Chapter III: Part 3

“Chance! You’ve had a thousand chances!” retorted the Goblin, scornfully, “And you’ve thrown them all away! Now you’re asking for _one_ chance! Oh, hoo-roo! Come and see how Christians love one another! With a love that perhaps you may appreciate, because it is so like hate! Come and hear an ‘ordained’ clerical Judas deny his Master! YOU and such men as YOU--gorged with gold, and diseased with Self,--are chiefly to blame for the wicked blasphemies which to-day brand the Christian world with infamy! Come--come! Blasphemy will suit you! You have aided it and abetted it many a time, even though you _are_ a ‘churchwarden.’ Oh, hoo-roo, hoo-roo! Come in the spirit of One Timothy Two! Come!--come! COME!”

And like a great phantom of black Night descending, the Goblin swooped upon Josiah once more;--the little quiet room,--where Willie Dove, his wife and friend were all cheerily drinking “A Merry Christmas,”--was blotted from his sight, and again limitless space enshrouded and enveloped him in darkness.

* * * * *

A muffled and monotonous sound of chanting--the twinkling of many bright lights,--and the subdued rustling movement of many people gathered together,--these were the next impressions that awakened McNason to renewed consciousness. He stood in what seemed a shadowy forest of architecture;--there were great marble monuments all round him inscribed with the names of famous poets, warriors and historians, and on one of these the Goblin squatted cross-legged beside him, blinking with its owl-like eyes.

“There’s not a seat to be had, McNason!” it remarked, with a leer--“You must stand! Oh, Beelzebub! What a thing it is to be a ‘fashionable’ preacher! Nothing ‘draws!’ so well nowadays as an Atheist in Holy Orders! Not even our reverend brother ‘Firebrand’! Oh, hoo-roo!”

McNason looked bewilderedly about him. Surely he knew the place he was in?--its blackened arches, its shadowy aisles were not wholly unfamiliar? Gradually he recognised it as that melancholy Valhalla of English departed greatness, Westminster Abbey. But why had his uncanny incubus, “Professor” Goblin, brought him hither? What had he to do with the dense crowd of people massed round him--all looking--all listening----!

Hush! The monotonous chanting ceased--there was a brief pause of pretence at prayer--and then a man’s voice, clear and incisive, but with a falsetto ring of cold superciliousness and irony in its tone, sounded vibratingly on the silence. The Church’s ordained Preacher of the Gospel began to preach, and Josiah McNason, more than any other human unit in the congregation, was compelled to listen. And as he listened, he became aware that this same ordained preacher was calmly, but none the less surely, doing his best to undermine the very faith of which he was a professed disciple. Craftily, and with cunningly devised arguments, which held their meaning deftly secreted under a veil of choice expressions and well-turned phrases, he spoke of “old” beliefs with delicate tolerance and compassion--throwing in occasional questionings as to the meaning of “miracles,” and setting down “Divine” interposition as a fable, or rather as a beautiful myth which in the “darker” ages of the world was eminently useful as a means of intimidating and chastening the spirits of the ignorant. He spoke much of a “New Feeling” which was awakening among more advanced and civilised human kind,--that special “New Feeling” which looks upon Man as in himself supreme, and answerable to no Higher Tribunal than His Own for his actions. He deprecated the unfortunately chaotic state of things in the Churches which prevented a full inquiry into the foundations of belief, and hoped that the time was fast approaching when a larger and broader view might be obtained, and humanity be absolved from special duties to a Supernatural Conception which might possibly be a mistaken conception after all. In fine, the drift of his involved and euphuistic eloquence was to imply that pigmy Man would in due course be permitted to fathom the Mind of God,--and not only be permitted to fathom it, but to criticize it, question it and possibly condemn it after the same easy style, and in the same casual fashion, in which all human criticism condemns what it is too limited to comprehend. And gradually it was forced in upon Josiah McNason’s not always receptive intelligence that the rankest heresy, the vilest blasphemy was being preached from a Christian pulpit, by one who, passing for a “Christian” minister, was nothing more nor less than a foul hypocrite, and a disgrace to his sacred calling. Yet the congregation listened. They did not rise at once and make a quiet exit as they should have done, had they been honest and brave,--had they truly loved the Faith which leads to Heaven! Yet their faces expressed a certain dull bewilderment,--some looked worried and sad--others perplexed,--though many of them appeared indifferent. And certain words which he had heard often, yet which he had scarcely heeded while hearing them, came ringing across McNason’s mind as clearly as though they had just been spoken into his ears:

“AND BECAUSE INIQUITY SHALL ABOUND, THE LOVE OF MANY SHALL WAX COLD!”

He trembled. His eyes were dim,--but he could still see the Atheist-Preacher’s cold, intellectual face,--he was still in a vague way conscious that the sermon was going on, and that a human creature, full to the very brows of self-sufficiency and conceit, was presuming to lay down the law concerning the possible limitations of the Divine--a human creature moreover who occupied his very position in the Church through having solemnly sworn fidelity to the Master whom now, by the most covert subterfuges and sophistries, he was denying,--and he was aware that a sense of uneasiness and discomfort affected nearly all present, including even himself. He turned to look at the Goblin,--but to his amazement it had disappeared! Was he free then?--free once more to go where he liked and do as he liked?

He tried to move--but his feet seemed fastened to the earth with iron weights; he essayed to speak,--but his tongue refused to obey the impulse of his brain. On, still on, the voice of the Atheist-Preacher in England’s ancient Abbey flowed, with that equable fluency which comes of long and careful elocutionary practice, and Josiah McNason, wedged as he was into the close-pressing crowd, wondered how long he would have to stand there, listening to what at another more convenient time he might very likely have considered a clever and “up-to-date” exposition of the “New Feeling.” All at once he saw a great Light, like that of the sun at noonday, suddenly begin to shine. With glorious effulgence it formed into a halo of exceeding brilliancy, spreading from north to south, from east to west of the old Church, between the Choir and the Nave, and with a palpitating dread shaking his very soul, Josiah watched it widening and ever widening, till taking upon itself the shape of a Cross, it fired the whole scene with the radiance of a golden morning! Yet no one saw it apparently,--no one save he, the world’s great millionaire, who, denying the “supernatural,” was for the time under “supernatural” sway. And trembling, he beheld that wondrous Cross move mysteriously forward, till its light poured with a gracious beauty and beneficence over all the dull worn faces of the people--on men and women and children alike,--though, as it moved, it left the face of the Atheist-Preacher covered with darkness. And in the very heart and centre of its environment lustre, a majestic Figure paced slowly--a god-like Man, whose Features were sorrowful, and whose Brow was crowned with Thorns. A faint whisper floated on the air like the sigh of small spirit voices in plaintive unison:

“Despised and Rejected! Love, Divine and Human, Love, Perfect and Eternal! Despised and Rejected! Even NOW!”

