Читать книгу The Robe of Lucifer - Fred M. White - Страница 7

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NOT without some hesitation, Ray confided the story of the experiment to Margaret Trefroch. He did this because it was his custom to tell her everything. To the poet's surprise, Margaret displayed no signs of anything but pleasure.

The trio were seated on the cliffs at the time. In Margaret's eyes, something of awesome mystery hung around Greenstrand. The girl possessed a strong romantic bias. With her head in the mist, she saw men's virtues looming large; through the same phantascope their faults became mere miasmas. Greenstrand was a god; in his hands the gold was Aaron's rod to strike the barren rock, and cause the stream of goodness to flow until the flood-tide of the millennium was reached.

The girl sincerely pitied his doubts. She saw in the experiment a means of removing them, and rendering Greenstrand's future peaceful. She only knew three men—her father, her brother, and Julian Ray, the poet. And they were all noble.

Therefore mankind must be noble likewise. Greenstrand's experiment would fail hopelessly. He would realize what a good world it was. The sunward facet of it dazzled her eyes till the flaw was invisible.

"I am glad," she said simply.

Her long hair was blowing in the wind like a wild mane about her ivory shoulders; she spoke in prophecies reminiscent of the classics she had read. She babbled wildly as Cassandra, yet with the gentleness of Ruth. Greenstrand would be gathered into the fold, the flood-gates of his millions would be raised, and the golden stream flow over the land balmily.

"You will fail!" she cried. "I am certain of it. Then you will be utterly crushed for a time, but your faith will return. But you are not going to pick those people out who are likely to favour your theory?"

Greenstrand smiled into the beautiful face. "I am no professional politician, Miss Margaret," he said. "I have not yet learnt the art of moulding my theories to my facts. On the contrary, failure would please me particularly. I want to fail. I want to believe that people like yourself and Ray comprise the lump, and not the leaven. For this reason I have instructed Death, by letter, to fly at the highest game. Hut he will not fail."

"He will," Margaret retorted. "I am certain of it. God will not permit a mere human to stand between Him and the great scheme of salvation. You must be mad to dream such a thing."

"How do you know that I am not an instrument in God's hands?" Greenstrand suggested. "The mighty are put down from their seat sometimes. My whole scheme may be inspired to break the pride of an arrogant unit, in which case I am not a free agent."

"Heaven ordains everything," Margaret murmured.

"But does it?" Greenstrand urged. "If Heaven ordains everything, everything is predestined. Therefore, if you commit a murder, you should not be punished for a thing you cannot help. Your Deity, not you, is the real criminal. On the other hand, if man is entirely a free agent——"

"A truce to all this," Ray cried. "Out upon your free-agent theory! Take the birth and life of a flower, ponder over it, and tell me you cannot see God's handiwork there if you dare, Arthur. I am sorry, now, that I had anything to do with your experiment. When the crash comes, I hope I shall not be too near the ruins."

"The ruins will not be mine," Greenstrand said cynically. "It is a month now since Death went away, and every day I expect to hear from him as to the result of the first experiment. All I know, as yet, is the name of the intended victim."

Ray looked up with languid interest. "I suppose we should be none the wiser if you were to inform us who it is?" he asked. "Death is anything but an ambitious man."

"Ambition has nothing to do with it," Greenstrand replied. "What is mere ambition—only an emotion, at best—compared to the superb arrogance the contact with much money produces? Death has been with me long enough to know that gold can procure practically anything. Allied to this, he has a vivid imagination. He has gone, as I expected he would, to the top of the tree. After all, a prince is only a man in disguise. You can't strangle greed with a purple robe, any more than you can homicide with a rope of hemp. And Wallingford Hope is only human, like the rest of us."

Ray burst into a hearty laugh. Margaret smiled with amusement.

"Wallingford Hope!" the poet cried. "Is he to be the victim? Why not the Pope, or Mr. Gladstone, at once? Why, if there is one public man in this country more than another——"

And Ray paused for sheer lack of words. Everybody knew and admired the present Secretary of the Continental Department. On his inclusion in the Cabinet there had been a perfect chorus of praise, even in the Opposition papers. No words could tell his praises, his virtues were triumphant, even his microscopic faults were virtues dilapidated. A man of the people, Wallingford Hope had forced his way to the front by sheer talent and sterling integrity. He had lately married a wife, who brought him love and beauty and money. What temptation could be his?

"I am amazed, lost in admiration of Death's audacity," Ray exclaimed. "Had I been asked to select my beau ideal of a public man, past or present, I should have unhesitatingly picked out Wallingford Hope. Why, there is nothing to tempt the man with! He is certain to be the next Premier; he has almost scornfully refused a peerage; be is a K.G. Everybody knows that he is persona grata at Court. His seat, at Wallingford Royal, is an ideal place, for I have been there; and he has the finest collection of orchids in England. What can Death possibly do in such a case as this?"

"Spend a couple of millions if he likes," Greenstrand replied indifferently. "I don't anticipate procuring Wallingford Hope for much less."

"You have so much faith as that in your money?"

"Naturally. Don't suppose that Death would approach Hope and brutally request him to betray his trust for so much cash down. I tell you money can do anything. If the greatest imperial interests tremble in the balance, if a European war is practically settled, the Rothschilds can ban the whole thing by a stroke of the pen. Statesmen and armies forsooth! The destiny of Europe could be solved to-morrow by a handful of Jews, over a bottle of port and a pound of filberts. Money is the motive power. Who is the greatest man in Europe?"

"Per se, I suppose you expect me to say the Czar," Ray replied.

