Part 9

“That is not my recollection of the exact position I took up. In any case, I withdraw from it now. Second thoughts convince me that you mean to destroy a very exquisite thing. I am further convinced that as the world is constituted at present you can work your will, if not in one way, in another. History shows that. But it also shows that you will only be successful up to a point. Immure the body of John Smith if you must. Kill his soul if you can. In the meantime go your ways and leave me to abide the issue.”

The vicar was distressed by this sudden flaming. He apologized with Christian humility for having worried one in a delicate state of health with a matter which, after all, did not concern him. Soothing the dear, excitable fellow as well as he could, he prepared to withdraw from the room. But Brandon was not in a mood to let this be the end of the matter.

“Before you go,” he said, “I would like to speak of something else. It has a bearing on the subject we have been discussing.”

Although conscience-bitten by the sudden recollection of his promise to Millicent, the vicar allowed himself to be further detained.

“I have just had a visit from the new tenant of Longwood.”

“Yes, I met him in the avenue as I came here. He has very simply invited me to dine with him on Wednesday.”

“Be sure you do. A very remarkable man. We had a most interesting talk.”

“A great scientist, I hear.”

“One of the forces of the material world. A modern Newton, the discoverer of Murdwell’s Law.”

“Tell me, what is Murdwell’s Law exactly?”

“At present it can only be rendered in terms of the highest mathematics, which I’m afraid is beyond a layman’s power. But Murdwell himself has just told me that he expects soon to be able to reduce it to a physical formula.”

“And if he does?”

“It will be the worst day this planet has known. For one thing it will revolutionize warfare completely. Radioactivity will take the place of high explosives. It may become possible to wipe out a city like London in less than a minute. It may become possible to banish forever organic life from a whole continent.”

“But surely that will be to abrogate the functions of the Creator.”

“Quite so. And science tells us that Man is his own Creator, and that he has been millions of years in business. And now this simple, gentle, peace-loving American of the Middle West comes along with the information that, Man having reached the phase in which he bends the whole force of his genius to destroy his own work, successes of that kind are open to him beyond the dreams of his wildest nightmares. As the learned professor said to me just now: ‘Any fool can destroy. We are near the point where it will be possible for the infant puling in the arms of its nurse to press a button and punch a hole through the planet!’”

“No doubt he exaggerates.”

“He may. On the other hand he may not. He is a great and daring thinker, and he declares there are hidden forces in the universe that man is about to harness in the way he has already harnessed electricity, which, by the way, less than a hundred years ago was a madman’s dream.”

“I hear he is subsidized by the government.”

“He takes no payment for his services. He believes our cause to be that of civilization. Two of his boys are with the French Army, as he says, ‘doing their bit to keep a lien on the future.’”

“His country can be proud of him.”

Brandon could not repress a smile. The assumption of the tone was so typical of the man who used it that he was tempted to look at him in his relation to those events which were tearing the world in pieces. Had any man a right to sit in judgment on the actions of others in that calm, confident way? There was something far down in Brandon which asked the question, something deeper still which answered it. The self-complacency of this sublime noodle was not a thing to smile at after all; he had a sudden craving for a tomahawk.

“It seems to me,” said Brandon after a pause, “that modern materialism has at last managed to produce the kind of man it has been looking for. This charming church-going American says he hopes presently to be able to establish war on a scientific basis. So far, he says, man has only been toying with the subject.”

“If he can bring the end of this war a stage nearer, all honor to him,” said the vicar in a measured tone.

“He certainly hopes to do that. He says that his committee of Allied scientists, which sits every day in Whitehall, is already applying Murdwell’s Law to good purpose. It has every hope of finding a formula, sooner or later, which will put the Central Empires permanently out of business.”

“Really!” said the vicar.

“He says that so awful are the potentialities of self-destruction inherent in Murdwell’s Law that future wars may involve the planet, Earth, in cosmic suicide.”

“Really!” said the vicar.

