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."