BEHIND THE SCENES
It was a delightfully warm summer night when Eberstein and his young
friend left the house. For some little distance they walked on in
silence, as Eberstein was never voluble and Montrose felt disinclined to
speak at the moment. Oblivious of his surroundings, more or less, he
moved mechanically by the doctor's side, dreaming of Alice and of the
love which existed between them. Considering he had met her for the
first time an hour or so previously, it seemed ridiculous, even in a
dream, to think that she had any such tender feeling for him. But
something in the deeps of his own nature was struggling to the surface
to assure him that his dream was truth. Much as he valued Eberstein's
company, he wished him away at the moment that he might puzzle out the
meaning of this strange intuition.
"But that is impossible, just now," said the doctor quietly. "I wish you
to come to my house, as I have much to say, and something to show."
Montrose was startled, as he often was at Eberstein's speeches. "You
know what I am thinking about?"
"Is that so strange?"
"Well, it isn't, really. You have extraordinary penetration. Sometimes I
am quite afraid of you."
"You are never afraid of me," replied Eberstein, shaking his head with a
benevolent smile. "Think!"
"No!" Montrose reflected for a few moments. "It is true. I am not
afraid!"
The doctor smiled approvingly. "That is right. Fear would prevent my
aiding you in any way, and you need aid more than you guess. Remember
what the Bible says, my friend: 'In quietness and confidence shall be
your strength.'"
"Faith and peace of mind are so hard to get," complained the young man
sadly.
"Very hard. The Blessed One said that the Path was difficult."
"The Blessed One!"
"Christ: your Master and mine," replied Eberstein solemnly. "Strait is
the gate and narrow is the way which leadeth to life and few there be
that find it."
"And those who do not find it are lost?"
"For the time being, not eternally. God is very gentle with His straying
sheep, and we have many lives, many opportunities to find the way to the
fold. You are coming to the strait gate, Montrose; therefore my aid is
given to you lest you should faint on the hard uphill journey."
"I am not good enough even to approach the gate," sighed the young man.
"So you think! But the standard of goodness is not kept on earth, but in
heaven, my friend. However"--Eberstein broke off to hail a taxi--"we can
talk of these things when we reach my house. Get in, Montrose!"
The young man did so, and was followed by his master, who told the
chauffeur to drive to Bloomsbury. Eberstein lived in that unfashionable
district, not-withstanding the fact that his practice lay largely
amongst wealthy and aristocratic people. Many of the doctor's patients
wondered why he did not select a better-class neighbourhood, but
Eberstein never gave them any information on this point. Yet his known
character might have revealed the reason to an ordinarily shrewd person
very easily. The man was greatly given to helping the poor and needy.
Not so much the proverbial ragged paupers of the slums--although he
helped those also when necessary--as poor curates, badly paid clerks,
shabby governesses, struggling ladies, and such-like persons, who had to
keep up some sort of appearance on nothing. His money, his sympathy, his
medical skill, were all wholly at the service of those who could not
pay, and the fees received from his rich patients went to ameliorate the
sufferings of the self-respecting, who never complained and showed their
pauperism as little as was possible. Eberstein made no boast of his
philanthropy: he never even spoke of his many good works. It was
perfectly natural for him to go silently attentive about the work of his
Master Christ, as he knew he could act in no other way without going
contrary to his whole being. To feed the hungry, to clothe the naked, to
teach the ignorant, to comfort the desolate: for these purposes he was
in the world.
In one of his exploring expeditions Eberstein had found Montrose dying
in a garret and had set him on his legs again in a sympathetic brotherly
way which had not offended the young man's pride. More than that, he
had supplied food for the starving soul as well as for the starving
body, and by explaining the riddles of Life in a perfectly reasonable
way he had entirely changed Montrose's outlook. His protégé had been
puzzled by this absolutely unselfish conduct, not understanding from
inexperience that no return was demanded for these great gifts. But as
his limitations began to expand through the teaching, he began to
comprehend, and finally he accepted Eberstein as a kind of angel in the
flesh, sent to help him in his hour of need. And the philanthropist was
so unaffectedly sincere, so reasonable and sympathetic, that the rescued
man grew to love him with a reverence rare in the younger generation.
