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<pre>

The Project Gutenberg EBook of When It Was Dark, by Guy Thorne

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
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Title: When It Was Dark
       The Story of a Great Conspiracy

Author: Guy Thorne

Release Date: May 10, 2012 [EBook #39666]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

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</pre>


<hr class="chap" />

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;">
<img src="images/sticker.png" width="300" height="233" alt="sales sticker" />
</div>

<hr class="chap" />

<h1>WHEN IT WAS DARK</h1>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/frontispiece.png" width="500" height="309" alt="logo" />
</div>

<h2>When It Was Dark</h2>

<h3>The Story of a Great Conspiracy</h3>

<h3>By</h3>

<h4>Guy Thorne</h4>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 37px;">
<img src="images/logo-1.png" width="37" height="42" alt="stone carved with Greek letters" />
<br /></div>

<h5>G. P. Putnam's Sons<br />
New York and London<br />
The Knickerbocker Press<br />
1906</h5>

<hr class="tb" />

<h5><span class="smcap">Copyright, 1904<br />
BY<br />
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS</span></h5>

<h6>Published, January, 1904<br />
Reprinted, May, 1904; September, 1904<br />
December, 1904; September, 1905<br />
October, 1905; November, 1905; January, 1906</h6>

<h6>The Knickerbocker Press, New York</h6>

<hr class="chap" />

<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS</a></h2>

<h4>BOOK I.</h4>

<div class="center">
<table border="0" width="70%" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="Book 1 contents">
<tr><td class="tdr">CHAPTER</td><td> </td><td class="tdr">PAGE</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">I.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td class="tdlw"><span class="smcap">An Incident by Way of Prologue</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">1</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">II.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">In the Vicar's Study</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">6</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr"> III.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td class="tdl">"<span class="smcap">I Think he is a Good Man</span>"</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">23</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">IV.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Smoke Cloud at Dawn</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">33</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">V.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Lost Soul</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">45</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">VI.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Whisper</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">56</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr"> VII.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Last Words at Walktown</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">69</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">VIII.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Dinner at the Pannier d'Or</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">77</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">IX.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Inauguration</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">95</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">X.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Resurrection Sermon</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_X">107</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">XI.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td class="tdl">"<span class="smcap">Neither do I Condemn Thee</span>"</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">116</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr"> XII.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Powers of Good and Evil</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">126</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
</table></div>

<h4><br />BOOK II.</h4>

<div class="center">
<table border="0" width="70%" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="Book 2 contents">
<tr><td class="tdr">CHAPTER</td><td> </td><td class="tdr">PAGE</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">I.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td class="tdlw"><span class="smcap">While London was Sleeping</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_Ib">141</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">II.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Avoiding the Flower Pattern on the Carpet</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_IIb">165</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr"> III.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td class="tdl">"<span class="smcap">I, Joseph</span>"</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_IIIb">178</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">IV.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Domestic Chaplain's Testimony</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_IVb">184</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">V.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Deus, Deus Meus, Quare Dereliquisti!</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_Vb">194</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdrt">VI.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Harness the Horses; and Get up, ye Horsemen, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vi" id="Page_vi">[vi]</a></span><br />
Stand forth with your Helmets, Furbish the Spears,<br />
and Put on the Brigandines.&mdash;Jer. xlvi: 4</span></td><td class="tdrb"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIb">205</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr"> VII.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Hour of Chaos</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIIb">212</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">VIII.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The First Links</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIIIb">225</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdrt">IX.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Particular Instances, Contrasting the Old Lady<br />
and the Special Correspondent</span></td><td class="tdrb"><a href="#CHAPTER_IXb">233</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">X.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Triumph of Sir Robert Llwellyn</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_Xb">245</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">XI.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Progress</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIb">256</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr"> XII.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Soul alone on the Sea-Shore</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIIb">262</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
</table></div>

<h4>BOOK III.</h4>

<div class="center">
<table border="0" width="70%" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="Book 3 contents">
<tr><td class="tdr">CHAPTER</td><td> </td><td class="tdr">PAGE</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">I.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td class="tdlw"><span class="smcap">What it Meant to the World's Women</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_Ic">271</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">II.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Cyril Hands Redux</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_IIc">283</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdrt"> III.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">All ye Inhabitants of the World, and Dwellers on<br />
the Earth, See ye, when He Lifteth up an Ensign on<br />
the Mountains&mdash;Is. xviii: 3</span></td><td class="tdrb"><a href="#CHAPTER_IIIc">289</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">IV.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Luncheon Party</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_IVc">302</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">V.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">By the Tower of Hippicus</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_Vc">322</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">VI.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Under the Eastern Stars: towards Gerizim</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIc">342</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr"> VII.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Last Meeting</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIIc">356</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">VIII.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Death Coming with One Grace</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIIIc">364</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">IX.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">At Walktown Again</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_IXc">376</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">&nbsp;</td><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Epilogue</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#EPILOGUE">385</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
</table></div>

<hr class="chap" />

<h2>BOOK I</h2>

<p class="p2bc">"The mystery of iniquity doth already work."</p>

<hr class="r30" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p>
<h1>WHEN IT WAS DARK</h1>

<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I</a></h2>

<h4>AN INCIDENT BY WAY OF PROLOGUE</h4>

<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">M</span><span class="smcap">r. Hinchcliffe</span>, the sexton, looked up as Mr.
Philemon, the clerk, unlocked the great gates of
open ironwork which led into the street. Hinchcliffe was
cutting the lettering on a tombstone, supported by heavy
wooden trestles, under a little shed close to the vestry
door of the church.</p>

<p>The clerk, a small, rotund man, clerical in aspect,
and wearing a round felt hat, pulled out a large, old-fashioned
watch. "Time for the bell, William," he
said.</p>

<p>The parish church was a large building in sham perpendicular.
It stood in a very central position on the
Manchester main road, rising amid a bare triangle of flat
gravestones, and separated from the street pavement
only by high iron railings.</p>

<p>It was about half-past four on a dull autumn afternoon.
The trams swung ringing down the black, muddy road,
and the long procession of great two-wheeled carts,
painted vermilion, carried coal from the collieries six
miles away to the great mills and factories of Salford.</p>

<p>The two men went into the church, and soon the tolling
of a deep-voiced bell, high up in the pall of smoke<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span>
which lay over the houses, beat out in regular and melancholy
sound.</p>

<p>Inside the building the noise of the traffic sank into a
long, unceasing note like the <i>bourdon</i> note of a distant
organ.</p>

<p>Hinchcliffe tolled the bell in the dim, ugly vestibule
with his foot in a loop in the rope, sitting on the chest
which held the dozen loaves which were given away every
Sunday to the old women in the free seats.</p>

<p>The clerk opened the green baize swing-doors and
strode up the aisle towards the vestry, waking mournful
echoes as the nails in his boots struck the tiled floor.</p>

<p>Saint Thomas's Church, the mother church of Walktown,
was probably the ugliest church in Lancashire.
The heavy galleries, the drab walls, the terrible gloom
of the vast structure, all spoke eloquently of a chilly,
dour Christianity, a grudging and suspicious Sunday religion
which animated its congregation.</p>

<p>In the long rows of cushioned seats, each labelled
with the name of the person who rented it, Sunday by
Sunday the moderately prosperous and wholly vulgar
Lancashire people sat for two hours. During the prayers
they leaned forward in easy and comfortable concession to
convention. Few ever knelt. During the hymn times
they stood up in their places listening carefully to a fine
choir of men and women&mdash;a choir which, despite its
vocal excellence, was only allowed to perform the most
stodgy and commonplace evangelical music.</p>

<p>When the incumbent preached he was heard with the
jealous watchfulness which often assails an educated
man. The renters of the pews desired a Low Church
aspect of doctrine and were intelligent to detect any
divergence from it.</p>

<p>The colour of the building was sombre. The brick-red
and styx-like grey of the flooring, the lifeless chocolate<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span>
front of the galleries, the large and ugly windows
filled with glass which was the colour of a ginger-beer
bottle, had all a definite quality of cheerless vulgarity.</p>

<p>Philemon came out of the vestry door with a lighted
taper. He lit two or three jets of the corona over the
reading-desk. Then he sat down in a front pew close to
the chancel steps and waited.</p>

<p>The bell outside stopped suddenly, and a tall young
man in a black Inverness cape walked hurriedly up the
side aisle under the gallery towards the vestry.</p>

<p>In less than a minute he came out again in surplice,
stole, and hood,&mdash;the stole and hood were always worn
at Walktown,&mdash;went to the reading-desk, and began to
say Evensong in a level, resonant voice.</p>

<p>At the end of each psalm Mr. Philemon recited the
doxology with thunderous assertion and capped each
prayer with an echoing "Amen."</p>

<p>The curate, Basil Gortre, was a young fellow with a
strong, impressive face. His eyes had the clearness of
youth and looked out steadily on the world under his
black hair. His face was of that type men call a
"thoroughly honest" face, but, unlike the generality of
such faces, it was neither stubborn nor stupid. The
clean-shaven jaw was full of power, the mouth was refined
and, artistic, without being either sensual or weak.</p>

<p>During the Creed he turned towards the east, and the
clerk's uncompromising voice became louder and more
acid as he noticed the action; and when the clergyman,
almost imperceptibly, made the sign of the Cross at the
words "The resurrection of the body," the old man
gave a loud snort of disapprobation.</p>

<p>In deference to the congregation on Sundays, and at
the wish of his vicar, Gortre omitted these simple signs
of reverence. But alone, at Matins or Evensong, he
followed his usual habit.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span></p>

<p>During the last low prayers, as dusk crept into the
great church, and the clank and bells of the trams outside
seemed to be more remote, a part, indeed, of that
visible but not symbolic ugliness which the gloom was
hiding, a note of fervour crept into the young man's
praying which had only been latent there before.</p>

<p>He was reading the third collect when the few gas jets
above his head began to whistle, burnt blue for a few
seconds, and then faded out with three or four faint
pops.</p>

<p>Some air had got into the pipes. Old Mr. Philemon
rose noisily from his knees, and shuffled off to the vestry
coughing and spluttering. Outside, with startling suddenness,
a piano organ burst into a gay, strident melody.
After a few bars the music stopped with a jerk. A police
constable had spoken to the organ-grinder and moved
him on.</p>

<p>Gortre's voice went on in a deep, fervent monotone,
unmoved by the darkness or the dissonance&mdash;</p>

<blockquote><p>"<i>Lighten our darkness, we beseech Thee, O Lord; and
by Thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of
this night; for the love of Thy only Son, our Saviour Jesus
Christ.</i>"</p></blockquote>

<p>The faithful, quiet voice, enduring through the dark,
was a foreshadowing of the great cloud which was breaking
over the world, big with disaster, imminent with
gloom. It foreshadowed the divinely aided continuance
of Truth through such a terror as men had never known
before.</p>

<p>It meant many things, that firm and beautiful voice&mdash;hope
in the darkest hour for thousands of dying souls, a
noble woman's happiness in time of dire stress and evil
temptations and a death worse than the death Judas<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span>
died&mdash;for Mr. Schuabe the millionaire and Robert
Llwellyn the scholar, taking tea together in the Athenæum
Club three hundred miles away in London.</p>

<blockquote><p>"&mdash;<i>by Thy great mercy defend us from all perils and
dangers of this night</i>."</p></blockquote>

<p class="p4b">Mr. Philemon returned with a taper, an old and
wrinkled acolyte, in time with his loud and sonorous
AMEN.</p>

<hr class="r20" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II</a></h2>

<h4>IN THE VICAR'S STUDY</h4>

<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">T</span><span class="smcap">he</span> vicarage of Walktown was a new and commodious
house with tall chimneys, pointed windows,
and a roof of red tiles.</p>

<p>It was more than a mile from the church, in the residential
quarter of the town. Here were no shops and
little traffic. The solid houses of red brick stood in
their own rather dingy grounds, where, though the grass
was never really green, and spring came in a veil of
smoky vapour when the wind blew from the town, there
was yet a rural suggestion.</p>

<p>The trees rose from neatly kept lawns, the gravel
sweeps of the drives were carefully tended, and there
was distant colour in the elaborate conservatories and
palm-houses which were to be seen everywhere.</p>

<p>Mr. Pryde, the great Manchester solicitor, had his
beautiful modern house here. Sir John Neele, the
wealthy manufacturer of disinfectants, lived close by,
and a large proportion of the well-to-do Manchester
merchants were settled round about.</p>

<p>Not all of them were parishioners of Mr. Byars, the
vicar of Walktown. Many attended the more fashionable
church of Pendleborough, a mile away in what answered
to the "country"; others were leaders in the Dissenting
and especially the Unitarian worlds.</p>

<p>Walktown was a stronghold of the Unitarians. The
wealthy Jews of two generations back, men who made<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span>
vast fortunes in the black valley of the Irwell, had chosen
Walktown to dwell in. Their grandsons had found it
more politic to abjure their ancient faith. A few had become
Christians,&mdash;at least in name, inasmuch as they
rented pews at St. Thomas's,&mdash;but others had compromised
by embracing a faith, or rather a dogma, which
is simply Judaism without its ritual and ceremonial
obligations. The Baumanns, the Hildersheimers, the
Steinhardts, flourished in Walktown.</p>

<p>It was people of this class who supported the magnificent
concerts in the Free Trade Hall at Manchester,
who bought the pictures and read the books. They
had brought an alien culture to the neighbourhood.
The vicar had two strong elements to contend with,&mdash;for
his parochial life was all contention,&mdash;on the one
hand the Lancashire natives, on the other the wealthy
Jewish families.</p>

<p>The first were hard, uncultured people, hating everything
that had not its origin and end in commerce.
They disliked Mr. Byars because he was a gentleman,
because he was educated, and because&mdash;so they considered&mdash;the
renting of the pews in his church gave them
the right to imagine that he was in some sense a paid
servant of theirs.</p>

<p>The second class of parishioners were less Philistine,
certainly, but even more hopeless from the parish priest's
point of view. In their luxurious houses they lived an
easy, selfish, and sensual life, beyond his reach, surrounded
by a wall of indifferentism, and contemptuous
of all that was not tangible and material. At times the
rector and the curate confessed to each other that
these people seemed more utterly lost than any others
with whom the work of the Church brought them in
contact.</p>

<p>Mr. Byars was a widower with one son, now at Oxford,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span>
and one daughter, Helena, who was engaged to Basil
Gortre, the curate.</p>

<p>About six o'clock the vicar sat in his study with a pile
of letters before him. The room was a comfortable,
bookish place, panelled in pitch pine where the walls
were not covered with shelves of theological and philosophical
works.</p>

<p>The arm-chairs were not new, but they invited repose;
the large engraving over the pipe-littered mantel was a
fine autotype of Giacomo's <i>St. Emilia</i>. The room was
brightly lit with electric light.</p>

<p>Mr. Byars was a man of medium height, bald, his fine,
domed forehead adding to his apparent age, and wore a
pointed grey beard and moustache. He was an epitome
of the room around him.</p>

<p>The volumes on his shelves were no ancient and musty
tomes, but represented the latest and newest additions to
theological thought.</p>

<p>Lathom and Edersheim stood together with Renan's
<i>Vie de Jésus</i> and Clermont-Ganneau's <i>Recueil d'Arch.
Orient</i>, and Westcott guarded them all.</p>

<p>The ivory crucifix which stood on the writing-table
completed the impression of the man.</p>

<p>Ambrose Byars at forty-five was thoroughly acquainted
with modern thought and literature. His
scholarship was tempered with the wisdom of an active
and clear-headed man of the world. His life and habits
were simple but unbigoted, and his broad-mindedness
never obscured his unalterable convictions. He lived,
as he conceived it his duty to live in his time and place,
in thorough human and intellectual correspondence
with his environment, but one thought, one absolute certainty
informed his life.</p>

<p>As year by year his knowledge grew greater, and the
scientific criticism of the Scriptures undermined the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span>
faith of weaker and less richly endowed minds, he only
found in each discovery a more vivid proof of the truth
of the Incarnation and the Resurrection.</p>

<p>It was his habit in discussions to reconcile all apparently
conflicting antichristian statements and weave
them into the fabric of his convictions. He held that,
even scientifically, historically, and materially, the evidence
for the Resurrection was too strong to be ever
overthrown. And beyond these intellectual evidences
he knew that Christ must have risen from the dead, because
he himself had found Christ and was found in
Him.</p>

<p>His attitude was a careful one with all its conciseness.
An anecdote illustrates this.</p>

<p>One day, when walking home from a meeting of the
School Board, of which he was a member, he had met a
parishioner named Baxter, the proprietor of a small engineering
work in the district. The man, who never
came to church, on what he called "principle," but spent
his Sundays in bed with a sporting paper, was one of
those half-educated people who condemn Christianity
by ridiculing the Old Testament stories.</p>

<p>They walked together, Baxter quoting the <i>Origin of
Species</i>, which he knew from a cheap epitomised handbook.</p>

<p>"Do you really think, Mr. Byars," he had said, "do
you really believe, after Darwin's discovery, that we
were made by a sort of conjuring trick by a Supreme
Power? Seven days of cooking, so to speak, and then a
world! Why, it's childish to expect thinking people to
believe it. We are simply evolved by scientific evolution
out of the primæval protoplasm."</p>

<p>"Very possibly," said the vicar; "and who made the
protoplasm, Mr. Baxter?"</p>

<p>The man was silent for a minute. "Then, Mr. Byars,"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span>
he said at length, "you do not believe the Old Testament&mdash;the
Adam and Eve part, for instance. You do
not believe the Book on which your creed is founded."</p>

<p>"There are such things as allegories," he had answered.
"The untutored brain must be taught the truth in such
a way as it can receive it."</p>

<p>The vicar lit his pipe and began to open his letters
with a slight sigh. Of all men, he sometimes felt, he was
the least possible one for Walktown. For twelve years
he had worked there, and he seemed to make little headway.
He longed for an educated congregation. Here
methods too vulgar for his temperament seemed to be
the only ones.</p>

<p>The letters were all from applicants for the curacy
which Gortre's impending departure would shortly leave
vacant.</p>

<p>"It will be a terrible wrench to lose Basil," he said to
himself; "but it must be. He will have his chance
and be far happier in London, in more congenial environment.
He would never be a great success in Walktown.
He has tried nobly, but the people won't understand
him. They would never like him; he's too much
of a gentleman. How they all hate breeding in Walktown!
There is nothing for it, I can see. I must get
an inferior man this time. An inferior man will go
down with them better here. I only hope he will be a
really good fellow. If he isn't, it will be Jerrold over
again&mdash;vulgar cabals against me, and all the women in
the place quarrelling and taking sides."</p>

<p>He read letter after letter, and saw, with a humorous
shrug of disgust, that he would have little difficulty in
engaging the "inferior" man of his thoughts.</p>

<p>The best men would not come to the North. Men of
family with decent degrees, Oxford men, Cambridge
men, accustomed to decent society and intellectual<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span>
friends, knew far too much to accept a title in the Manchester
district.</p>

<p>The applications were numerous enough, but obviously
from second-rate men, or at any rate from men who appeared
to be so at first glance.</p>

<p>A Durham graduate, 40, with five children, begged
earnestly for the £120 a year which was all Mr. Byars
could offer. A few young men from theological colleges
wanting titles, a Dublin B.A., announcing himself
as "thoroughly Protestant in views"&mdash;they were a weary
lot. A non-collegiate student from Oxford with a second
class in Theology, a Manchester Grammar-School
boy, whose father lived at Higher Broughton, seemed to
promise the best. He would be able to get on with the
people, probably. "I suppose I must have him, accent
and all," the vicar said with a sigh, "though I suppose it's
prejudice to dislike the lessons read with the Lancashire
broad 'a' and short 'o.' St. Paul probably spoke with
a terrible local twang! and yet, I don't know, he
was too great to be vulgar; one doesn't like to think
that&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>Mr. Byars was certainly a difficult person for his congregation
to appreciate.</p>

<p>He picked up the letter and was re-reading it when
the door opened and his daughter came in.</p>

<p>Helena Byars was a tall girl, largely made and yet
slender. Her hair was luxuriant and of a traditional
"heroine" gold. She was dressed with a certain richness,
though soberly enough, a style which, with its
slight hint of austerity, accentuated a quiet and delicate
charm. So one felt on meeting her for the first time.
Sweet-faced she was and with an underlying seriousness
even in her times of laughter. Her mouth was rather
large, her nose straight and beautifully chiselled. The
eyes were placid, intelligent, but without keenness.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span>
There was an almost matronly dignity about her quiet and
yet decided manner.</p>

<p>The vicar looked up at her with a smile, thinking how
like her mother the girl was&mdash;that grave and gracious
lady who looked out of the picture by the door, St. Cecilia
in form and face. "Eh, but Helena she favours
her mother," Hinchcliffe, the sexton, had said with the
frank familiarity of the Lancashire workman soon after
Mrs. Byars's funeral four years ago.</p>

<p>"I've brought <i>Punch</i>, father," she said, "it's just come.
Leave your work now and enjoy yourself for half an
hour before dinner. Basil will be here by the time you're
finished."</p>

<p>She stirred the fire into a bright glow, and, singing
softly to herself, left the study and went into the dining-room
to see that the table looked inviting for the coming
meal.</p>

<p>About seven o'clock Gortre arrived, and soon afterwards
the three sat down to dine. It was a simple meal,
some fish, cold beef, and a pudding, with a bottle of beer
for the curate and a glass of claret for the vicar. The
housemaid did not wait upon them, for they found the
meal more intimate and enjoyable without her.</p>

<p>"I've got some news," said Gortre. "The great question
of domicile is settled. You know there is no room
in the clergy-house at St. Mary's. Moreover, Father
Ripon thought it well that I should live outside. He
wanted one of the assistant clergy, at least, to be in constant
touch with lay influences, he said when I saw him."</p>

<p>"What have you arranged, dear?" said Helena.</p>

<p>"Something very satisfactory, I think," he answered.
"My first thought was to take ordinary rooms in Bloomsbury.
It would be near St. Mary's and the schools.
Then I thought of chambers in one of the Inns of
Court. At any rate I wrote to Harold Spence to ask his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span>
advice. He was at Merton with me, you know, lived
on the same staircase in 'Stubbins,' and is just one of
the best fellows in the world. We haven't corresponded
much during the last three years, but I knew a letter to
the New Oxford and Cambridge would always find him.
So I wrote up. He's been University Extension lecturing
for a time, you know, and writing too. Now he tells
me that he is writing leaders for the <i>Daily Wire</i> and
doing very well. I'll read you what he says."</p>

<p>He took a letter from his pocket, glanced down it for
the paragraph he wanted, and began to read:</p>

<blockquote><p>... "&mdash;and I am delighted to hear that you have
at last made up your mind to leave the North country
and have accepted this London curacy. I asked Marsh,
our ecclesiastical editor, about St. Mary's last night. He
tells me that it is a centre of very important Church work,
and has some political and social influence. Of all the
'ritualistic' parishes&mdash;I use the word as a convenient
label&mdash;it is thought to be the sanest. Here you will
have a real chance. I know something of the North, and
came in contact with all sorts and conditions of people
when I was lecturing on the French Revolution round
Liverpool and Manchester for the Extension. They are
not the people for you to succeed with, either socially or
from a clergyman's point of view&mdash;at least, that's my
opinion, old man. You ask me about rooms. I have a
proposal to make to you in this regard. I am now living
in Lincoln's Inn with a man named Hands&mdash;Cyril
Hands. You may know his name. He is a great archæologist,
was a young Cambridge professor. For three
years now he has been working for The Palestine Exploring
Society. He is in charge of all the excavations
now proceeding near Jerusalem, and constantly making
new and valuable Biblical discoveries."</p></blockquote>

<p>The vicar broke in upon the reading. "Hands!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span>
he said; "a most distinguished man! His work is daily
adding to our knowledge in a marvellous way. He has
just recently discovered some important inscriptions at
El-Edhamîyeh&mdash;Jeremiah's grotto, you know, the place
which is thought may be Golgotha, you know. But go
on, I'm sorry to interrupt."</p>

<p>Gortre continued:</p>

<blockquote><p>"Hands is only at home for three months in the year,
when he comes to the annual meeting of the Society and
recuperates at the seaside. His rooms, however, are always
kept for him. The chambers we have are old-fashioned
but very large. There are three big bedrooms,
a huge sitting-room, two smaller rooms and a sort of
kitchen, all inside the one oak. I have a bedroom and
one small room where I write. Hands has only one bedroom
and uses the big general room. Now if you care to
come and take up your abode in the Inn with us, I can
only say you will be heartily welcome. Your share of
the expenses would be less than if you lived alone in
rooms as you propose, and you would be far more comfortable.
You could have your study to work in. Our
laundress is nearly always about, and there is altogether
a pleasant suggestion of Oxford and the old days in the
life we lead. Of course I need hardly tell you that we
are very quiet and quite untroubled by any of the rowdy
people, all of whom live away from our court altogether.
You would be only five minutes' walk from St. Mary's.
What do you think of the idea? Let me know and I will
give you all further details. I hope you will decide on
joining us. I should find it most pleasant.&mdash;Ever yours,</p>

<p class="pinset10">
"<span class="smcap">Harold Masterman Spence</span>."
</p></blockquote>

<p>"An extremely genial letter," said the vicar. "I suppose
you'll accept, Basil? It will be pleasant to be with
friends like that."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span></p>

<p>"Isn't it just a little, well, bachelor?" said Helena
rather nervously.</p>

<p>Gortre smiled at the question.</p>

<p>"No, dear," he said. "I don't think you need be
afraid. I know the sort of visions you have. The sort
of thing in <i>Pendennis</i>, isn't it? The boy sent out for
beer to the nearest public-house, and breakfast at twelve
in the morning, cooked in the sitting-room. You don't
know Harold. He is quite <i>bourgeois</i> in his habits, despite
his intellect, hates a muddle, always dresses extremely
well, and goes to church like any married man.
He was a great friend of the Pusey House people at
Oxford."</p>

<p>"The days when you couldn't be a genius without being
dirty are gone," said the vicar. "I am glad of it. I
was staying at St. Ives last summer, where there is
quite an artistic settlement. All the painters carried
golf-clubs and looked like professional athletes. They
drink Bohea in Bohemia now."</p>

<p>Gortre talked a little about his plans for the future.
He had a sympathetic audience. During the four years
of his curacy at Walktown he had become very dear to
Mr. Byars. He had arrived in the North from Oxford,
after a year at Litchfield Theological College, just about
the time that Mrs. Byars had died. His help and sympathy
at such a time had begun a friendship with his
vicar that had been firmly cemented as the time went on,
and had finally culminated in his engagement to Helena.
He had been the vicar's sole intellectual companion all
this time, and his loss would be irreparable. But both
men felt that his departure was inevitable. The younger
man's powers were stifled and confined in the atmosphere
of the place. He had private means of his own, and belonged
to an old West-country family, and, try as he would
he failed to identify himself socially with the Walktown<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span>
people. His engagement to Helena Byars had increased
his unpopularity. He would be far happier at St. Mary's
in London, at the famous High Church, where he would
find all those exterior accompaniments of religion to
which he had been accustomed, and which, though he
did not exalt the shadow into the substance, always made
him happier when he was surrounded by them.</p>

<p>He was to wait a year and then he would be married.
There were no money obstacles in the way and no reason
for further delay. Only the vicar looked forward with a
sort of horror to his future loneliness, and tried to put
the thought from him whenever it came.</p>

<p>After dinner Helena left the two men to smoke alone
in the study. There was a concert in the Town Hall to
which she was going with Mrs. Pryde, the solicitor's
wife, a neighbour. Her friend's carriage called for her
about eight, and Gortre settled down for a long talk with
the vicar on parochial affairs.</p>

<p>They sat on each side of the dancing fire, with coffee
on a table between them, quietly enjoying the after-dinner
pipe, the best and finest of the five cardinal pipes
of the day. It was a comfortable scene. The room was
lighted only by a single electric reading-lamp with a
green shade, and the firelight flickered and played over
the dull gold and crimson of the books on the shelves,
and threw red lights on the shining ivory of the sculptured
Christ.</p>

<p>"I daresay this North-country man will do all right,"
said the vicar. "He will be more popular than you,
Basil."</p>

<p>The young man sighed. "God knows I have tried
hard enough to win their confidence," he said sadly,
"but it was not to be. I <i>can't</i> get in touch with them,
vicar. They dislike my manners, my way of speaking&mdash;everything
about me. Even the landlady of my rooms<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span>
distrusts me because I decline to take tea with my evening
chop, and charges me three shillings a week extra
because I have what she calls 'late dinner'!"</p>

<p>The vicar laughed. "At any rate," he said, "you
have got hold of Leef, your landlord; he comes to
church regularly now."</p>

<p>"Oh, Leef illustrates more than any one else how impossible
it is, for me, at any rate, to do much good.
Last week he said to me, 'It's a fine thing, religion, when
you've got it at last, Mr. Gortre. When I look back
at my unregenerate years I wonder at myself. Religion
tells me to give up certain things. It only 'armonises
with the experience of any sensible man of my age. I
don't want to drink too much, for instance. My health
is capital, and I'm not such a fool as to spoil it. To
think that all those years I never knew that religion was
as easy as winking, and with a certainty of everlasting
glory afterwards. I'll always back you up, Mr. Gortre,
in saying that religion's the finest thing out.'"</p>

<p>"Well, dear boy, you will be in another environment
altogether soon. It's no use being discouraged. <i>Tot
homines, quot sententiæ</i>! We can't alter these things.
The Essenes used to speak disrespectfully enough of
'Ye men of Galilee,' no doubt. Sometimes I think I
would rather have these stubborn people than those of
the South, men as easy and <i>commode</i> as an old glove, and
worth about as much. Have you seen the <i>Guardian</i>
to-day?"</p>

<p>"No, I haven't. I've been at the schools all the
morning, visiting in Timperley Street till Evensong,
home for a wash, and then here."</p>

<p>"I see Schuabe is going to address a great meeting in
the Free Trade Hall on the Education Bill."</p>

<p>"Then he is at Mount Prospect?"</p>

<p>"He arrived from London yesterday."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span></p>

<p>The two men looked at each other in silence. Mr.
Byars seemed ill at ease. His foot tapped the brass rail
of the fender. Then, a sure sign of disturbance with
him, he put down his pipe, which was nearly smoked
away, and took a cigarette from a box on the table and
smoked in short, quick puffs.</p>

<p>Gortre's face became dark and gloomy. The light
died out of it, the kindliness of expression, which was
habitual, left his eyes.</p>

<p>"We have never really told each other what we think
of Schuabe and how we think of him, vicar," he said.
"Let us have it out here and now while we are thinking
of him and while we have the opportunity."</p>

<p>"In a question of this sort," said Mr. Byars, "confidences
are extremely dangerous as a rule, but between
you and me it is different. It will clear our brains mutually.
God forbid that you and I, in our profession as
Christ's priests and our socio-political position as clerks
in Holy Orders, should bear rancour against any one.
But we are but human. Possibly our mutual confidence
may help us both."</p>

<p>There was a curious eagerness in his manner which was
reflected by that of the other. Both were conscious of
feelings ill in accord with their usual open and kindly attitude
towards the world. Each was anxious to know if
the other coincided with himself.</p>

<p>Men are weak, and there is comfort in community.</p>

<p>"From envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness&mdash;"
said Gortre.</p>

<p>"Good Lord deliver us," replied the vicar gravely.</p>

<p>There was a tense silence for a time, only broken by
the dropping of the coals in the grate. The vicar was
the first to break it.</p>

<p>"I'll sum up my personal impression of the man for
and against," he said.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span></p>

<p>Gortre nodded.</p>

<p>"There can be no doubt whatever," said Mr. Byars,
"that among all the great North-country millionaires&mdash;men
of power and influence, I mean&mdash;Schuabe stands
first and pre-eminent. His wealth is enormous to begin
with. Then he is young&mdash;can hardly be forty yet, I
should say. He belongs to the new generation. In
Walktown he stands entirely alone. Then his brilliancy,
his tremendous intellectual powers, are equalled by few
men in England. His career at Oxford was marvellous,
his political life, only just beginning as it is, seems to
promise the very highest success. His private life, as
far as we know&mdash;and everything about the man seems to
point to an ascetic temperament and a refined habit&mdash;is
without grossness or vice of any kind. In appearance he
is one of the ten most striking-looking men in England.
His manners are fascinating."</p>

<p>Gortre laughed shortly, a mirthless, bitter laugh.</p>

<p>"So far," he said, "you have drawn a picture which
approaches the ideal of what a strong man should be.
And I grant you every detail of it. But let me complete
it. You will agree with me that mine also is true."</p>

<p>His voice trembled a little. Half unconsciously his
eyes wandered to the crucifix on the writing-table. In
the red glow of the fire, which had now ceased to crackle
and flame, the drooping figure on the cross showed distinct
and clear in all its tremendous appeal to the hearts
of mankind. Tears came into the young man's eyes, his
face became drawn and pained. When he spoke, his
voice was full of purpose and earnestness.</p>

<p>"Yes," he said, with an unusual gesture of the hand,
"Schuabe is all that you say. In a hard, godless, and
material age he is an epitome of it. The curse of indifferentism
is over the land. Men have forgotten that this
world is but an inn, a sojourning place for a few hours. O<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span>
fools and blind! The terror of death is always with
them. But this man is far more than this&mdash;far, far
more. To him has been given the eye to see, the heart
to understand. <i>He, of all men living in England to-day, is
the mailed, armed enemy of Our Lord.</i> No loud-mouthed
atheist, sincere and blatant in his ignorance, no honest
searcher after truth. All his great wealth, all his attainments,
are forged into one devilish weapon. He is already,
and will be in the future, the great enemy of
Christianity. Oh, I have read his book! 'Even now
there are many antichrists.' I have read his speeches
in Parliament. I know his enormous influence over
those unhappy people who call themselves 'Secularists.'
Like Diocletian, like Julian, <i>he hates Christ</i>. He is no
longer a Jew. Judaism is nothing to him&mdash;one can reverence
a Montefiore, admire an Adler. His attacks on
the faith are something quite different to those of other
men. As his skill is greater, so his intention is more evil.
And yet how helpless are we who know! The mass of
Christians&mdash;the lax, tolerant Christians&mdash;think he is a kind
of John Morley. They praise his charities, his efforts for
social amelioration. They quote, 'And God fulfils Himself
in many ways.' I say again, O fools and blind!
They do not know, they cannot see, this man as he is at
heart, accursed and antichrist!" His voice dropped,
tired with its passion and vehemence. He continued in
a lower and more intimate vein:</p>

<p>"Do you think I am a fanatic, vicar? Am I touched
with monomania when I tell you that of late I have
thought much upon the prophetic indications of the
coming of 'the Man of Sin,' the antichrist in Holy
Writ? Can it be, I have asked myself, as I watch the
comet-like brilliance of this man's career, can it be that
in my own lifetime and the lifetime of those I love, the
veritable enemy of our Saviour is to appear? Is this<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span>
man, this Jew, he of whom it is said in Jacob's words,
'Dan shall be a serpent by the way, an adder in the
path'&mdash;the tribe of which <i>not one</i> was sealed?"</p>

<p>"You are overwrought, Basil," said the elder man
kindly. "You have let yourself dwell too much on this
man and his influences. But I do not condemn you. I
also have had my doubts and wonderings. The outside
world would laugh at us and people who might be moved
as we are at these things. But do we not live always
with, and by help of, the Unseen? God alone knows
the outcome of the trend of these antichristian influences,
of which, I fear, Schuabe is the head. The
Fathers are clear enough on the subject, and the learned
men of mediæval times also. Let me read to you."</p>

<p>He got up from his arm-chair, glad, it seemed, at
opportunity of change and movement, and went to the
book-shelves which lined the wall. His scholar's interest
was aroused, his magnificent reading and knowledge of
Christian history and beliefs engaged and active.</p>

<p>He dipped into book after book, reading extracts
from them here and there.</p>

<p>"Listen. Marchantius says the ship of the Church
will sink and be lost in the foam of infidelity, and be
hidden in the blackness of that storm of desolation
which shall arise at the coming of Antichrist. 'The
sun shall be darkened and the stars shall fall from
heaven.' He means, of course, the sun of faith, and
that the stars, the great ecclesiastical dignitaries, shall
fall into apostasy. But, he goes on to say, the Church
will remain unwrecked, she will weather the storm and
come forth '<i>beautiful as the moon, terrible as an army
with banners</i>.'"</p>

<p>His voice was eager and excited, his face was all alight
with the scholar's eagerness, as he took down book after
book with unerring instinct to illustrate his remarks.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span></p>

<p>"Opinions as to the nature and personality of Antichrist
have been very varied," he continued. "Some of
the very early Christian writers say he will be a devil in
a phantom body, others that he will be an incarnate
demon, true man and true devil, in fearful and diabolic
parody of the Incarnation of our Lord. There is a
third view also. That is that he will be merely a desperately
wicked man, acting upon diabolic inspirations,
just as the saints act upon Divine inspirations.</p>

<p>"Listen to St. John Damascene upon the subject.
He is very express. 'Not as Christ assumed humanity,
so will the Devil become human; but the Man will receive
all the inspiration of Satan, and will suffer the
Devil to take up his abode within him.'"</p>

<p>Gortre, who was listening with extreme attention,
made a short, sharp exclamation at this last quotation.</p>

<p>He had risen from his seat and stood by the mantel-shelf,
leaning his elbow upon it.</p>

<p>One of the ornaments of the mantel was a head of
Christ, photographed on china, from Murillo, and held
in a large silver frame like a photograph frame.</p>

<p>Just as the vicar had finished reading there came a
sudden knock at the door. It startled Gortre, and he
moved suddenly. His elbow slid along the marble of
the shelf and dislodged the picture, which fell upon the
floor and was broken into a hundred pieces, crashing
loudly upon the fender.</p>

<p>The housemaid, who had knocked, stood for a moment
looking with dismay upon the breakage. Then she
turned to the vicar.</p>

<p class="p4b">"Mr. Schuabe from Mount Prospect to see you, sir,"
she said. "I've shown him into the drawing-room."</p>
<hr class="r20" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III</a></h2>

<h4>"I THINK HE IS A GOOD MAN"</h4>

<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">T</span><span class="smcap">he</span> servant had turned on the lights in the drawing
room, where a low fire still glowed red upon
the hearth, and left Constantine Schuabe alone to await
the vicar's arrival.</p>

<p>On either side of the fireplace were heavy hangings of
emerald and copper woven stuff, a present to Helena from
an uncle, who had bought them at Benares. Schuabe
stood motionless before this background.</p>

<p>The man was tall, above the middle height, and the
heavy coat of fur which he was wearing increased the
impression of proportioned size, of massiveness, which
was part of his personality. His hair was a very dark
red, smooth and abundant, of that peculiar colour
which is the last to show the greyness of advancing
age. His features were Semitic, but without a trace
of that fulness, and sometimes coarseness, which often
marks the Jew who has come to the middle period of life.
The eyes were large and black, but without animation, in
ordinary use and wont. They did not light up as he
spoke, but yet the expression was not veiled or obscured.
They were coldly, terribly <i>aware</i>, with something of the
sinister and untroubled regard one sees in a reptile's eyes.</p>

<p>The jaw, which dominated the face and completed
its remarkable <i>ensemble</i>, was very massive, reminding
people of steel covered with olive-coloured parchment.
Handsome was hardly the word which fitted him. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span>
was a strikingly handsome man; but that, like "distinction,"
was only one of the qualities which made up his
personality. Force, power&mdash;the relentless and conscious
power suggested by some great marine engine&mdash;surrounded
him in an almost indescribable way. They
were like exhalations. Most people, with the casual
view, called him merely indomitable, but there were
others who thought they read deeper and saw something
evil and monstrous about the man; powerless to give an
exact and definite reason for the impression, and dubious
of voicing it.</p>

<p>Nevertheless, now and again, two or three people would
speak of him to each other without reserve, and on such
occasions they generally agreed to this feeling of the sinister
and malign, in much the same manner as the vicar
and his curate had been agreeing but half an hour before
his arrival at the house.</p>

<p>The door opened with a quick click of the handle, and
the vicar entered with something of suddenness. One
might almost have supposed that he had lingered, hesitant,
in the hall, and suddenly nerved himself for this
encounter.</p>

<p>Mr. Byars advanced to take the hand of his visitor.
Beside the big man he seemed shrunken and a little ineffectual.
He was slightly nervous in his manner also,
for Basil's impassioned and terror-ridden words still rang
in his ears and had their way with him.</p>

<p>The coincidence of the millionaire's arrival was altogether
too sudden and <i>bizarre</i>.</p>

<p>When they had made greetings, cordial enough on the
surface, and were seated on either side of the fire,
Schuabe spoke at once upon the object of his visit.</p>

<p>"I have come, Mr. Byars," he said, in a singularly
clear, vibrant voice, "to discuss certain educational proposals
with you. As you probably know, just at present<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span>
I am taking a very prominent part in the House of Commons
in connection with the whole problem of primary
education. Within the last few weeks I have been in
active correspondence with your School Board, and you
will know all about the scholarships I have founded.</p>

<p>"But I am now coming to you to propose something of
the same sort in connection with your own Church schools.
My opinions on religious matters are, of course, not
yours. But despite my position I have always recognised
that, with whatever means, both the clergy and my
own party are broadly working towards one end.</p>

<p>"Walktown provides me with very many thousands a
year, and it is my duty in some way or another to help
Walktown. My proposal is roughly this: I will found
and endow two yearly scholarships for two boys in the
national schools. The money will be sufficient, in the
first instance, to send them to one of the great Northern
Grammar Schools, and afterwards, always providing that
the early promise is maintained, to either university.</p>

<p>"My only stipulation is this. The tests shall be purely
and simply intellectual, and have nothing whatever to do
with the religious teaching of the schools, with which I
am not in sympathy. Nevertheless, it is only fair that a
clever boy in a Church school should have the same opportunities
as in a secular school. I should tell you that
I have made the same offer to the Roman Catholic school
authorities and it has been declined."</p>

<p>The vicar listened with great attention. The offer
was extremely generous, and showed a most open-minded
determination to put the donor's personal prejudices out
of the question. There could be no doubt as to his answer&mdash;none
whatever.</p>

<p>"My dear sir," he said, "your generosity is very great.
I see your point about the examinations. Religion is to
form no part of them exactly. But by the time one of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span>
our boys submits himself for examination we should
naturally hope that he would already be so firmly fixed
in Christian principles that his after-career would have
no influence upon his faith. Holding the opinions that
you do, your offer shows a great freedom from any prejudice.
I hope I am broad-minded enough to recognise
that philanthropy is a fine, lovely thing, despite the banner
under which the philanthropist may stand. I accept
your generous offer in the spirit that it is made.
Of course, the scheme must be submitted to the managers
of the schools, of whom I am chief, but the matter
practically lies with me, and my lead will be followed."</p>

<p>"I am only too glad," said the big man, with a sudden
and transforming smile, "to help on the cause of knowledge.
All the details of the scheme I will send you in
a few days, and now I will detain you no longer."</p>

<p>He rose to go.</p>

<p>During their brief conversation the vicar had been
conscious of many emotions. He blamed himself for
his narrowness and the somewhat fantastic lengths to
which his recent talk with Gortre had gone. The man
was an infidel, no doubt. His intellectual attacks upon
Christian faith were terribly damaging and subversive.
Still, his love for his fellow-men was sincere, it seemed.
He attacked the faith, but not the preachers of it. And&mdash;a
half thought crossed his brain&mdash;he might have been
sent to him for some good purpose. St. Paul had not
always borne the name of Paul!</p>

<p>These thoughts, but half formulated in his brain, had
their immediate effect in concrete action.</p>

<p>"Won't you take off your coat, Mr. Schuabe," he said,
"and smoke a cigar with me in my study?"</p>

<p>The other hesitated a moment, looked doubtful, and
then assented. He hung his coat up in the hall and
went into the other room with the vicar.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span></p>

<p>During the conversation in the drawing-room Helena
had come back from the concert, and Basil, hearing her,
had left the study and gone to her own private sanctum
for a last few minutes before saying good-night.</p>

<p>Helena sat in a low chair by the fire sipping a bowl of
soup which the maid had brought up to her. She was a
little tired by the concert, where a local pianist had
been playing a nocturne of Chopin's as if he wanted to
make it into soup, and the quiet of her own sitting-room,
the intimate comfort of it all, and the sense of happiness
that Basil's presence opposite gave her were in delightful
contrast.</p>

<p>"It was very stupid, dear," she said. "Mrs. Pryde was
rather trying, full of dull gossip about every one, and the
music wasn't good. Mr. Cuthbert played as if he was
playing the organ in church. His touch is utterly unfitted
for anything except the War March from <i>Athalie</i>
with the stops out. He knows nothing of the piano. I
was in a front seat, and I could see his knee feeling
for the swell all the time. He played <i>the</i> sonata as if
he was throwing the moonlight at one in great solid
chunks. I'm glad to be back. How nice it is to sit
here with you, dearest!&mdash;and how good this Bovril is!"
she concluded with a little laugh of content and happiness
at this moment of acute physical and mental ease.</p>

<p>He looked lovingly at her as she lay back in rest and
the firelight played over her white arms and pale gold
hair.</p>

<p>"It's wonderful to think," he said, with a little catch
in his voice, "it's wonderful to me, an ever-recurring
wonder, to think that some day you and I will always
be together for all our life, here and afterwards. What
supreme, unutterable happiness God gives to His children!
Do you know, dear, sometimes as I read prayers
or stand by the altar, I am filled with a sort of rapture<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span>
of thankfulness which is voiceless in its intensity.
Tennyson got nearer to expressing it than any one in
that beautiful <i>St. Agnes' Eve</i> of his&mdash;a little gem which,
with its simplicity and fervour, is worth far more than
Keats's poem with all its literary art."</p>

<p>"It is good to feel like that sometimes," she answered;
"but it is well, I think, not to get into the way of <i>inducing</i>
such feelings. The human brain is such a sensitive
thing that one can get into the way of drugging it
with emotion, as it were. I think I am tinged a little
with the North-country spirit. I always think of Newman's
wonderful lines&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"'The thoughts control that o'er thee swell and throng;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They will condense within the soul and turn to purpose strong.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But he who lets his feelings run in soft luxurious flow,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Shrinks when hard service must be done, and faints at every blow.'<br /></span>
</div></div>

<p>I only quote from memory. But you look tired, dear
boy; you are rather white. Have you been overworking?"</p>

<p>He did not answer immediately.</p>

<p>"No," he said slowly, "but I've been having a long
talk with the vicar. We were talking about Mr. Schuabe
and his influence. Helena, that man is the most active
of God's enemies in England. Almost when I was
mentioning his name, by some coincidence, or perhaps
for some deeper, more mysterious, psychical reason which
men do not yet understand, the maid announced him.
He had come to see your father on business, and&mdash;don't
think I am unduly fanciful&mdash;the Murillo photograph,
the head of Christ, on the mantel-shelf, fell down and
was broken. He is here still, I think."</p>

<p>"Yes," said Helena; "Mr. Schuabe is in the study
with father. But, Basil dear, it's quite evident to me<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span>
that you've been doing too much. Do you know that I
look upon Mr. Schuabe as a really <i>good</i> man! I have
often thought about him, and even prayed that he may
learn the truth; but God has many instruments. Mr.
Schuabe is sincere in his unbelief. His life and all his
actions are for the good of others. It is terrible&mdash;it is
deplorable&mdash;to know he attacks Christianity; but he is
tolerant and large-minded also. Yes, I should call him
a good man. He will come to God some day. God
would not have given him such power over the minds
and bodies of men otherwise."</p>

<p>Gortre smiled a little sadly,&mdash;a rather wan smile, which
sat strangely upon his strong and hearty face&mdash;, but he
said no more.</p>

<p>He knew that his attitude was illogical, perhaps it
could be called bigoted and intolerant&mdash;a harsh indictment
in these easy, latitudinarian days; but his conviction
was an intuition. It came from within, from
something outside or beyond his reason, and would
not be stifled.</p>

<p>"Well, dear," he said, "perhaps it is as you say.
Nerves which are overwrought, and a system which is
run down, certainly have their say, and a large say, too,
in one's attitude towards any one. Now you must go to
bed. I will go down and say good-night to the rector
and Mr. Schuabe&mdash;just to show there's no ill-feeling;
though, goodness knows, I oughtn't to jest about the
man. Good-night, sweet one; God bless you. Remember
me also in your prayers to-night."</p>

<p>She kissed him in her firm, brave way&mdash;a kiss so
strong and loving, so pure and sweet, that he went
away from that little room of books and <i>bric-à-brac</i> as if
he had been sojourning in some shrine.</p>

<p>As Basil came into the study he found Mr. Byars and
Schuabe in eager, animated talk. A spirit decanter had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span>
been brought in during his absence, and the vicar was
taking the single glass of whisky-and-water he allowed
himself before going to bed. Basil, who was in a singularly
alert and observant mood, noticed that a glass of
plain seltzer water stood before the millionaire.</p>

<p>Gortre's personal acquaintance with Schuabe was of
the slightest. He had met him once or twice on the
platform of big meetings, and that was all. A simple
curate, unless socially,&mdash;and Schuabe did not enter into
the social life of Walktown, being almost always in
London,&mdash;he would not be very likely to come in the
way of this mammoth.</p>

<p>But Schuabe greeted him with marked cordiality, and
he sat down to listen to the two men.</p>

<p>In two minutes he was fascinated, in five he realised,
with a quick and unpleasant sense of inferiority, how
ignorant he was beside these two. In Schuabe the vicar
found a man whose knowledge was as wide and scholarship
as profound as his own.</p>

<p>From a purely intellectual standpoint, probably Gortre
and Schuabe were more nearly on a level, but in pure
knowledge he was nowhere. He wondered, as he listened,
if the generation immediately preceding his own
had been blessed with more time for culture, if the
foundation had been surer and more comprehensive,
when they were <i>alumni</i> of the "loving mother" in the
South.</p>

<p>They were discussing archæological questions connected
with the Holy Land.</p>

<p>Schuabe possessed a profound and masterly knowledge
of the whole Jewish background to the Gospel
picture, not merely of the archæology, which in itself is
a life study, but of the essential characteristics of Jewish
thought and feeling, which is far more.</p>

<p>Of course, every now and again the conversation<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span>
turned towards a direction that, pursued, would have
led to controversy. But, with mutual tact, the debatable
ground was avoided. That Christ was a historic
fact Schuabe, of course, admitted and implied, and
when the question of His Divinity seemed likely to
occur he was careful and adroit to avoid any discussion.</p>

<p>To the young man, burning with the zeal of youth,
this seemed a pity. Unconsciously, he blamed the vicar
for not pressing certain points home.</p>

<p>What an opportunity was here! The rarity of such a
visit, the obvious interest the two men were beginning
to take in each other&mdash;should not a great blow for
Christ be struck on such an auspicious night? Even if
the protest was unavailing, the argument overthrown,
was it not a duty to speak of the awful and eternal realities
which lay beneath this vivid and brilliant interchange
of scholarship?</p>

<p>His brain was on fire with passionate longing to
speak. But, nevertheless, he controlled it. None knew
better than he the depth and worth of the vicar's character.
And he felt himself a junior; he had no right to
question the decision of his superior.</p>

<p>"You have missed much, Mr. Byars," said Schuabe,
as he arose to go at last, "in never having visited
Jerusalem. One can get the knowledge of it, but never
the colour. And, even to-day, the city must appear, in
many respects, exactly as it did under the rule of Pilate.
The Fellah women sell their vegetables, the camels
come in loaded with roots for fuel, the Bedouin, the
Jews with their long gowns and slippers&mdash;I wish you could
see it all. I have eaten the meals of the Gospels, drunk
the red wine of Saron, the spiced wine mixed with honey
and black pepper, the 'wine of myrrh' mentioned in
the Gospel of Mark. I have dined with Jewish
tradesmen and gone through the same formalities of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span>
hand-washing as we read of two thousand years ago; I
have seen the poor ostentatiously gathered in out of the
streets and the best part of the meal given them for a
self-righteous show. And yet, an hour afterwards, I
have sat in a <i>café</i> by King David's Tower and played
dice with Turkish soldiers armed with Martini rifles!"</p>

<p>The vicar seemed loath to let his guest go, though the
hour was late, but he refused to stay longer. Mr. Byars,
with a somewhat transparent eagerness, mentioned that
Gortre's road home lay for part of the way in the same
direction as the millionaire's. He seemed to wish the
young man to accompany him, almost, so Basil thought,
that the charm of his personality might rebuke him for
his tirade in the early part of the evening.</p>

<p class="p4b">Accordingly, in agreement with the vicar's evident
wish, but with an inexplicable ice-cold feeling in his
heart, he left the house with Schuabe and began to walk
with him through the silent, lamp-lit streets.</p>

<hr class="r20" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV</a></h2>

<h4>THE SMOKE CLOUD AT DAWN</h4>

<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">T</span><span class="smcap">he</span> two men strode along without speaking for
some way. Their feet echoed in the empty
streets.</p>

<p>Suddenly Schuabe turned to Basil. "Well, Mr.
Gortre," he said, "I have given you your opportunity.
Are you not going to speak the word in season after
all?"</p>

<p>The young man started violently. Who was this man
who had been reading his inner thoughts? How could
his companion have fathomed his sternly repressed
desire as he sat in the vicarage study? And why did
he speak now, when he knew that some chilling influence
had him in its grip, that his tongue was tied, his
power weakened?</p>

<p>"It is late, Mr. Schuabe," he said at length, and very
gravely. "My brain is tired and my enthusiasm chilled.
Nor are you anxious to hear what I have to say. But
your taunt is ungenerous. It almost seems as if you are
not always so tolerant as men think!"</p>

<p>The other laughed&mdash;a cold laugh, but not an unkindly
one. "Forgive me," he said, "one should not jest with
conviction. But I should like to talk with you also.
There are lusts of the brain just as there are lusts of the
flesh, and to-night I am in the mood and humour for
conversation."</p>

<p>They were approaching a side road which led to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span>
Gortre's rooms. Schuabe's great stone house was still a
quarter of a mile away up the hill.</p>

<p>"Do not go home yet," said Schuabe, "come to my
house, see my books, and let us talk. Make friends
with the mammon of unrighteousness, Mr. Gortre!
You are disturbed and unstrung to-night. You will not
sleep. Come with me."</p>

<p>Gortre hesitated for a moment, and then continued
with him. He was hardly conscious why he did so, but
even as he accepted the invitation his nerves seemed
recovered as by some powerful tonic. A strange confidence
possessed him, and he strode on with the air
and manner of a man who has some fixed purpose in his
brain.</p>

<p>And as he talked casually with Schuabe, he felt
towards him no longer the cold fear, the inexplicable
shrinking. He regarded him rather as a vast and powerful
enemy, an evil, sinister influence, indeed, but one
against which he was armed with an armour not his
own, with weapons forged by great and terrible hands.</p>

<p>So they entered the drive and walked up among the
gaunt black trees towards the house.</p>

<p>Mount Prospect was a large, castellated modern building
of stone. In a neighbourhood where architectural
monstrosities abounded, perhaps it outdid them all in
its almost brutal ugliness and vulgarity. It had been
built by Constantine Schuabe's grandfather.</p>

<p>The present owner was little at Walktown. His Parliamentary
and social duties bound him to London, and
when he had time for recreation the newspapers announced
that he had "gone abroad," and until he was
actually seen again in the midst of his friends his disappearances
were mysterious and complete.</p>

<p>In London he had a private set of rooms at one of the
great hotels.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span></p>

<p>But despite his rare visits, the hideous stone palace in
the smoky North held all the treasures which he himself
had collected and which had been left to him by his
father.</p>

<p>It was understood that at his death the pictures and
library were to become the property of the citizens of
Manchester, held in trust for them by the corporation.</p>

<p>Schuabe took a key from his pocket and opened the
heavy door in the porch.</p>

<p>"I always keep the house full of servants," he said,
"even when I am away, for a dismantled house and caretakers
are horrible. But they will be all gone to bed
now, and we must look after ourselves."</p>

<p>Opening an inner door, they passed through some
heavy padded curtains, which fell behind them with a
dull thud, and came out into the great hall.</p>

<p>Ugly as the shell of the great building was, the interior
was very different.</p>

<p>Here, set like a jewel in the midst of the harsh, forbidding
country, was a treasure-house of ordered beauty
which had few equals in England.</p>

<p>Gortre drew a long, shuddering breath of pleasure as
he looked round. Every æsthetic influence within him
responded to what he saw. And how simple and severe
it all was! Simply a great domed hall of white marble,
brilliantly lit by electric light hidden high above their
heads. On every side slender columns rose towards the
dome, beyond them were tall archways leading to the
rooms of the house; dull, formless curtains, striking no
note of colour, hung from the archways.</p>

<p>In the centre of the vast space, exactly under the dome,
was a large pool of still green water, a square basin with
abrupt edges, having no fountain nor gaudy fish to break
its smoothness.</p>

<p>And that was all, literally all. No rugs covered the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span>
tesselated floor, not a single seat stood anywhere. There
was not the slightest suggestion of furniture or habitation.
White, silent, and beautiful! As Gortre stood
there, he knew, as if some special message had been given
him, that he had come for some great hidden purpose,
that it had been foreordained. His whole soul seemed
filled with a holy power, unseen powers and principalities
thronged round him like sweet but awful friends.</p>

<p>He turned inquiringly towards his host. Schuabe's
face was very pale; the calm, cruel eyes seemed agitated;
he was staring at the priest. "Come," he said in a voice
which seemed to be without its usual confidence; "come,
this place is cold&mdash;I have sometimes thought it a little
too bare and fantastic&mdash;come into the library; let us eat
and talk."</p>

<p>He turned and passed through the pillars on the right.
Gortre followed him through the dark, heavy curtains
which led to the library.</p>

<p>They found themselves in an immense low-ceilinged
room. The floor was covered with a thick carpet of dull
blue, and their feet made no sound as they passed over
it towards the blazing fire, which glowed in an old oak
framework of panelling and ingle-nook brought from an
ancient manor-house in Norfolk.</p>

<p>At one end of the room was a small organ, cased,
modern as the mechanism was, in priceless Renaissance
painted panels from Florence and set in a little octagonal
alcove hung with white and yellow.</p>

<p>The enormous writing-table of dark wood stood in
front of the fireplace and was covered with books and
papers. By it was a smaller circular table laid with a
white cloth and shining glass and silver for a meal.</p>

<p>"My valet is in bed," said Schuabe; "I hate any one
about me at night, and I prefer to wait on myself then.
'From the cool cisterns of the midnight air my spirit<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span>
drinks repose.' If you will wait here a few moments I
will go and get some food. I know where to find some.
Pray amuse yourself by looking at my books."</p>

<p>He left the room noiselessly, and Basil turned towards
the walls. From ceiling to floor the immense room was
lined with shelves of enamelled white wood, here and
there carved with tiny florid bunches of fruit and flowers&mdash;Jacobean
work it seemed.</p>

<p>A few pictures here and there in spaces between the
shelves&mdash;the hectic flummery of a Whistler nocturne; a
woman <i>avec cerises</i>, by Manet; a green silk fan, painted
with <i>fêtes gallantes</i>, by Conder&mdash;alone broke the many-coloured
monotony of the books.</p>

<p>Gortre had, from his earliest Oxford days, been a
lover of books and a collector in a moderate, discriminating
way. As a rule he was roused to a mild enthusiasm
by a fine library. But as his practised eye ran over the
shelves, noting the beauty and variety of the contents,
he was unmoved by any special interest. His brain, still,
so it seemed, under some outside and compelling instinct
or influence, was singularly detached from ordinary interests
and rejected the books' appeal.</p>

<p>Close to where he stood the shelves were covered with
theological works. Müller's <i>Lectures on the Vedanta
Philosophy</i>, Romane's <i>Reply to Dr. Lightfoot</i>, De la
Saussaye's <i>Manual</i>, stood together. His hand had been
wandering unconsciously over the books when it was
suddenly arrested, and stopped on a familiar black binding
with plain gold letters. It was an ordinary reference
edition of the Holy Bible, the "pearl" edition from the
Oxford University Press.</p>

<p>There was something familiar and homely in the little
dark volume, which showed signs of constant use. A few
feet away was a long shelf of Bibles of all kinds, rare editions,
expensive copies bound up with famous commentaries&mdash;all
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span>
the luxuries and <i>éditions de luxe</i> of Holy Writ.
But the book beneath his fingers was the same size and
shape as the one which stood near his own bedside in
his rooms&mdash;the one which his father had given him when
he went to Harrow, with "Flee youthful lusts" written on
the fly-leaf in faded ink. It was homelike and familiar.</p>

<p>He drew it out with a half smile at himself for choosing
the one book he knew by heart from this new wealth
of literature.</p>

<p>Then a swift impulse came to him.</p>

<p>Gortre could not be called a superstitious man. The
really religious temperament, which, while not rejecting
the aids of surface and symbol, has seen far below them,
rarely is "superstitious" as the word has come to be
understood.</p>

<p>The familiar touch, the pleasant sensation of the limp,
rough leather on his finger-balls gave him a feeling of
security. But that very fact seemed to remind him that
some danger, some subtle mental danger, was near. Was
this Bible sent to him? he wondered. Were his eyes and
hands <i>directed</i> to it by the vibrating, invisible presences
which he felt were near him? Who could say?</p>

<p>But he took the book in his right hand, breathed a
prayer for help and guidance&mdash;if it might so be that God,
who watched him, would speak a message of help&mdash;and
opened it at random.</p>

<p>He was about to make a trial of that old mediæval
practice of "searching"&mdash;that harmless trial of faith
which a modern hard-headed cleric has analysed so
cleverly, so completely, and so entirely unsatisfactorily.</p>

<p>He opened the book, with his eyes fixed in front of
him, and then let them drop towards it. For a moment
the small type was all blurred and indistinct, and then
one text seemed to leap out at him.</p>

<p>It was this&mdash;</p>

<blockquote><p class="center"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span>
"TAKE YE HEED, WATCH AND PRAY: FOR YE KNOW
NOT WHEN THE TIME IS."</p></blockquote>

<p>This, then, was his message! He was to <i>watch</i>, to
pray, for the time was at hand when&mdash;</p>

<p>The curtain slid aside, and Schuabe entered with a
tray. He had changed his morning coat for a long
dressing-gown of camel's-hair, and wore scarlet leather
slippers.</p>

<p>Basil slipped the Bible back into its place and turned
to face him.</p>

<p>"I live very simply," he said, "and can offer you
nothing very elaborate. But here is some cold chicken,
a watercress salad, and a bottle of claret."</p>

<p>They sat down on opposite sides of the round table
and said little. Both men were tired and hungry. After
he had eaten, the clergyman bent his head for a second
or two in an inaudible grace, and made the sign of the
Cross before he rose from his chair.</p>

<p>"Symbol!" said Schuabe, with a cold smile, as he saw
him.</p>

<p>The truce was over.</p>

<p>"What is that Cross to which all Christians bow?" he
continued. "It was the symbol of the water-god of the
Gauls, a mere piece of their iconography. The Ph&#339;nician
ruin of Gigantica is built in the shape of a cross;
the Druids used it in their ceremonies; it was Thor's
hammer long before it became Christ's gibbet; it is used
by the pagan Icelanders to this day as a magic sign in
connection with storms of wind. Why, the symbol of
Buddha on the reverse of a coin found at Ugain is the
same cross, the 'fylfot' of Thor. The cross was carved
by Brahmins a thousand years before Christ in the caves
of Elephanta. I have seen it in India with my own
eyes in the hands of Siva Brahma and Vishnu! The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span>
worshipper of Vishnu attributes as many virtues to it as
the pious Roman Catholic here in Salford to the Christian
Cross. There is the very strongest evidence that
the origin of the cross is phallic! The <i>crux ansata</i> was
the sign of Venus: it appears beside Baal and Astarte!"</p>

<p>"Very possibly, Mr. Schuabe," said Gortre, quietly.
"Your knowledge on such points is far wider than mine;
but that does not affect Christianity in the slightest."</p>

<p>"Of course not! Who ever said it did? But this
reverence for the cross, the instrument of execution on
which an excellent teacher, and, as far as we know, a
really good man, suffered, angers me because it reminds
me of the absurd and unreasoning superstitions which
cloud the minds of so many educated men like yourself."</p>

<p>"Ah," said Gortre, quietly, "now we are 'gripped.'
We have come to the point."</p>

<p>"If you choose, Mr. Gortre," Schuabe answered; "you
are an intellectual man, and one intellectual man has a certain
right to challenge another. I was staying with Lord
Haileybury the other day, and I spent two whole mornings
walking over the country with the Bishop of London,
talking on these subjects. He very ably endeavoured to
bring physical and psychological science into a single
whole. But all he seemed to me to prove was this, crystallised
into an axiom or at least a postulate. <i>Conscious
volition is the ultimate source of all force.</i> It is his belief
that behind the sensuous and phenomenal world which
gives it form, existence, and activity, lies the ultimate
invisible, immeasurable power of Mind, conscious Will,
of Intelligence, analogous to our own; and&mdash;mark this
essential corollary&mdash;<i>that man is in communication with it</i>,
and that was positively all he could do for me! I met
him there easily enough, but when he tried to prove a
<i>revelation</i>&mdash;Christianity&mdash;he utterly broke down. We
parted very good friends, and I gave him a thousand<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span>
pounds for the East London poor fund. But still, say
what you will to me. I am here to listen."</p>

<p>He looked calmly at the young man with his unsmiling
eyes. He held a Russian cigarette in his fingers, and he
waved it with a gentle gesture of invitation as if from an
immeasurable superiority.</p>

<p>And as Gortre watched him he knew that here was a
brain and intelligence far keener and finer than his own.
But with all that certainty he felt entirely undismayed,
strangely uplifted.</p>

<p>"I have a message for you, Mr. Schuabe," he began,
and the other bowed slightly, without irony, at his words.
"I have a message for you, one which I have been sent
here&mdash;I firmly believe&mdash;to deliver, but it is not the message
or the argument that you expect to hear."</p>

<p>He stopped for a short time, marshalling his mental
forces, and noticing a slight but perceptible look of surprise
in his host's eyes.</p>

<p>"I know you better than you imagine, sir," he said
gravely, "and not as many other good and devout Christians
see you. I tell you here to-night with absolute certainty
that you are the active enemy of Christ&mdash;I say
<i>active</i> enemy."</p>

<p>The face opposite became slightly less tranquil, but the
voice was as calm as ever.</p>

<p>"You speak according to your lights, Mr. Gortre," he
said. "I am no Christian, but there is much good in
Christianity. My words and writings may have helped
to lift the veil of superstition and hereditary influences
from the eyes of many men, and in that sense I am an
enemy of the Christian faith, I suppose. My sincerity is
my only apology&mdash;if one were needed. You speak with
more harshness and less tolerance than I should have
thought it your pleasure or your duty to use."</p>

<p>Gortre rose. "Man," he cried, with sudden sternness,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span>
"I <i>know! You hate our Lord</i>, and would work Him
evil. You are as Judas was, for to-night it is given me to
read far into your brain."</p>

<p>Schuabe rose quickly from his chair and stood facing
him. His face was pallid, something looked out of his
eyes which almost frightened the other.</p>

<p>"What do you know?" he cried as if in a swift stroke of
pain. "Who&mdash;?" He stopped as if by a tremendous effort.</p>

<p>Some thought came to reassure him.</p>

<p>"Listen," he said. "I tell you, paid priest as you are,
a blind man leading the blind, that a day is coming when
all your boasted fabric of Christianity will disappear.
It will go suddenly, and be swept utterly away. And
you, you shall see it. You shall be left naked of your
faith, stripped and bare, with all Christendom beside
you. Your pale Nazarene shall die amid the bitter
laughter of the world, die as surely as He died two thousand
years ago, and no man or woman shall resurrect Him.
You know nothing, but you will remember my words of
to-night, until you also become as nothing and endure
the inevitable fate of mankind."</p>

<p>He had spoken with extraordinary vehemence, hissing
the words out with a venom and malice, general rather
than particular, from which the Churchman shrunk,
shuddering. There was such unutterable <i>conviction</i> in
the thin, evil voice that for a moment the pain of it was
like a spasm of physical agony.</p>

<p>Schuabe had thrown down the mask; it was even as
Gortre said, the soul of Iscariot looked out from those
eyes. The man saw the clergyman's sudden shrinking.</p>

<p>The smile of a devil flashed over his face. Gortre
had turned to him once more and he saw it. And as he
watched an awful certainty grew within him, a thought
so appalling that beside it all that had gone before sank
into utter insignificance.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span></p>

<p>He staggered for a moment and then rose to his full
height, a fearful loathing in his eyes, a scorn like a whip
of fire in his voice.</p>

<p>Schuabe blanched before him, for he saw the truth in
the priest's soul.</p>

<p>"As the Lord of Hosts is my witness," cried Gortre
loudly, "I know you now for what you are! <span class="smcap">You
know that Christ is God!</span>"</p>

<p>Schuabe shrank into his chair.</p>

<p>"<span class="smcap">Antichrist!</span>" pealed out the accusing voice.
"You know the truth full well, and, knowing, in an
awful presumption you have dared to lift your hand
against God."</p>

<p>Then there was a dead silence in the room. Schuabe
sat motionless by the dying fire.</p>

<p>Very slowly the colour crept back into his cheeks.
Slowly the strength and light entered his eyes. He
moved slightly.</p>

<p>At last he spoke.</p>

<p>"Go," he said. "Go, and never let me see your face
again. You have spoken. Yet I tell you still that such
a blinding blow shall descend on Christendom that&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>He rose quickly from his chair. His manner changed
utterly with a marvellous swiftness.</p>

<p>He went to the window and pulled aside the curtain.
A chill and ghostly dawn came creeping into the library.</p>

<p>"Let us make an end of this," he said quietly and
naturally. "Of what use for you and me, atoms that we
are, to wrangle and thunder through the night over an infinity
in which we have neither part nor lot? Come, get
you homewards and rest, as I am about to do. The
night has been an unpleasant dream. Treat it as such.
We differ on great matters. Let that be so and we will
forget it. You shall have a friend in me if you will."</p>

<p>Gortre, hardly conscious of any voluntary movements,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span>
his brain in a stupor, the arteries all over his body beating
like little drums, took the hat and coat the other
handed to him, and stumbled out of the house.</p>

<p>It was about five o'clock in the morning, raw, damp,
and cold.</p>

<p>With a white face, drawn and haggard with emotion, he
strode down the hill. The keen air revived his physical
powers, but his brain was whirling, whirling, till connected
thought was impossible.</p>

<p>What was it? What was the truth about that nightmare,
that long, horrid night in the warm, rich room?
His powers were failing; he must see a doctor after
breakfast.</p>

<p>When he reached the foot of the hill, and was about to
turn down the road which led to his rooms, he stopped
to rest for a moment.</p>

<p>From far behind the hill, over the dark, silhouetted
houses of the wealthy people who lived upon it, a huge,
formless pall of purple smoke was rising, and almost
blotting out the dawn in a Titanic curtain of gloom.
The feeble new-born sun flickered redly through it, the
colour of blood. There was no wind that morning,
and the fog and smoke from the newly lit factory chimneys
in the Irwell valley could not be dispersed. It
crept over the town like doom itself&mdash;menacing, vast,
unconquerable.</p>

<p>He pulled out his latch-key with trembling hand, and
turned to enter his own door.</p>

<p>The cloud was spreading.</p>

<p>"Lighten our darkness," he whispered to himself, half
consciously, and then fell fainting on the door-step,
where they found him soon, and carried him in to the
sick-bed, where he lay sick of a brain-fever a month or
more.</p>

<p class="p4b"><i>Lighten our darkness!</i></p>

<hr class="r20" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V</a></h2>

<h4>A LOST SOUL</h4>

<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">I</span><span class="smcap">n</span> his great room at the British Museum, great, that
is, for the private room of an official, Robert Llwellyn
sat at his writing-desk finishing the last few lines of
his article on the Hebrew inscription in mosaic, which
had been discovered at Kefr Kenna.</p>

<p>It was about four in the afternoon, growing dark with
the peculiarly sordid and hopeless twilight of a winter's
afternoon in central London. A reading lamp upon the
desk threw a bright circle of light on the sheet of white
unlined paper covered with minute writing, which lay
before the keeper of Biblical antiquities in the British
Museum.</p>

<p>The view from the tall windows was hideous and almost
sinister in its ugliness. Nothing met the eye but
the gloomy backs of some of the great dingy lodging-houses
which surround the Museum, bedroom windows,
back bedrooms with dingy curtains, vulgarly
unlovely.</p>

<p>The room itself was official looking, but far from uncomfortable.
There were many book-shelves lining the
walls. Over them hung large-framed photographs and
drawings of inscriptions. On a stand by itself, covered
with a glass shade, was a duplicate of Dr. Schick's model
of the Haram Area during the Christian occupation of
Jerusalem.</p>

<p>A dull fire glowed in the large open fireplace.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span></p>

<p>Llwellyn wrote a final line with a sigh of relief and
then leaned far back in his swivel chair. His face was
gloomy, and his eyes were dull with some inward communing,
apparently of a disturbing and unpleasant kind.</p>

<p>The door opened noiselessly (all the dwellers in the
mysterious private parts of the Museum walk without
noise, and seem to have caught in their voices something
of that almost religious reverence emanating from
surroundings out of the immemorial past), and Lambert,
the assistant keeper and secretary, entered.</p>

<p>He drew up a chair to the writing-desk.</p>

<p>"The firman has been granted!" he said.</p>

<p>A quick interest shone on Professor Llwellyn's face.</p>

<p>"Ah!" he said, "it has come at last, then, after all
these months of waiting. I began to despair of the Turkish
Government. I never thought it would be granted.
Then the Society will really begin to excavate at last in
the prohibited spots! Really that is splendid news,
Lambert. We shall have some startling results. Results,
mind you, which will be historical, historical! I doubt
but that the whole theory of the Gospel narrative will
have to be reconstructed during the next few years!"</p>

<p>"It is quite possible," said Lambert. "But, on the
other hand, it may happen that nothing whatever is
found."</p>

<p>Llwellyn nodded. Then a sudden thought seemed to
strike him. "But how do you know of this, Lambert?"
he said, "and how has it happened?"</p>

