Front matter (continued 7)

He would say and do that which was given to Him to say or do. As an Englishman, He had His intuitions. And He required no confidences. England, the shy, the proud, should be served by Her shy proud son, the Servant of the servants of God. The divine afflatus of patriotism inspired Him, brightening His eyes, erecting His head. He sat down again: took His writing-board on His knees; and wrote. Anon, He rang the bell and gave some orders. Also, He sent some written slips of cyphers to the operators in the Vatican marconigraph office.

On the twenty-second of January, the Supreme Pontiff descended to the basilica of St. Peter-by-the-Vatican; and sang mass for the repose of the soul of Queen Victoria, the Great, the Good. The same day, the English newspapers announced that His Holiness had sent a cardinal-ablegate to place the Golden Rose, the pontifical tribute to virtuose queens, on Her Majesty's tomb in the mausoleum at Frogmore.

CHAPTER XVIII

The Italian Socialists having been won for Italy, and the German Socialists by the German Emperor, the British Socialists began to wonder where they themselves came in. The predilection for forming societies which is to be met-with among all the degenerate and hysterical, may assume different forms. Criminals unite in bands, as Lombroso expressly establishes. Hence the British Socialists (in their quandary) held fatuous meetings hoping to generate a policy in an atmosphere of hot envious man. They really did want to know their exact position: for, in some indefinable way, they were beginning to feel that they were by no means as necessary to the universe as they had imagined themselves to be. It seemed as though this planet (for one) were moving quite easily without them, and (what was more annoying) on a path which was quite strange to them, a comfortable path and a desirable. They felt that they were being left out in the cold; and, as their nature was, they looked about for some safe person on whom to void their spleen. They began with the Roman Pontiff. That an archaic potentate of His calibre, should prove to be fresh and actual and vigorous, struck them as something of a nuisance. They had deemed Him hardly worth consideration, a decayed relic of antiquity, useful perhaps as a monument of the bad old days when the world was drowned in damnable idolatry: but nothing more. That any man whose reputation so publicly had been besmirched as His had been, should dare to hold up his head, to live and move and have his being, to dispose of millions of money and of the minds of nations, struck them as simply atrocious. He had refused the honour of their alliance, had scorned their overtures with contemptuous silence. They would return Him scorn for scorn: they would shew Him what He had lost. If He flattered Himself that His so called Epistles to this that and the other would have any influence, the sooner He was undeceived the better. The Liblab Fellowship soon would let 'an unhappy old drawler of platitudinous flapdoodle like Hadrian' know His place, quoth the blameless Comrade Bob Matchwood. All the same, amid all the rhapsodic rhodomontade of sound and fury signifying nothing, there remained among the fellow-shippers just enough intellect to perceive one thing. Comrade Frank Conollan put on his pince-nez; and, with a spasm of jerks and twitches, was delivered of the opinion that the Liblab Fellowship could not hope to recover anything like a respectable position in the popular estimation as long as it remained where it was. He said that to blink the fact, that Liblabbery had taken a false step in approaching the Pope of Rome, was not a bit of good. Liblabbery had courted a snub; and had been smitten with the snubbiest of snubs. If he might use a metaphorical expression, he would say that Liblabbery had been enticed into a bog and made to look unspeakably silly. If he might use a poetical expression from Shakespeare, he would say 'like unback'd colts they pricked their ears, advanced their eyelids, lifted up their noses, and calf-like follow'd through tooth'd briers, pricking goss, and thorns, which enter'd their frail skins, into the filthy mantled pool, where, dancing up to the chins, the foul lake o'er-stunk their feet.'

(It began to dawn upon the Liblabs that the Comrade was doing the very thing desired. He was leading up to the customary denunciation of some traitor. He was about to provide them with the name of the usual scape-goat. They prolonged pleased ears in his direction.)

He would go further. He would say, still using the expressions of the immortal bard of Avon, "Your fairy, which you say is a harmless fairy, has done little better than played the Jack with us."

(This was something like! The meeting's ears positively flapped.)

And then, being unable to keep-on his pince-nez any longer by reason of a steamed nose, he brought his climax to an abrupt term by demanding the instant and public expulsion of Comrade Jerry Sant. That was voted nem. con. The Liblab Fellowship shook-off the dust of its dirty feet at the traitor; and Comrade Mat Matchwood said some very slighting things about him in the Salpinx. No one is so facile and energetic about believing evil as a Pessimist, that is to say a Socialist; and, when one traitor is detected, what could be more natural than for others to be suspected. It happened so. The mutual jealousy, the flaring incompetency, the sordid selfishness, which always infected the socialist demagogues, and (of course) the essentially sandy foundation upon which the socialist system was based, led to further and more fatal dissensions. Suspicion mated with Baffled Purpose. Recrimination was the offspring of the match. The fellow-shippers, who had connived at the scheme of Jerry Sant, found themselves accused as his accomplices, and denounced and expelled in turn. From dissension it was no more than one step to disunion. Each demagogue, fearful lest he should have to take up an honest trade for a livelihood, devoted persuasive loquacity to the attracting of personal supporters. Burnson battened on Battersea. West Ham went a-whoring after strange Bills. Glasgow got into the galley of Kerardy. And Devana succumbed to a split-thumb-nailed and anarchistic plumber. Schisms within schisms insued. Dens and caves received the remnants of the Liblab Fellowship. Mutual damnation was the order of the day. The Socialists were almost Christian. The ranks were thinned by internecine war. Then came desertions. Socialism didn't pay; and socialists openly asked conservative agents for tory gold. When it was refused, they swore (after their kind). Labor (without the u) looked about for the patronage of Capital. And British Socialism was in a fair way to perish of its own radical fatuity, and instability.

Hadrian watched the process of disintegration from His tower in Rome, watched the natural absorption of the more respectable socialists by the more respectable community; and He was glad. Very soon now the silly obscene heresy would die and disappear, with the obsolete delusions of Gymnosophists, Anabaptists, Picards, Adamites and Turlupins. Hadrian was glad. Then came the Times, announcing that Australia, Canada, and South Africa had armed all healthy males between the ages of 17 and 50; and that England was mobilizing the sea-and-land-forces of her Empire. Now the whole world was in battle array. He took out His pyx again, and prayed the prayer of the Danaides, "O King of kings, Most Blessed of the blessed, Most Perfect Mighty One of the perfect, be persuaded and let this come to pass,—avert from Thy race the insolence of men who (for a reason) hate it; and plunge the black-benched pest into the dark abyss." It was a pagan enough prayer for a Pope to utter. It was a fierce enough sentiment for an altruist to express. It was an entirely comprehensible suggestion of a misanthrope and misogynist, tired by, impatient of, armed against, the tiresome divarication of little silly people. The thing which troubled Him most was the irreconcilability of the King of Italy. He had tried hard to give Victor Emanuel to understand that, not rebuff but, welcome waited for him. He knew the benefits which co-operation of Pope and King would bring. Yet the expression of the Persian fatalist in Herodotus,—ἑχθιστη ὁδυνη πολλα φρονεοντα μηδενοϛ κραΤεειν—the bitterest of all griefs, to see clearly and yet to be unable to do anything, might have stood as the motto of His whole mind, as often before in His life, so most emphatically now. He recalled the Cardinal of Caerleon.

The blameless Sant and his companion were in a pretty pickle. Expulsion from the Liblab Fellowship included, not only the withdrawal of funds but also, a threat of prosecution on a charge of obtaining money on false pretences. The last they could afford to laugh at. No English court of law could or would convict upon the evidence producible. The first was tiresome: but of course they had a little put by. And with regard to the future? Mrs. Crowe now was quite certain that Jerry had made a mess of things. She began to think with longing of her lodging-house. What was the good of staying on in Rome? Yes, and who was going to pay her expenses, she would like to know? She impatiently put that point before her paymaster. He did-on a forensic air; and asked for time to advise himself of the matter. She demanded how long he would require. He remarked on the feminine propensity for kicking a man who has been knocked down; and ramped and raved till he thoroughly frightened her. Your Pict is a truly awesome figure when he is red with damp rage. She shrank into a corner whimpering, for she thought he was going to strike her. Instead of that he cooled to sudden wheedling; and anon he cuddled her. She permitted. It was better than nothing; and she felt as though she really needed something of the sort. How could she so misunderstand him? Of course he was not going to desert her. They both were in the same boat; and must sink or swim together. For his part, he intended to swim. She might have known that he was not the man to give up when matters had proceeded so far. But, she urged, what could they do? Do? They could do a fair lot of things. To begin with, they could go and wait on a lot of they old cardinals and mak' theirsels a nuisance. They went to Ragna, and told him very pretty stories. Their statements were as a treat of almonds to him; but he gave no sign of that. He was suave, polite: said that he would see what could be done; and bowed them away. They went to Whitehead and got no satisfaction. Caerleon thought that they had better let matters rest. Carvale denied himself to them. Sterling listened to them with judicial gravity and gave them no response. Semphill blazed at them; and dismissed them shattered as to their nerves. They returned to the Hotel Nike to wait for Ragna.

The cardinals discussed them with the Pope. The Secretary of State was insinuatory. He spoke of the terrible scandal; and let it be understood that, in his opinion, payments should be made to stop it. He hinted at the impossibility of defending the indefensible. Better to use that million, the balance of the sale of the Vatican treasure. That million had paid the expenses of the sale and of the restoration of the sacristy; and had endowed St. George's College of historical researchers under the presidency of Dr. Richard Barnett: it was accounted for in della Volta's balance-sheet, Hadrian put in. Carvale added that payment never stopped scandal. Caerleon earnestly hoped that nothing would be done: it would rake up the past and involve so many people. Semphill yearned for the good old days, faggots, tongue-tearing, hand-chopping, ear-cropping, head-cutting, eye-gouging, maiming, and stoning, and the groaning with much wailing of those impaled by the spine, and all that sort of thing out of the Eymenides. He loudly said so; and was silenced by a look from the Pontiff's scornful anguished face. Discussion languished. Then Hadrian said "Bring them here."

