A SECRET AND A THUNDERBOLT.
President Jardine was dead.
Low lay the head, and still the form of the man of whom flatterers
had often spoken as the uncrowned King--an Oliver the Second, the
Cromwell of the Twentieth Century. His, indeed, had been the power
symbolised by the ancient Crown, the Sceptre, and the Orb. The
vanished majesty of great dynasties--the Normans, the Plantaganets,
the Tudors, the Stuarts, and the House of Hanover--had but paved the
way for the practical rule of this man of the people. Even yet, it is
true, the jealousy of political parties had preserved--none knew for
how long--the title of King for a descendant of Queen Victoria. But a
grudging socialistic democracy had left the legitimate monarch little
more than the dignity of an august pensioner. The King was shorn of
regal authority, deprived of all real prerogative of royalty, and
neither expected nor allowed to take any real part in the government of
his shrunken empire.
And now that the lifeless hand of the President had dropped the real
sceptre, whose hand was to take it up? Was the reign of woman to be
inaugurated on new and bolder lines; or would man, in the nick of time,
re-assert himself? The women had their leader in Catherine Kellick, a
daring, unscrupulous and energetic champion. But where was the leader
of men? Everywhere the lament was uttered: "If only Renshaw were back
at Westminster!" And everywhere the question was asked: "Where is he?
Is it true he is still alive?"
Zenobia's telegram was delivered late at night, and in the absence of
Wilton it was impossible to start immediately. Before daybreak on the
following morning Linton was knocking at the door of his cottage, and
in half-an-hour the little engineer had got the _Bladud_ into working
order.
It was very early, on a calm autumn morning, when Linton, at a sign
from Wilton, stepped on board. The _Bladud_, rose rapidly into the
air, but at first there was nothing to be seen. The atmosphere being
charged with the vapour of the night, the air was warm, and the sky
veiled with a misty curtain of cloud. In eight minutes they had risen
a thousand feet, and the earth below was hidden from them by a woolly
carpet of mist. Rising and rising still, at a height of 5,000 feet, the
_Bladud_ emerged from the clouds, and away in the east was seen a long,
long line, bright as silver. The day was breaking, and the shadows fled
away. Every moment the great silver bar lengthened and broadened, a
moving miracle of the empyrean, at which the young Canadian gazed in
fascination and in awe.
But the marvel of marvels was to come; and it came swiftly, in that
deep silence of the spheres, which is as the silence of Him by whom all
things were made. Yes, all created things, thought Linton, filled with
wonder--the earth beneath them, still partly hidden from sight, the
limitless realms of the air through which they moved, and this great
orb of day that was rising as if from the depths of some immeasurable
crater. Presently the sun, as it climbed above the cloud rim, began to
flood with pure and glorious light the rolling tracts of vapour that
surrounded them, like an illimitable molten sea, whose billows glowed
and gleamed beneath the darting beams.
Higher and higher rose the _Bladud_, a tiny speck in the midst of the
immeasurable clouds, which ever broke and crumbled into new shapes and
shreds in full light of the broadening sunshine. Already the morning
mists below were in some measure dispelled, and through the breaking
vapour glimpses of the earth became more plainly visible.
At a height of 9,000 feet, the surrounding oceans and mountains of
vapour assumed a hue of roseate violet that far transcended the beauty
of anything upon which Linton's eyes had ever looked before; while from
the east a thousand golden rays--pathways of light and glory--were
darted forth above the sleeping world. When they had reached a height
of 13,000 feet, the air was almost clear, and far down below London
became visible--London so mighty, yet now so insignificant! Linton
could see a railway train creeping out of Paddington like some little
caterpillar on a garden path. The steam from the engine was but a thin
serpentine mist, like smoke from a man's pipe. Everything below was
flat and dwarfed to one mean artificial-looking plane. Away East, the
dome of St. Paul's seemed scarcely more important than a thimble. The
Docks were merely an elaborate toy in sections; the rolling Thames a
winding ditch; the ships like little playthings for young children.
Yet the range of view had become enormous, and as the morning cleared
Wilton pointed out hills and church steeples that were a hundred miles
away.
