The Algernon Blackwood Collection

by Algernon Blackwood

  “Thank you, Edward, thank you” she was just behind him, her hands upon his shoulders. “You understand everything in the world!” she added, “and out of it,” but too low for him to hear.

  He came back with an effort, turning towards her. They were standing level now and very close, eyes looking into eyes. He felt her breath upon his face, her perfume rose about him, her lips were moving just in front of him yet, for a second, he did not know who she was. It was as though she had not come with him out of that valley, not come back with him.... An insatiable longing seized him to return and find her, stay with her. The ache of an intolerable yearning was in his heart, yet a sudden flash of understanding that brought a bigger, almost an unearthly joy in its train. At the call of some service, some duty, some help to be rendered to humanity, the three of them together he, “N.H.,” the girl were in temporary exile from their rightful home. The scent of wild flowers rose about him. He suddenly remembered, recognized, and gave a little start. He had left her behind in the valley Iraida; it was Nayan who now stood before him.

  He uttered a dry little laugh. “You startled me, Nayan. I was thinking. I didn’t hear you.” She had just thanked him for something oh, yes because he had left her alone for a moment, giving her time to collect herself after the long cross-examination.

  He took both her hands in his.

  “Our patient then isn’t it?” he asked in a firm voice, looking deep into her luminous eyes. He saw no fire in them now.

  “I’ll do all I can, Edward.”

  She returned the pressure of his hands. His keen insight, operating in spite of himself, had read her clearly.

  It was mother, child and woman he had always known. The three, however, were already in process of disentanglement. For the first time during their long acquaintance, what now stood so close before him was the woman. Yet behind the woman like an enveloping shadow stood the mother too. And behind both, again, stood another wild, gigantic, lovely possibility. Was it, then, the child that he had left playing in the radiant valley?... The child, he knew, was his always, always, even if the woman was another’s.... He laughed softly. These, after all, were but transitory states in human, earthly evolution, concerned with play, with a production of bodies and so forth....

  He had lost himself in her deep eyes. Her gaze lay all over him, over his entire being, like a warm soft covering that blessed and healed. She was so close that it seemed he drew her breath in with his own. She made a movement then, a tiny gesture. He let go the hands his own had held so long. He turned from the window and from her. He was trembling.

  “What came later,” he resumed in his calm, almost in his professional voice, “you probably do not remember?” He went towards his desk. “We need not talk about that. No doubt, in your mind, it all remains a blurred impression —”

  She interrupted, following him across the room. “What happened, Edward,” she said very quietly in her lowest tone, “I know. It was all told to me. But my memory, as you say, is so faint as to be worthless really. What I do remember is this” she tapped her open palm with two fingers slowly, as she spoke the words “light, heat, a smell of flowers and a rushing wind that lifted me into some kind of exhilarating liberty where I felt the intense joy of knowing myself somehow free and greater, oh, far greater than I am now.” Then she suddenly whispered again too low for him to catch “angelic.” A smile, as of glory, rippled across her face.

  His voice, coming quickly, was cool, its tone measured:

  “And you will come to see him the moment I let you know,” he interrupted abruptly. “It may be a few days, it may be a week. The instant it seems wise “ He was entirely practical again.

  She went to the door with him. “I’ll come, of course,” she answered, as he opened the door.

  “I’ll let myself out, Edward please. I know the way. There’s no good being a partner if one doesn’t know the way out “ She laughed.

  “And in, remember!” he called down the little passage after her, as, with a smile and a wave of the hand, she was gone.

  He went back to his desk, drew a piece of paper towards him, and jotted a few notes down in briefest fashion. The expression on his rugged face was enigmatical perhaps, but the sternness at least was clear to read, and it was this, combining with an extraordinary tenderness, that drew out its nobility:

  “Intensification of consciousness, involving increased activity of every centre; hearing, sight, touch and smell, all affected. Slight exteriorization of consciousness also took place. No signs of split or divided personality, but an increase of coherence rather. The central self active aware of greater powers in time and space, hence sense of joy, heat, light, sound, motion. Distinct subliminal up-rush, followed by customary loss of memory later. Her whole being, together with neglected tracts as yet untouched by experience her entire being reached simultaneously. Knew herself for the first time a woman but something more as well. Unearthly complex, visible.

  “Appeal made direct to subconscious self. Unfavourable reactions none. Favourable reactions increased physical and mental strength....”

  He laid down his pencil as with a gesture of impatience at its uselessness, and sat back in the chair, thinking.

  The effect “N.H.” had upon other people was here again confirmed. That, at least, seemed reasonably clear.

  Vitality was increased; heart and mind caught up an extra gear; thought leaped, if extravagantly, towards speculation; emotion deepened, if ecstatically, towards belief. All the normal reactions of the system were speeded up and strengthened. Consciousness was intensified.

