Part 13

In a kind of entrancement he listened to the voice. It seemed a little older than the world, and yet he had heard it many times, as it seemed in many ages, for every word it used was somehow enchantingly familiar. Even the fall of the sentences, the rhythm of the phrases was like music in his ears. Whose voice could it be? It was a dream voice that swept his soul back through unnumbered ages, and yet now with full authority upon his senses in the terrestrial phase of being. He knew he was in the presence of a great mystery, and yet hearing that voice he was filled with strange joy.

“Plato,” whispered the doctor at his side.

Somehow the entranced listener felt that such a voice, touched by a divine grace, could have belonged to no one else.

“My friends”--as the words floated upon Brandon’s ear, they seemed to submerge his senses--“what is the race of men to do? The goal was in sight. Its sons were about to enter the kingdom their prayers and their fidelity to the gods had won for them, when one among them betrayed his brethren without pity and without shame. The tragedy has happened more than once in the history of an ill-starred planet, but as you have lately learned from the lips of Herodotus the circumstances of this case exceed all others in their poignancy.

“Those who have kept the faith, who have not profaned the high and awful mysteries to which in youth they were inducted, are permitted by the gods to assemble in the Court of First and Last Instance, to consider a most terrible Apostasy. They are to judge by the light of all the circumstances, they are to make their recommendations in accordance therewith.

“The Court is agreed that it is in the presence of the worst crime in its archives. A deed has been done that words cannot paint, a horror wrought which Justice cannot condone. Yet here among the wise and the good, as you have heard, are those who invoke in the name of the gods, the divine clemency for the doers of this evil.

“Some who speak for the Apostate have pleaded that the onus is not upon the common people of an outlaw state, but upon its ruler and guardians. This Court is asked to make a distinction between those whose innocence was wrought upon by cunning, who were goaded by fear to those bestial acts, which will cause the very name they bear to stink for generations in the nostrils of men, and the savage lust, the ignoble greed of those who held the reins of power. It is said that what they did they could not help doing. In the name of the Highest, appeal is made to the universal brotherhood existing among men, which they betrayed without pity and without remorse.

“Let me remind you, that pray for a miserable and perverted people, of the words of Socrates. He has said that the citizens of a state must in all circumstances accept full responsibility for its rulers. Whatever the form of its government, it is neither better nor worse than it deserves. And he has said that as the commonalty yearned to fatten on the spoils of victory, it is the divine justice that it drink the cup of defeat to the last drop of its bitterness.

“My friends, emboldened by the words of an inspired teacher, I ask you to take care lest mercy become weakness, and weakness supine folly. This is a conflict of philosophies, but even if the gods are many, Justice and Truth are one.

“It follows, therefore, that there can be no compromise between the evil and the good. Violence and insult have been offered to mankind, to the divine justice, and therefore to that Heaven in which we hope to dwell. With those who have kept the faith, I ask that a pitiless crime be punished without pity.

“According to the old law, those who offend the gods suffer banishment. The very name they bear is forever accursed, they are shunned by the virtuous, they suffer eternal ostracism and the death of the soul. In the name of all that is sacred, I ask that the law now take its course. Let those who drew the sword perish by the Sword. Let them and their kindred, their children, and their children’s children be cast out forever. Such is the demand of justice. By no decree less awful can it be met.”

There came silence. The voice, to whose every word Brandon had listened in a kind of entrancement, could be heard no longer. He strained his eyes and his ears, but through the haze of shadows he was unable to distinguish the speaker among those seated round the fire. The hush that followed excited him strangely. And then another voice was heard, a voice remote yet familiar, which seemed to cause his heart to break inside him.

“Brethren”--the new voice was curiously soft and gentle, yet its every word was like a sword--“I am the eye of the west wind. I am the voice of the evening star. I am one with Brahm. I am the soul of Islam. I am the destined Buddha. I am the Light of the World, and I say to you there is no crime that cannot be purged by the Father’s love.

