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Evening Post, Volume LIV, Issue 99, 23 October 1897, Page 1 (Supplement)

THE STORY-TELLER.

Tfie Christian,* By Haui Oadte. (Author of ' The Manxman/ &c.) Book 111. V. Glory sang that night with extraordinary vivacity and charm, and was Galled upon again and again. Going home in the cab she tried to live through the day afresh, every step, every act, every word, down to that triumphant ' I will.' Her thoughts swayed as with the swaying of the hansom, but sometimes the thunderous applause of the audience broke in, and then she had to remember where she had left' off. She could feel that beating against her breast still, and even Bmell the violets that grew by the pool. He had told her to give up everything, and when at length this occurred to her as a separate idea, there was an exquisite thrill in the thought that perhaps some day she would annihilate Herself and all her ambitions, and . . . 'who knows what then ? This mood lasted until Monday morning, when she was sitting in her room, and smiling at herself in the glass, when the cockney 'maid came in with a newspaper which her master had sent up on account of a long report of the wedding. There were two columns of the event, and she read it in snatches between moments when other remembrances of the day stole in. 'The Church of All Saints was crowded by a fashionable congregation, among whom were many notable persons in the world of politics and society, including the father of the bridegroom, the Duke of and his elder brother, the Marquis of . An arch of palms crossed the nave at the entrance to the chancel, and festoons of rare flowers were suspended from the rails of the handsome screen. The altar and the table of the commandments were also obscured by the wreaths of exotics that hung over them, and the columns of the colonnade and font and the offertory boxes were similarly buried in rich and lovely blossoms . . . ' Thanks to an informal rehearsal some dayß before, the ceremony went off without a hitch. The officiating clergy were the Venerable Archdeacon Wealthy, D.D., assisted by the Rev. Josiah Golightly and other members of the numerous staff of All Saints. The service, which was full choral, was under the able direction of the well-known organist and choirmaster, Mr. Carl Koenig, F.K.C.U., and the choir consisted of twenty adult and forty boy voices. On the arrival of the bride a procession was formed at the West entrance, and proceeded up to the chancel singing, "The Voice that Breathed o'er Eden " . .' ♦ Poor Polly !' thought Glory. 'The bride wore a duchess satin gown, trimmed with chiffon and Brussels lace, and having a long train hung from the shoulders. Her tulle veil was fastened with a ruby brooch of twenty carats and with sprays of real orange blossom sent specially from the Eiviera, and the necklace consisted of a rope of graduated pearls fully a yard long, and understood to have belonged to Catherine of Russia. She carried a bouquet of flowers (the gift of the bridegroom) brought from .Florida, the American home of her family. The bride's mother wore. . . . 'The bridesmaids were dressed ' Mr. Horatio Drake acted as best man.' Glory drew her breath as with a spasm, and threw down the newspaper. How blind she had been, how vain, how foolish! She had told John Storm that Drake was only a good friend to her, meaning him to understand that thus far she allowed him to go, and no further. But there was a whole realm, of his life into which he did not ask her to enter. The 'notable persons in politics and society,' 'the bridesmaids/ these made up his real sphere, his serious scene. Other women were his friends, companions, equals, intimates, and when he stood in the eye of the world it was they who stood beside him. And she ? She was his hobby. He came to her in his off hours. She filled up the underside of his life. With a crushing sense of humiliation she was folding up the newspaper to send it downstairs when her eye was arrested by a paragraph in email, type in the corner, headed, ' Shocking Occurrence at a Fashionable MarriagS.' • Oh, Lord Jesus !' A glance had shown her what it was. It was a report of Polly's suioide— * At a fashionable marriage at a West End church on Saturday (no names) a young woman who was sitting in tho nave was seen to rise and attempt to step into the aisle as if with the intention of crushing her way out, when she fell back in convulsions, and on being removed was found to be dead. Happily, the attention of the congregation was at the moment directed to the bride and bridegroom, who were then returning from the vestry with the bridal party behind them, and thus the painful incident made no sensation among the crowded congregation. The body was removed to the mortuary, and from subsequent enquiries it transpired that death had • Copyright.

