Part 16

A number of other questions Brandon put to the vicar, in the hope of light from an authentic source upon a very remarkable matter. For himself he could only account for it by means of a far-fetched hypothesis, with which he knew that Mr. Perry-Hennington was the last man in the world likely to agree. All the same, one clear fact emerged from this conversation. There was a change in the vicar. Could it be that, since his recent visit to Wellwood, Mr. Perry-Hennington had begun to realize that there might be more things in earth and heaven than his philosophy had dreamed of hitherto?

XL

AFTER luncheon that same day, the salutary process now at work in the vicar’s mind received a further stimulus. He was to find himself involved in a matter at once painful and unexpected, and the impression left upon him was deeply perplexing.

At the urgent request of Professor Murdwell, who had just returned from New York, he had promised to go to Longwood that afternoon. Mr. Murdwell had been out of the country six months, and now that he had got back, almost his first act had been to send for the vicar.

As Mr. Perry-Hennington made stately progress on an antiquated tricycle along the leafy carpet of the wind-bitten autumn lanes, he was far from anticipating the sad surprise that was in store. In the spring, when last at Longwood, he had been struck by the fact that his neighbor was not looking particularly well, and he had ventured to remark upon it. Mr. Murdwell had made light of the matter. But this afternoon, as soon as the vicar had been ushered into the cozy room in which the scientist sat alone, he received a shock. A great change had taken place in a few months. The alert, far-looking eyes had lost their luster, the cheeks had fallen in, the face of keenness and power was terribly ravaged by disease.

Mr. Murdwell rose with the old air of courtesy to receive his visitor, but the effort was slow and painful.

“Good of you to come, sir,” he said, motioning his visitor to a chair, and then half collapsing into his own. He looked at the vicar with a rather forlorn smile. “I’m a very sick man these days,” he said.

The vicar was a little distressed by the air of complete helplessness. “I hope it’s nothing serious,” he said.

“I’ve come home to die,” said Mr. Murdwell, with the calmness of a stoic.

The words were a shock to the vicar.

“The word ‘home’ mustn’t surprise you. I come of clean-run stock; I belong to the old faith and the old blood. As the world goes just now, I feel that I am among my own people, and I want you to lay me yonder in your little churchyard on a good Sussex hillside.”

Mr. Perry-Hennington felt a growing dismay. “I venture to hope,” he said, “that you will be spared to us a long time yet.”

“A week or so at the most.” Infinite weariness was in the voice. “You are a good and sensible man, and I am going to talk to you frankly. The thought of leaving my wife and girl hurts like a knife; and of course my work means a very great deal to me. I have simply lived in it; indeed the truth is, I have lived in it too much. And it is now being brought home to me that it is for the ultimate good of humanity that it should remain unfinished.”

The vicar, grieved and amazed, was unable to say anything. He had quite a regard for this man of original and powerful mind, and it shocked him deeply to find him in his present state.

“It seems that at present there are certain things which are still forbidden to science. A year ago I was fully convinced that such was not the case. But that view was premature. At that time the whole question raised by Murdwell’s Law was still _sub judice_. The verdict has now been given. I have a cancer, which must kill me long before I am able to complete my researches. And I think you, sir, and all who see the cosmos at your particular angle are fully entitled to regard this as the act of God.”

The vicar remained silent, but with an intense and painful interest he followed the revelations of the dying man.

“Thus far shalt thou go and no farther! The power, or the group of powers, which controls the development of mankind, whispered those words to me a year ago. But I chose to disregard them. I was too deeply committed to my studies, which, had I been allowed to pursue them to their logical conclusion, would have revolutionized war and everything else on this planet. There is no need to make a secret of the fact that, by the operation of Murdwell’s Law, I have been able to trace the existence of an element hitherto unknown. It has been given the name of vitalium, and my hope, and the hope of the distinguished men of science associated with me, was that its bearing on present events would be decisive. I still hold the theory that this element contains powers and properties compared with which all others in the purview of man are insignificant. For instance, I said that it was within the competence of vitalium to destroy an enemy fleet at a distance of twenty thousand miles. But as I was warned at the time the prophecy was made, and as I know beyond all question now, I am not to be allowed to prove my proposition.

“Prometheus is not to be allowed to steal the fire from heaven. And well it is for mankind that some things are still forbidden to it. Whether that will always be the case I dare not prophesy. But at this moment I have no doubt that Gazelee Payne Murdwell is the writing on the wall for the human race. Put that on my tombstone in your Sussex churchyard.”

The vicar was strangely moved.

“Another theory I have formed, which I am not to be allowed to prove, is that with the aid of vitalium it is possible to communicate with other planets. There is little doubt that some of them do communicate with one another, and I am inclined to think that the terrible crisis the world is now passing through is a reaction to events in other places. Man is only at the threshold of the knowable. He is surrounded by many forces of which he knows little or nothing. Some of these are inimical. The future has terrible problems for the human race, and well it is that it cannot foresee them.

