After they had parted for the night, the man who had lost his

memory had studied the little book given to him, and had learned

more or less the system under which Ireland lay. The whole

island, he learned, was the absolute and inalienable possession,

held under European guarantees, of the enclosed Religious Orders,

with whose dominion no interference was allowed. All the business

offices of the country and the ports of the enormous agricultural

industries were concentrated in Dublin and Belfast; the rest of

the island was cultivated, ruled, and cared for by the monks

themselves. (He read drearily through the pages of statistics

showing how once again, as in medieval days, under the labour of

monks the land had blossomed out into material prosperity; and

how this prosperity still increased, year by year, beyond all

reckoning.) Of men, there were the Carthusians, the Carmelites,

the Trappists, and certain sections of Benedictines; of women,

there were the Carmelites, the Poor Clares, the Augustinian

canonesses, and certain other Benedictines. Special arrangements

between these regulated the division of the land and of the

responsibilities; and the Central Council consisted of the

Procurators and other representatives of the various bodies.

In return for the possession of the land, and for the protection

guaranteed by the European governments, one, and one only demand

was made--namely, that a certain accommodation should be

offered--the amount determined by agreement year by year--both

for these Retreat-houses in general, and for what were called

"Hospitals-of-God" in particular. These hospitals were nothing

else in reality than enormous establishments for the treatment of

the mentally unbalanced; for it had been found by recent

experience that the atmosphere supremely successful in such

cases--especially those of certain well-marked types--was the

atmosphere of the strongest and most intense religion. Statistics

had shown without a doubt that, even apart from cases of actual

possession (a phenomenon perfectly recognized now by all

scientists), minds that were merely weak or subject to mental

delusions recovered incalculably more quickly and surely in the

atmosphere of a Religious House than in any other. These cases

too were isolated with the greatest care, owing to the

extraordinary discoveries recently made, and verified over and

over again in the realm of "mental infection."

So Monsignor had learned last night; and as he lay in his little

white room this morning, waiting for the instructions that, he

had been informed, would arrive before he need get up, it seemed

that even to his own tortured brain some breath of relief had

already come. The world seemed perfectly still. Once from far

away he heard the note of a single deep-toned bell; but, for the

rest, there was silence. There was no footstep in the house, no

footstep outside. From where he lay he could see out through his

low window into a tiny high-walled court, white like his own

room, except where the level lawn ran to the foot of the wall and

a row of tawny autumn flowers rose against it. Above the white

carved parapet opposite ran skeins of delicate cloud against the

soft blue sky. It was strange, he thought, to be conscious in

this utter solitude and silence of an incomparable peace. . . .

When he opened his eyes again, he saw that the hooded lay brother

had come in while he dozed, and had begun to set the room to

rights. A door, white like the wall, which he had not noticed

last night, stood open opposite his bed, and he caught sight of a

tiny bathroom beyond. A little fire of wood was leaping in the

white-tiled chimney; and before it stood a table. The window too

was set open, and the pleasant autumn air streamed in.

Then the brother came up to the bedside, his face invisible under

the peaked hood that hung over it. He uttered a sentence or two in

Latin, bidding him get up and dress. He was not to say Mass this

morning. "Father" would come in as soon as he had breakfasted and

give him his instructions for the day. That was all.

Monsignor got out of bed and went into the bathroom, where his

clothes were already arranged. When he came back a quarter of an

hour later, he found a tray set out with simple food and milk on

the table beside the fire. As he finished and said grace the door

opened noiselessly, and a priest in the Carthusian habit came in,

closing the door behind him.

(IV)

As the two faced one another for an instant, the Englishman

perceived in a glance that this monk was one of the most

impressive-looking men he had ever set eyes on. He was well over

six feet in height, and, in his rough, clumsy white dress, he

seemed enormously muscular and powerful. He carried himself

loosely, with an air of strength, almost swinging in his gait.

But it was his face that above all was remarkable. His hood lay

back on his shoulders, and from its folds rose his strong throat

and head, all as hairless as a statue's; and as the priest

glanced at him he saw that strange suggestion as of a bird's

head which some types convey. His nose was long, thin, and

curved; his lips colourless and compressed; his cheeks modelled

in folds and hollows over the bones beneath; and his eyes, of an

extraordinary light grey, looked out under straight upper lids,

as of an eagle.

So much for the physical side.

But, stranger than all this, was the unmistakable atmosphere that

seemed to enter with him--an atmosphere that from one side

produced a sense of great fear and helplessness, and on the other

of a kind of security. In an instant Monsignor felt as a wounded

child might feel in the presence of a surgeon. And, throughout the

interview that followed, this sensation deepened incalculably.

The man said nothing--not even a word of greeting--as he came

across the room. He just inclined his head a little, with a grave

and business-like courtesy, and waved the other back into his

chair. Then, still standing himself, he began to speak in a deep

but quite quiet voice, and very slowly and distinctly.

"You understand, Monsignor, the terms on which you are here? Yes.

Very well. I do not wish you to say Mass until your last morning.

I have spoken to Father Jervis about you. . . .

"Meanwhile, for to-day you are at liberty to walk in the court

outside as much as you wish, to read as you wish--in fact, to

occupy yourself as you like in this room, the ambulatory

downstairs, the roof overhead, and the garden. You are to write

no letters, and to speak to no one. You will have your meals in

the next room alone, where you will also find a few books. I wish

you to get as quiet and controlled as you can. Tomorrow morning I

will come in again at the same time and give you further

directions. You will find a tribune opening out at the end of

this corridor, looking into a chapel where the Blessed Sacrament

is reserved. But I do not wish you to spend there more than one

hour in the course of the day."

The monk was silent again, and did not even raise his eyes.

Monsignor said nothing. There was really nothing to say. He felt

entirely powerless, and not even desirous to speak. He

understood that to obey was simply inevitable, and that silence

was what was wished.

"I do not wish you to rehearse at all what you intend to say to

me to-morrow," went on the monk suddenly. "You are here to show

me yourself and your wounds, and there must be no false shame.

You will say what you feel to-morrow; and I shall say what I

think. I wish you a happy retreat."

Then, again without a word, but with that same inclination of his

head, he went swiftly across the room and was gone.

It was all completely unexpected, and Monsignor sat a few

minutes, astonished, without moving. He had not uttered a

syllable; and yet, in a sense, that seemed quite natural. He had

seen the monk look at him keenly as he came in, and was aware

that this had been an inspection by some new kind of expert.

Probably the monk had heard the outlines of the case from Father

Jervis, and had just looked in this morning, not only to give his

instructions, but to ratify by some peculiar kind of intuition

the account he had heard. Yet the ignominy of it all did not

touch him in the least. He felt more than ever like a child in

the hands of an expert, and, like a child, content to be so.

Conventions and the mutual little flatteries of the world outside

appeared meaningless here. . . .

He said some Office presently, and then set out to explore his ground.

The room he was in communicated with a lobby outside, from which

a staircase descended to a little cloistered and glazed

ambulatory opening on to the garden. Another staircase rose to a

door obviously leading to the roof. Besides the bedroom door

there were two others: the one which he entered first took him

into a little sitting-room also looking on to the garden, and

furnished simply with a table, an easy chair, and a few books;

the other opened directly on to a tiny gallery looking out

sideways upon a perfectly plain sanctuary, with a stone altar, a

lamp, and a curtained tabernacle, which seemed to be a chapel of

some church whose roof only was visible beyond a high closed

screen. He knelt here a minute or two, then he passed back again

to the lobby and ascended the staircase leading to the roof. He

thought that from here he might form some idea as to the place

in which he was.

The flat roof, tiled across, and guttered so as to allow the

rainwater to escape, at first seemed closed in on all sides with

walls over six feet high. Then he perceived that each wall was

pierced with a tiny double window, so contrived that it was

possible to see out easily and comfortably without being seen. He

went straight to one of these and looked through.

As far as he could see stretched what looked like the roofs of a

great town, for the most part flattish, but broken here and

there, and especially towards the horizon, by tall buildings

pierced with windows, and in three or four cases by church

towers. Immediately beneath him lay a vast courtyard like that of

a college, with a cluster of elms, ruddy with autumn colours, in

the midst of the central lawn. There was no human being in sight

on this side; the roofs, many of them parapeted like his own,

stretched out into the distance, their ranks here and there

broken by lines which appeared to indicate roadways running

beneath. He saw a couple of cats on the grass below.

On all sides, as he went from window to window of the little

roofless space, there was the same kind of prospect. In one

direction he thought he recognized the way he must have come

last night; and, looking more carefully, noticed that the town

seemed to be less extended in that direction. Half a mile away

the roofs ceased, standing up against a mass of foliage that

blotted out all beyond. It was here that he caught sight of a

man--a white figure that crossed a patch of road that curved

into sight and out again.

It was extraordinarily still in this Religious town. Certainly

there were a few sounds; a noise of far-off hammering came from

somewhere and presently ceased. Once he heard a door close and

footsteps on stone that faded into silence; once he heard the

cry of a cat, three or four times repeated; and once, all

together, from every direction at once, sounded bells, each

striking one stroke.

He began to walk up and down after a while, marvelling, trying to

reconstruct his ideas once more, and to take in the astonishing

system and organization whose signs were so evident about him.

Certainly it was thorough and efficient. There must be countless

institutions--hospitals, retreat-houses, cloisters, besides all

the offices and business centres necessary for carrying on this

tremendous work; and yet practically no indication of any

movement or bustle made itself apparent. So far as solitude was

concerned, he might be imprisoned in a dead city. And all this

deepened his impressions of peace and recuperation. The silence,

through his knowledge, was alive to him. There must be, almost

within sound of a shout, hundreds of living persons like himself,

yet all intent, in some form or another, upon that same

overwhelming silence in which facts could be received and

relations readjusted.

