BOOK II
"A horror of great darkness."
[CHAPTER I]
WHILE LONDON WAS SLEEPING
In 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,—the duties of St. Mary's were very heavy,—so he snatched a respite from work before the actual time of festival.
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.
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 Daily Wire had to be filled. Not that there was any lack of material,—even in the dullest season the expert journalist will tell one that his difficulty is what to leave out of his paper, not what to put in,—but that the material was uninteresting and dull.
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.
One Wednesday—he remembered the day afterwards—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.
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.
"Nasty day, Mrs. Buscall," he said, sipping his tea.
"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."
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—a clergyman too!—addicted to such adventurous and injudicious habits had been as extreme as her disappointment.
Spence agreed to humour her, and she began to prepare the bath.
"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—as she considered it—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.
Most of the women around Mrs. Buscall drank gin. The doings of Cyril Hands were sufficient tonic for her.
Spence glanced at the bulky packet with its Turkish stamps and peculiar aroma—which the London fog had not yet killed—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.
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.
"Neque enim ignari sumus," 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.
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!
He opened the Wire and glanced at his own work of the night before. How lifeless it seemed to him!
"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.'
"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."
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.
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 Wire, 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".
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.
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.
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.
He put his correspondence into the pocket of his overcoat, to be read at leisure, and drove to a hammam in Jermyn Street.
The physical warmth, the silence, the dim lights, and Oriental decorations induced a supreme sense of comfort and bien-être. It brought Constantinople back to him in vague reverie.
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.
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.
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.
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, while outside the church bells all over London were tolling for Evensong.
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.
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.
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.
Spence asked Lambert, who was in evening dress, to be his companion.
"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—he's my uncle's tame vicar, you know; uncle runs an expensive church, like some men run a theatre—for he's always bright and amusing. You're not working to-night, then?"
"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."
"Sorry I can't go too—awful bore. I've had a tiring day, too, and a ballet would be refreshing. The governor's been in a state of filthy irritation and nerves for the last fortnight."
"Sir Robert Llwellyn, isn't it?"
"Yes, he's my chief, and a very good fellow too, as a rule. He went away for several months, you know—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."
"I met him in Dieppe in the spring. He seemed all right then, just at the beginning of his leave."
"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."
He passed softly over the heavy carpet of the smoking-room, and Spence was left alone once more.
It was after seven o'clock.
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.
So, about nine o'clock, he strolled into the huge, garish music-hall.
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.
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—he remembered her at La Scala, in Paris. She was said to be one of the beauties of Europe, and a king's favourite.
After the Spanish woman there were two men, "brothers" some one. One was disguised as a donkey—a veritable peau de chagrin!—the other as a tramp, and together they did laughable things.
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.
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.
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.
They saw him open a bulky envelope with a careless manner. He would look up soon, they expected.
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.
In a minute or two what had at first seemed a singular paleness became a frightful ashen colour.
"That Johnny's going to be ill," one of the women said to the other.
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.
Spence took up his hat and left the room with quick, decided steps. He threaded his way through the crowd round the circle—like a bed of orchids, surrounded by heavy, poisonous scents—and almost ran into the street.
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 Daily Wire.
The great building of dressed stone which stood in the middle of Fleet Street was dark. The advertisement halls and business offices were closed.
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 commissionaire in a little hutch touched his cap as Spence ran up a broad flight of stone stairs.
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.
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 nodded without speaking, and went on with his leading article.
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 Wire to the world.
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.
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—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 papier-mâché moulds, from which the final curved plates for the roller machines would be cast.
"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.
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.
"I shall want an hour," Spence said. "I've just got what may be the most stupendous news any newspaper has ever published."
The editor looked up quickly. A flash of interest passed over his pale, immobile face and was gone. He knew that if Spence spoke like this the occasion was momentous.
He looked at his watch. "Is it news for to-night's paper?" he said.
"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."
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
COMPOSING ROOM
He picked up the receiver and transmitter of a portable telephone and asked one or two questions.
When he had communicated with several other rooms in this way Ommaney turned to Spence.
"All right," he said, "I can give you an hour now. Things are fairly easy to-night."
He got up from the writing-table and sat down by the fire. Spence took a chair opposite.
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.
"It's a discovery in Palestine—at Jerusalem," he said in a low, vibrating voice, spreading out the thin, crackling sheets of foreign note-paper on his knee and arranging them in order.
"You know Cyril Hands, the agent of the Palestine Exploring Fund?"
"Yes, quite well by reputation," said Ommaney, "and I've met him once or twice. Very sound man."
"These papers are from him. They seem to be of tremendous importance, of a significance that I can hardly grasp yet."
"What is the nature of them?" asked the editor, rising from his chair, powerfully affected in his turn by Spence's manner.
Harold put his hand up to his throat, pulling at his collar; the apple moved up and down convulsively.
"The Tomb!" Spence gasped. "The Holy Tomb!"
"What do you mean?" asked Ommaney. "Another supposed burial-place of Christ—like the Times business, when they found the Gordon Tomb, and Canon MacColl wrote such a lot?"
His face fell a little. This, though interesting enough, and fine "news copy," was less than he hoped.
"No, no," cried Spence, getting his voice back at last and speaking like a man in acute physical pain. "A new tomb has been found. There is an inscription in Greek, written by Joseph of Arimathæa, and there are other traces."
