With his eyes on his plate, Archie slowly answered, "Yes." Then seeing
that Betty was trifling with her bacon, he added in a different tone: "I
advise you to try this omelette. Shall I get some for you?"
Betty said "No" somewhat tartly, wondering why Mark had left Birr Wood.
"He might have told me last night at dinner," she thought.
After breakfast she escaped from young Kirtling and Jim Corrance, and
betook herself to a secluded spot in the gardens, where she sat staring
at a pretty volume of verse--held upside down. It was intolerable that
she should be sitting here and Mark sixty miles away. Then she smiled,
remembering that only yesterday the distance between them had seemed
immeasurable. And a word, a glance, had bridged it! What a miracle of
Cupid's engineering! Her cheeks were hot as she wondered whether she
had given herself away too cheaply. If propriety faltered "Yes,"
generosity thundered--"No." She was sure she understood Mark better
than any creature living, and certainly she understood herself. Always
she had wanted him, but always--always! And he had wanted her, and
would want her for ever and ever. It will be our object to show Betty
Kirtling as a young woman of many facets illumined by lights and
cross-lights; but for the moment she is presented beneath the blaze of
Love, which, like the sun, eclipses other luminaries. Betty was an
adept at, if not the mistress of, many accomplishments. She had been
told that she might excel as a musician, a painter, or a writer, if she
chose to give any one of these arts undivided attention. She preferred
to play with all rather than work with one, and wisely, for her
admiration of what others had done was certainly a greater thing than
what she might have done herself. And, perhaps, because she had
scattered her own energies, she was the more keenly appreciative of
sustained endeavour wherever she found it. Young Kirtling, for
instance, aroused interest because he hunted his own hounds as well as
any man in England; Jim Corrance whetted mere affection into something
with a sharper edge to it, inasmuch as he had sought fortune in South
Africa and had found it; Archie was singing himself steadily and
stolidly into such exalted places as the pulpit of Westchester
Cathedral.
Sitting there in May time encompassed by Arcadian scents and sounds,
Betty found herself speculating upon the mutual attraction of man and
maid. Young ladies kill time with such meditations as pleasantly as men
kill partridges. Betty, however, while sipping the sweet, made a wry
face over the bitter. Mark's work in the slums stood between her and
him, a mystery which she must accept, knowing that she could never
understand it. The horrors amongst which Mark moved revolted her; the
contrast between her life and his pierced imagination, and left it to
bleed; pity, sympathy, the woman's desire to minister to infirmity, were
drained, glutted, by the incredible demand upon them.
These meditations were disturbed by Lady Randolph. Betty, as soon as she
saw her kind friend, remembered that Lady Randolph had shown her this
delightful nook, and had said that she (Lady Randolph) was in the habit
of sitting here.
"You--alone?" said Lady Randolph. "I have just passed Harry Kirtling.
He asked me if I knew where he could find you. Shall I tell him?"
"Pray don't," said Betty, making room for her friend on the stone bench.
"And besides," she added, letting a dimple be seen, "you could not tell
him where I was. I have spent the last hour in Stepney."
"I can't see you in Stepney, my dear."
"I thought you would say that," said Betty, nervously playing with the
laces on her frock; then, reading the sympathy in the other's face, she
burst out: "Oh--I'm a coward, a coward! I loathe Stepney."
Lady Randolph wondered whether it would be wise to speak. She cherished
the conviction that when in doubt it is better to say nothing; and yet,
in the end, despite a strong feeling that her advice would be wasted,
she said quietly:
"I knew your mother."
"Am I like her?" interrupted Betty.
"I have often thought," continued the elder woman, ignoring Betty's
question, "that if Louise de Courcy had had your upbringing her life
would have been so different----"
"You mean she would not have married my father." Betty's voice
hardened. "Well, if she felt as--as I feel, she would have married him
anyway, if she loved him."
