Nevertheless, for the first two or three days the world at large hardly

realised the importance of what was happening. Nothing was certain. The

whole statement depended upon two men. To the mass of people these two

names--Hands, Schmöulder--conveyed no meaning whatever. Nine tenths of

the population of England knew nothing of the work of archæologists in

Palestine, had never even heard of the Exploring Society.

Had Consols fallen a point or two the effect would have been far

greater, the fact would have made more stir.

The great dailies of equal standing with the _Wire_ were making every

private preparation for a supply of news and a consensus of opinion. But

all this activity went on behind the scenes, and nothing of it was yet

allowed to transpire generally. The article in the _Wire_ was quoted

from, but opinions upon it were printed with the greatest caution and

reserve. Indeed, the general apathy of England at large was a source of

extreme wonder to the unthinking, fearing minority.

The mass of the clergy, at any rate in public, affected to ignore, or

did really honestly dismiss as impossible, the whole question. A few

words of earnest exhortation and indignant denial were all they

permitted themselves.

But beneath the surface, and among the real influencers of public

opinion, great anxiety was felt.

The Patriarch of the Greek Church called a council of Bishops, and Dr.

Procopides, an ephor of antiquities from Athens, was sent immediately to

Palestine.

The following paragraph, in substance, appeared in the leader page of

all the English papers. It was disseminated by the Press Association:

"We are in a position to state, that in order to allay the feeling

of uneasiness produced among the churches by a recent article in

the _Daily Wire_ making extraordinary statements as to a discovery

in Jerusalem, a conference was held yesterday at Lambeth. Their

Graces the Archbishops of Canterbury and York, the Bishops of

Manchester, Gloucester, Durham, Lincoln, and London were present.

Other well-known Churchmen consisted of Sir Michael Manichoe, Lord

Robert Verulam, Canons Baragwaneth and Walke, the Dean of

Christchurch and the Master of Trinity Hall. The Prime Minister was

not present, but was represented by Mr. Alured King. Mr. Ommaney,

the editor of the _Daily Wire_, was included in the conference.

Although, from the names mentioned, it will be seen that the

conference is considered to be of great importance, nothing has

been allowed to transpire as to the result of its deliberations."

This paragraph appeared on the morning of the third day after the

initial article. It began to attract great attention throughout the

United Kingdom during the early part of the day.

The _Westminster Gazette_ in its third edition then published a further

statement. The public learned:

"Professor Clermont-Ganneau, the Professor of Biblical Antiquities

at the French University of La Sorbonne, arrived in London

yesterday night. He drove straight to the house of Sir Robert

Llwellyn, the famous archæologist. Early this morning both

gentlemen drove to Downing Street, where they remained closeted

with the Prime Minister for an hour. While there, they were joined

by Dr. Grier, the learned Bishop of Leeds, and Dr. Carr, the Warden

of Wyckham College, Oxford. The four gentlemen were later driven to

Charing Cross Station in a brougham. On the platform from which the

Paris train starts they were met by Major-General Adams, the

Vice-President of the Palestine Exploring Society, and Sir Michael

Manichoe. The distinguished party entered a reserved saloon and

left, _en route_ for Paris, at mid-day. We are able to state on

undeniable authority that the party, which represents all that is

most authoritative in historical research and archæological

knowledge, are a committee from a recent conference at Lambeth, and

are proceeding to Jerusalem to investigate the alleged discovery in

the Holy City."

This was the prominent announcement, made on the afternoon of the third

day, which began to quicken interest and excite the minds of people in

England.

All that evening countless families discussed the information with

curious unrest and foreboding. In all the towns the churches were

exceptionally full at evensong. One fact was more discussed than any

other, more particularly in London.

Although the six men who had left England so suddenly, almost furtively,

were obviously on a mission of the highest importance, no reputable

paper published more than the bare fact of their departure. Comment upon

it, more detailed explanation of it, was sought in the columns of all

the journals in vain.

The next morning was big with shadow and gloom. A shudder passed over

the country. Certain telegrams appeared in all the papers which struck a

chill of fear to the very heart of all who read them, Christian and

indifferent alike.

It was as though a great and ominous bell had begun to toll over the

world.

The faces of people in the streets were universally pale.

It was remarked that the noises of London, the traffic, the movement of

crowds engaged upon their daily business, lost half their noise.

The shops were full of Christmas gifts, but no one seemed to enter them.

In addition to the telegrams a single leading article appeared in the

_Daily Wire_, which burnt itself, as the extremest cold burns, into the

brains of Englishmen.

"(1) TERRIBLE RIOTS IN JERUSALEM

"The French Consul-General and Staff, who were paying a ceremonial

visit to the Latin Patriarch, have been attacked by fanatical

Moslems, and only escaped from the fury of the crowd with great

difficulty, aided by the Turkish Guards. A vast concourse of

Armenian Christians, Russian pilgrims, and Aleppine Greeks

afterwards gathered round the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. The

strange discovery said to have been made by the English excavator,

Mr. Hands, and the German Doctor Schmöulder, has aroused the mob to

furious protest against it. For nearly an hour fervent cries of

'_Hadda Kuber Saidna_,' 'This is the tomb of our Lord,' filled all

the air. The Mohammedans and lower-class Jews made a wild attack

upon the protesting Christians in the courtyard of the church. Many

hundreds are dead and dying.

"REUTER."

"LATER.--Strong drafts of Turkish troops have marched into

Jerusalem. By special order from the Sultan to the Governor of the

city, the 'New Tomb,' discovered by Mr. Hands and Doctor

Schmöulder, is guarded by a triple cordon of troops. The two

gentlemen are guests of the Governor. The concentration of troops

round the 'New Tomb' has left various portions of the city

unguarded. Naked Mohammedan fanatics, armed with swords, are

calling for a general massacre of Christians. The city is in a

state of utter anarchy. By the Jaffa gate and round the Mosque of

Omar the dervishes are preaching massacre."

"(2) SIR ROBERT LLWELLYN'S PARTY TO BE CONVEYED IN A WAR-SHIP

"MALTA.--Orders have been received here from the Admiralty that the

gunboat _Velox_ is to proceed at once to Alexandria, there to

await the coming of Sir Robert Llwellyn and the other members of

the English Commission by the Indian mail steamer from Brindisi.

The _Velox_ will then leave at once for Jaffa with the six

gentlemen. At Jaffa an escort of mounted Turkish troops will

accompany the party on the day's ride to Jerusalem."

"(3) BERLIN.--The German Emperor has convened the principal clergy

of the empire to meet him in conference at Potsdam. The conference

will sit with closed doors."

"(4) ROME.--A decree, or short letter, has just been issued from

the Vatican to all the 'Patriarchs, Primates, Archbishops, Bishops

and other local ordinaries having peace and communion with the Holy

See.' The decree deals with the alleged discoveries in Jerusalem.

In it Catholics are forbidden to read newspaper accounts of the

proceedings in Palestine, nor may they discuss them with their

friends. The decree has had the effect of drawing great attention

to the affairs in the East, and has excited much adverse comment

among the secularist party, and in the _Voce della Populo_."

Quite suddenly, as if a curtain were withdrawn, the world began to

realise the fact that something almost beyond imagination was taking

place in the far-off Syrian town.

These detached and sinister messages which flashed along the cables,

with their stories of princes and potentates alarmed and active, made

the general silence, the lack of detail, more oppressive. The unknown,

or dimly guessed at, rather, laid hold on men's minds like some mighty

convulsion of nature, imminent, and presaged by fearful signs. Thus the

_Daily Wire_:

"The story of the recent gathering of great Churchmen at Lambeth

has not yet been made public, but there can be little doubt in the

minds of those who watch events that it must eventually take a

place among the great historical occurrences of the world's

history. While the men and women of England were going to and fro

about their business, the ecclesiastical princes of this realm were

met together in doubt, astonishment, and fear, confronted with a

problem so tremendous that we find comment upon it presents almost

insuperable difficulties.

"We do not therefore propose to take the widest view of probable

contingencies and events, for that would be impossible within the

limits of a single article. It must be enough that with a sense of

the profoundest responsibility, and with the deep emotions which

must arise in the heart of every man who is confronted by a vast

and sudden overthrow of one of the binding forces of life, we

briefly recapitulate the events of the last few days, and attempt a

forecast of what we fear must lie before us here in England.

"Four days ago we published in these columns the first account of a

discovery made by Mr. Cyril Hands, M.A., and confirmed by Dr.

Herman Schmöulder, in the red earth _débris_ by the 'Tombs of the

Kings,' beyond the Damascus gate of Jerusalem. The news arrived at

this office through a private channel, in the form of a long and

detailed account written by Mr. Hands, the archæologist and agent

of the Palestine Exploring Society. Before publishing the statement

the editor was enabled to discuss the advisability of doing so with

the Prime Minister. A long series of telegrams passed between the

office of this paper, the Foreign Office, and the gentlemen at

Jerusalem during the day preceding our publication of the document.

Hour by hour new details and a mass of contributory evidence came

to hand. All these papers, together with photographs, drawings,

and measurements, were placed by us in the hands of the Archbishop

of Canterbury. A conference of the greatest living English scholars

was summoned. The result of that meeting has been that a committee

representing the finest intellect and the most unsullied integrity

is now on its way to Jerusalem. Upon the verdict of Sir Robert

Llwellyn and his fellow-members, together with the distinguished

foreign _savants_ M. Clermont-Ganneau and Dr. Procopides, the

Ephor-General of Antiquities in the Athens Museum, the Christian

world must wait with terrible anxiety, but with a certainty that

the highest human intelligence is concentrated on its deliberation.

"What that verdict will be, seems, it must be boldly said and

faced, almost a foregone conclusion. We feel that we should be

lacking in our duty to our readers were we to withhold from them

certain facts. Not unnaturally His Grace the Archbishop and many of

his advisers have wished the press to preserve a complete silence

as to the result of the conference, a silence which should continue

until the report of the International Committee of Investigation is

published. We have endeavoured to preserve a reticence for two

days, but at this juncture it becomes our duty to inform the people

of England what we know. And we do not take this step without

careful consideration.

"We have informed the Prime Minister of our intention, and may

state that, despite the opposition of the Church Party, Lord ----

is in sympathy with it.

"Briefly, then, Sir Robert Llwellyn, the acknowledged leader of

archæological research, has given it as his opinion that Mr.

Hands's discovery must be genuine. Sir Robert alone has had the

courage to speak out bravely, though he did so with manifest

emotion and reluctance. The other members of the conference have

refused to express an opinion, though of at least three from among

their number there can be little doubt that they concur with Sir

Robert's view.

"Private telegrams, which we have hitherto refrained from

publishing, show that the cultured people of Germany, from the

Emperor downwards, are persuaded that the story of Jesus of

Nazareth has at last been told. Many of the most eminent public men

of France agree with this view. These are statements borne out by

the evidence of our correspondents in foreign capitals who have

secured a series of interviews with those who represent public

opinion of the expert kind.

"The Roman Church, on the other hand, with that supreme isolation

and historic indifference to all that helps the cause of Progress

and Truth, has not only loftily declined to recognise the fact that

any discovery has been made at all, has not only absolutely

declined to be represented at Jerusalem, but has issued a

proclamation forbidding Roman Catholics to think of or discuss the

events which are shaking the fabric of Christendom.

"In saying as much as we have already said, in placing our

melancholy conviction on record in this way, we lay ourselves open

to the charge of prejudging the most important decision affecting

the welfare of mankind that any body of men have ever been called

upon to make. Not even the startling and overwhelming mass of

support we have received would have led us to do this were it not

our conviction that it is the wisest course to pursue in regard to

what we feel almost certain will happen in the future. It seems far

better to prepare the minds of Christian English men and women for

the terrible shock that they will have to endure by a more gradual

system of disclosure than would be possible were we to adopt the

suggestion of the bishops and keep silent.

"And now, in the concluding portion of this article, we must

briefly consider what the news that it has been our responsible and

painful duty to give first to the world will mean to England.

