Hocking Joseph
The Everlasting Arms

After this the séance continued for some time, but as far as Dick was concerned, it had but little definite interest. Many things took place which he could not explain, but to him they meant nothing. They might have been caused by spirits, but then again they might have been the result of trickery. Nothing was clear to him except the one outstanding fact that no light had been thrown on the problem of his life. He wanted some explanation of the wonderful apparition which had so affected his life, and he found none. For that matter, although the spirit world had been demonstrated to him, he had no more conviction about the spirit world after the séance than he had before. All the same, he could not help believing, not because of the séance, but almost in spite of it, that a presence was constantly near him, and that this presence had a beneficent purpose in his life.

"You were not convinced?" asked a man of him as presently he left the house.

Dick was silent.

"Sometimes I think I am, and sometimes I think I am not," went on the man. "It's all a mystery. But I know one thing."

"What?" asked Dick.

"My old mother, who held fast to the old simple faith in Christ, had no doubts nor fears," was the man's reply. "I was with her when she was dying, and she told me that angels were beckoning to her. She said she saw the face of her Lord, and that He was waiting to welcome her on the other side. I wish I could see as she saw."

"Did she believe in angels?" asked Dick.

"She had no doubt," replied the man. "She said that God sent His angels to guard those they loved, and that those angels helped them to fight evil spirits."

"Accepting the idea of a spirit world, it seems reasonable," and Dick spoke like one thinking aloud rather than to be answering the man.

"Did not angels minister to Christ after He was tempted of the Devil?" persisted the man. "Did not angels help the Apostles? I don't think I'll bother about spiritualism any more. There may be truth in it; there may not; but I'd rather get hold of the faith my mother had."

"I wonder?" mused Dick, as he went away alone. "I wonder? But I'll have to send an answer to Olga. My word, what a glorious woman, and what a career! But I don't see my way clear."

He made his way back to his hotel, thinking and wondering. He felt he had come to a crisis in his life, but his way was not plain, and he did not know where to look for light.

CHAPTER XXV
Romanoff's Philosophy

Count Romanoff sat in a handsomely furnished room. It formed a part of a suite he had taken in a fashionable London hotel. He was smoking a cigar, while at his side was a tray with several decanters containing spirits.

He seemed to be puzzled, and often there was an angry gleam in his eyes, a cruel smile on his lips.

"I am not sure of him," he muttered, "and so far I've failed altogether. More than once I was certain that I had him – certain that he was bound to me hand and foot, and then – "

He started to his feet and strode impatiently across the room. He appeared angry. Looking out of the window, he could see the tide of human beings which swept hither and thither in the London street.

"Good and evil," he said aloud – "good and evil. Those people are all the time tempted, and yet – and yet – But I'll have him. It's only a matter of time now."

He heard a knock at the door, and started violently. For a self-contained, strong man, he seemed at times to be peculiarly apprehensive.

"Yes; come in. Ah, it's you, is it? I was expecting you."

"Count Romanoff, are you ever surprised?" It was Mr. John Brown who spoke, and who quietly came into the room.

"Rarely," replied the Count. "Why should I? After all, the events of life are a matter of calculation. Certain forces, certain powers of resistance – and there you are."

"It takes a clever man to calculate the forces or the powers of resistance," replied Mr. Brown.

"Just so. Well, I am clever."

Mr. Brown looked at him curiously, and there was an expression almost of fear in his eyes.

"Count Romanoff," he said, "I wonder sometimes if you are not the Devil – if there is a devil," he added as if in afterthought.

"Why, do you doubt it?"

"I don't know. It would be difficult to explain some things and some people unless you postulate a devil."

The Count laughed almost merrily. "Then why not accept the fact?" he asked.

"Do you?" asked Mr. Brown.

"I have no doubt of it. I – but wait. You must clear the ground. The existence of a devil presupposes evil – and good. If what the world calls evil is evil – there is a devil."

"You speak like one who knows."

"I do know."

"How do you know?"

"Because – But look here, my friend, you did not come here to discuss that problem."

"No; I did not. I came because I wanted to discuss – "

"A young man called Richard Faversham. Very well, let's discuss him," and the Count took a fresh cigar and lit it.

