Kitabı oku: «When It Was Dark: The Story of a Great Conspiracy», sayfa 14
CHAPTER VIII
THE FIRST LINKS
"Ihave been piecing things together gradually, as I lay silent up-stairs," said Gortre, drawing his chair a little closer to the fire.
"Slowly, little by little, I have added link and link to a chain of circumstantial evidence which has led me to an almost incredible conclusion. When you have heard what I have to say you will realise two things. One is that there are depths of human wickedness so abysmal and awful that the mind can hardly conceive of them. The other is that, for what reason it is not for us to try and divine, I have been led, by a most extraordinary series of events and coincidences, to something very near the truth about the discovery in Jerusalem. My story begins some months ago, on the night before I was struck down with brain-fever. You will remember that Constantine Schuabe" – he spoke the name with a shudder of horror that instinctively communicated itself to Mr. Byars – "that Schuabe called here on that night about the school scholarships. When I went away, I left the house with him. He invited me to go on to Mount Prospect and I did so. Earlier in the evening we had been talking of the antichrist and I had said to you that I saw in Schuabe a modern type of the old mediæval idea. My mind was peculiarly sensitive on these points that night, awake, alert, and inquiring. When Schuabe invited me to his house, something impelled me to go, something outside of myself. I went, feeling that I was on the threshold of some discovery."
He paused for a moment, white and tired with the intensity of his narrative.
"When we got to Schuabe's house we began upon the controversial points which we had carefully avoided here. At first our talk was quite quiet, mere argument between two people having different points of view on religion. He went out to get some supper – the servants were all in bed. While he was gone, again I felt the strange assurance of something by me directing my actions. I felt a sense of direct spiritual protection. I went to the bookshelf and took down a Bible. I opened it, half ashamed of myself for the tinge of superstition, and my eyes fell upon the text:
"'WATCH AND PRAY.'
"I could not help taking it as a direct message. Schuabe came back. Gradually, as I saw his bitter hatred and contempt for our Lord and the Christian Church becoming revealed, I was uplifted to rebuke him. He had dropped the veil of an intellectual disagreement. Some power was given to me to see far into the man's soul. He knew that also, and all pretence between us was utterly swept away. Then I told him that his hate was real and active, that I saw him as he was. And these were the words in which he answered me, standing like Lucifer before me. For months they have haunted me. They are burnt in upon my brain for all time. 'I tell you, paid priest as you are, a blind man leading the blind, that a day is coming when all your boasted fabric of Christianity will disappear. It will go suddenly and be swept utterly away. And you, you shall see it. You shall be left naked of your Faith, stripped and bare, with all Christendom beside you. Your pale Nazarene shall die among the bitter laughter of the world, die as surely as he died two thousand years ago, and no man nor woman shall resurrect him. You know nothing, but you will remember my words of to-night, until you also become as nothing and endure the inevitable fate of mankind!'"
Mr. Byars started. As yet he realised nothing of where Basil's story was to lead. "A prophecy!" he cried. "It is as if he were gifted to know the future. Something of what he said has already come to pass."
"My story is a long one, Father," said Gortre, "and as yet it is only begun. You will see plainer soon. Well, as he said these words I knew with certainty that this man was afraid of God. I saw his awful secret in his eyes, this man, antichrist indeed, believes in our Lord, and in terrible presumption dares to lift his hand against Him. Little more of importance happened upon that night. The next day, as you know, I fell ill and was so for some weeks. When I recovered and remembered perfectly all that had happened – do you remember how the picture of Christ fell and broke when Schuabe came? – I saw that I must keep all these things locked within my own brain. What could I do or say more than that I, a fanatical curate – that is what people would have said – had had a row with the famous agnostic millionaire and politician? I could not hope to explain to any one the reality of that evening, the certain knowledge I had of its being only a prelude to some horror that I could not foresee or name. So I kept my own counsel. Perhaps you may remember that on the night of the tea-party when I said good-bye to the people I urged them to keep fast hold on faith, made a special point of it?"
