made note of it for the moment, yet his emotions had so shaken him
during all that evening that he could well understand the little shudder
that passed over him for a moment.
But he caught himself glancing at the windows. All were shut. The doors
of the hall were closed, the flames of the chandeliers were steady.
Whence came then this certain sense of coolness that so suddenly had
invaded the air? The coolness was not disagreeable, but none the less
the temperature of the room had been lowered, at least so he could
fancy. Yet already he was dismissing the matter from his mind. No
doubt the weather had changed suddenly.
In the next second, however, another peculiar circumstance forced itself
upon his attention. The stillness of the Banquet Hall, placed as it
was, at the top of one of the highest buildings in the city was no
matter of comment to Verrill. He was long since familiar with it. But
for all that, even through the closed windows, and through the medium of
steel and brick and marble that composed the building the indefinite
murmur of the city's streets had always made itself felt in the hall.
It was faint, yet it was distinct. That bourdon of life to which he had
listened that very evening was not wholly to be shut out, yet now, even
in this supreme moment of the occasion it was impossible for Verrill to
ignore the fancy that an unusual stillness had all at once widened about
him, like the widening of unseen ripples. There was not a sound, and he
told himself that stillness such as this was only the portion of the
deaf. No faintest tremor of noise rose from the streets. The vast
building itself had suddenly grown as soundless as the unplumbed depth
of the sea. But Verrill shook himself; all evening fancies such as
these had besieged him, even now they were prolonging the ordeal. Once
this last toast drunk and he was released from his duty: He raised his
glass again, and then in a loud clear voice he said:
"_Gentlemen, I give you the toast of the evening._" And as he emptied
the glass, a quick, light footstep sounded in the corridor outside the
door.
Verrill looked up in great annoyance. The corridor led to but one
place, the door of the Banquet Hall, and any one coming down the
corridor at so brisk a pace could have but one intention--that of
entering the hall. Verrill frowned at the idea of an intruder. His
orders had been of the strictest. That a stranger should thrust himself
upon his company at this of all moments was exasperating.
But the footsteps drew nearer, and as Verrill stood frowning at the door
at the far end of the hall, it opened.
A gentleman came in, closed the door, behind him, and faced about.
Verrill scrutinised him with an intent eye.
He was faultlessly dressed, and just by his manner of carrying himself
in his evening clothes Verrill knew that here was breeding, distinction.
The newcomer was tall, slim. Also he was young; Verrill, though he
could not have placed his age with any degree of accuracy, would none
the less have disposed of the question by setting him down as a young
man. But Verrill further observed that the gentleman was very pale,
even his lips lacked colour. However, as he looked closer, he
discovered that this pallor was hardly the result of any present
emotion, but was rather constitutional.
There was a moment's silence as the two looked at each other the length
of the Hall; then with a peculiarly pleasant smile the stranger came
forward drawing off his white glove and extending his hand. He seemed so
at home, so perfectly at his ease, and at the same time so much of what
Verrill was wont to call a "thoroughbred fellow" that the latter found
it impossible to cherish any resentment. He preferred to believe that
the stranger had made some readily explained mistake which would be
rectified in their first spoken words. Thus it was that he was all the
more non-plussed when the stranger took him by the hand with words:
"This is Mr. Manning Verrill, of course. I am very glad to meet you
again, sir. Two such as you and I who have once been so intimate,
should never forget each other."
Verrill had it upon his lips to inform the other that he had something
the advantage of him; but at the last moment he was unable to utter the
words. The newcomer's pleasure in the meeting was so hearty, so
spontaneous, that he could not quite bring himself to jeopardise it--at
the outset at least--by a confession of implied unfriendliness; so
instead he clumsily assumed the other's manner, and, though deeply
perplexed, managed to attain a certain heartiness as he exclaimed: "But
you have come very late. I have already dined, and by the way, let me
explain why you find me here alone, in a deserted Banquet Hall with
covers laid for so many."
"Indeed, you need not explain," replied the stranger. "I am a member of
your club, you know."