Down, down on his knees fell the man of many millions, overcome by the most poignant fear and shame he had ever known. He had disbelieved! He knew it at last,--he knew that he had, for the sake of public conventionality, made mere hypocritical pretence to worship One Whose sublime teaching he outraged every day of his life, Whose commands he ignored, and Whose example he had never at any time tried to follow. And now--now! With pulses beating as though they would burst, and eyes dim with painful tears wrung from the centre of the rocky region of his heart, he sought to cover his face,--but was forced against his will to gaze, half blind and giddy as he was, on that majestic advancing Shape, which appeared to draw away all the shadows of the great cathedral and transfuse them into light. He noticed, with an extraordinary anguish, which to him was as new as it was keen, that the crowded congregation of people among whom he knelt seemed totally unaware of the shining Presence that passed them by,--and as that Presence moved slowly and silently towards the closed doors of the Abbey, he felt that he must cry out wildly:--

“Look--look! Kneel down and pray! Entreat Him not to leave us, for if He goes, why should we remain!”

But all utterance was denied him. He could only watch and tremble. Slowly, very slowly, with a grand reproach expressed in every feature of its glorious Countenance, the heavenly Vision of the Crucified moved on,--the doors of the Abbey opened noiselessly, as though flung aside by invisible hands, admitting a broad shaft of winter moonlight from the outer air,--and so, never once looking back, it passed out and away from the crowded church of “Christian” worshippers, and, melting into the silvery radiance of the moon, disappeared. The doors closed darkly behind it--and black shadows drooped from the dim cathedral arches, hanging drearily over the people, and filling the aisles and chapels with a dull noxious vapour--and then with a sudden startling clangour, out rang the Bells again! The Bells! Hoarse and reproachful!--full of menace and foreboding, loneliness and despair! Such a tolling chime they gave as might fit the burial of all the faiths and aspirations of the world! They spoke of Death, not Life!--of the black grave from which all hope of resurrection had been taken,--with a sob in their savage metal throats they proclaimed the closing of the gates of Heaven!--with harsh resistance they bewailed the loss of confidence in God, of trust in the future, of comfort in sorrow--and with dismal and heavy reverberation they thundered forth “Death! Death! Death is the end of all! There shall be no Hereafter!”

Within the Abbey the people looked doubtfully at one another. Some smiled--some sighed,--one or two had tears in their eyes. A faint whisper ran from lip to lip. “Christmas Day!” they murmured--“It is Christmas Day!” And again they sighed and smiled. But it was evident that the old Festival for them held no meaning--no tender or pious memory. Once perhaps it might have had--but now--! Why now the very Spirit and Soul of Christmas had departed!--the doors of the Christian Church itself were closed against it,--the Divine Friend of Mankind had passed by unheeded, and had gone away from those who were passively permitting His honour to be assailed,--what then was Christmas Day but the mere empty name of a discarded Blessing! The dark shadows steadily thickened,--and Josiah, still grovelling on the ground, with the awful clang of the moaning Bells in his ears, felt that he was being stifled and pressed down into a tomb of everlasting icy cold,--when he was suddenly plucked up from his knees by the grip of a too familiar claw, and lo!--the Goblin stood confronting him with a sad and sober grin.

“Dull place, Westminster Abbey!” it remarked--“Oh hoo-roo! All damp and dismals! I wouldn’t be an England’s great man for anything! It’s the last reward an England’s great man ever gets,--the ‘honour’--oh, hoo-roo!--of being allowed to moulder among the most mouldered remains that ever mouldered! Hoo-roo! I’m glad the body I used to wear when I was a Churchwarden is all turned into daisies in a country churchyard. Pretty things, daisies! Fancy _your_ old wrinkles turning into them!”

McNason was silent. He stood quietly resigned to the Goblin’s clutch, waiting for its next move. And while he waited, he saw the crowd in front of him sway, part asunder, and begin to disperse,--while the Atheist-Preacher, descending from the pulpit, held brief conversation with a man who took from his hand a roll of paper. McNason could hear him speaking, despite the space between them.

“Here’s my sermon in full,”--he said--“I hope you will give it the widest publicity. The ‘copy’ contains a good many effective bits which I was obliged to leave out with a mixed congregation. You never know how people may take the upsetting of their cherished creeds! In such work the Press can do more than the Pulpit. Nothing like a good Press discussion for shaking the old foundations! And I think my remarks are likely to cause a fluttering in the dove-cotes!”

The reporter--for such he was--smiled.

“You are not afraid of your Archbishop?” he said.

The Atheist-Preacher laughed.

“My Archbishop! He has no time to give his attention to any such matter as this. He’s too busy with the claims of the Poor Clergy!”

They both laughed then, shook hands and separated. McNason, in the Goblin’s grasp, watched them go their several ways, and then suddenly recovering his speech, said:--

“That man ought to be put out of the Church!”

“Quite right--so he ought!” agreed the Goblin--“You are getting quite discriminating, Josiah! He ought to be put out of the Church, but who’s going to do it? He isn’t drunk or disorderly! He’s a liar and a hypocrite, and he’s taking his ‘salary’ on false pretences--but there are hundreds--perhaps thousands--like him! Besides, those who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones! You’re as bad as he is in your way! You pretend----”

“I _have_ pretended----!” said McNason, humbly.

The Goblin looked at him, and closed one round eye in a most horrible and portentous wink.

