CHAPTER XII

POWERS OF GOOD AND EVIL

Gortre felt certain that his vicar stood without. His knocking was full

of militant Christianity. The tumultuous energy of the man without

communicated its own stir and disturbance to Basil's brain by the most

subtle of all forms of telepathy--that "telepathy" which, in a few more

years, will have its definite recipes and formulæ.

Father Ripon refused to live by any standard of measured time. He

refused--so he said--to believe that a wretched little clock really knew

what the great golden sun was doing. He had found it impossible to call

on Gortre before this late hour, and he came regardless of it now. He

wished to see Basil, and he came now with a supreme and simple

carelessness of conventional time.

As usual, the worthy man was hungry, and the _débris_ of supper on the

table reminded him of that. He sat down at once and began to eat

rapidly, telling his story between mouthfuls.

"I bring you news of a famous opportunity," he said. "If you go to work

in the right way you may win a soul. It's a poor _demi-mondaine_

creature, a dancer at the theatres. She came to me in her brougham, her

furs, and finery, and had a chat in my study. I gave her tea and a

cigarette--you know I always keep some cigarettes for the choir-men or

teachers when they call. All these women smoke. It's a great thing to

treat these people with understanding and knowledge, Gortre. Don't

'come the priest' over them, as a coster said to me last week. When they

realise that one is a man, _then_ they are fifty times more willing to

allow the other and more important thing.

"Well, this poor girl told me all about it, the same very sordid story

one is always hearing. She is a favourite burlesque actress, and she

lives very expensively in those gorgeous new flats--Bloomsbury Court.

Some wealthy scoundrel pays for it all. A man 'in a very high position,'

as she said with a pathetic little touch of pride which made me want to

weep. Oh, my dear fellow, if the world only knew what I know! Great and

honoured names in the senate, the forum, the Court, unsullied before the

eyes of men. And then these hideous establishments and secret ties! This

is a wicked city. The deadly lusts which war against the soul are great,

powerful, and militant all around us.

"This poor woman has been coming regularly to church on Sundays. The

first time was when you preached your capital sermon on the

Resurrection. Now, she is dying from a slow complaint. She will live a

year or two, the doctors think, and that is all. It does not prevent her

from living her ordinary life, but it will strike her down suddenly some

day.

"She has expressed a wish to see you to talk things over with you. She

thinks you can help her. Go to her and save her. We _must_."

He handed Gortre a visiting-card, on which he saw the name of Gertrude

Hunt with a curious lack of surprise.

"Well, I must be off," said Father Ripon, rising from the table with a

large hunk of bread and cheese in one hand.

"Go and see this poor woman to-morrow evening. She tells me she isn't

acting for a week or two,--rehearsing some new play. Isn't it wonderful

to think of the things that are going on every day? Just think of the

Holy Spirit pouring into this sinning creature's heart, catching her in

the middle of her champagne and frivolity, and just turning her, almost

_compelling_ her towards Christ! And men like John Morley or Constantine

Schuabe say there is no truth in Christianity!--I'll take one of these

apples--poor fools! Now I must go and write my sermon."

He was gone in a clattering rush.

For a long time Basil sat thinking. The mysterious links of some great

chain were being revealed inch by inch. Wonderful as these circumstances

already seemed to him, he felt sure there was far more behind them than

he knew as yet. There was some unseen tie, some influence that drew his

thoughts ever more and more towards the library in the palace at

Manchester.

* * * * *

The next evening a maid showed Gortre into the hall of the flat of

Bloomsbury Court Mansions, eyeing him curiously as she did so.

He passed down the richly carpeted passage with a quickening of all his

pulses, noticing the Moorish lamps of copper studded with turquoise

which threw a dim crimson light over everything, marking the

ostentatious luxury of the place with wonder.

Gertrude Hunt lay back in a low arm-chair. She was dressed in a long,

dull red teagown of cashmere, with a broad white band round the neck

opening of white Indian needlework, embroidered with dark green leaves.

Her face was pale and tired.

Despite the general warmth of the time, a fire burnt steadily on the

hearth.

Gortre sat down at her invitation, and they fell into a desultory

conversation. He waited for her to open on the real subjects that had

brought him there.

He watched the tired, handsome face. Coarse it certainly was, in

expression rather than feature, but that very coarseness gave it power.

This woman, who lived the life of a doll, had character. One saw that.

Perhaps, he thought, as he looked at her, that the very eagerness and

greed for pleasure marked in her face, the passionate determination to

tear the heart and core out of life, might still be directed to purer

and nobler ends.

Then she began to talk to him quite frankly, and with no disguise or

slurring over the facts of her life.

"I'm sick and tired of it all, Mr. Gortre," she said bitterly. "You

can't know what it means a bit--lucky for you. Imagine spending all your

life in a room painted bright yellow, eating nothing but chocolate

creams, with a band playing comic songs for ever and ever. And even then

you won't get it."

Basil shuddered. There was something so poignant and forceful in her

words that they hurt, stung like a whip-lash. He was being brought into

terrible contact not only with sin and the satiety of sin, but with its

results. The hideous staleness and torture of it all appalled him as he

looked at this human personification of it in the crimson gown.

"That's how it was at first," she continued. "I knew there was something

more than this in life, though. I could read it in people's faces. So I

came to the service at your church one Sunday evening. I'd never made

fun of religion and all that at any time. I simply couldn't believe it,

that was all. Then I heard you preach on the Resurrection. I heard all

the proofs for the first time. Of course, I could see there wasn't any

doubt about the matter at all. Then, curiously, directly I began to

_believe_ in it I began to hate the way I was going on, so I went to

Father Ripon, who was very nice, and he said you'd call."

"I quite understand you, Miss Hunt," said Gortre. "That's the beauty of

faith. When once you believe, then you've _got_ to change. It's a great

pity, a very great pity, that clergymen don't attempt to explain things

more than they do. If one isn't built in a certain way, I can quite

understand and sympathise with any one who isn't able to take a parson's

mere statement on trust, so to speak. But that's beside the way. _You_

believe at any rate. And now what are you going to do? I'm here to help

you in every possible way. I want to hear your views, just as you have

thought them out."

"I like that," she said. "That's practical and sensible. I've never

cared very much for sentimental ways of looking at things. You know I

can't live very long. I've got enough to live quietly on for some years,

put away in a bank, money I've made acting. I haven't spent a penny of

my salary for years--I've made the men pay for everything. I shall go

quietly away to the country and be alone with my thoughts, close to a

little quiet church. You'll find a place for me, won't you? That's what

I want to do. But there's something in the way, and a big something,

too."

"I'm here to help that," said Basil.

"It's Bob," she answered. "The man that keeps me. I'm afraid of him.

He's been away for months, out of England, but he's coming back at once.

To-morrow as likely as not, he couldn't say to a day. I had a letter

from Brindisi last week. He's been to Palestine, _via_ Alexandria."

A quick premonition took hold of the young man.

"Who is he?" he asked.

She took a photograph from the mantel-shelf and gave it to him. It was

one of the Stereoscopic Company's series of "celebrities." Under the

portrait was printed--"Sir Robert Llwellyn."

Gortre started violently.

"I know him," he said thickly. "I felt when I met him--What does it all

mean?"

He dropped his head into his hands, filled with the old, nameless,

unreasoning fear.

She looked steadily at him, wondering at his manner.

There was a tense silence for a time.

In the silence suddenly they heard a sound, clear and distinct. A key

was being inserted into the door of the flat.

They waited breathlessly. Gertrude Hunt grew very white. Without any

words from her, Basil knew whose fingers were even now upon the handle

of the door.

Llwellyn entered. His huge form was dressed in a light grey suit and he

carried a straw hat in his hand. His face was burned a deep brown.

He stopped suddenly as he saw Gortre and an ugly look flashed out on the

sensual, intellectual face. Some swift intuition seemed to give him the

key of the situation or something near it.

"The curate of Dieppe!" he said in a cold, mirthless voice. "And what,

Mr. Gortre, may I ask, are you doing here?"

"Miss Hunt has asked me to come and see her," answered Basil.

"Consoling yourself with the Church, Gertie, while your proprietor is

away?" Llwellyn said with a sneer.

Then his manner changed suddenly.

He turned to Gortre. "Now then, my man," he snarled, "get out of this

place at once. You may not know that I pay the rent and other expenses

of this establishment. It is _mine_. I know all about you. Your

reputation has reached me from sources you have little idea of. And I

saw you at Dieppe. I don't propose to resume our acquaintance in London;

kindly go at once."

Basil looked at the woman. He saw pleading, a terrible entreaty in her

eyes. If he left her now, the power of this man, his strength of will,

might drag her back for ever into hell. He could see the girl regarded

him with terror. There was a great surprise in her face also. The man

seemed so strong and purposeful. Even Gortre remembered that he had worn

no such indefinable air of confidence and triumph six months ago in

France.

"Miss Hunt wants me to stay, sir," he answered quietly, "and so I'm

going to stay. But perhaps you had better be given an explanation at

once. Miss Hunt is going to leave you to-morrow. She will never see you

again."

"And may I ask," the big man answered, "why you have interfered in my

private affairs and why you _think_--for she is going to do nothing of

the sort--Miss Hunt is going from here?"

"Simply because the Holy Spirit wills it so," said the clergyman.

Llwellyn looked steadily at him and then at the woman.

Something he saw in their faces told him the truth.

He laughed shortly. "Let me tell you," he said in a voice which quivered

with ugly passion, "that in a short time all meddling priests will lose

their power over the minds of others for ever. Your Christ, your God,

the pale dreamer of the East, shall be revealed to you and all men at

last!"

His manner had changed once more. Fierce as it was, there was an intense

_meaning_ and power in it. He spoke as one having authority, with also a

concentrated hate in his words, so real and bitter that it gave them a

certain fineness.

"Yes!" he continued, lifting his arm with a sudden gesture:

"'Far hence He lies

In the lorn Syrian town,

And on His grave, with shining eyes,

The Syrian stars look down.'"

Gortre answered him:

"You lie and you know you lie! and by the powers given to me I'll tell

you so from God Himself. Christ is risen! And as the day follows the

night so the Spirit of God remains upon the earth God once visited, and

works upon the hearts of men."

"Are you going?" said Llwellyn, stepping towards Gortre.

"No," the young man answered in sharp, angry tones. "It's you that are

going, Sir Robert. You know as well as I do that I can do exactly as I

like with you if it comes to force. And really I am not at all

disinclined to do so, despite my parson's coat. Then you will have your

remedy, you know. The newly made knight fighting a clergyman under such

very curious circumstances! If this thing is to become open talk, then

let us have it so. You can do me no harm. I came here at my vicar's

request and Miss Hunt's. You know best if you can stand a scandal of

this kind in your position. Now I'm going to use my last argument. Are

you going at once or shall I knock you down and kick you out?"

He could not help a note of exultation in his voice, try as he would. He

was still a young man, full of power and virility. His life had brought

no trace of effeminacy with it. And as he saw this splendid lying

intellect, the slave of evil, and rejoicing in it, as he heard the

arrogant denial of Christ's Godhead coming sonorously from those

polluted lips, a wild longing flared up in him. Like a sudden flame,

the impulse to strike a clean, hard blow fired all his blood. The old

Oxford days of athletic triumphs on field, flood, and river came back to

him.

He measured the man scientifically with his eyes, judging his distance,

alert to strike.

But Llwellyn made no further movement of aggression and uttered no word

of menace. He did not seem in the least afraid of Gortre or in any way

intimidated by him. Indeed, he laughed, a laugh which was very hollow,

mirthless, and cold.

"Ah, my boy," he said, "I have a worse harm to work you than you can

dream of yet. You will remember me some day. You can't frighten me now.

