Schuabe's voice shook a little as he replied shortly.
For a brief moment the veil was raised. Each saw the other with eyes full of the fear that was lurking within them.
For weeks they had been at cross purposes, simulating a courage and indifference they did not feel.
Now each knew the truth.
They knew that the burden of their terrible secret was beginning to press and enclose them with its awful weight. Each had imagined the other free from his own terror, that terror that lifts up its head in times of night and silence, the dread Incubus that murders sleep.
The two men went out of the club together without speaking. Their hearts were beating like drums within them; it was the beginning of the agony.
Llwellyn, his coat exchanged for a smoking jacket, lay back in a leather chair in his library. Since his return from Palestine he had transferred most of his belongingsto a small flat in New Bond Street. He hardly ever visited his wife now. The flat in Bloomsbury Court Mansions had been given up when Gertrude Hunt had gone.
In New Bond Street Sir Robert lived alone. A housekeeper in the basement of the buildings looked after his rooms and his valet slept above.
The newpied à terrewas furnished with great luxury. It was not the garish luxury and vulgar splendour of Bloomsbury Court—that had been the dancer's taste. Here Llwellyn had gathered round him all that could make life pleasant, and his own taste had seen to everything.
As he sat alone, slightly recovered from the nervous shock of the dinner, but in an utter depression of spirits, his thoughts once more went back to his lost mistress.
It was in times like these that he needed her most. She would distract him, amuse him, where a less vulgar, more intellectual woman would have increased his boredom.
He sighed heavily, pitying himself, utterly unconscious of his degradation. The books upon the shelves, learned and weighty monographs in all languages, his own brilliant contributions to historical science among them, had no power to help him. He sighed for his rowdy Circe.
The electric bell of the flat rang sharply outside in the passage. His man was out, and he rose to answer it himself.
A friend probably had looked him up for a drink and smoke. He was glad; he wanted companionship, easy, genial companionship, not that pale devil Schuabe, with his dreary talk and everlasting reminder.
He went out into the passage and opened the front door. A woman stood there.
She moved, and the light from the hall shone on her face.
The eyes were brilliant, the lips were half parted.
It was Gertrude Hunt.
They were sitting on each side of the fire.
Gertrude was pale, but her dark beauty blazed at him.
She was smoking a cigarette, just as in the old time.
A little table with a caraffe of brandy and bottles of seltzer in a silver stand stood between them.
Llwellyn's face was one large circle of pleasure and content. His eyes gleamed with an evil triumph as he looked at the girl.
"Good Heavens!" he cried, "why, Gertie, it's almost worth while losing you to have you back again like this. It's just exactly as it used to be, only better; yes, better! So you got tired of it all, and you've come back. What a little fool you were ever to go away, dear!"
"Yes, I got tired of it," she repeated, but in a curiously strained voice.
He was too exhilarated to notice the strange manner of her reply.
"Well, I've got any amount of ready cash now," he said joyously. "You can have anything you like now that you've given up the confounded parsons and become sensible again."
She seemed to make an effort to throw off something that oppressed her.
"Now, Bob," she said, "don't talk about it. I've been a little fool, but that's over. What a lot you've got to tell me! What did you do all the time you were away? Where did you raise the 'oof from? Tell meeverything. Let's be as we were before. No more secrets!"
He seemed to hesitate for a moment.
She saw that, and stood up. "Come and kiss me, Bob," she said. He went to her with unsteady footsteps, as if he were intoxicated by the fury of his passion.
"Tell me everything, Bob," she whispered into his ear.
The man surrendered himself to her, utterly, absolutely.
"Gertie," he said, "I'll tell you the queerest story you ever heard."
He laughed wildly.
"I've tricked the whole world by Jove! cleared fifty thousand pounds, and made fools of the whole world."
She laughed, a shrill, high treble.
"Dear old Bob," she cried; "clever old Bob, you're the best of them all! What have you done this time? Tell me all about it."
"By God, I will," he cried. "I'll tell you the whole story, little girl." His voice was utterly changed.
"Yes, everything!" she repeated fiercely.
Her body shook violently as she spoke.
The man thought it was in response to his caresses.
And the face which looked out over the man's shoulder, and had lately been as the face of Delilah, was become as the face of Jael, the wife of Heber the Kenite.
"No more secrets, Bob?"
"No more secrets, Gertie; but how pale you look! Take some brandy, little girl. Now, I'm going to make you laugh! Listen!"
Sir Michael Manichoe, Father Ripon, and Harold Spence were sitting in Sir Michael's own study in his London house in Berkeley Square. A small circular table with the remains of a simple meal showed that they had dined there, without formality, more of necessity than pleasure.
When a small company of men animated by one strenuous purpose meet together, the same expression may often be seen on the face of each one of them. The three men in the study were curiously alike at this moment. A grim resolution, something of horror, a great expectation looked out of their eyes.
Sir Michael looked at his watch. "Gortre ought to be here directly," he said. "It won't take him very long to drive from Victoria. The train must be in already."
Father Ripon nodded, without speaking.
There was another interval of silence.
Then Spence spoke. "Of course it is only achance," he said. "Gertrude Hunt may very likely be able to give us no information whatever. One can hardly suppose that Llewellyn would confide in her."
"Not fully," said Father Ripon. "But there will be letters probably. I feel sure that Gortre will come back with some contributory evidence, at all events. We must go to work slowly, and with the greatest care."
"The greatest possible care," repeated Sir Michael."On the shoulders of us four people hangs an incredible burden. We must do nothing until we aresure. But ever since Gortre's suspicions have been known to me, ever since Schuabe asked you that curious question in the train, Ripon, I have felt absolutely assured of their truth. Everything becomes clear at once. The only difficulty is the difficulty of believing in such colossal wickedness, coupled with such supreme daring."
"It is hard," said Father Ripon. "But probably one's mind is dazzled with the consequences, thesize, and immensity of the fraud. Apart from this question of bigness, it may be that there is, given a certain Napoleonic type of brain, no more danger or difficulty in doing such gigantic evil than in doing evil on a smaller scale."
"Perhaps the size of the operation blinds people—" Spence was continuing, when the door opened and the butler showed Gortre into the room.
He wore a heavy black cloak and carried a Paisley travelling rug upon his arm.
The three waiting men started up at his approach, with an unspoken question on the lips of each one of them.
Gortre began to speak at once. He was slightly flushed from his ride through the keen, frosty air of the evening. His manner was brisk, hopeful.
"The interview was excessively painful, as I had anticipated," he began. "The result has been this: I have been able to get no direct absolute confirmation of what we think. On the other hand, what Ihaveheard establishes something and has made me morally certain that we are on the right track. I think there can be no doubt about that. Again, there is a strong possibility that we shall know much more very shortly."
"Have you had anything to eat?" asked Sir Michael.
"No, sir, and I'm hungry after my journey. I'llhave some of this cold beef, and tell you everything that has happened while I eat."
He sat down, began his meal, and told his story in detail.
