BROTHERS (continued 5)

"That's Mark!" said Betty excitedly, clutching her husband's arm. "Look—look!"

Archibald looked and laughed.

"You have an amazing imagination, my dearest Mark? That man in homespun, and a red tie! He's twice Mark's size, and he wears a beard. I noticed him just now. Mark? Why Mark's in Sutherland."

"I was mistaken," said Betty absently. She walked on quite sure that the man's eyes were following her. She was sure of it, although her back was turned to him. A minute before Archibald had asked her if she would like a tea-basket. The refreshment-room was just opposite. An impulse seized her.

"I think I should like a tea-basket," she said, pausing. "Will you get one? I'll go back to the carriage."

Archibald obeyed, unsuspecting. Betty turned and ran to the bookstall. The man was no longer there. She looked right and left. That was he—disappearing, melting into the crowd outside. Without a moment's hesitation she hastened after him, came up behind, plucked at his cape. He turned at once. It was Mark.

"You?" she gasped. "You—here?"

Her eyes, wide open, glaring interrogation, fell before his. He took her hand, grasping it firmly.

"I can explain. I heard of your plans from Mrs. Samphire. I knew that you were leaving by this train. I came on the off chance of getting a glimpse of you."

"You are well, strong!"

She raised her eyes, devouring him. He could see that people in the crowd were nudging each other, grinning and pointing. He drew her aside.

"Yes; I am strong." As he said it, he realised that he would need all his strength. What a mad fool he had been to come, to risk so much. "Look here," he said harshly, "you must go back to Archie. Tell him—tell him that I couldn't come to his wedding, because, b-b-because I've left the Church. I wasn't going to set every tongue wagging in Slowshire. Do you see? Do you understand? Now—go—run!"

He almost pushed her from him. Her eyes never left his face.

"Can't you see me to my carriage?"

This, the obvious thing, had not occurred to him. He walked beside her. As they passed into the station, Archibald appeared on the platform, followed by a boy carrying a tea-basket.

"It is Mark," said Betty, as her husband joined them. They walked towards the carriage, the most amazing trio in that vast station. Mark repeated his reasons for not taking part in the wedding. Archibald looked confused.

"You have left our Church?"

He repeated it three times.

"Yes; yes—we can't go into reasons here and now."

"What are you going to do?"

"I am writing."

The guard began to slam the doors. He came up to the brothers, smiling, seeing the bride, feeling in his broad palm the tip of the bridegroom.

"Better get in, sir," he said to Mark, who, in his Inverness cape and rough cap, looked the traveller.

Archibald pushed Betty into the coupé and shook hands with Mark.

"You must tell us everything when we get back. It has been a great shock," he stared at the red tie; "but I'm delighted to see you looking so well."

He sprang into the coupé as the train began to move. Betty pushed him aside and leaned out of the window. Mark never forgot the expression on her face framed by the small, square window. The engine was screeching lamentably, like a monster in agony. Another train was entering the station, adding its strident note to the chorus, filling the atmosphere with clouds of white steam. A third-class carriage full of soldiers glided by. The soldiers, mostly boyish recruits, were singing at the top of their voices, "Good-bye, my lover, good-bye." A girl standing near burst into hysterical sobbing. Mark noted these details, as a man notes some irrelevant trifle in a dream, which remains part of that dream for ever after. But his eyes were on Betty's face. She had been borne away by a force slow but irresistible, the relentless Machine, the symbol of progress, of Fate, if you will, which tears asunder things and men, and brings some together again, but not all, nor any just as they were before. The face was white and piteous, the face of an Andromeda. Upon it, in unmistakable lines, were inscribed regret and reproach. Mark turned sick. He had wished to save this woman; had he sacrificed her?

Betty heard her husband say, "This has been very upsetting." Immediately she laughed, withdrawing her face from the window. Nothing else, probably, would have erased the tell-tale lines. She thought that her laugh was a revelation of what was passing in her mind; but Archibald took other notice of it.

"You laugh?" he said heavily. "I know what has happened. I am not much surprised. Mark has gone over to Rome. Really, my dear little woman, you must not laugh like that. I give you my word that I am terribly distressed. That red tie!"

"The scarlet woman."

"Pray don't joke! This is most upsetting."

She laughed again, knowing that she was on the verge of hysterics, trying to control herself. The train, rushing on out of the mists of London into the splendid May sunshine of the country, rocked violently as it crossed the points. Betty fell back upon the cushions, still laughing and repeating Archibald's words.

"Upsetting? I should think so."

Like Mark, she was reflecting that Force was bearing her away, whirling her asunder, leaving heart and soul here, flinging her body there. The irony of it was stunning in its violence. She covered her face with her hands, pressing her finger-tips upon her temples, but she did not close her eyes, which followed Archibald's slow, methodical movements. He was arranging the baggage—her handsome travelling-bag, a wedding present from the Squire, his own massive suit-case, the parasols and umbrellas, the tea-basket. In the contracted space wherein he moved he loomed colossal. She felt herself shrinking, collapsing. In a minute, a moment, he would turn, he would take her cold hands in his, removing them gently but masterfully from the face quivering beneath. Then he would surely read and know. He had nearly finished his fiddle-faddling arrangements. He took his hat from his head, looked at it, brushed a few specks of dust from the crown and rim, and placed it carefully in the rack. Out of the pocket of an overcoat he drew a soft travelling cap, putting it on deliberately, making himself comfortable. At last he was coming towards her, the tea-basket in his hand, a smile upon his face, an endearing phrase upon his lips. Betty closed her eyes. The words of the marriage service sounded loud in her ears, rhythmic, like the roar of waves breaking on an iron-bound coast: the echo of her oath before the altar thundering down the empty corridors of the future—"From this day forward ... to love, cherish, and to obey till Death us do part!"

Archibald dropped the tea-basket with a crash. His bride had fainted.

CHAPTER XXV

MARK HEARS A BLEATING

Two days later Mark Samphire called upon Jim Corrance at his chambers in Bolton Street, Piccadilly. Here Jim lived when he was not making money or playing golf at Woking. He played golf regularly to keep himself fit. He also played whist and billiards. Whatever he did, work or play, was characterised by a dexterity and fertility of resource which generally ensured success.

Jim's chambers were furnished comfortably but conventionally. As a matter of fact, he had told a famous firm of decorators to do the best they could for a certain sum of money. Jim added a few pictures and engravings, some books, and an impeccable manservant, Tom Wrenn. He did not look at the pictures or read the books, but he studied Wrenn, an interesting document, and mastered him. Wrenn, for his part, had nothing but praise for a gentleman who bought the best of wine and tobacco and entrusted them unreservedly to his man.

When Wrenn ushered Mark into the sitting-room, he exhibited no surprise, but his master stared at his old friend as if he (Mark) had risen from the dead. Mark, bearded, brown, sinewy, larger about the chest and shoulders, confounded Jim—and he said so in his usual abrupt, jerky fashion. Then he noted the rough tweeds and the red tie. Wrenn lingered for a moment.

"Wrenn," said Jim, "bring some whisky and mineral waters, and the Rothschild Excepcionales!" Wrenn vanished silently. Jim seized Mark by the coat.

"Why, this howls for explanation. You've chucked your black livery—you?"

The emphasis laid on the pronoun expressed surprise, incredulity, and amusement.