<p>Lambert was a pleasant, open-faced fellow, young, and
with a certain air of distinction. He laughed gaily, and
returned his chief's look of interest with an affectionate
expression in his eyes.</p>

<p>"Ah!" he said, "I have heard a great deal, sir, and I
have some thing to tell you which I am very happy about.
It is gratifying to bring you the first news. Last night I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span>
was dining with my uncle, Sir Michael Manichoe, you
know. The Home Secretary was there, a great friend of
my uncle's. You know the great interest he takes in the
work of the Exploration Society, and his general interest
in the Holy Land?"</p>

<p>"Oh, of course," said Llwellyn. "He's the leader of
the uncompromising Protestant party in the House; owes
his position to it, in fact. He breakfasts with the Septuagint,
lunches off the Gospels, and sups with Revelations.
Well?"</p>

<p>"It is owing to his personal interest in the work," continued
Lambert, "that the Sultan has granted the firman.
After dinner he took me aside, and we had a longish talk.
He was very gracious, and most eager to hear of all our
recent work here, and additions to the collections in our
department. I was extremely pleased, as you may imagine.
He spoke of you, sir, as the greatest living
authority&mdash;wouldn't hear of Conrad Schick or Clermont-Ganneau
in the same breath with you. He went on to
say in confidence, and he hinted to me that I had his
permission to tell you, though he didn't say as much in
so many words, that they are going to offer you knighthood
in a few days!"</p>

<p>A sudden flush suffused the face of the elder man.
Then he laughed a little.</p>

<p>"Your news is certainly unexpected, my dear boy," he
said, "and, for my part, knighthood is no very welcome
thing personally. But it would be idle to deny that I'm
pleased. It means recognition of my work, you see. In
that way only, it is good news that you have brought."</p>

<p>"That's just it, Professor," the young man answered
enthusiastically. "That's exactly it. Sir Robert Llwellyn,
or Mr. Llwellyn, of course, cannot matter to you
personally. But it <i>is</i> a fitting and graceful recognition of
the <i>work</i>. It is a proper thing that the greatest living<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span>
authority on the antiquities and history of Asia Minor
should be officially recognised. It encourages all of us,
you see, Professor."</p>

<p>The young man's generous excitement pleased Llwellyn.
He placed his hand upon his shoulder with a
kindly, affectionate gesture.</p>

<p>At that moment a messenger knocked and entered with
a bundle of letters, which had just arrived by the half-past-four
post, and, with a congratulatory shake of the
hand, Lambert left his chief to his correspondence.</p>

<p>The great specialist, when he had left the room, rose
from his chair, went towards the door with swift, cat-like
steps, and locked it. Then he returned to the desk,
opened a deep drawer with a key which he drew from
his watch-pocket, and took a silver-mounted flask of
brandy from the receptacle. He poured a small dose of
brandy into the metal cup and drank it hurriedly.</p>

<p>Then he leaned back once more in his chair.</p>

<p>Professor Llwellyn's face was familiar to all readers of
the illustrated press. He was one of the few famous
<i>savants</i> whose name was a household word not only to his
colleagues and the learned generally, but also to the great
mass of the general public.</p>

<p>In every department of effort and work there are one or
two men whose personality seems to catch the popular
eye.</p>

<p>His large, clean-shaven face might have belonged to a
popular comedian; his portly figure had still nothing
of old age about it. He was sprightly and youthful in
manner despite his fat. The small, merry, green eyes&mdash;eyes
which had yet something furtive and "alarmed" in
them at times&mdash;stood for a concrete personification of
good humour. His somewhat sensual lips were always
smiling and jolly on public occasions. His enormous
erudition and acknowledged place among the learned of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span>
Europe went so strangely with his appearance that the
world was pleased and tickled by the paradox.</p>

<p>It was a fine thing to think that the spectacled Dry-as-dust
was gone. That era of animated mummy was
over, and when The World read of Professor Llwellyn at
a first night of the Lyceum, or the guest of honour at the
Savage Club, it forgot to jeer at his abstruse erudition.</p>

<p>Scholars admitted his scholarship, and ordinary men
and women welcomed him as <i>homme du monde</i>.</p>

<p>The Professor replaced the flask in the drawer and
locked it. His hand trembled as he did so. The light
which shone on the white face showed it eloquent with
dread and despair. Here, in the privacy of the huge,
comfortable room, was a soul in an anguish that no
mortal eyes could see.</p>

<p>The Professor had locked the door.</p>

<p>The letters which the messenger had brought were
many in number and various in shape and style.</p>

<p>Five or six of them, which bore foreign stamps and
indications that they came from the Continental antiquarian
societies, he put on one side to be opened and
replied to on the morrow.</p>

<p>Then he took up an envelope addressed to him in firm
black writing and turned it over. On the flap was the
white, embossed oval and crown, which showed that it
came from the House of Commons. His florid face became
paler than before, the flesh of it turned grey, an unpleasant
sight in so large and ample a countenance, as he
tore it open. The letter ran as follows:</p>

<blockquote><p class="inright">
"<span class="smcap">House of Commons.</span><br />
</p>

<p>"<span class="smcap">Dear Llwellyn</span>,&mdash;I am writing to you now to say
that I am quite determined that the present situation
shall not continue. You must understand, finally, that
my patience is exhausted, and that, unless the large sum<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span>
you owe me is repaid within the next week, my solicitors
have my instructions, which are quite unalterable, to proceed
in bankruptcy against you without further delay.</p>

<p>"The principal and interest now total to the sum of
fourteen thousand pounds. Your promises to repay, and
your innumerable requests for more time in which to do
so, now extend over a period of three years. I have
preserved all your letters on the subject at issue between
us, and I find that, so far from decreasing your indebtedness
when your promises became due, you have almost
invariably asked me for further sums, which, in foolish
confidence, as I feel now, I have advanced to you.</p>

<p>"It would be superfluous to point out to you what
bankruptcy would mean to you in your position. Ruin
would be the only word. And it would be no ordinary
bankruptcy. I have a by no means uncertain idea where
these large sums have gone, and my knowledge can hardly
fail to be shared by others in London society.</p>

<p>"I have still a chance to offer you, however, and, perhaps,
you will find me by no means the tyrant you think.</p>

<p>"There are certain services which you can do me, and
which, if you fall in with my views, will not only wipe off
the few thousands of your indebtedness, but provide you
with a capital sum which will place you above the necessity
for any such financial man&#339;uvres in the future as
your&mdash;shall I say <i>infatuation</i>?&mdash;has led you to resort to
in the past.</p>

<p>"If you care to lunch with me at my rooms in the
Hotel Cecil, at two o'clock, the day after to-morrow&mdash;Friday&mdash;we
may discuss your affairs quietly. If not, then
I must refer you to my solicitors entirely.</p>

<p class="p2b">
"Yours sincerely,<br />
<span style="margin-left:10em">"<span class="smcap">Constantine Schuabe.</span>"</span>
</p></blockquote>

<p>The big man gave a horrid groan&mdash;half snarl, half<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span>
groan&mdash;the sound which comes from a strong animal desperate
and at bay.</p>

<p>He crossed over to the fireplace and pushed the letter
down into a glowing cavern among the coals, holding it
there with the poker until it was utterly consumed and
fluttered up the chimney from his sight in a sheet of ash&mdash;the
very colour of his relaxed and pendulous cheeks.</p>

<p>He opened another letter, a small, fragile thing written
on mauve paper, in a large, irregular hand&mdash;a woman's
hand:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote><p class="inright">

"<span class="smcap">15 Bloomsbury Court Mansions.</span><br />
</p>

<p>"<span class="smcap">Dear Bob</span>&mdash;I shall expect you at the flat to-night
at eleven, <i>without fail</i>. You'd better come, or things
which you won't like will happen.</p>

<p>"You've just <i>got</i> to come.</p>

<p class="p2b">
<span style="margin-left:10em"><span class="smcap">Gertrude</span></span>."
</p></blockquote>

<p>He put this letter into his pocket and began to walk
the room in long, silent strides.</p>

<p>A little after five he put on a heavy fur coat and left
the now silent and gloomy halls of the Museum.</p>

<p>The lamps of Holborn were lit and a blaze of light
came from Oxford Circus, where the winking electric advertisements
had just begun their work on the tops of the
houses.</p>

<p>A policeman saluted the Professor as he passed, and
was rewarded by a genial smile and jolly word of greeting,
which sent a glow of pleasure through his six feet.</p>

<p>Llwellyn walked steadily on towards the Marble Arch
and Edgeware Road. The continual roar of the traffic
helped his brain. It became active and able to think,
to plan once more. The steady exercise warmed his
blood and exhilarated him.</p>

<p>There began to be almost a horrid pleasure in the stress
of his position. The danger was so immediate and fell;
the blow would be so utterly irreparable, that he was near<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span>
to enjoying his walk while he could still consider the
thing from a detached point of view.</p>

<p>Throughout life that had always been his power. A
strange resilience had animated him in all chances and
changes of fortune.</p>

<p>He was that almost inhuman phenomenon, a sensualist
with a soul.</p>

<p>For many years, while his name became great in Europe
and the solid brilliancy of his work grew in lustre as he
in age, he had lived two lives, finding an engrossing joy
in each.</p>

<p>The lofty scientific world of which he was an ornament
had no points of contact with that other and unspeakable
half-life. Rumours had been bruited, things said in
secret by envious and less distinguished men, but they
had never harmed him. His colleagues hardly understood
them and cared nothing. His work was all-sufficient;
what did it matter if smaller people with forked
tongues hissed horrors of his private life?</p>

<p>The other circles&mdash;the lost slaves of pleasure&mdash;knew
him well and were content. He came into the night-world
a welcome guest. They knew nothing of his work
or fame beyond dim hintings of things too uninteresting
for them to bother about.</p>

<p>He turned down the Edgeware Road and then into
quiet Upper Berkeley Street, a big, florid, prosperous-looking
man, looking as though the world used him well
and he was content with all it had to offer.</p>

<p>His house was but a few doors down the street and he
went up-stairs to dress at once. He intended to dine at
home that night.</p>

<p>His dressing-room, out of which a small bedroom
opened, was large and luxurious. A clear fire glowed
upon the hearth; the carpet was soft and thick. The
great dressing-table with its three-sided mirror was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span>
covered with brushes and ivory jars, gleaming brightly in
the rays of the little electric lights which framed the
mirror. A huge wardrobe, full of clothes neatly folded
and put away, suggested a man about town, a dandy with
many sartorial interests. An arm-chair of soft green
leather, stamped with red-gold pomegranates, stood by a
small black table stencilled with orange-coloured bees.
On the table stood a cigarette-box of finely plaited cream-coloured
straw, woven over silver and cedar-wood, and
with Llwellyn's initials in turquoise on one lid.</p>

<p>He threw off his coat and sank into the chair with a
sigh of pleasure at the embracing comfort of it. Then
his fingers plunged into the tea which filled the box on
the table and drew out a tiny yellow cigarette.</p>

<p>He smoked in luxurious silence.</p>

<p>He had already half forgotten the menacing letter from
Constantine Schuabe, the imperative summons to the flat
in Bloomsbury Court Mansions. This was a moment of
intense physical ease. The flavour of his saffron Salonika
cigarette, a tiny glass of garnet-coloured <i>cassis</i>
which he had poured out, were alike excellent. All day
long he had been at work on a brilliant monograph
dealing with the new Hebrew mosaics. Only two other
living men could have written it. But his work also had
fallen out of his brain. At that moment he was no more
than a great animal, soulless, with the lusts of the flesh
pouring round him, whispering evil and stinging his
blood.</p>

<p>A timid knock fell upon the door outside. It opened
and Mrs. Llwellyn came slowly in.</p>

<p>The Professor's wife was a tall, thin woman. Her
untidy clothes hung round her body in unlovely folds.
Her complexion was muddy and unwholesome; but
the unsmiling, withered lips revealed a row of fair,
white, even teeth. It was in her eyes that one read the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span>
secret of this lady. They were large and blue, once
beautiful, so one might have fancied. Now the light
had faded from them and they were blurred and full of
pain.</p>

<p>She came slowly up to her husband's chair, placing
one hand timidly upon it.</p>

<p>"Oh, is that you?" he said, not brutally, but with a
complete and utter indifference. "I shall want some
dinner at home to-night. I shall be going out about ten
to a supper engagement. See about it now, something
light. And tell one of the maids to bring up some hot
water."</p>

<p>"Yes, Robert," she said, and went out with no further
word, but sighing a little as she closed the door quietly.</p>

<p>They had been married fifteen years. For fourteen
of them he had hardly ever spoken to her except in
anger at some household accident. On her own private
income of six hundred a year she had to do what she
could to keep the house going. Llwellyn never gave
her anything of the thousand a year which was his salary
at the Museum, and the greater sums he earned by his
work outside it. She knew no one, the Professor went into
none but official society, and indeed but few of his colleagues
knew that he was a married man. He treated
the house as a hotel, sleeping there occasionally, breakfasting,
and dressing. His private rooms were the only
habitable parts of the house. All the rest was old, faded,
and without comfort. Mrs. Llwellyn spent most of her
life with the two servants in the kitchen.</p>

<p>She always swept and tidied her husband's rooms herself.
That afternoon she had built and coaxed the fire
with her own hands.</p>

<p>She slept in a small room at the top of the house, next
to the maids, for company.</p>

<p>This was her life.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span></p>

<p>Over the head of the little iron bedstead of her room
hung a great crucifix.</p>

<p>That was her hope.</p>

<p>When Llwellyn was rioting in nameless places she
prayed for him during the night. She prayed for him,
for herself, and for the two servant girls, very simply&mdash;that
Heaven might receive them all some day.</p>

<p>The maid brought up some dinner for the Professor&mdash;a
little soup, a sole, and some <i>camembert</i>.</p>

<p>He ate slowly, and smoked a short light-brown cigar
with his coffee. Then he bathed, put on evening clothes,
dressing himself with care and circumspection, and left
the house.</p>

<p class="p4b">In the Edgeware Road he got into a hansom and told
the man to drive him to Bloomsbury Court Mansions.</p>
<hr class="r20" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI</a></h2>

<h4>THE WHISPER</h4>

<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">R</span><span class="smcap">obert Llwellyn</span> paid the cabman outside
the main gateway which led into the courtyard,
and dismissed him.</p>

<p>The Court Mansions were but a few hundred yards
from the British Museum itself, though he never visited
them in the day time. A huge building, like a great
hotel, rose skyward in a square. In the quadrangle in
the centre, which was paved with asphalt, was an ornamental
fountain surrounded by evergreen plants in tubs.</p>

<p>The Professor strode under the archway, his feet
echoing in the stillness, and passed over the open space,
which was brilliantly lit with the hectic radiance of arc
lamps. He entered one of the doorways, and turning
to the right of the ground-floor, away from the lift
which was in waiting to convey passengers to the
higher storeys, he stopped at No. 15.</p>

<p>He took a latch-key from his pocket, opened the
door, and entered. It was very warm and close inside,
and very silent also. The narrow hall was lit by a
crimson-globed electric lamp. It was heavily carpeted,
and thick curtains of plum-coloured plush, edged with
round, fluffy balls of the same colour, hung over the
doors leading into it.</p>

<p>He hung his hat up on a peg, and stood perfectly
silent for a moment in the warm, scented air. He could
hear no sound but the ticking of a French clock. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span>
flat was obviously empty; and pulling aside one of the
curtains, he went into the dining-room.</p>

<p>The place was full of light. Gertrude Hunt, or her
maid, had, with characteristic carelessness, forgotten to
turn off the switches. Llwellyn sat down and looked
around him. How familiar the place was! The casual
visitor would have recognised at a glance that the occupant
of the room belonged to the dramatic profession.</p>

<p>Photographs abounded everywhere. The satinwood
overmantel was crowded with them in heavy frames of
chased silver. Bold enlargements hung on the crimson
walls; they were upright, and stacked in disorderly
heaps upon the grand piano.</p>

<p>All were of one woman&mdash;a dark Jewish girl with eyes
full of a fixed fascination, a trained regard of allurement.</p>

<p>The eyes pursued him everywhere; bold and inviting,
he was conscious of their multitude, and moved uneasily.</p>

<p>The dining-table was in a curious litter. Half-empty
cups of egg-shell china stood upon a tray of Japanese
lacquer inlaid with ivory and silver; a cake basket held
pink and honey-coloured bon-bons, among which some
cigarette ends had fallen. Two empty bottles, which
had held champagne, stood side by side, cheek by jowl,
with a gilt tray, on which was a miniature methyl lamp
and some steel curling tongs.</p>

<p>The arm-chairs were upholstered in pink satin. On
one of them was a long fawn-coloured tailor-made coat,
hanging collar downwards over the back. A handful of
silver and a tiny gun-metal cigarette case had dropped
out of a pocket on to the seat of the chair.</p>

<p>The whole place reeked with a well-known perfume&mdash;an
evil, sickly smell of ripe lilies and the acrid smoke of
Egyptian tobacco. A frilled dressing jacket covered with
yellowish lace lay in a tumbled heap upon the hearth-rug.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span></p>

<p>The room would have struck an ordinary visitor with
a sense of nausea almost like a physical blow. There
was something sordidly shameless about it. The vulgarest
and most material of Circes held sway among
all this gaudy and lavish disorder. The most sober-living
and innocent-minded man, brought suddenly into
such a place, would have known it instantly for what it
was, and turned to fly as from a pestilence.</p>

<p>A week or two before, a picture of this den had appeared
in one of the illustrated papers. Underneath
the photograph had been printed&mdash;</p>

<p class="center">
"THE BOUDOIR OF ONE OF LONDON'S POPULAR FAVOURITES.<br />
<br />
MISS GERTRUDE HUNT AT HOME."<br />
</p>

<p class="p2">Below had been another picture&mdash;"Miss Hunt in her
new motor-car." Robert Llwellyn had paid four hundred
pounds for the machine.</p>

<p>The big man seemed to fit into these surroundings
as a hand into a glove. In his room at the Museum,
on a platform at the Royal Society, his intellect always
animated his face. In such places his personality was
eminent, as his work also.</p>

<p>Here he was changed. Silenus was twin to him; he
sniffed the perfume with pleasure; he stretched himself
to the heat and warmth like a great cat. He was
an integral part of the <i>mise-en-scène</i>&mdash;lost, and arrogant
of his degradation.</p>

<p>A key clicked in the lock, there was a rustling of silk,
and Gertrude Hunt swept into the room.</p>

<p>"So you're come to time, then," she said in a deep,
musical voice, but spoilt by an unpleasing Cockney twang.
"I'm dead tired. The theatre was crammed; I had to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span>
sing the <i>Coon of Coons</i> twice. Get me a brandy-and-soda,
Bob. There's a good boy&mdash;the decanter's in the
sideboard."</p>

<p>She threw off her long cloak and sank into a chair.
The sticky grease-paint of the theatre had hardly been
removed. She looked, as she said, worn out.</p>

<p>They chatted for a few moments on indifferent subjects,
and she lit a cigarette. When she took it from
her lips, Llwellyn noticed that the end was crimsoned by
the paint upon them.</p>

<p>"Well," she said at length, "somehow or other you
must pay those bills I sent on to you. They <i>must</i> be
paid. I can't do it. I'm only getting twenty-five
pounds from the theatre now, and that's just about
enough to pay my drink bill!"</p>

<p>Llwellyn's face clouded. "I'm just about at my last
gasp myself," he said. "I'm threatened with bankruptcy
as it is."</p>

<p>"Oh, cheer up!" she cried. "Here, have a B. and S.
I do hate to hear any one talk like that. It gives me the
hump at once. Now look here, Bob. You know that I
like you better than any one else. We've been pals for
seven or eight years now, and I'd rather have you a
thousand times than the others. You understand that,
don't you?"</p>

<p>He nodded back at her. His face was pleased at her
expression of affection, at the kindness of this dancing-girl
to the great scholar!</p>

<p>"But," she continued, "you know me, and you know
that I can't go on unless I have what I want all the time.
And I want a lot, too. If you can't give it me, Bob,
it must be some one else&mdash;that's all. Captain Parker's
ready to do anything, any time. He's almost a millionaire,
you know. Can't you raise any 'oof anyhow?
If I'd a thousand at once, and another in a week<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span>
or two, I could manage for a bit. But I <i>must</i> have a
river-house at Shepperton. That cat, Lulu Wallace, has
one, and an electric launch and all. What about your
German friend&mdash;the M.P.? <i>He's</i> got tons of stuff.
Touch him for a bit more."</p>

<p>"Had a letter from him this afternoon," said Llwellyn,
"with a demand for about fourteen thousand that I owe
him now. Threatens to sell me up. But there was
something which looked brighter at the end of the letter,
though I couldn't quite make out what he was driving
at."</p>

<p>"What was that?"</p>

<p>"The tone of the letter changed; it had been nasty
before. He said that I could do him a service for which
he would not only wipe out the old debt, but for which I
could get a lot more money."</p>

<p>"You'll go to him at once, Bob, won't you?"</p>

<p>"I suppose I must. There's no way out of it. I
can't think, though, how I can do him any service. He's
a dabbler, an amateur in my own work, but he's not
going to pay a good many thousands for any help in
<i>that</i>."</p>

<p>"Let it alone till you find out," she said, with the instinctive
dislike of her class to the prolonged discussion
of anything unpleasant. She got up and rang the bell
for her maid and supper.</p>

<p>For some reason Llwellyn could eat nothing. A
weight oppressed him&mdash;a presage of danger and disaster.
The unspeakable mental torments that the vicious man
who is highly educated undergoes&mdash;torments which assail
him in the very act and article of his pleasures&mdash;have
never been adequately described. "What a frail
structure his honours and positions were," he thought
as the woman chatted of the <i>coulisses</i> and the blackguard
news of the <i>demi-monde</i>. His indulgent life had acted<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span>
on the Professor with a dire physical effect. His nerves
were unstrung and he became childishly superstitious.
The slightest hint of misfortune set his brain throbbing
with a horrid fear. The spectre of overwhelming disaster
was always waiting, and he could not exorcise it.</p>

<p>The two accidental and trivial facts that the knives
at his place were crossed, and that he spilt the salt as
he was passing it to his mistress, set him crossing himself
with nervous rapidity.</p>

<p>The girl laughed at him, but she was interested nevertheless.
For the moment they were on an intellectual
level. He explained that the sign of the Cross was said
to avert misfortune, and she imitated him clumsily.</p>

<p>Llwellyn thought nothing of it at the time, but the
meaningless travesty came back afterwards when he
thought over that eventful night.</p>

<p>Surely the holy sign of God's pain was never so degraded
as now.</p>

<p>Their conversation grew fitful and strained. The
woman was physically tired by her work at the theatre,
and the dark cloud of menace crept more rapidly into
the man's brain. The hour grew late. At last Llwellyn
rose to go.</p>

<p>"You'll get the cash somehow, dear, won't you?" she
said with tired eagerness.</p>

<p>"Yes, yes, Gertie," he replied. "I suppose I can get it
somehow. I'll get home now. If it's a clear night I
shall walk home. I'm depressed&mdash;it's liver, I suppose&mdash;and
I need exercise."</p>

<p>"Have a drink before you go?"</p>

<p>"No, I've had two, and I can't take spirits at this
time."</p>

<p>He went out with a perfunctory and uninterested kiss.
She came to the archway with him.</p>

<p>London was now quite silent in its most mysterious<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span>
and curious hour. The streets were deserted, but brilliantly
lit by the long row of lamps.</p>

<p>They stood talking for a moment or two in the quadrangle.</p>

<p>"Queer!" she said; "queer, isn't it, just now? I
walked back from the Covent Garden ball once at this
time. Makes you feel lonesome. Well, so long, Bob.
I shall have a hot bath and go to bed."</p>

<p>The Professor's feet echoed loudly on the flags as he
approached the open space. Never had he seemed to
hear the noises of his own progress so clearly before. It
was disconcerting, and emphasised the fact of his sole
movement in this lighted city of the dead.</p>

<p>On the island in the centre of the cross-roads he suddenly
caught sight of a tall policeman standing motionless
under a lamp. The fellow seemed a figure of metal
hypnotised by the silence.</p>

<p>Llwellyn walked onwards, when, just as he was passing
the Oxford Music Hall, he became conscious of quick
footsteps behind him. He turned quickly, and a man
came up. He was of middle size, with polite, watchful
eyes and clean shaven.</p>

<p>The stranger put his hand into the pocket of his neat,
unobtrusive black overcoat and drew out a letter.</p>

<p>"For you, sir," he said in calm, ordinary tones.</p>

<p>The Professor stared at him in uncontrollable surprise
and took the envelope, opening it under a lamp. This
was the note. He recognised the handwriting at once.</p>

<blockquote><p class="inright">

"<span class="smcap">Hotel Cecil.</span><br />
</p>

<p>"<span class="smcap">Dear Llwellyn</span>,&mdash;Kindly excuse the suddenness of
my request and come down to the Cecil with my valet.
I have sent him to meet you. I want to settle our business
to-night, and I am certain that we shall be able to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span>
make some satisfactory arrangement. I know you do
not go to bed early.&mdash;Most sincerely yours,</p>

<p class="p2b"><span style="margin-left:10em">
"<span class="smcap">Constantine Schuabe.</span>"</span>
</p></blockquote>

<p>"This is a very sudden request," he said to the servant
rather doubtfully, but somewhat reassured by the friendly
signature of the note. "Why, it's two o'clock in the
morning!"</p>

<p>"Extremely sorry to trouble you, sir," replied the
valet civilly, "but my master's strict orders were that
I should find you and deliver the note. He told me
that you would probably be visiting at Bloomsbury
Court Mansions, so I waited about, hoping to meet you.
I brought the <i>coupé</i>, sir, in case we should not be able to
get you a cab."</p>

<p>Following the direction of his glance, Llwellyn saw
that a small rubber-tired brougham to seat two people
was coming slowly down the road. The coachman
touched his hat as the Professor got in, and, turning down
Charing Cross Road, in a few minutes they drove rapidly
into the courtyard of the hotel.</p>

<p>Schuabe had not been established at the Cecil for any
length of time. Though he owned a house in Curzon
Street, this was let for a long period to Miss Mosenthal,
his aunt, and he had hitherto lived in chambers at the
Albany.</p>

<p>But he found the life at the hotel more convenient and
suited to his temperament. His suite of rooms was one of
the most costly even in that great river palace of to-day,
but such considerations need never enter into his life.</p>

<p>The utter unquestioned freedom of such a life, its entire
liberation from any restraint or convention, suited
him exactly.</p>

<p>Llwellyn had never visited Schuabe in his private
apartments before at any time. As he was driven easily<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span>
to the meeting he nerved himself for it, summoning up all
his resolution. He swept aside the enervating influences
of the last few hours.</p>

<p>Schuabe was waiting in the large sitting-room with
balconies upon which he could look down upon the embankment
and the river. It was his favourite among all
the rooms of the suite.</p>

<p>He looked gravely and also a little curiously at the
Professor as he entered the room. There was a question
in his eyes; the guest had a sensation of being measured
and weighed with some definite purpose.</p>

<p>The greeting was cordial enough. "I am very sorry,
Llwellyn, to catch you suddenly like this," Schuabe said,
"but I should like to settle the business between us
without delay. I have certain proposals to make you,
and if we agree upon them there will be much to consider,
as the thing is a big one. But before we talk of
this let me offer you something to eat."</p>

<p>The Professor had recovered his hunger. The chill
of the night air, the sudden excitement of the summons,
and, though he did not realise it, the absence of patchouli
odours in his nostrils, had recalled an appetite.</p>

<p>The space and air of the huge room, with its high
roof, was soothing after Bloomsbury Court Mansions.</p>

<p>Supper was spread for two on a little round table by
the windows. Schuabe ate little, but watched the other
with keen, detective eyes, talking meanwhile of ordinary,
trivial things. Nothing escaped him, the little gleam of
pleasure in Llwellyn's eyes at the freshness of the caviare,
the Spanish olives he took with his partridge&mdash;rejecting
the smaller French variety&mdash;the impassive watchful eyes
saw it all.</p>

<p>It was too late for coffee, Llwellyn said, when the
man brought it, in a long-handled brass pan from Constantinople,
but he took a <i>kümmel</i> instead.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span></p>

<p>The two men faced each other on each side of the
table. Both were smoking. For a moment there was
silence; the critical time was at hand. Then Schuabe
spoke. His voice was cold and steady and very businesslike.
As he talked the voice seemed to wrap round
Llwellyn like steel bands. There was something relentless
and inevitable about it; bars seemed rising as he
spoke.</p>

<p>"I am going to be quite frank with you, Llwellyn,"
he said, "and you will find it better to be quite frank
with me."</p>

<p>He took a paper from the pocket of his smoking jacket
and referred to it occasionally.</p>

<p>"You owe me now about fourteen thousand pounds?"</p>

<p>"Yes, it is roughly that."</p>

<p>"Please correct me if I am wrong in any point. Your
salary at the British Museum is a thousand pounds a
year, and you make about fifteen hundred more."</p>

<p>"Yes, about that, but how do you&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I have made it my business to know everything,
Professor. For example, they are about to offer you
knighthood."</p>

<p>Llwellyn stirred uneasily, and the hand which stretched
out for another cigarette shook a little.</p>

<p>"I need hardly point out to you," the cold words
went on, and a certain sternness began to enforce them,
"I need hardly point out that if I were to take certain
steps, your position would be utterly ruined."</p>

<p>"Bankruptcy need not entirely ruin a man."</p>

<p>"It would ruin you. You see <i>I know where the money
has gone</i>. Your private tastes are nothing to me, and it
is not my business if you choose to spend a fortune on a
cocotte. But in your position, as the very mainspring
and arm of the Higher Criticism of the Bible, the revelations
which would most certainly be made would<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span>
ruin you irreparably. Your official posts would all go
at once, your name would become a public scandal everywhere.
In England one may do just what one likes if
only one does not in any way, by reason of position or
attainments, belong to the nation. You <i>do</i> belong to
the nation. You can never defy public opinion. With
the ethical point of view I have nothing personally to do.
But to speak plainly, in the eyes of the great mass of
English people you would be stamped as an irredeemably
vicious man, if everything came out. That is what
they would call you. At one blow everything&mdash;knighthood,
honour, place&mdash;all would flash away. Moreover,
you would have to give up the other side of your life.
There would be no more suppers with Phryne or rides
to Richmond in the new motor-car."</p>

<p>He laughed, a low, contemptuous laugh which stung.
Llwellyn's face had grown pale. His large, white fingers
picked uneasily at the table-cloth.</p>

<p>His position was very clearly shown to him, with
greater horror and vividness than ever it had come to
him before, even in his moments of acutest depression.</p>

<p>The overthrow would be indeed utter and complete.
With the greedy imagination of the sensualist he saw
himself living in some cheap foreign town, Bruges perhaps,
or Brussels, upon his wife's small income, bereft
alike of work and pleasure.</p>

<p>"All you say is true," he murmured as the other made
an end. "I am in your power. It is best to be plain
about these things. What is your alternative?"</p>

<p>"My alternative, if you accept it, will mean certain
changes to you. First of all, it will be necessary for
you to obtain a year's leave from the British Museum.
I had thought of asking you to resign your position,
but that will not be necessary, I think, now. This can
be arranged with a specialist easily enough. Even if<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span>
your health does not really warrant it, a word from me
to Sir James Fyfe will manage that. You will have to
travel. In return for your services and your absolute secrecy&mdash;though
when you hear my proposals you will realise
that perhaps in the whole history of the world never
was secrecy so important to any man's safety&mdash;I will do
as follows. I will wipe off your debt at once. I will
pay you ten thousand pounds in cash this week, and
during the year, as may be agreed upon between us, I
will make over forty thousand pounds more to you.
In all fifty thousand pounds, exclusive of your debt."</p>

<p>His voice had not been raised, nor did it show any
excitement during this tremendous proposal. The effect
on Llwellyn was very different. He rose from his
chair, trembling with excitement, staring with bloodshot
eyes at the beautiful chiselled face below.</p>

<p>"You&mdash;you <i>mean</i> it?" he said huskily.</p>

<p>The millionaire made a single confirmatory gesture.</p>

<p>Then the whole magnitude and splendour of the offer
became gradually plain to him in all its significance.</p>

<p>"I suppose," he said, "that, as the payment is great,
the risk is commensurate."</p>

<p>"There will be none if you do what I shall ask properly.
Only two other men living would do it, and, first and foremost,
you will have to guard against <i>their</i> vigilance."</p>

<p>"Then, in God's name, what do you ask?" Llwellyn
almost shouted. The tension was almost unbearable.</p>

<p>Schuabe rose from his seat. For the first time the
Professor saw that he was terribly agitated. His eyes
glowed, the apple in his throat worked convulsively.</p>

<p>"<i>You are to change the history of the world!</i>"</p>

<p>He drew Llwellyn into the very centre of the room,
and held him firmly by the elbows. Tall as the Professor
was, Schuabe was taller, and he bent and whispered
into the other's ear for a full five minutes.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span></p>

<p>There was no sound in the room but the low hissing
of his sibilants.</p>

<p>Llwellyn's face became white, and then ashen grey.
His whole body seemed to shrink from his clothes; he
trembled terribly.</p>

<p>Then he broke away from his host and ran to the fireplace
with an odd, jerky movement, and sank cowering
into an arm-chair, filled with an unutterable dread.</p>

<hr class="r5" />

<p>As morning stole into the room the Professor took a
bundle of bills and acknowledgements from Schuabe
and thrust them into the fire with a great sob of relief.</p>

<p>Then he turned into a bedroom and sank into the
deep slumber of absolute exhaustion.</p>

<p class="p4b">He did not go to the Museum that day.</p>
<hr class="r20" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII</a></h2>

<h4>LAST WORDS AT WALKTOWN</h4>

<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">T</span><span class="smcap">he</span> great building of the Walktown national schools
blazed with light. Every window was a patch of
vivid orange in the darkness of the walls. The whole
place was pervaded by a loud, whirring hum of talk and
laughter and an incredible rattle of plates and saucers.</p>

<p>In one of the classrooms down-stairs Helena Byars,
with a dozen other ladies of the parish, presided over
a scene of intense activity. Huge urns of tea ready
mixed with the milk and sugar, were being carried up
the stone stairs to the big schoolroom by willing hands.
Piles of thick sandwiches of ham, breakfast-cups of
mustard, hundreds of slices of moist wedge-shaped cake
covered the tables, lessening rapidly as they were carried
away to the crowded rooms above.</p>

<p>A Lancashire church tea-party was in full swing, for
this was the occasion when Basil Gortre was to say an
official farewell to the people among whom he had worked
in the North.</p>

<p>In the tea-room itself several hundred people were
making an enormous meal at long tables, under flaring,
naked gas-lights, which sent shimmering vapours of
heat up to the pitch-pine beams of the room above.</p>

<p>On the walls of the schoolroom hung long, map-like
pictures, heavily glazed. Some of them were representations
of foreign animals, or trees and plants, with the
names printed below each in thick black type. Others<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span>
represented scenes from the life of Christ, and though
somewhat stiff and wooden, showed clearly the immense
strides that educational art has taken during the past
few years.</p>

<p>At one end of the room was a platform running along
its length. Some palms and tree-ferns in pots, chairs, a
grand piano, and some music stands, promised a concert
when tea should be over.</p>

<p>All the ladies of the parish were acting as attendants,
or presiding at the urns on each table. There could be
no doubt that the people were in a state of high good
humour and enjoyment. Every now and again a great
roar of laughter would break through the prevailing hum
from one table or another. Despite the almost stifling
heat and a mixed odour of humanity and ham, which a
sensitive person might have shrunk from, the rough,
merry Lancashire folk were happy as may be.</p>

<p>Basil Gortre, in his long, black coat, his skin somewhat
pale from his long illness, walked from table to
table, spending a few minutes at each. His face was
wreathed in perpetual smiles, and roars of laughter followed
each sally of his wit, a homely cut-and-thrust style
of humour adapted to his audience. The fat mothers
of families, wives of prosperous colliers and artisans,
with their thick gold earrings and magenta frocks,
beamed motherhood and kindliness at him. The Sunday-school
teachers giggled and blushed with pleasure
when he spoke.</p>

<p>The vicar, smiling paternally as was his wont, walked
up and down the gangways also, toying with the <i>pince-nez</i>
at his breast, and very successfully concealing the
fact from every one that he was by no means in the
seventh heaven of happiness. Tea-parties, so numerous
and popular in the North, were always somewhat of a
trial to him.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span></p>

<p>Basil and Mr. Byars met in the middle of the room
when the tea was nearly over. Tears were gleaming in
the eyes of the younger man.</p>

<p>"It is hard to leave them all," he said. "How good
and kind they are, how hearty! And these are the people
I thought disliked me and misunderstood me. I
resented what I thought was a vulgar familiarity and a
coarse dislike. But how different they are beneath the
surface!"</p>

<p>"They have warm, loyal hearts, Basil," said the vicar.
"It is a pity that such uncouth manners and exteriors
should go with them. Surface graces may not mean
much, but there is no doubt they have a tremendous influence
over the human mind. During your illness the
whole parish thought of little else, I really believe.
And to-night you will have very practical evidence of
their friendship. You know, of course, that there is
going to be a presentation?"</p>

<p>"Yes. I couldn't help knowing that much, though I
wish they wouldn't."</p>

<p>"It is very good of them. Now I shall call for
grace."</p>

<p>The vicar made his way on to the platform and loudly
clapped his hands. The tumult died suddenly away
into silence, punctuated here and there by a belated rattle
of a teacup and the spasmodic choking of some one
endeavouring to bolt a large piece of cake in a hurry.</p>

<p>"We will now sing grace," Mr. Byars said in a clear
and audible voice,&mdash;"the <i>Old Hundred</i>, following our
usual custom."</p>

<p>As he spoke a little, bearded man in a frock-coat
clambered up beside him. This was Mr. Cuthbert, the
organist of the parish church. The little man pulled a
tuning-fork from his pocket and struck it on the back of
a chair.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span></p>

<p>Then he held it to his ear for a moment. The people
had all risen, and the room was now quite silent.</p>

<p>"La!" sang the little organist, giving the note in a
long, melodious call.</p>

<p>He raised his hand, gave a couple of beats in the air,
and the famous old hymn burst out royally. The great
volume of sound seemed too fierce and urgent even for
that spacious room. It pressed against the ear-drums
almost with pain, though sung with the perfect time and
tune which are the heritage of the sweet-voiced North-country
folk:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"<i>All people that on earth do dwell,</i><br /></span>
<span class="i2"><i>Sing to the Lord with cheerful voice!</i>"<br /></span>
</div></div>

<p>How hearty it was! How strong and confident!</p>

<p>As Basil Gortre listened his heart expanded in love
and fellowship towards these brother Christians. The
dark phantoms which had rioted in his sick brain during
the long weeks of his illness lay dead and harmless
now. The monstrous visions of a conventional and formal
Christianity, covering a world of secret and gibing
atheism, seemed incredibly far removed from the glorious
truth, as these strong, homely people sang a full-voiced
<i>ave</i> to the great brooding Trinity of Power and
Love unseen, but all around them.</p>

<p>Who was he to be refined and too dainty for his uses?
There seemed nothing incongruous in the picture before
his eyes. The litter of broken ham, the sloppy cups,
the black-coated men with brilliant sky-blue satin ties,
the women with thick gnarled hands and clothes the
colour of a copper kettle, what were they now but his
very own brethren, united in this burst of praise?</p>

<p>And he joined in the doxology with all his heart
and voice, his clear tenor soaring joyously above the
rest:</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span></p>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"<i>To FATHER, SON, and HOLY GHOST,</i><br /></span>
<span class="i2"><i>The GOD Whom Heaven and earth adore,</i><br /></span>
<span class="i0"><i>From men and from the Angel-host</i><br /></span>
<span class="i2"><i>Be praise and glory evermore. Amen.</i>"<br /></span>
</div></div>

<p>It ceased with suddenness. There was the satisfied
silence of a second, and then the attendant helpers,
assisted by the feasters, fell swiftly upon the tables.
Cloths and crockery vanished like snow melting in sunlight,
and as each table was laid bare it was turned up
by a patent arrangement, and became a long bench with
a back, which was added to the rows of seats facing the
platform. As each iron-supported seat was pushed
noisily into its place it was filled up at once with a
laughing crowd, replete but active, smacking anticipatory
chops over the entertainment and speech-making to
come.</p>

<p>Mr. Cuthbert, a painstaking pianist, whose repertoire
was noisily commonplace, opened the concert with a solo.</p>

<p>Songs and recitations followed. All were well received
by an audience which was determined to enjoy
itself, but it was obvious that the real event of the gathering
was eagerly awaited.</p>

<p>At last the eventful moment arrived. A table covered
with green baize and bearing some objects concealed by
a cloth was carried on the platform, and a row of chairs
placed on either side of it.</p>

<p>The vicar, Basil, a strange clergyman, and a little
group of black-coated churchwardens and sidesmen
filed upon the platform amid tumultuous cheering and
clapping of hands.</p>

<p>Mr. Pryde, the solicitor, rose first, and pronounced a
somewhat pompous but sincere eulogy upon Basil's
work and life at Walktown, which was heard in an
absolute and appreciative silence, only broken by the
scratching pencil of the reporter from a local paper.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span></p>

<p>Then he called upon the vicar to make the presentation.</p>

<p>Basil advanced to the table.</p>

<p>"My dear friends and fellow-workers," said Mr.
Byars, "I am not going to add much to what Mr. Pryde
has said. As most of you know, Mr. Gortre stands and
is about to stand to me in even a nearer and more intimate
relation than that of assistant priest to his parish
priest. But before giving Mr. Gortre the beautiful
presents which your unbounded generosity has provided,
and in order that you may have as little speech-making
from me as possible, I want to take this opportunity
of introducing the Reverend Henry Nuttall to
you to-night."</p>

<p>He bowed towards the stranger clergyman, a pleasant,
burly, clean-shaven man.</p>

<p>"I am going from among you for a couple of months,
as I believe you have been told, and Mr. Nuttall is to
take my place as your temporary pastor for that time.
My doctor has ordered me rest for a time. So my
daughter and myself, together with Mr. Gortre, who
sadly needs change after his illness, and who is not to
take up his duties in London for several weeks, are
going away together for a holiday. And now I will
simply ask Mr. Gortre to accept this tea-service and
watch in the name of the congregation of St. Thomas as
a token of their esteem and good-will."</p>

<p>He pulled the cloth away and displayed some glittering
silver vessels. Then he handed the agitated young
man a gold watch in a leather case.</p>

<p>Basil faced the shouting, enthusiastic crowd, staring
through dimmed eyes at the long rows of animated
faces.</p>

<p>When there was a little silence he began to speak in a
voice of great emotion.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span></p>

<p>Very simply and earnestly he thanked them for their
good-will and kindness.</p>

<p>"This may be," he said, "the last time I shall ever
have the privilege and pleasure of speaking to you. I
want to give you one last message. I want to urge one
and all here to-night to do one thing. Keep your faith
unspotted, unstained by doubts, uninfluenced by fears.
Do that and all will be well with you here and hereafter."
His voice sank a full tone and he spoke with
marked emphasis. "I have sometimes thought and felt
of late that possibly the time may be at hand, we who
are here to-night may witness a time, when the Powers
and Principalities of evil will make a great and determined
onslaught upon the Christian Faith. I may not
read the signs of the times aright, my premonitions&mdash;for
they have sometimes amounted even to that&mdash;may be
unfounded or imaginary. But if such a time shall
come, if the 'horror of great darkness,' a spiritual horror,
that we read of in Genesis, descend upon the world
and envelop it in its gloom and terror, oh! let us have
faith. Keep the light burning steadily. 'Let nothing
disturb thee; let nothing affright thee. All passeth:
God only remaineth.' And now, dear brothers and
sisters in the Holy Faith, thank you, God bless you, and
farewell."</p>

<p>There was a tense silence as his voice dropped to a
close.</p>

<p>Here and there a woman sobbed.</p>

<p>There was something peculiar about his warning.
He spoke almost in prophecy, as if he <i>knew</i> of some
terror coming, and saw its advance from afar. His
face, pale and thin from fever, his bright, earnest eyes,
not the glittering eyes of a fanatic, but the saner, wiser
ones of the earnest single-minded man, had an immense
influence with them there.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span></p>

<p>And that night, as they trudged home to mean dwellings,
or suburban villas, or rolled away in carriages,
each person heard the intense, quiet voice warning
them of the future, exhorting them to be steadfast in
the Faith.</p>

<p class="p4b">Seed which bore most fragrant blossom in the time
which, though they knew it not, was close at hand was
sown that night.</p>

<hr class="r20" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII</a></h2>

<h4>A DINNER AT THE PANNIER D'OR</h4>

<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">H</span><span class="smcap">elena</span> stood with her hand raised to her eyes,
close by the port paddle-box, staring straight in
front of her at a faint grey line upon the horizon.</p>

<p>A stiff breeze was blowing in the Channel, though the
sun was shining brightly on the tossing waters, all yellow-green
with pearl lights, like a picture by Henry
Moore.</p>

<p>By the tall, graceful figure of the girl, swaying with
the motion of the steamer and bending gracefully to the
sudden onslaughts of the wind, stood a thick-set man of
middle height, dressed in a tweed suit. His face was a
strong one. Heavy reddish eyebrows hung over a pair
of clear grey eyes, intellectual and kindly. The nose
was beak-like and the large, rugged, red moustache hid
the mouth.</p>

<p>This was Harold Spence, the journalist with whom
Gortre was to live after the holiday was over and he began
his work in Bloomsbury. Spence was snatching a few
days from his work in Fleet Street, in order to accompany
Gortre and Mr. and Miss Byars to Dieppe. It had been
his first introduction to the vicar and his daughter.</p>

<p>"So that is really France, Mr. Spence!" said Helena;
"the very first view of a foreign country I've ever had.
I don't suppose you've an idea of what I'm feeling
now? It seems so wonderful, something I've been
waiting for all my life."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span></p>

<p>Spence smiled kindly, irradiating his face with good
humour as he did so.</p>

<p>"Well, <i>my</i> sensations or emotions at present, Miss
Byars, are entirely confined to wondering whether I am
going to be seasick or not."</p>

<p>"Don't speak of it!" said a thin voice, a voice from
which all the blood seemed to be drained, and, turning,
they saw the vicar at their elbow.</p>

<p>His face was livid, his beard hung in lank dejection, a
sincere misery poured from his pathetic eyes.</p>

<p>"Basil," he said, "Basil is down in the saloon eating
greasy cold chicken and ham and drinking pale ale! I
told him it was an outrage&mdash;" His feelings overcame
him and he staggered away towards the stern.</p>

<p>"Poor father," said the girl. "He never could stand
the sea, you know. But he very soon gets all right when
he is on dry land again. Oh, look! that must be a
church tower! I can see it quite distinctly, and the sun
on the roofs of the houses!"</p>

<p>"That is St. Jacques," said Spence, "and that dome
some way to the right, is St. Remy. Farthest of all to
the right, on the cliffs, you can just see the château
where the garrison is."</p>

<p>Helena gazed eagerly and became silent in her excitement.
Basil, who came up from the saloon and joined
them, the healthy colour beginning to glow out on his
cheeks once more, watched her tenderly. There was
something childishly sweet in her delight as the broad,
tub-like boat kicked its way rapidly towards the quaint
old foreign town.</p>

<p>In smoky Walktown he had not often seen her thus.
Life was a more sober thing there, and her nature was
graver than that of many girls, attuned to her environment.
But, at the beginning of this holiday time, under
a brilliant spring sun, which she was already beginning<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span>
to imagine had a foreign charm about it, she too was
happy and in a holiday mood.</p>

<p>Basil pulled out his new and glorious gold watch,
which had replaced the battered old gun-metal one he
usually wore. Though not a poor man, he was simple
in all his tastes, and the new toy gave him a recurring
and childish pleasure whenever he looked at it.</p>

<p>"We ought to be in in about twenty minutes," he said.
"Have you noticed that the tossing of the ship has almost
stopped? The land protects us. How clear the
town is growing! I wonder if you will remember any of
your French, Helena? I almost wish I was like you,
seeing a foreign country for the first time. Spence is
the real <i>voyageur</i> though. He's been all over the world
for his paper."</p>

<p>The vicar came up to them again, just as there was a
general movement of the passengers towards the deck.
A hooting cry from the steam whistle wailed over the
water and the boat began to move slowly.</p>

<p>In a few more minutes they had passed the breakwater
and were gliding slowly past the wharves towards the
landing-stage.</p>

<p>Suddenly Helena clutched hold of Basil's arm.</p>

<p>"O Basil," she whispered, "how beautiful&mdash;look!
Guarding the harbour!"</p>

<p>He turned and followed the direction of her glance.</p>

<p>An enormous crucifix, more than life size, planted
in the ground, rose from the low cliffs on the right for all
entering the harbour to see.</p>

<p>They watched the symbol in silence as the passengers
chattered on every side and gathered up their rugs and
hand-bags.</p>

<p>Gortre slipped his arm through Helena's.</p>

<p>The reminder was so vivid and sudden it affected them
powerfully. They were both people of the world, living<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span>
in it and enjoying the pleasures of life that came in their
way. Gortre was not one of those narrow, and even ill-bred,
young priests with a text for ever on his lips, a sort
of inopportune concordance, with an unpleasant flavour
of omniscience. His religion and Helena's was too deep
and fibrous a thing for commonplaces about it. It did
not continually effervesce within and break forth in minute
and constant bubbles, losing all its sincerity and
beauty by the vulgar wear and tear of a verbal trick.</p>

<p>But it was always and for ever with him a transmuting
force which changed his life each hour in a way of which
the nominal believer has no conception.</p>

<p>A letter he had once written to Helena during a holiday
compressed all his belief, and his joy in his belief, into
a few short lines. Thus had run the sincere and simple
statement, unadorned by any effort of literary grace to
give it point and force:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote><p>"Day by day as your letters come I go on saying my
prayers for you, and with you, in fresh faith and confidence.
You know that I absolutely trust the Lord Jesus
Christ, who is, I believe, the God who made the worlds,
and that I pray to Him continually, relying on His
promises.</p>

<p>"I keep on reading all sides of the question, as your
father does also, and while admitting all that honest criticism
and sincere intellectual doubt can teach me, and
freely conceding that there is no infallible record in the
New Testament, I grow more and more convinced that
the Gospels and Paul's letters relate <i>facts</i> and not imaginations
or hallucinations. And the more strongly my
intellect is convinced, so much more does my heart delight
in the love of God, who has given Himself for me.
How magnificent is that finale of St. John's Gospel!
'Thomas saith unto Him, My Lord and my God.'
And, then, how exquisite is the supplement about the manifestation
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span>
at the lake side! Imagine the skill of the literary
man who <span class="smcap">invented</span> that! Fancy such a man
existing in <span class="smcap">a.d.</span> 150 or thereabouts! I see Mrs. Humphry
Ward says 'it was a dream which the old man at Ephesus
related, and his disciples thought it was fact.' And <i>she</i>
is a literary person!"</p></blockquote>

<p>So, as the lovers glided slowly past the high symbol of
God's pain, the worship in their hearts found but little
utterance on their lips, though they were deeply touched.</p>

<p>It seemed a good omen to welcome them to France!</p>

<p>Spence remained to look after the luggage and to see
it through the Customs, and the three others resolved to
walk to the rooms which they had taken in the Faubourg
de la Barre on the steep hill behind the château.</p>

<p>They passed over the railway line in the middle of the
road, and past the <i>cafés</i> which cluster round the landing-stage,
into the quaint market-place, with the great Gothic
Cathedral Church of St. Jacques upon one side, and the
colossal statue of Duquesne surrounded by baskets of
spring flowers in the centre.</p>

<p>To Helena Byars that simple progress was one of unalloyed
excitement and delight. The small and wiry
soldiers in their unfamiliar uniforms; an officer sipping
vermouth in a <i>café</i>, with spurs, sword, and helmet shining
in the sun; two black priests, with huge furry hats&mdash;all
the moving colour of the scene gave her new and delightful
sensations.</p>

<p>"It's all so different!" she said breathlessly. "So
bright and gay. What is that red thing over the tobacco
shop, and that little brass dish over the hair-dresser's?
Think of Walktown or Salford, now!"</p>

<p>The house in the Faubourg de la Barre was kept by a
Madame Varnier, who spoke English well, and was in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span>
the habit of letting her rooms to English people. A late
<i>déjeuner</i> was ready for them.</p>

<p>The omelette was a revelation to Helena, and the
<i>rognons sautés</i> filled her with respect for such cooking,
but she was impatient, nevertheless, to be out and sight-seeing.</p>

<p>The vicar was tired, and proposed to stay indoors with
the <i>Spectator</i>, and Spence had some letters to write, so
Basil and Helena went out alone.</p>

<p>"The vicar and I will meet you at six," Spence said,
"at the Café des Tribuneaux, that big place with the
gabled roof in the centre of the town. At six the <i>l'heure
verre</i> begins, the time when everyone goes out for an
<i>apéritif</i>, the appetiser before dinner; afterwards I'll
take you to dine at the Pannier d'Or, a jolly little restaurant
I know of, and in the evening we'll go to the
Casino."</p>

<p>Madame Varnier, the <i>patronne</i>, was in her kitchen sitting-room
at the bottom of the stairs, and they looked in
through the hatchway as they passed to tell her that they
were not dining indoors.</p>

<p>On the floor a little girl, with pale yellow hair, an engaging
button of three, was playing with a live rabbit,
plump and mouse-coloured.</p>

<p>"How sweet!" said Helena, who was in a mood which
made her ready to appreciate everything. "Look at the
little darling with its pet. Has baby had the rabbit long,
Madame Varnier?"</p>

<p>The Frenchwoman smiled lavishly. "Est-elle gentille
l'enfant! hein! I bring the lapin chez moi from the
magazin yesterday. There was very good lapins yesterday.
I buy when I can. Je trouverai ça plus prudent.
He is for the déjeuner of mademoiselle to-morrow. I
take him so,"&mdash;she caught up the animal and suited the
action to the word,&mdash;"I press his throat till his mouth<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span>
open, and I pour a little cognac into him. Il se meurt,
and the flesh have a delicious flavour from the cognac!"</p>

<p>"How perfectly horrible!" said Helena as they came
out into the street and walked down the hill. "Fancy
seeing one's lunch alive and playing about like that, and
then killing it with brandy, too! What pigs these French
people are!"</p>

<p>Soon after the cool gloom of St. Remy enveloped them.
Under the big dome they lingered for a time, walking
from chapel to chapel, where nuns were praying. But
it dulled them rather, and they had more pleasure in the
grey and Gothic twilight of St. Jacques. Here the eye
was uplifted by more noble lines, there was a more
mediæval and romantic feeling about the place.</p>

<p>"We will come here to Mass on Sunday," said Basil.
"I shall not go to the English Church at all. I never do
abroad, and the vicar agrees with me. You see one belongs
to the Catholic Church in England. In France
one belongs to it, too. The 'Protestant' Church, as they
call it, with an English clergyman, is, of course, a Dissenting
church here."</p>

<p>"I see your point," said Helena, "though I don't know
that I quite agree with it. But I have never been to
a Roman Catholic church in England, and I want to see
some of the services. 'Bowing down in the House of
Rimmon,' Mr. Philemon would call it at Walktown."</p>

<p>They turned down a narrow street of quiet houses, and
came out on to the Plage. There were a good many
people walking up and down the great promenade from
the Casino to the harbour mouth. An air of fulness and
prosperity floated round the magnificent hotels which
faced the sea.</p>

<p>It was a spring season, owing to the unusual mildness
of the weather, and Dieppe was full of people. The
Casino was opened temporarily after the long sleep of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span>
winter, and a company was performing there, having
come on from the theatre at Rouen.</p>

<p>"What a curious change from the churches and market-place,"
said Helena. "This is tremendously smart
and fashionable. How well-dressed every one is. Look
at that red-haired woman with the furs. This is being
quite in the world again."</p>

<p>They began a steady walk towards the pier and lighthouse.
The wind was fresh, though not troublesome,
and at five o'clock the sun, low in the sky, was still bright,
and could give his animation to the picture.</p>

<p>The two young people amused themselves by speculations
about the varied types of people who passed and
repassed them. Gortre wore a suit of very dark grey,
with a short coat and an ordinary tweed cap&mdash;his holiday
suit, he called it&mdash;and, except for his clerical collar,
there was little to show his calling. He was pleased, with
a humorous sense of proprietorship, a kind of vicarious
vanity, to notice the attention and admiration excited by
the beautiful English girl at his side.</p>

<p>Helena Byars held her own among the cosmopolitan
crowd of women who walked on the Plage. Her beauty
was Saxon, very English, and not of a type that is always
appreciated to its full value on the Continent, but it shone
the more from Latin contrasts, and could not escape
remark.</p>

<p>Every now and again they turned, at distances of a
quarter of a mile or so, and during the recurrence of
their beat they began to notice a person whom they met
several times, coming and going.</p>

<p>He was an enormously big man, broad and tall, dressed
expensively and with care. His size alone was sufficient
to mark him out of the usual, but his personality seemed
to them no less arresting and strange.</p>

<p>His large, smooth face was fat, the eyes small and brilliant,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span>
with heavy pouches under them. His whole manner
was a trifle florid and Georgian. Basil said that he
seemed to belong to the Prince Regent's period in some
subtle way. "I can imagine him on the lawns at Brighton
or dining in the Pavilion," he said. "What a sensual,
evil face the man has! Of course it may mean nothing,
though. The Bishop of &mdash;&mdash;, one of the saints of the time,
whose work on the Gospels is the most wonderful thing
ever done in the way of Christian apologetics, has a face
like one of the grotesque devils carved on the roof of
Notre Dame or Lincoln Cathedral. But this man seems
by his face to have no soul. One can't feel it is there,
as one does, thank God! with most people."</p>

<p>"But what an intellect such a man must have! Look
at him now. Look at the shape of his head. And besides,
you can see it in his face, despite its sensuality
and materialism. He must be some distinguished person.
I seem to remember pictures of him, just lately,
too, in the illustrated papers, only I can't get a name to
them. I'm certain he's English, and some one of
importance."</p>

<p>The big man passed them again with a quiet and swift
glance of appreciation for Helena. He seemed lonely.
Basil and Helena realised that he would have welcomed
a chance word of greeting, some overture of friendship,
which is not so impossible between English people abroad&mdash;even
in adjacent Dieppe&mdash;as in our own country.</p>

<p>But neither of them responded to the unspoken wish
they felt in the stranger. They were quite happy with
each other, and presently they saw him light a cigar and
turn into one of the great hotels.</p>

<p>They discussed the man for a few minutes&mdash;he had
made an odd impression on them by his personality&mdash;and
then found that it was time for the rendezvous at the
Café des Tribuneaux.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span></p>

<p>By this time dusk was falling, and the sea moaned with
a certain melancholy. But the town began to be brilliant
with electric lights, and the florid Moorish building
of the Casino was jewelled everywhere.</p>

<p>They turned away to the left, leaving the sea behind
them, and, passing through a narrow street by the
Government tobacco factory, came into the town again,
and, after a short walk, to the <i>café</i>.</p>

<p>The place was bright and animated&mdash;lights, mirrors,
and gilding, the stir and movement of the pavement, combined
to make a novel and attractive picture for the English
girl. The night was not cold, and they sat under
the awning at a little round table watching the merry
groups with interest. In a few minutes after their arrival
they saw Spence and the vicar, now quite restored and
well, coming towards them. They had forborne to order
anything before the arrival of their companions.</p>

<p>The journalist took them under his wing at once. It
amused him to be a cicerone to help them to a feeling of
being at home. Gortre and Mr. Byars had been in
Switzerland, and the latter at Rome on one occasion, but
under the wing of a bishop's son who made his livelihood
out of personally conducting parties to Continental
towns of interest for a fixed fee. There was little freedom
in these cut-and-dried tours, with their lectures <i>en
route</i> and the very dinners in the hotel ordered for the
tourists, and everything so arranged that they need not
speak a word of any foreign language.</p>

<p>For the vicar, Spence prescribed a <i>vermouth sec</i>;
Gortre, a courtesy invalid, was given a minute glass of an
amber-coloured liquid with quinine in it&mdash;"<i>Dubonnet</i>"
Spence called it; and Helena had a <i>sirop</i> of <i>menthe</i>.</p>

<p>They were all very happy together in the simple-minded,
almost childish, way of quiet, intellectual people. Their
enjoyment of the novel liqueurs, in a small <i>café</i> at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span>
tourist-haunted Dieppe, was as great as that of any
sybarite at the Hotel Ritz in Paris, or at a rare dinner
at Ciro's in Monte Carlo.</p>

<p>Spence ordered an absinthe for himself.</p>

<p>The vicar seemed slightly perturbed. "Isn't that stuff
rather dangerous, Spence?" he said, shrinking a little
from the glass when the waiter brought it. "I've heard
terrible things of it."</p>

<p>"Oh, I know," said the journalist, laughing, "people
call it the French national vice and write tirades against
it. Of course if it becomes a regular habit it is dangerous,
and excess in absinthe is worse than most things.
But one glass taken now and again is a wonderful
stomachic and positively beneficial. I take one, perhaps,
five times in a year and like it. But, like all good things,
it is terribly abused both by the people who use it and
those who don't."</p>

<p>Suddenly Helena turned to Gortre.</p>

<p>"Oh, look, Basil!" she said. "There is our friend of
the Plage&mdash;Quinbus Flestrin, the mountain of flesh, you
remember your Swift?"</p>

<p>The big stranger, now in evening dress and a heavy fur
coat, had just come into the <i>café</i> and was sitting there
with a cigarette and a Paris paper. He seemed lost in
some sort of anxious speculation&mdash;at least so it seemed
by the drooping of the journal in his massive fingers and
the set expression of abstraction which lingered in his
eyes and spread a veil over his countenance.</p>

<p>They had all turned at Helena's exclamation and
looked towards the other side of the <i>café</i>, where the man
was sitting.</p>

<p>"Why, that's Sir Robert Llwellyn," said Spence.</p>

<p>The vicar looked up eagerly. "The great authority on
the antiquities of the Holy Land?" he said.</p>

<p>"Yes, that's the man. They knighted him the other<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span>
day. He's supposed to be the greatest living authority,
you know."</p>

<p>"Do you know him, then?" asked the vicar.</p>

<p>"Oh, yes," said Spence, carelessly. "One knows
every one in my trade. I have to. I've often gone to
him for information when anything very special has been
discovered. And I've met him in clubs and at lectures
or at first nights at the theatre. He is a great play-goer."</p>

<p>"A decent sort of man?" said Gortre in a tone which
certainly implied a doubt.</p>

<p>Spence hesitated a moment. "Oh, well, I suppose so,"
he said carelessly. "There are tales about his private
life, but probably quite untrue. He's a man of the world
as well as a great scholar, and I suppose the rather unusual
combination makes people talk. But he is right
up at the top of the tree,&mdash;goes everywhere; and he's
just been knighted for his work. I'll go over and speak
to him."</p>

<p>"If he'll come over," said the vicar, his eyes alight
with anticipation and the hope of a talk with this famous
expert on the subjects nearest his own heart, "bring
him, <i>please</i>. There is nothing I should like better than
a chat with him. I know his <i>Modern Discoveries and
Holy Writ</i> almost by heart."</p>

<p>They watched Spence go across to Sir Robert's table.
The big man started as he was spoken to, looked up
in surprise, then smiled with pleasure, and extended a
welcoming hand. Spence sat down beside him and they
were soon in the middle of a brisk conversation.</p>

<p>"The poor man looked very bored until Mr. Spence
spoke to him," said Helena. "Father, I'm sure you'll
have your wish. He seems glad to have some one to
talk to."</p>

<p>She was right. After a minute or two the journalist<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span>
returned with Llwellyn, and the five of them were soon
in a full flood of talk.</p>

<p>"I was going to dine alone at my hotel," said the Professor,
at length; "but Spence says that he knows of a
decent restaurant here. I wonder if you would let me be
one of your party? I'm quite alone in Dieppe for a
couple of days. I'm waiting for a friend with whom I
am going to travel."</p>

<p>"Oh, do come, Sir Robert," said the vicar, with manifest
pleasure. "Are you going to be away from England
for long?"</p>

<p>"I have leave from the British Museum for a year,"
said the Professor. "My doctor says that I require absolute
rest. I am <i>en route</i> for Marseilles and from there
to Alexandria."</p>

<p>The Pannier d'Or proved a pleasant little place, and
the dinner was excellent. The Professor surprised and
then amused the others by his criticism of the viands.
He made the dinner his especial business, sent for the
cook and had a serious conversation with him, chose the
wines with extreme care.</p>

<p>His knowledge of the culinary art was enormous, and
he treated it with a kind of reverence, addressing himself
more particularly to Helena.</p>

<p>"Yes, Miss Byars, you must be <i>most</i> careful in the preparation
of really good crayfish soup. This is excellent.
The great secret is to flavour with a little lobster spawn
and to mix the crumb of a French roll with the stock&mdash;white
stock of course&mdash;before you add the powdered
shells and anchovies."</p>

<p>Many times, despite his impatience to get to deeper
and more congenial subjects, the vicar smiled at the
purring of this gourmet, who seemed to prefer a sauce to
an inscription and rissoles to research.</p>

<p>But with the special coffee&mdash;covered with fine yellow<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span>
foam and sweetened with crystals of amber sugar&mdash;the
vicar's hour came. Sir Robert realised that it was
inevitable and with a half sigh gave the required
opening.</p>

<p>Once started, his manner changed utterly. The mask
of materialism peeled away from his face, which became
younger, brighter, as thought animated it, and new, finer
lines cames out upon it as knowledge poured from
him.</p>

<p>The conversation threatened to be a long one.
Spence saw that and proposed to go on to the Casino with
Helena, leaving the two clergymen with Llwellyn. It
was when they had gone that the trio settled down
completely.</p>

<p>It resolved itself at first into a duologue between
the two elder men. Gortre's knowledge was too general
and superficial on these purely antiquarian matters
to allow him to take much part in it. He sat sipping
his coffee and listening with keen attention and great
enjoyment to this talk of experts. He had not liked
Llwellyn from the first and could not do so even now,
but he was forced to recognise the enormous intellectual
activity and power of the big, purring creature before
him.</p>

<p>Step by step the two archæologists went over the new
discoveries being made in the ground between the City
Wall of Jerusalem and the Hill of "Jeremiah's Grotto."
They talked of the blue and purple mosaics found
on the Mount of Olives, of all that had been done by
the English and German excavators during the past
years.</p>

<p>Gradually the discussion became more intimate and
began to touch on great issues.</p>

<p>Mr. Byars was in a state of extraordinary interest.
His knowledge was wide, and Llwellyn early realised<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span>
this, speaking to him as an equal, but beside the Professor's
all-embracing achievements it was as nothing.
The clergyman learnt something fresh, some sudden illuminating
point of view, some irradiating fact, at every
moment.</p>

<p>"I suppose," Mr. Byars said at length, "that the true
situation of the Holy Sepulchre is still a matter of considerable
doubt, Professor. Your view would interest
me extremely."</p>

<p>"My view," said Llwellyn, with remarkable earnestness
and with an emphasis which left no doubt about his
convictions, "is that the Sepulchre has not yet been
located."</p>

<p>"And your view is authoritative of course," said Mr.
Byars.</p>

<p>The Professor bowed.</p>

<p>"That is as it may be," he said, "but I have no doubt
upon the subject. The Church of the Holy Sepulchre
is quite out of the question. There is really no historical
evidence for it beyond a foolish dream of the
Empress Helena, in <span class="smcap">a.d.</span> 326. The people who <i>know</i>
dismiss the traditional site at once. Of course it is <i>generally</i>
believed, but one cannot expect the world at
large to be cognisant of the doings of the authorities.
Canon MacColl has said that the traditional site is the
real one, and as his name has never been out of the
public eye since what were called 'The Bulgarian
Atrocities,' they are content to follow his lead. Then
there is the question of the second site, in which a great
many people believe they have found the true Golgotha
and Sepulchre. 'The Gordon Tomb,' as it has been
called, excited a great deal of attention at the time of its
discovery. You may remember that I went to Jerusalem
on behalf of the <i>Times</i> to investigate the matter. You
may recollect that I proved beyond dispute that the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span>
tomb was not Jewish at all, but indubitably Christian
and long subsequent to the time of Christ. As a matter
of fact, when the tomb was excavated in 1873 it was
full of human bones and the mould of decomposed
bodies, and there were two red-painted crosses on
the walls. The tomb was close to a large Crusading
hospice, and I have no doubt that it was used for the
burial of pilgrims. Besides, my excavations proved
that the second "city wall" must have <i>included</i> the
new site, so that the Gospel narrative at once demolishes
the new theory. I embodied twenty-seven other
minor proofs in my letters to the <i>Times</i> also. No, Mr.
Byars, my conviction is that we are not yet able to
locate in any way the position of Golgotha and the
Holy Tomb."</p>

<p>"You think that is to come?" asked Gortre.</p>

<p>"<i>I feel certain</i>," answered the Professor, with great
deliberation and meaning&mdash;"<i>I feel certain that we are
on the eve of stupendous discoveries in this direction</i>."</p>

<p>His tones were so impressive and so charged with import
that the two clergymen looked quickly at each other.
It seemed obvious that Llwellyn was aware of some
impending discoveries. He must, they knew, be in constant
touch with all that was being done in Palestine.
Curiously enough, his words gave each of them a certain
sense of chill, of uneasiness. There seemed to be something
behind them, something of sinister suggestion,
which they could not divine or formulate, but merely
felt as an action upon the nerves.</p>

<p>It was a rare experience to sit with the greatest living
authority upon a subject, and hear his views&mdash;views
which it would be folly not to accept. His knowledge
was so sure and so profound, a sense of power flowed
from him.</p>

<p>But though both men felt a dim premonition of what<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span>
his words might possibly convey, neither could bring
himself to a deliberate question. Nor did Llwellyn
appear to invite it. During the whole of their talk he
had sedulously avoided any religious questions. He had
dealt solely with historical aspects.</p>

<p>His position in the religious world was singular. His
knowledge of Biblical history was one of its assets, but
he was not known definitely as a believer.</p>

<p>His attitude had always been absolutely non-committal.
He did the work he had to do without taking
sides.</p>

<p>It had become generally understood that no definite
statement of his own personal convictions was to be
asked or expected from him.</p>

<p>The general consensus of opinion was that Sir Robert
Llwellyn was <i>not</i> a believer in the divinity of Christ;
but it was merely an opinion, and had never been confirmed
by him.</p>

<p>There was rather a tense silence for a short time.</p>

<p>The Professor broke it.</p>

<p>"Let me show you," he said, taking a gold pencil-case
from his pocket, "a little map which I published at
the time of the agitation about Gordon's Tomb. I can
trace the course of the city walls for you."</p>

<p>He felt in his pocket for some paper on which to
make the drawing, and took out a letter.</p>

<p>Gortre and the vicar drew their chairs closer.</p>

<p>Suddenly a curious pain shot through Basil's head
and all his pulses throbbed violently. He experienced
a terribly familiar sensation&mdash;the sick fear and repulsion
of the night before his illness in the great library. The
aroma of some utterly evil and abominable personality
seemed to come into his brain.</p>

<p>For, as he had looked down at the paper on which the
great white fingers were now tracing thin lines, he had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span>
seen, before Llwellyn turned it over, a firm, plain signature,
thus:</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;">
<img src="images/con_sig.png" width="300" height="59" alt="Constantine Schuabe" />
</div>

<p>With some excuse about the heat of the room, he left
it and went out into the night.</p>

<p>His brain was busy with terrible intuitive forebodings,
he seemed to be caught up in the fringe of some
great net, the phantoms of his illness came round him
once more, the dark air was thick with their wings&mdash;vague,
and because of that more hideous.</p>

<p>He passed the lighted <i>kiosk</i> at the Casino entrance
with a white, set face.</p>

<p class="p4b">He was going home to pray.</p>

<hr class="r20" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX</a></h2>

<h4>INAUGURATION</h4>

<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">I</span><span class="smcap">t</span> was at Victoria Station that Basil said good-bye to
Helena. Spence had been back again in London
for a fortnight. Mr. Byars and his daughter were to go
straight back to Manchester the same day, and Gortre
was to take possession of his new quarters in Lincoln's
Inn and enter on his duties at St. Mary's without delay.</p>

<p>It had been a pleasant holiday, they all agreed, as the
train brought them up from Newhaven; how pleasant
they had hardly realised till it was all over. They had
been all brought more intimately together than ever before.
Gortre had come to know Mr. Byars with far
more completeness than had been possible during their
busy parochial life at Walktown. The elder man's
calm and steadfast belief, his wide knowledge and culture,
the Christian <i>sanity</i> of his life, were never more
manifest than in the uninterrupted communion of this
time of rest and pleasure.</p>

<p>He saw in his future father-in-law such a man as he
himself humbly hoped that he might become. The impulsiveness
of an eager youth had toned down into the
mature judgment of middle age. The enthusiasms of
life's springtime had solidified into quiet strength and
force, and faith and intellect had combined into a deep
and immovable conviction. And Mr. Byars's was no simple,
childlike nature to whom goodness and belief were
easy, a natural attribute of the man. He was subtle<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span>
rather, complex, and the victory over himself had cost him
more than it costs most men. So much Gortre realised,
and his love and admiration for the vicar were tempered
with that joyous awe that one fine nature is privileged to
feel at the contact with another.</p>

<p>To Helena also this time of holiday had been very
precious. To mark the fervour of her chosen one, the
energy he threw into Life, Love, and Religion, to find
him a <i>man</i> and yet a priest, to follow him in thought to
the ivory gates of his Ideals&mdash;these were her uplifting
occupations; and to all these as they walked and talked,
listened to the music at the Casino, explored the ancient
forest and castle at Arques, or knelt with bowed heads
as the sacring bell rang and the priests moved about the
altar&mdash;these had been the united bond of the great knowledge
and hope they shared together.</p>

<p>After the farewells had been said in the noisy station,
and Basil's cab drove him rapidly towards his new home,
he felt wonderfully ready and prepared for his new work.</p>

