Chapter 22
The ladies sat and talked, and Glory tried to listen. There were little nothings, punctuated by trills of feminine laughter. She thought the conversation rather silly. More than once the ladies lifted their lorgnettes and looked at her. She set her lips hard and looked back without flinching.
A footman brought tea on a tray, and then there was the tinkle of cup and saucer, and more laughter. The lady in satin looked round at Koenig, and he began to play the organ. He played superbly, but nobody seemed to listen. When he finished there was a pause, and everybody said: “Oh, thank you; we're all--er----” and then the talk began again. The vocal soloist sang some ballad of Schumann, and as long as it lasted an old lady with an ear-trumpet sat at the foot of the piano, and a young girl spoke into it. When it was over, everybody said, “Ah, that dear old thing!” Then there was an outbreak of deeper voices from the stairs, with lustier laughter and heavier steps.
The gentlemen appeared, talking loudly as they entered. Koenig was back at the organ and playing as if he wished it were the 'cello and the drum and the whole brass band. Glory was watching everything; it was beginning to be very funny. Suddenly it ceased to be so. One of the gentlemen was saying, in a tired drawl: “Old Koenig again! How the old boy lasts! Seem to have been hearing--him since the Flood, don't you know.”
It was Lord Robert Ure. Glory caught one glimpse of him, then looked down at her slipper and pawed at the carpet. He put his glass in his eye, screwed up the left side of his face, and looked at her.
An elderly man with a leonine head came up to the organ and said: “Got anything comic, Mr. Koenig? All had the influenza last winter, you know, and lost our taste for the classical.”
“With pleasure, sir,” said Koenig, and then turning to Glory he touched her wrist. “How's de pulse? Ach Gott! beating same like a child's! Now is your turn.”
Glory made a step forward, and the talk grew louder as she was observed. She heard fragments of it. “Who is she?” “Is she a professional?” “Oh, no--a lady.” “Sing, does she, or is it whistling?” “No, she's a professional; we had her last year; she does conjuring.” And then the voice she had heard before said, “By Jove, old fellow, your young friend looks like a red standard rose!” She did not flinch. There was a nervous tremor of the lip, a scarcely perceptible curl of it, and then she began.
It was Mylecharaine, a Manx ballad in the Anglo-Manx, about a farmer who was a miser. His daughter was ashamed of him because he dressed shabbily and wore yellow stockings; but he answered that if he didn't the stocking wouldn't be yellow that would be forthcoming for her dowry.
She sang, recited, talked, acted, lived the old man, and there was not a sound until she finished, except laughter and the clapping of hands. Then there was a general taking of breath and a renewed outbreak of gossip. “Really, really! How--er--natural!” “Natural--that's it, natural. I never--er----” “Rather good, certainly; in fact, quite amusing.” “What dialect is it?” “Irish, of course.” “Of course, of course,” with many nods and looks of knowledge, and a buzz and a flutter of understanding. “Hope she'll do something else.” “Hush! she's beginning.”
It was Ny Kiree fo Niaghtey, a rugged old wail of how the sheep were lost on the mountains in a great snowstorm; but it was full of ineffable melancholy. The ladies dropped their lorgnettes, the men's glasses fell from their eyes and their faces straightened, the noisy old soul with the ear-trumpet sitting under Glory's arm was snuffling audibly, and at the next moment there was a chorus of admiring remarks. “'Pon my word, this is something new, don't you know!” “Fine girl too!” “Fine! Irish girls often run to it.” “That old miser--you could see him!”
“What's her next piece?--something funny, I hope.”
Koenig's pride was measureless, and Glory did not get off lightly. He cleared the floor for her, and announced that with the indulgence, etc., the young artiste would give an imitation of common girls singing in the street.
The company laughed until they screamed, and when the song was finished Glory was being overwhelmed with congratulations and inquiries, “Charming! All your pieces are charming! But really, my dear young lady, you must be more careful about our feelings. Those sheep now--it was really quite too sad.” The old lady with the ear-trumpet asked Glory whether she could go on for the whole of an afternoon, and if she felt much fatigued sometimes, and didn't often catch cold.