Sir Iulo pit-pit-pit-pitted across the City on a motor-bicycle, and burst into Via Due Macelli, a scarlet Hermes, with the annunciation, "You are summoned to attend our Most Holy Father in the Vatican." Mrs. Crowe hiccoughed "At last"; and bolted upstairs to put on her most fetching hat. Jerry Sant grinned spikily through a tattered moustache. The two got into a hired victoria; and followed the gentleman-of-the-secret-chamber.

Hadrian received them in the throne-room. He did not occupy the throne, but the central chair of a semi-circular group of five. Ragna, Sterling, Leighton, and Caerleon used the others. The latter had a pigskin portfolio on his knee. In front of the ecclesiastics were two chairs of equal importance. The man and woman lounged there. It was quite a family gathering. But between the Church and the World, Sir John stood by a little table furnished with the pontifical phonographs.

"We have summoned you, in order that ye may speak your minds to Us," the Supreme Pontiff said: "but ye shall know that We will not hold any communication with you except Our utterances and yours be recorded by these instruments." His voice was very frigid: but there was neither menace nor offence in it. His quiet tone totally was at variance with the furious defiance of the matter of His words. The paradox disconcerted his hearers. Sant went magenta with wrath: remembered how much he had at stake; and was canny enough not to demur. With an attempt at an easy laugh, he said that it was a little unusual, not quite what he expected, but he didn't want to be unpleasant to His Lordship, and so he had no objection he was sure. And he lolled in his armchair, as who should say "A'm fair easy." Mrs. Crowe bit her upper lip: but said that she had no objection either. Hadrian waved His hand; and the pontifical gentleman sat down and set the machines in motion.

The Pope put the woman to the question: "Madam, what do you want?"

Face to face with that she failed to put her want in words. It was an acrid pungent permanent want, not-to-be-named. She bit at her upper lip again; and looked at Jerry for a lead. He proceeded "I think, Reverend Sir, that it will be more advantageous for all parties if I was to speak for Mrs. Crowe."

"We will concede the point. Sir, what do you want?" the Pontiff said.

Then the virtuous Jerry also began to flounder. Want? Eh, but he wanted several things.

"Name them:" the Pope commanded.

"Well:—reparation—damages."

"For what?" the Pope inquired.

"For ma loss of time whiles I've had to be here and for ma business which Ye may say's gone ta th dogs; and for the loss of ma Liblab Fellowship."

"To what extent have you suffered?"

"To fhat extent? Well, I'll let Ye know. I've been here since last July, say eight months, say forty weeks, say three hundred days; and I take ordinarily a pound-note per day on journeys for expenses: but it's cost me a heap more than that this trip. Ye can call it five hundred pounds for out-of-pocket expenses. Then there's ma business which I've had to neglect, eight months, better say a year at one-fifty for salary, and commissions—say another fifty. There's eight hundreds. Then they've had the cheek to expel me as a Fellowshipper, as I suppose Ye've heard. Of course that's very damaging to ma prestige, say to the extent of a couple of thousands. Fhat's that come to? Two thousands eight hundreds—may as well call it three thousands. And of course there's fhat old Krooger named moral and intellectual damage—I don't know fhat tae pit that at, I'm sure—but Ye might tot it all up together and call it twenty thousands."

"And your companion?"

"Aweel, Ye'd better double it and we'll both ca' quits. Forty thousands cash!"

The Pope cast a slight look round upon his cardinals. They returned it. "You are demanding that We should pay you forty thousand pounds," He said to the expectant Jerry.

"That's correct."

"Why do you demand this sum of Us?"

"Why? Why because we've run into all these expenses on your account. If Ye hadna have been here, neither would we have come and have had all this fuss and bother. Who's to indemnify us for that but Yersel', I'm asking Ye. I'll let Ye know we've fair ruined oursels——"

The Bald She interrupted. "If I could have a private word with Your Holiness."

The motive did not escape Hadrian's notice. "Daughter, your conduct and your notorious proclivities debar you from a private interview with any clergyman, except in the open confessional."

"Then in the confessional."

The Pope rose and beckoned her to follow. He beckoned Sir John to stop the machines and remain: the others to follow. They descended into St. Peter's. There, He turned out the English Confessor; and took his place, while the woman kneeled at the left side. Just out of earshot, the four cardinals stayed with Sant, who fumed in his inward parts. Fhat blathers was this going on under their very noses? The half-door and the window both were open: only the lateral partition divided the priest from the penitent. The grating was between their faces; and, though they were perfectly visible, they were visible apart and separate.

Hadrian in a low tone recited "May the Lord be in thine heart and on thy lips"—; and put Himself to listen.

Through the grating there came a whine,—

"Georgie!"

"My child, there is no Georgie here, but only your Judge. Confess your sins, if you will,—only to Almighty God. Shew contrition. And, by His authority committed to me His minister, I will absolve."

Then the Devil entered into her. She incoherently spluttered "I have no sins—if I had, I wouldn't tell You.—You reject me?—Oh I'll make You regret it—I'll make You suffer as I have—I'll shew you up for what You are——" She stiffened and rushed across to Jerry "Now do your worst," she said; and her face was livid.

Sant gripped the lapels of his grotesque frock-coat and approached the white figure which emerged from the central compartment of the confessional.

"I should like to mak' an end of this matter," he said.

Hadrian led the way to the throne-room: the phonographs were set to work; and the conference was resumed.

"Now," said Jerry, "I'm thinking that Your Right Reverence had better let us know definitely fhat Ye intend to do."

The Pope spoke rather more slowly and with more singular mildness than before. "You demand that We should pay you forty thousand pounds in reparation for damage which, you say, We have caused."

"That's so."

"It is useless to point out to you that We did not ask you to waste your time in Rome——"

"I should have been surprised if Ye had have."

"And that We did not force you, or induce you, to neglect your business——"

"Nae! Ye never thought I'd have dared to face Ye as I have."

"And that We were in no wise concerned with your expulsion from the Liblab Fellowship——"

"But Ye were! If Ye'd have had the civility to give the deputation a satisfactory answer, or even to have satisfied the fellow-shippers afterwards, or to have made it all right with me so as I could have settled them, then there wouldn't have been all this trouble and unpleasantness, my Lord."

"Some men are gifted with an abnormal capability for making the greatest possible fools of themselves. For the credit of the human race, it must be said that indecent exhibitions of this kind are rare. Mr. Sant, does it not occur to you that you are engaging in a very foolish and a very dirty business?"

"Dirty business Yersel'! Who're Ye talking to? Ma hands are as clean as Yours any day. Who owes twenty pound notes to this lady I'm brought with me?"

"We do not know."

"Imphm. Well, suppose I was to say it was Yersel'?"

"You would tell an officious lie, Mr. Sant." The Pope turned to the woman. "Madam, do We owe you twenty pounds?"

"You owe me a great deal more than that:" she barked.

"Mr. Sant alludes to a specific sum of twenty pounds odd which was due to this lady's deceased husband for books, newspapers, and stationery, supplied some years ago when he kept a shop:" the Pope explained to the cardinals, with a gesture to Talacryn. The Cardinal of Caerleon extracted a slip from the portfolio; and read a receipt for the amount named plus 5 per cent. interest. This document was dated the thirty-first of the previous March. The Pope continued, "You know, Madam, that We paid this bill the moment We were in a position to pay it. You also know that payment was long delayed solely because you yourself, by calumniating and libelling Us to Our employers and to those who called themselves Our friends, prevented Us from earning more than a bare sustenance——"

Jerry burst in, "Well, if Ye've paid her why shouldn't Ye pay me?"

"Because We do not owe you anything."

"Then Ye mean me ta pit some more about Ye in the papers?"

"Listen, Mr. Sant. We look upon you as a deeply injured man——"

"Hech! Now that's something like!"

"We look upon you as a deeply injured man, injured by himself. You have been your own enemy. You have suffered loss and damage simply because you have allowed yourself to persist in doing silly things and wicked things. Now, is it useless to ask you to change all that? Will you turn over a new leaf and begin your life again? You shall not be left alone. You shall be helped."

"A want ma money."

"If you wish to do well for yourself, if you wish honestly to earn a better living than you ever have earned, you shall have the opportunity."

An appeal to a goodness which is not in him is, to a vain and sensitive soul, a stinging insult. Jerry's face became wetter and redder. "And fhat about damages for the past?" he barked.

"You shall have a chance for the future."

"Then Ye willna pay! Ye want me to shew Ye up in the papers again?"

"You may put what you please in the papers. We will not pay even a farthing to prevent you, Mr. Sant,—not one farthing."

"Then I'm not to get anything?"

"At a threat? No. Nothing!" Defiance hurled denial at the brute.

"Fhat are we waiting here for, wumman?" Sant snarled at Mrs. Crowe. "Here let's get out of this. He makes me fair sick with His holy preaching!" At the door, he turned round, bragging boldly like a cock beside his partlet; and waved his bowler hat, "E-e-e-h but A'll mak' Ye squirm, Ye ... inseck!" he foamed.

Ragna was furious. "Holiness, why don't You shoot them at once? You are Sovereign within these walls. Give order for their arrest before they leave the palace, Holiness; and have them shot!"

"It is Our will that they be left to the common executioner," the Pope disdainfully ordained, sitting very hieratically in his chair, young, rigid, and terrific as the Flamen Virbialis. The audience had been a fresh phase of agony to Him: He had tried to merge His humanity in His apostolature, and had failed; and the failure was torment, physical, poignant. He was indignant; and He was dangerous. Their Eminencies inquiringly looked at Him. Leighton blinked; and thought it a dreadful pity. Talacryn was for running out and trying to persuade the blackmailers even at some cost,—anything was better than scandal, he said. The Pope told him not to be a stupid fool with his infernal hankerings after compromise. "Fancy paying for silence!" His Holiness scornfully adjoined.

"No but Holy Father, I think if You were to leave them to me, I could find some way of silencing them. Silence is what we want indeed, whatever."

