The dinner party at the Home Secretary's took place on Wednesday, in the
week after Easter. It had rained during the day, but cleared up toward
night. Glory and Koenig had taken an omnibus to Waterloo Place, and then
walked up the wide street that ends with the wide steps going down to
the park. Two lines of lofty stone houses go off to right and left, and
the house they were going to was in one of them.
A footman received them with sombre but easy familiarity. The artistes?
Yes. They were shown into the library, and light refreshments were
brought in to them on a tray. Three other members of the choral company
were there already. Glory was seeing it all for the first time, and
Koenig was describing and explaining everything in broken whispers.
A band was playing in the well of the circular staircase, and a second
footman stood in an alcove behind an outwork of hats and overcoats.
The first footman reappeared. Were the artistes ready to go to the
drawing-room?
They followed him upstairs. The band had stopped, and there was the
distant hum of voices and the crackle of plates. Waiters were coming
and going from the dining-room, and the butler stood at the door giving
instructions. At one moment there was a glimpse within of ladies
in gorgeous dresses, and a table laden with silver and bright with
fairy-lamps. When the door opened the voices grew louder, when it closed
the sounds were deadened.
The upper landing opened on to a _salon_ which had three windows down
to the ground, and half of each stood open. Outside there was a wide
terrace lit up by Chinese and Moorish lanterns. Beyond was the dark
patch of the park, and farther still the towers of the Abbey and the
clock of Westminster, but the great light was not burning to-night.
“De House naivare sits on Vednesday night,” said Koenig.
They passed into the drawing-room, which was empty. The standing lamps
were subdued by coverings of yellow-silk lace. There was a piano and an
organ.
“Ve'll stay here,” said Koenig, opening the organ, and Glory stood by
his side.
Presently there were ripples of laughter, sounds of quick,
indistinguishable voices, waves of heliotrope, and the rustle of silk
dresses on the stairs. Then the ladies entered. Two or three of them who
were elderly leaned their right hands on the arms of younger women, and
walked with ebony sticks in their left. An old lady wearing black
satin and a large brooch came last. Koenig rose and bowed to her. Glory
prepared to bow also, but the lady gave her a side inclination of the
head as she sat in a well-cushioned chair under a lamp, and Glory's bow
was abridged.
The ladies sat and talked, and Glory tried to listen. There were little
nothings, punctuated by trills of feminine laughter. She thought the
conversation rather silly. More than once the ladies lifted their
lorgnettes and looked at her. She set her lips hard and looked back
without flinching.
A footman brought tea on a tray, and then there was the tinkle of cup
and saucer, and more laughter. The lady in satin looked round at Koenig,
and he began to play the organ. He played superbly, but nobody seemed
to listen. When he finished there was a pause, and everybody said: “Oh,
thank you; we're all--er----” and then the talk began again. The vocal
soloist sang some ballad of Schumann, and as long as it lasted an old
lady with an ear-trumpet sat at the foot of the piano, and a young girl
spoke into it. When it was over, everybody said, “Ah, that dear old
thing!” Then there was an outbreak of deeper voices from the stairs,
with lustier laughter and heavier steps.
The gentlemen appeared, talking loudly as they entered. Koenig was back
at the organ and playing as if he wished it were the 'cello and the
drum and the whole brass band. Glory was watching everything; it was
beginning to be very funny. Suddenly it ceased to be so. One of the
gentlemen was saying, in a tired drawl: “Old Koenig again! How the old
boy lasts! Seem to have been hearing--him since the Flood, don't you
know.”
It was Lord Robert Ure. Glory caught one glimpse of him, then looked
down at her slipper and pawed at the carpet. He put his glass in his
eye, screwed up the left side of his face, and looked at her.
An elderly man with a leonine head came up to the organ and said: “Got
anything comic, Mr. Koenig? All had the influenza last winter, you know,
and lost our taste for the classical.”
“With pleasure, sir,” said Koenig, and then turning to Glory he touched
her wrist. “How's de pulse? Ach Gott! beating same like a child's! Now
is your turn.”
Glory made a step forward, and the talk grew louder as she was observed.
She heard fragments of it. “Who is she?” “Is she a professional?”