But the lady in satin came to her relief at last. “You will need some refreshment,” she said. “Let me see now if I can not----” and she lifted her glass and looked round the room. At the next moment a voice that made a shudder pass over her said:
“Perhaps _I_ may have the pleasure of taking Miss Quayle down.”
It was Drake. His eyes were as blue and boyish as before, but Glory observed at once that he had grown a mustache, and that his face and figure were firmer and more manlike. A few minutes afterward they had passed through one of the windows on to the terrace and were walking to and fro.
It was cool and quiet out there after the heat and hubbub of the drawing-room. The night was soft and still. Hardly a breath of wind stirred the leaves of the trees in the park below. The rain had left a dewy moistness in the air, and a fragrant mist was lying over the grass. The stars were out, and the moon had just risen behind the towers of Westminster.
Glory was flushed with her success. Her eyes sparkled and her step was light and free. Drake touched her hand as it lay on his arm and said:
“And now that I've got you to myself I must begin by scolding you.”
They looked at one another and smiled. “Have I displeased you so much to-night?” she said.
“It's not that. Where have you been all this time?”
“Ah, if you only knew!” She had stopped and was looking into the darkness.
“I _want_ to know. Why didn't you answer my letter?”
“Your letter?” She was clutching at the lilies of the valley in her bosom.
He tapped her hand lightly and said, “Well, we'll not quarrel this time, only don't do it again, you know, or else----”
She recovered herself and laughed. Her voice had a silvery ring, and he thought it was an enchanting smile that played upon her face. They resumed their walk.
“And now about to-night. You have had a success, of course.”
“Why of course?”
“Because I always knew you must have.”
She was proud and happy. He began to be grave and severe.
“But the drawing-room after dinner is no proper scene for your talents. The audience is not in the right place or the right mood. Guests and auditors--their duties clash. Besides, to tell you the truth, art is a dark continent to people like these.”
“They were kind to me, at all events,” said Glory.
“To-night, yes. The last new man--the last new monkey----”
She was laughing again and swinging along on his arm as if her feet hardly touched the ground.
“What is the matter with you?”
“Nothing; I am only thinking how polite you are,” and then they looked at each other again and laughed together.
The mild radiance of the stars was dying into the brighter light of the moon. A bird somewhere in the dark trees below had mistaken the moonlight for the dawn, and was making its early call. The clock at Westminster was striking eleven, and there was the deep rumble of traffic from the unseen streets round about.
“How beautiful!” said Glory. “It's hard to believe that this can be the same London that is so full of casinos and clubs and-monasteries.”
“Why, what does a girl like you know about such places?”
She had dropped his arm and was looking over the balcony. The sound of voices came from the red windows behind them. Then the soloist began to sing again. His second ballad was the Erl King:
Du liebes Kind, komm' geh' mit mir! Gar schöne Spiele spiel' ich mit dir.
“Any news of John Storm?” said Drake.
“Not that I know of.”
“I wonder if you would like him to come out again--now?”
“I wonder!”
At that moment there was a step behind them, and a soft voice said, “I want you to introduce me, Mr. Drake.”
It was a lady of eight or nine and twenty, wearing short hair brushed upward and backward in the manner of a man.
“Ah, Rosa--Miss Rosa Macquarrie,” said Drake. “Rosa is a journalist, and a great friend of mine, Glory. If you want fame, she keeps some of the keys of it, and if you want friendship---- But I'll leave you together.”
“My dear,” said the lady, “I want you to let me know you.”
“But I've seen you before--and spoken to you,” said Glory.
“Why, where?”
Glory was laughing awkwardly. “Never mind now! Some other time perhaps.”
“The people inside are raving about your voice. 'Where does it come from?' they are saying--'from a palace or Ratcliffe Highway?' But I think _I_ know. It comes from your heart, my dear. You have lived and and loved and suffered--and so have I. Here we are in our smart frocks, dear, but we belong to another world altogether and are the only working women in the company. Perhaps I can help you a little, and you have helped me already. I may know you, may I not?”
