The inevitable sacrifice--the fact which Mark plainly pointed out that

she, the woman, had more to lose than the man--was acclaimed. Hitherto,

love--whether love of niece for uncle, of friend for friend, of wife for

husband--had exacted nothing from her. She had been extremely generous

with her money, giving away far more than the tithe. But the signing of

cheques had not included one genuine act of self-denial on her part.

Whatever she had done had been accomplished without effort, without

pain.

Her thoughts turned from herself to Mark. Immediately the smile faded

from her face.

How cruelly he had suffered! And with what a pleasant smile, with how

gay a laugh he had confronted ill-health, ill-fortune, and

disappointment!

"I shall be so good to him," she swore beneath her breath. "I shall

make it up to him--and I know how to do it."

Here, again, what had gone before might be reckoned as fuel for the

feeding of love's flames. She was no green girl, but a woman who

understood men, who could speak the right word at the right time, and

had learned to hold her tongue.

"We shall be the happiest pair in the world."

Presently her eye fell upon the small bag she had carried to Weybridge.

In it were the two sermons. She rose from her chair, hesitated a moment,

and opened the bag. The sermons, she decided, must be locked up in one

of the trunks she was leaving behind. The first sermon she had read the

night before, but the second she had not read.

She looked at her watch. Then she picked up the Windsor sermon, and sat

down to read it, because, reading it, she would hear not Archibald's

voice, but Mark's.

The text met her eyes. _Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall

see God_.

She read no further. The MS. fell from her fingers, and rolled upon the

carpet. Betty did not see it, because she saw nothing. The familiar

room, the gardens below, the great city beyond, faded from her vision.

Darkness encompassed her. And out of the darkness, like the writing

upon the wall of Belshazzar's palace in Babylon, flared the words of the

text.

Suddenly, with a violence of contrast which convulsed her, the darkness

was dispelled, and she saw, even as Saul of Tarsus saw, a great light.

If she read Mark's sermon, if she listened to the pleading voice of the

priest, she would fail to keep tryst with the man, not because she

feared for herself, but because this question could not be evaded: "Will

my impurity prove a curse to him?"

Bending down, she picked up the sheaf of papers, and thrust them

fiercely into the trunk, which stood open near the window. Then she

sank back into the chair, covering her face with her hands....

So sitting, she was transported to the ancient, banner-hung chapel,

wherein her husband had preached before his sovereign. But in the

pulpit stood Mark, not his brother, and Mark as she remembered him long

ago, the Mark of King's Charteris days, thin, pale, strong only in

spirit; yet how strong, how valiant in that!

But he was mute, save for the pleading of the eloquent eyes. Beneath

the spell of these Betty rose once more, and stood beside the trunk,

staring into it.

Thus standing, she heard the clock in the tower of St. Anne's strike

four. At that moment David Ross was praying for her and Mark, praying

and believing that his prayer would be answered.

Betty picked up the MS., locked the door, fell on her knees, and read

the sermon through.

She was still kneeling when the clock struck five. One hour had passed.

Mark was nearing Charing Cross. She rose from her knees, and sat down

to write a letter: an intolerably difficult task, which must be

accomplished in a few minutes. She stared dully at the blank sheet of

paper in front of her; then she wrote:--

"I have read your sermon, the one preached at Windsor. Because of that I

cannot come to you, and I entreat you not to come to me. Mark, my best

beloved, I tempted you. May God forgive me! And I know--I _know_, I

say--that He has stretched forth His hand to save us. And He willed

that your words--what is best in you--the greatest thing you ever

did--should stand between us. I cannot lower the Mark who wrote that

sermon to my level. Oh, Mark, will you curse me as faithless? Or will

you know that it is not my wretched soul I seek to save, but

yours--yours.

"As soon as this is sent off I shall go to a friend's till Archibald

returns. I must tell him the truth."

Archibald Samphire returned from the Midlands to find a new house set in

order and his wife awaiting him. He advanced to greet her with a warm

word of affection and congratulation. But she held up her hand, and

before the distress in her eyes he recoiled, astonished and dismayed.

Although Betty knew that the lapse from honour involved in preaching

another's sermon was as nothing compared with the sin she had

contemplated, still she felt that the charge against her husband must be

dealt with first. In a few words she told him of the breaking open of

his desk and the discovery of Mark's MSS. He exhibited no confusion,

but his expression changed and in a manner so amazing that Betty let

fall a sharp exclamation.

"I am glad you know," he said simply.

His voice, his face, his fine massive figure expressed relief. She

repeated his words:

"You are glad that I know?"

She had made sure that he would excuse himself blandly, with dignity,

looking down upon her; and she had told herself that his carefully

chosen words would flood her with contempt, the stronger because her own

speech would prove halting and unrestrained.

"Yes, yes. I was a coward. I meant to tell you: I swear it, but I

couldn't." Then he repeated the phrase he had used to Mark: "God knows

it has been a secret sore."

"Why couldn't you tell me?" she asked.

"Because the right moment for doing so slipped by me."

"You married me under false pretences."

"Eh?"

"You wooed me with Mark's words."

"Wooed you with--Mark's--words? I can't follow you."

And here he stated a fact. He had neither the ability nor the intuition

to follow a woman down the tortuous path of her feelings and

aspirations. But at this moment he became aware that something dreadful

remained to be said. Betty's pale, haggard face, her trembling fingers,

her panting bosom, revealed an agitation which communicated itself to

him. Let us be fair to a man with inexorable limitations. He had

always believed that Betty married him for love. And he too had married

for love--and other things which he valued; but the other things without

love would not have tempted him to a mere marriage of convenience. And

marriage with Betty had seemed at the time and afterwards the one thing

needful: rounding a life too square, lending colour and sparkle to a

profession whose habit is sable. If at times he had been vouchsafed a

glimpse of barriers between his wife and himself, he attributed these to

difference of sex. But till this minute he had believed her love as

much an inalienable possession as his name. There was no love in the

face half turned from his.

"You can't follow me," she repeated slowly. "That is true enough. Years

ago, when we were children--babies--I loved Mark, and he loved me."

"Paul and Virginia!"

"Yes, yes, Paul and Virginia."

"We all knew that. At one time I thought you would marry Mark."

"He never asked me," she replied, with blazing cheeks. "If he had, I

should have married him, sick or well. I supposed that he didn't want

me."

"Why, so did I."

She met his eyes fiercely.

"You swear that?"

"Certainly. Great heavens! You don't think that if I had thought

otherwise I should have tried to supplant him. He went away and left

the field open to all comers--Jim Corrance, Harry Kirtling--and me."

"I have done you an injustice," Betty faltered.

At this Archibald's sense of what was fitting asserted itself. "Come,

come," he said, "I regret profoundly that I did not frankly avow those

two sermons to be Mark's. I do not expect you to forgive me in a

minute, but you are generous, sensible, and my wife. We must take up

our lives where we left them less than a week ago."

"That is impossible," said Betty.

She felt a great pity for him. The blow must fall with hideous

violence, shattering the man's just pride in what he had accomplished.

His extraordinary success seemed of a sudden to be transformed into an

immense bubble about to be pricked by a word.

And when the word was spoken, when he knew everything, Betty saw what

Mark had seen upon the night that the baby was born--the collapse of a

personality. The big man who was to fill Lord Vauxhall's Basilica

dwindled into a boy with the puzzled, wondering eyes of youth confronted

for the first time with what it cannot understand. Betty felt old enough

to be his mother, when he stammered out: "You--_you_ have done this

thing?"

"I might have done it," she answered gently.

He broke down.

"I have lost my brother and my wife," he groaned. "my brother and my

wife."

Instantly Betty realised what Mark had always known--the weakness of the

colossus. And this knowledge that she was the stronger took the chill

from her heart, restoring magically her moral circulation. Looking at

him, she wondered how she could have blinded herself to his true

proportions. She had deemed him a Titan!

"What are you going to do?" he asked presently.

"That is for you to say. If you choose to put me from you----"

He interrupted her.

"You would go to him."

"No."

He rose up and began to pace the room, glancing furtively at his wife,

who never moved. Suddenly, seizing her arm, and speaking in a loud,

trembling voice, he exclaimed: "Mark is dead--you understand that? Say

it; say it!"

"Mark is dead," she repeated sombrely.

*CHAPTER XXXVI*

*FENELLA*

Mark went abroad immediately after the events narrated in the last

chapter, and remained abroad for many months, trying to drown

recollection of Betty in printer's ink. By a tremendous effort of will

and unremitting grind he nearly succeeded, but at times he could see

nothing save her face, hear nothing save her voice, feel nothing save

the touch of her lips upon his. After these visitations he was beset by

a Comus' crew of spectres: the innumerable disappointments of his life:

_toute l'amertume et tout le deboire de mille evenements facheux_.

However, Compensation ordained that his _Songs of the Angels_ should

please a certain section of the American public, and a substantial

cheque crossed the Atlantic in a letter from Cyrus Otway, who asked for

another novel. Mark had learned to use his pen (as Conquest once put

it); but recognition--the acclaim of the multitude--seemed indefinitely

remote. _A Soul Errant_ appeared, and was pronounced by reviewers an

admirable piece of work, but its sales were limited to a few thousand

copies.

