When it was Dark

by Guy Thorne

  They showed him, with furtive eyes and hesitating lips from which the shame had not yet been cleansed, how desirable and necessary it was that in the reconstruction of Christianity the Church should still have a prominent and influential part. Fools!

  He had been a colossus among them all. But -- and he thought of it with anger and amazement -- all this had been at first, when the discovery flashed over a startled world. While the thing was new it had been a great question, truly the greatest of all.

  At first, only religious people -- a vast host, but small beside the mass of Englishmen -- were seriously disturbed by what had happened. The price of bread had remained the same, and beef was no dearer.

  During these first weeks, Schuabe had been all-powerful. He and his friends had lived in a constant and stupendous triumph.

  But now -- and in his frightful self-centredness he frowned at the thick black headlines in the newspapers -- the whole attitude of everyone was changed. There was a reflex action. In the noise it made, Schuabe was forgotten.

  Men had more to think of now. There was no time to congratulate the man who had been so splendidly right.

  British government bonds were down to 65!

  Bread was now rising each week. War was imminent. On all sides great mercantile houses were crashing. Each fall meant a thousand minor catastrophes all over the country.

  The antichristians had no time to jeer at the Faithful; they must work and strain to save their own fortunes from the wreck.

  The mob, who were swiftly bereft of the luxuries which kept them in good humour, were turning on the antichristian party now. In their blind, selfish unreason they cried them down, saying that they were responsible for the misery and terror that lay over the world.

  With an absolute lack of logic, the churches were crowded again. The ones who were most irreligious cried for the good old times. Those who had exulted over the broken Cross now bewailed it as the most awful of calamities.

  It was bizarre beyond thinking, sordid in its immensity, vulgar in its mighty soulless greed, but true, real, a fearful fact.

  A stupendous confusion.

  Two great currents had met in a maelstrom. The din of the disturbance beat on the world's ear with sickening clamour.

  Louder and louder, day by day.

  And the man who had done all this, the brain which had called up these legions from hell, which had loosed these fiery sorrows on mankind, was in a rich room in a luxurious hotel, alone there. Again, the shock and marvel took hold of Schuabe and shook him like a reed.

  His thoughts flashed hither and thither, now surveying a world in torture, now weaving a trivial and whimsical romance about a waiter who had caught his eye. The frightful activity of his brain, inflamed by thoughts beyond the power of even that wonderful machine, began to have a consuming physical effect.

  He felt the grey matter bubbling. Agonising pains shot from temple to temple, little knives seemed hacking at the back of his eyes. Once again, in a wave of unutterable terror, the fear of madness submerged him.

  And now he was unable to regain his composure by any effort which came from within himself. He stumbled into his adjoining dressing room and selected a bottle from a shelf. It was bromide of potassium, which he had been taking of late to deaden the clamour and vibration of his nerves.

  In half an hour the drug had calmed him. His face was pale, but set and rigid. The storm was over. He felt shattered by its violence, but in an artificial peace.

  He took a cigarette.

  As he was lighting it, his valet entered and announced that Mr. Dawlish was waiting in an anteroom.

  He ordered that he should be shown in.

  Mr. Dawlish was a partner of the well-known firm of city solicitors, Burrington & Tuite. That was his official description. In effect he was Schuabe's principal man of business. His time was taken up by the millionaire's affairs all over England.

  He came in quickly -- a tall, well-dressed man, hair thin on the forehead, moustache carefully trained.

  "You look unwell, Mr. Schuabe," he said, with a keen glance. "Don't let these affairs overwhelm you. Nothing is so dangerous as to let the nerves go in times like these."

  Schuabe looked up quickly. "How are things, Dawlish?" he said.

  "Very shaky, very shaky indeed. The shares of the Budapest Railway are to be bought for a shilling. I'm afraid your investments in that concern are utterly lost. When the Stock Exchange closed last night, dealings in Foreign Government Stock were at a standstill. Turkish C&O bonds are worthless."

  The millionaire looked shocked. "You bring me a record of disaster," he said.

  "Baumann went yesterday," continued the level voice.