"We fear that the mental anguish of countless thousands must for a

time cloud the life of our country as it has never been clouded and

darkened before. The proof that the Divinity of the Greatest and

Wisest Teacher the world has ever known, or ever will know, is but

a symbolic fable, will for a time overwhelm the world. A great

upheaval of English society is beginning. Old and venerated

institutions will be swept away, minds fed upon the Christian

theory from youth, instinct with all its hereditary tradition, will

be for a while as men groping in the dark. But the light will come

after this great tempest, and it will be a broader, finer, more

steadfast light than before, because founded on, and springing

from, Eternal Truth. The mission of beneficent illusion is over.

Error will yet linger for a generation or two. That much is

certain. There will be more who will base their objections to the

New Revelation upon 'the unassailable and ultimate reality of

personal spiritual experience,' forgetting the psychological

influences of hereditary training, which have alone produced those

experiences. But, alas! the knell of the old and beautiful

superstitions is ringing. The Doom is begun. The Judge is set, who

shall stay it? Let us rather turn from the saddening spectacle of a

fallen creed and rejoice that the 'Infinite and eternal energy' men

and have called God--Jah-weh, =theos=--that mysterious law of

Progress evolution, is about to reveal man to himself more than ever

completely in its destruction of an imagined revelation."

During the afternoon preceding the publication of the above article, the

three principal proprietors had met at the offices of the paper and had

held a long conference with Mr. Ommaney, the editor.

It had been decided, as a matter of policy and in order to maintain the

leading position already given to the paper by the first publication of

Hands's dispatch, that a strong and definite line should be taken at

once.

The other great journals were already showing signs of a cautious

"trimming" policy, which would allow them to take up any necessary

attitude events might dictate. They feared to be explicit, to speak out.

So they would lose the greater glory.

Once more commercial and political influences were at work, as they had

been two thousand years before. The little group of Jewish millionaires

who sat in Ommaney's room had their prototypes in the times of Christ's

Passion. Men of the modern world were once more enacting the awful drama

of the Crucifixion.

Constantine Schuabe was among the group; his words had more weight than

any others. The largest holding in the paper was his. The tentacles of

this man were far-reaching and strong.

"For my part, gentlemen," Ommaney said, "I am entirely with Mr. Schuabe.

I agree with him that we should at once take the boldest possible

attitude. Sir Robert's opinion before he left was conclusive. We shall

therefore publish a leader to-morrow taking up our standpoint. We will

have it quite plain and simple. Strong and simple, but with no

subtleties to puzzle and obscure the ordinary reader. It's no use to

touch on history or metaphysics, or anything but pure simplicity."

"Then, Mr. Ommaney," Schuabe had said, "since we are exactly agreed on

the best thing to do, and since these other gentlemen are prepared to

leave the thing in our hands, if you will allow me I will write the

leading article myself."

CHAPTER VI

HARNESS THE HORSES; AND GET UP, YE HORSEMEN, AND STAND FORTH WITH

YOUR HELMETS; FURBISH THE SPEARS, AND PUT ON THE BRIGANDINES.--JER.

XLVI: 4

Father Ripon sat alone in his study at the Clergy House of St. Mary's.

The room was quite silent, save for the occasional dropping of a coal

upon the hearth, where a bright, clear fire glowed.

Three walls of the room were lined with books. There was no carpet on

the floor; the bare boards showed, except for a strip of worn matting in

front of the little cheap brass fender. Over the mantel a great crucifix

hung on the bare wall, painted, or rather washed with dark red colour.

The few chairs which stood about were all old-fashioned and rather

uncomfortable. A great writing-table was covered with papers and books.

Two candles stood upon it and gave light to the room. The only other

piece of furniture was a deal praying-stool, with a Bible and

prayer-book upon the ledge.

A rugged, ascetic place, four walls to work and pray in, with just the

necessary tools and no more. Yet there was no _affectation_ of

asceticism, the effect was not a considered one in any way. For example,

there was an oar, with college arms painted on one blade, leaning

against the wall, a memory of old days when Father Ripon had rowed four

and his boat at Oxford had got to the head of the river one Eight's

week. The oar looked as if it were waiting to be properly hung on the

wall as a decorative trophy, which indeed it was. But it had been

waiting for seven years. The priest never had time to nail it up. He did

not despise comfort or decoration, pretend to a pose of rigidness; he

simply hadn't the time for it himself. That was all. He was always

promising himself to put up--for example--a pair of crimson curtains a

sister had sent him months back. But whenever he really determined to

get them out and hang them, some sudden call came and he had to rush out

and save a soul.

Father Ripon looked ill and worn. A pamphlet, a long, thin book bound in

blue paper, with the Royal Arms on the top of the folio, lay upon the

table. It was the report of the Committee of Investigation, and the

whole world was ringing with it.

The report had now appeared for two days.

The priest took up _The Tower_, a weekly paper, the official organ, not

of the pious Evangelical party within the Church, but of the

ultra-Protestant.

His hand shook with anger and disgust as he read, for the third time,

the leading article printed in large type, with wider spaces than usual

between the lines:

"We have hitherto refrained from any comment on the marvellous

discovery in Jerusalem, being content simply to record the progress

of the investigations, which have at last satisfied us that a

genuine discovery has been made.

"In the daily special issues of the organs of the sacerdotal party

we find much more freedom of expression. They have run the whole

gamut--Disbelief, Doubt, Desolation, Detraction, Demoralisation,

and Dismay. Rome and Ritualism have received a shock which

demolishes and destroys the very foundation of their sinful

system.

"Carnal in its conception it cannot survive.

"'The worship of the corporeal presence of Christ's natural flesh

and blood' (_vide_ the so-called _Black_ rubric at the end of the

order of the administration of the Lord's Supper) was always

prohibited in the Protestant Reformed Communion, but this

idolatrous practice has been the glory and boast of Babylon, and

the aim and object of the Traitors, within the Established Church

of England, whom we have habitually denounced.'

"'The times of this ignorance God winked at, but now commandeth all

men everywhere to repent.'

"Hidden by the Divine Providence till the fulness of time, a simple

inscription has taught us the full meaning of Paul's mysterious

words, 'Yea, though we have known Christ after the flesh, yet now

henceforth know we Him no more.'--2 Cor. v. 16.

"Paul and Protestantism are vindicated at last. 'There is a natural

body and there is a spiritual body.' The spiritual body that

manifested the resurrection of Jesus to His disciples has too long

been identified with the natural body that was piously laid to rest

by Joseph and Nicodemus. Much that has been obscure in the Gospel

narratives is now explained.

"Men have always wondered that the Apostles, in preaching their

risen Lord, attempted no explanation of His manifestations of

Himself.

"We can understand now why it was that they were divinely protected

from imagining that the spiritual Body is a dead body revived.

"How often have perplexed believers been troubled by the questions

of our modern scientists as to the physical possibilities of a

future resurrection of the body! The material substance of humanity

is resolved into its elements, and again and again through the

centuries is employed in other organisms.

"'How then,' men have asked, 'can you believe that the body you

have deposited beneath the earth shall collect from the universe

its dissipated particles and rise again?'

"Hitherto we have been content to put the question aside with a

simple faith that 'with God all things are possible.' But to-day we

are enabled to have a further comprehension of the Lord's words,

'It is the spirit that quickeneth, the flesh profiteth nothing.'

"Doubtless those who, even among our own company of Evangelical

Protestants, have attached too much importance to the teaching of

the so-called 'Fathers of the Church' (who so early corrupted the

sweet simplicity of the Gospel) will find themselves compelled to a

more spiritual explanation of some passages of Holy Scripture; but

Faith will find little difficulty in rightly dividing and

interpreting the word of Truth.

"The Protestant cause has little to fear from facts. We have been

by God's Providence gradually prepared for a great elucidation of

the truth about the Resurrection.

"Those who studied with attention the treatise of the late

Frederick W. H. Myers (the man who, of all moderns, has best

appreciated the personality of Paul the apostle) had come to a

conviction on the survival of Human Personality after death on

scientific grounds.

"The Resurrection of the Lord Jesus was no longer to them 'a thing

incredible,' its unique character was recognised as consisting in

its spiritual power.

"'Some doubted,' as on the mountain in Galilee. Protestantism on

the Continent, especially in Germany, the home of what is misnamed

the 'Higher Criticism,' has been hampered in this way by the study

of the 'letter,' and so in some degree has lost the assistance of

'the spirit which giveth life.'

"But the great heart of Protestant England is still sound, and

whilst Rome and Ritualism are aghast as the foundation of their

fabric of lies crumbles into dust, we stand sure and steadfast,

rejoicing in hope.

"Some readjustment of formularies may be conceded to weak brethren.

"Our great Reformers drew up that marvellous manifesto of the

Protestant faith--'Articles agreed upon by the archbishops and

bishops of Both Provinces, and the whole clergy in the Convocation

holden at London in the year 1562 for the avoiding of diversities

of opinions, and for the establishing of consent touching True

Religion.'

"England was at that time--alas, how often has it been

so!--inclined to compromise.

"There were timid men amongst the great divines who brought us out

of Babylon, and the 4th article of the Thirty-nine was notoriously

drawn up in antagonism to the teaching of the holy Silesian

nobleman, Caspar Schwenckfeld, to satisfy the scruples of the

sacerdotal party, which clung to the benefices of the Establishment

then as now.

"The omission of twelve words would remove all doubt as to its

interpretation. We may be content to affirm that 'Christ did truly

rise again from death' without stating further 'and took again his

body with flesh, bones, and all things appertaining.'

"It has always been the curse of Christendom that man desired to

express in words the ineffable.

"'Intruding into those things which he hath not seen, vainly puffed

up by his fleshly mind.'

"But it need not now be difficult with the aid of a Protestant

Parliament, which has so recently and so gloriously determined on

the expulsion of sacerdotalists, to modify, in deference to pious

scruples, too rigid definitions. Time will suffice for these

necessary modifications of sixteenth-century theology.

"In the present, the gain is ours. We shall hear less of the cultus

of the 'Sacred Heart' in future. The blasphemous mimicry of the

Mass will perish from amongst us.

"No man, in England at least, will dare to affirm that the flesh in

which the Saviour bore our sins upon the Cross is exposed for

adoration on the so-called 'altar.'

"As Matthew Arnold put it, on the true grave of Jesus 'the Syrian

stars look down,' but the risen Christ, glorious in His _Spiritual_

Body, reigns over the hearts of his true followers, and we look

forward in faith to our departure from the earthly tabernacle,

which is dissolved day by day, knowing that we also have a

spiritual house not made with hands eternal in the heavens."

As he read the clever trimming article and marked the bitterness of its

tone, the priest's face grew red with anger and contempt.

This facile acceptance of the Great Horror, this insolent conversion of

it to party ends, this flimsy pretence of reconciling statements, which,

if true, made Christianity a thing of nought, to a novel and trumped-up

system of adherence to it, filled him with bitter antagonism.

But, useful as the article was as showing the turn many men's minds were

taking, there was no time to trouble about it now.

To-morrow the great meeting of those who still believed Christ died and

rose again from the dead was to be held.

The terrible "Report" had been issued. During the forty hours of its

existence everything was already beginning to crumble away. To-morrow

the Church Militant must speak to the world.

It was said, moreover, that the great wave of infidelity and mockery

which was sweeping hourly over the country would culminate in a great

riot to-morrow....

Everything seemed dark, black, hopeless....

He picked up the Report once more to study it, as he had done fifty

times that day.

But before he opened it he knelt in prayer.

As he prayed, so sweet and certain an assurance came to him, he seemed

so very near to the Lord, that doubt and gloom fled before that

Presence.

What were logic, proofs of stone-work, the reports of archæologists, to

This?

Here in this lonely chamber Christ was, and spoke with His servant,

bidding him be of good comfort.

With bright eyes, full of the glow of one who walks with God, the priest

opened the pamphlet once more.

CHAPTER VII

THE HOUR OF CHAOS

Although, during the first days of the Darkness, hundreds of thousands

of Christian men and women were chilled almost to spiritual death, and

although the lamp of Faith was flickering very low, it was not in London

that the far-reaching effects of the discovery at Jerusalem were most

immediately apparent.

