THE SMOKE CLOUD AT DAWN
The two men strode along without speaking for some way. Their feet
echoed in the empty streets.
Suddenly Schuabe turned to Basil. "Well, Mr. Gortre," he said, "I have
given you your opportunity. Are you not going to speak the word in
season after all?"
The young man started violently. Who was this man who had been reading
his inner thoughts? How could his companion have fathomed his sternly
repressed desire as he sat in the vicarage study? And why did he speak
now, when he knew that some chilling influence had him in its grip, that
his tongue was tied, his power weakened?
"It is late, Mr. Schuabe," he said at length, and very gravely. "My
brain is tired and my enthusiasm chilled. Nor are you anxious to hear
what I have to say. But your taunt is ungenerous. It almost seems as if
you are not always so tolerant as men think!"
The other laughed--a cold laugh, but not an unkindly one. "Forgive me,"
he said, "one should not jest with conviction. But I should like to talk
with you also. There are lusts of the brain just as there are lusts of
the flesh, and to-night I am in the mood and humour for conversation."
They were approaching a side road which led to Gortre's rooms.
Schuabe's great stone house was still a quarter of a mile away up the
hill.
"Do not go home yet," said Schuabe, "come to my house, see my books, and
let us talk. Make friends with the mammon of unrighteousness, Mr.
Gortre! You are disturbed and unstrung to-night. You will not sleep.
Come with me."
Gortre hesitated for a moment, and then continued with him. He was
hardly conscious why he did so, but even as he accepted the invitation
his nerves seemed recovered as by some powerful tonic. A strange
confidence possessed him, and he strode on with the air and manner of a
man who has some fixed purpose in his brain.
And as he talked casually with Schuabe, he felt towards him no longer
the cold fear, the inexplicable shrinking. He regarded him rather as a
vast and powerful enemy, an evil, sinister influence, indeed, but one
against which he was armed with an armour not his own, with weapons
forged by great and terrible hands.
So they entered the drive and walked up among the gaunt black trees
towards the house.
Mount Prospect was a large, castellated modern building of stone. In a
neighbourhood where architectural monstrosities abounded, perhaps it
outdid them all in its almost brutal ugliness and vulgarity. It had been
built by Constantine Schuabe's grandfather.
The present owner was little at Walktown. His Parliamentary and social
duties bound him to London, and when he had time for recreation the
newspapers announced that he had "gone abroad," and until he was
actually seen again in the midst of his friends his disappearances were
mysterious and complete.
In London he had a private set of rooms at one of the great hotels.
But despite his rare visits, the hideous stone palace in the smoky North
held all the treasures which he himself had collected and which had been
left to him by his father.
It was understood that at his death the pictures and library were to
become the property of the citizens of Manchester, held in trust for
them by the corporation.
Schuabe took a key from his pocket and opened the heavy door in the
porch.
"I always keep the house full of servants," he said, "even when I am
away, for a dismantled house and caretakers are horrible. But they will
be all gone to bed now, and we must look after ourselves."
Opening an inner door, they passed through some heavy padded curtains,
which fell behind them with a dull thud, and came out into the great
hall.
Ugly as the shell of the great building was, the interior was very
different.
Here, set like a jewel in the midst of the harsh, forbidding country,
was a treasure-house of ordered beauty which had few equals in England.
Gortre drew a long, shuddering breath of pleasure as he looked round.
Every æsthetic influence within him responded to what he saw. And how
simple and severe it all was! Simply a great domed hall of white marble,
brilliantly lit by electric light hidden high above their heads. On
every side slender columns rose towards the dome, beyond them were tall
archways leading to the rooms of the house; dull, formless curtains,
striking no note of colour, hung from the archways.
In the centre of the vast space, exactly under the dome, was a large
pool of still green water, a square basin with abrupt edges, having no
fountain nor gaudy fish to break its smoothness.
And that was all, literally all. No rugs covered the tesselated floor,
not a single seat stood anywhere. There was not the slightest suggestion
of furniture or habitation. White, silent, and beautiful! As Gortre
stood there, he knew, as if some special message had been given him,
that he had come for some great hidden purpose, that it had been
foreordained. His whole soul seemed filled with a holy power, unseen
powers and principalities thronged round him like sweet but awful
friends.
He turned inquiringly towards his host. Schuabe's face was very pale;
the calm, cruel eyes seemed agitated; he was staring at the priest.
