Hocking Joseph
The Everlasting Arms
CHAPTER XXIII
The So-called Dead
"Don't be frightened at a word," she laughed. "I shall explain that word in a few minutes. But it will not need much explanation. At heart you and I are one."
Dick waited in silence.
"You do not help me," and her laugh was almost nervous. "And yet – oh, I mean so much. But I am afraid to put it into a word, because that word has been so misunderstood, so maligned. It is the greatest word in the world. It sweeps down unnatural barriers, petty creeds, distinctions, man-made laws, criminal usages. It is the dawn of a new day. It is the sunrise. It is universal liberty, universal right. It is the divine right of the People!"
Still Dick was silent, and as she watched him she started to her feet.
"Who have held the destinies of the great unnumbered millions in the hollow of their hands?" she cried passionately. "The few. The Emperors, the Kings, the Bureaucrats. And they have sucked the life blood of these dumb, suffering millions. They have crushed them, persecuted them, made them hewers of wood and drawers of water. Why have the poor lived? That they might minister to the rich. Just that and nothing more. Whether the millions have been called slaves, serfs, working classes – whatever you like – the result has been the same. They have existed that the few might have what they desired. But at last the world has revolted. The Great War has made everything possible. The world is fluid, and the events of life will be turned into new channels. Now is the opportunity of the People. Whatever God there is, He made the world and all that is in it for the People. In the past it has been robbed from them, but now it is going to be theirs! Don't you see?"
Dick nodded his head slowly. This, making allowance for the extravagance of her words, was what he had been feeling for a long time.
"Yes," he said presently; "but how are they to get it?"
"Ah!" she laughed. "I brought you here to-night to tell you. You are going to give it them, my friend. With me to help you, perhaps, if you will have me. Will you? Look into my eyes and tell me that you see – that you understand?"
Her eyes were as the eyes of a siren, but still Dick did not lose his head.
"I see no other way of giving the people justice than by working on the lines I have been trying to work for years," he said.
"Yes, you do," she cried triumphantly. "You are a Labour man – a Socialist if you like. You have a vision of better conditions for the working classes in England – the British Isles. But what is that? What does it all amount to? Sticking-plasters, mon ami– sticking-plasters."
"Still, I do not understand," replied Dick.
"But you do," she persisted, still with her great, lustrous eyes laughing into his, in spite of a certain seriousness shining from them. "Think a minute. Here we are at a crisis in the world's history. Unless a mighty effort is made now, power, property, everything will drift back to the old ruling classes, and that will mean what it has always meant. Still the same accursed anomalies; still the same blinding, numbing, crushing poverty on the one hand; still the same pampered luxury and criminal waste on the other. All things must be new, my friend – new!"
"But how?"
"In one word – Bolshevism. No; don't be startled. Not the miserable caricature, the horrible nightmare which has frightened the dull-minded British but a glorious thing! Justice for humanity, the world for the people! That's what it means. Not for one country, but for all the countries – for the wide world. Don't you see? The world must become one, because humanity is one. It must be. Disease in any part of the organism hurts the whole body. If wrong is done in Russia, England has to pay; therefore, all reform must be world wide; right must be done everywhere."
"Words, words, words," quoted Dick.
"And more than words, my friend. The most glorious ideal the world has ever known. And every ideal is an unborn event."
"Beautiful as a dream, but, still, words," persisted Dick.
"And why, my friend?"
"Because power cannot be wrested from the hands in which it is now vested – "
"That is where you are mistaken. Think of Russia."
"Yes; think of Russia," replied Dick – "a nightmare, a ghastly crime, hell upon earth."
"And I reply in your own language, 'Words, words, words.' My friend, you cannot wash away abuses hoary with age with rose water. Stern work needs stern methods. Our Russian comrades are taking the only way which will lead to the Promised Land. Do not judge Russia by what it seems to-day, but by what it will be when you and I are old. Already there are patches of blue in the sky. In a few years from now things will have settled down, and Russia, with all its wealth and all its possibilities, will belong to the people – the great people of Russia. That is what must be true of every nation. You talk of the great wealth of European countries, and of America. Who holds that wealth? Just a few thousands – whereas it should be in the hands of all – all."
