CHAPTER XII.

A SECRET AND A THUNDERBOLT.

President Jardine was dead.

Low lay the head, and still the form of the man of whom flatterers had often spoken as the uncrowned King--an Oliver the Second, the Cromwell of the Twentieth Century. His, indeed, had been the power symbolised by the ancient Crown, the Sceptre, and the Orb. The vanished majesty of great dynasties--the Normans, the Plantaganets, the Tudors, the Stuarts, and the House of Hanover--had but paved the way for the practical rule of this man of the people. Even yet, it is true, the jealousy of political parties had preserved--none knew for how long--the title of King for a descendant of Queen Victoria. But a grudging socialistic democracy had left the legitimate monarch little more than the dignity of an august pensioner. The King was shorn of regal authority, deprived of all real prerogative of royalty, and neither expected nor allowed to take any real part in the government of his shrunken empire.

And now that the lifeless hand of the President had dropped the real sceptre, whose hand was to take it up? Was the reign of woman to be inaugurated on new and bolder lines; or would man, in the nick of time, re-assert himself? The women had their leader in Catherine Kellick, a daring, unscrupulous and energetic champion. But where was the leader of men? Everywhere the lament was uttered: "If only Renshaw were back at Westminster!" And everywhere the question was asked: "Where is he? Is it true he is still alive?"

Zenobia's telegram was delivered late at night, and in the absence of Wilton it was impossible to start immediately. Before daybreak on the following morning Linton was knocking at the door of his cottage, and in half-an-hour the little engineer had got the _Bladud_ into working order.

It was very early, on a calm autumn morning, when Linton, at a sign from Wilton, stepped on board. The _Bladud_, rose rapidly into the air, but at first there was nothing to be seen. The atmosphere being charged with the vapour of the night, the air was warm, and the sky veiled with a misty curtain of cloud. In eight minutes they had risen a thousand feet, and the earth below was hidden from them by a woolly carpet of mist. Rising and rising still, at a height of 5,000 feet, the _Bladud_ emerged from the clouds, and away in the east was seen a long, long line, bright as silver. The day was breaking, and the shadows fled away. Every moment the great silver bar lengthened and broadened, a moving miracle of the empyrean, at which the young Canadian gazed in fascination and in awe.

But the marvel of marvels was to come; and it came swiftly, in that deep silence of the spheres, which is as the silence of Him by whom all things were made. Yes, all created things, thought Linton, filled with wonder--the earth beneath them, still partly hidden from sight, the limitless realms of the air through which they moved, and this great orb of day that was rising as if from the depths of some immeasurable crater. Presently the sun, as it climbed above the cloud rim, began to flood with pure and glorious light the rolling tracts of vapour that surrounded them, like an illimitable molten sea, whose billows glowed and gleamed beneath the darting beams.

Higher and higher rose the _Bladud_, a tiny speck in the midst of the immeasurable clouds, which ever broke and crumbled into new shapes and shreds in full light of the broadening sunshine. Already the morning mists below were in some measure dispelled, and through the breaking vapour glimpses of the earth became more plainly visible.

At a height of 9,000 feet, the surrounding oceans and mountains of vapour assumed a hue of roseate violet that far transcended the beauty of anything upon which Linton's eyes had ever looked before; while from the east a thousand golden rays--pathways of light and glory--were darted forth above the sleeping world. When they had reached a height of 13,000 feet, the air was almost clear, and far down below London became visible--London so mighty, yet now so insignificant! Linton could see a railway train creeping out of Paddington like some little caterpillar on a garden path. The steam from the engine was but a thin serpentine mist, like smoke from a man's pipe. Everything below was flat and dwarfed to one mean artificial-looking plane. Away East, the dome of St. Paul's seemed scarcely more important than a thimble. The Docks were merely an elaborate toy in sections; the rolling Thames a winding ditch; the ships like little playthings for young children. Yet the range of view had become enormous, and as the morning cleared Wilton pointed out hills and church steeples that were a hundred miles away.

