"I have a motif for you. The emotional treatment of religion. Look at
the success of this new book, _Robert Elsmere_! The same success awaits
the dramatist who can use like material. I should make the principal
character a woman of passion with a strong sense of religion."
"A sinner?"
"Yes. It seems to me that sinners on the stage have great
opportunities. The world must listen to what they have to say. In real
life the good people do all the talking, the moral talking, I mean; an
honest sinner holds his or her tongue. It's such a pity, for I'm sure
your honest sinner loathes his sin. In my drama the sinner is saved,
because the sense of what she has suffered, her personal experience of
the horror and misery of sin, make for her salvation."
"The right man could do something with it, no doubt."
"Why not you, Mark?"
He fell into a reverie, staring into the fire. Betty perceived that he
had wandered out of the world of speech into the suburbs of silence,
where visions of what might have been come and go. Presently he said
abruptly:
"Shall we walk?"
"There's an east wind blowing, evil for man and beast."
"You're neither. Come on."
They crossed the park, skirting the Serpentine, a dull, leaden-coloured
lake wrinkled by the keen wind. On some of the benches sweethearts were
sitting, serenely unmindful of the blast.
"They feel warm enough," said Betty, laughing. "Well, I'm in a glow,
too."
When they returned to Cadogan Place, Archibald had just arrived from
Upper Tooting. He said that he had found a superb tenor, whom he had
engaged.
"He sang 'Nazareth'--quite admirably."
Betty, teapot in hand, looked up, interested at once.
"Oh, Archie, you have not sung 'Nazareth' for months. Do sing it after
tea!"
"Do!" Mark added. "I haven't heard you sing for a year."
Finally, after a little pressing, Archibald seated himself at the piano,
a beautiful Steinway. As he touched the keys, Betty's face assumed the
expression of delighted receptivity so familiar to Mark. She glanced at
the singer between half-closed eyes, lying back in her chair in an
attitude of physical and mental ease. One hand drooped at her side, and
as Archibald sang the fingers of this hand contracted and relaxed,
keeping time to the rhythm of the song. Mark felt that her pulses were
throbbing, quivering with delight and satisfaction. The music touched
him also, stirring to determination his desire to help and protect the
woman he loved. But when his thoughts turned, as they did immediately,
to Archibald, they became of another texture and complexion. He had not
prayed to God since that night on Ben Caryll. Now, beneath the spell of
the music, he repeated to himself: "Oh God, take this hate from me; take
this hate from me!"
When Archibald stopped singing, he said that he must go to his study for
an hour's work before evening service. Mark accompanied him. As soon
as they were alone, he blurted out what was in his mind.
"I say, Archie, if you want a little help, I'm your man. I suppose work
means the preparation of your Advent sermons. I helped you last year.
Shall I help you this?"
Archibald's face flushed.
"I don't know what's wrong with me," he muttered; "but ideas don't flow.
If you would help--but, but you have your own work."
"My work! Well, it's lucky I've an allowance, or I should certainly
starve. Archie, I'd like to help you. I ask it as a favour. Come on;
what's the use of jawing? What's it to be this Advent? I thought of
something in church this morning which you might lick into shape."
He filled his pipe, talking in his hesitating yet voluble way.
Archibald, the practical, took a pad to jot down notes in shorthand.
Mark began to pace the room as his ideas flowed faster. It seemed to
him that he had dammed them up for many months; now they came down like
the Crask after a big rain, a cleansing flood, carrying away all refuse,
all barriers. When he had finished, Archibald arose ponderously and
shook his hand.
"You're a wonderful fellow," he said slowly; "the hare you, the tortoise
I. It was always so."
"The tortoise won the r-r-race," said Mark.
When he went to bed that night he flung open wide the window of his
room. Outside, the night was inky black and tempestuous. Not a star to
be seen above, and the lamps below burning dimly, throwing pale circles
of light upon the wet, muddy street. Mark stood inhaling the fresh air,
drawing long and deep breaths, saturating himself with it. Presently he
muttered:
"I may be happy yet."
