Dawn of All, Robert Hugh Benson [ebook reader with highlighter txt] 📗

cant."

He paused again, and his eyes twinkled.

"You know honours and privileges are worth nothing if every one has them. If we all wore crowns, the kings would go bareheaded."


CHAPTER V


(I)

He awoke suddenly, at some movement, and for an instant did not remember where he was.

For nearly a week they had stayed on at Versailles; and each day that had passed had done its share in making this fairyland seem more like a reality. But that strange subconscious self of his, for which even now there seemed no accounting, was still obstinate; it still assured him that the world ought not to be like this, that religion ought not to be so concrete and effective--that he would awake soon and find himself in some desolate state of affairs where Faith, hemmed in by enemies, still fought for very life against irresistible odds. It was at night and at morning that the mood came on him most forcibly; when instinct, free from facts, and ranging clear of the will's dominion, asserted itself most strongly, and as he awoke this night it was on him again.

He looked round the dark little room with bewildered eyes; then he fumbled with a button, and all was flooded with light.

He was lying in a little spring-bed, set within two padded sides, like a berth in a steamship. And beside him was the closed bureau which he perceived to be washing arrangements in disguise; overhead protruded a broad shelf; on the wall, above a little couch, hung silk curtains over a window; and, as they swayed slightly with some movement he caught sight of glass beyond. On the door, at the foot of his bed, hung his cassock, and the purple cincture that lay across it recalled him to at least a part of the facts. The cabin was upholstered and painted in clean white, and an electric globe emerged from the ceiling.

He was next conscious of cold, and instinctively leaned forward to draw the quilt farther over his knees. Then, with a flash, he remembered, and, in spite of the cold, was out of bed in a moment, kneeling on the couch and peering out through the curtains.

At first he could see nothing at all. There was but an unfathomable gulf beyond the glass. He stood up on the couch, and drawing the curtains behind his head to shut out the light, he once more stared out. Then he began to see.

At first he could see nothing at all. There was but an unfathomable gulf beyond the glass. He stood up on the couch, and drawing the curtains behind his head to shut out the light, he once more stared out. Then he began to see.

Immediately opposite him glimmered a huge white outline--in the incalculable night it might be a hundred yards or a mile away. It was of irregular outline, for the star-strewn sky showed in patches and rifts above it. And this white mass curved away beneath, under the ship in which he travelled, till it met, at a point which he could but just discern, a blackness that rose to meet it.

Then, as his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he began to see that the huge whiteness was flitting past, steadily and leisurely, from right to left; that it was streaked with shadows or clefts; and that following it, as in a sliding procession, came another, like it, yet (it seemed) more distant.

All this time, too, the silence was profound. There was but a soft humming note somewhere in the air, and the faintest sense of vibration in the metal-work on which his hands were pressed. Once too he heard a footstep pass softly and rhythmically overhead, as if some watcher moved up and down the length of the upper deck.

The man dropped the curtains and sat back on his heels, trying to force into his imagination the facts that he now perceived and remembered.

They had left St. Germains last night, after dining at Versailles. They were now crossing the Alps. They would be in Rome for Mass and breakfast. . . . They were traversing at this moment, no doubt, only a thousand feet high, one of those passes up which (he thought he remembered from history) the old railway-trains had been accustomed to climb, yard by yard and spiral by spiral, a hundred years before . . .

In a minute or two he leaned forward and stared again, once more closing the curtains behind his head.

The sky seemed a little brighter, he thought, than when he had looked just now. Perhaps the moon was hiding somewhere. And certainly the sky was more in evidence. Far away to the left behind, passing even as he looked, moved those gigantic horns of white, as if the ship stood still and the earth turned beneath; and below now, sloping to the right, lay long lines of darkness, jutting here and there with a sudden crag against the blaze of stars. It was marvellous, he thought, how still all lay; there was a steady hiss, now heard for the first time, as the air tore past the glassy sides of the bird-shaped ship, as thin as the cry of a bat.

He shifted on his knees a little, and staring forwards, saw far ahead and at what seemed an incalculable distance something that baffled him entirely, for it changed its aspect every instant that he watched.

At first it was no more than a patch of luminosity; and he thought it to be, perhaps, a lighted town. But the character of it was changed as he formulated his thought and three brilliant spots like blue stars broke out on a sudden, and these three stars shifted their positions. He kept his eyes on these, marvelling; and, with something very like fear, saw that they were approaching upwards and onwards with the swiftness of thought.