"She would not have loved him," said Lady Randolph with emphasis. "We
women love the things which we are taught to believe are lovable. You,
Betty, have been trained, trained, I say, to love things and people of
good report. It was otherwise with your mother."
"And my father," added Betty. "I have always known that I was
handicapped. Yes; I have been trained to see--it's a question of
observation, isn't it?--to see and admire what is good in everything and
everybody, but you don't know what a materialist I am. I delight in
your flesh-pots. Why just now, when I was trying to walk with Mark
through those horrible slums, I found myself thinking of what----? That
delicious _macedoine_ we had last night!"
Lady Randolph laughed.
"It's no laughing matter. I'm greedy; I spend too much time thinking of
_chiffons_; and I spend too much money buying them; I adore great
things, but I cannot give up small things. I want to run with the hare
and course with the hounds. Lots of girls try to do both--and succeed
in a feeble sort of way: a fast on Friday and feast on Saturday
diet--eh?"
"In Stepney----" began Lady Randolph.
Betty seized her hands. "Why should I go to Stepney?" she whispered,
blushing. "I'll be honest with you."
"I hope so, my dear."
"Mark is going to ask me to marry him. It may be to-day, or to-morrow,
or the day after, but it's coming; and I shall fling myself into his
arms."
"Betty!"
"I haven't a spark of pride left. His long silence smothered it. Do
you know that I have been at the back of all his ambitions? He wanted
to be a famous soldier, because when we were babies I said I must marry
a fighting man."
"If he isn't a fighting man I never saw one."
"Thank you. You always appreciated him. When he was spun for the army
he thought he had lost me. I read despair in his eyes, and he, poor
dear, couldn't read what was in mine. And then came that awful scene in
King's Charteris Church. He gave me up then, but I stuck to him. And
now--now," her eyes filled with tears although her lips were smiling,
"he shall know that success or failure counts nothing with me. I want
him--him. And anything which stands between us I abhor."
Lady Randolph's attempt to reduce this speech to its elements found
expression in a simple: "You will ask him to give up Stepney?"
"I shall ask him to seek work in some place where you do not smell fried
fish. There is plenty to do west of Temple Bar."
"And the others? You have flirted with all of them, Betty; don't deny
it!"
"But I do deny it."
"You encouraged Harry Kirtling the season before last."
"As if he needed encouragement!"
"He nearly persuaded you to marry him."
"Yes, he did," she confessed, blushing furiously. "I burn when I think
of that Ascot week. Bah! what fools girls are! Mark never came near
me, answered my letters with post-cards. I give you my
word--post-cards. I sent sheaves and received straws. And Harry makes
love nicely."
"You gave him lots of practice," Lady Randolph observed drily.
"He wanted me so badly that he offered to give up his hounds and settle
down wherever I pleased."
"And Jim and Archibald."
"My oldest friends."
"Ah, well," sighed Lady Randolph, "you are a lucky girl, Betty. Four
good fellows want you."
"Archie wouldn't tell me why Mark went to town," said Betty absently.
"What a voice he has! When he sings I feel like a Madonna. And his
face----! A man has no business to be so good-looking. I am shameless
enough to confess to you, only to you, that his good looks appeal to me
enormously. It annoys me. I find myself staring at him as if he were a
sort of royalty. And when other girls do it, I think them idiots.
Well, for that matter I have never disguised from myself, or you, that I
am a bit of an idiot."
"You are very human."
"I am not all you think me," cried the girl. "And yet you read me
better than anyone else, but there are pages and pages turned down. I
peep at them sometimes, and am quite scared. Mark shall tear them out
and tear them up. Dear me! I am making myself ridiculous: chattering
on and on about myself."
"One is never ridiculous when one is young," said Lady Randolph
solemnly, "and I hope, my dear, you will let me read the turned-down
pages before they are torn up. I used to say to myself that I should
like to begin life again, to have one more chance. And, listening to
you, I feel that I am beginning again. It is exciting. Only I hope
that sometimes you will listen to me, and try to profit by my experience
of a subject on which you, Betty, are so amazingly ignorant."
