“I will be a poor man among poor men,” said John Storm to himself as he
drove to his vicar's house in Eaton Place, but he awoke next morning
in a bedroom that did not answer to his ideas of a life of poverty. A
footman came with hot water and tea, and also a message from the canon
overnight saying he would be pleased to see Mr. Storm in the study after
breakfast.
The study was a sumptuous apartment immediately beneath, with soft
carpets on which his feet made no noise, and tiger-skins over the
backs of chairs. As he entered it a bright-faced man in middle life,
clean-shaven, wearing a gold-mounted _pince-nez_, and bubbling over with
politeness, stepped forward to receive him.
“Welcome to London, my dear Mr. Storm. When the letter came from
the Prime Minister I said to my daughter Felicity--you will see her
presently--I trust you will be good friends--I said, 'It is a privilege,
my child, to meet any wish of the dear Earl of Erin, and I am proud
to be in at the beginning of a career that is sure to be brilliant and
distinguished.'”
John Storm made some murmur of dissent.
“I trust you found your rooms to your taste, Mr. Storm?”
John Storm had found them more than he expected or desired.
“Ah, well, humble but comfortable, and in any case please regard them as
your own, to receive whom you please therein, and to dispense your own
hospitalities. This house is large enough. We shall not meet oftener
than we wish, so we can not quarrel. The only meal we need take together
is dinner. Don't expect too much. Simple but wholesome--that's all we
can promise you in a clergyman's family.”
John Storm answered that food was an indifferent matter to him, and that
half an hour after dinner he never knew what he had eaten. The canon
laughed and began again.
“I thought it best you should come to us, being a stranger in London,
though I confess I have never had but one of my clergy residing with
me before. He is here now. You'll see him by-and-bye. His name is
Golightly, a simple, worthy young man, from one of the smaller colleges,
I believe. Useful, you know, devoted to me and to my daughter, but of
course a different sort of person altogether, and--er----”
It was a peculiarity of the canon that whatever he began to talk about,
he always ended by talking of himself.
“I sent for you this morning, not having had the usual opportunity of
meeting before, that I might tell you something of our organization and
your own duties.... You see in me the head of a staff of six clergy.”
John Storm was not surprised; a great preacher must be followed by
flocks of the poor; it was natural that they should wish him to help
them and to minister to them.
“We have no poor in my parish, Mr. Storm.”
“No poor, sir?”
“On the contrary, her Majesty herself is one of my parishioners.”
“That must be a great grief to you, sir?”
“Oh, the poor! Ah, yes, certainly. Of course, we have our associated
charities, such as the Maternity Home, founded in Soho by Mrs.
Callender--a worthy old Scotswoman--odd and whimsical, perhaps, but
rich, very rich and influential. My clergy, however, have enough to do
with the various departments of our church work. For instance, there is
the Ladies' Society, the Fancy Needlework classes, and the Decorative
Flower Guild, not to speak of the daughter churches and the ministration
in hospitals, for I always hold--er----”
John Storm's mind had been wandering, but at the mention of the hospital
he looked up eagerly.
“Ah, yes, the hospital. Your own duties will be chiefly concerned with
our excellent hospital of Martha's Vineyard. You will have the spiritual
care of all patients and nurses--yes, nurses also--within its precincts,
precisely as if it were your parish. 'This is my parish,' you will say
to yourself, and treat it accordingly. Not yet being in full Orders,
you will be unable to administer the sacrament, but you will have one
service daily in each of the wards, taking the wards in rotation. There
are seven wards, so there will be one service in each ward once a week,
for I always say that fewer----”
“Is it enough?” said John. “I shall be only too pleased----”
“Ah, well, we'll see. On Wednesday evenings we have service in the
church, and nurses not on night duty are expected to attend. Some fifty
of them altogether, and rather a curious compound. Ladies among them?
Yes, the daughters of gentlemen, but also persons of all classes. You
will hold yourself responsible for their spiritual welfare. Let me
see--this is Friday--say you take the sermon on Wednesday next, if that
is agreeable. As to views, my people are of all shades of colour, so I
ask my clergy to take strictly _via media_ views--strictly _via media_.