I will go. I want no scandal. Good-bye, Gertrude. You also will remember

and regret some day. Good-bye."

He went noiselessly out of the room, still with the strange flickering

smile of prescience and fate upon his evil face.

When he had gone, Gertrude fell into a passion of weeping. The strain

had been too great. Basil comforted her as well as he could, and before

he went promised to see Father Ripon that night and make arrangements

that she should quietly disappear the next day to some distant

undiscoverable haven.

Then he also went out into the night, through the silent squares of

sleeping houses towards the Clergy House of St. Mary's. Once more his

nerves were unstrung and the old fears and the sense of

waiting--Damocles-like for some blow to fall--poured over him.

* * * * *

Sir Robert walked swiftly to Oxford Street, where he found a cab. He

ordered the man to drive him to the Sheridan Club. On the way he stopped

at Charing Cross Station and ordered his luggage to be sent home at

once to his house in Upper Berkeley Street. He had only been in London

two or three hours, having crossed from Calais that afternoon.

He washed when he had arrived at the famous club, and then went

up-stairs to the grill-room for some supper. It was the hour when the

Sheridan is full of the upper Bohemian world. Great actors and

musicians, a judge on his way through town from one watering-place to

another,--for it was now the long vacation,--a good many well-known

journalists, all sorts and conditions of men. All were eminent in their

work, for that was a condition of membership.

Llwellyn was welcomed on all sides, though men noticed that he seemed

preoccupied. His healthy appearance was commented on, his face browned,

as was supposed, by the sun of the Riviera, his general fitness of

manner and carriage.

He took supper by himself at a small table, choosing the menu with his

usual extreme care, and more than once summoning the head waiter to

conference. Although he kept glancing at his watch, as if expecting an

arrival, he made a good meal, mixing his own salad of crisp white

lettuce with deliberation.

He had sent a page early on his arrival to find out if Mr. Constantine

Schuabe was in the club.

He was standing at the desk in the middle of the room, paying his bill,

when the swing-doors were pushed open and Schuabe entered. He was in

evening dress and carried a light overcoat on his arm.

Llwellyn gathered up his change and went to meet him. Had there been an

attentive observer to mark the meeting of the two men he would have

perhaps been a little surprised at the fashion of it.

Although Llwellyn was a six-months' stranger to London, and the meeting

between the two men was obviously prearranged, _neither of the two men

smiled as they shook hands_. Both were expectant of each other, pale,

almost with some apprehension, it might have been fancied; and though

the meeting seemed a relief to each, there was little human kindliness

in it.

"Come down to the Hotel," said Schuabe; "we can't possibly say anything

here, every room is full."

They walked out of the club together, two figures of noticeable

distinction, very obviously belonging to the ruling classes of England.

The millionaire's pale and beautiful face was worn and lined.

"Schuabe seems a bit done up," one man in the hall said to another as

the two friends passed through.

"Heat, I suppose," answered his companion. "Handsome chap, though;

doesn't seem to care for anything worth having, only books and politics

and that. Wish I'd his money."

"So do I. But give me Bob Llwellyn of these two. Thoroughly decent sort

_he_ is. Invented two new omelettes and a white soup. Forgets all about

his thing-um-bobs--old Egyptian or something--they knighted him for

directly he leaves the Museum."

"That's the sort," answered a third man who had joined them. "I don't

object to a Johnny having a brain, and knowing a devil of a lot, if

he'll only jolly well keep it to himself. Bob does that. I'm going

up-stairs to have a turn at poker. You fellows coming?"

Schuabe and Llwellyn walked to the Cecil, no great distance, saying

little by the way, and presently they were in the millionaire's great

room, with its spacious view over the river.

The place was beautifully cool and full of flowers. A great block of ice

rose from a copper bowl placed on a pedestal. The carpet had been

covered with light matting of rice straw, brought from Rawal-pindi. All

the windows leading to the balcony were wide open, and the balcony was

covered with striped awning, underneath which the electric lights glowed

on the leaves of Japanese palms, seeming as if they had been cunningly

lacquered a metallic green colour, and on low chairs of white bleached

rushes.

The two men sat down in the centre of the room on light chairs, with a

small Turkish table and cool drinks between them.

"You've had all my letters, my last from Jaffa?" asked Sir Robert.

"Yes, all of them," said Schuabe; "each one was carefully destroyed

after I had read it and memorialised the contents. Let me say now that

you have done your work with extraordinary brilliance. It has been an

intellectual pleasure of a high order to follow your proceedings and

know your plans. There is not another man in the world who could do what

you have done. Everything seems guarded against, all is secure."

"You are right, Schuabe," said Llwellyn, in a matter-of-fact voice. "You

bade me make a certain thing _possible_. You paid me proportionately to

the terrible risks and for my unrivalled knowledge. Well, you and I are

going to shake the whole world as no two other men have ever done, and

what will be the end?"

"The end!" cried Schuabe, in a high, strained, unnatural voice. "Who

shall say? What man can know? For ever more the gigantic fable of the

Cross and the Man God will be overthrown. The temples of the world will

fall into the abomination of desolation, and you and I, latter-day

bringers of light--Lucifers!--will kill the pale Nazarene more surely

than the Sanhedrists and soldiers of the past."

There was a thin madness in his voice. The great figure of the _savant_

shifted uneasily in its chair.

"That fellow Gortre, that abominable young priest, has been getting in

my way to-night," he said with a savage curse. "I found him with

Gertrude Hunt, the woman I've spent thousands on! The priests have got

her; she's going to 'lead a new life.' She has 'found Christ'!"

Schuabe smiled horribly, a cunning smile of unutterable malice.

"He has crossed my path also," he said; "in some way, by a series of

coincidences, he has become slightly involved in our lives. Leave the

matter to me. So small a thing as the fanaticism of one obscure youth is

nothing to trouble us. I will see to his future. But he shall live to

know what is coming to the world. Then--it is easy enough. He thwarted

_me_ one night also."

They were silent for a minute or two. Sir Robert lifted a long glass to

his lips. His hand shook with passion, and the ice in the liquid clinked

and tinkled.

"Everything is now ready," he said at last, glancing at Schuabe. "Every

detail. Ionides knows what he has to do when he receives the signal. He

is a mere tool, and knows and cares nothing of what will happen. He is

to direct the excavators in certain directions, that is all. It will be

three months, so I calculate, after we have set the machinery in motion,

before the blow will fall. It rests with you now to begin."

"The sign shall go at once," said Schuabe. His eyes glittered, his mouth

worked with emotion.

"It is a letter with a single sign on it."

"What is the sign?"

"A drawing of a broken cross."

"Before the day dawns we will send the broken cross to Jerusalem."

END OF BOOK I

BOOK II

"A horror of great darkness."

CHAPTER I

WHILE LONDON WAS SLEEPING

In the winter, two or three weeks before Christmas, Gortre asked Father

Ripon for a ten days' holiday, and went to Walktown to spend the time

with Mr. Byars and Helena. Christmas itself could be no time of vacation

for him,--the duties of St. Mary's were very heavy,--so he snatched a

respite from work before the actual time of festival.

Harold Spence was left alone in the chambers at Lincoln's Inn. The

journalist found himself discontented, lonely, and bored. He had not

realised before how much Basil's society had contributed to his

happiness during the past few months. It had grown to be a necessity to

him gradually, and, as is the case with all gradual processes, the lack

of it surprised him with its sense of incompleteness and loss.

He had spent a hard summer and autumn over very uncongenial work. For

months there had been a curious lull and calm in the news-world. Yet day

by day the _Daily Wire_ had to be filled. Not that there was any lack of

material,--even in the dullest season the expert journalist will tell

one that his difficulty is what to _leave out_ of his paper, not what to

_put in_,--but that the material was uninteresting and dull.

He felt himself that his leaders were growing rather stale, lacking in

spontaneity. His style did not glitter and ring quite as usual. And

Basil had helped him through this time wonderfully.

One Wednesday--he remembered the day afterwards--Spence awoke about

mid-day. He had been late at the office the night before and afterwards

had gone to a club, not going to bed till after four.

He heard the laundress moving about the chambers preparing his

breakfast. He shouted to her, and in a minute or two she came in with

his letters and a cup of tea. She went to the window and pulled up the

blind, letting a dreary grey-yellow December light into the room.

"Nasty day, Mrs. Buscall," he said, sipping his tea.

"It is so, sir," the woman said, a lean, kindly-faced London drudge from

a court in Drury Lane. "Gives me a frog in my throat all the time, this

fog does. You'd better let me pour a drop of hot water in your bath,

sir. I've got the kettle on the gas stove."

The laundress had an objection to baths, deep-rooted and a matter of

principle. The daily cold tub she regarded as suicidal, and when Gortre

had arrived, her pained surprise at finding him also--a clergyman

too!--addicted to such adventurous and injudicious habits had been as

extreme as her disappointment.

Spence agreed to humour her, and she began to prepare the bath.

"Letter from Mr. Cyril, I see, sir," she remarked. Mrs. Buscall loved

the archæologist with more strenuousness than her other two charges. The

unusual and mysterious has a real fascination for a certain type of

uneducated Cockney brain. Hands's rare sojourns at the chambers, the

Eastern dresses and pictures in his room, his strange and perilous

life--as she considered it--in the veritable Bible land, where Satan

actually roamed the desert in the form of a lion seeking whom he might

devour, all these stimulated her crude imagination and brought colour

into the dreary purlieus of Drury Lane.

Most of the women around Mrs. Buscall drank gin. The doings of Cyril

Hands were sufficient tonic for her.

Spence glanced at the bulky packet with its Turkish stamps and peculiar

aroma--which the London fog had not yet killed--of ships and alien suns.

Hands was a good correspondent. Sometimes he sent general articles on

the work he was doing, not too technical, and Ommaney, the editor of

Spence's paper, used and paid well for them.

But on this morning Spence did not feel inclined to open the packet. It

could wait. He was not in the humour for it now. It would be too

tantalising to read of those deep skies like a hard, hollow turquoise,

of the flaming white sun, the white mosques and minarets throwing purple

shadows round the cypress and olive.

"_Neque enim ignari sumus_," he muttered to himself, recalling the swing

and freedom of his own travels, the vivid, picturesque life where, at

great moments, he had been one of the eyes of England, flashing electric

words to tell his countrymen of what lay before him.

And now, after the chill of his bath and the rasping torture of shaving

in winter, he must light all the gas-jets as he sat down to breakfast in

his sitting-room!

He opened the _Wire_ and glanced at his own work of the night before.

How lifeless it seemed to him!

"Many years ago Bagehot wrote that 'Parliament expresses the

nation's opinions in words well, when it happens that words, not

laws, are wanted. On foreign matters, where we cannot legislate,

whatever the English nation thinks, or thinks it thinks, as to the

critical events of the world, whether in Denmark, in Italy or

America, and no matter whether it thinks wisely or unwisely, that

same something, wise or unwise, will be thoroughly well said in

Parliament.'

"We have never read a finer defence of such Parliamentary

discussion as the recent events in certain Continental

bureaucracies have given rise to, etc., etc."

Words! words! words! that seemed to him to mean little and matter

nothing. Yet as he chipped his egg he remembered that the writing of

this leader had meant considerable mental strain. Oh, for a big

happening abroad, when he would be sent and another would take up this

routine work! He knew he was a far better correspondent than leader

writer. His heart was in that work.

There were one or two invitations among his letters, two books were sent

by a young publisher, a friend of his, asking if he could get them

"noticed" in the _Wire_, and a syllabus of some winter lectures to be

given at Oxford House. His name was there. He was to lecture in January

on "The Sodality of the Knights of St. John".

