"There's William, too," he said. "William's devoted to me, simply, as far as I can tell, because he saved my life when I was a tiny kid. If I ask William to tell me whether my father gets drinks through him quietly when I'm not there, I'm sure he will let me know. How would that be?"
Jessie had an uncomfortable moment. The idea of getting a servant to report to Archie on his father's proceedings was as repugnant to her as, she thought, it must be to Archie. Possibly his main motive, that of taking care of his father, was so dominant in him that he did not pause to consider the legitimacy of any means. But, somehow, it was very unlike Archie to have conceived so backstairs an idea.
"Oh, I wouldn't quite do that," she said. "You wouldn't either, Archie."
"I don't see why not. The cure is more important than the means."
Jessie suddenly felt a sort of bewilderment. It could scarcely have been
Archie who said that, according to her knowledge of Archie.
"But surely that's impossible," she said. "What would you feel if you found your father had been setting William to spy and report on you?"
Archie's voice suddenly rose.
"Oh, what nonsense!" he said. "You speak as if I was going to break my bargain with my father. I never heard such nonsense."
Once again the sense of bewilderment came over Jessie. That wasn't like
Archie…
"I don't imply anything of the kind," she said. "But I do feel that it's impossible for you to get William to have an eye on your father, and report to you. And I'm almost certain that you really agree with me."
Archie considered this, and then laughed.
"I suppose I do," he said. "But the ardour of the newly born missionary was hot within me. Are missionaries born or made, by the way? Anyhow, I'm a missionary now. Nobody could have guessed that I was going to be a missionary."
Their stroll to-night was only up and down the broad gravel walk in front of the windows. It was very hot and all the drawing-room windows were open, so also were those of Lord Tintagel's study and the windowed door that led into the garden. As they passed this Archie saw a footman bring in a tray on which were set the usual evening liquids, and he guessed that his father had forgotten or had omitted to say that the syphon and some ice was all that would be needed. He thought for a moment, intently and swiftly.
"Jessie, they've brought in that beastly whisky again," he said. "I must tell them to take it away: my father mustn't see it. Just go down opposite the drawing-room windows, will you, and make sure my father is still playing cards, while I take the bottle away. Make me a sign."
Archie waited outside till this was given, and then went into his father's room. The man had gone away, and he took up the whisky-bottle with the intention of putting it back in the dining-room. But, even as his fingers closed on it, without warning, his desire for drink swooped down on him like the coming of a summer storm. He half filled a glass with the spirit, poured soda-water on the top and gulped it down. That was what he wanted, and then, with a swift cunning, he rinsed out the glass with soda-water, drank that also, and, filling it half up again with water, put it on the table by the chair where he usually sat. Then there was the bottle to dispose of, and he went out into the hall to take it to the dining-room. But, even as he crossed the foot of the stairs, another notion irresistibly possessed him, and up he went three steps at a time, and concealed it behind some clothes in his chest of drawers. He had discovered an excellent reason for doing that, for, if he left it in the dining-room, his father might find it there. It was much safer in his room. Then, tingling and content, and feeling that Martin would approve (indeed it seemed that he had prompted) this missionary enterprise, he rejoined Jessie again, his eyes sparkling, his mouth gay and quivering.
"I've done it," he said. "I thought at first of taking the bottle to the dining-room, but my father might have found it there."
"What did you do with it?" asked Jessie.
Archie took no time to consider.
"I rang the bell and told James to take it away again to the pantry," he said.
"That was clever of you, Archie."
"I know that. They're still playing cards, aren't they? Let's have one more turn, then. Jessie, I wish you weren't going away to-morrow."
"I must. I promised my father to get back. And Helena wants me."
"Oh well, that settles it," said Archie. "Helena must have all she wants. That is part of Helena, isn't it?"
For a moment Jessie thought that he was speaking with the bitterest irony, but immediately afterwards she withdrew that, for it struck her that Archie was, in some inexplicable way, perfectly sincere: there was the unmistakable ring of truth in his voice; he meant what he said. And, as if to endorse that, he went on:
"We all do what Helena wants: you, I, the Bradshaw, all of us. She wants to be loved, isn't that it? and to want to be loved is a royal command; all proper people must obey. I have been a rebel you know, and,—oh Jessie, how awfully ashamed I am! I let myself hate Helena; I encouraged myself to hate her. But I've returned to my allegiance, thank God."
She turned an enquiring face to him.
"Archie, dear," she said, "I am so thankful that you are so changed. You're utterly different from what you have been. Last night you were bitter and terrible: you made my heart ache. But all to-day you've been absolutely your old self again. And it's so immense and so sudden. Can't you tell me at all what caused it? I should love to know, if you feel like telling me."
He took her arm again.
"I'll tell you one thing," he said. "You did me a lot of good last night when you made me realize your friendship. That helped; I do believe that helped."
Jessie could not quite accept this, though it warmed her heart that
Archie thought of that.
"But you always knew my friendship," she said.
"I know I did. But I appreciated it most when I felt absolutely empty.
There's something more than that, though…"
He paused.
"Ah, do tell me," said Jessie.
He could not make up his mind on the instant, for he knew Jessie's repugnance to the whole idea of those supernatural communications. But he felt warm and alert and expansive; besides, her friendship, which he truly valued, yearned for his confidence, which is the meat and drink of friendship. Sometimes it was necessary to deceive your friends; it had been necessary for him to deceive her about the disposal of the whisky-bottle; but, though she might not approve, he could at least tell her what had made sunshine all day for him, and what was making it now.
"It's this," he said. "Martin came to me last night. I talked to him; I saw him. It has put me right: he has made me see things quite differently. He told me to be patient, to cling to love always, to let my hate be turned into love. I can't express to you at all what a difference that made to me. I felt he knew; he could see, as he said, that the darkness in which I thought I walked was not darkness at all. I know you have no sympathy with his coming to me: it seems to you either nonsense or something very dangerous. But I know you have sympathy with the result of it."