From George Samphire, Mark learned that Archibald and Betty had

entertained royalty upon the occasion when the first service was held in

the Basilica. Tommy Greatorex wrote: "Your big brother is booming

Vauxhall's new neighbourhood, and no mistake!" From Betty herself came

no word whatever. Archibald, so Mark told himself, had forgiven her,

determined to preserve appearances, to keep the wife with wealth and

beauty, to guard her zealously from the man who had tried to deprive him

of so valuable a possession. Once again, hatred of Archibald consumed

him. In his heart he knew that Betty was pining for one line--the

generous "I forgive you. I understand." But these words he could not

write. He believed that she had failed him, that she had lacked

courage, and lacking it, had grasped the first excuse pat to lip and

hand. It seemed incredible that a sermon should stand between a woman

and the man she loved. Curiously enough, he could not recall a line of

this sermon thrown off, as it had been, in a brief fever of excitement

and enthusiasm. Again and again, he repeated to himself the beatitude,

and wondered what he had found to say about it.

On his return to England he moved from Weybridge to Hampstead, where

another shelter was built in a small garden overlooking the Heath.

Meantime, Mary Dew had married Albert Batley, and when Mark paid her a

brief visit he found the bride beaming, obviously content with her lot,

and very proud of her husband's success as a contractor. Mrs. Dew

explained matters:

"You see, Mr. Samphire, it's like this: Albert Batley just worships

Mary, and she makes him very comfortable. Tasty meals go a long way

with men who have a living to earn in this cruel, hard world."

Just as he was leaving Mary said shyly: "I hope, Mr. Samphire, we shall

hear of your getting married. If ever a gentleman wanted a wife to look

after him, you are he."

Mark laughed; then he replied in his easy, genial way: "Yes, yes; if you

had a twin sister, Honeydew, I should ask her to live up a tree with

me."

Alone at Hampstead, he wondered whether a wife was waiting for him

somewhere: a kind, sweet creature, who would teach him to forget. Drax

had told him that, humanly speaking, he was now free from that insidious

disease which spares so few of its victims. With care he might live out

his three-score years and ten; he could marry--if he so pleased. And

for the first time since his father's death, a balance, steadily

increasing, lay at his bankers.

About midsummer he began his first play--a comedy, which had been

simmering in his brain for many months. He showed the scenario to

Greatorex, who was not encouraging.

"You've immense difficulties ahead of you. Your unknown playwright must

write his play for one actor-manager, whose ability it illumines" (Tommy

was quoting from an article of his on the modern drama), "and whose

weakness it obscures. And your moral purpose must be disguised, so as

to give the dramatic critic a chance to discover it. Personally,

there's nothing I enjoy so much as discovering in a play something which

the author never thought of. Now, then, having written your play, you

must persuade your actor-manager to spend some thousands in producing it

adequately. All said and done, I'd stick to novels, if I were you."

"I must write this play," said Mark.

He wrote it and rewrote it. Then he read it aloud to Greatorex, who

pointed out many technical blunders. Not till the play was actable in

every detail would Tommy pass it as fit to be sent the rounds.

And then followed interminable, heartbreaking delays and

disappointments. Actors and actresses, with rare exceptions, keep plays

for months without reading them, answer no letters, and unhesitatingly

break all promises unprotected by iron-clad contracts. Finally, the

comedy, returned for the sixth time, was flung by Mark into a drawer and

forgotten.

Next summer Mark read in his morning paper the announcement of a son

born to Archibald. A son! It was enough that the fellow should desire

anything, anything, for the object to fall into his grasp! Then, in a

passionate revulsion of feeling, wondering how Betty fared, he hastened

to Chelsea and furtively interviewed Dibdin, who assured him that his

mistress was doing not only as well as, but better than, the doctor

expected. Mark gave Dibdin a sovereign and instructions to report once

a day by letter for three weeks. Dibdin, an old friend and as discreet

as an archbishop, promised to write, volunteering the information that

the baby was an "uncommon fine boy, a Samphire every inch of him." From

Jim Corrance, later, Mark learned that Betty was likely to prove an

adoring mother. Jim had seen her with the urchin. "She has changed,"

he told Mark, in his blunt fashion. "It's natural, I suppose; one

couldn't wish for anything else; but the Betty of King's Charteris is

out of sight. As for Archie--he looks patriarchal."

If Jim wondered why Mark never entered his brother's house, he was too

shrewd to ask questions. Perhaps he guessed more or less accurately at

the truth. A score of times, Mark was tempted to take his arm and tell

his old friend everything. Betty, however, could not be betrayed; and

speech with reserves, with abysmal silences, would avail nothing. But if

he could have unburdened his soul, what a relief, what a balm it would

have proved!

After writing some pot-boiling short stories and articles, he plunged

into a second play, a tragedy, dealing with the inevitable surrender of

woman to tradition and convention. In accordance with Tommy Greatorex's

advice, this play was built up for Mrs. Perowne, an English

actress-manager, who had recently returned from an enormously successful

tour in the United States and Australia. Mark went to see her act again

and again, fascinated by her methods, which were those of Duse, and by

her vivid and extraordinary beauty. She had red hair, a milk-white

skin, a Spanish cast of features, the spirits and inconsequence of a

child, and amazing physical and intellectual activity. Mr. Perowne, an

American, had divorced her after a very stormy year of marriage. Since,

he had died.

This second play, _Fenella_, was written in a spirit compounded of

recklessness and patience. Mark was reckless inasmuch as his money was

nearly gone; patient, because the artist within him told him that he

must make haste slowly. But at the back of this supreme endeavour,

ever-increasing and all-absorbing, was the determination to achieve a

success which would surpass that of his brother. Archibald and he never

met, for Mark saw none of his old friends save Pynsent and Jim Corrance,

but Archibald's name and fame were for ever in his ears. A great

reputation is hard to make in England, or elsewhere, but once made it is

easily sustained. The Basilica was crowded every Sunday morning. Mark

slipped in one day, wondering what sort of fare would be provided. He

found it nicely flavoured to the palate of the town. Jim Corrance

growled out, "Archie gives 'em easily digested food. Of course he

hasn't time to prepare such sermons as that Westchester one. He's up to

his eyes in parochial work. That's what makes bishops nowadays."

Mark saw Betty in her pew without being seen by her. She looked pale

and thin, but not unhappy.

After the visit to the Basilica Mark worked even harder than before,

although he worked in the open air, and with due regard for his health.

If that failed again, he was conscious that he would be bankrupt indeed.

Accordingly, he lived a life of Spartan simplicity, and played golf

regularly with Jim or Tommy Greatorex. But _Fenella_ obsessed him. He

told Jim that he was glad the comedy had not been produced, because

_Fenella_ was stronger and better written. Tommy growled out protests

and warnings: "_Fenella_, whose acquaintance I'm anxious to make, may

prove an ungrateful hussy. For Heaven's sake don't pin your hopes to her

petticoat!"

When the fourth act was nearly finished, Sybil Perowne appeared in a new

play, an adaptation of a French drama, which had enjoyed a _succes fou_

in Paris. Mark and Tommy went to see it and found an audience cold and

indifferent. As they came out of the theatre, Mark heard a stout

dowager whisper to her daughter, "My dear, I don't know what it means,

but it's taken away my appetite for supper."

"There you are," said Tommy. "Beware, Mark, of tampering with the

British playgoer's appetite for supper. This thing is too sad. It

won't go. Ah, well, the shrewdest managers make abominable mistakes,

and the most successful is the fellow who makes least."

"_Fenella_ is sadder than this."

"Um!" said Tommy. "Sorry to hear that, my boy."

But when the tragedy was read aloud, Greatorex professed himself amazed.

He jumped up excitedly.

"I believe you've found yourself, 'pon my soul! And Sybil is mad keen

for a new play. Hullo! Phew-w-w!"

Mark had fainted.

When he came to himself he admitted that he had been unable to sleep for

several nights. Tommy talked like a sage, advising moderation, but

knowing--none better--that _Fenella_ could never have been born without

pangs. With his sense of the dramatic he perceived that Mark in his

present condition would be likely to impress the actress, herself highly

strung and emotional. The good fellow took pains to arrange an

interview, obtaining permission to call and bring a friend.

"I've cracked you up as the coming novelist, who's dying to make her

acquaintance. I said in a postscript that you raved about her."

"She is magnificent," said Mark.

"She never reads plays. But you must corner her. Spar free! I tell

you frankly she's a slippery one. I was her Press agent for a season.

If possible, I want her to hear all about her part before she hands the

play on to that scoundrel Gonzales."

Gonzales was Mrs. Perowne's manager. Mark frowned when his name was

mentioned. He had heard of Gonzales.

Mrs. Perowne made the appointment for three. At two Mark met Greatorex

in his rooms. Tommy was in his oldest clothes and hard at work.

"I'm not coming," he announced. "Never meant to, either. Why, man, I

should wreck your chance. Here's a letter with a gilt-edged lie in it.

Have you the play? Yes. Now, look here; leave it in the hall with your

overcoat. Persuade her, if you can, to listen to the last scene of the

third act. Don't leave the house without giving her some of it, if you

have to force it down her throat. She'll respect your determination.

Report here."

"I c-c-can't r-r-read it," stammered Mark.

Tommy hit his desk so hard with his fist that the ink bespattered it.

"Mark," he said solemnly, "I am counting on your making an exhibition of

yourself. Be sure to stammer, burst a blood-vessel, faint, have a fit,

but stick to your job. Now--go!"