"Yes. I've come here to tell you all about it."

Wrenn appeared with a tray and a long, shallow box of cigars. Mark, however, preferred to light his pipe. As soon as Wrenn had left the room, he plunged into his story.

"There was just the possibility, you understand, of recovery. Archibald came up. He wanted me to go home, and he brought a message from Betty—her love. She was stopping with your mother. That message either meant everything or nothing. I knew that it meant—everything. Now, while Archibald was with me I did a bit of work, brain work, the first since the smash. It knocked me out—knocked all my hopes to smithereens. Would you under such conditions have sent back your love to Betty?"

"No," said Jim; "but—well, never mind; go on——"

"After Archibald had left Crask I took a big turn for the better. I suppose that glorious air and the simple food and Stride's knowledge of my case worked the miracle. And then I began to hope again; and I began to work." He told Jim about the first short story and the novel, but he did not mention the Advent sermons of his brother. "Time slipped by, Jim. I was awfully keen about my work."

"I'll bet you were," said Jim.

"You always chaffed me, because I said that in my philosophy things turned out for the best. I told myself that every incident in my life, every trial and infirmity, had meaning. Can a man write what is really vital unless he has striven and suffered and seen others striving and suffering? I say—no. God knows I longed to be a man of action. That was denied me. The desire to paint, to express what was in me on canvas, proved fruitless. Then the Church opened her doors—I saw a goal, but my stammer choked me at the start. All the same, the work in Stepney warmed me to the core. I was up to my neck in it."

"And Betty?"

"Ah—Betty. She was out of sight, Jim, but never out of mind. A thousand times I told myself she was unattainable; that a man was a sickly anæmic ass who allowed a woman to interfere with what he had to do."

"Right," said Jim. "That's gospel."

"All the same, she was back of everything. Then came last Whitsuntide——"

He paused. Jim continued: "I know about that. I suppose you learned, then, of this cursed mischief inside you?"

"I suspected something; I went to Barger and Drax. They told me marriage was madness."

"Great Scott!"

He was more agitated than Mark, thrusting out his chin, shaking his shoulders, clenching his fists: gestures familiar to Mark since the Harrow days and before. It struck Mark suddenly that this scene was recurrent, the ebb and flow of the heart's tide breaking on rocks. Could anything be more futile than talk: the interminable recital of what was and what might have been? His voice, as he continued, lost its tonic quality:

"There is not much more to tell. Just as I began to hope that my life might still hold Betty, the news came of her engagement——"

Jim looked at the red tie.

"And then you saw red," he spluttered, "you saw red."

"When that letter came, I could—have—killed—my—brother."

The two men had risen and were staring at each other with flaming eyes.

"I could have killed him," Mark repeated sombrely. "You know, Jim, what Archie was to me at Harrow—and long afterwards?"

"The greatest thing on earth," said Jim. "I used to be awfully jealous."

"I loved him for his beauty," said Mark drearily, "for his strength and for his weakness. I loved him the more because in some small ways I could help him. I grudged him nothing—I swear it!—nothing, nothing, except Betty. I could have let her go to you or Harry Kirtling; but to him who had all I had not, my b-b-brother——"

His stammer seized him, and he trembled violently.

"We'll drop it," exclaimed Jim. He had turned away from Mark's eyes, reading in them the hate which was not yet controlled. "You don't feel—er—that way towards her?"

"Never, never!" His eyes softened at once; then he broke out abruptly: "What made her take him?" It was out at last. He expected no answer from his friend, but Jim said simply: "Surely you know?"

"It's darkest mystery."

"Why, man, she told me that he dragged her out of the depths." Jim repeated what Betty had said. "You know what women are. A petticoat flutters naturally towards a parson whenever the wind blows. That did me. I couldn't promise to personally conduct her to—Heaven. Yes, his sermons, particularly that Windsor sermon, captured her."

"The Windsor sermon! You say the Windsor s-s-sermon?" Mark stuttered out.

"Yes, the Windsor sermon. I'm told it was wonderful. He's a bit of a prig, but he can preach, and no mistake! Why, look here! Have you seen this? Out this morning!"

He took up the current Vanity Fair and displayed a caricature of Archibald Samphire—the Chrysostom of Sloane Street. It was one of Pellegrini's best bits of work, but the "fine animal" in Archibald had been slightly overdrawn, unintentionally, no doubt, on the artist's part. The florid complexion, the massive jaw, the curls, the lips, were subtly exaggerated. None would be surprised to learn that Chrysostom lived in Cadogan Place with a cordon bleu at fifty-five pounds a year. Mark gazed at the cartoon and then laid it, face downwards, on the table.

"The thing's wonderful," he said slowly, "but it will hurt Betty."

Jim Corrance shrugged his shoulders. He had come to the conclusion that a touch of the animal in men was not a disability where women were concerned.

"I saw them at Victoria," said Mark.

"What?"

Mark explained, blaming himself.

"You've given yourself away," said Jim disgustedly. "She had got it into her head that you didn't care, but the man who doesn't care would hardly travel from Sutherland to London to catch one glimpse of another fellow's bride. Lord! You have made a mess of it. And what are you going to do now? Have a drink, and tell me your plans."

"I'm going to write."

"Have you rewritten the novel you burnt?"

"No; but I'm half-way through another."

"You may as well camp with me. Why not?"

Mark had several reasons "why not," but he gave one which was sufficient: "I mean to eat and sleep and work out-of-doors."

The two men talked together for an hour and then parted.

"By the way," said Jim, as Mark was taking leave, "the Squire is looking rather seedy. I fancy he's something on his mind. Are you going down to King's Charteris?"

Mark shook his head impatiently, hearing a terrible bleating; but as he passed through the Green Park, on the way to his lodgings, he reflected that he would have to go to Pitt Hall sooner or later. Why not sooner? He would run down the next day. Then, he repeated to himself what Jim Corrance had said about Archibald's sermons, and their effect on Betty. Looking back now, with an odd sense of detachment, he realised how much of these sermons had been his, how little Archibald's. For this he blamed himself. His brother had asked for an inch. He had given gladly an ell. But if—the possibility insisted on obtruding itself (an unwelcome guest)—if Betty discovered the truth, what would happen?

When he reached his lodging he wrote a letter to the Squire, saying that he was running down on the morrow and preparing him for a change of cloth.

"I no longer count myself of the Church of England" (he wrote), "but you will be doing the wise thing and the kind thing if you ask no questions."

This bolt from the blue fell on to the breakfast-table. Mrs. Samphire, like Archibald, jumped to the conclusion that Mark had gone over to Rome.

"I knew how it would be," she said acidly, "from the very beginning. I dare say he will arrive with his head shaved and wearing a cowl. And you were saying only yesterday that he could have the King's Charteris living, now that Archie is provided for."

"The boy is a good lad," said the Squire heavily. "I shall talk to him. He must take the King's Charteris living, he must. I shall make a point of it. He can keep a curate to preach. It's the obvious way out of the wood."

"Then he won't take it."

She burst into detraction of the boy who was like the woman the Squire had loved. The Squire listened moodily, eating his substantial breakfast of kidneys and poached eggs and a slice from the ham of his own curing.