His voice failed him.
"Go on, man, go on!" said the editor.
"The inscription—tells that Joseph—took the body of Jesus—from his own garden tomb—he hid it in this place—the disciples never knew—it is a confession——"
Ommaney was as white as Spence now.
"There are other contributory proofs," Spence continued. "Hands says it is certain. All the details are here, read——"
Ommaney stared fixedly at his lieutenant.
"Then, if this is true," he whispered, "it means?——"
"That christ never rose from the dead, that christianity is all a lie."
Spence slipped back in his chair a little and fainted.
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.
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."
The keen voice roused Spence. He made a tremendous effort at self-control.
"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—speaking as a layman—it seems extremely clear. But we must of course see a specialist before publishing anything. If this news is true—and I would give all I am worth if it were not, though I am no Christian—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 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——"
His voice faltered as the terrible picture grew in his brain.
Both of them felt that mere words were utterly unable to express the horrors which they saw dawning.
"We don't know the truth yet," said Spence, at length.
"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 for the present simply from the standpoint of the paper, and through it, of course, from the standpoint of public policy——"
He broke off suddenly, for there was a knock at the door. A commissionaire entered with a telegram. It was for Spence. He opened the envelope, read the contents with a groan, and passed it to the editor.
The telegram was from Hands:
"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.—Hands."
"We must act at once," said Ommaney. "We have a fearful responsibility now. It's not too much to say that everything depends on us. Have you got any of that brandy left? My head throbs like an engine."
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."
Ommaney drank the spirits—he was an absolute teetotaler as a rule, though not pledged in any way to abstinence—and it revived him.
"Now let us try and think," he said, lighting a cigarette and walking up and down the room.
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—the whole great world!—was flickering into darkness.
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.
"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."
He pressed a bell on the table. "Tell Mr. Jones I wish to see him," he told the boy who answered the summons.
A young man came in, the editor of the "personal" column.
"Is the Prime Minister in town, Mr. Jones?" he asked.
"Yes, sir; he's here for three more days."
"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.
The big-bearded man from Spence's room entered, smoking a briar pipe.
"Mr. Farmer," said Ommaney, "I suppose you've done your leader?"
"Sent it up-stairs ten minutes ago," said the big man.
"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 ——. It is making an appointment for me in an hour's time. He must see it himself at once—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 —— must see the note. Bring me back the answer as rapidly as you can."
The elderly man—his name was a household word as a political writer all over England and the Continent—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.
"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 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."
"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!"
"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 explains, and even corroborates, 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 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."
He went to his writing-table once more, moved the telephone indicator, and summoned the foreman printer.
In a few moments a lean Scotchman in his shirt sleeves—one of the most autocratic and important people connected with the paper—came into the room.
"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."
"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—if it's of great moment—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?"
"More important than anything I have ever dealt with."
"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."
"Thank you, Burness," said the editor. "I'm very 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."
"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."
"And, Burness, lock up the galley safely when you come down with the proof."
"I'll do it, sir," and the great man—indispensable, and earning his six hundred a year—went away with the precious papers.
"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."
"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."
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.
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 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—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.
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.
Every now and then Ommaney strode to the writing-table and made a rapid note on a sheet of paper.
At last he turned to Spence.
"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 course I would rather have you on the spot, but I can use you far better elsewhere."
"Then?" said Spence.
"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 en route. I shall be here till breakfast-time, and I can give you final instructions."
He used the telephone once more and his secretary came in.
"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."
The young man went out to do his part in the great organisation which Ommaney controlled.
"Then you'll be back between three and four?" Ommaney said.
"Yes, I'll go and pack at once," Spence answered. "My passport from the Foreign Office is all right now."
He rose to go, vigorous, and with an inexpressible 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.
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.
It was Lord Trelyon, the Prime Minister's private secretary.
"I thought I would come myself with Mr. Farmer, Mr. Ommaney," he said, shaking hands cordially. "Lord —— 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?"
"None whatever, I'm sorry to say, Lord Trelyon," the editor answered. "Farmer, will you take charge till I return?"
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—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.
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.
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.
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—"The old trail, the long trail, the trail that is always new."
He felt a man again, with a fierce joy and exultation throbbing in all his veins after the torpor of the last few weeks.
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.
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 Wire. He would write en route, he explained, there was no time for any details now.
"Poor chap," he said to himself, "he'll know soon enough now. I hope he won't take it very badly."
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.
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—he forgot nothing.
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.
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.
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 Lux Mundi?
As he gazed at the sacred emblem he felt that this could not be.
No, no! a thousand times no. Jesus had risen to save him and all other sinners. It was so, must be so, should be so.
The Holy Name was in itself enough. He whispered it to himself. No, that was eternally, gloriously true.
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—
Pater noster!
[CHAPTER II]
AVOIDING THE FLOWER PATTERN ON THE CARPET
Sir Michael Manichoe, 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.
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.
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.
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 ecclesiastic with whom the English communion had little or nothing to do.
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.
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.
The day after the news arrived in Fleet Street from Palestine—while nothing was yet known and Harold Spence was rushing through Amiens en route for Paris and the East—a house party began to collect at Fencastle, the great place in Lincolnshire.
For a day or two a few rather important people were to meet under Sir Michael's roof. Now and then the 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."
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.
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.
