an operation would not only relieve, but cure me, and that he should
like to perform it here in my own house, and get a good surgical nurse
to attend upon me, with my wife’s assistance. For my wife is a capital
nurse, aren’t you, Jennie?” He caressed the bent head again and went
on--“He thinks me of too nervous a temperament to do well away from
home.”
There followed a silence. Presently Pitt spoke again in determined
accents.
“I tell you what it is, Dove,” he said, “_I’ll_ lend you the money!”
Dove started.
“_You_, Mr. Pitt?”
“Yes, I!” and Pitt, smiling, drew himself up with an air of
resolution--“I can’t afford it a bit--but I’ll risk it! I’ll risk
it because--well!--because it’s Christmas-time!--Now don’t try to
get up!” for Dove raising himself in his chair with some difficulty,
caught at Pitt’s hand and grasped it hard, while tears stood in his
eyes. “And don’t thank me, because I can’t bear to be thanked! It’s
Christmas-time, as I’ve said--and I’ve always had ‘old-fashioned’
ideas of Christmas. My mother taught them to me--God bless her!--I
think”--and his voice sank a little--“that perhaps we ought to spare
a little ‘gold, frankincense and myrrh’ just at this season--and this
loan to you will be my thank-offering--though it’s a poor thing at
best, for you see I can’t _give_ you the money, Willie! McNason could
have given it and never have missed it, but I can’t. I wish I could!
However, if you’ll take the will for the deed----”
And now Mrs. Dove, rising gently from her knees, came up to him and
laid her hand on his arm.
“God bless you, Mr. Pitt!” she said, in clear sweet tones--“He _will_
bless you!--be sure of that! What you lend to us is more than given,
because you have such a friendly sympathy with us, and sympathy is
greater than gold! I will not even try to thank you----”
“No, don’t!” interrupted Pitt, hastily, pressing her hand
hard--“It’s--it’s all right! Dove and I will arrange our business
matters, and I’ll see the doctor to-morrow, even though it _is_
Christmas Day!”
“I’ll pay it all back!” said Dove, excitedly--“I can work well
still--I’ve got all my wits about me--and I have a fine offer from a
firm to undertake some affairs for them immediately if I can only pull
up my strength. And I think I shall manage--now!”
Pitt here drew a chair to the fire opposite the sick man and sat down.
“It’s a curious thing,”--he said--“how the possession of enormous
wealth hardens some people, and makes them not only difficult to
deal with, but often positively cruel to themselves and to others!
Now if one is to judge by outward looks, Mr. McNason, though a
multi-millionaire, is just about one of the most miserable men alive!”
The Goblin chuckled, and gave Josiah a nudge with its sharp elbow.
“Hear that, McNason!” it said--“It’ll do you good to learn what other
folks think of you!”
“So old, so feeble and so lonely!” went on Mr. Pitt, almost
pathetically--“When he refused to do anything for your assistance,
Dove, I was inclined to be very plain-spoken and give him a bit of my
mind, even at the risk of offending him,--but seeing what a forlorn old
wreck he seemed, with his shrivelled body and wrinkled face, I thought
it was no use being angry with him,--especially at Christmas-time! He’s
not long for this world!”
Again the Goblin nudged Josiah’s arm and its fiery eyes glowed with
railway-signal brilliancy.
“It’s not exactly age that will kill him,”--went on Pitt,
meditatively--“He’s not seventy yet, and ought to look much healthier
and stronger than he does. My father is eighty-two, and is as well
set-up a veteran as anyone could wish to see--walks his six miles a
day, and is as young in heart as a boy--but of course he has always
lived a very simple life and never hankered after more money than just
as much as would keep him going and save him from debt. Mr. McNason has
all the cares of an immense business on his brain--and naturally a
break-down must come sooner or later----”
He ceased. A gust of wind roared down the chimney, throwing the flames
of the little fire crookedly to and fro. Mrs. Dove shivered, and looked
about her uneasily.
“What a stormy night!” she said--“Not at all a peaceful Christmas!”
Her husband, lying restfully back in his chair, smiled at her.
“The peace must be in our hearts, Jennie!” he said--“If we don’t keep
Christmas _there_, it’s no Christmas at all! Storm or calm, it’s a
blessed time!--a time of thanksgiving--a time of hope!”
“So it is,”--agreed Pitt--“and so may it always be! Now, Mrs. Dove,
bring out a bottle of that old port your good doctor sent you the
other day, and we’ll drink to Willie’s recovery and health and general
usefulness! And we’ll wish old McNason a Merry Christmas, too!”
