VOICES IN THE NIGHT
Dick Faversham was on his way to London. He was going there as the
Member for Eastroyd, and he was somewhat excited. He was excited for
several reasons. Naturally he was elated at being a Member of
Parliament, and he looked forward with pleasant anticipation to his
political life in the Metropolis, and to his experiences in the House of
Commons. But that was not all. This was his first visit to London since
he had experienced those strange happenings which we described some time
ago. As the train rushed on through the night he became oblivious to the
presence of his fellow-passengers in the recollection of the events
which were a mystery to him then, even as they were a mystery now.
Especially did his mind revert to that wonderful experience in Staple
Inn. He had heard a voice although he saw nothing, and that voice had
meant a great deal to him. More than once he had wondered if he had done
right in being silent about what had taken place afterwards. Ought he
not to have gone to the police and told them what he had heard? But he
had not been able to make up his mind to do this. Somehow everything had
been associated with what had come to him in Staple Inn, and of that he
could not speak. It would be sacrilege to do so. Besides, it might not
have been necessary. From the fact that the traitors had left the house
so suddenly, he concluded that the police were cognizant of their
existence.
But his eyes had been opened. That was why, when Olga Petrovic visited
him, he was unresponsive. And yet he was not sure.
Should he ever see this beautiful woman again, he wondered?
He was afraid of her even while he longed to see her. Even then he
recalled the tones of her voice, and the look in her eyes as she had
pleaded with him. He had felt himself yielding to her pleading, all the
barriers of his being seemed to be breaking down before the power of her
glorious womanhood.
Then there was the coming of Hugh Stanmore and his granddaughter. They
were the last persons he had expected to see, and yet the sight of their
names seemed to break the spell which Olga Petrovic had cast over him.
There seemed no reason why they should come, and their interview,
considering the circumstances under which he had seen them last was of a
very prosy nature. Hugh Stanmore had happened to meet with a man who was
a Government official, and who had told him of one Richard Faversham who
was one of a deputation to his department, and who had pleaded
passionately for certain things which the working-classes desired. This
led to his learning the name of his hotel, and to the visit which had
followed.
Hugh Stanmore had scarcely referred to his life at Wendover, and seemed
to be in ignorance of Tony Riggleton's whereabouts. Dick wondered at
this after the interview, and reproached himself with not asking many
questions. At the time, however, he seemed to be indifferent.
To Beatrice he spoke only a few words. She appeared to be shy and
diffident. If the truth must be told, she seemed ill at ease, and not at
all pleased that her grandfather had brought her there. She was far less
a child than when he had seen her at Wendover, and he had reflected that
she was neither so interesting nor so good-looking as she had been two
or three years before. Still, he was glad to see her, and he remembered
the pleasant smile she had given him when she had left the room. His
conversation with Hugh Stanmore had been almost entirely about his life
at Eastroyd, and the conditions which obtained there.
He realised, too, that a subtle change had come over his opinions on
his return to Eastroyd. Not that he had less interest in the class whose
cause he had espoused; but he knew that he had been led to take larger
views.
That was why some discontent had been felt among his most ardent
supporters. Even those who had worked hardest for him during the
election felt it incumbent upon them to raise a note of warning as they
accompanied him to the station that night.
"It's all very well, Dick, lad," said one advanced Socialist, "but we
mun make a bold front. I don't hold with Bolshevism, or owt of that
sort; but the Capitalist is the enemy of the working man, and we mun put
those money-bags in their right place."
It was a cold, dark, wintry morning when he arrived in London. The
station and the streets were almost empty, the vehicles were few, and he
felt cold and lonely. He had made no arrangements for his stay in the
Metropolis, but he felt sure that the manager of the hotel where he had
previously made his home would find him temporary accommodation. As it
was impossible to get a taxi, he left his luggage at the station, and
determined to walk. He knew the way well, and as the distance was only
about a mile, he started with comparative cheerfulness.
As I have said, the streets were well-nigh deserted, and not a single
soul passed him as he made his way up Euston Road. Nevertheless he had
the feeling that he was being followed. More than once he looked around,
but could see no one. Several times, too, he felt sure he heard
following footsteps, but when he stopped there was silence.
When he turned at St. Pancras Church he looked up and down the street,
but nothing suspicious met his gaze. A milkman's cart, a drayman's
waggon, and that was all. The street lamps threw a sickly light on the
cold wet road, and the houses were dark. London looked asleep.
