CHAPTER II.
AT WAR WITH SOCIETY.
When Richard Arnold reached the Embankment dusk had deepened intonight, so far, at least, as nature was concerned. But in London inthe beginning of the twentieth century there was but little night tospeak of, save in the sense of a division of time. The date of thepaper which contained the account of the tragedy on the Russianrailway was September 3rd, 1903, and within the last ten yearsenormous progress had been made in electric lighting.
The ebb and flow in the Thames had at last been turned to account,and worked huge turbines which perpetually stored up electric powerthat was used not only for lighting, but for cooking in hotels andprivate houses, and for driving machinery. At all the great centresof traffic huge electric suns cast their rays far and wide along thestreets, supplementing the light of the lesser lamps with which theywere lined on each side.
The Embankment from Westminster to Blackfriars was bathed in a floodof soft white light from hundreds of great lamps running along bothsides, and from the centre of each bridge a million candle-power suncast rays upon the water that were continued in one unbroken streamof light from Chelsea to the Tower.
On the north side of the river the scene was one of brilliant andsplendid opulence, that contrasted strongly with the half-lightedgloom of the murky wilderness of South London, dark and forbidding inits irredeemable ugliness.
From Blackfriars Arnold walked briskly towards Westminster, bitterlycontrasting as he went the lavish display of wealth around him withthe sordid and seemingly hopeless poverty of his own desperatecondition.
He was the maker and possessor of a far greater marvel than anythingthat helped to make up this splendid scene, and yet the ragged trampswho were remorselessly moved on from one seat to another by thepolicemen as soon as they had settled themselves down for a rest anda doze, were hardly poorer than he was.
For nearly four hours he paced backwards and forwards, every now andthen stopping to lean on the parapet, and once or twice to sit down,until the chill autumn wind pierced his scanty clothing, andcompelled him to resume his walk in order to get warm again.
All the time he turned his miserable situation over and over again inhis mind without avail. There seemed no way out of it; no way ofobtaining the few pounds that would save him from homeless beggaryand his splendid invention from being lost to him and the world,certainly for years, and perhaps for ever.
And then, as hour after hour went by, and still no cheering thoughtcame, the misery of the present pressed closer and closer upon him.He dare not go home, for that would be to bring the inevitabledisaster of the morrow nearer, and, besides, it was home no longertill the rent was paid. He had two shillings, and he owed at leasttwelve. He was also the maker of a machine for which the Tsar ofRussia had made a standing offer of a million sterling. That millionmight have been his if he had possessed the money necessary to bringhis invention under the notice of the great Autocrat.
That was the position he had turned over and over in his mind untilits horrible contradictions maddened him. With a little money, richesand fame were his; without it he was a beggar in sight of starvation.
And yet he doubted whether, even in his present dire extremity, hecould, had he had the chance, sell what might be made the mostterrific engine of destruction ever thought of to the head and frontof a despotism that he looked upon as the worst earthly enemy ofmankind.
For the twentieth time he had paused in his weary walk to and fro tolean on the parapet close by Cleopatra's Needle. The Embankment wasalmost deserted now, save by the tramps and a few isolated wandererslike himself. For several minutes he looked out over the brightlyglittering waters below him, wondering listlessly how long it wouldtake him to drown if he dropped over, and whether he would be rescuedbefore he was dead, and brought back to life, and prosecuted the nextday for daring to try and leave the world save in the conventionaland orthodox fashion.
Then his mind wandered back to the Tsar and his million, and hepictured to himself the awful part that a fleet of air-ships such ashis would play in the general European war that people said could notnow be put off for many months longer. As he thought of this thevision grew in distinctness, and he saw them hovering over armies andcities and fortresses, and raining irresistible death and destructiondown upon them. The prospect appalled him, and he shuddered as hethought that it was now really within the possibility of realisation;and then his ideas began to translate themselves involuntarily intowords which he spoke aloud, completely oblivious for the time beingof his surroundings.
