“I thought it was God's voice--it was the devil's!”
John Storm was creeping like a thief through the streets of London
in the dark hours before the dawn. It was a peaceful night after the
thunderstorm of the evening before. A few large stars had come out,
a clear moon, was shining, and the air was quiet after the cries, the
crackling tumult, and all the fury of human throats. There was only the
swift rattling of mail cars running to the Post Office, the heavy
clank of country carts crawling to Covent Garden, the measured tread
of policemen, and the muddled laughter of drunken men and women by the
coffee stands at the street corners. “'Ow's the deluge, myte? Not come
off yet? Well, give us a cup of cawfee on the strength of it.”
It seemed as if eyes looked down on him from the dark sky and pierced
him through and through. His whole life had been an imposture from the
first--his quarrel with his father, his taking Orders, his entering
the monastery and his leaving it, his crusade in Soho, his intention of
following Father Damien, his predictions at Westminster--all, all had
been false, and the expression of a lie! He was a sham, a mockery, a
whited sepulchre, and had grossly sinned against the light and against
God.
But the spiritual disillusion had come at last, and it had revealed him
to himself at an awful depth of self-deception. Thinking in his pride
and arrogance he was the divine messenger, the avenger, the man of God,
he had set out to shed blood like any wretched criminal, any jealous
murderer who was driven along by devilish passion. How the devil had
played with him too!--with him, who was dedicated by the most solemn and
sacred vows! And he had been as stubble before the wind--as chaff that
the storm carrieth away!
With such feelings of poignant anguish he plodded through the echoing
streets. Mechanically he made his way back to Westminster. By the time
he got there the moon and stars had gone and the chill of daybreak was
in the air. He saw and heard nothing, but as he crossed Broad Sanctuary
a line of mounted police trotted past him with their swords clanking.
It was not yet daylight when he knocked at the door of his chambers
under the church.
“Who's there?” came in a fierce whisper.
“Open the door,” he said in a spiritless voice.
The door was opened, and Brother Andrew, with the affectionate whine of
a dog who has been snarling at his master in the dark, said: “Oh, is it
you, Father? I thought you were gone. Did you meet them? They've been
searching for you everywhere all night long.”
He still spoke in whispers, as if some one had been ill. “I can't light
up. They'd be sure to see and perhaps come back. They'll come in the
morning in any case. Oh, it's terrible! Worse than ever now! Haven't you
heard what has happened? Somebody has been killed!”
John was struggling to listen, but everything seemed to be happening a
long way off.
“Well, not killed exactly, but badly hurt, and taken to the hospital.”
It was Charlie Wilkes. He had insulted the name of the Father, and
Pincher, the pawnbroker, had knocked him down. His head had struck
against the curb, and he had been picked up insensible. Then the police
had come and Pincher had been taken off to the police station.
“But it's my mother I'm thinking of,” said Brother Andrew, and he
brushed his sleeve across his eyes. “You must get away at once, Father.
They'll lay everything on you. What's to be done? Let me think! Let me
think! How my head is going round and round! There's a train from Euston
to the north at five in the morning, isn't there? You must catch that.
Don't speak, Father! Don't say you won't.”
“I will go,” said John with a look of utter dejection.
The change that had come over him since the night before startled the
lay brother. “But I suppose you've been out all night. How tired you
look! Can I get you anything?”
John did not answer, and the lay brother brought some brown bread and
coaxed him to eat a little of it. The day was beginning to dawn.
“Now you must go, Father.”
“And you, my lad?”
“Oh, I can take care of myself.”
“Go back to the Brotherhood; take the dog with you----”
“The dog!” Brother Andrew seemed to be about to say something; but he
checked himself, and with a wild look he muttered: “Oh, I know what
_I'll_ do. Good-bye!”
“Good-bye!” said John, and then the broken man was back in the streets.
His nervous system had been exhausted by the events of the night, and
when he entered the railway station he could scarcely put one foot
before another. “Looks as if _he'd_ had enough,” said somebody behind
him. He found an empty carriage and took his seat in the corner. A kind
of stupor had come over his faculties and he could neither think nor
feel.