In that solemn and wonderful hour Linton Herrick felt within himself, as Goethe did, the germs of undeveloped faculties--faculties that men must not expect to see developed in life as it is, so far, known to us. Yet there was the aspiration in his heart and soul. How glorious for the astral body to plunge into the aerial space; to look unmoved on some unfathomable abyss; to glide above the roaring seas; to mount with eagle's strength to heights unthinkable!

Looking upon the supernal grandeur of the sunrise, he realised that he was in the presence of God's daily miracle. It steeped his soul in faith and thankfulness.

* * * * *

Linton, guessing that the President was _in extremis_, nevertheless had hoped to be in time to bid a last farewell to the taciturn man who had shown him much friendly feeling, and of whom, as Zenobia's father, he was anxious to think the best. But when the _Bladud_ descended on the spacious lawn of the house on Bathwick Hill, the blinds were down. The whole place wore that sad and subtle air which impresses itself upon a scene of death. There was no need to ask questions. Linton understood.

A faint, half-hearted yelp from Peter was the first sound that greeted him. Presently, inside the darkened house, he awaited the coming of Peter's mistress.

The door opened very quietly, and Zenobia entered; a slim, sad figure, the blackness of whose dress in that dim light heightened the pallor of her face. Her hand was in his own. He looked into her eyes; the gaze of the lover softened and chastened to that of the tender and compassionate friend.

"You understand how much I feel for you," he said.

"Yes," she answered gratefully, "It was good of you to come. But, in a sense, it is too late."

He waited quietly for what she chose to say.

"I mean," she added "that I hoped you could come before ... before the end. But at the last it was sudden, so sudden."

"You have something to tell me. There is something I can do for you in your trouble?"

Zenobia paused for a moment. Then, with some effort and a faint tinge of colour coming to her cheeks, continued:

"If you had come while my father lived, I could have told him...." She looked down, and drew a long deep sigh of distress. "I could have told him," she then went on with greater firmness, "that you, if you were willing, could help us, though so late, to do an act of justice to another. Mr. Herrick, it grieves me to tell you...."

She turned away and rested her elbows on the marble mantelpiece, unable for the moment to proceed.

"Perhaps I know more than you suppose," he said very gently, "and, perhaps, I can guess the rest."

"No," turning towards him, "I won't ask you to guess. Why should you help me, unless I tell you all, everything--everything, fully and frankly? Will you read this?"

He look the paper the girl placed in his hands, but did not immediately unfold it.

"I am willing to do anything you can wish, asking no questions," he said.

She looked at him with eyes that seemed to shine with grateful tears.

"You are good to me. I have no other friends."

"I am your friend," said Herrick, not without a tremor in his voice, "yours to command, always and in everything."

For the moment she could not speak, but held out her hand to him impulsively. Holding the slim fingers tenderly, he bent and kissed them.

"That paper," she said, "is my father's will. Will you read it, please!"

Then she sat down and turned away her face.

Linton read the will. The sheets rustled as he turned them over. He folded and returned them.

"I knew something of this," he said quietly. "Now I understand all. You need tell me no more."

"Is Mr. Renshaw still living--is it _really_ true that he is still alive?" she said looking up anxiously.

"Quite true."

"Thank God. Oh! God be thanked for that!"

"It is not too late."

"Only too late for him to know and seek forgiveness."

"You mean your father?"

The girl bowed her head. Then she burst out vehemently: "It must not be softened down. I know, I feel, the horror, the wickedness of what was done. I must accept the shame, the punishment. The sins of the fathers must be visited on the children. It is the law of nature and the law of God! I want to make atonement; yet nothing can undo the past, the cruelty and wickedness of all those years of suffering and imprisonment."

"Renshaw will not harbour revengeful or vindictive feelings, I am sure of that," Linton answered soothingly. "He is a man of noble character, and a Christian gentleman."

"And it was he, a man like that, whom my father...." she paused, biting her trembling lips. "Oh it is horrible, horrible!"

"But he repented, he was sorry--the will proves it," said Linton.

