Lord of the World

by Robert Hugh Benson

  II

  Oliver told them the explanation of the whole affair that evening athome, leaning back in his chair, with one arm bandaged and in a sling.

  They had not been able to get near him at the time; the excitement inthe square had been too fierce; but a messenger had come to his wifewith the news that her husband was only slightly wounded, and was in thehands of the doctors.

  "He was a Catholic," explained the drawn-faced Oliver. "He must havecome ready, for his repeater was found loaded. Well, there was no chancefor a priest this time."

  Mabel nodded slowly: she had read of the man's fate on the placards.

  "He was killed--trampled and strangled instantly," said Oliver. "I didwhat I could: you saw me. But--well, I dare say it was more merciful."

  "But you did what you could, my dear?" said the old lady, anxiously,from her corner.

  "I called out to them, mother, but they wouldn't hear me."

  Mabel leaned forward---

  "Oliver, I know this sounds stupid of me; but--but I wish they had notkilled him."

  Oliver smiled at her. He knew this tender trait in her.

  "It would have been more perfect if they had not," she said. Then shebroke off and sat back.

  "Why did he shoot just then?" she asked.

  Oliver turned his eyes for an instant towards his mother, but she wasknitting tranquilly.

  Then he answered with a curious deliberateness.

  "I said that Braithwaite had done more for the world by one speech thanJesus and all His saints put together." He was aware that theknitting-needles stopped for a second; then they went on again asbefore.

  "But he must have meant to do it anyhow," continued Oliver.

  "How do they know he was a Catholic?" asked the girl again.

  "There was a rosary on him; and then he just had time to call on hisGod."

  "And nothing more is known?"

  "Nothing more. He was well dressed, though."

  Oliver leaned back a little wearily and closed his eyes; his arm stillthrobbed intolerably. But he was very happy at heart. It was true thathe had been wounded by a fanatic, but he was not sorry to bear pain insuch a cause, and it was obvious that the sympathy of England was withhim. Mr. Phillips even now was busy in the next room, answering thetelegrams that poured in every moment. Caldecott, the Prime Minister,Maxwell, Snowford and a dozen others had wired instantly theircongratulations, and from every part of England streamed in messageafter message. It was an immense stroke for the Communists; theirspokesman had been assaulted during the discharge of his duty, speakingin defence of his principles; it was an incalculable gain for them, andloss for the Individualists, that confessors were not all on one sideafter all. The huge electric placards over London had winked out thefacts in Esperanto as Oliver stepped into the train at twilight.

  "_Oliver Brand wounded.... Catholic assailant.... Indignation of thecountry.... Well-deserved fate of assassin_."

  He was pleased, too, that he honestly had done his best to save the man.Even in that moment of sudden and acute pain he had cried out for a fairtrial; but he had been too late. He had seen the starting eyes roll upin the crimson face, and the horrid grin come and go as the hands hadclutched and torn at his throat. Then the face had vanished and a heavytrampling began where it had disappeared. Oh! there was some passion andloyalty left in England!

  His mother got up presently and went out, still without a word; andMabel turned to him, laying a hand on his knee.

  "Are you too tired to talk, my dear?"

  He opened his eyes.

  "Of course not, my darling. What is it?"

  "What do you think will be the effect?"

  He raised himself a little, looking out as usual through the darkeningwindows on to that astonishing view. Everywhere now lights wereglowing, a sea of mellow moons just above the houses, and above themysterious heavy blue of a summer evening.

  "The effect?" he said. "It can be nothing but good. It was time thatsomething happened. My dear, I feel very downcast sometimes, as youknow. Well, I do not think I shall be again. I have been afraidsometimes that we were losing all our spirit, and that the old Torieswere partly right when they prophesied what Communism would do. Butafter this---"

  "Well?"

  "Well; we have shown that we can shed our blood too. It is in the nickof time, too, just at the crisis. I don't want to exaggerate; it is onlya scratch--but it was so deliberate, and--and so dramatic. The poordevil could not have chosen a worse moment. People won't forget it."

  Mabel's eyes shone with pleasure.

  "You poor dear!" she said. "Are you in pain?"

  "Not much. Besides, Christ! what do I care? If only this infernalEastern affair would end!"

  He knew he was feverish and irritable, and made a great effort to driveit down.

