She seemed very quiet this evening, he thought, as he shook hands with

her a minute later; she wore her veil down, so that he could not see her

face very well, but her voice seemed to lack its usual vivacity.

“I am so sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Francis,” she said. “I only want to

ask you one or two questions.”

He smiled at her encouragingly.

“Mr. Brand, no doubt---”

“No,” she said, “Mr. Brand has not sent me. It is entirely my own

affair. You will see my reasons presently. I will begin at once. I know

I must not keep you.”

It all seemed rather odd, he thought, but no doubt he would understand

soon.

“First,” she said, “I think you used to know Father Franklin. He became

a Cardinal, didn’t he?”

Mr. Francis assented, smiling.

“Do you know if he is alive?”

“No,” he said. “He is dead. He was in Rome, you know, at the time of its

destruction.”

“Ah! You are sure?”

“Quite sure. Only one Cardinal escaped--Steinmann. He was hanged in

Berlin; and the Patriarch of Jerusalem died a week or two later.”

“Ah! very well. Well, now, here is a very odd question. I ask for a

particular reason, which I cannot explain, but you will soon

understand.... It is this--Why do Catholics believe in God?”

He was so much taken aback that for a moment he sat staring.

“Yes,” she said tranquilly, “it is a very odd question. But---” she

hesitated. “Well, I will tell you,” she said. “The fact is, that I have

a friend who is--is in danger from this new law. I want to be able to

argue with her; and I must know her side. You are the only priest--I

mean who has been a priest--whom I ever knew, except Father Franklin. So

I thought you would not mind telling me.”

Her voice was entirely natural; there was not a tremor or a falter in

it. Mr. Francis smiled genially, rubbing his hands softly together.

“Ah!” he said. “Yes, I see.... Well, that is a very large question.

Would not to-morrow, perhaps---?”

“I only want just the shortest answer,” she said. “It is really

important for me to know at once. You see, this new law comes into

force---”

He nodded.

“Well--very briefly, I should say this: Catholics say that God can be

perceived by reason; that from the arrangements of the world they can

deduce that there must have been an Arranger--a Mind, you understand.

Then they say that they deduce other things about God--that He is Love,

for example, because of happiness---”

“And the pain?” she interrupted.

He smiled again.

“Yes. That is the point--that is the weak point.”

“But what do they say about that?”

“Well, briefly, they say that pain is the result of sin---”

“And sin? You see, I know nothing at all, Mr. Francis.”

“Well, sin is the rebellion of man’s will against God’s.”

“What do they mean by that?”

“Well, you see, they say that God wanted to be loved by His creatures,

so He made them free; otherwise they could not really love. But if they

were free, it means that they could if they liked refuse to love and

obey God; and that is what is called Sin. You see what nonsense---”

She jerked her head a little.

“Yes, yes,” she said. “But I really want to get at what they think....

Well, then, that is all?”

Mr. Francis pursed his lips.

“Scarcely,” he said; “that is hardly more than what they call Natural

Religion. Catholics believe much more than that.”

“Well?”

“My dear Mrs. Brand, it is impossible to put it in a few words. But, in

brief, they believe that God became man--that Jesus was God, and that He

did this in order to save them from sin by dying---”

“By bearing pain, you mean?”

“Yes; by dying. Well, what they call the Incarnation is really the

point. Everything else flows from that. And, once a man believes that, I

must confess that all the rest follows--even down to scapulars and holy

water.”

“Mr. Francis, I don’t understand a word you’re saying.”

He smiled indulgently.

“Of course not,” he said; “it is all incredible nonsense. But, you know,

I did really believe it all once.”

“But it’s unreasonable,” she said.

He made a little demurring sound.

“Yes,” he said, “in one sense, of course it is--utterly unreasonable.

But in another sense---”

She leaned forward suddenly, and he could catch the glint of her eyes

beneath her white veil.

“Ah!” she said, almost breathlessly. “That is what I want to hear. Now,

tell me how they justify it.”

He paused an instant, considering.

“Well,” he said slowly, “as far as I remember, they say that there are

other faculties besides those of reason. They say, for example, that

the heart sometimes finds out things that the reason cannot--intuitions,

you see. For instance, they say that all things such as self-sacrifice

and chivalry and even art--all come from the heart, that Reason comes

with them--in rules of technique, for instance--but that it cannot prove

them; they are quite apart from that.”

“I think I see.”

“Well, they say that Religion is like that--in other words, they

practically confess that it is merely a matter of emotion.” He paused

again, trying to be fair. “Well, perhaps they would not say

that--although it is true. But briefly---”

“Well?”

“Well, they say there is a thing called Faith--a kind of deep conviction

unlike anything else--supernatural--which God is supposed to give to

people who desire it--to people who pray for it, and lead good lives,

and so on---”

“And this Faith?”

“Well, this Faith, acting upon what they call Evidences--this Faith

makes them absolutely certain that there is a God, that He was made man

and so on, with the Church and all the rest of it. They say too that

this is further proved by the effect that their religion has had in the

world, and by the way it explains man’s nature to himself. You see, it

is just a case of self-suggestion.”

He heard her sigh, and stopped.

“Is that any clearer, Mrs. Brand?”

“Thank you very much,” she said, “it certainly is clearer. ... And it is

true that Christians have died for this Faith, whatever it is?”

“Oh! yes. Thousands and thousands. Just as Mohammedans have for theirs.”

“The Mohammedans believe in God, too, don’t they?”

“Well, they did, and I suppose that a few do now. But very few: the rest

have become esoteric, as they say.”

“And--and which would you say were the most highly evolved people--East

or West?”

“Oh! West undoubtedly. The East thinks a good deal, but it doesn’t act

much. And that always leads to confusion--even to stagnation of

thought.”

“And Christianity certainly has been the Religion of the West up to a

hundred years ago?”

“Oh! yes.”

She was silent then, and Mr. Francis had time again to reflect how very

odd all this was. She certainly must be very much attached to this

Christian friend of hers.

Then she stood up, and he rose with her.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Francis.... Then that is the kind of outline?”

“Well, yes; so far as one can put it in a few words.”

“Thank you.... I mustn’t keep you.”

He went with her towards the door. But within a yard of it she stopped.

“And you, Mr. Francis. You were brought up in all this. Does it ever

come back to you?”

He smiled.

“Never,” he said, “except as a dream.”

“How do you account for that, then? If it is all self-suggestion, you

have had thirty years of it.”

She paused; and for a moment he hesitated what to answer.

“How would your old fellow-Catholics account for it?”

“They would say that I had forfeited light--that Faith was withdrawn.”

“And you?”

Again he paused.

“I should say that I had made a stronger self-suggestion the other way.”

“I see.... Good-night, Mr. Francis.”

* * * * *

She would not let him come down the lift with her, so when he had seen

the smooth box drop noiselessly below the level, he went back again to

his model of the Abbey and the little dummy figures. But, before he

began to move these about again, he sat for a moment or two with pursed

lips, staring.

CHAPTER IV

I

A week later Mabel awoke about dawn; and for a moment or two forgot

where she was. She even spoke Oliver’s name aloud, staring round the

unfamiliar room, wondering what she did here. Then she remembered, and

was silent....

It was the eighth day she had spent in this Home; her probation was

finished: to-day she was at liberty to do that for which she had come.

On the Saturday of the previous week she had gone through her private

examination before the magistrate, stating under the usual conditions of

secrecy her name, age and home, as well as her reasons for making the

application for Euthanasia; and all had passed off well. She had

selected Manchester as being sufficiently remote and sufficiently large

to secure her freedom from Oliver’s molestation; and her secret had been

admirably kept. There was not a hint that her husband knew anything of

her intentions; for, after all, in these cases the police were bound to

assist the fugitive. Individualism was at least so far recognised as to

secure to those weary of life the right of relinquishing it. She

scarcely knew why she had selected this method, except that any other

seemed impossible. The knife required skill and resolution; firearms

were unthinkable, and poison, under the new stringent regulations, was

hard to obtain. Besides, she seriously wished to test her own

intentions, and to be quite sure that there was no other way than

this....

Well, she was as certain as ever. The thought had first come to her in

the mad misery of the outbreak of violence on the last day of the old

year. Then it had gone again, soothed away by the arguments that man was

still liable to relapse. Then once more it had recurred, a cold and

convincing phantom, in the plain daylight revealed by Felsenburgh’s

Declaration. It had taken up its abode with her then, yet she controlled

it, hoping against hope that the Declaration would not be carried into

action, occasionally revolting against its horror. Yet it had never been

far away; and finally when the policy sprouted into deliberate law, she

had yielded herself resolutely to its suggestion. That was eight days

ago; and she had not had one moment of faltering since that.

Yet she had ceased to condemn. The logic had silenced her. All that she

knew was that she could not bear it; that she had misconceived the New

Faith; that for her, whatever it was for others, there was no hope....

She had not even a child of her own.

* * * * *

Those eight days, required by law, had passed very peacefully. She had

taken with her enough money to enter one of the private homes furnished

with sufficient comfort to save from distractions those who had been

accustomed to gentle living: the nurses had been pleasant and

sympathetic; she had nothing to complain of.

