The Return of Eric Bancroft

HE Rev. Norman Byers sat in his study waiting for the clock to strike. When it should strike he would put on his overcoat and go to the Thursday evening meeting. After the service he had an appointment with his vestry.

The room in which the rector sat was not large—nor was it like the usual ministerial study. The circular walls were not filled with books, but with panes of clear glass, through which the light came with even glow. There was no sign of where the light came from; but only electricity could have given the white, unsheathed light that filled the room. It fell on the man seated at the desk and touched the few and simple objects in the room with clear directness. One seemed to breathe more freely in the tranquil presence of the light. The man at the desk turned a little in his place. A door in the circular wall had swung noiselessly open and a servant stood in it, hesitating.

"Come in, Bliven," said the minister. "What is it?"

"I thought you had gone, sir," said the man. "I brought this to leave." He held out a crumpled piece of paper.

The minister laid it on the desk, glancing at it casually. "Did some one bring it?"

"A man. Yes, sir."

Norman Byers had bent suddenly toward the paper. He straightened himself. "Has he gone?"

The man hesitated. "I don't know, sir. I told him you was likely to be out—"

"Show him up," said the minister.

Bliven glanced at the clock. It gave its little, absent whir and waited a breath. Then the chimes fell, one by one, in the clear light.

The minister smiled. "There will be time. It is important that I see him." He touched the soiled paper.

When the door opened again, a curious figure stood in it—short and dark and a little bent, with eager, searching look. The darting eyes took in the round, lighted room with its lifted ceiling before they rested on the man who stood with outstretched hand smiling at him.

He came forward, looking doubtfully at the extended hand. "You are glad to see me?"

"I am very glad to see you." The low, grave voice filled the room.

The other smiled, a little bitterly. "You are sure you know me?" He had not touched the outstretched hand.

"I am not likely to forget you—Eric!"

Then the other held out his hand—thin, almost like a claw, and laid it in the smooth palm. "I didn't expect you'd be glad," he said, with a little, clouded laugh.

"Sit down." The minister had drawn forward a chair. "I have an engagement. I must go in five minutes. But I must see you again—"

The other looked up. His elbows rested on the arms of the chair and his finger tips were placed together. "I shall see you again," he said. "I came to see you. 1 want help."

"What kind of help?" The tone was non-committal, but not disagreeable.

"My kind—"

"What is that?"

The other looked at him curiously. "You don't know?"

The minister stirred a little. "You forget— It has been a long time."

"Yes, a long time." The dark man seemed lost in thought. He looked up with his curious, broken smile, half sinister. "And we did not work . . ." he said. "We played."

"We played," assented the other. "What is it I can do?"

"I want pupils—piano—organ." He spread out the thin hands. "I am a good teacher—when I choose." He laughed a little, but it was half lost under his breath.

"You want me to recommend—you—to my parishioners?"

"That is all."

There was silence in the room, and the clear ticking of the clock.

"I want to be something worth while—to end with," said the man after a moment. "I have seen a doctor—and he doesn't give me—long—to be worth while. So I thought of you. I don't know how it will be to die," he said, simply. "I haven't tried it." The strange smile crept about the words. "But I thought it might taste better if I brought something to it—I seem to be coming empty-handed." He spread out the thin fingers again and looked at them.

The other did not speak. He rose from his chair and touched the bell. The man had risen and was looking at him.

"You must come again—in the morning," said the clergyman. "I have to go now." "You will help me?"

"I must have time to think. There will be something. . . . It has been a long time." There was a note of strain in the voice.

"I said it was a long time," said the other. He had drawn himself together, with his broken smile, and his shoulders seemed to shrug a little as he turned away.

The minister went quickly toward him and laid a hand on his arm. "Do not misunderstand me, Eric. I am glad you came, but I must have a moment to think—what I can do best."

He was looking down at the man with grave, sincere eyes.

The dark face flushed, and the mocking smile died out slowly. "I have come a long way to hear you say that," he said. "And I will come back in the morning—if you say so."

"Yes—in the morning."

The door closed behind the short figure, and the soft light of the panels filled the room again.

