CHAPTER
VI
I
The volor-stage
was comparatively empty this afternoon, as the little party of six stepped out
on to it from the lift. There was nothing to distinguish these from ordinary
travellers. The two Cardinals of Germany and England were wrapped in plain
furs, without insignia of any kind; their chaplains stood near them, while the
two men-servants hurried forward with the bags to secure a private compartment.
The four kept
complete silence, watching the busy movements of the officials on board,
staring unseeingly at the sleek, polished monster that lay netted in steel at
their feet, and the great folded fins that would presently be cutting the thin
air at a hundred and fifty miles an hour.
Then Percy, by a
sudden movement, turned from the others, went to the open window that looked
over Rome, and leaned there with his elbows on the sill, looking.
* * * * *
It was a strange view before him.
It was darkening
now towards sunset, and the sky, primrose-green overhead, deepened to a clear
tawny orange above the horizon, with a sanguine line or two at the edge, and
beneath that lay the deep evening violet of the city, blotted here and there by
the black of cypresses and cut by the thin leafless pinnacles of a poplar grove
that aspired without the walls. But right across the picture rose the enormous
dome, of an indescribable tint; it was grey, it was violet - it was what the
eye chose to make it - and through it, giving its solidity the air of a bubble,
shone the southern sky, flushed too with faint orange. It was this that was
supreme and dominant; the serrated line of domes, spires and pinnacles, the
crowded roofs beneath, in the valley dell' Inferno, the fairy hills far away - all
were but the annexe to this mighty tabernacle of God. Already lights were
beginning to shine, as for thirty centuries they had shone; thin straight
skeins of smoke were ascending against the darkening sky. The hum of this
Mother of cities was beginning to be still, for the keen air kept folks
indoors; and the evening peace was descending that closed another day and
another year. Beneath in the narrow streets Percy could see tiny figures,
hurrying like belated ants; the crack of a whip, the cry of a woman, the wail
of a child came up to this immense elevation like details of a murmur from
another world. They, too, would soon be quiet, and there would be peace.
A heavy bell beat
faintly from far away, and the drowsy city turned to murmur its good-night to
the Mother of God. From a thousand towers came the tiny melody, floating across
the great air spaces, in a thousand accents, the solemn bass of St. Peter's,
the mellow tenor of the Lateran, the rough cry from some old slum church, the
peevish tinkle of convents and chapels - all softened and made mystical in this
grave evening air - it was the wedding of delicate sound and clear light.
Above, the liquid orange sky; beneath, this sweet, subdued ecstasy of bells.
"Alma
Redemptoris Mater," whispered Percy, his eyes wet with tears. "Gentle
Mother of the Redeemer - the open door of the sky, star of the sea - have mercy
on sinners. The Angel of the Lord announced it to Mary, and she conceived of
the Holy Ghost… Pour, therefore, Lord, Thy grace into our hearts. Let us, who
know Christ's incarnation, rise through passion and cross to the glory of
Resurrection - through the same Christ our Lord."
Another bell
clanged sharply close at hand, calling him down to earth, and wrong, and labour
and grief; and he turned to see the motionless volor itself one blaze of
brilliant internal light, and the two priests following the German Cardinal
across the gangway.
It was the rear
compartment that the men had taken; and when he had seen that the old man was
comfortable, still without a word he passed out again into the central passage
to see the last of Rome.
The exit-door had
now been snapped, and as Percy stood at the opposite window looking out at the
high wall that would presently sink beneath him, throughout the whole of the
delicate frame began to run the vibration of the electric engine. There was the
murmur of talking somewhere, a heavy step shook the floor, a bell clanged
again, twice, and a sweet wind-chord sounded. Again it sounded; the vibration
ceased, and the edge of the high wall against the tawny sky on which he had
fixed his eyes sank suddenly like a dropped bar, and he staggered a little in
his place. A moment later the dome rose again, and itself sank, the city, a
fringe of towers and a mass of dark roofs, pricked with light, span like a
whirlpool; the jewelled stars themselves sprang this way and that; and with one
more long cry the marvellous machine righted itself, beat with its wings, and
settled down, with the note of the flying air passing through rising shrillness
into vibrant silence, to its long voyage to the north.
