IN WHICH TRAPS ARE LAID FOR A GREAT QUARRY
Malone was bound in honour not to speak of love to Enid Challenger, but
looks can speak, and so their communications had not broken down
completely. In all other ways he adhered closely to the agreement,
though the situation was a difficult one. It was the more difficult
since he was a constant visitor to the Professor, and now that the
irritation of the debate was over, a very welcome one. The one object of
Malone’s life was to get the great man’s sympathetic consideration of
those psychic subjects which had gained such a hold upon himself. This
he pursued with assiduity, but also with great caution, for he knew that
the lava was thin and that a fiery explosion was always possible. Once
or twice it came and caused Malone to drop the subject for a week or two
until the ground seemed a little more firm.
Malone developed a remarkable cunning in his approaches. One favourite
device was to consult Challenger upon some scientific point--on the
zoological importance of the Straits of Banda, for example, or the
Insects of the Malay Archipelago, and lead him on until Challenger in
due course would explain that our knowledge on the point was due to
Alfred Russel Wallace. “Oh, really! To Wallace the Spiritualist!” Malone
would say in an innocent voice, on which Challenger would glare and
change the topic.
Sometimes it was Lodge that Malone would use as a trap. “I suppose you
think highly of him.”
“The first brain in Europe,” said Challenger.
“He is the greatest authority on ether, is he not?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Of course, I only know him by his psychic works.”
Challenger would shut up like a clam. Then Malone would wait a few days
and remark casually: “Have you ever met Lombroso!”
“Yes, at the Congress at Milan.”
“I have been reading a book of his.”
“Criminology, I presume?”
“No, it was called ‘After Death--What?’”
“I have not heard of it.”
“It discusses the psychic question.”
“Ah, a man of Lombroso’s penetrating brain would make short work of the
fallacies of these charlatans.”
“No, it is written to support them.”
“Well, even the greatest mind has its inexplicable weakness.” Thus with
infinite patience and cunning did Malone drop his little drops of reason
in the hope of slowly wearing away the casing of prejudice, but no very
visible effects could be seen. Some stronger measure must be adopted and
Malone determined upon direct demonstration. But how, when, and where?
Those were the all-important points upon which he determined to consult
Algernon Mailey. One spring afternoon found him back in that
drawing-room where he had once rolled upon the carpet in the embrace of
Silas Linden. He found the Rev. Charles Mason, and Smith, the hero of
the Queen’s Hall debate, in deep consultation with Mailey upon a subject
which may seem much more important to our descendants that those topics
which now bulk large in the eyes of the public. It was no less than
whether the psychic movement in Britain was destined to take a
Unitarian or a Trinitarian course. Smith had always been in favour of
the former, as had the old leaders of the movement and the present
organised Spiritualist Churches. On the other hand, Charles Mason was a
loyal son of the Anglican Church, and was the spokesman of a host of
others, including such weighty names as Lodge and Barrett among the
laymen, or Wilberforce, Haweis and Chambers among the clergy, who clung
fast to the old teachings while admitting the fact of spirit
communication. Mailey stood between the two parties, and, like the
zealous referee in a boxing-match who separates the two combatants, he
always took a chance of getting a knock from each. Malone was only too
glad to listen, for now that he realised that the future of the world
might be bound up in this movement, every phase of it was of intense
interest to him. Mason was holding forth in his earnest, but
good-humoured, way as he entered.
“The people are not ready for a great change. It is not necessary. We
have only to add our living knowledge, and direct communion of the
saints to the splendid liturgy and traditions of the Church, and you
will have a driving-force which will revitalise all religion. You can’t
pull a thing up from the roots like that. Even the early Christians
found that they could not, and so they made all sorts of concessions to
the religions around them.”
“Which was exactly what ruined them,” said Smith. “That was the real end
of the Church in its original strength and purity.”
“It lasted, anyhow.”
“But it was never the same from the time that villain Constantine laid
his hands on it.”
“Oh, come!” said Mailey. “You must not write down the first Christian
emperor as a villain.”
But Smith was a forthright, uncompromising, bull-doggy antagonist. “What
other name will you give to a man who murdered half his own family?”
“Well, his personal character is not the question. We were talking of
the organisation of the Christian Church.”
“You don’t mind my frankness, Mr. Mason?”
Mason smiled his jolly smile. “So long as you grant me the existence of
the New Testament I don’t care what you do. If you were to prove that
our Lord was a myth, as that German Drews tried to do, it would not in
the least affect me so long as I could point to that body of sublime
teaching. It must have come from somewhere, and I adopt it and say,
‘That is my creed.’”