been due to poison self-administered, and that the deceased, who had been a woman of considerable personal beauty, was Elizabeth Ann Love, J24, of no occupation, but formerly a nurse, a circumstance which had enabled her to procure half-a-grain of liquor strychnine, on her own signature, at a chemist's where she had been known.' ' Oh, God ! Oh, God !' Glory understood everything now. 'I've a great mind to go to All Saints and shame them. . . . Oh, it isn't the police I'm afraid of.' Polly's purpose was clear ; she had intended to fall dead at the feet of the bride and bridegroom, and make them walk over her body. Poor, foolish, ineffectual Polly! Her very ghost must be ashamed of the failure of her revenge. Not a ripple of sensation on Saturday, and this morning only a few obscure lines in little letters. Oh, it was hideous! The poor thing's vengeance was theatrical and paltry ; but what of the man, wherever he was ? What did he think of himself now with his millions and his murder ; yes, his murder, for what else was it ? An hour later Glory was ringing the bell of a little house in St John's Wood, whereof the upper blinds were drawn. The grating of the garden door slid back, and an untidy head looked out. ' Well, ma'am ?' ' Don't you remember me, Liza ?' 'Lawd, yes, miss,' and the door was opened, • but I was afeard you were one o' them reportin' people, and my order is not to answer no questions.' 1 Has he been here, then ?' ' Bless ye, no miss ; he's on his way to the Continents. But his friend has, and he's settled everything handsome — I will say that for the gentleman.' Glory felt her gall rising as she passed into the house — there was something degrading, almost disreputable, even in the loyalty of Drake's friendship. 'Fancy Liza not knowing you, miss, and me at the 'all a Tuesday night! I 'ope you'll excuse the liberty, but I did laugh, and I won't say but I shed a few tears too. Arranged ? Yes, the jury and the coroner and everything. It's to be at 12 o'clock, so you may think I've 'ad my 'ands full. But you'll want to look at 'er, ■pore thing. Go up, miss, and mind yer 'ead — there's nobody but 'er friends with 7 er.' The friends proved to be Betty Belmont and her dressing - room companions. When Glory entered they showed no surprise. ' The pore child told us all about you,' said Betty, and the little one said, * It's your nyme that's caught on, dear. The minute I heard it I said what a top line for a bill.' It was the same little band-box of a bedroom, only now it was darkened. Polly's troubles were over. There was a slightly convulsed look about the mouth, but the features were otherwise calm and childlike, for all the dead are innocent. It was impossible to forget they had been friends. Glory's tears fell on the upturned face, and Polly carried them with her. The three women, with demure faces, were sipping Benediotine, and talking among themselves, and Polly's pug dog was coiled up on the bare bolster and snoring audibly. ' Pore thing, I don't know how she could 'a done it. But there — that's the worst of this life. It's all in the present, and leads to nothing, and ain't got no future.' 'What could the pore thing do? She wasn't so wonderful pretty, and then men like — ' • She was str'ight with him, say what yer like. Only she ought to been more patienter, and she needn't 'a been so hard on the lady neither.' ' She had everything the heart could wish. Look at her rooms. I wonder who'll . . .' Carriages were heard outside, and two or three men came in to do the last offices. Glory had turned her face away, but behind her the women were still talking. ' What a lovely ring ... I wish I had a keepsake to remember her by.' ' Well, and why not ? She won't want . .' Glory felt as if she was choking, but Polly's pug dog had been awakened by the commotion, and was beginning to howl ; so she took up the little mourner and carried it out. An organ man somewhere was playing ' Sweet Marie.' The funeral was at Kensal Green, and the four girls were the only followers. The death being due to suicide, the body was not taken into the chapel, but a clergyman met it at the gate, and led the way to the grave. Walking with her head down, and the dog under her arm, Glory had not seen him at first, but when he began with the tremendous words, 'I am the resurrection and the life,' she caught her breath and looked up. It -was John Storm. While they were in the carriage the clouds had been gathering, and now some spots of rain were falling. When the bearers had laid down their burden the spots were large and frequent, and all save one of the men turned and went back to the shelter of the porch. The three women looked at each other, and one i of them muttered something about the ' dead and the living,' and then the little lady stole away. After a moment the tall one followed her, and from shame of being ashamed, the third one went off also. By this time the rain was falling I in a sharp shower, and John Storm,