"The Czar, decidedly. I shall make no attempt upon the Czar, because he is not picturesque enough. The late autocrat of all the Russias was greater than the present one, morally and physically. And yet you will remember his collapse over the matter of the persecution of the Jews in his dominions. Who brought that about, I should like to know?"

Ray was silent. Margaret seemed pale and uneasy. Greenstrand was bringing the gods of her idolatry about her pink ears. A cold haze uprose from the sea and chilled her; a mist crept across the sky and veiled the sunshine. Along the headlands a flock of gulls were calling dismally. Could such things be?

"Oh, you must fail," she cried, "you shall! I cannot believe what you say. Men are better and nobler than that, and do better things."

"We are not all like you, certainly," Greenstrand said, with a note of regret in his voice. He was beginning to feel something more than an idle fancy for Margaret. Her beautiful transparency filled him with desire—a longing for possession. Were she his wife, he felt that he would never have occasion to doubt her. She would care for him only.

"I am not different to the rest," Margaret said with some indignation. "There are thousands better—more useful. We shall convince you yet, Julien and I. And you will eat the bread of repentance in sackcloth and ashes."

"Let us hope that I may," Greenstrand replied.

"Novelties are always alluring. For your sake I sincerely hope that failure will be my portion. At any rate, we shall know in a few days now. I may hear from Death at any time."

The conversation drifted on to more congenial topics. It was a great delight of Ray's to draw Margaret out, and display the beauties of her mind. She lay back upon the short thymy grass, and talked from the fullness of a ripe understanding. Greenstrand listened; her enthusiasm stirred him, as a glassy sea is ruffled by the wind. When Margaret rose to go at length, he pressed her to remain eagerly. But the girl tripped away down to the valley, saying that the household had need of her services.

"She is divine," Greenstrand said; "an absolutely perfect woman."

Ray smiled slightly. Such praise from Greenland was rare indeed.

"Strange to hear you say so," the poet responded. "According to your showing, there is no thing perfect under the sun. She is only human, after all, you know. How much money would Death want to corrupt her?"

Greenstrand fell into angry mood, therefore illogical. He had been hoist with his own petard, and no man likes to cut his finger with his pet weapon. He roundly accused Ray of coarseness, and a desire to appear for the nonce as a blasé man of the world. It was also a thing unpardonable that he should point his ribald gibes at so fair a creature as Margaret.

Ray's features beamed with fun. "Pooh!" he said good- naturedly; "your armour is only plated, after all. I hit you fairly, my friend; I have found a weapon with which I can crush you at any time."

"All jewels are not paste," Greenstrand said sulkily.

"No jewels are paste, else they are not jewels. But all diamonds are merely charcoal—to argue from your recent point of view. I pin my faith to Margaret. She shall reform you yet, and Death's failure shall complete the chain. We shall see you a proud father of fair children and breeder of fat beeves before we have finished the chapter. Now let us go home and see if there are any letters. There are boiled dabs for dinner."

There was a pile of letters for Greenstrand, most of which he pitched into the fire without the formality of opening them. The contents of most he knew by experience. Beyond these were a bulky packet addressed by Death, and yesterday's Daily Telephone, forwarded by the same hand. Greenstrand did passing justice to Ray's cookery before opening his correspondence. There would be plenty of time whilst Ray was washing up. The meal despatched, Ray proceeded with his domestic offices, whilst Greenstrand turned over the Telephone. Presently he gave a hard chuckle, but his face betrayed no surprise.

"There is an interesting paragraph for you here," he said. "See it for yourself."

Ray took up the paper. On the fifth page was a sensational heading, thus—

FATAL ACCIDENT TO THE CONTINENTAL SECRETARY.

SUDDEN DEATH OF THE MORGAN AMBASSADOR.

Just before going to press we are informed that, late this morning, the Morgan Ambassador was discovered in his library by his valet quite dead. On retiring to rest, the household left Mr. Wallingford Hope, M.P., with the Ambassador, and the latter did not leave the house till daylight. On the police inquiring at the residence of the latter gentleman in the usual course, they found that the Continental Secretary had not returned home. Shortly afterwards the startling intelligence reached Scotland Yard that a body, identified as that of Mr. Hope, had been found fearfully mangled on the line just outside Charing Cross station. It is supposed that the right hon. gentleman must have fallen out of the train, and been killed as he lay unconscious across the metals. For the present the affair is shrouded in mystery, and what brought the popular member there it is impossible to say. The police are investigating the matter. Meanwhile, many rumours are afloat, but it may be taken that the tragic sequence of events has no political significance."

"I thought that paragraph would interest you," Greenstrand remarked.

"It's a horrible thing," Ray said hoarsely. "What does Death say?"

"He merely remarks that he sends me a paper whereby I can see for myself that his efforts have been successful. He goes on to say that he has placed the facts in the form of a narrative, so that I can see the result of his first adventure. Death has one or two other victims marked down, and will advise me as to their experiences in a similar manner. It should make dramatic reading, and certainly not lack human interest. Shall I proceed to read you Death's first story?"

"Not yet," Ray protested. "I am too utterly bewildered just at present. Let us defer it till Margaret can be present. Remember how interested in the experiment she is. For myself, I feel like a man in a dream."

Greenstrand laid his bulky packet aside. It was evening before Ray returned with Margaret, who appeared pale and agitated as himself.

"Julien has told me everything," she said. "I could not have believed it possible. Will you please to read us the story without delay?"

"Certainly," Greenstrand replied. "Push the lamp across the table, please. I find the narrative to be very clear and succinct. As you know, it is in the form of a story."

And, followed with breathless interest, Greenstrand read as hereafter is written.