There are few phases of human existence more interesting than that in
which a young and sensitive woman is compelled by circumstances to cast
aside the pleasant artifices, the carefully modulated emotions of a
sheltered life, and to face the realities of fact and feeling.
For twenty-three years Enid Witcherley had played with existence--toying
with it, enjoying it, as an epicure enjoys a rare wine or a choice
morsel of food prepared for his appreciation. Now, as she stood alone in
her small drawing-room with its costly decorations, its feminine
atmosphere, she was conscious for the first time that the banquet of
life is not in reality a display of delicate viands and tempting
vintages, but a meal of common bread--sweet or bitter as destiny
decrees. She saw this, and with a flash of comprehension knew and
acknowledged that her heart and her brain cried out for the wholesome
necessary food.
An hour ago, when the Prophet had stood before her and made his
confession, she had been overwhelmed by the tide of her own feelings; in
the rush of humiliation and disappointment--in the tremendous knowledge
that the image she had called gold was in reality but clay--she had been
too mortified to see beyond her own horizon. In that moment their places
in the drama had been indisputably allotted. She herself had appeared
the unoffending heroine, unjustly humiliated in her own eyes and in the
eyes of others; he had stood out, in unpardonable guise, the cause--the
instrument--of that humiliation. In the bitter knowledge she had
confronted him unrelentingly. A spoiled child--an unreasoning feminine
egoist.
But now that moment, with its instructive and primitive emotions, was
passed by what seemed months--years--a century. By a process of mind as
swift as it was subtle, the child had grown into a woman--the egoist had
become conscious of another existence. With the entrance of
Bale-Corphew--with the sound of her own denunciation upon his lips--a
new feeling had awakened within her--a feeling stronger than
humiliation, stronger than pride. It had risen, blinding and dazzling
her, as a great light might blind and dazzle; and she stood glorified
and exalted within its radiance.
As the door had closed upon her second visitor, a long sobbing sigh of
excitement, of tumultuous joy and fear shook her from head to foot; she
involuntarily drew her figure to its full height, and covered her face
with both hands, as though to ward off the light that lay across her
world.
But the great moment of joy and comprehension could not last; other and
more insistent factors were at work within her mind--claiming, even
demanding attention. Almost as the outer door closed upon Bale-Corphew,
her hands dropped to her sides and an expression akin to terror crossed
her eyes. With a mind rendered supersensitive by its own emotions, she
realized what the next five hours might hold; and like a tangible menace
the dark, angry face of the Arch-Mystic flashed back upon her
consciousness.
While he had been present in the room, while his turbulent voice had
filled her ears, she had been only partly alive to the threatened
danger; but now that his presence had been removed, now that she was
free to sift the meaning of his words, their full significance was borne
in upon her. With an alarming clearness of vision, she recognized that
behind his threats lay a definite meaning; that the man himself, at all
times passionate, and, on occasion, violent in temperament, had
suddenly become a danger--something as fierce and menacing as an
uncontrolled element.
She realized and understood this rapidly, as only the mind knows and
comprehends in moments of stress and crisis; and before her knowledge,
all ideas save one fell away like chaff before the wind. At all
costs--in face of every obstacle--she must warn and save the Prophet!
With a start of apprehension, she glanced at the clock and saw that the
hands marked ten minutes to seven. Moving to the fireplace, she once
more pressed the bell; and as Norris answered, turned to her, heedless
for perhaps the first time in her life of outward appearances.
"Get me my long black cloak, Norris," she said. "And a black hat and
veil. I am going out."
Norris's face expressed no surprise.
"You will be back to dinner, ma'am?" she inquired.
"No. I shall not want dinner. I may not be back till ten--perhaps
eleven. If I am late, no one need wait up." She walked to a mirror and
began nervously smoothing her ruffled hair, while Norris left the room,
and returned with the desired garments.
With the same nervous haste she put on her hat, tied the thick veil over
her face, and allowed herself to be helped into her cloak. Then, without
a word, she crossed the drawing-room, passed through the hall of the
flat, and entered the lift.
