to be said. Betty's pale, haggard face, her trembling fingers, her panting bosom, revealed an agitation which communicated itself to him. Let us be fair to a man with inexorable limitations. He had always believed that Betty married him for love. And he too had married for love—and other things which he valued; but the other things without love would not have tempted him to a mere marriage of convenience. And marriage with Betty had seemed at the time and afterwards the one thing needful: rounding a life too square, lending colour and sparkle to a profession whose habit is sable. If at times he had been vouchsafed a glimpse of barriers between his wife and himself, he attributed these to difference of sex. But till this minute he had believed her love as much an inalienable possession as his name. There was no love in the face half turned from his."You can't follow me," she repeated slowly. "That is true enough. Years ago, when we were children—babies—I loved Mark, and he loved me.""Paul and Virginia!""Yes, yes, Paul and Virginia.""We all knew that. At one time I thought you would marry Mark.""He never asked me," she replied, with blazing cheeks. "If he had, I should have married him, sick or well. I supposed that he didn't want me.""Why, so did I."She met his eyes fiercely."You swear that?""Certainly. Great heavens! You don't think that if I had thought otherwise I should have tried to supplant him. He went away and left the field open to all comers—Jim Corrance, Harry Kirtling—and me.""I have done you an injustice," Betty faltered.At this Archibald's sense of what was fitting asserted itself. "Come, come," he said, "I regret profoundly that I did not frankly avow those two sermons to be Mark's. I do not expect you to forgive me in a minute, but you are generous, sensible, and my wife. We must take up our lives where we left them less than a week ago.""That is impossible," said Betty.She felt a great pity for him. The blow must fall with hideous violence, shattering the man's just pride in what he had accomplished. His extraordinary success seemed of a sudden to be transformed into an immense bubble about to be pricked by a word.And when the word was spoken, when he knew everything, Betty saw what Mark had seen upon the night that the baby was born—the collapse of a personality. The big man who was to fill Lord Vauxhall's Basilica dwindled into a boy with the puzzled, wondering eyes of youth confronted for the first time with what it cannot understand. Betty felt old enough to be his mother, when he stammered out: "You—youhave done this thing?""I might have done it," she answered gently.He broke down."I have lost my brother and my wife," he groaned. "my brother and my wife."Instantly Betty realised what Mark had always known—the weakness of the colossus. And this knowledge that she was the stronger took the chill from her heart, restoring magically her moral circulation. Looking at him, she wondered how she could have blinded herself to his true proportions. She had deemed him a Titan!"What are you going to do?" he asked presently."That is for you to say. If you choose to put me from you——"He interrupted her."You would go to him.""No."He rose up and began to pace the room, glancing furtively at his wife, who never moved. Suddenly, seizing her arm, and speaking in a loud, trembling voice, he exclaimed: "Mark is dead—you understand that? Say it; say it!""Mark is dead," she repeated sombrely.CHAPTER XXXVIFENELLAMark went abroad immediately after the events narrated in the last chapter, and remained abroad for many months, trying to drown recollection of Betty in printer's ink. By a tremendous effort of will and unremitting grind he nearly succeeded, but at times he could see nothing save her face, hear nothing save her voice, feel nothing save the touch of her lips upon his. After these visitations he was beset by a Comus' crew of spectres: the innumerable disappointments of his life:toute l'amertume et tout le déboire de mille événements fâcheux.However, Compensation ordained that hisSongs of the Angelsshould please a certain section of the American public, and a substantial cheque crossed the Atlantic in a letter from Cyrus Otway, who asked for another novel. Mark had learned to use his pen (as Conquest once put it); but recognition—the acclaim of the multitude—seemed indefinitely remote.A Soul Errantappeared, and was pronounced by reviewers an admirable piece of work, but its sales were limited to a few thousand copies.From George Samphire, Mark learned that Archibald and Betty had entertained royalty upon the occasion when the first service was held in the Basilica. Tommy Greatorex wrote: "Your big brother is booming Vauxhall's new neighbourhood, and no mistake!" From Betty herself came no word whatever. Archibald, so Mark told himself, had forgiven her, determined to preserve appearances, to keep the wife with wealth and beauty, to guard her zealously from the man who had tried to deprive him of so valuable a possession. Once again, hatred of Archibald consumed him. In his heart he knew that Betty was pining for one line—the generous "I forgive you. I understand." But these words he could not write. He believed that she had failed him, that she had lacked courage, and lacking it, had grasped the first excuse pat to lip and hand. It seemed incredible that a sermon should stand between a woman and the man she loved. Curiously enough, he could not recall a line of this sermon thrown off, as it had been, in a brief fever of excitement and enthusiasm. Again and again, he repeated to himself the beatitude, and wondered what he had found to say about it.On his return to England he moved from Weybridge to Hampstead, where another shelter was built in a small garden overlooking the Heath.Meantime, Mary Dew had married Albert Batley, and when Mark paid her a brief visit he found the bride beaming, obviously content with her lot, and very proud of her husband's success as a contractor. Mrs. Dew explained matters:"You see, Mr. Samphire, it's like this: Albert Batley just worships Mary, and she makes him very comfortable. Tasty meals go a long way with men who have a living to earn in this cruel, hard world."Just as he was leaving Mary said shyly: "I hope, Mr. Samphire, we shall hear of your getting married. If ever a gentleman wanted a wife to look after him, you are he."Mark laughed; then he replied in his easy, genial way: "Yes, yes; if you had a twin sister, Honeydew, I should ask her to live up a tree with me."Alone at Hampstead, he wondered whether a wife was waiting for him somewhere: a kind, sweet creature, who would teach him to forget. Drax had told him that, humanly speaking, he was now free from that insidious disease which spares so few of its victims. With care he might live out his three-score years and ten; he could marry—if he so pleased. And for the first time since his father's death, a balance, steadily increasing, lay at his bankers.About midsummer he began his first play—a comedy, which had been simmering in his brain for many months. He showed the scenario to Greatorex, who was not encouraging."You've immense difficulties ahead of you. Your unknown playwright must write his play for one actor-manager, whose ability it illumines" (Tommy was quoting from an article of his on the modern drama), "and whose weakness it obscures. And your moral purpose must be disguised, so as to give the dramatic critic a chance to discover it. Personally, there's nothing I enjoy so much as discovering in a play something which the author never thought of. Now, then, having written your play, you must persuade your actor-manager to spend some thousands in producing it adequately. All said and done, I'd stick to novels, if I were you.""I must write this play," said Mark.He wrote it and rewrote it. Then he read it aloud to Greatorex, who pointed out many technical blunders. Not till the play was actable in every detail would Tommy pass it as fit to be sent the rounds.And then followed interminable, heartbreaking delays and disappointments. Actors and actresses, with rare exceptions, keep plays for months without reading them, answer no letters, and unhesitatingly break all promises unprotected by iron-clad contracts. Finally, the comedy, returned for the sixth time, was flung by Mark into a drawer and forgotten.Next summer Mark read in his morning paper the announcement of a son born to Archibald. A son! It was enough that the fellow should desire anything, anything, for the object to fall into his grasp! Then, in a passionate revulsion of feeling, wondering how Betty fared, he hastened to Chelsea and furtively interviewed Dibdin, who assured him that his mistress was doing not only as well as, but better than, the doctor expected. Mark gave Dibdin a sovereign and instructions to report once a day by letter for three weeks. Dibdin, an old friend and as discreet as an archbishop, promised to write, volunteering the information that the baby was an "uncommon fine boy, a Samphire every inch of him." From Jim Corrance, later, Mark learned that Betty was likely to prove an adoring mother. Jim had seen her with the urchin. "She has changed," he told Mark, in his blunt fashion. "It's natural, I suppose; one couldn't wish for anything else; but the Betty of King's Charteris is out of sight. As for Archie—he looks patriarchal."If Jim wondered why Mark never entered his brother's house, he was too shrewd to ask questions. Perhaps he guessed more or less accurately at the truth. A score of times, Mark was tempted to take his arm and tell his old friend everything. Betty, however, could not be betrayed; and speech with reserves, with abysmal silences, would avail nothing. But if he could have unburdened his soul, what a relief, what a balm it would have proved!After writing some pot-boiling short stories and articles, he plunged into a second play, a tragedy, dealing with the inevitable surrender of woman to tradition and convention. In accordance with Tommy Greatorex's advice, this play was built up for Mrs. Perowne, an English actress-manager, who had recently returned from an enormously successful tour in the United States and Australia. Mark went to see her act again and again, fascinated by her methods, which were those of Duse, and by her vivid and extraordinary beauty. She had red hair, a milk-white skin, a Spanish cast of features, the spirits and inconsequence of a child, and amazing physical and intellectual activity. Mr. Perowne, an American, had divorced her after a very stormy year of marriage. Since, he had died.This second play,Fenella, was written in a spirit compounded of recklessness and patience. Mark was reckless inasmuch as his money was nearly gone; patient, because the artist within him told him that he must make haste slowly. But at the back of this supreme endeavour, ever-increasing and all-absorbing, was the determination to achieve a success which would surpass that of his brother. Archibald and he never met, for Mark saw none of his old friends save Pynsent and Jim Corrance, but Archibald's name and fame were for ever in his ears. A great reputation is hard to make in England, or elsewhere, but once made it is easily sustained. The Basilica was crowded every Sunday morning. Mark slipped in one day, wondering what sort of fare would be provided. He found it nicely flavoured to the palate of the town. Jim Corrance growled out, "Archie gives 'em easily digested