ailments, but, being rich and imaginative, had gone to a sanatorium
to be cured. But for its sanatoria, Meran might be a cheerful place;
their ubiquity reminds a healthy man too often that the air is really
good. Being well enough himself, except for a few mental worries,
he went to a Gasthaus in the neighbourhood. In the sanatorium his
cousins complained bitterly of the food, the ignorant "sisters," the
inattentive doctors, and the idiotic regulations generally--which
proves that people should not go to a sanatorium unless they are really
ill. However, they paid heavily for being there, so felt that something
was being accomplished, and were annoyed when he called each day for
tea, and told them cheerfully how much better they looked--which
proved, again, that their ailments were slight and quite curable by the
local doctor at home. With one of the ailing cousins, a rich and pretty
girl, he believed himself in love.
It was a three weeks' business, and he spent his mornings walking in
the surrounding hills, his mind reflective, analytical, and ambitious,
as with a man in love. He thought of thousands of things. He mooned.
Once, for instance, he paused beside a rivulet to watch the buttercups
dip, and asked himself, "Will she be like this when we're married--so
anxious to be well that she thinks fearfully all the time of getting
ill?" For if so, he felt he would be bored. He knew himself accurately
enough to realise that he never could stand _that_. Yet money was
a wonderful thing to have, and he, already thirty-five, had little
enough! "Am I influenced by her money, then?" he asked himself ... and
so went on to ask and wonder about many things besides, for he was of
a reflective temperament and his father had been a minor poet. And
Doubt crept in. He felt a chill. He was not much of a man, perhaps,
thin-blooded and unsuccessful, rather a dreamer, too, into the bargain.
He had £100 a year of his own and a position in a Philanthropic
Institution (due to influence) with a nominal salary attached. He meant
to keep the latter after marriage. He would work just the same. Nobody
should ever say _that_ of him----!
And as he sat on the fallen tree beside the rivulet, idly knocking
stones into the rushing water with his stick, he reflected upon those
banal truisms that epitomise two-thirds of life. The way little
unimportant things can change a person's whole existence was the one
his thought just now had fastened on. His cousin's chill and headache,
for instance, caught at a gloomy picnic on the Campagna three weeks
before, had led to her going into a sanatorium and being advised that
her heart was weak, that she had a tendency to asthma, that gout was in
her system, and that a treatment of X-rays, radium, sun-baths and light
baths, violet rays, no meat, complete rest, with big daily fees to
experts with European reputations, were imperative. "From that chill,
sitting a moment too long in the shadow of a forgotten Patrician's
tomb," he reflected, "has come all this"--"all this" including his
doubt as to whether it was herself or her money that he loved, whether
he could stand living with her always, whether he need _really_ keep
his work on after marriage, in a word, his entire life and future, and
her own as well--"all from that tiny chill three weeks ago!" And he
knocked with his stick a little piece of sawn-off board that lay beside
the rushing water.
Upon that bit of wood his mind, his mood, then fastened itself. It was
triangular, a piece of sawn-off wood, brown with age and ragged. Once
it had been part of a triumphant, hopeful sapling on the mountains;
then, when thirty years of age, the men had cut it down; the rest
of it stood somewhere now, at this very moment, in the walls of the
house. This extra bit was cast away as useless; it served no purpose
anywhere; it was slowly rotting in the sun. But each tap of the stick,
he noticed, turned it sideways without sending it over the edge into
the rushing water. It was obstinate. "It doesn't want to go in," he
laughed, his father's little talent cropping out in him, "but, by Jove,
it shall!" And he pushed it with his foot. But again it stopped, stuck
end-ways against a stone. He then stooped, picked it up, and threw it
in. It plopped and splashed, and went scurrying away downhill with
the bubbling water. "Even that scrap of useless wood," he reflected,
rising to continue his aimless walk, and still idly dreaming, "even
that bit of rubbish may have a purpose, and may change the life of
someone--somewhere!"--and then went strolling through the fragrant
pine woods, crossing a dozen similar streams, and hitting scores of
stones and scraps and fir cones as he went--till he finally reached his
Gasthaus an hour later, and found a note from _her_: "We shall expect
you about three o'clock. We thought of going for a drive. The others
feel so much better."