Up and on they came. He shrank back a little, instinctively; and then, as he leaned forward once more, determined to understand, shrank back with a sharp indrawing of breath, as there whirled past, it appeared only a few yards away, a flare of brilliant blue lines, in the midst of which passed a phantom-like body in a mist and accompanied by a musical sound (it seemed) of extraordinary clarity and beauty, that rose from a deep organ-note to the shrill of a flute, and down again Into a bass and a silence. . . .

He smiled to himself as he climbed back into bed a minute or two later, when he had reconstructed the phenomena and interpreted them. It was but another volor, bound northwards, and it had probably passed at least half a mile away.

Well, he must sleep again if he could. They would be in Rome by morning.

* * * * *


They had delayed their departure from Versailles to the last possible moment, since France was, after all, under the circumstances, one of the best places in the world for Monsignor to pick up again the threads of life. For one thing, it was near to England--English was spoken there amongst the educated almost as frequently as French; yet it was not England, and Monsignor's plight would not cause him any great inconvenience. Further, France was at present the theatre of the world's interest, since the Emperor was there, and on the Emperor's future depended largely the destinies of Europe: his conversion, it was thought, might be the final death-blow to Socialism in his dominions.

Monsignor had employed his time well. Not only had he learned accurately the general state of the world, but morning by morning he had familiarized himself with his own work, and felt, by now, very nearly competent to finish his lessons in England. Cardinal Bellairs communicated with him almost every day, and professed himself delighted with the progress made. Finally he had talked Latin continually with Father Jervis in preparation for Rome, and would have passed muster, at least, in general conversation.

* * * * *


The two motored into the city from the volor-station outside, and everywhere as they went through the streets and crossed the Tiber on their way to the Leonine City, where they were to lodge, were evidences of the feast.

For the whole route from Vatican to Lateran, which they crossed more than once, was one continual triumphal way. Masts had been erected, swathed in the Papal colours and crowned with garlands; barriers ran from mast to mast, behind which already the crowds were beginning to gather, though it was hardly past six o'clock in the morning; and from every window hung carpets, banners, and tapestries. The motor was stopped at least half a dozen times; but the prelate's insignia passed them through quickly; and it was just half-past six as they drew up before an old palace situated on the right in the road leading from the Tiber to the Vatican, and scarcely a quarter of a mile away from St. Peter's.

Monsignor glanced up at the carved and painted arms above the doorway and smiled.

"I did not know you were bringing me here," he said.

"You know it?"

"Why, it's the old palace where the kings of England lodged, isn't it?"

Father Jervis smiled.

"Your memory's improving," he said.

Then a magnificent servant came out, bowed profoundly, and opened the door of the car.

"By the way," said Father Jervis as they went in, "I'd better go and enquire the details at the Vatican. You might give me your card. I'll go at once, and then come back and join you at breakfast."

It was a pleasant little suite of rooms, not unlike in arrangements to those of Versailles. The windows looked out on the central court, where a fountain played, and the rooms themselves were furnished in the usual Roman fashion--painted ceilings, stone floors, and a few damask hangings.

Monsignor turned to the servant who was superintending the two Englishmen they had brought.

"I've not been in Rome for some time," he said in Latin. "Tell me what this house is now?"

"Monsignor, it is the English palace. Monsignor is in the apartment of His Eminence Cardinal Bellairs."

"The King himself stays here?"

"It is His Majesty's palace," said the man. "The Prince George arrived two days ago. His Highness is in the apartment below."

Monsignor smiled. He understood now Father Jervis' evasions as to where they were to stay in Rome. Plainly it was determined that he should have a front seat at all ceremonies.

Ten minutes later, as he came out of his bedroom, Father Jervis himself came in.

"You have your choice, Monsignor," he said. "As a Domestic Prelate you have the right to walk in the procession (here is the permit), or as occupying rooms here we can, if you prefer, see the procession from the front windows."

"Tell me what the programme is."

"At nine the procession leaves St. Peter's to go to the Lateran--at least they call it nine. There the Holy Father sings Mass, as bishop in his own cathedral. On the return of the procession, I suppose about midday, the Holy Father visits the tomb of St. Peter. Then this afternoon he is present at Vespers in St. Peter's; and afterwards gives the blessing Urbi et Orbi from the window as usual."

"What would you advise?"

"Well, I should advise your remaining here till mid-day. There's