*CHAPTER XXIX*
*THE PROCESSION OF LIFE*
Late in May Betty was expecting to be confined; and Mark could see that
Archibald tried in vain to conceal his anxiety. "One never knows how
these affairs will end," he said a score of times to his brother, who
replied, "Betty is strong; she will do well; you are foolish to borrow
trouble." None the less, Mark's anxiety quickened also as the time
approached, becoming the more poignant, possibly, because the birth of
this baby emphasised his own isolation and loneliness. Betty as
mother--and he felt sure that she would prove an admirable
mother--appeared indescribably remote. Archibald as father, babbling
already about his _son_, obstructed the horizon.
"The boy may reign at Pitt Hall," said Archibald. "George has written to
say that he hopes it will be an heir--_his_ word--because then he will
feel at liberty to remain a bachelor. Do you think that Betty is as
prudent as she ought to be?"
"She will do well, she will do well," Mark reiterated.
"You will come to us, Mark. I shall want you, you know."
"If you insist----"
"I don't think I could face it without you."
Betty added her entreaties. "I'm not afraid," she maintained; "but
Archie is behaving like an old woman. Lady Randolph will be with me; I
should feel easier if you were with Archie. How devoted you brothers
are to each other!"
Mark hastily put up his hand to cover a smile which he felt to be
derisive. Then he muttered awkwardly, "All right, I'll c-c-come."
Again he wondered whether she had suspected the hatred within him.
Surely a creature of her intuitions and sympathies must know. And if
she did know, and, knowing, faced the facts, trying to adjust the
balance, piecing together the fragments of broken lives, was it not his
duty, however painful, to help her and the man she had married? And
perhaps she had foreseen that any peril threatening an object dear to
both brothers might serve to unite them. The woman who had whirled them
asunder must cherish the hope that she alone could bring them together.
When the hour came, when he was alone with Archibald at midnight,
straining his ears for that thin, querulous wail of the newly born, he
forgot everything except that Betty might be taken away. The doctor
bustled in from time to time, cheery and sanguine at first, but as the
hours passed betraying uneasiness and anxiety. Towards morning, when
the whole world seemed to have grown chill and dreary, he asked for a
consultation; and a servant was sent hot-foot for the most famous
accoucheur in Harley Street.
Archibald rushed upstairs. He crawled down them a few minutes later,
ghastly, trembling, the scarecrow of the prosperous Rector of St.
Anne's. Mark, as white as he, seized his arm.
"Well, well, how is she? That fool of a doctor has exaggerated. They
always make out everything to be more serious than it is."
"She is going, she is going," the husband muttered.
Mark shook him violently.
"Archie, you must pull yourself together. Do you hear?"
"It's a judgment, a judgment."
"What do you say?"
"I never told her about those two sermons. I'm a coward, a coward. You
despise me--I have felt it."
The big fellow had collapsed, shrunk incredibly, depleted of windy
self-assurance and vanity. Mark's hate and scorn and envy began to ooze
from him as the old love, the virile instinct of the strong to comfort
and protect the weak, gushed into his heart, suffusing a genial warmth
through every fibre of his being.
"I gave them to you freely," he said. "I urged you to preach that first
sermon. Put what is past from you."
But Archibald shook his head. Now that the silence was broken, he
wished to speak, to give his shame and trouble all the words so long
suppressed. In a pitiful manner he began a self-indictment--_qui
s'accuse s'excuse_.
"If Betty is spared, I shall tell her the truth," he concluded.
Mark frowned, trying to measure the effect of such a belated confession
on Betty. Then he heard his brother saying in the tone of conviction
which so impressed his congregations, "Of course, Betty did not marry me
because I preached those sermons."
Mark started. Temptation beset him to answer swiftly: "She did--she
did. I know she did. Had it not been for my words in your mouth, she
would have waited for, she would have married--me."
He turned aside his face, twisted and seamed by the effort of holding
his tongue. Archibald continued: "It has been a secret sore. I thought
hard work--I have worked very hard--would heal it. If--if she is spared,
I shall speak for all our sakes."
Mark's voice was quite steady when he replied, "For all our sakes. You
take me into account?"
"Why, of course. Don't you remember? You wished her to know. You said
you would tell her. Why didn't you?"
