So he went out, and the door was shut, and Edmund Gray was left alone with George and the Scholar.

'My Master'--Elsie sat down beside him--'I fear you have been interrupted. But indeed it was necessary. Don't ask why. Things get into a muddle sometimes, don't they? You have gathered something of the trouble, too. Now that is all over--past and gone.'

'I am glad for your sake, child.'

'Master--dear Master--I have a confession to make. When I found out who you were--I mean what manner of man you were--my only thought at first was to coax you and wheedle you and flatter you till you gave me exactly the information that I wanted. I confess it. That was my only purpose.

Nay--more--for the sake of my lover and my brother I would do it again.

Well--I found that the only way to win your confidence was to pretend to be your Scholar and to believe all you taught. So I pretended. So I won your confidence. So I obtained all I wanted. So I have made it impossible for even the most malignant creature in the world to pretend that these two men had anything to do with what they called a forgery.

But--believe me, dear Master--while I pretended, I was punished, because my pretence is turned to certainty.'

'Child, I knew it. You could not pretend--no woman could pretend so as to deceive me on a point so simple.'

'Dear Master, you do not know the possibilities of feminine craft. But I pretend no more. Oh! I care not how you make your attempt, whether you destroy Property or not. Mr. Dering says that Property is Civilisation--but I don't care. To me it is enough to dream--to know--that there is an Earthly Paradise possible, if only men will think so and will keep it before their eyes, though it be as far off as the blue hills. It is beautiful only to think of it; the soul is lifted up only to think that there is such a place. Keep the eyes of your people on this glorious place, dear Master: make it impossible for them to forget it or to let it go out of their sight. Then, half-unconsciously, they will be running, dragging each other, forcing each other--exhorting each other to hurry along the dusty road which leads to that Earthly Paradise with its Four-square City of the Jasper wall. Preach about it, Master. Write about it. Make all men talk about it and think about it.'

She threw her arms round his neck and kissed him.

'Master, we shall be away for a month or two. Then we shall come back, and I shall sit at your feet again. You shall come and stay with us. We will give you love, and you shall give us hope. I have made my confession. Forgive me.'

They left him sitting alone. Presently he arose, put all the papers back in the safe, and walked slowly away--to Gray's Inn.

Next morning when he opened his letters he found one marked 'Private.'

It was from Sir Samuel.

'DEAR EDWARD,' it said--'We are all very glad to tell you that the business of the shares and certificates is now completely cleared up. Checkley is not in any way concerned in it--nor is George Austin. And I am happy to say there is a complete solution of the former mystery which entirely clears Hilda's brother. Under these circ.u.mstances, we are agreed that it is best for you not to trouble yourself about any further investigations. You will find in the safe the transfers, a cheque to yourself of all the money received by Edmund Gray, and an order in the Bank concerning the dividends. You have been the victim of a very remarkable hallucination. I need not explain further. Mr. Edmund Gray, however, is undoubtedly insane. I hear, and have myself observed, that you have been greatly disturbed and distressed by these mysterious events. Now that they are settled finally--I may say that only a happy chance set us on the right track--we all hope that you will be satisfied with our a.s.surance, and that you will not trouble yourself any more in the matter.--Your affectionate brother,

'SAMUEL DERING.'

Mr. Dering, after reading this letter, got up and looked in the safe, where he found the papers referred to. He rang the bell. 'Checkley, who has been at my safe?'

'n.o.body but you.'

'Don't tell lies. Who put those papers in the safe?'

'They must have been put there yesterday--you were in the room.'

'Yesterday--what happened yesterday?'

Checkley was silent.

'Who was here yesterday?--Go on, Checkley. Don't be afraid.'

'Sir Samuel was here--and Lady Dering--and Mrs. Arundel--and Miss Elsie--and your Partner--and Mr. Athelstan. Two or three more came in and went away.'

'That will do. You need tell me no more. I don't want to know the particulars.--Checkley, my day's work is done. I have thought so for some time past. Now I am certain, I shall retire.'

'No--no,' cried Checkley, the tears running down his face. 'Not to retire--after all these years--not to retire.'

'I know now the meaning of my fits of forgetfulness. I have feared and suspected it for a long time. While I am lost to myself, I am going about the world, doing I know not what. And I will not ask. I may be this Edmund Gray who preaches Socialism and gives me his precious tracts. I may be some one else. I say, Checkley, that I know now what has happened to me. Deny it if you can--if you can, I say.'

Checkley did not offer any denial. He hung his head. 'This is the meaning of Elsie's strange hints and queer protestations. Half my time I am a madman--a madman.--Checkley, ask Mr. Austin to come to me at once.

My day is done.' He closed his open blotting-pad and placed the unopened letters beside it. Then he rose and pushed back his chair--the chair in which he had sat for fifty years and more. 'My day is done--my day is done.'

CHAPTER x.x.xV

THE LAST

Mr. Dering left his office, went back to Gray's Inn, and sat down again before the Ivory Gate. Those who have once sat for an hour or two in this place return to it again and again and never leave it. It is, to begin with, the most beautiful gate ever erected. The brain and wit and fancy of man could never conceive such a gate, could never execute such a conception. It is all of pure ivory, carved with flowers such as never grew; curving and flowing lines leading nowhere; figures of maidens lovely beyond all dreams; philosophers whose wisdom reaches unto the Heavens; statesmen who discern the gathering forces and control the destinies of a nation; inventors who conquer nature; physicians who prolong life; ecclesiastics who convert the Carthusian cell into a bower of delight; poets who here find their fantasies divine; men and women in a work-a-day dress who wear the faces of the heavenly host.