In that great City there is an outward indifference, bred of a million

different interests, which has something akin to the supreme

indifference of Nature. The many voices never blend into one, so that

the ear may hear them in a single mighty shout.

But in the grimmer North public opinion is heard more readily, and is

more quickly visible. In the great centres of executive toil the vital

truths of religion seem to enter more insistently into the lives of men

and women whose environment presents them with fewer distractions than

elsewhere. Often, indeed, this interest is a political interest rather

than a deeply Christian one, a matter of controversy rather than

feeling. Certain it is that all questions affecting religious beliefs

loom large and have a real importance in the cities of the North.

It was Wednesday evening at Walktown.

Mr. Byars was reading the service. The huge, ugly church was lit with

rows of gas-jets, arranged in coronæ painted a drab green. But the

priest's voice, strained and worn, echoed sadly and with a melancholy

cadence through the great barn-like place. Two or three girls, a couple

of men, and half a dozen boys made up the choir, which had dwindled to

less than a fifth of its usual size. The organ was silent.

Right down the church, those in the chancel saw row upon row of

cushioned empty seats. Here and there a small group of people broke the

chilling monotony of line, but the worshippers were very few. In the

galleries an occasional couple, almost secure from observation,

whispered to each other. The church was warm, the seats not

uncomfortable; it was better to flirt here than in the cold, frost-bound

streets.

Never had Evensong been so cheerless and gloomy, even in that vast,

unlovely building. There was no sermon. The vicar was suffering under

such obvious strain, he looked so worn and ill, that even this lifeless

congregation seemed to feel it a relief when the Blessing was said and

it was free to shuffle out into the promenade of the streets.

The harsh trumpeting of Mr. Philemon, the vestry clerk's final "Amen,"

was almost jubilant.

As Mr. Byars walked home he saw that the three great Unitarian chapels

which he had to pass _en route_ were blazing with light. Policemen were

standing at the doors to prevent the entrance of any more people into

the overcrowded buildings. A tremendous life and energy pulsated within

these buildings. Glancing back, with a bitter sigh, the vicar saw that

the lights in St. Thomas were already extinguished, and the tower, in

which the illuminated clock glowed sullenly, rose stark and cold into

the dark winter sky.

The last chapel of all, the Pembroke Road Chapel, had a row of finely

appointed carriages waiting outside the doors. The horses were covered

with cloths, the grooms and coachmen wore furs, and the breaths of men

and beasts alike poured out in streams of blue vapour. These men stamped

up and down the gravel sweep in front of the chapel and swung their arms

in order to keep warm.

On each side of the great polished mahogany doors were large placards,

printed in black and red, vividly illuminated by electric arc lights.

These announced that on that night Mr. Constantine Schuabe, M.P., would

lecture on the recent discovery in Jerusalem. The title of the lecture,

in staring black type, seemed to Mr. Byars as if it possessed an almost

physical power. It struck him like a blow.

THE DOWNFALL OF CHRISTIANITY

And then in smaller type,

ANTHROPOMORPHISM AN EXPLODED SUPERSTITION

He walked on more hurriedly through the dark.

All over the district the Church seemed tottering. The strong forces of

Unitarianism and Judaism, always active enemies of the Church, were

enjoying a moment of unexampled triumph. Led by nearly all the wealthy

families in Walktown, all the Dissenters and many lukewarm Church people

were crowding to these same synagogues. At the very height of these

perversions, when Christianity was forsworn and derided on all sides,

Schuabe had returned to Mount Prospect from London.

His long-sustained position as head of the antichristian party in

Parliament, in England indeed, his political connection with the place,

his wealth, the ties of family and relationship, all combined to make

him the greatest power of the moment in the North.

His speeches, of enormous power and force, were delivered daily and

reported _verbatim_ in all the newspapers. He became the Marlborough of

a campaign.

On every side the churches were almost deserted. Day by day ominous

political murmurs were heard in street and factory. The time had come,

men were saying, when an established priesthood and Church must be

forced to relinquish its emoluments and position. The Bishop of

Manchester, as he rolled through the streets in his carriage, leaning

back upon the cushions, lost in thought, with his pipe between his lips,

according to the wont and custom which had almost created a scandal in

the neighbourhood, was hissed and hooted as he went on his way.

With a sickness of heart, an utter weariness that was almost physical

nausea, the vicar let himself into his house with a latch-key.

There was a hushed, subdued air over the warm, comfortable house, felt

quite certainly, though not easy to define. It was as though one lay

dead in an upper chamber.

Mr. Byars turned into his study. Helena rose to meet him. The beautiful,

calm face was very pale and worn as if by long vigils. Minute lines of

care had crept round the eyes, though the eyes themselves were as calm

and steadfast as of old.

"Basil feels much stronger to-night, Father," she said. "He is dressing

now, and will come down to supper. He wishes to have a long talk with

you, he says."

For two weeks Gortre had lain prostrate in the house of his future

father-in-law.

It was as though he had watched the waters gradually rising round him

until at last he was submerged in a merciful unconsciousness. The doctor

said that he was enduring a very slight attack of brain-fever, but one

which need cause no one any alarm, and which was, in fact, nothing at

all in comparison to his former illness.

His fine physical strength asserted itself and helped him to an easy

_bodily_ recovery.

To Basil himself, with returning health and a clearer brain came a

renewal of mental power. A great strain was removed, the strain of

waiting and watching, the tension of a sick anticipation.

"It was almost as if I was conscious of this terrible thing that has

happened," he said to Helena. "I am sure that I felt it coming

instinctively in some curious psychic way. But now that we know the

worst, I am my own man again. Soon, dear, I shall be up and about again,

ready to fight against this blackness, to take my place in the ranks

once more."

To her loving solicitude he seemed to have some definite plan or

purpose, but when she questioned him his reserve was impenetrable, even

to her.

During the days of darkness Helena's lot was hard, her heart heavy.

While Mr. Byars was at least active, militant, she must eat her heart

out in sorrow at home. The doctor had forbidden any talk on those

subjects which were agitating the world, between her and Basil. She was

denied that consolation. So while her father was attending the

conferences at the Bishop's palace, speaking at meetings, visiting the

sick with passionate, and, alas, how often useless! assurance that the

Truth would prevail and the Light of the World once more shine out

undimmed, she must live and pray alone.

Helena's faith had never weakened. All through the trying days and

nights it had burned steadily, clear, and pure. But all around her she

saw the enemies of Christ prevailing. Nor was it with the slow movement

of ordinary secularism, but with a great shout of triumph and exultation

which resounded through the world. Men were deserting their posts, the

Church she loved seemed tottering, a horrid confusion and anarchy was

everywhere.

And all that she could do was to pray. But as the girl moved about her

simple household duties, as she tended the sick man with an almost

wifely care, her prayers went on unceasingly and every action was

interwoven with supplication.

Pale, subdued, but with a quiet clearness and resolution in his eye,

Basil came down to the meal. There was but little conversation during

it. Afterwards, Helena went to her own room, knowing that her father and

Gortre wished to be left alone.

In the study the two men sat on either side of the fireplace. Basil wore

a long dressing-gown of camel's-hair. He would not smoke, the doctor had

forbidden it, but Mr. Byars lit his pipe with a sigh of satisfaction.

"To think, Basil," the older man said in a broken voice, "to think that

Christmas is upon us now! It's the vigil of Christmas, and never since

our Lord's Passion has the world been in such a state. And worse than

all is our utter impotence!" His voice grew almost angry. "We _know_,

know as surely as we know anything, that this terrible business is some

stupendous mistake or fraud. But there isn't the slightest possibility

of any one listening to us. On one side the weightiest expert proof, on

the other nothing but a conviction to oppose to what appear to be the

hardest facts. I cannot blame any non-Christian for acquiescing in this

discovery. Viewing the thing clearly and without prejudice, I can't

blame any one. It is only the smallest minority, even of professing

Christians, whose faith is strong enough to keep them from an utter

denial of our Lord's Divinity. It is simply a matter of long personal

experience that gives you and me and Helena our confidence in this

utter darkness. But in comparison to the rest of the world, how many

have that confidence?"

He put down his pipe on the table and rested his head in his

outstretched hands, a grey and venerable head. "It's awful, Basil," he

said in a broken voice, and with his eyes full of tears. "In my old age

I have seen this. I wish that I had gone with my dear wife. 'Help, Lord;

for the godly man ceaseth; for the faithful fail from among the children

of men.' But what is so bitter to me, my dear boy, is the sight of the

utter overthrow of Faith. It all shows how terribly weak the majority of

Christians are. Surface and symbol! symbol and surface!"

"It will not last long," said Gortre, gravely. "For my part, Father, I

think that this terrible trial is allowed and permitted by God to bring

about a great and future triumph for His Son, which will marshal,

organise, and consolidate Faith as nothing has ever done before. I am

convinced of it."

"Yes, it must be that," answered the vicar; "undoubtedly that is God's

purpose. But I would that the light might come in my time. And I fear I

shall not live to see it. I'm an old man now, Basil; this has aged me

very much, and I shall not live much longer. It is God's will, but it is

hard to know that one will die seeing Christ dethroned in the hearts of

men, the Cross broken."

"While I have been quietly up-stairs," said Gortre, "many strange

thoughts have come to me, of which I want to speak to you to-night. I

have things to tell you which I have mentioned to no one as yet. But

before I go into these matters--very dark and terrible ones, I fear--I

want you to give me a _résumé_ of the position of things as they are

now. The present state is not clear in my mind. I have not read many of

the papers, and I want a sort of bird's-eye view of what is going on."

"The position at present," said Mr. Byars, "from our point of view, is a

kind of anarchy. Within every denomination those who absolutely refuse

to credit the truth of the discovery are in the minority. Abroad, in

France especially, wild free-thought of the rabid Tom Paine order has

broken out everywhere in a kind of hysterical rage against Christianity.

The immediate social result has been an appalling increase in crimes of

lust and cruelty. Great alarm is felt by the authorities. All the papers

are taking a horribly cynical view. They say that the delusion of

Christianity has clouded men's brains for so long that they are now

incapable of bearing the truth, and that the best way to govern the

State is to go on making believe. On the other hand, the vast majority

of Roman Catholics, both abroad and in England, have remained utterly

uninfluenced. It is one of the most marvellous triumphs of discipline

and order that history has ever witnessed. The Pope forbade the

slightest notice of the discovery to be taken by priests or people in

the first instance. Then, when the Report of the Committee was issued,

with only one dissentient voice--Sir Michael Manichoe's--a Papal Bull

was issued. Here it is, translated in _The Tablet_, magnificent in its

brevity and serenity."

He took a paper from the table beside him and began to read:

"VENERABLE BRETHREN,--HEALTH AND APOSTOLIC BENEDICTION

"It has seemed good to Us to address you on certain points dealing

with the decay of faith in divine things, which is the effect of

pride and moral corruption. And this is the natural result of

pride; for when this vice has taken possession of the heart it is

inevitable that the Christian Faith, which demands a most willing

docility, should languish, and that a murky darkness in regard to

divine truths should close upon the mind, so that in the case of

many these words should be made good, 'whatever things they know

not they blaspheme' (St. Jude). We, however, so far from being

hereby turned aside from the design which We have taken in hand,

are, on the contrary, determined all the more zealously and

diligently to guide the well-disposed, so that they may be saved

from the perils of secular unbelief.

"And, with the help of the united prayers of the faithful, We

earnestly implore forgiveness for those who speak evil of holy

things.

"And inasmuch as certain persons not being members of the Holy

Catholic Church have in an extremity of criminal madness laid claim

to discoveries which are pretended and put forth as affecting the

eternal Truths of the Faith, We command you, Venerable Brethren,

that it shall be stated in all the churches such pretences are void

of truth and utterly abominable. The enemies of Christ cry out, 'We

will not have this man to reign over us' (Luke xix. 14), and make

themselves loudly heard with the utterance of that wicked purpose,

'Let us make away with Him.'

