On a crisp, cold afternoon, one week after her interview with the Prophet, Enid Witcherley sat in the drawing-room of her London flat. The early portion of the day had been pleasantly warmed and brightened by the pale March sunshine; but at three o'clock a searching wind had begun to blow across the city from the east; and now, as the small gold clock on her bureau chimed the hour of five, she rose from the couch where she had been sitting, and, crossing the room with a little shiver, drew a chair to the fire and pressed the electric bell.
As the maid appeared, in answer to her summons, she gave her order without looking round.
"Tea, Norris!" she said, in an unusually curt and laconic voice.
For a considerable time after the maid's departure she sat motionless, her hands stretched out towards the blazing logs, her large eyes absently watching the fire-light on her many and beautiful rings. When the woman reappeared, and, noiselessly arranging the tea-table, moved it to her side, she scarcely glanced up; and to the most superficial observer it would have been patent that her own thoughts and speculations fully absorbed her mind.
She retained her contemplative attitude after the servant had withdrawn for the second time, and it is doubtful how long she would have remained sunk in apparent lethargy had not the unexpected sound of the hall-door bell caused her to start into an upright position with a little exclamation of surprise and impatience.
As she sat listening with nervous intentness,the door opened, and once more Norris appeared. After a second's hesitation she crossed to her mistress.
"There's a gentleman at the door, ma'am," she said, deprecatingly.
Enid looked up, a frown still darkening her forehead.
"I told you I was not at home."
"I know, ma'am, but—" Norris hesitated.
"But what? I told you I was not to be disturbed. Iwon'tbe disturbed." With a gesture plainly indicative of high-strung nerves, she turned to the table and poured herself out a cup of tea.
The maid glanced behind her towards the door. "But the gentleman won't go, ma'am—"
"Won't go!" In her surprise Enid laid down the cup she had been about to raise to her lips. "Who is he?" she demanded.
Norris looked down. "I don't know, ma'am. I told him you were not at home,but he won't go. He's the sort of gentleman who won't take no for an answer."
"I don't understand you. Who is he? What is he like?" Unconsciously and involuntarily Enid's tone quickened. Something in the woman's words—something undefined and yet suggestive—stirred and agitated her.
Norris seemed to choose her words. "Well, ma'am," she answered, slowly, "he's very tall—and not like any other gentleman that comes here. I can't rightly explain it, miss, he seems used to having his own way—"
As she halted, uncertain how to choose her words, Enid rose nervously. She could not have defined her emotions, but some feeling at once vague and portentous was working in her mind.
"Did he give no name?"
"No, ma'am. I was to say that he was some one that must be seen. He'd give no name."
For a further instant Enid was silent, conscious of nothing but her own unsteady pulses; then suddenly she turned almost angrily upon the servant.
"Show him in!" she cried. "Show him in at once! Don't keep him standing at the door."
In some confusion Norris turned and walked across the room. At the doorway she paused and looked back.
"Will you have the lights on, ma'am?"
"No. No; the fire makes light enough. I like twilight and a fire. Don't stand waiting!"
The woman departed; and for a space that seemed to her interminable, Enid stood beside the fireplace, motionless with hope, dread, and an almost uncontrollable nervousness. At last, as in a dream, she saw the door open and the tall, characteristic figure of the Prophet move into the room.
She was vaguely aware that he halted fora moment, as if undecided as to his action, while Norris retired, softly closing the door. Then, with a sudden leap of the heart, she was conscious that he was coming towards her across the shadowed room.
He moved straight forward until he was close beside her; and, with one of his decisive, imperious gestures, he put out both hands and caught hers.
"It was a case of Mohammed and the mountain!" he said, in his grave voice. "You wouldn't come to me; Ihadto come to you."
No sound escaped her. She stood before him mutely, her face paling and flushing, her hands fluttering in his.
There was a slight pause; and again he bent towards her.
"Why have you stayed away?"
She hesitated for a moment, spellbound by her emotion; then, making a sudden effort, she looked up. "I—I was afraid." Hervoice was so low and shaken that the words were a mere whisper.
"Afraid? Afraid of what?"
She made no answer.
"Of what? Of Bale-Corphew?" He gave a slight, sarcastic laugh.
"No!" She looked up sharply. "Oh no!"
"Then of what? Of me?" His voice suddenly sank, and the pressure of his fingers tightened.
