HE ... GATHERED THE FIRST SHEAF OF LEAVES INTO HIS FINGERS
As he crouched over the flames a fresh gale swept inland from the sea, seizing the house in its fierce embrace; and the red tongues offire leaped up the chimney in the instant answer of element to element.
Instinctively he bent forward, opened the book and gathered the first sheaf of leaves into his fingers. Then, involuntarily, he paused, as the bold characters of the printed words shot up black and clear in the fierce glow.
Almost without volition he read the opening lines:
"Out of obscurity will He come. And—having proved Himself—no man will question Him. For the Past lies in the Great Unknown. By the Scitsym—from which none but the Chosen may read—will ye know Him; and, knowing Him, ye will bow down—Mystics, Arch-Mystics, and Arch-Councillor alike. And the World will be His. For He will be Power made absolute!"
"Out of obscurity will He come. And—having proved Himself—no man will question Him. For the Past lies in the Great Unknown. By the Scitsym—from which none but the Chosen may read—will ye know Him; and, knowing Him, ye will bow down—Mystics, Arch-Mystics, and Arch-Councillor alike. And the World will be His. For He will be Power made absolute!"
"For he will be Power made absolute!" Something in the six simple words arrested Henderson, suspended his thoughts and checked his hand. By an odd psychologicalprocess his rage became chilled, his mind veered from its point of view. With a curious stiffness of motion he drew away from the fire—the book held uninjured in his hand.
"He will be Power made absolute!" he repeated, mechanically, as he rose slowly to his feet.
On a certain night in mid-January, exactly ten years after Andrew Henderson's death, any one of the multitudinous inhabitants of London whom business or pleasure carried to that division of Brompton known as Hellier Crescent, would undoubtedly have been attracted to the house distinguished from its fellows as No. 8.
Outwardly, this house was not remarkable. It possessed the massive portico and the imposing frontage that lend to Hellier Crescent its air of dignified repose; but there its similarity to the surrounding dwellings ended. The basement sent forth no glow of warmth and comfort, as did the neighboring basements; the ground-floor windows permittedno ray of mellow light to slip through the chinks of shutter or curtain. From attic to cellar, the house seemed in darkness, the only suggestion of occupation coming from the occasional drawing back and forth of a small slide that guarded a monastic-looking grating set in the hall door.
And yet towards this unlighted and unfriendly dwelling a thin stream of people—all on foot and all evidently agitated—made their way continuously on that January night between the hours of ten and eleven. The behavior of these people, who differed widely in outward characteristics, was marked by a peculiar fundamental similarity. They all entered the quiet precincts of the Crescent with the same air of subdued excitement; each moved softly and silently towards the darkened house, and, mounting the steps, knocked once upon the heavy door. And each in turn stood patient, while the slide was drawn back, and a voice from withindemanded the signal that granted admittance.
This mysterious gathering of forces had continued for nearly an hour when a cab drew up sharply at the corner where Hellier Crescent abuts upon St. George's Terrace, and a lady descended from it. As she handed his fare to the cabman, her face and figure were plainly visible in the light of the street-lamps. The former was pale in coloring, delicately oval in shape, and illumined by a pair of large and unusually brilliant eyes; the latter was tall, graceful, and clad in black.
Having dismissed her cab, the new-comer crossed St. George's Terrace with an appearance of haste, and entering Hellier Crescent, immediately mounted the steps of No. 8.
The last member of this strange procession had disappeared into the house as she reached the door; but, acting with apparent familiarity, she lifted the knocker and let it fall once.
For a moment there was no response; then, as in the case of the former visitors, the slide was drawn back and a beam of light came through the grating, to be immediately obscured by the shadowy suggestion of a face with two inquiring eyes.
"The Word?" demanded a solemn voice.
The new-comer lifted her head.
"He shall be Power made absolute!" she responded in a low and slightly tremulous voice; and a moment later the door opened, and she stepped into the hall.
The scene inside the house was curious in the extreme. If there were quiet and darkness outside, a brilliant light and a tense, contagious excitement reigned within. The large hall, lighted by tall lamps, was covered with a thick black carpet into which the feet sank noiselessly, and the walls and ceiling were draped in the same sombre tint; but at intervals of a few feet, columns of white marble, chiselled into curious shapes,gleamed upon the observer from shadowy niches.
On ordinary occasions, there was a solemnity, a coldness, in this sombre vestibule; but to-night a strange electric activity seemed to have been breathed upon the atmosphere. Women with flushed faces and men with feverishly bright eyes hurried to and fro in an irrepressible, aimless agitation. A blending of dread and hysterical anticipation was stamped upon every face. People stopped one another with nervous, unstrung gesture and odd, disjointed sentences.
As the last comer entered, she paused for a moment, uncertain and hesitating; but almost as she did so, a remarkable-looking and massively built man who was standing in the hall, disengaged himself from a group of people, and, coming directly towards her, took her hand.