Further and
further sank the city behind; it was a patch now: greyness on black. The sky
seemed to grow more huge and all-containing as the earth relapsed into
darkness; it glowed like a vast dome of wonderful glass, darkening even as it
glowed; and as Percy dropped his eyes once more round the extreme edge of the
car the city was but a line and a bubble - a line and a swelling - a line, and
nothingness.
He drew a long
breath, and went back to his friends.
II
"Tell me
again," said the old Cardinal, when the two were settled down opposite to
one another, and the chaplains were gone to another compartment. "Who is
this man?"
"This man?
He was secretary to Oliver Brand, one of our politicians. He fetched me to old
Mrs. Brand's death bed, and lost his place in consequence. He is in journalism
now. He is perfectly honest. No, he is not a Catholic, though he longs to be
one. That is why they confided in him."
"And
they?"
"I know nothing of them, except that they are
a desperate set. They have enough faith to act, but not enough to be patient… I
suppose they thought this man would sympathise. But unfortunately he has a
conscience, and he also sees that any attempt of this kind would be the last
straw on the back of toleration. Eminence, do you realise how violent the
feeling is against us?"
The old man shook
his head lamentably.
"Do I
not?" he murmured. "And my Germans are in it? Are you sure?"
"Eminence,
it is a vast plot. It has been simmering for months. There have been meetings
every week. They have kept the secret marvellously. Your Germans only delayed
that the blow might be more complete. And now, to-morrow -" Percy drew
back with a despairing gesture.
"And the
Holy Father?"
"I went to
him as soon as mass was over. He withdrew all opposition, and sent for you. It
is our one chance, Eminence."
"And you
think our plan will hinder it?"
"I have no
idea, but I can think of nothing else. I shall go straight to the Archbishop
and tell him all. We arrive, I believe, at three o'clock, and you in Berlin
about seven, I suppose, by German time. The function is fixed for eleven. By
eleven, then, we shall have done all that is possible. The Government will
know, and they will know, too, that we are innocent in Rome. I imagine they
will cause it to be announced that the Cardinal-Protector and the Archbishop,
with his coadjutors, will be present in the sacristies. They will double every
guard; they will parade volors overhead - and then - well! in God's hands be
the rest."
"Do you
think the conspirators will attempt it?"
"I have no
idea," said Percy shortly.
"I
understand they have alternative plans."
"Just so. If
all is clear, they intend dropping the explosive from above; if not, at least
three men have offered to sacrifice themselves by taking it into the Abbey
themselves… And you, Eminence?"
The old man eyed
him steadily.
"My
programme is yours," he said. "Eminence, have you considered the
effect in either case? If nothing happens -"
"If nothing
happens we shall be accused of a fraud, of seeking to advertise ourselves. If
anything happens - well, we shall all go before God together. Pray God it may
be the second," he added passionately.
"It will be
at least easier to bear," observed the old man.
"I beg your
pardon, Eminence. I should not have said that."
There fell a
silence between the two, in which no sound was heard but the faint untiring
vibration of the screw, and the sudden cough of a man in the next compartment.
Percy leaned his head wearily on his hand, and stared from the window.
The earth was now
dark beneath them - an immense emptiness; above, the huge engulfing sky was
still faintly luminous, and through the high frosty mist through which they
moved stars glimmered now and again, as the car swayed and tacked across the
wind.
"It will be
cold among the Alps," murmured Percy. Then he broke off. "And I have
not one shred of evidence," he said; "nothing but the word of a
man."
"And you are
sure?"
"I am
sure."
"Eminence,"
said the German suddenly, staring straight into his face, "the likeness is
extraordinary."
Percy smiled
listlessly. He was tired of bearing that.
"What do you
make of it?" persisted the other.
"I have been
asked that before," said Percy. "I have no views."
