“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 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 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?”