"No, I think I would rather destroy it, and then take my secret withme out of the world, than put such an awful power of destruction andslaughter into the hands of the Tsar, or, for the matter of that, anyother of the rulers of the earth. Their subjects can butcher eachother quite efficiently enough as it is. The next war will be themost frightful carnival of destruction that the world has ever seen;but what would it be like if I were to give one of the nations ofEurope the power of raining death and desolation on its enemies fromthe skies! No, no! Such a power, if used at all, should only be usedagainst and not for the despotisms that afflict the earth with thecurse of war!"
"Then why not use it so, my friend, if you possess it, and would seemankind freed from its tyrants?" said a quiet voice at his elbow.
The sound instantly scattered his vision to the winds, and he turnedround with a startled exclamation to see who had spoken. As he didso, a whiff of smoke from a very good cigar drifted past hisnostrils, and the voice said again in the same quiet, even tones--
"You must forgive me for my bad manners in listening to what you weresaying, and also for breaking in upon your reverie. My excuse must bethe great interest that your words had for me. Your opinions wouldappear to be exactly my own, too, and perhaps you will accept that asanother excuse for my rudeness."
It was the first really kindly, friendly voice that Richard Arnoldhad heard for many a long day, and the words were so well chosen andso politely uttered that it was impossible to feel any resentment, sohe simply said in answer--
"There was no rudeness, sir; and, besides, why should a gentlemanlike you apologise for speaking to a"--
"Another gentleman," quickly interrupted his new acquaintance."Because I transgressed the laws of politeness in doing so, and anapology was due. Your speech tells me that we are socially equals.Intellectually you look my superior. The rest is a difference only ofmoney, and that any smart swindler can bury himself in nowadays if hechooses. But come, if you have no objection to make my betteracquaintance, I have a great desire to make yours. If you will pardonmy saying so, you are evidently not an ordinary man, or else,something tells me, you would be rich. Have a smoke and let us talk,since we apparently have a subject in common. Which way are yougoing?"
"Nowhere--and therefore anywhere," replied Arnold, with a laugh thathad but little merriment in it. "I have reached a point from whichall roads are one to me."
"That being the case I propose that you shall take the one that leadsto my chambers in Savoy Mansions yonder. We shall find a bit ofsupper ready, I expect, and then I shall ask you to talk. Comealong!"
There was no more mistaking the genuine kindness and sincerity of theinvitation than the delicacy with which it was given. To have refusedwould not only have been churlish, but it would have been for adrowning man to knock aside a kindly hand held out to help him; soArnold accepted, and the two new strangely met and strangely assortedfriends walked away together in the direction of the Savoy.
The suite of rooms occupied by Arnold's new acquaintance was the beauideal of a wealthy bachelor's abode. Small, compact, cosy, and richlyfurnished, yet in the best of taste withal, the rooms looked like anindoor paradise to him after the bare squalor of the one room thathad been his own home for over two years.
His host took him first into a dainty little bath-room to wash hishands, and by the time he had performed his scanty toilet supper wasalready on the table in the sitting-room. Nothing melts reserve likea goo
d well-cooked meal washed down by appropriate liquids, andbefore supper was half over Arnold and his host were chattingtogether as easily as though they stood on perfectly equal terms andhad known each other for years. His new friend seemed purposely tokeep the conversation to general subjects until the meal was over andhis pattern man-servant had removed the cloth and left them togetherwith the wine and cigars on the table.
As soon as he had closed the door behind him his host motioned Arnoldto an easy-chair on one side of the fireplace, threw himself intoanother on the other side, and said--
"Now, my friend, plant yourself, as they say across the water, helpyourself to what there is as the spirit moves you, and talk--the moreabout yourself the better. But stop. I forgot that we do not evenknow each other's name yet. Let me introduce myself first.
"My name is Maurice Colston; I am a bachelor, as you see. For therest, in practice I am an idler, a dilettante, and a good deal elsethat is pleasant and utterly useless. In theory, let me tell you, Iam a Socialist, or something of the sort, with a lively conviction asto the injustice and absurdity of the social and economic conditionswhich enable me to have such a good time on earth without having doneanything to deserve it beyond having managed to be born the son of myfather."
He stopped and looked at his guest through the wreaths of his cigarsmoke as much as to say: "And now who are you?"