“I see!” it observed--“You’re preparing to make a good end! You’re like the Naughty Duchess! Oh, hoo-roo! What a character _she_ was! She went the pace as hard as ever she could till she was quite worn out and could count her crows-feet,--then she began to go to Church regularly, and became publicly charitable. She turned herself into a Bazaar Lady; opened several soup-kitchens, and used to cry over the newest sweet thing in curates. Naughty, naughty Duchess! When she died an eminent Dean preached a sermon about her. She left him five thousand pounds in her will. He said she was ‘one of the noblest women that ever lived.’ And she’s one of us now. Oh hoo-roo! Don’t you try to be like her, McNason!--it doesn’t pay! Come along!--Come and take a look at London!”

With a fantastic caper, the Goblin sidled and skipped out of the Abbey, its conical cap glowing like the flame of a will-o’-the-wisp in a dark morass,--while passively, and without any strength to resist its imperious lead, the millionaire followed. In the full radiance of a moon which made the streets as light as day, they presently stood,--and as in a fevered dream, Josiah saw the familiar clock-tower of Westminster, the great square in front of the Houses of Parliament, and the twinkling lamps on the bridge that spans the steely gleam of the river Thames. The dull human roar of the great metropolis thundered in his ears like the rushing of many waters, and while he yet looked on the scene which he knew so well, the Goblin took off its cap and touched his eyes with its tasselled point.

“Tick-tock! Tick-tock! Only two thousand years by the Spirit’s clock!” it said.

And lo!--the stately tower, buildings and streets disappeared! Smooth green fields spread out on every side, full-flowering with meadow-sweet, buttercups and daisies,--there was no longer any bridge across the river, which, flowing calmly between low banks of mossy turf and fern, reflected the sunshine in a thousand sparkles and plashed against the double shores with musical murmurs of peace. A flock of sheep grazed on the quiet pasture, and their shepherd sat at his ease by the side of the placid stream.

And now the Goblin waved its spidery arms.

“Ask him,” it said--“what has become of London!”

Obediently McNason put the question. The shepherd turned upon him a young wondering face.

“London!” he echoed. Then he smiled. “Oh yes, I think I know what you mean! There _was_ a city of that name somewhere about here once, but I don’t know exactly where! There’s nothing of it left now!”

“Nothing!” exclaimed McNason, aghast.

“Nothing!”--And the Goblin, pronouncing this word, waved its arms again, whereupon the Vision vanished,--“Nothing! Not a shred!--not a brick--not a bone! Not even a gold Coin! All the business--Gone!--all the pleasure--Gone!--all the scheming, plotting, lying, cheating, villainy, hatred and envy of one human creature contesting with the other--Gone! All the self-sufficiency, learning, little wisdom, and utter godlessness--Gone! Such will London be in two thousand years! And Nature will not miss it! Nature can do without it very well; Nature can do without you equally well, McNason! The sun will go on shining and the birds will go on singing none the less because You are wanting! Come along!--come along! In the spirit of One Timothy Two, time’s up! Off we go on our last journey!”

Once more Josiah fell on his knees.

“Spare me!” he cried--“Spare me! Surely I have suffered enough!”

“Suffered? You? Oh Beelzebub!” And the Goblin began to elongate itself in its own peculiar and terror-striking style, “You’ve only just begun to know what it is to _feel_! You hard old scoundrel! _You_ talk of suffering!--why, you have lived till over sixty years of age, caring nothing at all for the troubles of others unless you could turn such troubles to your own advantage! As a child you were selfish,--as a boy you were selfish,--as a young man you were selfish,--as an old man you are selfish! You have crushed out hundreds of human lives in your factories as if they were mere ants swarming under your iron heel! You have cut down the expenses of your business to the narrowest, meanest, most pitiful margin,--you ‘sweat’ your labourers to such an extent that you know you dare not walk through your own workshops without a revolver in your pocket and a man on either side of you for protection--you are a living curse to the majority of those you employ--and they look for your death in the hope that after you are gone they will have a kinder master! And _you_ quote Shakespeare, do you? And the Bible! Oh hoo-roo! Come along! Time’s up, I tell you! And we’re not going far. Just a little see-saw ride to a Home Sweet Home! A last long Home! A Happy Home! Oh hoo-roo-oo-oo! One Timothy Two, and away we go!”

* * * * *

Again a brief spell of semi-consciousness--a kind of waking nightmare in which many confused sights and sounds were intermingled;--flying visions of pale worn faces full of sorrow and appeal; noises as of weeping, with stifled cries and sobs of pain;--and then Josiah McNason opened his eyes widely, to find himself lying flat on a narrow bed in the centre of a rather large room. His head rested on a small, very hard pillow,--and on this pillow squatted the Goblin with an air of being quite at ease.

“Here we are in a happy ‘Home,’ McNason!” it chuckled softly in his ear--“Don’t worry! Don’t agitate yourself! Keep quiet calm! You will have every possible attention!”

Josiah stared helplessly about him. He saw his clothes neatly folded and placed all together on the top of a chest of drawers,--his top-hat was also a particularly conspicuous object on a chair close by. He realised that he had been undressed and put to bed, but how this had happened he could not tell. He turned a miserable questioning gaze on the Goblin.

“What--what’s this?” he stammered--“What are you going to do to me?”

“I?” And the Goblin, with an injured air of perfect innocence, executed a diabolical French shrug of its shoulders--“I’m not going to do anything to you, my dear sir! I wouldn’t be so cruel! It is THEY!--THEY are going to do something to you,--but all for your good!--oh, hoo-roo--all for your good!”

THEY! Who were THEY? With painful hesitation Josiah turned his eyes round about again, and presently saw, standing near him like dim figures in a blurred photograph, two men talking confidentially together--one fairly young, the other elderly,--while with them was a smart, well-set-up, rather perky looking woman attired in the conventional grey gown, spotless apron and cap of the “professional” nurse. The elderly man’s back was turned, but he seemed to be expounding some knotty point of argument to his companions with particular emphasis and gusto.

“Something’s gone wrong with the Works, McNason!” said the Goblin, confidentially, “That’s what’s the matter?”

“Works?” And McNason’s troubled mind immediately reverted to his huge factories--“What works?”