who was bareheaded, had opened his book and begun to read: 'Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of His great mercy to take unto Himself the soul of our dear sister here departed . . .' Then he saw that Glory was alone by the graveside, and his voice faltered, and almost failed him. It faltered again, and he halted when he came to the 'sure and certain hope,' but after a moment it quivered and filled out and seemed to say, ' Which of us can sound the depth of God's designs ?' After the ' maimed rites ' were over, John Storm went back to the church to remove his surplice, and when he returned to the grave Glory was gone. . She sang as usual at the musichall that night, but with a heavy heart. The difference communicated itself to the audience, and the applause which had greeted her before frayed off at length into separate handclaps. Crossing the stage to her dressing-room, she met Koenig, who came to conduct for her, and he said : 1 Not quite yourself to-night, mem dear, eh ?' Going home in the hansom Polly's dog cuddled with the old sympathy to the new mistress, and seemed to be making the best of things. The household was asleep, and Glory let herself in with a latch-key. Her cold supper was laid ready, and a letter was lying under the turneddown lamp. It was from her grandfather, and had been written after church on Sunday night : 'It is now so long — more than a year — since I saw my runaway and truant, that, notwithstanding the protests of Aunt Anna and the forebodings of Aunt Bachel, I have determined to give my old legs a journey and my old eyes a treat. Therefore take warning that I intend to come up to London forthwith, that I may see the great city for the first time in my life, and — which is better — my little granddaughter among all her new friends and in the midst of her great prosperity.' At the foot of this there was a postscript from Aunt Rachel, hastily scrawled in pencil : ' Take no notice of this. He is far too weak to travel, and, indeed, he is really failing, but your letter, which reached us last night, has so troubled him ever since that he can't take rest for thinking of it, and . . .' It was the last straw. Before finishing the letter or taking off her hat, Glory took up a telegraph form and WTOte : ' Postpone journey ; am returning home to-morrow.' Then she heard Koenig letting himself into the house, and going downstairs she said — ' Will you take this message to the telegraph office for me, please ?' ' Yy, of course I vill, and den ve'll have supper togedder. Look,' and he laughed and opened a paper and drew out a string of sausages. ' Mr. Koenig,' she said, ' you were right. I was not myself to-night. I want a rest, and I propose to take one.' As Glory returned upstairs she heard stammerings, sputterings, and swearings behind her about managers, engagements, announcements, geniuses, children, and other matters. Back in her rooms, she lay down on the floor, with her face in her hands', and sobbed. Then Koenig appeared, panting and saying, ' Dare, I knew vhat vould happen. Here is a pretty ting! And dats why Mr. Drake told me to deny you to de man ! De brute, de beast, de dirty son of a monk !' But Glory had leapt up with eyes of fire, and was crying, ' How dare you, sir? Out of my room this instant !' 'Mem Gott! It's a dyvil!' Koenig was muttering like a servant as he went downstairs. He went out to the telegraph office, and came back, and then Glory heard him frying his sausages on the diningroom fire. The night was far gone when she pushed aside her untouched supper, and wiping her eyes that she might see properly, sat down to write a letter : ' Dear John Storm, — Monk, monster, or whatever it is ! ' I trust it will be counted to me for righteousness that I am doing your bidding and giving up my profession — for the/present. Between a woman's yos and no, There isn't room for a pin to go, which is very foolish of her in this instance, considering that she is earning various pounds at night and has nothing but Providence to fall back upon. I have told my gaoler I must have my liberty, and, being