After breakfast, the lunch time of most of the world, he found it

impossible to settle down to anything. He was not due at the office that

night, and the long hours, without the excitement of his work, stretched

rather hopelessly before him. He thought of paying calls in the various

parts of the West End, where he had friends whom he had rather neglected

of late. But he dismissed that idea when it came, for he did not feel as

if he could make himself very agreeable to any one.

He wanted a complete change of some sort. He half thought of running

down to Brighton, fighting the cold, bracing sea winds on the lawns at

Hove, and returning the next day.

He was certainly out of sorts, liverish no doubt, and the solution to

his difficulties presented itself to him in the project of a Turkish

bath.

He put his correspondence into the pocket of his overcoat, to be read

at leisure, and drove to a hammam in Jermyn Street.

The physical warmth, the silence, the dim lights, and Oriental

decorations induced a supreme sense of comfort and _bien-être_. It

brought Constantinople back to him in vague reverie.

Perhaps, he thought, the Turkish bath in London is the only easy way to

obtain a sudden and absolute change of environment. Nothing else brings

detachment so readily, is so instinct with change and the unusual.

In delightful langour he passed from one dim chamber to another, lying

prone in the great heat which surrounded him like a cloak. Then the

vigorous kneading and massage, the gradual toning and renovating of each

joint and muscle, till he stood drenched in aromatic foam, a new, fresh

physical personality. The swift dive under the india-rubber curtain left

behind the domed, dim places of heat and silence. He plunged through the

bottle-green water of the marble pool into the hall, where lounges stood

about by small inlaid octagonal tables, and a thin whip of a fountain

tinkled among green palms. Wrapped from head to foot in soft white

towels, he lay in a dream of contentment, watching the delicate spirals

from his Cairene cigarette, and sipping the brown froth of a tiny cup of

thick coffee.

At four a slippered attendant brought him a sole and a bottle of yellow

wine, and after the light meal he fell once more into a placid,

restorative sleep.

And all the while the letter from Jerusalem was in his overcoat pocket,

forgotten, hung in the entrance-hall. The thing which was to alter the

lives of thousands and ten thousands, that was to bring a cloud over

England more dark and menacing than it had ever known, lay there with

its stupendous message, its relentless influence, while outside the

church bells all over London were tolling for Evensong.

At length, as night was falling, Spence went out into the lighted

streets with their sudden roar of welcome. He was immensely refreshed in

brain and body. His thoughts moved quickly and well, depression had left

him, the activity of his brain was unceasing.

As a rule, especially for the last year or two, Spence was by no means a

man given to casual amusements. His work was too absorbing for him to

have time or inclination to follow pleasure. But to-night he felt in the

humour for relaxation.

He turned into St. James Street, where his club was, intending to find

some one who would go to a music-hall with him. There was no one he knew

intimately in the smoking-room, but soon after he arrived Lambert, one

of the deputy curators from the British Museum, came in. Spence and

Lambert had been at Marlborough together.

Spence asked Lambert, who was in evening dress, to be his companion.

"Sorry I can't, old man," he answered; "I've got to dine with my uncle,

Sir Michael. It's a bore, of course, but it's policy. The place will be

full of High Church bishops, minor Cabinet Ministers, and people of that

sort. I only hope old Ripon will be there--he's my uncle's tame vicar,

you know; uncle runs an expensive church, like some men run a

theatre--for he's always bright and amusing. You're not working

to-night, then?"

"No, not to-night. I've been and had a Turkish bath, and I thought I'd

wind up a day of mild dissipation by going to the Alhambra."

"Sorry I can't go too--awful bore. I've had a tiring day, too, and a

ballet would be refreshing. The governor's been in a state of filthy

irritation and nerves for the last fortnight."

"Sir Robert Llwellyn, isn't it?"

"Yes, he's my chief, and a very good fellow too, as a rule. He went away

for several months, you know--travelled abroad for his health. When he

first came back, three months ago, he looked as fit as a fiddle, and

seemed awfully pleased with himself all round. But lately he's been

decidedly off colour. He seems worried about something, does hardly any

work, and always seems waiting and looking out for a coming event. He

bothers me out of my life, always coming into my room and talking about

nothing, or speculating upon the possibility of all sorts of new

discoveries which will upset every one's theories."

"I met him in Dieppe in the spring. He seemed all right then, just at

the beginning of his leave."

"Well, he's certainly not that now, worse luck, and confound him. He

interferes with my work no end. Good-bye; sorry I must go."

He passed softly over the heavy carpet of the smoking-room, and Spence

was left alone once more.

It was after seven o'clock.

Spence wasn't hungry yet. The light meal in the hammam had satisfied

him. He resolved to go to the Empire alone, not because the idea of

going seemed very attractive, but because he had planned it and could

substitute no other way of spending the evening for the first

determination.

So, about nine o'clock, he strolled into the huge, garish music-hall.

He went into the Empire, and already his contentment was beginning to

die away again. The day seemed a day of trivialities, a sordid,

uneventful day of London gloom, which he had vainly tried to disperse

with little futile rockets of amusement.

He sat down in a stall and watched a clever juggler doing wonderful

things with billiard balls. After the juggler a coarsely handsome

Spanish girl came upon the stage--he remembered her at La Scala, in

Paris. She was said to be one of the beauties of Europe, and a king's

favourite.

After the Spanish woman there were two men, "brothers" some one. One was

disguised as a donkey--a veritable _peau de chagrin_!--the other as a

tramp, and together they did laughable things.

With a sigh he went up-stairs and moved slowly through the thronged

promenade. The hard faces of the men and women repelled him. One elderly

Jewish-looking person reminded him of a great grey slug. He turned into

the American bar at one extremity of the horse-shoe. It was early yet,

and the big room, pleasantly cool, was quite empty. A man brought him a

long, parti-coloured drink.

He felt the pressure of a packet in his pocket. It was Cyril Hands's

letter, he found as he took it out. He thought of young Lambert at the

club, a friend of Hands and fellow-worker in the same field, and

languidly opened the letter.

Two women came in and sat at a table not far from him as he began to

read. He was the only man in the place, and they regarded him with a

tense, conscious interest.

They saw him open a bulky envelope with a careless manner. He would look

up soon, they expected.

But as they watched they saw a sudden, swift contraction of the brows, a

momentous convulsion of every feature. His head bent lower towards the

manuscript. They saw that he became very pale.

In a minute or two what had at first seemed a singular paleness became a

frightful ashen colour.

"That Johnny's going to be ill," one of the women said to the other.

As she spoke they saw the face change. A lurid excitement burst upon it

like a flame. The eyes glowed, the mouth settled into swift purpose.

Spence took up his hat and left the room with quick, decided steps. He

threaded his way through the crowd round the circle--like a bed of

orchids, surrounded by heavy, poisonous scents--and almost ran into the

street.

A cab was waiting. He got into it, and, inspired by his words and

appearance, the man drove furiously down dark Garrick Street, and the

blazing Strand towards the offices of the _Daily Wire_.

The great building of dressed stone which stood in the middle of Fleet

Street was dark. The advertisement halls and business offices were

closed.

Spence paid his man and dived down a long, narrow passage, paved, and

with high walls on either side. At the end of the passage he pushed open

some battered swing-doors. A _commissionaire_ in a little hutch touched

his cap as Spence ran up a broad flight of stone stairs.

The journalist turned down a long corridor with doors on either side.

The glass fanlights over the doors showed that all the rooms were

brilliantly lit within. The place was very quiet, save for the distant

clicking of a typewriter and the thud of a "column-printer" tape machine

as the wheel carrier shot back for a new line.

He opened a door with his own name painted on it and went inside. At a

very large writing-table, on which stood two shaded electric lights, an

elderly man, heavily built and bearded, was writing on small slips of

paper. There was another table in the room, a great many books on

shelves upon the walls, and a thick carpet. The big man looked up as

Spence came in, lifted a cup of tea which was standing by him, and drank

a little. He nodded without speaking, and went on with his leading

article.

Spence took off his hat and coat, drew the sheets of Hands's letter from

his pocket, and went out into the passage. At the extreme end he opened

a door, and passing round a red baize screen found himself in Ommaney's

room, the centre of the great web of brains and machinery which daily

gave the _Wire_ to the world.

Ommaney's room was very large, warm, and bright. It was also extremely

tidy. The writing-table had little on it save a great blotting-pad and

an inkstand. The books on chairs and shelves were neatly arranged.

The editor sat at a table in the centre of the room, facing several

doors which led into various departments of the staff. The chief

sub-editor, a short, alert person, spectacled and Jewish in aspect,

stood by Ommaney's side as Spence came in. He had proof of page three in

his hand--that portion of the paper which consisted of news which had

accumulated through the day. He was submitting it to the editor, so that

the whole sheet might be finally "passed for press" and "go to the

foundry," where the type would be pressed into _papier-mâché_ moulds,

from which the final curved plates for the roller machines would be

cast.

"Not at all a bad make-up, Levita," Ommaney said, as he initialled the

margin in blue pencil. The sub-editor hurried from the room.

Ommaney was slim and pale, carefully dressed, and of medium height. He

did not look very old. His moustache was golden and carefully tended,

his pale, honey-coloured hair waved over a high, white forehead.

"I shall want an hour," Spence said. "I've just got what may be the most

stupendous news any newspaper has ever published."

The editor looked up quickly. A flash of interest passed over his pale,

immobile face and was gone. He knew that if Spence spoke like this the

occasion was momentous.

He looked at his watch. "Is it news for to-night's paper?" he said.

"No," answered Spence. "I'm the only man in England, I think, who has it

yet. We shall gain nothing by printing to-night. But we must settle on a

course of action at once. That won't wait. You'll understand when I

explain."

Ommaney nodded. On the writing-table was a mahogany stand about a foot

square. A circle was described on it, and all round the circle, like the

figures on the face of a clock, were little ivory tablets an inch long,

with a name printed on each. In the centre of the circle a vulcanite

handle moved a steel bar working on a pivot. Ommaney turned the handle

till the end of the bar rested over the tablet marked

+--------------------+

| COMPOSING ROOM |

+--------------------+

He picked up the receiver and transmitter of a portable telephone and

asked one or two questions.

When he had communicated with several other rooms in this way Ommaney

turned to Spence.

"All right," he said, "I can give you an hour now. Things are fairly

easy to-night."

He got up from the writing-table and sat down by the fire. Spence took a

chair opposite.

He seemed dazed. He was trembling with excitement, his face was pale

with it, yet, above and beyond this agitation, there was almost fear in

his eyes.

"It's a discovery in Palestine--at Jerusalem," he said in a low,

vibrating voice, spreading out the thin, crackling sheets of foreign

note-paper on his knee and arranging them in order.

"You know Cyril Hands, the agent of the Palestine Exploring Fund?"

"Yes, quite well by reputation," said Ommaney, "and I've met him once or

twice. Very sound man."

"These papers are from him. They seem to be of tremendous importance, of

a significance that I can hardly grasp yet."

"What is the nature of them?" asked the editor, rising from his chair,

powerfully affected in his turn by Spence's manner.

Harold put his hand up to his throat, pulling at his collar; the apple

moved up and down convulsively.

"The Tomb!" Spence gasped. "The Holy Tomb!"

"What do you mean?" asked Ommaney. "Another supposed burial-place of

Christ--like the _Times_ business, when they found the Gordon Tomb, and

Canon MacColl wrote such a lot?"

His face fell a little. This, though interesting enough, and fine "news

copy," was less than he hoped.

"No, no," cried Spence, getting his voice back at last and speaking like

a man in acute physical pain. "_A new tomb has been found. There is an

inscription in Greek, written by Joseph of Arimathæa, and there are

other traces._"

His voice failed him.