“YOUR works!” and the Goblin leered at him sideways with a frightful grin--“Your internal works! And these two learned gentlemen are going to find out what it is. You’re ill, you know!--you’re very ill! The learned gentlemen don’t quite understand how or why you’re ill, but they’re going to find out! They’re going to slice you up and see what you’re like inside! It will be most interesting and instructive--to the learned gentlemen! It won’t interest YOU at all, because you’re to be put under chloroform, and you won’t know anything about it except when you ‘come to.’ Then you will die! But that won’t particularly matter! The operation is sure to be ‘most successful.’ An operation is always ‘successful,’ even if the patient never recovers! The medical profession must be safeguarded, you know!”

McNason heard, and in an instant became a prey to the most violent access of nervous horror.

“I’m not ill!” he said fiercely. “There’s nothing whatever the matter with me! How dare you say there is! It’s all a mistake--an abominable mistake! I’ve never suffered from any illness except gout and indigestion--never!--there’s no operation needed for such ailments!--what the devil do you mean by bringing me here?”

“You _will_ talk about the devil!” And the Goblin shook its tasselled cap at him reproachfully--“Don’t say I mentioned him first! You’re ill, I tell you!--you’re more seriously ill than your old friend Willie Dove, and you’re here _because_ you’re ill! ‘To this complexion must we come at last’! Oh Beelzebub! They don’t know whether it’s cancer or appendicitis with YOU!”

“Look here!” almost shouted Josiah, addressing himself to the two men, who, with the nurse, still stood together talking, but who appeared not to hear him--“Take me out of this place directly! I’ve been brought here on false pretences! I’m not ill! I don’t want an operation! I won’t be operated upon! I’ll--I’ll----!”

Here exhausted, he sank back on his hard pillow impotently clenching his hands in a paroxysm of rage and fear.

The Goblin grinned.

“Now, McNason, keep cool!” it said--“Don’t show temper! Doctors don’t like that sort of thing. They call it ‘nerves’ and they give you a soothing draught. Besides, these two eminent personages who are just now discussing your ‘case’ can’t hear you, and if they could they wouldn’t listen. One’s a ‘Sir.’ He’s a clever man, of course, or he wouldn’t be a ‘Sir.’ It’s a little unpleasant that the title puts him on the same rank with any provincial Mayor who has presented an address to the Sovereign! But it can’t be helped. There’s no suitable honour in this country for _merely_ intellectual and scientific persons! Now about your case----”

“I’ve _no_ case!” groaned the wretched millionaire--“No case at all----”

“You _are_ a case!” declared the Goblin--“A whole case in yourself! A case of a man gone wrong! A case of a human creature who has a stone in the place where his heart ought to be!--a hard, heavy stone, without a pulse of love or kindness in it! A case? Oh Beelzebub! I should think you _are_ a case! Sir Slasher Cut-Em-Up--that’s the broad-backed elderly gentleman over there,--thinks you’ve got something ‘malignant’ inside! Oh hoo-roo-oo-oo! I should think you had! Sir Slasher believes it’s cancer. But if it is, they’ll never find it, McNason! No!--_your_ cancer’s on the mind!--and they’ll never cut _that_ out! But they’re going to have a good try!”

Josiah moaned helplessly.

“Sir Slasher Cut-Em-Up is a great vivisector,”--proceeded the Goblin, cheerfully--“He knows where to find every little nerve and muscle in the body of a dog, for instance. I don’t say your body is at all like that of a dog!--I know your Soul isn’t half so honest or so faithful! Sir Slasher has had more than a hundred innocent animals under his scalpel--all poor, trustful, good creatures whom he has pinned and stretched in every possible position on his rack of torture--whose nerves he has severed--whose muscles he has galvanized--and whom he has killed as slowly, as ruthlessly and as criminally as any Torquemada that ever roasted a heretic to the sound of sacred music! Hoo-roo! Sir Slasher knows a thing or two, I can tell you! He’s a licensed murderer of the harmless and helpless,--but even a dog’s soul has a place in the eternal countings, as Sir Slasher may find out to his cost when he becomes a member of our United Empire Club! He cut up a dog yesterday--now he’s going to cut up YOU! You’re a splendid subject for him, you know! You’ve got so much MONEY!”

Again Josiah moaned in a stupor of fear.

“You’ve got so much MONEY!” repeated the Goblin, smacking its wide lips as though it were tasting something savoury,--“And MONEY’s a great thing! MONEY has enabled you to come to this ‘Home’--one of the most select ‘Homes’ in London! Oh, Home Sweet Home! Oh happy, happy Home! It’s the special pet ‘Nursing Home’ of Sir Slasher Cut-Em-Up, where he’s got the matron and all the nurses under his big Thumb! Oh, hoo-roo! Such a dear Home! You pay Five Guineas a week for your room to begin with,--and then when you’re very ill, you pay Ten. Afterwards, when you get worse and are likely to die, you pay Fifteen. The nurse is extra. If you have two nurses you have two extras. Everything apart from the room and the bed is ‘extra.’ If you want a bottle of soda water you pay sixpence for a ‘split,’ ninepence for a full. And so on! And so on! Oh, what a dear ‘comfy’ Home! There aren’t many like it in London, I can tell you! Only a few--a beautiful, blessed few!”

At this moment, the personage whom the Goblin designated as Sir Slasher-Cut-Em-Up finished his conversation with his younger colleague, and both gentlemen smiled pleasantly, not to say flirtatiously, at the grey-gowned nurse.

“Twelve o’clock to-morrow will do very well,” said Sir Slasher--“We shall leave you to make all the preliminary arrangements, Nurse Drat-Em-All. He’s asleep just now, I see!”

“I’m not asleep!”--gurgled McNason, feebly.

But Sir Slasher apparently did not hear. He stood by the bedside, smiling blandly, his hands clasped behind him under his coat-tails.

“One of the richest men in the world!” he ejaculated, appreciatively--“Dear me, dear me! Ah well, well! Has he any family?”

“None,”--said Nurse Drat-Em-All--“He had one son, I believe, who died in childhood.”

She spoke primly, her lips opening and shutting on her words like a kind of mechanical valve. But while she spoke she flashed her eyes at the younger doctor with a feline cajolery in their hard brown depths.

