THE CENTRE OF THE EARTH.
“Will you come into my workroom, Mr. Hammond? It is a kind of sanctum to
me as well as a workroom, and I always feel that I can talk freer there
than anywhere else.”
It was the Jew, Abraham Cohen, who said these words. His visitor was Tom
Hammond. It was the morning after that Tom Hammond had been troubled
about “Long Odds” and its mysterious subject.
Jew and Gentile had had a few moments’ general talk in the sitting-room
downstairs, but Cohen wanted to see his visitor alone—to be where nothing
should interrupt their conversation.
Tom Hammond’s first vision of Cohen’s workroom amazed him. As we have
seen before, the apartment was a large one, and, besides being a
workroom, partook of the character of a study, den, sanctum—anything of
that order that best pleases the reader.
But it was the finished work which chiefly arrested the attention of
Tom Hammond, and in wondering tones he cried: “It is all so exquisitely
wrought and fashioned! But _what_ can it be for?”
Cohen searched his visitor’s face with his deep grave eyes.
“Will you give me your word, Mr. Hammond,” he asked, “that you will hold
in strictest confidence the fact that this work is here in this place, if
I tell you what it is for?”
“I do give you my word of honour, Mr. Cohen.” As he spoke, Tom Hammond
held forth his hand. The Jew grasped the hand, there was an exchange of
grips; then, as their clasp parted, the Jew said:
“I do not wish to bind you to any secrecy as to the fact that such work
as this is being performed in England, but only that you should preserve
the secret of the whereabouts of the work and workers.” With a sudden
glow of pride—it flashed in his eyes, it rang in his tones—he cried,
“This work is for the New Temple!”
“The New Temple? I don’t think I quite understand you, Mr. Cohen. Where
is this temple being built?” There was amaze in Tom Hammond’s voice.
“It is not yet begun,” replied the Jew. “That is, the actual rearing has
not yet begun, though the preparations are well forward. The New Temple
is to be at Jerusalem, Mr. Hammond.”
The ring of pride deepened in his voice as he went on: “There can be no
other site for the Temple of Jehovah save Zion, the city of our God,
beautiful for situation, the joy of the whole earth—the centre of the
world, Mr. Hammond.”
As he talked, Tom Hammond, watching him intently, saw how the soul of the
man and the hope of the true Israelite shone out of his eyes.
Crossing the room to where a chart of the world (on Mercator’s
Projection) hung on the wall, the Jew took an inch-marked straight-edge,
and laying one end of it on Barrow Point, Alaska, he marked the spot
on the straight-edge where it touched Jerusalem. From Jerusalem to
Wrangel Land, Siberia, farthest east, he showed by his straight-edge
that practically he got the same measurement as when from the west. From
Jerusalem to North Cape, Scandinavia, and from Jerusalem to the Cape of
Good Hope, he showed again was each practically the same distance.
“Always, always, is Zion the centre of the inhabited earth!” he cried in
quiet, excited tones. Moving quickly back to Hammond’s side, he said:
“Did you ever think of this, sir, that, practically speaking, all the
nations west of Jerusalem (those of Europe) write from west to east—that
is, towards the city of our God; whilst all the Asiatic races (those
east of Zion) write from east to west—just the opposite,—but always
_towards_ Zion? No, no, sir; there can be no other place on earth for the
New Temple of Jehovah save Jerusalem. Read Ezekiel, from the fortieth
chapter, sir, and you will see how glorious a Temple Jehovah is to have
soon. ‘Show the house to the people of Israel,’ God said in vision to His
prophet, ‘and let them build it after the sum, the pattern which I show
you.’ And that, sir, is what we are doing.”
“Who are the _we_ who are doing this?” Tom Hammond’s face was as full of
wonder as his voice. “Who,” he continued, “makes the plans, gives the
orders, finds the funds?”