She had suffered, of course, to some degree from reactions. The second

night after her arrival had been terrible, when, as she lay in bed in

the hot darkness, her whole sentient life had protested and struggled

against the fate her will ordained. It had demanded the familiar

things--the promise of food and breath and human intercourse; it had

writhed in horror against the blind dark towards which it moved so

inevitably; and, in the agony had been pacified only by the half-hinted

promise of some deeper voice suggesting that death was not the end. With

morning light sanity had come back; the will had reassumed the mastery,

and, with it, had withdrawn explicitly the implied hope of continued

existence. She had suffered again for an hour or two from a more

concrete fear; the memory came back to her of those shocking revelations

that ten years ago had convulsed England and brought about the

establishment of these Homes under Government supervision--those

evidences that for years in the great vivisection laboratories human

subjects had been practised upon--persons who with the same intentions

as herself had cut themselves off from the world in private

euthanasia-houses, to whom had been supplied a gas that suspended

instead of destroying animation.... But this, too, had passed with the

return of light. Such things were impossible now under the new

system--at least, in England. She had refrained from making an end upon

the Continent for this very reason. There, where sentiment was weaker,

and logic more imperious, materialism was more consistent. Since men

were but animals--the conclusion was inevitable.

There had been but one physical drawback, the intolerable heat of the

days and nights. It seemed, scientists said, that an entirely unexpected

heat-wave had been generated; there were a dozen theories, most of which

were mutually exclusive one of another. It was humiliating, she thought,

that men who professed to have taken the earth under their charge should

be so completely baffled. The conditions of the weather had of course

been accompanied by disasters; there had been earthquakes of astonishing

violence, a ripple had wrecked not less than twenty-five towns in

America; an island or two had disappeared, and that bewildering Vesuvius

seemed to be working up for a denouement. But no one knew really the

explanation. One man had been wild enough to say that some cataclysm had

taken place in the centre of the earth.... So she had heard from her

nurse; but she was not greatly interested. It was only tiresome that she

could not walk much in the garden, and had to be content with sitting in

her own cool shaded room on the second floor.

There was only one other matter of which she had asked, namely, the

effect of the new decree; but the nurse did not seem to know much about

that. It appeared that there had been an outrage or two, but the law had

not yet been enforced to any great extent; a week, after all, was a

short time, even though the decree had taken effect at once, and

magistrates were beginning the prescribed census.

* * * * *

It seemed to her as she lay awake this morning, staring at the tinted

ceiling, and out now and again at the quiet little room, that the heat

was worse than ever. For a minute she thought she must have overslept;

but, as she touched her repeater, it told her that it was scarcely after

four o’clock. Well, well; she would not have to bear it much longer; she

thought that about eight it would be time to make an end. There was her

letter to Oliver yet to be written; and one or two final arrangements to

be made.

As regarded the morality of what she was doing-the relation, that is to

say, which her act bore to the common life of man--she had no shadow of

doubt. It was her belief, as of the whole Humanitarian world, that just

as bodily pain occasionally justified this termination of life, so also

did mental pain. There was a certain pitch of distress at which the

individual was no longer necessary to himself or the world; it was the

most charitable act that could be performed. But she had never thought

in old days that that state could ever be hers; Life had been much too

interesting. But it had come to this: there was no question of it.

* * * * *

Perhaps a dozen times in that week she had thought over her conversation

with Mr. Francis. Her going to him had been little more than

instinctive; she did just wish to hear what the other side was--whether

Christianity was as ludicrous as she had always thought. It seemed that

it was not ludicrous; it was only terribly pathetic. It was just a

lovely dream--an exquisite piece of poetry. It would be heavenly to

believe it, but she did not. No--a transcendent God was unthinkable,

although not quite so unthinkable as a merely immeasurable Man. And as

for the Incarnation--well, well!

There seemed no way out of it. The Humanity-Religion was the only one.

Man was God, or at least His highest manifestation; and He was a God

with which she did not wish to have anything more to do. These faint new

instincts after something other than intellect and emotion were, she

knew perfectly well, nothing but refined emotion itself.

She had thought a great deal of Felsenburgh, however, and was astonished

at her own feelings. He was certainly the most impressive man she had

ever seen; it did seem very probable indeed that He was what He claimed

to be--the Incarnation of the ideal Man the first perfect product of

humanity. But the logic of his position was too much for her. She saw

now that He was perfectly logical--that He had not been inconsistent in

denouncing the destruction of Rome and a week later making His

declaration. It was the passion of one man against another that He

denounced--of kingdom against kingdom, and sect against sect--for this

was suicidal for the race. He denounced passion, too, not judicial

action. Therefore, this new decree was as logical as Himself--it was a

judicial act on the part of an united world against a tiny majority that

threatened the principle of life and faith: and it was to be carried out

with supreme mercy; there was no revenge or passion or partisan spirit

in it from beginning to end; no more than a man is revengeful or

passionate when he amputates a diseased limb--Oliver had convinced her

of that.

Yes, it was logical and sound. And it was because it was so that she

could not bear it.... But ah! what a sublime man Felsenburgh was; it was

a joy to her even to recall his speeches and his personality. She would

have liked to see him again. But it was no good. She had better be done

with it as tranquilly as possible. And the world must go forward without

her. She was just tired out with Facts.

* * * * *

She dozed off again presently, and it seemed scarcely five minutes

before she looked up to see a gentle smiling face of a white-capped

nurse bending over her.

“It is nearly six o’clock, my dear--the time you told me. I came to see

about breakfast.”

Mabel drew a long breath. Then she sat up suddenly, throwing back the

sheet.

II

It struck a quarter-past six from the little clock on the mantel-shelf

as she laid down her pen. Then she took up the closely written sheets,

leaned back in her deep chair, and began to read.

“HOME OF REST,

“NO 3A MANCHESTER WEST.

“MY DEAR: I am very sorry, but it has come back to me. I really cannot

go on any longer, so I am going to escape in the only way left, as I

once told you. I have had a very quiet and happy time here; they have

been most kind and considerate. You see, of course, from the heading on

this paper, what I mean....

“Well, you have always been very dear to me; you are still, even at this

moment. So you have a right to know my reasons so far as I know them

myself. It is very difficult to understand myself; but it seems to me

that I am not strong enough to live. So long as I was pleased and

excited it was all very well--especially when He came. But I think I had

expected it to be different; I did not understand as I do now how it

must come to this--how it is all quite logical and right. I could bear

it, when I thought that they had acted through passion, but this is

deliberate. I did not realise that Peace must have its laws, and must

protect itself. And, somehow, that Peace is not what I want. It is being

alive at all that is wrong.

“Then there is this difficulty. I know how absolutely in agreement you

are with this new state of affairs; of course you are, because you are

so much stronger and more logical than I am. But if you have a wife she

must be of one mind with you. And I am not, any more, at least not with

my heart, though I see you are right.... Do you understand, my dear?

“If we had had a child, it might have been different. I might have liked

to go on living for his sake. But Humanity, somehow--Oh! Oliver! I

can’t--I can’t.

“I know I am wrong, and that you are right--but there it is; I cannot

change myself. So I am quite sure that I must go.

“Then I want to tell you this--that I am not at all frightened. I never

can understand why people are--unless, of course, they are Christians. I

should be horribly frightened if I was one of them. But, you see, we

both know that there is nothing beyond. It is life that I am frightened

of--not death. Of course, I should be frightened if there was any pain;

but the doctors tell me there is absolutely none. It is simply going to

sleep. The nerves are dead before the brain. I am going to do it myself.

I don’t want any one else in the room. In a few minutes the nurse

here--Sister Anne, with whom I have made great friends--will bring in

the thing, and then she will leave me.

“As regards what happens afterwards, I do not mind at all. Please do

exactly what you wish. The cremation will take place to-morrow morning

at noon, so that you can be here if you like. Or you can send

directions, and they will send on the urn to you. I know you liked to

have your mother’s urn in the garden; so perhaps you will like mine.

Please do exactly what you like. And with all my things too. Of course I

leave them to you.

“Now, my dear, I want to say this--that I am very sorry indeed now that

I was so tiresome and stupid. I think I did really believe your

arguments all along. But I did not want to believe them. Do you see now

why I was so tiresome?

“Oliver, my darling, you have been extraordinarily good to me.... Yes, I

know I am crying, but I am really very happy. This is such a lovely

ending. I wish I hadn’t been obliged to make you so anxious during this

last week: but I had to--I knew you would persuade me against it, if you

found me, and that would have been worse than ever. I am sorry I told

you that lie, too. Indeed, it is the first I ever did tell you.

“Well, I don’t think there is much more to say. Oliver, my dear,

good-bye. I send you my love with all my heart.

“MABEL.”

* * * * *

She sat still when she had read it through, and her eyes were still wet

with tears. Yet it was all perfectly true. She was far happier than she

could be if she had still the prospect of going back. Life seemed

entirely blank: death was so obvious an escape; her soul ached for it,

as a body for sleep.