"Come," he said in a voice which seemed to be without its usual
confidence; "come, this place is cold--I have sometimes thought it a
little too bare and fantastic--come into the library; let us eat and
talk."
He turned and passed through the pillars on the right. Gortre followed
him through the dark, heavy curtains which led to the library.
They found themselves in an immense low-ceilinged room. The floor was
covered with a thick carpet of dull blue, and their feet made no sound
as they passed over it towards the blazing fire, which glowed in an old
oak framework of panelling and ingle-nook brought from an ancient
manor-house in Norfolk.
At one end of the room was a small organ, cased, modern as the mechanism
was, in priceless Renaissance painted panels from Florence and set in a
little octagonal alcove hung with white and yellow.
The enormous writing-table of dark wood stood in front of the fireplace
and was covered with books and papers. By it was a smaller circular
table laid with a white cloth and shining glass and silver for a meal.
"My valet is in bed," said Schuabe; "I hate any one about me at night,
and I prefer to wait on myself then. 'From the cool cisterns of the
midnight air my spirit drinks repose.' If you will wait here a few
moments I will go and get some food. I know where to find some. Pray
amuse yourself by looking at my books."
He left the room noiselessly, and Basil turned towards the walls. From
ceiling to floor the immense room was lined with shelves of enamelled
white wood, here and there carved with tiny florid bunches of fruit and
flowers--Jacobean work it seemed.
A few pictures here and there in spaces between the shelves--the hectic
flummery of a Whistler nocturne; a woman _avec cerises_, by Manet; a
green silk fan, painted with _fêtes gallantes_, by Conder--alone broke
the many-coloured monotony of the books.
Gortre had, from his earliest Oxford days, been a lover of books and a
collector in a moderate, discriminating way. As a rule he was roused to
a mild enthusiasm by a fine library. But as his practised eye ran over
the shelves, noting the beauty and variety of the contents, he was
unmoved by any special interest. His brain, still, so it seemed, under
some outside and compelling instinct or influence, was singularly
detached from ordinary interests and rejected the books' appeal.
Close to where he stood the shelves were covered with theological works.
Müller's _Lectures on the Vedanta Philosophy_, Romane's _Reply to Dr.
Lightfoot_, De la Saussaye's _Manual_, stood together. His hand had been
wandering unconsciously over the books when it was suddenly arrested,
and stopped on a familiar black binding with plain gold letters. It was
an ordinary reference edition of the Holy Bible, the "pearl" edition
from the Oxford University Press.
There was something familiar and homely in the little dark volume, which
showed signs of constant use. A few feet away was a long shelf of Bibles
of all kinds, rare editions, expensive copies bound up with famous
commentaries--all the luxuries and _éditions de luxe_ of Holy Writ. But
the book beneath his fingers was the same size and shape as the one
which stood near his own bedside in his rooms--the one which his father
had given him when he went to Harrow, with "Flee youthful lusts" written
on the fly-leaf in faded ink. It was homelike and familiar.
He drew it out with a half smile at himself for choosing the one book he
knew by heart from this new wealth of literature.
Then a swift impulse came to him.
Gortre could not be called a superstitious man. The really religious
temperament, which, while not rejecting the aids of surface and symbol,
has seen far below them, rarely is "superstitious" as the word has come
to be understood.
The familiar touch, the pleasant sensation of the limp, rough leather on
his finger-balls gave him a feeling of security. But that very fact
seemed to remind him that some danger, some subtle mental danger, was
near. Was this Bible sent to him? he wondered. Were his eyes and hands
_directed_ to it by the vibrating, invisible presences which he felt
were near him? Who could say?
But he took the book in his right hand, breathed a prayer for help and
guidance--if it might so be that God, who watched him, would speak a
message of help--and opened it at random.
He was about to make a trial of that old mediæval practice of
"searching"--that harmless trial of faith which a modern hard-headed
cleric has analysed so cleverly, so completely, and so entirely
unsatisfactorily.
He opened the book, with his eyes fixed in front of him, and then let
them drop towards it. For a moment the small type was all blurred and
indistinct, and then one text seemed to leap out at him.
It was this--
"TAKE YE HEED, WATCH AND PRAY: FOR YE KNOW NOT WHEN THE TIME IS."
This, then, was his message! He was to _watch_, to pray, for the time
was at hand when--
The curtain slid aside, and Schuabe entered with a tray. He had changed
his morning coat for a long dressing-gown of camel's-hair, and wore
scarlet leather slippers.