Mark was pushed out of the room by his friend. When the door slammed

behind him Greatorex burst out laughing. "He won't stammer now, and

he'll read his play."

Mark was shown by an irreproachable butler into a small room hung with

silk and filled with Japanese furniture. The dominant note was the

grotesque if not the monstrous. Everything--from the embroideries on

the walls to the tiny carved figures in the cabinets--indicated the cult

of deformity.

He was examining a bit of enamel when Mrs. Perowne came in, holding out

both hands.

"Tommy's friends are always welcome here," she said graciously. "That's

a nice bit--isn't it? It's not Japanese at all, but Byzantine, as I

dare say you know."

Mark confessed that he knew nothing of enamels. He sat down, glancing at

his hostess, who was not unconscious of his scrutiny and surprise.

Always, men meeting her for the first time off the stage were amazed at

her appearance of youth. She braved the light from the window with

impunity. Hair, complexion, eyes might have belonged to a maiden of

twenty. But the mouth--her most remarkable feature--betrayed the woman

of maturity. It was large, finely curved, and mobile. Her eyes were of

a rich chestnut tint.

"You want to tell me about a play?" she said, with a low laugh.

"How did you d-d-divine that?"

"The expression of a man who has written a play is unmistakable. Well,

I am in a charming humour this afternoon. What is the play about? _A

propos_--are you the famous Mr. Samphire's brother?"

Unconsciously Mark winced.

"Yes," he said shortly.

"Tell me about your play."

"I c-c-can't," he said. For a moment he hesitated, feeling the lump

rising in his throat; then some emanation from the woman opposite--a

sense of sympathy--restored his confidence. His face--so plain when

troubled--broke into a smile. "It's like this," he continued: "I hate

to give you a synopsis of it. L-l-let me read a scene or two. You can

make up your mind in a jiffy whether it pleases you or not; and if it

doesn't, I'll go at a nod from you."

"But I never listen to plays. Surely that wretch, Tommy, told you. I

talk them over before they're written. I've got someone coming in

three-quarters of an hour to talk over an unwritten play. The hundreds

which are sent to me to read are always passed on to Alfred Gonzales."

Mark felt his confidence oozing from every pore. In another minute his

hostess would be bored. At this ignominious probability his fighting

instincts asserted themselves.

"I wrote this play for you," he said slowly. "I can't see another woman

in it at all. And somehow,"--he stretched out his lean, finely formed

hands with a dramatic gesture--"somehow I seem to have gripped you,

elusive though you are. Tommy says you're a good sort. Be good to

me--for ten minutes. The play's downstairs in the hall. Let me fetch

it. Shall I?"

"Yes--fetch it."

He ran like a boy from the room. Mrs. Perowne got up, glanced at

herself in a small mirror, and sat down in the seat which Mark had just

left. The change was not without significance. Before, she had wished

to be seen; now she wished to see. When Mark came back she said quietly:

"Begin at the beginning."

At that moment Mark felt once more the accursed lump in his throat. His

face contracted. The woman closely watching him rose and laid her hand

upon his shoulder.

"You have an impediment of speech," she whispered. "Take your time. You

have interested me. I like men who surmount obstacles. I'll sit here

till you can read your play. I'm going to mix two tiny cocktails,

Martigny cocktails: mild as Mary's little lamb."

When she came back Mark was at his ease; she had ceased to be a

stranger. He drank the cocktail, and began the first act. Mrs. Perowne

lay back in her chair, watching him with half-closed eyes. She never

moved, absorbing in silence every word and intonation. When Mark had

finished, she nodded gaily.

"The first act is capital. When will you come and read the others?"

"At any hour you choose--day or night."

"To-morrow at twelve then. You must stay to luncheon afterwards."

*CHAPTER XXXVII*

*POPPY AND MANDRAGORA*

Half an hour later Mark was describing what had passed to Greatorex, who

listened with an odd smile upon his ugly, intelligent face: the smile

which is typical of so much that is left unsaid, the smile of a

knowledge and an experience which cannot be imparted. Greatorex had

appetite for such food as Mark was giving him, and he demanded every

crumb. While Mark was speaking the journalist smoked. The smoke

ascended in fragrant clouds, melting into the thickening atmosphere of

the room. It struck Greatorex, not for the first time, that the reek of

good tobacco manifested all the things for which men strive and to which

it would seem to be predestined that they should not attain. Greatorex

asked himself what life would be without the fragrance of hopes and

ambitions which float from us and vanish. And how stale, how offensive

their odour becomes unless the windows of the mind be flung wide open!

"Mark," he said, dropping the end of his cigarette, "you are desperately

keen on this?"

He meant his words to be taken as affirmation or interrogation,

according to Mark's mood. He never invited confidences withheld.

"Yes," Mark replied.

"Why?"

When the eyes of the two men countered, a third person would have

remarked in them an extraordinary difference in colour and quality.

Greatorex had the onyx eyes of a gipsy, bright yet obscured by

mysterious flickering tints, the eyes which conceal and so seldom reveal

the thoughts behind them. Mark's blue eyes had that candid expression

which pertains to children's eyes.

"Why?" Mark repeated the pregnant word. "I think you know why. I have

failed in everything I have undertaken. I have pursued success as if it

were a will-o'-the-wisp----"

"Which it is----"

"And if once I could hold it in my hand, if I could say to myself, I

have it--it is mine--why then----"

He paused.

"You care so much for fame--you?"

"I ask for recognition, not because recognition is in itself a hall mark

of success, but because without it labour would seem to be wasted. What

is the use of a great poem, a great book, which remains unread? A

gospel is no gospel until it is preached to thousands."

"Don't set your heart on this play being produced!"

"I _have_ set my heart on that, Tommy."

"If Sybil takes a fancy to you----" he paused.

Mark's ingenuous stare was disconcerting. He continued lightly: "I warn

you that she may like you better than _Fenella_. It would not surprise

me if she liked you rather too well."

"Don't be a fool," said Mark angrily.

"If I could only be a fool," Greatorex murmured. "Depend upon it fools

have the best of it. And they live, some of 'em, in the only paradise

to be found on this planet. Well, I have spoken, I have warned you."

Upon the following day Mark returned at the hour appointed to Mrs.

Perowne's flat. The butler, impassive as the Sphinx, showed him into

the same room with its curious atmosphere of the East. In a few minutes

the actress appeared in a _kimono_ of some silvery tissue embroidered in

gold, with her hair done _a la Japonaise_, and embellished with barbaric

ornaments. Clad in this she became a part, and the greatest part, of

the room. Looking at her, Mark felt ill at ease in his blue serge suit.

At the same time he tried to measure the difference between the woman in

the _kimono_ and all other women whom he had known. Mrs. Perowne

smiled, reading his thoughts.

"I am quite, quite different to all the others," she said softly. "I

ought to have lived in the days of Herod Antipas."

When she spoke of Herod, Mark remembered that she had Jewish blood in

her veins. Her father had been a well-known English picture-dealer; her

mother, a famous dancer, a Spanish Moor. Her Moorish ancestors, of whom

the actress boasted, were Jews to the marrow, although living in Spain,

outwardly subject to the faith of most Catholic monarchs. For

generations these people had lived and died incomparable actors,

sustaining from the cradle to the grave a role above which glittered the

knives of the Inquisition. Mark began to understand that the woman

smiling at him was natural, most true to herself, when playing a

part--and yet beneath a thousand disguises throbbed the heart of the

Jewess, the child of all countries and of none.

Mark read his play.

As he read it, he realised how poor an instrument lay in his throat. He

was hoarse from a neglected cold, and his voice, though flexible,

betrayed the effort made to control it. But the stammer spared him. To

Sybil Perowne, familiar with and therefore slightly contemptuous of the

arts of the elocutionist, this rough, uneven inflection and articulation

had something of the charm of a disused viol or harpsichord, whose

frayed, worn strings still hold jangled echoes of cadences melodic and

harmonious long ago. She had the perceptions of the artist, and that

feeling for art which is partly a gift and partly the result of patient

training. Her perceptions enabled her to see Mark Samphire as he was,

the man who had fought against odds; her feeling for art approved his

work as the epitome and expression of that fight dramatically set forth

in admirable English. At the end of the second act the reader looked up

for a word of approval: "Go on!" she said. The climax of the third act

provoked an exclamation at Mark's physical distress. She brought him a

glass of champagne and insisted upon his drinking it. But he saw that

her eyes were shining. He plunged into the fourth act and stumbled

through it: every word rasping his throat. When he had finished she

jumped up as Greatorex had done.

"I am a woman of impulse," she cried. "I will produce your play."

Mark stared at her, not believing his ears.

"You will p-p-produce it?" he stammered.

"Yes," she answered. "I don't say there's money in it; I don't say it

hasn't faults and crudities; but I do say it's a play--and it pleases,

it touches, it thrills--me."

She held out her hand. Mark had an intuition that she wished him to

kiss it. He raised it gratefully to his lips.

"And now," she said gaily, "luncheon! I am famished. There is no sauce

like emotion. That is why Spanish people eat so much at funerals."

At luncheon she asked a score of questions about his work and life.

"Last night," she said, "I read _The Songs of the Angels_. You have

heard these songs yourself, eh? But--do you hear them now?"

She held his glance, faintly smiling at the colour which rushed into his

cheeks.

"There are angels and angels," he said evasively.

