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Title: Day and Night Stories

Author: Algernon Blackwood

Release date: June 14, 2014 [eBook #45964]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
        http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
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Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
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DAY AND NIGHT STORIES

  BY
  ALGERNON BLACKWOOD

  Author _of_ "Ten Minute Stories," "Julius Le Vallon,"
  "The Wave," etc.

  [Illustration]

  NEW YORK
  E. P. DUTTON & CO.
  681 FIFTH AVENUE




  COPYRIGHT, 1917,
  BY E. P. DUTTON & CO.

  Printed in the United States of America




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                              PAGE

       I. THE TRYST                       1

      II. THE TOUCH OF PAN               16

     III. THE WINGS OF HORUS             41

      IV. INITIATION                     66

       V. A DESERT EPISODE               94

      VI. THE OTHER WING                112

     VII. THE OCCUPANT OF THE ROOM      134

    VIII. CAIN'S ATONEMENT              145

      IX. AN EGYPTIAN HORNET            154

       X. BY WATER                      162

      XI. H. S. H.                      171

     XII. A BIT OF WOOD                 187

    XIII. A VICTIM OF HIGHER SPACE      192

     XIV. TRANSITION                    216

      XV. THE TRADITION                 223




DAY AND NIGHT STORIES

I

THE TRYST

"_Je suis la première au rendez-vous. Je vous attends._"


As he got out of the train at the little wayside station he remembered
the conversation as if it had been yesterday, instead of fifteen years
ago--and his heart went thumping against his ribs so violently that he
almost heard it. The original thrill came over him again with all its
infinite yearning. He felt it as he had felt it _then_--not with that
tragic lessening the interval had brought to each repetition of its
memory. Here, in the familiar scenery of its birth, he realised with
mingled pain and wonder that the subsequent years had not destroyed,
but only dimmed it. The forgotten rapture flamed back with all the
fierce beauty of its genesis, desire at white heat. And the shock of
the abrupt discovery shattered time. Fifteen years became a negligible
moment; the crowded experiences that had intervened seemed but a dream.
The farewell scene, the conversation on the steamer's deck, were
clear as of the day before. He saw the hand holding her big hat that
fluttered in the wind, saw the flowers on the dress where the long coat
was blown open a moment, recalled the face of a hurrying steward who
had jostled them; he even heard the voices--his own and hers:

"Yes," she said simply; "I promise you. You have my word. I'll wait----"

"Till I come back to find you," he interrupted.

Steadfastly she repeated his actual words, then added: "Here; at
home--that is."

"I'll come to the garden gate as usual," he told her, trying to smile.
"I'll knock. You'll open the gate--as usual--and come out to me."

These words, too, she attempted to repeat, but her voice failed, her
eyes filled suddenly with tears; she looked into his face and nodded.
It was just then that her little hand went up to hold the hat on--he
saw the very gesture still. He remembered that he was vehemently
tempted to tear his ticket up there and then, to go ashore with her,
to stay in England, to brave all opposition--when the siren roared its
third horrible warning ... and the ship put out to sea.

       *       *       *       *       *

Fifteen years, thick with various incident, had passed between them
since that moment. His life had risen, fallen, crashed, then risen
again. He had come back at last, fortune won by a lucky coup--at
thirty-five; had come back to find her, come back, above all, to keep
his word. Once every three months they had exchanged the brief letter
agreed upon: "I am well; I am waiting; I am happy; I am unmarried.
Yours----." For his youthful wisdom had insisted that no "man" had the
right to keep "any woman" too long waiting; and she, thinking that
letter brave and splendid, had insisted likewise that he was free--if
freedom called him. They had laughed over this last phrase in their
agreement. They put five years as the possible limit of separation.
By then he would have won success, and obstinate parents would have
nothing more to say.

But when the five years ended he was "on his uppers" in a western
mining town, and with the end of ten in sight those uppers, though
changed, were little better, apparently, than patched and mended. And
it was just then, too, that the change which had been stealing over
him betrayed itself. He realised it abruptly, a sense of shame and
horror in him. The discovery was made unconsciously--it disclosed
itself. He was reading her letter as a labourer on a Californian fruit
farm: "Funny she doesn't marry--some one else!" he heard himself say.
The words were out before he knew it, and certainly before he could
suppress them. They just slipped out, startling him into the truth;
and he knew instantly that the thought was fathered in him by a hidden
wish.... He was older. He had lived. It was a memory he loved.

Despising himself in a contradictory fashion--both vaguely and
fiercely--he yet held true to his boyhood's promise. He did not
write and offer to release her, as he knew they did in stories. He
persuaded himself that he meant to keep his word. There was this fine,
stupid, selfish obstinacy in his character. In any case, she would
misunderstand and think he wanted to set free--himself. "Besides--I'm
still--awfully fond of her," he asserted. And it was true; only the
love, it seemed, had gone its way. Not that another woman took it; he
kept himself clean, held firm as steel. The love, apparently, just
faded of its own accord; her image dimmed, her letters ceased to
thrill, then ceased to interest him.

Subsequent reflection made him realise other details about himself.
In the interval he had suffered hardships, had learned the uncertainty
of life that depends for its continuance on a little food, but that
food often hard to come by, and had seen so many others go under that
he held it more cheaply than of old. The wandering instinct, too, had
caught him, slowly killing the domestic impulse; he lost his desire for
a settled place of abode, the desire for children of his own, lost the
desire to marry at all. Also--he reminded himself with a smile--he had
lost other things: the expression of youth _she_ was accustomed to and
held always in her thoughts of him, two fingers of one hand, his hair!
He wore glasses, too. The gentlemen-adventurers of life get scarred
in those wild places where he lived. He saw himself a rather battered
specimen well on the way to middle age.

There was confusion in his mind, however, _and_ in his heart: a
struggling complex of emotions that made it difficult to know exactly
what he did feel. The dominant clue concealed itself. Feelings shifted.
A single, clear determinant did not offer. He was an honest fellow.
"I can't quite make it out," he said. "What is it I really feel? And
why?" His motive seemed confused. To keep the flame alight for ten long
buffeting years was no small achievement; better men had succumbed in
half the time. Yet something in him still held fast to the girl as with
a band of steel that _would_ not let her go entirely. Occasionally
there came strong reversions, when he ached with longing, yearning,
hope; when he loved her again; remembered passionately each detail of
the far-off courtship days in the forbidden rectory garden beyond the
small, white garden gate. Or was it merely the image and the memory he
loved "again"? He hardly knew himself. He could not tell. That "again"
puzzled him. It was the wrong word surely.... He still wrote the
promised letter, however; it was so easy; those short sentences could
not betray the dead or dying fires. One day, besides, he would return
and claim her. He meant to keep his word.

And he had kept it. Here he was, this calm September afternoon, within
three miles of the village where he first had kissed her, where the
marvel of first love had come to both; three short miles between him
and the little white garden gate of which at this very moment she was
intently thinking, and behind which some fifty minutes later she would
be standing, waiting for him....

He had purposely left the train at an earlier station; he would walk
over in the dusk, climb the familiar steps, knock at the white gate
in the wall as of old, utter the promised words, "I have come back to
find you," enter, and--keep his word. He had written from Mexico a week
before he sailed; he had made careful, even accurate calculations: "In
the dusk, on the sixteenth of September, I shall come and knock," he
added to the usual sentences. The knowledge of his coming, therefore,
had been in her possession seven days. Just before sailing, moreover,
he had heard from her--though not in answer, naturally. She was well;
she was happy; she was unmarried; she was waiting.

And now, as by some magical process of restoration--possible to deep
hearts only, perhaps, though even by them quite inexplicable--the state
of first love had blazed up again in him. In all its radiant beauty it
lit his heart, burned unextinguished in his soul, set body and mind
on fire. The years had merely veiled it. It burst upon him, captured,
overwhelmed him with the suddenness of a dream. He stepped from the
train. He met it in the face. It took him prisoner. The familiar trees
and hedges, the unchanged countryside, the "field-smells known in
infancy," all these, with something subtly added to them, rolled back
the passion of his youth upon him in a flood. No longer was he bound
upon what he deemed, perhaps, an act of honourable duty; it was love
that drove him, as it drove him fifteen years before. And it drove
him with the accumulated passion of desire long forcibly repressed;
almost as if, out of some fancied notion of fairness to the girl, he
had deliberately, yet still unconsciously, said "No" to it; that _she_
had not faded, but that he had decided, "_I_ must forget her." That
sentence: "Why doesn't she marry--some one else?" had not betrayed
change in himself. It surprised another motive: "It's not fair to--her!"

His mind worked with a curious rapidity, but worked within one circle
only. The stress of sudden emotion was extraordinary. He remembered a
thousand things--yet, chief among them, those occasional reversions
when he had felt he "loved her again." Had he not, after all, deceived
himself? Had she ever really "faded" at all? Had he not felt he ought
to let her fade--release her that way? And the change in himself?--that
sentence on the Californian fruit-farm--what did they mean? Which had
been true, the fading or the love?

The confusion in his mind was hopeless, but, as a matter of fact,
he did not think at all: he only _felt_. The momentum, besides, was
irresistible, and before the shattering onset of the sweet revival he
did not stop to analyse the strange result. He knew certain things, and
cared to know no others: that his heart was leaping, his blood running
with the heat of twenty, that joy recaptured him, that he must see,
hear, touch her, hold her in his arms--and marry her. For the fifteen
years had crumbled to a little thing, and at thirty-five he felt
himself but twenty, rapturously, deliciously in love.

He went quickly, eagerly down the little street to the inn, still
feeling only, not thinking anything. The vehement uprush of the old
emotion made reflection of any kind impossible. He gave no further
thought to those long years "out there," when her name, her letters,
the very image of her in his mind, had found him, if not cold, at
least without keen response. All that was forgotten as though it had
not been. The steadfast thing in him, this strong holding to a promise
which had never wilted, ousted the recollection of fading and decay
that, whatever caused them, certainly _had_ existed. And this steadfast
thing now took command. This enduring quality in his character led
him. It was only towards the end of the hurried tea he first received
the singular impression--vague, indeed, but undeniably persistent--the
strange impression that he was _being_ led.

Yet, though aware of this, he did not pause to argue or reflect.
The emotional displacement in him, of course, had been more than
considerable: there had been upheaval, a change whose abruptness was
even dislocating, fundamental in a sense he could not estimate--shock.
Yet he took no count of anything but the one mastering desire to get to
her as soon as possible, knock at the small, white garden gate, hear
her answering voice, see the low wooden door swing open--take her.
There was joy and glory in his heart, and a yearning sweet delight. At
this very moment she was expecting him. And he--had come.

Behind these positive emotions, however, there lay concealed all
the time others that were of a negative character. Consciously, he
was not aware of them, but they were there; they revealed their
presence in various little ways that puzzled him. He recognised them
absentmindedly, as it were; did not analyse or investigate them.
For, through the confusion upon his faculties, rose also a certain
hint of insecurity that betrayed itself by a slight hesitancy or
miscalculation in one or two unimportant actions. There was a touch
of melancholy, too, a sense of something lost. It lay, perhaps, in
that tinge of sadness which accompanies the twilight of an autumn day,
when a gentler, mournful beauty veils a greater beauty that is past.
Some trick of memory connected it with a scene of early boyhood, when,
meaning to see the sunrise, he overslept, and, by a brief half-hour,
was just--too late. He noted it merely, then passed on; he did not
understand it; he hurried all the more, this hurry the only sign that
it _was_ noted. "I must be quick," flashed up across his strongly
positive emotions.

And, due to this hurry, possibly, were the slight miscalculations
that he made. They were very trivial. He rang for sugar, though the
bowl stood just before his eyes, yet when the girl came in he forgot
completely what he rang for--and inquired instead about the evening
trains to London. And, when the time-table was laid before him, he
examined it without intelligence, then looked up suddenly into the
maid's face with a question about flowers. Were there flowers to be had
in the village anywhere? What kind of flowers? "Oh, a bouquet or a"--he
hesitated, searching for a word that tried to present itself, yet was
not the word _he_ wanted to make use of--"or a wreath--of some sort?"
he finished. He took the very word he did not want to take. In several
things he did and said, this hesitancy and miscalculation betrayed
themselves--such trivial things, yet significant in an elusive way that
he disliked. There was sadness, insecurity somewhere in them. And he
resented them, aware of their existence only because they qualified
his joy. There was a whispered "No" floating somewhere in the dusk.
Almost--he felt disquiet. He hurried, more and more eager to be off
upon his journey--the final part of it.

Moreover, there were other signs of an odd miscalculation--dislocation,
perhaps, properly speaking--in him. Though the inn was familiar from
his boyhood days, kept by the same old couple, too, he volunteered
no information about himself, nor asked a single question about the
village he was bound for. He did not even inquire if the rector--her
father--still were living. And when he left he entirely neglected the
gilt-framed mirror above the mantelpiece of plush, dusty pampas-grass
in waterless vases on either side. It did not matter, apparently,
whether he looked well or ill, tidy or untidy. He forgot that when
his cap was off the absence of thick, accustomed hair must alter him
considerably, forgot also that two fingers were missing from one hand,
the right hand, the hand that she would presently clasp. Nor did it
occur to him that he wore glasses, which must change his expression
and add to the appearance of the years he bore. None of these obvious
and natural things seemed to come into his thoughts at all. He was
in a hurry to be off. He did not think. But, though his mind may not
have noted these slight betrayals with actual sentences, his attitude,
nevertheless, expressed them. This was, it seemed, the _feeling_ in
him: "What could such details matter to her _now_? Why, indeed, should
he give to them a single thought? It was himself she loved and waited
for, not separate items of his external, physical image." As well think
of the fact that she, too, must have altered--outwardly. It never once
occurred to him. Such details were of To-day.... He was only impatient
to come to her quickly, very quickly, instantly, if possible. He
hurried.

There was a flood of boyhood's joy in him. He paid for his tea, giving
a tip that was twice the price of the meal, and set out gaily and
impetuously along the winding lane. Charged to the brim with a sweet
picture of a small, white garden gate, the loved face close behind it,
he went forward at a headlong pace, singing "Nancy Lee" as he used to
sing it fifteen years before.

With action, then, the negative sensations hid themselves, obliterated
by the positive ones that took command. The former, however, merely lay
concealed; they waited. Thus, perhaps, does vital emotion, overlong
restrained, denied, indeed, of its blossoming altogether, take revenge.
Repressed elements in his psychic life asserted themselves, selecting,
as though naturally, a dramatic form.

The dusk fell rapidly, mist rose in floating strips along the meadows
by the stream; the old, familiar details beckoned him forwards, then
drove him from behind as he went swiftly past them. He recognised
others rising through the thickening air beyond; they nodded, peered,
and whispered; sometimes they almost sang. And each added to his inner
happiness; each brought its sweet and precious contribution, and built
it into the reconstructed picture of the earlier, long-forgotten
rapture. It was an enticing and enchanted journey that he made,
something impossibly blissful in it, something, too, that seemed
curiously--inevitable.

For the scenery had not altered all these years, the details of the
country were unchanged, everything he saw was rich with dear and
precious association, increasing the momentum of the tide that carried
him along. Yonder was the stile over whose broken step he had helped
her yesterday, and there the slippery plank across the stream where
she looked above her shoulder to ask for his support; he saw the
very bramble bushes where she scratched her hand, a-blackberrying,
the day before ... and, finally, the weather-stained signpost, "To
the Rectory." It pointed to the path through the dangerous field
where Farmer Sparrow's bull provided such a sweet excuse for holding,
leading--protecting her. From the entire landscape rose a steam of
recent memory, each incident alive, each little detail brimmed with its
cargo of fond association.

He read the rough black lettering on the crooked arm--it was rather
faded, but he knew it too well to miss a single letter--and hurried
forward along the muddy track; he looked about him for a sign of Farmer
Sparrow's bull; he even felt in the misty air for the little hand that
he might take and lead her into safety. The thought of her drew him on
with such irresistible anticipation that it seemed as if the cumulative
drive of vanished and unsated years evoked the tangible phantom almost.
He actually felt it, soft and warm and clinging in his own, that was no
longer incomplete and mutilated.

Yet it was not he who led and guided now, but, more and more, he who
was being led. The hint had first betrayed its presence at the inn;
it now openly declared itself. It had crossed the frontier into a
positive sensation. Its growth, swiftly increasing all this time, had
accomplished itself; he had ignored, somehow, both its genesis and
quick development; the result he plainly recognised. She was expecting
him, indeed, but it was more than expectation; there was calling in
it--she summoned him. Her thought and longing reached him along that
old, invisible track love builds so easily between true, faithful
hearts. All the forces of her being, her very voice, came towards him
through the deepening autumn twilight. He had not noticed the curious
physical restoration in his hand, but he was vividly aware of this more
magical alteration--that _she_ led and guided him, drawing him ever
more swiftly towards the little, white garden gate where she stood at
this very moment, waiting. Her sweet strength compelled him; there was
this new touch of something irresistible about the familiar journey,
where formerly had been delicious yielding only, shy, tentative
advance. He realised it--inevitable.

His footsteps hurried, faster and ever faster; so deep was the
allurement in his blood, he almost ran. He reached the narrow, winding
lane, and raced along it. He knew each bend, each angle of the holly
hedge, each separate incident of ditch and stone. He could have plunged
blindfold down it at top speed. The familiar perfumes rushed at
him--dead leaves and mossy earth and ferns and dock leaves, bringing
the bewildering currents of strong emotion in him all together as in
a rising wave. He saw, then, the crumbling wall, the cedars topping
it with spreading branches, the chimneys of the rectory. On his right
bulked the outline of the old, grey church; the twisted, ancient yews,
the company of gravestones, upright and leaning, dotting the ground
like listening figures. But he looked at none of these. For, on his
left, he already saw the five rough steps of stone that led from the
lane towards a small, white garden gate. That gate at last shone before
him, rising through the misty air. He reached it.

He stopped dead a moment. His heart, it seemed, stopped too, then took
to violent hammering in his brain. There was a roaring in his mind, and
yet a marvellous silence--just behind it. Then the roar of emotion died
away. There was utter stillness. This stillness, silence, was all about
him. The world seemed preternaturally quiet.

But the pause was too brief to measure. For the tide of emotion had
receded only to come on again with redoubled power. He turned, leaped
forward, clambered impetuously up the rough stone steps, and flung
himself, breathless and exhausted, against the trivial barrier that
stood between his eyes and--hers. In his wild, half violent impatience,
however, he stumbled. That roaring, too, confused him. He fell forward,
it seemed, for twilight had merged in darkness, and he misjudged the
steps, the distances he yet knew so well. For a moment, certainly, he
lay at full length upon the uneven ground against the wall; the steps
had tripped him. And then he raised himself and knocked. His right hand
struck upon the small, white garden gate. Upon the two lost fingers he
felt the impact. "I am here," he cried, with a deep sound in his throat
as though utterance was choked and difficult. "I have come back--to
find you."

For a fraction of a second he waited, while the world stood still and
waited with him. But there was no delay. Her answer came at once: "I am
well.... I am happy.... I am waiting."

And the voice was dear and marvellous as of old. Though the words
were strange, reminding him of something dreamed, forgotten, lost,
it seemed, he did not take special note of them. He only wondered
that she did not open instantly that he might see her. Speech could
follow, but sight came surely first! There was this lightning-flash
of disappointment in him. Ah, she was lengthening out the marvellous
moment, as often and often she had done before. It was to tease him
that she made him wait. He knocked again; he pushed against the
unyielding surface. For he noticed that it was unyielding; and there
was a depth in the tender voice that he could not understand.

"Open!" he cried again, but louder than before. "I have come back to
find you!" And as he said it the mist struck cold and thick against his
face.

But her answer froze his blood.

"I cannot open."

And a sudden anguish of despair rose over him; the sound of her voice
was strange; in it was faintness, distance--as well as depth. It seemed
to echo. Something frantic seized him then--the panic sense.

"Open, open! Come out to me!" he tried to shout. His voice failed
oddly; there was no power in it. Something appalling struck him between
the eyes. "For God's sake, open. I'm waiting here! Open, and come out
to me!"

The reply was muffled by distance that already seemed increasing; he
was conscious of freezing cold about him--in his heart.

"I cannot open. You must come in to me. I'm here and--waiting--always."

He knew not exactly then what happened, for the cold grew deeper and
the icy mist was in his throat. No words would come. He rose to his
knees, and from his knees to his feet. He stooped. With all his force
he knocked again; in a blind frenzy of despair he hammered and beat
against the unyielding barrier of the small, white garden gate. He
battered it till the skin of his knuckles was torn and bleeding--the
first two fingers of a hand already mutilated. He remembers the torn
and broken skin, for he noticed in the gloom that stains upon the
gate bore witness to his violence; it was not till afterwards that
he remembered the other fact--that the hand had already suffered
mutilation, long, long years ago. The power of sound was feebly in
him; he called aloud; there was no answer. He tried to scream, but the
scream was muffled in his throat before it issued properly; it was a
nightmare scream. As a last resort he flung himself bodily upon the
unyielding gate, with such precipitate violence, moreover, that his
face struck against its surface.

From the friction, then, along the whole length of his cheek he knew
that the surface was not smooth. Cold and rough that surface was; but
also--it was not of wood. Moreover, there was writing on it he had not
seen before. How he deciphered it in the gloom, he never knew. The
lettering was deeply cut. Perhaps he traced it with his fingers; his
right hand certainly lay stretched upon it. He made out a name, a date,
a broken verse from the Bible, and the words, "died peacefully." The
lettering was sharply cut with edges that were new. For the date was of
a week ago; the broken verse ran, "When the shadows flee away ..." and
the small, white garden gate was unyielding because it was of--stone.