"We therefore charge all Christians having peace and communion with

the Holy Church that they shall give no ear or countenance to these

onslaughts upon the Faith. It is forbidden for them to speak of

these things among themselves, or to listen to others concerning

them.

"With these injunctions, Venerable Brethren, We, as a presage of

the divine liberality, and as a pledge of our own charity, most

lovingly bestow on each of you, and on the clergy and flock

committed to the care of each, our Apostolic Benediction."

"That is the gist of it," said Mr. Byars, "though I have missed out a

few paragraphs. The result has been that, with a few exceptions, the

whole army of Romanists, so to speak, have closed ranks and utterly

refused to listen to what is going on."

"It's very fine, very fine indeed, as a spectacle," Gortre answered. "I

wish we had something like that unity and discipline. But is that

submission, possibly without the fire of an inward conviction, worth

very much? I doubt it."

"It is not for us to judge," answered the vicar. "But the result has

been that the Catholic Church, both here and on the Continent, is

undergoing a storm of persecution and popular hatred. There have been

fearful fights in Liverpool, and riots between the Irish dock-labourers

and a mob of people who called themselves Protestants last year and

'Rationalists' to-day.

"The attitude of the Low Church party is varied. Many of them are openly

deserting to Unitarianism. Others have accepted the discovery as being a

true one, and evolved an entirely new theory from it, while using it as

a party weapon also. This attitude is reflected in _The Tower_ in an

article which says that, though the actual body of Christ is now proved

never to have risen from the dead, the _spiritual_ body was what the

Disciples saw. It is a clever piece of work, which has attracted an

immense number of people, and is directed entirely against the Holy

Eucharist.[1] The Moderate and High Church parties are in some ways in a

worse position than any other. They find themselves unable to

compromise. "At the great meeting in the Albert Hall the other day,

which ended up in something like a free fight, all the conclusion the

majority of the clergy could come to was that it was utterly impossible

to accept the discovery and remain Christian. The result everywhere is

chaos; men are resigning their livings, there have been several

suicides--isn't it horrible to think of?--congregations are dwindling

everywhere, and disestablishment seems a certainty in a very short time.

The papers are full of nothing else, of course. We are fighting tooth

and nail upon the standpoint of personal spiritual experience, which

nothing can alter, but in a material way how little that helps! The

Methodists and Wesleyans are more successful than any one. They are

holding revival meetings all over the country. Very few of these two

bodies have joined the infidel ranks. Dissent has always implied an act

of choice, which, at any rate, means a man is not indifferent to the

whole thing. I suppose that is why the Wesleyans seem to be making a

firmer and more spiritual stand than any of us. To my shame I say it,

but the Churchmen of England are not bearing witness as these others

are."

"And the Bishops?"

"Most of them don't know what to do. Of course, the great leaders of

spiritual thought, W----, for instance, and G----, have written that

which has brought comfort and conviction to hundreds. But see the horror

of the position. The only way in which this awful thing can be combated

is by just the methods which only scholars and cultivated people can

understand. How are people who read the hard, material, logical speeches

of people like Schuabe, or that abominable woman, Mrs. Hubert Armstrong,

going to be convinced by the subtleties of the intellect or by the

reiteration of a personal conviction which they cannot share? Then the

Court party, the Archbishop, Walke, and all those, are leaning more and

more towards the 'spiritual' body theory, though they hesitate to commit

themselves as yet. It is all to be shelved until Convocation meets. They

want to see how things will go in Parliament. The Erastian spirit is

rampant. They are nearly all afraid of any ecclesiastical action. They

are following the lead of Germany under the Kaiser."

"It is all very terrible to see how much less Christianity means to

mankind than earnest Christians believed," said Gortre, sadly. "To see

the edifice tumbling round one like a house of paper when one thought it

so secure and strong. What a terrible lesson this will be in the future

to every one; what frightful shame and humiliation will come to those

who have denied their Lord when this is over!"

"When will that be, Basil?" said the vicar, wearily. "It seems as if the

real hour of test were at hand, and that now, finally and for ever, God

means to separate the true believers from the rest. I have thought that

all this may be but a prelude to the Last Day of all, and that Christ's

Second Coming is very near. But what I _cannot_ understand, what is

utterly beyond the power of any of us to appreciate, is what this all

_means_. How can this new tomb have been discovered after all these

years? Can all these great experts have been deceived? There have been

historical forgeries before, but surely this cannot be one. And yet, I

_know_, you _know_, that our Lord rose from the dead."

"I believe that to me, of all men in England, The Hand of God has given

the key to the mystery," said Gortre.

Mr. Byars started and looked uneasily at him.

"Basil," he said, "I have been thoughtless. We've talked too long. You

are not quite clear as to what you are saying. Let us read compline

together and go to bed."

He watched Basil as he spoke, but before he had finished his sentence he

saw something in the young man's face which sent the blood leaping and

tearing through his veins.

In a sudden, utterly unreasoning way, he saw a truth, a certain

knowledge, in Gortre's eyes which flooded his whole heart and soul with

exaltation and joy.

His good and almost saintly face looked as John's might have looked

when, after the octave of the Resurrection Day, the eight heavy-hearted

men were once more returning to the daily round and common task, and saw

the Lord upon the shore.

CHAPTER VIII

THE FIRST LINKS

"I have been piecing things together gradually, as I lay silent

up-stairs," said Gortre, drawing his chair a little closer to the fire.

"Slowly, little by little, I have added link and link to a chain of

circumstantial evidence which has led me to an almost incredible

conclusion. When you have heard what I have to say you will realise two

things. One is that there are depths of human wickedness so abysmal and

awful that the mind can hardly conceive of them. The other is that, for

what reason it is not for us to try and divine, I have been led, by a

most extraordinary series of events and coincidences, to something very

near the truth about the discovery in Jerusalem. My story begins some

months ago, on the night before I was struck down with brain-fever. You

will remember that Constantine Schuabe"--he spoke the name with a

shudder of horror that instinctively communicated itself to Mr.

Byars--"that Schuabe called here on that night about the school

scholarships. When I went away, I left the house with him. He invited me

to go on to Mount Prospect and I did so. Earlier in the evening we had

been talking of the antichrist and I had said to you that I saw in

Schuabe a modern type of the old mediæval idea. My mind was peculiarly

sensitive on these points that night, awake, alert, and inquiring. When

Schuabe invited me to his house, something impelled me to go, something

outside of myself. I went, feeling that I was on the threshold of some

discovery."

He paused for a moment, white and tired with the intensity of his

narrative.

"When we got to Schuabe's house we began upon the controversial points

which we had carefully avoided here. At first our talk was quite quiet,

mere argument between two people having different points of view on

religion. He went out to get some supper--the servants were all in bed.

While he was gone, again I felt the strange assurance of something by me

directing my actions. I felt a sense of direct spiritual protection. I

went to the bookshelf and took down a Bible. I opened it, half ashamed

of myself for the tinge of superstition, and my eyes fell upon the text:

"'WATCH AND PRAY.'

"I could not help taking it as a direct message. Schuabe came back.

Gradually, as I saw his bitter hatred and contempt for our Lord and the

Christian Church becoming revealed, I was uplifted to rebuke him. He had

dropped the veil of an _intellectual_ disagreement. Some power was given

to me to see far into the man's soul. He knew that also, and all

pretence between us was utterly swept away. Then I told him that his

hate was real and active, that I saw him as he was. And these were the

words in which he answered me, standing like Lucifer before me. For

months they have haunted me. They are burnt in upon my brain for all

time. '_I tell you, paid priest as you are, a blind man leading the

blind, that a day is coming when all your boasted fabric of

Christianity will disappear. It will go suddenly and be swept utterly

away. And you, you shall see it. You shall be left naked of your Faith,

stripped and bare, with all Christendom beside you. Your pale Nazarene

shall die among the bitter laughter of the world, die as surely as he

died two thousand years ago, and no man nor woman shall resurrect him.

You know nothing, but you will remember my words of to-night, until you

also become as nothing and endure the inevitable fate of mankind!_'"

Mr. Byars started. As yet he realised nothing of where Basil's story was

to lead. "A prophecy!" he cried. "It is as if he were gifted to know the

future. Something of what he said has already come to pass."

"My story is a long one, Father," said Gortre, "and as yet it is only

begun. You will see plainer soon. Well, as he said these words I knew

with certainty that this man was _afraid of God_. I saw his awful secret

in his eyes, this man, antichrist indeed, _believes in our Lord_, and in

terrible presumption dares to lift his hand against Him. Little more of

importance happened upon that night. The next day, as you know, I fell

ill and was so for some weeks. When I recovered and remembered perfectly

all that had happened--do you remember how the picture of Christ fell

and broke when Schuabe came?--I saw that I must keep all these things

locked within my own brain. What could I do or say more than that I, a

fanatical curate--that is what people would have said--had had a row

with the famous agnostic millionaire and politician? I could not hope to

explain to any one the reality of that evening, the certain knowledge I

had of its being only a prelude to some horror that I could not foresee

or name. So I kept my own counsel. Perhaps you may remember that on the

night of the tea-party when I said good-bye to the people I urged them

to keep fast hold on faith, made a special point of it?"

Again Mr. Byars showed his intense interest by a sudden movement of the

muscles of his face. But he did not speak, and Gortre continued:

"Now we come to Dieppe when we were all there together. You will, of

course, remember how Spence introduced us to Sir Robert Llwellyn, and

how we talked over dinner at the _Pannier d'Or_. Since then, we must

remember, Sir Robert's evidence in favour of the absolute authenticity

of Hands's discovery has had more weight with the world than that of any

one else. He is, of course, known to be the greatest living expert. And

that fact also has a very important bearing on my story. After dinner,

the conversation turned upon discoveries in exactly the direction that

the recent discovery _has_ been made. Llwellyn expressed himself as

believing that--I think I remember something like his actual words--'We

are on the eve of stupendous discoveries in this direction.' None of us

liked to pursue the discussion further. There was a little pause."

"Yes!" said the vicar, "I remember it perfectly now; it all comes back

to me quite vividly. But do you know that, beyond of course remembering

that we were introduced to Sir Robert at Dieppe, the subject of our

conversation had almost escaped my memory. Certainly I never thought of

it in detail. But go on, Basil."

"Well, then, Sir Robert drew a plan of the walls of Jerusalem on the

back of a letter which he took from his pocket. As he turned the letter

over I could not help seeing whom it was from. I read the signature

quite distinctly, 'Constantine Schuabe.' This brings us up to a curious

fact. Two eminent men, one antichristian, the other a famous

archæologist, both express an opinion in my hearing. The first says

openly that something is about to occur that will destroy faith in

Christ, the other hints only at some wonderful impending discovery in

the Holy Land. The connection between the two statements, startling

enough in any case, becomes still more so when it is discovered that

these two eminent people are in correspondence one with the other. And

there is more than this even. Two days after that dinner I was taking a

stroll down by the quays when I saw Sir Robert and Mr. Schuabe, who had

just landed from the Newhaven boat, get into the Paris train together."

A sudden short exclamation came from the chair on the opposite side of

the fire. Very dimly and vaguely the vicar was beginning to see where

Basil's story was tending. The fire had grown low, and Mr. Byars

replenished it. The noise of the falling coals accentuated the tension

which filled the quiet room like a gas.

Then Gortre's tired, but even and deliberate, voice continued:

"I will here ask you to consider one or two other points. Professor

Llwellyn told us that he had a year's leave from the British Museum

owing to ill health. So long a rest presupposes a real illness, does it

not? Now, of course, one can never be sure of anything of this sort, but

it is, at least, curious and worthy of remark that Sir Robert seemed

outwardly in perfect health and with a hearty appetite. He also said

that he was _en route_ for Alexandria. Well, Alexandria is the nearest

port to Jaffa, which is but one day's ride from Jerusalem. Now comes a

still more curious part of my story. As I have told you, our parish in

Bloomsbury is one in which a great class of undesirable people have made

their home. It cannot be denied that it is a centre of some peculiarly

shameless vice. Much of the work of the clergy lies among women of a

certain class, and great tact and resolution is needed to deal with such

problems as these people present. Some months ago a woman, whose face

seemed in some vague way familiar to me, began to come to church. Once

or twice she seemed to show an inclination to speak to me or my

colleagues after the service, but she never actually did so. Eventually

she called on Ripon, and confessed her way of life. Her repentance

seemed sincere, and she was anxious to turn over a new leaf. It appeared

that the girl was a rather well-known dancer at one of the burlesque

theatres, and I must have seen her portrait on the hoardings and

advertisements of these places. She had been touched by something in one

of my sermons, it seems, and Ripon requested me to go and see her. I did

so, in the flat where she lived, and we had a chat. The poor thing was

suffering from an internal disease, and had only a year or two to live.

