moonrise with a great and growing moon opened over all those flats, making them seem flatter and larger than they were, turning them to a lake of blue light. the two companions trudged across the moonlit plain for half an hour in full silence. then macian stopped suddenly and planted his sword-point in the ground like one who plants his tent-pole for the night. leaving it standing there, he clutched his black-haired skull with his great claws of hands, as was his custom when forcing the pace of his brain. then his hands dropped again and he spoke.
“i'm sure you're thinking the same as i am,” he said; “how long are we to be on this damned seesaw?”
the other did not answer, but his silence seemed somehow solid as assent; and macian went on conversationally. neither noticed that both had instinctively stood still before the sign of the fixed and standing sword.
“it is hard to guess what god means in this business. but he means something—or the other thing, or both. whenever we have tried to fight each other something has stopped us. whenever we have tried to be reconciled to each other, something has stopped us again. by the run of our luck we have never had time to be either friends or enemies. something always jumped out of the bushes.”
turnbull nodded gravely and glanced round at the huge and hedgeless meadow which fell away towards the horizon into a glimmering high road.
“nothing will jump out of bushes here anyhow,” he said.
“that is what i meant,” said macian, and stared steadily at the heavy hilt of his standing sword, which in the slight wind swayed on its tempered steel like some huge thistle on its stalk.
“that is what i meant; we are quite alone here. i have not heard a horse-hoof or a footstep or the hoot of a train for miles. so i think we might stop here and ask for a miracle.”
“oh! might we?” said the atheistic editor with a sort of gusto of disgust.
“i beg your pardon,” said macian, meekly. “i forgot your prejudices.” he eyed the wind-swung sword-hilt in sad meditation and resumed: “what i mean is, we might find out in this quiet place whether there really is any fate or any commandment against our enterprise. i will engage on my side, like elijah, to accept a test from heaven. turnbull, let us draw swords here in this moonlight and this monstrous solitude. and if here in this moonlight and solitude there happens anything to interrupt us—if it be lightning striking our sword-blades or a rabbit running under our legs—i will take it as a sign from god and we will shake hands for ever.”
turnbull's mouth twitched in angry humour under his red moustache. he said: “i will wait for signs from god until i have any signs of his existence; but god—or fate—forbid that a man of scientific culture should refuse any kind of experiment.”
“very well, then,” said macian, shortly. “we are more quiet here than anywhere else; let us engage.” and he plucked his sword-point out of the turf.
turnbull regarded him for a second and a half with a baffling visage almost black against the moonrise; then his hand made a sharp movement to his hip and his sword shone in the moon.
as old chess-players open every game with established gambits, they opened with a thrust and parry, orthodox and even frankly ineffectual. but in macian's soul more formless storms were gathering, and he made a lunge or two so savage as first to surprise and then to enrage his opponent. turnbull ground his teeth, kept his temper, and waiting for the third lunge, and the worst, had almost spitted the lunger when a shrill, small cry came from behind him, a cry such as is not made by any of the beasts that perish.
turnbull must have been more superstitious than he knew, for he stopped in the act of going forward. macian was brazenly superstitious, and he dropped his sword. after all, he had challenged the universe to send an interruption; and this was an interruption, whatever else it was. an instant afterwards the sharp, weak cry was repeated. this time it was certain that it was human and that it was female.
macian stood rolling those great blue gaelic eyes that contrasted with his dark hair. “it is the voice of god,” he said again and again.