"No! Oh, I don't know! I don't know!" With a tremulous gesture she tried to withdraw her hands.
At the movement, he suddenly drew her towards him. "Tell me!" he said. "I want to know. I must know!"
For the first time since he had entered the room, her glance rested fully on his face. The light was uncertain, but as her gaze concentrated itself, a new look—a look of wonder and alarm—sprang across her eyes. In the seven days since they had spoken together, achange had fallen on him. Some alteration she could not define had grown into his expression; the cold mastery of himself and others was still visible; but a new emotion had insensibly been created—something powerful and even dominant—for which she could find no name. With a sharp, instinctive alarm, her lips parted.
"What is it?" she said, apprehensively. "Why are you here? The time has not come for you to go out into the world?"
A faintly ironic smile flitted across his lips.
"Surely, if one is a Prophet, one can alter even prophecies."
He said the words deliberately, looking down into her face.
The tone, the intentional flippancy of the words, came to her with a shock. It was as if, by considered action, he had set about jeopardizing his own dignity. A chill of undefined apprehension blew across her mind like a cold wind.
"I—I don't understand," she stammered. "How did you get here? How did you get away?"
Again his keen eyes searched hers.
"As for getting away," he said, slowly, "when a Prophet has a Precursor, he should be able to arrange these things. Five o'clock is a dull hour at Hellier Crescent. The Arch-Mystics are perusing the Scitsym; the Precursor is guarding the sacred threshold of the Prophet; the Prophet is—presumably—communing with his Soul. The routine of this evening differs in no way from the routine of any other evening—except that the Precursor is rather more than usually vigilant in his watch." Again the forced flippancy was apparent; and to Enid, staring at him with wide, perplexed eyes, there was something inexplicable and alarming in this new and unfamiliar attitude. With a tremor of foreboding, her glance travelled over his face.
"Has anything happened?" she asked."Have the People done wrong? Have you—have you been called elsewhere?" At the last dread possibility her voice faltered.
But the Prophet stood cold and almost rigid. At last, by an immense effort, he seemed to gather himself together for some tremendous end.
"Enid," he said, gravely, "I don't know how much you know of life, but I presume you know very little. I presume that—and shall act on the presumption. I shall not expect—even ask—any leniency of you.
"I came here this evening to tell you something that will alter your opinion of me so effectually that nothing hereafter can reinstate me in your mind." He spoke slowly and deliberately, without tremor or falter. Whatever of struggle lay behind his words, it lay with the past. It was evident as he stood there in the pretty, luxurious room, that he possessed a purpose, and that he held to it without thought of a retrograde step.
"I have come to make a confession," he said, quietly. "Not because I believe in the habit of unburdening one's conscience, but because there is something you have a right to know—"
"I—? A right to know?" Her lips paled.
"Yes. A right to know." With a sudden access of feeling he dropped her hands and turned towards the window, where the last glimmer of the wintry twilight showed through the soft silk curtains.
"I am putting myself in your hands," he said, steadily. "I am jeopardizing myself utterly by what I am going to say; but it seems to me the only way by which I can make—well, can patch up some poor amends—
"I may be presumptuous, but I believe—I think—that I have stood for something in your eyes." He turned and looked at her. But in the mingled dusk and firelight only the pale outline of her face was visible.
"Enid!" he cried, with sudden resolution,"it must be faced. It must be said. I'm not what you think me. I'm a fraud—a lie—an impostor. No more a Prophet—no more inspired than you—or Bale-Corphew!" He stopped abruptly and drew a slow, deep breath.
The pause that followed was long and strained. In the grip of strong emotions, each stood rigid, striving vainly to read the other's face. At last, goaded by the silence, he spoke again.
"You have done this!" he cried. "You have compelled me to tell you! I came to these people; I duped them—and gloried in duping them. I despised them, understood them, traded on them without a scruple. Then you came. You came—and the scheme was shattered. The whole thing, that had bubbled and sparkled, became suddenly like flat champagne. That is a common simile, but it is descriptive. The acting of an actor depends upon his audience. While my audiencewas composed of fools, I fooled them; but when you came—you with your scepticism, your curiosity, your feminine dependency—I lost my cue. I became conscious of the footlights and the make-up." Again he paused; and again he endeavored to read her face. His manner was still restrained, but below his calm were the stirrings of a deep agitation. There was tense anxiety in the set of his lips, an inordinate anticipation in the keenness of his eyes. For a space he stood waiting; then, as she made no effort towards response, he stepped to her side.