  "Oh, my dear!" he went on, flushed a little. "If they would not be suchheavy fools: they don't understand; they don't understand."

  "Yes, Oliver?"

  "They don't understand what a glorious thing it all is Humanity, Life,Truth at last, and the death of Folly! But haven't I told them a hundredtimes?"

  She looked at him with kindling eyes. She loved to see him like this,his confident, flushed face, the enthusiasm in his blue eyes; and theknowledge of his pain pricked her feeling with passion. She bent forwardand kissed him suddenly.

  "My dear, I am so proud of you. Oh, Oliver!"

  He said nothing; but she could see what she loved to see, that responseto her own heart; and so they sat in silence while the sky darkened yetmore, and the click of the writer in the next room told them that theworld was alive and that they had a share in its affairs.

  Oliver stirred presently.

  "Did you notice anything just now, sweetheart--when I said that aboutJesus Christ?"

  "She stopped knitting for a moment," said the girl.

  He nodded.

  "You saw that too, then.... Mabel, do you think she is falling back?"

  "Oh! she is getting old," said the girl lightly. "Of course she looksback a little."

  "But you don't think--it would be too awful!"

  She shook her head.

  "No, no, my dear; you're excited and tired. It's just a littlesentiment.... Oliver, I don't think I would say that kind of thingbefore her."

  "But she hears it everywhere now."

  "No, she doesn't. Remember she hardly ever goes out. Besides, she hatesit. After all, she was brought up a Catholic."

  Oliver nodded, and lay back again, looking dreamily out.

  "Isn't it astonishing the way in which suggestion lasts? She can't getit out of her head, even after fifty years. Well, watch her, won'tyou?... By the way ..."

  "Yes?"

  "There's a little more news from the East. They say Felsenburgh'srunning the whole thing now. The Empire is sending him everywhere--Tobolsk, Benares, Yakutsk--everywhere; and he's been to Australia."

  Mabel sat up briskly.

  "Isn't that very hopeful?"

  "I suppose so. There's no doubt that the Sufis are winning; but for howlong is another question. Besides, the troops don't disperse."

  "And Europe?"

  "Europe is arming as fast as possible. I hear we are to meet the Powersnext week at Paris. I must go."

  "Your arm, my dear?"

  "My arm must get well. It will have to go with me, anyhow."

  "Tell me some more."

  "There is no more. But it is just as certain as it can be that this isthe crisis. If the East can be persuaded to hold its hand now, it willnever be likely to raise it again. It will mean free trade all over theworld, I suppose, and all that kind of thing. But if not---"

  "Well?"

  "If not, there will be a catastrophe such as never has been evenimagined. The whole human race will be at war, and either East or Westwill be simply wiped out. These new Benninschein explosives will makecertain of that."

  "But is it absolutely certain that the East has got them?"

  "Absolutely. Benninschein so
ld them simultaneously to East and West;then he died, luckily for him."

  Mabel had heard this kind of talk before, but her imagination simplyrefused to grasp it. A duel of East and West under these new conditionswas an unthinkable thing. There had been no European war within livingmemory, and the Eastern wars of the last century had been under the oldconditions. Now, if tales were true, entire towns would be destroyedwith a single shell. The new conditions were unimaginable. Militaryexperts prophesied extravagantly, contradicting one another on vitalpoints; the whole procedure of war was a matter of theory; there were noprecedents with which to compare it. It was as if archers disputed as tothe results of cordite. Only one thing was certain--that the East hadevery modern engine, and, as regards male population, half as muchagain as the rest of the world put together; and the conclusion to bedrawn from these premisses was not reassuring to England.

  But imagination simply refused to speak. The daily papers had a short,careful leading article every day, founded upon the scraps of news thatstole out from the conferences on the other side of the world;Felsenburgh's name appeared more frequently than ever: otherwise thereseemed to be a kind of hush. Nothing suffered very much; trade went on;European stocks were not appreciably lower than usual; men still builthouses, married wives, begat sons and daughters, did their business andwent to the theatre, for the mere reason that there was no good inanything else. They could neither save nor precipitate the situation; itwas on too large a scale. Occasionally people went mad--people who hadsucceeded in goading their imagination to a height whence a glimpse ofreality could be obtained; and there was a diffused atmosphere oftenseness. But that was all. Not many speeches were made on the subject;it had been found inadvisable. After all, there was nothing to do but towait.