"But, if I have interpreted your meaning, the angels you write about are

heard only by the--shall I offend you if I say--the saints. You are not

a saint?"

"Hardly," said Mark.

"But you might be," she murmured; "that is why you interest me"--she

paused, sighed, and finished the sentence--"so much. I have never met a

saint; I have never met a man who had the makings of a saint in

him--till to-day."

Mark knew that she had challenged him.

"Out of the makings of a saint," he said curtly, "the devil fashions the

greatest sinner."

"You believe in the devil?"

Mark shrugged his shoulders.

"The devil is 'evil' with a big D before it. I certainly believe in

evil."

"I have to drag answers from you. Do you dislike this sort of talk?

Perhaps you think me indiscreet, impudent; but I like to get my

bearings. It saves bother. You can ask me anything--anything, if, if

you regard me as a friend."

"I do," he said hastily; but he asked no questions.

"I don't quite understand you," she said slowly; "and of course you

don't understand me. I am sure, judging from your book, your play,

and--and your face, that you have an extravagant admiration for what you

think to be good women. Is it not so? You needn't take the trouble to

say 'yes.' And I'm only a good--_sort_. I have a sound body, of which

I take the greatest care, and a sane mind; but I was born without a

soul. _Enfin_, the conclusion is inevitable--for me--I do not believe

in the soul but you do?"

"I did," he answered.

She offered him a cigarette, and lit one herself, as the Sphinx-like

butler brought coffee and liqueurs. The luncheon had been very simple.

Sipping her coffee, the actress began to talk of _Fenella_.

"You wrote the part, you say, for me; but you have drawn _Fenella_ from

life."

Mark denied this.

"You may have done it subconsciously, but you've done it. Now tell me,

have you worked out the technical details? Have you estimated the

probable expense?"

"I suppose the adequate mounting of it will be costly."

"Between three and four thousand pounds," said Mrs. Perowne carelessly.

Soon after he took his leave. The play remained in the actress's

possession. No mention was made of terms. Mrs. Perowne had said that

Gonzales would look it over. Greatorex expressed astonishment that the

affair had come to a head so suddenly, and congratulated Mark; but he

added that a contract must be signed as soon as possible.

"You don't think----" began Mark.

"My dear fellow, I know a poor devil whose first play was accepted six

years ago. It has not been produced yet! Strictly between ourselves, I

don't mind telling you that I'm the man."

"But if your lawyer----"

"I can't afford to make an enemy of the actor-manager who _still_ has

it! I blame myself; I had no contract. We'll prepare a corker for you.

I take it that you want nothing if the thing fails, and a fair profit if

it goes--eh? Just so. When do you see the fascinating Sybil again?

To-morrow. Have you made love to her? She expects it from every man.

Not many disappoint her."

He laughed at Mark's confusion, and compared him to the infant Moses

found by Pharaoh's daughter in the bulrushes. The friends celebrated

the acceptance of the drama at a restaurant, and Mark made merry.

"You feel it?" said Tommy.

"Eh?"

"Success tickling the palm of your hand?"

"I shall mark this day with red, of course!"

"If we were in the West of America," said Greatorex, "we should paint

the night as red as _la belle_ Sybil's hair. This sort of thing has

only a tinge of pink in it. Have you ever let yourself go, Mark? Of

course not! There is nothing of the beast in you. You might kill

yourself, or somebody else, but I can't fancy you on all fours."

They returned to the club, where some choice spirits were discussing art

and literature in a fog of tobacco-smoke. But Mark, who joined them,

saw no fog--only the sun, shining upon all things and all men.

"He's had a four-act play accepted," Greatorex explained. "There's no

more to tell yet."

Several of the men shook Mark's hand. Glasses were replenished, fresh

cigars lighted. Mark laughed as gaily as any, delightfully aware that

he was receiving something--so to speak--on account, a few pieces of

silver, cash down to bind a bargain. Some of his companions were

celebrities. It seemed to him that for the first time he was of them as

well as with them. These Olympians asked for his opinion, laughed at

his jokes, approved his suggestions. The hours passed swiftly and

pleasantly.

But walking home to Hampstead, beneath the stars, in an air purged by

frost, his triumph dwindled to mean proportions. He considered the

events of the day. Out of these, now become shadows for the most part,

the face of Sybil Perowne stood out substantially: a fact to be reckoned

with. He asked himself if he liked her. Was he attracted by her beauty

and cleverness? No; these had not touched him. Yet he was

attracted--and by what? A vision of the Japanese room revealed the

fascination, so mysterious, so alluring to the imagination, of the

occult. The sorceress beguiled the fancy of a man who had only cared

for good women. He found himself speculating in regard to her.

Doubtless the Sphinx-faced butler could tell some tales--an he would!

If he saw much of her, would he forget Betty? The child of the Moorish

dancer gave poppy and mandragora to those who sought her.

He had made an appointment with Mrs. Perowne in the afternoon, but in

the morning, having nothing to do, he thought he would like to see

Pynsent. Pynsent owned a queer old-fashioned house in Kensington. Mark

rang the bell, which was answered by a delightful French _bonne_, who

made the best omelette in the world and worshipped Pynsent. Certainly,

Monsieur would be charmed to see his friend. Alas! yes; the dear studio

in Paris had been abandoned. She, Francine, was desolated, but what

would you? Monsieur Pynsent made gold in this detestable London instead

of silver in enchanting Paris! So chattering, she conducted Mark to the

big studio, which was found to be empty. The master had slipped out for

a minute. Would Monsieur Mark sit down? Before he had time to smoke a

tiny cigarette, his friend would be shaking both his hands. She gave

Mark the cigarettes, the potent Caporal cigarettes, handed him the

latest Paris paper, popped a log on to the fire, and bustled away.

Mark looked about him. The studio, simply furnished, bare of those

tapestries and properties which most painters buy as soon as they begin

to earn money, was, in short, a workshop full of ingenious appliances

for obtaining curious effects of colour, light and shade. In the middle

of it stood a huge oak easel. Several large canvases were turned to the

wall. An open paint-box, a palette, a bowl full of the coarse, broad

brushes which Pynsent used, told Mark that work was about to begin.

Pynsent took few holidays. Work had become to him not a means to an

end, but the end itself. But then such work as his was an end, an

accomplishment, a victory. Finality distinguished every touch. Mark

lit one of the French cigarettes, because he knew the fumes of it would

bring back the pleasant days in the _Rue de l'Ancienne Comedie_. He

wondered whether Pynsent--the least sentimental of men--smoked Caporal

tobacco for the same reason. Possibly. But more probably because he

was a man in a groove. One could not conceive of Pynsent with a butler

and footmen. He lived now as he had always lived, regardless of Mrs.

Grundy, who said tartly that the great painter was a pincher.

After a whiff or two, the _Rue de l'Ancienne Comedie_ revealed itself as

it appeared one morning when a couple of brother students were removing

themselves and their belongings from one studio to another. Mark had

lent two willing hands and a tongue which outwagged a terrier's tail.

The students possessed a chest full of costumes. In these their friends

had arrayed themselves. From several adjoining studios came other

students and their models, all anxious to help--or hinder. Every

article was carried in procession down the narrow street to the sounds

of loud laughter, of banjo and mandoline, of drum and cornet, and of

various songs. A diminutive Frenchman, beardless as a baby, had taken

off most of his clothes and was sitting cross-legged in the middle of a

large flat bath, which four of his friends were carrying, arm-high, down

the street. The little man had robed himself in a rough towel; he wore

a sponge-bag on his head; and he hugged to his bare chest an enormous

sponge. All down the street, windows were flung up. Everybody joined

in the fun.

"_Une petite surprise pour Monsieur--et Madame_."

The voice of the good Francine put to flight the joyous procession.

Mark rose up, flung away the half-smoked cigarette, and saw Betty

advancing into the studio. Francine hobbled away. She knew that Betty

had married Mark's brother.

"Betty!"

"Mark!"

"Don't go," said Mark, as she paused irresolute. "Pynsent is painting

you, I suppose. He will be here in a minute. I'll go."

"You never wrote," she faltered.

"Was it likely? How is the boy?"

"I expected a word of--forgiveness. The boy is very well."

"Is he like you?"

"Everybody says so."

He was silent and very pale, whereas Betty's face was suffused with

delicate colour. He was trying to resist an overmastering impulse to

take her in his arms, when he heard Pynsent's step, and a moment

afterwards his clear incisive voice.

"I am ashamed that I was not here to receive you, Mrs. Samphire. But I

know you'd sooner talk to Mark than me. I'm painting her, Mark. You

shall give us your opinion. I've not seen you for a coon's age. What?

Nonsense, my dear fellow. I can paint just as well while you're here.

You must stay as long as you possibly can. Mustn't he, Mrs. Samphire?"

"Of course," said Betty in her ordinary voice. Pynsent dragged a canvas

across the studio and placed it on the easel.

"There," said he, "what do you think of that?"

Mark approached the easel, as Betty turned to remove her hat and jacket.

The portrait, almost completed, was three-quarters length: a daring

study in what at first glance seemed to be black-and-white. As a matter

of fact, black, as pigment, was not used at all. The effect of it was

produced by the admixture and contrast of colour. Looking into the

translucent shadows the eye detected brilliant tints.

"It's one of the best things I've done," said Pynsent. "It's kept me

awake nights, this portrait. I got that shadow under the chin by a trick

I learnt in Florence. You lay three colours one on top of the other.