She seemed a kindly, sensible creature enough, vulgar and

pleasure-loving, but without any very great wickedness about her,

despite her wretched life. She wanted to get right away, to bury herself

in the country, and live a pure and quiet life until she died. The great

difficulty in the way was the man whose mistress she was, and of whom

she seemed in considerable fear. I explained to her that, with the help

of Father Ripon and myself, no harm should come to her from him, and

that her quiet disappearance from the scenes of her past life could be

very easily managed. Then it came out that the man in whose power she

was was none other than Sir Robert Llwellyn. _She told me that he had

been for some time in Palestine._ She was expecting him back every day.

While we were talking Sir Robert actually entered the room, fresh from

his journey. We had a fearful row, of course, and he would not go until

I threatened to use force, and then only because he was afraid of the

scandal. But before he went he seemed filled with a sort of coarse

triumph even in a moment of what must have been great discomfiture for

him. I had to explain what had happened to him. I told him frankly that

Miss Hunt--that was the woman's name--was, by the grace of the Holy

Spirit, about to lead a new and different life. Then this sort of

triumph burst forth. He said that in a short time meddling priests would

lose all their power over the minds of others. He said that Christ, 'the

pale dreamer of the East,' should be revealed to all men at last. He

quoted the verse about the grave from Matthew Arnold. And it was all

done with a great confidence and certainty."

He stopped, worn out, and glanced inquiringly at Mr. Byars.

The vicar was evidently much moved and excited by the narrative. "The

most curious point of all," he said, "in what you tell me is the fact of

Sir Robert's _private_ and _secret_ visit to Palestine some months

before the discovery was made. Such a recent visit is entirely unknown

to the public, who have been so busy with his name of late. The

newspapers have said nothing of it. Otherwise, I see no reason why, in

some way or other, Mr. Schuabe and Sir Robert may not have known of this

tomb in some way before it was discovered by Hands, and their hintings

of a catastrophe to faith may have simply been because of this knowledge

which they were unwilling to publish."

Gortre shook his head. "No, it is not that," he said. "It is not that.

They would never have kept the knowledge secret. You have not been

through the scenes with these men that I have. There are a hundred

objections to that theory. _I am absolutely persuaded that this

'discovery' is a forgery, executed with the highest skill, by the one

man living capable of doing it at the instigation of the one man evil

enough to suggest it._ The hand of God is leading me towards the truth."

"But the proof!" said the vicar, "the proof! Think of the tremendous

forces arrayed against us. What can we do? No one would listen to what

you have told me."

"God will show a way," said Gortre. "I know it. I had a letter from

Harold Spence this morning. His work is done, and he has returned. At

the end of the week the doctor says I shall be able to get back to

Lincoln's Inn. I shall take counsel with Harold; he is brilliant, and a

man of the world. Together we will work to overthrow these devils."

"And meanwhile," answered Mr. Byars, with a despairing gesture,

"meanwhile hope and faith are dying out of millions of hearts, men are

turning to sinful pleasures unafraid, hopeless, desolate."

The strain had been too great, he was growing older; he bent his head on

his hands, while the darkness crept into his soul.

CHAPTER IX

PARTICULAR INSTANCES, CONTRASTING THE OLD LADY AND THE SPECIAL

CORRESPONDENT

The long Manchester station was full of the sullen and almost unbearable

roar of escaping steam. Every now and again the noise ceased with a

suddenness that was pain, and the groups of people waiting to see the

London train start on its four hours' rush could hear each other's

voices strange and thin after the mighty vibration.

The feast of Christmas was over. Throughout the world the festival had

fallen chill and cold on the hearts of mankind. The _Adeste Fideles_ had

summoned few to worship, and the praise had sounded thin and hollow.

Even the faithful must keep their deep conviction as a hidden fire

within them amid the din and crash of faith and the rising tides of

negation and despair.

Gortre, Helena, and Mr. Byars stood together by the train side. They

spoke but little; the same thought was in their brains. The jarring

materialism of the scene, its steady, heedless industry, seemed an

outrage almost in its cold disregard of the sadness which they felt

themselves. The great engines glided in and out of the station, the

porters and travellers moved with busy cheerfulness as if the world were

not in the grip of a great darkness and horror, taking no account of

it. They stood by the door of the carriage Basil had chosen, a forlorn

group not quite able to realise the stir of life around them.

Gortre was pale and worn, but visibly better and stronger. His face was

fixed and resolute. The vicar seemed much older, shrunken somewhat, and

his manner was more tremulous than before. His arm was in Helena's.

"Basil," said the vicar, "you are going from us into what must be the

unknown--God grant a happy issue out of the perils and difficulties

before you. For my part, I seem to be in an unhappy and doubting state.

It may be that you have the key to this black mystery and can dispel the

clouds. I shall pray daily that it may be so. It is in the hands of

God."

He sighed heavily as he gripped Basil's hand in farewell. In truth, he

had but little hope and had hardly been able to realise the young man's

story. It was almost inconceivable to him, the abnormal wickedness it

suggested, the possibility that this great cloud could come upon the

world at the action of two men, both of whom he had known, found

pleasant, cultured people, and rather liked. The thought was too big to

grasp, it confused and stunned him. It is a curious fact that this good

man, who could believe, despite all contrary evidence, in the eternal

truths of the Gospel, could not believe in the malignancy which Basil's

story had seemed to indicate.

Helena had not been told of Basil's suspicions, only of his hopes. She

knew that there was that in his mind which might lead once more to light

and disperse the clouds. No details were given to her, nor did she ask

for them. She was too serene and fine for commonplace curiosity. The

mutual trust between the lovers was absolute. Nothing could strain it,

nothing could disturb it; and in her love and admiration for Basil,

Helena saw nothing incongruous or incredible in the fact that the young

man hoped himself to bring peace back to the world.

To any one viewing the project with unbiassed eyes it might have seemed

beyond possibility, would have provoked a smile, this spectacle of an

obscure curate going up to London in a third-class carriage with hopes

of saving his country's faith, in the expectation of overthrowing the

gigantic edifice of learned opinion, of combating a Sanhedrin of the

great. Such people would have said with facile pedantry that this girl

possessed no sense of humour, imagining that they were reproaching her.

For by some strange mental perversion most people would rather be told

that they lack a sense of morals or duty than a sense of humour, and it

is quite certain that this was said of John the Baptist as he preached

in his unconventional raiment upon Jordan's banks.

Helena and Basil walked slowly up and down the platform, saying

farewell.

Her words of love and hope, her serene and unquestioning confidence,

uplifted him as nothing else could do. At this moment, big with his own

passionate hopes and desires, yet dismayed at the immensity of the task

before him, the trust and encouragement of one he loved were especially

helpful and uplifting. It was the tonic he needed. And as the train

slowly moved out of the station the bright and noble face of his lady

was the last thing he saw.

He thought long of her as the train began to gather speed and rush

through the smoky Northern towns. As many other people, Gortre found a

stimulus to clear, ordered thought in the sensation of rapid motion. The

brain worked with more power, owing to the exhilaration produced in it

by speed.

As the ponderous machine which was carrying him back to the great

theatre of strife and effort gathered momentum and power, so his mind

became filled with high hopes, began to glow with eagerness to strike a

great blow against the enemies of Christ.

He looked at the carriage, noticing for the first time, at least

consciously, the people who sat there. He had two fellow-passengers, a

man and a woman. The man seemed to belong to the skilled artisan class,

decently dressed, of sober and quiet manner. His well-marked features,

the prominent nose, keen grey eyes, and thick reddish moustache, spoke

eloquently of "character" and somewhat of thought. The woman was old,

past sixty, a little withered creature, insignificant of face, her mouth

a button, her hair grey, scanty, and ill-nourished.

The man was sitting opposite to Gortre and they fell into talk after a

time on trivial subjects. The stranger was civil, but somewhat

assertive. He did not use the ordinary "sir."

Suddenly, with a slight smile of anticipation, he seemed to gather

himself up for discussion.

"Well," he said, "I don't wish individuals no particular harm, you'll

understand, but speaking general, I suppose you realise that your job's

over. The Church will be swept away for good 'n' all in a few months

now, and to my way of thinking it'll be the best thing as 'as ever come

to the country. The Church has always failed to reach the labourin'

man."

"Because the labouring man has generally failed to reach the Church,"

said Gortre, smiling. "But you mean Disestablishment is near, I

suppose?"

"That's it, mister," said the man. "It must come now, and about time,

too, after all these centuries of humbug. I used to go to church years

back and sing 'The Church's one foundation.' Its foundation's been

proved a pack o' lies now, and down it comes. Disestablishment will

prove the salvation of England. When religion's swept away by act o'

Parliament, then men will have an opportunity of talking sense and

seeing things clearly."

He spoke without rudeness but with a certain arrogance and an obvious

satisfaction at the situation. Here was a parson cornered, literally,

forced to listen to him, with no way of escape. Gortre imagined that he

was congratulating himself that this was not a corridor train.

"I think Disestablishment is very likely to come indeed," said Gortre,

"and it will come the sooner for recent events. Of course I think that

it will be most barefaced robbery to take endowments from the Church

which are absolutely her own property, and use them for secular

purposes, but I'm not at all sure that it wouldn't be an excellent thing

for the Church after all. But you seem to think that Disestablishment

will destroy _religion_. That is an entire mistake, as you will find."

"It's destroyed already," said the man, "let alone what's _going_ to

happen. Since what they've found out in Jerusalem the whole thing's gone

puff! like blowin' out a match. You can't get fifty people together in

any town what believe in religion any more. The religion of common sense

has come now, and it's come to stay."

A voice with a curious singing inflection came from the corner of the

carriage, a voice utterly unlike the harsh North-country accent of the

workman. The old woman was beginning to speak.

Gortre recognised the curious Cornish tones at once, and looked up with

sudden interest.

"You'm wrong, my son," said the old woman, "bitter wrong you be, and

'tis carnal vanity that spakes within you. To Lostwithul, where I bide,

I could show 'ee different to what you do say."

The workman, a good-humoured fellow enough, smiled superior at the odd

old thing. The wrinkled face had become animated, two deep lines ran

from the nostrils to the corner of the lips, hard and uncompromising.

The eyes were bright.

"Well, Mother," he said, "let's hear what _you've_ got ter say. Fair

do's in argument is only just and proper."

"Ah!" she replied, "it's easy to go scat when you've not got love of the

Lard in your heart. I be gone sixty years of age, and many as I can mind

back-along as have trodden the path of sorrow. There be a brae lot o'

fools about."

The workman winked at Gortre with huge enjoyment, and settled himself

comfortably in his place.

"Then you don't hold with Disestablishing the Church, Mother?" he said.

"I do take no stock in Church," she replied, "begging the gentleman's

pardon"--this to Gortre. "I was born and bred a Wesleyan and such I'm

like to die. How should I know what they'll be doing up to London church

town? This here is my first visit to England to see my daughter, and

it'll be the last I've a mind to take. You should come to Cornwall, my

dear, and then you'll see if religion's over and done away with."

"But you've heard of all as they've just found out at Jerusalem, surely?

It's known now that Christ never was what He made out to be. He won't

save no more sinners,--it's all false what the Bible says, it's been

_proved_. I suppose you've heard about _that_ in Cornwall?"