“Wealthy, patriotic men of our people, sir. We as a race are learning
that soon the Messiah will come, and we are proving our belief by
preparing for the House of our God. Italian Jews all over Italy are
carving the richest marbles; wrought iron, wondrous works in metal, gold
and silver ornaments, cornices, chapiters, bells for the high priest’s
robes, and a myriad other things are being prepared; so that the moment
the last restriction on our land—the land of our fathers, the land which
Jehovah gave unto our forefather Abraham, saying, ‘Your seed shall
possess it’—is removed, we shall begin to ship the several prepared
parts of the Temple to Palestine, as the Gentiles term our land.”
A curious little smile flittered over his face as he added,
“The very march of modern times in the East, Mr. Hammond, is all helping
to make the consummation of our work more easy. The new railways laid
from the coast to Jerusalem are surely part of the providence of our God.
When Messiah comes, sir, we shall be waiting ready for Him, I trust.”
“But do you not know,” Tom Hammond interrupted, “that according to
every record of history as well as the New Testament, all Christendom
has believed, for all the ages since, that the Messiah came nearly two
thousand years ago?”
“The _Nazarene_?”
There was as much or more of pity than scorn in the voice of the Jew as
he uttered the word.
“How could _He_ be the Messiah, sir?” he went on. “Could any good thing
come out of Nazareth? Besides, _our Messiah_ is to redeem Israel, to
deliver them from the hand of the oppressor, and to gather again into one
nation all our scattered race. No, no! a thousand times No! The Nazarene
could not be _our_ Messiah!”
Turning quickly to Hammond, he asked, “Are _you_ a Christian, sir?”
For a moment Tom Hammond was startled by the suddenness, the
definiteness, of the question. He found no immediate word of reply.
“You are a _Gentile_, of course, Mr. Hammond,” the Jew went on; “but are
you a Christian? For it is a curious fact that I find very few Gentiles
whom I have met, even _professed_ Christians, and fewer still who ever
pretend to live up to their profession.”
Tom Hammond recovered himself sufficiently to say:
“Yes, I am a Gentile, of course, and I _suppose_ I am—er——”
It struck him, as he floundered in the second half of his reply, as being
very extraordinary that he should find it difficult to state why he
supposed he was a Christian. While he hesitated the Jew went on:
“Why should you say you _suppose_, sir? Is there nothing distinctive
enough about the possession of Christianity to give assurance of it to
its possessor? I do not _suppose_ I am a _Jew_, sir (by religion I mean,
and not merely by race.) No, sir, I do not suppose, for I _know_ it.
There is all the difference in the world, it seems to me, sir, between
the mere theology and the religion of the faith we profess. The religion
is life, it seems to me, sir; theology is only the science of that life.”
Both men were so utterly absorbed in their talk that they did not hear
a touch on the handle of the door. It was only as it opened that they
turned round. Zillah stood framed in the doorway. Cohen, who saw her
every day, realized that she had never looked so radiantly beautiful
before. She had almost burst into the room, but paused as she saw that a
stranger was present.
“Excuse me,” she began; “I had no idea you had a friend with you,
Abraham.”
She would have retreated, but he stopped her with an eager—
“Come in, Zillah.”
She advanced, gazing in curious inquiry at Hammond.
“This is Mr. Tom Hammond, editor of the ‘Courier,’ Zillah,” Cohen
explained to the young girl. To Hammond he added, “My wife’s sister,
Zillah Robart.”
The introduced pair shook hands. The young Jew went on to explain to
Zillah how the great editor came to be visiting him.
Tom Hammond’s eyes were fixed upon the vision of loveliness that the
Jewess made. She was going to assist at the wedding of a girl-friend, and
had come to show herself to her brother-in-law before starting. Lovely at
the most ordinary times, she looked perfectly radiant in her well-chosen
wedding finery.
