Part 9

"We should sit here for forty years! Our world says you ought to marry Harry, and our world is always more than half right. Harry has entertained you with a vast deal of talk about himself, and perhaps you think you know him. Ah! you nod your head with all the cocksureness of ignorance! You spoke of his giving up his hounds--for your sake, because you might find Kirtling a far cry from Bond Street. Oh, the conceit of the modern girl! My dear, Harry knew well enough that if you became his wife, no such sacrifice would be demanded. The hounds would remain at Kirtling--and so would you. If you were beautiful as Helen of Troy, and fascinating as Cleopatra, you could not root out that passion for hunting his own hounds. It is a master passion--and always will be so long as he can sit in the saddle. And in your heart of hearts you respect and like Harry the more because he does that one thing really well."

"I am sure you are right," said Betty humbly.

"Well, my dear, what hunting the fox is to Harry, so is the hunting of vice, and ignorance, and dirt to Mark Samphire. The masculine ardour of the chase possesses both, and each will hunt the country he knows best."

Betty's silence provoked her friend to say more. "You are in for a fight, child." She took Betty's hand, which seemed cold, and pressed it gently. "On your own confession you are unfit to be the wife of the man you love, and who loves you; and so--pray don't ask me for congratulations."

"You did not marry for love," cried Betty. Then she paused, ashamed. "Forgive me!"

"It is true." Lady Randolph turned a grim face to the girl, and her voice was harsh. "I did not marry for love. Shall we say that I lacked courage, or did I see clearer than you mountainous differences of temperament, taste, and opinion, which my love was not strong enough to scale? Was I a coward because I turned back? I do not say Yes or No. The man I loved had the brains, but not the body of a conqueror. Do you think that I was right or wrong because I refused to add burdens to a back already bowed?"

She spoke with such vehemence that Betty was frightened.

"I d-d-do not know," she stammered.

"_I_ do not know," repeated the other fiercely. "When these mysteries between our lower and higher natures are revealed, I _shall_ know, and not till then--not--till--then!"

Her lips closed violently, as if speech were alarmed into silence.

*CHAPTER XIII*

*BAGSHOT ON THE RAMPAGE*

Alone in his room at the Mission, Mark read over the sermon he had written upon Westchester Cathedral. Then he stared at the bare boards, the whitewashed walls, the narrow camp bedstead, the Windsor chairs: things eloquent of a renunciation which he had found sweet a week ago. Here he had been well content to live, here he had known that he might die. And now in these same familiar surroundings he felt another man; the tides of another life ran breast high to meet the quiet waters. Was it always so, he wondered? Did love, such love as he felt for Elizabeth Kirtling, such love as she felt for him, exact sacrifice? Must it be purged and purified in the flame of renunciation? And the answer came at once--Yes. Perhaps the answer always does come, if we put the question fairly and frankly to the Supreme Court of Appeal. Mark never doubted, then or thereafter, that if he took Betty and left his work, it would be ill for both of them. This conviction was buttressed by a half-score of proofs, trivial indeed in themselves, yet in their sum confirmation strong. Beneath his hand lay a memorandum-book. Mark opened it. On the first page was a list of names--drunkards all of them, many women, a few boys and girls. These poor creatures leaned upon him. Each week they brought to him such of their earnings as otherwise would be spent in drink. With each Mark had fought--and prevailed. He alone held the master key to their hearts. People who live within a mile or two of the slums may sneer at a repentance or reformation founded upon an influence merely personal, which may be withdrawn at any minute. But those labouring among the very poor and ignorant are well aware that this personal influence, this amazing power and attraction which one soul may exercise over another, is the first lever by which ignorance, and poverty, and sin may be raised to the level whence the Creator is dimly seen and apprehended through the created. Mark knew, and every fellow-worker in the Mission knew, that personal influence may, and often does, soften the hard surface upon which it shines, so that other rays may penetrate, but he knew also that if personal influence be withdrawn before that softening process is complete, induration follows. Mark read over the names in the little book, and closed it with a sigh as a knock at his door was heard. The handsome young deacon entered the room.

"Hullo!" he cried, "I am glad you're here."

"What's up?" said Mark.

"Bagshot is on the rampage."

