On the day of the drawing-room meeting a large company gathered in
the hall at Belgrave Square. Lady Robert Ure, back from the honeymoon,
received the guests for her mother, whose weak heart and a headache kept
her upstairs. Her husband stood aside, chewing the end of his mustache
and looking through his eyeglass with a gleam of amused interest in his
glittering eye. There were many ladies, all fashionably dressed, and
one of them wore a seagull's wing in her hat, with part of the root left
visible and painted red to show that it had been torn out of the living
bird. The men were nearly all clergymen, and the cut of their cloth and
the fashions of their ties indicated the various complexions of their
creeds. They glanced at each other with looks of embarrassment, and Mrs.
Callender, who came in like a breeze off a Scottish moor, said audibly
that she had never seen “sae many craws on one tree before.” The
Archdeacon was there with his head up, talking loudly to Lady Robert.
She stood motionless in her place, never turning her head toward John
Storm, though it was plain that she was looking at him constantly. More
than once he caught an expression of pain in her face, and felt pity for
her as one of the brides who had acted the lie of marrying without love.
But his spirits were high. He welcomed everybody, and even bantered Mrs.
Callender when she told him she “objected to the hale thing,” and said,
“Weel, weel, wait a wee.”
The Archdeacon gave the signal and led the way with Lady Robert to the
drawing-room, where Mrs. Macrae, redolent of perfume, was reclining on
a sofa with the “lady poodle” by her side. As soon as the company were
seated the Archdeacon rose and coughed loudly.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “we have no assurance of a blessing
except 'Ask and ye shall receive.' Therefore, before we go further,
it is our duty, as brethren of a common family in Christ, to ask the
blessing of Almighty God on this enterprise.”
There was a subdued rustle of drooping hats and bonnets, when suddenly a
thin voice was heard to say, “Mr. Archdeacon, may I inquire first who is
to ask the blessing?”
“I thought of doing so myself,” said the Archdeacon with a meek smile.
“In that case, as a Unitarian, I must object to an invocation in which I
do not believe.”
There was a half-suppressed titter from the wall at the back, where Lord
Robert Ure was standing with his face screwed up to his eyeglass.
“Well, if the name of our Lord is a stumbling block to our Unitarian,
brother, no doubt the prayer in this instance would be acceptable
without the customary Christian benediction.”
“That's just like you,” said a large man near the door, with whiskers
all round his face. “You've been trimming all your life, and now you are
going to trim away the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.”
“If our Low-Church brother thinks he can do better----”
But John Storm intervened. He had looked icy cold, though the twitching
of his lower lip showed that he was red hot within.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a quavering voice, “I apologize for
bringing you together. I thought if we were in earnest about the union
of Christendom we might at least unite in the real contest with evil.
But I find it is a dream; we have only been trifling with ourselves, and
there is not one of us who wants the union of Christendom, except on the
condition that his rod shall be like Aaron's rod which swallowed up all
the rest. It was a mistake, and I beg your pardon.”
“Yes, sir,” said the Archdeacon, “it _was_ a mistake; and if you had
taken my advice from the first, and asked the blessing of God through
good High Churchmen alone----”
“God doesn't wait for any asking,” said John, now flushing up to
the eyes. “He gives freely to High Churchmen, Low Churchmen, and No
Churchmen alike.”
“If that is your opinion, sir, you are no better than some of your
friends, and for my part I will never darken your door again!”
“_Darken_ is a good word for it, Archdeacon,” said John, and with that
the company broke up.
Mrs. Macrae looked like a thunder-cloud as John bowed to her on passing
out, but Mrs. Callender cried out in a jubilant voice, “Be skipper
of your ain ship, laddie!” and added (being two yards behind the
Archdeacon's broad back going down the stairs), “If some folks are to
be inheritors of the kingdom of heaven there'll be a michty crush at the
pearly gates, I'm thinking!”
John Storm went back to Soho with a heavy heart. Going up Victoria
Street he passed a crowd of ragged people who were ploughing their way
through the carriages. Two constables were taking a man and woman to the
police court in Rochester Row. The prisoners were Sharkey, the keeper of
the gambling house, and his wife the baby-farmer.
