It is astonishing in how short a space of time a man of vigorous
character can make his personality felt. On the night of his mysterious
advent, the Prophet had found his people in a condition of mental
chaos--as liable to repudiate as to accept the seeker for their
confidence; but before one month had passed he had, by domination of
will, so moulded this neurotic mass of humanity that his own position
had gradually and insensibly merged from suppliant into that of
autocrat. Without a murmur of doubt or dissension the Mystics had
proclaimed him their king.
On the last day of the thirty he sat alone in his room--the room in
which he and the red-haired Precursor had held their private council on
the night of his coming. The heavy purple curtains that shielded the
windows were partly drawn, throwing a subdued, almost a devotional,
light over the wide, imposing apartment and across the ebony table, on
which rested the sacred Scitsym, surrounded by an array of smaller and
more ancient books, several rolls of parchment, a number of quill pens,
and a dish of ink. It was at this table that the Prophet sat; he wore
the monastic white robe that he always affected in presence of his
people, his arms were folded, and his face looked calm and grave, as
though he appreciated the moment's solitude.
The solitude, however, was not destined to endure. The soft booming of a
gong presently roused him to attention, and a moment later the door of
the apartment opened and an ascetic-looking man, whose duty and
privilege it was to wait upon him, entered deferentially.
He stood for a moment in an attitude of profound abasement; then he
stepped forward and stood beside the table.
"Master," he said, in a low voice. "The newest among us would speak with
you!"
The Prophet raised his head and a gleam of interest crossed his eyes;
but almost immediately he subdued the look.
"I am willing," he replied, unemotionally, in the usual formula. Then he
glanced at his attendant. "After this, the audiences for the day are
over," he added.
The man bowed, and with awe-struck deference moved silently from the
room, almost immediately reappearing, to usher in the devotee, and with
the same conscious air of mystery, to retire, closing the heavy door.
For a moment the new-comer stood just inside the threshold. As on the
night of the Prophet's coming, she wore a long, black dress that
accentuated her height and grace, and brought into prominence the clear
pallor of her skin and the remarkable luminous brilliance of her eyes. A
struggle between superstitious dread and human curiosity was distinctly
visible in her expression as she stood uncertain of her position,
doubtful as to her first move.
The Prophet glanced at her, and the shadow of a smile touched his lips.
"Have no fear," he said. "Come forward!"
The strong, steady voice gave her courage, and with slightly agitated
haste she stepped towards the table.
The Prophet gravely motioned her to a seat and assumed an attitude of
attention. Upon each of the thirty mornings he had sat in this same
position in his ivory chair, while, one after another, the members of
the sect had claimed audience with him. Morning after morning he had
exhibited the same grave, aloof interest--his hands clasped, his eyes
upon the Scitsym--while the fearful, the fanatical, the hysterical had
poured forth their tales of struggle or aspiration. But now, on this
last morning, he was conscious of a new suggestion, a new impression in
what had grown to be routine. This last aspirant for spiritual light was
neither fanatical nor hysterical, was scarcely even imbued with fear.
Something within his brain responded to the idea, to the reassuring
human curiosity that gleamed in her eyes. He found himself waiting for
her first words with an impatience that no other member of the
congregation had aroused.
But the wait was long--disconcertingly long. The aspirant glanced
uncertainly about the room, as if unwilling or unable to break into
speech; then at last she raised her head, and, with an effort, met the
Prophet's eyes.
"I'm terribly nervous!" she said, in an irresistibly feminine voice.
The effect upon her hearer was instantaneous. The distant and spiritual
aloofness, so easy to assume in the presence of the credulous, became
suddenly a matter of impossibility. With a quiet dignity that had more
of masculine protectiveness than of mystical inspiration he turned to
her afresh.
"Have no fear!" he answered, gently. "My only desire is to help you.
Tell me everything that is in your mind."
She leaned forward quickly. "You--you are most kind--" she began. Then
again she halted.
But he took no notice of her embarrassment.
