Edward Fillery was glad that Paul Devonham, good friend and skillful
colleague, was his assistant; for Devonham, competent as himself in
knowledge and experience, found explanations for all things, and had
in his natural temperament a quality of sane judgment which corrected
extravagances.
Devonham was agnostic, because reason ruled his life. Devoid of
imagination, he had no temptations. Speculative, within limits, he
might be, but he belonged not to the unstable. Not that he thought he
knew everything, but that he refused to base action on what he regarded
as unknown. A clue into the unknown he would follow up as keenly,
carefully, as Fillery himself, but he went step by step, with caution,
declining to move further until the last step was of hardened concrete.
To the powers of the subconscious self he set drastic limits, admitting
their existence of course, but attaching small value to their use or
development. His own deeper being had never stirred or wakened. Of
this under-sea, this vast background in himself, he remained placidly
uninformed. A comprehensive view of a problem--the flash of vision
he never knew--thus was perhaps denied him, but so far as he went he
was very safe and sure. And his chief was the first to appreciate his
value. He appreciated it particularly now, as the two men sat smoking
after their late dinner, discussing details of the new inmate of the
Home.
Fillery, aware of the strong pull upon his own mixed blood, aware of
a half-wild instinctive sympathy towards "N. H.," almost of a natural
desire now, having seen him, to believe him "unique" in several ways,
and, therefore, conscious of a readiness to accept more than any
evidence yet justified--feeling these symptoms clearly, and remembering
vividly his experiences in the railway station, he was glad, for
truth's sake, that Devonham was there to clip extravagance before it
injured judgment. A weak man, aware of his own frailties, excels a
stronger one who thinks he has none at all. The two colleagues were a
powerful combination.
"In your view, it's merely a case of a secondary--anyhow of a
divided--personality?" he asked, as soon as the other had recovered a
little from his journey, and was digesting his meal comfortably over a
pipe. "You have seen more of him than I have. Of insanity, at any rate,
there is no sign at all, I take it? His relations with his environment
are sound?"
"None whatever." Devonham answered both questions at once. "Exactly."
He took off his pince-nez, cleaned them with his handkerchief, and then
replaced them carefully. This gave him time to reflect, as though he
was not quite sure where to begin his story.
"There are certainly indications," he went on slowly, "of a divided
personality, though of an unusual kind. The margin between the
two--between the normal and the secondary self--is so very slight.
It is not clearly defined, I mean. They sometimes merge and
interpenetrate. The frontier is almost indistinguishable."
Fillery raised his eyebrows.
"You feel uncertain which is the main self, and which the split-off
secondary personality?" he inquired, with surprise.
Devonham nodded. "I'm extremely puzzled," he admitted. "LeVallon's
most marked self, the best defined, the richest, the most fully
developed, seems to me what _we_ should call his Secondary Self--this
'Nature-being' that worships wind and fire, is terrified by a large
body of water, is ignorant of human ways, probably also quite
_un_-moral, yet alive with a kind of instinctive wisdom we credit
usually to the animal kingdom--though far beyond anything animals can
claim----"
"Briefly, what we mean by the term 'N. H.,'" suggested Fillery, not
anxious for too many details at the moment.
"Exactly. And I propose we always refer to that aspect of him as
'N. H.,' the other, the normal ordinary man, being LeVallon, his
right name." He smiled faintly.
"Agreed," replied his chief. "We shall always know then exactly which
one we're talking of at a given moment. Now," he went on, "to come
to the chief point, and before you give me details of what happened
abroad, let me hear your own main conclusion. What is LeVallon? What is
'N. H.'?"
Devonham hesitated for some time. It was evident his respect for his
chief made him cautious. There was an eternal battle between these
two, keen though always good-natured, even humorous, the victory not
invariably perhaps with the assistant. Later evidence had often proved
Fillery's swifter imagination correct after all, or, alternately, shown
him to be wrong. They kept an accurate score of the points won and lost
by either.
"You can always revise your conclusions later," Fillery reminded him
slyly. "Call it a preliminary conclusion for the moment. You've not had
time yet for a careful study, I know."
But Devonham this time did not smile at the rally, and his chief
noticed it with secret approval. Here was something new, big, serious,
it seemed. Devonham, apparently, was already too interested to care who
scored or did not score. His Notes of 1914 indeed betrayed his genuine
zeal sufficiently.
