Chapter 21

“I shall see it all soon, I suppose, for to supply the place of the hammer and the anvil the smart folks always add musical accompaniment to the confusion of tongues, and Mr. Koenig, who has a choral company, goes to the cream of the cream of such gatherings, and sings and plays from Grieg and Schumann, and Liszt and Wagner, and Chopin and Paderewski, and the place intended for me in this grand organization would appear to be that of jester to my lords and ladies. '_Ach Gott!_' says Mr. Koenig, who 'speaks ver' bad de Englisch,' 'your great people vant de last new ting. One lady she say to me, “Dear Mr. Koenig, I tink I shall not ask you dis season. I hear you everyvheres I go to, and I get so tired of peoples.” But vhen I takes anoder wis me I am a new beesness. You shall sing and recite your leetle funny tings. Your great people tink dey loof music, but dey loof better to laugh. “For mercy's sake make dem laugh, Mr. Koenig”--dat's vhat a great man say to me. But, my gootness, how can I? I am a musician, I am a composer, I am an arteeste!'

“For this high and noble office I have been going through a purgatory of preparation in which I have sometimes hardly known whether I was a hurdy-gurdy or an explosion of cats, and the future female jester has even been known to lie down on the floor and cry in her dumps of despair or some such devilry. However, Mr. Koenig begins to believe that I am passable, and my first appearance is to be made immediately after Lent, at the house of the Home Secretary, where it is not improbable, dear Aunt Rachel, that I may meet Mr. Drake, although that is no part of my programme.

“Of course, I shall have to look charming in any case, and I am already busy with my dress. It is a black silk gown with a tight-fitting bodice. The bodice has windbag sleeves, formed of shawl pieces of guipure lace, and some lilies of the valley on the breast, finished with a waistband of heliotrope velvet, and I am going to wear long black gloves all the way up my arms, which are growing round and plump, and lovely enough for anything. The skirt is my old one, and I got the lace for three-and-six, so I am not ruining myself, you see; and though my hair is getting redder than ever, red is the fashionable colour in London now, therefore I sha'n't waste much money on dyes.

“But for all this brave exterior, when the time comes I know that down in my heart I shall be terrified. It will be like the first dive of the year. 'One plunge, Glory, my child,' and then over I'll go! I partly realize already what it will be like by my experiences on Sunday evenings when the celebrities come here after church, and Mr. Koenig exhibits me to admiring friends and tells them how I brought him 'goot look,' and I overhear them say, 'That girl will show them all something yet.' Oh, this London is adorable, my dears, with its wit and fashion, and gaiety and luxury! and I have concluded that to live in the world is the best thing one can do, after all. Some people say hard things about it, and want to reform it, or even to leave it altogether; but I love it! I love it! and think it just charming!

“And now spring is here, and the world is lovely in its yellow and green. It must be _urromassy_ nice over yandher in the 'oilan' too, with the primroses and the violets and the gorse in the glen. Oh, dear! oh, dear! I can smell it all three hundred miles away! The lilacs will be out at Glenfaba now, and Aunt Anna will be collecting her Easter eggs. Well--wait a whilley, and I'll come to thee, my dears!

“Not a word from John Storm, of course. No doubt he is fighting with shadows while other people are struggling with realities. They tell me these Brotherhoods are common in the Church now, though most of them are secret societies; but the more I think of that kind of religion the more it looks like setting tasks to try faith, as if God were a coquettish woman. That reminds me that Mr. Worldly-Wealthy-Wiseman is no longer a canon, having got himself made archdeacon, and as such he looks more than ever like a black Spanish cock, being clad, of course, in those funny clothes, like the bishops, which always make one think their lordships must be in doubt on getting up in the morning whether they ought to wear a schoolboy's knickerbockers or a ballet-girl's skirt, so they settle the difficulty by putting on both. For this reason I try to avoid him when on duty at the church, lest I should be suddenly possessed of a devil and behave badly to his face. But this being Lent, and there being special preachers every day, it chanced on Sunday morning that I came upon three of him all in a row, and oh, my gracious, Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these!