She directed the envelope, still with a perfectly steady hand, laid it

on the table, and leaned back once more, glancing again at her untasted

breakfast.

Then she suddenly began to think of her conversation with Mr. Francis;

and, by a strange association of ideas, remembered the fall of the volor

in Brighton, the busy-ness of the priest, and the Euthanasia boxes....

When Sister Anne came in a few minutes later, she was astonished at what

she saw. The girl crouched at the window, her hands on the sill, staring

out at the sky in an attitude of unmistakable horror.

Sister Anne came across the room quickly, setting down something on the

table as she passed. She touched the girl on the shoulder.

“My dear, what is it?”

There was a long sobbing breath, and Mabel turned, rising as she turned,

and clutched the nurse with one shaking hand, pointing out with the

other.

“There!” she said. “There--look!”

“Well, my dear, what is it? I see nothing. It is a little dark!”

“Dark!” said the other. “You call that dark! Why, why, it is

black--black!”

The nurse drew her softly backwards to the chair, turning her from the

window. She recognised nervous fear; but no more than that. But Mabel

tore herself free, and wheeled again.

“You call that a little dark,” she said. “Why, look, sister, look!”

Yet there was nothing remarkable to be seen. In front rose up the

feathery hand of an elm, then the shuttered windows across the court,

the roof, and above that the morning sky, a little heavy and dusky as

before a storm; but no more than that.

“Well, what is it, my dear? What do you see?”

“Why, why ... look! look!--There, listen to that.”

A faint far-away rumble sounded as the rolling of a waggon--so faint

that it might almost be an aural delusion. But the girl’s hands were at

her ears, and her face was one white wide-eyed mask of terror. The nurse

threw her arms round her.

“My dear,” she said, “you are not yourself. That is nothing but a little

heat-thunder. Sit down quietly.”

She could feel the girl’s body shaking beneath her hands, but there was

no resistance as she drew her to the chair.

“The lights! the lights!” sobbed Mabel.

“Will you promise me to sit quietly, then?”

She nodded; and the nurse went across to the door, smiling tenderly; she

had seen such things before. A moment later the room was full of

exquisite sunlight, as she switched the handle. As she turned, she saw

that Mabel had wheeled herself round in the chair, and with clasped

hands was still staring out at the sky above the roofs; but she was

plainly quieter again now. The nurse came back, and put her hand on her

shoulder.

“You are overwrought, my dear.... Now you must believe me. There is

nothing to be frightened of. It is just nervous excitement.... Shall I

pull down the blind?”

Mabel turned her face.... Yes, certainly the light had reassured her.

Her face was still white and bewildered, but the steady look was coming

back to her eyes, though, even as she spoke, they wandered back more

than once to the window.

“Nurse,” she said more quietly, “please look again and tell me if you

see nothing. If you say there is nothing I will believe that I am going

mad. No; you must not touch the blind.”

No; there was nothing. The sky was a little dark, as if a blight were

coming on; but there was hardly more than a veil of cloud, and the light

was scarcely more than tinged with gloom. It was just such a sky as

precedes a spring thunderstorm. She said so, clearly and firmly.

Mabel’s face steadied still more.

“Very well, nurse.... Then---”

She turned to the little table by the side on which Sister Anne had set

down what she had brought into the room.

“Show me, please.”

The nurse still hesitated.

“Are you sure you are not too frightened, my dear? Shall I get you

anything?”

“I have no more to say,” said Mabel firmly. “Show me, please.”

Sister Anne turned resolutely to the table.

There rested upon it a white-enamelled box, delicately painted with

flowers. From this box emerged a white flexible tube with a broad

mouthpiece, fitted with two leather-covered steel clasps. From the side

of the box nearest the chair protruded a little china handle.

“Now, my dear,” began the nurse quietly, watching the other’s eyes turn

once again to the window, and then back--“now, my dear, you sit there,

as you are now. Your head right back, please. When you are ready, you

put this over your mouth, and clasp the springs behind your head....

So.... it works quite easily. Then you turn this handle, round that way,

as far as it will go. And that is all.”

Mabel nodded. She had regained her self-command, and understood plainly

enough, though even as she spoke once again her eyes strayed away to the

window.

“That is all,” she said. “And what then?”

The nurse eyed her doubtfully for a moment.

“I understand perfectly,” said Mabel. “And what then?”

“There is nothing more. Breathe naturally. You will feel sleepy almost

directly. Then you close your eyes, and that is all.”

Mabel laid the tube on the table and stood up. She was completely

herself now.

“Give me a kiss, sister,” she said.

The nurse nodded and smiled to her once more at the door. But Mabel

hardly noticed it; again she was looking towards the window.

“I shall come back in half-an-hour,” said Sister Anne.

Then her eyes caught a square of white upon the centre table. “Ah! that

letter!” she said.

“Yes,” said the girl absently. “Please take it.”

The nurse took it up, glanced at the address, and again at Mabel. Still

she hesitated.

“In half-an-hour,” she repeated. “There is no hurry at all. It doesn’t

take five minutes.... Good-bye, my dear.”

But Mabel was still looking out of the window, and made no answer.

III

Mabel stood perfectly still until she heard the locking of the door and

the withdrawal of the key. Then once more she went to the window and

clasped the sill.

From where she stood there was visible to her first the courtyard

beneath, with its lawn in the centre, and a couple of trees growing

there--all plain in the brilliant light that now streamed from her

window, and secondly, above the roofs, a tremendous pall of ruddy black.

It was the more terrible from the contrast. Earth, it seemed, was

capable of light; heaven had failed.

It appeared, too, that there was a curious stillness. The house was,

usually, quiet enough at this hour: the inhabitants of that place were

in no mood for bustle: but now it was more than quiet; it was deathly

still: it was such a hush as precedes the sudden crash of the sky’s

artillery. But the moments went by, and there was no such crash: only

once again there sounded a solemn rolling, as of some great wain far

away; stupendously impressive, for with it to the girl’s ears there

seemed mingled a murmur of innumerable voices, ghostly crying and

applause. Then again the hush settled down like wool.

She had begun to understand now. The darkness and the sounds were not

for all eyes and ears. The nurse had seen and heard nothing

extraordinary, and the rest of the world of men saw and heard nothing.

To them it was no more than the hint of a coming storm.

Mabel did not attempt to distinguish between the subjective and the

objective. It was nothing to her as to whether the sights and sounds

were generated by her own brain or perceived by some faculty hitherto

unknown. She seemed to herself to be standing already apart from the

world which she had known; it was receding from her, or, rather, while

standing where it had always done, it was melting, transforming itself,

passing to some other mode of existence. The strangeness seemed no more

strange than anything else than that ... that little painted box upon

the table.

Then, hardly knowing what she said, looking steadily upon that appalling

sky, she began to speak....

“O God!” she said. “If You are really there really there---”

Her voice faltered, and she gripped the sill to steady herself. She

wondered vaguely why she spoke so; it was neither intellect nor emotion

that inspired her. Yet she continued....

“O God, I know You are not there--of course You are not. But if You were

there, I know what I would say to You. I would tell You how puzzled and

tired I am. No--No--I need not tell You: You would know it. But I would

say that I was very sorry for all this. Oh! You would know that too. I

need not say anything at all. O God! I don’t know what I want to say. I

would like You to look after Oliver, of course, and all Your poor

Christians. Oh! they will have such a hard time.... God. God--You would

understand, wouldn’t You?” ...

* * * * *

Again came the heavy rumble and the solemn bass of a myriad voices; it

seemed a shade nearer, she thought.... She never liked thunderstorms or

shouting crowds. They always gave her a headache ...

“Well, well,” she said. “Good-bye, everything---”

Then she was in the chair. The mouthpiece--yes; that was it....

She was furious at the trembling of her hands; twice the spring slipped

from her polished coils of hair.... Then it was fixed ... and as if a

breeze fanned her, her sense came back....

She found she could breathe quite easily; there was no resistance--that

was a comfort; there would be no suffocation about it.... She put out

her left hand and touched the handle, conscious less of its sudden

coolness than of the unbearable heat in which the room seemed almost

suddenly plunged. She could hear the drumming pulses in her temples and

the roaring of the voices.... She dropped the handle once more, and with

both hands tore at the loose white wrapper that she had put on this

morning....

Yes, that was a little easier; she could breathe better so. Again her

fingers felt for and found the handle, but the sweat streamed from her

fingers, and for an instant she could not turn the knob. Then it yielded

suddenly....

* * * * *

For one instant the sweet languid smell struck her consciousness like a

blow, for she knew it as the scent of death. Then the steady will that

had borne her so far asserted itself, and she laid her hands softly in

her lap, breathing deeply and easily.

She had closed her eyes at the turning of the handle, but now opened

them again, curious to watch the aspect of the fading world. She had

determined to do this a week ago: she would at least miss nothing of

this unique last experience.

It seemed at first that there was no change. There was the feathery head

of the elm, the lead roof opposite, and the terrible sky above. She

noticed a pigeon, white against the blackness, soar and swoop again out

of sight in an instant....