They all laughed, and Mrs. Dove set the wine and glasses on the table.
Mr. Pitt poured out the ruby-red cordial, and raising his own glass to
his lips said:
“A Merry Christmas to you, Mrs. Dove! A Merry Christmas to you, Willie!
And to our grim and gaunt old governor, Mr. McNason, a Merry Christmas
also! And may he find something better than riches in the next world
and be all the happier for the finding!”
They all three drank this toast, and while they drank, Josiah McNason
trembled in every limb with an ague of exceeding cold. Was he so near
death, he wondered, that even Pitt could see the near approach of his
end? He turned his miserable eyes upon the Goblin, who grinned.
“Brother ‘Firebrand’ was quite right, you see!” it remarked--“Soon,
very soon, you will be one of US! WE are your ‘next world,’ you know!
And riches don’t count in our United Empire Club--but you’ll be happy,
McNason! Oh yes--you’ll be so happy! Because you will have reaped the
just reward of your labours, and you will be exactly what you have made
of YOURSELF! Nothing could be more satisfactory! Listen! Willie Dove is
talking about you now!”
And so he was. Willie Dove was speaking in the kindest and gentlest way
possible of the man who had refused to help him in his need.
“Well, I hope Mr. McNason will live many years yet,” he said--“and that
he will learn how to enjoy and get the best out of the large fortune
he has made. The amount of good he could do if he liked is simply
incalculable--and if he would only use some of his money just for the
sole purpose of benefiting others, and would not merely put it out like
a magnet to draw more money in again, he would be the happiest man
alive. For instance, if instead of subscribing large sums to charities
which are presided over by ‘committees’ who use up half the money for
their own expenses, he would go himself among the poor and personally
relieve them at first hand,--if he would try to help those who are,
with great difficulty, trying to help themselves,--those who cannot
borrow and will not beg,--if he would just put himself out a bit----”
“Ah, that’s just what he won’t do!” interposed Pitt--“He can’t see
anything or anybody but Himself--that’s the pity of it!”
“Poor soul!” said Mrs. Dove, gently--“We mustn’t forget that he lost
his only son,--a dear little boy!--and that may have embittered him.
All _our_ children have been mercifully spared to us, thank God!--but
even if one had been taken, I’m sure we should always have been
thinking of that one! And his ‘one’ was his all! We must remember that!
And however hard he is upon _us_, we mustn’t be hard upon _him_! That
wouldn’t be keeping Christmas rightly!”
At this Josiah turned and flung himself desperately against the
Goblin’s paunch.
“Take me away!” he muttered, finding his speech with an effort--“Take
me out of this! I--I don’t want to stop here! I want to get
away--QUICK!”
“‘Coals of fire,’ eh?” said the Goblin--“A trifle scorching, even on
a thick skull like yours, McNason! So you’d forgotten Willie Dove,
had you? Curious! He was always a very excellent fellow, though, and
one of the best men in your employ. The honour of the firm was the
first thing with him at all times, and you owe to his hard work and
straight principles more than you have the honesty to acknowledge! But
it’s no use trying to tip the balance of things, McNason! That balance
always rights itself! Good is good, and evil is evil,--you can’t make
one out to be the other, however much you try! If you’re spiteful,
if you’re mean, if you’re unthankful for the blessings bestowed on
you--and more than all, if you refuse to help those who have helped
_you_, you are punished! You are, really! And a good sound flogging you
get, I can tell you! Oh Beelzebub!--don’t _I_ know this! When I was a
Churchwarden----”
“_Will_ you do as I ask you?” implored Josiah, desperately, “Get me out
of this! I want to go home!”
“Poor old baby! Wants to go home, does it!” jeered the Goblin--“Oh,
but it mustn’t be naughty! It must go where its nursey takes it! Just
another little ridey-pidey in its coachy-poachy!” And rising aloft
on its skeleton toes, the Goblin grew larger and more threatening of
aspect, while its bat-wings, slowly unfurling, seemed spreading out so
darkly and interminably that Josiah fell on his knees in terror--“Just
another taste of the ‘supernatural,’ McNason! Just another little
experience of Hell’s United Empire Club!”
“No, no!” gasped the trembling millionaire--“Let me get home! Give me
a chance to--to----”
His voice gurgled away into a faint tremolo.