“It is too bad, though, to think that men like John Storm can't find room in the Church for the sole of their foot, while this archdemon is flourishing in it like a green bay tree. Forgive me, grandfather; I can't help it. But then the Church in the country doesn't seem the same as in town. _There_ you are somehow made to feel that man does a little and God does all the rest, while _here_ we reverse that order of things, with the result that this seed of the Amalekite--but never mind!

“I went to the Zoo this morning. There was a lion shut up in a cage all by himself. Such a solemn, splendid, silent fellow; I could have cried.

“But it is the witching hour of night, my daughter, and you must put yourself to bed. 'Goot look!'

“Glory.”

XVII.

In the middle of the night of Good Friday, John Storm was wakened by noises in the adjoining cell. There seemed to be the voices of two men in angry and violent altercation, the one threatening and denouncing, the other protesting and supplicating.

“The girl is dead--isn't that proof enough?” said one voice. “It's a lie! It's a false accusation!” said the other voice. “Paul, what are you going to do?” “Put this bullet in your brain.” “But I'm innocent--I take the Almighty to witness that I'm innocent. Put the pistol down. Help! help!” “No use calling--there's nobody in the house.” “Mercy! mercy! I haven't much money about me, but you shall have it all. Take everything--everything--and if there's anything I can do to start you in life--I'm rich, Paul--I have influence--only spare me!” “Scoundrel, do you think you can buy me as you bought my sister?” “And if I did I was not the only one.” “Liar! Tell that to herself when you meet her at the judgment!” “As-sassin!” “Too late--you've met her!”

John Storm listened and understood. The two voices were one voice, which was the voice of Brother Paul. The lay brother was delirious. His poor broken brain was rambling in the ways of the past. He was re-enacting the scene of his crime.

John hesitated. His impulse was to fly into Paul's room and lay hold of him, that he might prevent him from doing himself any injury. But he remembered the law of the community, that no member of it should go into the cell of another under pain of grievous penance. And then there was the rule of silence and solitude which had not yet been lifted away.

But monks are great sophists, and at the next moment John Storm had told himself that it was not Brother Paul who was in the adjoining room, but only his poor perishing body, labouring through the last sloughs of the twilight land of death. Paul himself, his soul, his spirit, was far away. Hence it could be no sin to go into the cell of one whose senses were not there.

His own door was locked, but he scraped back the key and lit his candle, and stepped into the passage. The voices were still loud in Paul's room, but no one seemed to hear them. Not another sound broke the silence of the sleeping house. The cell beyond Paul's was empty. It was Brother Andrew's cell, and Andrew was at the door downstairs.

When John Storm entered the dark room, candle in hand, Brother Paul was standing in the middle of the floor with one hand outstretched and a ghastly and appalling smile upon his face. He was pale as death, his eyes were ablaze, his forehead was streaming with perspiration, and he was breathing from the depths of his chest. He wiped the dews from his brow and said in a choking voice, “He has died as he lived--a liar and a scoundrel!”

John took him by the hand and drew him to the bed, and, putting him to sit there, he tried to soothe and comfort him. He was terrified at first by the sound of his own voice, but the sophism that had served to bring him, served to support him also, and he told himself it could be no breach of the rule of silence to speak to one who was not there. The delirium of the lay brother spent itself at length, and he fell into a deep sleep.

Next day, when Brother Andrew came to John's cell with the food, he began to sing as if to himself while he bustled about the room.

“Brother Paul is sinking--he is sinking rapidly--Father Jerrold has confessed him--he has taken the sacrament--and is very patient.”

This, as if it had been a Gregorian chant, the great fellow had hit upon as a means of communicating with John without breaking the rule and committing sin.

John did not lock his door on the following night. On going to bed he listened for the noises he had heard before, half fearing and yet half wishing that he might hear them again. But he heard nothing, and toward midnight he fell asleep. Something made him shudder, and he awoke with the sensation of moonlight on his face. The moon was indeed shining, and its sepulchral light was on a figure that stood by the foot of the bed. It was Paul, with a livid face, murmuring his name in a voice almost as faint as a breath.

