On a certain night in mid-January, exactly ten years after Andrew
Henderson's death, any one of the multitudinous inhabitants of London
whom business or pleasure carried to that division of Brompton known as
Hellier Crescent, would undoubtedly have been attracted to the house
distinguished from its fellows as No. 8.
Outwardly, this house was not remarkable. It possessed the massive
portico and the imposing frontage that lend to Hellier Crescent its air
of dignified repose; but there its similarity to the surrounding
dwellings ended. The basement sent forth no glow of warmth and comfort,
as did the neighboring basements; the ground-floor windows permitted no
ray of mellow light to slip through the chinks of shutter or curtain.
From attic to cellar, the house seemed in darkness, the only suggestion
of occupation coming from the occasional drawing back and forth of a
small slide that guarded a monastic-looking grating set in the hall
door.
And yet towards this unlighted and unfriendly dwelling a thin stream of
people--all on foot and all evidently agitated--made their way
continuously on that January night between the hours of ten and eleven.
The behavior of these people, who differed widely in outward
characteristics, was marked by a peculiar fundamental similarity. They
all entered the quiet precincts of the Crescent with the same air of
subdued excitement; each moved softly and silently towards the darkened
house, and, mounting the steps, knocked once upon the heavy door. And
each in turn stood patient, while the slide was drawn back, and a voice
from within demanded the signal that granted admittance.
This mysterious gathering of forces had continued for nearly an hour
when a cab drew up sharply at the corner where Hellier Crescent abuts
upon St. George's Terrace, and a lady descended from it. As she handed
his fare to the cabman, her face and figure were plainly visible in the
light of the street-lamps. The former was pale in coloring, delicately
oval in shape, and illumined by a pair of large and unusually brilliant
eyes; the latter was tall, graceful, and clad in black.
Having dismissed her cab, the new-comer crossed St. George's Terrace
with an appearance of haste, and entering Hellier Crescent, immediately
mounted the steps of No. 8.
The last member of this strange procession had disappeared into the
house as she reached the door; but, acting with apparent familiarity,
she lifted the knocker and let it fall once.
For a moment there was no response; then, as in the case of the former
visitors, the slide was drawn back and a beam of light came through the
grating, to be immediately obscured by the shadowy suggestion of a face
with two inquiring eyes.
"The Word?" demanded a solemn voice.
The new-comer lifted her head.
"He shall be Power made absolute!" she responded in a low and slightly
tremulous voice; and a moment later the door opened, and she stepped
into the hall.
The scene inside the house was curious in the extreme. If there were
quiet and darkness outside, a brilliant light and a tense, contagious
excitement reigned within. The large hall, lighted by tall lamps, was
covered with a thick black carpet into which the feet sank noiselessly,
and the walls and ceiling were draped in the same sombre tint; but at
intervals of a few feet, columns of white marble, chiselled into curious
shapes, gleamed upon the observer from shadowy niches.
On ordinary occasions, there was a solemnity, a coldness, in this sombre
vestibule; but to-night a strange electric activity seemed to have been
breathed upon the atmosphere. Women with flushed faces and men with
feverishly bright eyes hurried to and fro in an irrepressible, aimless
agitation. A blending of dread and hysterical anticipation was stamped
upon every face. People stopped one another with nervous, unstrung
gesture and odd, disjointed sentences.
As the last comer entered, she paused for a moment, uncertain and
hesitating; but almost as she did so, a remarkable-looking and massively
built man who was standing in the hall, disengaged himself from a group
of people, and, coming directly towards her, took her hand.
"Mrs. Witcherley! At last!" he exclaimed, in a full, emotional voice. "I
looked for you among the gathering and for a moment I almost feared--"
"That I would fail?" Her voice was still tinged with agitation; the
pupils of her large eyes were distended.
"No, I did not mean that. But at such a moment we burn lest even one of
the Elect be missing." He continued to hold her hand, looking into her
face with his prominent dark eyes, from which flashed and glowed an
excitement that spread over his whole heavy face.
"The night of nights!" he exclaimed. "To have lived to witness it!" His
face glowed with a sudden enthusiasm; and freeing her fingers, he lifted
up his right hand. "'He shall walk into your midst--and sit above you as
a King!'" he quoted, in a loud voice. Then remembering his companion, he
lowered his tone.
"Everything is in readiness," he added, more soberly. "The Precursor
still unceasingly prophesies the Advent. Come with me into the Place.
The Gathering is all but assembled." Laying his large hand upon her arm,
he led her forward unresistingly through the groups of men and women,
and onward down a long corridor to where a curtain hid an arched
doorway.
For a moment they paused outside this door, and the man--still laboring
under some strange excitement--again raised his hand:
"Come!" he cried. "And before we leave the Place, may the Hope of the
Universe be fulfilled!" Lifting the curtain, he ushered her through the
door.