Do you intone?”
John Storm had been wandering again, but he recovered himself in time to
say he did not.
“That is a pity; our choir is so excellent--two violins, a viola,
clarinet, 'cello, double bass, the trumpets and drums, and of course the
organ. Our organist himself----”
At that moment a young clergyman came into the room, making apologies
and bowing subserviently.
“Ah, this is Mr. Golightly--the-h'm--Hon. and Rev. Mr. Storm.--You will
take charge of Mr. Storm and bring him to church on Sunday morning.”
Mr. Golightly delivered his message. It was about the organist. His
wife had called to say that he had been removed to the hospital for
some slight operation, and there was some difficulty about the singer of
Sunday morning's anthem.
“Most irritating! Bring her up.” The curate went out backward. “I shall
ask you to excuse me, Mr. Storm. My daughter, Felicity--ah, here she
is.”
A tall young woman in spectacles entered.
“This is our new housemate, Mr. Storm, nephew of dear Lord Erin.
Felicity, my child, I wish you to drive Mr. Storm round and introduce
him to our people, for I always say a young clergyman in London----”
John Storm mumbled something about the Prime Minister.
“Going to pay your respects to your uncle now? Very good and proper.
Next week will do for the visits. Yes, yes. Come in, Mrs. Koenig.”
A meek, middle-aged woman had appeared at the door. She was dark, and
had deep luminous eyes with the moist look to be seen in the eyes of a
tired old terrier.
“This is the wife of our organist and choir master. Good day! Kindest
greetings to the Prime Minister.... And, by the way, let us say Monday
for the beginning of your chaplaincy at the hospital.”
The Earl of Erin, as First Lord of the Treasury, occupied the narrow,
unassuming brick house which is the Treasury residence in Downing
Street. Although the official head of the Church, with power to appoint
its bishops and highest dignitaries, he was secretly a sceptic, if not
openly a derider of spiritual things. For this attitude his early love
passage had been chiefly accountable. That strife between duty and
passion which had driven the woman he loved to religion had driven him
in the other direction and left a broad swath of desolation in his soul.
He had seen little of his brother since that evil time, and nothing
whatever of his brother's son. Then John had written, “I am soon to
be bound by the awful tie of the priesthood,” and he had thought it
necessary to do something for him. When John was announced he felt a
thrill of tender feeling to which he had long been a stranger. He got
up and waited. The young man with his mother's face and the eyes of an
enthusiast was coming down the long corridor.
John Storm saw his uncle first in the spacious old cabinet room which
looks out on the little garden and the Park. He was a gaunt old man
with, meagre mustache and hair, and a face like a death's head. He
held out his hand and smiled. His hand was cold and his smile was half
tearful and half saturnine.
“You are like your mother, John.”
John never knew her.
“When I saw her last you were a child in arms and she was younger than
you are now.”
“Where was that, uncle?”
“In her coffin, poor girl.”
The Prime Minister shuffled some papers and said, “Well, is there
anything you wish for?”
“Nothing. I've come to thank you for what you've done already.”
The Prime Minister made a deprecatory gesture.
“I almost wish you had chosen another career, John. Still, the Church
has its opportunities and its chances, and if I can ever----”
“I am satisfied; more than satisfied,” said John. “My choice is based, I
trust, on a firm vocation. God's work is great, sir; the greatest of all
in London. That is why I am so grateful to you. Think of it, sir----”
John was leaning forward in his chair with one arm stretched out.
“Of the five millions of people in this vast city, not one million cross
the threshold of church or chapel. And then remember their condition. A
hundred thousand live in constant want, slowly starving to death, every
day and hour, and a quarter of the old people of London die as paupers.
Isn't it a wonderful scene, sir? If a man is willing to be spiritually
dead to the world--to leave family and friends--to go forth never to
return, as one might go to his execution----”
The Prime Minister listened to the ardent young man who was talking to
him there with his mother's voice, and then said--
“I'm sorry.”
“Sorry?”