"That subject's name is Legion."
"That subject's name is Man. You have tried, I dare say, to measure
Mark with a girl's rule of thumb, to weigh him in virgin's scales, but
his dimensions remain an unknown quantity."
For answer, Betty kissed her.
"Tell me," she whispered, "all you know that I do not know."
"We should sit here for forty years! Our world says you ought to marry
Harry, and our world is always more than half right. Harry has
entertained you with a vast deal of talk about himself, and perhaps you
think you know him. Ah! you nod your head with all the cocksureness of
ignorance! You spoke of his giving up his hounds--for your sake,
because you might find Kirtling a far cry from Bond Street. Oh, the
conceit of the modern girl! My dear, Harry knew well enough that if you
became his wife, no such sacrifice would be demanded. The hounds would
remain at Kirtling--and so would you. If you were beautiful as Helen of
Troy, and fascinating as Cleopatra, you could not root out that passion
for hunting his own hounds. It is a master passion--and always will be
so long as he can sit in the saddle. And in your heart of hearts you
respect and like Harry the more because he does that one thing really
well."
"I am sure you are right," said Betty humbly.
"Well, my dear, what hunting the fox is to Harry, so is the hunting of
vice, and ignorance, and dirt to Mark Samphire. The masculine ardour of
the chase possesses both, and each will hunt the country he knows best."
Betty's silence provoked her friend to say more. "You are in for a
fight, child." She took Betty's hand, which seemed cold, and pressed it
gently. "On your own confession you are unfit to be the wife of the man
you love, and who loves you; and so--pray don't ask me for
congratulations."
"You did not marry for love," cried Betty. Then she paused, ashamed.
"Forgive me!"
"It is true." Lady Randolph turned a grim face to the girl, and her
voice was harsh. "I did not marry for love. Shall we say that I lacked
courage, or did I see clearer than you mountainous differences of
temperament, taste, and opinion, which my love was not strong enough to
scale? Was I a coward because I turned back? I do not say Yes or No.
The man I loved had the brains, but not the body of a conqueror. Do you
think that I was right or wrong because I refused to add burdens to a
back already bowed?"
She spoke with such vehemence that Betty was frightened.
"I d-d-do not know," she stammered.
"_I_ do not know," repeated the other fiercely. "When these mysteries
between our lower and higher natures are revealed, I _shall_ know, and
not till then--not--till--then!"
Her lips closed violently, as if speech were alarmed into silence.
*CHAPTER XIII*
*BAGSHOT ON THE RAMPAGE*
Alone in his room at the Mission, Mark read over the sermon he had
written upon Westchester Cathedral. Then he stared at the bare boards,
the whitewashed walls, the narrow camp bedstead, the Windsor chairs:
things eloquent of a renunciation which he had found sweet a week ago.
Here he had been well content to live, here he had known that he might
die. And now in these same familiar surroundings he felt another man;
the tides of another life ran breast high to meet the quiet waters. Was
it always so, he wondered? Did love, such love as he felt for Elizabeth
Kirtling, such love as she felt for him, exact sacrifice? Must it be
purged and purified in the flame of renunciation? And the answer came
at once--Yes. Perhaps the answer always does come, if we put the
question fairly and frankly to the Supreme Court of Appeal. Mark never
doubted, then or thereafter, that if he took Betty and left his work, it
would be ill for both of them. This conviction was buttressed by a
half-score of proofs, trivial indeed in themselves, yet in their sum
confirmation strong. Beneath his hand lay a memorandum-book. Mark
opened it. On the first page was a list of names--drunkards all of
them, many women, a few boys and girls. These poor creatures leaned
upon him. Each week they brought to him such of their earnings as
otherwise would be spent in drink. With each Mark had fought--and
prevailed. He alone held the master key to their hearts. People who
live within a mile or two of the slums may sneer at a repentance or
reformation founded upon an influence merely personal, which may be
withdrawn at any minute. But those labouring among the very poor and
ignorant are well aware that this personal influence, this amazing power
and attraction which one soul may exercise over another, is the first
lever by which ignorance, and poverty, and sin may be raised to the
level whence the Creator is dimly seen and apprehended through the
created. Mark knew, and every fellow-worker in the Mission knew, that
personal influence may, and often does, soften the hard surface upon
which it shines, so that other rays may penetrate, but he knew also that
if personal influence be withdrawn before that softening process is
complete, induration follows. Mark read over the names in the little
book, and closed it with a sigh as a knock at his door was heard. The
handsome young deacon entered the room.