"LeVallon," he said at length--"to begin with him! I think
LeVallon--without any flavour of 'N. H.'--is a fine specimen of a
normal human being. His physique is magnificent, as you have seen, his
health and strength exceptional. The brain, so far as I have been able
to judge, functions quite normally. The intelligence, also normal, is
much above the average in quickness, receptivity of ideas, and judgment
based on these. The emotional development, however, puzzles me; the
emotions are not entirely normal. But"--he paused again, a grave
expression on his face--"to answer your question as well as my limited
observation of him, of LeVallon, allows--I repeat that I consider him a
normal young man, though with peculiarities and idiosyncrasies of his
own, as with most other normal young fellows who are individuals, that
is," he added quickly, "and not turned out in bundles cut to measure."
"So much for LeVallon. Now what about 'N. H.'?"
He repeated the question, fixing the assistant with his steady gaze. He
had noticed the confusion in the reply.
"My dear Edward----" began Devonham, after a considerable pause. Then
he stuck fast, sighed, settled his glasses carefully upon his aquiline,
sharp nose, and relapsed into silence. His forehead became wrinkled,
his mouth much pursed.
"Out with it, Paul! This isn't a Court of Law. I shan't behead you if
you're wrong." Yet Fillery, too, spoke gravely.
The other kept his eyes down; his face still wore a puzzled look.
Fillery detected a new expression on the keen, thoughtful features, and
he was pleased to see it.
"To give you the truth," resumed his assistant, "and all question
of who is right or who is wrong aside, I tell you frankly--I am not
sure. I confess myself up against it. It--er--gives me the creeps a
little----" He laughed awkwardly. That swift watchful look, as of a man
who plays a part, flashed and vanished.
"Your feeling, anyhow?" insisted his friend. "Your general feeling?"
"A general judgment based on general feeling," said the other in a
quiet tone, "has little value. It is based, necessarily, as you know,
upon intuition, which I temperamentally dislike. It has no facts to
go upon. I distrust generalizations." He took a deep breath, inhaled
a lot of smoke, exhaled it with relief, and made an effort. It went
against the grain in him to be caught without an explanation.
"'N. H.' in my opinion, and so far as my limited observation of him----"
Fillery allowed himself a laugh of amused impatience. "Leave out the
personal extras for once, and burn your bridges. Tell me finally what
you think about 'N. H.' We're not scoring points now."
Thus faced with an alternative, Devonham found his sense of humour
again and forgot himself. It cost him an effort, but he obeyed the
bigger and less personal mind.
"I really don't know exactly _what_ he is," he confessed again. "He
puzzles me completely. It _may_ be"--he shrugged his shoulders,
compelled by his temperament to hedge--"that he represents, as I first
thought, the content of his parents' minds, the subsequent addition of
Mason's mind included."
"That's possible, usual and comprehensible enough," put in the doctor,
watching him with amused concentration, but with an inner excitement
scarcely concealed.
"Or" resumed Devonham, "it _may_ be that through these----"
"Through his mental inheritance from his parents and from Mason,
yes----"
"----he taps the most primitive stores and layers of racial memory we
know. The world-memory, if I dare put it so, full proof being lacking,
is open to him----"
"Through his subconscious powers, of course?"
"That is your usual theory, isn't it? We have there, at any rate,
a working hypothesis, with a great mass of evidence--generally
speaking--behind it."
"Don't be cynical, Paul. Is this 'N. H.' merely a Secondary
Personality, or is it the real central self? That's the whole point."
"You jump ahead, as usual," replied Devonham, really smiling for the
first time, though his face instantly grew serious again. "Edward," he
went on, "I do not know, I cannot say, I dare not--dare not guess. 'N.
H.' is something entirely new to me, and I admit it." He seemed to find
his stride, to forget himself. "I feel far from cynical. 'N. H.,' in my
opinion, is exceptional. My notes suggested it long ago. He has, for
instance--at least, so it seems to me--peculiar powers."
"Ah!"
"Of suggestion, let us put it."
"Of suggestion, yes. Get on with it, there's a good fellow. I felt
myself an extraordinary vitality about him. I noticed it at once at
Charing Cross."
"I saw you did." Devonham looked hard at him. "You were humming to
yourself, you know."