In that solemn and wonderful hour Linton Herrick felt within himself,
as Goethe did, the germs of undeveloped faculties--faculties that men
must not expect to see developed in life as it is, so far, known to
us. Yet there was the aspiration in his heart and soul. How glorious
for the astral body to plunge into the aerial space; to look unmoved on
some unfathomable abyss; to glide above the roaring seas; to mount with
eagle's strength to heights unthinkable!
Looking upon the supernal grandeur of the sunrise, he realised that
he was in the presence of God's daily miracle. It steeped his soul in
faith and thankfulness.
* * * * *
Linton, guessing that the President was _in extremis_, nevertheless had
hoped to be in time to bid a last farewell to the taciturn man who had
shown him much friendly feeling, and of whom, as Zenobia's father, he
was anxious to think the best. But when the _Bladud_ descended on the
spacious lawn of the house on Bathwick Hill, the blinds were down. The
whole place wore that sad and subtle air which impresses itself upon a
scene of death. There was no need to ask questions. Linton understood.
A faint, half-hearted yelp from Peter was the first sound that greeted
him. Presently, inside the darkened house, he awaited the coming of
Peter's mistress.
The door opened very quietly, and Zenobia entered; a slim, sad figure,
the blackness of whose dress in that dim light heightened the pallor
of her face. Her hand was in his own. He looked into her eyes; the
gaze of the lover softened and chastened to that of the tender and
compassionate friend.
"You understand how much I feel for you," he said.
"Yes," she answered gratefully, "It was good of you to come. But, in a
sense, it is too late."
He waited quietly for what she chose to say.
"I mean," she added "that I hoped you could come before ... before the
end. But at the last it was sudden, so sudden."
"You have something to tell me. There is something I can do for you in
your trouble?"
Zenobia paused for a moment. Then, with some effort and a faint tinge
of colour coming to her cheeks, continued:
"If you had come while my father lived, I could have told him...." She
looked down, and drew a long deep sigh of distress. "I could have told
him," she then went on with greater firmness, "that you, if you were
willing, could help us, though so late, to do an act of justice to
another. Mr. Herrick, it grieves me to tell you...."
She turned away and rested her elbows on the marble mantelpiece, unable
for the moment to proceed.
"Perhaps I know more than you suppose," he said very gently, "and,
perhaps, I can guess the rest."
"No," turning towards him, "I won't ask you to guess. Why should you
help me, unless I tell you all, everything--everything, fully and
frankly? Will you read this?"
He look the paper the girl placed in his hands, but did not immediately
unfold it.
"I am willing to do anything you can wish, asking no questions," he
said.
She looked at him with eyes that seemed to shine with grateful tears.
"You are good to me. I have no other friends."
"I am your friend," said Herrick, not without a tremor in his voice,
"yours to command, always and in everything."
For the moment she could not speak, but held out her hand to him
impulsively. Holding the slim fingers tenderly, he bent and kissed them.
"That paper," she said, "is my father's will. Will you read it, please!"
Then she sat down and turned away her face.
Linton read the will. The sheets rustled as he turned them over. He
folded and returned them.
"I knew something of this," he said quietly. "Now I understand all. You
need tell me no more."
"Is Mr. Renshaw still living--is it _really_ true that he is still
alive?" she said looking up anxiously.
"Quite true."
"Thank God. Oh! God be thanked for that!"
"It is not too late."
"Only too late for him to know and seek forgiveness."
"You mean your father?"
The girl bowed her head. Then she burst out vehemently: "It must not
be softened down. I know, I feel, the horror, the wickedness of what
was done. I must accept the shame, the punishment. The sins of the
fathers must be visited on the children. It is the law of nature and
the law of God! I want to make atonement; yet nothing can undo the
past, the cruelty and wickedness of all those years of suffering and
imprisonment."
"Renshaw will not harbour revengeful or vindictive feelings, I am sure
of that," Linton answered soothingly. "He is a man of noble character,
and a Christian gentleman."
"And it was he, a man like that, whom my father...." she paused, biting
her trembling lips. "Oh it is horrible, horrible!"
"But he repented, he was sorry--the will proves it," said Linton.