  "My cousin," said Schuabe.

  "The worst of it is that the situation is getting worse and worse. We have, as you know, made enormous efforts. But all attempts you have made to uphold your securities have only been throwing money away. The last fortnight has been frightful. More than two hundred thousand pounds have gone. In fact, an ordinary man would be ruined by the last month or two. Your position is better because of the real property in the Manchester mills."

  Schuabe shook his head. "Trade there has almost ceased."

  "Close the mills down and wait. You cannot go on."

  "If I do, ten thousand workers will be let loose with nothing but the Union funds to fall back on."

  "If you don't, you will be what Baumann is today -- a bankrupt."

  "I have eighty thousand cash on deposit at the Bank of England."

  "And if you throw that away after the rest you'll be done for. You don't realise the situation. It can't recover. War is inevitable. India will go, I feel it. England is going to turn into a camp. Religion is the pretext of war everywhere. Take your money from the bank in cash and lock it up in the safe deposit strong rooms. Keep that sum, earning nothing, for emergencies, then wait for the other properties to recover. It will be years perhaps, but you will win through in the end. The freehold sites of the mills are alone worth a fortune. It is only paper millionaires that are easily ruined. You're a great property owner. But you must walk very warily, even you. Who could have foreseen all this? I see that fellow Hands is dead -- couldn't stand the sight of the mischief he'd done, I suppose. The fool! The eternal fool! Why couldn't he have kept his sham discovery to himself? Look at the unutterable misery it has brought on the world."

  "You yourself, Dawlish, are you suffering the common fate?"

  "I? Certainly not! That's to say, I suffer of course, but not fatally. All my investments are in buildings in safe quarters. I may have to reduce rents for a year or two, but my houses will not be empty. And they are my own."

  "Fortunate man," said Schuabe. He suddenly stopped as he absorbed what Dawlish had said. "Why did you say sham discovery?"

  "Out of business hours," said the solicitor, with some stiffness and hesitation, "I'm a Roman Catholic, Mr. Schuabe. Good-morning. I'll send the transfer round for you to sign."

  The cool, machine-like man went away. Schuabe knew his fortune was tottering, but it moved him little. He knew his power in the country was nearly over, had dwindled to nothing in the stir of greater things around. Money was only useful as a means of power, and with a sure insight he saw that he would never regain his old position.

  The one appalling thought which burned within him, and seemed to be eating out his life, was the knowledge that he and no other man had set in motion this terrible machinery which was grinding up the civilised world.

  Day and night from that, there was no relief.

  His valet again entered and reminded his master that some people were coming to lunch. He went away and began to dress with the man's help.

  Chapter 27

  The guests were only two in number. One was Ommaney, the editor of The Daily Wire, the other Mrs. Hubert Armstrong.

  Both the lady and gentleman came in together just after two o'clock.

  Mrs. Armstrong was much changed in appearance. Her face had lost its sereni
ty; her manner was quick and anxious; her voice strained.

  The slim, quiet editor, on the other hand, seemed to be untouched by worry. Quiet and inscrutable as ever, the only change in him, perhaps, was a slight briskness, an aroma rather than an actual expression of good humour.

  They sat down to the meal. Schuabe, in his dark grey frock-coat seemed to be beyond all mundane cares. Only the lady was ill at ease.

  The conversation at first was all of the actual news of the day, as it had appeared in the morning's newspapers. Hands's death was discussed.

  "Poor fellow!" said Mrs. Armstrong, with a sigh. "It is sad to think of his sudden ending. The burden was too much for him to bear. I can understand it when I look round upon all that's happening. It is without doubt terrible!"

  "Surely you don't regret the discovery of the truth?" said Schuabe, quickly.

  "I am beginning to fear truth," said the lady. "The world, it seems, was not ripe for it. In a hundred years, perhaps, our work would have paved the way. But it is premature. Look at the chaos all around us. The public has ceased to think or read. They are reading nothing. Three publishers have put up the shutters during the week."

  The journalist interrupted with a dry chuckle. "They are reading The Daily Wire," he said. "The circulation is almost doubled." He sent a congratulatory glance to Schuabe.