"I didn't know," was the surprised reply, "but I can well believe it. I
felt a curious pleasure and exhilaration."
Devonham, shrugging his shoulders slightly, resumed: "During the
'LeVallon' periods he is ordinary, though unusually observant,
critical and intelligent; during the 'N. H.' periods he
becomes--er--super-normal. If you felt this--felt anything in the
station, it was because something in you--called up the 'N. H.' aspect."
"It's quick of you to guess that," said Fillery, with quick
appreciation. "You noticed a change in me, well--but the other----? He
divined my 'foreign' blood, you think?"
"It is enough that you responded and felt kinship. Put it that way. 'N.
H.' seems to me"--he took a deeper breath and gave a sort of gasp--"in
some ways--a unique--being--as I said before."
"Tell me, if you can," said Fillery, lighting his own pipe and settling
back into his chair, "tell me a little about your first meeting with
him in the Jura Mountains, what happened and so forth. I remember,
of course, your Notes. After your telegram, I read 'em carefully."
He glanced round at his companion. "They were very honest, Paul, I
thought. Eh?" He was unable to refuse himself the pleasure of the
little dig. "Honest you always are," he added. "We couldn't work
together otherwise, could we?"
Devonham, deep in his own thoughts, did not accept the challenge. He
turned in his chair, puffing at his pipe.
"I can give you briefly what happened and how things went," he said.
"The place, then, first: an ordinary peasant châlet in a remote Jura
valley, difficult of access, situated among what they call the upper
pastures. I reached it by _diligence_ and mule late in the afternoon.
A peasant in a lower valley directed me, adding that 'le monsieur
anglais' was dead and buried two days before----"
"Mason, that is?"
The other nodded. "And adding that 'le fou'----"
"LeVallon, of course?"
"----would eat me alive at sight. He spoke with respect, however, even
awe. He hoped I had come to take him away. The countryside was afraid
of him.
"The valley struck me as intolerably lonely, but of unusual beauty. Big
forests, great rocks, and tumbling streams among cliffs and pastures
made it exceptional. The châlet was simple, clean and comfortable. It
was really an ideal spot for a thinker or a student. The first thing I
noticed was a fire burning on a pile of rock in front of the building.
The sun was setting, and its last rays lit the entire little glen--a
mere gully between precipices and forest slopes--but especially lit up
the pile of rocks where the fire burned, so that I saw the smoke, blue,
red and yellow, and the figure kneeling before it. This figure was a
man, half naked, and of magnificent proportions. When I shouted----"
"You _would_ shout, of course." Yet he did not say it critically.
"----the figure rose and turned and came to meet me. It was LeVallon."
Devonham paused a moment. Fillery's eyes were fixed upon him.
"I admit," Devonham went on, conscious of the other's inquiring and
intent expression, "I was surprised a bit." He smiled his faint,
unwilling smile. "The figure made me start. I was aware of an emotion
I am not subject to--what I called just now the creeps. I thought, at
last, I had really seen a--a vision. He looked so huge, so wonderful,
so radiant. It was, of course, the effect of coloured smoke and
magnifying sunset, added to his semi-nakedness. To the waist he was
stripped. But, at first, his size, his splendour, a kind of radiance
borrowed from the sunlight and the fire, seemed to enlarge him beyond
human. He seemed to dominate, even to fill the little valley.
"I stood still, uncertain of my feelings. There was, I think, a trace
of fear in me. I waited for him to come up to me. He did so. He
stretched out a hand. I took it. And what do you think he said?"
Fillery, the inner excitement and delight increasing in him as he
listened, stared in silence. There was no lightness in him now.
"'Are you Fillery?' That's what he said, and the first words he
uttered. 'Are you Fillery?' But spoken in a way I find difficult to
reproduce. He made the name sound like a rush of wind. 'F,' of course,
involves a draught of breath between the teeth, I know. But _he_ made
the name sound exactly like a gush of wind through branches--that's the
nearest I can get to it."
"Well--and then?"
"Don't be impatient, Edward. I try to be accurate. But really--what
happened next is a bit beyond any experience that we--I--have yet come
across. And, as to what I felt--well, I was tired, hungry, thirsty. I
wanted, normally, rest and food and drink. Yet all these were utterly
forgotten. For a moment or two--I admit it--I felt as if I had come
face to face with something not of this earth quite." He grinned. "A
touch of gooseflesh came to me for the first time in my life. The
fellow's size and radiance in the sunlight, the fact that he stood
there worshipping fire--always, to me, the most wonderful of natural
phenomena--his grandeur and nakedness--the way he pronounced your name
even--all this--er--upset my judgment for the moment." He paused again.