"The miserable sinner!"

"He got his wages last night, and came round as usual to give 'em to you, but he wouldn't give 'em to me. Then he went off."

"Didn't you go with him?"

"I wish I had thought of it," said the other ruefully. "He went straight from here to the 'Three Feathers,' and stayed there till closing time."

Mark looked at his watch. His train left Waterloo in an hour. He had time to see Bagshot, although such time would probably be wasted. Bagshot was a brand snatched from the burning some six weeks before: a big, burly, blackguard of a navvy, strong as Sandow, weak as Reuben, reasonable enough when sober, a madman drunk, with a frail wife and five small children at his mercy.

"I'll go alone," said Mark, as the young fellow reached for his hat.

He hurried off, followed at a discreet distance by the deacon. The Bagshots lived not far from the Mission, in Vere Terrace, a densely populated slum. Mark tapped at the door of Number 5, opened by a tattered girl of twelve, whose fingers and face were smeared with paste.

"Where's your father, 'Liza?" said Mark.

"Dunno," replied 'Liza. "'E's drunk, wherever 'e is. Would yer like to see mother, Mr. Samphire?"

Mark followed the child into the living-room of the family. Coming straight from Birr Wood, contrast smote him with a violence he had never before experienced. The Bagshot family sat round a rickety table making matchboxes. Deducting the cost of paste (which the matchmakers supply), these bring less than fourpence a gross, and a handy child of ten or twelve can make just about that number in a day's hard work! Facing Mark, stood an old-fashioned mangle, seldom used, because it took two strong women to turn it; to the right was a chest of drawers in the last stages of infirmity, crippled by ill-usage and long service, stained and discoloured like the face of the woman who was proud to own it; to the right a small stove displayed a battered assortment of pots and pans. The window, which overlooked a court, was propped open with an empty bottle. Into the court, half filled with rubbish and garbage, the May sun was streaming, illuminating an atmosphere of squalor and unhomeliness which hung like a fetid fog between the crumbling ceiling and the rotten floor.

"'Ere's Mr. Samphire, mother," said the girl. Already her thin, nimble fingers were at work, while her eyes sparkled with excitement. In the congested districts of the East End the decencies of life go naked and unashamed. 'Liza knew that her mother would burst into virulent speech, and was not disappointed. Bill was drunk again, and violent. She bared a part of her neck and bosom, showing a hideous bruise. 'Liza stuck out a leg not much thicker than a cricket stump, and offered to pull down her stocking. Another child had an ugly lump within three inches of his temple.

"It wos quite like ole times larst night," said 'Liza, grinning. "'E giv' us all what-for--'e did."

In answer to a question concerning Mr. Bagshot's immediate whereabouts, the wife replied sullenly that she neither knew nor cared; then, remembering Mark's efforts on behalf of the family, she added curtly: "I'd keep out of 'is wy if I wos you. 'E might drop in any minnit."

"And yer've got yer best clothes on," added 'Liza curiously. "Goin' beanfeastin' I dessay, or to a weddin'--yer own, my be," she added sharply.

"Stop yer noise, 'Liza," commanded the mother, wondering vaguely why her visitor was blushing.

"We wos goin' to Chingford to-dy," said the child with the lump on his head; "and mother promised us chops and mashed pertaters--didn't yer, mother?"

"I'd like ter eat chops and mashed pertaters for ever and ever," 'Liza said. Then, meeting Mark's eyes, she added: "That 'ud suit me a sight better than a golden 'arp or a 'evingly crown."

"You shall have chops to-day," said Mark, producing a florin. "Cut along and buy them."

"Mebbee yer aunt 'll let you cook 'em," said Mrs. Bagshot significantly. 'Liza nodded her shrewd little head and vanished; but a minute later she appeared, breathless. "Father's comin'. Yer'd better tyke yer 'ook, sir."

Mark said gravely he would stay. The children were despatched to the aunt's house.

"Yer'd better go, sir," said the wife, now pallid with fear. Mark smiled confidently, shaking his head. The drunkard's heavy, uncertain step was heard in the passage; his voice, thick and raucous, called for his wife.