John leaped up and put his arms about him.

“You are ill, brother--very ill.”

“I am dying.”

“Help! help!” cried John, and he made for the door.

“Hush, brother, hush!”

“Oh, I don't care for rule. Rule is nothing in a case like this. And, besides, it is an understood thing---- Help!”

“I implore you, I conjure you!” said Paul in a voice strangled by weakness. “Let them leave us together a little longer. It was by my own wish that I was left alone. I have something to say to you--something to confess. I have to ask your pardon.”

In two strides John had reached the door, but he came back without opening it.

“Why, my poor lad, what have you done to me?”

“When you let me out of the house to go in search of my sister----”

“That was long ago; we'll not talk of it now, brother.”

“But I can not die in peace without telling you. You remember that I had something to say to her?”

“Yes.”

“It was a threat. I was going to tell her that unless she gave up her way of life I should find the man who had been the cause of it and follow him up and kill him.”

“It was only a temptation of the devil, brother, and it is past; and now----”

“Don't you see what I was going to do? I was going to bring trouble and disgrace upon you also as my comrade and accomplice. That's what a man comes to when Satan----”

“But God willed it otherwise, brother; let us say no more about it.”

“You forgive me, then?”

“Forgive? It is I who ought to ask for your forgiveness, and perhaps if I told you everything----”

“There is something else. Listen! The Almighty is calling me; I have no time to lose.”

“But you are so cold, brother! Lie on the bed, and I'll cover you with the bedclothes. Oh, never fear; they sha'n't separate us again. If the Father were at home--he is so good and tender-hearted--but no matter. There, there!”

“You will despise and hate me--you who are so holy and brave, and have given up everything and conquered the world, and even triumphed over love itself!”

“Don't say that, brother.”

“It's true, isn't it? Everybody knows what a holy life you live.”

“Hush!”

“But I have never lived the religious life at all, and I only came to it as a refuge from the law and the gallows; and if the Father hadn't----”

“Another time, brother.”

“Yes, the story I told the police was true, and I had really----”

“Hush, brother, hush! I won't hear you. What you are saying is for God's ear only, and, whatever you have done, God will judge your soul in mercy. We have only to ask him----”

“Quick, then; the last sands are running out!” and he strove to rise and kneel.

“Lie still, brother: God will accept the humiliation of your soul.”

“No, no, let me up; let me kneel beside you. The prayer for the dying--say it with me, Brother Storm; let us say it together. 'O Lord, save----'”

_“'O Lord, save thy servant,

“'Which putteth his trust in thee.

“'Send him help from thy holy place.

“'And ... evermore ... mightily defend him.

“'Let the enemy have no advantage over him.

“'Nor the ... wicked----

“'Be unto him, O Lord, a strong tower.

“'From the----

“'O Lord, hear our prayers.

“'And----'”_

“Paul! Paul! Speak to me! Speak! Don't leave me! We shall console and support each other. You shall come to me, I will go to you. No matter about the religious life. One word! My lad, my lad!”

But Brother Paul had gone. The captured eagle with the broken wing had slipped its chain at last.

In the terrible peace which followed the air of the room seemed to become empty. John Storm felt chill and dizzy, and a great awe fell upon him. The courage which he had built up in sight of Brother Paul's sufferings ebbed rapidly away, and his old fear of rule flowed back. He must carry the lay brother to his cell; he must be ignorant of his death; he must conceal and cover up everything. The moon had gone by this time, for it was near to morning, and the shadows of night were contending with the leaden hues of dawn.

He opened the door and listened. The house was still quite silent. He walked on tip-toe to the end of the corridor, pausing at every cell. There was no sound anywhere, except the sonorous breathing of some heavy sleeper and the ticking of the clock in the hall.

