"Of course not, mother. I shall be back to make your tea at four."
"Our Jill has her Jack," said Pynsent. "That was a becoming hat."
"She made it herself," Mark observed.
"Then she likes her Jack. Such a girl would not prink to please a man
to whom she was indifferent."
Jim Corrance thrust out his big jaw. "Mary may have made that hat to
please herself. If I'd her face, by gad, I'd make just such a hat and
enjoy myself with a looking-glass."
"So would I," said Mark.
Pynsent and Jim returned to town before dinner. They promised to come
again, and often, but Mark guessed that such promises were written in
ink, blue and variable as a May sky. He expected to be much alone, and
during the months that followed was not disappointed. From his friends
at the Mission he held aloof. He knew they would ask questions, deeming
it a duty to argue and reprove.
Mark had written the truth to David Ross after the night on Ben Caryll.
In reply, David wisely made no protest against Mark's determination to
leave the Church. That he would speak in due time Mark was
uncomfortably aware, and he learned--not without a feeling of
relief--that his old chief was the busiest man in Poplar.
May passed quickly, devoid of incident and accident. Towards the end of
it, however, Mark, reading his morning paper, was horrified to learn
that Bagshot, the man he had tried to reclaim, had murdered his wife in
a drunken fit. He hastened to London, saw the prisoner--an abject,
cowering wreck of what he had been--and listened to his dreadful story.
The poor fellow had struggled hard against the craving for drink, yet in
the end he had slain the woman he loved. It was heartrending--the
triumph of evil over good.
After seeing Bagshot, Mark reread that battered memorandum-book which he
had carried through terrible slums. Once more, the appeal of the
friendless and helpless stirred him profoundly. Very stealthily, like
"humble Allen," he began to revisit some of his waifs; most of them had
disappeared; others as wretched and forlorn occupied their place. But
his ministrations--necessarily ill-sustained and intermittent--appeared
ineffectual. The joyous confidence of former days had departed. The
squalor seemed invincible, the forces against which he contended so vast
and ungovernable that sense and sensibility revolted. Only faith could
remove such mountains, and faith had forsaken Mark Samphire. None the
less, he persevered.
About the end of June Archibald and his wife came back from France and
settled down in Cadogan Place. Archibald asked Mark to meet them in a
long letter, full of a description of Chenonceau. At the end was a
postscript in Betty's handwriting: "_Please come._" Mark obeyed--a prey
to feelings which cannot be set down. For six weeks he had seen Betty's
face looking out of the window of the train, white, piteous, despairing.
But when they met he was amazed to find her rosy and smiling, full of
plans, in high health and spirits. Then he remembered that his own
health was excellent. Archibald made him welcome, entreated his advice
about the arrangement of books and engravings, begged him to hang his
hat on his own peg, and alluded only vaguely to the red tie.
"You will come back to us," he said confidently.
Betty held his hand tight at parting. "Don't slip out of our lives!"
she whispered.
Mark had a glimpse of the face seen from the train, and hardly knew to
what he was pledging himself when he stammered: "N-n-no,
n-n-no--c-c-certainly not."
After this first meeting it became easy to drop in to luncheon or tea.
The novel was under revision, and several passages describing certain
streets and localities had to be rewritten. Mark had the artist's
passion for truth, carried possibly to excess. One of his characters
was a shopgirl who worked in Edgware Road. Mark spent three days in
Edgware Road, notebook in hand, greedily absorbing the light and colour
of the great thoroughfare. But he made a point of returning to
Weybridge each night and slept, whenever it was fine, in the grove,
lulled to sleep by the pines.
Curiosity took him to St. Anne's in Sloane Street, when Archibald
preached his first sermon. It was crowded with a fashionable
congregation, some of whom came to hear the music--as fine as could be
found in London outside the cathedrals; others, no doubt, were attracted
by a new and eloquent preacher; the rest attended divine service in
their parish church, and would have been in their places, cheered and
sustained by the reflection that they were doing their duty, if the
rector had had no palate to his mouth and the choir had been composed of
village boys squalling free of charge to the accompaniment of a
harmonium. Mark sat in the gallery, whence he could see Betty occupying
a pew not far from the pulpit. He wondered what sort of sermon
Archibald would preach. And he wondered also how it would affect Betty.
