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.