Part 69 (2/2)

Twenty young mothers and their children now lived in the upper rooms, under obedience to the Sisterhood, but Polly's boy had remained with Mrs. Pincher. From time to time he had seen the little one tethered to a chair by a scarf about its waist, creeping by the wall to the door, and there gazing out on the world with looks of intelligence, and babbling to it in various inarticulate noises. ”Boo-loo! Lal-la! Mum-um!” The little dark face had the eyes of its mother, but it represented Glory for all that. John Storm loved to see it. He felt that he could never part with it, and that if Lord Robert Ure himself came and asked for it he would bundle him out of doors.

But a carriage drew up at Mrs. Callender's one morning, and Lady Robert Ure stepped out. Her pale and patient face had the feeble and nervous smile of the humiliated and unloved.

”Mr. Storm,” she said in her gentle voice, ”I have come on a delicate errand. I can not delay any longer a duty I ought to have discharged before.”

It was about Polly's baby. She had heard of what had happened at the hospital; and the newspapers which had followed her to Paris, with reports of her wedding, had contained reports of the girl's death also.

Since her return she had inquired about the child, and discovered that it had been rescued by him and was now in careful keeping.

”But it is for me to look after it, Mr. Storm, and I beg of you to give it up to me. Something tells me that G.o.d will never give me children of my own, so I shall be doing no harm to any one, and my husband need never know whose child it is I adopt. I promise you to be good to it.

It shall never leave me. And if it should live to be a man, and grow to love me, that will help me to forget the past and to forgive myself for my own share in it. Oh, it is little I can do for the poor girl who is gone--for, after all, she loved him and I took him from her. But this is my duty, Mr. Storm, and I can not sleep at night or rest in the day until it is begun.”

”I don't know if it is your duty, dear lady, but if you wish for the child it is your right,” said John Storm, and they got into the carriage and drove to Soho.

”Boo-loo! Lal-la! Mum-um!” The child was tethered to the chair as usual and talking to the world according to its wont. When it was gone and the women on the doorsteps could see no more of the fine carriage of the great lady who had brought the odour of perfume and the rustle of silk into the dingy court, and Mrs. Pincher had turned back to the house with red eyes and her widow's cap awry, John Storm told himself that everything was for the best. The last link with Glory was broken! Thank G.o.d for that! He might go on with his work now and need think of her no more!

That day he called at Clement's Inn.

The Garden House was a pleasant dwelling, fronting on two of its sides to the garden of the ancient Inn of Chancery, and cosily furnished with many curtains and rugs. The c.o.c.kney maid who answered the door was familiar in a moment, and during the short pa.s.sage from the hall to the floor above she communicated many things. Her name was Liza; she had heard him preach; he had made her cry; ”Miss Gloria” had known her former mistress, and Mr. Drake had got her the present place.

There was a sound of laughter from the drawing-room. It was Glory's voice. When the door opened she was standing in the middle of the floor in a black dress and with a pale face, but her eyes were bright and she was laughing merrily. She stopped when John Storm entered and looked confused and ashamed. Drake, who was lounging on the couch, rose and bowed to him, and Miss Macquarrie, who was correcting long slips of printer's proofs at a desk by the window, came forward and welcomed him.

Glory held his hand with her long hand-clasp and looked steadfastly into his eyes. His face twitched and her own blushed deeply, and then she talked in a nervous and jerky way, reproaching him for his neglect of her.

”I have been busy,” he began, and then stopped with a sense of hypocrisy. ”I mean worried and tormented,” and then stopped again, for Drake had dropped his head.

She laughed, though there was nothing to laugh at, and proposed tea, rattling along in broken sentences that were spoken with a tremulous trill, which had a suggestion of tears behind it. ”Shall I ring for tea, Rosa? Oh, you _have_ rung for tea! Ah, here it comes!--Thank you, Liza.

Set it here,” seating herself. ”Now who says the 'girl'? Remember?” and then more laughter.

At that moment there was another arrival. It was Lord Robert Ure. He kissed Rosa's hand, smiled on Glory, saluted Drake familiarly, and then settled himself on a low stool by the tea-table, pulled up the knees of his trousers, relaxed the congested muscles of one half of his face, and let fall his eyegla.s.s.

Drake was handing out the cups as Glory filled them. He was looking at her attentively, vexed at the change in her manner since John Storm entered. When he returned to his seat on the sofa he began to twitch the ear of her pug, which lay coiled up asleep beside him, calling it an ugly little pestilence, and wondering why she carried it about with her.

Glory protested that it was an angel of a dog, whereupon he supposed it was now dreaming of paradise--listen!--and then there were audible snores in the silence, and everybody laughed, and Glory screamed.

”I declare, on my honour, my dear,” said Drake with a mischievous look at John, ”the creature is uglier than the beast that did the business on the day we eloped.”

”Eloped!” cried Rosa and Lord Robert together.

”Why, did you never hear that Glory eloped with me?”

Glory was trying to drown his voice with hollow laughter.

”She was seven and I was six and a half, and she had proposed to me in the orchard the day before!”

”Anybody have more tea? No? Some sally-lunn, perhaps?” and then more laughter.

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