“He says that science sees already that warfare cannot remain in its present phase. Moreover, at the present moment it is an interesting speculation as to which side can first carry it a step further. Enemy scientists are already groping in the direction of the new light. They will soon have their own private version of Murdwell’s Law; they know already the forces latent in it. If we are the first to find the formula we may be able to say a long farewell to the Wilhelmstrasse, and even to deep, strong, patient Germany herself. And if they find it first it may be a case of ‘Good-by, Leicester Square,’ because the first intimation the world may have is that there is a small island missing in Europe.”

“Really!” said the vicar.

“It sounds fantastic. But there is not the slightest doubt that Murdwell’s Law opens up a mental vista which simply beggars imagination. And there is no doubt, in the opinion of its discoverer, that by its means Man will get into touch with unknown elements capable of sealing the doom of the group of things to which he belongs.”

“We’ll hope not,” said the vicar. “At any rate, if that is so, it seems to me that Murdwell’s Law impinges upon the order of divine providence.”

“There we enter upon the greatest of all questions. Just now all creeds are asking: What is Man’s relation to God and the universe? Theology has one interpretation, science another. Which is right? Philosophy says that each has a glimpse of the truth, yet it is now inclined to believe that we have touched a new stratum which literally turns all previous theories inside out. Of course, it is not so new as it seems. Plato reached similar conclusions by a different road, but the world of empirical science has hitherto been content to regard them as brilliant but fantastic speculations. Gazelee Payne Murdwell claims to have brought them within the region of hard fact; he says science and philosophy are already half converted to his view. We enter a new era of the world’s history in consequence, and very amazing manifestations are promised us.”

“Whatever they may be,” said the vicar stoutly, “I will not allow myself to believe that Man can abrogate the functions of the Deity.”

“But what are the functions of the Deity? Would you say it was the exercise of those functions which saved Paris from being blown to pieces by the Hun?”

“Undoubtedly!”

“And yet permitted him to sink the _Lusitania_?’

“Undoubtedly. Don’t let us presume to question that God had a reason for his attitude in both cases.”

“Well, in my view I am bound to say that T. N. T. and the U-boat abrogate the functions of the Deity in their humble way, just as surely as Murdwell’s Law may expect to do in a higher one. However, discussion is useless. We shall never agree. But if on Wednesday you can persuade Professor Murdwell to talk, you may hear strange things.”

“No doubt he exaggerates,” said the vicar robustly. “It’s the way of these inventive geniuses. On the other hand, should it seem good to the Divine Providence to destroy all the inhabitants of this wicked planet, let the will of God prevail. But in any case, my dear fellow, I hope you will not allow the ideas of the American to excite you.”

“They are far from doing that, but it was very civil of a man like Murdwell to take the trouble to come and see a man who couldn’t go and see him. He is one of the forces of the modern world, and in the near future he will be the problem for the human race.”

“It may be so,” said the vicar. “I know nothing of science. But to return to this problem of John Smith. Shall we say Birdwood Thompson? Parker is waiting to know?”

“As you please,” said Brandon in a voice of sudden exhaustion.

“Very well. I’ll telegraph. We must be scrupulously fair in the matter. And now let us dismiss an unprofitable subject. I’m afraid you have been talking too much.”

“A little too much, I’m afraid,” said Brandon rather feebly.

“Well, good-by, my dear fellow,” said the vicar heartily. “And forget all about this tiresome business. It doesn’t in any way concern you if only you could think so. Whatever happens, the man will be treated with every consideration. As for Professor Murdwell, I’m afraid he draws the long bow. These brilliant men of science always do. Good-by. And as I go out I’ll ask the nurse to come to you.”

XX

IN the meantime in Dr. Joliffe’s summerhouse the pipe of peace was being smoked. Dr. Joliffe’s cigars had a virtue of their own, and Dr. Parker, who was no mean judge of such things, had rather weakly allowed the flesh to conquer. Joliffe was a perverse fellow, but even he, apparently, was not quite impossible. His cigars somehow just saved him.

The third whiff of an excellent Corona suddenly transformed Dr. Parker into a man of the world.