"Mrs. Witcherley! At last!" he exclaimed, in a full, emotional voice. "I looked for youamong the gathering and for a moment I almost feared—"
"That I would fail?" Her voice was still tinged with agitation; the pupils of her large eyes were distended.
"No, I did not mean that. But at such a moment we burn lest even one of the Elect be missing." He continued to hold her hand, looking into her face with his prominent dark eyes, from which flashed and glowed an excitement that spread over his whole heavy face.
"The night of nights!" he exclaimed. "To have lived to witness it!" His face glowed with a sudden enthusiasm; and freeing her fingers, he lifted up his right hand. "'He shall walk into your midst—and sit above you as a King!'" he quoted, in a loud voice. Then remembering his companion, he lowered his tone.
"Everything is in readiness," he added, more soberly. "The Precursor still unceasinglyprophesies the Advent. Come with me into the Place. The Gathering is all but assembled." Laying his large hand upon her arm, he led her forward unresistingly through the groups of men and women, and onward down a long corridor to where a curtain hid an arched doorway.
For a moment they paused outside this door, and the man—still laboring under some strange excitement—again raised his hand:
"Come!" he cried. "And before we leave the Place, may the Hope of the Universe be fulfilled!" Lifting the curtain, he ushered her through the door.
The room—or chapel—into which they stepped was large and lofty, covered on floor and walls with sections of marble alternately black and white; overhead swung a huge octagonal symbol in jewelled and polished metal; and at the end farthest from the door a haze of incense clouded what appeared to be an altar.
A concourse of people filled every corner of this vast room; and from the crouched or upright figures rose a continuous, inaudible murmuring.
Still guiding his companion, the massively built man forced a way between the closely packed figures. But, half-way up the room, the woman paused and glanced at him.
"This will do," she whispered. "Not any nearer, please. Not any nearer."
His only answer was to lay his hand upon her arm, and by a persistent pressure to draw her onward up the narrow aisle. Reaching the railed-in space about which the incense hung, he paused in his own turn and motioned her towards the foremost row of seats, from which the majority of the gathering seemed to hold aloof.
With a quick, nervous gesture she deprecated the suggestion. "No! No!" she murmured. "Let me sit behind. Please let me sit behind."
But his fingers tightened impressively upon her arm. "No," he whispered, close to her ear. "No, I want you to be here. When the time arrives, I want the full light to shine upon you."
After this she demurred no more, but moved obediently into the appointed seat, her companion placing himself beside her.
In the first moments of agitation and nervousness, she had scarcely observed her surroundings; but now, as her perturbation partially subsided, she looked back at the rows of bowed or erect figures, and forward at the space about which the incense clung like a filmy veil. At a first glance this veil seemed almost too dense to penetrate; but as her sight grew accustomed to its drifting whiteness, she was able to discern the objects that lay behind.
In place of the altar, usually prominent in every religious building, there was a wide semicircular space, within which stood a goldchair raised upon a dais and a heavy lectern of symbolic design on which rested a white leather book, worn yellow at the edges. Over this book a man was poring, apparently unconscious of the active interest he evoked. He was short and thick-set, with a square jaw, a long upper lip, and keen eyes. Over a head of vividly red hair, he wore a round black silk cap, and his figure was enveloped in a flowing black gown.
From time to time, as he read, he lifted one hand in rapt excitement, while his lips moved unceasingly in rapid, inaudible speech. At last, with a sudden dramatic gesture, he turned from the lectern and threw out both arms towards the high gold chair.
"Oh, empty throne! Empty world!" he cried. "Be filled!"
There was something intense, something electric in the words. A startled cry broke from the people, already wrought to nervous tension. Some among them rose to theirfeet; some glanced fearfully behind them; others cowered upon the ground.
And then—in what precise manner no one present ever remembered—the curtain at the doorway of the chapel was swung sharply back; and the tall, straight figure of a man clad all in white moved slowly up the aisle.
He moved forward calmly and deliberately, his gaze fixed, his senses apparently unconscious of the many eyes and tongues from which frightened glances and frightened, awe-struck words escaped as he made his solitary, impressive progress.
Reaching the railing, he paused and lifted one hand as if in benediction towards the red-haired man who still remained in solitary occupation of the Sanctuary.
At the action, a gasp went up from the crowded chapel, and even those who still crouched upon the floor ventured to raise their heads and glance at the spot where the tall figure in the white serge robe stood motionlessand impressive. Then the whole concourse of devotees stirred in involuntary excitement as the red-haired man, with a cry of rapture, rushed forward and prostrated himself at the feet of the stranger.
For a space, that to the watchers seemed interminable, the two central figures remained rigid; then at last the tall man stooped, and with great dignity raised the other.