  The millionaire's great holding in the paper was a secret known only to a few. In the stress of greater affairs he had half forgotten it. A swift feeling of relief crossed his brain as he realised what this meant to his tottering fortunes.

  "Poor Hands!" said the editor. "He was a nice fellow. Rather unpractical and dreamy, but nice enough. Owing to him we had the greatest chance that any paper has ever had in the history of journalism. We owe him a great debt. The present popularity and influence of the paper has dwarfed, positively dwarfed, all its rivals. I have given the poor fellow three columns today. I wish I could do more."

  "Do you not think, Mr. Ommaney," asked Mrs. Armstrong, "that in the enormous publication of telegraphic despatches and political foreign news, the glorious fact that the world has at last awakened to a knowledge of the glorious truths of freedom from religion, is being swamped and forgotten? After all, what will be the greatest thing in history a hundred years from now? Will it not be the death of the old superstitions rather than a short mutiny in the Middle East or a war with Russia? Will not the names of the pioneers of truth remain more firmly fixed in the minds of mankind than those of generals and chancellors?"

  The editor wanted to make it plain that these were speculations with which he had nothing whatever to do. "It is dead, Mrs. Armstrong," he said brutally. "The religious aspect is utterly dead, and wouldn't sell one extra copy of the paper. It would be madness to touch it now. The public gaze is fixed on Kabul River and St. Petersburg, Belgrade and Constantinople. They have almost forgotten that Jerusalem exists. I sent out twelve special correspondents to these places ten days ago."

  Mrs. Armstrong sighed deeply. It was true, bitterly true. She was no longer of any importance in the public eye. No one asked her to lecture. The mass meetings were over. Not a single copy of her book John Mulgrave had been sold for a month. How differently she had pictured it all on that winter's morning at Sir Michael's. How brightly and gloriously it had begun, and now how bitter the conclusion, how utterly beyond foresight. What was this superstition, this Christianity which in its death struggles could overthrow a world?

  There was no role for women now. That was the bitterest thought of all. The woman's rights movement was over -- done with. A private in the Guards was a greater hero than the leader of an intellectual movement. What a monstrous overturning of everything!

  Again the lady sighed deeply.

  "No," she said, "the world was not yet strong enough to bear the truth. I have sold my British government bonds. I have been advised to do so. I was investing for my daughter when I'm gone. Newspaper shares are the things to buy now, I suppose. My brokers told me I was doing the wisest thing. They said my bonds could not recover for years."

  "The money market is a thing in which I have very little concern, except inasmuch as it affects large public issues," said the editor. "But I heard a curious piece of news last night. I don't know what it portends. Perhaps Mr. Schuabe can tell me; he knows all about these things. Sir Michael Manichoe, the head of the Church political party, has been buying British government bonds enormously. Keith, my city editor, told me. He has, so it appears, invested enormous sums. It seems as if Sir Michael is buying for a permanent recovery. And I assure you nothing can bring that about." He paused for a moment. "Yes, there is one thing."

  "What is that?" asked both Mrs. Armstrong and Schuabe together.

  A faint smile flickered over the editor's face. "Ah," he said, "an impossibility, of course. If anyone could prove that 'The Discovery' was a fraud -- a great forgery, for instance -- then we would see a universal relief."

  "That, of course, is asking for an impossibility," said Mrs. Armstrong, rather shortly. She resented the somewhat flippant tone of the great man.

  "You're not well!" said the editor, suddenly turning to Schuabe, who had grown pale.

  Schuabe's voice reassured them. It was without a trace of weakness. The "Perfectly well, thank you" was deliberate and calm as ever.

  Ommaney, however, noticed that, with a very steady hand, the host poured out nearly a tumbler of Burgundy and drank it in one draught.

  Schuabe had been taking nothing stronger than water hitherto during the progress of the meal. After Ommaney had spoken, there was a slight, almost embarrassed, silence.

  A sudden interruption came from the door of the room.

  It opened with a quick turn of the handle and push, quite unlike the deliberate movements of one of the attendants.