"Say something!" he exclaimed. "Speak to me! I am waiting for you to speak."
With a low, frightened murmur she drew back, extending her hands, as if to ward him off.
The sound and the movement stung him to action. With a speed that might have been construed into fear, he came still nearer.
"Enid!" he said. "Enid!"
But again she retreated involuntarily.
"Oh, why did you do it?" she exclaimed, suddenly, in a faint, shaken voice. "Oh, why did you do it? Why did you do it?"
For an instant her tone and her manner daunted him; then he straightened his body and raised his head.
"I did it for what is reckoned the most sordid motive in the world," he said, in a level voice. "I did it for money!"
"For money?" With a scared movement she turned upon him, and for the first time since he had made his revelation, he saw her pale, alarmed, incredulous face in the full light of the fire.
"I was wronged!" he said, sharply. "These people had defrauded me. I wanted what was justly mine."
"Wanted?" The word formed itself almost inarticulately.
"Yes; wanted. Wanted with all my might. I have worked, schemed, suffered for this inways you could never imagine. I thought myself invincible. I believed that if the devil himself stood in my way it would not deter me. And now you—a frail girl—have wrecked the scheme!" He paused again, leaning towards her in sudden unconscious appeal for comprehension.
"I won't say it hasn't been a struggle to come to you like this—to make my confession. It has. My conscience and I have been struggling night and day. I have held out to the last. It was only to-day—this very day—when I woke to face the crisis of my plans, that I knew I was beaten—knew the fight was over.
"And do you understand why this has happened? Do you know why I am going away as empty-handed as I came? It is because I have seen you—because I love you—"
He put out his hands. But as his fingers touched her, she thrust him away, freeing herself with fierce resentment.
"Don't! don't! don't!" she cried. "You call yourself an impostor—You are worse than that. Much worse. You are a thief!"
He stepped back as though she had struck him, and his hands dropped to his sides.
"Yes, you are a thief!" she said again, hysterically; "a thief!"
The repetition of the word goaded him.
"Wait! Let me defend myself!"
But with a broken sound of protest she flung her hands over her ears.
"No! no! no!" she cried, vehemently. "There is no defence to make. There is no defence. You may leave the money of the sect, but you have stolen things that can never be replaced. Faith—hopes—ideals—" Her voice failed her.
"Mistaken faith—mistaken ideals—" He caught her wrists, drawing her hands downward.
But again she freed herself and confrontedhim with blazing eyes and a face marred by tears and emotion.
"Nothing is mistaken that lifts one up—that helps one to live. Oh, you don't knew what you have done! You don't know! I thought you so noble—so great—and now—"
"Now I am condemned unheard."
"Unheard? Do you think words could change anything? There is only one thing I wish for now—never, never to see you again as long as either of us live!" With each word her voice rose, and on the last it broke with an excited sob.
While she had been speaking the Prophet's face had become very pale. He turned to her now with a manner that was preternaturally quiet.
"Very well!" he said. "I understand! But there is no need for you to trouble. All our arrangements are made—have been made for months. We attend the Gathering to-night; and afterwards, when Hellier Crescentis quiet, we go—as unobtrusively as we came. You see I give you the key to our plans; you are free to frustrate them, if you think fit. I don't believe I had any real hope of merciful judgment when I came here—women are not merciful when they are robbed of their illusions. But I confess I hoped for justice. I thought that you might hate me—"
"Hate you?" she cried. "Hate you? We only hate what we respect. I don't hate you. I only despise you with all my heart. I want you to go before I despise myself as well!" Her own cruel disillusioning—her own unbearable sense of loss—swept over her afresh; her voice rose again, and again broke hysterically. With an uncontrolled movement of grief and mortification she turned away from him and threw herself upon a couch, burying her face in the pillows.
For several minutes she cried tempestuously; then through the storm of her angry tears she caught the sound of a closing door.With a start she sat up and looked about her.
The faint relic of daylight still showed through the curtains of the window; the firelight still played pleasantly on the untouched tea-table and the fragile furniture; but the room was empty. The Prophet was gone.
When she realized this fact, Enid rose from her seat with a murmur of dismay. In her sharply feminine sense of loss, she took one involuntary step towards the door; but almost as the step was taken, her anger, her shattered faith assailed her anew, and, with a fresh burst of tears she turned and flung herself back upon the couch.