Meantime, he examined the congregation. All these fine folk were
possessed of substantial incomes. The struggle for daily bread was an
experience unknown to them. The men seemed to be fathers of families
for the most part, portly squires of ripe, rosy countenances,
many-acred, and duly sensible of the position and station in life to
which it had pleased God to call them. They put gold into the offertory
bag, and could be counted upon to subscribe handsomely to parochial
charities. In striking contrast were the brothers and lovers of the
beautifully gowned women beside them. All, to a man, were frock-coated,
patent-leather-booted, exquisitely cravatted--gilded youths, indifferent
to music or sermon, worshippers in form only, because "it pleases the
mater, you know," or "Dolly expects it," or "I must make myself solid
with Aunt Sarah." Mark noted their well-cut, impassive features, their
resigned air, and their contemptuous negligence of the responses. The
women, on the other hand, displayed a certain ardour of devotion
tempered by a lively interest in their neighbours' clothes. A few
prayed long and fervently, giving themselves up to the emotions inspired
by the lovely music and splendid ritual; the many were intermittent in
their attention. It was plain that a girl just below Mark, who sang
delightfully, was distracted from thoughts of heaven by the difficulty
of determining whether the cape of a friend across the aisle was trimmed
with sable or mere mink. But what struck Mark more forcibly than
anything else was an expression common to all the faces when in repose.
While the lessons were being read, men and women alike suffered their
features to relax into a normal look of discontent. Mouths dropped;
heavy lids veiled tired eyes; dismal lines appeared upon fair faces.
When Archibald ascended the pulpit, a thrill vibrated through his
congregation. Mark perceived at a glance that the Rector of St. Anne's
had secured the goodwill and enthusiasm of the women. They stared at
his fine head, their eyes suffused and shining, their lips slightly
parted, a-quiver with anticipation.
"_Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like
his._"
After a moment's pause, Archibald repeated the text with a different
inflection. Then, leaning forward, speaking without notes, he began his
sermon. Mark noted certain mannerisms common to many preachers.
Archibald hoped that his brothers and sisters in Christ would bear with
him while he laid before them a few thoughts. The thoughts appealed
emotionally to a congregation who had consecrated their energies and
potentialities to the art of living. To such, death, especially a
painful death, is horror. The preacher pictured the last hours of the
righteous man, the faithful servant, conscious that his task has been
accomplished in this world, and that in the next a place is awaiting
him, where, under freer, fuller conditions, he may still carry on the
Master's work. Then, changing his tone, Archibald portrayed the
death-bed of the evil-liver--hopeless, faithless, God-forsaken!
The sermon made an impression. As the congregation streamed out of
church into the sunshine, Mark caught words, phrases, ejaculations which
showed plainly that the new rector had at least satisfied expectation.
But Mark told himself the fringe of a great subject had been
touched--and no more. Archibald's manner almost suggested the
detestable adjective--melodramatic. His power was that of an actor
rather than an evangelist. Above and beyond Mark's recognition of this
was the certainty that Betty recognised it also, albeit, possibly, not
so clearly. Mark had kept his eyes on Betty's face. More than once
some subtile inflection of the preacher's voice had thrilled her; but
towards the end of the sermon her attention and interest had waned.
Instinctively Mark groped his way to the conclusion that if Archibald
had gained his wife's love and esteem by the use of another's brain, he
might find it difficult to hold by the strength of his own.
*CHAPTER XXVII*
*IN GRUB STREET*
Mark's short story had been duly printed and published in Conquest's
magazine. About the time of its appearance (midsummer) Mark called on
Conquest, and the acquaintance then made ripened into a sort of
intimacy. Conquest, quick to perceive that Mark had "stuff" in him, and
learning that Mark was writing a novel, expressed a wish to read it in
typescript.
"I advised you, you remember, to write a novel and burn it."
"I have done so," said Mark quietly.
A big, burly man, with a rugged, leonine head, Conquest liked to be told
he resembled Landor. With this robust physique went a singularly
feminine apprehension and appreciation of details. The enormous amount
of work he could accomplish, his grasp of technicalities, his knowledge,
amounting to intuition, of what the public wanted, his power of
attracting and dominating young men of talent, and, above all, his
encyclopaedic memory, made him invaluable to the firm who employed him.
Mark submitted his novel. Conquest read it, and sent for the author.