As he gained his feet, it was obvious that the smaller man was deeply agitated. His lips were trembling with some strange emotion, and it seemed that he could scarcely command his gestures. After a protracted moment of struggle, however, he appeared to regain his self-control; for with a slightly tremulous movement he stepped forward, laid his hands on the low railing and glanced at the assembled people.
"Mystics!" he began. "Chosen Ones! Out of the Unseen I have come to prophesy to you—I, an obscure servant and followerof the Mighty. For fifteen days have I spoken—telling you that which was at hand. And now, behold I am justified!" He paused and indicated the tall white figure still standing motionless, with face averted from the congregation.
"What have I told you!" he continued, his voice rising. "Have I not quoted from the sacred Scitsym—which until this hour I have never been permitted to look upon? Have I not foretold the coming of this man—the garments he would wear—the Sign upon his person? And have I not done these things by a power outside myself?" Again his voice rose; and the congregation thrilled in response.
"You have listened to me—you have marvelled—but in your Souls doubt has held sway. Now is the moment of justification! It is not meet that the Great One should plead for recognition; it is for you—the Watchers—to see and claim him. Master!"he cried, suddenly. "Master, show them the Sign!"
A hush like the hush of night fell upon the people; and in this curious and impressive lull the white-robed man turned slowly round facing the congregation.
His appearance was arresting and remarkable, though it possessed nothing of beauty. He had a tall and powerful figure, a strong and determined face; his bare head was covered with close-cut black hair; his hard, firm lips were clean-shaven, and his gray eyes looked across the chapel with a peculiar sombre fire.
He stood silent for a moment, surveying the faces clustered before him; then he raised his left hand.
ACROSS THE PROPHET'S BREAST, IN MARKS OF A CRUEL LACERATION, RAN THE SYMBOLIC OCTAGONAL FIGURE OF THE MYSTIC SECT
"My People!" he began, in a deep, slow voice. "We live in an age when doubt roams through the world like a beast of prey. I ask not for the faith that accepts blindly; but in this most sacred Scitsym—"he pointed to the white book upon the lectern—"it is written that, by a certain secret Sign, the Arch-Mystics will recognize Him for whom they have waited. I call upon the Arch-Mystics to declare whether or no I bear upon my person that secret Sign!" He paused for a moment; then with a grave, calm gesture he unfastened his robe where it crossed his breast and threw it open.
There was a rustle of intense curiosity, as all involuntarily leaned forward; an audible gasp of awe and shrinking, as all instinctively drew back before the sight that confronted them. Across the Prophet's breast, in marks of a cruel laceration, ran the symbolic octagonal figure of the Mystic sect.
He stood dignified and unmoved until the tremor of emotion had subsided. Then his glance travelled over the foremost row of seats.
"Come forth!" he commanded, authoritatively. "Come forth and acknowledge me!"His eyes moved slowly from seat to seat—pausing momentarily on the pale, absorbed face of the woman in black. But scarcely had his glance rested upon her than the heavily built man who sat beside her, rose agitatedly and stepped forward to the sanctuary. For a space he stood staring at the scarred skin from which the symbol of his creed stood forth as if miraculously branded; then he turned to the congregation, his prominent eyes burning, his heavy face working with emotion.
"Brethren," he said, inarticulately. "Brethren, it is indeed the Sign!"
But the Prophet remained motionless.
"Where are the other five?" he asked, in a level voice.
Almost simultaneously four men rose from the congregation and came forward. One was tall and gaunt, with a Slavonic type of face, wild eyes, and a long, fair beard; another was young—scarcely more than sevenand twenty—with the free carriage, fiery glance, and swarthy complexion of the nomadic races of southeastern Europe; the third was a small, frail man of fifty, with a nervous system painfully in advance of his physical strength; while the fourth was a true mystic—impassioned, enthusiastic, detached. One by one these men advanced, examined the scars, and turning to the people, confirmed the words of their fellow. Then, amid a tremulous hush, the last of the six—the Arch-Councillor himself—was led up the aisle.
For an instant the glimmering of some new feeling crossed the Prophet's face, as his glance rested on the old man who slowly approached with feeble steps, bent back, and anxious, sightless eyes. But, as quickly as it had come, the expression passed, and he stepped forward for the old man's touch.
With a quivering gesture the Arch-Councillorlifted his hand and nervously passed his fingers over the scars; then, drawing the Prophet down, he touched his face. For a long moment of suspense his fingers lingered over the features; then they fell again upon the scars. And an instant later he sank upon his knees.
"It is indeed made manifest!" he cried, in a loud, unsteady voice. "He shall sit above you as upon a Throne!"
The words were magical. The whole concourse of people swayed forward hysterically. Men pressed upward towards the railing; women wept.
And through it all the Prophet stood unmoved. He stood like a rock against which the clamorous human sea beat wildly. With a quiet movement he drew his robe across his breast, hiding the unsightly scars, but otherwise he made no motion. At last the red-haired man who had first claimed him, stepped forward to his side.