“Oh, well, there is not so much between us on that point,” said Smith.
“If there is any better teaching I have not seen it. It is good enough
to go on with, anyhow. But we want to cut out the frills and
superfluities. Where did they all come from? They were compromises with
many religions, so that our friend C. could get uniformity in his
world-wide Empire. He made a patchwork quilt of it. He took an Egyptian
ritual--vestments, mitre, crozier, tonsure, marriage ring--all Egyptian.
The Easter ceremonies are pagan and refer to the vernal equinox.
Confirmation is mithraism. So is baptism, only it was blood instead of
water. As to the sacrificial meal....”
Mason put his fingers in his ears. “This is some old lecture of yours,”
he laughed. “Hire a hall, but don’t obtrude it in a private house. But
seriously, Smith, all this is beside the question. If it is true it will
not affect my position at all, which is that we have a great body of
doctrine which is working well, and which is regarded with veneration by
many people, your humble servant included, and that it would be wrong
and foolish to scrap it. Surely you must agree.”
“No, I don’t,” Smith answered, setting his obstinate jaw. “You are
thinking too much of the feelings of your blessed church-goers. But you
have also to think of the nine people out of ten who never enter into a
church. They have been choked off by what they, including your humble
servant, consider to be unreasonable and fantastic. How will you gain
them while you continue to offer them the same things, even though you
mix spirit-teaching with it? If, however, you approach these agnostic or
atheistic ones, and say to them: ‘I quite agree that all this is unreal
and is tainted by a long history of violence and reaction. But here we
have something pure and new. Come and examine it!’ In that way I could
coax them back into a belief in God and in all the fundamentals of
religion without their having to do violence to their reason by
accepting your theology.”
Mailey had been tugging at his tawny beard while he listened to these
conflicting counsels. Knowing the two men he was aware that there was
not really much between them, when one got past mere words, for Smith
revered the Christ as a God-like man, and Mason as a man-like God, and
the upshot was much the same. At the same time he knew that their more
extreme followers on either side were in very truth widely separated, so
that compromise became impossible.
“What I can’t understand,” said Malone, “is why you don’t ask your
spirit friends these questions and abide by their decisions.”
“It is not so simple as you think,” Mailey answered. “We all carry on
our earthly prejudices after death, and we all find ourselves in an
atmosphere which more or less represents them. Thus each would echo his
old views at first. Then in time the spirit broadens out and it ends in
a universal creed which includes only the brotherhood of man and the
fatherhood of God. But that takes time. I have heard most furious bigots
talking through the veil.”
“So have I, for that matter,” said Malone, “and in this very room. But
what about the materialists? They at least cannot remain unchanged.”
“I believe their mind influences their state and that they lie inert for
ages sometimes, under their own obsession that nothing can occur. Then
at last they wake, realise their own loss of time, and, finally, in many
cases get to the head of the procession, since they are often men of
fine character and influenced by lofty motives, however mistaken in
their views.”
“Yes, they are often among the salt of the earth,” said the clergyman
heartily.
“And they offer the very best recruits for our movement,” said Smith.
“There comes such a reaction when they find by the evidence of their own
senses that there really is intelligent force outside themselves, that
it gives them an enthusiasm that makes them ideal missionaries. You
fellows who have a religion and then add to it cannot even imagine what
it means to the man who has a complete vacuum and suddenly finds
something to fill it. When I meet some poor earnest chap feeling out
into the darkness I just yearn to put it into his hand.”
At this stage tea and Mrs. Mailey appeared together. But the
conversation did not flag. It is one of the characteristics of those who
explore psychic possibilities that the subject is so many-sided and the
interest so intense that when they meet together they plunge into the
most fascinating exchange of views and experiences. It was with some
difficulty that Malone got the conversation round to that which had been
the particular object of his visit. He could have found no group of men
more fit to advise him, and all were equally keen that so great a man as
Challenger should have the best available.
Where should it be? On that they were unanimous. The large séance room
of the Psychic College was the most select, the most comfortable, in
every way the best appointed in London. When should it be? The sooner
the better. Every Spiritualist and every medium would surely put any
engagement aside in order to help on such an occasion.
“Who should the medium be? Ah! There was the rub. Of course, the
Bolsover circle would be ideal. It was private and unpaid, but Bolsover
was a man of quick temper and Challenger was sure to be very insulting
and annoying. The meeting might end in riot and fiasco. Such a chance
should not be taken. Was it worth while to take him over to Paris? But
who would take the responsibility of letting loose such a bull in Dr.
Maupuis’ china-shop?
“He would probably seize Pithecanthropus by the throat and risk every
life in the room,” said Mailey. “No, no, it would never do.”