"_Go on, man, go on!_" said the editor.

"_The inscription--tells that Joseph--took the body of Jesus--from his

own garden tomb--he hid it in this place--the disciples never knew--it

is a confession_----"

Ommaney was as white as Spence now.

"_There are other contributory proofs_," Spence continued. "_Hands says

it is certain. All the details are here, read_----"

Ommaney stared fixedly at his lieutenant.

"_Then, if this is true_," he whispered, "_it means?_----"

"THAT CHRIST NEVER ROSE FROM THE DEAD, THAT CHRISTIANITY IS ALL A LIE."

Spence slipped back in his chair a little and fainted.

With the assistance of two men from one of the other rooms they brought

him back to consciousness before very long. Then while Ommaney read the

papers Spence sat nervously in his chair, sipping some brandy-and-water

they had brought him and trying to smoke a cigarette with a palsied

hand.

The editor finished at last. "Pull yourself together, Spence," he said

sharply. "This is no time for sentiment. I know your beliefs, though I

do not share them, and I can sympathise with you. But keep yourself off

all private thoughts now. We must be extremely careful what we are

doing. Now listen carefully to me."

The keen voice roused Spence. He made a tremendous effort at

self-control.

"It seems," Ommaney went on, "that we alone know of this discovery. The

secretary of the Palestine Exploring Society will not receive the news

for another week, Hands says. He seems stunned, and no wonder. In about

a fortnight his detailed papers will probably be published. I see he has

already telegraphed privately for Dr. Schmöulder, the German expert. Of

course you and I are hardly competent to judge of the value of this

communication. To me--speaking as a layman--it seems extremely clear.

But we must of course see a specialist before publishing anything. _If

this news is true_--and I would give all I am worth if it were not,

though I am no Christian--of course you realise that the future history

of the world is changed? I hold in my hand something that will come to

millions and millions of people as an utter extinction of hope and

light. It's impossible to say what will happen. Moral law will be

abrogated for a time. The whole moral fabric of Society will fall into

ruin at once until it can adjust itself to the new state of things.

There will be war all over the world; crime will cover England like a

cloud----"

His voice faltered as the terrible picture grew in his brain.

Both of them felt that mere words were utterly unable to express the

horrors which they saw dawning.

"We don't know the truth yet," said Spence, at length.

"No," answered Ommaney. "I am not going to speculate on it either. I am

beginning to realise what we are dealing with. One man's brain cannot

hold all this. So let me ask you to regard this matter _for the present_

simply from the standpoint of the paper, and through it, of course, from

the standpoint of public policy----"

He broke off suddenly, for there was a knock at the door. A

_commissionaire_ entered with a telegram. It was for Spence. He opened

the envelope, read the contents with a groan, and passed it to the

editor.

The telegram was from Hands:

"Schmöulder entirely confirms discovery, is communicating first

instance with Kaiser privately, fuller details in mail, confer

Ommaney, make statement to Secretary Society, use Wire medium

publicity, leave all to you, see Prime Minister, send out Llwellyn

behalf Government immediately, meanwhile suggest attitude suspended

decision, personally fear little doubt.--HANDS."

"We must act at once," said Ommaney. "We have a fearful responsibility

now. It's not too much to say that everything depends on us. Have you

got any of that brandy left? My head throbs like an engine."

A sub-editor who came in and was briefly dismissed told his colleagues

that something was going on in the editor's room of an extraordinary

nature. "The chief was actually drinking a peg, and his hand shook like

a leaf."

Ommaney drank the spirits--he was an absolute teetotaler as a rule,

though not pledged in any way to abstinence--and it revived him.

"Now let us try and think," he said, lighting a cigarette and walking up

and down the room.

Spence lit a cigarette also. As he did so he gave a sudden, sharp,

unnatural chuckle. He was smoking when the Light of the World--the whole

great world!--was flickering into darkness.

Ommaney saw him and interpreted the thought. He pulled him up at once

with a few sharp words, for he knew that Spence was close upon hysteria.

"From a news point of view," he continued, "we hold all the cards. No

one else knows what we know. I am certain that the German papers will

publish nothing for a day or two. The Emperor will tell them nothing,

and they can have no other source of information; so I gather from this

telegram. Dr. Schmöulder will not say anything until he has instructions

from Potsdam. That means I need not publish anything in to-morrow's

paper. It will relieve me of a great responsibility. We shall be first

in the field, but I shall still have a few hours to consult with

others."

He pressed a bell on the table. "Tell Mr. Jones I wish to see him," he

told the boy who answered the summons.

A young man came in, the editor of the "personal" column.

"Is the Prime Minister in town, Mr. Jones?" he asked.

"Yes, sir; he's here for three more days."

"I shall send a message now," said Ommaney, "asking for an interview in

an hour's time. I know he will see me. He knows that I would not come at

this hour unless the matter were of national importance. As you know, we

are very much in the confidence of the Cabinet just now. I dare not wait

till to-morrow." He rapidly wrote a note and sent for Mr. Folliott

Farmer.

The big-bearded man from Spence's room entered, smoking a briar pipe.

"Mr. Farmer," said Ommaney, "I suppose you've done your leader?"

"Sent it up-stairs ten minutes ago," said the big man.

"Then I want you to do me a favour. The matter is so important that I do

not like to trust any one else. I want you to drive to Downing Street at

once as hard as you can go. Take this letter for Lord ----. It is making

an appointment for me in an hour's time. He _must_ see it himself at

once--take my card. One of the secretaries will try and put you off, of

course. This is irregular, but it is of international importance. When I

tell you this you will realise that Lord ---- _must_ see the note. Bring

me back the answer as rapidly as you can."

The elderly man--his name was a household word as a political writer all

over England and the Continent--nodded without speaking, took the

letter, and left the room. He knew Ommaney, and realised that if he made

a messenger boy of him, Folliott Farmer, the matter was of supreme

importance.

"That is the only thing to do," said Ommaney. "No one else would be

possible. The Archbishop would laugh. We must go to the real head. I

only want to put myself on the safe side before publishing. If they

meet me properly, then for the next few days we can control public

opinion. If not, then it is my duty to publish, and if I'm not

officially backed up there may be war in a week. Macedonia would be

flaming, Turkish fanatics would embroil Europe. But that will be seen at

once in Downing Street, unless I'm very much mistaken."

"It's an awful, horrible risk we are running," said Spence. He was

forgetting all personal impressions in the excitement of the work; the

journalist was alive in him. "Hands's letter and diagrams seem so

flawless; he has exhausted every means of disproving what he says; but

still supposing that it is all untrue!"

"I look at it this way," said Ommaney. "It's perfectly obvious, at any

rate, that the discovery is of the first importance, regarded as news.

Hands has the reputation of being a thoroughly safe man, and now he is

supported by Schmöulder. Schmöulder is, of course, a man of world-wide

reputation. As these two are certain, even if later opinion or discovery

proves the thing to be untrue, the paper can't suffer. Our attitude

will, of course, be non-committal, until certainty one way or the other

comes. At any rate, it seems to me that you have brought in the greatest

newspaper 'scoop' that has ever been known or thought of. For my part, I

have little doubt of the truth of this. Can't go into it now, but it

seems so very, very probable. It _explains_, and even _corroborates_,

and that's the wonderful thing, so much of the Gospel narrative. We

shall see what Llwellyn says. I've more to go into, but, meanwhile, I

must make arrangements for setting up Hands's papers. Then there are the

inscriptions, too. Of course they must be reproduced in facsimile. As we

can't print in half-tone, I must have the photograph turned into an

absolutely correct line drawing, and have line blocks made. I shall

have pulls of the whole thing prepared and sent by post to-morrow at

midnight to the editors of all the dailies in London and Paris, and to

the heads of the Churches. I shall also prepare a statement, showing

exactly how the documents have come into our possession and what steps

we are taking. I shall write the thing to-night, after I have seen the

Prime Minister."

He went to his writing-table once more, moved the telephone indicator,

and summoned the foreman printer.

In a few moments a lean Scotchman in his shirt sleeves--one of the most

autocratic and important people connected with the paper--came into the

room.

"I want an absolutely reliable linotype operator, Burness," said

Ommaney. "He will have to set up some special copy for me after the

paper's gone to press. It'll take him till breakfast-time. I want a man

who will not talk. The thing is private and important. And it must be a

man who can set up from the Greek font by hand also. There are some

quotations in Greek included in the text."

"Well, sirr," said the man, with a strong Scotch accent, "I can find ye

a guid operrator to stay till morning, but aboot his silence--if it's of

great moment--I wouldn't say, and aboot his aptitude for setting up

Greek type I hae nae doot whatever. There's no a lino operrator in the

building wha can do it. Some of the men at the case might, but that'll

be keeping two men. Is it verra important, Mr. Ommaney?"

"More important than anything I have ever dealt with."

"Then ye'll please jist give the copy into my own hands, sirr. I'll do

the lino and the case warrk mysel' and pull a galley proof for ye too.

No one shall see the copy but me."

"Thank you, Burness," said the editor. "I'm very much obliged. I shall

be here till morning. I shall go out in an hour and be back by the time

the machines are running down-stairs. Then the composing-room will be

empty and you can get to work."

"I'll start directly the plates have gone down to the foundry and the

men are off, just keeping one hand to see to the gas-engine."

"And, Burness, lock up the galley safely when you come down with the

proof."

"I'll do it, sir," and the great man--indispensable, and earning his six

hundred a year--went away with the precious papers.

"That is perfectly safe with Burness," said Spence, as the foreman

compositor retired. "He will make no mistakes either. He is a capital

Greek scholar, corrects the proof-readers themselves often."

"Yes," answered Ommaney, "I know. I shall leave everything in his hands.

Then late to-morrow night, just before the forms go to the foundry, I

shall shove the whole thing in before any one knows anything about it,

and nothing can get round to any other office. Burness will know about

it beforehand, and he'll be ready to break up a whole page for this

stuff. Of course, as far as leaders go and comment, I shall be guided

very much by the result of my interview to-night and others to-morrow

morning. I shall send off several cables before dawn to Palestine and

elsewhere."

Once more the editor began to pace up and down the room, thinking

rapidly, decisively, deeply. The slim, fragile body was informed with

power by the splendid brain which animated it.

The rather languid, silent man was utterly changed. Here one could see

the strength and force of the personality which directed and controlled

the second, perhaps the first, most powerful engine of public opinion in

the world. The millionaires who paid this frail-looking, youthful man

an enormous sum to direct their paper for them knew what they were

about. They had bought one of the finest living executive brains and

made it a potentate among its fellows. This man who, when he was not at

the office, or holding some hurried colloquy with one of the rulers of

the world, was asleep in a solitary flat at Kensington, knew that he had

an accepted right to send a message to Downing Street, such as he had

lately done. No one knew his face--no one of the great outside public;

his was hardly even a name to be recognised in passing, yet he, and

Spence, and Folliott Farmer could shake a continent with their words.

And though all knew it, or would at least have realised it had they ever

given it a thought, the absolute self-effacement of journalism made it a

matter of no moment to any of them.

While Englishmen read their dicta, and unconsciously incorporated them

into their own pronouncements, mouthing them in street, market, and

forum, these men slept till the busy day was over, and once more with

the setting of the sun stole out to their almost furtive and yet

tremendous task.

Every now and then Ommaney strode to the writing-table and made a rapid

note on a sheet of paper.

At last he turned to Spence.

