President Jardine was dead. Low lay the head, and still the form of the man of whom flatterers had often spoken as the uncrowned King—an Oliver the Second, the Cromwell of the Twentieth Century. His, indeed, had been the power symbolised by the ancient Crown, the Sceptre, and the Orb. The vanished majesty of great dynasties—the Normans, the Plantaganets, the Tudors, the Stuarts, and the House of Hanover—had but paved the way for the practical rule of this man of the people. Even yet, it is true, the jealousy of political parties had preserved—none knew for how long—the title of King for a descendant of Queen Victoria. But a grudging socialistic democracy had left the legitimate monarch little more than the dignity of an august pensioner. The King was shorn of regal authority, deprived of all real prerogative of royalty, and neither expected nor allowed to take any real part in the government of his shrunken empire.
And now that the lifeless hand of the President had dropped the real sceptre, whose hand was to take it up? Was the reign of woman to be inaugurated on new and bolder lines; or would man, in the nick of time, re-assert himself? The women had their leader in Catherine Kellick, a daring, unscrupulous and energetic champion. But where was the leader of men? Everywhere the lament was uttered: "If[Pg 95] only Renshaw were back at Westminster!" And everywhere the question was asked: "Where is he? Is it true he is still alive?"
Zenobia's telegram was delivered late at night, and in the absence of Wilton it was impossible to start immediately. Before daybreak on the following morning Linton was knocking at the door of his cottage, and in half-an-hour the little engineer had got the Bladud into working order.
It was very early, on a calm autumn morning, when Linton, at a sign from Wilton, stepped on board. The Bladud, rose rapidly into the air, but at first there was nothing to be seen. The atmosphere being charged with the vapour of the night, the air was warm, and the sky veiled with a misty curtain of cloud. In eight minutes they had risen a thousand feet, and the earth below was hidden from them by a woolly carpet of mist. Rising and rising still, at a height of 5,000 feet, the Bladud emerged from the clouds, and away in the east was seen a long, long line, bright as silver. The day was breaking, and the shadows fled away. Every moment the great silver bar lengthened and broadened, a moving miracle of the empyrean, at which the young Canadian gazed in fascination and in awe.
But the marvel of marvels was to come; and it came swiftly, in that deep silence of the spheres, which is as the silence of Him by whom all things were made. Yes, all created things, thought Linton, filled with wonder—the earth beneath them, still partly hidden from sight, the limitless realms of the air through which they moved, and this great orb of day that was rising as if from the depths of some immeasurable crater. Presently the sun, as it climbed above the cloud rim, began to flood with pure and glorious light the rolling tracts of vapour[Pg 96] that surrounded them, like an illimitable molten sea, whose billows glowed and gleamed beneath the darting beams.
Higher and higher rose the Bladud, a tiny speck in the midst of the immeasurable clouds, which ever broke and crumbled into new shapes and shreds in full light of the broadening sunshine. Already the morning mists below were in some measure dispelled, and through the breaking vapour glimpses of the earth became more plainly visible.
At a height of 9,000 feet, the surrounding oceans and mountains of vapour assumed a hue of roseate violet that far transcended the beauty of anything upon which Linton's eyes had ever looked before; while from the east a thousand golden rays—pathways of light and glory—were darted forth above the sleeping world. When they had reached a height of 13,000 feet, the air was almost clear, and far down below London became visible—London so mighty, yet now so insignificant! Linton could see a railway train creeping out of Paddington like some little caterpillar on a garden path. The steam from the engine was but a thin serpentine mist, like smoke from a man's pipe. Everything below was flat and dwarfed to one mean artificial-looking plane. Away East, the dome of St. Paul's seemed scarcely more important than a thimble. The Docks were merely an elaborate toy in sections; the rolling Thames a winding ditch; the ships like little playthings for young children. Yet the range of view had become enormous, and as the morning cleared Wilton pointed out hills and church steeples that were a hundred miles away.
In that solemn and wonderful hour Linton Herrick felt within himself, as Goethe did, the germs of undeveloped faculties—faculties that men must not expect[Pg 97] to see developed in life as it is, so far, known to us. Yet there was the aspiration in his heart and soul. How glorious for the astral body to plunge into the aerial space; to look unmoved on some unfathomable abyss; to glide above the roaring seas; to mount with eagle's strength to heights unthinkable!
Looking upon the supernal grandeur of the sunrise, he realised that he was in the presence of God's daily miracle. It steeped his soul in faith and thankfulness.
Linton, guessing that the President was in extremis, nevertheless had hoped to be in time to bid a last farewell to the taciturn man who had shown him much friendly feeling, and of whom, as Zenobia's father, he was anxious to think the best. But when the Bladud descended on the spacious lawn of the house on Bathwick Hill, the blinds were down. The whole place wore that sad and subtle air which impresses itself upon a scene of death. There was no need to ask questions. Linton understood.
A faint, half-hearted yelp from Peter was the first sound that greeted him. Presently, inside the darkened house, he awaited the coming of Peter's mistress.
The door opened very quietly, and Zenobia entered; a slim, sad figure, the blackness of whose dress in that dim light heightened the pallor of her face. Her hand was in his own. He looked into her eyes; the gaze of the lover softened and chastened to that of the tender and compassionate friend.
"You understand how much I feel for you," he said.
[Pg 98]
"Yes," she answered gratefully, "It was good of you to come. But, in a sense, it is too late."
He waited quietly for what she chose to say.
"I mean," she added "that I hoped you could come before ... before the end. But at the last it was sudden, so sudden."
"You have something to tell me. There is something I can do for you in your trouble?"
Zenobia paused for a moment. Then, with some effort and a faint tinge of colour coming to her cheeks, continued:
"If you had come while my father lived, I could have told him...." She looked down, and drew a long deep sigh of distress. "I could have told him," she then went on with greater firmness, "that you, if you were willing, could help us, though so late, to do an act of justice to another. Mr. Herrick, it grieves me to tell you...."
She turned away and rested her elbows on the marble mantelpiece, unable for the moment to proceed.
"Perhaps I know more than you suppose," he sai............