... Then the following things happened....

There was a sudden sensation of ecstatic lightness in all her limbs; she

attempted to lift a hand, and was aware that it was impossible; it was

no longer hers. She attempted to lower her eyes from that broad strip of

violet sky, and perceived that that too was impossible. Then she

understood that the will had already lost touch with the body, that the

crumbling world had receded to an infinite distance--that was as she had

expected, but what continued to puzzle her was that her mind was still

active. It was true that the world she had known had withdrawn itself

from the dominion of consciousness, as her body had done, except, that

was, in the sense of hearing, which was still strangely alert; yet there

was still enough memory to be aware that there was such a world--that

there were other persons in existence; that men went about their

business, knowing nothing of what had happened; but faces, names,

places had all alike gone. In fact, she was conscious of herself in such

a manner as she had never been before; it seemed as if she had

penetrated at last into some recess of her being into which hitherto she

had only looked as through clouded glass. This was very strange, and yet

it was familiar, too; she had arrived, it seemed, at a centre, round the

circumference of which she had been circling all her life; and it was

more than a mere point: it was a distinct space, walled and enclosed....

At the same instant she knew that hearing, too, was gone....

Then an amazing thing happened--yet it appeared to her that she had

always known it would happen, although her mind had never articulated

it. This is what happened.

The enclosure melted, with a sound of breaking, and a limitless space

was about her--limitless, different to everything else, and alive, and

astir. It was alive, as a breathing, panting body is alive--self-evident

and overpowering--it was one, yet it was many; it was immaterial, yet

absolutely real--real in a sense in which she never dreamed of

reality....

Yet even this was familiar, as a place often visited in dreams is

familiar; and then, without warning, something resembling sound or

light, something which she knew in an instant to be unique, tore across

it....

* * * * *

Then she saw, and understood....

CHAPTER V

I

Oliver had passed the days since Mabel’s disappearance in an

indescribable horror. He had done all that was possible: he had traced

her to the station and to Victoria, where he lost her clue; he had

communicated with the police, and the official answer, telling him

nothing, had arrived to the effect that there was no news: and it was

not until the Tuesday following her disappearance that Mr. Francis,

hearing by chance of his trouble, informed him by telephone that he had

spoken with her on the Friday night. But there was no satisfaction to be

got from him--indeed, the news was bad rather than good, for Oliver

could not but be dismayed at the report of the conversation, in spite of

Mr. Francis’s assurances that Mrs. Brand had shown no kind of

inclination to defend the Christian cause.

Two theories gradually emerged, in his mind; either she was gone to the

protection of some unknown Catholic, or--and he grew sick at the

thought--she had applied somewhere for Euthanasia as she had once

threatened, and was now under the care of the Law; such an event was

sufficiently common since the passing of the Release Act in 1998. And it

was frightful that he could not condemn it.

* * * * *

On the Tuesday evening, as he sat heavily in his room, for the hundredth

time attempting to trace out some coherent line through the maze of

intercourse he had had with his wife during these past months, his bell

suddenly rang. It was the red label of Whitehall that had made its

appearance; and for an instant his heart leaped with hope that it was

news of her. But at the first words it sank again.

“Brand,” came the sharp fairy voice, “is that you?... Yes, I am

Snowford. You are wanted at once--at once, you understand. There is an

extraordinary meeting of the Council at twenty o’clock. The President

will be there. You understand the urgency. No time for more. Come

instantly to my room.”

* * * * *

Even this message scarcely distracted him. He, with the rest of the

world, was no longer surprised at the sudden descents of the President.

He came and vanished again without warning, travelling and working with

incredible energy, yet always, as it seemed, retaining his personal

calm.

It was already after nineteen; Oliver supped immediately, and a

quarter-of-an-hour before the hour presented himself in Snowford’s room,

where half a dozen of his colleagues were assembled.

That minister came forward to meet him, with a strange excitement in his

face. He drew him aside by a button.

“See here, Brand, you are wanted to speak first--immediately after the

President’s Secretary who will open; they are coming from Paris. It is

about a new matter altogether. He has had information of the whereabouts

of the Pope.... It seems that there is one.... Oh, you will understand

presently. Oh, and by the way,” he went on, looking curiously at the

strained face, “I am sorry to hear of your anxiety. Pemberton told me

just now.”

Oliver lifted a hand abruptly.

“Tell me,” he said. “What am I wanted to say?”

“Well, the President will have a proposal, we imagine. You know our

minds well enough. Just explain our attitude towards the Catholics.”

Oliver’s eyes shrank suddenly to two bright lines beneath the lids. He

nodded.

Cartwright came up presently, an immense, bent old man with a face of

parchment, as befitted the Lord Chief Justice.

“By the way, Brand, what do you know of a man called Phillips? He seems

to have mentioned your name.”

“He was my secretary,” said Oliver slowly. “What about him?”

“I think he must be mad. He has given himself up to a magistrate,

entreating to be examined at once. The magistrate has applied for

instructions. You see, the Act has scarcely begun to move yet.”

“But what has he done?”

“That’s the difficulty. He says he cannot deny God, neither can he

affirm Him.--He was your secretary, then?”

“Certainly. I knew he was inclined to Christianity. I had to get rid of

him for that.”

“Well, he is to be remanded for a week. Perhaps he will be able to make

up his mind.”

Then the talk shifted off again. Two or three more came up, and all eyed

Oliver with a certain curiosity; the story was gone about that his wife

had left him. They wished to see how he took it.

At five minutes before the hour a bell rang, and the door into the

corridor was thrown open.

“Come, gentlemen,” said the Prime Minister.

The Council Chamber was a long high room on the first floor; its walls

from floor to ceiling were lined with books. A noiseless rubber carpet

was underfoot. There were no windows; the room was lighted artificially.

A long table, set round with armed chairs, ran the length of the floor,

eight on either side; and the Presidential chair, raised on a dais,

stood at the head.

Each man went straight to his chair in silence, and remained there,

waiting.

* * * * *

The room was beautifully cool, in spite of the absence of windows, and

was a pleasant contrast to the hot evening outside through which most of

these men had come. They, too, had wondered at the surprising weather,

and had smiled at the conflict of the infallible. But they were not

thinking about that now: the coming of the President was a matter which

always silenced the most loquacious. Besides, this time, they understood

that the affair was more serious than usual.

At one minute before the hour, again a bell sounded, four times, and

ceased; and at the signal each man turned instinctively to the high

sliding door behind the Presidential chair. There was dead silence

within and without: the huge Government offices were luxuriously

provided with sound-deadening apparatus, and not even the rolling of the

vast motors within a hundred yards was able to send a vibration through

the layers of rubber on which the walls rested. There was only one noise

that could penetrate, and that the sound of thunder. The experts were at

present unable to exclude this.

Again the silence seemed to fall in one yet deeper veil. Then the door

opened, and a figure came swiftly through, followed by Another in black

and scarlet.

II

He passed straight up to the chair, followed by two secretaries, bowed

slightly to this side and that, sat down and made a little gesture. Then

they, too, were in their chairs, upright and intent. For perhaps the

hundredth time, Oliver, staring upon the President, marvelled at the

quietness and the astounding personality of Him. He was in the English

judicial dress that had passed down through centuries--black and scarlet

with sleeves of white fur and a crimson sash--and that had lately been

adopted as the English presidential costume of him who stood at the head

of the legislature. But it was in His personality, in the atmosphere

that flowed from Him, that the marvel lay. It was as the scent of the

sea to the physical nature--it exhilarated, cleansed, kindled,

intoxicated. It was as inexplicably attractive as a cherry orchard in

spring, as affecting as the cry of stringed instruments, as compelling

as a storm. So writers had said. They compared it to a stream of clear

water, to the flash of a gem, to the love of woman. They lost all

decency sometimes; they said it fitted all moods, as the voice of many

waters; they called it again and again, as explicitly as possible, the

Divine Nature perfectly Incarnate at last....

Then Oliver’s reflections dropped from him like a mantle, for the

President, with downcast eyes and head thrown back, made a little

gesture to the ruddy-faced secretary on His right; and this man, without

a movement, began to speak like an impersonal actor repeating his part.

* * * * *

“Gentlemen,” he said, in an even, resonant voice, “the President is come

direct from Paris. This afternoon His Honour was in Berlin; this

morning, early, in Moscow. Yesterday in New York. To-night His Honour

must be in Turin; and to-morrow will begin to return through Spain,

North Africa, Greece and the southeastern states.”

This was the usual formula for such speeches. The President spoke but

little himself now; but was careful for the information of his subjects

on occasions like this. His secretaries were perfectly trained, and this

speaker was no exception. After a slight pause, he continued:

“This is the business, gentlemen.