<p>The moving panorama of Victoria Street, the sudden
stately vision of Palace Yard, the grandeur of the Embankment&mdash;all
spoke to the young man of a vivid, many-coloured,
and pulsating life which was waiting for him
and his activities. Here, indeed, was a fine battlefield
and theatre for the Holy War.</p>

<p>The cab moved slowly up Chancery Lane and then
turned into the sudden quiet of Lincoln's Inn. It was
almost like going back to Oxford, he thought, with a
quick glow of pleasure to see himself surrounded by
mellow, ancient buildings once more.</p>

<p class="p2b">All his heavy personal effects had been sent up from
Walktown some days before, and when he had carried
up his two portmanteaus he knocked at the "oak" or
outside door of the chambers, which was shut, and
waited for a response. He saw that his name was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span>
freshly painted on the lintel of the door under the two
others:</p>

<div>
<p class="box">
<span class="smcap">Mr. Harold M. Spence.</span><br />
<span class="smcap">Mr. Cyril Hands.</span><br />
<span class="smcap">Rev. Basil Gortre.</span>
</p>
</div>

<p class="p2">In a minute he heard footsteps. The inner door was
opened and he saw a tall, thin man, bearded and brown,
peering at him through spectacles.</p>

<p>"Ah! Gortre, I suppose," said the other. "We were
expecting you. I'm Hands, you know, home for another
month yet. Give me these bags. Come in, come
in."</p>

<p>He followed the big, stooping fellow with a sense of
well-being at the cheery bohemianism of his greeting.</p>

<p>He found himself in a very large room indeed, panelled
from floor to ceiling, the woodwork painted a sage
green. Three great windows, each with a cushioned
seat in its recess, looked down into the quadrangle below.
Curtained doors faced him on all sides of the
room, which was oddly shaped and full of nooks and
angles. Books and newspapers covered two or three
writing-tables and were piled on shelves between the
doors. A bright fire burned in a large grate and the
mantel above was covered with Oxford photographs,
pipes, and tobacco jars. There was a note of comfort
everywhere, of luxurious comfort though not of luxury.
The furniture was not new and it bore the signs of long
use no less than careful choice. Bohemia it was, but
not a squalid Bohemia. If a room can have a personality,
this was a <i>gentlemanly</i> room. One saw that gentlemen
lived here, men who, without daintiness or a tinge<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span>
of the sybarite, yet liked a certain order and fitness
around them. At once Basil felt in key with the place.
There was no jarring note anywhere.</p>

<p>"I've got you a sort of meal, Gortre," said Hands,
pleasantly, "though we were rather in doubt as to what
a man could want at four o'clock in the afternoon!
Spence suggested afternoon tea, as you'll be wanting to
dine later on. But Mrs. Buscall, our laundress, suggested
cold beef and Bass's beer&mdash;after a sea voyage
which she regards as a sort of Columbus adventure. So
fall to&mdash;here you are. Harold is just getting up."</p>

<p>Indeed, as he spoke there came a noise of vigorous
splashing from behind one of the closed doors and
Spence's voice bellowed out a greeting.</p>

<p>Basil looked puzzled for a moment and Hands laughed
as he saw it.</p>

<p>"You must remember that Spence doesn't get back
from the office till three in the morning," he said. "He's
writing four leaders a week now, and on his late nights,
when he comes back, his brain is too alert and excited
to sleep, so he has some Bovril and just works away
at other stuff till morning. He won't interfere with us,
though. I never hear him come in, nor will you. These
chambers are a regular rabbit warren for size and ramification."</p>

<p>Basil went into the bedroom he was to have, a spacious,
clean, and simply furnished place, and when he
came out again for his meal found Spence, in a loose suit
of flannels, smoking a cigarette. The journalist joined
him at the table.</p>

<p>In a very short time Gortre felt thoroughly at home.
He knew by a kind of instinct that he should be happy
in Lincoln's Inn. Hands had still a month to spend in
London before he went back to Palestine to continue
his work for the Exploring Society, and he looked for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span>ward
to many interesting talks with him, the actual agent
and superintendent of the work at Jerusalem, the trained
eye and arm of the great and influential English Society.</p>

<p>And as for Spence, he had known him intimately ever
since his first Oxford days, many years ago now. Harold
Spence was like a brother to him&mdash;had always been
that.</p>

<p>The first hour's conversation, desultory as it was, in
a sense, showed him how full and varied his new life
promised to be. After the noisy seclusion of Walktown
he felt that he was now in the centre of things. Both
Spence and Hands were thoroughly cultured men, and
both were distinguished above the crowd in their respective
spheres.</p>

<p>Basil heard keen, critical, "inside" talk for almost
the first time. His two companions knew everybody,
were at the hub of things. Two nights ago Spence had
been talking to the Prime Minister for ten minutes.&mdash;<i>The
Daily Wire</i> was the unofficial Government organ.
Hands had been at Lambeth with the Archbishop, the
president and patron of the Palestine Society. They
were absolute types of the keen, vigorous, and <i>young</i>
mental aristocracy which is always on the active service of
English life. They belonged to the executive branch.</p>

<p>"I'm sorry, Basil," Spence said suddenly, "I've got
a note for you from Father Ripon. I forgot to give it
to you. He sent it down by a special messenger this
morning. Here it is."</p>

<p>Father Ripon was the vicar of St. Mary's, Gortre's new
chief.</p>

<p>He took the note and opened it, reading as follows:</p>

<blockquote><p class="inright">
"<span class="smcap">The Clergy House, &nbsp; &nbsp; <br />
"St Mary's, Bloomsbury.</span>
</p>

<p>"<span class="smcap">Dear Mr. Gortre</span>,&mdash;Friend Spence says that you will<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span>
arrive in London this afternoon. I don't believe in wasting
time and I want a good long talk with you before you
begin your work with us. To-night I am due at Bethnal
Green to give a lecture. I shall be driving home about
ten and I'll call at Lincoln's Inn on my way. If this will
not be too late for you, we can then talk matters over.&mdash;Sincerely
yours in Christ,</p>

<p class="p2b">
<span style="margin-left:10em"><span class="smcap">Arthur Ripon</span>."</span>
</p></blockquote>

<p>Basil passed the note to Spence.</p>

<p>"That'll be all right," he said. "I shall be at work,
and Hands will be in his own room. What a man Ripon is!
He's just the incarnation of breezy energy. Brusque,
unconventional as Dr. Parker himself, but one of
the sincerest Christians and best men I ever met or ever
shall meet. He signs his note like that because he means
it. He hates cant, and what in some men would appear
cant, or at least a rather unnecessary form of ending, is
to him just an ordinary every-day fact. You will get on
with Father Ripon, Basil, I'm sure. You'll get to love the
man as we all do. I never knew any one so absolutely
joyous as he is. He's about the happiest man in town,
I should say. His private income is nearly two thousand
a year, and his living's worth something too, and
yet I don't suppose his own expenses are fifty pounds.
He lives more or less on porridge&mdash;when he remembers
to eat at all&mdash;and his only extravagance is hansom cabs,
so that he can cram more work into the day."</p>

<p>They all laughed, and Spence began to tell anecdotes
of the famous "ritualistic" parson who daily filled more
stomachs, saved more souls, and shocked more narrow-minded
people than any two men in Crockford.</p>

<p>At seven o'clock they all went out together&mdash;Spence
to his adjacent office in Fleet Street, the other two to
dine quietly at the University Club.</p>

<p>"London depresses me," said Hands, when they were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span>
seated on the top of an omnibus and rolling westward
through the Strand. "I am afraid that I shall never be
in love with London any more. I always dislike my vacations,
or rather my business visits to town. It's necessary
that I attend the annual meeting of the Society
and see people in authority, and I have to give a few lectures
too. But I hate it all the same. I love the simple
life of the East, the sun, the deep blue shadows, my
silent Arabs. I know of no more beautiful sight than
the Holy City&mdash;why do they call Rome the 'Holy City'?
Jerusalem is the Holy City&mdash;when the hills are covered
with the January snows. It is a wonderful, immemorial
land, Gortre, a silent, beautiful country. Just before I
came over here I spent a fortnight working at some inscriptions
in a very ancient Latin monastery. I never
knew such peace. The monks are all sad-faced, courteous
Syrians, and they move along the rock balconies
like benignant ghosts. And then one comes back and is
plunged into this!"</p>

<p>He threw out his hand over the side of the omnibus
with a note of disgust in his rather dreamy voice. The
Strand was all brilliantly lit and waiting crowds stood by
all the theatre doors. Men and women passed in and
out of the bright orange light of bars and restaurants,
and small filthy boys stabbed the deep roar of the traffic
with their shrill voices as they called out the evening
papers.</p>

<p>They dined quietly and simply at the big warm club
in Piccadilly. Hands did most of the talking and Gortre
was content to listen to the pleasant monotony of the
low, level voice and to fall under the man's peculiar spell
or charm&mdash;a charm that he always exercised upon another
artistic temperament.</p>

<p>Hands was a poet by nature and sentiment. His
strange, lonely life among the evidences of the past<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span>
under the Eastern sky had toned, mellowed, and orientalised
his vision.</p>

<p>As he listened Gortre also began to feel something of
the mystery and magic influence of that country of God's
birth.</p>

<p>It was half-past nine when they got back to the chambers
again. Hands went at once to his own room to
work and Basil sat down in front of a red, glowing fire,
gazing into the hot caverns, lost in reverie. It was as
though he had taken some opiate and there was nothing
better in life than to sit thus and dream in the warm
silence of the firelit room.</p>

<p>A few minutes after ten he was suddenly called out of
the clouds by a furious knocking at the door of the
chambers.</p>

<p>The sound cut into his dreams like a knife.</p>

<p>He went to open the door, and Father Ripon, his new
vicar, came in like a whirlwind. His voluminous black
cloak brought cold air in its folds; his breezy, genial
personality was so actual a fact, struck such a strident,
material note, that dreams and reverie fled before it.</p>

<p>Gortre turned up the gas-jets and flooded the room
with light.</p>

<p>Father Ripon was a tall, well-made man, too active to
be portly, but with hints of a tendency towards plumpness,
which was never allowed to ripen. His iron-grey
hair was cropped close to his large, well-shaped head.
The shrewd, merry eyes, of a rare red-hazel colour, were
shaded by heavy grey brows, which gave them a singular
directness and penetration. The nose was aquiline, the
lips thin, though the mouth was large, and the chin massive
and somewhat protruding. The mobile face, lined
and seamed by the strenuous life of its owner, was very
seldom in repose. It glowed and flashed continually
with changing expression. On those occasions when the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span>
play of feature sank to rest for a moment, at the giving
of a benediction or the saying of a solemn prayer in
church, a nobility and asceticism transformed the face
into something saintly. But in the ordinary business of
life the large humanity of the man gave him a readier
title to the hearts of his people than their knowledge of
the underlying saintliness of his character.</p>

<p>"Whisky?" he said, as Gortre asked him to take some.
"No, thanks. Teetotaler for sake of example, always
have been&mdash;and don't like the stuff either, never did.
But I'll have some coffee and some bread and butter, if
you've got it, and some of those oranges I see there.
Forgot to lunch and had no time to dine!"</p>

<p>He began ravenously upon the oranges and with little
further preamble plunged at once into the business of
the parish. To emphasise a point, he flung a piece of
orange peel savagely into the fire now and again.</p>

<p>"Our congregation," he said, "is peculiar to the
church. You'll realise that when you get among them.
I don't suppose in the whole of London there is a more
difficult class of people to reach than our own. In the
first place, it's a <i>young</i> congregation, speaking generally.
'Good,' you'll say; 'ductible material, plenty of enthusiasm
to work on.' Not a bit of it. Most of the
men are engaged in the City as clerks upon a small
wage. They are mentally rather "small" men. Their
lives are hard and monotonous, their outlook upon life
petty and vulgar. The lowest and the highest classes
are far easier to get at because they are temperamentally
more alike. The anarchists have some right on their
side when they condemn the <i>bourgeoisie</i>! It's difficult to
show a small brain a big thing. <i>Our</i> difficulty is to explain
the stupendous truths of Christianity to flabby and
inert, machine-like fellows. When we <i>do</i> get hold of
them, the very monotony of their lives makes religion a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span>
more valuable thing to them. But the temptations of this
class are terribly strong, living alone in lodgings as they
do. The cheap music-hall and bar attract them; dissipation
forms their society. Their views of women are
taken from their association with the girls of the streets
and the theatres. As they have no settled place in society,
they are horribly afraid of ridicule. They are a far
more difficult lot than their colleagues who live in the
suburbs and have chances for healthier recreations.</p>

<p>"Then much of our work lies among women who seem
irretrievably lost, and, I fear, very often are so. The
Bloomsbury district is honeycombed with well-conducted
dens of impurity. The women of a certain class have
fixed upon the parish as their home. I don't mean the
starving prostitute that one meets in the East End, I
mean the fairly prosperous, utterly vicious, lazy women.
You will meet with horrors of vice, a marvellous and
stony indifference, in the course of your work. To reach
some of these well-dressed, well-fed, well-housed girls, to
show them the spiritual and even the economic and material
end of their lives, requires almost superhuman
powers. If an angel came some of them would not believe.
And in the great and luxurious buildings of flats
which have sprung up in all the squares, the well-known
London <i>demi-mondaines</i>&mdash;people who dance upon the
stage and whose pictures glare upon one from every
hoarding&mdash;have made their homes and constantly parade
before the eyes of others the wealth which is the reward
of lust.</p>

<p>"This is a wicked part of London, Gortre. And yet,
day by day, in our beautiful church, where the Eucharist
is celebrated and prayers go up unceasingly, we have
evidences that our work is acceptable and that the Power
is with us. Magdalen still comes with her jewels and
her tears of repentance. I ask and beg of you to re<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span>member
certain things&mdash;keep them always before your
eyes&mdash;during your ministry among us. Whenever a man
or woman comes to you, either at confession or otherwise,
and tells of incredible sins, welcome the very slightest
movement towards the light. Cultivate an all-embracing
sympathy. I firmly believe that more souls have
been lost by a repellent manner on the part of a priest,
or an apparent lack of understanding, than any one has
any idea of. Remember that when a thoroughly evil
and warped nature has made a great effort and laid its
spiritual case before a priest, it expects in its inner consciousness
a pat on the back for its new efforts. It wants
commendation. One <i>must</i> fight warily, with a thorough
psychological knowledge, with a broad humanity. To
take even the slightest signs of repentance as a matter of
course, to throw any doubt upon its reality or permanence,
is to accept an awful responsibility. Err rather on the
side of sentiment. Who are we to judge?"</p>

<p>Gortre had listened with deep attention to Father
Ripon's earnest words. He began to realise more clearly
the difficulties of his new life. And yet the obstacles
did not daunt him. They seemed rather a trumpet note
for battle. Ripon's enthusiasm was contagious; he felt
the exhilaration of the tried soldier at a coming contest.</p>

<p>"One more thing," said the vicar. "In all your teaching
and preaching hammer away at the great central fact
of the Incarnation. No system of morals will reach these
people&mdash;however plausible, however pure&mdash;unless you
constantly bring the supernatural side of religion before
them. Preach the Incarnation day in, day out. Don't,
like so many men, regard it as an accepted fact merely,
using it as a postulate on which to found a scheme of
conduct. Once get the central truth of all into the
hearts of a congregation, and then all else will follow.
Now, good-night. I've kept you late, but I wished to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span>
have a talk with you. A good deal will devolve upon you.
I have especially arranged that you should not live in the
Clergy House with Stokes, Carr, and myself. I would
rather that your environment should be more secular.
Stokes and Carr are perhaps a little too priestly, too "professional"
in manner, if you understand what I am driving
at. Keep yourself from that. If you go among the
young men, see them at home, smoke with them, and take
what they offer you in the way of refreshment. Well,
good-bye. You are to preach at Sunday Evensongs
you know. Sir Michael Manichoe, our patron, will be
there, and there will be a large congregation."</p>

<p>He turned, said good-night with sudden abruptness,
as if he had been lingering too long and was displeased
with himself, and hurried away. It was his usual manner
of farewell.</p>

<p class="p4b">A few minutes afterwards Gortre went to bed. He
found it difficult to believe that he had walked down
the Faubourg de la Barre that morning. It had been a
crowded day.</p>

<hr class="r20" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X</a></h2>

<h4>THE RESURRECTION SERMON</h4>

<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">S</span><span class="smcap">ir Michael Manichoe</span> was the great help
and standby of St. Mary's. His father had been a
wealthy banker in Rome, and a Jew. The son, who had
enormously increased his inherited wealth, was an early
convert to Christianity during his Oxford days in
England. He was the Conservative member for a division
in Lincolnshire, where his great country house was
situated, and had become a pillar of the Church and
State in England. In the House of Commons he presented
the somewhat curious spectacle of a Jew by birth
leading the moderate "Catholic" party. He was the
great antagonist of Constantine Schuabe, and with
equal wealth and position, though Schuabe was by far
the more brilliant of the two men, he devoted all his
energies to the opposition of the secular and agnostic
influences of his political rival.</p>

<p>Every Sunday during the session, when he was in London,
Sir Michael drove to St. Mary's for both morning
and evening service. He was church warden, and intimately
concerned in all the parochial business, while
his purse was always open at Father Ripon's request.</p>

<p>Gortre had been introduced to Sir Michael during the
week, and he knew the great man purposed attending to
hear his first sermon at St. Mary's on the Sunday
evening.</p>

<p>He prepared his discourse with extreme care. A
natural wish to make a good first impression animated<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span>
him; but, as he sat late on the Saturday night, finally
arranging his notes, he began to be conscious of new and
surprising thoughts about the coming event. Earlier in
the evening he had been talking to Hands, but the
archæologist had gone to bed and left him alone.</p>

<p>The day had been a gloomy one. A black pall of fog
fell over London at dawn, and had remained all day, almost
choking him as he said evensong in the almost
empty church.</p>

<p>All day long he had felt strangely overweighted and
depressed. A chance paragraph in an evening paper,
stating that Mr. Schuabe, M.P., had returned from a
short Continental trip, started an uneasy and gloomy
train of thought. The memory of the terrible night at
Walktown recurred to him with a horrible sense of unreality,
the picture blurred somewhat, as if the fingers of
the disease which had struck him down had already been
pressing on his brain when he had been alone with the
millionaire. Much of what he remembered of that dread
interview must have been delusion. And yet in all other
matters he was sane and unprejudiced enough. Many
times he had met and argued with unbelievers. They
had saddened him, but no more. Why was it that this
man, notorious atheist as he was, filled him with a shuddering
fear, a horror for which he had no name?</p>

<p>Then also, what had been the significance of the incident
at Dieppe&mdash;its true significance? Sir Robert
Llwellyn had also inspired him with a feeling of utter
loathing and abhorrence, though perhaps in a less degree.
There was the sudden glimpse of Schuabe's signature on
the letter. What was the connection between the two
men? How could the Antichristian be in friendly communion
with the greatest Higher Critic of the time?</p>

<p>He recalled an even more sinister occurrence, or so it
had seemed to him. Two days after his first introduction<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span>
to Llwellyn and the dinner at the Pannier d'Or he had
seen him enter the Paris train <i>with Schuabe</i> himself, who
had just arrived from England. He had said nothing
of the incident to Mr. Byars or Helena. They would
have regarded it as ordinary enough. They knew nothing
of what had passed between him and Schuabe.
The deliberate words of Sir Robert at the restaurant
recurred to him again and again, taking possession of his
brain and ousting all other thoughts. What new discoveries
was the Professor hinting at?</p>

<p>What did the whole obsession of his brain mean?</p>

<p>Curiously enough, he felt certain that these thoughts
were in no way heralds of a new attack of brain fever.
He knew this for a certainty. It seemed as if the persistent
whisperings within him were rather the results
of some spiritual message, as if the unseen agency which
prompted them had some definite end and purpose in
view.</p>

<p>The more he prayed the stronger his premonitions became;
added force was given to them, as if they were
the direct causes of his supplications.</p>

<p>It almost seemed that God was speaking to him.</p>

<p>He had questioned Hands cautiously, trying to learn if
any new and important facts bearing upon Biblical history
were indeed likely to be discovered in the near
future.</p>

<p>But the answer did not amount to very much. The
new and extensive excavations, under the permission of
the lately granted firman from the Turkish Government,
were only just beginning. The real work was to commence
when Hands had finished his work in London
and had returned to take charge of the operations.</p>

<p>Of course, Hands had said there were possibilities of
discovery of first-class importance, but he doubted it.
The locality of Golgotha and the Holy Sepulchre was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span>
already established, in Hands's opinion. He had but
little doubt of the authenticity of the established sites.
Llwellyn's theories he scouted altogether, while agreeing
with him in his negation of the Gordon Tomb.</p>

<p>So there had been very little from Hands that was in
any way satisfactory to Basil.</p>

<p>But as he sat in the great silence of the night and
read over the heads of the sermon a great sense of comfort
came to him. He felt a mysterious sense of power,
not merely because he knew the work was good, but
something beyond that. He was conscious that for some
reason or other that particular sermon which he was
about to preach was one on which much depended. He
could not say how or why he knew the thing was fraught
with destiny to himself or others. He only knew it.</p>

<p>Many years afterwards he remembered that quiet
night, and the help which seemed to come to him suddenly,
a renewed hope and confidence after the mental
misery of the day.</p>

<p>When he looked back on the terrible and stupendous
events in which he had played so prominent a part, he
was able to see clearly the chain of events, and to place
his experience about what he always afterwards called
his "Resurrection sermon" in their proper sequence.</p>

<p>Looking back through the years, he saw that a more
than mortal power was guiding him towards the fulfilment
of a Divine purpose.</p>

<p>But that night as he said his prayers before going
to sleep he only felt a sweet security as he glanced at
the MS. on the chair by his bedside.</p>

<p class="p2b">The future was not yet revealed to him. God spared
him the torture of foreknowledge.</p>

<hr class="r5" />

<p>The pulpit was high above the heads of the people,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span>
much higher than is usual, a box of stone set in the
great arch of the chancel.</p>

<p>As Gortre stood for a moment, after the prayer, he
kissed the stole and placed it, as a yoke, upon his
shoulders. He looked down the great building and saw
the hundreds of watchful, expectant faces, with an
uplifting sense of power. He felt as if he were a mouthpiece
of strange, unseen forces. The air seemed full of
wings.</p>

<p>For a moment the preacher paused and sent a keen
glance over the congregation below. He saw Sir
Michael Manichoe, dark, aquiline, Semitic, sitting in his
front pew. A few seats behind him, with a sudden
throb of surprise but nothing else, the calm and evil
beauty of Constantine Schuabe's face looked up at him.</p>

<p>The strangeness of the appearance and the shock
of it had at that moment no menace or intimidation for
him. Standing there to deliver God's message, in God's
house, his enemy seemed to have no power to throw his
brain into its old fear and tumult.</p>

<p>Another face, unknown to him, arrested his attention.</p>

<p>The sexes were not separated for worship in St.
Mary's. In the same seat where Schuabe sat was a
woman, dark, handsome, expensively dressed.</p>

<p>She also was Jewish in appearance, though it was
obvious that there was no connection between her and
the millionaire. Her face, as the young clergyman's eyes
rested on it for a second, seemed to be curiously familiar,
as if he saw it every day of his life, but it nevertheless
struck no <i>personal</i> note.</p>

<p>Gortre began to speak, taking for his text part of
a verse from the Epistle of St. Paul to the Romans&mdash;"<i>Declared
to be the Son of God with power, according to
the spirit of holiness, by the resurrection of the dead.</i>"</p>

<p>"In this world of to-day," he began calmly, and with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span>
certain deliberation and precision in his utterance,
"what men in general are hungering after is a positive
assurance of actual spiritual agency in the world. They
crave for something to hold by which is outside themselves,
and which cannot have grown out of the inner
persuasions of men. They cannot understand people
who tell them that, whether the events of the Gospels
actually passed upon earth or not, they may fashion
their own dispositions all the same, on the supposition
that these events occurred. If I can to-night show
that any appearance of the Risen Lord is attested in
the same way as are certain facts commonly accepted
as history, I shall have accomplished as much as I can
hope."</p>

<p>Then, very carefully, Gortre went through the scientific
and historical evidences for the truth of the Resurrection.
Gradually, as he marshalled his proofs and
brought forth one after the other, he began, by a sort
of unconscious hypnotism of the eye, to make the seat
where Schuabe and the strange woman sat his objective.</p>

<p>Many speakers have this automatic habit of addressing
one or two persons as if they were the ear of the
whole congregation. It is said that by such means,
even if unconsciously employed, the brain becomes
more concentrated and clearer for the work in hand.</p>

<p>Slowly the preacher's voice became more resonant
and triumphant. To many of the congregation the
overwhelming and stupendous evidences for the truth of
the Gospel narratives which the study of late years has
collected was entirely new. The Higher Criticism, the
fact that it is not only in science that "discoveries" can
be made, the excavations in the East and the newly discovered
MSS., with their variations of reading, the possibility
that the lost Aramaic original of St. Matthew's
Gospel may yet be discovered, were all things which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span>
came to them for the first time in their lives. Gortre's
words began to open up to them an entirely new train of
thought. Their interest was profoundly quickened.</p>

<p>Very few clergymen of middle age are cognisant of
the latest theological thought. Time, money, and lack
of education alike prevent them. The slight mental
endowment and very ordinary education which are all
that is absolutely necessary for an ordination candidate,
are not realised by the ordinary member of a church congregation.
The mass of the English clergy to-day are
content to leave such questions alone, to do their duty
simply, to impose upon their flock the necessity of
"faith," and to deny the right of individual judgment
and speculation.</p>

<p>They do not realise that the world of their middle age
is more educated, and so more intelligent, than the
world of their youth, and that, if the public intellect is
nurtured by the public, those whose duty it is to keep it
within the fold of Christianity must provide it with a
food suited to its development.</p>

<p>Gortre, in his sermon, had crystallised and boiled
down into pregnant paragraphs, without circumlocution
or obscurity, all the brilliant work of Latham, Westcott,
Professor Ramsay, and Homersham Cox. He quoted
Renan's passage from <i>Les Apôtres</i>, dealing with the finding
of the empty tomb, and showed the flaws and fallacies
in that brilliant piece of antichristian suggestion.</p>

<p>As he began to bring his arguments to a close he was
conscious that the people were with him. He could feel
the brains around him thinking in unison; it was almost as
if he <i>heard</i> the thoughts of the congregation. The dark,
handsome woman stared straight up at him. Trouble
was in her eyes, an awakened consciousness, and Gortre
knew that the truth was dropping steadily into her
mind, and that conviction was unwelcome and alarming.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span></p>

<p>And he felt also the bitter antagonism which was
alive and working behind the impassive face and half-closed
eyes of the millionaire below. It was a silent
duel between them. He knew that his words were full
of meaning, <i>even of conviction</i>, to the man, and yet he
was subjectively conscious of some <i>reserve</i> of force,
some hidden sense of fearful power, a desperate resolve
which he could not overcome.</p>

<p>His soul wrestled in this dark, mysterious conflict as
with a devil, but could not prevail.</p>

<p>He finished all his argument, the last of his proofs.
There was a hushed silence in the church.</p>

<p>Then swiftly, with a voice which trembled with the
power that was given him, he called them to repentance
and a new life. <i>If</i>, he said, his words had carried conviction
of the truth of Christ's resurrection, of His divinity,
then, believing that, there was but one course open
to them all. For to know the truth, and to believe it,
and to continue in indifference, was to kill the soul.</p>

<p>It was over. Father Ripon had pronounced the blessing,
the great organ was thundering out the requiem of
another Sunday, and Sir Michael was shaking hands
warmly with Basil in the vestry.</p>

<p>Gortre was tired and shaken by the long, nervous
strain, but the evident pleasure of Father Ripon and
Sir Michael, the knowledge that he had acquitted himself
well, was comforting and sustaining.</p>

<p>He walked home, down quiet Holborn, curiously
dead without the traffic of a week day and the lights of
the shop fronts, and not reanimated by the strolling
pedestrians, young people of the lower classes from the
East End, who thronged it.</p>

<p>Lincoln's Inn was wonderfully soothing and quiet as
his footsteps echoed in the old quadrangle. After a
lonely, tranquil supper&mdash;Hands was at a dinner-party<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span>
somewhere in Mayfair and Spence was at the office of
<i>The Daily Wire</i> preparing for Monday's paper&mdash;he
wheeled a small writing-desk up to the fireside and
began a long letter of news and thankfulness to Helena.</p>

<p>He pictured the pleasant dining-room at Walktown,
the Sunday night's supper,&mdash;an institution at the Vicarage
after the labours of the busiest day in the week,&mdash;with
a guest or two perhaps.</p>

<p class="p4b">He knew they would be thinking of him, as he of
them, and pictured the love-light in his lady's sweet,
calm eyes.</p>

<hr class="r20" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI</a></h2>

<h4>"NEITHER DO I CONDEMN THEE"</h4>

<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">A</span><span class="smcap">utumn</span> came to London, a warm, lingering season.
There was a hint of the South in the atmosphere
of town. All business moved with languor;
there was more enjoyment in life as people went and
came through the streets under so ripe and genial a sun.</p>

<p>Gortre had settled down to steady, regular work. At
no time before had a routine been so pleasant to him.
His days were full of work, which, hard as it was, came
to him with far more appeal than his duties at Walktown.
Nothing ever stagnated here, at the very hub
and centre of things.</p>

<p>The splendid energy and force of Father Ripon, the
magnificent unconvention of his methods, animated his
staff to constant and unflagging exertions.</p>

<p>Gortre felt that he was suddenly "grown up," that his
life before had been spent in futile playtime compared
to the present.</p>

<p>One central fact in St. Mary's parish held all the great
organisation together. This was the daily services in
the great church. Priests, deacons, sisters of mercy,
school teachers, and lay helpers all drew their strength
and inspiration from this source. The daily Eucharist,
matins, evensong, were both a stimulus and stimulant of
enormous power.</p>

<p>Church brought the mysteries in which they lived,
moved, and had their being into intimate relation with
every circumstance of daily life.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span></p>

<p>The extraordinary thing, which many of Father
Ripon's staff were almost unable to understand, was that
more people did not avail themselves of what they regarded&mdash;viewing
the thing from a standpoint of personal
experience&mdash;such helpful opportunities.</p>

<p>"They are always coming to me," Father Ripon had
said on one occasion, "and complaining that they find
such a tremendous difficulty in leading a holy life&mdash;say
that the worldly surroundings and so forth kill their
good impulses&mdash;and yet they <i>won't</i> come to church.
People are such fools! My young men imagine that
they can become good Christians by a sort of sudden
magic&mdash;a low beast on Saturday night, the twentieth of
August, and, after a nerve storm in church and a few
tears in the vestry, a saint for evermore! And then
when they get drunk or do something beastly the next
week, they rail against the Christian Faith because it
isn't a sort of spiritual hand cuffs! And yet if you told
them you could manage a bank after merely experience
in a shipping office, they would see the absurdity of that
at once. Donkeys!"</p>

<p>This with a genial smile of tenderness and compassion,
for this Whirlwind in a Cassock loved his flock.</p>

<p>So from the very first Basil had found his life congenial.
Privately he blessed his good fortune in living
in Lincoln's Inn with Spence. On the nights when the
journalist was free from the office, and not otherwise
engaged, the two men sat late with pipes and coffee,
enjoying that vigorous communion of two keen, young,
and virile brains which is one of the truly stimulating
pleasures of life.</p>

<p>Gortre admired Spence greatly for some of his qualities.
His intellect was, of course, first class&mdash;his high
position on the great daily paper guaranteed that. His
reading and sympathies were wide. Moreover, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span>
clergyman found a great refreshment in the fact that, in
an age of indifference, at a time when the best intellects
of younger London life were professedly agnostic,
Harold Spence was an avowed Christian and Churchman.
As Gortre got to know him better, when the
silence and detachment of midnight in the old Inn
broke down reticence, he realised with a sense of thankfulness,
and sometimes of fear also, how a thorough
belief in religion kept the writer straight and captain of
his own soul.</p>

<p>For the man was a creature of strong passions and
wayward desires. He had not always been the clean
gentleman of the present. As is so often the case with
a refined and cultured temperament, he had a dark and
ugly side to his nature. The coarse vices of the blood
called to him long and often with their hollow siren
voices. Evil came to him with swift invitation and cunning
allurement. He had hinted to Basil of days of sin
and secret shame. And now, very soberly and without
any emotion, he clung to Christ for help.</p>

<p>And he had conquered.</p>

<p>This was ever a glorious fact to Basil, another miracle
in those thousands of daily miracles which were happening
all around him. But his fear for Harold came from
his realisation of his friend's exact spiritual grip. Spence's
Christianity was rather too <i>utilitarian</i> for safety. Perhaps
the deep inward conviction was weak. It seemed
sometimes as if it were a barren, thorny thing&mdash;too much
fetish, too much a return for benefits received, a sort of
half-conscious bargain. He often prayed long that nothing
should ever occur to shake Spence's belief; for he
felt, if that should happen, the disaster would prove irreparable.
A dammed river is a dangerous thing.</p>

<p>But he kept all these thoughts locked in his heart, and
never spoke of them to Harold.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span></p>

<p>Since the evening of his first sermon he had never seen
Schuabe again. Now and then the thought of him passed
through his brain, and his mental sight seemed obscured
for a moment, as though great wings hid the sun from
him. But since the silent duel in the church, the curious
and malign influence of the millionaire had waned. It
was prominent no longer, and when it troubled him it
did so without power and force. Fine health, the tonic
of constant work, the armour of continual prayer, had
their way and were able to banish much of what he now
looked back on as morbidity, sinister though it had been.</p>

<p>Nevertheless, one thing often reminded him of that
night. The dark, Jewish-looking lady he had seen sitting
in the same pew with Schuabe often came to church
on Sunday nights when he was preaching. The bold
and insolently beautiful face looked up at him with
steady interest. The fierce regard had something passionate
and yet wistful in it.</p>

<p>Sometimes Basil found himself preaching almost directly
to the face and soul of the unknown woman.
There was an understanding between them. He knew
it; he felt it most certainly.</p>

<p>Sometimes she would remain in her seat after the mass
of the congregation had shuffled away into the night.
She did not pray, but sat still, with her musing eyes
fixed on the huge ten-foot crucifix that swung down from
the chancel arch.</p>

<p>Once, as he passed the pew on the way to baptise the
child of a poor woman of the streets&mdash;brought in furtively
after the Sunday evensong&mdash;she made a movement
as if to speak to him. He had waited in expectation for
a moment, but she remained still, and he passed on to
the font, with its sad cluster of outcasts, its dim gas-jets,
and the tiny child of shame with its thin cry of distress.</p>

<p>He was asking the tremendous question&mdash;</p>

<blockquote><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span>
"<i>Dost thou, in the name of this child, renounce the devil
and all his works, the vain pomp and glory of the world,
with all covetous desires of the same, and the carnal desires
of the flesh, so that thou wilt not follow nor be led by them?</i>"</p></blockquote>

<p>when he saw that the unknown woman was standing by
within the shadow of a pillar. A gleam of yellow light
fell through the dark on her rich dress, her eye glittered
behind her white veil. He thought there was a tear in
it. But when he was saying the exhortation he saw that
the tall, silent figure had departed.</p>

<p>He often wondered who the woman was,&mdash;if he should
ever know her.</p>

<p>Something told him that she wanted help. Something
assured him that he should some day give it to her.</p>

<p>And beyond this there was an unexplained conviction
within him that the stranger was in some way concerned
and bound up in the part he was to play in life.</p>

<p>Long ago he had realised that it was idle to deny the
interference of supernatural personalities in human life.
Accepting the Incarnation, he accepted the Communion
of Saints. And he was always conscious of hidden
powers moulding, directing him.</p>

<p>The episode of the cigarettes happened in this way.</p>

<p>Stokes, one of Gortre's fellow-curates, came to supper
one night in Lincoln's Inn.</p>

<p>Spence was there also, as it was one of his free nights.</p>

<p>About ten o'clock supper was over and they proposed
to have a little music. Stokes was a fine pianist, and he
had brought some of the nocturnes and ballads of Chopin
with him, to try on the little black-cased piano which
stood at an obtuse angle with the end of the large sitting-room.</p>

<p>"Will you smoke, Stokes?" Spence said.</p>

<p>"Thank you, I'll have a cigarette," the young man<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span>
replied. "I can't stand cigars, and I've left my pipe
at the Clergy House."</p>

<p>They looked for cigarettes in the silver box lined with
cedar which stood on the mantel-shelf, but some one had
smoked them all and the box was empty.</p>

<p>"Never mind," Spence said; "I've been meaning to
run out and get a late <i>Westminster</i> and I'll buy some
cigarettes, too. There's a shop at the Holborn end of
the Lane, next to the shop where the oysters come from,
and it won't be shut yet."</p>

<p>In a few minutes he came back with several packets of
cigarettes in his hand. "I've brought Virginian," he
said; "I know you can't stand Egyptian, none of us can,
and if these are cheap, they're good, too."</p>

<p>Till eleven o'clock Stokes played to them&mdash;Chopin's
wild music of melancholy and fire&mdash;and as the hour
struck he went home.</p>

<p>Gortre and Spence sat and talked casually after he had
gone, about the music they had heard, the cartoon in the
evening paper, anything that came.</p>

<p>Basil had not been smoking during the evening. He
had been too intent upon the nocturnes, and now he felt
a want of tobacco. One of the packets of cigarettes lay
by him on the table. He pulled up the flaps and took
one. Without thinking what he was doing he drew a
little photograph, highly finished and very clear, from
the tiny cardboard case.</p>

<p>He glanced at it casually.</p>

<p>The thing was one of those pictures of burlesque
actresses which are given away with this kind of tobacco.
A tall girl with short skirts and a large picture hat was
shown in a coquettish attitude that was meant to be full
of invitation.</p>

<p>Basil looked at it steadily with a curious expression on
his face. Then he took a large reading-glass from the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span>
table and examined it again, magnifying it to many times
its original size.</p>

<p>He scrutinised it with great care. It was the portrait
of the strange girl who came to St. Mary's.</p>

<p>Basil had told Spence of this woman, and now he
passed the photograph on to him.</p>

<p>"Harold, that is the girl who comes to church and
looks so unhappy. She is an actress, of course. The
name is underneath&mdash;Miss Gertrude Hunt. Who is Miss
Gertrude Hunt?"</p>

<p>Spence took the thing. "How very queer!" he said,
"to find your unknown like this. Gertrude Hunt?
Why, she is a well-known musical comedy girl, sings and
dances at the Regent, you know. There are all the usual
stories about the lady, but possibly they are all lies. I'm
sure I don't know. I've chucked that sort of society
long ago. Are you sure it's the same person?"</p>

<p>"Oh, quite sure! Of course, this shows the girl in a
different dress and so on, but it's she without a doubt.
I am glad she comes to church. It is not what one expects
from what one hears of that class of woman, and
it's not what one generally finds in the parish."</p>

<p>He sighed, thinking of the many chilling experiences
of the last few months in the vice-haunted streets and
squares of Bloomsbury.</p>

<p>"Well," said Spence, "experiments with that type are
generally failures, and sometimes dangerous to the experimenter.
You remember Anatole France's <i>Thais</i>?
But this damsel is no Thais certainly, and you aren't a
bit like Paphuntius. I hope you will be able to do some
good. Personally, anything of the sort would be quite
impossible to me. Good-night, old man. I'm going to
turn in. I've a hard day's work to-morrow. Sleep
well."</p>

<p>He went out of the room with a yawn.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span></p>

<p>When he was left alone, with his little mystery solved
in so commonplace a fashion, Basil was conscious of a
curious disappointment. It was an anti-climax.</p>

<p>He had no narrow objection to the theatre. Now and
then he had been to see famous actors in great plays.
His occasional visits to the theatres of Irving or Wyndham
had given him pleasure, nevertheless he had always
felt a slight instinctive dislike to the trade of a mime.
All voluntary sacrifices of personal dignity affect the
average English temperament in this way more or less.
However much the apologists of the stage may cry "art"
or "beneficial influence," your British thinker is not
convinced that there is anything very worthy in painting
the face and making the body a public show for a wage.
And there is sometimes a kind of wonder in the heart of
a sincere Christian who attends a theatre as he remembers
that the body is the Temple of the Holy Spirit.</p>

<p>Still Basil was tolerant enough. But this case which
had thrust itself before him was quite different. He
knew that the burlesque, the modern music play, made,
first and foremost, a frank appeal to the senses. Its
hopeless vulgarity and coarseness of sentiment, its entire
lack of appeal to anything that was not debased and materialistic,
were ordinary indisputable facts of every-day
life. And so his lady of evensong was a high-priestess
of nothing better than this cult of froth and gaudy sensuality.
More than all others, his experiences of late
had taught him that women of this class seemed to be
very nearly soulless. Their souls had dissolved in champagne,
their consciences were burnt up by the feverish
excitement and pleasure of their lives. They sold themselves
for luxury and the adulation of coarse men.</p>

<p>His very chagrin made him bitter and contemptuous
more than his wont.</p>

<p>Then his eye lit upon a photogravure hung upon the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span>
opposite wall. It was the reproduction of a quaint,
decorative, stilted picture by an artist of the early Umbrian
school, and represented St. Mary Magdalene.</p>

<p>The coincidence checked his contemptuous thoughts.</p>

<p>He began to reconstruct the scene in his brain, a
favourite and profitable exercise of his, using his knowledge
and study of the old dim times to animate the
picture and make it vivid.</p>

<p>They were all resting, or rather lying, around the table,
the body resting on the couch, the feet turned away from
the table in the direction of the wall, while the left elbow
rested on the table.</p>

<p>And then, from the open courtyard, up the verandah
step, perhaps through an antechamber, and by the open
door, passed the figure of a woman into the festive reception-room
and dining-hall. How had she gained
access? How incongruous her figure must have been
there! In those days the Jewish prejudice against any
conversation with women&mdash;even those of the most lofty
character&mdash;was extreme.</p>

<p>The shadow of her form must have fallen on all who
sat at meat. But no one spoke, nor did she heed any
but One only.</p>

<p>The woman had brought with her an <i>alabastron</i> of
perfume. It was a flask of precious <i>foliatum</i>, probably,
which women wore round the neck, and which hung over
the breast. The woman stood behind Him at His feet,
and as she bowed reverently a shower of tears, like sudden
summer rain, "bedewed" His feet.</p>

<p>Basil went through the whole scene until the final,
"Go <i>into</i> peace" not go <i>in</i> peace, as the logical dogmatics
would have had it.</p>

<p>And so she, the first who had come to Him for spiritual
healing, went out into the better light, and into the
eternal peace of the Kingdom of Heaven.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span></p>

<p>Basil tore up the vulgar little photograph and forgot
that aspect of the dancer. He remembered rather the
dim figure by the font.</p>

<p class="p4b">There was a sudden furious knocking on the outer
door of the chambers, and he went to open it.</p>
<hr class="r20" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII</a></h2>

<h4>POWERS OF GOOD AND EVIL</h4>

<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">G</span><span class="smcap">ortre</span> felt certain that his vicar stood without.
His knocking was full of militant Christianity.
The tumultuous energy of the man without communicated
its own stir and disturbance to Basil's brain by the
most subtle of all forms of telepathy&mdash;that "telepathy"
which, in a few more years, will have its definite recipes
and formulæ.</p>

<p>Father Ripon refused to live by any standard of measured
time. He refused&mdash;so he said&mdash;to believe that a
wretched little clock really knew what the great golden
sun was doing. He had found it impossible to call on
Gortre before this late hour, and he came regardless of
it now. He wished to see Basil, and he came now with
a supreme and simple carelessness of conventional time.</p>

<p>As usual, the worthy man was hungry, and the <i>débris</i> of
supper on the table reminded him of that. He sat down
at once and began to eat rapidly, telling his story between
mouthfuls.</p>

<p>"I bring you news of a famous opportunity," he said.
"If you go to work in the right way you may win a soul.
It's a poor <i>demi-mondaine</i> creature, a dancer at the
theatres. She came to me in her brougham, her furs,
and finery, and had a chat in my study. I gave her tea
and a cigarette&mdash;you know I always keep some cigarettes
for the choir-men or teachers when they call. All these
women smoke. It's a great thing to treat these people<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span>
with understanding and knowledge, Gortre. Don't
'come the priest' over them, as a coster said to me last
week. When they realise that one is a man, <i>then</i> they
are fifty times more willing to allow the other and more
important thing.</p>

<p>"Well, this poor girl told me all about it, the same
very sordid story one is always hearing. She is a favourite
burlesque actress, and she lives very expensively in
those gorgeous new flats&mdash;Bloomsbury Court. Some
wealthy scoundrel pays for it all. A man 'in a very high
position,' as she said with a pathetic little touch of pride
which made me want to weep. Oh, my dear fellow, if
the world only knew what I know! Great and honoured
names in the senate, the forum, the Court, unsullied before
the eyes of men. And then these hideous establishments
and secret ties! This is a wicked city. The
deadly lusts which war against the soul are great, powerful,
and militant all around us.</p>

<p>"This poor woman has been coming regularly to
church on Sundays. The first time was when you
preached your capital sermon on the Resurrection.
Now, she is dying from a slow complaint. She will live
a year or two, the doctors think, and that is all. It does
not prevent her from living her ordinary life, but it will
strike her down suddenly some day.</p>

<p>"She has expressed a wish to see you to talk things
over with you. She thinks you can help her. Go to
her and save her. We <i>must</i>."</p>

<p>He handed Gortre a visiting-card, on which he saw
the name of Gertrude Hunt with a curious lack of surprise.</p>

<p>"Well, I must be off," said Father Ripon, rising from
the table with a large hunk of bread and cheese in one
hand.</p>

<p>"Go and see this poor woman to-morrow evening.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span>
She tells me she isn't acting for a week or two,&mdash;rehearsing
some new play. Isn't it wonderful to think of the
things that are going on every day? Just think of the
Holy Spirit pouring into this sinning creature's heart,
catching her in the middle of her champagne and frivolity,
and just turning her, almost <i>compelling</i> her towards Christ!
And men like John Morley or Constantine Schuabe say
there is no truth in Christianity!&mdash;I'll take one of these
apples&mdash;poor fools! Now I must go and write my
sermon."</p>

<p>He was gone in a clattering rush.</p>

<p class="p2b">For a long time Basil sat thinking. The mysterious
links of some great chain were being revealed inch by
inch. Wonderful as these circumstances already seemed
to him, he felt sure there was far more behind them than
he knew as yet. There was some unseen tie, some influence
that drew his thoughts ever more and more
towards the library in the palace at Manchester.</p>

<hr class="r5" />

<p>The next evening a maid showed Gortre into the hall
of the flat of Bloomsbury Court Mansions, eyeing him
curiously as she did so.</p>

<p>He passed down the richly carpeted passage with a
quickening of all his pulses, noticing the Moorish lamps
of copper studded with turquoise which threw a dim
crimson light over everything, marking the ostentatious
luxury of the place with wonder.</p>

<p>Gertrude Hunt lay back in a low arm-chair. She was
dressed in a long, dull red teagown of cashmere, with a
broad white band round the neck opening of white Indian
needlework, embroidered with dark green leaves.</p>

<p>Her face was pale and tired.</p>

<p>Despite the general warmth of the time, a fire burnt
steadily on the hearth.</p>

<p>Gortre sat down at her invitation, and they fell into a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span>
desultory conversation. He waited for her to open on
the real subjects that had brought him there.</p>

<p>He watched the tired, handsome face. Coarse it certainly
was, in expression rather than feature, but that
very coarseness gave it power. This woman, who lived
the life of a doll, had character. One saw that. Perhaps,
he thought, as he looked at her, that the very
eagerness and greed for pleasure marked in her face, the
passionate determination to tear the heart and core out
of life, might still be directed to purer and nobler ends.</p>

<p>Then she began to talk to him quite frankly, and with
no disguise or slurring over the facts of her life.</p>

<p>"I'm sick and tired of it all, Mr. Gortre," she said
bitterly. "You can't know what it means a bit&mdash;lucky
for you. Imagine spending all your life in a room
painted bright yellow, eating nothing but chocolate
creams, with a band playing comic songs for ever and
ever. And even then you won't get it."</p>

<p>Basil shuddered. There was something so poignant
and forceful in her words that they hurt, stung like a
whip-lash. He was being brought into terrible contact
not only with sin and the satiety of sin, but with its results.
The hideous staleness and torture of it all appalled
him as he looked at this human personification of it in
the crimson gown.</p>

<p>"That's how it was at first," she continued. "I
knew there was something more than this in life, though.
I could read it in people's faces. So I came to the
service at your church one Sunday evening. I'd never
made fun of religion and all that at any time. I simply
couldn't believe it, that was all. Then I heard you
preach on the Resurrection. I heard all the proofs for
the first time. Of course, I could see there wasn't any
doubt about the matter at all. Then, curiously, directly
I began to <i>believe</i> in it I began to hate the way I was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span>
going on, so I went to Father Ripon, who was very nice,
and he said you'd call."</p>

<p>"I quite understand you, Miss Hunt," said Gortre.
"That's the beauty of faith. When once you believe,
then you've <i>got</i> to change. It's a great pity, a very
great pity, that clergymen don't attempt to explain
things more than they do. If one isn't built in a certain
way, I can quite understand and sympathise with
any one who isn't able to take a parson's mere statement
on trust, so to speak. But that's beside the way. <i>You</i>
believe at any rate. And now what are you going to do?
I'm here to help you in every possible way. I want to
hear your views, just as you have thought them out."</p>

<p>"I like that," she said. "That's practical and
sensible. I've never cared very much for sentimental
ways of looking at things. You know I can't live very
long. I've got enough to live quietly on for some years,
put away in a bank, money I've made acting. I haven't
spent a penny of my salary for years&mdash;I've made the
men pay for everything. I shall go quietly away to the
country and be alone with my thoughts, close to a little
quiet church. You'll find a place for me, won't you?
That's what I want to do. But there's something in
the way, and a big something, too."</p>

<p>"I'm here to help that," said Basil.</p>

<p>"It's Bob," she answered. "The man that keeps
me. I'm afraid of him. He's been away for months,
out of England, but he's coming back at once. To-morrow
as likely as not, he couldn't say to a day. I
had a letter from Brindisi last week. He's been to
Palestine, <i>via</i> Alexandria."</p>

<p>A quick premonition took hold of the young man.</p>

<p>"Who is he?" he asked.</p>

<p>She took a photograph from the mantel-shelf and gave
it to him. It was one of the Stereoscopic Company's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span>
series of "celebrities." Under the portrait was printed&mdash;"Sir
Robert Llwellyn."</p>

<p>Gortre started violently.</p>

<p>"I know him," he said thickly. "I felt when I met
him&mdash;What does it all mean?"</p>

<p>He dropped his head into his hands, filled with the
old, nameless, unreasoning fear.</p>

<p>She looked steadily at him, wondering at his manner.</p>

<p>There was a tense silence for a time.</p>

<p>In the silence suddenly they heard a sound, clear and
distinct. A key was being inserted into the door of the
flat.</p>

<p>They waited breathlessly. Gertrude Hunt grew very
white. Without any words from her, Basil knew whose
fingers were even now upon the handle of the door.</p>

<p>Llwellyn entered. His huge form was dressed in a
light grey suit and he carried a straw hat in his hand.
His face was burned a deep brown.</p>

<p>He stopped suddenly as he saw Gortre and an ugly
look flashed out on the sensual, intellectual face. Some
swift intuition seemed to give him the key of the situation
or something near it.</p>

<p>"The curate of Dieppe!" he said in a cold, mirthless
voice. "And what, Mr. Gortre, may I ask, are you
doing here?"</p>

<p>"Miss Hunt has asked me to come and see her," answered
Basil.</p>

<p>"Consoling yourself with the Church, Gertie, while
your proprietor is away?" Llwellyn said with a sneer.</p>

<p>Then his manner changed suddenly.</p>

<p>He turned to Gortre. "Now then, my man," he
snarled, "get out of this place at once. You may not
know that I pay the rent and other expenses of this
establishment. It is <i>mine</i>. I know all about you. Your
reputation has reached me from sources you have little<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span>
idea of. And I saw you at Dieppe. I don't propose to
resume our acquaintance in London; kindly go at once."</p>

<p>Basil looked at the woman. He saw pleading, a terrible
entreaty in her eyes. If he left her now, the power
of this man, his strength of will, might drag her back for
ever into hell. He could see the girl regarded him with
terror. There was a great surprise in her face also.
The man seemed so strong and purposeful. Even Gortre
remembered that he had worn no such indefinable air of
confidence and triumph six months ago in France.</p>

<p>"Miss Hunt wants me to stay, sir," he answered
quietly, "and so I'm going to stay. But perhaps you
had better be given an explanation at once. Miss Hunt
is going to leave you to-morrow. She will never see you
again."</p>

<p>"And may I ask," the big man answered, "why you
have interfered in my private affairs and why you <i>think</i>&mdash;for
she is going to do nothing of the sort&mdash;Miss Hunt
is going from here?"</p>

<p>"Simply because the Holy Spirit wills it so," said the
clergyman.</p>

<p>Llwellyn looked steadily at him and then at the
woman.</p>

<p>Something he saw in their faces told him the truth.</p>

<p>He laughed shortly. "Let me tell you," he said in a
voice which quivered with ugly passion, "that in a short
time all meddling priests will lose their power over the
minds of others for ever. Your Christ, your God, the
pale dreamer of the East, shall be revealed to you and
all men at last!"</p>

<p>His manner had changed once more. Fierce as it was,
there was an intense <i>meaning</i> and power in it. He spoke
as one having authority, with also a concentrated hate in
his words, so real and bitter that it gave them a certain
fineness.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span></p>

<p>"Yes!" he continued, lifting his arm with a sudden
gesture:</p>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"'Far hence He lies<br /></span>
<span class="i2">In the lorn Syrian town,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And on His grave, with shining eyes,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The Syrian stars look down.'"<br /></span>
</div></div>

<p>Gortre answered him:</p>

<p>"You lie and you know you lie! and by the powers
given to me I'll tell you so from God Himself. Christ
is risen! And as the day follows the night so the Spirit
of God remains upon the earth God once visited, and
works upon the hearts of men."</p>

<p>"Are you going?" said Llwellyn, stepping towards
Gortre.</p>

<p>"No," the young man answered in sharp, angry tones.
"It's you that are going, Sir Robert. You know as well
as I do that I can do exactly as I like with you if it comes
to force. And really I am not at all disinclined to do
so, despite my parson's coat. Then you will have your
remedy, you know. The newly made knight fighting a
clergyman under such very curious circumstances! If
this thing is to become open talk, then let us have it so.
You can do me no harm. I came here at my vicar's request
and Miss Hunt's. You know best if you can stand
a scandal of this kind in your position. Now I'm going
to use my last argument. Are you going at once or shall
I knock you down and kick you out?"</p>

<p>He could not help a note of exultation in his voice,
try as he would. He was still a young man, full of
power and virility. His life had brought no trace of
effeminacy with it. And as he saw this splendid lying
intellect, the slave of evil, and rejoicing in it, as he heard
the arrogant denial of Christ's Godhead coming sonorously
from those polluted lips, a wild longing flared up<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span>
in him. Like a sudden flame, the impulse to strike a
clean, hard blow fired all his blood. The old Oxford
days of athletic triumphs on field, flood, and river came
back to him.</p>

<p>He measured the man scientifically with his eyes,
judging his distance, alert to strike.</p>

<p>But Llwellyn made no further movement of aggression
and uttered no word of menace. He did not seem
in the least afraid of Gortre or in any way intimidated
by him. Indeed, he laughed, a laugh which was very
hollow, mirthless, and cold.</p>

<p>"Ah, my boy," he said, "I have a worse harm to
work you than you can dream of yet. You will remember
me some day. You can't frighten me now. I will
go. I want no scandal. Good-bye, Gertrude. You
also will remember and regret some day. Good-bye."</p>

<p>He went noiselessly out of the room, still with the
strange flickering smile of prescience and fate upon his
evil face.</p>

<p>When he had gone, Gertrude fell into a passion of
weeping. The strain had been too great. Basil comforted
her as well as he could, and before he went
promised to see Father Ripon that night and make
arrangements that she should quietly disappear the next
day to some distant undiscoverable haven.</p>

<p class="p2b">Then he also went out into the night, through the
silent squares of sleeping houses towards the Clergy
House of St. Mary's. Once more his nerves were unstrung
and the old fears and the sense of waiting&mdash;Damocles-like
for some blow to fall&mdash;poured over him.</p>

<hr class="r5" />

<p>Sir Robert walked swiftly to Oxford Street, where he
found a cab. He ordered the man to drive him to the
Sheridan Club. On the way he stopped at Charing
Cross Station and ordered his luggage to be sent home<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span>
at once to his house in Upper Berkeley Street. He had
only been in London two or three hours, having crossed
from Calais that afternoon.</p>

<p>He washed when he had arrived at the famous club,
and then went up-stairs to the grill-room for some supper.
It was the hour when the Sheridan is full of the upper
Bohemian world. Great actors and musicians, a judge
on his way through town from one watering-place to
another,&mdash;for it was now the long vacation,&mdash;a good
many well-known journalists, all sorts and conditions of
men. All were eminent in their work, for that was a
condition of membership.</p>

<p>Llwellyn was welcomed on all sides, though men
noticed that he seemed preoccupied. His healthy appearance
was commented on, his face browned, as was
supposed, by the sun of the Riviera, his general fitness
of manner and carriage.</p>

<p>He took supper by himself at a small table, choosing
the menu with his usual extreme care, and more than
once summoning the head waiter to conference. Although
he kept glancing at his watch, as if expecting an
arrival, he made a good meal, mixing his own salad of
crisp white lettuce with deliberation.</p>

<p>He had sent a page early on his arrival to find out if
Mr. Constantine Schuabe was in the club.</p>

<p>He was standing at the desk in the middle of the
room, paying his bill, when the swing-doors were pushed
open and Schuabe entered. He was in evening dress
and carried a light overcoat on his arm.</p>

<p>Llwellyn gathered up his change and went to meet
him. Had there been an attentive observer to mark the
meeting of the two men he would have perhaps been a
little surprised at the fashion of it.</p>

<p>Although Llwellyn was a six-months' stranger to
London, and the meeting between the two men was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span>
obviously prearranged, <i>neither of the two men smiled as
they shook hands</i>. Both were expectant of each other,
pale, almost with some apprehension, it might have
been fancied; and though the meeting seemed a relief
to each, there was little human kindliness in it.</p>

<p>"Come down to the Hotel," said Schuabe; "we
can't possibly say anything here, every room is full."</p>

<p>They walked out of the club together, two figures of
noticeable distinction, very obviously belonging to the
ruling classes of England. The millionaire's pale and
beautiful face was worn and lined.</p>

<p>"Schuabe seems a bit done up," one man in the hall
said to another as the two friends passed through.</p>

<p>"Heat, I suppose," answered his companion. "Handsome
chap, though; doesn't seem to care for anything
worth having, only books and politics and that. Wish
I'd his money."</p>

<p>"So do I. But give me Bob Llwellyn of these two.
Thoroughly decent sort <i>he</i> is. Invented two new omelettes
and a white soup. Forgets all about his thing-um-bobs&mdash;old
Egyptian or something&mdash;they knighted him
for directly he leaves the Museum."</p>

<p>"That's the sort," answered a third man who had
joined them. "I don't object to a Johnny having a
brain, and knowing a devil of a lot, if he'll only jolly
well keep it to himself. Bob does that. I'm going
up-stairs to have a turn at poker. You fellows coming?"</p>

<p>Schuabe and Llwellyn walked to the Cecil, no great
distance, saying little by the way, and presently they
were in the millionaire's great room, with its spacious
view over the river.</p>

<p>The place was beautifully cool and full of flowers. A
great block of ice rose from a copper bowl placed on a
pedestal. The carpet had been covered with light matting
of rice straw, brought from Rawal-pindi. All the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span>
windows leading to the balcony were wide open, and the
balcony was covered with striped awning, underneath
which the electric lights glowed on the leaves of Japanese
palms, seeming as if they had been cunningly lacquered
a metallic green colour, and on low chairs of white
bleached rushes.</p>

<p>The two men sat down in the centre of the room on
light chairs, with a small Turkish table and cool drinks
between them.</p>

<p>"You've had all my letters, my last from Jaffa?"
asked Sir Robert.</p>

<p>"Yes, all of them," said Schuabe; "each one was
carefully destroyed after I had read it and memorialised
the contents. Let me say now that you have done your
work with extraordinary brilliance. It has been an intellectual
pleasure of a high order to follow your proceedings
and know your plans. There is not another
man in the world who could do what you have done.
Everything seems guarded against, all is secure."</p>

<p>"You are right, Schuabe," said Llwellyn, in a matter-of-fact
voice. "You bade me make a certain thing
<i>possible</i>. You paid me proportionately to the terrible
risks and for my unrivalled knowledge. Well, you and
I are going to shake the whole world as no two other
men have ever done, and what will be the end?"</p>

<p>"The end!" cried Schuabe, in a high, strained, unnatural
voice. "Who shall say? What man can know?
For ever more the gigantic fable of the Cross and the
Man God will be overthrown. The temples of the world
will fall into the abomination of desolation, and you and
I, latter-day bringers of light&mdash;Lucifers!&mdash;will kill the
pale Nazarene more surely than the Sanhedrists and
soldiers of the past."</p>

<p>There was a thin madness in his voice. The great
figure of the <i>savant</i> shifted uneasily in its chair.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span></p>

<p>"That fellow Gortre, that abominable young priest,
has been getting in my way to-night," he said with a
savage curse. "I found him with Gertrude Hunt, the
woman I've spent thousands on! The priests have
got her; she's going to 'lead a new life.' She has
'found Christ'!"</p>

<p>Schuabe smiled horribly, a cunning smile of unutterable
malice.</p>

<p>"He has crossed my path also," he said; "in some
way, by a series of coincidences, he has become slightly
involved in our lives. Leave the matter to me. So
small a thing as the fanaticism of one obscure youth is
nothing to trouble us. I will see to his future. But he
shall live to know what is coming to the world. Then&mdash;it
is easy enough. He thwarted <i>me</i> one night also."</p>

<p>They were silent for a minute or two. Sir Robert
lifted a long glass to his lips. His hand shook with
passion, and the ice in the liquid clinked and tinkled.</p>

<p>"Everything is now ready," he said at last, glancing
at Schuabe. "Every detail. Ionides knows what he
has to do when he receives the signal. He is a mere
tool, and knows and cares nothing of what will happen.
He is to direct the excavators in certain directions, that
is all. It will be three months, so I calculate, after we
have set the machinery in motion, before the blow will
fall. It rests with you now to begin."</p>

<p>"The sign shall go at once," said Schuabe. His eyes
glittered, his mouth worked with emotion.</p>

<p>"It is a letter with a single sign on it."</p>

<p>"What is the sign?"</p>

<p>"A drawing of a broken cross."</p>

<p class="p4b">"Before the day dawns we will send the broken cross
to Jerusalem."</p>

<h4>END OF BOOK I</h4>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span></p>
<h2><br />BOOK II</h2>

<p class="center">"A horror of great darkness."</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_Ib" id="CHAPTER_Ib">CHAPTER I</a></h2>

<h4>WHILE LONDON WAS SLEEPING</h4>

<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">I</span><span class="smcap">n</span> the winter, two or three weeks before Christmas,
Gortre asked Father Ripon for a ten days' holiday,
and went to Walktown to spend the time with Mr. Byars
and Helena. Christmas itself could be no time of vacation
for him,&mdash;the duties of St. Mary's were very heavy,&mdash;so
he snatched a respite from work before the actual
time of festival.</p>

<p>Harold Spence was left alone in the chambers at Lincoln's
Inn. The journalist found himself discontented,
lonely, and bored. He had not realised before how
much Basil's society had contributed to his happiness
during the past few months. It had grown to be a
necessity to him gradually, and, as is the case with all
gradual processes, the lack of it surprised him with its
sense of incompleteness and loss.</p>

<p>He had spent a hard summer and autumn over very
uncongenial work. For months there had been a curious
lull and calm in the news-world. Yet day by day
the <i>Daily Wire</i> had to be filled. Not that there was
any lack of material,&mdash;even in the dullest season the
expert journalist will tell one that his difficulty is what
to <i>leave out</i> of his paper, not what to <i>put in</i>,&mdash;but that the
material was uninteresting and dull.</p>

<p>He felt himself that his leaders were growing rather
stale, lacking in spontaneity. His style did not glitter
and ring quite as usual. And Basil had helped him
through this time wonderfully.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span>
One Wednesday&mdash;he remembered the day afterwards&mdash;Spence
awoke about mid-day. He had been late at
the office the night before and afterwards had gone to a
club, not going to bed till after four.</p>

<p>He heard the laundress moving about the chambers
preparing his breakfast. He shouted to her, and in a
minute or two she came in with his letters and a cup of tea.
She went to the window and pulled up the blind, letting
a dreary grey-yellow December light into the room.</p>

<p>"Nasty day, Mrs. Buscall," he said, sipping his tea.</p>

<p>"It is so, sir," the woman said, a lean, kindly-faced
London drudge from a court in Drury Lane. "Gives
me a frog in my throat all the time, this fog does.
You'd better let me pour a drop of hot water in your
bath, sir. I've got the kettle on the gas stove."</p>

<p>The laundress had an objection to baths, deep-rooted
and a matter of principle. The daily cold tub she
regarded as suicidal, and when Gortre had arrived, her
pained surprise at finding him also&mdash;a clergyman too!&mdash;addicted
to such adventurous and injudicious habits
had been as extreme as her disappointment.</p>

<p>Spence agreed to humour her, and she began to prepare
the bath.</p>

<p>"Letter from Mr. Cyril, I see, sir," she remarked.
Mrs. Buscall loved the archæologist with more strenuousness
than her other two charges. The unusual and
mysterious has a real fascination for a certain type of
uneducated Cockney brain. Hands's rare sojourns at
the chambers, the Eastern dresses and pictures in his
room, his strange and perilous life&mdash;as she considered it&mdash;in
the veritable Bible land, where Satan actually
roamed the desert in the form of a lion seeking whom
he might devour, all these stimulated her crude imagination
and brought colour into the dreary purlieus of
Drury Lane.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span>
Most of the women around Mrs. Buscall drank gin.
The doings of Cyril Hands were sufficient tonic for her.</p>

<p>Spence glanced at the bulky packet with its Turkish
stamps and peculiar aroma&mdash;which the London fog had
not yet killed&mdash;of ships and alien suns. Hands was a
good correspondent. Sometimes he sent general articles
on the work he was doing, not too technical, and Ommaney,
the editor of Spence's paper, used and paid well
for them.</p>

<p>But on this morning Spence did not feel inclined to
open the packet. It could wait. He was not in the
humour for it now. It would be too tantalising to read
of those deep skies like a hard, hollow turquoise, of the
flaming white sun, the white mosques and minarets
throwing purple shadows round the cypress and olive.</p>

<p>"<i>Neque enim ignari sumus</i>," he muttered to himself,
recalling the swing and freedom of his own travels, the
vivid, picturesque life where, at great moments, he
had been one of the eyes of England, flashing electric
words to tell his countrymen of what lay before him.</p>

<p>And now, after the chill of his bath and the rasping
torture of shaving in winter, he must light all the gas-jets
as he sat down to breakfast in his sitting-room!</p>

<p>He opened the <i>Wire</i> and glanced at his own work of
the night before. How lifeless it seemed to him!</p>

<blockquote><p>"Many years ago Bagehot wrote that 'Parliament expresses
the nation's opinions in words well, when it
happens that words, not laws, are wanted. On foreign
matters, where we cannot legislate, whatever the English
nation thinks, or thinks it thinks, as to the critical events
of the world, whether in Denmark, in Italy or America,
and no matter whether it thinks wisely or unwisely, that
same something, wise or unwise, will be thoroughly well
said in Parliament.'</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span></p>

<p>
"We have never read a finer defence of such Parliamentary
discussion as the recent events in certain Continental
bureaucracies have given rise to, etc., etc."</p></blockquote>

<p>Words! words! words! that seemed to him to mean
little and matter nothing. Yet as he chipped his egg he
remembered that the writing of this leader had meant
considerable mental strain. Oh, for a big happening
abroad, when he would be sent and another would take
up this routine work! He knew he was a far better correspondent
than leader writer. His heart was in that
work.</p>

<p>There were one or two invitations among his letters,
two books were sent by a young publisher, a friend of his,
asking if he could get them "noticed" in the <i>Wire</i>, and
a syllabus of some winter lectures to be given at Oxford
House. His name was there. He was to lecture in
January on "The Sodality of the Knights of St. John".</p>

<p>After breakfast, the lunch time of most of the world,
he found it impossible to settle down to anything. He
was not due at the office that night, and the long hours,
without the excitement of his work, stretched rather hopelessly
before him. He thought of paying calls in the
various parts of the West End, where he had friends
whom he had rather neglected of late. But he dismissed
that idea when it came, for he did not feel as if he could
make himself very agreeable to any one.</p>

<p>He wanted a complete change of some sort. He half
thought of running down to Brighton, fighting the cold,
bracing sea winds on the lawns at Hove, and returning
the next day.</p>

<p>He was certainly out of sorts, liverish no doubt, and
the solution to his difficulties presented itself to him in
the project of a Turkish bath.</p>

<p>He put his correspondence into the pocket of his overcoat,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span>
to be read at leisure, and drove to a hammam in
Jermyn Street.</p>

<p>The physical warmth, the silence, the dim lights, and
Oriental decorations induced a supreme sense of comfort
and <i>bien-être</i>. It brought Constantinople back to him in
vague reverie.</p>

<p>Perhaps, he thought, the Turkish bath in London is
the only easy way to obtain a sudden and absolute
change of environment. Nothing else brings detachment
so readily, is so instinct with change and the
unusual.</p>

<p>In delightful langour he passed from one dim chamber
to another, lying prone in the great heat which surrounded
him like a cloak. Then the vigorous kneading
and massage, the gradual toning and renovating of each
joint and muscle, till he stood drenched in aromatic
foam, a new, fresh physical personality. The swift dive
under the india-rubber curtain left behind the domed,
dim places of heat and silence. He plunged through the
bottle-green water of the marble pool into the hall, where
lounges stood about by small inlaid octagonal tables, and
a thin whip of a fountain tinkled among green palms.
Wrapped from head to foot in soft white towels, he lay
in a dream of contentment, watching the delicate spirals
from his Cairene cigarette, and sipping the brown froth
of a tiny cup of thick coffee.</p>

<p>At four a slippered attendant brought him a sole and
a bottle of yellow wine, and after the light meal he fell
once more into a placid, restorative sleep.</p>

<p>And all the while the letter from Jerusalem was in his
overcoat pocket, forgotten, hung in the entrance-hall.
The thing which was to alter the lives of thousands and
ten thousands, that was to bring a cloud over England
more dark and menacing than it had ever known, lay
there with its stupendous message, its relentless influence,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span>
while outside the church bells all over London were tolling
for Evensong.</p>

<p>At length, as night was falling, Spence went out into
the lighted streets with their sudden roar of welcome.
He was immensely refreshed in brain and body. His
thoughts moved quickly and well, depression had left
him, the activity of his brain was unceasing.</p>

<p>As a rule, especially for the last year or two, Spence
was by no means a man given to casual amusements.
His work was too absorbing for him to have time or inclination
to follow pleasure. But to-night he felt in the
humour for relaxation.</p>

<p>He turned into St. James Street, where his club was,
intending to find some one who would go to a music-hall
with him. There was no one he knew intimately in
the smoking-room, but soon after he arrived Lambert,
one of the deputy curators from the British Museum,
came in. Spence and Lambert had been at Marlborough
together.</p>

<p>Spence asked Lambert, who was in evening dress, to
be his companion.</p>

<p>"Sorry I can't, old man," he answered; "I've got
to dine with my uncle, Sir Michael. It's a bore, of
course, but it's policy. The place will be full of High
Church bishops, minor Cabinet Ministers, and people of
that sort. I only hope old Ripon will be there&mdash;he's
my uncle's tame vicar, you know; uncle runs an expensive
church, like some men run a theatre&mdash;for he's
always bright and amusing. You're not working to-night,
then?"</p>

<p>"No, not to-night. I've been and had a Turkish
bath, and I thought I'd wind up a day of mild dissipation
by going to the Alhambra."</p>

<p>"Sorry I can't go too&mdash;awful bore. I've had a
tiring day, too, and a ballet would be refreshing. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span>
governor's been in a state of filthy irritation and nerves
for the last fortnight."</p>

<p>"Sir Robert Llwellyn, isn't it?"</p>

<p>"Yes, he's my chief, and a very good fellow too, as a
rule. He went away for several months, you know&mdash;travelled
abroad for his health. When he first came back,
three months ago, he looked as fit as a fiddle, and seemed
awfully pleased with himself all round. But lately he's
been decidedly off colour. He seems worried about
something, does hardly any work, and always seems waiting
and looking out for a coming event. He bothers me out
of my life, always coming into my room and talking about
nothing, or speculating upon the possibility of all sorts of
new discoveries which will upset every one's theories."</p>

<p>"I met him in Dieppe in the spring. He seemed all
right then, just at the beginning of his leave."</p>

<p>"Well, he's certainly not that now, worse luck, and
confound him. He interferes with my work no end.
Good-bye; sorry I must go."</p>

<p>He passed softly over the heavy carpet of the smoking-room,
and Spence was left alone once more.</p>

<p>It was after seven o'clock.</p>

<p>Spence wasn't hungry yet. The light meal in the
hammam had satisfied him. He resolved to go to the
Empire alone, not because the idea of going seemed
very attractive, but because he had planned it and could
substitute no other way of spending the evening for the
first determination.</p>

<p>So, about nine o'clock, he strolled into the huge,
garish music-hall.</p>

<p>He went into the Empire, and already his contentment
was beginning to die away again. The day seemed a
day of trivialities, a sordid, uneventful day of London
gloom, which he had vainly tried to disperse with little
futile rockets of amusement.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span></p>

<p>He sat down in a stall and watched a clever juggler
doing wonderful things with billiard balls. After the
juggler a coarsely handsome Spanish girl came upon the
stage&mdash;he remembered her at La Scala, in Paris. She
was said to be one of the beauties of Europe, and a
king's favourite.</p>

