But London is a monster with many hearts; it is capable of various
emotions, and even at that feverish time it was at the full tide of a
sensation of a different kind entirely. This was a new play and a new
player. The play was “risky”; it was understood to present the fallen
woman in her naked reality, and not as a soiled dove or sentimental
plaything. The player was the actress who performed this part. She was
new to the stage, and little was known of her, but it was whispered
that she had something in common with the character she personated. Her
success had been instantaneous: her photograph was in the shop windows,
it had been reproduced in the illustrated papers, she had sat to famous
artists, and her portrait in oils was on the line at Burlington House.
The play was the latest work of the Scandinavian dramatist, the actress
was Glory Quayle.
At nine o'clock on the morning of Derby Day Glory was waiting in the
drawing-room of the Garden House, dressed in a magnificent outdoor
costume of pale gray which seemed to wave like a ripe hayfield. She
looked paler and more nervous than before, and sometimes she glanced at
the clock on the mantelpiece and sometimes looked away in the distance
before her while she drew on her long white gloves and buttoned them.
Rosa Macquarrie came upstairs hurriedly. She was smartly dressed in
black with red roses and looked bright and brisk and happy.
“He has sent Benson with the carriage to ask us to drive down,” said
Rosa. “Must have some engagement surely. Let us be off, dear. No time to
lose.”
“Shall I go, I wonder?” said Glory, with a strange gravity.
“Indeed yes, dear. Why not? You've not been in good spirits lately, and
it will do you good. Besides, you deserve a holiday after a six months'
season. And then it's such a great day for _him_, too----”
“Very well, I'll go,” said Glory, and at that moment a twitch of her
nervous fingers broke a button off one of the gloves. She drew it off,
threw both gloves on to a side table, took up another pair that lay
there, and followed Rosa downstairs. An open carriage was waiting for
them in the outer court of the inn, and ten minutes afterward they drew
up in a narrow street off Whitehall under a wide archway which opened
into the large and silent quadrangle leading to the principal public
offices. It was the Home Office; the carriage had come for Drake.
Drake had seen changes in his life too. His father was dead and he had
succeeded to the baronetcy. He had also inherited a racing establishment
which the family had long upheld, and a colt which had been entered for
the Derby nearly three years ago was to run in the race that day. Its
name was Ellan Vannin, and it was not a favourite. Notwithstanding
the change in his fortunes, Drake still held his position of private
secretary to the Secretary of State, but it was understood that he was
shortly to enter public life under the wing of the Government, and to
stand for the first constituency that became vacant. Ministers predicted
a career for him; there was nothing he might not aspire to, and hardly
anything he might not do.
Parliament had adjourned in honour of the day on which the “Isthmian
games” were celebrated, and the Home Secretary, as leader of the Lower
House, had said that horse-racing was “a noble and distinguished
sport deserving of a national holiday.” But the Minister himself, and
consequently his secretary, had been compelled to put in an appearance
at their office for all that. There was urgent business demanding prompt
attention.
In the large green room of the Home Office overlooking the empty
quadrangle, the Minister, dressed in a paddock coat, received a
deputation of six clergymen. It included Archdeacon Wealthy, who served
as its spokesman. In a rotund voice, strutting a step and swinging
his glasses, the Archdeacon stated their case. They had come, most
reluctantly and with a sense of pain and grief and humiliation, to make
representations about a brother clergyman. It was the notorious Mr.
Storm--“Father” Storm, for he was drawing the people into the Roman
obedience. The man was bringing religion into ridicule and contempt, and
it was the duty of all who loved their mother Church----
“Pardon me, Mr. Archdeacon, we have nothing to do with that,” said
the Minister. “You should go to your Bishop. Surely he is the proper
person----”
“We've been, sir,” said the Archdeacon, and then followed an explanation
of the Bishop's powerlessness. The Church provided no funds to protect
a Bishop from legal proceedings in inhibiting a vicar guilty of this
ridiculous kind of conduct. “But the man comes within the power of the
secular authorities, sir. He is constantly inciting people to assemble
unlawfully to the danger of the public peace.”
“How? How?”
“Well, he is a fanatic, a lunatic, and has put out monstrous and
ridiculous predictions about the destruction of London, causing
disorderly crowds to assemble about his church. The thoroughfares are
blocked, and people are pushed about and assaulted. Indeed, things have
come to such a pass that now--to-day----”
“Pardon me again, Mr. Archdeacon, but this seems to be a simple matter
for the police. Why didn't you go to the Commissioner at Scotland Yard?”
“We did, sir, but he said--you will hardly believe it, but he
actually affirmed--that as the man had been guilty of no overt act of
sedition----”
“Precisely--that would be my view too.”
“And are we, sir, to wait for a riot, for death, for murder, before the
law can be put in motion? Is there no precedent for proceeding before
anything serious--I may say alarming----”
“Well, gentlemen,” said the Minister, glancing impatiently at his watch,
“I can only promise you that the matter shall have proper attention. The
Commissioner shall be seen, and if a summons----”
“It is too late for that now, sir. The man is a dangerous madman and
should be arrested and put under restraint.”