For a long time she lay with her face among the pillows; then, at last, as her angry sobs died out and the violence of her grief subsided, she sat up, wiped her eyes, and glanced at her dripping handkerchief.
WITH A FRESH BURST OF TEARS, SHE TURNED AND FLUNG HERSELF UPON THE COUCH
At sight of the handkerchief—a mere wisp of wet cambric—her sense of injury stung her afresh, and once more her lips began to quiver; but fate had decided against furthertears. Before her grief had gathered force, the bell of the hall-door sounded once more long and loudly; and hard upon the sound the door of the room opened.
With a start of confusion she sprang to her feet, and turned to confront Norris, standing at a discreet distance, with an apologetic manner and downcast eyes.
"Mr. Bale-Corphew, ma'am," she murmured, as Enid looked at her. "I told him you were not at home; but he said he would wait till whenever he could see you, it didn't matter how long."
With a little cry of dismay and annoyance, Enid put her hands to her disordered hair.
"Oh, how stupid of you!" she cried, tremulously. "You know I can't see him. You know I won't see him. Tell him I'm out—ill—anything you can think of—" But her voice suddenly faltered, and her words ended in a gasp, as she glanced from the servant to the door, which had abruptly reopened,displaying the face and figure of Bale-Corphew himself.
Without hesitation he had entered the room; and without hesitation he walked straight towards her.
"Forgive me!" he exclaimed. "I know this must seem unpardonable; but the occasion is without precedent. May I speak with you alone?"
In the moment of his entry, and during his hurried greeting, Enid had mastered her agitation. She looked at him now with an attempt at calmness.
"Certainly, if you have anything to say."
In the excitement under which he was obviously laboring, he did not observe the coldness of the granted permission. He waited with ill-concealed impatience until Norris had withdrawn, then he turned to her afresh.
"Mrs. Witcherley!" he cried, "you see before you an outraged man!"
He made the announcement fiercely andtheatrically; but, to any ear, it would have been evident that, below the instinctive desire for dramatic effect, his voice trembled with genuine agitation—his speech was charged with violent feeling. To Enid, watching him with surprise and curiosity, it was patent at a glance that some circumstance, strange in its occurrence or vital in its issue, had shaken him to the base of his emotional nature. And as she looked at him her own coldness, her own humiliation, suddenly forsook her.
"What is it?" she cried, involuntarily. "What is it? Something has happened?"
For one moment his answer was delayed—held back by the torrent of words that rushed to his lips; then, at last, as his tongue freed itself, he threw out his hands in a fierce gesture.
"Outrage! Outrage and sacrilege!" he cried. "We have been duped—deceived—tricked. We, the Chosen—the Elect!"
"Duped? Deceived?" She echoed the words, faintly. "What do you mean? What has happened?"
"Everything! Everything!" Again he threw out his hands. "This man that we have called Prophet—this man that we have bent the knee to—he is nothing; nothing—" Once more emotion overpowered his words.
"Nothing?" Enid's voice was indistinct, her tongue dry.
"—Nothing but an impostor! An impostor! A thief!"
He spoke loudly—even violently. To his listener it seemed that his voice rang out, filling the room, filling the street outside, filling the whole world. As she had done in the Prophet's presence, she raised her hands and pressed them over her ears. But, even through her fingers, his tones came loud and penetrating.
"An impostor!" he cried, again. "A liar! A blasphemer!"
Her hands dropped from her face.
"Stop! Stop!" she cried, weakly.
But he was beyond appeal.
"You must hear!" he cried. "It is ordained. You have been the unwitting instrument by which the man has fallen."
"I? I? The instrument?" She stared at him with wide eyes and a white face.
"Yes, you!" He stepped to her side. "Without you, suspicion would never have been aroused. Without you, he might have carried out his base designs. It was the power of the Unseen that guided me on the day I entered the Presence Room and found you alone with him." He spoke hurriedly and disjointedly, but as the last word left his lips another expression crossed his face, as though a new suggestion passed through his mind.
"Did you see nothing strange in that Audience?" he demanded. "Did you see nothing strange in the fact that he—a Prophet ofSublime Mysteries—should hold your hand, as any man of the earth might hold it?" He bent still closer, jealousy and suspicion darkening his face.
Enid glanced at him fearfully. "No! No!" she said, sharply. "I—saw nothing strange. He was the Prophet."