"Speak to them, Master!" he said.
The words roused the Prophet. With a calm gesture he raised his head, his eyes confronting the mass of strained, excited faces lifted to his.
"My People," he said again, in his deep voice. "What will you do with me?"
The response was instant.
"The Throne! The Throne!" The crowd surged forward in a wave, then receded as the tide recedes; and the old Arch-Councillor stepped feebly into the Sanctuary and extended his hands to the Prophet.
It was a moment of breathless awe. The tall woman, who until that moment had remained seated, involuntarily rose to her feet.
She saw the figure of the Prophet move grandly across the Sanctuary in the wake of the old blind man; she saw him halt for an infinitesimal space at the foot of the throne; she saw him calmly and decisively mount thesteps of the dais and seat himself in the golden chair. Then, prompted by an overwhelming impulse, she yielded to the spirit of the moment and dropped to her knees.
Three hours later, when the curious rite of acknowledgment had been completed and the concourse of zealots had departed from Hellier Crescent, the first night in his new kingdom opened for the Prophet. As the clocks of Brompton were striking two, the six Arch-Mystics—each of whom possessed rooms in a remote portion of the house—lingeringly and fearfully bade him good-night, and left him alone with the Precursor in the apartments that for nearly fifty years had been kept swept and garnished in expectation of his advent.
Apart from their suggestion of the mystical and fantastic, these rooms possessed an intrinsic interest of their own. And some consciousness of this interest appeared to be atwork within the Prophet's mind; for scarcely had he and his companion been assured of privacy, than he rose from the massive ivory chair which had been apportioned to him and from which he had made his second and private justification of his claims; and very slowly and deliberately began a circuit of the chamber.
With engrossed attention he passed from one to another of the rare and costly objects that formed the furniture of the place; while, from the ebony table in the centre of the room, his red-haired companion watched him with vigilant eyes.
Still moving with unruffled deliberation, he completed his tour of the apartment; then a remarkable—a startling thing took place. He wheeled round, laid his hands heavily on the Precursor's shoulders, and looking closely into his face, broke into speech.
"Well?" he demanded, intensely. "Well? Well? What have you to say?"
At first the red-haired man sat watching him, mute and motionless; then with a suddenness equal to his own, he released himself, leaned forward in his chair, and silently uncorked a gold flask that stood upon the table before him. Lifting it high, he poured some wine into two glass goblets, and without a word handed one to the white-robed Prophet, and himself picked up the other.
"John," he said, deliberately, "you were magnificent! Let me give you a toast? Power! Power made Absolute!"
With a grave gesture the Prophet extended his hand, and their glasses clinked.
"Power made Absolute!" he responded, in a low, deep voice.
In silence they drank the toast; but, as he replaced his glass upon the table, the Prophet shook off his gravity, and turned again to his companion.
"Now!" he exclaimed. "Now! Out withit all! How much of this has been native adroitness, and how much unbelievable good-fortune? Out with it! I'm hungry and thirsty for the truth."
For answer the Precursor slowly lifted the gold flask and replenished his own glass. "Truth in a golden flask! But, to throw a sop to your curiosity, it was a matter of native genius engineered by Providence. I don't mind admitting that when I stood on the doorstep of this house fifteen nights ago and knocked the mystic knock, I felt like a man embarking on a coffin-ship." He stopped to drain his glass.
The Prophet took a step forward.
"And then?" he said, eagerly. "Then?"
The other waved his empty glass.
"Oh, there entered the native genius of Terence Dominick Devereaux! Under that tremendous escort I stormed the citadel—"
The Prophet smiled. "And the Mystic ears, I have no doubt."
For a third time the Precursor filled his glass.
"The tongue is mightier—and a good deal more portable—than either the pen or the sword, John," he said, sagely. "Paving your way with words has been an unrecognized work of art. But how about yourself? I have my own curiosity." He wheeled round in his seat and looked into his companion's face.
The Prophet looked away.
"Oh, I had my qualms, too!" he said, slowly. "Just for a moment the world seemed to tremble, when the old Arch-Councillor groped forward and put his hands over my face. It swept me off my feet—swept me back ten years. It was like a vision in a crystal—if such a thing could exist. I saw the whole past scene. The bare room—the old dead man—myself; the overwhelming wish to avenge my wrongs, and the sudden suggestion that turned the wish cold. I saw the long,bleak night in which I completed the colossal task of copying the Scitsym line for line; I saw the gray morning steal in across the room as I closed the book, returned it to its safe and replaced the key on my uncle's neck in preparation for the arrival of the Arch-Councillor. It all passed before my mind, and then in a flash was gone. I ceased to be John Henderson."
The Precursor glanced quickly towards the door.
"Avoid that name. Habits grow—and so do suspicions. Your probation has been too long and too hard to permit us to run risks. Now that you've stepped into your kingdom—" He made an expressive gesture.
