CHAPTER
IV
I
On the same
afternoon Percy received a visitor.
There was nothing
exceptional about him; and Percy, as he came downstairs in his walking-dress
and looked at him in the light from the tall parlour-window, came to no
conclusion at all as to his business and person, except that he was not a
Catholic.
"You wished
to see me," said the priest, indicating a chair.
"I fear I
must not stop long."
"I shall not
keep you long," said the stranger eagerly. "My business is done in
five minutes."
Percy waited with
his eyes cast down.
"A - a
certain person has sent me to you. She was a Catholic once; she wishes to
return to the Church."
Percy made a
little movement with his head. It was a message he did not very often receive
in these days.
"You will
come, sir, will you not? You will promise me?"
The man seemed
greatly agitated; his sallow face showed a little shining with sweat, and his
eyes were piteous.
"Of course I
will come," said Percy, smiling.
"Yes, sir;
but you do not know who she is. It - it would make a great stir, sir, if it was
known. It must not be known, sir; you will promise me that, too?"
"I must not
make any promise of that kind," said the priest gently. "I do not
know the circumstances yet."
The stranger
licked his lips nervously.
"Well,
sir," he said hastily, "you will say nothing till you have seen her?
You can promise me that."
"Oh!
certainly," said the priest.
"Well, sir,
you had better not know my name. It - it may make it easier for you and for me.
And - and, if you please, sir, the lady is ill; you must come to-day, if you
please, but not until the evening. Will twenty-two o'clock be convenient,
sir?"
"Where is
it?" asked Percy abruptly.
"It - it is
near Croydon junction. I will write down the address presently. And you will
not come until twenty-two o'clock, sir?"
"Why not
now?"
"Because the
- the others may be there. They will be away then; I know that."
This was rather
suspicious, Percy thought: discreditable plots had been known before. But he
could not refuse outright.
"Why does
she not send for her parish-priest?" he asked.
"She she
does not know who he is, sir; she saw you once in the Cathedral, sir, and asked
you for your name. Do you remember, sir? - an old lady?"
Percy did dimly
remember something of the kind a month or two before; but he could not be
certain, and said so.
"Well, sir,
you will come, will you not?"
"I must
communicate with Father Dolan," said the priest. "If he gives me
permission -"
"If you
please, sir, Father - Father Dolan must not know her name. You will not tell
him?"
"I do not
know it myself yet," said the priest, smiling.
The stranger sat
back abruptly at that, and his face worked.
"Well, sir,
let me tell you this first. This old lady's son is my employer, and a very
prominent Communist. She lives with him and his wife. The other two will be
away to-night. That is why I am asking you all this. And now, you till come,
sir?"
Percy looked at
him steadily for a moment or two. Certainly, if this was a conspiracy, the
conspirators were feeble folk. Then he answered:
"I will
come, sir; I promise. Now the name."
The stranger
again licked his lips nervously, and glanced timidly from side to side. Then he
seemed to gather his resolution; he leaned forward and whispered sharply.
"The old
lady's name is Brand, sir - the mother of Mr. Oliver Brand."
For a moment
Percy was bewildered. It was too extraordinary to be true. He knew Mr. Oliver
Brand's name only too well; it was he who, by God's permission, was doing more
in England at this moment against the Catholic cause than any other man alive;
and it was he whom the Trafalgar Square incident had raised into such eminent
popularity. And now, here was his mother -
He turned
fiercely upon the man.
"I do not
know what you are, sir - whether you believe in God or not; but will you swear
to me on your religion and your honour that all this is true?"
The timid eyes
met his, and wavered; but it was the wavering of weakness, not of treachery.
"I - I swear
it, sir; by God Almighty."
"Are you a
Catholic?"
The man shook his
head.
"But I
believe in God," he said. "At least, I think so."
Percy leaned
back, trying to realise exactly what it all meant. There was no triumph in his
mind - that kind of emotion was not his weakness; there was fear of a kind,
excitement, bewilderment, and under all a satisfaction that God's grace was so
sovereign. If it could reach this woman, who could be too far removed for it to
take effect? Presently he noticed the other looking at him anxiously.
"You are
afraid, sir? You are not going back from your promise?"
That dispersed
the cloud a little, and Percy smiled.
"Oh!
no," he said. "I will be there at twenty-two o'clock. … Is death
imminent?"
"No, sir; it
is syncope. She is recovered a little this morning."
The priest passed
his hand over his eyes and stood up.
"Well, I
will be there," he said. "Shall you be there, sir?"
The other shook
his head, standing up too.