“I'm afraid I've made a mistake.”
John Storm looked puzzled.
“I've sent you to the wrong place, John. When you wrote, I naturally
supposed you were thinking of the Church as a career, and I tried to put
you in the way of it. Do you know anything of your vicar?”
John knew that fame spoke of him as a great preacher--one of the few
who had passed through their Pentecost and come out with the gift of
tongues.
“Precisely!” The Prime Minister gave a bitter little laugh. “But let me
tell you something about him. He was a poor curate in the country where
the lord of the manor chanced to be a lady. He married the lady of the
manor. His wife died and he bought a London parish. Then, by the help
of an old actor who gave lessons in elocution, he--well, he set up his
Pentecost. Since then he has been a fashionable preacher and frequents
the houses of great people. Ten years ago he was made an honorary
canon, and, when he hears of an appointment to a bishopric, he says in a
tearful voice, 'I don't know what the dear Queen has got against me.'”
“Well, sir?”
“Well, if I had known you felt like that I should scarcely have sent you
to Canon Wealthy. And yet I hardly know where else a young man of your
opinions ... I'm afraid the Church has a good many Canon Wealthys in
it.”
“God forbid!” said John. “No doubt there are Pharisees in these days
just as in the days of Christ, but the Church is still the pillar of the
State----”
“The caterpillar, you mean, boy--eating out its heart and its vitals.”
The Prime Minister gave another bitter little laugh, then looked quickly
into John's flushed face and said:
“But it's poor work for an old man to sap away a young man's
enthusiasm.”
“You can't do that, uncle,” said John, “because God is the absolute
ruler of all things, good and bad, and he governs both to his glory. Let
him only give us strength to endure our exile----”
“I don't like to hear you talk like that, John. I think I know what the
upshot will be. There's a gang of men about--Anglican Catholics they
call themselves; well, remember the German proverb, 'Every priestling
hides a popeling.' ... And if you _are_ to be in the Church, John, is
there any reason why you shouldn't marry and be reasonable? To tell you
the truth, I'm rather a lonely old man, whatever I may seem, and if your
mother's son would give me a sort of a grandson--eh?”
The Prime Minister was pretending to laugh again.
“Come, John, come, it seems a pity--a fine young fellow like you, too.
Are there no sweet young girls about in these days? Or are they all dead
and gone since I was a young fellow? I could give you a wide choice, you
know, for when a man stands high enough ... in fact, you would find
me reasonable--you might have anybody you liked, rich or poor, dark or
fair.----”
John Storm had been sitting in torment, and now he rose to go. “No,
uncle,” he said, in a thicker voice, “I shall never marry. A clergyman
who is married is bound to life by too many ties. Even his affection for
his wife is a tie. And then there is her affection for the world, its
riches, its praise, its honours.----”
“Well, well, we'll say no more. After all, it's better than running
wild, and that's what most young men seem to be doing nowadays. But
then your long education abroad--and your poor father left to look after
himself! Good-day to you. Come and see me now and then. How like your
mother you are sometimes! Good-day!”
When the door of the cabinet room closed on John Storm the Prime
Minister thought, “Poor boy, he's laying up for himself a big heartache
one of these fine days!”
And John Storm, going down the street with uncertain step, said to
himself: “How strange he should talk like that! But, thank God, he
didn't produce a flicker in me. I died to all that a year ago.”
Then he lifted his head and his footstep lightened, and deep in some
secret place the thought came proudly, “She shall see that to renounce
the world is to possess the world--that a man may be poor and have all
the kingdom of the world at his feet.”
He went back by the Underground from Westminster Bridge. It was midday,
and the train was crowded. His spirits were high and he talked with
every one near him. Getting out at Victoria, he came upon his vicar on
the platform and saluted him rather demonstratively. The canon responded
with some restraint and then stepped into a first-class carriage.