a man of like passions with yourself, he has been busy blaspheming in the parlour downstairs. I trust virtue will be its own reward, for I dare say it in all I shall ever get. If I were Narcissus I should fall in love with myself to-day, having shown an obedience to tyranny which is beautiful and worthy of the heroic age. But to-morrow morning Igo back to the "Oilan," and it will be so nice up there without anybody, and ail alone.' She was laughing softly to herself as she wrote, and catching her breath with a little sob at intervals. ' A letter now and then is profitable to the soul of man — and woman — but you must not expect to hear from me, and as for you, though you have resurrected yourself, I suppose a tyrant of your opinions will continue the Benedictine rule which compels you to hold your peace— and other I

things. lam engaged to breakfast with a nice girl named Glory Quayle to-morrow morning — that is to say, this morning — at Euston Station at a quarter to seven, but happily this letter won't reach you until 7.30, so I'll just escape interruption.' The house was still, and the streets were quiet, not even a cab going along. ' Good-bye ! I've realised — a dog ! It's a pug, and therefore, like somebody else, it always looks black at me, though I suspect its father married beneath him, for it talks a good deal, and evidently hasn't been brought up in a brotherhood. Therefore., being a "female," I intend to call it Aunt Anna, except when the original is about. Aunt Anna has been hopping up and down the room at my heels for the last hour, evidently thinking that a rational woman would behave better if she went to bed. Perhaps I shall take a leaf out of your book and 'comb her hair' when I get her all alone in the train tomorrow, that she may be prepared for the new sphere to which it has pleased Providence to call her. ' Good-bye again ! I see the lamps of Euston running after each other — only it's the other way this time. I find there is something that seizes you ,with a fiercer palpitation than coming into a great and wonderful city, and that is going out of one. Dear old London ! After all, it has been very go<M. to me. No one, it seems to me, loves it as much as I do. Only somebody thinks . . well, never mind! Good-bye "for all " Glory.' At seven next morning, on the platform at Euston, Glory was standwith melancholy eyes at the door of a fir st- class compartment, watching the people sauntering up and down, talking in groups and hurrying to and fro, when Drake stepped up to her. She did not ask what had brought him ; she knew. He looked fresh and handsome, and was faultlessly dressed. 'You are doing quite right, my dear,' he said in a cheerful voice. ' Koenig telegraphed, and I came to see you off. Don't bother about the theatre, leave everything to me. Take a rest after your great excitement, and come back bright and well.' The locomotive whistled and began to pant, the smoke rose to the roof, the train, started, and before Glory knew she was going she was gone. Then Drake walked to his club and wrote this postscript to a letter to Lord Robert TJre, at the Grand Hotel, Paris : ' The parson has drawn first blood, and Gloria has gone home.' VI. On the Sunday evening after Glory's departure, John Storm, with the bloodhound running by his side, made his way to Soho in search of the mother of Brother Andrew. He had come to the corner of a street where the walls of an ugly brick church ran up a narrow court, ( and turned into a still narrower lane at the back. The church had been for some time a disused one, and its fagade was half covered with hoardings and plastered with placards :—: — 'Brighton and back, 3s,' 'Lloyd's News,' ' Standard, largest circulation,' ' Coals Is a cwt,' and ' Barclay's Sparkling Ales.' There was a tumult in the court and lane. In the midst of a close packed ring of excited people, chiefly foreigners, shouting in half the languages of Europe, a tall young cockney, with bloated face and eyes aflame with drink, was writhing and wrestling and growling and cursing. Sometimes he escaped from the grasp of the man who held him, and then he flung 1 himself against the closed door of a shop, which stood opposite, with the three balls of the pawnbroker suspended above it. Somebody within the shop was bellowing for help. It was a woman's voice, and the louder she screamed the more violent were the man's efforts to beat down the door that stood between them. As John Storm stood a moment looking on, some one on the street beside him said, ' It's a d