Part 2 (1/2)
A long time I stood waiting for some reply to my message. My candle was fast burning out, and I began to fear that after all I was likely to leave the house no wiser than when I had entered it. Suddenly a door swung on its creaking hinges and a feeble old man, holding a lamp in one hand, stood grinning at me in the opening. It was the same face that I saw before, but it seemed less ghostly and unnatural now. Stepping back he beckoned me to enter. As soon as I had crossed the threshold the door closed behind me and the old man carefully bolted it. I stood in a large room, richly furnished, of which spiders had apparently long held possession. Great cobwebs hung like hammocks from the ceiling, and the dust of years had settled over all. Two human skeletons completely wrapped in cobwebs, stood facing me against the opposite wall. Following my silent leader, I went through a long narrow pa.s.sage, at the end of which was a heavy door fastened with large iron bolts. Before opening it the strange old man placed the lamp upon a table and turning around looked squarely into my face. Merciful Heaven! It was the face of another man who was looking at me now! The deep lines had almost disappeared and the eyes looked brighter and more intelligent. No, it was the same face, for while my eyes were eagerly scanning it that hideous grin began to deepen its wrinkles, and its owner, taking half a dozen steps down the pa.s.sageway, made an awkward motion with both hands as if trying to indicate that I was to follow him very closely. Then he opened the big door and I was surprised to observe that it led into the outer air. What gulf of darkness are we about to plunge into? I asked myself, peering through the doorway; and as we stepped out I heard again that ominous whirring. Close upon his heels I followed in a narrow path, through what seemed to be a large courtyard, overgrown with thick gra.s.s.
Presently he stopped, and, taking a bunch of keys from his pocket, unlocked a door in a back wing of the house. Reaching out until his hand touched me, as if to make sure that I was there, he swung the door open and we stepped into a dimly lighted apartment. My mysterious guide turned up the wick of a lamp that was burning on a table in the centre of the room. It was a library, with great shelves of books reaching from floor to ceiling along its walls. A large galvanic battery, globes, charts and other contrivances that belong to the equipment of a scholar surrounded the table. This table was used for writing evidently, for there were pens lying on it and a human skull used as an inkstand, the fluid being held in the cavities of the eyes. I had seated myself in a chair and was waiting for some sign from the little old man who had brought me there. But where was he? Turning around I looked about me on all sides. He had left the room during my momentary preoccupation. I had scarcely seated myself again when a door opened and a venerable man, with snow-white hair and a smooth-shaven face that was pale and wrinkled, walked slowly toward me. I rose to my feet and advanced a step or two. He came forward without speaking and looked steadily into my eyes. Slowly and sadly he turned his gaze upon the floor, apparently in deep thought. A sigh broke from his lips as if some memory, stirring in the caves of thought, had driven it forth.
The man who stood before me had deep-set gray eyes, almost concealed by long s.h.a.ggy brows not yet entirely white. His lips were thin, and drawn closely together above a square, protruding chin. The nose was aquiline and prominent, with large, but finely cut nostrils. Altogether his was the most picturesque face I had ever seen. Suddenly he made an effort to clear his throat.
”Kendric's child,” said he, in a strange, low voice. He spoke slowly and with great difficulty, as if his organs of speech were partially paralyzed. I would not have been able to distinguish his words but for the silence of that room and the unnatural keenness of my hearing. He still stood motionless, his eyes upon the floor. I knew that he was thinking of my father.
”Dead?” he asked, looking at me inquisitively.
”He is dead,” I answered.
”And my man--did he give you the letter?”
”Yes; he is dead also.”
”Dead? I thought he was dead,” he repeated, slowly and thoughtfully. ”I, too, am dead--long dead.”
The words were separated by considerable pauses, and he faced me almost sternly as he finished speaking them. I stood staring at him, dumb with surprise.
”Why--how did you come here?”
He sank into a chair, exhausted with the effort it had cost him to speak. My presence seemed to irritate and annoy him. Why, indeed, had I come there? What should I say in reply to his question? I tried to think.
”Knaves! Knaves!” said my uncle, in a shrill voice, rus.h.i.+ng toward me.
