About this time she paid a visit to Weybridge, Mark still pleading work as an excuse for not coming to Cadogan Place. Archibald awaited her report with awakened interest. Betty told her husband that Mark was certainly madly in love—with his heroine.
"And he tells me," she concluded triumphantly, "that Mary, who seems a nice modest girl, is going to marry a Mr. Batley. When The Songs of the Angels is sent off to his publisher, he will come to us."
About mid-Lent the novel was despatched to town. After a few days a letter came from McIntyre, accepting the MS. and offering better terms than Mark had expected—fifty pounds upon the day of publication and a royalty upon a sliding scale. An American publisher, Cyrus Otway, who had large dealings with McIntyre's house, happened to be in England. He offered Mark similar terms for the American rights. Mark was jubilant, but McIntyre predicted limited sales.
"It will be well received," he said. "My readers have no doubt on that point, but we do not expect it to be popular. You have an admirable style, but your subject—eh?—is sublimated: over the heads of many. And the story is sad. The public likes a happy ending. Other things being equal, the story with the happy ending sells four to one at least. Mr. Cyrus Otway would like to meet you." Mark lunched with Cyrus Otway, and was entertained handsomely.
"I'll be frank with you, Mr. Samphire," said the Boston publisher, a thin, pale, carefully dressed man, with a typical New England manner as prim and precise as a spinster's, and very bright, restless eyes. "This is an experiment on our part—a leap in the dark. Our people, sir, know a good thing when they see it. But the difficulty lies in making them see it. Have you done any dramatic work? You have not. Ah, there's a goldfield! And, if I may be allowed to say so, I think that you would strike rich ore there. You have dramatic power and a re—markable insight into character...."
Mark repeated this conversation to Betty. He was staying at Cadogan Place and in high spirits. The drudgery of hack-writing no longer impended. Already he was in a position to do the work he liked best where and when and how he pleased.
"A hundred pounds is not much," said Betty doubtfully.
"It will last me a year," said Mark.
Meantime, Archibald's Lenten sermons were filling St. Anne's every Sunday and exciting widespread comment. Mark had seen and revised the first three before he left Weybridge. The others were prepared and written out under Mark's eye in the comfortable library at Cadogan Place. The Rector of St. Anne's made no scruple of accepting what help his brother could give him. Mark honoured all cheques, reflecting that this was a labour of love, which made for his happiness as well as Betty's. It never struck him that he was compounding a moral felony. Such knowledge came later; but, at the moment, had any person—Lady Randolph, for instance—pointed out what he was doing, he would have indignantly (and honestly) repudiated his own actions.
Betty listened to every word of these sermons and told herself she was the wife of an evangelist. None the less, she did not ignore the fact that a sharp distinction lay between Archibald as Man and Archibald as Priest. One day she said to Mark, "Somehow one does not expect a great preacher to lose his temper because the cook has sent up cod without oyster sauce."
"Oh, his little weaknesses ought to endear him to such a woman as you are. He tells us each Sunday what a man ought to be, and on weekdays he shows us what a man is. A preacher without his little infirmities would be as uninteresting as—as cod without oyster sauce."
After Easter, Mark returned to Weybridge. Betty missed him so much that she had a fit of nervous depression which lasted two days. She made a resolution to devote herself to parochial work, to begin a course of stiff reading: pamphlets dealing with the better housing of the poor, and kindred subjects.
Mark was now absorbed in writing another novel, and in the correction of proofs. The Songs of the Angels appeared simultaneously in New York and London upon the first of May. Mark wrote to Betty that he had never felt in such good health, or more sanguine about the future. He was living in the open air, and had the appetite and complexion of a gipsy.
Archibald, meanwhile, was working hard on committees, hand-in-glove with a ducal philanthropist, whose music-loving duchess declared that Mr. Samphire had the best tenor voice in the kingdom. In return for this high compliment, the Rector of St. Anne's was persuaded to sing at the duchess's small dinner parties; and this led to a widening of a circle of acquaintance, which now included some very great people indeed. Betty found herself dining out three days in the week, and was amazed to discover that her husband enjoyed this mild dissipation. As a celebrity he began to be courted wherever he went, and his photograph embellished certain shops. Young women entreated him to write in their albums.
The world said that Chrysostom was a good fellow and still unspoiled, but his wife noted an ever-increasing complacency and compliancy which gave her pause. He had begged her, it will be remembered, to keep at arm's length certain frisky dames whom she had met at Newmarket and Monte Carlo, when she was under Lady Randolph's wing. These ladies were of no particular rank or position. But when Lady Cheyne, notorious all over Europe before and after she married her marquess, called upon Mrs. Samphire, Archibald insisted upon Betty returning the call and accepting an invitation to dine at Cheyne House. Betty protested, but he said blandly: "I have reason to know that Lady Cheyne is an indefatigable worker in Chelsea. She will be a parishioner of ours when we go to the Basilica. Personally I do not believe half the stories they tell about her."
"I should hope not," said Betty. "If a quarter be true, she is dyed scarlet."
Often she talked to Lady Randolph, but never with the candour of bygone days. Intuition told her that her old friend had no great liking for Archibald, although she rejoiced at his success.
"You were at Cheyne House last night," said Lady Randolph, with the twinkle in her eye which Betty knew so well. "I dare swear the dinner, my dear, was better than the company."
"Archie says the dinner was perfection." Then she flushed slightly, remembering that her husband ought to know, for he had spared but few dishes. "Have you read Mark's new book?"
"I have," said Lady Randolph.
At once Betty began to praise the Songs. It was to be inferred from her sparkling eyes and eager gestures that Mark's success had become vital to her. Lady Randolph drew conclusions which she kept to herself. But that night she said to Lord Randolph: "I saw Betty Samphire this afternoon. It is as I feared. Her parson, the man beneath the surplice, never inspired anything warmer than respect."