For some time after he had passed St. Pancras Church he heard nothing;
but, as he neared Woburn Square, he again heard footsteps. It seemed to
him, too, that he was surrounded by dark influences. Something sinister
and evil seemed to be surrounding him. He was not afraid, and his
nerves were steady, but his brain was filled with strange fancies.
Almost unconsciously his mind reverted to Count Romanoff. He had seen
him only once since he had left Wendover Park, and the man was still an
enigma to him. He had a thousand times reflected on the strange
happening in the library there, but although he felt he had been saved
from something terrible, he had not definitely associated the Count with
anything supernatural. For Dick was not cast in a superstitious mould.
The footsteps drew nearer, and again he looked around. Was it a fact, or
was it fancy that he saw a dark form which hurriedly passed from his
sight?
He was aware a few seconds later that he was walking more rapidly, and
that something like fear was in his heart.
"Listen."
He heard the word plainly, and stopped. All was silent here. He saw that
he was in one of the several squares which exist in the neighbourhood,
but he was not sure which. He did not think it was Woburn Square, but it
might be Taviton Square. He was not intimately acquainted with that part
of London.
"Yes, what is it? Who are you?"
He spoke aloud, spoke almost unconsciously, but there were no answering
words. He was the only person there. He moved to a lamp and looked at
his watch; he had a vague idea that he wanted to know the time. The
watch pointed to half-past one. Evidently he had forgotten to wind it,
for he knew his train was due to arrive something after three, and that
it was late.
He was about to start again when he thought he heard the words:
"Go to Wendover."
But there was nothing distinct. No voice reached him, and no one was in
sight. At that moment the wind wailed across the open space, and moaned
as it passed through the leafless branches of the trees. The wind seemed
to formulate the same words.
"Go to Wendover."
"Of course it's all fancy," he reflected. "I expect my nerves are
playing me tricks. I never knew I had any nerves; but I've been through
an exciting time. I've been making speeches, meeting committees, and
replying to deputations for the last fortnight, and I expect I'm about
done up. After all, fighting an election is no make-believe."
A shiver passed through him. To say the least of it, even although it
might be pure fancy, there was something uncanny about it all, and he
could not help reflecting on his past experience.
He did not move, but stood like one spellbound, listening to the wind as
it soughed its way through the shrubs and trees which grew in the centre
of the Square.
"Who are you?" he asked again. "What do you want?"
He was sure there was a voice this time. It rose above the wailing wind,
but he could see no one.
"You are in danger--great danger!"
"What danger? Who are you?"
"'Watch and pray, that ye enter not into temptation.'"
He recognised the words. They were spoken by One Whose Name he always
held in reverence, spoken to His disciples in a far back age, before the
knowledge of science and critical investigation had emerged from its
swaddling clothes. But they were spoken in a woman's voice, spoken in
almost wailing accents.
His whole being was filled with a great awe. The voice, the words coming
to him, at such a time and in such a way, filled him with a great
wonder, solemnised him to the centre of his being.
"If it were not a woman's voice, I might think it was He Himself who
spoke," he said in a hoarse whisper.
Then he thought of the footsteps, thought of the ominous, sinister
influences which had surrounded him a few minutes before.
"Lord, Lord Jesus Christ, help me!"
He said the words involuntarily. They had passed his lips before he knew
he had spoken.
Was there any answer to his prayer? He only knew that he did not feel
any fear, that a great peace came into his heart. He felt as he had
never felt before, that God was a great reality. Perhaps that was why he
was no longer lonely. There in the heart of the greatest city of the
world, there in the darkness of a winter night, he was filled with a
kind of consciousness that God was, that God cared, that he was not an
orphan for whom no one cared, but a child of the Universal Father.
He looked up and saw the clouds swept across the sky. Here and there was
a break through which a star shone. Eyes of heaven, they seemed to him.
Yes, the spirit world was very near to him. Perhaps, perhaps--who
knew?--there were messengers of the Unseen all around him.
"Earth is crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God."
Where had he heard those words? Ah yes, was it not Elizabeth Barrett
Browning who wrote them, wrote them while in Italy, where she sojourned
with her husband, the greatest poet of his time?
Again he looked around him, but nothing could be seen by his natural
eyes. The houses, the trees, the gardens all lay wrapped in the gloom of
the cold and darkness of that wintry morning, there in the heart of
London. All the same it seemed that something had been born within him,
something which he could not define, and again he seemed to hear, as he
had heard years before, the glorious words which turned to naught the
ribald and trifling scepticism of men:
"The Eternal God is thy Refuge, and underneath are the Everlasting
Arms."