"I found Miss Hunt," he said, "in her little cottage by the coast-guard watch-house, looking over the sea. Of course, as you know, she is known as Mrs. Hunt in the village. Only the rector knows her story—she has made herself very beloved in Eastworld, even in the short time she has been there. I asked her, first of all, about her life in general. Then, without in any way indicating the object of my visit—at that point—I led the conversation up to the subject of the Palestine 'discovery.' Of course she had heard of it, and knew all the details. The rector had preached upon it, and the whole village, so it seems, was in a ferment for a week or so. Then, in both Church and the Dissenting chapels—there are two—the whole thing died away in a marvellous manner. The history of it was extremely interesting. Every one came to service just the same as usual, life went on in unbroken placidity. The fishermen, who compose the whole population of the village, absolutelyrefusedto believe or discuss the thing. So utterly different from townspeople! They simply felt and knew intuitively that the statements made in the papersmustbe untrue. So without argument or worry they ignored it. Miss Hunt said that the church has been fuller than ever before, the people coming as a sort of stubborn protest against any attack upon the faith of their fathers. For her own part, when she realised what the news meant or would mean, Miss Hunt had a black time of terror and struggle. She is a woman with a good brain, and saw at once what it would mean to her. Her own words were infinitely pathetic. 'I went out on the sands,' she said, 'and walked for miles. Then when Iwas tired out I sat down and cried, to think that there would never be any Jesus any more to save poor girls. It seemed so empty and terrible, and I'd only been trying to be good such a short time. I went to evensong when I got back; the bell was tolling just as usual. And as I sat there I saw that itcouldn'tbe true that Jesus was just a good man, and not God. I wondered at myself for doubting, seeing what He'd done for me. If the paper was right, then why was it I was so happy, happier than ever before in my life—although I am going to die soon? Why was it that I could go away and leave Bob and the old life? why was it that I could see Jesus in my walks, hear the wind praying—feel that everything was speaking of Him?' That was the gist of what she said, though there was much more. I wish I could tell you adequately of the deep conviction in her voice and eyes. One doesn't often see it, except in very old people. After this I began to speak of our suspicions as delicately as possible. It was horribly difficult. One was afraid of awakening old longings and recalling that man's influence. I was relieved to find that she took it very well indeed. Her feelings towards the man have undergone a complete change. She fears him, not because he has yet an influence over her, but with a hearty fear and horror of the life she was living with him. When I told her what we thought, she began at once by saying that from what she knew of Llwellyn he would not stop even at such wickedness as this. She said that he only cared for two things, and kept them quite distinct. When he is working he throws his whole heart into what he is doing, and he will let no obstacle stand in his way. He wants to constantly assure himself of his own pre-eminence in his work. He must be first at any cost. When his work is over he dismisses it absolutely from his thoughts, andlives entirely for gross, material pleasures. The man seems to pursue these with a horrid, overwhelming eagerness. I gather that he must be one of the coldest and most calculating sybarites that breathes. The actual points I have gathered are these, and I think you will see that they are extremely important. Llwellyn was indebted enormously to Schuabe. Suddenly, Miss Hunt tells me, when Llwellyn's financial position began to be very shaky, Schuabe forgave him the old debts and paid him a large sum of money. Llwellyn paid off a lot of the girl's debts, and he told her that the money had come from that source. It was not a loan this time, he said to her, but a payment for some work he was about to do. He also impressed the necessity of silence upon her. While away he wrote several times to her—once from Alexandria, from one or two places on the Continent,and twice from the German hotel,the'Sabîl,'in Jerusalem."
There was a sudden murmur from one or two men who were listening to Gortre's narrative. He had long since forgotten to eat and was leaning forward on the table. He paused for a moment, drank a glass of water, and concluded:
"This then is all that I know at present, but it gives us a basis. We know that Sir Robert Llwellyn was staying privately at Jerusalem. Miss Hunt was instructed to write to him under the name of the Rev. Robert Lake, and she did so, thinking that his incognito was assumed owing to the kind of pleasures he was pursuing, and especially because of his recent knighthood. But in a week's time Miss Hunt has asked me to go down to Eastworld again, as she has hopes of getting other evidence for me. She will not say what this is likely to consist of, or, in fact, tell me anything about it. But she has hopes."
"This is of great importance, Gortre," said Sir Michael;"we have something definite to go upon."
"I will start again for Jerusalem without loss of a day," said Spence, his whole face lighting up and hardening at the thought of active occupation.
"I was going to suggest it, Mr. Spence," said Sir Michael. "You will do what is necessary better than any of us; your departure will attract less notice. You will of course draw upon me for any moneys that may be necessary. If in the course of your investigations it may be—and it is extremely probable—may be necessary to buy the truth, of course no money considerations must stand in the way. We are working for the peace and happiness of millions. We are in very deep waters."
Father Ripon gave a deep sigh. Then, in an instant, his face hardened and flushed till it was almost unrecognisable. The others started back from him in amazement. He began to tremble violently from the legs upwards. Then he spoke:
"God forgive me," he said in a thick, husky voice. "God forgive me! But when I think of those two men, devils that they are, devils! when I regard the broken lives, the suicides, the fearful mass of crime, I——"
His voice failed him. The frightful wrath and anger took him and shook him like a reed—this tall, black-robed figure—it twisted him with a physical convulsion inexpressibly painful to witness.
For near a minute Father Ripon stood among them thus, and they were rigid with sympathy, with alarm.
Then, with a heavy sob, he turned and fell upon his knees in silent prayer.
Thelittle village of Eastworld is set on a low headland by the sea, remote from towns and any haunt of men. The white cottages of the fisherfolk, an inn, the church, and a low range of coast-guard buildings, are the only buildings there. Below the headland there are miles upon miles of utterly lonely sands which edge the sea in a great yellow scimitar as far as the eye can carry, from east to west.
Hardly any human footsteps ever disturb the vast virgin smoothness of the sands, for the fisherfolk sail up the mouth of a sluggish tidal river to reach the village. All day long the melancholy sea-birds call to each other over the wastes, and away on the sky-line, or so it seems to any one walking upon the sands, the great white breakers roll and boom for ever.
Over the flat expanses the tide, with no obstacle to slacken or impede its progress, rushes with furious haste—as fast, so the fisherfolks tell, as a good horse in full gallop.
It was the beginning of the winter afternoon on the day after Gortre had visited Eastworld.
There was little wind, but the sky hung low in cold and menacing clouds, ineffably cheerless and gloomy.
A single figure moved slowly through these forbidding solitudes. It was Gertrude Hunt. She wore a simple coat and skirt of grey tweed, a tam-o'-shanter cap of crimson wool, and carried a walking cane.
She had come out alone to think out a problem out there between the sea and sky, with no human help or sympathy to aid her.