"I am beginning to have our line of action well marked out in my brain,"

he said. "The thing is grouping itself very well. I am beginning to see

my way. Now about you, Spence. Of course this thing is yours. At any

rate you brought it here. Later on, of course, we shall show our

gratitude in some substantial way. That will depend upon the upshot of

the whole thing. Meanwhile, you will be quite wasted in London. I and

Farmer and Wilson can deal with anything and everything here. Of course

I would rather have you on the spot, but I can use you far better

elsewhere."

"Then?" said Spence.

"You must go to Jerusalem at once. Start for Paris to-morrow morning at

nine; you'd better go round to your chambers and pack up now and then

come back here till it's time to start. You can sleep _en route_. I

shall be here till breakfast-time, and I can give you final

instructions."

He used the telephone once more and his secretary came in.

"Mr. Spence starts for Palestine to-morrow morning, Marriott," he said.

"He is going straight through to Jerusalem as fast as may be. Oblige me

by getting out a route for him at once, marking all the times for

steamers and trains, etc., in a clear scheme for Mr. Spence to take with

him. Be very careful with the Continental timetables indeed. If you can

see any delay anywhere which will be likely to occur, go down to Cook's

early in the morning and make full inquiries. If it is necessary,

arrange for any special trains that may be necessary. Mr. Spence must

not be delayed a day. Also map out various points on the journey, with

the proper times, where we can telegraph instructions to Mr. Spence. Go

down to Mr. Woolford and ask him for a hundred pounds in notes and give

them to Mr. Spence. You will arrange about the usual letter of credit

during the day and wire Mr. Spence at Paris after lunch."

The young man went out to do his part in the great organisation which

Ommaney controlled.

"Then you'll be back between three and four?" Ommaney said.

"Yes, I'll go and pack at once," Spence answered. "My passport from the

Foreign Office is all right now."

He rose to go, vigorous, and with an inexpressible sense of relief at

the active prospect before him. There would be no time for haunting

thought, for personal fears yet. He was going, himself, to the very

heart of things, to see and to gain personal knowledge of these events

which were shadowing the world.

The door opened as he rose and Folliott Farmer strode in. With him was a

tall, distinguished man of about five-and-thirty; he was in evening

dress and rather bald.

It was Lord Trelyon, the Prime Minister's private secretary.

"I thought I would come myself with Mr. Farmer, Mr. Ommaney," he said,

shaking hands cordially. "Lord ---- will see you. He tells me to say

that if it is absolutely imperative he will see you. I suppose there is

no doubt of that?"

"None whatever, I'm sorry to say, Lord Trelyon," the editor answered.

"Farmer, will you take charge till I return?"

He slipped on his overcoat and a felt hat and left the room with the

secretary without looking back. Spence followed the two down the

stairs--the tall, athletic young fellow and the slim, nervous

journalist. These were just driving furiously towards the Law Courts as

Spence turned into Fleet Street on his way to Lincoln's Inn.

Fleet Street was brilliantly lit and almost silent. A few cabs hovered

about and that was all. Presently all the air would be filled with the

dull roar and hum of the great printing machines in their underground

halls, but the press hour was hardly yet.

The porter let him into the Inn, and in a few moments he was striking

matches and lighting the gas. Mrs. Buscall had cleared away the

breakfast things, but the fire had long since gone out. The big rooms

looked very bare and solitary, unfamiliar almost, as the gas-jets hissed

in the silence.

One or two letters were in the box. One envelope bore the Manchester

post-mark. It was from Basil Gortre. A curious pang, half wonder and

anticipation, half fear, passed through his mind as he saw the familiar

handwriting of his friend. But it was a pang for Gortre, not for

himself. He himself was wholly detached now that the time for action had

arrived. Personal consideration would come later. At present he was

starting out on the old trail--"The old trail, the long trail, the trail

that is always new."

He felt a _man_ again, with a fierce joy and exultation throbbing in all

his veins after the torpor of the last few weeks.

He sat down at the table, first getting some bread and cheese from a

cupboard, for he was hungry, and opening a bottle of beer. The beer

tasted wonderfully good. He laughed exultingly in the flow of his high

spirits.

He wrote a note to Mrs. Buscall, long since inured to these sudden

midnight departures, and another to Gortre. To him he said that some

great and momentous discoveries were made at Jerusalem by Hands, and

that he himself was starting at once for the Holy City as special

correspondent for the _Wire_. He would write _en route_, he explained,

there was no time for any details now.

"Poor chap," he said to himself, "he'll know soon enough now. I hope he

won't take it very badly."

Then he went into his bedroom and hauled down the great pig-skin

kit-bag, covered with foreign labels, which had accompanied him half

over the world.

He packed quickly and completely, the result of long practice. The pads

of paper, the stylographic pens, with the special ink for hot countries

which would not dry up or corrode, his revolvers, riding-breeches, boots

and spurs, the kodak, with spare films and light-tight zinc cases, the

old sun helmet--he forgot nothing.

When he had finished, and the big bag, with a small Gladstone also, was

strapped and locked, he changed joyously from the black coat of cities

into his travelling tweeds of tough cloth. At length everything seemed

prepared. He sat on the bed and looked round him, willing to be gone.

His eye fell on the opposite wall. A crucifix hung there, carved in

ebony and ivory. During his short holiday at Dieppe, nearly nine months

ago now, he had gone into the famous little shop there where carved work

of all kinds is sold. Basil and Helena were with him and they had all

bought mementoes. Helena had given him that.

And as he looked at it now he wondered what his journey would bring

forth. Was he, indeed, chosen out of men to go to this far country to

tear Christ from that awful and holy eminence of the Cross? Was it to be

his mission to extinguish the _Lux Mundi_?

As he gazed at the sacred emblem he felt that this could not be.

No, no! a thousand times no. Jesus _had_ risen to save him and all other

sinners. It _was_ so, must be so, should be so.

The Holy Name was in itself enough. He whispered it to himself. No,

_that_ was eternally, gloriously true.

Humbly, faithfully, gladly he knelt among the litter of the room and

said the Lord's Prayer, said it in Latin as he had said it at school--

_Pater noster!_

CHAPTER II

AVOIDING THE FLOWER PATTERN ON THE CARPET

Sir Michael Manichoe, the stay and pillar of "Anglicanism" in the

English Church, was a man of great natural gifts. The owner of one of

those colossal Jewish fortunes which, few as they are, have such

far-reaching influence upon English life, he employed it in a way which,

for a man in his position, was unique.

He presented the curious spectacle, to sociologists and the world at

large, of a Jew by origin who had become a Christian by conviction and

one of the sincerest sons of the English Church as he understood it. In

political life Sir Michael was a steady, rather than a brilliant, force.

He had been Home Secretary under a former Conservative administration,

but had retired from office. At the present moment he was a private

member for the division in which his country house, Fencastle, stood,

and he enjoyed the confidence of the chiefs of his party.

His great talent was for organisation, and all his powers in that

direction were devoted towards the preservation and unification of the

Church to which he was a convert.

Sir Michael's convictions were perfectly clear and straightforward. He

believed, with all his heart, in the Catholicity of the Anglican

persuasion. Roman priests he spoke of as "members of the Italian

mission"; Nonconformists as "adherents to the lawless bands of Dissent."

He allowed the validity of Roman orders and spoke of the Pope as the

"Bishop of Rome," an Italian ecclesiastic with whom the English

communion had little or nothing to do.

In his intimate and private life Sir Michael lived according to rubric.

His splendid private chapel at Fencastle enjoyed the services of a

chaplain, reinforced by priests from a community of Anglican monks which

Sir Michael had established in an adjacent village. In London, St.

Mary's was, in some sense, his particular property. He spent fabulous

sums on the big Bloomsbury Parish and the needs of its great,

cathedral-like church. There was no vicar in London who enjoyed the

command of money that Father Ripon enjoyed. Certainly there was no other

priest in the ranks of the High Churchmen who was the confidential

friend and spiritual director of so powerful a political and social

personality.

Yet in his public life Sir Michael was diplomatic enough. He worked

steadily for one thing, it is true, but he was far too able to allow

people to call him narrow-minded. The Oriental strain of cunning in his

blood had sweetened to a wise diplomacy. While he always remembered he

was a Churchman, he did not forget that to be an effective and helpful

one he must keep his political and social eminence. And so, whatever

might take place behind the scenes in the library with Father Ripon, or

in the Bloomsbury clergy house, the baronet showed the world the face of

a man of the world, and neither obtruded his private views nor allowed

them to disturb his colleagues.

The day after the news arrived in Fleet Street from Palestine--while

nothing was yet known and Harold Spence was rushing through Amiens _en

route_ for Paris and the East--a house party began to collect at

Fencastle, the great place in Lincolnshire.

For a day or two a few rather important people were to meet under Sir

Michael's roof. Now and then the palace in the fen lands was the scene

of notable gatherings, much talked of in certain circles and commented

on by people who would truthfully have described themselves as being "in

the know."

These parties were, indeed, congresses of the eminent, the "big" people

who quietly control an England which the ignorant and the vulgar love to

imagine is in the hands of a corrupt society of well-born, "smart," and

pleasure-seeking people.

The folk who gathered at Fencastle were as remote from the gambling,

lecherous, rabbit-brained set which glitters so brightly before the eyes

of the uninformed as any staid, middle-class reader of the popular

journals.

In this stronghold of English Catholicism--"hot-bed of ritualists" as

the brawling "Protestant" journals called it, one met a diversity of

people, widely divided in views and only alike in one thing--the

dominant quality of their brains and position.

Sir Michael thought it well that even his professed opponents should

meet at his table, for it gave both him and his lieutenants new data and

fresh impressions for use in the campaign. Sir Michael's convictions

were perfectly unalterable, but to find out how others--and those

hostile--really regarded them only added to the weapons in his armoury.

And, as one London priest once remarked to another, the combination of a

Jewish brain and a Christian heart was one which had already

revolutionised Society nearly two thousand years ago in the persons of

eleven distinguished instances.

As Father Ripon drove to Liverpool Street Station after lunch, to catch

the afternoon train to the eastern counties, he was reading a letter as

his cab turned into Cheapside and crawled slowly through the heavy

afternoon traffic of the city.

" ... It will be as well for you to see the man _à huisclos_ and

form your own opinions. There can be no doubt that he is a force to

be reckoned with, and he is, moreover, as I think you will agree

after inspection, far more brilliant and able than any other

_professed_ antichristian of the front rank. Then there will also

be Mrs. Hubert Armstrong. She is a pseudo-intellectual force, but

her writings have a certain heaviness and authoritative note which

I believe to have real influence with the large class of

semi-educated people who mistake an _atmosphere_ of knowledge for

knowledge itself. A very charming woman, by the way, and I think

sincere. Matthew Arnold and water!

"The Duke of Suffolk will stop a night on his way home. He writes

that he wishes to see you. As you know, he is just back from Rome,

and now that they have definitely pronounced against the validity

of Anglican orders he is most anxious to have a further chat with

you in order to form a working opinion as to _our_ position. From

his letter to me, and the extremely interesting account he gives of

his interview at the Vatican, I gather that the Roman Church still

utterly misunderstands our attitude, and that hopes there are high

of the ultimate "conversion" of England. I hope that as a

representative of English Churchmen you will be able to define what

we think in an unmistakable way. This will have value. Among my

other guests you will meet Canon Walke. He is preaching in Lincoln

Cathedral on the Sunday, fresh from Windsor. "Render unto Cæsar"

will, I allow myself to imagine, not be an unlikely text for his

homily.--I am, Father, yours most sincerely,

"M. M."

Still thinking carefully over Sir Michael's letter, Father Ripon bought

his ticket and made his way to the platform.

He got into a first-class carriage. While in London the priest lived a

life of asceticism and simplicity which was not so much a considered

thing as the outcome of an absolute and unconscious carelessness about

personal and material comfort; when he went thus to a great country

house, he complied with convention because it was politic.

