The Bright Messenger

by Algernon Blackwood

  CHAPTER VI

  Edward Fillery was glad that Paul Devonham, good friend and skillfulcolleague, was his assistant; for Devonham, competent as himself inknowledge and experience, found explanations for all things, and hadin his natural temperament a quality of sane judgment which correctedextravagances.

  Devonham was agnostic, because reason ruled his life. Devoid ofimagination, he had no temptations. Speculative, within limits, hemight be, but he belonged not to the unstable. Not that he thought heknew everything, but that he refused to base action on what he regardedas unknown. A clue into the unknown he would follow up as keenly,carefully, as Fillery himself, but he went step by step, with caution,declining to move further until the last step was of hardened concrete.To the powers of the subconscious self he set drastic limits, admittingtheir existence of course, but attaching small value to their use ordevelopment. His own deeper being had never stirred or wakened. Ofthis under-sea, this vast background in himself, he remained placidlyuninformed. A comprehensive view of a problem--the flash of visionhe never knew--thus was perhaps denied him, but so far as he went hewas very safe and sure. And his chief was the first to appreciate hisvalue. He appreciated it particularly now, as the two men sat smokingafter their late dinner, discussing details of the new inmate of theHome.

  Fillery, aware of the strong pull upon his own mixed blood, aware ofa half-wild instinctive sympathy towards "N. H.," almost of a naturaldesire now, having seen him, to believe him "unique" in several ways,and, therefore, conscious of a readiness to accept more than anyevidence yet justified--feeling these symptoms clearly, and rememberingvividly his experiences in the railway station, he was glad, fortruth's sake, that Devonham was there to clip extravagance before itinjured judgment. A weak man, aware of his own frailties, excels astronger one who thinks he has none at all. The two colleagues were apowerful combination.

  "In your view, it's merely a case of a secondary--anyhow of adivided--personality?" he asked, as soon as the other had recovered alittle from his journey, and was digesting his meal comfortably over apipe. "You have seen more of him than I have. Of insanity, at any rate,there is no sign at all, I take it? His relations with his environmentare sound?"

  "None whatever." Devonham answered both questions at once. "Exactly."

  He took off his pince-nez, cleaned them with his handkerchief, and thenreplaced them carefully. This gave him time to reflect, as though hewas not quite sure where to begin his story.

  "There are certainly indications," he went on slowly, "of a dividedpersonality, though of an unusual kind. The margin between thetwo--between the normal and the secondary self--is so very slight.It is not clearly defined, I mean. They sometimes merge andinterpenetrate. The frontier is almost indistinguishable."

  Fillery raised his eyebrows.

  "You feel uncertain which is the main self, and which the split-offsecondary personality?" he inquired, with surprise.

  Devonham nodded. "I'm extremely puzzled," he admitted. "LeVallon'smost marked self, the best defined, the richest, the most fullydeveloped, seems to me what _we_ should call his Secondary Self--this'Nature-being' that worships wind and fire, is terrified by a largebody of water, is ignorant of human ways, probably also quite_un_-moral, yet alive with a kind of instinctive wisdom we creditusually to the animal kingdom--though far beyond anything animals canclaim----"

  "Briefly, what we mean by the term 'N. H.,'" suggested Fillery, notanxious for too many details at the moment.

  "Exactly. And I propose we always refer to that aspect of him as'N. H.,' the other, the normal ordinary man, being LeVallon, hisright name." He smiled faintly.

  "Agreed," replied his chief. "We shall always know then exactly whichone we're talking of at a given moment. Now," he went on, "to cometo the chief point, and before you give me details of what happenedabroad, let me hear your own main conclusion. What is LeVallon? What is'N. H.'?"

  Devonham hesitated for some time. It was evident his respect for hischief made him cautious. There was an eternal battle between thesetwo, keen though always good-natured, even humorous, the victory notinvariably perhaps with the assistant. Later evidence had often provedFillery's swifter imagination correct after all, or, alternately, shownhim to be wrong. They kept an accurate score of the points won and lostby either.

  "You can always revise your conclusions later," Fillery reminded himslyly. "Call it a preliminary conclusion for the moment. You've not hadtime yet for a careful study, I know."

  But Devonham this time did not smile at the rally, and his chiefnoticed it with secret approval. Here was something new, big, serious,it seemed. Devonham, apparently, was already too interested to care whoscored or did not score. His Notes of 1914 indeed betrayed his genuinezeal sufficiently.