Again Mr. Byars showed his intense interest by a sudden movement of the muscles of his face. But he did not speak, and Gortre continued:
"Now we come to Dieppe when we were all there together. You will, of course, remember how Spence introduced us to Sir Robert Llwellyn, and how we talked over dinner at the Pannier d'Or. Since then, we must remember, Sir Robert's evidence in favour of the absolute authenticity of Hands's discovery has had more weight with the world than that of any one else. He is, of course, known to be the greatest living expert. And that fact also has a very important bearing on my story. After dinner, the conversation turned upon discoveries in exactly the direction that the recent discovery has been made. Llwellyn expressed himself as believing that – I think I remember something like his actual words – 'We are on the eve of stupendous discoveries in this direction.' None of us liked to pursue the discussion further. There was a little pause."
"Yes!" said the vicar, "I remember it perfectly now; it all comes back to me quite vividly. But do you know that, beyond of course remembering that we were introduced to Sir Robert at Dieppe, the subject of our conversation had almost escaped my memory. Certainly I never thought of it in detail. But go on, Basil."
"Well, then, Sir Robert drew a plan of the walls of Jerusalem on the back of a letter which he took from his pocket. As he turned the letter over I could not help seeing whom it was from. I read the signature quite distinctly, 'Constantine Schuabe.' This brings us up to a curious fact. Two eminent men, one antichristian, the other a famous archæologist, both express an opinion in my hearing. The first says openly that something is about to occur that will destroy faith in Christ, the other hints only at some wonderful impending discovery in the Holy Land. The connection between the two statements, startling enough in any case, becomes still more so when it is discovered that these two eminent people are in correspondence one with the other. And there is more than this even. Two days after that dinner I was taking a stroll down by the quays when I saw Sir Robert and Mr. Schuabe, who had just landed from the Newhaven boat, get into the Paris train together."
A sudden short exclamation came from the chair on the opposite side of the fire. Very dimly and vaguely the vicar was beginning to see where Basil's story was tending. The fire had grown low, and Mr. Byars replenished it. The noise of the falling coals accentuated the tension which filled the quiet room like a gas.
Then Gortre's tired, but even and deliberate, voice continued:
"I will here ask you to consider one or two other points. Professor Llwellyn told us that he had a year's leave from the British Museum owing to ill health. So long a rest presupposes a real illness, does it not? Now, of course, one can never be sure of anything of this sort, but it is, at least, curious and worthy of remark that Sir Robert seemed outwardly in perfect health and with a hearty appetite. He also said that he was en route for Alexandria. Well, Alexandria is the nearest port to Jaffa, which is but one day's ride from Jerusalem. Now comes a still more curious part of my story. As I have told you, our parish in Bloomsbury is one in which a great class of undesirable people have made their home. It cannot be denied that it is a centre of some peculiarly shameless vice. Much of the work of the clergy lies among women of a certain class, and great tact and resolution is needed to deal with such problems as these people present. Some months ago a woman, whose face seemed in some vague way familiar to me, began to come to church. Once or twice she seemed to show an inclination to speak to me or my colleagues after the service, but she never actually did so. Eventually she called on Ripon, and confessed her way of life. Her repentance seemed sincere, and she was anxious to turn over a new leaf. It appeared that the girl was a rather well-known dancer at one of the burlesque theatres, and I must have seen her portrait on the hoardings and advertisements of these places. She had been touched by something in one of my sermons, it seems, and Ripon requested me to go and see her. I did so, in the flat where she lived, and we had a chat. The poor thing was suffering from an internal disease, and had only a year or two to live. She seemed a kindly, sensible creature enough, vulgar and pleasure-loving, but without any very great wickedness about her, despite her wretched life. She wanted to get right away, to bury herself in the country, and live a pure and quiet life until she died. The great difficulty in the way was the man whose mistress she was, and of whom she seemed in considerable fear. I explained to her that, with the help of Father Ripon and myself, no harm should come to her from him, and that her quiet disappearance from the scenes of her past life could be very easily managed. Then it came out that the man in whose power she was was none other than Sir Robert Llwellyn. She told me that he had been for some time in Palestine. She was expecting him back every day. While we were talking Sir Robert actually entered the room, fresh from his journey. We had a fearful row, of course, and he would not go until I threatened to use force, and then only because he was afraid of the scandal. But before he went he seemed filled with a sort of coarse triumph even in a moment of what must have been great discomfiture for him. I had to explain what had happened to him. I told him frankly that Miss Hunt – that was the woman's name – was, by the grace of the Holy Spirit, about to lead a new and different life. Then this sort of triumph burst forth. He said that in a short time meddling priests would lose all their power over the minds of others. He said that Christ, 'the pale dreamer of the East,' should be revealed to all men at last. He quoted the verse about the grave from Matthew Arnold. And it was all done with a great confidence and certainty."