In this stronghold of English Catholicism—"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—the dominant quality of their brains and position.
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—and those hostile—really regarded them only added to the weapons in his armoury.
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.
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.
" ... It will be as well for you to see the man à huisclos 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 professed 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 atmosphere of knowledge for knowledge itself. A very charming woman, by the way, and I think sincere. Matthew Arnold and water!
"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 our 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.—I am, Father, yours most sincerely,
"M. M."
Still thinking carefully over Sir Michael's letter, Father Ripon bought his ticket and made his way to the platform.
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.
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.
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.
He had bought the Church Times 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.
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.
A voice broke in upon his thoughts as they were tearing through the wide-spread slums of Bethnal Green.
"Do you mind if I smoke, sir? This isn't a smoking carriage, but we are alone——"
It was an ordinary query enough. "Oh, dear, no!" said the priest. "Please do, to your heart's content. It doesn't inconvenience me."
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.
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.
The priest found it remarkable but with no sense of strangeness. He had seen the man before.
Recognition came to Schuabe first.
"Excuse me," he said, "but surely you are Father Ripon? I am Constantine Schuabe."
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."
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.
Suddenly Father Ripon smiled rather sternly, and the deep furrows which sprang into his cheeks showed the latent strength and power of the face.
"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!"
"A welcome opportunity, Father Ripon, to convince one that perhaps the devil isn't as black as he's painted."
"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, 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.
"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 auto da fé!"
"I rather believe in stern measures, sometimes," answered the clergyman, with an underlying seriousness, though he spoke half in jest. "Not for all heretics, you know—only the dangerous ones."
"You are afraid of intellect when it is brought to bear on these questions."
"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 attack upon our position has all the elements of popularity and novelty. It is more seen. For example, ten thousand people have heard of your Christ Reconceived for every ten who know Lathom's Risen Master. 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."
"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."
Father Ripon had been called away after the early Eucharist, and had quite forgotten to have any breakfast.
"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!"
Both laughed again, sheathed their weapons, and began to eat.
Each of them was a man of the world, cultured, with a charming personality. Each knew the other was impervious to attack.
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.
"What would you say or do, Father Ripon," Schuabe asked, in a tone of interested curiosity,—"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?"
"Some new discovery, you mean?"
"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 beginning 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."
"Well, you are assuming an impossibility, and I can't argue on such a postulate. But, if for a moment what you say could happen, I might not be able to deny these proofs, but I should never believe them."
"But surely——"
"Christ is within; I have found Him myself without possibility of mistake; day and night I am in communion with Him."
"Ah!" said Schuabe, dryly, "there is no convincing a person who takes that attitude. But it is rare."
"Faith is weak in the world," said the priest, with a sigh, as the train drew up in the little wayside station.
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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 châtelaine.
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 ex cathedra.
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.
One of her utterances suffices to show the colossal arrogance—almost laughable were it not so bizarre—of her intellect:
"The world has expanded since Jesus preached in the dim ancient cities of the East. Men and women of to-day cannot learn the complete lesson of God from him now—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—this Jesus has still for us as he had for the people of his own time."
After the enormous success of her book, John Mulgrave, Mrs. Armstrong more than half believed she had struck a final blow at the errors of Christianity.
Shrewd critics remarked that John Mulgrave described the perversion of the hero with great skill and literary power, while quite forgetting to recapitulate the arguments which had brought it about.
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.
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.
A short, carelessly dressed man—his evening tie was badly arranged and his trousers were ill cut—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.
Canon Walke, the great popular preacher, was a handsome man, portly, large, and gracious in manner. He was destined for high preferment, a persona grata at Court, suave and redolent of the lofty circles in which he moved.
Canon Walke was talking to Schuabe with great animation and a sort of purring geniality.
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.
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.
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.
And now the great house was silent save for the bitter winter wind which sobbed and moaned round the towers.
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.
Far away in Lancashire, Basil Gortre was sleeping calmly after a long, quiet evening with Helena and her father.
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.
Mrs. Hubert Armstrong was touching up an article for the Nineteenth Century 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—an amiable weakness of this paragon when engaged upon her stirring labours.
In the next room Schuabe, with haggard face and twitching lips, paced rapidly up and down. From the door to the dressing-table—seven steps. From there to the fireplace—ten steps—avoiding the flower pattern of the carpet, stepping only on the blue squares. Seven! ten! and then back again.
Ten, seven, turn. A cold, soft dew came out upon his face, dried, hardened, and burst forth again.
Seven, ten, stop for a glass of water, and then on again, rapidly, hurriedly; the dawn is coming very near.
Ten! seven! turn!
[CHAPTER III]
"I, JOSEPH"
At about nine o'clock the next morning there was a knock at Father Ripon's door and Lindner, Sir Michael's confidential man, entered.
He seemed slightly agitated.
"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."
The man bowed slightly and went noiselessly away.
Impressed with Lindner's manner, Father Ripon sat up in bed and opened the paper. It was a copy of the Daily Wire which had just arrived by special messenger from the station.
The priest's eyes fell first upon the news summary. A paragraph was heavily scored round with ink.
"Page 7.—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."
Ripon turned hastily to the seventh page of the paper, where all the foreign telegrams were. This is what he read:
"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.
"MOMENTOUS NEWS FROM JERUSALEM
"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.
"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.
"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.