The minister reached for his overcoat and put it on. He took up his hat and stood with it in his hand, looking down. The other hand rested on the back of a chair. His eyes had an intent look, as if they were watching down there a contest—that look of St. Michael, perhaps, when the dragon is thrown, and struggles to rise.

After a moment he roused himself. He glanced up again at the clock and went quickly toward the door. In the doorway he paused and lifted his hand. In a flash the room lay in darkness—as if the light had gone with him.

When he entered the room again, the clocks were striking ten. He stepped into the soft circle of moonlight that filled the room, and crossed to one of the windows and stood looking down—far below him the city sparkled and glowed; long lines of light marked the streets, and columns of light rose in the air, twinkling at a thousand points; here and there swift balls of light swung and sputtered, red and blue and green on the darkness, and overhead, planets swung in the cold and then grew red and shimmered. He pressed his forehead against the glass, looking down into the night. The room seemed suddenly stifling, and he threw open the window, leaning far out from his tower for a breath of air. Down below the city hummed. He caught the harsh roar and the roll of life. Up here there were no voices, no shriek of trains—only the still, long rhythm of a town, that deepened and rose and died away and rose again, like the beat of some sea with its hidden note. He breathed deep, looking down at it all. . . . It was strange how the man's coming had stirred him. He had been out of it all so long—and he had forgotten—almost! But now it seemed as if they had never really been apart. A little smile touched his lips as he leaned out, looking down into the moonlight. The curve of the lips was half sceptical—half sweet, and touched with a little fear. He strained his eyes toward the lights, looking down, as if somewhere below lay the answer. . . . It was all so sudden—the sight of the gaunt, strange face—the old sense of kinship. . . that had haunted him through the service and followed him out into the vestry, and the committee, and made him propose, in the middle of the meeting, Eric Bancroft as organist for the Church of the Ascension. The look on the lips deepened a little. . . . It seemed almost malign, some fatal happening. . . that the organist should fall ill—resign without an hour's notice,—and that he, Norman Byers, half in a dream, had spoken a name that was half in a dream. . . . They had accepted him at once. They would have accepted any one—Mephistopheles, had he named him. He drew a quick breath. What was he afraid of? The man was equal to the place. He had not seen him for years, but he had heard. . . and he knew him— Ah, did he not know him! They had hired no mere professional organist. The man was a genius! . . . He dwelt on the thought, turning it in his mind, and his breath grew easier. He closed the window and sat down, still looking out. . . . He would not go to bed till he had set his house in order. . . . He had been thrown off from himself—frightened. . . but it was nothing— It was really nothing. Eric was always a disturbing person. It was so in the old days—a kind of happy unrest. But full, day and night—of courage and sorrow and delight. . . . How full of him the old college seemed as he looked back! They had been closer than chums—day and night—unlike in every trait, but unable to keep apart. "Bond-brothers." He went over it all—his first meeting with the dark, grotesque boy, the strange affinity between them, the life that followed. . . full of excitement—card-playing, drinking, good times, and singing—only spilling over a while, there had been no meanness in it, only high, full life at its tide. He had kept the dark spirit—he knew it now—from going down. His cool, untroubled touch had kept the balance. . . . His memory trembled in the strange, vague time. . . that was yet so keen to both of them. . . and he sighed a little. It had broken like a bubble. . . . He could close his eyes now —in this straight tower, rising in the moonlight, and see it—the low-ceiled room with rafters and the old fireplace and the little panes of glass and two boys with the foaming glasses between them—the high, sweet song—the bond-song, that Eric had written—music and words—sounding softly through the room, between the talk. . . . Then the door suddenly swung wide with Eric's father striding through it. He laid on the table by the glasses a piece of paper, signed with his name, and confronted his son. . . . Yes, the boy had done it. He smiled the dark, sinister smile. . . . The man recalling it now gave a quick sigh that was almost a groan. It had been for him that the money had been spent—all of it. He had been in need—in disgrace. Money that he had flung right and left was due—and he had nothing! He had told Eric one night. The next morning the money was in his hand. He had taken it—freely—as it was given. . . . But he had not known that there was a name forged—he had known nothing. He saw himself again—was it only six years ago?—staring at the writing, dazed and silent and shamed! How it cut! He had not spoken. He had let the boy go, silent and desperate, and he had not spoken! How it cut—the memory of it! The boy's father loved him. . . he would have listened—grudgingly, perhaps—but he would have listened. The boy had done it for his friend—out of love. . . and the father would have listened. . . . The man sitting in the moonlit room knew it now—he had known it then—and he had kept silent! It was the one minute in his life that he could never face. Everything looked clear but that. Everything had changed then— It seemed only a step to the "pious set," and to the theological seminary, the year afterward, and to the Church of the Ascension. . . . He had felt Eric Bancroft's arm through his shabby coat—and the thrill of life! Bond-brothers. . .? He rose and went over to the window. . . . The city was duller now. The columns of light were broken, here and there, and the sparkling balls had gone out. He must have sat long—thinking of it all. Bells sounded from below, and he counted the strokes—slowly—and turned away. It was to-morrow now, and his pulses stirred faintly, as if something were coming—out of the day.

