Part 30 (1/2)

He took down ”The Life of the Rev. Jeremiah Bodfish” and read aloud: ”In those intimate discourses with his family that followed evening prayers I once heard Brother Bodfish observe that Philo Judaeus-whose scholarly career always calls to my mind the adumbrations of Melanchthon upon the essence of rationalism-was a mere sophist-”

Jasper slammed the book shut, remarking contentedly, ”That'll do. Philo Judaeus-good name to spring.”

He relocked the bookcase and went upstairs. In a small bedroom at the right of the upper hall an electric light was burning. Presumably the house had been deserted till Jasper's entrance, but a prowler in the yard might have judged from this ever-burning light that some one was in residence. The bedroom was Spartan-an iron bed, one straight chair, a washstand, a heavy oak bureau. Jasper scrambled to unlock the lowest drawer of the bureau, yank it open, take out a wrinkled s.h.i.+ny suit of black, a pair of black shoes, a small black bow tie, a Gladstone collar, a white s.h.i.+rt with starched bosom, a speckly brown felt hat and a wig-an expensive and excellent wig with artfully unkempt hair of a faded brown.

He stripped off his attractive flannel suit, wing collar, blue tie, custom-made silk s.h.i.+rt and cordovan shoes, and speedily put on the wig and those gloomy garments. As he donned them the corners of his mouth began to droop. Leaving the light on and his own clothes flung on the bed he descended the stairs. He was obviously not the same man who had ascended them. As to features he was like Jasper, but by nature he was evidently less healthy, less practical, less agreeable, and decidedly more aware of the sorrow and long thoughts of the dreamer. Indeed it must be understood that now he was not Jasper Holt, but Jasper's twin brother, John Holt, hermit and religious fanatic.

II

John Holt, twin brother of Jasper Holt, the bank teller, rubbed his eyes as though he had for hours been absorbed in study, and crawled through the living room, through the tiny hall, to the front door. He opened it, picked up a couple of circulars that the postman had dropped through the letter slot in the door, went out and locked the door behind him. He was facing a narrow front yard, neater than the willow walk at the back, on a suburban street more populous than the straggly back lane.

A street arc illuminated the yard and showed that a card was tacked on the door. John touched the card, snapped it with the nail of his little finger, to make certain that it was securely tacked. In that light he could not read it, but he knew that it was inscribed in a small finicky hand: ”Agents kindly do not disturb, bell will not be answered, occupant of house engaged in literary work.”

John stood on the doorstep till he made out his neighbor on the right-a large stolid commuter, who was walking before his house smoking an after-dinner cigar. John poked to the fence and sniffed at a spray of lilac blossoms till the neighbor called over, ”Nice evening.”

”Yes, it seems to be very pleasant.”

John's voice was like Jasper's; but it was more guttural, and his speech had less a.s.surance.

”How's the book going?”

”It is-it is very-very difficult. So hard to comprehend all the inner meanings of the prophecies. Well, I must be hastening to Soul Hope Hall.

I trust we shall see you there some Wednesday or Sunday evening. I bid you good-night, sir.”

John wavered down the street to a drug store. He purchased a bottle of ink. In a grocery that kept open evenings he got two pounds of corn meal, two pounds of flour, a pound of bacon, a half pound of b.u.t.ter, six eggs and a can of condensed milk.

”Shall we deliver them?” asked the clerk.

John looked at him sharply. He realized that this was a new man, who did not know his customs. He said rebukingly: ”No, I always carry my parcels. I am writing a book. I am never to be disturbed.”

He paid for the provisions out of a postal money order for thirty-five dollars, and received the change. The cas.h.i.+er of the store was accustomed to cas.h.i.+ng these money orders, which were always sent to John from South Vernon, by one R. J. Smith. John took the bundle of food and walked out of the store.

”That fellow's kind of a nut, isn't he?” asked the new clerk.

The cas.h.i.+er explained: ”Yep. Doesn't even take fresh milk-uses condensed for everything! What do you think of that! And they say he burns up all his garbage-never has anything in the ash can except ashes. If you knock at his door he never answers it, fellow told me. All the time writing this book of his. Religious crank, I guess. Has a little income though-guess his folks were pretty well fixed. Comes out once in a while in the evening and pokes round town. We used to laugh about him, but we've kind of got used to him. Been here about a year, I guess it is.”

John was serenely pa.s.sing down the main street of Rosebank. At the dingier end of it he turned in at a hallway marked by a lighted sign announcing in crude house-painter's letters: ”Soul Hope Fraternity Hall.

Experience Meeting. All Welcome.”

It was eight o'clock. The members of the Soul Hope cult had gathered in their hall above a bakery. Theirs was a tiny, tight-minded sect. They a.s.serted that they alone obeyed the scriptural tenets; that they alone were certain to be saved; that all other denominations were d.a.m.ned by unapostolic luxury; that it was wicked to have organs or ministers or any meeting places save plain halls. The members themselves conducted the meetings, one after another rising to give an interpretation of the scriptures or to rejoice in gathering with the faithful, while the others commented ”Hallelujah!” and ”Amen, brother, amen!” They were a plainly dressed, not overfed, rather elderly and rather happy congregation. The most honored of them all was John Holt.

John had come to Rosebank only six months before. He had bought the Beaudette house, with the library of the recent occupant, a retired clergyman, and had paid for them in new one-hundred-dollar bills.

Already he had gained great credit in the Soul Hope cult. It appeared that he spent almost all his time at home, praying, reading and writing a book. The Soul Hope Fraternity were excited about the book. They had begged him to read it to them. So far he had read only a few pages, consisting mostly of quotations from ancient treatises on the prophecies. Nearly every Sunday and Wednesday evening he appeared at the meeting and in a halting but scholarly way lectured on the world and the flesh.

To-night he spoke polysyllabically of the fact that one Philo Judaeus had been a mere sophist. The cult were none too clear as to what either a Philo Judaeus or a sophist might be, but with heads all nodding in a row, they murmured: ”You're right, brother! Hallelujah!”

John glided into a sad earnest discourse on his worldly brother Jasper, and informed them of his struggles with Jasper's itch for money. By his request the fraternity prayed for Jasper.

The meeting was over at nine. John shook hands all round with the elders of the congregation, sighing: ”Fine meeting to-night, wasn't it? Such a free outpouring of the Spirit!” He welcomed a new member, a servant girl just come from Seattle. Carrying his groceries and the bottle of ink he poked down the stairs from the hall at seven minutes after nine.