"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 kôkîm, characteristic of Jewish tombs in preference to the usual Christian arcosolia. They are Herodian in character.
"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 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.
"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 hamra, 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.
"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.
"When the interior of the second tomb had been reached, a single loculus or stone slab for the reception of a body was found.
"Over the loculus the following Greek inscription in uncial characters was found in a state of good preservation, with the exception of two letters:
"[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.—Editor, Daily Wire.]
FACSIMILE IN MODERN GREEK SCRIPT
Εγωιωσηφοαποαριμαθειαςλαβω
ντοσωματουιησουτουαπονα**
ρεταποτουμνημειουοπουτοπρωτ
ονεκειτοεντωτοπωτουτωενεκρυψα** = lacunæ of two letters.
FINAL READING OF THE INSCRIPTION
Εγω Ιωσηφ ὁ ἀπο Αριμαθειας λαβων το σωμα του Ιησου του ἀπο Να[ζα]ρετ ἀπο του μνημειου ὁπου το πρωτον ἐκειτο ἐν τω τοπω τουτω ἐνεκρυψα
[ ] = letters supplied.
"TRANSLATION INTO ENGLISH OF THE INSCRIPTION
"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.
"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.
"Dr. Schmöulder, the famous savant from Berlin, has arrived at Jerusalem, and is in communication with the German Emperor regarding the discovery.
"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.
"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.
"The use of the first aorist 'ἐνεκρυψα,' 'I hid,' seems 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 'κεκρυφα,' 'I have hidden,' would have been used."
So the simple, bald narrative ended, without a single attempt at sensationalism on the part of the newspaper.
Just as Father Ripon laid down the newspaper, with shaking hands and a pallid face, Sir Michael Manichoe strode into the room.
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.
He glanced furtively at Father Ripon and then sank into a chair by the bedside.
The clergyman rose and dressed hastily. "We will speak of this in the library," he said, controlling himself by a tremendous effort. "Meanwhile——"
He took some sal volatile from his dressing-case, gave some to his host, and drank some also.
As they went down-stairs a brilliant sun streamed into the great hall. The world outside was bright and frost-bound.
The bell of the private chapel was tolling for matins.
The sound struck on both their brains very strangely. Sir Michael shuddered and grew ashen grey. Ripon recovered himself first.
He placed his arm in his host's and turned towards the passage which led to the chapel.
"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."
They passed into the vaulted chapel with the seven 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.
The stately monotone went on, echoing through the damp breath of the morning.
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.
The two elderly men said the creed after the priest in firm, almost triumphant voices:
"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...."
And those two, as they came gravely out of church and walked to the library, knew 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.
The voice of Peter called down the ages:
"This Jesus hath God raised up, whereof we are all witnesses."
[CHAPTER IV]
THE DOMESTIC CHAPLAIN'S TESTIMONY
When 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.
As this was being explained Mr. Wilson, the private chaplain, Schuabe, and Canon Walke entered the room. The Duke of Suffolk did not appear.
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.
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—these were the means used by the young artist employed by Sir Michael to decorate the room.
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.
The glowing fire, the luxurious domesticity of the 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.
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.
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.
"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—and it bears every hall-mark of the truth even at this early stage—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."
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 a vista that had suddenly become extremely dazzling, imminently near.
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.
The lady's calm, intellectual face, with its clear eyes and smooth bands of hair, waited with interest, but without impatience, for other views.
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.
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.
"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 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—God grant that it will not—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."
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—and I agree with Mrs. Armstrong in the extreme probability of this news being absolute fact, for Hands and Schmöulder are names of weight—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—a dislike to the clergy as the representatives of the Church, a 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 feeling; conviction 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."
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.
"You are exultant, Mr. Schuabe," he said coldly, "but you will hardly be so long."
"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 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, 'Religion ought to mean simply reverence and love for the Ethical Ideal, and the desire to realise that Ideal in life.' 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."
"Yes, Mr. Schuabe," said Mrs. Armstrong, "you are right, incalculably right. It is to human intellect and that alone—the great Intellect of The Nazarene among others—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—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)—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."
"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 accepted, bring to the Christians? Localise it, and look at the English Church—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."
The while these august ones had been speaking, Father Wilson, the domestic chaplain at Fencastle, had remained silent but attentive.
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.
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.
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 shock, that he cared little or nothing for the society he was in.
"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 called 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 know Him, if we can look back over a life richer and fuller because we have known Him, if we know, every man, the plague of his own heart, then your explorers may discover anything and we shall not believe. It is easy to prophesy as you have been doing all this meal-time—it is popular once more to shout the malignant 'Crucify'—but events will show you how utterly wrong you are in your estimate of the Christian character."
They all stared at the chaplain. His sudden vigorous outburst, the harsh, unlovely voice, the contempt in it, was almost stupefying at first.
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.
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.
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 insane tempest within. He smiled slightly. That was all.
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.
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.
"A fanatic," said Mrs. Armstrong.
Neither Walke nor Schuabe replied.
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.
In the chapel Wilson knelt on the chancel step, praying that help and light might come to men and the imminent darkness pass away.
[CHAPTER V]
DEUS, DEUS MEUS, QUARE DERELIQUISTI!
The 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.
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.
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.
A battalion of special correspondents from every European and American paper of importance followed hot upon Harold Spence's trail.