"Hullo!" he cried, "I am glad you're here."
"What's up?" said Mark.
"Bagshot is on the rampage."
"The miserable sinner!"
"He got his wages last night, and came round as usual to give 'em to
you, but he wouldn't give 'em to me. Then he went off."
"Didn't you go with him?"
"I wish I had thought of it," said the other ruefully. "He went
straight from here to the 'Three Feathers,' and stayed there till
closing time."
Mark looked at his watch. His train left Waterloo in an hour. He had
time to see Bagshot, although such time would probably be wasted.
Bagshot was a brand snatched from the burning some six weeks before: a
big, burly, blackguard of a navvy, strong as Sandow, weak as Reuben,
reasonable enough when sober, a madman drunk, with a frail wife and five
small children at his mercy.
"I'll go alone," said Mark, as the young fellow reached for his hat.
He hurried off, followed at a discreet distance by the deacon. The
Bagshots lived not far from the Mission, in Vere Terrace, a densely
populated slum. Mark tapped at the door of Number 5, opened by a
tattered girl of twelve, whose fingers and face were smeared with paste.
"Where's your father, 'Liza?" said Mark.
"Dunno," replied 'Liza. "'E's drunk, wherever 'e is. Would yer like to
see mother, Mr. Samphire?"
Mark followed the child into the living-room of the family. Coming
straight from Birr Wood, contrast smote him with a violence he had never
before experienced. The Bagshot family sat round a rickety table making
matchboxes. Deducting the cost of paste (which the matchmakers supply),
these bring less than fourpence a gross, and a handy child of ten or
twelve can make just about that number in a day's hard work! Facing
Mark, stood an old-fashioned mangle, seldom used, because it took two
strong women to turn it; to the right was a chest of drawers in the last
stages of infirmity, crippled by ill-usage and long service, stained and
discoloured like the face of the woman who was proud to own it; to the
right a small stove displayed a battered assortment of pots and pans.
The window, which overlooked a court, was propped open with an empty
bottle. Into the court, half filled with rubbish and garbage, the May
sun was streaming, illuminating an atmosphere of squalor and
unhomeliness which hung like a fetid fog between the crumbling ceiling
and the rotten floor.
"'Ere's Mr. Samphire, mother," said the girl. Already her thin, nimble
fingers were at work, while her eyes sparkled with excitement. In the
congested districts of the East End the decencies of life go naked and
unashamed. 'Liza knew that her mother would burst into virulent speech,
and was not disappointed. Bill was drunk again, and violent. She bared
a part of her neck and bosom, showing a hideous bruise. 'Liza stuck out
a leg not much thicker than a cricket stump, and offered to pull down
her stocking. Another child had an ugly lump within three inches of his
temple.
"It wos quite like ole times larst night," said 'Liza, grinning. "'E
giv' us all what-for--'e did."
In answer to a question concerning Mr. Bagshot's immediate whereabouts,
the wife replied sullenly that she neither knew nor cared; then,
remembering Mark's efforts on behalf of the family, she added curtly:
"I'd keep out of 'is wy if I wos you. 'E might drop in any minnit."
"And yer've got yer best clothes on," added 'Liza curiously. "Goin'
beanfeastin' I dessay, or to a weddin'--yer own, my be," she added
sharply.