"I must be
with Mr. Brand, sir; there is to be a meeting to-night; but I must not speak of
that... No, sir; ask for Mrs. Brand, and say that she is expecting you. They
will take you upstairs at once."
"I must not
say I am a priest, I suppose?"
"No, sir; if
you please."
He drew out a
pocket-book, scribbled in it a moment, tore out the sheet, and handed it to the
priest.
"The
address, sir. Will you kindly destroy that when you have copied it? I - I do
not wish to lose my place, sir, if it can be helped."
Percy stood
twisting the paper in his fingers a moment.
"Why are you
not a Catholic yourself?" he asked.
The man shook his
head mutely. Then he took up his hat, and went towards the door.
* * * * *
Percy passed a very emotional afternoon.
For the last
month or two little had happened to encourage him. He had been obliged to
report half-a-dozen more significant secessions, and hardly a conversion of any
kind. There was no doubt at all that the tide was setting steadily against the
Church. The mad act in Trafalgar Square, too, had done incalculable harm last
week: men were saying more than ever, and the papers storming, that the Church's
reliance on the supernatural was belied by every one of her public acts. "Scratch a Catholic and find an
assassin" had been the text of a leading article in the New People, and
Percy himself was dismayed at the folly of the attempt. It was true that the Archbishop
had formally repudiated both the act and the motive from the Cathedral pulpit,
but that too had only served as an opportunity hastily taken up by the
principal papers, to recall the continual policy of the Church to avail herself
of violence while she repudiated the violent. The horrible death of the man had
in no way appeased popular indignation; there were not even wanting suggestions
that the man had been seen coming out of Archbishop's House an hour before the
attempt at assassination had taken place.
And now here,
with dramatic swiftness, had come a message that the hero's own mother desired
reconciliation with the Church that had attempted to murder her son.
* * * * *
Again and again that afternoon, as Percy sped
northwards on his visit to a priest in Worcester, and southwards once more as
the lights began to shine towards evening, he wondered whether this were not a
plot after all - some kind of retaliation, an attempt to trap him. Yet he had
promised to say nothing, and to go.
He finished his
daily letter after dinner as usual, with a curious sense of fatality; addressed
and stamped it. Then he went downstairs, in his walking-dress, to Father
Blackmore's room.
"Will you
hear my confession, father?" he said abruptly.
II
Victoria Station,
still named after the great nineteenth-century Queen, was neither more nor less
busy than usual as he came into it half-an-hour later. The vast platform, sunk
now nearly two hundred feet below the ground level, showed the double crowd of
passengers entering and leaving town. Those on the extreme left, towards whom
Percy began to descend in the open glazed lift, were by far the most numerous,
and the stream at the lift-entrance made it necessary for him to move slowly.
He arrived at
last, walking in the soft light on the noiseless ribbed rubber, and stood by
the door of the long car that ran straight through to the Junction. It was the
last of a series of a dozen or more, each of which slid off minute by minute.
Then, still watching the endless movement of the lifts ascending and descending
between the entrances of the upper end of the station, he stepped in and sat
down.
He felt quiet now
that he had actually started. He had made his confession, just in order to make
certain of his own soul, though scarcely expecting any definite danger, and sat
now, his grey suit and straw hat in no way distinguishing him as a priest (for
a general leave was given by the authorities to dress so for any adequate
reason). Since the case was not imminent, he had not brought stocks or pyx - Father
Dolan had wired to him that he might fetch them if he wished from St. Joseph's,
near the Junction. He had only the violet thread in his pocket, such as was
customary for sick calls.
He was sliding
along peaceably enough, fixing his eyes on the empty seat opposite, and trying
to preserve complete collectedness when the car abruptly stopped. He looked
out, astonished, and saw by the white enamelled walks twenty feet from the
window that they were already in the tunnel. The stoppage might arise from many
causes, and he was not greatly excited, nor did it seem that others in the
carriage took it very seriously; he could hear, after a moment's silence, the
talking recommence beyond the partition.
Then there came,
echoed by the walls, the sound of shouting from far away, mingled with hoots
and chords; it grew louder. The talking in the carriage stopped. He heard a
window thrown up, and the next instant a car tore past, going back to the
station although on the down line. This must be looked into, thought Percy:
something certainly was happening; so he got up and went across the empty
compartment to the further window. Again came the crying of voices, again the
signals, and once more a car whirled past, followed almost immediately by
another. There was a jerk - a smooth movement. Percy staggered and fell into a
seat, as the carriage in which he was seated itself began to move backwards.
There was a
clamour now in the next compartment, and Percy made his way there through the
door, only to find half-a-dozen men with their heads thrust from the windows,
who paid absolutely no attention to his inquiries. So he stood there, aware
that they knew no more than himself, waiting for an explanation from some one.