He hesitated. "A visual hallucination, due to fatigue, can be, of
course, very detailed sometimes," he added, a note of challenge in his
tone.
Fillery watched his friend narrowly, as he stumbled among the
details of what he evidently found a difficult, almost an impossible
description.
"Natural enough," he put in. "You'd hardly be human yourself if you
felt nothing at such a sight."
"The loneliness, too, increased the effect," went on the other, "for
there was no one nearer than the peasants who had directed me a
thousand feet below, nor was there another building of any sort in
sight. Anyhow, it seemed, I managed my strange emotions all right, for
the young man took to me at once. He left the fire, if reluctantly,
singing to himself a sort of low chanting melody, with perhaps five or
six notes at most in it, and far from unmusical----"
"He explained the fire? Was he actually worshipping, I mean?"
"It was certainly worship, judging by the expression of his face and
his gestures of reverence and happiness. But I asked no questions. I
thought it best just to accept, or appear to accept, the whole thing as
natural. He said something about the Equinox, but I did not catch it
properly and did not ask. This had evidently been taught him. It was,
however, the 22nd of September, oddly enough, though the gales had not
yet come."
"So you got into the châlet next?" asked the other, noticing the gaps,
the incoherence.
"He put his coat on, sat down with me to a meal of bread and milk and
cheese--meat there seemed none in the building anywhere. This meal was,
if you understand me, obeying a mere habit automatically. He did just
what it had been his habit to do with Mason all these years. He got
the stuff himself--quickly, effectively, no fumbling anywhere--and,
from that moment, hardly spoke again until we left two days later. I
mean that literally. All he said, when I tried to make him talk, was,
'You are not Fillery,' or 'Take me to Fillery. I need him.'
"I almost felt that I was living with some marvellously trained animal,
of extraordinary intelligence, gentle, docile, friendly, but unhappy
because it had lost its accustomed master. But on the other hand--I
admit it--I was conscious of a certain power in his personality beyond
me to explain. That, really, is the best description I can give you."
"You mentioned the name of Mason?" asked Fillery, avoiding a dozen more
obvious and natural questions.
"Several times. But his only reply was a smile, while he repeated the
name himself, adding your own after it: 'Mason Fillery, Mason Fillery,'
he would say, smiling with quiet happiness. 'I like Fillery!'"
"The nights?"
"Briefly--I was glad to see the dawn. We had separate rooms, my own
being the one probably where Mason had died a few days before. But it
was not that I minded in the least. It was the feeling--the knowledge
in fact--that my companion was up and about all night in the building
or out of doors. I heard him moving, singing quietly to himself, the
wooden veranda creaked beneath his tread. He was active all through the
darkness and cannot have slept at all. When I came down soon after dawn
he was running over the slopes a mile away, running towards the châlet,
too, with the speed and lightness of a deer. He had been to some
height, I think, to see the sun rise and probably to worship it----"
"And your journey? You got him away easily?"
"He was only too ready to leave, for it meant coming to _you_. I
arranged with the peasants below to have the châlet closed up, took
my charge to Neuchâtel, and thence to Berne, where I bought him an
outfit, and arrived in due course, as you know, at Charing Cross."
"His first sight of cities, people, trains, steamers and the rest, I
take it. Any reactions?"
"The troubles I anticipated did not materialize. He came like a lamb,
the most helpless and pathetic lamb I ever saw. He stared but asked no
questions. I think he was half dazed, even stupefied with it all."
"Stupefied?"
"An odd word to use, I know. I should have said perhaps 'automatic'
rather. He was so open to my suggestions, doing what my mind expected
him to do, but nothing more--ah! with one exception."
Fillery meant to hear an account of that exception, though the other
would willingly have foregone its telling evidently. It was related,
Fillery felt sure, to the unusual powers Devonham had mentioned.
"Oh, you shall hear it," said the latter quickly, "for what it's
worth. There's no need to exaggerate, of course." He told it rapidly,
accurately, no doubt, because his mind was honest, yet without comment
or expression in his voice and face. He supplied no atmosphere.