"Why, indeed?" Mark echoed fiercely. Then, with a sudden change of
manner, he went on: "You must do what you think best. Betty has placed
you on a pinnacle. See that you don't topple over! Practise what you
preach. Then you will save her soul and your own."
"We talk as if she were not dying."
"She will not die," said Mark solemnly. At that moment he was sure that
Betty would live, must live, because (and the reason illumines the dark
places through which Mark had passed), because it would be so much
better for her if she died.
Just then the consulting surgeon arrived. Archibald took him upstairs,
and returned to Mark within a quarter of an hour, saying that the case
was even more serious than had been supposed.
"Drax sentenced me to death," said Mark, "but I'm alive and strong."
Archibald fell on his knees in an agony of supplication. Mark watched
him. Suddenly the husband looked up.
"In the name of God, pray," he entreated. "You are a better man than
I--pray!"
But Mark remained standing.
He desired to pray, but above this desire and dominating it was the
vivid horror of that evil spirit, which had so lately fled and which
might come back. A sense of unworthiness prostrated his spirit, but not
his body. He glanced at Archibald, and left the room.
Outside, the gas in the hall and passages seemed to be struggling
helplessly against the light of breaking day. Familiar
objects--furniture belonging to the Admiral--loomed large out of a
sickly, yellow mist. Mark found himself staring blankly at an ancient
clock ticking with loud and exasperating monotony. It had so ticked
away the seconds, the minutes, the hours of more than a hundred years!
The next objects that caught his eye were two umbrellas. They stood
side by side, curiously contrasted: the one a dainty trifle of violet
silk and crystal, encircled with a gold band; and the other large and
massive with a symbolic shepherd's crook as a handle. These arrested
Mark's attention. He remembered that he had chaffed Betty about her
umbrella, telling her that it was too smart for a parson's wife, and
absurdly frail as a protection against anything save a passing shower.
She retorted that a wise woman never braves a storm, and then she had
said with the smile he knew so well: "My umbrella, which, after all, is
an _en tout cas_, is just like me: made for sunshine rather than rain."
He sat down, waiting, staring at Betty's umbrella. When he looked up
Lady Randolph was coming down the stairs very slowly--a white-haired old
woman. Something in her face choked the question which fluttered to his
lips. To gain an instant's time, he opened the library door and called
to his brother--
"Archie!"
Archibald appeared instantly.
"A girl has been born," said Lady Randolph, "but she is dead."
"Dead?" repeated Archibald.
"And Betty?" Mark demanded hoarsely.
"The doctors think she is safe."
The three passed into the dining-room, where some food had been laid
out. Lady Randolph gave details in a worn voice. Betty's pluck had
been amazing; she had displayed a fortitude lacking which she would
probably have succumbed. The consulting surgeon, who entered shortly
afterwards, assured the husband that, humanly speaking, the danger was
over. Almost at once Archibald recovered his normal composure and
dignified deportment. Mark, on the other hand, exhibited signs of
collapse. He sat down shivering, as if he had been attacked by
malignant malaria.
Next day he saw Betty for a couple of minutes. She smiled and thanked
him, intimating that Archibald had told her that the suspense would have
been intolerable had not Mark helped him to bear it. Of the loss of her
baby she said nothing, but before Mark left the room she exacted a
promise that he would come to see her during the period of
convalescence.
About this time he began his third novel, _The Songs of the Angels_.
Conquest asked him if he were setting to work on the theme suggested by
him, and when Mark pleaded inability to guide a young and beautiful
heiress through the slums of Stepney, the great man shrugged his
shoulders--a gesture now associated in Mark's mind with derision and
contempt. Conquest then demanded what he was doing, and hearing the
synopsis of the new story shrugged his vast shoulders once more.
"That won't sell," he said. "You could have handled my theme--if you
had tried. By the way, that brother of yours has jumped at Vauxhall's
offer. I knew he would. He'll go very far, that young man. Even the
Basilica won't be big enough to hold him."
He laughed loudly and strode away.
During July Mark saw Betty regularly twice a week. Archibald was
working harder than ever in and out of St. Anne's parish, but of the
Basilica, now nearing completion, not a word was said by either husband
or wife. Mark wondered if Betty knew. Her recovery was slow and
intermittent.
