Behind Buckingham Palace there is a little square of modest houses
standing back from the tide of traffic and nearly always as quiet as a
cloister. At one angle of the square there is a house somewhat larger
than the rest but just as simple and unassuming. In the dining-room of
this house an elderly lady was sitting down to lunch alone, with the
covers laid for another at the opposite end of the table.
“Hae ye the spare room ready, Emma?”
“Yes, ma'am,” said the maid.
“And the sheets done airing? And baith the pillows? And the
pillow-slips--and everything finished?”
The maid was answering “Yes” to each of these questions when a hansom
cab came rattling up to the front of the house, and the old lady leaped
out of her seat.
“It's himself!” she cried, and she ran like a girl to the hall.
The door had been opened before she got there, and a deep voice was
saying, “Is Mrs. Callender----”
“It's John! My gracious! It's John Storm!” the old woman cried, and she
lifted both hands as if to fling herself into his arms.
“My guidness, laddie, but you gave poor auld Jane sic a start! Expected
ye? To be sure we expected you, and terribly thrang we've been all
morning making ready. Only my daft auld brain must have been a wee ajee.
But,” smiling through her tears, “has a body never a cheek, that you
must be kissing at her hand? And is this your dog?” looking down at the
bloodhound. “Welcome? Why, of course it's welcome. What was I saying the
day, Emma? 'I'd like fine to have a dog,' didn't I? and here it is to
our hand.--Away with ye, James, man, and show Mr. Storm to his room,
and then find a bed for the creature somewhere. Letters for ye, laddie?
Letters enough, and you'll find them on the table upstairs. Only, mind
ye, the lunch is ready, and your fish is getting cold.”
John Storm opened his letters in his room. One of them was from his
uncle, the Prime Minister: “I rejoice to hear of your most sensible
resolution. Come and dine with me at Downing Street this day week at
seven o'clock. I have much to say and much to ask, and I expect to be
quite alone.”
Another was from his father: “I am not surprised at your intelligence,
but if anything could exceed the folly of going into a monastery it is
the imbecility of coming out of it. The former appears to be a subject
of common talk in this island already, and no doubt the latter will soon
be so.”
John flinched as at a cut across the face and then smiled a smile of
relief. Apparently Glory was writing home wherever she was, and there
was good news in that, at all events. He went downstairs.
“Come your way in, laddie, and let me look at ye again. Man, but your
face is pale and your bonnie eyes are that sunken. But sit ye down and
eat. They've been starving ye, I'm thinking, and miscalling it religion.
It's enough to drive a reasonable body to drink. Carnal I am, laddie,
and I just want to put some flesh on your bones. Monks indeed! And in
this age of the world too! Little Jack Horners sitting in corners and
saying, 'Oh, what a good boy am I!'”
John defended his late brethren. They were holy men; they lived a holy
life; he had not been good enough for their company. “But I feel like a
sailor home from sea,” he said; “tell me what has happened.”
“Births, marriages, and deaths? I suppose ye're like the lave of the
men, and think nothing else matters to a woman. But come now, more
chicken? No? A wee bitty? Aye, but ye're sair altered, laddie! Weel,
where can a body begin?”
“The canon--how is he?”
“Fine as fi'pence. Guid as ever in the pulpit? Aye, but it's a pity he
doesna' bide there, for he's naething to be windy of when he comes out
of it. Deacon now, bless ye, or archdeacon, and some sic botherment, and
his daughter is to be married to yon slip of a curate with the rabbit
mouth and the heather legs. Weel, she wasna for all markets, ye ken.”
“And Mrs. Macrae?”
“Gone over to the angels. Dead? Nae, ye're too expecting altogether.
She's got religion though, and holds missionary meetings in her
drawing-room of a Monday, and gives lunches to actor folk of a Sunday,
and now a poor woman that's been working for charity and Christianity
all her days has no chance with her anyway.”
“And Miss Macrae?”
“Poor young leddy, they're for marrying her at last! Aye, to that Ure
man, that lord thing with the eyeglass. I much misdoubt but her heart's
been somewhere else, and there's ane auld woman would a hantle rather
have heard tell of her getting the richt man than seeing the laddie bury
hisel' in a monastery. She's given in at last though, and it's to be a
grand wedding they're telling me. Your Americans are kittle
cattle--just the Jews of the West seemingly, and they must do everything
splendiferously. There are to be jewels as big as walnuts, and bouquets
five feet in diameter, and a rope of pearls for a necklace, and a
rehearsal of the hale thing in the church. Aye, indeed, a rehearsal, and
the 'deacon, honest man, in the middle of the magnificence.”