The strong, passionate face was paler than before and worn by suffering. Yet as she strode along there was a wild beauty in her appearance which seemed to harmonise with the very spirit and meaning of the place where she was. And yet the face had lost the old jaunty hardihood. Qualities in it which had before spoken of an impudent self-sufficiency now were changed to quiet purpose. There was an appeal for pity in the eyes which had once been bright with shamelessness and sin.
The woman was thinking deeply. Her head was bowed as she walked, the lips set close together.
Gortre's visit had moved her deeply. When she had heard his story something within her, an intuition beyond calm reason, had told her instantly of its truth. She could not have said why she knew this, but she was utterly certain.
Her long connection with Llwellyn had left no traces of affection now. As she would kneel in the little windy church on the headland and listen to the rector, an old friend of Father Ripon's, reading prayers, she looked back on her past life as a man going about his business in sunlight remembers some horrid nightmare of the evening past. She but rarely allowed her thoughts to dwell upon the former partner of her sin, but when she did so it was with a sense of shrinking and dislike. As the new Light which filled her life taught, she endeavoured to think of the man with Christian charity and sometimes to pray that his heart also might be touched. But perhaps this was the most difficult of all the duties she set herself, although she had no illusions about the past, realised his kindness to her, and also that she had been at least as bad as he. But now thereseemed a great gulf between them which she never cared to pass even in thought.
Her repentance was so sincere and deep, her mourning for her misspent life so genuine, that it never allowed her the least iota of spiritual pride—the snare of weaker penitents when they have turned from evil courses. Yet, try as she would, she could never manage to really identify her hopes and prayers with Llwellyn in any vivid way.
And now the young clergyman, the actual instrument of her own salvation as she regarded him, had come to her with this story in which she had recognised the truth.
In sad and eloquent words he had painted for her what the great fraud had meant to thousands. He told of upright and godly men stricken down because their faith was not strong enough to bear the blow. There was the curate at Wigan, who had shot himself and left a heart-breaking letter of mad mockery behind him; there were other cases of suicide. There was the surging tide of crime, rising ever higher and higher as the clergy lost all their influence in the slums of London and the great towns. He told her of Harold Spence, mentioning him as "a journalist friend of mine," explaining what a good fellow he was, and how he had overcome his temptations with the aid of religion and faith. And he described his own return to Lincoln's Inn, the disorder, and Harold's miserable story. She could picture it all so well, that side of life. She knew its every detail. And, moreover, Gortre had said "the evil was growing and spreading each day, each hour." True as it was that the myriad lamps of the Faithful only burned the brighter for the surrounding gloom, yet that gloom was growing and rolling up, even as the clouds on which her unseeing eyes were fixed as shewalked along the shore. Men were becoming reckless; the hosts of evil triumphed on every side.
The thought which came to her as Gortre had gradually unfolded the object of his visit was startling. She herself might perhaps prove to be the pivot upon which these great events were turning. It was possible that by her words, that by means of her help, the dark conspiracy might be unveiled and the world freed from its burden. She herself might be able to do all this, a kind of thank-offering for the miraculous change that had been wrought in her life.
Yet, when it was all summed up, how little she had to tell Gortre after all! True, her information was of some value; it seemed to confirm what he and his friends suspected. But still it was very little, and it meant long delay, if she could provide no other key to open this dark door. And meanwhile souls were dying and sinking....
She had asked Gortre to come to her again in a week.
In that time, she had said, she might have some further information for him.
And now she was out here, alone on the sands, to ask her soul and God what she was to do.
The clouds fell lower, a cutting wind began to moan and cry over the sand, which was swept up and swirled in her face. And still she went on with a bitterness and chill as of death in her heart.
She knew her power over her former lover,—if that pure word could describe such an unhallowed passion,—knew her power well. He would be as wax in her hands, and it had always been so. From the very first she had done what she liked with him, and there had always been an undercurrent of contempt in her thoughts that a man could be led so easily, could be made the doll and puppet of his own passion. Nor did she doubtthat her power still remained. She felt sure of that. Even in her seclusion some news of his frantic attempts to find her had reached her. Her beauty still remained, heightened indeed by the slow complaint from which she was suffering. He knew nothing of that. And, as for the rest—the rouge-pot, the belladonna—well, they were still available, though she had thought to have done with them for ever.
The idea began to emerge from the mist, as it were, and to take form and colour. She thought definitely of it, though with horror; looked it in the face, though shuddering as she did so.
It resolved itself into a statement, a formula, which rang and dinned itself repeatedly into her consciousness like the ominous strokes of a bell heard through the turmoil of the gathering storm,—
"If I go back to Bob and pretend I'm tired of being good, he will tell me all he's done."
Over and over again the girl repeated the sentence to herself. It glowed in her brain, and burnt it like letters of heated wire. She looked up at the leaden canopy which held the wind, and it flashed out at her in letters of violet lightning. The wind carved it in the sand,—
"If I go back to Bob and pretend I'm tired of being good, he will tell me what he has done."
Could she do this thing for the sake of Gortre, for the sake of the world? What did it mean exactly? She would be sinning terribly once more, going back to the old life. It was possible that she might never be able to break away again after achieving her purpose; one did not twice escape hell. It would mean that she sinned a deadly sin in order to help others. Ought she to do that! Was that right?
The wind fifed round her, shrieking.
Could she do this thing?
She would only be sinning with her body, not with her heart, and Christ would know why she did so. Would He cast her out for this?
The struggle went on in her brain. She was not a subtle person, unused to any self-communing that was not perfectly straightforward and simple. The efforts she was making now were terribly hard for her to endure. Yet she forced her mind to the work by a great effort of will, summoned all her flagging energies to high consideration.
If she went back itmightmean utter damnation, even though she found out what she wanted to find out. She had been a Christian so short a time, she knew very little of the truth about these matters.
In her misery and struggle she began more and more to think in this way.
Suddenly she saw the thing, as she fancied, and indeed said half aloud to herself, "in a common-sense light." Her face worked horribly, though she was quite unconscious of it.
"It's better that one person, especially one that's been as bad as I have, should go to hell than hundreds and thousands of others."
And then her decision was taken.
The light died out of her face, the hope also. She became old in a sudden moment.
And, with one despairing prayer for forgiveness, she began to walk towards her cottage—there was a fast train to town.
She believed that there could hardly be forgiveness for her act, and yet the thought of "the others" gave her strength to sin.
And so, out of her great love for Christ, this poor harlot set out to sin a sin which she thought would take Him away from her for ever.
" ... Woman fearing and trembling"
Inher house in the older, early-Victorian remnants of Kensington, Mrs. Hubert Armstrong sat at breakfast. Her daughter, a pretty, unintellectual girl, was pouring out tea with a suggestion of flippancy in her manner. The room was grave and somewhat formal. Portraits of Matthew Arnold, Professor Green, and Mark Pattison hung upon the sombre, olive walls.
Over the mantel-shelf, painted in ornamental chocolate-coloured letters, the famous authoress's pet motto was austerely blazoned,—
"The decisive events of the world take place in the intellect."