"I was down to the shop," said the old lady, with the gentle contempt of

one speaking to a foolish child. "I was down to the shop December month,

and Mrs. Baragwaneth showed me the _Western Morning News_ with a picture

and a lot of talk saying the Bible was ontrue, and Captain Billy Peters,

of Treurthian mine, he was down-along too. How 'a did laugh at 'un! 'My

dear,' he says, ''tis like the coast guards going mackerel-seining.

Night after night have they been out, and shot the nets, too, for they

be alwass seein' something briming, thinking it a school o' fish, and

not knowing 'tis but moonshine. It's want of _experience_ that do make

folk talk so.'"

"That's all very well, Mother," answered the man, slightly nettled by

the placid assurance of her tone. "That's all pretty enough, and though

I don't understand your fishing terms I can guess at your meaning. But

here's the _proof_ on one side and nothing at all on t'other. Here's all

the learned men of all countries as says the Bible is not true, _and

proving_ it, and here's you with no learning at all just saying it _is_,

with no proof whatever."

"Do 'ee want proof, then?" she answered eagerly, the odd see-saw of her

voice becoming more and more accentuated in her excitement. "I tell 'ee

ther's as many proofs as pilchards in the say. Ever since the Lard

died--ah! 'twas a bitter nailing, a bitter nailing, my dear!"--she

paused, almost with tears in her voice, and the whole atmosphere of the

little compartment seemed to Basil to be irradiated, glorified by the

shining faith of the old dame--"ever since that time the proofs have

been going on. Now I'll tell 'ee as some as I've see'd, my son. Samson

Trevorrow to Carbis water married my sister, May Rosewarne, forty years

ago. He would drink something terrible bad, and swear like a foreigner.

He'd a half-share in a trawler, three cottages, and money in the bank.

First his money went, then his cottages, and he led a life of sin and

brawling. He were a bad man, my dear. Every one were at 'un for an

ongodly wastrel, but 'a kept on. An' the Lard gave him no children; May

could not make a child to him, for she were onfruitful, but he would not

change. All that folk with sense could do was done, but 't were no

use."

"Well, I know the sort of man," said the workman, with conviction. His

interest was roused, that unfailing interest which the poorer classes

take in each other's family history.

"Then you do know that nothing won't turn them from their evil ways?"

"When a chap gets the drink in him like that," replied the artisan,

"there's no power that will take him from it. He'd go through sheet iron

for it."

"And so would Samson Trevorrow, my dear," she continued. "One night he

came home from Penzance market, market-peart, as the saying is, drunk if

you will. My sister said something to 'un, what 't was I couldn't say,

but he struck her, for the first time. Next morning was the Sunday, and

when she told him of what he'd done overnight, he was shamed of himself,

and she got him to come along with her to chapel. 'T was a minister from

Bodmin as prached, and 'ee did prache the Lard at Sam until the Word got

hold on 'un and the man shook with repentance at his naughty life. He

did kneel down before them all and prayed for forgiveness, and for the

Lard to help 'un to lead a new life. From that Sabbath till he died,

many years after, Sam never took anything of liquor, he stopped his

sweering and carrying on, and he lived as a good man should. And in a

year the Lard sent 'un a son, and if God wills I shall see the boy this

afternoon, for he's to meet the train. There now, my son, that be gospel

truth what I tell 'ee. After that can you expect any one with a grain of

sense to listen to such foolish truck as you do tell? The Lard did that

for Samson Trevorrow, changed 'un from black to white, 'a did. If the

Queen herself were to tell me that the Lard Jesus wasn't He, I wouldn't

believe her."

As Gortre drove from Euston through the thronged veins of London

towards the Inn, he thought much and with great thankfulness of the

little episode in the train. Such simple faith, such supreme conviction,

was, he knew, the precious possession of thousands still. What did it

matter to these sturdy Nonconformists in the lone West that _savants_

denied Christ? All over England the serene triumph of the Gospel, deep,

deep down in the hearts of quiet people, gave the eternal lie to Schuabe

and his followers. Never could they overcome the Risen Lord in the human

heart. He began to realise more and more the ineffable wonder of the

Incarnation.

Before he had arrived at Chancery Lane the London streets began to take

hold of him once more with the old familiar grip. How utterly unchanged

they were! It seemed but a day since he had left them; it was impossible

at the moment of re-contact to realise all that had passed since he had

gone away.

He was to have an immediate and almost terrifying reminder of it. The

door of the chambers was not locked, and pushing it open, he entered.

Always most sensitive to the _atmosphere_ of a room, moral as well as

material, he was immediately struck by that of the chambers, most

unpleasantly so, indeed. Certain indications of what had been going on

there were easily seen. Others were not so assertive, but contributed

their part, nevertheless, to the subtle general impression of the place.

The air was stale with the pungent smell of Turkish tobacco and spirits.

It was obvious that the windows had not been as freely opened as their

wont. A litter of theatre programmes lay on one chair. On another was a

programme of a Covent Garden ball and a girl's shoe of white satin, into

which a fading bouquet of hothouse flowers had been wantonly crushed.

The table was covered with the _débris_ of a supper, a _pâté_, some

long-necked bottles which had held Niersteiner, a hideous box of pink

satin and light blue ribbons half full of _glacé_ plums and chocolates.

The little bust of the Hermes of Praxiteles, which stood on one of the

bookcases, had been maltreated with a coarseness and vulgarity which

hurt Basil like a blow. The delicate contour of the features, the pure

white of the plaster, were soiled and degraded. The cheeks had been

rouged up to the eyes, which were picked out in violet ink. The brows

were arched with an "eyebrow pencil" and the lips with a vivid cardinal

red.

Basil put down his portmanteau and grew very pale as he looked round on

these and many other evidences of sordid and unlovely riot. His heart

sank within him. He began to fear for Harold Spence.

Even as he looked round, Spence came into the room from his bed-chamber.

He was dressed in a smoking jacket and flannel trousers. Basil saw at

once that he had been drinking heavily. The cheeks were swollen under

the pouch of the eye, he was unshaven, and his manner was full of noisy

and tremulous geniality.

There are men in whom a week or two of sudden relapse into old and evil

courses has an extraordinarily visible effect. Spence was one of them.

At the moment he looked as the clay model compares with the finished

marble.

Gortre was astounded at the change, but one thing the modern London

clergyman learns is tact. The situation was obvious, it explained itself

at once, and he nerved himself to deal with it warily and carefully.

Spence himself was ill at ease at they went through the commonplaces of

meeting. Then, when they were both seated by the fire and were smoking,

he began to speak frankly.

"I can see you are rather sick, old man," he said. "Better have it out

and done with, don't you think?"

"Tell me all about it, old fellow," said Gortre.

"Well, there isn't very much to tell, only when I came back from

Palestine after all that excitement I felt quite lost and miserable.

Something seemed taken away out of one's life. Then there didn't seem

much to do, and some of the old set looked me up and I have been

racketing about town a good bit."

"I thought you'd got over all that, Harold; because, putting it on no

other grounds, you know the game is _not_ worth the candle."

"So I had, Basil, before"--he swallowed something in his throat--"before

_this_ happened. I didn't believe in it at first, of course, or, at

least, not properly, when I got Hands's letter. But when I got out

East--and you don't know and won't be able to understand how the East

turns one's ideas upside down even at ordinary times--when I got out

there and _saw_ what Hands had found, then everything seemed slipping

away. Then the Commission came over and I was with them all and heard

what they had to say. I know the whole private history of the thing from

first to last. It made me quite hopeless--a terrible feeling--the sort

of utter dreariness that Poe talks of that the man felt when he was

riding up to the House of Usher. Of course, thousands of people must

have felt just the same during the past weeks. But to have the one thing

one leaned upon, the one hope that kept one straight in this life, the

hope of another and happier one, cut suddenly out of one's

consciousness! Is it any wonder that one has gone back to the old

temptations? I don't think so, Basil."

His voice dropped, an intense weariness showed in his face. His whole

body seemed permeated by it, he seemed to sink together in his chair.

All the mental pain he had endured, all the physical languor of fast

living, that terrible nausea of the soul which seizes so imperiously

upon the vicious man who is still conscious of sin; all these flooded

over him, possessed him, as he sat before his friend.

An enormous pity was in Basil's heart as he saw this concrete weakness

and misery. He realised what he had only guessed at before or seen but

dimly. He would not have believed this transformation possible; he had

thought Harold stronger. But even as he pitied him he marvelled at the

Power which had been able to keep the man pure and straight so long.

Even this horrid _débâcle_ was but another, if indirect, testimony to

the power of Faith.

And, secondly, as he listened to his friend's story, a deep anger, a

righteous wrath as fierce as flame burned within him as he thought of

the two men who, he was persuaded, had brought this ruin upon another.

In Spence he was able to see but a single case out of thousands which he

knew must be similar to it. The evil passions which lie in the hearts of

all men had been loosened and unchained; they had sprung into furious

activity, liberated by the appalling conspiracy of Schuabe and Llwellyn.

It is noticeable that there was by this time hardly any doubt in

Gortre's mind as to the truth of his suspicions.

"I understand it all, old man," he said, "and you needn't tell me any

more. I can sympathise with you. But I have much to tell you--news, or,

at least, theories, which you will be astounded to hear. Listen

carefully to me. I believe that just as you were the instrument of first

bringing this news to public notice, so you and I are going to prove its

falsity, to unearth the most wicked conspiracy in the world's history.

Pull yourself together and follow me with all your power. All hope is

not yet gone."

Basil saw, with some relief, the set and attentive face before him, a

face more like the old Spence. But, as he began to tell his story, there

flashed into his mind a sudden picture of the old Cornish woman in the

train, and he marvelled at that greater faith as his eye fell upon the

foul disorder of the room.

CHAPTER X

THE TRIUMPH OF SIR ROBERT LLWELLYN

In the large, open fireplaces of the Sheridan Club dining-room, logs of

pine and cedar wood gave out a regular and well-diffused warmth.

Outside, the snow was still falling, and beyond the long windows,

covered with their crimson curtains, the yellow air was full of soft and

silent movement.

The extreme comfort of the lofty, panelled dining-room was accentuated a

hundred-fold, to those entering it, by the chilly experience of the

streets.

The electric lights burnt steadily in their silk shades, the gleams

falling upon the elaborate table furniture in a thousand points of

dancing light.

At one of the tables, laid for two people, Sir Robert Llwellyn was

sitting. He was in evening dress, and his massive face was closely

scrutinising a printed list propped up against a wine-glass before him.

His expression was interested and intent. By his side was a sheet of the

club note-paper, and from time to time he jotted down something upon it

with a slender gold pencil.

The great archæologist was ordering dinner for himself and a guest with

much thought and care.

_Crême d'asperge à la Reine_

in his neat writing, the letters distinct from one another--almost like

an inscription in Uncial Greek character, one might have fancied.

_Turbot à l'Amiral_ promised well; the plump, powerful fingers wrote it

down.

_Poulardes du Mans rôties_ with _petits pois à la Française_ with a

_salade Niçoise_ to follow; that would be excellent! Then just a little

_suprème de pêches, à la Montreuil_, which is quite the best kind of

_suprème_, then some _Parmesan_ before the coffee.

"Quite a simple dinner, Painter," he said to the steward of the

room,--the famous "small dining-room" with its alcoves and discreet

corners,--"simple but good. Of course you will tell Maurice that it is

for _me_. I want him to do quite his best. If you will send this list

off to the kitchens with a message, we will go into the wines together."

They went carefully into the wines.

"Remember that we shall want the large liqueur glasses," he said, "with

the Tuileries brandy. In fact, I think I'll take a little now, as an

_apéritif_."

The man bowed confidentially and went away. He returned with a long

bottle of curious shape with an imperial crown blown in the glass. It

was some of the famous brandy which had been lately found bricked up in

a cellar close to the _Place Carrousel_, and was worth its weight in

gold.

On the tray stood one of the curious liqueur glasses lately introduced

into the club by Sir Robert. It was the shape of a port-wine glass, but

enormously large, capable of holding a pint or more, and made of glass

as thin as tissue paper and fragile as straw. The steward poured a very

little of the brandy into the great glass and twirled it round rapidly

by the stem. This was the most epicurean device for bringing out the

bouquet of the liqueur.