"I've been thinking a good deal since I saw you last," said Mr. Brown – "thinking pretty deeply."

The Count for reply looked at Mr. Brown steadily, but spoke no word.

"I have been wondering at your interest in him," said Mr. Brown. "He's not your sort."

"Perhaps that's a reason," he suggested.

"Still I do not understand you."

"But I understand you. I know you through and through. You, although you are a member of the best London clubs, although you pass as a Britisher of Britishers, and although you bear a good old commonplace English name, hate Britain, and especially do you hate England. Shall I tell you why?"

"Not aloud, my friend – not aloud; there may be servants outside – people listening," and Mr. Brown spoke in a whisper.

"I shall speak aloud," replied the Count, "and there is no one listening. I feel in a communicative, garrulous mood to-night, and it's no use mincing words. You hate England, because you are German at heart, and a German by birth, although no one knows it – but me. I also hate England."

"Why?" asked Mr. Brown.

"Because it stands for those things I abominate. Because, in spite of its so-called materialism, it still holds fast to the old standards of religion, and all that religion means. It stands for what the world calls progress, for civilisation, and Democracy. And I hate Democracy."

"You are a Russian," commented Mr. Brown – "a Russian aristocrat, therefore you would naturally hate Democracy."

"Am I?" and the Count laughed. "Well, call me that if you like."

"You told me so when we first met."

"Did I? I know you came to me in a sad way. You began to doubt your country, and your country's victory. You saw that it would never gain what it desired and hoped on the battlefield. You realised that this England – this Britain that you had scorned – was mightier than you thought. You saw that John Bull, whom I hate as much as you, was practically invincible."

"Yes; I could not help realising that. I admitted it to you, and you told me to – "

"Take special note of Faversham. I told you his story."

"Yes, you did, and I accepted your advice. I went to Eastroyd; I made his acquaintance."

"And were impressed by the power he had obtained over the working classes, the Democracy, that we hear so much about. As you told me, he had taken up their cause, and that he had developed the gift of public oratory so assiduously that his power over working-class audiences was almost magnetic."

"But look here, Count, I – "

"Pardon me a moment. I had studied Faversham for years. For reasons of my own, I wanted him to do certain things."

Mr. Brown sat quietly, watching the Count, who ceased speaking suddenly, and seemed to be staring into vacancy.

"Did you ever read a book by a man named John Bunyan, called The Holy War?" he asked, with seeming irrelevance.

Mr. Brown laughed. "Years ago, when I was a boy," he replied.

"A wonderful book, my friend. I have read it many times."

"You read it many times! Why, what interest could such a book have for you?"

"A very deep interest," and there was a curious intonation in his voice.

"What interest?" asked Mr. Brown.

The Count rose to his feet and knocked some ash from the end of his cigar. "Corpo di Bacco!" he cried. "Did not the man get deep? The city of Mansoul! And the Devil wanted to get it. So he studied the fortifications. Eyegate, nosegate, touchgate, eargate he saw, he understood!"

"What on earth are you talking about?" asked Mr. Brown in astonishment.

"There is one passage which goes deep," went on the Count as though Mr. Brown had not spoken. "It contained some of the deepest philosophy of life; it went to the roots of the whole situation. I had it in my mind when I advised you to make Faversham's acquaintance."

"What passage?" asked Mr. Brown, still failing to catch the drift of the other's words.

"It is this," and the Count spoke very quietly. "For here lay the excellent wisdom of Him who built Mansoul, that the walls could never be broken down, nor hurt by the most mighty adverse potentate, unless the townsmen gave consent thereto."

Mr. Brown looked puzzled. "I don't follow you," he said.

"Don't you? Bunyan wrote in parable, but his meaning is plain. He said that Diabolus could never conquer Mansoul except by the consent of Mansoul. Well, I saw this: England – Britain – could never be conquered except by the consent of the people of England. United, Britain is unconquerable."

"Well?"

"Therefore, I made you see that if your country, which stands for force, and militarism, and barbarism, was to conquer England you must get England divided; you must get her own forces in a state of disunity. A country at war with itself is powerless. Set class against class, interest against interest, party against party, and you produce chaos. That is the only hope of your country, my friend. The thing was to get a man who could do this for you."

"And you thought of Faversham?"

"I told you to make his acquaintance."