<p>After the Spanish woman there were two men,
"brothers" some one. One was disguised as a donkey&mdash;a
veritable <i>peau de chagrin</i>!&mdash;the other as a tramp, and
together they did laughable things.</p>

<p>With a sigh he went up-stairs and moved slowly through
the thronged promenade. The hard faces of the men
and women repelled him. One elderly Jewish-looking
person reminded him of a great grey slug. He turned
into the American bar at one extremity of the horse-shoe.
It was early yet, and the big room, pleasantly
cool, was quite empty. A man brought him a long, parti-coloured
drink.</p>

<p>He felt the pressure of a packet in his pocket. It was
Cyril Hands's letter, he found as he took it out. He
thought of young Lambert at the club, a friend of Hands
and fellow-worker in the same field, and languidly opened
the letter.</p>

<p>Two women came in and sat at a table not far from
him as he began to read. He was the only man in the
place, and they regarded him with a tense, conscious
interest.</p>

<p>They saw him open a bulky envelope with a careless
manner. He would look up soon, they expected.</p>

<p>But as they watched they saw a sudden, swift contraction
of the brows, a momentous convulsion of every
feature. His head bent lower towards the manuscript.
They saw that he became very pale.</p>

<p>In a minute or two what had at first seemed a singular
paleness became a frightful ashen colour.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span></p>

<p>"That Johnny's going to be ill," one of the women
said to the other.</p>

<p>As she spoke they saw the face change. A lurid excitement
burst upon it like a flame. The eyes glowed,
the mouth settled into swift purpose.</p>

<p>Spence took up his hat and left the room with quick,
decided steps. He threaded his way through the crowd
round the circle&mdash;like a bed of orchids, surrounded by
heavy, poisonous scents&mdash;and almost ran into the street.</p>

<p>A cab was waiting. He got into it, and, inspired by
his words and appearance, the man drove furiously down
dark Garrick Street, and the blazing Strand towards the
offices of the <i>Daily Wire</i>.</p>

<p>The great building of dressed stone which stood in the
middle of Fleet Street was dark. The advertisement
halls and business offices were closed.</p>

<p>Spence paid his man and dived down a long, narrow
passage, paved, and with high walls on either side. At
the end of the passage he pushed open some battered
swing-doors. A <i>commissionaire</i> in a little hutch touched
his cap as Spence ran up a broad flight of stone stairs.</p>

<p>The journalist turned down a long corridor with doors
on either side. The glass fanlights over the doors showed
that all the rooms were brilliantly lit within. The place
was very quiet, save for the distant clicking of a typewriter
and the thud of a "column-printer" tape machine
as the wheel carrier shot back for a new line.</p>

<p>He opened a door with his own name painted on it and
went inside. At a very large writing-table, on which
stood two shaded electric lights, an elderly man, heavily
built and bearded, was writing on small slips of paper.
There was another table in the room, a great many books
on shelves upon the walls, and a thick carpet. The big
man looked up as Spence came in, lifted a cup of tea
which was standing by him, and drank a little. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span>
nodded without speaking, and went on with his leading
article.</p>

<p>Spence took off his hat and coat, drew the sheets of
Hands's letter from his pocket, and went out into the
passage. At the extreme end he opened a door, and
passing round a red baize screen found himself in Ommaney's
room, the centre of the great web of brains and
machinery which daily gave the <i>Wire</i> to the world.</p>

<p>Ommaney's room was very large, warm, and bright.
It was also extremely tidy. The writing-table had little
on it save a great blotting-pad and an inkstand. The
books on chairs and shelves were neatly arranged.</p>

<p>The editor sat at a table in the centre of the room,
facing several doors which led into various departments
of the staff. The chief sub-editor, a short, alert person,
spectacled and Jewish in aspect, stood by Ommaney's
side as Spence came in. He had proof of page three in
his hand&mdash;that portion of the paper which consisted of
news which had accumulated through the day. He was
submitting it to the editor, so that the whole sheet might
be finally "passed for press" and "go to the foundry,"
where the type would be pressed into <i>papier-mâché</i>
moulds, from which the final curved plates for the roller
machines would be cast.</p>

<p>"Not at all a bad make-up, Levita," Ommaney said,
as he initialled the margin in blue pencil. The sub-editor
hurried from the room.</p>

<p>Ommaney was slim and pale, carefully dressed, and of
medium height. He did not look very old. His moustache
was golden and carefully tended, his pale, honey-coloured
hair waved over a high, white forehead.</p>

<p>"I shall want an hour," Spence said. "I've just got
what may be the most stupendous news any newspaper
has ever published."</p>

<p>The editor looked up quickly. A flash of interest<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span>
passed over his pale, immobile face and was gone. He
knew that if Spence spoke like this the occasion was
momentous.</p>

<p>He looked at his watch. "Is it news for to-night's
paper?" he said.</p>

<p>"No," answered Spence. "I'm the only man in
England, I think, who has it yet. We shall gain nothing
by printing to-night. But we must settle on a course of
action at once. That won't wait. You'll understand
when I explain."</p>

<p class="p2b">Ommaney nodded. On the writing-table was a mahogany
stand about a foot square. A circle was described
on it, and all round the circle, like the figures on
the face of a clock, were little ivory tablets an inch long,
with a name printed on each. In the centre of the circle
a vulcanite handle moved a steel bar working on a pivot.
Ommaney turned the handle till the end of the bar rested
over the tablet marked</p>

<div>
<p class="box">COMPOSING ROOM</p>
</div>

<p class="p2">He picked up the receiver and transmitter of a portable
telephone and asked one or two questions.</p>

<p>When he had communicated with several other rooms
in this way Ommaney turned to Spence.</p>

<p>"All right," he said, "I can give you an hour now.
Things are fairly easy to-night."</p>

<p>He got up from the writing-table and sat down by the
fire. Spence took a chair opposite.</p>

<p>He seemed dazed. He was trembling with excitement,
his face was pale with it, yet, above and beyond
this agitation, there was almost fear in his eyes.</p>

<p>"It's a discovery in Palestine&mdash;at Jerusalem," he
said in a low, vibrating voice, spreading out the thin,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span>
crackling sheets of foreign note-paper on his knee and
arranging them in order.</p>

<p>"You know Cyril Hands, the agent of the Palestine
Exploring Fund?"</p>

<p>"Yes, quite well by reputation," said Ommaney,
"and I've met him once or twice. Very sound man."</p>

<p>"These papers are from him. They seem to be of tremendous
importance, of a significance that I can hardly
grasp yet."</p>

<p>"What is the nature of them?" asked the editor,
rising from his chair, powerfully affected in his turn by
Spence's manner.</p>

<p>Harold put his hand up to his throat, pulling at his
collar; the apple moved up and down convulsively.</p>

<p>"The Tomb!" Spence gasped. "The Holy Tomb!"</p>

<p>"What do you mean?" asked Ommaney. "Another
supposed burial-place of Christ&mdash;like the <i>Times</i> business,
when they found the Gordon Tomb, and Canon MacColl
wrote such a lot?"</p>

<p>His face fell a little. This, though interesting enough,
and fine "news copy," was less than he hoped.</p>

<p>"No, no," cried Spence, getting his voice back at last
and speaking like a man in acute physical pain. "<i>A
new tomb has been found. There is an inscription in
Greek, written by Joseph of Arimathæa, and there are
other traces.</i>"</p>

<p>His voice failed him.</p>

<p>"<i>Go on, man, go on!</i>" said the editor.</p>

<p>"<i>The inscription&mdash;tells that Joseph&mdash;took the body of
Jesus&mdash;from his own garden tomb&mdash;he hid it in this place&mdash;the
disciples never knew&mdash;it is a confession</i>&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>Ommaney was as white as Spence now.</p>

<p>"<i>There are other contributory proofs</i>," Spence continued.
"<i>Hands says it is certain. All the details are
here, read</i>&mdash;&mdash;"</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span></p>

<p>Ommaney stared fixedly at his lieutenant.</p>

<p>"<i>Then, if this is true</i>," he whispered, "<i>it means?</i>&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"<span class="smcap">That christ never rose from the dead, that
christianity is all a lie.</span>"</p>

<p>Spence slipped back in his chair a little and fainted.</p>

<p>With the assistance of two men from one of the other
rooms they brought him back to consciousness before
very long. Then while Ommaney read the papers Spence
sat nervously in his chair, sipping some brandy-and-water
they had brought him and trying to smoke a
cigarette with a palsied hand.</p>

<p>The editor finished at last. "Pull yourself together,
Spence," he said sharply. "This is no time for sentiment.
I know your beliefs, though I do not share them,
and I can sympathise with you. But keep yourself off
all private thoughts now. We must be extremely careful
what we are doing. Now listen carefully to me."</p>

<p>The keen voice roused Spence. He made a tremendous
effort at self-control.</p>

<p>"It seems," Ommaney went on, "that we alone know
of this discovery. The secretary of the Palestine Exploring
Society will not receive the news for another
week, Hands says. He seems stunned, and no wonder.
In about a fortnight his detailed papers will probably be
published. I see he has already telegraphed privately
for Dr. Schmöulder, the German expert. Of course
you and I are hardly competent to judge of the value of
this communication. To me&mdash;speaking as a layman&mdash;it
seems extremely clear. But we must of course see a
specialist before publishing anything. <i>If this news is
true</i>&mdash;and I would give all I am worth if it were not,
though I am no Christian&mdash;of course you realise that the
future history of the world is changed? I hold in my
hand something that will come to millions and millions
of people as an utter extinction of hope and light. It's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span>
impossible to say what will happen. Moral law will be
abrogated for a time. The whole moral fabric of Society
will fall into ruin at once until it can adjust itself to the
new state of things. There will be war all over the
world; crime will cover England like a cloud&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>His voice faltered as the terrible picture grew in his
brain.</p>

<p>Both of them felt that mere words were utterly unable
to express the horrors which they saw dawning.</p>

<p>"We don't know the truth yet," said Spence, at
length.</p>

<p>"No," answered Ommaney. "I am not going to
speculate on it either. I am beginning to realise what
we are dealing with. One man's brain cannot hold all
this. So let me ask you to regard this matter <i>for the
present</i> simply from the standpoint of the paper, and
through it, of course, from the standpoint of public
policy&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>He broke off suddenly, for there was a knock at the
door. A <i>commissionaire</i> entered with a telegram. It
was for Spence. He opened the envelope, read the contents
with a groan, and passed it to the editor.</p>

<p>The telegram was from Hands:</p>

<blockquote><p>"Schmöulder entirely confirms discovery, is communicating
first instance with Kaiser privately, fuller
details in mail, confer Ommaney, make statement to
Secretary Society, use Wire medium publicity, leave all
to you, see Prime Minister, send out Llwellyn behalf
Government immediately, meanwhile suggest attitude
suspended decision, personally fear little doubt.&mdash;<span class="smcap">Hands.</span>"</p></blockquote>

<p>"We must act at once," said Ommaney. "We have
a fearful responsibility now. It's not too much to say<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span>
that everything depends on us. Have you got any of
that brandy left? My head throbs like an engine."</p>

<p>A sub-editor who came in and was briefly dismissed
told his colleagues that something was going on in the
editor's room of an extraordinary nature. "The chief
was actually drinking a peg, and his hand shook like a
leaf."</p>

<p>Ommaney drank the spirits&mdash;he was an absolute teetotaler
as a rule, though not pledged in any way to abstinence&mdash;and
it revived him.</p>

<p>"Now let us try and think," he said, lighting a cigarette
and walking up and down the room.</p>

<p>Spence lit a cigarette also. As he did so he gave a
sudden, sharp, unnatural chuckle. He was smoking
when the Light of the World&mdash;the whole great world!&mdash;was
flickering into darkness.</p>

<p>Ommaney saw him and interpreted the thought. He
pulled him up at once with a few sharp words, for he
knew that Spence was close upon hysteria.</p>

<p>"From a news point of view," he continued, "we
hold all the cards. No one else knows what we know.
I am certain that the German papers will publish nothing
for a day or two. The Emperor will tell them nothing,
and they can have no other source of information; so I
gather from this telegram. Dr. Schmöulder will not
say anything until he has instructions from Potsdam.
That means I need not publish anything in to-morrow's
paper. It will relieve me of a great responsibility. We
shall be first in the field, but I shall still have a few hours
to consult with others."</p>

<p>He pressed a bell on the table. "Tell Mr. Jones I
wish to see him," he told the boy who answered the
summons.</p>

<p>A young man came in, the editor of the "personal"
column.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span></p>

<p>"Is the Prime Minister in town, Mr. Jones?" he
asked.</p>

<p>"Yes, sir; he's here for three more days."</p>

<p>"I shall send a message now," said Ommaney, "asking
for an interview in an hour's time. I know he will
see me. He knows that I would not come at this hour
unless the matter were of national importance. As you
know, we are very much in the confidence of the Cabinet
just now. I dare not wait till to-morrow." He rapidly
wrote a note and sent for Mr. Folliott Farmer.</p>

<p>The big-bearded man from Spence's room entered,
smoking a briar pipe.</p>

<p>"Mr. Farmer," said Ommaney, "I suppose you've
done your leader?"</p>

<p>"Sent it up-stairs ten minutes ago," said the big man.</p>

<p>"Then I want you to do me a favour. The matter is
so important that I do not like to trust any one else. I
want you to drive to Downing Street at once as hard as
you can go. Take this letter for Lord &mdash;&mdash;. It is making
an appointment for me in an hour's time. He <i>must</i>
see it himself at once&mdash;take my card. One of the secretaries
will try and put you off, of course. This is irregular,
but it is of international importance. When I tell
you this you will realise that Lord &mdash;&mdash; <i>must</i> see the
note. Bring me back the answer as rapidly as you can."</p>

<p>The elderly man&mdash;his name was a household word as
a political writer all over England and the Continent&mdash;nodded
without speaking, took the letter, and left the
room. He knew Ommaney, and realised that if he made
a messenger boy of him, Folliott Farmer, the matter was
of supreme importance.</p>

<p>"That is the only thing to do," said Ommaney. "No
one else would be possible. The Archbishop would
laugh. We must go to the real head. I only want to
put myself on the safe side before publishing. If they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span>
meet me properly, then for the next few days we can
control public opinion. If not, then it is my duty to
publish, and if I'm not officially backed up there may
be war in a week. Macedonia would be flaming, Turkish
fanatics would embroil Europe. But that will be seen
at once in Downing Street, unless I'm very much mistaken."</p>

<p>"It's an awful, horrible risk we are running," said
Spence. He was forgetting all personal impressions in
the excitement of the work; the journalist was alive in
him. "Hands's letter and diagrams seem so flawless;
he has exhausted every means of disproving what he
says; but still supposing that it is all untrue!"</p>

<p>"I look at it this way," said Ommaney. "It's perfectly
obvious, at any rate, that the discovery is of the
first importance, regarded as news. Hands has the reputation
of being a thoroughly safe man, and now he is
supported by Schmöulder. Schmöulder is, of course, a
man of world-wide reputation. As these two are certain,
even if later opinion or discovery proves the thing to be
untrue, the paper can't suffer. Our attitude will, of
course, be non-committal, until certainty one way or the
other comes. At any rate, it seems to me that you have
brought in the greatest newspaper 'scoop' that has ever
been known or thought of. For my part, I have little
doubt of the truth of this. Can't go into it now, but it
seems so very, very probable. It <i>explains</i>, and even <i>corroborates</i>,
and that's the wonderful thing, so much of
the Gospel narrative. We shall see what Llwellyn says.
I've more to go into, but, meanwhile, I must make arrangements
for setting up Hands's papers. Then there
are the inscriptions, too. Of course they must be reproduced
in facsimile. As we can't print in half-tone, I
must have the photograph turned into an absolutely correct
line drawing, and have line blocks made. I shall<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span>
have pulls of the whole thing prepared and sent by post
to-morrow at midnight to the editors of all the dailies in
London and Paris, and to the heads of the Churches. I
shall also prepare a statement, showing exactly how the
documents have come into our possession and what steps
we are taking. I shall write the thing to-night, after I
have seen the Prime Minister."</p>

<p>He went to his writing-table once more, moved the
telephone indicator, and summoned the foreman printer.</p>

<p>In a few moments a lean Scotchman in his shirt sleeves&mdash;one
of the most autocratic and important people connected
with the paper&mdash;came into the room.</p>

<p>"I want an absolutely reliable linotype operator, Burness,"
said Ommaney. "He will have to set up some
special copy for me after the paper's gone to press.
It'll take him till breakfast-time. I want a man who
will not talk. The thing is private and important. And
it must be a man who can set up from the Greek font
by hand also. There are some quotations in Greek included
in the text."</p>

<p>"Well, sirr," said the man, with a strong Scotch accent,
"I can find ye a guid operrator to stay till morning,
but aboot his silence&mdash;if it's of great moment&mdash;I
wouldn't say, and aboot his aptitude for setting up
Greek type I hae nae doot whatever. There's no a
lino operrator in the building wha can do it. Some of
the men at the case might, but that'll be keeping two
men. Is it verra important, Mr. Ommaney?"</p>

<p>"More important than anything I have ever dealt
with."</p>

<p>"Then ye'll please jist give the copy into my own
hands, sirr. I'll do the lino and the case warrk mysel'
and pull a galley proof for ye too. No one shall see the
copy but me."</p>

<p>"Thank you, Burness," said the editor. "I'm very<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span>
much obliged. I shall be here till morning. I shall go
out in an hour and be back by the time the machines are
running down-stairs. Then the composing-room will be
empty and you can get to work."</p>

<p>"I'll start directly the plates have gone down to the
foundry and the men are off, just keeping one hand to
see to the gas-engine."</p>

<p>"And, Burness, lock up the galley safely when you
come down with the proof."</p>

<p>"I'll do it, sir," and the great man&mdash;indispensable,
and earning his six hundred a year&mdash;went away with the
precious papers.</p>

<p>"That is perfectly safe with Burness," said Spence,
as the foreman compositor retired. "He will make no
mistakes either. He is a capital Greek scholar, corrects
the proof-readers themselves often."</p>

<p>"Yes," answered Ommaney, "I know. I shall leave
everything in his hands. Then late to-morrow night,
just before the forms go to the foundry, I shall shove
the whole thing in before any one knows anything about
it, and nothing can get round to any other office. Burness
will know about it beforehand, and he'll be ready
to break up a whole page for this stuff. Of course, as
far as leaders go and comment, I shall be guided very
much by the result of my interview to-night and others
to-morrow morning. I shall send off several cables before
dawn to Palestine and elsewhere."</p>

<p>Once more the editor began to pace up and down the
room, thinking rapidly, decisively, deeply. The slim,
fragile body was informed with power by the splendid
brain which animated it.</p>

<p>The rather languid, silent man was utterly changed.
Here one could see the strength and force of the personality
which directed and controlled the second, perhaps
the first, most powerful engine of public opinion in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span>
world. The millionaires who paid this frail-looking,
youthful man an enormous sum to direct their paper for
them knew what they were about. They had bought
one of the finest living executive brains and made it a
potentate among its fellows. This man who, when he
was not at the office, or holding some hurried colloquy
with one of the rulers of the world, was asleep in a solitary
flat at Kensington, knew that he had an accepted
right to send a message to Downing Street, such as he
had lately done. No one knew his face&mdash;no one of the
great outside public; his was hardly even a name to be
recognised in passing, yet he, and Spence, and Folliott
Farmer could shake a continent with their words. And
though all knew it, or would at least have realised it had
they ever given it a thought, the absolute self-effacement
of journalism made it a matter of no moment to any of
them.</p>

<p>While Englishmen read their dicta, and unconsciously
incorporated them into their own pronouncements,
mouthing them in street, market, and forum, these men
slept till the busy day was over, and once more with the
setting of the sun stole out to their almost furtive and
yet tremendous task.</p>

<p>Every now and then Ommaney strode to the writing-table
and made a rapid note on a sheet of paper.</p>

<p>At last he turned to Spence.</p>

<p>"I am beginning to have our line of action well marked
out in my brain," he said. "The thing is grouping itself
very well. I am beginning to see my way. Now about
you, Spence. Of course this thing is yours. At any rate
you brought it here. Later on, of course, we shall show
our gratitude in some substantial way. That will depend
upon the upshot of the whole thing. Meanwhile, you
will be quite wasted in London. I and Farmer and Wilson
can deal with anything and everything here. Of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span>
course I would rather have you on the spot, but I can
use you far better elsewhere."</p>

<p>"Then?" said Spence.</p>

<p>"You must go to Jerusalem at once. Start for Paris
to-morrow morning at nine; you'd better go round to
your chambers and pack up now and then come back
here till it's time to start. You can sleep <i>en route</i>. I
shall be here till breakfast-time, and I can give you final
instructions."</p>

<p>He used the telephone once more and his secretary
came in.</p>

<p>"Mr. Spence starts for Palestine to-morrow morning,
Marriott," he said. "He is going straight through to
Jerusalem as fast as may be. Oblige me by getting out a
route for him at once, marking all the times for steamers
and trains, etc., in a clear scheme for Mr. Spence to take
with him. Be very careful with the Continental timetables
indeed. If you can see any delay anywhere which
will be likely to occur, go down to Cook's early in the
morning and make full inquiries. If it is necessary,
arrange for any special trains that may be necessary.
Mr. Spence must not be delayed a day. Also map out
various points on the journey, with the proper times,
where we can telegraph instructions to Mr. Spence. Go
down to Mr. Woolford and ask him for a hundred pounds
in notes and give them to Mr. Spence. You will arrange
about the usual letter of credit during the day and wire
Mr. Spence at Paris after lunch."</p>

<p>The young man went out to do his part in the great
organisation which Ommaney controlled.</p>

<p>"Then you'll be back between three and four?"
Ommaney said.</p>

<p>"Yes, I'll go and pack at once," Spence answered.
"My passport from the Foreign Office is all right now."</p>

<p>He rose to go, vigorous, and with an inexpressible<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span>
sense of relief at the active prospect before him. There
would be no time for haunting thought, for personal fears
yet. He was going, himself, to the very heart of things,
to see and to gain personal knowledge of these events
which were shadowing the world.</p>

<p>The door opened as he rose and Folliott Farmer strode
in. With him was a tall, distinguished man of about
five-and-thirty; he was in evening dress and rather bald.</p>

<p>It was Lord Trelyon, the Prime Minister's private
secretary.</p>

<p>"I thought I would come myself with Mr. Farmer,
Mr. Ommaney," he said, shaking hands cordially.
"Lord &mdash;&mdash; will see you. He tells me to say that if it
is absolutely imperative he will see you. I suppose there
is no doubt of that?"</p>

<p>"None whatever, I'm sorry to say, Lord Trelyon,"
the editor answered. "Farmer, will you take charge till
I return?"</p>

<p>He slipped on his overcoat and a felt hat and left the
room with the secretary without looking back. Spence
followed the two down the stairs&mdash;the tall, athletic young
fellow and the slim, nervous journalist. These were
just driving furiously towards the Law Courts as Spence
turned into Fleet Street on his way to Lincoln's Inn.</p>

<p>Fleet Street was brilliantly lit and almost silent. A
few cabs hovered about and that was all. Presently all
the air would be filled with the dull roar and hum of the
great printing machines in their underground halls, but
the press hour was hardly yet.</p>

<p>The porter let him into the Inn, and in a few moments
he was striking matches and lighting the gas. Mrs. Buscall
had cleared away the breakfast things, but the fire
had long since gone out. The big rooms looked very
bare and solitary, unfamiliar almost, as the gas-jets
hissed in the silence.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span></p>

<p>One or two letters were in the box. One envelope
bore the Manchester post-mark. It was from Basil
Gortre. A curious pang, half wonder and anticipation,
half fear, passed through his mind as he saw the familiar
handwriting of his friend. But it was a pang for Gortre,
not for himself. He himself was wholly detached now
that the time for action had arrived. Personal consideration
would come later. At present he was starting
out on the old trail&mdash;"The old trail, the long trail, the
trail that is always new."</p>

<p>He felt a <i>man</i> again, with a fierce joy and exultation
throbbing in all his veins after the torpor of the last few
weeks.</p>

<p>He sat down at the table, first getting some bread and
cheese from a cupboard, for he was hungry, and opening
a bottle of beer. The beer tasted wonderfully good.
He laughed exultingly in the flow of his high spirits.</p>

<p>He wrote a note to Mrs. Buscall, long since inured to
these sudden midnight departures, and another to Gortre.
To him he said that some great and momentous discoveries
were made at Jerusalem by Hands, and that he
himself was starting at once for the Holy City as special
correspondent for the <i>Wire</i>. He would write <i>en route</i>,
he explained, there was no time for any details now.</p>

<p>"Poor chap," he said to himself, "he'll know soon
enough now. I hope he won't take it very badly."</p>

<p>Then he went into his bedroom and hauled down the
great pig-skin kit-bag, covered with foreign labels, which
had accompanied him half over the world.</p>

<p>He packed quickly and completely, the result of long
practice. The pads of paper, the stylographic pens,
with the special ink for hot countries which would not
dry up or corrode, his revolvers, riding-breeches, boots
and spurs, the kodak, with spare films and light-tight zinc
cases, the old sun helmet&mdash;he forgot nothing.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span></p>

<p>When he had finished, and the big bag, with a small
Gladstone also, was strapped and locked, he changed
joyously from the black coat of cities into his travelling
tweeds of tough cloth. At length everything seemed
prepared. He sat on the bed and looked round him,
willing to be gone.</p>

<p>His eye fell on the opposite wall. A crucifix hung
there, carved in ebony and ivory. During his short holiday
at Dieppe, nearly nine months ago now, he had gone
into the famous little shop there where carved work of
all kinds is sold. Basil and Helena were with him and
they had all bought mementoes. Helena had given him
that.</p>

<p>And as he looked at it now he wondered what his
journey would bring forth. Was he, indeed, chosen out
of men to go to this far country to tear Christ from that
awful and holy eminence of the Cross? Was it to be his
mission to extinguish the <i>Lux Mundi</i>?</p>

<p>As he gazed at the sacred emblem he felt that this
could not be.</p>

<p>No, no! a thousand times no. Jesus <i>had</i> risen to save
him and all other sinners. It <i>was</i> so, must be so, should
be so.</p>

<p>The Holy Name was in itself enough. He whispered
it to himself. No, <i>that</i> was eternally, gloriously true.</p>

<p>Humbly, faithfully, gladly he knelt among the litter of
the room and said the Lord's Prayer, said it in Latin as
he had said it at school&mdash;</p>

<p class="center">
<i>Pater noster!</i><br /><br />
</p>
<hr class="r20" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IIb" id="CHAPTER_IIb">CHAPTER II</a></h2>

<h4>AVOIDING THE FLOWER PATTERN ON THE CARPET</h4>

<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">S</span><span class="smcap">ir Michael Manichoe</span>, the stay and pillar of
"Anglicanism" in the English Church, was a man
of great natural gifts. The owner of one of those colossal
Jewish fortunes which, few as they are, have such
far-reaching influence upon English life, he employed it
in a way which, for a man in his position, was unique.</p>

<p>He presented the curious spectacle, to sociologists and
the world at large, of a Jew by origin who had become a
Christian by conviction and one of the sincerest sons of
the English Church as he understood it. In political
life Sir Michael was a steady, rather than a brilliant,
force. He had been Home Secretary under a former
Conservative administration, but had retired from office.
At the present moment he was a private member for the
division in which his country house, Fencastle, stood,
and he enjoyed the confidence of the chiefs of his party.</p>

<p>His great talent was for organisation, and all his powers
in that direction were devoted towards the preservation
and unification of the Church to which he was a convert.</p>

<p>Sir Michael's convictions were perfectly clear and
straightforward. He believed, with all his heart, in the
Catholicity of the Anglican persuasion. Roman priests
he spoke of as "members of the Italian mission"; Nonconformists
as "adherents to the lawless bands of Dissent."
He allowed the validity of Roman orders and
spoke of the Pope as the "Bishop of Rome," an Italian<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span>
ecclesiastic with whom the English communion had little
or nothing to do.</p>

<p>In his intimate and private life Sir Michael lived according
to rubric. His splendid private chapel at Fencastle
enjoyed the services of a chaplain, reinforced by
priests from a community of Anglican monks which Sir
Michael had established in an adjacent village. In London,
St. Mary's was, in some sense, his particular property.
He spent fabulous sums on the big Bloomsbury
Parish and the needs of its great, cathedral-like church.
There was no vicar in London who enjoyed the command
of money that Father Ripon enjoyed. Certainly there
was no other priest in the ranks of the High Churchmen
who was the confidential friend and spiritual director of
so powerful a political and social personality.</p>

<p>Yet in his public life Sir Michael was diplomatic
enough. He worked steadily for one thing, it is true,
but he was far too able to allow people to call him narrow-minded.
The Oriental strain of cunning in his blood had
sweetened to a wise diplomacy. While he always remembered
he was a Churchman, he did not forget that to
be an effective and helpful one he must keep his political
and social eminence. And so, whatever might take place
behind the scenes in the library with Father Ripon, or in
the Bloomsbury clergy house, the baronet showed the
world the face of a man of the world, and neither obtruded
his private views nor allowed them to disturb his
colleagues.</p>

<p>The day after the news arrived in Fleet Street from
Palestine&mdash;while nothing was yet known and Harold
Spence was rushing through Amiens <i>en route</i> for Paris
and the East&mdash;a house party began to collect at Fencastle,
the great place in Lincolnshire.</p>

<p>For a day or two a few rather important people were
to meet under Sir Michael's roof. Now and then the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span>
palace in the fen lands was the scene of notable gatherings,
much talked of in certain circles and commented
on by people who would truthfully have described themselves
as being "in the know."</p>

<p>These parties were, indeed, congresses of the eminent,
the "big" people who quietly control an England which
the ignorant and the vulgar love to imagine is in the
hands of a corrupt society of well-born, "smart," and
pleasure-seeking people.</p>

<p>The folk who gathered at Fencastle were as remote
from the gambling, lecherous, rabbit-brained set which
glitters so brightly before the eyes of the uninformed as
any staid, middle-class reader of the popular journals.</p>

<p>In this stronghold of English Catholicism&mdash;"hot-bed
of ritualists" as the brawling "Protestant" journals
called it, one met a diversity of people, widely divided
in views and only alike in one thing&mdash;the dominant
quality of their brains and position.</p>

<p>Sir Michael thought it well that even his professed
opponents should meet at his table, for it gave both him
and his lieutenants new data and fresh impressions for
use in the campaign. Sir Michael's convictions were
perfectly unalterable, but to find out how others&mdash;and
those hostile&mdash;really regarded them only added to the
weapons in his armoury.</p>

<p>And, as one London priest once remarked to another,
the combination of a Jewish brain and a Christian heart
was one which had already revolutionised Society nearly
two thousand years ago in the persons of eleven distinguished
instances.</p>

<p>As Father Ripon drove to Liverpool Street Station
after lunch, to catch the afternoon train to the eastern
counties, he was reading a letter as his cab turned into
Cheapside and crawled slowly through the heavy afternoon
traffic of the city.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span></p>

<blockquote><p>" ... It will be as well for you to see the man <i>à
huisclos</i> and form your own opinions. There can be no
doubt that he is a force to be reckoned with, and he is,
moreover, as I think you will agree after inspection, far
more brilliant and able than any other <i>professed</i> antichristian
of the front rank. Then there will also be
Mrs. Hubert Armstrong. She is a pseudo-intellectual
force, but her writings have a certain heaviness and
authoritative note which I believe to have real influence
with the large class of semi-educated people who mistake
an <i>atmosphere</i> of knowledge for knowledge itself. A
very charming woman, by the way, and I think sincere.
Matthew Arnold and water!</p>

<p>"The Duke of Suffolk will stop a night on his way
home. He writes that he wishes to see you. As you
know, he is just back from Rome, and now that they
have definitely pronounced against the validity of Anglican
orders he is most anxious to have a further chat with
you in order to form a working opinion as to <i>our</i> position.
From his letter to me, and the extremely interesting account
he gives of his interview at the Vatican, I gather
that the Roman Church still utterly misunderstands our
attitude, and that hopes there are high of the ultimate
"conversion" of England. I hope that as a representative
of English Churchmen you will be able to define
what we think in an unmistakable way. This will have
value. Among my other guests you will meet Canon
Walke. He is preaching in Lincoln Cathedral on the
Sunday, fresh from Windsor. "Render unto Cæsar"
will, I allow myself to imagine, not be an unlikely text
for his homily.&mdash;I am, Father, yours most sincerely,</p>

<p class="p2b"><span style="margin-left:10em">
"M. M."</span></p></blockquote>

<p>Still thinking carefully over Sir Michael's letter, Father
Ripon bought his ticket and made his way to the platform.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span></p>

<p>He got into a first-class carriage. While in London
the priest lived a life of asceticism and simplicity which
was not so much a considered thing as the outcome of
an absolute and unconscious carelessness about personal
and material comfort; when he went thus to a great
country house, he complied with convention because it
was politic.</p>

<p>He was the grandson of a peer, and, though he laughed
at these small points, he wished to meet his friend's opinions
in any reasonable way, rather than to flout them.</p>

<p>The carriage was empty, though a pile of newspapers
and a travelling rug in one corner showed Father Ripon
that he was to have one companion at any rate upon the
journey.</p>

<p>He had bought the <i>Church Times</i> at the bookstall and
was soon deeply immersed in the report of a Bampton
Lecture delivered during the week at the University
Church in Oxford.</p>

<p>Some one entered the carriage, the door was shut, and
the train began to move out of the station, but he was
too interested to look up to see who his companion
might be.</p>

<p>A voice broke in upon his thoughts as they were tearing
through the wide-spread slums of Bethnal Green.</p>

<p>"Do you mind if I smoke, sir? This isn't a smoking
carriage, but we are alone&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>It was an ordinary query enough. "Oh, dear, no!"
said the priest. "Please do, to your heart's content. It
doesn't inconvenience <i>me</i>."</p>

<p>Father Ripon's quick, breezy manner seemed to interest
the stranger. He looked up and saw a personality.
Obviously this clergyman was some one of note. The
heavy brows, the hawk-like nose, the large, firm, and yet
kindly mouth, all these seemed familiar in some vague
way.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span></p>

<p>For his part, Father Ripon experienced much the
same sensation as he glanced at the tall stranger. His
hair, which could be seen beneath his ordinary hard felt
hat, was dark red and somewhat abundant. His features
were Semitic, but without a trace of that fulness, and
often coarseness, which sometimes marks the Jew who
has come to the period of middle life. The large black
eyes were neither dull nor lifeless, but simply cold, irresponsive,
and alert. A massive jaw completed an impression
which was remarkable in its fineness and almost
sinister beauty.</p>

<p>The priest found it remarkable but with no sense of
strangeness. He had seen the man before.</p>

<p>Recognition came to Schuabe first.</p>

<p>"Excuse me," he said, "but surely you are Father
Ripon? I am Constantine Schuabe."</p>

<p>Ripon gave a merry chuckle. "I knew I knew you!"
he said, "but I couldn't think quite who you were for a
moment. Sir Michael tells me you're going to Fencastle;
so am I."</p>

<p>Schuabe leaned back in his seat and regarded Father
Ripon with a steady and calm scrutiny, somewhat with
the manner of a naturalist examining a curious specimen,
with a suggestion of aloofness in his eyes.</p>

<p>Suddenly Father Ripon smiled rather sternly, and the
deep furrows which sprang into his cheeks showed the
latent strength and power of the face.</p>

<p>"Well, Mr. Schuabe," he said abruptly, "the train
doesn't stop anywhere for an hour, so willy-nilly you're
locked up with a priest!"</p>

<p>"A welcome opportunity, Father Ripon, to convince
one that perhaps the devil isn't as black as he's painted."</p>

<p>"I've read your books," said Ripon, "and I believe
you are sincere, Mr. Schuabe. It's not a personal
question at all. At the same time, if I had the power,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span>
you know I should cheerfully execute you or imprison
you for life, not out of revenge for what you have done,
but as a precautionary measure. You should have no
further opportunity of doing harm." He smiled grimly
as he spoke.</p>

<p>"Rather severe, Father," said Schuabe laughing.
"Because I find that in a rational view of history there
is no place for a Resurrection and Ascension you would
give me your blessing and an <i>auto da fé</i>!"</p>

<p>"I rather believe in stern measures, sometimes," answered
the clergyman, with an underlying seriousness,
though he spoke half in jest. "Not for <i>all</i> heretics, you
know&mdash;only the dangerous ones."</p>

<p>"You are afraid of <i>intellect</i> when it is brought to bear
on these questions."</p>

<p>"I thought that would be your rejoinder. Superficially
it is a very telling one, because there is nothing
so insidious as a half-truth. In a sense what you say is
true. There are a great many Christians whose faith is
weak and whose natural inclinations, assisted by supernatural
temptations, are towards a life of sin. Christianity
keeps them from it. Now, your books come in the way
of such people as these far more readily and easily than
works of Christian apologetics written with equal power.
An <i>attack</i> upon our position has all the elements of popularity
and novelty. <i>It is more seen.</i> For example, ten
thousand people have heard of your <i>Christ Reconceived</i>
for every ten who know Lathom's <i>Risen Master</i>. You
have said the last word for agnosticism and made it
widely public, the Master of Trinity Hall has said the
last word for Christianity and only scholars know of it.
It isn't the strength of your case which makes you dangerous,
it's the ignorance of the public and a condition
of affairs which makes it possible for you to shout
loudest."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span></p>

<p>"Well, there is at least a half-truth in what you say
also, Mr. Ripon," said Schuabe. "But you don't seem
to have brought anything to eat. Will you share my
luncheon basket? There is quite enough for two
people."</p>

<p>Father Ripon had been called away after the early
Eucharist, and had quite forgotten to have any breakfast.</p>

<p>"Thank you very much," he said; "I will. I suddenly
seem to be hungry, and after all there is scriptural
precedent for spoiling the Egyptians!"</p>

<p>Both laughed again, sheathed their weapons, and began
to eat.</p>

<p>Each of them was a man of the world, cultured, with
a charming personality. Each knew the other was impervious
to attack.</p>

<p>Only once, as the short afternoon was darkening and
they were approaching their destination, did Schuabe
refer to controversial subjects. The carriage was shadowed
and dusky as they rushed through the desolate
fenlands. The millionaire lit a match for a cigarette,
and the sudden flare showed the priest's face, set and
stern. He seemed to be thinking deeply.</p>

<p>"What would you say or do, Father Ripon," Schuabe
asked, in a tone of interested curiosity,&mdash;"What would
you do if some stupendous thing were to happen,
something to occur which proved without doubt that
Christ was not divine? Supposing that it suddenly became
an absolute fact, a historical fact which every one
must accept?"</p>

<p>"Some new discovery, you mean?"</p>

<p>"Well, if you like; never mind the actual means.
Assume for a moment that it became certain as an historical
fact that the Resurrection did not take place. I
say that the ignorant love of Christ's followers wreathed
His life in legend, that the true story was from the be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span>ginning
obscured by error, hysteria, and mistake. Supposing
something proved what I say in such a way as to
leave no loophole for denial. What would you do? As
a representative Churchman, what would you do? This
interests me."</p>

<p>"Well, you are assuming an impossibility, and I can't
argue on such a postulate. But, if for a moment what
you say <i>could</i> happen, I might not be able to deny these
proofs, but I should never believe them."</p>

<p>"But surely&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Christ is <i>within</i>; I have found Him myself without
possibility of mistake; day and night I am in communion
with Him."</p>

<p>"Ah!" said Schuabe, dryly, "there is no convincing
a person who takes <i>that</i> attitude. But it is rare."</p>

<p>"Faith is weak in the world," said the priest, with a
sigh, as the train drew up in the little wayside station.</p>

<p>A footman took their luggage to a carriage which was
waiting, and they drove off rapidly through the twilight,
over the bare brown fen with a chill leaden sky meeting
it on the horizon, towards Fencastle.</p>

<p>Sir Michael's house was an immemorial feature of
those parts. Josiah Manichoe, his father, had bought it
from old Lord Lostorich. To this day Sir Michael paid
two pounds each year, as "Knight's fee," to the lord of
the manor at Denton, a fee first paid in 1236. As it
stood now, the house was Tudor in exterior, covering a
vast area with its stately, explicit, and yet homelike,
rather than "homely," beauty.</p>

<p>The interior of the house was treated with great
judgment and artistic ability. A successful effort had
been made to combine the greatest measure of modern
comfort without unduly disturbing the essential character
of the place. Thus Father Ripon found himself in
an ancient bedroom with a painted ceiling and panelled<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span>
walls. The furniture was in keeping with the design,
but electric lamps had been fitted to the massive pewter
sconces on the wall, and the towel-rail by the washing-stand
was made of copper tubing through which hot
water passed constantly.</p>

<p>The dinner-gong boomed at eight and Ripon went
down into the great hall, where a group of people were
standing round an open fire of peat and coal.</p>

<p>Mrs. Bardilly, a widowed sister of Sir Michael's,
acted as hostess, a quiet, matronly woman, very Jewish
in aspect, shrewd and placid in temper, an admirable
<i>châtelaine</i>.</p>

<p>Talking to her was Mrs. Hubert Armstrong, the
famous woman novelist. Mrs. Armstrong was tall and
grandly built. Her grey hair was drawn over a massive,
manlike brow in smooth folds, her face was finely
chiselled. The mouth was large, rather sweet in expression,
but with a slight hinting of "superiority" in repose
and condescension in movement. When she spoke,
always in full, well-chosen periods, it was with an air
of somewhat final pronouncement. She was ever <i>ex
cathedra</i>.</p>

<p>The lady's position was a great one. Every two or
three years she published a weighty novel, admirably
written, full of real culture, and without a trace of
humour. In those productions, treatises rather than
novels, the theme was generally that of a high-bred
philosophical negation of the Incarnation. Mrs. Armstrong
pitied Christians with passionate certainty. Gently
and lovingly she essayed to open blinded eyes to
the truth. With great condescension she still believed
in God and preached Christ as a mighty teacher.</p>

<p>One of her utterances suffices to show the colossal
arrogance&mdash;almost laughable were it not so <i>bizarre</i>&mdash;of
her intellect:</p>

<blockquote><p>"<i>The world has expanded since Jesus preached in the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span>
dim ancient cities of the East. Men and women of to-day
cannot learn the</i> complete <i>lesson of God from him now&mdash;indeed
they could not in those old times. But all that is
most necessary in forming character, all that makes for
pureness and clarity of soul&mdash;this Jesus has still for us as
he had for the people of his own time.</i>"</p></blockquote>

<p>After the enormous success of her book, <i>John Mulgrave</i>,
Mrs. Armstrong more than half believed she had
struck a final blow at the errors of Christianity.</p>

<p>Shrewd critics remarked that <i>John Mulgrave</i> described
the perversion of the hero with great skill and
literary power, while quite forgetting to recapitulate the
arguments which had brought it about.</p>

<p>The woman was really educated, but her success was
with half-educated readers. Her works excited to a sort
of frenzy clergymen who realised their insidious hollowness.
Her success was real; her influence appeared to
be real also. It was a deplorable fact that she swayed
fools.</p>

<p>By laying on the paint very thick and using bright
colours, Mrs. Armstrong caught the class immediately
below that which read the works of Constantine Schuabe.
They were captain and lieutenant, formidable in coalition.</p>

<p>A short, carelessly dressed man&mdash;his evening tie was
badly arranged and his trousers were ill cut&mdash;was the
Duke of Suffolk. His face was covered with dust-coloured
hair, his eyes bright and restless. The Duke
was the greatest Roman Catholic nobleman in England.
His vast wealth and eager, though not first-class, brain
were devoted entirely to the conversion of the country.
He was beloved by men of all creeds.</p>

<p>Canon Walke, the great popular preacher, was a handsome<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span>
man, portly, large, and gracious in manner. He
was destined for high preferment, a <i>persona grata</i> at
Court, suave and redolent of the lofty circles in which
he moved.</p>

<p>Canon Walke was talking to Schuabe with great animation
and a sort of purring geniality.</p>

<p>Dinner was a very pleasant meal. Every one talked
well. Great events in Society and politics were discussed
by the people who were themselves responsible
for them.</p>

<p>Here was the inner circle itself, serene, bland, and
guarded from the crowd outside. And perhaps, with
the single exception of Father Ripon, who never thought
about it at all, every one was pleasantly conscious of
pulling the strings. They sat, Jove-like, kindly tolerant
of lesser mortals, discussing, over a dessert, what they
should do for the world.</p>

<p>At eleven nearly every one had retired for the night.
Father Ripon and his host sat talking in the library for
another hour discussing church matters. At twelve
these two also retired.</p>

<p>And now the great house was silent save for the
bitter winter wind which sobbed and moaned round the
towers.</p>

<p>It was the eve of the twelfth of December. The
world was as usual and the night came to England with
no hintings of the morrow.</p>

<p>Far away in Lancashire, Basil Gortre was sleeping
calmly after a long, quiet evening with Helena and her
father.</p>

<p>Father Ripon had said his prayers and lay half dreaming
in bed, watching the firelight glows and shadows on
the panelling and listening to the fierce outside wind
as if it were a lullaby.</p>

<p>Mrs. Hubert Armstrong was touching up an article<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span>
for the <i>Nineteenth Century</i> in her bedroom. An open
volume of Renan stood by her side; here and there the
lady deftly paraphrased a few lines. Occasionally she
sipped a cup of black-currant tea&mdash;an amiable weakness
of this paragon when engaged upon her stirring labours.</p>

<p>In the next room Schuabe, with haggard face and
twitching lips, paced rapidly up and down. From the
door to the dressing-table&mdash;seven steps. From there to
the fireplace&mdash;ten steps&mdash;avoiding the flower pattern of
the carpet, stepping only on the blue squares. Seven!
ten! and then back again.</p>

<p>Ten, seven, turn. A cold, soft dew came out upon
his face, dried, hardened, and burst forth again.</p>

<p>Seven, ten, stop for a glass of water, and then on
again, rapidly, hurriedly; the dawn is coming very
near.</p>

<p class="p4b">Ten! seven! turn!</p>
<hr class="r20" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IIIb" id="CHAPTER_IIIb">CHAPTER III</a></h2>

<h4>"I, JOSEPH"</h4>

<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">A</span><span class="smcap">t</span> about nine o'clock the next morning there was a
knock at Father Ripon's door and Lindner, Sir
Michael's confidential man, entered.</p>

<p>He seemed slightly agitated.</p>

<p>"I beg your pardon, Father," he said, "but Sir
Michael instructed me to come to you at once. Sir
Michael begs that you will read the columns marked in
this paper and then join him at once in his own room."</p>

<p>The man bowed slightly and went noiselessly away.</p>

<p>Impressed with Lindner's manner, Father Ripon sat
up in bed and opened the paper. It was a copy of the
<i>Daily Wire</i> which had just arrived by special messenger
from the station.</p>

<p>The priest's eyes fell first upon the news summary. A
paragraph was heavily scored round with ink.</p>

<blockquote><p class="p2b">"<i>Page 7.</i>&mdash;A communication of the utmost gravity
and importance reaches us from Palestine, dealing with
certain discoveries at Jerusalem, made by Mr. Cyril
Hands, the agent of the Palestine Exploring Fund, and
Herr Schmöulder, the famous German historian."</p></blockquote>

<p class="p2b">Ripon turned hastily to the seventh page of the paper,
where all the foreign telegrams were. This is what he
read:</p>

<blockquote><p class="center">"NOTE<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span></p>

<p class="p2b">
"<i>In reference to the following statements, the Editor wishes it to
be distinctly understood that he prints them without comment or bias.
Nothing can yet be definitely known as to the truth of what is stated
here until the strictest investigations have been made. Our special
Commissioner left London for the East twenty-four hours ago. The
Editor of this paper is in communication with the Prime Minister
and His Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury. A special edition of
the 'Daily Wire' will be published at two o'clock this afternoon.</i></p>

<p class="center">"MOMENTOUS NEWS FROM JERUSALEM</p>

<p>"For the last three months, under a new firman
granted by the Turkish Government, the authorities of
the Palestine Exploring Society have been engaged in
extensive operations in the waste ground beyond the
Damascus Gate at Jerusalem.</p>

<p>"It is in this quarter, as archæologists and students
will be aware, that some years ago the reputed site of
Calvary and the Holy Sepulchre was placed. Considerable
discussion was raised at the time and the evidence
for and against the new and the traditional sites was
hotly debated.</p>

<p>"Ten days ago, Mr. Cyril Hands, M.A., the learned
and trusted English explorer, made a further discovery
which may prove to be far-reaching in its influence on
Christian peoples.</p>

<p>"During the excavations a system of tombs were discovered,
dating from forty or fifty years before Christ,
according to Mr. Hands's estimate. The tombs are indisputably
Jewish and not Christian, a fact which is
proved by the presence of <i>kôkîm</i>, characteristic of Jewish
tombs in preference to the usual Christian <i>arcosolia</i>.
They are Herodian in character.</p>

<p>"These tombs consist of an irregularly cut group of
two chambers. The door is coarsely moulded. Both
chambers are crooked, and in their floors are four-sided<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span>
depressions, 1 foot 2 inches deep in the outer, 2 feet in
the inner chamber. The roof of the outer chamber is 6
feet above its floor, that of the inner 5 feet 2 inches.</p>

<p>"The doorway leading to the inner tomb was built up
into stone blocks. Fragments of that coating of broken
brick and pounded pottery, which is still used in Palestine
under the name <i>hamra</i>, which lay at the foot of
the sealed entrance, showed that it had at one time been
plastered over, and was in the nature of a secret room.</p>

<p>"In the depression in the floor of the outer room was
found a minute fragment of a glass receptacle containing
a small quantity of blackish powder. This has been
analysed by M. Constant Allard, the French chemist.
The glass vessel he found to be an ordinary silicate
which had become devitrified and coloured by oxide of
iron. The contents were finely divided lead and traces
of antimony, showing it to be one of the cosmetics prepared
for purposes of sepulture.</p>

<p>"When the interior of the second tomb had been
reached, a single <i>loculus</i> or stone slab for the reception
of a body was found.</p>

<p>"Over the <i>loculus</i> the following Greek inscription in
uncial characters was found in a state of good preservation,
with the exception of two letters:</p>

<p class="p2b">"[<i>See drawing of inscription on this page, made from photographs
in our possession. We print the inscription below in cursive Greek
text, afterwards dividing it into its component words and giving its
translation.&mdash;Editor, Daily Wire.</i>]</p>

<p class="pinset11">FACSIMILE IN MODERN GREEK SCRIPT</p>

<p class="pinset11">
&#917;&#947;&#969;&#953;&#969;&#963;&#951;&#966;&#959;&#945;&#960;&#959;&#945;&#961;&#953;&#956;&#945;&#952;&#949;&#953;&#945;&#962;&#955;&#945;&#946;&#969;<br />
&#957;&#964;&#959;&#963;&#969;&#956;&#945;&#964;&#959;&#965;&#953;&#951;&#963;&#959;&#965;&#964;&#959;&#965;&#945;&#960;&#959;&#957;&#945;**<br />
&#961;&#949;&#964;&#945;&#960;&#959;&#964;&#959;&#965;&#956;&#957;&#951;&#956;&#949;&#953;&#959;&#965;&#959;&#960;&#959;&#965;&#964;&#959;&#960;&#961;&#969;&#964;<br />
&#959;&#957;&#949;&#954;&#949;&#953;&#964;&#959;&#949;&#957;&#964;&#969;&#964;&#959;&#960;&#969;&#964;&#959;&#965;&#964;&#969;&#949;&#957;&#949;&#954;&#961;&#965;&#968;&#945;<br />
</p>
<p class="pinset11a">** = lacunæ of two letters.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span></p>

<p class="pinset11"><span class="smcap">FINAL READING OF THE INSCRIPTION</span></p>

<p>&#917;&#947;&#969; &#921;&#969;&#963;&#951;&#966; &#8001; &#7936;&#960;&#959; &#913;&#961;&#953;&#956;&#945;&#952;&#949;&#953;&#945;&#962; &#955;&#945;&#946;&#969;&#957; &#964;&#959; &#963;&#969;&#956;&#945; &#964;&#959;&#965; &#921;&#951;&#963;&#959;&#965;
&#964;&#959;&#965; &#7936;&#960;&#959; &#925;&#945;[&#950;&#945;]&#961;&#949;&#964; &#7936;&#960;&#959; &#964;&#959;&#965; &#956;&#957;&#951;&#956;&#949;&#953;&#959;&#965; &#8001;&#960;&#959;&#965; &#964;&#959; &#960;&#961;&#969;&#964;&#959;&#957; &#7952;&#954;&#949;&#953;&#964;&#959; &#7952;&#957;
&#964;&#969; &#964;&#959;&#960;&#969; &#964;&#959;&#965;&#964;&#969; &#7952;&#957;&#949;&#954;&#961;&#965;&#968;&#945;</p>

<p class="p2b">
[ ] = letters supplied.</p>

<p class="pinset11">"<span class="smcap">TRANSLATION INTO ENGLISH OF THE INSCRIPTION</span></p>

<p class="p03">
"I, JOSEPH OF ARIMATHÆA, TOOK THE BODY OF
JESUS, THE NAZARENE, FROM THE TOMB WHERE IT
WAS FIRST LAID AND HID IT IN THIS PLACE.
</p>

<p class="p2">"The slight mould on the stone slab, which may or may
not be that of a decomposed body, has been reverently
gathered into a sealed vessel by Mr. Hands, who is
waiting instructions.</p>

<p>"Dr. Schmöulder, the famous <i>savant</i> from Berlin, has
arrived at Jerusalem, and is in communication with the
German Emperor regarding the discovery.</p>

<p>"At present it would be presumptuous and idle to
comment upon these stupendous facts. It seems our
duty, however, to quote a final passage from Mr. Hands's
communication, and to state that we have a cablegram
in our possession from Dr. Schmöulder, which states
that he is in entire agreement with Mr. Hands's conclusions.</p>

<p>"To sum up. There now seems no shadow of doubt
that the disappearance of The Body of Christ from the
first tomb is accounted for, and that the Resurrection as
told in the Gospels did not take place. Joseph of
Arimathæa here confesses that he stole away the body,
probably in order to spare the Disciples and friends of
the dead Teacher, with whom he was in sympathy, the
shame and misery of the final end to their hopes.</p>

<p>"The use of the first aorist '&#7952;&#957;&#949;&#954;&#961;&#965;&#968;&#945;,' 'I hid,' seems<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span>
to indicate that Joseph was making a confession to satisfy
his own mind, with a very vague idea of it ever
being read. Were his confession written for future
ages, we may surmise that the perfect '&#954;&#949;&#954;&#961;&#965;&#966;&#945;,' 'I
have hidden,' would have been used."</p></blockquote>

<p>So the simple, bald narrative ended, without a single
attempt at sensationalism on the part of the newspaper.</p>

<p>Just as Father Ripon laid down the newspaper, with
shaking hands and a pallid face, Sir Michael Manichoe
strode into the room.</p>

<p>Tears of anger and shame were in his eyes, he moved
jerkily, automatically, without volition. His right arm
was sawing the air in meaningless gesticulation.</p>

<p>He glanced furtively at Father Ripon and then sank
into a chair by the bedside.</p>

<p>The clergyman rose and dressed hastily. "We will
speak of this in the library," he said, controlling himself
by a tremendous effort. "Meanwhile&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>He took some sal volatile from his dressing-case, gave
some to his host, and drank some also.</p>

<p>As they went down-stairs a brilliant sun streamed into
the great hall. The world outside was bright and frost-bound.</p>

<p>The bell of the private chapel was tolling for matins.</p>

<p>The sound struck on both their brains very strangely.
Sir Michael shuddered and grew ashen grey. Ripon
recovered himself first.</p>

<p>He placed his arm in his host's and turned towards
the passage which led to the chapel.</p>

<p>"Come, my friend," he said in low, sweet tones,
"come to the altar. Let us pray together for Christendom.
Peace waits us. Say the creed with me, for God
will not desert us."</p>

<p>They passed into the vaulted chapel with the seven<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span>
dim lamps burning before the altar, and knelt down in
the chancel stalls. Some of the servants came in and then
the chaplain began the confession.</p>

<p>The stately monotone went on, echoing through the
damp breath of the morning.</p>

<p>Father Ripon and Sir Michael turned to the east.
The sun was pouring through the great window of
stained glass, where Christ was painted ascending to
heaven.</p>

<p>The two elderly men said the creed after the priest in
firm, almost triumphant voices:</p>

<p>"I believe in God the Father ... and in Jesus
Christ His only Son our Lord.... The third day
he arose again from the dead. He ascended into
heaven...."</p>

<hr class="r5" />

<p>And those two, as they came gravely out of church
and walked to the library, <i>knew</i> that a great and awful
lie was resounding through the world, for the Risen
Christ had spoken with them, bidding them be of good
courage for what was to come.</p>

<p>The voice of Peter called down the ages:</p>

<blockquote><p class="p4b">"This Jesus hath God raised up, whereof we are all
witnesses."</p></blockquote>

<hr class="r20" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IVb" id="CHAPTER_IVb">CHAPTER IV</a></h2>

<h4>THE DOMESTIC CHAPLAIN'S TESTIMONY</h4>

<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">W</span><span class="smcap">hen</span> Mrs. Armstrong came down to breakfast
her hostess told her, with many apologies, that
Sir Michael had left for London with Father Ripon.
They had gone by an early train. Matters of great
moment were afoot.</p>

<p>As this was being explained Mr. Wilson, the private
chaplain, Schuabe, and Canon Walke entered the room.
The Duke of Suffolk did not appear.</p>

<p>A long, low room panelled in white, over which a huge
fire of logs cast occasional cheery reflections, was used
as a breakfast-room. Here and there the quiet simplicity
of the place was violently disturbed by great
gouts of colour, startling notes which, so cunningly had
they been arranged in alternate opulence and denial,
were harmonised with their background.</p>

<p>A curtain of Tyrian purple, a sea picture full of gloom
and glory, red light and wind; a bronze head, with brilliant,
lifelike enamel eyes, the features swollen and
brutal, from Sabacio&mdash;these were the means used by the
young artist employed by Sir Michael to decorate the
room.</p>

<p>The long windows, hewn out of a six-foot wall, presented
a sombre vista of great leafless trees standing in
the trackless snow, touched here and there with the ruddiness
of the winter sun.</p>

<p>The glowing fire, the luxurious domesticity of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span>
round table, with its shining silver and gleaming china,
the great quiet of the park outside, gave a singular peace
and remoteness to the breakfast-room. Here one seemed
far away from strife and disturbance.</p>

<p>This was the usual aspect and atmosphere of all Fencastle,
but as the members of the house-party came together
for the meal the air became suddenly electrified.
Invisible waves of excitement, of surmise, doubt, and fear
radiated from these humans. All had seen the paper, and
though at first not one of them referred to it, the currents
of tumult and alarm were knocking loudly at heart and
brain, varied and widely diverse as were the emotions of
each one.</p>

<p>Mrs. Hubert Armstrong at length broke the silence.
Her speech was deliberate, her words were chosen with
extreme care, her tone was hushed and almost reverential.</p>

<p>"To-day," she said, "what I perceive we have all
heard, may mean the sudden dawning of a New Light in
the world. If this stupendous statement is true&mdash;and it
bears every hall-mark of the truth even at this early
stage&mdash;a new image of Jesus of Nazareth will be for ever
indelibly graven on the hearts of mankind. That image
which thought, study, and research have already made so
vivid to some of us will be common to the world. The
old, weary superstitions will vanish for all time. The
real significance of the anthropomorphic view will be
clear at last. The world will be able to realise the
Real Figure as It went in and out among Its brother
men."</p>

<p>She spoke with extreme earnestness. No doubt she
saw in this marvellous historical confirmation of her attitude
a triumph for the school of which she had become
the vocal chieftainess, that would ring and glitter through
the world of thought. The mental arrogance which had
already led this woman so far was already busy, opening<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span>
a vista that had suddenly become extremely dazzling,
imminently near.</p>

<p>At her words there was a sudden movement of relief
among the others. The ice had been broken; formless
and terrifying things assumed a shape that could be
handled, discussed. Her words acted as a precipitate,
which made analysis possible.</p>

<p>The lady's calm, intellectual face, with its clear eyes
and smooth bands of hair, waited with interest, but
without impatience, for other views.</p>

<p>Canon Walke took up her challenge. His words were
assured enough, but Schuabe, listening with keen and
sinister attention, detected a faint tremble, an alarmed
lack of conviction. The courtier-Churchman, with his
commanding presence, his grand manner, spoke without
pedantry, but also without real force. His language was
beautifully chosen, but it had not the ring of utter conviction,
of passionate rejection of all that warred with
Faith.</p>

<p>A chaplain of the Court, the husband of an earl's
daughter, a friend of royal folk, a future bishop, there
were those who called him time-serving, exclusively ambitious.
Schuabe realised that not here, indeed, was the
great champion of Christianity. For a brief moment the
Jew's mind flashed to a memory of the young curate at
Manchester, then, with a little shudder of dislike, he
bent his attention to Canon Walke's words.</p>

<p>"No, Mrs. Armstrong," he was saying, "an article
such as this in a newspaper will be dangerous; it will unsettle
weak brains for a time until it is proved, as it will
be proved, either a blasphemous fabrication or an ignorant
mistake. It cannot be. Whatever the upshot of
such rumours, they can only have a temporary effect.
It may be that those at the head of the Church will have
to sit close, to lay firm hold of principles, or anything<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span>
that will steady the vessel as the storm sweeps up. This
may be an even greater tempest than that which broke
upon the Church in the days of the first George, when
Christianity was believed to be fictitious. What did
Bishop Butler say to his chaplain? He asked: 'What
security is there against the insanity of individuals?
The doctors know of none. Why, therefore, may not
whole communities be seized with fits of insanity as well
as individuals?' It is just that which will account for
so much history tells us of wild revolt against Truth. It
may be&mdash;God grant that it will not&mdash;that we are once
more upon the eve of one of these storms. But, despite
your anticipations, Mrs. Armstrong, you will see that the
Church, as she has ever done, will weather the storm. I
myself shall leave for town at mid-day, and follow the
example of our host. My place is there. The Archbishop
will, doubtless, hold a conference, if this story
from Palestine seems to receive further confirmation.
Such dangerous heresies must not be allowed to spread."</p>

<p>Then Schuabe took up the discussion. "I fear for
you, Canon Walke," he said, "and for the Church you
represent. This news, it seems to me, is merely the
evidence for the confirmation of what all thoughtful men
believe to-day, though the majority of them do not
speak out. There is a natural dislike to active propaganda,
a timidity in combination to upset a system which
is accepted, and which provides society as an ethical programme,
though founded on initial error. But now&mdash;and
I agree with Mrs. Armstrong in the extreme probability
of this news being absolute fact, for Hands and Schmöulder
are names of weight&mdash;everything must be reconstructed
and changed. The churches will go. Surely
the times are ripe, the signs unmistakable? We are face
to face with what is called an anti-clerical wave&mdash;a dislike
to the clergy as the representatives of the Church, a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span>
dislike to the Church as the embodiment of religion, a
dislike to religion as an unwelcome restraint upon liberty
of thought. The storm which will burst now has been
muttering and gathering here in England no less than on
the Continent. You have heard its murmur in the debates
on the Education Act, in the proposed State legislation
for your Church. Your most venerable and
essential forms are like trees creaking and groaning in the
blast; public opinion is rioting to destroy. But perhaps
until this morning it has never had a weapon strong
enough to attack such a stronghold as the Church with
any hope of victory. There has been much noise, but
that is all. It has been a matter of <i>feeling</i>; <i>conviction</i>
has been weak, because it could only be supported by
probabilities, not by certainties. The antichristian
movement has been guided by emotions, hardly by principles.
At last the great discovery which will rouse the
world to sanity appears to have been made. Even as I
speak in this quiet room the whole world is thrilling with
this news. It is awakening from a long slumber."</p>

<p>Walke heard his ringing words with manifest uneasiness.
The man was unequal to the situation. He represented
the earthly pomp and show of Christianity,
wore the ceremonial vestments. He feared the concrete
power, the vehement opposition of the mouthpiece of
secularism. He saw the crisis, but from one side only.
The deep spiritual love was not there.</p>

<p>"You are exultant, Mr. Schuabe," he said coldly,
"but you will hardly be so long."</p>

<p>"You do not appreciate the situation, sir," Schuabe
answered. "I can see further than you. A great intellectual
peace will descend over the civilised world.
Should one not exult at that, even though men must give
up their dearest fetishes, their secret shrines; even
though sentiment must be sacrificed to Truth? The religion<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span>
of Nature, which is based upon the determination
not to believe anything which is unsupported by indubitable
evidence, will become the faith of the future, the
fulfilment of progress. It is as Huxley said, '<i>Religion
ought to mean simply reverence and love for the Ethical
Ideal, and the desire to realise that Ideal in life.</i>' Miracles
do not happen. There has been no supernatural revelation,
and nothing can be known of what Herbert Spencer
calls the Infinite and Eternal Energy save by the study
of the phenomena about us. And I repeat that the
discovery we hear of to-day makes a thorough intellectual
sanity possible for each living man. Doubt will
disappear."</p>

<p>"Yes, Mr. Schuabe," said Mrs. Armstrong, "you are
right, incalculably right. It is to human intellect and
that alone&mdash;the great Intellect of The Nazarene among
others&mdash;that we must look from henceforth. Already by
his unaided efforts man's achievements are everywhere
breaking down superstition. The arts, the laws of gravitation,
force, light, heat, sound, chemistry, electricity,
and all that these imply&mdash;botany, medicine, bacteria, the
circulation of the blood, the functions of the brain and
nervous system (last-named abolishing all witchcraft and
diabolic possession, such as we read of in the 'inspired'
writings)&mdash;all these are but incidents in a progress never
aided by the supernatural, but always impeded by the
professors of it. Christians tortured the man who discovered
the rotation of the earth, and in every church to-day
absolutely false accounts of the origin of the world
are publicly read. And as long as the world was content
to believe that Jesus rose from the dead so long error
has hindered development."</p>

<p>"Yes," replied Schuabe, "all this will, I believe, inevitably
follow the discovery of the professors in Palestine.
And what does Christianity, as it is at present<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span>
accepted, bring to the Christians? Localise it, and look
at the English Church&mdash;Canon Walke's Church. At one
time every one is a rigid Puritan and decries the bare
accessories of worship, at another a Ritualist who twists
and turns everything into fantastic shapes, as if he were
furnishing an æsthetic bazaar. At another time these
people are swayed with the doctrines of 'Christian
Science,' and believe that pain is a pure trick of the
diseased fancy, and matter the morbid creation of an
unhealthy mind. Then we hear priests who tell us that
the Old Testament (which in the same breath they announce
to be witnessed to by Christ and His Apostles
and the unbroken continuity of the Catholic Church) is
an enlarged and plagiarised version of the days of a fantastic
god discovered on a burnt brick at Babylon. And
others sit anxiously waiting to know the precise value
which this or that Gospel may possess, as its worth
fluctuates like shares in the money market, with the last
quotation from Germany! All this will cease."</p>

<p>The while these august ones had been speaking, Father
Wilson, the domestic chaplain at Fencastle, had remained
silent but attentive.</p>

<p>He was a lean, dark man, monk-like in appearance,
somewhat saturnine on the surface. It was Sir Michael's
wish, not the chaplain's, that he should sit with the
guests as one of them, and make experience of the great
ones of the world. For he had but little interest in
worldly things or people.</p>

<p>Schuabe's voice died away. Every one was a little
exhausted, great matters had been dealt with. There
came a little clink and clatter as they sought food.</p>

<p>Suddenly Wilson looked up and began to speak. His
voice was somewhat harsh and unsympathetic, his manner
was uncompromising and without charm. As he
spoke every one realised, with a sense of unpleasant<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span>
shock, that he cared little or nothing for the society he
was in.</p>

<p>"It's very interesting, sir," he said, turning to
Schuabe, "to hear all you have been saying. I have seen
the paper and read of this so-called discovery too. Of
course such a thing harmonises exactly with the opinions
of those who want to believe it. But go and tell a devoted
son of the Church that he has been fed with sacraments
which are no sacraments, and all that he has done
has been at best the honest mistake of a deceived man,
and he will laugh in your face, as I do! There are memories,
far back in his life, of confirmation, when his whole
being was quickened and braced, which refuse to be explained
as the hallucinations of a well-meaning but deceived
man. There are memories when Christ drew near
to his soul and helped him. Struggles with temptation
are remembered when God's grace saved him. He also
says, 'Whether He be a sorcerer or not I know not; one
thing I know, that whereas I was blind, now I see.' It
is easy to part with one in whom we have never really
believed. We can easily surrender what we have never
held. But you haven't a notion of the real Christian's
convictions, Mr. Schuabe. Your estimate of the future
is based upon utter ignorance of the Christian's heart.
You are incapable of understanding the heart to which
experience has made it clear that Jesus was indeed the
very Christ. There are many people who are <i>called</i>
Christians with whom your sayings and writings, and
those of this lady here, have great power. It is because
they have never found Christ. Unreal words, shallow
emotions, unbalanced sentiment, leave such as these
without armour in a time of tumult and conflicting cries.
But if we <i>know</i> Him, if we can look back over a life
richer and fuller because we <i>have</i> known Him, if we
know, every man, the plague of his own heart, then your<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span>
explorers may discover anything and we shall not believe.
It is easy to prophesy as you have been doing all
this meal-time&mdash;it is popular once more to shout the
malignant 'Crucify'&mdash;but events will show you how
utterly wrong you are in your estimate of the Christian
character."</p>

<p>They all stared at the chaplain. His sudden vigorous
outburst, the harsh, unlovely voice, the contempt in it,
was almost stupefying at first.</p>

<p>Indeed, though they had certainly no cue from Sir
Michael, they had regarded the silent, rather forbidding
priest, in his cassock and robe, a dress which typified his
reserve and detachment from all their interests, in the
light of an upper servant, almost. Nor was it so much
his interference they resented as his manner of interfering.
The supreme confidence of the man galled them;
it was patronising in its strength.</p>

<p>Mrs. Armstrong heard the outburst with a slight frown
of displeasure, which, as the priest continued, changed
into a smile of kindly tolerance, the attitude of a housemaid
who spares a spider. She remembered that, after
all, her duty lay in being kind to those of less power than
herself.</p>

<p>The speech touched Schuabe more nearly. He seemed
to hear a familiar echo of a voice he hated and feared.
There was something chilling in these men who drew a
confidence and certainty, sublime in its immobility, from
the Unseen. He felt, as he had felt before, the hated
barrier which he could in no wise pass, this calm fanaticism
which would not even listen to him, which was
beyond his influence. The bitter hate which welled
up in his heart, the terrible scorn which he had to repress
at these insults to his evil and devilish egoism,
gave him almost a sense of physical nausea. His pale
face became pallid, but he showed no other sign of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span>
insane tempest within. He smiled slightly. That was
all.</p>

<p>As for Canon Walke, his feelings were varied. His
face flickered with them in rapid alternation. He was
quite conscious of the lack of life, fire, and conviction in
what he himself had said. His own windy commonplaces
shrank to nothingness and failure before the witnessing
of the undistinguished priest. Before the two
hostile intellects, the man and the woman, he had left
the burden of the fight to this nobody. He was quick
and jealous to mark the strength of Wilson's words, and
his own failure had put him in an entirely false position.
And yet a shrewd blow had been struck at Schuabe and
Mrs. Armstrong; there was consolation in the fact.</p>

<p>Father Wilson, when he had finished what he had to
say, rose from his seat without more ado. "I will say a
grace," he said. He made the sign of the Cross, muttered
a short Latin thanksgiving, and strode from the
room.</p>

<p>"A fanatic," said Mrs. Armstrong.</p>

<p>Neither Walke nor Schuabe replied.</p>

<p>It was getting late in the morning. The sun had risen
higher and flooded the level wastes of snow without.
The little party finished their meal in silence.</p>

<p class="p4b">In the chapel Wilson knelt on the chancel step, praying
that help and light might come to men and the imminent
darkness pass away.</p>

<hr class="r20" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="CHAPTER_Vb" id="CHAPTER_Vb">CHAPTER V</a></h2>

<h4>DEUS, DEUS MEUS, QUARE DERELIQUISTI!</h4>

<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">T</span><span class="smcap">he</span> Prime Minister was a man deeply interested
in all philosophic thought, and especially in the
Christian system of philosophy. He had written two
most important books, weighty, brilliant contributions
to the mass of thought by which his school laboured
to make theism increasingly credible to the modern
mind.</p>

<p>He had proved that science, ethics, and theology are
all open to the same kind of metaphysical difficulties, and
that, therefore, to reject theology in the name of science
was impossible. It was fortunate that, at this juncture,
such a one should be at the head of affairs.</p>

<p>The vast network of cables and telegraph wires, those
tentacles which may be called the nerves of the world's
brain, throbbed unceasingly after the tremendous announcement
for which Ommaney had undertaken the
responsibility.</p>

<p>A battalion of special correspondents from every European
and American paper of importance followed hot
upon Harold Spence's trail.</p>

<p>Nevertheless, for the first two or three days the world
at large hardly realised the importance of what was happening.
Nothing was certain. The whole statement depended
upon two men. To the mass of people these
two names&mdash;Hands, Schmöulder&mdash;conveyed no meaning
whatever. Nine tenths of the population of England<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span>
knew nothing of the work of archæologists in Palestine,
had never even heard of the Exploring Society.</p>

<p>Had Consols fallen a point or two the effect would
have been far greater, the fact would have made more
stir.</p>

<p>The great dailies of equal standing with the <i>Wire</i>
were making every private preparation for a supply of
news and a consensus of opinion. But all this activity
went on behind the scenes, and nothing of it was yet
allowed to transpire generally. The article in the <i>Wire</i>
was quoted from, but opinions upon it were printed with
the greatest caution and reserve. Indeed, the general
apathy of England at large was a source of extreme
wonder to the unthinking, fearing minority.</p>

<p>The mass of the clergy, at any rate in public, affected
to ignore, or did really honestly dismiss as impossible,
the whole question. A few words of earnest exhortation
and indignant denial were all they permitted themselves.</p>