But within a week John Storm, in greater spirits than ever, was writing
to Glory again:
“The Archdeacon has deserted me, but no matter! My uncle has advanced
me another thousand of my mother's money, so the crusade is
_self_-supporting in one sense at all events. What a fool I am! Ask Aunt
Anna her opinion of me, or say old Chalse or the village natural--but
never mind! Folly and wisdom are relative terms, and I don't envy the
world its narrow ideas of either. You would be amused to see how the
women of the West End are taking up the movement--Lady Robert Ure among
the rest! They have banded themselves into a Sisterhood, and christened
our clergy-house a 'Settlement.' One of my Greek owners came in the
other evening to see the alterations. His eyes glistened at the change,
and he asked leave to bring a friend. I trust you are well and settling
things comfortably, and that Miss Macquarrie has gone. It is raining
through a colander here, but I have no time to think of depressing
weather. Sometimes when I cross our great squares, where the birds sing
among the yellowing leaves, my mind goes off to your sweet home in the
sunshine; and when I drop into the dark alleys and lanes, where the
pale-faced children play in their poverty and rags, I think of a day
that is coming, and, God willing, is now so near, when a ministering
angel of tenderness and strength will be passing through them like a
gleam. But I am more than ever sure that you do well to avoid for the
present the pompous joys of life in London, where for one happy being
there are a thousand pretenders to happiness.”
On the Sunday night following, Crook Lane, outside the clergy-house, was
almost blocked with noisy people of both sexes. They were a detachment
of the “Skeletons,” and the talk among them was of the trial of the
Sharkeys, which had taken place the day before. “They've 'ed six
menths,” said one. “And it's all along o' minjee parsons,” said another;
and Charlie Wilkes, who had a certain reputation for humour, did a
step-dance and sang some doggerel beginning--
Father Storm is a werry good man,
'E does you all the 'arm 'e can.
Through this crowd two gentlemen pushed their way to the clergy-house,
which was brilliantly lit up. One of them was the Greek owner, the other
was Lord Robert Ure. Entering a large room on the ground floor, they
first came upon John Storm, in cassock and biretta, standing at the door
and shaking hands with everybody who came in and went out. He betrayed
no surprise, but greeted them respectfully and then passed them on.
Every moment of his time was occupied. The room was full of the young
girls of the district, with here and there a Sister out of another
world entirely. Some were reading, some conversing, some laughing, some
playing a piano, and some singing. Their voices filled the air like the
chirping of birds, and their faces were bright and happy. “Good-evening,
Father,” they said on entering, and “Good-night, Father,” as they went
away.
The two men stood some minutes and looked round the room. It was
observed that Lord Robert did not remove his hat. He kept chewing the
end of a broken cigarette, whereof the other end hung down his chin. One
of the Sisters heard him say, “It will do with a little alteration, I
think.” Then he went off alone, and the Greek owner stepped up to John
Storm.
It was not at first that John could attend to him, and when he was able
to do so he began to rattle on about his own affairs. “See,” he said
with a delighted smile and a wave of the arm, “see how crowded we are!
We'll have to think of taking in the next door soon.”
“Father Storm,” said the Greek, “I have something serious to say, though
the official notification will of course reach you by another channel.”
John's face darkened as a ripe cornfield does when the sun dies away
from it.
“I am sorry to tell you that the trustees, having had a favourable offer
for this property----”
“Well?” His great staring eyes had stopped the man.
“----have decided to sell.”
“_Sell_? Did you say se----? To whom? What?”
“To tell you the truth, to the syndicate of a music hall.”
John staggered back, breathing audibly. “Now if a man had to believe
that--Do you know if I thought such a thing _could_ happen----”
“I'm sorry you take the matter so seriously, Father Storm. It's true
you've spent money on the property, but, believe me, the trustees will
derive no profit----”
“Profit? Money? Do you suppose I'm thinking of that, and not of
the desecration, the outrage, the horror? But who are they? Is that
man--Lord----”
The Greek had nodded his head, and John flung open the door. “Out of
this! Out of it, you Judas!” And almost before the Greek had crossed the
threshold the door was banged at his back.
