When It Was Dark Part 44

"If I do, ten thousand men will be let loose on the city with nothing but the Union funds to fall back on."

"If you don't, you will be what Baumann is to-day--a bankrupt."

"I have eighty thousand cash on deposit at the Bank of England."

"And if you throw that away after the rest you will be done for. You don't realise the situation. It _can't_ recover. War is inevitable.

India will go, I feel it. England is going to turn into a camp. Religion is the pretext of war everywhere. Take your money from the Bank in cash and lock it up in the Safe Deposit strong rooms. Keep that sum, earning nothing, for emergencies, then wait for the other properties to recover.

It will be years perhaps, but you will win through in the end. The freehold sites of the mills are alone worth almost anything. It is only _paper_ millionaires that are easily ruined. You are a great property owner. But you must walk very warily, even you. Who could have foreseen all this? I see that fellow Hands is dead--couldn't stand the sight of the mischief he'd done, I suppose. The fool! the eternal fool! why couldn't he have kept his sham discovery to himself? Look at the unutterable misery it has brought on the world."

"You yourself, Dawlish, are you suffering the common fate?"

"I? Certainly not! That is to say, I suffer of course, but not fatally.

All my investments are in buildings in safe quarters. I may have to reduce rents for a year or two, but my houses will not be empty. And they are my own."

"Fortunate man," said Schuabe; "but why _sham_ discovery?"

"Out of business hours," said the solicitor, with some stiffness and hesitation, "I am a Roman Catholic, Mr. Schuabe. Good-morning. I will send the transfer round for you to sign."

The cool, machine-like man went away. The millionaire knew that his fortune was tottering, but it moved him little. He knew that his power in the country was nearly over, had dwindled to nothing in the stir of greater things around. Money was only useful as a means of power, and with a sure prescience he saw that he would never regain his old position.

The hour was over.

Whatever would be the outcome of these great affairs, the hour was past and over.

The one glowing thought which burned within him, and seemed to be eating out his life, was the awful knowledge that he and no other man had set in motion this terrible machinery which was grinding up the civilised world.

Day and night from that there was no relief.

His valet again entered and reminded his master that some people were coming to lunch. He went away and began to dress with the man's help.

The guests were only two in number. One was Ommaney, the editor of the _Daily Wire_, the other Mrs. Hubert Armstrong.

Both the lady and gentleman came in together at about two o'clock.

Mrs. Armstrong was much changed in appearance. Her face had lost its serenity; her manner was quick and anxious; her voice strained.

The slim, quiet editor, on the other hand, seemed to be untouched by worry. Quiet and inscrutable as ever, the only change in him, perhaps, was a slight briskness, an aroma rather than an actual expression of good humour and _bien-etre_.

They sat down to the meal. Schuabe, in his dark grey frock-coat, the careful _ensemble_ of his dress no less than the regular beauty of his face--now smooth and calm--seemed to be beyond all mundane cares. Only the lady was ill at ease.

The conversation at first was all of the actual news of the day, as it had appeared in the morning's newspapers. Hands's death was discussed.

"Poor fellow!" said Mrs. Armstrong, with a sigh; "it is sad to think of his sudden ending. The burden was too much for him to bear. I can understand it when I look round upon all that is happening; it is terrible!"

"Surely you do not regret the discovery of the truth?" said Schuabe, quickly.

"I am beginning to fear truth," said the lady. "The world, it seems, was not ripe for it. In a hundred years, perhaps, our work would have paved the way. But it is premature. Look at the chaos all around us. The public has ceased to think or read. They are reading nothing. Three publishers have put up the shutters during the week."

The journalist interrupted with a dry chuckle. "They are reading the _Daily Wire_," he said; "the circulation is almost doubled." He sent a congratulatory glance to Schuabe.

The millionaire's great holding in the paper was a secret known only to a few. In the stress of greater affairs he had half forgotten it. A swift feeling of relief crossed his brain as he realised what this meant to his tottering fortunes.

"Poor Hands!" said the editor, "he was a nice fellow. Rather unpractical and dreamy, but a nice fellow. Owing to him we had the greatest chance that any paper has ever had in the history of journalism. We owe him a great debt. The present popularity and influence of the paper has dwarfed, positively dwarfed, all its rivals. I have given the poor fellow three columns to-day; I wish I could do more."

"Do you not think, Mr. Ommaney," asked Mrs. Armstrong, "that in the enormous publication of telegrams and political foreign news, the glorious fact that the world has at last awakened to a knowledge of the glorious truths of real religion is being swamped and forgotten? After all, what will be the greatest thing in history a hundred years from now? Will it not be the death of the old superst.i.tions rather than a mutiny in the East or a war with Russia? Will not the names of the pioneers of truth remain more firmly fixed in the minds of mankind than those of generals and chancellors?"