“Chance! You’ve had a thousand chances!” retorted the Goblin,
scornfully, “And you’ve thrown them all away! Now you’re asking for
_one_ chance! Oh, hoo-roo! Come and see how Christians love one
another! With a love that perhaps you may appreciate, because it is so
like hate! Come and hear an ‘ordained’ clerical Judas deny his Master!
YOU and such men as YOU--gorged with gold, and diseased with Self,--are
chiefly to blame for the wicked blasphemies which to-day brand the
Christian world with infamy! Come--come! Blasphemy will suit you! You
have aided it and abetted it many a time, even though you _are_ a
‘churchwarden.’ Oh, hoo-roo, hoo-roo! Come in the spirit of One Timothy
Two! Come!--come! COME!”
And like a great phantom of black Night descending, the Goblin swooped
upon Josiah once more;--the little quiet room,--where Willie Dove, his
wife and friend were all cheerily drinking “A Merry Christmas,”--was
blotted from his sight, and again limitless space enshrouded and
enveloped him in darkness.
* * * * *
A muffled and monotonous sound of chanting--the twinkling of many
bright lights,--and the subdued rustling movement of many people
gathered together,--these were the next impressions that awakened
McNason to renewed consciousness. He stood in what seemed a shadowy
forest of architecture;--there were great marble monuments all round
him inscribed with the names of famous poets, warriors and historians,
and on one of these the Goblin squatted cross-legged beside him,
blinking with its owl-like eyes.
“There’s not a seat to be had, McNason!” it remarked, with a leer--“You
must stand! Oh, Beelzebub! What a thing it is to be a ‘fashionable’
preacher! Nothing ‘draws!’ so well nowadays as an Atheist in Holy
Orders! Not even our reverend brother ‘Firebrand’! Oh, hoo-roo!”
McNason looked bewilderedly about him. Surely he knew the place he
was in?--its blackened arches, its shadowy aisles were not wholly
unfamiliar? Gradually he recognised it as that melancholy Valhalla of
English departed greatness, Westminster Abbey. But why had his uncanny
incubus, “Professor” Goblin, brought him hither? What had he to do
with the dense crowd of people massed round him--all looking--all
listening----!
Hush! The monotonous chanting ceased--there was a brief pause of
pretence at prayer--and then a man’s voice, clear and incisive, but
with a falsetto ring of cold superciliousness and irony in its tone,
sounded vibratingly on the silence. The Church’s ordained Preacher
of the Gospel began to preach, and Josiah McNason, more than any
other human unit in the congregation, was compelled to listen. And
as he listened, he became aware that this same ordained preacher was
calmly, but none the less surely, doing his best to undermine the
very faith of which he was a professed disciple. Craftily, and with
cunningly devised arguments, which held their meaning deftly secreted
under a veil of choice expressions and well-turned phrases, he spoke
of “old” beliefs with delicate tolerance and compassion--throwing in
occasional questionings as to the meaning of “miracles,” and setting
down “Divine” interposition as a fable, or rather as a beautiful myth
which in the “darker” ages of the world was eminently useful as a means
of intimidating and chastening the spirits of the ignorant. He spoke
much of a “New Feeling” which was awakening among more advanced and
civilised human kind,--that special “New Feeling” which looks upon Man
as in himself supreme, and answerable to no Higher Tribunal than His
Own for his actions. He deprecated the unfortunately chaotic state
of things in the Churches which prevented a full inquiry into the
foundations of belief, and hoped that the time was fast approaching
when a larger and broader view might be obtained, and humanity be
absolved from special duties to a Supernatural Conception which might
possibly be a mistaken conception after all. In fine, the drift of
his involved and euphuistic eloquence was to imply that pigmy Man
would in due course be permitted to fathom the Mind of God,--and not
only be permitted to fathom it, but to criticize it, question it
and possibly condemn it after the same easy style, and in the same
casual fashion, in which all human criticism condemns what it is too
limited to comprehend. And gradually it was forced in upon Josiah
McNason’s not always receptive intelligence that the rankest heresy,
the vilest blasphemy was being preached from a Christian pulpit, by
one who, passing for a “Christian” minister, was nothing more nor less
than a foul hypocrite, and a disgrace to his sacred calling. Yet the
congregation listened. They did not rise at once and make a quiet exit
as they should have done, had they been honest and brave,--had they
truly loved the Faith which leads to Heaven! Yet their faces expressed
a certain dull bewilderment,--some looked worried and sad--others
perplexed,--though many of them appeared indifferent. And certain
words which he had heard often, yet which he had scarcely heeded while
hearing them, came ringing across McNason’s mind as clearly as though
they had just been spoken into his ears:
“AND BECAUSE INIQUITY SHALL ABOUND, THE LOVE OF MANY SHALL WAX COLD!”
