Part 67 (1/2)

”Adam Quayle.”

X.

Glory's letter and its inclosure fell on John Storm like rain in the face of a man on horseback--he only whipped up and went faster.

”How can I find words,” he wrote, ”to express what I feel at your mournful news? Yet why mournful? His life's mission was fulfilled, his death was a peaceful victory, and we ought to rejoice that he was so easily released. I trust you will not mourn too heavily for him, or allow his death to stop your life. It would not be right. No trouble came near his stainless heart, no shadow of sin; his old age was a peaceful day which lasted until sunset. He was a creature that had no falsetto in a single fibre of his being, no shadow of affectation. He kept like this through all our complicated existence in this artificial world, absolutely unconscious of the hollowness and pretension and sham that surrounded him--tolerant, too, and kind to all. Then why mourn for him? He is gathered in--he is safe.

”His letter was touching in its artful simplicity. It was intended to ask me to apply for his living. But my duty is here, and London must make the best of me. Yet more than ever now I feel my responsibility with regard to yourself. The time is not ripe to advise you. I am on the eve of a great effort. Many things have to be tried, many things attempted. It is a gathering of manna--a little every day. To G.o.d's keeping and protection meantime I commit you. Comfort your aunts, and let me know if there is anything that can be done for them.”

The ink of this letter was hardly dry when John Storm was in the middle of something else. He was in a continual fever now. Above all, his great scheme for the rescue and redemption of women and children possessed him. He called it Glory's scheme when he talked of it to himself. It might be in the teeth of nineteenth-century morality, but what matter about that? It was on the lines of Christ's teaching when he forgave the woman and shamed the hypocrites. He would borrow for it, beg for it, and there might be conditions under which he would steal for it too.

Mrs. Callender shook her head.

”I much mis...o...b.. there'll be scandal, laddie. It's a woman's work, I'm thinking.”

”'Be thou as chaste as ice,' auntie, 'as pure as snow' ... but no matter! I intend to call out the full power of a united Church into the warfare against this high wickedness. Talk of the union of Christendom!

If we are in earnest about it we'll unite to protect and liberate our women.”

”But where's the siller to come frae, laddie?”

”Anywhere--everywhere! Besides, I have a bank I can always draw on, auntie.”

”You're no meaning the Prime Minister again, surely?”

”I mean the King of Kings. G.o.d will provide for me, in this, as in everything.”

Thus his reckless enthusiasm bore down everything, and at the back of all his thoughts was the thought of Glory. He was preparing a way for her; she was coming back to a great career, a glorious mission; her bright soul would s.h.i.+ne like a star; she would see that he had been right, and faithful, and then--then----But it was like wine coursing through his veins--he could not think of it.

Three thousand pounds had to be found to buy or build homes with, and he set out to beg for the money. His first call was at Mrs. Macrae's. Going up to the house, he met the lady's poodle in a fawn-coloured wrap coming out in charge of a footman for its daily walk round the square.

He gave the name of ”Father Storm,” and after some minutes of waiting he was told that the lady had a headache and was not receiving that day.

”Say the nephew of the Prime Minister wishes to see her,” said John.

Before the footman had returned again there was the gentle rustle of a dress on the stairs, and the lady herself was saying: ”Dear Mr. Storm, come up. My servants are real tiresome, they are always confusing names.”

Time had told on her; she was looking elderly, and the wrinkles about her eyes could no longer be smoothed out. But her ”front” was curled, and she was still saturated in perfume.

”I heard of your return, dear Mr. Storm,” she said, in the languid voice of the great lady, but the accent of St. Louis, as she led the way to the drawing-room. ”My daughter told me about it. She was always interested in your work, you know.... Oh, yes, quite well, and having a real good time in Paris. Of course, you know she has been married. A great loss to me naturally, but being G.o.d's will I felt it was my duty as a mother----” and then a pathetic description of her maternal sentiments, consoled by the circ.u.mstance that her son-in-law belonged to ”one of the best families,” and that she was constantly getting newspapers from ”the other side” containing full accounts of the wedding and of the dresses that were worn at it.

John twirled his hat in his hand and listened.

”And what are your dear devoted people doing down there in Soho?”

Then John told of his work for working girls, and the great lady pretended to be deeply interested. ”Why, they'll soon be better than the upper cla.s.ses,” she said.

John thought it was not improbable, but he went on to tell of his scheme, and how small was the sum required for its execution.

”Only three thousand! That ought to be easily fixed up. Why, certainly!”