The Bright Messenger

by Algernon Blackwood

  CHAPTER XXV

  The full account of "N. H.," with all he said and did, his effect uponothers, his general activities in a word, it is impossible to compressintelligibly into the compass of these notes. A complete report EdwardFillery indeed accumulated, but its publication, he realized, mustawait that leisure for which his busy life provided little opportunity.His eyes, mental and physical, were never off his "patient," and"N. H.," aware of it, leaped out to meet the observant sympathy, givingall he could, concealing nothing, yet debarred, it seemed, by the rigidlimitations of his own mental and physical machinery, as similarlyby that of his hearers, from contributing more than suggestive andtantalizing hints. Of the use of parable he, obviously, had noknowledge.

  His relations with others, perhaps, offered the most significantcomments on his personality. Fillery was at some pains to collectthese. The reactions were various, yet one and all showed this incommon, a curious verdict but unanimous: that his effect, namely, wasgreatest when he was not there. Not in his actual presence, whichpromised rather than fulfilled, was his power so dominating uponmind and imagination as after the door was closed and he was gone.The withdrawal of his physical self, its absence--as Fillery hadhimself experienced one night on Hampstead Heath as well as on otheroccasions--brought his real presence closer.

  It was Nayan who first drew attention to this remarkablecharacteristic. She spoke about him often now with Dr. Fillery, for asthe weeks passed and she realized the uselessness, the impossibility,of the plan she had proposed to herself, she found relief in talkingfrankly about him to her older friend.

  "Always, always after I leave him," she confessed, "a profound andsearching melancholy gets hold of me, poignant as death, yet anextraordinary unrealized beauty behind it somewhere. It steals into myvery blood and bones. I feel an intense dissatisfaction with the world,with people as they are, and a burning scorn for all that is small,unworthy, petty, mean--and yet a hopelessness of ever attaining to thatsomething which _he_ knows and lives so easily." She sighed, gazinginto his eyes a moment. "Or of ever making others see it," she added.

  "And that 'something,'" he asked, "can you define it?"

  She shook her head. "It's in me, within reach even, but--the word heused is the only one--forgotten."

  "Perhaps--has it ever occurred to you?--that he simply cannot describeit. There are no words, no means at his disposal--no human terms?"

  "Perhaps," she murmured.

  "Desirable, though?" he urged her gently.

  She clasped her hands, smiling. "Heavenly," she murmured, closing hereyes a moment as though to try and recall it. "Yet when I'm with him,"she went on, "he never _quite_ realizes for me the state of wonder anddelight his presence promises. His personality suggests rather thanfulfils." She paused, a wistful, pained expression in her dark eyes."The failure," she added quickly, lest she seem to belittle him ofwhom she spoke, "of course lies in myself. I refuse, you see--I can'tsay why, though I feel it's wise--to let myself be dominated by thatstrange, lost part of me he stimulates."

  "True," interposed Dr. Fillery. "I understand. Yet to have felt thiseven is a sign----"

  "That he stirs the deepest, highest in me? This hint of divine beautyin the unrealized under-self?"

  He nodded. There was an odd touch of sadness in their talk. "I'vewatched him with many types of people," he went on thoughtfully,almost as though thinking aloud in his rapid way, "I've talked with himon many subjects. The meanness, jealousy, insignificance of the Raceshocks and amazes him. He cannot understand it. He asked me once 'Butis no one _born_ noble? To be splendid is such an effort with them!'Splendour of conduct, he noticed, is a calculated, rarely a spontaneoussplendour. The general resistance to new ideas also puzzles him. 'Theyfear a rhythm they have never felt before,' as he put it. 'To adopta new rhythm, they think, must somehow injure them.' That the Racerespects a man because he possesses much equally bewilders him. 'Noone serves willingly or naturally,' he observed, 'or unless someoneelse receives money for drawing attention loudly to it.' Any notionof reward, of advertisement, in its widest meaning, is foreign to hisnature."

