It was, however, some two weeks later before Dr. Fillery was on his
way to the station to meet Devonham and his companion. A slight delay,
caused apparently by the necessity of buying an outfit, had intervened
and given time for an exchange of letters, but Devonham had contented
himself chiefly with telegrams. He did not wish his chief to know
too much about the case in advance. "Probably he regrets the Notes
already," thought the doctor, as the car made its way slowly across
crowded London. "He wants my first unbiased judgment; he's right, of
course, but it's too late for that now."
The delay, however, had been of value. The Home was in working order
again, the staff returned, the private suite all ready for its
interesting occupant, whom in thought he had already named "N. H."; for
in the first place he did not know his name as yet, and in the second
he felt towards him a certain attitude of tolerant, half-humorous
scepticism.
Cut off from his own kind for so many years, educated, perhaps
half-educated only, by too speculative and imaginative a mind,
equally warped by this long solitude, a mind unduly stretched by the
contemplation of immense geological perspectives, filled, too, with
heaven knows what strange stories of pantheistic Nature-feeling--"N.
H." might be distinctly interesting, but hardly all that Mason had
thought him. "Unique" was a word rarely justified; the peculiarities
would prove to be mere extravagances that had, of necessity, remained
uncorrected by the friction of intercourse with his own kind. The rest
was inheritance, equally unpruned; a mind living in a side-eddy, a
backwater with Nature....
At the same time Dr. Fillery admitted a certain anticipatory excitement
he could not wholly account for, an undercurrent of wonder he ascribed
to his Khaketian blood.
He had written once only to his assistant, sending briefest
instructions to say the rooms would be ready, and that the young man
must believe he was an invited guest coming on a visit. "Let him expect
complete freedom of movement and occupation without the smallest idea
of restraint in any way. He is merely coming to stay for as long as
he pleases with a friend of Mason. Impress him with a sense of hearty
welcome." And Devonham, replying, had evidently understood the wisdom
of this method. "He is also greatly pleased with your name--the sound
of it," was stated in the one letter that he wrote, "and as names mean
a lot to him, so much the better. The sound of it gives him pleasure;
he keeps repeating it over to himself; he already likes you. My name he
does not care about, saying it quickly, sharply. But he trusts me. His
trust in anyone who shows him kindness is instantaneous and complete.
He invariably expects kindness, however, from everyone--gives it
himself equally--and is baffled and puzzled by any other treatment."
So Devonham, with "N. H.", who attached importance to names and
expected kindness from people as a natural thing, would be in London
town within the hour. Straight from his forests and mountains for the
first time in his life, he would find himself in the heart of the
greatest accumulation of human beings on the planet, the first city of
the world, the final expression of civilization as known to the human
race.
"'N. H.' in London town," thought Dr. Fillery, his mouth twitching
with the smile that began in his quiet eyes. "Bless the lad! We must
make him feel at home and happy. He shall indeed have kindness. He'll
need a woman's touch as well." He reflected a moment. "Women are a
great help in doubtful cases--the way a man reacts to them," he mused.
"Only they must be distinct in type to be of value." And his mind ran
quickly, comprehensively over the women of his acquaintance, pausing,
as it did so, upon two in particular--a certain Lady Gleeson, and
Iraida--sometimes called Nayan--Khilkoff, the daughter of his Russian
friend, the sculptor.
His mind pondered for some moments the two he had selected. It was not
the first time he had made use of them. Their effect respectively upon
a man was invariably instinctive and illuminating.
The two were radically different feminine types, as far removed from
one another as pole from pole, yet each essentially of her sex. Their
effect, respectively, upon such a youth must be of value, and might be
even illuminating to the point of revelation. Both, he felt sure, would
not be indifferent to the new personality.