food. Of course he hasn't time to prepare such sermons as that Westchester one. He's up to his eyes in parochial work. That's what makes bishops nowadays."Mark saw Betty in her pew without being seen by her. She looked pale and thin, but not unhappy.After the visit to the Basilica Mark worked even harder than before, although he worked in the open air, and with due regard for his health. If that failed again, he was conscious that he would be bankrupt indeed. Accordingly, he lived a life of Spartan simplicity, and played golf regularly with Jim or Tommy Greatorex. ButFenellaobsessed him. He told Jim that he was glad the comedy had not been produced, becauseFenellawas stronger and better written. Tommy growled out protests and warnings: "Fenella, whose acquaintance I'm anxious to make, may prove an ungrateful hussy. For Heaven's sake don't pin your hopes to her petticoat!"When the fourth act was nearly finished, Sybil Perowne appeared in a new play, an adaptation of a French drama, which had enjoyed asuccès fouin Paris. Mark and Tommy went to see it and found an audience cold and indifferent. As they came out of the theatre, Mark heard a stout dowager whisper to her daughter, "My dear, I don't know what it means, but it's taken away my appetite for supper.""There you are," said Tommy. "Beware, Mark, of tampering with the British playgoer's appetite for supper. This thing is too sad. It won't go. Ah, well, the shrewdest managers make abominable mistakes, and the most successful is the fellow who makes least.""Fenellais sadder than this.""Um!" said Tommy. "Sorry to hear that, my boy."But when the tragedy was read aloud, Greatorex professed himself amazed. He jumped up excitedly."I believe you've found yourself, 'pon my soul! And Sybil is mad keen for a new play. Hullo! Phew-w-w!"Mark had fainted.When he came to himself he admitted that he had been unable to sleep for several nights. Tommy talked like a sage, advising moderation, but knowing—none better—thatFenellacould never have been born without pangs. With his sense of the dramatic he perceived that Mark in his present condition would be likely to impress the actress, herself highly strung and emotional. The good fellow took pains to arrange an interview, obtaining permission to call and bring a friend."I've cracked you up as the coming novelist, who's dying to make her acquaintance. I said in a postscript that you raved about her.""She is magnificent," said Mark."She never reads plays. But you must corner her. Spar free! I tell you frankly she's a slippery one. I was her Press agent for a season. If possible, I want her to hear all about her part before she hands the play on to that scoundrel Gonzales."Gonzales was Mrs. Perowne's manager. Mark frowned when his name was mentioned. He had heard of Gonzales.Mrs. Perowne made the appointment for three. At two Mark met Greatorex in his rooms. Tommy was in his oldest clothes and hard at work."I'm not coming," he announced. "Never meant to, either. Why, man, I should wreck your chance. Here's a letter with a gilt-edged lie in it. Have you the play? Yes. Now, look here; leave it in the hall with your overcoat. Persuade her, if you can, to listen to the last scene of the third act. Don't leave the house without giving her some of it, if you have to force it down her throat. She'll respect your determination. Report here.""I c-c-can't r-r-read it," stammered Mark.Tommy hit his desk so hard with his fist that the ink bespattered it."Mark," he said solemnly, "I am counting on your making an exhibition of yourself. Be sure to stammer, burst a blood-vessel, faint, have a fit, but stick to your job. Now—go!"Mark was pushed out of the room by his friend. When the door slammed behind him Greatorex burst out laughing. "He won't stammer now, and he'll read his play."Mark was shown by an irreproachable butler into a small room hung with silk and filled with Japanese furniture. The dominant note was the grotesque if not the monstrous. Everything—from the embroideries on the walls to the tiny carved figures in the cabinets—indicated the cult of deformity.He was examining a bit of enamel when Mrs. Perowne came in, holding out both hands."Tommy's friends are always welcome here," she said graciously. "That's a nice bit—isn't it? It's not Japanese at all, but Byzantine, as I dare say you know."Mark confessed that he knew nothing of enamels. He sat down, glancing at his hostess, who was not unconscious of his scrutiny and surprise. Always, men meeting her for the first time off the stage were amazed at her appearance of youth. She braved the light from the window with impunity. Hair, complexion, eyes might have belonged to a maiden of twenty. But the mouth—her most remarkable feature—betrayed the woman of maturity. It was large, finely curved, and mobile. Her eyes were of a rich chestnut tint."You want to tell me about a play?" she said, with a low laugh."How did you d-d-divine that?""The expression of a man who has written a play is unmistakable. Well, I am in a charming humour this afternoon. What is the play about?À propos—are you the famous Mr. Samphire's brother?"Unconsciously Mark winced."Yes," he said shortly."Tell me about your play.""I c-c-can't," he said. For a moment he hesitated, feeling the lump rising in his throat; then some emanation from the woman opposite—a sense of sympathy—restored his confidence. His face—so plain when troubled—broke into a smile. "It's like this," he continued: "I hate to give you a synopsis of it. L-l-let me read a scene or two. You can make up your mind in a jiffy whether it pleases you or not; and if it doesn't, I'll go at a nod from you.""But I never listen to plays. Surely that wretch, Tommy, told you. I talk them over before they're written. I've got someone coming in three-quarters of an hour to talk over an unwritten play. The hundreds which are sent to me to read are always passed on to Alfred Gonzales."Mark felt his confidence oozing from every pore. In another minute his hostess would be bored. At this ignominious probability his fighting instincts asserted themselves."I wrote this play for you," he said slowly. "I can't see another woman in it at all. And somehow,"—he stretched out his lean, finely formed hands with a dramatic gesture—"somehow I seem to have gripped you, elusive though you are. Tommy says you're a good sort. Be good to me—for ten minutes. The play's downstairs in the hall. Let me fetch it. Shall I?""Yes—fetch it."He ran like a boy from the room. Mrs. Perowne got up, glanced at herself in a small mirror, and sat down in the seat which Mark had just left. The change was not without significance. Before, she had wished to be seen; now she wished to see. When Mark came back she said quietly: "Begin at the beginning."At that moment Mark felt once more the accursed lump in his throat. His face contracted. The woman closely watching him rose and laid her hand upon his shoulder."You have an impediment of speech," she whispered. "Take your time. You have interested me. I like men who surmount obstacles. I'll sit here till you can read your play. I'm going to mix two tiny cocktails, Martigny cocktails: mild as Mary's little lamb."When she came back Mark was at his ease; she had ceased to be a stranger. He drank the cocktail, and began the first act. Mrs. Perowne lay back in her chair, watching him with half-closed eyes. She never moved, absorbing in silence every word and intonation. When Mark had finished, she nodded gaily."The first act is capital. When will you come and read the others?""At any hour you choose—day or night.""To-morrow at twelve then. You must stay to luncheon afterwards."CHAPTER XXXVIIPOPPY AND MANDRAGORAHalf an hour later Mark was describing what had passed to Greatorex, who listened with an odd smile upon his ugly, intelligent face: the smile which is typical of so much that is left unsaid, the smile of a knowledge and an experience which cannot be imparted. Greatorex had appetite for such food as Mark was giving him, and he demanded every crumb. While Mark was speaking the journalist smoked. The smoke ascended in fragrant clouds, melting into the thickening atmosphere of the room. It struck Greatorex, not for the first time, that the reek of good tobacco manifested all the things for which men strive and to which it would seem to be predestined that they should not attain. Greatorex asked himself what life would be without the fragrance of hopes and ambitions which float from us and vanish. And how stale, how offensive their odour becomes unless the windows of the mind be flung wide open!"Mark," he said, dropping the end of his cigarette, "you are desperately keen on this?"He meant his words to be taken as affirmation or interrogation, according to Mark's mood. He never invited confidences withheld."Yes," Mark replied."Why?"When the eyes of the two men countered, a third person would have remarked in them an extraordinary difference in colour and quality. Greatorex had the onyx eyes of a gipsy, bright yet obscured by mysterious flickering tints, the eyes which conceal and so seldom reveal the thoughts behind them. Mark's blue eyes had that candid expression which pertains to children's eyes."Why?" Mark repeated the pregnant word. "I think you know why. I have failed in everything I have undertaken. I have pursued success as if it were a will-o'-the-wisp——""Which it is——""And if once I could hold it in my hand, if I could say to myself, I have it—it is mine—why then——"He paused."You care so much for fame—you?""I ask for recognition, not because recognition is in itself a hall mark of success, but because without it labour would seem to be wasted. What is the use of a great poem, a great book, which remains unread? A gospel is no gospel until it is preached to thousands.""Don't set your heart on this play being produced!""Ihaveset my heart on that, Tommy.""If Sybil takes a fancy to you——" he paused.Mark's ingenuous stare was disconcerting. He continued lightly: "I warn you that she may like you better thanFenella. It would not surprise me if she liked you rather too well.""Don't be a fool," said Mark angrily."If I could only be a fool," Greatorex murmured. "Depend upon it fools have the best of it. And they live, some of 'em, in the only paradise to be found on this planet. Well, I have spoken, I have warned you."Upon the following day Mark returned at the hour appointed to Mrs. Perowne's flat. The butler, impassive as the Sphinx, showed him into the same room with its curious atmosphere of the East. In a few minutes the actress appeared in akimonoof some silvery tissue embroidered in gold, with her hair doneà la Japonaise, and embellished with barbaric ornaments. Clad in this she became a part, and the greatest part, of the room. Looking at her, Mark felt ill at ease in his blue serge suit. At the same time he tried to measure the difference between the woman in thekimonoand all other women whom he had known. Mrs. Perowne smiled, reading his thoughts."I am quite, quite different to all the others," she said softly. "I ought to have lived in the days of Herod Antipas."When she spoke of Herod, Mark remembered that she had Jewish blood in her veins. Her father had been a well-known English picture-dealer; her mother, a famous dancer, a Spanish Moor. Her Moorish ancestors, of whom the actress boasted, were Jews to the marrow, although living in Spain, outwardly subject to the faith of most Catholic monarchs. For