  He broke off. Another pause fell between them, the girl the first tobreak it:

  "He suffers," she said in a low voice. "Here--he suffers," and herface yearned with the love and help she longed to pour out beyond allthought of self or compensation, and at the same time with the pain ofits inevitable frustration; and, watching her, Dr. Fillery understoodthat this very yearning was another proof of the curious impetus, theintensification of being, that "N. H." caused in everyone. Yet hewinced, as though anticipating the question she at once then put to him:

  "You are afraid for him, Edward?" her eyes calmly, searchingly on his."His future troubles you?"

  He turned to her with abrupt intensity. "If _you_, Iraida, could notenchain him----" He broke off. He shrugged his shoulders.

  "I have no power," she confessed. "An insatiable longing burns like afire in him. Nothing he finds here on earth, among men and women, cansatisfy it." A faint blush stole up her neck and touched her cheeks."He is different. _I_ have no power to keep him here." Her voice sanksuddenly to a whisper, as though a breath of awe passed into her. "Heis here now at this very moment, I believe. He is with us as we talktogether. I feel him." Almost a visible thrill passed through her. "Andclose, so very close--to _you_."

  Dr. Fillery made no sign by word or gesture, but something in his verysilence gave assent.

  "And not alone," she added, still under her breath. It seemed shelooked about her, though she did not actually move or turn her head."Others--of his kind, Edward--come with him. They are always withhim--I think sometimes." Her whisper was fainter still.

  "You feel that too!" He said it abruptly, his voice louder and almostchallenging. Then he added incongruously, as though saying it tohimself this time, "That's what I mean. I've known it for a longtime----"

  He looked at the girl sharply with unconcealed admiration. "It does notfrighten you?" he asked, and in reply she said the very thing he feltsure she would say, hoping for it even while he shrank:

  "Escape," he heard in a low, clear voice, half a question, half anexclamation, and saw the blood leave her face.

  The instinctive "Hush!" that rose to his lips he did not utter. Thesense of loss, of searching pain, the word implied he did not show.Instead, he spoke in his natural, everyday tone again:

  "The body irks him, of course, and he may try to rid himself of it. Itslimitations to him are a prison, for his true consciousness he findsoutside it. The explanation," he added to himself, "of many a case ofsuicidal mania probably. I've often wondered----"

  He took her hand, aware by the pallor of her face what her feelingswere. "Death, you see, Nayan, has no meaning for him, as it has for uswho think consciousness out of the body impossible, and he is puzzledby our dread of it. 'We,' he said once, 'have nothing that decays. Wemay be stationary, or advance, or retreat, but we can never end.' Hederives--oh, I'm convinced of it--from another order. Here--amongstus--he is inarticulate, unable to express himself, hopeless, helpless,in prison. Oh, if only----"

  "He loves _you_," she said quickly, releasing her hand. "I suppose herealizes the eternal part of you and identifies himself with that. Inyou, Edward, lies something very close to what he is, akin--he needs itterribly, just as you----" She became confused.

  "Love, as we understand it," he interrupted, his voice shaking alittle, "he does not, cannot know, for he serves another law, anotherorder of being."

  "That's how I feel it too."

  She shivered slightly, but she did not turn away, and her eyes kept alltheir frankness.

  "Our humanity," she murmured, "writes upon his heart in ink thatquickly fades----"

  "And leaves no trace," he caught her up hurriedly. "His one idea isto help, to render service. It is as natural to him as for water torun down hill. He seeks instinctively to become one with the personhe seeks to aid. As with us an embrace is an attempt at union,so he seeks, by some law of his own being,
to become identifiedwith those whom he would help. And he helps by intensifying theirconsciousness--somewhat as heat and air increase ordinary physicalvitality. Only, first there must be something for him to work on.Energy, even bad, vicious, wrongly used, he can work on. Mere emptinessprevents him. You remember Lady Gleeson----"

  "We--most of us--are too empty," she put in with quiet resignation."Our sense of that divine beauty is too faint----"

  "Rather," came the quick correction, "he stands too close to us. Hiseffect is too concentrated. The power at such close quarters disturbsand overbalances."