“There is no doubt that Banderby is the strongest physical medium in
England,” said Smith. “But we all know what his personal character is.
You could not rely upon him.”
“Why not?” asked Malone. “What’s the matter with him?”
Smith raised his hand to his lips.
“He has gone the way that many a medium has gone before him.”
“But surely,” said Malone, “that is a strong argument against our cause.
How can a thing be good if it leads to such a result?”
“Do you consider poetry to be good?”
“Why, of course I do!”
“Yet Poe was a drunkard, and Coleridge an addict, and Byron a rake, and
Verlaine a degenerate. You have to separate the man from the thing. The
genius has to pay a ransom for his genius in the instability of his
temperament. A great medium is even more sensitive than a genius. Many
are beautiful in their lives. Some are not. The excuse for them is
great. They practise a most exhausting profession and stimulants are
needed. Then they lose control. But their physical mediumship carries on
all the same.”
“Which reminds me of a story about Banderby,” said Mailey. “Perhaps you
have not seen him, Malone. He is a funny figure at any time--a little,
round, bouncing man who has not seen his own toes for years. When drunk
he is funnier still. A few weeks ago I got an urgent message that he was
in the bar of a certain hotel, and too far gone to get home unassisted.
A friend and I set forth to rescue him. We got him home after some
unsavoury adventures, and what would the man do but insist upon holding
a séance. We tried to restrain him, but the trumpet was on a side-table,
and he suddenly switched off the light. In an instant the phenomena
began. Never were they more powerful. But they were interrupted by
Princeps, his control, who seized the trumpet and began belabouring him
with it. ‘You rascal! You drunken rascal! How dare you! How dare you!’
The trumpet was all dinted with the blows. Banderby ran bellowing out
of the room, and we took our departure.”
“Well, it wasn’t the medium that time, at any rate,” said Mason. “But
about Professor Challenger--it would never do to risk the chance.”
“What about Tom Linden?” asked Mrs. Mailey.
Mailey shook his head.
“Tom has never been quite the same since his imprisonment. These fools
not only persecute our precious mediums, but they ruin their powers. It
is like putting a razor into a damp place and then expecting it to have
a fine edge.”
“What! Has he lost his powers?”
“Well, I would not go so far as that. But they are not so good as they
were. He sees a disguised policeman in every sitter and it distracts
him. Still he is dependable so far as he goes. Yes, on the whole we had
better have Tom.”
“And the sitters?”
“I expect Professor Challenger may wish to bring a friend or two of his
own.”
“They will form a horrible block of vibrations. We must have some of our
own sympathetic people to counteract it. There is Delicia Freeman. She
would come. I would come myself. You would come, Mason?”
“Of course I would.”
“And you, Smith?”
“No, no! I have my paper to look after, three services, two burials, one
marriage, and five meetings all next week.”
“Well, we can easily get one or two more. Eight is Linden’s favourite
number. So now, Malone, you have only to get the great man’s consent and
the date.”
“And the spirit confirmation,” said Mason, seriously. “We must take our
partners into consultation.”
“Of course we must, padre. That is the right note to strike. Well,
that’s settled, Malone, and we can only await the event.”
As it chanced, a very different event was awaiting Malone that evening,
and he came upon one of those chasms which unexpectedly open across the
path of life. When, in his ordinary routine, he reached the office of
the _Gazette_, he was informed by the commissionaire that Mr. Beaumont
desired to see him. Malone’s immediate superior was the old Scotch
subeditor, Mr. McArdle, and it was rare indeed for the supreme editor to
cast a glimpse down from that peak whence he surveyed the kingdoms of
the world, or to show any cognisance of his humble fellow-workers upon
the slopes beneath him. The great man, clean-shaven, prosperous and
capable, sat in his palatial sanctum amid a rich assortment of old oak
furniture and sealing-wax-red leather. He continued his letter when
Malone entered, and only raised his shrewd, grey eyes after some minutes
interval.
“Ah, Mr. Malone, good evening! I have wanted to see you for some little
time. Won’t you sit down? It is in reference to these articles on
psychic matters which you have been writing. You opened them in a tone
of healthy scepticism, tempered by humour, which was very acceptable
both to me and to our public. I regret, however, to observe that your
view changed as you proceeded, and that you have now assumed a position
in which you really seem to condone some of these practises. That, I
need not say, is not the policy of the _Gazette_, and we should have
discontinued the articles had it not been that we had announced a
series by an impartial investigator. We have had to continue, but the
tone must change.”
“What do you wish me to do, sir?”
“You must get the funny side of it again. That is what our public loves.
