In these blessed days of 1943 each dweller in a progressive community recognizes his duties towards himself, his fellows and his Maker—acknowledges his obligation to be charitable and to contribute to the advancement of all about him. They are halcyon days; they have brought man nearer to himself, to his brethren—who are all the world—and to his Maker, who is everywhere and forever. They point, they surely point, to further steps; to onward steps, to upward steps; to steps which through swift-succeeding centuries shall bring mankind nearer and still nearer to divine knowledge, and make him in each generation more and more nearly the worthy, perfect image of an all-wise and beneficent God.
Roger Brathwaite.
I read this prophecy through without stopping; then gave myself up to the idea of the great possibilities about to present themselves to me. To be sole heir and executor of a property so valuable as this arduous life-work must be, should elate any struggling youth of twenty-two; but to be the mouthpiece of prophecies more wonderful, more far-reaching, more detailed, yet more universal, than any ever before given to the world, be they inspired or uninspired, was enough to turn his head completely. I drew mental pictures, far into the night, limning myself as famous and rich; and incidentally, the husband of Estelle; the father of her children; the founder of a family which should be known throughout the world as that of him who unlocked the gates of time to come; who pierced the depths of futurity; who controlled that knowledge for the right to purchase which the kings of finance jostled each other.
I am ashamed to say that gratitude to Brathwaite, and thorough appreciation of the fact that he was the first to conceive and the first to carry out, even in part, the idea of scientific prophecy through graphical construction, took in my mind second place to the ideas of that fame and fortune which were to be mine through his industry and generosity.
“Midnight brought on the dusky hour
Friendliest to sleep and silence,”
but still I thought on, thought on. At last, tired Nature asserted herself; I fell asleep in the big chair from which I had in imagination seen the magnates of the monetary world feverishly awaiting, in my ante-room, my pleasure as to how much information I would accord them, on my own terms. I slept, to dream of dictatorship of two continents, compelled by my exclusive knowledge of the things to come; but while I ruled as with a rod of iron the doings and the comings and goings of both hemispheres, it seemed as though war’s alarms sounded in my ears—the rebellion of a nation from tyranny, be it ever so mild, from dictation, be it ever so wise. The clang of the multitude seeking relief from the oppression of ignorance by knowledge, rang in my ears; I started to my feet to wake and find the fire-brigade jangling and rumbling past my dwelling—the sparks from the steamer’s stack streaming upwards and backwards in the black night as the great engine thundered by.
To the west, a ruddy glow extended up through the murky midnight sky, while lurid flashes rose and fell in horrid alternation. From time to time an angry flame arose, while the harsh clangor of more engines speeding through the almost deserted streets, gave greater terror to the scene.
Fear filled my mind—I knew not why—lest that awful holocaust should be the pyre of my hopes and fortunes. Rushing from my room, and spurred by anxious fears, I soon traversed the distance between my home and the quiet street in which for so many years Brathwaite had labored in the accomplishment of his end and aim—and for my great and ultimate benefit. Hot though the pace, my heart thumped high and hard against my chest, less from the unwonted exercise than from anxiety lest the cup of prosperity had been dashed from my lips before I had tasted its contents.
My fears were but too well grounded. Tearing past the blue-coated guardian of the peace who sought to restrain me, I rushed to a spot where without actual danger, I could best see the ruin which the fire-fiend was working to me—and of course to Brathwaite—but how can man, born of woman, feel more for his fellows than for himself? Why affect a nobility not of the nineteenth century? Why lay claim to emotions which may belong to those to come—which may have belonged to those gone by—but not of the genius of this eager, selfish present? True, I felt for Brathwaite; but for Ainsworth—for Ainsworth again—and for Ainsworth still again, the pity, the regret, the mad sense of baffled ambition, rose ever up and obscured the finer feelings.