Three or four young men and boys were sorting and folding newspapers
at a counter that stood on trestles before the closed-up bookstall.
A placard slipped from the fingers of one of them and fell on to the
floor. John saw his own name in monster letters, and he began to ask
himself what he was doing. Was he running away? It was cowardly, it was
contemptible! And then it was so useless! He might go to the ends of the
earth, yet he could not escape the only enemy it was worth while to fly
from. That enemy was himself.
Suddenly he remembered that he had not taken his ticket, and he got out
of the train. But instead of going to the ticket office he stood aside
and tried to think what he ought to do. Then there was confusion and
noise, people were hurrying past him, somebody was calling to him, and
finally the engine whistled and the smoke rose to the roof. When he came
to himself the train was gone and he was standing on the platform alone.
“But what am I to do?” he asked himself.
It was a lovely summer morning and the streets were empty and quiet.
Little by little they became populous and noisy, and at length he was
walking in a crowd. It was nine o'clock by this time, and he was in the
Whitechapel road, going along with a motley troop of Jews, Polish Jews,
Germans, German Jews, and all the many tribes of Cockneydom. Two costers
behind him were talking and laughing.
“Lor' blesh you, it's jest abart enneff to myke a corpse laugh.”
“Ain't it? An acquyntince uv mine--d'ye know Jow 'Awkins? Him as kep'
the frahd fish shop off of Flower and Dean. Yus? Well, he sold his bit
uv biziness lahst week for a song, thinkin' the world was acomin' to a
end, and this mornin' I meets 'im on the 'Owben Viadeck lookin' as if
'e'd 'ad the smallpox or semthink!”
John Storm had scarcely heard them. He had a strange feeling that
everything was happening hundreds of miles away.
“What am I to do?” he asked himself again. Between twelve and one
o'clock he was back in the city, walking aimlessly on and on. He did not
choose the unfrequented thoroughfares, and when people looked into his
face he thought, “If anybody asks me who I am I'll tell him.” It was
eight hours since he had eaten anything, and he felt weak and faint.
Coming upon a coffee-house, he went in and ordered food. The place was
full of young clerks at their midday meal. Most of them were reading
newspapers which they had folded and propped up on the tables before
them, but two who sat near were talking.
“These predictions of the end of the world are a mania, a monomania,
which recurs at regular intervals of the world's history,” said one. He
was a little man with a turned-up nose.
“But the strange thing is that people go on believing them,” said his
companion.
“That's not strange at all. This big, idiotic, amphorous London has no
sense of humour. See how industriously it has been engaged for the last
month in the noble art of making a fool of itself!” And then he looked
around at John Storm, as if proud of his tall language.
John did not listen. He knew that everybody was talking about him, yet
the matter did not seem to concern him now, but to belong to some other
existence which his soul had had.
At length an idea came to him and he thought he knew what he ought to
do. He ought to go to the Brotherhood and ask to be taken back. But not
as a son this time, only as a servant, to scour and scrub to the end of
his life. There used to be a man to sweep out the church and ring the
church bell--he might be allowed to do menial work like that. He had
proved false to his ideal, he had not been able to resist the lures of
earthly love, but God was merciful. He would not utterly reject him.
His self-abasement was abject, yet several hours had passed before he
attempted to carry out this design. It was the time of Evensong when he
reached the church, and the brothers were singing their last hymn:
Jesus, lover of my soul,
Let me to thy bosom fly.
He stood by the porch and listened. The street was very quiet; hardly
anybody was passing.
Hide me, O my Saviour hide,
Till the storms of life be past.
His heart surged up to his throat, and he could scarcely bear the pain
of it. Yes, yes, yes! Other refuge had he none!
Suddenly a new thought smote him, and he felt like a man roused from
a deep sleep. Glory! He had been thinking only of his own soul and his
soul's salvation, and had forgotten his duty to others. He had his duty
to Glory above all others and lie could not and must not escape from it.