It's great. The fellow who discovered it can't draw; he'd be a wonder

if he could----"

Pynsent went on talking, unaware of what was passing in the minds of his

friends. Betty sat down on the model's dais, and Pynsent arranged her

hands, still talking volubly of light and colour effects. Mark remained

staring at the picture. "You haven't said what you think of it,"

concluded Pynsent, as he picked up his palette.

"For whom are you painting it?"

"It's an open secret, isn't it?" said the painter, glancing sideways at

his model. "The grateful Vauxhall wishes to give it to your brother.

But I had difficulty in persuading Madame to sit."

"Vauxhall," repeated Mark stupidly.

"Archie, they say, has put thousands into his pocket. He boomed the

price of all bricks and mortar within a mile radius of the Basilica.

Well--your opinion, my dear fellow."

Mark still hesitated. Pynsent was famous for his delineation of

character. He had the power of seizing and transferring to canvas those

delicate shades of expression which reveal the real man and woman. In

pourtraying Betty, he had emphasised the mother in her at the expense,

possibly, of the wife. The portrait was hardly flattering in the

generally received sense. The face was troubled; lines and shadows lay

on it. Betty's youth and beauty were subdued, as if beneath the touch

of suffering rather than time. But the general effect remained that of

a grace and loveliness independent of colour and texture. The admirable

contours, the delicate modelling of cheek and brow and chin, indicated a

noble maturity not yet attained but certain to be attained. Not at that

moment, however, did Mark realise that Pynsent's portrait was an

incomparable likeness of the Betty who had failed to keep tryst because

the higher nature had overcome the lower and baser. But he did grasp a

part of the truth. He told himself that if Betty had not suffered,

Pynsent would have painted another and a different portrait.

"The face is strange to me," said Mark.

"What?" Pynsent exclaimed, staring at the speaker. "You, you say that?

Why of all men, I----" He broke off abruptly, sensible of some

psychological disturbance, puzzled and distressed. Mark laughed harshly.

He had almost betrayed himself. Then he glanced at Betty. Her likeness

to the picture was extraordinary.

"You m-m-misunderstand me," he stammered. "I meant to say that you had

painted a woman who has changed. We all change. I hardly recognise my

own f-face. This picture is, as you say, the b-b-best thing you've

done, and I congratulate you warmly. I'd like to see it again. But now

I must r-r-run away. I d-dropped in to tell you that my play is

accepted."

This piece of news effectively cloaked his nervousness. Pynsent and

Betty expressed their pleasure and congratulation. Mark shook hands and

escaped.

"I thought he was not himself," said Pynsent, picking up his palette.

"This will make up for a good deal, won't it? I know exactly how he

feels. Great Scott! It seems only yesterday that I had my first picture

hung in the Salon. I was skied, but I was the happiest man in Paris.

All the same, Mark did not strike me as looking happy--eh?"

She answered his sharp "eh" and still sharper glance with a constrained

"N-n-no."

*CHAPTER XXXVIII*

*GONZALES*

Mark plunged into the obscurity of the underground railway, cursing the

impulse which had taken him to Pynsent's studio. Betty had suffered,

but what was her suffering compared with his?

He repeated this to himself again and again, as the train bore him

eastward. Then he remembered Jim's phrase: "Our Betty is out of sight."

Thinking of Jim, he got out at the Mansion House and walked to the Stock

Exchange. Five minutes with Jim might blow some cobwebs out of his

mind. He reached the huge building and called for James Corrance. The

porter bade him wait near some glass swinging-doors through which

hatless men were continually passing. Whenever these opened a dull roar

of many voices fell on Mark's ear, a menacing growl as of an angry

beast. In his present mood Mark welcomed any strange noise as a

distraction from the buzzing of his own thoughts. This beast of the

markets made itself heard. Mark wondered vaguely whether it drowned, to

such men as Jim, all other sounds.

While he stood, peering through the glass doors, a sharp thud, as of a

mallet striking a panel of wood, smote his ears. In an instant, as if

some wizard had waved a wand, silence fell upon the crowd within the

building, a silence inexpressibly strange and awe-inspiring. Again the

thud was heard, louder and more articulate. Mark guessed what was

happening. A member of the Stock Exchange was about to be "hammered."

The silence, Mark noted, was partially broken by a shuffling of

innumerable feet, as men pressed forward to catch the name of the man

who had failed. The hammer struck for the third and last time. Mark

could see that every face was turned in one direction; upon each lay a

grim expression of anxiety. Then a hoarse voice said in a monotone:

"Mr. Caxton Bruno is unable to comply with his bargains." A roar of

voices succeeded the announcement, as the crowd resumed the business of

the minute. The glass doors swung open; and Jim Corrance appeared.

"You heard poor Bruno hammered," he said. "Dramatic--eh? It always

thrills, because one never knows. That cursed hammer may sound the

death knell of a dozen firms. I _am_ glad to see you----"

Talking volubly, he insisted that Mark must lunch with him, although

Mark protested that he had no appetite. But Jim, when he heard that

_Fenella_ was accepted by Mrs. Perowne, declared that a bottle of

champagne must be cracked. He carried Mark off to his City club, where

scores of men were eating, drinking, and talking. Jim pointed out the

celebrities.

"That fellow is a famous 'bear,'" he indicated a short, thick-set,

rather unctuous-looking Jew. "In the long run the 'bears' have the best

of it."

"He doesn't look clever," said Mark.

"Clever? He's stupid as an owl outside his own special business. It

isn't the clever ones who arrive. I know men with all the qualities

essential to success, but the luck goes against 'em every time. They

ought to get there with both feet, but they don't. You must have a glass

of that old cognac, Mark. A play is not accepted every day, by Jove! I

tell you what I'll do, my boy. I'll give a dinner in honour of the

event. We'll get Pynsent, and Tommy Greatorex, and the rest of 'em.

Why not nip over to Paris for it? Eh? What are you mumbling? All take

and no give. What infernal rot! Well, I won't take no. As if it

wasn't an honour to entertain so distinguished a gentleman."

Mark's spirits began to rise. After all, the world was not such a bad

place. And the luck which Jim spoke about had certainly changed. The

play would be produced within the year. Thoroughly warmed by Jim's

hospitality, and promising that he would reconsider his refusal to dine

in Paris, he left the City to keep his appointment with Mrs. Perowne.

But the atmosphere of the underground railway, raw, fetid, thick with

smoke, brought back the misery and despair of the morning. He found

himself reflecting that life after thirty was an underground procession,

a nauseating vagabondage in semi-obscurity, stopping now and again at

stations artificially illumined, garishly decorated, reeking with

abominable odours, crowded with pale, troubled strangers jostling each

other in their wild efforts to hurry on to some other place as

detestable as the one they were leaving....

As for the play upon which so much was staked, was he not a sanguine

fool to take a woman's word that it would be produced? And production

did not mean success. But here he paused. Production to him did mean

success. It was good, good, good! It had thrilled two persons who knew.

Greatorex, the cynic, the reader of innumerable plays, and the actress,

the woman of genius.

On this occasion Mrs. Perowne received him in her drawing-room: a

conventional room, white-and-yellow, filled with absurd knick-knacks and

too many flowers, principally exotics of overpowering perfume. She was

wearing a large hat which overshadowed her face. Her dress and jacket

of the plainest cloth and cut were trimmed with sable. Mark had passed

her brougham, drawn up a few yards from the entrance of the building,

and guessed that she was going out. She began to speak about _Fenella_.

"Alfred Gonzales has read it."

"What does he say?"

"He finds it too serious. He says there's no money in it."

Mark gasped.

"But Alfred is not infallible," she added. "I mean to produce

_Fenella_. It may be wise to throw it first to the dog." This meant a

first performance in the provinces. Mark burst into excited speech.

"Then you d-d-don't mean to ch-chuck me. You've raised me to the

heights, Mrs. Perowne. Don't drop me! I m-m-mean that I'd sooner know

the worst now. You said you were an impulsive woman. Perhaps your

impulse overstepped the b-b-bounds of prudence, you know. And, if so,

we'll call the thing off. But don't drop me later. I couldn't stand

that. Am I speaking out too plainly? You've been very kind, very kind

indeed; I shall always be grateful, b-b-but I can face disappointment

better now than l-l-later."

"Sit down," she said, smiling. "Why, what a boy you are. I-I like

boys."

He sat down, trembling, wiping the perspiration from his forehead.

"You are as emotional as I am," she murmured in a caressing voice.

"Now, I've an appointment which I must keep. You can believe that I'd

sooner spend the afternoon with you. I really mean it. I have to

recite at a bazaar. Which bores me horribly. Now do you believe that I

am your friend, that I like you, that you interest me? And will you be

furious if I add that I like you better than your play--good though it

is? I prefer the man to his work, the artist to his art."

She paused, glancing at him through half-closed eyes. There was

something feline about her expression and pose. Her voice had a purr in

it. Mark did not know what to say or do.

"I should like to help you to a real success," she continued. "And why

not? Your play might be made into a masterpiece. At present it is

uneven, amateurish, crude in parts. Alfred put his finger on the weak

spots. He says that the fourth act ought to be rewritten. Shall we

rewrite it together? I mean, will you let me help you to make it just

what it ought to be?"

