War in Heaven, Charles Williams [novels for teenagers .txt] 📗

to Barbara, and to the mind of the devotee the god graciously assented. Conversion was natural to him, and propaganda, and the sacrifice both of himself and others, if that god demanded it. He adored as he lay in vigil, and from that adoration issued the calm strength of a supernatural union. As the morning broke he smiled happily on the serene world around him.

Sir Giles took himself off after breakfast, leaving his small amount of luggage to be sent on. Gregory and Lionel left Ludding to call them if Barbara moved—a nurse was to arrive later—and went to the telephone in the hall. There, after some trouble, Gregory got through to his desired number and, Lionel gathered, to the unknown Manasseh. He explained the circumstances briefly, urging the other to take the next train to Fardles.

“What?” he asked in a moment. “Yes, Cully—near Fardles… Well, anything in reason, anything, indeed… What? I don’t understand… Yes, I know you did, but… No, but the point is, that I haven’t… Yes, though I don’t know how you knew… But I can’t… Oh, nonsense! … No, but look here, Manasseh, this is serious; the patient’s had some sort of fit or something… But you can’t mean it… Oh, well, I suppose so… But, Manasseh… But you wouldn’t… No, stop… “

He put the receiver back slowly and turned very gravely to Lionel. “This is terrible,” he said. “You know that chalice I had? Well, I knew Manasseh wanted it. He thinks he can cure Mrs. Rackstraw, and he offers to try, if I’ll give him the chalice.”

“Oh, well,” Lionel said insincerely, “if he wants that—I suppose it’s very valuable? Too valuable for me to buy, I mean?”

“My dear fellow,” Gregory said, “you should have it without a second thought. Do you suppose I should set a miserable chalice against your wife’s health? I like and admire her far too much. But I haven’t got it. Don’t you remember I told you yesterday—but we’ve been through a good deal since then—the Archdeacon’s bolted with it. He insists that it is his, though Colonel Conyers is quite satisfied that it isn’t, and I really think the police might be allowed to judge. He and Kenneth Mornington and a neighbour of mine bolted with it—out of my own house, if you please! And now, when I’d give anything for it, I can’t get hold of it.” He stamped his foot in the apparent anger of frustrated desire.

The little violence seemed to break Lionel’s calm. He caught Gregory’s arm. “But must your friend have that?” he cried. “Won’t anything else in heaven or hell please him? Will he let Babs die in agony because he wants a damned wine-cup? Try him again, try him again!”

Gregory shook his head. “He’ll ring us up in an hour,” he said, “in case we can promise it to him. That’ll give him time to catch the best morning train to Fardles. But what can I do? I know the Archdeacon and Mornington have taken it to the Duke’s house. But they’re all very angry with me, and how can I ask them for it?” He looked up suddenly. “But what about you?” he said, almost with excitement. “You know Mornington well enough—I daren’t even speak to him; there was a row about that book yesterday at the office, and he misunderstood something I said. He’s rather—well, quick to take offence, you know. But he knows your wife, and he might be able to influence that Archdeacon; they’re very thick. Get on the ‘phone to him and try. Try, try anything to save her now.”

He wheeled round to the telephone and explained what he wanted to the local Exchange; then the two of them waited together. “Manasseh’s a hard man,” Gregory went on. “I’ve known him cure people in a marvellous way for nothing at all, but if he’s asked for anything he never makes any compromise. And he doesn’t always succeed, of course, but he does almost always. He works through the mind largely—though he knows about certain healing drugs he brought from the East. No English doctor would look at them or him, naturally, but I’ve never known an English doctor succeed where he failed. Understand, Rackstraw, if you can get the Archdeacon to see that he’s wrong, or to give up the chalice without seeing that he’s wrong, it’s yours absolutely. But don’t waste time arguing. I know it’s no good my arguing with Manasseh, and I don’t think it’s much good your arguing with the Archdeacon. Tell Mornington the whole thing, and get him to see it’s life or death—or worse than life or death. Beg him to bring it down here at once and we’ll have it for Manasseh when he comes. There you are; thank God they’ve been quick.”

In a torrent of passionate appeal Lionel poured out his agony through the absurd little instrument. At the other end Kenneth stood listening and horrified in the Duke’s study; the Duke himself and the Archdeacon waited a little distance “But what’s the matter with Babs?” Kenneth asked. “I don’t understand.”

“Nobody understands,” Lionel answered desperately. “She seems to have gone mad—shrieking, dancing—I can’t tell you. Can you do it? Kenneth, for the sake of your Christ! After all, it’s only a chalice— your friend can’t want it all that much!”

“Your friend seems to want it all that much,” Kenneth said, and bit his lips with annoyance. “No, sorry, Lionel, sorry. Look here, hold on—no, of course, you can’t hold on. But I must find the Archdeacon and tell him.” He held up a hand to stop the priest’s movement. “Tell me, what’s Babs doing now?”

“Lying down with morphia in her to keep her quiet,” Lionel answered. “But she’s not quiet, I know she’s not quiet, she’s in hell. Oh, hurry, Kenneth, hurry.”