  Sir Robert Llwellyn strode into the room. It was obvious he was labouring under some almost uncontrollable agitation. The great face, usually so jolly and fresh-coloured, looked ghastly pale. There was a fixed stare of fright in the eyes. He had forgotten to remove his silk hat, which was grotesquely tilted on his head, showing the hair matted with perspiration.

  Ommaney and Mrs. Armstrong sat perfectly still.

  They were paralysed with wonder at the sudden apparition of this famous person, obviously in such urgent hurry and distress.

  Then, with the natural instinct of well-bred people, their heads turned away, their eyes fell to their plates, and they began to converse in an undertone on trivial matters.

  Schuabe had risen with a quick, snake-like movement, utterly unlike his general deliberation. In a moment he had crossed the room and taken Llwellyn's arm in a firm grip, looking him steadily in the face with an ominous and warning frown.

  That clear, sword-like glance seemed to steer the big man into more restraint. A wave of artificial composure passed over him. He removed his hat and breathed deeply.

  Then he spoke in a voice which trembled somewhat, but which nevertheless attained something of control.

  "I am really very sorry," he said, with an attempt at a smile, "to have burst in on you like this. I didn't know you had friends with you. Please excuse me. But the truth is -- the truth is I'm in rather a hurry to see you. I have an important message for you from -- " he hesitated a single moment before he found the ready lie -- "from the Prime Minister. There are -- there is something going on at the House of Commons which.... But I'll tell you later on. How do you do, Mrs. Armstrong? How are you, Ommaney? Fearfully rushed, of course! We archaeologists are the only people who have leisure nowadays. No, thanks, Schuabe, I lunched before I came. Coffee? Oh, yes; excellent!"

  His manner was noticeably forced and unnatural in its artificial geniality. The attendant, who had now entered with coffee, brought the tray to him, but instead of taking any, Llwellyn half filled an empty cup with liqueur and drank it.

  His hurried explanation hardly deceived the two shrewd people at the table, but at least it made it obvious that he wished to be alone with their host.<
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  There was a little desultory conversation over the coffee, then Mrs. Armstrong got up to go. Ommaney followed her.

  Schuabe walked with them a little way down the corridor. While he was out of the room, Llwellyn walked unsteadily to a sideboard. With shaking hand he mixed himself a large brandy and soda. The intense greed with which he swallowed the mixture was horrible in its sensual revelation. The mask of pleasantness had gone; the reserve of good manners disappeared.

  He stood there naked, as it were -- a vast bulk of a man in deadly fear.

  Schuabe came back and closed the door silently. He drew Llwellyn to the centre of the great room. There was a wild question in his eyes which his lips seemed powerless to utter.

  "Gertrude!" gasped the big man. "You know she came back to me. I told you at the club that it was all right between us again?"

  An immeasurable relief crossed Schuabe's face. He pushed his friend away with a snarl of concentrated disgust. "You come here," he hissed venomously, "and burst into my rooms to tell me of your petty love affairs. Have I not put up with the story of your lust and degradation enough? You come here as if the----" He stopped suddenly. The words died away on his lips.

  Llwellyn was transformed.

  Even in his terror and agitation an ugly sneer blazed out from his face. His nostrils curled with evil laughter. His voice became low and threatening. Something subtly crude and common stole into it. It was this last that arrested Schuabe.

  "Not quite so fast, my good friend," said Llwellyn. "Wait and hear my story. And confound you, if you talk to me like that again, I'll kill you! Things are equal now, my wealthy partner -- equal between us. If I am in danger, why, so are you. So either you speak civilly or you pay the penalty."

  A curious thing happened. The enormous overbearing brutality of the man, his vitality, seemed to cow and beat down the master mind.

  Schuabe, for the moment, was weak in the hands of his inferior. As yet he had heard nothing of what the other had come to tell. He was conscious only of fingers of cold fear knocking at his heart.

  So, for a second or two, in loathsome pantomime the men bowed and salaamed to each other in the centre of the room, not knowing what they did.

  It was Sir Robert Llwellyn who pulled himself together first. The fear rushing over him in waves gave him back a semblance of control.