wheel-chair, almost in the center of the line, stood Madison, his chin
in his hand in a meditative, thoughtful attitude, the single soul who
watched the scene from under lowered lids; Thornton had involuntarily
edged a little forward from behind the chair until he stood now at its
side in a strange, abashed way as though his own personality were
over-ruled, obliterated, his face with a white sternness upon it, his
eyes, like all other eyes, agleam with an unnatural fire; Mrs. Thornton
had pulled herself forward in the chair, one hand clutching at her
breast, the frail fingers of the other woven in a grasp so tight around
the arm of the chair that the flesh was bloodless; a little way off, a
group of three, the two salesmen and the metropolitan newspaper man,
seemed as though stricken into stone, stripped of all assurance, all
complacence, awed, tense, palpitant, as the patched, bare-legged
tatterdemalion of ten from the fields, that stood beside them, was awed
and tense and palpitant.
And away on either side stretched the line of white, rigid faces, the
never-ending, burning eyes--but the silence with that shriek was gone
now, for another woman and another, overwrought, needing but that sudden
shock to unnerve them utterly, shrieked in turn--and through the line
seemed to run a shudder, and it moved a little though no foot stirred,
moved with a strange, sinuous, rocking, swaying movement, from the hips,
backward and forward and to either side. Men raised their eyes, stole
frightened, questioning glances at their neighbors--and fixed their eyes
on the Flopper again--on the Flopper and that majestic figure in the
center of the lawn, so calm of mien, of attitude and pose.
Once again the Flopper's eyes swept the scene. A few feet in advance of
the crowd, as though drawn irresistibly forward, young Holmes hung upon
his crutch. The boy's soul seemed in his face--hope, a world of it, as
he gazed at the Patriarch, sickening fear as he looked at the Flopper;
his lips moving without sound, his body trembling with emotional
excitement. Still once again the Flopper's eyes swept the line of men
and women and children, fast reaching toward a common ungovernable
hysteria--and then he turned with an unbalanced, impotent, broken
movement, flung out his good arm toward the Patriarch in piteous
supplication, and, jerking himself forward, went on.
Slowly, very slowly at first, he resumed his way, crawling it seemed by
no more than a painful inch on inch, in mortal pain, in mortal agony and
struggle--then gradually his movements began to quicken, as though
growing upon him were a mad, elated haste that he could not
control--quicker and quicker he went, pitching and lurching wildly; from
a pace that was beyond him.
A strange, low, moaning sound rose from behind him, fluttering,
inarticulate, that voiceless utterance that seeks to find some vent for
human emotion when human emotion sweeps with mighty surge to engulf the
soul. It rose and died away and rose again--and died away--and children
began to whimper with a fear and terror that they did not understand,
and seeking solace in their elders' faces found added cause for fear
instead.
Nearer to that saintly figure who stood so calm, so quiet, the massive
white-locked head still turned a little in that curious listening
attitude, beside whom, close drawn now, was that white-clad girlish
form, whose eyes were lowered, whose sweet face seemed to hold a heaven
of pity and infinite compassion, upon whose lips there was a smile of
divine tenderness, drew that piteous mockery of the image of a man,
whose every movement appeared one of agony beyond human power to
endure--and the agony found echo in the watchers' souls, and a low,
muffled groan as of men in pain and hurt, ran tremulously along the
line.
Still nearer to the Patriarch drew the Flopper. More heart-rending was
his every movement, for with his quickened pace he sought to move
without the aid of the only member that was as other men's, his left
hand and arm that, in pleading, yearning supplication, was stretched out
before him to the Patriarch.
The extreme ends of the long line of watchers curled a little inward,
almost imperceptibly, a half step taken without volition. The crippled
boy, swaying upon his crutch, his lips parted, trembling in every limb,
edged forward hesitantly, fearfully, now a foot, now another, now the
bare space of a single inch. And now down the entire length of the line
from end to end that wavering, rocking movement in swaying, pregnant
unison grew stronger--men knew not what they did--it seemed the very air
they breathed must smother them--and, in that dull, weird, lingering
note, rose again the sound of moaning that seemed to beat in consonance
with the distant mournful rhythm of the endless beat of surf on shore.