  "That's why, then, I always feel it strongest when he's left."

  He glanced at her keenly.

  "In his presence," she explained, "it's always as though I saw only apart of him, even of his physical appearance, out of the corner of myeye, as it were, and sometimes----" She hesitated. He did not help herthis time. "As if those others, many others, similar to himself, butinvisible, crowding space about us, were intensely active." Her voicehushed again. "He brings them with him--as now. I feel it, Edward, now.I feel them close." She looked round the empty room, peering throughthe window into the quiet evening sky. Dr. Fillery also turned away.He sighed again. "Have you noticed, too," he went on presently, yethalf as if following his own thoughts, and a trifle incongruously, "thespeed and lightness his very movements convey, and how he goes down thestreet with that curious air of drawing things after him, along withhim, as trains and motors draw the loose leaves and dust----"

  "Whirling," her quick whisper startled him a little, as she turnedabruptly from the window and gazed straight at him. He smiled,instantly recovering himself. "A good word, yes--whirling--but in theplural. As though there were vortices about him."

  It was her turn to smile. "That might one day carry him away," sheexclaimed. They smiled together then, they even laughed, but somewherein their laughter, like the lengthening shadows of the spring dayoutside, lay an incommunicable sadness neither of them could whollyunderstand.

  "Yet the craving for beauty," she said suddenly, "that he leaves behindin me"--her voice wavered--"an intolerable yearning that nothing cansatisfy--nothing--here. An infinite desire, it seems, for--for----"

  Dr. Fillery took her hand again gently, looking down steadily intothe clear eyes that sought his own, and the light glistening in theirmoisture was similar, he fancied for a moment, to the fire in anotherpair of shining eyes that never failed to stir the unearthly dreams inhim.

  "It lies beyond any words of ours," he said softly. "Don't struggleto express it, Iraida. To the flower, the star, we are wise to leavetheir own expression in their own particular field, for we cannotbetter it."

  A sound of rising wind, distant yet ominous, went past the window,as for a moment then the girl came closer till she was almost in hisarms, and though he did not accept her, equally he did not shrink fromthe idea of acceptance--for the first time since they had known oneanother. There was a smell of flowers; almost in that wailing wind hewas aware of music.

  "Together," he heard her whisper, while a faint shiver--was it ofjoy or terror?--ran through her nerves. "All of us--when the timecomes--together." She made an abrupt movement. "Just as we are togethernow! Listen!" she exclaimed.

  "We call it wind," she whispered. "But of course--really--it'sbehind--beyond--inside--isn't it?"

  Dr. Fillery, holding her closely, made no answer. Then he laughed,let go her hands, and said in his natural tone again, breaking anundesirable spell intentionally, though with a strong effort: "We arein space and time, remember. Iraida. Let us obey them happily untilanother certain and practical thing is shown us."

  The faint sound that had been rising about them in the air died downagain.

  They looked into each other's eyes, then drew apart, though with amovement so slight it was scarcely perceptible. It was Nayan and Dr.Fillery once more, but not before the former had apparently picked outthe very thought that had lain, though unexpressed, in the latter'sdeepest mind--its sudden rising the cause of his deliberate change ofattitude. For she had phrased it, given expression to it, though froman angle very different to his own. And her own word, "escape," usedearlier in the conversation, had deliberately linked on with it, as ofintentional purpose.

  "He must go back. The time is coming when he must go back. We are notready for him here--not yet."