"Stop yer noise, 'Liza," commanded the mother, wondering vaguely why her
visitor was blushing.
"We wos goin' to Chingford to-dy," said the child with the lump on his
head; "and mother promised us chops and mashed pertaters--didn't yer,
mother?"
"I'd like ter eat chops and mashed pertaters for ever and ever," 'Liza
said. Then, meeting Mark's eyes, she added: "That 'ud suit me a sight
better than a golden 'arp or a 'evingly crown."
"You shall have chops to-day," said Mark, producing a florin. "Cut
along and buy them."
"Mebbee yer aunt 'll let you cook 'em," said Mrs. Bagshot significantly.
'Liza nodded her shrewd little head and vanished; but a minute later she
appeared, breathless. "Father's comin'. Yer'd better tyke yer 'ook,
sir."
Mark said gravely he would stay. The children were despatched to the
aunt's house.
"Yer'd better go, sir," said the wife, now pallid with fear. Mark
smiled confidently, shaking his head. The drunkard's heavy, uncertain
step was heard in the passage; his voice, thick and raucous, called for
his wife.
"A word with you, Bill," said Mark, as the man's huge body darkened the
doorway. The giant stared stupidly at the only fellow-creature he
respected. Then his hand went mechanically to his head and removed a
greasy cap. The woman sat down and began making a matchbox. "I beg
your pardon," continued Mark, holding out his hand; "I told you that I
would take over your wages each week, and last night I failed you. I am
very, very sorry."
His blue eyes expressed much more. The heavy, bloodshot orbs of the
huge navvy sought slowly the latent spark of ridicule or contempt. He
was just sober enough to understand in some inexplicable way that the
tables had been turned. When he saw the parson he had prepared himself
for everything except this. Very awkwardly he took Mark's hand in his
own enormous paw.
"Wot yer givin' us?" he growled.
"If the money is not all gone, Bill, I'll take what is left--now."
"Will yer?" said Bill.
"Yes."
Quality confronting quantity smiled steadily, reassuringly. Quantity
scowled, wriggled uneasily, and quailed. A chink of silver and copper
proclaimed the moral victory.
"Only seven-and-fourpence," said Mark. "You can't go to Chingford with
that."
Bill said something which need not be recorded.
"It is like this," said Mark. "I failed you, and you failed me, and
your wife and your children have suffered. I can see that you have a
splitting headache, and I believe the forest air would do you good. Will
you take Mrs. Bagshot and the children to Epping if I pay the piper? I
ought to be fined for my part in this."
Bill nodded, none too graciously, and some money was given to Mrs.
Bagshot.
"I'm going out of town myself," added Mark, as he took leave of the
giant, "but I know I can trust you, Bill."
Mr. Bagshot grinned sheepishly. It is possible, although not very
probable, that he had an elementary sense of humour. Mark hurried away
looking at his watch. Just round the corner he charged into the deacon,
who offered up fervent thanks that he was unhurt. "I must run," said
Mark, pushing on, "or I shall miss my train." He did run till a hansom
was found in the Mile End Road. Into this he jumped, bidding the driver
use all reasonable haste. None the less as Mark appeared on the platform
at Waterloo the Westchester express was rolling slowly out of the
station.
"Close shave that," said a quiet voice; "you might have been under the
train instead of in it. Was it worth while?"
Mark sank, gasping, on to the cushions.
"Yes; it was worth while," he exclaimed, and then fainted.
When he recovered consciousness the train was running through Clapham
Junction. Mark smelled brandy, and saw the impassive face of a tall,
thin stranger bending over him. No other person was in the carriage.
"Keep quiet for five minutes," the stranger commanded.
