When it was Dark

by Guy Thorne

  His voice had not been raised, nor did it show any excitement during this incredible proposal. The effect on Llwellyn was different. He rose from his chair, trembling with excitement, staring with bloodshot eyes at the handsome, chiselled face below.

  "You -- you mean it?" he said huskily.

  The millionaire made a single confirmatory gesture.

  Then the whole magnitude and splendour of the offer became gradually plain to him in all its significance. "I suppose," Llwellyn said, "that as the payment is great, the risk is equally great."

  "There will be no risk if you do what I ask correctly. Only two other men living could expose it, so first and foremost you will have to guard against their vigilance."

  "Then, in God's name, what do you ask?" Llwellyn almost shouted. The tension was unbearable.

  Schuabe rose from his seat. For the first time the Professor saw that he was terribly agitated. His eyes glowed, the apple in his throat worked convulsively. "You are to change the history of the world!"

  He drew Llwellyn into the very centre of the room, and held him firmly by the elbows. Tall as the Professor was, Schuabe was taller, and he bent and whispered into the other's ear for a full five minutes.

  There was no sound in the room but the low hissing of his sibilants.

  Llwellyn's face became white, then ashen grey. His whole body seemed to shrink from his clothes. He trembled.

  Then he broke away from his host and ran to the fireplace with an odd, juddering movement, and sank cowering into an armchair, filled with an unutterable dread.

  * * *

  As morning stole into the room, Professor Llwellyn took the bundle of financial demands from Schuabe and thrust them into the fire with a great sob of relief.

  Then he turned into a bedroom and sank into the deep slumber of absolute exhaustion.

  He did not go to the Museum that day.

  Chapter 6

  It was nearly four months later, in the north of England, when the great building of the Walktown national school blazed with light. Every window was a patch of vivid orange in the darkness of the walls. The whole place was pervaded by a loud, whirring hum of talk and laughter, and a rattle of plates and saucers.

  In one of the classrooms downstairs, Helena Byars, the vicar's daughter, with a dozen other ladies of the parish, presided over a scene of intense activity. Huge urns of tea ready mixed with the milk and sugar were being carried up the stone stairs to the big schoolroom by willing hands. Piles of thick sandwiches of ham, breakfast cups of mustard, hundreds of slices of moist cake covered the tables, reducing rapidly as they were carried away to the crowded rooms above.

  A Lancashire church tea party was in full swing, for this was the occasion when Basil Gortre was to say an official farewell to the people among whom he had worked in the North as the curate to Mr. Byars. He had never felt fully at ease with the people, although he knew they loved him.

  In the tearoom itself several hundred people were making an enormous meal at long tables, under flaring, naked gaslights, which sent shimmering vapours of heat up to the pitch pine beams of the room above.

  At one end of the room was a platform running along its length. Some palms and tree ferns in pots, chairs, a grand piano, and some music stands, promised a concert when tea was over.

  There could be no doubt that the people were in a state of high good humour and enjoyment. Every now and again a great roar of laughter would break through the prevailing hum from one table or another. Despite the almost stifling heat and a mixed odour of humanity and ham, which a sensitive person might have shrunk from, the rough, merry Lancashire folk were happy as could be.

  Basil Gortre, in his long, black coat, his skin somewhat pale from his long illness, walked from table to table, spending a few minutes at each. With a perpetual smile on his face, roars of laughter followed each sally of his wit, a homely cut-and-thrust style of humour adapted to his audience.

  The fat mothers of families, wives of prosperous colliers and artisans, with their thick gold earrings and magenta frocks, beamed motherhood and kindliness at him. The Sunday school teachers giggled and blushed with pleasure when he spoke.

  The vicar, the Reverend James Byars, smiling paternally as was his wont, walking up and down the gangways, toying with the pince-nez at his chest, and successfully concealing the fact from everyone that he was by no means in the seventh heaven of happiness. Tea parties, so numerous and popular in the North, were always somewhat of a trial to him.

  Basil and Mr. Byars met in the middle of the room when the tea was nearly over. Tears were gleaming in the eyes of the younger man.