generations these people had lived and died incomparable actors, sustaining from the cradle to the grave a rôle above which glittered the knives of the Inquisition. Mark began to understand that the woman smiling at him was natural, most true to herself, when playing a part—and yet beneath a thousand disguises throbbed the heart of the Jewess, the child of all countries and of none.Mark read his play.As he read it, he realised how poor an instrument lay in his throat. He was hoarse from a neglected cold, and his voice, though flexible, betrayed the effort made to control it. But the stammer spared him. To Sybil Perowne, familiar with and therefore slightly contemptuous of the arts of the elocutionist, this rough, uneven inflection and articulation had something of the charm of a disused viol or harpsichord, whose frayed, worn strings still hold jangled echoes of cadences melodic and harmonious long ago. She had the perceptions of the artist, and that feeling for art which is partly a gift and partly the result of patient training. Her perceptions enabled her to see Mark Samphire as he was, the man who had fought against odds; her feeling for art approved his work as the epitome and expression of that fight dramatically set forth in admirable English. At the end of the second act the reader looked up for a word of approval: "Go on!" she said. The climax of the third act provoked an exclamation at Mark's physical distress. She brought him a glass of champagne and insisted upon his drinking it. But he saw that her eyes were shining. He plunged into the fourth act and stumbled through it: every word rasping his throat. When he had finished she jumped up as Greatorex had done."I am a woman of impulse," she cried. "I will produce your play."Mark stared at her, not believing his ears."You will p-p-produce it?" he stammered."Yes," she answered. "I don't say there's money in it; I don't say it hasn't faults and crudities; but I do say it's a play—and it pleases, it touches, it thrills—me."She held out her hand. Mark had an intuition that she wished him to kiss it. He raised it gratefully to his lips."And now," she said gaily, "luncheon! I am famished. There is no sauce like emotion. That is why Spanish people eat so much at funerals."At luncheon she asked a score of questions about his work and life."Last night," she said, "I readThe Songs of the Angels. You have heard these songs yourself, eh? But—do you hear them now?"She held his glance, faintly smiling at the colour which rushed into his cheeks."There are angels and angels," he said evasively."But, if I have interpreted your meaning, the angels you write about are heard only by the—shall I offend you if I say—the saints. You are not a saint?""Hardly," said Mark."But you might be," she murmured; "that is why you interest me"—she paused, sighed, and finished the sentence—"so much. I have never met a saint; I have never met a man who had the makings of a saint in him—till to-day."Mark knew that she had challenged him."Out of the makings of a saint," he said curtly, "the devil fashions the greatest sinner.""You believe in the devil?"Mark shrugged his shoulders."The devil is 'evil' with a big D before it. I certainly believe in evil.""I have to drag answers from you. Do you dislike this sort of talk? Perhaps you think me indiscreet, impudent; but I like to get my bearings. It saves bother. You can ask me anything—anything, if, if you regard me as a friend.""I do," he said hastily; but he asked no questions."I don't quite understand you," she said slowly; "and of course you don't understand me. I am sure, judging from your book, your play, and—and your face, that you have an extravagant admiration for what you think to be good women. Is it not so? You needn't take the trouble to say 'yes.' And I'm only a good—sort. I have a sound body, of which I take the greatest care, and a sane mind; but I was born without a soul.Enfin, the conclusion is inevitable—for me—I do not believe in the soul but you do?""I did," he answered.She offered him a cigarette, and lit one herself, as the Sphinx-like butler brought coffee and liqueurs. The luncheon had been very simple. Sipping her coffee, the actress began to talk ofFenella."You wrote the part, you say, for me; but you have drawnFenellafrom life."Mark denied this."You may have done it subconsciously, but you've done it. Now tell me, have you worked out the technical details? Have you estimated the probable expense?""I suppose the adequate mounting of it will be costly.""Between three and four thousand pounds," said Mrs. Perowne carelessly.Soon after he took his leave. The play remained in the actress's possession. No mention was made of terms. Mrs. Perowne had said that Gonzales would look it over. Greatorex expressed astonishment that the affair had come to a head so suddenly, and congratulated Mark; but he added that a contract must be signed as soon as possible."You don't think——" began Mark."My dear fellow, I know a poor devil whose first play was accepted six years ago. It has not been produced yet! Strictly between ourselves, I don't mind telling you that I'm the man.""But if your lawyer——""I can't afford to make an enemy of the actor-manager whostillhas it! I blame myself; I had no contract. We'll prepare a corker for you. I take it that you want nothing if the thing fails, and a fair profit if it goes—eh? Just so. When do you see the fascinating Sybil again? To-morrow. Have you made love to her? She expects it from every man. Not many disappoint her."He laughed at Mark's confusion, and compared him to the infant Moses found by Pharaoh's daughter in the bulrushes. The friends celebrated the acceptance of the drama at a restaurant, and Mark made merry."You feel it?" said Tommy."Eh?""Success tickling the palm of your hand?""I shall mark this day with red, of course!""If we were in the West of America," said Greatorex, "we should paint the night as red asla belleSybil's hair. This sort of thing has only a tinge of pink in it. Have you ever let yourself go, Mark? Of course not! There is nothing of the beast in you. You might kill yourself, or somebody else, but I can't fancy you on all fours."They returned to the club, where some choice spirits were discussing art and literature in a fog of tobacco-smoke. But Mark, who joined them, saw no fog—only the sun, shining upon all things and all men."He's had a four-act play accepted," Greatorex explained. "There's no more to tell yet."Several of the men shook Mark's hand. Glasses were replenished, fresh cigars lighted. Mark laughed as gaily as any, delightfully aware that he was receiving something—so to speak—on account, a few pieces of silver, cash down to bind a bargain. Some of his companions were celebrities. It seemed to him that for the first time he was of them as well as with them. These Olympians asked for his opinion, laughed at his jokes, approved his suggestions. The hours passed swiftly and pleasantly.But walking home to Hampstead, beneath the stars, in an air purged by frost, his triumph dwindled to mean proportions. He considered the events of the day. Out of these, now become shadows for the most part, the face of Sybil Perowne stood out substantially: a fact to be reckoned with. He asked himself if he liked her. Was he attracted by her beauty and cleverness? No; these had not touched him. Yet he was attracted—and by what? A vision of the Japanese room revealed the fascination, so mysterious, so alluring to the imagination, of the occult. The sorceress beguiled the fancy of a man who had only cared for good women. He found himself speculating in regard to her. Doubtless the Sphinx-faced butler could tell some tales—an he would!If he saw much of her, would he forget Betty? The child of the Moorish dancer gave poppy and mandragora to those who sought her.He had made an appointment with Mrs. Perowne in the afternoon, but in the morning, having nothing to do, he thought he would like to see Pynsent. Pynsent owned a queer old-fashioned house in Kensington. Mark rang the bell, which was answered by a delightful Frenchbonne, who made the best omelette in the world and worshipped Pynsent. Certainly, Monsieur would be charmed to see his friend. Alas! yes; the dear studio in Paris had been abandoned. She, Francine, was desolated, but what would you? Monsieur Pynsent made gold in this detestable London instead of silver in enchanting Paris! So chattering, she conducted Mark to the big studio, which was found to be empty. The master had slipped out for a minute. Would Monsieur Mark sit down? Before he had time to smoke a tiny cigarette, his friend would be shaking both his hands. She gave Mark the cigarettes, the potent Caporal cigarettes, handed him the latest Paris paper, popped a log on to the fire, and bustled away.Mark looked about him. The studio, simply furnished, bare of those tapestries and properties which most painters buy as soon as they begin to earn money, was, in short, a workshop full of ingenious appliances for obtaining curious effects of colour, light and shade. In the middle of it stood a huge oak easel. Several large canvases were turned to the wall. An open paint-box, a palette, a bowl full of the coarse, broad brushes which Pynsent used, told Mark that work was about to begin. Pynsent took few holidays. Work had become to him not a means to an end, but the end itself. But then such work as his was an end, an accomplishment, a victory. Finality distinguished every touch. Mark lit one of the French cigarettes, because he knew the fumes of it would bring back the pleasant days in theRue de l'Ancienne Comédie. He wondered whether Pynsent—the least sentimental of men—smoked Caporal tobacco for the same reason. Possibly. But more probably because he was a man in a groove. One could not conceive of Pynsent with a butler and footmen. He lived now as he had always lived, regardless of Mrs. Grundy, who said tartly that the great painter was a pincher.After a whiff or two, theRue de l'Ancienne Comédierevealed itself as it appeared one morning when a couple of brother students were removing themselves and their belongings from one studio to another. Mark had lent two willing hands and a tongue which outwagged a terrier's tail. The students possessed a chest full of costumes. In these their friends had arrayed themselves. From several adjoining studios came other students and their models, all anxious to help—or hinder. Every article was carried in procession down the narrow street to the sounds of loud laughter, of banjo and mandoline, of drum and cornet, and of various songs. A diminutive Frenchman, beardless as a baby, had taken off most of his clothes and was sitting cross-legged in the middle of a large flat bath, which four of his friends were carrying, arm-high, down the street. The little man had robed himself in a rough towel; he wore a sponge-bag on his head; and he hugged to his bare chest an enormous sponge. All down the street, windows were flung up. Everybody joined in the fun."Une petite surprise pour Monsieur—et Madame."The voice of the good Francine put to flight the joyous procession. Mark rose up, flung away the half-smoked cigarette, and saw Betty advancing into the studio. Francine hobbled away. She knew that Betty had married Mark's brother."Betty!""Mark!""Don't go," said Mark, as she paused irresolute. "Pynsent is painting you, I suppose. He will be here in a minute. I'll go.""You never wrote," she faltered."Was