shyme.' It was a man with a simple, feeble, ineffectual face, and the appearance of a waiter. Seeing he had been overheard, the man stammered, 'Beg parding, air ; but they may well say when the Devil can't come hisself 'c sends 'is brother Drink.' Having said this he began to move along, but stopped suddenly on seeing what the clergyman with the dog was doing. John Storm was pushing his way through the crowd, and his black figure in that writhing ring of undersized foreigners looked big and commanding. ' What's this ?' he was saying in a husky voice, that was loud and clear above the clamour. The shouting and swearing subsided, all save the bellowing from the inside of the shop, and the tumult straggled down in a moment to mutterings and gnaahings, and a broken and irregular silence. Then somebody said, ' It's nothink, sir.' And sombody else said, ' E's on'y drunk and wanting to pench 'is mother.' But without listening to this explanation, John Storm had laid hold of the young man by the collar and was dragging him, struggling and fuming, from the door. • "What's going on ?' he demanded. ' Will nobody Bpeak ?' Then a perky young fellow, a poor swaggering imitation of a man, came up out of the cellar of a house that stood next to the disused church, and a comely young woman carrying a

baby followed close behind him. He had a gin-bottle in his hands, and with a wink he said, 'Achristenin' — that's what's goin' on; 'aye a kepple of pennorths of 'ollande, old gol ?' At this sally the crowd, recovering its audacity, laughed, and the drunken man began to say that he could 'knock spots out of any bloomin' parson, 'en no bloomin' errer.' But the young fellow with the gin-bottle broke in again — ' What's yer gime, mister? Preach the gawspel ? Give us trecks ? This is my funeral, downt yer know, and I'd jest like to hear.' The little foreigners were enjoying the parson-baiting, and the drunken man's courage was rising to fever heat. ' I'll give 'im one, two, between the eye 9 if 'c touches me again.' Then he flung himself on the pawnshop like a battering-ram, and the bellowing inside, which had subsided, burst out afresh, and finally the door was broken down. Half a minute afterwards the crowd was making a wavering dance about the two men. ' Look out, ducky,' the young fellow shouted to John. The warning came too late John went reeling backwards from a^blow. ' Now, my lads, who says next ?' cried the drunken ruffian. But before the words were out of his mouth there was a growl, a plunge, a snarl, and he was full length on the street with the bloodhound's muzzle at his throat. The crowd shrieked and began to fly. Only one person seemed to remain. It was an elderly woman, with dry and straggling grey hair. She had come out of the pawn shop and thrown herself on the dog in an effort to rescue the man underneath, crying, 'My son. Oh, my son, it'll kill 'im. Tyke the beast away.' John Storm called the dog off, and the man got up unhurt and nearly sober. But the woman continued to moan over the ruffian, and to assail John and his dog with bitter insults. 'We want no truck with parsons 'ere,' she shouted. 1 Scow that, mother. It was my fault,' said the sobered man, and then the woman began to cry. At the next minute John Storm was going with the mother and son into the shut-up pawnshop, and the unhinged door was being propped behind them. The crowd was tailing and straggilng off when he came out again half-an-hour afterwards, and the only commotion remaining was caused by a belated policeman asking, ' Wot's bin the metter?' and by the young fellow with the gin-bottle performing a step-dance on the pavement before the entrance to the cellar. The old woman stood at her door wiping her eyes with her apron, and her son was behind with a face that was now . aflame from other causes than drink and rage. 1 Good-bye, Mrs. Pincher. I may see you again soon.' Hearing this the young swaggerer stopped his step-dancing and cried, 'What cheer, mite? Was it a blowter and a cup of cawfy ?' 'For shyme, Charlie,' said the girl with the baby, and the young fellow answered, ' Shut yer 'cad, Aggie.' The waiter was Btill at the corner of the court, and when John came up he spoke again. ' There must be sem amoosment knockin' women abart, but I can't see it myself.' Then in a simple way he began lo talk about his ' missus,' and what a good creature she was, and finally announced himself ' gyme ' to help a parson 'as stood up to that there drunken blowke for the sake of a woman.' ' What's your -name ?' said John. 