<p>But beneath the surface, and among the real influencers
of public opinion, great anxiety was felt.</p>

<p>The Patriarch of the Greek Church called a council
of Bishops, and Dr. Procopides, an ephor of antiquities
from Athens, was sent immediately to Palestine.</p>

<p>The following paragraph, in substance, appeared in
the leader page of all the English papers. It was disseminated
by the Press Association:</p>

<blockquote><p>"We are in a position to state, that in order to allay
the feeling of uneasiness produced among the churches
by a recent article in the <i>Daily Wire</i> making extraordinary
statements as to a discovery in Jerusalem, a conference
was held yesterday at Lambeth. Their Graces
the Archbishops of Canterbury and York, the Bishops of
Manchester, Gloucester, Durham, Lincoln, and London
were present. Other well-known Churchmen consisted<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span>
of Sir Michael Manichoe, Lord Robert Verulam, Canons
Baragwaneth and Walke, the Dean of Christchurch and
the Master of Trinity Hall. The Prime Minister was
not present, but was represented by Mr. Alured King.
Mr. Ommaney, the editor of the <i>Daily Wire</i>, was included
in the conference. Although, from the names
mentioned, it will be seen that the conference is considered
to be of great importance, nothing has been allowed
to transpire as to the result of its deliberations."</p></blockquote>

<p>This paragraph appeared on the morning of the third
day after the initial article. It began to attract great attention
throughout the United Kingdom during the early
part of the day.</p>

<p>The <i>Westminster Gazette</i> in its third edition then published
a further statement. The public learned:</p>

<blockquote><p>"Professor Clermont-Ganneau, the Professor of Biblical
Antiquities at the French University of La Sorbonne,
arrived in London yesterday night. He drove straight
to the house of Sir Robert Llwellyn, the famous archæologist.
Early this morning both gentlemen drove to
Downing Street, where they remained closeted with the
Prime Minister for an hour. While there, they were
joined by Dr. Grier, the learned Bishop of Leeds, and
Dr. Carr, the Warden of Wyckham College, Oxford.
The four gentlemen were later driven to Charing Cross
Station in a brougham. On the platform from which
the Paris train starts they were met by Major-General
Adams, the Vice-President of the Palestine Exploring
Society, and Sir Michael Manichoe. The distinguished
party entered a reserved saloon and left, <i>en route</i> for
Paris, at mid-day. We are able to state on undeniable
authority that the party, which represents all that is most
authoritative in historical research and archæological<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span>
knowledge, are a committee from a recent conference at
Lambeth, and are proceeding to Jerusalem to investigate
the alleged discovery in the Holy City."</p></blockquote>

<p>This was the prominent announcement, made on the
afternoon of the third day, which began to quicken interest
and excite the minds of people in England.</p>

<p>All that evening countless families discussed the information
with curious unrest and foreboding. In all
the towns the churches were exceptionally full at evensong.
One fact was more discussed than any other,
more particularly in London.</p>

<p>Although the six men who had left England so suddenly,
almost furtively, were obviously on a mission of
the highest importance, no reputable paper published
more than the bare fact of their departure. Comment
upon it, more detailed explanation of it, was sought in
the columns of all the journals in vain.</p>

<p>The next morning was big with shadow and gloom.
A shudder passed over the country. Certain telegrams
appeared in all the papers which struck a chill of fear to
the very heart of all who read them, Christian and indifferent
alike.</p>

<p>It was as though a great and ominous bell had begun
to toll over the world.</p>

<p>The faces of people in the streets were universally
pale.</p>

<p>It was remarked that the noises of London, the traffic,
the movement of crowds engaged upon their daily business,
lost half their noise.</p>

<p>The shops were full of Christmas gifts, but no one
seemed to enter them.</p>

<p>In addition to the telegrams a single leading article appeared
in the <i>Daily Wire</i>, which burnt itself, as the extremest
cold burns, into the brains of Englishmen.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span></p>
<blockquote><p class="pinset3a">
"(1) TERRIBLE RIOTS IN JERUSALEM</p>

<p>"The French Consul-General and Staff, who were paying
a ceremonial visit to the Latin Patriarch, have been
attacked by fanatical Moslems, and only escaped from
the fury of the crowd with great difficulty, aided by the
Turkish Guards. A vast concourse of Armenian Christians,
Russian pilgrims, and Aleppine Greeks afterwards
gathered round the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. The
strange discovery said to have been made by the English
excavator, Mr. Hands, and the German Doctor Schmöulder,
has aroused the mob to furious protest against it.
For nearly an hour fervent cries of '<i>Hadda Kuber Saidna</i>,'
'This is the tomb of our Lord,' filled all the air. The
Mohammedans and lower-class Jews made a wild attack
upon the protesting Christians in the courtyard of the
church. Many hundreds are dead and dying.</p>

<p><span style="margin-left:10em">
"<span class="smcap">Reuter.</span>"</span><br />
</p>

<p class="p2b">"<span class="smcap">Later.</span>&mdash;Strong drafts of Turkish troops have
marched into Jerusalem. By special order from the
Sultan to the Governor of the city, the 'New Tomb,'
discovered by Mr. Hands and Doctor Schmöulder, is
guarded by a triple cordon of troops. The two gentlemen
are guests of the Governor. The concentration of
troops round the 'New Tomb' has left various portions
of the city unguarded. Naked Mohammedan fanatics,
armed with swords, are calling for a general massacre of
Christians. The city is in a state of utter anarchy. By
the Jaffa gate and round the Mosque of Omar the dervishes
are preaching massacre."</p></blockquote>

<blockquote><p class="pinset3"><b>

"(2) SIR ROBERT LLWELLYN'S PARTY TO BE CONVEYED IN A WAR-SHIP</b></p>

<p>"<span class="smcap">Malta.</span>&mdash;Orders have been received here from the
Admiralty that the gunboat <i>Velox</i> is to proceed at once<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span>
to Alexandria, there to await the coming of Sir Robert
Llwellyn and the other members of the English Commission
by the Indian mail steamer from Brindisi. The
<i>Velox</i> will then leave at once for Jaffa with the six gentlemen.
At Jaffa an escort of mounted Turkish troops will
accompany the party on the day's ride to Jerusalem."</p></blockquote>

<blockquote><p class="pinset3"><b>"(3) <span class="smcap">Berlin.</span></b>&mdash;The German Emperor has convened
the principal clergy of the empire to meet him in conference
at Potsdam. The conference will sit with closed
doors."</p></blockquote>

<blockquote><p class="pinset3"><b>"(4) <span class="smcap">Rome.</span></b>&mdash;A decree, or short letter, has just been
issued from the Vatican to all the 'Patriarchs, Primates,
Archbishops, Bishops and other local ordinaries having
peace and communion with the Holy See.' The decree
deals with the alleged discoveries in Jerusalem. In it
Catholics are forbidden to read newspaper accounts of
the proceedings in Palestine, nor may they discuss them
with their friends. The decree has had the effect of
drawing great attention to the affairs in the East, and
has excited much adverse comment among the secularist
party, and in the <i>Voce della Populo</i>."</p></blockquote>

<p>Quite suddenly, as if a curtain were withdrawn, the
world began to realise the fact that something almost beyond
imagination was taking place in the far-off Syrian
town.</p>

<p>These detached and sinister messages which flashed
along the cables, with their stories of princes and potentates
alarmed and active, made the general silence, the
lack of detail, more oppressive. The unknown, or dimly
guessed at, rather, laid hold on men's minds like some
mighty convulsion of nature, imminent, and presaged by
fearful signs. Thus the <i>Daily Wire</i>:</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span></p><blockquote><p>"The story of the recent gathering of great Churchmen
at Lambeth has not yet been made public, but there
can be little doubt in the minds of those who watch
events that it must eventually take a place among the
great historical occurrences of the world's history.
While the men and women of England were going to
and fro about their business, the ecclesiastical princes
of this realm were met together in doubt, astonishment,
and fear, confronted with a problem so tremendous that
we find comment upon it presents almost insuperable
difficulties.</p>

<p>"We do not therefore propose to take the widest view
of probable contingencies and events, for that would be
impossible within the limits of a single article. It must
be enough that with a sense of the profoundest responsibility,
and with the deep emotions which must arise in
the heart of every man who is confronted by a vast and
sudden overthrow of one of the binding forces of life,
we briefly recapitulate the events of the last few days,
and attempt a forecast of what we fear must lie before
us here in England.</p>

<p>"Four days ago we published in these columns the
first account of a discovery made by Mr. Cyril Hands,
M.A., and confirmed by Dr. Herman Schmöulder, in the
red earth <i>débris</i> by the 'Tombs of the Kings,' beyond
the Damascus gate of Jerusalem. The news arrived at
this office through a private channel, in the form of a
long and detailed account written by Mr. Hands, the
archæologist and agent of the Palestine Exploring Society.
Before publishing the statement the editor was
enabled to discuss the advisability of doing so with the
Prime Minister. A long series of telegrams passed between
the office of this paper, the Foreign Office, and the
gentlemen at Jerusalem during the day preceding our
publication of the document. Hour by hour new details
and a mass of contributory evidence came to hand.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span>
All these papers, together with photographs, drawings,
and measurements, were placed by us in the hands of the
Archbishop of Canterbury. A conference of the greatest
living English scholars was summoned. The result of
that meeting has been that a committee representing the
finest intellect and the most unsullied integrity is now on
its way to Jerusalem. Upon the verdict of Sir Robert
Llwellyn and his fellow-members, together with the distinguished
foreign <i>savants</i> M. Clermont-Ganneau and
Dr. Procopides, the Ephor-General of Antiquities in the
Athens Museum, the Christian world must wait with terrible
anxiety, but with a certainty that the highest human
intelligence is concentrated on its deliberation.</p>

<p>"What that verdict will be, seems, it must be boldly
said and faced, almost a foregone conclusion. We feel
that we should be lacking in our duty to our readers
were we to withhold from them certain facts. Not unnaturally
His Grace the Archbishop and many of his advisers
have wished the press to preserve a complete
silence as to the result of the conference, a silence which
should continue until the report of the International
Committee of Investigation is published. We have
endeavoured to preserve a reticence for two days, but
at this juncture it becomes our duty to inform the people
of England what we know. And we do not take this
step without careful consideration.</p>

<p>"We have informed the Prime Minister of our intention,
and may state that, despite the opposition of the
Church Party, Lord &mdash;&mdash; is in sympathy with it.</p>

<p>"Briefly, then, Sir Robert Llwellyn, the acknowledged
leader of archæological research, has given it as his
opinion that Mr. Hands's discovery must be genuine.
Sir Robert alone has had the courage to speak out
bravely, though he did so with manifest emotion and reluctance.
The other members of the conference have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span>
refused to express an opinion, though of at least three
from among their number there can be little doubt that
they concur with Sir Robert's view.</p>

<p>"Private telegrams, which we have hitherto refrained
from publishing, show that the cultured people of Germany,
from the Emperor downwards, are persuaded that
the story of Jesus of Nazareth has at last been told.
Many of the most eminent public men of France agree
with this view. These are statements borne out by the
evidence of our correspondents in foreign capitals who
have secured a series of interviews with those who represent
public opinion of the expert kind.</p>

<p>"The Roman Church, on the other hand, with that supreme
isolation and historic indifference to all that helps
the cause of Progress and Truth, has not only loftily declined
to recognise the fact that any discovery has been
made at all, has not only absolutely declined to be represented
at Jerusalem, but has issued a proclamation
forbidding Roman Catholics to think of or discuss the
events which are shaking the fabric of Christendom.</p>

<p>"In saying as much as we have already said, in placing
our melancholy conviction on record in this way, we
lay ourselves open to the charge of prejudging the most
important decision affecting the welfare of mankind that
any body of men have ever been called upon to make.
Not even the startling and overwhelming mass of support
we have received would have led us to do this were it
not our conviction that it is the wisest course to pursue
in regard to what we feel almost certain will happen in
the future. It seems far better to prepare the minds of
Christian English men and women for the terrible shock
that they will have to endure by a more gradual system
of disclosure than would be possible were we to adopt
the suggestion of the bishops and keep silent.</p>

<p>"And now, in the concluding portion of this article,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span>
we must briefly consider what the news that it has been
our responsible and painful duty to give first to the world
will mean to England.</p>

<p>"We fear that the mental anguish of countless thousands
must for a time cloud the life of our country as it
has never been clouded and darkened before. The
proof that the Divinity of the Greatest and Wisest
Teacher the world has ever known, or ever will know,
is but a symbolic fable, will for a time overwhelm the
world. A great upheaval of English society is beginning.
Old and venerated institutions will be swept away, minds
fed upon the Christian theory from youth, instinct with
all its hereditary tradition, will be for a while as men
groping in the dark. But the light will come after this
great tempest, and it will be a broader, finer, more steadfast
light than before, because founded on, and springing
from, Eternal Truth. The mission of beneficent
illusion is over. Error will yet linger for a generation
or two. That much is certain. There will be more who
will base their objections to the New Revelation upon
'the unassailable and ultimate reality of personal
spiritual experience,' forgetting the psychological influences
of hereditary training, which have alone produced
those experiences. But, alas! the knell of the old and
beautiful superstitions is ringing. The Doom is begun.
The Judge is set, who shall stay it? Let us rather turn
from the saddening spectacle of a fallen creed and rejoice
that the 'Infinite and eternal energy' men have
called God&mdash;Jah-weh, &#952;&#949;&#959;&#962;&mdash;that mysterious law of Progress
and evolution, is about to reveal man to himself
more than ever completely in its destruction of an
imagined revelation."</p></blockquote>

<p>During the afternoon preceding the publication of the
above article, the three principal proprietors had met at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span>
the offices of the paper and had held a long conference
with Mr. Ommaney, the editor.</p>

<p>It had been decided, as a matter of policy and in order
to maintain the leading position already given to the
paper by the first publication of Hands's dispatch, that
a strong and definite line should be taken at once.</p>

<p>The other great journals were already showing signs of
a cautious "trimming" policy, which would allow them
to take up any necessary attitude events might dictate.
They feared to be explicit, to speak out. So they would
lose the greater glory.</p>

<p>Once more commercial and political influences were at
work, as they had been two thousand years before. The
little group of Jewish millionaires who sat in Ommaney's
room had their prototypes in the times of Christ's Passion.
Men of the modern world were once more enacting
the awful drama of the Crucifixion.</p>

<p>Constantine Schuabe was among the group; his words
had more weight than any others. The largest holding
in the paper was his. The tentacles of this man were
far-reaching and strong.</p>

<p>"For my part, gentlemen," Ommaney said, "I am
entirely with Mr. Schuabe. I agree with him that we
should at once take the boldest possible attitude. Sir
Robert's opinion before he left was conclusive. We
shall therefore publish a leader to-morrow taking up our
standpoint. We will have it quite plain and simple.
Strong and simple, but with no subtleties to puzzle and
obscure the ordinary reader. It's no use to touch on
history or metaphysics, or anything but pure simplicity."</p>

<p class="p4b">"Then, Mr. Ommaney," Schuabe had said, "since
we are exactly agreed on the best thing to do, and since
these other gentlemen are prepared to leave the thing in
our hands, if you will allow me I will write the leading
article myself."</p>

<hr class="r20" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIb" id="CHAPTER_VIb">CHAPTER VI</a></h2>

<blockquote><p><b>HARNESS THE HORSES; AND GET UP, YE HORSEMEN,
AND STAND FORTH WITH YOUR HELMETS;
FURBISH THE SPEARS, AND PUT ON THE
BRIGANDINES.&mdash;JER. XLVI: 4</b></p></blockquote>

<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">F</span><span class="smcap">ather Ripon</span> sat alone in his study at the Clergy
House of St. Mary's. The room was quite silent,
save for the occasional dropping of a coal upon the
hearth, where a bright, clear fire glowed.</p>

<p>Three walls of the room were lined with books. There
was no carpet on the floor; the bare boards showed, except
for a strip of worn matting in front of the little cheap
brass fender. Over the mantel a great crucifix hung on
the bare wall, painted, or rather washed with dark red
colour.</p>

<p>The few chairs which stood about were all old-fashioned
and rather uncomfortable. A great writing-table
was covered with papers and books. Two candles stood
upon it and gave light to the room. The only other
piece of furniture was a deal praying-stool, with a Bible
and prayer-book upon the ledge.</p>

<p>A rugged, ascetic place, four walls to work and pray
in, with just the necessary tools and no more. Yet there
was no <i>affectation</i> of asceticism, the effect was not a considered
one in any way. For example, there was an oar,
with college arms painted on one blade, leaning against
the wall, a memory of old days when Father Ripon had
rowed four and his boat at Oxford had got to the head<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span>
of the river one Eight's week. The oar looked as if it
were waiting to be properly hung on the wall as a decorative
trophy, which indeed it was. But it had been
waiting for seven years. The priest never had time to
nail it up. He did not despise comfort or decoration,
pretend to a pose of rigidness; he simply hadn't the
time for it himself. That was all. He was always
promising himself to put up&mdash;for example&mdash;a pair of
crimson curtains a sister had sent him months back.
But whenever he really determined to get them out and
hang them, some sudden call came and he had to rush
out and save a soul.</p>

<p>Father Ripon looked ill and worn. A pamphlet, a
long, thin book bound in blue paper, with the Royal
Arms on the top of the folio, lay upon the table. It was
the report of the Committee of Investigation, and the
whole world was ringing with it.</p>

<p>The report had now appeared for two days.</p>

<p>The priest took up <i>The Tower</i>, a weekly paper, the
official organ, not of the pious Evangelical party within
the Church, but of the ultra-Protestant.</p>

<p class="p2b">His hand shook with anger and disgust as he read, for
the third time, the leading article printed in large type,
with wider spaces than usual between the lines:</p>

<blockquote><p class="p1plus">"We have hitherto refrained from any comment on the
marvellous discovery in Jerusalem, being content simply
to record the progress of the investigations, which have
at last satisfied us that a genuine discovery has been
made.</p>

<p class="p1plus">"In the daily special issues of the organs of the sacerdotal
party we find much more freedom of expression.
They have run the whole gamut&mdash;Disbelief, Doubt,
Desolation, Detraction, Demoralisation, and Dismay.
Rome and Ritualism have received a shock which demolishes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span>
and destroys the very foundation of their sinful
system.</p>

<p class="p1plus">"Carnal in its conception it cannot survive.</p>

<p class="p1plus">"'The worship of the corporeal presence of Christ's
natural flesh and blood' (<i>vide</i> the so-called <i>Black</i> rubric
at the end of the order of the administration of the
Lord's Supper) was always prohibited in the Protestant
Reformed Communion, but this idolatrous practice has
been the glory and boast of Babylon, and the aim and
object of the Traitors, within the Established Church of
England, whom we have habitually denounced.'</p>

<p class="p1plus">"'The times of this ignorance God winked at, but
now commandeth all men everywhere to repent.'</p>

<p class="p1plus">"Hidden by the Divine Providence till the fulness of
time, a simple inscription has taught us the full meaning
of Paul's mysterious words, 'Yea, though we have known
Christ after the flesh, yet now henceforth know we Him
no more.'&mdash;2 Cor. v. 16.</p>

<p class="p1plus">"Paul and Protestantism are vindicated at last.
'There is a natural body and there is a spiritual body.'
The spiritual body that manifested the resurrection of
Jesus to His disciples has too long been identified with
the natural body that was piously laid to rest by Joseph
and Nicodemus. Much that has been obscure in the
Gospel narratives is now explained.</p>

<p class="p1plus">"Men have always wondered that the Apostles, in
preaching their risen Lord, attempted no explanation of
His manifestations of Himself.</p>

<p class="p1plus">"We can understand now why it was that they were
divinely protected from imagining that the spiritual Body
is a dead body revived.</p>

<p class="p1plus">"How often have perplexed believers been troubled
by the questions of our modern scientists as to the physical
possibilities of a future resurrection of the body!
The material substance of humanity is resolved into its<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span>
elements, and again and again through the centuries is
employed in other organisms.</p>

<p class="p1plus">"'How then,' men have asked, 'can you believe that
the body you have deposited beneath the earth shall
collect from the universe its dissipated particles and rise
again?'</p>

<p class="p1plus">"Hitherto we have been content to put the question
aside with a simple faith that 'with God all things are
possible.' But to-day we are enabled to have a further
comprehension of the Lord's words, 'It is the spirit that
quickeneth, the flesh profiteth nothing.'</p>

<p class="p1plus">"Doubtless those who, even among our own company
of Evangelical Protestants, have attached too much importance
to the teaching of the so-called 'Fathers of the
Church' (who so early corrupted the sweet simplicity of
the Gospel) will find themselves compelled to a more
spiritual explanation of some passages of Holy Scripture;
but Faith will find little difficulty in rightly dividing and
interpreting the word of Truth.</p>

<p class="p1plus">"The Protestant cause has little to fear from facts.
We have been by God's Providence gradually prepared
for a great elucidation of the truth about the
Resurrection.</p>

<p class="p1plus">"Those who studied with attention the treatise of the
late Frederick W. H. Myers (the man who, of all moderns,
has best appreciated the personality of Paul the
apostle) had come to a conviction on the survival of
Human Personality after death on scientific grounds.</p>

<p class="p1plus">"The Resurrection of the Lord Jesus was no longer to
them 'a thing incredible,' its unique character was recognised
as consisting in its spiritual power.</p>

<p class="p1plus">"'Some doubted,' as on the mountain in Galilee.
Protestantism on the Continent, especially in Germany,
the home of what is misnamed the 'Higher Criticism,'
has been hampered in this way by the study of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span>
'letter,' and so in some degree has lost the assistance of
'the spirit which giveth life.'</p>

<p class="p1plus">"But the great heart of Protestant England is still
sound, and whilst Rome and Ritualism are aghast as
the foundation of their fabric of lies crumbles into dust,
we stand sure and steadfast, rejoicing in hope.</p>

<p class="p1plus">"Some readjustment of formularies may be conceded
to weak brethren.</p>

<p class="p1plus">"Our great Reformers drew up that marvellous manifesto
of the Protestant faith&mdash;'Articles agreed upon by
the archbishops and bishops of Both Provinces, and the
whole clergy in the Convocation holden at London
in the year 1562 for the avoiding of diversities of opinions,
and for the establishing of consent touching True
Religion.'</p>

<p class="p1plus">"England was at that time&mdash;alas, how often has it
been so!&mdash;inclined to compromise.</p>

<p class="p1plus">"There were timid men amongst the great divines
who brought us out of Babylon, and the 4th article of
the Thirty-nine was notoriously drawn up in antagonism
to the teaching of the holy Silesian nobleman, Caspar
Schwenckfeld, to satisfy the scruples of the sacerdotal
party, which clung to the benefices of the Establishment
then as now.</p>

<p class="p1plus">"The omission of twelve words would remove all
doubt as to its interpretation. We may be content to
affirm that 'Christ did truly rise again from death'
without stating further 'and took again his body with
flesh, bones, and all things appertaining.'</p>

<p class="p1plus">"It has always been the curse of Christendom that
man desired to express in words the ineffable.</p>

<p class="p1plus">"'Intruding into those things which he hath not seen,
vainly puffed up by his fleshly mind.'</p>

<p class="p1plus">"But it need not now be difficult with the aid of a
Protestant Parliament, which has so recently and so<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span>
gloriously determined on the expulsion of sacerdotalists,
to modify, in deference to pious scruples, too rigid definitions.
Time will suffice for these necessary modifications
of sixteenth-century theology.</p>

<p class="p1plus">"In the present, the gain is ours. We shall hear less
of the cultus of the 'Sacred Heart' in future. The
blasphemous mimicry of the Mass will perish from
amongst us.</p>

<p class="p1plus">"No man, in England at least, will dare to affirm that
the flesh in which the Saviour bore our sins upon the
Cross is exposed for adoration on the so-called 'altar.'</p>

<p class="p1plus">"As Matthew Arnold put it, on the true grave of Jesus
'the Syrian stars look down,' but the risen Christ, glorious
in His <i>Spiritual</i> Body, reigns over the hearts of his
true followers, and we look forward in faith to our departure
from the earthly tabernacle, which is dissolved
day by day, knowing that we also have a spiritual house
not made with hands eternal in the heavens."</p></blockquote>

<p class="p2">As he read the clever trimming article and marked the
bitterness of its tone, the priest's face grew red with
anger and contempt.</p>

<p>This facile acceptance of the Great Horror, this insolent
conversion of it to party ends, this flimsy pretence
of reconciling statements, which, if true, made Christianity
a thing of nought, to a novel and trumped-up system
of adherence to it, filled him with bitter antagonism.</p>

<p>But, useful as the article was as showing the turn many
men's minds were taking, there was no time to trouble
about it now.</p>

<p>To-morrow the great meeting of those who still believed
Christ died and rose again from the dead was to
be held.</p>

<p>The terrible "Report" had been issued. During the
forty hours of its existence everything was already beginning<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span>
to crumble away. To-morrow the Church Militant
must speak to the world.</p>

<p>It was said, moreover, that the great wave of infidelity
and mockery which was sweeping hourly over the country
would culminate in a great riot to-morrow....</p>

<p>Everything seemed dark, black, hopeless....</p>

<p>He picked up the Report once more to study it, as he
had done fifty times that day.</p>

<p>But before he opened it he knelt in prayer.</p>

<p>As he prayed, so sweet and certain an assurance came
to him, he seemed so very near to the Lord, that doubt
and gloom fled before that Presence.</p>

<p>What were logic, proofs of stone-work, the reports of
archæologists, to This?</p>

<p>Here in this lonely chamber Christ was, and spoke
with His servant, bidding him be of good comfort.</p>

<p class="p4b">With bright eyes, full of the glow of one who walks
with God, the priest opened the pamphlet once more.</p>

<hr class="r20" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIIb" id="CHAPTER_VIIb">CHAPTER VII</a></h2>

<h4>THE HOUR OF CHAOS</h4>

<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">A</span><span class="smcap">lthough</span>, during the first days of the Darkness,
hundreds of thousands of Christian men and
women were chilled almost to spiritual death, and although
the lamp of Faith was flickering very low, it was
not in London that the far-reaching effects of the discovery
at Jerusalem were most immediately apparent.</p>

<p>In that great City there is an outward indifference,
bred of a million different interests, which has something
akin to the supreme indifference of Nature. The many
voices never blend into one, so that the ear may hear
them in a single mighty shout.</p>

<p>But in the grimmer North public opinion is heard more
readily, and is more quickly visible. In the great centres
of executive toil the vital truths of religion seem to
enter more insistently into the lives of men and women
whose environment presents them with fewer distractions
than elsewhere. Often, indeed, this interest is a political
interest rather than a deeply Christian one, a matter
of controversy rather than feeling. Certain it is that all
questions affecting religious beliefs loom large and have
a real importance in the cities of the North.</p>

<p>It was Wednesday evening at Walktown.</p>

<p>Mr. Byars was reading the service. The huge, ugly
church was lit with rows of gas-jets, arranged in coronæ
painted a drab green. But the priest's voice, strained
and worn, echoed sadly and with a melancholy cadence<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span>
through the great barn-like place. Two or three girls, a
couple of men, and half a dozen boys made up the choir,
which had dwindled to less than a fifth of its usual size.
The organ was silent.</p>

<p>Right down the church, those in the chancel saw row
upon row of cushioned empty seats. Here and there a
small group of people broke the chilling monotony of
line, but the worshippers were very few. In the galleries
an occasional couple, almost secure from observation,
whispered to each other. The church was warm, the
seats not uncomfortable; it was better to flirt here than
in the cold, frost-bound streets.</p>

<p>Never had Evensong been so cheerless and gloomy,
even in that vast, unlovely building. There was no
sermon. The vicar was suffering under such obvious
strain, he looked so worn and ill, that even this lifeless
congregation seemed to feel it a relief when the Blessing
was said and it was free to shuffle out into the promenade
of the streets.</p>

<p>The harsh trumpeting of Mr. Philemon, the vestry
clerk's final "Amen," was almost jubilant.</p>

<p>As Mr. Byars walked home he saw that the three great
Unitarian chapels which he had to pass <i>en route</i> were
blazing with light. Policemen were standing at the
doors to prevent the entrance of any more people into
the overcrowded buildings. A tremendous life and energy
pulsated within these buildings. Glancing back,
with a bitter sigh, the vicar saw that the lights in St.
Thomas were already extinguished, and the tower, in
which the illuminated clock glowed sullenly, rose stark
and cold into the dark winter sky.</p>

<p>The last chapel of all, the Pembroke Road Chapel,
had a row of finely appointed carriages waiting outside
the doors. The horses were covered with cloths, the
grooms and coachmen wore furs, and the breaths of men<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span>
and beasts alike poured out in streams of blue vapour.
These men stamped up and down the gravel sweep in
front of the chapel and swung their arms in order to
keep warm.</p>

<p class="p2b">On each side of the great polished mahogany doors
were large placards, printed in black and red, vividly
illuminated by electric arc lights. These announced
that on that night Mr. Constantine Schuabe, M.P.,
would lecture on the recent discovery in Jerusalem.
The title of the lecture, in staring black type, seemed to
Mr. Byars as if it possessed an almost physical power.
It struck him like a blow.</p>

<p class="center"><b>
THE DOWNFALL OF CHRISTIANITY</b><br />
</p>

<p>And then in smaller type,</p>

<p class="center">
<span class="smcap">Anthropomorphism an Exploded Superstition</span><br />
</p>

<p class="p2">He walked on more hurriedly through the dark.</p>

<p>All over the district the Church seemed tottering.
The strong forces of Unitarianism and Judaism, always
active enemies of the Church, were enjoying a moment
of unexampled triumph. Led by nearly all the wealthy
families in Walktown, all the Dissenters and many
lukewarm Church people were crowding to these same
synagogues. At the very height of these perversions,
when Christianity was forsworn and derided on all
sides, Schuabe had returned to Mount Prospect from
London.</p>

<p>His long-sustained position as head of the antichristian
party in Parliament, in England indeed, his political
connection with the place, his wealth, the ties of family
and relationship, all combined to make him the greatest
power of the moment in the North.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span></p>

<p>His speeches, of enormous power and force, were delivered
daily and reported <i>verbatim</i> in all the newspapers.
He became the Marlborough of a campaign.</p>

<p>On every side the churches were almost deserted.
Day by day ominous political murmurs were heard in
street and factory. The time had come, men were saying,
when an established priesthood and Church must
be forced to relinquish its emoluments and position. The
Bishop of Manchester, as he rolled through the streets
in his carriage, leaning back upon the cushions, lost in
thought, with his pipe between his lips, according to the
wont and custom which had almost created a scandal in
the neighbourhood, was hissed and hooted as he went on
his way.</p>

<p>With a sickness of heart, an utter weariness that was
almost physical nausea, the vicar let himself into his
house with a latch-key.</p>

<p>There was a hushed, subdued air over the warm, comfortable
house, felt quite certainly, though not easy to
define. It was as though one lay dead in an upper
chamber.</p>

<p>Mr. Byars turned into his study. Helena rose to
meet him. The beautiful, calm face was very pale and
worn as if by long vigils. Minute lines of care had crept
round the eyes, though the eyes themselves were as calm
and steadfast as of old.</p>

<p>"Basil feels much stronger to-night, Father," she said.
"He is dressing now, and will come down to supper.
He wishes to have a long talk with you, he says."</p>

<p>For two weeks Gortre had lain prostrate in the house
of his future father-in-law.</p>

<p>It was as though he had watched the waters gradually
rising round him until at last he was submerged in a
merciful unconsciousness. The doctor said that he was
enduring a very slight attack of brain-fever, but one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span>
which need cause no one any alarm, and which was, in
fact, nothing at all in comparison to his former illness.</p>

<p>His fine physical strength asserted itself and helped
him to an easy <i>bodily</i> recovery.</p>

<p>To Basil himself, with returning health and a clearer
brain came a renewal of mental power. A great strain
was removed, the strain of waiting and watching, the
tension of a sick anticipation.</p>

<p>"It was almost as if I was conscious of this terrible
thing that has happened," he said to Helena. "I am
sure that I felt it coming instinctively in some curious
psychic way. But now that we know the worst, I am my
own man again. Soon, dear, I shall be up and about
again, ready to fight against this blackness, to take my
place in the ranks once more."</p>

<p>To her loving solicitude he seemed to have some definite
plan or purpose, but when she questioned him his
reserve was impenetrable, even to her.</p>

<p>During the days of darkness Helena's lot was hard,
her heart heavy. While Mr. Byars was at least active,
militant, she must eat her heart out in sorrow at home.
The doctor had forbidden any talk on those subjects
which were agitating the world, between her and Basil.
She was denied that consolation. So while her father
was attending the conferences at the Bishop's palace,
speaking at meetings, visiting the sick with passionate,
and, alas, how often useless! assurance that the Truth
would prevail and the Light of the World once more
shine out undimmed, she must live and pray alone.</p>

<p>Helena's faith had never weakened. All through the
trying days and nights it had burned steadily, clear, and
pure. But all around her she saw the enemies of Christ
prevailing. Nor was it with the slow movement of ordinary
secularism, but with a great shout of triumph and
exultation which resounded through the world. Men<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span>
were deserting their posts, the Church she loved seemed
tottering, a horrid confusion and anarchy was everywhere.</p>

<p>And all that she could do was to pray. But as the girl
moved about her simple household duties, as she tended
the sick man with an almost wifely care, her prayers
went on unceasingly and every action was interwoven
with supplication.</p>

<p>Pale, subdued, but with a quiet clearness and resolution
in his eye, Basil came down to the meal. There
was but little conversation during it. Afterwards, Helena
went to her own room, knowing that her father and
Gortre wished to be left alone.</p>

<p>In the study the two men sat on either side of the fireplace.
Basil wore a long dressing-gown of camel's-hair.
He would not smoke, the doctor had forbidden it, but
Mr. Byars lit his pipe with a sigh of satisfaction.</p>

<p>"To think, Basil," the older man said in a broken
voice, "to think that Christmas is upon us now! It's
the vigil of Christmas, and never since our Lord's Passion
has the world been in such a state. And worse than
all is our utter impotence!" His voice grew almost
angry. "We <i>know</i>, know as surely as we know anything,
that this terrible business is some stupendous mistake or
fraud. But there isn't the slightest possibility of any
one listening to us. On one side the weightiest expert
proof, on the other nothing but a conviction to oppose to
what appear to be the hardest facts. I cannot blame
any non-Christian for acquiescing in this discovery.
Viewing the thing clearly and without prejudice, I can't
blame any one. It is only the smallest minority, even of
professing Christians, whose faith is strong enough to
keep them from an utter denial of our Lord's Divinity.
It is simply a matter of long personal experience that
gives you and me and Helena our confidence in this utter<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span>
darkness. But in comparison to the rest of the world,
how many have that confidence?"</p>

<p>He put down his pipe on the table and rested his head
in his outstretched hands, a grey and venerable head.
"It's awful, Basil," he said in a broken voice, and
with his eyes full of tears. "In my old age I have seen
this. I wish that I had gone with my dear wife. 'Help,
Lord; for the godly man ceaseth; for the faithful fail
from among the children of men.' But what is so bitter
to me, my dear boy, is the sight of the utter overthrow
of Faith. It all shows how terribly weak the
majority of Christians are. Surface and symbol! symbol
and surface!"</p>

<p>"It will not last long," said Gortre, gravely. "For
my part, Father, I think that this terrible trial is allowed
and permitted by God to bring about a great and future
triumph for His Son, which will marshal, organise, and
consolidate Faith as nothing has ever done before. I am
convinced of it."</p>

<p>"Yes, it must be that," answered the vicar; "undoubtedly
that is God's purpose. But I would that the
light might come in my time. And I fear I shall not live
to see it. I'm an old man now, Basil; this has aged
me very much, and I shall not live much longer. It is
God's will, but it is hard to know that one will die seeing
Christ dethroned in the hearts of men, the Cross broken."</p>

<p>"While I have been quietly up-stairs," said Gortre,
"many strange thoughts have come to me, of which I
want to speak to you to-night. I have things to tell you
which I have mentioned to no one as yet. But before I
go into these matters&mdash;very dark and terrible ones, I fear&mdash;I
want you to give me a <i>résumé</i> of the position of
things as they are now. The present state is not clear
in my mind. I have not read many of the papers, and
I want a sort of bird's-eye view of what is going on."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span></p>

<p>"The position at present," said Mr. Byars, "from our
point of view, is a kind of anarchy. Within every denomination
those who absolutely refuse to credit the
truth of the discovery are in the minority. Abroad, in
France especially, wild free-thought of the rabid Tom
Paine order has broken out everywhere in a kind of
hysterical rage against Christianity. The immediate
social result has been an appalling increase in crimes of
lust and cruelty. Great alarm is felt by the authorities.
All the papers are taking a horribly cynical view. They
say that the delusion of Christianity has clouded men's
brains for so long that they are now incapable of bearing
the truth, and that the best way to govern the State is to
go on making believe. On the other hand, the vast majority
of Roman Catholics, both abroad and in England,
have remained utterly uninfluenced. It is one of the
most marvellous triumphs of discipline and order that
history has ever witnessed. The Pope forbade the
slightest notice of the discovery to be taken by priests or
people in the first instance. Then, when the Report of
the Committee was issued, with only one dissentient
voice&mdash;Sir Michael Manichoe's&mdash;a Papal Bull was issued.
Here it is, translated in <i>The Tablet</i>, magnificent in its
brevity and serenity."</p>

<p>He took a paper from the table beside him and began
to read:</p>

<blockquote><p class="center">"VENERABLE BRETHREN,&mdash;HEALTH AND
APOSTOLIC BENEDICTION</p>

<p>"It has seemed good to Us to address you on certain
points dealing with the decay of faith in divine things,
which is the effect of pride and moral corruption. And
this is the natural result of pride; for when this vice has
taken possession of the heart it is inevitable that the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span>
Christian Faith, which demands a most willing docility,
should languish, and that a murky darkness in regard to
divine truths should close upon the mind, so that in the
case of many these words should be made good, 'whatever
things they know not they blaspheme' (St. Jude).
We, however, so far from being hereby turned aside
from the design which We have taken in hand, are, on
the contrary, determined all the more zealously and
diligently to guide the well-disposed, so that they may be
saved from the perils of secular unbelief.</p>

<p>"And, with the help of the united prayers of the
faithful, We earnestly implore forgiveness for those who
speak evil of holy things.</p>

<p>"And inasmuch as certain persons not being members
of the Holy Catholic Church have in an extremity
of criminal madness laid claim to discoveries which are
pretended and put forth as affecting the eternal Truths
of the Faith, We command you, Venerable Brethren,
that it shall be stated in all the churches such pretences
are void of truth and utterly abominable. The enemies
of Christ cry out, 'We will not have this man to reign
over us' (Luke xix. 14), and make themselves loudly
heard with the utterance of that wicked purpose, 'Let
us make away with Him.'</p>

<p>"We therefore charge all Christians having peace
and communion with the Holy Church that they shall
give no ear or countenance to these onslaughts upon the
Faith. It is forbidden for them to speak of these things
among themselves, or to listen to others concerning
them.</p>

<p>"With these injunctions, Venerable Brethren, We, as
a presage of the divine liberality, and as a pledge of our
own charity, most lovingly bestow on each of you, and
on the clergy and flock committed to the care of each,
our Apostolic Benediction."</p></blockquote><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span></p>

<p>"That is the gist of it," said Mr. Byars, "though I
have missed out a few paragraphs. The result has been
that, with a few exceptions, the whole army of Romanists,
so to speak, have closed ranks and utterly refused to
listen to what is going on."</p>

<p>"It's very fine, very fine indeed, as a spectacle,"
Gortre answered. "I wish we had something like that
unity and discipline. But is that submission, possibly
without the fire of an inward conviction, worth very
much? I doubt it."</p>

<p>"It is not for us to judge," answered the vicar. "But
the result has been that the Catholic Church, both here
and on the Continent, is undergoing a storm of persecution
and popular hatred. There have been fearful fights
in Liverpool, and riots between the Irish dock-labourers
and a mob of people who called themselves Protestants
last year and 'Rationalists' to-day.</p>

<p>"The attitude of the Low Church party is varied.
Many of them are openly deserting to Unitarianism.
Others have accepted the discovery as being a true one,
and evolved an entirely new theory from it, while using
it as a party weapon also. This attitude is reflected in
<i>The Tower</i> in an article which says that, though the
actual body of Christ is now proved never to have risen
from the dead, the <i>spiritual</i> body was what the Disciples
saw. It is a clever piece of work, which has attracted
an immense number of people, and is directed entirely
against the Holy Eucharist.<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> The Moderate and High
Church parties are in some ways in a worse position than
any other. They find themselves unable to compromise.
"At the great meeting in the Albert Hall the other
day, which ended up in something like a free fight, all
the conclusion the majority of the clergy could come to
was that it was utterly impossible to accept the discovery
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span>
and remain Christian. The result everywhere is chaos;
men are resigning their livings, there have been several
suicides&mdash;isn't it horrible to think of?&mdash;congregations
are dwindling everywhere, and disestablishment seems a
certainty in a very short time. The papers are full of
nothing else, of course. We are fighting tooth and nail
upon the standpoint of personal spiritual experience,
which nothing can alter, but in a material way how little
that helps! The Methodists and Wesleyans are more
successful than any one. They are holding revival meetings
all over the country. Very few of these two bodies
have joined the infidel ranks. Dissent has always implied
an act of choice, which, at any rate, means a man
is not indifferent to the whole thing. I suppose that is
why the Wesleyans seem to be making a firmer and more
spiritual stand than any of us. To my shame I say it,
but the Churchmen of England are not bearing witness
as these others are."</p>

<p>"And the Bishops?"</p>

<p>"Most of them don't know what to do. Of course,
the great leaders of spiritual thought, W&mdash;&mdash;, for instance,
and G&mdash;&mdash;, have written that which has brought
comfort and conviction to hundreds. But see the horror
of the position. The only way in which this awful thing
can be combated is by just the methods which only
scholars and cultivated people can understand. How
are people who read the hard, material, logical speeches
of people like Schuabe, or that abominable woman, Mrs.
Hubert Armstrong, going to be convinced by the subtleties
of the intellect or by the reiteration of a personal
conviction which they cannot share? Then the Court
party, the Archbishop, Walke, and all those, are leaning
more and more towards the 'spiritual' body theory,
though they hesitate to commit themselves as yet. It is
all to be shelved until Convocation meets. They want
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span>
to see how things will go in Parliament. The Erastian
spirit is rampant. They are nearly all afraid of any ecclesiastical
action. They are following the lead of Germany
under the Kaiser."</p>

<p>"It is all very terrible to see how much less Christianity
means to mankind than earnest Christians believed," said
Gortre, sadly. "To see the edifice tumbling round one
like a house of paper when one thought it so secure and
strong. What a terrible lesson this will be in the future
to every one; what frightful shame and humiliation will
come to those who have denied their Lord when this is
over!"</p>

<p>"When will that be, Basil?" said the vicar, wearily.
"It seems as if the real hour of test were at hand, and
that now, finally and for ever, God means to separate the
true believers from the rest. I have thought that all this
may be but a prelude to the Last Day of all, and that
Christ's Second Coming is very near. But what I <i>cannot</i>
understand, what is utterly beyond the power of any of
us to appreciate, is what this all <i>means</i>. How can this
new tomb have been discovered after all these years?
Can all these great experts have been deceived? There
have been historical forgeries before, but surely this cannot
be one. And yet, I <i>know</i>, you <i>know</i>, that our Lord
rose from the dead."</p>

<p>"I believe that to me, of all men in England, The
Hand of God has given the key to the mystery," said
Gortre.</p>

<p>Mr. Byars started and looked uneasily at him.</p>

<p>"Basil," he said, "I have been thoughtless. We've
talked too long. You are not quite clear as to what you
are saying. Let us read compline together and go to
bed."</p>

<p>He watched Basil as he spoke, but before he had finished
his sentence he saw something in the young man's
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span>
face which sent the blood leaping and tearing through
his veins.</p>

<p>In a sudden, utterly unreasoning way, he saw a truth,
a certain knowledge, in Gortre's eyes which flooded his
whole heart and soul with exaltation and joy.</p>

<p class="p4b">His good and almost saintly face looked as John's
might have looked when, after the octave of the Resurrection
Day, the eight heavy-hearted men were once
more returning to the daily round and common task, and
saw the Lord upon the shore.</p>

<hr class="r20" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIIIb" id="CHAPTER_VIIIb">CHAPTER VIII</a></h2>

<h4>THE FIRST LINKS</h4>

<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">"I</span><span class="smcap">have</span> been piecing things together gradually, as I
lay silent up-stairs," said Gortre, drawing his chair
a little closer to the fire.</p>

<p>"Slowly, little by little, I have added link and link to
a chain of circumstantial evidence which has led me to
an almost incredible conclusion. When you have heard
what I have to say you will realise two things. One is
that there are depths of human wickedness so abysmal
and awful that the mind can hardly conceive of them.
The other is that, for what reason it is not for us to try
and divine, I have been led, by a most extraordinary
series of events and coincidences, to something very near
the truth about the discovery in Jerusalem. My story
begins some months ago, on the night before I was struck
down with brain-fever. You will remember that Constantine
Schuabe"&mdash;he spoke the name with a shudder
of horror that instinctively communicated itself to Mr.
Byars&mdash;"that Schuabe called here on that night about
the school scholarships. When I went away, I left the
house with him. He invited me to go on to Mount
Prospect and I did so. Earlier in the evening we had
been talking of the antichrist and I had said to you
that I saw in Schuabe a modern type of the old mediæval
idea. My mind was peculiarly sensitive on these points
that night, awake, alert, and inquiring. When Schuabe
invited me to his house, something impelled me to go,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span>
something outside of myself. I went, feeling that I was
on the threshold of some discovery."</p>

<p>He paused for a moment, white and tired with the intensity
of his narrative.</p>

<p>"When we got to Schuabe's house we began upon the
controversial points which we had carefully avoided here.
At first our talk was quite quiet, mere argument between
two people having different points of view on religion.
He went out to get some supper&mdash;the servants were all
in bed. While he was gone, again I felt the strange assurance
of something by me directing my actions. I
felt a sense of direct spiritual protection. I went to the
bookshelf and took down a Bible. I opened it, half
ashamed of myself for the tinge of superstition, and my
eyes fell upon the text:</p>

<p class="center">"'<span class="smcap">WATCH AND PRAY</span>.'</p>

<p>"I could not help taking it as a direct message.
Schuabe came back. Gradually, as I saw his bitter
hatred and contempt for our Lord and the Christian
Church becoming revealed, I was uplifted to rebuke
him. He had dropped the veil of an <i>intellectual</i>
disagreement. Some power was given to me to see
far into the man's soul. He knew that also, and all
pretence between us was utterly swept away. Then
I told him that his hate was real and active, that I
saw him as he was. And these were the words in
which he answered me, standing like Lucifer before
me. For months they have haunted me. They are
burnt in upon my brain for all time. '<i>I tell you, paid
priest as you are, a blind man leading the blind, that a day
is coming when all your boasted fabric of Christianity will
disappear. It will go suddenly and be swept utterly away.
And you, you shall see it. You shall be left naked of your
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span>
Faith, stripped and bare, with all Christendom beside you.
Your pale Nazarene shall die among the bitter laughter of
the world, die as surely as he died two thousand years ago,
and no man nor woman shall resurrect him. You know
nothing, but you will remember my words of to-night, until
you also become as nothing and endure the inevitable fate of
mankind!</i>'"</p>

<p>Mr. Byars started. As yet he realised nothing of
where Basil's story was to lead. "A prophecy!" he
cried. "It is as if he were gifted to know the future.
Something of what he said has already come to pass."</p>

<p>"My story is a long one, Father," said Gortre, "and
as yet it is only begun. You will see plainer soon.
Well, as he said these words I knew with certainty that
this man was <i>afraid of God</i>. I saw his awful secret in
his eyes, this man, antichrist indeed, <i>believes in our
Lord</i>, and in terrible presumption dares to lift his hand
against Him. Little more of importance happened upon
that night. The next day, as you know, I fell ill and was
so for some weeks. When I recovered and remembered
perfectly all that had happened&mdash;do you remember how
the picture of Christ fell and broke when Schuabe came?&mdash;I
saw that I must keep all these things locked within my
own brain. What could I do or say more than that I, a
fanatical curate&mdash;that is what people would have said&mdash;had
had a row with the famous agnostic millionaire and
politician? I could not hope to explain to any one the
reality of that evening, the certain knowledge I had of
its being only a prelude to some horror that I could
not foresee or name. So I kept my own counsel.
Perhaps you may remember that on the night of the
tea-party when I said good-bye to the people I urged
them to keep fast hold on faith, made a special point of
it?"</p>

<p>Again Mr. Byars showed his intense interest by a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span>
sudden movement of the muscles of his face. But he
did not speak, and Gortre continued:</p>

<p>"Now we come to Dieppe when we were all there together.
You will, of course, remember how Spence introduced
us to Sir Robert Llwellyn, and how we talked
over dinner at the <i>Pannier d'Or</i>. Since then, we must
remember, Sir Robert's evidence in favour of the absolute
authenticity of Hands's discovery has had more
weight with the world than that of any one else. He is,
of course, known to be the greatest living expert. And
that fact also has a very important bearing on my story.
After dinner, the conversation turned upon discoveries
in exactly the direction that the recent discovery <i>has</i>
been made. Llwellyn expressed himself as believing
that&mdash;I think I remember something like his actual words&mdash;'We
are on the eve of stupendous discoveries in this
direction.' None of us liked to pursue the discussion
further. There was a little pause."</p>

<p>"Yes!" said the vicar, "I remember it perfectly now;
it all comes back to me quite vividly. But do you know
that, beyond of course remembering that we were introduced
to Sir Robert at Dieppe, the subject of our conversation
had almost escaped my memory. Certainly I
never thought of it in detail. But go on, Basil."</p>

<p>"Well, then, Sir Robert drew a plan of the walls of
Jerusalem on the back of a letter which he took from his
pocket. As he turned the letter over I could not help
seeing whom it was from. I read the signature quite distinctly,
'Constantine Schuabe.' This brings us up to a
curious fact. Two eminent men, one antichristian, the
other a famous archæologist, both express an opinion in
my hearing. The first says openly that something is
about to occur that will destroy faith in Christ, the other
hints only at some wonderful impending discovery in the
Holy Land. The connection between the two statements,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span>
startling enough in any case, becomes still more
so when it is discovered that these two eminent people
are in correspondence one with the other. And there is
more than this even. Two days after that dinner I was
taking a stroll down by the quays when I saw Sir Robert
and Mr. Schuabe, who had just landed from the Newhaven
boat, get into the Paris train together."</p>

<p>A sudden short exclamation came from the chair on
the opposite side of the fire. Very dimly and vaguely
the vicar was beginning to see where Basil's story was
tending. The fire had grown low, and Mr. Byars replenished
it. The noise of the falling coals accentuated
the tension which filled the quiet room like a gas.</p>

<p>Then Gortre's tired, but even and deliberate, voice
continued:</p>

<p>"I will here ask you to consider one or two other
points. Professor Llwellyn told us that he had a year's
leave from the British Museum owing to ill health. So
long a rest presupposes a real illness, does it not? Now,
of course, one can never be sure of anything of this sort,
but it is, at least, curious and worthy of remark that Sir
Robert seemed outwardly in perfect health and with a
hearty appetite. He also said that he was <i>en route</i> for
Alexandria. Well, Alexandria is the nearest port to
Jaffa, which is but one day's ride from Jerusalem. Now
comes a still more curious part of my story. As I have
told you, our parish in Bloomsbury is one in which a
great class of undesirable people have made their home.
It cannot be denied that it is a centre of some peculiarly
shameless vice. Much of the work of the clergy lies
among women of a certain class, and great tact and resolution
is needed to deal with such problems as these
people present. Some months ago a woman, whose face
seemed in some vague way familiar to me, began to come
to church. Once or twice she seemed to show an inclination
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span>
to speak to me or my colleagues after the service,
but she never actually did so. Eventually she called
on Ripon, and confessed her way of life. Her repentance
seemed sincere, and she was anxious to turn over a
new leaf. It appeared that the girl was a rather well-known
dancer at one of the burlesque theatres, and I
must have seen her portrait on the hoardings and advertisements
of these places. She had been touched by
something in one of my sermons, it seems, and Ripon
requested me to go and see her. I did so, in the flat
where she lived, and we had a chat. The poor thing
was suffering from an internal disease, and had only a
year or two to live. She seemed a kindly, sensible creature
enough, vulgar and pleasure-loving, but without any
very great wickedness about her, despite her wretched
life. She wanted to get right away, to bury herself in
the country, and live a pure and quiet life until she
died. The great difficulty in the way was the man
whose mistress she was, and of whom she seemed in considerable
fear. I explained to her that, with the help of
Father Ripon and myself, no harm should come to her
from him, and that her quiet disappearance from the
scenes of her past life could be very easily managed.
Then it came out that the man in whose power she was
was none other than Sir Robert Llwellyn. <i>She told me
that he had been for some time in Palestine.</i> She was expecting
him back every day. While we were talking Sir
Robert actually entered the room, fresh from his journey.
We had a fearful row, of course, and he would not go
until I threatened to use force, and then only because
he was afraid of the scandal. But before he went he
seemed filled with a sort of coarse triumph even in a
moment of what must have been great discomfiture for
him. I had to explain what had happened to him. I
told him frankly that Miss Hunt&mdash;that was the woman's
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span>
name&mdash;was, by the grace of the Holy Spirit, about to
lead a new and different life. Then this sort of triumph
burst forth. He said that in a short time meddling
priests would lose all their power over the minds of
others. He said that Christ, 'the pale dreamer of the
East,' should be revealed to all men at last. He quoted
the verse about the grave from Matthew Arnold. And
it was all done with a great confidence and certainty."</p>

<p>He stopped, worn out, and glanced inquiringly at Mr.
Byars.</p>

<p>The vicar was evidently much moved and excited by
the narrative. "The most curious point of all," he said,
"in what you tell me is the fact of Sir Robert's <i>private</i>
and <i>secret</i> visit to Palestine some months before the discovery
was made. Such a recent visit is entirely unknown
to the public, who have been so busy with his
name of late. The newspapers have said nothing of it.
Otherwise, I see no reason why, in some way or other,
Mr. Schuabe and Sir Robert may not have known of
this tomb in some way before it was discovered by
Hands, and their hintings of a catastrophe to faith may
have simply been because of this knowledge which they
were unwilling to publish."</p>

<p>Gortre shook his head. "No, it is not that," he said.
"It is not that. They would never have kept the knowledge
secret. You have not been through the scenes
with these men that I have. There are a hundred objections
to that theory. <i>I am absolutely persuaded that
this 'discovery' is a forgery, executed with the highest skill,
by the one man living capable of doing it at the instigation
of the one man evil enough to suggest it.</i> The hand of God
is leading me towards the truth."</p>

<p>"But the proof!" said the vicar, "the proof! Think
of the tremendous forces arrayed against us. What can
we do? No one would listen to what you have told me."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span>
"God will show a way," said Gortre. "I know it.
I had a letter from Harold Spence this morning. His
work is done, and he has returned. At the end of the
week the doctor says I shall be able to get back to Lincoln's
Inn. I shall take counsel with Harold; he is brilliant,
and a man of the world. Together we will work
to overthrow these devils."</p>

<p>"And meanwhile," answered Mr. Byars, with a despairing
gesture, "meanwhile hope and faith are dying
out of millions of hearts, men are turning to sinful
pleasures unafraid, hopeless, desolate."</p>

<p class="p4b">The strain had been too great, he was growing older;
he bent his head on his hands, while the darkness crept
into his soul.</p>
<hr class="r20" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IXb" id="CHAPTER_IXb">CHAPTER IX</a></h2>

<h4>PARTICULAR INSTANCES, CONTRASTING THE OLD
LADY AND THE SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT</h4>

<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">T</span><span class="smcap">he</span> long Manchester station was full of the sullen
and almost unbearable roar of escaping steam.
Every now and again the noise ceased with a suddenness
that was pain, and the groups of people waiting to
see the London train start on its four hours' rush could
hear each other's voices strange and thin after the mighty
vibration.</p>

<p>The feast of Christmas was over. Throughout the
world the festival had fallen chill and cold on the hearts
of mankind. The <i>Adeste Fideles</i> had summoned few to
worship, and the praise had sounded thin and hollow.
Even the faithful must keep their deep conviction as a
hidden fire within them amid the din and crash of faith
and the rising tides of negation and despair.</p>

<p>Gortre, Helena, and Mr. Byars stood together by the
train side. They spoke but little; the same thought was
in their brains. The jarring materialism of the scene,
its steady, heedless industry, seemed an outrage almost
in its cold disregard of the sadness which they felt themselves.
The great engines glided in and out of the station,
the porters and travellers moved with busy cheerfulness
as if the world were not in the grip of a great darkness
and horror, taking no account of it. They stood by the
door of the carriage Basil had chosen, a forlorn group
not quite able to realise the stir of life around them.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span>
Gortre was pale and worn, but visibly better and
stronger. His face was fixed and resolute. The vicar
seemed much older, shrunken somewhat, and his manner
was more tremulous than before. His arm was in
Helena's.</p>

<p>"Basil," said the vicar, "you are going from us into
what must be the unknown&mdash;God grant a happy issue
out of the perils and difficulties before you. For my
part, I seem to be in an unhappy and doubting state.
It may be that you have the key to this black mystery
and can dispel the clouds. I shall pray daily that it may
be so. It is in the hands of God."</p>

<p>He sighed heavily as he gripped Basil's hand in farewell.
In truth, he had but little hope and had hardly
been able to realise the young man's story. It was
almost inconceivable to him, the abnormal wickedness it
suggested, the possibility that this great cloud could
come upon the world at the action of two men, both of
whom he had known, found pleasant, cultured people,
and rather liked. The thought was too big to grasp, it
confused and stunned him. It is a curious fact that this
good man, who could believe, despite all contrary evidence,
in the eternal truths of the Gospel, could not believe
in the malignancy which Basil's story had seemed
to indicate.</p>

<p>Helena had not been told of Basil's suspicions, only
of his hopes. She knew that there was that in his mind
which might lead once more to light and disperse the
clouds. No details were given to her, nor did she ask
for them. She was too serene and fine for commonplace
curiosity. The mutual trust between the lovers was absolute.
Nothing could strain it, nothing could disturb
it; and in her love and admiration for Basil, Helena saw
nothing incongruous or incredible in the fact that the young
man hoped himself to bring peace back to the world.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span>
To any one viewing the project with unbiassed eyes it
might have seemed beyond possibility, would have provoked
a smile, this spectacle of an obscure curate going
up to London in a third-class carriage with hopes of saving
his country's faith, in the expectation of overthrowing
the gigantic edifice of learned opinion, of combating
a Sanhedrin of the great. Such people would have said
with facile pedantry that this girl possessed no sense of
humour, imagining that they were reproaching her. For
by some strange mental perversion most people would
rather be told that they lack a sense of morals or duty
than a sense of humour, and it is quite certain that this
was said of John the Baptist as he preached in his unconventional
raiment upon Jordan's banks.</p>

<p>Helena and Basil walked slowly up and down the platform,
saying farewell.</p>

<p>Her words of love and hope, her serene and unquestioning
confidence, uplifted him as nothing else could do.
At this moment, big with his own passionate hopes and desires,
yet dismayed at the immensity of the task before him,
the trust and encouragement of one he loved were especially
helpful and uplifting. It was the tonic he needed.
And as the train slowly moved out of the station the bright
and noble face of his lady was the last thing he saw.</p>

<p>He thought long of her as the train began to gather
speed and rush through the smoky Northern towns. As
many other people, Gortre found a stimulus to clear,
ordered thought in the sensation of rapid motion. The
brain worked with more power, owing to the exhilaration
produced in it by speed.</p>

<p>As the ponderous machine which was carrying him
back to the great theatre of strife and effort gathered
momentum and power, so his mind became filled with
high hopes, began to glow with eagerness to strike a
great blow against the enemies of Christ.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span>
He looked at the carriage, noticing for the first time,
at least consciously, the people who sat there. He had
two fellow-passengers, a man and a woman. The man
seemed to belong to the skilled artisan class, decently
dressed, of sober and quiet manner. His well-marked
features, the prominent nose, keen grey eyes, and thick
reddish moustache, spoke eloquently of "character"
and somewhat of thought. The woman was old, past
sixty, a little withered creature, insignificant of face, her
mouth a button, her hair grey, scanty, and ill-nourished.</p>

<p>The man was sitting opposite to Gortre and they fell
into talk after a time on trivial subjects. The stranger
was civil, but somewhat assertive. He did not use the
ordinary "sir."</p>

<p>Suddenly, with a slight smile of anticipation, he seemed
to gather himself up for discussion.</p>

<p>"Well," he said, "I don't wish individuals no particular
harm, you'll understand, but speaking general, I
suppose you realise that your job's over. The Church
will be swept away for good 'n' all in a few months now,
and to my way of thinking it'll be the best thing as 'as
ever come to the country. The Church has always
failed to reach the labourin' man."</p>

<p>"Because the labouring man has generally failed to
reach the Church," said Gortre, smiling. "But you
mean Disestablishment is near, I suppose?"</p>

<p>"That's it, mister," said the man. "It must come
now, and about time, too, after all these centuries of
humbug. I used to go to church years back and sing
'The Church's one foundation.' Its foundation's been
proved a pack o' lies now, and down it comes. Disestablishment
will prove the salvation of England. When
religion's swept away by act o' Parliament, then men
will have an opportunity of talking sense and seeing
things clearly."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span>
He spoke without rudeness but with a certain arrogance
and an obvious satisfaction at the situation. Here
was a parson cornered, literally, forced to listen to him,
with no way of escape. Gortre imagined that he was
congratulating himself that this was not a corridor train.</p>

<p>"I think Disestablishment is very likely to come indeed,"
said Gortre, "and it will come the sooner for
recent events. Of course I think that it will be most
barefaced robbery to take endowments from the Church
which are absolutely her own property, and use them for
secular purposes, but I'm not at all sure that it wouldn't
be an excellent thing for the Church after all. But you
seem to think that Disestablishment will destroy <i>religion</i>.
That is an entire mistake, as you will find."</p>

<p>"It's destroyed already," said the man, "let alone
what's <i>going</i> to happen. Since what they've found out
in Jerusalem the whole thing's gone puff! like blowin'
out a match. You can't get fifty people together in any
town what believe in religion any more. The religion of
common sense has come now, and it's come to stay."</p>

<p>A voice with a curious singing inflection came from
the corner of the carriage, a voice utterly unlike the
harsh North-country accent of the workman. The old
woman was beginning to speak.</p>

<p>Gortre recognised the curious Cornish tones at once,
and looked up with sudden interest.</p>

<p>"You'm wrong, my son," said the old woman, "bitter
wrong you be, and 'tis carnal vanity that spakes
within you. To Lostwithul, where I bide, I could show
'ee different to what you do say."</p>

<p>The workman, a good-humoured fellow enough, smiled
superior at the odd old thing. The wrinkled face had
become animated, two deep lines ran from the nostrils to
the corner of the lips, hard and uncompromising. The
eyes were bright.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span>
"Well, Mother," he said, "let's hear what <i>you've</i> got
ter say. Fair do's in argument is only just and proper."</p>

<p>"Ah!" she replied, "it's easy to go scat when you've
not got love of the Lard in your heart. I be gone sixty
years of age, and many as I can mind back-along as have
trodden the path of sorrow. There be a brae lot o' fools
about."</p>

<p>The workman winked at Gortre with huge enjoyment,
and settled himself comfortably in his place.</p>

<p>"Then you don't hold with Disestablishing the Church,
Mother?" he said.</p>

<p>"I do take no stock in Church," she replied, "begging
the gentleman's pardon"&mdash;this to Gortre. "I was born
and bred a Wesleyan and such I'm like to die. How
should I know what they'll be doing up to London
church town? This here is my first visit to England to
see my daughter, and it'll be the last I've a mind to
take. You should come to Cornwall, my dear, and then
you'll see if religion's over and done away with."</p>

<p>"But you've heard of all as they've just found out
at Jerusalem, surely? It's known now that Christ never
was what He made out to be. He won't save no more
sinners,&mdash;it's all false what the Bible says, it's been
<i>proved</i>. I suppose you've heard about <i>that</i> in Cornwall?"</p>

<p>"I was down to the shop," said the old lady, with the
gentle contempt of one speaking to a foolish child. "I
was down to the shop December month, and Mrs.
Baragwaneth showed me the <i>Western Morning News</i>
with a picture and a lot of talk saying the Bible was ontrue,
and Captain Billy Peters, of Treurthian mine, he
was down-along too. How 'a did laugh at 'un! 'My
dear,' he says, ''tis like the coast guards going mackerel-seining.
Night after night have they been out, and shot
the nets, too, for they be alwass seein' something briming,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span>
thinking it a school o' fish, and not knowing 'tis but
moonshine. It's want of <i>experience</i> that do make folk
talk so.'"</p>

<p>"That's all very well, Mother," answered the man,
slightly nettled by the placid assurance of her tone.
"That's all pretty enough, and though I don't understand
your fishing terms I can guess at your meaning.
But here's the <i>proof</i> on one side and nothing at all on
t'other. Here's all the learned men of all countries as
says the Bible is not true, <i>and proving</i> it, and here's you
with no learning at all just saying it <i>is</i>, with no proof
whatever."</p>

<p>"Do 'ee want proof, then?" she answered eagerly, the
odd see-saw of her voice becoming more and more accentuated
in her excitement. "I tell 'ee ther's as many
proofs as pilchards in the say. Ever since the Lard died&mdash;ah!
'twas a bitter nailing, a bitter nailing, my dear!"&mdash;she
paused, almost with tears in her voice, and the
whole atmosphere of the little compartment seemed to
Basil to be irradiated, glorified by the shining faith of
the old dame&mdash;"ever since that time the proofs have
been going on. Now I'll tell 'ee as some as I've see'd,
my son. Samson Trevorrow to Carbis water married my
sister, May Rosewarne, forty years ago. He would
drink something terrible bad, and swear like a foreigner.
He'd a half-share in a trawler, three cottages, and money
in the bank. First his money went, then his cottages,
and he led a life of sin and brawling. He were a bad
man, my dear. Every one were at 'un for an ongodly
wastrel, but 'a kept on. An' the Lard gave him no
children; May could not make a child to him, for she
were onfruitful, but he would not change. All that folk
with sense could do was done, but 't were no use."</p>

<p>"Well, I know the sort of man," said the workman,
with conviction. His interest was roused, that unfailing
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span>
interest which the poorer classes take in each other's
family history.</p>

<p>"Then you do know that nothing won't turn them
from their evil ways?"</p>

<p>"When a chap gets the drink in him like that," replied
the artisan, "there's no power that will take him
from it. He'd go through sheet iron for it."</p>

<p>"And so would Samson Trevorrow, my dear," she
continued. "One night he came home from Penzance
market, market-peart, as the saying is, drunk if you will.
My sister said something to 'un, what 't was I couldn't
say, but he struck her, for the first time. Next morning
was the Sunday, and when she told him of what he'd
done overnight, he was shamed of himself, and she got
him to come along with her to chapel. 'T was a minister
from Bodmin as prached, and 'ee did prache the
Lard at Sam until the Word got hold on 'un and the
man shook with repentance at his naughty life. He did
kneel down before them all and prayed for forgiveness,
and for the Lard to help 'un to lead a new life. From
that Sabbath till he died, many years after, Sam never
took anything of liquor, he stopped his sweering and
carrying on, and he lived as a good man should. And in
a year the Lard sent 'un a son, and if God wills I shall
see the boy this afternoon, for he's to meet the train.
There now, my son, that be gospel truth what I tell 'ee.
After that can you expect any one with a grain of sense
to listen to such foolish truck as you do tell? The Lard
did that for Samson Trevorrow, changed 'un from black
to white, 'a did. If the Queen herself were to tell me
that the Lard Jesus wasn't He, I wouldn't believe her."</p>

<p>As Gortre drove from Euston through the thronged
veins of London towards the Inn, he thought much and
with great thankfulness of the little episode in the train.
Such simple faith, such supreme conviction, was, he
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span>
knew, the precious possession of thousands still. What
did it matter to these sturdy Nonconformists in the lone
West that <i>savants</i> denied Christ? All over England the
serene triumph of the Gospel, deep, deep down in the
hearts of quiet people, gave the eternal lie to Schuabe
and his followers. Never could they overcome the Risen
Lord in the human heart. He began to realise more and
more the ineffable wonder of the Incarnation.</p>

<p>Before he had arrived at Chancery Lane the London
streets began to take hold of him once more with the old
familiar grip. How utterly unchanged they were! It
seemed but a day since he had left them; it was impossible
at the moment of re-contact to realise all that had
passed since he had gone away.</p>

<p>He was to have an immediate and almost terrifying reminder
of it. The door of the chambers was not locked,
and pushing it open, he entered.</p>

<p>Always most sensitive to the <i>atmosphere</i> of a room,
moral as well as material, he was immediately struck by
that of the chambers, most unpleasantly so, indeed.
Certain indications of what had been going on there
were easily seen. Others were not so assertive, but contributed
their part, nevertheless, to the subtle general
impression of the place.</p>

<p>The air was stale with the pungent smell of Turkish
tobacco and spirits. It was obvious that the windows
had not been as freely opened as their wont. A litter of
theatre programmes lay on one chair. On another was
a programme of a Covent Garden ball and a girl's shoe
of white satin, into which a fading bouquet of hothouse
flowers had been wantonly crushed. The table was
covered with the <i>débris</i> of a supper, a <i>pâté</i>, some long-necked
bottles which had held Niersteiner, a hideous
box of pink satin and light blue ribbons half full of <i>glacé</i>
plums and chocolates.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a></span>
The little bust of the Hermes of Praxiteles, which
stood on one of the bookcases, had been maltreated with
a coarseness and vulgarity which hurt Basil like a blow.
The delicate contour of the features, the pure white of
the plaster, were soiled and degraded. The cheeks had
been rouged up to the eyes, which were picked out in
violet ink. The brows were arched with an "eyebrow
pencil" and the lips with a vivid cardinal red.</p>

<p>Basil put down his portmanteau and grew very pale as
he looked round on these and many other evidences of
sordid and unlovely riot. His heart sank within him.
He began to fear for Harold Spence.</p>

<p>Even as he looked round, Spence came into the room
from his bed-chamber. He was dressed in a smoking
jacket and flannel trousers. Basil saw at once that he
had been drinking heavily. The cheeks were swollen
under the pouch of the eye, he was unshaven, and his
manner was full of noisy and tremulous geniality.</p>

<p>There are men in whom a week or two of sudden relapse
into old and evil courses has an extraordinarily visible effect.
Spence was one of them. At the moment he looked
as the clay model compares with the finished marble.</p>

<p>Gortre was astounded at the change, but one thing the
modern London clergyman learns is tact. The situation
was obvious, it explained itself at once, and he nerved
himself to deal with it warily and carefully.</p>

<p>Spence himself was ill at ease at they went through the
commonplaces of meeting. Then, when they were both
seated by the fire and were smoking, he began to speak
frankly.</p>

<p>"I can see you are rather sick, old man," he said.
"Better have it out and done with, don't you think?"</p>

<p>"Tell me all about it, old fellow," said Gortre.</p>

<p>"Well, there isn't very much to tell, only when I
came back from Palestine after all that excitement I felt
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span>
quite lost and miserable. Something seemed taken away
out of one's life. Then there didn't seem much to do,
and some of the old set looked me up and I have been
racketing about town a good bit."</p>

<p>"I thought you'd got over all that, Harold; because,
putting it on no other grounds, you know the game is <i>not</i>
worth the candle."</p>

<p>"So I had, Basil, before"&mdash;he swallowed something
in his throat&mdash;"before <i>this</i> happened. I didn't believe
in it at first, of course, or, at least, not properly, when I
got Hands's letter. But when I got out East&mdash;and you
don't know and won't be able to understand how the
East turns one's ideas upside down even at ordinary
times&mdash;when I got out there and <i>saw</i> what Hands had
found, then everything seemed slipping away. Then
the Commission came over and I was with them all and
heard what they had to say. I know the whole private
history of the thing from first to last. It made me quite
hopeless&mdash;a terrible feeling&mdash;the sort of utter dreariness
that Poe talks of that the man felt when he was riding
up to the House of Usher. Of course, thousands of
people must have felt just the same during the past
weeks. But to have the one thing one leaned upon, the
one hope that kept one straight in this life, the hope of
another and happier one, cut suddenly out of one's consciousness!
Is it any wonder that one has gone back to
the old temptations? I don't think so, Basil."</p>

<p>His voice dropped, an intense weariness showed in
his face. His whole body seemed permeated by it, he
seemed to sink together in his chair. All the mental
pain he had endured, all the physical languor of fast
living, that terrible nausea of the soul which seizes so
imperiously upon the vicious man who is still conscious
of sin; all these flooded over him, possessed him, as he
sat before his friend.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span>
An enormous pity was in Basil's heart as he saw this
concrete weakness and misery. He realised what he had
only guessed at before or seen but dimly. He would not
have believed this transformation possible; he had thought
Harold stronger. But even as he pitied him he marvelled
at the Power which had been able to keep the man pure
and straight so long. Even this horrid <i>débâcle</i> was but
another, if indirect, testimony to the power of Faith.</p>

<p>And, secondly, as he listened to his friend's story, a
deep anger, a righteous wrath as fierce as flame burned
within him as he thought of the two men who, he was
persuaded, had brought this ruin upon another. In
Spence he was able to see but a single case out of
thousands which he knew must be similar to it. The
evil passions which lie in the hearts of all men had been
loosened and unchained; they had sprung into furious
activity, liberated by the appalling conspiracy of Schuabe
and Llwellyn.</p>

<p>It is noticeable that there was by this time hardly any
doubt in Gortre's mind as to the truth of his suspicions.</p>

<p>"I understand it all, old man," he said, "and you
needn't tell me any more. I can sympathise with you.
But I have much to tell you&mdash;news, or, at least, theories,
which you will be astounded to hear. Listen carefully
to me. I believe that just as you were the instrument of
first bringing this news to public notice, so you and I are
going to prove its falsity, to unearth the most wicked conspiracy
in the world's history. Pull yourself together and
follow me with all your power. All hope is not yet gone."</p>