  Somewhat in this fashion, though without any actual words, had theidea appeared in letters of fire that leaped and flickered througha mist of anguish, of loss, of loneliness, rising out of the depthswithin him. He knew whence they came, he divined their origin at once,and the sound, though faint and distant at first, confirmed him.Swiftly behind them, moreover, born of no discoverable antecedents, itseemed, rose simultaneously the phrase that Father Collins loved: "ABeing in his own place is the ruler of his fate." Father Collins, forall his faults and strangeness, was a personality, a consciousness,that might prove of value. His extraordinarily swift receptiveness,his undoubted telepathic powers, his fluid, sensitive, proteancomprehension of possibilities outside the human walls, above theearthly ceiling, so to speak.... Value suddenly attached itself toFather Collins, as though the name had been dropped purposely into hismind by someone. He was surprised to find this thought in him. It wasnot for the first time, however, Dr. Fillery remembered.

  * * * * *

  In Nayan's father, again, an artist, though not a particularlysubtle one perhaps, lay a deep admiration, almost a love, he couldnot explain. "There's something about him in a sense immeasurable,something not only untamed but untamable," he phrased it. "Hisgentleness conceals it as a summer's day conceals a thunderstorm. Tome it's almost like an incarnation of the primal forces at work in thehearts of my own people"--he grew sad--"and as dangerous probably."He was speaking to his daughter, who repeated the words later to Dr.Fillery. The study of Fire in the elemental group had failed. "He'stoo big, too vast, too formless, to get into any shape or outline _my_tools can manage, even by suggestion. He dominates the others--Earth,Air, Water--and dwarfs them."

  "But fire ought to," she put in. "It's the most powerful and splendid,the most terrific of them all. Isn't it? It regenerates. It purifies. Ilove fire----"

  Her father smiled in his beard, noticing the softness in her manner,rather than in her voice. The awakening in her he had long sinceunderstood sympathetically, if more profoundly than she knew, andwelcomed.

  "He won't hurt you, child. He won't harm Nayushka any more than asummer's day can hurt her. I see him thus sometimes," he mumbled onhalf to himself, though she heard and stored the words in her memory;"as an entire day, a landscape even, I often see him. A stretch ofbeing rather than a point; a rushing stream rather than a singleisolated wave harnessed and confined in definite form--as _we_understand being here," he added curiously. "No, he'll neither harm norhelp you," he went on; "nor any of us for that matter. A dozen nations,a planet, a star he might help or harm"--he laughed aloud suddenly ina startled way at his own language--"but an individual never!" And heabruptly took her in his arms and kissed her, drying her tears with hisown rough handkerchief. "Not even a fire-worshipper," he added withgruff tenderness, "like you!"

  "There's more of divinity in fire than in any other earthly thingwe know," she replied as he held her, "for it takes into itself thesweetest essence of all it touches." She looked up at him with a smile."That's why you can't get it into your marble perhaps." To which herfather made the significant rejoinder: "And because none of us has theleast conception what 'divine' and 'divinity' really mean, though we'realways using the words! It's odd, anyhow," he finished reflectively,"that I can model the fellow better from memory than when he's standingthere before my eyes. At close quarters he confuses me with too manyterrific unanswerable questions."

  To multiply the verdicts and impressions Fillery jotted down isunnecessary. In his own way he collected; in his own way he wrote themdown. About "N. H.," all agreed in their various ways of expressing it,was that vital suggestion of agelessn
ess, of deathlessness, of what mencall eternal youth: the vigorous grace of limbs and movements, thedeep simple joy of confidence and power. None could picture him tired,or even wearing out, yet ever with a faint hint of painful conflict dueto immense potentialities--"a day compressed into a single minute,"as Khilkoff phrased it--straining, but vainly, to express themselvesthrough a limited form that was inadequate to their use. A storm ofpassionate hope and wonder seemed ever ready to tear forth from behindthe calm of the great quiet eyes, those green-blue changing eyes,which none could imagine lightless or unlamping; and about his wholepresentment a surplus of easy, overflowing energy from an inexhaustiblesource pressing its gifts down into him spontaneously, fire and windits messengers; yet that the human machinery using these--mind, body,nerves--was ill adapted to their full expression. To every individualhaving to do with him was given a push, a drive, an impetus thatstimulated that individual's chief characteristic, intensifying it.

