THE DOOM CONTINUES
They were all watching, and watching very intently. All they could see
was a bright circle of light which flashed out upon the opposite wall.
It was just as though they were watching an ordinary exhibition of the
magic-lantern or the cinematograph.
And suddenly, swiftly, these world-worn and weary people of society,
these scientists who lived by measure and by rule, saw that all Sir
William Gouldesbrough had said was true--and truer than he himself knew.
For upon this white screen, where all their eyes were fixed, there came
a picture of the Holy City, and it was a picture such as no single
person there had ever seen before.
For it was not that definite and coloured presentment of a scene caught
by the camera and reproduced through the mechanical means of a lens,
which is a thing which has no soul. It was the picture of that Holy
City to which all men's thoughts turn in trouble or in great crises of
their lives. And it was a picture coloured by the imagination of the man
who had just come back from Jerusalem, and who remembered it in the
light of the Christian Faith and informed it with all the power of his
own personality.
They saw the sharp outlines of the olive trees, immemorially old, as a
fringe to the picture. The sun was shining, the white domes and roofs
were glistening, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre loomed up large in
this vista, seen through a temperament, and through a memory, and seen
from a hill.
For a brief space, they all caught their breath and shuddered at the
marvellous revelation of the power and magnificence of thought which was
revealed to them at that moment. And then they watched the changing,
shifting phantom, which was born from the thought of this good man, with
a chill and shudder at the incredible wonder of it all.
The afternoon, as it has been said, was thunderous and grim. While the
representatives of the world that matters had been listening to Sir
William, the forces of nature had been massing themselves upon the
frontier-line of experience and thought. And now, at this great moment,
the clouds broke, the thunder stammered, and in that darkened place the
white and amethyst lightning came and flickered like a spear thrown from
immensity.
The gong of the thunder, the crack and flame of the lightning, passed.
There was a dead silence. Still the spectators saw the mapped landscape
of the Holy City shining before them, glad, radiant and serene.
And then, old Lady Poole dropped her fan--a heavy fan made of ebony and
black silk. It clattered down the tier of seats and brought an alien
note into the tension and the darkness of the laboratory.
Everybody started in the gloom. There was a little momentary flutter of
excitement. And, as they all watched the gleaming circle of light upon
which the brain of the Bishop had painted his memories so truthfully and
well, they saw a sudden change. The whole, beautiful picture became
troubled, misty. It shook like a thing seen through water at a great
depth.
Then the vision of the City where God suffered went straight away. There
was no more of it. It vanished as a breath breathed upon a window clouds
and vanishes.
The concentration of mind of the Bishop must then--as it was said
afterwards--have been interrupted by the sudden sound of the falling
fan, for all those celebrated men and women who sat and watched saw dim
grey words, like clouds of smoke which had formed themselves into the
written symbols of speech, appear in the light.
And these were the words--
"God will not allow----"
At that moment the silence was broken by a tiny sound. It is always the
small sound that defines blackness and silence.
Sir William, who perhaps had realized where the thoughts of the Bishop
were leading him, who had doubtless understood the terror of the naked
soul, the terror which he himself had made possible, switched on the
light. The whole laboratory was illuminated, and it was seen that the
people were looking at each other with white faces; and that the folk,
who were almost strangers, were grasping each other by the wrist. And
the Bishop himself was sitting quietly in the chair, with a very pale
face and a slight smile.
At that moment the people who had come to catch the visual truth of this
supreme wonder, rose as one man. Voices were heard laughing and sobbing;
little choked voices mingled and merged in a cacophany of fear.
It was all light now, light and bright, and these men and women of the
world were weeping on each other's shoulders.
The Bishop rose.
"Oh, please," he said, "please, my dears, be quiet. This is wonderful,
this is inexplicable, but we have only begun. Let us see this thing
through to the very, very end. Hush! Be quiet! There is no reason, nor
is there any need, for hysteria or for fear."
The words of the Churchman calmed them all. They looked at him, they
looked at each other with startled eyes, and once more there was a great
and enduring silence.
Then Sir William spoke. His face was as pale as linen; he was not at all
the person whom they had seen half-an-hour ago--but he spoke swiftly to
them.
"His Lordship," he said, "has given us one instance of how the brain
works, and he has enabled us to watch his marvellous memory of what he
has so lately seen. And now, I will ask some one or other of you to come
down here and help me."
Young Lord Landsend looked at Mrs. Hoskin-Heath and winked.
"I shall be very pleased, Sir William," he said in the foolish, staccato
voice of his class and kind, "I shall be very pleased, Sir William, to
think for you and all the rest of us here."
Lord Landsend stumbled down from where he sat and went towards the
chair. As he did so, there were not wanting people who whispered to
each other that a penny for his thoughts was an enormous price to pay.
The cap was fitted on his head; they all saw it gleaming there above the
small and vacuous face; and then once more the lights went out.
The great circle of white light upon the screen remained fixed and
immovable. No picture formed itself or occurred within the frame of
light and shadow. For nearly a minute the circle remained unsullied.
Then Mrs. Hoskin-Heath began to titter. Every one, relieved from the
tension of the first experiment, joined her in her laugh. They all
realized that young Lord Landsend could not think, and had not any
thoughts at all. In the middle of their laughter, which grew and rose
until the whole place was filled with it, the young man, doubtless
spurred on by this unaccustomed derision, began to think.
And what they all saw was just this--some one they had all seen before,
many times, after dinner.
They simply saw, in rather cloudy colour, Miss Popsy Wopsy, the
celebrated Gaiety girl, alertly doing things of no importance, while the
baton of the conductor made a moving shadow upon the chiffon of her
frock.
And so here was another brain, caught up, classified and seen.