  "It is hard to leave them all," he said. "When I came here from the South, I misread them. How good and kind they are, how hearty! And these are the people I thought disliked me and misunderstood me. I once resented what I thought was an improper familiarity. But how different they are beneath the surface!"

  "They have warm, loyal hearts, Basil," said the vicar. "It is a pity that such exteriors should go with them. During your long illness the whole parish thought of little else. And tonight you will have very practical evidence of their friendship. You know, of course, there's going to be a presentation?"

  "Yes. I couldn't help knowing that much, though I wish they wouldn't."

  "It is very good of them. Now I'll call for grace to end the meal."

  The vicar made his way onto the platform and loudly clapped his hands. The tumult died suddenly away into silence, punctuated here and there by a belated rattle of a teacup and the spasmodic choking of someone endeavouring to bolt a large piece of cake in a hurry.

  "We will now sing grace," Mr. Byars said in a clear and audible voice, -- "the Old Hundred, following our usual custom."

  As he spoke, a bearded man in a frockcoat clambered up beside him. This was Mr. Cuthbert, the organist of the parish church. The little man pulled a tuning fork from his pocket and struck it on the back of a chair.

  Then he held it to his ear for a moment. The people had all risen, and the room was now silent.

  "La!" sang the little organist, giving the note in a long, melodious call.

  He raised his hand, gave a couple of beats in the air, and the famous old hymn burst out royally. The great volume of sound seemed too fierce and urgent even for that spacious room. It pressed against the eardrums almost with pain, though sung with the perfect time and tune which was the heritage of the sweet-voiced North country folk:

  "All people that on earth do dwell,

  Sing to the Lord with cheerful voice!"

  As Basil Gortre listened, his heart expanded in love and fellowship towards these brother Christians. The dark phantoms which had rioted in his sick brain during the long weeks of his illness lay dead and harmless now. Constantine Schuabe was almost forgotten. The monstrous visions of a conventional and formal Christianity, covering a world of secret and mocking atheism, seemed incredibly far removed from the glorious truth, as these strong, homely people sang a full voiced shout of welcome to the great Trinity of Power and Love, unseen, but all around them.

  Basil smiled to himself. Who was he to be refined and too sophisticated for God's use? There seemed nothing incongruous now in the picture before his eyes. The remnants of broken ham, the sloppy cups, the black-coated men with brilliant sky-blue satin ties, the women with thick gnarled hands and clothes the colour of a copper kettle: what were they now but his very own brethren, united in this burst of praise?

  And he joined in the doxology with all his heart and voice, his voice soaring joyously above the rest:

  "To Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,

  The God whom heaven and earth adore,

  From men and from the Angel host

  Be praise and glory evermore. Amen."

  It ceased with suddenness. There was the satisfied silence of a second, and then the attendant helpers, assisted by the feasters, fell swiftly on the tables. Cloths and crockery vanished like snow melting in sunlight. As soon as each table was laid bare it w
as turned up by an ingenious arrangement underneath, and became a long bench with a back, which was added to the rows of seats facing the platform. As each iron framed seat was pushed noisily into its place, it was filled at once with a laughing crowd, full but active, smacking anticipatory chops over the entertainment and speechmaking to come.

  Mr. Cuthbert, a painstaking pianist, whose repertoire was noisily commonplace, opened the concert with a solo.

  Songs and recitations followed. All were well received by an audience determined to enjoy itself, but it was obvious that the real event of the gathering was eagerly awaited.

  At last the moment arrived. A table covered with green baize and bearing some objects concealed by a cloth was carried onto the platform, and a row of chairs placed on either side of it.

  The vicar, with Basil, and a little group of black-coated churchwardens and sidesmen filed onto the platform amid tumultuous cheering and clapping of hands.

  After several lengthy speeches, Mr. Byars announced, "And now I will simply ask Mr. Gortre to accept this silver tea service, and watch, in the name of the congregation of St. Thomas as a token of their esteem and goodwill."