  More than this with some it was extended, and subliminal powers were set free. In his own experience this had been the case; the sight, hearing, even a mild degree of divination, had opened in his being. It had, similarly, taken place with Devonham, an unlikely subject, who fought against acknowledging it. Father Collins, too, he suspected he recalled his behaviour and strange language had known also a temporary extension of faculty outside the normal field. He remembered, again, the Customs official, Charing Cross Station, and a dozen other minor instances.... Indications as yet were slight, he realized, but they were valuable.

  Such abnormal experiences, moreover, each one interpreted, respectively, in the terms of his own individual being, of his own temperament, his own personal shibboleths. The law governing unusual experience operated invariably.

  Was not his own particular “vision” easily explained? It might indeed, had it happened earlier, have found a place in his own book of Advanced Psychology. He reflected rapidly: He believed the industrial system lay at the root of Civilization’s crumbling, and that man must return to Nature therefore his yearnings dramatized themselves in personified representations of the beauty of Nature.

  He could trace every detail of his Vision to some intense but unrealized yearning, to some deep hope, desire, dream, as yet unfulfilled. Always these yearnings and wishes unfulfilled!

  Colour, form and sound again he used them one and all in his treatment of special cases, and felt hurt by the ignorant scoffing and denial of his brother doctors. Hence their present dramatization.

  His immense belief, again, in the results upon the Race when once the subliminal powers should have reached the stage where they could be used at will for practical purposes this, in its turn, led him to hope, perhaps to believe, that this strange “Case” might prove to be some fabulous bright messenger who brought glad tidings.... All, all was explicable enough!

  A smile stole over his face; he began to laugh quietly to himself....

  Yes, he could explain all, trace all to something or other in his being, yet he knew that the real explanation... well his cleverest intellectual explanation and analysis were worthless after all. For here lay something utterly beyond his knowledge and experience....

  The note of another searcher recurred to him.

  “Each human being has within himself that restless creative phantasy which is ever engaged in assuaging the harshness of reality
.... Whoever gives himself unsparingly and carefully to self-observation will realize that there dwells within him something which would gladly hide up and cover all that is difficult and questionable in life, and thus procure an easy and free path. Insanity grants the upper hand to this something. When once it is uppermost, reality is more or less quickly driven out.”

  But he knew quite well that although he belonged to what he called the “Unstable,” the “something” which Jung referred to had by no means obtained “the upper hand.” The vista opening to his inner sight led towards a new reality. ... Ah! If he could only persuade Paul Devonham to see what he saw..!

  CHAPTER 22

  ..................

  LADY GLEESON HAD HEARD FROM a Promethean what had transpired in the studio after she had left, and her interest was immensely stimulated. These details she had not known when she had driven her hero home, and had felt so strangely drawn to him that she had kissed him in front of Dr. Fillery as though she caressed a prisoner under the eyes of the warder.

  She made her little plans accordingly. It was some days, however, before they bore fruit. The telephone at last rang. It was Dr. Fillery. The nerves in her quivered with anticipation.

  Devonham, it appeared, had been away, and her “kind letters and presents,” he regretted to find, had remained unanswered and unacknowledged. Mr. LeVallon had been in the country, too, with his colleague, and letters had not been forwarded. Oh, it would “do him good to see people.” It would be delightful if she could spare a moment to looR in. Perhaps for a cup of tea tomorrow? No, tomorrow she was engaged. The next day then. The next day it was. In the morning arrived a brief letter from Mr. Le–Vallon himself: “You will come to tea tomorrow. I thank you. JULIAN LEVALLON.”

  Yet there was something both in Dr. Fillery’s voice, as in this enigmatic letter, that she did not like. She felt puzzled somewhere. The excitement of a novel intrigue with this unusual youth, none the less, was stimulating. She decided to go to tea. She put off a couple of engagements in order to be free.

  A servant let her in. She went upstairs. There was no sign of Dr. Fillery nor, thank heaven, of Devonham either. Tea, she saw, was laid for two in the private sitting-room. LeVallon, seated in an arm-chair by the open window, looked “magnificent and overpowering,” as she called it. He rose at once to greet her. “Thank you,” he said in his great voice. “I am glad to see you.” He said it perfectly, as though it had been taught him. He took her hand. Her ravishing smile, perhaps, he did not notice. His face, at any rate, was grave.

  His height, his broad shoulders, his inexperienced eyes and manner again delighted Lady Gleeson.

  The effect upon her receptive temperament, at any rate, was instantaneous. That he showed no cordiality, did not smile, and that his manner was constrained, meant nothing to her or meant what she wished it to mean. He was somewhat overcome, of course, she reflected, that she was here at all. She began at once. Sitting composedly on the edge of the table, so that her pretty silk stockings were visible to the extent she thought just right, she dangled her slim legs and looked him straight in the eyes. She was full of confidence. Her attitude said plainly: “I’m taking a lot of trouble, but you’re worth it.”

  “Mr. LeVallon,” she purred in a teasing yet determined voice, “why do you ignore me?” There was an air of finality about the words. She meant to know.