“Last Thursday, as you are aware, the Plenipotentaries signed the Test

Act in this room, and it was immediately communicated all over the

world. At sixteen o’clock His Honour received a message from a man named

Dolgorovski--who is, it is understood, one of the Cardinals of the

Catholic Church. This he claimed; and on inquiry it was found to be a

fact. His information confirmed what was already suspected--namely, that

there was a man claiming to be Pope, who had created (so the phrase is)

other cardinals, shortly after the destruction of Rome, subsequent to

which his own election took place in Jerusalem. It appears that this

Pope, with a good deal of statesmanship, has chosen to keep his own name

and place of residence a secret from even his own followers, with the

exception of the twelve cardinals; that he has done a great deal,

through the instrumentality of one of his cardinals in particular, and

through his new Order in general, towards the reorganisation of the

Catholic Church; and that at this moment he is living, apart from the

world, in complete security.

“His Honour blames Himself that He did not do more than suspect

something of the kind--misled, He thinks, by a belief that if there had

been a Pope, news would have been heard of it from other quarters, for,

as is well known, the entire structure of the Christian Church rests

upon him as upon a rock. Further, His Honour thinks inquiries should

have been made in the very place where now it is understood that this

Pope is living.

“The man’s name, gentlemen, is Franklin---”

Oliver started uncontrollably, but relapsed again to bright-eyed

intelligence as for an instant the President glanced up from his

motionlessness.

“Franklin,” repeated the secretary, “and he is living in Nazareth,

where, it is said, the Founder of Christianity passed His youth.

“Now this, gentlemen, His Honour heard on Thursday in last week. He

caused inquiries to be made, and on Friday morning received further

intelligence from Dolgorovski that this Pope had summoned to Nazareth a

meeting of his cardinals, and certain other officials, from all over the

world, to consider what steps should be taken in view of the new Test

Act. This His Honour takes to show an extreme want of statesmanship

which seems hard to reconcile with his former action. These persons are

summoned by special messengers to meet on Saturday next, and will begin

their deliberations after some Christian ceremonies on the following

morning.

“You wish, gentlemen, no doubt, to know Dolgorovski’s motives in making

all this known. His Honour is satisfied that they are genuine. The man

has been losing belief in his religion; in fact, he has come to see that

this religion is the supreme obstacle to the consolidation of the race.

He has esteemed it his duty, therefore, to lay this information before

His Honour. It is interesting as an historical parallel to reflect that

the same kind of incident marked the rise of Christianity as will mark,

it is thought, its final extinction--namely, the informing on the part

of one of the leaders of the place and method by which the principal

personage may be best approached. It is also, surely, very significant

that the scene of the extinction of Christianity is identical with that

of its inauguration....

“Well, gentlemen, His Honour’s proposal is as follows, carrying out the

Declaration to which you all acceded. It is that a force should proceed

during the night of Saturday next to Palestine, and on the Sunday

morning, when these men will be all gathered together, that this force

should finish as swiftly and mercifully as possible the work to which

the Powers have set their hands. So far, the comment of the Governments

which have been consulted has been unanimous, and there is little doubt

that the rest will be equally so. His Honour felt that He could not act

in so grave a matter on His own responsibility; it is not merely local;

it is a catholic administration of justice, and will have results wider

than it is safe minutely to prophesy.

“It is not necessary to enter into His Honour’s reasons. They are

already well known to you; but before asking for your opinion, He

desires me to indicate what He thinks, in the event of your approval,

should be the method of action.

“Each Government, it is proposed, should take part in the final scene,

for it is something of a symbolic action; and for this purpose it is

thought well that each of the three Departments of the World should

depute volors, to the number of the constituting States, one hundred and

twenty-two all told, to set about the business. These volors should have

no common meeting-ground, otherwise the news will surely penetrate to

Nazareth, for it is understood that, this new Order of Christ Crucified

has a highly organised system of espionage. The rendezvous, then, should

be no other than Nazareth itself; and the time of meeting should be, it

is thought, not later than nine o’clock according to Palestine

reckoning. These details, however, can be decided and communicated as

soon as a determination has been formed as regards the entire scheme.

“With respect to the exact method of carrying out the conclusion, His

Honour is inclined to think it will be more merciful to enter into no

negotiations with the persons concerned. An opportunity should be given

to the inhabitants of the village to make their escape if they so desire

it, and then, with the explosives that the force should carry, the end

can be practically instantaneous.

“For Himself, His Honour proposes to be there in person, and further

that the actual discharge should take place from His own car. It seems

but suitable that the world which has done His Honour the goodness to

elect Him to its Presidentship should act through His hands; and this

would be at least some slight token of respect to a superstition which,

however infamous, is yet the one and only force capable of withstanding

the true progress of man.

“His Honour promises you, gentlemen, that in the event of this plan

being carried out, we shall be no more troubled with Christianity.

Already the moral effect of the Test Act has been prodigious. It is

understood that, by tens of thousands, Catholics, numbering among them

even members of this new fanatical Religious Order, have been renouncing

their follies even in these few days; and a final blow struck now at the

very heart and head of the Catholic Church, eliminating, as it would do,

the actual body on which the entire organisation subsists, would render

its resurrection impossible. It is a well-known fact that, granted the

extinction of the line of Popes, together with those necessary for its

continuance, there could be no longer any question amongst even the most

ignorant that the claim of Jesus had ceased to be either reasonable or

possible. Even the Order that has provided the sinews for this new

movement must cease to exist.

“Dolgorovski, of course, is the difficulty, for it is not certainly

known whether one Cardinal would be considered sufficient for the

propagation of the line; and, although reluctantly, His Honour feels

bound to suggest that at the conclusion of the affair, Dolgorovski,

also, who will not, of course, be with his fellows at Nazareth, should

be mercifully removed from even the danger of a relapse....

“His Honour, then, asks you, gentlemen, as briefly as possible, to state

your views on the points of which I have had the privilege of speaking.”

The quiet business-like voice ceased.

He had spoken throughout in the manner with which he had begun; his eyes

had been downcast throughout; his voice had been tranquil and

restrained. His deportment had been admirable.

There was an instant’s silence, and all eyes settled steadily again upon

the motionless figure in black and scarlet and the ivory face.

Then Oliver stood up. His face was as white as paper; his eyes bright

and dilated.

“Sir,” he said, “I have no doubt that we are all of one mind. I need say

no more than that, so far as I am a representative of my colleagues, we

assent to the proposal, and leave all details in your Honour’s hands.”

The President lifted his eyes, and ran them swiftly along the rigid

faces turned to him.

Then, in the breathless hush, he spoke for the first time in his strange

voice, now as passionless as a frozen river.

“Is there any other proposal?”

There was a murmur of assent as the men rose to their feet.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” said the secretary.

III

It was a little before seven o’clock on the morning of Saturday that

Oliver stepped out of the motor that had carried him to Wimbledon

Common, and began to go up the steps of the old volor-stage, abandoned

five years ago. It had been thought better, in view of the extreme

secrecy that was to be kept, that England’s representative in the

expedition should start from a comparatively unknown point, and this old

stage, in disuse now, except for occasional trials of new Government

machines, had been selected. Even the lift had been removed, and it was

necessary to climb the hundred and fifty steps on foot.

It was with a certain unwillingness that he had accepted this post among

the four delegates, for nothing had been heard of his wife, and it was

terrible to him to leave London while her fate was as yet doubtful. On

the whole, he was less inclined than ever now to accept the Euthanasia

theory; he had spoken to one or two of her friends, all of whom declared

that she had never even hinted at such an end. And, again, although he

was well aware of the eight-day law in the matter, even if she had

determined on such a step there was nothing to show that she was yet in

England, and, in fact, it was more than likely that if she were bent on

such an act she would go abroad for it, where laxer conditions

prevailed. In short, it seemed that he could do no good by remaining in

England, and the temptation to be present at the final act of justice in

the East by which land, and, in fact, it was more than likely that if

she were to be wiped out, and Franklin, too, among them--Franklin, that

parody of the Lord of the World--this, added to the opinion of his

colleagues in the Government, and the curious sense, never absent from

him now, that Felsenburgh’s approval was a thing to die for if

necessary--these things had finally prevailed. He left behind him at

home his secretary, with instructions that no expense was to be spared

in communicating with him should any news of his wife arrive during his

absence.

It was terribly hot this morning, and, by the time that he reached the

top he noticed that the monster in the net was already fitted into its

white aluminium casing, and that the fans within the corridor and saloon

were already active. He stepped inside to secure a seat in the saloon,

set his bag down, and after a word or two with the guard, who, of

course, had not yet been informed of their destination, learning that

the others were not yet come, he went out again on to the platform for

coolness’ sake, and to brood in peace.

London looked strange this morning, he thought. Here beneath him was the

common, parched somewhat with the intense heat of the previous week,

stretching for perhaps half-a-mile--tumbled ground, smooth stretches of

turf, and the heads of heavy trees up to the first house-roofs, set,

too, it seemed, in bowers of foliage. Then beyond that began the serried

array, line beyond line, broken in one spot by the gleam of a

river-reach, and then on again fading beyond eyesight. But what

surprised him was the density of the air; it was now, as old books

related it had been in the days of smoke. There was no freshness, no

translucence of morning atmosphere; it was impossible to point in any

one direction to the source of this veiling gloom, for on all sides it

was the same. Even the sky overhead lacked its blue; it appeared painted

with a muddy brush, and the sun shewed the same faint tinge of red. Yes,

it was like that, he said wearily to himself--like a second-rate sketch;

there was no sense of mystery as of a veiled city, but rather unreality.

