"Be quiet!" cried the other hoarsely. "Even here the walls may have ears, and if it were suspected that——"
"Exactly, my friend," sneered the Count. "But tell me how you stand."
For some time they talked quietly, earnestly, the Count asking questions and raising objections, while Mr. John Brown explained what he had in his mind.
"Germany is never beaten," he said—"never. When arms fail, brains come in. Russia has become what Russia is, not by force of arms, but by brains. Whose? And Germany will triumph. This fellow is only one of many who are being used. A network of agencies are constantly at work."
"And to-night you are going to introduce him to Olga?" and the Count laughed.
"The most fascinating woman in Europe, my friend. Yes; to-night I am going to open his eyes. To-night he will fall in love. To-night will be the beginning of the end of Britain's greatness!"
Dick Faversham stood at the entrance of the underground station at Blackfriars Bridge. It was now five minutes before eleven, and the traffic along the Embankment was beginning to thin. New Bridge Street was almost deserted, for the tide of theatre-goers did not go that way. Dick was keenly on the look out for Mr. John Brown, and wondered what kind of a place he was going to visit that night.
He felt a slight touch upon his shoulder, and, turning, he saw Mr. Brown go to the ticket office.
"Third single for Mark Lane," he said, carelessly throwing down two coppers, yet so clearly that Dick could not help hearing him.
Without hesitation Dick also went to the office and booked for the same place. Mr. Brown took no apparent notice of him, and when the train came in squeezed himself into a third-class compartment. Having secured a seat, he lit a cheap black cigar.
Dick noticed that he wore a somewhat shabby over-coat and a hat to match. Apparently Mr. Brown had not a thought in his mind beyond that of smoking his cigar and reading a soiled copy of an evening paper.
Arrived at Mark Lane, Mr. Brown alighted and, still without taking notice of Dick, found his way to the street. For some time he walked eastward, and then, having reached a dark alley, turned suddenly and waited for Dick to come up.
"Keep me in sight for the next half-mile," he said quickly. "When I stop next, you will come close to me, and I will give you necessary instructions."
They were now in a part of London which was whollystrange to the young man. There were only few passers-by. It was now nearly midnight, and that part of London was going to sleep. Now and then a belated traveller shuffled furtively along as though anxious not to be seen. They were in a neighbourhood where dark things happen.
Evidently Mr. John Brown knew his way well. He threaded narrow streets and dark alleys without the slightest hesitation; neither did he seem to have any apprehension of danger. When stragglers stopped and gave him suspicious glances, he went straight on, unheeding.
Dick on the other hand, was far from happy. He did not like his midnight journey; he did not like the grim, forbidding neighbourhood through which they were passing. He reflected that he was utterly ignorant where he was, and, but for a hazy idea that he was somewhere near the river, would not know which way to turn if by any chance he missed his guide.
Presently, however, Mr. Brown stopped and gave a hasty look around. Everywhere were dark, forbidding-looking buildings which looked like warehouses. Not a ray of light was to be seen anywhere. Even although vast hordes of people were all around the spot where he stood, the very genius of loneliness reigned.
He beckoned Dick to him, and spoke in low tones.
"Be surprised at nothing you see or hear," he advised in a whisper. "There is no danger for either you or me. This is London, eh? And yet those who love England, and are thinking and working for her welfare, are obliged to meet in secret."
"Still, I'd like to know where we are going," protested Dick. "I don't like this."
"Wait, my young friend. Wait just five minutes. Now, follow me in silence."
Had not the spirit of adventure been strong upon the young fellow, he would have refused. There was something sinister in the adventure. He could not at all reconcile Mr. John Brown's membership of the club he had visited that afternoon with this Egyptian darkness in a London slum.
"Follow without remark, and without noise,"commanded the older man, and then, having led the way a few yards farther, he flashed a light upon some narrow stone steps.
Dick was sure he heard the movement of a large body of water. He was more than ever convinced that they were close to the Thames.
Mr. Brown descended the steps, while Dick followed. His heart was beating rapidly, but he had no fear. A sense of curiosity had mastered every other feeling. At the bottom of the steps Mr. Brown stopped and listened, but although Dick strained his powers of hearing, he could detect no sound. The place might have been exactly what it appeared in the darkness—a deserted warehouse.
"Now, then," whispered Mr. Brown, and there was excitement in his voice.
A second later he tapped with his stick on what appeared to be the door of the warehouse. Dick, whose senses were keenly alert, counted the taps. Three soft, two loud, and again two soft ones.
The door opened as if by magic. There was no noise, and Dick would not have known it was opened save for the dim light which was revealed. A second later he had entered, and the door closed.
In the dim light Dick saw that he was following two dark forms. Evidently the person who had opened the door was leading the way. But he could discern nothing clearly; he thought they were passing through some kind of lumber room, but he could have sworn to nothing. After that there was a passage of some sort, and again they descended some more steps, at the bottom of which Dick heard what seemed the confused murmur of voices....
Dick found himself standing in a kind of vestibule, and there was a sudden glare of light. Both he and Mr. John Brown were in a well-lit room, in which some two hundred people had gathered.
When Dick's eyes had become accustomed to the light, he saw that he was in the midst of one of the most curious crowds he had ever seen. The people seemed of many nationalities, and the sexes appeared equallydivided. Very few old people were present. In the main they were well dressed, and might have been comfortably situated. Nevertheless, it was a motley crowd—motley not so much because of any peculiarity in their attire as because of their personalities. What impressed Dick more than anything else was the look of fierce intelligence on their faces, and the nervous eagerness which characterised their every movement. Every look, every action spoke of intensity, and as Dick swept a hasty glance around the room, he felt that he was breathing an atmosphere which was altogether new to him—an atmosphere which was electric.
The room was evidently arranged for a meeting. At one end was a platform on which was placed a table and half a dozen chairs, while the people who formed the audience were waiting for the speakers to appear.
Then Dick realised that all eyes were turned towards himself and that a sudden silence prevailed. This was followed by what Dick judged to be a question of some sort, although he could not tell what it was, as it was asked in a language unknown to him.
"It is all right. I, John Brown, vouch for everything."
"But who is he?" This time the question was in English, and Dick understood that it referred to himself.
