Part 57 (1/2)
The porter looked at him suspiciously. Had he an appointment? No; but could he send in his name? The porter looked doubtful. Would she come out soon? The porter did not know. Would she come this way? The porter could not tell. Could he have her address?
”If ye want to write to the laidy, write here,” said the porter, with a motion of his hands to the pigeon-holes.
John Storm felt humiliated and ashamed. The hairdressers' a.s.sistants were grinning at him. He went out, feeling that Glory was farther than ever from him now, and if he met her they might not speak. But he could not drag himself away. In the darkness under a lamp at the other side of the street he stood and waited. Shoddy broughams drove up, with drivers in shabby livery, bringing ”turns” in wonderful hats and overcoats, over impossible wigs, whiskers, and noses--n.i.g.g.e.rs, acrobats, clowns, and comic singers, who stepped out, shook the straw of their carriage carpets off their legs, and pa.s.sed in at the stage entrance.
At length the commissionaire appeared at the door and whistled, and a hansom cab rattled up to the end of the court. Then a lady m.u.f.fled in a cape, with the hood drawn over her head, and carrying a bouquet of roses, came out leaning on the arm of a gentleman. She stood a moment by his side and spoke to him and laughed. John heard her laughter. At the next moment she had stepped into the hansom, the door had fallen to, the driver had turned, the gentleman had raised his hat, the light had fallen on the lady's face, and she was leaning forward and smiling. John saw her smiles.
At the next moment the hansom had pa.s.sed into the illuminated thoroughfares and the group of people had dispersed. John Storm was alone under the lamp in the little dark street, and somewhere in the dark alleys behind him the organ man was still grinding out ”Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay.”
”Weel, what luck on your first night out?” said Mrs. Callender at breakfast in the morning. ”Found any of the poor lost things yet?”
”One,” said John, with a rueful face. ”Lost enough, though she doesn't know it yet, G.o.d help her!”
”They never do at first, laddie. Write to her friends, if she has any.”
”Her friends?”
”Nothing like home influences, ye ken.”
”I will--I must! It's all I can do now.”
III.
”The Priory, Friday Morning.
”Oh, my dear aunties, don't be terrified, but Glory has had a kind of a wee big triumph! Nothing very awful, you know, but on Monday night, before a rather larger company than usual, she sang and recited and play-acted a little, and as a result all the earth--the London earth--is talking about her, and n.o.body is taking any notice of the rest of the world. Every post is bringing me flowers with ribbons and cards attached, or ill.u.s.trated weeklies with my picture and my life in little, and I find it's wonderful what a lot of things you may learn about yourself if you'll only read the papers. My room at this moment is like a florist's window at nine o'clock on Sat.u.r.day morning, and I have reason to suspect that mine host and teacher, Carl Koenig, F. E. C. O., exhibits them to admiring neighbours when I am out. The voice of that dear old turtle has ever since Monday been heard in the land, and besides telling me about Poland day and night from all the subterranean pa.s.sages of the house, he has taken to waiting on me like a n.i.g.g.e.r, and ordering soups and jellies for me as if I had suddenly become an invalid. Of course, I am an able-bodied woman just the same as ever, but my nerves have been on the rack all the week, and I feel exactly as I did long ago at Peel when I was a little naughty minx and got up into the tower of the old church and began pulling at the bell rope, you remember. Oh, dear! oh, dear! My frantic terror at the noise of the big bells and the vibration of the shaky old walls! Once I had begun I couldn't leave off for my life, but went on tugging and tugging and quaking and quaking until--have you forgotten it?--all the people came running helter-skelter under the impression that the town was afire. And then, behold, it was only little me, trembling like a leaf and crying like a ninny! I remember I was scolded and smacked and dismissed into outer darkness (it was the chip vault, I think), for that first outbreak of fame, and now, lest you should want to mete out the same punishment to me again--
”Aunt Anna, I'm knitting the sweetest little shawl for you, dear--blue and white, to suit your complexion--being engaged in the evening only, and most of the day sole mistress of my own will and pleasure. How charming of me, isn't it? But I'm afraid it isn't, because you'll see through me like a colander, for I want to tell you something which I have kept back too long, and when I think of it I grow old and wrinkled like a Christmas apple. So you must be a pair of absolute old angels, aunties, and break the news to grandfather.
”You know I told you, Aunt Rachel, to say something for me at nine o'clock on the Queen's birthday. And you remember that Mr. Drake used to think pearls and diamonds of Glory, and predict wonderful things for her. Then you don't forget that Mr. Drake had a friend named Lord Robert Ure, commonly called Lord Bob. Well, you see, by Mr. Drake's advice, and Lord Bobbie's influence and agency, and I don't know what, I have made one more change--it's to be the last, dears, the very last--in my Wandering-Jew existence, and now I am no longer a society entertainer, because I am a music-hall art----”
Glory had written so far when she dropped the pen and rose from the table, wiping her eyes.
”My poor child, you can't tell them, it's impossible; they would never forgive you!”
Then a carriage stopped before the house, the garden bell was rung, and the maid came into the room with a lady's card. It was inscribed ”Miss Polly Love,” with many splashes and flourishes.
”Ask her up,” said Glory. And then Polly came rustling up the stairs in a silver-gray silk dress and a noticeable hat, and with a pug-dog tucked under her arm. She looked older and less beautiful. The pink and ivory of her cheeks was coated with powder, and her light gray eyes were pencilled. There was the same blemished appearance as before, and the crack in the vase was now plainly visible.
Glory had met the girl only once since they parted after the hospital, but Polly kissed her effusively. Then she sat down and began to cry.
”Perhaps you wouldn't think it, my dear, but I'm the most miserable girl in London. Haven't you heard about it? I thought everybody knew. Robert is going to be married. Yes, indeed, to-morrow morning to that American heiress, and I hadn't an idea of it until Monday afternoon. That was the day of your luncheon, dear, and I felt sure something was going to happen, because I broke my looking-gla.s.s dressing to go out. Robert took me home, and he began to play the piano, and I could see he was going to say something. 'Do you know, little woman, I'm to be married on Sat.u.r.day?' I wonder I didn't drop, but I didn't, and he went on playing.
But it was no use trying, and I burst out and ran into my room. After a minute I heard him coming in, but he didn't lift me up as he used to do.
Only talked to me over my back, telling me to control myself, and what he was going to do for me, and so on. He used to say a few tears made me nicer looking, but it was no good crying--and then he went away.”
She began to cry again, and the dog in her lap began to howl.
”O G.o.d! I don't know what I've done to be so unfortunate. I've not been flash at all, and I never went to _cafes_ at night, or to Sally's or Kate's, as so many girls do, and he can't say I ever took notice of anybody else. When I love anybody I think of him last thing at night and first thing in the morning, and now to be left alone--I'm sure I shall never live through it!”