  This to imaginative and discerning sight. But even upon ordinary folk,aware only of the surface things that deliberately hit them, was lefta startling impression as of someone waving a strange, unaccustomedbanner that made them halt and stare before passing on--uncomfortably.He had that nameless quality, apart from looks or voice or manner,which arrested attention and drew the eyes of the soul, wonderingly,perhaps uneasily, upon itself. He left a mark. Something defined himfrom all others, leaving him silhouetted in the mind, and those whohad looked into his eyes could not forget that they had done so. Uprose at once the great unanswerable questions that, lying ever atthe back of daily life, the majority find it most comfortable toleave undisturbed--but rose in red ink or italics. He started into anawareness of greater life. And the effect remained, was greatest even,after he had passed on.

  * * * * *

  It was, of course, Father Collins, a frequent caller now at the Home,betraying his vehement interest in long talks with Dr. Fillery and inwhat interviews with "N. H." the latter permitted him--it was thisprotean being whose mind, amid wildest speculations, formed the mostpositive conclusions. The Prometheans, he believed, were not far wrongin their instinctive collective judgment. "N. H." was not a humanbeing; the occupant of that magnificent body was not a human spiritlike the rest of us.

  "Nor is he the only one walking the streets to-day," he affirmedmysteriously. "In shops and theatres, trains and buses, tucked inamong the best families," he laughed, although in earnest, "and evenin suburbia I have come across other human bodies similarly inhabited.What they are and where they come from exactly, we cannot know, buttheir presence among us is indubitable."

  "You mean you recognize them?" inquired Dr. Fillery calmly.

  "One unmistakable sign they possess in common--they are invariablyinarticulate, helpless, lost. The brain, the five senses, the humanorgans--all they have to work through--are useless to express theknowledge and powers natural to them. Electricity might as well try tomanifest itself through a gas-pipe, or music through a stone. One andall, too, possess strange glimmerings of another state where they arehappy and at home, something of the glory a la Wordsworth, a GoldenAge idea almost, a state compared to which humanity seems a tin-potbusiness, yet a state of which no single descriptive terms occur tothem."

  "Of which, however, they can tell us nothing?"

  "Memory, of course, is lost. Their present brain can have no records,can it? Only those of us who have perhaps at some time, in some earlierexistence possibly, shared such a state can have any idea of whatthey're driving at."

  He glanced at Fillery with a significant raising of his bushy eyebrows.

  "There have been no phenomena, I'm glad to say," put in the doctor,aware some comment was due from him, "no physical phenomena, I mean."

  "Nor could there be," pursued the other, delighted. "He has not got theapparatus. With all such beings, their power, rather than perceived, is_felt_. Sex, as with us, they also cannot know, for they are neithermale nor female." He paused, as the other did not help him. "Enigmasthey must always be to us. We may borrow from the East and call them_devas_, or class them among nature spirits of legend and the rest, butwe can, at any rate, welcome them, and perhaps even learn from them."

  "Learn from them?" echoed Fillery sharply.

  "They are essentially _natural_, you see, whereas we are artificial,and becoming more so with every century, though we call itcivilization. If we lived closer to nature we might get better results,I mean. Primitive man, I'm convinced, did get certain results, but hewas a poor instrument. Modern man, in some ways, is a better, finerinstrument to work through, only he is blind to the existence of anybeings but himself. A bridge, however, might be built, I feel. 'N. H.'seems to me in close touch with these curious beings, if"--he loweredhis voice--"he is not actually one of them. The wind and fire he talksabout are, of course, not what _we_ mean. It is heat and rhythm, insome more essential form, he refers to. If 'N. H.' is some sort ofnature spirit, or nature-being, he is of a humble type, concerned withhumble duties in the universe----"

  "There are, you think, then, higher, bigger kinds?" inquired thelistener, his face and manner showing neither approval nor disapproval.

  Father Collins raised his hands and face and shoulders, even hiseyebrows. His spirits rose as well.