<p class="p4b">Basil saw, with some relief, the set and attentive face
before him, a face more like the old Spence. But, as
he began to tell his story, there flashed into his mind a
sudden picture of the old Cornish woman in the train,
and he marvelled at that greater faith as his eye fell
upon the foul disorder of the room.</p>

<hr class="r20" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="CHAPTER_Xb" id="CHAPTER_Xb">CHAPTER X</a></h2>

<h4>THE TRIUMPH OF SIR ROBERT LLWELLYN</h4>

<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">I</span><span class="smcap">n</span> the large, open fireplaces of the Sheridan Club
dining-room, logs of pine and cedar wood gave out
a regular and well-diffused warmth. Outside, the snow
was still falling, and beyond the long windows, covered
with their crimson curtains, the yellow air was full of
soft and silent movement.</p>

<p>The extreme comfort of the lofty, panelled dining-room
was accentuated a hundred-fold, to those entering
it, by the chilly experience of the streets.</p>

<p>The electric lights burnt steadily in their silk shades,
the gleams falling upon the elaborate table furniture in a
thousand points of dancing light.</p>

<p>At one of the tables, laid for two people, Sir Robert
Llwellyn was sitting. He was in evening dress, and his
massive face was closely scrutinising a printed list propped
up against a wine-glass before him. His expression was
interested and intent. By his side was a sheet of the
club note-paper, and from time to time he jotted down
something upon it with a slender gold pencil.</p>

<p>The great archæologist was ordering dinner for himself
and a guest with much thought and care.</p>

<p class="center">
<i>Crême d'asperge à la Reine</i>
</p>

<p>in his neat writing, the letters distinct from one another&mdash;almost
like an inscription in Uncial Greek character,
one might have fancied.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[246]</a></span>
<i>Turbot à l'Amiral</i> promised well; the plump, powerful
fingers wrote it down.</p>

<p><i>Poulardes du Mans rôties</i> with <i>petits pois à la Française</i>
with a <i>salade Niçoise</i> to follow; that would be excellent!
Then just a little <i>suprème de pêches, à la Montreuil</i>,
which is quite the best kind of <i>suprème</i>, then some <i>Parmesan</i>
before the coffee.</p>

<p>"Quite a simple dinner, Painter," he said to the
steward of the room,&mdash;the famous "small dining-room"
with its alcoves and discreet corners,&mdash;"simple but good.
Of course you will tell Maurice that it is for <i>me</i>. I want
him to do quite his best. If you will send this list off to
the kitchens with a message, we will go into the wines
together."</p>

<p>They went carefully into the wines.</p>

<p>"Remember that we shall want the large liqueur
glasses," he said, "with the Tuileries brandy. In fact,
I think I'll take a little now, as an <i>apéritif</i>."</p>

<p>The man bowed confidentially and went away. He
returned with a long bottle of curious shape with an imperial
crown blown in the glass. It was some of the
famous brandy which had been lately found bricked up
in a cellar close to the <i>Place Carrousel</i>, and was worth
its weight in gold.</p>

<p>On the tray stood one of the curious liqueur glasses
lately introduced into the club by Sir Robert. It was the
shape of a port-wine glass, but enormously large, capable
of holding a pint or more, and made of glass as thin as
tissue paper and fragile as straw. The steward poured a
very little of the brandy into the great glass and twirled
it round rapidly by the stem. This was the most epicurean
device for bringing out the bouquet of the liqueur.</p>

<p>Llwellyn sipped the precious liquid with an air of
the most intense enjoyment. His face glowed with
enthusiasm.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</a></span>
"Wonderful, wonderful!" he said in a hushed voice.
"There, take it away and bring me an olive. Then I
will go down-stairs and wait for my friend in the smoking-room.
You will serve the soup at five minutes past
eight."</p>

<p>He got up from the table and moved silently over the
heavy carpet to the door.</p>

<p>It was about seven o'clock. At eight Constantine
Schuabe was coming to the Sheridan Club to dine.</p>

<p>Sir Robert sat in the smoking-room with a tiny cigarette
of South American tobacco, wrapped in maize leaf and
tied round the centre with a tiny cord of green silk.
His face expressed nothing but the most absolute repose.
His correspondence with life was at that moment as
complete as the most perfect health and discriminating
luxury could make it.</p>

<p>He stretched out his feet to the blaze and idly watched
the reflection in the points of his shining boots.</p>

<p>The room was quite silent now. A few men sat about
reading the evening papers, and there was a subdued
hum of talk from a table where two men were playing a
casual game of chess, in which neither of them seemed
much interested. A large clock upon the oak mantel-shelf
ticked with muffled and soothing regularity.</p>

<p>Llwellyn picked up a sixpenny illustrated paper, devoted
to amusements and the lighter side of life, and
lazily opened it.</p>

<p>His eye fell upon a double-page article interspersed
with photographs of actors and actresses. The article
was a summing-up of the year's events on the lighter
stage by an accepted expert in such matters. He read
as follows:</p>

<blockquote><p>"The six Trocadero girls whom I remember in Paris
recently billed as 'The Cocktails,' never forget that
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[248]</a></span>
grace is more important in dancing than mere agility.
They are youthful looking, pretty and supple, and their
man&#339;uvres are cunningly devised. The <i>diseuse</i> of the
troupe, Mdlle. Nepinasse, sings the Parisian success,
<i>Viens Poupoule</i>, with considerable 'go' and swing.
But in hearing her at the 'Gloucester' the other night
I could not help regretting the disappearance of brilliant
Gertrude Hunt from the boards where she was so great
an attraction. <i>Poupoule</i>, or its English equivalent, is
just the type of song, with its attendant descriptive
dance, in which that gay little lady was seen at her best.
In losing her, the musical-comedy stage has lost a player
whose peculiar individuality will not easily be replaced.
Gertrude Hunt stood quite alone among her sisters of
the Profession. Who will readily forget the pert <i>insouciance</i>,
the little trick of the gloved hands, the mellow
calling voice? It has been announced that this popular
favourite has disappeared for ever from the stage. But
there is a distinct mystery about the sudden eclipse of
this star, and one which conjecture and inquiry has
utterly failed to solve. Well, I, in common with thousands
of others, can only sigh and regret it. Yet I
should like to think that these lines would meet her eye,
and she may know that I am only voicing the wishes of
the public when I call to her to come back and delight
our eyes and ears as before."</p></blockquote>

<p>By the side of the paragraph there was a photograph
of Gertrude Hunt. He stared at it, his mind busy with
memories and evil longing. The bold, handsome face,
the great eyes, looked him full in the face. Never had
any woman been able to hold him as this one. She had
become part of his life. In his mad passion for the
dancer he had risked everything, until his whole career
had depended upon the good-will of Constantine Schuabe.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</a></span>
There had been no greater pleasure than to satisfy her
wishes, however tasteless, however vulgar. And then,
hastening back to her side with a fortune for her (the
second he had poured into the white grasping hands), he
had found her with the severe young priest. A power
which he was unable to understand had risen up as a bar
to his enormous egoism. She had gone, utterly disappeared,
vanished as a shadow vanishes at the moving of
a light.</p>

<p>And all his resources, all those of the theatre people
with whom she had been so long associated, had utterly
failed to trace her.</p>

<p>The Church had swallowed her up in its mystery and
gloom. She was lost to him for ever. And the fierce
longing to be with her once more burnt within him like
the unhallowed flame upon the altar of an idol.</p>

<p>As he regarded the chaos into which the Church was
plunged he would laugh to himself in horrid glee. His
indifference to all forms of religious congregations had
gone. He felt an active and bitter hatred now hardly
less than that of Schuabe himself. And all the concentrated
hatred and incalculable malice that his poisoned
brain distilled was focussed and directed upon the young
curate who had been the means and instrument of his
discomfiture. He had begun to plan schemes of swift
revenge, laughing at himself sometimes for the crude
melodrama of his thoughts.</p>

<p>As a waiter with his powdered hair and white silk
stockings showed Schuabe into the smoking-room, the
Jew saw with surprise the flushed and agitated face of his
host, so unlike its usual sensual serenity. He wondered
what had arisen to disturb Llwellyn, and he made up
his mind that he would know it before the evening was
over.</p>

<p>Schuabe, on his part, seemed depressed and in poor
spirits.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[250]</a></span> There was a restlessness, quite foreign to his
usual composure, which appeared in little nervous tricks
of his fingers. He toyed with his wine-glass and did
poor justice to the careful dinner.</p>

<p>"Everything is going on very well," Llwellyn said.
"My book is nearly finished, and the American rights
were sold yesterday. The Council of the Free Churches
have appointed Dr. Barker to write a counterblast. Who
could have foreseen the stir and tumult in the world?
Everything is toppling over in the religious world. I
have read of your triumphal progress in the North&mdash;this
asparagus soup is excellent."</p>

<p>"I don't feel very much inclined to talk of these
things to-night," said Schuabe. "To tell the truth, my
nerves are a little out of order, and I have been doing
too much. I've got in that ridiculous state in which
one is constantly apprehending some sinister event.
Everything has gone well, and yet I'm like this. It is
foolish. How humiliating a thought it is, Llwellyn,
that even intellects like yours and mine are entirely dependent
upon the secretions of the liver!"</p>

<p>He smiled rather grimly, and the disturbance of the
regular repose and immobility of his face showed depths
of weary unhappiness which betrayed the tumult within.</p>

<p>He recovered himself quickly, anxious, it seemed, to
betray his thoughts no further.</p>

<p>"You seemed upset when I came into the club," he
said. "You ought to be happy enough. Debts all
gone, fifty thousand in the bank, reputation higher than
ever, and all the world listening to everything you've
got to say." He smiled rather bitterly, as Llwellyn
raised a glass of champagne to his lips.</p>

<p>"Exactly," said Llwellyn. "I've got everything I
wanted a few months ago, and one of the principal inducements
for wanting it has gone."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[251]</a></span>
"Oh! you mean that girl?" answered Schuabe, contemptuously.
"Well, buy another. They are for sale
in all the theatres, you know."</p>

<p>"It's all very well to sneer like that," replied
Llwellyn. "It's nothing to me that you're about as
cold-blooded as a fish, but you needn't sneer at a man
who is not. Because you enjoy yourself by means of
asceticism you have no more virtue than I have. I am
fond of this one girl; she has become necessary to my
life. I spent thousands on her, and then this abominable
young parson takes her away&mdash;" He ground his teeth
savagely, his face became purple, he was unable to finish
his sentence.</p>

<p>Curiously enough Schuabe seemed to be in sympathy
with his host's rage. A deadly and vindictive expression
crept into his eyes, which were nevertheless more glittering
and cold than before.</p>

<p>"Gortre has come back to London. He has been
here nearly a week," said Schuabe, quickly.</p>

<p>The other started. "You know his movements then?
What has he to do with <i>you</i>?"</p>

<p>"More than, perhaps, you think. Llwellyn, that
young man is dangerous!"</p>

<p>"He's done me all the harm he can already. There
is nothing else he can do, unless he elopes with Lady
Llwellyn, an event which I should view with singular
equanimity."</p>

<p>"At any rate, I take sufficient interest in that person's
movements to have them reported to me daily."</p>

<p>"Why on earth&mdash;&mdash;?"</p>

<p>"Simply because he guesses, or will guess, at the
truth about the Damascus Gate sepulchre!"</p>

<p>Llwellyn grew utterly white. When he spoke it was
with several preliminary moistenings of the lips.</p>

<p>"But what proof can he have?"</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[252]</a></span>
"Don't be alarmed, Llwellyn. We are perfectly safe
in every way. Only the man is an enemy of mine, and
even small enemies are obnoxious. He won't disturb
either of us for long."</p>

<p>The big man gave a sigh of relief. "Well, you manage
as you think best," he said. "Confound him! He
deserves all he gets&mdash;let's change the subject. It's a
little too Adelphi-like to be amusing."</p>

<p>"I am going to hear Pachmann in the St. James's
Hall. Will you come?"</p>

<p>Llwellyn considered a moment. "No, I don't think
I will. I'm going out to a supper-party in St. John's
Wood later&mdash;Charlie Fitzgerald's, the lessee of the
Piccadilly. I shall go home and read a novel quietly.
To tell the truth, I feel rather depressed, too. Everything
seems going too well, doesn't it?"</p>

<p>Schuabe's voice shook a little as he replied shortly.</p>

<p>For a brief moment the veil was raised. Each saw
the other with eyes full of the fear that was lurking
within them.</p>

<p>For weeks they had been at cross purposes, simulating
a courage and indifference they did not feel.</p>

<p>Now each knew the truth.</p>

<p>They knew that the burden of their terrible secret was
beginning to press and enclose them with its awful
weight. Each had imagined the other free from his own
terror, that terror that lifts up its head in times of night
and silence, the dread Incubus that murders sleep.</p>

<p>The two men went out of the club together without
speaking. Their hearts were beating like drums within
them; it was the beginning of the agony.</p>

<hr class="r5" />

<p>Llwellyn, his coat exchanged for a smoking jacket,
lay back in a leather chair in his library. Since his return
from Palestine he had transferred most of his belongings
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[253]</a></span>
to a small flat in New Bond Street. He hardly
ever visited his wife now. The flat in Bloomsbury
Court Mansions had been given up when Gertrude Hunt
had gone.</p>

<p>In New Bond Street Sir Robert lived alone. A housekeeper
in the basement of the buildings looked after his
rooms and his valet slept above.</p>

<p>The new <i>pied à terre</i> was furnished with great luxury.
It was not the garish luxury and vulgar splendour of
Bloomsbury Court&mdash;that had been the dancer's taste.
Here Llwellyn had gathered round him all that could
make life pleasant, and his own taste had seen to everything.</p>

<p>As he sat alone, slightly recovered from the nervous
shock of the dinner, but in an utter depression of spirits,
his thoughts once more went back to his lost mistress.</p>

<p>It was in times like these that he needed her most.
She would distract him, amuse him, where a less vulgar,
more intellectual woman would have increased his
boredom.</p>

<p>He sighed heavily, pitying himself, utterly unconscious
of his degradation. The books upon the shelves, learned
and weighty monographs in all languages, his own brilliant
contributions to historical science among them,
had no power to help him. He sighed for his rowdy
Circe.</p>

<p>The electric bell of the flat rang sharply outside in the
passage. His man was out, and he rose to answer it
himself.</p>

<p>A friend probably had looked him up for a drink and
smoke. He was glad; he wanted companionship, easy,
genial companionship, not that pale devil Schuabe, with
his dreary talk and everlasting reminder.</p>

<p>He went out into the passage and opened the front
door. A woman stood there.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[254]</a></span>
She moved, and the light from the hall shone on her
face.</p>

<p>The eyes were brilliant, the lips were half parted.</p>

<p>It was Gertrude Hunt.</p>

<hr class="r5" />

<p>They were sitting on each side of the fire.</p>

<p>Gertrude was pale, but her dark beauty blazed at him.</p>

<p>She was smoking a cigarette, just as in the old time.</p>

<p>A little table with a caraffe of brandy and bottles of
seltzer in a silver stand stood between them.</p>

<p>Llwellyn's face was one large circle of pleasure and
content. His eyes gleamed with an evil triumph as he
looked at the girl.</p>

<p>"Good Heavens!" he cried, "why, Gertie, it's almost
worth while losing you to have you back again like
this. It's just exactly as it used to be, only better; yes,
better! So you got tired of it all, and you've come
back. What a little fool you were ever to go away,
dear!"</p>

<p>"Yes, I got tired of it," she repeated, but in a curiously
strained voice.</p>

<p>He was too exhilarated to notice the strange manner
of her reply.</p>

<p>"Well, I've got any amount of ready cash now," he
said joyously. "You can have anything you like now
that you've given up the confounded parsons and become
sensible again."</p>

<p>She seemed to make an effort to throw off something
that oppressed her.</p>

<p>"Now, Bob," she said, "don't talk about it. I've
been a little fool, but that's over. What a lot you've
got to tell me! What did you do all the time you were
away? Where did you raise the 'oof from? Tell me
<i>everything</i>. Let's be as we were before. No more
secrets!"</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[255]</a></span>
He seemed to hesitate for a moment.</p>

<p>She saw that, and stood up. "Come and kiss me,
Bob," she said. He went to her with unsteady footsteps,
as if he were intoxicated by the fury of his passion.</p>

<p>"Tell me everything, Bob," she whispered into his
ear.</p>

<p>The man surrendered himself to her, utterly, absolutely.</p>

<p>"Gertie," he said, "I'll tell you the queerest story
you ever heard."</p>

<p>He laughed wildly.</p>

<p>"I've tricked the whole world by Jove! cleared fifty
thousand pounds, and made fools of the whole world."</p>

<p>She laughed, a shrill, high treble.</p>

<p>"Dear old Bob," she cried; "clever old Bob, you're
the best of them all! What have you done this time?
Tell me all about it."</p>

<p>"By God, I will," he cried. "I'll tell you the whole
story, little girl." His voice was utterly changed.</p>

<p>"Yes, everything!" she repeated fiercely.</p>

<p>Her body shook violently as she spoke.</p>

<p>The man thought it was in response to his caresses.</p>

<p>And the face which looked out over the man's shoulder,
and had lately been as the face of Delilah, was become
as the face of Jael, the wife of Heber the Kenite.</p>

<hr class="r5" />

<p>"No more secrets, Bob?"</p>

<p class="p4b">"No more secrets, Gertie; but how pale you look!
Take some brandy, little girl. Now, I'm going to
make you laugh! Listen!"</p>

<hr class="r20" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[256]</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIb" id="CHAPTER_XIb">CHAPTER XI</a></h2>

<h4>PROGRESS</h4>

<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">S</span><span class="smcap">ir Michael Manichoe</span>, Father Ripon, and
Harold Spence were sitting in Sir Michael's own
study in his London house in Berkeley Square. A
small circular table with the remains of a simple meal
showed that they had dined there, without formality,
more of necessity than pleasure.</p>

<p>When a small company of men animated by one
strenuous purpose meet together, the same expression
may often be seen on the face of each one of them.
The three men in the study were curiously alike at this
moment. A grim resolution, something of horror, a
great expectation looked out of their eyes.</p>

<p>Sir Michael looked at his watch. "Gortre ought to be
here directly," he said. "It won't take him very long
to drive from Victoria. The train must be in already."</p>

<p>Father Ripon nodded, without speaking.</p>

<p>There was another interval of silence.</p>

<p>Then Spence spoke. "Of course it is only a <i>chance</i>,"
he said. "Gertrude Hunt may very likely be able to
give us no information whatever. One can hardly suppose
that Llewellyn would confide in her."</p>

<p>"Not fully," said Father Ripon. "But there will be
letters probably. I feel sure that Gortre will come back
with some contributory evidence, at all events. We
must go to work slowly, and with the greatest care."</p>

<p>"The greatest possible care," repeated Sir Michael.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[257]</a></span>
"On the shoulders of us four people hangs an incredible
burden. We must do nothing until we are <i>sure</i>. But
ever since Gortre's suspicions have been known to me,
ever since Schuabe asked you that curious question in
the train, Ripon, I have felt absolutely assured of their
truth. Everything becomes clear at once. The only
difficulty is the difficulty of believing in such colossal
wickedness, coupled with such supreme daring."</p>

<p>"It is hard," said Father Ripon. "But probably
one's mind is dazzled with the consequences, the <i>size</i>,
and immensity of the fraud. Apart from this question
of bigness, it may be that there is, given a certain Napoleonic
type of brain, no more danger or difficulty in
doing such gigantic evil than in doing evil on a smaller
scale."</p>

<p>"Perhaps the size of the operation blinds people&mdash;"
Spence was continuing, when the door opened and the
butler showed Gortre into the room.</p>

<p>He wore a heavy black cloak and carried a Paisley
travelling rug upon his arm.</p>

<p>The three waiting men started up at his approach, with
an unspoken question on the lips of each one of them.</p>

<p>Gortre began to speak at once. He was slightly
flushed from his ride through the keen, frosty air of the
evening. His manner was brisk, hopeful.</p>

<p>"The interview was excessively painful, as I had anticipated,"
he began. "The result has been this: I
have been able to get no direct absolute confirmation of
what we think. On the other hand, what I <i>have</i> heard
establishes something and has made me morally certain
that we are on the right track. I think there can be no
doubt about that. Again, there is a strong possibility
that we shall know much more very shortly."</p>

<p>"Have you had anything to eat?" asked Sir Michael.</p>

<p>"No, sir, and I'm hungry after my journey. I'll
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[258]</a></span>
have some of this cold beef, and tell you everything that
has happened while I eat."</p>

<p>He sat down, began his meal, and told his story in
detail.</p>

<p>"I found Miss Hunt," he said, "in her little cottage
by the coast-guard watch-house, looking over the sea.
Of course, as you know, she is known as Mrs. Hunt in
the village. Only the rector knows her story&mdash;she has
made herself very beloved in Eastworld, even in the
short time she has been there. I asked her, first of all,
about her life in general. Then, without in any way indicating
the object of my visit&mdash;at that point&mdash;I led the
conversation up to the subject of the Palestine 'discovery.'
Of course she had heard of it, and knew all
the details. The rector had preached upon it, and the
whole village, so it seems, was in a ferment for a week
or so. Then, in both Church and the Dissenting chapels&mdash;there
are two&mdash;the whole thing died away in a marvellous
manner. The history of it was extremely interesting.
Every one came to service just the same as usual,
life went on in unbroken placidity. The fishermen, who
compose the whole population of the village, absolutely
<i>refused</i> to believe or discuss the thing. So utterly different
from townspeople! They simply felt and knew intuitively
that the statements made in the papers <i>must</i> be
untrue. So without argument or worry they ignored it.
Miss Hunt said that the church has been fuller than
ever before, the people coming as a sort of stubborn
protest against any attack upon the faith of their fathers.
For her own part, when she realised what the news
meant or would mean, Miss Hunt had a black time of
terror and struggle. She is a woman with a good brain,
and saw at once what it would mean to her. Her own
words were infinitely pathetic. 'I went out on the
sands,' she said, 'and walked for miles. Then when I
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[259]</a></span>
was tired out I sat down and cried, to think that there
would never be any Jesus any more to save poor girls.
It seemed so empty and terrible, and I'd only been
trying to be good such a short time. I went to evensong
when I got back; the bell was tolling just as usual.
And as I sat there I saw that it <i>couldn't</i> be true that
Jesus was just a good man, and not God. I wondered
at myself for doubting, seeing what He'd done for me.
If the paper was right, then why was it I was so happy,
happier than ever before in my life&mdash;although I am
going to die soon? Why was it that I could go away
and leave Bob and the old life? why was it that I could
see Jesus in my walks, hear the wind praying&mdash;feel that
everything was speaking of Him?' That was the gist
of what she said, though there was much more. I wish
I could tell you adequately of the deep conviction in
her voice and eyes. One doesn't often see it, except in
very old people. After this I began to speak of our
suspicions as delicately as possible. It was horribly
difficult. One was afraid of awakening old longings
and recalling that man's influence. I was relieved to
find that she took it very well indeed. Her feelings
towards the man have undergone a complete change.
She fears him, not because he has yet an influence over
her, but with a hearty fear and horror of the life she was
living with him. When I told her what we thought, she
began at once by saying that from what she knew of
Llwellyn he would not stop even at such wickedness as
this. She said that he only cared for two things, and
kept them quite distinct. When he is working he
throws his whole heart into what he is doing, and he will
let no obstacle stand in his way. He wants to constantly
assure himself of his own pre-eminence in his
work. He must be first at any cost. When his work is
over he dismisses it absolutely from his thoughts, and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[260]</a></span>
lives entirely for gross, material pleasures. The man
seems to pursue these with a horrid, overwhelming eagerness.
I gather that he must be one of the coldest and
most calculating sybarites that breathes. The actual
points I have gathered are these, and I think you will
see that they are extremely important. Llwellyn was
indebted enormously to Schuabe. Suddenly, Miss Hunt
tells me, when Llwellyn's financial position began to be
very shaky, Schuabe forgave him the old debts and paid
him a large sum of money. Llwellyn paid off a lot of
the girl's debts, and he told her that the money had
come from that source. It was not a loan this time, he
said to her, but a payment for some work he was about
to do. He also impressed the necessity of silence upon
her. While away he wrote several times to her&mdash;once
from Alexandria, from one or two places on the Continent,
<i>and twice from the German hotel</i>, <i>the</i> 'Sabîl,' <i>in
Jerusalem</i>."</p>

<p>There was a sudden murmur from one or two men
who were listening to Gortre's narrative. He had long
since forgotten to eat and was leaning forward on the
table. He paused for a moment, drank a glass of water,
and concluded:</p>

<p>"This then is all that I know at present, but it gives
us a basis. We know that Sir Robert Llwellyn was
staying privately at Jerusalem. Miss Hunt was instructed
to write to him under the name of the Rev.
Robert Lake, and she did so, thinking that his incognito
was assumed owing to the kind of pleasures he was pursuing,
and especially because of his recent knighthood.
But in a week's time Miss Hunt has asked me to go down
to Eastworld again, as she has hopes of getting other
evidence for me. She will not say what this is likely to
consist of, or, in fact, tell me anything about it. But
she has hopes."</p>

<p>"This is of great importance, Gortre," said Sir Michael;
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[261]</a></span>
"we have something definite to go upon."</p>

<p>"I will start again for Jerusalem without loss of a
day," said Spence, his whole face lighting up and hardening
at the thought of active occupation.</p>

<p>"I was going to suggest it, Mr. Spence," said Sir
Michael. "You will do what is necessary better than
any of us; your departure will attract less notice. You
will of course draw upon me for any moneys that may
be necessary. If in the course of your investigations it
may be&mdash;and it is extremely probable&mdash;may be necessary
to buy the truth, of course no money considerations
must stand in the way. We are working for the peace
and happiness of millions. We are in very deep waters."</p>

<p>Father Ripon gave a deep sigh. Then, in an instant,
his face hardened and flushed till it was almost unrecognisable.
The others started back from him in amazement.
He began to tremble violently from the legs
upwards. Then he spoke:</p>

<p>"God forgive me," he said in a thick, husky voice.
"God forgive me! But when I think of those two men,
devils that they are, devils! when I regard the broken
lives, the suicides, the fearful mass of crime, I&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>His voice failed him. The frightful wrath and anger
took him and shook him like a reed&mdash;this tall, black-robed
figure&mdash;it twisted him with a physical convulsion
inexpressibly painful to witness.</p>

<p>For near a minute Father Ripon stood among them
thus, and they were rigid with sympathy, with alarm.</p>

<p class="p4b">Then, with a heavy sob, he turned and fell upon his
knees in silent prayer.</p>
<hr class="r20" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[262]</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIIb" id="CHAPTER_XIIb">CHAPTER XII</a></h2>

<h4>A SOUL ALONE ON THE SEA-SHORE</h4>

<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">T</span><span class="smcap">he</span> little village of Eastworld is set on a low headland
by the sea, remote from towns and any haunt
of men. The white cottages of the fisherfolk, an inn,
the church, and a low range of coast-guard buildings, are
the only buildings there. Below the headland there are
miles upon miles of utterly lonely sands which edge the
sea in a great yellow scimitar as far as the eye can carry,
from east to west.</p>

<p>Hardly any human footsteps ever disturb the vast virgin
smoothness of the sands, for the fisherfolk sail up
the mouth of a sluggish tidal river to reach the village.
All day long the melancholy sea-birds call to each other
over the wastes, and away on the sky-line, or so it seems
to any one walking upon the sands, the great white breakers
roll and boom for ever.</p>

<p>Over the flat expanses the tide, with no obstacle to
slacken or impede its progress, rushes with furious haste&mdash;as
fast, so the fisherfolks tell, as a good horse in full
gallop.</p>

<p>It was the beginning of the winter afternoon on the
day after Gortre had visited Eastworld.</p>

<p>There was little wind, but the sky hung low in cold
and menacing clouds, ineffably cheerless and gloomy.</p>

<p>A single figure moved slowly through these forbidding
solitudes. It was Gertrude Hunt. She wore a simple
coat and skirt of grey tweed, a tam-o'-shanter cap of
crimson wool, and carried a walking cane.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[263]</a></span>
She had come out alone to think out a problem out
there between the sea and sky, with no human help or
sympathy to aid her.</p>

<p>The strong, passionate face was paler than before and
worn by suffering. Yet as she strode along there was a
wild beauty in her appearance which seemed to harmonise
with the very spirit and meaning of the place
where she was. And yet the face had lost the old jaunty
hardihood. Qualities in it which had before spoken of
an impudent self-sufficiency now were changed to quiet
purpose. There was an appeal for pity in the eyes which
had once been bright with shamelessness and sin.</p>

<p>The woman was thinking deeply. Her head was
bowed as she walked, the lips set close together.</p>

<p>Gortre's visit had moved her deeply. When she had
heard his story something within her, an intuition beyond
calm reason, had told her instantly of its truth. She
could not have said why she knew this, but she was
utterly certain.</p>

<p>Her long connection with Llwellyn had left no traces
of affection now. As she would kneel in the little windy
church on the headland and listen to the rector, an old
friend of Father Ripon's, reading prayers, she looked
back on her past life as a man going about his business
in sunlight remembers some horrid nightmare of the
evening past. She but rarely allowed her thoughts to
dwell upon the former partner of her sin, but when she
did so it was with a sense of shrinking and dislike. As
the new Light which filled her life taught, she endeavoured
to think of the man with Christian charity
and sometimes to pray that his heart also might be
touched. But perhaps this was the most difficult of all
the duties she set herself, although she had no illusions
about the past, realised his kindness to her, and also that
she had been at least as bad as he. But now there
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[264]</a></span>
seemed a great gulf between them which she never cared
to pass even in thought.</p>

<p>Her repentance was so sincere and deep, her mourning
for her misspent life so genuine, that it never allowed
her the least iota of spiritual pride&mdash;the snare of weaker
penitents when they have turned from evil courses.
Yet, try as she would, she could never manage to really
identify her hopes and prayers with Llwellyn in any
vivid way.</p>

<p>And now the young clergyman, the actual instrument
of her own salvation as she regarded him, had come to
her with this story in which she had recognised the
truth.</p>

<p>In sad and eloquent words he had painted for her
what the great fraud had meant to thousands. He told
of upright and godly men stricken down because their
faith was not strong enough to bear the blow. There
was the curate at Wigan, who had shot himself and left
a heart-breaking letter of mad mockery behind him;
there were other cases of suicide. There was the surging
tide of crime, rising ever higher and higher as the
clergy lost all their influence in the slums of London
and the great towns. He told her of Harold Spence,
mentioning him as "a journalist friend of mine," explaining
what a good fellow he was, and how he had
overcome his temptations with the aid of religion and
faith. And he described his own return to Lincoln's
Inn, the disorder, and Harold's miserable story. She
could picture it all so well, that side of life. She knew
its every detail. And, moreover, Gortre had said "the
evil was growing and spreading each day, each hour."
True as it was that the myriad lamps of the Faithful
only burned the brighter for the surrounding gloom, yet
that gloom was growing and rolling up, even as the
clouds on which her unseeing eyes were fixed as she
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[265]</a></span>
walked along the shore. Men were becoming reckless;
the hosts of evil triumphed on every side.</p>

<p>The thought which came to her as Gortre had gradually
unfolded the object of his visit was startling. She
herself might perhaps prove to be the pivot upon which
these great events were turning. It was possible that
by her words, that by means of her help, the dark conspiracy
might be unveiled and the world freed from its
burden. She herself might be able to do all this, a kind
of thank-offering for the miraculous change that had
been wrought in her life.</p>

<p>Yet, when it was all summed up, how little she had to
tell Gortre after all! True, her information was of
some value; it seemed to confirm what he and his
friends suspected. But still it was very little, and it
meant long delay, if she could provide no other key to
open this dark door. And meanwhile souls were dying
and sinking....</p>

<p>She had asked Gortre to come to her again in a week.</p>

<p>In that time, she had said, she might have some
further information for him.</p>

<p>And now she was out here, alone on the sands, to ask
her soul and God what she was to do.</p>

<p>The clouds fell lower, a cutting wind began to moan
and cry over the sand, which was swept up and swirled
in her face. And still she went on with a bitterness and
chill as of death in her heart.</p>

<p>She knew her power over her former lover,&mdash;if that
pure word could describe such an unhallowed passion,&mdash;knew
her power well. He would be as wax in her
hands, and it had always been so. From the very first
she had done what she liked with him, and there had
always been an undercurrent of contempt in her thoughts
that a man could be led so easily, could be made the
doll and puppet of his own passion. Nor did she doubt
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[266]</a></span>
that her power still remained. She felt sure of that.
Even in her seclusion some news of his frantic attempts
to find her had reached her. Her beauty still remained,
heightened indeed by the slow complaint from which
she was suffering. He knew nothing of that. And, as
for the rest&mdash;the rouge-pot, the belladonna&mdash;well, they
were still available, though she had thought to have
done with them for ever.</p>

<p>The idea began to emerge from the mist, as it were,
and to take form and colour. She thought definitely of
it, though with horror; looked it in the face, though
shuddering as she did so.</p>

<p>It resolved itself into a statement, a formula, which
rang and dinned itself repeatedly into her consciousness
like the ominous strokes of a bell heard through the
turmoil of the gathering storm,&mdash;</p>

<p>"<i>If I go back to Bob and pretend I'm tired of being
good, he will tell me all he's done.</i>"</p>

<p>Over and over again the girl repeated the sentence to
herself. It glowed in her brain, and burnt it like letters
of heated wire. She looked up at the leaden canopy
which held the wind, and it flashed out at her in letters
of violet lightning. The wind carved it in the sand,&mdash;</p>

<p>"<i>If I go back to Bob and pretend I'm tired of being
good, he will tell me what he has done.</i>"</p>

<p>Could she do this thing for the sake of Gortre, for the
sake of the world? What did it mean exactly? She
would be sinning terribly once more, going back to the
old life. It was possible that she might never be able
to break away again after achieving her purpose; one
did not twice escape hell. It would mean that she
sinned a deadly sin in order to help others. Ought she
to do that! Was that right?</p>

<p>The wind fifed round her, shrieking.</p>

<p><i>Could she do this thing?</i></p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[267]</a></span>
She would only be sinning with her body, not with
her heart, and Christ would know why she did so.
Would He cast her out for this?</p>

<p>The struggle went on in her brain. She was not a subtle
person, unused to any self-communing that was not perfectly
straightforward and simple. The efforts she was
making now were terribly hard for her to endure. Yet
she forced her mind to the work by a great effort of will,
summoned all her flagging energies to high consideration.</p>

<p>If she went back it <i>might</i> mean utter damnation, even
though she found out what she wanted to find out. She
had been a Christian so short a time, she knew very
little of the truth about these matters.</p>

<p>In her misery and struggle she began more and more
to think in this way.</p>

<p>Suddenly she saw the thing, as she fancied, and indeed
said half aloud to herself, "in a common-sense
light." Her face worked horribly, though she was quite
unconscious of it.</p>

<p>"It's better that one person, especially one that's
been as bad as I have, should go to hell than hundreds
and thousands of others."</p>

<p>And then her decision was taken.</p>

<p>The light died out of her face, the hope also. She
became old in a sudden moment.</p>

<p>And, with one despairing prayer for forgiveness, she
began to walk towards her cottage&mdash;there was a fast
train to town.</p>

<p>She believed that there could hardly be forgiveness
for her act, and yet the thought of "the others" gave
her strength to sin.</p>

<p class="p4b">And so, out of her great love for Christ, this poor
harlot set out to sin a sin which she thought would
take Him away from her for ever.</p>

<h4>END OF BOOK II</h4>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[269]</a></span></p>

<h2>BOOK III</h2>

<p class="center">" ... Woman fearing and trembling"</p>

<hr class="tb" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[271]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_Ic" id="CHAPTER_Ic">CHAPTER I</a></h2>

<h4>WHAT IT MEANT TO THE WORLD'S WOMEN</h4>

<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">I</span><span class="smcap">n</span> her house in the older, early-Victorian remnants of
Kensington, Mrs. Hubert Armstrong sat at breakfast.
Her daughter, a pretty, unintellectual girl, was
pouring out tea with a suggestion of flippancy in her
manner. The room was grave and somewhat formal.
Portraits of Matthew Arnold, Professor Green, and Mark
Pattison hung upon the sombre, olive walls.</p>

<p>Over the mantel-shelf, painted in ornamental chocolate-coloured
letters, the famous authoress's pet motto
was austerely blazoned,&mdash;</p>

<p>"<i>The decisive events of the world take place in the
intellect.</i>"</p>

<p>Indeed, save for the bright-haired girl at the urn, the
room struck just that note. It would be difficult to
imagine an ordinary conversation taking place there.
It was a place in which solid chunks of thought were
gravely handed about.</p>

<p>Mrs. Armstrong wore a flowing morning wrap of
dark red material. It was clasped at the smooth white
throat by a large cameo brooch, a dignified bauble once
the property of George Eliot. The clear, steady eyes,
the smooth bands of shining hair, the full, calm lips of
the lady were all eloquent of splendid unemotional
health, assisted by a careful system of hygiene.</p>

<p>She was opening her letters, cutting the envelopes
carefully with a silver knife.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[272]</a></span>
"Shall I give you some more tea, Mother?" the
daughter asked in a somewhat impatient voice. The
offer was declined, and the girl rose to go. "I'm
off now to skate with the Tremaines at Henglers," she
said, and hurriedly left the room.</p>

<p>Mrs. Armstrong sighed in a sort of placid wonder,
as Minerva might have sighed coming suddenly upon
Psyche running races with Cupid in a wood, and turned
to another letter.</p>

<p class="p2b">It was written in firm, strong writing on paper headed
with some official-looking print.</p>

<blockquote><p class="center"><b>

THE WORLD'S WOMAN'S LEAGUE</b>
<br />
<span class="smcap">London Headquarters</span>,<br />
100 <span class="smcap">Regent Street, S. W.</span></p>

<p class="pinset3"><span class="smcap">secretary, miss paull</span></p>

<p>"<span class="smcap">My Dear Charlotte</span>,&mdash;I should be extremely
glad to see you here to-day about lunch time. I must
have a long and important talk with you. The work
is in a bad way. I know you are extremely busy, but
trust to see you as the matters for conference are
urgent. Your affectionate Sister,</p>

<p>
<span style="margin-left:10em">"<span class="smcap">Catherine Paull</span>."</span>

</p></blockquote>

<p class="p2">Miss Paull was a well-known figure in what may be
called "executive" life. Both she and her elder sister,
Mrs. Armstrong, had been daughters of an Oxford
tutor, and had become immersed in public affairs early
in life. While the elder became a famous novelist and
leader of "cultured doubt," the younger had remained
unmarried and thrown herself with great eagerness into
the movement which had for its object the strengthening
of woman's position and the lightening of her burdens,
no less in England than over the whole world.</p>

<p>The "World's Woman's League" was a great unsectarian
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[273]</a></span>
society with tentacles all over the globe. The
Indian lady missionaries and doctors, who worked in
the zenanas, were affiliated to it. The English and
American vigilance societies for the safe-guarding of
girls, the women of the furtive students' clubs in Russia,
the Melbourne society for the supply of domestic workers
in the lonely up-country stations of Australia, all,
while having their own corporate and separate existences,
were affiliated to, and in communication with,
the central offices of the League in Regent Street.</p>

<p>The League was all-embracing. Christian, non-Christian,
or heathen, it mattered nothing. It aimed at the
gigantic task of centralising all the societies for the welfare
of women throughout the globe.</p>

<p>On the board of directors one found the names and
titles of all the humanitarians of Europe.</p>

<p>The working head of this vast organisation was the
thin, active woman of middle age whose name figured
in a hundred blue-books, whose speeches and articles
were sometimes of international importance, whose
political power was undoubtable&mdash;Miss Catherine Paull.</p>

<p>The most important function of the League, or one
of its most important functions, was the yearly publication
of a huge report or statement of more than
a thousand pages. This annual was recognised universally
as the most trustworthy and valuable summary
of the progress of women in the world. It
was quoted in Parliament a hundred times each session;
its figures were regarded as authoritative in
every way.</p>

<p>This report was published every May, and as Mrs.
Hubert Armstrong drove to Regent Street in her brougham
she realised that points in connection with it were
to be discussed, possibly with the various sectional
editors, possibly with Miss Paull alone.</p>

<p>As was natural, so distinguished an example of the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[274]</a></span>
"higher woman" as Mrs. Armstrong was a great help to
the League, and her near relationship to the secretary
made her help and advice in constant request.</p>

<p>The office occupied two extensive floors in the quadrant,
housing an army of women clerks, typewriters, and
a literary staff almost exclusively feminine. Here, from
morning till night, was a hum of busy activity quite
foreign to the office controlled by the more drone-like
men. Miss Paull contrived to interest the most insignificant
of her girls in the work that was to be done,
making each one feel that in the performance of her
task lay not only the means of earning a weekly wage,
but of doing something for women all over the world.</p>

<p>In short, the League was an admirable and powerful
institution, presided over by an admirable and earnest
woman of wonderful organising ability and the gift of
tact, that <i>extreme</i> tact necessary in dealing with hundreds
of societies officered and ruled by women whose
official activities did not always quell that feminine
jealousy and bickering which generally militate against
success.</p>

<p>It was some weeks since Mrs. Armstrong had seen her
sister or communicated with her. The great events in
Jerusalem, the chaos into which the holders of the old
creeds had been thrown, had meant a series of platform
and journalistic triumphs for the novelist. Her importance
had increased a thousand-fold, her presence was
demanded everywhere, and she had quite lost touch
with the League for a time.</p>

<p>As she entered her sister's room she was beaming
with satisfaction at the memory of the past few weeks,
and anticipating with pleasure the congratulations that
would be forthcoming. Miss Paull, in the main, agreed
with her sister's opinions, though her extraordinarily
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[275]</a></span>
strenuous life and busy activities in other directions
prevented her public adherence to them.</p>

<p>Moreover, her position as head of the League, which
included so many definitely Christian societies, made it
inadvisable for her to take a prominent controversial
part as Mrs. Armstrong did.</p>

<p>The secretary's room was large and well lit by double
windows, which prevented the roar of the Regent Street
traffic from becoming too obtrusive.</p>

<p>Except that there was some evidence of order and
neatness on the three great writing-tables, and that the
books on the shelves were all in their places, there was
nothing to distinguish the place from the private room
of a busy solicitor or merchant.</p>

<p>Perhaps the only thing which gave the place any really
individual note was a large brass kettle, which droned on
the fire, and a sort of sideboard with a good many teacups
and a glass jar full of what seemed to be sponge cakes.</p>

<p>The two women greeted each other affectionately.
Then Miss Paull sent away her secretary, who had been
writing with her, expressing her desire to be quite alone
for an hour or more.</p>

<p>"I want to discuss the report with you, Charlotte,"
said Miss Paull, deftly pouring some hot water into a
green stone-ware teapot.</p>

<p>She removed her <i>pince-nez,</i> which had become clouded
with the steam, and waited for Mrs. Armstrong to speak.</p>

<p>"I expected that was it when I got your note, dear,"
said the novelist. "I am sorry I have been so much
away of late. But, of course, you will have seen how
my time has been taken up. Since all Our contentions
have been so remarkably established, of course one is
looked to a great deal. I have to be everywhere just at
present. <i>John Mulgrave</i> has been through three more
editions during the last fortnight."</p>

<p>"Yes, Charlotte," answered the sister, "one hears of
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[276]</a></span>
you on all sides. It is a wonderful triumph from one
point of view."</p>

<p>Mrs. Armstrong looked up quickly, with surprise in
her eyes. There was a strange lack of enthusiasm in the
secretary's tone. Indeed, it was even less than unenthusiastic;
it hinted almost of dislike, nearly of dismay.</p>

<p>It could not be jealousy of the blaze of notoriety
which had fallen upon Mrs. Armstrong, the lady knew
her sister too well for that. For one brief moment she
allowed herself the unworthy suspicion that Miss Paull
had been harbouring Christian leanings, or had, in the
stress and worry of overwork, permitted herself a sentimental
adherence to the Christ-myth.</p>

<p>But it was only for a single moment that such thoughts
remained in her brain. She dismissed them at once as
disloyal to her sister and undignified for herself.</p>

<p>"I don't quite understand, Catherine," she said.
"Surely from <i>every</i> point of view this glorious vindication
of the truth is of <i>incalculable</i> benefit to mankind.
How can it be otherwise? Now that we know the great
teacher Jesus&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>She was beginning somewhat on the lines of her public
utterances, with a slightly inspired look which, though
habit had made mechanical, was still sincere, when her
sister checked her with some asperity.</p>

<p>"That is all well and good," she said, her rather
sharp, animated features becoming more harsh and
eager as she spoke. "You, Charlotte, are at the moment
concerned with the future and with abstractions.
I am busied with the present and with <i>facts</i>. However
I may share your gladness at this vindication, in my
official capacity, and more, in the interests of my life
work, I am bound to deplore what has happened. I
deplore it grievously."</p>

<p>Placid and equable as was her usual temper of mind,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[277]</a></span>
Mrs. Armstrong was hardly proof against such a sweeping
assertion as this.</p>

<p>Her face flushed slightly.</p>

<p>"Please explain," she said somewhat coldly.</p>

<p>"That is why I wanted you to come to-day," answered
Miss Paull. "I very much fear you will be more than
startled at what I have to tell you and show you. My
facts are all ready&mdash;piteous, heart-breaking facts, too.
<i>We</i> know, here, what is going on below the surface. <i>We</i>
are confronted by statistics, and theories pale before
them. Our system is perfect."</p>

<p>She made a movement of her arm and pointed to a
small adjacent table, on which were arranged various
documents for inspection.</p>

<p>The novelist followed the glance, curiously disturbed
by the sadness of the other's voice and the bitterness of
her manner. "Show me what you mean, dear," she said.</p>

<p>Miss Paull got up and went to the table. "I will begin
with points of local interest," she said, "that is, with
the English statistics. In regard to these I will call
your attention to a branch of the Social Question. First
of all, look at the monthly map for the current month and
the one for the month before the Palestine Discovery."</p>

<p>She handed two outline maps of Great Britain and
Ireland to her sister.</p>

<p>The maps were shaded in crimson in different localities,
the colour being either light, medium, or dark.
Innumerable figures were dotted over them, referring to
comprehensive marginal notes. Above each map was
printed:</p>

<p class="center">
<span class="smcap">series d.&mdash;crimes against women</span>
</p>

<p>And the month and year were written in below in violet
ink.</p>

<p>Mrs. Armstrong held the two maps, which were
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[278]</a></span>
mounted on stiff card, and glanced from one to the
other. Suddenly her face flushed, her eyes became full
of incredulous horror, and she stared at her sister.
"What is this, Catherine?" she said in a high, agitated
voice. "Surely there is some mistake? This is terrible!"</p>

<p>"Terrible, indeed," Miss Paull answered. "During
the last month, in Wales, criminal assaults have increased
<i>two hundred per cent</i>. In England scarcely less. In Ireland,
with the exception of Ulster, the increase has been
only eight per cent. I am comparing the map before
the discovery with that of the present month. Crimes
of ordinary violence, wife-beating and such like, have
increased fifty per cent., on an average, all over the
United Kingdom. We have, of course, all the convictions,
sentences, and so forth. The local agents supply
them to the British Protection Society, they tabulate
them and send them here, and then the maps are made
in this office ready for the annual report."</p>

<p>"But," said Mrs. Armstrong with a shocked, pale face,
"is it <i>certain</i> that this is a case of cause and effect?"</p>

<p>"Absolutely certain, Charlotte. Here I have over a
thousand letters from men and women interested in the
work in all the great towns. They are in answer to direct
queries on the subject. In order that there could
be no possibility of any sectarian bias, the form has been
sent to leading citizens, of all denominations and creeds,
who are interested in the work. I will show you two
letters at random."</p>

<p>She picked out two of the printed forms which had
been sent out and returned filled in, and gave them to
Mrs. Armstrong. One ran:</p>

<blockquote><p class="p2b">
"<i>Kindly state what, in your opinion, is the cause of
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[279]</a></span>
the abnormal increase of crimes against women in Great
Britain during the past month, as shown by the annexed map</i>.</p>

<p class="inright">
"<span class="smcap">Name.</span> &nbsp; Rev. William Carr,<br />
"Vicar of St. Saviour's,<br />
"Birmingtown.<br />
</p>

<p>"The recent 'discovery' in Palestine, which appears
to do away with the Resurrection of Christ, is in my
opinion entirely responsible for the increase of crime
mentioned above. Now that the Incarnation is on all
hands said to be a myth, the greatest restraint upon human
passion is removed. In my district I have found
that the moment men give up Christ and believe in this
'discovery,' the moment that the Virgin birth and the
manifestation to the Magdalen are dismissed as untrue,
women's claim to consideration, and reverence for women's
chastity, in the eyes of these men disappear.</p>

<p class="pinset10">
"<span class="smcap">William Carr.</span>"
</p></blockquote>

<p>Mrs. Armstrong said nothing whatever, but turned to
the other form. In this case the name was that of a
Manchester alderman, obviously a Jew&mdash;Moses Goldstein,
of Goldstein &amp; Hildesheimer, chemical bleachers.</p>

<p class="p2b">In a flowing business hand the following remarks were
written:</p>

<blockquote><p>"Regrettable increase of crime due in my opinion to
sudden wave of disbelief in Christian doctrines. Have
questioned men in my own works on the subject. Record
this as fact without pretending to understand it.
Crimes of violence on increase among Jewish workmen
also. Probably sympathetic reaction against morality,
though as a strict Jew myself find this doubly distressing.</p>

<p class="pinset10">
"<span class="smcap">Moses Goldstein.</span>"<br />
</p></blockquote>

<p>"The famous philanthropist," murmured Mrs. Armstrong.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[280]</a></span>
The lady seemed dazed. Her usual calm volubility
seemed to have deserted her.</p>

<p>"This is a terrible blow," said Miss Paull, sadly, "and
day by day things are getting worse as figures come in.
It seems as if all our work has been in vain. Men seem to
be relapsing into the state of the barbaric heathen world.
But there is much more yet. I will read you an extract
from Mrs. Mary P. Corbin's letter from Chicago. You
will remember that she is the organising secretary of the
United States branch of the League."</p>

<p>She took up a bundle of closely typewritten sheets.</p>

<blockquote><p>"'The Friend to Poor Girls' Society' in this city reports
a most painful state of things. The work has suddenly
fallen to pieces and become totally disorganised.
Many of the girls have left the home and returned to
lives of prostitution&mdash;there seems to be no restraining
influence left. In a few cases girls have returned, after
two or three weeks of sin, mere wrecks of their former
selves. A&mdash;&mdash; S&mdash;&mdash; was a well-known girl on the streets
when she was converted and brought to the home. Five
weeks ago she went away, announcing her intention of
resuming her former life. She has just returned in a
dying condition from brutal ill-usage. She says that
her former experience was nothing to what she has lately
endured. Her words are terribly significant: '<i>I went
back as I thought it was no use being good any more now
that there isn't any Jesus. I thought I'd have a good old
time. But it's not as it was. Hell's broke loose in the
streets. The men are a million times worse than they were.
It's hell now.</i>'</p>

<p>"Another awful blow has been struck at the purity
work. The state of the lower parts of Chicago and New
York City has become so bad that even the municipal
authorities have become seriously alarmed. Unmentionable
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[281]</a></span>
orgies take place in public. Accordingly a bill is
to be rushed through Congress licensing so many houses
of ill-fame in each city ward, according to the Continental
system."</p></blockquote>

<p>She laid down the letter. "There is no need to read
more than extracts," she said. "The letter is full of
horrors. I may mention that the law against polygamy
in the Mormon State of Utah is on the point of being
repealed, and there can be no doubt that things will soon
be as bad as ever there. Here is a letter from the Bishop
of Toomarbin, who is at present in Melbourne, Australia.
A Bill is preparing in the House of Legislature to make
the divorce laws for men as easy and simple as possible,
while women's privileges are to be greatly curtailed in
this direction. In Rhodesia the mine-captains are beginning
to flog native women quite unchecked by the
local magistrates. English magistrates&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Stop, dear," said Mrs. Armstrong, with a sudden
gesture almost of fear. There was a craven, hunted
look in the eyes of this well-known woman. Her face
was blanched with pain. She sat huddled up in her
chair. All the stately confidence was gone. That proud
bearing of equality, and more than equality, with men,
which was so noticeable a characteristic of her port and
manner, had vanished.</p>

<p>The white hand which lifted a cup of scalding tea to
her lips trembled like a leaf.</p>

<p>The sisters sat together in silence. They sat there,
names famous in the world for courage, ability, resource.
To these two, perhaps more than to any others in England,
had been given the power of building up the great
edifice of women's enlightened position at the present
day.</p>

<p>And now?</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[282]</a></span>
In a moment all was changed. The brute in man was
awake, unchained, and loose. The fires of cruelty and
lust were lit, they heard the roaring of the fires like the
roaring of wolves that "devour apace and nothing said."</p>

<p>Mrs. Armstrong was terribly affected. Her keen intelligence
told her at once of coming horrors of which
these were but the earliest signs.</p>

<p>The roaring of a great fire, louder and more menacing,
nearer ... nearer.</p>

<p class="p2b">Christ had gone from the world never to return&mdash;Christ
Whom the proud, wishful, worldly woman had
not believed in.... They were flogging girls, selling
girls ... the fires grew greater and greater
... nearer!</p>

<p class="p4bc">
<span class="smcap">mary, pity women!</span><br />
</p>

<hr class="r20" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[283]</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IIc" id="CHAPTER_IIc">CHAPTER II</a></h2>

<h4>CYRIL HANDS REDUX</h4>

<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">F</span><span class="smcap">or</span> the first two weeks after Hands's return he was
utterly bewildered by the rush of events in which
he must take part and had little or no time for thought.</p>

<p>His days were filled by official conferences with his
chiefs at the Exploring Society, from which important
but by no means wealthy body he had suddenly attained
more than financial security.</p>

<p>Meeting succeeded meeting. Hands was in constant
communication with the heads of the Church, Government,
and Society. Interviewers from all the important
papers shadowed him everywhere. Despite his protests,
for he was a quiet and retiring man, photographers
fought for him, and his long, somewhat melancholy face
and pointed fair beard stared at him everywhere.</p>

<p>He had to read papers at learned societies, and afterwards
women came and carried him off to evening parties
without possibility of escape.</p>

<p>The Unitarians of England started a monster subscription
for him, a subscription which grew so fast that the
less sober papers began to estimate it day by day and to
point out that the fortunate discoverer would be a rich
man for life.</p>

<p>Everywhere he was flattered, caressed, and made much
of. In fact, he underwent what to some natures is the
grimmest torture of a humane age&mdash;he became the <span class="smcap">man
of the hour</span>. Even by Churchmen and others most
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[284]</a></span>
interested in denying the truth of the discovery, Hands
was treated with consideration and deference. His own
<i>bona fides</i> in the matter was indubitable, his long and
notable record forbade suspicion.</p>

<p>Of Gortre Hands saw but little. Their greeting had
been cordial, but there was some natural restraint, one
fearing the attitude of the other. Gortre, no less than
Hands, was much away from the chambers, and the
pair had few confidences. Hands felt, naturally enough
under the circumstances, that he would have been more
comfortable with Spence. He was surprised to find him
absent, but all he was able to glean was that the journalist
had suddenly left for the Continent upon a special
mission. Hands supposed that Continental feeling was
to be thoroughly tested, and that the work had fallen to
Spence.</p>

<p>Meanwhile the invitations flowed in. The old staircase
of the inn was besieged with callers. In order to
escape them, Hands was forced to spend much time in
the chambers on the other side of the landing, which
belonged to a young barrister, Kennedy by name, who
was able to put a spare sitting-room at his disposal.
This gentleman, briefless and happy, was somewhat of
the Dick Swiveller type, and it gave him intense pleasure
to reconnoitre the opposite "oak" through the slit of
his letter-box, and to report and speculate upon those
who stood knocking for admission.</p>

<p>How he loathed it all!</p>

<p>The shock and surprise of it was not one of the least
distressing features.</p>

<p>Far away in the ancient Eastern city he had indeed
realised the momentous nature of the strange and awful
things he had found. But of the consequences to himself
he had thought nothing, and of the effects on the
world he had not had time to think.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[285]</a></span>
Hands had never wished to be celebrated. His temperament
was poetic in essence, retiring in action. He
longed to be back under the eye of the sun, to move
among the memorials of the past with his Arab boys, to
lie upon the beach of the Dead Sea when no airs stirred,
and, suddenly, to hear a vast, mysterious breaker, coming
from nowhere, with no visible cause, like some great
beast crashing through the jungle.</p>

<p>And he had exchanged all this for lunches at institutions,
for hot rooms full of flowers and fools of women
who said, "Oh, <i>do</i> tell me all about your delightful discovery,"
smiling through their paint while the world's
heart was breaking. And there was worse to come. At
no distant date he would have to stand upon the platform
at the Albert Hall, and Mr. Constantine Schuabe,
M.P., Mrs. Hubert Armstrong, the writing woman&mdash;the
whole crowd of uncongenial people&mdash;would hand him a
cheque for some preposterous sum of money which he
did not in the least want. There would be speeches&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p>He was not made for this life.</p>

<p>His own convictions of Christianity had never been
thoroughly formulated or marked out in his brain. All
that was mystical in the great history of Christ had
always attracted him. He took an æsthetic pleasure in
the beautiful story. To him more than to most men it
had become a vivid <i>panoramic</i> vision. The background
and accessories had been part of his daily life for years.
It was as the figure of King Arthur and his old knights
might be to some loving student of Malory.</p>

<p>And although his life was pure, his actions gentle and
blameless, it had always been thus to him&mdash;a lovely and
poetic picture and no more. He had never made a personal
application of it to himself. His heart had never
been touched, and he had never heard the Divine Voice
calling to him.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[286]</a></span>
At the end of a fortnight Hands found that he could
stand the strain no longer. His nerves were failing
him; there was a constant babble of meaningless voices
in his ear which took all the zest and savour from life.
His doctor told him quite unmistakably that he was
doing too much, that he was not inured to this gaiety,
and that he must go away to some solitude by the sea
and rest.</p>

<p>The advice not only coincided with his own wishes,
but made them possible. A good many engagements
were cancelled, a paragraph appeared in the newspapers
to say that Mr. Hands's medical adviser had insisted
upon a thorough rest, and the man of the moment disappeared.
Save only Gortre and the secretary of the
Exploring Society, no one knew of his whereabouts.</p>

<p>In a week he was forgotten. Greater things began to
animate Society&mdash;harsh, terrible, ugly things. There
was no time to think of Hands, the instrument which
had brought them about.</p>

<p>The doctor had recommended the remotest parts of
Cornwall. Standing in his comfortable room at Harley
Street, he expatiated, with an enthusiastic movement of
his hand, upon the peace to be found in that lost country
of frowning rocks and bottle-green seas, where, so far is
it from the great centres of action, men still talk of
"going into England" as if it were an enterprise, an
adventure.</p>

<p>Two days found him at a lonely fishing cove, rather
than village, lodging in the house of a coast-guard, not
far from Saint Ives.</p>

<p>A few whitewashed houses ran down to the beach of
the little natural harbour where the boats were sheltered.</p>

<p>On the shores of the little "Porth," as it was called,
the fishermen sat about with sleepy, vacant eyes, waiting
for the signal of watchmen on the moor above&mdash;the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[287]</a></span>
shrill Cornish cry of "Ubba!" "Ubba!" which would
tell them the mackerel were in sight.</p>

<p>Behind the cove, running inland, were the vast, lonely
moors which run between the Atlantic and the Channel.
It is always grey and sad upon these rolling solitudes,
sad and silent. The glory of summer gorse had not yet
clothed them with a fleeting warmth and hospitality. As
far as the eye could reach they stretched away with a
forlorn immensity that struck cold to Hands's heart.
Peace was here indeed, but how austere! quiet, but
what a brooding and cruel silence!</p>

<p>Every now and again the roving eye, in its search for
incident and colour, was caught and arrested by the
bleak engine-house of some ancient deserted mine and
the gaunt chimney which pointed like a leaden finger to
the stormy skies above. Great humming winds swept
over the moor, driving flocks of Titanic clouds, an
Olympian army in rout, before their fierce breath.</p>

<p>Here, day by day, Hands took his solitary walk, or
sometimes he would sit sheltered in a hollow of the
jagged volcanic rocks which set round about the cove a
barrier of jagged teeth. Down below him a hard, green
sea boiled and seethed in an agony of fierce unrest.
The black cormorants in the middle distance dived for
their cold prey. The sea-birds were tossed on the currents
of the wild air, calling to each other with forlorn,
melancholy voices. This remote Western world resounded
with the powerful voices of the waves; night and day
the gongs of Neptune's anger were sounding.</p>

<p>In the afternoon a weary postman tramped over the
moor. He brought the London newspapers of the day
before, and Hands read them with a strange subjective
sensation of spectatorship.</p>

<p>So far away was he from the world that by a paradox
of psychology he viewed its turmoil with a clearer eye.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[288]</a></span>
As poetry is emotion remembered in tranquillity, as a
painter often prefers to paint a great canvas from studies
and memory&mdash;quiet in his studio&mdash;rather than from the
actual but too kinetic scene, so Hands as he read the
news-sheets felt and lived the story they had to tell far
more acutely than in London.</p>

<p>He had more time to think about what he read. It
was in this lost corner of the world that the chill began
to creep over him.</p>

<p>The furious sounds of Nature clamoured in his ears,
assaulting them like strongholds; these were the objective
sounds.</p>

<p>But as his subjective brain grew clear the words his
eyes conveyed to it filled it with a more awful reverberation.</p>

<p>The awful weight grew. He began to realise with
terrible distinctness <i>the consequences</i> of his discovery.
They stunned him. A carved inscription, a crumbling
tomb in half an acre of waste ground. He had stumbled
upon so much and little more. <i>He</i>, Cyril Hands, had
found this.</p>

<p class="p4b">His straining eyes day by day turned to the columns
of the papers.</p>

<hr class="r20" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[289]</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IIIc" id="CHAPTER_IIIc">CHAPTER III</a></h2>

<blockquote><h4><span class="smcap">all ye inhabitants of the world, and
dwellers on the earth, see ye,<br /> when
he lifteth up an ensign on the
mountains.&mdash;isaiah xviii</span>: 3</h4></blockquote>

<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">H</span><span class="smcap">ands</span> awoke to terrible realisation.</p>

<p>The telegrams in the newspapers provided him
with a bird's-eye view, an epitomised summary of a
world in tumult.</p>

<p>Out of a wealth of detail, culled from innumerable
telegrams and articles, certain facts stood out clearly.</p>

<p>In the Balkan States, always in unrest, a crisis, graver
than ever before, suddenly came about. The situation
<i>flared</i> up like a petrol explosion.</p>

<p>A great revival of Mohammedan enthusiasm had
begun to spread from Jerusalem as soon as Europe
had more or less definitely accepted the discovery
made by Cyril Hands and confirmed by the international
committee.</p>

<p>It was no longer possible to hold the troops of the
Sultan in check. It was openly said by the correspondents
that <i>instructions</i> had been sent from Yildiz Kiosk
to the provincial Valis in both European and Asiatic
Turkey that Christians were to be exterminated, swept
for ever from the world.</p>

<p>Telegrams of dire importance filled the columns of
the papers.</p>

<p>Hands would read in one <i>Daily Wire</i>:</p>

<blockquote><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[290]</a></span>
"<span class="smcap">Paris</span> (<i>From our own Correspondent</i>).&mdash;The Prince of
Bulgaria has indefinitely postponed his departure, and
remains at the Hotel Ritz for the present. It is impossible
for him to progress beyond Vienna. Dr. Daneff, the
Bulgarian Premier, has arrived here. In the course of
an interview with a representative of <i>Le Matin</i> he has
stated the only hope of saving the Christians remaining
in the Balkan States lies in the intervention of Russia.
'The situation,' Dr. Daneff is reported to have said,
'has assumed the appearance of a religious war. The
followers of Islam are drunk with triumph and hatred
of the "Nazarenes." The recent discoveries in Jerusalem
simply mean a licence to sweep Christians out of
existence. The exulting cries of "Ashahadu, lá ílaha ill
Allah" have already sounded the death-knell of our
ancient faith in Bulgaria.' M. Daneff was extremely
affected during the interview, and states that Prince
Ferdinand is unable to leave his room."</p></blockquote>

<p>Never before in the history of Eastern Europe had
the future appeared so gloomy or the present been so
replete with horror.</p>

<p>The massacres of bygone years were as nothing to
those which were daily flashed over the wires to startle
and appal a world which was still Christian, at least in
name.</p>

<p>An extract from a leading article in the <i>Daily Wire</i>
shows that the underlying reason and cause was thoroughly
appreciated and understood in England no less
than abroad.</p>

<blockquote><p>"In this labyrinth of myth and murder," the article
said, "a sudden and spontaneous outburst of hatred, of
Mussulman hatred for the Christian, has now&mdash;owing to
the overthrow of the chief accepted doctrine of the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[291]</a></span>
Christian faith&mdash;become a deliberate measure of extermination
adopted by a barbarous Government as the
simplest solution of the problem in the Near East. The
stupendous fact which has lately burst upon the world
has had effects which, while they might have been
anticipated in some degree, have already passed far
beyond the bounds of the most confirmed political
pessimist's dream.</p>

<p>"From the <i>fact</i> of the Jerusalem discovery, ambitious
agitators have hurried to draw their profit. Politicians
have not hesitated to provoke a series of massacres, and
by playing upon the worst forms of Mussulman fanaticism
to organise that ghastliest system of crime upon the
largest and most comprehensive scale. The whole thing
is, moreover, immensely complicated by the utter unscrupulousness
of that association universally notorious
as the Macedonian Committee. These people, who may
be described as a company of aspirants to the crown of
immortality earned by other people's martyrdom, have
themselves assisted in the work of lighting the fires
of Turkish passion, and they have helped to provoke
atrocities which will enable them to pose before the
eyes of the civilised world as the interesting victims of
Moslem ferocity."</p></blockquote>

<p>Thus Hands read in his rock cave above the boiling
winter sea. Thus and much more, as the cloud grew
darker and darker over Eastern Europe, darker and
darker day by day.</p>

<p>In a week it became plain to the world that Bulgarians,
Servians, and Armenians alike had collapsed
utterly before the insolent exultation of the Turks. The
spirit of resistance and enthusiasm had gone. The
ignorant and tortured peoples had no answer for those
who flung foul insults at the Cross.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[292]</a></span>
As reflected in the newspapers, the public mind in
England was becoming seriously alarmed at these horrible
and daily bulletins, but neither Parliament nor
people were as yet ready with a suggested course of
action. The forces of disintegration had been at work;
it seemed no longer possible to secure a great <i>body</i> of
opinion as in the old times. And Englishmen were
troubled with grave domestic problems also. More
especially the great increase of the worst forms of crime
attracted universal attention and dismay.</p>

<p>Then news came which shook the whole country to its
depths. Men began to look into each other's eyes and
ask what these things might mean.</p>

<p>Hands read:</p>

<blockquote><p>"Our special correspondent in Bombay telegraphs disquieting
news from India. The native regiments in
Bengal are becoming difficult to handle. The officers
of the staff corps are making special reports to headquarters.
Three native officers of the 100th Bengal
Lancers have been placed under arrest, though no particulars
as to the exact reason for this step have been
allowed to transpire."</p></blockquote>

<p>This first guarded intimation of serious disaffection in
India was followed, two days afterwards, by longer and
far more serious reports. The Indian mail arrived with
copies of <i>The Madras Mail</i> and <i>The Times of India</i>,
which disclosed much more than had hitherto come
over the cables.</p>

<p>Long extracts were printed from these journals in the
English dailies.</p>

<p>Epitomised, Hands learned the following facts. From
a mass of detail a few lurid facts remained fixed in his
brain.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[293]</a></span>
The well-meant but frequently unsuccessful mission
efforts in Southern India were brought to a complete
and utter stand-still.</p>

<p>By that thought-willed system of communication and
the almost flame-like mouth-to-mouth carnage of news
which is so inexplicable to Western minds, who can only
understand the workings of the electric telegraph, the
whole of India seemed to be throbbing with the news of
the downfall of Christianity, and this within a fortnight
of the publication of the European report.</p>

<p>From Cashmere to Travancore the millions whispered
the news to each other with fierce if secret exultation.</p>

<p>The higher Hinduism, the key to the native character
in India, the wall of caste, rose up grim and forbidding.
The passionate earnestness of the missionaries was met
by questions they could not answer. In a few days the
work of years seemed utterly undone.</p>

<p>Europeans began to be insulted in the Punjaub as
they had never been since the days before the Mutiny.
English officers and civilians also began to send their
wives home. The great P. and O. boats were inconveniently
crowded.</p>

<p>In Afghanistan there was a great uneasiness. The
Emir had received two Russian officers. Russian troops
were massing on the north-west frontier. Fanatics began
to appear in the Hill provinces, claiming divine
missions. People began to remember that every fourth
man, woman, and child in the whole human race is a
Buddhist. Asia began to feel a great thrill of excitement
permeating it through and through. There were
rumours of a new incarnation of Buddha, who would
lead his followers to the conquest of the West.</p>

<p>Troops from all over India began to concentrate near
the Sri Ulang Pass in the Hindu-Kush.</p>

<p>Simultaneously with these ominous rumours of war
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[294]</a></span>
came an extraordinary outburst of Christian fanaticism
in Russia. The peasantry burst into a flame of anger
against England. The priests of the Greek Church not
only refused to believe in the Palestine discovery, but
they refused to ignore it, as the Roman Catholics of the
world were endeavouring to do.</p>

<p>They began to preach war against Great Britain for
its infidelity, and the political Powers seized the opportunity
to use religious fanaticism for their own ends.</p>

<p>All these events happened with appalling <i>swiftness</i>.</p>

<p>In the remote Cornish village Hands moved as in a
dream. His eyes saw nothing of his surroundings, his
face was pallid under the brown of his skin. Sometimes,
as he sat alone on the moors or by the sea, he
laughed loudly. Once a passing coast-guard heard him.
The man told of it among the fishermen, and they
regarded their silent visitor with something of awe, with
the Celtic compassion for those mentally afflicted.</p>

<p>On the first Sunday of his arrival Hands heard the
deep singing of hymns coming from the little white
chapel on the cliff. He entered in time for the sermon,
which was preached by a minister who had walked over
from Penzance.</p>

<p>Here all the turmoil of the world beyond was ignored.
It seemed as though nothing had ever been heard of the
thing that was shaking the world. The pastor preached
and prayed, the men and women answered with deep,
groaning "Amens." It all mattered nothing to them.
They heeded it no more than the wailing wind in the
cove. The voice of Christ was not stilled in the hearts
of this little congregation of the Faithful.</p>

<p>This chilled the recluse. He could find no meaning
or comfort in it.</p>

<p>That evening he heard the daughter of the coast-guard
with whom he lodged singing. It was a wild
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[295]</a></span>
night, and Hands was sitting by the fire in his little
sitting-room. Outside the wind and rain and waves
were shouting furiously in the dark.</p>

<p>The girl was playing a few simple chords on the
harmonium and singing to them.</p>

<p class="pinset6">
"For ever with the Lord."<br />
</p>

<p>An untuneful voice, louder than need be, but with what
conviction!</p>

<p>Hands tried to fix his attention on the newspaper
which he held.</p>

<p>He read that in Rhodesia the mine capitalists were
moving for slavery pure and simple. It was proposed
openly that slavery should be the penalty for law-breaking
for natives. This was the only way, it asserted, by
which the labour problem in South Africa could be
solved.</p>

<p class="pinset6">
"Life from the dead is in that word,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">'Tis immortality."</span><br />
</p>

<p>It seemed that there was small opposition to this
proposal. It would be the best thing for the Kaffir,
perhaps, this wise and kindly discipline. So the
proposal was wrapped up.</p>

<p class="pinset6">
"And nightly pitch my moving tent<br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">A day's march nearer home."</span><br />
</p>

<p>Hands saw that, quite suddenly, the <i>old horror of
slavery had disappeared</i>.</p>

<p>This, too, was coming, then? This old horror which
Christians had banished from the world?</p>

<p class="pinset6">
"So when my latest breath<br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Shall rend the veil in twain."</span><br />
</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[296]</a></span>
Hands started. His thoughts came back to the
house in which he sat. The girl's voice touched him immeasurably.
He heard it clearly in a lull of the storm.
Then another tremendous gust of wind drowned it.</p>

<p>Two great tears rolled down his cheeks.</p>

<p>It was midnight, and all the people in the house were
long since asleep, when Hands picked up the last of his
newspapers.</p>

<p>It was Saturday's edition of the <i>London Daily
Mercury</i>, the powerful rival of the <i>Wire</i>. A woman
who had been to Penzance market had brought it
home for him, otherwise he would have had to wait
for it until the Monday morning.</p>

<p>He gazed wearily round the homely room.</p>

<p>Weariness, that was what lay heavy over mind and
body&mdash;an utter weariness.</p>

<p>The firelight played upon the crude pictures, the
simple ornaments, the ship worked in worsted when
the coast-guard was a boy in the Navy, the shells
from a Pacific island, a model gun under a glass shade.
But his thoughts were not prisoned by these humble
walls and the humble room in which he sat. He heard
the groaning of the peoples of the world, the tramp
of armies, the bitter cry of souls from whom hope had
been plucked for ever.</p>

<p>He remembered the fair morning in Jerusalem when,
with the earliest light of dawn, he had gone to work
with his Arab boys before the heat of the day.</p>

<p>From the Mosque of Omar he had heard the sonorous
chant of the muezzin.</p>

<blockquote><p class="p2tb">
<span class="smcap">"The night has gone with the darkness, and the day approaches with
light and brightness!<br />
"Praise God for securing His favour and kindness!<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[297]</a></span>
"God is most great! God is most great! I testify that there is no god
but God!<br />
"I testify that Mohammed is the Apostle of God!<br />
"Come to prayer!<br />
"Come to security!<br />
"Prayer is better than sleep!<br />
"God is most great!<br />
"There is no god but God!<br />
"Arise, make morning, and to God be the praise!"</span><br />
</p></blockquote>