The room--or chapel--into which they stepped was large and lofty,
covered on floor and walls with sections of marble alternately black and
white; overhead swung a huge octagonal symbol in jewelled and polished
metal; and at the end farthest from the door a haze of incense clouded
what appeared to be an altar.
A concourse of people filled every corner of this vast room; and from
the crouched or upright figures rose a continuous, inaudible murmuring.
Still guiding his companion, the massively built man forced a way
between the closely packed figures. But, half-way up the room, the woman
paused and glanced at him.
"This will do," she whispered. "Not any nearer, please. Not any nearer."
His only answer was to lay his hand upon her arm, and by a persistent
pressure to draw her onward up the narrow aisle. Reaching the railed-in
space about which the incense hung, he paused in his own turn and
motioned her towards the foremost row of seats, from which the majority
of the gathering seemed to hold aloof.
With a quick, nervous gesture she deprecated the suggestion. "No! No!"
she murmured. "Let me sit behind. Please let me sit behind."
But his fingers tightened impressively upon her arm. "No," he whispered,
close to her ear. "No, I want you to be here. When the time arrives, I
want the full light to shine upon you."
After this she demurred no more, but moved obediently into the appointed
seat, her companion placing himself beside her.
In the first moments of agitation and nervousness, she had scarcely
observed her surroundings; but now, as her perturbation partially
subsided, she looked back at the rows of bowed or erect figures, and
forward at the space about which the incense clung like a filmy veil. At
a first glance this veil seemed almost too dense to penetrate; but as
her sight grew accustomed to its drifting whiteness, she was able to
discern the objects that lay behind.
In place of the altar, usually prominent in every religious building,
there was a wide semicircular space, within which stood a gold chair
raised upon a dais and a heavy lectern of symbolic design on which
rested a white leather book, worn yellow at the edges. Over this book a
man was poring, apparently unconscious of the active interest he evoked.
He was short and thick-set, with a square jaw, a long upper lip, and
keen eyes. Over a head of vividly red hair, he wore a round black silk
cap, and his figure was enveloped in a flowing black gown.
From time to time, as he read, he lifted one hand in rapt excitement,
while his lips moved unceasingly in rapid, inaudible speech. At last,
with a sudden dramatic gesture, he turned from the lectern and threw out
both arms towards the high gold chair.
"Oh, empty throne! Empty world!" he cried. "Be filled!"
There was something intense, something electric in the words. A startled
cry broke from the people, already wrought to nervous tension. Some
among them rose to their feet; some glanced fearfully behind them;
others cowered upon the ground.
And then--in what precise manner no one present ever remembered--the
curtain at the doorway of the chapel was swung sharply back; and the
tall, straight figure of a man clad all in white moved slowly up the
aisle.
He moved forward calmly and deliberately, his gaze fixed, his senses
apparently unconscious of the many eyes and tongues from which
frightened glances and frightened, awe-struck words escaped as he made
his solitary, impressive progress.
Reaching the railing, he paused and lifted one hand as if in benediction
towards the red-haired man who still remained in solitary occupation of
the Sanctuary.
At the action, a gasp went up from the crowded chapel, and even those
who still crouched upon the floor ventured to raise their heads and
glance at the spot where the tall figure in the white serge robe stood
motionless and impressive. Then the whole concourse of devotees stirred
in involuntary excitement as the red-haired man, with a cry of rapture,
rushed forward and prostrated himself at the feet of the stranger.
For a space, that to the watchers seemed interminable, the two central
figures remained rigid; then at last the tall man stooped, and with
great dignity raised the other.
As he gained his feet, it was obvious that the smaller man was deeply
agitated. His lips were trembling with some strange emotion, and it
seemed that he could scarcely command his gestures. After a protracted
moment of struggle, however, he appeared to regain his self-control; for
with a slightly tremulous movement he stepped forward, laid his hands on
the low railing and glanced at the assembled people.
"Mystics!" he began. "Chosen Ones! Out of the Unseen I have come to
prophesy to you--I, an obscure servant and follower of the Mighty. For
fifteen days have I spoken--telling you that which was at hand. And now,
behold I am justified!" He paused and indicated the tall white figure
still standing motionless, with face averted from the congregation.
"What have I told you!" he continued, his voice rising. "Have I not
quoted from the sacred Scitsym--which until this hour I have never been
permitted to look upon? Have I not foretold the coming of this man--the
garments he would wear--the Sign upon his person? And have I not done
these things by a power outside myself?" Again his voice rose; and the
congregation thrilled in response.
"You have listened to me--you have marvelled--but in your Souls doubt
has held sway. Now is the moment of justification! It is not meet that
the Great One should plead for recognition; it is for you--the
Watchers--to see and claim him. Master!" he cried, suddenly. "Master,
show them the Sign!"
