Lord of the World (Dystopian Novel). Robert Hugh Benson

had heard this kind of talk before, but her imagination simply refused to grasp it. A duel of East and West under these new conditions was an unthinkable thing. There had been no European war within living memory, and the Eastern wars of the last century had been under the old conditions. Now, if tales were true, entire towns would be destroyed with a single shell. The new conditions were unimaginable. Military experts prophesied extravagantly, contradicting one another on vital points; the whole procedure of war was a matter of theory; there were no precedents with which to compare it. It was as if archers disputed as to the results of cordite. Only one thing was certain — that the East had every modern engine, and, as regards male population, half as much again as the rest of the world put together; and the conclusion to be drawn from these prémisses was not reassuring to England.

      But imagination simply refused to speak. The daily papers had a short, careful leading article every day, founded upon the scraps of news that stole out from the conferences on the other side of the world; Felsenburgh’s name appeared more frequently than ever: otherwise there seemed to be a kind of hush. Nothing suffered very much; trade went on; European stocks were not appreciably lower than usual; men still built houses, married wives, begat sons and daughters, did their business and went to the theatre, for the mere reason that there was no good in anything else. They could neither save nor precipitate the situation; it was on too large a scale. Occasionally people went mad — people who had succeeded in goading their imagination to a height whence a glimpse of reality could be obtained; and there was a diffused atmosphere of tenseness. But that was all. Not many speeches were made on the subject; it had been found inadvisable. After all, there was nothing to do but to wait.

      III

      Mabel remembered her husband’s advice to watch, and for a few days did her best. But there was nothing that alarmed her. The old lady was a little quiet, perhaps, but went about her minute affairs as usual. She asked the girl to read to her sometimes, and listened unblenching to whatever was offered her; she attended in the kitchen daily, organised varieties of food, and appeared interested in all that concerned her son. She packed his bag with her own hands, set out his furs for the swift flight to Paris, and waved to him from the window as he went down the little path towards the junction. He would be gone three days, he said.

      It was on the evening of the second day that she fell ill; and Mabel, running upstairs, in alarm at the message of the servant, found her rather flushed and agitated in her chair.

      “It is nothing, my dear,” said the old lady tremulously; and she added the description of a symptom or two.

      Mabel got her to bed, sent for the doctor, and sat down to wait.

      She was sincerely fond of the old lady, and had always found her presence in the house a quiet sort of delight. The effect of her upon the mind was as that of an easy-chair upon the body. The old lady was so tranquil and human, so absorbed in small external matters, so reminiscent now and then of the days of her youth, so utterly without resentment or peevishness. It seemed curiously pathetic to the girl to watch that quiet old spirit approach its extinction, or rather, as Mabel believed, its loss of personality in the reabsorption into the Spirit of Life which informed the world. She found less difficulty in contemplating the end of a vigorous soul, for in that case she imagined a kind of energetic rush of force back into the origin of things; but in this peaceful old lady there was so little energy; her whole point, so to speak, lay in the delicate little fabric of personality, built out of fragile things into an entity far more significant than the sum of its component parts: the death of a flower, reflected Mabel, is sadder than the death of a lion; the breaking of a piece of china more irreparable than the ruin of a palace.

      “It is syncope,” said the doctor when he came in. “She may die at any time; she may live ten years.”

      “There is no need to telegraph for Mr. Brand?”

      He made a little deprecating movement with his hands.

      “It is not certain that she will die — it is not imminent?” she asked.

      “No, no; she may live ten years, I said.”

      He added a word or two of advice as to the use of the oxygen injector, and went away.

      The old lady was lying quietly in bed, when the girl went up, and put out a wrinkled hand.

      “Well, my dear?” she asked.

      “It is just a little weakness, mother. You must lie quiet and do nothing. Shall I read to you?”

      “No, my dear; I will think a little.”

      It was no part of Mabel’s idea to duty to tell her that she was in danger, for there was no past to set straight, no Judge to be confronted. Death was an ending, not a beginning. It was a peaceful Gospel; at least, it became peaceful as soon as the end had come.

      So the girl went downstairs once more, with a quiet little ache at her heart that refused to be still.

      What a strange and beautiful thing death was, she told herself — this resolution of a chord that had hung suspended for thirty, fifty or seventy years — back again into the stillness of the huge Instrument that was all in all to itself. Those same notes would be struck again, were being struck again even now all over the world, though with an infinite delicacy of difference in the touch; but that particular emotion was gone: it was foolish to think that it was sounding eternally elsewhere, for there was no elsewhere. She, too, herself would cease one day, let her see to it that the tone was pure and lovely.

      Mr. Phillips arrived the next morning as usual, just as Mabel had left the old lady’s room, and asked news of her.

      “She is a little better, I think,” said Mabel. “She must be very quiet all day.”

      The secretary bowed and turned aside into Oliver’s room, where a heap of letters lay to be answered.

      A couple of hours later, as Mabel went upstairs once more, she met Mr. Phillips coming down. He looked a little flushed under his sallow skin.

      “Mrs. Brand sent for me,” he said. “She wished to know whether Mr. Oliver would be back to-night.”

      “He will, will he not? You have not heard?”

      “Mr. Brand said he would be here for a late dinner. He will reach London at nineteen.”

      “And is there any other news?”

      He compressed his lips.

      “There are rumours,” he said. “Mr. Brand wired to me an hour ago.”

      He seemed moved at something, and Mabel looked at him in astonishment.

      “It is not Eastern news?” she asked.

      His eyebrows wrinkled a little.

      “You must forgive me, Mrs. Brand,” he said. “I am not at liberty to say anything.”

      She was not offended, for she trusted her husband too well; but she went on into the sick-room with her heart beating.

      The old lady, too, seemed excited. She lay in bed with a clear flush in her white cheeks, and hardly smiled at all to the girl’s greeting.

      “Well, you have seen Mr. Phillips, then?” said Mabel.

      Old Mrs. Brand looked at her sharply an instant, but said nothing.

      “Don’t excite yourself, mother. Oliver will be back to-night.”

      The old lady drew a long breath.

      “Don’t trouble about me, my dear,” she said. “I shall do very well now. He will be back to dinner, will he not?”

      “If the volor is not late. Now, mother, are you ready for breakfast?”

      Mabel passed an afternoon of considerable agitation. It was certain that something had happened. The secretary, who breakfasted with her in the parlour looking on to the garden, had appeared strangely excited. He had told her that he would be away the rest of the day: Mr. Oliver had given him his instructions. He had refrained from all discussion of the Eastern question,