“The fact is,” said he, “our friend here, like all country parsons who have been too long in one place, is a bit too dogmatic.”

An answering twinkle came into the eye of Dr. Joliffe. Somehow the admission seemed to clear the air considerably.

“He wants humoring.”

“No doubt. But this poor chap is as harmless as I am.”

“A good deal more harmless than you are Joliffe. But you know the sort of man we have to deal with. And after all old Henny-Penny’s quite right--in war time. You see this chap is not pulling his weight in the boat. He’s a bad example. Our parson is rather down on him no doubt; still, in the circumstances, he’s quite right to bring him under control.”

“You think so?”

“It can do no harm at any rate.”

“But, you see, it’s going to upset the squire. And he’s such a good chap that it seems a pity.”

“Well, it’s no use trying to please everyone.”

“Quite so.”

“Why not certify the fellow and have done with it?”

“I can’t, after what I said to Brandon.”

“Tell me, Joliffe, why does Brandon take such an interest in him?”

“Nay,” said Joliffe, “that’s more than I can fathom.”

“Do you think his mind has been affected by Gallipoli?”

“They seem to think so.”

“Do you?”

“I seem to notice a change coming over him. But it’s so very gradual that one can hardly say what it may be.”

“At any rate it is not a good sign for a man like Brandon to be wrapped up in such a fellow as John Smith.”

“There I entirely agree,” said Joliffe. “And to my mind that is the worst feature of the whole affair.”

The two doctors exchanged their views at considerable length. And when the vicar returned from Hart’s Ghyll, after an absence of more than an hour, he found the moral temperature much more equable. In fact the lion and the lamb were lying down together. Moreover, he had only to make known his own proposal that Murfin and Moriarty should be superseded in favor of Birdwood Thompson for this course to be acceptable to both. Dr. Joliffe at once led his visitors to his study, in order that a letter might be drawn up for the purpose of summoning the eminent specialist.

It took some little time for this task to be performed. There were niceties of professional phrasing to consider; also the nature of the case called for a certain amount of discreet description. At last the letter was written, and then Dr. Parker was reminded by the sight of his car, which had come round from the vicarage, that he was urgently due elsewhere.

XXI

PRESSED for time, Dr. Parker fled. But he took the letter with him in order that he might post it in Brombridge, and so insure its earlier delivery in London. As soon as Dr. Parker had gone the vicar made a survey of the elements, and then set off at his best pace on a ten-minute walk to his house.

In doing this he knew that he ran the risk of a soaking. Storm clouds which had hovered all the afternoon were now massed overhead. Hardly had he entered the village street, when he perceived large drops of rain. But in his present frame of mind he did not feel like staying a moment longer under Joliffe’s roof than he could help. He was still seething within. He was still marveling at the crassness of certain of his fellow creatures. The open defection of one whom he had counted a sure ally was very hard to forgive.

However, by the time he had reached the edge of the common he realized that he was in a fair way of being drenched to the skin; moreover the rainstorms of the district, though often of great severity, did not last long as a rule.

Near by was a thicket of well-grown trees, which at once lured the vicar to accept their protection. As he crept under the branches there came a play of lightning, followed by thunder in a series of deafening crashes. Devoutly thankful that he had had the wit to gain shelter he crouched low, turned up his coat collar and looked out at the rain descending in a sheet. A hundred yards or so away, an old, white-aproned village woman, very thinly clad, was struggling toward her cottage. As she came near the priest’s stone in the middle of the village green, a man without a hat, and no better protected from the storm than herself, suddenly sprang up before her. In an instant he had taken off his coat and placed it round her shoulders.

The old woman went slowly on toward her cottage, while the man stood coatless in the rain. It did not seem to cause him any concern, he seemed, in fact, almost to welcome the storm, as he stood erect in its midst, the elements beating upon him, the thunder rolling over his head. And the vicar, peering from his shelter, thought that once or twice his right hand was raised as if he were in the act of speaking to heaven.

