It was a beautiful May morning, and standing by the Paddington Station
with the dog at his feet, he felt her approach instinctively as she came
toward him with her free step in her white cambric dress under the light
parasol fringed with lace. Her face was glowing with the fresh air, and
she looked happy and bright. As they walked into the station she
poured out a stream of questions about the dog, took possession of him
straightway, and concluded to call him Don.
They agreed to spend the day at Burnham Beeches, and while he went
for the tickets she stepped on to the platform. It was Saturday, the
bookstall was ablaze with the picture papers, and one of them was
prominently displayed at a page containing her own portrait. She wanted
John to see this, so she invented an excuse for bringing him face to
face with it, and then she laughed and he bought the paper.
The clerk recognised her--they could see that by the smile he kept in
reserve--and a group of officers in the Guards, in flannels and straw
hats, going down to their club at Maidenhead, looked at her and nudged
each other as if they knew who she was. Her eyes danced, her lips
smiled, and she was proud that John should see the first fruits of her
fame. She was proud of him, too, with his bold walk and strong carriage,
as they passed the officers in their negligent dress, with their red and
blue neckties. But John's heart was aching, and he was wondering how he
was to begin on the duty he had to do.
From the moment they started she gave herself up to the delights of
their holiday, and even the groaning and cranking and joggling of
the train amused her. When the Guards had got into their first-class
carriage they had glanced at the open window where her brilliant eyes
and rosy lips were gleaming behind a veil. John gazed at her with his
slow and tender looks, and felt guilty and ashamed.
They left the train at Slough, and a wave of freshness, with an odour of
verdure and sap, blew into their faces. The dog leaped and barked, and
Glory skipped along with it, breaking every moment into enthusiastic
exclamations. There was hardly any wind, and the clouds, which were very
high overhead, were scarcely moving. It was a glorious day, and Glory's
face wore an expression of perfect happiness.
They lunched at the old hotel in the town, with the window open, and
the swallows darting in the air outside, and Glory, who took milk “for
remembrance,” rose and said, “I looks toward Mr. Storm,” and then drank
his health and swept him the prettiest courtesy. All through lunch she
kept feeding the dog from her own fingers, and at the end rebuked him
for spreading his bones in a half circle across the carpet, a thing
which was never done, she said, in the best society, this side the
Cannibal Islands.
“By-and-bye,” he thought, “time enough by-and-bye,” for the charm of her
joy was infectious.
The sun was high when they started on their walk, and her face looked
flushed and warm. But through the park-like district to the wood she
raced with Don, and made him leap over her sunshade and roll over
and over on the bright green grass. The larks were trilling overhead,
everything was humming and singing.
“Let her have one happy day,” he thought, and they began to call and
shout to each other.
Then they came to the beeches, and, being sheltered from the fiery rays
of the sun, she put down her sunshade and John took off his hat. The
silence and gloom, the great gnarled trees, with their thews and sinews,
their arms and thighs and loins, the gentle rustle of the breeze in the
branches overhead, the deep accumulation of dead leaves underfoot, the
fluttering of wings, the low cooing of pigeons, and all the mystery
and wonder of the wood, brought a sense of awe, as on entering a mighty
minster in the dusk. But this wore away presently, and Glory began to
sing. Her pure voice echoed in the fragrant air, and the happiness so
long pent up and starved seemed to bubble in every word and note.
“Isn't this better than singing in music halls?” he thought, and then
he began to sing too, just like any happy boy, without thinking of
yesterday or to-morrow, of before or after. She smiled at him. He smiled
back. It was like a dream. After his long seclusion it was difficult to
believe it could be true. The open air, the perfume of the leaves they
were wading through, the silver bark of the birches and the blue peeps
of the sky between, and then Glory walking with her graceful motion,
and laughing and singing by his side! “I shall wake up in a minute,” he
thought, “I'm sure I shall!”
They sang one song together. It was Lasses and Lads, and to make
themselves think it was the old time back again they took each other's
hands and swung them to the tune. He felt her clasp like milk coursing
through his body, and a great wave of tenderness swept up his hard
resolve as sea-wrack is thrown up after a storm. “She is here; we are
together; why trouble about anything more?” and the time flew by.
But their voices went wrong immediately, and they were soon in
difficulties. Then she laughed, and they began again; but they could
not keep together, and as often as they tried they failed. “Ah, it's not
like the old days!” he thought, and a mood of sadness came over him.
He had begun to observe in Glory the trace of the life she had passed
through--words, phrases, ideas, snatches of slang, touches of moods
which had the note of a slight vulgarity. When the dog took a bone
uninvited she cried: “It's a click; you've sneaked it”; when John broke
down in the singing she told him to “chuck it off the chest”; and when
he stopped altogether she called him glum, and said she would “do it on
her own.”