It was, however, of Nayan Khilkoff that he thought chiefly. Of that
rare, selfless, maternal type which men in all ages have called saint
or angel, she possessed that power which evoked in them all they could
feel of respect, of purity, of chivalry, that love, in a word, which
holds as a chief ingredient, worship. Her beauty, beyond their reach,
was of the stars; it was the unattainable in her they loved; her beauty
was of the soul. Nayan was spiritual, not as a result of painful effort
and laborious development, but born so. Her life, moreover, was one of
natural service. Personal love, exclusive devotion to an individual,
concentration of her being upon another single being--this seemed
impossible to her. She was at the same time an enigma: there was an
elusive flavour about her that made people a little in awe of her, a
flavour not of this earth, quite. She carried an impersonal attitude
almost to the point of seeming irresponsive to common human things and
interests.
The other woman, Lady Gleeson, Angela her Christian name, was equally
a simple type, though her simplicity was that of the primitive female
who is still close to the Stone Age--a savage. She adorned herself to
capture men. She was the female spider that devours its mates. She
wanted slaves. To describe her as selfish were inadequate, for she was
unaware that any other ideal existed in life but that of obtaining
her own pleasure. There was instinct and emotion, but, of course, no
heart. Without morals, conscience or consideration, she was the animal
of prey that obeys the call of hunger in the most direct way possible,
regardless of consequences to herself or others. Her brain was quick,
her personality shallow. When talking she "rattled on." Devonham had
well said once: "You can hear her two thoughts clicking, both of them
in trousers!" Sir George, recently knighted, successful with large
concessions in China, was indulgent. The male splendour of the youth
was bound to stimulate her hunger, as his simplicity, his loneliness,
and in a sense his pathetic helplessness, would certainly evoke the
tenderness in Nayan. "He'll probably like her dear, ridiculous name,
too," Dr. Fillery felt, "the nickname they gave her because she's the
same to everybody, whichever way you take her--Nayan Khilkoff." Yet
her real name was more beautiful--Iraida. And, as he repeated it half
aloud, a soft light stole upon his face, shone in the deep clear eyes,
and touched even the corners of the rather grim mouth with another, a
tenderer expression, before the sternness quickly returned to it.
"N. H." would meet, thus, two main types of female life. He, apparently
an exceedingly male being, would face the onslaught of passion and
heart, of lust and love, respectively; and it was his reactions to
these onslaughts that Fillery wished to observe. They would help his
diagnosis, they might guide his treatment.
It was a warm and muggy afternoon, the twilight passing rapidly into
darkness now; one of those late autumn days when summer heat flits
back, but light is weak. The covered sky increased the clammy warmth,
which was damp, unhealthy, devitalizing. No wind stirred. The great
city was sticky and depressing. Yet people approved the heat, although
it tired them. "It shortens the winter, anyhow," was the general
verdict, when expressed at all. They referred unconsciously to the
general dread of strikes.
London was hurried and confused. An air of feverish overcrowding
reigned in the great station, when he left the car and went in on foot.
No sign of order, system, direction, was visible. The scene might have
been a first rehearsal of some entirely new experiment. Grumbling and
complaint rose from all sides in an exasperated chorus. He tried to
ascertain how late the train was and on which platform it might be
expected, but no one knew for certain, and the grudging replies to
questions seemed to say, "You've no right to ask anything, and if you
keep on asking there will be a strike. So that's that!"
He listened to the talk and watched the facial expressions and the
movements of the half-resigned and half-excited concourse of London
citizens. The clock was accurate, and everyone was kind to ladies;
stewed tea, stale cake with little stones in it, vile whisky and very
weak beer were obtainable at high prices. There were no matches. The
machine for supplying platform-tickets was broken. He saw men paying
more thought and attention to the comfort of their dogs than to their
own. The great, marvellous, stupid, splendid race was puzzled and
exasperated. Then, suddenly, the train pulled in, full of returned
exiles longing to be back again in "dear old England."
"Thank God, it's come," sighed the crowd. "Good! We're English. Forgive
and forget!" and prepared to tip the porters handsomely and carry their
own baggage.