It was a revealing touch--the way she put it on "the others." He made
his mind up then and there--thus tiny things divide the course of
life--that he could never be happy with such an "affected creature."
He went for that drive, sat next to her consuming beauty, proposed to
her passionately on the way back, was accepted before he could change
his mind, and is now the father of several healthy children--and just
as much afraid of getting ill, or of _their_ getting ill, as she was
fifteen years before. The female, of course, matures long, long before
the male, he reflected, thinking the matter over in his study once....
And that scrap of wood he idly set in motion out of impulse also went
its destined way upon the hurrying water that never dared to stop.
Proud of its new-found motion, it bobbed down merrily, spinning and
turning for a mile or so, dancing gaily over sunny meadows, brushing
the dipping buttercups as it passed, through vineyards, woods, and
under dusty roads in neat, cool gutters, and tumbling headlong over
little waterfalls, until it neared the plain. And so, finally, it
came to a wooden trough that led off some of the precious water to a
sawmill where bare-armed men did practical and necessary things. At the
parting of the ways its angles delayed it for a moment, undecided which
way to take. It wobbled. And upon that moment's wobbling hung tragic
issues--issues of life and death.
Unknowing (yet assuredly not unknown), it chose the trough. It swung
light-heartedly into the tearing sluice. It whirled with the gush of
water towards the wheel, banged, spun, trembled, caught fast in the
side where the cogs just chanced to be--and abruptly stopped the wheel.
At any other spot the pressure of the water must have smashed it into
pulp, and the wheel have continued as before; but it was caught in
the _one_ place where the various tensions held it fast immovably. It
stopped the wheel, and so the machinery of the entire mill. It jammed
like iron. The particular angle at which the double-handed saw, held by
two weary and perspiring men, had cut it off a year before just enabled
it to fit and wedge itself with irresistible exactitude. The pressure
of the tearing water combined with the weight of the massive wheel
to fix it tight and rigid. And in due course a workman--it was the
foreman of the mill--came from his post inside to make investigations.
He discovered the irritating item that caused the trouble. He put his
weight in a certain way; he strained his hefty muscles; he swore--and
the scrap of wood was easily dislodged. He fished the morsel out, and
tossed it on the bank, and spat on it. The great wheel started with a
mighty groan. But it started a fraction of a second before he expected
it would start. He overbalanced, clutching the revolving framework with
a frantic effort, shouted, swore, leaped at nothing, and fell into
the pouring flood. In an instant he was turned upside down, sucked
under, drowned. He was engaged to be married, and had put by a thousand
_kronen_ in the _Tiroler Sparbank._ He was a sober and hard-working
man....
There was a paragraph in the local paper two days later. The
Englishman, asking the porter of his Gasthaus for something to wrap
up a present he was taking to his cousin in the sanatorium, used that
very issue. As he folded its crumpled and recalcitrant sheets with
sentimental care about the precious object his eye fell carelessly upon
the paragraph. Being of an idle and reflective temperament, he stopped
to read it--it was headed "Unglücksfall," and his poetic eye, inherited
from his foolish, rhyming father, caught the pretty expression
"fliessandes Wasser." He read the first few lines. Some fellow, with
a picturesque Tyrolese name, had been drowned beneath a mill-wheel;
he was popular in the neighbourhood, it seemed; he had saved some
money, and was just going to be married. It was very sad. "Our readers'
sympathy" was with him.... And, being of a reflective temperament,
the Englishman thought for a moment, while he went on wrapping up the
parcel. He wondered if the man had really loved the girl, whether
she, too, had money, and whether they would have had lots of children
and been happy ever afterwards. And then he hurried out towards the
sanatorium. "I shall be late," he reflected. "Such little, unimportant
things delay one...!"
XIII
A VICTIM OF HIGHER SPACE
"There's a hextraordinary gentleman to see you, sir," said the new man.
"Why 'extraordinary'?" asked Dr. Silence, drawing the tips of his thin
fingers through his brown beard. His eyes twinkled pleasantly. "Why
'extraordinary,' Barker?" he repeated encouragingly, noticing the
perplexed expression in the man's eyes.