  "If they exist at all--and the assumption explains plausibly theamazing intelligence behind all natural phenomena--they includeevery grade, of course, from the insignificant fairies, so called,builders of simple forms, to the immense planetary spirits andvast Intelligences who guide and guard the welfare of the greaterhappenings." His eyes shone, his tone matched in enthusiasm hisgestures. "A stupendous and magnificent hierarchy," he cried, "butall, all under God, of course, who maketh his angels spirits and hisministers a flaming fire. Ah, think of it," he went on, becominglyrical almost as wonder fired him, "think of it now especially in thespring! The vast abundance and insurgence of life pouring up on allsides into forms and bodies, and all led, directed, fashioned by thishost of invisible, yet not unknowable, Intelligences! Think of theprolific architecture, the delicacy, the grandeur, the inspiring beautythat are involved...!"

  "You said just now a bridge might be built," Dr. Fillery interrupted,while the other paused a second for breath.

  Father Collins, nailed down to a positive statement, hesitated andlooked about him. But the hesitation passed at once.

  "It is the question merely," he went on more composedly, "of providingthe apparatus, the means of manifestation, the instrument, the--body.Isn't it? Our evolution and theirs are two separate--different things."

  "I suppose so. No force can express itself without a proper apparatus."

  "Certain of these Intelligences are so immense that only a series ofevents, long centuries, a period of history, as we call it, can providethe means, the body indeed, through which they can express themselves.An entire civilization may be the 'body' used by an archetypal power.Others, again--like 'N. H.' probably--since I notice that it is usuallythe artist, the artistic temperament _he_ affects most--require beautyfor their expression--beauty of form and outline, of sound, of colour."

  He paused for effect, but no comment came.

  "Our response to beauty, our thrill, our lift of delight and wonderbefore any manifestation of beauty--these are due only to ourperception, though usually unrecognized except by artists, of theparticular Intelligence thus trying to express itself----"

  Dr. Fillery suddenly leaned forward, listening with a new expressionon his face. He betrayed, however, no sign of what he thought of hisvoluble visitor. An idea, none the less, had struck him like a flashbetween the eyes of the mind.

  "You mean," he interposed patiently, "that just as your fairies useform and colour to express themselves in nature, we might use beauty ofa mental order to--to----"

  "To build a body of expression, yes, an instrument in a collectivesense, through which 'N. H.' might express whatever of knowledge,wisdom and power he has----"

  "Will you explain yourself a little more
definitely?"

  Father Collins beamed. He continued with an air of intense conviction:

  "The Artist is ever an instrument merely, and for the most part anunconscious one; only the greatest artist is a conscious instrument. Noman is an artist at all until he transcends both nature and himself;that is, until he interprets both nature and himself in the unknownterms of that greater Power whence himself and nature emanate. He isaware of the majestic source, aware that the universe, in bulk and indetail, is an expression of it, itself a limited instrument; but aware,further--and here he proves himself great artist--of the stupendous,lovely, central Power whose message stammers, broken and partial,through the inadequate instruments of ephemeral appearances.

  "He creates, using beauty in form, sound, colour, a better and moreperfect instrument, provides this central Power with a means of fullerexpression.

  "The message no longer stammers, halts, suggests; it flows, it pours,it sings. He has fashioned a vehicle for its passage. His art hascreated a body it can use. He has transcended both nature and himself.The picture, poem, harmony that has become the body for this revelationis alone great art."

  "Exactly," came the patient comment that was asked for.

  "One thing is certain: only human knowledge, expressed in human terms,can come through a human brain. No mind, no intellect, can convey amessage that transcends human experience and reason. Art, however, can.It can supply the vehicle, the body. But, even here, the great artistcannot communicate the secret of his Vision; he cannot talk about it,tell it to others. He can only _show_ the result."

  "Results," interrupted Dr. Fillery in a curious tone; "what results,exactly, would you look for?" There was a burning in his eyes. His skinwas tingling.