The shadows seemed lacking in definiteness, the outlines and grouping in

coherence. A storm was wanted, he reflected; or even, it might be, one

more earthquake on the other side of the world would, in wonderful

illustration of the globe’s unity, relieve the pressure on this side.

Well, well; the journey would be worth taking even for the interest of

observing climatic changes; but it would be terribly hot, he mused, by

the time the south of France was reached.

Then his thoughts leaped back to their own gnawing misery.

* * * * *

It was another ten minutes before he saw the scarlet Government motor,

with awnings out, slide up the road from the direction of Fulham; and

yet five minutes more before the three men appeared with their servants

behind them--Maxwell, Snowford and Cartwright, all alike, as was Oliver,

in white duck from head to foot.

They did not speak one word of their business, for the officials were

going to and fro, and it was advisable to guard against even the

smallest possibility of betrayal. The guard had been told that the volor

was required for a three days’ journey, that provisions were to be taken

in for that period, and that the first point towards which the course

was to lie was the centre of the South Downs. There would be no stopping

for at least a day and a night.

Further instructions had reached them from the President on the previous

morning, by which time He had completed His visitation, and received the

assent of the Emergency Councils of the world. This Snowford commented

upon in an undertone, and added a word or two as to details, as the four

stood together looking out over the city.

Briefly, the plan was as follows, at least so far as it concerned

England. The volor was to approach Palestine from the direction of the

Mediterranean, observing to get into touch with France on her left and

Spain on her right within ten miles of the eastern end of Crete. The

approximate hour was fixed at twenty-three (eastern time). At this point

she was to show her night signal, a scarlet line on a white field; and

in the event of her failing to observe her neighbours was to circle at

that point, at a height of eight hundred feet, until either the two were

sighted or further instructions were received. For the purpose of

dealing with emergencies, the President’s car, which would finally make

its entrance from the south, was to be accompanied by an _aide-de-camp_

capable of moving at a very high speed, whose signals were to be taken

as Felsenburgh’s own.

So soon as the circle was completed, having Esdraelon as its centre with

a radius of five hundred and forty miles, the volors were to advance,

dropping gradually to within five hundred feet of sea-level, and

diminishing their distance one from another from the twenty-five miles

or so at which they would first find themselves, until they were as near

as safety allowed. In this manner the advance at a pace of fifty miles

an hour from the moment that the circle was arranged would bring them

within sight of Nazareth at about nine o’clock on the Sunday morning.

* * * * *

The guard came up to the four as they stood there silent.

“We are ready, gentlemen,” he said.

“What do you think of the weather?” asked Snowford abruptly.

The guard pursed his lips.

“A little thunder, I expect, sir,” he said.

Oliver looked at him curiously.

“No more than that?” he asked.

“I should say a storm, sir,” observed the guard shortly.

Snowford turned towards the gangway.

“Well, we had best be off: we can lose time further on, if we wish.”

It was about five minutes more before all was ready. From the stern of

the boat came a faint smell of cooking, for breakfast would be served

immediately, and a white-capped cook protruded his head for an instant,

to question the guard. The four sat down in the gorgeous saloon in the

bows; Oliver silent by himself, the other three talking in low voices

together. Once more the guard passed through to his compartment at the

prow, glancing as he went to see that all were seated; and an instant

later came the clang of the signal. Then through all the length of the

boat--for she was the fastest ship that England possessed--passed the

thrill of the propeller beginning to work up speed; and simultaneously

Oliver, staring sideways through the plate-glass window, saw the rail

drop away, and the long line of London, pale beneath the tinged sky,

surge up suddenly. He caught a glimpse of a little group of persons

staring up from below, and they, too, dropped in a great swirl, and

vanished. Then, with a flash of dusty green, the Common had vanished,

and a pavement of house-roofs began to stream beneath, the long lines of

streets on this side and that turning like spokes of a gigantic wheel;

once more this pavement thinned, showing green again as between

infrequently laid cobble-stones; then they, too, were gone, and the

country was open beneath.

Snowford rose, staggering a little.

“I may as well tell the guard now,” he said. “Then we need not be

interrupted again.”

CHAPTER VI

I

The Syrian awoke from a dream that a myriad faces were looking into his

own, eager, attentive and horrible, in his corner of the roof-top, and

sat up sweating and gasping aloud for breath. For an instant he thought

that he was really dying, and that the spiritual world was about him.

Then, as he struggled, sense came back, and he stood up, drawing long

breaths of the stifling night air.

Above him the sky was as the pit, black and empty; there was not a

glimmer of light, though the moon was surely up. He had seen her four

hours before, a red sickle, swing slowly out from Thabor. Across the

plain, as he looked from the parapet, there was nothing. For a few yards

there lay across the broken ground a single crooked lance of light from

a half-closed shutter; and beneath that, nothing. To the north again,

nothing; to the west a glimmer, pale as a moth’s wing, from the

house-roofs of Nazareth; to the east, nothing. He might be on a

tower-top in space, except for that line of light and that grey glimmer

that evaded the eye.

On the roof, however, it was possible to make out at least outlines, for

the dormer trap had been left open at the head of the stairs, and from

somewhere within the depths of the house there stole up a faint

refracted light.

There was a white bundle in that corner; that would be the pillow of the

Benedictine abbot. He had seen him lay himself down there some time--was

it four hours or four centuries ago? There was a grey shape stretched

along that pale wall--the Friar, he thought; there were other irregular

outlines breaking the face of the parapet, here and there along the

sides.

Very softly, for he knew the caprices of sleep, he stepped across the

paved roof to the opposite parapet and looked over, for there yet hung

about him a desire for reassurance that he was still in company with

flesh and blood. Yes, indeed he was still on earth; for there was a real

and distinct light burning among the tumbled rocks, and beside it,

delicate as a miniature, the head and shoulders of a man, writing. And

in the circle of light were other figures, pale, broken patches on which

men lay; a pole or two, erected with the thought of a tent to follow; a

little pile of luggage with a rug across it; and beyond the circle other

outlines and shapes faded away into the stupendous blackness.

Then the writing man moved his head, and a monstrous shadow fled across

the ground; a yelp as of a strangling dog broke out suddenly close

behind him, and, as he turned, a moaning figure sat up on the roof,

sobbing itself awake. Another moved at the sound, and then as, sighing,

the former relapsed heavily against the wall, once more the priest went

back to his place, still doubtful as to the reality of all that he saw,

and the breathless silence came down again as a pall.

* * * * *

He woke again from dreamless sleep, and there was a change. From his

corner, as he raised his heavy eyes, there met them what seemed an

unbearable brightness; then, as he looked, it resolved itself into a

candle-flame, and beyond it a white sleeve, and higher yet a white face

and throat. He understood, and rose reeling; it was the messenger come

to fetch him as had been arranged.

As he passed across the space, once he looked round him, and it seemed

that the dawn must have come, for that appalling sky overhead was

visible at last. An enormous vault, smoke-coloured and opaque, seemed to

curve away to the ghostly horizons on either side where the far-away

hills raised sharp shapes as if cut in paper. Carmel was before him; at

least he thought it was that--a bull head and shoulders thrusting itself

forward and ending in an abrupt descent, and beyond that again the

glimmering sky. There were no clouds, no outlines to break the huge,

smooth, dusky dome beneath the centre of which this house-roof seemed

poised. Across the parapet, as he glanced to the right before descending

the steps, stretched Esdraelon, sad-coloured and sombre, into the

metallic distance. It was all as unreal as some fantastic picture by one

who had never looked upon clear sunlight. The silence was complete and

profound.

Straight down through the wheeling shadows he went, following the

white-hooded head and figure down the stairs, along the tiny passage,

stumbling once against the feet of one who slept with limbs tossed loose

like a tired dog; the feet drew back mechanically, and a little moan

broke from the shadows. Then he went on, passing the servant who stood

aside, and entered.

There were half-a-dozen men gathered here, silent, white figures

standing apart one from the other, who genuflected as the Pope came in

simultaneously through the opposite door, and again stood white-faced

and attentive. He ran his eyes over them as he stopped, waiting behind

his master’s chair--there were two he knew, remembering them from last

night--dark-faced Cardinal Ruspoli, and the lean Australian Archbishop,

besides Cardinal Corkran, who stood by his chair at the Pope’s own

table, with papers laid ready.

Silvester sat down, and with a little gesture caused the others to sit

too. Then He began at once in that quiet tired voice that his servant

knew so well.

“Eminences-we are all here, I think. We need lose no more time, then....

Cardinal Corkran has something to communicate---” He turned a little.

“Father, sit down, if you please. This will occupy a little while.”

The priest went across to the stone window-seat, whence he could watch

the Pope’s face in the light of the two candles that now stood on the

table between him and the Cardinal-Secretary. Then the Cardinal began,

glancing up from his papers.