“I confess I don't quite see what he has done; but if----”
The Archdeacon drew himself up. “Because a clergyman is well
connected--has high official connections indeed----But surely it is
better that one man should be put under control, whoever he is, than
that the whole Church and nation should be endangered and disgraced.”
“Ah----H'm!----H'm! I think I've heard that sentiment before
somewhere, Mr. Archdeacon. But I'll not detain you now. If a warrant
is necessary----” and with vague promises and plausible speeches
the Minister bowed the deputation out of the room. Then he pisht and
pshawed, swung a field glass across his shoulder, and prepared to leave
for the day.
“Confound them! How these Christians love each other! I leave it with
you, Drake. When the matter was mentioned at Downing Street the Prime
Minister told us to act without regard to his interest in the young
priest. If there's likely to be a riot let the Commissioner get his
warrant--Heigho! Ten-thirty! I'm off! Good-day!”
Some minutes afterward Drake himself, having written to Scotland Yard,
followed his chief down the private staircase to the quadrangle, where
Glory and Rosa were waiting in the carriage under the arch.
In honour of the event in which his horse was to play a part, Drake had
engaged a coach to take a party of friends to the Downs. They assembled
at a hotel in the Buckingham Palace Road. Lord Robert was there, dressed
in the latest fashion, with boots of approved Parisian shape and a
necktie of crying colours. Betty Bellman was with him, in a red and
white dress and a large red hat. There was a lady in pale green with a
light bonnet, another in gray and white, and another in brightest blue.
They were a large, smart, and even gorgeous company, chiefly theatrical.
Before eleven o'clock they were spinning along the Kennington Road on
their way to Epsom.
Drake himself drove and Glory occupied the seat of honour by his side.
She was looking brighter now, and was smiling and laughing and making
little sallies in response to her companion's talk. He was telling her
all about the carnival. The Derby was the greatest race the world over.
It was run for about six thousand sovereigns, but the total turnover of
the meeting was probably a million of money. Thus on its business side
alone it was a great national enterprise, and the puritans who would
abolish it ought to think of that. A race-horse cost about three hundred
a year to keep, but of course nobody maintained his racing establishment
on his winnings. Nearly everybody had to bet, and gambling was not so
great an offence as some people supposed. The whole trade of the
world was of the nature of a gamble, life itself was a gamble, and the
race-course was the only market in the world where no man could afford
to go bankrupt, or be a defaulter and refuse to pay.
They were now going by Clapham Common with an unbroken stream of
vehicles of every sort--coaches with outriders, landaus, hansom cabs,
omnibuses, costers' spring carts and barrows. Every coach carried its
horn, and every horn was blown at the approach to every village. The
sun was hot, and the roads were rising to the horses' fetlocks in dust.
Drake was pointing out some of their travelling companions. That large
coach going by at a furious gallop was the coach of the Army and Navy
Club; that barouche with its pair of grays and its postilion belonged
to a well-known wine merchant; that carriage with its couple of leaders
worth hundreds apiece was the property of a prosperous publican; that
was the coach which usually ran between Northumberland Avenue and
Virginia Water, and its seats were let out at so much apiece, usually
to clerks who practised innocent frauds to escape from the city; those
soldiers on the omnibus were from Wellington Barracks on “Derby leave”;
and those jolly tars with their sweethearts, packed like herrings in a
car, were the only true sportsmen on the road and probably hadn't the
price of a glass of rum on any race of the day. Going by road to the
Derby was almost a thing of the past; smart people didn't often do it,
but it was the best fun anyway, and many an old sport tooled his team on
the road still.
Glory grew brighter at every mile they covered. Everything pleased or
amused or astonished her. With the charm born of a vivid interest in
life she radiated happiness over all the company. Some glimpses of the
country girl came back, her soul thrilled to the beauty of the world
around, and she cried out like a child at sight of the chestnut and red
hawthorn, and at the scent of spring with which the air was laden. From
time to time she was recognised on the road, people raised their hats to
her, and Drake made no disguise of his beaming pride. He leaned back to
Rosa, who was sitting on the seat behind, and whispered, “Like herself
to-day, isn't she?”
“Why shouldn't she be? With all the world at her feet and her future on
the knees of the gods!” said Rosa.
But a shade of sadness came over Glory's face, as if the gay world and
its amusements had not altogether filled a void that was left somewhere
in her heart. They were drawing up to water the horses at the old
“Cock” at Sutton, and a brown-faced woman with big silver earrings and a
monster hat and feather came up to the coach to tell the “quality” their
fortunes.
“Oh, let us, Glo,” cried Betty. “I'd love it of all things, doncher
know.”
The gipsy had held out her hand to Glory. “Let me look at your palm,
pretty lady.”
“Am I to cross it with silver first?”
“Thank you kindly! But must I tell you the truth, lady?”
“Why yes, mother. Why not?”
“Then you're going to lose money to-day, lady; but never mind, you shall
be fortunate in the end, and the one you love shall be yours.”
