The Christian is a Webnovel created by Hall Caine.
This lightnovel is currently completed.
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.
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.