“I stand here at the apex of this world’s history, and I say to you the old way is not enough. If the spirit of Man is not to bleed in vain, if the sorrowing earth is to yield the fruits for which her sons have died, the God of Righteousness must be avenged by the God of Love.

“The Father’s kingdom is the hearts of men. And I say to you, unless the Son of Man came in vain among you, my word shall not be as Dead Sea fruit. I speak not to a party or a sect, but to all who would keep the faith, of whatever countenance or caste.

“In this slender folio which I hold in my hand is contained the divine genius of the ancient and the modern world, the gold of its dreams, the bread of its aspiration. The souls of the just through whom the Father spoke of old time have been summoned anew; the prophets, the magicians, the makers of harmony, have been gathered together, so that the terms of the Truce may take visible shape in the sight of all nations.

“I say to you, let none oppose it. This Mandate speaks to the bosoms and the business of men. Through it man shall cast off his chains. Through it he shall hear the voice of his Father, which is in Heaven. The Kingdom shall be made manifest; and all wars shall cease; and this old unhappy earth shall see the light of the promised day.

“There are strong spirits who do not approve this Mandate. They have their place in the hierarchy; they are of the chosen friends of mankind; sacred Hellas and imperial Rome are with them; they have the sanction of the elder gods, but I say to them, judge not that you be not judged. The Apostate has sinned against the Light, but millions of her children have been purified by sacrifice. Man may live a slave, and in a vile cause may die a king. The enemy of the human race has bred great souls. And in the last account let these stand the surety of her that bred them. Therefore I say to you again, judge not that you be not judged.”

There was a pause of curious intensity. When the familiar voice ceased for a moment, Brandon, as if in a dream, peered through the stifling silence to the figures round the fire. One there was standing in their midst, whom he could not yet see, but of whose magical presence his every fiber was aware. Suddenly he caught a gesture of the uplifted head and the voice flowed on.

“Empires and kings shall pass away, but My Word shall not pass away. And I say to those who pray for the Apostate, let her cast out the devil in her entrails and return to the old way. Let her seek again the voice of the Father in the trees and the grass, the rivers and the mountains, let her weave again her enchanted harmonies in homage of the Love He bears her. Then shall her fields again grow fruitful, the sweet past shall renew itself with increase, her grateful brothers in science shall again take her hand.

“I see around me the souls of the saints waiting to be reborn. Through unnumbered ages they have held on high the lamp of Truth. Let them return to a sweeter world, a world enkindled and renewed in the Father’s Love.

“Here, in the presence of all that is, and all that was, I affirm the Beautiful, and the Good.

“I affirm Justice, Truth, _and_ Mercy.

“I affirm the universal brotherhood of men.

“I say to you, fear God, honor the King; which being interpreted means, obey the Law.

“See the Father in all things.

“I say to you finally, man is the question, God is the answer.

“This is the law and the prophets. If you would see the Kingdom deny it not.”

Again the voice ceased, and Brandon heard the doctor’s whisper: “The Master is at his best this afternoon. It is better not to interrupt him if you don’t mind. He will come to you presently. He knows you are here.”

Brandon shook violently. Possessed by an excitement now almost terrible, he was unable to speak.

XXXI

“HE is coming now,” the doctor whispered. “I will leave you for a little while so that you may talk without interruption.” And the doctor passed out noiselessly.

Silence had fallen again at the other end of the long room. Brandon was sensible of a faint stir among the dim figures round the fire. And then his heart leaped to his throat, his veins seemed to run with flame as there emerged and came slowly toward him an outline wholly different from that of the man he expected to see. John Smith--if John Smith it was!--had let his hair grow long, he had acquired a beard, and he wore a loose robe tied round his middle by a cord.

The wide-pupiled eyes and the strange pallor of the face struck with vivid intensity through the ghostly half-light of the room.

The shock of this appearance was like a knife in Brandon’s flesh.

“Dear friend”--even the voice had changed--“you have heard great argument. And here is the matter of it.” A manuscript bound in brown paper was placed in Brandon’s hands. “I charge you in the name of humanity to give this to the world with the Father’s love.”