There was a deep light in Glory's eyes and a momentary quiver of her eyelids. Then without a word she put her arms about Rosa's neck and kissed her,
“I was sure of you,” said Rosa. Her voice was low and husky. “Your name is Glory, isn't it? It wasn't for nothing you were given that name. God gave it you!”
The party was breaking up and Koenig came for “his star.” “I vill give you an engagement for one, two, tree year, upon my vord I vill,” he said as they went downstairs. While the butler took him back to the library to sign his receipt and receive his cheque, Glory stood waiting by the billiard table in the hall and Drake and Lord Robert stepped up to her.
“Until when?” said Drake with a smile, but Glory pretended not to understand him. “I dare say you thought me cynical to-night, Glory. I only meant that if you are to follow this profession I want you to make the best of it. Why not look for a wider scene? Why not go directly to the public?”
“But de lady is engaged to me for tree year,” said Koenig, coming up.
Drake looked at Glory, who shook her head, and then Koenig made an effort at explanation. It was an understood thing. He had taught her, taken her into his house, found her in a Sunday----
But Drake interrupted him. If they could help Miss Quayle to a better market for her genius Mr. Koenig need be no loser by the change. Then Koenig was pacified, and Drake handed Glory to a cab.
“We're good friends again, aren't we?” he said, touching her hand lightly.
“Yes,” she answered.
There was a letter from Aunt Rachel waiting for her at the Priory. Aunt Anna didn't like these frequent changes, and she had no faith in music or musicians either, but the Parson thought Anna too censorious, and as for Mr. Koenig's Sunday evening companies, he had no doubt they were of Germans chiefly, and that they came to talk of Martin Luther and to sing his hymn. Sorry to say his infirmities were increasing; the burden of his years was upon him, and he was looking feeble and old.
Glory slept little that night. On going to her room she threw up the window and sat in front of it, that the soft night breeze might play on her hot lips and cheeks. The moon was high and the garden was slumbering under its gentle light. Everything around was hushed, and there was no sound anywhere except the far-off rumble of the great city, as of the wind in distant trees. She was thinking of a question which Drake had put to her.
“I wonder if I should?” she murmured.
And through the silence there was the unheard melody of the German song:
Du liebes Kind, komm' geh' mit mir! Gar schöne Spiele spiel' ich mit dir.
XIX.
“The Priory--May Day.
“Dear Aunt Rachel: The great evening is over! Such dresses, such diamonds--you never saw the like! The smart folks are just like other human beings, and I was not the tiniest bit afraid of them. My own part of the programme went off pretty well, I think. Mr. Koenig had arranged the harmonies and accompaniments of some of our old Manx songs, so I sang Mylecharaine, and they listened and clapped, and then Ny Kiree fo Niaghtey, and they cried (and so did I), and then I imitated some work-girls singing in the streets, and they laughed and laughed until I laughed too, and then they laughed because I was laughing, and we all laughed together. It was over and done before I knew where I was, and everybody was covering me with--well, no, not kisses, as grandfather used to do, but the society equivalent--ices and jellies--which the gentlemen were rushing about wildly to get for me.
“But all this is as nothing compared to what is to happen next. I mustn't whisper a word about it yet, so false face must hide what the false heart doth know. You'll _have_ to forgive me if I succeed, for nothing is wicked in this world except failure, you know, and a little sin must be a great virtue if it has grown to be big enough, you see. There! How sagacious of me! You didn't know what a philosopher you had in the family, did you, my dears?
“It is to be on the 24th of May. That will be the Queen's birthday over again; and when I think of all that has happened since the last one I feel as romantic as a schoolgirl and as sentimental as a nursery maid. Naturally I am in a fearful flurry over the whole affair, and, to tell the truth, I have hied me to the weird sisters on the subject--that is to say, I have been to a fortune-teller, and spent a 'goolden' half-sovereign on the creature at one fell swoop. But she predicts wonderful things for me, so I am satisfied. The newspapers are to blaze with my name; I am to have a dazzling success and become the idol of the hour--all of which is delightful and entrancing, and quite reasonable at the money. Grandfather will reprove me for tempting Providence, and, of course, John Storm, if he knew it, would say that I shouldn't do such things under any circumstances; yet to tell me I oughtn't to do this and I oughtn't to do that is like saying I oughtn't to have red hair and I oughtn't to catch the measles. I can't help it! I can't help it! so what's the good of breaking one's heart about it?
