Down, down on his knees fell the man of many millions, overcome by the most poignant fear and shame he had ever known. He had disbelieved! He knew it at last, — he knew that he had, for the sake of public conventionality, made mere hypocritical pretence to worship One Whose sublime teaching he outraged every day of his life, Whose commands he ignored, and Whose example he had never at any time tried to follow. And now — now! With pulses beating as though they would burst, and eyes dim with painful tears wrung from the centre of the rocky region of his heart, he sought to cover his face, — but was forced against his will to gaze, half blind and giddy as he was, on that majestic advancing Shape, which appeared to draw away all the shadows of the great cathedral and transfuse them into light. He noticed, with an extraordinary anguish, which to him was as new as it was keen, that the crowded congregation of people among whom he knelt seemed totally unaware of the shining Presence that passed them by, — and as that Presence moved slowly and silently towards the closed doors of the Abbey, be felt that he must cry out wildly: —
“Look — look! Kneel down and pray! Entreat Him not to leave us, for if He goes, why should we remain!”
But all utterance was denied him. He could only watch and tremble. Slowly, very slowly, with a grand reproach expressed in every feature of its glorious Countenance, the heavenly Vision of the Crucified moved on, — the doors of the Abbey opened noiselessly, as though flung aside by invisible hands, admitting a broad shaft of winter moonlight from the outer air, — and so, never once looking back, it passed out and away from the crowded church of “Christian” worshippers, and, melting into the silvery radiance of the moon, disappeared. The doors closed darkly behind it — and black shadows drooped from the dim cathedral arches, hanging drearily over the people, and filling the aisles and chapels with a dull noxious vapour — and then with a sudden startling clangour, out rang the Bells again! The Bells! Hoarse and reproachful! — full of menace and foreboding, loneliness and despair! Such a tolling chime they gave as might fit the burial of all the faiths and aspirations of the world! They spoke of Death, not Life! — of the black grave from which all hope of resurrection had been taken, — with a sob in their savage metal throats they proclaimed the closing of the gates of Heaven! — with harsh resistance they bewailed the loss of confidence in God, of trust in the future, of comfort in sorrow — and with dismal and heavy reverberation they thundered forth “Death! Death! Death is the end of all! There shall be no Hereafter!”
Within the Abbey the people looked doubtfully at one another. Some smiled — some sighed, — one or two had tears in their eyes. A faint whisper ran from lip to lip. “Christmas Day!” they murmured—” It is Christmas Day!” And again they sighed and smiled. But it was evident that the old Festival for them held no meaning — no tender or pious memory. Once perhaps it might have had — but now — ! Why now the very Spirit and Soul of Christmas had departed! — the doors of the Christian Church itself were closed against it, — the Divine Friend of Mankind had passed by unheeded, and had gone away from those who were passively permitting His honour to be assailed, — what then was Christmas Day but the mere empty name of a discarded Blessing! The dark shadows steadily thickened, — and Josiah, still grovelling on the ground, with the awful clang of the moaning Bells in his ears, felt that he was being stifled and pressed down into a tomb of everlasting icy cold, — when he was suddenly plucked up from his knees by the grip of a too familiar claw, and lo! — the Goblin stood confronting him with a sad and sober grin.
“Dull place, Westminster Abbey!” it remarked—” Oh hoo-roo! All damp and dismals! I wouldn’t be an England’s great man for anything! It’s the last reward an England’s great man ever gets, — the ‘honour’ — oh, hoo-roo! — of being allowed to moulder among the most mouldered remains that ever mouldered! Hoo-roo! I’m glad the body I used to wear when I was a Churchwarden is all turned into daisies in a country churchyard. Pretty things, daisies! Fancy your old wrinkles turning into them!”
McNason was silent. He stood quietly resigned to the Goblin’s clutch, waiting for its next move. And while he waited, he saw the crowd in front of him sway, part asunder, and begin to disperse, — while the Atheist-Preacher, descending from the pulpit, held brief conversation with a man who took from his hand a roll of paper. McNason could hear him speaking, despite the space between them.