Bale-Corphew's face relaxed.
"Ah!" he said, slowly. "I believe you. But, ifyouwere blind,Isaw." He paused and passed his handkerchief over his face. Cold as the day was, drops of perspiration stood upon his forehead.
"I saw. And from that hour the man was lost."
"Lost?"
"Yes, lost." He laughed excitedly; and to Enid the laugh sounded singularly unpleasant, sharp, and cruel. "From that day we have watched him—we, the Six. We have watched him and his friend—the dog who has dared to desecrate the name of Precursor.We have watched them night and day; we have seen them, listened to them hour after hour, while they believed themselves unobserved—?"
"And what do you know? What have you learned?" There was a strange faintness in the tone of her voice.
"Everything. Only yesterday we touched the key-stone of their scheme. To-night—this very night—they have planned an escape. They will attend as usual in the Place; they will fool us as they have fooled us before; and then, when the house is quiet—when the Six are at rest, exhausted by prayer and meditation—they will accomplish their vile work. They will plunder the Treasury of the Unseen!"
"Oh no! No!" With a swift movement she turned to him.
He looked at her for an instant, of silence, and then again the unpleasant, excited laugh escaped him.
"You are right," he cried, suddenly. "What you say is right. There will be no plunder. The Treasury of the Unseen will remain inviolate!"
As he paused she made no sound; but her eyes rested upon his, fascinated by their feverish brightness; and in the midst of her silent regard he spoke again, bending forward until his lips approached her ear.
"They have laid their plans," he whispered, with a sudden and savage exultation, "but we also have laid ours. And even we cannot reckon upon the consequences. The spiritual enthusiast is not easy to hold in check, once he has been aroused!"
Enid stared at him, the pupils of her eyes dilated, her lips pale.
"You mean—? You mean—?" she stammered; then her fear found voice. "What do you mean?" she demanded, in sharp, alarmed tones.
Bale-Corphew met her question, steadily.
"I mean," he said, with fierce vindictiveness, "that at the Gathering to-night he will be publicly denounced!"
He made the declaration slowly, and each word fell with overwhelming weight upon his companion's understanding. As in the bewildered mazes of a nightmare she saw the crowded chapel, the fanatical, unstable faces of the congregation, the six Arch-Mystics—outraged, incensed, unrelenting; and in their midst the Prophet, tall and grave and masterful, as she had seen him a hundred times. One man facing a sea of ungoverned emotion! At the vision her heart swelled suddenly and her soul sickened. With a gesture, almost as passionate as his own, she turned upon Bale-Corphew.
"You would denounce him before the People?" she said, incredulously. "You would trap him? One man against a hundred! Oh, it would be cowardly! Cruel!"
Bale-Corphew's face flamed to a deeper red.
"Cowardly? Cowardly? Do you know what you are saying? The man is a thief!"
For one moment she shrank before the epithet; the next she raised her head, her eyes flashing, her lips parted.
"You have no right to use that word. You have not seen him steal."
"Seen him? No. But the ears are as reliable as the eyes, and we have heard him declare that he intends to steal."
"Intends! Intends! Intentions are not acts." In her deep agitation, she turned upon him with a new demeanor.
"Oh, be merciful!" she cried. "Give him the benefit of mercy. Wait till the Assembly is over, and then accuse him. If you can prove your accusation, then justice can be done. On the other hand—"
"The other hand?" Again Bale-Corphew's cruel laugh broke from him. "He has not shrunk from lies—from imposture—from blasphemy. Is it likely he will shrinkfrom his reward? Oh no! We will run no risks. The trap has closed. No one will gain access to him to-night until the hour of the Gathering has arrived. It will be my special—my sacred—duty to watch and guard." As he spoke his eyes seemed to devour her face, and before the expression in their depths her strength faltered.
"And why have you come here?" she asked, unsteadily. "Why have you come here? What has this to do with me?"
As she put the questions, he watched her closely; and when her voice quivered, a spasm of emotion—a wave of jealousy and suspicion—swept his face.
"Can you ask that question?" he demanded.
Enid wavered.
"Why not?" she murmured. "Why should I not?"
"Why not?" He laughed again, suddenly and savagely. "Because the man loves you.Because he stole out of the house to-day—and came here to you. I tracked him here and tracked him back again."
Enid shrank away from him.
"So—so you are a spy?" she said, in a confused, uneven voice.