  "LeVallon," he said at length--"to begin with him! I thinkLeVallon--without any flavour of 'N. H.'--is a fine specimen of anormal human being. His physique is magnificent, as you have seen, hishealth and strength exceptional. The brain, so far as I have been ableto judge, functions quite normally. The intelligence, also normal, ismuch above the average in quickness, receptivity of ideas, and judgmentbased on these. The emotional development, however, puzzles me; theemotions are not entirely normal. But"--he paused again, a graveexpression on his face--"to answer your question as well as my limitedobservation of him, of LeVallon, allows--I repeat that I consider him anormal young man, though with peculiarities and idiosyncrasies of hisown, as with most other normal young fellows who are individuals, thatis," he added quickly, "and not turned out in bundles cut to measure."

  "So much for LeVallon. Now what about 'N. H.'?"

  He repeated the question, fixing the assistant with his steady gaze. Hehad noticed the confusion in the reply.

  "My dear Edward----" began Devonham, after a considerable pause. Thenhe stuck fast, sighed, settled his glasses carefully upon his aquiline,sharp nose, and relapsed into silence. His forehead became wrinkled,his mouth much pursed.

  "Out with it, Paul! This isn't a Court of Law. I shan't behead you ifyou're wrong." Yet Fillery, too, spoke gravely.

  The other kept his eyes down; his face still wore a puzzled look.Fillery detected a new expression on the keen, thoughtful features, andhe was pleased to see it.

  "To give you the truth," resumed his assistant, "and all questionof who is right or who is wrong aside, I tell you frankly--I am notsure. I confess myself up against it. It--er--gives me the creeps alittle----" He laughed awkwardly. That swift watchful look, as of a manwho plays a part, flashed and vanished.

  "Your feeling, anyhow?" insisted his friend. "Your general feeling?"

  "A general judgment based on general feeling," said the other in aquiet tone, "has little value. It is based, necessarily, as you know,upon intuition, which I temperamentally dislike. It has no facts togo upon. I distrust generalizations." He took a deep breath, inhaleda lot of smoke, exhaled it with relief, and made an effort. It wentagainst the grain in him to be caught without an explanation.

  "'N. H.' in my opinion, and so far as my limited observation of him----"

  Fillery allowed himself a laugh of amused impatience. "Leave out thepersonal extras for once, and burn your bridges. Tell me finally whatyou think about 'N. H.' We're not scoring points now."

  Thus faced with an alternative, Devonham found his sense of humouragain and forgot himself. It cost him an effort, but he obeyed thebigger and less personal mind.

  "I really don't know exactly _what_ he is," he confessed again. "Hepuzzles me completely. It _may_ be"--he shrugged his shoulders,compelled by his temperament to hedge--"that he represents, as I firstthought, the content of his parents' minds, the subsequent addition ofMason's mind included."

  "That's possible, usual and comprehensible enough," put in the doctor,watching him with amused concentration, but with an inner excitementscarcely concealed.

  "Or" resumed Devonham, "it _may_ be that through these----"

  "Through his mental inheritance from his parents and from Mason,yes----"

&n
bsp; "----he taps the most primitive stores and layers of racial memory weknow. The world-memory, if I dare put it so, full proof being lacking,is open to him----"

  "Through his subconscious powers, of course?"

  "That is your usual theory, isn't it? We have there, at any rate,a working hypothesis, with a great mass of evidence--generallyspeaking--behind it."

  "Don't be cynical, Paul. Is this 'N. H.' merely a SecondaryPersonality, or is it the real central self? That's the whole point."

  "You jump ahead, as usual," replied Devonham, really smiling for thefirst time, though his face instantly grew serious again. "Edward," hewent on, "I do not know, I cannot say, I dare not--dare not guess. 'N.H.' is something entirely new to me, and I admit it." He seemed to findhis stride, to forget himself. "I feel far from cynical. 'N. H.,' in myopinion, is exceptional. My notes suggested it long ago. He has, forinstance--at least, so it seems to me--peculiar powers."

  "Ah!"

  "Of suggestion, let us put it."

  "Of suggestion, yes. Get on with it, there's a good fellow. I feltmyself an extraordinary vitality about him. I noticed it at once atCharing Cross."

  "I saw you did." Devonham looked hard at him. "You were humming toyourself, you know."

