The meeting with Dr. Fillery and his friends, the Khilkoffs, father
and daughter, had, for one reason or another, to be postponed for a
week, during which brief time even, no single day wasted, LeVallon's
education proceeded rapidly. He was exceedingly quick to learn the
usages of civilized society in a big city, adapting himself with
an ease born surely of quick intelligence to the requirements and
conventions of ordinary life.
In his perception of the rights of others, particularly, he showed
a natural aptitude; he had good manners, that is, instinctively; in
certain houses where Fillery took him purposely, he behaved with
a courtesy and tact that belong usually to what England calls a
gentleman. Except to Fillery and Devonham, he talked little, but was
an excellent and sympathetic listener, a quality that helped him to
make his way. With Mrs. Soames, the stern and even forbidding matron,
he made such headway, that it was noticed with a surprise, including
laughter. He might have been her adopted son.
"She's got a new pet," said Devonham, with a laugh. "Mason taught him
well. His aptitude for natural history is obvious; after a few years'
study he'll make a name for himself. The 'N. H.' side will disappear
now more and more, unless _you_ stimulate it for your own ends----" He
broke off, speaking lightly still, but with a carelessness some might
have guessed assumed.
"You forget," put in his Chief, "I promised."
Devonham looked at him shrewdly. "I doubt," he said, "whether you can
help yourself, Edward," the expression in his eyes for a moment almost
severe.
Fillery remained thoughtful, making no immediate reply.
"We must remember," he said presently, "that he's now in the quiescent
state. Nothing has again occurred to bring 'N. H.' uppermost again."
Devonham turned upon his friend. "I see no reason why 'N. H.'"--he
spoke with emphasis--"should ever get uppermost again. In my opinion we
can make this quiescent state--LeVallon--the permanent one."
"We can't keep him in a cage like Mrs. Soames's mice and parrot. Are
you, for instance, against my taking him to the Studio? Do you think
it's a mistake to let him meet the Prometheans?"
"That's just where Mason went wrong," returned Devonham. "He kept him
in a cage. The boy met only a few peasants, trees, plants, animals and
birds. The sun, making him feel happy, became his deity. The rain he
hated. The wind inspired and invigorated him. If we now introduce the
human element wisely, I see no danger. If he can stand the Khi--the
Studio and the Prometheans, he can stand anything. He may be considered
cured."
The door opened and a tall, radiant figure with bright eyes and untidy
shining hair came into the room, carrying an open book.
"Mrs. Soames says I've nothing to do with stars," said a deep musical
voice, "and that I had better stick to animals and plants. She says
that star-gazing never was good for anyone except astronomers who warn
us about tides, eclipses and dangerous comets."
He held out the big book, open at an enlarged stellar photograph.
"What, please, is a galaxy, a star that is suddenly brilliant, then
disappears in a few weeks, and a nebula?"
Before either of the astonished men could answer, LeVallon turned to
Devonham, his face wearing the gravity and intense curiosity of a
child. "And, please, are _you_ the only sort of being in the universe?
Mrs. Soames says that the earth is the only inhabited place. Aren't
there other beings besides you anywhere? The Earth is such a little
planet, and the solar system, according to this book, is one of the
smallest too."
"My dear fellow," Devonham said gently, "do not bother your head with
useless speculations. Our only valuable field of study is this planet,
for it is all we know or ever can know. Whether the universe holds
other beings or not, can be of no importance to us at present."
LeVallon stared fixedly at him, saying nothing. Something of his
natural radiance dimmed a little. "Then what are all these things that
I remember I've forgotten?" he asked, his blue eyes troubled.
"It will take you all your lifetime to understand beings like me, and
like yourself and like Dr. Fillery. Don't waste time speculating about
possible inhabitants in other stars."
He spoke good-humouredly, but firmly, as one who laid down certain
definite lines to be followed, while Dr. Fillery, watching, made no
audible comment. Once long ago he had asked his own father a somewhat
similar question.
"But I shall so soon get to the end of you," replied LeVallon, a
disappointed expression on his face. "I may speculate _then_?" he asked.
"When you get to the end of me and of yourself and of Dr. Fillery--yes,
then you may speculate to your heart's content," said Devonham in a
kindly tone. "But it will take you longer than you think perhaps.
Besides, there are women, too, remember. You will find them more
complicated still."