He was the grandson of a peer, and, though he laughed at these small

points, he wished to meet his friend's opinions in any reasonable way,

rather than to flout them.

The carriage was empty, though a pile of newspapers and a travelling rug

in one corner showed Father Ripon that he was to have one companion at

any rate upon the journey.

He had bought the _Church Times_ at the bookstall and was soon deeply

immersed in the report of a Bampton Lecture delivered during the week at

the University Church in Oxford.

Some one entered the carriage, the door was shut, and the train began to

move out of the station, but he was too interested to look up to see who

his companion might be.

A voice broke in upon his thoughts as they were tearing through the

wide-spread slums of Bethnal Green.

"Do you mind if I smoke, sir? This isn't a smoking carriage, but we are

alone----"

It was an ordinary query enough. "Oh, dear, no!" said the priest.

"Please do, to your heart's content. It doesn't inconvenience _me_."

Father Ripon's quick, breezy manner seemed to interest the stranger. He

looked up and saw a personality. Obviously this clergyman was some one

of note. The heavy brows, the hawk-like nose, the large, firm, and yet

kindly mouth, all these seemed familiar in some vague way.

For his part, Father Ripon experienced much the same sensation as he

glanced at the tall stranger. His hair, which could be seen beneath his

ordinary hard felt hat, was dark red and somewhat abundant. His features

were Semitic, but without a trace of that fulness, and often coarseness,

which sometimes marks the Jew who has come to the period of middle life.

The large black eyes were neither dull nor lifeless, but simply cold,

irresponsive, and alert. A massive jaw completed an impression which was

remarkable in its fineness and almost sinister beauty.

The priest found it remarkable but with no sense of strangeness. He had

seen the man before.

Recognition came to Schuabe first.

"Excuse me," he said, "but surely you are Father Ripon? I am Constantine

Schuabe."

Ripon gave a merry chuckle. "I knew I knew you!" he said, "but I

couldn't think quite who you were for a moment. Sir Michael tells me

you're going to Fencastle; so am I."

Schuabe leaned back in his seat and regarded Father Ripon with a steady

and calm scrutiny, somewhat with the manner of a naturalist examining a

curious specimen, with a suggestion of aloofness in his eyes.

Suddenly Father Ripon smiled rather sternly, and the deep furrows which

sprang into his cheeks showed the latent strength and power of the face.

"Well, Mr. Schuabe," he said abruptly, "the train doesn't stop anywhere

for an hour, so willy-nilly you're locked up with a priest!"

"A welcome opportunity, Father Ripon, to convince one that perhaps the

devil isn't as black as he's painted."

"I've read your books," said Ripon, "and I believe you are sincere, Mr.

Schuabe. It's not a personal question at all. At the same time, if I had

the power, you know I should cheerfully execute you or imprison you for

life, not out of revenge for what you have done, but as a precautionary

measure. You should have no further opportunity of doing harm." He

smiled grimly as he spoke.

"Rather severe, Father," said Schuabe laughing. "Because I find that in

a rational view of history there is no place for a Resurrection and

Ascension you would give me your blessing and an _auto da fé_!"

"I rather believe in stern measures, sometimes," answered the clergyman,

with an underlying seriousness, though he spoke half in jest. "Not for

_all_ heretics, you know--only the dangerous ones."

"You are afraid of _intellect_ when it is brought to bear on these

questions."

"I thought that would be your rejoinder. Superficially it is a very

telling one, because there is nothing so insidious as a half-truth. In a

sense what you say is true. There are a great many Christians whose

faith is weak and whose natural inclinations, assisted by supernatural

temptations, are towards a life of sin. Christianity keeps them from it.

Now, your books come in the way of such people as these far more readily

and easily than works of Christian apologetics written with equal power.

An _attack_ upon our position has all the elements of popularity and

novelty. _It is more seen._ For example, ten thousand people have heard

of your _Christ Reconceived_ for every ten who know Lathom's _Risen

Master_. You have said the last word for agnosticism and made it widely

public, the Master of Trinity Hall has said the last word for

Christianity and only scholars know of it. It isn't the strength of your

case which makes you dangerous, it's the ignorance of the public and a

condition of affairs which makes it possible for you to shout loudest."

"Well, there is at least a half-truth in what you say also, Mr. Ripon,"

said Schuabe. "But you don't seem to have brought anything to eat. Will

you share my luncheon basket? There is quite enough for two people."

Father Ripon had been called away after the early Eucharist, and had

quite forgotten to have any breakfast.

"Thank you very much," he said; "I will. I suddenly seem to be hungry,

and after all there is scriptural precedent for spoiling the Egyptians!"

Both laughed again, sheathed their weapons, and began to eat.

Each of them was a man of the world, cultured, with a charming

personality. Each knew the other was impervious to attack.

Only once, as the short afternoon was darkening and they were

approaching their destination, did Schuabe refer to controversial

subjects. The carriage was shadowed and dusky as they rushed through the

desolate fenlands. The millionaire lit a match for a cigarette, and the

sudden flare showed the priest's face, set and stern. He seemed to be

thinking deeply.

"What would you say or do, Father Ripon," Schuabe asked, in a tone of

interested curiosity,--"What would you do if some stupendous thing were

to happen, something to occur which proved without doubt that Christ was

not divine? Supposing that it suddenly became an absolute fact, a

historical fact which every one must accept?"

"Some new discovery, you mean?"

"Well, if you like; never mind the actual means. Assume for a moment

that it became certain as an historical fact that the Resurrection did

not take place. I say that the ignorant love of Christ's followers

wreathed His life in legend, that the true story was from the beginning

obscured by error, hysteria, and mistake. Supposing something proved

what I say in such a way as to leave no loophole for denial. What would

you do? As a representative Churchman, what would you do? This interests

me."

"Well, you are assuming an impossibility, and I can't argue on such a

postulate. But, if for a moment what you say _could_ happen, I might not

be able to deny these proofs, but I should never believe them."

"But surely----"

"Christ is _within_; I have found Him myself without possibility of

mistake; day and night I am in communion with Him."

"Ah!" said Schuabe, dryly, "there is no convincing a person who takes

_that_ attitude. But it is rare."

"Faith is weak in the world," said the priest, with a sigh, as the train

drew up in the little wayside station.

A footman took their luggage to a carriage which was waiting, and they

drove off rapidly through the twilight, over the bare brown fen with a

chill leaden sky meeting it on the horizon, towards Fencastle.

Sir Michael's house was an immemorial feature of those parts. Josiah

Manichoe, his father, had bought it from old Lord Lostorich. To this day

Sir Michael paid two pounds each year, as "Knight's fee," to the lord of

the manor at Denton, a fee first paid in 1236. As it stood now, the

house was Tudor in exterior, covering a vast area with its stately,

explicit, and yet homelike, rather than "homely," beauty.

The interior of the house was treated with great judgment and artistic

ability. A successful effort had been made to combine the greatest

measure of modern comfort without unduly disturbing the essential

character of the place. Thus Father Ripon found himself in an ancient

bedroom with a painted ceiling and panelled walls. The furniture was in

keeping with the design, but electric lamps had been fitted to the

massive pewter sconces on the wall, and the towel-rail by the

washing-stand was made of copper tubing through which hot water passed

constantly.

The dinner-gong boomed at eight and Ripon went down into the great hall,

where a group of people were standing round an open fire of peat and

coal.

Mrs. Bardilly, a widowed sister of Sir Michael's, acted as hostess, a

quiet, matronly woman, very Jewish in aspect, shrewd and placid in

temper, an admirable _châtelaine_.

Talking to her was Mrs. Hubert Armstrong, the famous woman novelist.

Mrs. Armstrong was tall and grandly built. Her grey hair was drawn over

a massive, manlike brow in smooth folds, her face was finely chiselled.

The mouth was large, rather sweet in expression, but with a slight

hinting of "superiority" in repose and condescension in movement. When

she spoke, always in full, well-chosen periods, it was with an air of

somewhat final pronouncement. She was ever _ex cathedra_.

The lady's position was a great one. Every two or three years she

published a weighty novel, admirably written, full of real culture, and

without a trace of humour. In those productions, treatises rather than

novels, the theme was generally that of a high-bred philosophical

negation of the Incarnation. Mrs. Armstrong pitied Christians with

passionate certainty. Gently and lovingly she essayed to open blinded

eyes to the truth. With great condescension she still believed in God

and preached Christ as a mighty teacher.

One of her utterances suffices to show the colossal arrogance--almost

laughable were it not so _bizarre_--of her intellect:

"_The world has expanded since Jesus preached in the dim ancient

cities of the East. Men and women of to-day cannot learn the_

complete _lesson of God from him now--indeed they could not in

those old times. But all that is most necessary in forming

character, all that makes for pureness and clarity of soul--this

Jesus has still for us as he had for the people of his own time._"

After the enormous success of her book, _John Mulgrave_, Mrs. Armstrong

more than half believed she had struck a final blow at the errors of

Christianity.

Shrewd critics remarked that _John Mulgrave_ described the perversion of

the hero with great skill and literary power, while quite forgetting to

recapitulate the arguments which had brought it about.

The woman was really educated, but her success was with half-educated

readers. Her works excited to a sort of frenzy clergymen who realised

their insidious hollowness. Her success was real; her influence appeared

to be real also. It was a deplorable fact that she swayed fools.

By laying on the paint very thick and using bright colours, Mrs.

Armstrong caught the class immediately below that which read the works

of Constantine Schuabe. They were captain and lieutenant, formidable in

coalition.

A short, carelessly dressed man--his evening tie was badly arranged and

his trousers were ill cut--was the Duke of Suffolk. His face was covered

with dust-coloured hair, his eyes bright and restless. The Duke was the

greatest Roman Catholic nobleman in England. His vast wealth and eager,

though not first-class, brain were devoted entirely to the conversion of

the country. He was beloved by men of all creeds.

Canon Walke, the great popular preacher, was a handsome man, portly,

large, and gracious in manner. He was destined for high preferment, a

_persona grata_ at Court, suave and redolent of the lofty circles in

which he moved.

Canon Walke was talking to Schuabe with great animation and a sort of

purring geniality.

Dinner was a very pleasant meal. Every one talked well. Great events in

Society and politics were discussed by the people who were themselves

responsible for them.

Here was the inner circle itself, serene, bland, and guarded from the

crowd outside. And perhaps, with the single exception of Father Ripon,

who never thought about it at all, every one was pleasantly conscious of

pulling the strings. They sat, Jove-like, kindly tolerant of lesser

mortals, discussing, over a dessert, what they should do for the world.

At eleven nearly every one had retired for the night. Father Ripon and

his host sat talking in the library for another hour discussing church

matters. At twelve these two also retired.

And now the great house was silent save for the bitter winter wind which

sobbed and moaned round the towers.

It was the eve of the twelfth of December. The world was as usual and

the night came to England with no hintings of the morrow.

Far away in Lancashire, Basil Gortre was sleeping calmly after a long,

quiet evening with Helena and her father.

Father Ripon had said his prayers and lay half dreaming in bed, watching

the firelight glows and shadows on the panelling and listening to the

fierce outside wind as if it were a lullaby.

Mrs. Hubert Armstrong was touching up an article for the _Nineteenth

Century_ in her bedroom. An open volume of Renan stood by her side; here

and there the lady deftly paraphrased a few lines. Occasionally she

sipped a cup of black-currant tea--an amiable weakness of this paragon

when engaged upon her stirring labours.

In the next room Schuabe, with haggard face and twitching lips, paced

rapidly up and down. From the door to the dressing-table--seven steps.