"And how will you do this mighty thing?" laughed Dick.
"By the people not simply demanding, but taking their rights – taking it, my friend."
"By force?"
"Certainly by force. It is their right."
"But how?"
"Think, my friend. Do you believe the people will ever get their rights by what is called constitutional means? Do you think the landed proprietors will give up their lands? That the Capitalists will disgorge their millions? That the bourgeoisie will let go what they have squeezed from the sweat and toil of the millions? You know they will not. There is but one way all over the world. It is for the people everywhere to claim, to force, their rights."
"Revolution!"
"Yes, Revolution. Do not be afraid of the word."
"Crime, anarchy, blood, ruin, the abolition of all law and order!"
"What is called crime and anarchy to-day will be hailed a few years hence as the gospel which has saved the world."
Dick could not help being influenced by her words. There was an intellectual quality in her presence which broke down his prejudices, a spiritual dynamic in her beauty and her earnestness which half convinced him.
"Admitting what you say," he replied presently, "you only proclaim a will-o'-the-wisp. Before such a movement could be set on foot, you must have the whole people with you. You must have a great consensus of opinion. To do this you must educate the people. Then you must have a tremendous organisation. You would have to arm the people. And you would need leaders."
She laughed gaily. "Now we are getting near it," she cried. "You've seen the vision. You've been seeing it, proclaiming it, unknowingly, for years, but you've not dared to be obedient to your vision. But you will, my friend. You will."
She placed her hand on his arm, and looked half beseechingly, half coyly, into his face.
"Do you not see with me?" she cried. "Could you not join with me in a great crusade for the salvation of the world? For I can be a faithful comrade – faithful to death. Look into my eyes and tell me."
Again he looked into her eyes, and he saw as she saw, felt as she felt. His past life, his past work, seemed but as a mockery, while the vision she caused him to see was like a glimpse of Paradise. Even yet, however, a kind of hard, Saxon, common sense remained with him; and she appeared to realise it, for, still keeping her hand upon his arm, she continued her appeal. She told him what she had seen and heard, and tried to prove to him how impossible it was for the poor to have their rights save by rising in their millions, seizing the helm of power, and claiming, taking, their own. Still he was not altogether convinced.
"You describe a beautiful dream," he said, "but, like all beautiful dreams, it vanishes when brought into contact with hard realities. What you speak of is only mob rule, and mob rule is chaos. To achieve anything you must have leaders, and when you get your leaders, you simply replace one set of rulers by another."
"Of course we do," was her answer. "But with this difference. The present leaders are the result of an old bad system of selfish greed. They think and act for themselves instead of for the good of the people. But, with you as a leader, we should have a man who thinks only of leading the children of the world into Light."
"I? – I?" stammered Dick.
"Of course, you, my friend. Else why should I long to see you, speak with you, know you?"
"Of course it's madness," he protested.
"All great enterprises are madness," was her reply; "but it is Divine madness. You were born from the foundation of the world for this work. You have vision, you have daring, you have the essential qualities of the leader, for you have the master mind."
It is easy for a young man to be flattered by a beautiful woman, especially when that woman is endowed with all charms, physical, intellectual, personal. Her hand was still on his arm; her eyes were still burning into his.
"Of course it is impossible," he still persisted.
"Why?" she asked.
"A huge organisation which is international requires the most careful arrangement – secret but potent."
"The organisation exists in outline."
"Propaganda work."
"It has been going on for years. Even such work as you have been doing has been preparing the way for greater things."
"Money – millions of money!" he cried. "Don't you see? It's easy to talk of leading the people, but difficult to accomplish – impossible, in fact, in a highly organised country like this."
"Give me your consent – tell me you will consent to lead us, and I will show you that this is already done. Even now a million British soldiers are ready – ready with arms and accoutrements!"
Again she pleaded, again she fired his imagination! Fact after fact she related of what had been done, and of what could be done. It needed, she said, but the strong man to appear, and the poor, the suffering from every byway, would flock to his standard.
"But don't you see?" cried Dick, half bewildered and altogether dazzled by the witchery of her words. "If I were to respond to your call, you would be placing not only an awful responsibility upon me, but a terrible power in my hands?"