Indeed, save for the bright-haired girl at the urn, the room struck just that note. It would be difficult to imagine an ordinary conversation taking place there. It was a place in which solid chunks of thought were gravely handed about.
Mrs. Armstrong wore a flowing morning wrap of dark red material. It was clasped at the smooth white throat by a large cameo brooch, a dignified bauble once the property of George Eliot. The clear, steady eyes, the smooth bands of shining hair, the full, calm lips of the lady were all eloquent of splendid unemotional health, assisted by a careful system of hygiene.
She was opening her letters, cutting the envelopes carefully with a silver knife.
"Shall I give you some more tea, Mother?" the daughter asked in a somewhat impatient voice. The offer was declined, and the girl rose to go. "I'm off now to skate with the Tremaines at Henglers," she said, and hurriedly left the room.
Mrs. Armstrong sighed in a sort of placid wonder, as Minerva might have sighed coming suddenly upon Psyche running races with Cupid in a wood, and turned to another letter.
It was written in firm, strong writing on paper headed with some official-looking print.
THE WORLD'S WOMAN'S LEAGUELondon Headquarters,100Regent Street, S. W.secretary, miss paull"My Dear Charlotte,—I should be extremely glad to see you here to-day about lunch time. I must have a long and important talk with you. The work is in a bad way. I know you are extremely busy, but trust to see you as the matters for conference are urgent. Your affectionate Sister,"Catherine Paull."
THE WORLD'S WOMAN'S LEAGUELondon Headquarters,100Regent Street, S. W.
secretary, miss paull
"My Dear Charlotte,—I should be extremely glad to see you here to-day about lunch time. I must have a long and important talk with you. The work is in a bad way. I know you are extremely busy, but trust to see you as the matters for conference are urgent. Your affectionate Sister,
"Catherine Paull."
Miss Paull was a well-known figure in what may be called "executive" life. Both she and her elder sister, Mrs. Armstrong, had been daughters of an Oxford tutor, and had become immersed in public affairs early in life. While the elder became a famous novelist and leader of "cultured doubt," the younger had remained unmarried and thrown herself with great eagerness into the movement which had for its object the strengthening of woman's position and the lightening of her burdens, no less in England than over the whole world.
The "World's Woman's League" was a great unsectariansociety with tentacles all over the globe. The Indian lady missionaries and doctors, who worked in the zenanas, were affiliated to it. The English and American vigilance societies for the safe-guarding of girls, the women of the furtive students' clubs in Russia, the Melbourne society for the supply of domestic workers in the lonely up-country stations of Australia, all, while having their own corporate and separate existences, were affiliated to, and in communication with, the central offices of the League in Regent Street.
The League was all-embracing. Christian, non-Christian, or heathen, it mattered nothing. It aimed at the gigantic task of centralising all the societies for the welfare of women throughout the globe.
On the board of directors one found the names and titles of all the humanitarians of Europe.
The working head of this vast organisation was the thin, active woman of middle age whose name figured in a hundred blue-books, whose speeches and articles were sometimes of international importance, whose political power was undoubtable—Miss Catherine Paull.
The most important function of the League, or one of its most important functions, was the yearly publication of a huge report or statement of more than a thousand pages. This annual was recognised universally as the most trustworthy and valuable summary of the progress of women in the world. It was quoted in Parliament a hundred times each session; its figures were regarded as authoritative in every way.
This report was published every May, and as Mrs. Hubert Armstrong drove to Regent Street in her brougham she realised that points in connection with it were to be discussed, possibly with the various sectional editors, possibly with Miss Paull alone.
As was natural, so distinguished an example of the"higher woman" as Mrs. Armstrong was a great help to the League, and her near relationship to the secretary made her help and advice in constant request.
The office occupied two extensive floors in the quadrant, housing an army of women clerks, typewriters, and a literary staff almost exclusively feminine. Here, from morning till night, was a hum of busy activity quite foreign to the office controlled by the more drone-like men. Miss Paull contrived to interest the most insignificant of her girls in the work that was to be done, making each one feel that in the performance of her task lay not only the means of earning a weekly wage, but of doing something for women all over the world.
In short, the League was an admirable and powerful institution, presided over by an admirable and earnest woman of wonderful organising ability and the gift of tact, thatextremetact necessary in dealing with hundreds of societies officered and ruled by women whose official activities did not always quell that feminine jealousy and bickering which generally militate against success.
It was some weeks since Mrs. Armstrong had seen her sister or communicated with her. The great events in Jerusalem, the chaos into which the holders of the old creeds had been thrown, had meant a series of platform and journalistic triumphs for the novelist. Her importance had increased a thousand-fold, her presence was demanded everywhere, and she had quite lost touch with the League for a time.
As she entered her sister's room she was beaming with satisfaction at the memory of the past few weeks, and anticipating with pleasure the congratulations that would be forthcoming. Miss Paull, in the main, agreed with her sister's opinions, though her extraordinarilystrenuous life and busy activities in other directions prevented her public adherence to them.
Moreover, her position as head of the League, which included so many definitely Christian societies, made it inadvisable for her to take a prominent controversial part as Mrs. Armstrong did.
The secretary's room was large and well lit by double windows, which prevented the roar of the Regent Street traffic from becoming too obtrusive.
Except that there was some evidence of order and neatness on the three great writing-tables, and that the books on the shelves were all in their places, there was nothing to distinguish the place from the private room of a busy solicitor or merchant.
Perhaps the only thing which gave the place any really individual note was a large brass kettle, which droned on the fire, and a sort of sideboard with a good many teacups and a glass jar full of what seemed to be sponge cakes.
The two women greeted each other affectionately. Then Miss Paull sent away her secretary, who had been writing with her, expressing her desire to be quite alone for an hour or more.
"I want to discuss the report with you, Charlotte," said Miss Paull, deftly pouring some hot water into a green stone-ware teapot.
She removed herpince-nez,which had become clouded with the steam, and waited for Mrs. Armstrong to speak.
"I expected that was it when I got your note, dear," said the novelist. "I am sorry I have been so much away of late. But, of course, you will have seen how my time has been taken up. Since all Our contentions have been so remarkably established, of course one is looked to a great deal. I have to be everywhere just at present.John Mulgravehas been through three more editions during the last fortnight."
"Yes, Charlotte," answered the sister, "one hears ofyou on all sides. It is a wonderful triumph from one point of view."
Mrs. Armstrong looked up quickly, with surprise in her eyes. There was a strange lack of enthusiasm in the secretary's tone. Indeed, it was even less than unenthusiastic; it hinted almost of dislike, nearly of dismay.
It could not be jealousy of the blaze of notoriety which had fallen upon Mrs. Armstrong, the lady knew her sister too well for that. For one brief moment she allowed herself the unworthy suspicion that Miss Paull had been harbouring Christian leanings, or had, in the stress and worry of overwork, permitted herself a sentimental adherence to the Christ-myth.
But it was only for a single moment that such thoughts remained in her brain. She dismissed them at once as disloyal to her sister and undignified for herself.