<p>He had heard the magnificent chant as he passed by,
almost kneeling with his Arabs. So short a time ago!
Hardly three months&mdash;he had kept no count of time
lately, but it could hardly be four months.</p>

<p>How utterly unconscious he had been on that radiant
morning outside the Damascus Gate! He had seen the
men at work, and was sitting under his sun-tent writing
on his pad; he was just lighting a cigarette, he remembered,
when Ionides, the foreman, had come running up
to him, his shrewd, brown face wrinkled with excitement.</p>

<p>And now, even as he sat there on that stormy midnight,
far from the world, even now the whole globe was
echoing and reverberating with his discovery. He had
opened the little rock chambers, and it seemed that the
blows of the picks had set free a troop of ruinous spirits,
who were devastating mankind.</p>

<p>Pandora's box&mdash;that legend fitted what he had done,
but with a deadly difference.</p>

<p>He could not find that Hope remained. It would
have been better a thousand times if the hot Eastern sun
had struck him down that distant morning on his way
through the city.</p>

<p>The awful weight, the initial responsibility rested with
<i>him</i>.</p>

<p><i>He</i> alone had been the means by which the world was
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[298]</a></span>
being shaken with horrors&mdash;horrors growing daily, and
that seemed as if the end would be unutterable night.</p>

<p>How the wind shrieked and wailed!</p>

<p class="center">
&#917;&#947;&#969; &#921;&#969;&#963;&#951;&#966; &#8001; &#7936;&#960;&#959; &#913;&#961;&#953;&#956;&#945;&#952;&#949;&#953;&#945;&#962;.<br />
</p>

<p>The words were written in fire on his mind!</p>

<p>The wind was shrieking louder and louder.</p>

<p>The Atlantic boomed in one continuous burst of
sound.</p>

<p>He looked once more at the leading article in the
paper.</p>

<p>It was that article which was long afterwards remembered
as the "Simple Statement" article.</p>

<p>The writer had spoken the thought that was by this
time trembling for utterance on the lips and in the brains
of all Englishmen&mdash;the thought which had never been
so squarely faced, so frankly stated before.</p>

<p class="p2b">Here and there passages started out more vividly than
the rest. The words seemed to start out and stab him.</p>

<hr class="r5" />

<blockquote><p>"&mdash;So much for <span class="smcap">India</span>, where, sprung from the same
Cause, the indications are impossible to mistake.</p>

<p>"Let us now turn to the <span class="smcap">Anglo-Saxon</span> sprung communities
other than these Islands.</p>

<p>"In <span class="smcap">America</span> we find a wave of lawlessness and fierce
riot passing over the country, such as it has never known
before.</p>

<p>"The <span class="smcap">Irishmen</span> and <span class="smcap">Italians</span>, who throng the congested
quarters of the great cities, are robbing and murdering
<span class="smcap">Protestants</span> and <span class="smcap">Jews</span>. The <span class="smcap">United States</span>
Legislature is paralysed between the necessity of keeping
order and the impossibility of resolution in the face
of this tremendous <i>bouleversement</i> of belief.</p>

<p>"From <span class="smcap">Australia</span> the foremost prelate of the great
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[299]</a></span>
country writes of the utter overthrow of a communal
moral sense, and concludes his communication with the
following pathetic words:</p>

<blockquote><p>"<i>'Everywhere,'</i> he says, <i>'I see morals, no less than the
religion which inculcates them, falling into neglect, set aside
in a spirit of despair by fathers and mothers, treated with
contempt by youths and maidens, spat upon and cursed by a
degraded populace, assailed with eager sarcasm by the polite
and cultured.'</i></p></blockquote>

<hr class="r5" />

<p>"The terrible seriousness of the situation need hardly
be further insisted on here. Its reality cannot be more
vividly indicated than by the statement of a single fact.</p>

<p class="center">
"<span class="smcap">consols are down to sixty-five</span><br />
</p>

<hr class="r5" />

<p>"&mdash;and therefore we demand, in the name of humanity,
a far more comprehensive and representative searching
into the facts of the alleged 'discovery' at <span class="smcap">Jerusalem</span>.
Society is falling to pieces as we write.</p>

<p>"Who will deny the reason?</p>

<p>"Already, after a few short weeks, we are learning
that the world cannot go on without Christianity. That
is the Truth which the world is forced to realise. And
no essay in sociology, no special pleading on the part of
Scientists or Historians, can shake our conviction that a
creed which, when sudden doubts are thrown upon it,
can be the means of destroying the essential fabric of
human society, is not the true and unassailable creed of
mankind.</p>

<hr class="r5" />

<p>"We foresee an immediate reaction. The consequences
of the wave of antichristian belief are now,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[300]</a></span>
and will be, so devastating, that sane men will find in
Disbelief and its consequences a glorious recrudescence
and assurance of Faith."</p></blockquote>

<hr class="r5" />

<p class="p2">Hands stared into the dying fire.</p>

<p>A solemn passage from John Bright's great speech on
the Crimean War came into his mind. The plangent
power and deep earnestness of the words were even
more applicable now than then.</p>

<blockquote><p class="p2tb"><i>"The Angel of Death has been abroad throughout the
land: you may almost hear the beating of his wings.
There is no one, as when the first-born were slain of old, to
sprinkle with blood the lintel and two side-posts of our doors,
that he may spare and pass on."</i></p></blockquote>

<p>So they were asking for another commission! Well,
they might try that as a forlorn hope, but <i>he knew</i>
that his discovery was real. Could <i>he</i> be mistaken
possibly? Could that congress of the learned be all
mistaken and imposed upon? It was not possible.
It could not be. Would that it <i>were</i> possible.</p>

<p>There was no hope, despite the newspapers. For
centuries the world had been living in a fool's paradise.
He had destroyed it. It would be a hundred years
before the echoes of his deed had died away.</p>

<p>But the terrible weight of the world's burden was too
heavy for him to bear. He knew that. Not for much
longer could he endure it.</p>

<p>The life seemed oozing out of him, pressed out by
a weight&mdash;the sensation was physical.</p>

<p>He wished it was all over. He had no hope for the
future, and no fear.</p>

<p>The weight was too heavy. The outside dark came
through the walls, and began to close in on him. His
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[301]</a></span>
heart beat loudly. It seemed to rise up in his throat
and choke him.</p>

<p>The pressure grew each moment; mountains were
being piled upon him, heavier, more heavy.</p>

<p>The wind was but a distant murmur now, but the
weight was crushing him. Only a few more moments
and his heart would burst. <i>At last!</i></p>

<p>The dark thing huddled on the hearth-rug, which the
girl found when she came down in the morning, was
the scholar's body.</p>

<p class="p4b">The newspaper he had been reading lay upon his
chest.</p>

<hr class="r20" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[302]</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IVc" id="CHAPTER_IVc">CHAPTER IV</a></h2>

<h4>A LUNCHEON PARTY</h4>

<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">C</span><span class="smcap">onstantine Schuabe's</span> great room at the
Hotel Cecil had been entirely refurnished and
arranged for the winter months.</p>

<p>The fur of great Arctic beasts lay upon the heavy
Teheran carpets, which had replaced the summer matting&mdash;furs
of enormous value. The dark red curtains
which hung by windows and over doors were worked
with threads of dull gold.</p>

<p>All the chairs were more massive in material and
upholstered warmly in soft leather; the logs in the
fireplace crackled with white flame, amethyst in the
glowing cavern beneath.</p>

<p>However the winter winds might sweep over the
Thames below or the rain splash and welter on the
Embankment, no sound or sign of the turmoil could
reach or trouble the people who moved in the fragrant
warmth and comfort of this room.</p>

<p>For his own part Schuabe never gave any attention
to the <i>mise-en-scène</i> by which he was surrounded, here
or elsewhere. The head of a famous Oxford Street
firm was told to call with his artists and undermen;
he was given to understand that the best that could
be done was to be done, and the matter was left entirely
to him.</p>

<p>In this there was nothing of the <i>parvenu</i> or of an
ignorance of art, as far as Schuabe was concerned.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[303]</a></span>
He was a man of catholic and cultured taste. But experience
had taught him that his furnishing firm were
trained to be catholic and cultured also, that an artist
would see to it that no jarring notes appeared. And
since he knew this, Schuabe infinitely preferred not
to be bothered with details. In absolute contrast to
Llwellyn, his mind was always busy with abstractions,
with thought and forms of thought, things that
cannot be handled or seen. They were the real things
for him always.</p>

<p>The millionaire sat alone by the glowing fire. He
was wearing a long gown of camel's hair, dyed crimson,
confined round the waist by a crimson cord. In
this easy garment and a pair of morocco slippers without
heels, he looked singularly Eastern. The whole
face and figure suggested that&mdash;sinister, lonely, and
splendid.</p>

<p>The morning papers were resting on a chair by his
side. He was reading one of them.</p>

<p>It announced the death from heart disease of Mr.
Cyril Hands while taking a few days' rest in a remote
village of Cornwall. Not a shadow of regret
passed over the regular, impassive face. The eyes remained
in fixed thought. He was logically going over
the bearings of this event in his mind. How could
it affect <i>him</i>? <i>Would</i> it affect him one way or the
other?</p>

<p>He paced the long room slowly. On the whole
the incident seemed without meaning for him. If it
meant anything at all it meant that his position was
stronger than ever. The voice of the discoverer was
now for ever silent. His testimony, his reluctant but
convinced opinion, was upon record. Nothing could
alter that. Hands might perhaps have had doubts
in the future. He might have examined more keenly
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[304]</a></span>
into the <i>way in which he came to examine the ground</i>
where the new tomb was hidden. Yes, this was better.
That danger, remote as it had been, was over.</p>

<p>As his eyes wandered over the rest of the news
columns they became more alert, speculative, and
anxious. The world was in a tumult, which grew
louder and louder every hour. Thrones were rocking,
dynasties trembling.</p>

<p>He sank down in his chair with a sigh, passing his
hand wearily over his face. Who could have foreseen
this? It was beyond belief. He gazed at the
havoc and ruin in terrified surprise, as a child might
who had lit a little fire of straw, which had grown
and devoured a great city.</p>

<p>It was in this very room&mdash;just over there in the
centre&mdash;that he had bought the brain and soul of the
archæologist.</p>

<p>The big man had stood exactly on that spot, blanched
and trembling. His miserable notes of hand and promises
to pay had flamed up in this fire.</p>

<p>And now? India was slipping swiftly away; a
bloody civil war was brewing in America; Central
Europe was a smouldering torch; the whips of Africa
were cracking in the ears of Englishmen; the fortunes
of thousands were melting away like ice in the sun.
In London gentlemen were going from their clubs to
their houses at night carrying pistols and sword-sticks.
North of Holborn, south of the Thames, no woman was
safe after dark had fallen.</p>

<p>He saw his face in an oval silver glass. It fascinated
him as it had never done before. He gripped the leather
back of a chair and stared fiercely, hungrily, at the
image. It was <i>this</i>, this man he was looking at, some
stranger it seemed, who had done all this. He laughed&mdash;a
dreadful, mirthless, hollow laugh. This mass of
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[305]</a></span>
phosphates, carbon, and water, this moving, talking
thing in a scarlet gown, was the pivot on which the
world was turning!</p>

<p>His brain became darkened for a time, lost in an
awful wonder. He could not realise or understand.</p>

<p>And no one knew save his partner and instrument.
<i>No one knew!</i></p>

<p>The secret seemed to be bursting and straining within
him like some live, terrible creature that longed to rush
into light. For weeks the haunting thought had grown
and harassed him. It rang like bells in his memory.
If only he could share his own dark knowledge. He
wanted to take some calm, pale woman, to hold her
tight and tell her all that he had done, to whisper it into
her ears and watch the mask of flesh change and shrink,
to see his words carve deep furrows in it, sear the eyes,
burn the colour from the lips. He saw his own face
was working with the mad violence of his imaginings.</p>

<p>He <i>wrenched</i> his brain back into normal grooves, as an
engineer pulls over a lever. He was half-conscious of
the simile as he did so.</p>

<p>Turning away from the mirror, he shuddered as a man
who has escaped from a sudden danger.</p>

<p><i>That</i> above all things was fatal. His luxuriant Eastern
imagination had been checked and kept in subjection
all his life; the force of his intellect had tamed and
starved it. He knew, none better, the end, the extinction
of the brain that has got beyond control. No, come
what may, he must watch himself cunningly that he did
not succumb. A tiny speck in the brain, and then good-bye
to thought and life for ever. He was a visitor of the
Lancashire Asylum&mdash;had been so once at least&mdash;and he
had seen the soulless lumps of flesh the doctors called
"patients." ... "<i>I am the master of my fate.</i> <i>I am the
captain of my soul</i>," he repeated to himself, and even as
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[306]</a></span>
he did so, his other self sneered at the weakness which
must comfort itself with a poet's rhyme and cling to an
apothegm for readjustment.</p>

<p>He tried to shut out the world's alarm from his mental
eyes and ears.</p>

<p>He went back to the scenes of his first triumph. They
had been sweet indeed.</p>

<p>Yes! worth all the price he had paid and might be
called upon to pay.</p>

<p>All over England his life's thought, his constant
programme had been gloriously vindicated. They had
hailed him as the prophet of Truth at first&mdash;a prophet
who had cried in the wilderness for years, and who had
at last come into his own.</p>

<p>The voices of great men and vast multitudes had
come to him as incense. He was to be the leader of
the new religion of common sense. Why had they
doubted him before, led away by the old superstitions?</p>

<p>Men who had hated and feared him in the old days,
had spoken against him and his doctrines as if both
were abhorred and unclean, were his friends and servants
now. Christians had humbled themselves to the representative
of the new power. Bishops had consulted him
as to the saving of the Church, and its reconstruction
upon "newer, broader, more illuminated lines." They
had come to him with fear&mdash;anxious, eager to confess
the errors of the past, swift to flatter and suggest that,
with his help, the fabric and political power of the
Church might yet stand.</p>

<p>He was shown, with furtive eyes and hesitating lips,
from which the shame had not yet been cleansed, how
desirable and necessary it was that in the reconstruction
of Christianity the Church should still have a prominent
and influential part.</p>

<p>He had been a colossus among them all. But&mdash;and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[307]</a></span>
he thought of it with anger and the old amazement&mdash;all
this had been <i>at first</i>, when the discovery had flashed
over a startled world. While the thing was new it had
been a great question, truly the greatest of all, but it
had been one which affected men's minds and not their
bodies. That is speaking of the world at large.</p>

<p>As has already been pointed out, only <i>religious</i> people&mdash;a
vast host, but small beside the mass of Englishmen&mdash;were
disturbed seriously by what had happened.
The price of bread remained the same; beef was no
dearer.</p>

<p>During these first weeks Schuabe had been all-powerful.
He and his friends had lived in a constant and
stupendous triumph.</p>

<p>But now&mdash;and in his frightful egoism he frowned at
the thick black head-lines in the newspapers&mdash;the whole
attitude of every one was changed. There was a reflex
action, and in the noise it made Schuabe was forgotten.</p>

<p>Men had more to think of now. There was no time to
congratulate the man who had been so splendidly right.</p>

<p><i>Consols were at 65!</i></p>

<p>Bread was rising each week. War was imminent. On
all sides great mercantile houses were crashing. Each
fall meant a thousand minor catastrophes all over the
country.</p>

<p>The antichristians had no time to jeer at the Faithful;
they must work and strain to save their own fortunes
from the wreck.</p>

<p>The mob, who were swiftly bereft of the luxuries
which kept them in good-humour, were turning on the
antichristian party now. In their blind, selfish unreason
they cried them down, saying that they were responsible
for the misery and terror that lay over the world.</p>

<p>With an absolute lack of logic, the churches were
crowded again. The most irreligious cried for the good
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[308]</a></span>
old times. Those who had most coarsely exulted over
the broken Cross now bewailed it as the most awful of
calamities.</p>

<p>Christianity was daily being terribly avenged through
the pockets and stomachs of the crowd!</p>

<p>It was bizarre beyond thinking, sordid in its immensity,
vulgar in its mighty soulless greed, but <span class="smcap">TRUE</span>,
<span class="smcap">REAL</span>, a <span class="smcap">FEARFUL FACT</span>.</p>

<p>A stupendous <i>confusion</i>.</p>

<p>Two great currents had met in a maelstrom. The din
of the disturbance beat upon the world's ear with sickening
clamour.</p>

<p>Louder and louder, day by day.</p>

<p>And the man who had done all this, the brain which
had called up these legions from hell, which had loosed
these fiery sorrows on mankind, was in a rich room in
a luxurious hotel, alone there. Again the shock and
marvel took hold of the man and shook him like a reed.</p>

<p>There was a round table, covered with a gleaming
white cloth, by the fire. The kidneys in the silver dish
were cold, the grease had congealed. The silent servants
had brought up a breakfast to him. He had watched
their clever, automatic movements. Did they know <i>whom</i>
they were attending on, what would happen&mdash;?</p>

<p>His thoughts flashed hither and thither, now surveying
a world in torture, now weaving a trivial and whimsical
romance about a waiter. The frightful activity of his
brain, inflamed by thoughts beyond the power of even
that wonderful machine, began to have a consuming
physical effect.</p>

<p>He felt the grey matter bubbling. Agonising pains
shot from temple to temple, little knives seemed hacking
at the back of his eyes. Once again, in a wave of unutterable
terror, the fear of madness submerged him.</p>

<p>On this second occasion he was unable to recall his
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[309]</a></span>
composure by any effort which came from within himself.
He stumbled into his adjoining dressing-room and
selected a bottle from a shelf. It was bromide of potassium,
which he had been taking of late to deaden the
clamour and vibration of his nerves.</p>

<p>In half an hour the drug had calmed him. His face
was very pale, but set and rigid. The storm was over.
He felt shattered by its violence, but in an artificial
peace.</p>

<p>He took a cigarette.</p>

<p>As he was lighting it his valet entered and announced
that Mr. Dawlish, his man of business, was waiting in an
anteroom.</p>

<p>He ordered that he should be shown in.</p>

<p>Mr. Dawlish was the junior partner of the well-known
firm of city solicitors, Burrington &amp; Tuite. That was
his official description. In effect he was Schuabe's
principal man of business. All his time was taken up
by the millionaire's affairs all over England.</p>

<p>He came in quickly&mdash;a tall, well-dressed man, hair
thin on the forehead, moustache carefully trained.</p>

<p>"You look very unwell, Mr. Schuabe," he said, with
a keen glance. "Don't let these affairs overwhelm you.
Nothing is so dangerous as to let the nerves go in times
like these."</p>

<p>Schuabe started.</p>

<p>"How are things, Dawlish?" he said.</p>

<p>"Very shaky, very shaky, indeed. The shares of the
Budapest Railway are to be bought for a shilling. I am
afraid your investments in that concern are utterly lost.
When the Bourses closed last night dealings in Foreign
Government Stock were at a stand-still. Turkish C and
O bonds are worthless."</p>

<p>Again the millionaire started. "You bring me a
record of disaster," he said.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[310]</a></span>
"Baumann went yesterday," continued the level voice.</p>

<p>"My cousin," said Schuabe.</p>

<p>"The worst of it is that the situation is getting worse
and worse. We have, as you know, made enormous efforts.
But all attempts you have made to uphold your
securities have only been throwing money away. The
last fortnight has been frightful. More than two hundred
thousand pounds have gone. In fact, an ordinary man
would be ruined by the last month or two. Your position
is better because of the real property in the Manchester
mills."</p>

<p>"Trade has almost ceased."</p>

<p>"Close the mills down and wait. You cannot go on."</p>

<p>"If I do, ten thousand men will be let loose on the
city with nothing but the Union funds to fall back on."</p>

<p>"If you don't, you will be what Baumann is to-day&mdash;a
bankrupt."</p>

<p>"I have eighty thousand cash on deposit at the Bank
of England."</p>

<p>"And if you throw that away after the rest you will
be done for. You don't realise the situation. It <i>can't</i>
recover. War is inevitable. India will go, I feel it.
England is going to turn into a camp. Religion is the
pretext of war everywhere. Take your money from the
Bank in cash and lock it up in the Safe Deposit strong
rooms. Keep that sum, earning nothing, for emergencies,
then wait for the other properties to recover. It will be
years perhaps, but you will win through in the end. The
freehold sites of the mills are alone worth almost anything.
It is only <i>paper</i> millionaires that are easily ruined.
You are a great property owner. But you must walk
very warily, even you. Who could have foreseen all
this? I see that fellow Hands is dead&mdash;couldn't stand
the sight of the mischief he'd done, I suppose. The
fool! the eternal fool! why couldn't he have kept his
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[311]</a></span>
sham discovery to himself? Look at the unutterable
misery it has brought on the world."</p>

<p>"You yourself, Dawlish, are you suffering the common
fate?"</p>

<p>"I? Certainly not! That is to say, I suffer of
course, but not fatally. All my investments are in
buildings in safe quarters. I may have to reduce rents
for a year or two, but my houses will not be empty.
And they are my own."</p>

<p>"Fortunate man," said Schuabe; "but why <i>sham</i> discovery?"</p>

<p>"Out of business hours," said the solicitor, with some
stiffness and hesitation, "I am a Roman Catholic, Mr.
Schuabe. Good-morning. I will send the transfer
round for you to sign."</p>

<p>The cool, machine-like man went away. The millionaire
knew that his fortune was tottering, but it moved
him little. He knew that his power in the country was
nearly over, had dwindled to nothing in the stir of
greater things around. Money was only useful as a
means of power, and with a sure prescience he saw that
he would never regain his old position.</p>

<p>The hour was over.</p>

<p>Whatever would be the outcome of these great affairs,
the hour was past and over.</p>

<p>The one glowing thought which burned within him,
and seemed to be eating out his life, was the awful
knowledge that he and no other man had set in motion
this terrible machinery which was grinding up the civilised
world.</p>

<p>Day and night from that there was no relief.</p>

<p>His valet again entered and reminded his master that
some people were coming to lunch. He went away and
began to dress with the man's help.</p>

<p>The guests were only two in number. One was Ommaney,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[312]</a></span>
the editor of the <i>Daily Wire</i>, the other Mrs.
Hubert Armstrong.</p>

<p>Both the lady and gentleman came in together at
about two o'clock.</p>

<p>Mrs. Armstrong was much changed in appearance.
Her face had lost its serenity; her manner was quick
and anxious; her voice strained.</p>

<p>The slim, quiet editor, on the other hand, seemed to
be untouched by worry. Quiet and inscrutable as ever,
the only change in him, perhaps, was a slight briskness,
an aroma rather than an actual expression of good
humour and <i>bien-être</i>.</p>

<p>They sat down to the meal. Schuabe, in his dark grey
frock-coat, the careful <i>ensemble</i> of his dress no less than
the regular beauty of his face&mdash;now smooth and calm&mdash;seemed
to be beyond all mundane cares. Only the lady
was ill at ease.</p>

<p>The conversation at first was all of the actual news of
the day, as it had appeared in the morning's newspapers.
Hands's death was discussed. "Poor fellow!"
said Mrs. Armstrong, with a sigh; "it is sad to think of
his sudden ending. The burden was too much for him
to bear. I can understand it when I look round upon
all that is happening; it is terrible!"</p>

<p>"Surely you do not regret the discovery of the truth?"
said Schuabe, quickly.</p>

<p>"I am beginning to fear truth," said the lady. "The
world, it seems, was not ripe for it. In a hundred years,
perhaps, our work would have paved the way. But it is
premature. Look at the chaos all around us. The public
has ceased to think or read. They are reading nothing.
Three publishers have put up the shutters during
the week."</p>

<p>The journalist interrupted with a dry chuckle. "They
are reading the <i>Daily Wire</i>," he said; "the circulation
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[313]</a></span>
is almost doubled." He sent a congratulatory glance to
Schuabe.</p>

<p>The millionaire's great holding in the paper was a
secret known only to a few. In the stress of greater
affairs he had half forgotten it. A swift feeling of relief
crossed his brain as he realised what this meant to his
tottering fortunes.</p>

<p>"Poor Hands!" said the editor, "he was a nice fellow.
Rather unpractical and dreamy, but a nice fellow. Owing
to him we had the greatest chance that any paper
has ever had in the history of journalism. We owe him
a great debt. The present popularity and influence of
the paper has dwarfed, positively dwarfed, all its rivals.
I have given the poor fellow three columns to-day; I
wish I could do more."</p>

<p>"Do you not think, Mr. Ommaney," asked Mrs. Armstrong,
"that in the enormous publication of telegrams
and political foreign news, the glorious fact that the
world has at last awakened to a knowledge of the glorious
truths of real religion is being swamped and forgotten?
After all, what will be the greatest thing in history
a hundred years from now? Will it not be the death of
the old superstitions rather than a mutiny in the East or
a war with Russia? Will not the names of the pioneers
of truth remain more firmly fixed in the minds of mankind
than those of generals and chancellors?"</p>

<p>The editor made it quite plain that these were
speculations with which he had nothing whatever to do.</p>

<p>"It's dead, Mrs. Armstrong," he said brutally. "The
religious aspect is utterly dead, and wouldn't sell an extra
copy of the paper. It would be madness to touch it
now. The public gaze is fixed on Kabul River and St.
Petersburg, Belgrade and Constantinople. They have
almost forgotten that Jerusalem exists. I sent out twelve
special correspondents ten days ago."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[314]</a></span>
Mrs. Armstrong sighed deeply. It was true, bitterly
true. She was no longer of any importance in the public
eye. No one asked her to lecture now. The mass meetings
were all over. Not a single copy of <i>John Mulgrave</i>
had been sold for a month. How differently she had
pictured it all on that winter's morning at Sir Michael's;
how brightly and gloriously it had begun, and now how
bitter the <i>dénouement</i>, how utterly beyond foresight?
What was this superstition, this Christianity which in its
death struggles could overthrow a world?</p>

<p>"<i>The decisive events of the world occur in the intellect.</i>"
Yes, but how soon do they leave their parent and outstrip
its poor control?</p>

<p>There was no need for women <i>now</i>. That was the bitterest
thought of all. The movement was over&mdash;done
with. A private in the Guards was a greater hero than
the leader of an intellectual movement. What a monstrous
<i>bouleversement</i> of everything!</p>

<p>Again the lady sighed deeply.</p>

<p>"No," she said again, "the world was not yet strong
enough to bear the truth. I have sold my Consols," she
continued; "I have been advised to do so. I was investing
for my daughter when I am gone. Newspaper
shares are the things to buy now, I suppose! My brokers
told me that I was doing the wisest thing. They said
that they could not recover for years."</p>

<p>"The money market is a thing in which I have very
little concern except inasmuch as it affects large public
issues," said the editor. "I leave it all to my city editor
and his staff&mdash;men in whom I have the greatest possible
trust. But I heard a curious piece of news last night. I
don't know what it portends; perhaps Mr. Schuabe can
tell me; he knows all about these things. Sir Michael
Manichoe, the head of the Church political party, you
know has been buying Consols enormously. Keith, my
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[315]</a></span>
city editor, told me. He has, so it appears, invested
enormous sums. Consols will go up in consequence.
But even then I don't see how he can repay himself.
They cannot rise much."</p>

<p>"I wonder if I was well advised to sell?" said Mrs. Armstrong,
nervously. "They say Sir Michael never makes
a mistake. He must have some private information."</p>

<p>"I don't think that is possible, Mrs. Armstrong,"
Ommaney said. "Of course Sir Michael may very
likely know something about the situation which is not
yet public. He may be reckoning on it. But things are
in such hopeless confusion that no sane speculator would
buy for a small rise which endured for half a day. He
would not be able to unload quickly enough. It seems
as if Sir Michael is buying for a permanent recovery.
And I assure you that nothing can bring <i>that</i> about.
Only one thing at least."</p>

<p>"What is that?" asked both Mrs. Armstrong and
Schuabe together.</p>

<p>The editor paused, while a faint smile flickered over
his face. "Ah," he said, "an impossibility, of course.
If any one discovered that 'The Discovery' was a fraud&mdash;a
great forgery, for instance&mdash;<i>then</i> we should see a
universal relief."</p>

<p>"<i>That</i>, of course, is asking for an impossibility," said
Mrs. Armstrong, rather shortly. She resented the somewhat
flippant tone of the great man.</p>

<p>These things were all her life. To Ommaney they
but represented a passing panorama in which he took
absolutely no <i>personal</i> interest. The novelist disliked
and feared this detachment. It warred with her strong
sense of mental duty. The highly trained journalist, to
whom all life was but news, news, news, was a strange
modern product which warred with her sense of what
was fitting.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[316]</a></span>
"You're not well!" said the editor, suddenly turning
to Schuabe, who had grown very pale. His voice reassured
them.</p>

<p>It was without a trace of weakness.</p>

<p>The "Perfectly, thank you" was deliberate and calm
as ever. Ommaney, however, noticed that, with a very
steady hand, the host poured out nearly a tumbler of
Burgundy and drank it in one draught.</p>

<p>Schuabe had been taking nothing stronger than water
hitherto during the progress of the meal.</p>

<p>The man who had been waiting had just left the room
for coffee. After Ommaney had spoken, there was a
slight, almost embarrassed, silence. A sudden interruption
came from the door of the room.</p>

<p>It opened with a quick push and turn of the handle,
quite unlike the deliberate movements of any one of the
attendants.</p>

<p>Sir Robert Llwellyn strode into the room. It was
obvious that he was labouring under some almost uncontrollable
agitation. The great face, usually so jolly
and fresh-coloured, was ghastly pale. There was a fixed
stare of fright in the eyes. He had forgotten to remove
his silk hat, which was grotesquely tilted on his head,
showing the hair matted with perspiration.</p>

<p>Ommaney and Mrs. Armstrong sat perfectly still.</p>

<p>They were paralysed with wonder at the sudden apparition
of this famous person, obviously in such urgent
hurry and distress.</p>

<p>Then, with the natural instinct of well-bred people,
their heads turned away, their eyes fell to their plates,
and they began to converse in an undertone upon trivial
matters.</p>

<p>Schuabe had risen with a quick, snake-like movement,
utterly unlike his general deliberation. In a moment he
had crossed the room and taken Llwellyn's arm in a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[317]</a></span>
firm grip, looking him steadily in the face with an ominous
and warning frown.</p>

<p>That clear, sword-like glance seemed to nerve the big
man into more restraint. A wave of artificial composure
passed over him. He removed his hat and breathed
deeply.</p>

<p>Then he spoke in a voice which trembled somewhat,
but which nevertheless attained something of control.</p>

<p>"I am really very sorry," he said, with a ghastly attempt
at a smile, "to have burst in upon you like this.
I didn't know you had friends with you. Please excuse
me. But the truth is&mdash;the truth is, that I am in
rather a hurry to see you. I have an important message
for you from&mdash;" he hesitated a single moment before he
found the ready lie&mdash;"from Lord &mdash;&mdash;. There are&mdash;there
is something going on at the House of Commons
which&mdash;But I will tell you later on. How do you do,
Mrs. Armstrong? How are you, Ommaney? Fearfully
rushed, of course! We archæologists are the only people
who have leisure nowadays. No, thanks, Schuabe, I
lunched before I came. Coffee? Oh, yes; excellent!"</p>

<p>His manner was noticeably forced and unnatural in its
artificial geniality. The man, who had now entered
with coffee, brought the tray to him, but instead of
taking any he half filled an empty cup with Kümmel and
drank it off.</p>

<p>His hurried explanation hardly deceived the two
shrewd people at the table, but at least it made it obvious
that he wished to be alone with their host.</p>

<p>There was a little desultory conversation over the
coffee, in which Llwellyn took a too easy and hilarious
part, and then Mrs. Armstrong got up to go.</p>

<p>Ommaney followed her.</p>

<p>Schuabe walked with them a little way down the corridor.
While he was out of the room, Llwellyn walked
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[318]</a></span>
unsteadily to a sideboard. With shaking hand he mixed
himself a large brandy-and-soda. His shaking hands,
the intense greed with which he swallowed the mixture,
were horrible in their sensual revelation. The mask of
pleasantness had gone; the reserve of good manners
disappeared.</p>

<p>He stood there naked, as it were&mdash;a vast bulk of a
man in deadly fear.</p>

<p>Schuabe came back and closed the door silently. He
drew Llwellyn to the old spot, right in the centre of the
great room. There was a wild question in his eyes
which his lips seemed powerless to utter.</p>

<p>"Gertrude!" gasped the big man. "You know she
came back to me. I told you at the club that it was all
right between us again?"</p>

<p>An immeasurable relief crossed the Jew's face. He
pushed his friend away with a snarl of concentrated
disgust.</p>

<p>"You come here," he hissed venomously, "and burst
into my rooms to tell me of your petty <i>amours</i>. Have
I not borne with the story of your lust and degradation
enough? You come here as if the&mdash;." He stopped
suddenly. The words died away on his lips.</p>

<p>Llwellyn was transformed.</p>

<p>Even in his terror and agitation an ugly sneer blazed
out upon his face. His nostrils curled with evil laughter.
His voice became low and threatening. Something
subtly <i>vulgar</i> and <i>common</i> stole into it. It was this last
that arrested Schuabe. It was horrible.</p>

<p>"Not quite so fast, my good friend," said Llwellyn.
"Wait and hear my story; and, confound you! if you
talk to me like that again, I'll kill you! Things are
equal now, my Jewish partner&mdash;equal between us. If
I am in danger, why, so are you; and either you speak
civilly or you pay the penalty."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[319]</a></span>
A curious thing happened. The enormous overbearing
brutality of the man, his <i>vitality</i>, seemed to cow and
beat down the master mind.</p>

<p>Schuabe, for the moment, was weak in the hands of
his inferior. As yet he had heard nothing of what the
other had come to tell; he was conscious only of hands
of cold fear knocking at his heart.</p>

<p>He seemed to shrink into himself. For the first and
last time in his life, the inherited slavishness in his blood
asserted itself.</p>

<p>He had never known such degradation before. The
beauty of his face went out like an extinguished candle.
His features grew markedly Semitic; he cringed and
fawned, as his ancestors had cringed and fawned before
fools in power hundreds of years back.</p>

<p>This inexpressibly disgusting change in the distinguished
man had its immediate effect upon his companion.
It was new and utterly startling. He had
come to lean on Schuabe, to place the threads of a
dreadful dilemma in his hand, to rest upon his master
mind.</p>

<p>So, for a second or two, in loathsome pantomime the
men bowed and salaamed to each other in the centre of
the room, not knowing what they did.</p>

<p>It was Sir Robert who pulled himself together first.
The fear which was rushing over him in waves gave him
back a semblance of control.</p>

<p>"We must not quarrel now," he said in a swift, eager
voice. "Listen to me. We are on the brink of terrible
things. Gertrude Hunt came back to me, as you know.
She told me that she was sick to death of her friends the
priests, that the old life called her, that she could not live
apart from me. She mocked at her sudden conversion.
I thought that it was real. I laughed and mocked with
her. I trusted her as I would trust myself."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[320]</a></span>
He paused for a moment, choking down the immense
agitation which rose up in his throat and half strangled
speech.</p>

<p>Schuabe's eyes, attentive and fixed, were still uncomprehending.
Still the Jew did not see whither Llwellyn
was leading&mdash;could not understand.</p>

<p>"She's gone!" said the big man, all colour fading
absolutely from his face. "And, Schuabe, in my mad
folly and infatuation, in my incredible foolishness ...
<i>I told her everything</i>."</p>

<p>A sudden sharp animal moan burst from Schuabe's
lips&mdash;clear, vibrant, and bestial in the silence.</p>

<p>His rigidity changed into an extraordinary trembling.
It was a temporary palsy which set every separate limb
trembling with an independent motion. He waited thus,
with an ashen face, to hear more.</p>

<p>Llwellyn, when the irremediable fact had passed his
lips, when the enormous difficulty of confession was
surmounted, proceeded with slight relief:</p>

<p>"This might, you will think, be just possibly without
significance for us. It might be a coincidence. <i>But it
is not so, Schuabe.</i> I know now, as certainly as I can
know anything, that she came to me, was sent to me, by
the people who have got hold of her. <i>There has been
suspicion for some time</i>, there must have been. We have
been ruined by this woman I trusted."</p>

<p>"But why ... how?"</p>

<p>"Because, Schuabe, as I was walking down Chancery
Lane not an hour since I saw Gertrude come out of
Lincoln's Inn with the clergyman Gortre. They got
into a cab together and drove away. And more: I learn
from Lambert, my assistant at the Museum, that Harold
Spence, the journalist, who is a member of his club and
a friend of his, <i>left for Palestine several days ago</i>."</p>

<p>"I have just heard," whispered Schuabe, "that Sir
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[321]</a></span>
Michael Manichoe has been buying large parcels of
Consols."</p>

<p>"The thing is over. We must&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Hush!" said the Jew, menacingly. "All is not lost
yet. Perhaps, the strong probability is, that only this
Gortre knows yet. Even if anything is known to
others, it is only vague, and cannot be substantiated
until the man in Palestine gets a letter. Without this
woman and Gortre we are safe."</p>

<p>The Professor looked at him and understood. Nor
was there any terror in his face, only a faint film of relief.</p>

<p>Five minutes afterwards the two distinguished men,
talking easily together, walked through the vestibule of
the hotel, down the great courtyard and into the roaring
Strand.</p>

<p class="p4b">A hotel clerk explained the celebrities to a voluble
group of American tourists as they went by.</p>

<hr class="r20" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[322]</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="CHAPTER_Vc" id="CHAPTER_Vc">CHAPTER V</a></h2>

<h4>BY THE TOWER OF HIPPICUS</h4>

<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">H</span><span class="smcap">arold Spence</span> was essentially a man of action.
His mental and moral health depended for its
continuance upon the active prosecution of affairs more
than most men's.</p>

<p>A product of the day, "modern" in his culture, modern
in his ideals, he must live the vivid, eager, strenuous
life of his times or the fibres of his brain became slack
and loosened.</p>

<p>In the absorbing interest of his first mission to the
East Spence had found work which exactly suited his
temperament. It was work which keyed him up to his
best and most successful efforts.</p>

<p>But when that was over, when the news that he had
given brilliantly to the world became the world's and
was no longer his, then the reaction set in.</p>

<p>The whole man became relaxed and unstrung; he was
drifting into a sloth of the mind and body when Gortre
had arrived from the North with his message of Hope.</p>

<p>The renewed opportunity of action, the tonic to his
weak and waning faith&mdash;that faith which alone was able
to keep him clean and worthy&mdash;again strung up the
chords of his manhood till they vibrated in harmony.</p>

<p>Once more Spence was in the Holy City.</p>

<p>But a short time ago he was at Jerusalem as the collective
eye of millions of Englishmen, the telegraph
wires stretched out behind him to London.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[323]</a></span>
Now he was, to all official intents, a private person,
yet, as the steamer cast anchor in the roadstead of Jaffa,
he had realised that a more tremendous responsibility
than ever before rested with him.</p>

<p>The last words spoken to Spence in England had been
those of Sir Michael Manichoe. The great man was
bidding him good-bye at Charing Cross.</p>

<p>"Remember," he had said, "that whatever proof or
help we may get from this woman, Gertrude Hunt, will
be but the basis for you to work on in the East. We
shall cable every result of our investigations here. Remember
that, as we think, you have immense ability and
resource against you. Go very warily. As I have said
before, <i>no</i> sum is too great to sacrifice, no sacrifice too
great to make."</p>

<p>There had been a day's delay at Jaffa. It had been a
day of strange, bewildering thoughts to the journalist.</p>

<p>The "Gate of the Holy Land" is not, as many people
suppose, a fine harbour, a thronged port.</p>

<p>The navies of the ancient world which congregated
there were smaller than even the coasting steamers of
to-day. They found shelter in a narrow space of more
or less untroubled water between the shelving rock of
the long, flat shore and a low reef rising out of the sea
parallel to the town. The vessels with timber for
Solomon's Temple tossed almost unsheltered before the
terraces of ochre-coloured Oriental houses.</p>

<p>For several hours it had been too rough for the passengers
on the French boat to land. More than a mile
of restless bottle-green sea separated them from the rude
ladders fastened to the wave-washed quay.</p>

<p>There had been one of the heavy rain-storms which at
that season of the year visit Palestine. Over the Moslem
minarets of the town the purple tops of the central mountains
of Judah and Ephraim showed clear and far away.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[324]</a></span>
The time of waiting gave Spence an opportunity for
collecting and ordering his thoughts, for summing up
the situation and trying to get at the very heart of its
meaning.</p>

<p>The messagery steamer was the only one in the roads.
Two coasting craft with rags of light brown sails were
beating over the swell into the Mediterranean.</p>

<p>The sky was cloudy, the air still and warm. Only the
sea was turbulent and uneasy, the steamer rolled with a
sickening, regular movement, and the anchor chains beat
and rattled with the precision of a pendulum.</p>

<p>Spence sat on the india-rubber treads of the steps leading
up to the bridge, with an arm crooked round a white-painted
stanchion supporting the hand-rail. A few yards
away two lascars were working a chain and pulley, drawing
up zinc boxes of ashes from the stoke-hold and tipping
them into the sea. As the clinkers fell into the
water a little cloud of steam rose from them.</p>

<p>There were but few passengers on the ship, which wore
a somewhat neglected, "off-duty" aspect. No longer
were the cabins filled with drilled bands of tourists with
their loud-voiced lecturing cleric in charge. Not now
was there the accustomed rush to the main deck, the
pious ejaculations at the first sight of Palestine, the electric
knocking at the hearts even of the least devout.</p>

<p>Nobody came to Jerusalem now from England. From
Beyrout to Jaffa the maritime plain was silent and
deserted, and no tourists plucked the roses of Sharon
any more.</p>

<p>A German commercial traveller, with cases of cutlery,
from Essen, was arguing with the little Greek steward
about his wine bill; a professional photographer from
Alexandria, travelling with his cameras for a New York
firm of art publishers; two Turkish officers smoking
cigarettes; a Russian gentleman with two young sons;
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[325]</a></span>
a fat man in flannels and with an unshaven chin, very
much at home; an orange buyer from a warehouse by
the Tower Bridge&mdash;these were the undistinguished companions
of the journalist.</p>

<p>The steward clapped his hands; <i>déjeuner</i> was ready.
The passengers tumbled down to the saloon. Spence
declined the loud-voiced Cockney invitation of the fruit
merchant and remained where he was, gazing with unseeing
eyes at the low Eastern town, which rose and fell
before him as the ship rolled lazily from side to side.</p>

<p>There was something immensely, tremendously incongruous
in his position. It was without precedent. He
had come, in the first place, as a sort of private inquiry
agent. He was a detective charged by a group of three
or four people, a clergyman or two, a wealthy Member
of Parliament, to find out the year-old movements&mdash;if,
indeed, movements there had been!&mdash;of a distinguished
European professor. He was to pry, to question, to
deceive. This much in itself was utterly astonishing,
strangely difficult of realisation.</p>

<p>But how much more there was to stir and confuse his
brain!</p>

<p>He was coming back alone to Jerusalem. But a short
time ago he had seen the great <i>savants</i> of Europe&mdash;only
thirty miles beyond this Eastern town&mdash;reluctantly pronounce
the words which meant the downfall of the Christian
Faith.</p>

<p>The gunboat which had brought them all was anchored
in this very spot. A Turkish guard had been waiting
yonder on the quay, they had gone along the new road
to Jerusalem in open carriages,&mdash;through the orange
groves,&mdash;riding to make history.</p>

<p>And now he was here once more.</p>

<p>While he sat on this dingy steamer in this remote
corner of the Mediterranean, it was no exaggeration to
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[326]</a></span>
say that the whole world was in a state of cataclysm such
as it had hardly, at least not often, known before.</p>

<p>It was his business to watch events, to forecast whither
they would lead. He was a Simon Magus of the modern
world, with an electric wire and stylographic pen to
prophesy with. He of all men could see and realise
what was happening all over the globe. He was more
alarmed than even the man in the street. This much
was certain.</p>

<p>And a day's easy ride away lay the little town which
held the acre of rocky ground from which all these
horrors, this imminent upheaval, had come.</p>

<p>Again it seemed beyond the power of his brain to seize
it all, to contain the vastness of his thoughts.</p>

<p>These facts, which all the world knew, were almost too
stupendous for belief. But when he dwelt upon the <i>personal</i>
aspect of them he was as a traveller whose way is
irrevocably barred by sheer precipice.</p>

<p>At the very first <i>he</i> had been one mouthpiece of the
news. For some hours the packet containing it had
hung in the dressing-room of a London Turkish bath.</p>

<p>His act had recoiled upon himself, for when Gortre
found him in the chambers he was spiritually dying.</p>

<p>Could this suspicion of Schuabe and Llwellyn possibly
be true? It had seemed both plausible and probable
in Sir Michael's study in London. But out here
in the Jaffa roadstead, when he realised&mdash;or tried to
realise&mdash;that on him might depend the salvation of the
world.... He laughed aloud at that monstrous
grandiloquent phrase. He was in the nineteenth century,
not the tenth.</p>

<p>He doubted more and more. Had it been any one
else it might have been possible to believe. But he
could not see himself in this stupendous <i>rôle</i>.</p>

<p>The mental processes became insupportable; he dismissed
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[327]</a></span>
thought with a great effort of will and got up
from his seat.</p>

<p>At least there was some <i>action</i>, something definite to
do waiting for him. Speculation only blurred everything.
He would be true to the trust his friends in
England reposed in him and leave the rest to happen
as it was fated.</p>

<p>There was a relief in that attitude&mdash;the Arab attitude.
<i>Kismet!</i></p>

<p>Griggs, the fruit merchant, came up from the saloon
wiping his lips.</p>

<p>"Bit orf," he said, "waiting like this. But the sea
will go down soon. Last spring I had to go on to
Beyrout, the weather was that rough. Ever tried that
Vin de Rishon le Zion? It's a treat. Made from
Bordeaux vines transplanted to Palestine&mdash;you'll pass
the fields on the way up&mdash;just had a half bottle. Hallo!&mdash;look,
there's the boat at last&mdash;old Francis Karane's
boat. Must go and look after my traps."</p>

<p>A long boat was creeping out from behind the reef.
Spence went to his cabin to see after his light kit. It
was better to move and work than to think.</p>

<hr class="r5" />

<p>It was early morning, the morning after Spence's arrival
in Jerusalem. He slept well and soundly in his
hotel room, tired by the long ride&mdash;for he had come on
horseback over the moonlit slopes of Ajalon.</p>

<p>When at length he awoke it was with a sensation of
mental and bodily vigour, a quickening of all his pulses
in hope and expectation, which was in fine contrast to
the doubts and hesitations of the Jaffa roads.</p>

<p>A bright sun poured into the room.</p>

<p>He got up and went to the window. There was a
deep, unspoken prayer in his heart.</p>

<p>The hotel was in Akra, the European and Christian
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[328]</a></span>
quarter of Jerusalem, close by the Jaffa Gate, with the
Tower of Hippicus frowning down upon it.</p>

<p>The whole extent of the city lay beneath the windows
in a glorious panorama, washed as it was in the brilliant
morning light. Far beyond, a dark shadow yet, the
Olivet range rose in background to the minarets and
cupolas below it.</p>

<p>His eye roved over the prospect, marking and recognising
the buildings.</p>

<p>There was the purple dome of the great Mosque of
Omar, very clear against the amber-primrose lights of
dawn.</p>

<p>Where now the muezzin called to Allah, the burnt-offerings
had once smoked in the courts of the Temple&mdash;it
was in that spot the mysterious veil had parted in
symbol of God's pain and death. It was in the porches
bounding the court of the Gentiles that Christ had
taught.</p>

<p>Closer, below the Antonia Tower, rose the dark, lead-covered
cupola of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.</p>

<p>Great emotion came to him as he gazed at the shrine
sacred above all others for so many centuries.</p>

<p>He thought of that holy spot diminished in its ancient
glory in the eyes of half the Christian world.</p>

<p>Perhaps no more would the Holy Fire burst forth
from the yellow, aged marble of the Tomb at Easter
time.</p>

<p>Who could say?</p>

<p>Was not he, Harold Spence, there to try that awful
issue?</p>

<p>He wondered, as he gazed, if another Easter would
still see the wild messengers bursting away to Nazareth
and Bethlehem bearing The Holy Flame.</p>

<p>The sun became suddenly more powerful. It threw
a warmer light into the grey dome, and, deep down,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[329]</a></span>
the cold, dark waters of Hezekiah's Pool became bright
and golden.</p>

<p>The sacred places focussed the light and sprang into
a new life.</p>

<p>He made the sign of the Cross, wondering fancifully
if this were an omen.</p>

<p>Then with a shudder he looked to the left towards
the ogre-grey Turkish battlements of the Damascus
Gate.</p>

<p>It was there, over by the Temple Quarries of Bezetha,
the New Tomb of Joseph lay.</p>

<p>Yes! straight away to the north lay the rock-hewn
sepulchre where the great doctors had sorrowfully pronounced
the end of so many Christian hopes.</p>

<p>How difficult to believe that so short a distance away
lay the centre of the world's trouble! Surely he could
actually distinguish the guard-house in the wall which
had been built round the spot.</p>

<p>Over the sad Oriental city&mdash;for Jerusalem is always
sad, as if the ancient stones were still conscious of
Christ's passion&mdash;he gazed towards the terrible place,
wondering, hoping, fearing.</p>

<hr class="r5" />

<p>It was very difficult to know how to begin upon this
extraordinary affair.</p>

<p>When he had made the first meal of the day and was
confronted with the business, with the actual fact of
what he had to do, he was aghast at what seemed his
own powerlessness.</p>

<p>He had no plan of action, no method. For an hour
he felt absolutely hopeless.</p>

<p>Sir Robert Llwellyn, so his friends believed, had been
in Jerusalem prior to the discovery of the New Tomb.</p>

<p>The first duty of the investigator was to find out
whether that was true.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[330]</a></span>
How was he to do it?</p>

<p>In his irresolution he decided to go out into the city.
He would call upon various people he knew, friends of
Cyril Hands, and trust to events for guiding his further
movements.</p>

<p>The rooms where Hands had always stayed were close
to the schools of the Church Missionary Society; he
would go there. Down in the Mûristan area he could
also chat with the doctor at the English Ophthalmic
Hospice; he would call on his way to the New Tomb.</p>

<p>It was at The Tomb that he might learn something,
perhaps, yet how nebulous it all was, how unsatisfying!</p>

<p>He set out, down the roughly paved streets, through
the arched and shaded bazaars&mdash;places less full of colour
and more sombre than the markets of other Oriental
cities&mdash;to the heart of the city, where the streets were
bounded by the vision of the distant hills of Olivet.</p>

<p>The religious riots and unrest were long since over.
The pilgrims to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre were
less in number, but were mostly Russians of the Greek
Church, who still accepted the Church of the Holy
Sepulchre as the true goal of their desires.</p>

<p>The Greeks and Armenians hated each other no more
than usual. The Turks were held in good control by a
strong governor of Jerusalem. Nor was this a time of
special festival. The city, never quite at rest, was still
in its normal condition.</p>

<p>The Bedouin women with their unveiled faces, tattooed
in blue, strode to the bazaars with the butter they had
brought in from their desert herds. They wore gaudy
head-dresses and high red boots, and they jostled the
"pale townsmen" as they passed them; free, untamed
creatures of the sun and air.</p>

<p>As Spence passed by the courtyard of the Church
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[331]</a></span>
of the Holy Sepulchre a crowd of Fellah boys ran up to
him with candles ornamented with scenes from the
Passion, pressing him to buy.</p>

<p>The sun grew hotter as he walked, though the purple
shadows of the narrow streets were cool enough.
As he left the European heights of Akra and dived
deep into the eastern central city, the well-remembered
scenes and smells rose up like a wall before him and
the rest of life.</p>

<p>He began to walk more slowly, in harmony with the
slow-moving forms around. He had been to Omdurman
with the avenging army, knew Constantinople during the
Greek war&mdash;the East had meaning for him.</p>

<p>And as the veritable East closed round him his doubts
and self-ridicule vanished. His strange mission seemed
possible here.</p>

<p>As he was passing one of the vast ruined structures
once belonging to the mediæval knights of St. John,
thinking, indeed, that he himself was a veritable Crusader,
a thin, importunate voice came to him from an
angle of the stone-work.</p>

<p>He looked down and saw an old Nurié woman sitting
there. She belonged to the "Nowar," the unclean pariah
class of Palestine, who are said to practise magic arts.
A gipsy of the Sussex Downs would be her sister in
England.</p>

<p>The woman was tattooed from head to foot. She
wore a blue turban, and from squares and angles drawn
in the dust before her, Spence knew her for a professional
geomancer or fortune-teller.</p>

<p>He threw her a coin in idle speculation and asked her
"his lot" for the immediate future.</p>

<p>The woman had a few shells of different shapes in
a heap by her side, and she threw them into the figures
on the ground.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[332]</a></span>
Then, picking them up, she said, in bastard Arabic interspersed
with a hard "K"-like sound, which marks the
nomad in Palestine, "Effendi, you have a sorrow and
bewilderment just past you, and, like a black star, it has
fixed itself on your forehead. A letter is coming to you
from over the seas telling you of work to do. And then
you will leave this country and cross home in a steamer,
with a story to tell many people."</p>

<p>Spence smiled at the glib prophecy. Certainly it
might very well outline his future course of action,
but it was no more than a shrewd and obvious guess.</p>

<p>He was turning to go away when the woman opened
her clothes in front, showing the upper part of her body
literally covered with tattoo marks, and drew out a
small bag.</p>

<p>"Stay, my lord," she said. "I can tell you much
more if you will hear. I have here a very precious stone
rubbed with oil, which I brought from Mecca. Now, if
you will hold this stone in your hand and give me the
price you shall hear what will come to you, O camel of
the house!"</p>

<p>The curious sensation of "expectation" that had been
coming over Spence, the fatalistic waiting for chance to
guide him which, in this wild and dream-like business,
had begun to take hold of him, made him give the hag
what she asked.</p>

<p>There was something in clairvoyance perhaps; at any
rate he would hear what the Nurié woman had to say.</p>

<p>She took a dark and greasy pebble from the bag and
put it in his hand, gazing at his fingers for a minute
or two in a fixed stare without speaking.</p>

<p>When at last she broke the silence Spence noticed that
something had gone out of her voice. The medicant
whine, the ingratiating invitation had ceased.</p>

<p>Her tones were impersonal, thinner, a <i>recitative</i>.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[333]</a></span>
"Ere sundown my lord will hear that a friend has
died and his spirit is in the well of souls."</p>

<p>"Tell me of this friend, O my aunt!" Spence said in
colloquial Arabic.</p>

<p>"Thy friend is a Frank, but more than a Frank, for he
is one knowing much of this country, and has walked the
stones of Jerusalem for many years. Thou wilt hear of his
death from the lips of one who will tell thee of another
thou seekest, and know not that it is he.... Give me
back the stone, lord, and go thy way," she broke off suddenly,
with seeming sincerity. "I will tell thee no more,
for great business is in thy hands and thou art no ordinary
wayfarer. Why didst thou hide it from me, Effendi?"</p>

<p>Drawing her blue head-dress over her face, the woman
refused to speak another word.</p>

<p>Spence passed on, wondering. He knew, as all travellers
who are not merely tourists know, that no one has
ever been quite able to sift the fraud and trickery from
the strange power possessed by those Eastern geomancers.
It is an undecided question still, but only the
shallow dare to say that <i>all</i> is imposture.<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a></p>

<p>And even the London journalist could not be purely
materialistic in Jerusalem, the City of Sorrows.</p>

<p>He went on towards his destination. Not far from
the missionary establishment was a building which was
the headquarters of the Palestine Exploring Society in
Jerusalem.</p>

<p>Cyril Hands had always lived up in Akra among the
Europeans, but much of his time was necessarily spent
in the Mûristan district.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[334]</a></span>
The building was known as the "Research Museum."</p>

<p>Hands and his assistants had gathered a valuable collection
of ancient curiosities.</p>

<p>Here were hundreds of drawings and photographs of
various excavations. Accurate measurements of tombs,
buried houses, ancient churches were entered in great
books.</p>

<p>In glass cases were fragments of ancient pottery, old
Hebrew seals, scarabs, antique fragments of jewellery&mdash;all
the varied objects from which high scholarship and
expert training was gradually, year by year, providing
a luminous and entirely fresh commentary on Holy
Writ.</p>

<p>Here, in short, were the tools of what is known as
the "Higher Criticism."</p>

<p>Attached to the museum was a library and drawing
office, a photographic dark room, apartments for the
curator and his wife. A man who engaged the native
labour required for the excavations superintended the
work of the men and acted as general agent and intermediary
between the European officials and all Easterns
with whom they came in contact.</p>

<p>This man was well known in the city&mdash;a character in
his way. In the reports of the Exploring Society he
was often referred to as an invaluable assistant. But a
year ago his portrait had been published in the annual
statement of the fund, and the face of the Greek Ionides
in his turban lay upon the study tables of many a quiet
English vicarage.</p>

<p>Spence entered the courtyard of the building. It was
quiet and deserted; some pigeons were feeding there.</p>

<p>He turned under a stone archway to the right, pushed
open a door, and entered the museum.</p>

<p>There was a babel of voices.</p>

<p>A small group of people stood by a wooden pedestal
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[335]</a></span>
in the centre of the room, which supported the famous
cruciform font found at Bîâr Es-seb'a.</p>

<p>They turned at Spence's entrance. He saw some
familiar faces of people with whom he had been brought
in contact during the time of the first discovery.</p>

<p>Two English missionaries, one in orders, the English
Consul, and Professor Theodore Adams, the American
archæologist, who lived all the year round in the new
western suburb, stood speaking in grave tones and with
distressed faces&mdash;so it seemed to the intruder.</p>

<p>An Egyptian servant, dressed in white linen, carrying
a bunch of keys, was with them.</p>

<p>In his hand the Consul held a roll of yellow native
wax.</p>

<p>An enormous surprise shone out on the faces of these
people as Spence walked up to him.</p>

<p>"Mr. Spence!" said the Consul, "we never expected
you or heard of your coming. This is most fortunate,
however. You were his great friend. I think you both
shared chambers together in London?"</p>

<p>Spence looked at him in wonder, mechanically shaking
the proffered hand.</p>

<p>"I don't think I quite understand," he said. "I came
here quite by chance, just to see if there was any one
that I knew about."</p>

<p>"Then you have not heard&mdash;" said the clergyman.</p>

<p>"I have heard nothing."</p>

<p>"Your friend, our distinguished fellow-worker, Professor
Hands, is no more. We have just received a
cable. Poor, dear Hands died of heart disease while
taking a seaside holiday."</p>

<p>Spence was genuinely affected.</p>

<p>Hands was an old and dear friend. His sweet, kindly
nature, too dreamy and retiring perhaps for the rush and
hurry of Occidental life, had always been wonderfully
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">[336]</a></span>
welcome for a month or two each year in Lincoln's Inn.
His quaint, learned letters, his enthusiasm for his work
had become part of the journalist's life. They were
recurring pleasures. And now he was gone!</p>

<p>Now it was all over. Never more would he hear the
quiet voice, hear the water-pipe bubble in the quiet old
inn as night gave way to dawn....</p>

<p>His brain whirled with the sudden shock. He grew
very pale, waiting to hear more.</p>

<p>"We know little more," said the Consul, with a sigh.
"A cable from the central office of the Society has just
stated the fact and asked me to take official charge of
everything here. We were just about to begin sealing
up the rooms when you came. There are many important
documents which must be seen to. Mr. Forbes,
poor Hands's assistant, is away on the shores of the
Dead Sea, but we have sent for him by the camel garrison
post. But it will be some weeks before he can be
here, probably."</p>

<p>"This is terribly sad news for me," said Spence at
length. "We were, of course, the dearest friends. The
months when Hands was in town were always the pleasantest.
Of course, lately we did not see so much of
each other; he had become a public character. He was
becoming very depressed and unwell, terrified, I almost
think, at what was going on in the world owing to the
discovery he had made, and he was going away to recuperate.
But I knew nothing of this!"</p>

<p>"I am sorry," said the Consul, "to have to tell you of
such a sad business, but we naturally thought that somehow
you knew&mdash;though, of course, in point of time that
would hardly be possible, or only just so."</p>

<p>"I am in the East," said Spence, giving an explanation
that he had previously prepared if it became necessary
to account for his presence&mdash;"I am here on a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[337]</a></span>
mission for my newspaper&mdash;to ascertain various points
about public opinion in view of all these imminent international
complications."</p>

<p>"Quite so, quite so," said the Consul. "I shall be
glad to help you in any way I can, of course. But when
you came in we were wondering what we should do
exactly about poor Hands's private effects, papers, and
so on. When he went on leave all his things were
packed in cases and sent down here from his rooms in
the upper city. I suppose they had better be shipped to
England. Perhaps you would take charge of them on
your return?"</p>

<p>"I expect you will hear from his brother, the Rev.
John Hands, a Leicestershire clergyman, when the mail
comes in," said Spence. "This is a great blow to me.
I should like to pay my poor friend some public tribute.
I should like to write something for English people to
read&mdash;a sketch of his life and work here in Jerusalem&mdash;his
daily work among you all."</p>

<p>His voice faltered. His eyes had fallen on a photograph
which hung upon the wall. A group of Arabs sat
at the mouth of a rock tomb. In front of them, wearing
a sun helmet and holding a ten-foot surveyor's wand,
stood the dead professor. A kindly smile was on his
face as he looked down upon the white figures of his
men.</p>

<p>"It would be a gracious tribute," said one of the missionaries.
"Every one loved him, whatever their race or
creed. We can all tell you of him as we saw him in our
midst. It is a great pity that old Ionides has gone. He
was the confidential sharer of all the work here, and
Hands trusted him implicitly. He could have told you
much."</p>

<p>"I remember Ionides well," said Spence. "At the
time of the discovery, of course, he was very much in
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[338]</a></span>
evidence, and he was examined by the committee. Is
the old fellow dead, then?"</p>

<p>"No," answered the missionary. "Some time ago,
just after the Commission left, in fact, he came into a
considerable sum of money. He was getting on in years,
and he resigned his position here. He has taken an
olive farm somewhere by Nabulûs, a Turkish city by
Mount Gerizim. I fear we shall never see him more.
He would grieve at this news."</p>

<p>"I think," said Spence, "I will go back to my hotel.
I should like to be alone to-day. I will call on you this
evening, if I may," he added, turning to the Consul.</p>

<p>He left the melancholy group, once more beginning
their sad business, and went out again into the narrow
street.</p>

<p>He wanted to be alone, in some quiet place, to pay
his departed friend the last rites of quiet thought and
memory. He would say a prayer for him in the cool
darkness of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.</p>

<p>How did it go?</p>

<blockquote><p>"<i>So when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption,
and this mortal shall have put on immortality; Then shall
be brought to pass the saying that is written, Death is swallowed
up in victory. O death, where is thy sting? O
grave, where is thy victory?</i>"</p></blockquote>

<p>Always all his life long he had thought that these were
perhaps the most beautiful of written words.</p>

<p>He turned to the right, passed the Turkish guard at
the entrance, and went down the narrow steps to the
"Calvary" chapel.</p>

<p>The gloom and glory of the great church, its rich and
sombre light, the cool yet heavy air, saddened his soul.
He knelt in humble prayer.</p>

<p>When he came out once more into the brilliant sunlight
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">[339]</a></span>
and the noises of the city he felt braver and more
confident.</p>

<p>He began to turn his thoughts earnestly and resolutely
to his mission.</p>

<p>Swiftly, with a quick shock of memory, he remembered
his talk with the old fortune-teller. It was with
an unpleasant sense of chill and shock that he remembered
her predictions.</p>

<p>Some strange sense of divination had told her of this
sad news that waited for him. He could not explain or
understand it. But there was more than this. It might
be wild and foolish, but he could not thrust the woman's
words from his brain.</p>

<p>She knew he was in quest of some one. She said he
would be told....</p>

<p>He entered the yellow stone portico of the hotel with
a sigh of relief. The hall was large, flagged, and cool.
A pool of clear water was in the centre, glimmering
green over its tiles. The eye rested on it with pleasure.
Spence sank into a deck-chair and clapped his hands.
He was exhausted, tired, and thirsty.</p>

<p>An Arab boy came in answer to his hand-clapping.
He brought an envelope on a tray.</p>

<p>It was a cable from England.</p>

<p>Spence went up-stairs to his bedroom. From his kit-bag
he drew a small volume, bound in thick leather,
with a locked clasp.</p>

<p>It was Sir Michael Manichoe's private cable code&mdash;a
precious volume which great commercial houses all
over the world would have paid great sums to see, which
the great man in his anxiety and trust had confided to
his emissary.</p>

<p>Slowly and laboriously he de-coded the message, a
collection of letters and figures to be momentous in the
history of Christendom.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_340" id="Page_340">[340]</a></span>
These were the words:</p>

<blockquote><p>"<i>The woman has discovered everything from Llwellyn.
All suspicions confirmed. Conspiracy between Llwellyn and
Schuabe. You will find full confirmation from the Greek
foreman of Society explorations, Ionides. Get statement of
truth by any means, coercion or money to any amount. All
is legitimate. Having obtained, hasten home, special steamer
if quicker. Can do nothing certain without your evidence.
We trust in you. Hasten.</i></p>

<p class="pinset10">
"<span class="smcap">Manichoe.</span>"<br />
</p></blockquote>

<p>He trembled with excitement as he relocked the code.</p>

<p>It was a light in a dark place. Ionides! the trusted
for many years! The eager helper! The traitor bought
by Llwellyn!</p>

<p>It was afternoon now. He must go out again. A
caravan, camels, guides, must be found for a start
to-morrow.</p>

<p>It would not be a very difficult journey, but it must
be made with speed, and it was four days, five days
away.</p>

<p>He passed out of the hotel and by the Tower of
Hippicus.</p>

<p>A new drinking fountain had been erected there, a
domed building, with pillars of red stone and a glittering
roof, surmounted by a golden crescent.</p>

<p>Some camel drivers were drinking there. He was
passing by when a tall, white-robed figure bowed low
before him. A voice, speaking French, bade him good-day.</p>

<p>The face of the man seemed familiar. He asked him
his name and business.</p>

<p>It was Ibrahim, the Egyptian servant he had seen at
the museum in the morning.</p>

<p>The rooms had been sealed up, and the man had been
to the Consul's private house with the keys.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_341" id="Page_341">[341]</a></span>
This man had temporarily succeeded the Greek Ionides.</p>

<p class="p4b">Spence turned back to the hotel and bade Ibrahim
follow him.</p>
<hr class="r20" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_342" id="Page_342">[342]</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIc" id="CHAPTER_VIc">CHAPTER VI</a></h2>

<h4>UNDER THE EASTERN STARS: TOWARDS GERIZIM</h4>

<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">T</span><span class="smcap">he</span> night was cold and still, the starlight brilliant in
the huge hollow sapphire of the sky.</p>

<p>Wrapped in a heavy cloak, Spence sat at the door of
one of the two little tents which composed his caravan.</p>

<p>Ibrahim the Egyptian, a Roman Catholic, as it seemed,
had volunteered to act as dragoman. In a few hours
this man had got together the necessary animals and
equipment for the expedition to Nabulûs.</p>

<p>Spence rode a little grey horse of the wiry Moabite
breed, Ibrahim a Damascus bay. The other men, a cook
and two muleteers, all Syrians of the Greek Church, rode
mules.</p>

<p>The day's march had been long and tiring. Night,
with its ineffable peace and rest, was very welcome.</p>

<p>On the evening of the morrow they would be on the
slopes of Ebal and Gerizim, near to the homestead of
the man they sought.</p>

<p>All the long day Spence had asked himself what
would be the outcome of this wild journey. He was
full of a grim determination to wring the truth from the
renegade. In his hip pocket his revolver pressed against
his thigh. He was strung up for action. Whatever
course presented itself, that he would take, regardless of
any law that there might be even in these far-away
districts.</p>

<p>His passport was specially endorsed by the Foreign
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_343" id="Page_343">[343]</a></span>
Office; he bore a letter, obtained by the Consul, from
the Governor of Jerusalem to the Turkish officer in
command of Nabulûs.</p>

<p>He had little doubt of the ultimate result. Money or
force should obtain a full confession, and then, a swift
rush for London with the charter of salvation&mdash;for it
would be little less than that&mdash;and the engine of destruction
for the two terrible criminals at home.</p>

<p>As they marched over the plains the red anemone and
blue iris had peeped from the herbage. The ibex, the
roebuck, the wild boar, had fled from the advancing
caravan.</p>

<p>Eagles and vultures had moved heavily through the
sky at vast heights. Quails, partridges, and plovers
started from beneath the horses' feet.</p>

<p>As the sun plunged away, the owls had begun to
mourn in the olive groves, the restless chirping of the
grasshoppers began to die away, and as the stars grew
bright, the nightingale&mdash;the lonely song-bird of these
solitudes&mdash;poured out his melody to the night.</p>

<p>The camp had been formed under the shade of a clump
of terebinth and acacias close to a spring of clear water
which made the grass around it a vivid green, in pleasant
contrast to the dry, withered herbage in the open.</p>

<p>The men had dug out tree roots for fuel, and a red
fire glowed a few yards away from Spence's tent.</p>

<p>A group of silent figures sat round the fire. Now and
then a low murmur of talk sounded for a minute and
then died away again. A slight breeze, cool and keen,
rustled in the trees overhead. Save for that, and the
occasional movement of one of the hobbled horses, no
sound broke the stillness of the glorious night.</p>

<p>It was here, so Spence thought, that the Lord must
have walked with His disciples on the journey between
Jerusalem and Nazareth.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_344" id="Page_344">[344]</a></span>
On such a night as this the little group may have sat
in the vale of El Makhna in quiet talk at supper-time.</p>

<p>The same stars looked down on him as they did on
those others two thousand years ago. How real and
true it all seemed here! How much <i>easier</i> it was to
realise and believe than in Chancery Lane!</p>

<p>Why did men live in cities?</p>

<p>Was it not better far for the soul's health to be here
alone with God?</p>

<p>Here, and in such places as these, God spoke clear and
loud to the hearts of men. He shuddered as the thought
of his own lack of faith came back to him.</p>

<p>In rapid review he saw the recent time of his hopelessness
and shame. How utterly he had fallen to pieces!
It was difficult to understand the pit into which he was
falling so easily when Basil had come to him.</p>

<p>Now, the love of God ran in his veins like fire, every
sight and sound spoke to him of the Christus Consolator.</p>

<p>It was more than mere cold belief, a <i>love</i> or personal
devotion to Christ welled up in him. The figure of the
Man of Sorrows was very near him&mdash;there was a great
fiery cross of stars in the sky above him.</p>

<p>He entered the little tent to pray. He prayed humbly
that it might be even thus until the end. He prayed
that this new and sweet communion with his Master
might never fade or lessen till the glorious daylight of
Death dawned and this sojourning far from home was
over.</p>

<p>And, in the name of all the unknown millions whom
he was come to this far land to aid, he prayed for success,
for the Truth to be made manifest, and for a happy
issue out of all these afflictions.</p>

<p>"And this we beg for Jesus Christ, <i>His</i> sake."</p>

<p>Then much refreshed and comforted he emerged once
more into the serene beauty of the night.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_345" id="Page_345">[345]</a></span>
He lit his pipe and sat there, quietly smoking. Presently
Ibrahim the Egyptian began to croon a low song,
one of the Egyptian songs that soldiers sing round the
camp-fires.</p>

<p>The man had done his term of compulsory service in
the past, and perhaps this sudden transition from the
comfortable quarters in Jerusalem to the old life of
camp-fire and <i>plein air</i> had its way with him and opened
the springs of memory.</p>

<p>This is part of what he sang in a thin, sad voice:</p>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Born in Galiub, since my birth, many times have I seen the Nile's waters overflow our fields.</i><br /></span>
<span class="i0"><i>And I had a neighbour, Sheikh Abdehei, whose daughter's face was known only to me:</i><br /></span>
<span class="i0"><i>Nothing could be compared to the beauty and tenderness of Fatmé.</i><br /></span>
<span class="i0"><i>Her eyes were as big as coffee cups, and her body was firm with the vigour of youth.</i><br /></span>
<span class="i0"><i>We had one heart, and were free from jealousies, ready to be united.</i><br /></span>
<span class="i0"><i>But Allah curse the military inspector who bound my two hands,</i><br /></span>
<span class="i0"><i>For, together with many more, we were marched off to the camp.</i><br /></span>
<span class="i0"><i>I was poor and had to serve, nothing could soften the inspector's heart</i>.<br /></span>
<span class="i0"><i>The drums and the trumpets daily soon made me forget my cottage and the well-wheel on the Nile.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>

<p>The long-drawn-out notes vibrated mournfully in the
night air.</p>

<p>Sadly the singer put his hand to one side of his head,
bending as if he were wailing.</p>

<p>The quaint, imaginative song-story throbbed through
many phases and incidents, and every now and again
the motionless figures round the red embers wailed in
sympathy.</p>

<p>At last came the end, a happy climax, no less loved by
these simple children of the desert than by the European
novel reader.</p>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>... So that I was in the hospital and had become most seriously ill.</i><br /></span>
<span class="i0"><i>But swifter than the gazelle, the light of my life came near the hospital.</i><br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_346" id="Page_346">[346]</a></span>
<span class="i0"><i>And called in at the window, "Ibrahim! my eye! my heart!</i>"<br /></span>
<span class="i0"><i>And full of joy I carried her about the camp, and presented her to all my superiors, leaving out none, from the colonel down to the sergeant</i>.<br /></span>
<span class="i0"><i>I received my dismissal, to return to Galiub and to marry</i>.<br /></span>
<span class="i0"><i>Old Abdehei was awaiting us, to bless us. <span class="padleft">God be praised</span>!</i></span>
</div></div>

<p>So sang Ibrahim, the converted Christian, the Moslem
songs of his youth; for here, in El Makhna, the plain of
Shechem, there were no missionaries with their cold reproof
and little hymns in simple couplets.</p>

<p>The fire died away, and they slept until dawn flooded
the plain.</p>

<p>When, on the next day, the sun was waning, though
still high in the western heavens, the travellers came
within view of the ancient city of Nabulûs.</p>