“Here’s my sermon in full,” — he said—” I hope you will give it the widest publicity. The ‘copy’ contains a good many effective bits which I was obliged to leave out with a mixed congregation. You never know how people may take the upsetting of their cherished creeds! In such work the Press can do more than the Pulpit. Nothing like a good Press discussion for shaking the old foundations! And I think my remarks are likely to cause a fluttering in the dove-cotes!”
The reporter — for such he was — smiled.
“You are not afraid of your Archbishop?” he said.
The Atheist-Preacher laughed.
“My Archbishop! He has no time to give his attention to any such matter as this. He’s too busy with the claims of the Poor Clergy!”
They both laughed then, shook hands and separated. McNason, in the Goblin’s grasp, watched them go their several ways, and then suddenly recovering his speech, said: —
“That man ought to be put out of the Church!”
“Quite right — so he ought!” agreed the Goblin—” You are getting quite discriminating, Josiah! He ought to be put out of the Church, but who’s going to do it? He isn’t drunk or disorderly! He’s a liar and a hypocrite, and he’s taking his ‘salary’ on false pretences — but there are hundreds — perhaps thousands — like him! Besides, those who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones! You’re as bad as he is in your way! You pretend—”
“I have pretended — !” said McNason, humbly.
The Goblin looked at him, and closed one round eye in a most horrible and portentous wink.
“I see!” it observed—” You’re preparing to make a good end! You’re like the Naughty Duchess! Oh, hoo-roo! What a character she was! She went the pace as hard as ever she could till she was quite worn out and could count her crows-feet, — then she began to go to Church regularly, and became publicly charitable. She turned herself into a Bazaar Lady; opened several soup-kitchens, and used to cry over the newest sweet thing in curates. Naughty, naughty Duchess! When she died an eminent Dean preached a sermon about her. She left him five thousand pounds in her will. He said she was ‘one of the noblest women that ever lived.’ And she’s one of us now. Oh hoo-roo! Don’t you try to be like her, McNason! — it doesn’t pay! Come along! — Come and take a look at London!”
With a fantastic caper, the Goblin sidled and skipped out of the Abbey, its conical cap glowing like the flame of a will-o’-the-wisp in a dark morass, — while passively, and without any strength to resist its imperious lead, the millionaire followed. In the full radiance of a moon which made the streets as light as day, they presently stood, — and as in a fevered dream, Josiah saw the familiar clock-tower of Westminster, the great square in front of the Houses of Parliament, and the twinkling lamps on the bridge that spans the steely gleam of the river Thames. The dull human roar of the great metropolis thundered in his ears like the rushing of many waters, and while he yet looked on the scene which he knew so well, the Goblin took off its cap and touched his eyes with its tasselled point.
“Tick-tock! Tick-tock! Only two thousand years by the Spirit’s clock!” it said.
And lo! — the stately tower, buildings and streets disappeared! Smooth green fields spread out on every side, full-flowering with meadow-sweet, buttercups and daisies, — there was no longer any bridge across the river, which, flowing calmly between low banks of mossy turf and fern, reflected the sunshine in a thousand sparkles and plashed against the double shores with musical murmurs of peace. A flock of sheep grazed on the quiet pasture, and their shepherd sat at his ease by the side of the placid stream.
And now the
Goblin waved its spidery arms.
“Ask him,” it said—” what has become of London!”
Obediently McNason put the question. The shepherd turned upon him a young wondering face.
“London!” he echoed. Then he smiled. “Oh yes, I think I know what you mean! There was a city of that name somewhere about here once, but I don’t know exactly where! There’s nothing of it left now!”
“Nothing!” exclaimed McNason, aghast. “Nothing!” — And the Goblin, pronouncing this word, waved its arms again, whereupon the Vision vanished,” Nothing! Not a shred! — not a brick — not a bone! Not even a gold Coin! All the business — Gone! — all the pleasure — Gone! — all the scheming, plotting, lying, cheating, villainy, hatred and envy of one human creature contesting with the other — Gone! All the self-sufficiency, learning, little wisdom, and utter godlessness — Gone! Such will London be in two thousand years! And Nature will not miss it! Nature can do without it very well; Nature can do without YOU equally well, McNason! The sun will go on shining and the birds will go on singing none the less because You are wanting! Come along! — come along! In the spirit of One Timothy Two, time’s up! Off we go on our last journey!”