"I had got him like a lamb, as I told you, to Paris, and it was during
the Customs examination the--er--little thing occurred. The man,
searching through his trunk, pulled out a packet of flat papers and
opened it. He looked them over with puzzled interest, turning them
upside down to examine them from every possible angle. Then he asked a
trifle unpleasantly what they were. I hadn't the smallest idea myself,
I had never seen them before; they were very carefully wrapped up.
LeVallon, whose sudden excitement increased the official's interest,
told him that they were star-and-weather maps. It doubtless was the
truth; he had made them with Mason; but they were queer-looking papers
to have at such a time, hidden away, too, at the bottom of the trunk;
and LeVallon's manner and expression did not help to disarm the man's
evident suspicion. He asked a number of pointed questions in a very
disagreeable way--who made them, for what purpose, how they were used,
and whether they were connected with aviation. I translated, of course.
I explained their innocence----"
"LeVallon's excitement?" asked Fillery. "What form did it take?
Rudeness, anger, violence of any sort?" He was aware his friend would
have liked to shirk these details.
"Nothing of the kind." He hesitated briefly, then went on. "He behaved,
rather, as though--well, as a devout Catholic might have behaved if his
crucifix or some holy relic were being mauled. The maps were sacred.
Symbols possibly. Heaven knows what! He tried to take them back. The
official, as a natural result, became still more suspicious and, of
course, offensive too. My explanations and expostulations were quite
useless, for he didn't even listen to them."
Devonham was now approaching the part of the story he least wished
to describe. He played for time. He gave details of the ensuing
altercation.
"What happened in the end?" Fillery at length interrupted. "What did
LeVallon do? There were no arrests, I take it?" he added with a smile.
Paul coughed and fidgeted. He told the literal truth, however.
"LeVallon, after listening for a long time to the conversation he could
not understand, suddenly took his fingers off the papers. The man's
dirty hand still held them tightly on the grimy counter. LeVallon
began--or--he suddenly began to breathe--well--heavily rather."
"Rhythmically?"
"Heavily," insisted the other. "In a curious way, anyhow," he added,
determined to keep strictly to the truth, "not unlike Heathcote when he
put himself automatically into trance and then told us what was going
on at the other end of England. You remember the case." He paused a
moment again, as if to recall exactly what had occurred. "It's not
easy to describe, Edward," he continued, looking up. "You remember that
huge draughty hall where they examine luggage at the Lyons Station.
I can't explain it. But that breathing somehow caught the draughts,
used them possibly, in any case increased them. A wind came through
the great hall. I can't explain it," he repeated, "I can only tell you
what happened. That wind most certainly came pouring steadily through,
for I felt it myself, and saw it blow upon the fluttering papers. The
heat in the _salle_ at the same moment seemed to grow intense. Not an
oppressive heat, though. Radiant heat, rather. It felt, I mean, like
a fierce sunlight. I looked up, almost expecting to see a great light
from which it came. It was then--at this very moment--the Frenchman
turned as if someone touched him."
"_You_ felt anything, Paul?"
"Yes," admitted the other slowly.
Fillery waited.
"A--what I must call--a thrill." His voice was lower now.
"Of----?" his Chief persisted.
Devonham waited a full ten seconds before reply. He again shrugged his
shoulders a little. Apparently he sought his words with honest care
that included also intense reluctance and disapproval:
"Loveliness, romance, enchantment; but, above all, I think--power." He
ground out the confession slowly. "By power I mean a sort of confidence
and happiness."
"Increase of vitality, call it. Intensification of your consciousness."
"Possibly. A bigger perspective suddenly, a bigger scale of life;
something--er--a bit wild, but certainly--er--uncommonly stimulating.
The best word, I think, is liberty, perhaps. An immense and careless
sense of liberty." And Fillery, knowing the value of superlatives in
Devonham's cautious mind, felt satisfied. He asked quietly what the
official did next.
"Stood stock still at first. Then his face changed; he smiled; he
looked up understandingly, sympathetically, at LeVallon. He spoke: 'My
father, too,' he said with admiration, 'had a big telescope. Monsieur
is an astronomer.'
"'One of the greatest,' I added quickly; 'these charts are of infinite
value to France.' No sense of comedy touched me anywhere, the ludicrous
was absent. The man bowed, as carefully, respect in every gesture, he
replaced the maps, marked the trunk with his piece of chalk, and let us
go, helping in every way he could."
