VI

IT had been arranged that Pellerin, after the meeting of the Uplift

Club, should join Bernald at his rooms and spend the night there,

instead of returning to Portchester. The plan had been eagerly

elaborated by the young man, but he had been unprepared for the alacrity

with which his wonderful friend accepted it. He was beginning to see

that it was a part of Pellerin’s wonderfulness to fall in, quite simply

and naturally, with any arrangements made for his convenience, or

tending to promote the convenience of others. Bernald felt that his

extreme docility in such matters was proportioned to the force of

resistance which, for nearly half a life-time, had kept him, with his

back to the wall, fighting alone against the powers of darkness. In such

a scale of values how little the small daily alternatives must weigh!

At the close of Howland Wade’s discourse, Bernald, charged with his

prodigious secret, had felt the need to escape for an instant from

the liberated rush of talk. The interest of watching Pellerin was so

perilously great that the watcher felt it might, at any moment, betray

him. He lingered in the crowded drawing-room long enough to see his

friend enclosed in a mounting tide, above which Mrs. Beecher Bain and

Miss Fosdick actively waved their conversational tridents; then he took

refuge, at the back of the house, in a small dim library where, in his

younger days, he had discussed personal immortality and the problem of

consciousness with beautiful girls whose names he could not remember.

In this retreat he surprised Mr. Beecher Bain, a quiet man with a mild

brow, who was smoking a surreptitious cigar over the last number of the

_Strand_. Mr. Bain, at Bernald’s approach, dissembled the _Strand_ under

a copy of the _Hibbert Journal_, but tendered his cigar-case with the

remark that stocks were heavy again; and Bernald blissfully abandoned

himself to this unexpected contact with reality.

On his return to the drawing-room he found that the tide had set toward

the supper-table, and when it finally carried him thither it was to land

him in the welcoming arms of Bob Wade.

“Hullo, old man! Where have you been all this time?--Winterman? Oh,

_he’s_ talking to Howland: yes, I managed it finally. I believe

Mrs. Bain has steered them into the library, so that they shan’t be

disturbed. I gave her an idea of the situation, and she was awfully

kind. We’d better leave them alone, don’t you think? I’m trying to get a

croquette for Miss Fosdick.”

Bernald’s secret leapt in his bosom, and he devoted himself to the task

of distributing sandwiches and champagne while his pulses danced to the

tune of the cosmic laughter. The vision of Pellerin and his Interpreter,

face to face at last, had a Cyclopean grandeur that dwarfed all other

comedy. “And I shall hear of it presently; in an hour or two he’ll be

telling me about it. And that hour will be all mine--mine and his!” The

dizziness of the thought made it difficult for Bernald to preserve the

balance of the supper-plates he was distributing. Life had for him at

that moment the completeness which seems to defy disintegration.

The throng in the dining-room was thickening, and Bernald’s efforts

as purveyor were interrupted by frequent appeals, from ladies who had

reached repleteness, that he should sit down a moment and tell them all

about his interesting friend. Winterman’s fame, trumpeted abroad by Miss

Fosdick, had reached the four corners of the Uplift Club, and Bernald

found himself fabricating _de toutes pieces_ a Winterman legend which

should in some degree respond to the Club’s demand for the human

document. When at length he had acquitted himself of this obligation,

and was free to work his way back through the lessening groups into the

drawing-room, he was at last rewarded by a glimpse of his friend, who,

still densely encompassed, towered in the centre of the room in all his

sovran ugliness.

Their eyes met across the crowd; but Bernald gathered only perplexity

from the encounter. What were Pellerin’s eyes saying to him? What

orders, what confidences, what indefinable apprehension did their long

look impart? The young man was still trying to decipher their complex

message when he felt a tap on the arm, and turned to encounter the

rueful gaze of Bob Wade, whose meaning lay clearly enough on the surface

of his good blue stare.

“Well, it won’t work--it won’t work,” the doctor groaned.

“What won’t?”

“I mean with Howland. Winterman won’t. Howland doesn’t take to him.

Says he’s crude--frightfully crude. And you know how Howland hates

crudeness.”

“Oh, I know,” Bernald exulted. It was the word he had waited for--he saw

it now! Once more he was lost in wonder at Howland’s miraculous faculty

for always, as the naturalists said, being true to type.

“So I’m afraid it’s all up with his chance of writing. At least _I_ can

do no more,” said Wade, discouraged.

Bernald pressed him for farther details. “Does Winterman seem to mind

much? Did you hear his version?”

“His version?”

