DONALD MEGBIE SEES POSSIBILITIES
So Sir William Gouldesbrough passed through the crowds of friends and
acquaintances who crowded round him in a welter of curiosity and
congratulation, and came into the inner room, where Lord Malvin, Sir
Harold Oliver and Mr. Donald Megbie were waiting to receive him.
Tall, suave, and self-contained, he bowed and shook hands. Then there
was a moment's pause--they were waiting for him to speak, expectant of
what he should say.
"I am sorry, Lord Malvin," he began, "that I have arrived so late at
your party. But I was conducting an experiment, and when I was half-way
through I found that it was going to lead me much further than I
thought. You know how that happens sometimes?"
"Perfectly, Sir William, and the fact is a scientist's greatest pleasure
very often. Now, may I ask you--you will excuse an old man's
impatience--may I ask you if you have finally succeeded? When I last
saw you the composition of the spectrum presented a difficulty."
"That I have now completely overcome, Lord Malvin."
Lord Malvin trembled, actually trembled with excitement. "Then the
series of experiments is complete?"
"Quite. And more than that, I have done, not once or twice but many
times, exactly what I told you I hoped to do. The thing, my lord, is an
accomplished fact, indisputable--_certain_!"
Lord Malvin turned to Sir Harold Oliver and Megbie.
"Gentlemen," he said in a clear voice but full of a profound emotion.
"The history of life is changed. We all must stand in a new relation to
each other, to society and to the world."
Donald Megbie knew that here was a chance of his literary lifetime. Lord
Malvin would never have spoken in this way without due consideration and
absolute conviction. Something very big indeed was in the air. But what
was it? The journalist had not an idea as yet.
He looked eagerly at the aquiline, ascetic face of the inventor, marked
the slight smile of triumph that lingered round the lips, and noted how
the eyes shone, brilliantly, steadily, as if they were lighted up from
behind. Megbie had seen many men in many countries.
And as he looked keenly at Sir William Gouldesbrough two thoughts came
into his mind. One was something like this--"You are certainly one of
the most intellectual and remarkable men now living. You are unique, and
you stand upon a pedestal of fame that only one man in several
generations ever reaches. All the same, I shouldn't like to be in your
power or to stand in your way!" And moreover the question came to the
quick analytic brain of the writer whether the brilliance of those
lamp-like eyes was wholly natural, was wholly sane.
These twin thoughts were born and over in a flash, and even as he
thought of them Megbie began to speak.
"Now that Lord Malvin has told us so much, Sir William," he said, "won't
you tell us some more? I suppose you know that all the world is waiting
for a pronouncement?"
"The world will know very soon, Mr. Megbie," Gouldesbrough answered
pleasantly. "In about a fortnight's time I am sending out some
invitations to some of our leading people to witness the result of my
experiments in my laboratories. I hope I may have the pleasure of seeing
you there also. But if you wish it, I will certainly give you a slight
idea of the work. Since the public seem interested in what I am doing,
and something seems to have leaked out, I am quite willing that they
should know more. And of course there is no one to whom I would rather
say anything than yourself."
Megbie bowed. He was tremendously excited. Brother writers who did not
make a tenth of his income and had not a quarter of his eminence were
wont to say that his ears twitched when in the presence of a great
celebrity. This no doubt was calumny, but the journalist stood in an
attitude of strained attention--as well a man might stand when the
secret of the hour was about to be revealed to him in preference to all
other men.
Gouldesbrough bowed to Lord Malvin.
"I'm going to have half-an-hour's conversation with Mr. Megbie," he
said. "Meanwhile, my lord, I wonder if you would give Sir Harold Oliver
a slight technical outline of my processes? And of course, as I
understand this is to be in some sense a night on which your friends are
to be given some general information, I shall place myself entirely in
your hands as to any revelations you may think proper to make."
He moved off with the journalist, leaving the two other men already
fallen into deep talk.
"Where shall we go, Mr. Megbie?" he said, as they came out into a large
room hung with old Flemish tapestry and full of people.