Devonham drew a long breath, glad that he had relieved himself of his
unwelcome duty. He had told the literal truth.
"Of course, of course," Fillery said, half to himself perhaps.
"A breath of bigger consciousness, his imagination touched, the
subconscious wakened, and intelligence the natural result." He turned
to his colleague. "Interesting, Paul, very," he added in a louder tone,
"and not easy to explain, I grant. The official we do not know, but
you, at any rate, are not a good subject for hypnotic suggestion!"
For some time Devonham said nothing. Presently he spoke:
"Fillery, I tell you--really I love the fellow. He's the most lovable
thing in human shape I ever saw. He gets into your heart so strangely.
We must heal him."
The other sighed, quickly smothering it, yet not before Devonham had
noticed it. They did not look at one another for some seconds, and
there was a certain tenseness, a sense of deep emotion in the air that
each, possibly, sought to hide from the other.
Devonham was the first to break the silence that had fallen between
them.
"To be quite frank--it's LeVallon that appeals most to me," he said,
as if to himself, "whereas you, Edward, I believe, are more--more
interested in the other aspect of him. It's 'N. H.' that interests you."
No challenge was intended, yet the glove was flung. Fillery said
nothing for a minute or two. Then he looked up, and their eyes met
across the smoke-laden atmosphere. It was close on midnight. The world
lay very still and hushed about the house.
"It is," he said quietly, "a pathetic and inspiring case. He is
deserving of"--he chose his words slowly and with care--"our very
best," he concluded shortly.
"And now," he added quickly, "you're tired out, and I ought to have let
you have a night's sleep before taxing you like this." He poured out
two glasses of whisky. "Let us drink anyhow to success and healing of
body, mind--and soul."
"Body, mind and--nerves," said Devonham slowly, as he drank the toast.
"The reason I had none of the trouble I anticipated," remarked
Devonham, as he sipped the reviving liquor, "is simple enough."
"There are two periods, of course. I guessed that."
"Exactly. There is the LeVallon period, when he is quiescent, normal,
very charming into the bargain, more like a good child or trained
animal or happy peasant, if you like it better, than a grown man. And
there is the 'N. H.' period, when he is--otherwise."
"Ah!"
"I arrived just at the transition moment, so to speak. It was during
the change I reached the châlet."
"Precisely." Fillery looked up, smiled and nodded.
"That's about the truth," repeated Devonham, putting his glass down. He
thought for a moment, then added slowly, "I think that fire of his, the
worship, singing--at the autumnal equinox--marked the change. 'N. H,'
at once after that, slipped back into the unconscious state. LeVallon
emerged. It was with LeVallon only or chiefly, _I_ had to deal. He
became so very quiet, dazed a little, half there, as we call it, and
almost entirely silent. He retained little, if any, memory of the 'N.
H.' period, although it lies, I think, just beneath the surface only.
The LeVallon personality, you see, is not very positive, is it? It
seems a quiet, negative state, a condition almost of rest, in fact."
Fillery listening attentively, made no rejoinder.
"We may expect," continued Devonham, "these alternating states, I
think. The frontier between them is, as I said, a narrow one. Indeed,
often they merge or interpenetrate. In my judgment, the main, important
part of his consciousness, that parent Self, is LeVallon--_not_ 'N.
H.'" The voice was slightly strident.
"Ah!"
It so happened that, in the act of exchanging these last words, they
both looked up toward the ceiling, where a moth buzzed round and round,
banging itself occasionally against the electric light. Whether it was
this that drew their sight upwards simultaneously, or whether it was
that some other sound in the stillness of the night had caught their
strained attention, is uncertain. The same thought, at any rate, was
in both minds at that instant, the same freight of meaning trailing
behind it invisibly across the air. Their hearts burned within them;
the two faces upward turned, the lips a little parted as when listening
is intense, the heads thrown back. For in the room above that ceiling,
asleep at this moment, lay the subject of their long discussion; only
a few inches of lath and plaster separated them from the strange being
who, dropping out of space, as it were, had come to make his home with
them. A being, lonely utterly in the world, unique in kind perhaps, his
nature as yet undecipherable, lay trustingly unconscious in that upper
chamber. The two men felt the gravity, the responsibility of their
charge. The same thought had vividly touched them both at the same
instant.