  "What else but a widening, deepening, heightening of our presentconsciousness," came the instant reply. "An extension of faculty, ofcourse, making entirely new knowledge available. A group of greatartists, each contributing his special vision, respectively, of form,colour, words, proportion, could together create a 'body' to express aPower transcending the accumulated wisdom of the world. The race couldbe uplifted, taught, redeemed."

  "You have already given some attention to this strange idea?" suggestedhis listener, watching closely the working of the other's face. "Youhave perhaps even experimented---- A ceremonial of some sort, you mean?A performance, a ritual--or what?"

  Father Collins lowered his voice, becoming more earnest, moreimpressive:

  "Beauty, the arts," he whispered, "can alone provide a vehicle forthe expression of those Intelligences which are the cosmic powers.A performance of some sort--possibly--since there must be sound andmovement. A bridge between us, between our evolution and their own,might, I believe, be thus constructed. Art is only great when itprovides a true form for the expression of an eternal cosmic power. Bycombining--we might provide a means for their manifestation----"

  "A body of thought, as it were, through which our 'N. H.' might becomearticulate? Is that your idea?"

  Behind the question lay something new, it seemed, as though, whilelistening to the exposition of an odd mystical conception, his mindhad been busy with a preoccupation, privately but simultaneously, ofhis own. "In what way precisely do you suggest the arts might combineto provide this 'body'?" he asked, a faint tremor noticeable in thelowered voice.

  "That," replied Father Collins promptly, never at a loss, "we shouldhave to think about. Inspiration will come to us--probably through_him_. Ceremonial, of course, has always been an attempt in thisdirection, only it has left the world so long that people no longerknow how to construct a real one. The ceremonials of to-day are ugly,vulgar, false. The words, music, colour, gestures--everything mustcombine in perfect harmony and proportion to be efficacious. It is aforgotten method."

  "And results--how would they come?"

  "The new wisdom and knowledge that result are suddenly there _in_ themembers of the group. The Power has expressed itself. Not through thebrain, of course, but, rather, that the new ideas, having been _acted_out, are suddenly there. There has been an extension of consciousness.A group consciousness has been formed, and----"

  "And there you are!" Dr. Fillery, moving his foot unperceived, hadtouched a bell beneath the table. The foot, however, groped andfumbled, as though unsure of itself.

  "You learn to swim--by swimming, not by talking about it." FatherCollins was prepared to talk on for another hour. "If we can devise themeans--and I feel sure we can--we shall have formed a bridge betweenthe two evolutions----"

  Nurse Robbins entered with apologies. A case upstairs demanded thedoctor's instant attendance. Dr. Devonham was engaged.

  "One thing," insisted Father Collins, as they shook hands and he got upto go, "one thing only you would have to fear." He was very earnest.Evidently the signs of struggle, of fierce conflict in the other'sface he did not notice.

  "And that is?" A hand was on the door.

  "If successful--if we provide this means of expression for him--weprovide also the means of losing him."

  "Death?" He opened the door with rough, unnecessary violence.

  "Escape. He would no longer need the body he now uses. He would_remember_--and be gone. In his place you would have--LeVallon againonly. I'm afraid," he added, "that he already _is_ remembering----!"

  His final words, as Nurse Robbins deftly hastened his departure inthe hall, were a promise to communicate the results of his furtherreflections, and a suggestion that his cottage by the river would be aquiet spot in which to talk the matter over again.

  But Dr. Fillery, having thanked Nurse Robbins for her prompt attendanceto his bell, returned to the room and sat for some time in a strangeconfusion of anxious thoughts. A singular idea took shape in him--thatFather Collins had again robbed his mind of its unspoken content. Thatsensitive receptive nature had first perceived, then given form to thevague, incoherent dreams that lurked in the innermost recesses of hishidden self.

  Yet, if that were so----and if "N. H." already was "remembering"----!

  A wave of shadow crept upon him, darkening his hope, his enthusiasm,his very life. For another part of him knew quite well the value to beattributed to what Father Collins had said.

  Instinctively his mind sought for Devonham. But it did not occur to himat the moment to wonder why this was so.