Willie Dove sighed a little wearily.
“Ah well!” he said—” I did my best for him in my day! And I thought he might possibly be disposed to do me a good turn now. It’s true I haven’t so many years before me, but I’ve got some working power left if I could only get well—”
“I’m afraid it’s my fault, Will!” said his wife piteously. “You could, of course, go to the Hospital and doctors would attend to you there — but oh! I couldn’t bear it! — I couldn’t bear it!” And here her self-control gave way, and she began to sob—” I couldn’t bear to see you taken away from me after all the years we have spent so happily together! I couldn’t bear to think of you ill, and in a place where I could only get at you at stated times, with strangers always about you! It is very foolish of me and perhaps very wrong — but I — I cannot help it!”
Her husband stroked her bent head with his thin delicate hand.
“Don’t cry, Jennie!” he said softly—” I won’t go away from you! I’d rather die!” Mr. Pitt coughed obstreperously.
“Look here, Dove,” he said—” Don’t let us be miserable on Christmas Eve! I left McNason himself looking as wretched as a plucked crow. Poor old chap! With all his money, I wouldn’t be in his shoes for the world! Tell me, what did the doctor say when he saw you to-day?”
“About the same as he has always said,” replied Dove, resignedly—” That an operation would not only relieve, but cure me, and that he should like to perform it here in my own house, and get a good surgical nurse to attend upon me, with my wife’s assistance. For my wife is a capital nurse, aren’t you, Jennie?” He caressed the bent head again and went on—” He thinks me of too nervous a temperament to do well away from home.”
There followed a silence. Presently Pitt spoke again in determined accents.
“I tell you what it is, Dove,” he said, “I’ll lend you the money!”
Dove started.
“You, Mr. Pitt?”
“yes, I!” and Pitt, smiling, drew himself up with an air of resolution—” I can’t afford it a bit — but I’ll risk it! I’ll risk it because — well! — because it’s Christmastime! — Now don’t try to get up!” for Dove raising himself in his chair with some difficulty, caught at Pitt’s hand and grasped it hard, while tears stood in his eyes. And don’t thank me, because I can’t bear to be thanked! It’s Christmas time, as I’ve said — and I’ve always had ‘old-fashioned’ ideas of Christmas. My mother taught them to me — God bless her! — I think” — and his voice sank a little—” that perhaps we ought to spare a little ‘gold, frankincense and myrrh’ just at this season — and this loan to you will be my thank-offering— ‘though it’s a poor thing at best, for you see I can’t give you the money, Willie! McNason could have given it and never have missed it, but I can’t. I wish I could! However, if you’ll take the will for the deed—”
And now Mrs. Dove, rising gently from her knees, came up to him and laid her hand on his arm.
“God bless you, Mr. Pitt!” she said, in clear sweet tones—” He will bless you! — be sure of that! What you lend to us is more than given, because you have such a friendly sympathy with us, and sympathy is greater than gold! I will not even try to thank you — —”
“No, don’t!” interrupted Pitt, hastily, pressing her hand hard—” It’s — it’s all right! Dove and I will arrange our business matters, and I’ll see the doctor to-morrow, even though it is Christmas Day!”
“I’ll pay it all back!” said Dove, excitedly—” I can work well still — I’ve got all my wits about me — and I have a fine offer from a firm to undertake some affairs for them immediately if I can only pull up my strength. And I think I shall manage — now!”
Pitt here drew a chair to the fire opposite the sick man and sat down.
“It’s a curious thing,” — he said—” how the possession of enormous wealth hardens some people, and makes them not only difficult to deal with, but often positively cruel to themselves and to others! Now if one is to judge by outward looks, Mr. McNason, though a multi-millionaire, is just about one of the most miserable men alive!”
The Goblin chuckled, and gave Josiah a nudge with its sharp elbow.
“Hear that, McNason!” it said—” It’ll do you good to learn what other folks think of you!”
“So old, so feeble and so lonely!” went on Mr. Pitt, almost pathetically—” When he refused to do anything for your assistance, Dove, I was inclined to be very plain-spoken and give him a bit of my mind, even at the risk of offending him, — but seeing what a forlorn old wreck he seemed, with his shrivelled body and wrinkled face, I thought it was no use being angry with him, — especially at Christmas time! He’s not long for this world!”