it likely? How is the boy?""I expected a word of—forgiveness. The boy is very well.""Is he like you?""Everybody says so."He was silent and very pale, whereas Betty's face was suffused with delicate colour. He was trying to resist an overmastering impulse to take her in his arms, when he heard Pynsent's step, and a moment afterwards his clear incisive voice."I am ashamed that I was not here to receive you, Mrs. Samphire. But I know you'd sooner talk to Mark than me. I'm painting her, Mark. You shall give us your opinion. I've not seen you for a coon's age. What? Nonsense, my dear fellow. I can paint just as well while you're here. You must stay as long as you possibly can. Mustn't he, Mrs. Samphire?""Of course," said Betty in her ordinary voice. Pynsent dragged a canvas across the studio and placed it on the easel."There," said he, "what do you think of that?"Mark approached the easel, as Betty turned to remove her hat and jacket. The portrait, almost completed, was three-quarters length: a daring study in what at first glance seemed to be black-and-white. As a matter of fact, black, as pigment, was not used at all. The effect of it was produced by the admixture and contrast of colour. Looking into the translucent shadows the eye detected brilliant tints."It's one of the best things I've done," said Pynsent. "It's kept me awake nights, this portrait. I got that shadow under the chin by a trick I learnt in Florence. You lay three colours one on top of the other. It's great. The fellow who discovered it can't draw; he'd be a wonder if he could——"Pynsent went on talking, unaware of what was passing in the minds of his friends. Betty sat down on the model's dais, and Pynsent arranged her hands, still talking volubly of light and colour effects. Mark remained staring at the picture. "You haven't said what you think of it," concluded Pynsent, as he picked up his palette."For whom are you painting it?""It's an open secret, isn't it?" said the painter, glancing sideways at his model. "The grateful Vauxhall wishes to give it to your brother. But I had difficulty in persuading Madame to sit.""Vauxhall," repeated Mark stupidly."Archie, they say, has put thousands into his pocket. He boomed the price of all bricks and mortar within a mile radius of the Basilica. Well—your opinion, my dear fellow."Mark still hesitated. Pynsent was famous for his delineation of character. He had the power of seizing and transferring to canvas those delicate shades of expression which reveal the real man and woman. In pourtraying Betty, he had emphasised the mother in her at the expense, possibly, of the wife. The portrait was hardly flattering in the generally received sense. The face was troubled; lines and shadows lay on it. Betty's youth and beauty were subdued, as if beneath the touch of suffering rather than time. But the general effect remained that of a grace and loveliness independent of colour and texture. The admirable contours, the delicate modelling of cheek and brow and chin, indicated a noble maturity not yet attained but certain to be attained. Not at that moment, however, did Mark realise that Pynsent's portrait was an incomparable likeness of the Betty who had failed to keep tryst because the higher nature had overcome the lower and baser. But he did grasp a part of the truth. He told himself that if Betty had not suffered, Pynsent would have painted another and a different portrait."The face is strange to me," said Mark."What?" Pynsent exclaimed, staring at the speaker. "You, you say that? Why of all men, I——" He broke off abruptly, sensible of some psychological disturbance, puzzled and distressed. Mark laughed harshly. He had almost betrayed himself. Then he glanced at Betty. Her likeness to the picture was extraordinary."You m-m-misunderstand me," he stammered. "I meant to say that you had painted a woman who has changed. We all change. I hardly recognise my own f-face. This picture is, as you say, the b-b-best thing you've done, and I congratulate you warmly. I'd like to see it again. But now I must r-r-run away. I d-dropped in to tell you that my play is accepted."This piece of news effectively cloaked his nervousness. Pynsent and Betty expressed their pleasure and congratulation. Mark shook hands and escaped."I thought he was not himself," said Pynsent, picking up his palette. "This will make up for a good deal, won't it? I know exactly how he feels. Great Scott! It seems only yesterday that I had my first picture hung in the Salon. I was skied, but I was the happiest man in Paris. All the same, Mark did not strike me as looking happy—eh?"She answered his sharp "eh" and still sharper glance with a constrained "N-n-no."
He travelled to London by a train which reached Waterloo just after five. As he neared the city his mood changed from one of doubt and perplexity to reckless satisfaction. The hansom which took him to Charing Cross passed over Waterloo Bridge and down the Strand, always crowded at that hour of the afternoon. Twice the hansom was stopped by the uplifted hand of a policeman. Each time it drew up opposite a bar to which thirsty souls were hurrying. Mark's ears could catch the sound of ice tinkling in long tumblers. Corks were popping intermittently. A woman's laugh rang out above the buzz of innumerable voices. Mark stared at the faces of the foot-passengers. Most of the men were returning from work. An air of relaxation informed them. The day had been insufferably hot, but now a breeze from the river was flooding the streets, deliciously cool, astringent, tonic.
The hansom turned in at the station gates, and a moment later a porter was asking Mark his destination. Mark gave the man instructions as he handed the cabby a florin.
"Thank ye, sir. 'Oliday times, sir."
"Yes," said Mark, smiling. All round him were men and women, hard-working Londoners, about to escape into the country or to the seashore after a year's unremitting grind. The great summer exodus was now at its height. Some of the humbler folk carried articles wherewith to beguile the leisure hours: musical instruments, shrimping-nets, spades and buckets, telescopes, and the inevitable hamper of food.
Mark, with time to spare after he had made arrangements for a coupé to Dover, caught the contagion of excitement and gaiety, and could enter into the feelings of an octogenarian who was renewing his youth by playing a penny whistle. Couples were numerous as birds in pairing-time. Mark looked at these with sympathetic interest. They drifted by, pair after pair, an eternal procession of Jacks and Jills. It struck Mark, not for the first time, that these couples were very youthful. And he felt that Betty and he shared their youth, that they had not waited too long. Presently a man of his own class approached, peering eagerly to right and left, consulting first his watch, and then the great clock. Mark watched him and followed him. The man was excited and nervous. Suddenly his face brightened; he ran forward, with both hands extended. "You have come at last," Mark heard him say. A pretty girl, her face suffused with blushes, murmured something, and the man answered hoarsely, "If you had chucked me, I should have cut my throat." Then they passed, arm in arm, laughing and chattering, into the crowd and out of sight. Mark looked at his watch. In less than ten minutes Betty would be here; she also would blush and smile; her hand would be on his arm; and together they would pass out of the noise and confusion into sweet, secluded spaces beyond!
His train backed into the station, and passengers began to take their places. Mark made sure that his coupé was reserved for him, but he would not allow the porter to put his traps into it.
"I am expecting a friend," he said; and the porter grinned. He walked back to the trysting-place under the clock, one of half a dozen who had agreed to meet beneath it. Overhead, the great dial recorded the flight of time with inexorable, inhuman deliberation. Mark was fascinated by the minute hand, creeping on and on, nearing the appointed hour. Betty was running things rather fine, he reflected. In less than seven minutes the train would be despatched.
Five minutes more glided by. The discordant noises of the station fell like the boom of distant breakers upon an ear attuned to the sound of one voice which out of all the voices in the universe was now mute. The porter approached, anxious and insistent. Mark stammered out a score of questions. The porter shook his head dismally.
"She must come," said Mark harshly.
As if in derisive answer, the locomotive of the train about to start whistled. Doors banged. The long line of carriages began to move.
"'Ere she is," said the porter phlegmatically.
Mark turned with thrilling pulses. A woman had rushed up to him, out of breath and scarlet in the face. That she had missed her train, and was distressed inconceivably, no one could doubt; but she was not Betty. Mark could have struck her. She stared stupidly at the vanishing train.
"It's gone," she said.
"Yes," said Mark grimly.
He turned from her to meet the inquisitive stare of a messenger boy. The boy stared unblinking, and then said, "You're Mr. Samphire?"
"Yes," said Mark.
"I'm to give you this."
He held out a letter. Mark took it, broke the seal, and read it, unmindful of porter and boy, who exchanged glances and winks; then he turned to the porter.
"Put my things into a hansom," he said in a dull voice.
"Yes, sir," said the porter.
The boy took one more look at Mark.
"That was a knock-out," he murmured to himself, "a knock-out—sure!"
CHAPTER XXXV
CHRYSOSTOM RETURNS TO CHELSEA
Betty returned to Cadogan Place, conscious of an extraordinary buoyancy of spirit, of a gaiety even which made her demure maid stare. "Getting out o' this dirty old house makes you laugh, ma'am," she remarked.
"Yes," said Betty; "it makes me laugh."
When the maid left the room, Betty sat down by the window which overlooked the gardens below, the gardens typical of such houses as the one she was leaving—conventionally laid out, fenced with sharply pointed iron palings, pleasure grounds wherein no person, out of their teens, took any pleasure whatever. Betty could see two children and a gaunt governess walking primly along one of the broad well-swept paths. One child, a nice fat little girl, escaped from bondage, hiding behind a bush. Betty could hear the voice of the governess calling to her, and then a sharp rebuke, as the truant came toddling back to the path.
"If my baby had lived——"
She put the baby out of her thoughts. If it had lived, she and the child might have remained inside iron palings.
Then, very deliberately, she faced the future. Her money was settled on herself. Mark and she could live where they pleased, as they pleased. If one place proved disagreeable they could move on and on; the world was wide.
She smiled happily and contentedly. Many women, at such a moment, would have been distraught by anxiety and fear. But Betty was gladder than she had ever felt before. Indeed, she was triumphant. She told herself that every instinct she had tried to suppress was vindicated gloriously. To such a proud, refined woman the memory that she had flung herself at Mark's head had been always a dire humiliation, the more so because she had never measured the width and depth of his feeling for her. She repeated the phrase, "He has always loved me," again and again, letting the sweetness of it linger upon her lips.