Women clutched at their breasts now; men's knuckles went white beneath
the tight-drawn skin; the children drew behind their mothers' skirts
and, terror-stricken, cried aloud. Surcharged, on the edge, the bare and
ragged edge of frenzy now was every man and woman in the crowd. It was a
sight, a spectacle that racked them in every fibre of their beings, that
stirred them to pity, to hope, to fear, until the awful misery of this
blighted and crawling thing was their own in its every twitch of
agony--that struck them with a terror, the greater because it was
indefinable, a prescience, a reaching out beyond human realm, the
invoking of a supernal power--the thought of which very power, once
loosed, chilled them with panic-dread.
Yet still they watched--it was beyond their power to turn their
eyes--enthralled, a moaning, swaying, rocking mob, they watched. Madness
was creeping upon them rampant. Like a mighty tide, the ocean weight
behind it, hurling itself against flood-gates that could never stand, it
mounted higher and higher; and already, as the water first seeps between
the gates, grim forecast of what was to come, it showed itself now in
that long, sobbing, convulsive inhalation, in that strange, sinuous,
restless movement.
On went the Flopper. There was still a yard to go--two feet--_one_.
Stopped in a sudden deathless hush was all sound. The Flopper flung
himself forward upon his face at the Patriarch's feet. Stopped was all
movement, haggard and tense every face, strained every eye. For a moment
that seemed to span eternity, in a huddled heap, that crippled, twisted
thing lay there before them motionless, without sign of life--the
venerable face above it, still intent, still listening, turned slowly
downwards. Then there was a movement, a movement that blanched the
watching faces to a more pallid white--that dangling, wobbling leg drew
inward slowly, very slowly, and hip and knee, as though guided by some
mighty power, immutable, supreme, came deliberately into normal form.
A shriek, a cry, a wail, a sob, a prayer--it came now
unrestrained--hysteria was loosed in a mad ungovernable orgasm--men
clutched at each other and cowered, hiding their faces with their
hands--women dropped to their knees and, sobbing, screaming, prayed.
Loud it rose, the turmoil of human souls aghast and quailing before a
manifestation that seemed to fling them face to face, uncovered, naked,
before the awful power and majesty and might of Heaven itself.
They looked again--fearfully. The twisted thing was standing now,
standing but still deformed--with crooked neck, with curved, bent,
palsied arm. And nearer had drawn little Holmes, his head thrust
forward, shaking as with the ague as he gazed on the group before him,
oblivious to all else around him.
A twinge of frightful torture swept the Flopper's face--and with that
same slow, awful deliberation the misshapen arm straightened out. Men
cried aloud again and again--a woman fainted, another here, another
there--children wailed and ran, some shrieking, some whimpering, for the
woods.
Again the spasm crossed the Flopper's face, a shuddering, muscular
contortion--and from the shoulder rose his head.
Inward drew the ends of the line of paroxysm-stricken people--not far,
not near to that hallowed group for something held them back; but inward
gradually until the line, no longer straight, was half a circle,
crescent shaped. Louder came that harrowing medley of sounds, its
component parts voicing the uttermost depths of the soul of each
separate individual man and woman there--some moaned in terror; some
prayed, mumbling, still upon their knees; some laughed hoarsely,
wildly, their senses for the moment gone; and some were dumb; and some
shrieked their prayers in frenzy. Louder it grew--the end had come--that
deformed thing stood erect, a perfect man--he turned his face toward
them--he stretched out his arms--and they answered him with their wails,
their sobs, their moans, their cries--they answered him in their terror,
in their shaken senses, clutching at each other again--answered him from
their knees, their voices hoarse--answered him with trembling lips and
tongues that would not move.
And then suddenly, as though riven where they stood and kneeled and
crouched, all movement ceased--and every heart stood still as ringing
clear above all else, shocking all else to stunned, petrified silence,
there came a cry--a cry in a young voice. It rang again and again,
trembling with glad, new life, vibrant, a cry that seemed to thrill with
chords of happiness and ecstasy immeasurable. Again it came, again,
exultant, pulsing with a mighty joy--young Holmes had _flung his crutch
from him_, and, with outstretched arms, was running toward the Patriarch
across the lawn.
For an instant more that stunned, awed silence held. All eyes were
riveted and fixed upon the scene--none looked at Madison--if any had
they would have seen that his face had gone an ivory white.
--XI--
THE AFTERMATH
"I am cured, Robert! Robert! Robert! See, I too am cured! Oh, Robert,
what wondrous joy!"--Mrs. Thornton had left her wheel-chair and was
standing beside her husband, standing alone, unaided for the first time
in many months.