The doctor restored his faith in human existence.
"Here we are," said Eberstein, alighting from the taxi and dismissing
it. "We can now have an undisturbed hour for conversation."
The doctor admitted himself into the quiet house with his latch-key, as
the servants were all in bed. They were never kept up late by their
considerate employer, since he recognised that they required their
necessary sleep. So the two men entered the hall, ascended the stairs,
and betook themselves to a large room at the very top of the mansion.
Eberstein kept this entirely to himself, not even seeing his friends
therein, much less his patients. Therefore it was with some surprise and
more curiosity that Montrose stepped into the apartment and closed the
door after him. Then he uttered an exclamation of pleasure--a soft
exclamation, for the atmosphere of the place suggested a church.
"What a wonderful room," breathed Montrose, staring round him, "and how
holy."
He scarcely knew what caused him to utter the last word, unless it was
the unusual looks of the spacious room. Everything was white; the walls,
the carpet, the ceiling, and even the light which radiated from two
large lamps with opaque globes. The table, the few chairs, the bookcase,
and the sofa were of white wood with silken cushions like mounds of
snow, and the draperies which veiled the volumes and the windows were
also the hue of milk. Yet there was no suggestion of winter in the
colourless expanse, for the air was warm and the atmosphere so charged
with perfect peace that Montrose felt quite at home. The room, he felt,
expressed Eberstein himself. It might have been the chapel of The Holy
Grail.
"You never brought me here before," said the young man, feeling that his
dark garments were a blot on the purity of the surroundings, "although
you have known me for three years, more or less."
"No," assented the doctor, seating himself before the table and
indicating a chair for his guest, "it was not necessary."
"Is it necessary to-night?"
"I should not have brought you here, had it not been."
"But why this night of all nights?" persisted the other wonderingly.
"You have met Miss Enistor."
Montrose was more bewildered than ever. "What has she got to do with it,
or with me, or with anything?"
"Ask yourself," said Eberstein, and looked steadily into the eyes of
Montrose.
"I ask myself!" murmured the guest, mechanically compelled to the
speech.
Those kind grey eyes on a level with his own a little distance away
poured, as it seemed, such a flood of light towards him that Montrose
voluntarily closed his own. Yet it was not a dazzling light which need
have frightened him, but an all-enfolding steady radiance, which bathed
his whole being in luminous splendour, until he felt that he was
partaking of that peace of God which passeth understanding. The tide of
glory lifted him up higher and higher beyond the gross envelope of the
physical body until he felt himself soaring without wings into an
all-embracing sphere of glorious music which expressed itself in colour.
In this ocean of rainbow hues he floated, aware that he was using
super-physical senses to view super-physical scenes. On him descended,
with the swiftness of thought, a golden cloud more brilliant than the
noonday sun, and this dissolved away to reveal the form of a young girl
clothed in floating white draperies. The face was fair, the hair
corn-coloured, the eyes deeply blue and the figure majestic and
graceful. Anything more unlike the elfin beauty of Alice can scarcely be
imagined. Yet he knew beyond all doubt that this was Alice in another
shape which she had worn in another clime under alien stars. His soul
flowed out to blend with her soul in one flame of unity. But there was a
barrier between them which Montrose strove to break through. Try as he
might he could not.
Even in that heaven-world, despair seized him, when he found that the
invisible barrier withheld him from his beloved. On her side she seemed
equally desirous to come to him, and held out her arms in vain longing.
On his face and her face were looks of appealing love baffled by the
impossibility of meeting heart to heart. Then a shadow grew up between
them swiftly; the shadow menacing and dark of a yellow-skinned man,
rather like a Chinese, from whose throat ran a stream of blood. Who this
man was Montrose could not tell, even though he had recognised Alice in
a different guise. And the enemy--Montrose felt that the wounded
creature was an enemy--grew larger and larger until the blackness of
which he was part blotted out the splendour of the girl. Blotted out
also the atmosphere of colour and music and radiancy, until Montrose,
sinking downward in the gloom, opened his physical eyes to find himself
seated in the chair opposite Eberstein. Only a single moment had
elapsed, for the journey had been as swift as that of Mahomet to the
seventh heaven mounted on Al Borak, but he seemed to have been away for
hours. The discrepancy was to Montrose impossible to reconcile, even
though he grasped confusedly the fact that he had been--in the Fourth
Dimension say--where there is no time.