"Your Eminency is well skilled in the art of silencing people, bad and good. It is by no means an honourable art; and you are prohibited from practising it. We believed that you had ceased to practise it in 1899. Were We in error?"

"No indeed no, indeed, Holiness. It was merely a suggestion of mine, indeed," the cardinal burbled.

"Drop it then!" the Pontiff slammed at him.

"Indeed I do, Holiness, indeed I do, whatever."

"One would hardly have believed that such blatant wickedness could have existed in the world," Sterling gravely meditated.

"Holy Father, it will all begin again," Leighton sadly sighed.

"Let it begin again!" Hadrian challenged, white-flaming, irate, retiring to the secret chamber.

Their Eminencies went out through the other door. They were not at all pleased with the Pope. In the first antechamber several cardinals were congregated anxious for news, Orezzo and Courtleigh each in a sedan-chair, Percy, Fiamma, della Volta, Semphill, Carvale, and Whitehead. Ragna was of opinion that the charges ought publicly to be answered, that is to say if they could be answered: but—— Could the accusations satisfactorily be disposed of? No one put the question: but the aroma of the idea of it was in the air.

"There was so much mystery about His Holiness:" Orezzo said.

"There always has been. He is a most incomprehensible creature, indeed:" Talacryn pronounced.

"One might expect anything, everything of Him: the height and depth of good and bad: extreme virtue, extreme vice: one almost could believe Him to be capable of anything:" Sterling adjudicated.

"Oh yes, until you have heard Him explain," little Carvale put in. "Did none of Your Eminencies ever watch Him in His talk? I have. Shall I tell you the difference between our Holy Father and ourselves? We see things from a single view-point. He sees things from several. We decide that the thing is as we see it. But He has seen it otherwise, and He presents it as a more or less complete coaction of its qualities. See this sapphire. Well, you see the face of it: underneath, if I take it off my finger, there are a number of facets to be seen and a number more which are hidden by the gold of the setting. Now my meaning is that our Holy Father has seen all the facets as well as the table of the sapphire, or the thing. Consequently He knows a great deal more about the sapphire, or the thing, than we do. You must have noted that in Him. You must have noted how that every now and then, when He deigns to explain, He makes mysteries appear most wonderfully lucid."

"But, if one might venture to ask, how often does He condescend to explain—except to His cat?" Sterling interjected.

"I'm bound to admit that He opened my eyes considerably during that fortnight we spent together in town just before His election," Courtleigh threw out of his chair. Ragna went to him and spoke of the desirability of capital punishment.

"Well, anyhow, I believe in Him," Whitehead murmured.

"Yes:" Leighton energetically blinked. "You'll excuse me if I'm shoppy, but I say with St. Anselm, 'Neque enim quæro intelligere ut credam: sed credo ut intelligam. Nam et hoc credo quia nisi credidero non intelligam.'"

The gong in the secret chamber loudly and suddenly sounded. The scarlet limbs of Sir John and Sir Iulo darted towards it. Talacryn was shaking an unwilling dubious head. Van Kristen gave him a tall look of disgust. "Well, I guess Your Eminency will feel pretty small some day if you don't believe in Him too. There are no flies on Hadrian:" and he stalked away with the dignity of a grand boy honourably enraged.

"No no, Percy," said Talacryn, running after him. "Of course I believe in Him: but just for that reason I don't want Him to defend Himself. I want to keep Him quiet. I think it unwise to rake up the past. There would be so many frightful scandals, whatever."

"Have you told Him that?"

"Have I not indeed."

"And what did He say?"

Talacryn once more shook his head.

"Well then I advise Your Eminency to go 'way back and sit down,' as we say in the States."

Newspaper tirades did begin again. The previous attacks on the Pope almost were forgotten, (horribly pungently palate-tickling though they were,) at a time when men's minds were filled with wars and rumours of wars. But the Fleet Street fishers, who knew their business, were aware that the public appetite is capricious and must be tempted with a variety of bait. Even wars and rumours of wars are apt to pall. One must not cry "Wolf" too often. Tired of Black-gnats, trout must be tried with May-flies: for newspapers must be sold, or the soap-and-cocoa people will quake; and newspapers will not sell unless their news are new. So, when the editor of the Daily Anagraph received a couple of letters from Jerry Sant and Mrs. Crowe, proffering certain tasty information, and asking for an offer for same, he consulted his proprietors. The subject certainly was not entirely novel: but what had gone before merely had been so to speak an appetizer. This was the strong meat, the pièce de résistance in the banquet of garbage. Sant was in possession of exclusive information. The publication of it would mean a boom for the paper. Editors cannot afford to be curious about the morals of their contributors, or indeed of anything bar the quality of their contributions. Neither proprietors nor editor were actuated by any sort of malice, personal or professional, in defaming the Pope. Their motive was merely commercial. Therefore, they offered £4,000 a-piece to Sant and his accomplice; and they invested a similar sum in amateur investigations. At intervals during the next few weeks, the Daily Anagraph published articles reflecting on the character of God's Vicegerent; and two columns daily were set apart for anonymous ex-parte statements concerning His career. Oh, it all began again! The points insisted on were that He was, and never had been anything but, a lazy luxurious (the second intention was "debauched") jesuitical machiavellian and false-pretentious ignoramus.—Oh it all indubitably began again. Mediocrities, entrusted with power over their fellow-creatures, invariably develop into tyrants. All history proves it: the tyranny of the clergy was bad enough: but it was as nothing in comparison with the sordid tyranny of the Press which we now complacently tolerate.

Calumny culminated with a concoction of the calvous Crowe's. It was admitted that the high-water mark was reached. Hitherto, the very virulence of the assaults had engendered a certain amount of unexpressed sympathy among stock-brokers, naval, Varsity, and other thoughtful men. "Our Representative" had called at Archbishop's House, had interviewed Monsignor this and Monsignor Canon that, inviting the candid expression of opinion on the subject of Pontifical Infallibility, as viewed in the fight of recent journalistic enterprize and research. The distinction between infallibility and impeccability had been impressed upon "Our Representative": but that was all. No defence was offered either by the Pope or by His poor benighted papists. Then, by slow degrees, the elect, the intelligent, began to persuade themselves that, after all, the early misdemeanours of George Arthur Rose, if they were as stated, were altogether apart from the pontifical acts of Hadrian the Seventh. The latter distinctly were admired throughout the world: the former—well, they were a pity. So, public opinion was. And then came Mrs. Crowe. She had a song to sing (oh!) of secret debauchery on the part of Hadrian the Seventh. She was concise in the matter of names and dates and places. She alleged that, at dusk on a certain evening in September, the 29th, she herself had seen the Pope, disguised in black like an ordinary priest, taking tea—He Who never ate in public—with two nameless women (far too beautiful to be respectable in her opinion) in a house on Via Morino. She was in the street. His so-called Holiness and His female companions were by the lighted window. Presently the blinds were closed; and she knew not what went on behind them. She watched the house for an hour and a half; and then the Pope came out muffling His face, (a thing He never at any other time had been known to do, but necessary on this occasion to complete His disguise). He walked away; and she followed Him: saw Him stop at the Attendolo Palace, and (finally) enter the Vatican saluted by the guards at the bronze gates. She related the incident with such particularity and in such a manner, that a great many people fancied that they thoroughly understood. In a sort of way the good lady did more than most people have done towards effecting the Reunion of Christendom: for The Cliff deliriously discursed (from Revelations) of a great red dragon and seven heads and ten horns and seven crowns upon his heads, and of a beast rising out of the sea and seven heads and ten horns and ten crowns on his horns; and The Catholic Hour simultaneously washed its hands in innocency advertizing unctuous rectitude in a leading article entitled "The Third Borgia."

CHAPTER XIX

While the dwarves were diverting themselves as aforesaid, their rulers were in council together. And one day Sir Francis Bertram found no closed doors at the Vatican. He was granted an audience which was friendly and unofficial and secret: so secret in fact that no news of it "transpired." It was treated as the return visit of an Englishman to an Englishman. He came in an electric brougham, quite unattended. No one noted that he brought a small dispatch-box with him: or that he did not carry it away with him: but some of the senior cardinals, who kindly came to discuss the latest effusions of the Daily Anagraph with Hadrian in the evening, found His Holiness brimful of gaiety. They remarked that the visit of the ambassador had done Him no end of good. His bearing was vivid, serene, and youthful: His conversation was witty, limpid, facile: no one would have taken Him for the person described in the newspapers. He read those which obligingly were handed to him: but shewed no emotion whatever, although very eager expert eyes searched for some trace from which to lead theories and hypotheses. Nor did He utter any comment. He read: He laid down the paper; and resumed the conversation. Before Their Eminencies withdrew, He summoned the Sacred Consistory to meet at noon on the morrow; and that was the only noteworthy event of the evening.

Hadrian mounted the throne; and the vermilion college displayed itself before Him. A pigskin kit-bag, which a gentleman-of-the-secret-chamber had placed by the pontifical footstool before the doors were locked, did not escape the notice of the more observant. The Pontiff Himself was in singularly good form: and this was incomprehensible, for He carried in His hand a copy of the very newspaper which everyone had read and retched-over. That He should be so aggressively cheerful, so vividly dominant, with that in His hand, was considered hardly decorous. Even among those who firmly were determined to force themselves to believe in Him, that He should not bend His neck to the smiter now, did not tally at all with conceptions of propriety. With these sentiments, Their Eminencies composed themselves to listen.

After the formal opening of the session, a Consistorial Advocate (in garments of a violet colour and furred with ermine about the neck) was commanded to read aloud, from the Daily Anagraph, the account of the Pope's visit in disguise to the house on Via Morino. He was to read it, first, in English, then, in Latin. It was not a long lection: for journalistic instinct had perceived that the facts stated would be more damnatory in their nakedness. With that inscrutable incomprehensible vivid gleam of hilarity irradiating His face, Hadrian checked the Consistorial Advocate from time to time, preventing him from drifting into the monotonous gabble, which is used for the formal reading of documents whose contents already are known informally; and, if His object was to cause each deadly detail of the charge against Himself to come out clearly, with all the contours definite and all the tints brilliantly varnished, it must be admitted that His method was pontifically successful.