Mark found him in the editorial chair, surrounded by books, papers,
manuscripts, press-clippings innumerable--a chaos out of which the
master alone could evoke order. In the room beyond, two type-writing
machines were clicking savagely. Here Conquest's "sub," a secretary,
and half a dozen myrmidons were hard at work. The "sub" and his
assistants looked pale and thin; Conquest alone seemed to thrive and
expand in an atmosphere impregnated with the odour of tobacco-smoke,
damp paper, and printers' ink.
"Sit down! And listen to the words of the ancient! This is the place
where I do the talking. When I stop, you must go. _Shall the Strong
retain the Spoil?_ is d----d good and--don't look so pleased!--d----d
bad. There's hope for you. We'll publish if you like to pay half the
printer's bill. Mind you, the book has but a ghost's chance of catching
on; but I don't want it altered. You'd cut out the best stuff and leave
the trash. _I_ red-pencilled your short story, but I can't afford the
time to prune this--and you wouldn't like it. Leave it here, and I'll
send you our regular agreement to look over and sign. You are under no
obligations, remember, to publish with us. Good morning. Dine with me
next Tuesday. Eight sharp!"
Mark found himself walking down a steep flight of stairs, and heard
Conquest's strident tones echoing after him. He could not remember that
he had accepted the offer made to him, but he was sure that Conquest
took such acceptance for granted.
When Tuesday came, he told Conquest that he had read and was willing to
sign the agreement which had been sent him. Conquest nodded in an
off-hand manner, and did not allude to the subject again. But he
pressed upon Mark the expediency of joining "The Scribblers," a club
newly organised, and likely to become a power. Mark consented, pleased
and flattered that a celebrity should exhibit such interest in him. He
was put up and elected the same week. Conquest introduced him to half a
dozen members, most of whom took an early opportunity of congratulating
Mark upon his friendship with the great man.
"He's a wonder," said a popular author, "but, mind you, he works for
Wisden and Evercreech, and he'll squeeze you like an orange, if you give
him the chance."
The others winked at each other, but said nothing. Tommy Greatorex, a
small, pale man, with very bright dark eyes which redeemed his face from
insignificance, began to talk loudly. Mark had watched him gnawing
nervously at his nails when Conquest's name was mentioned.
"Oh--these editors!" he exclaimed, shaking his fist. "Wouldn't I like
to tell some of 'em what I think of 'em! Yes; there are
exceptions--thank the Lord!--but Samphire will soon find out that most
of 'em are pinchers. Six men in this room sling ink for a living. Is
there one who can stand up and swear that he's not been squeezed?" Not
a man moved. "You see--they sit tight. In this trade of ours the
worker is not paid for his work when it's done. He has to wait for his
pennies, poor devil, although he may be starving. And often he isn't
paid at all. A paper goes to pot, or the special article he has been
asked--asked, mind you--to write is pigeon-holed and doesn't appear, or
there is a change of management. Any recourse? Why, man, if you send
one of 'em a lawyer's letter, you may get your cheque by return of post,
but never a line will you write for my gentleman again. Never more, as
the raven said! One can't afford to quarrel with 'em. And don't they
know it--don't they know it, as they blandly turn the screw? Now, in
America, with the big magazines, it's different. You submit your stuff,
and if it's available a cheque comes along with the acceptance, and a
good cheque too. Over here, a few writers, of course, dictate terms,
but the many take what they get with a humble if not a grateful heart.
If you've private means of your own, you're all right, but if you have
any idea of supporting yourself with the pen--why, God help you!--for
the editors won't."
"Cool yourself with a whisky and soda," said the popular author,
touching the electric bell. "Our profession," he looked at Mark, "is
like all others, overcrowded, and editors and publishers carry on their
business along business lines. I'll admit that most authors are not fit
to deal with them in a business way. They don't like to haggle, and
they don't know how to haggle. Personally, I employ an agent."
"That's all right for you," Tommy retorted, "but an agent's not much use
unless there's an established market for one's wares. What's this book
of yours about, Samphire?"
"The East End," said Mark.
"Um--the slums treated humorously?"
"I've tried to stick to the facts."
"And you expect to sell 'em as fiction? Oh--you optimist!"
"A play's the thing," observed another scribbler. "Write plays."
"Any fool can write a play," said the little man, very scornfully.