  He pulled the cloth away and displayed some glittering silver vessels. Then he handed the young man a gold watch in a leather case.

  Basil faced the shouting, enthusiastic crowd, staring through dimmed eyes at the long rows of animated faces.

  When there was a little silence he began to speak in a voice of great emotion. Very simply and earnestly he thanked them for their goodwill and kindness.

  "This may be," he said, "the last time I will ever have the privilege and pleasure of speaking to you. I want to give you one last message before I take up my new post as curate in a large parish in Bloomsbury in London. I want to urge one and all here tonight to do one thing."

  He paused for a moment, to be sure he had the attention of everyone in the hall. "Keep your faith unspotted, unstained by doubts, uninfluenced by fears. Do that, and all will be well with you here and hereafter."

  His voice sank a full tone and he spoke with marked emphasis. "I have sometimes thought and felt of late that possibly the time may be at hand when the Powers and Principalities of evil will make a great and determined onslaught on the Christian Faith. I may not read the signs of the times aright. My premonitions -- for they have sometimes amounted even to that -- may be unfounded or imaginary. But if such a time is coming, if the 'horror of great darkness,' a spiritual horror that we read of in Genesis, descends on the world and envelops it in its gloom and terror, let us have faith. Keep the light burning steadily. 'Let nothing disturb thee; let nothing affright thee. All passeth: God only remaineth.' And now, dear brothers and sisters in the Holy Faith, thank you, God bless you, and farewell."

  There was a tense silence as his voice dropped to a close.

  Here and there a woman sobbed.

  There was something uncharacteristic about his warning. He spoke almost in prophecy, as if he knew of some terror coming, and saw its advance from afar. His face, still pale and thin from fever, his bright, earnest eyes, not the glittering eyes of a fanatic, but the saner, wiser ones of the earnest single-minded man, had an immense influence with the people there.

  And that night, as they trudged home to simple dwellings, or suburban villas, or rolled away in carriages, each person heard the intense, quiet voice warning them of the future, exhorting them to be steadfast in the Faith.

  Chapter 7

  Two weeks later, Helena Byars stood with her hand raised to her eyes, close by the port paddle box of the steamer, staring straight in front of her at a faint grey line on the horizon.

  A stiff breeze was blowing in the English Channel, though the sun was shining brightly on the tossing waters.

  By the tall, graceful figure of the girl, swaying with the motion of the paddle steamer and bending gracefully to the sudden onslaughts of the wind, stood a thickset man of middle height, dressed in a tweed suit. His face was a strong one. Heavy reddish eyebrows hung over a pair of clear grey eyes, intellectual and kindly.

  This was Harold Spence, the journalist with whom Basil Gortre was to live after the holiday was over and he began his work in the parish church in Bloomsbury. Spence was snatching a few days from his work in Fleet Street, in order to accompany Basil and Mr. and Miss Byars to Dieppe. It had been his first introduction to the vicar and his daughter.

  "So that is really France, Mr. Spence!" said Helena. "The very first view of a foreign country I have ever had. I don't suppose you have any idea of what I'm feeling now? It seems so wonderful; something I have been waiting for all my life."

  Spence smiled kindly, irradiating his face with good humour as he did so. "Well, my sensations or emotions at present, Miss Byars, are entirely confined to wondering whether I'm going to be seasick or not."

  "Don't speak of it!" said a thin voice, a voice from which all the blood seemed to be drained. Turning, they saw the vicar at their elbow.

  His face was white, his beard hung in lank dejection, a sincere misery poured from his wretched eyes.

  "Basil," he said, "Basil is down in the saloon eating greasy cold chicken and ham and drinking pale ale. I told him it was an outrage!" His feelings overcame him and he staggered away towards the stern.

  "Poor Father," said the girl. "He never could stand the sea. But he very soon gets all right when he's on dry land again. Oh, look, that must be a church tower! I can see it quite distinctly, and the sun glinting from the roofs of the houses."

  "That's St. Jacques," said Spence, "and that dome some way to the right is St. Remy. Farthest of all to the right, on the cliffs, you can just see the château where the military garrison is."