He stopped, worn out, and glanced inquiringly at Mr. Byars.
The vicar was evidently much moved and excited by the narrative. "The most curious point of all," he said, "in what you tell me is the fact of Sir Robert's private and secret visit to Palestine some months before the discovery was made. Such a recent visit is entirely unknown to the public, who have been so busy with his name of late. The newspapers have said nothing of it. Otherwise, I see no reason why, in some way or other, Mr. Schuabe and Sir Robert may not have known of this tomb in some way before it was discovered by Hands, and their hintings of a catastrophe to faith may have simply been because of this knowledge which they were unwilling to publish."
Gortre shook his head. "No, it is not that," he said. "It is not that. They would never have kept the knowledge secret. You have not been through the scenes with these men that I have. There are a hundred objections to that theory. I am absolutely persuaded that this 'discovery' is a forgery, executed with the highest skill, by the one man living capable of doing it at the instigation of the one man evil enough to suggest it. The hand of God is leading me towards the truth."
"But the proof!" said the vicar, "the proof! Think of the tremendous forces arrayed against us. What can we do? No one would listen to what you have told me."
"God will show a way," said Gortre. "I know it. I had a letter from Harold Spence this morning. His work is done, and he has returned. At the end of the week the doctor says I shall be able to get back to Lincoln's Inn. I shall take counsel with Harold; he is brilliant, and a man of the world. Together we will work to overthrow these devils."
"And meanwhile," answered Mr. Byars, with a despairing gesture, "meanwhile hope and faith are dying out of millions of hearts, men are turning to sinful pleasures unafraid, hopeless, desolate."
The strain had been too great, he was growing older; he bent his head on his hands, while the darkness crept into his soul.
CHAPTER IX
PARTICULAR INSTANCES, CONTRASTING THE OLD LADY AND THE SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT
The long Manchester station was full of the sullen and almost unbearable roar of escaping steam. Every now and again the noise ceased with a suddenness that was pain, and the groups of people waiting to see the London train start on its four hours' rush could hear each other's voices strange and thin after the mighty vibration.
The feast of Christmas was over. Throughout the world the festival had fallen chill and cold on the hearts of mankind. The Adeste Fideles had summoned few to worship, and the praise had sounded thin and hollow. Even the faithful must keep their deep conviction as a hidden fire within them amid the din and crash of faith and the rising tides of negation and despair.
Gortre, Helena, and Mr. Byars stood together by the train side. They spoke but little; the same thought was in their brains. The jarring materialism of the scene, its steady, heedless industry, seemed an outrage almost in its cold disregard of the sadness which they felt themselves. The great engines glided in and out of the station, the porters and travellers moved with busy cheerfulness as if the world were not in the grip of a great darkness and horror, taking no account of it. They stood by the door of the carriage Basil had chosen, a forlorn group not quite able to realise the stir of life around them.
Gortre was pale and worn, but visibly better and stronger. His face was fixed and resolute. The vicar seemed much older, shrunken somewhat, and his manner was more tremulous than before. His arm was in Helena's.
"Basil," said the vicar, "you are going from us into what must be the unknown – God grant a happy issue out of the perils and difficulties before you. For my part, I seem to be in an unhappy and doubting state. It may be that you have the key to this black mystery and can dispel the clouds. I shall pray daily that it may be so. It is in the hands of God."
He sighed heavily as he gripped Basil's hand in farewell. In truth, he had but little hope and had hardly been able to realise the young man's story. It was almost inconceivable to him, the abnormal wickedness it suggested, the possibility that this great cloud could come upon the world at the action of two men, both of whom he had known, found pleasant, cultured people, and rather liked. The thought was too big to grasp, it confused and stunned him. It is a curious fact that this good man, who could believe, despite all contrary evidence, in the eternal truths of the Gospel, could not believe in the malignancy which Basil's story had seemed to indicate.