The confusion that followed was equally characteristic, and equally
remarkable, displaying greatness side by side with its defects. There
was no system; all was muddled, yet all was safe. Anyone could claim
what luggage they liked, though no one did so, nor dreamed, it seemed,
of doing so. There was an air of decent honesty and trust. There were
ladies who discovered that all men are savages; there were men--and
women--who were savages. People shook hands warmly, smiled with honest
affection, said light, careless good-byes that hid genuine emotion;
helped one another with parcels, offered one another lifts. There
were few taxicabs, one perhaps to every thirty people. And in this
general scrimmage, Dr. Fillery, at first, could see no sign of his
expected arrivals; he walked from end to end of the platform littered
with luggage and thronged with bustling people, but nowhere could he
discover the familiar outline of Devonham, nor anyone who answered to
the strange picture that already stood forth sharply in his mind.
"There's been a mistake somewhere," he said to himself; "I shall find
a telegram when I get back to the house explaining it"--when, suddenly
and without apparent cause, there stole upon him a curious lift of
freedom--a sharp sense of open spaces he was at a loss to understand.
It was accompanied by an increase of light. For a second it occurred
to him that the great enclosing roof had rolled back and blown away,
letting in air and some lost ray of sunshine. A lovely valley flitted
across his thought. Almost he was aware of flowers, of music, of
rhythmic movement.
"Edward! there you are. I thought you hadn't come," he heard close
behind him, and, turning, saw the figure of Devonham, calm and alert as
usual. At his side stood a lean, virile outline of a young man, topping
Devonham by several inches, with broad but thin shoulders, figure
erect yet flexible, whose shining and inquiring eyes of blue were the
most striking feature in a boyish face, where strength, intensity and
radiant health combined in an unusual degree.
"Here is our friend, LeVallon," added Devonham, but not before the
figure had stepped lightly and quickly forward, already staring at him
and shaking his outstretched hand.
So this was "N. H.," and LeVallon was his name. The calm, searching
eyes held a touch of bewilderment in them, the eyes of an honest,
intelligent animal, thought Fillery quickly, adding in spite of
himself and almost simultaneously, "but of a divine animal." It was
a look he had never in his life before encountered in any human
eyes. Mason's water-colour sketch had caught something, at least, of
their innocence and question, of their odd directness and intensity,
something, too, of the golden fire in the hair. He wore a broad-brimmed
felt hat of Swiss pattern, a Bernese overcoat, a low, soft-collared
shirt, with blue tie to match.
Buffeted and pushed by the frenzied travellers, they stood and faced
each other, shaking hands, eyes looking into eyes, two strangers,
doctor and patient possibly, but friends most certainly, both felt
instantly. They liked one another. Once again the scent of flowers
danced with light above the piled-up heaps of trunks, rugs, packages. A
cool wind from mountains seemed to blow across the dreadful station.
"You've arrived safely," began Dr. Fillery, a little taken aback
perhaps. "Welcome! And not too tired, I hope----" when the other
interrupted him in a man's deep voice, full of pleasant timbre:
"Fill-er-y," he said, making the "F" sound rather long, "I need you. To
see you makes me happy."
"Tired," put in Devonham breathlessly, "good heavens, not he! But I am.
Now for a porter and the big luggage. Have you got a taxi?"
"The car is here," said Fillery, letting go with a certain reluctance
the hand he held, and paying little attention to anything but the
figure before him who used such unexpected language. What was it? What
did it mean? Whence came this sudden sense of intensity, light, of
order, system, intelligence into the racial scene of muddled turmoil
all about him? There seemed an air of speeding up in thought and action
near him, compared to which the slow stupidity, unco-ordinated and
confused on all sides, became painful, gross, and even ludicrous.