"Are you worried about anything?" Mark asked one day.
"Yes," she admitted, after a minute's hesitation; then she continued
quickly, "Have you noticed another falling off in Archie's sermons?"
"He's unequal, of course," Mark replied. "And the best brains refuse to
work in a tired body."
"I wish you'd say a word about that. He'd take anything from you."
Again she caught a glimpse of that derisive smile of Mark's which she
could not interpret, as he promised to speak to his brother. Did he
reap his reward when Betty said, three weeks later, "Archie has preached
splendidly the last two Sundays. Has he told you that he has been
commanded to preach again at Windsor?"
Mark nodded rather coldly, so Betty thought. He reflected that he was
the man with one talent. How much better that it should be given to the
man who had ten rather than be atrophied by disuse, buried, so to speak,
in one upon whom silence was imposed. Every pang of envy which twisted
his heart he tried to assuage with the anodyne of kind actions. But the
faith which had never failed him when he was sick seemed to have
forsaken him utterly now that he was whole.
When _The Songs of the Angels_ was half written, telegrams summoned Mark
and his brothers to Pitt Hall, where the Squire lay dying, senseless and
speechless. He had been seized with a fit, after returning from a long
day's hunting on Christmas Eve. The doctors said at once that nothing
could be done. Pitt Hall was hung with holly and mistletoe; and Mark,
coming out of the room where his father lay dead, saw the servants
pulling down the decorations. It seemed to him that the old house would
never be the same again. It never was--to him.
The will revealed a terrible state of affairs. After the widow's
jointure was paid, only enough money would be left to keep the estate
out of the market. George, in any case, would have to let it for a term
of years and economise closely, if he hoped to cancel the mortgages.
Low prices, bad years, and a disastrous attempt to recover losses by
speculation had almost wrecked one of the finest properties in
Slowshire. The younger sons, as residuary legatees, found themselves
absolutely unprovided for. This, it is true, made no difference to
Archibald, but Mark told himself ruefully that he only possessed his
books and simple furnishings and some ninety pounds. George was unable
to do anything; but Archibald offered his brother the same allowance he
had been in the habit of receiving. Mark refused it.
"I think I can pay my way," said Mark.
"I owe you that--and more too."
"Oh, rubbish!"
"If you would live with us, and become my paid secretary. You could
have your afternoons and evenings free."
"I shall not leave my pines," said Mark. "Many thanks, but I'm going to
score off my own bat."
This conversation took place upon the afternoon of the funeral. That
evening, in the smoking-room, the question of the living again presented
itself. George Samphire had inherited his father's manner and ideas, the
latter tempered, possibly, by life in a cavalry regiment.
"By Jove!" said he, "there's King's Charteris for you, Mark. The
rector, they tell me, won't see Easter. It's the very thing, and you
can keep an eye on my tenant. That's settled, thank the Lord!"
An awkward pause followed. At his father's grave Mark had worn, and
wore still, black clothes of clerical cut.
"I am a layman," said Mark.
"What? You've chucked it! But you can't--can he, Archie? Once a
parson, always a parson. Archie can arrange anything."
"True," said Archibald, "but----" He glanced at Mark, who had risen.
"Don't badger me, George," Mark said quietly. "You must find a better
fellow than I for King's Charteris. It's been a terrible day. I'm off
to bed."
He marched out of the room, leaving George agape with astonishment.
"What the devil's the meaning of this?" he asked of Archibald.
"I'm afraid he's an agnostic."
"Ag--wha-a-t!"
Archibald explained the meaning of the word, not so familiar then as
now. George listened, frowning, interjecting many an "Oh!" and "Ah!"
and "By Jove!" as the speaker delicately conveyed the impression that he
did not despair of leading this errant sheep back into the fold.
"Mark," he concluded, "has shown a great deal of right feeling, my dear
George. I cannot doubt but that it will be well with him. But he is
not one to be pressed."
"That's sound enough, old Slow-and-Sure, and I suppose we can get some
fellow to keep King's Charteris warm for him--eh? And they tell me
you'll have livings to give away one of these fine days. Good Lord!
what a mess the poor governor has made of things!"