"He's so--so thin, sir. I could hardly see 'im at all--at first. He was
inside the house before I could ask the name," he added, remembering
strict orders.
"And who brought him here?"
"He come alone, sir, in a closed cab. He pushed by me before I could
say a word--making no noise not what I could hear. He seemed to move so
soft like----"
The man stopped short with obvious embarrassment, as though he had
already said enough to jeopardise his new situation, but trying hard to
show that he remembered the instructions and warnings he had received
with regard to the admission of strangers not properly accredited.
"And where is the gentleman now?" asked Dr. Silence, turning away to
conceal his amusement.
"I really couldn't exactly say, sir. I left him standing in the
'all----"
The doctor looked up sharply. "But why in the hall, Barker? Why not
in the waiting-room?" He fixed his piercing though kindly eyes on the
man's face. "Did he frighten you?" he asked quickly.
"I think he did, sir, if I may say so. I seemed to lose sight of him,
as it were----" The man stammered, evidently convinced by now that he
had earned his dismissal. "He come in so funny, just like a cold wind,"
he added boldly, setting his heels at attention and looking his master
full in the face.
The doctor made an internal note of the man's halting description;
he was pleased that the slight signs of psychic intuition which had
induced him to engage Barker had not entirely failed at the first
trial. Dr. Silence sought for this qualification in all his assistants,
from secretary to serving man, and if it surrounded him with a somewhat
singular crew, the drawbacks were more than compensated for on the
whole by their occasional flashes of insight.
"So the gentleman made you feel queer, did he?"
"That was it, I think, sir," repeated the man stolidly.
"And he brings no kind of introduction to me--no letter or anything?"
asked the doctor, with feigned surprise, as though he knew what was
coming.
The man fumbled, both in mind and pockets, and finally produced an
envelope.
"I beg pardon, sir," he said, greatly flustered; "the gentleman handed
me this for you."
It was a note from a discerning friend, who had never yet sent him a
case that was not vitally interesting from one point or another.
"Please see the bearer of this note," the brief message ran, "though I
doubt if even you can do much to help him."
John Silence paused a moment, so as to gather from the mind of the
writer all that lay behind the brief words of the letter. Then he
looked up at his servant with a graver expression than he had yet worn.
"Go back and find this gentleman," he said, "and show him into the
green study. Do not reply to his question, or speak more than actually
necessary; but think kind, helpful, sympathetic thoughts as strongly
as you can, Barker. You remember what I told you about the importance
of _thinking_, when I engaged you. Put curiosity out of your mind, and
think gently, sympathetically, affectionately, if you can."
He smiled, and Barker, who had recovered his composure in the doctor's
presence, bowed silently and went out.
There were two different reception-rooms in Dr. Silence's house. One
(intended for persons who imagined they needed spiritual assistance
when really they were only candidates for the asylum) had padded walls,
and was well supplied with various concealed contrivances by means of
which sudden violence could be instantly met and overcome. It was,
however, rarely used. The other, intended for the reception of genuine
cases of spiritual distress and out-of-the-way afflictions of a psychic
nature, was entirely draped and furnished in a soothing deep green,
calculated to induce calmness and repose of mind. And this room was the
one in which Dr. Silence interviewed the majority of his "queer" cases,
and the one into which he had directed Barker to show his present
caller.
To begin with, the arm-chair in which the patient was always directed
to sit, was nailed to the floor, since its immovability tended to
impart this same excellent characteristic to the occupant. Patients
invariably grew excited when talking about themselves, and their
excitement tended to confuse their thoughts and to exaggerate their
language. The inflexibility of the chair helped to counteract this.
After repeated endeavours to drag it forward, or push it back, they
ended by resigning themselves to sitting quietly. And with the futility
of fidgeting there followed a calmer state of mind.