"Why, of course," said Mark eagerly. "I am not fool enough to suppose

that the thing can't be improved. Your help, your hints, your

experience would be invaluable. I was counting on them at rehearsal."

"But we haven't come to that yet. I don't hold with altering plays at

rehearsals. After the first night or two, revision may be expedient.

One never knows. Scenes may drag, or they may be too short. We needn't

go into that now. But my point is that the thing should be as perfect

as the author can make it, before it is read to the company. You agree

with me--_hein_?"

The foreign word of interrogation had a soothing sound. Mark placed

himself in her hands unreservedly.

"I trust you," he said simply.

She nodded, showing her lovely teeth in a smile. Then she pointed out

that nothing could be done till the piece in which she was acting had

been taken off. She expected to be quite free in a fortnight's time.

After Easter she would appear in a role which required little

preparation. During Lent she might go abroad. But all details could be

settled later. Would he drink tea with her and talk everything over the

day after to-morrow?

He saw her into her brougham.

"Your play is in Alfred's hands," she said, as she bade him good-bye.

"He is going to make some notes for us. Have you met him? Go and see

him. He's at the theatre now."

She murmured something he did not catch, as the brougham rolled silently

away. She was right. He ought to see Gonzales. The business connected

with the play, the contract and so forth, must be done through him.

Doubtless that was what she meant when she urged him to go to the

theatre. He took a 'bus to the Alcazar and sent up his card. Presently

word came down through a tube that Mr. Gonzales would be disengaged in

less than ten minutes. Mr. Samphire might care to look over the house?

Mark assenting to this, a youth connected with the manager's department

escorted him through the building, which had been built for Mrs. Perowne

"regardless of expense," as the youth said, and "replete with every

modern appliance." Mark wondered at the beauty of the decorations in

parts of the theatre other than the auditorium, where lavishness was to

be expected. The stage was already set, and the youth told Mark that

the "Empire" furniture had adorned the palace of one of Napoleon's

marshals.

Further details, setting forth the thousands lavished upon scenery and

costumes, gave Mark a dismal impression that the play itself was the

least part of a modern theatrical performance; this impression was

deepened when he met the manager, whom he disliked at the first glance.

Gonzales, it was said, had lured Mrs. Perowne from her husband, holding

out the bait of fame. She first appeared in one of his adaptations from

the French, a melodrama built about a head of red hair. Mrs. Perowne's

red hair had been the feature of posters six yards long, designed by

Cheret. In America, the yellow press had asserted that Gonzales was in

the habit of dragging his pupil across her room by her flaming locks.

Her screams echoed from Maine to California, and filled every theatre

with curious crowds, who believed the stories when they saw the red

hair.

Gonzales was big and burly, with a close-clipped black beard, through

which protruded a red lower lip. His face indicated power, cruelty, and

a brutal self-assurance. He was smoking a very thick cigar, which he

held, when he spoke, between white, fat fingers. His voice, however,

was charming; melodious, persuasive, with the intonations and

inflections characteristic of the Latin races; and his eyes, heavily

lidded, were finely formed and of a clear umber in colour. He began to

praise Mark's play with an insincerity which revolted. Mark, sensible

of an overpowering desire to escape, listened to interminable phrases.

"You are soaping the ways," he said, when Gonzales paused. "I

understood from Mrs. Perowne that you saw no m-money in the thing. You

can tell me frankly what you think of it. I am not thin-skinned, and I

hope you d-don't take me for a f-fool."

Gonzales showed his teeth.

"One has to be careful with authors," he said. "I write myself,

trifles," he shrugged his shoulders, "adaptations, as you know, which

have had a measure of success. And I can't bear to have them

criticised, these adopted children of mine. I think them perfect,

perfect. But you--you are of colder blood--and you say you prefer the

truth which I speak sometimes," he smiled disagreeably. "Well, then, in

my opinion, you have just missed a big thing. There's dramatic power in

every line of _Fenella_, and in Paris it might catch on, but here

tragedy is played--out. Still, I don't say that with judicious cutting,

and a slight strengthening of the love interest, and--in short I told

Mrs. Perowne that we could make something of it, if you gave us a free

hand. Oh, there's plenty of action, and a freshness of treatment, but

look here----" He made a couple of suggestions, so admirable, so

luminous of his insight into dramatic possibilities, that Mark admitted

at once the man's cleverness and knowledge of what was good work. But

when he had, so to speak, given this sample of his ability, he added

with an odious sneer: "After all the public, our public, asks for

something absolutely different. For example, I am in treaty now for a

comedy in four acts. Mrs. Perowne will wear eight dresses, furnished by

the four leading dressmakers of Paris. _Entre nous_, these confections

will cost us nothing, not a _sou_. They will be an immense 'ad' for the

dressmakers and for us. The comedy must be constructed round these

dresses. As an artist I deplore such methods, but a successful manager

is forced to employ them."

Mark curtly stated the object of his visit. Gonzales shrugged his

shoulders.

"The contract? Is it not early to talk of that?"

Words flowed like a stream of milk from his mouth. In the "profession,"

he explained, one could not move in haste. Mrs. Perowne had engagements

to be filled. It was absurd to talk of producing a play on a certain

day. It was bad business to take off a paying piece. And Rejane might

lease the Alcazar. No, no, he gave Mr. Samphire credit for a certain

delicacy. He was dealing, remember, with a lady, whose judgment--the

truth was best--he had taken by storm. As her manager, he had implored

her again and again to read no plays till he, the speaker, had looked

them over. Finally, Mark took his leave, conscious that he had been

defeated, that this man of many words could warp him to his will. He

carried away with him, moreover, a conviction that Gonzales was his

enemy, and that the stories about him and Mrs. Perowne were true.

*CHAPTER XXXIX*

*AT THE MIRAFLORES*

During the fortnight that followed Mark saw Mrs. Perowne every day. The

actress exercised over him strange powers of attraction and repulsion,

which he tried to analyse: sensible that the repulsion was subtle and

negative, whereas the attraction was obvious and positive. She had a

score of charms; but beneath them lay something secret and hateful;

possibly a cruelty not alien to red hair and red lips. By chance, one

day, Mark said that strong smelling-salts held beneath the nose of a

bulldog would make him relax his grip of another dog when more violent

measures had failed. The actress had a Chow for whom she expressed

extravagant affection. Before Mark could interfere, she had called the

dog to her side and thrust beneath its sensitive nostrils some strong

spirits of ammonia. The poor animal snuffed at them, and was almost

strangled by the fumes. Mark, furious at such unnecessary cruelty, made

hot protest and then got up to leave the room. Mrs. Perowne entreated

forgiveness, pleading ignorance and thoughtlessness. Mark saw tears in

her eyes; suborned witnesses, no doubt, but deemed honest by an honest

man.

"I loathe cruelty," said Mark.

"Gonzales is cruel," she replied irrelevantly.

"But you like him?"

"I hate him--sometimes."

He divined in her a desire to talk about Gonzales.

"I hate him always," said Mark. "I don't want to hear his name

mentioned. I know he is a beast."

"Would you like me to dismiss him?" she asked softly.

He stared at her in astonishment.

"Could you? I understood that he was in--indispensable, as actor and

manager."

"No man is indispensable to--me," she said angrily. Then her face

changed and softened, suffused by an extraordinary radiance of youth and

vitality. "I mean to say," she murmured, "that no man, _yet_, has

proved himself indispensable, but----"

She looked at Mark, who got up and began to pace the room, much

agitated. Her lips were parted, revealing the small, white,

resolute-looking teeth. She was reflecting, not without a sense of

humour, that Mark was the first man of the many she liked who refused to

dance to her piping. The fact allured her.

"I must go," he said abruptly.

"But you will come to-morrow?"

He hesitated, blushing like a girl, but on the morrow he came and found

her friendly, genial, the "good sort": a role she could sustain to

perfection. Mark, on the other hand, felt himself to be dull and

irritable. Even the all-absorbing _Fenella_ failed to quicken his wits

or pulses. He answered absently some suggestions in regard to the

fourth act, staring at the speaker's eyes, as if trying to read their

message instead of that of the lips.

"Why do you look at me like that?" she asked in a tone absolutely free

from sentiment.

"I am trying to find the real Sybil."

"Sybils are mysteries," she said lightly. "Besides you come here to

talk about the play--_hein_? not about me."

"I come here to talk about the play," he answered slowly, "but I go away

to think about you."

"And the thoughts are not always pleasant ones?"

"Not always."

"You are truthful."

"Am I?"

"Most men are such liars. Gonzales, for example--ah, well, we won't

talk of him. But the others--oh, the humbugs!"

In fluent, even tones, she began to speak of the men she knew

intimately, the higher Bohemians of art and literature. It was

impossible not to be amused by her sketches.

"This is caricature," said Mark.

"Studies from life."

"I'm glad I don't know those--gentlemen."

"You are a man of limitations; and you see others not as they are but as

you would like them to be. That is why your books do not sell. Your

characters are strongly drawn, but their strength is a reproach and an

exasperation to readers of weaker clay. In books, as in real life, we

like to meet people no better and perhaps worse than ourselves. You are

handicapped by ideals, which bankrupt your ideas...."

On this theme she spoke volubly for some minutes. Mark listened, amazed

at her perceptions, at her grasp of life as it is lived in London, at

her audacity in dealing with problems.