A few minutes later they were still standing, facing one another.
They were of a height, but compared to Fillery's big frame and rugged
head, his friend's appearance was almost slight. Devonham, for all his
qualifications, looked painfully like a shopwalker. They exchanged this
steady gaze for a few seconds without speaking. Then the older man
said quietly:
"Paul, I understand, and I respect your reticence. I think I can agree
with it."
He placed a hand upon the other's shoulder, smiling gently, even
tenderly.
"You have told me much, but you have not told me all! The chief
part--you have intentionally omitted."
"For the present, at any rate," was the reply, given without flinching.
"Your reasons are sound, your judgment perhaps right. I ask no
questions. What happened, what you saw, at the châlet; the 'peculiar
powers' you mentioned; all, in fact, that you think it wise to keep to
yourself for the moment, I leave there willingly."
He spoke gravely, sincere emotion in the eyes and tone. It was in a
lower voice he added:
"The responsibility, of course, is yours."
Devonham returned the steady gaze, pondering his reply a moment.
"I can--and do accept it," he answered. "You have read my thoughts
correctly as usual, Edward. I think you know quite enough already--what
with my Notes and Mason's letter--even too much. Besides, why
complicate it with an account of what were doubtless mere mental
pictures--hallucinations--on my part? This is a matter," he went on
slowly, "a case, we dare not trifle with; there may be strange and
terrible afflictions in it later; we must remain unbiased." The anxiety
deepened on his face.
"True, true," murmured the other. "God bless the boy! May his own gods
bless him!"
"In other words, it will need your clearest, soundest judgment, your
finest skill, your very best, as you said yourself just now." He used
a firmer, yet also a softer tone suddenly: "Edward, you know your own
mind, its contents, its suppressions, its origin; your refusal of the
love of women, your deep powerful dreams that you have suppressed and
put away. Promise me"--the voice and manner were very earnest--"that
you will not communicate these to him in any way, and that you will
keep your judgment absolutely unbiased and untainted." He looked at his
old friend and paused. "Only your purest judgment of what is to come
can help. You promise."
Fillery sighed a scarcely noticeable sigh. "I promise you, Paul. You
are wise--and you are right," he said. "On the other hand, let me say
one thing to you in my turn. This theory of heredity and of mental
telepathic transference--the idea that all his mind's content is
derived from his parents and from Mason--we cannot, remember, force
this transference and interchange _too_ far. I ask only this: be fair
and open yourself with all that follows."
Devonham raised his voice: "Nor can we, apparently, set limits to it,
Edward. But--to be fair and open-minded--I give my promise too."
Thus, in the little downstairs room of a Private Home for Incurable
Mental Cases, _not_ a Lunatic Asylum, though sometimes perhaps next
door to it, these two men, deeply intrigued by a new "Case" that
passed their understanding, as it exceeded their knowledge, practice
and experience, swore to each other to observe carefully, to report
faithfully, and to experiment, if experiment proved necessary, with
honest and affectionate uprightness.
Their views were, obviously, not the same. Devonham, temperamentally
opposed to radical innovations, believed it was a case of divided
personality--hundreds of such cases had passed through their hands.
Forced to accept extended telepathy--that all minds can on occasion
share one another's content, and that even a racial and a world-memory
can be tapped--he feared that his Chief might influence LeVallon, and
twist, thus, the phenomena to a special end. He knew Edward Fillery's
story. He feared, for the sake of truth, the mental transference. He
had, perhaps, other fears as well.
Fillery, on the other hand, believing as much, and knowing more than
his colleague, saw in "N. H." a unique possibility. He was thrilled
and startled with a half-impossible hope. He felt as if someone ran
beside his life, bearing impossible glad tidings, an unexpected,
half-incredible figure, the tidings marvellously bright. He hoped, he
already wished to think, that "N. H." might shadow forth a promise of
some magical advance for the ultimate benefit of the Race....
The thinkers were crying on the housetops that progress was a myth,
that each wave of civilization at its height reached the same average
level without ever passing further. The menace to the present
civilization, already crumbling, was in full swing everywhere;
knowledge, culture, learning threatened in due course with the chaos
of destruction that has so far been the invariable rule. The one hope
of saving the world, cried religion, lay in substituting spiritual for
material values--a Utopian dream at best. The one chance, said science,
on the other hand, was that civilization to-day is continuous and not
isolated.