“god hasn't got much of a voice,” said turnbull, who snatched at every chance of cheap profanity. “as a matter of fact, macian, it isn't the voice of god, but it's something a jolly sight more important—it is the voice of man—or rather of woman. so i think we'd better scoot in its direction.”
macian snatched up his fallen weapon without a word, and the two raced away towards that part of the distant road from which the cry was now constantly renewed.
they had to run over a curve of country that looked smooth but was very rough; a neglected field which they soon found to be full of the tallest grasses and the deepest rabbit-holes. moreover, that great curve of the countryside which looked so slow and gentle when you glanced over it, proved to be highly precipitous when you scampered over it; and turnbull was twice nearly flung on his face. macian, though much heavier, avoided such an overthrow only by having the quick and incalculable feet of the mountaineer; but both of them may be said to have leapt off a low cliff when they leapt into the road.
the moonlight lay on the white road with a more naked and electric glare than on the grey-green upland, and though the scene which it revealed was complicated, it was not difficult to get its first features at a glance.
a small but very neat black-and-yellow motor-car was standing stolidly, slightly to the left of the road. a somewhat larger light-green motor-car was tipped half-way into a ditch on the same side, and four flushed and staggering men in evening dress were tipped out of it. three of them were standing about the road, giving their opinions to the moon with vague but echoing violence. the fourth, however, had already advanced on the chauffeur of the black-and-yellow car, and was threatening him with a stick. the chauffeur had risen to defend himself. by his side sat a young lady.
she was sitting bolt upright, a slender and rigid figure gripping the sides of her seat, and her first few cries had ceased. she was clad in close-fitting dark costume, a mass of warm brown hair went out in two wings or waves on each side of her forehead; and even at that distance it could be seen that her profile was of the aquiline and eager sort, like a young falcon hardly free of the nest.
turnbull had concealed in him somewhere a fund of common sense and knowledge of the world of which he himself and his best friends were hardly aware. he was one of those who take in much of the shows of things absent-mindedly, and in an irrelevant reverie. as he stood at the door of his editorial shop on ludgate hill and meditated on the non-existence of god, he silently absorbed a good deal of varied knowledge about the existence of men. he had come to know types by instinct and dilemmas with a glance; he saw the crux of the situation in the road, and what he saw made him redouble his pace.
he knew that the men were rich; he knew that they were drunk; and he knew, what was worst of all, that they were fundamentally frightened. and he knew this also, that no common ruffian (such as attacks ladies in novels) is ever so savage and ruthless as a coarse kind of gentleman when he is really alarmed. the reason is not recondite; it is simply because the police-court is not such a menacing novelty to the poor ruffian as it is to the rich. when they came within hail and heard the voices, they confirmed all turnbull's anticipations. the man in the middle of the road was shouting in a hoarse and groggy voice that the chauffeur had smashed their car on purpose; that they must get to the cri that evening, and that he would jolly well have to take them there. the chauffeur had mildly objected that he was driving a lady. “oh! we'll take care of the lady,” said the red-faced young man, and went off into gurgling and almost senile laughter.
by the time the two champions came up, things had grown more serious. the intoxication of the man talking to the chauffeur had taken one of its perverse and catlike jumps into mere screaming spite and rage. he lifted his stick and struck at the chauffeur, who caught hold of it, and the drunkard fell backwards, dragging him out of his seat on the car. another of the rowdies rushed forward booing in idiot excitement, fell over the chauffeur, and, either by accident or design, kicked him as he lay. the drunkard got to his feet again; but the chauffeur did not.
the man who had kicked kept a kind of half-witted conscience or cowardice, for he stood staring at the senseless body and murmuring words of inconsequent self-justification, making gestures with his hands as if he were arguing with somebody. but the other three, with a mere whoop and howl of victory, were boarding the car on three sides at once. it was exactly at this moment that turnbull fell among them like one fallen from the sky. he tore one of the climbers backward by the collar, and with a hearty push sent him staggering over into the ditch upon his nose. one of the remaining two, who was too far gone to notice anything, continued to clamber ineffectually over the high back of the car, kicking and pouring forth a rivulet of soliloquy. but the other dropped at the interruption, turned upon turnbull and began a battering bout of fisticuffs. at the same moment the man crawled out of the ditch in a masquerade of mud and rushed at his old enemy from behind. the whole had not taken a second; and an instant after macian was in the midst of them.
turnbull had tossed away his sheathed sword, greatly preferring his hands, except in the avowed etiquette of the duel; for he had learnt to use his hands in the old street-battles of bradlaugh. but to macian the sword even sheathed was a more natural weapon, and he laid about him on all sides with it as with a stick. the man who had the walking-stick found his blows parried with promptitude; and a second after, to his great astonishment, found his own stick fly up in the air as by a conjuring trick, with a turn of the swordsman's wrist. another of the revellers picked the stick out of the ditch and ran in upon macian, calling to his companion to assist him.