"You look astonished," she concluded, "but nowadays revolt is a synonym

of intelligence. As for me I revolt against stupid traditions and

conventions. They are to me like those hideous horse-hair sofas and

chairs upon which our grandfathers sat so stiffly. What? Good wear in

them? I dare say they served their purpose, but now they are banished

to obscure lodging-houses."

Mark repeated some of her phrases to Tommy Greatorex.

"She's as clever as she can stick," Tommy admitted, "but it's surface

cleverness, like surface water, tricklings from a thousand sources more

or less polluted. She's interested in you because you are different

from--the others. Of course you're not interested in her--apart from

her profession, I mean. I sent you to her because I knew you would be

proof against her sorceries--the witch. Hullo!"

Mark was scarlet.

"I say--you're not interested, are you? She's a wrong 'un. I warned

you."

"She has good in her."

Greatorex laughed.

"Good? A needle in a haystack. Seriously, Mark, you mustn't burn your

fingers. Lord! I was so sure of you. I foresaw that you would excite

her curiosity and interest; I knew that she would like you, as I said,

better than your play. In a word I pulled the strings, but I thought I

should make her dance, not you."

"She has been very kind to me."

"What have you been to her? Tell me to mind my own business, if you

like. It's not worth minding, but that doesn't matter."

"I am going to ask Mrs. Perowne to marry me," Mark replied slowly.

"Phew-w-w!"

Instantly, Mark took his hat and marched out of the room. Tommy bit his

nails till it occurred to him to light a pipe. Then he tried to

continue his work, a special article, but he found it impossible to

write a line. Mark's face and eyes disturbed him. Finally, he flung

down his pen in a rage.

"I thought I knew him," he muttered, "I thought I knew him. This is the

bottomless pit, and I led him blindfold to the edge of it."

Suddenly he bethought himself of Pynsent. Pynsent knew Mrs. Perowne, had

painted her portrait--a revelation of character in colour. Accordingly

he wired to Pynsent, asking him to dine at a small restaurant in Baker

Street, and mentioning that a subject of importance was to be discussed.

Pynsent wired back an acceptance for the same evening, and the men met

at eight o'clock. They sat down to sharpen their appetites upon some

excellent salted fillets of herring. Not till the _marmite_ was

swallowed did Greatorex give his perplexity words. Then he said

abruptly--

"You painted Mrs. Perowne?"

"You bet I did--inside and out."

"Did she make love to you?"

"N-n-no," Pynsent replied, not quite readily.

"Why not be frank? I can hold my tongue."

"I think," Pynsent admitted cautiously, "that she expected me to make

love to her, but I didn't. I took a dislike to the woman. And it came

out in the picture. Unpleasant things were said about it at the time,

but she liked it. She told me I had succeeded. And--Great Scott!--so I

had."

"She has captivated and is captivated by Mark Samphire. He is going to

marry her."

"What?"

"It is partly my fault, but I was so sure of--him." He told the story

at length. "And now what are we to do?"

"Mark--Mark!" Pynsent kept repeating stupidly. "It is incredible. Mark

Samphire--and Sybil Perowne!"

"She has never denied herself anything."

"She'll suck every ounce of good blood from his body. It would be

kindness to knock him on the head."

"It would be pleasure to knock her on the head," said Tommy gloomily.

"We can do nothing," said Pynsent, at length, as he lit one of his

Caporal cigarettes, which he smoked between the courses. "There was

Maiden. When I studied at the Beaux Arts, Maiden was the coming man. By

Jove! he had come. I remember his big picture in the Salon of '79.

Crowds stood in front of it, jabbering like monkeys. It was great,

great. And France bought it. It hangs in the Luxembourg to-day. Well,

Maiden had a model, a queer little devil of a girl with huge black eyes

whom he stuck into all his pictures. He bought her from her mother out

of a slum, the Rue du Haut-Pave, close to the cabaret du Soleil d'Or,

and she followed him about like a spaniel, all over Normandy and

Brittany. We wondered what would happen when the child became a woman.

Gad! we might have guessed for a year and a day and never hit the truth.

Maiden married her! He, the wit, the scholar, the gentleman, married

that guttersnipe. And he hasn't painted a picture for fifteen years! I

tell you, Tommy, that it's impossible to predict what any man will do

when he comes in contact with the wrong woman."

"Or with the right one," said Greatorex, frowning.

They drank their coffee, and by mutual consent went to the Miraflores

Music Hall, feeling that anything which might distract their thoughts

from Mark would prove a relief. The place was crowded as usual, and

Pynsent, pulling out a pencil, began to draw heads upon a piece of paper

placed in his hat, while Tommy watched his facile fingers, much amused

by the remarks which punctuated every line.

"People must relax," the painter was saying. "These places would be

empty if we lived normal lives. A self-respecting savage would be bored

to death here."

"True," said Tommy. "If you want to find sense nowadays you must hunt

for it in the South Pacific, in the islands which Captain Cook and Mr.

Thomas Cook did not find. Hullo, there's Jim Corrance."

"Why not tell him," said Pynsent quickly. "He's Mark's oldest friend;

he'd do anything for Mark; and he's a practical sort of chap, too."

Jim joined them with alacrity, obviously glad to see Pynsent, who, of

late, had dropped out of his file. The three secured a table in the

corner of the foyer, where they could talk without fear of being

overheard, for the noise--the shrill laughter of the women, the deep

notes of the men, the blare of the band--was deafening. Jim, however,

not knowing Mrs. Perowne, save by reputation, was unable to realise the

gravity of the situation.

"Aren't you fellows making a mountain of a molehill?" he asked. "And,

besides, what can old Mark offer Sybil Perowne?"

"A new sensation," said Tommy grimly. His face impressed Corrance.

Pynsent nodded gloomily.

"There's David Ross," said Jim.

"The Bishop of Poplar?"

"At one time Mark and he were hand-in-glove. He used to be a

wonder-worker."

"Oh, he is still," said Greatorex. "I thought we should get something

out of you, Corrance."

"But a parson----" began Pynsent doubtfully.

"He was the amateur middleweight champion before he took Orders," said

Corrance, "and it's the pugilist in him, not the parson, which has made

him the man he is. He'll tackle Mark, never fear. He tackles

me--periodically, but all the same, if this thing is serious he will

accomplish nothing."

"That is what I say," Pynsent added.

But Tommy, the smallest and weakest of the three, doggedly persisted.

Finally he persuaded Corrance to seek out the Bishop of Poplar. Having

extracted a promise to this effect, he took leave of the others, for his

article, due on the morrow, had to be finished that night. Pynsent and

Corrance remained together. As the little man plunged into the crowd,

Pynsent said: "Tommy Greatorex would cut off his right hand for Mark,

but I've heard men call him selfish and self-centred."

Corrance at once began to analyse this indisputable fact, sticking out

his chin, and talking with an aggressive frankness which much amused the

painter, who said presently:

"We may as well admit, Jim, that we're cold-blooded, you and I----"

"For the sake of argument--yes. Go on!"

"Partly because of that we've succeeded. I can't see myself, or you, my

boy, chucking our work to help others, although after the work was done

we might write a cheque--eh?"

"You had better have another whisky and potass."

"Thanks. I will."

They watched the Miraflores ballet from a couple of balcony stalls.

Fabulous sums had been spent upon the costumes of the dancers, who

represented flowers and butterflies. Pynsent became absorbed in the

spectacle of light and colour and movement. Now and again he jogged

Corrance with his elbow, calling his attention to this effect and that,

muttering inarticulate exclamations. The lights in the theatre were

turned low, so that the stage, a blaze of golden splendour, attracted

all eyes. Then, suddenly, like a sun in eclipse, the stage itself was

obscured. One saw luminous shadows through which floated spirits of the

air, mysterious winged beings; the butterflies seeking the flowers at

the approach of night. Impenetrable darkness succeeded as the band

stopped playing. In the foyer, men and women crowded together craned

their heads in one direction, awaiting the supreme moment. It came.

Out of the darkness glided a dazzling creature, veiled in what seemed to

be a tissue of diamonds. From her alone emanated light, a myriad

sparkles. She advanced slowly with white, outstretched arms, a smile

upon her face. At the edge of the stage she poised herself for flight.

Not a sound broke the silence, but one felt the throb and thrill of a

thousand hearts. Then a faint strain of music suffused the air, as the

creature took wing. She soared upward and forward, following the curve

of an ellipse. Thus soaring, she scattered flowers which fell

everywhere, filling the house with perfume. In the dome of the building

she vanished. A sigh of pleasure escaped the lips of the spectators.

The vision reappeared, gliding forward as before out of obscurity. Once

more, for the last time, she soared upward and vanished.

"Let us go," said Pynsent. "That was the immortal spirit of Love. And

she vanished--no wonder--in this temple of----" He shut his lips, for

his neighbours were staring at him.

Corrance rose, muttering: "The expenses must be stupendous; but

Miraflores shares are at 219. I bought a nice little block at 127

eighteen months ago."

"Shut up, you miserable materialist!"

"I can't afford to be anything else--nor can Mark, poor devil!"

"I beg your pardon," said Pynsent hurriedly.

They pushed their way through the crowd, pausing at the top of the broad

stairs which led to the street below. The atmosphere, charged with

odours of musk and patchouli and reeking of strong cigars, was

overpoweringly oppressive. But on almost every face, pale beneath the

glare of the electric light, flamed a curious satisfaction, curious

because with rare exceptions it was artificial. The exception may be

mentioned. A thick-set man, remarkable by reason of his white hair and

pink smooth face, stood at the entrance, bowing and beaming. The

habitues knew him, and nodded carelessly as they passed by. Some

exchanged a few words. The man seemed to be counting: reckoning the

numbers present, computing gains.