He trembled. His eyes were dim,--but he could still see the
Atheist-Preacher’s cold, intellectual face,--he was still in a vague
way conscious that the sermon was going on, and that a human creature,
full to the very brows of self-sufficiency and conceit, was presuming
to lay down the law concerning the possible limitations of the
Divine--a human creature moreover who occupied his very position in the
Church through having solemnly sworn fidelity to the Master whom now,
by the most covert subterfuges and sophistries, he was denying,--and he
was aware that a sense of uneasiness and discomfort affected nearly all
present, including even himself. He turned to look at the Goblin,--but
to his amazement it had disappeared! Was he free then?--free once more
to go where he liked and do as he liked?
He tried to move--but his feet seemed fastened to the earth with iron
weights; he essayed to speak,--but his tongue refused to obey the
impulse of his brain. On, still on, the voice of the Atheist-Preacher
in England’s ancient Abbey flowed, with that equable fluency which
comes of long and careful elocutionary practice, and Josiah McNason,
wedged as he was into the close-pressing crowd, wondered how long he
would have to stand there, listening to what at another more convenient
time he might very likely have considered a clever and “up-to-date”
exposition of the “New Feeling.” All at once he saw a great Light, like
that of the sun at noonday, suddenly begin to shine. With glorious
effulgence it formed into a halo of exceeding brilliancy, spreading
from north to south, from east to west of the old Church, between the
Choir and the Nave, and with a palpitating dread shaking his very soul,
Josiah watched it widening and ever widening, till taking upon itself
the shape of a Cross, it fired the whole scene with the radiance of
a golden morning! Yet no one saw it apparently,--no one save he, the
world’s great millionaire, who, denying the “supernatural,” was for
the time under “supernatural” sway. And trembling, he beheld that
wondrous Cross move mysteriously forward, till its light poured with
a gracious beauty and beneficence over all the dull worn faces of the
people--on men and women and children alike,--though, as it moved, it
left the face of the Atheist-Preacher covered with darkness. And in
the very heart and centre of its environment lustre, a majestic Figure
paced slowly--a god-like Man, whose Features were sorrowful, and whose
Brow was crowned with Thorns. A faint whisper floated on the air like
the sigh of small spirit voices in plaintive unison:
“Despised and Rejected! Love, Divine and Human, Love, Perfect and
Eternal! Despised and Rejected! Even NOW!”
Down, down on his knees fell the man of many millions, overcome by the
most poignant fear and shame he had ever known. He had disbelieved!
He knew it at last,--he knew that he had, for the sake of public
conventionality, made mere hypocritical pretence to worship One Whose
sublime teaching he outraged every day of his life, Whose commands he
ignored, and Whose example he had never at any time tried to follow.
And now--now! With pulses beating as though they would burst, and eyes
dim with painful tears wrung from the centre of the rocky region of his
heart, he sought to cover his face,--but was forced against his will to
gaze, half blind and giddy as he was, on that majestic advancing Shape,
which appeared to draw away all the shadows of the great cathedral and
transfuse them into light. He noticed, with an extraordinary anguish,
which to him was as new as it was keen, that the crowded congregation
of people among whom he knelt seemed totally unaware of the shining
Presence that passed them by,--and as that Presence moved slowly and
silently towards the closed doors of the Abbey, he felt that he must
cry out wildly:--
“Look--look! Kneel down and pray! Entreat Him not to leave us, for if
He goes, why should we remain!”
But all utterance was denied him. He could only watch and tremble.
Slowly, very slowly, with a grand reproach expressed in every feature
of its glorious Countenance, the heavenly Vision of the Crucified moved
on,--the doors of the Abbey opened noiselessly, as though flung aside
by invisible hands, admitting a broad shaft of winter moonlight from
the outer air,--and so, never once looking back, it passed out and away
from the crowded church of “Christian” worshippers, and, melting into
the silvery radiance of the moon, disappeared. The doors closed darkly
behind it--and black shadows drooped from the dim cathedral arches,
hanging drearily over the people, and filling the aisles and chapels
with a dull noxious vapour--and then with a sudden startling clangour,
out rang the Bells again! The Bells! Hoarse and reproachful!--full of
menace and foreboding, loneliness and despair! Such a tolling chime
they gave as might fit the burial of all the faiths and aspirations
of the world! They spoke of Death, not Life!--of the black grave from
which all hope of resurrection had been taken,--with a sob in their
savage metal throats they proclaimed the closing of the gates of
Heaven!--with harsh resistance they bewailed the loss of confidence in
God, of trust in the future, of comfort in sorrow--and with dismal and
heavy reverberation they thundered forth “Death! Death! Death is the
end of all! There shall be no Hereafter!”