Helena had not been told of Basil's suspicions, only of his hopes. She knew that there was that in his mind which might lead once more to light and disperse the clouds. No details were given to her, nor did she ask for them. She was too serene and fine for commonplace curiosity. The mutual trust between the lovers was absolute. Nothing could strain it, nothing could disturb it; and in her love and admiration for Basil, Helena saw nothing incongruous or incredible in the fact that the young man hoped himself to bring peace back to the world.
To any one viewing the project with unbiassed eyes it might have seemed beyond possibility, would have provoked a smile, this spectacle of an obscure curate going up to London in a third-class carriage with hopes of saving his country's faith, in the expectation of overthrowing the gigantic edifice of learned opinion, of combating a Sanhedrin of the great. Such people would have said with facile pedantry that this girl possessed no sense of humour, imagining that they were reproaching her. For by some strange mental perversion most people would rather be told that they lack a sense of morals or duty than a sense of humour, and it is quite certain that this was said of John the Baptist as he preached in his unconventional raiment upon Jordan's banks.
Helena and Basil walked slowly up and down the platform, saying farewell.
Her words of love and hope, her serene and unquestioning confidence, uplifted him as nothing else could do. At this moment, big with his own passionate hopes and desires, yet dismayed at the immensity of the task before him, the trust and encouragement of one he loved were especially helpful and uplifting. It was the tonic he needed. And as the train slowly moved out of the station the bright and noble face of his lady was the last thing he saw.
He thought long of her as the train began to gather speed and rush through the smoky Northern towns. As many other people, Gortre found a stimulus to clear, ordered thought in the sensation of rapid motion. The brain worked with more power, owing to the exhilaration produced in it by speed.
As the ponderous machine which was carrying him back to the great theatre of strife and effort gathered momentum and power, so his mind became filled with high hopes, began to glow with eagerness to strike a great blow against the enemies of Christ.
He looked at the carriage, noticing for the first time, at least consciously, the people who sat there. He had two fellow-passengers, a man and a woman. The man seemed to belong to the skilled artisan class, decently dressed, of sober and quiet manner. His well-marked features, the prominent nose, keen grey eyes, and thick reddish moustache, spoke eloquently of "character" and somewhat of thought. The woman was old, past sixty, a little withered creature, insignificant of face, her mouth a button, her hair grey, scanty, and ill-nourished.
The man was sitting opposite to Gortre and they fell into talk after a time on trivial subjects. The stranger was civil, but somewhat assertive. He did not use the ordinary "sir."
Suddenly, with a slight smile of anticipation, he seemed to gather himself up for discussion.
"Well," he said, "I don't wish individuals no particular harm, you'll understand, but speaking general, I suppose you realise that your job's over. The Church will be swept away for good 'n' all in a few months now, and to my way of thinking it'll be the best thing as 'as ever come to the country. The Church has always failed to reach the labourin' man."
"Because the labouring man has generally failed to reach the Church," said Gortre, smiling. "But you mean Disestablishment is near, I suppose?"
"That's it, mister," said the man. "It must come now, and about time, too, after all these centuries of humbug. I used to go to church years back and sing 'The Church's one foundation.' Its foundation's been proved a pack o' lies now, and down it comes. Disestablishment will prove the salvation of England. When religion's swept away by act o' Parliament, then men will have an opportunity of talking sense and seeing things clearly."
He spoke without rudeness but with a certain arrogance and an obvious satisfaction at the situation. Here was a parson cornered, literally, forced to listen to him, with no way of escape. Gortre imagined that he was congratulating himself that this was not a corridor train.
"I think Disestablishment is very likely to come indeed," said Gortre, "and it will come the sooner for recent events. Of course I think that it will be most barefaced robbery to take endowments from the Church which are absolutely her own property, and use them for secular purposes, but I'm not at all sure that it wouldn't be an excellent thing for the Church after all. But you seem to think that Disestablishment will destroy religion. That is an entire mistake, as you will find."