It was disgraceful, he told himself, that any misadventure should so
disorganise the line.
Twice the car
stopped; each time it moved on again after a hoot or two, and at last drew up
at the platform whence it had started, although a hundred yards further out.
Ah! there was no
doubt that something had happened! The instant he opened the door a great roar
met his ears, and as he sprang on to the platform and looked up at the end of
the station, he began to understand.
* * * * *
From right to left of the huge interior, across the
platforms, swelling every instant, surged an enormous swaying, roaring crowd.
The flight of steps, twenty yards broad, used only in cases of emergency,
resembled a gigantic black cataract nearly two hundred feet in height. Each car
as it drew up discharged more and more men and women, who ran like ants towards
the assembly of their fellows. The noise was indescribable, the shouting of
men, the screaming of women, the clang and hoot of the huge machines, and three
or four times the brazen cry of a trumpet, as an emergency door was flung open
overhead, and a small swirl of crowd poured through it towards the streets
beyond. But after one look Percy looked no more at the people; for there, high
up beneath the clock, on the Government signal board, flared out monstrous
letters of fire, telling in Esperanto and English, the message for which
England had grown sick. He read it a dozen times before he moved, staring, as
at a supernatural sight which might denote the triumph of either heaven or
hell.
"EASTERN
CONVENTION DISPERSED.
PEACE, NOT WAR.
UNIVERSAL
BROTHERHOOD ESTABLISHED.
FELSENBURGH IN
LONDON TO-NIGHT."
* * * * *
III
It was not until
nearly two hours later that Percy was standing at the house beyond the
Junction.
He had argued,
expostulated, threatened, but the officials were like men possessed. Half of
them had disappeared in the rush to the City, for it had leaked out, in spite
of the Government's precautions, that Paul's House, known once as St. Paul's
Cathedral, was to be the scene of Felsenburgh's reception. The others seemed
demented; one man on the platform had dropped dead from nervous exhaustion, but
no one appeared to care; and the body lay huddled beneath a seat. Again and
again Percy had been swept away by a rush, as he struggled from platform to
platform in his search for a car that would take him to Croydon. It seemed that
there was none to be had, and the useless carriages collected like drift-wood
between the platforms, as others whirled up from the country bringing loads of
frantic, delirious men, who vanished like smoke from the white rubber-boards.
The platforms were continually crowded, and as continually emptied, and it was
not until half-an-hour before midnight that the block began to move outwards
again.
Well, he was here
at last, dishevelled, hatless and exhausted, looking up at the dark windows.
He scarcely knew
what he thought of the whole matter. War, of course, was terrible. And such a
war as this would have been too terrible for the imagination to visualise; but
to the priest's mind there were other things even worse. What of universal
peace - peace, that is to say, established by others than Christ's method? Or
was God behind even this? The questions were hopeless.
Felsenburgh - it
was he then who had done this thing - this thing undoubtedly greater than any
secular event hitherto known in civilisation. What manner of man was he? What
was his character, his motive, his method? How would he use his success?… So
the points flew before him like a stream of sparks, each, it might be,
harmless; each, equally, capable of setting a world on fire. Meanwhile here was
an old woman who desired to be reconciled with God before she died...
* * * * *
He touched the button again, three or four times,
and waited. Then a light sprang out overhead, and he knew that he was heard.
"I was sent
for," he exclaimed to the bewildered maid. "I should have been here
at twenty-two: I was prevented by the rush."
She babbled out a
question at him.
"Yes, it is
true, I believe," he said. "It is peace, not war. Kindly take me
upstairs."
He went through
the hall with a curious sense of guilt. This was Brand's house then - that
vivid orator, so bitterly eloquent against God; and here was he, a priest,
slinking in under cover of night. Well, well, it was not of his appointment.
At the door of an
upstairs room the maid turned to him.
"A doctor,
sir?" she said.
"That is my
affair," said Percy briefly, and opened the door.
* * * * *
A little wailing cry broke from the corner, before
he had time to close the door again.
"Oh! thank
God! I thought He had forgotten me. You are a priest, father?"
"I am a
priest. Do you not remember seeing me in the Cathedral?"
"Yes, yes,
sir; I saw you praying, father. Oh! thank God, thank God!"
Percy stood
looking down at her a moment, seeing her flushed old face in the nightcap, her
bright sunken eyes and her tremulous hands. Yes; this was genuine enough.
"Now, my
child," he said, "tell me."
"My
confession, father."
Percy drew out
the purple thread, slipped it over his shoulders, and sat down by the bed.
* * * * *
But she would not let him go for a while after
that.