From there to the fireplace--ten steps--avoiding the flower pattern of

the carpet, stepping only on the blue squares. Seven! ten! and then back

again.

Ten, seven, turn. A cold, soft dew came out upon his face, dried,

hardened, and burst forth again.

Seven, ten, stop for a glass of water, and then on again, rapidly,

hurriedly; the dawn is coming very near.

Ten! seven! turn!

CHAPTER III

"I, JOSEPH"

At about nine o'clock the next morning there was a knock at Father

Ripon's door and Lindner, Sir Michael's confidential man, entered.

He seemed slightly agitated.

"I beg your pardon, Father," he said, "but Sir Michael instructed me to

come to you at once. Sir Michael begs that you will read the columns

marked in this paper and then join him at once in his own room."

The man bowed slightly and went noiselessly away.

Impressed with Lindner's manner, Father Ripon sat up in bed and opened

the paper. It was a copy of the _Daily Wire_ which had just arrived by

special messenger from the station.

The priest's eyes fell first upon the news summary. A paragraph was

heavily scored round with ink.

"_Page 7._--A communication of the utmost gravity and importance

reaches us from Palestine, dealing with certain discoveries at

Jerusalem, made by Mr. Cyril Hands, the agent of the Palestine

Exploring Fund, and Herr Schmöulder, the famous German historian."

Ripon turned hastily to the seventh page of the paper, where all the

foreign telegrams were. This is what he read:

"NOTE

"_In reference to the following statements, the Editor wishes it to

be distinctly understood that he prints them without comment or

bias. Nothing can yet be definitely known as to the truth of what

is stated here until the strictest investigations have been made.

Our special Commissioner left London for the East twenty-four hours

ago. The Editor of this paper is in communication with the Prime

Minister and His Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury. A special

edition of the 'Daily Wire' will be published at two o'clock this

afternoon._

"MOMENTOUS NEWS FROM JERUSALEM

"For the last three months, under a new firman granted by the

Turkish Government, the authorities of the Palestine Exploring

Society have been engaged in extensive operations in the waste

ground beyond the Damascus Gate at Jerusalem.

"It is in this quarter, as archæologists and students will be

aware, that some years ago the reputed site of Calvary and the Holy

Sepulchre was placed. Considerable discussion was raised at the

time and the evidence for and against the new and the traditional

sites was hotly debated.

"Ten days ago, Mr. Cyril Hands, M.A., the learned and trusted

English explorer, made a further discovery which may prove to be

far-reaching in its influence on Christian peoples.

"During the excavations a system of tombs were discovered, dating

from forty or fifty years before Christ, according to Mr. Hands's

estimate. The tombs are indisputably Jewish and not Christian, a

fact which is proved by the presence of _kôkîm_, characteristic of

Jewish tombs in preference to the usual Christian _arcosolia_. They

are Herodian in character.

"These tombs consist of an irregularly cut group of two chambers.

The door is coarsely moulded. Both chambers are crooked, and in

their floors are four-sided depressions, 1 foot 2 inches deep in

the outer, 2 feet in the inner chamber. The roof of the outer

chamber is 6 feet above its floor, that of the inner 5 feet 2

inches.

"The doorway leading to the inner tomb was built up into stone

blocks. Fragments of that coating of broken brick and pounded

pottery, which is still used in Palestine under the name _hamra_,

which lay at the foot of the sealed entrance, showed that it had at

one time been plastered over, and was in the nature of a secret

room.

"In the depression in the floor of the outer room was found a

minute fragment of a glass receptacle containing a small quantity

of blackish powder. This has been analysed by M. Constant Allard,

the French chemist. The glass vessel he found to be an ordinary

silicate which had become devitrified and coloured by oxide of

iron. The contents were finely divided lead and traces of antimony,

showing it to be one of the cosmetics prepared for purposes of

sepulture.

"When the interior of the second tomb had been reached, a single

_loculus_ or stone slab for the reception of a body was found.

"Over the _loculus_ the following Greek inscription in uncial

characters was found in a state of good preservation, with the

exception of two letters:

"[_See drawing of inscription on this page, made from photographs

in our possession. We print the inscription below in cursive Greek

text, afterwards dividing it into its component words and giving

its translation.--Editor, Daily Wire._]

FACSIMILE IN MODERN GREEK SCRIPT

=Egôiôsêphoapoarimatheiaslabô

ntosômatouiêsoutouapona**

retapotoumnêmeiouopoutoprôt

onekeitoentôtopôtoutôenekrypsa=

**=lacunæ of two letters.

FINAL READING OF THE INSCRIPTION

=Egô Iôsêph ho apo Arimatheias labôn to sôma tou Iêsou

tou apo Na[za]ret apo tou mnêmeiou hopou to prôton

ekeito en tô topô toutô enekrypsa=

[] = letters supplied.

"TRANSLATION INTO ENGLISH OF THE INSCRIPTION

"I, JOSEPH OF ARIMATHÆA, TOOK THE BODY OF

JESUS, THE NAZARENE, FROM THE TOMB WHERE IT

WAS FIRST LAID AND HID IT IN THIS PLACE.

"The slight mould on the stone slab, which may or may not be that

of a decomposed body, has been reverently gathered into a sealed

vessel by Mr. Hands, who is waiting instructions.

"Dr. Schmöulder, the famous _savant_ from Berlin, has arrived at

Jerusalem, and is in communication with the German Emperor

regarding the discovery.

"At present it would be presumptuous and idle to comment upon these

stupendous facts. It seems our duty, however, to quote a final

passage from Mr. Hands's communication, and to state that we have a

cablegram in our possession from Dr. Schmöulder, which states that

he is in entire agreement with Mr. Hands's conclusions.

"To sum up. There now seems no shadow of doubt that the

disappearance of The Body of Christ from the first tomb is

accounted for, and that the Resurrection as told in the Gospels did

not take place. Joseph of Arimathæa here confesses that he stole

away the body, probably in order to spare the Disciples and friends

of the dead Teacher, with whom he was in sympathy, the shame and

misery of the final end to their hopes.

"The use of the first aorist '=enekrypsa=,' 'I hid,' seems to

indicate that Joseph was making a confession to satisfy his own

mind, with a very vague idea of it ever being read. Were his

confession written for future ages, we may surmise that the perfect

'=kekrypha=,' 'I have hidden,' would have been used."

So the simple, bald narrative ended, without a single attempt at

sensationalism on the part of the newspaper.

Just as Father Ripon laid down the newspaper, with shaking hands and a

pallid face, Sir Michael Manichoe strode into the room.

Tears of anger and shame were in his eyes, he moved jerkily,

automatically, without volition. His right arm was sawing the air in

meaningless gesticulation.

He glanced furtively at Father Ripon and then sank into a chair by the

bedside.

The clergyman rose and dressed hastily. "We will speak of this in the

library," he said, controlling himself by a tremendous effort.

"Meanwhile----"

He took some sal volatile from his dressing-case, gave some to his host,

and drank some also.

As they went down-stairs a brilliant sun streamed into the great hall.

The world outside was bright and frost-bound.

The bell of the private chapel was tolling for matins.

The sound struck on both their brains very strangely. Sir Michael

shuddered and grew ashen grey. Ripon recovered himself first.

He placed his arm in his host's and turned towards the passage which led

to the chapel.

"Come, my friend," he said in low, sweet tones, "come to the altar. Let

us pray together for Christendom. Peace waits us. Say the creed with me,

for God will not desert us."

They passed into the vaulted chapel with the seven dim lamps burning

before the altar, and knelt down in the chancel stalls. Some of the

servants came in and then the chaplain began the confession.

The stately monotone went on, echoing through the damp breath of the

morning.

Father Ripon and Sir Michael turned to the east. The sun was pouring

through the great window of stained glass, where Christ was painted

ascending to heaven.

The two elderly men said the creed after the priest in firm, almost

triumphant voices:

"I believe in God the Father ... and in Jesus Christ His only Son our

Lord.... The third day he arose again from the dead. He ascended into

heaven...."

* * * * *

And those two, as they came gravely out of church and walked to the

library, _knew_ that a great and awful lie was resounding through the

world, for the Risen Christ had spoken with them, bidding them be of

good courage for what was to come.

The voice of Peter called down the ages:

"This Jesus hath God raised up, whereof we are all witnesses."

CHAPTER IV

THE DOMESTIC CHAPLAIN'S TESTIMONY

When Mrs. Armstrong came down to breakfast her hostess told her, with

many apologies, that Sir Michael had left for London with Father Ripon.

They had gone by an early train. Matters of great moment were afoot.

As this was being explained Mr. Wilson, the private chaplain, Schuabe,

and Canon Walke entered the room. The Duke of Suffolk did not appear.

A long, low room panelled in white, over which a huge fire of logs cast

occasional cheery reflections, was used as a breakfast-room. Here and

there the quiet simplicity of the place was violently disturbed by great

gouts of colour, startling notes which, so cunningly had they been

arranged in alternate opulence and denial, were harmonised with their

background.

A curtain of Tyrian purple, a sea picture full of gloom and glory, red

light and wind; a bronze head, with brilliant, lifelike enamel eyes, the

features swollen and brutal, from Sabacio--these were the means used by

the young artist employed by Sir Michael to decorate the room.

The long windows, hewn out of a six-foot wall, presented a sombre vista

of great leafless trees standing in the trackless snow, touched here and

there with the ruddiness of the winter sun.

The glowing fire, the luxurious domesticity of the round table, with

its shining silver and gleaming china, the great quiet of the park

outside, gave a singular peace and remoteness to the breakfast-room.

Here one seemed far away from strife and disturbance.

This was the usual aspect and atmosphere of all Fencastle, but as the

members of the house-party came together for the meal the air became

suddenly electrified. Invisible waves of excitement, of surmise, doubt,

and fear radiated from these humans. All had seen the paper, and though

at first not one of them referred to it, the currents of tumult and

alarm were knocking loudly at heart and brain, varied and widely diverse

as were the emotions of each one.

Mrs. Hubert Armstrong at length broke the silence. Her speech was

deliberate, her words were chosen with extreme care, her tone was hushed

and almost reverential.

"To-day," she said, "what I perceive we have all heard, may mean the

sudden dawning of a New Light in the world. If this stupendous statement

is true--and it bears every hall-mark of the truth even at this early

stage--a new image of Jesus of Nazareth will be for ever indelibly

graven on the hearts of mankind. That image which thought, study, and

research have already made so vivid to some of us will be common to the

world. The old, weary superstitions will vanish for all time. The real

significance of the anthropomorphic view will be clear at last. The

world will be able to realise the Real Figure as It went in and out

among Its brother men."

She spoke with extreme earnestness. No doubt she saw in this marvellous

historical confirmation of her attitude a triumph for the school of

which she had become the vocal chieftainess, that would ring and glitter

through the world of thought. The mental arrogance which had already led

this woman so far was already busy, opening a vista that had suddenly

become extremely dazzling, imminently near.

At her words there was a sudden movement of relief among the others. The

ice had been broken; formless and terrifying things assumed a shape that

could be handled, discussed. Her words acted as a precipitate, which

made analysis possible.

The lady's calm, intellectual face, with its clear eyes and smooth bands

of hair, waited with interest, but without impatience, for other views.

Canon Walke took up her challenge. His words were assured enough, but

Schuabe, listening with keen and sinister attention, detected a faint

tremble, an alarmed lack of conviction. The courtier-Churchman, with his

commanding presence, his grand manner, spoke without pedantry, but also

without real force. His language was beautifully chosen, but it had not

the ring of utter conviction, of passionate rejection of all that warred

with Faith.