John Storm's pale face was twitching. “And the hospital,” he said, “has
anything happened there--?”
“Nothing.”
“No other case such as the one----”
“Not since yon poor bit lassie.”
“Thank God!”
“It was the first ill thing I had heard tell of her for years, and
the nurses are good women for all that. High-spirited? Aye; but dear,
bright, happy things, to think what they have to know and to be present
at! Lawyers, doctors, and nurses see the worst of human nature, and
she'd be a heartless woman who'd no make allowances for them, poor
creatures!”
John Storm had risen from the table with a flushed face, making many
excuses. He would step round to the hospital; he had questions to ask
there, and it would be a walk after luncheon.
“Do,” said Mrs. Callender, “but remember dinner at six. And hark ye,
hinny, this house is to be your hame until you light on a better one, so
just sleep saft in it and wake merrily. And Jane Callender is to be your
auld auntie until some ither body tak's ye frae her, and then it'll no
be her hand ye'll be kissing for fear of her wrinkles, I'm thinking.”
The day was bright, the sun was shining, and the streets were full of
well-groomed horses in gorgeous carriages with coachmen in splendid
liveries going to the drawing-room in honour of the royal birthday. As
John went by the palace the approaches to it were thronged, the band
of the Household Cavalry was playing within the rails, and officers in
full-dress uniform, members of the diplomatic service with swords
and cocked hats, and ladies in gorgeous brocades carrying bouquets
of orchids and wearing tiaras of diamonds and large white plumes were
filing through the gate toward the throne-room.
The hospital looked strangely unfamiliar after so short an absence,
and there were new faces among the nurses who passed to and fro in the
corridors. John asked for the matron, and was received with constrained
and distant courtesy. Was he well? Quite well. They had a resident
chaplain now, and being in priest's orders he had many opportunities
where death was so frequent. Was he sure he had not been ill? John
understood--it was almost as if he had come out of some supernatural
existence, and people looked at him as if they were afraid.
“I came to ask if you could tell me anything of Nurse Quayle?”
The matron could tell him nothing. The girl had gone; they had been
compelled to part with her. Nothing serious? No, but totally unfit to
be a nurse. She had some good qualities certainly--cheerfulness,
brightness, tenderness--and for the sake of these, and his own
interest in the girl, they had put up with inconceivable rudeness and
irregularities. What had become of her? She really could not say. Nurse
Allworthy might know--and the matron took up her pen.
John found the ward Sister with the house doctor at the bed of a
patient. She was short, even curt, said over her shoulder she knew
nothing about the girl, and then turned back to her work. As John passed
out of the ward the doctor followed him and hinted that perhaps the
porter might be able to tell him something.
The porter was difficult at first, but seeing his way clearer after a
while he admitted to receiving letters for the nurse and delivering them
to her when she called. That was long ago, and she had not been there
since New Year's Eve. Then she had given him a shilling and said she
would trouble him no more.
John gave him five shillings and asked if anybody ever called for her.
Yes, once. Who was it? A gentleman. Had he left his name? No, but he had
said he would write. When was that? A day or two before she was there
the last time.
Drake! There could not be a shadow of a doubt of it. John Storm looked
at the clock. It was 3:45. Then he buttoned his coat and crossed the
street to the park with his face in the direction of St. James's Street.
Horatio Drake had given a luncheon in his rooms that day in honour of
Glory's first public appearance. The performance was to come off at
night, but in the course of the morning there had been a dress rehearsal
in the _salon_ of the music hall. Twenty men and women, chiefly
journalists and artists, had assembled there to get a first glimpse
of the _débutante_, and cameras had lurked behind _portières_ and in
alcoves to catch her poses, her expressions, her fleeting smiles, and
humorous grimaces. Then the company had adjourned to Drake's chambers.
The luncheon was now over, the last guest had gone, and the host was in
his dining-room alone.
Drake was standing by the chimney-piece holding at arm's length a
pencil sketch of a woman's beautiful face and lithe figure. “Like
herself--alive to the fingertips,” he thought, and then he propped it
against the pier-glass.
There was a sound of the opening and closing of the outer door
downstairs, and Lord Robert entered the room. He looked heated,
harassed, and exhausted. Shaking out his perfumed pocket handkerchief,
he mopped his forehead, drew a long breath, and dropped into a chair.
