Part 18

“I am particularly glad to see you, Mr. Perry-Hennington,” he said. “I am afraid we are about to lose one of our patients under remarkable and tragic circumstances. He has not asked for the sacrament to be administered, but now you are so providentially here, I have no doubt he will welcome it if he is still able to receive it.”

Dr. Thorp paused, but the vicar did not speak.

“It is our poor dear friend, John Smith. For months he has been slowly dying. But the end is now at hand. And it comes in very singular circumstances.”

Again Dr. Thorp paused, again the vicar did not speak.

“I will tell you what they are. Our dear friend, in the course of his stay among us, wrote a stage play. It was given by him to Mr. Brandon, who gave it to Mr. Urban Meyer, the great American impresario, who has caused it to be played all over the world. And its success has been so extraordinary that it has been awarded the Nobel Prize for peace. But perhaps you know all this?”

The vicar shook his head.

“The whole story seems incredible,” the doctor went on. “But there it is. Further, I am informed that Dr. Kurt Christiansen, the great Scandinavian poet and thinker is coming here this afternoon to present an address on behalf of his Government. And he is to be accompanied by Mr. Sigismund Prosser, C.B., representing the Royal Academy of Literature, by Mr. Brandon, representing our own Government, and by a representative of the press.

“Of course, Mr. Perry-Hennington, I needn’t say that not only are the circumstances very unusual, they are also extremely difficult and embarrassing. The first intimation of this arrangement was from the Home Office, saying that out of regard for the activities of a neutral Power, our Government lent its sanction; and that if the patient was able to receive this act of homage it was felt to be in the public interest that he should do so. But at the same time it was pointed out that it would be a further public advantage if the distinguished visitor was not enlightened as to the nature of this establishment, or the circumstances in which the play had been written. Well, I mentioned the matter at once to our poor friend, and I was able to reply that, although the patient was extremely weak and his death perhaps a question of a few days, he would gladly receive the deputation.

“On the strength of that assurance the arrangements have gone forward. The deputation is due at Wellwood in rather less than half an hour, but I grieve to say that our poor dear, but evidently greatly gifted, friend, whose loss we shall all mourn deeply, is now losing consciousness.”

“Losing consciousness.” The vicar repeated the words as if he hardly understood them.

“Yes.” The doctor spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. “It may or may not be a final phase. There may be a slight rally which will enable him to receive the honor about to be paid him. On the other hand it is almost too much to hope for now. Every kind of stimulant has been already administered, but the action of the heart is very feeble and I am sadly afraid that the deputation is making its journey in vain.”

“Am I too late?” gasped the vicar.

“Not to do your office, I hope. The patient may still be able to receive the sacrament.”

“May I see him?”

“I shall be very glad for you to do so.”

“Let me go to him at once,” gasped the vicar wildly.

XLVI

HIS eyes growing dark, the vicar asked for a prayer book. When this had been procured, the doctor led him through a maze of dismal corridors to a small door at the extreme end of a long passage.

At the doctor’s gentle tap it was opened by the head attendant.

“Any change, Boswell?” whispered the doctor.

There was no change it appeared.

At first the vicar stood irresolute on the threshold of the cell. His manner made it clear that he desired to be alone with the dying man, and in a few moments the doctor and the attendant went away. The vicar, grasping his prayer book like a staff, then passed in alone, and the heavy door swung to behind him with a self-closing click which locked it securely.

The room had only a bedstead. It was very hard to see in that night of time through which the vicar was now looking. Not daring to approach the bed, he stood hopelessly by the door, naked in spirit, faint of soul. He could neither speak nor move. There was not a sound in the room, nor any light. He stood alone.

He stood alone and without any kind of power; he could neither hear nor see; he was in a void in which time was awfully revealed in a new notation. Broken with fear, he began slowly to lose apperception.

How long he remained solitary there was no means of knowing, but at last he heard a voice in the room. It was hardly more than a sigh, yet so strangely familiar and expected was the sound that the vicar knew it at once for the voice of One.

“You did as your light directed. Faithful servant, kiss me.”

Transfigured with a wild emotion, like music and wine in his heart, the vicar moved to the bed. He fell on his knees, and flung his arms round the form which lay there. He pressed wild kisses upon the luminous face. At the contact of his lips, the image of the spectrum altered and Truth itself was translated to a higher value. Then he seemed to realize that he was holding in his arms a heroic son----.

“My darling boy!” he whispered. “My darling boy!”

Again he rained kisses on the upturned face.

He suddenly perceived that a third presence was by his side. He knew it for the happy mother and beloved wife. Again the image of the spectrum altered. He was born again. There came to him with new, intenser meaning the doctrine of the Trinity and through it the mystic union of husband, wife and child in the Father’s Love.

After a further lapse of time which was measureless, the ecstasy of the human father was terminated by the sound of a key turning in the door of the room. Instantly the spell was broken and he realized that he was fondling the face of a corpse.

The vicar rose from his knees as the doctor entered the room. He stood by the bed, shivering now with strange happiness, while the doctor lifted the hand and looked at the face of his patient.

“I was afraid,” said the doctor in a hushed voice, “that he would not be able to receive the deputation. Dear fellow! He is now with the souls in whom he believed.”

“And who believed in Him,” said the vicar in a tone that the doctor could hardly recognize.