Mark closed his eyes. His heart was thumping, but his brain worked
smoothly. When he saw the train rolling out of the station he had been
seized with an absurd conviction that he must overtake and travel by it
to the great happiness awaiting him at Birr Wood. What followed was a
blur, only, strangely enough, the voice of the tall, thin man was
familiar. He had heard his calm, authoritative accents before; by
Heaven! he had heard that voice repeating the same words: "_Keep
quiet._" And they had been spoken to the accompaniment of a thumping,
throbbing heart and horrible physical weakness. Who--who was the
speaker? Ah...! He remembered. The long, lofty room at Burlington
House, the boys in all stages of dressing and undressing, the amazement
and dismay on Jim Corrance's face--these unfolded themselves like the
shifting scenes of a cinematograph.
"You are Amos Barger," he murmured.
He introduced himself to the surgeon, and spoke of the examination at
Burlington House.
"You were very kind," said Mark, "but it was an awful experience for a
boy, because now----" He paused to reflect that the man opposite had
not asked for his confidence.
"Yes--now?" repeated Barger.
"Now, the sense of perpetual imprisonment"--he brought out the grim
words slowly--"would not convey such a sense of loss."
The surgeon was not sure that he agreed. Could a young man, a boy,
measure his loss? Was the capacity for suffering greater in youth?
"I am thinking of one thing," Mark replied, "liberty, the darling
instinct of the newly fledged to fly. When you clipped my wings, I had
the feeling that I should never move again. The pain was piercing: one
could never suffer just such another pang."
"Have you learned to hug your chains?"
"I do not say that. They gall me less."
"But as one grows older"--Amos Barger's face was seamed with
distress--"one sees what might have been so clearly. You say I was
kind; the other surgeon was and is one of the cast-iron pots. Well, I
expect no credit for such kindness. In you I see reflected myself. I
am of the weaklings, to whom some incomprehensible Power has said: 'Thus
far shalt thou go--and no farther!' And I might have gone far had not
my feet, the lowest part of me, failed. I am halting through life when
every fibre of my body tells me I was intended to run."
Mark was trying to adjust words to his sympathy, when the other
continued abruptly: "Don't say a word! We are poles asunder and must
remain so. I am surprised that I spoke at all. You have a faculty, Mr.
Samphire, of luring Truth from her well."
The two men looked at each other. Upon the one face disappointment had
laid her indelible touch; upon the other glowed the light of hope and
faith.
"Before we settle down to our papers"--the surgeon indicated an enormous
pile of magazines and journals--"let me remind you that we spun you for
the Service because you cannot run, with impunity, to catch trains--or,
indeed, anything else."
He picked up a review as he spoke and opened it. Mark eyed him vacantly,
reflecting that he had run to catch Betty, not the train. And he had
spoken of this meeting as coincidence. Was it coincidence? His heart
began to thump once more. When he spoke his voice was hoarse and
quavering.
"Thank you. I suppose just now you had time to make a rough-and-ready
sort of examination?" The surgeon nodded. "Is--is there anything
organically wrong with my heart?"
"Um. It is organically weak--you knew as much before, but you may live
to be sixty if you take care of yourself--which you won't do."
"If others were dependent on me I would take care of myself."
"Oh!" Barger frowned. "You are married--got a family--eh?"
"I have been thinking lately of--of marrying."
The surgeon's face was impassive. Mark looked out of the window at the
pleasant fields of Surrey, through which the train was running swiftly
and smoothly. Was Fate bearing him as swiftly and inexorably out of the
paradise wherein he, poor fool, had already lived in anticipation many
years?
"I infer from your silence," he said, "that if you gave a professional
opinion it would be against marriage--for me?"
"I do not say that," replied the other, shrugging his shoulders; "but it
will be time enough for me to give a professional opinion when you ask
for one in a professional way. I'm running down to Bournemouth for a
holiday, but I shall be at home next Tuesday. Come and see me. I'll
look you over, and answer that question to the best of my ability."
"I'll come," said Mark.
"Afternoon or morning?" asked the surgeon, whipping out a pencil. "Book
your hour!"
"Will three suit you, Mr. Barger?" The surgeon's pencil scratched upon
the paper. Mark added: "I shall be punctual."
