He tried to move—but his feet seemed fastened to the earth with iron weights; he essayed to speak,—but his tongue refused to obey the impulse of his brain. On, still on, the voice of the Atheist-Preacher in England’s ancient Abbey flowed, with that equable fluency which comes of long and careful elocutionary practice, and Josiah McNason, wedged as he was into the close-pressing crowd, wondered how long he would have to stand there, listening to what at another more convenient time he might very likely have considered a clever and “up-to-date” exposition of the “New Feeling.” All at once he saw a great Light, like that of the sun at noonday, suddenly begin to shine. With glorious effulgence it formed into a halo of exceeding brilliancy, spreading from north to south, from east to west of the old Church, between the Choir and the Nave, and with a palpitating dread shaking his very soul, Josiah watched it widening and ever widening, till taking upon itself the shape of a Cross, it fired the whole scene with the radiance of a golden morning! Yet no one saw it apparently,—no one save he, the world’s great millionaire, who, denying the “supernatural,” was for the time under “supernatural” sway. And trembling, he beheld that wondrous Cross move mysteriously forward, till its light poured with a gracious beauty and beneficence over all the dull worn faces of the people—on men and women and children alike,—though, as it moved, it left the face of the Atheist-Preacher covered with darkness. And in the very heart and centre of its environment lustre, a majestic Figure paced slowly—a god-like Man, whose Features were sorrowful, and whose Brow was crowned with Thorns. A faint whisper floated on the air like the sigh of small spirit voices in plaintive unison:
“Despised and Rejected! Love, Divine and Human, Love, Perfect and Eternal! Despised and Rejected! Even NOW!”
Down, down on his knees fell the man of many millions, overcome by the most poignant fear and shame he had ever known. He had disbelieved! He knew it at last,—he knew that he had, for the sake of public conventionality, made mere hypocritical pretence to worship One Whose sublime teaching he outraged every day of his life, Whose commands he ignored, and Whose example he had never at any time tried to follow. And now—now! With pulses beating as though they would burst, and eyes dim with painful tears wrung from the centre of the rocky region of his heart, he sought to cover his face,—but was forced against his will to gaze, half blind and giddy as he was, on that majestic advancing Shape, which appeared to draw away all the shadows of the great cathedral and transfuse them into light. He noticed, with an extraordinary anguish, which to him was as new as it was keen, that the crowded congregation of people among whom he knelt seemed totally unaware of the shining Presence that passed them by,—and as that Presence moved slowly and silently towards the closed doors of the Abbey, he felt that he must cry out wildly:—
“Look—look! Kneel down and pray! Entreat Him not to leave us, for if He goes, why should we remain!”
But all utterance was denied him. He could only watch and tremble. Slowly, very slowly, with a grand reproach expressed in every feature of its glorious Countenance, the heavenly Vision of the Crucified moved on,—the doors of the Abbey opened noiselessly, as though flung aside by invisible hands, admitting a broad shaft of winter moonlight from the outer air,—and so, never once looking back, it passed out and away from the crowded church of “Christian” worshippers, and, melting into the silvery radiance of the moon, disappeared. The doors closed darkly behind it—and black shadows drooped from the dim cathedral arches, hanging drearily over the people, and filling the aisles and chapels with a dull noxious vapour—and then with a sudden startling clangour, out rang the Bells again! The Bells! Hoarse and reproachful!—full of menace and foreboding, loneliness and despair! Such a tolling chime they gave as might fit the burial of all the faiths and aspirations of the world! They spoke of Death, not Life!—of the black grave from which all hope of resurrection had been taken,—with a sob in their savage metal throats they proclaimed the closing of the gates of Heaven!—with harsh resistance they bewailed the loss of confidence in God, of trust in the future, of comfort in sorrow—and with dismal and heavy reverberation they thundered forth “Death! Death! Death is the end of all! There shall be no Hereafter!”
Within the Abbey the people looked doubtfully at one another. Some smiled—some sighed,—one or two had tears in their eyes. A faint whisper ran from lip to lip. “Christmas Day!” they murmured—“It is Christmas Day!” And again they sighed and smiled. But it was evident that the old Festival for them held no meaning—no tender or pious memory. Once perhaps it might have had—but now—! Why now the very Spirit and Soul of Christmas had departed!—the doors of the Christian Church itself were closed against it,—the Divine Friend of Mankind had passed by unheeded, and had gone away from those who were passively permitting His honour to be assailed,—what then was Christmas Day but the mere empty name of a discarded Blessing! The dark shadows steadily thickened,—and Josiah, still grovelling on the ground, with the awful clang of the moaning Bells in his ears, felt that he was being stifled and pressed down into a tomb of everlasting icy cold,—when he was suddenly plucked up from his knees by the grip of a too familiar claw, and lo!—the Goblin stood confronting him with a sad and sober grin.
“Dull place, Westminster Abbey!” it remarked—“Oh hoo-roo! All damp and dismals! I wouldn’t be an England’s great man for anything! It’s the last reward an England’s great man ever gets,—the ‘honour’—oh, hoo-roo!—of being allowed to moulder among the most mouldered remains that ever mouldered! Hoo-roo! I’m glad the body I used to wear when I was a Churchwarden is all turned into daisies in a country churchyard. Pretty things, daisies! Fancy your old wrinkles turning into them!”
McNason was silent. He stood quietly resigned to the Goblin’s clutch, waiting for its next move. And while he waited, he saw the crowd in front of him sway, part asunder, and begin to disperse,—while the Atheist-Preacher, descending from the pulpit, held brief conversation with a man who took from his hand a roll of paper. McNason could hear him speaking, despite the space between them.
“Here’s my sermon in full,”—he said—“I hope you will give it the widest publicity. The ‘copy’ contains a good many effective bits which I was obliged to leave out with a mixed congregation. You never know how people may take the upsetting of their cherished creeds! In such work the Press can do more than the Pulpit. Nothing like a good Press discussion for shaking the old foundations! And I think my remarks are likely to cause a fluttering in the dove-cotes!”
The reporter—for such he was—smiled.