  "I didn't know," was the surprised reply, "but I can well believe it. Ifelt a curious pleasure and exhilaration."

  Devonham, shrugging his shoulders slightly, resumed: "During the'LeVallon' periods he is ordinary, though unusually observant,critical and intelligent; during the 'N. H.' periods hebecomes--er--super-normal. If you felt this--felt anything in thestation, it was because something in you--called up the 'N. H.' aspect."

  "It's quick of you to guess that," said Fillery, with quickappreciation. "You noticed a change in me, well--but the other----? Hedivined my 'foreign' blood, you think?"

  "It is enough that you responded and felt kinship. Put it that way. 'N.H.' seems to me"--he took a deeper breath and gave a sort of gasp--"insome ways--a unique--being--as I said before."

  "Tell me, if you can," said Fillery, lighting his own pipe and settlingback into his chair, "tell me a little about your first meeting withhim in the Jura Mountains, what happened and so forth. I remember,of course, your Notes. After your telegram, I read 'em carefully."He glanced round at his companion. "They were very honest, Paul, Ithought. Eh?" He was unable to refuse himself the pleasure of thelittle dig. "Honest you always are," he added. "We couldn't worktogether otherwise, could we?"

  Devonham, deep in his own thoughts, did not accept the challenge. Heturned in his chair, puffing at his pipe.

  "I can give you briefly what happened and how things went," he said."The place, then, first: an ordinary peasant chalet in a remote Juravalley, difficult of access, situated among what they call the upperpastures. I reached it by _diligence_ and mule late in the afternoon.A peasant in a lower valley directed me, adding that 'le monsieuranglais' was dead and buried two days before----"

  "Mason, that is?"

  The other nodded. "And adding that 'le fou'----"

  "LeVallon, of course?"

  "----would eat me alive at sight. He spoke with respect, however, evenawe. He hoped I had come to take him away. The countryside was afraidof him.

  "The valley struck me as intolerably lonely, but of unusual beauty. Bigforests, great rocks, and tumbling streams among cliffs and pasturesmade it exceptional. The chalet was simple, clean and comfortable. Itwas really an ideal spot for a thinker or a student. The first thing Inoticed was a fire burning on a pile of rock in front of the building.The sun was setting, and its last rays lit the entire little glen--amere gully between precipices and forest slopes--but especially lit upthe pile of rocks where the fire burned, so that I saw the smoke, blue,red and yellow, and the figure kneeling before it. This figure was aman, half naked, and of magnificent proportions. When I shouted----"

  "You _would_ shout, of course." Yet he did not say it critically.

  "----the figure rose and turned and came to meet me. It was LeVallon."

  Devonham paused a moment. Fillery's eyes were fixed upon him.

  "I admit," Devonham went on, conscious of the other's inquiring andintent expression, "I was surprised a bit." He smiled his faint,unwilling smile. "The figure made me start. I was aware of an emotionI am not subject to--what I called just now the creeps. I thought, atlast, I had really seen a--a vision. He looked so huge, so wonderful,so radiant. It was, of course, the effect of coloured smoke andmagnifying sunset, added to his semi-nakedness. To the waist he wasstripped. But, at first, his size, his splendour, a kind of radianceborrowed from the sunlight and the fire, seemed to enlarge him beyondhuman. He seemed to dominate, even to fill the little valley.

  "I stood still, uncertain of my feelings. There was, I think, a traceof fear in me. I waited for him to come up to me. He did so. Hestretched out a hand. I took it. And what do you think he said?"

  Fillery, the inner excitement and delight increasing in him as helistened, stared in silence. There was no lightness in him now.

  "'Are you Fillery?' That's what he said, and the first words heuttered. 'Are you Fillery?' But spoken in a way I find difficult toreproduce. He made the name sound like a rush of wind. 'F,' of course,involves a draught of breath between the teeth, I know. But _he_ madethe name sound exactly like a gush of wind through branches--that's thenearest I can get to it."

  "Well--and then?"