“i haven't got a stick,” grumbled the disarmed man, and looked vaguely about the ditch.
“perhaps,” said macian, politely, “you would like this one.” with the word the drunkard found his hand that had grasped the stick suddenly twisted and empty; and the stick lay at the feet of his companion on the other side of the road. macian felt a faint stir behind him; the girl had risen to her feet and was leaning forward to stare at the fighters. turnbull was still engaged in countering and pommelling with the third young man. the fourth young man was still engaged with himself, kicking his legs in helpless rotation on the back of the car and talking with melodious rationality.
at length turnbull's opponent began to back before the battery of his heavy hands, still fighting, for he was the soberest and boldest of the four. if these are annals of military glory, it is due to him to say that he need not have abandoned the conflict; only that as he backed to the edge of the ditch his foot caught in a loop of grass and he went over in a flat and comfortable position from which it took him a considerable time to rise. by the time he had risen, turnbull had come to the rescue of macian, who was at bay but belabouring his two enemies handsomely. the sight of the liberated reserve was to them like that of blucher at waterloo; the two set off at a sullen trot down the road, leaving even the walking-stick lying behind them in the moonlight. macian plucked the struggling and aspiring idiot off the back of the car like a stray cat, and left him swaying unsteadily in the moon. then he approached the front part of the car in a somewhat embarrassed manner and pulled off his cap.
for some solid seconds the lady and he merely looked at each other, and macian had an irrational feeling of being in a picture hung on a wall. that is, he was motionless, even lifeless, and yet staringly significant, like a picture. the white moonlight on the road, when he was not looking at it, gave him a vision of the road being white with snow. the motor-car, when he was not looking at it, gave him a rude impression of a captured coach in the old days of highwaymen. and he whose whole soul was with the swords and stately manners of the eighteenth century, he who was a jacobite risen from the dead, had an overwhelming sense of being once more in the picture, when he had so long been out of the picture.
in that short and strong silence he absorbed the lady from head to foot. he had never really looked at a human being before in his life. he saw her face and hair first, then that she had long suede gloves; then that there was a fur cap at the back of her brown hair. he might, perhaps, be excused for this hungry attention. he had prayed that some sign might come from heaven; and after an almost savage scrutiny he came to the conclusion that his one did. the lady's instantaneous arrest of speech might need more explaining; but she may well have been stunned with the squalid attack and the abrupt rescue. yet it was she who remembered herself first and suddenly called out with self-accusing horror:
“oh, that poor, poor man!”
they both swung round abruptly and saw that turnbull, with his recovered sword under his arm-pit, was already lifting the fallen chauffeur into the car. he was only stunned and was slowly awakening, feebly waving his left arm.
the lady in long gloves and the fur cap leapt out and ran rapidly towards them, only to be reassured by turnbull, who (unlike many of his school) really knew a little science when he invoked it to redeem the world. “he's all right,” said he; “he's quite safe. but i'm afraid he won't be able to drive the car for half an hour or so.”
“i can drive the car,” said the young woman in the fur cap with stony practicability.
“oh, in that case,” began macian, uneasily; and that paralysing shyness which is a part of romance induced him to make a backward movement as if leaving her to herself. but turnbull was more rational than he, being more indifferent.