"It is all right, I repeat," replied Mr. Brown. "My companion is a comrade, a friend, whom you will be glad to hear. Who is he? He is a Labour leader, and is chosen by the working people of Eastroyd to represent them in the British Parliament."
A great deal of scornful laughter followed this. It might have been that Mr. Brown were trying to play a practical joke upon them.
"Listen," said Mr. Brown. "I am not unknown to you, and I think I have proved to you more than once that I am in sympathy with your aims. Let me ask you this: have I ever introduced anyone who was not worthy and whose help you have not gladly welcomed?"
There was some slight cheering at this, and Mr. Brown went on:
"I need not assure you that I have taken everyprecaution—everyprecaution—or tell you that, if good does not come of my being here, harm will surely not come of it. This, my friends, is Mr. Richard Faversham of Eastroyd, whose fiery zeal on behalf of the world's toilers cannot be unknown to you."
Again there was some cheering, and Dick noted that the glances cast towards him were less hostile, less suspicious.
Mr. Brown seemed on the point of speaking further, but did not. At that moment a curtain at the back of the platform was drawn aside, and three men accompanied by two women appeared. It would seem that the time for the commencement of the meeting had come.
Dick had some remembrance afterwards that one of the men addressed the meeting, and that he spoke about the opportunities which the times offered to the struggling millions who had been crushed through the centuries, but nothing distinct remained in his mind. Every faculty he possessed was devoted to one of the two women who sat on the platform. He did not know who she was; he had never seen her before, and yet his eyes never left her face.
Never before had he seen such a woman; never had he dreamed that there could be anyone like her.
Years before he had seen, and fancied himself in love with, Lady Blanche Huntingford. He had been captivated by her glorious young womanhood, her abundant vitality, her queenly beauty. But, compared with the woman on the platform, Blanche Huntingford was as firelight to sunlight.
Even as he sat there he compared them—contrasted them. He remembered what he had thought of the proud Surrey beauty; how he had raved about her eyes, her hair, her figure; but here was a beauty of another and a higher order. Even in his most enthusiastic moments, Lady Blanche's intellectuality, her spirituality, had never appealed to him. But this woman's beauty was glorified by eyes that spoke of exalted thoughts, passionate longings, lofty emotions.
Her face, too, was constantly changing. Poetry, humour, passion, pity, tenderness, scorn were expressedon her features as she looked at the speaker. This woman was poetry incarnate! She was pity incarnate! She was passion incarnate!
Dick forgot where he was. He was altogether unconscious of the fact that he was in a meeting somewhere in the East End of London, and that things were being said which, if known to the police, would place the speaker, and perhaps the listeners, in prison. All that seemed as nothing; he was chained, fascinated by the almost unearthly beauty of the woman who sat on the little shabby-looking platform.
Then slowly the incongruity of the situation came to him. The audience, although warmly dressed and apparently comfortably conditioned, belonged in the main to the working classes. They were toilers. Most of them were malcontents—people who under almost any conditions would be opposed to law and order. But this woman was an aristocrat of aristocrats. No one could doubt it any more than he could doubt the sunlight. Her dress, too, was rich and beautiful. On her fingers costly rings sparkled; around her neck diamonds hung. And yet she was here in a cellar warehouse, in a district where squalor abounded.
The speaker finished; evidently he was the chairman of the meeting, and after having finished his harangue turned to the others on the platform.
Dick heard the word "Olga," and immediately after the room was full of deafening cheers.
The woman he had been watching rose to her feet and waited while the people continued to cheer. Fascinated, he gazed at her as her eyes swept over the gathering. Then his heart stood still. She looked towards him, and their eyes met. There might have been recognition, so brightly did her eyes flash, and so tender was the smile which came to her lips. She seemed to be saying to him, "Wait, we shall have much to say to each other presently." The air of mystery, which seemed to envelop her, enveloped him also. The hard barriers of materialism seemed to melt away, and he had somehow entered the realm of romance and wonder.
Then her voice rang out over the audience—a voicethat was rich in music. He did not understand a word she said, for she spoke in a language unknown to him. And yet her message reached him. Indeed, she seemed to be speaking only to him, only for him. And her every word thrilled him. As she spoke, he saw oppressed peoples. He saw men in chains, women crushed, trodden on, little children diseased, neglected, cursed. The picture of gay throngs, revelling in all the world could give them in pleasure, in music, in song, and wine, passed before his mind side by side with harrowing, numbing want and misery.
Then she struck a new note—vibrant and triumphant. It thrilled him, made his heart beat madly, caused a riot of blood in his veins.
Suddenly he realised that she was speaking in English, that she was calling to him in his own language. She was telling of a new age, a new era. She described how old things had passed away, and that all things had become new; that old barriers had been broken down; that old precedents, old prejudices which for centuries had crushed the world, were no longer potent. New thoughts had entered men's minds; new hopes stirred the world's heart. In the great cataclysm through which we had passed, nations had been re-born, and the old bad, mad world had passed away in the convulsions of the world's upheaval.
"And now," she concluded, "what wait we for? We await the prophet, the leader, the Messiah. Who is he? How shall he come? Is he here? Is the man who is able to do what the world needs brave enough, great enough to say, like the old Hebrew prophet, 'Here am I, send me'?"
And even as she spoke Dick felt that her eyes were fastened upon him, even as her words thrilled his heart. Something, he knew not what it was, formed a link between them—gave this woman power over him.
There was no applause as she sat down. The feeling of the people was too intense, the magnetic charm of the speaker too great.
Still with her eyes fixed upon Dick, she made her way towards him. He saw her coming towards him, sawher dark, flashing eyes, her white, gleaming teeth, felt the increasing charm of her wondrous face.
Then there was a change in the atmosphere—a change indefinable, indescribable. Just above the woman's head Dick saw in dim outline what years before had become such a potent factor in his life. It was the face of the angel he had seen when he was sinking in the deep waters, and which appeared to him at Wendover Park.
"Mr. Richard Faversham," said the woman who had so thrilled him that night, "I have long been waiting for this hour."
For some time Dick Faversham was oblivious to the fact that the woman who had so fascinated him a few minutes before stood near him with hands outstretched and a smile of gladness in her eyes. Again he was under the spell of what, in his heart of hearts, he called "The Angel." Even yet he had no definite idea as to who or what this angel was, but there was a dim consciousness at the back of his mind that she had again visited him for an important reason. He was certain that her purposes towards him were beneficent, that in some way she had crossed the pathway of his life to help him and to save him.