The Prophet laughed shortly, then suddenly turned grave again.
"You are right!" he said. "Only a man with a light conscience can skate on thin ice. To return to our original subject, what about the inner workings of this odd game? It isso curious to have lived for years on theory, and suddenly to come face to face with practice. I tell you I'm starving for facts." He stepped forward quickly and dropped into a chair that faced his companion's.
"Out with it all! To begin, who is the master-spirit? You know what I mean. The master-spirit in the true sense. Poor old blind Arian doesn't stand for much."
The Precursor looked meditatively at his empty glass.
"No," he said, thoughtfully. "You touch truth there! Michael Arian is the cipher; Bale-Corphew's the meaning. Bale-Corphew is an interesting man, John—I had almost said a dangerous man—"
The Prophet's lip curled slightly.
"Dangerous!"
"Yes; dangerous in a sense. In the sense that a personality always is dangerous. Among the six Arch-Mystics there is, to my thinking, only oneman, and he interestsme. He interests me, does Horatio Bale-Corphew!"
The Prophet leaned forward in his chair.
"I think I catch your meaning," he said. "Something of the same idea occurred to me when he rose from his seat to-night. While we spied upon them in the last six months, he always struck me as curiously un-English, with that sleek exterior and those flashing eyes of his. But in the chapel to-night he was almost aggressively alien. When he touched my arm I could literally feel him bristle."
The other nodded.
"You've said it!" he cried. "Horatio bristles! His whole queer soul is in this business—every fibre of it. He attempts no division of allegiance—except, perhaps, in the matter of the heart—"
The Prophet glanced up and smiled.
"The heart? Do my faithful Watchers permit themselves hearts? The Scitsym makes no provision for such frail organs."
The Precursor laughed again.
"Oh, we Elect are by no means free from little saving weaknesses! That's where we become dramatic. You can't have effect without contrast. Horatio, for instance, is instinctively dramatic."
"Indeed!"
"Yes. Oh yes! I know what I'm saying. I've studied them all. More than once, when my Soul has been communing with your August Spirit, I have watched Horatio's dramatic contrast from the corner of my eyes."
Again the Prophet smiled.
"The contrast frequents the chapel then?"
"Frequents? Undoubtedly. Horatio has literally swept her into the fold. She was here to-night to bend the knee to you."
A look of recollection crossed the Prophet's eyes.
"To-night?" he said. "Not the woman who sat beside him? The woman with thebig eyes? She and Bale-Corphew! The idea is absurd!"
"Undeniable, nevertheless. I have deduced the story. The lady is a widow—no relations—too much freedom—vague aspirations after the ideal. She has sounded society and found it too shallow; sounded philosophy and found it too deep; and upon her horizon of desires and disappointments has loomed the colossal presence of Bale-Corphew—enthusiast, mystic, leader of a fascinatingly unorthodox sect. What is the result? The lady—too feminine to be truly modern, too modern to be wholly womanly—is viewing life through new glasses, and by their medium seeing Horatio invested with a halo otherwise invisible."
The Prophet remained quiet and silent; then he rose slowly from his seat and walked round the table. "Devereaux," he said, laconically, "only the Prophet is going to wear a halo here."
The Precursor's sharply marked, expressive eyebrows went up in quick comment.
"Can even a latter-day Prophet afford autocracy?"
For a space the Prophet made no response; then he took a step forward and laid his hand impressively on his friend's shoulder.
"Devereaux," he said, in a new voice—a voice that unconsciously held something of the command that had marked it in the chapel—"the Prophet of the Mystics has come to rule. He has not come to follow the laws that others—that men like Bale-Corphew—have seen fit to make. He has come to be a law unto himself!"
It is astonishing in how short a space of time a man of vigorous character can make his personality felt. On the night of his mysterious advent, the Prophet had found his people in a condition of mental chaos—as liable to repudiate as to accept the seeker for their confidence; but before one month had passed he had, by domination of will, so moulded this neurotic mass of humanity that his own position had gradually and insensibly merged from suppliant into that of autocrat. Without a murmur of doubt or dissension the Mystics had proclaimed him their king.
On the last day of the thirty he sat alone in his room—the room in which he and the red-haired Precursor had held their privatecouncil on the night of his coming. The heavy purple curtains that shielded the windows were partly drawn, throwing a subdued, almost a devotional, light over the wide, imposing apartment and across the ebony table, on which rested the sacred Scitsym, surrounded by an array of smaller and more ancient books, several rolls of parchment, a number of quill pens, and a dish of ink. It was at this table that the Prophet sat; he wore the monastic white robe that he always affected in presence of his people, his arms were folded, and his face looked calm and grave, as though he appreciated the moment's solitude.