"I don't quite understand, Catherine," she said. "Surely fromeverypoint of view this glorious vindication of the truth is ofincalculablebenefit to mankind. How can it be otherwise? Now that we know the great teacher Jesus——"
She was beginning somewhat on the lines of her public utterances, with a slightly inspired look which, though habit had made mechanical, was still sincere, when her sister checked her with some asperity.
"That is all well and good," she said, her rather sharp, animated features becoming more harsh and eager as she spoke. "You, Charlotte, are at the moment concerned with the future and with abstractions. I am busied with the present and withfacts. However I may share your gladness at this vindication, in my official capacity, and more, in the interests of my life work, I am bound to deplore what has happened. I deplore it grievously."
Placid and equable as was her usual temper of mind,Mrs. Armstrong was hardly proof against such a sweeping assertion as this.
Her face flushed slightly.
"Please explain," she said somewhat coldly.
"That is why I wanted you to come to-day," answered Miss Paull. "I very much fear you will be more than startled at what I have to tell you and show you. My facts are all ready—piteous, heart-breaking facts, too.Weknow, here, what is going on below the surface.Weare confronted by statistics, and theories pale before them. Our system is perfect."
She made a movement of her arm and pointed to a small adjacent table, on which were arranged various documents for inspection.
The novelist followed the glance, curiously disturbed by the sadness of the other's voice and the bitterness of her manner. "Show me what you mean, dear," she said.
Miss Paull got up and went to the table. "I will begin with points of local interest," she said, "that is, with the English statistics. In regard to these I will call your attention to a branch of the Social Question. First of all, look at the monthly map for the current month and the one for the month before the Palestine Discovery."
She handed two outline maps of Great Britain and Ireland to her sister.
The maps were shaded in crimson in different localities, the colour being either light, medium, or dark. Innumerable figures were dotted over them, referring to comprehensive marginal notes. Above each map was printed:
series d.—crimes against women
And the month and year were written in below in violet ink.
Mrs. Armstrong held the two maps, which weremounted on stiff card, and glanced from one to the other. Suddenly her face flushed, her eyes became full of incredulous horror, and she stared at her sister. "What is this, Catherine?" she said in a high, agitated voice. "Surely there is some mistake? This is terrible!"
"Terrible, indeed," Miss Paull answered. "During the last month, in Wales, criminal assaults have increasedtwo hundred per cent. In England scarcely less. In Ireland, with the exception of Ulster, the increase has been only eight per cent. I am comparing the map before the discovery with that of the present month. Crimes of ordinary violence, wife-beating and such like, have increased fifty per cent., on an average, all over the United Kingdom. We have, of course, all the convictions, sentences, and so forth. The local agents supply them to the British Protection Society, they tabulate them and send them here, and then the maps are made in this office ready for the annual report."
"But," said Mrs. Armstrong with a shocked, pale face, "is itcertainthat this is a case of cause and effect?"
"Absolutely certain, Charlotte. Here I have over a thousand letters from men and women interested in the work in all the great towns. They are in answer to direct queries on the subject. In order that there could be no possibility of any sectarian bias, the form has been sent to leading citizens, of all denominations and creeds, who are interested in the work. I will show you two letters at random."
She picked out two of the printed forms which had been sent out and returned filled in, and gave them to Mrs. Armstrong. One ran:
"Kindly state what, in your opinion, is the cause ofthe abnormal increase of crimes against women in Great Britain during the past month, as shown by the annexed map."Name.Rev. William Carr,"Vicar of St. Saviour's,"Birmingtown."The recent 'discovery' in Palestine, which appears to do away with the Resurrection of Christ, is in my opinion entirely responsible for the increase of crime mentioned above. Now that the Incarnation is on all hands said to be a myth, the greatest restraint upon human passion is removed. In my district I have found that the moment men give up Christ and believe in this 'discovery,' the moment that the Virgin birth and the manifestation to the Magdalen are dismissed as untrue, women's claim to consideration, and reverence for women's chastity, in the eyes of these men disappear."William Carr."
"Kindly state what, in your opinion, is the cause ofthe abnormal increase of crimes against women in Great Britain during the past month, as shown by the annexed map.
"Name.Rev. William Carr,"Vicar of St. Saviour's,"Birmingtown.
"The recent 'discovery' in Palestine, which appears to do away with the Resurrection of Christ, is in my opinion entirely responsible for the increase of crime mentioned above. Now that the Incarnation is on all hands said to be a myth, the greatest restraint upon human passion is removed. In my district I have found that the moment men give up Christ and believe in this 'discovery,' the moment that the Virgin birth and the manifestation to the Magdalen are dismissed as untrue, women's claim to consideration, and reverence for women's chastity, in the eyes of these men disappear.
"William Carr."
Mrs. Armstrong said nothing whatever, but turned to the other form. In this case the name was that of a Manchester alderman, obviously a Jew—Moses Goldstein, of Goldstein & Hildesheimer, chemical bleachers.
In a flowing business hand the following remarks were written:
"Regrettable increase of crime due in my opinion to sudden wave of disbelief in Christian doctrines. Have questioned men in my own works on the subject. Record this as fact without pretending to understand it. Crimes of violence on increase among Jewish workmen also. Probably sympathetic reaction against morality, though as a strict Jew myself find this doubly distressing."Moses Goldstein."
"Regrettable increase of crime due in my opinion to sudden wave of disbelief in Christian doctrines. Have questioned men in my own works on the subject. Record this as fact without pretending to understand it. Crimes of violence on increase among Jewish workmen also. Probably sympathetic reaction against morality, though as a strict Jew myself find this doubly distressing.
"Moses Goldstein."
"The famous philanthropist," murmured Mrs. Armstrong.
The lady seemed dazed. Her usual calm volubility seemed to have deserted her.
"This is a terrible blow," said Miss Paull, sadly, "and day by day things are getting worse as figures come in. It seems as if all our work has been in vain. Men seem to be relapsing into the state of the barbaric heathen world. But there is much more yet. I will read you an extract from Mrs. Mary P. Corbin's letter from Chicago. You will remember that she is the organising secretary of the United States branch of the League."
She took up a bundle of closely typewritten sheets.
"'The Friend to Poor Girls' Society' in this city reports a most painful state of things. The work has suddenly fallen to pieces and become totally disorganised. Many of the girls have left the home and returned to lives of prostitution—there seems to be no restraining influence left. In a few cases girls have returned, after two or three weeks of sin, mere wrecks of their former selves. A—— S—— was a well-known girl on the streets when she was converted and brought to the home. Five weeks ago she went away, announcing her intention of resuming her former life. She has just returned in a dying condition from brutal ill-usage. She says that her former experience was nothing to what she has lately endured. Her words are terribly significant: 'I went back as I thought it was no use being good any more now that there isn't any Jesus. I thought I'd have a good old time. But it's not as it was. Hell's broke loose in the streets. The men are a million times worse than they were. It's hell now.'"Another awful blow has been struck at the purity work. The state of the lower parts of Chicago and New York City has become so bad that even the municipal authorities have become seriously alarmed. Unmentionableorgies take place in public. Accordingly a bill is to be rushed through Congress licensing so many houses of ill-fame in each city ward, according to the Continental system."