A curious look stole into the other's eager eyes. He turned suddenly
towards the older man who had his confidence so completely. There was
in the movement, in the incipient gesture that he made with his arms,
his hands, almost with his head and face as well, something of appeal
that set the doctor's nerves alert. And the change of voice--it was
lower now and more musical than before--increased the nameless message
that flashed to his brain and heart. There was a hint of song, of
chanting almost, in the tone. There was music in him. For the voice,
Fillery realized suddenly, brought in the over-tones, somewhat in the
way good teachers of singing and voice production know. There was the
depth, sonority, singing quality which means that the "harmonics" are
made audible, as with a violin played in perfect tune. The sound seemed
produced not by the vocal cords alone, but by the entire being, so to
speak. Yet, "LeVallon's" voice had not this rich power, he noticed.
Its appearance was a sign that "N. H." was stirring into activity and
utterance.
"Women, yes," the young man repeated to himself. "Women--bring back
something. Their eyes make me remember----" he turned abruptly to the
open book upon the doctor's knee. "It's something to do with stars,
these memories," he went on eagerly, the voice resonant. "Stars, women,
memories ... where are they all gone to...? Why have I lost...? What is
it that...?"
It seemed as if a veil passed from his face, a thin transparency
that dimmed the shining effect his hair and eyes and radiant health
produced. A far-away expression followed it.
"'N. H.'!" Devonham quickly flashed the whispered warning. And in the
same instant, Fillery rose, holding out the open book.
"Come, LeVallon," he said, putting a hand upon his shoulder, "we'll go
into my room for an hour, and I'll tell you all about the galaxies and
nebulæ. You shall ask as many questions as you like. Devonham is a very
busy man and has duties to attend to just now."
He moved across to open the door, and LeVallon, his face changing more
and more, went with him; the light in his eyes increased; he smiled,
the far-away expression passed a little.
"Dr. Devonham is quite right in what he says about useless
speculations," continued Fillery, as they went out arm in arm together,
"but we can play a bit with thought and imagination, for all that--you
and I. 'Let your thought wander like an insect which is allowed to fly
in the air, but is at the same time confined by a thread.' Come along,
we'll have an hour's play. We'll travel together among the golden
stars, eh?"
"Play!" exclaimed the youth, looking up with flashing eyes. "Ah! in the
Spring we play! Our work with sap, roots, crystals, fire, all finished
out of sight, so that their results followed of their own accord."
He was talking at great speed in a low voice, a deep, rolling voice,
and half to himself. "Spring is our holiday, the forms made perfect
and ready for the power to rush through, and we rush with it, playing
everywhere----"
"Spring is the wine of life, yes," put in Fillery, caught away
momentarily by something behind the words he listened to, as though a
rhythm swept him. "Creative life racing up and flooding into every form
and body everywhere. It brings wonder, joy--play, as you call it."
"We--we build the way----" The youth broke off abruptly as they reached
the study door. Something flowed down and back in him, emptying face
and manner of a mood which had striven for utterance, then passed. He
returned to the previous talk about the stars again:
"Who attends to them? Who looks after them?" he inquired, a deep,
peculiar interest in his manner, his eyes turning a little darker.
"What we call the laws of Nature," was the reply, "which are, after
all, merely our 'descriptive formulæ summing up certain regularities
of recurrence,' the laws under which they were first set alight and
then sent whirling into space. Under these same laws they will all
eventually burn out and come to rest. They will be dead."
"Dead," repeated the other, as though he did not understand. "They are
the children of the laws," he stated, rather than asked. "Are the laws
kind and faithful? They never tire?"
Fillery explained with one-half of his nature, and still as to a
child. The other half of him lay under firm restraint according to his
promise. He outlined in general terms man's knowledge of the stars.
"The laws never tire," he said.
"But the stars end! They burn out, stop, and die! You said so."
The other replied with something judicious and cautious about time and
its immense duration. But he was startled.
"And those who attend to the laws," came then the words that startled
him, "who keeps them working so that they do not tire?"
It was something in the tone of voice perhaps that, once again,
produced in his listener the extraordinary sudden feeling that Humanity
was, after all, but an insignificant, a microscopic detail in the
Universe; that it was, say, a mere ant-heap in the colossal jungle
crowded with other minuter as well as immenser life of every sort and
kind, and, moreover, that "N. H." was aware of this "other life," or at
least of some vast section of it, and had been, if he were not still,
associated with it. The two letters by which he was designated acquired
a deeper meaning than before.
A rich glow came into the young face, and into the eyes, growing ever
darker, a look of burning; the skin had the effect of radiating; the
breathing became of a sudden deep and rhythmical. The whole figure
seemed to grow larger, expanding as though it extended already and half
filled the room. Into the atmosphere about it poured, as though heat
and light rushed through it, a strange effect of power.