A chaplain of the Court, the husband of an earl's daughter, a friend of

royal folk, a future bishop, there were those who called him

time-serving, exclusively ambitious. Schuabe realised that not here,

indeed, was the great champion of Christianity. For a brief moment the

Jew's mind flashed to a memory of the young curate at Manchester, then,

with a little shudder of dislike, he bent his attention to Canon Walke's

words.

"No, Mrs. Armstrong," he was saying, "an article such as this in a

newspaper will be dangerous; it will unsettle weak brains for a time

until it is proved, as it will be proved, either a blasphemous

fabrication or an ignorant mistake. It cannot be. Whatever the upshot of

such rumours, they can only have a temporary effect. It may be that

those at the head of the Church will have to sit close, to lay firm hold

of principles, or anything that will steady the vessel as the storm

sweeps up. This may be an even greater tempest than that which broke

upon the Church in the days of the first George, when Christianity was

believed to be fictitious. What did Bishop Butler say to his chaplain?

He asked: 'What security is there against the insanity of individuals?

The doctors know of none. Why, therefore, may not whole communities be

seized with fits of insanity as well as individuals?' It is just that

which will account for so much history tells us of wild revolt against

Truth. It may be--God grant that it will not--that we are once more upon

the eve of one of these storms. But, despite your anticipations, Mrs.

Armstrong, you will see that the Church, as she has ever done, will

weather the storm. I myself shall leave for town at mid-day, and follow

the example of our host. My place is there. The Archbishop will,

doubtless, hold a conference, if this story from Palestine seems to

receive further confirmation. Such dangerous heresies must not be

allowed to spread."

Then Schuabe took up the discussion. "I fear for you, Canon Walke," he

said, "and for the Church you represent. This news, it seems to me, is

merely the evidence for the confirmation of what all thoughtful men

believe to-day, though the majority of them do not speak out. There is a

natural dislike to active propaganda, a timidity in combination to upset

a system which is accepted, and which provides society as an ethical

programme, though founded on initial error. But now--and I agree with

Mrs. Armstrong in the extreme probability of this news being absolute

fact, for Hands and Schmöulder are names of weight--everything must be

reconstructed and changed. The churches will go. Surely the times are

ripe, the signs unmistakable? We are face to face with what is called an

anti-clerical wave--a dislike to the clergy as the representatives of

the Church, a dislike to the Church as the embodiment of religion, a

dislike to religion as an unwelcome restraint upon liberty of thought.

The storm which will burst now has been muttering and gathering here in

England no less than on the Continent. You have heard its murmur in the

debates on the Education Act, in the proposed State legislation for your

Church. Your most venerable and essential forms are like trees creaking

and groaning in the blast; public opinion is rioting to destroy. But

perhaps until this morning it has never had a weapon strong enough to

attack such a stronghold as the Church with any hope of victory. There

has been much noise, but that is all. It has been a matter of _feeling_;

_conviction_ has been weak, because it could only be supported by

probabilities, not by certainties. The antichristian movement has been

guided by emotions, hardly by principles. At last the great discovery

which will rouse the world to sanity appears to have been made. Even as

I speak in this quiet room the whole world is thrilling with this news.

It is awakening from a long slumber."

Walke heard his ringing words with manifest uneasiness. The man was

unequal to the situation. He represented the earthly pomp and show of

Christianity, wore the ceremonial vestments. He feared the concrete

power, the vehement opposition of the mouthpiece of secularism. He saw

the crisis, but from one side only. The deep spiritual love was not

there.

"You are exultant, Mr. Schuabe," he said coldly, "but you will hardly be

so long."

"You do not appreciate the situation, sir," Schuabe answered. "I can see

further than you. A great intellectual peace will descend over the

civilised world. Should one not exult at that, even though men must give

up their dearest fetishes, their secret shrines; even though sentiment

must be sacrificed to Truth? The religion of Nature, which is based

upon the determination not to believe anything which is unsupported by

indubitable evidence, will become the faith of the future, the

fulfilment of progress. It is as Huxley said, '_Religion ought to mean

simply reverence and love for the Ethical Ideal, and the desire to

realise that Ideal in life._' Miracles do not happen. There has been no

supernatural revelation, and nothing can be known of what Herbert

Spencer calls the Infinite and Eternal Energy save by the study of the

phenomena about us. And I repeat that the discovery we hear of to-day

makes a thorough intellectual sanity possible for each living man. Doubt

will disappear."

"Yes, Mr. Schuabe," said Mrs. Armstrong, "you are right, incalculably

right. It is to human intellect and that alone--the great Intellect of

The Nazarene among others--that we must look from henceforth. Already by

his unaided efforts man's achievements are everywhere breaking down

superstition. The arts, the laws of gravitation, force, light, heat,

sound, chemistry, electricity, and all that these imply--botany,

medicine, bacteria, the circulation of the blood, the functions of the

brain and nervous system (last-named abolishing all witchcraft and

diabolic possession, such as we read of in the 'inspired' writings)--all

these are but incidents in a progress never aided by the supernatural,

but always impeded by the professors of it. Christians tortured the man

who discovered the rotation of the earth, and in every church to-day

absolutely false accounts of the origin of the world are publicly read.

And as long as the world was content to believe that Jesus rose from the

dead so long error has hindered development."

"Yes," replied Schuabe, "all this will, I believe, inevitably follow the

discovery of the professors in Palestine. And what does Christianity, as

it is at present accepted, bring to the Christians? Localise it, and

look at the English Church--Canon Walke's Church. At one time every one

is a rigid Puritan and decries the bare accessories of worship, at

another a Ritualist who twists and turns everything into fantastic

shapes, as if he were furnishing an æsthetic bazaar. At another time

these people are swayed with the doctrines of 'Christian Science,' and

believe that pain is a pure trick of the diseased fancy, and matter the

morbid creation of an unhealthy mind. Then we hear priests who tell us

that the Old Testament (which in the same breath they announce to be

witnessed to by Christ and His Apostles and the unbroken continuity of

the Catholic Church) is an enlarged and plagiarised version of the days

of a fantastic god discovered on a burnt brick at Babylon. And others

sit anxiously waiting to know the precise value which this or that

Gospel may possess, as its worth fluctuates like shares in the money

market, with the last quotation from Germany! All this will cease."

The while these august ones had been speaking, Father Wilson, the

domestic chaplain at Fencastle, had remained silent but attentive.

He was a lean, dark man, monk-like in appearance, somewhat saturnine on

the surface. It was Sir Michael's wish, not the chaplain's, that he

should sit with the guests as one of them, and make experience of the

great ones of the world. For he had but little interest in worldly

things or people.

Schuabe's voice died away. Every one was a little exhausted, great

matters had been dealt with. There came a little clink and clatter as

they sought food.

Suddenly Wilson looked up and began to speak. His voice was somewhat

harsh and unsympathetic, his manner was uncompromising and without

charm. As he spoke every one realised, with a sense of unpleasant

shock, that he cared little or nothing for the society he was in.

"It's very interesting, sir," he said, turning to Schuabe, "to hear all

you have been saying. I have seen the paper and read of this so-called

discovery too. Of course such a thing harmonises exactly with the

opinions of those who want to believe it. But go and tell a devoted son

of the Church that he has been fed with sacraments which are no

sacraments, and all that he has done has been at best the honest mistake

of a deceived man, and he will laugh in your face, as I do! There are

memories, far back in his life, of confirmation, when his whole being

was quickened and braced, which refuse to be explained as the

hallucinations of a well-meaning but deceived man. There are memories

when Christ drew near to his soul and helped him. Struggles with

temptation are remembered when God's grace saved him. He also says,

'Whether He be a sorcerer or not I know not; one thing I know, that

whereas I was blind, now I see.' It is easy to part with one in whom we

have never really believed. We can easily surrender what we have never

held. But you haven't a notion of the real Christian's convictions, Mr.

Schuabe. Your estimate of the future is based upon utter ignorance of

the Christian's heart. You are incapable of understanding the heart to

which experience has made it clear that Jesus was indeed the very

Christ. There are many people who are _called_ Christians with whom your

sayings and writings, and those of this lady here, have great power. It

is because they have never found Christ. Unreal words, shallow emotions,

unbalanced sentiment, leave such as these without armour in a time of

tumult and conflicting cries. But if we _know_ Him, if we can look back

over a life richer and fuller because we _have_ known Him, if we know,

every man, the plague of his own heart, then your explorers may

discover anything and we shall not believe. It is easy to prophesy as

you have been doing all this meal-time--it is popular once more to shout

the malignant 'Crucify'--but events will show you how utterly wrong you

are in your estimate of the Christian character."

They all stared at the chaplain. His sudden vigorous outburst, the

harsh, unlovely voice, the contempt in it, was almost stupefying at

first.

Indeed, though they had certainly no cue from Sir Michael, they had

regarded the silent, rather forbidding priest, in his cassock and robe,

a dress which typified his reserve and detachment from all their

interests, in the light of an upper servant, almost. Nor was it so much

his interference they resented as his manner of interfering. The supreme

confidence of the man galled them; it was patronising in its strength.

Mrs. Armstrong heard the outburst with a slight frown of displeasure,

which, as the priest continued, changed into a smile of kindly

tolerance, the attitude of a housemaid who spares a spider. She

remembered that, after all, her duty lay in being kind to those of less

power than herself.

The speech touched Schuabe more nearly. He seemed to hear a familiar

echo of a voice he hated and feared. There was something chilling in

these men who drew a confidence and certainty, sublime in its

immobility, from the Unseen. He felt, as he had felt before, the hated

barrier which he could in no wise pass, this calm fanaticism which would

not even listen to him, which was beyond his influence. The bitter hate

which welled up in his heart, the terrible scorn which he had to repress

at these insults to his evil and devilish egoism, gave him almost a

sense of physical nausea. His pale face became pallid, but he showed no

other sign of the insane tempest within. He smiled slightly. That was

all.

As for Canon Walke, his feelings were varied. His face flickered with

them in rapid alternation. He was quite conscious of the lack of life,

fire, and conviction in what he himself had said. His own windy

commonplaces shrank to nothingness and failure before the witnessing of

the undistinguished priest. Before the two hostile intellects, the man

and the woman, he had left the burden of the fight to this nobody. He

was quick and jealous to mark the strength of Wilson's words, and his

own failure had put him in an entirely false position. And yet a shrewd

blow had been struck at Schuabe and Mrs. Armstrong; there was

consolation in the fact.

Father Wilson, when he had finished what he had to say, rose from his

seat without more ado. "I will say a grace," he said. He made the sign

of the Cross, muttered a short Latin thanksgiving, and strode from the

room.

"A fanatic," said Mrs. Armstrong.

Neither Walke nor Schuabe replied.

It was getting late in the morning. The sun had risen higher and flooded

the level wastes of snow without. The little party finished their meal

in silence.

In the chapel Wilson knelt on the chancel step, praying that help and

light might come to men and the imminent darkness pass away.

CHAPTER V

DEUS, DEUS MEUS, QUARE DERELIQUISTI!

The Prime Minister was a man deeply interested in all philosophic

thought, and especially in the Christian system of philosophy. He had

written two most important books, weighty, brilliant contributions to

the mass of thought by which his school laboured to make theism

increasingly credible to the modern mind.

He had proved that science, ethics, and theology are all open to the

same kind of metaphysical difficulties, and that, therefore, to reject

theology in the name of science was impossible. It was fortunate that,

at this juncture, such a one should be at the head of affairs.

The vast network of cables and telegraph wires, those tentacles which

may be called the nerves of the world's brain, throbbed unceasingly

after the tremendous announcement for which Ommaney had undertaken the

responsibility.

A battalion of special correspondents from every European and American

paper of importance followed hot upon Harold Spence's trail.