  "Don't be impatient, Edward. I try to be accurate. But really--whathappened next is a bit beyond any experience that we--I--have yet comeacross. And, as to what I felt--well, I was tired, hungry, thirsty. Iwanted, normally, rest and food and drink. Yet all these were utterlyforgotten. For a moment or two--I admit it--I felt as if I had comeface to face with something not of this earth quite." He grinned. "Atouch of gooseflesh came to me for the first time in my life. Thefellow's size and radiance in the sunlight, the fact that he stoodthere worshipping fire--always, to me, the most wonderful of naturalphenomena--his grandeur and nakedness--the way he pronounced your nameeven--all this--er--upset my judgment for the moment." He paused again.He hesitated. "A visual hallucination, due to fatigue, can be, ofcourse, very detailed sometimes," he added, a note of challenge in histone.

  Fillery watched his friend narrowly, as he stumbled among thedetails of what he evidently found a difficult, almost an impossibledescription.

  "Natural enough," he put in. "You'd hardly be human yourself if youfelt nothing at such a sight."

  "The loneliness, too, increased the effect," went on the other, "forthere was no one nearer than the peasants who had directed me athousand feet below, nor was there another building of any sort insight. Anyhow, it seemed, I managed my strange emotions all right, forthe young man took to me at once. He left the fire, if reluctantly,singing to himself a sort of low chanting melody, with perhaps five orsix notes at most in it, and far from unmusical----"

  "He explained the fire? Was he actually worshipping, I mean?"

  "It was certainly worship, judging by the expression of his face andhis gestures of reverence and happiness. But I asked no questions. Ithought it best just to accept, or appear to accept, the whole thing asnatural. He said something about the Equinox, but I did not catch itproperly and did not ask. This had evidently been taught him. It was,however, the 22nd of September, oddly enough, though the gales had notyet come."

  "So you got into the chalet next?" asked the other, noticing the gaps,the incoherence.

  "He put his coat on, sat down with me to a meal of bread and milk andcheese--meat there seemed none in the building anywhere. This meal was,if you understand me, obeying a mere habit automatically. He did justwhat it had been his habit to do with Mason all these years. He gotthe stuff himself--quickly, effectively, no fumbling anywhere--and,from that moment, hardly spoke again until we left two days later. Imean that literally. All he said, when I tried to make him talk, was,'You are not Fillery,' or 'Take me to Fillery. I need him.'

  "I almost felt that I was living with some marvellously trained an
imal,of extraordinary intelligence, gentle, docile, friendly, but unhappybecause it had lost its accustomed master. But on the other hand--Iadmit it--I was conscious of a certain power in his personality beyondme to explain. That, really, is the best description I can give you."

  "You mentioned the name of Mason?" asked Fillery, avoiding a dozen moreobvious and natural questions.

  "Several times. But his only reply was a smile, while he repeated thename himself, adding your own after it: 'Mason Fillery, Mason Fillery,'he would say, smiling with quiet happiness. 'I like Fillery!'"

  "The nights?"

  "Briefly--I was glad to see the dawn. We had separate rooms, my ownbeing the one probably where Mason had died a few days before. But itwas not that I minded in the least. It was the feeling--the knowledgein fact--that my companion was up and about all night in the buildingor out of doors. I heard him moving, singing quietly to himself, thewooden veranda creaked beneath his tread. He was active all through thedarkness and cannot have slept at all. When I came down soon after dawnhe was running over the slopes a mile away, running towards the chalet,too, with the speed and lightness of a deer. He had been to someheight, I think, to see the sun rise and probably to worship it----"

  "And your journey? You got him away easily?"

  "He was only too ready to leave, for it meant coming to _you_. Iarranged with the peasants below to have the chalet closed up, tookmy charge to Neuchatel, and thence to Berne, where I bought him anoutfit, and arrived in due course, as you know, at Charing Cross."

  "His first sight of cities, people, trains, steamers and the rest, Itake it. Any reactions?"

  "The troubles I anticipated did not materialize. He came like a lamb,the most helpless and pathetic lamb I ever saw. He stared but asked noquestions. I think he was half dazed, even stupefied with it all."

  "Stupefied?"

  "An odd word to use, I know. I should have said perhaps 'automatic'rather. He was so open to my suggestions, doing what my mind expectedhim to do, but nothing more--ah! with one exception."

  Fillery meant to hear an account of that exception, though the otherwould willingly have foregone its telling evidently. It was related,Fillery felt sure, to the unusual powers Devonham had mentioned.

  "Oh, you shall hear it," said the latter quickly, "for what it'sworth. There's no need to exaggerate, of course." He told it rapidly,accurately, no doubt, because his mind was honest, yet without commentor expression in his voice and face. He supplied no atmosphere.