"A word with you, Bill," said Mark, as the man's huge body darkened the doorway. The giant stared stupidly at the only fellow-creature he respected. Then his hand went mechanically to his head and removed a greasy cap. The woman sat down and began making a matchbox. "I beg your pardon," continued Mark, holding out his hand; "I told you that I would take over your wages each week, and last night I failed you. I am very, very sorry."

His blue eyes expressed much more. The heavy, bloodshot orbs of the huge navvy sought slowly the latent spark of ridicule or contempt. He was just sober enough to understand in some inexplicable way that the tables had been turned. When he saw the parson he had prepared himself for everything except this. Very awkwardly he took Mark's hand in his own enormous paw.

"Wot yer givin' us?" he growled.

"If the money is not all gone, Bill, I'll take what is left--now."

"Will yer?" said Bill.

"Yes."

Quality confronting quantity smiled steadily, reassuringly. Quantity scowled, wriggled uneasily, and quailed. A chink of silver and copper proclaimed the moral victory.

"Only seven-and-fourpence," said Mark. "You can't go to Chingford with that."

Bill said something which need not be recorded.

"It is like this," said Mark. "I failed you, and you failed me, and your wife and your children have suffered. I can see that you have a splitting headache, and I believe the forest air would do you good. Will you take Mrs. Bagshot and the children to Epping if I pay the piper? I ought to be fined for my part in this."

Bill nodded, none too graciously, and some money was given to Mrs. Bagshot.

"I'm going out of town myself," added Mark, as he took leave of the giant, "but I know I can trust you, Bill."

Mr. Bagshot grinned sheepishly. It is possible, although not very probable, that he had an elementary sense of humour. Mark hurried away looking at his watch. Just round the corner he charged into the deacon, who offered up fervent thanks that he was unhurt. "I must run," said Mark, pushing on, "or I shall miss my train." He did run till a hansom was found in the Mile End Road. Into this he jumped, bidding the driver use all reasonable haste. None the less as Mark appeared on the platform at Waterloo the Westchester express was rolling slowly out of the station.

"Close shave that," said a quiet voice; "you might have been under the train instead of in it. Was it worth while?"

Mark sank, gasping, on to the cushions.

"Yes; it was worth while," he exclaimed, and then fainted.

When he recovered consciousness the train was running through Clapham Junction. Mark smelled brandy, and saw the impassive face of a tall, thin stranger bending over him. No other person was in the carriage.

"Keep quiet for five minutes," the stranger commanded.

Mark closed his eyes. His heart was thumping, but his brain worked smoothly. When he saw the train rolling out of the station he had been seized with an absurd conviction that he must overtake and travel by it to the great happiness awaiting him at Birr Wood. What followed was a blur, only, strangely enough, the voice of the tall, thin man was familiar. He had heard his calm, authoritative accents before; by Heaven! he had heard that voice repeating the same words: "_Keep quiet._" And they had been spoken to the accompaniment of a thumping, throbbing heart and horrible physical weakness. Who--who was the speaker? Ah...! He remembered. The long, lofty room at Burlington House, the boys in all stages of dressing and undressing, the amazement and dismay on Jim Corrance's face--these unfolded themselves like the shifting scenes of a cinematograph.

"You are Amos Barger," he murmured.

He introduced himself to the surgeon, and spoke of the examination at Burlington House.

"You were very kind," said Mark, "but it was an awful experience for a boy, because now----" He paused to reflect that the man opposite had not asked for his confidence.

"Yes--now?" repeated Barger.

"Now, the sense of perpetual imprisonment"--he brought out the grim words slowly--"would not convey such a sense of loss."

The surgeon was not sure that he agreed. Could a young man, a boy, measure his loss? Was the capacity for suffering greater in youth?

"I am thinking of one thing," Mark replied, "liberty, the darling instinct of the newly fledged to fly. When you clipped my wings, I had the feeling that I should never move again. The pain was piercing: one could never suffer just such another pang."

"Have you learned to hug your chains?"

"I do not say that. They gall me less."