The man was John Smith. The vicar was amazed; such sheer insensibility to what was going on around was uncanny. Bareheaded, coatless, drenched to the skin, the man scorned the shelter so close at hand. The first thought that passed through the vicar’s mind was one of pity for the man’s physical and mental state. But hard upon that emotion came regret that the stubborn Joliffe was not also a spectator of the scene. Any doubts he still held as to the man’s sanity must surely have been dispelled.

A great wind began to roam the upper air. The lightning grew more vivid, the thunder louder, the weight of rain still heavier. The vicar crouched against the bole of the best tree. And as he did so, his thoughts somehow passed from the poor, demented figure of fantasy still before his eyes, to those overwhelming forces of nature in which they were both at that minute engulfed.

Intellectually the vicar was a very modest man. Sometimes, it is true, he had been tempted to ask himself poignant questions. But he had never presumed to give an independent answer of his own. For him the solution of the central mystery of man’s relation to the forces around him was comprised in the word “Faith.”

But now that he was the witness of poor John Smith’s dementia, the sense of human futility recurred to him. It needed a power of Faith to relate that drenched scarecrow, a mere insect upon whom Nature was wreaking a boundless will, to the cosmic march and profluence. For a moment the vicar was almost tempted to deny the still, small voice within and submit entirely to the judgment of the senses. His eyes, his ears, his sense of touch assured him that the poor madman out in the rain was lost in the sum of things. What relation could he have to those majestic powers by whom he was buffeted? Surely that lone, hapless figure was the symbol of Man himself.

And yet the act of devotion the man had just performed must have a meaning. It was a mystery within a mystery. Of whom had this poor blasphemer learned that trick; by what divine license did he practice it? For nearly half an hour it continued to rain pitilessly, and during that time the vicar searched and questioned his heart in regard to the man before him. At last the storm subsided; he came out of his shelter and went thoughtfully home. But in bed that night, when he closed his eyes and tried to sleep, he found the image of John Smith printed inside his eyelids.

XXII

THE next morning, when John Smith called as usual at Hart’s Ghyll with his bunch of flowers, he was allowed once more to see his friend. The stricken man received him in the library with the most affectionate intimacy.

“My dear, dear fellow,” he said, “how good it is to see you. You bring the light of the sun to this room whenever you enter it.”

The visitor took Brandon’s hand with the caressing touch of a woman. “Dear friend,” he said, “I always pray that the light may accompany me wherever I go.”

The simplicity of the man, which it would have been easy to misread, had now, as always, a strange effect upon Brandon. And yet he was heart-sore and miserable. The weight of sorrow now upon him seemed to transcend all his other sufferings. A cruel sense of the futility of his terrible sacrifice had overtaken him. What proof was there that it had not been in vain? After all, what hope could there be for the future of men; what was there to expect from a purblind, material world? He was now in the throes of a cruel reaction. Somehow his talk with the vicar had struck at his faith in his own kind.

He took no comfort from the thought that Mr. Perry-Hennington was a profoundly stupid man. Turning his mind back, he saw the parson of Penfold as the spiritual guide of the race of average men, of a race which allowed itself to be governed by the daily newspaper, which in one feverish hour threw away the liberties it had cost its father hundreds of years to win. Prussia was being met with Prussia, Baal with the image of Baal.

Throughout a wakeful night, that had been the thought in Brandon’s heart. Behind all the swelling heroics and the turgid phrases of organized opinion, was this Frankenstein monster. The world was moving in a vicious circle. The public press had somehow managed to recreate what it had set out to destroy. The question for Brandon now was, had he been the victim of a chimera? In the course of a long night of bitterness, the thought had taken root in him that all the blood and tears humanity was shedding would merely fix the shackles more cruelly on generations yet unborn.

This morning Brandon saw no hope for the ill-starred race of men. Hour by hour his fever-tinged thoughts had flown to one for whom he had conceived an emotion of the highest and purest friendship, to one whom his fellows were seeking a means to destroy.

“I have been wondering,” said Brandon, “whether you will consent to have your poem published? I know you are shy of print, but this is a rare jewel, the heritage of the whole world.”

