Part 68 (2/2)

”_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 pa.s.sing out, but Mrs. Callender cried out in a jubilant voice, ”Be skipper of your ain s.h.i.+p, 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 pa.s.sed 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 suns.h.i.+ne; 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, G.o.d willing, is now so near, when a ministering angel of tenderness and strength will be pa.s.sing 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 s.e.xes. 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 ca.s.sock 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 pa.s.sed 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!”

<script>