Saying this, the new squire of Pitt Hall sighed, poured himself out a
whisky and soda, drank it, lit a candle, and went to bed, followed by
Archibald.
Within the week Mark saw Conquest, by appointment, and told him what had
happened, asking at the same time for a settlement of his small account.
To his dismay he learned that he was in the debt of Wisden and
Evercreech. What was due for his first short story and the illustrated
interview with the Rector of St. Anne's was swallowed up in the bill for
printing the novel. Of this, not counting press copies, some three
hundred and fifty had been sold, of which--as had been said--Jim
Corrance bought one hundred outright.
"Our bill needn't bother you," said Conquest. "And the novel may square
it yet. You ask for my advice. Frankly, then, I say--journalism, but
it's uphill work. You've got to make a special study of editors--and
what they want. The stuff which Jones prints and pays for, Smith,
perhaps, won't even take the trouble to return as unavailable."
"Can you give me anything?"
"Nothing except advice, Samphire, and a letter or two. We are chock
full. Of course I'll always consider what you send me, but we have our
regular staff, and fifty besides waiting to step into their shoes."
"If I could get a sub-editorship?"
"Ask for the moon at once. You don't know the ropes. Every fool thinks
he can edit or sub-edit a paper, but the proprietors are not of their
mind. You're a clever fellow, Samphire, but you'll pardon me for saying
that you're kinky, and you seem to possess a vermiform appendix of a
conscience. You can support yourself with your pen, when you know how
to use it."
"I'm much obliged to you," said Mark humbly.
Conquest sent him half a dozen letters, which were presented in person.
The editors, somehow, managed to convey the impression that they were
obliging Conquest rather than the bearer of his credentials. Each
promised, more or less courteously, to consider any work submitted.
Tommy Greatorex, the pessimist, proved an unexpected source of sympathy
and help. He learned that Mark spoke Italian. Together they explored
Eyre Street Hill and the purlieus about Hatton Garden, an expedition
which took concrete form in the shape of a paper dealing with the
ice-cream vendors, the plaster-cast image sellers, and the like. Tommy
sold the paper for twenty guineas, and divided the cheque with Mark. By
chance Conquest learned of this, and wired for Mark.
"Greatorex says you talk Italian like a Dago. Would you care to
translate an Italian novel for us? We'll pay you sixty pounds."
"Thank you very much," said Mark.
Conquest handed him the proof sheets of the novel.
"You must translate with discretion," he said carelessly; "but don't
emasculate it! After all, we are not publishing for schoolgirls."
Mark left Paternoster Row, and mounted a 'bus in St. Paul's Churchyard.
When he had taken his seat, he looked at the sheets and began to read
them very rapidly. Tommy Greatorex was waiting for him at the
Scribblers.
"Has Conquest given you Nespoli's novel?"
"It's in my pocket," said Mark, rather red in the face. "And it ought
to be in the public sewer. I shan't translate it."
"Phew-w-w!" said Tommy. "What's the use of being so bally particular?
What did he offer? Seventy-five? Oh, sixty--the Shylock. Well, old
chap, if you don't take the job, somebody else will."
"There's not a particle of doubt about that," said Mark.
But when he returned the novel to Conquest, he saw that he had offended
the great man, who shrugged his shoulders and said curtly that Mark had
better buy a little lamb and play with it. This was too much. Mark
flamed.
"I've stood your sneers long enough, Conquest," he said. "You've done
me some good turns----"
"Hold on," said Conquest, black and grim. "Don't flatter yourself that I
did them for you. You are the brother of Archibald Samphire, and that's
about the only claim you have to _my_ consideration. Now then--march!"
He pointed insolently to the door, towering above the slight figure
confronting him. Mark recovered his temper.
"I'd hit you," he said politely, "if you were smaller, but I can't reach
your brazen face, you b-b-bully and b-b-blusterer. And I couldn't
injure your thick skin with an axe."
The door between the sanctum and the room where the typewriters were
clicking stood ajar. When Mark ended his sentence a sound of giggling
was heard. Conquest, cursing, turned and kicked the door with violence.