Someone bumped against him with violence, but quite needlessly, since
the simplest judgment of weight and distance could have avoided the
collision. In such ordinary small details he was aware of another, a
higher, standard close. A man on his left, trying to manage several
bundles, appeared vividly as of amazing incompetence, with his
miscalculation, his clumsy movement, his hopeless inability to judge
cause and effect. Yet he had two arms, ten fingers, two legs, broad
shoulders and deep chest. Misdirection of his great strength made it
impossible for him to manage the assortment of light parcels. Next
to him, however, stood a woman carrying a baby--there was no error
there. The panting engine just beyond them, again, set a standard of
contemptuous, impersonal intelligence that, obeying Nature's laws,
dwarfed the humans generally. But it was another, a quasi-spiritual
standard that had flashed to him above all. In some curious way
the competent "dead" machinery that obeyed the Law with faultless
efficiency, and the woman obeying instinct with equally unconscious
skill--these two energies were akin to the new standard he was now
startlingly aware of.
He looked up, as though to trace this sudden new consciousness of
bright, quick, rapid competence--almost as of some immense power
building with consistent scheme and system--that had occurred to him;
and he met again the direct, yet slightly bewildered eyes that watched
him, watched him with confidence, sweetness, and with a questioning
intensity he found intriguing, captivating, and oddly stimulating. He
felt happiness.
"By yer leave!" roared a porter, as they stepped aside just in time to
save being pushed by the laden truck--just in time to save himself,
that is, for the other, Fillery noticed, moved like a chamois on its
native rocks, so surely, lightly, swiftly was he poised.
"This! Ah, you must excuse it," the doctor exclaimed with a smile of
apology almost, "we've not yet had time to settle down after the war,
you see." He pointed with a sweep of his hand to the roaring, dim-lit
cavern where confusion reigned supreme, the G.H.Q. of travel in the
biggest city of the Empire.
"I've got a porter," cried Devonham, beckoning vigorously a little
further down the platform. "You wait there. I'll be along in a minute
with the stuff." He was hot, flustered, exhausted.
"You struggle. It was like this all the way. Is there no knowledge?"
LeVallon asked in his deep, quiet tones.
"We do," said Fillery. "With us life is always struggle. But there is
more system than appears. The confusion is chiefly on the surface."
"It is dark and there is so little air," observed the other. "And they
all work against each other."
Fillery laughed into the other's eyes; they laughed together; and it
seemed suddenly to the doctor that their beings somehow merged, so
that, for a second, he knew the entire content of his companion's
mind--as if there was nothing in LeVallon he did not understand.
"You--are a builder," LeVallon said abruptly. But as he said it his
companion caught, on the wing as it were, another meaning. He became
curiously aware of the smallness, of the remote insignificance of the
little planet whereon this dialogue took place, yet at the same time of
its superb seductive loveliness. In him rose a feeling, as on wings,
that he was not chained in his familiar, daily personality, but that an
immense, delicious freedom lay within reach. He could be everywhere at
once. He could do everything.
"Wait here while I help Devonham. Then we'll get into the car and be
off." He moved away, threading a path with difficulty.
"I wait in peace. I am happy," was the reply.
And with those few phrases, uttered in the quiet, deep voice, sounding
in his ears and in his very blood, the older man went towards the spot
where Devonham struggled with a porter, a pile of nondescript luggage
and a truck: "I wait in peace.... You struggle, you work against each
other.... It is dark, there is little air.... You are a builder...."
But not these singular words alone remained alive in his mind; there
remained in his heart the sense of that vitality of open spaces, keen
air and brighter light he had experienced--and, with it, the security
of some higher, faultless standard. His brain, indeed, had recognized
a consciousness of swifter reactions, of surer movements, of more
intelligent co-ordination, compared to which the people about him
behaved like stupid, almost like half-witted beings, the one exception
being the instinctive action of the mother in carrying her baby, and
the other, the impersonal, accurate, competence of the dead machinery.