"Yes, I do see!" she cried; "and I glory in the thought. Look here, my friend, I have been pleading with you not for your own sake, but for the sake of others – for the redemption of the world. But all along I have thought of you —you. It is right that you should think of yourself. Every man should be anxious about his own career. This is right. We cannot go against the elementary truths of life. There must be the leaders as well as the led. And leadership means power, fame! Every strong man longs for power, fame, position. You do, my friend. For years you have been craving after it, and it is your right, your eternal right. And here is the other ground of my appeal, my friend. Such a position, such fame, such power is offered you as was never offered to any man before. To be a leader of the world! To focus, to make real the visions, longings, hopes of unnumbered millions. To make vocal, to translate into reality all the world has been sighing for – striving after. Great God! What a career! What a position!"
"Ah – h!" and Mr. John Brown, who had been silent during the whole conversation, almost sobbed out the exclamation, "that is it! that is it! What a career! What a position to struggle after, to fight for! Power! Power! The Kings and Emperors of the world become as nothing compared with what you may be, my friend."
Dick's heart gave a wild leap. Power! place! greatness! Yes; this was what he had always longed for. As the thought gripped him, mastered him, impossibilities became easy, difficulties but as thistledown.
And yet he was afraid. Something, he knew not what, rose up and forbade him to do things he longed to do. He felt that every weakness of his life had been appealed to – his vanity, his selfishness, his desire for greatness, as well as his natural longing for the betterment of the world. And all the time the beautiful woman kept her hand on his arm. And her touch was caressing, alluring, bewildering. Her eyes, wondrous in their brilliance, fascinating, suggesting all the heart of man could long for, were burning into his.
He rose to his feet. "I must go," he said. "I will consider what you have said."
The woman rose too. She was nearly as tall as he, and she stood by his side, a queen among women.
"And you will think kindly, won't you?" she pleaded. "You will remember that it is the dearest hope of my life to stand by your side, to share your greatness."
Dick was silent as he made his way through the dark and silent streets with Mr. Brown by his side. He was still under the influences of the night through which he had passed; his mind was still bewildered.
Just before he reached his hotel, he and Mr. Brown parted – the latter to turn down Piccadilly, Dick to make his way towards Bloomsbury. When Mr. Brown had gone, Dick stood and watched him. Was he mistaken, or did he see the figure of a man like Count Romanoff move from the doorstep of a large building and join him? Was it Count Romanoff's voice he heard? He was not sure.
The night porter of his hotel spoke to him sleepily as he entered.
"No Zepps to-night, sir," he said.
"No; I think not. I fancy the Huns have given up that game."
"Think so, sir? Well, there's no devilish thing they won't think of. I hear they're going to try a new dodge on us."
"Oh, what?"
"I don't know. But if it isn't one thing it's another. Nothing's too dirty for 'em. Good night – or, rather, good morning, sir."
"Good morning."
Dick went to bed, but not to sleep. Again and again his mind rehearsed the scenes through which he had passed. It all seemed like a dream, a phantasmagoria, and yet it was very wonderful.
When daylight came he plunged into a bath, and as he felt the sting of the cold water on his body, he felt his own man again. His mind was clear; his senses were alert.
After breakfast he went for a walk towards Hyde Park. The air was clear and exhilarating; the great tide of human life stirred his pulses and caused his blood to course freely through his veins. His mind was saner, more composed. He turned into the Park at the Marble Arch, and he watched the crowds of gaily dressed women and swiftly moving motor-cars.
Presently his heart gave a wild leap. Coming towards him he saw Lady Blanche Huntingford. He thought he saw her smile at his approach, and with eager footsteps he moved towards her. He held out his hand. "This is indeed a pleasure, Lady Blanche," he said.
She gave him a quick, haughty stare, and passed on. He was sure she recognised him, but she acted as though he did not exist. She had cut him dead; she had refused to know him. The woman's action maddened him. Yet why should she not refuse to recognise him? He was a nobody, whom she remembered as a kind of Roger Tichborne – an impostor.