"It seems to
me that God means something," murmured the German heavily, still staring
at him.
"Well,
Eminence?"
"A kind of
antithesis - a reverse of the medal. I do not know."
Again there was
silence. A chaplain looked in through the glazed door, a homely, blue-eyed
German, and was waved away once more.
"Eminence,"
said the old man abruptly, "there is surely more to speak of. Plans to be
made."
Percy shook his
head.
"There are
no plans to be made," he said. "We know nothing but the fact - no
names - nothing. We - we are like children in a tiger's cage. And one of us has
just made a gesture in the tiger's face."
"I suppose
we shall communicate with one another?"
"If we are
in existence."
It was curious
how Percy took the lead. He had worn his scarlet for about three months, and
his companion for twelve years; yet it was the younger who dictated plans and
arranged. He was scarcely conscious of its strangeness, however. Ever since the
shocking news of the morning, when a new mine had been sprung under the shaking
Church, and he had watched the stately ceremonial, the gorgeous splendour, the
dignified, tranquil movements of the Pope and his court, with a secret that
burned his heart and brain - above all, since that quick interview in which old
plans had been reversed and a startling decision formed, and a blessing given
and received, and a farewell looked not uttered - all done in half-an-hour - his
whole nature had concentrated itself into one keen tense force, like a coiled
spring. He felt power tingling to his finger-tips - power and the dulness of an
immense despair. Every prop had been cut, every brace severed; he, the City of
Rome, the Catholic Church, the very supernatural itself, seemed to hang now on
one single thing - the Finger of God. And if that failed - well, nothing would
ever matter any more…
He was going now
to one of two things - ignominy or death. There was no third thing - unless,
indeed, the conspirators were actually taken with their instruments upon them.
But that was impossible. Either they would refrain, knowing that God's
ministers would fall with them, and in that case there would be the ignominy of
a detected fraud, of a miserable attempt to win credit. Or they would not
refrain; they would count the death of a Cardinal and a few bishops a cheap
price to pay for revenge - and in that case well, there was Death and Judgment.
But Percy had ceased to fear. No ignominy could be greater than that which he
already bore - the ignominy of loneliness and discredit. And death could be
nothing but sweet - it would at least be knowledge and rest. He was willing to
risk all on God.
The other, with a
little gesture of apology, took out his office book presently, and began to
read.
Percy looked at
him with an immense envy. Ah! if only he were as old as that! He could bear a
year or two more of this misery, but not fifty years, he thought. It was an
almost endless vista that (even if things went well) opened before him, of
continual strife, self-repression, energy, misrepresentation from his enemies.
The Church was sinking further every day. What if this new spasm of fervour
were no more than the dying flare of faith? How could he bear that? He would
have to see the tide of atheism rise higher and more triumphant every day;
Felsenburgh had given it an impetus of whose end there was no prophesying.
Never before had a single man wielded the full power of democracy. Then once
more he looked forward to the morrow. Oh! if it could but end in death!… Beati
mortui qui in Domino moriuntur! …
It was no good;
it was cowardly to think in this fashion. After all, God was God - He takes up
the isles as a very little thing.
Percy took out
his office book, found Prime and St. Sylvester, signed himself with the cross,
and began to pray. A minute later the two chaplains slipped in once more, and
sat down; and all was silent, save for that throb of the screw, and the strange
whispering rush of air outside.
III
It was about
nineteen o'clock that the ruddy English conductor looked in at the doorway,
waking Percy from his doze.
"Dinner will
be served in half-an-hour, gentlemen," he said (speaking Esperanto, as the
rule was on international cars). "We do not stop at Turin to-night."
He shut the door
and went out, and the sound of closing doors came down the corridor as he made
the same announcement to each compartment.
There were no
passengers to descend at Turin, then, reflected Percy; and no doubt a wireless
message had been received that there were none to come on board either. That
was good news: it would give him more time in London. It might even enable
Cardinal Steinmann to catch an earlier volor from Paris to Berlin; but he was
not sure bow they ran. It was a pity that the German had not been able to catch
the thirteen o'clock from Rome to Berlin direct. So he calculated, in a kind of
superficial insensibility.