Like lightning the memory of that fearful night when he was sinking in the stormy sea came surging back into his mind. He remembered how he had felt his strength leaving him, while the cold, black waters were dragging him into their horrible depths. Then he had seen a ray of light streaming to him across the raging sea; he had seen the shadowy figure above him with outstretched arms, and even while he had felt himself up-borne by some power other than his own, the words had come to him—"Underneath are the Everlasting Arms."
It was all shadowy and unreal—so much so that in later days he had doubted its objective reality, and yet there had been times when it had been the most potent force in his life. It had become such a great and glorious fact that everything else had sunk into insignificance.
Then there was that scene in the library at Wendover. He had been on the point of signing the paper which Count Romanoff had prepared for him. Underthis man's influence, right and wrong had appeared to him but a chimera of the imagination. The alternative which had appeared before him stood out in ghastly clearness. He had only to sign the paper, and all the riches which he thought were his would remain in his possession. But he had not signed it. Again that luminous form had appeared, while a hand, light as a feather, but irresistible in its power, had been laid upon his wrist, and the pen had dropped from his fingers.
And now the angel had come to him again. Even as he looked, he could see her plainly, while the same yearning eyes looked into his.
"Mr. Faversham!"
He started, like a man suddenly wakened from a dream, and again he saw the woman who had been spoken of as Olga, and who had thrilled him by her presence and by the magic of her voice, standing by his side.
"Forgive me," he said, "but tell me, do you see anyone on the platform?"
The girl, for she appeared to be only two or three and twenty, looked at him in a puzzled kind of way.
"No," she replied, casting her eyes in that direction; "I see no one. There is no one there."
"Not a beautiful woman? She is rather shadowy, but she has wonderful eyes."
"No," she replied wonderingly.
"Then I suppose I was mistaken. You are Olga, aren't you?"
"Yes; I am Olga."
"And you made that wonderful speech?"
"Was it wonderful?" and she laughed half sadly, half gaily.
Suddenly the spell, or whatever it was, left him. He was Dick Faversham again—keen, alert, critical. He realised where he was, too. He had accompanied Mr. John Brown to this place, and he had listened to words which were revolutionary. If they were translated into action, all law and order as he now understood them would cease to be.
Around him, too, chattering incessantly, was a numberof long-haired, wild-eyed men. They were discussing the speech to which they had just listened; they were debating the new opportunities which the times had created.
"Ah, you two have met!" It was Mr. John Brown who spoke. "I am glad of that. This is Olga. She is a Princess in Russia, but because she loved the poor, and sought to help them, she was seized by the Russian officials and sent to Siberia. That was two years ago. She escaped and came to England. Since then she has lived and worked for a new Russia, for a new and better life in the world. You heard her speak to-night. Did you understand her?"
"Only in part," replied Dick. "She spoke in a language that was strange to me."
"Yes, yes, I know. But, as you see, she speaks English perfectly. We must get away from here. We must go to a place where we can talk quietly, and where, you two can compare ideas. But meanwhile I want you to understand, Mr. Faversham, that the people you see here are typical of millions all over Europe who are hoping and praying for the dawn of a new day. Of course there are only a few thousands here in London, but they represent ideas that are seething in the minds of hundreds of millions."
"Mr. Brown has told me about you," said Olga. "I recognised you from his description the moment I saw you. I felt instinctively what you had thought, what you had suffered, what you had seen in visions, and what you had dreamed. I knew then that you were the prophet—the leader that we needed."
Dick gave her a quick glance, and again felt the spell of her beauty. She was like no woman he had ever seen before. Her eyes shone like stars, and they told him that this was a woman in a million. The quickly changing expressions on her face, the wondrous quality of her presence, fascinated him.
"I shall be delighted to discuss matters with you," replied Dick. "That part of your speech which I understood made me realise that we are one in aim and sympathy. If you will come to my hotel to-morrow, we can speak freely."
Olga laughed merrily. "I am afraid you do not understand, Mr. Faversham," she said. "I am a suspect; I am proscribed by your Government. A price has been placed on my head."
Dick looked at her questioningly.
"No; I am afraid I don't understand," was his reply.
"Don't you see?" and again she laughed merrily. "I am looked upon as a dangerous person. News has come to your authorities that I am a menace to society, that I am a creator of strife. First of all, I am an alien, and as an alien I am supposed to subscribe to certain regulations and laws. But I do not subscribe to them. As a consequence I am wanted by the police. If you did your duty, you would try to hand me over to the authorities; you would place me under arrest."
"Are—are you a spy, then?" Dick asked.
"Of a sort, yes."
"A German?"
A look of mad passion swept over her face.
"A German!" she cried. "Heaven forbid. No, no. I hate Germany. I hate the accursed war that Germany caused. And yet, no. The war was a necessity. The destruction of the old bad past was a necessity. And we must use the mad chaos the war has created to build a new heaven and create a new earth. What are nationalities, peoples, country boundaries, man-made laws, but the instruments of the devil to perpetuate crime, brutality, misery, devilry?"
Dick shook his head. "You go beyond me," he said. "What you say has no appeal for me."
"Ah, but it has," she cried; "that is why I want to talk with you. That is why I hail you as a comrade—yes, and more than a comrade. I have followed your career; I have read your speeches. Ah, you did not think, did you, when you spoke to the people in the grimy north of this country about better laws, better conditions—ay, and when you made them feel that all the people ofeverycountry should be one vast brotherhood—that your words were followed, eagerly followed, by a Russian girl whose heart thrilled as she read, and who longed to meet you face to face?"
"You read my speeches? You longed to see me?" gasped Dick.
"Every word I read, Mr. Faversham; but I saw, too, that you were chained by cruel tradition, that you were afraid of the natural and logical outcome of your own words. But see, we cannot talk here!" and she glanced towards the people who had come up to them, and were listening eagerly.
"Come, my friend," whispered Mr. Brown, "you are honoured beyond all other men. I never knew her speak to any man as she speaks to you. Let us go to a place where I will take you, where we can be alone. Is she not a magnificent creature, eh? Did you ever see such a divine woman?"