But she should know him! Again the memory of his recent experiences came surging back into his mind. He could reach a position where such as she would be as nothing, and like lightning his mind fastened upon Olga's proposal.
Yes; he would accept. He would throw himself heart and soul into this great work. He would become great – yes, the greatest man in England – in the world! He would go back to his hotel and write to her.
A little later he sat at a table in the writing-room of the hotel, but just as he commenced to write the pen dropped from his hand. Again he thought he felt that light yet irresistible hand upon his wrist – the same hand that he had felt in the library at Wendover Park.
He gave a quick, searching glance around the room, and he saw that he was alone.
"Who are you? What do you want?" he asked aloud.
Again he looked around him. Did he see that luminous form, those yearning, searching eyes, the memory of which had been haunting him for years? He was not sure. But of this he was sure. The place seemed filled with a holy influence, and he thought he heard the words, "Watch and pray, that ye enter not into temptation."
"Speak, speak, tell me who you are," he again spoke aloud. But no further answer came to him.
Bewildered, wondering, he rose to his feet and sauntered around the room. His attention was drawn to a number of papers that were scattered on a table. A minute later he was reading an article entitled
"Do the So-called Dead speak to Us?"
The paper containing the article was a periodical which existed for the purpose of advocating spiritualism. It announced that a renowned medium would take part in a séance that very afternoon in a building not far away, and that all earnest and reverent seekers after truth were invited to be present.
"I'll go," determined Dick as he read.
CHAPTER XXIV
Visions of Another World
After Dick had decided to attend the séance he read the article more carefully. It purported to be written by a man who had given up all faith in religion and all forms of spiritual life. He had tried to find satisfaction in the pleasures and occupations of his daily existence, and had treated everything else as a played-out fallacy. Then two of his sons had been killed in the war, and life had become a painful, hollow mockery. By and by he became impressed by the thought that his sons were alive and wanted to speak to him. Sometimes, too, he had felt as though presences were near him, but who they were or what they meant he could not tell. After this he had by pure accident heard two people talking about their experiences at a séance, and one had distinctly stated that he had seen and spoken to a dear dead friend. This caused the writer to turn his attention to spiritualism. The result was that he remained no longer a materialist, but was an ardent believer in the spiritual world. He distinctly stated that he had had irrefutable assurance that his sons were alive, that they had spoken to him, and had brought him messages from the spirit world. Things which before had been bewildering and cruel now became plain and full of comfort. Life was larger, grander, and full of a great hope.
Dick's heart warmed as he read. Surely here was light. Surely, too, he would be able to find an explanation to what for years had been a mystery to him.
He thought of the conversations he had heard in Eastroyd, in relation to this, to which he had paid but little attention because his mind had been too full of other matters, but which were now full of significance. His mind again reverted to the discussion on the Angels at Mons. If there were no truth in the stories, how could so many have believed in them? How could there be such clear and definite testimonies from men who had actually seen?
And had not he, Dick Faversham, both seen and heard? What was the meaning of the repeated appearances of that beautiful, luminous figure with great, yearning eyes and arms outstretched to save?
Yes; he would go to this séance. He would inquire, and he would learn.
He felt he had need of guidance. He knew he had come to another crisis in his life. The proposal which had been made to him was alluring; it appealed to the very depths of his being.
Power, position, fame! That was what it meant. To take a leading part in the great drama of life, to be a principal factor in the emancipation of the world! But there was another side. If this movement was spreading with such gigantic strides – were to spread to England and dominate the thoughts and actions of the toiling millions of the country – what might it not mean?
He was sure of nothing. He could not grasp the issues clearly; he could not see his way to the end. But it was grand; it was stupendous! Besides, to come into daily, hourly, contact with that sublime woman – to constantly feel the magnetic charm of her presence! The thought stirred his pulses, fired his imagination! How great she was, too. How she had swept aside the world's conventions and man-made moralities. She seemed like a warm breath from the lands of sunshine and song. And yet he was not sure.
For hours he sat thinking, weighing pros and cons, trying to mark out the course of his life. Yes; he had done well. Since he had left Wendover Park he had become an influence in the industrial life of the North; he had become proclaimed a leader among the working classes; in all probability he would soon be able to voice their cause in the Mother of Parliaments.