  "I had got him like a lamb, as I told you, to Paris, and it was duringthe Customs examination the--er--little thing occurred. The man,searching through his trunk, pulled out a packet of flat papers andopened it. He looked them over with puzzled interest, turning themupside down to examine them from every possible angle. Then he asked atrifle unpleasantly what they were. I hadn't the smallest idea myself,I had never seen them before; they were very carefully wrapped up.LeVallon, whose sudden excitement increased the official's interest,told him that they were star-and-weather maps. It doubtless was thetruth; he had made them with Mason; but they were queer-looking papersto have at such a time, hidden away, too, at the bottom of the trunk;and LeVallon's manner and expression did not help to disarm the man'sevident suspicion. He asked a number of pointed questions in a verydisagreeable way--who made them, for what purpose, how they were used,and whether they were connected with aviation. I translated, of course.I explained their innocence----"

  "LeVallon's excitement?" asked Fillery. "What form did it take?Rudeness, anger, violence of any sort?" He was aware his friend wouldhave liked to shirk these details.

  "Nothing of the kind." He hesitated briefly, then went on. "He behaved,rather, as though--well, as a devout Catholic might have behaved if hiscrucifix or some holy relic were being mauled. The maps were sacred.Symbols possibly. Heaven knows what! He tried to take them back. Theofficial, as a natural result, became still more suspicious and, ofcourse, offensive too. My explanations and expostulations were quiteuseless, for he didn't even listen to them."

  Devonham was now approaching the part of the story he least wishedto describe. He played for time. He gave details of the ensuingaltercation.

  "What happened in the end?" Fillery at length interrupted. "What didLeVallon do? There were no arrests, I take it?" he added with a smile.

  Paul coughed and fidgeted. He told the literal truth, however.

  "LeVallon, after listening for a long time to the conversation he couldnot understand, suddenly took his fingers off the papers. The man'sdirty hand still held them tightly on the grimy counter. LeVallonbegan--or--he suddenly began to breathe--well--heavily rather."

  "Rhythmically?"

  "Heavily," insisted the other. "In a curious way, anyhow," he added,determined to keep strictly to the truth, "not unlike Heathcote when heput himself automatically into trance and then told us what was goingon at the other end of England. You remember the case." He paused amoment again, as if to recall exactly what had occurred. "It's noteasy to describe, Edward," he continued, looking up. "You remember thathuge draughty hall where they examine luggage at the Lyons Station.I can't explain it. But that breathing somehow caught the draughts,used them possibly, in any case increased them. A wind came throughthe great hall. I can't explain it," he repeated, "I can only tell youwhat happened. That wind most certainly came pouring steadily through,for I felt it myself, and saw it blow upon the fluttering papers. Theheat in the _salle_ at the same moment seemed to grow intense. Not anoppressive heat, though. Radiant heat, rather. It felt, I mean, likea fierce sunlight. I looked up, almost expecting to see a great lightfrom which it came. It was then--at this very moment--the Frenchmanturned as if someone touched him."

  "_You_ felt anything, Paul?"

  "Yes," admitted the other slowly.

  Fillery waited.

  "A--what I must call--a thrill." His voice was lower now.

  "Of----?" his Chief persisted.

  Devonham waited a full ten seconds before reply. He again shrugged hisshoulders a little. Apparently he sought his words with honest carethat included also intense reluctance and disapproval:

  "Loveliness, romance, enchantment; but, above all, I think--power." Heground out the confession slowly. "By power I mean a sort of confidenceand happiness."

  "Increase of vitality, call it. Intensification of your consciousness."

  "Possibly. A bigger perspective suddenly, a bigger scale of life;something--er--a bit wild, but certainly--er--uncommonly stimulating.The best word, I think, is liberty, perhaps. An immense and carelesssense of liberty." And Fillery, knowing the value of superlatives inDevonham's cautious mind, felt satisfied. He asked quietly what theofficial did next.

  "Stood stock still at first. Then his face changed; he smiled; helooked up understandingly, sympathetically, at LeVallon. He spoke: 'Myfather, too,' he said with admiration, 'had a big telescope. Monsieuris an astronomer.'

  "'One of the greatest,' I added quickly; 'these charts are of infinitevalue to France.' No sense of comedy touched me anywhere, the ludicrouswas absent. The man bowed, as carefully, respect in every gesture, hereplaced the maps, marked the trunk with his piece of chalk, and let usgo, helping in every way he could."

