The Stratagem and Other Stories

The sick man stirred feebly. A portion of his brain had shaken off the poison for the moment, and was working furiously against time. “I am going to die. “The consolation of death is Religion. “There is no use for Religion in life. “How many atheists have I not known sign the arti- cles the sake of fellowships and livings! Religion in life is either an amusement and a soporific or a sham and a swindle. “I was brought up a Presbyterian “How easily I drifted into the English Church! “And now where is God? “Where is the Lamb of God? “Where is the Saviour? “Where is the Comforter? “Why was I not saved from that devil? “Is he going to eat me again? To absorb me into him? O fate inconceivably hideous! It is quite clear to me—I hope you've got it down, Magdalen!—that the demon is made of all those that have died of Bright's disease. There must be different ones for each disease. I thought I once caught sight of a coughing bog of bloody slime. “Let me pray.” A frenzied appeal to the Creator followed. Sincere as it was, it would read like irreverence in print. And then there came the cold-drawn horror of stark blasphemy against this God—who would not answer. Followed the bleak black agony of the conviction— the absolute certitude—“There is no God!” combined with a wave of frenzied wrath against the people who had so glibly assured him that there was, an almost ma- niac hope that they would suffer more than he, if it were possible. (Poor Arthur! He had not yet brushed the bloom off Suffering's grape; he was to drink its fiercest distillation to the dregs.)