The journey home from the Derby had been a long one, but Glory had
enjoyed it. When she had settled down to the physical discomfort of the
blinding and choking dust, the humours of the road became amusing. This
endless procession of good-humoured ruffianism sweeping through the most
sacred retreats of Nature, this inroad of every order of the Stygian
_demi-monde_ on to the slopes of Olympus, was intensely interesting. Men
and women merry with drink, all laughing, shouting, and singing; some
in fine clothes and lounging in carriages, others in striped jerseys
and yellow cotton dresses, huddled up on donkey barrows; some smoking
cigarettes and cigars and drinking champagne, others smoking clay pipes
with the bowls downward, and flourishing bottles of ale; some holding
rhubarb leaves over their heads for umbrellas, and pelting the police
with _confetti_; others wearing executioners' masks, false mustaches,
and red-tipped noses, and blowing bleating notes out of penny
trumpets--but all one family, one company, one class.
There were ghastly scenes as well as humorous ones--an old horse, killed
by the day's work and thrown into the ditch by the roadside, axletrees
broken by the heavy loads and people thrown out of their carts and cut,
boy tramps dragging along like worn-out old men, and a Welsher with his
clothes torn to ribbons, stealing across the fields to escape a yelping
and infuriated crowd.
But the atmosphere was full of gaiety, and Glory laughed at nearly
everything. Lord Robert, with his arm about Betty's waist, was chaffing
a coster who had a drunken woman on his back seat. “Got a passenger,
driver?” “Yuss, sir, and I'm agoin' 'ome to my wife to-night, and thet's
more nor you dare do.” A young fellow in pearl buttons was tramping
along with a young girl in a tremendous hat. He snatched her hat off,
she snatched off his; he kissed her, she smacked his face; he put her
hat on his own head, she put on his hat; and then they linked arms and
sang a verse of the Old Dutch.
Glory reproduced a part of this love-passage in pantomime, and Drake
screamed with laughter.
It was seven o'clock before they reached the outskirts of London. By
that time a hamper on the coach had been emptied and the bottles thrown
out; the procession had drawn up at a dozen villages on the way; the
perspiring tipsters, with whom “things hadn't panned out well,” had
forgotten their disappointments and “didn't care a tinker's! cuss”;
every woman in a barrow had her head-gear in confusion, and she was
singing in a drunken wail. Nevertheless Drake, who was laughing and
talking constantly, said it was the quietest Derby night he had ever
seen, and he couldn't tell what things were coming to.
“Must be this religious mania, don't you know,” said lord Robert,
pointing to a new and very different scene which they had just then come
upon.
It was an open space covered with people, who had lit fires as if
intending to camp out all night, and were now gathered in many groups,
singing hymns and praying. The drunken wails from the procession stopped
for a moment, and there was nothing heard but the whirring wheels and
the mournful notes of the singers. Then “Father Storm!” rose like the
cry of a cormorant from a thousand throats at once. When the laughter
that greeted the name had subsided, Betty said:
“'Pon my honour, though, that man must be off his dot,” and the lady in
blue went into convulsions of hysterical giggling. Drake looked uneasy,
and Lord Robert said, “Who cares what an Elephant says?” But Glory took
no notice now, save that for a moment the smile died off her face.
It had been agreed, when they cracked the head off the last bottle, that
the company should dine together at the Cafè Royal or Romano's, so they
drove first to Drake's chambers to brush the dust off and to wash and
rest. Glory was the first to be ready, and while waiting for the others
she sat at the organ in the sitting-room and played something. It was
the hymn they had heard in the suburbs. At this there was laughter from
the other side of the wall, and Drake, who seemed unable, to lose sight
of her, came to the door of his room in his shirt sleeves. To cover up
her confusion she sang a “coon” song. The company cheered her, and
she sang another, and yet another. Finally she began My Mammie, but
floundered, broke down, and cried.
“Rehearsal, ten in the morning,” said Betty.
Then everybody laughed, and while Drake busied himself putting Glory's
cloak on her shoulders, he whispered: “What's to do, dear? A bit off
colour to-night, eh?”