"Yes, it is written there, a public confession, the dying declaration
of his sorrow and his shame. There shall be no concealment. He did not
wish it at the last. The truth must be made known to all the world."
"If Renshaw wishes it. But I do not think he will."
"Where is he now--is he ill, is he safe?"
"He is recovering, getting back his strength, in a monastery in Herm,
one of the smaller Channel Islands. Arrangements are being made for his
return to England at the right moment."
She stood up, interested and excited.
"Yes, yes?"
"A society has been formed--the members call themselves the Friends of
the Phoenix. My uncle and General Hartwell are at the head of it. The
aim is to restore Renshaw to power. He is the only man who can save the
country in the present crisis."
"And you are helping--you are one of them?"
He nodded. "I am to bring him back to England in the _Bladud_ if I have
your permission."
"Don't lose an hour," she cried, "don't lose an hour!"
"Not a moment, when the time is ripe. I am waiting orders. They will
reach me here."
"If only my father could have known of this before he died."
She sighed and looked at him wistfully, then said appealingly: "You
will come upstairs?"
Linton bowed his head and followed her. Upstairs in the room from which
the President had looked out on the lights of Bath for the last time
the sheeted figure lay upon the bed. They paused for a moment side by
side. Then Linton gazed for the last time on the cold and rigid face of
Nicholas Jardine.
Three days later, the sun, shining through the windows of the ancient
Abbey church, fell upon sculptured saint and heavenward-pointing
angel, revealed the lettering on many a mural tablet dedicated
to long-departed men and women, illumined the sombre crowd of
black-clothed worshippers, and gleamed on the silver coffin plate of
the dead President.
Deep organ notes rolled beneath the fretted arches as choir and
congregation, with heads bowed low, raised in mournful cadence the wail
of the _Dies iræ_.
Apart from the girl, by whose side Linton Herrick knelt, perhaps there
were few present who really mourned for Nicholas Jardine. But, as
people do at such a time, they mourned for themselves, they mourned for
humanity; and recent local events--the strange convulsions of nature,
with the apprehension of more terrible possibilities to come, served
to accentuate the feelings of the worshippers. For the moment, at any
rate, they believed in the life of the world to come. They recognised
in the burial of the dead that dread passing through the gate of
judgment to which man, frail man, has ever been predestined. The air
was full of lamentations:
"Day of wrath! O day of mourning!
See fulfill'd the prophets' warning!
Heav'n and earth in ashes burning!
Oh, what fears, man's bosom rendeth,
When from heav'n the Judge descendeth,
On Whose sentence all dependeth!
Wondrous sound the trumpet flingeth,
Through earth's sepulchres it ringeth,
All before the Throne it bringeth!"
Verse after verse the solemn litany continued:
"Ah! that day of tears and mourning,
From the dust of earth returning,
Man for judgment must prepare him;
Spare, O God, in mercy spare him."
The funeral march pealed forth as the body was borne from the Church.
Slowly the congregation dispersed, until at last only one figure
remained, the solitary kneeling form of Zenobia.
* * * * *
Within an hour after Linton had left the cemetery, he received
a telegram in cipher from Sir Robert Herrick. He gave immediate
instructions to Wilton, and sent a message to Zenobia. She came to him
at once.
Linton looked at her with troubled eyes. There was something infinitely
pathetic in the aspect of this slim, fair girl with the sunny hair, on
whose face suffering and distress of spirit suddenly had set so sad a
stamp.
"Good-bye," she answered, "God grant that you may both come safely
back. When Mr. Renshaw is in England, I must see him, I must tell him
all."
With a final pressure of her hand, he turned away. However much his
heart might be wrung at leaving her, however hard to keep back the
words of love and tenderness that rose to his lips, he must be silent
for the moment. There was a task to be performed. It was the hour for
action. Great issues were involved. A national crisis was at hand.
That much Linton knew. But as yet he did not know that the crisis
was to assume a double and appalling complexity. A thunderbolt had
been hurled against England from an unexpected quarter. A swift and
staggering blow, well timed in the hour of Jardine's death, had been
levelled against the remaining pillars of her once proud Empire.