"He is not a Samphire at all," concluded the lady, as she rose from the table, leaving the Squire still eating, very red in the face where the colour was not purple, and showing a massive jowl above his neatly folded white scarf. Left alone, he cut himself another slice from the huge ham, and then reread Mark's letter, staring at it with congested eyes, and muttering: "Yes, yes—it's the obvious way out of the wood, the obvious way out of the wood. He can keep a curate who can preach. Four hundred a year, even in these times, and a capital house, a really capital house, in first-rate repair. I shall talk to him. The Madam doesn't like him—never did! But he'll listen to his old pater. It's the obvious way out of the wood."

Mark arrived in time for tea. Mrs. Samphire received him in the long, narrow drawing-room; and Mark was conscious that his red tie was to her as a red rag to a bull. When she spoke, sniffs were audible; and Mark kept on telling himself that he had been a fool to come. The Squire seemed very robust. What did Jim mean? The congested eyes, the purple tinge, conveyed no meaning to a man who had never learned the meaning of health's danger-signals.

After dinner father and son found themselves alone. The Squire had ordered a bottle of '47 port to be decanted, almost the last that was left in the bin. He had to drink most of it, and while he did so complained of the changes since his day.

"Archie is teetotal," he said. "Well he's playing his own game his own way, and scoring too, no doubt o' that. I dare say you forget that now he's provided so well for himself, you can step into the King's Charteris living, which in the nature of things must soon be vacant. Nearly four hundred a year—and a capital house, in first-rate repair. You can hire a curate who can preach."

The words came out very fluently, for the Squire had repeated them to himself a dozen times since breakfast. As Mark made no reply, he repeated them again, adding, however, somewhat confusedly: "It's the obvious way out of the wood."

"Eh?" said Mark. "What do you mean, pater?"

The Squire coughed nervously. He was not clever at making explanations.

"Oh," he replied testily, "I take it we needn't go into that. Times are hard. The allowance I have made you and Archie has crippled me. Archie gave up his when he came into Aunt Deb's money—and in the nick of time, egad!"

"I can get along with a hundred a year," said Mark quietly.

"Rubbish, my dear lad, rubbish! But the living's a good 'un, and the house in capital repair. You would be very comfortable; and," he eyed Mark pleasantly, "and you'll be following Archie's example—hey? Marry a girl with a bit o' money! There's Kitty Bowker, and——"

"Pater—we won't talk of that."

"We? I'm talking of it. I don't ask you to say a word, not a word. Oh, I know why you didn't come to Archie's wedding, but bless you, Betty's not the only nice girl in the world. I'll say no more. I'm glad to see you looking so fit. That slumming in the East End disgusted you—drove you into that tweed suit—hey? But it'll be quite different at King's Charteris. You can manage a day's hunting a week and a day's shooting throughout the season. Kitty Bowker looks very well outside a horse—and she likes a man who goes free at his fences as you used to do. Your letter this morning, you know, startled us a bit. The Madam thought of Rome. Nothing in that—hey?"

The Squire looked hard at the decanter which indeed was quite empty.

"Absolutely nothing," said Mark absently.

"I told the Madam I'd say a word, and there it is: a capital house, in excellent repair, with——"

"The present incumbent still alive," said Mark.

"True, true—we'll say no more, not a word. Shall we go into the drawing-room?"

He rose with a certain effort and moved too ponderously towards the door. For the first time Mark realised that his father must soon become an old man. A wave of affection surged through him.

"Pater," he said, touching the Squire's massive shoulder, "how are you feeling? Any twinges of gout or—er—anything of that sort?"

"I'm sound as a bell, Mark. Of course I have my worries. There are three farms on my hands, and the price of corn lower than it has been for years. I don't know what George will do after I'm gone. That is why I—um—spoke of the obvious way out of the wood. Put on a black tie to-morrow morning, my dear lad, and—er—a grey suit, to—to oblige me."

"All right," said Mark. "I'm going to write, you know."

"Write?" the Squire turned, as he was passing into the hall. "Write—what?"

"Novels, short stories, plays perhaps."

"Oh, d——n it!" said the Squire ruefully.

CHAPTER XXVI

READJUSTMENT

After Mark's return from Pitt Hall, he called on Barger and Drax, who overhauled him and pronounced him a new man. Drax, in particular, took extraordinary interest in the case, refused a fee, and begged Mark to come and see him at least once a quarter.

"I never thought I should speak to you again," he said frankly. "It's the vis medicatrix naturæ. You went back to the simple primal life. Well—stick to it! A winter in Sutherland! Phew-w-w! Kill or cure, and no mistake. I should like to meet your friend, Doctor Stride."

The question now presented itself: where should he pitch his tent? Such work as he had in mind must be finished in or near London. His half-completed novel, Shall the Strong Retain the Spoil? dealt with Londoners; the scene of it was laid in London. Finally, after some search, he found a camping-ground in a small pine wood crowning a great ridge which overlooked the Thames Valley and the Surrey heaths.

He discovered this spot, which suited him exactly, by accident. Just outside Weybridge he punctured the tyre of his bicycle. While repairing it, he smelled the balsamic fragrance of some pines to his right, and Longfellow's lines came into his mind:—

"Stood the groves of singling pine trees,

Green in summer, white in winter,

Ever sighing, ever singing."

The west wind was blowing, and from the pine-tops floated a lullaby, soothing and seductive. Mark sat down, listening to this alluring song, absorbing the scents and sounds. Presently he climbed a rough fence and wandered down one of the many aisles. The carpet beneath his feet was soft as velvet pile, a carpet woven by the years out of the myriad leaves dropping unseen and unheard. Passing through the wood, he saw the Thames Valley. A silvery mist was rising out of it. On each side of the river were green meadows, bordered by poplars and willows. The tower of a church could be seen amongst a group of fine elms. This was such a spot as he had hoped to find. Regaining the high-road, he pushed his bicycle to the top of the hill and stopped opposite a pretty cottage standing in a garden gay with old-fashioned flowers. Above the gate was a sign: Board and Lodging. Mark stared for a moment at the sign, smiling, because he had expected to find it there. If the tiny wood belonged to the owner of the cottage, the matter was clinched.

He left his bicycle against the palings and walked through the garden and up to the door. He had time to note that the cottage was built of brick. Some of the bricks had a vitreous surface, which caught the light and suffused a radiance over the other bricks. The general effect was ripe, mellow, rosy. The sills and casings of the lattice windows were painted white; the door was a bright apple-green, with a shining brass handle, bell, and knocker. The cottage was heavily thatched.

In answer to Mark's ring and knock the door was opened by a girl, whom Mark guessed to be a daughter of the house, not a servant in any sense, save the one that she served. Mark lifted his cap.

"Is that wood yours?" he asked.

The girl seemed amused, but she said: "Oh, yes; everything inside the paling belongs to mother."

"And you have rooms to let?"

The girl asked him to come in and see them, but she added doubtfully: "I don't think they'll suit you."

"I haven't seen them yet," said Mark, "but I'm sure they will."

The rooms included a small sitting-room and bedroom. Mark looked at them with an indifference which brought disappointment to the face of the girl.

"Can I speak to your mother?"

"She's an invalid—and in bed, to-day. If you want to talk business you must talk with me."