He must take his place by her side, and if that included the abandonment
of his ideals, so be it! He had been proved unworthy of a life of
holiness; he must lower his flag, he must be content to live the life of
a man.
But he could not think what he ought to do next, and when night fell
he was still wandering aimlessly through the streets. He had turned
eastward again, and even in the tumultuous thoroughfares of the Mile End
he could not help seeing that something unusual was going on. People in
drink were rolling about the streets, and shouting and singing as if it
had been a public holiday. “Glad you ain't in kingdom-come to-night, old
gal!” “Well, what do _you_ think?”
At twelve o'clock he went into a lodging-house and asked if he could
have a bed. The keeper was in the kitchen talking with two men who were
cooking a herring for their supper, and he looked up at his visitor in
astonishment.
“Can I sleep you, sir? We ain't got no accommodation for gentlemen----”
and then he stopped, looked more attentively, and said:
“Are you from the Settlement, sir?”
John Storm made some inarticulate reply.
“Thort ye might be, sir. We often 'as 'em 'ere sempling the cawfee,
but blessed if they ever wanted to semple a bed afore. Still, if _you_
down't mind----”
“It will be better than I deserve, my man. Can you give me a cup of
coffee before I turn in?”
“With pleasure, sir! Set down, sir! Myke yourself at 'ome. Me and my
friends were just talkin' of a gentleman of your cloth, sir--the pore
feller as 'as got into trouble acrost Westminster way.”
“Oh, you were talking of him, were you?”
“Sem 'ere says the biziness pize.”
“It _must_ py, or people wouldn't do it,” said the man leaning over the
fire.
“Down't you believe it. That little gime down't py. Cause why? Look at
the bloomin' stoo the feller's in now. If they ketch 'im 'e'll get six
months 'ard.”
“Then what's 'e been doin' it for? I down't see nothink in it if it
down't py.”.
“Cause he believes in it, thet's why!--What do you think, sir?”
“I think the man has come by a just fall,” said John. “God will never
use him again, having brought him to shame.”
“Must hev been a wrong un certingly,” said the man over the fire.
When John Storm awoke in his cubicle next morning he saw his way
clearer. He would deliver himself up to the warrant that was issued for
his arrest, and go through with it to the end. Then he would return to
Glory a free man, and God would find work for him even yet, after this
awful lesson to his presumption and pride.
“That feller as was took ter the awspital is dead,” said somebody in the
kitchen, and then there was the crinkling of a newspaper.
“Is 'e?” said another. “The best thing the Father can do is to 'ook it
then. Cause why? Whether 'e done it or not they'll fix it on ter 'im,
doncher know!”
John's head spun round and round. He remembered what Brother Andrew
had said of Charlie Wilkes, and his heart, so warm a moment ago,
felt benumbed as by frost. Nevertheless, at nine o'clock he was going
westward in the Underground. People looked at him when he stepped into
the carriage. He thought everybody knew him, and that the world was only
playing with him as a cat plays with a mouse. The compartment was full
of young clerks smoking pipes and reading newspapers.
“Most extraordinary!” said one of them. “The fellow has disappeared as
absolutely as if he had been carried up into a cloud.”
“Why extraordinary?” said another in a thin voice. This one was not
smoking, and he had the startled eyes of the enthusiast. “Elijah was
taken up to heaven in the body, wasn't he? And why not Father Storm?”
“What?” cried the first, taking his pipe out of his mouth.
“Some people believe that,” said the thin voice timidly.
“Oh, you want a dose of medicine, you do,” said the first speaker,
shaking out his ash and looking round with a knowing air. The young men
got out in the City; John went on to Westminster Bridge.
It was terrible. Why could he not take advantage of the popular
superstition and disappear indeed, taking Glory with him! But no, no,
no!
Through all the torment of his soul his religion had remained the same,
and now it rose up before him like a pillar of cloud and fire. He would
do as he had intended, whatever the consequences, and if he was charged
with crimes he had not committed, if he was accused of the offences
of his followers, he would make no defence; if need be he would allow
himself to be convicted, and being innocent in this instance God would
accept his punishment as an atonement for his other sins! Glorious
sacrifice! He would make it! He would make it! And Glory herself would
be proud of it some day.
