with the publication of the christian began a new episode in hall caine’s career. hitherto he had been welcomed on all sides; praise was literally heaped upon him. the critics had repeated these eulogies each time a new book of hall caine’s was put into their hands. first, the deemster; next the bondman; then the scapegoat. but the christian changed all this. the critics had grown tired of praise. besides, mr caine had dared to criticise the hypocrisies of modern society. so the critics turned about, and flatly contradicted nearly everything they had said before. one pointed out that mr caine had described a certain garment as red, instead of, say, green; another was highly indignant because he chose to think the novelist had said a deacon could be made[189] bishop without passing through the intermediate state of priesthood; and another cried out because the character of a purely fictitious nurse was described as being not particularly moral. i have far more respect for the reviewer of books than the average literary person has, but i must confess his methods are sometimes inexplicable. this change of attitude, amusing as it was in many ways, must have been a matter of some surprise to mr caine. but there were explanations—the novelist had deserted the isle of man and come to london; he had brought glory quayle, fearless, healthy, beautiful, ambitious, from manxland and put her down in a london hospital. by contact with the metropolis she is, in many ways, spoiled—vulgarised. and not only that: london was shown as a terrible place, the rich trampling on the poor, the immoral living on the moral, and the strong placing their feet on the necks of the weak. this fearless attack of mr caine’s was the chief cause of the change of attitude of the critics. he had stated his case, and in the opinion[190] of his admirers proved it up to the hilt; and certain of the reviewers, imagining that the cap was made for them, wore it, at the same time declaring that it was ten sizes too large.

glory quayle has not been long in london when she is taken to the theatre by her friends drake and lord robert ure. the play was much ado about nothing, and the actors henry irving and ellen terry. it is glory’s first visit to the theatre, and her imagination runs riot in utter bewilderment.

but the fourth act witnessed glory’s final vanquishment. when she found the scene was the inside of a church, and they were to be present at a wedding, she could not keep still on her seat for delight; but when the marriage was stopped, and claudio uttered his denunciation of hero, she said it was just like him, and it would serve him right if nobody believed him.

“hush!” said somebody near them.

“but they are believing him,” said glory, quite audibly.

“hush! hush!” came from many parts of the theatre.

“well, that’s shameful—her father, too—” began glory.

“hush, glory!” whispered drake; but she had risen to her feet, and when hero fainted and fell she uttered a cry.

[191]

“what a girl!” whispered polly. “sit down—everybody’s looking!”

“it’s only a play, you know,” whispered drake; and glory sat down and said,—

“well, yes, of course, it’s only a play. did you suppose—”

but she was lost in a moment. beatrice and benedick were alone in the church now; and when beatrice said, “kill claudio,” glory leapt up again and clapped her hands. but benedick would not kill claudio, and it was the last straw of all. that wasn’t what she called being a great actor, and it was shameful to sit and listen to such plays. lots of disgraceful scenes happened in life, but people didn’t come to the theatre to see such things, and she would go.

“how ridiculous you are!” said polly; but glory was out in the corridor, and drake was going after her.

she came back at the beginning of the fifth act with red eyes and confused smiles, looking very much ashamed. from that moment onward she cried a good deal, but gave no other sign until the green curtain came down at the end, when she said,—

“it’s a wonderful thing! to make people forget it’s not true is the most wonderful thing in the world!”

but drake and lord robert are merely friends; it is the reverend john storm whom she loves. he has “a well-formed nose, a powerful chin, and full lips. … his complexion is dark, almost swarthy, and there is a certain look of the gipsy in his big golden-brown[192] eyes with their long black lashes.” her love is returned, but he has forsworn the world, and she is longing to become an actress, to have the world at her feet, applauding her, and showering on her all the praise and glory at their command. which is it to be?—love without the world?—or the world without love? she cannot decide. meanwhile she has left the hospital, and john storm has entered a brotherhood in the heart of london, and taken the necessary vows. meanwhile, glory is passing through strange vicissitudes, keeping body and soul together by different occupations, serving in a tobacconist’s shop, and selling programmes at a theatre. but she writes cheery letters to the old people at home in the isle of man, making them believe that she is happy and well, and that the world is a very beautiful place to live in. here is one of her letters:—

“but it isn’t nonsense, my dear grandfather, and i really have left the hospital. i don’t know if it was the holiday and the liberty or what, but i felt like that young hawk at glenfaba—do you remember it?—the one that[193] was partly snared, and came dragging the trap on to the lawn by a string caught round its leg. i had to cut it away—i had to, i had to! but you mustn’t feel one single moment’s uneasiness about me. an able-bodied woman like glory quayle doesn’t starve in a place like london. besides, i am provided for already, so you see my bow abides in strength. … you mustn’t pay too much attention to my lamentations about being compelled by nature to wear a petticoat. things being so arranged in this world, i’ll make them do. but it does make one’s head swim and one’s wings droop to see how hard nature is on a woman compared to a man. unless she is a genius or a jellyfish, there seems to be only one career open to her, and that is a lottery, with marriage for the prizes, and for the blanks—oh dear, oh dear! not that i have anything to complain of, and i hate to be so sensitive. life is wonderfully interesting, and the world is such an amusing place that i have no patience with people who run away from it, and if i were a man… but wait, only wait, good people.”

this is but one out of many delicious letters that glory writes to her grandfather and aunts. meanwhile she makes a beginning, singing at a music-hall, and then in society drawing-rooms. but she is rarely happy; she is hampered by being only a woman. difficulties are placed in her way, and vice lurks at every unsuspected corner waiting to pounce out upon her. but eventually[194] she succeeds. she becomes a famous music-hall star, and john storm has left the monastery. he is consumed with love for glory—and she, she cannot give up the world she is just beginning to conquer. he visits the music-hall at which she is performing, and a day or two after he visits glory.