“Oh, no--a lady.” “Sing, does she, or is it whistling?” “No, she's a
professional; we had her last year; she does conjuring.” And then the
voice she had heard before said, “By Jove, old fellow, your young friend
looks like a red standard rose!” She did not flinch. There was a nervous
tremor of the lip, a scarcely perceptible curl of it, and then she
began.
It was Mylecharaine, a Manx ballad in the Anglo-Manx, about a farmer who
was a miser. His daughter was ashamed of him because he dressed shabbily
and wore yellow stockings; but he answered that if he didn't the
stocking wouldn't be yellow that would be forthcoming for her dowry.
She sang, recited, talked, acted, lived the old man, and there was not
a sound until she finished, except laughter and the clapping of hands.
Then there was a general taking of breath and a renewed outbreak
of gossip. “Really, really! How--er--natural!” “Natural--that's it,
natural. I never--er----” “Rather good, certainly; in fact, quite
amusing.” “What dialect is it?” “Irish, of course.” “Of course, of
course,” with many nods and looks of knowledge, and a buzz and a
flutter of understanding. “Hope she'll do something else.” “Hush! she's
beginning.”
It was Ny Kiree fo Niaghtey, a rugged old wail of how the sheep were
lost on the mountains in a great snowstorm; but it was full of ineffable
melancholy. The ladies dropped their lorgnettes, the men's glasses fell
from their eyes and their faces straightened, the noisy old soul with
the ear-trumpet sitting under Glory's arm was snuffling audibly, and at
the next moment there was a chorus of admiring remarks. “'Pon my word,
this is something new, don't you know!” “Fine girl too!” “Fine! Irish
girls often run to it.” “That old miser--you could see him!”
“What's her next piece?--something funny, I hope.”
Koenig's pride was measureless, and Glory did not get off lightly. He
cleared the floor for her, and announced that with the indulgence, etc.,
the young artiste would give an imitation of common girls singing in the
street.
The company laughed until they screamed, and when the song was finished
Glory was being overwhelmed with congratulations and inquiries,
“Charming! All your pieces are charming! But really, my dear young lady,
you must be more careful about our feelings. Those sheep now--it was
really quite too sad.” The old lady with the ear-trumpet asked Glory
whether she could go on for the whole of an afternoon, and if she felt
much fatigued sometimes, and didn't often catch cold.
But the lady in satin came to her relief at last. “You will need some
refreshment,” she said. “Let me see now if I can not----” and she lifted
her glass and looked round the room. At the next moment a voice that
made a shudder pass over her said:
“Perhaps _I_ may have the pleasure of taking Miss Quayle down.”
It was Drake. His eyes were as blue and boyish as before, but Glory
observed at once that he had grown a mustache, and that his face and
figure were firmer and more manlike. A few minutes afterward they had
passed through one of the windows on to the terrace and were walking to
and fro.
It was cool and quiet out there after the heat and hubbub of the
drawing-room. The night was soft and still. Hardly a breath of wind
stirred the leaves of the trees in the park below. The rain had left a
dewy moistness in the air, and a fragrant mist was lying over the grass.
The stars were out, and the moon had just risen behind the towers of
Westminster.
Glory was flushed with her success. Her eyes sparkled and her step was
light and free. Drake touched her hand as it lay on his arm and said:
“And now that I've got you to myself I must begin by scolding you.”
They looked at one another and smiled. “Have I displeased you so much
to-night?” she said.
“It's not that. Where have you been all this time?”
“Ah, if you only knew!” She had stopped and was looking into the
darkness.
“I _want_ to know. Why didn't you answer my letter?”
“Your letter?” She was clutching at the lilies of the valley in her
bosom.
He tapped her hand lightly and said, “Well, we'll not quarrel this time,
only don't do it again, you know, or else----”
She recovered herself and laughed. Her voice had a silvery ring, and
he thought it was an enchanting smile that played upon her face. They
resumed their walk.
“And now about to-night. You have had a success, of course.”
“Why of course?”
“Because I always knew you must have.”
She was proud and happy. He began to be grave and severe.
“But the drawing-room after dinner is no proper scene for your talents.
The audience is not in the right place or the right mood. Guests and
auditors--their duties clash. Besides, to tell you the truth, art is a
dark continent to people like these.”
“They were kind to me, at all events,” said Glory.
“To-night, yes. The last new man--the last new monkey----”
She was laughing again and swinging along on his arm as if her feet
hardly touched the ground.
“What is the matter with you?”