A member of the club, this total stranger! Verrill could not hide a
frown of renewed perplexity; surely this face was not one of any friend
he ever had. "A charter member, you might say," the other continued;
"but singularly enough, I have never been able to attend one of the
meetings until now. Of us all I think I have been the busiest--and the
one most widely traveled. Such must be my excuses."
At the moment an explanation occurred to Verrill. It was within the
range of the possible that the newcomer was an old member of the club,
some sojourner in a foreign country, whose death had been falsely
reported. Possibly Verrill had lost track of him. It was not always
easy to "place" at once every one of the thirty. The two sat down, but
almost immediately Verrill exclaimed:
"Pardon me, but--that chair. The omen would be so portentous! You have
taken the wrong place. You who are a member of the club! You must
remember that we reserved that chair--the one you are occupying."
But the stranger smiled calmly.
"I defy augury, and I snap my fingers at the portent. Here is my place
and here I choose to remain."
"As you will," answered Verrill, "but it is a singular choice. It is
not conducive to appetite."
"My dear Verrill," answered the other, "I shall not dine, if you will
permit me to say so. It is very late and my time is limited. I can
stay but a short while at best. I have much to do to-night after I
leave you,--much good I hope, much good. For which," he added rather
sadly, "I shall receive no thanks, only abuse, only abuse, my dear
Verrill." Verrill was only half listening. He was looking at the
other's face, and as he looked, he wondered; for the brow was of the
kind fitted for crowns, and from beneath glowed the glance of a King.
The mouth seemed to have been shaped by the utterance of the commands of
Empire. The whole face was astonishing, full of power tempered by a
great kindliness. Verrill could not keep his gaze from those wonderful,
calm grey eyes. Who was this extraordinary man met under such strange
circumstances, alone and in the night, in the midst of so many dead
memories, and surrounded by that inexplicable stillness, that sudden,
profound peace? And what was the subtle magnetism that upon sight, drew
him so powerfully to the stranger? Kingly he was, but Verrill seemed to
feel that he was more than that. He was--could be--a friend, such a
friend as in all their circle of dead companions he had never known. In
his company he knew he need never be ashamed of weakness, human,
natural, ordained weakness, need not be ashamed because of the certainty
of being perfectly and thoroughly understood. Thus it was that when the
stranger had spoken the words"--only abuse, only abuse, my dear
Verrill." Verrill, starting from his muse, answered quickly: "What,
abuse, you! in return for good! You astonish me."
"'Abuse' is the mildest treatment I dare expect; it will no doubt be
curses. Of all personages, I am the one most cruelly misunderstood. My
friends are few, few,--oh, so pitiably few." "Of whom may I be one?"
exclaimed Verrill. "I hope," said the stranger gravely, "we shall be
the best of friends. When we met before I am afraid, my appearance was
too abrupt and--what shall I say--unpleasant to win your good will."
Verrill in some embarrassment, framed a lame reply; but the other
continued:
"You do not remember, as I can easily understand. My manner at that time
was against me. It was a whim, but I chose to be most forbidding on that
occasion. I am a very Harlequin in my moods; Harlequin did I say, my
dear fellow I am the Prince of Masqueraders."
"But a Prince in all events," murmured Verrill, half to himself.
"Prince and Slave," returned the other, "slave to circumstance."
"Are we not all--," began Verrill, but the stranger continued:
"Slave to circumstance, slave to time, slave to natural laws, none so
abject as I, in my servility. When the meanest, the lowest, the very
weakest calls, I must obey. On the other hand, none so despotic as I,
none so absolute. When I summon, the strongest must respond; when I
command, the most powerful must obey. My profession, my dear Verrill,
is an arduous one."
"Your profession is, I take it," observed Verrill, "that of a
physician."
"You may say so," replied the other, "and you may also say an efficient
one. But I am always the last to be summoned. I am a last resource; my
remedy is a heroic one. But it prevails--inevitably. No pain, my dear
Verrill, so sharp that I cannot allay, no anguish so great that I cannot
soothe."
"Then perhaps you may prescribe for me," said Verrill. "Of late I have
been perturbed. I have lived under a certain strain, certain
contingencies threaten, which, no doubt unreasonably, I have come to
dread. I am shaken, nervous, fearful. My own doctor has been unable to
help me. Perhaps you--"
The stranger had already opened the bottle of wine which stood by his
plate, and filled the silver cup. He handed it to Verrill.