He turned instantly, his passions aflame.
"A spy?" he cried. "I am a spy? Very well! We will see who comes out victor. The thief or the spy." His voice rose, his face darkened. The demon of jealousy that had pursued him for seven days was free of the leash at last.
"I wanted to know this," he exclaimed. "I wanted to be sure. I had my suspicions, but I wanted proof. On the day I surprised you with him, I suspected; to-day, when I saw him enter this house, I felt convinced—"
"Convinced of what?"
"Convinced that there is more in this matter than his love for you. That there is also—"
With a swift movement Enid stopped him. She was quivering violently, but she held her head high.
"Yes," she said, distinctly. "Yes, you are quite right. There is more in this matter than his love for me. There is also my love for him!"
Her eyes were blazing; her heart was beating fast. With an agitation equal to Bale-Corphew's own she moved to the fireplace and pressed the bell.
When the servant appeared she turned to her.
"Norris," she said, in a quiet voice, "show Mr. Bale-Corphew out."
There are few phases of human existence more interesting than that in which a young and sensitive woman is compelled by circumstances to cast aside the pleasant artifices, the carefully modulated emotions of a sheltered life, and to face the realities of fact and feeling.
For twenty-three years Enid Witcherley had played with existence—toying with it, enjoying it, as an epicure enjoys a rare wine or a choice morsel of food prepared for his appreciation. Now, as she stood alone in her small drawing-room with its costly decorations, its feminine atmosphere, she was conscious for the first time that the banquet of life is not in reality a display of delicate viands and tempting vintages, but a meal ofcommon bread—sweet or bitter as destiny decrees. She saw this, and with a flash of comprehension knew and acknowledged that her heart and her brain cried out for the wholesome necessary food.
An hour ago, when the Prophet had stood before her and made his confession, she had been overwhelmed by the tide of her own feelings; in the rush of humiliation and disappointment—in the tremendous knowledge that the image she had called gold was in reality but clay—she had been too mortified to see beyond her own horizon. In that moment their places in the drama had been indisputably allotted. She herself had appeared the unoffending heroine, unjustly humiliated in her own eyes and in the eyes of others; he had stood out, in unpardonable guise, the cause—the instrument—of that humiliation. In the bitter knowledge she had confronted him unrelentingly. A spoiled child—an unreasoning feminine egoist.
But now that moment, with its instructive and primitive emotions, was passed by what seemed months—years—a century. By a process of mind as swift as it was subtle, the child had grown into a woman—the egoist had become conscious of another existence. With the entrance of Bale-Corphew—with the sound of her own denunciation upon his lips—a new feeling had awakened within her—a feeling stronger than humiliation, stronger than pride. It had risen, blinding and dazzling her, as a great light might blind and dazzle; and she stood glorified and exalted within its radiance.
As the door had closed upon her second visitor, a long sobbing sigh of excitement, of tumultuous joy and fear shook her from head to foot; she involuntarily drew her figure to its full height, and covered her face with both hands, as though to ward off the light that lay across her world.
But the great moment of joy and comprehensioncould not last; other and more insistent factors were at work within her mind—claiming, even demanding attention. Almost as the outer door closed upon Bale-Corphew, her hands dropped to her sides and an expression akin to terror crossed her eyes. With a mind rendered supersensitive by its own emotions, she realized what the next five hours might hold; and like a tangible menace the dark, angry face of the Arch-Mystic flashed back upon her consciousness.
While he had been present in the room, while his turbulent voice had filled her ears, she had been only partly alive to the threatened danger; but now that his presence had been removed, now that she was free to sift the meaning of his words, their full significance was borne in upon her. With an alarming clearness of vision, she recognized that behind his threats lay a definite meaning; that the man himself, at all times passionate, and, on occasion, violent in temperament, hadsuddenly become a danger—something as fierce and menacing as an uncontrolled element.
She realized and understood this rapidly, as only the mind knows and comprehends in moments of stress and crisis; and before her knowledge, all ideas save one fell away like chaff before the wind. At all costs—in face of every obstacle—she must warn and save the Prophet!
With a start of apprehension, she glanced at the clock and saw that the hands marked ten minutes to seven. Moving to the fireplace, she once more pressed the bell; and as Norris answered, turned to her, heedless for perhaps the first time in her life of outward appearances.
"Get me my long black cloak, Norris," she said. "And a black hat and veil. I am going out."