Then he returned to the chamber of death, and, lifting the dead man in his arms, he carried him back to the room which he had left as a living man. The body was light, and he scarcely felt its weight, for the limbs under the cassock had dried up like withered twigs. He stretched them out on the bed that they might be fit for death's composing hand, and then closed the eyes and laid the hands together on the breast, and took the heavy cross that hung about the neck and put it as well as he could into the nerveless fingers. By this time the daylight had overcome the shadows of the fore-dawn, and the ruddy glow of morning was gliding into the room. Traffic was beginning to stir in the sleeping city, and a cart was rattling down the street.

One glance more he gave at the dead brother's face, and going down on his knees beside it he said a prayer and crossed himself. Then he rose and stole back to his room and shut the door without a sound.

There was a boundless relief when this was done, and partly from relief and partly from exhaustion he fell asleep. He slept for a few minutes only, but sleep knows no time, and a moment in its garden of forgetfulness will wipe out the bitterness of a life. When he awoke he stretched out his hand as he was accustomed to do and rapped three times on the wall. But the tide of consciousness returned to him even as he did so, and in the dead silence that followed his very heart grew cold.

Then the Father Minister began to awaken the household. His deep call and the muffled answer which followed it rose higher and higher and came nearer and nearer, and every step as he approached seemed to beat upon John Storm's brain. He had reached the topmost story--he was coming down the corridor--he was standing before the door of the dead man's cell.

“Benedicamus Domino!” he called, but no answer came back to him. He called again, and there was a short and terrible silence.

John Storm held his breath and listened. By the faint click of the lock he knew that the door had been opened, and that the Father Minister had entered the room. There was a muttered exclamation and then another short silence, and after that there came the click of the lock again. The door had been closed, and the Father Minister had resumed his rounds. When he called at the door of John Storm's cell not a tone of his voice would have told that anything unusual had taken place.

The bell rang, and the brothers trooped down the stairs. Presently the low, droning sound of their voices came up from the chapel where they were saying Lauds. But the service had scarcely ended when the Father Minister's step was on the stair again. This time another was with him. It was the doctor. They entered the brother's room and closed the door behind them. From the other side of the wall John Storm followed every movement and every word.

“So he has gone at last, poor soul!”

“Is he long dead, doctor?”

“Some hours, certainly. Was there nobody with him then?”

“He didn't wish for anybody. And then you told us that nothing could he done, and that he might live a month.”

“Still, a dying man, you know---- But how strangely composed he looks! And then the cross on his breast as well!”

“He was very devout and penitent. He made his last devotion yesterday with an intensity of joy such as I have rarely witnessed.”

“His eyes closed, too! You are sure there was nobody with him?”

“Nobody whatever.”

There was a moment's silence and then the doctor said, “Well, he has slipped his anchor at last, poor soul!”

“Yes, he has launched on the ocean of the love of God. May we all be as ready when our call comes!”

They came back to the corridor, and John heard their footsteps going downstairs. Then for some minutes there were unusual noises below. Rapid steps were coming and going, the hall bell was ringing, and the front door was opening and shutting.

An hour later Brother Andrew came with the breakfast. He was obviously excited, and putting down the tray he began to busy himself in the room and to sing, as before, in, his pretence of a Gregorian chant:

“Brother Paul is dead--he died in the night--there was nobody with him--we are sorry he has left us, but glad he is at peace-God rest the soul of our poor Brother Paul!”

It was Easter Day. At midday service in the church the brothers sang the Easter hymn, and a mighty longing took hold of John Storm for his own resurrection from his living grave.

Next day there was much coming and going between the world outside and the adjoining cell, and late at night there were heavy and shambling footsteps, and even some coarse and ribald talk.

“Bear a 'and, myte.”

“Well, they won't have their backs broke as carry this one downstairs. He ain't a Danny Lambert, anyway.”

“No, they don't feed ye on Bovril in plyces syme as this. I'll lay ye odds yer own looking-glass wouldn't know ye arter three months 'ard on religion and dry tommy.”

“It pawses me 'ow people tyke to it. Gimme my pint of four-half, and my own childring to follow me.”

Early on the following morning a stroke rang out on the bell, then another stroke, and again another.

“It is the knell,” thought John.

A group of the lay brothers came up and passed into the room. “Now!” said one, as if giving a signal, and then they passed out again with the measured steps of men who bear a burden. “They are taking him away,” he thought.