“Why does he look so sorrowful?” she thought, and telling herself that
this came to people who were much alone, she rattled on more recklessly
than before.
She talked of the life of the music hall, the life at “the back,”
glorifying it by a tone of apology. It was all hurry-scurry, slap, dash,
and drive; no time to consider effects; a succession of last acts and
first nights; so it was really harder to be a music-hall woman than
a regular actress. And the music-hall woman was no worse than other
women--considering. Had he seen their ballet? It was fetching. Such
pages! Simply darlings! _They_ were the proud young birds of paradise
whom toffs like those Guards came to see, and it was fun to see them
pluming and preening themselves at the back, each for the eyes of her
own particular lord in the stalls. Thus she flung out unfamiliar notes,
hardly knowing their purport, but to John they were as slimy creatures
out of the social mire she had struggled through. O London! London! Its
shadow was over them even there, and go where they would, they could
never escape from it.
His former thought began to hang about him again, and he asked her to
tell him what had happened to her during his absence.
“Shall I?” she said. “Well, I brought three golden sovereigns out of the
hospital to distribute among the people of London, but, bless you, they
went nowhere.”
“And what then?”
“Then--then Hope was a good breakfast but a bad supper, you know. But
shall I tell you all? Yes, yes, I will.”
She told him of Mrs. Jupe, and of the deception she had practised upon
her people, and he turned his head that he might not see her tears. She
told him of the “Three Graces,” and of the stage manager--she called him
the “stage damager”--and then _she_ turned her head that she might hide
her shame. She told him of Josephs, the bogus agent, and his face grew
hard and his brown eyes looked black.
“And where did you say his place was?” he asked in a voice that vibrated
and broke.
“I didn't say,” she answered with a laugh and a tear.
She told him of Aggie, and of the foreign clubs, and of Koenig, and of
the dinner party at the Home Secretary's, and then she skipped a step
and cried:
“Ding, dong, dended,
My tale's ended.”
“And was it there you met Mr. Drake again?”
She replied with a nod.
“Never having seen him in the meantime?”
She pursed her lips and shook her head. “That's all over now, and what
matter? I likes to be jolly and I allwis is!”
“But is it all over?” he said, and he looked at her again with the deep
look that had cut into her heart.
“He's going to say something,” she thought, and she began to laugh,
but with a faint tremor, and giving the dog her parasol to carry in his
mouth, she took off her hat, swung it in her hand by the brim, and set
off to run.
There was the light shimmer of a pool at a level below, where the water
had drained to a bottom and was inclosed by beeches. The trees seemed
to hang over it with outstretched wings, like birds about to alight, and
round its banks there were plots of violets which filled the air with
their fragrance. It was a God-blest bit of ground, and when he came up
with her she was standing at the edge of the marshy mere panting and on
the point of tears, and saying, in a whisper, “Oh, how beautiful!”
“But however am I to get across?” she cried, looking with mock terror on
the two inches of water that barely covered the grass, and at the pretty
red shoes that peeped from under her dress.
Then something extraordinary occurred. She hardly knew what was
happening until it was over. Without a word, without a smile, he lifted
her up in his arms and carried her to the other side. She felt helpless
like a child, as if suddenly she belonged to herself no longer. Her head
had fallen on his shoulder and her heart was beating against his breast.
Or was it _his_ heart that was beating? When he put her down she was
afraid she was going to cry, so she began to laugh and to say they
mustn't lose that 7.30 to London or the “rag” would be rolling up
without her and the “stage damager” would be using “cuss words.”
They had to pass the old church of Stoke Pogis on the way back to the
town, and after looking at its timber belfry and steeple John suggested
that they should see the inside. The sexton was found working in the
garden at the side of the house, and he went indoors for the keys. “Here
they be, sir, and you being a pa'son I'll bide in the orchet. You and
your young missus can look at the church without me. 'A b'lieve 'a hev
seed it afore,” he said with a twinkle.
The church was dark and cool. There was a window representing an
angel ascending to heaven against a deep blue sky, and a squire's pew
furnished like a box at the theatre, with a carpet and even a stove. The
chairs in the front bore family crests, and behind them were inferior
chairs, without crests, for the servants. John had opened the little
modern organ and begun to play. After a while he began to sing. He sang
Nazareth, and his voice filled the empty church and went up into the
gloom of the roof, and echoed and returned, and it was almost as if
another voice were singing there.