Yet even this, as he reflected upon it, had certain elements of

terror. Here again, under another disguise, was the force that

he had feared in London--the force that had sent Dom Adrian

noiselessly out of life, that proposed to deal with refractory

instincts in human nature--such as manifested themselves in

Socialism--as a householder might deal with a plague of mice,

drastically and irresistibly; the force that moved the wheels

and drove the soundless engines of that tremendous

social-religious machine of which he too was a part. It was here

too then; it was this that had closed him in here for three days

in his tiny domicile in this great dumb city; it was this that

held the whole under an invisible discipline; it was this that

had looked at him out of the hawk's-eyes, and spoken to him

through the colourless lips of the monk who had given him his

instructions this morning. . . .

Once more then his individuality began to reassert itself, and to

attempt to cast off the spell even of this peace that promised

relief. He became aware of an extraordinary loneliness of soul,

an isolation in the deepest regions of his soul from all others.

The rest of the world, it seemed, had an understanding about

these matters. Father Jervis and the Carthusian no doubt had

talked him over; they accepted as an established and self-evident

philosophy this universal unity and authority; they regarded

himself, who could not yet so accept it, as a spiritual, if not

an actual mental invalid. . . . He had been brought here to be

treated. . . . Well, he would hold his own.

And then another mood came on him--a temptation, as it seemed to

him then, to fling personal responsibility overboard; to accept

this tremendous claim of authority to control even the thoughts

of the heart. Surely peace lay this way. To submit to this

crowned and sceptred Christ; to reject for ever the other--this

meant relief and sanity. . . .

He walked more and more quickly and abruptly up and down the

little tiled space. He was conscious of a conflict all confused

with dust and smoke. He began to hesitate as to which was the

higher, even which was the tolerable course--to sink his

individuality, to throw up his hands and drown, or to assert that

individuality openly and defiantly, and to take the consequences.

(V)

He awoke the next morning after a troubled night, conscious

instantly of a sense of crisis. In one way or another, it seemed,

he would have to come to a decision. The monk would be with him

in less than an hour.

He dressed as before and breakfasted. Then, as the monk did not

come, he went out to the tribune to pray and to prepare himself.

Ten minutes later the door opened quietly, and the lay-brother

who had attended on him bowed to him as he turned, in sign that

he was to come.

The monk was standing by the fireplace as he came in; he bowed

very slightly. Then the two sat down.

* * * * *

"Tell me why you have come here, Monsignor."

The prelate moistened his lips. He was aware again of an emotion

that was partly terror and partly confidence. And there was mixed

with it, too, an extraordinary sense of simplicity.

Conventionalities were useless here, he saw; he was expected to

say what was in his heart, but at first he dared not.

"I . . . I was recommended to come," he said. "My friends thought

I needed a little rest."

The other nodded gently. He was no longer looking straight at

him, the secular priest was relieved to see.

"Yes? And what form does it take?"

Still the patient hesitated. He began a sentence or two,

and stopped again.

Then the monk lifted his great head and looked straight at him.

"Be quite simple, Monsignor," he said, "you need fear nothing.

You are here to be helped, are you not? Then tell me plainly."

Monsignor got up suddenly. It seemed to him that he must move

about. He felt restless, as a man who has lived in twilight might

feel upon coming out into sudden brilliant and healthful

sunlight. He began to walk to and fro. The other said nothing,

but the restless man felt that the eyes were watching and

following every movement. He reflected that it was unfair to be

stared at by eyes that were grey, outlined in black, and crossed

by straight lids. Then he summoned his resolution.

"Father," he said, "I am unhappy altogether."

"Yes? (Sit down, please, Monsignor.)"

He sat down, and leaned his forehead on his hands.

"You are unhappy altogether," repeated the monk. "And what form

does that unhappiness take?"

Monsignor lifted his face.

"Father," he said, "you know about me? You know about my

history? . . . My memory?"

"Yes, I know all that. But it is not that which makes you unhappy?"

"No," cried the priest suddenly and impulsively, "it is not

that. I wish to God it were! I wish to God my memory would

leave me again!"

"Quietly, please."

But the other paid no attention.

"It is . . . it is the world I am living in--this brutal

world.... Father, help me."

The monk drew a breath and leaned back, and his movement had the

effect of a call for silence. Neither spoke for a moment.

Then----

"Just tell me quite simply, from the beginning," said the monk.

(VI)

It was nearly half an hour later that Monsignor ended, and leaned

back, at once exhausted and excited. He had said it all--he had

said even more than he had previously formulated to himself. Now

and then, as he paused, the monk with a word or two, or a

strangely compelling look, had soothed or encouraged him. And he

had told the whole thing--the sense that there was no longer any

escape from Christianity, that it had dominated the world, and

that it was hateful and tyrannical in its very essence. He

confessed that logic was against him, that a wholly Christian

society must protect itself, that he saw no way of evading the

consequences that he had witnessed; and yet that his entire moral

sense revolted against the arguments of his head. It seemed to

him, he said in effect, as if he were held in a grip which

outraged his whole sentiment; as if the universe itself were in a

conspiracy against him. For there was wanting, he said, exactly

that which was most characteristic of Christianity, exactly that

which made it divine--a heavenly patience and readiness to

suffer. The cross had been dropped by the Church, he said, and

shouldered by the world.

The monk sat silent a moment or two, as motionless as he had been

at the beginning. Monsignor perceived by now, even through his

fierce agitation, that this man never moved except for a purpose;

he made no gestures when he spoke; he turned his head or lifted

his eyes only when it was necessary. Then the monk's voice began

again, level and unemotional:

* * * * *

"A great deal of what you say, Monsignor, is merely the effect of

a nervous strain. A nervous strain means that the emotional or

the receptive faculties gain an undue influence over the

reasonable intelligence. You admit that the logic is flawless,

yet that fact does not reassure you, as it would if you were in a

normal condition."

"But----"

"Wait, please, till I have done. I know what you wish to say. It

is that your sense of protest is not merely sentimental, but

rather moral; is it not so?"

Monsignor nodded. It was precisely what he had wished to say.

"That is not true, however. It is true that your moral sense seems

outraged, but the reason is that you have not yet all the data

(the moral sense is a department of the reason, remember). Well,

you admit the logic of society's defending itself; but it seems to

you that that which is, as you very properly said, the divine

characteristic of Christianity--I mean, readiness to suffer rather

than to inflict suffering--is absent from the world; that the

cross, as you said again, has been dropped by the Church.

"Now, if you will reflect a moment, you will see that it is very

natural that that should appear so, in a world that is

overwhelmingly Christian. It is very natural that there should not

be persecution of Christians, for example, since there is no one

to persecute them; and therefore that you should see only the

rights of the Church to rule, and not its divine prerogative of

pain. But I suppose that if you saw the opposite, if you were to

watch the other process, and see that the Church is still able to

suffer, and to accept suffering, in a manner in which the world is

never capable of suffering, I imagine you would be reassured."

Monsignor drew a long breath.

"I thought so. . . . Well, does not the Contemplative Life

reassure you? And are you aware that in Ireland alone there are

four millions of persons wholly devoted to the Contemplative

Life? And that, so great is the rush of vocations, the

continent of Europe----"

"No," cried the priest harshly. "Voluntary suffering is not the

same thing. . . . I . . . I long to see Christians suffering at

the hands of the world."

"You mean that you are doubtful as to how they would bear it?"

"Yes."

The monk smiled, slowly and brilliantly, and there was a look of

such serene confidence in his face that the other was amazed.

"Well . . ." he paused again. "Well, I take it that we have laid

our finger upon what it is that troubles you. You admit that the

Christian States have a right to punish all who attack the very

foundations of their stability----"

"No-I----"

"By your _reason_, I mean, Monsignor."

"Yes," said Monsignor slowly. "By my _reason_."

"But that you are not satisfied that the Church can still suffer;

that it seems to you she has lost that which is of her very

essence. If you saw that, you would be content."

"I suppose so," said the other hesitatingly.

The monk rose abruptly.

"We have talked enough for to-day," he said. "You will kindly

spend the rest of the day as yesterday. Do not say Mass in the

morning. I will be with you at the same time."

(VII)

It was on the last morning of their stay at Thurles that

Monsignor had an opportunity of seeing something of the real

character of the place.

The lay monk came to him again, as he was finishing breakfast,

and abruptly suggested it.

"I shall be very happy," said Monsignor.

* * * * *

Certainly his stay had done him good in some indefinable manner

which he could not altogether understand. Each morning he had

talked; but there was no particular argument which he could

recall that had convinced him. Indeed, the monk had told him more

than once that bare intellectual argument could do nothing except

clear the ground of actual fallacies. Certainly the points had

been put to him clearly and logically. He perceived now that, so

far as reason was concerned, Christian society could not do

otherwise than silence those who attacked the very foundations of

its existence; and he also understood that this was completely

another matter from the charge that men had been accustomed to

bring against the Church, that she "would persecute if she had

the power." For it was not the Church in any sense that used

repression; it was the State that did so; and as Dom Adrian had

pointed out, this was of the very essence of all civil

government. But this was not new to him. Rather his stay in

Thurles had, by quieting his nervous system, made it possible for

him to elect to follow his reason rather than his feelings. His

feelings were as before. Still in the bottom of his consciousness

he felt that the Christ which he had known was other than the

Christ who now reigned on earth. But now he had been enabled to

make the decision over which he had previously hesitated; he had

sufficiently recovered at least so far as to go back to his work

and to do what seemed to be the duty to which his reason pointed,

and in action at least to ignore his feelings. This much had been

done. He did not yet understand by what means.

* * * * *

A car waited in the little court to which the two came down. The

monk beckoned him to enter, and they moved off.

"This quarter of the monastery," began the monk abruptly, "is

entirely of the nature you have seen. It is composed of flats and

apartments throughout, for the simple retreats, such as your own.

Each Father who is employed in this kind of work has his round of

visits to make each day."

"How many monks are there altogether, Father, in Thurles?"

"About nine thousand."

". . I beg your pardon?"