In a moment he had thrown his arms about my neck and was sobbing aloud.
My heart was full and I wept with him.
”Fortunate child of G.o.d,” said he, after a moment; ”you have the seed of life--immortal life. But I beg you to go. To one like you this house will seem an uncanny place; I can only think of it as beyond the grave.”
”Let me stay, uncle,” said I. ”Don't send me away. Perhaps I can help you or comfort you.”
”Poor soul! you shall stay if you will. I am in great trouble and need help, but you are a boy--I cannot ask you to give your life to me.”
He sat down before the table, breathing heavily, and beckoned me to a chair beside him. I was quite dumfounded and knew not what to say.
Presently he began writing upon large sheets of paper, handing each one to me as soon as it was covered. The ma.n.u.script read as follows:
”I am not able to talk much. To me words are a lie and an abomination.
Even these I now write are misrepresenting me and deceiving you, though I wish them to tell the truth. They will make me out an a.s.s or a madman.
I am neither. For eighteen years I have scarcely spoken as many words. A word or two of Sanscrit now and then has met my needs, thank G.o.d! There is an interior language for which speech is an imperfect medium. Through that interior language thought is communicated directly and truthfully.
I used it long before I came here--imperfectly, to be sure, but with a small degree of satisfaction to myself. Through it I was able to heal the sick when others failed. I knew how they felt better than they could tell me in feeble words. In some more perfect state of evolution, beyond the grave, perhaps, all men will have this power and it will be perfect.
I can enjoy but an imperfect use of it until the mortal part of me has been cast off. One trained to speech in childhood loses certain faculties that can never be regained.
”My wife died many years ago. She left me a broken heart and a child, newly born. I had just built this house, among strangers. We intended to devote the remainder of our lives to the study of mental phenomena. We desired to carry on our work without interruption. We planned to live unknown among those around us. When she died I saw in the child an opportunity. I determined to make its life a grand experiment; to preserve and cultivate its native intuitions--the germ of the power of direct communication. G.o.d has vouchsafed success to me. He lives--a man of exalted powers the like of which the world has never seen but once, and then in Christ, the very Son of G.o.d. But, unlike Him, my son is only human, with weaknesses that are our common lot.
”The years are flying, and strength is failing! I must die soon and he will live. That thought burns my brain, pa.s.sing through it day by day.
His life may be long extended and he cannot live alone, nor among men, for he would be a stranger and friendless--feared and dreaded by superst.i.tious fools. He has never seen a human face outside these walls nor heard a human voice but mine. I have told you my trouble.”
He ceased writing, but before I had finished reading the statement some strange influence came over me. I felt restless and uncomfortable. My hand was shaking so that I could scarcely read the words on the last sheet of paper. Suddenly I raised my eyes and saw a young man, G.o.dlike in form and feature, standing at my side. His face wore an expression of indescribable eloquence. As familiar as he afterward became to me, I can never forget the first impression which that magnificent human being made upon my mind, as he stood there--radiating a power that I felt to the tips of my fingers. What favored son of man was this confronting me, born to such an inheritance of majesty and grace? I asked myself, regarding him with amazement. He had eyes dark as night, set under a broad forehead, about which wavy ma.s.ses of tawny hair fell gracefully.
His stately form was erect and firm as a statue. For a moment his eyes looked into mine; then he advanced and took my hand. Tenderly he pressed it to his lips, stepping back as he did so and looking at me with a half-curious, half-amused expression. I was so startled by the unexpected appearance of this remarkable figure that I had not, until now, noticed that a large lion had followed him into the room and was lying quietly at his feet. I was not afraid; indeed, the king of beasts seemed but a part of the man's masterful presence. I do not think I would have seen the animal but that his enormous body was lying directly before my eyes on the floor. My uncle had been sitting with his head resting upon his hand at the table. Suddenly he rose and a strange, guttural sound--it may have been a word from some language wholly unfamiliar to me--pa.s.sed his lips. The young man immediately left us, the lion following closely at his heels. We both sat in silence for some moments after he had gone. My mind had felt strange exhilaration in his presence, and I rubbed my eyes to make sure that I was not dreaming.