'Jupe,' Baid the man, and then something stirred in John's memory. On the following day John Storm dined with his uncle at Downingatreet. The Prime Minister was waiting in the library. In evening dress, with his back to the fireplace and his hands enlaced behind him, he looked even more thin and gaunt than before. He welcomed John with a few familiar words and a smile. His smile was brief and difficult, like that which drags across the face of an invalid. Dinner was announced immediately, and the old man took the young one's arm and they passed into the dining-room. The panelled chamber looked cold and cheerless. It was lighted by a single lamp in the middle of the table. They took their seats at opposite sides. The Minister's thin ' hair shone on his head like streaks of silver. John exercised a strong physical influence upon him, and all through the dinner his bleak face kept smiling. ' I ought to apologise for having nobody to meet you,' he began, ' but I had something to say, something to suggest, and I though perhaps John interrupted with affectionate protestations, and a tremor passed over the wrinkles above the old man's eyes. ' It is a great happiness to me, my dear boy, that you have turned your back on that Brotherhood, but I presume you intend to adhere to the Church.' John intended to take prieflt's orders without delay, and then go on with his work as a clergyman. ' Just so, just so,'. the long tapering fingers drummed on the table, ' and I should like to do something to help you.' % Then, sipping at his wineglass of water, the Prime Minister in his slow, deep voice and official tone, began to detail his scheme. There was a bishopric vacant. It was only j

a colonial one — the Bishopric of Colombo. The income was small, no more than seventeen hundred pounds, the work was not light, and there were eight clergy. Then a colonial bishopric was not usually a stepping stone to preferment at home, yet still . . .' John interrupted again. 'You are most kind, uncle, and always have been, but I am only looking forward to living the life of a poor priest out of sight of the world and the Church.' ' Surely Colombo is sufficiently out of sight, my boy?' 'But I see no reason to leave London, sir.' The Prime Minister glanced at him steadily, with the concentrated expression of a man who is accustomed to penetrate the thoughts and feelings of another. ' Why, then, why did you ?' ' Why did I leave the monastery, uncle ? Because I had came to see that the monastic system was based on a faulty ideal of Christianity, which has been tried for 1900 years, and failqd. The theory of monasticism is that Christ died to redeem our carnal nature, and all we have to do is to believe and pray. But it is not enough that Christ died once. He must be dying always — every day — and in every one of us. Grod is calling on us in this age to seek a new social application of the Gospel, or shall I say to go back to the old one ?' 4 And that is ?' ' To present Christ in practical life as the living Master and King and example, and to apply Christianity to the life of our own time,' said John. The Prime Minister had not taken his eyes off him. ' What does this mean ?' he had asked himself, but he only smiled his difficult smile, and began to talk lightly. If this creed applied to the individual it applied also to the State; but think of a Cabinet conducting the affairs of a nation on the charming principles of ' Taking no thought for the morrow,' and ' loving your enemies,' and ' turning the other cheek,' and ' selling all and giving to the poor.' John stuck to his guns. If the Christian religion could not be the ultimate authority to rule a Christian nation, it was only because we lacked , faith and trusted too much to mechanical laws made by statesmen rather than to moral laws made by Christ. The Prime Minister continued to ask himself, 'What is the key of this?' and to look at John as he would have looked at an abys3 that had to be fathomed, but he only went on smiling and talking lightly. It was true we said a prayer and took an oath on the Bible in the Houses of Parliament, but we did not for a moment intend to trust the nation to the charming romanticism of the politics of Jesus. As for the Church, it was founded on Acts of Parliament ; its doctrines were directed by the Lord Chancellor, and its clergy were civil servants, who went to Levees and hung on the edge of Drawing-rooms, and troubled the knocker of No. 10, Downingstreet. As for Christ's laws, in this country they were interpreted by the Privy Council, and were under the direct control of a State department. Still, it was a harmless superstition that we were a Christian nation. It helped to curb the masses of the people, and if that was what John was thinking of. ... John was hot all over, and his face had flushed up to his eyes. The Prime Minister paused and stopped. ' Tell me, my boy,' touching John's arm, 'in what way would you propose to apply your new idea of Christianity ?' 