"There is a little conservatory down a corridor here," Megbie
answered. "I expect we should be quite undisturbed there. Moreover,
we could smoke, and I know that you are like me, Sir William, a
cigarette-smoker."
"That will do very well, then," Gouldesbrough answered, and they walked
away together. Every one saw them go. Ladies nodded and whispered,
gentlemen whispered and nodded to each other. The occasion was perfectly
well understood. Sir William was telling Donald Megbie! By supper time
it would be all over the rooms and the _Eastminster Gazette_ to-morrow
afternoon would have all the details.
"Megbie is always chosen in affairs of this sort." "That's Megbie, the
writing Johnny, who sort of stage-manages all these things." "The
ubiquitous Donald has got him in his grip, and we shall soon know all
the details"--these were the remarks made upon every side as the two men
strolled through the rooms.
Then an incident that was much commented on next day in society,
occurred quite suddenly. It created quite a little sensation and gave
rise to a great deal of gossip.
Sir William and Mr. Megbie came to a part of the room where Lady Poole
and her daughter Marjorie were standing talking to General Mayne of the
War Office.
Lady Poole saw the scientist.
"Ah, William!" she said, somewhat loudly, and quite in her old manner of
the days when Sir William and Marjorie were engaged. "So here you are,
blazing with triumph. Every one's talking of you, and every one has been
asking Marjorie if she knows what it is you've invented this time!"
Megbie, who knew both Lady Poole and her daughter, but did not wish to
enter into a conversation just at this important moment, bowed, smiled
at the old lady and the girl, and stood a little aside.
Gouldesbrough took Lady Poole by the hand and bent over it, saying
something in a low voice to her. And once more society nodded and
whispered as it saw the flush of pleasure in the lady's face and her
gratified smile. Again society whispered and nodded as it saw Marjorie
Poole shake hands with her _ex-fiancé_, and marked the brightness of her
beautiful eyes and saw the proud lips moving in words of friendship and
congratulation.
What Gouldesbrough said in answer to Marjorie was this--
"It is so kind and good of you to be pleased, Marjorie. Nothing is more
valuable to me than that. I am going to have half-an-hour with Donald
Megbie now. I find that it's usual to tell the general public something
at this stage. So I'm doing it through Megbie. He's safe, you know, and
he understands one. But after that, will you let me take you in to have
some supper? Do please let me! It would just make everything splendid,
be the final joy, you know!"
"I should be very churlish to refuse you anything to-night, William,"
she answered sadly, but with great pride for him in her voice. "Haven't
you done almost everything for me? You've done what no other living man
would have done. I shall be very glad and feel very proud if you will
come back here for me after you have talked to Donald Megbie."
Gouldesbrough went away with the journalist. In five minutes every one
in Lord Malvin's house was saying that Marjorie Poole was engaged to Sir
William Gouldesbrough once more.
Marjorie watched the two men go away. Her heart was full of pride and
pain. She rejoiced that all this had come to the chivalrous gentleman
who had been her lover and plighted husband. She felt each incident of
his growing triumph with intense sympathy and pleasure. He had been so
good to her! From the very first he had been splendid. If only she could
have loved him, how happy would her lot have been as mate and companion
to such a man as this! She was not worldly, but she was of the world
and knew it well. She realized most completely all the advantages, the
subtle pleasures that would belong to the wife of this great man. The
love of power and dominion, the sense of a high intellectual
correspondence with the finest brain of the day, the incense of a lofty
and chivalrous devotion--all these, yes, all these, would be for the
girl Sir William loved and wedded.
She half-wondered if such devotion as his had proved to be ought to go
unrewarded.
Was it _right_? Had any girl a real excuse for making a man like William
Gouldesbrough unhappy? Guy Rathbone had faded utterly out of life. The
greatest skill, the most active and prolonged inquiry had failed to
throw the slightest light upon his disappearance.