Arnold took the silent hint, and opened his mouth and his heart atthe same time. Quite apart from the good turn he had done him, therewas a genial frankness about his unconventional host that chimed inso well with his own nature that he cast all reserve aside, and toldplainly and simply the story of his life and its master passion, hisdreams and hopes and failures, and his final triumph in the hour whentriumph itself was defeat.
His host heard him through without a word, but towards the end of hisstory his face betrayed an interest, or rather an expectant anxiety,to hear what was coming next that no mere friendly concern of themoment for one less fortunate than himself could adequately accountfor. At length, when Arnold had completed his story with a brief butgraphic description of the last successful trial of his model, heleant forward in his chair, and, fixing his dark, steady eyes on hisguest's face, said in a voice from which every trace of his formergood-humoured levity had vanished--
"A strange story, and truer, I think, than the one I told you. Nowtell me on your honour as a gentleman: Were you really in earnestwhen I heard you say on the embankment that you would rather smash upyour model and take the secret with you into the next world, thansell your discovery to the Tsar for the million that he has offeredfor such an air-ship as yours?"
"Absolutely in earnest," was the reply. "I have seen enough of theseamy side of this much-boasted civilisation of ours to know that itis the most awful mockery that man ever insulted his Maker with. Itis based on fraud, and sustained by force--force that ruthlesslycrushes all who do not bow the knee to Mammon. I am the enemy of asociety that does not permit a man to be honest and live, unless hehas money and can defy it. I have just two shillings in the world,and I would rather throw them into the Thames and myself after themthan take that million from the Tsar in exchange for an engine ofdestruction that would make him master of the world."
"Those are brave words," said Colston, with a smile. "Forgive me forsaying so, but I wonder whether you would repeat them if I told youthat I am a servant of his Majesty the Tsar, and that you shall havethat million for your model and your secret the moment that youconvince me that what you have told me is true."
Before he had finished speaking Arnold had risen to his feet. Heheard him out, and then he said, slowly and steadily--
"I should not take the trouble to repeat them; I should only tell youthat I am sorry that I have eaten salt with a man who could takeadvantage of my poverty to insult me. Good night."
He was moving towards the door when Colston jumped up from his chair,strode round the table, and got in front of him. Then he put his twohands on his shoulders, and, looking straight into his eyes, said ina tone that vibrated with emotion--
"Thank God, I have found an honest man at last! Go and sit downagain, my friend, my comrade, as I hope you soon will be. Forgive mefor the foolishness that I spoke! I am no servant of the Tsar. He andall like him have no more devoted enemy on earth than I am. Look! Iwill soon prove it to you."
As he said the last words, Colston let go Arnold's shoulders, flungoff his coat and waistcoat, slipped his braces off his shoulders, andpulled his shirt up to his neck. Then he turned his bare back to hisguest, and said--
"That is the sign-manual of Russian tyranny--the mark of the knout!"
Arnold shrank back with a cry of horror at the sight. From waist toneck Colston's back was a mass of hideous scars and wheals, crossingeach other and rising up into purple lumps, with livid blue and greyspaces between them. As he stood, there was not an inch ofnaturally-coloured skin to be seen. It was like the back of a man whohad been flayed alive, and then flogged with a cat-o'-nine-tails.
Before Arnold had overcome his horror his host had re-adjusted hisclothing. Then he turned to him and said--
"That was my reward for telling the governor of a petty Russian townthat he was a brute-beast for flogging a poor decrepit old Jewess todeath. Do you believe me now when I say that I am no servant orfriend of the Tsar?"
"Yes, I do," replied Arnold, holding out his hand, "you were right totry me, and I was wrong to be so hasty. It is a failing of mine thathas done me plenty of harm before now. I think I know now what youare without your telling me. Give me a piece of paper and you shallhave my address, so that you can come to-morrow and see themodel--only I warn you that you will have to pay my rent to keep mylandlord's hands off it. And then I must be off, for I see it's pasttwelve."
"You are not going out again to-night, my friend, while I have a sofaand plenty of rugs at your disposal," said his host. "You will sleephere, and in the morning we will go together and see this marvel ofyours. Meanwhile sit down and make yourself at home with anothercigar. We have only just begun to know each other--we two enemies ofSociety!"
The Angel of the Revolution: A Tale of the Coming Terror Page 3