At the street-door she was compelled to wait while the hall-porter
called a cab; and the momentary delay almost overtaxed her patience. An
audible sound of relief escaped her when the clatter of hoofs and jingle
of bells announced that the wait was over.
"St. George's Terrace!" she ordered, in a low voice, and it seemed to
her perturbed mind that even the stolid attendant must find something
portentous in the words; then she sank into the corner of the cab and
closed her eyes, as she heard her order repeated to the cabman, and felt
the horse swing forward into the stream of traffic.
More than once she altered her position as the distance between
Knightsbridge and St. George's Terrace lessened. She was devoured by
impatience and yet paralyzed by dread. Once, as the cab halted in a
block of traffic, she heard a clock strike seven, and at the sound the
blood rushed to her face as she thought of the nearness of her ordeal;
but an instant later she drew out her watch to verify the time, and
paled with sudden apprehension as she realized that the clock was slow.
So her mind oscillated until the cab drew up beside the curb; and, with
a nervous start, she heard the cabman open the trap-door.
"What number, lady?" he asked.
[Illustration: "HER HAND WAS TREMBLING AS SHE RAISED THE HEAVY KNOCKER"]
She answered almost guiltily: "No number! Just stop here! Put me down
here!" She rose, gathering her long cloak about her.
Try as she might, she could not control her excitement, as she crossed
the roadway and entered Hellier Crescent after a week's absence. Her
hand was trembling as she raised the heavy knocker on the familiar door;
and her voice shook as she repeated the necessary formula.
There was a slight delay--a slight hesitancy on the part of the
door-keeper; then the slide, which had opened at her knock, closed with
a click, and the massive door swung back.
She stepped forward eagerly, but on the moment that she entered the hall
her heart sank. With a thrill of apprehension she saw that in place of
the humble member of the congregation who usually attended there, the
tall, fair-bearded Arch-Mystic known as George Norov was guarding the
door. Small though the incident might appear, it conveyed to her, as no
spoken declaration could have done, the spirit of action and vigilance
reigning in the House.
While the thought flashed through her mind, Norov surveyed her from his
great height.
"You are in good time, my child; the Gathering is for eight o'clock."
She looked up at him.
"Yes," she said, quickly. "I know it is for eight o'clock, but I have
come early. I have come because I wish--" Her courage faltered before
the intent, searching gaze of his blue eyes.
"I have come," she added, with gathered resolution, "because I desire
private Audience with the Prophet--because there is something on my Soul
of which I must unburden myself."
The Arch-Mystic looked at her and his eyes seemed cold as steel.
"The Prophet holds private Audience only in the morning," he replied, in
an even voice.
Enid flushed.
"I know that. But there are exceptions to the rule--"
The Arch-Mystic shook his head.
"The Prophet holds private Audience only in the morning."
"But the Prophet is generous. Five minutes alone with him will satisfy
me--three minutes--two minutes--" Her tone quickened as her anxiety
increased.
Still Norov's blue eyes met hers unswervingly.
"The Prophet holds private Audience only in the morning."
At the second repetition her apprehension rose to fear; and in her
alarmed trepidation she conceived a new idea. With a rapid searching
glance her eyes travelled over the Arch-Mystic's powerful figure, while
she mentally measured his physical strength with that of the Prophet.
Her survey was short and comprehensive; and her decision came with
equal speed. With a subtle change of manner and voice she made a fresh
appeal. Turning to him with a gesture of deference, she spoke again in a
soft and conciliatory voice.
"Of course, you are right in what you say," she murmured. "But I am
going to make an appeal. If I may not see the Prophet in private
Audience, then let me see him in your presence! I have only a dozen
words to say; and, if necessary, I will say them in your presence. You
can see it is urgent, when I am willing to humiliate myself. It is only
for her Soul that a woman will conquer her pride. You won't deny peace
to my Soul?" Her voice dropped, her whole expression pleaded.
For a moment--for just one moment--it seemed to her desperate gaze that
his hard blue eyes softened; the next, their cold, unyielding glance
disillusioned her of hope.