As a person, Guy had ceased to exist. He lived only as a memory in her
heart. A dear memory, bitter-sweet--ah, sweet and bitter!--but no more a
thing of flesh and blood. A phantom, a shadow now and for evermore!
* * * * *
Sir William and Donald Megbie sat in a small palm house talking
earnestly together. A tiny fountain sent up its glittering whip of water
from a marble pool on which water-lilies were floating, while tiny
iridescent fish swum slowly round their roots. There was a silence and
fragrance in the pleasant remote place, the perfume of exotic flowers,
the grateful green of giant cacti which rested the eye.
Concealed electric lights shed their radiance upon fern, flower, and
sparkling water, and both men felt that here was a place for confidences
and a fit spot in which matters of import might be unfolded.
Both men were smoking, and in the still warm air, the delicate grey
spirals from the thick Turkish cigarettes rose with a fantastic grace of
curve that only the pencil of a Flaxman could have given its true value.
"I am all attention, Sir William," Megbie said.
"Well, then, I will put the thing to you in a nutshell, and as simply as
possible. When you come to the demonstration at my house in a few days'
time, you will be able to gather all the details and have them explained
to you. I am going to give you a simple broad statement here and now.
For years I have been investigating the nature of thought. I have been
seeking to discover what thought really is, how it takes place, what is
its _mechanical_ as well as its psychical value. Now, I claim that I
have discovered the active principle of thought. I have discovered how
to measure it, how to harness it, so to speak; how to use it, in fact,
just as other investigators in the past have harnessed and utilized
electricity!"
Megbie started. "I think I see," he said hurriedly. "I think I see
something--but go on, Sir William, go on!"
Gouldesbrough smiled, pleased with the agitation the man who sat by him
showed so plainly.
He went on--"Hitherto that which observes--I mean the power of thought,
has never been able, strictly speaking, to observe itself. It can never
look on at itself from the outside, or view itself as one of the
multitude of things that come under its review. It is itself the origin
of vision, and the eye cannot see its own power of seeing. I have
altered all this. Thought is a fluid just as electricity is, or one may
say that it is a peculiar form of motion just as light is. The brain is
the machine that creates the motion. I have discovered that the brain
gives off definite rays or vibrations which rise from it as steam rises
from a boiling pot. That is the reason why one brain can act upon
another, can influence another. It explains personal magnetism,
hypnotism and so on. What I have done is this: I have perfected a means
by which these rays can be collected and controlled. I can place an
apparatus upon your head which will collect the thought vibrations as
you think and produce them."
"And then, Sir William?"
"Then I can conduct those rays along a wire for any distance in the form
of an electric current. Finally, by means of a series of sensitive
instruments which I will show you at the forthcoming demonstration, I
can transmute these vibrations into actual pictures or words, and throw
them upon a screen for all the world to see. That is to say, in actual
words, whatever any one is thinking is reproduced exactly as he thinks
it, without his having any power to prevent it. Thought, which had
hitherto been locked up in the brain of the thinker and only reaches us
through his words with whatever modification he likes to make, will now
be absolutely naked and bare."
There was a silence of a minute or two as Sir William stopped speaking.
The journalist was thinking deeply, his head bowed upon his hands.
He looked up at last and his face was very pale. Little beads of
perspiration stood out upon his forehead. His eyes were luminous.
"It is too big to take in all at once," he said. "But I see some things.
In the first instance, your discovery means the triumph of _TRUTH_!
Think of it! the saying that 'truth shall prevail' will be justified at
last!"