       *       *       *       *       *

At the inn he found himself staring at a table from which the tea
things had not been cleared away. There was a railway time-table in
his hands, and his head was bent forwards over it, trying to decipher
the lettering in the growing twilight. Beside him, still fingering a
shilling, stood the serving-girl; her other hand held a brown tray
with a running dog painted upon its dented surface. It swung to and
fro a little as she spoke, evidently continuing a conversation her
customer had begun. For she was giving information--in the colourless,
disinterested voice such persons use:

"We all went to the funeral, sir, all the country people went. The
grave was her father's--the family grave...." Then, seeing that her
customer was too absorbed in the time-table to listen further, she said
no more but began to pile the tea things on to the tray with noisy
clatter.

Ten minutes later, in the road, he stood hesitating. The signal at
the station just opposite was already down. The autumn mist was rising.
He looked along the winding road that melted away into the distance,
then slowly turned and reached the platform just as the London train
came in. He felt very old--too old to walk six miles....




II

THE TOUCH OF PAN


1

An idiot, Heber understood, was a person in whom intelligence had been
arrested--instinct acted, but not reason. A lunatic, on the other hand,
was some one whose reason had gone awry--the mechanism of the brain
was injured. The lunatic was out of relation with his environment; the
idiot had merely been delayed _en route_.

Be that as it might, he knew at any rate that a lunatic was not to
be listened to, whereas an idiot--well, the one he fell in love with
certainly had the secret of some instinctual knowledge that was not
only joy, but a kind of sheer natural joy. Probably it was that sheer
natural joy of living that reason argues to be untaught, degraded.
In any case--at thirty--he married her instead of the daughter of
a duchess he was engaged to. They lead to-day that happy, natural,
vagabond life called idiotic, unmindful of that world the majority of
reasonable people live only to remember.

Though born into an artificial social clique that made it difficult,
Heber had always loved the simple things. Nature, especially, meant
much to him. He would rather see a woodland misty with bluebells than
all the châteaux on the Loire; the thought of a mountain valley in the
dawn made his feet lonely in the grandest houses. Yet in these very
houses was his home established. Not that he under-estimated worldly
things--their value was too obvious--but that it was another thing he
wanted. Only he did not know precisely _what_ he wanted until this
particular idiot made it plain.

Her case was a mild one, possibly; the title bestowed by implication
rather than by specific mention. Her family did not say that she was
imbecile or half-witted, but that she "was not all there" they probably
did say. Perhaps she saw men as trees walking, perhaps she saw through
a glass darkly. Heber, who had met her once or twice, though never
yet to speak to, did not analyse her degree of sight, for in him,
personally, she woke a secret joy and wonder that almost involved a
touch of awe. The part of her that was not "all there" dwelt in an
"elsewhere" that he longed to know about. He wanted to share it with
her. She seemed aware of certain happy and desirable things that reason
and too much thinking hide.

He just felt this instinctively without analysis. The values they set
upon the prizes of life were similar. Money to her was just stamped
metal, fame a loud noise of sorts, position nothing. Of people she was
aware as a dog or bird might be aware--they were kind or unkind. Her
parents, having collected much metal and achieved position, proceeded
to make a loud noise of sorts with some success; and since she did
not contribute, either by her appearance or her tastes, to their
ambitions, they neglected her and made excuses. They were ashamed of
her existence. Her father in particular justified Nietzsche's shrewd
remark that no one with a loud voice can listen to subtle thoughts.

She was, perhaps, sixteen--for, though she looked it, eighteen or
nineteen was probably more in accord with her birth certificate. Her
mother was content, however, that she should dress the lesser age,
preferring to tell strangers that she was childish, rather than admit
that she was backward.

"You'll never marry at all, child, much less marry as you might," she
said, "if you go about with that rabbit expression on your face. That's
not the way to catch a nice young man of the sort we get down to stay
with us now. Many a chorus-girl with less than you've got has caught
them easily enough. Your sister's done well. Why not do the same?
There's nothing to be shy or frightened about."

"But I'm not shy or frightened, mother. I'm bored. I mean _they_ bore
me."

It made no difference to the girl; she was herself. The bored
expression in the eyes--the rabbit, not-all-there expression--gave
place sometimes to another look. Yet not often, nor with anybody. It
was this other look that stirred the strange joy in the man who fell in
love with her. It is not to be easily described. It was very wonderful.
Whether sixteen or nineteen, she then looked--a thousand.

       *       *       *       *       *

The house-party was of that up-to-date kind prevalent in Heber's
world. Husbands and wives were not asked together. There was a cynical
disregard of the decent (not the stupid) conventions that savoured
of abandon, perhaps of decadence. He only went himself in the hope
of seeing the backward daughter once again. Her millionaire parents
afflicted him, the smart folk tired him. Their peculiar affectation of
a special language, their strange belief that they were of importance,
their treatment of the servants, their calculated self-indulgence, all
jarred upon him more than usual. At bottom he heartily despised the
whole vapid set. He felt uncomfortable and out of place. Though not a
prig, he abhorred the way these folk believed themselves the climax of
fine living. Their open immorality disgusted him, their indiscriminate
love-making was merely rather nasty; he watched the very girl he was at
last to settle down with behaving as the tone of the clique expected
over her final fling--and, bored by the strain of so much "modernity,"
he tried to get away. Tea was long over, the sunset interval invited,
he felt hungry for trees and fields that were not self-conscious--and
he escaped. The flaming June day was turning chill. Dusk hovered over
the ancient house, veiling the pretentious new wing that had been
added. And he came across the idiot girl at the bend of the drive,
where the birch trees shivered in the evening wind. His heart gave a
leap.

She was leaning against one of the dreadful statues--it was a
satyr--that sprinkled the lawn. Her back was to him; she gazed at a
group of broken pine trees in the park beyond. He paused an instant,
then went on quickly, while his mind scurried to recall her name. They
were within easy speaking range.

"Miss Elizabeth!" he cried, yet not too loudly lest she might vanish
as suddenly as she had appeared. She turned at once. Her eyes and lips
were smiling welcome at him without pretence. She showed no surprise.

"You're the first one of the lot who's said it properly," she
exclaimed, as he came up. "Everybody calls me Elizabeth instead of
Elspeth. It's idiotic. They don't even take the trouble to get a name
right."

"It is," he agreed. "Quite idiotic." He did not correct her. Possibly
he had said Elspeth after all--the names were similar. Her perfectly
natural voice was grateful to his ear, and soothing. He looked at
her all over with an open admiration that she noticed and, without
concealment, liked. She was very untidy, the grey stockings on her
vigorous legs were torn, her short skirt was spattered with mud.
Her nut-brown hair, glossy and plentiful, flew loose about neck
and shoulders. In place of the usual belt she had tied a coloured
handkerchief round her waist. She wore no hat. What she had been doing
to get in such a state, while her parents entertained a "distinguished"
party, he did not know, but it was not difficult to guess. Climbing
trees or riding bareback and astride was probably the truth. Yet
her dishevelled state became her well, and the welcome in her face
delighted him. She remembered him, she was glad. He, too, was glad,
and a sense both happy and reckless stirred in his heart. "Like a wild
animal," he said, "you come out in the dusk----"

"To play with my kind," she answered in a flash, throwing him a glance
of invitation that made his blood go dancing.

He leaned against the statue a moment, asking himself why this young
Cinderella of a parvenu family delighted him when all the London
beauties left him cold. There was a lift through his whole being as
he watched her, slim and supple, grace shining through the untidy
modern garb--almost as though she wore no clothes. He thought of a
panther standing upright. Her poise was so alert--one arm upon the
marble ledge, one leg bent across the other, the hip-line showing like
a bird's curved wing. Wild animal or bird, flashed across his mind:
something untamed and natural. Another second, and she might leap
away--or spring into his arms.

It was a deep, stirring sensation in him that produced the mental
picture. "Pure and natural," a voice whispered with it in his heart,
"as surely as _they_ are just the other thing!" And the thrill struck
with unerring aim at the very root of that unrest he had always known
in the state of life to which he was called. She made it natural,
clean, and pure. This girl and himself were somehow kin. The primitive
thing broke loose in him.

In two seconds, while he stood with her beside the vulgar statue,
these thoughts passed through his mind. But he did not at first give
utterance to any of them. He spoke more formally, although laughter,
due to his happiness, lay behind:

"They haven't asked you to the party, then? Or you don't care about it?
Which is it?"

"Both," she said, looking fearlessly into his face. "But I've been here
ten minutes already. Why were you so long?"

This outspoken honesty was hardly what he expected, yet in another
sense he was not surprised. Her eyes were very penetrating, very
innocent, very frank. He felt her as clean and sweet as some young
fawn that asks plainly to be stroked and fondled. He told the truth:
"I couldn't get away before. I had to play about and----" when she
interrupted with impatience:

"_They_ don't really want you," she exclaimed scornfully. "I do."

And, before he could choose one out of the several answers that rushed
into his mind, she nudged him with her foot, holding it out a little so
that he saw the shoelace was unfastened. She nodded her head towards
it, and pulled her skirt up half an inch as he at once stooped down.

"And, anyhow," she went on as he fumbled with the lace, touching her
ankle with his hand, "you're going to marry one of them. I read it in
the paper. It's idiotic. You'll be miserable."

The blood rushed to his head, but whether owing to his stooping or to
something else, he could not say.

"I only came--I only accepted," he said quickly, "because I wanted to
see _you_ again."

"Of course. I made mother ask you."

He did an impulsive thing. Kneeling as he was, he bent his head a
little lower and suddenly kissed the soft grey stocking--then stood
up and looked her in the face. She was laughing happily, no sign of
embarrassment in her anywhere, no trace of outraged modesty. She just
looked very pleased.

"I've tied a knot that won't come undone in a hurry----" he began,
then stopped dead. For as he said it, gazing into her smiling face,
another expression looked forth at him from the two big eyes of
hazel. Something rushed from his heart to meet it. It may have been
that playful kiss, it may have been the way she took it; but, at any
rate, there was a strength in the new emotion that made him unsure of
who he was and of whom he looked at. He forgot the place, the time,
his own identity and hers. The lawn swept from beneath his feet, the
English sunset with it. He forgot his host and hostess, his fellow
guests, even his father's name and his own into the bargain. He was
carried away upon a great tide, the girl always beside him. He left the
shore-line in the distance, already half forgotten, the shore-line of
his education, learning, manners, social point of view--everything to
which his father had most carefully brought him up as the scion of an
old-established English family. This girl had torn up the anchor. Only
the anchor had previously been loosened a little by his own unconscious
and restless efforts....

Where was she taking him to? Upon what island would they land?

"I'm younger than you--a good deal," she broke in upon his rushing
mood. "But that doesn't matter a bit, does it? We're about the same age
really."

With the happy sound of her voice the extraordinary sensation
passed--or, rather, it became normal. But that it had lasted an
appreciable time was proved by the fact that they had left the statue
on the lawn, the house was no longer visible behind them, and they were
walking side by side between the massive rhododendron clumps. They
brought up against a five-barred gate into the park. They leaned upon
the topmost bar, and he felt her shoulder touching his--edging into
it--as they looked across to the grove of pines.

"I feel absurdly young," he said without a sign of affectation, "and
yet I've been looking for you a thousand years and more."

The afterglow lit up her face; it fell on her loose hair and tumbled
blouse, turning them amber red. She looked not only soft and comely,
but extraordinarily beautiful. The strange expression haunted the deep
eyes again, the lips were a little parted, the young breast heaving
slightly, joy and excitement in her whole presentment. And as he
watched her he knew that all he had just felt was due to her close
presence, to her atmosphere, her perfume, her physical warmth and
vigour. It had emanated directly from her being.

"Of course," she said, and laughed so that he felt her breath upon his
face. He bent lower to bring his own on a level, gazing straight into
her eyes that were fixed upon the field beyond. They were clear and
luminous as pools of water, and in their centre, sharp as a photograph,
he saw the reflection of the pine grove, perhaps a hundred yards
away. With detailed accuracy he saw it, empty and motionless in the
glimmering June dusk.

Then something caught his eye. He examined the picture more closely.
He drew slightly nearer. He almost touched her face with his own,
forgetting for a moment whose were the eyes that served him for a
mirror. For, looking intently thus, it seemed to him that there was
a movement, a passing to and fro, a stirring as of figures among the
trees.... Then suddenly the entire picture was obliterated. She had
dropped her lids. He heard her speaking--the warm breath was again upon
his face:

"In the heart of that wood dwell I."

His heart gave another leap--more violent than the first--for the
wonder and beauty of the sentence caught him like a spell. There was
a lilt and rhythm in the words that made it poetry. She laid emphasis
upon the pronoun and the nouns. It seemed the last line of some
delicious runic verse:

"In the _heart_ of the _wood_--dwell _I_...."

And it flashed across him: That living, moving, inhabited pine wood
was her thought. It was thus she saw it. Her nature flung back to a
life she understood, a life that needed, claimed her. The ostentatious
and artificial values that surrounded her, she denied, even as the
distinguished house-party of her ambitious, masquerading family
neglected her. Of course she was unnoticed by them, just as a swallow
or a wild-rose were unnoticed.

He knew her secret then, for she had told it to him. It was his own
secret too. They were akin, as the birds and animals were akin. They
belonged together in some free and open life, natural, wild, untamed.
That unhampered life was flowing about them now, rising, beating with
delicious tumult in her veins and his, yet innocent as the sunlight and
the wind--because it was as freely recognised.

"Elspeth!" he cried, "come, take me with you! We'll go at once.
Come--hurry--before we forget to be happy, or remember to be wise
again----!"

His words stopped half-way towards completion, for a perfume floated
past him, born of the summer dusk, perhaps, yet sweet with a
penetrating magic that made his senses reel with some remembered joy.
No flower, no scented garden bush delivered it. It was the perfume of
young, spendthrift life, sweet with the purity that reason had not yet
stained. The girl moved closer. Gathering her loose hair between her
fingers, she brushed his cheeks and eyes with it, her slim, warm body
pressing against him as she leaned over laughingly.

"In the darkness," she whispered in his ear; "when the moon puts the
house upon the statue!"

And he understood. Her world lay behind the vulgar, staring day. He
turned. He heard the flutter of skirts--just caught the grey stockings,
swift and light, as they flew behind the rhododendron masses. And she
was gone.

He stood a long time, leaning upon that five-barred gate.... It
was the dressing-gong that recalled him at length to what seemed the
present. By the conservatory door, as he went slowly in, he met his
distinguished cousin--who was helping the girl he himself was to marry
to enjoy her "final fling." He looked at his cousin. He realised
suddenly that he was merely vicious. There was no sun and wind, no
flowers--there was depravity only, lust instead of laughter, excitement
in place of happiness. It was calculated, not spontaneous. His mind was
in it. Without joy it was. He was not natural.

"Not a girl in the whole lot fit to look at," he exclaimed with peevish
boredom, excusing himself stupidly for his illicit conduct. "I'm
off in the morning." He shrugged his blue-blooded shoulders. "These
millionaires! Their shooting's all right, but their mixum-gatherum
week-ends--bah!" His gesture completed all he had to say about this one
in particular. He glanced sharply, nastily, at his companion. "_You_
look as if you'd found something!" he added, with a suggestive grin.
"Or have you seen the ghost that was paid for with the house?" And he
guffawed and let his eyeglass drop. "Lady Hermione will be asking for
an explanation--eh?"

"Idiot!" replied Heber, and ran upstairs to dress for dinner.

But the word was wrong, he remembered, as he closed his door. It was
lunatic he had meant to say, yet something more as well. He saw the
smart, modern philanderer somehow as a beast.


2

It was nearly midnight when he went up to bed, after an evening of
intolerable amusement. The abandoned moral attitude, the common
rudeness, the contempt of all others but themselves, the ugly jests,
the horseplay of tasteless minds that passed for gaiety, above all the
shamelessness of the women that behind the cover of fine breeding aped
emancipation, afflicted him to a boredom that touched desperation.

He understood now with a clarity unknown before. As with his cousin,
so with these. They took life, he saw, with a brazen effrontery they
thought was freedom, while yet it was life that they denied. He felt
vampired and degraded; spontaneity went out of him. The fact that
the geography of bedrooms was studied openly seemed an affirmation
of vice that sickened him. Their ways were nauseous merely. He
escaped--unnoticed.

He locked his door, went to the open window, and looked out into the
night--then started. For silver dressed the lawn and park, the shadow
of the building lay dark across the elaborate garden, and the moon, he
noticed, was just high enough to put the house upon the statue. The
chimney-stacks edged the pedestal precisely.

"Odd!" he exclaimed. "Odd that I should come at the very moment----!"
then smiled as he realised how his proposed adventure would be
misinterpreted, its natural innocence and spirit ruined--if he were
seen. "And some one would be sure to see me on a night like this. There
are couples still hanging about in the garden." And he glanced at the
shrubberies and secret paths that seemed to float upon the warm June
air like islands.

He stood for a moment framed in the glare of the electric light, then
turned back into the room; and at that instant a low sound like a
bird-call rose from the lawn below. It was soft and flutey, as though
some one played two notes upon a reed, a piping sound. He had been
seen, and she was waiting for him. Before he knew it, he had made an
answering call, of oddly similar kind, then switched the light out.
Three minutes later, dressed in simpler clothes, with a cap pulled over
his eyes, he reached the back lawn by means of the conservatory and the
billiard-room. He paused a moment to look about him. There was no one,
although the lights were still ablaze. "I am an idiot," he chuckled to
himself. "I'm acting on instinct!" He ran.

The sweet night air bathed him from head to foot; there was strength
and cleansing in it. The lawn shone wet with dew. He could almost smell
the perfume of the stars. The fumes of wine, cigars and artificial
scent were left behind, the atmosphere exhaled by civilisation, by
heavy thoughts, by bodies overdressed, unwisely stimulated--all, all
forgotten. He passed into a world of magical enchantment. The hush of
the open sky came down. In black and white the garden lay, brimmed full
with beauty, shot by the ancient silver of the moon, spangled with the
stars' old-gold. And the night wind rustled in the rhododendron masses
as he flew between them.

In a moment he was beside the statue, engulfed now by the shadow of
the building, and the girl detached herself silently from the blur of
darkness. Two arms were flung about his neck, a shower of soft hair
fell on his cheek with a heady scent of earth and leaves and grass, and
the same instant they were away together at full speed--towards the
pine wood. Their feet were soundless on the soaking grass. They went
so swiftly that they made a whir of following wind that blew her hair
across his eyes.

And the sudden contrast caused a shock that put a blank, perhaps,
upon his mind, so that he lost the standard of remembered things. For
it was no longer merely a particular adventure; it seemed a habit
and a natural joy resumed. It was not new. He knew the momentum of
an accustomed happiness, mislaid, it may be, but certainly familiar.
They sped across the gravel paths that intersected the well-groomed
lawn, they leaped the flower-beds, so laboriously shaped in mockery,
they clambered over the ornamental iron railings, scorning the easier
five-barred gate into the park. The longer grass then shook the dew
in soaking showers against his knees. He stooped, as though in some
foolish effort to turn up something, then realised that his legs, of
course, were bare. _Her_ garment was already high and free, for she,
too, was barelegged like himself. He saw her little ankles, wet and
shining in the moonlight, and flinging himself down, he kissed them
happily, plunging his face into the dripping, perfumed grass. Her
ringing laughter mingled with his own, as she stooped beside him the
same instant; her hair hung in a silver cloud; her eyes gleamed through
its curtain into his; then, suddenly, she soaked her hands in the heavy
dew and passed them over his face with a softness that was like the
touch of some scented southern wind.

"Now you are anointed with the Night," she cried. "No one will know
you. You are forgotten of the world. Kiss me!"

"We'll play for ever and ever," he cried, "the eternal game that was
old when the world was yet young," and lifting her in his arms he
kissed her eyes and lips. There was some natural bliss of song and
dance and laughter in his heart, an elemental bliss that caught them
together as wind and sunlight catch the branches of a tree. She leaped
from the ground to meet his swinging arms. He ran with her, then tossed
her off and caught her neatly as she fell. Evading a second capture,
she danced ahead, holding out one shining arm that he might follow.
Hand in hand they raced on together through the clean summer moonlight.
Yet there remained a smooth softness as of fur against his neck and
shoulders, and he saw then that she wore skins of tawny colour that
clung to her body closely, that he wore them too, and that her skin,
like his own, was of a sweet dusky brown.

Then, pulling her towards him, he stared into her face. She suffered
the close gaze a second, but no longer, for with a burst of sparkling
laughter again she leaped into his arms, and before he shook her free
she had pulled and tweaked the two small horns that hid in the thick
curly hair behind, and just above, the ears.

And that wilful tweaking turned him wild and reckless. That touch ran
down him deep into the mothering earth. He leaped and ran and sang with
a great laughing sound. The wine of eternal youth flushed all his veins
with joy, and the old, old world was young again with every impulse of
natural happiness intensified with the Earth's own foaming tide of life.

From head to foot he tingled with the delight of Spring, prodigal with
creative power. Of course he could fly the bushes and fling wild across
the open! Of course the wind and moonlight fitted close and soft about
him like a skin! Of course he had youth and beauty for playmates, with
dancing, laughter, singing, and a thousand kisses! For he and she were
natural once again. They were free together of those long-forgotten
days when "Pan leaped through the roses in the month of June...!"

With the girl swaying this way and that upon his shoulders, tweaking
his horns with mischief and desire, hanging her flying hair before
his eyes, then bending swiftly over again to lift it, he danced to
join the rest of their companions in the little moonlit grove of pines
beyond....


3

They rose somewhat pointed, perhaps, against the moonlight, those
English pines--more with the shape of cypresses, some might have
thought. A stream gushed down between their roots, there were mossy
ferns, and rough grey boulders with lichen on them. But there was
no dimness, for the silver of the moon sprinkled freely through the
branches like the faint sunlight that it really was, and the air ran
out to meet them with a heady fragrance that was wiser far than wine.