"Which I have done. The results you know."

"Are you satisfied with the results?"

Mr. John Brown was silent a few seconds. Evidently he was thinking deeply.

"He is no Bolshevist at heart," he said.

"Are you?"

"I? Great heavens, no! I hate it, except for my enemies. But it has served our purpose so far. Russia is in a state of chaos; it is powerless – bleeding at our feet. If Russia had remained united, we, the Germans, would have been crushed, beaten, ruined. As it is – "

"I love the condition of Russia," and Romanoff spoke almost exultantly. "I love it! It is what I hoped for, strove for, prayed for!"

"You – a Russian – say that! And you pray?"

"Yes; I pray. What then?"

"But you did not pray to God?" and there was a note of fear in Mr. Brown's voice.

"I prayed to my own god," replied Romanoff, "who is a very good counterpart of the god of your Kaiser. The good old German god, eh?" and he laughed ruthlessly. "And what is he, my friend? A god of force, a god of cruelty. Ruthlessness, mercilessness, anything to win. That's the German god. I prayed to that."

Mr. Brown almost shuddered.

"Yes; the condition of Russia is one of the great joys of my life. It means victory – victory for me, for you – if we can only get England to follow Russia's example."

"If we only could," assented Mr. Brown.

"And there are elements at work which, properly used, will bring this about," went on the Count. "I, Romanoff, tell you so. And Faversham is your man."

"He is no Bolshevist," again urged Mr. Brown. "At heart he knows what it means. That's why I am nearly hopeless about him. Give him time to think, and he will see that it will mean chaos – ruin to the things he has been taught to love."

"Before Adam ate the forbidden fruit two things happened," remarked Romanoff.

"What?"

"First the serpent worked. Then the woman."

"The woman! Yes; the woman!"

"Human nature is a curious business," went on the Count. "There are several points at which it is vulnerable. I have made a special point of studying human nature, and this I have seen."

"I don't quite follow you."

"I don't speak in riddles, my friend. Take a strong character like Faversham, and consider it. What is likely to appeal to it? As I understand the case, there are three main channels of appeal. First, money, and all that money means. Next there is ambition, greed for power, place, position, dominance. Then there is the eternal thing – the Senses. Drink, gluttony, drugs, women. Generally any one of these things will master a man, but bring them altogether and it is certain he will succumb."

"Yes, yes, I see."

"Money, and all that money brings, is not enough in Faversham's case. That I know. But he is intensely ambitious – and – and he is young."

"That is why you told me to introduce him to Olga?"

"A woman can make a man do what, under ordinary circumstances, he would scorn to do. If you advocated Bolshevism to him, even although you convinced him that he could be Lenin and Trotsky rolled into one, and that he could carry the Democracy of Britain with him, he would laugh at you. I saw that yesterday after your conversation with him. He was attracted for an hour, but I saw that he laughed at your proposals. That was why I told you to let him see and hear Olga. Now, tell me of their meeting."

Mr. Brown described in correct detail Dick's experiences in the East of London.

"Never did I believe a woman could be such a siren," Mr. Brown concluded. "She charmed, she magnetised, she fascinated."

"Is he in love with her?" asked the Count.

"If he is not he must be a stone," said Mr. Brown.

"Yes, but is he? I told you to watch him – to report to me."

"I do not know. He did not consent readily; he must have time to think, he said. But, man, he cannot resist her!"

"I do not know."

"But have you ever heard of any man who could resist her blandishments? Has she not been called a sorceress?"

"Yes, yes, I know – but he promised her nothing?"

"He said he would let her know later."

"Then he has resisted. My friend, I do not understand him. But – but – let me think."

"He was greatly impressed not only by her, but by her arguments," went on Mr. Brown presently. "I tell you, the woman is a sibyl, a witch. She was wonderful – wonderful. While I listened, I – even I – almost believed in her description of Bolshevism. A new heaven, and a new earth! I tell you, I almost believed in it. She pictured a paradise, an El Dorado, an Elysium, and she made Faversham see, understand. I tell you, he cannot resist her, and if he promises her, as he will, I can see England in a state of chaos in six months. Then – then – "

But the Count did not seem to be listening. His eyes were turned towards the streets, but he saw nothing.