  LeVallon met her eyes with a look of puzzled surprise, but did not answer. He stood in front of her. He looked really magnificent, a perfect study of the athlete in repose. He might have been a fine Greek statue.

  “Why,” she repeated, her lip quivering slightly, “do you ignore me? I want the truth,” she added. She was delighted to see how taken aback he was. “You don’t dislike me.” It was not a question.

  Into his eyes stole an expression she could not exactly fathom. She judged, however, that he felt awkward, foolish. Her interest doubtless robbed him of any savoir faire he might possess. This talk face to face was a little too much for any young man, but for a simple country youth it was, of course, more than disconcerting.

  “I’m Lady Gleeson,” she informed him, smiling precisely in the way she knew had troubled so many other men. “Angela,” she added softly. “You’ve had my books and flowers and letters. Yet you continue to ignore me. Why, please?” With a different smile and a pathetic, childish, voice: “Have I offended you somehow? Do I displease you?”

  LeVallon stared at her as though he was not quite certain who she actually was, yet as though he ought to know, and that her words now reminded him. He stared at her with what she called his “awkward and confused” expression, but which Fillery, had he been present, would have recognized as due to his desire to help a pitiful and hungry creature that, in a word, his instinct for service had been a little stirred.

  The scene was certainly curious and unusual.

  LeVallon, with his great strength and dignity, yet something tender, pathetic in his bearing, stood staring at her. Lady Gleeson, brimming with a sense of easy victory, sat on the table-edge, her pretty legs well forward, knowing herself divinely gowned. She had her victim, surely, at a disadvantage. She felt at the same time a faint uneasiness she could not understand. She concealed it, however.

  “I suffer here,” he said suddenly in a quiet tone.

  She gave a start. It was the phrase he had used before. She thrilled. She hitched her skirt a fraction higher.

  “Julian, poor boy,” she said then stared at him. “How innocent you are!” She said it with apparent impulse, though her little frenzied mind was busy calculating. There came a pause. He said nothing. He was, apparently, quite innocent, extraordinarily, exasperatingly innocent.

  In a low voice, smiling shyly, she added as though it cost her a great effort

  “You do not recognize what is yours.”

  “You are sacred!” he replied with startling directness, as though he suddenly understood, yet was stupidly perplexed. “You already have your man.”

  Lady Gleeson gulped down a spasm of laughter. How slow these countrymen could be! Yet she must not shock him. He was suffering, besides. This yokel from the woods and mountains needed a little coaxing. It was natural enough. She must explain and teach, it seemed. Well he was worth the trouble. His beauty was mastering her already. She loved, in particular, his innocence, his shyness, his obvious respect. She almost felt herself a magnanimous woman.

  “My man!” she mentioned. “Oh, he’s finished with me long ago. He’s bored. He has gone elsewhere. I am alone” she added with an impromptu inspiration “and free to choose.”

  “It must be pain and loneliness to you.”

  LeVallon looked, she thought, embarrassed. He was struggling with himself, of course. She left the table and came up close to him. She stood on tiptoe, so that her breath might touch his face. Her eyes shone with fire. Her voice trembled a little. It was very low.

  “I choose you,” she whispered. She cast down her shining eyes. Her lips took on a prim, inviting turn. She knew she was irresistible like that. She stood back a step, as if expecting some tumultuous onslaught. She waited.

  But the onslaught did not come. LeVallon, towering above her, merely stared. His arms hung motionless. There was, indeed, expression in his face, but it was not the expression that she expected, longed for, deemed her due. It puzzled her, as something entirely new.

  “Me!” he repeated, in an even tone. He gazed at her in a peculiar way. Was it appraisement? Was it halting wonder at his marvellous good fortune? Was it that he hesitated, judging her? He seemed, she thought once for an instant, curiously indifferent. Something in his voice startled her.

  The moment’s pause, at any rate, was afflicting. Her spirit burned within her. Only her supreme belief in herself prevented a premature explosion. Yet something troubled her as well. A tremor ran through her. LeVallon, she remembered, was LeVallon.

  His own thought and feeling lay hidden from her blunt perception since she read no signs unless they were painful
ly obvious. But in his mind in his feeling, rather, since he did not think ran evidently the sudden knowledge of what her meaning was. He understood. But also, perhaps he remembered what Fillery had told him.

  For a long time he kept silent, the emotions in him apparently at grips. Was he suddenly going to carry her away as he had done to that “little Russian poseuse”? She watched him. He was intensely busy with what occupied his mind, for though he did not speak, his lips were moving. She watched him, impatience and wonder in her, impatience at his slowness, wonder as to what he would do and say when at last his simple mind had decided. And again the odd touch of fear stole over her. Something warned her. This young man thrilled her, but he certainly was strange. This was, indeed, a new experience. Whatever was he thinking about? What in the world was he going to say? His lips were still moving. There was a light in his face. She imagined the very words, could almost read them, hear them. There! Then she heard them, heard some at any rate distinctly: “You are an animal. Yet you walk up-right....”