Poke fun at it all. Call up the maiden aunt and make her talk in an
amusing fashion. You grasp my meaning?”
“I am afraid, sir, it has ceased to seem funny in my eyes. On the
contrary, I take it more and more seriously.”
Beaumont shook his solemn head.
“So, unfortunately, do our subscribers.” He had a small pile of letters
upon the desk beside him and he took one up.
“Look at this. ‘I had always regarded your paper as a God-fearing
publication, and I would remind you that such practises as your
correspondent seems to condone are expressly forbidden both in Leviticus
and Deuteronomy. I should share your sin if I continued to be a
subscriber.’”
“Bigoted ass!” muttered Malone.
“So he may be, but the penny of a bigoted ass is as good as any other
penny. Here is another letter: ‘Surely in this age of free-thought and
enlightenment you are not helping a movement which tries to lead us back
to the exploded idea of angelic and diabolic intelligences outside
ourselves. If so, I must ask you to cancel my subscription.’”
“It would be amusing, sir, to shut these various objectors up in a room
and let them settle it among themselves.”
“That may be, Mr. Malone, but what I have to consider is the circulation
of the _Gazette_.”
“Don’t you think, sir, that possibly you underrate the intelligence of
the public, and that behind these extremists of various sorts there is
a vast body of people who have been impressed by the utterances of so
many great and honourable witnesses? Is it not our duty to keep these
people abreast of the real facts without making fun of them?”
Mr. Beaumont shrugged his shoulders.
“The Spiritualists must fight their own battle. This is not a propaganda
newspaper, and we make no pretense to lead the public on religious
beliefs.”
“No, no, I only meant as to the actual facts. Look how systematically
they are kept in the dark. When, for example, did one ever read an
intelligent article upon ectoplasm in any London paper? Who would
imagine that this all-important substance has been examined and
described and endorsed by men of science with innumerable photographs to
prove their words?”
“Well, well,” said Beaumont, impatiently. “I am afraid I am too busy to
argue the question. The point of this interview is that I have had a
letter from Mr. Cornelius to say that we must at once take another
line.”
Mr. Cornelius was the owner of the _Gazette_, having become so, not from
any personal merit, but because his father left him some millions, part
of which he expended upon this purchase. He seldom was seen in the
office himself, but occasionally a paragraph in the paper recorded that
his yacht had touched at Mentone and that he had been seen at the Monte
Carlo tables, or that he was expected in Leicestershire for the season.
He was a man of no force of brain or character, though occasionally he
swayed public affairs by a manifesto printed in larger type upon his own
front page. Without being dissolute, he was a free liver, living in a
constant luxury which placed him always on the edge of vice and
occasionally over the border. Malone’s hot blood flushed to his head as
he thought of this trifler, this insect, coming between mankind and a
message of instruction and consolation descending from above. And yet
those clumsy, childish fingers could actually turn the tap and cut off
the divine stream, however much it might break through in other
quarters.
“So that is final, Mr. Malone,” said Beaumont, with the manner of one
who ends an argument.
“Quite final!” said Malone. “So final that it marks the end of my
connection with your paper. I have a six month’s contract. When it ends,
I go!”
“Please yourself, Mr. Malone.” Mr. Beaumont went on with his writing.
Malone, with the flush of battle still upon him, went into McArdle’s
room and told him what had happened. The old Scotch sub-editor was very
perturbed.
“Eh, man, it’s that Irish blood of yours. A drop o’ Scotch is a good
thing, either in your veins or at the bottom o’ a glass. Go back, man,
and say you have reconseedered!”
“Not I! The idea of this man Cornelius, with his pot-belly and red face,
and--well, you know all about his private life--the idea of such a man
dictating what folk are to believe, and asking me to make fun of the
holiest thing on this earth!”
“Man, you’ll be ruined!”
“Well, better men than I have been ruined over this cause. But I’ll get
another job.”
“Not if Cornelius can stop you. If you get the name of an insubordinate
dog there is no place for you in Fleet Street.”
“It’s a damned shame!” cried Malone. “The way this thing has been
treated is a disgrace to journalism. It’s not Britain alone. America is
worse. We seem to have the lowest, most soulless folk that ever lived on
the Press--good-hearted fellows too, but material to a man. And these
are the leaders of the people! It’s awful!”
McArdle put a fatherly hand upon the young man’s shoulder.
“Weel, weel, lad, we take the world as we find it. We didn’t make it and
we’re no reesponsible. Give it time! Give it time! We’re a’ in such a
hurry. Gang hame, noo, think it over, remember your career, that young
leddy of yours, and then come back and eat the old pie that all of us
have to eat if we are to keep our places in the world.”