When Norman Byers woke the next morning the sun was shining wide into his chamber. The room in which he slept was on a lower floor, far below the study, but the sun had climbed over the tops of the tall houses opposite, and shone straight down on him. He was a little ashamed, as he dressed, of his visions of the night before. The moonlit room seemed fantastic and unreal. There was no reason why Eric Bancroft should not act as organist. Shelborne would return, no doubt, in a few weeks—or months. The trouble with his lungs was not permanent, the doctor had said. The church was really fortunate in securing so competent a substitute. The only drawback was a personal one—a little uneasiness lest Eric should presume on their relations, should become troublesome and familiar—but he could control that. He had always been the stronger. . . . He finished dressing and went out to his work, fresh in mind and body—ready to repel anything annoying or familiar.

But his caution was unneeded. As the weeks went by he became aware that the new organist would not obtrude. He came and went silently, performing his duties with strictness and care.

When he had called the next morning and heard the news of his appointment, he had asked a few definite, practical questions and gone away. There was no trace of the emotion of the previous night. He might have been a stranger whom the minister had recommended. "It is a better position than I expected," he said.

He had stood up and was buttoning the shabby overcoat about him. "I thank you for it." He did not offer his hand—and the minister did not notice it—until later. He was wrestling with an unexpected feeling—a sudden sense of the injury done this boy who had trusted him—a quick, overwhelming desire to ask forgiveness and a kind of numbness that held him. Then—before he could speak, before he knew that he wanted to speak—the man was gone.

The minister had looked about him—in the clear high light of his study, wondering a little. He had been suddenly conscious of something that could not be atoned for—a rent in the wholeness. He stared at it, fascinated—and it was such a little thing! And as he looked it grew—it filled the room. He turned away with a shrug. He must ask Eric's forgiveness. He could not preach with his music flowing around him all these months unless he asked his forgiveness. He saw it now. It had lain concealed from him so long. He had wrestled in prayer for freedom of soul, for divine assurance that his work was accepted, and all the time it had been there—dark, unsuspected, tiny—a curse upon him and on all his acts. He spread his hands with a quick gesture. Now he would speak. . . . The peace that he sought would be his. He drew a deep breath.

But the opportunity did not come. They met and passed, coming and going from the church, or in the dark corridors that lay behind the chancel, and the organist greeted him always with deep, courteous gesture, but without stopping, and the minister found himself hampered and awkwardly constrained. He had determined again and again. . . the next time they met he would speak. But when the time came and the dark, care-lined face met his, he had passed by with a sense of defeat. . . . This thing that had been done could not be undone. His own soul might plead forgiveness and be saved, but that other soul—behind the dark sinister eyes. . . the soul that had gone away and sinned and drunk of bitterness—because he must be pure—that soul would never be whole. He grew afraid of the man—and the fear crept into his work.

His sermons, that had been like sunlight passing over clear water, grew vague and troubled—as if the water stirred above unseen things—life and slime and ooze—and the congregation listened with uneasy surprise to the words he preached. . . . He had been to them an apostle of light, and they were rich and heavy and comfortable and needed light. . . not this tremulous, groping, restive note that touched them and broke the quiet. With the new organist there was no fault found. The deep-voiced Allelujahs bore their souls aloft. He was acceptable to the parish of the Church of the Ascension.