“I mean what he said to Howland.”

“Why no. What the deuce was there for him to say?”

“What indeed? I think I’ll take him home,” said Bernald gaily.

He turned away to join the circle from which, a few minutes before,

Pellerin’s eyes had vainly and enigmatically signalled to him; but the

circle had dispersed, and Pellerin himself was not in sight.

Bernald, looking about him, saw that during his brief aside with Wade

the party had passed into the final phase of dissolution. People still

delayed, in diminishing groups, but the current had set toward the

doors, and every moment or two it bore away a few more lingerers.

Bernald, from his post, commanded the clearing perspective of the two

drawing-rooms, and a rapid survey of their length sufficed to assure

him that Pellerin was not in either. Taking leave of Wade, the young

man made his way back to the drawing-room, where only a few hardened

feasters remained, and then passed on to the library which had been the

scene of the late momentous colloquy. But the library too was empty, and

drifting back uncertainly to the inner drawing-room Bernald found

Mrs. Beecher Bain domestically putting out the wax candles on the

mantel-piece.

“Dear Mr. Bernald! Do sit down and have a little chat. What a wonderful

privilege it has been! I don’t know when I’ve had such an intense

impression.”

She made way for him, hospitably, in a corner of the sofa to which she

had sunk; and he echoed her vaguely: “You _were_ impressed, then?”

“I can’t express to you how it affected me! As Alice said, it was a

resurrection--it was as if John Pellerin were actually here in the room

with us!”

Bernald turned on her with a half-audible gasp. “You felt that, dear

Mrs. Bain?”

“We all felt it--every one of us! I don’t wonder the Greeks--it _was_

the Greeks?--regarded eloquence as a supernatural power. As Alice says,

when one looked at Howland Wade one understood what they meant by the

Afflatus.”

Bernald rose and held out his hand. “Oh, I see--it was Howland who made

you feel as if Pellerin were in the room? And he made Miss Fosdick feel

so too?”

“Why, of course. But why are you rushing off?”

“Because I must hunt up my friend, who’s not used to such late hours.”

“Your friend?” Mrs. Bain had to collect her thoughts. “Oh, Mr.

Winterman, you mean? But he’s gone already.”

“Gone?” Bernald exclaimed, with an odd twinge of foreboding. Remembering

Pellerin’s signal across the crowd, he reproached himself for not having

answered it more promptly. Yet it was certainly strange that his friend

should have left the house without him.

“Are you quite sure?” he asked, with a startled glance at the clock.

“Oh, perfectly. He went half an hour ago. But you needn’t hurry home

on his account, for Alice Fosdick carried him off with her. I saw them

leave together.”

“Carried him off? She took him home with her, you mean?”

“Yes. You know what strange hours she keeps. She told me she was going

to give him a Welsh rabbit, and explain Pellerinism to him.”

“Oh, _if_ she’s going to explain--” Bernald murmured. But his amazement

at the news struggled with a confused impatience to reach his rooms in

time to be there for his friend’s arrival. There could be no stranger

spectacle beneath the stars than that of John Pellerin carried off by

Miss Fosdick, and listening, in the small hours, to her elucidation of

his doctrines; but Bernald knew enough of his sex to be aware that such

an experiment may present a less humorous side to its subject than to

an impartial observer. Even the Uplift Club and its connotations might

benefit by the attraction of the unknown; and it was conceivable that

to a traveller from Mesopotamia Miss Fosdick might present elements of

interest which she had lost for the frequenters of Fifth Avenue. There

was, at any rate, no denying that the affair had become unexpectedly

complex, and that its farther development promised to be rich in comedy.

In the charmed contemplation of these possibilities Bernald sat over his

fire, listening for Pellerin’s ring. He had arranged his modest quarters

with the reverent care of a celebrant awaiting the descent of his deity.

He guessed Pellerin to be unconscious of visual detail, but sensitive

to the happy blending of sensuous impressions: to the intimate spell of

lamplight on books, and of a deep chair placed where one could watch

the fire. The chair was there, and Bernald, facing it across the hearth,

already saw it filled by Pellerin’s lounging figure. The autumn dawn

came late, and even now they had before them the promise of some

untroubled hours. Bernald, sitting there alone in the warm stillness of

his room, and in the profounder hush of his expectancy, was conscious

of gathering up all his sensibilities and perceptions into one

exquisitely-adjusted instrument of notation. Until now he had tasted

Pellerin’s society only in unpremeditated snatches, and had always left

him with a sense, on his own part, of waste and shortcoming. Now, in the

lull of this dedicated hour, he felt that he should miss nothing, and

forget nothing, of the initiation that awaited him. And catching sight

of Pellerin’s pipe, he rose and laid it carefully on a table by the

arm-chair.