“i don't think you ought to drive home alone, ma'am,” he said, gruffly. “there seem to be a lot of rowdy parties along this road, and the man will be no use for an hour. if you will tell us where you are going, we will see you safely there and say good night.”
the young lady exhibited all the abrupt disturbance of a person who is not commonly disturbed. she said almost sharply and yet with evident sincerity: “of course i am awfully grateful to you for all you've done—and there's plenty of room if you'll come in.”
turnbull, with the complete innocence of an absolutely sound motive, immediately jumped into the car; but the girl cast an eye at macian, who stood in the road for an instant as if rooted like a tree. then he also tumbled his long legs into the tonneau, having that sense of degradedly diving into heaven which so many have known in so many human houses when they consented to stop to tea or were allowed to stop to supper. the slowly reviving chauffeur was set in the back seat; turnbull and macian had fallen into the middle one; the lady with a steely coolness had taken the driver's seat and all the handles of that headlong machine. a moment afterwards the engine started, with a throb and leap unfamiliar to turnbull, who had only once been in a motor during a general election, and utterly unknown to macian, who in his present mood thought it was the end of the world. almost at the same instant that the car plucked itself out of the mud and whipped away up the road, the man who had been flung into the ditch rose waveringly to his feet. when he saw the car escaping he ran after it and shouted something which, owing to the increasing distance, could not be heard. it is awful to reflect that, if his remark was valuable, it is quite lost to the world.
the car shot on up and down the shining moonlit lanes, and there was no sound in it except the occasional click or catch of its machinery; for through some cause or other no soul inside it could think of a word to say. the lady symbolized her feelings, whatever they were, by urging the machine faster and faster until scattered woodlands went by them in one black blotch and heavy hills and valleys seemed to ripple under the wheels like mere waves. a little while afterwards this mood seemed to slacken and she fell into a more ordinary pace; but still she did not speak. turnbull, who kept a more common and sensible view of the case than anyone else, made some remark about the moonlight; but something indescribable made him also relapse into silence.
all this time macian had been in a sort of monstrous delirium, like some fabulous hero snatched up into the moon. the difference between this experience and common experiences was analogous to that between waking life and a dream. yet he did not feel in the least as if he were dreaming; rather the other way; as waking was more actual than dreaming, so this seemed by another degree more actual than waking itself. but it was another life altogether, like a cosmos with a new dimension.
he felt he had been hurled into some new incarnation: into the midst of new relations, wrongs and rights, with towering responsibilities and almost tragic joys which he had as yet had no time to examine. heaven had not merely sent him a message; heaven itself had opened around him and given him an hour of its own ancient and star-shattering energy. he had never felt so much alive before; and yet he was like a man in a trance. and if you had asked him on what his throbbing happiness hung, he could only have told you that it hung on four or five visible facts, as a curtain hangs on four of five fixed nails. the fact that the lady had a little fur at her throat; the fact that the curve of her cheek was a low and lean curve and that the moonlight caught the height of her cheek-bone; the fact that her hands were small but heavily gloved as they gripped the steering-wheel; the fact that a white witch light was on the road; the fact that the brisk breeze of their passage stirred and fluttered a little not only the brown hair of her head but the black fur on her cap. all these facts were to him certain and incredible, like sacraments.
when they had driven half a mile farther, a big shadow was flung across the path, followed by its bulky owner, who eyed the car critically but let it pass. the silver moonlight picked out a piece or two of pewter ornament on his blue uniform; and as they went by they knew it was a sergeant of police. three hundred yards farther on another policeman stepped out into the road as if to stop them, then seemed to doubt his own authority and stepped back again. the girl was a daughter of the rich; and this police suspicion (under which all the poor live day and night) stung her for the first time into speech.
“what can they mean?” she cried out in a kind of temper; “this car's going like a snail.”
there was a short silence, and then turnbull said: “it is certainly very odd, you are driving quietly enough.”
“you are driving nobly,” said macian, and his words (which had no meaning whatever) sounded hoarse and ungainly even in his own ears.
they passed the next mile and a half swiftly and smoothly; yet among the many things which they passed in the course of it was a clump of eager policemen standing at a cross-road. as they passed, one of the policemen shouted something to the others; but nothing else happened. eight hundred yards farther on, turnbull stood up suddenly in the swaying car.