On turning into Eaton Place he came upon a group of people standing
around something that lay on the pavement. It was an old woman, a
tattered, bedraggled creature with a pinched and pallid face. “Is it
an accident?” a gentleman was saying, and somebody answered, “No,
sir, she's gorn off in a faint.” “Why doesn't some one take her to the
hospital?” said the gentleman, and then, like the Levite, he passed
by on the other side. The butcher's cart drew up at the curb, and the
butcher jumped down, saying, “There never _is_ no p'lice about when
they're wanted for anythink.”
“But they aren't wanted here, friend,” said somebody from the outside.
It was John Storm, and he was pushing his way through the crowd.
“Will somebody knock at that door, please?” He lifted the old thing in
his arms and carried her toward the canon's house. The footman looked
aghast. “Let me know when the canon returns,” said John, and then
marched up the carpeted stairs to his rooms.
An hour afterward the old woman opened her eyes and said: “Anythink gorn
wrong? Wot's up? Is it the work'us?”
It was a clear case of destitution and collapse. John Storm began to
feed the old creature with the chicken and milk sent up for his own
lunch.
Some time in the afternoon he heard the voice and step of the vicar in
the room below. Going down to the study, he was about to knock; but the
voice continued in varying tones, now loud, now low. During a pause he
rapped, and then, with noticeable irritation, the voice cried, “Come
in!”
He found the vicar, with a manuscript in hand, rehearsing his Sunday's
sermon. It was a shock to John, but it helped him to understand what his
uncle had said about the canon's Pentecost.
The canon's brow was clouded. “Ah, is it you? I was sorry to see you
getting out of a third-class carriage to-day, Mr. Storm.”
John answered that it was the poor man's class, and therefore, he
thought, it ought to be his.
“You do yourself an injustice, Mr. Storm. Besides, to tell you the
truth, I don't choose that my assistant clergy----”
John looked ashamed. “If that is your view, sir,” he said, “I don't know
what you'll say to what I've been doing since.”
“I've heard of it, and I confess I'm not pleased. Whatever your old
_protégée_ may be, my house is no place for her. I help to maintain
charitable institutions for such cases, and I will ask you to lose no
time in having her removed to the hospital.”
John was crushed. “Very well, sir, if that is your wish; only I thought
you said my rooms----Besides, the poor old thing fills her place as well
as Queen Victoria, and perhaps the angels are watching the one as much
as the other.”
Next day John Storm called to see the old woman at Martha's Vineyard,
and he saw the matron, the house doctor, and a staff nurse as well.
His adventure was known to everybody at the hospital. Once or twice he
caught looks of amused compassion, and heard a twitter of laughter. As
he stood by the bed, the old woman muttered: “I knoo ez it wuzn't the
work'us, my dear. He spoke to me friendly and squeedged my 'and.”
Coming through the wards he had looked for a face he could not see; but
just then he was aware of a young woman, in the print dress and white
apron of a nurse, standing in silence at the bed-head. It was Glory, and
her eyes were wet with tears.
“You mustn't do such things,” she said hoarsely; “I can't bear it,” and
she stamped her foot. “Don't you see that these people----”
But she turned about and was gone before he could reply. Glory was
ashamed for him. Perhaps she had been taking his part! He felt the blood
mounting to his face, and his cheeks tingling. Glory! His eyes were
swimming, and he dared not look after her; but he could have found it in
his heart to kiss the old bag of bones on the bed.
That night he wrote to the parson in the island: “Glory has left off
her home garments, and now looks more beautiful than ever in the white
simplicity of the costume of the nurse. Her vocation is a great one.
God grant she may hold on to it!” Then something about the fallacy
of ceremonial religion and the impossibility of pleasing God by such
religious formalities. “But if we have publicans and Pharisees now, even
as they existed in Christ's time, all the more service is waiting for
that man for whom life has no ambitions, death no terrors. I thank God I
am in a great measure dead to these things.... I will fulfil my promise
to look after Glory. My constant prayer is against Agag. It is so easy
for him to get a foothold in a girl's heart here. This great new world,
with its fashions, its gaieties, its beauty, and its brightness--no
wonder if a beautiful young girl, tingling with life and ruddy health,
should burn with impatience to fling herself into the arms of it. Agag
is in London, and as insinuating as ever.”