Mark explained that he was anxious to build a shelter in the garden, at the edge of the wood. He added that unless the weather was unusually severe he should sleep, and eat, and work there. The rooms would do for a friend, who might come to see him from Saturday to Monday. He should want the simplest food, and so forth. The girl said that the carrying of meals to the shelter would be a nuisance, especially in rainy weather. Mark compromised by offering to eat indoors if the weather became wet or boisterous. A bargain was made in three minutes.

"When will you come?" said the girl.

"To-morrow. My name is Mark Samphire."

"Mother's name is Dew. I am Mary Dew."

"Mary Dew," repeated Mark. He had a tobacco-pouch in his hand and was filling a pipe. A pun occurred to him, execrable and therefore irresistible. "Honeydew is my constant companion," said he; "it is quite certain that we shall be friends."

Mary laughed.

"I hope so," she said frankly. "It's dreadful waiting on people one doesn't like. Last summer we had a gentleman who——"

"Yes," said Mark, lighting his pipe.

"Who wasn't a gentleman—and I hated him."

She looked serious. Her face was charming, because the texture of skin and the colouring were so admirable. For the rest she was about middle height, of trim figure, neither thin nor plump: her eyes were of a clear, intelligent grey, shaded by short black lashes which gave them distinction and vivacity. Long lashes may be a beauty in themselves, but they conceal rather than reveal the eyes behind them. Mary had brown hair, and plenty of it, simply arranged; her mouth was wide and amply provided with white, even teeth; her nose was certainly tip-tilted. Altogether a young woman at whom most men would look with pleasure.

As she stood in the garden, the May sun falling full upon her, every line of face and figure suggested Spring: Spring in Arcady, fresh, joyous, radiant. Mark was artist enough to perceive the delicious half-tones, the tender shades beneath the round chin and about the finely modelled cheeks. If Pynsent saw her, he would be mad to paint her, there, in the crisp sunlight, amongst the honeysuckle, with the pines "ever sighing, ever singing" behind her.

Suddenly, a thin, querulous note seemed to pierce the silence of the garden.

"Mary—Mary!"

"Mother wants me. Good-bye, Mr. Samphire."

Mark held out his hand.

"Good-bye—till to-morrow."

He turned and moved down the path. Again that thin, querulous note pierced the silence. Mary, Mary! an appeal from age to youth, ay, and a protest, a far-reaching protest, of pain against pleasure. Mark pictured the invalid mother, bedridden, possibly, dependent upon the ministrations of others, calling out of the dismal seclusion of her chamber to the young, healthy creature in the garden. He mounted his bicycle, wondering whether Mary had grown accustomed to that heart-piercing note, speculating vaguely in regard to its meaning for her and for others.

Within a week the shelter was built. Stout posts upheld a roof of tongue-and-groove boards spread with a rough thatch; the floor was boarded also and covered with sailcloth, which could be washed and scrubbed like the deck of a ship. Two walls were also boarded. These were lined with shelves, which contained a miscellaneous collection of some four hundred books. The south and west sides of the shelter were open to the wind and sun, but could be closed, if necessary, by sailcloth curtains. A large table stood in the centre; a bed, serving as a sofa in daytime, occupied one corner; in another were an exerciser, a punching-ball, and some light clubs and dumbbells; chairs, a typewriter, a small stove, and a huge chest completed the furnishings.

When it was finished Pynsent and Jim Corrance were invited to inspect and criticise. Pynsent brought with him a couple of mezari, those quaint, decorative shawls worn by the women of Genoa, and draped them cleverly; Corrance brought an Indian rug. Both men were charmed with the cottage, the garden, the grove, and the view. Pynsent, as Mark had foreseen, wanted to paint Mary Dew, but every hour of the weeks between June and August was engaged. "You're a tremendous worker," said Jim.

"So are you, Corrance. A man must work nowadays, if he means to keep his place in the procession. The competition is frightful all along the line. I shall paint Mary Dew in the autumn. What do you call her, Mark?"

"Honey. Honey Dew. Do you see? A poor pun, but my own. She's sweet as honey and fresh as dew, but her mother is a terrible person."

He described an interview with Mrs. Dew.

"Mary told me that her mother wished to see me. I found her in her own sitting-room, the prettiest and most comfortable room in the cottage. Everything deliciously fresh—chintzes, flowers, paper on the wall, matting—and in the middle Mrs. Dew: faded, peevish, puckered, old beyond her years. Picture to yourselves a puffy, yellow face with dim, shifty eyes peering out restlessly between red, swollen lids, a face framed by mouse-coloured hair and surmounting a great, shapeless body clad in black alpaca."

"Good! I see her," said Pynsent.

"I was prepared to sympathise. She has some ailment, poor creature, a chronic dyspepsia and a grievance as chronic against destiny. One could pity her if she said and ate less. Her daughter admits that she would be a different woman if she kept on the muzzle. She calls herself a lady, and told me that she married beneath her. Dew, I fancy, was a petty tradesman. He left his widow this small property and a tiny income. Mary has a tremendous struggle to make ends meet means. She's one in ten thousand."

"Um!" said Pynsent. "Don't fall in love with your Honey Dew!"

"Don't talk rot, Pynsent!" Mark replied sharply. Jim Corrance frowned at the painter, who realised at once that he had said something mal-à-propos.

"I shall cut a lettuce for you fellows," said Mark.

As he left the shelter, Jim turned to Pynsent.

"You put your hoof into it," he growled.

"I did," said Pynsent.

"I say—is Mark going to take a front seat?"

"I don't know."

Mark came back carrying a bottle of Sauterne and a noble Romaine, which he handed to Pynsent, who was famous for his salads. Mary entered a minute later with a well-basted chicken and a great dish of peas. The trio fell to their luncheon with appetite. Mary added a tart, some excellent cheese, and the best of coffee.

"I've enjoyed myself immensely," said Pynsent. "You're in Arcady, Mark. You ought to write an idyll here: Aucassin and Nicolete—hey?"

They moved up into the pine grove, talking about books and art. Jim Corrance listened, smoking his big cigar. Pynsent, who smoked Caporal cigarettes which he rolled himself, spoke volubly in a sharp New England twang:

"People prate about giving the world what the world wants. An artist gives what's in him to give. I say that nothing else is possible, whether the world likes it or whether it doesn't. And, luckily, the world that buys pictures and books is catholic in its tastes. All the same, just at present there is a big demand for stuff which is signed. You know what I mean. The crowd clamours for individuality. I was standing in front of a picture of mine at the Academy last year, and a cleverish-looking girl said: 'That's a Pynsent. I like his work because I always know it, not because I understand it.' I nearly asked her to shake hands. It's the same with books. There's an immense quantity of well-written, interesting novels published every year, but you'll find that the few which sell are stamped on every page with the author's name. The brand does it, first and last."

"I only read books that amuse me," said Jim.

"You're a man. Men read books sometimes, but women buy them. Let's hope that Mark's stuff will please the women. Then he will arrive."

While they were talking, a young man passed through the gate and up the garden to the cottage door.

"Hullo! Who's this?" said Pynsent.

Mary answered the question by coming out of the house in a becoming frock and hat and joining the young man. Together they strolled down the path. The three men stared at each other. It had not occurred to any of them that Mary might have a young man. And this particular one seemed to be the typical young man, always seen of a Sunday arm-in-arm with a pretty girl: commonplace, smug, self-assured. While they looked Mrs. Dew's thin querulous voice filtered through the sunlit space of the garden—

"Mary, Mary—don't be away too long!"