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—Hands, Schmöulder—conveyed no meaning whatever. Nine tenths of the population of England knew nothing of the work of archæologists in Palestine, had never even heard of the Exploring Society.
Had Consols fallen a point or two the effect would have been far greater, the fact would have made more stir.
The great dailies of equal standing with the Wire 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 Wire 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.
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.
But beneath the surface, and among the real influencers of public opinion, great anxiety was felt.
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.
The following paragraph, in substance, appeared in the leader page of all the English papers. It was disseminated by the Press Association:
"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 Daily Wire 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 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 Daily Wire, 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."
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.
The Westminster Gazette in its third edition then published a further statement. The public learned:
"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, en route 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 knowledge, are a committee from a recent conference at Lambeth, and are proceeding to Jerusalem to investigate the alleged discovery in the Holy City."
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.
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.
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.
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.
It was as though a great and ominous bell had begun to toll over the world.
The faces of people in the streets were universally pale.
It was remarked that the noises of London, the traffic, the movement of crowds engaged upon their daily business, lost half their noise.
The shops were full of Christmas gifts, but no one seemed to enter them.
In addition to the telegrams a single leading article appeared in the Daily Wire, which burnt itself, as the extremest cold burns, into the brains of Englishmen.
"(1) TERRIBLE RIOTS IN JERUSALEM
"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 'Hadda Kuber Saidna,' '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.
"Reuter."
"Later.—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."
"(2) SIR ROBERT LLWELLYN'S PARTY TO BE CONVEYED IN A WAR-SHIP
"Malta.—Orders have been received here from the Admiralty that the gunboat Velox is to proceed at once 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 Velox 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."
"(3) Berlin.—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."
"(4) Rome.—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 Voce della Populo."
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.
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 Daily Wire:
"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.
"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.
"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 débris 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. 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 savants 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.
"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.
"We have informed the Prime Minister of our intention, and may state that, despite the opposition of the Church Party, Lord —— is in sympathy with it.
"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 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.
"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.
"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.
"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.
"And now, in the concluding portion of this article, 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.
"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—Jah-weh, θεος—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."
During the afternoon preceding the publication of the above article, the three principal proprietors had met at the offices of the paper and had held a long conference with Mr. Ommaney, the editor.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"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."
"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."
[CHAPTER VI]
HARNESS THE HORSES; AND GET UP, YE HORSEMEN, AND STAND FORTH WITH YOUR HELMETS; FURBISH THE SPEARS, AND PUT ON THE BRIGANDINES.—JER. XLVI: 4
Father Ripon 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.
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.
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.
A rugged, ascetic place, four walls to work and pray in, with just the necessary tools and no more. Yet there was no affectation 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 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—for example—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.
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.
The report had now appeared for two days.
The priest took up The Tower, a weekly paper, the official organ, not of the pious Evangelical party within the Church, but of the ultra-Protestant.
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:
"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.
"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—Disbelief, Doubt, Desolation, Detraction, Demoralisation, and Dismay. Rome and Ritualism have received a shock which demolishes and destroys the very foundation of their sinful system.
"Carnal in its conception it cannot survive.
"'The worship of the corporeal presence of Christ's natural flesh and blood' (vide the so-called Black 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.'
"'The times of this ignorance God winked at, but now commandeth all men everywhere to repent.'
"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.'—2 Cor. v. 16.
"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.
"Men have always wondered that the Apostles, in preaching their risen Lord, attempted no explanation of His manifestations of Himself.
"We can understand now why it was that they were divinely protected from imagining that the spiritual Body is a dead body revived.
"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 elements, and again and again through the centuries is employed in other organisms.
"'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?'
"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.'
"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.
"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.
"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.
"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.
"'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 'letter,' and so in some degree has lost the assistance of 'the spirit which giveth life.'
"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.
"Some readjustment of formularies may be conceded to weak brethren.
"Our great Reformers drew up that marvellous manifesto of the Protestant faith—'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.'
"England was at that time—alas, how often has it been so!—inclined to compromise.
"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.
"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.'
"It has always been the curse of Christendom that man desired to express in words the ineffable.
"'Intruding into those things which he hath not seen, vainly puffed up by his fleshly mind.'
"But it need not now be difficult with the aid of a Protestant Parliament, which has so recently and so 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.
"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.
"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.'
"As Matthew Arnold put it, on the true grave of Jesus 'the Syrian stars look down,' but the risen Christ, glorious in His Spiritual 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."
As he read the clever trimming article and marked the bitterness of its tone, the priest's face grew red with anger and contempt.
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.
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.
To-morrow the great meeting of those who still believed Christ died and rose again from the dead was to be held.
The terrible "Report" had been issued. During the forty hours of its existence everything was already beginning to crumble away. To-morrow the Church Militant must speak to the world.
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....
Everything seemed dark, black, hopeless....
He picked up the Report once more to study it, as he had done fifty times that day.
But before he opened it he knelt in prayer.
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.
What were logic, proofs of stone-work, the reports of archæologists, to This?
Here in this lonely chamber Christ was, and spoke with His servant, bidding him be of good comfort.
With bright eyes, full of the glow of one who walks with God, the priest opened the pamphlet once more.
[CHAPTER VII]
THE HOUR OF CHAOS
Although, 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.
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.
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.
It was Wednesday evening at Walktown.
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 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.
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.
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.