"You now know what Alice Enistor has to do with you," said Eberstein in
a quiet impressive tone.
"I don't in one way," faltered the still bewildered young man, "and yet
I do in another. All I can be certain of is that she is mine."
"Undoubtedly. She is yours and you are hers."
"Then why could we not come together?"
"The shadow of your sin came between and parted you."
"My sin?"
"That which you committed five thousand years ago," explained the doctor
patiently. "Then, self-willed, self-centred, you would not wait the
striking of the hour which would have made you one, and therefore,
seeking to obtain your desire by force, you broke the Great Law. The
Great Law broke you, as it breaks all who disobey. For many ages your
soul and her soul have been asunder, but now in the fullness of time you
meet again on this physical plane in new vestments of flesh. But your
sin has not yet been expiated, and you cannot yet be one with her you
love. The shadow stands between you twain and will stand until the debt
is paid."
"The shadow--the man?" stammered Montrose confusedly.
"You owe him a life!"
"But he is my enemy. I feel strongly that he is my enemy."
"He was and is: it depends greatly upon you if he continues to be. If
one obeys truly the Law of Love, one must not be angered even with one's
enemy. What says the Blessed Son of the Most High God?"
As if the words had been placed in his mouth, Montrose replied softly:
"Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate
you, and pray for them which despitefully use you and persecute you!"
Eberstein bowed his stately head. "Such is the Law of Love."
Rubbing his eyes to make certain that he was entirely awake, Montrose
sought for an interpretation. "I do not quite understand."
"There is no need for you to understand further, my friend. This much
enlightenment has been vouchsafed you through the mercy of God. For the
rest you must work and walk by faith, seeing as in a glass darkly,
obeying the Great Law of your own free will, so that your unselfish love
may cause hatred to cease."
"Whose hatred?"
"That of the man you sinned against. Only with the aid of the Blessed
One!"--Eberstein made the sign of the cross--"can you prevent the Son of
Perdition from descending into the Abyss."
"Who is the Son of Perdition?"
"Your enemy, whom Christ loves as He loves you. Your task is to make
yourself a channel through which the grace of the Blessed One can freely
pour for the salvation of this erring soul. Oh, think how glorious it is
that you should be permitted to be the instrument of Christ in this
mighty work."
"But I do not know how to go about the work!" exclaimed the bewildered
man.
"Watch and pray, my son, for the time when you must act is near at hand.
Only by making yourself receptive to the holy influence will you know
how to act when the time is ripe."
"You will help me?"
"I am bound to help you since I am obedient to the Law. But much has to
be done by yourself, Montrose. I cannot command, as each man has
free-will with which even the Logos Himself does not interfere. Christ
stands at the door of your heart, but will not enter unless you invite
His entrance. Only by doing what you ought to do will the Spirit of Love
enter and sup with you."
"But what am I to do?" demanded Montrose desperately.
"Ask your own heart."
"It says nothing."
"The time is not yet ripe for it to say anything. Watch and pray! Come,"
the doctor spoke in a more matter-of-fact tone, "it is growing late. Go
home and sleep: you are becoming exhausted."
"But tell me, Eberstein, if I am right in what I think," pleaded
Montrose earnestly. "I know intuitively that I met Miss Enistor in some
previous life and that I loved her, as I love her now when we come
together for the first time in this incarnation. I had all the feeling
of being her friend. Oh what do I say! Friend is too weak a word--of
being her lover. If I understand rightly, some sin committed by me has
parted us, and that sin I have to expiate before we can come together
again."
"That is the case. But ask me no more now. With the aid of the Blessed
One you must work out your salvation in fear and trembling."