"About nine thousand. Of these about six thousand live a purely

Contemplative Life. No monk undertakes any work of this kind

until he has been professed at least fifteen years. But the

regulations are too intricate to explain just now."

"Where are we going first----"

"Stay, Monsignor" (the monk interrupted him by a hand on his

arm). "We are just entering the northern quarter. It is the

serious cases that are dealt with here."

"Serious?"

"Yes; where there is a complete breakdown of mental powers. That

building there is the first of the block of the gravest cases of

all--real mania."

Monsignor leaned forward to look.

They were passing noiselessly along the side of a great square;

but there was nothing to distinguish the building indicated from

the rest. It just stood there, a tall pile of white stone; and

the top of a campanile rose above it.

"You have worked there, Father?"

"I worked there for two years," said the monk tranquilly. "It is

distressing work at first. Would you care to look in?"

Monsignor shook his head.

"Yes, it is distressing work, but there are great consolations.

Two out of every three cases at least are cured, and we have a

certain number of vocations from the patients."

"Vocations!"

"Certainly. Mania in the majority of cases is nothing else than

possession. In fact some authorities are inclined to say that it

is exceptional to find it otherwise. And in the other cases it is

generally the force of an exceptionally strong will that has lost

its balance, and is powerful enough to disregard all ordinary

checks of reason and common sense and human emotion. Well, a

character like that is capable of a good deal. Each case is, of

course, completely isolated in this department as in all others.

It is incredible to think that less than a hundred years ago such

patients were herded together. The system now, of course, is to

surround them with completely healthy conditions and completely

self-restrained attendants. That gradually rebuilds the physical

and nervous conditions, and exorcism is not administered until

there is sufficient reserve force for the patient partly, at any

rate, to cooperate."

Monsignor was silent. Again he felt bewilderment at the amazing

simplicity and common sense of it all.

"I am taking you," said the monk presently, "to the central

quarter--to the monastery proper. It is there that the main body

of the monks live. The church is remarkable. It is the third

largest monastic church in the world. . . . We are just entering

the quarter now," he added.

Monsignor leaned forward as the air darkened, and was in time to

see the great gates swinging slowly together again as if to meet

after the car had passed. It was still twilight as they sped on,

and he perceived that they were passing, with that extreme and

noiseless swiftness with which they had come, up some kind of

tunnel lit by artificial light. Then again there was a rush of

daylight and the car stopped.

"We must go on foot here," said the monk, and opened the door.

The priest, still marvelling, stepped out after him, and followed

through a postern door; and then, as he emerged, understood more

or less the arrangement of the buildings.

He stood on the edge of an enormous courtyard, perhaps five

hundred yards across. This was laid down with a lawn, crossed in

every direction with paved paths. But that at which he chiefly

stared was a church whose like he had never set eyes on before.

It was the sanctuary end, obviously, that faced him; the farther

end ran back into the high walls, pierced here and there by low

doors, with which the court was surrounded. The church itself

rose perhaps two hundred feet from floor to roof. It was straight

from end to end, the line broken only by a tall, severe tower at

the point where it joined the wall of the court; and running

round it, jutting out in a continuous block, like a platform, was

a low building, plainly containing chapels. The whole was of

white stone, unrelieved by carving of any kind. Enormous narrow

lancet windows showed above the line of chapels, springing

perhaps forty feet from the ground, and rising to a line

immediately below the roof. The whole gave an impression of

astounding severity and equally astounding beauty. It had the

kind of beauty of a perfectly bare mountain or of an iceberg. It

was graceful and yet as strong as iron; it was cold, and yet

obviously alive.

"Yes," said the monk, as they went across the court, "It is

impressive, is it not? It is the monastic church proper. It

can hold, if necessary, ten thousand monks. But you will see

when we look in.

"The court we are now in is surrounded by cloisters. There are

just nine thousand cells; there are, perhaps, fifty unoccupied

now. Each cell, as you know, is a little house in itself, with

three or four rooms and a garden; so we need space. The

cemeteries are beyond the cloisters. We bury, as you know, in the

bare earth without a coffin."

It was like the creation of a dream, thought the priest as he

walked with his guide, listening to the quiet talk. He had seen

some of these facts in the book that Father Jervis had lent him;

but they had meant little to him. Now he began to understand, and

once more a kind of inexplicable terror began to affect him.

But as, five minutes later, he stood in the high western gallery

of the church, and saw that enormous place stretching beyond

calculation to where thin clear glass sanctuary windows rose in

a group, like sword-blades, above the white pavement before the

altar; as he saw the ranks of stalls running up, tier above

tier, and understood that, all told, they numbered ten thousand,

one third of them on this side of the screen, in the lay

brothers' choir, and two thirds beyond; as he imagined what it

must be to watch this congregation of elect souls stream in,

each with his lantern in his hand, through the countless doors

that ended each little narrow gangway that disappeared among the

stalls; as he pictured the thunder of the unemotional Carthusian

plain-song--as he saw all this with his bodily eyes standing

silent beside the silent monk, and began little by little to

take in what it all meant, and what this world must be in which

such a condition of things was accepted--a world where

Contemplatives at last were honoured as the kings of the earth,

and themselves controlled and soothed the lives of whom the

world had despaired; as his imagination ran out still farther,

and he remembered that this was but one of innumerable houses of

the kind--as he began to be aware of all this, and of what it

signified as regards the civilization in which he found

himself--his terror began to pass, and to give place to an awe,

and to a kind of exaltation, such as neither Rome nor Lourdes

nor London had been able even to suggest. . . .

(VIII)

"Well?" said Father Jervis, smiling, as the two met on the

platform that evening, to wait for the English-bound air-ship.

Monsignor looked at him.

"I am glad I came," he said. "No; it is not all well with me,

even yet. But I will try again."

The other nodded, still smiling.

"Who was the Father who looked after me?" added the prelate. "He

said he had talked with you."

"He is considered one of the best they have," said the other "I

asked for him specially. He hardly ever fails. You are

impressed by him?"

"Oh yes . . . but he did nothing particular."

"That is just it," smiled the old priest. He added after a pause,

as the bell rang--

"You feel ready for work again? You know what lies before you?"

Monsignor nodded slowly.

"You mean the Establishment of the Church? . . . Yes; I am ready."

CHAPTER V

(I)

The scheme had been in the air for nearly two years, as

Monsignor learned from his papers; and for the last month or two

had come more to the front than ever. But he had not realized

how close it was.

* * * * *

It was at the end of October that the Cardinal sent for him and

revealed two more facts. The first was that it was the intention

of His Majesty's Government to appoint a Commission to consider

once more the Establishment of Catholicism as the State religion

of England; and the second was that secret negotiations had been

proceeding now for the last eight months between China, Japan,

the Persian Empire, and Russia, as to the formal recognition of

the Pope as Arbitrator of the East.

"Both points," said the Cardinal, "are absolutely _sub sigillo_

until you hear of them from other sources. And I need not tell you,

Monsignor, that they have the very strongest mutual effects."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Think it over," said the Cardinal, and waved him pleasantly away.

* * * * *

From that time forward, as week followed week, the work became

enormous. He was present at interviews of which he understood not

more than one half of the allusions; yet with that extraordinary

skill of which he was made aware by the compliments of the

Cardinal and of his own friends, he showed never a sign of his

ignorance. Papers constantly passed under his hands, disclosing

to him the elaborate preparations that had already been made on

the part of the State authorities; and questions on various

points of discipline were continually submitted to him, at the

bearing of which he could only guess.

It seemed to him remarkable that so much fuss should be made upon

what was by now almost entirely a matter of form, since by the

restoration of Catholic property, recognition of Church courts,

and a hundred other details, as well as by the affection of the

people, the Church already enjoyed supreme power.

He put this once, lightly, to Father Jervis.

"The public is affected by forms much more than by principles,"

said that priest, smiling. "They have already accepted the

principles; but even at the eleventh hour they might take

fright at the forms."

"Do you mean it is possible that a Bill, if it was brought

forward, might not pass?"

"Certainly it's possible. Otherwise, why haven't we had a

Commission appointed? The Socialists aren't beaten yet. But it's

not likely; or the Bill wouldn't be brought forward at all."

The prelate said nothing.

(II)

It was not until a few days before Christmas that the

Cardinal was sent for.

At the beginning of the month the Commission had been appointed

by an overwhelming majority in the House. The proposal had been

brought forward suddenly by the Government, and with a speed and

an employment of business-like methods that seemed very strange

to the man who had lost his memory, and who still had hanging

about him a curious atmosphere of earlier days, the Commission

had despatched an immense amount of work within three weeks.

It was impossible to know how far negotiations had got; but even

the Cardinal himself was taken by surprise when he received an

invitation to attend the sitting of the Commission. He sent for

Monsignor Masterman at once.

"You will attend me, Monsignor, please. I shall have to appear

alone, but I should like you to be at hand."

It was with very much confused emotions that Monsignor found

himself, a day or two later, walking up and down a corridor in

the House of Representatives. He had arrived with the Cardinal,

had gone up the broad staircase behind him, and had followed him

even into the committee-room. A long table faced him as he

entered, and he noticed with an odd little thrill how every man

sitting there, from the white-faced, white-haired man at the

head, down to the clean-shaven, clever-looking young man nearest

the door, had risen as the two ecclesiastics came in. The table,

he noticed, was strewed with papers. An empty chair stood at the

lower end of the table--a red chair, he saw, with gilded wood.

The Cardinal sat down. The rest sat down, all in silence.

Monsignor placed the despatch-box in front of his chief, opened

it, laid a few books in order, and went out. . . .

Even now, in spite of all the knowledge that he had, and the

constant contemplation of the cold facts of the case, it seemed

to him, as on a dozen occasions before since his lapse of memory,

as if life were not so real as it seemed. Somewhere, down in the

very fibre of him, was an assumption that England and Catholicism

were irreconcilable things--that the domination of the one meant

the suppression of the other. Certainly history was against him.

