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

in the garden, thinking and hoping and fearing, till the long shadow lay across the path, and the tumbled platform of roofs was bathed in a dusty green haze from the west.

      As she came in she took up the evening paper, but there was no news there except to the effect that the Convention would close that afternoon.

      Twenty o’clock came, but there was no sign of Oliver. The Paris volor should have arrived an hour before, but Mabel, staring out into the darkening heavens had seen the stars come out like jewels one by one, but no slender winged fish pass overhead. Of course she might have missed it; there was no depending on its exact course; but she had seen it a hundred times before, and wondered unreasonably why she had not seen it now. But she would not sit down to dinner, and paced up and down in her white dress, turning again and again to the window, listening to the soft rush of the trains, the faint hoots from the track, and the musical chords from the junction a mile away. The lights were up by now, and the vast sweep of the towns looked like fairyland between the earthly light and the heavenly darkness. Why did not Oliver come, or at least let her know why he did not?

      Once she went upstairs, miserably anxious herself, to reassure the old lady, and found her again very drowsy.

      “He is not come,” she said. “I dare say he may be kept in Paris.”

      The old face on the pillow nodded and murmured, and Mabel went down again. It was now an hour after dinner-time.

      Oh! there were a hundred things that might have kept him. He had often been later than this: he might have missed the volor he meant to catch; the Convention might have been prolonged; he might be exhausted, and think it better to sleep in Paris after all, and have forgotten to wire. He might even have wired to Mr. Phillips, and the secretary have forgotten to pass on the message.

      She went at last, hopelessly, to the telephone, and looked at it. There it was, that round silent month, that little row of labelled buttons. She half decided to touch them one by one, and inquire whether anything had been heard of her husband: there was his club, his office in Whitehall, Mr. Phillips’s house, Parliament-house, and the rest. But she hesitated, telling herself to be patient. Oliver hated interference, and he would surely soon remember and relieve her anxiety.

      Then, even as she turned away, the bell rang sharply, and a white label flashed into sight. — WHITEHALL.

      She pressed the corresponding button, and, her hand shaking so much that she could scarcely hold the receiver to her ear, she listened.

      “Who is there?”

      Her heart leaped at the sound of her husband’s voice, tiny and minute across the miles of wire.

      “I — Mabel,” she said. “Alone here.”

      “Oh! Mabel. Very well. I am back: all is well. Now listen. Can you hear?”

      “Yes, yes.”

      “The best has happened. It is all over in the East. Felsenburgh has done it. Now listen. I cannot come home to-night. It will be announced in Paul’s House in two hours from now. We are communicating with the Press. Come up here to me at once. You must be present.... Can you hear?”

      “Oh, yes.”

      “Come then at once. It will be the greatest thing in history. Tell no one. Come before the rush begins. In half-an-hour the way will be stopped.”

      “Oliver.”

      “Yes? Quick.”

      “Mother is ill. Shall I leave her?”

      “How ill?”

      “Oh, no immediate danger. The doctor has seen her.”

      There was silence for a moment.

      “Yes; come then. We will go back to-night anyhow, then. Tell her we shall be late.”

      “Very well.”

      " ... Yes, you must come. Felsenburgh will be there.”