But, more than this reasoned change, there burned suddenly in his heart
an inexplicable exhilaration and brightness, a wonder that he could
attribute only to another mode of life. His Khaketian blood, he knew,
might be responsible for part of it, but not for all. The invigorating
mountain wind, the sunlight, the rhythmic sound, the scent of wild
flowers, these were his own personal interpretations of a quickened
sense he could not analyse as yet. As he held the young man's hand,
as he gazed into his direct blue eyes, this sense had increased in
intensity. LeVallon had some marvellous quality or power that was new
to him, while yet not entirely unfamiliar. What was it? And how did the
youth perceive this sense in him so surely that he took its presence
for granted, accepted, even played upon it? He experienced, as it were,
a brilliant intensification of spirit. Some portion of him already knew
exactly what LeVallon was.
Across the ugly turmoil and confusion of the huge dingy railway
terminus had moved wondrously some simple power that brought
in--Beauty. Some very deep and ancient conception had touched him and
gone its way again. The stupendous beauty of a simple, common day
appeared to him. His subconscious being, of course, was deeply stirred.
That was the truth, phrase it as he might. His heart was lifted as by
a primal wind at dawn upon some mountain top. The heaviness of the
day was gone. Fatigue, too, vanished. The "civilized" folk appeared
contemptible and stupid. Something direct from Nature herself poured
through him. And it was from the atmosphere of LeVallon this new
vitality issued radiating.
He found a moment or two, while alone with Devonham, to exchange a few
hurried sentences. As they bent over bags and bundles he asked quick
questions. These questions and answers between the two experienced men
were brief but significant:
"Yes, quiet as a lamb. Just be kind and sympathetic. You looked up the
Notes? Well, that can't be helped now, though I had rather you knew
nothing. My mistake, of course."
"The content of his mind is accessible to me--telepathically--in any
case."
"But at one remove more distant, because unexpressed."
Fillery laughed. "Quite right. I admit it's a pity. But tell me more
about him--anything I ought to know--at once."
"Quiet as a lamb, I told you," repeated the other, "and most of the
way over too. But puzzled--my God, Edward, his criticisms would make
a book."
"Normal? Intelligent criticisms?"
"Intelligent above ordinary. Normal--no."
"Hysteria?"
"Not a sign."
"Health?"
"Perfect, magnificent, as you see. He's less tired now than when we
started three days ago, whereas I'm fagged out, though in climbing
condition."
"Origin of delusions--any indication?"
Devonham looked up quickly. His eyes flashed a peculiarly searching
glance--something watchful in it perhaps. "No delusion at all of any
sort. As for origin of his ideas--the parents probably, but stimulated
and allowed unchecked growth by Mason. Affected by Nature beyond
anything _we_ know."
"By Nature. Ah!" He checked himself. "And what peculiarities?" he
asked.
"His terror of water, for instance. Crossing the Channel he was like a
frightened child. He hid from it, kept his hands over his eyes even, so
as not to see it."
"Give any reason?"
"All he said was 'It is unknown, an enemy, and can destroy me, I cannot
understand its secret ways. Fire and wind are not in it. I cannot work
with it.' No, it was not fear of drowning that he meant. He found
comfort, too, in the repetition of your name."
"Appetite, pulse, temperature?" asked Fillery, after a brief pause.
"First two very strong; temperature always slightly above normal."
"Other peculiarities?"
"He became rather excited before a lighted match once--tried to kneel,
almost, but I stopped it."
"Fire?"
"That's it. Instinct of worship presumably."
The barrow was laden, the porter was asking where the car was. They
prepared to move back to the companion, whom Fillery had never failed
to observe carefully over his shoulder during this rapid conversation.
"N. H." had not moved the whole time: he stood quietly, looking about
him, a curious figure, aloof somehow from his surroundings, so tall
and straight and unconcerned he seemed, yet so poised, alert, virile,
vigorous. It was not his clothes that made him appear unusual, nor was
it his eyes and hair alone, though all three contributed their share.
Yet he seemed dressed up, his clothes irksome to him. He was uncommon,
an attractive figure, and many a pair of eyes, female eyes especially,
Fillery noticed, turned to examine him with undeniable curiosity.