Upon the floor, and at intervals in the wall immediately behind, were
certain tiny green buttons, practically unnoticeable, which on being
pressed permitted a soothing and persuasive narcotic to rise invisibly
about the occupant of the chair. The effect upon the excitable patient
was rapid, admirable, and harmless. The green study was further
provided with a secret spy-hole; for John Silence liked when possible
to observe his patient's face before it had assumed that mask the
features of the human countenance invariably wear in the presence of
another person. A man sitting alone wears a psychic expression; and
this expression is the man himself. It disappears the moment another
person joins him. And Dr. Silence often learned more from a few
moments' secret observation of a face than from hours of conversation
with its owner afterwards.
A very light, almost a dancing, step followed Barker's heavy tread
towards the green room, and a moment afterwards the man came in and
announced that the gentleman was waiting. He was still pale and his
manner nervous.
"Never mind, Barker," the doctor said kindly; "if you were not psychic
the man would have had no effect upon you at all. You only need
training and development. And when you have learned to interpret these
feelings and sensations better, you will feel no fear, but only a great
sympathy."
"Yes, sir; thank you, sir!" And Barker bowed and made his escape,
while Dr. Silence, an amused smile lurking about the corners of his
mouth, made his way noiselessly down the passage and put his eye to the
spy-hole in the door of the green study.
This spy-hole was so placed that it commanded a view of almost the
entire room, and, looking through it, the doctor saw a hat, gloves, and
umbrella lying on a chair by the table, but searched at first in vain
for their owner.
The windows were both closed and a brisk fire burned in the grate.
There were various signs--signs intelligible at least to a keenly
intuitive soul--that the room was occupied, yet so far as human beings
were concerned, it was empty, utterly empty. No one sat in the chairs;
no one stood on the mat before the fire; there was no sign even that
a patient was anywhere close against the wall, examining the Böcklin
reproductions--as patients so often did when they thought they were
alone--and therefore rather difficult to see from the spy-hole.
Ordinarily speaking, there was no one in the room. It was undeniable.
Yet Dr. Silence was quite well aware that a human being _was_ in the
room. His psychic apparatus never failed in letting him know the
proximity of an incarnate or discarnate being. Even in the dark he
could tell that. And he now knew positively that his patient--the
patient who had alarmed Barker, and had then tripped down the corridor
with that dancing footstep--was somewhere concealed within the four
walls commanded by his spy-hole. He also realised--and this was most
unusual--that this individual whom he desired to watch knew that
he was being watched. And, further, that the stranger himself was
also watching! In fact, that it was he, the doctor, who was being
observed--and by an observer as keen and trained as himself.
An inkling of the true state of the case began to dawn upon him, and
he was on the verge of entering--indeed, his hand already touched the
door-knob--when his eye, still glued to the spy-hole, detected a slight
movement. Directly opposite, between him and the fireplace, something
stirred. He watched very attentively and made certain that he was not
mistaken. An object on the mantelpiece--it was a blue vase--disappeared
from view. It passed out of sight together with the portion of the
marble mantelpiece on which it rested. Next, that part of the fire
and grate and brass fender immediately below it vanished entirely, as
though a slice had been taken clean out of them.
Dr. Silence then understood that something between him and these
objects was slowly coming into being, something that concealed them and
obstructed his vision by inserting itself in the line of sight between
them and himself.
He quietly awaited further results before going in.
First he saw a thin perpendicular line tracing itself from just above
the height of the clock and continuing downwards till it reached the
woolly fire-mat. This line grew wider, broadened, grew solid. It was
no shadow; it was something substantial. It defined itself more and
more. Then suddenly, at the top of the line, and about on a level with
the face of the clock, he saw a round luminous disc gazing steadily at
him. It was a human eye, looking straight into his own, pressed there
against the spy-hole. And it was bright with intelligence. Dr. Silence
held his breath for a moment--and stared back at it.
Then, like some one moving out of deep shadow into light, he saw
the figure of a man come sliding sideways into view, a whitish face
following the eye, and the perpendicular line he had first observed
broadening out and developing into the complete figure of a human
being. It was the patient. He had apparently been standing there in
front of the fire all the time. A second eye had followed the first,
and both of them stared steadily at the spy-hole, sharply concentrated,
yet with a sly twinkle of humour and amusement that made it impossible
for the doctor to maintain his position any longer.