"It's destroyed already," said the man, "let alone what's going to happen. Since what they've found out in Jerusalem the whole thing's gone puff! like blowin' out a match. You can't get fifty people together in any town what believe in religion any more. The religion of common sense has come now, and it's come to stay."
A voice with a curious singing inflection came from the corner of the carriage, a voice utterly unlike the harsh North-country accent of the workman. The old woman was beginning to speak.
Gortre recognised the curious Cornish tones at once, and looked up with sudden interest.
"You'm wrong, my son," said the old woman, "bitter wrong you be, and 'tis carnal vanity that spakes within you. To Lostwithul, where I bide, I could show 'ee different to what you do say."
The workman, a good-humoured fellow enough, smiled superior at the odd old thing. The wrinkled face had become animated, two deep lines ran from the nostrils to the corner of the lips, hard and uncompromising. The eyes were bright.
"Well, Mother," he said, "let's hear what you've got ter say. Fair do's in argument is only just and proper."
"Ah!" she replied, "it's easy to go scat when you've not got love of the Lard in your heart. I be gone sixty years of age, and many as I can mind back-along as have trodden the path of sorrow. There be a brae lot o' fools about."
The workman winked at Gortre with huge enjoyment, and settled himself comfortably in his place.
"Then you don't hold with Disestablishing the Church, Mother?" he said.
"I do take no stock in Church," she replied, "begging the gentleman's pardon" – this to Gortre. "I was born and bred a Wesleyan and such I'm like to die. How should I know what they'll be doing up to London church town? This here is my first visit to England to see my daughter, and it'll be the last I've a mind to take. You should come to Cornwall, my dear, and then you'll see if religion's over and done away with."
"But you've heard of all as they've just found out at Jerusalem, surely? It's known now that Christ never was what He made out to be. He won't save no more sinners, – it's all false what the Bible says, it's been proved. I suppose you've heard about that in Cornwall?"
"I was down to the shop," said the old lady, with the gentle contempt of one speaking to a foolish child. "I was down to the shop December month, and Mrs. Baragwaneth showed me the Western Morning News with a picture and a lot of talk saying the Bible was ontrue, and Captain Billy Peters, of Treurthian mine, he was down-along too. How 'a did laugh at 'un! 'My dear,' he says, ''tis like the coast guards going mackerel-seining. Night after night have they been out, and shot the nets, too, for they be alwass seein' something briming, thinking it a school o' fish, and not knowing 'tis but moonshine. It's want of experience that do make folk talk so.'"
"That's all very well, Mother," answered the man, slightly nettled by the placid assurance of her tone. "That's all pretty enough, and though I don't understand your fishing terms I can guess at your meaning. But here's the proof on one side and nothing at all on t'other. Here's all the learned men of all countries as says the Bible is not true, and proving it, and here's you with no learning at all just saying it is, with no proof whatever."
"Do 'ee want proof, then?" she answered eagerly, the odd see-saw of her voice becoming more and more accentuated in her excitement. "I tell 'ee ther's as many proofs as pilchards in the say. Ever since the Lard died – ah! 'twas a bitter nailing, a bitter nailing, my dear!" – she paused, almost with tears in her voice, and the whole atmosphere of the little compartment seemed to Basil to be irradiated, glorified by the shining faith of the old dame – "ever since that time the proofs have been going on. Now I'll tell 'ee as some as I've see'd, my son. Samson Trevorrow to Carbis water married my sister, May Rosewarne, forty years ago. He would drink something terrible bad, and swear like a foreigner. He'd a half-share in a trawler, three cottages, and money in the bank. First his money went, then his cottages, and he led a life of sin and brawling. He were a bad man, my dear. Every one were at 'un for an ongodly wastrel, but 'a kept on. An' the Lard gave him no children; May could not make a child to him, for she were onfruitful, but he would not change. All that folk with sense could do was done, but 't were no use."
"Well, I know the sort of man," said the workman, with conviction. His interest was roused, that unfailing interest which the poorer classes take in each other's family history.
"Then you do know that nothing won't turn them from their evil ways?"
