Part 18

"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 Chenonceau. At the end was a postscript in Betty's handwriting: "_Please come._" Mark obeyed--a prey to feelings which cannot be set down. For six weeks he had seen Betty's face looking out of the window of the train, white, piteous, despairing. But when they met he was amazed to find her rosy and smiling, full of plans, in high health and spirits. Then he remembered that his own health was excellent. Archibald made him welcome, entreated his advice about the arrangement of books and engravings, begged him to hang his hat on his own peg, and alluded only vaguely to the red tie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*CHAPTER XXVII*

*IN GRUB STREET*

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

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

"I have done so," said Mark quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The East End," said Mark.

"Um--the slums treated humorously?"

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

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

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

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

Mark returned to Weybridge rather despondent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"If you wish it."

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

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

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

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

Mark flushed. Conquest was his host.

"I think she's mangy."

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

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

Conquest shrugged his mighty shoulders.

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

"I should prefer that," said Mark.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You allowed him to make that offer?"

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

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

"Why should I tell him?"

"Why, indeed, my dear?"

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

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