The harsh trumpeting of Mr. Philemon, the vestry clerk's final "Amen," was almost jubilant.
As Mr. Byars walked home he saw that the three great Unitarian chapels which he had to pass en route 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.
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 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.
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.
THE DOWNFALL OF CHRISTIANITY
And then in smaller type,
Anthropomorphism an Exploded Superstition
He walked on more hurriedly through the dark.
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.
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.
His speeches, of enormous power and force, were delivered daily and reported verbatim in all the newspapers. He became the Marlborough of a campaign.
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.
With a sickness of heart, an utter weariness that was almost physical nausea, the vicar let himself into his house with a latch-key.
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.
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.
"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."
For two weeks Gortre had lain prostrate in the house of his future father-in-law.
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 which need cause no one any alarm, and which was, in fact, nothing at all in comparison to his former illness.
His fine physical strength asserted itself and helped him to an easy bodily recovery.
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.
"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."
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.
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.
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 were deserting their posts, the Church she loved seemed tottering, a horrid confusion and anarchy was everywhere.
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.
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.
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.
"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 know, 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 darkness. But in comparison to the rest of the world, how many have that confidence?"
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!"
"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."
"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."
"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—very dark and terrible ones, I fear—I want you to give me a résumé 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."
"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—Sir Michael Manichoe's—a Papal Bull was issued. Here it is, translated in The Tablet, magnificent in its brevity and serenity."
He took a paper from the table beside him and began to read:
"VENERABLE BRETHREN,—HEALTH AND APOSTOLIC BENEDICTION
"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 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.
"And, with the help of the united prayers of the faithful, We earnestly implore forgiveness for those who speak evil of holy things.
"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.'
"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.
"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."
"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."
"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."
"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.
"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 The Tower in an article which says that, though the actual body of Christ is now proved never to have risen from the dead, the spiritual 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.[1] 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 and remain Christian. The result everywhere is chaos; men are resigning their livings, there have been several suicides—isn't it horrible to think of?—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."
"And the Bishops?"
"Most of them don't know what to do. Of course, the great leaders of spiritual thought, W——, for instance, and G——, 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 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."
"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!"
"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 cannot understand, what is utterly beyond the power of any of us to appreciate, is what this all means. 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 know, you know, that our Lord rose from the dead."
"I believe that to me, of all men in England, The Hand of God has given the key to the mystery," said Gortre.
Mr. Byars started and looked uneasily at him.
"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."
He watched Basil as he spoke, but before he had finished his sentence he saw something in the young man's face which sent the blood leaping and tearing through his veins.
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.
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.
[CHAPTER VIII]
THE FIRST LINKS
"Ihave been piecing things together gradually, as I lay silent up-stairs," said Gortre, drawing his chair a little closer to the fire.
"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"—he spoke the name with a shudder of horror that instinctively communicated itself to Mr. Byars—"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, something outside of myself. I went, feeling that I was on the threshold of some discovery."
He paused for a moment, white and tired with the intensity of his narrative.
"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—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:
"'WATCH AND PRAY.'
"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 intellectual 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 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 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!'"
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."
"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 afraid of God. I saw his awful secret in his eyes, this man, antichrist indeed, believes in our Lord, 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—do you remember how the picture of Christ fell and broke when Schuabe came?—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—that is what people would have said—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?"
Again Mr. Byars showed his intense interest by a sudden movement of the muscles of his face. But he did not speak, and Gortre continued:
"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 Pannier d'Or. 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 has been made. Llwellyn expressed himself as believing that—I think I remember something like his actual words—'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."
"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."
"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, 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."
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.
Then Gortre's tired, but even and deliberate, voice continued:
"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 en route 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 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. She told me that he had been for some time in Palestine. 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—that was the woman's name—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."
He stopped, worn out, and glanced inquiringly at Mr. Byars.
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 private and secret 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."
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 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. The hand of God is leading me towards the truth."
"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."
"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."
"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."
The strain had been too great, he was growing older; he bent his head on his hands, while the darkness crept into his soul.
[CHAPTER IX]
PARTICULAR INSTANCES, CONTRASTING THE OLD LADY AND THE SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT
The 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.
The feast of Christmas was over. Throughout the world the festival had fallen chill and cold on the hearts of mankind. The Adeste Fideles 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.
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.
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.
"Basil," said the vicar, "you are going from us into what must be the unknown—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."
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.
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.
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.
Helena and Basil walked slowly up and down the platform, saying farewell.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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."
Suddenly, with a slight smile of anticipation, he seemed to gather himself up for discussion.
"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."
"Because the labouring man has generally failed to reach the Church," said Gortre, smiling. "But you mean Disestablishment is near, I suppose?"
"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."
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.
"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 religion. That is an entire mistake, as you will find."
"It's destroyed already," said the man, "let alone what's going 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."
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.
Gortre recognised the curious Cornish tones at once, and looked up with sudden interest.
"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."
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.
"Well, Mother," he said, "let's hear what you've got ter say. Fair do's in argument is only just and proper."
"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."
The workman winked at Gortre with huge enjoyment, and settled himself comfortably in his place.
"Then you don't hold with Disestablishing the Church, Mother?" he said.
"I do take no stock in Church," she replied, "begging the gentleman's pardon"—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."
"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,—it's all false what the Bible says, it's been proved. I suppose you've heard about that in Cornwall?"