"I'm perfectly willing," was Dick's reply, as he watched Olga move towards the man who had acted as chairman. Truly he had never seen such a woman. Hitherto he had been struck by her intellectual powers, and by what had seemed to him the spiritual qualities of her presence. But now he felt the charm of her womanhood. She was shaped like a goddess, and carried herself with queenly grace. Every curve of her body was perfect; her every movement was instinct with a glowing, abundant life. Her complexion, too, was simply dazzling, and every feature was perfect. A sculptor would have raved about her; an artist would have given years of his life to paint her. Her eyes, too, shone like stars, and her smile was bewildering.
A few minutes later they were in the street, Dick almost like a man in a dream, Mr. John Brown plodding stolidly and steadily along, while Olga, her face almost covered, moved by his side. Dick was too excited to heed whither they were going; neither did he notice that they were being followed.
They had just turned into a narrow alley when there was a quick step behind them, and a man in a police officer's uniform laid his hand on Olga's arm and said:
"You go with me, please, miss."
The girl turned towards him with flashing eyes.
"Take your hand from me," she said; "I have nothing to do with you."
"But I have something to do with you. Come, now, it's no use putting on airs. You come with me. I've been on the look out for you for a long while."
"Help her! Get rid of the man!" whispered Mr. Brown to Dick. "For God's sake do something. I've a weak heart and can do nothing."
"Now, then," persisted the policeman. "It's no use resisting, you know. If you won't come quiet, I may have to be a bit rough. And Icanbe rough, I can assure you!"
"Help! help!" she said hoarsely.
She did not speak aloud, but the word appealed to Dick strongly. It was sacrilege for the police officer to place his hands on her; he remembered what she had told him, and dreaded the idea of her being arrested and thrown into prison.
"You won't, eh?" grumbled the policeman. "We'll soon settle that."
Dick saw him put his whistle to his lips, but before a sound was made, the young fellow rushed forward and instantly there was a hand-to-hand struggle. A minute later the police constable lay on the pavement, evidently stunned and unconscious, while Dick stood over him.
"Now is our chance! Come!" cried Mr. Brown, and with a speed of which Dick thought him incapable, he led the way through a network of narrow streets and alleys, while he and the girl followed. A little later they had entered a house by a back way, and the door closed behind them.
"Thank you, Faversham," panted Mr. Brown. "That was a narrow squeak, eh?"
He switched on a light as he spoke, and Dick, as soon as his eyes had become accustomed to the light, found himself in a handsomely, even luxuriously, appointed room.
"Sit down, won't you?" said Olga. "Oh, you need not fear. You are safe here. I will defy all the police officers in London to trace me now. Ah! thank you, Mr. Faversham! But for you I might have been in an awkward position. It would have been horrible to have been arrested—more horrible still to be tried in one of your law courts."
"That was nothing," protested Dick. "Of course I could not stand by and see the fellow——"
"Ah, but don't you see?" she interrupted merrily. "You have placed yourself in opposition to the law? I am afraid you would be found equally guilty with me, if we were tried together. Did I not tell you? There is a price on my head. I am spoken of as the most dangerous person in London. And you have helped me to escape; you have defeated the ends of justice."
"But that is nothing," cried Mr. John Brown. "Of course, Mr. Faversham is with us now. It could not be otherwise."
Every event of the night had been somewhat unreal to Dick, but the reality of his position was by no means obscure at that moment. He, Dick Faversham, who, when he had advocated his most advanced theories, had still prided himself on being guided by constitutional methods, knew that he had placed himself in a most awkward position by what he had done. Doubtless, efforts would be made to find him, and if he were discovered and recognised, he would have a very lame defence. In spite of the honeyed way in which Mr. Brown had spoken, too, he felt there was something like a threat in his words.
But he cast everything like fear from his mind, and turned to the young girl, who had thrown off her cloak, and stood there in the brilliant light like the very incarnation of splendid beauty.
"I would risk more than that for this opportunity of talking with you," he could not help saying.
"Would you?" and her glorious eyes flashed into his. "I am so glad of that. Do you know why? Directly I saw you to-night, I felt that we should be together in the greatest cause the world has ever known. Do you think you will like me as a co-worker? Do you believe our hearts will beat in unison?"
Again she had cast a spell upon him. He felt that with such a woman he could do anything—dare anything.
Still, he kept a cool head. His experiences of the last few years had made him wary, critical, suspicious.
"I am going to be frank," she went on. "I am goingto lay bare my heart to you. The cause I have at heart is the world's redemption; that, too, is the cause I believe you, too, have at heart. I want to destroy poverty, crime, misery; I want a new earth. So do you. But the way is dangerous, stormy, and hard. There will be bleeding footsteps all along the track. But you and I together!—ah, don't you see?"
"I am afraid I don't," replied Dick. "Tell me, will you?"
She drew her chair closer to him. "Yes; I will tell you," she said in a whisper.
"Don't be frightened at a word," she laughed. "I shall explain that word in a few minutes. But it will not need much explanation. At heart you and I are one."
Dick waited in silence.
"You do not help me," and her laugh was almost nervous. "And yet—oh, I mean so much. But I am afraid to put it into a word, because that word has been so misunderstood, so maligned. It is the greatest word in the world. It sweeps down unnatural barriers, petty creeds, distinctions, man-made laws, criminal usages. It is the dawn of a new day. It is the sunrise. It is universal liberty, universal right. It is the divine right of the People!"
Still Dick was silent, and as she watched him she started to her feet.
"Who have held the destinies of the great unnumbered millions in the hollow of their hands?" she cried passionately. "The few. The Emperors, the Kings, the Bureaucrats. And they have sucked the life blood of these dumb, suffering millions. They have crushed them, persecuted them, made them hewers of wood and drawers of water. Why have the poor lived? That they might minister to the rich. Just that and nothing more. Whether the millions have been called slaves, serfs, working classes—whatever you like—the result has been the same. They have existed that the few might have what they desired. But at last the world has revolted. The Great War has made everything possible. The world is fluid, and the events of life will be turned into new channels. Now is the opportunity of the People. Whatever God there is, He made theworld and all that is in it for the People. In the past it has been robbed from them, but now it is going to be theirs! Don't you see?"
Dick nodded his head slowly. This, making allowance for the extravagance of her words, was what he had been feeling for a long time.