"Ebbene dunque?" muttered Cardinal Ragna.

Hadrian darted a word at the Cardinal-Prefect-of-Propaganda: "Will Your Eminency have the goodness to describe, to the Sacred College, your acts of the afternoon and evening of the festival of St. Michael Archangel?"

The naming of the festival of Michaelmas was like a touch on the latch of the Red Pope's memory. His pure and gentle face lighted up: for he perceived the connotation; and that inspired him with a joy so delectable that he paused to pick his words, tasting them deliberately, lingering over them. "After siesta on the festival of St. Michael Archangel,—and that would be about 15-1/2 hours of the clock, not later,—I came to Vatican and was received by Your Holiness. I was admitted to the secret chamber. I sat opposite to Your Holiness, by the window. I remember that, for a reason. I spoke to Your Holiness on the subject of removing England from the control of Propaganda. I said that I had pondered Your Holiness's proposition. I said that it appeared to me, as it already had appeared to Your Holiness, that the necessity for treating England as a barbarous uncivilized savage country, in which the Faith is preached by missionaries, no longer existed. I added my own opinion, that to continue to treat England as a savage uncivilized barbarous country, now, amounted to perennial insult. I received Your Holiness's thanks. I am giving only the heads of this conversation, which was prolonged until the seventeenth hour. Then, the pontifical pages brought in a tray containing fruit and triscuits and some English tea. I told Your Holiness that tea astringed my nerves, remarking on the difference between English nerves and Italian. I was permitted to make a few jokes. In the midst of these very diverting burlesques, I ate a little fruit—perhaps a fig and a half—and I drank a little wine of Cinthyanum. Afterwards, I proceeded to discuss another case with Your Holiness. That case was the removal, from the spiritual rule of Propaganda, of the other countries which are under the secular rule of the Excellent King of England. It was a complication; and the discussion of it occupied some hours. I said, in sum, that sufficient information as to the nature and character and national history of the natives of those countries, especially Scotland, Ireland, and Wales, officially had not been laid before me. I requested Your Holiness to afford me longer time for the collection of information and investigation of the subject. I permitted myself to note that, while we were talking, Your Holiness made and smoked nineteen cigarettes. I remember that, when at length I rose to pay my respects, Your Holiness drew me nearer to the window by which we had been sitting; and deigned to indicate the image of St. Michael Archangel which poises itself on the summit of the Mola. The metal of which the said image is formed appeared to be burnished, owing to radiance from the lights of the City. I said that it resembled an angelic apparition in the obscure sky of night. I remember that Your Holiness said 'May the Prince, of the angels who do service in heaven, succour and defend us on earth.' I responded 'Amen.' Your Holiness added some words in the Greek tongue, which You deigned to explain as signifying 'O god of the golden helm, look upon, look upon the City which thou once didst hold well-beloved.' To that prayer, I also responded 'Amen.' And I was permitted to retire at the same moment when the pages were bringing in Your Holiness's supper, which was at 20-1/2 hours of the clock."

Cardinal Gentilotto sat down; and the eyes of the Sacred College twinkled like talc. The Pope, Who had receded to His more usual distant reticent gravity, gave them a silent moment for appreciation; and then darted a verisimilar word to Cardinal della Volta.

"Will Your Eminency have the goodness to describe, to the Sacred College, your acts of the afternoon and evening of the festival of St. Michael Archangel."

The ex-major-domo of the apostolic palace hemmed;—and prayed for permission to send for his diary. Then he bravely proceeded. "M-ym-ym-ym: Twenty-ninth September. At 15 o'clock, I drove by the Fort of Monte Mario to the Milvian Bridge: and walked a little in the fields. The sky was cloudy. Afterwards I drove by Via Flaminia and Pincio to Countess Demochede's villino; and sent away my carriage. I obtained news of the German Emperor. Her Excellency's daughter the Princess Neri was there. Tea and very agreeable conversation. The Princess expatiated on the virtues of pedestrianism. She and her beautiful mother derided me when I said that I was about to walk to Vatican. I went to Palazzo Attendolo to inquire for Don Umberto. He had bought a new horse, a strawberry-roan, and was gone to Cinthyanum to try him. That young man always is buying horses—m-ym-ym. Returned to Vatican at 19 o'clock. Said Mattins and Lauds. Wrote to—m-ym-ym,—wrote four letters, Holiness. Supper, capretto ai ferri and zuppa inglese. Gave my news of the German Emperor to our Most Holy Lord. Read Chap. IX., 1, of Matthew Arnold's Literature and Dogma with Δ. Semphill. Conversed with that deacon about it till bed-time. He says that it is not a book to fear. In my opinion it is a wonderful book but shocking, and likely to cause misunderstanding except among the English: but it is not damnable, though many will think so. Sancte Francisce, ora pro me."

He was about to sit-down; and the College was about to open twenty-three mouths: but Hadrian with the left hand signed him to approach the throne, and with the right simultaneously beckoned a master-of-ceremonies in a red habit and a violet cloak.

Cardinal Berstein interpolated with a recondite sneer, "The phenomenon of bi-location, as exemplified in the case of St. Philip Neri, is well-known. But this is not the case of a saint."

Hadrian wiped the floor with the sneerer. "Nor was the case of Samian Pythagoras, divine, golden-thighed, (if Your Eminency ever heard of him), the case of a saint. Yet, inasmuch as Pythagoras was heard to lecture at Metapontion and Tayromenion on the same day and at the same hour, he would appear to have been an exemplification of the phenomenon of bi-location. However, this is neither the case of a saint, as you so acutely have observed: nor a case of bi-location, as you so hilariously would pretend." He flung the retort at the cardinal with such force that Berstein sought his seat with not innocuous concussion.

"Lord Cardinals, the voice of the snake and the voice of the goose are one and the same. They both hiss:" the Pope added before moving again.

A feeling that His Holiness was dynamic, picric, dangerous, pervaded the assembly. Each most eminent lord wondered who would be the next victim of that quiet shrill velvet claw which tore the brain. The Pontiff bent His head to the master-of-ceremonies, signifying that he should remove the mitre. Also He unclasped the morse of His cope; and addressed Cardinal della Volta.

"Can Your Eminency remember what habit you wore during the afternoon and evening of the twenty-ninth of September?"

"Yes, Holy Father, I wore the plain habit which we commonly wear."

"Like this?" Hadrian stooped and opened the kit-bag; and drew from it a black cassock with red buttons, a red sash, and a black cloth cloak, and a black three-cornered beaver-hat with thin red cord and tassels.

"But yes: precisely like that."

"Would Your Eminency do Us the extreme favour of putting on these garments now?"

Della Volta smiled: but he made the change, and stood on the throne-steps pulling out the folds, stretching his arms in the new sleeves. The Pope took another and a similar suit from the kit-bag; and changed His Own white for black. Then He descended to the cardinal's side; and faced the college. They were as like each other as two blots of ink. And the college roared. Of course, everyone instantly remembered Courtleigh's allegation that della Volta was the Pope's Double: but no one until now had seen the two side by side and garbed alike. And the college roared—roared chiefly with delight at dismissal of tragedy by comedy.

The Pope and the Cardinal resumed their proper habits; and Hadrian again enthroned Himself. His aspect had become very cold, very hard. He spoke a few words in the dry incisive tone which slapped like sleet, from the far distance of His misanthropic soul snatched away to that remote place shared with wounded beasts who creep to die alone. He began swiftly; and intensified the value of His words by the gradual monotonous deceleration which marked their close. "Lord Cardinals," He said, "know that, if We desire to intrigue, Our experience of the extreme stupidity of intriguers has taught Us to avoid their pitifully trite folly. Know also that intrigues, disguises, tricks, artifices, stratagems, and deceptions, are repugnant to Us. And finally know this, that We never will derogate Our pontifical paraphernalia or authority to another." After a moment, He changed His manner; and in a formal tone announced that the Congress of Windsor had invited the intervention of the Roman Pontiff as Supreme Arbitrator. It was the appeal of Cæsar to Peter. He made known the contents of the dispatch, which Sir Francis Bertram had brought; and read the names of sovereign and presidential signatories. And, without waiting for comment, He uttered the ceremonial form which closed the Consistory; and was borne away.

Acclamations followed Him. Vermilion tumbled over ermine in an effort to get at Him. What a number of things everybody urgently desired to know! What was He going to do? Would He not take this magnificent opportunity of reclaiming Peter's Patrimony? He could not be denied it now. That was Ragna's notion. The two Vagellaii agreed with it: Italy could be compensated by the cession of Italia Irredenta, said Serafino. Little minds expatiated on an infinity of little things. Then, some began about the calumnies. What was He going to do about them? Oh, for certain He had disproved the charge made against Hadrian the Seventh; and most likely he could disprove the others. "Could He?" Berstein cynically guffawed. Well, was He going to publish this disproval? "Who knows?" asked Fiamma. The English and American cardinals energetically asseverated that, for their part, they neither were going to consult His Holiness on the subject, nor to consider themselves bound to secrecy in regard to the refutation which they had heard and witnessed. It was Carvale who hurriedly collected and expressed the opinions of his colleagues. "What d'ye mean?" neighed the long faced Capuchin. "I'll tell you what we mean" said Semphill. "With the help of my friends here, we'll have an authentic copy of the acts of this consistory sent to every newspaper on earth." "And, you can bet, right now!" Van Kristen cried. The Cardinal-Archdeacon and nine Italians vociferated approval of the scheme. Talacryn trumpeted with the others, gambolling gaily along. Then he put down an elephantine foot—he was not quite sure that it was advisable: down at the back of his heart he felt the old distrust of Hadrian—he did not want to be involved by seeming to support—His Holiness was a most difficult man to get rid of, if one wanted to get rid of Him, whatever. But, still, the Cardinal of Caerleon trampled along with the others. Their Eminencies surged upstairs, chattering like a tygendis of magpies; and flowed along galleries, screeching like a muster of peacocks, until they reached the approach to the pontifical antechambers. The approach was closed, guarded by skewbald harlequins of Swiss with halberds. Before it stood the two gentlemen-of-the-apostolic-chamber, who formally responded to inquiry, "Our Most Holy Lord is in secret."

