Lord of the World 14

Lord of the World 14

The stranger licked his lips nervously.

 

"Well, sir," he said hastily, "you will say nothing till you have seen

her? You can promise me that."

 

"Oh! certainly," said the priest.

 

"Well, sir, you had better not know my name. It--it may make it easier

for you and for me. And--and, if you please, sir, the lady is ill; you

must come to-day, if you please, but not until the evening. Will

twenty-two o'clock be convenient, sir?"

 

"Where is it?" asked Percy abruptly.

 

"It--it is near Croydon junction. I will write down the address

presently. And you will not come until twenty-two o'clock, sir?"

 

"Why not now?"

 

"Because the--the others may be there. They will be away then; I know

that."

 

This was rather suspicious, Percy thought: discreditable plots had been

known before. But he could not refuse outright.

 

"Why does she not send for her parish-priest?" he asked.

 

"She she does not know who he is, sir; she saw you once in the

Cathedral, sir, and asked you for your name. Do you remember, sir?--an

old lady?"

 

Percy did dimly remember something of the kind a month or two before;

but he could not be certain, and said so.

 

"Well, sir, you will come, will you not?"

 

"I must communicate with Father Dolan," said the priest. "If he gives me

permission---"

 

"If you please, sir, Father--Father Dolan must not know her name. You

will not tell him?"

 

"I do not know it myself yet," said the priest, smiling.

 

The stranger sat back abruptly at that, and his face worked.

 

"Well, sir, let me tell you this first. This old lady's son is my

employer, and a very prominent Communist. She lives with him and his

wife. The other two will be away to-night. That is why I am asking you

all this. And now, you till come, sir?"

 

Percy looked at him steadily for a moment or two. Certainly, if this was

a conspiracy, the conspirators were feeble folk. Then he answered:

 

"I will come, sir; I promise. Now the name."

 

The stranger again licked his lips nervously, and glanced timidly from

side to side. Then he seemed to gather his resolution; he leaned forward

and whispered sharply.

 

"The old lady's name is Brand, sir--the mother of Mr. Oliver Brand."

 

For a moment Percy was bewildered. It was too extraordinary to be true.

He knew Mr. Oliver Brand's name only too well; it was he who, by God's

permission, was doing more in England at this moment against the

Catholic cause than any other man alive; and it was he whom the

Trafalgar Square incident had raised into such eminent popularity. And

now, here was his mother---

 

He turned fiercely upon the man.

 

"I do not know what you are, sir--whether you believe in God or not; but

will you swear to me on your religion and your honour that all this is

true?"

 

The timid eyes met his, and wavered; but it was the wavering of

weakness, not of treachery.

 

"I--I swear it, sir; by God Almighty."

 

"Are you a Catholic?"

 

The man shook his head.

 

"But I believe in God," he said. "At least, I think so."

 

Percy leaned back, trying to realise exactly what it all meant. There

was no triumph in his mind--that kind of emotion was not his weakness;

there was fear of a kind, excitement, bewilderment, and under all a

satisfaction that God's grace was so sovereign. If it could reach this

woman, who could be too far removed for it to take effect? Presently he

noticed the other looking at him anxiously.

 

"You are afraid, sir? You are not going back from your promise?"

 

That dispersed the cloud a little, and Percy smiled.

 

"Oh! no," he said. "I will be there at twenty-two o'clock. ... Is death

imminent?"

 

"No, sir; it is syncope. She is recovered a little this morning."

 

The priest passed his hand over his eyes and stood up.

 

"Well, I will be there," he said. "Shall you be there, sir?"

 

The other shook his head, standing up too.

 

"I must be with Mr. Brand, sir; there is to be a meeting to-night; but I

must not speak of that.... No, sir; ask for Mrs. Brand, and say that she

is expecting you. They will take you upstairs at once."

 

"I must not say I am a priest, I suppose?"

 

"No, sir; if you please."

 

He drew out a pocket-book, scribbled in it a moment, tore out the sheet,

and handed it to the priest.

 

"The address, sir. Will you kindly destroy that when you have copied it?

I--I do not wish to lose my place, sir, if it can be helped."

 

Percy stood twisting the paper in his fingers a moment.

 

"Why are you not a Catholic yourself?" he asked.

 

The man shook his head mutely. Then he took up his hat, and went towards

the door.

 

* * * * *

 

Percy passed a very emotional afternoon.

 

For the last month or two little had happened to encourage him. He had

been obliged to report half-a-dozen more significant secessions, and

hardly a conversion of any kind. There was no doubt at all that the tide

was setting steadily against the Church. The mad act in Trafalgar

Square, too, had done incalculable harm last week: men were saying more

than ever, and the papers storming, that the Church's reliance on the

supernatural was belied by every one of her public acts. "Scratch a

Catholic and find an assassin" had been the text of a leading article in

the _New People_, and Percy himself was dismayed at the folly of the

attempt. It was true that the Archbishop had formally repudiated both

the act and the motive from the Cathedral pulpit, but that too had only

served as an opportunity hastily taken up by the principal papers, to

recall the continual policy of the Church to avail herself of violence

while she repudiated the violent. The horrible death of the man had in

no way appeased popular indignation; there were not even wanting

suggestions that the man had been seen coming out of Archbishop's House

an hour before the attempt at assassination had taken place.

 

And now here, with dramatic swiftness, had come a message that the

hero's own mother desired reconciliation with the Church that had

attempted to murder her son.

 

* * * * *

 

Again and again that afternoon, as Percy sped northwards on his visit to

a priest in Worcester, and southwards once more as the lights began to

shine towards evening, he wondered whether this were not a plot after

all--some kind of retaliation, an attempt to trap him. Yet he had

promised to say nothing, and to go.

 

He finished his daily letter after dinner as usual, with a curious sense

of fatality; addressed and stamped it. Then he went downstairs, in his

walking-dress, to Father Blackmore's room.

 

"Will you hear my confession, father?" he said abruptly.

 

 

 

II

 

Victoria Station, still named after the great nineteenth-century Queen,

was neither more nor less busy than usual as he came into it

half-an-hour later. The vast platform, sunk now nearly two hundred feet

below the ground level, showed the double crowd of passengers entering

and leaving town. Those on the extreme left, towards whom Percy began to

descend in the open glazed lift, were by far the most numerous, and the

stream at the lift-entrance made it necessary for him to move slowly.

 

He arrived at last, walking in the soft light on the noiseless ribbed

rubber, and stood by the door of the long car that ran straight through

to the Junction. It was the last of a series of a dozen or more, each of

which slid off minute by minute. Then, still watching the endless

movement of the lifts ascending and descending between the entrances of

the upper end of the station, he stepped in and sat down.

 

He felt quiet now that he had actually started. He had made his

confession, just in order to make certain of his own soul, though

scarcely expecting any definite danger, and sat now, his grey suit and

straw hat in no way distinguishing him as a priest (for a general leave

was given by the authorities to dress so for any adequate reason). Since

the case was not imminent, he had not brought stocks or pyx--Father

Dolan had wired to him that he might fetch them if he wished from St.

Joseph's, near the Junction. He had only the violet thread in his

pocket, such as was customary for sick calls.

 

He was sliding along peaceably enough, fixing his eyes on the empty seat

opposite, and trying to preserve complete collectedness when the car

abruptly stopped. He looked out, astonished, and saw by the white

enamelled walks twenty feet from the window that they were already in

the tunnel. The stoppage might arise from many causes, and he was not

greatly excited, nor did it seem that others in the carriage took it

very seriously; he could hear, after a moment's silence, the talking

recom