“Then who,” murmured Sir Slasher, thoughtfully--“Who is to carry on his vast business concerns? Who is to inherit his enormous fortune?”

No answer was forthcoming to this profound proposition.

Sir Slasher thereupon removed his hands from under his coat-tails, and consulted his watch.

“I must be going,”--he said--“You will attend to all that is necessary, Nurse?”

“Certainly, Sir Slasher!”

“I shall bring Dr. Choke-Em-Off with me to-morrow--and I think--yes, I think”--here he looked benevolently considerate--“that taking into account Mr. McNason’s great wealth and important position, and--er--also--er--the very great difficulty and uncertainty of the operation, Dr. Choke-Em-Off’s fee should be doubled! He is one of our best anæsthetists--what do you say, Nurse?”

Sir Slasher had a delightful smile, and he was smiling delightfully now. Nurse Drat-Em-All responded to the charm of it.

“There is no doubt that it is justifiably a case of double fees all round!” she said, her own smile breaking into a giggle.

“Exactly!” And Sir Slasher shed a fatherly glance upon her--“And our young friend here”--at this he laid a hand on his fellow-surgeon’s shoulder--“Our young and brilliant friend will also have an opportunity of displaying his skill and securing his reward! Of course,”--here he became portentously business-like--“it will be advisable to get the patient to sign the required cheques in advance,--there will be no difficulty about that I should imagine! Because you see,--afterwards!”

“Ah!--afterwards!” echoed the younger doctor, speaking for the first time.

Sir Slasher tried to look grave, but failed in the attempt.

“Afterwards,” he said pleasantly,--“the worthy millionaire may not be in a condition to sign anything! I think”--and he paused, stroking his smooth double chin--“I think, Nurse, he should be told that the operation is a grave, very grave one, in case--these things sometimes happen!--in case he has not made a will--or--let us say in case he might wish to make some last testamentary gift--to--er--to me?--or--or to you?--or to anyone else who may have rendered him a service?”

“I’ll see that he does all that he ought to do!” said Nurse Drat-Em-All, with some severity--“I like my patients to be prepared for the worst!”

“Quite right--quite right!” murmured Sir Slasher--“But prepare him gently--quite gently, Nurse! By degrees--and cautiously! I _have_ known cases where patients, getting too much alarmed, have made their escape from a home like this by jumping out of the window! And strange to say they have--some of them--escaped uninjured!--and stranger still, they have recovered and lived many years! Most curious and remarkable! But nerves are unaccountable things!” Here he paused and looked again at McNason. “He sleeps very soundly! I should say he was older than he admits! Ah well, well! We shall see! But I very much fear there’s no chance for his recovery!”

“Then why not spare the knife and let him live as long as Nature will allow him?” asked the younger doctor suddenly.

Sir Slasher looked amazed and reproachful.

“My dear sir! I was called in by Mr. McNason, and I must do my best for such a very wealthy man! Besides, I think his is a very complex case, and likely to prove most helpful and instructive. To-morrow at twelve o’clock, Nurse! Good-evening!”

And Sir Slasher Cut-Em-Up walked softly out of the room, followed by his colleague. Nurse Drat-Em-All, with a casual glance at the bed where Josiah McNason lay, settled her cap more coquettishly on her head and tripped after them.

“They’re gone!” said the Goblin then, sliding down from the pillow and sitting astride on Josiah’s recumbent body--“But Nurse Drat-Em-All will soon be back!”

“I don’t want her back!” groaned McNason, making an attempt to draw up the bed-quilt in order to cover his eyes, in which effort he did not succeed--“I don’t want anything! Leave me alone!”

“Sorry I can’t oblige you!” replied the Goblin--“I can’t leave you alone till you leave YOURSELF alone! And Nurse Drat-Em-All must come back to attend to her duties! She’s got a lot of things to do to you!”

McNason peered over the extreme edge of the bed-quilt.

“A lot of things to do to me?” he echoed, whimperingly--“What--what will she do?”

“She will wash you first!” said the Goblin, briskly--“All over! Oh, such a nice wash! Made of carbolic disinfectant! And you will be so clean--_outside_ you!”

Josiah closed his eyes shudderingly.

“And then you will be put into a new flannel night-shirt,”--went on the Goblin--“And you will perhaps be allowed a cup of hot milk or beef tea. And when you’re nice and warm and clean and cosy, Nurse Drat-Em-All will come and tell you to prepare for your end!”

“No--no!” cried McNason--“I’m not ill!--and I’m not ready--!”

“You _are_ ill!” declared the Goblin, firmly--“And never mind about not being ready for your end. Nurse Drat-Em-All will _make_ you ready! She’ll tell you what a very serious and expensive matter it will be to slice you up scientifically to-morrow--and she will ask you where your cheque book is----”

“I won’t tell her--I won’t--” stuttered McNason.

“Oh yes, you will! _She’ll_ get it out of you! And then you’ll write a big cheque for Sir Slasher Cut-Em-Up, and another for the matron of this happy ‘Home’--and for Dr. Choke-Em-Off,--and for everybody else who wants a fee for sending you into the next world--and then--then you’ll be allowed to sleep if you can! And to-morrow--to-morrow----”

Here the Goblin paused. Josiah raised himself up on his hard pillow and looked at it with appealing eyes.