Considerably shaken, Mornington turned from the telephone to the others. “It’s Barbara Rackstraw,” lie said, paused a moment to explain to the Duke, and went on. “Gregory’s been doing something to her, I expect; Lionel doesn’t know what’s the matter, but she seems to have gone mad. And that—creature has got a doctor up his sleeve who can put her right, he thinks, but he wants that—” He nodded at the Graal, which stood exposed in their midst, and went over the situation again at more length to make the problem clear.

Even the Archdeacon looked serious. The Duke was horrified, yet perplexed. “But what can we do?” he asked, quite innocently.

“Well,” Kenneth said restrainedly, “Lionel’s notion seemed to be that we might give him the Graal.”

“Good God!” the Duke said. “Give him the Graal! Give him that—when we know that’s what he’s after!”

Kenneth did not answer at once, then he said slowly: “Barbara’s a nice thing; I don’t like to think of Barbara being hurt.”

“But what’s a woman’s life—what are any of our lives—compared to this?” the Duke cried.

“No,” Kenneth said, unsatisfied, “no… .But Barbara… Besides, it isn’t her life, it’s her reason.”

“I am the more sorry,” the Duke answered. “But this thing is more than the whole world.”

Kenneth looked at the Archdeacon. “Well, it’s yours to decide,” he said.

During the previous day it had become evident in Grosvenor Square that a common spiritual concern does not mean a common intellectual agreement. The Duke had risen, the morning after the attack on the Graal, with quite a number of ideas in his mind. The immediate and chief of these had been the removal of the Graal itself to Rome, and its safe custody there. He urged these on his allies at breakfast, and by sheer force of simple confidence in his proposal had very nearly succeeded. The Archdeacon was perfectly ready to admit that Rome, both as a City and a Church, had advantages. It had the habit of relics, the higher way of mind and the lower business organization to deal with them. Rome was as convenient as Westminster, and the Apostolic See more traditional than Canterbury. But he felt that even this relic was not perhaps so important as Rome would inevitably tend to make it. And he felt his own manners concerned. “It would rather feel like stealing my grandmother’s lustres from my mother to give to my aunt,” he explained diffidently, noted the Duke’s sudden stiffening, and went on hastily: “Besides, I am a man under authority. It isn’t for me to settle. The Bishop or the Archbishop, I suppose.”

“The Judicial Committee of the Privy Council is the final voice of authority still, isn’t it?” the Duke pointedly asked. “I know Southend is a Jew and one or two others are notorious polygamists— unofficially.”

“The Privy Council, as everybody knows, has no jurisdiction… ” Mornington began.

“There we go again,” the Archdeacon complained. “But, anyhow, so far as the suggestion is concerned, mere movement in space and time isn’t likely to achieve much. It couldn’t solve the problem, though it might delay it.”

“Well, what do you propose to do?” the Duke asked.

“I don’t know that I really thought of doing anything,” the Archdeacon answered. “It would be quite safe here wouldn’t it? Or we might simply put it in a dispatch-case and take it to the Left Luggage office at Paddington or somewhere. No,” he added hastily, “that’s not quite true. But you staunch churchpeople always make me feel like an atheist. Frankly, I think the Bishop ought to know—but he’s away till next week. So’s the Archbishop. And then there are the police. It’s all very difficult.”

There certainly were the police. Colonel Conyers made a call that morning; the Assistant Commissioner made a point of having tea with the Duchess, who was the Duke’s aunt, that afternoon. The Duke was at his most regal (ducal is too insignificant a word) with both. Neither of them were in a position to give wings to a colossal scandal by taking action unless forced to it by Mr. Persimmons, and Mr. Persimmons had returned to Cully, after reiterating to the Colonel his wish that public action should not be taken. To the Assistant Commissioner the Duke intimated that further attacks on the vessel had taken place.

“What, burglars?” the other said.

“Not burglars,” the Duke answered darkly. “More like black magic.”

“Really?” the Assistant Commissioner said, slightly bewildered. “Oh, quite, quite. Er—did anything happen?”

“They tried to destroy It by willing against It,” the Duke said. “But by the grace of God they didn’t succeed.”

“Ah… willing,” the other said vaguely. “Yes, I know a lot can be done that way. Though Baudouin is rather against it, I believe. You—you didn’t see anything?”

“I thought I heard someone,” the Duke answered. “And the Archdeacon felt It soften in his hands.”

“Oh, the Archdeacon!” the Assistant Commissioner said, and left it at that.

The whole day, in short, had been exceedingly unsatisfactory to the allies. The Duke and Mornington, in their respective hours of vigil before the sacred vessel, had endeavoured unconsciously to recapture some of their previous emotion. But the Graal stood like any other chalice, as dull as the furniture about it. Only the Archdeacon, and he much more faintly, was conscious of that steady movement of creation flowing towards and through the narrow channel of its destiny. And now when, on the next morning, he found himself confronted with this need for an unexpected decision he felt that he had not really any doubt what he would do. Still—“‘Wise as serpents’,” he said, “Let us be serpentine. Let us go to Cully and see Mrs. Rackstraw, and perhaps meet this very obstinate doctor.”

The Duke looked very troubled. “But can you even hesitate?” he asked. “Is anything worth such a sacrifice? Isn’t it sacrilege and apostasy even to think of it?”

“I do not think of it,” the