"You'd like to visit them, perhaps--wouldn't you?" asked Fillery gently.
"I feel----" began the other, then stopped short.
"You feel it would interest you," the doctor helped--then saw his
mistake.
"I feel," repeated the youth. The sentence was complete. "I am there."
"Ah! when you feel you're there, you _are_ there?"
The other nodded.
He leaned forward. "_I_ know," he whispered as with sudden joy. "_You_
help me to remember, Fillery." The voice, though whispering, was
strong; it vibrated full of over-tones and under-tones. The sound of
the "F" was like a wind in branches. "You wonderful, _you_ know too!
It is the same with flowers, with everything. We build with wind and
fire." He stopped, rubbing a hand across his forehead a moment. "Wind
and fire," he went on, but this time to himself, "my splendid mighty
ones...." Dropping his hand, he flashed an amazing look of enthusiasm
and power into his companion's face. The look held in concentrated
form something of the power that seemed pulsing and throbbing in his
atmosphere. "Help me to remember, dear Fillery," his voice rang out
aloud like singing. "Remember with me why we both are here. When we
remember we can go back where we belong."
The glow went from his face and eyes as though an inner lamp had been
suddenly extinguished. The power left both voice and atmosphere. He
sank back in his chair, his great sensitive hands spread over the table
where the star charts lay, as through the open window came the crash
and clatter of an aeroplane tearing, like some violent, monstrous
insect, through the sunlight.
A look of pain came into his eyes. "It goes again. I've lost it."
"We were talking about the stars and the laws of Nature," said Fillery
quickly, though his voice was shaking, "when that noisy flying-machine
disturbed us." He leaned over, taking his companion's hand. His heart
was beating. He smelt the open spaces. The blood ran wildly in his
veins. It was with the utmost difficulty he found simple, common words
to use. "You must not ask too much at once. We will learn slowly--there
is so much we have to learn together."
LeVallon's smile was beautiful, but it was the smile of "LeVallon"
again only.
"Thank you, dear Fillery," he replied, and the talk continued as
between a tutor and his backward pupil.... But for some time afterwards
the "tutor's" mind and heart, while attending to LeVallon now, went
travelling, it seemed, with "N. H." There was this strange division
in his being ... for "N. H." appealed with power to a part of him,
perhaps the greatest, that had never yet found expression, much less
satisfaction.
Many a talk together of this kind, with occasional semi-irruptions of
"N. H.," he had already enjoyed with his new patient, and LeVallon was
by now fairly well instructed in the general history of our little
world, briefly but picturesquely given. Evolution had been outlined
and explained, the rise of man sketched vividly, the great war, and
the planet's present state of chaos described in a way that furnished
a clear enough synopsis of where humanity now stood. LeVallon was
able to hold his own in conversation with others; he might pass for a
simple-minded but not ill-informed young man, and both Paul Devonham
and Edward Fillery, though each for different reasons, were, therefore,
well satisfied with the young human being entrusted to their care, a
human being to be eventually discharged from the Home, healed and cured
of extravagances, made harmonious with himself, able to make his own
way in the world alone. To Devonham it appeared already certain that,
within a reasonable time, LeVallon would find himself happily at home
among his fellow kind, a normal, even a gifted young man with a future
before him. "N. H." would disappear and be forgotten, absorbed back
into the parent Self. To his colleague, on the other hand, another
vision of his future opened. Sooner or later it was LeVallon that would
disappear and "N. H." remain in full control, a strange, possibly a
new type of being, not alone marvellously gifted, but who might even
throw light upon a vista of research and knowledge hitherto unknown to
humanity, and with benefits for the Race as yet beyond the reach of any
wildest prophecy.
Both men, therefore, went gladly with him to the Khilkoff Studio
that early November afternoon, anxious to observe him, his conduct,
attitude, among the curious set of people to be found there on the
Prometheans' Society day, and to note any reactions he might show in
such a milieu. Each felt fully justified in doing so, though they would
have kept an ordinary "hysterical" patient safely from the place.
LeVallon, however, betrayed no trace of hysteria in any meaning of the
word, big or little; he was stable as a navvy, betraying no undesirable
reaction to the various well-known danger points. The visit might be
something of an experiment perhaps, but an experiment, a test, they
were justified in taking. Yet Devonham on no account would have allowed
his chief to go alone. He had insisted on accompanying them.
And to both men, as they went towards Chelsea, their quiet companion
with them, came the feeling that the visit might possibly prove one
of them right, the other wrong. Fillery expected that Nayan Khilkoff
alone, to say nothing of the effect of the other queer folk who might
be present, must surely evoke the "N. H." personality now lying
quiescent and inactive below the threshold of LeVallon. The charm
and beauty of the girl he had never known to fail with any male, for
she had that in her which was bound to stimulate the highest in the
opposite sex. The excitement of the wild, questing, picturesque, if
unbalanced, minds who would fill the place, must also, though in quite
another way, affect the _real_ self of anyone who came in contact with
their fantastic and imaginative atmosphere. Attraction or repulsion
must certainly be felt. He expected at any rate a vital clue.
"Ivan Khilkoff," he told LeVallon, as they went along in the car, "is
a Russian, a painter and sculptor of talent, a good-hearted and silent
sort of old fellow, who has remained very poor because he refuses to
advertise himself or commercialize his art, and because his work is
not the kind of thing the English buy. His daughter, Nayan, teaches
the piano and Russian. She is beautiful and sweet and pure, but of an
independent and rather impersonal character. She has never fallen in
love, for instance, though most men fall in love with her. I hope you
may like and understand each other."
"Thank you," said LeVallon, listening attentively, but with no great
interest apparently. "I will try very much to like her and her father
too."
"The Studio is a very big one, it is really two studios knocked into
one, their living rooms opening out of it. One half of the place, being
so large, they sometimes let out for meetings, dances and that sort of
thing, earning a little money in that way. It is rented this evening by
a Society called the Prometheans--a group of people whose inquisitive
temperaments lead them to believe, or half believe----"
"To imagine, if not deliberately to manufacture," put in Devonham.
"----to imagine, let us call it," continued the other with a
twinkle, "that there are other worlds, other powers, other states of
consciousness and knowledge open to them outside and beyond the present
ones we are familiar with."
"They _know_ these?" asked LeVallon, looking up with signs of interest.
"They have experienced them?"
"They know and experience," replied Fillery, "according to their
imaginations and desires, those with a touch of creative imagination
claiming the most definite results, those without it being merely
imitative. They report their experiences, that is, but cannot--or
rarely show the results to others. You will hear their talk and judge
accordingly. They are interesting enough in their way. They have,
at any rate, one thing of value--that they are open to new ideas.
Such people have existed in every age of the world's history, but
after an upheaval, such as the great war has been, they become more
active and more numerous, because the nervous system, reacting from
a tremendous strain, produces exaggeration. Any world is better
than an uncomfortable one in revolution, they think. They are, as
a rule, sincere and honest folk. They add a touch of colour to the
commonplace----"
"Tuppence coloured," murmured Devonham below his breath.
"And they believe so much in other worlds to conquer, other regions,
bigger states of consciousness, other powers," concluded Fillery,
ignoring the interruption, "that they are half in this world, half in
the next. Hence Dr. Devonham's name, the name by which he sometimes
laughs at them--of Half Breeds."
LeVallon's eyes, he saw, were very big; his interest and attention were
excited.
"They will probably welcome you with open arms," he added, "if you
care to join them. They consider themselves pioneers of a larger life.
They are not mere spiritualists--oh no! They are familiar with all the
newest theories, and realize that an alternative hypothesis can explain
all so-called psychic phenomena without dragging spirits in. It is in
exaggerating results they go mostly wrong."
"Eccentrics," Devonham remarked, "out of the circle, and hysterical
to a man. They accomplish nothing. They are invariably dreamers,
usually of doubtful morals and honesty, and always unworthy of serious
attention. But they may amuse you for an hour."
"We all find it difficult to believe what we have never experienced,"
mentioned Fillery, turning to his colleague with a hearty laugh, in
which the latter readily joined, for their skirmishes usually brought
in laughter at the end. Just now, moreover, they were talking with a
purpose, and it was wise and good that LeVallon should listen and take
in what he could--hearing both sides. He watched and listened certainly
with open eyes and ears, as he sat between them on the wide front seat,
but saying, as usual, very little.
The car turned down a narrow lane with slackening speed and slowed up
before a dingy building with faded Virginia creepers sprawling about
stained dirty walls. The neighbourhood was depressing, patched and
dishevelled, and almost bordering on a slum. The November light was
passing into early twilight.
"You," said LeVallon abruptly, turning round and staring at Devonham,
"make everything seem unreal to me. I do not understand you. You know
so much. Why is so little real to you?"
But Devonham, in the act of getting out of the car, made no reply, and
probably had not heard the words, or, if he had heard, thought them
more suitable for Fillery.