The inevitable sacrifice—the fact which Mark plainly pointed out that she, the woman, had more to lose than the man—was acclaimed. Hitherto, love—whether love of niece for uncle, of friend for friend, of wife for husband—had exacted nothing from her. She had been extremely generous with her money, giving away far more than the tithe. But the signing of cheques had not included one genuine act of self-denial on her part. Whatever she had done had been accomplished without effort, without pain.
Her thoughts turned from herself to Mark. Immediately the smile faded from her face.
How cruelly he had suffered! And with what a pleasant smile, with how gay a laugh he had confronted ill-health, ill-fortune, and disappointment!
"I shall be so good to him," she swore beneath her breath. "I shall make it up to him—and I know how to do it."
Here, again, what had gone before might be reckoned as fuel for the feeding of love's flames. She was no green girl, but a woman who understood men, who could speak the right word at the right time, and had learned to hold her tongue.
"We shall be the happiest pair in the world."
Presently her eye fell upon the small bag she had carried to Weybridge. In it were the two sermons. She rose from her chair, hesitated a moment, and opened the bag. The sermons, she decided, must be locked up in one of the trunks she was leaving behind. The first sermon she had read the night before, but the second she had not read.
She looked at her watch. Then she picked up the Windsor sermon, and sat down to read it, because, reading it, she would hear not Archibald's voice, but Mark's.
The text met her eyes.Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.
She read no further. The MS. fell from her fingers, and rolled upon the carpet. Betty did not see it, because she saw nothing. The familiar room, the gardens below, the great city beyond, faded from her vision. Darkness encompassed her. And out of the darkness, like the writing upon the wall of Belshazzar's palace in Babylon, flared the words of the text.
Suddenly, with a violence of contrast which convulsed her, the darkness was dispelled, and she saw, even as Saul of Tarsus saw, a great light. If she read Mark's sermon, if she listened to the pleading voice of the priest, she would fail to keep tryst with the man, not because she feared for herself, but because this question could not be evaded: "Will my impurity prove a curse to him?"
Bending down, she picked up the sheaf of papers, and thrust them fiercely into the trunk, which stood open near the window. Then she sank back into the chair, covering her face with her hands....
So sitting, she was transported to the ancient, banner-hung chapel, wherein her husband had preached before his sovereign. But in the pulpit stood Mark, not his brother, and Mark as she remembered him long ago, the Mark of King's Charteris days, thin, pale, strong only in spirit; yet how strong, how valiant in that!
But he was mute, save for the pleading of the eloquent eyes. Beneath the spell of these Betty rose once more, and stood beside the trunk, staring into it.
Thus standing, she heard the clock in the tower of St. Anne's strike four. At that moment David Ross was praying for her and Mark, praying and believing that his prayer would be answered.
Betty picked up the MS., locked the door, fell on her knees, and read the sermon through.
She was still kneeling when the clock struck five. One hour had passed. Mark was nearing Charing Cross. She rose from her knees, and sat down to write a letter: an intolerably difficult task, which must be accomplished in a few minutes. She stared dully at the blank sheet of paper in front of her; then she wrote:—
"I have read your sermon, the one preached at Windsor. Because of that I cannot come to you, and I entreat you not to come to me. Mark, my best beloved, I tempted you. May God forgive me! And I know—Iknow, I say—that He has stretched forth His hand to save us. And He willed that your words—what is best in you—the greatest thing you ever did—should stand between us. I cannot lower the Mark who wrote that sermon to my level. Oh, Mark, will you curse me as faithless? Or will you know that it is not my wretched soul I seek to save, but yours—yours.
"As soon as this is sent off I shall go to a friend's till Archibald returns. I must tell him the truth."
Archibald Samphire returned from the Midlands to find a new house set in order and his wife awaiting him. He advanced to greet her with a warm word of affection and congratulation. But she held up her hand, and before the distress in her eyes he recoiled, astonished and dismayed.
Although Betty knew that the lapse from honour involved in preaching another's sermon was as nothing compared with the sin she had contemplated, still she felt that the charge against her husband must be dealt with first. In a few words she told him of the breaking open of his desk and the discovery of Mark's MSS. He exhibited no confusion, but his expression changed and in a manner so amazing that Betty let fall a sharp exclamation.
"I am glad you know," he said simply.
His voice, his face, his fine massive figure expressed relief. She repeated his words:
"You are glad that I know?"
She had made sure that he would excuse himself blandly, with dignity, looking down upon her; and she had told herself that his carefully chosen words would flood her with contempt, the stronger because her own speech would prove halting and unrestrained.
"Yes, yes. I was a coward. I meant to tell you: I swear it, but I couldn't." Then he repeated the phrase he had used to Mark: "God knows it has been a secret sore."
"Why couldn't you tell me?" she asked.
"Because the right moment for doing so slipped by me."
"You married me under false pretences."
"Eh?"
"You wooed me with Mark's words."
"Wooed you with—Mark's—words? I can't follow you."
And here he stated a fact. He had neither the ability nor the intuition to follow a woman down the tortuous path of her feelings and aspirations. But at this moment he became aware that something dreadful remained to be said. Betty's pale, haggard face, her trembling fingers, her panting bosom, revealed an agitation which communicated itself to him. Let us be fair to a man with inexorable limitations. He had always believed that Betty married him for love. And he too had married for love—and other things which he valued; but the other things without love would not have tempted him to a mere marriage of convenience. And marriage with Betty had seemed at the time and afterwards the one thing needful: rounding a life too square, lending colour and sparkle to a profession whose habit is sable. If at times he had been vouchsafed a glimpse of barriers between his wife and himself, he attributed these to difference of sex. But till this minute he had believed her love as much an inalienable possession as his name. There was no love in the face half turned from his.
"You can't follow me," she repeated slowly. "That is true enough. Years ago, when we were children—babies—I loved Mark, and he loved me."
"Paul and Virginia!"
"Yes, yes, Paul and Virginia."
"We all knew that. At one time I thought you would marry Mark."
"He never asked me," she replied, with blazing cheeks. "If he had, I should have married him, sick or well. I supposed that he didn't want me."
"Why, so did I."
She met his eyes fiercely.
"You swear that?"
"Certainly. Great heavens! You don't think that if I had thought otherwise I should have tried to supplant him. He went away and left the field open to all comers—Jim Corrance, Harry Kirtling—and me."
"I have done you an injustice," Betty faltered.
At this Archibald's sense of what was fitting asserted itself. "Come, come," he said, "I regret profoundly that I did not frankly avow those two sermons to be Mark's. I do not expect you to forgive me in a minute, but you are generous, sensible, and my wife. We must take up our lives where we left them less than a week ago."
"That is impossible," said Betty.
She felt a great pity for him. The blow must fall with hideous violence, shattering the man's just pride in what he had accomplished. His extraordinary success seemed of a sudden to be transformed into an immense bubble about to be pricked by a word.
And when the word was spoken, when he knew everything, Betty saw what Mark had seen upon the night that the baby was born—the collapse of a personality. The big man who was to fill Lord Vauxhall's Basilica dwindled into a boy with the puzzled, wondering eyes of youth confronted for the first time with what it cannot understand. Betty felt old enough to be his mother, when he stammered out: "You—youhave done this thing?"
"I might have done it," she answered gently.
He broke down.
"I have lost my brother and my wife," he groaned. "my brother and my wife."
Instantly Betty realised what Mark had always known—the weakness of the colossus. And this knowledge that she was the stronger took the chill from her heart, restoring magically her moral circulation. Looking at him, she wondered how she could have blinded herself to his true proportions. She had deemed him a Titan!
"What are you going to do?" he asked presently.
"That is for you to say. If you choose to put me from you——"
He interrupted her.
"You would go to him."
"No."
He rose up and began to pace the room, glancing furtively at his wife, who never moved. Suddenly, seizing her arm, and speaking in a loud, trembling voice, he exclaimed: "Mark is dead—you understand that? Say it; say it!"
"Mark is dead," she repeated sombrely.
CHAPTER XXXVI
FENELLA
Mark went abroad immediately after the events narrated in the last chapter, and remained abroad for many months, trying to drown recollection of Betty in printer's ink. By a tremendous effort of will and unremitting grind he nearly succeeded, but at times he could see nothing save her face, hear nothing save her voice, feel nothing save the touch of her lips upon his. After these visitations he was beset by a Comus' crew of spectres: the innumerable disappointments of his life:toute l'amertume et tout le déboire de mille événements fâcheux.
However, Compensation ordained that hisSongs of the Angelsshould please a certain section of the American public, and a substantial cheque crossed the Atlantic in a letter from Cyrus Otway, who asked for another novel. Mark had learned to use his pen (as Conquest once put it); but recognition—the acclaim of the multitude—seemed indefinitely remote.A Soul Errantappeared, and was pronounced by reviewers an admirable piece of work, but its sales were limited to a few thousand copies.
From George Samphire, Mark learned that Archibald and Betty had entertained royalty upon the occasion when the first service was held in the Basilica. Tommy Greatorex wrote: "Your big brother is booming Vauxhall's new neighbourhood, and no mistake!" From Betty herself came no word whatever. Archibald, so Mark told himself, had forgiven her, determined to preserve appearances, to keep the wife with wealth and beauty, to guard her zealously from the man who had tried to deprive him of so valuable a possession. Once again, hatred of Archibald consumed him. In his heart he knew that Betty was pining for one line—the generous "I forgive you. I understand." But these words he could not write. He believed that she had failed him, that she had lacked courage, and lacking it, had grasped the first excuse pat to lip and hand. It seemed incredible that a sermon should stand between a woman and the man she loved. Curiously enough, he could not recall a line of this sermon thrown off, as it had been, in a brief fever of excitement and enthusiasm. Again and again, he repeated to himself the beatitude, and wondered what he had found to say about it.
