"He is kept out of the way until the last,--in the Selectmen's Room, as
I am told, and alone."
"I fear all appeal would now be in vain; yet, Sir, I would not have you
spare an effort to awaken him to the peril of his course."
"Let us go to him, then," assented Dr. Burge.
Upon common occasions, the Selectmen's Room failed to suggest any
exceptional character in its occupants. It was a narrow, ill-lighted,
unventilated apartment, bitter with the after-taste of taxes,
prophetically flavorous of taxes yet to be. Stove-accommodation beyond
the criticism of the most fastidious salamander, a liberal sprinkling of
sand with a view to the ruminant necessities of the town-patricians, two
or three stiff armchairs with straws protruding from their well-worn
cushions, intolerant benches for unofficial occupancy,--altogether a
gloomy aggregate result of the diverse ideals of social well-being to be
found among the inhabitants of Foxden. But now I recognized a new
element in this familiar chamber; a strange contagion hung about the
walls; a something which imparted delicate edge to the nervous system
was perceptible in the dry heat of the air. Near an oracular table,
which bore evidence of recent manipulation, stood the Reverend Charles
Clifton: others had evidently been with him before our entrance; he was
now alone. An oil-lamp sputtered feebly in the corner. The stove-devil
glared at us through his one glazed eye, and puffed out his mephitic
welcome as I shut the door.
"Clifton, my old friend!" exclaimed Dr. Burge.
The person addressed raised his head, half closed his eyes, as one who
endeavors to fix objects which are flitting before him. It seemed
necessary to withdraw his inward gaze from some delicious dazzlement of
dream-land. At last he spoke slowly and with effort.
"Burge, you here?--and one of us?"
"Heaven forbid!" cried my companion. "I but look upon these things for
my own warning, and in the way of my duty as teacher to those who might
be disposed to tamper with unknown powers, within or without."
"Say, rather, to melt the iron links which gyve soul to body," said
Clifton, in constrained articulation, through which a moaning undertone
seemed ever trying to be heard. "Say, rather, to produce a finer
exaltation than wine, opium, or hashish,--for it is most sweet to
subject the animal organism to the control of spirit-wills."
"A grateful doctrine to those who dare to substitute a morbid
receptivity for an active endeavor!"
"It is to soothe the sense-powers, so that others may use them to give
us intimations far beyond their common capacity."
"'_I_ keep under my body and bring it into subjection,'" quoted Dr.
Burge, emphasizing the personal pronoun. "The Apostle declares that his
own immortal individuality alone controls his members,--and why? 'lest,
when I have preached unto others, I myself should become a castaway.'"
The Doctor delivered the last sentence with rich cathedral-emphasis, and
with the full unction of priestly authority.
Clifton, or whatever vague and dusky power controlled him, cowered at
the rebuke. The nervous energy with which he had experimented, or which
he had left passive for the experiments of others, seemed withdrawn from
his frame.