"I--_mot qui sous parle_--have written plays, but it takes a diplomatist
to get them read and a genius to get them accepted."
Mark returned to Weybridge rather despondent.
Immediately afterwards he received his first instalment of proofs from
Wisden and Evercreech. Correcting these proved a painful pleasure.
Conquest's judgment coloured and discoloured every sheet. What was
good--what was bad? For his life Mark was unable to criticise his own
work. Some of the bits he had liked when he wrote them now seemed crude
and trite. His dialogue, he decided, was fair, but the narrative lacked
distinction. Before beginning another novel, he would study the best
models in French and English. Meantime he would turn out a story or two.
These were written, despatched to Conquest--and returned with a printed
slip politely setting forth the editor's regret that they were
unavailable. When he met Conquest some ten days later, the great man
vouchsafed a few words.
"Sorry to return your stuff. We shall publish the book in October.
Have you thought of a subject for another? You seem to have gripped
conditions in the East End. How about a novel in rather lighter vein
dealing with the adventures and misadventures of a millionaire who has
turned philanthropist and wants to spend his pile in Stepney? Or--happy
thought!--make your millionaire a millionairess--a good-looking spinster
paddling her canoe through the slums. That would be capital. What do
you say?"
"I'll think about it," said Mark hesitatingly. "I'm awfully obliged to
you, Conquest."
"That's all right. By the way, I can use an article on your brother,
two thousand words. Make it very personal, and secure good photographs
of him and his church."
"But he mightn't like it, you know."
Conquest roared. "I say--that's immense--immense! Not like it? A
popular preacher! Ha--ha--ha! Why, it's incense to 'em, man alive. Ask
him, at any rate. If he doesn't jump, call me fool. Can you see him at
once?"
"If you wish it."
Somehow, to Mark's disgust, Archibald did jump. The article appeared in
a Church paper and led to an incident of much greater importance.
Conquest wired to Mark to come up to town on business. Mark was given a
capital luncheon at Dieudonne's restaurant, but not till the coffee was
served did Conquest speak of the matter in hand.
"I suppose you know," he said carelessly, but keeping his eyes on
Mark's, "that I pull many strings. Now this is between ourselves,
in--the--strictest--confidence. I want to pump you. Bless you, it
always pays to be frank. How do I stand with your brother? Does he
like me?"
"I'm sure he does," said Mark warmly. At Conquest's desire he had
introduced him to Archibald. Conquest had dined in Cadogan Place.
"I can help him--materially. Of course there's something in it for me,
but there's more in it for him, and I thought that you might be willing
to act as a go-between. Have you noticed a big Basilica which Lord
Vauxhall is building in that part of Chelsea where his new houses are?
You have? A fine thing--hey? Oh, you don't admire the Byzantine style.
Well, that church is the biggest advertisement in London. Shush-h-h! I
don't want to be misunderstood. Vauxhall, who is a friend of mine,
understands the value of churches. And he's a Churchman, too. He felt
it to be his duty to build that church, and _I_ say, not he, that it's a
thundering big 'ad' for the neighbourhood. Now Vauxhall is immensely
struck by your brother's eloquence. Vauxhall always wants the best of
everything, and he pays for it, cash on the nail. He would like to
offer the Basilica and fifteen hundred a year to your brother. Now the
cat's out of the bag. What d'you think of her?"
Mark flushed. Conquest was his host.
"I think she's mangy."
"Good," said Conquest, in no way perturbed. "I wanted an honest
opinion."
"As I understand this," said Mark, "Lord Vauxhall offers my brother a
bribe to boom his new neighbourhood."
Conquest shrugged his mighty shoulders.
"You are a young man," he said drily. "Beware of hasty judgments. It's
my experience that motives are generally mixed. Vauxhall has built and
endowed a magnificent church. He offers it to your brother, or rather
he empowers me to offer it, if there is a likelihood of the offer being
accepted. Perhaps I had better speak to your brother myself."
"I should prefer that," said Mark.
When he saw Archibald, some days later, he was quite sure, from his
knowledge of Conquest, that the matter had been broached, but Archibald
said nothing to him about it. Betty, however, talked as if no change
was impending, so Mark inferred that she was either without her
husband's confidence or that Lord Vauxhall's offer had been refused.
Betty was full of plans connected with the parish, and busy organising a
large charity concert. Jim Corrance told Mark that he (Jim) had misread
Betty's character and temperament.