The incident had been observed, and there was dead silence in the
club-room, but John only cried, “Let's sing something, girls,” and when
a Sister struck up his favourite Nazareth there was no voice so loud as
his.
But he had realized everything. “Gloria” was coming back, and the work
of months was overthrown!
When he was going home groups of the girls were talking in whispers in
the hall, and Mrs. Pincher, who was wiping her eyes at the door, said,
“I wonder you don't drown yourself--I do!”
At the corner of the lane Mr. Jupe was waiting for him to beg his pardon
and to ask his advice. What he had said of Mrs. Jupe had turned out to
be true. The Sharkeys had “split” on her and she had been arrested. “It
was all in the evenin' pipers last night,” the weak creature whimpered,
“and to-day my manager told me I 'ad best look out for another place.
Oh, my poor Lidjer! What am I to do?”
“Do? Cut her off like a rotten bough!” said John scornfully, and with
that he strode down the street. The human sea roared around him, and
he felt as if he wanted to fling himself into the midst of it and be
swallowed up.
On reaching Victoria Square he told Mrs. Callender the news--flung it
out at her with a sort of triumphant shout. His church had been sold
over his head, and being only “Chaplain to the Greek-Turks,” he was to
be turned into the streets. Then he laughed wildly, and by some devilish
impulse began to abuse Glory. “The next chaplain is to be a girl,” he
cried, “one of those creatures who throw kisses at gaping crowds and
sweep curtsies for their dirty crusts.”
But all at once he turned white as a ghost and sat down trembling. Mrs.
Callender's face was twitching, and to prevent herself from crying
she burst into scorching satire. “There!” she said, sitting in her
rocking-chair and rocking herself furiously, “I ken'd weel what it would
come til! Adversity mak's a man wise, they say, if it doesna mak' him
rich. But it's the Prime Minister I blame for this. The auld dolt! he
must be fallen to his dotage. It's enough to mak' a reasonable body go
out of her mind to think of sic wise asses. I told you what to expect,
but you were always miscalling me for a suspicious auld woman. Oh, it's
a thing ye'd no suspect; but Jane Callender is only a daft auld fool, ye
see, and doesna ken what she's saying!”
But at the next moment she had jumped up and flung her arms about John's
neck, and was crying over him like a girl. “Oh, my son! my ain son!
And is it for me to fling out at ye? Aye, aye, it's a heartless world,
laddie!”
He kissed the old woman, and then she tried to coax him to eat. “Come,
come, a wee bittie, just a wee bittie. We must eat our supper anyway.”
“God seems dead and heaven a long way off!” he murmured.
“And a drap o' whisky will do no harm--a wee drappie.”
“There's only one thing clear--God sees I'm unfit for the work, so he
has taken it away from me.”
She turned aside from the table, and the supper was left untouched.
* * * * *
The first post next morning brought a letter from Glory.
“The Garden House,
“Clement's Inn, W. C.
“Forgive me! I have returned to town! I couldn't help it, I couldn't, I
couldn't! London dragged me back. What was I to do after everything was
settled and the aunties provided for?--assist in a dame's school and
wage war with pothooks and hangers? Oh! I was dying of weariness--dying,
dying, dying!
“And then they made me such tempting offers. Not the music hall--don't
think that. I dare say you were quite right there. No, but the theatre,
the regular theatre! Mr. Drake has bought some broken-down old place,
and is to turn it into a beautiful theatre expressly for me. I am to
play Juliet. Only think--Juliet!--and in my own theatre! Already I feel
like a liberated slave who has crossed her Red Sea.
“And don't think a woman's mourning is like the silly old laws which
lasted but three days. _He_ is buried in my heart, not in the earth,
and I shall love him and revere him always! And then didn't you tell me
yourself it would not be right to allow his death to stop my life?
“Write and say you forgive me, John. Reply by return, and make yourself
your own postman--registered. You'll find me here at Rosa's. Come, come,
come! I'll never forgive you if you don't come soon--never, never!
“Glory.”