Mary's fresh voice came from behind the palings—

"Of course not, mother. I shall be back to make your tea at four."

"Our Jill has her Jack," said Pynsent. "That was a becoming hat."

"She made it herself," Mark observed.

"Then she likes her Jack. Such a girl would not prink to please a man to whom she was indifferent."

Jim Corrance thrust out his big jaw. "Mary may have made that hat to please herself. If I'd her face, by gad, I'd make just such a hat and enjoy myself with a looking-glass."

"So would I," said Mark.

Pynsent and Jim returned to town before dinner. They promised to come again, and often, but Mark guessed that such promises were written in ink, blue and variable as a May sky. He expected to be much alone, and during the months that followed was not disappointed. From his friends at the Mission he held aloof. He knew they would ask questions, deeming it a duty to argue and reprove.

Mark had written the truth to David Ross after the night on Ben Caryll. In reply, David wisely made no protest against Mark's determination to leave the Church. That he would speak in due time Mark was uncomfortably aware, and he learned—not without a feeling of relief—that his old chief was the busiest man in Poplar.

May passed quickly, devoid of incident and accident. Towards the end of it, however, Mark, reading his morning paper, was horrified to learn that Bagshot, the man he had tried to reclaim, had murdered his wife in a drunken fit. He hastened to London, saw the prisoner—an abject, cowering wreck of what he had been—and listened to his dreadful story. The poor fellow had struggled hard against the craving for drink, yet in the end he had slain the woman he loved. It was heartrending—the triumph of evil over good.

After seeing Bagshot, Mark reread that battered memorandum-book which he had carried through terrible slums. Once more, the appeal of the friendless and helpless stirred him profoundly. Very stealthily, like "humble Allen," he began to revisit some of his waifs; most of them had disappeared; others as wretched and forlorn occupied their place. But his ministrations—necessarily ill-sustained and intermittent—appeared ineffectual. The joyous confidence of former days had departed. The squalor seemed invincible, the forces against which he contended so vast and ungovernable that sense and sensibility revolted. Only faith could remove such mountains, and faith had forsaken Mark Samphire. None the less, he persevered.

About the end of June Archibald and his wife came back from France and settled down in Cadogan Place. Archibald asked Mark to meet them in a long letter, full of a description of Chenonçeau. At the end was a postscript in Betty's handwriting: "Please come." Mark obeyed—a prey to feelings which cannot be set down. For six weeks he had seen Betty's face looking out of the window of the train, white, piteous, despairing. But when they met he was amazed to find her rosy and smiling, full of plans, in high health and spirits. Then he remembered that his own health was excellent. Archibald made him welcome, entreated his advice about the arrangement of books and engravings, begged him to hang his hat on his own peg, and alluded only vaguely to the red tie.

"You will come back to us," he said confidently.

Betty held his hand tight at parting. "Don't slip out of our lives!" she whispered.

Mark had a glimpse of the face seen from the train, and hardly knew to what he was pledging himself when he stammered: "N-n-no, n-n-no—c-c-certainly not."

After this first meeting it became easy to drop in to luncheon or tea. The novel was under revision, and several passages describing certain streets and localities had to be rewritten. Mark had the artist's passion for truth, carried possibly to excess. One of his characters was a shopgirl who worked in Edgware Road. Mark spent three days in Edgware Road, notebook in hand, greedily absorbing the light and colour of the great thoroughfare. But he made a point of returning to Weybridge each night and slept, whenever it was fine, in the grove, lulled to sleep by the pines.

Curiosity took him to St. Anne's in Sloane Street, when Archibald preached his first sermon. It was crowded with a fashionable congregation, some of whom came to hear the music—as fine as could be found in London outside the cathedrals; others, no doubt, were attracted by a new and eloquent preacher; the rest attended divine service in their parish church, and would have been in their places, cheered and sustained by the reflection that they were doing their duty, if the rector had had no palate to his mouth and the choir had been composed of village boys squalling free of charge to the accompaniment of a harmonium. Mark sat in the gallery, whence he could see Betty occupying a pew not far from the pulpit. He wondered what sort of sermon Archibald would preach. And he wondered also how it would affect Betty. Meantime, he examined the congregation. All these fine folk were possessed of substantial incomes. The struggle for daily bread was an experience unknown to them. The men seemed to be fathers of families for the most part, portly squires of ripe, rosy countenances, many-acred, and duly sensible of the position and station in life to which it had pleased God to call them. They put gold into the offertory bag, and could be counted upon to subscribe handsomely to parochial charities. In striking contrast were the brothers and lovers of the beautifully gowned women beside them. All, to a man, were frock-coated, patent-leather-booted, exquisitely cravatted—gilded youths, indifferent to music or sermon, worshippers in form only, because "it pleases the mater, you know," or "Dolly expects it," or "I must make myself solid with Aunt Sarah." Mark noted their well-cut, impassive features, their resigned air, and their contemptuous negligence of the responses. The women, on the other hand, displayed a certain ardour of devotion tempered by a lively interest in their neighbours' clothes. A few prayed long and fervently, giving themselves up to the emotions inspired by the lovely music and splendid ritual; the many were intermittent in their attention. It was plain that a girl just below Mark, who sang delightfully, was distracted from thoughts of heaven by the difficulty of determining whether the cape of a friend across the aisle was trimmed with sable or mere mink. But what struck Mark more forcibly than anything else was an expression common to all the faces when in repose. While the lessons were being read, men and women alike suffered their features to relax into a normal look of discontent. Mouths dropped; heavy lids veiled tired eyes; dismal lines appeared upon fair faces.

When Archibald ascended the pulpit, a thrill vibrated through his congregation. Mark perceived at a glance that the Rector of St. Anne's had secured the goodwill and enthusiasm of the women. They stared at his fine head, their eyes suffused and shining, their lips slightly parted, a-quiver with anticipation.

"Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like his."

After a moment's pause, Archibald repeated the text with a different inflection. Then, leaning forward, speaking without notes, he began his sermon. Mark noted certain mannerisms common to many preachers. Archibald hoped that his brothers and sisters in Christ would bear with him while he laid before them a few thoughts. The thoughts appealed emotionally to a congregation who had consecrated their energies and potentialities to the art of living. To such, death, especially a painful death, is horror. The preacher pictured the last hours of the righteous man, the faithful servant, conscious that his task has been accomplished in this world, and that in the next a place is awaiting him, where, under freer, fuller conditions, he may still carry on the Master's work. Then, changing his tone, Archibald portrayed the death-bed of the evil-liver—hopeless, faithless, God-forsaken!

The sermon made an impression. As the congregation streamed out of church into the sunshine, Mark caught words, phrases, ejaculations which showed plainly that the new rector had at least satisfied expectation. But Mark told himself the fringe of a great subject had been touched—and no more. Archibald's manner almost suggested the detestable adjective—melodramatic. His power was that of an actor rather than an evangelist. Above and beyond Mark's recognition of this was the certainty that Betty recognised it also, albeit, possibly, not so clearly. Mark had kept his eyes on Betty's face. More than once some subtile inflection of the preacher's voice had thrilled her; but towards the end of the sermon her attention and interest had waned. Instinctively Mark groped his way to the conclusion that if Archibald had gained his wife's love and esteem by the use of another's brain, he might find it difficult to hold by the strength of his own.