Basil slipped the Bible back into its place and turned to face him.
"I live very simply," he said, "and can offer you nothing very
elaborate. But here is some cold chicken, a watercress salad, and a
bottle of claret."
They sat down on opposite sides of the round table and said little. Both
men were tired and hungry. After he had eaten, the clergyman bent his
head for a second or two in an inaudible grace, and made the sign of the
Cross before he rose from his chair.
"Symbol!" said Schuabe, with a cold smile, as he saw him.
The truce was over.
"What is that Cross to which all Christians bow?" he continued. "It was
the symbol of the water-god of the Gauls, a mere piece of their
iconography. The Phoenician ruin of Gigantica is built in the shape of a
cross; the Druids used it in their ceremonies; it was Thor's hammer long
before it became Christ's gibbet; it is used by the pagan Icelanders to
this day as a magic sign in connection with storms of wind. Why, the
symbol of Buddha on the reverse of a coin found at Ugain is the same
cross, the 'fylfot' of Thor. The cross was carved by Brahmins a thousand
years before Christ in the caves of Elephanta. I have seen it in India
with my own eyes in the hands of Siva Brahma and Vishnu! The worshipper
of Vishnu attributes as many virtues to it as the pious Roman Catholic
here in Salford to the Christian Cross. There is the very strongest
evidence that the origin of the cross is phallic! The _crux ansata_ was
the sign of Venus: it appears beside Baal and Astarte!"
"Very possibly, Mr. Schuabe," said Gortre, quietly. "Your knowledge on
such points is far wider than mine; but that does not affect
Christianity in the slightest."
"Of course not! Who ever said it did? But this reverence for the cross,
the instrument of execution on which an excellent teacher, and, as far
as we know, a really good man, suffered, angers me because it reminds me
of the absurd and unreasoning superstitions which cloud the minds of so
many educated men like yourself."
"Ah," said Gortre, quietly, "now we are 'gripped.' We have come to the
point."
"If you choose, Mr. Gortre," Schuabe answered; "you are an intellectual
man, and one intellectual man has a certain right to challenge another.
I was staying with Lord Haileybury the other day, and I spent two whole
mornings walking over the country with the Bishop of London, talking on
these subjects. He very ably endeavoured to bring physical and
psychological science into a single whole. But all he seemed to me to
prove was this, crystallised into an axiom or at least a postulate.
_Conscious volition is the ultimate source of all force._ It is his
belief that behind the sensuous and phenomenal world which gives it
form, existence, and activity, lies the ultimate invisible, immeasurable
power of Mind, conscious Will, of Intelligence, analogous to our own;
and--mark this essential corollary--_that man is in communication with
it_, and that was positively all he could do for me! I met him there
easily enough, but when he tried to prove a _revelation_--Christianity
--he utterly broke down. We parted very good friends, and I gave him a
thousand pounds for the East London poor fund. But still, say what you
will to me. I am here to listen."
He looked calmly at the young man with his unsmiling eyes. He held a
Russian cigarette in his fingers, and he waved it with a gentle gesture
of invitation as if from an immeasurable superiority.
And as Gortre watched him he knew that here was a brain and intelligence
far keener and finer than his own. But with all that certainty he felt
entirely undismayed, strangely uplifted.
"I have a message for you, Mr. Schuabe," he began, and the other bowed
slightly, without irony, at his words. "I have a message for you, one
which I have been sent here--I firmly believe--to deliver, but it is not
the message or the argument that you expect to hear."
He stopped for a short time, marshalling his mental forces, and noticing
a slight but perceptible look of surprise in his host's eyes.
"I know you better than you imagine, sir," he said gravely, "and not as
many other good and devout Christians see you. I tell you here to-night
with absolute certainty that you are the active enemy of Christ--I say
_active_ enemy."
The face opposite became slightly less tranquil, but the voice was as
calm as ever.
"You speak according to your lights, Mr. Gortre," he said. "I am no
Christian, but there is much good in Christianity. My words and writings
may have helped to lift the veil of superstition and hereditary
influences from the eyes of many men, and in that sense I am an enemy of
the Christian faith, I suppose. My sincerity is my only apology--if one
were needed. You speak with more harshness and less tolerance than I
should have thought it your pleasure or your duty to use."