“Be a good boy and leave me alone,” she answered, and then she laughed
also.
They were on the point of setting out when somebody said, “But it's
late for dinner now--why not supper at the Corinthian Club?” At that the
other ladies cried “Yes” with one voice. There was a dash of daring and
doubtful propriety in the proposal.
“But are you game for it?” said Drake, looking at Glory.
“Why not?” she replied, with a merry smile, whereupon he cried “All
right,” and a look came into his eyes which she had never seen there
before.
The Corinthian Club was in St. James's Square, a few doors from the
residence of the Bishop of London. It was now dark, and as they passed
through Jermyn Street a line of poor children stood by the poulterer's
shop at the corner waiting for the scraps that are thrown away at
closing time. York Street was choked with hansoms, but they reached
the door at last. There were the sounds of music and dancing within.
Officials in uniform stood in a hall examining the tickets of membership
and taking the names of guests. The ladies removed their cloaks, the
men hung up their coats and hats, a large door was thrown open, and they
looked into the ballroom. The room was full of people as faultlessly
dressed as at a house in Grosvenor Square. But the women were all young
and pretty, and the men had no surnames. A long line of gilded youths in
dress clothes occupied the middle of the floor. Each held by the waist
the young man before him as if he were going to play leap-frog. “Hello
there!” shouted one of them, and the band struck up. Then the whole body
kicked out right and left, while all sang a chorus, consisting chiefly
of “Tra-la-la-la-la-la!” One of them was a lord, another a young man
who had lately come into a fortune, another a light comedian, another
belonged to a big firm on the Stock Exchange, another was a mystery, and
another was one of “the boys” and lived by fleecing all the rest. They
were executing a dance from the latest burlesque. “Hello, there!” the
conductor shouted again, and the band stopped.
Lord Robert led the way upstairs. Pretty women in light pinks and blues
sat in every corner of the staircase. There was a balcony from which you
could look down on the dancers as from the gallery of a playhouse. Also
there was an American bar where women smoked cigarettes. Lord Robert
ordered supper, and when the meal was announced they went into the
supper-room.
“Hello there!” greeted them as they entered. At little tables lit up by
pink candles sat small groups of shirt fronts and butterfly ties
with fair heads and pretty frocks. Waiters were coming and going with
champagne and silver dishes; there was a clatter of knives and forks,
and a jabber of voices and laughter. And all the time there came the
sounds of the band, with the “Tra-la-la” from the ballroom below.
Glory sat by Drake. She realized that she had lowered herself in his
eyes by coming there. He was drinking a good deal and paying her endless
compliments. From time to time the tables about them were vacated
and filled again by similar shirt fronts and fair heads. People were
arriving from the Derby, and the talk was of the day's racing. Some of
the new arrivals saluted Drake, and many of them looked at Glory. “A
rippin' good race, old chappie. Didn't suit my book exactly, but the
bookies will have smiling faces at Tattersall's on Monday.”
A man with a big beard at the next table pulled down his white
waistcoat, lifted his glass, and said, “To Gloria!” It was her
acquaintance of the race-course.
“Who is Blue Beard?” she asked in a whisper.
“They call him the Faro King,” said Drake. “Made all his money by
gambling in Paris, and now he is a squire with a living in his gift.”
Then over the laughter and voices, the band and the singing, with an
awful suddenness there came a crash of thunder. The band and the comic
song stopped, and there was a hush for a moment. Then Lord Robert said:
“Wonder if this is the dreadful storm that is to overwhelm the nation,
don't you know!”
That fell on the house of frivolity like a second thunderbolt, and
people began to look up with blanched faces.
“Well, it isn't the first time the _storm_ has howled; it's been howling
all along,” said Lord Robert, but nobody laughed.
Presently the company recovered itself, the bands and the singing were
heard again, louder and wilder than before, the men shouted for more
champagne, and nicknamed every waiter “Father Storm.”