The girl, in an instant, was whirled from her perch on his shoulders
and caught by a dozen arms that bore her into the heart of the jolly,
careless throng. Whisht! Whew! Whir! She was gone, but another, fairer
still, was in her place, with skins as soft and knees that clung as
tightly. Her eyes were liquid amber, grapes hung between her little
breasts, her arms entwined about him, smoother than marble, and as
cool. She had a crystal laugh.

But he flung her off, so that she fell plump among a group of bigger
figures lolling against a twisted root and roaring with a jollity that
boomed like wind through the chorus of a song. They seized her, kissed
her, then sent her flying. They were happier with their glad singing.
They held stone goblets, red and foaming, in their broad-palmed hands.

"The mountains lie behind us!" cried a figure dancing past. "We are
come at last into our valley of delight. Grapes, breasts, and rich red
lips! Ho! Ho! It is time to press them that the juice of life may run!"
He waved a cluster of ferns across the air and vanished amid a cloud of
song and laughter.

"It is ours. Use it!" answered a deep, ringing voice. "The valleys are
our own. No climbing now!" And a wind of echoing cries gave answer from
all sides. "Life! Life! Life! Abundant, flowing over--use it, use it!"

A troop of nymphs rushed forth, escaped from clustering arms and lips
they yet openly desired. He chased them in and out among the waving
branches, while she who had brought him ever followed, and sped past
him and away again. He caught three gleaming soft brown bodies, then
fell beneath them, smothered, bubbling with joyous laughter--next freed
himself and, while they sought to drag him captive again, escaped and
raced with a leap upon a slimmer, sweeter outline that swung up--only
just in time--upon a lower bough, whence she leaned down above him with
hanging net of hair and merry eyes. A few feet beyond his reach, she
laughed and teased him--the one who had brought him in, the one he ever
sought, and who for ever sought him too....

It became a riotous glory of wild children who romped and played with
an impassioned glee beneath the moon. For the world was young and they,
her happy offspring, glowed with the life she poured so freely into
them. All intermingled, the laughing voices rose into a foam of song
that broke against the stars. The difficult mountains had been climbed
and were forgotten. Good! Then, enjoy the luxuriant, fruitful valley
and be glad! And glad they were, brimful with spontaneous energy,
natural as birds and animals that obeyed the big, deep rhythm of a
simpler age--natural as wind and innocent as sunshine.

Yet, for all the untamed riot, there was a lift of beauty pulsing
underneath. Even when the wildest abandon approached the heat of orgy,
when the recklessness appeared excess--there hid that marvellous touch
of loveliness which makes the natural sacred. There was coherence,
purpose, the fulfilling of an exquisite law: there was worship. The
form it took, haply, was strange as well as riotous, yet in its
strangeness dreamed innocence and purity, and in its very riot flamed
that spirit which is divine.

For he found himself at length beside her once again; breathless and
panting, her sweet brown limbs aglow from the excitement of escape
denied; eyes shining like a blaze of stars, and pulses beating with
tumultuous life--helpless and yielding against the strength that pinned
her down between the roots. His eyes put mastery on her own. She looked
up into his face, obedient, happy, soft with love, surrendered with the
same delicious abandon that had swept her for a moment into other arms.
"You caught me in the end," she sighed. "I only played awhile."

"I hold you for ever," he replied, half wondering at the rough power in
his voice.

It was here the hush of worship stole upon her little face, into her
obedient eyes, about her parted lips. She ceased her wilful struggling.

"Listen!" she whispered. "I hear a step upon the glades beyond. The
iris and the lily open; the earth is ready, waiting; we must be ready
too! _He_ is coming!"

He released her and sprang up; the entire company rose too. All stood,
all bowed the head. There was an instant's subtle panic, but it was
the panic of reverent awe that preludes a descent of deity. For a wind
passed through the branches with a sound that is the oldest in the
world and so the youngest. Above it there rose the shrill, faint piping
of a little reed. Only the first, true sounds were audible--wind and
water--the tinkling of the dewdrops as they fell, the murmur of the
trees against the air. This was the piping that they heard. And in the
hush the stars bent down to hear, the riot paused, the orgy passed and
died. The figures waited, kneeling then with one accord. They listened
with--the Earth.

"He comes.... He comes ..." the valley breathed about them.

There was a footfall from far away, treading across a world unruined
and unstained. It fell with the wind and water, sweetening the valley
into life as it approached. Across the rivers and forests it came
gently, tenderly, but swiftly and with a power that knew majesty.

"He comes.... He comes...!" rose with the murmur of the wind and
water from the host of lowered heads.

The footfall came nearer, treading a world grown soft with worship.
It reached the grove. It entered. There was a sense of intolerable
loveliness, of brimming life, of rapture. The thousand faces lifted
like a cloud. They heard the piping close. And so He came.

But He came with blessing. With the stupendous Presence there was joy,
the joy of abundant, natural life, pure as the sunlight and the wind.
He passed among them. There was great movement--as of a forest shaking,
as of deep water falling, as of a cornfield swaying to the wind, yet
gentle as of a harebell shedding its burden of dew that it has held
too long because of love. He passed among them, touching every head.
The great hand swept with tenderness each face, lingered a moment on
each beating heart. There was sweetness, peace, and loveliness; but
above all, there was--life. He sanctioned every natural joy in them and
blessed each passion with his power of creation.... Yet each one saw
him differently: some as a wife or maiden desired with fire, some as
a youth or stalwart husband, others as a figure veiled with stars or
cloaked in luminous mist, hardly attainable; others, again--the fewest
these, not more than two or three--as that mysterious wonder which
tempts the heart away from known familiar sweetness into a wilderness
of undecipherable magic without flesh and blood....

To two, in particular, He came so near that they could feel his breath
of hills and fields upon their eyes. He touched them with both mighty
hands. He stroked the marble breasts, He felt the little hidden horns
... and, as they bent lower so that their lips met together for an
instant, He took her arms and twined them about the curved, brown neck
that she might hold him closer still....

Again a footfall sounded far away upon an unruined world ... and He was
gone--back into the wind and water whence He came. The thousand faces
lifted; all stood up; the hush of worship still among them. There was a
quiet as of the dawn. The piping floated over woods and fields, fading
into silence. All looked at one another.... And then once more the
laughter and the play broke loose.


4

"We'll go," she cried, "and peep upon that other world where life
hangs like a prison on their eyes!" And, in a moment, they were across
the soaking grass, the lawn and flower-beds, and close to the walls
of the heavy mansion. He peered in through a window, lifting her up
to peer in with him. He recognised the world to which outwardly he
belonged; he understood; a little gasp escaped him; and a slight shiver
ran down the girl's body into his own. She turned her eyes away. "See,"
she murmured in his ear, "it's ugly, it's not natural. They feel guilty
and ashamed. There is no innocence!" She saw the men; it was the women
that he saw chiefly.

Lolling ungracefully, with a kind of boldness that asserted
independence, the women smoked their cigarettes with an air of
invitation they sought to conceal and yet showed plainly. He saw
his familiar world in nakedness. Their backs were bare, for all the
elaborate clothes they wore; they hung their breasts uncleanly; in
their eyes shone light that had never known the open sun. Hoping they
were alluring and desirable, they feigned a guilty ignorance of that
hope. They all pretended. Instead of wind and dew upon their hair, he
saw flowers grown artificially to ape wild beauty, tresses without
lustre borrowed from the slums of city factories. He watched them
manoeuvring with the men; heard dark sentences; caught gestures half
delivered whose meaning should just convey that glimpse of guilt they
deemed to increase pleasure. The women were calculating, but nowhere
glad; the men experienced, but nowhere joyous. Pretended innocence lay
cloaked with a veil of something that whispered secretly, clandestine,
ashamed, yet with a brazen air that laid mockery instead of sunshine in
their smiles. Vice masqueraded in the ugly shape of pleasure; beauty
was degraded into calculated tricks. They were not natural. They knew
not joy.

"The forward ones, the civilised!" she laughed in his ear, tweaking his
horns with energy. "_We_ are the backward!"

"Unclean," he muttered, recalling a catchword of the world he gazed
upon.

They were the civilised! They were refined and educated--advanced.
Generations of careful breeding, mate cautiously selecting mate,
laid the polish of caste upon their hands and faces where gleamed
ridiculous, untaught jewels--rings, bracelets, necklaces hanging
absurdly from every possible angle.

"But--they are dressed up--for fun," he exclaimed, more to himself than
to the girl in skins who clung to his shoulders with her naked arms.

"_Un_dressed!" she answered, putting her brown hand in play across his
eyes. "Only they have forgotten even that!" And another shiver passed
through her into him. He turned and hid his face against the soft skins
that touched his cheek. He kissed her body. Seizing his horns, she
pressed him to her, laughing happily.

"Look!" she whispered, raising her head again; "they're coming out."
And he saw that two of them, a man and a girl, with an interchange
of secret glances, had stolen from the room and were already by the
door of the conservatory that led into the garden. It was his wife to
be--and his distinguished cousin.

"Oh, Pan!" she cried in mischief. The girl sprang from his arms and
pointed. "We will follow them. We will put natural life into their
little veins!"

"Or panic terror," he answered, catching the yellow panther skin and
following her swiftly round the building. He kept in the shadow, though
she ran full into the blaze of moonlight. "But they can't see us,"
she called, looking over her shoulder a moment. "They can only feel
our presence, perhaps." And, as she danced across the lawn, it seemed
a moonbeam slipped from a sapling birch tree that the wind curved
earthwards, then tossed back against the sky.

Keeping just ahead, they led the pair, by methods known instinctively
to elemental blood yet not translatable--led them towards the little
grove of waiting pines. The night wind murmured in the branches; a bird
woke into a sudden burst of song. These sounds were plainly audible.
But four little pointed ears caught other, wilder notes behind the wind
and music of the bird--the cries and ringing laughter, the leaping
footsteps and the happy singing of their merry kin within the wood.

And the throng paused then amid the revels to watch the "civilised"
draw near. They presently reached the trees, halted, looked about them,
hesitated a moment--then, with a hurried movement as of shame and fear
lest they be caught, entered the zone of shadow.

"Let's go in here," said the man, without music in his voice. "It's dry
on the pine needles, and we can't be seen." He led the way; she picked
up her skirts and followed over the strip of long wet grass. "Here's a
log all ready for us," he added, sat down, and drew her into his arms
with a sigh of satisfaction. "Sit on my knee; it's warmer for your
pretty figure." He chuckled; evidently they were on familiar terms,
for though she hesitated, pretending to be coy, there was no real
resistance in her, and she allowed the ungraceful roughness. "But are
we _quite_ safe? Are you sure?" she asked between his kisses.

"What does it matter, even if we're not?" he replied, establishing her
more securely on his knees. "But, as a matter of fact, we're safer here
than in my own house." He kissed her hungrily. "By Jove, Hermione, but
you're divine," he cried passionately, "divinely beautiful. I love you
with every atom of my being--with my soul."

"Yes, dear, I know--I mean, I know you do, but----"

"But what?" he asked impatiently.

"Those detectives----"

He laughed. Yet it seemed to annoy him. "My wife is a beast, isn't
she?--to have me watched like that," he said quickly.

"They're everywhere," she replied, a sudden hush in her tone. She
looked at the encircling trees a moment, then added bitterly: "I hate
her, simply _hate_ her."

"I love you," he cried, crushing her to him, "that's all that matters
now. Don't let's waste time talking about the rest." She contrived to
shudder, and hid her face against his coat, while he showered kisses on
her neck and hair.

And the solemn pine trees watched them, the silvery moonlight fell on
their faces, the scent of new-mown hay went floating past.

"I love you with my very soul," he repeated with intense conviction.
"I'd do anything, give up anything, bear anything--just to give you a
moment's happiness. I swear it--before God!"

There was a faint sound among the trees behind them, and the girl sat
up, alert. She would have scrambled to her feet, but that he held her
tight.

"What the devil's the matter with you to-night?" he asked in a
different tone, his vexation plainly audible. "You're as nervy as if
_you_ were being watched, instead of me."

She paused before she answered, her finger on her lip. Then she said
slowly, hushing her voice a little:

"Watched! That's exactly what I did feel. I've felt it ever since we
came into the wood."

"Nonsense, Hermione. It's too many cigarettes." He drew her back into
his arms, forcing her head up so that he could kiss her better.

"I suppose it is nonsense," she said, smiling. "It's gone now, anyhow."

He began admiring her hair, her dress, her shoes, her pretty ankles,
while she resisted in a way that proved her practice. "It's not _me_
you love," she pouted, yet drinking in his praise. She listened to his
repeated assurances that he loved her with his "soul" and was prepared
for any sacrifice.

"I feel so safe with you," she murmured, knowing the moves in the game
as well as he did. She looked up guiltily into his face, and he looked
down with a passion that he thought perhaps was joy.

"You'll be married before the summer's out," he said, "and all the
thrill and excitement will be over. Poor Hermione!" She lay back in his
arms, drawing his face down with both hands, and kissing him on the
lips. "You'll have more of him than you can do with--eh? As much as you
care about, anyhow."

"I shall be much more free," she whispered. "Things will be easier. And
I've got to marry some one----"

She broke off with another start. There was a sound again behind them.
The man heard nothing. The blood in his temples pulsed too loudly,
doubtless.

"Well, what is it this time?" he asked sharply.

She was peering into the wood, where the patches of dark shadow and
moonlit spaces made odd, irregular patterns in the air. A low branch
waved slightly in the wind.

"Did you hear that?" she asked nervously.

"Wind," he replied, annoyed that her change of mood disturbed his
pleasure.

"But something moved----"

"Only a branch. We're quite alone, quite safe, I tell you," and
there was a rasping sound in his voice as he said it. "Don't be so
imaginative. I can take care of you."

She sprang up. The moonlight caught her figure, revealing its exquisite
young curves beneath the smother of the costly clothing. Her hair had
dropped a little in the struggle. The man eyed her eagerly, making a
quick, impatient gesture towards her, then stopped abruptly. He saw the
terror in her eyes.

"Oh, hark! What's that?" she whispered in a startled voice. She put her
finger up. "Oh, let's go back. I don't like this wood. I'm frightened."

"Rubbish," he said, and tried to catch her by the waist.

"It's safer in the house--my room--or yours----" She broke off again.
"There it is--don't you hear? It's a footstep!" Her face was whiter
than the moon.

"I tell you it's the wind in the branches," he repeated gruffly. "Oh,
come on, _do_. We were just getting jolly together. There's nothing to
be afraid of. Can't you believe me?" He tried to pull her down upon his
knee again with force. His face wore an unpleasant expression that was
half leer, half grin.

But the girl stood away from him. She continued to peer nervously about
her. She listened.

"You give me the creeps," he exclaimed crossly, clawing at her waist
again with passionate eagerness that now betrayed exasperation. His
disappointment turned him coarse.

The girl made a quick movement of escape, turning so as to look in
every direction. She gave a little scream.

"That _was_ a step. Oh, oh, it's close beside us. I heard it. We're
being watched!" she cried in terror. She darted towards him, then
shrank back. He did not try to touch her this time.

"Moonshine!" he growled. "You've spoilt my--spoilt our chance with your
silly nerves."

But she did not hear him apparently. She stood there shivering as with
sudden cold.

"There! I saw it again. I'm sure of it. Something went past me through
the air."

And the man, still thinking only of his own pleasure frustrated, got
up heavily, something like anger in his eyes. "All right," he said
testily; "if you're going to make a fuss, we'd better go. The house
_is_ safer, possibly, as you say. You know my room. Come along!" Even
that risk he would not take. He loved her with his "soul."

They crept stealthily out of the wood, the girl slightly in front of
him, casting frightened backward glances. Afraid, guilty, ashamed, with
an air as though they had been detected, they stole back towards the
garden and the house, and disappeared from view.

And a wind rose suddenly with a rushing sound, poured through the wood
as though to cleanse it, swept out the artificial scent and trace of
shame, and brought back again the song, the laughter, and the happy
revels. It roared across the park, it shook the windows of the house,
then sank away as quickly as it came. The trees stood motionless again,
guarding their secret in the clean, sweet moonlight that held the world
in dream until the dawn stole up and sunshine took the earth with joy.




III

THE WINGS OF HORUS


Binovitch had the bird in him somewhere: in his features, certainly,
with his piercing eye and hawk-like nose; in his movements, with
his quick way of flitting, hopping, darting; in the way he perched
on the edge of a chair; in the manner he pecked at his food; in his
twittering, high-pitched voice as well; and, above all, in his mind.
He skimmed all subjects and picked their heart out neatly, as a bird
skims lawn or air to snatch its prey. He had the bird's-eye view of
everything. He loved birds and understood them instinctively; could
imitate their whistling notes with astonishing accuracy. Their one
quality he had not was poise and balance. He was a nervous little man;
he was neurasthenic. And he was in Egypt by doctor's orders.

Such imaginative, unnecessary ideas he had! Such uncommon beliefs!

"The old Egyptians," he said laughingly, yet with a touch of solemn
conviction in his manner, "were a great people. Their consciousness was
different from ours. The bird idea, for instance, conveyed a sense of
deity to them--of bird deity, that is: they had sacred birds--hawks,
ibis, and so forth--and worshipped them." And he put his tongue out as
though to say with challenge, "Ha, ha!"

"They also worshipped cats and crocodiles and cows," grinned Palazov.
Binovitch seemed to dart across the table at his adversary. His eyes
flashed; his nose pecked the air. Almost one could imagine the beating
of his angry wings.

"Because everything alive," he half screamed, "was a symbol of some
spiritual power to them. Your mind is as literal as a dictionary and
as incoherent. Pages of ink without connected meaning! Verb always in
the infinitive! If you were an old Egyptian, you--you"--he flashed and
spluttered, his tongue shot out again, his keen eyes blazed--"you might
take all those words and spin them into a great interpretation of life,
a cosmic romance, as they did. Instead, you get the bitter, dead taste
of ink in your mouth, and spit it over us like that"--he made a quick
movement of his whole body as a bird that shakes itself--"in empty
phrases."

Khilkoff ordered another bottle of champagne, while Vera, his sister,
said half nervously, "Let's go for a drive; it's moonlight." There
was enthusiasm at once. Another of the party called the head waiter
and told him to pack food and drink in baskets. It was only eleven
o'clock. They would drive out into the desert, have a meal at two in
the morning, tell stories, sing, and see the dawn.

It was in one of those cosmopolitan hotels in Egypt which attract the
ordinary tourists as well as those who are doing a "cure," and all
these Russians were ill with one thing or another. All were ordered
out for their health, and all were the despair of their doctors. They
were as unmanageable as a bazaar and as incoherent. Excess and bed were
their routine. They lived, but none of them got better. Equally, none
of them got angry. They talked in this strange personal way without a
shred of malice or offence. The English, French, and Germans in the
hotel watched them with remote amazement, referring to them as "that
Russian lot." Their energy was elemental. They never stopped. They
merely disappeared when the pace became too fast, then reappeared again
after a day or two, and resumed their "living" as before. Binovitch,
despite his neurasthenia, was the life of the party. He was also a
special patient of Dr. Plitzinger, the famous psychiatrist, who took
a peculiar interest in his case. It was not surprising. Binovitch was
a man of unusual ability and of genuine, deep culture. But there was
something more about him that stimulated curiosity. There was this
striking originality. He said and did surprising things.

"I could fly if I wanted to," he said once when the airmen came to
astonish the natives with their biplanes over the desert, "but without
all that machinery and noise. It's only a question of believing and
understanding----"

"Show us!" they cried. "Let's see you fly!"

"He's got it! He's off again! One of his impossible moments."

These occasions when Binovitch let himself go always proved wildly
entertaining. He said monstrously incredible things as though he
really did believe them. They loved his madness, for it gave them new
sensations.

"It's only levitation, after all, this flying," he exclaimed, shooting
out his tongue between the words, as his habit was when excited; "and
what is levitation but a power of the air? None of you can hang an
orange in space for a second, with all your scientific knowledge; but
the moon is always levitated perfectly. And the stars. D'you think they
swing on wires? What raised the enormous stones of ancient Egypt? D'you
really believe it was heaped-up sand and ropes and clumsy leverage
and all our weary and laborious mechanical contrivances? Bah! It was
levitation. It was the powers of the air. Believe in those powers,
and gravity becomes a mere nursery trick--true where it is, but true
nowhere else. To know the fourth dimension is to step out of a locked
room and appear instantly on the roof or in another country altogether.
To know the powers of the air, similarly, is to annihilate what you
call weight--and fly."

"Show us, show us!" they cried, roaring with delighted laughter.

"It's a question of belief," he repeated, his tongue appearing and
disappearing like a pointed shadow. "It's in the heart; the power of
the air gets into your whole being. Why should I show you? Why should I
ask my deity to persuade your scoffing little minds by any miracle? For
it is deity, I tell you, and nothing else. I _know_ it. Follow one idea
like that, as I follow my bird idea--follow it with the impetus and
undeviating concentration of a projectile--and you arrive at power. You
know deity--the bird idea of deity, that is. _They_ knew that. The old
Egyptians knew it."

"Oh, show us, show us!" they shouted impatiently, wearied of his
nonsense-talk. "Get up and fly! Levitate yourself, as they did! Become
a star!"

Binovitch turned suddenly very pale, and an odd light shone in his keen
brown eyes. He rose slowly from the edge of the chair where he was
perched. Something about him changed. There was silence instantly.

"I _will_ show you," he said calmly, to their intense amazement; "not
to convince your disbelief, but to prove it to myself. For the powers
of the air are with me here. I believe. And Horus, great falcon-headed
symbol, is my patron god."

The suppressed energy in his voice and manner was indescribable. There
was a sense of lifting, upheaving power about him. He raised his arms;
his face turned upward; he inflated his lungs with a deep, long breath,
and his voice broke into a kind of singing cry, half prayer, half chant:

    "O Horus,
     Bright-eyed deity of wind,
  [1]Feather my soul
     Though earth's thick air,
     To know thy awful swiftness----"

  [1] The Russian is untranslatable. The phrase means, "Give my
      life wings."