“Don’t let us talk of it just now.” There was a shadow upon the eloquent face. “I have need of guidance. My poem, such as it is, is but one aspect of a great matter. I pray that I may find a more universal one.”

Brandon dissembled his surprise, but he could not bridle his curiosity. “Your poem _is_ a great matter,” he said. “To me it is wonderful. You call it ‘The Door.’ Why not let all the world pass through?”

“Such is my task, but I do not know that it can be fulfilled by the printed word. There may be a surer way. The question I have to ask myself is, can I do the Father’s will more worthily? By prayer and fasting perhaps I may.”

“But the thing is so perfect. Why gild the lily?”

“It is only one of many keys, dear friend. It is not the Door itself. It is no more than a stage in a long, long pilgrimage; no more than a means to the mighty end that has been laid upon me.”

Brandon, however, had set his heart upon the poem’s publication. To him it was a perfect thing. Moreover, he saw in it a vindication of its author, a noble answer to those who were conspiring to destroy him.

Strangely, however, John was not to be moved from his resolve. And more strangely still, as it seemed to Brandon, intimations had come to him already of the terrible fate that was about to overtake him. “It has been communicated to me that I am about to be called to a great trial,” were the words he used.

Brandon, sick at heart, had hardly the courage to seek an explanation. “You--you have been told that?” He scanned anxiously the face of the man at his side.

“Yes,” was the answer. “The inner voice spoke to me last evening. I don’t know when the blow will fall, or what fate awaits me, but a sword hangs by a single hair above my head.”

“And--and you are not afraid?” To Brandon this calmness was almost superhuman.

“I am not afraid. The souls of the just are in the hands of God. And I ask you, my dear friend, to share my faith. You are one of two witnesses to whom I have been allowed to reveal myself. The other is an old woman who can no longer work with her hands. You have long given her a roof for her head, and I have kept a loaf in her cupboard and found her fire in the winter. But there is only the poorhouse for her when I am taken, and I think she fears it.”

“Whatever happens, that shall not be her fate.”

“I will not thank so good a man. But it is your due that you should know this.”

“It is my great privilege. Is there any other way in which I may hope to be of use?”

“At the moment, none.” John Smith laid his hand on the arm of the stricken man with a gesture of mingled pity and solicitude. “But a time is surely coming when a heavy tax will be laid upon your friendship.”

“I cannot tell you how I shall welcome it.” As Brandon spoke he gazed upward to the eyes of the man who bent over him. As he met those large-pupiled orbs, a curious thrill passed through his frame. In the sudden sweep of his emotion was an odd sense of awe.

“I foresee, dear friend, that you are about to be called to a hero’s task.” The soft, low voice seemed to strike through Brandon as he lay.

“Whatever it may be, I accept it joyfully. In the meantime I can only pray that I may stand worthy in the day of trial.”

“Of that there can be no doubt--if you will always remember that one unconverted believer may save the whole world.”

For many days to come these cryptic words were to puzzle Brandon, and to linger in his ears. But in the moment of their utterance he could seek no elucidation. His whole soul was melted by a sense of awe. It was as if a new, unknown power was beginning to enfold him.

John Smith kissed Brandon gravely on the forehead and then went away. The stricken man was left in a state of bewildered perplexity. And a heavier load of misery was now upon him than any he had known. A rare, exquisite thing had been revealed to him in a miraculous way. It was about to suffer a cruel fate, and he had not the power to save it.

XXIII

BRANDON was still brooding over a tragedy he could not avert when a nurse came into the room. She was a practical, vigorous creature, plain and clean of mind, and after a single shrewd glance at the patient she proceeded to take his temperature with a clinical thermometer.

“Just as I thought.” An ominous head was shaken. “That man always has a bad effect upon you. I shall have to forbid him seeing you in the future.”

“What nonsense!” said Brandon.

“This speaks for itself.” The nurse held up the thermometer. “He always puts you up to a hundred. You are nearly a hundred and one now, and you’ll have to go to bed and stay there until you are down a bit.”