Once more Josiah fell on his knees.
“Spare me!” he cried—” Spare me! Surely I have suffered enough!”
“Suffered? You? Oh Beelzebub!” And the Goblin began to elongate itself in its own peculiar and terror-striking style, “You’ve only just begun to know what it is to feel! You hard old scoundrel! You talk of suffering! — why, you have lived till over sixty years of age, caring nothing at all for the troubles of others unless you could turn such troubles to your own advantage! As a child you were selfish, — as a boy you were selfish, — as a young man you were selfish, — as an old man you are selfish! You have crushed out hundreds of human lives in your factories as if they were mere ants swarming under your iron heel! You have cut down the expenses of your business to the narrowest, meanest, most pitiful margin, — you ‘sweat’ your labourers to such an extent that you know you dare not walk through your own workshops without a revolver in your pocket and a man on either side of you for protection — you are a living curse to the majority of those you employ — and they look for your death in the hope that after you are gone they will have a kinder master! And you quote Shakespeare, do you? And the Bible! Oh hoo-roo! Come along! Time’s up, I tell you! And we’re not going far. Just a little see-saw ride to a Home Sweet Home! A last long Home! A Happy Home! Oh hoo-roo-oo-oo! One Timothy Two, and away we go!”
* * * *
Again a brief spell of semi-consciousness — a kind of waking nightmare in which many confused sights and sounds were intermingled; — flying visions of pale worn faces full of sorrow and appeal; noises as of weeping, with stifled cries and sobs of pain; — and then Josiah McNason opened his eyes widely, to find himself lying flat on a narrow bed in the centre of a rather large room. His head rested on a small, very hard pillow, — and on this pillow squatted the Goblin with an air of being quite at ease.
“Here we are in a happy ‘Home,’ McNason!” it chuckled softly in his ear—” Don’t worry! Don’t agitate yourself!
Keep quite calm! You will have every possible attention!”
Josiah stared helplessly about him. He saw his clothes neatly folded and placed all together on the top of a chest of drawers, — his top-hat was also a particularly conspicuous object on a chair close by. He realised that he had been undressed and put to bed, but how this had happened he could not tell. He turned a miserable questioning gaze on the Goblin.
“What — what’s this?” he stammered—” What are you going to do to me?”
“I?” And the Goblin, with an injured air of perfect innocence, executed a diabolical French shrug of its shoulders— “I’m not going to do anything to you, my dear sir! I wouldn’t be so cruel! It is THEY! — THEY are going to do something to you, — but all for your good! — oh, hoo-roo — all for your good!”
THEY! Who were THEY? With painful hesitation Josiah turned his eyes round about again, and presently saw, standing near him like dim figures in a blurred photograph, two men talking confidentially together — one fairly young, the other elderly, — while with them was a smart, well-set-up, rather perky looking woman attired in the conventional grey gown, spotless apron and cap of the “professional” nurse. The elderly man’s back was turned, but he seemed to be expounding some knotty point of argument to his companions with particular emphasis and gusto.
“Something’s gone wrong with the Works, McNason!” said the Goblin, confidentially, “That’s what’s the matter?”
“Works?” And McNason’s troubled mind immediately reverted to his huge factories—” What works?”
“YOUR works!” and the Goblin leered at him sideways with a frightful grin—” Your internal works! And these two learned gentlemen are going to find out what it is. You’re ill, you know! — you’re very ill! The learned gentlemen don’t quite understand how or why you’re ill, but they’re going to find out! They’re going to slice you up and see what you’re like inside! It will be most interesting and instructive — to the learned gentlemen! It won’t interest YOU at all, because you’re to be put under chloroform, and you won’t know anything about it except when you ‘come to.’ Then you will die! But that won’t particularly matter! The operation is sure to be ‘most successful.’ An operation is always ‘successful,’ even if the patient never recovers! The medical profession must be safeguarded, you know!”
McNason heard, and in an instant became a prey to the most violent access of nervous horror.
“I’m not ill!” he said fiercely. “There’s nothing whatever the matter with me! How dare you say there is! It’s all a mistake — an abominable mistake! I’ve never suffered from any illness except gout and indigestion — never! — there’s no operation needed for such ailments! — what the devil do you mean by bringing me here?”