He broke off suddenly. He climbed lightly and swiftly upon the nearest
table--it was in a deserted card-room, after a game in which he had
lost more pounds than there are days in the year--and leaped into the
air. He hovered a second, spread his arms and legs in space, appeared
to float a moment, then buckled, rushed down and forward, and dropped
in a heap upon the floor, while every one roared with laughter.

But the laughter died out quickly, for there was something in his wild
performance that was peculiar and unusual. It was uncanny, not quite
natural. His body had seemed, as with Mordkin and Nijinski, literally
to hang upon the air a moment. For a second he gave the distressing
impression of overcoming gravity. There was a touch in it of that faint
horror which appals by its very vagueness. He picked himself up unhurt,
and his face was as grave as a portrait in the academy, but with a new
expression in it that everybody noticed with this strange, half-shocked
amazement. And it was this expression that extinguished the claps of
laughter as wind that takes away the sound of bells. Like many ugly
men, he was an inimitable actor, and his facial repertory was endless
and incredible. But this was neither acting nor clever manipulation
of expressive features. There was something in his curious Russian
physiognomy that made the heart beat slower. And that was why the
laughter died away so suddenly.

"You ought to have flown farther," cried some one. It expressed what
all had felt.

"Icarus didn't drink champagne," another replied, with a laugh; but
nobody laughed with him.

"You went too near to Vera," said Palazov, "and passion melted the
wax." But his face twitched oddly as he said it. There was something he
did not understand, and so heartily disliked.

The strange expression on the features deepened. It was arresting
in a disagreeable, almost in a horrible, way. The talk stopped dead;
all stared; there was a feeling of dismay in everybody's heart,
yet unexplained. Some lowered their eyes, or else looked stupidly
elsewhere; but the women of the party felt a kind of fascination. Vera,
in particular, could not move her sight away. The joking reference to
his passionate admiration for her passed unnoticed. There was a general
and individual sense of shock. And a chorus of whispers rose instantly:

"Look at Binovitch! What's happened to his face?"

"He's changed--he's changing!"

"God! Why he looks like a--bird!"

But no one laughed. Instead, they chose the names of birds--hawk,
eagle, even owl. The figure of a man leaning against the edge of the
door, watching them closely, they did not notice. He had been passing
down the corridor, had looked in unobserved, and then had paused. He
had seen the whole performance. He watched Binovitch narrowly, now with
calm, discerning eyes. It was Dr Plitzinger, the great psychiatrist.

For Binovitch had picked himself up from the floor in a way that was
oddly self-possessed, and precluded the least possibility of the
ludicrous. He looked neither foolish nor abashed. He looked surprised,
but also he looked half angry and half frightened. As some one had
said, he "ought to have flown farther." That was the incredible
impression his acrobatics had produced--incredible, yet somehow actual.
This uncanny idea prevailed, as at a séance where nothing genuine is
expected to happen, and something genuine, after all, does happen.
There was no pretence in this: Binovitch had flown.

And now he stood there, white in the face--with terror and with
anger white. He looked extraordinary, this little, neurasthenic
Russian, but he looked at the same time half terrific. Another thing,
not commonly experienced by men, was in him, breaking out of him,
affecting _directly_ the minds of his companions. His mouth opened;
blood and fury shone in his blazing eyes; his tongue shot out like an
ant-eater's, though even in that the comic had no place. His arms were
spread like flapping wings, and his voice rose dreadfully:

"He failed me, he failed me!" he tried to bellow. "Horus, my
falcon-headed deity, my power of the air, deserted me! Hell take him!
Hell burn his wings and blast his piercing sight! Hell scorch him into
dust for his false prophecies! I curse him--I curse Horus!"

The voice that should have roared across the silent room emitted,
instead, this high-pitched, bird-like scream. The added touch of sound,
the reality it lent, was ghastly. Yet it was marvellously done and
acted. The entire thing was a bit of instantaneous inspiration--his
voice, his words, his gestures, his whole wild appearance. Only--here
was the reality that caused the sense of shock--the expression on
his altered features was genuine. _That_ was not assumed. There was
something new and alien in him, something cold and difficult to human
life, something alert and swift and cruel, of another element than
earth. A strange, rapacious grandeur had leaped upon the struggling
features. The face looked hawk-like.

And he came forward suddenly and sharply toward Vera, whose fixed,
staring eyes had never once ceased watching him with a kind of
anxious and devouring pain in them. She was both drawn and beaten
back. Binovitch advanced on tiptoe. No doubt he still was acting,
still pretending this mad nonsense that he worshipped Horus, the
falcon-headed deity of forgotten days, and that Horus had failed him in
his hour of need; but somehow there was just a hint of too much reality
in the way he moved and looked. The girl, a little creature, with
fluffy golden hair, opened her lips; her cigarette fell to the floor;
she shrank back; she looked for a moment like some smaller, coloured
bird trying to escape from a great pursuing hawk; she screamed.
Binovitch, his arms wide, his bird-like face thrust forward, had
swooped upon her. He leaped. Almost he caught her.

No one could say exactly what happened. Play, become suddenly and
unexpectedly too real, confuses the emotions. The change of key was
swift. From fun to terror is a dislocating jolt upon the mind. Some
one--it was Khilkoff, the brother--upset a chair; everybody spoke at
once; everybody stood up. An unaccountable feeling of disaster was in
the air, as with those drinkers' quarrels that blaze out from nothing,
and end in a pistol-shot and death, no one able to explain clearly how
it came about. It was the silent, watching figure in the doorway who
saved the situation. Before any one had noticed his approach, there he
was among the group, laughing, talking, applauding--between Binovitch
and Vera. He was vigorously patting his patient on the back, and his
voice rose easily above the general clamour. He was a strong, quiet
personality; even in his laughter there was authority. And his laughter
now was the only sound in the room, as though by his mere presence
peace and harmony were restored. Confidence came with him. The noise
subsided; Vera was in her chair again. Khilkoff poured out a glass of
wine for the great man.

"The Czar!" said Plitzinger, sipping his champagne, while all stood
up, delighted with his compliment and tact. "And to your opening
night with the Russian ballet," he added quickly a second toast, "or
to your first performance at the Moscow Théâtre des Arts!" Smiling
significantly, he glanced at Binovitch; he clinked glasses with him.
Their arms were already linked, but it was Palazov who noticed that
the doctor's fingers seemed rather tight upon the creased black coat.
All drank, looking with laughter, yet with a touch of respect, toward
Binovitch, who stood there dwarfed beside the stalwart Austrian, and
suddenly as meek and subdued as any mole. Apparently the abrupt change
of key had taken his mind successfully off something else.

"Of course--'The Fire-Bird,'" exclaimed the little man, mentioning the
famous Russian ballet. "The very thing!" he exclaimed. "For _us_," he
added, looking with devouring eyes at Vera. He was greatly pleased.
He began talking vociferously about dancing and the rationale of
dancing. They told him he was an undiscovered master. He was delighted.
He winked at Vera and touched her glass again with his. "We'll make
our début together," he cried. "We'll begin at Covent Garden, in
London. I'll design the dresses and the posters 'The Hawk and the
Dove!' _Magnifique!_ I in dark grey, and you in blue and gold! Ah,
dancing, you know, is sacred. The little self is lost, absorbed. It is
ecstasy, it is divine. And dancing in air--the passion of the birds
and stars--ah! they are the movements of the gods. You know deity that
way--by living it."

He went on and on. His entire being had shifted with a leap upon this
new subject. The idea of realising divinity by dancing it absorbed
him. The party discussed it with him as though nothing else existed
in the world, all sitting now and talking eagerly together. Vera
took the cigarette he offered her, lighting it from his own; their
fingers touched; he was as harmless and normal as a retired diplomat
in a drawing-room. But it was Plitzinger whose subtle manoeuvring
had accomplished the change so cleverly, and it was Plitzinger who
presently suggested a game of billiards, and led him off, full now of
a fresh enthusiasm for cannons, balls, and pockets, into another room.
They departed arm in arm, laughing and talking together.

Their departure, it seemed, made no great difference at first. Vera's
eyes watched him out of sight, then turned to listen to Baron Minski,
who was describing with gusto how he caught wolves alive for coursing
purposes. The speed and power of the wolf, he said, was impossible to
realise; the force of their awful leap, the strength of their teeth,
which could bite through metal stirrup-fastenings. He showed a scar on
his arm and another on his lip. He was telling truth, and everybody
listened with deep interest. The narrative lasted perhaps ten minutes
or more, when Minski abruptly stopped. He had come to an end; he looked
about him; he saw his glass, and emptied it. There was a general pause.
Another subject did not at once present itself. Sighs were heard;
several fidgeted; fresh cigarettes were lighted. But there was no sign
of boredom, for where one or two Russians are gathered together there
is always life. They produce gaiety and enthusiasm as wind produces
waves. Like great children, they plunge whole-heartedly into whatever
interest presents itself at the moment. There is a kind of uncouth
gambolling in their way of taking life. It seems as if they are always
fighting that deep, underlying, national sadness which creeps into
their very blood.

"Midnight!" then exclaimed Palazov, abruptly, looking at his watch;
and the others fell instantly to talking about that watch, admiring
it and asking questions. For the moment that very ordinary timepiece
became the centre of observation. Palazov mentioned the price. "It
never stops," he said proudly, "not even under water." He looked up at
everybody, challenging admiration. And he told how, at a country house,
he made a bet that he would swim to a certain island in the lake, and
won the bet. He and a girl were the winners, but as it was a horse they
had bet, he got nothing out of it for himself, giving the horse to her.
It was a genuine grievance in him. One felt he could have cried as he
spoke of it. "But the watch went all the time," he said delightedly,
holding the gun-metal object in his hand to show, "and I was twelve
minutes in the water with my clothes on."

Yet this fragmentary talk was nothing but pretence. The sound of
clicking billiard-balls was audible from the room at the end of the
corridor. There was another pause. The pause, however, was intentional.
It was not vacuity of mind or absence of ideas that caused it. There
was another subject, an unfinished subject that each member of the
group was still considering. Only no one cared to begin about it
till at last, unable to resist the strain any longer, Palazov turned
to Khilkoff, who was saying he would take a "whisky-soda," as the
champagne was too sweet, and whispered something beneath his breath;
whereupon Khilkoff, forgetting his drink, glanced at his sister,
shrugged his shoulders, and made a curious grimace. "He's all right
now"--his reply was just audible--"he's with Plitzinger." He cocked his
head sidewise to indicate that the clicking of the billiard-balls still
was going on.

The subject was out: all turned their heads; voices hummed and buzzed;
questions were asked and answered or half answered; eyebrows were
raised, shoulders shrugged, hands spread out expressively. There came
into the atmosphere a feeling of presentiment, of mystery, of things
half understood; primitive, buried instinct stirred a little, the kind
of racial dread of vague emotions that might gain the upper hand if
encouraged. They shrank from looking something in the face, while yet
this unwelcome influence drew closer round them all. They discussed
Binovitch and his astonishing performance. Pretty little Vera listened
with large and troubled eyes, though saying nothing. The Arab waiter
had put out the lights in the corridor, and only a solitary cluster
burned now above their heads, leaving their faces in shadow. In the
distance the clicking of the billiard-balls still continued.

"It was not play; it was real," exclaimed Minski vehemently. "I can
catch wolves," he blurted; "but birds--ugh!--and human birds!" He was
half inarticulate. He had witnessed something he could not understand,
and it had touched instinctive terror in him. "It was the way he
leaped that put the wolf first into my mind, only it was not a wolf at
all." The others agreed and disagreed. "It was play at first, but it
was reality at the end," another whispered; "and it was no animal he
mimicked, but a bird, and a bird of prey at that!"

Vera thrilled. In the Russian woman hides that touch of savagery which
loves to be caught, mastered, swept helplessly away, captured utterly
and deliciously by the one strong enough to do it thoroughly. She left
her chair and sat down beside an older woman in the party, who took
her arm quietly at once. Her little face wore a perplexed expression,
mournful, yet somehow wild. It was clear that Binovitch was not
indifferent to her.

"It's become an _idée fixe_ with him," this older woman said. "The
bird idea lives in his mind. He lives it in his imagination. Ever
since that time at Edfu, when he pretended to worship the great stone
falcons outside the temple--the Horus figures--he's been full of it."
She stopped. The way Binovitch had behaved at Edfu was better left
unmentioned at the moment, perhaps. A slight shiver ran round the
listening group, each one waiting for some one else to focus their
emotion, and so explain it by saying the convincing thing. Only no one
ventured. Then Vera abruptly gave a little jump.

"Hark!" she exclaimed, in a staccato whisper, speaking for the first
time. She sat bolt upright. She was listening. "Hark!" she repeated.
"There it is again, but nearer than before. It's coming closer. I
hear it." She trembled. Her voice, her manner, above all her great
staring eyes, startled everybody. No one spoke for several seconds; all
listened. The clicking of the billiard-balls had ceased. The halls and
corridors lay in darkness, and gloom was over the big hotel. Everybody
was in bed.

"Hear what?" asked the older woman soothingly, yet with a perceptible
quaver in her voice, too. She was aware that the girl's arm shook upon
her own.

"Do you not hear it, too?" the girl whispered.

All listened without speaking. All watched her paling face. Something
wonderful, yet half terrible, seemed in the air about them. There was a
dull murmur, audible, faint, remote, its direction hard to tell. It had
come suddenly from nowhere. They shivered. That strange racial thrill
again passed into the group, unwelcome, unexplained. It was aboriginal;
it belonged to the unconscious primitive mind, half childish, half
terrifying.

"_What_ do you hear?" her brother asked angrily--the irritable anger of
nervous fear.

"When he came at me," she answered very low, "I heard it first. I hear
it now again. Listen! He's coming."

And at that minute, out of the dark mouth of the corridor, emerged two
human figures, Plitzinger and Binovitch. Their game was over: they
were going up to bed. They passed the open door of the card-room.
But Binovitch was being half dragged, half restrained, for he was
apparently attempting to run down the passage with flying, dancing
leaps. He bounded. It was like a huge bird trying to rise for flight,
while his companion kept him down by force upon the earth. As they
entered the strip of light, Plitzinger changed his own position,
placing himself swiftly between his companion and the group in the dark
corner of the room. He hurried Binovitch along as though he sheltered
him from view. They passed into the shadows down the passage. They
disappeared. And every one looked significantly, questioningly, at his
neighbour, though at first saying no word. It seemed that a curious
disturbance of the air had followed them audibly.

Vera was the first to open her lips. "You heard it _then_," she said
breathlessly, her face whiter than the ceiling.

"Damn!" exclaimed her brother furiously. "It was wind against the
outside walls--wind in the desert. The sand is driving."

Vera looked at him. She shrank closer against the side of the older
woman, whose arm was tight about her.

"It was _not_ wind," she whispered simply. She paused. All waited
uneasily for the completion of her sentence. They stared into her face
like peasants who expected a miracle.

"Wings," she whispered. "It was the sound of enormous wings."

       *       *       *       *       *

And at four o'clock in the morning, when they all returned exhausted
from their excursion into the desert, little Binovitch was sleeping
soundly and peacefully in his bed. They passed his door on tiptoe.
But he did not hear them. He was dreaming. His spirit was at Edfu,
experiencing with that ancient deity who was master of all flying life
those strange enjoyments upon which his own troubled human heart was
passionately set. Safe with that mighty falcon whose powers his lips
had scorned a few hours before, his soul, released in vivid dream, went
sweetly flying. It was amazing, it was gorgeous. He skimmed the Nile
at lightning speed. Dashing down headlong from the height of the great
Pyramid, he chased with faultless accuracy a little dove that sought
vainly to hide from his terrific pursuit beneath the palm trees. For
what he loved must worship where he worshipped, and the majesty of
those tremendous effigies had fired his imagination to the creative
point where expression was imperative.

Then suddenly, at the very moment of delicious capture, the dream
turned horrible, becoming awful with the nightmare touch. The sky lost
all its blue and sunshine. Far, far below him the little dove enticed
him into nameless depths, so that he flew faster and faster, yet never
fast enough to overtake it. Behind him came a great thing down the air,
black, hovering, with gigantic wings outstretched. It had terrific
eyes, and the beating of its feathers stole his wind away. It followed
him, crowding space. He was aware of a colossal beak, curved like a
scimitar and pointed wickedly like a tooth of iron. He dropped. He
faltered. He tried to scream.

Through empty space he fell, caught by the neck. The huge spectral
falcon was upon him. The talons were in his heart. And in sleep he
remembered then that he had cursed. He recalled his reckless language.
The curse of the ignorant is meaningless; that of the worshipper is
real. This attack was on his soul. He had invoked it. He realised
next, with a touch of ghastly horror, that the dove he chased was,
after all, the bait that had lured him purposely to destruction, and
awoke with a suffocating terror upon him, and his entire body bathed
in icy perspiration. Outside the open window he heard a sound of wings
retreating with powerful strokes into the surrounding darkness of the
sky.

The nightmare made its impression upon Binovitch's impressionable and
dramatic temperament. It aggravated his tendencies. He related it next
day to Mme. de Drühn, the friend of Vera, telling it with that somewhat
boisterous laughter some minds use to disguise less kind emotions.
But he received no encouragement. The mood of the previous night was
not recoverable; it was already ancient history. Russians never make
the banal mistake of repeating a sensation till it is exhausted;
they hurry on to novelties. Life flashes and rushes with them, never
standing still for exposure before the cameras of their minds. Mme. de
Drühn, however, took the trouble to mention the matter to Plitzinger,
for Plitzinger, like Freud of Vienna, held that dreams revealed
subconscious tendencies which sooner or later must betray themselves in
action.

"Thank you for telling me," he smiled politely, "but I have already
heard it from him." He watched her eyes for a moment, really examining
her soul. "Binovitch, you see," he continued, apparently satisfied with
what he saw, "I regard as that rare phenomenon--a genius without an
outlet. His spirit, intensely creative, finds no adequate expression.
His power of production is enormous and prolific; yet he accomplishes
nothing." He paused an instant. "Binovitch, therefore, is in danger of
poisoning--himself." He looked steadily into her face, as a man who
weighs how much he may confide. "Now," he continued, "_if_ we can find
an outlet for him, a field wherein his bursting imaginative genius
can produce results--above all, _visible_ results"--he shrugged his
shoulders--"the man is saved. Otherwise"--he looked extraordinarily
impressive--"there is bound to be sooner or later----"

"Madness?" she asked very quietly.

"An explosion, let us say," he replied gravely. "For instance, take
this Horus obsession of his, quite wrong archæologically though it is.
_Au fond_ it is megalomania of a most unusual kind. His passionate
interest, his love, his worship of birds, wholesome enough in itself,
finds no satisfying outlet. A man who _really_ loves birds neither
keeps them in cages nor shoots them nor stuffs them. What, then, can he
do? The commonplace bird-lover observes them through glasses, studies
their habits, then writes a book about them. But a man like Binovitch,
overflowing with this intense creative power of mind and imagination,
is not content with that. He wants to know them from within. He wants
to feel what they feel, to live their life. He wants to _become_ them.
You follow me? Not quite. Well, he seeks to be identified with the
object of his sacred, passionate adoration. All genius seeks to know
the thing itself from its own point of view. It desires union. That
tendency, unrecognised by himself, perhaps, and therefore subconscious,
hides in his very soul." He paused a moment. "And the sudden sight
of those majestic figures at Edfu--that crystallisation of his _idée
fixe_ in granite--took hold of this excess in him, so to speak--and is
now focusing it toward some definite act. Binovitch sometimes--feels
himself a bird! You noticed what occurred last night?"

She nodded; a slight shiver passed over her.

"A most curious performance," she murmured; "an exhibition I never want
to see again."

"The most curious part," replied the doctor coolly, "was its truth."

"Its truth!" she exclaimed beneath her breath. She was frightened by
something in his voice and by the uncommon gravity in his eyes. It
seemed to arrest her intelligence. She felt upon the edge of things
beyond her. "You mean that Binovitch did for a moment--hang--in the
air?" The other verb, the right one, she could not bring herself to use.

The great man's face was enigmatical. He talked to her sympathy,
perhaps, rather than to her mind.

"Real genius," he said smilingly, "is as rare as talent, even great
talent, is common. It means that the personality, if only for one
second, becomes everything; becomes the universe; becomes the soul
of the world. It gets the flash. It is identified with the universal
life. Being everything and everywhere, all is possible to it--in that
second of vivid realisation. It can brood with the crystal, grow with
the plant, leap with the animal, fly with the bird: genius unifies
all three. That is the meaning of 'creative.' It is faith. Knowing
it, you can pass through fire and not be burned, walk on water and
not sink, move a mountain, fly. Because you _are_ fire, water, earth,
air. Genius, you see, is madness in the magnificent sense of being
superhuman. Binovitch has it."

He broke off abruptly, seeing he was not understood. Some great
enthusiasm in him he deliberately suppressed.

"The point is," he resumed, speaking more carefully, "that we must try
to lead this passionate constructive genius of the man into some human
channel that will absorb it, and therefore render it harmless."

"He loves Vera," the woman said, bewildered, yet seizing this point
correctly.

"But would he marry her?" asked Plitzinger at once.

"He is already married."

The doctor looked steadily at her a moment, hesitating whether he
should utter all his thought.

"In that case," he said slowly after a pause, "it is better he or she
should leave."

His tone and manner were exceedingly impressive.

"You mean there's danger?" she asked.

"I mean, rather," he replied earnestly, "that this great creative flood
in him, so curiously focused now upon his Horus-falcon-bird idea, may
result in some act of violence----"

"Which would be madness," she said, looking hard at him.

"Which would be disastrous," he corrected her. And then he added
slowly: "Because in the mental moment of immense creation he might
overlook material laws."