Again the Goblin nudged Josiah’s arm and its fiery eyes glowed with railway-signal brilliancy.
“It’s not exactly age that will kill him,” — went on Pitt, meditatively—” He’s not seventy yet, and ought to look much healthier and stronger than he does. My father is eighty-two, and is as well set-up a veteran as anyone could wish to see — walks his six miles a day, and is as young in heart as a boy — but of course he has always lived a very simple life and never hankered after more money than just as much as would keep him going and save him from debt. Mr. McNason has all the cares of an immense business on his brain — and naturally a break-down must come sooner or later—”
He ceased. A gust of wind roared down the chimney, throwing the flames of the little fire crookedly to and fro. Mrs. Dove shivered, and looked about her uneasily.
“What a stormy night!” she said —
“Not at all a peaceful Christmas!”
Her husband, lying restfully back in his chair, smiled at her.
“The peace must be in our hearts, Jennie!” he said—” If we don’t keep Christmas there, it’s no Christmas at all! Storm or calm, it’s a blessed time! — a time of thanksgiving — a time of hope!”
“So it is,” — agreed Pitt—” and so may it always be! Now, Mrs. Dove, bring out a bottle of that old port your good doctor sent you the other day, and we’ll drink to Willie’s recovery and health and general usefulness! And we’ll wish old McNason a Merry Christmas, too!”
They all laughed, and Mrs, Dove set the wine and glasses on the table. Mr. Pitt poured out the ruby-red cordial, and raising his own glass to his lips said:
“A Merry Christmas to you, Mrs. Dove! A Merry Christmas to you, Willie! And to our grim and gaunt old governor, Mr. McNason, a Merry Christmas also! And may he find something better than riches in the next world and be all the happier for the finding!”
They all three drank this toast, and while they drank, Josiah McNason trembled in every limb with an ague of exceeding cold. Was he so near death, he wondered, that even Pitt could see the near approach of his end? He turned his miserable eyes upon the Goblin, who grinned.
“Brother ‘Firebrand’ was quite right, you see!” it remarked—” Soon, very soon, you will be one of us! WE are your ‘next world,’ you know! And riches don’t count in our United Empire Club — but you’ll be happy, McNason! Oh yes — you’ll be so happy! Because you will have reaped the just reward of your labours, and you will be exactly what you have made of YOURSELF! Nothing could be more satisfactory! Listen! Willie Dove is talking about you now!”
And so he was. Willie Dove was speaking in the kindest and gentlest way possible of the man who had refused to help him in his need.
“Well, I hope Mr. McNason will live many years yet,” he said—” and that he will learn how to enjoy and get the best out of the large fortune he has made. The amount of good he could do if he liked is simply incalculable — and if he would only use some of his money just for the sole purpose of benefiting others, and would not merely put it out like a magnet to draw more money in again, he would be the happiest man alive. For instance, if instead of subscribing large sums to charities which are presided over by ‘committees’ who use up half the money for their own expenses, he would go hi
mself among the poor and personally relieve them at first hand, — if he would try to help those who are, with great difficulty, trying to help themselves, — those who cannot borrow and will not beg, — if he would just put himself out a bit—”
“Ah, that’s just what he won’t do!” interposed Pitt—” He can’t see anything or anybody but Himself — that’s the pity of it!”
“Poor soul!” said Mrs. Dove, gently—” We mustn’t forget that he lost his only son, — a dear little boy! — and that may have embittered him. All our children have been mercifully spared to us, thank God! — but even if one had been taken, I’m sure we should always have been thinking of that one! And his ‘one’ was his all! We must remember that! And however hard he is upon us, we mustn’t be hard upon him! That wouldn’t be keeping Christmas rightly!”
At this Josiah turned and flung himself desperately against the Goblin’s paunch.
“Take me away!” he muttered, finding his speech with an effort—” Take me out of this! I — I don’t want to stop here! I want to get away — QUICK!”