“That's all right,” cried the gentlemen in chorus. The ladies tittered,
and Glory turned to Drake and said, “A pair of gloves against Ellan
Vannin.”
“Done,” said Drake, and there was general laughter.
The gipsy still held Glory's hand, and looking up at Drake out of the
corner of her eyes, she said: “I won't tell you what colour he is,
pretty lady, but he is young and tall, and, though he is a gorgio, he is
the kind a Romany girl would die for. Much trouble you'll have with him,
and because of his foolishness and your own unkindness you'll put seven
score miles between you. You like to live your life, lady, and as men
drown their sorrows in drink, so do you drown yours in pleasure. But it
will all come right at last, lady, and those who envy and hate you now
will kiss the ground you walk on.”
“Glo,” said Betty, “I'm surprised at ye, dearest, listenin' to such
clipperty clapper.”
Glory did not recover her composure after this incident until they
came near the Downs. Meantime the grooms had blown their horns at many
villages hidden in the verdure of charming hollows, and the coaches had
overtaken the people who had left London earlier in the day to make
the journey afoot. Boy tramps, looking tired already--“Wish ye luck,
gentlemen”; fat sailors and mutilated colliers playing organs--'Twas in
Trafalgar Bay, and Come Whoam to thee Childer and Me; tatterdemalions
selling the C'rect Card-“on'y fourpence, and I've slep' out on the Downs
last night, s'elp me”--and all the ragged army of the maimed and the
miserable who hang on the edge of a carnival.
Among this wreckage, as they skimmed over it on the coach, there was one
figure more grotesque than the rest, a Polish Jew in his long kaftan
and his worn Sabbath hat, going along alone, triddle-traddle, in his
slippers without heels. Lord Robert was at the moment teasing Betty into
a pet by christening her “The Elephant,” in allusion to her stoutness.
But somebody called his attention to the Jew, and he screwed his glass
to his eye and cried, “Father Storm, by Jove!”
The nickname was taken up by other people on the coach, and also by
people on other coaches, and “Father Storm!” was thrown at the poor
scarecrow as a missile from twenty quarters at once. Glory's colour was
rising to her ears, and Drake was humming a tune to cover her confusion.
But Betty was asking, “Who was Father Storm, if you please?” and Lord
Robert was saying, “Bless my stars, this is something new, don't you
know! Here's somebody who doesn't know Father Storm! Father Storm,
my dear Elephant, is the prophet, the modern Jonah, who predicts that
Nineveh--that is to say, London--is to be destroyed this very day!”
“He must be balmy!” said Betty, and the lady in blue went into fits of
laughter.
“Yes,” said Lord Robert, “and all because wicked men like ourselves
insist on enjoying ourselves on a day like this with pretty people like
you.”
“Well, he _is_ a cough-drop!” said Betty. The lady in blue asked what
was “balmy” and a “cough-drop,” and Lord Robert said:
“Betty means that the good Father is crazy--silly--stupid--cracked in
the head in short----”
But Glory could bear no more. It was an insult to John Storm to be sat
upon in judgment by such a woman. With a fiery jet of temper she turned
about and said, “Pity there are not more heads cracked, then, if it
would only let a little of the light of heaven into them.”
“Oh, if it's like that----” began Betty, looking round significantly,
and Lord Robert said, “It _is_ like that, dear Elephant, and if our
charming hurricane will pardon me, I'm not surprised that the man has
broken out as a Messiah, and if the authorities don't intervene----”
“Hold your tongue, Robert!” cried Drake. “Listen, everybody!”
They were climbing on to the Downs and could hear the deep hum of the
people on the course. “My!” said Betty. “Well!” said the lady in blue.
“It's like a beehive with the lid off,” said Glory.
As they passed the railway station the people who had come by train
poured into the road and the coach had to slow down. “They must have
come from the four winds of heaven,” said Glory.
“Wait, only wait!” said Drake.
Some minutes afterward everybody drew breath. They were on the top of
the common and had a full view of the course. It was a vast sea of human
beings stretched as far as the eye could reach--a black moving ocean
without a glimpse of soil or grass. The race track itself was a river of
people: the Grand Stand, tier on tier, was black from its lawns at the
bottom to its sloping gallery on top; and the “Hill” opposite was a
rocky coast of carriages, booths, carts, and clustering crowds. Glory's
eyes seemed to leap out of her head. “It's a nation!” she said with
panting breath. “An empire!”
They were diving into these breaking, plashing, plunging waters of human
life with their multitudinous voices of laughter and speech, and Glory
was looking at a dark figure in the hollow below which seemed to stand
up above the rest, when Drake cried:
“Sit hard, everybody! We'll take the hill at a gallop.”
Then to the crack of the whip, the whoop of the driver, and the blast
of the horn, the horses flew down like the wind. Betty screamed, Rosa
groaned, and Glory laughed and looked up at Drake in her delight. When
the coach drew up on the other side of the hollow, the bell was ringing
at the Grand Stand as signal for another race, and the dark figure had
disappeared.