Part 72 (1/2)
”Ah, I was on my way to see you, my son.”
”Then you have heard what has happened?”
”Yes, Satan's shafts fly fast.” Then taking John's arm as they walked, ”Earthly blows are but reminders of Him, my son, like the hair s.h.i.+rt of the monk, and this trouble of yours is G.o.d's reminder of your broken obedience. What did I tell you when you left us--that you would come back within a year? And you will! Leave the world, my son. It treats you badly. The human spirit reigns over it, and even the Church is a Christian society out of the sphere and guidance of the Divine Spirit.
Leave it and return to your unfinished vows.”
John shook his head and took the Father into the clergy-house, where the girls were gathering for the evening. ”How can I leave the world, Father, when there's work like this to do? Society presents to a large proportion of these bright creatures the alternative, 'Sell yourself or starve.' But G.o.d says, 'Live, work, and love.' Therefore society is doomed, and that dead man's sepulchre, the Establishment, is doomed, but the Church will live, and become the corner-stone of the new order, and stand between woman and the world, as it stood of old between the poor and the rich.”
The Father preached for John that night, taking for his text ”The flesh l.u.s.teth against the Spirit, and the Spirit against the flesh.” And on parting from him at the door of the sacristy he said: ”Religious work can only be good, my son, if it concerns itself first of all with the salvation of souls. Now what if it pleased G.o.d to remove you from all this--to call you to a work of intercession--say, to the mission field?”
John's face turned pale. ”There can be no need to fly,” he said, with a frightened look. ”Surely London is a mission field wide enough for any man.”
”Yet who knows? Perhaps for your own soul's sake, lest vanity should take hold of you, or the love of fame, or--or any of the snares of Satan! But good-bye, and G.o.d be with you!”
When John Storm reached home he found a letter awaiting him. It was from Glory:
”Are you dead and buried? If so, send me word, that I may compose your epitaph. 'Here lies--_Lies_ is good, for though you didn't promise to come back you ought to have done so; therefore it comes to the same thing in the end. You must not think too ill of Mr. Drake. I call him the milk of human kindness, and his friend Lord Robert the oil thereof--I mean the oil of vitriol. But his temper is like the Caspian Sea, having neither ebb nor flow, while yours is like the Bay of Biscay--oh, so I can't expect you to agree. As for poor me, I may be guilty of all the seven deadly sins, but I can't see why I should be boycotted on that account. There is something I didn't know when you were here, and I want to explain about it. Therefore come 'right away'
(Lord Bob, Americanized). Being slow to anger and plenteous in mercy, I will forgive you if you come soon. If you don't, I'll--I'll go on the bike--feminine equivalent to the drink. To tell you the truth, I've done so already, having been careering round the gardens of the Inn during the early hours of morning, clad in Rosa's 'bloomers,' in which I make a picture and a sensation at the same time, she being several sizes larger round the hips, and fearfully and wonderfully made. If that doesn't fetch you I'll go in for boxing next, and in a pair of four-ounce gloves I'll cut a _striking_ figure, I can tell you.
”But, John Storm, have you cast me off entirely? Do you intend to abandon me? Do you think there is no salvation left for me? And are you going to let me sink in all this mire without stretching out a hand to help me? Oh, dear! oh, dear! I don't know what has come over the silly old world since I came back to London. Think it must be teething, judging by the sharpness of its bite, and feel as if I should like to give it a dose of syrup of squills.”
As John read the letter his eyelids quivered and his mouth relaxed. Then he glanced at it again, and his face clouded.
”I can not leave her entirely to the mercy of men like these,” he thought.
This innocent daring, this babelike ripping up of serviceable conventions--G.o.d knows what advantage such men might take of it. He must see her once again, to warn, to counsel her. It was his duty--he must not shrink from it.
It had been a day of painful impressions to Glory. Early in the morning Lord Robert had called to take her to the ”reading” of the new play. It took place in the saloon of an unoccupied Strand theatre, of which the stage also had been engaged for rehearsal. The company were gathered there, and, being more or less experienced actors and actresses, they received her with looks of courteous indulgence, as one whose leading place must be due to other things than talent. This stung her; she felt her position to be a false one, and was vexed that she had permitted Lord Robert to call for her. But her humiliation had yet hardly begun.
While they stood waiting for the manager, who was late, a gorgeous person with a waxed mustache and in a fur-lined coat, redolent of the mixed odour of perfume and stale tobacco, forced his way up to her and offered his card. She knew the man in a moment.
”I'm Josephs,” he said in a confidential undertone, ”and if there's anything I can do for you--acting management--anything--it vill give me pleesure.”
Glory flushed up and said, ”But you don't seem to remember, sir, that we have met before.”
The man smiled blandly. ”Oh, yes. I've kept track of you ever since and know all about you. You hadn't made your appearance then, and naturally I couldn't do much. But now--_now_ if you vill give me de pleesure----”
”Then an agent is one who can do nothing for you when you want help, but when you don't want it----”
The man laughed to carry off his audacity. ”Veil, you know vhat they say of us--agent from _agere_,'to do,' and we're always 'doing.' Ha, ha! But if you are villing to let bygones be bygones, I am, and velcome.”
Glory's face was crimson. ”Will somebody go for the stage doorkeeper?”
she said, and one of the company went out on that errand. Then, raising her voice so that everybody listened, she said: ”Mr. Josephs, when I was quite unknown, and trying to get on, and finding it very hard, as we all do, you played me the cruellest trick a man ever played on a woman. I don't owe you any grudge, but, for the sake of every poor girl who is struggling to live in London, I am going to turn you out of the house.”
”Eh? Vhat?”
The stage doorkeeper had entered. ”Porter, do you see this gentleman? He is never to come into this theatre again as long as we are here, and if he tries to force his way in you are to call a policeman and have him bundled back into the street!”