Glory sang that night with extraordinary vivacity and charm and was
called back again and again. Going home in the cab she tried to live
through the day afresh--every step, every act, every word, down to that
triumphant “_I_ will.” Her thoughts swayed as with the swaying of the
hansom, but sometimes the thunderous applause of the audience broke in,
and then she had to remember where she had left off. She could feel that
beating against her breast still, and even smell the violets that grew
by the pool. He had told her to give up everything, and there was
an exquisite thrill in the thought that perhaps some day she would
annihilate herself and all her ambitions, and--who knows what then?
This mood lasted until Monday morning, when she was sitting in her
room, dressing very slowly and smiling at herself in the glass, when the
Cockney maid came in with a newspaper which her master had sent up on
account of its long report of the wedding.
“The Church of All Saints' was crowded by a fashionable congregation,
among whom were many notable persons in the world of politics and
society, including the father of the bridegroom, the Duke of ---- and
his brother, the Marquis of ----. An arch of palms crossed the nave at
the entrance to the chancel, and festoons of rare flowers were suspended
from the rails of the handsome screen. The altar and the table of the
commandments were almost obscured by the wreaths of exotics that hung
over them, and the columns of the colonnade, the font and offertory
boxes were similarly buried in rich and lovely blossom.
“Thanks to an informal rehearsal some days before, the ceremony went off
without a hitch. The officiating clergy were the Venerable Archdeacon
Wealthy, D. D., assisted by the Rev. Josiah Golightly and other members
of the numerous staff of All Saints'. The service, which was fully
choral, was under the able direction of the well-known organist and
choirmaster, Mr. Carl Koenig, F. R. C. O., and the choir consisted
of twenty adult and forty boy voices. On the arrival of the bride a
procession was formed at the west entrance and proceeded up to the
chancel, singing 'The voice that breathed o'er Eden----”
“Poor Polly!” thought Glory.
“The bride wore a duchess satin gown trimmed with chiffon and Brussels
lace, and having a long train hung from the shoulders. Her tulle veil
was fastened with a ruby brooch and with sprays of orange blossom sent
specially from the Riviera, and her necklace consisted of a rope of
graduated pearls fully a yard long, and understood to have belonged to
the jewel case of Catharine of Russia. She carried a bouquet of flowers
(the gift of the bridegroom) brought from Florida, the American home
of her family. The bride's mother wore---- The bridesmaids were
dressed----Mr. Horatio Drake acted as best man----”
Glory drew her breath as with a spasm and threw down the newspaper. How
blind she had been, how vain, how foolish! She had told John Storm that
Drake was only a good friend to her, meaning him to understand that thus
far she allowed him to go and no farther. But there was a whole realm of
his life into which he did not ask her to enter. The “notable persons in
politics and society,” “the bridesmaids,” these made up his real sphere,
his serious scene. Other women were his friends, companions, equals,
intimates, and when he stood in the eye of the world it was they who
stood beside him. And she? She was his hobby. He came to her in his off
hours. She filled up the under side of his life.
With a crushing sense of humiliation she was folding up the newspaper
to send it downstairs when her eye was arrested by a paragraph in small
type in the corner. It was headed “Shocking occurrence at a fashionable
wedding.”
“Oh, good gracious!” she cried. A glance had shown her what it was. It
was a report of Polly's suicide.
“At a fashionable wedding at a West-End church on Saturday” (no names)
“a young woman who had been sitting in the nave was seen to rise and
attempt to step into the aisle, as if with the intention of crushing
her way out, when she fell back in convulsions, and on being removed was
found to be dead. Happily, the attention of the congregation was at the
moment directed to the bride and bridegroom, who were returning from the
vestry with the bridal party behind them, and thus the painful incident
made no sensation among the crowded congregation. The body was removed
to the parish mortuary, and from subsequent inquiries it transpired that
death had been due to poison self-administered, and that the deceased
was Elizabeth Anne Love (twenty-four), of no occupation, but formerly a
nurse--a circumstance which had enabled her to procure half a grain of
liquor strychninae on her own signature at a chemist's where she had
been known.”
“O God! O God!” Glory understood everything now. “I've a great mind to
go to All Saints' and shame them--Oh, it isn't the police I'm afraid
of.” Polly's purpose was clear. She had intended to fall dead at the
feet of the bride and bridegroom and make them walk over her body.
Poor, foolish, ineffectual Polly! Her very ghost must be ashamed of the
failure of her revenge. Not a ripple of sensation on Saturday, and this
morning only a few obscure lines in little letters!
Oh, it was hideous! The poor thing's vengeance was theatrical and
paltry, but what of the man, wherever he was? What did he think of
himself now, with his millions and his murder? Yes, his murder, for what
else was it?
An hour later Glory was ringing the bell of a little house in St. John's
Wood whereof the upper blinds were drawn. The grating of the garden door
slid back and an untidy head looked out.