For more than a thousand years Church and State in England had

been partners. It was but for four hundred years--and those years

of confusion and of the gradual elimination of the

supernatural--that the two had been at cross-purposes. Was it not

historically certain therefore that, should the Supernatural ever

be reaccepted in all its force, a partnership should again spring

up between a State that needed a Divine authority behind its own,

and the sole Institution which was not afraid to stand out for

the Supernatural with all its consequences? Theology was against

him; for if there was anything that theology taught explicitly,

it was that the soul was naturally Christian, and therefore

imperfect without the full Christian Revelation.

And yet, as he walked, he was disturbed. The proposed

Establishment of the Church by the State appeared to him

uncharacteristic of both--of the Church, since he still tended to

think that she must in her essence be at war with the world; of

the State, since he still tended to think that that too, in its

essence, must be at war with religion. In spite of what he had

seen, he had not yet grasped with his imagination that which both

experience and intellect justified as true--namely, that it is

the function of the Church to guide the world, and the highest

wisdom of the world to organize itself on a supernatural basis.

He walked up and down, saying nothing. At one end of the long

corridor a couple of secretaries whispered together on a settee;

at the other he saw passing and repassing hurrying figures that

went about their business. Doors opened occasionally, and a man

came out; once or twice he saluted an acquaintance. But all the

while his attention remained fixed upon the door numbered XI,

behind which this quietly significant affair proceeded. The whole

place seemed a very temple of stillness. The thick carpet

underfoot, the noiseless doors, the admirable system of the

place--all contributed to create a great solemnity.

He tried to remind himself that he was present at the making of

history, but it was useless. Again and again, as, with an effort,

he forced the principles before his mind, his attention whirled

off to a detail--to a contemplation of his chief taking his seat

in the House of Lords, and to the fabric of the carpet on which

he walked; to the silent whisper of one of the two conversational

secretaries; to a wonder as to the form of prayer with which the

first professedly Catholic Parliament in England for more than

four hundred years would open.

Then he checked himself, reminded himself of certain old

proverbs about cups and hares, reflected that Socialism was not

beaten yet (in Father Jervis's phrase), as recent events in

Germany had shown. . . .

Once as he turned at the end of the corridor farthest from the

secretaries, an interesting little incident happened. A door

opened abruptly, and a man coming out quickly almost ran against

him. Then the man took off his hat and smiled.

"I beg your pardon, Monsignor . . . I . . . I can guess your

business here."

Monsignor smiled too, a little guiltily. He recognized the

Socialist leader who had called on him a few months before.

"Yes: and I'm afraid you don't approve," he said.

Mr. Hardy made a little deprecatory gesture, still holding his

hat in his hand.

"Oh! I'm a believer in majorities," he said. "And there's no

doubt you have the majority. But----"

"Yes?"

"I hope you will be merciful. That is your Gospel, you know."

"You think we have the majority?"

"Oh, certainly. The enfranchisement of women settled all that.

They are always clerical, you know."

Monsignor felt the point prick him. He riposted gently.

"Well, you will have to take refuge in Germany," he said.

The face of the other changed a little; his eyelids came down

just a fraction.

"That's exactly what I'm going to do, Monsignor--I--but I think

there's somebody wanting you."

Monsignor turned. There was a hand beckoning him from behind a

face, as if in agitation, from the entrance to door No. XI.

"If you'll excuse me," he said, and hurried off.

"I thought you'd like to be present at the end, Monsignor,"

whispered the member who had beckoned him. "The Cardinal is

just speaking."

Committee room number XI seemed strangely quiet, as the prelate

slipped in behind his friend and stood motionless. One voice was

speaking; and, as he tried to catch the sense, he looked round

the faces, that were all turned in his direction. He saw Mr.

Manners on the extreme left.

Every man sat without moving, simply listening, it seemed, with an

extraordinary attention; some leaning forward, some back, with the

papers disregarded on the table. A couple of recording machines

stood now in the centre. Then he began to catch the words. . . .

"I think, gentlemen," said the voice from behind the high-backed

chair, "that I need say no more. We have discussed at length, and

I hope to your satisfaction, the particular points on which you

desired information: and my answers have brought out, I think, the

essence of all the conditions on which alone the Church can

accept the terms proposed.

"I wish it to be brought before the House, perfectly clearly,

that in her own province the Church must be supreme. She must

have an entire and undisputed right over her own doctrine and

discipline; for that is at the root of her only claim to be

heard. In respect to any legislation which, in her opinion,

touches the eternal principles of morality--in all such things,

for example, as the marriage law--her supreme authority must be

respected; as well as in all those other matters of the same

nature upon which you have questioned me.

"But on the other side the Church recognizes, and always will

recognize, the right of a free people to govern themselves; and,

not only recognizes that right, but will support it with all the

power at her command. I have acknowledged that in a few instances

in history ecclesiastics have interfered unduly with what did not

concern them--interfered, that is, not as citizens (for that is

their right, in common with all other citizens)--but in the Name

of Religion. Now that, gentlemen, is simply a thing of the past.

If secular rulers have learned by experience, so have

ecclesiastical rulers. . . . I have invited investigation into

the history of the last hundred years; and I have answered those

few charges that have been brought--I hope to your satisfaction."

(There was a murmur of applause.)

"In secular matters, therefore, the Church will be wholly on the

side of liberty. Ecclesiastical authorities, for example, would

be the first to welcome a repeal of legislation as regards

heresy; but, on the other hand, we fully recognize the right of a

secular State to protect itself, even by the death penalty,

against those who threaten the existence of the sanctions on

which a secular State takes its stand. We recognize her right, I

say; but I do not mean by that that you will not find a majority

of ecclesiastics who hold that it is, to put it mildly, a

deplorable policy and very imperfectly Christian.

"However, I have said all this before, both in public and now

again in answer to your questions; and I think that, at any rate

so far as I am concerned, I shall not be to blame if the nation

accepts the proposed change under a misapprehension.

"You see, gentlemen, the attempt that ended fifty years ago--the

attempt that was called in its day Protestantism--to establish a

religion which was to be secondary in any sense to the State,

failed and failed lamentably, in spite of the noble lives that

were spent in labouring for such a compromise. For it is the

whole essence of a Supernatural Religion to be supreme in it own

province--the very adjective asserts it; and any endeavour to

compromise on this entirely vital point is in itself a denial of

the principle, For a while this was not perceived. Men regarded

the Christian Church--or rather, that which they took to be the

Christian Church--merely, on its earthly side, as an organization

comparable to a State. They did not seem to see that Religion

must always have a wider basis than any secular body, since it

deals with eternity as well as with time, while the State,

professedly, treats only of temporal things. The consequence was

either conflict, whenever supernatural elements clashed with

natural; or else the subservience of Religion, and its consequent

loss of prestige, as well as of its supernatural character. A

National Church, therefore, is a contradiction in terms, since it

asserts that that which is in its very nature larger than this

world must yet be confined within the limits not only of this

world, but even of a part of it. . . . Well, I need not labour

that point. You grasped it, gentlemen, even before you were good

enough to ask me to give evidence before this Commission. I felt

it, however, only right that such conditions should be reiterated

and recorded before matters went any farther.

"The Church, therefore, is perfectly content to remain as she has

always remained in this country for the last four centuries--a

free society governing the consciences of her children. Or she is

content to take outwardly and officially that position which she

has always, at least tacitly, claimed, and to reassume her civil

dignity and her civil responsibilities. But she is not content to

waive any of those Divine Rights with which her Founder endowed

her, even in return for the greatest privileges; still less is

she content to receive those privileges under false

pretences. . . ."

Again the low murmur of applause broke out, and three or four men

shifted their positions slightly.

* * * * *

Monsignor was conscious again, suddenly and vividly, of that

double sense of unreality and of intense drama which he had felt

so often before at critical moments. It seemed to him amazing,

and yet more amazingly simple, that such claims should be put in

such words under such circumstances. It was astounding that such

things should be said, and yet more astounding that they needed

to be said, for were they not, after all, the very elements of

civil and religious relations? . . .

There was something too in the voice of the invisible speaker

that thrilled his very heart. The tones were completely tranquil,

there were no gestures, and the very face that spoke was unseen.

Yet in the quiet fluency, the note of absolute assurance, there

was a dominating appeal that was almost hypnotic in its effect.

He had perceived this characteristic of the Cardinal often

before; he had noticed it first on that occasion on which, for

the first time in his knowledge, he had come into his presence,

still staggered by the shock of his mental failure and recovery.

But he had never appreciated the strength of the personality so

clearly. The Cardinal was no orator in the ordinary sense; there

was no thunder or pathos or drama in his manner. But his complete

assurance and the long, gentle, incisive sentences, moving like

rollers in a calm sea, were more affecting than any passion could

be. . . . It seemed to him now the very incarnation of that

spirit of the Church that at once attracted and repelled him--in

its serenity, its gentleness, its reasonableness, and its

irresistible force.

* * * * *

Then, on a slightly higher note, and with a perceptible increase

of deliberation, the voice went on.

"I must add one word, gentlemen.

"I said just now that the Church was content to be as she has

recently been in this country--content, that is, so long as she

continues to enjoy the liberty with which England endows her.

"And perhaps, as her chief minister in this country, I ought to

say no more. But, gentlemen, I am an Englishman as well as a

Catholic, and I love England only less than I love the Church. I

say frankly that I do love her less. No man who has any

principles that can be called religious can say otherwise. I tell

you plainly that should it come to be a choice between Caesar and

God--between the King and the Pope--I should throw myself at once

on the side of Christ and his Vicar. . . ."

(Monsignor drew a breath. It seemed to him that this was

appallingly plain speaking. He expected a murmur of remonstrance.

He glanced at the faces, but there was no movement or change,

except that a young member suddenly smiled, as with pleasure.)

"But I love England," went on the voice, "passionately and

devotedly. And in spite of what I said just now I must add that,

as an Englishman, there is but one more thing that I desire for

my country, and that is that she may carry out that project on

whose account you, gentlemen, have met to-day."

