Chapter 6

The volor-stage was comparatively empty this afternoon, as the little party of six stepped out on to it from the lift. There was nothing to distinguish these from ordinary travellers. The two Cardinals of Germany and England were wrapped in plain furs, without insignia of any kind; their chaplains stood near them, while the two men-servants hurried forward with the bags to secure a private compartment.

The four kept complete silence, watching the busy movements of the officials on board, staring unseeingly at the sleek, polished monster that lay netted in steel at their feet, and the great folded fins that would presently be cutting the thin air at a hundred and fifty miles an hour.

Then Percy, by a sudden movement, turned from the others, went to the open window that looked over Rome, and leaned there with his elbows on the sill, looking.

It was a strange view before him.

It was darkening now towards sunset, and the sky, primrose-green overhead, deepened to a clear tawny orange above the horizon, with a sanguine line or two at the edge, and beneath that lay the deep evening violet of the city, blotted here and there by the black of cypresses and cut by the thin leafless pinnacles of a poplar grove that aspired without the walls. But right across the picture rose the enormous dome, of an indescribable tint; it was grey, it was violet--it was what the eye chose to make it--and through it, giving its solidity the air of a bubble, shone the southern sky, flushed too with faint orange. It was this that was supreme and dominant; the serrated line of domes, spires and pinnacles, the crowded roofs beneath, in the valley dell’ Inferno, the fairy hills far away--all were but the annexe to this mighty tabernacle of God. Already lights were beginning to shine, as for thirty centuries they had shone; thin straight skeins of smoke were ascending against the darkening sky. The hum of this Mother of cities was beginning to be still, for the keen air kept folks indoors; and the evening peace was descending that closed another day and another year. Beneath in the narrow streets Percy could see tiny figures, hurrying like belated ants; the crack of a whip, the cry of a woman, the wail of a child came up to this immense elevation like details of a murmur from another world. They, too, would soon be quiet, and there would be peace.

A heavy bell beat faintly from far away, and the drowsy city turned to murmur its good-night to the Mother of God. From a thousand towers came the tiny melody, floating across the great air spaces, in a thousand accents, the solemn bass of St. Peter’s, the mellow tenor of the Lateran, the rough cry from some old slum church, the peevish tinkle of convents and chapels--all softened and made mystical in this grave evening air--it was the wedding of delicate sound and clear light. Above, the liquid orange sky; beneath, this sweet, subdued ecstasy of bells.

“Alma Redemptoris Mater,” whispered Percy, his eyes wet with tears. “Gentle Mother of the Redeemer--the open door of the sky, star of the sea--have mercy on sinners. The Angel of the Lord announced it to Mary, and she conceived of the Holy Ghost... Pour, therefore, Lord, Thy grace into our hearts. Let us, who know Christ’s incarnation, rise through passion and cross to the glory of Resurrection--through the same Christ our Lord.“

Another bell clanged sharply close at hand, calling him down to earth, and wrong, and labour and grief; and he turned to see the motionless volor itself one blaze of brilliant internal light, and the two priests following the German Cardinal across the gangway.

It was the rear compartment that the men had taken; and when he had seen that the old man was comfortable, still without a word he passed out again into the central passage to see the last of Rome.

The exit-door had now been snapped, and as Percy stood at the opposite window looking out at the high wall that would presently sink beneath him, throughout the whole of the delicate frame began to run the vibration of the electric engine. There was the murmur of talking somewhere, a heavy step shook the floor, a bell clanged again, twice, and a sweet wind-chord sounded. Again it sounded; the vibration ceased, and the edge of the high wall against the tawny sky on which he had fixed his eyes sank suddenly like a dropped bar, and he staggered a little in his place. A moment later the dome rose again, and itself sank, the city, a fringe of towers and a mass of dark roofs, pricked with light, span like a whirlpool; the jewelled stars themselves sprang this way and that; and with one more long cry the marvellous machine righted itself, beat with its wings, and settled down, with the note of the flying air passing through rising shrillness into vibrant silence, to its long voyage to the north.