Llwellyn sipped the precious liquid with an air of the most intense

enjoyment. His face glowed with enthusiasm.

"Wonderful, wonderful!" he said in a hushed voice. "There, take it away

and bring me an olive. Then I will go down-stairs and wait for my friend

in the smoking-room. You will serve the soup at five minutes past

eight."

He got up from the table and moved silently over the heavy carpet to the

door.

It was about seven o'clock. At eight Constantine Schuabe was coming to

the Sheridan Club to dine.

Sir Robert sat in the smoking-room with a tiny cigarette of South

American tobacco, wrapped in maize leaf and tied round the centre with a

tiny cord of green silk. His face expressed nothing but the most

absolute repose. His correspondence with life was at that moment as

complete as the most perfect health and discriminating luxury could make

it.

He stretched out his feet to the blaze and idly watched the reflection

in the points of his shining boots.

The room was quite silent now. A few men sat about reading the evening

papers, and there was a subdued hum of talk from a table where two men

were playing a casual game of chess, in which neither of them seemed

much interested. A large clock upon the oak mantel-shelf ticked with

muffled and soothing regularity.

Llwellyn picked up a sixpenny illustrated paper, devoted to amusements

and the lighter side of life, and lazily opened it.

His eye fell upon a double-page article interspersed with photographs of

actors and actresses. The article was a summing-up of the year's events

on the lighter stage by an accepted expert in such matters. He read as

follows:

"The six Trocadero girls whom I remember in Paris recently billed

as 'The Cocktails,' never forget that grace is more important in

dancing than mere agility. They are youthful looking, pretty and

supple, and their manoeuvres are cunningly devised. The _diseuse_ of

the troupe, Mdlle. Nepinasse, sings the Parisian success, _Viens

Poupoule_, with considerable 'go' and swing. But in hearing her at

the 'Gloucester' the other night I could not help regretting the

disappearance of brilliant Gertrude Hunt from the boards where she

was so great an attraction. _Poupoule_, or its English equivalent,

is just the type of song, with its attendant descriptive dance, in

which that gay little lady was seen at her best. In losing her, the

musical-comedy stage has lost a player whose peculiar individuality

will not easily be replaced. Gertrude Hunt stood quite alone among

her sisters of the Profession. Who will readily forget the pert

_insouciance_, the little trick of the gloved hands, the mellow

calling voice? It has been announced that this popular favourite

has disappeared for ever from the stage. But there is a distinct

mystery about the sudden eclipse of this star, and one which

conjecture and inquiry has utterly failed to solve. Well, I, in

common with thousands of others, can only sigh and regret it. Yet I

should like to think that these lines would meet her eye, and she

may know that I am only voicing the wishes of the public when I

call to her to come back and delight our eyes and ears as before."

By the side of the paragraph there was a photograph of Gertrude Hunt. He

stared at it, his mind busy with memories and evil longing. The bold,

handsome face, the great eyes, looked him full in the face. Never had

any woman been able to hold him as this one. She had become part of his

life. In his mad passion for the dancer he had risked everything, until

his whole career had depended upon the good-will of Constantine Schuabe.

There had been no greater pleasure than to satisfy her wishes, however

tasteless, however vulgar. And then, hastening back to her side with a

fortune for her (the second he had poured into the white grasping

hands), he had found her with the severe young priest. A power which he

was unable to understand had risen up as a bar to his enormous egoism.

She had gone, utterly disappeared, vanished as a shadow vanishes at the

moving of a light.

And all his resources, all those of the theatre people with whom she had

been so long associated, had utterly failed to trace her.

The Church had swallowed her up in its mystery and gloom. She was lost

to him for ever. And the fierce longing to be with her once more burnt

within him like the unhallowed flame upon the altar of an idol.

As he regarded the chaos into which the Church was plunged he would

laugh to himself in horrid glee. His indifference to all forms of

religious congregations had gone. He felt an active and bitter hatred

now hardly less than that of Schuabe himself. And all the concentrated

hatred and incalculable malice that his poisoned brain distilled was

focussed and directed upon the young curate who had been the means and

instrument of his discomfiture. He had begun to plan schemes of swift

revenge, laughing at himself sometimes for the crude melodrama of his

thoughts.

As a waiter with his powdered hair and white silk stockings showed

Schuabe into the smoking-room, the Jew saw with surprise the flushed and

agitated face of his host, so unlike its usual sensual serenity. He

wondered what had arisen to disturb Llwellyn, and he made up his mind

that he would know it before the evening was over.

Schuabe, on his part, seemed depressed and in poor spirits. There was a

restlessness, quite foreign to his usual composure, which appeared in

little nervous tricks of his fingers. He toyed with his wine-glass and

did poor justice to the careful dinner.

"Everything is going on very well," Llwellyn said. "My book is nearly

finished, and the American rights were sold yesterday. The Council of

the Free Churches have appointed Dr. Barker to write a counterblast. Who

could have foreseen the stir and tumult in the world? Everything is

toppling over in the religious world. I have read of your triumphal

progress in the North--this asparagus soup is excellent."

"I don't feel very much inclined to talk of these things to-night," said

Schuabe. "To tell the truth, my nerves are a little out of order, and I

have been doing too much. I've got in that ridiculous state in which one

is constantly apprehending some sinister event. Everything has gone

well, and yet I'm like this. It is foolish. How humiliating a thought it

is, Llwellyn, that even intellects like yours and mine are entirely

dependent upon the secretions of the liver!"

He smiled rather grimly, and the disturbance of the regular repose and

immobility of his face showed depths of weary unhappiness which betrayed

the tumult within.

He recovered himself quickly, anxious, it seemed, to betray his thoughts

no further.

"You seemed upset when I came into the club," he said. "You ought to be

happy enough. Debts all gone, fifty thousand in the bank, reputation

higher than ever, and all the world listening to everything you've got

to say." He smiled rather bitterly, as Llwellyn raised a glass of

champagne to his lips.

"Exactly," said Llwellyn. "I've got everything I wanted a few months

ago, and one of the principal inducements for wanting it has gone."

"Oh! you mean that girl?" answered Schuabe, contemptuously. "Well, buy

another. They are for sale in all the theatres, you know."

"It's all very well to sneer like that," replied Llwellyn. "It's nothing

to me that you're about as cold-blooded as a fish, but you needn't sneer

at a man who is not. Because you enjoy yourself by means of asceticism

you have no more virtue than I have. I am fond of this one girl; she has

become necessary to my life. I spent thousands on her, and then this

abominable young parson takes her away--" He ground his teeth savagely,

his face became purple, he was unable to finish his sentence.

Curiously enough Schuabe seemed to be in sympathy with his host's rage.

A deadly and vindictive expression crept into his eyes, which were

nevertheless more glittering and cold than before.

"Gortre has come back to London. He has been here nearly a week," said

Schuabe, quickly.

The other started. "You know his movements then? What has he to do with

_you_?"

"More than, perhaps, you think. Llwellyn, that young man is dangerous!"

"He's done me all the harm he can already. There is nothing else he can

do, unless he elopes with Lady Llwellyn, an event which I should view

with singular equanimity."

"At any rate, I take sufficient interest in that person's movements to

have them reported to me daily."

"Why on earth----?"

"Simply because he guesses, or will guess, at the truth about the

Damascus Gate sepulchre!"

Llwellyn grew utterly white. When he spoke it was with several

preliminary moistenings of the lips.

"But what proof can he have?"

"Don't be alarmed, Llwellyn. We are perfectly safe in every way. Only

the man is an enemy of mine, and even small enemies are obnoxious. He

won't disturb either of us for long."

The big man gave a sigh of relief. "Well, you manage as you think best,"

he said. "Confound him! He deserves all he gets--let's change the

subject. It's a little too Adelphi-like to be amusing."

"I am going to hear Pachmann in the St. James's Hall. Will you come?"

Llwellyn considered a moment. "No, I don't think I will. I'm going out

to a supper-party in St. John's Wood later--Charlie Fitzgerald's, the

lessee of the Piccadilly. I shall go home and read a novel quietly. To

tell the truth, I feel rather depressed, too. Everything seems going too

well, doesn't it?"

Schuabe's voice shook a little as he replied shortly.

For a brief moment the veil was raised. Each saw the other with eyes

full of the fear that was lurking within them.

For weeks they had been at cross purposes, simulating a courage and

indifference they did not feel.

Now each knew the truth.

They knew that the burden of their terrible secret was beginning to

press and enclose them with its awful weight. Each had imagined the

other free from his own terror, that terror that lifts up its head in

times of night and silence, the dread Incubus that murders sleep.

The two men went out of the club together without speaking. Their hearts

were beating like drums within them; it was the beginning of the agony.

* * * * *

Llwellyn, his coat exchanged for a smoking jacket, lay back in a leather

chair in his library. Since his return from Palestine he had transferred

most of his belongings to a small flat in New Bond Street. He hardly

ever visited his wife now. The flat in Bloomsbury Court Mansions had

been given up when Gertrude Hunt had gone.

In New Bond Street Sir Robert lived alone. A housekeeper in the basement

of the buildings looked after his rooms and his valet slept above.

The new _pied à terre_ was furnished with great luxury. It was not the

garish luxury and vulgar splendour of Bloomsbury Court--that had been

the dancer's taste. Here Llwellyn had gathered round him all that could

make life pleasant, and his own taste had seen to everything.

As he sat alone, slightly recovered from the nervous shock of the

dinner, but in an utter depression of spirits, his thoughts once more

went back to his lost mistress.

It was in times like these that he needed her most. She would distract

him, amuse him, where a less vulgar, more intellectual woman would have

increased his boredom.

He sighed heavily, pitying himself, utterly unconscious of his

degradation. The books upon the shelves, learned and weighty monographs

in all languages, his own brilliant contributions to historical science

among them, had no power to help him. He sighed for his rowdy Circe.

The electric bell of the flat rang sharply outside in the passage. His

man was out, and he rose to answer it himself.

A friend probably had looked him up for a drink and smoke. He was glad;

he wanted companionship, easy, genial companionship, not that pale devil

Schuabe, with his dreary talk and everlasting reminder.

He went out into the passage and opened the front door. A woman stood

there.

She moved, and the light from the hall shone on her face.

The eyes were brilliant, the lips were half parted.

It was Gertrude Hunt.

* * * * *

They were sitting on each side of the fire.

Gertrude was pale, but her dark beauty blazed at him.

She was smoking a cigarette, just as in the old time.

A little table with a caraffe of brandy and bottles of seltzer in a

silver stand stood between them.

Llwellyn's face was one large circle of pleasure and content. His eyes

gleamed with an evil triumph as he looked at the girl.

"Good Heavens!" he cried, "why, Gertie, it's almost worth while losing

you to have you back again like this. It's just exactly as it used to

be, only better; yes, better! So you got tired of it all, and you've

come back. What a little fool you were ever to go away, dear!"

"Yes, I got tired of it," she repeated, but in a curiously strained

voice.

He was too exhilarated to notice the strange manner of her reply.

"Well, I've got any amount of ready cash now," he said joyously. "You

can have anything you like now that you've given up the confounded

parsons and become sensible again."

She seemed to make an effort to throw off something that oppressed her.

"Now, Bob," she said, "don't talk about it. I've been a little fool, but

that's over. What a lot you've got to tell me! What did you do all the

time you were away? Where did you raise the 'oof from? Tell me

_everything_. Let's be as we were before. No more secrets!"

He seemed to hesitate for a moment.

She saw that, and stood up. "Come and kiss me, Bob," she said. He went

to her with unsteady footsteps, as if he were intoxicated by the fury of

his passion.

"Tell me everything, Bob," she whispered into his ear.

The man surrendered himself to her, utterly, absolutely.

"Gertie," he said, "I'll tell you the queerest story you ever heard."

He laughed wildly.

"I've tricked the whole world by Jove! cleared fifty thousand pounds,

and made fools of the whole world."

She laughed, a shrill, high treble.

"Dear old Bob," she cried; "clever old Bob, you're the best of them all!