A shiver of strange joy passed through the frame of the stricken man. The simple words pierced to a hidden spring. Forces long pent were released within him, new light, new power, seemed to suffuse him. Enfolded by his presence, he was conscious of a kind of rapture which was like a rebirth. He felt the caress of lips on his forehead, the great eyes sank into him. And then came the voice, familiar and yet strange, “Faithful servant, if you believe in me rise from your bed and walk.”

The words were as a fire. In the same tone of gentleness they were repeated, and Brandon felt the icy touch of a hand upon his cheek. His heart seemed to break and thrill with joy, as, overborne by an anguish of feeling, he suddenly rose from his chair and cast himself at the feet of him in whose presence he was.

“Master!” he cried. “Master!”

XXXII

IN the course of a few minutes two attendants entered for the purpose of conveying the visitor to the doctor’s room. Brandon returned to his chair, his friend bade him good-by, and then the sufferer allowed himself to be carried down the corridor as if nothing had happened.

His brain was in a state of wild ferment, yet he was sufficiently its master to refrain from letting Dr. Thorp know that the power of motion had returned to his limbs. At the instance of faith he had risen from his bed and walked, but now was not the time to proclaim a miracle in the sight of men.

“I hope you had an interesting talk with our friend,” said the doctor, with a smile of professional politeness. “And what is that I see? Is that the great work? How high you must stand in his favor!” The voice of the doctor rose to a sympathetic laugh. “You should be a proud man. Quite extraordinary pains have been bestowed upon it by him and his friends here.”

“Have you read it?” asked Brandon, the blood drumming in his ears.

“Oh, yes.”

Brandon, startled by the sound of his own voice, had just enough courage to ask the doctor’s opinion of the play.

Dr. Thorp replied with a happy frankness: “Don’t laugh at me if I confess that to my mind it’s a sublime work.”

“You really think so?”

“I do, and I’ll tell you why. There’s such a great idea at the back of it, that I feel a better, a stronger, a saner man for having come in contact with it. That play takes one into another world. It draws aside the curtain, and gives us harassed mortals a peep into the kingdom of the Something Else. Nothing is but thinking makes it so. Believe me, that’s a sublime conception. And the Master has made us all feel here that we have a share in it. Shakespeare, Molière, Sophocles, Menander, and other august old gentlemen you saw round the fire in the other room, have all been consulted, and Beethoven has composed some enchanting music for it, so we can’t help thinking it wonderful.” The doctor’s laugh was now a note of pure joy. “Believe me, in its way, the whole thing is incomparable.”

“What is the title?”

“It is called, ‘A Play Without a Name,’ but I am convinced that it ought to be called, ‘The Something Else,’ or ‘The Power of Love.’ And although you’ll begin to doubt my sanity, I can’t help feeling that if the play were performed in every town in Europe at the present hour, it would be the beginning of a new era for the human race.”

“That is to say, the whole world might be born again through the power of the spoken word.”

“Exactly,” said the doctor, with enthusiasm. “And that, by the way, is what the author aims at. Of course you realize what his particular form of delusion is, and you will have noticed that he begins to bear a remarkable resemblance to his prototype.”

“Yes,” said Brandon, in a hushed, broken tone, “it’s quite uncanny.”

XXXIII

BRANDON returned to Hart’s Ghyll ostensibly as he had left it. Without telling his wife what had happened, he allowed himself to be carried to his room and put to bed. For one thing he was worn out with the strange excitement of the afternoon. The visit to Wellwood had made so great a call on a devitalized nervous system, that he now felt rather feverish and overstrung. But as he sank on his pillows in a reaction of weariness, nature insisted that for a time he should forget.

As he lay trying to reconstruct the amazing experience he had just been through, a vague, delicious sense of mystery flowed through him. But it was for a moment only. He had hardly time to ask himself whether the new life was still in his limbs when sleep stole upon him, and the chain of his thought was broken.