'My experiment would be made on a social basis, sir, and first of all in relation to woman.' The Prime Minister glanced stealthily across the table, passed his thin hand across his forehead, and thought, 'So that's how it is.' But John was deep in his theme and saw nothing. The present position of woman was intolerable. On the well-being of women, especially working women, the whole welfare of society rested. Yet what was their condition ? Think of it — their dependence on man, their temptations, their rewards, their punishments. Three-halfpence an hour was the average wage of a working woman in England. And that in the midst of riches, in the heart of luxury, and with one easy and seduc- ! tive means, of escape from poverty always open. Ruin lay in wait for them, and was beckoning them, and enticing them in the shape of dancing-houses and music-halls and rich and selfish men. c Not one man in a million,'" sir, would come through such an ordeal unharmed, and yet what do we do, what does the Church do, for these brave creatures on whose virtue and heroism the welfare of the nation depends ? If they fall it cuts them off, and there is nothing before them but the streets or crime or the union or suicide. And meanwhile it marries the men who have tempted them to the snug and sheltered darlings for Avhose wealth or rank or beauty they have been pushed aside. Oh, uncle, when I walk down Regent-street in the daytime I am angry, but when I walk down Regent-street at night I am ashamed. And then to think of the terrible solituda of London to working girls who to live pure lives, the terrible spiritual loneliness . . .' John's voice was breaking, but the Prime Minister had almost

ceased to hear. Thinking he had realised the truth at last, his own youth seemed to be sitting before him, and he felt a deep pity. ' Coffee here or in the library, your lordship ?' said the man at his elbow. ' The % library,' he answered, and taking John's arm again, he returned to the other room. There was a fire burning now, and a book lay under the lamp on a little tablp, with a silver paper-cutter through the middle to mark the page. ' How you remind me of your mother sometimes, John ! That was just like her voice, do you know — just !' Two hours afterwards he led John Storm down the long corridor to the hall. His bleak face looked moist and his deep voicd had' a slight tremor. 'Good-night, my dear boy, and remember the money is always waiting for you. Until your Christian Social State is established you are only an advocate of Socialism, and may fairly take it. If yours is the Christianity of the first century it has to exist in the nineteenth, you know. You can't live by the air or fly without wings. Good night, and God bless you in your people's church and Devil's Acre.' \ John was flushed and excited. He had been talking of his plans, his hopes, his expectations. God would provide for him in this as in everything, and then God's priest ought to be God's poor. Meantime two gentlemen in plush waited for him at the door. One handed him his hat, the other his stick and gloves. He waved his adieux and passed out.' Then with regular steps and his hands behind him the Prime Minister paced back through the quiet corridors. Returning to the library he took up his book and tried to read. It was a novel, but he could not attend to the incidents in other people's lives. From time to time he said to himself, ' Poor boy ! Will he find her? Will he save her?' One pathetic idea had fixed itself on his mmd — John Storm's love of God was love of a woman, and she was fallen i and wrecked and lost. A fortnight later John wrote to Glory : — ' Fairly under weigh at last, dear Glory ! Taken priest's orders, got the Bishops "license to officiate," and found myself a church. It is St. Mary Magdalene's, Crown - street, Soho, a district that has borne for 300 years the name of the " Devil's Acre," bears it still, and still deserves it. The church is an old proprietary place, licensed, not consecrated, formerly belonging to Greek or Italian or French or some other refugees, but long shut up a!hd now much out of repair. Present owners, a company of Greek merchants, removed from Soho to the City, and being too poor (as trustees) to renovate the structure they have forced me to get money for that purpose from my uncle, the Prime Minister. But the money is my own apparently, my uncle having in my interests demanded from my father £10,000 out of my mother's dowry, and got it. And now lam spending £2000 in the repair of my church buildings, notwithstanding the protests of the Prime Minister, who calls me " chaplain to the Greek Turks," and of Mrs. Callender, who has discovered that I am a maudlin,, sentimental, daft young spendthrift. 