Gortre rose. "Man," he cried, with sudden sternness, "I _know! You hate
our Lord_, and would work Him evil. You are as Judas was, for to-night
it is given me to read far into your brain."
Schuabe rose quickly from his chair and stood facing him. His face was
pallid, something looked out of his eyes which almost frightened the
other.
"What do you know?" he cried as if in a swift stroke of pain. "Who--?"
He stopped as if by a tremendous effort.
Some thought came to reassure him.
"Listen," he said. "I tell you, paid priest as you are, a blind man
leading the blind, that a day is coming when all your boasted fabric of
Christianity will disappear. It will go suddenly, and be swept utterly
away. And you, you shall see it. You shall be left naked of your faith,
stripped and bare, with all Christendom beside you. Your pale Nazarene
shall die amid the bitter laughter of the world, die as surely as He
died two thousand years ago, and no man or woman shall resurrect Him.
You know nothing, but you will remember my words of to-night, until you
also become as nothing and endure the inevitable fate of mankind."
He had spoken with extraordinary vehemence, hissing the words out with a
venom and malice, general rather than particular, from which the
Churchman shrunk, shuddering. There was such unutterable _conviction_ in
the thin, evil voice that for a moment the pain of it was like a spasm
of physical agony.
Schuabe had thrown down the mask; it was even as Gortre said, the soul
of Iscariot looked out from those eyes. The man saw the clergyman's
sudden shrinking.
The smile of a devil flashed over his face. Gortre had turned to him
once more and he saw it. And as he watched an awful certainty grew
within him, a thought so appalling that beside it all that had gone
before sank into utter insignificance.
He staggered for a moment and then rose to his full height, a fearful
loathing in his eyes, a scorn like a whip of fire in his voice.
Schuabe blanched before him, for he saw the truth in the priest's soul.
"As the Lord of Hosts is my witness," cried Gortre loudly, "I know you
now for what you are! YOU KNOW THAT CHRIST IS GOD!"
Schuabe shrank into his chair.
"ANTICHRIST!" pealed out the accusing voice. "You know the truth full
well, and, knowing, in an awful presumption you have dared to lift your
hand against God."
Then there was a dead silence in the room. Schuabe sat motionless by the
dying fire.
Very slowly the colour crept back into his cheeks. Slowly the strength
and light entered his eyes. He moved slightly.
At last he spoke.
"Go," he said. "Go, and never let me see your face again. You have
spoken. Yet I tell you still that such a blinding blow shall descend on
Christendom that----"
He rose quickly from his chair. His manner changed utterly with a
marvellous swiftness.
He went to the window and pulled aside the curtain. A chill and ghostly
dawn came creeping into the library.
"Let us make an end of this," he said quietly and naturally. "Of what
use for you and me, atoms that we are, to wrangle and thunder through
the night over an infinity in which we have neither part nor lot? Come,
get you homewards and rest, as I am about to do. The night has been an
unpleasant dream. Treat it as such. We differ on great matters. Let that
be so and we will forget it. You shall have a friend in me if you will."
Gortre, hardly conscious of any voluntary movements, his brain in a
stupor, the arteries all over his body beating like little drums, took
the hat and coat the other handed to him, and stumbled out of the house.
It was about five o'clock in the morning, raw, damp, and cold.
With a white face, drawn and haggard with emotion, he strode down the
hill. The keen air revived his physical powers, but his brain was
whirling, whirling, till connected thought was impossible.
What was it? What was the truth about that nightmare, that long, horrid
night in the warm, rich room? His powers were failing; he must see a
doctor after breakfast.
When he reached the foot of the hill, and was about to turn down the
road which led to his rooms, he stopped to rest for a moment.
From far behind the hill, over the dark, silhouetted houses of the
wealthy people who lived upon it, a huge, formless pall of purple smoke
was rising, and almost blotting out the dawn in a Titanic curtain of
gloom. The feeble new-born sun flickered redly through it, the colour of
blood. There was no wind that morning, and the fog and smoke from the
newly lit factory chimneys in the Irwell valley could not be dispersed.
It crept over the town like doom itself--menacing, vast, unconquerable.
He pulled out his latch-key with trembling hand, and turned to enter his
own door.
The cloud was spreading.
"Lighten our darkness," he whispered to himself, half consciously, and
then fell fainting on the door-step, where they found him soon, and
carried him in to the sick-bed, where he lay sick of a brain-fever a
month or more.
_Lighten our darkness!_