(Again a murmur of applause rose, and sank again instantly.)

"You have kindly asked me to make this little speech, and I do

not wish to turn it into a sermon, but I must conclude by saying

that, splendid as is the history of England in many points, there

is one black blot upon the page, and that, the act of hers by

which she renounced Christ's Vicar, by whom kings reign. You have

done justice at last in returning to us those possessions which

our forefathers dedicated to God's service. But there remains one

more thing to do, formally and deliberately, as one kingdom, to

return to Him who is King of kings. I know it will come some day.

As individuals, Englishmen have already returned to Him. But a

corporate crime must be expiated by corporate reparation, and it

is that reparation which has already waited too long. I am an old

man, gentlemen. That, no doubt, is why I have been so verbose,

but my one prayer for the last thirty years has been that that

corporate reparation may be made within my own lifetime. . . ."

The voice suddenly trembled.

Then the watcher saw the chair pushed back, and the little

scarlet cap, covering the white hair, rise above it.

Simultaneously every man rose to his feet.

"That is all, gentlemen."

There was a moment's silence.

Then the applause broke out. It was not loud or noisy, as there

were scarcely two dozen men in the room, yet it was

astonishingly affecting, just the tapping of hands on the table

and a murmur of voices.

The Cardinal silenced it by a gesture.

"One word, gentlemen. . . . I have said nothing of any

opposition. Perhaps it would have been better if I had. But I

will only say this, and it is something of a warning too. I do

not believe that this Bill that is spoken of will necessarily

mean peace. I am aware of the dangers that are threatening;

perhaps I am even more aware of them than any other person

present. And yet, for all that, I am not in favour of delay."

He turned suddenly, and with his long smooth step was at the door

almost before Monsignor had time to open it and step aside. There

was no time for any other man to speak.

The car had hardly moved off from the door before Monsignor

turned to his chief.

* * * * *

"Your Eminence," he said, "what was that about danger? I did

not understand."

The thin face was a little pale with the exertions of the speech,

as it turned to him in answer.

"I will tell you that," he said, "as soon as the Bill becomes law."

CHAPTER VI

(I)

It was an astounding scene in which Monsignor found himself, six

weeks later--extraordinary from the extreme quietness of it, and

the enormous importance of the issue for which they waited.

* * * * *

The Cardinal and he had gone down to Lord Southminster's house

on the coast of Kent for three or four days to wait for the

final news, as it was wished to avoid the possibility of any

dangerous excitement on the night of the division; and it was

thought that the Cardinal's absence might be of service in

preventing any formidable demonstration at Westminster. He was

to return to London, in the event of the Bill passing, on the

following morning.

The situation was as follows:

A completely unexpected opposition had showed itself as soon as

the Bill was announced. It was perfectly well known that this

opposition was almost entirely artificial; but it was so well

engineered that there was grave doubt whether it might not affect

the voting in the Lower House. The Upper House, it was notorious,

was practically unanimous in favour of the Bill; and there had

been one or two unpleasant demonstrations outside the entrance to

the Second Chamber.

The opposition was artificial--that is to say, its activities

were managed after the manner of a stage-army, and the protesters

were largely German; but the crowds were so great, and the

genuineness of their opposition, such as it was, so obvious, that

very clear signs of wavering had become apparent, even on the

part of some of the more prominent Ministers of the Crown. Twice,

also, during public appearances of the King, who was well known

as a strong advocate of the Bill, there had been considerable

disturbances amongst the crowds.

All this had come, of course, to the ears of the ecclesiastical

authorities far more forcibly than the world outside suspected.

There had been threatening letters; twice the Cardinal's carriage

had been mobbed; a dozen well-known priests had been molested in

the public streets. There had been meetings and consultations of

all kinds; there had even been a moment when it seemed as if the

Cardinal and the Prime Minister stood almost alone in their

complete resolution. . . . It was not that any really responsible

persons contemplated the abandonment of the Bill; but a party had

almost been formed for its postponement, in the hope that when

once the opposition had been dissolved it would be difficult to

reorganize it again. On the other hand, the resolutes stood for

the assertion that just because things were really critical in

Germany--(in the state of affairs that followed the Emperor's

conversion)--it was now the time for England to advance; that any

hesitation shown now would be taken as a sign of weakness, and

that the Socialists' cause would be thereby enormously advanced.

Three or four results therefore were possible, from the

determination of the Government to push the Bill forward and to

present it for its second reading this evening. First, it might

pass triumphantly, if the leaders could succeed in inspiring

their followers with confidence. Secondly, it might be rejected,

if the panic spread; for, under the new parliamentary system

that had succeeded fifty years ago to the old Party Government,

it was impossible to reckon accurately on how members would

ultimately vote. Thirdly, it might pass with a narrow majority;

and in this event, it was certain that a very long delay would

follow before the Upper House would have an opportunity of

handing it on for the Royal assent. Fourthly--well, almost

anything else might happen, if the crowd, assembled in

Parliament Square, and swelled every hour by new arrivals,

showed itself predominantly hostile. . . .

Lord Southminster's house needs no description. It is probably,

even to-day, as well known as any place in England: there is no

guide book which does not give at least three or four pages to

the castle, as well as a few lines to the tiny historical seaside

village beneath from which the marquisate derives its name. And

it was in the little dining-room that adjoined the hall that the

man who had lost his memory found himself on this evening with

half a dozen other men and a couple of ladies.

It was a small octagonal room, designed in one of the towers that

looked out over the sea; panelled in painted wood and furnished

with extreme plainness. On one side a door opened upon the three

little parlours that were used when the party was small; at the

back a lobby led into the old hall itself; on the third side was

the door used by the servants.

Lord Southminster himself was still a young man, who had not yet

married. His grandfather had become a Catholic in the reign of

Edward VII; and the whole house had reverted to the old religion

under which it had been originally built, with the greatest ease

and grace. The present owner was one of the rising politicians

who were most determined to carry the Bill through; and he had

already made for himself something of a reputation by his

speeches in the Upper House. Monsignor had met him half a dozen

times already, and thoroughly liked this fair-haired,

clean-shaven young man who was such a devoted adherent of the

Catholic cause.

A little silence had fallen after old Lady Southminster and her

sister had gone out, and it had been curious to notice how

little had been said during dinner of the event that was

proceeding in London.

Half a dozen times already since they had sat down a silent man

in the black gown of a secretary had slipped in with a printed

slip of paper and laid it before the Marquis and then disappeared

again, and it was astonishing how the conversation had ceased on

the instant, as the paper was read and passed round.

These messages had not been altogether reassuring.

The first was timed at 8.13, London, and had been read before the

clock chimed the quarter-past. It ran:

"MEMBERS ARE ARRIVING AFTER DINNER. HAZELTON MOBBED IN THE SQUARE."

The second, ten minutes later, ran:

"FOUR TITANIC-LINE BOATS FROM GERMANY REPORTED IN SIGHT. CORDON

OF POLICE-VOLORS COMPLETED."

The third:

"MOB REPORTED DIRECTION OF HAMPSTEAD. THE PRIME MINISTER HAS

BEGUN HIS SPEECH. HOUSE FULL."

The fourth, fifth, and sixth contained abstracts from the speech,

and added that it was becoming increasingly difficult to hear,

owing to the noise from outside.

Twenty minutes had now elapsed and no further message had

been received.

* * * * *

Monsignor looked up at the Victorian clock over the carved mantelpiece

and glanced at his host. The young man's eyes met his own.

"It's twenty-five past nine," said Lord Southminster.

The Cardinal looked up. He had not spoken for three or four

minutes, but otherwise had shown no signs of discomposure.

"And the last message was just after nine?" he said.

The other nodded.

"What time is the division expected?"

"Not before midnight. Three guns will be fired, as I said, your

Eminence, as soon as the division has taken place. We shall know

before my secretary will have time to cross the hall."

Again there was silence.

* * * * *

Outside the night was quiet. The village itself lay, spread out

above the beach, a hundred feet below the windows, and the only

sound was the steady lap and splash of the rollers upon the

shingle. The place was completely protected by the Southminster

estate from any encroachment of houses, and even the station

itself lay half a mile away inland.

Monsignor looked again at the faces of those who sat with him.

Opposite was Lord Southminster himself in the ordinary quiet

evening dress of his class, his guild-badge worn, as the custom

was, like a star on his left breast. His face showed nothing

except an air of attention; there was no excitement in it, nor

even suspense. On his right sat the Cardinal in his scarlet. He

was smiling gravely to himself, and his lips moved slightly now

and then. At this moment he was playing gently with a

walnut-shell that lay on his plate. The three others showed more

signs of excitement. Old General Hartington, who could remember

being taken to London to see the festivities at the coronation of

George V, was leaning back in his chair frowning. (He had been

reminiscent this evening in a rather voluble manner, but had not

uttered a word now for five minutes.) The chaplain had shifted

round in his chair, watching the door, and the sixth man, a

cousin of the host, who, Monsignor understood, held some

responsible post in the Government volor service, was sitting

just now with his head in his hands.

Still no one spoke.

The cousin pushed back his chair suddenly and went to the window.

"Well, Jack?" said the host.

"Nothing--just going to have a look at the weather."

He stood there, having pulled back the curtain a little and

unlatched the shutter, looking out through the glass.

Then Lord Southminster's reserve broke down.

"If it's not done to-night," he said abruptly, "God only

knows----Well, well."

"It will be done to-night," said the Cardinal, still without

lifting his eyes.

"Certainly, your Eminence, if nothing interferes; but how can we

be sure of that? I know the Government means business."

"It's half an hour since the last message," observed the General.

Lord Southminster got up suddenly and went to the lobby-door. As he

went the door into the parlours opened and his mother looked in.

"Any more news, my son?"

"No, mother. I was just going to ask."

The old lady came forward as her son went out--a splendid old

creature in her lace and jewels--active still and upright in

spite of her years. She made a little gesture as the men offered

to move, and went and leaned by the old-fashioned open

fire-place, such as her husband had put in at the restoration

throughout the house.