How long his sleep lasted he didn’t know. But it was heavy, dreamless and profound, and he awoke in the pitch darkness of a December night. Almost his first sensation was that something had happened, something which had forever changed the current of his life. What could it be? Before the question was answered, before he could relate himself to the life of the senses, and the mind could gain perception of itself, he grew conscious of a thought half formed. It was full of strange joy, of strange fear. Then he tried to cast his mind back, and in the very act of doing so, he suddenly heard a voice in the room: “If you believe in me rise from your bed and walk.”

Involuntarily he sat up, flung aside the bedclothes, pressed his lifeless feet upon the carpet. An instant he stood swaying, expecting to fall, and then he felt himself sustained by a new power. Foot by foot he groped his way to the window and drew its curtains aside.

The risen moon was shining on the trees of the park. As its cold light flowed into Brandon’s eyes, he was able to assure himself that he was fully awake. He was able to assure himself that a miracle had made him whole, and that his being was rooted now in some subtle but profound alchemy of the soul. For long he stood looking out on the night, while a growing joy pervaded him. Tears of pure happiness, whose shedding was an exquisite physical relief, ran down his cheeks. Again and again his flesh responded to the thrill of a recollected touch; a rapture he had never known coursed through his veins; his bonds were broken; he was borne upon the wings of a new destiny.

Almost delirious with joy he got back into bed, and lay a long hour shivering with excitement. Even now he hardly dared to meet the hard logic of the matter. The events of yesterday besieged him like a fantastic dream. He had risen from his bed, and he had walked at the command of One in whom he had implicitly believed. But at this moment he dare not ask himself to restate that faith in its superhuman aspect.

Long before daylight came, his thoughts had grown so insurgent, that he put out a hand and switched on the light. On a table by his bed was laid the manuscript he had brought from Wellwood. In an ecstasy of growing bewilderment he turned to it now, devouring it greedily, almost with a sense of ravishment.

It was called simply, ‘A Play Without a Name.’ It set forth a “religion of humanity,” in a series of parables crystal-clear to the humblest mind, yet by a superhuman cunning, as it seemed to Brandon, fulfilling the laws which govern the enchanting art of the dramatist. The action had been devised for representation, the words that they might be spoken in the theater. The theme was the power of love, human and divine, and it was illustrated by vivid, moving, beautiful pictures.

Daylight found Brandon still pondering this wonderful play. He was now in the thrall of an all-absorbing event. A few hours back he had passed through a miraculous experience, and the problem now was to relate it to the known facts of organic life. The difficulties of the situation were foreshadowed as soon as the nurse came into the room.

“Who has drawn back the curtains?” she demanded at once, in a tone of stern surprise.

Brandon, in spite of his excitement, was able to affect a torpid indifference to the question.

“I could have taken an oath,” said the nurse, “that when I left you last night the curtains were pulled across the window as usual!”

XXXIV

ON the afternoon of the following day, Millicent Brandon took the great news to the vicarage, that Gervase had walked across the room. It was a thrilling announcement, and Millicent’s excitement was reflected in Edith and the vicar, for like all his friends they had given up hope that he would ever walk again.

It appeared that something very like a miracle had happened. And, strange to say, it coincided with the visit to Wellwood. But doctor and nurse were loath to believe that that unsanctioned journey had anything to do with a most astonishing matter. As for Brandon himself, walking the path of an extreme wariness in the midst of new and overwhelming perplexities, he was very careful not to claim it as the fount of healing.

A week passed, a truly wonderful week of returning life, of unsealed physical power. The sensory apparatus had been repaired, the dead limbs were again alive, the sufferer had risen from his bed; and in his own mind it was absolutely clear to what agency the fact was due. Moreover, it carried with it a very special obligation.