1 Have not waited for the workmen, though, to begin operations. Took first services last Sunday. No organist, no choir, no clerk, and next to no congregation. Just the church cleaner, a good, simple old soul named Pincher ; her son, a reformed drunkard and pawnbroker, and another convert who is a club waiter. Nevertheless I went through the whole service, morning and evening, prayers, psalms, and sermon. God will be the more glorified. ' Have started my new crusade on behalf of women, too, and made various professions of three persons through the streets of Soho. First my pawnbroker bearing the banner (a whits cross, the object of various missiles), next my waiter carrying a little harmonium, and familiarly known as the " organ man," and finally myself in my cassock. Last mentioned proves to be a highly popular performance, being generally understood to be a man in a black petticoat. We have had the nightly accompaniment of a much larger procession, though calling themselves the " Skellingtons," otherwise the " Skeletons," an army of low women and roughs, who live vulture lives on this poor, soiled, grimy, forgotten world. Thank God, the ground of evil-doers is in danger, and they know it ! 'Behind my church, in a dark unwholesome alley called Crooklane, we have a clergy house, at present let out in tenements, the cellar being Occupied as a gin shop. As soon as these premises can be cleared of their encumbrances I shall turn them into a club for girls. Why not ? J.n the old days the Church cani9 to the people — let it come to the people now ! Her c we are in the midst of this mighty stronghold of the devil's kingdom of sin and crime. Foreign clubs, casinos, dancing academies, and gambling houses are round about us. What are we to do? Put up a forest of props (as at the Abbey) and keep off touch and contamination ? God forbid ! Let us go down into these dens of moral disease and disinfect them. The poor working girls of Soho want their Sunday — give it them ! They want music and singing-

— give it them. They want dancing — give them that also, for God's sake give it them in your churches, or the devil will give it them in his hells. ' Expect to be howled at of course. Some good people will think I am either a fanatic or an artful schemer, while the clerical guinea-pigs, who love the flesh-pots of Egypt and have their eyes on the thrones of the Church and the world, will denounce my " seoularity," and- tell me lam feeding the "miry troughs" of the publican and sinner. No matter — if only God is pleased to vouchsafe "signs following." And one wearyfaced, lonely girl, grown fresh of countenance and happy of mien, or one bright little woman snatched from the brink of perdition, will be a better bit of religion than some of them have seen for many a long year. •'As soon as the workmen have cleared out I am going to establish daily service, and keep the church open always. Still at Mrs. CaHendor's, you see, but I am refusing all invitations except as a priest, and already I don't seem to have time to draw my breath. No income connected with St. Mary Magdalene's, or next to none — just euough to pay the caretaker ; but I must not complain of that, for it is tfye accident to which I owe my church, nobody else wanting it under the circumstances. I had begun to think my time in the monastery wasted, but God knew better. It will help me — (1) to live the life of poverty, (2) of purity, (3) of freedom from the world. • Love to the grandfather and the ladies. How I wish you were with me in the thick of the fight. Sometimes I dream you are, too, and I fancy I see you in the midst of these bright young tnings, with their flowers and feathers — they will make beautiful Christians yet. Oddly enough, on the day you travelled to the island every hour that took you further away seemed to bring you nearer. Greetings.' {To be continued.)