"He went to a spiritualistic séance this afternoon," he said presently.

"What? – Faversham?"

"Yes, Faversham. What do you think it means?"

"I cannot think. He has never struck me as that sort of fellow."

"Look here, Brown, have you had many intimate talks with him?"

"Intimate? Yes, I think so."

"What have you talked about?"

"Always about the condition of the people, politics, and things of that nature."

"Have you ever discussed religion with him?"

"I don't believe he has any religion."

"I wonder?"

"What do you wonder?"

"I say, during your conversations with him – during your visits to Eastroyd – have you ever heard, have you ever discovered, that he is in love with anyone?"

"Never. He has taken no notice of women since I have known him. He seems to have been engrossed in his socialistic work. Mind, I doubt whether, at heart, he is even a socialist, much less a Bolshevist."

"That does not matter if we can get him to enlist in Olga's crusade. He has enough influence among, not only the working classes of the country, but among the leaders of the working classes all over the land, to create disturbances. He can inspire strikes; he can cause anarchy among the people. He can imbue them with Bolshevist ideals; he can make great promises. That done, the British Army is powerless. Without coals, and without the means of transport – don't you see?"

"Of course I see. That's what I've had in my mind from the first. If that can be done, Germany will be master of the world!"

"And more than that," and the Count spoke exultantly, "I shall have him, body and soul."

"But we must be very careful. If our plans leak out, my life will not be worth a row of pins."

Again the Count paced the room. He did not seem to be heeding Mr. Brown. His face worked convulsively, his eyes burned red, his hands clenched and unclenched themselves.

"I vowed I'd have him," he reflected – "vowed he should be mine. Left by himself he will do great things for what is called the good of the world. He will work for sobriety, purity, British national life. The man has powers, qualities which mean great things for what pietists call the world's betterment. But he is an aristocrat at heart; he loves money, and, more, he loves position, fame. He is as ambitious as Napoleon. He longs for power. But he has a conscience; he has a strong sense of what he calls right and wrong. I thought I had him down at Wendover. But I failed. Why, I wonder? But I will not fail this time. Olga will dull his conscience. She has charmed, fascinated him. She will make him her slave. Then – then – "

"Yes, yes," broke in Mr. Brown, who had only half understood the Count's monologue; "then he will cause a revolution here in England, and Britain as a fighting power will be paralysed. But I am not sure of him. He loves his country, and unless Olga gets hold of him, and that soon, he will see what our plans mean, and he will refuse to move hand or foot. You see, we've got no hold on him."

"We've every hold on him," almost snapped the Count. "We've appealed to his every weakness, and Olga will do the rest. I select my tools carefully, my friend."

A knock was heard at the door, and the Count impatiently opened it. "I am engaged; I cannot be disturbed," he said.

"The lady said she must see you," protested the servant, "so I – I thought I'd better come."

The Count looked beyond the man, and saw a woman closely veiled.

"Show the lady in," and a few seconds later she threw off her wraps and revealed her face.

"Olga?" cried both men together.

"Yes; I thought I'd better brave all danger. I've heard from him."

"From Faversham?"

"Yes; a long telegram."

"What does he say?" gasped Mr. Brown.

"I have it here," replied Olga breathlessly.

CHAPTER XXVI
A Voice from Another World

Dick Faversham walked along Oxford Street thinking deeply. Although he had been by no means convinced by what he had seen and heard, he could not help being impressed. The whole of the proceedings might be accounted for by jugglery and clever trickery, or, on the other hand, influences might have been at work which he could not understand – influences which came from the unseen world. But nothing satisfied him. Everything he had experienced lacked dignity. It was poor; it was sordid. He could not help comparing the outstanding features of the séance with the events which had so affected him. The face of the woman in the smoking-room of the steamer, the sublime figure which had upheld him when he was sinking in the wild, stormy sea, was utterly removed from the so-called spirits who had obeyed the summons of the mediums, and acted through them. How tawdry, too, were the so-called messages compared with the sublime words which had come to him almost like a whisper, and yet so plainly that he could hear it above the roar of the ocean:

"The Eternal God is thy Refuge, and underneath are the Everlasting Arms."

This was sublime – sublime in the great comfort it gave him, sublimer still in what it signified to the life of the world.