Norris's face expressed no surprise.
"You will be back to dinner, ma'am?" she inquired.
"No. I shall not want dinner. I may not be back till ten—perhaps eleven. If I am late, no one need wait up." She walked to a mirror and began nervously smoothing her ruffled hair, while Norris left the room, and returned with the desired garments.
With the same nervous haste she put on her hat, tied the thick veil over her face, and allowed herself to be helped into her cloak. Then, without a word, she crossed the drawing-room, passed through the hall of the flat, and entered the lift.
At the street-door she was compelled to wait while the hall-porter called a cab; and the momentary delay almost overtaxed her patience. An audible sound of relief escaped her when the clatter of hoofs and jingle of bells announced that the wait was over.
"St. George's Terrace!" she ordered, in a low voice, and it seemed to her perturbed mind that even the stolid attendant must find something portentous in the words;then she sank into the corner of the cab and closed her eyes, as she heard her order repeated to the cabman, and felt the horse swing forward into the stream of traffic.
More than once she altered her position as the distance between Knightsbridge and St. George's Terrace lessened. She was devoured by impatience and yet paralyzed by dread. Once, as the cab halted in a block of traffic, she heard a clock strike seven, and at the sound the blood rushed to her face as she thought of the nearness of her ordeal; but an instant later she drew out her watch to verify the time, and paled with sudden apprehension as she realized that the clock was slow.
So her mind oscillated until the cab drew up beside the curb; and, with a nervous start, she heard the cabman open the trap-door.
"What number, lady?" he asked.
HER HAND WAS TREMBLING AS SHE RAISED THE HEAVY KNOCKER
She answered almost guiltily: "No number! Just stop here! Put me down here!"She rose, gathering her long cloak about her.
Try as she might, she could not control her excitement, as she crossed the roadway and entered Hellier Crescent after a week's absence. Her hand was trembling as she raised the heavy knocker on the familiar door; and her voice shook as she repeated the necessary formula.
There was a slight delay—a slight hesitancy on the part of the door-keeper; then the slide, which had opened at her knock, closed with a click, and the massive door swung back.
She stepped forward eagerly, but on the moment that she entered the hall her heart sank. With a thrill of apprehension she saw that in place of the humble member of the congregation who usually attended there, the tall, fair-bearded Arch-Mystic known as George Norov was guarding the door. Small though the incident might appear, it conveyed to her, as no spoken declaration couldhave done, the spirit of action and vigilance reigning in the House.
While the thought flashed through her mind, Norov surveyed her from his great height.
"You are in good time, my child; the Gathering is for eight o'clock."
She looked up at him.
"Yes," she said, quickly. "I know it is for eight o'clock, but I have come early. I have come because I wish—" Her courage faltered before the intent, searching gaze of his blue eyes.
"I have come," she added, with gathered resolution, "because I desire private Audience with the Prophet—because there is something on my Soul of which I must unburden myself."
The Arch-Mystic looked at her and his eyes seemed cold as steel.
"The Prophet holds private Audience only in the morning," he replied, in an even voice.
Enid flushed.
"I know that. But there are exceptions to the rule—"
The Arch-Mystic shook his head.
"The Prophet holds private Audience only in the morning."
"But the Prophet is generous. Five minutes alone with him will satisfy me—three minutes—two minutes—" Her tone quickened as her anxiety increased.
Still Norov's blue eyes met hers unswervingly.
"The Prophet holds private Audience only in the morning."
At the second repetition her apprehension rose to fear; and in her alarmed trepidation she conceived a new idea. With a rapid searching glance her eyes travelled over the Arch-Mystic's powerful figure, while she mentally measured his physical strength with that of the Prophet. Her survey was short and comprehensive; and her decision camewith equal speed. With a subtle change of manner and voice she made a fresh appeal. Turning to him with a gesture of deference, she spoke again in a soft and conciliatory voice.
"Of course, you are right in what you say," she murmured. "But I am going to make an appeal. If I may not see the Prophet in private Audience, then let me see him in your presence! I have only a dozen words to say; and, if necessary, I will say them in your presence. You can see it is urgent, when I am willing to humiliate myself. It is only for her Soul that a woman will conquer her pride. You won't deny peace to my Soul?" Her voice dropped, her whole expression pleaded.
For a moment—for just one moment—it seemed to her desperate gaze that his hard blue eyes softened; the next, their cold, unyielding glance disillusioned her of hope.