"Yes," he said presently; "but how are they to get it?"
"Ah!" she laughed. "I brought you here to-night to tell you. You are going to give it them, my friend. With me to help you, perhaps, if you will have me. Will you? Look into my eyes and tell me that you see—that you understand?"
Her eyes were as the eyes of a siren, but still Dick did not lose his head.
"I see no other way of giving the people justice than by working on the lines I have been trying to work for years," he said.
"Yes, you do," she cried triumphantly. "You are a Labour man—a Socialist if you like. You have a vision of better conditions for the working classes in England—the British Isles. But what is that? What does it all amount to? Sticking-plasters,mon ami—sticking-plasters."
"Still, I do not understand," replied Dick.
"But you do," she persisted, still with her great, lustrous eyes laughing into his, in spite of a certain seriousness shining from them. "Think a minute. Here we are at a crisis in the world's history. Unless a mighty effort is made now, power, property, everything will drift back to the old ruling classes, and that will mean what it has always meant. Still the same accursed anomalies; still the same blinding, numbing, crushing poverty on the one hand; still the same pampered luxury and criminal waste on the other. All things must be new, my friend—new!"
"But how?"
"In one word—Bolshevism. No; don't be startled. Not the miserable caricature, the horrible nightmare which has frightened the dull-minded British but a glorious thing! Justice for humanity, the world for thepeople! That's what it means. Not for one country, but for all the countries—for the wide world. Don't you see? The world must become one, because humanity is one. It must be. Disease in any part of the organism hurts the whole body. If wrong is done in Russia, England has to pay; therefore, all reform must be world wide; right must be done everywhere."
"Words, words, words," quoted Dick.
"And more than words, my friend. The most glorious ideal the world has ever known. And every ideal is an unborn event."
"Beautiful as a dream, but, still, words," persisted Dick.
"And why, my friend?"
"Because power cannot be wrested from the hands in which it is now vested——"
"That is where you are mistaken. Think of Russia."
"Yes; think of Russia," replied Dick—"a nightmare, a ghastly crime, hell upon earth."
"And I reply in your own language, 'Words, words, words.' My friend, you cannot wash away abuses hoary with age with rose water. Stern work needs stern methods. Our Russian comrades are taking the only way which will lead to the Promised Land. Do not judge Russia by what it seems to-day, but by what it will be when you and I are old. Already there are patches of blue in the sky. In a few years from now things will have settled down, and Russia, with all its wealth and all its possibilities, will belong to the people—the great people of Russia. That is what must be true of every nation. You talk of the great wealth of European countries, and of America. Who holds that wealth? Just a few thousands—whereas it should be in the hands of all—all."
"And how will you do this mighty thing?" laughed Dick.
"By the people not simply demanding, but taking their rights—taking it, my friend."
"By force?"
"Certainly by force. It is their right."
"But how?"
"Think, my friend. Do you believe the people will ever get their rights by what is called constitutional means? Do you think the landed proprietors will give up their lands? That the Capitalists will disgorge their millions? That the bourgeoisie will let go what they have squeezed from the sweat and toil of the millions? You know they will not. There is but one way all over the world. It is for the people everywhere to claim, toforce, their rights."
"Revolution!"
"Yes, Revolution. Do not be afraid of the word."
"Crime, anarchy, blood, ruin, the abolition of all law and order!"
"What is called crime and anarchy to-day will be hailed a few years hence as the gospel which has saved the world."
Dick could not help being influenced by her words. There was an intellectual quality in her presence which broke down his prejudices, a spiritual dynamic in her beauty and her earnestness which half convinced him.
"Admitting what you say," he replied presently, "you only proclaim a will-o'-the-wisp. Before such a movement could be set on foot, you must have the whole people with you. You must have a great consensus of opinion. To do this you must educate the people. Then you must have a tremendous organisation. You would have to arm the people. And you would need leaders."
She laughed gaily. "Now we are getting near it," she cried. "You've seen the vision. You've been seeing it, proclaiming it, unknowingly, for years, but you've not dared to be obedient to your vision. But you will, my friend. You will."
She placed her hand on his arm, and looked half beseechingly, half coyly, into his face.
"Do you not see with me?" she cried. "Could you not join with me in a great crusade for the salvation of the world? For I can be a faithful comrade—faithful to death. Look into my eyes and tell me."
Again he looked into her eyes, and he saw as she saw,felt as she felt. His past life, his past work, seemed but as a mockery, while the vision she caused him to see was like a glimpse of Paradise. Even yet, however, a kind of hard, Saxon, common sense remained with him; and she appeared to realise it, for, still keeping her hand upon his arm, she continued her appeal. She told him what she had seen and heard, and tried to prove to him how impossible it was for the poor to have their rights save by rising in their millions, seizing the helm of power, and claiming, taking, their own. Still he was not altogether convinced.
"You describe a beautiful dream," he said, "but, like all beautiful dreams, it vanishes when brought into contact with hard realities. What you speak of is only mob rule, and mob rule is chaos. To achieve anything you must have leaders, and when you get your leaders, you simply replace one set of rulers by another."
"Of course we do," was her answer. "But with this difference. The present leaders are the result of an old bad system of selfish greed. They think and act for themselves instead of for the good of the people. But, with you as a leader, we should have a man who thinks only of leading the children of the world into Light."
"I?—I?" stammered Dick.
"Of course, you, my friend. Else why should I long to see you, speak with you, know you?"
"Of course it's madness," he protested.
"All great enterprises are madness," was her reply; "but it is Divine madness. You were born from the foundation of the world for this work. You have vision, you have daring, you have the essential qualities of the leader, for you have the master mind."
It is easy for a young man to be flattered by a beautiful woman, especially when that woman is endowed with all charms, physical, intellectual, personal. Her hand was still on his arm; her eyes were still burning into his.
"Of course it is impossible," he still persisted.
"Why?" she asked.
"A huge organisation which is international requires the most careful arrangement—secret but potent."
"The organisation exists in outline."
"Propaganda work."
"It has been going on for years. Even such work as you have been doing has been preparing the way for greater things."
"Money—millions of money!" he cried. "Don't you see? It's easy to talk of leading the people, but difficult to accomplish—impossible, in fact, in a highly organised country like this."