He stood up
presently to stretch himself. Then he passed out and along the corridor to the
lavatory to wash his hands.
He became
fascinated by the view as he stood before the basin at the rear of the car, for
even now they were passing over Turin. It was a blur of light, vivid and
beautiful, that shone beneath him in the midst of this gulf of darkness,
sweeping away southwards into the gloom as the car sped on towards the Alps.
How little, he thought, seemed this great city seen from above; and yet, how
mighty it was! It was from that glimmer, already five miles behind, that Italy
was controlled; in one of these dolls' houses of which he had caught but a
glimpse, men sat in council over souls and bodies, and abolished God, and
smiled at His Church. And God allowed it all, and made no sign. It was there
that Felsenburgh had been, a month or two ago - Felsenburgh, his double! And
again the mental sword tore and stabbed at his heart.
* * * * *
A few minutes later, the four ecclesiastics were
sitting at their round table in a little screened compartment of the
dining-room in the bows of the air-ship. It was an excellent dinner, served, as
usual, from the kitchen in the bowels of the volor, and rose, course by course,
with a smooth click, into the centre of the table. There was a bottle of red
wine to each diner, and both table and chairs swung easily to the very slight
motion of the ship. But they did not talk much, for there was only one subject
possible to the two cardinals, and the chaplains had not yet been admitted into
the full secret.
It was growing
cold now, and even the hot-air foot-rests did not quite compensate for the
deathly iciness of the breath that began to stream down from the Alps, which
the ship was now approaching at a slight incline. It was necessary to rise at
least nine thousand feet from the usual level, in order to pass the frontier of
the Mont Cenis at a safe angle; and at the same time it was necessary to go a
little slower over the Alps themselves, owing to the extreme rarity of the air,
and the difficulty in causing the screw to revolve sufficiently quickly to
counteract it.
"There will
be clouds to-night," said a voice clear and distinct from the passage, as
the door swung slightly to a movement of the car.
Percy got up and
closed it.
The German
Cardinal began to grow a little fidgety towards the end of dinner.
"I shall go
back," he said at last. "I shall be better in my fur rug."
His chaplain
dutifully went after him, leaving his own dinner unfinished, and Percy was left
alone with Father Corkran, his English chaplain lately from Scotland.
He finished his
wine, ate a couple of figs, and then sat staring out through the plate-glass
window in front.
"Ah!"
he said. "Excuse me, father. There are the Alps at last."
The front of the
car consisted of three divisions, in the centre of one of which stood the
steersman, his eyes looking straight ahead, and his hands upon the wheel. On
either side of him, separated from him by aluminium walls, was contrived a
narrow slip of a compartment, with a long curved window at the height of a
man's eyes, through which a magnificent view could be obtained. It was to one
of these that Percy went, passing along the corridor, and seeing through
half-opened doors other parties still over their wine. He pushed the spring
door on the left and went through.
He had crossed
the Alps three times before in his life, and well remembered the extraordinary
effect they had had on him, especially as he had once seen them from a great
altitude upon a clear day - an eternal, immeasurable sea of white ice, broken
by hummocks and wrinkles that from below were soaring peaks named and
reverenced; and, beyond, the spherical curve of the earth's edge that dropped
in a haze of air into unutterable space. But this time they seemed more amazing
than ever, and he looked out on them with the interest of a sick child.