"And women?" the doctor asked quickly in a lowered voice, as they
followed the porter's barrow towards LeVallon, who already smiled at
their approach--the most engaging, trustful, welcoming smile that
Fillery had ever seen upon a human countenance.
He lowered his head to catch the reply. But Devonham only laughed and
shrugged his shoulders. "All attracted," he mumbled in a half whisper,
"and eager to help him."
"And he----?"
"Gentle, astonished, but indifferent, oh, supremely indifferent."
LeVallon came forward to meet them, and Fillery took his hand and led
him to the car. The luggage was bundled in, some behind and some on the
roof. Fillery and LeVallon sat side by side. The car started.
"We shall get home in half an hour," the doctor mentioned, turning to
his companion. "We'll have a good dinner and then get to bed. You are
hungry, I know."
"Thank you," was the reply, "thank you, dear Fillery. I want sleep
most. Will there be trees and air near me? And stars to see?"
"Your windows open on to a garden with big trees, there will be plenty
of fresh air, and you will hear the sparrows chattering at dawn. But
London, of course, is not the country. Oh, we'll make you comfortable,
never fear."
"Dear Fillery, I thank you," said LeVallon quietly, and without more
ado lay back among the soft cushions and closed his eyes. Hardly a
word was said the whole way out to the north-west suburb, and when
they arrived the "patient" was too overcome with sleep to wish to eat.
He went straight to his room, found a hot bath into which he tumbled
first, and then leaped into his bed and was sound asleep almost before
the door was closed. Upon a table beside the bed Dr. Fillery, with
his own hands, arranged bread, butter, eggs and a jug of milk in case
of need. Nurse Robbins, an experienced, tactful young woman, he put
in special charge. He thought of everything, divining his friend's
possible needs instinctively, noticing with his keen practised eye
several details for himself at the same time. The splendid physical
condition, frame-work, muscular development he noted--no freakish
bulky masses produced by gymnastic exercises, but the muscles laid
on flowingly, smooth and firm and ample, without a trace of fat, and
the whole in the most admirable proportion possible. The leanness
was deceptive; the body was of immense power. The quick, certain,
unerring movements he noticed too; perfect, swift co-ordination between
brain and physical response, no misdirection, no miscalculation, the
reactions extremely rapid. He thought with a smile of something between
deer and tiger. The poise and balance and accuracy conveyed intense joy
of living. Yet above and beyond these was something else he could not
name, something that stirred in him wonder, love, a touch of awe, and a
haunting suggestion of familiarity.
He saw him into bed, he saw him actually asleep. The strong blue eyes
looked up into his own with their intense and innocent gaze for a
moment; he held the firm, dry muscular hand; ten seconds later the eyes
were closed in sleep, the grip of the powerful but slender fingers
relaxed.
"Good night, my friend, and sleep deeply. To-morrow we'll see to
everything you need. Be happy here and comfortable with us, for you are
welcome and we love you." His voice trembled slightly.
"Good night, dear Fill-er-y," the musical tones replied, and he was off.
The windows were wide open. "N. H." had thrown aside the pyjamas and
blankets. On this cool, damp night of late autumn he covered his big,
warm, lithe body with a single sheet only.
Fillery went out quietly, an expression of keen approval and enjoyment
on his face--not a smile exactly, but that look of deep content,
betraying a fine inner excitement of happiness, which is the mother of
all smiles. As he softly opened the door the draught blew through from
the open windows, stirring the white curtains by the bed. It came from
the big damp garden where the trees stood, already nearly leafless,
and where no flowers were. And yet a scent of flowers came faintly
with it. He caught an echo of faint sound like music. There was the
invigorating hint of forests too. It seemed a living wind that blew
into the house.
Dr. Fillery paused a moment, sniffed with surprise and sharp enjoyment,
listened intently, then switched the light off and went out, closing
the door behind him. There was a flash of wonder in his eyes, and a
thrill of some remote inexplicable happiness ran through his nerves.
An instant of complete comprehension had been his, as if another
consciousness had, for that swift instant, identified itself with his
own.