On his return to England he moved from Weybridge to Hampstead, where another shelter was built in a small garden overlooking the Heath.
Meantime, Mary Dew had married Albert Batley, and when Mark paid her a brief visit he found the bride beaming, obviously content with her lot, and very proud of her husband's success as a contractor. Mrs. Dew explained matters:
"You see, Mr. Samphire, it's like this: Albert Batley just worships Mary, and she makes him very comfortable. Tasty meals go a long way with men who have a living to earn in this cruel, hard world."
Just as he was leaving Mary said shyly: "I hope, Mr. Samphire, we shall hear of your getting married. If ever a gentleman wanted a wife to look after him, you are he."
Mark laughed; then he replied in his easy, genial way: "Yes, yes; if you had a twin sister, Honeydew, I should ask her to live up a tree with me."
Alone at Hampstead, he wondered whether a wife was waiting for him somewhere: a kind, sweet creature, who would teach him to forget. Drax had told him that, humanly speaking, he was now free from that insidious disease which spares so few of its victims. With care he might live out his three-score years and ten; he could marry—if he so pleased. And for the first time since his father's death, a balance, steadily increasing, lay at his bankers.
About midsummer he began his first play—a comedy, which had been simmering in his brain for many months. He showed the scenario to Greatorex, who was not encouraging.
"You've immense difficulties ahead of you. Your unknown playwright must write his play for one actor-manager, whose ability it illumines" (Tommy was quoting from an article of his on the modern drama), "and whose weakness it obscures. And your moral purpose must be disguised, so as to give the dramatic critic a chance to discover it. Personally, there's nothing I enjoy so much as discovering in a play something which the author never thought of. Now, then, having written your play, you must persuade your actor-manager to spend some thousands in producing it adequately. All said and done, I'd stick to novels, if I were you."
"I must write this play," said Mark.
He wrote it and rewrote it. Then he read it aloud to Greatorex, who pointed out many technical blunders. Not till the play was actable in every detail would Tommy pass it as fit to be sent the rounds.
And then followed interminable, heartbreaking delays and disappointments. Actors and actresses, with rare exceptions, keep plays for months without reading them, answer no letters, and unhesitatingly break all promises unprotected by iron-clad contracts. Finally, the comedy, returned for the sixth time, was flung by Mark into a drawer and forgotten.
Next summer Mark read in his morning paper the announcement of a son born to Archibald. A son! It was enough that the fellow should desire anything, anything, for the object to fall into his grasp! Then, in a passionate revulsion of feeling, wondering how Betty fared, he hastened to Chelsea and furtively interviewed Dibdin, who assured him that his mistress was doing not only as well as, but better than, the doctor expected. Mark gave Dibdin a sovereign and instructions to report once a day by letter for three weeks. Dibdin, an old friend and as discreet as an archbishop, promised to write, volunteering the information that the baby was an "uncommon fine boy, a Samphire every inch of him." From Jim Corrance, later, Mark learned that Betty was likely to prove an adoring mother. Jim had seen her with the urchin. "She has changed," he told Mark, in his blunt fashion. "It's natural, I suppose; one couldn't wish for anything else; but the Betty of King's Charteris is out of sight. As for Archie—he looks patriarchal."
If Jim wondered why Mark never entered his brother's house, he was too shrewd to ask questions. Perhaps he guessed more or less accurately at the truth. A score of times, Mark was tempted to take his arm and tell his old friend everything. Betty, however, could not be betrayed; and speech with reserves, with abysmal silences, would avail nothing. But if he could have unburdened his soul, what a relief, what a balm it would have proved!
After writing some pot-boiling short stories and articles, he plunged into a second play, a tragedy, dealing with the inevitable surrender of woman to tradition and convention. In accordance with Tommy Greatorex's advice, this play was built up for Mrs. Perowne, an English actress-manager, who had recently returned from an enormously successful tour in the United States and Australia. Mark went to see her act again and again, fascinated by her methods, which were those of Duse, and by her vivid and extraordinary beauty. She had red hair, a milk-white skin, a Spanish cast of features, the spirits and inconsequence of a child, and amazing physical and intellectual activity. Mr. Perowne, an American, had divorced her after a very stormy year of marriage. Since, he had died.
This second play,Fenella, was written in a spirit compounded of recklessness and patience. Mark was reckless inasmuch as his money was nearly gone; patient, because the artist within him told him that he must make haste slowly. But at the back of this supreme endeavour, ever-increasing and all-absorbing, was the determination to achieve a success which would surpass that of his brother. Archibald and he never met, for Mark saw none of his old friends save Pynsent and Jim Corrance, but Archibald's name and fame were for ever in his ears. A great reputation is hard to make in England, or elsewhere, but once made it is easily sustained. The Basilica was crowded every Sunday morning. Mark slipped in one day, wondering what sort of fare would be provided. He found it nicely flavoured to the palate of the town. Jim Corrance growled out, "Archie gives 'em easily digested food. Of course he hasn't time to prepare such sermons as that Westchester one. He's up to his eyes in parochial work. That's what makes bishops nowadays."
Mark saw Betty in her pew without being seen by her. She looked pale and thin, but not unhappy.
After the visit to the Basilica Mark worked even harder than before, although he worked in the open air, and with due regard for his health. If that failed again, he was conscious that he would be bankrupt indeed. Accordingly, he lived a life of Spartan simplicity, and played golf regularly with Jim or Tommy Greatorex. ButFenellaobsessed him. He told Jim that he was glad the comedy had not been produced, becauseFenellawas stronger and better written. Tommy growled out protests and warnings: "Fenella, whose acquaintance I'm anxious to make, may prove an ungrateful hussy. For Heaven's sake don't pin your hopes to her petticoat!"
When the fourth act was nearly finished, Sybil Perowne appeared in a new play, an adaptation of a French drama, which had enjoyed asuccès fouin Paris. Mark and Tommy went to see it and found an audience cold and indifferent. As they came out of the theatre, Mark heard a stout dowager whisper to her daughter, "My dear, I don't know what it means, but it's taken away my appetite for supper."
"There you are," said Tommy. "Beware, Mark, of tampering with the British playgoer's appetite for supper. This thing is too sad. It won't go. Ah, well, the shrewdest managers make abominable mistakes, and the most successful is the fellow who makes least."
"Fenellais sadder than this."
"Um!" said Tommy. "Sorry to hear that, my boy."
But when the tragedy was read aloud, Greatorex professed himself amazed. He jumped up excitedly.
"I believe you've found yourself, 'pon my soul! And Sybil is mad keen for a new play. Hullo! Phew-w-w!"
Mark had fainted.
When he came to himself he admitted that he had been unable to sleep for several nights. Tommy talked like a sage, advising moderation, but knowing—none better—thatFenellacould never have been born without pangs. With his sense of the dramatic he perceived that Mark in his present condition would be likely to impress the actress, herself highly strung and emotional. The good fellow took pains to arrange an interview, obtaining permission to call and bring a friend.
"I've cracked you up as the coming novelist, who's dying to make her acquaintance. I said in a postscript that you raved about her."
"She is magnificent," said Mark.
"She never reads plays. But you must corner her. Spar free! I tell you frankly she's a slippery one. I was her Press agent for a season. If possible, I want her to hear all about her part before she hands the play on to that scoundrel Gonzales."
Gonzales was Mrs. Perowne's manager. Mark frowned when his name was mentioned. He had heard of Gonzales.
Mrs. Perowne made the appointment for three. At two Mark met Greatorex in his rooms. Tommy was in his oldest clothes and hard at work.
"I'm not coming," he announced. "Never meant to, either. Why, man, I should wreck your chance. Here's a letter with a gilt-edged lie in it. Have you the play? Yes. Now, look here; leave it in the hall with your overcoat. Persuade her, if you can, to listen to the last scene of the third act. Don't leave the house without giving her some of it, if you have to force it down her throat. She'll respect your determination. Report here."
"I c-c-can't r-r-read it," stammered Mark.
Tommy hit his desk so hard with his fist that the ink bespattered it.
"Mark," he said solemnly, "I am counting on your making an exhibition of yourself. Be sure to stammer, burst a blood-vessel, faint, have a fit, but stick to your job. Now—go!"
Mark was pushed out of the room by his friend. When the door slammed behind him Greatorex burst out laughing. "He won't stammer now, and he'll read his play."
Mark was shown by an irreproachable butler into a small room hung with silk and filled with Japanese furniture. The dominant note was the grotesque if not the monstrous. Everything—from the embroideries on the walls to the tiny carved figures in the cabinets—indicated the cult of deformity.
He was examining a bit of enamel when Mrs. Perowne came in, holding out both hands.
"Tommy's friends are always welcome here," she said graciously. "That's a nice bit—isn't it? It's not Japanese at all, but Byzantine, as I dare say you know."
Mark confessed that he knew nothing of enamels. He sat down, glancing at his hostess, who was not unconscious of his scrutiny and surprise. Always, men meeting her for the first time off the stage were amazed at her appearance of youth. She braved the light from the window with impunity. Hair, complexion, eyes might have belonged to a maiden of twenty. But the mouth—her most remarkable feature—betrayed the woman of maturity. It was large, finely curved, and mobile. Her eyes were of a rich chestnut tint.
"You want to tell me about a play?" she said, with a low laugh.
"How did you d-d-divine that?"
"The expression of a man who has written a play is unmistakable. Well, I am in a charming humour this afternoon. What is the play about?À propos—are you the famous Mr. Samphire's brother?"
Unconsciously Mark winced.
"Yes," he said shortly.
"Tell me about your play."