The car was now
ascending; rapidly towards the pass up across the huge tumbled slopes, ravines,
and cliffs that lie like outworks of the enormous wall. Seen from this great
height they were in themselves comparatively insignificant, but they at least
suggested the vastness of the bastions of which they were no more than
buttresses. As Percy turned, he could see the moonless sky alight with frosty
stars, and the dimness of the illumination made the scene even more impressive;
but as he turned again, there was a change. The vast air about him seemed now
to be perceived through frosted glass. The velvet blackness of the pine forests
had faded to heavy grey, the pale glint of water and ice seen and gone again in
a moment, the monstrous nakedness of rock spires and slopes, rising towards him
and sliding away again beneath with a crawling motion - all these had lost
their distinctness of outline, and were veiled in invisible white. As he looked
yet higher to right and left the sight became terrifying, for the giant walls
of rock rushing towards him, the huge grotesque shapes towering on all sides,
ran upward into a curtain of cloud visible only from the dancing radiance
thrown upon it by the brilliantly lighted car. Even as he looked, two straight
fingers of splendour, resembling horns, shot out, as the bow searchlights were
turned on; and the car itself, already travelling at half-speed, dropped to
quarter-speed, and began to sway softly from side to side as the huge
air-planes beat the mist through which they moved, and the antennae of light
pierced it. Still up they went, and on - yet swift enough to let Percy see one
great pinnacle rear itself, elongate, sink down into a cruel needle, and vanish
into nothingness a thousand feet below. The motion grew yet more nauseous, as
the car moved up at a sharp angle preserving its level, simultaneously rising,
advancing and swaying. Once, hoarse and sonorous, an unfrozen torrent roared
like a beast, it seemed within twenty yards, and was dumb again on the instant.
Now, too, the horns began to cry, long, lamentable hootings, ringing sadly in
that echoing desolation like the wail of wandering souls; and as Percy, awed
beyond feeling, wiped the gathering moisture from the glass, and stared again,
it appeared as if he floated now, motionless except for the slight rocking
beneath his feet, in a world of whiteness, as remote from earth as from heaven,
poised in hopeless infinite space, blind, alone, frozen, lost in a white hell
of desolation.
Once, as he
stared, a huge whiteness moved towards him through the veil, slid slowly
sideways and down, disclosing, as the car veered, a gigantic slope smooth as
oil, with one cluster of black rock cutting it like the fingers of a man's hand
groping from a mountainous wave.
Then, as once more
the car cried aloud like a lost sheep, there answered it, it seemed scarcely
ten yards away, first one windy scream of dismay, another and another; a clang
of bells, a chorus broke out; and the air was full of the beating of wings.
IV
There was one
horrible instant before a clang of a bell, the answering scream, and a whirling
motion showed that the steersman was alert. Then like a stone the car dropped,
and Percy clutched at the rail before him to steady the terrible sensation of
falling into emptiness. He could hear behind him the crash of crockery, the
bumping of heavy bodies, and as the car again checked on its wide wings, a rush
of footsteps broke out and a cry or two of dismay. Outside, but high and far
away, the hooting went on; the air was full of it, and in a flash he recognised
that it could not be one or ten or twenty cars, but at least a hundred that had
answered the call, and that somewhere overhead were hooting and flapping. The
invisible ravines and cliffs on all sides took up the crying; long wails
whooped and moaned and died amid a clash of bells, further and further every
instant, but now in every direction, behind, above, in front, and far to right
and left. Once more the car began to move, sinking in a long still curve towards
the face of the mountain; and as it checked, and began to sway again on its
huge wings, he turned to the door, seeing as he did so, through the cloudy
windows in the glow of light, a spire of rock not thirty feet below rising from
the mist, and one smooth shoulder of snow curving away into invisibility.
Within, the car
shewed brutal signs of the sudden check: the doors of the dining compartments,
as he passed along, were flung wide; glasses, plates, pools of wine and tumbled
fruit rolled to and fro on the heaving floors; one man, sitting helplessly on
the ground, rolled vacant, terrified eyes upon the priest. He glanced in at the
door through which he had come just now, and Father Corkran staggered up from
his seat and came towards him, reeling at the motion underfoot; simultaneously
there was a rush from the opposite door, where a party of Americans had been
dining; and as Percy, beckoning with his head, turned again to go down to the
stern-end of the ship, he found the narrow passage blocked with the crowd that
had run out. A babble of talking and cries made questions impossible; and
Percy, with his chaplain behind him, gripped the aluminium panelling, and step
by step began to make his way in search of his friends.