They had to make what they could of that. Those with sense went about their business without ado. Some, however, lingered to resent rebuff: or in the hope of obtaining quasi-accidental admission by bribery. Ragna panted up to four thousand lire in Sir John's ear; and departed cursing. The door was barred by "Our Most Holy Lord is in secret."

In secret Hadrian was kneeling upright in His chapel. "God, I am very worldly. I have enjoyed the triumph." That was the confession which He made, not precisely with sorrow but, with a consuming contempt for Himself. He had done such an ordinary deed: He despised Himself for doing it. He remained in contemplation of His disgusting humanity for some time.

By degrees, His mind detached itself from that; and attached itself to the next subject which He had prepared. He went into His workshop: covered the chairs around His armchair with sheets of ms. notes: drew the writing-board on His knees: laid out blank paper: rolled and lighted a cigarette; and began to read and amend His notes. From time to time, He sat back in His chair, gazing out of the window at nothing, working at problems in His brain. Now and then, He scribbled a note, a word, a phrase, a sentence.

At length He began to cover sheet after sheet. He wrote for hours and hours together, day after day: burning most of what He wrote, amending more, rewriting much. Anon, an acrid torpor astringed and benumbed His right arm from elbow to finger-tip, announcing the advent of scrivener's palsy. It was evening, about two hours after the Angelus. He put-down His pen; and summoned the first gentleman-of-the-secret-chamber. Sir John sat in front of Him: rolled-up the sleeve; and gave the arm and hand a gentle friction. Hadrian silently watched his busy hands. They were beautiful hands, very white, very slim, very soft,—yes, singularly soft and soothing. Yet they were strong hands, firm and lissome. They did not tire with that continued searching movement, moulding and defining tired muscles and aching sinews, working the fatigue and ache gradually downward to dismissal at the finger-tips. Also the bent head was a good head, small and round, covered with close-cropped hair, black-purple, hyacinthine. And the healthy pallor of the face, the delicately cloven chin, the extremely fine grey eyes, the vigorous form, the exquisitely chaste and intelligent aspect—fancy expecting such an one to roll pills and fill capsules for ever in a chymist's shop! No: he was better as he was.

"John," the Pope inquired, "how do you get on with Macleod?"

"Oh, very well. I think I like him very much."

"Is he comfortable?"

"Oh I think so. He seems so at any rate."

"Has he got anything to say for himself?"

"Oh yes:—now. He was a bit frightened at first: but he's got over that now."

"To whom does he talk most freely?"

"Oh to me. Not but what he has plenty to say to Iulo too. But he'll tell me anything."

"What do you mean by 'anything'?"

"Oh everything about himself."

"John, look-up into these eyes a moment." The shy grey eyes readily soared into the shy brown eyes.

"How much has he told you about himself?"

"Oh everything: that's all."

"Everything?"

A fine flush tinged the fresh ivory face with coral: but the grey eyes did not waver. "Oh yes, everything."

"Can he sing?"

"Oh no, not a note—thank Heaven."

Hadrian withdrew His gaze. "And you think you like him very much?"

"Oh yes,—I don't think: I know. I'm so awfully sorry for him."

"And pity is akin to——"

"Oh but it's not pity and it's not love. It's something else altogether. It makes me in such a rage. I don't think I can make You understand, that's all."

"Try."

"Oh well—do You remember Max Alvary?"

"The singer-man? Yes. Why?"

"Oh, don't You know what I said when I saw him in 'Siegfried.' You see, first I saw the splendour of his beauty; and then, when it came to the 'Idyll,' I got into a rage and I said 'and that voice too.'"

"What did you mean?"

"Oh it seemed so abominably unrighteous—all that beauty, and all that voice as well. That he should have two gifts;—and that others,—I, for instance,—should have not one!"

"What has this to do with Macleod?"

"Oh, a lot, in a topsyturvy kind of way. Look what a fine chap he is to look at,—just like that lovely Figure on Your cross. And he's clever too. Well, You'd think him fortunate enough, wouldn't You? Then comes Fate and spoils him—spoils him completely. That's what makes me furious. To have to class him with Mustafa. I wonder he doesn't kill himself."

"Go gently with that wrist, please. Have you told him that?"

"Oh no, I should hope not. Sorry. I want to do everything in the world to keep him from knowing what I think—to keep him from hitting on that line of thought by accident, by himself, even. It would drive the poor chap mad: that's all."

"John you're a brick. Now listen to this. Thoughts you know, are things. If you think such thoughts, they'll be in the air about you; and it's as likely as not that Macleod's senses will perceive them. So you'd better extirpate them hic et nunc—if you like him and want to help him."

"Oh do You think so? Well, I will then: because I really do want to help him."

"Good. And now what's to be done with him?"

"Oh but why should anything be done with him? He's very happy here."

"Thanks to your goodness, John. Silence! But first of all We must give him a reason for being here: and then We must remember that 'here we have no continuing city.' Now listen attentively. When you have finished that hand, you will go to the Secretary of State, and tell His Eminency to issue a patent to Mr. Macleod as third gentleman of the chamber—emolument half yours—no knighthood. Will that do?"

"Oh finely!"

"Good. Well now let's go back a bit. Suppose Macleod wasn't here. Where, in your opinion, would he be best?"

"Oh I hardly know what to say to that."

"You know your Meredith? Well then, favour Us with the outline of your ideas. Pour them out pell-mell, intelligibly or not, no matter. We undertake to catch hold of something."

"Oh well, I think he'd do well in a garden. He's quite learned about flowers; and, if You ever saw him handle one, You'd wonder however a chap with a chest and arms like a blacksmith, as his are, could be so tender. There's a lot more force and there's a lot more gentleness in him than You'd think. Same with trees. He looks at them as we look at other chaps—just as though he could speak to them and make them understand him if he wanted to. He'd do well at anything out of doors, farming perhaps. I did think at first of the sea——"

"Because of his wonderful eyes?"

"Oh yes I suppose that was the reason. Did ever You see such a blue, a blue that makes you want to strip and dive,—just the eyes for a sailor, aren't they? That's simply my romance though. But I haven't talked to him much about the sea. Do You know what I should like to do? I should like to go a long sea-voyage with him in one of those old sailing-ships, and take the Pliny and the Sophokles which You gave me, and a lexicon, and a dictionary, and read them with him, right away from—of course I don't mean what You think I mean."

"No: of course you don't. And then, when you come back from your long sea-voyage in a sailing ship, you think that Macleod could be useful and happy on a flower-farm, with orchards, and all that sort of rot, while you could sit in the shade of medlar-trees and rose-bushes, and look after him so that no one should insult him, and read books, (write them too perhaps,) and dream dreams, (and certainly write those,) and live happily in a dear old-fashioned farm-house ever after——"

"Oh You're laughing at me now!"

"Not at all." The bright brown eyes became grave. "John, what are you going to do with yourself when Hadrian is dead?"

"Oh but You're not going to die——"

"How do you know? Answer the question."

"Oh I haven't thought about it. I don't want to think about it: that's all."

"Nonsense. Think about it; and be done with it. John, when We are dead, if you have a place like that, and means to work it, means to move about and use yourself—will you use yourself? And will you take Macleod and be a brother—not a real but the Ideal Brother to him?"

"Oh of course I would: but——"

"Will you promise?"

"Oh yes, I promise You most faithfully. But I hope to God I'll never have the chance——"

"Well, no one knows when you will have the chance: but you shall have it. Bring the pen here, and the writing-board." Hadrian pulled down His sleeve, and stroked the cat for a minute or two, thoughtfully looking-out of the window. Then He wrote, putting what He wrote into an envelope which He gave to the shaking sprig of virtue who stood before Him. "You will take this to Plowden, after you have been to Ragna. You will obtain his formal acknowledgment. See that it is made out in your name; and keep it secretly till the time comes for using it. On Our death you will present it; and Plowden will pay you five thousand pounds, and take your receipt for it. With that sum, you will buy, and stock, such a place as We have described. As long as you and Macleod live, Plowden will pay you a regular income, so that you never can come to want, and always can have something to give away. Every quarter-day he will pay a hundred pounds to you, and fifty to Macleod; and you can make as much more as you like out of your farm. That, remember, is yours; and you may do what you please with it. When you both die, the capital which provides your incomes will return to the pontifical treasury: so if you want to marry, and beget a family, and leave something more than real property—the farm—behind you, you must earn it. We give you a chance, and perfect freedom. Do you follow?"

"Oh I never shall forget a single word. Holy Father, I can't take it. What have I done to deserve it? What could I ever do to deserve it?"

"Boy, you have done this to deserve it. You have wished to bear or to share another's burden. You shall have your wish; and you shall have a little reward here and a very great reward—There,—if you carry out your wish. That's what you have done and what you can do. You are good, and you are trusted. And that's all. Now go away at once because We have a lot of writing yet to do."

"John," cried Hadrian, just before the door closed. "By the bye, you had better tell Macleod of his appointment; and see about his uniforms at once: but keep the other matter to yourself till—you know when. Oh—and please make him understand that We shall call him 'James.' That Gaelic 'Hamish' is a little too much. And he had better be Mr. James to the others."

Outside the closed door, Sir John struck his own hands together. "And the maddening thing is that there is nothing in the whole world that I can do for Him. If I were to give Him a little present, like a baccy-pouch, ten to one it wouldn't be precisely to His taste—anyhow it 'ld only be like giving Him a calf of His Own cow. Oh damn! It's like a wax match offering a light to the sun." He suddenly faced to the door again; and his words came in the form of a solemn pledge. "Lord, I promise." He remained entranced for several moments: and anon went on his way with steadfast brow.

