END OF LANGLER--_continued_
We crossed over to Dover, where a man came on board the boat, calling
abroad: "Langler! Langler!" with a wire for us from Swandale: she wished
to know if we had actually reached England, and also why it was that,
arriving at Dover at 6.15, we should not arrive at Swandale till
ten!--for we had mentioned to her nothing of the meeting of journalists
in Great Titchfield Street. She begged us to telegraph the instant we
touched British soil, and again when we should reach Victoria.
Langler telegraphed that we were safe at Dover, that all was, and would
be, well, praying her to be patient, promising to be with her at
ten--but still not mentioning the meeting of journalists, though I
entreated him to.
We then set off by rail-train for London, and still there was no mention
of any exposure of the miracles, as I saw on looking through the evening
paper in the train.
"I suspect," said Langler to me, "that the delay in the exposure may be
accounted for by this Education Bill turmoil, for as the Lords have now
again mangled the bill, and the clash between Church and world has now
waxed into acuteness, the plotters may be waiting a little till this
reach its highest fever, when they will strike. Remember how it was with
Diseased Persons. But this time we should be able to counteract at least
half the force of their stroke."
"In any case, I think that the Education Bill will triumph," said I.
"Well," said he, "let that be as it will: why do we so heave and rave in
all the batrachomuomachia, leaving our poor souls behind, as though life
were a flight on motor-cars, with the nitrogen all drained out of the
air? The earth does not march by petroleum with puffs, but by the charm
of an old spell-word; and that sunset, Arthur--look at it: ah, for one
bath of that large, warm calm."
"Extraordinary thing," said I, "there must be some atmospheric
disturbance somewhere; it seems even more glorious than yesterday's."
"It may be the assembled good-bye of all the prophets and apostles to
their old Church," said he: "that shape afaint above yonder in white is
Elijah translated far with robes aflaunt, and that charmed to rose is St
Paul caught up in trance to the third heaven."
He was talkative, full of sparkle and fancy, even playful, that evening;
but all our talk in the train was interrupted by a debate between two
men about the eternity of hell-fire, which they maintained to the moment
of our alighting at Victoria. It was then night, with only twenty
minutes left us in which to get to Great Titchfield Street by eight
o'clock, but we first made our way to the telegraph-office, where yet a
message from Swandale awaited us, this time our friend writing in the
words: "Yours from Dover to hand; you are in England, so all's well, I
await now with quietness. Poor Kitty-wren drooped visibly at moment when
you must have touched Dover. I pity her a little. She can't last. Am
quite at rest now, waiting upon God's good will. Carriage will await you
at Alresford at 9.52 without fail. Wire me from Victoria." We sent her a
message, I left my chest at the station, and we hastened away.
It was drizzling slightly, the night dreary, the yard crowded with
people and things darting to and fro, and I was struck with a feeling of
how intensely even within the past few years, the pace of everything had
quickened. But only two cars came to bid for our fare. I fancy now that
this seemed queer to me at the moment, but being rather late for the
meeting of journalists, elated at our nearness to Swandale, I paid no
heed to it, and we leapt into one of the cars, I calling to the man:
"the Church-house, Great Titchfield Street."
We sped off, but had not proceeded far when we fell in with a procession
with banners, at which our car had to pull up. All down Victoria Street
it teemed, blocking the world's business, some regions of it chanting
ave, maris stella. I was very teased, for by this means we must have
lost five minutes, having just collided with the Friday in the octave of
the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin. Our driver, a lank man with a stoop,
deliberately turned, in crossing himself, as if for us to see--so it
looked to me, then off afresh we started behind the last of the
procession. London was in high animation, in spite of the wet, and I was
admiring the flaming advertisements, the tempest of life, when Langler
said: "London is still not a great city, no, it lacks the tone, it is a
group of parishes. Look at that newspaper-placard occupied with 'Buggins
Captured.' Who is Buggins? Some mean misdoer, I suppose. And that other:
'Buggins' Love-letters to Peggy Jinks.' You can't conceive that in
Paris: it is not world-news; my Athenians of Paris would slightly shrug
at such parish pragmatism; no, London is not a great city...." and as he
spoke, I saw "Great Titchfield Street" at a street corner, and into it
we dashed.
But we had not gone far down it when our man careered into a by-street
to the right; whereat I started up to him, calling out: "but where are
you going? you have left Great Titchfield Street." "Yes, sir," was his
answer, "they have just taken up the street down yonder, so we have to
go round." I, for my part, had no idea whereabouts in Great Titchfield
Street the Church-house was, nor any grounds to fancy that the man's
words might be false, and after he had raced with us through a maze of
Soho back-streets, through so many that I lost track of where we were,
when he halted at the door of a house, unhandsome and dark though it
was, I did not doubt that I was in Titchfield Street, and at the
Church-house.
When we went to the door a man inside said "this way, gentlemen," to us,
whereat we stepped into a passage, and not a thought of wrong crossed my
mind until I found myself on the ground, while a crowd of men searched
my pockets--to see if I had any pistol, I imagine. Langler was in a like
way. I struggled, of course, but quickly gave in; and presently we were
permitted to get up, and were taken up through darkness to a room on the
second floor.
This room was quite small, not more than fifteen feet long and fifteen
broad, in a corner of the house, without any window, and like a room
within a room, for two of its sides were made of boarding, which may
have been run up for the special purpose of imprisoning us--I cannot
tell. The floor was bare, the furniture was one chair and a bedstead
placed under one of the two boardings--a cheap little bedstead without a
bed, but with a pillow without a pillow-slip. On one of the walls burned
an antique electric jet very palely.
All was silent. For it might be ten minutes Langler and I fronted each
other's gaze, the notion or dream, meantime, in my own heart being that
our door did not seem over strong, that a dart downward might well
deliver us. All, I say, was silent. I drove my shoulder at the door, and
my heart hailed Heaven with thanks when I found it frail, so heaving now
my all into the strain, I heard the steel give out sounds, felt the
beams bound. But the staple would not quite start, though again I dashed
myself into it, and again and again and again, with passion. Then I
panted out upon Langler, "help, Aubrey, help...."
"Oh, Arthur," was his answer, "are we to strive and cry?"
"Never mind ... help ... help...." I panted.
"I implore you to be calm," said Langler.
Sure that his help would force the door, I now flew from it in a passion
to my knees before him, with my arms spread out beseechingly to him,
crying out to him, "for Christ's sake, help me, help me...."
"Well, since you so insist," said he, "but it seems useless, too, and is
it not better...."
"Never mind, help," I panted.
I think that he would now have helped, but as he was now about to say
something else the key turned outside, and Baron Kolár came in, equal to
three men. As he locked the door again, I sprang up from my knees, and
we both faced him. He had on the old shabby satin jacket, his hat hung
over his eyes, looking earnest and abstracted, like a man carrying on
his back matters of large mass and amplitude, in his hand a bit of
paper.