“my god, macian!” he called out, showing his first emotion of that night. “i don't believe it's the pace; it couldn't be the pace. i believe it's us.”
macian sat motionless for a few moments and then turned up at his companion a face that was as white as the moon above it.
“you may be right,” he said at last; “if you are, i must tell her.”
“i will tell the lady if you like,” said turnbull, with his unconquered good temper.
“you!” said macian, with a sort of sincere and instinctive astonishment. “why should you—no, i must tell her, of course——”
and he leant forward and spoke to the lady in the fur cap.
“i am afraid, madam, that we may have got you into some trouble,” he said, and even as he said it it sounded wrong, like everything he said to this particular person in the long gloves. “the fact is,” he resumed, desperately, “the fact is, we are being chased by the police.” then the last flattening hammer fell upon poor evan's embarrassment; for the fluffy brown head with the furry black cap did not turn by a section of the compass.
“we are chased by the police,” repeated macian, vigorously; then he added, as if beginning an explanation, “you see, i am a catholic.”
the wind whipped back a curl of the brown hair so as to necessitate a new theory of aesthetics touching the line of the cheek-bone; but the head did not turn.
“you see,” began macian, again blunderingly, “this gentleman wrote in his newspaper that our lady was a common woman, a bad woman, and so we agreed to fight; and we were fighting quite a little time ago—but that was before we saw you.”
the young lady driving her car had half turned her face to listen; and it was not a reverent or a patient face that she showed him. her norman nose was tilted a trifle too high upon the slim stalk of her neck and body.
when macian saw that arrogant and uplifted profile pencilled plainly against the moonshine, he accepted an ultimate defeat. he had expected the angels to despise him if he were wrong, but not to despise him so much as this.
“you see,” said the stumbling spokesman, “i was angry with him when he insulted the mother of god, and i asked him to fight a duel with me; but the police are all trying to stop it.”
nothing seemed to waver or flicker in the fair young falcon profile; and it only opened its lips to say, after a silence: “i thought people in our time were supposed to respect each other's religion.”
under the shadow of that arrogant face macian could only fall back on the obvious answer: “but what about a man's irreligion?” the face only answered: “well, you ought to be more broadminded.”
if anyone else in the world had said the words, macian would have snorted with his equine neigh of scorn. but in this case he seemed knocked down by a superior simplicity, as if his eccentric attitude were rebuked by the innocence of a child. he could not dissociate anything that this woman said or did or wore from an idea of spiritual rarity and virtue. like most others under the same elemental passion, his soul was at present soaked in ethics. he could have applied moral terms to the material objects of her environment. if someone had spoken of “her generous ribbon” or “her chivalrous gloves” or “her merciful shoe-buckle,” it would not have seemed to him nonsense.
he was silent, and the girl went on in a lower key as if she were momentarily softened and a little saddened also. “it won't do, you know,” she said; “you can't find out the truth in that way. there are such heaps of churches and people thinking different things nowadays, and they all think they are right. my uncle was a swedenborgian.”
macian sat with bowed head, listening hungrily to her voice but hardly to her words, and seeing his great world drama grow smaller and smaller before his eyes till it was no bigger than a child's toy theatre.
“the time's gone by for all that,” she went on; “you can't find out the real thing like that—if there is really anything to find——” and she sighed rather drearily; for, like many of the women of our wealthy class, she was old and broken in thought, though young and clean enough in her emotions.
“our object,” said turnbull, shortly, “is to make an effective demonstration”; and after that word, macian looked at his vision again and found it smaller than ever.
“it would be in the newspapers, of course,” said the girl. “people read the newspapers, but they don't believe them, or anything else, i think.” and she sighed again.
she drove in silence a third of a mile before she added, as if completing the sentence: “anyhow, the whole thing's quite absurd.”
“i don't think,” began turnbull, “that you quite realize——hullo! hullo—hullo—what's this?”
the amateur chauffeur had been forced to bring the car to a staggering stoppage, for a file of fat, blue policemen made a wall across the way. a sergeant came to the side and touched his peaked cap to the lady.