CHAPTER XX

The Cardinal-deacon of St. Cosmas and St. Damian did it. The acts of the consistory, in so far as they related to the calumny against the Pope, duly appeared in the Times and the Globe and the New York Times as news which was fit to print. Innumerable other papers lifted them with acknowledgments. No comment was made. The collared-puppy-in-the-Tube, and the spectacled-person-in-the-motor-car, and the female-with-the-loaf-coloured-hat-at-the-bargain-sale, forgot all about George Arthur Rose: paid no attention whatever to the Pope; and violently sat up on their hind-legs regarding the Supreme Arbitrator. France and Russia emitted caricatures and howls; and prepared to invade Belgium and Sweden, with the intention of descending on Germany from three sides.

Mrs. Crowe became conscious that she had lost rather than had gained by her connection with Jerry Sant. The English Catholics treated her as they are wont to treat converts after the first three months; and shewed her the cold shoulder. The refutation of her latest calumny had made her look foolish—and something dirtier than foolish. She was mortified: she was angry with herself; and she naturally yearned to tear and mangle everybody else. She thought that the best thing which she could do would be to pose as a much deceived woman, to break that disastrous connection with the Liblabs, and to return (if possible) to the status quo ante. So she went and fell upon Jerry, vituperating him for the accented failure of his schemes—for leading an innocent lady astray with his nastiness, and his pig-headed stupidity, and all that. She frankly told him that he had gone too far. The precious pair "had words"; and finally separated. Jerry remained at his hotel, dumb and dangerous, brooding. As for the lady, respectable mediocrity allured her by the prospect which it offered of a not unfamiliar obscurity, where she might try to piece-together the shreds and tatters of her reputation. She had a little money left—and with economy——She would stay just a little longer. Who knew what might happen?

One by one, cardinals received summons to the secret chamber. Their brains were picked and their opinions heard. Nefski of the ashen pallor and the haunted eyes admitted that Poland might be happier as a constitutional monarchy and a member of a federation. Pushed to it, he promised to use all his influence to persuade. Mundo, cleanly, rotund and sparkling, spoke of Portugal's long and illustrious alliance with the Lord of the Sea. His compact vivid nation had no grievances. Grace looked silently vigorous; and praised the Munroe doctrine. If only——. The French cardinals chattered: were aghast: sobbed: were quite limp; and became picturesquely and dithyrambically resigned. Oh they were so excellent:—and so futile! Courtleigh pleaded age, infirmity. Circumstances had become more than he could manage. He had begun to think that he never had been anything but a decorative figure-head: that he never once had gripped the rudder of affairs since the Prince of Wales had been so—well, rude to him. He was old: he was garrulous: craving for greetings. He begged leave to go and end his days in the college which he had founded, if the Holy Father would but deign to relieve him of his archbishopric. Hadrian did deign; and summoned Talacryn, to whom He said "We are about to fulfil the ambition of Your Eminency's life by preconizing you to the archbishopric of Pimlico."

The cardinal said something about being unworthy of the honour.

"That of course," the Pontiff responded: "but We place you there because you know or ought to know more of Our mind than any man: and your task is to make that known to England. It at least never can be said, if you should err, that you erred through ignorance of Our will. You have health, you have youth, you have a dominant presence. People will listen to you. Your danger and your fault are due to your national habit of suspicion. That can be conquered. Act up to your name: be frank: suspect no one: be ready to renounce:—but your heart should tell you all that We would say. Now for Caerleon. Whom would you like to succeed Your Eminency there?"

Talacryn said something about the right of the clergy to elect: but that was swept aside. Then he dwelled on the difficulty of finding a suitable priest who could speak the native language.

"The last is not essential," said Hadrian: "you yourself cannot speak and cannot even learn that frightful jargon, although you are a native of the dreadful place: and, after your habit of suspecting people, and—yes, it had better be said,—a slight tendency to the habit of officious lying—(the cardinal went purple)—there, it is said and done with: you have had your lesson, and you know better now:—after those things, the only reason why your episcopate has not been a very brilliant one is that you started with the false idea of the necessity of speaking that corrupt and obsolete dialect."

"But does not Your Holiness think that a foreigner——"

"No: England is the dominant race: her language is the language of all her colonies. Why a triplet of little conquered countries should refuse to learn English—should be permitted to insist on their barbarous and unliterary languages, We never could understand. They are conquered countries, annexed to their conqueror. They have lost their national existence for centuries. They have no national existence, or any kind of existence apart from England. No. Nationality does not come into the question of your successor at all. That is where the Church of Christ differs from all religions. Rome can do, and does do, what no other ecclesiastical power durst do. Our predecessors sent an Italian to Canterbury, and even a Greek, Theodore; and We are sending a Kelt to Pimlico. As for Caerleon—do you remember John Jennifer, the priest of Selce? You do:—he was a white man at Mary vale:—and since? Good. He is Bishop of Caerleon."

"He speaks the language, Holy Father," said Talacryn, laughing.

"The merest accident. We selected him for his steadfast sturdy goodness under great difficulty at Maryvale. Oh, we remember——"

And the Pope's gaze went far away into the past.

Cardinal Talacryn mentioned that the Secretary of State desired to know whether His Holiness would require the services of the Patriarch of Byzantion at the present juncture.

"The Patriarch of Byzantion?"

"It was thought that as he had negotiated with England during the reign of Your Holiness's predecessors——"

"Oh. Then, no. The services of the Patriarch of Byzantion are not required. When His Grace is not smirking in 'black' drawing-rooms, or writing defamatory letters to duchesses——"

"Defamatory letters, Holy Father!"

"Yes: defamatory letters, such as this one which he wrote in 1890."

The Pope got up, took off His episcopal ring, unlocked and dived into an alphabetical letter-case, and handed a most ingeniously suggestive and lethific note to the cardinal. "Well, when His Grace is not engaged in these disedifying pastimes, he has his patriarchate to attend-to. In fact unless he can see his way to become a resident patriarch in Byzantion within the month, he may look for a decree of deposition." The Supreme Pontiff's aspect was austere. "Your Eminency will convey that response to Cardinal Ragna's obliging suggestion."

Talacryn made haste to kneel. "Give me a blessing, Holy Father, and I will immediately proceed to my new see, whatever."

Hadrian smiled. "God bless you, son. But do not go yet. Pimlico has been in the hands of the Vicar-General and the Coadjutor for years; and the Vicar-Capitular can manage for the present. Stay here a little while. We shall need you. We shall not need you long."

And Talacryn went out from the Presence, glad, yet grave.

During a few days, questions and answers incessantly passed between the Vatican and Windsor Castle. Hadrian consulted sovereigns: discussed difficulties with statesmen. Baron de Boucert expressed the opinion that it would be futile to oppose the inevitable expansion of Germany. Signor Barconi himself officiated at an instrument installed in the apostolic antechamber, until he was carried away in nervous collapse. Hadrian envied him: and forced Himself to resist temptation. He had much to do yet. Messages, messages, study of maps, collation of ms. notes, filled a score of each twenty-four hours. There was need of profound thought, so that the clairvoyant undazzled eye like a diver might reach the bottom of deep-preserving thought. The four hours which remained chiefly were spent at the tomb of St. Peter in the basilica. The Arbitrator slept not at all in these days. He ate while at work; and only sought refreshment under the ice-cold tap in the bath-room. A squadron of English cruisers escorted a procession of royal yachts and battleships, which conveyed the Congress of Windsor to Golden and immortal Rome.

Then came the issue of the Epistle to the Princes, in which the Apostle reiterated the evangelic counsels, predicating a scheme of utter self-sacrifice and non-resistance in imitation of the "sweet reasonableness of Christ." This would mean, said He, the deliberate loosening and casting away of all conventions which bound society together. It was right: it was straight: it was the most direct road to heaven. But it was not in accordance with the human will: it would be called utopian, and unconventional; and it would be derided more than followed: it would cause confusion inconceivable if it were attempted on the grand scale. Truth more quickly emerges from error than from confusion. Men, being what they are, i.e. bound to err, would be better for having their errancy guided. They would diverge from the road: but they should not leave it out of sight; and, properly guided, their movement at least could be made to tend towards the Point Desirable. Individuality so long had been suppressed, that its efforts required administration. Therefore the Pontiff shewed, as well as an unconventional, a conventional way of approaching that Point Desirable. He maintained the aristocratic and monarchic principle in strict integrity. A rebel was worse than the worst prince, and rebellion was worse than the worst government of the worst prince that hitherto had been. He proclaimed the anarchy of France and Russia to be a manifestation of diabolic ebullience, which ought to be restrained and stamped out by all right means, even the most stringent. France and Russia, having forfeited the right of being deemed capable of ruling themselves, henceforth must submit to be ruled. Satan finds mischief for idle hands to do. Occupation, and scope for occupation, alone will enable individuals and nations to work out their own salvation humanly speaking. Men must use themselves:—for good or ill. Most human ills were caused by the lack of scope for energy. Sitting on, or screwing down, the safety valve invariably was fatal:—a doctrine which He enforced on the attention and obedience of the clergy. These principles involved a re-arrangement of various spheres of influence. The Ruler of the World, Peter, the Supreme Arbitrator, decreed that the only nations, in which the "facultas regendi" survived in undiminished energy, were England, America, Japan, Germany, Italy. Some of the old monarchies, however, had not yet reached that point of decay when their extinction would become desirable: they were Norway, Sweden, Denmark, the German kingdoms and principalities and duchies, Spain, Portugal, Greece, Roumania, Albania, Montenegro, the republics of Switzerland and San Marino. These were to be maintained as sovereign states and to preserve their national characters. Some also of the old monarchies, which had tolerated unmerited suppression, were to be given an opportunity of proving themselves worthy of corporate existence. These were Hungary, Bohemia, and Russian and German Poland. They were revived as kingdoms; and required to provide themselves with constitutions (after the manner of England), and to elect their respective monarchical dynasties. Switzerland and San Marino were confirmed as republics. The Sultan at the instigation of England, his ally, would move his capital to Damascus, in order to concentrate the main force of Islam in Asia. Servia was added to the Principality of Montenegro. Turkey-in-Europe and Bulgaria would become merged in the kingdom of Greece. So far for particulars.