       *       *       *       *       *

The costume ball two nights later was a great success. Palazov was
a Bedouin, and Khilkoff an Apache; Mme. de Drühn wore a national
head-dress; Minski looked almost natural as Don Quixote; and the entire
Russian "set" was cleverly, if somewhat extravagantly, dressed. But
Binovitch and Vera were the most successful of all the two hundred
dancers who took part. Another figure, a big man dressed as a Pierrot,
also claimed exceptional attention, for though the costume was
commonplace enough, there was something of dignity in his appearance
that drew the eyes of all upon him. But he wore a mask, and his
identity was not discoverable.

It was Binovitch and Vera, however, who must have won the prize,
if prize there had been, for they not only looked their parts, but
acted them as well. The former in his dark grey feather tunic, and
his falcon mask, complete even to the brown hooked beak and tufted
talons, looked fierce and splendid. The disguise was so admirable,
yet so entirely natural, that it was uncommonly seductive. Vera, in
blue and gold, a charming head-dress of a dove upon her loosened hair,
and a pair of little dove-pale wings fluttering from her shoulders,
her tiny twinkling feet and slender ankles well visible, too, was
equally successful and admired. Her large and timid eyes, her flitting
movements, her light and dainty way of dancing--all added touches that
made the picture perfect.

How Binovitch contrived his dress remained a mystery, for the layers
of wings upon his back were real; the large black kites that haunt
the Nile, soaring in their hundreds over Cairo and the bleak Mokattam
Hills, had furnished them. He had procured them none knew how. They
measured four feet across from tip to tip; they swished and rustled
as he swept along; they were true falcons' wings. He danced with
Nautch-girls and Egyptian princesses and Rumanian Gipsies; he danced
well, with beauty, grace, and lightness. But with Vera he did not dance
at all; with her he simply flew. A kind of passionate abandon was in
him as he skimmed the floor with her in a way that made everybody
turn to watch them. They seemed to leave the ground together. It was
delightful, an amazing sight; but it was peculiar. The strangeness of
it was on many lips. Somehow its queer extravagance communicated itself
to the entire ball-room. They became the centre of observation. There
were whispers.

"There's that extraordinary bird-man! Look! He goes by like a hawk. And
he's always after that dove-girl. How marvellously he does it! It's
rather awful. Who is he? I don't envy _her_."

People stood aside when he rushed past. They got out of his way. He
seemed forever pursuing Vera, even when dancing with another partner.
Word passed from mouth to mouth. A kind of telepathic interest was
established everywhere. It was a shade too real sometimes, something
unduly earnest in the chasing wildness, something unpleasant. There was
even alarm.

"It's rowdy; I'd rather not see it; it's quite disgraceful," was heard.
"_I_ think it's horrible; you can see she's terrified."

And once there was a little scene, trivial enough, yet betraying this
reality that many noticed and disliked. Binovitch came up to claim
a dance, programme clutched in his great tufted claws, and at the
same moment the big Pierrot appeared abruptly round the corner with a
similar claim. Those who saw it assert he had been waiting, and came
on purpose, and that there was something protective and authoritative
in his bearing. The misunderstanding was ordinary enough--both men had
written her name against the dance--but "No. 13, Tango" also included
the supper interval, and neither Hawk nor Pierrot would give way. They
were very obstinate. Both men wanted her. It was awkward.

"The Dove shall decide between us," smiled the Hawk politely, yet his
taloned fingers working nervously. Pierrot, however, more experienced
in the ways of dealing with women, or more bold, said suavely:

"I am ready to abide by her decision"--his voice poorly cloaked this
aggravating authority, as though he had the right to her--"only I
engaged this dance before his Majesty Horus appeared upon the scene at
all, and therefore it is clear that Pierrot has the right of way."

At once, with a masterful air, he took her off. There was no
withstanding him. He meant to have her and he got her. She yielded
meekly. They vanished among the maze of coloured dancers, leaving the
Hawk, disconsolate and vanquished, amid the titters of the onlookers.
His swiftness, as against this steady power, was of no avail.

It was then that the singular phenomenon was witnessed first. Those
who saw it affirm that he changed absolutely into the part he played.
It was dreadful; it was wicked. A frightened whisper ran about the
rooms and corridors:

"An extraordinary thing is in the air!"

Some shrank away, while others flocked to see. There were those who
swore that a curious, rushing sound was audible, the atmosphere visibly
disturbed and shaken; that a shadow fell upon the spot the couple had
vacated; that a cry was heard, a high, wild, searching cry: "Horus!
bright deity of wind," it began, then died away. One man was positive
that the windows had been opened and that something had flown in.
It was the obvious explanation. The thing spread horribly. As in a
fire-panic, there was consternation and excitement. Confusion caught
the feet of all the dancers. The music fumbled and lost time. The
leading pair of tango dancers halted and looked round. It seemed that
everybody pressed back, hiding, shuffling, eager to see, yet more eager
not to be seen, as though something dangerous, hostile, terrible, had
broken loose. In rows against the wall they stood. For a great space
had made itself in the middle of the ball-room, and into this empty
space appeared suddenly the Pierrot and the Dove.

It was like a challenge. A sound of applause, half voices, half
clapping of gloved hands, was heard. The couple danced exquisitely into
the arena. All stared. There was an impression that a set piece had
been prepared, and that this was its beginning. The music again took
heart. Pierrot was strong and dignified, no whit nonplussed by this
abrupt publicity. The Dove, though faltering, was deliciously obedient.
They danced together like a single outline. She was captured utterly.
And to the man who needed her the sight was naturally agonizing--the
protective way the Pierrot held her, the right and strength of it, the
mastery, the complete possession.

"He's got her!" some one breathed too loud, uttering the thought of
all. "Good thing it's not the Hawk!"

And, to the absolute amazement of the throng, this sight was then
apparent. A figure dropped through space. That high, shrill cry again
was heard:

"Feather my soul ... to know thy awful swiftness!"

Its singing loveliness touched the heart, its appealing, passionate
sweetness was marvellous, as from the gallery this figure of a man,
dressed as a strong, dark bird, shot down with splendid grace and ease.
The feathers swept; the swings spread out as sails that take the wind.
Like a hawk that darts with unerring power and aim upon its prey, this
thing of mighty wings rushed down into the empty space where the two
danced. Observed by all, he entered, swooping beautifully, stretching
his wings like any eagle. He dropped. He fixed his point of landing
with consummate skill close beside the astonished dancers. He landed.

It happened with such swiftness it brought the dazzle and blindness
as when lightning strikes. People in different parts of the room saw
different details; a few saw nothing at all after the first startling
shock, closing their eyes, or holding their arms before their faces as
in self-protection. The touch of panic fear caught the entire room. The
nameless thing that all the evening had been vaguely felt was come. It
had suddenly materialised.

For this incredible thing occurred in the full blaze of light upon
the open floor. Binovitch, grown in some sense formidable, opened his
dark, big wings about the girl. The long grey feathers moved, causing
powerful draughts of wind that made a rushing sound. An aspect of the
terrible was about him, like an emanation. The great beaked head was
poised to strike, the tufted claws were raised like fingers that shut
and opened, and the whole presentment of his amazing figure focused in
an attitude of attack that was magnificent and terrible. No one who saw
it doubted. Yet there were those who swore that it was not Binovitch
at all, but that another outline, monstrous and shadowy, towered
above him, draping his lesser proportions with two colossal wings of
darkness. That some touch of strange divinity lay in it may be claimed,
however confused the wild descriptions afterward. For many lowered
their heads and bowed their shoulders. There was terror. There was also
awe. The onlookers swayed as though some power passed over them through
the air.

A sound of wings was certainly in the room.

Then some one screamed; a shriek broke high and clear; and emotion,
ordinary human emotion, unaccustomed to terrific things, swept loose.
The Hawk and Vera flew. Beaten back against the wall as by a stroke
of whirlwind, the Pierrot staggered. He watched them go. Out of the
lighted room they flew, out of the crowded human atmosphere, out of
the heat and artificial light, the walled-in, airless halls that were
a cage. All this they left behind. They seemed things of wind and air,
made free happily of another element. Earth held them not. Toward the
open night they raced with this extraordinary lightness as of birds,
down the long corridor and on to the southern terrace, where great
coloured curtains were hung suspended from the columns. A moment they
were visible. Then the fringe of one huge curtain, lifted by the wind,
showed their dark outline for a second against the starry sky. There
was a cry, a leap. The curtain flapped again and closed. They vanished.
And into the ball-room swept the cold draught of night air from the
desert.

But three figures instantly were close upon their heels. The throng
of half-dazed, half-stupefied onlookers, it seemed, projected them as
though by some explosive force. The general mass held back, but, like
projectiles, these three flung themselves after the fugitives down the
corridor at high speed--the Apache, Don Quixote, and, last of them,
the Pierrot. For Khilkoff, the brother, and Baron Minski, the man who
caught wolves alive, had been for some time keenly on the watch, while
Dr. Plitzinger, reading the symptoms clearly, never far away, had been
faithfully observant of every movement. His mask tossed aside, the
great psychiatrist was now recognised by all. They reached the parapet
just as the curtain flapped back heavily into place; the next second
all three were out of sight behind it. Khilkoff was first, however,
urged forward at frantic speed by the warning words the doctor had
whispered as they ran. Some thirty yards beyond the terrace was the
brink of the crumbling cliff on which the great hotel was built, and
there was a drop of sixty feet to the desert floor below. Only a low
stone wall marked the edge.

Accounts varied. Khilkoff, it seems, arrived in time--in the nick of
time--to seize his sister, virtually hovering on the brink. He heard
the loose stones strike the sand below. There was no struggle, though
it appears she did not thank him for his interference at first. In a
sense she was beside--outside--herself. And he did a characteristic
thing: he not only brought her back into the ball-room, but he
_danced_ her back. It was admirable. Nothing could have calmed the
general excitement better. The pair of them danced in together as
though nothing was amiss. Accustomed to the strenuous practice of his
Cossack regiment, this young cavalry officer's muscles were equal to
the semi-dead weight in his arms. At most the onlookers thought her
tired, perhaps. Confidence was restored--such is the psychology of
a crowd--and in the middle of a thrilling Viennese waltz he easily
smuggled her out of the room, administered brandy, and got her up to
bed. The absence of the Hawk, meanwhile, was hardly noticed; comments
were made and then forgotten; it was Vera in whom the strange, anxious
sympathy had centred. And, with her obvious safety, the moment of
primitive, childish panic passed away. Don Quixote, too, was presently
seen dancing gaily as though nothing untoward had happened; supper
intervened; the incident was over; it had melted into the general
wildness of the evening's irresponsibility. The fact that Pierrot did
not appear again was noticed by no single person.

But Dr. Plitzinger was otherwise engaged, his heart and mind and
soul all deeply exercised. A death-certificate is not always made
out quite so simply as the public thinks. That Binovitch had died of
suffocation in his swift descent through merely sixty feet of air
was not conceivable; yet that his body lay so neatly placed upon the
desert after such a fall was stranger still. It was not crumpled, it
was not torn; no single bone was broken, no muscle wrenched; there was
no bruise. There was no indenture in the sand. The figure lay sidewise
as though in sleep, no sign of violence visible anywhere, the dark
wings folded as a great bird folds them when it creeps away to die in
loneliness. Beneath the Horus mask the face was smiling. It seemed
he had floated into death upon the element he loved. And only Vera
had seen the enormous wings that, hovering invitingly above the dark
abyss, bore him so softly into another world. Plitzinger, that is,
saw them, too, but he said firmly that they belonged to the big black
falcons that haunt the Mokattam Hills and roost upon these ridges,
close beside the hotel, at night. Both he and Vera, however, agreed
on one thing: the high, sharp cry in the air above them, wild and
plaintive, was certainly the black kite's cry--the note of the falcon
that passionately seeks its mate. It was the pause of a second, when
she stood to listen, that made her rescue possible. A moment later and
she, too, would have flown to death with Binovitch.




IV

INITIATION


A few years ago, on a Black Sea steamer heading for the Caucasus, I
fell into conversation with an American. He mentioned that he was on
his way to the Baku oilfields, and I replied that I was going up into
the mountains. He looked at me questioningly a moment. "Your first
trip?" he asked with interest. I said it was. A conversation followed;
it was continued the next day, and renewed the following day, until we
parted company at Batoum. I don't know why he talked so freely to me in
particular. Normally, he was a taciturn, silent man. We had been fellow
travellers from Marseilles, but after Constantinople we had the boat
pretty much to ourselves. What struck me about him was his vehement,
almost passionate, love of natural beauty--in seas and woods and sky,
but above all in mountains. It was like a religion in him. His taciturn
manner hid deep poetic feeling.

And he told me it had not always been so with him. A kind of friendship
sprang up between us. He was a New York business man--buying and
selling exchange between banks--but was English born. He had gone out
thirty years before, and become naturalised. His talk was exceedingly
"American," slangy, and almost Western. He said he had roughed it in
the West for a year or two first. But what he chiefly talked about was
mountains. He said it was in the mountains an unusual experience had
come to him that had opened his eyes to many things, but principally to
the beauty that was now everything to him, and to the--insignificance
of death.

He knew the Caucasus well where I was going. I think that was why he
was interested in me and my journey. "Up there," he said, "you'll feel
things--and maybe find out things you never knew before."

"What kind of things?" I asked.

"Why, for one," he replied with emotion and enthusiasm in his voice,
"that living and dying ain't either of them of much account. That if
you know Beauty, I mean, and Beauty is in your life, you live on in it
and with it for others--even when you're dead."

The conversation that followed is too long to give here, but it led to
his telling me the experience in his own life that had opened his eyes
to the truth of what he said. "Beauty is imperishable," he declared,
"and if you live with it, why, you're imperishable too!"

The story, as he told it verbally in his curious language, remains
vividly in my memory. But he had written it down, too, he said. And he
gave me the written account, with the remark that I was free to hand it
on to others if I "felt that way." He called it "Initiation." It runs
as follows.


1

In my own family this happened, for Arthur was my nephew. And a remote
Alpine valley was the place. It didn't seem to me in the least suitable
for such occurrences, except that it was Catholic, and the "Church," I
understand--at least, scholars who ought to know have told me so--has
subtle Pagan origins incorporated unwittingly in its observations of
certain Saints' Days, as well as in certain ceremonials. All this
kind of thing is Dutch to me, a form of poetry or superstition, for
I am interested chiefly in the buying and selling of exchange, with
an office in New York City, just off Wall Street, and only come to
Europe now occasionally for a holiday. I like to see the dear old musty
cities, and go to the Opera, and take a motor run through Shakespeare's
country or round the Lakes, get in touch again with London and Paris
at the Ritz Hotels--and then back again to the greatest city on earth,
where for years now I've been making a good thing out of it. Repton
and Cambridge, long since forgotten, had their uses. They were all
right enough at the time. But I'm now "on the make," with a good fat
partnership, and have left all that truck behind me.

My half-brother, however--he was my senior and got the cream of the
family wholesale chemical works--has stuck to the trade in the Old
Country, and is making probably as much as I am. He approved my taking
the chance that offered, and is only sore now because his son, Arthur,
is on the stupid side. He agreed that finance suited my temperament far
better than drugs and chemicals, though he warned me that all American
finance was speculative and therefore dangerous. "Arthur is getting
on," he said in his last letter, "and will some day take the director's
place you would be in now had you cared to stay. But he's a plodder,
rather." That meant, I knew, that Arthur was a fool. Business, at any
rate, was not suited to his temperament. Five years ago, when I came
home with a month's holiday to be used in working up connections in
English banking circles, I saw the boy. He was fifteen years of age at
the time, a delicate youth, with an artist's dreams in his big blue
eyes, if my memory goes for anything, but with a tangle of yellow hair
and features of classical beauty that would have made half the young
girls of my New York set in love with him, and a choice of heiresses at
his disposal when he wanted them.

I have a clear recollection of my nephew then. He struck me as
having grit and character, but as being wrongly placed. He had his
grandfather's tastes. He ought to have been, like him, a great scholar,
a poet, an editor of marvellous old writings in new editions. I
couldn't get much out of the boy, except that he "liked the chemical
business fairly," and meant to please his father by "knowing it
thoroughly" so as to qualify later for his directorship. But I have
never forgotten the evening when I caught him in the hall, staring up
at his grandfather's picture, with a kind of light about his face, and
the big blue eyes all rapt and tender (almost as if he had been crying)
and replying, when I asked him what was up: "_That_ was worth living
for. He brought Beauty back into the world!"

"Yes," I said, "I guess that's right enough. He did. But there was no
money in it to speak of."

The boy looked at me and smiled. He twigged somehow or other that deep
down in me, somewhere below the money-making instinct, a poet, but a
dumb poet, lay in hiding. "You know what I mean," he said. "It's in you
too."

The picture was a copy--my father had it made--of the presentation
portrait given to Baliol, and "the grandfather" was celebrated in his
day for the translations he made of Anacreon and Sappho, of Homer, too,
if I remember rightly, as well as for a number of classical studies
and essays that he wrote. A lot of stuff like that he did, and made a
name at it too. His _Lives of the Gods_ went into six editions. They
said--the big critics of his day--that he was "a poet who wrote no
poetry, yet lived it passionately in the spirit of old-world, classical
Beauty," and I know he was a wonderful fellow in his way and made the
dons and schoolmasters all sit up. We're proud of him all right. After
twenty-five years of successful "exchange" in New York City, I confess
I am unable to appreciate all that, feeling more in touch with the
commercial and financial spirit of the age, progress, development and
the rest. But, still, I'm not ashamed of the classical old boy, who
seems to have been a good deal of a Pagan, judging by the records we
have kept. However, Arthur peering up at that picture in the dusk, his
eyes half moist with emotion, and his voice gone positively shaky, is a
thing I never have forgotten. He stimulated my curiosity uncommonly. It
stirred something deep down in me that I hardly cared to acknowledge on
Wall Street--something burning.

And the next time I saw him was in the summer of 1910, when I came
to Europe for a two months' look around--my wife at Newport with the
children--and hearing that he was in Switzerland, learning a bit of
French to help him in the business, I made a point of dropping in upon
him just to see how he was shaping generally and what new kinks his
mind had taken on. There was something in Arthur I never could quite
forget. Whenever his face came into my mind I began to think. A kind of
longing came over me--a desire for Beauty, I guess, it was. It made me
dream.

I found him at an English tutor's--a lively old dog, with a fondness
for the cheap native wines, and a financial interest in the tourist
development of the village. The boys learnt French in the mornings,
possibly, but for the rest of the day were free to amuse themselves
exactly as they pleased and without a trace of supervision--provided
the parents footed the bills without demur.

This suited everybody all round; and as long as the boys came home with
an accent and a vocabulary, all was well. For myself, having learned
in New York to attend strictly to my own business--exchange between
different countries with a profit--I did not deem it necessary to
exchange letters and opinions with my brother--with no chance of profit
anywhere. But I got to know Arthur, and had a queer experience of my
own into the bargain. Oh, there was profit in it for me. I'm drawing
big dividends to this day on the investment.

I put up at the best hotel in the village, a one-horse show, differing
from the other inns only in the prices charged for a lot of cheap
decoration in the dining-room, and went up to surprise my nephew with
a call the first thing after dinner. The tutor's house stood some way
back from the narrow street, among fields where there were more flowers
than grass, and backed by a forest of fine old timber that stretched
up several thousand feet to the snow. The snow at least was visible,
peeping out far overhead just where the dark line of forest stopped;
but in reality, I suppose, that was an effect of foreshortening,
and whole valleys and pastures intervened between the trees and the
snow-fields. The sunset, long since out of the valley, still shone
on those white ridges, where the peaks stuck up like the teeth of a
gigantic saw. I guess it meant five or six hours' good climbing to get
up to them--and nothing to do when you got there. Switzerland, anyway,
seemed a poor country, with its little bit of watch-making, sour wines,
and every square yard hanging upstairs at an angle of 60 degrees used
for hay. Picture postcards, chocolate and cheap tourists kept it going
apparently, but I dare say it was all right enough to learn French
in--and cheap as Hoboken to live in!

Arthur was out; I just left a card and wrote on it that I would be very
pleased if he cared to step down to take luncheon with me at my hotel
next day. Having nothing better to do, I strolled homewards by way of
the forest.

Now what came over me in that bit of dark pine forest is more than I
can quite explain, but I think it must have been due to the height--the
village was 4,000 feet above sea-level--and the effect of the rarefied
air upon my circulation. The nearest thing to it in my experience is
rye whisky, the queer touch of wildness, of self-confidence, a kind
of whooping rapture and the reckless sensation of being a tin god of
sorts that comes from a lot of alcohol--a memory, please understand,
of years before, when I thought it a grand thing to own the earth and
paint the old town red. I seemed to walk on air, and there was a smell
about those trees that made me suddenly--well, that took my mind clean
out of its accustomed rut. It was just too lovely and wonderful for me
to describe it. I had got well into the forest and lost my way a bit.
The smell of an old-world garden wasn't in it. It smelt to me as if
some one had just that minute turned out the earth all fresh and new.
There was moss and tannin, a hint of burning, something between smoke
and incense, say, and a fine clean odour of pitch-pine bark when the
sun gets on it after rain--and a flavour of the sea thrown in for luck.
That was the first I noticed, for I had never smelt anything half so
good since my camping days on the coast of Maine. And I stood still to
enjoy it. I threw away my cigar for fear of mixing things and spoiling
it. "If that could be bottled," I said to myself, "it'd sell for two
dollars a pint in every city in the Union!"

And it was just then, while standing and breathing it in, that I got
the queer feeling of some one watching me. I kept quite still. Some one
was moving near me. The sweat went trickling down my back. A kind of
childhood thrill got hold of me.