"It's true, too!" he exclaimed aloud, as he threaded his way along the crowded thoroughfare. "True!"

He stopped as the meaning of the words came to him:

"The Eternal God is thy Refuge, and underneath are the Everlasting Arms."

And because that was true, everything was possible!

As he thought of it, his materialism melted like snow in a tropical sun, and he realised how superficial and how silly his past scepticism had been.

God was behind all, underneath all, in all, through all. And if that was true, He had a thousand agents working to do His will, an infinite variety of means whereby His purposes were carried out. He, Dick Faversham, could not understand them; but what of that? God was greater than the thoughts of the creatures He had made.

But what of his own immediate actions? He had promised Olga that he would that very day send her a telegram where and when he could meet her, and that this telegram would signify his intention to fall in with her plans. She had given him directions where this telegram was to be sent, and he had to confess that he had looked forward to meeting her again with no ordinary pleasure.

The memory of their strange conversation on the previous night, and the picture of her glorious womanhood came to him with a strange vividness. Well, why should he not send the telegram?

He passed a post office just then, and turned as though he would enter. But he did not pass through the doorway. Something, he could not tell what, seemed to hold him back. He thought little of it, however, and still made his way along Oxford Street, towards High Holborn.

Again the problem of the future faced him, and he wondered what to do. Somehow, he could not tell why, but the thought of meeting the beautiful Russian did not seem to be in accord with the sublime words which were surging through his brain:

"The Eternal God is thy Refuge."

He found himself thinking of the wondrous face which had appeared to him as he stood at the door of Wendover Park, and he remembered the words that came to him.

"Pray, pray!" the voice had said. "Watch and pray!"

"God help me!" he cried almost involuntarily. "Great God help me!"

He still threaded his way through the crowd in the great thoroughfare, almost unconscious of what he did. He was scarcely aware that he had uttered a cry to Heaven for help. He passed the end of Chancery Lane and then came to the old timbered houses which stand opposite Gray's Inn Road. But this ancient part of London did not appeal to him. He did not notice that the houses were different from others. He was almost like a man in a dream.

Then suddenly he found himself in Staple Inn. How he had come there he did not know. He had no remembrance of passing through the old doorway, but he was there, and the change from the roar of the great thoroughfare outside and the silence of this little sequestered nook impressed him.

There was not a soul visible in the little square. As all Londoners know, Staple Inn is one of the smallest and quietest in the metropolis. The houses which form it are mostly occupied by professional men, and there is scarcely ever anything like traffic there. But this afternoon there was no one to be seen, and the change from the crowded highway was pleasant.

"What in the world am I doing here?" he asked himself.

But before he had time to answer the question he had propounded he realised a strange sensation. Although he could see nothing, he felt that some presence was near him.

"Listen."

The word was scarcely above a whisper, but he heard it plainly. He looked around him, his senses alert, but nothing was to be seen.

"Can you hear me?"

"Yes." He spoke the word almost involuntarily, and his voice seemed strange to his own ears.

"Do you know Drury Lane?"

"Yes," and he looked around wonderingly, trying to locate the voice.

"To-night, at nine o'clock, you must go to Drury Lane. You must walk westward until you come to Blot Street. Turn up at Blot Street, and keep along the right side. You must turn at the third street. You are sure you are following my instructions?"

"Yes, yes," he answered excitedly. "Who are you? Where are you?"

"You must walk along the third street for about twenty steps, stopping at the door marked 13a. You will knock five times in quick succession. You will wait five seconds, then you will give two more knocks louder than the first. The door will be opened, and you will be asked your business. Your reply will be two words, 'Victory,' 'Dominion.' You will be admitted without further questions. After that use your own judgment."

Suddenly there was a change as if in the whole atmosphere. He had, as it seemed to him, been in a kind of trance, but now he was more than ordinarily awake. And he was alone. Whatever had been near him was gone. The voice had ceased speaking.¹

For some time Dick Faversham stood alone in the square without moving hand or foot. He was in a state of astonishment which was beyond the power of words to describe. But he had no doubt that he had heard the voice; he was as certain that some presence which he could not see had been near him as that he was certain he stood there at that moment.