“As for this terrible struggle, in which I am proud to think my two boys are bearing a part, the end is not yet in sight. The resources of the enemy exceed all computation, and we don’t know what forces hostile to man stand behind them.”

“It may be so, Mr. Murdwell.” The vicar, greatly wrought upon, spoke in a voice of deep emotion. “We are in the hands of God. And I am convinced that He is fighting for us, and therefore in the end our cause must prevail.”

The man of science smiled wanly. “I cannot form a conception of God in terms of atomic energy. And yet I feel with you, as I have always felt, that there is a Friend behind phenomena. And I am inclined to believe, now that we have a mass of evidence to guide us, that the first phase of this war proved that very clearly. The victory of the Marne was a signal manifestation. By all the rules of the game, at the moment the enemy of mankind fell on Europe in her sleep, France was irretrievably lost, and civilization with her. But something happened which was not in the textbooks. And in the perpetual recurrence of that Something lies the one hope for the human race.”

“Well, Mr. Murdwell”--the vicar spoke very earnestly--“as a humble servant and minister of God, I can only say that I share your belief. Whatever may happen to us, I feel that the human race could not have got as far as it has, unless a special providence had always stood behind it. My faith is, that this providence will not be withdrawn in the world’s darkest hour.”

“I venture to think that you are right,” said the dying man. “But as I say, do not ever forget that Gazelee Payne Murdwell is the writing on the wall for the human race.”

This talk with Mr. Murdwell made a deep impression on the vicar. Unable by nature or mental habit to accept all the premises of an abnormal thinker, it was beginning to strike Mr. Perry-Hennington with new and rather bewildering force, that truth has many aspects. At Wellwood the previous day he had felt a vague distrust of his own perceptions. Things were not quite as they seemed. Even poor, deranged John Smith could not be dismissed by a simple formula. It had suddenly dawned on a closed mind that a door was opening on the unknown. Somehow the relation of John Smith to many dimly understood phenomena could not be bridged by a phrase. And a feeling of imperfect knowledge was intensified by contact with this other remarkable personality. One must be read in the light of the other. Murdwell was the antithesis, the negation of John Smith. And the nature of things being as it was, each must have his own meaning, his own message to be related to the sum of human experience.

XLI

DISTRESSED by the interview with his neighbor, the vicar took the first chance of going to Hart’s Ghyll with the sad news. He had a craving to unburden his mind. And Brandon, with whom he was now on terms of complete amity, was the one person likely to share an almost painful interest in Murdwell’s Law and its discoverer.

Brandon, indeed, was only too ready to discuss the matter. The tenant of Longwood had loomed large in his thoughts from the hour in which he had first had the privilege of knowing him. To the mind of a Gervase Brandon, he was a portent, a phenomenon; in sober truth “the writing on the wall for the human race.” But the vicar’s news caused Brandon less concern than might have been the case had he not been able in a measure to anticipate and therefore to discount it. He recalled his last glimpse of Professor Murdwell in London, and the prophetic words of Urban Meyer.

“A terrible nemesis,” said the vicar. “A great tragedy.”

“An intervention of a merciful providence,” was Brandon’s rejoinder.

“No doubt--if his theories are rooted in scientific fact. To me, I confess, they seem wholly fantastic. They suggest megalomania. How does Murdwell’s Law stand scientifically?”

“It is accepted by the mathematician, and is said to provide a key to certain unknown forces in the physical world. It has given rise to an immense amount of speculation, and for some little time past very remarkable developments have been predicted.”

“Which may not now materialize?”

“Let us hope not. Murdwell himself is another Newton, but his Law opens the door to sheer diabolism on a cosmic scale. May its terrible secrets perish with him!--that’s the best the poor race of humans has to hope for.”

The vicar fully agreed. “Researches of this kind are surely the negation of God,” he said.

“I think with you. But heads vastly better than mine think otherwise. Good and evil are interchangeable terms in our modern world of T. N. T. and the U-boat.”

“That I shall never believe. Black is black, white is white.” It was the fighting tone, yet there was somehow a difference.

“I shall not contradict you,” said Brandon, with a smile, which had none of the old antagonism. “For one thing, the spectrum has shifted its angle since last we discussed the subject. I see you, my dear friend, and the views you hold, in a new light. But apart from that I am simply burning to talk about something else. I think I once told you that John Smith had written a play.”

“A play, was it?” Almost in spite of himself, there came an odd constraint to the vicar’s tone. “I was under the impression that it was a poem.”

“There was a poem. But there was also a play, which I think I once mentioned.”

“You may have.” Constraint was still there. “But whichever it is--does it really matter? Poor dear fellow!”