He opened the door and went in quickly. As he did so he noticed for
the first time the sound of a German band coming in gaily through the
open ventilators. In some intuitive, unaccountable fashion the music
connected itself with the patient he was about to interview. This sort
of prevision was not unfamiliar to him. It always explained itself
later.
The man, he saw, was of middle age and of very ordinary appearance;
so ordinary, in fact, that he was difficult to describe--his
only peculiarity being his extreme thinness. Pleasant--that is,
good--vibrations issued from his atmosphere and met Dr. Silence as
he advanced to greet him, yet vibrations alive with currents and
discharges betraying the perturbed and disordered condition of his mind
and brain. There was evidently something wholly out of the usual in
the state of his thoughts. Yet, though strange, it was not altogether
distressing; it was not the impression that the broken and violent
atmosphere of the insane produces upon the mind. Dr. Silence realised
in a flash that here was a case of absorbing interest that might
require all his powers to handle properly.
"I was watching you through my little peep-hole--as you saw," he began,
with a pleasant smile, advancing to shake hands. "I find it of the
greatest assistance sometimes----"
But the patient interrupted him at once. His voice was hurried and had
odd, shrill changes in it, breaking from high to low in unexpected
fashion. One moment it thundered, the next it almost squeaked.
"I understand without explanation," he broke in rapidly. "You get the
true note of a man in this way--when he thinks himself unobserved. I
quite agree. Only, in my case, I fear, you saw very little. My case, as
you of course grasp, Dr. Silence, is extremely peculiar, uncomfortably
peculiar. Indeed, unless Sir William had positively assured me----"
"My friend has sent you to me," the doctor interrupted gravely, with
a gentle note of authority, "and that is quite sufficient. Pray, be
seated, Mr.----"
"Mudge--Racine Mudge," returned the other.
"Take this comfortable one, Mr. Mudge," leading him to the fixed chair,
"and tell me your condition in your own way and at your own pace. My
whole day is at your service if you require it."
Mr. Mudge moved towards the chair in question and then hesitated.
"You will promise me not to use the narcotic buttons," he said,
before sitting down. "I do not need them. Also I ought to mention that
anything you think of vividly will reach my mind. That is apparently
part of my peculiar case." He sat down with a sigh and arranged his
thin legs and body into a position of comfort. Evidently he was very
sensitive to the thoughts of others, for the picture of the green
buttons had only entered the doctor's mind for a second, yet the other
had instantly snapped it up. Dr. Silence noticed, too, that Mr. Mudge
held on tightly with both hands to the arms of the chair.
"I'm rather glad the chair is nailed to the floor," he remarked, as
he settled himself more comfortably. "It suits me admirably. The fact
is--and this is my case in a nutshell--which is all that a doctor of
your marvellous development requires--the fact is, Dr. Silence, I am a
victim of Higher Space. That's what's the matter with me--Higher Space!"
The two looked at each other for a space in silence, the little patient
holding tightly to the arms of the chair which "suited him admirably,"
and looking up with staring eyes, his atmosphere positively trembling
with the waves of some unknown activity; while the doctor smiled kindly
and sympathetically, and put his whole person as far as possible into
the mental condition of the other.
"Higher Space," repeated Mr. Mudge, "that's what it is. Now, do you
think you can help me with _that_?"
There was a pause during which the men's eyes steadily searched down
below the surface of their respective personalities. Then Dr. Silence
spoke.
"I am quite sure I can help," he answered quietly; "sympathy must
always help, and suffering always owns my sympathy. I see you have
suffered cruelly. You must tell me all about your case, and when I hear
the gradual steps by which you reached this strange condition, I have
no doubt I can be of assistance to you."
He drew a chair up beside his interlocutor and laid a hand on his
shoulder for a moment. His whole being radiated kindness, intelligence,
desire to help.
"For instance," he went on, "I feel sure it was the result of no mere
chance that you became familiar with the terrors of what you term
Higher Space; for Higher Space is no mere external measurement. It
is, of course, a spiritual state, a spiritual condition, an inner
development, and one that we must recognise as abnormal, since it is
beyond the reach of the world at the present stage of evolution. Higher
Space is a mythical state."