“Not so very long ago,”--it went on presently, in a kind of sing-song monotone, “A man I knew went to a ‘Home’ something like this, only not quite so up-to-date and expensive. He was a bold, kindly, genial creature, fond of life and life’s pleasures. Something went wrong with him and he consulted the doctors. They told him he had an internal ailment, but they could not tell whether it was ‘malignant’ or not, till they had, so to speak, ‘opened him up.’ He felt strong and hopeful, and consented to the operation. The surgeons did their work--and how they did it, of course, only they can tell. But it was, according to their own report, ‘successful.’ In forty-eight hours the warm-blooded personality of the man that had talked, smiled and jested with his own danger, was a mere lump of cold, stiff clay. He had relatives--oh yes!--he had children for whom he had worked all his life. What did they do? Why, they allowed his body which had so lately pulsated with love for them all, to be taken away from the ‘home’ in which he died, and laid in a dismal vault without a single soul to keep watch by it at night or say a prayer! The world is growing callous concerning the dead, you know! And they don’t keep corpses in ‘Homes.’ When a man dies under an operation he must be ‘removed’ by his family at once. In this case the poor fellow was ‘removed’ to a chill city mortuary. His children, warm and comfortable, ate food as usual and discussed the funeral business. Down in the cold and darkness lay the once animated, cheery, generous-hearted man, alone--all, all, alone!--shut out from the movement and light of natural things, with no loving eyes to keep watch by his mortal remains,--no tender hands to lay flowers on his lifeless breast!--and yet sentimentalists talk about family love and home-affections! Oh hoo-roo!” And the Goblin actually had tears like sparks of fiery dew in its eyes--“You ought to be glad you’ve got no children, McNason! You’ve got MONEY instead! And MONEY will enable you to have your body carried home grandly to your country seat by special train! You can be laid out in state if you like!--provided you give the order before Sir Slasher Cut-Em-Up arrives to-morrow--candles burning all round you and wreaths on your coffin,--it’s all done for MONEY!--and you can have a most expensive funeral,--a beautiful mausoleum,--a marble monument and a lying Epitaph! All for MONEY! MONEY’S a great thing, McNason!--and you’ve got it! Oh Beelzebub! You’ve got it! But you’ve got nothing else!”

At this juncture McNason suddenly sat up in bed.

“Yes, I have!” he said, with a kind of trembling eagerness--“I’ve got something else! I’ve got YOU! And I want--I want to make a friend of YOU!”

The Goblin opened its round eyes so wide that they threatened to fall out.

“Oh, you do, do you?” it queried doubtfully--“That’s odd! Now what put that into your head?”

“I don’t know--I don’t know!” stammered McNason agitatedly--“But I think----I feel----you don’t really want to do me any harm! Look here!--Get me out of this! Take me away--take me away--take me home!”

The Goblin took off its conical cap and examined the interior of that head gear with critical gravity. Its hair, in the all-round style, seemed blacker and stickier than ever, and its features worked into the most alarming contortions.

“Take you home!” it echoed--“What! Before Nurse Drat-Em-All comes back?”

“Yes--yes!” and Josiah wrung his hands imploringly; “Take me away at once----!”

“But you’re ill!” said the Goblin--“You’re very ill!”

“I’m not!”

“You ARE! You’ve got a cancer!”

“I haven’t!”

“You HAVE! It’s called Selfishness! It is eating your life away,--poisoning your blood--rotting your Soul!”

“I’ll get rid of it!--I’ll--I’ll cut it out myself!”--and in his excitement McNason caught hold of the Goblin’s claw and pressed it fervently--“I will--I will! Only take me out of this! Give me a chance!”

“You’re feverish too!” continued the Goblin, severely. “Your temperature has gone up to the very highest point of Fraudulent Philanthropy!”

“I know--I know!--but it will be all right!--only let me get home, and you shall see--you shall see----!”

Here his voice ebbed away into a kind of choked sob.

“And I’m not sure that you haven’t got eczema,”--pursued the Goblin--“Your snobbish hankering after a Peerage will probably break out in a rash all over you!”

“It won’t!” said McNason--“It shan’t! I’ll--I’ll do whatever you tell me----!”

“Oh, will you really though!” And the Goblin sniffed the air with its terribly plastic nose very dubiously--“Do you mean it? Or is it all funk? And only because you want to get away from Sir Slasher Cut-Em-Up? I don’t believe in death-bed repentances!”

“It’s not--it’s not a death-bed repentance!” wailed McNason--“I don’t want this to be my death-bed! I want to die in my own home!”

“Ah! So does Willie Dove!” said the Goblin. “Perhaps you can understand now why his wife doesn’t want to send him to a Hospital!”

McNason shuddered. Time was flying fast, he thought--that cruel-looking Nurse Drat-Em-All would be coming back immediately!--and with an imploring cry he held out his arms to the Goblin.

“Ah, be good to me!” he moaned--“Take me home! I’ll promise anything--anything!”

“It’s easy to promise,”--said the Goblin, “Anyone can do that! But will you keep your promises? For instance, will you think of some other few things besides YOURSELF?”

McNason lifted his trembling hands in the fashion of one invoking the gods.

“I will!--I will!”

“You are a Man of MONEY,”--pursued the Goblin--“And with all the MONEY you possess will you think of POVERTY? Of the thousands and thousands of human beings made of the same flesh and blood as yourself, who perish every year for lack of food? Of infants starving? Of patient genius, toiling for mere pence? Of delicate women working their lives away in order to provide sustenance for their children? Will you think of all these, and help them when you can?--not grudgingly, nor patronisingly,--but with a full heart and a generous spirit?”

Faintly as a bride at the altar, McNason murmured “I will!”

“You are a Man of Luxury,”--went on the Goblin--“Will you think of CRIME? Of the woeful sins which wretched men are driven to commit through want and misery? Of the prisons, crowded with branded human creatures, who in nine cases out of ten owe their guilt to the evil persuasions of others more cunning, more treacherous and powerful than themselves! Of unhappy mothers, gone mad with despair, who have murdered their children rather than see them die of hunger! Of girls, once innocent,--betrayed, ruined and deserted by the villainy and cruelty of such devils in the shape of men that even Hell might close its doors against them! Will you think of CRIME?--and, thinking of it, will you remember that it is often the sight of a man like YOU,--over-prosperous, over-proud,--that helps to drive the poor into the labyrinths of envy, hatred, drink, murder and suicide! Will you think of CRIME?--and do your best to fight against it with all your influence, all your power and all your MONEY?”

And at this juncture the Goblin looked positively terrific. McNason quailed before its Gorgon eyes, and shivered.

“I--I will try!” he murmured.

The Goblin rose on its skeleton toes and lifted its skeleton arms. Its voice grew loud and shrill.

“You are a Man of Commerce and Calculation,”--it said--“Will you think of WAR! Think of nation rising against nation and kingdom against kingdom! The beginning of sorrows! Think of widows and orphans!--think of thousands of dying and dead men! Of human blood springing hot to heaven and clamouring for vengeance! Of burning cities and wrecked ships! Hark! Listen to the rush of waters and the roll of guns!”