"Your Eminence, can you reassure us?" she said, smiling.

The Cardinal, too, smiled as he turned in his chair.

"I am confident the Bill will pass," he said. "But I do not know

yet what the price will be."

"Your Eminence means in England? Or elsewhere?" asked the

chaplain abruptly.

"In England and elsewhere, father."

Old Lady Jane Morpeth appeared at this moment, and the two

ladies sat down on the high oak settle that screened the fire

from the window. They showed no signs of anxiety; but Monsignor

perceived that their return at all to this room just now was

significant. Simultaneously the young man came in again, closing

the door behind him.

"Our enquiries are not answered," he said sharply. "We are trying

to get into touch with another office."

No one spoke for a minute. Even to Monsignor, who still found it

hard always to understand the communication-system of the time,

it was obvious that something must have happened. He knew that

Southminster Castle had been put into wireless touch with the

great Marconi office in Parliament Square, and that a failure to

be answered meant that something unexpected had happened. But it

was entirely impossible to conjecture for certain what this

something might be.

"That is serious?" remarked Lady Southminster, without

moving a muscle.

"I suppose so," said her son, and sat down again.

Then the man who was looking out of the window turned and came

back into the room, latching the shutters and putting the curtains

into place.

"Well, Jack?" asked the General.

"I have counted eight or nine volors," he said; "usually there

are only two at this time. I went to look for them."

"Which way?"

"Three this way and five the other."

Monsignor did not dare to ask for an interpretation. But he was aware

that the air of tenseness in the room tightened up still further.

The General got up.

"Southminster," he said, "I think I'll take a stroll outside if I

may. One might see something, you know."

"Go up to the keep, if you like. There's a covered path most of

the way up. There's a look-out there, you know. I had one set in

case the wireless failed. At any rate, they may see the rockets

farther along the coast."

Monsignor too stood up. His restlessness increased every moment,

although he scarcely knew why.

"May I come with you too?" he said. "Will your Eminence excuse me?"

(II)

The two said nothing as they went out through the dimly lighted

hall. Overhead hung the old banners in the high wooden roof; a

great fire blazed on the hearth; and under the musician's gallery

at the farther end they saw the bright little window behind which

sat the secretary.

They stopped here and peered in.

He was seated with his back to them before an instrument not

altogether unlike an old-fashioned organ. A long row of black

keys was in front of him; and half a dozen stops protruded on

either side. Before him, in the front, a glass panel protected

some kind of white sheet; and as the priest looked in he could

see a movement as of small bluish sparks playing upon this. He

had long ago made up his mind not to attempt to understand modern

machinery; and he had no kind of idea what all this meant, beyond

a guess that the keys were for sending messages, and the white

sheet for receiving them.

"Any news?" said the General suddenly.

The secretary did not move or answer. His hands were before him,

hidden, and he appeared entirely absorbed.

It must have been a minute before he turned round, drawing out as

he did so from before him a slip of paper like those he had

already brought in.

"This is from Rye, sir," he said shortly. "They too have lost

communication with Parliament Square. That is all, sir. I must

take this in at once."

The two passed on, still without speaking; and it was not until

they were going slowly up the long covered staircase that ran

inside the skirting wall that connected the keep with the more

modern part of the castle that Monsignor began----

"I'm very ignorant," he said. "Can you tell me the

possibilities?"

The General paused before answering.

"Well," he said, "the worst possibility is a riot, engineered by

the Socialists. If that is successful, it means a certain delay

of at least several years; and, at the worst, it means that the

Socialists will increase enormously throughout Europe. And then

anything may happen."

"But I thought that all real danger was past, and that the

Socialists were discredited."

"Certainly, in one sense. In every country, that is to say, they

are in a negligible minority. But if all these minorities are

added together, they are not negligible at all. The Cabinet has

produced this Bill suddenly, as of course you know, in order to

prevent any large Continental demonstration, as this would

certainly have a tremendous effect upon England. But it seems

that they've been organizing for months. They must have known

this was coming . . ."

"And if the Socialists fail?"

"Well, then they'll make their last stand in Germany. But you

know this better than I do, Monsignor?"

"I know a good deal here and there," confessed the other;

"but I find it hard sometimes to combine it all. I had an

illness, you know----"

"Ah, yes; yes."

They paused for breath in an embrasure in the wall, where a

section of a half-tower supported the wall, itself running down

on to the cliff side. A couple of windows gave a view of the sea,

now a dark gulf under the cloudy sky, sprinkled with a few moving

lights, here and there, of vessels going up or down the Channel.

"And suppose the Bill passes?" began the priest.

"If the Bill passes, we need fear nothing in England if it passes

with a good majority. You know Government is an extraordinarily

delicate machine nowadays; and if the Bill goes through really

well, it'll be an infallible sign that the country refuses to

take alarm. And if it fails, or only narrowly passes--well, it'll

be the other way. The whole work will have to be done again, or

at least begun----"

He faced round suddenly.

"Monsignor," he said, "I wouldn't say this to everyone. But I

tell you we're at a very critical moment. These Socialists are

stronger than any one dreamed. Their organization is simply

perfect. Do you know any of them?"

"I have met Hardy."

"That's a brilliant man, you know."

They talked no more during the rest of the ascent, until they

emerged at last on to the top of the round keep, where the old

bonfires used to burn, and where the old iron cradle, used even

now at coronations and great national events, still thrust up its

skeleton silhouette against the pale sky. To the priest's

surprise the silhouette was largely filled in.

A figure came towards them, saluted, and stood waiting.

"Eh? Who's this?" snapped the General.

"The look out, sir. We've orders to watch Rye."

"Why?"

"The wireless is out of communication, sir. His lordship arranged

a week ago that there should be supplementary rockets."

"Where are the guns?" asked Monsignor, who was looking about him,

at the empty leads, the battlemented parapet against the sky, and

then back at the servant's figure.

"Down below, father. They're to be fired from here if three white

rockets go up."

While the two others still talked, the priest went to the side and

looked over, again suddenly overwhelmed by the strangeness of the

whole position. Once again there came on him the sense of

irresponsible unreality. . . . He stared out, hardly seeing that

on which he looked: the grey mass of the lower castle beneath with

lighted windows, at the blankness beyond, again with the scattered

lights--the nearer ones, within what seemed a stone's throw, along

the village street--the farther ones, infinitely remote, out upon

the invisible sea. There again too, far off across the land, shone

another cluster of lights, seen rather as a luminous patch, that

marked Rye. There too, eyes were watching; there too it was felt

that interests were at stake, so vast and so unknown, that heaven

or hell might be within their limits. He looked inland, and there

too was darkness, but darkness unrelieved. Near at hand,

immediately below the bounding walls, rose up the dark swelling

outlines that he knew to be the woods of the park, crowding up

against the very castle walls themselves; and beyond, dimness

after dimness, to meet the sky. . . .

It seemed to him incredible, as he looked, that things of such

moment should be under way, somewhere beyond that sleeping

country; and yet, as his eyes grew accustomed to the night, he

could make out at last a faint glow in the sky to the north that

marked the outskirts of that enormous city of which he was a

citizen, where such matters even now were approaching a decision.

For it was only little by little that he had become aware that a

real crisis was at hand. The Cardinal had told him the facts,

indeed, in the dispassionate, tolerant manner that was

characteristic of him; but the point of view necessary to take

them in as a coherent whole, to see them, not as isolated events,

but with the effect of the past upon them and their hidden

implications and probabilities for the future--this needed that

the observer should be of the temper and atmosphere of the time.

For prophecy just now was little better than feeling at outlines

in the dark. Facts could be discerned and apprehended by all--and

the priest was well aware of his own capacities in this--but

their interpretation was another matter altogether. . . . He felt

helpless and puzzled. . . .

The General came towards him.

"Well," he said, "anything to be seen?"

"Nothing."

"We may as well make our way down again. There's nothing to be

gained by stopping here."

As they made their way down again through the covered passage,

the General once more began to talk about the crisis.

Monsignor had heard it all before; but he listened for all that.

It seemed to him worth while to collect opinions; and this

soldier's very outspoken remarks cast a sort of sharp clarity

upon the situation that the priest found useful. The

establishment of the Church in England was being regarded on the

Continent as a kind of test case; and even more by the

Anglo-Saxon countries throughout the world. In itself it was not

so vast a step forward as might be thought. It would make no very

radical changes in actual affairs, since the Church already

enjoyed enormous influence and complete liberty. But the point

was that it was being taken as a kind of symbol by both sides;

and this explained on the one hand the tactics of the Government

in bringing it suddenly forward, and the extraordinary zeal with

which the Socialists were demonstrating against it.

"The more I think of it," said the General, "the more----"

Monsignor stepped suddenly aside into the embrasure at which they

had halted on the way up.

"What's the matter?"

"I thought I saw----"

The General uttered a sharp exclamation, pressing his head over

the priest's shoulder.

"That's the second," whispered the priest harshly.

Together they waited, staring out together through the tall,

narrow window that looked towards Rye.

Then for the third time there rose against the far-off horizon,

above that faint peak of luminosity that marked where Rye

watched over her marshes, a thin line of white fire, slackening

its pace as it rose.

Before it had burst in sparks, there roared out overhead a

deafening voice of fire and thunder, shaking the air about them,

bewildering the brain. Then another. Then another.

Beneath the two as they stood, shaking with the shock, silent and

open-mouthed, staring at one another, in the courtyard a door

banged; then another; and then a torrent of voices and footsteps

as the servants and grooms poured out of the lower doors.

(III)

Two hours later the two ecclesiastics sat together, on either

side of the large table in the Cardinal's room. The Cardinal

passed over the sheets one by one as he finished them. One set

was being brought straight up here from the little office at the

end of the hall. Another set, they knew, was simultaneously being

read aloud by Lord Southminster in the hall below.