"But as one grows older"--Amos Barger's face was seamed with distress--"one sees what might have been so clearly. You say I was kind; the other surgeon was and is one of the cast-iron pots. Well, I expect no credit for such kindness. In you I see reflected myself. I am of the weaklings, to whom some incomprehensible Power has said: 'Thus far shalt thou go--and no farther!' And I might have gone far had not my feet, the lowest part of me, failed. I am halting through life when every fibre of my body tells me I was intended to run."

Mark was trying to adjust words to his sympathy, when the other continued abruptly: "Don't say a word! We are poles asunder and must remain so. I am surprised that I spoke at all. You have a faculty, Mr. Samphire, of luring Truth from her well."

The two men looked at each other. Upon the one face disappointment had laid her indelible touch; upon the other glowed the light of hope and faith.

"Before we settle down to our papers"--the surgeon indicated an enormous pile of magazines and journals--"let me remind you that we spun you for the Service because you cannot run, with impunity, to catch trains--or, indeed, anything else."

He picked up a review as he spoke and opened it. Mark eyed him vacantly, reflecting that he had run to catch Betty, not the train. And he had spoken of this meeting as coincidence. Was it coincidence? His heart began to thump once more. When he spoke his voice was hoarse and quavering.

"Thank you. I suppose just now you had time to make a rough-and-ready sort of examination?" The surgeon nodded. "Is--is there anything organically wrong with my heart?"

"Um. It is organically weak--you knew as much before, but you may live to be sixty if you take care of yourself--which you won't do."

"If others were dependent on me I would take care of myself."

"Oh!" Barger frowned. "You are married--got a family--eh?"

"I have been thinking lately of--of marrying."

The surgeon's face was impassive. Mark looked out of the window at the pleasant fields of Surrey, through which the train was running swiftly and smoothly. Was Fate bearing him as swiftly and inexorably out of the paradise wherein he, poor fool, had already lived in anticipation many years?

"I infer from your silence," he said, "that if you gave a professional opinion it would be against marriage--for me?"

"I do not say that," replied the other, shrugging his shoulders; "but it will be time enough for me to give a professional opinion when you ask for one in a professional way. I'm running down to Bournemouth for a holiday, but I shall be at home next Tuesday. Come and see me. I'll look you over, and answer that question to the best of my ability."

"I'll come," said Mark.

"Afternoon or morning?" asked the surgeon, whipping out a pencil. "Book your hour!"

"Will three suit you, Mr. Barger?" The surgeon's pencil scratched upon the paper. Mark added: "I shall be punctual."

*CHAPTER XIV*

*A MORAL EXIGENCY*

Archibald met his brother at Westchester Station, and drove him towards Birr Wood as the shadows lay long and cool upon the white road. A sweet stillness hung over the ancient capital--the stillness which in springtime is eloquent of strife. Everywhere the sap was forcing its way upward; buds were swelling, leaves were bursting from their bonds. And an ethereal mildness permeated the atmosphere, suffusing in golden haze the setting sun.

"Pull up," said Mark.

"Eh?"

"I should like to read you my sermon here and now, within sight of the cathedral. We can walk across the downs afterwards, and arrive in plenty of time to dress for dinner."

"All right," Archie replied, "I'm keen enough to hear it. Was it hot in town? You look rather done."

A groom took the reins and drove off. Mark stared at the cathedral.

"It lies in a golden chalice," he said, indicating the haze which obscured the insignificant buildings of the town while lightening and revealing the splendid mass of stone, too heavy, too colourless when seen beneath grey skies.

"Good point that," said Archie, nodding his handsome head.

The brothers walked across a strip of down, and found themselves near a clump of trees. Mark pulled from his pocket a sheaf of manuscript, and read aloud.

Archie lay flat on his back. Presently he sat up, staring at the cathedral. Then he fixed his eyes on Mark's face, where they remained, fascinated, till the last word was said.

"Now," Mark commanded, "I want you to declaim a bit of it--standing. You can give it all I cannot. Do you mind?"

Archibald took the manuscript, sensible of emotions and thrills never experienced before. Dominating these was the wish to do as he was asked--to declaim a part of the sermon. He felt a desire to possess himself of it, to incorporate with it his own physical attributes.

"Let yourself go," said Mark. He watched his brother's face intently, thinking that he would exchange the brains which had composed the sermon for the body now bending over it in envy and admiration. Archie had a gift for committing verse to memory. At Harrow he often boasted that he could read through a long ode of Horace and repeat it without making a blunder.