"I c-c-can't," he said. For a moment he hesitated, feeling the lump rising in his throat; then some emanation from the woman opposite—a sense of sympathy—restored his confidence. His face—so plain when troubled—broke into a smile. "It's like this," he continued: "I hate to give you a synopsis of it. L-l-let me read a scene or two. You can make up your mind in a jiffy whether it pleases you or not; and if it doesn't, I'll go at a nod from you."
"But I never listen to plays. Surely that wretch, Tommy, told you. I talk them over before they're written. I've got someone coming in three-quarters of an hour to talk over an unwritten play. The hundreds which are sent to me to read are always passed on to Alfred Gonzales."
Mark felt his confidence oozing from every pore. In another minute his hostess would be bored. At this ignominious probability his fighting instincts asserted themselves.
"I wrote this play for you," he said slowly. "I can't see another woman in it at all. And somehow,"—he stretched out his lean, finely formed hands with a dramatic gesture—"somehow I seem to have gripped you, elusive though you are. Tommy says you're a good sort. Be good to me—for ten minutes. The play's downstairs in the hall. Let me fetch it. Shall I?"
"Yes—fetch it."
He ran like a boy from the room. Mrs. Perowne got up, glanced at herself in a small mirror, and sat down in the seat which Mark had just left. The change was not without significance. Before, she had wished to be seen; now she wished to see. When Mark came back she said quietly: "Begin at the beginning."
At that moment Mark felt once more the accursed lump in his throat. His face contracted. The woman closely watching him rose and laid her hand upon his shoulder.
"You have an impediment of speech," she whispered. "Take your time. You have interested me. I like men who surmount obstacles. I'll sit here till you can read your play. I'm going to mix two tiny cocktails, Martigny cocktails: mild as Mary's little lamb."
When she came back Mark was at his ease; she had ceased to be a stranger. He drank the cocktail, and began the first act. Mrs. Perowne lay back in her chair, watching him with half-closed eyes. She never moved, absorbing in silence every word and intonation. When Mark had finished, she nodded gaily.
"The first act is capital. When will you come and read the others?"
"At any hour you choose—day or night."
"To-morrow at twelve then. You must stay to luncheon afterwards."
CHAPTER XXXVII
POPPY AND MANDRAGORA
Half an hour later Mark was describing what had passed to Greatorex, who listened with an odd smile upon his ugly, intelligent face: the smile which is typical of so much that is left unsaid, the smile of a knowledge and an experience which cannot be imparted. Greatorex had appetite for such food as Mark was giving him, and he demanded every crumb. While Mark was speaking the journalist smoked. The smoke ascended in fragrant clouds, melting into the thickening atmosphere of the room. It struck Greatorex, not for the first time, that the reek of good tobacco manifested all the things for which men strive and to which it would seem to be predestined that they should not attain. Greatorex asked himself what life would be without the fragrance of hopes and ambitions which float from us and vanish. And how stale, how offensive their odour becomes unless the windows of the mind be flung wide open!
"Mark," he said, dropping the end of his cigarette, "you are desperately keen on this?"
He meant his words to be taken as affirmation or interrogation, according to Mark's mood. He never invited confidences withheld.
"Yes," Mark replied.
"Why?"
When the eyes of the two men countered, a third person would have remarked in them an extraordinary difference in colour and quality. Greatorex had the onyx eyes of a gipsy, bright yet obscured by mysterious flickering tints, the eyes which conceal and so seldom reveal the thoughts behind them. Mark's blue eyes had that candid expression which pertains to children's eyes.
"Why?" Mark repeated the pregnant word. "I think you know why. I have failed in everything I have undertaken. I have pursued success as if it were a will-o'-the-wisp——"
"Which it is——"
"And if once I could hold it in my hand, if I could say to myself, I have it—it is mine—why then——"
He paused.
"You care so much for fame—you?"
"I ask for recognition, not because recognition is in itself a hall mark of success, but because without it labour would seem to be wasted. What is the use of a great poem, a great book, which remains unread? A gospel is no gospel until it is preached to thousands."
"Don't set your heart on this play being produced!"
"Ihaveset my heart on that, Tommy."
"If Sybil takes a fancy to you——" he paused.
Mark's ingenuous stare was disconcerting. He continued lightly: "I warn you that she may like you better thanFenella. It would not surprise me if she liked you rather too well."
"Don't be a fool," said Mark angrily.
"If I could only be a fool," Greatorex murmured. "Depend upon it fools have the best of it. And they live, some of 'em, in the only paradise to be found on this planet. Well, I have spoken, I have warned you."
Upon the following day Mark returned at the hour appointed to Mrs. Perowne's flat. The butler, impassive as the Sphinx, showed him into the same room with its curious atmosphere of the East. In a few minutes the actress appeared in akimonoof some silvery tissue embroidered in gold, with her hair doneà la Japonaise, and embellished with barbaric ornaments. Clad in this she became a part, and the greatest part, of the room. Looking at her, Mark felt ill at ease in his blue serge suit. At the same time he tried to measure the difference between the woman in thekimonoand all other women whom he had known. Mrs. Perowne smiled, reading his thoughts.
"I am quite, quite different to all the others," she said softly. "I ought to have lived in the days of Herod Antipas."
When she spoke of Herod, Mark remembered that she had Jewish blood in her veins. Her father had been a well-known English picture-dealer; her mother, a famous dancer, a Spanish Moor. Her Moorish ancestors, of whom the actress boasted, were Jews to the marrow, although living in Spain, outwardly subject to the faith of most Catholic monarchs. For generations these people had lived and died incomparable actors, sustaining from the cradle to the grave a rôle above which glittered the knives of the Inquisition. Mark began to understand that the woman smiling at him was natural, most true to herself, when playing a part—and yet beneath a thousand disguises throbbed the heart of the Jewess, the child of all countries and of none.
Mark read his play.
As he read it, he realised how poor an instrument lay in his throat. He was hoarse from a neglected cold, and his voice, though flexible, betrayed the effort made to control it. But the stammer spared him. To Sybil Perowne, familiar with and therefore slightly contemptuous of the arts of the elocutionist, this rough, uneven inflection and articulation had something of the charm of a disused viol or harpsichord, whose frayed, worn strings still hold jangled echoes of cadences melodic and harmonious long ago. She had the perceptions of the artist, and that feeling for art which is partly a gift and partly the result of patient training. Her perceptions enabled her to see Mark Samphire as he was, the man who had fought against odds; her feeling for art approved his work as the epitome and expression of that fight dramatically set forth in admirable English. At the end of the second act the reader looked up for a word of approval: "Go on!" she said. The climax of the third act provoked an exclamation at Mark's physical distress. She brought him a glass of champagne and insisted upon his drinking it. But he saw that her eyes were shining. He plunged into the fourth act and stumbled through it: every word rasping his throat. When he had finished she jumped up as Greatorex had done.
"I am a woman of impulse," she cried. "I will produce your play."
Mark stared at her, not believing his ears.
"You will p-p-produce it?" he stammered.
"Yes," she answered. "I don't say there's money in it; I don't say it hasn't faults and crudities; but I do say it's a play—and it pleases, it touches, it thrills—me."
She held out her hand. Mark had an intuition that she wished him to kiss it. He raised it gratefully to his lips.
"And now," she said gaily, "luncheon! I am famished. There is no sauce like emotion. That is why Spanish people eat so much at funerals."
At luncheon she asked a score of questions about his work and life.
"Last night," she said, "I readThe Songs of the Angels. You have heard these songs yourself, eh? But—do you hear them now?"
She held his glance, faintly smiling at the colour which rushed into his cheeks.
"There are angels and angels," he said evasively.
"But, if I have interpreted your meaning, the angels you write about are heard only by the—shall I offend you if I say—the saints. You are not a saint?"
"Hardly," said Mark.
"But you might be," she murmured; "that is why you interest me"—she paused, sighed, and finished the sentence—"so much. I have never met a saint; I have never met a man who had the makings of a saint in him—till to-day."
Mark knew that she had challenged him.
"Out of the makings of a saint," he said curtly, "the devil fashions the greatest sinner."
"You believe in the devil?"
Mark shrugged his shoulders.
"The devil is 'evil' with a big D before it. I certainly believe in evil."
"I have to drag answers from you. Do you dislike this sort of talk? Perhaps you think me indiscreet, impudent; but I like to get my bearings. It saves bother. You can ask me anything—anything, if, if you regard me as a friend."
"I do," he said hastily; but he asked no questions.
"I don't quite understand you," she said slowly; "and of course you don't understand me. I am sure, judging from your book, your play, and—and your face, that you have an extravagant admiration for what you think to be good women. Is it not so? You needn't take the trouble to say 'yes.' And I'm only a good—sort. I have a sound body, of which I take the greatest care, and a sane mind; but I was born without a soul.Enfin, the conclusion is inevitable—for me—I do not believe in the soul but you do?"
"I did," he answered.
She offered him a cigarette, and lit one herself, as the Sphinx-like butler brought coffee and liqueurs. The luncheon had been very simple. Sipping her coffee, the actress began to talk ofFenella.
"You wrote the part, you say, for me; but you have drawnFenellafrom life."
Mark denied this.
"You may have done it subconsciously, but you've done it. Now tell me, have you worked out the technical details? Have you estimated the probable expense?"
"I suppose the adequate mounting of it will be costly."
"Between three and four thousand pounds," said Mrs. Perowne carelessly.
Soon after he took his leave. The play remained in the actress's possession. No mention was made of terms. Mrs. Perowne had said that Gonzales would look it over. Greatorex expressed astonishment that the affair had come to a head so suddenly, and congratulated Mark; but he added that a contract must be signed as soon as possible.
"You don't think——" began Mark.