"Give me your consent—tell me you will consent to lead us, and I will show you that this is already done. Even now a million British soldiers are ready—ready with arms and accoutrements!"
Again she pleaded, again she fired his imagination! Fact after fact she related of what had been done, and of what could be done. It needed, she said, but the strong man to appear, and the poor, the suffering from every byway, would flock to his standard.
"But don't you see?" cried Dick, half bewildered and altogether dazzled by the witchery of her words. "If I were to respond to your call, you would be placing not only an awful responsibility upon me, but a terrible power in my hands?"
"Yes, I do see!" she cried; "and I glory in the thought. Look here, my friend, I have been pleading with you not for your own sake, but for the sake of others—for the redemption of the world. But all along I have thought of you—you. It is right that you should think of yourself. Every man should be anxious about his own career. This is right. We cannot go against the elementary truths of life. There must be the leaders as well as the led. And leadership means power, fame! Every strong man longs for power, fame, position. You do, my friend. For years you have been craving after it, and it is your right, your eternal right. And here is the other ground of my appeal, my friend. Such a position, such fame, such power is offered you as was never offered to any man before. To be a leader of the world! To focus, to make real the visions, longings, hopes of unnumbered millions. To make vocal, to translate into reality all the world has been sighing for—striving after. Great God! What a career! What a position!"
"Ah—h!" and Mr. John Brown, who had been silent during the whole conversation, almost sobbed out the exclamation, "that is it! that is it! What a career! What a position to struggle after, to fight for! Power! Power! The Kings and Emperors of the world become as nothing compared with what you may be, my friend."
Dick's heart gave a wild leap. Power! place! greatness! Yes; this was what he had always longed for. As the thought gripped him, mastered him, impossibilities became easy, difficulties but as thistledown.
And yet he was afraid. Something, he knew not what, rose up and forbade him to do things he longed to do. He felt that every weakness of his life had been appealed to—his vanity, his selfishness, his desire for greatness, as well as his natural longing for the betterment of the world. And all the time the beautiful woman kept her hand on his arm. And her touch was caressing, alluring, bewildering. Her eyes, wondrous in their brilliance, fascinating, suggesting all the heart of man could long for, were burning into his.
He rose to his feet. "I must go," he said. "I will consider what you have said."
The woman rose too. She was nearly as tall as he, and she stood by his side, a queen among women.
"And you will think kindly, won't you?" she pleaded. "You will remember that it is the dearest hope of my life to stand by your side, to share your greatness."
Dick was silent as he made his way through the dark and silent streets with Mr. Brown by his side. He was still under the influences of the night through which he had passed; his mind was still bewildered.
Just before he reached his hotel, he and Mr. Brown parted—the latter to turn down Piccadilly, Dick to make his way towards Bloomsbury. When Mr. Brown had gone, Dick stood and watched him. Was he mistaken, or did he see the figure of a man like Count Romanoff move from the doorstep of a large building and join him? Was it Count Romanoff's voice he heard? He was not sure.
The night porter of his hotel spoke to him sleepily as he entered.
"No Zepps to-night, sir," he said.
"No; I think not. I fancy the Huns have given up that game."
"Think so, sir? Well, there's no devilish thing they won't think of. I hear they're going to try a new dodge on us."
"Oh, what?"
"I don't know. But if it isn't one thing it's another. Nothing's too dirty for 'em. Good night—or, rather, good morning, sir."
"Good morning."
Dick went to bed, but not to sleep. Again and again his mind rehearsed the scenes through which he had passed. It all seemed like a dream, a phantasmagoria, and yet it was very wonderful.
When daylight came he plunged into a bath, and as he felt the sting of the cold water on his body, he felt his own man again. His mind was clear; his senses were alert.
After breakfast he went for a walk towards Hyde Park. The air was clear and exhilarating; the great tide of human life stirred his pulses and caused his blood to course freely through his veins. His mind was saner, more composed. He turned into the Park at the Marble Arch, and he watched the crowds of gaily dressed women and swiftly moving motor-cars.
Presently his heart gave a wild leap. Coming towards him he saw Lady Blanche Huntingford. He thought he saw her smile at his approach, and with eager footsteps he moved towards her. He held out his hand. "This is indeed a pleasure, Lady Blanche," he said.
She gave him a quick, haughty stare, and passed on. He was sure she recognised him, but she acted as though he did not exist. She had cut him dead; she had refused to know him. The woman's action maddened him. Yet why should she not refuse to recognise him? He was a nobody, whom she remembered as a kind of Roger Tichborne—an impostor.
But she should know him! Again the memory ofhis recent experiences came surging back into his mind. He could reach a position where such as she would be as nothing, and like lightning his mind fastened upon Olga's proposal.
Yes; he would accept. He would throw himself heart and soul into this great work. He would become great—yes, the greatest man in England—in the world! He would go back to his hotel and write to her.
A little later he sat at a table in the writing-room of the hotel, but just as he commenced to write the pen dropped from his hand. Again he thought he felt that light yet irresistible hand upon his wrist—the same hand that he had felt in the library at Wendover Park.
He gave a quick, searching glance around the room, and he saw that he was alone.
"Who are you? What do you want?" he asked aloud.
Again he looked around him. Did he see that luminous form, those yearning, searching eyes, the memory of which had been haunting him for years? He was not sure. But of this he was sure. The place seemed filled with a holy influence, and he thought he heard the words, "Watch and pray, that ye enter not into temptation."
"Speak, speak, tell me who you are," he again spoke aloud. But no further answer came to him.
Bewildered, wondering, he rose to his feet and sauntered around the room. His attention was drawn to a number of papers that were scattered on a table. A minute later he was reading an article entitled
"Do the So-called Dead speak to Us?"
"Do the So-called Dead speak to Us?"
The paper containing the article was a periodical which existed for the purpose of advocating spiritualism. It announced that a renowned medium would take part in a séance that very afternoon in a building not far away, and that all earnest and reverent seekers after truth were invited to be present.
"I'll go," determined Dick as he read.