“Nothing; I am only thinking how polite you are,” and then they looked
at each other again and laughed together.
The mild radiance of the stars was dying into the brighter light of
the moon. A bird somewhere in the dark trees below had mistaken the
moonlight for the dawn, and was making its early call. The clock at
Westminster was striking eleven, and there was the deep rumble of
traffic from the unseen streets round about.
“How beautiful!” said Glory. “It's hard to believe that this can be the
same London that is so full of casinos and clubs and-monasteries.”
“Why, what does a girl like you know about such places?”
She had dropped his arm and was looking over the balcony. The sound of
voices came from the red windows behind them. Then the soloist began to
sing again. His second ballad was the Erl King:
Du liebes Kind, komm' geh' mit mir!
Gar schöne Spiele spiel' ich mit dir.
“Any news of John Storm?” said Drake.
“Not that I know of.”
“I wonder if you would like him to come out again--now?”
“I wonder!”
At that moment there was a step behind them, and a soft voice said, “I
want you to introduce me, Mr. Drake.”
It was a lady of eight or nine and twenty, wearing short hair brushed
upward and backward in the manner of a man.
“Ah, Rosa--Miss Rosa Macquarrie,” said Drake. “Rosa is a journalist, and
a great friend of mine, Glory. If you want fame, she keeps some of the
keys of it, and if you want friendship---- But I'll leave you together.”
“My dear,” said the lady, “I want you to let me know you.”
“But I've seen you before--and spoken to you,” said Glory.
“Why, where?”
Glory was laughing awkwardly. “Never mind now! Some other time perhaps.”
“The people inside are raving about your voice. 'Where does it come
from?' they are saying--'from a palace or Ratcliffe Highway?' But I
think _I_ know. It comes from your heart, my dear. You have lived and
and loved and suffered--and so have I. Here we are in our smart frocks,
dear, but we belong to another world altogether and are the only working
women in the company. Perhaps I can help you a little, and you have
helped me already. I may know you, may I not?”
There was a deep light in Glory's eyes and a momentary quiver of her
eyelids. Then without a word she put her arms about Rosa's neck and
kissed her,
“I was sure of you,” said Rosa. Her voice was low and husky. “Your name
is Glory, isn't it? It wasn't for nothing you were given that name. God
gave it you!”
The party was breaking up and Koenig came for “his star.” “I vill give
you an engagement for one, two, tree year, upon my vord I vill,” he said
as they went downstairs. While the butler took him back to the library
to sign his receipt and receive his cheque, Glory stood waiting by the
billiard table in the hall and Drake and Lord Robert stepped up to her.
“Until when?” said Drake with a smile, but Glory pretended not to
understand him. “I dare say you thought me cynical to-night, Glory. I
only meant that if you are to follow this profession I want you to make
the best of it. Why not look for a wider scene? Why not go directly to
the public?”
“But de lady is engaged to me for tree year,” said Koenig, coming up.
Drake looked at Glory, who shook her head, and then Koenig made an
effort at explanation. It was an understood thing. He had taught her,
taken her into his house, found her in a Sunday----
But Drake interrupted him. If they could help Miss Quayle to a better
market for her genius Mr. Koenig need be no loser by the change. Then
Koenig was pacified, and Drake handed Glory to a cab.
“We're good friends again, aren't we?” he said, touching her hand
lightly.
“Yes,” she answered.
There was a letter from Aunt Rachel waiting for her at the Priory. Aunt
Anna didn't like these frequent changes, and she had no faith in music
or musicians either, but the Parson thought Anna too censorious, and as
for Mr. Koenig's Sunday evening companies, he had no doubt they were of
Germans chiefly, and that they came to talk of Martin Luther and to sing
his hymn. Sorry to say his infirmities were increasing; the burden of
his years was upon him, and he was looking feeble and old.
Glory slept little that night. On going to her room she threw up the
window and sat in front of it, that the soft night breeze might play on
her hot lips and cheeks. The moon was high and the garden was slumbering
under its gentle light. Everything around was hushed, and there was no
sound anywhere except the far-off rumble of the great city, as of the
wind in distant trees. She was thinking of a question which Drake had
put to her.
“I wonder if I should?” she murmured.
And through the silence there was the unheard melody of the German song:
Du liebes Kind, komm' geh' mit mir!
Gar schöne Spiele spiel' ich mit dir.