"It is useless to appeal to me," he said;"but if you very much desire it, you can make your request to my brother Mystic—Horatio Bale-Corphew. He is guarding the Prophet's Threshold."
Whether the man had any glimmering of knowledge as to her private connection with Bale-Corphew and the Prophet was not to be read from his austere face. His words might have been spoken in all innocence, or might have been spoken deliberately and with malice. But in either case the result, so far as his listener was concerned, was the same. A sense of frightened impotence fell upon her—a knowledge that her enemy had a longer reach and a more powerful arm than she had guessed.
By a great effort she controlled her feelings.
"Thank you!" she said, quietly, "but I will not trouble Mr. Bale-Corphew. If I may, I will wait in the Place until the Gathering is assembled."
Her companion bent his head.
"Permission is granted!" he said.
For a moment longer she stood, burning with apprehensive dread. On one hand was the Prophet—trapped and unaware of his peril; on the other was Bale-Corphew—implacable, enraged, unrelaxing in his pursuit. She waited irresolute, until the cold, inquiring gaze of the Arch-Mystic made action compulsory; then, scarcely conscious of the movement, she inclined her head in mechanical acknowledgment of his courtesy, and, turning away, passed down the lofty, sombre hall.
Never in after-life was she able to remember, with any degree of distinctness, her threading of the familiar corridors leading to the chapel. Her consciousness of outer things was numbed by mental strife. Reaching the heavy curtain that shut off the sacred precinct, she thrust it aside with nervous impetuosity and stood looking around the deserted chapel—glancing from the rows ofempty chairs to the Sanctuary, where the great golden Throne stood shrouded in a white cloth, and the silver censers lay awaiting the flame.
At a first glance it seemed that the chapel was entirely empty, but as her eyes grew accustomed to the modulated light diffused by eight large tapers, she saw that the Sanctuary was occupied by one sombre figure that flitted silently between the lectern and the Throne. For an instant her heart leaped, for the man was of the same height and build as the Precursor; but a second glance put her hopes to flight. The Mystic within the Sanctuary was the humble member of the congregation whose duty it was to wait upon the Prophet.
As she passed slowly and automatically up the aisle, the man turned and looked at her; but after a cursory glance returned to his task of setting the Sanctuary in order.
The look and the evident unconcern chilledand daunted her anew. With a movement of despair she paused, and sank into one of the empty chairs.
For a space that seemed eternal, she sat huddled in her seat—her hands clasped nervously in her lap; her ears alert to catch the slightest sound; her eyes unconsciously following the movements of the man within the Sanctuary; then, suddenly and abruptly, the tension snapped; and action—action of some description—became imperative. She rose from her seat.
After she had risen, she stood aimlessly looking about her at the black-and-white walls, at the rows of chairs, at the gleaming octagonal symbol that hung from the roof; then, as if magnetically attracted, her glance travelled back to the man inside the Sanctuary rail.
There was nothing remarkable in the spare figure, moving reverently from one sacred object to another; but as her eyes rested onthe colorless, ascetic face, her own cheeks flushed with a new hope—a new inspiration. With a quick movement she glanced furtively behind her; and, stepping carefully between the chairs, regained the aisle and moved swiftly and noiselessly up the chapel.
Her heart was beating so fast, the nervous strain was so intense, that when she reached the railing she stood for a moment unable to command her voice. And when the Mystic—becoming suddenly aware of her near presence—turned and confronted her, a faint sound of nervous alarm slipped from her.
For a space the two looked at each other; and at last the man appeared to realize that something was expected of him. Bending his head, he uttered the formula of the sect.
"In what can I serve you?"
The familiar words braced Enid. She glanced at him afresh, and in that glance her plan of action arranged itself. For one moment, as she had walked up the aisle, her handhad sought her purse, but now, as she scanned the ascetic face of this unworldly servant, her fingers involuntarily loosened and the purse slipped back into her pocket. With a new resolve, she looked him straight in the eyes.
"You can do me a great service—a very great service," she said, quietly, in her soft, clear voice.
The man looked at her in slow inquiry.
"Oh, I know you are surprised," she added, quickly. "I know this seems unusual—" She paused in momentary hesitation.
The Mystic appeared distressed.
"My—my duty—" he broke in, uneasily. "My duty is to—"
But she checked him suddenly.