After Dick had decided to attend the séance he read the article more carefully. It purported to be written by a man who had given up all faith in religion and all forms of spiritual life. He had tried to find satisfaction in the pleasures and occupations of his daily existence, and had treated everything else as a played-out fallacy. Then two of his sons had been killed in the war, and life had become a painful, hollow mockery. By and by he became impressed by the thought that his sons were alive and wanted to speak to him. Sometimes, too, he had felt as though presences were near him, but who they were or what they meant he could not tell. After this he had by pure accident heard two people talking about their experiences at a séance, and one had distinctly stated that he had seen and spoken to a dear dead friend. This caused the writer to turn his attention to spiritualism. The result was that he remained no longer a materialist, but was an ardent believer in the spiritual world. He distinctly stated that he had had irrefutable assurance that his sons were alive, that they had spoken to him, and had brought him messages from the spirit world. Things which before had been bewildering and cruel now became plain and full of comfort. Life was larger, grander, and full of a great hope.
Dick's heart warmed as he read. Surely here was light. Surely, too, he would be able to find an explanation to what for years had been a mystery to him.
He thought of the conversations he had heard in Eastroyd, in relation to this, to which he had paid but little attention because his mind had been too full of other matters, but which were now full of significance.His mind again reverted to the discussion on the Angels at Mons. If there were no truth in the stories, how could so many have believed in them? How could there be such clear and definite testimonies from men who had actually seen?
And had not he, Dick Faversham, both seen and heard? What was the meaning of the repeated appearances of that beautiful, luminous figure with great, yearning eyes and arms outstretched to save?
Yes; he would go to this séance. He would inquire, and he would learn.
He felt he had need of guidance. He knew he had come to another crisis in his life. The proposal which had been made to him was alluring; it appealed to the very depths of his being.
Power, position, fame! That was what it meant. To take a leading part in the great drama of life, to be a principal factor in the emancipation of the world! But there was another side. If this movement was spreading with such gigantic strides—were to spread to England and dominate the thoughts and actions of the toiling millions of the country—what might it not mean?
He was sure of nothing. He could not grasp the issues clearly; he could not see his way to the end. But it was grand; it was stupendous! Besides, to come into daily, hourly, contact with that sublime woman—to constantly feel the magnetic charm of her presence! The thought stirred his pulses, fired his imagination! How great she was, too. How she had swept aside the world's conventions and man-made moralities. She seemed like a warm breath from the lands of sunshine and song. And yet he was not sure.
For hours he sat thinking, weighing pros and cons, trying to mark out the course of his life. Yes; he had done well. Since he had left Wendover Park he had become an influence in the industrial life of the North; he had become proclaimed a leader among the working classes; in all probability he would soon be able to voice their cause in the Mother of Parliaments.
But what did it all amount to after all? A Labour Member of Parliament! The tool of the unwashed,uneducated masses! A voting machine at £400 a year! Besides, what could he do? What could the Labour Party do? When their programme was realised, if ever it was realised, what did it all amount to? The wealth, the power, would still be in the hands of the ruling, educated classes, while he would be a mere nobody.
"Sticking-plasters."
The term stuck to him—mocked him. He was only playing at reform. But the dream of Olga—the emancipation of the race! the dethronement of the parasites—the bloodsuckers of the world!—a new heaven and a new earth!—while he, Dick Faversham, would be hailed as the prophet, the leader of this mighty movement, with infinite wealth at his command and power unlimited. Power!
Men professed to sneer at Trotsky; they called him a criminal, an outrage to humanity. But what a position he held! He was more feared, more discussed, than any man in the world—he who a few months before was unknown, unheard of. And he defied kings and potentates, for kings and potentates were powerless before him. While behind him was a new Russia, a new world.
To be such a man in England! To make vocal and real the longings of the greatest Democracy in the world, and to lead it. That would mean the premier place in the world, and——
So he weighed the position, so he thought of this call which had come to him.
During the afternoon he left his hotel and made his way towards the house where the spiritualistic séance was to be held. In spite of all his dreams of social reforms, and the appeal made to his own ambitions, his mind constantly reverted to the vision which had again come to him—to the influences he could not understand.
He found the house, and was admitted without difficulty. It was in a commonplace, shabby-looking street not far from Tottenham Court Road. On his arrival he was admitted into a room, where an absurd attempt had been made to give it an Oriental appearance.An old woman occupied the only arm-chair in the room. She looked up at his entrance, stared at him for a few seconds, and then muttered indistinctly. He was followed by half a dozen others who might have been habitués of the place.
Presently a man entered, who glanced inquiringly around the room. He appeared to be about fifty years of age, and had light watery-looking eyes. He made his way to Dick.
"You desire to be present at the séance?" he asked of Dick.
"If I may?" was Dick's reply.
"You come as a sincere, earnest, reverent inquirer?"
"I hope so."
"Is there any friend you have lost, any message you want to receive?" and he scrutinised Dick closely.
"At a time like this, we have all lost friends," Dick replied.
"Ah, then you come as an inquirer?"
"That is true. I have come to learn."
"Certainly. But of course there are certain expenses. Would it be convenient for you to give me ten shillings?"
Dick gave him a ten-shilling note, whereupon the man turned to another visitor.
"A great medium, but keen on business," Dick heard someone say.
"Yes, but why not? Mediums must live the same as other people."
Another man entered. He was much younger than the other. He looked very unhealthy, and his hands twitched nervously.
"The room is ready," he said, and his voice was toneless. "Perhaps you would like to see it and examine it before the light is excluded, so that you may be sure there is no deception."
Dick with two others accepted the man's invitation. The room into which he was led was carpetless and completely unfurnished save for a number of uncushioned chairs and a plain deal table. Nothing else was visible. There was not a picture on the walls, not a sign ofdecoration. Dick and the others professed satisfaction with what they had seen.
A few minutes later the others joined them, accompanied by the man who had been spoken of as a "great medium," also the man with the nervous, twitching hands, who Dick afterwards learned was the leader of the two mediums.
"My friends," he said, "will you seat yourselves around the table? We promise you nothing. The spirits may come, and they may not. I, personally, am a medium of the old order. I do not pretend to tell you what spirits say; I make no claim to be a clairvoyant. If the spirits come they will speak for themselves—if they wish to speak. If there are persons here who desire a message from the spirit world they will, if they receive such a message at all, receive it direct from the spirits. I pretend to explain nothing, just as I promise nothing. But in the past spirits have come to such gatherings as this, and many comforting messages have been given. That is all."