Mark laughed and disappeared, leaving an unscrupulous enemy behind him.
Misfortune, however, introduces us to friends as well as enemies. Mark
had been hurt because Jim Corrance had not repeated his visit to
Weybridge. Jim, he had said to himself, was cold, absorbed in
money-getting, unmindful even of his mother, dear soul, who must often
yearn for the companionship of her son. But when Jim heard of the
Squire's will, he rushed down to Weybridge, taking with him an enormous
hamper. Mark told Betty what passed.
"Jim arrived with a hamper. I believe he thought I was starving. He
brought champagne, cigars, and every potted thing which grows in Fortnum
and Mason's. And he told me that he was looking for a confidential
clerk at five hundred a year. And would I do him the favour to take the
billet. By Heaven--his face warmed my heart through and through."
"You look," said Betty, "as if someone had left you a fortune! Those
potted things may come in handy, if you insist on refusing the help
which your friends are only too glad to offer."
"I shall make my way, Betty."
Her eyes were troubled, as she said hurriedly, "Are you sure of that,
Mark? If--_if_ you should break down again. Oh, I know what's in your
mind. You are going to drudge. And why should you, when Archie and I
would be so delighted to have you here? You could help him. He has
told me----"
"What has he told you?"
His sharp interrogation slightly puzzled her.
"Oh, he says that your hints have been invaluable."
So Archibald had withheld the truth. He heard Betty's voice entreating
him to come to Cadogan Place. His heart was throbbing. Perhaps she
wanted him.
"I c-c-can't," he stammered. "I have my p-pride."
"So had Lucifer," she retorted.
That she supposed him cold, he knew. When they parted, he smiled to
himself because she said angrily: "You think of nothing but your _Songs
of the Angels_!"
"Angels won't sing in London," he said.
Shortly after this he received a letter from Dudley McIntyre, the head
of an historic publishing house. McIntyre had read the novel which would
not sell, and begged to have the pleasure of meeting the author at an
early date. This again was a piece of luck which Mark discovered,
later, to be due to Tommy Greatorex. Tommy, who loathed Conquest, had
told McIntyre of what had passed. McIntyre had no love for Conquest and
despised his business methods. When he met Mark, he took a fancy to
him. Mark, for his part, was charmed with McIntyre, who represented the
publisher of the old school: being all that Conquest was not: courteous,
sympathetic, speaking with precision in well-chosen words untainted by
slang. McIntyre, however, published _belles lettres_, biographies,
books of travel, rather than novels. Still, he expressed a wish to see
_The Songs of the Angels_, and said that the theme appealed to him.
"Not that I pretend to be a judge of what will sell or not sell," he
concluded. "And I seldom pass an opinion upon a manuscript."
"I should be glad to undertake translations," said Mark.
"Will that be worth your while, Mr. Samphire?"
Mark frankly explained his position. He thought he was qualified to
translate either French or Italian books. McIntyre said he would make a
note of it, and did so, entering Mark's address in a small pocket-book.
"Finish your novel," said he at parting. "And give it undivided
attention."
Accordingly, Mark remained at Weybridge. He realised that if this novel
failed, he must become, as Betty said, a drudge; and he was certain that
hack-writing meant the sacrifice of higher literary ambitions. McIntyre
was right. He must make the effort of his life to grasp something
substantial. If he failed, let him clutch at straws!
Necessity lent edge to the enterprise. Each morning he woke with an
appetite for work which seemed to increase rather than diminish. He
became so absorbed in his task that everything and everybody became
subservient to it. Archibald had taken Betty abroad; Pynsent was in
Paris; Jim Corrance had been summoned to New York; David Ross still held
aloof. So, for six weeks or more, he was undisturbed by the claims of
friendship: the only claims at that time which he would have considered.
But to such a temperament as Mark's, speech is vital. Having no one
else, he talked with Mary. He told himself that Mary was a remarkable
girl, endowed with a fund of practical common sense upon which he was
entitled to draw. Mary walked every other Sunday, if it was fine, with
the young fellow of whom mention has been made. The rest of her time
was spent with her mother and in the prosecution of duties which lay
within the apple-green palings of her home. Mrs. Dew kept one servant,
a cook; Mary worked in the house and in the garden.