CHAPTER XXVII

IN GRUB STREET

Mark's short story had been duly printed and published in Conquest's magazine. About the time of its appearance (midsummer) Mark called on Conquest, and the acquaintance then made ripened into a sort of intimacy. Conquest, quick to perceive that Mark had "stuff" in him, and learning that Mark was writing a novel, expressed a wish to read it in typescript.

"I advised you, you remember, to write a novel and burn it."

"I have done so," said Mark quietly.

A big, burly man, with a rugged, leonine head, Conquest liked to be told he resembled Landor. With this robust physique went a singularly feminine apprehension and appreciation of details. The enormous amount of work he could accomplish, his grasp of technicalities, his knowledge, amounting to intuition, of what the public wanted, his power of attracting and dominating young men of talent, and, above all, his encyclopædic memory, made him invaluable to the firm who employed him.

Mark submitted his novel. Conquest read it, and sent for the author. Mark found him in the editorial chair, surrounded by books, papers, manuscripts, press-clippings innumerable—a chaos out of which the master alone could evoke order. In the room beyond, two type-writing machines were clicking savagely. Here Conquest's "sub," a secretary, and half a dozen myrmidons were hard at work. The "sub" and his assistants looked pale and thin; Conquest alone seemed to thrive and expand in an atmosphere impregnated with the odour of tobacco-smoke, damp paper, and printers' ink.

"Sit down! And listen to the words of the ancient! This is the place where I do the talking. When I stop, you must go. Shall the Strong retain the Spoil? is d——d good and—don't look so pleased!—d——d bad. There's hope for you. We'll publish if you like to pay half the printer's bill. Mind you, the book has but a ghost's chance of catching on; but I don't want it altered. You'd cut out the best stuff and leave the trash. I red-pencilled your short story, but I can't afford the time to prune this—and you wouldn't like it. Leave it here, and I'll send you our regular agreement to look over and sign. You are under no obligations, remember, to publish with us. Good morning. Dine with me next Tuesday. Eight sharp!"

Mark found himself walking down a steep flight of stairs, and heard Conquest's strident tones echoing after him. He could not remember that he had accepted the offer made to him, but he was sure that Conquest took such acceptance for granted.

When Tuesday came, he told Conquest that he had read and was willing to sign the agreement which had been sent him. Conquest nodded in an off-hand manner, and did not allude to the subject again. But he pressed upon Mark the expediency of joining "The Scribblers," a club newly organised, and likely to become a power. Mark consented, pleased and flattered that a celebrity should exhibit such interest in him. He was put up and elected the same week. Conquest introduced him to half a dozen members, most of whom took an early opportunity of congratulating Mark upon his friendship with the great man.

"He's a wonder," said a popular author, "but, mind you, he works for Wisden and Evercreech, and he'll squeeze you like an orange, if you give him the chance."

The others winked at each other, but said nothing. Tommy Greatorex, a small, pale man, with very bright dark eyes which redeemed his face from insignificance, began to talk loudly. Mark had watched him gnawing nervously at his nails when Conquest's name was mentioned.

"Oh—these editors!" he exclaimed, shaking his fist. "Wouldn't I like to tell some of 'em what I think of 'em! Yes; there are exceptions—thank the Lord!—but Samphire will soon find out that most of 'em are pinchers. Six men in this room sling ink for a living. Is there one who can stand up and swear that he's not been squeezed?" Not a man moved. "You see—they sit tight. In this trade of ours the worker is not paid for his work when it's done. He has to wait for his pennies, poor devil, although he may be starving. And often he isn't paid at all. A paper goes to pot, or the special article he has been asked—asked, mind you—to write is pigeon-holed and doesn't appear, or there is a change of management. Any recourse? Why, man, if you send one of 'em a lawyer's letter, you may get your cheque by return of post, but never a line will you write for my gentleman again. Never more, as the raven said! One can't afford to quarrel with 'em. And don't they know it—don't they know it, as they blandly turn the screw? Now, in America, with the big magazines, it's different. You submit your stuff, and if it's available a cheque comes along with the acceptance, and a good cheque too. Over here, a few writers, of course, dictate terms, but the many take what they get with a humble if not a grateful heart. If you've private means of your own, you're all right, but if you have any idea of supporting yourself with the pen—why, God help you!—for the editors won't."

"Cool yourself with a whisky and soda," said the popular author, touching the electric bell. "Our profession," he looked at Mark, "is like all others, overcrowded, and editors and publishers carry on their business along business lines. I'll admit that most authors are not fit to deal with them in a business way. They don't like to haggle, and they don't know how to haggle. Personally, I employ an agent."

"That's all right for you," Tommy retorted, "but an agent's not much use unless there's an established market for one's wares. What's this book of yours about, Samphire?"

"The East End," said Mark.

"Um—the slums treated humorously?"

"I've tried to stick to the facts."

"And you expect to sell 'em as fiction? Oh—you optimist!"

"A play's the thing," observed another scribbler. "Write plays."

"Any fool can write a play," said the little man, very scornfully. "I—mot qui sous parle—have written plays, but it takes a diplomatist to get them read and a genius to get them accepted."

Mark returned to Weybridge rather despondent.

Immediately afterwards he received his first instalment of proofs from Wisden and Evercreech. Correcting these proved a painful pleasure. Conquest's judgment coloured and discoloured every sheet. What was good—what was bad? For his life Mark was unable to criticise his own work. Some of the bits he had liked when he wrote them now seemed crude and trite. His dialogue, he decided, was fair, but the narrative lacked distinction. Before beginning another novel, he would study the best models in French and English. Meantime he would turn out a story or two. These were written, despatched to Conquest—and returned with a printed slip politely setting forth the editor's regret that they were unavailable. When he met Conquest some ten days later, the great man vouchsafed a few words.

"Sorry to return your stuff. We shall publish the book in October. Have you thought of a subject for another? You seem to have gripped conditions in the East End. How about a novel in rather lighter vein dealing with the adventures and misadventures of a millionaire who has turned philanthropist and wants to spend his pile in Stepney? Or—happy thought!—make your millionaire a millionairess—a good-looking spinster paddling her canoe through the slums. That would be capital. What do you say?"

"I'll think about it," said Mark hesitatingly. "I'm awfully obliged to you, Conquest."

"That's all right. By the way, I can use an article on your brother, two thousand words. Make it very personal, and secure good photographs of him and his church."

"But he mightn't like it, you know."

Conquest roared. "I say—that's immense—immense! Not like it? A popular preacher! Ha—ha—ha! Why, it's incense to 'em, man alive. Ask him, at any rate. If he doesn't jump, call me fool. Can you see him at once?"

"If you wish it."

Somehow, to Mark's disgust, Archibald did jump. The article appeared in a Church paper and led to an incident of much greater importance. Conquest wired to Mark to come up to town on business. Mark was given a capital luncheon at Dieudonne's restaurant, but not till the coffee was served did Conquest speak of the matter in hand.

"I suppose you know," he said carelessly, but keeping his eyes on Mark's, "that I pull many strings. Now this is between ourselves, in—the—strictest—confidence. I want to pump you. Bless you, it always pays to be frank. How do I stand with your brother? Does he like me?"