Outside the square in Holborn the tide of traffic rolled on. Conveyances filled with human life rushed eastward and westward; men and women, oblivious to the fact of any world save their own, made their way to their destinations; but inside the square a man felt he had been in touch with mystery, eternity.

He moved into High Holborn like a man in a dream, and stood for a few seconds watching the faces of the passers-by.

"And not one of them seems to realise that the spirit world is all around them," he reflected.

He never thought of disobeying the commands he had received. The voice had come to him with a note of authority; the message was one which must be obeyed.

Slowly he made his way westward again, and presently came to a post office. He entered without hesitation, wrote a telegram, gave it to the clerk, and, having paid for its dispatch, again made his way along the street.

"There, that's done with," he said, with a sigh of relief.

At nine o'clock that night he found himself in Drury Lane following the instructions he had received. He was quite calm, although his heart throbbed with expectancy. He had little or no thought of what he was going to see or hear; enough for him that he was obeying instructions, that he was acting upon the commands which had come to him for his good. For he had no doubt that these commands were somehow for his benefit. Almost unconsciously he associated the presence near him with the one who had hovered over him with arms outstretched when he had been sinking in the stormy sea.

He had no difficulty in finding Blot Street, and quickly found himself at the third turning of that shabby-looking thoroughfare.

"Chainley Alley," he read in the dim light of the darkened street lamp at the corner.

The place was very quiet. He was now away from the traffic of the broad streets, and ordinary business had ceased for the day. There was nothing to mark Chainley Alley from a hundred others which may still be found in the centre of London. It was simply a dark, grimy little opening which, to the ordinary passer-by, presented no interest whatever. A minute later he stood at 13a. All was dark here, and it was with difficulty that he discerned the number. He listened intently, but heard no sound, and then, with a fast-beating heart, he knocked five times in quick succession. Then, waiting five seconds, he knocked again according to instructions.

The door opened as if by magic. It might seem that he was expected. But the passage into which he looked was as black as ink; neither could he hear anything.

Then suddenly the silence was broken. "Who are you? What do you want?" asked someone unseen.

"'Victory,' 'Dominion,'" he whispered.

A dim light shone, and he saw what looked like a woman of the caretaker order. Evidently the house was bigger than he imagined, for the woman led him down a long corridor which suggested that it was a way to another and a larger block of buildings in the rear.

She opened a door and told him to go in. "You will wait there till I call you," she whispered, and then closed the door behind him.

There was a thick rug on the floor, which muffled the sound of his footsteps, but there was no furniture in the room save a deal table and one straight-backed chair. A tiny gas-jet burnt on the wall, which, however, was extinguished a few seconds after the door had closed.

"This is darkness with a vengeance," reflected Dick, but the fact did not trouble him so much because he had brought a small electric lamp with him. He switched on this light and saw that the room had no outlet at all, save the door. There was neither window nor fireplace, and, in fact, was little more than a large cupboard.

Before he had time to realise what this might mean, he heard the sound of footsteps, which seemed to be close by; this was followed by murmuring voices. Then there were more footsteps, and the voices became clearer.

"Is he come?" he heard one man say.

"Not yet. But he'll soon be here. He did not promise to get here till half-past nine."

From that time there was a general hum of conversation, which was intermingled by the clinking of glasses. It might be that he was close to a kind of club-room, and that the members were arriving and ordering refreshments. The conversation continued, now indistinct, and again more clear. Dick caught snatches of it, but it was not connected, and conveyed but little meaning to him.

Suddenly he heard everything plainly, and a sentence struck him. "I hope he'll be careful," he heard someone say. "The whole lot of us would swing if we were found here together." The man spoke in German, and Dick's interest became tense.

"More likely be shot," someone retorted, with a laugh.

"But we're safe enough. This is the first time we've been here, and every care has been taken."

"I know," said someone, who appeared doubtful, "but if the British Secret Service people have been fools in the past, they are sharp enough now. Schleswig thought he was as safe as houses, but he was cleverly nabbed, and now he's cold meat."

"Never mind," said another voice, "our turn is coming. Gott in Himmel, won't we let them know when we are masters of London! Even now the English don't know that their country is a powder magazine. They little think that, in spite of their Alien Acts and the rest of it, the country is still riddled with friends of the Fatherland. Hark, he's coming!"