Gouldesbrough nodded, and the writer went on, his voice warming into
enthusiasm as he continued, his words pouring out in a flood. "No one
will lie any more because every one will realize that lying will be
useless, when your machine can search out their inmost secrets! In two
generations deceit will have vanished from the world. We shall invest in
no company unless the directors submit themselves to the scrutiny of
your invention. We shall be able to test the genuineness of every
enterprise before embarking upon it! Again, your invention means the
triumph of _JUSTICE_! There will be no more cases of wrongful
imprisonment. No man will suffer for a crime he did not commit! Oh, it's
wonderful, beyond thinking! The cumbrous machinery of the law-courts
will be instantly swept away. The criminal will try himself in spite of
himself, he will give the secret of his actions to the world! The whole
of life will be changed and made bright! We shall witness the final
triumph of all--_THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE_! Man or maid will be each able to
test the reality and depth of each other's affection! There will be no
more mercenary marriages, no betrayals of trusting women. And from these
unions of love, pure and undefiled by worldly considerations, a new and
finer race will spring up, noble, free and wise! And you, you the man
sitting here by my side, have done all this!"
His voice failed him for a moment, and the burning torrent of his words
was still. In the rush and clamour of the new ideas, in the immeasurable
vastness of the conception, speech would not go on. Then he started, and
his face grew paler than before. "Forgive me," he said, "forgive me if I
seem to doubt. It is all so incredibly wonderful. But you have really
_done_ this, Sir William? You are not merely hoping to do it some day?
You are not merely advancing along the road which may some day lead to
it?"
"I have actually done it, Mr. Megbie, completely, utterly, certainly.
And in a few days you shall judge for yourself. But it is certain."
"But it is infinite in its possibilities!" the journalist went on.
"Another thing that I see quite clearly will result is this. The right
man in the right place will be an accomplished fact in the future. We
shall find out early in the life of a child exactly in what direction
its true power lies. To-day we find that circumstance and the mistakes
of parents and guardians are constantly putting children into walks of
life for which they are not in the least fitted. The result is a
dreadful waste of power. We see on every side clergymen who ought to be
business men, business men who ought to be painters or musicians, clerks
who are bad clerks, but who would make excellent soldiers. Your
marvellous discovery will change all this for ever. Every day the
growing brain of the child will be tested. We shall find out exactly
what its true thoughts are; children will cease to be inarticulate and
unable to give us a true idea of themselves as they so often are at
present. Teaching will become an exact science, because every
schoolmaster will be able to find out how much his teaching is
appreciated and understood, and how little, as the case may be. And we
shall discover other and even more portentous secrets! We shall know
what is passing in the minds of the dying who cannot speak to us! We
shall know the truth about a future state, inasmuch as we shall be able
to find out whether the mind does indeed receive warnings and hintings
of the other world at the moment of passing! Then, also, I suppose that
we shall be able to penetrate into a world that has been closed to us
since the human species began! We shall know at last in what strange way
animals think! The pictures that pass into the brain of the dog, the
horse, the tiger, through the physical eyes, will be made clear for us
to see! We shall wrest his secret from the eagle and see the memories of
the primeval forest which linger in the minds of the jaguar and ape!"
The little fountain in the centre of the conservatory tinkled merrily.
The electric bulbs in the glass roof shed a soft light upon the broad
green leaves of the tropical plants, which seemed as if they had been
cunningly japanned. Two men in modern evening dress sat talking
together, while distant sounds of talk and laughter floated in to them
from the great and fashionable drawing-rooms beyond. It was an ordinary
picture enough, and to the superficial eye one without special
significance or meaning.
Yet, at that moment and in that place, a stupendous revelation was being
made. A tale which the wildest imagination would have hesitated to give
a place in the mind was being poured into the ears of one who was the
mouthpiece of the public. To-morrow all the world would be thinking the
thoughts, experiencing the same mental disturbance, that Donald Megbie
was experiencing now. The cables would be flashing the news through vast
cities and over the beds of mighty oceans to the furthest corner of the
habitable globe.
Megbie realized something of this. "I feel my responsibility very
acutely," he said. "You have put into my hands one of the greatest
chances that any writer for the public press has ever had. Before I
begin to write anything, I must be alone to think things over. You may
well imagine how all this has startled me. For the thinking man it
almost has an element of terror. One feels an awe that may in any moment
change to fear! When I first saw Mount Blanc I felt as I do now."