“Well, ma'am?”
“Don't you remember me, Liza?”
“Lawd, yus, miss!” and the door was opened immediately; “but I was
afeard you was one o' them reportin' people, and my orders is not to
answer no questions.”'
“Has _he_ been here, then?”
“Blesh ye, no, miss! He's on 'is way to the Continents. But 'is friend
'as, and he's settled everything 'andsome--I will say that for the
gentleman.”
Glory felt her gall rising; there was something degrading, almost
disreputable, even in the loyalty of Drake's friendship.
“Fancy Liza not knowing you, miss, and me at the moosic 'all a Tuesday
night! I 'ope you'll excuse the liberty, but I _did_ laugh, and I won't
say but I shed a few tears too. Arranged? Yes, the jury and the coroner
and every-think. It's to be at twelve o'clock, so you may think I've 'ad
my 'ands full. But you'll want to look at 'er, pore thing! Go up, miss,
and mind yer 'ead; there's nobody but 'er friends with 'er now.”
The friends proved to be Betty Belmont and her dressing-room companions.
When Glory entered they showed no surprise. “The pore child told us all
about you,” said Betty; and the little one said: “It's your nyme that
caught on, dear. The minute I heard it I said what a top-line for a,
bill!”
It was the same little bandbox of a bedroom, only now it was darkened
and Polly's troubles were over. There was a slightly convulsed look
about the mouth, but the features were otherwise calm and childlike, for
all the dead are innocent.
The three women with demure faces were sipping Benedictine and talking
among themselves, and Polly's pug dog was coiled up on the bare bolster
and snoring audibly.
“Pore thing! I don't know how she could 'a done it. But there, that's
the worst of this life! It's all in the present and leads to nothing
and ain't got no future.” “What could the pore thing do? She wasn't so
wonderful pretty; and then men like----” “She was str'ight with him, say
what yer like. Only she ought to been more patienter, and she needn't 'a
been so hard on the lady, neither.” “She had everything the heart could
wish. Look at her rooms! I wonder who'll----”
Carriages were heard outside, and two or three men came in to do the
last offices. Glory had turned her face away, but behind her the women
were still talking. “Wait a minute, mister! ... What a lovely ring! ...
I wish I had a keepsake to remember her by.” “Well, and why not? She
won't want----”
Glory felt as if she was choking, but Polly's pug dog had been awakened
by the commotion and was beginning to howl, so she took up the little
mourner and carried it out. An organ-man somewhere near was playing
Sweet Marie.
The funeral was at Kensal Green, and the four girls were the only
followers. The coroner's verdict being _felo-de-se_, the body was not
taken into the chapel, but a clergyman met it at the gate and led the
way to the grave. Walking with her head down and the dog under her arm,
Glory had not seen him at first, but when he began with the tremendous
words, “I am the resurrection and the life,” she caught her breath and
looked up. It was John Storm.
While they were in the carriage the clouds had been gathering, and now
some spots of rain were falling. When the bearers had laid down their
burden the spots were large and frequent, and all save one of the men
turned and went back to the shelter of the porch. The three women looked
at each other, and one of them muttered something about “the dead and
the living,” and then the little lady stole away. After a moment the
tall one followed her, and from shame of being ashamed the third one
went off also.
By this time the rain was falling in a sharp shower, and John Storm, who
was bareheaded, had opened his book and begun to read: “Forasmuch as it
hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the
soul of our dear sister here departed----”
Then he saw that Glory was alone by the graveside, and his voice
faltered and almost failed him. It faltered again, and he halted when he
came to the “sure and certain hope,” but after a moment it quivered and
filled out and seemed to say, “Which of us can sound the depths of God's
design?” After the “maimed rites” were over, John Storm went back to the
chapel to remove his surplice, and when he returned to the grave Glory
was gone.
She sang as usual at the music hall that night, but with a heavy heart.
The difference communicated itself to the audience, and the unanimous
applause which had greeted her before frayed off at length into separate
hand-claps. Crossing the stage to her dressing-room she met Koenig, who
came to conduct for her, and he said:
“Not quite yourself to-night, my dear, eh?”
Going home in the hansom, Polly's dog coddled up with the old sympathy
to the new mistress, and seemed to be making the best of things. The
household was asleep, and Glory let herself in with a latch-key. Her
cold supper was laid ready, and a letter was lying under the turned-down
lamp. It was from her grandfather, and had been written after church on
Sunday night:
“It is now so long--more than a year--since I saw my runaway and truant
that, notwithstanding the protests of Aunt Anna and the forebodings of
Aunt Rachel, I have determined to give my old legs a journey and my old
eyes a treat. Therefore take warning that I intend to come up to London
forthwith, that I may see the great city for the first time in my life,
and--which is better--my little granddaughter among all her new friends
and in the midst of her great prosperity.”