"I'm sure he does," said Mark warmly. At Conquest's desire he had introduced him to Archibald. Conquest had dined in Cadogan Place.

"I can help him—materially. Of course there's something in it for me, but there's more in it for him, and I thought that you might be willing to act as a go-between. Have you noticed a big Basilica which Lord Vauxhall is building in that part of Chelsea where his new houses are? You have? A fine thing—hey? Oh, you don't admire the Byzantine style. Well, that church is the biggest advertisement in London. Shush-h-h! I don't want to be misunderstood. Vauxhall, who is a friend of mine, understands the value of churches. And he's a Churchman, too. He felt it to be his duty to build that church, and I say, not he, that it's a thundering big 'ad' for the neighbourhood. Now Vauxhall is immensely struck by your brother's eloquence. Vauxhall always wants the best of everything, and he pays for it, cash on the nail. He would like to offer the Basilica and fifteen hundred a year to your brother. Now the cat's out of the bag. What d'you think of her?"

Mark flushed. Conquest was his host.

"I think she's mangy."

"Good," said Conquest, in no way perturbed. "I wanted an honest opinion."

"As I understand this," said Mark, "Lord Vauxhall offers my brother a bribe to boom his new neighbourhood."

Conquest shrugged his mighty shoulders.

"You are a young man," he said drily. "Beware of hasty judgments. It's my experience that motives are generally mixed. Vauxhall has built and endowed a magnificent church. He offers it to your brother, or rather he empowers me to offer it, if there is a likelihood of the offer being accepted. Perhaps I had better speak to your brother myself."

"I should prefer that," said Mark.

When he saw Archibald, some days later, he was quite sure, from his knowledge of Conquest, that the matter had been broached, but Archibald said nothing to him about it. Betty, however, talked as if no change was impending, so Mark inferred that she was either without her husband's confidence or that Lord Vauxhall's offer had been refused. Betty was full of plans connected with the parish, and busy organising a large charity concert. Jim Corrance told Mark that he (Jim) had misread Betty's character and temperament.

"She's happy with her husband," he declared. "He has a way with him—women can't resist parsons when they're good and good-looking. One must concede that Archie is both."

Mark said nothing. He was quite unable to determine whether Betty had found happiness or not. Sometimes, when alone with husband and wife, he marked an irritability not without significance. Archibald had acquired, since he came to London, a certain air and deportment common to many successful men. Betty chaffed him, called him "Sir Oracle," and when he protested against these quips, she would frown and bite her lip. Archibald was very particular about the antecedents of the people invited to his house. Some of Betty's acquaintances were banned. Lady Randolph had a word to say on this.

"Archie is quite right, my dear. He's not going to imperil his preferment by hobnobbing with such frisky folk. It pays to be exclusive. Look at those Bertheim women! They were—well, we know what they were; but when they married rich men, they refused to entertain any matron who was not immaculate. Now, to be seen at their houses is a patent of virtue!"

"Archie," said Betty, "is governed by the highest motives; still, I should like to see this house open to a few nice sinners: painters, writers, musicians; but Archie says they are all freethinkers or Laodiceans. It is a great grief to him that Mark gave up his Orders. He offered to take him as secretary."

Lady Randolph stared. There were times when she felt that Betty was an unknown quantity.

"You allowed him to make that offer?"

Betty turned aside her eyes. "I did not know that it was made. Of course Mark refused—would have done so in any case. I mention it to show you what manner of man Archie is. I don't think you do him justice. You spoke just now as if he were a time-server. His whole life is devoted to others."

"Does he—know?" said Lady Randolph, alluding to what had passed at Birr Wood.

"Why should I tell him?"

"Why, indeed, my dear?"

"It would distress him infinitely. And it might lead to a breach between the brothers. Mark comes here. He has changed greatly. I don't think that anything interests him very much except his literary work."

"He looks a different man," said Lady Randolph absently.

"If it had not been for that breakdown in those horrible slums, if——" Betty bit her lip. Lady Randolph pretended that she had noticed nothing unusual, but when she said good-bye she kissed Betty twice and whispered: "If I were you I should not encourage Mark to come here."

"Encourage him?"

"If he needs no encouragement—so much the worse."

Betty laughed nervously. Mark's companionship was a pleasure she would not forego. She was interested in his book; she liked to hear his talk, his gossip of Grub Street; his descriptions of the Dews, mother and daughter; his adventures in search of material. Behind this lay the comfortable assurance that she had adjusted a difficult situation. She had lost the lover of her youth, but she had gained a good husband, a brother, and a friend. So she told herself that she was rich, repeating the phrase, till she came to believe it true. One day she said to Mark, "I suppose you would call me a rich woman, using the adjective in its widest sense."

"We are all rich—and poor," Mark replied evasively. "What rich man is not poor in some respect; what poor man is not rich in another? This is an age of classification. We go about sticking labels on to our friends and ourselves. If you honestly think yourself rich, you are so."

Sometimes he wondered if she could measure the violence of feeling which had driven him from the Church. She never spoke of his change of cloth; still she eyed his red tie askance. Archibald had said something when he came back from his honeymoon.

"At King's Charteris you could keep a curate. The pater said that he had spoken to you. And it's the family living."

"I'll say to you what I didn't like to say to the pater: 'Drop it.'"

"Certainly," Archibald replied. "But it's a pity your powers of organisation should be wasted." Then he made the offer which had provoked astonishment in Lady Randolph. It astonished Mark also, revealing as it did his brother's lack of insight where he (Mark) was concerned.

"You could help me enormously," Archibald concluded.

"I am going to help myself," said Mark.

Just before the novel was published, Archibald let fall a hint that Conquest had spoken to him. Betty happened to be present, but Archibald addressed himself to Mark.

"Have you ever met Lord Vauxhall?"

"No."

"A very charming man—and a Christian. He dines here next week. I should like you to meet him. By the way, he's a friend of Conquest."

"Ah!" said Mark.

"I like Conquest immensely," said Archibald suavely. "He has the larger vision."

"Betty—do you like Conquest?" said Mark abruptly.

She answered promptly: "No."

"Why not?" her husband inquired.

"He's an Octopus man, with his tentacles waving in every direction. And his mind is like a big room handsomely furnished, but without a fireplace in it. Certainly—he's been sweet as Hybla honey to me, and I ought to like him, but I don't."

CHAPTER XXVIII

A SUNDAY IN CADOGAN PLACE

In late October, when pages fall as thickly from printing-presses as leaves do from trees, Shall the Strong retain the Spoil? appeared. During the preceding Spring many of the best publishers had withheld books which were now offered to the public. Conquest predicted a glutted market, and no sales for wares bearing obscure brands. Mark, he said, might compass a succès d'estime—nothing more. He added that the time had come to pull strings, if strings were to be pulled.

"I don't quite understand," said Mark.

"Get so-and-so," he named a popular author, "to enlighten you. Look here, Samphire, you're a man of good family, your people know numbers of swells, that brother of yours is hand in glove with some bigwigs. Stir 'em up with a long pole. I don't suppose you care to fork out for such advertising as our friend I mentioned uses. Paragraphs and all that."

"He pays for paragraphs?"

"Directly and indirectly—you innocent! I see you are disgusted. That's all right. I mentioned the matter, because I could steer you a bit, if you wished to spend say—fifty pounds. We shall advertise the book, of course, in the regular way. It's the irregular way, my boy, which brings in the dollars."