Hadrian denounced, as bad and idle dreams, the plans of recent political schemers who had adumbrated ideas of a federation of the English-speaking and the Teutonic races. He dwelled upon the essential differences which divided Germany from America, and both from England. No blend was possible between the English and the Germans; and Americans were not qualified for bonds. Each one of the three was unique; and each would stand alone. Three such enormous powers must have each its own separate and singular existence and sphere of action. Three such spheres must be found, in which the three nations independently might thrive. It was room for independent development which must be sought out, and assigned.

He stated the case of the continent of Europe. Belgium had 228 inhabitants to the square-kilometre: Holland, 160: Germany, 104: Austria, 87: France, 72: Russia was so sparsely populated that only a migration of 109,000,000 people from the rest of Europe would raise her to the European average. Hence, the Pope proclaimed the instauration of the Roman Empire, under two Emperors, a Northern Emperor and a Southern Emperor; and confirmed the same to the King of Prussia and the King of Italy as representatives of the dynasties of Hohenzollern and Savoy respectively. He ordained that this instauration should not be deemed 'the ghost of the dead Roman Empire sitting crowned upon the grave thereof, but its legitimate heir and successor, justified by the ancient virtues of the Romans, the beneficence of their rule,' and the vigorous aspiration to well-doing which characterized their present representatives. The Northern Emperor William would nominate sovereign dynasties for Belgium and Holland. He might replace the present exiled monarchs on their respective thrones: or he might depose them and substitute members of his Imperial family. He then would extend the borders of Germany, eastward to the Ural Mountains by the inclusion of Russia, westward to the English Channel and Bay of Biscay by the inclusion of France, southward to the Danube by the inclusion of Austria. At the same time, he would federate the constitutional monarchies of Norway and Sweden, Denmark, Holland, Belgium, Hungary, Bohemia, Poland, Roumania, and the republic of Switzerland with the other sovereign states already under his suzerainty: while the Southern Emperor Victor Emanuel would federate the constitutional monarchies of Portugal, Spain, the extended kingdom of Greece, the principalities of Montenegro and Albania, and the republic of San Marino, with the kingdom of Italy, which last now was to include Italia Redenta. The frontier dividing the Northern Empire from the Southern was to be formed by the Pyrenees, Alps, Danube, and Black Sea.

The case of America was defined. The United States were to be increased by the inclusion of all the states and republics of the two Americas from the present northern frontier of the United States to Cape Horn.

The Japanese Empire was authorized to annex Siberia.

All Asia (except Siberia), Africa, Canada, Australia, New Zealand and All Islands, were erected into five constitutional kingdoms, and added to the dominions of the King of England, Ireland, Wales, and Scotland. The title "Emperor" being antipathetic to the English Race (on account of its primary significance "War-Lord"), the official style of the Majesty of England, Ireland, Wales, Scotland, Asia, Africa, Canada, Australia, New Zealand and All Islands, henceforth would be "The Ninefold King."

Thus the Supreme Arbitrator provided the human race with scope and opportunity for energy. The provisions of the Epistle to the Princes were drawn up in the form of Treaty dividing the world, till midnight (G.T.) of December 31st (N.S.) of the year 2000 of the Fructiferous Incarnation of the Son of God, into the Ninefold Kingdom, the American Republic, the Japanese Empire and the Roman Empire. This Treaty was signed, in the Square of St. Peter's at Rome, by the Pontiff, the Sovereigns and the Presidents, on the Festival of the Annunciation of Our Lady the Virgin; and the armies and navies of the signatories instantly set about the pacification of France and Russia by martial law.

CHAPTER XXI

April brought to Hadrian an experience of one of those periods of psychical disturbance which are incidental to the weakness of humanity, and inevitable by a man of His particular temper. Things lost their significance to Him, persons lost their personality, events their importance; and time was not. He kept a straight face, and forced Himself to courteous demeanour: but He was living in a world in which He felt Himself to be just off the floor and floating, a world in which everything was strange and everybody was quite strange, a world where nobody and nothing mattered the least little bit. He had the sense at the beginning to include Himself in secret behind guarded doors; and also to hold His tongue when His attendants were in the Presence. He simply sat and wondered—wondered who He was, how He came there, who dressed Him like that, and when;—and decided that it did not matter. He nursed His cat, cooing and mewing and talking cat-language in a most enjoyable manner. When the creature went away,—it did not matter. He used to gaze at His cross by the hour together, planning combinations of lights and shades and backgrounds of book-backs: placing the golden symbol there, and revelling in the supple splendour of the Form, its dignity, its grace, the majestic youth of the Face, noble and grave. He would close His eyes and learn the lovely planes and contours with delicate reverent touch. It pleased Him to think that He had created a type of incarnate divinity, which neither was the Orpheys of the catacombs, nor the Tragic Mask of the Vernicle, nor the gross sexless indecencies wherewith pious Catholics in their churches insult the One among ten thousand, the Altogether Lovely. That thought brought Him back to Space and Time. Indignation at images at least eleven heads long, proportioned like female fashion-plates, visaged like emasculate noodles whom you would slap in the face on sight, simply for their tepid attenuate silliness, if you met them in the flesh—this drew down Hadrian to realities and life.—He felt utterly exhausted. An exposition of sleep seized Him. He was always drowsy; and would fall asleep in the day-time over the writing and reading which He put Himself to do, in His armchair by the window, in His favourite seat by the old wall in the garden where He spent the vivid afternoons of spring. Only toward night-fall, was He able to write that beautiful clear script of His, to bring any of His usual alertness to bear upon affairs: even then that alertness was extraordinarily diluted. His intellect was nebulous, uncertain. He could not select saliencies, could not concentrate his thoughts: His constructive faculty was in abeyance: His imagination was in chains. He spent a long time over His scanty meals, chewing, chewing, reading, reading, and remembering nothing which He read. In an inert perfunctory way, He blamed Himself for waste of time; and continued to waste it. No doubt it was divine nature's will. Let it be understood that He was not slothful in the confessional sense of the word. He was merely lethargic, dulled, blunted, listless, eager for nothing, except to flee away and be at rest—at rest.

From this stupor, He awoke in panic, as though nympholeptose, lymphatic, driven to phrenzy by some unknown external agency. He became inspired with an appalling consciousness of the absolute necessity for instant active continuous exertion,—if He were to continue alive upon this earth. He felt that, if He were to permit Himself to relax for one instant, if for one instant He were to abdicate command of His physical forces, to let Himself go,—that instant would be His last. With this in His mind, He prepared for momentary unconscious lapses from violent activity. He posed with care, so that, if Death should seize Him unawares, He might not present a disedifying or untidy spectacle to the finders of His corpse. He carefully avoided postures from which, when He should be reft from the body, His form would fall indecorously. He did not trouble His confessor more often than twice a week as usual: but His one prayer, His incantation, always was on His lips, "Dear Jesus, be not to me a Judge, but a Saviour." He was losing hold of the world. Continually, through every hour of the day and night, His head rang with the reverberating boom—boom—boom—boom of His strong heart's beating. The rhythm was maddening. He used to count the pulsations, wondering, after "fourteen," whether He would be able to say "fifteen": after "ninety-seven," whether He would be in Rome to say "ninety-eight": expecting the sudden wrench of self from body: conjecturing the nature of that unique experience. Once, He put Himself to the question "Was He afraid?" He answered, No, because He dared to hope; and, Yes, because He had not been there before. But Sokrates had said that death was our greatest possession on earth; and Seneca said that death was the best of the inventions of life; and Seneca's friend Saint Paul said "to die is gain." On the whole, He was not afraid, afraid, of death. But, He did not dare to go—to go—to sleep now. At night, He used to lie in bed, first on His right side, then at full length on His back with the pillow under His neck, and His hands crossed on the breast which had been tattoed with a cross when He was a boy, and His ankles crossed like a crusader, rigid, as He wished to lie in His coffin,—and His brain active, active, counting physical pulsations, meditating on the future, scheming, planning, counting each breath, and waiting for the last—and death.

Sometimes He wondered whether it was all worth while: whether it was in accordance with God's Will that He should be so will-full. He decided to risk an affirmative to that, on the ground of the existence of His will. He knew that He tried rightly to use it. He hoped for mercy on account of lapses. One point He determined. With all due respect to Sokrates and Seneca, Death came by Sin, and Sin was God's enemy, and God's friends must fight God's enemies to the bitter end. To relax was suicide, and suicide was sin; and, tired with conflict as He was, eager for rest and peace as He was, it certainly was not worth while to add to His tale of sin: it was not worth while to exchange tiresome earth for untiring hell: to lose, what Petrarch calls 'the splendour of the angelic smile.' He had no steel in His possession except safety-razors: knives and scissors He had abolished long ago; and now He had light strong gratings fixed to all His windows. He would not go into temptation. 'I am fawned upon by hope. Ah, would that she had a voice which I could understand, a voice like that of a herald, that I might not be agitated by distracting thought,' He said to Himself in the words of Elektra at the tomb of Agamemnōn. Had He been trained in boyhood at a public-school, in adolescence at an university, had His lines been cast in service, He would not have had to put so severe restraint upon Himself. The occasion would not have arisen. A simple and perhaps a stolid character would have been formed of His temper, potent and brilliant enough to distinguish Him from the mob, but incapable of hypersensation. Instead, His frightfully self-concentrated and lonely life, denied the ordinary opportunities of action, had developed this heart-rending complexity: had trained him in mental gymnastics to a degree of excellence which was inhuman, abominable, (in the first intention of the words), in its facile flexible solert dexterity. He was not restrained by any sense whatever of modesty or of decorum. He had no sense of those things. He knew it; and regretted it. He was Himself. He distrusted that self, rejoiced in it, and determined to deal well and righteously with it. Dr Guido Cabelli, at length summoned, found Him positively furious with the pain of physical and intellectual struggles. The physician exhibited Pot. Brom., Tinct. Valerian. Am., Tinct. Zinzil., Sp. Chlorof., Aq. Menth. Pip., once every three hours. It made the Pontiff conscious that He stank like a male cat in early summer: but He heard no more boom-booming in his ears. It strung-up His nervous system for the time. He put on His pontifical mask; and addressed Himself from the ideal to the real.