Tom Hammond had seen female loveliness in many lands—East, North, West,
South. He had gazed upon women who seemed too lovely for earth—women
whose flesh was alabaster, whose glance would woo emperors; women whose
skins glowed with the olive of southern lands, the glance of whose black,
lustrous eyes intoxicated the beholder in the first instant: Inez of
Spain, Mousmee of Japan, Katrina of Russia, Carlotta of Naples, Rosie
of Paris, Maggie of the Scottish Highlands, Patty of Wales, Kate of
Ireland, and a score of other typical beauties. But this Jewish maiden,
this Zillah of Finsbury—she was beyond all his thought or knowledge of
feminine loveliness.
While Cohen talked on for a moment or two, and Zillah’s eyes were fixed
upon her brother-in-law, Tom Hammond’s gaze was riveted upon the lovely
girl.
Every feature of her beautiful face became photographed on his brain. Had
he been a clever artist, he could have gone to his studio and have flung
with burning, brilliant haste her face upon his canvas.
He thought of Zenobia as he looked upon her brow. He wondered if ever two
such wide, black, lustrous eyes had ever shone in the face of a woman
before, or whether a female soul had ever before been mirrored in such
eyes.
Her mouth was not the large, wide feature so often seen in women of
her race, but of exquisite lines, with ripe, full lips, as brilliant
in colour as the most glowing coral. Her eyes were fringed with the
blackest, finest, silkiest lashes. Her hair was raven in hue and wondrous
in its wealth.
He realized, in that first moment of full gazing upon her, how faded
every other female face must ever seem beside her glorious beauty. With a
strange freak of mental conjuring, Madge Finisterre and that interrupted
tete-a-tete rose up before him, and a sudden sense of relief swept over
him that George Carlyon had returned at the moment that he did.
“It is all so strange, so wonderful to me, what I have seen and heard
here,” he jerked out as Cohen finished his explanation.
Hammond spoke to the beautiful girl, whose great lustrous eyes had
suddenly come back to his face.
For a moment or two longer he voiced his admiration of the separate
pieces of finished work, and spoke of his own growing interest in the
Jewish race.
The great black eyes that gazed upwards into his, grew liquid with the
evident emotion that filled the soul of the beautiful girl. With the
frank, hearty, simple gesture of the perfectly unconventional woman, she
held forth her hand to Hammond as she said:
“It is so good of you, sir, to speak thus of my brother-in-law’s work
and of our race. There are few who speak kindly of us. Even though, as a
nation, you English give our poor persecuted people sanctuary, yet there
are few who care for us or speak kindly of us, and fewer still who speak
kindly to us.”
Tom Hammond held the pretty, plump little hand that she offered him
clasped warmly in his, almost forgetting himself as he gazed down into
her expressive face and listened to her rich musical voice. There was an
ardency in his gaze that was unknown, unrealized, by himself.
The olive of the girl’s cheeks warmed under the power of his gaze. He
saw the warm colour rise, and remembered himself, shifted his eyes, and
released her hand.
“I must not stay another moment, Abraham,” she cried, turning to the Jew.
“Adah would be vexed if I were late.”
She turned back to Hammond, but before she could speak he was saying,
“Good-bye, Miss Robart; I hope we may meet again. What your brother has
already told me only incites me to come again and see him, for there are
many things I want to know.”
He shook hands with the girl again. His eyes met hers, and again he saw
the olive cheeks suddenly warm.
Ten minutes later he was driving back to his office, his mind in a
strange whirl, the beautiful face of Zillah Robart filling all his vision.
He pulled himself up at last, and laughed low and amusedly as he murmured,
“And I am the man whose pulses had never been quickened by the sight or
the touch of a woman until I met her——”
The memory of Madge Finisterre flashed into his mind. He smiled to
himself as he mused:
“Even when I seemed most smitten by Madge, by her piquant Americanism,
I told myself I was not sure that love had anything to do with my
feelings. Now I know it had not.”
His eyes filled suddenly with a kind of staring wonder as he cried out,
in a low, startled undertone:
“Am I inferring to myself that this sudden admiration for Zillah Robart
has any element of love in it?”
He smiled at his own unuttered answer. The cab pulled up at the door of
the office at that moment. He came back sharply to everyday things.