"She's happy with her husband," he declared. "He has a way with
him--women can't resist parsons when they're good and good-looking. One
must concede that Archie is both."
Mark said nothing. He was quite unable to determine whether Betty had
found happiness or not. Sometimes, when alone with husband and wife, he
marked an irritability not without significance. Archibald had acquired,
since he came to London, a certain air and deportment common to many
successful men. Betty chaffed him, called him "Sir Oracle," and when he
protested against these quips, she would frown and bite her lip.
Archibald was very particular about the antecedents of the people
invited to his house. Some of Betty's acquaintances were banned. Lady
Randolph had a word to say on this.
"Archie is quite right, my dear. He's not going to imperil his
preferment by hobnobbing with such frisky folk. It pays to be
exclusive. Look at those Bertheim women! They were--well, we know what
they were; but when they married rich men, they refused to entertain any
matron who was not immaculate. Now, to be seen at their houses is a
patent of virtue!"
"Archie," said Betty, "is governed by the highest motives; still, I
should like to see this house open to a few nice sinners: painters,
writers, musicians; but Archie says they are all freethinkers or
Laodiceans. It is a great grief to him that Mark gave up his Orders.
He offered to take him as secretary."
Lady Randolph stared. There were times when she felt that Betty was an
unknown quantity.
"You allowed him to make that offer?"
Betty turned aside her eyes. "I did not know that it was made. Of
course Mark refused--would have done so in any case. I mention it to
show you what manner of man Archie is. I don't think you do him
justice. You spoke just now as if he were a time-server. His whole
life is devoted to others."
"Does he--_know_?" said Lady Randolph, alluding to what had passed at
Birr Wood.
"Why should I tell him?"
"Why, indeed, my dear?"
"It would distress him infinitely. And it might lead to a breach
between the brothers. Mark comes here. He has changed greatly. I
don't think that anything interests him very much except his literary
work."
"He looks a different man," said Lady Randolph absently.
"If it had not been for that breakdown in those horrible slums, if----"
Betty bit her lip. Lady Randolph pretended that she had noticed nothing
unusual, but when she said good-bye she kissed Betty twice and
whispered: "If I were you I should not encourage Mark to come here."
"_Encourage_ him?"
"If he needs no encouragement--so much the worse."
Betty laughed nervously. Mark's companionship was a pleasure she would
not forego. She was interested in his book; she liked to hear his talk,
his gossip of Grub Street; his descriptions of the Dews, mother and
daughter; his adventures in search of material. Behind this lay the
comfortable assurance that she had adjusted a difficult situation. She
had lost the lover of her youth, but she had gained a good husband, a
brother, and a friend. So she told herself that she was rich, repeating
the phrase, till she came to believe it true. One day she said to Mark,
"I suppose you would call me a rich woman, using the adjective in its
widest sense."
"We are all rich--and poor," Mark replied evasively. "What rich man is
not poor in some respect; what poor man is not rich in another? This is
an age of classification. We go about sticking labels on to our friends
and ourselves. If you honestly think yourself rich, you are so."
Sometimes he wondered if she could measure the violence of feeling which
had driven him from the Church. She never spoke of his change of cloth;
still she eyed his red tie askance. Archibald had said something when
he came back from his honeymoon.
"At King's Charteris you could keep a curate. The pater said that he had
spoken to you. And it's the family living."
"I'll say to you what I didn't like to say to the pater: 'Drop it.'"
"Certainly," Archibald replied. "But it's a pity your powers of
organisation should be wasted." Then he made the offer which had
provoked astonishment in Lady Randolph. It astonished Mark also,
revealing as it did his brother's lack of insight where he (Mark) was
concerned.
"You could help me enormously," Archibald concluded.
"I am going to help myself," said Mark.
Just before the novel was published, Archibald let fall a hint that
Conquest had spoken to him. Betty happened to be present, but Archibald
addressed himself to Mark.
"Have you ever met Lord Vauxhall?"
"No."
"A very charming man--and a Christian. He dines here next week. I
should like you to meet him. By the way, he's a friend of Conquest."
"Ah!" said Mark.
"I like Conquest immensely," said Archibald suavely. "He has the larger
vision."
"Betty--do you like Conquest?" said Mark abruptly.