"The book must sell on its merits," said Mark.

"As you please," said Conquest.

Shortly afterwards, the first notices were sent to him by the Press Clipping Agency to which he had become a subscriber. Mark was told that his work showed extraordinary promise, that he would take high rank, when he had found himself, that he was a master of dialogue and dialect, the author of a powerful and convincing study of conditions which challenged the attention of every thinking man and woman, and so on and so forth. He rushed up to town, showed the clippings to Betty, who seemed to be more excited and pleased than he was himself, went on to Wisden and Evercreech, and thence to his club, where he found Tommy Greatorex, whiter and more nervous than usual, sitting alone by the fire in the library. To him the clippings were presently submitted with an apology. Tommy took them with an ironical smile.

"They're always kind to a new man if he shows any ability." He glanced at the clippings, flipping them with his lean delicately shaped fingers. "You are subtle, I see, and daring, and brilliant—and strong! By Jove, Samphire, I'll bet a new umbrella, which I want badly, that you didn't know you were such a ring-tailed squealer—hey? Don't blush, my dear fellow. Wait till your stuff sells, and then read what they'll say about it. Ha—ha! Listen to this! One of 'em says: 'Mr. Samphire is evidently at home in some of the sordid scenes which he describes with such power and pathos; we take it that he has spent many years in the slums.' So far—so good. It's more than likely that the fellow who wrote that is a member of this club and in the know. Here's another, next to it, egad! 'This story reveals imaginative powers of a high order, for it is plain that the author has never set foot in Stepney....' Ha—ha—ha! Now sit down, stand me a drink, and tell me how many copies have been sold."

"A hundred copies were sold the day before yesterday," said Mark.

"Now, that's a little bit of all right, and no mistake. I'm delighted to hear it. I congratulate you—con fuoco! That means business. One—hundred—copies in one day! Whew-w-w! Hang it, why don't you rejoice?"

"Because," said Mark, "I found out that the hundred copies were bought by one man for one man. A friend of mine on the Stock Exchange took the lot. The book is not selling."

"Sorry," said Tommy quietly. "I've read it. I've reviewed it. This," he tapped one of the clippings which he still held in his hand, "is mine. I got for it a few shillings, already spent, and the book which I shall keep, because it is written by a good fellow. It's not what's in the book which appeals to me, but what's in the writer, and which will come out—some day."

"Thank you," said Mark.

He returned to luncheon at Cadogan Place, humbled, and therefore, in a woman's eyes, meet for sympathy and encouragement.

"In any case," said Betty, "you have had the delight of writing the book. And it is strong and subtle; but, Mark, few people are interested in slums. Your book made me cry, and I want to laugh. Life is so sad, why make it sadder?"

Mark had listened to interminable arguments upon this vexed question. But in Betty's tone and manner he caught a glimpse of a spectre.

"Your life is not sad," he said.

"I'm one of the lucky ones," she replied hastily "We were speaking of your book."

"Hang the book," said Mark impatiently "What is that to me in comparison with——" He stopped abruptly, got up from his chair, paced the length of the room, and came back.

"You are happy—are you not?" he asked. They were alone in the drawing-room, filled with the pictures and china which had come out of the saloon at The Whim. Archibald was presiding over one of his innumerable committees. Looking at Betty as she sat amongst things familiar to Mark from childhood, it was difficult to believe that she was a married woman. She still retained a bloom of maidenhood, a daintiness and freshness. Her face suggested the nymph rather than the matron.

"Of course I am happy," she replied; then she added in a whisper: "Mark, I ought to be happy, but I am a rebel."

"All women are rebels, Betty. Against what in particular do you rebel?"

"I oughtn't to tell you, but—but I must. I suppose I am the many-sided woman, who ought to have half a dozen husbands. I am interested in so many things. I like to browse here and there. But Archie doesn't care about anything or anybody outside his own vineyard. He is going up and up and I am—falling! Oh, I'm disloyal, but I must speak. It comes to this: Archie loves me and of course I love him, but we—we have nothing to say to each other when we're alone."

She sat, twisting her fingers, staring forlornly at the carpet. Mark burst into speech. At the sound of his voice, still so youthful in quality, she raised her head, smiling, eager, intent.

"Why, Betty, we all get blue at times, and sigh for what we've not got. There are women, no doubt, who are fatly content with their lives, but I don't suppose they go up or down. One pictures them in one spot, doing the same stupid thing, saying the same stupid thing for ever and ever. I think you're in a healthy state. When we feel that we are going down, we begin to beat our wings and flap upwards. Some saints, possibly, might be justified in taking a rest-cure; they are the ones who never do it."

He rose to go, not daring to stay.

"When are you coming again, Mark? You always do me good. Can't you spend next Sunday with us? By the way, have you ever been to our church?"

"Yes; the first Sunday Archibald preached."

"Oh! The sermon about Balaam."

"Yes."

"You know, he says that he's uneven. But the women in this parish think him wonderful. Some of them, who sit near the pulpit, make a point of crying whenever he gives them a chance. One told me that when he pronounced the Benediction she felt purged of all sin! I could have bitten her."

Mark promised to spend the following Sunday in Cadogan Place, and duly accompanied Betty to morning service. For nearly thirty minutes Archibald preached to a crowded congregation, who listened intently to a conventional theme, treated conventionally. Coming out Mark heard a tall, thin man, with a striking face, whisper to the woman beside him: "I came for bread; he gave us pap—in a golden spoon."

"Did you hear that?" said Betty, a moment later.

"Yes."

Some friends greeted Betty, and no more was said till luncheon, to which the Chrysostom of Sloane Street applied himself, as usual, seriously and silently. He looked slightly puffy and his eyes were losing their clearness and sparkle. Mark asked abruptly if he were overworked.

"Every minute is filled," said Archibald heavily. "Overworked? I can stand a lot of work."

"He would be miserable without it—and bored," said Betty. "He won't even come to concerts with me now."

"It's the work that tells, nowadays, my dear. Preaching gives a man a start, but it's the steady strain of parochial organisation which brings one to the top of the hill."

"You are neglecting your sermons," said Betty. "For several Sundays they have struck me as being—how shall I put it—uninspired. They hold one's attention, yes, but they do not grip; they touch, but they do not penetrate."

Archibald nodded, frowning and crumbling the bread beside his plate.

"The Duchess," he said, "stopped me this morning after church to tell me that she liked the treatment of my text immensely."

"Oh—the Duchess!" exclaimed Betty.

"I've so much on my mind," said Archibald, turning to Mark. He rose, looking at his watch. "I must go now to hear a man sing in Upper Tooting. The cigars are in my room."

He went out. As the door shut behind him, Betty turned a contrite face to Mark's.

"I hit him when he was down. What a beast I am!"

At that moment it became a conviction to Mark that Betty loved an ideal husband, who would fall from the pinnacle on which she had perched him. A feeling of pleasure at this impending catastrophe almost turned him sick. Then, very slowly, he resolved that the powers within him should be devoted to the preservation of an ideal, so vital to the welfare of the woman he loved. Betty began to speak of his literary work.

"When I read your book," she said, "I had an intuition that one day you would write a play."

Mark quoted Tommy Greatorex. "That's an easy job."

"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."