The sublimity of the message appealed to him. Surely no greater words
were ever spoken. They peopled the dark wintry heavens with angels, they
made everything possible.
"Lord, tell me what to do."
The prayer came naturally to his lips. It seemed to him that there was
nothing else for him to say. But there were no answering words. All was
silent, save for the soughing of the wind across the square. And yet I
am wrong. He did hear words; they might be born of his own
consciousness, and have no objective reality whatever, but again the
wind seemed to speak to him.
"Go to Wendover."
Why should he go to Wendover? He had no right to be there, and from the
rumours that he had heard, Tony Riggleton had turned the old house into
a scene of drunken and sensual orgies. But in answer to his question the
wailing wind seemed to reiterate, as if in a kind of dreary monotony,
the same words, "Go to Wendover, go to Wendover."
Then suddenly everything became mundane.
"Good-night, or good morning rather."
It was a policeman who spoke, and who looked rather suspiciously at the
lonely looking young man.
"Good morning," replied Dick; "it's not long to daylight is it?"
"Another hour or two yet. Lost your way?"
"I've come from King's Cross. I travelled by the midnight train, and
there were no conveyances to be got."
"Ah, petrol's a bit scarce yet; but I hear we shall have more soon.
Anywhere you want to get?"
"Yes, I'm going to Jones' Hotel."
"That's close to the British Museum; and only a few minutes away. I
suppose your room's booked all right. The hotels are very crowded in
London just now."
"That'll be all right. Good morning, and thank you!"
"That's all right, sir. Go to the end of the square, turn to the right,
then take the second street to the left and you are there."
A few minutes later Dick was at the hotel. The night porter knew him
well, and showed him into the smoke-room, where there was a good fire,
and comfortable arm-chairs.
"You'll be all right here till breakfast, sir, won't you? After that you
can see the manager."
Five minutes later Dick was asleep.
A few hours later he met some of his political confrères, two of whom
begged him to lodge with them.
It was not much of a place they assured him, but the best their money
would run to. "Four hundred a year's very little in London, and that
you'll find out before long," one of them assured him.
"Every penny has to be looked after, and by living two or three together
we can do things cheaper."
After seeing their lodgings, however, Dick determined to look around for
himself. He did not relish the idea of sharing apartments with others.
He wanted privacy, and he felt, although, like himself, these men were
"Labour Members," that he had little in common with them.
"I thought of trying to get a small, cheap flat," he said.
"Not to be thought of with our pay," was the laughing response. "Of
course you being a bachelor may have saved up a bit, or it may be that
you think you'll be able to make a few pounds by journalism."
"Some do it, don't they?" he asked.
"They all want to do it, that's why there's so little chance. But I hear
you are a bit of a swell, been to a public school and all that kind of
thing, so you may have friends at court. Done anything that way?"
Dick shook his head. "Never," he replied; "but no one knows what he can
do till he tries."
After considerable difficulty Dick happened upon a service flat which,
although it cost more than he had calculated upon, was so convenient,
and appealed to him so strongly, that he took it there and then.
Indeed he felt a pleasant sense of proprietorship, as he sat alone in
his new home that night. The room was very small, but it was cosy. A
cheerful fire burnt in the grate, and the reading-lamp threw a grateful
light upon the paper he held in his hand.
"I must get a writing-desk and some book-cases, and I shall be as right
as rain," he reflected. "This is princely as a sitting-room, and
although the bedroom is only a box, it's quite big enough for me."
He closed his eyes with lazy contentment, and then began to dream of his
future. Yes, ambition was still strong within him, and the longing to
make a material, yes, an international, reputation was never so
insistent as now. He wondered if he could do it, wondered whether being
a Labour Member would ever lead to anything.
"A voting machine at four hundred a year."
He started up as though something had strung him. He remembered who had
said those words to him, remembered how they had wounded him at the time
they were spoken. Was that all he was after his hopes and dreams? He had
been a big man at Eastroyd. People had stopped in the streets to point
him out; but in London he was nobody.
"A voting machine at four hundred a year!"
Yes, but he would be more. He had proved that he had brains, and that he
could appeal to the multitude. He had his feet on the ladder now,
and----
His mind suddenly switched off. He was no longer in his newly acquired
flat, he was walking from King's Cross to Jones' Hotel, he was passing
through a lonely square.
"Go to Wendover."
How the words haunted him. Every time the wind blew he had heard them,
and----
He started to his feet. "Well, why not? I have nothing to do to-morrow,
and I can get there in a couple of hours."
The next morning he eagerly made his way to Victoria Station.