It was very dark. I was not afraid exactly, but I was a stranger in
these parts and knew nothing about the habits of the mountain peasants.
There might be tough customers lurking around after dark on the chance
of striking some guy of a tourist with money in his pockets. Yet,
somehow, that wasn't the kind of feeling that came to me at all, for,
though I had a pocket Browning at my hip, the notion of getting at it
did not even occur to me. The sensation was new--a kind of lifting,
exciting sensation that made my heart swell out with exhilaration.
There was happiness in it. A cloud that _weighed_ seemed to roll off my
mind, same as that light-hearted mood when the office door is locked
and I'm off on a two months' holiday--with gaiety and irresponsibility
at the back of it. It was invigorating. I felt youth sweep over me.

I stood there, wondering what on earth was coming on me, and half
expecting that any moment some one would come out of the darkness and
show himself; and as I held my breath and made no movement at all the
queer sensation grew stronger. I believe I even resisted a temptation
to kick up my heels and dance, to let out a flying shout as a man
with liquor in him does. Instead of this, however, I just kept dead
still. The wood was black as ink all round me, too black to see the
tree-trunks separately, except far below where the village lights came
up twinkling between them, and the only way I kept the path was by the
soft feel of the pine-needles that were thicker than a Brussels carpet.
But nothing happened, and no one stirred. The idea that I was being
watched remained, only there was no sound anywhere except the roar of
falling water that filled the entire valley. Yet some one was very
close to me in the darkness.

I can't say how long I might have stood there, but I guess it was the
best part of ten minutes, and I remember it struck me that I had run
up against a pocket of extra-rarefied air that had a lot of oxygen in
it--oxygen or something similar--and that was the cause of my elation.
The idea was nonsense, I have no doubt; but for the moment it half
explained the thing to me. I realised it was all _natural_ enough, at
any rate--and so moved on. It took a longish time to reach the edge
of the wood, and a footpath led me--oh, it was quite a walk, I tell
you--into the village street again. I was both glad and sorry to get
there. I kept myself busy thinking the whole thing over again. What
caught me all of a heap was that million-dollar sense of beauty, youth,
and happiness. Never in my born days had I felt anything to touch it.
And it hadn't cost a cent!

Well, I was sitting there enjoying my smoke and trying to puzzle it
all out, and the hall was pretty full of people smoking and talking
and reading papers, and so forth, when all of a sudden I looked up and
caught my breath with such a jerk that I actually bit my tongue. There
was grandfather in front of my chair! I looked into his eyes. I saw him
as clear and solid as the porter standing behind his desk across the
lounge, and it gave me a touch of cold all down the back that I needn't
forget unless I want to. He was looking into my face, and he had a cap
in his hand, and he was speaking to me. It was my grandfather's picture
come to life, only much thinner and younger and a kind of light in his
eyes like fire.

"I beg your pardon, but you _are_--Uncle Jim, aren't you?"

And then, with another jump of my nerves, I understood.

"You, Arthur! Well, I'm jiggered. So it is. Take a chair, boy. I'm
right glad you found me. Shake! Sit down." And I shook his hand and
pushed a chair up for him. I was never so surprised in my life. The
last time I set eyes on him he was a boy. Now he was a young man, and
the very image of his ancestor.

He sat down, fingering his cap. He wouldn't have a drink and he
wouldn't smoke. "All right," I said, "let's talk then. I've lots to
tell you and I've lots to hear. How are you, boy?"

He didn't answer at first. He eyed me up and down. He hesitated. He was
as handsome as a young Greek god.

"I say, Uncle Jim," he began presently, "it _was_ you--just now--in the
wood--wasn't it?" It made me start, that question put so quietly.

"I _have_ just come through that wood up there," I answered, pointing
in the direction as well as I could remember, "if that's what you mean.
But why? _You_ weren't there, were you?" It gave me a queer sort of
feeling to hear him say it. What in the name of heaven did he mean?

He sat back in his chair with a sigh of relief.

"Oh, that's all right then," he said, "if it _was_ you. Did you see,"
he asked suddenly; "did you see--anything?"

"Not a thing," I told him honestly. "It was far too dark." I laughed.
I fancied I twigged his meaning. But I was not the sort of uncle to
come prying on him. Life must be dull enough, I remembered, in this
mountain village.

But he didn't understand my laugh. He didn't mean what I meant.

And there came a pause between us. I discovered that we were talking
different lingoes. I leaned over towards him.

"Look here, Arthur," I said in a lower voice, "what is it, and what do
you mean? I'm all right, you know, and you needn't be afraid of telling
me. What d'you mean by--did I see anything?"

We looked each other squarely in the eye. He saw he could trust me, and
I saw--well, a whole lot of things, perhaps, but I felt chiefly that he
liked me and would tell me things later, all in his own good time. I
liked him all the better for that too.

"I only meant," he answered slowly, "whether you really
_saw_--anything?"

"No," I said straight, "I didn't see a thing, but, by the gods, I
_felt_ something."

He started. I started too. An astonishing big look came swimming over
his fair, handsome face. His eyes seemed all lit up. He looked as if
he'd just made a cool million in wheat or cotton.

"I knew--you were that sort," he whispered. "Though I hardly remembered
what you looked like."

"Then what on earth was it?" I asked.

His reply staggered me a bit. "It was just that," he said--"the Earth!"

And then, just when things were getting interesting and promising a
dividend, he shut up like a clam. He wouldn't say another word. He
asked after my family and business, my health, what kind of crossing
I'd had, and all the rest of the common stock. It fairly bowled me
over. And I couldn't change him either.

I suppose in America we get pretty free and easy, and don't quite
understand reserve. But this young man of half my age kept me in my
place as easily as I might have kept a nervous customer quiet in my
own office. He just refused to take me on. He was polite and cool and
distant as you please, and when I got pressing sometimes he simply
pretended he didn't understand. I could no more get him back again to
the subject of the wood than a customer could have gotten me to tell
him about the prospects of exchange being cheap or dear--when I didn't
know myself but wouldn't let him see I didn't know. He was charming, he
was delightful, enthusiastic and even affectionate; downright glad to
see me, too, and to chin with me--but I couldn't draw him worth a cent.
And in the end I gave up trying.

And the moment I gave up trying he let down a little--but only a very
little.

"You'll stay here some time, Uncle Jim, won't you?"

"That's my idea," I said, "if I can see you, and you can show me round
some."

He laughed with pleasure. "Oh, rather. I've got lots of time. After
three in the afternoon I'm free till--any time you like. There's a lot
to see," he added.

"Come along to-morrow then," I said. "If you can't take lunch, perhaps
you can come just afterwards. You'll find me waiting for you--right
here."

"I'll come at three," he replied, and we said good-night.


2

He turned up sharp at three, and I liked his punctuality. I saw him
come swinging down the dusty road; tall, deep-chested, his broad
shoulders a trifle high, and his head set proudly. He looked like a
young chap in training, a thoroughbred, every inch of him. At the same
time there was a touch of something a little too refined and delicate
for a man, I thought. That was the poetic, scholarly vein in him, I
guess--grandfather cropping out. This time he wore no cap. His thick
light hair, not brushed back like the London shop-boys, but parted on
the side, yet untidy for all that, suited him exactly and gave him a
touch of wildness.

"Well," he asked, "what would you like to do, Uncle Jim? I'm at your
service, and I've got the whole afternoon till supper at seven-thirty."
I told him I'd like to go through that wood. "All right," he said,
"come along. I'll show you." He gave me one quick glance, but said no
more. "I'd like to see if I feel anything this time," I explained.
"We'll locate the very spot, maybe." He nodded.

"You know where I mean, don't you?" I asked, "because you saw me
there?" He just said yes, and then we started.

It was hot, and air was scarce. I remember that we went uphill,
and that I realised there was considerable difference in our ages.
We crossed some fields first--smothered in flowers so thick that I
wondered how much grass the cows got out of it!--and then came to a
sprinkling of fine young larches that looked as soft as velvet. There
was no path, just a wild mountain side. I had very little breath on
the steep zigzags, but Arthur talked easily--and talked mighty well,
too: the light and shade, the colouring, and the effect of all this
wilderness of lonely beauty on the mind. He kept all this suppressed
at home in business. It was safety valves. I twigged _that_. It was
the artist in him talking. He seemed to think there was nothing in the
world but Beauty--with a big B all the time. And the odd thing was he
took for granted that I felt the same. It was cute of him to flatter
me that way. "Daulis and the lone Cephissian vale," I heard; and a few
moments later--with a sort of reverence in his voice like worship--he
called out a great singing name: "_Astarte!_"

  "Day is her face, and midnight is her hair,
   And morning hours are but the golden stair
   By which she climbs to Night."

It was here first that a queer change began to grow upon me too.

"Steady on, boy! I've forgotten all my classics ages ago," I cried.

He turned and gazed down on me, his big eyes glowing, and not a sign of
perspiration on his skin.

"That's nothing," he exclaimed in his musical, deep voice. "You know
it, or you'd never have felt things in this wood last night; and you
wouldn't have wanted to come out with me _now_!"

"How?" I gasped. "How's that?"

"You've come," he continued quietly, "to the only valley in
this artificial country that has atmosphere. This valley is
_alive_--especially this end of it. There's superstition here, thank
God! Even the peasants know things."

I stared at him. "See here, Arthur," I objected. "I'm not a Cath. And I
don't know a thing--at least it's all dead in me and forgotten--about
poetry or classics or your gods and pan--pantheism--in spite of
grandfather----"

His face turned like a dream face.

"Hush!" he said quickly. "Don't mention _him_. There's a bit of him in
you as well as in me, and it was here, you know, he wrote----"

I didn't hear the rest of what he said. A creep came over me. I
remembered that this ancestor of ours lived for years in the isolation
of some Swiss forest where he claimed--he used that setting for his
writing--he had found the exiled gods, their ghosts, their beauty,
their eternal essences--or something astonishing of that sort. I had
clean forgotten it till this moment. It all rushed back upon me, a
memory of my boyhood.

And, as I say, a creep came over me--something as near to awe as
ever could be. The sunshine on that field of yellow daisies and blue
forget-me-nots turned pale. That warm valley wind had a touch of snow
in it. And, ashamed and frightened of my baby mood, I looked at Arthur,
meaning to choke him off with all this rubbish--and then saw something
in his eyes that scared me stiff.

I admit it. What's the use? There was an expression on his fine big
face that made my blood go curdled. I got cold feet right there. It
mastered me. In him, behind him, near him--blest if I know which,
_through_ him probably--came an enormous thing that turned me
insignificant. It downed me utterly.

It was over in a second, the flash of a wing. I recovered instantly. No
mere boy should come these muzzy tricks on me, scholar or no scholar.
For the change in me was on the increase, and I shrank.

"See here, Arthur," I said plainly once again, "I don't know what your
game is, but--there's something queer up here I don't quite get at. I'm
only a business man, with classics and poetry all gone dry in me twenty
years ago and more----"

He looked at me so strangely that I stopped, confused.

"But, Uncle Jim," he said as quietly as though we talked tobacco
brands, "you needn't be alarmed. It's natural you should feel the
place. You and I belong to it. We've both got _him_ in us. You're just
as proud of him as I am, only in a different way." And then he added,
with a touch of disappointment: "I thought you'd like it. You weren't
afraid last night. You felt the beauty _then_."

Flattery is a darned subtle thing at any time. To see him standing
over me in that superior way and talking down at my poor business
mind--well, it just came over me that I was laying my cards on the
table a bit too early. After so many years of city life----!

Anyway, I pulled myself together. "I was only kidding you, boy," I
laughed. "I feel this beauty just as much as you do. Only, I guess,
you're more accustomed to it than I am. Come on now," I added with
energy, getting upon my feet, "let's push on and see the wood. I want
to find that place again."

He pulled me with a hand of iron, laughing as he did so. Gee! I wished
I had his teeth, as well as the muscles in his arm. Yet I felt younger,
somehow, too--youth flowed more and more into my veins. I had forgotten
how sweet the winds and woods and flowers could be. Something melted in
me. For it was Spring, and the whole world was singing like a dream.
Beauty was creeping over me. I don't know. I began to feel all big and
tender and open to a thousand wonderful sensations. The thought of
streets and houses seemed like death....

We went on again, not talking much; my breath got shorter and shorter,
and he kept looking about him as though he expected something. But we
passed no living soul, not even a peasant; there were no chalets, no
cattle, no cattle shelters even. And then I realised that the valley
lay at our feet in haze and that we had been climbing at least a
couple of hours. "Why, last night I got home in twenty minutes at the
outside," I said. He shook his head, smiling. "It seemed like that," he
replied, "but you really took much longer. It was long after ten when I
found you in the hall." I reflected a moment. "Now I come to think of
it, you're right, Arthur. Seems curious, though, somehow." He looked
closely at me. "I followed you all the way," he said.

"You followed me!"

"And you went at a good pace too. It was your feelings that made it
seem so short--you were singing to yourself and happy as a dancing
faun. We kept close behind you for a long way."

I think it was "we" he said, but for some reason or other I didn't care
to ask.

"Maybe," I answered shortly, trying uncomfortably to recall what
particular capers I had cut. "I guess that's right." And then I added
something about the loneliness, and how deserted all this slope of
mountain was. And he explained that the peasants were afraid of it and
called it No Man's Land. From one year's end to another no human foot
went up or down it; the hay was never cut; no cattle grazed along the
splendid pastures; no chalet had even been built within a mile of the
wood we slowly made for. "They're superstitious," he told me. "It was
just the same a hundred years ago when _he_ discovered it--there was a
little natural cave on the edge of the forest where he used to sleep
sometimes--I'll show it to you presently--but for generations this
entire mountain-side has been undisturbed. You'll never meet a living
soul in any part of it." He stopped and pointed above us to where the
pine wood hung in mid-air, like a dim blue carpet. "It's just the place
for Them, you see."

And a thrill of power went smashing through me. I can't describe
it. It drenched me like a waterfall. I thought of Greece--Mount Ida
and a thousand songs! Something in me--it was like the click of a
shutter--announced that the "change" was suddenly complete. I was
another man; or rather a deeper part of me took command. My very
language showed it.

The calm of halcyon weather lay over all. Overhead the peaks rose clear
as crystal; below us the village lay in a bluish smudge of smoke and
haze, as though a great finger had rubbed them softly into the earth.
Absolute loneliness fell upon me like a clap. From the world of human
beings we seemed quite shut off. And there began to steal over me again
the strange elation of the night before.... We found ourselves almost
at once against the edge of the wood.

It rose in front of us, a big wall of splendid trees, motionless as if
cut out of dark green metal, the branches hanging stiff, and the crowd
of trunks lost in the blue dimness underneath. I shaded my eyes with
one hand, trying to peer into the solemn gloom. The contrast between
the brilliant sunshine on the pastures and this region of heavy shadows
blurred my sight.

"It's like the entrance to another world," I whispered.

"It is," said Arthur, watching me. "We will go in. You shall pluck
asphodel...."

And, before I knew it, he had me by the hand. We were advancing. We
left the light behind us. The cool air dropped upon me like a sheet.
There was a temple silence. The sun ran down behind the sky, leaving a
marvellous blue radiance everywhere. Nothing stirred. But through the
stillness there rose power, power that has no name, power that hides at
the foundations somewhere--foundations that are changeless, invisible,
everlasting. What do I mean? My mind grew to the dimensions of a
planet. We were among the roots of life--whence issues that _one thing_
in infinite guise that seeks so many temporary names from the protean
minds of men.

"You shall pluck asphodel in the meadows this side of Erebus," Arthur
was chanting. "Hermes himself, the Psychopomp, shall lead, and Malahide
shall welcome us."

Malahide...!

To hear him use that name, the name of our scholar-ancestor, now dead
and buried close upon a century--the way he half chanted it--gave me
the goose-flesh. I stopped against a tree-stem, thinking of escape. No
words came to me at the moment, for I didn't know what to say; but, on
turning to find the bright green slopes just left behind, I saw only
a crowd of trees and shadows hanging thick as a curtain--as though we
had walked a mile. And it was a shock. The way out was lost. The trees
closed up behind us like a tide.

"It's all right," said Arthur; "just keep an open mind and a heart
alive with love. It has a shattering effect at first, but that will
pass." He saw I was afraid, for I shrank visibly enough. He stood
beside me in his grey flannel suit, with his brilliant eyes and his
great shock of hair, looking more like a column of light than a human
being. "It's all quite right and natural," he repeated; "we have passed
the gateway, and Hecate, who presides over gateways, will let us out
again. Do not make discord by feeling fear. This is a pine wood, and
pines are the oldest, simplest trees; they are true primitives. They
are an open channel; and in a pine wood where no human life has ever
been you shall often find gateways where Hecate is kind to such as us."

He took my hand--he must have felt mine trembling, but his own was
cool and strong and felt like silver--and led me forward into the
depths of a wood that seemed to me quite endless. It felt endless,
that is to say. I don't know what came over me. Fear slipped away, and
elation took its place.... As we advanced over ground that seemed
level, or slightly undulating, I saw bright pools of sunshine here
and there upon the forest floor. Great shafts of light dropped in
slantingly between the trunks. There was movement everywhere, though I
never could see what moved. A delicious, scented air stirred through
the lower branches. Running water sang not very far away. Figures
I did not actually see; yet there were limbs and flowing draperies
and flying hair from time to time, ever just beyond the pools of
sunlight.... Surprise went from me too. I was on air. The atmosphere
of dream came round me, but a dream of something just hovering outside
the world I knew--a dream wrought in gold and silver, with shining
eyes, with graceful beckoning hands, and with voices that rang like
bells of music.... And the pools of light grew larger, merging one
into another, until a delicate soft light shone equably throughout
the entire forest. Into this zone of light we passed together. Then
something fell abruptly at our feet, as though thrown down ... two
marvellous, shining sprays of blossom such as I had never seen in all
my days before!

"Asphodel!" cried my companion, stooping to pick them up and handing
one to me. I took it from him with a delight I could not understand.
"Keep it," he murmured; "it is the sign that we are welcome. For
Malahide has dropped these on our path."

And at the use of that ancestral name it seemed that a spirit passed
before my face and the hair of my head stood up. There was a sense
of violent, unhappy contrast. A composite picture presented itself,
then rushed away. What was it? My youth in England, music and poetry
at Cambridge and my passionate love of Greek that lasted two terms at
most, when Malahide's great books formed part of the curriculum. Over
against this, then, the drag and smother of solid worldly business,
the sordid weight of modern ugliness, the bitterness of an ambitious,
over-striving life. And abruptly--beyond both pictures--a shining,
marvellous Beauty that scattered stars beneath my feet and scarved
the universe with gold. All this flashed before me with the utterance
of that old family name. An alternative sprang up. There seemed some
radical, elemental choice presented to me--to what I used to call my
soul. My soul could take or leave it as it pleased....

I looked at Arthur moving beside me like a shaft of light. What had
come over me? How had our walk and talk and mood, our quite recent
everyday and ordinary view, our normal relationship with the things of
the world--how had it all slipped into this? So insensibly, so easily,
so naturally!

"Was it worth while?"

The question--_I_ didn't ask it--jumped up in me of its own accord.
Was "what" worth while? Why, my present life of commonplace and
grubbing toil, of course; my city existence, with its meagre,
unremunerative ambitions. Ah, it was this new Beauty calling me, this
shining dream that lay beyond the two pictures I have mentioned.... I
did not argue it, even to myself. But I understood. There was a radical
change in me. The buried poet, too long hidden, rushed into the air
like some great singing bird.

I glanced again at Arthur moving along lightly by my side, half
dancing almost in his brimming happiness. "Wait till you see Them,"
I heard him singing. "Wait till you hear the call of Artemis and the
footsteps of her flying nymphs. Wait till Orion thunders overhead and
Selene, crowned with the crescent moon, drives up the zenith in her
white-horsed chariot. The choice will be beyond all question then...!"

A great silent bird, with soft brown plumage, whirred across our path,
pausing an instant as though to peep, then disappearing with a muted
sound into an eddy of the wind it made. The big trees hid it. It was
an owl. The same moment I heard a rush of liquid song come pouring
through the forest with a gush of almost human notes, and a pair
of glossy wings flashed past us, swerving upwards to find the open
sky--blue-black, pointed wings.

"His favourites!" exclaimed my companion with clear joy in his voice.
"They all are here! Athene's bird, Procne and Philomela too! The
owl--the swallow--and the nightingale! Tereus and Itys are not far
away." And the entire forest, as he said it, stirred with movement,
as though that great bird's quiet wings had waked the sea of ancient
shadows. There were voices too--ringing, laughing voices, as though his
words woke echoes that had been listening for it. For I heard sweet
singing in the distance. The names he had used perplexed me. Yet even
I, stranger as I was to such refined delights, could not mistake the
passion of the nightingale and the dart of the eager swallow. That wild
burst of music, that curve of swift escape, were unmistakable.

And I struck a stalwart tree-stem with my open hand, feeling the need
of hearing, touching, sensing it. My link with known, remembered things
was breaking. I craved the satisfaction of the commonplace. I got that
satisfaction; but I got something more as well. For the trunk was
round and smooth and comely. It was no dead thing I struck. Somehow it
brushed me into intercourse with inanimate Nature. And next the desire
came to hear my voice--my own familiar, high-pitched voice with the
twang and accent the New World climate brings, so-called American:

"Exchange Place, Noo York City. I'm in that business, buying and
selling of exchange between the banks of two civilised countries, one
of them stoopid and old-fashioned, the other leading all creation...!"

It was an effort; but I made it firmly. It sounded odd, remote, unreal.

"Sunlit woods and a wind among the branches", followed close and sweet
upon my words. But who, in the name of Wall Street, said it?

"England's buying gold," I tried again. "We've had a private wire. Cut
in quick. First National is selling!"

Great-faced Hephæstus, how ridiculous! It was like saying, "I'll take
your scalp unless you give me meat." It was barbaric, savage, centuries
ago. Again there came another voice that caught up my own and turned it
into common syntax. Some heady beauty of the Earth rose about me like a
cloud.