“Yes, it matters intensely.” The sudden gleam of excitement took the vicar by surprise. “The news has just reached me that the play has been produced in New York.”

Mr. Perry-Hennington agreed that the fact was remarkable, but far less so than its production in London would have been. After all, the Americans were a very curious people.

“But it starts with every augury of world-wide success.”

“Isn’t that the American way? Mustn’t they always be licking creation over there?”

Brandon was inclined to admit the indictment. “But,” said he, “they generally have a solid basis of fact to work on before they start doing that. And in this case they appear to have found it. The man who has dared to produce this play is convinced that it will prove a landmark in the history of the drama at any rate.”

“Really!” The vicar pursed cautious, half-incredulous lips. “But I’m afraid the theater conveys nothing to me--the modern theater, that is. Of course I’ve read Shakespeare and the Greek tragedies, and I once saw Irving in Hamlet--very impressive he was--but to me the theater in general is so much Volapuk.”

“Still,” persisted Brandon, “I hope you will allow it to be truly remarkable that a people so sagacious, who in works of creative imagination are better judges than ourselves, should be carried off their feet by the dramatic genius of our local village idiot.”

An ever-increasing perception of the situation’s irony lured Brandon to a little intellectual byplay. Perhaps to have resisted it would have been more than human. And as he had staked all upon the transcendent powers of his friend, and an impartial court had now declared in his favor, this moment of self-vindication came to him as the most delicious of his life.

Somehow it did him good to watch a cloud gather slowly over the vicar’s craggily unexpressive face. An abyss was opening in Mr. Perry-Hennington’s mental life. Things were happening which threatened to undermine his moral and intellectual values. Brandon could almost have pitied him. And yet it was hardly possible to pity the vicar’s particular brand of arrogance, or, in this case, to forget the crime it had wrought.

“Urban Meyer,” Brandon went on in his quiet voice, “is the world’s foremost theatrical manager. And he writes to say that, were his theater six times its present size, it could not accommodate the crowds which flock to it daily.”

“Really!” said the vicar. “A very curious people, the Americans.”

“As you say, a very curious people. And this abnormally shrewd and far-sighted little German Jew has already arranged for the play’s production at Stockholm, Christiania, and also at the Hague.”

“Some kind of propaganda, I presume.” There was a sudden stiffening of the vicar’s tone.

“It may be so. The aim of the play is to heal the wounds of the world, so I suppose it is a kind of propaganda. But it may interest you to know that Christiansen, the great Scandinavian poet and dramatist, has already prepared a version for the Stockholm state theater, that Hjalmars is doing the same for Denmark, Van Roon for Holland, and that it has been banned in London.”

“Ah!” said Mr. Perry-Hennington. And then with a show of fight which amused Brandon, he added, “Wisely, no doubt.”

“In other words, the Censor of Stage Plays has completely justified his existence.”

“I’m afraid I can’t offer an opinion on that point,” said the vicar, slowly renewing his dignity.

“Only the pen of a Swift or a Voltaire could do justice to that sublime individual. Here we have a country whose proud boast is that it alone among European states is really free, which is sacrificing its young men by the million in order to overthrow Prussianism, imposing such fetters upon intellectual liberty that one can only gasp.”

“Rightly no doubt.” Of late deadly blows had been aimed at the vicar’s mental security, but there was still a kick in the old Adam. “In intellectual matters absolute freedom becomes anarchy, and that would be intolerable, even in a democratic country. The state is bound to devise a means of holding it in check. Of this play I know nothing, nor am I competent to speak of plays in general, but prima facie the government is fully justified in suppressing it. No good thing can come out of Babylon.”

“Or in other words out of Wellwood Asylum.”

“One does not go quite so far as to say that,” said the vicar thoughtfully.

“An interesting admission!”

“Which perhaps one oughtn’t to make,” said the vicar rather uneasily. And then, as if a little shocked by his own boldness, he hastened to quit such perilous ground. “To return to stage plays. Things of that kind will not help us to win the war.”

“And yet the pen is mightier than the sword.”

“That is a dark saying I have never been able to understand. We live not by words but by deeds, and never more so than in this stern time.”

“A play may be a great deed.”

“If it be sufficiently inspired. But there is much virtue in an ‘if.’”

Brandon did not continue the argument. Feeling the ground on which he stood to be impregnable, he could well afford not to do so. Besides it was scarcely the act of a friend to press the vicar too hard in the present amazing circumstances. He was no longer intrenched in self-security. If certain odd changes of manner meant anything, the walls of his little world were falling in, and a perplexed and bewildered Thomas Perry-Hennington was now visible amid the ruins.