At the foot of this there was a postscript from Aunt Rachel, hastily
scrawled in pencil:
“Take no notice of this. He is far too weak to travel, and indeed he
is really failing; but your letter, which reached us last night, has so
troubled him ever since that he can't take rest for thinking of it.”
It was the last straw. Before finishing the letter or taking off her
hat, Glory took up a telegraph form and wrote, “Postpone journey--am
returning home to-morrow.” Then she heard Koenig letting himself into
the house, and going downstairs she said:
“Will you take this message to the telegraph office for me, please?”
“Vhy, of course I vill, and den ve'll have supper togeder--look!” and he
laughed and opened a paper and drew out a string of sausages.
“Mr. Koenig,” she said, “you were right. I was not myself to-night. I
want a rest, and I propose to take one.”
As Glory returned upstairs she heard stammerings, sputterings, and
swearings behind her about managers, engagements, announcements,
geniuses, children, and other matters. Back in her room she lay down on
the floor, with her face in her hands, and sobbed. Then Koenig appeared,
panting and saying: “Dere! I knew vhat vould happen! Here's a pretty
ting! And dat's vhy Mr. Drake told me to deny you to de man. De brute,
de beast, de dirty son of a monk!”
But Glory had leaped up with eyes of fire, and was crying: “How dare
you, sir? Out of my room this instant!”
“Mein Gott! It's a divil!” Koenig was muttering like a servant as he
went downstairs. He went out to the telegraph office and came back, and
then Glory heard him frying his sausages on the dining-room fire.
The night was far gone when she pushed aside her untouched supper,
and, wiping her eyes, that she might see properly, sat down to write a
letter.
“Dear John Storm (monk, monster, or whatever it is!): I trust it will be
counted to me for righteousness that I am doing your bidding and giving
up my profession--for the present.
“Between a woman's 'yes' and 'no'
There isn't room for a pin to go,
which is very foolish of her in this instance, considering that she is
earning various pounds a night and has nothing but Providence to fall
back upon. I have told my jailer I must have my liberty, and, being a
man of like passions with yourself, he has been busy blaspheming in the
parlour downstairs. I trust virtue will be its own reward, for I dare
say it is all I shall ever get. If I were Narcissus I should fall in
love with myself to-day, having shown an obedience to tyranny which is
beautiful and worthy of the heroic age. But to-morrow morning I go back
to the 'oilan,' and it will be so nice up there without anybody and all
alone!”
She was laughing softly to herself as she wrote, and catching her breath
with a little sob at intervals.
“A letter now and then is profitable to the soul of man--and--woman; but
you must not expect to hear from _me_, and as for you, though you _have_
resurrected yourself, I suppose a tyrant of your opinions will continue
the Benedictine rule which compels you to hold your peace--and other
things. I am engaged to breakfast with a nice girl named Glory Quayle
to-morrow morning--that is to say, _this_ morning--at Euston Station at
a quarter to seven, but happily this letter won't reach you until 7.30,
so I'll just escape interruption.”
The house was still and the streets were quiet, not even a cab going
along.
“Good-bye! I've realized--a dog! It's a pug, and therefore, like
somebody else, it always looks black at me, though I suspect its father
married beneath him, for it talks a good deal, and evidently hasn't been
brought up in a Brotherhood. Therefore, being a 'female,' I intend to
call it Aunt Anna--except when the original is about. Aunt Anna has been
hopping up and down the room at my heels for the last hour, evidently
thinking that a rational woman would behave better if she went to bed.
Perhaps I shall take a leaf out of your book and 'comb her hair,' when
I get her all alone in the train to-morrow, that she may be prepared for
the new sphere to which it has pleased Providence to call her.
“Good-bye again! I see the lamps of Euston running after each other,
only it's the _other_ way this time. I find there is something that
seizes you with a fiercer palpitation than coming _into_ a great and
wonderful city, and that is going out of one. Dear old London! After
all, it has been very good to me. No one, it seems to me, loves it as
much as I do. Only somebody thinks--well, never mind! Goodbye 'for all!'
Glory.”
At seven next morning, on the platform at Euston, Glory was standing
with melancholy eyes at the door of a first-class compartment watching
the people sauntering up and down, talking in groups and hurrying to
and fro, when Drake stepped up to her. She did not ask what had brought
him--she knew. He looked fresh and handsome, and was faultlessly
dressed.
“You are doing quite right, my dear,” he said in a cheerful voice.
“Koenig telegraphed, and I came to see you off. Don't bother about
the theatre; leave everything to me. Take a rest after your great
excitement, and come back bright and well.”
The locomotive whistled and began to pant, the smoke rose to the roof,
the train started, and before Glory knew she was going she was gone.
Then Drake walked to his club and wrote this postscript to a letter to
Lord Robert Ure, at the Grand Hotel, Paris: “The Parson has drawn first
blood, and Gloria has gone home!”