“No. I’ve never had any news of him,” Bernald heard himself repeating.

He spoke in a low tone, and with the automatic utterance that alone made

it possible to say the words.

They were addressed to Miss Fosdick, into whose neighbourhood chance had

thrown him at a dinner, a year or so later than their encounter at the

Uplift Club. Hitherto he had successfully, and intentionally, avoided

Miss Fosdick, not from any animosity toward that unconscious instrument

of fate, but from an intense reluctance to pronounce the words which he

knew he should have to speak if they met.

Now, as it turned out, his chief surprise was that she should wait so

long to make him speak them. All through the dinner she had swept him

along on a rapid current of talk which showed no tendency to linger or

turn back upon the past. At first he ascribed her reserve to a sense

of delicacy with which he reproached himself for not having previously

credited her; then he saw that she had been carried so far beyond the

point at which they had last faced each other, that it was by the merest

hazard of associated ideas that she was now finally borne back to it.

For it appeared that the very next evening, at Mrs. Beecher Bain’s, a

Hindu Mahatma was to lecture to the Uplift Club on the Limits of the

Subliminal; and it was owing to no less a person than Howland Wade that

this exceptional privilege had been obtained.

“Of course Howland’s known all over the world as the interpreter of

Pellerinism, and the Aga Gautch, who had absolutely declined to speak

anywhere in public, wrote to Isabella that he could not refuse anything

that Mr. Wade asked. Did you know that Howland’s lecture, ‘What

Pellerinism Means,’ has been translated into twenty-two languages, and

gone into a fifth edition in Icelandic? Why, that reminds me,”

Miss Fosdick broke off--“I’ve never heard what became of your queer

friend--what was his name?--whom you and Bob Wade accused me of

spiriting away after that very lecture. And I’ve never seen _you_ since

you rushed into the house the next morning, and dragged me out of bed to

know what I’d done with him!”

With a sharp effort Bernald gathered himself together to have it out.

“Well, what _did_ you do with him?” he retorted.

She laughed her appreciation of his humour. “Just what I told you, of

course. I said good-bye to him on Isabella’s door-step.”

Bernald looked at her. “It’s really true, then, that he didn’t go home

with you?”

She bantered back: “Have you suspected me, all this time, of hiding his

remains in the cellar?” And with a droop of her fine lids she added:

“I wish he _had_ come home with me, for he was rather interesting, and

there were things I think I could have explained to him.”

Bernald helped himself to a nectarine, and Miss Fosdick continued on a

note of amused curiosity: “So you’ve really never had any news of him

since that night?”

“No--I’ve never had any news of him.”

“Not the least little message?”

“Not the least little message.”

“Or a rumour or report of any kind?”

“Or a rumour or report of any kind.”

Miss Fosdick’s interest seemed to be revived by the strangeness of the

case. “It’s rather creepy, isn’t it? What _could_ have happened? You

don’t suppose he could have been waylaid and murdered?” she asked with

brightening eyes.

Bernald shook his head serenely. “No. I’m sure he’s safe--quite safe.”

“But if you’re sure, you must know something.”

“No. I know nothing,” he repeated.

She scanned him incredulously. “But what’s your theory--for you must

have a theory? What in the world can have become of him?”

Bernald returned her look and hesitated. “Do you happen to remember the

last thing he said to you--the very last, on the door-step, when he left

you?”

“The last thing?” She poised her fork above the peach on her plate. “I

don’t think he said anything. Oh, yes--when I reminded him that he’d

solemnly promised to come back with me and have a little talk he said he

couldn’t because he was going home.”

“Well, then, I suppose,” said Bernald, “he went home.”

She glanced at him as if suspecting a trap. “Dear me, how flat! I always

inclined to a mysterious murder. But of course you know more of him than

you say.”

She began to cut her peach, but paused above a lifted bit to ask, with a

renewal of animation in her expressive eyes: “By the way, had you heard

that Howland Wade has been gradually getting farther and farther away

from Pellerinism? It seems he’s begun to feel that there’s a Positivist

element in it which is narrowing to any one who has gone at all deeply

into the Wisdom of the East. He was intensely interesting about it the

other day, and of course I _do_ see what he feels. ... Oh, it’s too

long to tell you now; but if you could manage to come in to tea some

afternoon soon--any day but Wednesday--I should so like to explain--”