The Darkest Hours - 18 Chilling Dystopias in One Edition. Samuel Butler
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it, Father Franklin?"
Percy stood up abruptly.
"This is no good, madam," he said. "What is the use of these questions?"
The girl looked at him in open-eyed astonishment, still with her hand on her husband's knee.
"The use, Father Franklin! Why, we want to know. There is no church law against your telling us, is there?"
Percy hesitated again. He did not understand in the least what she was after. Then he saw that he would give them an advantage if he lost his head at all: so he sat down again.
"Certainly not. I will tell you if you wish to know. I heard Mrs. Brand's confession, and gave her absolution."
"Oh! yes; and that does it, then? And what next?"
"She ought to receive Holy Communion, and anointing, if she is in danger of death."
Oliver twitched suddenly.
"Christ!" he said softly.
"Oliver!" cried the girl entreatingly. "Please leave this to me. It is much better so.—And then, I suppose, Father Franklin, you want to give those other things to my mother, too?"
"They are not absolutely necessary," said the priest, feeling, he did not know why, that he was somehow playing a losing game.
"Oh! they are not necessary? But you would like to?"
"I shall do so if possible. But I have done what is necessary."
It required all his will to keep quiet. He was as a man who had armed himself in steel, only to find that his enemy was in the form of a subtle vapour. He simply had not an idea what to do next. He would have given anything for the man to have risen and flown at his throat, for this girl was too much for them both.
"Yes," she said softly. "Well, it is hardly to be expected that my husband should give you leave to come here again. But I am very glad that you have done what you think necessary. No doubt it will be a satisfaction to you, Father Franklin, and to the poor old thing upstairs, too. While we—- we—" she pressed her husband's knee—"we do not mind at all. Oh!—but there is one thing more."
"If you please," said Percy, wondering what on earth was coming.
"You Christians—forgive me if I say anything rude—but, you know, you Christians have a reputation for counting heads, and making the most of converts. We shall be so much obliged, Father Franklin, if you will give us your word not to advertise this—this incident. It would distress my husband, and give him a great deal of trouble."
"Mrs. Brand—-" began the priest.
"One moment…. You see, we have not treated you badly. There has been no violence. We will promise not to make scenes with my mother. Will you promise us that?"
Percy had had time to consider, and he answered instantly.
"Certainly, I will promise that."
Mabel sighed contentedly.
"Well, that is all right. We are so much obliged…. And I think we may say this, that perhaps after consideration my husband may see his way to letting you come here again to do Communion and—and the other thing—-"
Again that spasm shook the man beside her.
"Well, we will see about that. At any rate, we know your address, and can let you know…. By the way, Father Franklin, are you going back to Westminster to-night?"
He bowed.
"Ah! I hope you will get through. You will find London very much excited. Perhaps you heard—-"
"Felsenburgh?" said Percy.
"Yes. Julian Felsenburgh," said the girl softly, again with that strange excitement suddenly alight in her eyes. "Julian Felsenburgh," she repeated. "He is there, you know. He will stay in England for the present."
Again Percy was conscious of that slight touch of fear at the mention of that name.
"I understand there is to be peace," he said.
The girl rose and her husband with her.
"Yes," she said, almost compassionately, "there is to be peace. Peace at last." (She moved half a step towards him, and her face glowed like a rose of fire. Her hand rose a little.) "Go back to London, Father Franklin, and use your eyes. You will see him, I dare say, and you will see more besides." (Her voice began to vibrate.) "And you will understand, perhaps, why we have treated you like this—why we are no longer afraid of you—why we are willing that my mother should do its she pleases. Oh! you will understand, Father Franklin if not to-night, to-morrow; or if not to-morrow, at least in a very short time."
"Mabel!" cried her husband.
The girl wheeled, and threw her arms round him, and kissed him on the mouth.
"Oh! I am not ashamed, Oliver, my dear. Let him go and see for himself. Good-night, Father Franklin."
As he went towards the door, hearing the ping of the bell that some one touched in the room behind him, he turned once more, dazed and bewildered; and there were the two, husband and wife, standing in the soft, sunny light, as if transfigured. The girl had her arm round the man's shoulder, and stood upright and radiant as a pillar of fire; and even on the man's face there was no anger now—nothing but an almost supernatural pride and confidence. They were both smiling.
Then Percy passed out into the soft, summer night.
II
Percy understood nothing except that he was afraid, as he sat in the crowded car that whirled him up to London. He scarcely even heard the talk round him, although it was loud and continuous; and what he heard meant little to him. He understood only that there had been strange scenes, that London was said to have gone suddenly mad, that Felsenburgh had spoken that night in Paul's House.
He was afraid at the way in which he had been treated, and he asked himself dully again and again what it was that had inspired that treatment; it seemed that he had been in the presence of the supernatural; he was conscious of shivering a little, and of the symptoms of an intolerable sleepiness. It was scarcely strange to him that he should be sitting in a crowded car at two o'clock of a summer dawn.
Thrice the car stopped, and he stared out at the signs of confusion that were everywhere; at the figures that ran in the twilight between the tracks, at a couple of wrecked carriages, a tumble of tarpaulins; he listened mechanically to the hoots and cries that sounded everywhere.
As he stepped out at last on to the platform, he found it very much as he had left it two hours before. There was the same desperate rush as the car discharged its load, the same dead body beneath the seat; and above all, as he ran helplessly behind the crowd, scarcely knowing whither he ran or why, above him burned the same stupendous message beneath the clock. Then he found himself in the lift, and a minute later he was out on the steps behind the station.
There, too, was an astonishing sight. The lamps still burned overhead, but beyond them lay the first pale streaks of the false dawn. The street that ran now straight to the old royal palace, uniting there, as at the centre of a web, with those that came from Westminster, the Mall and Hyde Park, was one solid pavement of heads. On this side and that rose up the hotels and "Houses of Joy," the windows all ablaze with light, solemn and triumphant as if to welcome a king; while far ahead against the sky stood the monstrous palace outlined in fire, and alight from within like all other houses within view. The noise was bewildering. It was impossible to distinguish one sound from another. Voices, horns, drums, the tramp of a thousand footsteps on the rubber pavements, the sombre roll of wheels from the station behind—all united in one overwhelmingly solemn booming, overscored by shriller notes.
It was impossible to move.
He found himself standing in a position of extraordinary advantage,