But what did it all amount to after all? A Labour Member of Parliament! The tool of the unwashed, uneducated masses! A voting machine at £400 a year! Besides, what could he do? What could the Labour Party do? When their programme was realised, if ever it was realised, what did it all amount to? The wealth, the power, would still be in the hands of the ruling, educated classes, while he would be a mere nobody.
"Sticking-plasters."
The term stuck to him – mocked him. He was only playing at reform. But the dream of Olga – the emancipation of the race! the dethronement of the parasites – the bloodsuckers of the world! – a new heaven and a new earth! – while he, Dick Faversham, would be hailed as the prophet, the leader of this mighty movement, with infinite wealth at his command and power unlimited. Power!
Men professed to sneer at Trotsky; they called him a criminal, an outrage to humanity. But what a position he held! He was more feared, more discussed, than any man in the world – he who a few months before was unknown, unheard of. And he defied kings and potentates, for kings and potentates were powerless before him. While behind him was a new Russia, a new world.
To be such a man in England! To make vocal and real the longings of the greatest Democracy in the world, and to lead it. That would mean the premier place in the world, and —
So he weighed the position, so he thought of this call which had come to him.
During the afternoon he left his hotel and made his way towards the house where the spiritualistic séance was to be held. In spite of all his dreams of social reforms, and the appeal made to his own ambitions, his mind constantly reverted to the vision which had again come to him – to the influences he could not understand.
He found the house, and was admitted without difficulty. It was in a commonplace, shabby-looking street not far from Tottenham Court Road. On his arrival he was admitted into a room, where an absurd attempt had been made to give it an Oriental appearance. An old woman occupied the only arm-chair in the room. She looked up at his entrance, stared at him for a few seconds, and then muttered indistinctly. He was followed by half a dozen others who might have been habitués of the place.
Presently a man entered, who glanced inquiringly around the room. He appeared to be about fifty years of age, and had light watery-looking eyes. He made his way to Dick.
"You desire to be present at the séance?" he asked of Dick.
"If I may?" was Dick's reply.
"You come as a sincere, earnest, reverent inquirer?"
"I hope so."
"Is there any friend you have lost, any message you want to receive?" and he scrutinised Dick closely.
"At a time like this, we have all lost friends," Dick replied.
"Ah, then you come as an inquirer?"
"That is true. I have come to learn."
"Certainly. But of course there are certain expenses. Would it be convenient for you to give me ten shillings?"
Dick gave him a ten-shilling note, whereupon the man turned to another visitor.
"A great medium, but keen on business," Dick heard someone say.
"Yes, but why not? Mediums must live the same as other people."
Another man entered. He was much younger than the other. He looked very unhealthy, and his hands twitched nervously.
"The room is ready," he said, and his voice was toneless. "Perhaps you would like to see it and examine it before the light is excluded, so that you may be sure there is no deception."
Dick with two others accepted the man's invitation. The room into which he was led was carpetless and completely unfurnished save for a number of uncushioned chairs and a plain deal table. Nothing else was visible. There was not a picture on the walls, not a sign of decoration. Dick and the others professed satisfaction with what they had seen.
A few minutes later the others joined them, accompanied by the man who had been spoken of as a "great medium," also the man with the nervous, twitching hands, who Dick afterwards learned was the leader of the two mediums.
"My friends," he said, "will you seat yourselves around the table? We promise you nothing. The spirits may come, and they may not. I, personally, am a medium of the old order. I do not pretend to tell you what spirits say; I make no claim to be a clairvoyant. If the spirits come they will speak for themselves – if they wish to speak. If there are persons here who desire a message from the spirit world they will, if they receive such a message at all, receive it direct from the spirits. I pretend to explain nothing, just as I promise nothing. But in the past spirits have come to such gatherings as this, and many comforting messages have been given. That is all."
The party then sat down at the table, placed their hands upon it in such a way that the fingers of one person joined those of the persons sitting next, and thus formed a circle. All light was excluded.
For three minutes there was silence. No sound was heard; no light was seen. All was darkness and silence.