"'The Friend to Poor Girls' Society' in this city reports a most painful state of things. The work has suddenly fallen to pieces and become totally disorganised. Many of the girls have left the home and returned to lives of prostitution—there seems to be no restraining influence left. In a few cases girls have returned, after two or three weeks of sin, mere wrecks of their former selves. A—— S—— was a well-known girl on the streets when she was converted and brought to the home. Five weeks ago she went away, announcing her intention of resuming her former life. She has just returned in a dying condition from brutal ill-usage. She says that her former experience was nothing to what she has lately endured. Her words are terribly significant: 'I went back as I thought it was no use being good any more now that there isn't any Jesus. I thought I'd have a good old time. But it's not as it was. Hell's broke loose in the streets. The men are a million times worse than they were. It's hell now.'
"Another awful blow has been struck at the purity work. The state of the lower parts of Chicago and New York City has become so bad that even the municipal authorities have become seriously alarmed. Unmentionableorgies take place in public. Accordingly a bill is to be rushed through Congress licensing so many houses of ill-fame in each city ward, according to the Continental system."
She laid down the letter. "There is no need to read more than extracts," she said. "The letter is full of horrors. I may mention that the law against polygamy in the Mormon State of Utah is on the point of being repealed, and there can be no doubt that things will soon be as bad as ever there. Here is a letter from the Bishop of Toomarbin, who is at present in Melbourne, Australia. A Bill is preparing in the House of Legislature to make the divorce laws for men as easy and simple as possible, while women's privileges are to be greatly curtailed in this direction. In Rhodesia the mine-captains are beginning to flog native women quite unchecked by the local magistrates. English magistrates——"
"Stop, dear," said Mrs. Armstrong, with a sudden gesture almost of fear. There was a craven, hunted look in the eyes of this well-known woman. Her face was blanched with pain. She sat huddled up in her chair. All the stately confidence was gone. That proud bearing of equality, and more than equality, with men, which was so noticeable a characteristic of her port and manner, had vanished.
The white hand which lifted a cup of scalding tea to her lips trembled like a leaf.
The sisters sat together in silence. They sat there, names famous in the world for courage, ability, resource. To these two, perhaps more than to any others in England, had been given the power of building up the great edifice of women's enlightened position at the present day.
And now?
In a moment all was changed. The brute in man was awake, unchained, and loose. The fires of cruelty and lust were lit, they heard the roaring of the fires like the roaring of wolves that "devour apace and nothing said."
Mrs. Armstrong was terribly affected. Her keen intelligence told her at once of coming horrors of which these were but the earliest signs.
The roaring of a great fire, louder and more menacing, nearer ... nearer.
Christ had gone from the world never to return—Christ Whom the proud, wishful, worldly woman had not believed in.... They were flogging girls, selling girls ... the fires grew greater and greater ... nearer!
mary, pity women!
Forthe first two weeks after Hands's return he was utterly bewildered by the rush of events in which he must take part and had little or no time for thought.
His days were filled by official conferences with his chiefs at the Exploring Society, from which important but by no means wealthy body he had suddenly attained more than financial security.
Meeting succeeded meeting. Hands was in constant communication with the heads of the Church, Government, and Society. Interviewers from all the important papers shadowed him everywhere. Despite his protests, for he was a quiet and retiring man, photographers fought for him, and his long, somewhat melancholy face and pointed fair beard stared at him everywhere.
He had to read papers at learned societies, and afterwards women came and carried him off to evening parties without possibility of escape.
The Unitarians of England started a monster subscription for him, a subscription which grew so fast that the less sober papers began to estimate it day by day and to point out that the fortunate discoverer would be a rich man for life.
Everywhere he was flattered, caressed, and made much of. In fact, he underwent what to some natures is the grimmest torture of a humane age—he became theman of the hour. Even by Churchmen and others mostinterested in denying the truth of the discovery, Hands was treated with consideration and deference. His ownbona fidesin the matter was indubitable, his long and notable record forbade suspicion.
Of Gortre Hands saw but little. Their greeting had been cordial, but there was some natural restraint, one fearing the attitude of the other. Gortre, no less than Hands, was much away from the chambers, and the pair had few confidences. Hands felt, naturally enough under the circumstances, that he would have been more comfortable with Spence. He was surprised to find him absent, but all he was able to glean was that the journalist had suddenly left for the Continent upon a special mission. Hands supposed that Continental feeling was to be thoroughly tested, and that the work had fallen to Spence.
Meanwhile the invitations flowed in. The old staircase of the inn was besieged with callers. In order to escape them, Hands was forced to spend much time in the chambers on the other side of the landing, which belonged to a young barrister, Kennedy by name, who was able to put a spare sitting-room at his disposal. This gentleman, briefless and happy, was somewhat of the Dick Swiveller type, and it gave him intense pleasure to reconnoitre the opposite "oak" through the slit of his letter-box, and to report and speculate upon those who stood knocking for admission.
How he loathed it all!
The shock and surprise of it was not one of the least distressing features.
Far away in the ancient Eastern city he had indeed realised the momentous nature of the strange and awful things he had found. But of the consequences to himself he had thought nothing, and of the effects on the world he had not had time to think.
Hands had never wished to be celebrated. His temperament was poetic in essence, retiring in action. He longed to be back under the eye of the sun, to move among the memorials of the past with his Arab boys, to lie upon the beach of the Dead Sea when no airs stirred, and, suddenly, to hear a vast, mysterious breaker, coming from nowhere, with no visible cause, like some great beast crashing through the jungle.
And he had exchanged all this for lunches at institutions, for hot rooms full of flowers and fools of women who said, "Oh,dotell me all about your delightful discovery," smiling through their paint while the world's heart was breaking. And there was worse to come. At no distant date he would have to stand upon the platform at the Albert Hall, and Mr. Constantine Schuabe, M.P., Mrs. Hubert Armstrong, the writing woman—the whole crowd of uncongenial people—would hand him a cheque for some preposterous sum of money which he did not in the least want. There would be speeches——
He was not made for this life.
His own convictions of Christianity had never been thoroughly formulated or marked out in his brain. All that was mystical in the great history of Christ had always attracted him. He took an æsthetic pleasure in the beautiful story. To him more than to most men it had become a vividpanoramicvision. The background and accessories had been part of his daily life for years. It was as the figure of King Arthur and his old knights might be to some loving student of Malory.
And although his life was pure, his actions gentle and blameless, it had always been thus to him—a lovely and poetic picture and no more. He had never made a personal application of it to himself. His heart had never been touched, and he had never heard the Divine Voice calling to him.