All the dreamers lie here, not asleep, but dreaming. Their eyes are open, but they do not see each other; they see these dreams. Those of the young who are also generous come here and dream until they grow older and are chained to their work and can dream no more. Men of all conditions come here--even the little shop-boy--even the maiden who cleans the knives and polishes the boots--all are here. The young Prince is here: the little charity boy is here: the lad whose loftiest ambition is that he may one day stand in the pulpit of the little Baptist village chapel is here: here is the undergraduate who was Captain of Eton and will be Senior Cla.s.sic and Member of Parliament and Minister--even Prime Minister--and will belong to History. The poet is here, and the painter, and sometimes. .h.i.ther comes the novelist, and, but more rarely, the dramatist. Hither comes the musician to lift up his soul with thoughts that only music can give; and the singer, so that he sings more than is apparent from the words; and the actor, so that he puts things into the play never dreamed by him who wrote it. Great is the power, great the gifts, of this n.o.ble Gate of Ivory.

Sitting before that gate, such a dreamer as Edmund Gray receives strange visions. He sees clearly and near at hand the things which might be, yet are not, and never can be until man lays down his garb of selfishness and puts on the white robes of Charity. To that dreamer the Kingdom of Heaven, which seems to some so far off and to others impossible, so that they deride the name of it, is actually close at hand--with us--easy to enter if we only choose. He exhorts his fellows to enter with him. And they would follow, but they cannot because they are held back by custom and necessity. They must obey the laws of the mult.i.tude, and so they stay where they are. And when the dreamer pa.s.ses away, his memory is quickly lost, and the brightness quickly leaves those dimly-lighted lives. Yet other dreamers come--every day there arises an Edmund Gray.

Now when Edmund Gray takes the place of Edward Dering, in which guise does the soul, in the end, leave the earth? Are the dreams of Edmund Gray perhaps the logical development of the doctrines held by Edward Dering? Is the present stage of Individual Property--where every man works for himself and his household--one through which the world must pa.s.s before it can reach the higher level of working each for all? First men and women hunt, separate: they live apart in hollow trees and caves.

Then they live together, and the man hunts for his wife and children.

Next, they live in communities, which grow into towns and tribes and nations. Then men rely upon the protection of the law, and work for themselves again. That is our present stage: it has lasted long--very long. Perhaps it will break up some day: perhaps sooner than we think.

Who knows? All things are possible--even the crash and wreck of a civilisation which has taken thousands of years to build up. And upon it may come--one knows not--that other stage which now belongs to the dreamer before the Ivory Gate.

The wedding was held then, as Elsie said it should be, shorn of none of its splendours, and relieved of the cloud which had hung over them so long and threatened them so gloomily. Athelstan the Exile--Athelstan the Ne'er-do-well--Athelstan the Profligate--Athelstan the Resident of Camberwell--Athelstan the Smirched and Soiled--stood beside the altar, tall and gallant, and gave away the bride for all the world to see--n.o.body in the least ashamed of him. There was not any breath of scandal left. Here he was, returned from his travels, a tall and proper man, dressed in broadcloth, perhaps with money in purse, prosperous and successful in the sight of all. His mother gazed upon him when she should have been looking at the bride or into her Prayer Book. Her eyes were red, but then a mother is allowed a tear or two when her daughter leaves the nest. And as to those who had whispered words about family jars, quarrels and estrangements, or had spoken against the fair fame of the groom, they were now as mute as mice.

All the richer members of the House of Arundel--the City Arundels--were present. One of them--chief partner in a leading firm of accountants--afterwards computed, for the greater increase of the family glory, how many hundreds of thousands of pounds were gathered together at one moment beneath that sacred roof. He counted the members, and made that little addition, during the performance of the ceremony. Those of the Austins who were not disgracefully poor--there are some branches of the family, I believe, pretty low down--were also present. And the company went to Pembridge Square after the service, gazed admiringly at the wedding presents, and drank the health of the bride and bridegroom, and gathered with cousinly curiosity round the returned Prodigal. But they knew nothing--mind you--of his connection with Camberwell. And nothing about his supposed complicity in the Edmund Gray business. There had been, happily, no scandal.

Among the company in the church was Mr. Dering. He stood tall and erect, his coat b.u.t.toned, his face keen and hard, the family lawyer stamped by nature and long custom.

Presently, when the service was about half way through, a change came over him. His face relaxed: the lines curved just a little laterally, the austerity vanished, his eyes brightened. He took off his gloves furtively and opened his coat. He was Edmund Gray. In that capacity he afterwards drank to the bride and wished her happiness. And he walked all the way from Pembridge Square to South Square, Gray's Inn.

I see in the future an old man growing feeble: he leans upon the arm of a girl whom he calls his Scholar, his disciple, and his child. His face is serene: he is perfectly happy: the Advent of that Kingdom whose glories he preaches is very nigh at hand. He lives in the house of his disciple: he has forgotten the very existence of his lawyer: he goes no more to Lincoln's Inn: always he is lying, night and day, before that miracle of carven work in Ivory. There he watches--it is his Vision--the long procession of those who work and sing at their work and are happy, work they ever so hard, because they work each for all and all for each.

And there is no more sorrow or crying and no more pain. What hath the Gate of Horn--through which is allowed nothing but what is true--bitterly true--absolutely true--nakedly, coldly, shiveringly true--to show in comparison with this? A crowd trampling upon each other: men who enslave and rob each other: men and women and children lying in misery--men and women and children starving.--Let us fly, my brothers--let us swiftly fly--let us hasten--to the Gate of Ivory.

_OPINIONS OF THE PRESS_

ON

THE IVORY GATE.

By WALTER BESANT.