<p>There was a great tumult of excitement in Spence's
pulses as he saw the city, radiant in the long afternoon
lights, and far away.</p>

<p>Here, in the confines of this distant glittering town, lay
the last link in the terrible secret which he was to solve.</p>

<p>On either side the purple slopes of the mountains made
a mighty frame to the terraced houses below. Ebal and
Gerizim kept solemn watch and ward over the city.</p>

<p>The sun was just sinking as they rode into the suburbs.
It was a lovely, placid evening.</p>

<p>The abundant cascades of water, which flow from great
fissures in the mountain and make this Turkish town the
jewel of the East, glittered in the light.</p>

<p>Below them the broad, still reservoirs lay like plates of
gold.</p>

<p>They rode through luxuriant groves of olives, figs, and
vines, wonderfully grateful and refreshing to the eye
after the burnt brown herbage of the plain, towards the
regular camping-ground where all travellers lay.</p>

<p>In the cool of the evening Spence and Ibrahim rode
through the teeming streets to the Governor's house.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_347" id="Page_347">[347]</a></span>
It was a city of fanatics, so the Englishman had heard,
and during the great Moslem festivals the members of
the various, and rather extensive, missionary establishments
were in constant danger. But as the two men
rode among the wild armed men who sat in the bazaars
or pushed along the narrow streets they were not in any
way molested.</p>

<p>After a ceremonious introduction and the delivery of
the letter from the Governor of Jerusalem, Spence made
known his business over the coffee and cigarettes which
were brought immediately on his arrival.</p>

<p>The Governor was a placid, pleasant-mannered man,
very ready to give his visitor any help he could.</p>

<p>It was represented to him that the man Ionides, who
had but lately settled in the suburbs, was in the possession
of some important secrets affecting the welfare of
many wealthy residents in Jerusalem. These, it was
hinted, were of a private nature, but in all probability
great pressure would have to be put upon the Greek in
order to receive any satisfactory confession.</p>

<p>The conversation, which was carried on in French,
ended in an eminently satisfactory way.</p>

<p>"Monsieur will understand," said the Governor, "that
I make no inquiry into the nature of the information
monsieur wishes to obtain. I may or may not have my
ideas upon that subject. The Greek was, I understand,
intimately connected with the recent discoveries in
Jerusalem. Let that pass. It is none of my business.
Here I am a good Moslem, Allah be praised! it is a
necessity of my official position."</p>

<p>He laughed cynically, clapped his hands for a new
brass vessel of creaming coffee and continued:</p>

<p>"A political necessity, Monsieur, as a man of the
world, will quite understand me. I have been in London,
at the Embassy, and I myself am free from foolish
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_348" id="Page_348">[348]</a></span>
prejudices. I am not Moslem in heart nor am I Christian&mdash;some
coffee, Monsieur?&mdash;yes! Monsieur also is
a man of the world!"</p>

<p>Spence, sitting cross-legged opposite his host, had
smiled an answering cynical smile at these words. He
shrugged his shoulders and threw out his hands. Everything
depended upon making a good impression upon
this local autocrat.</p>

<p>"Eh bien, monsieur avait raison-même&mdash;that, I repeat,
is not my affair. But this letter from my brother of Jerusalem
makes me of anxiety to serve your interests. And,
moreover, the man is a Greek, of no great importance&mdash;we
are not fond of the Greeks, we Turks! Now it is
most probable that the man will not speak without
persuasion. Moreover, that persuasion were better officially
applied. To assist monsieur, I shall send Tewfik
Pasha, my nephew, and captain commandant of the
northern fort, with half a dozen men. If this dog will
not talk they will know how to make him. I suppose
you have no scruples as to any means they may employ?
There are foolish prejudices among the Western people."</p>

<p>Spence took his decision very quickly. He was a
man who had been on many battle-fields, knew the grimness
of life in many lands. If torture were necessary,
then it must be so. The man deserved it, the end was
great if the means were evil. It must be remembered
that Spence was a man to whom the very loftiest and
highest Christian ideals had not yet been made manifest.
There are degrees in the struggle for saintliness; the
journalist was but a postulant.</p>

<p>He saw these questions of conduct roughly, crudely.
His conscience animated his deeds, but it was a conscience
as yet ungrown. And indeed there are many
instruments in an orchestra, all tuneful perhaps to the
conductor's beat, which they obey and understand, yet
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_349" id="Page_349">[349]</a></span>
not all of equal eminence or beauty in the great scheme
of the concert.</p>

<p>The violin soars into great mysteries of emotion,
calling high "in the deep-domed empyrean." The
flutes whisper a chorus to the great story of their comrade.
Yet, though the plangent sounding of the kettle-drums,
the single beat of the barbaric cymbals are in one
note and unfrequent, yet these minor messages go to
swell the great tone-symphony and make it perfect in
the serene beauty of something <i>directed and ordained</i>.</p>

<p>"Sir," said the journalist, "the man must be made to
speak. The methods are indifferent to me."</p>

<p>"Oh, that can be done; we have a way," said the
Governor.</p>

<p>He shifted a little among his cushions. A certain
dryness came into his voice as he resumed:</p>

<p>"Monsieur, however, as a man of the world, will understand,
no doubt, that when a private individual finds it
necessary to invoke the powers of law it is a vast undertaking
to move so ponderous a machine?... also
it is a privilege? It is not, of course, a personal matter&mdash;<i>ça
m'est égal</i>. But there are certain unavoidable
and indeed quite necessary expenses which must be
satisfied."</p>

<p>Spence well understood the polite humbug of all this.
He knew that in the East one buys justice&mdash;or injustice&mdash;as
one can afford it. As the correspondent of that
great paper over which Ommaney presided, he had always
been able to spend money like water when it had been
necessary. He had those powers now. There was
nothing unusual to him in the situation, nor did he
hesitate.</p>

<p>"Your Excellency," he said, "speaks with great truth
upon these points. It is ever from a man of your Excellency's
penetration that one hears those dicta which
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_350" id="Page_350">[350]</a></span>
govern affairs. I have a certain object in view, and I
realise that to obtain it there are certain necessary
formalities to be gone through. I have with me letters
of credit upon the bank of Lelain Delaunay et Cie., of
Jaffa, Jerusalem, and Athens."</p>

<p>"A sound, estimable house," said the Governor, with
a very pleased smile.</p>

<p>"It but then remains," said Spence, "to confer with
the secretary of your Excellency as to the sum which is
necessary to pay for the legal expenses of the inquiry."</p>

<p>"You speak most sensibly," said the Turk. "In the
morning I will send the captain commandant and the
soldiers to the encampment. My secretary shall accompany
them. Then, Monsieur, when the little preliminaries
are arranged, you will be free to start for the
farm of this dog Ionides. It is not more than four miles
from your camp, and my nephew will guide you there.
May Allah prosper your undertaking."</p>

<p>"&mdash;And have you in His care," replied Spence. "I
will now have the honour to wish your Excellency undisturbed
rest."</p>

<p>He rose and bowed. The Turkish gentleman rose also
and shook hands in genial European fashion.</p>

<p>"Monsieur," he said, with an expansive smile, "Monsieur
is without doubt a thorough man of the world."</p>

<p>That night, in the suburbs of the city, sweet and fragrant
as the olive groves and fig trees were, cool and
fresh as the night wind was, Spence slept but little.</p>

<p>He could hear the prowling dogs of the streets baying
the Eastern moon, the owls hooted in the trees, but it
was not these distant sounds, all mellowed by the distance,
which drove rest and sleep away. It was the
imminent sense of the great issues of the morrow, a
wild and fierce excitement which forbade sleep or rest
and filled his veins with fire.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_351" id="Page_351">[351]</a></span>
He could not quite realise what awful things hung
upon the event of the coming day. He knew that his
brain could not contain the whole terror and vastness of
the thought.</p>

<p>Indeed, he felt that <i>no</i> brain could adequately realise
the importance of it all.</p>

<p>Yet even that partial realisation of which he was
capable was enough to drive all peace away, the live-long
night, to leave him nothing but the plangent, burning
thought.</p>

<p>He was very glad when the cool, hopeful dawn came.</p>

<p>The nightmare of vigil was gone. Action was at hand.
He prayed in the morning air.</p>

<p>Presently, from the city gates, he saw a little cavalcade
drawing near, twelve soldiers on wiry Damascene
horses, an officer, with the Governor's secretary riding
by his side.</p>

<p>Those preliminaries of a signed draft upon the bank,
which cupidity and the occasion demanded, were soon
over.</p>

<p>These twelve soldiers and their commandant cost him
two hundred pounds "English"; but that was nothing.</p>

<p>If his own words were ineffective, then the cord and
wedge must do the rest. It had to be paid for.</p>

<p>The world was waiting.</p>

<p>On through the olive groves and the vines laden with
purple. On, over the little stone-bridged cascades and
streams&mdash;sweet gifts of lordly Ebal&mdash;round the eastern
wall of the town, crumbling stone where the mailed
lizards were sleeping in the sun; on to the low roofs and
vivid trees where the Greek traitor had made his home!</p>

<p>At length the red road opened before them on to
a burnt plain which was the edge and brim of the farm.</p>

<p>It lay direct and patent to the view, the place of the
great secret.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_352" id="Page_352">[352]</a></span>
Ionides was waiting for them, under a light verandah
which ran round the house, before they reached the
building.</p>

<p>He had seen them coming over the plain.</p>

<p>A little elderly olive-skinned man, with restless eyes
the colour of sherry, bowed and bent before them with
terrified inquiry in every gesture.</p>

<p>His gaze flickered over the arms and shabby uniforms
of the soldiers with hate and fear in it mingled with
a piteous cringing. It was the look which the sad
Greek boatmen on the shores of the Bosphorus wear all
their lives.</p>

<p>Then he saw Spence and recognised him as the Englishman
who had been the friend of Hands, and was at the
meetings of the Conference.</p>

<p>The sight of the journalist seemed to affect him like a
sudden blow. The fear and uneasiness he had shown at
the first sight of the Turkish soldiers were intensified a
thousand-fold.</p>

<p>The man seemed to shrink and collapse. His face
became ashen grey, his lips parched suddenly, for his
tongue began to curl round them in order to moisten
their rigidity.</p>

<p>With a great effort he forced himself to speak in
English first, fluent enough but elementary, and then in
a rush of French, the language of all Europe, and one
with which the cosmopolitan Greek is ever at home.</p>

<p>The captain gave an order. His men dismounted
and tied up the horses.</p>

<p>Then, taking the conduct of the affair into his own
hands at once, he spoke to Ionides with a snarling contempt
and brutality that he would hardly have used to a
strolling street dog.</p>

<p>"The English gentleman has come to ask you some
questions, dog. See to it that you give a true answer
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_353" id="Page_353">[353]</a></span>
and speedy. For, if not, there are many ways to make
you. I have the warrant of his Excellency the Governor
to do as I please with you and yours."</p>

<p>The Greek made an inarticulate noise. He raised one
long-fingered, delicate hand to his throat.</p>

<p>Spence, as he watched, could not help a feeling of
pity. The whole attitude of the man was inexpressibly
painful in its sheer terror.</p>

<p>His face had become a white wedge of fear.</p>

<p>The officer spoke again.</p>

<p>"You will take the English pasha into a private room,"
he said sternly, "where he will ask you all he wishes. I
shall post two of my men at the door. Take heed that
they do not have to summon me. And meanwhile bring
out food and entertainment for me and my soldiers."</p>

<p>He clapped his hands and the women of the house,
who were peering round the end of the verandah, ran to
bring pilaff and tobacco.</p>

<p>Spence, with two soldiers, closely following the swaying,
tottering figure of Ionides, went into a cool chamber
opening on to the little central courtyard round which
the house was built.</p>

<p>It was a bare room, with a low bench or ottoman here
and there.</p>

<p>But, on the walls, oddly incongruous in such a setting,
were some framed photographs. Hands, in a white
linen suit and a wide Panama hat, was there; there was
a photograph of the museum at Jerusalem, and a picture
cut from an English illustrated paper of the Society's
great excavations at Tell Sandahannah.</p>

<p>It was odd, Spence thought gravely, that the man
cared to keep these records of his life in Jerusalem,
crowned as it was with such an act of treachery.</p>

<p>He sat down on the ottoman. The Greek stood before
him, cowering against the wall.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_354" id="Page_354">[354]</a></span>
It was a little difficult to know how he should begin;
what was the best method to ensure a full confession.</p>

<p>He lit a cigarette to help his thoughts.</p>

<p>"What did Sir Robert Llwellyn give you?&mdash;how
much?" he said suddenly.</p>

<p>Again the look of ashen fear came over the Greek's
face. He struggled with it before he spoke.</p>

<p>"I am sorry that your meaning is not plain to me, sir.
I do not know of whom you speak."</p>

<p>"I speak of him whom you served secretly. It was with
your aid that the 'new' tomb was found. But before it
was found you and Sir Robert Llwellyn were at work
there. I have come to obtain from you a detailed confession
of how the thing was done, who cut the inscription?&mdash;I
must know everything. If not, I tell you with
perfect truth, your life is not safe. The Governor has
sent men with me and you will be made to speak."</p>

<p>He spoke with a deep menace in his tone, and at the
same time drew his revolver from the hip pocket of his
riding-breeches and held it on his knee.</p>

<p>He had begun to realise the awful nature of this man's
deed more and more poignantly in his presence. True,
he was the tool of greater intelligences, and his guilt was
not so heavy as theirs. Nevertheless, the Greek was no
fool, he had something of an education, he had not done
this thing blindly.</p>

<p>The man crouched against the wall, desperate and
hopeless.</p>

<p>One of the soldiers outside the door moved, and his
sabre clanked.</p>

<p>The sound was decisive. With a broken, husky voice
Ionides began his miserable confession.</p>

<p>How simple it was! Wild astonishment at the ease
with which the whole thing had been done filled the
journalist's brain.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_355" id="Page_355">[355]</a></span>
The tomb, already known to the Greek, the slow
carving of the inscription at dead of night by Llwellyn,
the new coating of <i>hamra</i> sealing up the inner chamber.</p>

<p>And yet, so skilfully had the forgeries been committed,
chance had so aided the forgers, and their secret had
been so well preserved that the whole world of experts
was deceived.</p>

<p>In the overpowering relief of the confession Spence
was but little interested in the details, but at length they
were duly set down and signed by the Greek in the
presence of the officer.</p>

<p class="p4b">By midnight the journalist was far away on the road to
Jerusalem.</p>
<hr class="r20" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_356" id="Page_356">[356]</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIIc" id="CHAPTER_VIIc">CHAPTER VII</a></h2>

<h4>THE LAST MEETING</h4>

<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">I</span><span class="smcap">n</span> Sir Robert Llwellyn's flat in Bond Street the electric
bell suddenly rang, a shrill tinkle in the silence.</p>

<p>Schuabe, who sat by the window, looked up with a
strained, white face.</p>

<p>Avoiding his glance, Llwellyn rose and went out into
the passage. The latch of the door clicked, there was a
murmur of voices, and Llwellyn returned, following a
third person.</p>

<p>Schuabe gave a scarcely perceptible shudder as this
man entered.</p>

<p>The man was a thick-set person of medium height,
clean shaven. He was dressed in a frock-coat and carried
a silk hat, neither new nor smart, yet not seedy nor
showing any evidences of poverty. The man's face was
one to inspire a sensitive or alert person with a sudden
disgust and terror for which a name can hardly be found.
It was an utterly abominable and black soul that looked
out of the still rather bilious eyes.</p>

<p>The eyes were much older than the rest of the face.
They were full of a cold and deliberate cruelty and,
worse even than this, such a hideous <i>knowledge</i> of unmentionable
crime was there! The lips made one thin,
wicked curve which hardly varied in direction, for this
man could not smile.</p>

<p>He belonged to a certain horrible gang who infest the
West End of London, bringing terror and ruin to all
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_357" id="Page_357">[357]</a></span>
they meet. These people haunt the bars and music
halls of the "pleasure" part of London.</p>

<p>It were better for a man that he had never been born&mdash;a
thousand times better&mdash;than that he should go among
these men. Black shame and horrors worse than death
they bring with both hands to the bitter fools who lightly
meet them unknowing what they are.</p>

<p>Constantine Schuabe, in the moment when he saw this
man&mdash;knowing well who and what he was&mdash;knew the
bitterest moment of his life.</p>

<p>Vast criminal that he was himself, mighty in his evil
brain, ... he was pure; certain infamies were not
his.... He spat into his handkerchief with an
awful physical disgust.</p>

<p>"This is my friend, Nunc Wallace," said Llwellyn,
pale and trembling.</p>

<p>The man looked keenly at his two hosts. Then he
sat down in a chair.</p>

<p>"Well, gentlemen," he said in correct English, but
with a curious lack of <i>timbre</i>, of life and feeling in his
voice&mdash;he spoke as one might think a corpse would
speak&mdash;"I'm sorry to say that it's all off. It simply
can't be done at any price. Even I myself, 'King of
the boys' as they call me, confess myself beaten."</p>

<p>Schuabe gave a sudden start, almost of relief it seemed.</p>

<p>Llwellyn cleared his throat once or twice before he
could speak. When the words came at length there was
a nauseous eagerness in them.</p>

<p>"Why not, Wallace? Surely <i>you</i> and your friends&mdash;it
must be something very hard that you can't manage."</p>

<p>The words jostled each other in their rapid utterance.</p>

<p>"Give me a drink, Sir Robert, and I'll tell you the
reason," said the man.</p>

<p>Then, with an inexpressible assumption of confidence
and an identity of interests, which galled and stung the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_358" id="Page_358">[358]</a></span>
two wretched men till they could hardly bear the torture
of it, he began:</p>

<p>"You see, it's like this; we can generally calculate on
'putting a man through it' if he's anything to do with
racing on the Turf. I've seen a man's face kicked
liver colour, and no one knew who did it. But this
parson was a more difficult thing altogether. Then it
has been very much complicated by the fact of his
friend coming back.</p>

<p>"The idea was to get into the chambers on the evening
of this Spence's arrival and put them both through
it. In fact, we'd arranged everything fairly well. But
two nights ago, as I was in the American bar, at the
Horsecloth, a man touched me on the arm. It was
Detective Inspector Melton. He knows everything.
'Nunc,' he said, 'sit down at one of these little tables
and have a drink. I want to say a few words to you.'
Well, of course I had to. He knows every one of the
boys.</p>

<p>"'Now, look here,' he said straight out. 'Some of
your crowd have been watching the Rev. Basil Gortre of
Lincoln's Inn; also, you've had a man at Charing Cross
waiting for the continental express. Now, I've nothing
against you <i>yet</i>, but I'll just tell you this. The people
behind you aren't any guarantee for you. It's not as
you think. This is a big thing. I'll tell you something
more. This Mr. Gortre and this Mr. Spence you're
waiting for are guarded night and day by order of the
Home Secretary. It's an international affair. You can
no more touch them than you can touch the Prince of
Wales. Is that clear? If it's not, then you'll come
with me at once on suspicion. I can put my finger on
Bunny Watson'&mdash;he's my organising pal, gentlemen&mdash;'inside
of an hour.'"</p>

<p>He stopped at last, taking another drink with a shaking
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_359" id="Page_359">[359]</a></span>
hand, watching the other two with horribly observing
eyes.</p>

<p>His cleverness had at once shown him that he had
stumbled into something far more dangerous than any
ordinary incident of his horrid trade. A million pounds
would not have made him touch the "business" now.
He had come to say this to his employers now.</p>

<p>The unhappy men became aware that the man was
looking at them both with a new expression. There
was wonder in his cold eyes now, and a sort of fear also.
When Llwellyn had first sought him with black and
infamous proposals, there had been none of this. <i>That</i>
had seemed ordinary enough to him, the reason he did
not inquire or seek to know.</p>

<p>But now there was inquiry in his eyes.</p>

<p>Both Schuabe and Llwellyn saw it, knew the cause,
and shuddered.</p>

<p>There was a tense silence, and then the creature
spoke again. There was a loathsome confidential note
in his voice.</p>

<p>"Now, gentlemen," he said, "you've already paid
me well for any little kindness I may have been able
to try to do for you. I suppose, now that the little
job is 'off,' I shall not get the rest of the sum agreed
upon?"</p>

<p>Schuabe, without speaking, made a sign to Llwellyn.
The big man got up, went to a little nest of mahogany
drawers which stood on his writing-table, and opening
one of them, took from it a bundle of notes.</p>

<p>He gave them to the assassin. "There, Nunc," he
said; "no doubt you've done all you could. You
won't find us ungrateful. But I want to ask you a
few questions."</p>

<p>The man took the notes, counted them deliberately,
and then looked up with a gleam of satisfied greed
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_360" id="Page_360">[360]</a></span>
passing over his face&mdash;the gleam of a pale sunbeam in
hell.</p>

<p>"Ask anything you like, sir," he said; "I'll give you
any help I can."</p>

<p>Already there was a ring almost of patronage in his
voice. The word "help" was slightly emphasised.</p>

<p>"This inspector, who is he exactly? I mean, is he
an important person?"</p>

<p>"He is the man who has charge of all the big things.
He goes abroad when one of the big city men bunk to
South America. He generally works straight from the
Home Office; he's the Government man. To tell the
truth, I was surprised to meet <i>him</i> in the Horsecloth.
One of the others generally goes there. When <i>he</i> began
to talk, I knew that there was something important,
more than usual."</p>

<p>"He definitely said that he knew your&mdash;backers?"</p>

<p>"Yes, he did; and what's more, gentlemen, he seemed
to know too much altogether about the business. I
don't pretend to understand it. <i>I</i> don't know why a
young parson and a press reporter are being looked
after by Government as if they were continental sovereigns
and the Anarchists were trying to get at them&mdash;no
more than I know why two such gentlemen as you
are wanting two smaller men put through it. But all's
well that ends well. <i>I'm</i> satisfied enough, and I'm
extremely glad that I got this notice in time to stop it
off. But whatever you do, gentlemen, give up any idea
of doing those two any harm. You couldn't do it&mdash;couldn't
get near them. Give it up, gentlemen. Somehow
or other, they know all about it. Be careful. Now
I'm off. Good-day, gentlemen. Look after yourselves.
I fear there is trouble brewing somewhere, though it
won't come through <i>me</i>. They can't <i>prove</i> anything on
our side."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_361" id="Page_361">[361]</a></span>
He went slowly out of the room, back into the darkness
of the pit whence he came, to the dark which
mercifully hides such as he from the gaze of dwellers
under the heavens.</p>

<p>Only the police of London know all about these men,
and their imaginations are not, perhaps, strong enough
to let the horror of contact remain with them.</p>

<p>When he had gone, Llwellyn sank heavily into a chair.
He covered his face with his hands and moaned.</p>

<p>"Oh, fool that I was to try anything of the sort!"
hissed Schuabe. "I might have known!"</p>

<p>"What is the state of things, really, do you suppose?"
said Llwellyn.</p>

<p>"Imminent with doom for us!" Schuabe answered
in a deep and melancholy voice. "It is all clear to me
now. Your woman was set on to you by these men from
the first. They are clever men. Michael Manichoe is
behind them all. She got the story. Spence has been
sent to verify it. He has got everything from Ionides.
The Government has been told. These things have
been going on during the last few hours. Spence has
cabled something of his news, perhaps not all. He will
be back to-day, this afternoon. He will have left Paris
by now, and almost be nearing Amiens. In that train,
Llwellyn, lies our death-warrant. Nothing can stop it.
They will send the news all over the world to-night.
It will be announced in London by dinner-time,
probably."</p>

<p>Llwellyn groaned again. In this supreme hour of
torture the sensualist was nearer collapse than the
ascetic. His life told heavily. He looked up. His
face was green-grey save where, here and there, his
fingers had pressed into, and left red marks upon,
the cheeks, which had lost their firmness and begun
to be pendulous and flabby.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_362" id="Page_362">[362]</a></span>
"What do you think must be the end?" he said.</p>

<p>"The end is here," said Schuabe. "What matters
the form or manner of it? They may bring in a bill
and hang us, they will certainly give us penal servitude
for life, but probably we shall be torn in pieces by the
mob. There is only one thing left."</p>

<p>He made an expressive gesture. Llwellyn shuddered.</p>

<p>"All is not necessarily at an end," he said. "I shall
make a last effort to get away. I have still got the
clergyman's clothes I wore when I went to Jerusalem.
There will be time to get out of London before this
evening."</p>

<p>"All over the continent and America you would be
known. There is no getting away nowadays. As for
me, I shall go down to my place in Manchester by the
mid-day train. There is just time to catch it. And
there I shall die before they can come to me."</p>

<p>He got up and strode away out of the flat with a set,
stern face. Never a passing look did he give to the man
he had enriched and damned for ever. Never a gesture
of farewell.</p>

<p>Already he was as one in the grave. Llwellyn, left to
himself in the silent, richly furnished flat, fell into hysterical
sobbing.</p>

<p>His big body shook with the vehemence of his unnatural
terror. His moans and cries were utterly without
dignity or pathos. He was filled with the immense self-pity
of the sensualist.</p>

<p>It is the added torture which comes to the evil-liver.</p>

<p>In the hour of blackness, every moment of physical
gratification or sin adds its weight to the terrible burden
which must be borne.</p>

<p>This man felt that he was lost. Perhaps all hope was
not quite dead. He called on all his courage to make a
last attempt at escape.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_363" id="Page_363">[363]</a></span>
He must leave this place at once. He would go first
to his house in Upper Berkeley Street, Lady Llwellyn's
house! His wife.</p>

<p>Something strange and long forgotten moved within
him at that word. What might not his life have been by
her side, a life lived in open honour! What had he done
with it all? His great name, his fame, were built up
slowly by his long and brilliant work. Yet all the time
that fair edifice was being undermined by secret workers.
The lusts of the flesh were deep below the structure,
their hammers were always slowly tapping&mdash;and
now it was all over.</p>

<p>He drove up to his own door, unlocked it, and went
up the stairs to his own rooms.</p>

<p>Though he had not been near them for weeks, he saw&mdash;with
how keen a pang of regret&mdash;that they were swept
and tidy, ready for his coming at any time.</p>

<p class="p4b">He rang the bell.</p>
<hr class="r20" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_364" id="Page_364">[364]</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIIIc" id="CHAPTER_VIIIc">CHAPTER VIII</a></h2>

<h4>DEATH COMING WITH ONE GRACE</h4>

<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">T</span><span class="smcap">he</span> door opened softly. A long beam of late winter
sunshine which had been pouring in at the opposite
window and striking the door with its projection of
golden powder suddenly framed, played over, and lighted
up the figure of Lady Llwellyn.</p>

<p>Sir Robert stood in the middle of the pleasant room
and looked at her.</p>

<p>The sunlight showed up the grey pallor of her face,
the lines of sorrow and resignation, the faded hair, the
thin and bony hands.</p>

<p>"Kate," he said in a weak voice.</p>

<p>It was the first time he had called her by her name
for many years.</p>

<p>The tired face lit up with a swift and divine tenderness.</p>

<p>She made a step forward into the room.</p>

<p>He was swaying a little, giddy, it seemed.</p>

<p>She looked him full in the face and saw things there
which she had never seen before. A great horror was
upon him, a frightful awakening from the long, sensual
sloth of his life.</p>

<p>Moving, working, in that great countenance, generally
so impassive, uninfluenced by any emotion&mdash;at least to
her long watchings&mdash;except by a moody irritation, she
saw Doom, Fate, the Call of the Eumenides.</p>

<p>It came to the poor woman in a sudden wave of illuminating
certainty.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_365" id="Page_365">[365]</a></span>
She <i>knew</i> the end had come.</p>

<p>And yet, strangely enough, she felt nothing but a
quickening of the pulses, a swift embracing pity which
was almost a joy in its breaking away of barriers.</p>

<p>If the end were here, it should be together&mdash;at last
together.</p>

<p>For she loved this cruel, sinning man, this lover of
light loves, this man of purple, fine linen, and the
sparkling deadly wines of life.</p>

<p>"Kate!"</p>

<p>He said it once more.</p>

<p>Her manner changed. Shrinking, timidity, fear, fled
for ever. In her overpowering rush of protecting love
all the diffidences of temperament, all the bars which
he had forced her to build around her instincts, were
swept utterly away.</p>

<p>She went quickly up to him, folded him in her arms.</p>

<p>"Robert!" she said, "poor boy, the end has come
to it all. I knew it must come some day. Well, we have
not been happy. I wonder if <i>you</i> have been happy?
No, I don't think so. But now, Robert, you have me to
comfort you with my love once more, my poor Robert,
once more, as in the old, simple days when we were
young."</p>

<p>She led him to a couch.</p>

<p>He trembled violently. His decision of movement
seemed to have gone. His purpose of flight had for
the moment become obscure.</p>

<p>And now, into this man's heart came a remorse and
regret so awful, a realisation so sudden and strong, so
instinct with a pain for which there is no name, that
everything before his eyes turned to burning fire.</p>

<p>The flames of his agony burnt up the veils which had
for so long obscured the truth. They shrivelled and
vanished.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_366" id="Page_366">[366]</a></span>
Too late, too late, he knew what he had lost.</p>

<p>The last agony wrenched his brain round again to
another and more terrible contemplation.</p>

<p>His thoughts were in other and outside hands, which
pulled his brain from one scene to another as a man
moves the eye of the camera obscura to different fields
of view.</p>

<p>Incredible as it may seem, for the first time Llwellyn
<i>realised what he had done</i>&mdash;realised, that is, in its entirety,
the whole horror and consequences of that action of his
which was to kill him now.</p>

<p>He had not <i>been able</i> to see the magnitude and extent
of his crime before&mdash;either at the time when it was proposed
to him, except at the first moment of speech, or
after its committal.</p>

<p>His brain and temperament had been wrapped round
in the hideous fact of sensuality, which deadens and
destroys sensation.</p>

<p>And now, with his wife's thin arms round him, her
withered cheek pressed to his, her words of glad love, a
martyr's swan song in his ears, he <i>saw</i>, <i>knew</i>, and <i>understood</i>.</p>

<p>Through the terror of his thoughts her words began to
penetrate.</p>

<p>"I know, Robert&mdash;husband, I know. The end is
here. But what has happened? Tell me everything,
that I may comfort you the more. Tell me, Robert, <i>for
the dear Christ's sake</i>!"</p>

<p>At those words the man stiffened. "For the dear
Christ's sake!"</p>

<p>Suddenly, in the disorder and tumult of his tortured
brain, came, quite foolishly and inconsequently, a quotation
from an old French romance&mdash;full of satire and
the keen cynicism of a period&mdash;which he had been
reading:</p>

<p class="pinset8"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_367" id="Page_367">[367]</a></span>
"<i>'Tres volontiers,' repartit le démon.<br />
'Vous aimez les tableaux changeans;<br />
Je veux vous contenter.'</i>"</p>

<p>Yes! the devil who was torturing him now had
shown him many moving aspects of life. <i>Les tableaux
changeans!</i></p>

<p>But now, at last, here was the worst moment of all.</p>

<p>"<i>For the dear Christ's sake, tell me, Robert!</i>"</p>

<p>How could he tell <i>this</i>?</p>

<p>This was his last moment of peace, his last chance of
any help or hope.</p>

<p>He had begun to cling to her, to mingle foolish tears
with hers&mdash;the while his fired brain ranged all the halls
of agony.</p>

<p>For if he told her&mdash;this gentle Christian lady, to whom
he had been so unkind&mdash;then she would never touch him
more.</p>

<p>The last hours&mdash;there was but little time remaining&mdash;would
be alone. <span class="smcap">Alone!</span></p>

<p>This new revelation that her love was still his, wonder
of mysteries! this came at the last moments to aid him.</p>

<p>A last grace before the running waters closed over
him. Was he to give this up?</p>

<p>The thought of flight lay like a wounded bird in his
brain. It crept about it like some paralysed thing. Not
yet dead, but inactive. Though he knew how terribly
the moments called to him, yet he could not act.</p>

<p>The myriad agonies he was enduring now, agonies so
various and great that he knew Hell had none greater,
these, even these were alleviated by the wonder of his
wife's love.</p>

<p>The terrible remorse that was knocking at his heart
could not undo that.</p>

<p>He clung to her.</p>

<p>"Tell me all about it, Robert. I will forgive you,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_368" id="Page_368">[368]</a></span>
whatever you have done. I have long ago forgiven
everything in my heart. There are only the words to
say."</p>

<p>She rested her worn, tired head on his shoulder. The
sunbeams gave it a glory.</p>

<p>Again the man must suffer a terrible agony. She had
asked him to tell her all his trouble in a voice full of
gentle pleading.</p>

<p><i>Whose voice did her voice recall to him; what fatal hour?</i>
A coarser voice, a richer voice, trembling, so he had
thought, with love for him.</p>

<p>"<i>Tell me everything, Bob!</i>" It was Gertrude's voice.</p>

<p>The day of his undoing! The day when his horrid
secret was wrested from him by the levers of his own
passions. The day which had brought him to this.
<i>Finis coronat opus!</i></p>

<p>But the agony within him was the agony of <i>contrast</i>.</p>

<p>The great fires round his soul had burnt his lust away.
There was no more regret or longing for the evil past.
All the joys of a sensual life seemed as if they had never
been. Now, the pain was the pain of a man, not who
knows the worst too soon, but who knows the best too
late!</p>

<p>A vivid picture, a succession of thoughts following
each other with such kinetic swiftness that they became
welded in one single picture, as one may see a vast landscape
of wood and torrent, champaign and forest, in one
flash of the storm sword, came to him now.</p>

<p>And, at the last, he saw himself seated at a great table
in a noble room. There were soft lights. Silver and
flowers were there. Round the board sat many men
and women. On their faces was the calm triumph of
those who had succeeded in a fine battle, won an intellectual
strife. The faces were calm, powerful, serene.
They were the salt of society. He saw his own face in
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_369" id="Page_369">[369]</a></span>
a little mirror set among the flowers. His face was even
as their faces. Self-reverence had dignified it, self-knowledge
and self-control had turned the lines to
kindly marble, defiant of time.</p>

<p>At the other end of the table sat a calm and gracious
lady, richly dressed in some glowing sombre stuff. She
was the grave and loving matron who slept by his side.</p>

<p>Full of honour, full of the glorious satisfaction of a
great work well done, a life lived well; hand in hand, a
noble and notable pair, they were making their fine progress
together.</p>

<p>"I am waiting, Robert, dear!"</p>

<p>Then he knew that he must speak. In rapid words,
which seemed to come from a vast distance, he confessed
it all.</p>

<p>He told her how Schuabe had tempted him with a
vast fortune, how he was already in his power when the
temptation had come. How his evil desires had so
gripped him, his life of sin had become like air itself to
him.</p>

<p>He told of the secret visit to Palestine and the forgery
which had stirred the world.</p>

<p>As he spoke, he felt, in some subtle way, that the life
and warmth were dying out of the arms which were
round him.</p>

<p>The electric current of devotion which had been flowing
from this lady seemed to flicker and die away.</p>

<p>The awful story was ended at last.</p>

<p>Then with a face in which the horror came out in
waves, inexpressibly terrible to see, with each beat of
the pulses a wave of unutterable horror, she slowly rose.</p>

<p>Her arms fell heavily to her sides, all her motions became
automatic, jerky.</p>

<p>Slowly, slowly, she turned.</p>

<p>Her feet made no noise as she moved over the room.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_370" id="Page_370">[370]</a></span>
Her garments did not rustle. But she walked, not as an
elderly woman, but a very old woman.</p>

<p>The door clicked softly. He was left alone in the
comfortable room.</p>

<p>Alone.</p>

<p>He stood up, tottered a few steps in the direction she
had gone, and then, with a resounding crash which
shook the furniture in a succession of quick rattles, his
great form fell prone upon the floor.</p>

<p>He lay there, head downwards, with the sunshine
pouring on him, still and without any reactionary movement.</p>

<hr class="r5" />

<p>The afternoon was begun. London was as it had
been for days. The uneasiness and unrest which were
now become the common incubus of its inhabitants
neither grew nor lessened.</p>

<p>The afternoon papers were merely repetitions of former
days. Great financial houses were tottering, rumours
of wars were growing every hour, no country was at rest,
no colony secure. Over the world lawlessness and rapine
were holding horrid revel.</p>

<p>But, and long afterwards, this fact was noticed and
commented on by the historians: on this especial
winter's afternoon there was no ultra-alarming shock,
speaking comparatively, to the general state of things.</p>

<p>In the pale winter sunshine men moved heavily about
their business, the common burden was shared by all,
but there was no loud trumpet note during those hours.</p>

<p>About four o'clock some carriages drove to Downing
Street. In one sat Sir Michael Manichoe, Father Ripon,
Harold Spence, and Basil Gortre.</p>

<p>In another was the English Consul at Jerusalem, who
had arrived with Spence from the Holy City, Dr.
Schmöulder from Berlin, and the Duke of Suffolk.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_371" id="Page_371">[371]</a></span>
The carriages stopped at the house of the Prime
Minister and the party entered.</p>

<p>Nothing occurred, visibly, for an hour, though urgent
messages were passing over the telephone wires.</p>

<p>In an hour's time a cab came driving furiously down
the Embankment, round by the new Scotland Yard and
St. Stephen's Club, into Parliament Street.</p>

<p>The cab contained the Editor of the <i>Times</i>. Following
his arrival, in a few seconds, a number of other cabs
drove up, all at a fast pace. Each one contained a
prominent journalist. Ommaney was among the first
to arrive, and Folliott Farmer was with him.</p>

<p>It was nearly an hour when these people left Downing
Street, all with very grave faces.</p>

<p>A few minutes after their departure Sir Michael and
his party came out, accompanied by several ministers,
including the Home Secretary and the Chief Commissioner
of Police.</p>

<p>Though the distance to Scotland Yard is only a few
hundred yards, the latter gentleman jumped into a passing
hansom and was driven rapidly to his office.</p>

<p>This brings the time up to about six o'clock.</p>

<hr class="r5" />

<p>It was quite dark in Sir Robert's room. A faint
yellow flicker came through the window, which was not
curtained, from a gas lamp in the street. A dull and
distant murmur from the Edgeware Road could be
dimly heard, otherwise the room was quite silent.</p>

<p>Llwellyn did not lie where he had fallen. His swoon
had lasted long and no one had come to succour him.
But the end was not just yet. The merciful oblivion of
passing from a swoon into death was denied him.</p>

<p>He had come to his senses late in the afternoon, about
the time that the large party of people had emerged on
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_372" id="Page_372">[372]</a></span>
foot and in carriages from the narrow <i>cul-de-sac</i> of Downing
Street.</p>

<p>He had felt very cold, an icy-cold. There had come
a terrible moment. The physical sensation was swamped
and forgotten in one frightful flash of realisation. He
was alone, the end was at hand.</p>

<p>Alone.</p>

<p>Instinctively he had tried to rise. He was lying face
downwards at the return of sensation. His legs would
not answer the message of his brain when he tried to
move them so that he might rise. They lay like long
dead cylinders behind him. He was able to drag himself
very slowly, for a yard or two, until he reached an
ottoman. He could not lift the vast weight of his body
into the seat. It was utterly beyond his strength. He
propped his trunk against the seat. It was all he was
able to accomplish. Icy-cold sweat ran down his cheeks
at the exertion. After he had finished moving he found
that all strength had left him.</p>

<p>He was paralysed from the waist downwards. The
rest of his body was too weak to move him.</p>

<p>Only his brain was working with a terrible activity,
there alone in the chill dark.</p>

<p>There came into his molten brain the impulse to pray.
Deep down in every human heart that impulse lies.</p>

<p>It is a seed planted there by God that it may grow
into the tree of salvation.</p>

<p>The effort was sub-conscious. Almost simultaneously
with it came the awful remembrance of what he had done.</p>

<p>A name danced in letters of flame in his brain&mdash;JUDAS.</p>

<p>He looked round for some means to end this unbearable
torture. He could see nothing, the room was very
cold and dark, but he knew there was a case of razors
on a table by the window.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_373" id="Page_373">[373]</a></span>
When he tried to move he found that he could not.
The paralysis was growing upwards.</p>

<p>Then this was to be the end?</p>

<p>A momentary flood of relief came over him. His
blood seemed warm again.</p>

<p>But the sensation died rapidly away, the physical
and mental glow alike.</p>

<p>He remembered those cases, frequent enough, when
the whole body loses the power of movement, but the
brain survives, active, alive, helpless.</p>

<p>And all the sweat which the physical glow had induced
turned to little icicles all over his body, even
as the thought froze in his brain.</p>

<p>An hour went by.</p>

<p>Alone in the dark.</p>

<p>His tongue was parched and dry. A sudden wonder
came to him&mdash;could he speak still?</p>

<p>Without realising what word he used as a test he
spoke.</p>

<p>"Kate."</p>

<p>A gaunt whisper in the silence.</p>

<p>Silence! How silent it was! Yet no, he could hear
the distant rumbling of the traffic. He became suddenly
conscious of it. Surely it was very loud?</p>

<p>It must be this physical change which was creeping
over him. His head was swimming, disordered.</p>

<p>Yet it seemed strangely loud.</p>

<p>And louder, as he began to listen intently. He could
not move his head to catch the sound more clearly,
but he was beginning to hear it well enough now.</p>

<p>No traffic ever sounded quite like that. It was like
an advancing tide, thundering, as a horse gallops, over
flat, level sands.</p>

<p>A great sea rushing towards&mdash;towards what?</p>

<p>Then he knew what that sound was.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_374" id="Page_374">[374]</a></span>
At last he knew.</p>

<p>He could hear the individual shouts that made up
the enormous mass of menacing sound.</p>

<p>The nation was coming to take its revenge upon its
betrayer.</p>

<p>Mob law!</p>

<p>They had found him out. It was as Schuabe had
said&mdash;the great conspiracy was at an end. The stunning
truth was out, flying round the world with its glad
message.</p>

<p>Yet, though once more the dishonoured Cross gleamed
as the one solace in the hearts of men whose faith had
been weak, though at that moment the glad news was
racing round the world, yet the evil was not over.</p>

<p>The Prince of the Powers of the air had reigned too
long. Not lightly was he to relinquish his sceptre and
dominion.</p>

<p>They were in the erst-while quiet street below. The
whole space was packed with the roaring multitude.
The cries and curses came up to him in one roaring
volume of sound, sounds that one looking over the
brink of the pit of hell might hear.</p>

<p>A heavy blow upon the stout door of the old well-built
house shook the walls where the palsied Judas lay
impotent.</p>

<p>Another crash! The room was much lighter now,
the crowd below had lights with them.</p>

<p>Crash.</p>

<p>The door opened silently. Lady Llwellyn came
swiftly into the room.</p>

<p>She wore a long white robe. Her face was lighted
as if a lamp shone behind it.</p>

<p>In her hand was the great crucifix which was wont
to hang above her bed.</p>

<p>When Christ died and bade the dying thief ascend
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_375" id="Page_375">[375]</a></span>
with him to Paradise, can we say that His silence condemned
the other?</p>

<p>Her face was all aglow with love.</p>

<p>"Robert!" she said. Her voice was like the voice
of an angel.</p>

<p>Her arms are round him, her kisses press upon him,
the great crucifix is lifted to his dying eyes.</p>

<p>A great thunder on the stairs, furious voices, the tide
rising higher, higher.</p>

<p class="p4b">Death.</p>

<hr class="r20" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_376" id="Page_376">[376]</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IXc" id="CHAPTER_IXc">CHAPTER IX</a></h2>

<h4>AT WALKTOWN AGAIN</h4>

<p class="p2"><span class="dropcap">T</span><span class="smcap">he</span> news came to Walktown, the final confirmation
of what had been so long suspected, in a short
telegram from Basil, dispatched immediately he had
left Downing Street.</p>

<p>Mr. Byars and Helena had been kept well acquainted
with every step in the progress of the investigation.</p>

<p>Ever since Gortre had left Walktown, after his
holiday visit, his suspicions had been ringing in the
vicar's ears.</p>

<p>Then, when the matter had been communicated to
Sir Michael and Father Ripon, when Spence had started,
and Mr. Byars knew that all the powers of wealth and
intellect were at work, his hopes revived.</p>

<p>The vicar's faith had never for a single moment
wavered.</p>

<p>In the crash of the creeds his deep conviction never
wavered.</p>

<p>The light burned steadily before the altar.</p>

<p>He had been one of the faithful thousands, learned,
simple, Methodist, ritualist, who <i>knew</i> that this thing
could not be.</p>

<p>Nevertheless his courage had been failing him. Life
seemed to have lost its sweetness, and often he humbly
wondered when he should die, hoping that the time
was not too long&mdash;not without a tremulous belief
that God would recognise that he had fought the good
fight and kept the faith.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_377" id="Page_377">[377]</a></span>
In his own immediate neighbourhood the consequences
of the "Discovery" nearly broke his heart. He had no
need to look beyond Walktown. Even the great political
events which were stirring the world had left him
unmoved. His own small corner of the vineyard, now,
alas! so choked with rank, luxuriant growth, was enough
for this faithful pastor. Here he saw nothing but vice
suddenly rearing its head and threatening to overwhelm
all else. He heard the Holy Names blasphemed with all
the inventions of obscene imaginations, assailed with
all the wit of full-blooded men amazed and rejoiced
that they could stifle their consciences at last. And this
after all his life-work among these folk! He had given
them of his best. His prayers, his intellect, much of his
money had been theirs.</p>

<p>How insolently they had exulted over him, these coarse
and vulgar hearts!</p>

<p>When Basil had first told Mr. Byars of his suspicions
the vicar can hardly have been blamed for regarding
them sadly as the generous effects of a young and ardent
soul seeking to find an <i>immediate</i> way out of the <i>impasse</i>.</p>

<p>The elder man knew that fraud had been at work, but
he suspected no such modern and insolent attempt as
Basil indicated. It was too much to believe. Gortre
had left him most despondent.</p>

<p>But his interest had soon become quickened and alive,
as the private reports from London reached him.</p>

<p>When he knew that great people were moving quietly,
that the weight of Sir Michael was behind Gortre, he knew
at once that in all probability Basil's suspicions were right.</p>

<p>A curious change came over the vicar's public appearances
and utterances. His sermons were full of fire,
almost Pauline in their strength. People began to flow
and flock into the great empty church at Walktown.
Mr. Byars's fame spread.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_378" id="Page_378">[378]</a></span>
Then, swiftly, after the first week or two, had come
the beginning of the great financial depression.</p>

<p>It was felt acutely in Manchester.</p>

<p>All the wealthy, comfortable, easy-going folk who
grudgingly paid a small pew-rent out of their superfluity
became alarmed, horribly alarmed. The Christianity
which had sat so lightly upon them that at first opportunity
they had rushed into the Unitarian meeting-houses
became suddenly a very desirable thing.</p>

<p>In the fall of Christianity they saw their own fortunes
falling. And these self-deceivers would be swept back
upon the tide of this reaction into the arms of the
Anglican mother they had despised.</p>

<p>The vicar saw all this. He was a keen expert in, and
student of, human affairs, and withal a psychologist.
He saw his opportunity.</p>

<p>His words lashed and stung these renegades. They
were made to see themselves as they were; the preacher
cut away all the ground from under them. They were
left face to face with naked shame.</p>

<p>What puzzled and yet uplifted the congregation at St.
Thomas's was their vicar's extraordinary <i>certainty</i> that
the spiritual darkness over the land was shortly to be
removed.</p>

<p>It was commented on, keenly observed, greatly wondered
at.</p>

<p>"Mr. Byars speaks," said Mr. Pryde, a wealthy solicitor,
"as if he had some private information about this
Palestine discovery. He is so confident that he magnetises
one into his own state of mind, and Byars is not
a very emotional man either. His conviction is <i>real</i>.
It's not hysteria."</p>

<p>And, being a shrewd, silent man, the solicitor formed
his own conclusions, but said nothing of them.</p>

<p>The church continued full of worshippers.</p>

<hr class="r5" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_379" id="Page_379">[379]</a></span>
When the news from Basil came, the vicar was sitting
before the fire in his lighted study. He had been
expecting the telegram all day.</p>

<p>His brain had been haunted by the picture of that
distinguished figure with the dark red hair he had so
often met.</p>

<p>Again he saw the millionaire standing in his drawing-room
proffering money for scholarships. And in Dieppe
also!</p>

<p>How well and clearly he saw the huge figure of the
<i>savant</i> in his coat of astrachan, with his babble of soups
and <i>entrée</i>!</p>

<p>Try as he would, the vicar could not hate these two
men. The sin, the awful sin, yes, a thousand times.
Horror could not be stretched far enough, no hatred
could be too great for such immensity of crime.</p>

<p>But in his great heart, in his large, human nature there
was a Divine <i>pity</i> for this wretched pair. He could not
help it. It was part of him. He wondered if he were
not erring in feeling pity. Was not this, indeed, that
mysterious sin against the Holy Ghost for which there
was no forgiveness? Was it not said of Judas that for
his deed he should lie for ever in hell?</p>

<p>The telegram was brought in by a neat, unconcerned
housemaid.</p>

<p>Then the vicar got up and locked the inner door of
his study. He knelt in prayer and thanksgiving.</p>

<p>It was a moment of intense spiritual communion with
the Unseen.</p>

<p>This good man, who had given his vigorous life and
active intellect to God, knelt humbly at his study table
while a joy and happiness not of this earth filled all his
soul.</p>

<p>At that supreme moment, when the sense of the glorious
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_380" id="Page_380">[380]</a></span>
vindication of Christ flooded the priest's whole being
with ecstasy, he knew, perhaps, a faint foreshadowing of
the life the Blessed live in Heaven.</p>

<p>For a few brief moments that imperfect instrument,
the human body, was permitted a glimpse, a flash of the
eternal joy prepared for the saints of God.</p>

<p>The vicar drew very near the Veil.</p>

<p>Helena beat at the door; he opened to her, the tall,
gracious lady.</p>

<p>She saw the news in her father's face.</p>

<p>They embraced with deep and silent emotion.</p>

<hr class="r5" />

<p>Two hours later the vicarage was full of people.</p>

<p>The news had arrived.</p>

<p>Special editions of the evening papers were being
shouted through the streets. Downing Street had spoken,
and in Manchester&mdash;as in almost every great city in
England&mdash;the Truth was pulsing and throbbing in the
air, spreading from house to house, from heart to heart.</p>

<p>Every one knew it in Walktown now.</p>

<p>There was a sudden unanimous rush of people to the
vicarage.</p>

<p>Each big, luxurious house all round sent out its eager
owners into the night.</p>

<p>They came to show the pastor, who had not failed
them in the darkness, their joy and gratitude now that
light had come at last.</p>

<p>How warm and hearty these North-country people
were! Mr. Byars had never penetrated so deeply beneath
the somewhat forbidding crust of manner and
surface-hardness before.</p>

<p>Mingled with the sense of shame and misery at their
own lukewarmness, there was a fine and genuine desire
to show the vicar how they honoured him for his
steadfastness.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_381" id="Page_381">[381]</a></span>
"You've been an example to all of us, vicar," said a
hard-faced, brassy-voiced cotton-spinner, a kindly light
in his eyes, his lips somewhat tremulous.</p>

<p>"We haven't done as we ought to by t' church," said
another, "but you'll see that altered, Mr. Byars. Eh!
but our faith has been weak! There'll be many a
Christian's heart full of shame and sorrow for the past
months this night, I'm thinking."</p>

<p>They crowded round him, this knot of expensively
dressed people, hard-faced and harsh-spoken, with a
warmth and contrition which moved the old man inexpressibly.</p>

<p>Never before had he been so near to them. Dimly he
began to think he saw a wise and awful purpose of God,
who had allowed this iniquity and calamity that the faith
of the world might be strengthened.</p>

<p>"We'll never forget what you've done for us, Mr.
Byars."</p>

<p>"If we've been lukewarm before, vicar, 't will be all
boiling now!"</p>

<p>"Praise God that He has spoken at last, and God
forgive us for forgetting Him."</p>

<p>The air was electric with love and praise.</p>

<p>"Will you say a prayer, vicar?" asked one of the
churchwardens. "It seems the time for prayer and
a word or two like."</p>

<p>The company knelt down.</p>

<p>It was a curious scene. In the richly furnished drawing-room
the group of portly men and matrons knelt at
chairs and sofas, stolid, respectable, and middle-aged.</p>

<p>But here and there a shoulder shook with suppressed
emotion, a faint sob was heard. This, to many of them
there, was the greatest spiritual moment they had ever
known. Confirmation, communion, all the episodic
mile-stones of the professing Christian's life had been
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_382" id="Page_382">[382]</a></span>
experienced and passed decorously enough. But the inward
fire had not been there. The deep certainty of
God's mysterious commune with the brain, the deep love
for Christ which glows so purely and steadfastly among
the saints still on earth&mdash;these were coming to them
now.</p>

<p>And, even as the fires of the Paraclete had descended
upon the Apostles many centuries before, so now the
Holy Spirit began to stir and move these Christians at
Walktown.</p>

<p>The vicar offered up the joy and thanks of his people.
He prayed that, in His mercy, God would never again let
such extreme darkness descend upon the world. Even
as He had said, "Neither will I again smite any more
every thing living, as I have done."</p>

<p>He prayed that all those who had been cast into
spiritual darkness, or who had left the fold of Christ,
might now return to it with contrite hearts and be in
peace.</p>

<p>Finally, they said the Lord's Prayer with deep feeling,
and the vicar blessed them.</p>

<p>And for each one there that night became a precious,
helpful memory which remained with them for many
years.</p>

<p>Afterwards, while servants brought coffee, always the
accompaniment to any sort of function in Walktown, the
talk broke out into a hushed amazement.</p>

<p>The news which had been telegraphed everywhere
consisted of a statement signed by the Secretary of State
and the archbishops that the discovery in Palestine was
a forgery executed by Sir Robert Llwellyn at the instigation
of Constantine Schuabe.</p>

<p>"Ample and completely satisfying evidence is in our
possession," so the wording ran. "We render heartfelt
gratitude to Almighty God that He has in His wisdom
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_383" id="Page_383">[383]</a></span>
caused this black conspiracy to be discovered. The
thanks of the whole world, the gratitude of all Christians,
must be for those devoted and faithful men who have
been the instruments of Providence in discovering the
Truth. Sir Michael Manichoe, the Rev. Basil Gortre,
the Rev. Arthur Ripon, and Mr. Harold Spence have
alone dispelled the clouds that have hung over the
Christian world."</p>

<p>It was a frightful shock to these people to know how a
great magnate among them, a business <i>confrère</i>, the
member for their own division, an intimate, should have
done this thing.</p>

<p>As long as the world lasted the Owner of Mount
Prospect who had spoken on their platforms would be
accursed. It was too startling to realise at once; the
thought only became familiar gradually, in little jerks,
as one aspect after another presented itself to their
minds.</p>

<p>It was incredible that this antichrist had been long
housed among them but a mile from where they stood.</p>

<p>"What will they do to him?"</p>

<p>"Who can say! There's never been a case like it
before, you see."</p>

<p>"Well, the paper doesn't say, but I expect they've
got them safe enough in London&mdash;Mr. Schuabe and the
other fellow."</p>

<p>"Just to think of our Mr. Gortre helping to find it
out! Pity we ever let him go away from the parish
church."</p>

<p>"They can't do less than make him a bishop, I should
think."</p>

<p>"Miss Byars, you ought to be proud of your young
man. There's many folk blessing him in England this
night."</p>

<p>And so on, and so forth; simple, homely speeches, not
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_384" id="Page_384">[384]</a></span>
indeed free from a somewhat hard commercial view, but
informed with kindliness and gratitude.</p>

<p>At last, one by one, they went away. It was close
upon midnight when the last visitor had departed.</p>

<p>The vicar read a psalm to his daughter:</p>

<blockquote><p>"<i>Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace,
according to thy word. For mine eyes have seen thy salvation,
which thou hast prepared before the face of all
people.</i>"</p></blockquote>

<p class="p4b">Basil was to come to them on the morrow for a long
stay.</p>

<hr class="r20" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_385" id="Page_385">[385]</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="EPILOGUE" id="EPILOGUE">EPILOGUE</a></h2>

<h4>IN THREE PICTURES</h4>

<blockquote><p><span class="smcap">Note.</span>&mdash;<i>The three pictures all synchronise. The episodes
they portray take place five years after the day upon
which Sir Robert Llwellyn died.</i>&mdash;G. T.</p></blockquote>

<h4>I. <span class="smcap">The Grave</span></h4>

<p>Two figures walked over the cliffs.</p>

<p>The day was wild and stormy. Huge clouds,
bursting with sombre light, sailed over the pewter-coloured
sea. The bleak magnificence of the moor
stretched away in endless billows, as sad and desolate as
the sea on which no sail was to be seen.</p>

<p>The wayfarers turned out of the struggle of the bitter
wind into a slight depression. A few scattered cottages
began to come into the field of their vision.</p>

<p>Soon they saw the whitewashed buildings of a coast-guard
station and the high, square tower of a church.</p>

<p>"So it's all settled, Spence," said one of the men, a
tall, noble-faced man, dressed as a clerk in Holy Orders.</p>

<p>"Yes, Father Ripon," Spence said. "They have offered
me the paper. It was one of poor Ommaney's last
wishes. Of course, we were injured in our circulation
by the fact that we were the first to publish the news of
the great forgery. But in two years Ommaney had
brought the paper to the front again. He was wonderful,
the first editor of his age.</p>

<p>"I was there with Folliott Farmer and the doctors
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_386" id="Page_386">[386]</a></span>
when he died. Fancy, it was the first time I had ever
been in his flat, though we had worked together all these
years! The simplest place you ever saw. Just a couple
of rooms, where he slept all the daytime. No luxury,
hardly even comfort. Ommaney had no existence apart
from his work. He'd saved nearly all his very large
salary for many years. I am an executor of his will.
He left a legacy to Farmer, and to me also, and the rest
to the Institute of Journalists. But I am persuaded that
he did not care in the least what happened to his money.
He never did. He wasn't mean in any way, but he
worked all night and slept all day, and simply hadn't
any use for money. A good-hearted man, a very brilliant
editor, but utterly detached from any <i>personal</i> contact
with life."</p>

<p>Father Ripon's keen face, still as eager and powerful
as before, set into lines of thought.</p>

<p>He sighed a little. "A modern product," he said at
length. "A modern product, a sign of the times. Well,
Spence, a power is entrusted to you now such as no
priest can enjoy. I pray that your editorship of this
great paper will be fine. Try to be fine always. I believe
that the Holy Spirit will be with you."</p>

<p>They rose up towards the moor again. "There's the
church," said Spence, "where she lies buried. Gortre
sees that the grave is kept beautiful with flowers. It was
an odd impulse of yours, Father, to propose this visit."</p>

<p>"I do odd things sometimes," said the priest, simply.
"I thought that the sight of this poor woman's resting-place
might remind you and me of what has passed, of
what she did for the world&mdash;though no one knows it
but our group of friends. I hope that it will remind us,
remind you very solemnly, my friend, in your new responsibility,
of what Christ means to the world. The
shadows of the time of darkness, 'When it Was Dark'
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_387" id="Page_387">[387]</a></span>
during the 'Horror of Great Darkness,' have gone from
us. And this poor sister did this for her Saviour's sake."</p>

<p>They stood by Gertrude Hunt's grave as they spoke.</p>

<p>A slender copper cross rose above it, some six feet high.</p>

<p>"I wonder how the poor girl managed it," said Spence
at length; "her letter was wonderfully complete. Sir
Michael&mdash;Lord Fencastle, I mean&mdash;showed it me some
years ago. She was wonderfully adroit. I suppose
Llwellyn had left papers about or something. But I do
wonder how she did it."</p>

<p>"That," said Father Ripon, "was what she would
never tell anybody."</p>

<p>"<i>Requiescat in pace</i>," said Spence.</p>

<p class="p3b">"In Paradise with Saint Mary of Magdala," the priest
said softly.</p>

<h4>THE SECOND PICTURE</h4>

<p class="center"><i>Quem Deus Vult Perdere.</i></p>

<p class="p2">The chaplain of the county asylum stood by the castellated
red brick lodge at the end of the asylum drive,
talking to a group of young ladies.</p>

<p>The drive, which stretched away nearly a quarter of a
mile to the enormous buildings of the asylum, with their
lofty towers and warm, florid architecture, was edged
with rhododendrons and other shrubs.</p>

<p>The gardens were beautifully kept. Everything was
mathematically straight and clean, almost luxurious,
indeed.</p>

<p>The girls were three in number, young, fashionably
dressed. They talked without ceasing in an empty-headed
stream of girlish chatter.</p>

<p>They were the daughters of a great ironfounder in the
district, and would each have a hundred thousand pounds.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_388" id="Page_388">[388]</a></span>
The chaplain was showing them over the asylum.</p>

<p>"How sweet of you, Mr. Pritchard, to show us everything!"
said one of the girls. "It's awfully thrilling.
I suppose we shall be quite safe from the violent ones?"</p>

<p>"Oh, yes," said the chaplain, "you will only see those
from a distance; we keep them well locked up, I assure
you."</p>

<p>The girls laughed with him.</p>

<p>The party went laughing through the long, spotless
corridors, peeping into the bright, airy living-rooms,
where bodies without brains were mumbling and singing
to each other.</p>

<p>The imbecile who moved vacantly with slobbering
lip, the dementia patient, the log-like, general paralytic&mdash;"G.
P."&mdash;<i>things</i> which must be fed, the barred and
dangerous maniac, they saw them all with pleasant thrills
of horror, disgust, and sometimes with laughter.</p>

<p>"Oh, Grace, <i>do</i> look at that funny little fat one in the
corner&mdash;the one with his tongue hanging out! Isn't
he <i>weird</i>?"</p>

<p>"There's one actually <i>reading</i>! He <i>must</i> be only
pretending!"</p>

<p>A young doctor joined them&mdash;a handsome Scotchman
with pleasant manners.</p>

<p>For a time the lunatics were forgotten.</p>

<p>"Well, now, have we seen <i>all</i>, Doctor Steward?" one
of the girls said. "All the worst cases? It's really
quite a new sensation, you know, and I always go in for
new sensations."</p>

<p>"Did ye show the young leddies Schuabe?" said the
doctor to the chaplain.</p>

<p>"Bless my soul!" he replied, "I must be going mad
myself. I'd quite forgotten to show you Schuabe."</p>

<p>"Who is Schuabe?" said the youngest of the sisters, a
girl just fresh from school at Saint Leonards.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_389" id="Page_389">[389]</a></span>
"Oh, <i>Maisie</i>!" said the eldest. "Surely you remember.
Why, it's only five years ago. He was the Manchester
millionaire who went mad after trying to blow
up the tomb of Christ. I think that was it. It was in
all the papers. A young clergyman found out what he'd
been trying to do, and then he went mad&mdash;this Schuabe
creature, I mean, not the clergyman."</p>

<p>"Every one likes to have a look at this patient," said
the doctor. "He has a little sleeping-room of his own
and a special attendant. His money was all confiscated
by order of the Government, but they allow two hundred
a year for him. Otherwise he would be among the
paupers."</p>

<p>The girls giggled with pleasurable anticipation.</p>

<p>The doctor unlocked a door. The party entered a
fairly large room, simply furnished. In an arm-chair a
uniformed attendant was sitting, reading a sporting
paper.</p>

<p>The man sprang up and saluted as he heard the door
open.</p>

<p>On a bed lay the idiot. He had grown very fat and
looked healthy. The features were all coarsened, but
the hair retained its colour of dark red.</p>

<p>He was sleeping.</p>

<p>"Now, Miss Clegg, ye'd never think that was the fellow
that made such a stir in the world but five years
since. But there he lies. He always eats as much as
he can, and goes to sleep after his meal. He's waking
up now, sir. Here, Mr. Schuabe, some ladies have
come to see you."</p>

<p><i>It</i> got up with a foolish grin and began some ungainly
capers.</p>

<p>"Thank you <i>so</i> much, Mr. Pritchard," the girls said
as they left the building. "We've enjoyed ourselves so
much."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_390" id="Page_390">[390]</a></span>
"I liked the little man with his tongue hanging out
the best," said one.</p>

<p class="p3b">"Oh, Mabel, you've <i>no</i> sense of humour! That
Schuabe creature was the funniest of <i>all</i>!"</p>

<h4>THE THIRD PICTURE</h4>

<p>A Sunday evensong. The grim old Lancashire
church of Walktown is full of people. The galleries
are crowded, every seat in the aisles below is packed.</p>

<p>This night, Easter night, the church looks less forbidding.
The harsh note is gone, something of the supreme
joy of Holy Easter has driven it away.</p>

<p>Old Mr. Byars sits in his stall. He is tired by the
long, happy day, and as the choir sings the last verse of
the hymn before the sermon he sits down.</p>

<p>The delicate, intellectual face is a little pinched and
transparent. Age has come, but it is to this faithful
priest but as the rare bloom upon the fruits of peace and
quiet.</p>

<p>How the thunderous voices peal in exultation!</p>

<p>Alleluia!</p>

<p>Christ is risen! The old man turned his head. His
eyes were full of happy tears. He saw his daughter, a
young and noble matron now, standing in a pew close to
the chancel steps. He heard her pure voice, full of triumph.
Christ is risen!</p>

<p>From his oak chair behind the altar rails Dean Gortre
came down towards the pulpit.</p>

<p>Young still&mdash;strangely young for the dignity which
they had pressed on him for two years before he would
accept it&mdash;Basil ascended the steps.</p>

<p>Christ is risen!</p>

<p>The organ crashed; there was silence.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_391" id="Page_391">[391]</a></span>
All the lights in the church were suddenly lowered to
half their height.</p>

<p>The two candles in the pulpit shone brightly on the
preacher's face.</p>

<p>They all saw that it was filled with holy fire.</p>

<p>Christ is risen!</p>

<p class="center">"<span class="smcap">if christ be not risen your faith is vain</span>"</p>

<p>The church was absolutely still as the words of the
text rang out into it.</p>

<p>The people were thinking humbly, with contrite hearts,
of the shame five years ago.</p>

<blockquote><p>"Would that our imagination, under the conduct of
Christian faith, could even faintly realise the scene when
the Human Soul of Our Lord came with myriads of attendant
angels to the grave of Joseph, to claim the Body
that had hung upon the cross.</p>

<p>"To-night, with the promise and warrant of our own
resurrection that His has given us, our thoughts involuntarily
turn to those we call the dead. We feel that this
Easter is for them also an occasion of rejoicing, and that
the happiness of the earthly Church is shared by the
loving and beloved choir behind the veil.</p>

<p class="p2b">"Christ is risen! Away with the illusions which may
have kept us from Him. Let us also arise and live.
For, as the spouse sings in the Canticles, 'The winter
is past, ... the time of the singing of birds is
come; ... arise, my love, my fair one, and come
away!'"</p></blockquote>

<p class="p4b">Christ is risen!</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> This article has already been seen in the preceding chapter.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> This particular instance of the Nurié woman is <i>not</i> all fiction.
An incident much resembling it actually occurred to a well-known
writer on the intimate life of Eastern peoples. For the purposes of
the narrative the <i>locale</i> has been changed from the Jaffa Road&mdash;where
the event took place&mdash;to Jerusalem itself.</p>
</div></div>

<hr class="chap" />

<h4><br />THE END<br /><br /></h4>

<hr class="chap" />

<h4>
<i>A Selection from the Catalogue of</i></h4>

<h4>G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS</h4>

<p class="p2bc">Complete Catalogues sent on application</p>

<hr class="r30" />

<div>
<div class="box2">
<h5><i>Bound to excite a great deal of favorable comment</i></h5>

<h2>A Lost Cause</h2>

<h4><i>By</i></h4>

<h3>Guy Thorne</h3>

<h5>Author of "When It Was Dark."</h5>
<hr class="r10" />
<p class="center">Crown Octavo&mdash;- $1.50</p>
<hr class="r10" />
<blockquote><p>Mr. Thorne, the author of that much-discussed religious
novel, <i>When It Was Dark</i>, which has become
the theme of hundreds of sermons, and has received
the highest commendation in the secular press as
well as in the religious publications, has written
another powerful book which also deals with present-day
aspects of the Christian religion. The new story
is marked by the same dramatic and emotional
strength which characterized his earlier work. The
special theme deals with certain practices which have
caused dissension in the Church, and the influence
of ardent religious convictions on character and conduct.
Written in all sincerity, the book can hardly
fail to arouse wide and varied attention and is
destined to take its place as one of the most interest-compelling
works of fiction in recent years.</p></blockquote>

<h5>
New York&mdash;G. P. Putnam's Sons&mdash;London</h5>
</div></div>

<hr class="r30" />

<div>
<div class="box2">
<h5>
"Something distinctly out of the common, well conceived,
vividly told, and stirring from start to finish."<br />&mdash;<i>London Telegraph.</i></h5>

<h2>
The Scarlet Pimpernel</h2>
<h4>By Baroness Orczy</h4>
<h3><i>Author of "The Emperor's Candlesticks," etc.</i></h3>

<blockquote><p>A dramatic romance of the French Revolution and
the Émigré Nobles. The "Scarlet Pimpernel" was the
chief of a daring band of young Englishmen leagued together
to rescue members of the French nobility from
the Terrorists of France. The identity of the brilliant
and resourceful leader is sacredly guarded by
his followers and eagerly sought by the agents of
the French Revolutionary Government. Scenes of
intrigue, danger, and devotion, follow close one upon
another. The heroine is a charming, fearless woman
who in the end shares the honors with the
"Scarlet Pimpernel." In a stage version prepared by
the author <i>The Scarlet Pimpernel</i> was one of the
dramatic successes of the last London season, Mr.
Fred Terry and Miss Julia Neilson acting the leading
rôles.</p></blockquote>

<hr class="r10" />
<h5><i>Crown 8vo, with Illustrations from Photographs
of the Play, $1.50</i></h5>

<p class="center">
<i>New York</i> ~ G. P. Putnam's Sons ~ <i>London</i><br />
</p>
</div></div>

<hr class="r30" />

<div>
<div class="box2">
<h5><i>A Fascinating Romance</i></h5>

<h2>Love Alone is Lord</h2>

<h4><i>By</i> F. Frankfort Moore</h4>
<h3><i>Author of "The Jessamy Bride," etc.</i></h3>

<blockquote><p>This latest story by the author of <i>The Jessamy
Bride</i> has for its theme the only really
ideal love affair in the romantic life of Lord
Byron. The story opens during the poet's
boyhood and tells of his early devotion to
his cousin, Mary Chaworth. Mr. Moore has
followed history very closely, and his descriptions
of London society when Byron was the
rage are as accurate as they are dramatic.
Lady Caroline Lamb figures prominently in
the story, but the heroine continues to be
Byron's early love, Mary Chaworth. His attachment
for his cousin was the strongest and
most enduring of his life, and it failed of realization
only by the narrowest of chances.</p></blockquote>

<p class="center"><i>Crown 8vo, $1.50</i></p>
<hr class="r10" />
<p class="center">
G. P. Putnam's Sons<br /><br />

<i>New York</i> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <i>London</i></p>
</div></div>

<hr class="r30" />

<div>
<div class="box2">

<h5>"The cleverest work of the kind written in
many years."<br />&mdash;<i>Rochester Herald.</i></h5>

<h1>
OUR BEST SOCIETY</h1>

<h2>A Novel Dealing with the Life of the Rich in New York</h2>

<h3>By JOHN D. BARRY</h3>

<h4>Author of "The Congressman's Wife," "Mademoiselle
Blanche," "A Daughter of Thespis," etc.</h4>

<blockquote><p>Now in its Second Edition. Crown Octavo.
Cloth, $1.50.</p></blockquote>

<blockquote><p>It is one of the most interesting descriptions of
modern society since "The Breadwinners," supposed
to be written by John Hay. A witty and
cleverly drawn picture, as sure in its touch and as
effective in its results as a Gibson drawing.</p>

<p class="inright">
<i>Town and Country.</i></p></blockquote>

<blockquote><p>The book will attract the "initiated" because
the author has caught the real key-note.</p>

<p class="inright"><i>The Independent.</i></p></blockquote>

<blockquote><p>Exceedingly clever in many ways. Although it
is a really brilliant satire, there is no bitterness.
On the contrary, an air of almost blissful good-humor
pervades every page.</p>

<p class="inright"><i>St. Paul Pioneer-Press.</i></p></blockquote>

<p class="center"><br />
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS<br />
<br />
New York &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; London<br />
</p>
</div></div>

<hr class="chap" />

<div class="transnote">
<h3>TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES</h3>

<p class="p2b">Punctuation has been silently corrected where there are obvious errors.</p>

<p class="p2b">Words with hyphens and accents have been standardised.</p>

<p class="p2b">The following corrections of typographical errors have been made:</p>
<p class="pinset">"refined and, artistic" to "refined and artistic" (p. 3)</p>
<p class="pinset">"tolerent" to tolerant" (p. 29)</p>
<p class="pinset">"it forget to jeer" to "it forgot to jeer" (p. 49)</p>
<p class="pinset">"Salonika cigarrette" to "Salonika cigarette" (p. 53)</p>
<p class="pinset">"forty thousands pounds" to "forty thousand pounds" (p. 67)</p>
<p class="pinset">"volumn" to "volume" (p. 72)</p>
<p class="pinset">"lines cames out upon it" to "lines came out upon it" (p. 90)</p>
<p class="pinset">"weathly banker" to "wealthy banker" (p. 107)</p>
<p class="pinset">"Dieppe its true significance" to "Dieppe--its true significance" (p. 108)</p>
<p class="pinset">"become more resonant" to "became more resonant" (p. 112)</p>
<p class="pinset">"Schaube" to "Schuabe" (p. 193)</p>
<p class="pinset">"Sanhedrim of the great" to "Sanhedrin of the great" (p. 235)</p>
<p class="pinset">"Neirsteiner" to "Niersteiner" (p. 242)</p>
<p class="pinset">"in amazemen" to "in amazement" (p. 261)</p>
<p class="pinset">"Sir Ulang Pass" to "Sri Ulang Pass" (p. 293)</p>
<p class="pinset">"rising but of the sea" to "rising out of the sea" (p. 323)</p>
<p class="pinset">"Exellency" to "Excellency" (p. 350)</p>
<p class="pinset">"the lastest visitor" to "the last visitor" (p. 384)</p>
</div>







<pre>





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