"Naida!"--it was a hoarse cry from Thornton. Then his hand passed
heavily across his face as though to force his brain to coherent action,
to lift the spell of what seemed a wild phantasm in all around him.
"Naida!"--he sought now to control his voice--"Naida, get back into your
chair again."
She laughed--a little hysterically--but in the laugh too was the uplift
of a soul enraptured.
"But I am cured, Robert. See, dear, can't you understand?" She shook his
arm. "See--I am cured. I can walk just as I could before I was ill. Oh,
Robert, Robert! See! See!"--she went from him, walking a little, running
a little--and laughing in a low, rippling, glorious laugh that was like
the music of silver chimes ringing out in glad acclaim.
He stared at her, both hands now to his temples; then he turned to look
strangely at the empty chair--but it was not empty. Miss Harvey, the
nurse, on her knees, had flung herself across it and, with buried head,
was sobbing unrestrainedly.
And now upon the lawn was a scene indescribable. The long line was
broken. Men and women ran hither and thither, for the most part
aimlessly, as though in some strange state of coma where the mind
refused its functions. They talked and cried and shouted at each other
in frenzy without knowing what they said--some with tears raining down
their faces, others with blank countenances, no sign of emotion upon
them other than in their wild, dilated eyes. Here and there they rushed
without volition, their throat-noises rising above them, floating
through the still air in a sound that no ear had ever heard before,
weird, terrifying, without license, beyond control. Like mad creatures
rushing against each other in the dark they were, stupified by a sight
that was no mortal sight, a sight that blinded them mentally because it
was no _human_ sight.
Faith? Faith is a matter of degree, is it not?
Or is it at its full in power and efficacy at moments when hysteria in
paroxysm is at its height? Who shall define faith? Who shall say what it
is, and who shall place its limitations upon it?
Out in the center of the lawn young Holmes was in his mother's arms, the
father pathetically trying to wrap both mother and child in his own.
Around them, attracted in that strange uncertain way, the crowd
constantly grew larger. Further out again, Helena was leading the
Patriarch toward the cottage, the Flopper close behind her--the
Patriarch walking with a slow tread, his head still turned a little in
that listening attitude--and at a distance followed a straggling crowd.
Then the cottage door was shut--and Helena, the Patriarch and the
Flopper disappeared from view.
A dozen yards from the wheel-chair stood Madison, riveted to the spot,
motionless save for a nervous twitching of the lips, his eyes, now upon
the invalid who walked about, now on the little lad who had thrown away
his crutch. Some one plucked at his sleeve, but Madison gave no
heed--again his arm was pulled, and he turned to look into Pale Face
Harry's face. The other's countenance was gray, the eyes full of a
shrinking, terrified light.
"Doc, for God's sake, Doc, what's it mean?" whispered Pale Face Harry
shakily, moistening his dry lips with his tongue. "Doc, this ain't no
bunk--there's something in it."
The words seemed to rouse Madison--to leadership. He stared at Pale Face
Harry for a moment, then a grim smile flickered across his face.
"Something in it!" he repeated with an ironic laugh--and suddenly
grabbed Pale Face Harry's arm and shook him. "There's so much in it that
I'm drunk with it, crazy with it--but I'm trying to make myself believe
it isn't too good to be true. Get that? Get a grip on that, and hang on.
Don't lose your nerve, Harry!"
"I guess I ain't much worse than you," mumbled Pale Face Harry. "You're
whiter than a sheet."
"You're right," admitted Madison frankly. "I'm queer, but I'm coming
around. Helena seems to be the only one who never lost her grip--she's
got the Patriarch and the Flopper out of the way and under cover. Brace
up, Harry--what I thought we'd get in the Roost that night is
counterfeit money to what'll come from this." His eyes fastened on a
figure that, separating itself from the group around young Holmes, now
dashed frantically, hatless, and with dishevelled hair to Mr. and Mrs.
Thornton. "Who's that, Harry? He came down on the train with you--know
him?"
"He's only some newspaper guy or other," answered Pale Face Harry
mechanically, his eyes still roving wildly over the scene around him.
"Oh, is that _all_!" ejaculated Madison with a little gasp. "I've
already exhausted my thanks to Santa Claus and here he comes with
another package done up in dinky pink paper tied with baby ribbon--and
the gold platter it's on goes with it!"
"What d'ye mean?" asked Pale Face Harry heavily.
The newspaper man, the instinct of his calling now rising paramount to
all else, had left the Thorntons and was tearing for the wagon track on
his way to the station and the telegraph office like one possessed.
