"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."