“But I hadn't got to wait for _Hecate et cie_ for what related to the newspapers. You must know, dear Aunt Rachel, that I _did_ meet Mr. Drake at the house of the Home Secretary, and he introduced me to a Miss Rosa Macquarrie, who is no longer very young or beautiful, but a dear for all that! and she, being a journalist, has bruited my praises abroad, with the result that all the world is ringing with my virtues. Listen, all men and women, while I sound mine own glory out of a column as long as the Duke of York's:
“'She is young and tall, and has auburn hair' (always thought it was red myself) 'and large gray eyes, one of which seems at a distance to be brown' (it squints), 'giving an effect of humour and coquetry and power rarely, if ever, seen in any other face.... Her voice has startling varieties of tone, being at one moment soft, cooing, and liquid, and at another wild, weird, and plaintive; and her face, which is not strictly beautiful' (oh!), 'but striking and unforgetable, has an extraordinary range of expression.... She sings, recites, speaks, laughs, and cries (literally), and some of her selections are given in a sort of Irish _patois_' (oh, my beloved Manx!) 'that comes from her girlish lips with charming vivacity and drollness.' All of which, though it is quite right, and no more than my due, _of course_, made me sob so long and loud that my good little hippopotamus came upstairs to comfort me, but, finding me lying on the floor, he threw up his hands and cried, '_Ach_ Gott! I t'ought it vas a young lady, but vhatever is it?'
“Yet wae's me! Sometimes I think how many poor girls there must be who have never had a chance, while I have had so many and such glorious ones; who can not get anybody to listen to them, while I am so pampered and praised; who live in narrow alleys and serve in little dark shops, where men and men-things talk to them as they can't talk to their sisters and wives, while I am held aloft in an atmosphere of admiration and respect: who earn their bread in clubs and casinos, where they breathe the air of the hotbeds of hell, while I am surrounded by everything that ennobles and refines! O God, forgive me if I am a vain, presumptuous creature, laughing at everything and everybody, and sometimes forgetting that many a poor girl who is being tossed about in London is just as good as me, and as clever and as brave.
“But hoot! 'I likes to be jolly and I allus is.' So Aunt Anna doesn't like this Wandering Jew existence! Well, do you know I always thought I should love a gipsy life. It has a sense of movement that must be delightful, and then I love going fast. Do you remember the days when 'Caesar' used to take the bit in his teeth and bolt with me! Lo, there was little me, cross-legged on his bare back, with nothing to trust to but Providence and a pair of rope reins; but, oh my! I couldn't breathe for excitement and delight! Dear old maddest of created 'Caesars,' I feel as if I were whacking at him yet! What do you think of me? But we 'that be females are the same craythurs alwis', as old Chalse used to say, and what a woman is in the cradle she continues to be to the end. There again! I wonder who told you that, young lady!
“But to tell you the truth at last, dear Aunt Rachel, there is something I have kept back until now, because I couldn't bear the thought of any of you being anxious on my account, especially grandfather, who thinks of Glory so much too often as things are. Can't you guess what it is? I couldn't help taking up my life of Wandering Jew, because I was dismissed from the hospital! Didn't you understand that, my dears? I thought I was telling you over and over again. Yes, dismissed as unfit to be a nurse, and so I was, according to the order of the institution first, and human love and pity last. But all's well that ends well, you know, and now that my wanderings seem to be over and I am in my right place at length, I feel like one who is coming out of a long imprisonment, a great peril, a darkness deeper even than John Storm's cell. And if I ever become a famous woman, and good men will listen to me, I will tell them to be tender and merciful to poor girls who are trying to live in London and be good and strong, and that the true chivalry is to band themselves together against the other men who are selfish and cruel and impure. Oh, this great, glorious, devilish, divine London! It must stand to the human world as the seething, boiling, bubbling waters of Niagara do to the world of Nature. Either a girl floats over its rapids like a boat, and in that case she draws her breath and thanks God, or she is tossed into its whirlpool like a dead body and goes round and round until she finds the vortex and is swallowed up!