“Holiness. I had better begin a little way back. Their Eminences have

not heard the details properly....

“I received at Damascus, on last Friday week, inquiries from various

prelates in different parts of the world, as to the actual measure

concerning the new policy of persecution. At first I could tell them

nothing positively, for it was not until after twenty o’clock that

Cardinal Ruspoli, in Turin, informed me of the facts. Cardinal Malpas

confirmed them a few minutes later, and the Cardinal Archbishop of Pekin

at twenty-three. Before mid-day on Saturday I received final

confirmation from my messengers in London.

“I was at first surprised that Cardinal Dolgorovski did not communicate

it; for almost simultaneously with the Turin message I received one from

a priest of the Order of Christ Crucified in Moscow, to which, of

course, I paid no attention. (It is our rule, Eminences, to treat

unauthorised communications in that way.) His Holiness, however, bade me

make inquiries, and I learned from Father Petrovoski and others that the

Government placards published the news at twenty o’clock--by our time.

It was curious, therefore, that the Cardinal had not seen it; if he had

seen it, it was, of course, his duty to acquaint me immediately.

“Since that time, however, the following facts have come out. It is

established beyond a doubt that Cardinal Dolgorovski received a visitor

in the course of the evening. His own chaplain, who, your Eminences are

perhaps aware, has been very active in Russia on behalf of the Church,

informs me of this privately. Yet the Cardinal asserts, in explanation

of his silence, that he was alone during those hours, and had given

orders that no one was to be admitted to his presence without urgent

cause. This, of course, confirmed His Holiness’s opinion, but I received

orders from Him to act as if nothing had happened, and to command the

Cardinal’s presence here with the rest of the Sacred College. To this I

received an intimation that he would be present. Yesterday, however, a

little before mid-day, I received a further message that his Eminency

had met with a slight accident, but that he yet hoped to present himself

in time for the deliberations. Since then no further news has arrived.”

There was a dead silence.

Then the Pope turned to the Syrian priest.

“Father,” he said, “it was you who received his Eminency’s messages.

Have you anything to add to this?”

“No, Holiness.”

He turned again.

“My son,” he said, “report to Us publicly what you have already

reported to Us in private.”

A small, bright-eyed man moved out of the shadows.

“Holiness, it was I who conveyed the message to Cardinal Dolgorovski. He

refused at first to receive me. When I reached his presence and

communicated the command he was silent; then he smiled; then he told me

to carry back the message that he would obey.”

Again the Pope was silent.

Then suddenly the tall Australian stood up.

“Holiness,” he said, “I was once intimate with that man. It was partly

through my means that he sought reception into the Catholic Church. This

was not less than fourteen years ago, when the fortunes of the Church

seemed about to prosper.... Our friendly relations ceased two years ago,

and I may say that, from what I know of him, I find no difficulty in

believing---”

As his voice shook with passion and he faltered, Silvester raised his

hand.

“We desire no recriminations. Even the evidence is now useless, for what

was to be done has been done. For ourselves, we have no doubt as to its

nature.... It was to this man that Christ gave the morsel through our

hands, saying _Quod faces, fac cities. Cum ergo accepisset Me buccellam,

exivit continuo. Erat autem nox._”

Again fell the silence, and in the pause sounded a long half-vocal sigh

from without the door. It came and went as a sleeper turned, for the

passage was crowded with exhausted men--as a soul might sigh that passed

from light to darkness.

Then Silvester spoke again. And as He spoke He began, as if

mechanically, to tear up a long paper, written with lists of names, that

lay before Him.

“Eminences, it is three hours after dawn. In two hours more We shall say

mass in your presence, and give Holy Communion. During those two hours

We commission you to communicate this news to all who are assembled

here; and further, We bestow on each and all of you jurisdiction apart

from all previous rules of time and place; we give a Plenary Indulgence

to all who confess and communicate this day. Father--” he turned to the

Syrian--“Father, you will now expose the Blessed Sacrament in the

chapel, after which you will proceed to the village and inform the

inhabitants that if they wish to save their lives they had best be gone

immediately--immediately, you understand.”

The Syrian started from his daze.

“Holiness,” he stammered, stretching out a hand, “the lists, the lists!”

(He had seen what these were.)

But Silvester only smiled as He tossed the fragments on to the table.

Then He stood up.

“You need not trouble, my son.... We shall not need these any more....

“One last word, Eminences.... If there is one heart here that doubts or

is afraid, I have a word to say.”

He paused, with an extraordinarily simple deliberateness, ran the eyes

round the tense faces turned to Him.

“I have had a Vision of God,” He said softly. “I walk no more by faith,

but by sight.”

II

An hour later the priest toiled back in the hot twilight up the path

from the village, followed by half-a-dozen silent men, twenty yards

behind, whose curiosity exceeded their credulousness. He had left a few

more standing bewildered at the doors of the little mud-houses; and had

seen perhaps a hundred families, weighted with domestic articles, pour

like a stream down the rocky path that led to Khaifa. He had been cursed

by some, even threatened; stared upon by others; mocked by a few. The

fanatical said that the Christians had brought God’s wrath upon the

place, and the darkness upon the sky: the sun was dying, for these

hounds were too evil for him to look upon and live. Others again seemed

to see nothing remarkable in the state of the weather....

There was no change in that sky from its state an hour before, except

that perhaps it had lightened a little as the sun climbed higher behind

that impenetrable dusky shroud. Hills, grass, men’s faces--all bore to

the priest’s eyes the look of unreality; they were as things seen in a

dream by eyes that roll with sleep through lids weighted with lead. Even

to other physical senses that unreality was present; and once more he

remembered his dream, thankful that that horror at least was absent. But

silence seemed other than a negation of sound, it was a thing in itself,

an affirmation, unruffled by the sound of footsteps, the thin barking of

dogs, the murmur of voices. It appeared as if the stillness of eternity

had descended and embraced the world’s activities, and as if that world,

in a desperate attempt to assert its own reality, was braced in a set,

motionless, noiseless, breathless effort to hold itself in being. What

Silvester had said just now was beginning to be true of this man also.

The touch of the powdery soil and the warm pebbles beneath the priest’s

bare feet seemed something apart from the consciousness that usually

regards the things of sense as more real and more intimate than the

things of spirit. Matter still had a reality, still occupied space, but

it was of a subjective nature, the result of internal rather than

external powers. He appeared to himself already to be scarcely more than

a soul, intent and steady, united by a thread only to the body and the

world with which he was yet in relations. He knew that the appalling

heat was there; once even, before his eyes a patch of beaten ground

cracked and lisped as water that touches hot iron, as he trod upon it.

He could feel the heat upon his forehead and hands, his whole body was

swathed and soaked in it; yet he regarded it as from an outside

standpoint, as a man with neuritis perceives that the pain is no longer

in his hand but in the pillow which supports it. So, too, with what his

eyes looked upon and his ears heard; so, too, with that faint bitter

taste that lay upon his lips and nostrils. There was no longer in him

fear or even hope--he regarded himself, the world, and even the

enshrouding and awful Presence of spirit as facts with which he had but

little to do. He was scarcely even interested; still less was he

distressed. There was Thabor before him--at least what once had been

Thabor, now it was no more than a huge and dusky dome-shape which

impressed itself upon his retina and informed his passive brain of its

existence and outline, though that existence seemed no better than that

of a dissolving phantom.

It seemed then almost natural--or at least as natural as all else--as he

came in through the passage and opened the chapel-door, to see that the

floor was crowded with prostrate motionless figures. There they lay, all

alike in the white burnous which he had given out last night; and, with

forehead on arms, as during the singing of the Litany of the Saints at

an ordination, lay the figure he knew best and loved more than all the

world, the shoulders and white hair at a slight elevation upon the

single altar step. Above the plain altar itself burned the six tall

candles; and in the midst, on the mean little throne, stood the

white-metal monstrance, with its White Centre....

Then he, too, dropped, and lay as he was....

* * * * *

He did not know how long it was before the circling observant

consciousness, the flow of slow images, the vibration of particular

thoughts, ceased and stilled as a pool rocks quietly to peace after the

dropped stone has long lain still. But it came at last--that superb

tranquillity, possible only when the senses are physically awake, with

which God, perhaps once in a lifetime, rewards the aspiring trustful

soul--that point of complete rest in the heart of the Fount of all

existence with which one day He will reward eternally the spirits of His

children. There was no thought in him of articulating this experience,

of analysing its elements, or fingering this or that strain of ecstatic

joy. The time for self-regarding was passed. It was enough that the

experience was there, although he was not even self-reflective enough to

tell himself so. He had passed from that circle whence the soul looks

within, from that circle, too, whence it looks upon objective glory, to

that very centre where it reposes--and the first sign to him that time

had passed was the murmur of words, heard distinctly and understood,

although with that apartness with which a drowsy man perceives a message

from without--heard as through a veil through which nothing but thinnest

essence could transpire.