The best hope, believed Fillery, the only hope, lay in raising the
individual by the drawing up into full consciousness of the limitless
powers now hidden and inactive in his deeper self--the so-called
subliminal faculties. With these greater powers must come also greater
moral development.
Already, with his uncanny insight, derived from knowledge of himself,
he had piercingly divined in "N. H." a being, whatever he might be,
whose nature acted automatically and directly upon the subconscious
self in everybody.
That bright messenger, running past his life, had looked, as with fire
and tempest, straight into his eyes.
* * * * *
It was long after one o'clock when the two men said good-night, and
went to their rooms. Devonham was soon in bed, though not soon asleep.
Exhausted physically though he was, his mind burned actively. His
recent memories were vivid. All he had purposely held back from
Fillery returned with power....
The uncertainty whether he had experienced hallucination, or had
actually, as by telepathic transfer from LeVallon, touched another
state of consciousness, kept sleep far away....
His brain was far too charged for easy slumber. He feared for his dear,
faithful friend, his colleague, the skilful, experienced, yet sorely
tempted mind--tempted by Nature and by natural weaknesses of birth and
origin--who now shared with him the care and healing of a Case that
troubled his being too deeply for slumber to come quickly.
Yet he had done well to keep these memories from Edward Fillery. If
Fillery once knew what _he_ knew, his judgment and his scientific
diagnosis must be drawn hopelessly away from what he considered the
best treatment: the suppression of "N. H." and the making permanent of
"LeVallon."...
He fell asleep eventually, towards dawn, dreaming impossible, radiant
dreams of a world he might have hoped for, yet could not, within the
limits of his little cautious, accurate mind, believe in. Dreams that
inspire, yet sadden, haunted his release from normal consciousness.
Someone had walked upon his life, leaving a growth of everlasting
flowers in their magical tread, though his mind--his stolid, cautious
mind--had no courage for the plucking....
And while he slept, as the hours slipped from west to east, his chief
and colleague, lying also sleepless, rose suddenly before the late
autumn dawn, and walked quietly along the corridor towards the Private
Suite where the new patient rested. His mind was quiet, yet his inner
mind alert. His thoughts, his hopes, his dreams, these lay, perhaps,
beyond human computation. He was calmer far than his assistant, though
more strangely tempted.
It was just growing light, the corridor was cold. A cool, damp air came
through the open windows and the linoleum felt like ice against the
feet. The house lay dead and silent. Pausing a moment by a window, he
listened to the chattering of early sparrows. He felt chill and hungry,
unrested too, though far from sleepy. He was aware of London--bleak,
heavy, stolid London town. The troubles of modern life, of Labour,
Politics, Taxes, cost of living, all the common, daily things came in
with the cheerless morning air.
He reached the door he sought, and very softly opened it.
The radiance met him in the face, so that he almost gasped. The scent
of flowers, the sting of sharp, keen forest winds, the exhilaration of
some distant mountain-top. There was, actually, a tang of dawn, known
only to those who have tasted the heights at sunrise with the heart.
And into his heart, singing with happy confidence, rose a sense of
supreme joy and confidence that mastered all little earthly woes and
pains, and walked among the stars.
The occupant of the bed lay very still. His shining hair was spread
upon the pillow. The splendid limbs were motionless. The chest and arms
were bare, the single covering sheet tossed off. The strange, wild face
wore happiness and peace upon its skin, the features very calm, the
mouth relaxed. It almost seemed a god lay sleeping there upon a little
human bed.
How long he stood and stared he did not know, but suddenly, the light
increased. The curtains stirred about the bed.
With a marvellous touch the separate details merged and quickened into
life. The room was changed. The occupant of the bed moved very swiftly,
as through the open window came the first touch of exhilarating light.
Gold stole across the lintel, breaking over the roofs of slates beyond.
The leafless elm trees shimmered faintly. The telegraph wires shone.
There was a running sparkle. It was dawn.
The figure leaped, danced--no other word describes it--to the open
window where the light and air gushed in, spread wide its arms, lowered
its radiant head, began to sing in low, melodious rhythmic chant--and
Fillery, as silently as he had come, withdrew and closed the door
unseen. His heart moved strangely, but--his promise held him....