  Devonham drew a long breath, glad that he had relieved himself of hisunwelcome duty. He had told the literal truth.

  "Of course, of course," Fillery said, half to himself perhaps."A breath of bigger consciousness, his imagination touched, thesubconscious wakened, and intelligence the natural result." He turnedto his colleague. "Interesting, Paul, very," he added in a louder tone,"and not easy to explain, I grant. The official we do not know, butyou, at any rate, are not a good subject for hypnotic suggestion!"

  For some time Devonham said nothing. Presently he spoke:

  "Fillery, I tell you--really I love the fellow. He's the most lovablething in human shape I ever saw. He gets into your heart so strangely.We must heal him."

  The other sighed, quickly smothering it, yet not before Devonham hadnoticed i
t. They did not look at one another for some seconds, andthere was a certain tenseness, a sense of deep emotion in the air thateach, possibly, sought to hide from the other.

  Devonham was the first to break the silence that had fallen betweenthem.

  "To be quite frank--it's LeVallon that appeals most to me," he said,as if to himself, "whereas you, Edward, I believe, are more--moreinterested in the other aspect of him. It's 'N. H.' that interests you."

  No challenge was intended, yet the glove was flung. Fillery saidnothing for a minute or two. Then he looked up, and their eyes metacross the smoke-laden atmosphere. It was close on midnight. The worldlay very still and hushed about the house.

  "It is," he said quietly, "a pathetic and inspiring case. He isdeserving of"--he chose his words slowly and with care--"our verybest," he concluded shortly.

  "And now," he added quickly, "you're tired out, and I ought to have letyou have a night's sleep before taxing you like this." He poured outtwo glasses of whisky. "Let us drink anyhow to success and healing ofbody, mind--and soul."

  "Body, mind and--nerves," said Devonham slowly, as he drank the toast.

  "The reason I had none of the trouble I anticipated," remarkedDevonham, as he sipped the reviving liquor, "is simple enough."

  "There are two periods, of course. I guessed that."

  "Exactly. There is the LeVallon period, when he is quiescent, normal,very charming into the bargain, more like a good child or trainedanimal or happy peasant, if you like it better, than a grown man. Andthere is the 'N. H.' period, when he is--otherwise."

  "Ah!"

  "I arrived just at the transition moment, so to speak. It was duringthe change I reached the chalet."

  "Precisely." Fillery looked up, smiled and nodded.

  "That's about the truth," repeated Devonham, putting his glass down. Hethought for a moment, then added slowly, "I think that fire of his, theworship, singing--at the autumnal equinox--marked the change. 'N. H,'at once after that, slipped back into the unconscious state. LeVallonemerged. It was with LeVallon only or chiefly, _I_ had to deal. Hebecame so very quiet, dazed a little, half there, as we call it, andalmost entirely silent. He retained little, if any, memory of the 'N.H.' period, although it lies, I think, just beneath the surface only.The LeVallon personality, you see, is not very positive, is it? Itseems a quiet, negative state, a condition almost of rest, in fact."

  Fillery listening attentively, made no rejoinder.

  "We may expect," continued Devonham, "these alternating states, Ithink. The frontier between them is, as I said, a narrow one. Indeed,often they merge or interpenetrate. In my judgment, the main, importantpart of his consciousness, that parent Self, is LeVallon--_not_ 'N.H.'" The voice was slightly strident.

  "Ah!"

  It so happened that, in the act of exchanging these last words, theyboth looked up toward the ceiling, where a moth buzzed round and round,banging itself occasionally against the electric light. Whether it wasthis that drew their sight upwards simultaneously, or whether it wasthat some other sound in the stillness of the night had caught theirstrained attention, is uncertain. The same thought, at any rate, wasin both minds at that instant, the same freight of meaning trailingbehind it invisibly across the air. Their hearts burned within them;the two faces upward turned, the lips a little parted as when listeningis intense, the heads thrown back. For in the room above that ceiling,asleep at this moment, lay the subject of their long discussion; onlya few inches of lath and plaster separated them from the strange beingwho, dropping out of space, as it were, had come to make his home withthem. A being, lonely utterly in the world, unique in kind perhaps, hisnature as yet undecipherable, lay trustingly unconscious in that upperchamber. The two men felt the gravity, the responsibility of theircharge. The same thought had vividly touched them both at the sameinstant.