"Why have you never come before?" he asked. "Had you no doubts to be set
at rest?" He spoke so quietly that her nervousness forsook her, and with
a swift impulse she glanced up at him.
"I--I think I was afraid," she said, candidly. "You see, I am not
exactly one of the others--"
"You did not quite believe that the One you had waited for had really
come?" His voice was low and tinged with some inscrutable meaning.
"Oh no! No; it was not that. Before you came, I confess I was sceptical;
I confess I did not believe that any one would come, that there was any
truth--any real meaning--in the sect. But then--when you did come--"
The Prophet lifted his head.
"When I did come?" he asked, sharply.
"The whole thing was different--"
"The whole thing was different?" he repeated, slowly and meditatively.
By a curious process of suggestion and recollection, something of his
own experiences in the realm of mental upheaval rose with her words. He
studied the pale face and brilliant eyes with a fresh and more intimate
interest.
"The whole thing was different?" he said once more, in his slow, deep
voice.
The warm color flooded her face. "Yes," she admitted. "Yes. You seemed
the one real person--the one sane thing in the whole ceremony. I felt--I
knew that you were--strong." She paused, alarmed at her own timidity;
and again their eyes met.
"And why have you never come to me before?" He had no particular meaning
in the question; he was only conscious of an inexplicable wish to
prolong the interview.
"Oh, I don't know--I scarcely know." Again she spoke quickly and
nervously. "I have come every night to hear you speak--I have loved to
hear you speak. But--but to be alone with you--" She paused,
expressively. "It is all so strange--so extraordinary. It doesn't seem
to belong to the present day--" She looked up at him in appealing
perplexity.
"And why did you come now?"
"Why? Oh, because--because I could not stay away."
For the first time the Prophet was conscious of a tremor of
discomfiture; for the first time the spectacle of his fraud, as seen
from a point of view other than his own, touched him unpleasantly. He
moved slightly in his massive chair.
"In this life," he said, with a sudden, almost incontinent assumption of
his Prophetic manner, "we must be ever careful to distinguish the Wine
from the Vessel that contains it. I endeavor, with all the Power I am
possessed of, to impress upon my People that I have come, not to _be_
the Way, but to _show_ the Way! To teach you all that what you seek in
me, is in each one of you. Every man is his own Prophet, if he but knew
it!" As he spoke he turned his eyes upon the Scitsym, and the hard,
inscrutable look that so dominated his followers descended upon his
face. As he reached the last words, he glanced again at his companion,
but as his eyes rested on her face he paused disconcerted. She was
gazing at him with a candid, spontaneous admiration infinitely more
human and infinitely more irresistible than the neurotic adoration that
was daily lavished on him. With an odd, inexplicable sense of guilt, he
rose quickly from his seat.
"Do not forget--do not allow yourself to forget that this is my
teaching," he said. "That you have each within yourselves the thing you
demand in me. Look for it within yourselves! Rely upon yourselves!"
As he ceased, she also rose. She was pale, and trembled slightly.
"But if one cannot follow that teaching?" she asked. "If one longs to
rely upon some one else? If one cannot rely upon one's self?"
The Prophet made no answer. He stood with one hand resting on the table,
his gaze fixed upon the book.
Emboldened by his silence, she approached him by a step.
"I think I could believe--" she murmured. "I think I could
believe--anything, if I might learn it from you." She paused
pleadingly; then, as he still stood unresponsive, the color rushed again
into her face.
"I--I have been presumptuous," she said. "I have offended you."
Something in her tone, in her charming unaffected humility stung him.
For the first time in his career as Prophet, the blood surged hotly and
painfully into his face.
"Do not say that!" he began, impulsively; then he checked himself. "I am
here to teach my People," he added. "All my People--without exception."
For one moment she studied his face half doubtfully; then at last her
own emotions conquered her doubt.
"Then I may come again?"
He did not reply at once; and when at last his words did come, his voice
was unusually irresolute and low.
"You may come--at any time," he said, without meeting her eyes.