He put the affairs of nations on one side. They, the nations all were tumbling over one another in their eagerness to re-arrange themselves upon the pattern which He had devised for them. If He adopted the Pythagorean rôle of an uninterested spectator, either He would be annoyed by something ugly or something silly, or He would have a chance of glorifying Himself on account of some success. And He wished to do otherwise than that. "In this world, God and His angels only may be spectators."

The affairs of religion, as far as He could see, amounted to the service of others and the cultivation of personal holiness, the correspondence with Divine Love. Someone had told Him that—yes, Talacryn in confession, of course,—that the key to all His difficulties, present and to come, was Love. That was all very pretty and theological on the part of the bishop, the cardinal-archbishop: but it was the baby who had taught Him the secret of the method. He would, He really would keep His troubles to Himself. His office was the office of leader and exemplar. Nothing must interfere. He put Himself to review the first year of His pontificate: and a black enough tale it seemed to Him. Without surprize, without emotion, He noted the blurs of impatience, pride,—pride,—humanity.—Retrospection was the most wearisome most fatuous banality. Onward!

Leader and exemplar! One thing was clear. He must come down among the led and following. He must be seen of men. And He was not seen. No. Peculiar personal preference kept Him apart, mysterious. He rather enjoyed (not the being misunderstood but) the not being understood; and, at the same time, He had been doing a lot of people the gross injustice of crediting them with the possession of intelligence similar to His Own, of perspicacity equal to His Own, of the ability to keep up with His rapid pace and abrupt manœuvres. That was unrighteous. No doubt it had been all very fine and noble and so forth to sit down silent under calumny, for example. One could afford to do that when one was innocent. But, when millions of people (to give the devils their due) actually wanted to believe one innocent, and would be grieved and perhaps injured because the opportunity to believe innocence was withheld, was it righteous to refuse to condescend? No, such a pose was mere pride. The Servant of the servants of God must not fear to soil the whiteness of His robe in any kind of ordure. Also, to save others was the best way of retrieving oneself.

He sent for the nearest cardinals. Ragna, Saviolli, Semphill, Sterling, Talacryn, Carvale, Van Kristen, Gentilotto, Leighton, Whitehead, responded to the summons. Hadrian received them in the throne-room, but without formality; and contrived to give them an easy and genial greeting. They thought Him to be looking seriously ill. There was the dead whiteness of a gardenia in the hue of His face and hands: His reddish-brown hair was going grey over the left ear: His intense and rigid mask was the sign of pain. His whole aspect also was diaphanous, wasted. But His manner was vivid: He was not inaccessible. Their Eminencies gave Him their attention; and wondered what He was going to bring-out of the dispatch box by His side. He was extremely glad to see the Secretary of State: for He knew how antipathetic He was to that one; and now He was going to try to give him satisfaction. At least it should not be His fault if Ragna's ordinary attitude of discreet and convulsive brutality remained unmitigated.

"Lord Cardinals," the Supreme Pontiff said, "it has occurred to Us that ye have many things to say: that there be many things which ye desire to know. We, on Our part, are ready to hear; and We are willing to respond to questions."

Questions instantly were born in each man's brain. Ragna was the first to deliver Himself of his. "Holiness, will You answer a question about the Epistle to the Princes?"

"Yes."

Ragna collected himself. "I am curious to know why the rights of France in Egypt were not even named. I can see that the very nature of Your Holiness's counsels demanded that Africa as a whole should pass to England: but I cannot understand why Germany, in taking over France, should not also have taken-over the condominium of Egypt. Why did that fall to England; and why did Germany consent to its falling to England?"

Hadrian made an effort to conquer His natural incapacity for coming near a subject at the first attempt; and put Himself to be concise. "Your Eminency knows that since—We forget the exact date—but since a very short time ago, no international obligations have existed which could restrain Egypt from legitimate attempts at emancipation. Nothing but Ottoman firmans held her. Very well. We discovered that when the King of England and the Sultan, last October, made alliance, the latter issued a firman in which England was named Protector of Egypt. Then (the speaker slightly smiled), when the task of arbitration was submitted to Us, We found that the German colonies in Africa, not only did not pay their way but, required a yearly subsidy of £1,500,000; and therefore, taking one thing with another, We arranged to give Germany sufficient employment for a century nearer home. She promptly recognized that 'megli' è fringuello in man' che tordo in frasca.' The fact is that she was only too glad to be rid of her own parasitic colonies, which had severed their connection from the parent stem, and derived their nutriment from other states: while the colonies of France which were epiphytic, having no existence apart from the source from which they sprang, were wiped out (as French colonies) when France was wiped out."

"And no doubt Germany, in her pretty Gothic way, was in such a desperate hurry to grab France, that she forgot all about Egypt. D'ye know they say she's going to call her conquest Gallia again?" Semphill put in with a sniff. "And now I'll ask a question. Holy Father, may I smoke?"

"But smoke!" Hadrian assented with pleasure; and held-out His Own hand for a cigarette. Some of the others did likewise; and the gear began to run much more easily. Van Kristen expressed joy that the Germans were not to have chances of doing more monkey business on the Erechtheion and the Akropolis at Athens.

"Yes," Ragna meditatively continued: "I suppose I ought to have understood all that. But now, Holiness, there's another thing: why did the Sultan consent to evacuate Europe?"

"Simply because, with all the examples which he has had lately, he goes in mortal terror of assassination. He has managed to persuade himself that he only can be warranted against that, as long as he is under the ægis of England. Well: seeing England and Turkey allied, We moved England and England moved Ismail. The former had sense: the latter, sentiment. But Ismail really is not half bad: in fact he's rather decent. If We only had another dear charming child-like naked Christian like Blessed Brother Francis——"

"What?" said Carvale with animation. He happened to have noted that, when Hadrian rioted in superlatives, it meant no more than positives: but, when He negligently drawled comparatives, "not half bad" or "rather decent," the ultimate of praise was signified. "What?" the cardinal repeated.

"We would send him to give points to Ismail's mollahs and dervishes."

"St. Francis has innumerable sons, Holiness," Saviolli put in.

"And We only know one who in the slightest degree resembles his father," the Pope responded, waving away the subject.

"One would like to know," said Sterling, "whether Your Holiness is not really of the opinion that the Epistle to the Princes was perhaps a trifle too sentimental and——"

"Sentimental? Yes. The Ruler, who rules sentiment out of his calculations, ignores one of the most potent forces in human affairs. Too sentimental? No. And what else was Your Eminency about to say—a trifle too sentimental and——"

"One would have said perhaps a trifle too arbitrary."

"Dear man——" the Pope gleefully began.

But Ragna interrupted "Nothing of the kind. That particular Epistle was replete with pontifical dignity: it was the finest thing——"

Hadrian stopped him "We were about to remind Cardinal Sterling that when the Ruler of the World geographically rules the world, He is accustomed to do His ruling with a ruler. Our predecessor Alexander VI. used a ruler on a celebrated occasion on the Atlantic Ocean."

Everybody burst out laughing: laughed for a few moments; and returned to a serious demeanour. There was a question, an important question, which sat upon all tongues, wing-preened, ready to fly. But His Holiness already had refused to discuss it. Those, who had tried to persuade, so seriously had been hurt by His icy reticence or by His blunt aloofness, that no one now was temerarious enough to attempt the re-opening of so unsavoury and so personal a matter, except upon explicit invitation. Knowing what he did of men, Hadrian had expected hesitation: but, seeing that His purpose was likely to fail of completion; and, being determined that it should not fail, He slowly and significantly drew-off the pontifical ring from His first finger, and put it in His pocket. "Gentlemen," He said with quite a change of manner, "some of you would like to put George Arthur Rose to the question?"

They would indeed. They would whatever. They would like it so much that they all spoke in unison. The sum of their words amounted to a request that George Arthur Rose would give them some sort of statement concerning newspaper calumnies, some sort of statement by way of support to their contention that he had been grossly wronged and mispresented.

It was George the Digladiator who responded. He seemed to step down into the arena, naked, lithe, agile, with bright open eyes, and ready to fight for life. "Very well," he said—"I will give that statement to you: but understand that I will not defend myself in the newspapers. If I were a layman, I should have whipped in a writ for libel, and have given my damages to Nazareth House. I should have preferred to trust my reputation rather to an English judge and jury, than to the nameless editors of Erse or Radical newspapers. Fancy having one's letters edited by the Catholic Hour, for example: fancy having one's letters, which are one's defence, nefariously garbled by a nameless creature who is one's prosecutor, and one's judge, and one's jury, all in one! However, not being a layman, I cannot go to law; and I will not condescend to have dealings with those newspapers. Understand also, that I tell you what I am about to tell you, not because I have been provoked, abused, calumniated, traduced, assailed with insinuation, innuendo, mispresentation, lies: not because my life has been held up to ridicule, and to most inferior contempt: not because the most preposterous stories to my detriment have been invented, hawked about, believed. No. Please understand that I am not going to speak in my own defence, even to you. I personally and of predilection, can be indifferent to opinions. But officially I must correct error. So I will give you some information. You may take it, or leave it: believe it or disbelieve it. You shall have as photographic a picture as I can give you of my life, and of the majestic immobility by which you clergy tire out—assassinate a man's body—perhaps his soul. You are free to use it or abuse it. When I shall have finished speaking, I never will return to this subject."