Glory stood by his side and listened; a wonderful peace had come down
on her. Then the emotion that vibrated in his deep voice made something
surge up to her throat. “Life for evermore! Life for evermore!” All
at once she began to weep, to sob, and to laugh in a breath, and he
stopped.
“How ridiculous I am to-day! You'll think me a maniac,” she said. But
he only took her hand as if she had been a child and led her out of the
church.
Insensibly the day had passed into evening, and the horizontal rays of
the sun were dazzling their eyes as they returned to the hotel for tea.
In giving orders for this meal they had left the illustrated weekly
behind, and it was now clear from the easy smiles that greeted them that
the paper had been looked at and Glory identified. The room was ready,
with the table laid, the window closed, and a fire of wood in the dog
grate, for the chill of the evening was beginning to be felt. And to
make him forget what had happened at the church she put on a look of
forced gaiety and talked rapidly, frivolously, and at random. The
fresh air had given her such a colour that they would 'fairly eat her
to-night.' How tired she was, though! But a cup of tea would exhilarate
her “like a Johnnie's first whisky and soda in bed.”
He looked at her with his grave face; every word was cutting him like a
knife. “So you didn't tell the old folks at Glenfaba about the hospital
until later?”
“No. Have a cup of the 'girl'? They call champagne 'the boy' at 'the
back,' so I call tea 'the girl,' you know.”
“And when did you tell them about the music hall?”
“Yesterday. 'Muffins?'” and as she held out the plate she waggled the
wrist of her other hand, and mimicked the cry of the muffin man.
“Not until yesterday?”
She began to excuse herself. What was the use of taking people by
surprise? And then good people were sometimes so easily shocked!
Education and upbringing, and prejudices and even blood----
“Glory,” he said, “if you are ashamed of this life, believe me it is not
a right one.”
“Ashamed? Why should I be ashamed? Everybody is saying how proud I
should be.”
She spoke feverishly, and by a sudden impulse she plucked up the paper,
but as suddenly let it drop again, for, looking at his grave face,
her little fame seemed to shrivel up. “But give a dog a bad name
you know----You were there on Monday night. Did you see anything,
now--anything in the performance----”
“I saw the audience, Glory; that was enough for me. It is impossible for
a girl to live long in an atmosphere like that and be a good woman. Yes,
my child, impossible' God forbid that I should sit in judgment on any
man, still less on any woman!--but the women of the music hall, do they
remain good women? Poor souls, they are placed in a position so false
that it would require extraordinary virtue not to become false along
with it! And the whiter the soul that is dragged through that--that
mire, the more the defilement. The audiences at such places don't want
the white soul, they don't want the good woman, they want the woman who
has tasted of the tree of good and evil. You can see it in their faces,
and hear it in their laughter, and measure it in their applause. Oh, I'm
only a priest, but I've seen these places all the world over, and I know
what I'm saying, and I know it's true and you know it's true, Glory----”
Glory leaped up from the table and her eyes seemed to emit fire. “I know
it's hard and cruel and pitiless, and, since you were there on Monday
and saw how kind the audience was to _me_, it's personal and untrue as
well.”
But her voice broke and she sat down again and said in another tone:
“But, John, it's nearly a year, you know, since we saw each other last,
and isn't it a pity? Tell me, where are you living now? Have you made
your plans for the future? Oh, who do you think was with me just before
you called yesterday? Polly--Polly Love, you remember! She's grown stout
and plainer, poor thing, and I was so sorry----Her brother was in your
Brotherhood, wasn't he? Is he as strangely fond of her as ever? Is he?
Eh? Don't you understand? Polly's brother, I mean?”
“He's dead, Glory. Yes, dead. He died a month ago. Poor boy, he died
broken-hearted! He had come to hear of his sister's trouble at the
hospital. I was to blame for that. He never looked up again.”
There was silence; both were gazing into the fire, and Glory's mouth
was quivering. All at once she said: “John--John Storm, why can't you
understand that it's not the same with me as with other women? There
seem to be two women in me always. After I left the hospital I went
through a good deal. Nobody will ever know how much I went through. But
even at the worst, somehow I seemed to enjoy and rejoice in everything.
Things happened that made me cry, but there was another me that was
laughing. And that's how it is with the life I am living now. It is not
I myself that go through this--this mire, as you call it, it's only my
other self, my lower self, if you like, but I am not touched by it at
all. Don't you see that? Don't you, now?”
“There are professions which are a source of temptation, and talents
that are a snare, Glory----”
“I see, I see what you mean. There are not many ways a woman can succeed
in--that's the cruelty of things. But there are a few, and I've chosen
the one I'm fit for. And now, now that I've escaped from all that
misery, that meanness, and have brought the eyes of London upon me, and
the world is full of smiles for me, and sunshine, and I am happy, you
come at last, you that I couldn't find when I wanted you so much--oh,
so much!--because you had forgotten me; you come to me out of a darkness
like the grave and tell me to give it all up. Yes, yes, yes, that's what
you mean--give it all up! Oh, it's cruel!”
