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