"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 Western Morning News 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, thinking it a school o' fish, and not knowing 'tis but moonshine. It's want of experience that do make folk talk so.'"
"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 proof 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, and proving it, and here's you with no learning at all just saying it is, with no proof whatever."
"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—ah! 'twas a bitter nailing, a bitter nailing, my dear!"—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—"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."
"Well, I know the sort of man," said the workman, with conviction. His interest was roused, that unfailing interest which the poorer classes take in each other's family history.
"Then you do know that nothing won't turn them from their evil ways?"
"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."
"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."
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 knew, the precious possession of thousands still. What did it matter to these sturdy Nonconformists in the lone West that savants 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.
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.
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.
Always most sensitive to the atmosphere 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.
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 débris of a supper, a pâté, some long-necked bottles which had held Niersteiner, a hideous box of pink satin and light blue ribbons half full of glacé plums and chocolates.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"I can see you are rather sick, old man," he said. "Better have it out and done with, don't you think?"
"Tell me all about it, old fellow," said Gortre.
"Well, there isn't very much to tell, only when I came back from Palestine after all that excitement I felt 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."
"I thought you'd got over all that, Harold; because, putting it on no other grounds, you know the game is not worth the candle."
"So I had, Basil, before"—he swallowed something in his throat—"before this 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—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—when I got out there and saw 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—a terrible feeling—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."
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.
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 débâcle was but another, if indirect, testimony to the power of Faith.
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.
It is noticeable that there was by this time hardly any doubt in Gortre's mind as to the truth of his suspicions.
"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—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."
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.
[CHAPTER X]
THE TRIUMPH OF SIR ROBERT LLWELLYN
In 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.
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.
The electric lights burnt steadily in their silk shades, the gleams falling upon the elaborate table furniture in a thousand points of dancing light.
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.
The great archæologist was ordering dinner for himself and a guest with much thought and care.
Crême d'asperge à la Reine
in his neat writing, the letters distinct from one another—almost like an inscription in Uncial Greek character, one might have fancied.
Turbot à l'Amiral promised well; the plump, powerful fingers wrote it down.
Poulardes du Mans rôties with petits pois à la Française with a salade Niçoise to follow; that would be excellent! Then just a little suprème de pêches, à la Montreuil, which is quite the best kind of suprème, then some Parmesan before the coffee.
"Quite a simple dinner, Painter," he said to the steward of the room,—the famous "small dining-room" with its alcoves and discreet corners,—"simple but good. Of course you will tell Maurice that it is for me. 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."
They went carefully into the wines.
"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 apéritif."
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 Place Carrousel, and was worth its weight in gold.
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.
Llwellyn sipped the precious liquid with an air of the most intense enjoyment. His face glowed with enthusiasm.
"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."
He got up from the table and moved silently over the heavy carpet to the door.
It was about seven o'clock. At eight Constantine Schuabe was coming to the Sheridan Club to dine.
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.
He stretched out his feet to the blaze and idly watched the reflection in the points of his shining boots.
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.
Llwellyn picked up a sixpenny illustrated paper, devoted to amusements and the lighter side of life, and lazily opened it.
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:
"The six Trocadero girls whom I remember in Paris recently billed as 'The Cocktails,' never forget that grace is more important in dancing than mere agility. They are youthful looking, pretty and supple, and their manœuvres are cunningly devised. The diseuse of the troupe, Mdlle. Nepinasse, sings the Parisian success, Viens Poupoule, 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. Poupoule, 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 insouciance, 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."
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. 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.
And all his resources, all those of the theatre people with whom she had been so long associated, had utterly failed to trace her.
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.
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.
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.
Schuabe, on his part, seemed depressed and in poor spirits. 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.
"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—this asparagus soup is excellent."
"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!"
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.
He recovered himself quickly, anxious, it seemed, to betray his thoughts no further.
"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.
"Exactly," said Llwellyn. "I've got everything I wanted a few months ago, and one of the principal inducements for wanting it has gone."
"Oh! you mean that girl?" answered Schuabe, contemptuously. "Well, buy another. They are for sale in all the theatres, you know."
"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—" He ground his teeth savagely, his face became purple, he was unable to finish his sentence.
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.
"Gortre has come back to London. He has been here nearly a week," said Schuabe, quickly.
The other started. "You know his movements then? What has he to do with you?"
"More than, perhaps, you think. Llwellyn, that young man is dangerous!"
"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."
"At any rate, I take sufficient interest in that person's movements to have them reported to me daily."
"Why on earth——?"
"Simply because he guesses, or will guess, at the truth about the Damascus Gate sepulchre!"
Llwellyn grew utterly white. When he spoke it was with several preliminary moistenings of the lips.
"But what proof can he have?"
"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."
The big man gave a sigh of relief. "Well, you manage as you think best," he said. "Confound him! He deserves all he gets—let's change the subject. It's a little too Adelphi-like to be amusing."
"I am going to hear Pachmann in the St. James's Hall. Will you come?"
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—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?"
Schuabe's voice shook a little as he replied shortly.
For a brief moment the veil was raised. Each saw the other with eyes full of the fear that was lurking within them.
For weeks they had been at cross purposes, simulating a courage and indifference they did not feel.
Now each knew the truth.