Further and further sank the city behind; it was a patch now: greyness on black. The sky seemed to grow more huge and all-containing as the earth relapsed into darkness; it glowed like a vast dome of wonderful glass, darkening even as it glowed; and as Percy dropped his eyes once more round the extreme edge of the car the city was but a line and a bubble--a line and a swelling--a line, and nothingness.

He drew a long breath, and went back to his friends.

“Tell me again,” said the old Cardinal, when the two were settled down opposite to one another, and the chaplains were gone to another compartment. “Who is this man?”

“This man? He was secretary to Oliver Brand, one of our politicians. He fetched me to old Mrs. Brand’s death bed, and lost his place in consequence. He is in journalism now. He is perfectly honest. No, he is not a Catholic, though he longs to be one. That is why they confided in him.”

“And they?”

“I know nothing of them, except that they are a desperate set. They have enough faith to act, but not enough to be patient ... I suppose they thought this man would sympathise. But unfortunately he has a conscience, and he also sees that any attempt of this kind would be the last straw on the back of toleration. Eminence, do you realise how violent the feeling is against us?”

The old man shook his head lamentably.

“Do I not?” he murmured. “And my Germans are in it? Are you sure?”

“Eminence, it is a vast plot. It has been simmering for months. There have been meetings every week. They have kept the secret marvellously. Your Germans only delayed that the blow might be more complete. And now, to-morrow--” Percy drew back with a despairing gesture.

“And the Holy Father?”

“I went to him as soon as mass was over. He withdrew all opposition, and sent for you. It is our one chance, Eminence.”

“And you think our plan will hinder it?”

“I have no idea, but I can think of nothing else. I shall go straight to the Archbishop and tell him all. We arrive, I believe, at three o’clock, and you in Berlin about seven, I suppose, by German time. The function is fixed for eleven. By eleven, then, we shall have done all that is possible. The Government will know, and they will know, too, that we are innocent in Rome. I imagine they will cause it to be announced that the Cardinal-Protector and the Archbishop, with his coadjutors, will be present in the sacristies. They will double every guard; they will parade volors overhead--and then--well! in God’s hands be the rest.”

“Do you think the conspirators will attempt it?”

“I have no idea,” said Percy shortly.

“I understand they have alternative plans.”

“Just so. If all is clear, they intend dropping the explosive from above; if not, at least three men have offered to sacrifice themselves by taking it into the Abbey themselves ... And you, Eminence?”

The old man eyed him steadily.

“My programme is yours,” he said. “Eminence, have you considered the effect in either case? If nothing happens--”

“If nothing happens we shall be accused of a fraud, of seeking to advertise ourselves. If anything happens--well, we shall all go before God together. Pray God it may be the second,” he added passionately.

“It will be at least easier to bear,” observed the old man.

“I beg your pardon, Eminence. I should not have said that.”

There fell a silence between the two, in which no sound was heard but the faint untiring vibration of the screw, and the sudden cough of a man in the next compartment. Percy leaned his head wearily on his hand, and stared from the window.

The earth was now dark beneath them--an immense emptiness; above, the huge engulfing sky was still faintly luminous, and through the high frosty mist through which they moved stars glimmered now and again, as the car swayed and tacked across the wind.

“It will be cold among the Alps,” murmured Percy. Then he broke off. “And I have not one shred of evidence,” he said; “nothing but the word of a man.”

“And you are sure?”

“I am sure.”

“Eminence,” said the German suddenly, staring straight into his face, “the likeness is extraordinary.”

Percy smiled listlessly. He was tired of bearing that.

“What do you make of it?” persisted the other.

“I have been asked that before,” said Percy. “I have no views.”

“It seems to me that God means something,” murmured the German heavily, still staring at him.

“Well, Eminence?”