“glory,” he said, “if you are ashamed of this life, believe me it is not a right one.”

“ashamed? why should i be ashamed? everybody is saying how proud i should be.”

she spoke feverishly, and by a sudden impulse she plucked up the paper, but as suddenly let it drop again, for, looking at his grave face, her little fame seemed to shrivel up. “but give a dog a bad name, you know… you were there on monday night. did you see anything, now—anything in the performance—”

“i saw the audience, glory; that was enough for me. it is impossible for a girl to live long in an atmosphere like that and be a good woman. yes, my child, impossible! god forbid that i should sit in judgment on any man, still less on any woman; but the women of the music-hall, do they remain good women? poor souls! they are placed in a position so false that it would require extraordinary virtue not to become false along with it! and the whiter the soul that is dragged through that—that mire, the more the defilement. the audiences at such places don’t want the white soul, they don’t want the good woman; they want the woman who has tasted of the tree of good and evil. you can[195] see it in their faces, and hear it in their laughter, and measure it in their applause. oh, i’m only a priest, but i’ve seen these places all the world over, and i know what i’m saying, and i know it’s true, and you know it’s true, glory—”

glory leapt up from the table, and her eyes seemed to emit fire. “i know it’s hard and cruel and pitiless, and since you were there on monday, and saw how kind the audience was to me, it’s personal and untrue as well.”

but her voice broke, and she sat down again, and said in another tone, “but, john, it’s nearly a year, you know, since we saw each other last, and isn’t it a pity? tell me, where are you living now? have you made your plans for the future?…”

but it is of no use. glory cannot give up her nights of applause; her increasing fame is the very breath of her nostrils, and though love calls in a clear, compelling voice, yet she pays it no heed, but devotes all her energy to her profession, and so the tale progresses. in the course of time, john storm goes to live in the heart of the slums, to work among the poorest of the poor. his mind and soul are in his work, but his heart is ever with glory. she becomes more and more successful, and once, on a visit to the races, she meets john storm. she is driving with friends, he walking by the roadside. she is flushed with[196] joy—radiant with happiness, but he is torn and bleeding with love. his glory is in danger; success and love of the world are destroying her soul. what can he do to save her? nothing, nothing! yes, but there is one thing he can do. he imagines himself called by god to kill her, for only by that means can her soul be saved from everlasting damnation.

she laughed, though there was nothing to laugh at, and down at the bottom of her heart she was afraid. but she began moving about, trying to make herself easy, and pretending not to be alarmed.

“well, won’t you help me off with my cloak? no? then i must do it for myself, i suppose.”

throwing off her outer things, she walked across the room and sat down on the sofa near to where he stood.

“how tired i am! it’s been such a day! once is enough for that sort of thing, though. now, where do you think i’ve been?”

“i know where you’ve been, glory—i saw you there.”

“you? really? then, perhaps, it was you who … was it you in the hollow?”

“yes.”

he had moved to avoid contact with her… then the wave of tenderness came sweeping over him again, and he felt as if the ground were slipping beneath his feet.

“will you say your prayers to-night, glory?” he said.

[197]

“why not?” she answered, trying to laugh.

“then why not say them now, my child?”

“but why?”

he had made her tremble all over; but she got up, walked straight across to him, looked intently into his face a moment, and then said, “what is the matter? why are you so pale? you are not well, john!”

“no; i am not well either,” he answered.

“john, john, what does it all mean? what are you thinking of? why have you come here to-night?”

“to save your soul, my child. it is in great, great peril…”

“am i, then, so very wicked? surely heaven doesn’t want me yet, john. some day, i trust … i hope—”

“to-night, to-night, now!”

then her cheeks turned pale and her lips became white and bloodless.

trembling from head to foot, she stepped up to him again, and began softly and sweetly, trying to explain herself. “john, dear john, if you see me with certain people and in certain places, you must not think from that—”

but he broke in upon her with a torrent of words… out of a dry and husky throat john storm answered, “i would rather die a thousand, thousand deaths than touch a hair of your head, glory… but god’s will is his will,” he added, quivering and trembling.

“we are of different natures, john, that is the real trouble between us now, and always has been. but, whether we like it or not, our lives are wrapped up together for all that. we can’t do without each other. god makes men and women like that sometimes.”

there was a piteous smile on his face. “i never[198] doubted your feeling for me, glory—no, not even when you hurt me most.”

“and if god makes us so—”

“i shall never forgive myself, glory, though heaven itself forgives me!”

“if god makes us love each other in spite of every barrier that divides us—”

“i shall never know another happy hour in this life, glory, never!”

“then why should we struggle? it is our fate, and we cannot conquer it. you can’t give up your life, john, and i can’t give up mine, but our hearts are one.”

her voice sang like music in his ears… she was fighting for her life. he started to his feet and came to her with his teeth set and his pupils fixed. “this is only the devil tempting me. say your prayers, child!”

he grasped her left hand with his right. his grip almost overtaxed her strength and she felt faint. in an explosion of emotion the insane frenzy for destroying had come upon him again. he longed to give his feeling physical expression.

“say them, say them!” he cried. “god sent me to kill you, glory.”

a sensation of terror and of triumph came over her at once. she half closed her eyes and threw her other arm around his neck. “no, but to love me… kiss me, john.”

then a cry came from him like that of a man flinging himself over a precipice. he threw his arms about her, and her disordered hair fell over his face.

but these two unhappy lovers are only[199] married when john is on his deathbed. he is fatally injured in a riot, and though “they could not come together in this world,” yet they are “united for all eternity on the threshold of the next.” so ends one of the most enthralling of hall caine’s books—a book that will be read as long as men and women care to hear about the love of a noble-hearted, fearless woman for a pure and high-minded man.