Within the Abbey the people looked doubtfully at one another. Some
smiled--some sighed,--one or two had tears in their eyes. A faint
whisper ran from lip to lip. “Christmas Day!” they murmured--“It is
Christmas Day!” And again they sighed and smiled. But it was evident
that the old Festival for them held no meaning--no tender or pious
memory. Once perhaps it might have had--but now--! Why now the very
Spirit and Soul of Christmas had departed!--the doors of the Christian
Church itself were closed against it,--the Divine Friend of Mankind had
passed by unheeded, and had gone away from those who were passively
permitting His honour to be assailed,--what then was Christmas Day but
the mere empty name of a discarded Blessing! The dark shadows steadily
thickened,--and Josiah, still grovelling on the ground, with the awful
clang of the moaning Bells in his ears, felt that he was being stifled
and pressed down into a tomb of everlasting icy cold,--when he was
suddenly plucked up from his knees by the grip of a too familiar claw,
and lo!--the Goblin stood confronting him with a sad and sober grin.
“Dull place, Westminster Abbey!” it remarked--“Oh hoo-roo! All damp
and dismals! I wouldn’t be an England’s great man for anything! It’s
the last reward an England’s great man ever gets,--the ‘honour’--oh,
hoo-roo!--of being allowed to moulder among the most mouldered remains
that ever mouldered! Hoo-roo! I’m glad the body I used to wear when I
was a Churchwarden is all turned into daisies in a country churchyard.
Pretty things, daisies! Fancy _your_ old wrinkles turning into them!”
McNason was silent. He stood quietly resigned to the Goblin’s clutch,
waiting for its next move. And while he waited, he saw the crowd in
front of him sway, part asunder, and begin to disperse,--while the
Atheist-Preacher, descending from the pulpit, held brief conversation
with a man who took from his hand a roll of paper. McNason could hear
him speaking, despite the space between them.
“Here’s my sermon in full,”--he said--“I hope you will give it the
widest publicity. The ‘copy’ contains a good many effective bits which
I was obliged to leave out with a mixed congregation. You never know
how people may take the upsetting of their cherished creeds! In such
work the Press can do more than the Pulpit. Nothing like a good Press
discussion for shaking the old foundations! And I think my remarks are
likely to cause a fluttering in the dove-cotes!”
The reporter--for such he was--smiled.
“You are not afraid of your Archbishop?” he said.
The Atheist-Preacher laughed.
“My Archbishop! He has no time to give his attention to any such matter
as this. He’s too busy with the claims of the Poor Clergy!”
They both laughed then, shook hands and separated. McNason, in the
Goblin’s grasp, watched them go their several ways, and then suddenly
recovering his speech, said:--
“That man ought to be put out of the Church!”
“Quite right--so he ought!” agreed the Goblin--“You are getting quite
discriminating, Josiah! He ought to be put out of the Church, but
who’s going to do it? He isn’t drunk or disorderly! He’s a liar and a
hypocrite, and he’s taking his ‘salary’ on false pretences--but there
are hundreds--perhaps thousands--like him! Besides, those who live in
glass houses shouldn’t throw stones! You’re as bad as he is in your
way! You pretend----”
“I _have_ pretended----!” said McNason, humbly.
The Goblin looked at him, and closed one round eye in a most horrible
and portentous wink.
“I see!” it observed--“You’re preparing to make a good end! You’re like
the Naughty Duchess! Oh, hoo-roo! What a character _she_ was! She went
the pace as hard as ever she could till she was quite worn out and
could count her crows-feet,--then she began to go to Church regularly,
and became publicly charitable. She turned herself into a Bazaar Lady;
opened several soup-kitchens, and used to cry over the newest sweet
thing in curates. Naughty, naughty Duchess! When she died an eminent
Dean preached a sermon about her. She left him five thousand pounds in
her will. He said she was ‘one of the noblest women that ever lived.’
And she’s one of us now. Oh hoo-roo! Don’t you try to be like her,
McNason!--it doesn’t pay! Come along!--Come and take a look at London!”