"My dear fellow, I know a poor devil whose first play was accepted six years ago. It has not been produced yet! Strictly between ourselves, I don't mind telling you that I'm the man."
"But if your lawyer——"
"I can't afford to make an enemy of the actor-manager whostillhas it! I blame myself; I had no contract. We'll prepare a corker for you. I take it that you want nothing if the thing fails, and a fair profit if it goes—eh? Just so. When do you see the fascinating Sybil again? To-morrow. Have you made love to her? She expects it from every man. Not many disappoint her."
He laughed at Mark's confusion, and compared him to the infant Moses found by Pharaoh's daughter in the bulrushes. The friends celebrated the acceptance of the drama at a restaurant, and Mark made merry.
"You feel it?" said Tommy.
"Eh?"
"Success tickling the palm of your hand?"
"I shall mark this day with red, of course!"
"If we were in the West of America," said Greatorex, "we should paint the night as red asla belleSybil's hair. This sort of thing has only a tinge of pink in it. Have you ever let yourself go, Mark? Of course not! There is nothing of the beast in you. You might kill yourself, or somebody else, but I can't fancy you on all fours."
They returned to the club, where some choice spirits were discussing art and literature in a fog of tobacco-smoke. But Mark, who joined them, saw no fog—only the sun, shining upon all things and all men.
"He's had a four-act play accepted," Greatorex explained. "There's no more to tell yet."
Several of the men shook Mark's hand. Glasses were replenished, fresh cigars lighted. Mark laughed as gaily as any, delightfully aware that he was receiving something—so to speak—on account, a few pieces of silver, cash down to bind a bargain. Some of his companions were celebrities. It seemed to him that for the first time he was of them as well as with them. These Olympians asked for his opinion, laughed at his jokes, approved his suggestions. The hours passed swiftly and pleasantly.
But walking home to Hampstead, beneath the stars, in an air purged by frost, his triumph dwindled to mean proportions. He considered the events of the day. Out of these, now become shadows for the most part, the face of Sybil Perowne stood out substantially: a fact to be reckoned with. He asked himself if he liked her. Was he attracted by her beauty and cleverness? No; these had not touched him. Yet he was attracted—and by what? A vision of the Japanese room revealed the fascination, so mysterious, so alluring to the imagination, of the occult. The sorceress beguiled the fancy of a man who had only cared for good women. He found himself speculating in regard to her. Doubtless the Sphinx-faced butler could tell some tales—an he would!
If he saw much of her, would he forget Betty? The child of the Moorish dancer gave poppy and mandragora to those who sought her.
He had made an appointment with Mrs. Perowne in the afternoon, but in the morning, having nothing to do, he thought he would like to see Pynsent. Pynsent owned a queer old-fashioned house in Kensington. Mark rang the bell, which was answered by a delightful Frenchbonne, who made the best omelette in the world and worshipped Pynsent. Certainly, Monsieur would be charmed to see his friend. Alas! yes; the dear studio in Paris had been abandoned. She, Francine, was desolated, but what would you? Monsieur Pynsent made gold in this detestable London instead of silver in enchanting Paris! So chattering, she conducted Mark to the big studio, which was found to be empty. The master had slipped out for a minute. Would Monsieur Mark sit down? Before he had time to smoke a tiny cigarette, his friend would be shaking both his hands. She gave Mark the cigarettes, the potent Caporal cigarettes, handed him the latest Paris paper, popped a log on to the fire, and bustled away.
Mark looked about him. The studio, simply furnished, bare of those tapestries and properties which most painters buy as soon as they begin to earn money, was, in short, a workshop full of ingenious appliances for obtaining curious effects of colour, light and shade. In the middle of it stood a huge oak easel. Several large canvases were turned to the wall. An open paint-box, a palette, a bowl full of the coarse, broad brushes which Pynsent used, told Mark that work was about to begin. Pynsent took few holidays. Work had become to him not a means to an end, but the end itself. But then such work as his was an end, an accomplishment, a victory. Finality distinguished every touch. Mark lit one of the French cigarettes, because he knew the fumes of it would bring back the pleasant days in theRue de l'Ancienne Comédie. He wondered whether Pynsent—the least sentimental of men—smoked Caporal tobacco for the same reason. Possibly. But more probably because he was a man in a groove. One could not conceive of Pynsent with a butler and footmen. He lived now as he had always lived, regardless of Mrs. Grundy, who said tartly that the great painter was a pincher.
After a whiff or two, theRue de l'Ancienne Comédierevealed itself as it appeared one morning when a couple of brother students were removing themselves and their belongings from one studio to another. Mark had lent two willing hands and a tongue which outwagged a terrier's tail. The students possessed a chest full of costumes. In these their friends had arrayed themselves. From several adjoining studios came other students and their models, all anxious to help—or hinder. Every article was carried in procession down the narrow street to the sounds of loud laughter, of banjo and mandoline, of drum and cornet, and of various songs. A diminutive Frenchman, beardless as a baby, had taken off most of his clothes and was sitting cross-legged in the middle of a large flat bath, which four of his friends were carrying, arm-high, down the street. The little man had robed himself in a rough towel; he wore a sponge-bag on his head; and he hugged to his bare chest an enormous sponge. All down the street, windows were flung up. Everybody joined in the fun.
"Une petite surprise pour Monsieur—et Madame."
The voice of the good Francine put to flight the joyous procession. Mark rose up, flung away the half-smoked cigarette, and saw Betty advancing into the studio. Francine hobbled away. She knew that Betty had married Mark's brother.
"Betty!"
"Mark!"
"Don't go," said Mark, as she paused irresolute. "Pynsent is painting you, I suppose. He will be here in a minute. I'll go."
"You never wrote," she faltered.
"Was it likely? How is the boy?"
"I expected a word of—forgiveness. The boy is very well."
"Is he like you?"
"Everybody says so."
He was silent and very pale, whereas Betty's face was suffused with delicate colour. He was trying to resist an overmastering impulse to take her in his arms, when he heard Pynsent's step, and a moment afterwards his clear incisive voice.
"I am ashamed that I was not here to receive you, Mrs. Samphire. But I know you'd sooner talk to Mark than me. I'm painting her, Mark. You shall give us your opinion. I've not seen you for a coon's age. What? Nonsense, my dear fellow. I can paint just as well while you're here. You must stay as long as you possibly can. Mustn't he, Mrs. Samphire?"
"Of course," said Betty in her ordinary voice. Pynsent dragged a canvas across the studio and placed it on the easel.
"There," said he, "what do you think of that?"
Mark approached the easel, as Betty turned to remove her hat and jacket. The portrait, almost completed, was three-quarters length: a daring study in what at first glance seemed to be black-and-white. As a matter of fact, black, as pigment, was not used at all. The effect of it was produced by the admixture and contrast of colour. Looking into the translucent shadows the eye detected brilliant tints.
"It's one of the best things I've done," said Pynsent. "It's kept me awake nights, this portrait. I got that shadow under the chin by a trick I learnt in Florence. You lay three colours one on top of the other. It's great. The fellow who discovered it can't draw; he'd be a wonder if he could——"
Pynsent went on talking, unaware of what was passing in the minds of his friends. Betty sat down on the model's dais, and Pynsent arranged her hands, still talking volubly of light and colour effects. Mark remained staring at the picture. "You haven't said what you think of it," concluded Pynsent, as he picked up his palette.
"For whom are you painting it?"
"It's an open secret, isn't it?" said the painter, glancing sideways at his model. "The grateful Vauxhall wishes to give it to your brother. But I had difficulty in persuading Madame to sit."
"Vauxhall," repeated Mark stupidly.
"Archie, they say, has put thousands into his pocket. He boomed the price of all bricks and mortar within a mile radius of the Basilica. Well—your opinion, my dear fellow."
Mark still hesitated. Pynsent was famous for his delineation of character. He had the power of seizing and transferring to canvas those delicate shades of expression which reveal the real man and woman. In pourtraying Betty, he had emphasised the mother in her at the expense, possibly, of the wife. The portrait was hardly flattering in the generally received sense. The face was troubled; lines and shadows lay on it. Betty's youth and beauty were subdued, as if beneath the touch of suffering rather than time. But the general effect remained that of a grace and loveliness independent of colour and texture. The admirable contours, the delicate modelling of cheek and brow and chin, indicated a noble maturity not yet attained but certain to be attained. Not at that moment, however, did Mark realise that Pynsent's portrait was an incomparable likeness of the Betty who had failed to keep tryst because the higher nature had overcome the lower and baser. But he did grasp a part of the truth. He told himself that if Betty had not suffered, Pynsent would have painted another and a different portrait.
"The face is strange to me," said Mark.
"What?" Pynsent exclaimed, staring at the speaker. "You, you say that? Why of all men, I——" He broke off abruptly, sensible of some psychological disturbance, puzzled and distressed. Mark laughed harshly. He had almost betrayed himself. Then he glanced at Betty. Her likeness to the picture was extraordinary.
"You m-m-misunderstand me," he stammered. "I meant to say that you had painted a woman who has changed. We all change. I hardly recognise my own f-face. This picture is, as you say, the b-b-best thing you've done, and I congratulate you warmly. I'd like to see it again. But now I must r-r-run away. I d-dropped in to tell you that my play is accepted."
This piece of news effectively cloaked his nervousness. Pynsent and Betty expressed their pleasure and congratulation. Mark shook hands and escaped.
"I thought he was not himself," said Pynsent, picking up his palette. "This will make up for a good deal, won't it? I know exactly how he feels. Great Scott! It seems only yesterday that I had my first picture hung in the Salon. I was skied, but I was the happiest man in Paris. All the same, Mark did not strike me as looking happy—eh?"
She answered his sharp "eh" and still sharper glance with a constrained "N-n-no."