The Dews, mother and daughter, knew that Mark was a writer. Mrs. Dew,
however, considered literary work not quite "genteel." When Mark said
to her: "You know, Mrs. Dew, that I'm an author," she sniffed and
replied: "I didn't think you liked it mentioned."
It is curious and instructive to trace any friendship to its source.
Mark had a character in his book not unlike Mary. The reviewers of his
first novel agreed that Mark drew men with a firm touch; his women, on
the other hand, were unconvincing, artificial, idealised. It was the
most natural thing that he should say to Mary in his pleasant, friendly
voice: "I s-s-say, Honeydew, if you found yourself in such-and-such a
quandary, what would you do?"
Mary answered this first question so simply and convincingly that it led
to many others. Mark ignored her sex, talking to her as he talked to
Pynsent and Corrance.
"Such a lot depends upon the success of this book," he told her.
"Journalism means bread-and-scrape, at best cakes and ale, but I'm
hungering for the nectar and ambrosia of Literature. I feel my power
with the men, but with the women--I grope. What I don't know about your
delightful sex, Mary, would fill an encyclopaedia."
He eyed Mary with wrinkled irritability as a type of composite
womanhood. After all, he reflected, "Judy O'Grady and the Colonel's
lady are sisters under their skins!" Mary was a bridge by which a poor
ignorant man might cross the gulf which separates the sexes. _The Songs
of the Angels_ was a love story. He submitted the plot to Mary, who
confounded him by an apt suggestion.
"By Jove, Honeydew, you know all about it. I suppose you've had half a
dozen lovers?"
Mary blushed.
"Only Albert Batley."
He spared her confusion, but Mrs. Dew supplied details. Albert Batley
had a nice growing business, as a contractor, in and about Weybridge,
where houses were popping up like mushrooms in a night. Mrs. Dew
fretfully complained that Mary did not know her own mind. Albert, it
appeared, was quite willing to accept a mother-in-law as a permanent
guest, if Mary would only accept him. "But naturally I'm not
considered," she concluded, in that querulous whine which penetrated so
far.
"Now, Mrs. Dew," Mark replied, "that won't do with me. Mary is as good
as gold and your faithful slave."
"She won't have me long, Mr. Samphire. I'd like to see her settled,
before I die."
Mark had met Albert, and been much entertained by him. Without wasting
time in superfluous verbiage, Mr. Batley had given Mark to understand
that he was ready to buy a wedding-ring, not to mention other trinkets,
as soon as Mary gave him the word. If ever man was deeply, inextricably
in Cupid's toils, Mr. Batley was he. _A propos_ of this Mark said one
day:
"You see, Honeydew, when a man is in love, he knows it."
"It works the same way with a woman," said Mary. "Only more so."
"Eh?" said Mark.
Mary explained that a girl really and truly in love was of necessity
aware of her condition, because the fermentation, so to speak, took
place in the bottle, instead of in the barrel with the bung out. "With
men," she concluded, "it often bubbles away."
Mark detected a note of pain.
"My poor little Honeydew," he said, with warm sympathy. "You have
suffered. Some day you must tell me about it."
"I cared for a man," she murmured, "who cared nothing for me; but that's
over and done with." Then she added, blushing: "Albert knows all about
it, and he says he doesn't mind."
"There's no chance of the other----"
"No, no," Mary interrupted. "He married."
"You will make Albert very happy," said Mark; "and you will be happy
yourself."
"I am happy now," she replied with conviction.
Mark said no more; but Mary's words gave him pause. She called herself
happy. Happy--in what? Only one answer was possible. Inasmuch as she
had given in fullest measure to others, happiness had been given to her.
*CHAPTER XXX*
*A NOTE OF INTERROGATION*
The Samphires returned to Cadogan Place in November. It was now settled
that Archibald should take the Basilica whenever it was finished, but
the world knew nothing of this till after Christmas, when there appeared
paragraphs in the papers controlled by Conquest. One of these caught
the eye of Betty, and she took it to her husband, with the direct
question: "Are you thinking of leaving St. Anne's?"