And Norman Byers, listening each Sunday, grew subtly aware that a message was in the music, not for the congregation, but for him. It was as if the dark, forgotten youth had laid a finger on his arm, saying, "Listen—" and as he listened his trouble fell away. He grew to wait upon the voluntary as a man fallen in the desert waits upon the rain. He had walked steadfast and sure—telling men where to set their feet if they would be saved. . . and now his landmarks were swept away. But he was alive—as never before in the years of preaching. It had been easy to guide men along the wooden path—the brick-and-mortar way to heaven. But this. . . life—stirring everywhere. . . dark and sinister—full of sin and wickedness. . . but always life. He felt the thrill of it in the music. . . and in himself. His words grew quick and tipped with fire—and men sat up—and listened. Other men came, from outside. . . men and women out of the common life—stupid and slow and sinful—and men whose lives ran fast—slipped into the pews. It was as if a whole city were flinging itself upon the doors of the church—forcing a way in to listen to this man who could not save his own soul.

The god who ceases to play his part becomes a thing of derision—even of hate. For three years the Rev. Norman Byers had been worshipped by his congregation—by pure, narrow-minded women, with fixed ideals, and comfortable men with bank accounts—and it had been almost forgotten that he was not, in truth, divine. Devoted eyes, from week to week, had seen the halo about the magnificent figure—this man who knew no frailty, and who spoke comfortably to Zion. They had idolized him—for his words and for his untouched life. He was, to them, one set apart—the perfect man—a carefully guarded symbol of what they themselves would have been had not life pressed too hard. If he remained untouched, they were safe. He would speak each week—from the height—and they guarded him with quick care. They fostered the blameless life. . . . But now? . . . He was rejecting his godhead. He spoke as man to man—and the Church of the Ascension was affronted.

Vague whispers touched the air. Rumor rustled her skirts and passed with swift feet. Questions hummed. They did not touch the organist, bent in his dark corner of the church, sending great waves of sound pulsing down the long nave. But they played about the man of clean life and lofty thought. . . . He was as other men, it seemed. . . . He suffered and questioned. . . and reached out groping hands—to them! They turned away promptly, and cast down their eyes—waiting—little rumors flitted. . . deeds, out of the past, lifted their heads and gave little significant looks and glided away.

It was the morning of holy communion, Ascension day, and the great congregation filled the church to its farthest seat, to the little side doors under the arches. They were very common people—many of them—waiting in the side seats under the arches for a blessing. For as the weeks went by and dark whispers gathered about the rector, the number of those who came to wait upon his words grew as a mighty cloud. He no longer spoke comfortable things. It was the cry of the modern world—full of unrest and sin, and stern, despairing faith. . . . Though he slay me, yet will I trust him.

The minister had borne the burden of them all, on his way to church in the clear light—those who distrusted and waited, covertly, and those who prayed. And mingled with them was Eric Bancroft's face—the boy he had wronged—the soul that had gone away to sin. The soul that sinneth, it shall surely die, and Eric had sinned, and he and Eric were one. . . . He raised his face to the spring sky. The breath of budding leaves in trim yards came to him out of the earth. The great church was filled to the doors. Music was on the air and the mellow light of windows, and through it came the voice of the priest, lifting high the sacred cup before the congregation. . . . It was a cup of clear crystal, richly cut and set with semi-precious stones. A devoted parishioner had brought it from abroad. Belonging once to a great monastery that had been sacked—and twice the goblet of an emperor—it gleamed again in the hands of a priest, held high in the light.

Day and night he had sought peace; and there was no peace—save once more courage for another day. He had come to rest in it, as he fought—as he rested in the music that filled the church—each day a fight—the living breath of men and women—and under all the sound of triumph, a mighty song that rose and filled the heavens—so that no man might despair, neither should any stay his hand.