What have you done this time? Tell me all about it."

"By God, I will," he cried. "I'll tell you the whole story, little

girl." His voice was utterly changed.

"Yes, everything!" she repeated fiercely.

Her body shook violently as she spoke.

The man thought it was in response to his caresses.

And the face which looked out over the man's shoulder, and had lately

been as the face of Delilah, was become as the face of Jael, the wife of

Heber the Kenite.

* * * * *

"No more secrets, Bob?"

"No more secrets, Gertie; but how pale you look! Take some brandy,

little girl. Now, I'm going to make you laugh! Listen!"

CHAPTER XI

PROGRESS

Sir Michael Manichoe, Father Ripon, and Harold Spence were sitting in

Sir Michael's own study in his London house in Berkeley Square. A small

circular table with the remains of a simple meal showed that they had

dined there, without formality, more of necessity than pleasure.

When a small company of men animated by one strenuous purpose meet

together, the same expression may often be seen on the face of each one

of them. The three men in the study were curiously alike at this moment.

A grim resolution, something of horror, a great expectation looked out

of their eyes.

Sir Michael looked at his watch. "Gortre ought to be here directly," he

said. "It won't take him very long to drive from Victoria. The train

must be in already."

Father Ripon nodded, without speaking.

There was another interval of silence.

Then Spence spoke. "Of course it is only a _chance_," he said. "Gertrude

Hunt may very likely be able to give us no information whatever. One can

hardly suppose that Llewellyn would confide in her."

"Not fully," said Father Ripon. "But there will be letters probably. I

feel sure that Gortre will come back with some contributory evidence, at

all events. We must go to work slowly, and with the greatest care."

"The greatest possible care," repeated Sir Michael. "On the shoulders of

us four people hangs an incredible burden. We must do nothing until we

are _sure_. But ever since Gortre's suspicions have been known to me,

ever since Schuabe asked you that curious question in the train, Ripon,

I have felt absolutely assured of their truth. Everything becomes clear

at once. The only difficulty is the difficulty of believing in such

colossal wickedness, coupled with such supreme daring."

"It is hard," said Father Ripon. "But probably one's mind is dazzled

with the consequences, the _size_, and immensity of the fraud. Apart

from this question of bigness, it may be that there is, given a certain

Napoleonic type of brain, no more danger or difficulty in doing such

gigantic evil than in doing evil on a smaller scale."

"Perhaps the size of the operation blinds people--" Spence was

continuing, when the door opened and the butler showed Gortre into the

room.

He wore a heavy black cloak and carried a Paisley travelling rug upon

his arm.

The three waiting men started up at his approach, with an unspoken

question on the lips of each one of them.

Gortre began to speak at once. He was slightly flushed from his ride

through the keen, frosty air of the evening. His manner was brisk,

hopeful.

"The interview was excessively painful, as I had anticipated," he began.

"The result has been this: I have been able to get no direct absolute

confirmation of what we think. On the other hand, what I _have_ heard

establishes something and has made me morally certain that we are on the

right track. I think there can be no doubt about that. Again, there is a

strong possibility that we shall know much more very shortly."

"Have you had anything to eat?" asked Sir Michael.

"No, sir, and I'm hungry after my journey. I'll have some of this cold

beef, and tell you everything that has happened while I eat."

He sat down, began his meal, and told his story in detail.

"I found Miss Hunt," he said, "in her little cottage by the coast-guard

watch-house, looking over the sea. Of course, as you know, she is known

as Mrs. Hunt in the village. Only the rector knows her story--she has

made herself very beloved in Eastworld, even in the short time she has

been there. I asked her, first of all, about her life in general. Then,

without in any way indicating the object of my visit--at that point--I

led the conversation up to the subject of the Palestine 'discovery.' Of

course she had heard of it, and knew all the details. The rector had

preached upon it, and the whole village, so it seems, was in a ferment

for a week or so. Then, in both Church and the Dissenting chapels--there

are two--the whole thing died away in a marvellous manner. The history

of it was extremely interesting. Every one came to service just the same

as usual, life went on in unbroken placidity. The fishermen, who compose

the whole population of the village, absolutely _refused_ to believe or

discuss the thing. So utterly different from townspeople! They simply

felt and knew intuitively that the statements made in the papers _must_

be untrue. So without argument or worry they ignored it. Miss Hunt said

that the church has been fuller than ever before, the people coming as a

sort of stubborn protest against any attack upon the faith of their

fathers. For her own part, when she realised what the news meant or

would mean, Miss Hunt had a black time of terror and struggle. She is a

woman with a good brain, and saw at once what it would mean to her. Her

own words were infinitely pathetic. 'I went out on the sands,' she said,

'and walked for miles. Then when I was tired out I sat down and cried,

to think that there would never be any Jesus any more to save poor

girls. It seemed so empty and terrible, and I'd only been trying to be

good such a short time. I went to evensong when I got back; the bell was

tolling just as usual. And as I sat there I saw that it _couldn't_ be

true that Jesus was just a good man, and not God. I wondered at myself

for doubting, seeing what He'd done for me. If the paper was right, then

why was it I was so happy, happier than ever before in my life--although

I am going to die soon? Why was it that I could go away and leave Bob

and the old life? why was it that I could see Jesus in my walks, hear

the wind praying--feel that everything was speaking of Him?' That was

the gist of what she said, though there was much more. I wish I could

tell you adequately of the deep conviction in her voice and eyes. One

doesn't often see it, except in very old people. After this I began to

speak of our suspicions as delicately as possible. It was horribly

difficult. One was afraid of awakening old longings and recalling that

man's influence. I was relieved to find that she took it very well

indeed. Her feelings towards the man have undergone a complete change.

She fears him, not because he has yet an influence over her, but with a

hearty fear and horror of the life she was living with him. When I told

her what we thought, she began at once by saying that from what she knew

of Llwellyn he would not stop even at such wickedness as this. She said

that he only cared for two things, and kept them quite distinct. When he

is working he throws his whole heart into what he is doing, and he will

let no obstacle stand in his way. He wants to constantly assure himself

of his own pre-eminence in his work. He must be first at any cost. When

his work is over he dismisses it absolutely from his thoughts, and lives

entirely for gross, material pleasures. The man seems to pursue these

with a horrid, overwhelming eagerness. I gather that he must be one of

the coldest and most calculating sybarites that breathes. The actual

points I have gathered are these, and I think you will see that they are

extremely important. Llwellyn was indebted enormously to Schuabe.

Suddenly, Miss Hunt tells me, when Llwellyn's financial position began

to be very shaky, Schuabe forgave him the old debts and paid him a large

sum of money. Llwellyn paid off a lot of the girl's debts, and he told

her that the money had come from that source. It was not a loan this

time, he said to her, but a payment for some work he was about to do. He

also impressed the necessity of silence upon her. While away he wrote

several times to her--once from Alexandria, from one or two places on

the Continent, _and twice from the German hotel, the_ 'Sabîl,' _in

Jerusalem_."

There was a sudden murmur from one or two men who were listening to

Gortre's narrative. He had long since forgotten to eat and was leaning

forward on the table. He paused for a moment, drank a glass of water,

and concluded:

"This then is all that I know at present, but it gives us a basis. We

know that Sir Robert Llwellyn was staying privately at Jerusalem. Miss

Hunt was instructed to write to him under the name of the Rev. Robert

Lake, and she did so, thinking that his incognito was assumed owing to

the kind of pleasures he was pursuing, and especially because of his

recent knighthood. But in a week's time Miss Hunt has asked me to go

down to Eastworld again, as she has hopes of getting other evidence for

me. She will not say what this is likely to consist of, or, in fact,

tell me anything about it. But she has hopes."

"This is of great importance, Gortre," said Sir Michael; "we have

something definite to go upon."

"I will start again for Jerusalem without loss of a day," said Spence,

his whole face lighting up and hardening at the thought of active

occupation.

"I was going to suggest it, Mr. Spence," said Sir Michael. "You will do

what is necessary better than any of us; your departure will attract

less notice. You will of course draw upon me for any moneys that may be

necessary. If in the course of your investigations it may be--and it is

extremely probable--may be necessary to buy the truth, of course no

money considerations must stand in the way. We are working for the peace

and happiness of millions. We are in very deep waters."

Father Ripon gave a deep sigh. Then, in an instant, his face hardened

and flushed till it was almost unrecognisable. The others started back

from him in amazement. He began to tremble violently from the legs

upwards. Then he spoke:

"God forgive me," he said in a thick, husky voice. "God forgive me! But

when I think of those two men, devils that they are, devils! when I

regard the broken lives, the suicides, the fearful mass of crime, I----"

His voice failed him. The frightful wrath and anger took him and shook

him like a reed--this tall, black-robed figure--it twisted him with a

physical convulsion inexpressibly painful to witness.

For near a minute Father Ripon stood among them thus, and they were

rigid with sympathy, with alarm.

Then, with a heavy sob, he turned and fell upon his knees in silent

prayer.

CHAPTER XII

A SOUL ALONE ON THE SEA-SHORE

The little village of Eastworld is set on a low headland by the sea,

remote from towns and any haunt of men. The white cottages of the

fisherfolk, an inn, the church, and a low range of coast-guard

buildings, are the only buildings there. Below the headland there are

miles upon miles of utterly lonely sands which edge the sea in a great

yellow scimitar as far as the eye can carry, from east to west.

Hardly any human footsteps ever disturb the vast virgin smoothness of

the sands, for the fisherfolk sail up the mouth of a sluggish tidal

river to reach the village. All day long the melancholy sea-birds call

to each other over the wastes, and away on the sky-line, or so it seems

to any one walking upon the sands, the great white breakers roll and

boom for ever.

Over the flat expanses the tide, with no obstacle to slacken or impede

its progress, rushes with furious haste--as fast, so the fisherfolks

tell, as a good horse in full gallop.

It was the beginning of the winter afternoon on the day after Gortre had

visited Eastworld.

There was little wind, but the sky hung low in cold and menacing clouds,

ineffably cheerless and gloomy.

A single figure moved slowly through these forbidding solitudes. It was

Gertrude Hunt. She wore a simple coat and skirt of grey tweed, a

tam-o'-shanter cap of crimson wool, and carried a walking cane.

She had come out alone to think out a problem out there between the sea

and sky, with no human help or sympathy to aid her.

The strong, passionate face was paler than before and worn by suffering.

Yet as she strode along there was a wild beauty in her appearance which

seemed to harmonise with the very spirit and meaning of the place where

she was. And yet the face had lost the old jaunty hardihood. Qualities

in it which had before spoken of an impudent self-sufficiency now were

changed to quiet purpose. There was an appeal for pity in the eyes which

had once been bright with shamelessness and sin.

The woman was thinking deeply. Her head was bowed as she walked, the

lips set close together.

Gortre's visit had moved her deeply. When she had heard his story

something within her, an intuition beyond calm reason, had told her

instantly of its truth. She could not have said why she knew this, but

she was utterly certain.

Her long connection with Llwellyn had left no traces of affection now.

As she would kneel in the little windy church on the headland and listen

to the rector, an old friend of Father Ripon's, reading prayers, she

looked back on her past life as a man going about his business in

sunlight remembers some horrid nightmare of the evening past. She but

rarely allowed her thoughts to dwell upon the former partner of her sin,

but when she did so it was with a sense of shrinking and dislike. As the

new Light which filled her life taught, she endeavoured to think of the

man with Christian charity and sometimes to pray that his heart also

might be touched. But perhaps this was the most difficult of all the

duties she set herself, although she had no illusions about the past,

realised his kindness to her, and also that she had been at least as bad

as he. But now there seemed a great gulf between them which she never

cared to pass even in thought.

Her repentance was so sincere and deep, her mourning for her misspent

life so genuine, that it never allowed her the least iota of spiritual

pride--the snare of weaker penitents when they have turned from evil

courses. Yet, try as she would, she could never manage to really

identify her hopes and prayers with Llwellyn in any vivid way.

And now the young clergyman, the actual instrument of her own salvation

as she regarded him, had come to her with this story in which she had

recognised the truth.