"Possibly," he remarked with a courteous smile. "The origin of us all is doubtful and confused. We know not whence we come, of course, and all that. Nor can we ever tell exactly who our neighbour is, or what. LeVallon," he went on, "since you all ask me"—he looked round again—"is—for me—an undecipherable being. I am," he added, his words falling into open mouths and extended eyes and ears, "somewhat puzzled. But more—I am enormously stimulated and intrigued."
All gazed at him. Father Collins was in his element. The rapt silence that met him was precisely what he had a right to expect from his lost pulpit. He had come, probably, merely to listen and to watch. The opportunity provided by a respectful audience was too much for him. An inspiration tempted him.
"I am inclined to believe," he resumed suddenly in a simple tone, "that he is—a Messenger."
The sentence might have dropped from Sirius upon a listening planet. The babble that followed must, to an ordinary man, have seemed confusion. Everyone spoke with a rush into his neighbour's ear. All bubbled. "I always thought so, I told you so, that was exactly what I meant just now"—and so on. All found their tongues, at any rate, if Povey, as Secretary, led the turmoil:
"Something outside our normal evolution, you mean?" he asked judiciously. "Such a conception is possible, of course."
"A Messenger!" ran on the babel of male and female voices.
It was here that Father Collins failed. The "unstable" in him came suddenly uppermost. The "ecstatic" in his being took the reins. The wondering and expectant audience suited him. The red wine helped as well. When he said "Messenger" he had meant merely someone who brought a message. The expression of nobility merged more and more in the slovenly aspect. Like a priest in the pulpit, whom none can answer and to whom all must listen, he had his text, though that text had been suggested actually by the conversation he had just heard. He had not brought it with him. It occurred to him merely then and there. His mind reflected, in a word, the collective idea that was in the air about him, and he proceeded to sum it up and give expression to it. This was his gift, his fatal gift—a ready sensitiveness, a plausible exposition. He caught the prevailing mood, the collective notion, then dramatized it. Before he left the pulpit he invariably, however, convinced himself that what he had said in it was true, inspired, a revelation—for that moment.
"A Messenger," he announced, thrusting his glass aside with an impatient gesture as though noticing for the first time that it was there. "A Messenger," he repeated, the automatic emphasis in his voice already persuading him that he believed what he was about to say, "sent among us from who knows what distant sphere"—he drew himself up and looked about him—"and for who can guess on what mysterious and splendid mission."
His eye swept his audience, his hand removed the glass yet farther lest, it impede free gesture. It was, however, as Povey noticed, empty now. "We, of course," he went on impressively, lowering his voice, "we, a mere handful in the world, but alert and watchful, all of us—we know that some great new teaching is expected"—he threw out another challenging glance—"but none of us can know whence it may come nor in what way it shall manifest." His voice dropped dramatically. "Whether as a thief in the night, or with a blare of trumpets, none of us can tell. But—we expect it and are ready. To us, therefore, perhaps, as to the twelve fishermen of old, may be entrusted the privilege of accepting it, the work of spreading it among a hostile and unbelieving world, even perhaps the final sacrifice of—of suffering for it."
He paused, quickly took in the general effect of his words, picked up here and there a hint of question, and realized that he had begun on too exalted a note. Detecting this breath of caution in the collective mind that was his inspiration, he instantly shifted his key.