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 pro............