Part 3 (1/2)
”I was blus.h.i.+ng when you came up, wasn't I?” she said. ”Shall I tell you why?”
”Why?”
”It was this,” she said, with a sweep of her hand across her bosom.
He looked puzzled.
”Don't you understand? This old rag--it's the one I was wearing before you went away.”
He wanted to tell her how well she looked in it--better than ever now that her bosom showed under its seamless curves, and her figure had grown so lithe and shapely. But though she was laughing he saw she was ashamed of her poverty, and he thought to comfort her.
”I'm to be a poor man myself in future, Glory. I've quarrelled with my father. I'm going to take Orders.”
Her face fell. ”Oh, I didn't think anybody would be poor who could help it. To be a clergyman is all right for a poor man, perhaps, but I hate to be poor; it's horrid.”
Then darkness fell upon his eyes and he felt sad and sick. Glory had disappointed him. She was vain, she was worldly, she was incapable of the higher things; she would never know what a sacrifice he had made for her; she would think nothing of him now; but he would go on all the same, the more earnestly because the devil had drawn a bow at him and the arrow had gone in up to the feathers.
”With G.o.d's help I shall nail my colours to the mast,” he said.
Thus he made up his mind to follow the unrolling of the scroll. He had the strength called character. The Church had been his beacon before, but now it was to be his refuge.
He found no difficulty in making the necessary preparations. For a year he read the Anglican divines--Jeremy Taylor, Hooker, Butler, Waterland, Pearson, and Pusey--and when the time came for his ordination his uncle, the Earl of Erin, who was now Prime Minister, obtained him a t.i.tle to a curacy under the popular and influential Canon Wealthy of All Saints, Belgravia. The Bishop of London gave letters dimissory to the Bishop of Sodor and Man, by whom he was examined and ordained.
On the morning of his departure for London his father, with whom there had in the meantime been trying scenes, left him this final word of farewell: ”As I understand that you intend to lead the life of poverty, I presume that you do not need your mother's dowry, and I shall hold myself at liberty to dispose of it elsewhere, _unless_ you require it for the use of the young lady who is, I hear, to go up with you.”
V.
”I will be a poor man among poor men,” said John Storm to himself as he drove to his vicar's house in Eaton Place, but he awoke next morning in a bedroom that did not answer to his ideas of a life of poverty. A footman came with hot water and tea, and also a message from the canon overnight saying he would be pleased to see Mr. Storm in the study after breakfast.
The study was a sumptuous apartment immediately beneath, with soft carpets on which his feet made no noise, and tiger-skins over the backs of chairs. As he entered it a bright-faced man in middle life, clean-shaven, wearing a gold-mounted _pince-nez_, and bubbling over with politeness, stepped forward to receive him.
”Welcome to London, my dear Mr. Storm. When the letter came from the Prime Minister I said to my daughter Felicity--you will see her presently--I trust you will be good friends--I said, 'It is a privilege, my child, to meet any wish of the dear Earl of Erin, and I am proud to be in at the beginning of a career that is sure to be brilliant and distinguished.'”
John Storm made some murmur of dissent.
”I trust you found your rooms to your taste, Mr. Storm?”
John Storm had found them more than he expected or desired.
”Ah, well, humble but comfortable, and in any case please regard them as your own, to receive whom you please therein, and to dispense your own hospitalities. This house is large enough. We shall not meet oftener than we wish, so we can not quarrel. The only meal we need take together is dinner. Don't expect too much. Simple but wholesome--that's all we can promise you in a clergyman's family.”
John Storm answered that food was an indifferent matter to him, and that half an hour after dinner he never knew what he had eaten. The canon laughed and began again.
”I thought it best you should come to us, being a stranger in London, though I confess I have never had but one of my clergy residing with me before. He is here now. You'll see him by-and-bye. His name is Golightly, a simple, worthy young man, from one of the smaller colleges, I believe. Useful, you know, devoted to me and to my daughter, but of course a different sort of person altogether, and--er----”
It was a peculiarity of the canon that whatever he began to talk about, he always ended by talking of himself.
”I sent for you this morning, not having had the usual opportunity of meeting before, that I might tell you something of our organization and your own duties.... You see in me the head of a staff of six clergy.”
John Storm was not surprised; a great preacher must be followed by flocks of the poor; it was natural that they should wish him to help them and to minister to them.