The Complete Novels of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Arthur Conan DoyleЧитать онлайн книгу.
she had turned and was describing something or someone else. But she had left a badly-shaken man upon the platform behind her.
It was at this point that the orderly service had a remarkable interruption which surprised the audience as much as it did the two visitors. This was the sudden appearance beside the chairman of a tall, pale-faced bearded man dressed like a superior artisan, who held up his hand with a quietly impressive gesture as one who was accustomed to exert authority. He then half-turned and said a word to Mr. Bolsover.
“This is Mr. Miromar of Dalston,” said the chairman. “Mr. Miromar has a message to deliver. We are always glad to hear from Mr. Miromar.”
The reporters could only get a half-view of the newcomer’s face, but both of them were struck by his noble bearing and by the massive outline of his head which promised very unusual intellectual power. His voice when he spoke rang clearly and pleasantly through the hall.
“I have been ordered to give the message wherever I think that there are ears to hear it. There are some here who are ready for it, and that is why I have come. They wish that the human race should gradually understand the situation so that there shall be the less shock or panic. I am one of several who are chosen to carry the news.”
“A lunatic, I’m afraid!” whispered Malone, scribbling hard upon his knee. There was a general inclination to smile among the audience. And yet there was something in the man’s manner and voice which made them hang on every word.
“Things have now reached a climax. The very idea of progress has been made material. It is progress to go swiftly, to send swift messages, to build new machinery. All this is a diversion of real ambition. There is only one real progress — spiritual progress. Mankind gives it a lip tribute but presses on upon its false road of material science.
“The Central Intelligence recognized that amid all the apathy there was also much honest doubt which had out-grown old creeds and had a right to fresh evidence. Therefore fresh evidence was sent — evidence which made the life after death as clear as the sun in the heavens. It was laughed at by scientists, condemned by the churches, became the butt of the newspapers, and was discarded with contempt. That was the last and greatest blunder of humanity.”
The audience had their chins up now. General speculations were beyond their mental horizon. But this was very clear to their comprehension. There was a murmur of sympathy and applause.
“The thing was now hopeless. It had got beyond all control. Therefore something sterner was needed since Heaven’s gift had been disregarded. The blow fell. Ten million young men were laid dead upon the ground. Twice as many were mutilated. That was God’s first warning to mankind. But it was vain. The same dull materialism prevailed as before. Years of grace were given, and save the stirrings of the spirit seen in such churches as these, no change was anywhere to be seen. The nations heaped up fresh loads of sin, and sin must ever be atoned for. Russia became a cesspool. Germany was unrepentant of her terrible materialism which had been the prime cause of the war. Spain and Italy were sunk in alternate atheism and superstition. France had no religious ideal. Britain was confused and distracted, full of wooden sects which had nothing of life in them. America had abused her glorious opportunities and, instead of being the loving younger brother to a stricken Europe, she held up all economic reconstruction by her money claims; she dishonoured the signature of her own president, and she refused to join that League of Peace which was the one hope of the future. All have sinned, but some more than others, and their punishment will be in exact proportion.
“And that punishment soon comes. These are the exact words I have been asked to give you. I read them lest I should in any way garble them.”
He took a slip of paper from his pocket and read:
“‘What we want is, not that folk should be frightened, but that they should begin to change themselves — to develop themselves on more spiritual lines. We are not trying to make people nervous, but to prepare while there is yet time. The world cannot go on as it has done. It would destroy itself if it did. Above all we must sweep away the dark cloud of theology which has come between mankind and God’.”
He folded up the paper and replaced it in his pocket. “That is what I have been asked to tell you. Spread the news where there seems to be a window in the soul. Say to them, ‘Repent! Reform! the Time is at hand’.”
He had paused and seemed about to turn. The spell was broken. The audience rustled and leaned back in its seats. Then a voice from the back:
“Is this the end of the world, mister?”
“No,” said the stranger, curtly.
“Is it the Second Coming?” asked another voice.
“Yes.”
With quick light steps he threaded his way among the chairs on the platform and stood near the door. When Malone next looked round he was gone.
“He is one of these Second-coming fanatics,” he whispered to Enid. “There are a lot of them — Christadelphians, Russellites, Bible Students and what-not. But he was impressive.”
“Very,” said Enid.
“We have, I am sure, been very interested in what our friend has told us,” said the chairman. “Mr. Miromar is in hearty sympathy with our movement even though he cannot be said actually to belong to it. I am sure he is always welcome upon our platforms. As to his prophecy, it seems to me the world has had enough trouble without our anticipating any more. If it is as our friend says, we can’t do much to mend the matter. We can only go about our daily jobs, do them as well as we can, and await the event in full confidence of help from above. If it’s the Day of Judgment tomorrow,” he added, smiling, “I mean to look after my provision store at Hammersmith today. We shall now continue with the service.”
There was a vigorous appeal for money and a great deal about the building-fund from the young secretary. “It’s a shame to think that there are more left in the street than in the building on a Sunday night. We all give our services. No one takes a penny. Mrs. Debbs is here for her bare expenses. But we want another thousand pounds before we can start. There is one brother here who mortgaged his house to help us. That’s the spirit that wins. Now let us see what you can do for us to-night.”
A dozen soup-plates circulated, and a hymn was sung to the accompaniment of much chinking of coin. Enid and Malone conversed in undertones.
“Professor Summerlee died, you know, at Naples last year.”
“Yes, I remember him well.”
“And ‘old C’ was, of course, your father.”
“It was really remarkable.”
“Poor old Summerlee. He thought survival was an absurdity. And here he is — or here he seems to be.”
The soup-plates returned — it was mostly brown soup, unhappily, and they were deposited on the table where the eager eye of the secretary appraised their value. Then the little shaggy man from Australia gave a benediction in the same simple fashion as the opening prayer. It needed no Apostolic succession or laying-on of hands to make one feel that his words were from a human heart and might well go straight to a Divine one. Then the audience rose and sang their final farewell hymn — a hymn with a haunting tune and a sad, sweet refrain of “God keep you safely till we meet once more.” Enid was surprised to feel the tears running down her cheeks. These earnest, simple folks with their direct methods had wrought upon her more than all the gorgeous service and rolling music of the cathedral.
Mr. Bolsover, the stout president, was in the waiting-room and so was Mrs. Debbs.
“Well, I expect you are going to let us have it,” he laughed. “We are used to it Mr. Malone. We don’t mind. But you will see the turn some day. These articles may rise up in judgement.”
“I will treat it fairly, I assure you.”
“Well, we ask no more.” The medium was leaning with her elbow on the mantel piece, austere and aloof.
“I am afraid