The big fellow had collapsed, shrunk incredibly, depleted of windy self-assurance and vanity. Mark's hate and scorn and envy began to ooze from him as the old love, the virile instinct of the strong to comfort and protect the weak, gushed into his heart, suffusing a genial warmth through every fibre of his being.
"I gave them to you freely," he said. "I urged you to preach that first sermon. Put what is past from you."
But Archibald shook his head. Now that the silence was broken, he wished to speak, to give his shame and trouble all the words so long suppressed. In a pitiful manner he began a self-indictment—qui s'accuse s'excuse.
"If Betty is spared, I shall tell her the truth," he concluded.
Mark frowned, trying to measure the effect of such a belated confession on Betty. Then he heard his brother saying in the tone of conviction which so impressed his congregations, "Of course, Betty did not marry me because I preached those sermons."
Mark started. Temptation beset him to answer swiftly: "She did—she did. I know she did. Had it not been for my words in your mouth, she would have waited for, she would have married—me."
He turned aside his face, twisted and seamed by the effort of holding his tongue. Archibald continued: "It has been a secret sore. I thought hard work—I have worked very hard—would heal it. If—if she is spared, I shall speak for all our sakes."
Mark's voice was quite steady when he replied, "For all our sakes. You take me into account?"
"Why, of course. Don't you remember? You wished her to know. You said you would tell her. Why didn't you?"
"Why, indeed?" Mark echoed fiercely. Then, with a sudden change of manner, he went on: "You must do what you think best. Betty has placed you on a pinnacle. See that you don't topple over! Practise what you preach. Then you will save her soul and your own."