"Ay, say you so? Dear me—that's a pity. But there's stout stuff under the surplice."
"Stout?" Lady Randolph smiled. "You have hit the word, Randolph. Stout—and growing stouter. And some of the stuff is—stuffing."
"My dear, you are severe. Who drives fat horses should himself be fat. I have noticed that your good round parson is the most popular; your lean fellow makes everybody uncomfortable. Archibald is thought highly of. He is approachable; he has great gifts of organisation; he is liked by Nonconformists and Roman Catholics."
"No doubt," replied Lady Randolph impatiently. "In a word he can lunch at Lambeth and dine at Cheyne House, but I am thinking of Betty. A sword impends."
In a vague, mysterious way Betty herself was conscious of danger. As a girl the pageant of the London season had excited her. Her sensibilities, too keen, her adaptability, her faculty for enjoyment, inevitably were overstrained during those feverish months between April and August. When she married a clergyman she told herself that she was out of the rapids and at rest in a placid backwater. Now, involuntarily, she had been sucked into the current again. And curiously intermingled with the feeling of apprehension was a thrill. At times the desire to let herself go, to fling herself, like a Mænad, into the gay crowds, to be reckless, as they were, became almost irresistible. The devil-may-care temperament of the De Courcys set her pulses a-tingling. But so far she had restrained these longings. And then one night, in late June, Harry Kirtling met her at a ducal house to which Archibald deemed it a duty to go. A splendid entertainment had been provided. A famous prima donna and a brilliant violinist enchanted lovers of music; a French comedian travelled from Paris to recite; minor luminaries twinkled round these fixed stars. A few choice spirits, however, had withdrawn to a small room set apart for cards, wherein a young guardsman had opened a bank at baccarat. This was in flagrant bad taste, for both host and hostess detested gambling. Yet it lent a spice to the adventure. Lady Cheyne told her cavalier that she felt as if she were meeting a lover in a church. When the fun was getting furious, Betty and Kirtling came in on the heels of curiosity. Betty drew back, but Harry held her arm. A moment later he was recognised and invited to try his luck. Always easy-going and thoughtless, he pressed forward, half dragging Betty with him. Lady Cheyne looked up, saw Betty, and screamed with laughter. Her mocking laughter roused the devil in Betty. She had not gambled since her marriage; and gambling in all its forms was regarded by Archibald as a deadly sin. Upon the Sunday succeeding Derby Day he had preached upon this very subject. He had shown that betting had become a national vice; he had described with dramatic force its moral effect upon servants and children. This was one of a series of sermons upon the sins of the day, in the preparation of which the Rector of St. Anne's needed no assistance from others: culling his facts from pamphlets and Blue Books, and marshalling them with the skill which comes from long practice. To such sermons Betty lent an indifferent ear. They were of the Gradgrind type: too didactic, too florid, too obvious, to appeal to the intellectual members of his congregation. He preached in the same Cambyses vein upon drunkenness and gluttony. When Lady Cheyne laughed, Betty was vouchsafed a vision of her husband as she had seen him ten minutes before, sharing a pâté with a be-diamonded countess who admitted frankly that she lived to sup.
"You must not peach, Mrs. Samphire!" cried Lady Cheyne, turning up her impudent nose.
For a moment the game was stopped, and those present stared at Betty.
"Peach?" echoed Harry, who had certainly taken more than his allowance of champagne. "Not she! Come on, Betty, let us venture a sovereign!" He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a five-pound note. "Halves?" Betty nodded. "When it's gone, we'll stop—eh?"
Betty nodded again, beginning to laugh. One of the young men offered her his chair.
"You play," said Harry. "I'm such an unlucky beggar." He pushed the counters which he had received in exchange for his note in front of her. The dealer picked up the pack in front of him, and began to deal. Up till then he had won. Now his luck deserted him and fell on Betty.
"Tapez sur la veine," said Harry. "Pile it on, Betty!"
By this time Betty was sorry she had sat down. In the hope of losing what she had won already, she did pile it on, the banker making no objection. But still she won, and won, and won. And then, in the middle of the noise and laughter, the host walked in—and out! But the expression on his face put an instant stop to the proceedings. The young guardsman, looking exceedingly foolish, pulled out a pencil and began computing his losses to Betty.
"I make it seventy-five pound," he said. "I'll send it to you to-morrow, Mrs. Samphire."
"No, no," said Betty.
"Pooh," said Harry. "You forget that I'm your partner. We'll have a spree together with this ill-gotten gold." He laughed, and the others joined in, but Betty smiled dismally. All London would be prattling of this escapade within a few hours.
Going home in the brougham she told Archibald what had passed. The light inside the carriage was dim, but she felt rather than saw his face stiffen into amazed displeasure.
"And the Duke came in?"
She understood from his tone that being caught was not the least part of the offence.
"I have said that I am very sorry."
"You have made me ridiculous," said Archibald in a tone she had not heard from him before.
"You will make yourself ridiculous," she retorted, "if you take this too seriously."
He exclaimed hotly: "I would not have had it happen for five hundred pounds."
The opportunity was irresistible to murmur: "The moral obliquity of it seems to have escaped you."
"What? You laugh? You sneer? This is too much, too much."
"Much too much," Betty answered disdainfully. "I said I was sorry. Well, I'm nothing of the kind—now. I'm glad. And I shall play again, if I choose, and back horses, as I used to do, when I was a happy sinner."
To this Archibald made no reply, and Betty told herself that she was a shrew. As the brougham stopped she said in a low voice: "Archie, I apologise."
Her husband, in a voice colder than liquid air, replied: "I accept your apology, Betty, but let me beg that nothing of this sort occurs again."