Glory was ashamed. With her head on her hand she was looking at the
people around when the “Faro King,” who had been making eyes at her,
leaned over her shoulder and said in a confidential whisper, “And what
is Gloria looking for?”
“I am looking for _a man_,” she answered. And as the big beard turned
away with “Oh, confound it!” she became aware that Drake and Lord Robert
were at high words from opposite sides of the table.
“No, I tell you no, no, _no_!” said Drake. “Call him a weakling and a
fool and an ass, if you will, but does that explain everything? This is
one of the men with the breath of God in him, and you can't judge of him
by ordinary standards.”
“Should think not, indeed, dear chap,” said Lord Robert, “Common sense
laughs at the creature.”
“So much the worse for common sense. When it judges of these isolated
beings by the standards of the common herd then common sense is always
the greatest nonsense.”
“Oho! oho!” came in several voices, but Drake paid no attention.
“Jesus Christ himself was mocked at and ridiculed by the common sense of
his time, by his own people, and even his own family, and his family and
people and time have been gibbeted by all the centuries that have come
after them. And so it has been with every ardent soul since who has
taken up his parable and introduced into the world a new spirit. The
world has laughed at him and spat upon him, and, only for its fear
of the sublime banner he has borne, it would have shut him up in a
mad-house.”
They were strange words in a strange place. Everybody listened.
“But these sombre giants are the leaders of the world for all that, and
one hour of their Divine madness is worth more to humanity than a cycle
of our sanity. And yet we deny them friendship and love, and do our best
to put them out of the pale of the human family! We have invented a new
name for them too--degenerates--pygmies and pigs as we are, who ought
to go down on our knees to them with our faces buried in the dirt!
Gentlemen,” he cried, filling his glass and rising to his feet, “I give
you a toast--the health of Father Storm!”
Glory had sat trembling all over, breathing hard, blushing, and
wide-eyed until he had done. Then she leaped up to where he stood beside
her, threw her arms about his neck, and kissed him.
“And now you ring down quick, my dear,” said Betty, and everybody
laughed a little.
Drake was laughing with the rest, and Glory, who had dropped back to her
seat in confused embarrassment, was trying to laugh too.
“Another bottle of fizz anyway,” cried Drake. He had mistaken the
meaning of Glory's kiss, and was utterly intoxicated by it. She could
have cried with shame and rage, seeing he thought such conduct came
naturally to her and perhaps imagined it wasn't the first time she had
done as much. But to carry off the situation she laughed a good deal
with him, and when the wine came they jingled glasses.
“I'm going to see you home to-night,” he whispered, smiling slyly and
looking her full in the eyes. She shook her head, but that only provoked
him to fresh effort.
“I must, I will--you _shall_ allow me,” and he began to play with her
hand and ruffle up the lace that covered her round arm.
Just then his man Benson, looking hot and excited, came up to him with a
message. Glory overheard something about “the office,” “the Secretary,”
and “Scotland Yard.” Then Drake turned to her with a smile, over a look
of vexation, and said: “I'm sorry, dear--very--I must go away for a
while. Will you stay here until I return, or----”
“Take me out and put me in a cab,” said Glory. Their getting up
attracted attention, and Lord Robert said:
“Is it, perhaps, something about that----”
“It's nothing,” said Drake, and they left the room.
The band in the ballroom was still playing the dance out of the
burlesque, and half a hundred voices were shouting “Tra-la-la-la” as
Glory stepped into a hansom.
“I'll follow on, though,” whispered Drake with a merry smile.
“We shall all be in bed, and the house locked up---- How magnificent you
were to-night!”
“I couldn't see the man trodden on when he was down---- But how lovely
you've looked to-day, Glory! I'll get in to-night if I have to ring up
Liza or break down the door for it!”
As the cab crossed Trafalgar Square it had to draw up for a procession
of people coming up Parliament Street singing hymns. Another and more
disorderly procession of people, decorated with oak leaves and hawthorns
and singing a music-hall song, came up and collided with it. A line of
police broke up both processions; and the hansom passed through.