*CHAPTER XIV*
*A MORAL EXIGENCY*
Archibald met his brother at Westchester Station, and drove him towards
Birr Wood as the shadows lay long and cool upon the white road. A sweet
stillness hung over the ancient capital--the stillness which in
springtime is eloquent of strife. Everywhere the sap was forcing its way
upward; buds were swelling, leaves were bursting from their bonds. And
an ethereal mildness permeated the atmosphere, suffusing in golden haze
the setting sun.
"Pull up," said Mark.
"Eh?"
"I should like to read you my sermon here and now, within sight of the
cathedral. We can walk across the downs afterwards, and arrive in
plenty of time to dress for dinner."
"All right," Archie replied, "I'm keen enough to hear it. Was it hot in
town? You look rather done."
A groom took the reins and drove off. Mark stared at the cathedral.
"It lies in a golden chalice," he said, indicating the haze which
obscured the insignificant buildings of the town while lightening and
revealing the splendid mass of stone, too heavy, too colourless when
seen beneath grey skies.
"Good point that," said Archie, nodding his handsome head.
The brothers walked across a strip of down, and found themselves near a
clump of trees. Mark pulled from his pocket a sheaf of manuscript, and
read aloud.
Archie lay flat on his back. Presently he sat up, staring at the
cathedral. Then he fixed his eyes on Mark's face, where they remained,
fascinated, till the last word was said.
"Now," Mark commanded, "I want you to declaim a bit of it--standing.
You can give it all I cannot. Do you mind?"
Archibald took the manuscript, sensible of emotions and thrills never
experienced before. Dominating these was the wish to do as he was
asked--to declaim a part of the sermon. He felt a desire to possess
himself of it, to incorporate with it his own physical attributes.
"Let yourself go," said Mark. He watched his brother's face intently,
thinking that he would exchange the brains which had composed the sermon
for the body now bending over it in envy and admiration. Archie had a
gift for committing verse to memory. At Harrow he often boasted that he
could read through a long ode of Horace and repeat it without making a
blunder.
Presently Archie stood up, his massive proportions outlined against the
amber-coloured sky. Although barely thirty, he had acquired a certain
dignity of deportment, an air of maturity, in curious contrast to
blooming cheeks and shining eyes. This aspect is not uncommon in young
clergymen who take themselves seriously. Looking at Archibald Samphire,
one might predict that in a few years he would assume the solidity of a
pillar of the Church. Already, in the eyes of the spinsters in and
around Westchester Close, he was regarded as a staff upon which the weak
might safely and gratefully lean; already, when he gave an opinion, soft
eyes gazed upward suffused with moisture.
He began to declaim Mark's peroration in a slow, impressive voice, the
kind of voice which seems to fill the corners of the soul with echoes at
once strange and familiar. The late Mr. Gladstone possessed such a
voice. Mark stared at his brother, absorbing every note and gesture.
What aptitudes were his for such a part. Listening to him, the younger
brother forgot that he had written the phrases which fell with sonorous
significance upon the silence of the fields. He was able to judge of
what he had done, as if he were hearing the sermon for the first time.
Playwrights experience this bitter-sweet pleasure. Lines laboured at
for many an hour, become in the mouth of a great actor or actress so
changed, so sublimated by the touch of genius, as to prove
unrecognisable, even as a child of peasants adopted by persons of rank
may so dazzle the eyes of its mother that it appears for the moment as a
stranger. And who shall interpret that same mother's feelings when she
sees lavished upon her darling gifts beyond her power to bestow--gifts
which serve as symbols of her loss and another's gain?
Mark Samphire listened to his brother with ears lacerated by envy; and
because devils tore him he was the more determined to exorcise them, in
the hope that what he did and said might hide what he felt. When Archie
finished, the younger brother sprang up and seized his hand.
"From the bottom of my soul," he exclaimed, "I believe that this voice
of yours will be heard not only in Westchester, but in every cathedral
in England."