"Tell me,
father. When will you bring me Holy Communion?"
He hesitated.
"I
understand that Mr. Brand and his wife know nothing of all this?"
"No,
father."
"Tell me,
are you very ill?"
"I don't
know, father. They will not tell me. I thought I was gone last night."
"When would
you wish me to bring you Holy Communion? I will do as you say."
"Shall I
send to you in a day or two? Father, ought I to tell him?"
"You are not
obliged."
"I will if I
ought."
"Well, think
about it, and let me know... You have heard what has happened?"
She nodded, but
almost uninterestedly; and Percy was conscious of a tiny prick of compunction
at his own heart. After all, the reconciling of a soul to God was a greater
thing than the reconciling of East to West.
"It may make
a difference to Mr. Brand," he said. "He will be a great man, now,
you know."
She still looked
at him in silence, smiling a little. Percy was astonished at the youthfulness
of that old face. Then her face changed.
"Father, I
must not keep you; but tell me this - Who is this man?"
"Felsenburgh?"
"Yes."
"No one
knows. We shall know more to-morrow. He is in town to-night."
She looked so
strange that Percy for an instant thought it was a seizure. Her face seemed to
fall away in a kind of emotion, half cunning, half fear.
"Well, my
child?"
"Father, I
am a little afraid when I think of that man. He cannot harm me, can he? I am
safe now? I am a Catholic - ?"
"My child,
of course you are safe. What is the matter? How can this man injure you?"
But the look of
terror was still there, and Percy came a step nearer.
"You must
not give way to fancies," he said. "Just commit yourself to our
Blessed Lord. This man can do you no harm."
He was speaking
now as to a child; but it was of no use. Her old mouth was still sucked in, and
her eyes wandered past him into the gloom of the room behind.
"My child,
tell me what is the matter. What do you know of Felsenburgh?
You have been dreaming."
She nodded
suddenly and energetically, and Percy for the first time felt his heart give a
little leap of apprehension. Was this old woman out of her mind, then? Or why
was it that that name seemed to him sinister? Then he remembered that Father
Blackmore had once talked like this. He made an effort, and sat down once more.
"Now tell me
plainly," he said. "You have been dreaming. What have you
dreamt?"
She raised
herself a little in bed, again glancing round the room; then she put out her
old ringed hand for one of his, and he gave it, wondering.
"The door is
shut, father? There is no one listening?"
"No, no, my
child. Why are you trembling? You must not be superstitious."
"Father, I
will tell you. Dreams are nonsense, are they not? Well, at least, this is what
I dreamt.
"I was
somewhere in a great house; I do not know where it was. It was a house I have
never seen. It was one of the old houses, and it was very dark. I was a child,
I thought, and I was… I was afraid of something. The passages were all dark,
and I went crying in the dark, looking for a light, and there was none. Then I
heard a voice talking, a great way off. Father -"
Her hand gripped
his more tightly, and again her eyes went round the room.
With great difficulty
Percy repressed a sigh. Yet he dared not leave her just now. The house was very
still; only from outside now and again sounded the clang of the cars, as they
sped countrywards again from the congested town, and once the sound of great
shouting. He wondered what time it was.
"Had you
better tell me now?" he asked, still talking with a patient simplicity.
"What time will they be back?"
"Not
yet," she whispered. "Mabel said not till two o'clock. What time is
it now, father?"
He pulled out his
watch with his disengaged hand.
"It is not
yet one," he said.
"Very well,
listen, father... I was in this house; and I heard that talking; and I ran
along the passages, till I saw light below a door; and then I stopped...
Nearer, father."
Percy was a little
awed in spite of himself. Her voice had suddenly dropped to a whisper, and her
old eyes seemed to hold him strangely.
"I stopped,
father; I dared not go in. I could hear the talking, and I could see the light;
and I dared not go in. Father, it was Felsenburgh in that room."
From beneath came
the sudden snap of a door; then the sound of footsteps. Percy turned his head
abruptly, and at the same moment heard a swift indrawn breath from the old
woman.
"Hush!"
he said. "Who is that?"
Two voices were
talking in the hall below now, and at the sound the old woman relaxed her hold.
"I - I
thought it to be him," she murmured.
Percy stood up;
he could see that she did not understand the situation.
"Yes, my
child," he said quietly, "but who is it?"
"My son and
his wife," she said; then her face changed once more. "Why - why,
father -"
Her voice died in
her throat, as a step vibrated outside. For a moment there was complete
silence; then a whisper, plainly audible, in a girl's voice.
"Why, her
light is burning. Come in, Oliver, but softly."
Then the handle
turned.