Half-way down the
passage, as he pushed and struggled, a voice made itself heard above the din;
and in the momentary silence that followed, again sounded the far-away crying
of the volors overhead.
"Seats,
gentlemen, seats," roared the voice. "We are moving
immediately."
Then the crowd
melted as the conductor came through, red-faced and determined, and Percy,
springing into his wake, found his way clear to the stern.
The Cardinal
seemed none the worse. He had been asleep, he explained, and saved himself in
time from rolling on to the floor; but his old face twitched as he talked.
"But what is
it?" he said. "What is the meaning?"
Father Bechlin
related how he had actually seen one of the troop of volors within five yards
of the window; it was crowded with faces, he said, from stem to stern. Then it
had soared suddenly, and vanished in whorls of mist.
Percy shook his
head, saying nothing. He had no explanation.
"They are
inquiring, I understand," said Father Bechlin again. "The conductor
was at his instrument just now."
There was nothing
to be seen from the windows now. Only, as Percy stared out, still dazed with
the shock, he saw the cruel needle of rock wavering beneath as if seen through
water, and the huge shoulder of snow swaying softly up and down. It was quieter
outside. It appeared that the flock had passed, only somewhere from an infinite
height still sounded a fitful wailing, as if a lonely bird were wandering, lost
in space.
"That is the
signalling volor," murmured Percy to himself.
He had no theory
- no suggestion. Yet the matter seemed an ominous one. It was unheard of that
an encounter with a hundred volors should take place, and he wondered why they
were going southwards. Again the name of Felsenburgh came to his mind. What if
that sinister man were still somewhere overhead?
"Eminence,"
began the old man again. But at that instant the car began to move.
A bell clanged, a
vibration tingled underfoot, and then, soft as a flake of snow, the great ship
began to rise, its movement perceptible only by the sudden drop and vanishing
of the spire of rock at which Percy still stared. Slowly the snowfield too
began to flit downwards, a black cleft, whisked smoothly into sight from above,
and disappeared again below, and a moment later once more the car seemed poised
in white space as it climbed the slope of air down which it had dropped just
now. Again the wind-chord rent the atmosphere; and this time the answer was as
faint and distant as a cry from another world. The speed quickened, and the
steady throb of the screw began to replace the swaying motion of the wings.
Again came the hoot, wild and echoing through the barren wilderness of rock
walls beneath, and again with a sudden impulse the car soared. It was going in
great circles now, cautious as a cat, climbing, climbing, punctuating the
ascent with cry after cry, searching the blind air for dangers. Once again a
vast white slope came into sight, illuminated by the glare from the windows,
sinking ever more and more swiftly, receding and approaching - until for one
instant a jagged line of rocks grinned like teeth through the mist, dropped
away and vanished, and with a clash of bells, and a last scream of warning, the
throb of the screw passed from a whirr to a rising note, and the note to
stillness, as the huge ship, clear at last of the frontier peaks, shook out her
wings steady once more, and set out for her humming flight through space…
Whatever it was, was behind them now, vanished into the thick night.
There was a sound
of talking from the interior of the car, hasty, breathless voices, questioning,
exclaiming, and the authoritative terse answer of the guard. A step came along
outside, and Percy sprang to meet it, but, as he laid his hand on the door, it
was pushed from without, and to his astonishment the English guard came
straight through, closing it behind him.
He stood there,
looking strangely at the four priests, with compressed lips and anxious eyes.
"Well?"
cried Percy.
"All right,
gentlemen. But I'm thinking you'd better descend at Paris. I know who you are,
gentlemen - and though I'm not a Catholic -"
He stopped again.
"For God's
sake, man -" began Percy.
"Oh! the
news, gentlemen. Well, it was two hundred cars going to Rome. There is a
Catholic plot, sir, discovered in London -"
"Well?"
"To wipe out
the Abbey. So they're going -"
"Ah!"
"Yes, sir - to
wipe out Rome."
Then he was gone
again.
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