  A few minutes later they were still standing, facing one another.They were of a height, but compared to Fillery's big frame and ruggedhead, his friend's appearance was almost slight. Devonham, for all hisqualifications, looked painfully like a shopwalker. They exchanged thissteady gaze for a few seconds without speaking. Then the older mansaid quietly:

  "Paul, I understand, and I respect your reticence. I think I can agreewith it."

  He placed a hand upon the other's shoulder, smiling gently, eventenderly.

  "You have told me much, but you have not told me all! The chiefpart--you have intentionally omitted."

  "For the present, at any rate," was the reply, given without flinching.

  "Your reasons are sound, your judgment perhaps right. I ask noquestions. What happened, what you saw, at the chalet; the 'peculiarpowers' you mentioned; all, in fact, that you think it wise to keep toyourself for the moment, I leave there willingly."

  He spoke gravely, sincere emotion in the eyes and tone. It was in alower voice he added:

  "The responsibility, of course, is yours."

  Devonham returned the steady gaze, pondering his reply a moment.

  "I can--and do accept it," he answered. "You have read my thoughtscorrectly as usual, Edward. I think you know quite enough already--whatwith my Notes and Mason's letter--even too much. Besides, whycomplicate it with an account of what were doubtless mere mentalpictures--hallucinations--on my part? This is a matter," he went onslowly, "a case, we dare not trifle with; there may be strange andterrible afflictions in it later; we must remain unbiased." The anxietydeepened on his face.

  "True, true," murmured the other. "God bless the boy! May his own godsbless him!"

  "In other words, it will need your clearest, soundest judgment, yourfinest skill, your very best, as you said yourself just now." He useda firmer, yet also a softer tone suddenly: "Edward, you know your ownmind, its contents, its suppressions, its origin; your refusal of thelove of women, your deep powerful dreams that you have suppressed andput away. Promise me"--the voice and manner were very earnest--"thatyou will not communicate these to him in any way, and that you willkeep your judgment absolutely unbiased and untainted." He looked at hisold friend and paused. "Only your purest judgment of what is to comecan help. You promise."

  Fillery sighed a scarcely noticeable sigh. "I promise you, Paul. Youare wise--and you are right," he said. "On the other hand, let me sayone thing to you in my turn. This theory of heredity and of mentaltelepathic transference--the idea that all his mind's content isderived from his parents and from Mason--we cannot, remember, forcethis transference and interchange _too_ far. I ask only this: be fairand open yourself with all that follows."

  Devonham raised his voice: "Nor can we, apparently, set limits to it,Edward. But--to be fair and open-minded--I give my promise too."

  Thus, in the little downstairs room of a Private Home for IncurableMental Cases, _not_ a Lunatic Asylum, though sometimes perhaps nextdoor to it, these two men, deeply intrigued by a new "Case" thatpassed their understanding, as it exceeded their knowledge, practiceand experience, swore to each other to observe carefully, to reportfaithfully, and to experiment, if experiment proved necessary, withhonest and affectionate uprightness.

  Their views were, obviously, not the same. Devonham, temperamentallyopposed to radical innovations, believed it was a case of dividedpersonality--hundreds of such cases had passed through their hands.Forced to accept extended telepathy--that all minds can on occasionshare one another's content, and that even a racial and a world-memorycan be tapped--he feared that his Chief might influence LeVallon, andtwist, thus, the phenomena to a special end. He knew Edward Fillery'sstory. He feared, for the sake of truth, the mental transference. Hehad, perhaps, other fears as well.

  Fillery, on the other hand, believing as much, and knowing more thanhis colleague, saw in "N. H." a unique possibility. He was thrilledand startled with a half-impossible hope. He felt as if someone ranbeside his life, bearing impossible glad tidings, an unexpected,half-incredible figure, the tidings marvellously bright. He hoped, healready wished to think, that "N. H." might shadow forth a promise ofsome magical advance for the ult
imate benefit of the Race....

  The thinkers were crying on the housetops that progress was a myth,that each wave of civilization at its height reached the same averagelevel without ever passing further. The menace to the presentcivilization, already crumbling, was in full swing everywhere;knowledge, culture, learning threatened in due course with the chaosof destruction that has so far been the invariable rule. The one hopeof saving the world, cried religion, lay in substituting spiritual formaterial values--a Utopian dream at best. The one chance, said science,on the other hand, was that civilization to-day is continuous and notisolated.