With the glow of this resolution upon him he turned into Scotland Yard
and stepped boldly up to the office. The officer in charge received
him with a deferential bow, but went on talking in a low voice to
an inspector of police who was also standing at the other side of a
counter.
“Strange?” he was saying. “I thought he was seen getting into the train
at Euston.”
“Don't know that he wasn't either, in spite of all he says.”
“Thinking of the dog.”
“Well, the dog, too,” said the inspector, and then seeing John, “Hello!
Who's here?”
The officer stepped up to the counter. “What can I do for you, sir?” he
asked.
John knew that the supreme moment had come, and he felt proud of himself
that his resolution did not waver. Lifting his head, he said in a low
and rapid voice, “I understand that you have a warrant for the arrest of
Father Storm.”
“We _had_, sir,” the officer answered.
John looked embarrassed. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean that Father Storm is now in custody.”
John stared at the man with a feeling of stupefaction. “In custody! Did
you say in custody?”
“Precisely! He has just given himself up.”
John answered impetuously, “But that is impossible.”
“Why impossible, sir? Are you interested in this case?”
A certain quivering moved John's mouth. “I am Father Storm himself.”
The officer was silent for a moment. Then he turned to the inspector
with a pitying smile. “Another of them,” he said significantly. The
psychology of criminals had been an interesting study to this official.
“Wait a minute,” said the inspector, and he went hurriedly through an
inner doorway. The officer asked John some questions about his movements
since yesterday. John answered vaguely in broken and rather bewildering
sentences. Then the inspector returned.
“You are Father Storm?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know of anybody who might wish to personate you?”
“God forbid that any one should do that!”
“Still, there is some one here who says----”
“Let me see him.”
“Come this way quietly,” said the inspector, and John followed him to
the inner room. His pride was all gone, his head was hanging low, and he
was a prey to extraordinary agitation.
A man in a black cassock was sitting at a table making a statement to
another officer with an open book before him. His back was to the door,
but John knew him in a moment. It was Brother Andrew.
“Then why have you given yourself up?” the officer asked, and Brother
Andrew began a rambling and foolish explanation. He had seen it stated
in an evening paper that the Father had been traced to the train at
Euston, and he thought it a pity--a pity that the police--that the
police should waste their time----
“Take care!” said the officer. “You are in a position that should make
you careful of what you say.”
And then the inspector stepped forward, leaving John by the door.
“You still say you are Father Storm?”
“Of course I do,” said Brother Andrew indignantly. “If I was anybody
else, do you think I should come here and give myself up----”
“Then who is this standing behind you?”
Brother Andrew turned and saw John with a start of surprise and a cry
of terror. He seemed hardly able to believe in the reality of what was
before him, and his restless eyeballs rolled fearfully. John tried to
speak, but he could only utter a few inarticulate sounds.
“Well?” said the inspector. And while John stood with head down and
heaving breast, Brother Andrew began to laugh hysterically and to say:
“Don't you know who this is? This is my lay brother! I brought him out
of the Brotherhood six months ago, and he has been with me ever since.”
The officers looked at each other. “Good heavens!” cried Brother Andrew
in an imperious voice, “don't you believe me? You mustn't touch this
man. He has done nothing--nothing at all. He is as tender as a woman and
wouldn't hurt a fly. What's he doing here?”
The officers also were dropping their heads, and the heartrending
voice went on: “Have you arrested him? You'll do very wrong if you
arrest----But perhaps he has given himself up! That would be just like
him. He is devoted to me and would tell you any falsehood if he thought
it would----But you must send him away. Tell him to go back to his old
mother--that's the proper place for him. Good God! do you think I'm
telling you lies?”
There was silence for a moment. “My poor lad, hush, hush!” said John in
a tone full of tenderness and authority. Then he turned to the inspector
with a pitiful smile of triumph. “Are you satisfied?” he asked.
“Quite satisfied, Father,” the officer answered in a broken voice, and
then Brother Andrew began to cry.