"Hark! Night comes, with the dusk upon her eyelids. She brings those
dreams that every dew-drop holds at dawn. Daughter of Thanatos and
Hypnos...!"

But again--who said the words? It surely was not Arthur, my nephew
Arthur, of To-day, learning French in a Swiss mountain village! I
felt--well, what did I feel? In the name of the Stock Exchange and Wall
Street, what was the cash surrender of amazing feelings?


3

And, turning to look at him, I made a discovery. I don't know how to
tell it quite; such shadowy marvels have never been my line of goods.
He looked several things at once--taller, slighter, sweeter, but
chiefly--it sounds so crazy when I write it down--grander is the word,
I think. And all spread out with some power that flowed like Spring
when it pours upon a landscape. Eternally young and glorious--young,
I mean, in the sense of a field of flowers in the Spring looks young;
and glorious in the sense the sky looks glorious at dawn or sunset.
Something big shone through him like a storm, something that would
go on for ever just as the Earth goes on, always renewing itself,
something of gigantic life that in the human sense could never age at
all--something the old gods had. But the figure, so far as there was
any figure at all, was that old family picture come to life. Our great
ancestor and Arthur were one being, and that one being was vaster than
a million people. Yet it was Malahide I saw....

"They laid me in the earth I loved," he said in a strange, thrilling
voice like running wind and water, "and I found eternal life. I live
now for ever in Their divine existence. I share the life that changes
yet can never pass away."

I felt myself rising like a cloud as he said it. A roaring beauty
captured me completely. If I could tell it in honest newspaper
language--the common language used in flats and offices--why, I
guess I could patent a new meaning in ordinary words, a new power of
expression, the thing that all the churches and poets and thinkers have
been trying to say since the world began. I caught on to a fact so fine
and simple that it knocked me silly to think I'd never realised it
before. I had read it, yes; but now I _knew_ it. The Earth, the whole
bustling universe, was nothing after all but a visible production of
eternal, living Powers--spiritual powers, mind you--that just happened
to include the particular little type of strutting creature we called
mankind. And these Powers, as seen in Nature, were the gods. It was our
refusal of their grand appeal, so wild and sweet and beautiful, that
caused "evil." It was this barrier between ourselves and the rest of ...

My thoughts and feelings swept away upon the rising flood as the
"figure" came upon me like a shaft of moonlight, melting the last
remnant of opposition that was in me. I took my brain, my reason,
chucking them aside for the futile little mechanism I suddenly saw
them to be. In place of them came--oh, God, I hate to say it, for
only nursery talk can get within a mile of it, and yet what I need is
something simpler even than the words that children use. Under one arm
I carried a whole forest breathing in the wind, and beneath the other
a hundred meadows full of singing streams with golden marigolds and
blue forget-me-nots along their banks. Upon my back and shoulders lay
the clouded hills with dew and moonlight in their brimmed, capacious
hollows. Thick in my hair hung the unaging powers that are stars and
sunlight; though the sun was far away, it sweetened the currents of
my blood with liquid gold. Breast and throat and face, as I advanced,
met all the rivers of the world and all the winds of heaven, their
strength and swiftness melting into me as light melts into everything
it touches. And into my eyes passed all the radiant colours that weave
the cloth of Nature as she takes the sun.

And this "figure," pouring upon me like a burst of moonlight, spoke:

"They all are in you--air, and fire, and water...."

"And I--my feet stand--on the _Earth_," my own voice interrupted, deep
power lifting through the sound of it.

"The Earth!" He laughed gigantically. He spread. He seemed everywhere
about me. He seemed a race of men. My life swam forth in waves of some
immense sensation that issued from the mountain and the forest, then
returned to them again. I reeled. I clutched at something in me that
was slipping beyond control, slipping down a bank towards a deep, dark
river flowing at my feet. A shadowy boat appeared, a still more shadowy
outline at the helm. I was in the act of stepping into it. For the tree
I caught at was only air. I couldn't stop myself. I tried to scream.

"You have plucked asphodel," sang the voice beside me, "and you shall
pluck more...."

I slipped and slipped, the speed increasing horribly. Then something
caught, as though a cog held fast and stopped me. I remembered my
business in New York City.

"Arthur!" I yelled. "Arthur!" I shouted again as hard as I could shout.
There was frantic terror in me. I felt as though I should never get
back to myself again. Death!

The answer came in his normal voice: "Keep close to me. I know the
way...."

The scenery dwindled suddenly; the trees came back. I was walking in
the forest beside my nephew, and the moonlight lay in patches and
little shafts of silver. The crests of the pines just murmured in a
wind that scarcely stirred, and through an opening on our right I saw
the deep valley clasped about the twinkling village lights. Towering
in splendour the spectral snowfields hung upon the sky, huge summits
guarding them. And Arthur took my arm--oh, solidly enough this time.
Thank heaven, he asked no questions of me.

"There's a smell of myrrh," he whispered, "and we are very near the
undying, ancient things."

I said something about the resin from the trees, but he took no notice.

"It enclosed its body in an egg of myrrh," he went on, smiling down
at me; "then, setting it on fire, rose from the ashes with its life
renewed. Once every five hundred years, you see----"

"What did?" I cried, feeling that loss of self stealing over me again.
And his answer came like a blow between the eyes:

"The Phoenix. They called it a bird, but, of course, the true ..."

"But my life's insured in that," I cried, for he had named the company
that took large yearly premiums from me; "and I pay ..."

"Your life's insured in _this_," he said quietly, waving his arms to
indicate the Earth. "Your love of Nature and your sympathy with it make
you safe." He gazed at me. There was a marvellous expression in his
eyes. I understood why poets talked of stars and flowers in a human
face. But behind the face crept back another look as well. There grew
about his figure an indeterminate extension. The outline of Malahide
again stirred through his own. A pale, delicate hand reached out to
take my own. And something broke in me.

I was conscious of two things--a burst of joy that meant losing myself
entirely, and a rush of terror that meant staying as I was, a small,
painful, struggling item of individual life. Another spray of that
awful asphodel fell fluttering through the air in front of my face. It
rested on the earth against my feet. And Arthur--this weirdly changing
Arthur--stooped to pick it for me. I kicked it with my foot beyond his
reach ... then turned and ran as though the Furies of that ancient
world were after me. I ran for my very life. How I escaped from that
thick wood without banging my body to bits against the trees I can't
explain. I ran from something I desired and yet feared. I leaped along
in a succession of flying bounds. Each tree I passed turned of its
own accord and flung after me until the entire forest followed. But
I got out. I reached the open. Upon the sloping field in the full,
clear light of the moon I collapsed in a panting heap. The Earth drew
back with a great shuddering sigh behind me. There was this strange,
tumultuous sound upon the night. I lay beneath the open heavens that
were full of moonlight. I was myself--but there were tears in me.
Beauty too high for understanding had slipped between my fingers. I had
lost Malahide. I had lost the gods of Earth.... Yet I had seen ... and
felt. I had not lost all. Something remained that I could never lose
again....

I don't know how it happened exactly, but presently I heard Arthur
saying: "You'll catch your death of cold if you lie on that soaking
grass," and felt his hand seize mine to pull me to my feet.

"I feel safer on earth," I believe I answered. And then he said: "Yes,
but it's such a stupid way to die--a chill!"


4

I got up then, and we went downhill together towards the village
lights. I danced--oh, I admit it--I sang as well. There was a flood
of joy and power about me that beat anything I'd ever felt before. I
didn't think or hesitate; there was no self-consciousness; I just let
it rip for all there was, and if there had been ten thousand people
there in front of me, I could have made them feel it too. That was the
kind of feeling--power and confidence and a sort of raging happiness.
I think I know what it was too. I say this soberly, with reverence ...
all wool and no fading. There was a bit of God in me, God's power that
drives the Earth and pours through Nature--the imperishable Beauty
expressed in those old-world nature-deities!

And the fear I'd felt was nothing but the little tickling point
of losing my ordinary two-cent self, the dread of letting go, the
shrinking before the plunge--what a fellow feels when he's falling in
love, and hesitates, and tries to think it out and hold back, and is
afraid to let the enormous tide flow in and drown him.

Oh, yes, I began to think it over a bit as we raced down the
mountain-side that glorious night. I've read some in my day; my brain's
all right; I've heard of dual personality and subliminal uprush and
conversion--no new line of goods, all that. But somehow these stunts
of the psychologists and philosophers didn't cut any ice with me just
then, because I'd _experienced_ what they merely _explained_. And
explanation was just a bargain sale. The best things can't be explained
at all. There's no real value in a bargain sale.

Arthur had trouble to keep up with me. We were running due east, and
the Earth was turning, therefore, with us. We all three ran together
at _her_ pace--terrific! The moonlight danced along the summits, and
the snow-fields flew like spreading robes, and the forests everywhere,
far and near, hung watching us and booming like a thousand organs.
There were uncaged winds about; you could hear them whistling among the
precipices. But the great thing that I knew was--Beauty, a beauty of
the common old familiar Earth, and a beauty that's stayed with me ever
since, and given me joy and strength and a source of power and delight
I'd never guessed existed before.

       *       *       *       *       *

As we dropped lower into the thicker air of the valley I sobered down.
Gradually the ecstasy passed from me. We slowed up a bit. The lights
and the houses and the sight of the hotel where people were dancing in
a stuffy ballroom, all this put blotting-paper on something that had
been flowing.

Now you'll think this an odd thing too--but when we reached the village
street, I just took Arthur's hand and shook it and said good-night and
went up to bed and slept like a two-year-old till morning. And from
that day to this I've never set eyes on the boy again.

Perhaps it's difficult to explain, and perhaps it isn't. I can explain
it to myself in two lines--I was afraid to see him. I was afraid he
might "explain." I was afraid he might explain "away." I just left a
note--he never replied to it--and went off by a morning train. Can
you understand that? Because if you can't you haven't understood
this account I've tried to give of the experience Arthur gave me.
Well--anyway--I'll just let it go at that.

Arthur's a director now in his father's wholesale chemical business,
and I--well, I'm doing better than ever in the buying and selling of
exchange between banks in New York City as before.

But when I said I was still drawing dividends on my Swiss investment,
I meant it. And it's not "scenery." Everybody gets a thrill from
"scenery." It's a darned sight more than that. It's those little
wayward patches of blue on a cloudy day; those blue pools in the sky
just above Trinity Church steeple when I pass out of Wall Street into
Lower Broadway; it's the rustle of the sea-wind among the Battery
trees; the wash of the waves when the Ferry's starting for Staten
Island, and the glint of the sun far down the Bay, or dropping a bit of
pearl into the old East River. And sometimes it's the strip of cloud
in the west above the Jersey shore of the Hudson, the first star, the
sickle of the new moon behind the masts and shipping. But usually it's
something nearer, bigger, simpler than all or any of these. It's just
the certainty that, when I hurry along the hard stone pavements from
bank to bank, I'm walking on the--Earth. It's just that--_the Earth_!




V

A DESERT EPISODE


1

"Better put wraps on now. The sun's getting low," a girl said.

It was the end of a day's expedition in the Arabian Desert, and they
were having tea. A few yards away the donkeys munched their _barsim_;
beside them in the sand the boys lay finishing bread and jam. Immense,
with gliding tread, the sun's rays slid from crest to crest of the
limestone ridges that broke the huge expanse towards the Red Sea. By
the time the tea-things were packed the sun hovered, a giant ball of
red, above the Pyramids. It stood in the western sky a moment, looking
out of its majestic hood across the sand. With a movement almost
visible it leaped, paused, then leaped again. It seemed to bound
towards the horizon; then, suddenly, was gone.

"It _is_ cold, yes," said the painter, Rivers. And all who heard
looked up at him because of the way he said it. A hurried movement ran
through the merry party, and the girls were on their donkeys quickly,
not wishing to be left to bring up the rear. They clattered off. The
boys cried; the thud of sticks was heard; hoofs shuffled through the
sand and stones. In single file the picnickers headed for Helouan, some
five miles distant. And the desert closed up behind them as they went,
following in a shadowy wave that never broke, noiseless, foamless,
unstreaked, driven by no wind, and of a volume undiscoverable. Against
the orange sunset the Pyramids turned deep purple. The strip of silvery
Nile among its palm trees looked like rising mist. In the incredible
Egyptian afterglow the enormous horizons burned a little longer, then
went out. The ball of the earth--a huge round globe that bulged--curved
visibly as at sea. It was no longer a flat expanse; it turned. Its
splendid curves were realised.

"Better put wraps on; it's cold and the sun is low"--and then the
curious hurry to get back among the houses and the haunts of men. No
more was said, perhaps, than this, yet, the time and place being what
they were, the mind became suddenly aware of that quality which ever
brings a certain shrinking with it--vastness; and more than vastness:
that which is endless because it is also beginningless--eternity. A
colossal splendour stole upon the heart, and the senses, unaccustomed
to the unusual stretch, reeled a little, as though the wonder was
more than could be faced with comfort. Not all, doubtless, realised
it, though to two, at least, it came with a staggering impact there
was no withstanding. For, while the luminous greys and purples crept
round them from the sandy wastes, the hearts of these two became
aware of certain common things whose simple majesty is usually dulled
by mere familiarity. Neither the man nor the girl knew for certain
that the other felt it, as they brought up the rear together; yet
the fact that each _did_ feel it set them side by side in the same
strange circle--and made them silent. They realised the immensity of
a moment: the dizzy stretch of time that led up to the casual pinning
of a veil; to the tightening of a stirrup strap; to the little speech
with a companion; the roar of the vanished centuries that have ground
mountains into sand and spread them over the floor of Africa; above
all, to the little truth that they themselves existed amid the whirl of
stupendous systems all delicately balanced as a spider's web--that they
were _alive_.

For a moment this vast scale of reality revealed itself, then
hid swiftly again behind the débris of the obvious. The universe,
containing their two tiny yet important selves, stood still for an
instant before their eyes. They looked at it--realised that they
belonged to it. Everything moved and had its being, _lived_--here in
this silent, empty desert even more actively than in a city of crowded
houses. The quiet Nile, sighing with age, passed down towards the sea;
there loomed the menacing Pyramids across the twilight; beneath them,
in monstrous dignity, crouched that Shadow from whose eyes of battered
stone proceeds the nameless thing that contracts the heart, then opens
it again to terror; and everywhere, from towering monoliths as from
secret tombs, rose that strange, long whisper which, defying time and
distance, laughs at death. The spell of Egypt, which is the spell of
immortality, touched their hearts.

Already, as the group of picnickers rode homewards now, the first
stars twinkled overhead, and the peerless Egyptian night was on the
way. There was hurry in the passing of the dusk. And the cold sensibly
increased.

"So you did no painting after all," said Rivers to the girl who rode
a little in front of him, "for I never saw you touch your sketch-book
once."

They were some distance now behind the others; the line straggled; and
when no answer came he quickened his pace, drew up alongside and saw
that her eyes, in the reflection of the sunset, shone with moisture.
But she turned her head a little, smiling into his face, so that the
human and the non-human beauty came over him with an onset that was
almost shock. Neither one nor other, he knew, were long for him, and
the realisation fell upon him with a pang of actual physical pain. The
acuteness, the hopelessness of the realisation, for a moment, were more
than he could bear, stern of temper though he was, and he tried to pass
in front of her, urging his donkey with resounding strokes. Her own
animal, however, following the lead, at once came up with him.

"You felt it, perhaps, as I did," he said some moments later,
his voice quite steady again. "The stupendous, everlasting
thing--the--_life_ behind it all." He hesitated a little in his speech,
unable to find the substantive that could compass even a fragment of
his thought. She paused, too, similarly inarticulate before the surge
of incomprehensible feelings.

"It's--awful," she said, half laughing, yet the tone hushed and a
little quaver in it somewhere. And her voice to his was like the first
sound he had ever heard in the world, for the first sound a full-grown
man heard in the world would be beyond all telling--magical. "I shall
not try again," she continued, leaving out the laughter this time; "my
sketch-book is a farce. For, to tell the truth"--and the next three
words she said below her breath--"I dare not."

He turned and looked at her for a second. It seemed to him that the
following wave had caught them up, and was about to break above her,
too. But the big-brimmed hat and the streaming veil shrouded her
features. He saw, instead, the Universe. He felt as though he and
she had always, always been together, and always, always would be.
Separation was inconceivable.

"It came so close," she whispered. "It--shook me!"

They were cut off from their companions, whose voices sounded far
ahead. Her words might have been spoken by the darkness, or by some one
who peered at them from within that following wave. Yet the fanciful
phrase was better than any he could find. From the immeasurable space
of time and distance men's hearts vainly seek to plumb, it drew into
closer perspective a certain meaning that words may hardly compass,
a formidable truth that belongs to that deep place where hope and
doubt fight their incessant battle. The awe she spoke of was the
awe of immortality, of belonging to something that is endless and
beginningless.

And he understood that the tears and laughter were one--caused by
that spell which takes a little human life and shakes it, as an animal
shakes its prey that later shall feed its blood and increase its power
of growth. His other thoughts--really but a single thought--he had not
the right to utter. Pain this time easily routed hope as the wave came
nearer. For it was the wave of death that would shortly break, he knew,
over him, but not over her. Him it would sweep with its huge withdrawal
into the desert whence it came: her it would leave high upon the shores
of life--alone. And yet the separation would somehow not be real. They
were together in eternity even now. They were endless as this desert,
beginningless as this sky ... immortal. The realisation overwhelmed....

The lights of Helouan seemed to come no nearer as they rode on in
silence for the rest of the way. Against the dark background of the
Mokattam Hills these fairy lights twinkled brightly, hanging in
mid-air, but after an hour they were no closer than before. It was like
riding towards the stars. It would take centuries to reach them. There
were centuries in which to do so. Hurry has no place in the desert;
it is born in streets. The desert stands still; to go fast in it is
to go backwards. Now, in particular, its enormous, uncanny leisure
was everywhere--in keeping with that mighty scale the sunset had made
visible. His thoughts, like the steps of the weary animal that bore
him, had no progress in them. The serpent of eternity, holding its tail
in its own mouth, rose from the sand, enclosing himself, the stars--and
her. Behind him, in the hollows of that shadowy wave, the procession
of dynasties and conquests, the great series of gorgeous civilisations
the mind calls Past, stood still, crowded with shining eyes and
beckoning faces, still waiting to arrive. There is no death in Egypt.
His own death stood so close that he could touch it by stretching out
his hand, yet it seemed as much behind as in front of him. What man
called a beginning was a trick. There was no such thing. He was with
this girl--_now_, when Death waited so close for him--yet he had never
really begun. Their lives ran always parallel. The hand he stretched
to clasp approaching death caught instead in this girl's shadowy hair,
drawing her in with him to the centre where he breathed the eternity
of the desert. Yet expression of any sort was as futile as it was
unnecessary. To paint, to speak, to sing, even the slightest gesture of
the soul, became a crude and foolish thing. Silence was here the truth.
And they rode in silence towards the fairy lights.

Then suddenly the rocky ground rose up close before them; boulders
stood out vividly with black shadows and shining heads; a flat-roofed
house slid by; three palm trees rattled in the evening wind; beyond, a
mosque and minaret sailed upwards, like the spars and rigging of some
phantom craft; and the colonnades of the great modern hotel, standing
upon its dome of limestone ridge, loomed over them. Helouan was about
them before they knew it. The desert lay behind with its huge, arrested
billow. Slowly, owing to its prodigious volume, yet with a speed that
merged it instantly with the far horizon behind the night, this wave
now withdrew a little. There was no hurry. It came, for the moment, no
farther. Rivers knew. For he was in it to the throat. Only his head
was above the surface. He still could breathe--and speak--and see.
Deepening with every hour into an incalculable splendour, it waited.


2

In the street the foremost riders drew rein, and, two and two abreast,
the long line clattered past the shops and cafés, the railway station
and hotels, stared at by the natives from the busy pavements. The
donkeys stumbled, blinded by the electric light. Girls in white dresses
flitted here and there, arabîyehs rattled past with people hurrying
home to dress for dinner, and the evening train, just in from Cairo,
disgorged its stream of passengers. There were dances in several of the
hotels that night. Voices rose on all sides. Questions and answers,
engagements and appointments were made, little plans and plots and
intrigues for seizing happiness on the wing--before the wave rolled in
and caught the lot. They chattered gaily:

"You _are_ going, aren't you? You promised----"

"Of course I am."

"Then I'll drive you over. May I call for you?"

"All right. Come at ten."

"We shan't have finished our bridge by then. Say ten-thirty."

And eyes exchanged their meaning signals. The group dismounted and
dispersed. Arabs standing under the lebbekh trees, or squatting on
the pavements before their dim-lit booths, watched them with faces of
gleaming bronze. Rivers gave his bridle to a donkey-boy, and moved
across stiffly after the long ride to help the girl dismount. "You feel
tired?" he asked gently. "It's been a long day." For her face was white
as chalk, though the eyes shone brilliantly.

"Tired, perhaps," she answered, "but exhilarated too. I should like to
be there now. I should like to go back this minute--if some one would
take me." And, though she said it lightly, there was a meaning in her
voice he apparently chose to disregard. It was as if she knew his
secret. "Will you take me--some day soon?"

The direct question, spoken by those determined little lips, was
impossible to ignore. He looked close into her face as he helped her
from the saddle with a spring that brought her a moment half into
his arms. "Some day--soon. I will," he said with emphasis, "when you
are--ready." The pallor in her face, and a certain expression in it he
had not known before, startled him. "I think you have been overdoing
it," he added, with a tone in which authority and love were oddly
mingled, neither of them disguised.

"Like yourself," she smiled, shaking her skirts out and looking down at
her dusty shoes. "I've only a few days more--before I sail. We're both
in such a hurry, but you are the worst of the two."

"Because my time is even shorter," ran his horrified thought--for he
said no word.