The editor made it quite plain that these were speculations with which he had nothing whatever to do.

"It's dead, Mrs. Armstrong," he said brutally. "The religious aspect is utterly dead, and wouldn't sell an extra copy of the paper. It would be madness to touch it now. The public gaze is fixed on Kabul River and St. Petersburg, Belgrade and Constantinople. They have almost forgotten that Jerusalem exists. I sent out twelve special correspondents ten days ago."

Mrs. Armstrong sighed deeply. It was true, bitterly true. She was no longer of any importance in the public eye. No one asked her to lecture now. The ma.s.s meetings were all over. Not a single copy of _John Mulgrave_ had been sold for a month. How differently she had pictured it all on that winter's morning at Sir Michael's; how brightly and gloriously it had begun, and now how bitter the _denouement_, how utterly beyond foresight? What was this superst.i.tion, this Christianity which in its death struggles could overthrow a world?

"_The decisive events of the world occur in the intellect._" Yes, but how soon do they leave their parent and outstrip its poor control?

There was no need for women _now_. That was the bitterest thought of all. The movement was over--done with. A private in the Guards was a greater hero than the leader of an intellectual movement. What a monstrous _boulevers.e.m.e.nt_ of everything!

Again the lady sighed deeply.

"No," she said again, "the world was not yet strong enough to bear the truth. I have sold my Consols," she continued; "I have been advised to do so. I was investing for my daughter when I am gone. Newspaper shares are the things to buy now, I suppose! My brokers told me that I was doing the wisest thing. They said that they could not recover for years."

"The money market is a thing in which I have very little concern except inasmuch as it affects large public issues," said the editor. "I leave it all to my city editor and his staff--men in whom I have the greatest possible trust. But I heard a curious piece of news last night. I don't know what it portends; perhaps Mr. Schuabe can tell me; he knows all about these things. Sir Michael Manichoe, the head of the Church political party, you know has been buying Consols enormously. Keith, my city editor, told me. He has, so it appears, invested enormous sums.

Consols will go up in consequence. But even then I don't see how he can repay himself. They cannot rise much."

"I wonder if I was well advised to sell?" said Mrs. Armstrong, nervously. "They say Sir Michael never makes a mistake. He must have some private information."

"I don't think that is possible, Mrs. Armstrong," Ommaney said. "Of course Sir Michael may very likely know something about the situation which is not yet public. He may be reckoning on it. But things are in such hopeless confusion that no sane speculator would buy for a small rise which endured for half a day. He would not be able to unload quickly enough. It seems as if Sir Michael is buying for a permanent recovery. And I a.s.sure you that nothing can bring _that_ about. Only one thing at least."

"What is that?" asked both Mrs. Armstrong and Schuabe together.

The editor paused, while a faint smile flickered over his face. "Ah," he said, "an impossibility, of course. If any one discovered that 'The Discovery' was a fraud--a great forgery, for instance--_then_ we should see a universal relief."

"_That_, of course, is asking for an impossibility," said Mrs.

Armstrong, rather shortly. She resented the somewhat flippant tone of the great man.

These things were all her life. To Ommaney they but represented a pa.s.sing panorama in which he took absolutely no _personal_ interest. The novelist disliked and feared this detachment. It warred with her strong sense of mental duty. The highly trained journalist, to whom all life was but news, news, news, was a strange modern product which warred with her sense of what was fitting.

"You're not well!" said the editor, suddenly turning to Schuabe, who had grown very pale. His voice rea.s.sured them.

It was without a trace of weakness.

The "Perfectly, thank you" was deliberate and calm as ever. Ommaney, however, noticed that, with a very steady hand, the host poured out nearly a tumbler of Burgundy and drank it in one draught.

Schuabe had been taking nothing stronger than water hitherto during the progress of the meal.

The man who had been waiting had just left the room for coffee. After Ommaney had spoken, there was a slight, almost embarra.s.sed, silence. A sudden interruption came from the door of the room.

It opened with a quick push and turn of the handle, quite unlike the deliberate movements of any one of the attendants.

Sir Robert Llwellyn strode into the room. It was obvious that he was labouring under some almost uncontrollable agitation. The great face, usually so jolly and fresh-coloured, was ghastly pale. There was a fixed stare of fright in the eyes. He had forgotten to remove his silk hat, which was grotesquely tilted on his head, showing the hair matted with perspiration.