The guns had aroused even the most drowsy; and the whole

population, village as well as castle, had poured into the

courtyard to hear the news.

Monsignor sat and read sheet after sheet after his chief,

hopelessly trying to notice and remember the principal points of

the report. Everything was recorded there--the assembling of the

crowds, the difficulty that the later members found in getting

through into the House at all; the breakdown of the police

arrangements; and the storming of the wireless station by an

organized mob, many of whom had been later put under arrest.

Then there was the Prime Minister's speech, recorded word by word

in the machines, and translated later, by machinery instead of by

human labour, into terms of dots and dashes, themselves

transmitted again over miles of country, and retranslated again

by mechanical devices into these actual printed sheets that the

two were reading.

The speech was given in full, down to that tremendous scene when

half the House, distracted at last by the cries that grew nearer

and nearer, and the messengers that appeared and reappeared from

outside, had risen to its feet. And then----

The Cardinal leaned back suddenly, with a swift indrawing of his

breath that was almost the first sign of emotion that he had shown.

Monsignor looked up. The last two sheets were still under the

ringed hand that lay upon the table.

"Well, it's done," said the Cardinal softly, almost as if talking

to himself. "But it needed his last card."

"Your Eminence?"

"The announcement as to the East," went on the other, with the

same air. "I thank God it came in time."

"Your Eminence, I don't understand."

The Cardinal looked at him full.

"Why," he said, "the Holy Father was accepted as Arbitrator of the

East by the united Powers this morning. The news was in the Prime

Ministers hands at six o'clock. But I'm sorry he had to use it; it

would have been stronger without. . . . Don't you understand,

Monsignor? The House would have refused to vote otherwise."

"But it's finished--it's finished, isn't it, your Eminence?"

"Yes, yes, it's finished. Or had we better say it's begun. Now

the last conflict begins. . . . Now, Monsignor, I'm afraid I must

begin to dictate. Would you mind setting the phonographs?"

* * * * *

From the hall beneath rose a sudden confusion of cheering and

stamping of feet.

PART III

CHAPTER I

(I)

"Monsignor," said the Cardinal, "I am afraid I shall have to ask

you to go, after all. It is extremely important that the Catholic

authorities in England should be represented in this scheme. And

I think, you will have to travel with the first batch. They leave

Queenstown on the first of April."

"Certainly. And when shall I be back, your Eminence?"

"You must judge for yourself. It will not be more than a month

or six weeks at the outside, and I dare say a good deal less. It

will depend on the temper of the settlers. The American civil

authorities will have the final arrangements. But it is

exceedingly important that the emigrants should have some one to

speak for them; and as, of course, the Church will be believed

to be really responsible, it will be as well that an

ecclesiastic should be their friend. Identify yourself with them

as far as possible. The civil authorities are sure to be

inclined to be hard."

"Very good, your Eminence."

* * * * *

The scheme had come to birth very rapidly.

After the second reading of the Establishment Bill, it had been

taken for granted, and rightly, that the rest was but a matter

of time, and it was calculated that, considering the

Government's attitude, the Bill would receive the royal assent

before the end of the summer. Immediately, therefore, the more

peaceable Socialists had taken fright, and in every European

country had made representations that now that their last

refuges in Germany and England had been closed to them, some

arrangement ought to be made by which they could enjoy complete

civil and religious liberty elsewhere. The idea had been in the

air, of course, for a considerable time. There had been

complaints on all sides that public opinion was too strong, that

Socialists, in spite of the protection given to them, suffered a

good deal in informal ways owing to their opinions, and that

some expedient would have to be found for their relief. Then

America had come to the rescue, openly and formally, and had

offered Massachusetts, which already had a large proportion of

Socialists in its population, as a colony which would be

tolerated as definitely socialistic. Christians would be warned

that the new system would, if the Powers agreed, be on

definitely non-Catholic lines, and that the immigration laws

would be in future suspended with regard to Massachusetts. There

were, of course, innumerable details still to be worked out, but

by the end of February the understanding was established, and

from every European country emigrant parties were arranged.

There was something almost attractive about the scheme to the

popular mind. It had been talked of for years before--this

arrangement by which the Socialists should have an opportunity of

working out once more those old exploded democratic ideas to

which they still clung so pathetically. Every child knew, of

course, how fifty years before the experiment had been made in

various places, and how appalling tyranny had been the

result--tyranny, that is, over those who, in the Socialist

communities, still held to Individualism. But what would happen,

the world indulgently wondered, in a community where there were

no Individualists? One of two things certainly would happen.

Either the scheme would work and every democrat be satisfied, or

the theory would be reduced to a practical absurdity, and the

poison would be expelled for ever from the world's system.

Besides, if this asylum were once definitely secured and

guaranteed by the assent of the Powers, the new heresy laws that

were already coming to birth in Germany, that were already

enforced with considerable vigour in the Latin countries, and

were (it was known) being prepared and adapted for England--these

could now go forward and be applied universally, without any fear

of undue severity. It would, once and for all, get rid of those

endless complaints as to Christian injustice in silencing the

free expression of infidel and socialistic ideas, and offer them

a refuge where such things could not only be discussed, but put

to the test of practice.

Monsignor Masterman himself was still in a state of personal

indecision, but he certainly welcomed this solution of some of

his interior troubles, and he had warmly supported the scheme at

every opportunity he had.

But it was strange how he could not yet, in spite of his efforts,

get rid of that deep discomfort which had been, for a time, lulled

by his visit to Ireland. There was still, deep down in his mind, a

sense that the Christianity he saw round him, and which he himself

helped to administer, was not the religion of its Founder. There

was still an instinct which he could not eradicate, telling that

the essence of the Christian attitude lay in readiness to suffer.

And he only saw round him, so far as the public action of the

Church was concerned, a triumphant Government. He could not

conceal from himself a fear that the world and the Church had,

somehow or other, changed places. . . .

However, this new scheme was, at any rate, an act both of justice

and mercy, and he was very willing indeed--in fact he had

actually proposed it more than once--to go himself with the first

emigrants from England to Massachusetts.

(II)

In spite of all that he had seen in his journeys, he still found

an extraordinary fascination in watching the scene at Queenstown,

as the great Olympic-line volors, each carrying three hundred

passengers, one by one made ready and left. He himself was to

leave in the last of the four.

From the stage erected at the end of the long headland to the

south of the town, he could see the harbour on his right, closed

in by the city itself, rising up from the water's edge to the

huge cathedral, finished fifty years before; and on his left the

open sea. It was a brilliant spring morning; the air, just

charged with moisture and soaked by sunlight, was a radiant

medium through which the city sparkled on one side and the long,

low rollers shone on the other, discharging themselves against

the foot of the rocks four hundred feet below where he stood.

Sea-birds wheeled and screamed about him, tilting and sliding up

the slopes of the fresh west wind; but he noticed that as the

first volor detached itself and slid out over the sea, pausing

for an instant to head round to the compass, as if by magic every

bird was gone: he could see them far away, white dots skimming

inland as if for protection.

These Transatlantic volors were incalculably in advance of any he

had seen before. He turned, as the first moved out, its long

upper and lower decks lined with watching, silent faces--of whom

the great majority were those of men--and asked for a little

information from the genial Irish canon who had come from the

cathedral with him, to see him start.

"They are eight hundred feet long," he said, "and limited to

three hundred passengers. Of course there's the crew and stewards

besides. The crossing varies from thirty-six to forty-eight

hours. . . . Yes, transhipments are sometimes made during the

voyage; but it's not usual. It involves a good deal of delay."

Monsignor listened as the talk went on, gathering a few facts here

and there--the topographical reasons why Queenstown was still

retained, as in the days of the old steamships, for a principal

port, in spite of the transformation of Ireland; the total weight

of the boats when the gas was out of them; above all, the

incredible speed that could be attained and kept up, with a good

following wind. He learned also how, by the very rigid laws of

air-way, enforced now by all nations under very heavy penalties,

the danger of collisions was practically abolished; and so forth.

The canon talked fluently and well; but the mass of new

information was so great, and the interest of watching so intense,

that the enquirer's attention wandered a good deal.

He was watching the crowd of emigrants, two hundred feet below on

the ground, seen through the spidery framework of the stage,

railed off into a circle, surrounded by barriers that kept out

the onlookers, and diminishing visibly as he watched, as the full

platform flew up to the embarking stage just below where he stood

and the empty platforms descended again. The murmur of talking

came up to him like the buzz of a hive.

He understood that he was assisting at an historical event. For

to-day practically marked, in England at any rate, the practical

recognition of the two principles which up to now had been found,

from their mutual irreconcilability, the cause of practically all

the wars, all the revolutions, all the incessant human quarrels

and conflicts, of which history was chiefly composed--their

recognition and their adjustment. These two principles were the

liberty of the individual and the demands of society. On one

side, every man had a certain inherent right to demand freedom;

on the other, the freedom of one individual was usually found to

mean the servitude of another. The solution, he began to think,

had arrived at last from the recognition that there were, after

all, only two logical theories of government: the one, that power

came from below, the other, that power came from above. The

infidel, the Socialist, the materialist, the democrat, these

maintained the one; the Catholic, the Monarchist, the Imperialist

maintained the other. For the two, he perceived, rose ultimately

from two final theories of the universe: the one was that of

Monism--that all life was one, gradually realizing itself through

growth and civilization; the other that of Creation--that a

Transcendent God had made the world, and delegated His sovereign

authority downwards through grade after grade.

So he meditated, remembering also that the former theory was

rapidly disappearing from the world. These Socialist colonies

were not to be eternal, after all: they were but temporary

refuges for minds that were behind the age. Probably another

century or two would see their disappearance.

The second and third boats started almost simultaneously, each

suddenly sliding free from either side of the stage. There was a

ringing of bells; one boat, he saw, shot ahead in a straight

line, the other curved out southwards. He watched the second.