At the end of a fortnight Hands found that he could stand the strain no longer. His nerves were failing him; there was a constant babble of meaningless voices in his ear which took all the zest and savour from life. His doctor told him quite unmistakably that he was doing too much, that he was not inured to this gaiety, and that he must go away to some solitude by the sea and rest.
The advice not only coincided with his own wishes, but made them possible. A good many engagements were cancelled, a paragraph appeared in the newspapers to say that Mr. Hands's medical adviser had insisted upon a thorough rest, and the man of the moment disappeared. Save only Gortre and the secretary of the Exploring Society, no one knew of his whereabouts.
In a week he was forgotten. Greater things began to animate Society—harsh, terrible, ugly things. There was no time to think of Hands, the instrument which had brought them about.
The doctor had recommended the remotest parts of Cornwall. Standing in his comfortable room at Harley Street, he expatiated, with an enthusiastic movement of his hand, upon the peace to be found in that lost country of frowning rocks and bottle-green seas, where, so far is it from the great centres of action, men still talk of "going into England" as if it were an enterprise, an adventure.
Two days found him at a lonely fishing cove, rather than village, lodging in the house of a coast-guard, not far from Saint Ives.
A few whitewashed houses ran down to the beach of the little natural harbour where the boats were sheltered.
On the shores of the little "Porth," as it was called, the fishermen sat about with sleepy, vacant eyes, waiting for the signal of watchmen on the moor above—theshrill Cornish cry of "Ubba!" "Ubba!" which would tell them the mackerel were in sight.
Behind the cove, running inland, were the vast, lonely moors which run between the Atlantic and the Channel. It is always grey and sad upon these rolling solitudes, sad and silent. The glory of summer gorse had not yet clothed them with a fleeting warmth and hospitality. As far as the eye could reach they stretched away with a forlorn immensity that struck cold to Hands's heart. Peace was here indeed, but how austere! quiet, but what a brooding and cruel silence!
Every now and again the roving eye, in its search for incident and colour, was caught and arrested by the bleak engine-house of some ancient deserted mine and the gaunt chimney which pointed like a leaden finger to the stormy skies above. Great humming winds swept over the moor, driving flocks of Titanic clouds, an Olympian army in rout, before their fierce breath.
Here, day by day, Hands took his solitary walk, or sometimes he would sit sheltered in a hollow of the jagged volcanic rocks which set round about the cove a barrier of jagged teeth. Down below him a hard, green sea boiled and seethed in an agony of fierce unrest. The black cormorants in the middle distance dived for their cold prey. The sea-birds were tossed on the currents of the wild air, calling to each other with forlorn, melancholy voices. This remote Western world resounded with the powerful voices of the waves; night and day the gongs of Neptune's anger were sounding.
In the afternoon a weary postman tramped over the moor. He brought the London newspapers of the day before, and Hands read them with a strange subjective sensation of spectatorship.
So far away was he from the world that by a paradox of psychology he viewed its turmoil with a clearer eye.As poetry is emotion remembered in tranquillity, as a painter often prefers to paint a great canvas from studies and memory—quiet in his studio—rather than from the actual but too kinetic scene, so Hands as he read the news-sheets felt and lived the story they had to tell far more acutely than in London.
He had more time to think about what he read. It was in this lost corner of the world that the chill began to creep over him.
The furious sounds of Nature clamoured in his ears, assaulting them like strongholds; these were the objective sounds.
But as his subjective brain grew clear the words his eyes conveyed to it filled it with a more awful reverberation.
The awful weight grew. He began to realise with terrible distinctnessthe consequencesof his discovery. They stunned him. A carved inscription, a crumbling tomb in half an acre of waste ground. He had stumbled upon so much and little more.He, Cyril Hands, had found this.
His straining eyes day by day turned to the columns of the papers.
all ye inhabitants of the world, and dwellers on the earth, see ye,when he lifteth up an ensign on the mountains.—isaiah xviii: 3
Handsawoke to terrible realisation.
The telegrams in the newspapers provided him with a bird's-eye view, an epitomised summary of a world in tumult.
Out of a wealth of detail, culled from innumerable telegrams and articles, certain facts stood out clearly.
In the Balkan States, always in unrest, a crisis, graver than ever before, suddenly came about. The situationflaredup like a petrol explosion.
A great revival of Mohammedan enthusiasm had begun to spread from Jerusalem as soon as Europe had more or less definitely accepted the discovery made by Cyril Hands and confirmed by the international committee.
It was no longer possible to hold the troops of the Sultan in check. It was openly said by the correspondents thatinstructionshad been sent from Yildiz Kiosk to the provincial Valis in both European and Asiatic Turkey that Christians were to be exterminated, swept for ever from the world.
Telegrams of dire importance filled the columns of the papers.
Hands would read in oneDaily Wire:
"Paris(From our own Correspondent).—The Prince of Bulgaria has indefinitely postponed his departure, and remains at the Hotel Ritz for the present. It is impossible for him to progress beyond Vienna. Dr. Daneff, the Bulgarian Premier, has arrived here. In the course of an interview with a representative ofLe Matinhe has stated the only hope of saving the Christians remaining in the Balkan States lies in the intervention of Russia. 'The situation,' Dr. Daneff is reported to have said, 'has assumed the appearance of a religious war. The followers of Islam are drunk with triumph and hatred of the "Nazarenes." The recent discoveries in Jerusalem simply mean a licence to sweep Christians out of existence. The exulting cries of "Ashahadu, lá ílaha ill Allah" have already sounded the death-knell of our ancient faith in Bulgaria.' M. Daneff was extremely affected during the interview, and states that Prince Ferdinand is unable to leave his room."
"Paris(From our own Correspondent).—The Prince of Bulgaria has indefinitely postponed his departure, and remains at the Hotel Ritz for the present. It is impossible for him to progress beyond Vienna. Dr. Daneff, the Bulgarian Premier, has arrived here. In the course of an interview with a representative ofLe Matinhe has stated the only hope of saving the Christians remaining in the Balkan States lies in the intervention of Russia. 'The situation,' Dr. Daneff is reported to have said, 'has assumed the appearance of a religious war. The followers of Islam are drunk with triumph and hatred of the "Nazarenes." The recent discoveries in Jerusalem simply mean a licence to sweep Christians out of existence. The exulting cries of "Ashahadu, lá ílaha ill Allah" have already sounded the death-knell of our ancient faith in Bulgaria.' M. Daneff was extremely affected during the interview, and states that Prince Ferdinand is unable to leave his room."
Never before in the history of Eastern Europe had the future appeared so gloomy or the present been so replete with horror.
The massacres of bygone years were as nothing to those which were daily flashed over the wires to startle and appal a world which was still Christian, at least in name.
An extract from a leading article in theDaily Wireshows that the underlying reason and cause was thoroughly appreciated and understood in England no less than abroad.