“‘ Coals of fire,’ eh?” said the Goblin—” A trifle scorching, even on a thick skull like yours, McNason! So you’d forgotten Willie Dove, had you? Curious! He was always a very excellent fellow, though, and one of the best men in your employ. The honour of the firm was the first thing with him at all times, and you owe to his hard work and straight principles more than you have the honesty to acknowledge! But it’s no use trying to tip the balance of things, McNason! That balance always rights itself! Good is good, and evil is evil, — you can’t make one out to be the other, however much you try! If you’re spiteful, if you’re mean, if you’re unthankful for the blessings bestowed on you — and more than all, if you refuse to help those who have helped you, you are punished! You are, really! And a good sound flogging you get, I can tell you! Oh Beelzebub! — don’t I know this! When I was a Churchwarden—”
“Will you do as I ask you?” implored Josiah, desperately, “Get me out of this! I want to go home!”
“Poor old baby! Wants to go home, does it!” jeered the Goblin—” Oh, but it mustn’t be naughty! It must go where its nursey takes it! Just another little ridey-pidey in its coachy-poachy!” And rising aloft on its skeleton toes, the Goblin grew larger and more threatening of aspect, while its bat-wings, slowly unfurling, seemed spreading out so darkly and interminably that Josiah fell on his knees in terror—” Just another taste of the ‘supernatural,’ McNason! Just another little experience of Hell’s United Empire Club!”
“No, no!” gasped the trembling millionaire—” Let me get home! Give me a chance to — to—”
His voice gurgled away into a faint tremolo.
“Chance! You’ve had a thousand chances!” retorted the Goblin, scornfully, “And you’ve thrown them all away! Now you’re asking for one chance! Oh, hoo-roo! Come and see how Christians love one another! With a love that perhaps YOU may appreciate, because it is so like hate! Come and hear an ‘ordained’ clerical Judas deny his Master! You and such men as YOU — gorged with gold, and diseased with Self, — are chiefly to blame for the wicked blasphemies which to-day brand the Christian world with infamy! Come — come! Blasphemy will suit you! You have aided it and abetted it many a time, even though you are a ‘churchwarden.’ Oh, hoo-roo, hoo-roo! Come in the spirit of One Timothy Two! Come! — come! COME!”
And like a great phantom of black Night descending, the Goblin swooped upon Josiah once more; — the little quiet room, — where Willie Dove, his wife and friend were all cheerily drinking “A Merry Christmas,” — was blotted from his sight, and again limitless space enshrouded and enveloped him in darkness.
* * * * *
A muffled and monotonous sound of chanting — the twinkling of many bright lights, — and the subdued rustling movement of many people gathered together, — these were the next impressions that awakened McNason to renewed consciousness. He stood in what seemed a shadowy forest of architecture; — there were great marble monuments all round him inscribed with the names of famous poets, warriors and historians, and on one of these the Goblin squatted cross-legged beside him, blinking with its owl like eyes.
“There’s not a seat to be had, McNason!” it remarked, with a leer—” You must stand! Oh, Beelzebub! What a thing it is to be a ‘fashionable’ preacher! Nothing ‘draws!’ so well nowadays as an Atheist in Holy Orders! Not even our reverend brother ‘Firebrand’! Oh, hoo-roo!”
McNason looked bewilderedly about him. Surely he knew the place he was in? — its blackened arches, its shadowy aisles were not wholly unfamiliar? Gradually he recognised it as that melancholy Valhalla of English departed greatness, Westminster Abbey. But why had his uncanny incubus, “Professor” Goblin, brought him hither? What had he to do with the dense crowd of people massed round him — all looking — all listening — !