“beg your pardon, miss,” he said with some embarrassment, for he knew her for a daughter of a dominant house, “but we have reason to believe that the gentlemen in your car are——” and he hesitated for a polite phrase.
“i am evan macian,” said that gentleman, and stood up in a sort of gloomy pomp, not wholly without a touch of the sulks of a schoolboy.
“yes, we will get out, sergeant,” said turnbull, more easily; “my name is james turnbull. we must not incommode the lady.”
“what are you taking them up for?” asked the young woman, looking straight in front of her along the road.
“it's under the new act,” said the sergeant, almost apologetically. “incurable disturbers of the peace.”
“what will happen to them?” she asked, with the same frigid clearness.
“westgate adult reformatory,” he replied, briefly.
“until when?”
“until they are cured,” said the official.
“very well, sergeant,” said the young lady, with a sort of tired common sense. “i am sure i don't want to protect criminals or go against the law; but i must tell you that these gentlemen have done me a considerable service; you won't mind drawing your men a little farther off while i say good night to them. men like that always misunderstand.”
the sergeant was profoundly disquieted from the beginning at the mere idea of arresting anyone in the company of a great lady; to refuse one of her minor requests was quite beyond his courage. the police fell back to a few yards behind the car. turnbull took up the two swords that were their only luggage; the swords that, after so many half duels, they were now to surrender at last. macian, the blood thundering in his brain at the thought of that instant of farewell, bent over, fumbled at the handle and flung open the door to get out.
but he did not get out. he did not get out, because it is dangerous to jump out of a car when it is going at full speed. and the car was going at full speed, because the young lady, without turning her head or so much as saying a syllable, had driven down a handle that made the machine plunge forward like a buffalo and then fly over the landscape like a greyhound. the police made one rush to follow, and then dropped so grotesque and hopeless a chase. away in the vanishing distance they could see the sergeant furiously making notes.
the open door, still left loose on its hinges, swung and banged quite crazily as they went whizzing up one road and down another. nor did macian sit down; he stood up stunned and yet staring, as he would have stood up at the trumpet of the last day. a black dot in the distance sprang up a tall black forest, swallowed them and spat them out again at the other end. a railway bridge grew larger and larger till it leapt upon their backs bellowing, and was in its turn left behind. avenues of poplars on both sides of the road chased each other like the figures in a zoetrope. now and then with a shock and rattle they went through sleeping moonlit villages, which must have stirred an instant in their sleep as at the passing of a fugitive earthquake. sometimes in an outlying house a light in one erratic, unexpected window would give them a nameless hint of the hundred human secrets which they left behind them with their dust. sometimes even a slouching rustic would be afoot on the road and would look after them, as after a flying phantom. but still macian stood up staring at earth and heaven; and still the door he had flung open flapped loose like a flag. turnbull, after a few minutes of dumb amazement, had yielded to the healthiest element in his nature and gone off into uncontrollable fits of laughter. the girl had not stirred an inch.
after another half mile that seemed a mere flash, turnbull leant over and locked the door. evan staggered at last into his seat and hid his throbbing head in his hands; and still the car flew on and its driver sat inflexible and silent. the moon had already gone down, and the whole darkness was faintly troubled with twilight and the first movement of beasts and fowls. it was that mysterious moment when light is coming as if it were something unknown whose nature one could not guess—a mere alteration in everything. they looked at the sky and it seemed as dark as ever; then they saw the black shape of a tower or tree against it and knew that it was already grey. save that they were driving southward and had certainly passed the longitude of london, they knew nothing of their direction; but turnbull, who had spent a year on the hampshire coast in his youth, began to recognize the unmistakable but quite indescribable villages of the english south. then a white witch fire began to burn between the black stems of the fir-trees; and, like so many things in nature, though not in books on evolution, the daybreak, when it did come, came much quicker than one would think. the gloomy heavens were ripped up and rolled away like a scroll, revealing splendours, as the car went roaring up the curve of a great hill; and above them and black against the broadening light, there stood one of those crouching and fantastic trees that are first signals of the sea.