"By to-morrow morning," said Madison softly, "the missionaries will be
explaining this to the Esquimaux at Oo-lou-lou, the near-invalids in
California will be packing their trunks, likewise those in the languid
shade of the Florida palms; they'll be listing it on the stock exchange
in New York, and the breath of Eden will waft itself o'er plain and
valley until--" he stopped suddenly, as Mrs. Thornton's voice reached
him.
"I am going to _walk_ back, Robert."
"Yes; but, Naida," Thornton protested, "you're not strong enough yet."
"Don't you understand?" she cried, half laughing, half sobbing. "There
is no 'yet'--I am cured, dear--_all_ cured. I'm well and strong. Try to
understand, Robert--oh, I'm so happy, so--so thankful. I know it's
miraculous, that it's almost impossible to believe--but try to
understand."
"I am trying to," said Thornton numbly, watching her as she moved about.
"And it seems as though I were in a dream--that this isn't real--that
you're not real."
"It's not a dream," she said. "Oh, I'm so strong again. Why, Robert, it
would be just as absurd for me to be wheeled back in that chair as for
you to be--and besides I have no right to do that now. It would be a
sacrilege, profaning the gratitude in my heart--I am cured and these
poor people here must see that I am cured--Robert, we must leave that
wheel-chair here that others, poor sufferers who will come now, will see
and believe and be cured too. And, Robert, in some way, I do not know
just how, we who are rich must do something to help people to get here."
"Naida," said Thornton, his voice low, shaken, "I feel as though I were
in another world. I have seen what I can hardly make myself believe that
I have seen. I can't explain--I am speaking, but my very voice seems
strange to me. I feel as you do about helping others--how could I feel
otherwise? What we could do I do not know as yet, either--but I will do
anything. I was a scoffing fool--and you were cured before my eyes--a
boy was cured--and that other, deformed as no creature was ever deformed
before, was cured"--Thornton's lips quivered, and he hid his face in his
hands.
"While the iron is hot--strike," murmured Madison. He gazed a moment
longer at the group--Mrs. Thornton's hand was on her husband's shoulder
now--then his eyes roved over the frenzied scenes still being enacted
everywhere upon the lawn. "I wonder?" he muttered. The frown on his
forehead cleared suddenly. "Of course!" said he to Pale Face Harry.
"It's a cinch--it's as good as done!"
Pale Face Harry stared at him queerly.
"No, Harry," smiled Madison, "my pulse is quite normal now, thank you.
Listen. This is where we call the first showdown on cold hands--and the
dealer slips himself an ace." He drew a key from his pocket and put it
in Pale Face Harry's hand. "That's the key of the small trunk in my
room at the hotel--front room, right hand side of the hall. There's a
check-book in the tray--and I'll give you twenty minutes to get back
here with it. You'll find me somewhere around here, but you needn't let
the whole earth in on the presentation--see? Now beat it!"
As Pale Face Harry hurried away, Madison, seemingly as aimless, as
hysterical as the hundreds about him, moved here and there, but
unostentatiously he kept nearing the upper end of the lawn, and,
finally, hidden by the woodshed at the further end of the cottage, he
slipped quickly around to the rear. Here the garden stretched almost to
the edge of the sandy beach--not a soul was in sight--and the beat of
the surf deadened the sound from the front lawn to little more than a
low, indistinct murmur.
Quickly now, Madison stepped to where one of the old-fashioned windows,
that swung inward from the center like double doors, was open, and,
reaching in his hand, tapped sharply twice in succession with his
knuckles on the pane. The sill was not quite on a level with his
shoulders and he could see inside--it was Helena's room, and the door to
the hall was open. Again he knocked. Came then the sound of
footsteps--and from the hall the Flopper's face peered cautiously around
the jamb of the door.
"Tell Helena to come here," called Madison softly.
The Flopper turned his head, called obediently, and in a dazed sort of
way came himself to the window. His face was haggard, and he shivered
as he licked his lips.
"I pulled de stunt," said the Flopper in a croaking voice, "but de
kid--Doc--did youse see de kid? I got de shakes--it's like de whole of
hell an' de other place was loose, an' Helena's gone batty, an'--pipe
her, dere she is."
Into the room came Helena, her face like chalk--all color gone from even
her lips. She clutched at the window beside the Flopper for support.
"I'm frightened," she whispered. "We've gone too far--it's--it's--John
Madison, I'm frightened."
