Part 42 (2/2)

”I thought you had done with it, my son, but Heaven knew better. And promise that when you are there you will pray for our wandering brother, that he may not be allowed to fulfil the errand on which you sent him out; pray that he may never find his sister, or anybody who knows her and can tell him where she is and what has become of her; pray that she may never cross his path to the last hour of life and the first of death's sundering; promise to pray for this, my son, night and day, morning and evening, with all your soul and strength, as you would pray for G.o.d's mercy and your soul's salvation.”

John did not answer; he was like a man in a stupor. ”Is it possible?” he said. ”Are you sending me back to the door? Can you trust me again?”

The Father stepped to the side of the bed and took the key of the gate from its place under the shelf. ”Take this key with you, too, because for the future you are to be the keeper of the gate as well.”

John had taken the key mechanically, hardly hearing what was being said.

”Is it true, then--have you got faith in me still?”

The Father put both hands on his shoulders again and looked into his face. ”G.o.d has faith in you, my child, and who am I that I should despair?”

When John Storm returned to the door his mind was in a state of stupefaction. Many hours pa.s.sed during which he was only partly conscious of what was taking place about him. Sometimes he was aware that certain of the brothers had gathered around, with a tingling, electrical atmosphere among them, and that they were asking questions about the escape, and whispering together as if it had been something courageous and almost commendable, and had set their hearts beating.

Again, sometimes he was aware that big Brother Andrew was sitting by his side on the form, stroking his arm from time to time, and talking in his low voice and aimless way about his mother and the last he saw of her.

”She followed me down the street crying,” he said, ”and I have often thought of it since and been tempted to run away.” Also he was aware that the dog was with him always, licking the backs of his stiff hands and poking up a cold snout into his downcast face.

All this time he was doing his duties automatically and apparently without help from his consciousness, opening and closing the door as the brothers pa.s.sed in and out on their errands to the dead and dying, and saying, ”Praise be to G.o.d!” when a stranger knocked. It may be that his body was merely answering to the habits of its intellect, and that his soul, which had sustained a terrible blow, was lying stunned and swooning within.

When it revived and he began to know and to feel once more, there was no one with him, for the brothers were asleep in their beds and the dog was in the courtyard, and the house was very quiet, for it was the middle of the night. And then it came back to him, like a dream remembered in the morning, that the Father had asked him to pray for Brother Paul that he might fail in the errand on which he had sent him out into the world, and though with his lips he had not promised, yet in his heart he had undertaken to do so.

And being quite alone now, with no one but G.o.d for company, he went down on his knees in his place by the door and clasped his hands together.

”O G.o.d,” he prayed, ”have pity on Paul, and on me, and on all of us!

Keep him from all danger and suffering and from the snares and a.s.saults of the Evil One! Grant that he may never find his sister--or anybody who knows her--or anybody who can tell him where she is and what has become of her----”

But having got so far he could get no farther, for suddenly it occurred to him that this was a prayer which concerned Glory and himself as well.

It was only then that he realized the magnitude and awfulness of the task he had undertaken. He had undertaken to ask G.o.d that Paul might not find Glory either, and therefore that he on his part might never hear of her again. When he put it to himself like that, the sweat started from his forehead and he was transfixed with fear.

He rose from his knees and sat on the form, and for a long hour he laboured in the thought of a thousand possibilities, telling himself of the many things which might befall a beautiful girl in a cruel and wicked city. But then again he thought of Paul and of his former crime and present temptation, and remembered the shadow that hung over the Brotherhood.

”O G.o.d, help me,” he cried; ”strengthen me, support me, guide me!”

He tried to frame another prayer, but the words would not come; he tried to kneel as before, but his knees would not bend. How could he pray that Glory also might be lost--that something might have happened to her--that somewhere and in some way unknown to him----

No, no, a thousand times no! The prayer was impossible. Let come what would, let the danger to Paul and to the Brotherhood be what it might, let Satan and all his legions fall on him, yet he could not and would not utter it.

XIII.

The stars were paling, but the day had not yet dawned, when there came a knock at the door. John started and listened. After an interval the knock was repeated. It was a timid, hesitating tap, as if made with the tips of the fingers low down on the door.

”Praise be to G.o.d!” said John, and he drew the slide of the grating. He had expected to see a face outside, but there was nothing there.

”Who is it?” he asked, and there came no answer.

He took up the lamp that was kept burning in the hall and looked out through the bars. There was nothing in the darkness but an icy mist, which appeared to be rising from the ground.

”Only another of my dreams,” he thought, and he laid his hand on the slide to close it.

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