  Helena gazed eagerly and became silent in her excitement. Basil, who came up from the saloon and joined them, watched her tenderly. There was something childishly sweet in his fiancée's delight as the broad, tub-like paddle steamer kicked its way rapidly towards the quaint foreign town.

  In smoky Walktown he had not often seen Helena like this. Life was a more sober thing there, and her nature was graver than that of many girls. But at the beginning of this holiday time, under a brilliant spring sun which she was already beginning to imagine had a foreign charm about it, she was in a holiday mood.

  Basil pulled out his new and glorious gold watch, which had replaced the battered old gunmetal one he usually wore. Though not a poor man, he was simple in all his tastes, and the new toy gave him a recurring pleasure whenever he looked at it.

  "We ought to land in about twenty minutes," he said. "Have you noticed that the tossing of the ship has almost stopped? The land protects us. I wonder if you'll remember any of your French, Helena. I almost wish I was like you, seeing a foreign country for the first time. Spence is the real voyageur though. He's been all over the world for his newspaper."

  The vicar came up to them again, just as there was a general movement of the passengers towards the deck. A hooting cry from the steam whistle wailed over the water as the boat began to slow.

  In a few minutes they had passed the breakwater and were gliding slowly past the wharves towards the landing stage.

  Suddenly Helena clutched hold of Basil's arm. "Oh, Basil," she whispered, "how beautiful -- look! Guarding the harbour!"

  He turned and followed the direction of her glance. An enormous crucifix, more than life-size, planted in the ground, rose from the low cliffs on the right for all entering the harbour to see.

  They watched the symbol in silence as the passengers chattered on every side and gathered up their rugs and hand luggage.

  Basil Gortre slipped his arm through Helena's.

  The reminder was so vivid and sudden it affected them powerfully. They were both people living in the world and enjoying the pleasures of life that came their way. But his faith, like Helena's, was always and for ever with him a transmuting force which changed his life each hour in a way of which the nominal believer has no conception.

  A letter he had once written to Hel
ena during a holiday compressed all his belief, and his joy in his belief, into a few short lines. Thus had run the sincere and simple statement, unadorned by any effort of literary grace to give it point and force:

  Day by day as your letters come, I go on saying my prayers for you, and with you, in fresh faith and confidence. You know that I absolutely trust the Lord Jesus Christ, who is, I believe, the God who made the worlds, and I pray to Him continually, relying on His promises.

  I keep on reading all sides of the question, as your father does also, and while admitting all that honest criticism and sincere intellectual doubt can teach me, I grow more and more convinced that the Gospels and Paul's letters relate facts and not imaginations or hallucinations. And the more strongly my intellect is convinced, so much more does my heart delight in the love of God, who has given Himself for me.

  How magnificent is that finale of St. John's Gospel! 'Thomas saith unto Him, My Lord and my God.' And, then, how exquisite is the supplement about the bodily appearance of Jesus by the lake shore after His resurrection. I see Mrs. Humphry Ward says it was a dream which the old man at Ephesus related, and his disciples thought it was fact. And she is a literary person!

  So, as the engaged couple glided slowly past the high symbol of God's pain, the worship in their hearts found but little utterance on their lips, though they were deeply touched.

  It seemed a good omen to welcome them to France.

  Spence remained to look after the luggage and see it through the Customs, and the three others resolved to walk to the rooms they had taken in the Faubourg de la Barre on the steep hill behind the château.

  They passed over the railway line in the middle of the road, past the cafés clustered round the landing stage, and into the quaint marketplace with the great Gothic Cathedral Church of St. Jacques on one side, and the colossal statue of Duquesne surrounded by baskets of spring flowers in the centre.

  To Helena Byars, that simple progress was one of unalloyed excitement and delight. The small and wiry soldiers in their unfamiliar uniforms; an officer sipping vermouth in a café, with spurs, sword, and helmet shining in the sun; two black priests, with huge furry hats -- all the moving colour of the scene gave her new and delightful sensations.