Madison did not speak for a moment--Madison was a consummate leader. He
looked, smiling reassuringly, from one to the other--and then leaned
soothingly, confidentially, in over the sill.
"I know how you feel--felt just the same myself for a bit," said he
quietly. "But now look here, you've got to pull yourselves
together--there's nothing to be afraid of. It's natural enough. It's
faith, Helena--and that's what we were banking on--only not quite so
hard. That kid and Mrs. Thornton annexed the real brand, that's all--and
when the genuine thing is on tap I cross my fingers and yell for
faith--there's nothing to stop it. And that's the way it's got both of
you too, eh? Well, that only makes our game the safer and the more
certain, doesn't it? So, come on now, pull yourselves together."
"In de last act when I was gettin' me head into joint," mumbled the
Flopper, "was when de kid yelled--I can hear it yet, an'--"
"Forget it!" Madison broke in a little sharply; then, tactfully, his
voice full of unbounded admiration: "You're an artist, Flopper--a
wonder. You pulled the greatest act that was ever on the boards, and you
pulled it as no other man on earth could have pulled it. Flopper, you
make me feel humble when I look at you."
"Swipe me!" said the Flopper, brightening. "D'ye mean it, Doc--honest?"
"Mean it!" ejaculated Madison. "You're the whole thing, Flopper--you
win. Come on now, Helena, buck up--we've got another little act due in
about fifteen minutes--don't let a lot of yowling rubes get your goat.
Why, say, we've got the whole show on the stampede--and we've got to
rush our luck."
"Sure!" said the Flopper. "Dat's de way to talk--leave it to de Doc
every time--. I ain't feazed half de way I was."
"I'm all right," said Helena a little tremulously. "What is it we're to
do?"
"Good!" said Madison, smiling at her approvingly. "That sounds better.
Now listen--and listen hard. From this minute this cottage is the
Shrine. Get that?--Shrine. You've got to keep the hush falling here, and
keep it falling all the time--a sort of holy, hallowed silence,
understand? Lay it on thick--make the crowd stand back--make the guy
that comes in here feel as though he ought to come in on his knees and
as if he'd be struck dead if he didn't. Get the slow music and the low
lights working. And keep the Patriarch well back of the drop except when
he's on for a turn. Get me? He's no side-show with a barker in front of
the tent--don't forget that for a minute. The harder it is to see the
Patriarch and the less he's seen, the bigger he plays up when he's on.
He goes to no man under any conditions, and the only man or woman that
gets to him is through faith and supplication, and a double order of it
at that. Keep the solemn, breathless tap turned on all the time."
Helena looked at him with a strange little smile quivering on her lips.
"It's a good thing I've got a sense of humor," she said slowly, "or else
I think I'd--I'd--"
"No, you wouldn't," said Madison cheerfully. "But time's flying. You're
going to have visitors in a few minutes, and here's where the Patriarch
gets tucked away out of sight behind the veil for a starter, leaving his
presence hovering and throbbing all around in the air--you stay with
him, Flopper, in a back room somewhere and hold his hand. Where is he
now?"
"In his armchair in the sitting-room," said Helena. "And he's still
listening in that queer way he did out on the lawn. I think he knows in
a little way what's happened."
"That's good," said Madison; "it'll make him happy. Well, lead him
gently into retirement. I guess that's all--now hurry."
"Who is it that's coming?" interposed Helena quickly, as Madison
started away from the window.
Madison grinned.
"Some friends of the Hopper's. Mr. and Mrs. Thankoffering--you'll like
them immensely, Helena. The lady walks quite well now, and--"
"Walks!" exclaimed the Flopper, who evidently had not assimilated
Madison's previous reference to Mrs. Thornton. "De lady dat I come wid
in de private car--_walks_?"
"Of course," said Madison pleasantly.
"Cured? All cured?" gasped the Flopper.
"Of course," said Madison again--complacently.
"Say," said the Flopper, "say, I'm goin' dippy. Another one de same as
de kid, Doc?"
"Same as the kid, Flopper--faith."
"Swipe me!" said the Flopper helplessly.
--XII--
"SAID THE SPIDER TO THE FLY"
By the wheel-chair, Mrs. Thornton, her husband and Doc Madison were in
earnest conversation--and around them was a mass of people. The crowd
had divided into two, or, rather, was constantly coming and going
between two points--young Holmes and Mrs. Thornton--and still the
hysteria was upon men and women, still that wavering, moanlike sound
floated over the lawn.