The solitude, however, was not destined to endure. The soft booming of a gong presently roused him to attention, and a moment later the door of the apartment opened and an ascetic-looking man, whose duty and privilege it was to wait upon him, entered deferentially.
He stood for a moment in an attitude of profound abasement; then he stepped forward and stood beside the table.
"Master," he said, in a low voice. "The newest among us would speak with you!"
The Prophet raised his head and a gleam of interest crossed his eyes; but almost immediately he subdued the look.
"I am willing," he replied, unemotionally, in the usual formula. Then he glanced at his attendant. "After this, the audiences for the day are over," he added.
The man bowed, and with awe-struck deference moved silently from the room, almost immediately reappearing, to usher in the devotee, and with the same conscious air of mystery, to retire, closing the heavy door.
For a moment the new-comer stood just inside the threshold. As on the night of the Prophet's coming, she wore a long, black dress that accentuated her height and grace, andbrought into prominence the clear pallor of her skin and the remarkable luminous brilliance of her eyes. A struggle between superstitious dread and human curiosity was distinctly visible in her expression as she stood uncertain of her position, doubtful as to her first move.
The Prophet glanced at her, and the shadow of a smile touched his lips.
"Have no fear," he said. "Come forward!"
The strong, steady voice gave her courage, and with slightly agitated haste she stepped towards the table.
The Prophet gravely motioned her to a seat and assumed an attitude of attention. Upon each of the thirty mornings he had sat in this same position in his ivory chair, while, one after another, the members of the sect had claimed audience with him. Morning after morning he had exhibited the same grave, aloof interest—his hands clasped,his eyes upon the Scitsym—while the fearful, the fanatical, the hysterical had poured forth their tales of struggle or aspiration. But now, on this last morning, he was conscious of a new suggestion, a new impression in what had grown to be routine. This last aspirant for spiritual light was neither fanatical nor hysterical, was scarcely even imbued with fear. Something within his brain responded to the idea, to the reassuring human curiosity that gleamed in her eyes. He found himself waiting for her first words with an impatience that no other member of the congregation had aroused.
But the wait was long—disconcertingly long. The aspirant glanced uncertainly about the room, as if unwilling or unable to break into speech; then at last she raised her head, and, with an effort, met the Prophet's eyes.
"I'm terribly nervous!" she said, in an irresistibly feminine voice.
The effect upon her hearer was instantaneous.The distant and spiritual aloofness, so easy to assume in the presence of the credulous, became suddenly a matter of impossibility. With a quiet dignity that had more of masculine protectiveness than of mystical inspiration he turned to her afresh.
"Have no fear!" he answered, gently. "My only desire is to help you. Tell me everything that is in your mind."
She leaned forward quickly. "You—you are most kind—" she began. Then again she halted.
But he took no notice of her embarrassment.
"Why have you never come before?" he asked. "Had you no doubts to be set at rest?" He spoke so quietly that her nervousness forsook her, and with a swift impulse she glanced up at him.
"I—I think I was afraid," she said, candidly. "You see, I am not exactly one of the others—"
"You did not quite believe that the Oneyou had waited for had really come?" His voice was low and tinged with some inscrutable meaning.
"Oh no! No; it was not that. Before you came, I confess I was sceptical; I confess I did not believe that any one would come, that there was any truth—any real meaning—in the sect. But then—when you did come—"
The Prophet lifted his head.
"When I did come?" he asked, sharply.
"The whole thing was different—"
"The whole thing was different?" he repeated, slowly and meditatively. By a curious process of suggestion and recollection, something of his own experiences in the realm of mental upheaval rose with her words. He studied the pale face and brilliant eyes with a fresh and more intimate interest.
"The whole thing was different?" he said once more, in his slow, deep voice.
The warm color flooded her face. "Yes,"she admitted. "Yes. You seemed the one real person—the one sane thing in the whole ceremony. I felt—I knew that you were—strong." She paused, alarmed at her own timidity; and again their eyes met.
"And why have you never come to me before?" He had no particular meaning in the question; he was only conscious of an inexplicable wish to prolong the interview.
"Oh, I don't know—I scarcely know." Again she spoke quickly and nervously. "I have come every night to hear you speak—I have loved to hear you speak. But—but to be alone with you—" She paused, expressively. "It is all so strange—so extraordinary. It doesn't seem to belong to the present day—" She looked up at him in appealing perplexity.
"And why did you come now?"
"Why? Oh, because—because I could not stay away."
For the first time the Prophet was consciousof a tremor of discomfiture; for the first time the spectacle of his fraud, as seen from a point of view other than his own, touched him unpleasantly. He moved slightly in his massive chair.