He listened to their retreating footsteps. “He has gone,” he murmured.

The passing bell continued to ring out minute by minute, and presently there was the sound of singing. “It is the service for the dead,” he told himself.

After a while both the bell and the singing ceased, and then there was no sound anywhere except the dull rumble of the traffic in the city outside--the deep murmur of the mighty sea that flows on forever.

“What am I doing?” he asked himself. “What bolts and bars are keeping me? I am guilty of a folly. I am degrading myself.”

At midday Brother Andrew came with his food. “Brother Paul is buried,” he sang, “the coffin was beautiful--it was covered with flowers--we buried him in his cassock, with his beads and psalter--we left the cross on his breast--he loved it and died with it in his hands--the Father has come home--he said mass this morning.”

John Storm could bear no more. He pushed the lay brother aside and made straight for the Superior's room.

The Father was sitting before the fire, looking sad and low and weary. He rose to his feet with a painful smile, as John broke into his cell with blazing eyes, and cried in a choking voice:

“Father, I can not live the religious life any longer! I have tried to--with all my soul and strength I've tried to, but I can not, I can not! This life of prayer and penance and meditation is stifling me, and corrupting me, and crushing the man out of me, and I can not bear it.”

“What are you saying, my son?”

“I have been deceiving you and myself and everybody.”

“Deceiving me?”

“It was for my own ends and not Brother Paul's that I helped him to break obedience, and so injure his health and hasten his death.”

“Your own?”

“I, too, had a sister in the world, and my heart was hungry for news of her.”

“A sister?”

“Some one nearer than a sister--and all my spiritual life has been a sham.”

“My son, my son!”

“Forgive me, Father. I shall love you and honour you and revere you always; but I must break my obedience and leave you, or I shall be a hypocrite and a liar and a cheat.”

XVIII.

The dinner party at the Home Secretary's took place on Wednesday, in the week after Easter. It had rained during the day, but cleared up toward night. Glory and Koenig had taken an omnibus to Waterloo Place, and then walked up the wide street that ends with the wide steps going down to the park. Two lines of lofty stone houses go off to right and left, and the house they were going to was in one of them.

A footman received them with sombre but easy familiarity. The artistes? Yes. They were shown into the library, and light refreshments were brought in to them on a tray. Three other members of the choral company were there already. Glory was seeing it all for the first time, and Koenig was describing and explaining everything in broken whispers.

A band was playing in the well of the circular staircase, and a second footman stood in an alcove behind an outwork of hats and overcoats. The first footman reappeared. Were the artistes ready to go to the drawing-room?

They followed him upstairs. The band had stopped, and there was the distant hum of voices and the crackle of plates. Waiters were coming and going from the dining-room, and the butler stood at the door giving instructions. At one moment there was a glimpse within of ladies in gorgeous dresses, and a table laden with silver and bright with fairy-lamps. When the door opened the voices grew louder, when it closed the sounds were deadened.

The upper landing opened on to a _salon_ which had three windows down to the ground, and half of each stood open. Outside there was a wide terrace lit up by Chinese and Moorish lanterns. Beyond was the dark patch of the park, and farther still the towers of the Abbey and the clock of Westminster, but the great light was not burning to-night.

“De House naivare sits on Vednesday night,” said Koenig.

They passed into the drawing-room, which was empty. The standing lamps were subdued by coverings of yellow-silk lace. There was a piano and an organ.

“Ve'll stay here,” said Koenig, opening the organ, and Glory stood by his side.

Presently there were ripples of laughter, sounds of quick, indistinguishable voices, waves of heliotrope, and the rustle of silk dresses on the stairs. Then the ladies entered. Two or three of them who were elderly leaned their right hands on the arms of younger women, and walked with ebony sticks in their left. An old lady wearing black satin and a large brooch came last. Koenig rose and bowed to her. Glory prepared to bow also, but the lady gave her a side inclination of the head as she sat in a well-cushioned chair under a lamp, and Glory's bow was abridged.