His soul was full of the joy of it—and the mystery—as he held the cup high in the light, repeating the solemn words. The priest without, speaking to the man within, pardon and brotherhood and love; the deep, sincere voice filled the church, and above the bowed heads passed the words that bound him to them and all men to each other—and the Parsifal music, floating faintly, like a pulse that dies and quickens, lifted the words and touched them with quick light, as if a presence were in them that passed among the throng. . . . The priest stood with bowed head—slowly the music changed. . . a new melody—sweet and fresh—out of the past. . . . The priest had stirred a little. . . . The bond-song floated free. . . two boys in the low room—youth and the sound of joy. . . . The hand of the priest faltered and opened—and the crystal cup lay shattered; and along the marble floor ran the wine, spreading itself. No one stirred. They hardly knew, in the hushed light, with the presence upon them—of the shattered glass and the wine that was spilled. . . a rug was thrown hastily across, and a fresh cup rested in the priest's hand—a cup of common glass—light and frail—from which he drank the sacred symbol. . . and in the music was a new sound—love of earth and sky—the Word, made flesh, and dwelling among men.

The meeting was a private one—called behind closed doors. It was not even official. Certain members of the church, active in good works, had asked him to meet them to talk over matters relating to the welfare of the church.

No mention had been made of what the meeting was about. But the rector knew when he entered the room and saw the phalanx of respectable men that no word spoken that night would be forgotten, and that his soul would be probed to its deepest thought. The face of Eric Bancroft flitted before him as he greeted them courteously and took his seat. The organist had been absent for over a week. No word had come from him, and no one knew where he was. . . . Eric must be protected at any cost. The boy whom he had wronged should go free in this last trial. For weeks the rector had watched him passing to and fro, his strange face thinner and paler and more lighted from within. A kind of peace had seemed to come to the haunted eyes that followed one but did not speak. . . . The boy should be protected. . ..

A member of the church leaned forward, speaking rapidly. The meeting was not official. . . it was called in brotherly love. . . . Strange stories were about in the parish, the well-being of the church was threatened, a word from their pastor would clear the situation. These were the words spoken by the tongue, but behind them ran a meaning that the pastor of the church heard and understood. He bowed his head in assent.

"I shall be glad to answer any questions that may be put—any charges—"

"There are no charges—"

He raised his hand quietly. "I understand, but I must know specifically to what I speak."

There was silence for a moment. Then they brought forward the story, bit by bit, broken and distorted, and laid it before him. He sat with bowed head, listening, the little smile of light on his lips. When they laid on the table an anonymous letter he bent forward to scan it more closely. . . . There had been a forgery—was its import—a sum of money, obtained under false pretences. The rector of the Church of the Ascension could throw light on it—if he chose.

They watched him covertly while he read it, turning a little in their places. They were gentlemen, and it was not comfortable. . . But something must be done. . . . Wealth was being alienated. ..

He read it and raised his head. "The facts are substantially correct," he said, laying his hand on the note.

The quick tension in the room broke a little. He would clear himself. There would be no scandal.

But a little light had come into his eyes. "I was a boy," he said, "but culpable—more culpable than this note would make me. I . . ."

The word rested on his lip. The door had swung wide and the dark figure stood in it, trembling. He came forward slowly, catching a little at chairs, and resting his hand at last on the table. His quick look confronted them. "I came very fast," he said.

He laid a hand on his side, as if staying something there. . . . "I heard of the meeting. I am just back. . . . You are mistaken, gentlemen. . . . You do not know—him." His eyes were on the man beside him, looking down at him with deep, tender look. "He is incapable of a crime like that. Here—" He drew the bundle of papers from his pocket and thrust it toward them. "They are proofs. I heard the rumor and I went for proofs. I was afraid—I might be—too late. . . ." He pressed the hand closer to his side.

The men stirred in their places. They did not understand what was taking place, but underneath it they felt something and waited, intent.

The minister had raised his face and was looking into the strange eyes.

"Eric—"

But the dark man stayed him by a little gesture. He looked about him, dazed. . . at the circle of polite, curious faces and the lighted room. "The fault was mine, gentlemen. . . . He would try to shield me. . . . But there is no need—now—" The word came as a little gasp. He had fallen to his knees. . . . They were pressing forward. But he raised his hand fiercely. "You must not believe him ... he is not capa—" Slowly he sank lower.

It was Norman Byers's arm that held him and laid him gently back. . . . A hand like a claw reached up to his shoulder and drew him down—close to the worn face. The eager whisper held him—"Take it . . . I give it to you."

Norman Byers raised his face, full of a strange light—of beauty and love. "Gentlemen, he speaks the truth—I am not capable of—a crime—like that—"

A breath of relief ran through the room and the face upon the floor grew full of peace. The look fluttered a little and the breath between the lips came more easily. Presently he opened his eyes and smiled faintly. "I did not mean to make a scene," he said, "but I came—very fast."