“I've done it,” he said; “it's all over.”
Polly Love had lunched with the company that day, and Lord Robert had
returned home with her in order to break the news of his approaching
marriage. While the girl had been removing her hat and jacket he had sat
at the piano and thumbed it, hardly knowing how to begin. All at once he
had said, “Do you know, my dear, I'm to be married on Saturday?” She had
said nothing at first, and he had played the piano furiously. Heavens,
what a frame of mind to be in! Why didn't the girl speak? At last he had
looked round at her, and there she stood grinning, gasping, and white as
a ghost. Suddenly she had begun to cry. Good God, such crying! Yes, it
was all over. Everything had been settled somehow.
“But I'll be in harder condition before I tackle such a job again.”
There was silence for a moment. Drake was leaning on the mantelpiece,
his legs crossed, and one foot beating on the hearth-rug. The men were
ashamed, and they began to talk of indifferent things. Smoke? Didn't
mind. Those Indian cigars were good. Not bad, certainly.
At length Drake said in a different voice, “Cruel but necessary,
Robert--necessary to the woman who is going to be your wife, cruel to
the poor girl who has been.”
Lord Robert rose to his feet impatiently, stretched his arm, and shot
out his striped cuff and walked to and fro across the room.
“Pon my soul, I believe I should have stuck to the little thing but
for the old girl, don't you know. She's made such a good social running
lately--and then she's started this evangelical craze too. No, Polly
wouldn't have suited her book anyhow.”
Silence again, and then further talk on indifferent things.
“Wish Benson wouldn't sweep the soda water off the table.” “Ring for
it.” “The little thing really cares for me, don't you know. And it isn't
my fault, is it? I had to hedge. Frank, dear boy, you're always taunting
me with the treadmill we have to turn for the sake of society, and so
forth, but with debts about a man's neck like a millstone, what could
one do----”
“I don't mean that you're worse than others, old fellow, or that
sacrificing this one poor child is going to mend matters much----”
“No, it isn't likely to improve my style of going, is it?”
“But that man John Storm was not so far wrong, after all, and for
this polygamy of our 'lavender-glove tribe' the nation itself will be
overtaken by the judgment of God one of these days.”
Lord Robert broke into a peal of derisive laughter. “Go on,” he cried.
“Go on, dear boy! It's funny to hear you, though--after to-day's
proceedings too”; and he glanced significantly around the table.
Drake brought down his fist with a thump on to the mantelpiece. “Hold
your tongue, Robert! How often am I to tell you this is a different
thing entirely? Because I discover a creature of genius and try to help
her to the position she deserves----”
“You hypocrite, if it had been a man instead of a charming little woman
with big eyes, don't you know----”
But there had been a ring at the outer door, and Benson came in to say
that a clergyman was waiting downstairs.
“Little Golightly again!” said Lord Robert wearily. “Are these
everlasting arrangements never----”
The man stopped him. It was not Mr. Golightly; it was a stranger; would
not give his name; looked like a Catholic priest; had been there before,
he thought.
“Can it be---Talk of the devil----”
“Ask him up,” said Drake. And while Drake bit his lip and clinched his
hands, and Lord Robert took up a scent bottle and sprayed himself with
eau de cologne, they saw a man clad in the long coat of a priest come
into the room--calm, grave, self-possessed, very pale, with hollow and
shaven cheeks and dark and sunken eyes, which burned with a sombre fire,
and head so closely cropped as to seem to be almost bald.
John Storm's anger had cooled. As he crossed the park the heat of his
soul had turned to fear, and while he stood in the hall below, with an
atmosphere of perfume about him, and even a delicate sense of a feminine
presence, his fear had turned to terror. On that account he had refused
to send up his name, and on going up the staircase, lined with prints,
he had been tempted to turn about and fly lest he should come upon
Glory face to face. But finding only the two men in the room above, his
courage came back and he hated himself for his treacherous thought of
her.
“You will forgive me for this unceremonious visit, sir,” he said,
addressing himself to Drake.
Drake motioned to him to be seated. He bowed, but continued to stand.
“Your friend will remember that I have been here before.”
Lord Robert bent his head, and went on trifling with the spray.
“It was a painful errand relating to a girl who had been nurse at the
hospital. The girl was nothing to me, but she had a companion who was
very much.”
Drake nodded and his lips stiffened, but he did not speak.
“You are aware that since then I have been away from the hospital. I
wrote to you on the subject; you will remember that.”
“Well?” said Drake.