Sir William gazed keenly at his companion. Megbie was obviously
unstrung. It was curious to see how this revelation had gripped and
influenced the keen, cool-headed man of the world, curious and full of a
thrill, exquisite in its sense of power and dominion. The tall figure of
the scientist towered over that of the other man. Gouldesbrough had
risen, the usual reserve of his manner had dropped away from him, and
great tides of exultation seemed to carry him swiftly and irresistibly
to the very heart of human things. During the long years of experiment
and toil, Gouldesbrough had occasionally known these moments of savage
ecstasy. But never had he known a moment so poignant, so supreme as
this. As he stood there the thought came to him that he alone stood
apart from all created men in the supremacy of intellect, in the majesty
of an utter sovereignty over the minds of mankind.
The rush of furious emotion mastered him for a moment, so terrible was
it in its intensity and strength.
"Yes," he cried, with a wild gesture of his arm and in a high vibrating
voice. "Yes! You are right! You have said what all the world is about
to say. I have stormed the heights of the unknown! The secrets of all
men's hearts are mine, and I claim an absolute knowledge of the soul,
even as God claims it!"
Megbie started from his reverie. He stared at the tall, swaying figure
with fascinated eyes as he heard the bold and terrible words. Was it not
thus that Lucifer himself had spoken in Milton's mighty poem?
And how had the star of the morning fallen?
Once more the thought flashed into his mind that there was something of
madness in those blazing eyes. However great things this man had done,
were not these words of tremendous arrogance the symptom of a brain
destined to blaze up for a moment in mighty triumph and then to pass
into the dark?
Who could say? Who could tell?
Suddenly Megbie realized that Sir William was speaking in an ordinary
voice.
"Forgive me," he was saying quietly, and with a half laugh. "I'm afraid
I let myself go for a moment. It's not a thing I often do, you know; but
you were so appreciative. Now you will please let me run away. I am
afraid I have already been here too long. I have promised to take Miss
Poole in to supper."
He shook hands and walked hurriedly away.
Megbie sat where he was for a few moments longer. He intended to leave
the house quietly and go home to his chambers in the Temple, perhaps
looking in at one of his clubs on the way. He did not want the
innumerable questions, the pressure of the curious, which he knew would
be his lot if he remained any longer in Portland Place. His mind was in
a whirl, entire solitude would alone enable him to collect his thoughts.
He rose to leave the conservatory, when he saw something bright upon the
chair on which Sir William Gouldesbrough had been sitting. It was a
cigarette-case.
Megbie realized that Gouldesbrough had forgotten it. Being unwilling to
seek out the scientist, Megbie put the case into his pocket, meaning to
send it round to Sir William's house in the morning. Then he went
swiftly into the hall, and managed to get away out of the house without
being questioned or stopped.
It was a clear, bright night. There was less smoke about in the sky than
usual, and the swift motion of the hansom cab was exhilarating. How
fortunate Sir William was! so the journalist thought, as he was driven
through the lighted streets. He stood upon a supreme pinnacle of fame,
and beautiful Marjorie Poole--a girl to make any man happy--was being
kind to him again. The romantic and mysterious Rathbone incident was
over and done with. Miss Poole's fancy for the young barrister must have
only been a passing one. But what a dark and mysterious business it had
all been!
Megbie had known Guy Rathbone a little. He had often met him in the
Temple, and he had liked the bright and capable young fellow.
For a moment the writer contrasted the lot of two men--the one he had
just left, great, brilliant, and happy; the other, whom he had known in
the past, now faded utterly away into impenetrable dark.
He sighed. Then he thought that a cigarette would be refreshing. He
found he had no cigarettes of his own, but his fingers touched the case
Sir William had left behind him in the conservatory.
Good! there would be sure to be cigarettes in the case.
He drew it out and opened it. There were two cigarettes in one of the
compartments.
But it was not the sight of the two little tubes of paper that made the
writer's eyes dilate and turned his face grey with sudden fear. Cut
deeply into the silver he saw this--
GUY RATHBONE,
INNER TEMPLE,
LONDON, E.C.