Presently Archie stood up, his massive proportions outlined against the amber-coloured sky. Although barely thirty, he had acquired a certain dignity of deportment, an air of maturity, in curious contrast to blooming cheeks and shining eyes. This aspect is not uncommon in young clergymen who take themselves seriously. Looking at Archibald Samphire, one might predict that in a few years he would assume the solidity of a pillar of the Church. Already, in the eyes of the spinsters in and around Westchester Close, he was regarded as a staff upon which the weak might safely and gratefully lean; already, when he gave an opinion, soft eyes gazed upward suffused with moisture.

He began to declaim Mark's peroration in a slow, impressive voice, the kind of voice which seems to fill the corners of the soul with echoes at once strange and familiar. The late Mr. Gladstone possessed such a voice. Mark stared at his brother, absorbing every note and gesture. What aptitudes were his for such a part. Listening to him, the younger brother forgot that he had written the phrases which fell with sonorous significance upon the silence of the fields. He was able to judge of what he had done, as if he were hearing the sermon for the first time. Playwrights experience this bitter-sweet pleasure. Lines laboured at for many an hour, become in the mouth of a great actor or actress so changed, so sublimated by the touch of genius, as to prove unrecognisable, even as a child of peasants adopted by persons of rank may so dazzle the eyes of its mother that it appears for the moment as a stranger. And who shall interpret that same mother's feelings when she sees lavished upon her darling gifts beyond her power to bestow--gifts which serve as symbols of her loss and another's gain?

Mark Samphire listened to his brother with ears lacerated by envy; and because devils tore him he was the more determined to exorcise them, in the hope that what he did and said might hide what he felt. When Archie finished, the younger brother sprang up and seized his hand.

"From the bottom of my soul," he exclaimed, "I believe that this voice of yours will be heard not only in Westchester, but in every cathedral in England."

Archie answered, dully, "If you had my voice, Mark----"

"Ah!" gasped Mark, "if--if----" He paused, and ended quietly, "We need not speak of that."

"You could read this sermon."

"Even that is denied me. I can read the lessons or anything else save what I write myself. Oh, I have tried and tried. Always the lump comes in my throat--and I hear the laugh of that girl. You remember?"

Archie nodded, betraying his sympathy with a shudder. "It was awful," he said, "awful."

He handed the sheets of manuscript to Mark, adding, "It has helped me enormously. I will avail myself of some of your ideas."

"You will redrape my ideas with your words."

"I couldn't use yours, you know."

Mark gazed abstractedly at the cathedral; then he turned to his brother.

"Look here--I give it to you. Do what you like with it. I can't preach it myself. It's not b-b-bad."

He paused as the stammer seized him. "Not bad?" echoed Archibald. "Why it's splendid--splendid!"

"And why shouldn't I help you--my brother?" His voice softened, as he stretched out his thin hand and touched Archibald's mighty arm. "Take it!"

Archie hesitated, staring inquiringly at Mark. Mark had always been such a stickler for plain-dealing. Then he remembered what Billy had said: "Take what he gives, _generously_, and so you will best help him to play his part in life."

Mark, meantime, was reflecting that he should like to read in Betty's face the recognition of talents which he was not allowed to proclaim to the world.

"Take it," he repeated. "And, look here, I shall sit beside Betty Kirtling, and afterwards I shall tell her that I wrote it and persuaded you to preach it. No one else shall know."

Archie, unable to determine the ethics of the matter, sensible in a dull, inarticulate way that he ought to say NO, said--YES. His own sermon was inadequate; there was not time to prepare another; and he lacked the power of interpreting the message of those grey stones yonder. This and more flitted through a mind large enough but somewhat conventionally furnished.

"But what has Betty Kirtling to do with it?" he concluded heavily. "Why tell her? If this is to be between you and me, Mark--why tell her?"

Mark put up his hand to hide a smile.

"It may not be necessary to tell her," he said quietly. "She might guess." Then seeing consternation on Archie's fine brows he added: "No one else will guess, but she--well, she has intuitions."

"Is she going to marry Kirtling?"