"Yes, it is written there, a public confession, the dying declaration of his sorrow and his shame. There shall be no concealment. He did not wish it at the last. The truth must be made known to all the world."

"If Renshaw wishes it. But I do not think he will."

"Where is he now--is he ill, is he safe?"

"He is recovering, getting back his strength, in a monastery in Herm, one of the smaller Channel Islands. Arrangements are being made for his return to England at the right moment."

She stood up, interested and excited.

"Yes, yes?"

"A society has been formed--the members call themselves the Friends of the Phoenix. My uncle and General Hartwell are at the head of it. The aim is to restore Renshaw to power. He is the only man who can save the country in the present crisis."

"And you are helping--you are one of them?"

He nodded. "I am to bring him back to England in the _Bladud_ if I have your permission."

"Don't lose an hour," she cried, "don't lose an hour!"

"Not a moment, when the time is ripe. I am waiting orders. They will reach me here."

"If only my father could have known of this before he died."

She sighed and looked at him wistfully, then said appealingly: "You will come upstairs?"

Linton bowed his head and followed her. Upstairs in the room from which the President had looked out on the lights of Bath for the last time the sheeted figure lay upon the bed. They paused for a moment side by side. Then Linton gazed for the last time on the cold and rigid face of Nicholas Jardine.

Three days later, the sun, shining through the windows of the ancient Abbey church, fell upon sculptured saint and heavenward-pointing angel, revealed the lettering on many a mural tablet dedicated to long-departed men and women, illumined the sombre crowd of black-clothed worshippers, and gleamed on the silver coffin plate of the dead President.

Deep organ notes rolled beneath the fretted arches as choir and congregation, with heads bowed low, raised in mournful cadence the wail of the _Dies iræ_.

Apart from the girl, by whose side Linton Herrick knelt, perhaps there were few present who really mourned for Nicholas Jardine. But, as people do at such a time, they mourned for themselves, they mourned for humanity; and recent local events--the strange convulsions of nature, with the apprehension of more terrible possibilities to come, served to accentuate the feelings of the worshippers. For the moment, at any rate, they believed in the life of the world to come. They recognised in the burial of the dead that dread passing through the gate of judgment to which man, frail man, has ever been predestined. The air was full of lamentations:

"Day of wrath! O day of mourning! See fulfill'd the prophets' warning! Heav'n and earth in ashes burning!

Oh, what fears, man's bosom rendeth, When from heav'n the Judge descendeth, On Whose sentence all dependeth!

Wondrous sound the trumpet flingeth, Through earth's sepulchres it ringeth, All before the Throne it bringeth!"

Verse after verse the solemn litany continued:

"Ah! that day of tears and mourning, From the dust of earth returning, Man for judgment must prepare him; Spare, O God, in mercy spare him."

The funeral march pealed forth as the body was borne from the Church. Slowly the congregation dispersed, until at last only one figure remained, the solitary kneeling form of Zenobia.

* * * * *

Within an hour after Linton had left the cemetery, he received a telegram in cipher from Sir Robert Herrick. He gave immediate instructions to Wilton, and sent a message to Zenobia. She came to him at once.

Linton looked at her with troubled eyes. There was something infinitely pathetic in the aspect of this slim, fair girl with the sunny hair, on whose face suffering and distress of spirit suddenly had set so sad a stamp.

"Good-bye," she answered, "God grant that you may both come safely back. When Mr. Renshaw is in England, I must see him, I must tell him all."

With a final pressure of her hand, he turned away. However much his heart might be wrung at leaving her, however hard to keep back the words of love and tenderness that rose to his lips, he must be silent for the moment. There was a task to be performed. It was the hour for action. Great issues were involved. A national crisis was at hand.

That much Linton knew. But as yet he did not know that the crisis was to assume a double and appalling complexity. A thunderbolt had been hurled against England from an unexpected quarter. A swift and staggering blow, well timed in the hour of Jardine's death, had been levelled against the remaining pillars of her once proud Empire.