A hush like the hush of night fell upon the people; and in this curious
and impressive lull the white-robed man turned slowly round facing the
congregation.
His appearance was arresting and remarkable, though it possessed nothing
of beauty. He had a tall and powerful figure, a strong and determined
face; his bare head was covered with close-cut black hair; his hard,
firm lips were clean-shaven, and his gray eyes looked across the chapel
with a peculiar sombre fire.
He stood silent for a moment, surveying the faces clustered before him;
then he raised his left hand.
[Illustration: "ACROSS THE PROPHET'S BREAST, IN MARKS OF A CRUEL
LACERATION, RAN THE SYMBOLIC OCTAGONAL FIGURE OF THE MYSTIC SECT"]
"My People!" he began, in a deep, slow voice. "We live in an age when
doubt roams through the world like a beast of prey. I ask not for the
faith that accepts blindly; but in this most sacred Scitsym--" he
pointed to the white book upon the lectern--"it is written that, by a
certain secret Sign, the Arch-Mystics will recognize Him for whom they
have waited. I call upon the Arch-Mystics to declare whether or no I
bear upon my person that secret Sign!" He paused for a moment; then with
a grave, calm gesture he unfastened his robe where it crossed his breast
and threw it open.
There was a rustle of intense curiosity, as all involuntarily leaned
forward; an audible gasp of awe and shrinking, as all instinctively drew
back before the sight that confronted them. Across the Prophet's breast,
in marks of a cruel laceration, ran the symbolic octagonal figure of the
Mystic sect.
He stood dignified and unmoved until the tremor of emotion had subsided.
Then his glance travelled over the foremost row of seats.
"Come forth!" he commanded, authoritatively. "Come forth and acknowledge
me!" His eyes moved slowly from seat to seat--pausing momentarily on
the pale, absorbed face of the woman in black. But scarcely had his
glance rested upon her than the heavily built man who sat beside her,
rose agitatedly and stepped forward to the sanctuary. For a space he
stood staring at the scarred skin from which the symbol of his creed
stood forth as if miraculously branded; then he turned to the
congregation, his prominent eyes burning, his heavy face working with
emotion.
"Brethren," he said, inarticulately. "Brethren, it is indeed the Sign!"
But the Prophet remained motionless.
"Where are the other five?" he asked, in a level voice.
Almost simultaneously four men rose from the congregation and came
forward. One was tall and gaunt, with a Slavonic type of face, wild
eyes, and a long, fair beard; another was young--scarcely more than
seven and twenty--with the free carriage, fiery glance, and swarthy
complexion of the nomadic races of southeastern Europe; the third was a
small, frail man of fifty, with a nervous system painfully in advance of
his physical strength; while the fourth was a true mystic--impassioned,
enthusiastic, detached. One by one these men advanced, examined the
scars, and turning to the people, confirmed the words of their fellow.
Then, amid a tremulous hush, the last of the six--the Arch-Councillor
himself--was led up the aisle.
For an instant the glimmering of some new feeling crossed the Prophet's
face, as his glance rested on the old man who slowly approached with
feeble steps, bent back, and anxious, sightless eyes. But, as quickly as
it had come, the expression passed, and he stepped forward for the old
man's touch.
With a quivering gesture the Arch-Councillor lifted his hand and
nervously passed his fingers over the scars; then, drawing the Prophet
down, he touched his face. For a long moment of suspense his fingers
lingered over the features; then they fell again upon the scars. And an
instant later he sank upon his knees.
"It is indeed made manifest!" he cried, in a loud, unsteady voice. "He
shall sit above you as upon a Throne!"
The words were magical. The whole concourse of people swayed forward
hysterically. Men pressed upward towards the railing; women wept.
And through it all the Prophet stood unmoved. He stood like a rock
against which the clamorous human sea beat wildly. With a quiet movement
he drew his robe across his breast, hiding the unsightly scars, but
otherwise he made no motion. At last the red-haired man who had first
claimed him, stepped forward to his side.
"Speak to them, Master!" he said.
The words roused the Prophet. With a calm gesture he raised his head,
his eyes confronting the mass of strained, excited faces lifted to his.
"My People," he said again, in his deep voice. "What will you do with
me?"
The response was instant.
"The Throne! The Throne!" The crowd surged forward in a wave, then
receded as the tide recedes; and the old Arch-Councillor stepped feebly
into the Sanctuary and extended his hands to the Prophet.
It was a moment of breathless awe. The tall woman, who until that moment
had remained seated, involuntarily rose to her feet.
She saw the figure of the Prophet move grandly across the Sanctuary in
the wake of the old blind man; she saw him halt for an infinitesimal
space at the foot of the throne; she saw him calmly and decisively mount
the steps of the dais and seat himself in the golden chair. Then,
prompted by an overwhelming impulse, she yielded to the spirit of the
moment and dropped to her knees.