"Well, like yourself I cannot get up any enthusiasm about money. Come, let us join Mrs. Barrast."

"One moment. Shall I see you again?"

"If you like. I am staying here for a few weeks!"

"If I like." The young man's face was eloquent and the look in his eyes betrayed his heart to Alice in a moment. With a laugh to hide her confusion she turned away to join her hostess, and came face to face with Dr. Eberstein.

"Well met, Miss Enistor," said the elder man in a genial manner and staring at her very directly. "I was just coming to take Montrose away."

"Yes," called out Mrs. Barrast, "he is going, and at eleven o'clock too.

So very early. What can we do with the rest of the evening?"

"I advise bed," said Eberstein pointedly.

"Bed for me," endorsed Alice gaily. "I feel rather tired."

"I don't think you do," said the doctor calmly: and to Miss Enistor's surprise on consideration she did not. But as he spoke she again felt a wave of that strange uplifting influence and drew back, startled to find that it emanated from the doctor. Eberstein smiled quietly, "Good-night!"

"Good-night, Mr. Montrose," said Mrs. Barrast pointedly. "Next time you come, talk to me as well as to Miss Enistor!"

"I apologise for my bad manners," said Montrose quickly.

"What a compliment to me!" laughed Alice, shrugging her shoulders.

"Oh, you understand me, I think, Miss Enistor," he looked at her straightly.

She returned his look flushing. "I think I do," was her low reply.

"Such nonsense," said Mrs. Barrast irritably: for her the evening had not been a success.

CHAPTER VII

BEHIND THE SCENES

It was a delightfully warm summer night when Eberstein and his young friend left the house. For some little distance they walked on in silence, as Eberstein was never voluble and Montrose felt disinclined to speak at the moment. Oblivious of his surroundings, more or less, he moved mechanically by the doctor's side, dreaming of Alice and of the love which existed between them. Considering he had met her for the first time an hour or so previously, it seemed ridiculous, even in a dream, to think that she had any such tender feeling for him. But something in the deeps of his own nature was struggling to the surface to a.s.sure him that his dream was truth. Much as he valued Eberstein's company, he wished him away at the moment that he might puzzle out the meaning of this strange intuition.

"But that is impossible, just now," said the doctor quietly. "I wish you to come to my house, as I have much to say, and something to show."

Montrose was startled, as he often was at Eberstein's speeches. "You know what I am thinking about?"

"Is that so strange?"

"Well, it isn't, really. You have extraordinary penetration. Sometimes I am quite afraid of you."

"You are never afraid of me," replied Eberstein, shaking his head with a benevolent smile. "Think!"

"No!" Montrose reflected for a few moments. "It is true. I am not afraid!"

The doctor smiled approvingly. "That is right. Fear would prevent my aiding you in any way, and you need aid more than you guess. Remember what the Bible says, my friend: 'In quietness and confidence shall be your strength.'"

"Faith and peace of mind are so hard to get," complained the young man sadly.

"Very hard. The Blessed One said that the Path was difficult."

"The Blessed One!"

"Christ: your Master and mine," replied Eberstein solemnly. "Strait is the gate and narrow is the way which leadeth to life and few there be that find it."

"And those who do not find it are lost?"

"For the time being, not eternally. G.o.d is very gentle with His straying sheep, and we have many lives, many opportunities to find the way to the fold. You are coming to the strait gate, Montrose; therefore my aid is given to you lest you should faint on the hard uphill journey."

"I am not good enough even to approach the gate," sighed the young man.

"So you think! But the standard of goodness is not kept on earth, but in heaven, my friend. However"--Eberstein broke off to hail a taxi--"we can talk of these things when we reach my house. Get in, Montrose!"

The young man did so, and was followed by his master, who told the chauffeur to drive to Bloomsbury. Eberstein lived in that unfashionable district, not-withstanding the fact that his practice lay largely amongst wealthy and aristocratic people. Many of the doctor's patients wondered why he did not select a better-cla.s.s neighbourhood, but Eberstein never gave them any information on this point. Yet his known character might have revealed the reason to an ordinarily shrewd person very easily. The man was greatly given to helping the poor and needy.

Not so much the proverbial ragged paupers of the slums--although he helped those also when necessary--as poor curates, badly paid clerks, shabby governesses, struggling ladies, and such-like persons, who had to keep up some sort of appearance on nothing. His money, his sympathy, his medical skill, were all wholly at the service of those who could not pay, and the fees received from his rich patients went to ameliorate the sufferings of the self-respecting, who never complained and showed their pauperism as little as was possible. Eberstein made no boast of his philanthropy: he never even spoke of his many good works. It was perfectly natural for him to go silently attentive about the work of his Master Christ, as he knew he could act in no other way without going contrary to his whole being. To feed the hungry, to clothe the naked, to teach the ignorant, to comfort the desolate: for these purposes he was in the world.

In one of his exploring expeditions Eberstein had found Montrose dying in a garret and had set him on his legs again in a sympathetic brotherly way which had not offended the young man's pride. More than that, he had supplied food for the starving soul as well as for the starving body, and by explaining the riddles of Life in a perfectly reasonable way he had entirely changed Montrose's outlook. His protege had been puzzled by this absolutely unselfish conduct, not understanding from inexperience that no return was demanded for these great gifts. But as his limitations began to expand through the teaching, he began to comprehend, and finally he accepted Eberstein as a kind of angel in the flesh, sent to help him in his hour of need. And the philanthropist was so unaffectedly sincere, so reasonable and sympathetic, that the rescued man grew to love him with a reverence rare in the younger generation.

The doctor restored his faith in human existence.

"Here we are," said Eberstein, alighting from the taxi and dismissing it. "We can now have an undisturbed hour for conversation."

The doctor admitted himself into the quiet house with his latch-key, as the servants were all in bed. They were never kept up late by their considerate employer, since he recognised that they required their necessary sleep. So the two men entered the hall, ascended the stairs, and betook themselves to a large room at the very top of the mansion.

Eberstein kept this entirely to himself, not even seeing his friends therein, much less his patients. Therefore it was with some surprise and more curiosity that Montrose stepped into the apartment and closed the door after him. Then he uttered an exclamation of pleasure--a soft exclamation, for the atmosphere of the place suggested a church.

"What a wonderful room," breathed Montrose, staring round him, "and how holy."

He scarcely knew what caused him to utter the last word, unless it was the unusual looks of the s.p.a.cious room. Everything was white; the walls, the carpet, the ceiling, and even the light which radiated from two large lamps with opaque globes. The table, the few chairs, the bookcase, and the sofa were of white wood with silken cushions like mounds of snow, and the draperies which veiled the volumes and the windows were also the hue of milk. Yet there was no suggestion of winter in the colourless expanse, for the air was warm and the atmosphere so charged with perfect peace that Montrose felt quite at home. The room, he felt, expressed Eberstein himself. It might have been the chapel of The Holy Grail.

"You never brought me here before," said the young man, feeling that his dark garments were a blot on the purity of the surroundings, "although you have known me for three years, more or less."

"No," a.s.sented the doctor, seating himself before the table and indicating a chair for his guest, "it was not necessary."

"Is it necessary to-night?"

"I should not have brought you here, had it not been."

"But why this night of all nights?" persisted the other wonderingly.

"You have met Miss Enistor."

Montrose was more bewildered than ever. "What has she got to do with it, or with me, or with anything?"