_Spiritus Domini replevit orbem terrarum.... The Spirit of the Lord hath

fulfilled all things, alleluia: and that which contains all things hath

knowledge of the voice, alleluia, alleluia, alleluia._

_Exsurgat Deus_ (and the voice rose ever so slightly). “_Let God arise

and let His enemies be scattered; and let them who hate Him flee before

His face._”

_Gloria Patri...._

Then he raised his heavy head; and a phantom figure stood there in red

vestments, seeming to float rather than to stand, with thin hands

outstretched, and white cap on white hair seen in the gleam of the

steady candle-flames; another, also in white, kneeled on the step....

_Kyrie eleison ... Gloria in excelsis Deo ..._ those things passed like

a shadow-show, with movements and rustlings, but he perceived rather the

light which cast them. He heard _Deus qui in hodierna die ..._ but his

passive mind gave no pulse of reflex action, no stir of understanding

until these words. _Cum complerentur dies Pentecostes...._

“_When the day of Pentecost was fully come, all the disciples were with

one accord in the same place; and there came from heaven suddenly a

sound, as of a mighty wind approaching, and it filled the house where

they were sitting...._”

Then he remembered and understood.... It was Pentecost then! And with

memory a shred of reflection came back. Where then was the wind, and the

flame, and the earthquake, and the secret voice? Yet the world was

silent, rigid in its last effort at self-assertion: there was no tremor

to show that God remembered; no actual point of light, yet, breaking the

appalling vault of gloom that lay over sea and land to reveal that He

burned there in eternity, transcendent and dominant; not even a voice;

and at that he understood yet more. He perceived that that world, whose

monstrous parody his sleep had presented to him in the night, was other

than that he had feared it to be; it was sweet, not terrible; friendly,

not hostile; clear, not stifling; and home, not exile. There were

presences here, but not those gluttonous, lustful things that had looked

on him last night.... He dropped his head again upon his hands, at once

ashamed and content; and again he sank down to depths of glimmering

inner peace....

* * * * *

Not again, for a while, did he perceive what he did or thought, or what

passed there, five yards away on the low step. Once only a ripple passed

across that sea of glass, a ripple of fire and sound like a rising star

that flicks a line of light across a sleeping lake, like a thin thread

of vibration streaming from a quivering string across the stillness of a

deep night--and be perceived for an instant as in a formless mirror that

a lower nature was struck into existence and into union with the Divine

nature at the same moment.... And then no more again but the great

encompassing hush, the sense of the innermost heart of reality, till he

found himself kneeling at the rail, and knew that That which alone truly

existed on earth approached him with the swiftness of thought and the

ardour of Divine Love....

Then, as the mass ended, and he raised his passive happy soul to receive

the last gift of God, there was a cry, a sudden clamour in the passage,

and a man stood in the doorway, gabbling Arabic.

III

Yet even at that sound and sight his soul scarcely tightened the languid

threads that united it through every fibre of his body with the world of

sense. He saw and heard the tumult in the passage, frantic eyes and

mouths crying aloud, and, in strange contrast, the pale ecstatic faces

of those princes who turned and looked; even within the tranquil

presence-chamber of the spirit where two beings, Incarnate God and all

but Discarnate Man, were locked in embrace, a certain mental process

went on. Yet all was still as apart from him as a lighted stage and its

drama from a self-contained spectator. In the material world, now as

attenuated as a mirage, events were at hand; but to his soul, balanced

now on reality and awake to facts, these things were but a spectacle....

He turned to the altar again, and there, as he had known it would be, in

the midst of clear light, all was at peace: the celebrant, seen as

through molten glass, adored as He murmured the mystery of the

Word-made-Flesh, and once more passing to the centre, sank upon His

knees.

Again the priest understood; for thought was no longer the process of a

mind, rather it was the glance of a spirit. He knew all now; and, by an

inevitable impulse, his throat began to sing aloud words that, as he

sang, opened for the first time as flowers telling their secret to the

sun.

_O Salutaris Hostia

Qui coeli pandis ostium. . . ._

They were all singing now; even the Mohammedan catechumen who had burst

in a moment ago sang with the rest, his lean head thrust out and his

arms tight across his breast; the tiny chapel rang with the forty

voices, and the vast world thrilled to hear it....

Still singing, the priest saw the veil laid as by a phantom upon the

Pontiff’s shoulders; there was a movement, a surge of figures--shadows

only in the midst of substance,

_... Uni Trinoque Domino ...._

--and the Pope stood erect, Himself a pallor in the heart of light, with

spectral folds of silk dripping from His shoulders, His hands swathed in

them, and His down-bent head hidden by the silver-rayed monstrance and

That which it bore....

_... Qui vitam sine termino

Nobis donet in patria ...._

... They were moving now, and the world of life swung with them; of so

much was he aware. He was out in the passage, among the white, frenzied

faces that with bared teeth stared up at that sight, silenced at last by

the thunder of _Pange Lingua_, and the radiance of those who passed out

to eternal life.... At the corner he turned for an instant to see the

six pale flames move along a dozen yards behind, as spear-heads about a

King, and in the midst the silver rays and the White Heart of God....

Then he was out, and the battle lay in array....

That sky on which he had looked an hour ago had passed from darkness

charged with light to light overlaid with darkness--from glimmering

night to Wrathful Day--and that light was red....

From behind Thabor on the left to Carmel on the far right, above the

hills twenty miles away rested an enormous vault of colour; here were no

gradations from zenith to horizon; all was the one deep smoulder of

crimson as of the glow of iron. It was such a colour as men have seen at

sunsets after rain, while the clouds, more translucent each instant,

transmit the glory they cannot contain. Here, too, was the sun, pale as

the Host, set like a fragile wafer above the Mount of Transfiguration,

and there, far down in the west where men had once cried upon Baal in

vain, hung the sickle of the white moon. Yet all was no more than

stained light that lies broken across carven work of stone....

_... In suprema nocte coena,_

sang the myriad voices,

_Recumbens cum fratribus

Observata lege plena

Cibis in legalibus

Cibum turbae duodenae

Se dat suis manibus ...._

He saw, too, poised as motes in light, that ring of strange

fish-creatures, white as milk, except where the angry glory turned their

backs to flame, white-winged like floating moths, from the tiny shape

far to the south to the monster at hand scarcely five hundred yards

away; and even as he looked, singing as he looked, he understood that

the circle was nearer, and perceived that these as yet knew nothing....

_Verbum caro, panem verum

Verbo carnem efficit ....

They were nearer still, until now even at his feet there slid along the

ground the shadow of a monstrous bird, pale and undefined, as between

the wan sun and himself moved out the vast shape that a moment ago hung

above the Hill.... Then again it backed across and waited ...

_Et si census deficit

Ad formandum cor sincerum

Sola fides sufficit ...._

He had halted and turned, going in the midst of his fellows, hearing,

he thought, the thrill of harping and the throb of heavenly drums; and,

across the space, moved now the six flames, steady as if cut of steel in

that stupendous poise of heaven and earth; and in their centre the

silver-rayed glory and the Whiteness of God made Man....

... Then, with a roar, came the thunder again, pealing in circle beyond

circle of those tremendous Presences--Thrones and Powers--who,

themselves to the world as substance to shadow, are but shadows again

beneath the apex and within the ring of Absolute Deity.... The thunder

broke loose, shaking the earth that now cringed on the quivering edge of

dissolution....

TANTUM ERGO SACRAMENTUM

VENEREMUR CERNUI

ET ANTIQUUM DOCUMENTUM

NOVO CEDAT RITUI.

Ah! yes; it was He for whom God waited now--He who far up beneath that

trembling shadow of a dome, itself but the piteous core of unimagined

splendour, came in His swift chariot, blind to all save that on which He

had fixed His eyes so long, unaware that His world corrupted about Him,

His shadow moving like a pale cloud across the ghostly plain where

Israel had fought and Sennacherib boasted--that plain lighted now with a

yet deeper glow, as heaven, kindling to glory beyond glory of yet

fiercer spiritual flame, still restrained the power knit at last to the

relief of final revelation, and for the last time the voices sang....

PRAESTET FIDES SUPPLEMENTUM

SENSUUM DEFECTUI ....

... He was coming now, swifter than ever, the heir of temporal ages and

the Exile of eternity, the final piteous Prince of rebels, the creature

against God, blinder than the sun which paled and the earth that shook;

and, as He came, passing even then through the last material stage to

the thinness of a spirit-fabric, the floating circle swirled behind Him,

tossing like phantom birds in the wake of a phantom ship.... He was

coming, and the earth, rent once again in its allegiance, shrank and

reeled in the agony of divided homage....

... He was coming--and already the shadow swept off the plain and

vanished, and the pale netted wings were rising to the cheek; and the

great bell clanged, and the long sweet chord rang out--not more than

whispers heard across the pealing storm of everlasting praise....

.... GENITORI GENITOQUE

LAUS ET JUBILATIO

SALUS HONOR VIRTUS QUOQUE

SIT ET BENEDICTIO

PROCEDENTI AB UTROQUE

COMPAR SIT LAUDATIO.

and once more

PROCEDENTI AB UTROQUE

COMPAR SIT LAUDATIO ....

Then this world passed, and the glory of it.

THE END