XLII

THE very remarkable news from New York gave Brandon, for the rest of his brief stay at Hart’s Ghyll, a feeling of almost perilous exhilaration. Since his recovery, less than a year ago, his whole life had been a subtle embodiment of the miraculous. And the letter from Urban Meyer had intensified the sense of the miraculous to such a degree, that at first it hardly seemed possible to meet the bald facts of the case in its new aspect and remain perfectly rational. For more years than Brandon cared to count, he had held the cold faith that miracles do not occur; it had now been proved to him, beyond a doubt, that miracles do occur, and he had to face the truth squarely, and yet continue in the work of the world.

To make his task the more difficult, he could not help feeling that his present job was one for which he was ill-qualified; certainly it was not the one he would have chosen. Somehow it filled him with a deep repugnance to train others in the art of killing, even in the art of killing the Hun; but it was not for him to decide where such powers as he had could be of most use to the state. He did not quarrel with the edict which declared him unfit for the trenches, but there were times when he would almost have preferred their particularly foul brand of boredom to the dismal routine of acquiring a parade voice, and the grind of rubbing up his mathematics, a branch of knowledge in which he had never shone.

It came to him, therefore, with a sense of grateful relief, when one day, about a week after he had returned to his unit, a letter reached him of an informal friendliness, yet written on government paper. It said:

_Whitehall, December 2._

MY DEAR BRANDON:

If a square peg can be persuaded to forsake a round hole, some of us here feel that the country might make a more profitable use of your services, that is to say, there is an opportunity to give your highly specialized qualities freer play. A ministry of Social Reconstruction is being formed, to deal mainly with post-war problems--it is not quite our English way to take time by the forelock in this audacious fashion, but some of our Colonial friends are teaching us a thing or two--and last night in conversation with Prowse and Mortimer among others, your name came up. We agreed that your particular light is not one to hide under a bushel of coal. One shudders to think of the number of tricks of the kind that have been played already, but at last we are beginning to realize that the country can’t afford it. So if you will consent to work under Prowse, with or without payment, I think the War Office can be persuaded to spare you for a larger sphere of usefulness.

Yours ever, GEORGE SPEKE.

In the depths of his boredom Brandon could have kissed the letter, and have wept for joy. The tact of an expert handler of men, who well understood the bundle of quixotisms with whom he had to deal, had played the tempter’s part with rare success. A letter of that kind left no doubt that the country was about to gain enormously by depleting the Tynesi de Terriers of a morbidly conscientious subaltern, while at the same time enriching a government department with a real live ex-fellow of Gamaliel.

It was not until early in the new year, however, that Brandon was transferred to a wooden structure in Saint James’s Park, the headquarters of the newly-created department. He was almost ashamed to find how much more congenial was the work he had now to do. To the really constructive mind, there is something repellent in the naïve formulas, and the crude paraphernalia of mere destruction. Here in the new “billet” was scope for a rather special order of brain. He was able to look forward to a future in which a new England would arise. There were already portents in the sky, portents which told him that the world of the future was going to be a very different place from the world of the past. Much depended on whether the grim specter of war could be laid with reasonable finality for a long time to come, but from the day in which he took up his new labors he did not doubt that, whatever the final fate of Prussia, the issue of Armageddon itself would be a nobler, a broader spirit in the old land which he loved so dearly, and a freer, humaner world for every race that had to live in it.

His position in the Social Reconstruction Bureau was one of importance. Long before the war, even before he came into the Hart’s Ghyll property, it had been his ambition to make the world a rather better place for other people to inhabit. And the opportunities which came to him now gave rare scope to a reawakened energy. A marvelous field had been offered to this protagonist of works and faith.

In spite of the last terrible clinch in which the new world as well as the old was now involved, these were great days for Brandon. His powers burgeoned nobly in the service of that nation which had now definitely emerged, in spite of all her limitations and her legacies from the past, as the banner bearer of civilization.

Deep in his heart lay the faith that through blood and tears the whole race of men would be born again. And month by month that faith grew, even amid the final stupendous phase when the specter of famine stalked through the land. Moreover, he had a sense of personal election. A promise had been made to him, and through him, to his fellows. “One unconverted believer” was now the living witness that all the old prophecies were true.

Every living thing in the world around him, of which a supernal Being was the center, had a new meaning, a new force, a new divinity. Unsuspected powers were now his; latent faculties allowed him to live more abundantly. He looked up where once a skeptic’s eye had looked down, and the difference was that between a life in the full glory of light and sorry groping in darkness.

The news always reaching him of the growth of the miracle was now the motive power of a great belief, yet to one able to trace it from the germ it hardly seemed credible or at the best too good to be true. From many sources there came tidings of the new force at work in the world. The play was making history; wherever it appeared, reverberations followed. From one end of North America to the other, it had gone like fire. Irenic in tone and intention it might be, but also within it was that which raised it above party and above creed.