And now, as the Goblin spoke, there came a distant booming sound upon the air, mingled with the measured tramp of many marching feet, and hundreds of male voices strongly uplifted in defiant chorus:

“WE sweep the seas!
Our glorious flag unfurl’d
From North to South, from East to West
Shines o’er the world!
Our cannon’s bellowing thunder
Roars with the roaring waves--
For Britain’s foes wild ocean holds
Nothing but graves!

“WE sweep the seas!--
On waters far and near
Our signals flash, and write in fire
OUR meanings clear!
No other land, no other race
Can match our British men!--
They’ve won a thousand fights before,
They’ll win again!

“WE sweep the seas!--
We rule the restless foam!
We struggle not for place or pelf,
We fight for Home!
Loud let the shout of ‘Victory!’
Ring on the fav’ring breeze,--
Down with the foe ten fathoms deep!
WE sweep the seas!”

“War!” said the Goblin, tossing its arms wildly as the sounds died away,--“War! Accursed, yet triumphant War! Think of it, YOU, with your millions! _Can_ you, _will_ you think of it without SPECULATING in the wide-spread misery it involves? Without making more MONEY on the traffic in blood? Without lending yourself and your wealth to wicked Contracts by which you steal from your Country’s government and line your own pockets? _Can_ you be true to the land in which you live? _Can_ you,--_will_ you boldly refuse to sell material assistance for your own personal advantage to your Country’s foes?”

Lashed into a fit of nervous desperation McNason almost shouted:

“I can! I can! And I will!”

Whereupon the Goblin put on its conical cap.

“You are coming round, McNason!” it observed encouragingly--“You are really coming round! I think you are better! Your temperature is lower--nearer the normal Principle! Principle is an excellent pulse--it’s firm and steady, and keeps the whole body going wholesomely! Very few have it nowadays, and as a natural consequence the statistics of insane and diseased persons show an alarming increase! Now,”--this with an oblique but not unfriendly leer--“Are you sure you feel well enough to go home?”

“Sure--sure!”--and Josiah began to scramble out of bed in his excitement--“I’ll get my clothes on in a minute----”

“Won’t you wait for Nurse Drat-Em-All?” suggested the Goblin with a chuckle, “She’ll be back directly!”

“No--no--NO!” Here his voice faltered and died away as he discovered to his terror that he had no power to put his feet to the floor, nor could he reach his clothes. “Oh, I am so helpless!” he wailed--“So feeble and helpless! Oh dear, oh dear! What shall I do!”

“Have a split soda!” said the Goblin--“In this dear sweet ‘Home’ it’s only sixpence! But if you put a B in it, it’s two shillings!”

Half mad with impatience, Josiah wriggled about in the bed, turning his imploring eyes on the relentless Goblin, who, perched on the quilt, was beginning to elongate itself in the most leisurely manner.

“I suppose you want to keep Christmas now!” it remarked presently--“And you’re in a hurry to begin. Is that it?”

“Yes--yes, that’s it!” stuttered Josiah, “You’ll take me, won’t you--you’ll take me----”

The Goblin waved its claw. And in another instant Josiah McNason stood erect, fully clothed, gazing fearfully up--up, ever so high at the indescribable face and form which now loomed like a monstrous bat above him. So tall had it suddenly grown and so thin,--so terrible were its goggle eyes,--so enigmatical its wide grin, that anxious as he was to depart from his present place of torture, he shook like a leaf in a stiff breeze at the prospect of another “airship” voyage with such a fearsome skipper of the winds.

“One Timothy Two!” said the Goblin,--and its voice seemed to fall from some magic pinnacle reared miles above the clouds--“One Timothy Two! Grace, Mercy, Peace! Time to keep Christmas! Christmas Day and Christmas Bells! Come along! Come along! Home for the holidays! Off we go!”

Stooping forward like a giant Cloud from the sky, the Goblin whisked off the shrinking, shuddering millionaire as easily as a gust of wind whisks off the broken branch of a tree, and spreading its great wings, whirled with a wild “Hoo-roo-oo-oo!” out into the starry spaces of the night.

* * * * *

Now came soft pauses of silence,--flashing gleams of colour like broken rainbows floating at will through the pure ether,--glimpses of clear sky wherein the greater planets shone gloriously, resembling revolving lights set in the watch-towers of Heaven,--straying films of pearly vapour through which the moon peered fitfully with a doubtful brilliancy--then lo! the dear familiar Earth, lifting its dark rim against the pale blue reaches of the morning--and then the Sun! Warm with its golden heart’s effulgence, the splendid Orb of life and health and beauty rose in a flood of glory over the mountain-tops and over the seas,--spreading radiance on the wintry fields,--illumining the leafless trees,--and deepening to a more vivid scarlet the berries of the thick green holly, and the dainty feathers on the breasts of the robins. And the Bells!--oh, the Bells! How they rang!--how they sang in all the turrets and steeples of every church that lifted its shining spire to the sunshine! “Peace--Good--will--! Peace--Good--will!” they seemed to say over and over again with such a gladness and a thankfulness in their soft chiming as made the heart grow full of tenderness and tears! And now, all suddenly, a tremulous little chorus of small fresh voices began to mingle with the Bells’ sweet tune--

“God rest you, merry gentlemen!
Let nothing you dismay!
Remember Christ our Saviour
Was born on Christmas Day!”

Then came a pause,--a murmur--and again the quaint old melody began--

“God rest you, merry gentlemen!
Let nothing you dismay!----”

Uttering a smothered cry, Josiah McNason started to his feet. What--what was this? Where was he? Wildly he stared about him--and then with a kind of hysterical shout, recognised his surroundings.

“I’m at home!” he cried--“At home! In my own house! In my own room! Thank God!”

Pressing his hands to his forehead he gazed bewilderedly at every familiar object. There was his desk--his armchair,--(he seemed to have just sprung out of that chair)--the fireplace, where now there was no fire but only a heap of white ashes in the grate--the telephone--ah, that telephone!--his papers, books, letters, ink, pens--ledgers--and a cheque-book,... On this last object his eyes rested meditatively.