“I have only just returned, and have come direct from the hospital now.”
“Well?”
“I see you know what I mean, sir. My young friend has gone. Can you tell
me where to find her?”
“Sorry I can not,” said Drake coldly, and it stung him to see a look of
boundless relief cross the grave face in front of him.
“Then you don't know----”
“I didn't say that,” said Drake, and then the lines of pain came back.
“At the request of her people I brought her up to London. Naturally
they will look to me for news of her, and I feel responsible for her
welfare.”
“If that is so, you must pardon me for saying you've taken your duty
lightly,” said Drake.
John Storm gripped the rail of the chair in front of him, and there was
silence for a moment.
“Whatever I may have to blame myself with in the past, it would relieve
me to find her well and happy and safe from all harm.”
“She _is_ well and happy, and safe too--I can tell you that much.”
There was another moment of silence, and then John Storm said in broken
sentences and in a voice that was struggling to control itself: “I have
known her since she was a child, sir---You can not think how many tender
memories---It is nearly a year since I saw her, and one likes to see old
friends after an absence.”
Drake did not speak, but he dropped his head, for John's eyes had begun
to fill.
“We were good friends too. Boy and girl comrades almost. Brother and
sister, I should say, for that was how I liked to think of myself--her
elder brother bound to take care of her.”
There was a little trill of derisive laughter from the other side of
the room, where Lord Robert had put the spray down noisily and turned to
look out into the street. Then John Storm drew himself up and said in a
firm voice:
“Gentlemen, why should I mince matters? I will not do so. The girl we
speak of is more to me than anybody else in the world besides. Perhaps
she was one of the reasons why I went into that monastery. Certainly she
is the reason I have come out of it. I have come to find her. I _shall_
find her. If she is in difficulty or danger I intend to save her. Will
you tell me where she is?”
“Mr. Storm,” said Drake, “I am sorry, very sorry, but what you say
compels me to speak plainly. The lady is well and safe and happy. If her
friends are anxious about her she can reassure them for herself, and
no doubt she has already done so. But in the position she occupies at
present you are a dangerous man. It might not be her wish, and it would
not be to her advantage, to meet with you, and I can, not allow her to
run the risk.”
“Has it come to that? Have you a right to speak for her, sir?”
“Perhaps I have----” Drake hesitated, and then said with a rush, “the
right to protect her against a fanatic.”
John Storm curbed himself; he had been through a long schooling. “Man,
be honest,” he said. “Either your interest is good or bad, selfish or
unselfish. Which is it?”
Drake made no answer.
“But it would be useless to bandy words. I didn't come here to do that.
Will you tell me where she is?”
“No.”
“Then it is to be a duel between us--is that so? You for the girl's body
and I for her soul? Very well, I take your challenge.”
There was silence once more, and John Storm's eyes wandered about the
room. They fixed themselves at length on the sketch by the pier-glass.
“On my former visit I met with the same reception. The girl could take
care of herself. It was no business of mine. How that relation has ended
I do not ask. But this one----”
“This one is an entirely different matter,” said Drake, “and I will
thank you not to----”
But John Storm was making the sign of the cross on his breast, and
saying, as one who was uttering a prayer, “God grant it is and always
may be!”
At the next moment he was gone from the room. The two men stood where he
had left them until his footsteps had ceased on the stairs and the door
had closed behind him. Then Drake cried, “Benson--a telegraph form! I
must telegraph to Koenig at once.”
“Yes, he'll follow her up on the double quick,” said Lord Robert. “But
what matter? His face will be enough to frighten the girl. Ugh! It was
the face of a death's head!”
At dinner that night John Storm was more than usually silent. To break
in upon his gravity, Mrs. Callender asked him what he intended to do
next.
“To take priest's orders without delay,” he said.
“And what then?”
“Then,” he said, lifting a twitching and suffering face “to make an
attack on the one mighty stronghold of the devil's kingdom whereof woman
is the direct and immediate victim; to tell Society over again it is an
organized hypocrisy for the pursuit and demoralization of woman, and the
Church that bachelorhood is not celibacy, and polygamy is against
the laws of God; to look and search for the beaten and broken who lie
scattered and astray in our bewildered cities, and to protect them and
shelter them whatever they are, however low they have fallen, because
they are my sisters and I love them.”
“God bless ye, laddie! That's spoken like a man,” said the old woman,
rising from her seat.
But John Storm's pale face had already flushed up to the eyes, and he
dropped his head as one who was ashamed.