"That's old Harry," said Corrance to the painter. "He runs this place.

Hullo, Harry, how are you? Big house to-night."

"Big house every night," said Harry complacently. "You know that, Mr.

Corrance. It's prime--prime. I never get tired of watching it."

He rubbed his plump white hands together, beaming like an aged cherub.

"Holy Moses!" exclaimed Pynsent. "You never get tired of

watching--this?" He indicated the promenade in a derisive gesture.

"Never," said Harry, opening his blue eyes in childish astonishment at

such a question. "Why this is my show. I planned it. I stand here

every night."

"It's meat and drink, old chap, isn't it?" said Corrance.

"I've got just where I wanted to be," Harry said solemnly. "The boys

call me king of the music-halls."

"Good-night, your majesty," said Corrance, beginning to descend the

stairs. "There's one that's happy and content," he added, as Pynsent

and he strolled down the corridor.

"We're saprophytes," burst out Pynsent.

"I don't know what that means," said Jim, "but it sounds something

nasty."

*CHAPTER XL*

*"COME!"*

True to his promise, Corrance sought out the Bishop of Poplar, and

delivered himself of his message. David Ross nodded, but his fine eyes

were troubled.

"What's happened to Mark?" said Corrance irritably. "D----n it all--I

beg your pardon, David, but Mark would make you swear, bishop though you

are."

"I'll see him," said David; "but I--I don't know--I fear----" He broke

off abruptly. Then his eyes flashed. "What's happened to Mark?

"As for me," said Jim, "I can see, but Mark, the blind fool, wants a

nurse or a keeper. He's half child, half lunatic. I'll go now. You're

up to your nose in work, and so am I. I suppose you want money, you

shameless beggar?"

"All I can get and all I can't get."

"I shall have to send you a cheque," Jim growled. "I tell everybody

you're the dearest friend I've got. Good-bye."

He retreated hastily, fearing a lecture. David returned to an enormous

correspondence with which his secretary was endeavouring to cope. The

poor man nearly burst into tears when his chief told him that he might

be absent for several hours. David put on his hat, deaf to a score of

protests.

"I'm going fishing," he said, "and, confound it! I've no bait."

Corrance had told him that Mark lunched at the Scribblers. To that club

the Bishop took his way. There he learned that Mark was writing in the

silence room. David walked in, unannounced, holding out his hand, which

Mark refused to take.

"You went to Betty," he said fiercely.

"No."

"She failed me."

"Yes; she failed you, thank God."

"What brings you here?"

"You know perfectly well."

"But this is intolerable, this interference! Will you understand, Ross,

that I insist upon your leaving me alone?"

"That is impossible, Mark. Why, I want you to come and stay with me for

a month."

"I wonder they ordained you a bishop," said Mark. "I thought they made

a point of choosing men of--tact."

"I've any amount of tact," said David cheerfully. "Mark, you're a

madman, and in your soul you know it."

"Tommy Greatorex sent you on this fool's errand?"

"Yes; Greatorex and Jim and Pynsent. Your friends love you well, Mark.

Have you no love for them?"

"I'll tell you something, Ross; it may save you time and trouble. The

love I had for you fellows is dead--dead." Then, as a gesture of dismay

escaped the Bishop, Mark added: "I cannot love anybody. If it could come

back, if--but it won't. That's why I've kept away from most of you.

You--you all bore me. Oh, it's my fault, I know. I've become a

one-idea'd man. I can think of nothing but my play and the woman who is

going to produce it, to give it life. She's become part of it, do you

understand, part of me--me. I can't lie to you; but I'd like you to try

to realise that the Mark Samphire you once knew is dead. Who killed

Cock Robin?" he laughed. "I can't answer that question."

"You mean you won't," said the Bishop steadily. "Well, I believe in the

resurrection of the dead. You will come to life again, Mark Samphire,

but not at my touch."

He moved towards the door.

"David!"

The familiar name thrilled upon the air. It was Mark, the old Mark,

speaking. In an instant the hands of the two friends were locked.

"I can't let you go like that," said Mark. "For all you have done and

would do, I--thank you."

A few days passed without incident. Spring was abroad in the fields and

woods, hailed by twittering birds and white blossoms. Mark felt her

caress, and was sensible of that amazing calm which succeeds and

precedes any strenuous effort. He let himself drift with the current,

lulled almost to sleep by the lilt of the stream which bore him to the

troubled waters beyond his ken.

Someone has said that a fine quality in a human being may become the

source of disaster as well as triumph. One might go further, and add

that a fine quality denied its triumph, may be wrecked in disaster.

That love for others with which Mark had been endowed would have

increased and multiplied in marriage. The man had the best qualities or

a husband and father. He apprehended this with his reason, even as

Betty apprehended it intuitively. But such manifest destiny had been

denied him, as in like manner it was denied to his friend David Ross.

But David had been given his triumph. His power of loving, purged from

the taint of selfish emotion, had expanded enormously, incredibly,

suffusing itself, divinely fluid, over vast areas, transmuting

everything it touched, producing and reproducing with inexhaustible

energy and fertility. Mark's love might have flowed into as many and

diverse channels had it not been dammed by its bastard brother

passion--hate.

Now, standing (as Greatorex had put it) on the brink of the bottomless

pit, he was conscious that not only was love, the higher love, dead, but

that hate also was moribund. He could think of Archibald as of one at

an immeasurable distance--a shadowy figure, a blur upon the horizon.

And since his meeting with Betty in Pynsent's studio, she also had

faded, and become _unreal_, a phantom of the past, flitting from him

into impenetrable shades.

This feeling of remoteness from the persons whose lives had been so

interwoven with his own underwent a crucial test that same afternoon.

In the _Globe_ Mark read that the see of Parham had been offered to and

accepted by Archibald Samphire. His brother had reached the apex of his

ambitions; he was the bishop-designate of a famous diocese in the North

of England! Lower down, in the same column, was another paragraph--

"Mrs. Perowne is leaving London for the Continent. The famous actress,

we are given to understand, has accepted a play by one of our rising

novelists, a play which those who have read it declare to be quite out

of the common."

Mark recognised the finger of Tommy in this, as well as the long arm of

coincidence. Upon the page opposite the column of personal paragraphs

was a sketch of his brother's life and labours. Mark laughed. The

Bishop of Parham. A spiritual peer! And what a leg for a gaiter! He

laughed again, reflecting that other paragraphs might be printed

concerning a famous actress and a rising novelist. My lord would read

them with horror.

Next day the _Times_ had a long leader about the Chrysostom of Chelsea.

The late Bishop of Parham, an old infirm man, had distinguished himself

as scholar, and then extinguished himself as prelate, lacking those

powers of organisation which do not, perhaps, lend themselves to

biblical exegesis and the Higher Criticism. His diocese--of great

extent--had of late years increased enormously in population. The

discovery of coal and a certain kind of clay had brought about an

upheaval: the pastoral industries, which supported a few farmers and

shepherds, still flourished, but side by side with colossal commercial

enterprises. Towns, black with the smoke from a thousand factories, had

sprung up like mushrooms upon turf that had never known a plough;

railroads ravaged the face of the landscape with indelible lines; half a

dozen fishing villages bade fair to become seaports of importance. With

these new and complex conditions, the aged scholar had tried in vain to

cope. Upon his death, at an advanced age, it was felt at headquarters

that a young man must be selected to grapple with them: an athlete of

tried physical strength, an abstainer (for the statistics in regard to

drunkenness were appalling), an organiser, and above all things an

eloquent preacher. For such a task no better nor abler man than

Archibald Samphire could be found in the kingdom. The Prime Minister

had made a wise selection, which the Dean and Chapter of Parham would,

doubtless, approve and confirm. _And so forth_....

Mark bought other journals and read what was written about Parham and

its bishop-designate. In each a few lines were accorded to the wife,

who, by happy chance, was descended from the most ancient and

distinguished of the border families. One paper contained the

following:--

"Our readers will learn with deep sympathy and regret that the health of

the future _chatelaine_ of Parham Castle is causing her husband and many

friends grave anxiety."

Mark sprang to his feet with an exclamation. Betty--ill! In an instant

he felt his blood circulating violently, stinging him to wild and

over-powering excitement. The bishop-designate of Parham remained an

attenuated shade; his wife was clothed with palpable flesh and blood.

Ill? She? Incredible!

He despatched a telegram to Dibdin, the butler, and waited for the

answer, pacing up and down the Finchley Road, regardless of a shower

which wetted him to the skin. While he waited, one of the telegraph

boys who knew him came up with a despatch. Mark tore open the envelope.

The telegram was from Sybil Perowne. She had reached Paris and was

going to Fontainebleau. Mark stared stupidly at the message. Then he

murmured between his teeth: "I wish she was going to Jericho."

The actress had become as remote as Betty had been a few hours before.

Between Sybil Perowne and him stretched the long years of youth and

childhood, never to be forgotten--the years which belonged to Betty. He

went back to meet Betty in a thousand familiar places; she ran to meet

him, her eyes radiant with pleasure, her lips parted in joyous

acclamation.