"In this life," he said, with a sudden, almost incontinent assumption of his Prophetic manner, "we must be ever careful to distinguish the Wine from the Vessel that contains it. I endeavor, with all the Power I am possessed of, to impress upon my People that I have come, not tobethe Way, but toshowthe Way! To teach you all that what you seek in me, is in each one of you. Every man is his own Prophet, if he but knew it!" As he spoke he turned his eyes upon the Scitsym, and the hard, inscrutable look that so dominated his followers descended upon his face. As he reached the last words, he glanced again at his companion, but as his eyes rested on her face he paused disconcerted. She was gazing at him with a candid, spontaneousadmiration infinitely more human and infinitely more irresistible than the neurotic adoration that was daily lavished on him. With an odd, inexplicable sense of guilt, he rose quickly from his seat.
"Do not forget—do not allow yourself to forget that this is my teaching," he said. "That you have each within yourselves the thing you demand in me. Look for it within yourselves! Rely upon yourselves!"
As he ceased, she also rose. She was pale, and trembled slightly.
"But if one cannot follow that teaching?" she asked. "If one longs to rely upon some one else? If one cannot rely upon one's self?"
The Prophet made no answer. He stood with one hand resting on the table, his gaze fixed upon the book.
Emboldened by his silence, she approached him by a step.
"I think I could believe—" she murmured. "I think I could believe—anything, if I mightlearn it from you." She paused pleadingly; then, as he still stood unresponsive, the color rushed again into her face.
"I—I have been presumptuous," she said. "I have offended you."
Something in her tone, in her charming unaffected humility stung him. For the first time in his career as Prophet, the blood surged hotly and painfully into his face.
"Do not say that!" he began, impulsively; then he checked himself. "I am here to teach my People," he added. "All my People—without exception."
For one moment she studied his face half doubtfully; then at last her own emotions conquered her doubt.
"Then I may come again?"
He did not reply at once; and when at last his words did come, his voice was unusually irresolute and low.
"You may come—at any time," he said, without meeting her eyes.
So it came about that the serpent of misgiving entered into the Prophet's paradise. With Enid Witcherley's words, the realization of his true position had been unpleasantly suggested to him, and the grain of doubt had been scattered over the banquet he had set himself to enjoy. It was one thing to fool men who yearned to be fooled—even to fool women whose peculiarities set them apart from their sex; but it was indisputably another matter to dupe a young and confiding girl, who came with all the fascination of modern doubt, counterbalanced by the charm of feminine credulity.
Long after she left him, he had paced up and down the room in perplexity of spirit, until at last, with a sudden contempt for hisown weakness, he had turned to where the white binding of the Scitsym caught the subdued light. The sight of the book had nerved him, as it never failed to do; but for all his regained firmness, the sense of uneasy shame had remained with him during the day; and that night, when he addressed his people, he had instinctively guarded his glance from resting on the seats that fronted the Sanctuary.
But now that first interview was past by three weeks, and Enid's daily visits to the great room where he gave audience to the congregation had become one of the recognized events of the twenty-four hours. The sense of shame returned periodically; but on each renewal of the feeling he salved his conscience more and more successfully with the assurance that to her, as to himself, the Mystics were in reality nothing but the products of a neurotic age—mere hysterical dabblers in the truths of the universe. She wastoo delicately feminine, he told himself with growing conviction, too intelligent and self-controlled, to be more than temporarily attracted to any such exotic creed. She might toy with it for a while, but the day must inevitably dawn when common-sense and the need of surer things would send her back into the broad channel of simple, satisfying Christianity. For a space this unnatural state of things would last; for a space their curious companionship would continue—their long, intimate talks would make life something new and wonderful; then—But there, for some unexplained reason, speculation invariably stopped.
So things stood on the fiftieth morning after her first coming. The stream of suppliants for his favor was all but exhausted, and he awaited to give the last audience of the day.
After the moment of quiet and solitude that always separated the interviews, thesonorous gong announced the last visitor; the silent, ascetic attendant threw open the door and Enid entered.
This time she displayed none of the hesitancy that had marked her early manner. She came towards the table with quick, assured steps, her face bright with anticipation.
As she approached, the Prophet rose. It was remarkable that he no longer retained his sitting position when she entered the room, as was his custom with the other members of the sect. Involuntarily and almost unconsciously he extended to her the ordinary courtesies that man instinctively offers to woman.
As she reached the table, she glanced up at him, and something of the pleasure died out of her face.
"You look tired," she said, softly.
He smiled.
"Does that disappoint you?"
His tone confused her.
"Oh no! No!" Then she colored slightly and glanced at him again. "Why do you ask?"
"Because it is the way of humanity to refuse any common weakness to its leaders—spiritual or temporal."
Again a wave of color crossed her skin. "But surely—"
"Surely what?"
She glanced away; then, seeming to gather up her courage, she looked back at him.
"I mean," she said, slowly, "that some people are so strong that they may be allowed to have anything—"
"Even weaknesses—" Once more he smiled. It was significant how, gradually and indisputably, the tone of teacher had dropped out of his conversation. Neither could have told the date on which the change had occurred—perhaps neither was conscious that it had even taken place. But the fact remained that, with her, he no longer felt compelled to hold aloof; that, with her, hehad discarded the allegorical manner of speech, and had begun to show himself as he naturally was.