"Drink," he said.
Verrill hesitated:
"But this wine," he protested: "This cup--pardon me, it was reserved--"
"Drink," repeated the stranger. "Trust me."
He took Verrill's glass in which he had drunk the toasts and which yet
contained a little wine. He pressed the silver cup into Verrill's hands.
"Drink," he urged for the third time.
Verrill took the cup, and the stranger raised his glass.
"To our better acquaintance," he said.
But Verrill, at length at the end of all conjecture, cried out, the cup
still in his hand:
"Your toast is most appropriate, sir. A better acquaintance with you, I
assure you, would be most pleasing to me. But I must ask your pardon
for my stupidity. Where have we met before? Who are you, and what is
your name?"
The stranger did not immediately reply, but fixed his grave grey eyes
upon Verrill's. For a moment he held his gaze in his own. Then as the
seconds slipped by, the first indefinite sense of suspicion flashed
across Verrill's mind, flashed and faded, returned once more, faded
again, and left him wondering. Then as the stranger said:
"Do you remember,--it was long ago. Do you remember the sight of naked
spars rocking against a grey torn sky, a ship wrenching and creaking,
wrestling with the wind, a world of pale green surges, the gale singing
through the cordage, and then as the sea swept the decks--ah, you do
remember."
For Verrill had started suddenly, and with the movement, full
recognition, complete, unequivocal, gleamed suddenly in his eyes. There
was a long silence while he returned the gaze of the other, now no
longer a stranger. At length Verrill spoke, drawing a long breath.
"Ah ... it is you ... at last."
"Well!"
Verrill smiled:
"It _is_ well, I had imagined it would be so different,--when you did
come. But as it is--," he extended his hand, "I am very glad to meet
you."
"Did I not tell you," said the other, "that of all the world, I am the
most cruelly misunderstood?"
"But you confessed to the masquerade."
"Oh, blind, blind, not to see behind the foolish masque. Come, we have
not yet drunk."
He placed the cup in Verrill's hands, and once again raised the glass.
"To our better acquaintance," he said.
"To our better acquaintance," echoed Verrill. He drained the cup.
"The lees were bitter," he observed.
"But the effect?"
"Yes, it is calming--already, exquisitely so. It is not--as I have
imagined for so long, deadening, on the contrary, it is invigorating,
revivifying. I feel born again."
The other rose: "Then there is no need," he said, "to stay here any
longer. Come, shall we be going?"
"Yes, yes, I am ready," answered Verrill. "Look," he exclaimed, pointing
to the windows. "Look--it is morning."
Low in the east, the dawn was rising over the city. A new day was
coming; the stars were paling, the night was over.
"That is true," said Verrill's new friend. "Another day is coming. It
is time we went out to meet it."
They rose and passed down the length of the Banquet Hall. He who had
called himself the great Physician, the Servant of the Humble, the
Master of Kings, the Prince of Masqueraders, held open the door for
Verrill to pass. But when the man had gone out, the Prince paused a
moment, and looked back upon the deserted Banquet Hall, lit partly by
the steady electrics, partly by the pale light of morning, that now
began with ever-increasing radiance to stream through the eastern
windows. Then he stretched forth his hand and laid his touch upon a
button in the wall. Instantly the lights sank, vanished; for a moment
the hall seemed dark.
He went out quietly, shutting the door behind him.
* * * * *
And the Banquet Hall remained deserted, lonely, empty, yet it was
neither dark nor lifeless. Stronger and stronger grew the flood of light
that burned roseate toward the zenith as the sun came up. It penetrated
to every corner of the room, and the drops of wine left in the bottom of
the glasses flashed like jewels in the radiance. From without, from the
city's streets, came the murmur of increasing activity. Through the
night it had droned on, like the low-pitched diapason of some vast
organ, but now as the sun rose, it swelled in volume. Louder it grew
and ever louder. Its sound-waves beat upon the windows of the hall.
They invaded the hall itself.
It was the symphony of energy, the vast orchestration of force, the
paean of an indestructible life, coeval with the centuries, renascent,
ordained, eternal.