“A kind of antithesis--a reverse of the medal. I do not know.”

Again there was silence. A chaplain looked in through the glazed door, a homely, blue-eyed German, and was waved away once more.

“Eminence,” said the old man abruptly, “there is surely more to speak of. Plans to be made.”

Percy shook his head.

“There are no plans to be made,” he said. “We know nothing but the fact--no names--nothing. We--we are like children in a tiger’s cage. And one of us has just made a gesture in the tiger’s face.”

“I suppose we shall communicate with one another?”

“If we are in existence.”

It was curious how Percy took the lead. He had worn his scarlet for about three months, and his companion for twelve years; yet it was the younger who dictated plans and arranged. He was scarcely conscious of its strangeness, however. Ever since the shocking news of the morning, when a new mine had been sprung under the shaking Church, and he had watched the stately ceremonial, the gorgeous splendour, the dignified, tranquil movements of the Pope and his court, with a secret that burned his heart and brain--above all, since that quick interview in which old plans had been reversed and a startling decision formed, and a blessing given and received, and a farewell looked not uttered--all done in half-an-hour--his whole nature had concentrated itself into one keen tense force, like a coiled spring. He felt power tingling to his finger-tips--power and the dulness of an immense despair. Every prop had been cut, every brace severed; he, the City of Rome, the Catholic Church, the very supernatural itself, seemed to hang now on one single thing--the Finger of God. And if that failed--well, nothing would ever matter any more...

He was going now to one of two things--ignominy or death. There was no third thing--unless, indeed, the conspirators were actually taken with their instruments upon them. But that was impossible. Either they would refrain, knowing that God’s ministers would fall with them, and in that case there would be the ignominy of a detected fraud, of a miserable attempt to win credit. Or they would not refrain; they would count the death of a Cardinal and a few bishops a cheap price to pay for revenge--and in that case well, there was Death and Judgment. But Percy had ceased to fear. No ignominy could be greater than that which he already bore--the ignominy of loneliness and discredit. And death could be nothing but sweet--it would at least be knowledge and rest. He was willing to risk all on God.

The other, with a little gesture of apology, took out his office book presently, and began to read.

Percy looked at him with an immense envy. Ah! if only he were as old as that! He could bear a year or two more of this misery, but not fifty years, he thought. It was an almost endless vista that (even if things went well) opened before him, of continual strife, self-repression, energy, misrepresentation from his enemies. The Church was sinking further every day. What if this new spasm of fervour were no more than the dying flare of faith? How could he bear that? He would have to see the tide of atheism rise higher and more triumphant every day; Felsenburgh had given it an impetus of whose end there was no prophesying. Never before had a single man wielded the full power of democracy. Then once more he looked forward to the morrow. Oh! if it could but end in death!... Beati mortui qui in Domino moriuntur!...

It was no good; it was cowardly to think in this fashion. After all, God was God--He takes up the isles as a very little thing.

Percy took out his office book, found Prime and St. Sylvester, signed himself with the cross, and began to pray. A minute later the two chaplains slipped in once more, and sat down; and all was silent, save for that throb of the screw, and the strange whispering rush of air outside.

It was about nineteen o’clock that the ruddy English conductor looked in at the doorway, waking Percy from his doze.

“Dinner will be served in half-an-hour, gentlemen,” he said (speaking Esperanto, as the rule was on international cars). “We do not stop at Turin to-night.”

He shut the door and went out, and the sound of closing doors came down the corridor as he made the same announcement to each compartment.

There were no passengers to descend at Turin, then, reflected Percy; and no doubt a wireless message had been received that there were none to come on board either. That was good news: it would give him more time in London. It might even enable Cardinal Steinmann to catch an earlier volor from Paris to Berlin; but he was not sure bow they ran. It was a pity that the German had not been able to catch the thirteen o’clock from Rome to Berlin direct. So he calculated, in a kind of superficial insensibility.