Hush! The monotonous chanting ceased — there was a brief pause of pretence at prayer — and then a man’s voice, clear and incisive, but with a falsetto ring of cold superciliousness and irony in its tone, sounded vibratingly on the silence. The Church’s ordained Preacher of the Gospel began to preach, and Josiah McNason, more than any other human unit in the congregation, was compelled to listen. And as he listened, he became aware that this same ordained preacher was calmly, but none the less surely, doing his best to undermine the very faith of which he was a professed disciple. Craftily, and with cunningly devised arguments, which held their meaning deftly secreted under a veil of choice expressions and well-turned phrases, he spoke of “old” beliefs with delicate tolerance and compassion — throwing in occasional questionings as to the meaning of “miracles,” and setting down “Divine” interposition as a fable, or rather as a beautiful myth which in the “darker” ages of the world was eminently useful as a means of intimidating and chastening the spirits of the ignorant. He spoke much of a “New Feeling” which was awakening among more advanced and civilised human kind, — that special “New Feeling” which looks upon Man as in himself supreme, and answerable to no Higher Tribunal than His Own for his actions. He deprecated the unfortunately chaotic state of things in the Churches which prevented a full inquiry into the foundations of belief, and hoped that the time was fast approaching when a larger and broader view might be obtained, and humanity be absolved from special duties to a Supernatural Conception which might possibly be a mistaken conception after all. In fine, the drift of his involved and euphuistic eloquence was to imply that pigmy Man would in due course be permitted to fathom the Mind of God, — and not only be permitted to fathom it, but to criticize it, question it and possibly condemn it after the same easy style, and in the same casual fashion, in which all human criticism condemns what it is too limited to comprehend. And gradually it was forced in upon Josiah McNason’s not always receptive intelligence that the rankest heresy, the vilest blasphemy was being preached from a Christian pulpit, by one who, passing for a “Christian” minister, was nothing more nor less than a foul hypocrite, and a disgrace to his sacred calling. Yet the congregation listened. They did not rise at once and make a quiet exit as they should have done, had they been honest and brave, — had they truly loved the Faith which leads to Heaven! Yet their faces expressed a certain dull bewilderment, — some looked worried and sad — others perplexed, — though many of them appeared indifferent. And certain words which he had heard often, yet which he had scarcely heeded while hearing them, came ringing across McNason’s mind as clearly as though they had just been spoken into his ears:
“AND BECAUSE INIQUITY SHALL ABOUND, THE LOVE OF MANY SHALL WAX COLD!”
He trembled. His eyes were dim, — but he could still see the Atheist-Preacher’s cold, intellectual face, — he was still in a vague way conscious that the sermon was going on, and that a human creature, full to the very brows of self-sufficiency and conceit, was presuming to lay down the law concerning the possible limitations of the Divine — a human creature moreover who occupied his very position in the Church through ha
ving solemnly sworn fidelity to the Master whom now, by the most covert subterfuges and sophistries, he was denying, — and he was aware that a sense of uneasiness and discomfort affected nearly all present, including even himself. He turned to look at the Goblin, — but to his amazement it had disappeared! Was he free then? — free once more to go where he liked and do as he liked?
He tried to move — but his feet seemed fastened to the earth with iron weights; he essayed to speak, — but his tongue refused to obey the impulse of his brain. On, still on, the voice of the Atheist-Preacher in England’s ancient Abbey flowed, with that equable fluency which comes of long and careful elocutionary practice, and Josiah McNason, wedged as he was into the closepressing crowd, wondered how long he would have to stand there, listening to what at another more convenient time he might very likely have considered a clever and “up-to-date” exposition of the “New Feeling.” All at once he saw a great Light, like that of the sun at noonday, suddenly begin to shine. With glorious effulgence it formed into a halo of exceeding brilliancy, spreading from north to south, from east to west of the old Church, between the Choir and the Nave, and with a palpitating dread shaking his very soul, Josiah watched it widening and ever widening, till taking upon itself the shape of a Cross, it fired the whole scene with the radiance of a golden morning! Yet no one saw it apparently, — no one save he, the world’s great millionaire, who, denying the “supernatural,” was for the time under “supernatural” sway. And trembling, he beheld that wondrous Cross move mysteriously forward, till its light poured with a gracious beauty and beneficence over all the dull worn faces of the people — on men and women and children alike, — though, as it moved, it left the face of the Atheist-Preacher covered with darkness. And in the very heart and centre of its environment lustre, a majestic Figure paced slowly — a god-like Man, whose Features were sorrowful, and whose Brow was crowned with Thorns. A faint whisper floated on the air like the sigh of small spirit voices in plaintive unison:
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 935