"It is useless to appeal to me," he said; "but if you very much desire
it, you can make your request to my brother Mystic--Horatio
Bale-Corphew. He is guarding the Prophet's Threshold."
Whether the man had any glimmering of knowledge as to her private
connection with Bale-Corphew and the Prophet was not to be read from his
austere face. His words might have been spoken in all innocence, or
might have been spoken deliberately and with malice. But in either case
the result, so far as his listener was concerned, was the same. A sense
of frightened impotence fell upon her--a knowledge that her enemy had a
longer reach and a more powerful arm than she had guessed.
By a great effort she controlled her feelings.
"Thank you!" she said, quietly, "but I will not trouble Mr.
Bale-Corphew. If I may, I will wait in the Place until the Gathering is
assembled."
Her companion bent his head.
"Permission is granted!" he said.
For a moment longer she stood, burning with apprehensive dread. On one
hand was the Prophet--trapped and unaware of his peril; on the other was
Bale-Corphew--implacable, enraged, unrelaxing in his pursuit. She waited
irresolute, until the cold, inquiring gaze of the Arch-Mystic made
action compulsory; then, scarcely conscious of the movement, she
inclined her head in mechanical acknowledgment of his courtesy, and,
turning away, passed down the lofty, sombre hall.
Never in after-life was she able to remember, with any degree of
distinctness, her threading of the familiar corridors leading to the
chapel. Her consciousness of outer things was numbed by mental strife.
Reaching the heavy curtain that shut off the sacred precinct, she thrust
it aside with nervous impetuosity and stood looking around the deserted
chapel--glancing from the rows of empty chairs to the Sanctuary, where
the great golden Throne stood shrouded in a white cloth, and the silver
censers lay awaiting the flame.
At a first glance it seemed that the chapel was entirely empty, but as
her eyes grew accustomed to the modulated light diffused by eight large
tapers, she saw that the Sanctuary was occupied by one sombre figure
that flitted silently between the lectern and the Throne. For an instant
her heart leaped, for the man was of the same height and build as the
Precursor; but a second glance put her hopes to flight. The Mystic
within the Sanctuary was the humble member of the congregation whose
duty it was to wait upon the Prophet.
As she passed slowly and automatically up the aisle, the man turned and
looked at her; but after a cursory glance returned to his task of
setting the Sanctuary in order.
The look and the evident unconcern chilled and daunted her anew. With a
movement of despair she paused, and sank into one of the empty chairs.
For a space that seemed eternal, she sat huddled in her seat--her hands
clasped nervously in her lap; her ears alert to catch the slightest
sound; her eyes unconsciously following the movements of the man within
the Sanctuary; then, suddenly and abruptly, the tension snapped; and
action--action of some description--became imperative. She rose from her
seat.
After she had risen, she stood aimlessly looking about her at the
black-and-white walls, at the rows of chairs, at the gleaming octagonal
symbol that hung from the roof; then, as if magnetically attracted, her
glance travelled back to the man inside the Sanctuary rail.
There was nothing remarkable in the spare figure, moving reverently from
one sacred object to another; but as her eyes rested on the colorless,
ascetic face, her own cheeks flushed with a new hope--a new inspiration.
With a quick movement she glanced furtively behind her; and, stepping
carefully between the chairs, regained the aisle and moved swiftly and
noiselessly up the chapel.
Her heart was beating so fast, the nervous strain was so intense, that
when she reached the railing she stood for a moment unable to command
her voice. And when the Mystic--becoming suddenly aware of her near
presence--turned and confronted her, a faint sound of nervous alarm
slipped from her.
For a space the two looked at each other; and at last the man appeared
to realize that something was expected of him. Bending his head, he
uttered the formula of the sect.
"In what can I serve you?"
The familiar words braced Enid. She glanced at him afresh, and in that
glance her plan of action arranged itself. For one moment, as she had
walked up the aisle, her hand had sought her purse, but now, as she
scanned the ascetic face of this unworldly servant, her fingers
involuntarily loosened and the purse slipped back into her pocket. With
a new resolve, she looked him straight in the eyes.