  The best hope, believed Fillery, the only hope, lay in raising theindividual by the drawing up into full consciousness of the limitlesspowers now hidden and inactive in his deeper self--the so-calledsubliminal faculties. With these greater powers must come also greatermoral development.

  Already, with his uncanny insight, derived from knowledge of himself,he had piercingly divined in "N. H." a being, whatever he might be,whose nature acted automatically and directly upon the subconsciousself in everybody.

  That bright messenger, running past his life, had looked, as with fireand tempest, straight into his eyes.

  * * * * *

  It was long after one o'clock when the two men said good-night, andwent to their rooms. Devonham was soon in bed, though not soon asleep.Exhausted physically though he was, his mind burned actively. Hisrecent memories were vivid. All he had purposely held back fromFillery returned with power....

  The uncertainty whether he had experienced hallucination, or hadactually, as by telepathic transfer from LeVallon, touched anotherstate of consciousness, kept sleep far away....

  His brain was far too charged for easy slumber. He feared for his dear,faithful friend, his colleague, the skilful, experienced, yet sorelytempted mind--tempted by Nature and by natural weaknesses of birth andorigin--who now shared with him the care and healing of a Case thattroubled his being too deeply for slumber to come quickly.

  Yet he had done well to keep these memories from Edward Fillery. IfFillery once knew what _he_ knew, his judgment and his scientificdiagnosis must be drawn hopelessly away from what he considered thebest treatment: the suppression of "N. H." and the making permanent of"LeVallon."...

  He fell asleep eventually, towards dawn, dreaming impossible, radiantdreams of a world he might have hoped for, yet could not, within thelimits of his little cautious, accurate mind, believe in. Dreams thatinspire, yet sadden, haunted his release from normal consciousness.Someone had walked upon his life, leaving a growth of everlastingflowers in their magical tread, though his mind--his stolid, cautiousmind--had no courage for the plucking....

  And while he slept, as the hours slipped from west to east, his chiefand colleague, lying also sleepless, rose suddenly before the lateautumn dawn, and walked quietly along the corridor towards the PrivateSuite where the new patient rested. His mind was quiet, yet his innermind alert. His thoughts, his hopes, his dreams, these lay, perhaps,beyond human computation. He was calmer far than his assistant, thoughmore strangely tempted.

  It was just growing light, the corridor was cold. A cool, damp air camethrough the open windows and the linoleum felt like ice against thefeet. The house lay dead and silent. Pausing a moment by a window, helistened to the chattering of early sparrows. He felt chill and hungry,unrested too, though far from sleepy. He was aware of London--bleak,heavy, stolid London town. The troubles of modern life, of Labour,Politics, Taxes, cost of living, all the common, daily things came inwith the cheerless morning air.

  He reached the door he sought, and very softly opened it.

  The radiance met him in the face, so that he almost gasped. The scentof flowers, the sting of sharp, keen forest winds, the exhilaration ofsome distant mountain-top. There was, actually, a tang of dawn, knownonly to those who have tasted the heights at sunrise with the heart.And into his heart, singing with happy confidence, rose a sense ofsupreme joy and confidence that mastered all little earthly woes andpains, and walked among the stars.

  The occupant of the bed lay very still. His shining hair was spreadupon the pillow. The splendid limbs were motionless. The chest and armswere bare, the single covering sheet tossed off. The strange, wild facewore happiness and peace upon its skin, the features very calm, themouth relaxed. It almost seemed a god lay sleeping there upon a littlehuman bed.

  How long he stood and stared he did not know, but suddenly, the lightincreased. The curtains stirred about the bed.

  With a marvellous touch the separate details merged and quickened intolife. The room was changed. The occupant of the bed moved very swiftly,as through the open window came the first touch of exhilarating light.Gold stole across the lintel, breaking over the roofs of slates beyond.The leafless elm trees shimmered faintly. The telegraph wires shone.There was a running sparkle. It was dawn.

  The figure leaped, danced--no other word describes it--to the openwindow where the light and air gushed in, spread wide its arms, loweredits radiant head, began to sing in low, melodious rhythmic chant--andFillery, as silently as he had come, withdrew and closed the doorunseen. His heart moved strangely, but--his promise held him....