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
The new pied à terre was furnished with great luxury. It was not the garish luxury and vulgar splendour of Bloomsbury Court—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.
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.
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.
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.
The electric bell of the flat rang sharply outside in the passage. His man was out, and he rose to answer it himself.
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.
He went out into the passage and opened the front door. A woman stood there.
She moved, and the light from the hall shone on her face.
The eyes were brilliant, the lips were half parted.
It was Gertrude Hunt.
They were sitting on each side of the fire.
Gertrude was pale, but her dark beauty blazed at him.
She was smoking a cigarette, just as in the old time.
A little table with a caraffe of brandy and bottles of seltzer in a silver stand stood between them.
Llwellyn's face was one large circle of pleasure and content. His eyes gleamed with an evil triumph as he looked at the girl.
"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!"
"Yes, I got tired of it," she repeated, but in a curiously strained voice.
He was too exhilarated to notice the strange manner of her reply.
"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."
She seemed to make an effort to throw off something that oppressed her.
"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 everything. Let's be as we were before. No more secrets!"
He seemed to hesitate for a moment.
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.
"Tell me everything, Bob," she whispered into his ear.
The man surrendered himself to her, utterly, absolutely.
"Gertie," he said, "I'll tell you the queerest story you ever heard."
He laughed wildly.
"I've tricked the whole world by Jove! cleared fifty thousand pounds, and made fools of the whole world."
She laughed, a shrill, high treble.
"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."
"By God, I will," he cried. "I'll tell you the whole story, little girl." His voice was utterly changed.
"Yes, everything!" she repeated fiercely.
Her body shook violently as she spoke.
The man thought it was in response to his caresses.
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.
"No more secrets, Bob?"
"No more secrets, Gertie; but how pale you look! Take some brandy, little girl. Now, I'm going to make you laugh! Listen!"
[CHAPTER XI]
PROGRESS
Sir Michael Manichoe, 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.
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.
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."
Father Ripon nodded, without speaking.
There was another interval of silence.
Then Spence spoke. "Of course it is only a chance," 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."
"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."
"The greatest possible care," repeated Sir Michael. "On the shoulders of us four people hangs an incredible burden. We must do nothing until we are sure. 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."
"It is hard," said Father Ripon. "But probably one's mind is dazzled with the consequences, the size, 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."
"Perhaps the size of the operation blinds people—" Spence was continuing, when the door opened and the butler showed Gortre into the room.
He wore a heavy black cloak and carried a Paisley travelling rug upon his arm.
The three waiting men started up at his approach, with an unspoken question on the lips of each one of them.
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.
"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 have 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."
"Have you had anything to eat?" asked Sir Michael.
"No, sir, and I'm hungry after my journey. I'll have some of this cold beef, and tell you everything that has happened while I eat."
He sat down, began his meal, and told his story in detail.
"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—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—at that point—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—there are two—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 refused to believe or discuss the thing. So utterly different from townspeople! They simply felt and knew intuitively that the statements made in the papers must 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 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 couldn't 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—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—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 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—once from Alexandria, from one or two places on the Continent, and twice from the German hotel, the 'Sabîl,' in Jerusalem."
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:
"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."
"This is of great importance, Gortre," said Sir Michael; "we have something definite to go upon."
"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.
"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—and it is extremely probable—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."
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:
"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——"
His voice failed him. The frightful wrath and anger took him and shook him like a reed—this tall, black-robed figure—it twisted him with a physical convulsion inexpressibly painful to witness.
For near a minute Father Ripon stood among them thus, and they were rigid with sympathy, with alarm.
Then, with a heavy sob, he turned and fell upon his knees in silent prayer.
[CHAPTER XII]
A SOUL ALONE ON THE SEA-SHORE
The 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.
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.
Over the flat expanses the tide, with no obstacle to slacken or impede its progress, rushes with furious haste—as fast, so the fisherfolks tell, as a good horse in full gallop.
It was the beginning of the winter afternoon on the day after Gortre had visited Eastworld.
There was little wind, but the sky hung low in cold and menacing clouds, ineffably cheerless and gloomy.
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.
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.
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.
The woman was thinking deeply. Her head was bowed as she walked, the lips set close together.
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.
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 seemed a great gulf between them which she never cared to pass even in thought.
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—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.
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.
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 walked along the shore. Men were becoming reckless; the hosts of evil triumphed on every side.
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.
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....
She had asked Gortre to come to her again in a week.
In that time, she had said, she might have some further information for him.
And now she was out here, alone on the sands, to ask her soul and God what she was to do.
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.
She knew her power over her former lover,—if that pure word could describe such an unhallowed passion,—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 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—the rouge-pot, the belladonna—well, they were still available, though she had thought to have done with them for ever.
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.
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,—
"If I go back to Bob and pretend I'm tired of being good, he will tell me all he's done."
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,—
"If I go back to Bob and pretend I'm tired of being good, he will tell me what he has done."
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?
The wind fifed round her, shrieking.
Could she do this thing?
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?
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.
If she went back it might 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.
In her misery and struggle she began more and more to think in this way.
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.
"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."
And then her decision was taken.
The light died out of her face, the hope also. She became old in a sudden moment.
And, with one despairing prayer for forgiveness, she began to walk towards her cottage—there was a fast train to town.
She believed that there could hardly be forgiveness for her act, and yet the thought of "the others" gave her strength to sin.
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.