“Yes, there were souls who believed in him,” said the doctor in a matter-of-fact voice which had a kind of gentle indulgence. “There must have been. More than one of our poor old men here died with his name on their lips. You would hardly believe what an influence he had among us. We shall miss him very much. In his way he was a true saint, a real teacher, and he has left this place better than he found it.”

“If only he could have received the homage that awaited him,” the vicar whispered.

“Yes, if only he could have done so! But it is written otherwise. Still, we all feel that a very remarkable honor has been paid to one of our inmates. By the way, isn’t it Aristotle--or is it Plato?--who says that it is a part of probability that many improbabilities will happen?”

XLVII

AS the vicar and the doctor left John Smith’s cell, there came out of the deep shadows of the long corridor a figure, old, forlorn, very infirm. With a haunted look this rather grotesque creature shuffled forward, and fixing tragic eyes upon the doctor’s face muttered in an alien tongue:

“He is risen. He is risen.”

The doctor reproved him sharply. “Why, Goethe, what in fortune’s name are you doing here! Go at once to your own side and don’t let me see you here again. Strict instructions were given that none of the patients were to be seen in the west wing just now. I must look into this. Go at once to your own side.”

The old man slunk away, still muttering softly, “He is risen. He is risen.”

The doctor was obviously annoyed by the incident. “Gross carelessness on the part of someone,” he said. “The deputation is already due, and the Home Office desires us in the special and quite unprecedented circumstances of the case to present as normal an appearance as we can. In other words, it doesn’t want representatives of our own and foreign governments to be welcomed by a parcel of lunatics. That will not help anybody; besides, as the Home Office says, it is desirable that no slur should be cast on the profession of literature.”

“And on the memory of the Master,” whispered the vicar in his hushed voice.

“Quite so. I fully agree. The dear fellow! And to think he was able to win a prize of seven thousand pounds, not to mention the many thousands his work is earning all over the world, from which, by the way, deserving charities are benefiting.”

“Did he know that his work was producing these large sums?”

“Oh, yes. And I think the knowledge gave him pleasure. But he never regarded a penny as his own. He left it to Mr. Brandon and myself--two just men I am proud to think he called us--to give back again, as he said, ‘that which had been given to him, in the way likely to do the most good.’”

“He was quite selfless,” said the vicar.

“Absolutely. And he is the only man I have known, or am ever likely to know, of whom that statement could be truly made. I have known good men, I have known men with high, forward-looking souls, but I have never known a man so near His model that if it had not existed already one almost felt that such a man must have created it. In fact, John Smith will stand out in my experience as the most remarkable case I have known. He believed until he became.”

“As you say, he believed until he became. And he made a prophecy which he has lived to fulfill.”

“What was the prophecy he made?”

“That he would heal the wounds of the world.”

“I wonder, I wonder.”

“Oh ye of little faith!” whispered the vicar. The tears that rose to his eyes were like the blood of his heart.

Hardly had Mr. Perry-Hennington spoken the words when both he and Doctor Thorp perceived a stir at the doors of the main entrance to the institution, now in view at the far end of the corridor along which they were passing. No more than a glance was needed to tell them that the deputation was in the act of arrival. Beyond the open doors, a large motor car and an imposing array of silk hats were clearly visible in the half-light of the wet afternoon.

As the doctor and the vicar came to the main entrance, several persons entered the building. Foremost of these were Gervase Brandon and a very noble-looking old man with snow-white hair and the eyes of a child. In one hand he carried his hat, in the other a large bunch of lilies held together with a broad ribbon of white satin.

“Dr. Thorp,” said Brandon, with a happy and proud smile. “I have the great honor and privilege to present Dr. Kurt Christiansen, whose reputation has long preceded him. At the instance of a neutral government he has come to this country to pay in the name of humanity the world’s homage to our dear friend.”

Solemn but cordial bows were exchanged and then Dr. Thorp replied, “I grieve to have to tell you, sir, that our dear friend has already passed.”

The childlike bearer of the lilies looked very simply into the doctor’s eyes. “Dead,” he said.

“But being dead liveth,” said a tall clergyman from the background in a whispered tone of new authority.

There followed a moment of silence and constraint. And then it was very unexpectedly shattered by a wild appearance, grinning with strange joy and crying in an alien tongue, “He is risen! He is risen!”

Only the prompt intervention of Dr. Thorp prevented this figure of fantasy flinging its arms round the neck of Mr. Sigismund Prosser, C.B. An international incident of some magnitude was thus averted, for the representative of the Royal Academy of Literature had recently said at a public meeting that “he had done with Goethe forever.”

EPILOGUE

_Whitehall, Friday._

_Strictly confidential._

DEAR BRANDON:

Your moving account of the proceedings at Wellwood Sanatorium was read at the Cabinet meeting this afternoon and you will be glad to know that the Lord Chamberlain is being advised to license the production of the Play in this country. In the present state of the public mind it is felt to be the best course to take. It is hoped that further questions will not arise in the House, otherwise it may be impossible to avoid an inquiry into all the circumstances of a most singular case, and this, I think you will agree, would be undesirable just now from every point of view.

Yours, GEORGE SPEKE.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

On page 33, threshhold has been changed to threshold.

On page 35, bedridden has been changed to bed-ridden.

On page 45, Grevase has been changed to Gervase.

On page 63, ferrago has been changed to farrago.

On page 125, wartime has been changed to war time.

On page 130, nonplused has been changed to nonplussed.

On page 269, prevaded has been changed to pervaded.

On page 287, musn’t has been changed to mustn’t.

All other spelling, hyphenation and variants have been retained as typeset.