"Indicate my enemy and I shall forgive him for Alice's sake," cried the
young man with impetuous generosity.
"You must forgive him for his own."
"How can I when I don't know why we are enemies?"
"You will know when it is necessary you should know."
Montrose passed his hands across his brow and stood up slowly. "It is
all bewildering and difficult."
"Very bewildering and very difficult. I answered that question earlier
in the evening. We talk in a circle. To do so is a waste of time.
Good-night!"
Another question was trembling on Montrose's lips, but he refrained from
putting it, and with a silent hand-shake departed slowly. Accustomed to
come and go at will in this house, which was more a home to him than any
habitation he had known, the young man descended the stairs and let
himself out into the silent square. The balmy summer night was brilliant
with stars, and charged with some mysterious healing influence, which
soothed and relaxed his weary nerves. On all sides the great city was
yet awake and alive with people, each one intent upon the realisation of
his or her desire. But here, isolated from the roaring thoroughfares,
the quadrangle was comparatively lonely and dark, as the passers-by were
few and the lights widely scattered. The central gardens, with their
trees and shrubs and turf and flowers, slept within the rusty iron
railings, speaking every now and then as a wandering breeze woke the
leaves to sigh and whisper. The hurrying steps of a wayfarer, the
measured heavy tread of a policeman, the murmur of distant life:
Montrose heard these things without hearing as it were, as without
seeing he stared at the silent cats gliding through the shadows. He
walked along, wrapped up in his own thoughts, seeking mechanically his
rooms and bed.
Notwithstanding his accession to considerable wealth, the fortunate
youth had but slightly changed his mode of living. He enjoyed better
lodgings, better clothes, more nourishing food, and was free from the
obligation of compulsory work to exist. But he still lived in
unfashionable Bloomsbury, a quiet, inexpensive, and somewhat recluse
life, not seeking to enter what is known as society. With his good looks
and undeniable talents and newly acquired wealth, he would have been
welcome to the gay throng who flutter in the sunshine of pleasure. But
there was nothing in Montrose which responded to such aimless
allurements. Once or twice friends had taken him to this house and that,
where the butterflies gathered, and on this particular night Eberstein
had induced him to dine at Mrs. Barrast's. But entertainments of all
kinds bored Montrose immensely, and only the presence of Alice had aided
him to endure the shallow chatter of his hostess and the artificiality
of his surroundings. The after-events in Eberstein's room had both
startled and awed him, so that he was still greatly moved by what had
taken place when he reached his modest lodgings.
But, as common sense told him, thinking would not help him, as his
thoughts spun in a circle and always brought him back to the same point.
That point was the meeting with Alice and the weird feelings which
contact with her personality had aroused in him. She belonged to his
life in some way which he could not quite put into words, and he
belonged to hers. They were together and yet apart, but what parted them
it was impossible to say, as the vision had not indicated in detail the
especial sin, or what had led to the commission of that sin. Soon he
would know more--Eberstein had assured him of that. Therefore it would
be best to wait for the knowledge. He had been given light enough in the
darkness of the path to take the next step, and that light revealed
Alice waiting for him to come to her. He was only too willing to do so,
as the feeling that he loved her deeply grew with overwhelming
swiftness. When she knew what was in his heart and he knew what was in
hers, then the next step could be taken. What it might be and where it
would lead to Montrose could not say.
However, the doctor had given him necessary instructions for the moment
in the phrase "Watch and pray!" To watch for the dawning love in Alice
and to pray that he might be worthy of such love seemed to be his task,
and a very delightful task it would be. Therefore Montrose knelt down
and prayed with all his clean heart that every possible blessing might
befall the girl and that, if it was God's will, he might become her
husband to cherish and protect her. Then he went to bed in a peaceful
frame of mind. Sleep came to him almost immediately, but before his eyes
closed he felt that Alice was near him, and knew that in some wordless
manner Alice spoke to him.
"We have much to learn and there is pain in the learning," she
whispered, "but we are together to suffer together."
"Suffering does not matter," said Montrose, as in a dream, "we are
together!"