"In this labyrinth of myth and murder," the article said, "a sudden and spontaneous outburst of hatred, of Mussulman hatred for the Christian, has now—owing to the overthrow of the chief accepted doctrine of theChristian faith—become a deliberate measure of extermination adopted by a barbarous Government as the simplest solution of the problem in the Near East. The stupendous fact which has lately burst upon the world has had effects which, while they might have been anticipated in some degree, have already passed far beyond the bounds of the most confirmed political pessimist's dream."From thefactof the Jerusalem discovery, ambitious agitators have hurried to draw their profit. Politicians have not hesitated to provoke a series of massacres, and by playing upon the worst forms of Mussulman fanaticism to organise that ghastliest system of crime upon the largest and most comprehensive scale. The whole thing is, moreover, immensely complicated by the utter unscrupulousness of that association universally notorious as the Macedonian Committee. These people, who may be described as a company of aspirants to the crown of immortality earned by other people's martyrdom, have themselves assisted in the work of lighting the fires of Turkish passion, and they have helped to provoke atrocities which will enable them to pose before the eyes of the civilised world as the interesting victims of Moslem ferocity."
"In this labyrinth of myth and murder," the article said, "a sudden and spontaneous outburst of hatred, of Mussulman hatred for the Christian, has now—owing to the overthrow of the chief accepted doctrine of theChristian faith—become a deliberate measure of extermination adopted by a barbarous Government as the simplest solution of the problem in the Near East. The stupendous fact which has lately burst upon the world has had effects which, while they might have been anticipated in some degree, have already passed far beyond the bounds of the most confirmed political pessimist's dream.
"From thefactof the Jerusalem discovery, ambitious agitators have hurried to draw their profit. Politicians have not hesitated to provoke a series of massacres, and by playing upon the worst forms of Mussulman fanaticism to organise that ghastliest system of crime upon the largest and most comprehensive scale. The whole thing is, moreover, immensely complicated by the utter unscrupulousness of that association universally notorious as the Macedonian Committee. These people, who may be described as a company of aspirants to the crown of immortality earned by other people's martyrdom, have themselves assisted in the work of lighting the fires of Turkish passion, and they have helped to provoke atrocities which will enable them to pose before the eyes of the civilised world as the interesting victims of Moslem ferocity."
Thus Hands read in his rock cave above the boiling winter sea. Thus and much more, as the cloud grew darker and darker over Eastern Europe, darker and darker day by day.
In a week it became plain to the world that Bulgarians, Servians, and Armenians alike had collapsed utterly before the insolent exultation of the Turks. The spirit of resistance and enthusiasm had gone. The ignorant and tortured peoples had no answer for those who flung foul insults at the Cross.
As reflected in the newspapers, the public mind in England was becoming seriously alarmed at these horrible and daily bulletins, but neither Parliament nor people were as yet ready with a suggested course of action. The forces of disintegration had been at work; it seemed no longer possible to secure a greatbodyof opinion as in the old times. And Englishmen were troubled with grave domestic problems also. More especially the great increase of the worst forms of crime attracted universal attention and dismay.
Then news came which shook the whole country to its depths. Men began to look into each other's eyes and ask what these things might mean.
Hands read:
"Our special correspondent in Bombay telegraphs disquieting news from India. The native regiments in Bengal are becoming difficult to handle. The officers of the staff corps are making special reports to headquarters. Three native officers of the 100th Bengal Lancers have been placed under arrest, though no particulars as to the exact reason for this step have been allowed to transpire."
"Our special correspondent in Bombay telegraphs disquieting news from India. The native regiments in Bengal are becoming difficult to handle. The officers of the staff corps are making special reports to headquarters. Three native officers of the 100th Bengal Lancers have been placed under arrest, though no particulars as to the exact reason for this step have been allowed to transpire."
This first guarded intimation of serious disaffection in India was followed, two days afterwards, by longer and far more serious reports. The Indian mail arrived with copies ofThe Madras MailandThe Times of India, which disclosed much more than had hitherto come over the cables.
Long extracts were printed from these journals in the English dailies.
Epitomised, Hands learned the following facts. From a mass of detail a few lurid facts remained fixed in his brain.
The well-meant but frequently unsuccessful mission efforts in Southern India were brought to a complete and utter stand-still.
By that thought-willed system of communication and the almost flame-like mouth-to-mouth carnage of news which is so inexplicable to Western minds, who can only understand the workings of the electric telegraph, the whole of India seemed to be throbbing with the news of the downfall of Christianity, and this within a fortnight of the publication of the European report.
From Cashmere to Travancore the millions whispered the news to each other with fierce if secret exultation.
The higher Hinduism, the key to the native character in India, the wall of caste, rose up grim and forbidding. The passionate earnestness of the missionaries was met by questions they could not answer. In a few days the work of years seemed utterly undone.
Europeans began to be insulted in the Punjaub as they had never been since the days before the Mutiny. English officers and civilians also began to send their wives home. The great P. and O. boats were inconveniently crowded.
In Afghanistan there was a great uneasiness. The Emir had received two Russian officers. Russian troops were massing on the north-west frontier. Fanatics began to appear in the Hill provinces, claiming divine missions. People began to remember that every fourth man, woman, and child in the whole human race is a Buddhist. Asia began to feel a great thrill of excitement permeating it through and through. There were rumours of a new incarnation of Buddha, who would lead his followers to the conquest of the West.
Troops from all over India began to concentrate near the Sri Ulang Pass in the Hindu-Kush.
Simultaneously with these ominous rumours of warcame an extraordinary outburst of Christian fanaticism in Russia. The peasantry burst into a flame of anger against England. The priests of the Greek Church not only refused to believe in the Palestine discovery, but they refused to ignore it, as the Roman Catholics of the world were endeavouring to do.
They began to preach war against Great Britain for its infidelity, and the political Powers seized the opportunity to use religious fanaticism for their own ends.
All these events happened with appallingswiftness.
In the remote Cornish village Hands moved as in a dream. His eyes saw nothing of his surroundings, his face was pallid under the brown of his skin. Sometimes, as he sat alone on the moors or by the sea, he laughed loudly. Once a passing coast-guard heard him. The man told of it among the fishermen, and they regarded their silent visitor with something of awe, with the Celtic compassion for those mentally afflicted.
On the first Sunday of his arrival Hands heard the deep singing of hymns coming from the little white chapel on the cliff. He entered in time for the sermon, which was preached by a minister who had walked over from Penzance.
Here all the turmoil of the world beyond was ignored. It seemed as though nothing had ever been heard of the thing that was shaking the world. The pastor preached and prayed, the men and women answered with deep, groaning "Amens." It all mattered nothing to them. They heeded it no more than the wailing wind in the cove. The voice of Christ was not stilled in the hearts of this little congregation of the Faithful.
This chilled the recluse. He could find no meaning or comfort in it.
That evening he heard the daughter of the coast-guard with whom he lodged singing. It was a wildnight, and Hands was sitting by the fire in his little sitting-room. Outside the wind and rain and waves were shouting furiously in the dark.
The girl was playing a few simple chords on the harmonium and singing to them.