"You can do me a great service--a very great service," she said,
quietly, in her soft, clear voice.
The man looked at her in slow inquiry.
"Oh, I know you are surprised," she added, quickly. "I know this seems
unusual--" She paused in momentary hesitation.
The Mystic appeared distressed.
"My--my duty--" he broke in, uneasily. "My duty is to--"
But she checked him suddenly.
[Illustration: "I AM IN NEED OF HELP ... AND YOU CAN HELP ME"]
"Charity is greater than duty!" she said, in a low, impressive tone. By
the same feminine intuition that had made her discard her purse, she saw
that by a semi-mystical appeal--and by that alone--could she hope to
succeed. Laying her hands upon the Sanctuary railing, she leaned
forward, and raised her large eyes to the man's face.
"Which do _you_ consider the greater virtue?" she asked. "Duty or
charity?"
The Mystic looked at her.
"Charity," he said, at last, hesitatingly, "the Prophet teaches us--"
Enid's face flushed.
"Yes! yes!" she cried. "The Prophet teaches us that charity is the
greater virtue. He tells us that we are to rely upon ourselves--and also
upon each other. We are to help ourselves--and to help each other." Her
voice shook, her face glowed in her excitement and suspense.
"I am in need of help," she added. "In desperate need. And you can help
me."
Her tone was urgent, her compelling gaze never faltered. She knew that
this was her last chance--that, if this man failed her, catastrophe was
inevitable.
The Mystic stirred uncomfortably, and his glance turned half fearfully
from the intent, appealing face to the lectern on which rested the
white-bound Scitsym.
With a sudden access of enthusiasm, Enid spoke again.
"There is something troubling my Soul," she said. "Something that I must
confess to the Prophet to-night. My whole happiness--all my
peace--depends upon confessing it. I cannot speak with him before the
Gathering assembles; but I can write my confession. Will you save my
Soul? Will you carry my confession to him?"
Until the words were actually spoken, she did not realize how immensely
she had staked upon her chances of success. In a fever of anxiety she
waited, watching the man's gaze as it wavered undecidedly over the
Scitsym, then returned, as if magnetized, to her face.
"In twenty minutes the Gathering will be assembled," he murmured.
"I know, I know. But there is still time. It is a matter of--of
faith--of peace of mind."
The man shuffled his feet.
"It--it is impossible," he said.
"Why impossible?"
"Because the Prophet is exalted to-night. The Arch-Mystics themselves
are guarding the Threshold. The Prophet is exalted; he must not be
disturbed."
"But if it is necessary to disturb him? If there is a Soul in danger?"
"The Prophet must not be disturbed. What are we, that we should thrust
our wrong-doing or our sorrow upon the Mighty One?"
At the words a rage of apprehension shook Enid. She lifted her head, and
her fingers closed fiercely round the iron bar that topped the railing.
"Silence!" she said, excitedly. "You do not know what you are saying!
The Prophet sets his people high above himself. The message of a Soul
in distress is of more value in his eyes than a hundred moments of
exaltation. Take care that his wrath does not fall upon you!"
Involuntarily the man paled.
"Yes. Take care!" she cried. "Take care! You have the well-being--the
whole future--of one Soul in your hands to-night. How will you answer to
the Prophet, if you fail in the trust?"
The Mystic cowered.
"If you fail, the wrong can never be repaired. And the doing of the
action will cost you nothing. Take this note--" With agitated haste she
tore a leaf from a tiny note-book that hung at her waist. "Take this
note. Tell no one. Give it into the Prophet's own hands--" She drew out
a pencil and wrote a few enigmatical words. "Give it into his own hands;
and I can promise you that your reward will be greater than you think."
With a rapid movement, she roiled up the paper and held it out to him.
"Take it," she said, impressively. "And remember that it is something
important, essential--sacred." On the last word her voice rose; then,
without warning, it suddenly broke.
A curtain at the back of the Sanctuary had been drawn aside; and for the
second time that evening, the face of Bale-Corphew confronted her
through the dusk.