"When a chap gets the drink in him like that," replied the artisan, "there's no power that will take him from it. He'd go through sheet iron for it."
"And so would Samson Trevorrow, my dear," she continued. "One night he came home from Penzance market, market-peart, as the saying is, drunk if you will. My sister said something to 'un, what 't was I couldn't say, but he struck her, for the first time. Next morning was the Sunday, and when she told him of what he'd done overnight, he was shamed of himself, and she got him to come along with her to chapel. 'T was a minister from Bodmin as prached, and 'ee did prache the Lard at Sam until the Word got hold on 'un and the man shook with repentance at his naughty life. He did kneel down before them all and prayed for forgiveness, and for the Lard to help 'un to lead a new life. From that Sabbath till he died, many years after, Sam never took anything of liquor, he stopped his sweering and carrying on, and he lived as a good man should. And in a year the Lard sent 'un a son, and if God wills I shall see the boy this afternoon, for he's to meet the train. There now, my son, that be gospel truth what I tell 'ee. After that can you expect any one with a grain of sense to listen to such foolish truck as you do tell? The Lard did that for Samson Trevorrow, changed 'un from black to white, 'a did. If the Queen herself were to tell me that the Lard Jesus wasn't He, I wouldn't believe her."
As Gortre drove from Euston through the thronged veins of London towards the Inn, he thought much and with great thankfulness of the little episode in the train. Such simple faith, such supreme conviction, was, he knew, the precious possession of thousands still. What did it matter to these sturdy Nonconformists in the lone West that savants denied Christ? All over England the serene triumph of the Gospel, deep, deep down in the hearts of quiet people, gave the eternal lie to Schuabe and his followers. Never could they overcome the Risen Lord in the human heart. He began to realise more and more the ineffable wonder of the Incarnation.
Before he had arrived at Chancery Lane the London streets began to take hold of him once more with the old familiar grip. How utterly unchanged they were! It seemed but a day since he had left them; it was impossible at the moment of re-contact to realise all that had passed since he had gone away.
He was to have an immediate and almost terrifying reminder of it. The door of the chambers was not locked, and pushing it open, he entered.
Always most sensitive to the atmosphere of a room, moral as well as material, he was immediately struck by that of the chambers, most unpleasantly so, indeed. Certain indications of what had been going on there were easily seen. Others were not so assertive, but contributed their part, nevertheless, to the subtle general impression of the place.
The air was stale with the pungent smell of Turkish tobacco and spirits. It was obvious that the windows had not been as freely opened as their wont. A litter of theatre programmes lay on one chair. On another was a programme of a Covent Garden ball and a girl's shoe of white satin, into which a fading bouquet of hothouse flowers had been wantonly crushed. The table was covered with the débris of a supper, a pâté, some long-necked bottles which had held Niersteiner, a hideous box of pink satin and light blue ribbons half full of glacé plums and chocolates.
The little bust of the Hermes of Praxiteles, which stood on one of the bookcases, had been maltreated with a coarseness and vulgarity which hurt Basil like a blow. The delicate contour of the features, the pure white of the plaster, were soiled and degraded. The cheeks had been rouged up to the eyes, which were picked out in violet ink. The brows were arched with an "eyebrow pencil" and the lips with a vivid cardinal red.
Basil put down his portmanteau and grew very pale as he looked round on these and many other evidences of sordid and unlovely riot. His heart sank within him. He began to fear for Harold Spence.
Even as he looked round, Spence came into the room from his bed-chamber. He was dressed in a smoking jacket and flannel trousers. Basil saw at once that he had been drinking heavily. The cheeks were swollen under the pouch of the eye, he was unshaven, and his manner was full of noisy and tremulous geniality.
There are men in whom a week or two of sudden relapse into old and evil courses has an extraordinarily visible effect. Spence was one of them. At the moment he looked as the clay model compares with the finished marble.
Gortre was astounded at the change, but one thing the modern London clergyman learns is tact. The situation was obvious, it explained itself at once, and he nerved himself to deal with it warily and carefully.
Spence himself was ill at ease at they went through the commonplaces of meeting. Then, when they were both seated by the fire and were smoking, he began to speak frankly.