It resembled to his eyes a gigantic dragon-fly--a long gleaming

body, ribbed and lined, blazing and winking in the spring

sunlight, moving in a mist of whirling wings. From the angle at

which he watched its curve, it seemed now to hang suspended,

diminishing to the eye, now shooting suddenly ahead. . . . There

it hung again, already a mile away, as if poised and considering,

then with increasing speed it moved on and on, like a line of

brilliant light; little metallic taps sounded across the water;

it met the horizon, rose above it, darkened, again flashed

suddenly. . . .

He turned to look for the other; but, so far as he could

see, the huge blue arc was empty. He turned again; and the

third too was gone.

A great ringing of bells sounded suddenly beneath him.

"You've got your luggage on board, Monsignor? . . . Well, you'd

better be going on board yourself. She'll start in five minutes."

(III)

The arrival at Boston harbour was one more strange experience,

and the more strange because the man who had lost his memory knew

that he was coming into a civilization which, although utterly

unknown to him by experience, yet had in his anticipation a

curious sense of familiarity.

They had met with westerly gales, and although the movement of

the ship seemed wholly unaffected (so perfect was the balancing

system), yet the speed was comparatively low, and it was not

until shortly before dawn on the second day that they came in

sight of the American coast.

Monsignor woke early that morning, and after lying and listening

for half an hour or so to the strange little sounds with which

the air was full--the steady rush of wind like a long hush; the

shivering of some tiny loose scale in one of the planes outside

his window; a minute inexplicable tapping beneath the floor of

his cabin--all those sounds so unidentifiable by the amateur, and

yet so suggestive--he got up, dressed, and went across to the

oratory, where he had said Mass on the previous morning, to say

his prayers. When he had finished he came out again, went

upstairs, and along to the end of the ship, whence from a

protected angle he could look straight ahead. The lights were all

on, as the sun was not yet up, and the upper deck, except for a

patrolling officer, was entirely empty.

For a while he could make out little or nothing beyond the

jutting prow beneath him, itself also illuminated, and various

outlines and silhouettes of devices and rigging which even now he

did not properly understand. Then, as his eyes grew accustomed to

the dark, he began to see.

Beneath him flitted a corrugated leaden surface, flecked

occasionally with white, which he knew to be water, eight hundred

feet at least below, and once he caught a glimpse of a

flattened-looking, fish-shaped object, which went again in an

instant, lighted interiorly, which he guessed to be a coasting

steamer. Before him nothing at first was visible except an

enormous gulf of gloom, but presently, as the dawn came on

behind, this gulf became tinged with a very faint rosy colour in

its upper half, enabling him to distinguish sea from sky, and

almost immediately afterwards the sea itself turned to a livid

pale tinge under the glowing light.

The next thing that he noticed was that the edge of the sea against

the sky began to look irregular and blotted, a little lumpy here

and there, and as he looked this lumpiness grew and rose higher.

He turned as the step of the officer sounded close to him.

"That's land, I suppose?" he said.

"Yes, father; we shall be in by half-past five. . . . Beg your

pardon, father, are you staying long?"

Monsignor shook his head.

"That depends on a hundred things," he said.

"Curious idea this colony; but I dare say it's best."

Monsignor smiled and said nothing.

* * * * *

Interiorly his heart had been sinking steadily during the

journey. He had mixed freely with the emigrants, and had done his

best to make friends; yet there was something not only in their

attitude to him--for though they were respectful enough, they

were absolutely impervious to any advances, seeming to regard him

as independent but rather timid children might look upon a

strange schoolmaster--but in their whole atmosphere and outlook

that was a very depressing change from the curious, impassive,

but alert and confident air to which he had grown accustomed

among the priests and people with whom he mixed. The one thing

that seemed to interest them was to discuss methods of government

and the internal politics of their future life in Massachusetts.

They asked a few questions about crops and soil; he even heard

one group in animated conversation on the subject of schools, but

the talk dropped as soon as he attempted to join in it. They all

talked English too, he noticed.

Yet though the atmosphere seemed to him very ungenial, it

appeared to him not altogether new; there appeared, somewhere in

the back of his mind, to be even an element of sympathy. He felt

almost like one who, having climbed out of a pit to the fresh

air, looks back at others who not only live in the pit, but are

content to live there.

For the world in which he had now consciously lived for the last

twelve months was, in spite of the sharp rigidity and certitude

and inexorable logic from which he shrank, undoubtedly a place of

large horizons. In fact it seemed as if there were no horizons.

On all sides there stretched out illimitable space, for eternity

(with its corollaries) was fully as effective in it as was time.

Those with whom he mixed, however little he might share their

emotions, at any rate talked as if death was no more than an

incident in life. Secretly he distrusted the reality of this

confidence; but at least it appeared to be there. But with these

folks all was different. These frankly made their plans for this

world, and this world only. Good government, stability, good

bodily health, the propagation and education of children,

equality in possessions and opportunities--these were their ideas

of good; and better government, greater stability, more perfect

health, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and more uniform

equality, their ideals.

So he pondered, over and over again, trying to understand why it

was that he was at home with neither party. With his old friends

he felt himself incapable of their certitudes and aspirations;

with these new people, viewed for the first time _en masse_, he

felt life resting on him like a stifling blanket. He told himself

bitterly that he resembled the child's Amphibian, which could not

live on the land and died in the water.

He watched mechanically the vault of heaven broaden and brighten

with the sunrise behind, and the waste beneath presently to show

lines and patches and enclosures as they approached Boston

harbour. And his heart sank as each mile was passed, and as

presently against the clear sky there stood up the roofs and

domes and chimneys of the socialistic Canaan.

(IV)

It was three or four days before he could again form any coherent

picture to himself of what this new life would mean when once it

was really under way.

He was lodged in the Government buildings, adapted a few years

before from the old temple of the Christian Scientists; and each

day in the rotunda he sat hour after hour with keen-faced

Americans, and the few Europeans who had accompanied the

emigration boats that now streamed in continually.

He flung himself into the dreary work, such as it was, with all

his power; for though he had little responsibility, he was there

as the accredited agent of the English ecclesiastical

authorities, and his business was to show as much alacrity and

sympathy as possible.

The city was, indeed, a scene of incredible confusion; and a

very strong force of police was needed to prevent open friction

between the belated and aggrieved Catholics for whom Boston

would in future be impossible as a home, and who had not yet

faced the need of migrating, and the new, very dogmatic

inhabitants who already regarded the city as their own. All

legal arrangements had, of course, been made before the first

emigrants set foot on the continent; but the redistribution of

the city, the sale of farms, the settling of interminable

disputes between various nationalities--all these things, sifted

although they were through agents and officials, yet came up to

the central board in sufficient numbers to occupy the members

for a full nine hours a day.

* * * * *

It was at the end of the fourth day that Monsignor went round the

city in a car, partly to get some air, and partly to see for

himself how things were settling down.

Of course, as he told himself afterwards, he scarcely had a fair

opportunity of judging how a Socialist State would be when the

machinery was in running order. Yet it seemed to him that, making

all allowances for confusion and noise and choked streets and the

rest, underneath it all was a spirit strangely and drearily

unlike that to which he was becoming accustomed in Europe. The

very faces of the people seemed different.

He stopped for a while in the quarter to which the English had

been assigned--that which in old Boston had been, he learned,

the Italian quarter. Here, in the little square where he halted,

everything was surprisingly in order. The open space, paved with

concrete, was unoccupied by any signs of moving in; the houses

were trim and neat, new painted for the most part; and people

seemed to be going about their business with an air of quiet

orderliness. Certainly American arrangements, he thought, were

marvellously efficient, enabling as they did some fifteen

hundred persons to settle down into new houses within the space

of four days. (He had learned something, while he sat on the

central board, of the elaborate system of tickets and officials

and enquiry offices by which such miraculous swiftness had been

made possible.)

Here at least they were an orderly population, going in and out of

the houses, visiting in one corner of the square the vast general

store that had been provided beforehand, presenting their pledges,

which, at any rate for the present, were to take the place of the

European money that the emigrants had brought with them.

He halted the car here, and leaning forward, began to look

round him carefully.

The first thing that struck him was a negative emotion--a

sense that something external was lacking. He presently

perceived what this was.

In European towns, one of the details to which he had become by

now altogether accustomed was the presence, in every street or

square at which he looked, of some emblem or statue or picture of

a religious nature. Here there was nothing. The straight

pavements ran round the square; the straight houses rose from

them, straight-windowed and straight-doored. All was admirably

sanitary and clean and wholesome. He could see through the

windows of the house opposite which his car was drawn up the

clean walls within, the decent furniture, and the rest. But there

was absolutely nothing to give a hint of anything beyond bodily

health and sanitation and decency. In London, or Lourdes, or Rome

there would at least have been a reminder--to put it very

mildly--of other possibilities than these: of a Heavenly Mother,

a Suffering Man; a hint that solid animal health was not the only

conceivable ideal. It was a tiny detail; he blamed himself for

noticing it. He reminded himself that here, at any rate, was real

liberty as he had conceived it.

He began to scrutinize the faces of the passers-by, sheltering

himself behind his elbow that he might not be noticed--appearing

as if he were waiting for some one. Women passed by, strong-faced

and business-like; men came up and passed, talking in twos or

threes. He even watched for some while a couple of children who

sat gravely together on a doorstep. (That reminded him of the

meeting of to-morrow, when certain educational matters had to be

finally decided; he remembered the proposed _curriculum_,

sketched out in some papers that he had to study this evening--an

exceedingly sound and useful _curriculum_, calculated to make the

pupils satisfactorily informed persons.)

Again and again he told himself that it was fancy that made him

see in the faces of these people--people, it must be remembered,

who were not commonplace, but rather enthusiasts for their cause,

since they preferred exile to a life under the Christian

system--that made him see a kind of blankness and heaviness

corresponding to that which the aspect of their street presented.

Many of the faces were intellectual, especially of the men--there

was no doubt of that; and all were wholesome-looking and healthy,

just as this little square was sensibly built and planned, and

the houses soundly constructed.