"Even weaknesses?" he said again, as she made no attempt to answer.
At the words her eyes once more met his.
"Yes," she said, with new resolution—"yes, even weaknesses. I often think that it is because you are so—so human that you hold us as you do. It seems right that a Prophet should belong to the people he has come to teach. All the prophets of the world have essentially belonged to their own times. If you had sat upon the Throne all day and communed with your Soul, I should have been very much afraid of you; but I should never have believed in you as I do now, when you talk to me and advise me and help me like—like a friend." Her voice trembled slightly.
A peculiar expression crossed the Prophet's face.
"So I seem a—friend?"
"More than a friend. I can never tell you what you have been to me—what you have done for me. I have never been so happy—so satisfied in my life, as in these last three weeks. Every disappointment and dissatisfaction seems to have slipped away; I seem to have been living in some calm, beautiful, restful atmosphere—" She paused, her face as well as her voice tinged with a subtle excitement.
"It may be very selfish, but I wish that these days could go on forever. I know that, for you, they are only a probation; that you must crave for the moment when, having taught us everything, you will go out into the world and teach the Unbelievers. I know all that, and I know it is only right, but—but I hate to think of it!" A sudden break came in her voice.
"You hate to think that all this must end?"
Again their eyes met; but, as though the contact of glances embarrassed her, Enid looked away.
"Yes, I do hate it. Do you despise me for being so selfish—so jealous of those other people who will take our place?"
For a moment the Prophet made no reply. In the dim light of the room, the muscles of his hard face looked set; his strong hands were clasped.
"Do you despise me?" she asked again.
"It is not for me to judge any one—you least of all," he answered, without looking at her.
At the subdued tone, the unexpected words, she turned to him apprehensively.
"You are angry with me?"
"Indeed, no."
"Then what is it? What have I done—or said?"
He remained silent.
In her sudden distress she leaned forwardin her chair, looking into his face with new solicitude.
"I know—I feel that I have displeased you. Won't you tell me what I have done?"
As she put the question, she laid one gloved hand upon the table; and though the Prophet's eyes were fixed upon the Scitsym, he was conscious in every fibre of the appeal the unstudied gesture made—as he was poignantly conscious of the clear eyes, the soft dark hair, the questioning upturned face.
For an interminable time the silence remained unbroken; at last, with a little sound of fresh distress, Enid bent still nearer.
"Oh, I understand!" she exclaimed. "I understand! You think I have taken advantage of your goodness. You think I have imagined that, because you are kind and patient and tolerant, I might look upon you as—as a man." As she said the word she paused, frightened by her own timidity.
But as suddenly the Prophet wheeled roundand laid his fingers over hers. The pressure of his hand was like steel, the expression of his face was altered and disturbed.
"If you only knew—" he said, sharply—"if you only knew how I have longed to hear you say just that one wordman!" He paused almost triumphantly, his eyes searching her frightened face, his fingers gripping hers.
For an instant she sat petrified and fascinated; then a faint sound of alarm escaped her, and she turned towards the door.
Without the formality of the announcing gong, two men had entered the room, and stood silent spectators of the tableau. One was Devereaux, the Precursor; the other was Horatio Bale-Corphew.
For one embarrassed moment all four looked at each other; then the Precursor hastened to save the situation. He made a long, profound obeisance, and stepped deferentially to the table.
"Your pardon, Master!" he murmured."We knew not that the immutable Soul was speaking from within you, calling one among us towards the Light!" He glanced quickly over his shoulder to where the massive form and agitated face of Bale-Corphew was framed in the doorway.
At his peremptory look the Arch-Mystic seemed to gather himself together. Stepping forward, he made a slightly tardy reverence.
"Master," he said, huskily, "what the Precursor tells you is the truth. Seeing the threshold unguarded, we concluded that the audiences for the day were over." His prominent brown eyes were filled with conflicting expressions as he turned them on the Prophet.
But the Prophet remained unmoved. The hard look had returned to his face, the stern rigidity to his figure. Very slowly he released the hand that still trembled under his own.
"The time of the Prophet belongs to his People," he said, with dignity. "He holds audience whenever, wherever, andhoweverit is expedient. Speak, my son! In what can I serve you?"
Bale-Corphew looked at him in silence. Whatever he had come to say appeared to have escaped his mind. For a while inaction reigned in the room; then, with a pale face and nervous manner, Enid rose, bowed to the Prophet, and moved noiselessly to the door.
All three watched her until she had disappeared; then Bale-Corphew found voice again.
"Master," he murmured, hurriedly, "with your permission, I also would leave the Presence;" and with a perturbed gesture, he too bowed and passed out of the room.