“There! I have blown off my steam, and now to business. Mr. Drake is to give a luncheon party in his rooms on the twenty-fourth, in honour of my experiment, but the great event itself will not come off until nearly half-past nine that night. By that time the sun will have set over the back of the sea at Peel, the blackbird will have given you his last 'guy-smook,' and all the world will be dropping asleep. Now, if you'll only remember to say just then, 'God bless Glory!' I'll feel strong and big and brave.
“Your poor, silly, sentimental girlie, Glory.”
XX.
Some weeks had passed, and it was the morning of the last day of John Storm's residence at Bishopsgate Street. After calling the Brotherhood, the Father had entered John's room and was resting on the end of the bed.
“You are quite determined to leave us?”
“Quite determined, Father.”
The Father sighed deeply, and said in broken sentences: 'Our house is passing through terrible trials, my son. Perhaps we did wrong to come here. There is no cross in our foundations, and we have built on a worldly footing. 'Unless the Lord build the house--' It was good of you to delay the execution of your purpose, but now that the time has come--I had set my heart on you, my son. I am an old man now, and something of the affection of the natural father----”
“Father, if you only knew----”
“Yes, yes; I know, I know. You have suffered, and it is not for me to reproach you. The novitiate has its great joys, but it has its great trials also. Self has to be got rid of, faith has to be exerted, obedience has to be learned, and, above all, the heart has to be detached from its idols in the world--a devoted mother, it may be; a dear sister; perhaps a dearer one still.”
There was silence for a moment. John's head was down; he could not speak.
“That you wish to return to the world only shows that you came before you heard the call of God. Some other voice seemed to speak to you, and you listened and thought it was God's voice. But God's voice will come to you yet, and you will hear it and answer it and not another---- Have you anywhere to go to when you leave this house?”
“Yes, the home of a good woman. I have written to her--I think she will receive me.”
“All that you brought with you will be returned, and if you want money----”
“No, I came to you as a beggar--let me leave you as a beggar too.”
“There is one thing more, my son.”
“What is it, Father?”
The old man's voice was scarcely audible. “You are breaking obedience by leaving us before the end of your novitiate, and the community must separate itself from you, though you are only a novice, as from one who has violated his vow and cast himself off from grace. This will have to be done before you cross our threshold. It is our duty to the Brotherhood--it is also our duty to God. You understand that?”
“Yes.”
“It will be in the church, a few minutes before midday service.”
The Father rose to go. “Then that is all?”
“That is all.”
The Father's voice was breaking. “Good-bye, my son.”
“Good-bye, Father, and God forgive me!”
A leather trunk which John had brought with him on the day he came to the Brotherhood was returned to his room, containing the clothes he had worn in the outer world, as well as his purse and watch and other belongings. He dressed himself in his habit as a clergyman, and put the cassock of the society over it, for he knew that to remove that must be part of the ordeal of his expulsion. Then the bell rang for breakfast, and he went down to the refectory.
The brothers received him in silence, hardly looking up as he entered, though by their furtive glances he could plainly see that he was the only subject that occupied their thoughts. When the meal was over he tried to mingle among them, that he might say farewell to as many as were willing that he should do so. Some gave him their hands with prompt good will, some avoided him, some turned their backs upon him altogether.
But if his reception in the refectory was chilling, his welcome in the courtyard was warm enough. At the first sound of his footsteps on the paved way the dog came from his quarters under the sycamore. One moment the creature stood and looked at him with its sad and bloodshot eyes; then, with a bound, it threw its fore paws on his breast, and then plunged around him and uttered deep bays that were like the roar of thunder.
He sat on the seat and caressed the dog, and his heart grew full and happy. The morning was bright with sunshine, the air was fragrant with the leafage of spring, and birds were singing and rejoicing in the tree.