Brandon had never regarded himself as a religious man. Before he went to the wars of his country he had been a skeptic. He understood well enough the great part faith had played in human affairs, but he had conceived it as the fruit of a peculiar mental and physical constitution. He knew that the religious sense had the power to create an amazing world of its own, but he had been glad to think that he could meet the facts of existence without its aid. Now, however, he felt himself to be a new Faust, who had sold himself, not to the devil, but to the Christian God. He had been miraculously restored to physical health, but only on condition that he obeyed without mental reservation of any kind, the implicit will of Another.

He must lay all questioning aside. Body and soul were now in the care of a superhuman power. He had entered into a most solemn pact, to whose fulfillment he must bend the whole force of his will. And its first fruits were to be seen in a letter which he addressed to an old school and college friend, one Robert Pomfret, urging him to come and spend Christmas at Hart’s Ghyll.

Brandon hardly dared to hope that the letter would succeed in its purpose. There was little in such an invitation to lure a regular man of the town from his accustomed round. But the unexpected happened. Pomfret, being “at a loose end” in Christmas week, found his way to Hart’s Ghyll, prompted, no doubt, by a generous desire to cheer up an old friend in the hour of affliction.

The two men were curiously unalike. Pomfret was not a creature of delicate perceptions, or intellectual curiosity. Apart from a large and rich geniality, which endeared him to a wide circle of acquaintances, he was merely a shrewd, eupeptic man of business, whose supreme merit was, that he knew exactly how many beans made five. But a subtle bond may exist between diverse characters, if each is sound at the core, and in this case a humorous respect was paid to the other’s peculiar qualities.

Brandon was delighted, and perhaps just a little flattered by the arrival of his sagacious friend on Christmas Eve. He had not dared to hope that a casual note, at such short notice, would lure a pagan and worldling from his orbit. But a divinity shapes our ends. His old fagmaster at school was the one man of practical experience to whom Brandon could turn in the difficult and unknown country he had now to traverse. Robert Pomfret had really been summoned to Hart’s Ghyll, not as he innocently and magnanimously believed, on the score of old friendship, but in his capacity of prosperous lessee of three West End theaters.

It was not until Christmas Day was far spent that the host disclosed his fell design. Immediately after dinner he contrived to get the redoubtable Robert into the library on the plea of “a little advice on an important matter,” without his victim suspecting the trap that had been laid for him. Brandon, moreover, led up to the subject with the discretion of a statesman. And then, in order to get a direct and reasoned verdict, he read aloud the first act.

His own experience of the stage was confined to one appearance with the O. U. D. S. in a very humble part. Moreover, his knowledge of general theatrical conditions was extremely slight. At the same time he knew that for a tyro to force the portals of the English theater was a superhuman task. But now, sustained by a very odd sense of the author’s plenary inspiration, he read with a devout eagerness which puzzled and rather intimidated Pomfret. However, he was still awake at the end of the first act.

“What do you think of it?” asked Brandon.

“Go on,” was the curt rejoinder.

Sustained by this Olympian encouragement, Brandon passed to the second act.

“Go on,” was still the command.

With a puzzled attention, which he somehow yielded in spite of himself, Pomfret listened to the end of Act Four. And then the flushed, excited, triumphant reader asked his question again.

“It’s certainly very unusual,” said Mount Olympus cautiously.

Brandon somehow felt as if a bucket of cold water had been dashed over him. He had allowed himself to expect more sonorous epithets. Intoxicated by the play’s magic, he suddenly took the bull by the horns. “I want you to put it up at your best theater in the next six months,” he said.

“My dear boy,” Pomfret gasped, “do you want to ruin me?”

“What’s the objection?”

“Simply that it isn’t a commercial proposition. Mind, I’m not saying a word against the play. You’ve got a wonderful head to have thought of it all, but as I say, it isn’t a commercial proposition.”

“It isn’t my head that’s thought of it, you old dunce,” said Brandon. “Therefore I invite you to express yourself quite freely and frankly.”

“Well, in the first place,” said the great man, drawing at his cigar, “the subject itself is not suited to the theater.”

“You think so?”

“I’m sure of it. The whole thing is far too fantastic.”

“Don’t you think the central figure is a wonderful conception?”