The June light was everywhere—the sounds of birds in the shrubbery outside—the breath of summer. Norman Byers drank it in with thankful heart. He had come early to the church and was waiting in the vestry-room by the open window. The sound of little birds filled him and the clear fragrance of the light outside fell around him. He had wakened with a sense of lightness, and the light had deepened as his thought had gone swiftly back over the night—the meeting in the vestry—the strange, quick turn—Eric's face—and the eager whisper—close to his, and the sudden sense of love and acceptance. . . . The boy had loved him and called to him. . . and he had known that the ache in his own heart had been, not for sin unconfessed, but for something loved—and injured. With his arm around the thin form and his heart full of tenderness for the labored breath, it had come to him.

He saw it now again in the clear light. . . . His heart was alive and the world was flooding in—not the world of unrest and doubt and sin—but the soul. Out there in the light, he felt it breathing to the flowers, lifting its face, the same power that flung itself in penitence and sacrifice. . . the world had become very simple to him this morning.

Half the night they had talked it through—while he sat by the dark face on the pillow. Again and again he had started to go, and the thin hand had reached out to him—for just one word more. . . . And the past had come back, with its pain and its laughter. . . . They were boys again, facing life. . . Eric was to be a great musician—and he. . . They had never quite seen what he would be—but something great—and always with Eric—because Eric needed him and because together— How strong they were! Back through the past they went, step by step, hardly halting at that last night in the low-ceiled room. . . . The worn face had lifted itself from the pillow to put it aside. "Let it go, Norman! It was nothing. . . . But the night when I wrote our bond-song—You remember? We sat till daylight! I think the day is coming now . . .?" He turned a little toward the window, and the gray light had shifted in while they talked. . . . They would not part again. . . Eric should grow strong. In the winter they would go away—go south. . . The rector of the Church of the Ascension had planned it all, and the dark smile had met his and flashed a little, and lain quiet, as if it would not miss a word.

And at last the rector had gone away and had slept the last hours—in a kind of clear glow—and had wakened to the day.

He was thinking of it now as he stood looking out of the open window where the light was green. Presently the organ would sound and he would go in. . . . He fell on his knees by the window, waiting.

The first faint notes of the organ, and the little birds that had been quiet. . . . The man by the window rose from his knees, his long robes falling about him—the priest—the man of God.

Slowly he entered the church, the music deepening as he came, as if some mighty power were laid upon him—that he should be as the coming of light. The music quickened and ran, carrying it aloft like a banner—Hosanna! Hosanna! The choir had risen and caught the words—the pure voices of young boys—singing the mystery they could not understand. The church filled with it and sank to silence. But again and again, through the service, it broke upon them—a sense of the gates of light flung wide—something shining and clear—yet very simple—that the heart should not be afraid; and out of the sermon they had seen a vision of a woman who had sinned, but who drew near, weeping and bearing precious gifts, to the master of the feast, and was forgiven. It was a simple, natural sermon, without stress or emotion—like a bit of any human life that had groped a little and then shone with meaning—very still and beautiful—as if one might not wish to escape—but only to understand and love.

The service had come to an end, and the sound of recessional voices, dying away, had grown fainter and ceased behind closed doors. But still the congregation had not stirred.

The rector of the church, seated in his place, waited with bowed head for the voice of the organ, and the congregation, beyond the chancel rail, waited with him, loath to go—as if some word were to come—out of the silence. When the first notes should break the stillness they would move in their places and rise and go away. It was a sacrament of stillness. . ..

So still had it become that the chirping and stir of summer outside the tilted windows came in freshly, and the sound of a distant car whirred faintly down the street with its note of life.

But the dark figure, bent above the keys, did not stir. . . . The face had drooped a little—as if he listened to some sound that touched the ear; but the hands did not lift themselves. . . and when the priest had crossed swiftly the chancel space between them and touched the bowed head and taken it in his hands, turning the drooped face to the light, he saw only a faint, tender smile—like the day that was full of light outside—but fainter, as if the dawn had come unawares and lingered with a little breath of surprise.