Then suddenly there was a faint voice – a child's voice. It sounded as though it came from the ceiling.
"I am come," wailed the voice.
"Yes, and I am come." This time the voice seemed to come from the direction of the window. It was hoarse, and coarse.
"Who are you?
"I am Jim Barkum. I was killed at Mons."
"Anything to tell us?"
"No; nothin' except I'm all right. I come fro' Sheffield. If you could tell my mother, Emily Barkum, that I'm very happy I'd be very thankful."
"What's your mother's address?"
"Number 14 Tinkers Street."
After this a number of other spirits purported to come, one of whom said he was the son of a sitter in the circle, and that he had been killed in the war.
"Will you reveal yourself?" said the medium.
Some phosphorous light shone in the darkness, in the radiance of which was the outline of a face.
"Do you recognise it?" asked the medium.
"It might be Jack," Dick heard a voice say.
After this there seemed to be a quarrel among the spirits. There was a good deal of confused talk and a certain amount of anger expressed. Also a number of feeble jokes were passed and far-away laughter heard. Evidently the spirits were in a frolicsome humour.
Dick, whose purpose in coming to the séance was not to take part in a fiasco, grew impatient. In his state of mind he felt he had wasted both money and time. It was true he had seen and heard what he could not explain, but it amounted to nothing. Everything seemed silly beyond words. There was nothing convincing in anything, and it was all artificial.
"I should like to ask a question," he ventured at length.
"Go ahead," said a voice, which seemed to come from the ceiling.
"I should like to ask this: why is it that you, who have solved the great secret of death, should, now you are permitted to come back and speak to those of us who haven't, talk such horrible drivel?"
"Hear! hear!" assented a member of the circle.
"Oh, it's this way," answered the spirit: "every one of you sitting here have your attendant spirits. If you are intellectual, intellectual spirits attend you and come to talk to you, but as you are not they just crack silly jokes."
There was laughter at this, not only from the sitters, but among the spirits, of which the room, by this time, seemed to be full.
"That's not bad," replied Dick. "One might think you'd said that before, but as it happens we are not all fools, and I personally would like something more sensible. This is a time when thousands of hearts are breaking," he added.
"What would you like to know?"
It was another voice that spoke now – a sweeter and more refined voice, and might have belonged to a woman.
"I would like to know if it is true that each of us have attendant spirits, as one of you said just now?"
"Yes; that is true."
"You mean guardian angels?"
"Yes; if you like to call them that. But they are not all guardian angels. There are spirits who try to do harm, as well as those who try to guard and to save."
"Are they here now?"
"Yes; they are here now. I can see one behind you at this moment."
The atmosphere of the room had suddenly changed. It seemed as though something solemn and elevating had entered and driven away the frivolous, chattering presences which had filled the room. A hush had fallen upon the sitters too, and all ears seemed to be listening eagerly.
"You say you can see a spirit behind me now?"
"Yes."
"Tell me, is it a good spirit or a bad one?"
"I do not know. The face is hidden."
"But surely you can cause the face to be seen. I am anxious to learn – to know."
"I think I can tell directly. Wait."
There was a silence for perhaps ten seconds; then the voice spoke again.
"The spirit will not show its face," it said, "but it is always with you. It never leaves you night nor day."
"Why does it not leave me?"
"I cannot tell; I do not know."
"Tell me," persisted Dick, "you do not seem like the other spirits who have been here – if they are spirits," he added in an undertone. "Can you not find out if I am watched over for any particular purpose?"
"Yes, yes, I can. I can see now. It is a guardian angel, and she loves you."
"She loves me – why does she love me?"
"When she was alive she loved you. I think you were engaged. But she died, and you never married her. But she is always watching over you – trying to help you. Were you ever engaged to anyone who died?"
"That is surely a leading question," was Dick's retort. "Is that all you can tell me?"
"That is all, except that you have enemies, one in particular, who is trying to do you harm, and your guardian angel is always near you, seeking to protect you. Have you an enemy?"
"Possibly – I don't know. Is that enemy a man or a woman?"
"I cannot tell. Everything is becoming hazy and dim. I am not a spirit of the highest order. There, everything is blank to me now."