“You will talk about the devil!” And the Goblin shook its tasselled cap at him reproachfully—” Don’t say I mentioned him first! You’re ill, I tell you! — you’re more seriously ill than your old friend Willie Dove, and you’re here because you’re ill! ‘To this complexion must we come at last’! Oh Beelzebub! They don’t know whether it’s cancer or appendicitis with YOU!”
“Look here!” almost shouted Josiah, addressing himself to the two men, who, with the nurse, still stood together talking, but who appeared not to hear him—” Take me out of this place directly! I’ve been brought here on false pretences! I’m not ill! I don’t want an operation! I won’t be operated upon! I’ll — I’ll — !”
Here exhausted, he sank back on his hard pillow impotently clenching his hands in a paroxysm of rage and fear.
The Goblin grinned.
“Now, McNason, keep cool!” it said—” Don’t show temper! Doctors don’t like that sort of thing. They call it ‘nerves’ and they give you a soothing draught. Besides, these two eminent personages who are just now discussing your ‘case’ can’t hear you, and if they could they wouldn’t listen. One’s a ‘Sir.’ He’s a clever man, of course, or he wouldn’t be a ‘Sir.’ It’s a little unpleasant that the title puts him on the same rank with any provincial Mayor who has presented an address to the Sovereign! But it can’t be helped. There’s no suitable honour in this country for merely intellectual and scientific persons! Now about your case—”
“I’ve no case!” groaned the wretched millionaire—” No case at all—”
“You are a case!” declared the Goblin—” A whole case in yourself! A case of a man gone wrong! A case of a human creature who has a stone in the place where his heart ought to be! — a hard, heavy stone, without a pulse of love or kindness in it! A case? Oh Beelzebub! I should think you are a case! Sir Slasher Cut-Em-Up — that’s the broad-backed elderly gentleman over there, — thinks you’ve got something ‘malignant’ inside! Oh hoo-roo-oo-oo! I should think you had! Sir Slasher believes it’s cancer. But if it is, th
ey’ll never find it, McNason! No! — your cancer’s on the mind! — and they’ll never cut that out! But they’re going to have a good try!”
Josiah moaned helplessly.
“Sir Slasher Cut-Em-Up is a great vivi-sector,” — proceeded the Goblin, cheerfully—” He knows where to find every little nerve and muscle in the body of a dog, for instance. I don’t say your body is at all like that of a dog! — I know your Soul isn’t half so honest or so faithful! Sir Slasher has had more than a hundred innocent animals under his scalpel — all poor, trustful, good creatures whom he has pinned and stretched in every possible position on his rack of torture — whose nerves he has severed — whose muscles he has galvanized — and whom he has killed as slowly, as ruthlessly and as criminally as any Torquemada that ever roasted a heretic to the sound of sacred music! Hoo-roo! Sir Slasher knows a thing or two, I can tell you! He’s a licensed murderer of the harmless and helpless, — but even a dog’s soul has a place in the eternal countings, as Sir Slasher may find out to his cost when he becomes a member of our United Empire Club! He cut up a dog yesterday — now he’s going to cut up YOU! You’re a splendid subject for him, you know! You’ve got so much MONEY!”
Again Josiah moaned in a stupor of fear.
“You’ve got so much MONEY!” repeated the Goblin, smacking its wide lips as though it were tasting something savoury, “And MONEY’S a great thing! MONEY has enabled you to come to this ‘Home’ — one of the most select ‘Homes’ in London! Oh, Home Sweet Home! Oh happy, happy Home! It’s the special pet ‘Nursing Home’ of Sir Slasher Cut-Em-Up, where he’s got the matron and all the nurses under his big Thumb! Oh hoo-roo! Such a dear Home! You pay Five Guineas a week for your room to begin with, — and then when you’re very ill, you pay Ten. Afterwards, when you get worse and are likely to die, you pay Fifteen. The nurse is extra. If you have two nurses you have two extras. Everything apart from the room and the bed is ‘extra.’ If you want a bottle of soda water you pay sixpence for a ‘split,’ ninepence for a full. And so on! And so on! Oh, what a dear ‘comfy’ Home! There aren’t many like it in London, I can tell you! Only a few — a beautiful, blessed few!”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 936