Part 69 (1/2)

At the corner of the lane Mr. Jupe was waiting for him to beg his pardon and to ask his advice. What he had said of Mrs. Jupe had turned out to be true. The Sharkeys had ”split” on her and she had been arrested. ”It was all in the evenin' pipers last night,” the weak creature whimpered, ”and to-day my manager told me I 'ad best look out for another place.

Oh, my poor Lidjer! What am I to do?”

”Do? Cut her off like a rotten bough!” said John scornfully, and with that he strode down the street. The human sea roared around him, and he felt as if he wanted to fling himself into the midst of it and be swallowed up.

On reaching Victoria Square he told Mrs. Callender the news--flung it out at her with a sort of triumphant shout. His church had been sold over his head, and being only ”Chaplain to the Greek-Turks,” he was to be turned into the streets. Then he laughed wildly, and by some devilish impulse began to abuse Glory. ”The next chaplain is to be a girl,” he cried, ”one of those creatures who throw kisses at gaping crowds and sweep curtsies for their dirty crusts.”

But all at once he turned white as a ghost and sat down trembling. Mrs.

Callender's face was twitching, and to prevent herself from crying she burst into scorching satire. ”There!” she said, sitting in her rocking-chair and rocking herself furiously, ”I ken'd weel what it would come til! Adversity mak's a man wise, they say, if it doesna mak' him rich. But it's the Prime Minister I blame for this. The auld dolt! he must be fallen to his dotage. It's enough to mak' a reasonable body go out of her mind to think of sic wise a.s.ses. I told you what to expect, but you were always miscalling me for a suspicious auld woman. Oh, it's a thing ye'd no suspect; but Jane Callender is only a daft auld fool, ye see, and doesna ken what she's saying!”

But at the next moment she had jumped up and flung her arms about John's neck, and was crying over him like a girl. ”Oh, my son! my ain son!

And is it for me to fling out at ye? Aye, aye, it's a heartless world, laddie!”

He kissed the old woman, and then she tried to coax him to eat. ”Come, come, a wee bittie, just a wee bittie. We must eat our supper anyway.”

”G.o.d seems dead and heaven a long way off!” he murmured.

”And a drap o' whisky will do no harm--a wee drappie.”

”There's only one thing clear--G.o.d sees I'm unfit for the work, so he has taken it away from me.”

She turned aside from the table, and the supper was left untouched.

The first post next morning brought a letter from Glory.

”The Garden House,

”Clement's Inn, W. C.

”Forgive me! I have returned to town! I couldn't help it, I couldn't, I couldn't! London dragged me back. What was I to do after everything was settled and the aunties provided for?--a.s.sist in a dame's school and wage war with pothooks and hangers? Oh! I was dying of weariness--dying, dying, dying!

”And then they made me such tempting offers. Not the music hall--don't think that. I dare say you were quite right there. No, but the theatre, the regular theatre! Mr. Drake has bought some broken-down old place, and is to turn it into a beautiful theatre expressly for me. I am to play Juliet. Only think--Juliet!--and in my own theatre! Already I feel like a liberated slave who has crossed her Red Sea.

”And don't think a woman's mourning is like the silly old laws which lasted but three days. _He_ is buried in my heart, not in the earth, and I shall love him and revere him always! And then didn't you tell me yourself it would not be right to allow his death to stop my life?

”Write and say you forgive me, John. Reply by return, and make yourself your own postman--registered. You'll find me here at Rosa's. Come, come, come! I'll never forgive you if you don't come soon--never, never!

”Glory.”

XII.

A fortnight had pa.s.sed, and John Storm had not yet visited Glory.

Nevertheless, he had heard of her from day to day through the medium of the newspapers. Every morning he had glanced down the black columns for the name that stood out from them as if its letters had been printed in blood. The reports had been many and mysterious. First, the brilliant young artiste, who had made such an extraordinary impression some months before, had returned to London and would shortly resume the promising career which had been interrupted by illness and family bereavement.

Next, the forthcoming appearance would be on the regular stage, and in a Shakespearian character, which was always understood to be a crucial test of histrionic genius. Then, the revival of Romeo and Juliet, which had formerly been in contemplation, would probably give way to the still more ambitious project of an entirely new production by a well-known Scandinavian author, with a part peculiarly fitted to the personality and talents of the _debutante_. Finally, a syndicate was about to be formed for the purchase of some old property, with a view to its reconstruction as a theatre, in the interests of the new play and the new player.

John Storm laughed bitterly. He told himself that Glory was unworthy of the least of his thoughts. It was his duty to go on with his work and think of her no more.

He had received his official notice to quit. The church was to be given up in a month, the clergy-house in two months, and he believed himself to be immersed in preparations for the rehousing of the club and home.