“It was a dream!” he muttered--“A horrible, horrible dream! Nothing else! It was a Dream!”

“It WASN’T!”

The answer came sharply and with remarkable emphasis.

Josiah trembled violently. He was not yet alone then? A sudden thought struck him, and a light came into his eyes--a light new and strange, that gave them quite a youthful sparkle.

“At any rate,”--he said--“I’ll be before Pitt this time! I’ll--I’ll cut him out!”

And sitting down at his desk, he drew pen and paper to his aid, and wrote the following--

“My dear Sir,--I am exceedingly sorry to hear of your precarious
condition of health, especially when I recall the strength and
activity which used to distinguish you so greatly at one time when
you did such excellent work for the firm. I understand from my
overseer, Mr. Pitt, that a couple of hundred pounds will be useful
to you at this particular juncture, and I have much pleasure in
enclosing you a cheque for that amount as a slight testimony of
my great appreciation of your former faithful services. Trusting
you will pull through your illness, and assuring you of the great
satisfaction it gives me to be of assistance to you in a time of
need, believe me, with best wishes for a pleasant Christmas,

“Yours obliged and sincerely.
“JOSIAH MCNASON.”

Taking his cheque-book, he wrote the required formula, that Two Hundred Pounds (200_l._) should be paid to William Dove “or order,” and signed his name “Josiah McNason” with a free proud dash under the signature that made it even more characteristic than usual. Putting letter and cheque in an envelope, he sealed and addressed it to “William Dove, Esq.,” and enclosed the whole packet in another envelope with a few words addressed to Mr. Pitt.

“I think,”--he said then, with a bland, almost smiling air--“that will do for Mr. Pitt! Mr. Pitt will find himself out of court this time!”

He got up from his desk and stood irresolute. Then he rang his bell.

“This must be taken by special messenger,”--he said--“There’s no late post on Christmas Day!”

He smiled, and rubbed his hands. At that instant the door opened, and his servant Towler appeared, with a pale, rather scared face.

“Good-morning, Towler!”

“Good-morning, sir! Glad to see you well, sir!”

“Glad to see me well! Have I been ill, then?”

“No, sir I--at least I hope not, sir! But I went to call you at seven o’clock, as you told me, sir, and you weren’t in your room, and your bed hadn’t been slept in--and--I--er--didn’t know what to think, sir! I didn’t dare to come in here!”

“I was busy,”--said Josiah, calmly--“Very busy!--tremendously busy all night! What time is it now?”

“Nine o’clock, sir!”

“And it’s Christmas Day, isn’t it?”

“Yessir!”

“Here’s a sovereign for you,”--and McNason handed that coin to his astonished retainer--“And just get someone to take this letter to Mr. Pitt’s house at once. It’s important.”

“Yessir! Certainly, sir! Thank-you, sir! A Merry Christmas to you, sir!”

“Thank-you! Same to you!”

Backing deferentially out of his master’s presence, Towler ran downstairs as fast as he could into the servants’ hall, there announcing that “Something’s happened to the Governor! He’s too pleasant to last!”

And McNason, still standing thoughtfully by his desk, repeated again in an undertone:

“It was a Dream! It must have been a Dream!”

“It WASN’T!” And a shrill falsetto voice rang clear on the silence. “Hoo-roo--oo--oo! Don’t you dare to call ME a Dream!”

And with a violent shock of renewed terror McNason saw, poised between him and the sunlight which poured through the windows, the Goblin, shrunk in size to the smallest quaintest creature possible, holding over its strangely shaped head a sprig of holly, exactly as a man holds an open umbrella.

“I’m going!” it said--“But don’t you be such a fool as to think yourself a Something and me a Nothing! You’ll make an awful mistake if you do!”

“I’m sorry!” said McNason, humbly--“I don’t want to make any more mistakes----”

“You’d better not!” said the Goblin, and its form began to grow more vague and indistinct--“You’ve got the chance you asked for--but if you lose it now----”

“I won’t!”

“What you would like to think was only a Dream, is a Supernatural Reality!” went on the Goblin; “It has all happened, or it _will_ happen if you don’t take care! If your mind breeds disease, so will your body,--and Sir Slasher will have to be called in! And if he’s once called in, YOU will be called OUT!”

McNason shuddered,--but was silent.

“You’ve begun to keep Christmas in the proper way for the first time in your life,”--and the Goblin’s voice grew fainter and fainter--“But if you don’t go on keeping it!----”

“I will!” cried Josiah, eagerly--“I will!”

“In the spirit of One Timothy Two?”

“I will!”

“Grace--mercy--peace!”

The words floated on the air like a breath--and then, the Goblin turned its back and began to trot slowly away under its holly sunshade. Smaller and smaller it grew, till it looked no bigger than a tiny Christmas doll on a Christmas tree. And then all at once a shining tangle of golden curls and a glitter of sparkling eyes flashed against the window--a semi-circle of children pressed their round rosy faces close to the panes, and again began to sing:

“God rest you, merry Gentlemen!
Let nothing you dismay!
Remember Christ our Saviour
Was born on Christmas Day!”

Whereat the great Josiah McNason, multi-millionaire, laughed,--actually laughed! Going to the window he threw it open, and putting a hand into his pocket, he took out a bunch of silver.

“Hullo, youngsters!” he cried--“Christmas morning, eh? Here you are!”

Out flew threepences, sixpences and shillings in a shower.

“Fair play!” he exclaimed--“Equal profits! Don’t trample one on the other! Girls first, boys next! The strong must help the weak! That’s right!--all good friends together--all happy! No envy, no jealousy,--all peace and goodwill! A Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!” shouted the astonished children, as, jumping for joy, they gathered up their gifts.

“Merry Christmas!” lisped a small boy with a flaxen head, sturdily clambering up to the window from the lawn a couple of feet below, and looking boldly in the face of the world’s celebrated Rich Man;--“God Bless You!”

And the Rich Man answered gently:

“God bless you, little man!”

Then the whole group of young folks, determined to do the best they could for what they had received, burst out again in lusty chorus: