The Prometheans were evidently in full attendance; possibly the rumour
had reached them that Dr. Fillery was coming. No one announced the
latter's arrival, there was no servant visible; the party hung up their
hats and coats in a passage, then walked into the lofty, dim-lit studio
which was already filled with people and the hum of many voices.
At once, standing in a hesitating group beside the door, they were
observed by everyone in the room. All asked, it seemed, "Who is this
stranger they have brought?" Fillery caught the curious atmosphere
in that first moment, an instant whiff, as it were, of excitement,
interest, something picturesque, if possibly foolish, fantastic, too,
yet faintly stimulating, breathing along his extremely sensitive nerves.
He glanced at his companions. Devonham, it struck him, looked more than
ever like a floor-walker come to supervise, say, a Department where
the sales and assistants were not satisfactory or--he laughed inwardly
as the simile occurred to him--a free-thinker entering a church
whose teaching he disapproved, even despised, and whose congregation
touched his contemptuous pity. "Who would ever guess," thought his
friend and colleague, "the sincerity and depth of knowledge in that
insignificant appearance? Paul hides his value well!" He noticed, in
his quick fashion, touched by humour, the hard challenging eyes, the
aquiline nose on which a pair of pince-nez balanced uneasily, the
narrow shoulders, the poorly fitting clothes. The heart, of course,
remained invisible. Yet suddenly he felt glad that Devonham was with
him. "Nothing unstable there," he reflected, "and stability combined
with competence is rare." This rapid judgment, it occurred to him,
was possibly a warning from his own subconscious being.... A red flag
signalled, flickered, vanished.
He glanced next at LeVallon, towering above the other. LeVallon was
now well dressed in London clothes that suited him, though, for that
matter, any clothes must have looked well upon a male figure so
virile and upstanding. His great shoulders, his leanness, covered so
beautifully with muscle, his height, his colouring, his radiant air;
above all, his strange, big penetrating eyes, marked him as a figure
one would notice anywhere. He stood, somehow, alone, apart, though the
ingredients that contributed to this strange air of aloofness would be
hard to define.
It was chiefly, perhaps, the poise of the great powerful frame that
helped towards this odd setting in isolation and independence.
Motionless, he gazed about him quietly, but it was the way he stood
that singled him out from other men. Even in his stillness there was
grace; neither hands nor feet, though it was difficult to describe
exactly how he placed them or used them, were separate from this poise
of perfect balance. To put it colloquially, he knew what to do with
his extremities. Self-consciousness, in sight of this ardent throng,
the first he had encountered at close, intimate quarters, was entirely
absent.
This Fillery noticed instantly, but other impressions followed during
the few brief seconds while they waited by the door; and first, the odd
effect of tremendous power he managed to convey. Nothing could have
been less aggressive than the tentative, questioning, half inquiring,
half wondering attitude in which he stood, waiting to be introduced
to the buzzing throng of humans; yet there hung about him like an
atmosphere this potential strength, of confidence, of superiority, even
of beauty too, that not only contributed much to the aloofness already
mentioned, but also contrived to make the others, men and women, in the
crowded room--insignificant. Somehow they seemed pale and ineffective
against a larger grandeur, a scale entirely beyond their reach.
"Gigantic" was the word that leaped into the mind, but another perhaps
leaped with it--"elemental."
Fillery was aware of envy, oddly enough, of pride as well. His heart
warmed more than ever to him. Almost, he could have then and there
recalled his promise given to Devonham, cancelling it contemptuously
with a word of self-apology for his smallness and his lack of faith....
LeVallon, aware of a sympathetic mind occupied closely with himself,
turned in that moment, and their eyes met squarely; a smile of deep,
inner understanding passed swiftly between them over Devonham's
head and shoulders. In which moment, exactly, a short, bearded man,
detaching himself from the crowd, came forward and greeted them with
sincere pleasure in his voice and manner. He was broad-shouldered,
lean, his clothes hung loosely; his glance was keen but kindly.
Introductions followed, and Khilkoff's sharp eye rested for some
seconds with unconcealed admiration upon LeVallon, as he held his hand.
His discerning sculptor's glance seemed to appraise his stature and
proportions, while he bade him welcome to the Studio. His big head and
short neck, his mane of hair, the width of his face, with its squat
nose and high cheek-bones, the half ferocious eyes, the heavy jaw and
something sprawling about the mouth, gave him a leonine expression. And
his voice was not unlike a deep-toned growl, for all its cordiality.
A stir, meanwhile, ran through the room, more heads turned in their
direction; they had long ago been observed; they were being now
examined.
"Nayan," Khilkoff was saying, while he still held LeVallon's hand as
though its size and grip contented him, "had a late Russian lesson.
She will be here shortly, and very glad to make your acquaintance,"
looking up at LeVallon, as the new-comer. His gruffness and brevity had
something pleasing in them. "To-day the Studio is not entirely mine,"
he explained. "I want you to come when I'm alone. Some studies I made
in Sark this summer may interest you." He turned to Fillery. "That
lonely place was good for both of us," he said; "it gave me new life
and inspiration, and Nayan benefited immensely too. She looks more like
a nymph than ever."
He shook hands with Devonham, smiling more grimly. "I'm surprised you,
too, have honoured us," he exclaimed with genuine surprise. "Come
to damn them all as usual, probably! Good! Your common-sense and
healthy criticism are needed in these days--cool, cleaning winds in an
over-heated conservatory." He broke off abruptly and looked down at
LeVallon's hand he was still holding. He examined it for a second with
care and admiration, then turned his eye upon the young man's figure.
He grunted.
"When I know you better," he said, with a growl of earnest meaning, "I
shall ask a favour, a great favour, of you. So, beware!"
"Thank you," replied LeVallon, and at the sound of his voice the
sculptor's interest deepened. A gleam shone in his eye.
"You've begun some work," said Fillery, "and models are hard to come
by, I imagine." His eye never left LeVallon.
Khilkoff chuckled. "Thought-reader!" he exclaimed. "If Povey heard
that, he'd make you join the Society at once--as honorary member or
vice-president. Anything to get you in. Dr. Fillery understands us all
_too_ well," he went on to LeVallon. "In Sark, that lonely island in
the sea, I began four figures--four elemental figures--of earth, air,
fire and water--a group, of course. The air figure, I've done----"
"With Nayan as model," suggested Fillery, smiling.
"One morning, yes, I caught her bathing from a rock, hair streaming in
the wind, no clothes on, white foam from the big breakers fluttering
about her, slim, shining, unconscious and half dancing, fierce sunlight
all over her. Ah"--he broke off--"here's Povey coming. I mustn't
monopolize you all. Devonham, you know most of 'em. Make yourselves at
home." He turned to LeVallon again, with a touch of something gentler,
almost of respect, thought Fillery, as he noticed the delicate change
of voice and manner quickly. "Come, Mr. LeVallon," he said courteously,
"I should like to show you the figure as I've done it. We'll go for a
moment into my own private rooms. But it's a model for fire I'm looking
for, as Fillery guessed. You may be interested." He led him off.
LeVallon went with evident content, and the advance of skirmishes that
were already approaching for introductions was temporarily defeated.
For the three men standing by the door had formed a noticeable group,
and Khilkoff's presence added to their value. Dr. Fillery, known and
much respected, regarded with a touch of awe by many, had not come for
nothing, it was doubtless argued; his colleague, moreover, accompanied
him, and he, too, was known to the Society, though not much cultivated
by its members owing to his downright, critical way of talking. They
deemed him prejudiced, unsympathetic. It was the third member of the
group, LeVallon, who had quickly caught all eyes, and the attention
immediately paid to him by their host set the value of a special
and important guest upon him instantly. All watched him led away by
Khilkoff to the private quarters of the Studio, where none at first
presumed to follow them; but it was the eyes of the women that remained
glued to the open door where they had disappeared, waiting with careful
interest for their reappearance. In particular Lady Gleeson, the
"pretty Lady Gleeson," watched from the corner where she sat alone,
sipping some refreshment.
Fillery and Devonham, having observed the signs about them, exchanged
a glance; their charge was safe for the moment, at any rate; they felt
relieved; yet it was for the entry of Nayan, the daughter, that both
waited with interest and impatience, as, meanwhile, the bolder ones
among the crowd came up one by one and captured them.
"Oh, Dr. Fillery, I _am_ glad to see you here. I thought you were
always too busy for unscientific people like us. Yet, in a way, we're
all seekers, are we not? I've been reading your Physiology book, and I
_did_ so want to ask you about something in it. I wonder if you'd mind."
He shook hands with a young-old woman, wearing bobbed hair and glasses,
and speaking with an intense, respectful, yet self-apologetic manner.
"You've forgotten me, but I _quite_ understand. You see _so_ many
people. I'm Miss Lance. I sent you my little magazine, 'Simplicity,'
once, and you acknowledged it _so_ sweetly, though, of course, I
understood you had not the time to write for it." She continued for
several minutes, smiling up at him, her hands clasping and unclasping
themselves behind a back clothed with some glittering coloured material
that rather fascinated him by its sheen. She kept raising herself on
her toes and sinking back again in a series of jerky rhythms.
He gave her his delightful smile.
"Oh, Dr. Fillery!" she exclaimed, with pleasure, leading him to a
divan, upon which he let himself down in such a position that he could
observe the door from the street as well as the door where LeVallon had
disappeared. "This is really too good-natured of you. Your book set
me on fire simply"--her eyes wandering to the other door--"and what a
wonderful looking person you've brought with you----"
"I fear it's not very easy reading," he interposed patiently.
"To me it was too delightful for words," she rattled on, pleased by the
compliment implied. "I devour _all_ your books and always review them
myself in the magazine. I wouldn't trust them to anyone else. I simply
can't tell you how physiology stimulates me. Humanity needs imaginative
books, especially just now." She broke off with a deprecatory smile. "I
do what I can," she added, as he made no remark, "to make them known,
though in such a very small way, I fear." Her interest, however, was
divided, the two powerful attractions making her quite incoherent.
"Your friend," she ventured again, "he must be Eastern perhaps? Or is
that merely sunburn? He looks _most_ unusual."
"Sunburn merely, Miss Lance. You must have a chat with him later."
"Oh, thank you, _thank_ you, Dr. Fillery. I do so love unusual
people...."
He listened gravely. He was gentle, while she confided to him her
little inner hopes and dreams about the "simple life." She introduced
adjectives she believed would sound correct, if spoken very quickly,
until, between the torrent of "psychical," "physiological" and once or
twice, "psychological," she became positively incoherent in a final
entanglement from which there was no issue but a convulsive gesture.
None the less, she was bathed in bliss. She monopolized the great man
for a whole ten minutes on a divan where everybody could see that they
talked earnestly, intimately, perhaps even intellectually, together
side by side.
He observed the room, meanwhile, without her noticing it, scanning the
buzzing throng with interest. There was confusion somewhere, something
was lacking, no system prevailed; he was aware of a general sense of
waiting for a leader. All looked, he knew, for Nayan to appear. Without
her presence, there was no centre, for, though not a member of the
Society herself, she was the heart always of their gatherings, without
which they straggled somewhat aimlessly. And "heart," he remembered,
with a smile that Miss Lance took proudly for herself, was the
appropriate word. Nayan mothered them. They were but children, after
all....
"When you talk of a 'New Age,' what _exactly_ do you mean? I wish
you'd define the term for me," Devonham meanwhile was saying to an
interlocutor, not far away, while with a corner of his eye he watched
both Fillery and the private door. He still stood near the entrance,
looking more than ever like a disapproving floor-walker in a big
department store, and it was with H. Millington Povey that he talked,
the Honorary Secretary of the Society. The Secretary had aimed at
Fillery, but Miss Lance had been too quick for him. He was obliged
to put up with Devonham as second best, and his temper suffered
accordingly. He was in aggressive mood.
Povey, facing him, was talking with almost violent zeal. A small,
thin, nervous man, on the verge of middle age, his head prematurely
bald, with wildish tufts of patchy hair, a thin, scraggy neck that
he lengthened and shortened between high hunched shoulders, Povey
resembled an eager vulture. His keen bright eyes, hooked nose, and
a habit of twisting head and neck apart from his body, which held
motionless, increased this likeness to a bird of prey. Possessed of
considerable powers of organization, he kept the Society together. It
was he who insisted upon some special "psychic gift" as a qualification
of membership; an applicant must prove this gift to a committee of
Povey's choosing, though these proofs were never circulated for general
reading in the Society's Reports. Talkers, dreamers, faddists were not
desired; a member must possess some definite abnormal power before he
could be elected. He must be clairvoyant or clairaudient, an automatic
writer, trance-painter, medium, ghost-seer, prophet, priest or king.
Members, therefore, stated their special qualification to each
other without false modesty: "I'm a trance medium," for instance;
"Oh, really! _I_ see auras, of course"; while others had written
automatic poetry, spoken in trance--"inspirational speakers," that
is--photographed a spirit, appeared to someone at a distance,
or dreamed a prophetic dream that later had come true. Mediums,
spirit-photographers, and prophetic dreamers were, perhaps, the most
popular qualifications to offer, but there were many who remembered
past lives and not a few could leave their bodies consciously at will.
Memberships cost two guineas, the hat was occasionally passed round
for special purposes, there was a monthly dinner in Soho, when members
stood up, like saved sinners at a revivalist meeting, and gave personal
testimony of conversion or related some new strange incident. The
Prometheans were full of stolen fire and life.
Among them were ambitious souls who desired to start a new religion,
deeming the Church past hope. Others, like the water-dowsers and
telepathists, were humbler. There was an Inner Circle which sought to
revive the Mysteries, and gave very private performances of dramatic
and symbolic kind, based upon recovered secret knowledge, at the
solstices and equinoxes. New Thought members despised these, believing
nothing connected with the past had value; they looked ahead; "live
in the present," "do it now" was their watchword. Astrologers were
numerous too. These cast horoscopes, or, for a small fee, revealed
one's secret name, true colour, lucky number, day of the week and
month, and so forth. One lady had a tame "Elemental." Students of Magic
and Casters of Spells, wearers of talismans and intricate designs in
precious or inferior metal, according to taste and means, were well
represented, and one and all believed, of course, in spirits.
None, however, belonged to any Sect of the day, whatever it might be;
they wore no labels; they were seekers, questers, inquirers whom no set
of rules or dogmas dared confine within fixed limits. An entirely open
mind and no prejudices, they prided themselves, distinguished them.
"Define it in scientific terms, this New Age--I cannot," replied Povey
in his shrill voice, "for science deals only with the examination of
the known. Yet you only have to look round you at the world to-day to
see its obvious signs. Humanity is changing, new powers everywhere----"
Devonham interrupted unkindly, before the other could assume he had
proved something by merely stating it:
"What _are_ these signs, if I may ask?" he questioned sharply. "For if
you can name them, we can examine them--er--scientifically." He used
the word with malice, knowing it was ever on the Promethean lips.
"There you are, at cross-purposes at once," declared Povey. "I
refer to hints, half-lights, intuitions, signs that only the most
sensitive among us, those with psychic divination, with spiritual
discernment--that only the privileged and those developed in advance
of the Race--can know. And, instantly you produce your microscope, as
though I offered you the muscles of a tadpole to dissect."
They glared at one another. "We shall never get progress your way,"
Povey fumed, withdrawing his head and neck between his shoulders.
"Returning to the Middle Ages, on the other hand," mentioned Devonham,
"seems like advancing in a circle, doesn't it?"
"Dr. Devonham," interrupted a pretty, fair-haired girl with an intense
manner, "forgive me for breaking up your interesting talk, but you
come so seldom, you know, and there's a lady here who is dying to be
introduced. She has just seen crimson flashing in your aura, and she
wants to ask--do you mind _very_ much?" She smiled so sweetly at him,
and at Mr. Povey, too, who was said to be engaged to her, though none
believed it, that annoyance was not possible. "She says she simply
_must_ ask you if you were feeling anger. Anger, you know, produces red
or crimson in one's visible atmosphere," she explained charmingly. She
led him off, forgetting, however, her purpose _en route_, since they
presently sat down side by side in a quiet corner and began to enjoy
what seemed an interesting tête-à-tête, while the aura-seeing lady
waited impatiently and observed them, without the aid of clairvoyance,
from a distance.
"And _your_ qualifications for membership?" asked Devonham. "I wonder
if I may ask----?"
"But you'd laugh at me, if I told you," she answered simply, fingering
a silver talisman that hung from her neck, a six-pointed star with
zodiacal signs traced round a rose, _rosa mystica_, evidently. "I'm so
afraid of doctors."
Devonham shook his head decidedly, asserting vehemently his interest,
whereupon she told him her little private dream delightfully, without
pose or affectation, yet shyly and so sincerely that he proved his
assertion by a genuine interest.
"And does that protect you among your daily troubles?" he asked,
pointing to her little silver talisman. He had already commented
sympathetically upon her account of saving her new puppies from
drowning, having dreamed the night before that she saw them gasping in
a pail of water, the cruel under-gardener looking on. "Do you wear it
always, or only on special occasions like this?"
"Oh, Miss Milligan made that," she told him, blushing a little. "She's
rather poor. She earns her living by designing----"
"Oh!"
"But I don't mean _that_. She tells you your Sign and works it in metal
for you. I bought one. Mine is Pisces." She became earnest. "I was born
in Pisces, you see."
"And what does Pisces do for you?" he inquired, remembering the
heightened colour. The sincerity of this Rose Mystica delighted him,
and he already anticipated her reply with interest. Here, he felt, was
the credulous, religious type in its naked purity, forced to believe in
something marvellous.
"Well, if you wear your Sign next your skin it brings good luck--it
makes the things you want happen." The blush reappeared becomingly. She
did not lower her eyes.
"Have your things happened then?"
She hesitated. "Well, I've had an awfully good time ever since I wore
it----"
"Proposals?" he asked gently.
"Dr. Devonham!" she exclaimed. "How ever did you guess?" She looked
very charming in her innocent confusion.
He laughed. "If you don't take it off at once," he told her solemnly,
"you may get another."
"It was two in a single week," she confided a little tremulously.
"Fancy!"
"The important thing, then," he suggested, "is to wear your talisman at
the right moment, and with the right person."
But she corrected him promptly.
"Oh, no. It brings the right moment and the right person together,
don't you see, and if the other person is a Pisces person, you
understand each other, of course, at once."
"Would that I too were Pisces!" he exclaimed, seeing that she
was flattered by his interest. "I'm probably"--taking a sign at
random--"Scorpio."
"No," she said with grave disappointment, "I'm afraid you're
Capricornus, you know. I can tell by your nose and eyes--and
cleverness. But--I wanted really to ask you," she went on half shyly,
"if I might----" She stuck fast.
"You want to know," he said, glancing at her with quick understanding,
"who _he_ is." He pointed to the door. "Isn't that it?"
She nodded her head, while a divine little blush spread over her face.
Devonham became more interested. "Why?" he asked. "Did he impress you
so?"
"_Rather_," she replied with emphasis, and there was something in
her earnestness curiously convincing. A sincere impression had been
registered.
"His appearance, you mean?"
She nodded again; the blush deepened; but it was not, he saw, an
ordinary blush. The sensitive young girl had awe in her. "He's a friend
of Dr. Fillery's," he told her; "a young man who's lived in the wilds
all his life. But, tell me--why are you so interested? Did he make any
particular impression on you?"
He watched her. His own thoughts dropped back suddenly to a strange
memory of woods and mountains ... a sunset, a blazing fire ... a hint
of panic.
"Yes," she said, her tone lower, "he did."
"Something _very_ definite?"
She made no answer.
"What did you see?" he persisted gently. From woods and mountains,
memory stepped back to a railway station and a customs official....
Her manner, obviously truthful, had deep wonder, mystery, even worship
in it. He was aware of a nervous reaction he disliked, almost a chill.
He listened for her next words with an interest he could hardly account
for.
"Wings," she replied, an odd hush in her voice. "I thought of wings. He
seemed to carry me off the earth with great rushing wings, as the wind
blows a leaf. It was too lovely: I felt like a dancing flame. I thought
he was----"
"What?" Something in his mind held its breath a moment.
"You _won't_ laugh, Dr. Devonham, will you? I thought--for a
second--of--an angel." Her voice died away.
For a second the part of his mood that held its breath struggled
between anger and laughter. A moment's confusion in him there certainly
was.
"That makes two in the room," he said gently, recovering himself. He
smiled. But she did not hear the playful compliment; she did not see
the smile. "You've a delightful, poetic little soul," he added under
his breath, watching the big earnest eyes whose rapt expression met his
own so honestly. Having made her confession she was still engrossed,
absorbed, he saw, in her own emotion.... So this was the picture that
LeVallon, by his mere appearance alone, left upon an impressionable
young girl, an impression, he realized, that was profound and true
and absolute, whatever value her own individual interpretation of it
might have. Her mention of space, wind, fire, speed, he noticed in
particular--"off the earth ... rushing wind ... dancing flame ... an
angel!"
It was easy, of course, to jeer. Yet, somehow, he did not jeer at all.
She relapsed into silence, which proved how great had been the
emotional discharge accompanying the confession, temporarily exhausting
her. Dr. Devonham keenly registered the small, important details.
"Entertaining an angel unawares in a Chelsea Studio," he said,
laughingly; then reminding her presently that there was a lady who
was "dying to be introduced" to him, made his escape, and for the
next ten minutes found himself listening to a disquisition on auras
which described "visible atmospheres whose colour changes with emotion
... radioactivity ... the halo worn by saints" ... the effect of
light noticed about very good people and of blackness that the wicked
emanated, and ending up with the "radiant atmosphere that shone round
the figure of Christ and was believed to show the most lovely and
complicated geometrical designs."
"God geometrizes--you, doubtless, know the ancient saying?" Mrs. Towzer
said it like a challenge.
"I have heard it," admitted her listener shortly, his first opportunity
of making himself audible. "Plato said some other fine things too----"
"I felt sure you were feeling cross just now," the lady went on,
"because I saw lines and arrows of crimson darting and flashing through
your aura while you were talking to Mr. Povey. He _is_ very annoying
sometimes, isn't he? I often wonder where all our subscriptions go to.
I never could understand a balance-sheet. Can you?"
But Devonham, having noticed Dr. Fillery moving across the room, did
not answer, even if he heard the question. Fillery, he saw, was now
standing near the door where Khilkoff and LeVallon had disappeared to
see the sculpture, an oddly rapt expression on his face. He was talking
with a member called Father Collins. The buzz of voices, the incessant
kaleidoscope of colour and moving figures, made the atmosphere a little
electric. Extricating himself with a neat excuse, he crossed towards
his colleague, but the latter was already surrounded before he reached
him. A forest of coloured scarves, odd coiffures, gleaming talismans,
intervened; he saw men's faces of intense, eager, preoccupied
expression, old and young, long hair and bald; there was a new perfume
in the air, incense evidently; tea, coffee, lemonade were being served,
with stronger drink for the few who liked it, and cigarettes were
everywhere. The note everywhere was _exalté_ rather.
Out of the excited throng his eyes then by chance, apparently, picked
up the figure of Lady Gleeson, smoking her cigarette alone in a big
armchair, a half-empty glass of wine-cup beside her. She caught his
attention instantly, this "pretty Lady Gleeson," although personally
he found neither title nor adjective justified. The dark hair framed
a very white skin. The face was shallow, trivial, yet with a direct
intensity in the shining eyes that won for her the reputation of being
attractive to certain men. Her smile added to the notoriety she loved,
a curious smile that lifted the lip oddly, showing the little pointed
teeth. To him, it seemed somehow a face that had been over-kissed;
everything had been kissed out of it; the mouth, the lips, were worn
and barren in an appearance otherwise still young. She was very
expensively dressed, and deemed her legs of such symmetry that it
were a shame to hide them; clad in tight silk stockings, and looking
like strips of polished steel, they were now visible almost to the
knee, where the edge of the skirt, neatly trimmed in fur, cut them off
sharply. Some wag in the Society, paraphrasing the syllables of her
name, wittily if unkindly, had christened her _fille de joie_. When she
heard it she was rather pleased than otherwise.
Lady Gleeson, too, he saw now, was watching the private door. The same
moment, as so often occurred between himself and his colleague at some
significant point in time and space, he was aware of Fillery's eye upon
his own across the intervening heads and shoulders. Fillery, also, had
noticed that Lady Gleeson watched that door. His changed position in
the room was partly explained.
A slightly cynical smile touched Dr. Devonham's lips, but vanished
again quickly, as he approached the lady, bowed politely, and asked
if he might bring her some refreshment. He was too discerning to say
"more" refreshment. But she dotted every i, she had no half tones.
"Thanks, kind Dr. Devonham," she said in a decided tone, her voice
thin, a trifle husky, yet not entirely unmusical. It held a strange
throaty quality. "It's so absurdly light," she added, holding out the
glass she first emptied. "The mystics don't hold with anything strong
apparently. But I'm tired, and you discovered it. That's clever of you.
It'll do me good."
He, malevolently, assured her that it would.
"Who's your friend?" she asked point blank, with an air that meant
to have a proper answer, as he brought the glass and took a chair
near her. "He looks unusual. More like a hurdle-race champion than a
visionary." A sneer lurked in the voice. She fixed her determined clear
grey eyes upon his, eyes sparkling with interest, curiosity in life,
desire, the last-named quality of unmistakable kind. "I think I should
like to know him perhaps." It was mentioned as a favour to the other.
Devonham, who disliked and disapproved of all these people
collectively, felt angry suddenly with Fillery for having brought
LeVallon among them. It was after all a foolish experiment; the
atmosphere was dangerous for anyone of unstable, possibly of hysterical
temperament. He had vengeance to discharge. He answered with deliberate
malice, leading her on that he might watch her reactions. She was so
transparently sincere.
"I hardly think Mr. LeVallon would interest you," he said lightly. "He
is neither modern nor educated. He has spent his life in the backwoods,
and knows nothing but plants and stars and weather and--animals. You
would find him dull."
"No man with a face and figure like that can be dull," she said
quickly, her eyes alight.
He glanced at her rings, the jewelry round her neck, her expensive
gown that would keep a patient for a year or two. He remembered her
millionaire South African husband who was her foolish slave. She lived,
he knew, entirely for her own small, selfish pleasure. Although he
meant to use her, his gorge rose. He produced his happiest smile.
"You are a keen observer, Lady Gleeson," he remarked. "He doesn't look
quite ordinary, I admit." After a pause he added, "It's a curious
thing, but Mr. LeVallon doesn't care for the charms that we other men
succumb to so easily. He seems indifferent. What he wants is knowledge
only.... Apparently he's more interested in stars than in girls."
"Rubbish," she rejoined. "He hasn't met any in his woods, that's all."
Her directness rather disconcerted him. At the same time, it charmed
him a little, though he did not know it. His dislike of the woman,
however, remained. The idle, self-centred rich annoyed him. They were
so useless. The fabulous jewelry hanging upon such trash now stirred
his bile. He was conscious of the lust for pleasure in her.
"Yet, after all, he's rather an interesting fellow perhaps," he told
her, as with an air of sudden enthusiasm. "Do you know he talks of
rather wonderful things, too. Mere dreams, of course, yet, for all
that, out of the ordinary. He has vague memories, it seems, of another
state of existence altogether. He speaks sometimes of--of marvellous
women, compared to whom our women here, our little dressed-up dolls,
seem commonplace and insignificant." And, to his keen enjoyment, Lady
Gleeson took the bait with open mouth. She recrossed her shapely
legs. She wriggled a little in her chair. Her be-ringed fingers began
fidgeting along the priceless necklace.
"Just what I should expect," she replied in her throaty voice, "from a
young man who looks as he does."
She began to play her own cards then, mentioning that her husband
was interested in Dr. Fillery's Clinique. Devonham, however, at once
headed her off. He described the work of the Home with enthusiasm.
"It's fortunate that Dr. Fillery is rich," he observed carelessly,
"and can follow out his own ideas exactly as he likes. I, personally,
should never have joined him had he been dependent upon the mere
philanthropist."
"How wise of you," she returned. "And I should never have joined this
mad Society but for the chance of coming across unusual people. Now,
your Mr. LeVallon is one. You may introduce him to me," she repeated as
an ultimatum.
Her directness was the one thing he admired in her. At her own level,
she was real. He was aware of the semi-erotic atmosphere about these
Meetings and realized that Lady Gleeson came in search of excitement,
also that she was too sincere to hide it. She wore her insignia
unconcealed. Her talisman was of base metal, the one cheap thing
she wore, yet real. This foolish woman, after all, might be of use
unwittingly. She might capture LeVallon, if only for a moment, before
Nayan Khilkoff enchanted him with that wondrous sweetness to which no
man could remain indifferent. For he had long ago divined the natural,
unspoken passion between his Chief and the daughter of his host, and
with his whole heart he desired to advance it.
"My husband, too, would like to meet him, I'm sure," he heard her
saying, while he smiled at the reappearance of the gilded bait. "My
husband, you know, is interested in spirit photography and Dr. Frood's
unconscious theories."
He rose, without even a smile. "I'll try and find him at once," he
said, "and bring him to you. I only hope," he added as an afterthought,
"that Miss Khilkoff hasn't monopolized him already----"
"She hasn't come," Lady Gleeson betrayed herself. Instinctively she
knew her rival, he saw, with an inward chuckle, as he rose to fetch the
desired male.
He found him the centre of a little group just inside the door leading
into the sculptor's private studio, where Khilkoff had evidently been
showing his new group of elemental figures. Fillery, a few feet away,
observing everything at close range, was still talking eagerly with
Father Collins. LeVallon and Kempster, the pacifist, were in the
middle of an earnest talk, of which Devonham caught an interesting
fragment. Kempster's qualification for membership was an occasional
display of telepathy. He was a neat little man exceedingly well
dressed, over-dressed in fact, for his tailor's dummy appearance
betrayed that he thought too much about his personal appearance.
LeVallon, towering over him like some flaming giant, spoke quietly,
but with rare good sense, it seemed. Fillery's condensed education
had worked wonders on his mind. Devonham was astonished. About the
pair others had collected, listening, sometimes interjecting opinions
of their own, many women among them leaning against the furniture or
sitting on cushions and movable, dump-like divans on the floor. It was
a picturesque little scene. But LeVallon somehow dwarfed the others.
"I really think," Kempster was saying, "we might now become a
comfortable little third-rate Power--like Spain, for instance--enjoy
ourselves a bit, live on our splendid past, and take the sun in ease."
He looked about him with a self-satisfied smirk, as though he had
himself played a fine rôle in the splendid past.
LeVallon's reply surprised him perhaps, but it surprised Devonham
still more. The real, the central self, LeVallon, he thought with
satisfaction, was waking and developing. His choice of words was odd
too.
"No, no! _You_--the English are the leaders of the world; the
best quality is in you. If _you_ give up, the world goes down and
backwards." The deep, musical tones vibrated through the little room.
The speaker, though so quiet, had the air of a powerful athlete, ready
to strike. His pose was admirable. Faces turned up and stared. There
was a murmur of approval.
"We're so tired of that talk," replied Kempster, no whit disconcerted
by the evident signs of his unpopularity. "Each race should take its
turn. We've borne the white man's burden long enough. Why not drop it,
and let another nation do its bit? We've earned a rest, I think."
His precise, high voice was persuasive. He was a good public speaker,
wholly impervious to another point of view. But the resonant tones of
LeVallon's rejoinder seemed to bury him, voice, exquisite clothes and
all.
"There _is_ no other--unless you hand it back to weaker shoulders. No
other race has the qualities of generosity, of big careless courage of
the unselfish kind required. Above all, you alone have the chivalry."
Two things Devonham noted as he heard: behind the natural resonance
in the big voice lay a curious deepness that made him think of
thunder, a volume of sound suppressed, potential, roaring, which, if
let loose, might overwhelm, submerge. It belonged to an earnestness
as yet unsuspected in him, a strength of conviction based on a great
purpose that was evidently subconscious in him, as though he served it,
belonged to it, without realizing that he did so. He stood there like
some new young prophet, proclaiming a message not entirely his own.
Also he said "you" in place of the natural "we."
Devonham listened attentively. Here, too, at any rate, was an exchange
of ideas above the "psychic" level he so disliked.
LeVallon, he noticed at once, showed no evidence of emotion, though his
eyes shone brightly and his voice was earnest.
"America----" began Kempster, but was knocked down by a fact before he
could continue.
"Has deliberately made itself a Province again. America saw the ideal,
then drew back, afraid. It is once more provincial, cut off from the
planet, a big island again, concerned with local affairs of its own.
Your Democracy has failed."
"As it always must," put in Kempster, glad perhaps to shift the point,
when he found no ready answer. "The wider the circle from which
statesmen are drawn, the lower the level of ability. We should be
patriotic for ideas, not for places. The success of one country means
the downfall of another. That's not spiritual...." He continued at
high speed, but Devonham missed the words. He was too preoccupied with
the other's language, penetration, point of view. LeVallon had, indeed,
progressed. There was nothing of the alternative personality in this,
nothing of the wild, strange, nature-being whom he called "N. H."
"Patriotism, of course, is vulgar rubbish," he heard Kempster finishing
his tirade. "It is local, provincial. The world is a whole."
But LeVallon did not let him escape so easily. It was admirable really.
This half-educated countryman from the woods and mountains had a clear,
concentrated mind. He had risen too. Whence came his comprehensive
outlook?
"Chivalry--you call it sporting instinct--is the first essential of
a race that is to lead the world. It is a topmost quality. Your race
has it. It has come down even into your play. It is instinctive in you
more than any other. And chivalry is unselfish. It is divine. You have
conquered the sun. The hot races all obey you."
The thunder broke through the strange but simple words which, in
that voice, and with that quiet earnestness, carried some weight of
meaning in them that print cannot convey. The women gazed at him with
unconcealed, if not with understanding admiration. "Lead us, inspire
us, at any rate!" their eyes said plainly; "but love us, O love us,
passionately, above all!"
Devonham, hardly able to believe his ears and eyes, turned to see if
Fillery had heard the scrap of talk. Judging by the expression on his
face, he had not heard it. Father Collins seemed saying things that
held his attention too closely. Yet Fillery, for all his apparent
absorption, had heard it, though he read it otherwise than his somewhat
literal colleague. It was, nevertheless, an interesting revelation
to him, since it proved to him again how unreal "LeVallon" was; how
easily, quickly this educated simulacrum caught up, assimilated and
reproduced as his own, yet honestly, whatever was in the air at the
moment. For the words he had spoken were not his own, but Fillery's.
They lay, or something like them lay, unuttered in Fillery's mind just
at that very moment. Yet, even while listening attentively to Father
Collins, his close interest in LeVallon was so keen, so watchful, that
another portion of his mind was listening to this second conversation,
even taking part in it inaudibly. LeVallon caught his language from the
air....
Devonham made his opportunity, leading LeVallon off to be introduced to
Lady Gleeson, who still sat waiting for them on the divan in the outer
studio.
As they made their way through the buzzing throng into the larger
room, Devonham guessed suddenly that Lady Gleeson must somehow have
heard in advance that LeVallon would be present; her flair for new men
was singular; the sexual instinct, unduly developed, seemed aware of
its prey anywhere within a big radius. He owed his friend a hint of
guidance possibly. "A little woman," he explained as they crossed over,
"who has a weakness for big men and will probably pay you compliments.
She comes here to amuse herself with what she calls 'the freaks.'
Sometimes she lends her great house for the meetings. Her husband's a
millionaire." To which the other, in his deep, quiet voice, replied:
"Thank you, Dr. Devonham."
"She's known as 'the pretty Lady Gleeson.'"
"That?" exclaimed the other, looking towards her.
"Hush!" his companion warned him.
As they approached, Lady Gleeson, waiting with keen impatience, saw
them coming and made her preparations. The frown of annoyance at the
long delay was replaced by a smile of welcome that lifted the upper lip
on one side only, showing the white even teeth with odd effect. She
stared at LeVallon, thought Devonham, as a wolf eyes its prey. Deftly
lowering her dress--betraying thereby that she knew it was too high,
and a detail now best omitted from the picture--she half rose from
her seat as they came up. The instinctive art of deference, though
instantly corrected, did not escape Paul Devonham's too observant eye.
"You were kind enough to say I might introduce my friend," murmured he.
"Mr. LeVallon is new to our big London, and a stranger among all these
people."
LeVallon bowed in his calm, dignified fashion, saying no word, but
Lady Gleeson put her hand out, and, finding his own, shook it with her
air of brilliant welcome. Determination lay in her smile and in her
gesture, in her voice as well, as she said familiarly at once: "But,
Mr. LeVallon, how tall _are_ you, really? You seem to me a perfect
giant." She made room for him beside her on the divan. "Everybody here
looks undersized beside you!" She became intense.
"I am six feet and three inches," he replied literally, but without
expression in his face. There was no smile. He was examining her as
frankly as she examined him. Devonham was examining the pair of them.
The lack of interest, the cold indifference in LeVallon, he reflected,
must put the young woman on her mettle, accustomed as she was to quick
submission in her victims.
LeVallon, however, did not accept the offered seat; perhaps he had not
noticed the invitation. He showed no interest, though polite and gentle.
"He towers over all of us," Devonham put in, to help an awkward pause.
Yet he meant it more than literally; the empty prettiness of the
shallow little face before him, the triviality of Miss Rosa Mystica,
the cheapness of Povey, Kempster, Mrs. Towzer, the foolish air of
otherworldly expectancy in the whole room, of deliberate exaggeration,
of eyes big with wonder for sensation as story followed story--all this
came upon him with its note of poverty and tawdriness as he used the
words.
Something in the atmosphere of LeVallon had this effect--whence did it
come? he questioned, puzzled--of dwarfing all about him.
"All London, remember, isn't like this," he heard Lady Gleeson saying,
a dangerous purr audible in the throaty voice. "Do sit down here
and tell me what you think about it. I feel you don't belong here
quite, do you know? London cramps you, doesn't it? And you find the
women dull and insipid?" She deliberately made more room, patting the
cushions invitingly with a flashing hand, that alone, thought Devonham
contemptuously, could have endowed at least two big Cliniques. "Tell me
about yourself, Mr. LeVallon. I'm dying to hear about your life in the
woods and mountains. Do talk to me. I _am_ so bored!"
What followed surprised Devonham more than any of the three perhaps. He
ascribed it to what Fillery had called the "natural gentleman," while
Lady Gleeson, doubtless, ascribed it to her own personal witchery.
With that easy grace of his he sat down instantly beside her on the low
divan, his height and big frame contriving the awkward movement without
a sign of clumsiness. His indifference was obvious--to Devonham, but
the vain eyes of the woman did not notice it.
"That's better," she again welcomed him with a happy laugh. She edged
closer a little. "Now, do make yourself comfortable"--she arranged
the cushions again--"and please tell me about your wild life in the
forests, or wherever it was. You know a lot about the stars, I hear."
She devoured his face and figure with her shining eyes.
The upper lip was lifted for a second above a gleaming tooth. Devonham
had the feeling she was about to eat him, licking her lips already in
anticipation. He himself would be dismissed, he well knew, in another
moment, for Lady Gleeson would not tolerate a third person at the meal.
Before he was sent about his business, however, he had the good fortune
to hear LeVallon's opening answer to the foolish invitation. Amazement
filled him. He wished Fillery could have heard it with him, seen the
play of expression on the faces too--the bewilderment of sensational
hunger for something new in Lady Gleeson's staring eyes, arrested
instantaneously; the calm, cold look of power, yet power tempered by
a touch of pity, in LeVallon's glance, a glance that was only barely
aware of her proximity. He smiled as he spoke, and the smile increased
his natural radiance. He looked extraordinarily handsome, yet with a
new touch of strangeness that held even the cautious doctor momentarily
almost spellbound.
"Stars--yes, but I rarely see them here in London, and they seem so far
away. They comfort me. They bring me--they and women bring me--nearest
to a condition that is gone from me. I have lost it." He looked
straight into her face, so that she blinked and screwed up her eyes,
while her breathing came more rapidly. "But stars and women," he went
on, his voice vibrating with music in spite of its quietness, "remind
me that it is recoverable. Both give me this sweet message. I read it
in stars and in the eyes of women. And it is true because no words
convey it. For women cannot express themselves, I see; and stars, too,
are silent--here."
The same soft thunder as before sounded below the gently spoken words;
Lady Gleeson was trembling a little; she made a movement by means of
which she shifted herself yet nearer to her companion in what seemed a
natural and unconscious way. It was doubtless his proximity rather than
his words that stirred her. Her face was set, though the lips quivered
a trifle and the voice was less shrill than usual as she spoke, holding
out her empty glass.
"Thank you, Dr. Devonham," she said icily.
The determined gesture, a toss of the head, with the glare of sharp
impatience in the eyes, he could not ignore; yet he accepted his curt
dismissal slowly enough to catch her murmured words to LeVallon:
"How wonderful! How wonderful you are! And what sort of women...?"
followed him as he moved away. In his heart rose again an
uncomfortable memory of a Jura valley blazing in the sunset, and of a
half-naked figure worshipping before a great wood fire on the rocks....
He fancied he caught, too, in the voice, a suggestion of a lilt, a
chanting resonance, that increased his uneasiness further. One thing
was certain: it was not quite the ordinary "LeVallon" that answered the
silly woman. The reaction was of a different kind. Was, then, the other
self awake and stirring? Was it "N. H." after all, as his colleague
claimed?
Allowing a considerable interval to pass, he returned with a glass--of
lemonade--reaching the divan in its dim-lit corner just in time to see
a flashing hand withdrawn quickly from LeVallon's arm, and to intercept
a glance that told him the intrigue evidently had not developed
altogether according to Lady Gleeson's plan, although her air was one
of confidence and keenest self-satisfaction. LeVallon sat like a marble
figure, cold, indifferent, looking straight before him, listening, if
only with half an ear, to a stream of words whose import it was not
difficult to guess.
This Devonham's practised eye read in the flashing look she shot at
him, and in the quick way she thanked him.
"Coffee, dear Dr. Devonham, I asked for."
Her move was so quick, his desire to watch them a moment longer
together so keen, that for an instant he appeared to hesitate. It
was more than appearance; he did hesitate--an instant merely, yet
long enough for Lady Gleeson to shoot at him a second swift glance of
concentrated virulence, and also long enough for LeVallon to spring
lightly to his feet, take the glass from his hand and vanish in the
direction of the refreshment table before anything could prevent. "I
will get your coffee for you," still sounded in the air, so quickly
was the adroit manoeuvre executed. LeVallon had cleverly escaped.
"How stupid of me," said Devonham quickly, referring to the pretended
mistake. Lady Gleeson made no reply. Her inward fury betrayed itself,
however, in the tight-set lips and the hard glitter of her brilliant
little eyes. "He won't be a moment," the other added. "Do you find
him interesting? He's not very talkative as a rule, but perhaps with
you----" He hardly knew what words he used.
The look she gave him stopped him, so intense was the bitterness in
the eyes. His interruption, then, must indeed have been worse--or
better?--timed than he had imagined. She made no pretence of speaking.
Turning her glance in the direction whence the coffee must presently
appear, she waited, and Devonham might have been a dummy for all the
sign she gave of his being there. He had made an enemy for life, he
felt, a feeling confirmed by what almost immediately then followed.
Neither the coffee nor its bearer came that evening to pretty Lady
Gleeson in the way she had desired. She laid the blame at Devonham's
door.
For at that moment, as he stood before her, secretly enjoying her anger
a little, yet feeling foolish, perhaps, as well, a chord sounded on
the piano, and a hush passed instantly over the entire room. Someone
was about to sing. Nayan Khilkoff had come in, unnoticed, by the door
of the private room. Her singing invariably formed a part of these
entertainments. The song, too, was the one invariably asked for, its
music written by herself.
All talk and movement stopped at the sound of the little prelude, as
though a tap had been turned off. Even Devonham, most unmusical of men,
prepared to listen with enjoyment. He tried to see Nayan at the piano,
but too many people came between. He saw, instead, LeVallon standing
close at his side, the cup of coffee in his hand. He had that instant
returned.
"For Lady Gleeson. Will you pass it to her? Who's going to sing?" he
whispered all in the same breath. And Devonham told him, as he bent
down to give the cup. "Nayan Khilkoff. Hush! It's a lovely song. I know
it--'The Vagrant's Epitaph.'"
They stood motionless to listen, as the pure voice of the girl,
singing very simply but with the sweetness and truth of sincere
feeling, filled the room. Every word, too, was clearly audible:
"Change was his mistress; Chance his counsellor.
Love could not hold him; Duty forged no chain.
The wide seas and the mountains called him,
And grey dawns saw his camp-fires in the rain.
"Sweet hands might tremble!--aye, but he must go.
Revel might hold him for a little space;
But, turning past the laughter and the lamps,
His eyes must ever catch the luring Face.
"Dear eyes might question! Yea, and melt again;
Rare lips a-quiver, silently implore;
But he must ever turn his furtive head,
And hear that other summons at the door.
"Change was his mistress; Chance his counsellor.
The dark firs knew his whistle up the trail.
Why tarries he to-day?... And yesternight
Adventure lit her stars without avail."