The party then sat down at the table, placed their hands upon it in such a way that the fingers of one person joined those of the persons sitting next, and thus formed a circle. All light was excluded.
For three minutes there was silence. No sound was heard; no light was seen. All was darkness and silence.
Then suddenly there was a faint voice—a child's voice. It sounded as though it came from the ceiling.
"I am come," wailed the voice.
"Yes, and I am come." This time the voice seemed to come from the direction of the window. It was hoarse, and coarse.
"Who are you?
"I am Jim Barkum. I was killed at Mons."
"Anything to tell us?"
"No; nothin' except I'm all right. I come fro' Sheffield. If you could tell my mother, Emily Barkum, that I'm very happy I'd be very thankful."
"What's your mother's address?"
"Number 14 Tinkers Street."
After this a number of other spirits purported tocome, one of whom said he was the son of a sitter in the circle, and that he had been killed in the war.
"Will you reveal yourself?" said the medium.
Some phosphorous light shone in the darkness, in the radiance of which was the outline of a face.
"Do you recognise it?" asked the medium.
"It might be Jack," Dick heard a voice say.
After this there seemed to be a quarrel among the spirits. There was a good deal of confused talk and a certain amount of anger expressed. Also a number of feeble jokes were passed and far-away laughter heard. Evidently the spirits were in a frolicsome humour.
Dick, whose purpose in coming to the séance was not to take part in a fiasco, grew impatient. In his state of mind he felt he had wasted both money and time. It was true he had seen and heard what he could not explain, but it amounted to nothing. Everything seemed silly beyond words. There was nothing convincing in anything, and it was all artificial.
"I should like to ask a question," he ventured at length.
"Go ahead," said a voice, which seemed to come from the ceiling.
"I should like to ask this: why is it that you, who have solved the great secret of death, should, now you are permitted to come back and speak to those of us who haven't, talk such horrible drivel?"
"Hear! hear!" assented a member of the circle.
"Oh, it's this way," answered the spirit: "every one of you sitting here have your attendant spirits. If you are intellectual, intellectual spirits attend you and come to talk to you, but as you are not they just crack silly jokes."
There was laughter at this, not only from the sitters, but among the spirits, of which the room, by this time, seemed to be full.
"That's not bad," replied Dick. "One might think you'd said that before, but as it happens we are not all fools, and I personally would like something more sensible. This is a time when thousands of hearts are breaking," he added.
"What would you like to know?"
It was another voice that spoke now—a sweeter and more refined voice, and might have belonged to a woman.
"I would like to know if it is true that each of us have attendant spirits, as one of you said just now?"
"Yes; that is true."
"You mean guardian angels?"
"Yes; if you like to call them that. But they are not all guardian angels. There are spirits who try to do harm, as well as those who try to guard and to save."
"Are they here now?"
"Yes; they are here now. I can see one behind you at this moment."
The atmosphere of the room had suddenly changed. It seemed as though something solemn and elevating had entered and driven away the frivolous, chattering presences which had filled the room. A hush had fallen upon the sitters too, and all ears seemed to be listening eagerly.
"You say you can see a spirit behind me now?"
"Yes."
"Tell me, is it a good spirit or a bad one?"
"I do not know. The face is hidden."
"But surely you can cause the face to be seen. I am anxious to learn—to know."
"I think I can tell directly. Wait."
There was a silence for perhaps ten seconds; then the voice spoke again.
"The spirit will not show its face," it said, "but it is always with you. It never leaves you night nor day."
"Why does it not leave me?"
"I cannot tell; I do not know."
"Tell me," persisted Dick, "you do not seem like the other spirits who have been here—if they are spirits," he added in an undertone. "Can you not find out if I am watched over for any particular purpose?"
"Yes, yes, I can. I can see now. It is a guardian angel, and she loves you."
"She loves me—why does she love me?"
"When she was alive she loved you. I think youwere engaged. But she died, and you never married her. But she is always watching over you—trying to help you. Were you ever engaged to anyone who died?"
"That is surely a leading question," was Dick's retort. "Is that all you can tell me?"
"That is all, except that you have enemies, one in particular, who is trying to do you harm, and your guardian angel is always near you, seeking to protect you. Have you an enemy?"
"Possibly—I don't know. Is that enemy a man or a woman?"
"I cannot tell. Everything is becoming hazy and dim. I am not a spirit of the highest order. There, everything is blank to me now."
After this the séance continued for some time, but as far as Dick was concerned, it had but little definite interest. Many things took place which he could not explain, but to him they meant nothing. They might have been caused by spirits, but then again they might have been the result of trickery. Nothing was clear to him except the one outstanding fact that no light had been thrown on the problem of his life. He wanted some explanation of the wonderful apparition which had so affected his life, and he found none. For that matter, although the spirit world had been demonstrated to him, he had no more conviction about the spirit world after the séance than he had before. All the same, he could not help believing, not because of the séance, but almost in spite of it, that a presence was constantly near him, and that this presence had a beneficent purpose in his life.
"You were not convinced?" asked a man of him as presently he left the house.
Dick was silent.
"Sometimes I think I am, and sometimes I think I am not," went on the man. "It's all a mystery. But I know one thing."
"What?" asked Dick.
"My old mother, who held fast to the old simple faith in Christ, had no doubts nor fears," was the man's reply. "I was with her when she was dying, and shetold me that angels were beckoning to her. She said she saw the face of her Lord, and that He was waiting to welcome her on the other side. I wish I could see as she saw."
"Did she believe in angels?" asked Dick.
"She had no doubt," replied the man. "She said that God sent His angels to guard those they loved, and that those angels helped them to fight evil spirits."
"Accepting the idea of a spirit world, it seems reasonable," and Dick spoke like one thinking aloud rather than to be answering the man.
"Did not angels minister to Christ after He was tempted of the Devil?" persisted the man. "Did not angels help the Apostles? I don't think I'll bother about spiritualism any more. There may be truth in it; there may not; but I'd rather get hold of the faith my mother had."
"I wonder?" mused Dick, as he went away alone. "I wonder? But I'll have to send an answer to Olga. My word, what a glorious woman, and what a career! But I don't see my way clear."
He made his way back to his hotel, thinking and wondering. He felt he had come to a crisis in his life, but his way was not plain, and he did not know where to look for light.