She covered her face with her hands and sobbed. He bent over her with a
sorrowful face and said, “My child, if I have come out of a darkness
as of the grave it is because I had _not_ forgotten you there, but was
thinking of you every day and hour.”
Her sobbing ceased, but the tears still flowed through her fingers.
“Before that poor lad abandoned hope he came out into the world
too-stole out-thinking to find his lost one. I told him to look for you
first, and he went to the hospital.”
“I saw him.”
“You!”
“It was on New Year's Eve. He passed me in the street.”
“Ah!--Well, he came back anyway, and said you were gone, and all trace
of you was lost. Did I forget you after that, Glory?”
His husky voice broke off suddenly, and he rose with a look of
wretchedness. “You are right, there are two selves in you, and the
higher self is so pure, so strong, so unselfish, so noble--Oh, I am sure
of it, Glory! Only there's no one to speak to it, no one. I try, but I
can not.”
She was still crying behind her hands.
“And meanwhile the lower self--there are only too many to speak to
_that_----”
Her hands came down from her disordered face and she said, “I know whom
you mean.”
“I mean the world.”
“No, indeed, you mean Mr. Drake. But you are mistaken. Mr. Drake has
been a good friend to me, but he isn't anything else, and doesn't want
to be. Can't you see that when you think of me and talk of me as you
would of some other women you hurt me and degrade me, and I can not bear
it? You see I am crying again--goodness knows why. But I sha'n't give up
my profession. The idea of such a thing! It's ridiculous! Think of Glory
in a convent! One of the poor Clares perhaps!”
“Hush!”
“Or back in the island serving out sewing at a mothers' meeting! Give it
up! Indeed I won't!”
“You shall and you must!”
“Who'll make me?”
“_I_ will!”
Then she laughed out wildly, but stopped on the instant and looked up at
him with glistening eyes. An intense blush came over her face, and her
looks grew bright as his grew fierce. A moment afterward the waiting
maid, with an inquisitive expression, was clearing the table and keeping
a smile in reserve for “the lovers' quarrel!”
Some of the Guardsmen were in the train going back, and at the next
station they changed to the carriage in which Glory and John were
sitting. Apparently they had dined before leaving their club at
Maidenhead, and they talked at Glory with covert smiles. “Going to the
Colosseum tonight?” said one. “If there's time,” said another. “Oh,
time enough. The attraction doesn't begin till ten, don't you know, and
nobody goes before.” “Tell me she's rippin'.” “Good--deuced good.”
Glory was sitting with her back to the engine drumming lightly on the
window and looking out at the setting sun. At first she felt a certain
shame at the obvious references, but, piqued at John's silence,
she began to take pride in them, and shot glances at him from under
half-closed eyelids. John was sitting opposite with his arms folded. At
the talk of the men he felt his hands contract and his lips grow cold
with the feeling that Glory belonged to everybody now and was common
property. Once or twice he looked at them and became conscious of an
impression, which had floated about him since he left the Brotherhood,
that nearly every face he saw bore the hideous stamp of self-indulgence
and sensuality.
But the noises of the train helped him not to hear, and he looked out
for London. It lay before them under a canopy of smoke, and now and then
a shaft from the setting sun lit up a glass roof and it glittered like a
sinister eye. Then there came from afar, over the creaking and groaning
of the wheels and the whistle of the engine, the deep, multitudinous
murmur of that distant sea. The mighty tide was rising and coming up
to meet them. Presently they were dashing into the midst of it, and
everything was drowned in the splash and roar.
The Guardsmen, being on the platform side, alighted first, and on going
off they bowed to Glory with rather more than easy manners. A dash of
the devil prompted her to respond demonstratively, but John had
risen and was taking off his hat to the men, and they were going away
discomfited. Glory was proud of him--he was a man and a gentleman.
He put her into a hansom under the lamps outside the station, and her
face was lit up, but she patted the dog and said: “You have vexed me and
you needn't come to see me again. I shall not sing properly this evening
or sleep tonight at all, if that is any satisfaction to you, so you
needn't trouble to inquire.”
* * * * *
When he reached home Mrs. Callender told him of a shocking occurrence at
the fashionable wedding at All Saints' that morning. A young woman had
committed suicide during the ceremony, and it turned out to be the poor
girl who had been dismissed from the hospital.
John Storm remembered Brother Paul. “I must bury her,” he thought.