She raised her eyes suddenly to his, with an expression that for an
instant almost convinced him she had guessed--and the soul in him
stood rigidly at attention, urging back the rising fires. The hair had
dropped loosely round the sun-burned neck. Her face was level with
his shoulder. Even the glare of the street lights could not make her
undesirable. But behind the gaze of the deep brown eyes another thing
looked forth imperatively into his own. And he recognised it with a
rush of terror, yet of singular exultation.

"It followed us all the way," she whispered. "It came after us from the
desert--where it _lives_."

"At the houses," he said equally low, "it stopped." He gladly adopted
her syncopated speech, for it helped him in his struggle to subdue
those rising fires.

For a second she hesitated. "You mean, if we had not left so soon--when
it turned cold. If we had not hurried--if we had remained a little
longer----"

He caught at her hand, unable to control himself, but dropped it
again the same second, while she made as though she had not noticed,
forgiving him with her eyes. "Or a great deal longer," she added
slowly--"for ever?"

And then he was certain that she _had_ guessed--not that he loved her
above all else in the world, for that was so obvious that a child might
know it, but that his silence was due to his other, lesser secret; that
the great Executioner stood waiting to drop the hood about his eyes. He
was already pinioned. Something in her gaze and in her manner persuaded
him suddenly that she understood.

His exhilaration increased extraordinarily. "I mean," he said very
quietly, "that the spell weakens here among the houses and among
the--so-called living." There was masterfulness, triumph, in his voice.
Very wonderfully he saw her smile change; she drew slightly closer to
his side, as though unable to resist. "Mingled with lesser things we
should not understand completely," he added softly.

"And that might be a mistake, you mean?" she asked quickly, her face
grave again.

It was his turn to hesitate a moment. The breeze stirred the hair about
her neck, bringing its faint perfume--perfume of young life--to his
nostrils. He drew his breath in deeply, smothering back the torrent of
rising words he knew were unpermissible. "Misunderstanding," he said
briefly. "If the eye be single----" He broke off, shaken by a paroxysm
of coughing. "You know my meaning," he continued, as soon as the attack
had passed; "you feel the difference _here_," pointing round him to
the hotels, the shops, the busy stream of people; "the hurry, the
excitement, the feverish, blinding child's play which pretends to be
alive, but does not know it----" And again the coughing stopped him.
This time she took his hand in her own, pressed it very slightly, then
released it. He felt it as the touch of that desert wave upon his soul.
"The reception must be in complete and utter resignation. Tainted by
lesser things, the disharmony might be----" he began stammeringly.

Again there came interruption, as the rest of the party called
impatiently to know if they were coming up to the hotel. He had not
time to find the completing adjective. Perhaps he could not find it
ever. Perhaps it does not exist in any modern language. Eternity is not
realised to-day; men have no time to know they are alive for ever; they
are too busy....

They all moved in a clattering, merry group towards the big hotel.
Rivers and the girl were separated.


3

There was a dance that evening, but neither of these took part in
it. In the great dining-room their tables were far apart. He could
not even see her across the sea of intervening heads and shoulders.
The long meal over, he went to his room, feeling it imperative to
be alone. He did not read, he did not write; but, leaving the light
unlit, he wrapped himself up and leaned out upon the broad window-sill
into the great Egyptian night. His deep-sunken thoughts, like to the
crowding stars, stood still, yet for ever took new shapes. He tried
to see behind them, as, when a boy, he had tried to see behind the
constellations--out into space--where there is nothing.

Below him the lights of Helouan twinkled like the Pleiades reflected in
a pool of water; a hum of queer soft noises rose to his ears; but just
beyond the houses the desert stood at attention, the vastest thing he
had ever known, very stern, yet very comforting, with its peace beyond
all comprehension, its delicate, wild terror, and its awful message
of immortality. And the attitude of his mind, though he did not know
it, was one of prayer.... From time to time he went to lie on the bed
with paroxysms of coughing. He had overtaxed his strength--his swiftly
fading strength. The wave had risen to his lips.

Nearer forty than thirty-five, Paul Rivers had come out to Egypt,
plainly understanding that with the greatest care he might last a few
weeks longer than if he stayed in England. A few more times to see the
sunset and the sunrise, to watch the stars, feel the soft airs of earth
upon his cheeks; a few more days of intercourse with his kind, asking
and answering questions, wearing the old familiar clothes he loved,
reading his favourite pages, and then--out into the big spaces--where
there is nothing.

Yet no one, from his stalwart, energetic figure, would have guessed--no
one but the expert mind, not to be deceived, to whom in the first
attack of overwhelming despair and desolation he went for final advice.
He left that house, as many had left it before, knowing that soon he
would need no earthly protection of roof and walls, and that his soul,
if it existed, would be shelterless in the space behind all manifested
life. He had looked forward to fame and position in this world; had,
indeed, already achieved the first step towards this end; and now,
with the vanity of all earthly aims so mercilessly clear before him,
he had turned, in somewhat of a nervous, concentrated hurry, to make
terms with the Infinite while still the brain was there. And had, of
course, found nothing. For it takes a lifetime crowded with experiment
and effort to learn even the alphabet of genuine faith; and what could
come of a few weeks' wild questioning but confusion and bewilderment
of mind? It was inevitable. He came out to Egypt wondering, thinking,
questioning, but chiefly wondering. He had grown, that is, more
childlike, abandoning the futile tool of Reason, which hitherto had
seemed to him the perfect instrument. Its foolishness stood naked
before him in the pitiless light of the specialist's decision.
For--"Who can by searching find out God?"

To be exceedingly careful of over-exertion was the final warning he
brought with him, and, within a few hours of his arrival, three weeks
ago, he had met this girl and utterly disregarded it. He took it
somewhat thus: "Instead of lingering I'll enjoy myself and go out--a
little sooner. I'll _live_. The time is very short." His was not a
nature, anyhow, that could heed a warning. He could not kneel. Upright
and unflinching, he went to meet things as they came, reckless, unwise,
but certainly not afraid. And this characteristic operated now. He ran
to meet Death full tilt in the uncharted spaces that lay behind the
stars. With love for a companion now, he raced, his speed increasing
from day to day, she, as he thought, knowing merely that he sought her,
but had not guessed his darker secret that was now his _lesser_ secret.

And in the desert, this afternoon of the picnic, the great thing he
sped to meet had shown itself with its familiar touch of appalling
cold and shadow, familiar, because all minds know of and accept it;
appalling because, until realised close, and with the mental power at
the full, it remains but a name the heart refuses to believe in. And he
had discovered that its name was--Life.

Rivers had seen the Wave that sweeps incessant, tireless, but as a
rule invisible, round the great curve of the bulging earth, brushing
the nations into the deeps behind. It had followed him home to the
streets and houses of Helouan. He saw it _now_, as he leaned from his
window, dim and immense, too huge to break. Its beauty was nameless,
undecipherable. His coughing echoed back from the wall of its great
sides.... And the music floated up at the same time from the ball-room
in the opposite wing. The two sounds mingled. Life, which is love, and
Death, which is their unchanging partner, held hands beneath the stars.

He leaned out farther to drink in the cool, sweet air. Soon, on this
air, his body would be dust, driven, perhaps, against her very cheek,
trodden on possibly by her little foot--until, in turn, she joined him
too, blown by the same wind loose about the desert. True. Yet at the
same time they would always be together, always somewhere side by side,
continuing in the vast universe, _alive_. This new, absolute conviction
was in him now. He remembered the curious, sweet perfume in the desert,
as of flowers, where yet no flowers are. It was the perfume of life.
But in the desert there is no life. Living things that grow and move
and utter, are but a protest against death. In the desert they are
unnecessary, because death there _is_ not. Its overwhelming vitality
needs no insolent, visible proof, no protest, no challenge, no little
signs of life. The message of the desert is immortality....

He went finally to bed, just before midnight. Hovering magnificently
just outside his window, Death watched him while he slept. The wave
crept to the level of his eyes. He called her name....

       *       *       *       *       *

And downstairs, meanwhile, the girl, knowing nothing, wondered where he
was, wondered unhappily and restlessly; more--though this she did not
understand--wondered motheringly. Until to-day, on the ride home, and
from their singular conversation together, she had guessed nothing of
his reason for being at Helouan, where so many come in order to find
life. She only knew her own. And she was but twenty-five....

Then, in the desert, when that touch of unearthly chill had stolen out
of the sand towards sunset, she had realised clearly, astonished she
had not seen it long ago, that this man loved her, yet that something
prevented his obeying the great impulse. In the life of Paul Rivers,
whose presence had profoundly stirred her heart the first time she saw
him, there was some obstacle that held him back, a barrier his honour
must respect. He could never tell her of his love. It could lead to
nothing. Knowing that he was not married, her intuition failed her
utterly at first. Then, in their silence on the homeward ride, the
truth had somehow pressed up and touched her with its hand of ice. In
that disjointed conversation at the end, which reads as it sounded, as
though no coherent meaning lay behind the words, and as though both
sought to conceal by speech what yet both burned to utter, she had
divined his darker secret, and knew that it was the same as her own.
She understood then it was Death that had tracked them from the desert,
following with its gigantic shadow from the sandy wastes. The cold,
the darkness, the silence which cannot answer, the stupendous mystery
which is the spell of its inscrutable Presence, had risen about them
in the dusk, and kept them company at a little distance, until the
lights of Helouan had bade it halt. Life which may not, cannot end, had
frightened her.

His time, perhaps, was even shorter than her own. None knew his secret,
since he was alone in Egypt and was caring for himself. Similarly,
since she bravely kept her terror to herself, her mother had no inkling
of her own, aware merely that the disease was in her system and that
her orders were to be extremely cautious. This couple, therefore,
shared secretly together the two clearest glimpses of eternity life
has to offer to the soul. Side by side they looked into the splendid
eyes of Love and Death. Life, moreover, with its instinct for simple
and terrific drama, had produced this majestic climax, breaking with
pathos, at the very moment when it could not be developed--this side
of the stars. They stood together upon the stage, a stage emptied of
other human players; the audience had gone home and the lights were
being lowered; no music sounded; the critics were a-bed. In this great
game of Consequences it was known where he met her, what he said and
what she answered, possibly what they did and even what the world
thought. But "what the consequence was" would remain unknown, untold.
That would happen in the big spaces of which the desert in its silence,
its motionless serenity, its shelterless, intolerable vastness, is the
perfect symbol. And the desert gives no answer. It sounds no challenge,
for it is complete. Life in the desert makes no sign. It _is_.


4

In the hotel that night there arrived by chance a famous International
dancer, whose dahabîyeh lay anchored at San Giovanni, in the Nile below
Helouan; and this woman, with her party, had come to dine and take
part in the festivities. The news spread. After twelve the lights were
lowered, and while the moonlight flooded the terraces, streaming past
pillar and colonnade, she rendered in the shadowed halls the music of
the Masters, interpreting with an instinctive genius messages which are
eternal and divine.

Among the crowd of enthralled and delighted guests, the girl sat
on the steps and watched her. The rhythmical interpretation held a
power that seemed, in a sense, inspired; there lay in it a certain
unconscious something that was pure, unearthly; something that the
stars, wheeling in stately movements over the sea and desert know;
something the great winds bring to mountains where they play together;
something the forests capture and fix magically into their gathering
of big and little branches. It was both passionate and spiritual, wild
and tender, intensely human and seductively non-human. For it was
original, taught of Nature, a revelation of naked, unhampered life. It
comforted, as the desert comforts. It brought the desert awe into the
stuffy corridors of the hotel, with the moonlight and the whispering
of stars, yet behind it ever the silence of those grey, mysterious,
interminable spaces which utter to themselves the wordless song of
life. For it was the same dim thing, she felt, that had followed her
from the desert several hours before, halting just outside the streets
and houses as though blocked from further advance; the thing that
had stopped her foolish painting, skilled though she was, because it
hides behind colour and not in it; the thing that veiled the meaning
in the cryptic sentences she and he had stammered out together; the
thing, in a word, as near as she could approach it by any means of
interior expression, that the realisation of death for the first time
makes comprehensible--Immortality. It was unutterable, but it _was_.
He and she were indissolubly together. Death was no separation. There
was no death.... It was terrible. It was--she had already used the
word--awful, full of awe.

"In the desert," thought whispered, as she watched spellbound, "it
is impossible even to conceive of death. The idea is meaningless. It
simply is not."

The music and the movement filled the air with life which, being
there, must continue always, and continuing always can have never had
a beginning. Death, therefore, was the great revealer of life. Without
it none could realise that they are alive. Others had discovered this
before her, but she did not know it. In the desert no one can realise
death: it is hope and life that are the only certainty. The entire
conception of the Egyptian system was based on this--the conviction,
sure and glorious, of life's endless continuation. Their tombs and
temples, their pyramids and sphinxes surviving after thousands of
years, defy the passage of time and laugh at death; the very bodies
of their priests and kings, of their animals even, their fish, their
insects, stand to-day as symbols of their stalwart knowledge.

And this girl, as she listened to the music and watched the inspired
dancing, remembered it. The message poured into her from many sides,
though the desert brought it clearest. With death peering into her face
a few short weeks ahead, she thought instead of--life. The desert,
as it were, became for her a little fragment of eternity, focused
into an intelligible point for her mind to rest upon with comfort
and comprehension. Her steady, thoughtful nature stirred towards an
objective far beyond the small enclosure of one narrow lifetime. The
scale of the desert stretched her to the grandeur of its own imperial
meaning, its divine repose, its unassailable and everlasting majesty.
She looked beyond the wall.

Eternity! That which is endless; without pause, without beginning,
without divisions or boundaries. The fluttering of her brave yet
frightened spirit ceased, aware with awe of its own everlastingness.
The swiftest motion produces the effect of immobility; excessive
light is darkness; size, run loose into enormity, is the same as the
minutely tiny. Similarly, in the desert, life, too overwhelming and
terrific to know limit or confinement, lies undetailed and stupendous,
still as deity, a revelation of nothingness because it is all. Turned
golden beneath its spell that the music and the rhythm made even more
comprehensible, the soul in her, already lying beneath the shadow of
the great wave, sank into rest and peace, too certain of itself to
fear. And panic fled away. "I am immortal ... because I _am_. And what
I love is not apart from me. It is myself. We are together endlessly
because we _are_."

Yet in reality, though the big desert brought this, it was Love,
which, being of similar parentage, interpreted its vast meaning to her
little heart--that sudden love which, without a word of preface or
explanation, had come to her a short three weeks before.... She went
up to her room soon after midnight, abruptly, unexpectedly stricken.
Some one, it seemed, had called her name. She passed his door.

The lights had been turned up. The clamour of praise was loud round the
figure of the weary dancer as she left in a carriage for her dahabîyeh
on the Nile. A low wind whistled round the walls of the great hotel,
blowing chill and bitter between the pillars of the colonnades. The
girl heard the voices float up to her through the night, and once more,
behind the confused sound of the many, she heard her own name called,
but more faintly than before, and from very far away. It came through
the spaces beyond her open window; it died away again; then--but for
the sighing of that bitter wind--silence, the deep silence of the
desert.

And these two, Paul Rivers and the girl, between them merely a floor
of that stone that built the Pyramids, lay a few moments before the
Wave of Sleep engulfed them. And, while they slept, two shadowy forms
hovered above the roof of the quiet hotel, melting presently into
one, as dreams stole down from the desert and the stars. Immortality
whispered to them. On either side rose Life and Death, towering in
splendour. Love, joining their spreading wings, fused the gigantic
outlines into one. The figures grew smaller, comprehensible. They
entered the little windows. Above the beds they paused a moment,
watching, waiting, and then, like a wave that is just about to break,
they stooped....

And in the brilliant Egyptian sunlight of the morning, as she went
downstairs, she passed his door again. She had awakened, but he slept
on. He had preceded her. It was next day she learned his room was
vacant.... Within the month she joined him, and within the year the
cool north wind that sweetens Lower Egypt from the sea blew the dust
across the desert as before. It is the dust of kings, of queens, of
priests, princesses, lovers. It is the dust no earthly power can
annihilate. It, too, lasts for ever. There was a little more of it ...
the desert's message slightly added to: Immortality.




VI

THE OTHER WING


1

It used to puzzle him that, after dark, some one _would_ look in round
the edge of the bedroom door, and withdraw again too rapidly for him
to see the face. When the nurse had gone away with the candle this
happened: "Good night, Master Tim," she said usually, shading the light
with one hand to protect his eyes; "dream of me and I'll dream of you."
She went out slowly. The sharp-edged shadow of the door ran across the
ceiling like a train. There came a whispered colloquy in the corridor
outside, about himself, of course, and--he was alone. He heard her
steps going deeper and deeper into the bosom of the old country house;
they were audible for a moment on the stone flooring of the hall; and
sometimes the dull thump of the baize door into the servants' quarters
just reached him, too--then silence. But it was only when the last
sound, as well as the last sign of her had vanished, that the face
emerged from its hiding-place and flashed in upon him round the corner.
As a rule, too, it came just as he was saying, "Now I'll go to sleep. I
won't think any longer. Good night, Master Tim, and happy dreams." He
loved to say this to himself; it brought a sense of companionship, as
though there were two persons speaking.

The room was on the top of the old house, a big, high-ceilinged room,
and his bed against the wall had an iron railing round it; he felt very
safe and protected in it. The curtains at the other end of the room
were drawn. He lay watching the firelight dancing on the heavy folds,
and their pattern, showing a spaniel chasing a long-tailed bird towards
a bushy tree, interested and amused him. It was repeated over and over
again. He counted the number of dogs, and the number of birds, and the
number of trees, but could never make them agree. There was a plan
somewhere in that pattern; if only he could discover it, the dogs and
birds and trees would "come out right." Hundreds and hundreds of times
he had played this game, for the plan in the pattern made it possible
to take sides, and the bird and dog were against him. They always won,
however; Tim usually fell asleep just when the advantage was on his own
side. The curtains hung steadily enough most of the time, but it seemed
to him once or twice that they stirred--hiding a dog or bird on purpose
to prevent his winning. For instance, he had eleven birds and eleven
trees, and, fixing them in his mind by saying, "that's eleven birds
and eleven trees, but only ten dogs," his eyes darted back to find the
eleventh dog, when--the curtain moved and threw all his calculations
into confusion again. The eleventh dog was hidden. He did not quite
like the movement; it gave him questionable feelings, rather, for the
curtain did not move of itself. Yet, usually, he was too intent upon
counting the dogs to feel positive alarm.

Opposite to him was the fireplace, full of red and yellow coals; and,
lying with his head sideways on the pillow, he could see directly in
between the bars. When the coals settled with a soft and powdery crash,
he turned his eyes from the curtains to the grate, trying to discover
exactly which bits had fallen. So long as the glow was there the sound
seemed pleasant enough, but sometimes he awoke later in the night, the
room huge with darkness, the fire almost out--and the sound was not so
pleasant then. It startled him. The coals did not fall of themselves.
It seemed that some one poked them cautiously. The shadows were very
thick before the bars. As with the curtains, moreover, the morning
aspect of the extinguished fire, the ice-cold cinders that made a
clinking sound like tin, caused no emotion whatever in his soul.

And it was usually while he lay waiting for sleep, tired both of the
curtain and the coal games, on the point, indeed, of saying, "I'll go
to sleep now," that the puzzling thing took place. He would be staring
drowsily at the dying fire, perhaps counting the stockings and flannel
garments that hung along the high fender-rail when, suddenly, a person
looked in with lightning swiftness through the door and vanished again
before he could possibly turn his head to see. The appearance and
disappearance were accomplished with amazing rapidity always.

It was a head and shoulders that looked in, and the movement combined
the speed, the lightness and the silence of a shadow. Only it was not
a shadow. A hand held the edge of the door. The face shot round, saw
him, and withdrew like lightning. It was utterly beyond him to imagine
anything more quick and clever. It darted. He heard no sound. It went.
But--it had seen him, looked him all over, examined him, noted what
he was doing with that lightning glance. It wanted to know if he were
awake still, or asleep. And though it went off, it still watched him
from a distance; it waited somewhere; it knew all about him. _Where_ it
waited no one could ever guess. It came probably, he felt, from beyond
the house, possibly from the roof, but most likely from the garden or
the sky. Yet, though strange, it was not terrible. It was a kindly and
protective figure, he felt. And when it happened he never called for
help, because the occurrence simply took his voice away.

"It comes from the Nightmare Passage," he decided; "but it's _not_ a
nightmare." It puzzled him.

Sometimes, moreover, it came more than once in a single night. He was
pretty sure--not _quite_ positive--that it occupied his room as soon
as he was properly asleep. It took possession, sitting perhaps before
the dying fire, standing upright behind the heavy curtains, or even
lying down in the empty bed his brother used when he was home from
school. Perhaps it played the curtain game, perhaps it poked the coals;
it knew, at any rate, where the eleventh dog had lain concealed. It
certainly came in and out; certainly, too, it did not wish to be seen.
For, more than once, on waking suddenly in the midnight blackness, Tim
knew it was standing close beside his bed and bending over him. He
felt, rather than heard, its presence. It glided quietly away. It moved
with marvellous softness, yet he was positive it moved. He felt the
difference, so to speak. It had been near him, now it was gone. It came
back, too--just as he was falling into sleep again. Its midnight coming
and going, however, stood out sharply different from its first shy,
tentative approach. For in the firelight it came alone; whereas in the
black and silent hours, it had with it--others.

And it was then he made up his mind that its swift and quiet movements
were due to the fact that it had wings. It flew. And the others that
came with it in the darkness were "its little ones." He also made up
his mind that all were friendly, comforting, protective, and that while
positively _not_ a Nightmare, it yet came somehow along the Nightmare
Passage before it reached him. "You see, it's like this," he explained
to the nurse: "The big one comes to visit me alone, but it only brings
its little ones when I'm _quite_ asleep."

"Then the quicker you get to sleep the better, isn't it, Master Tim?"

He replied: "Rather! I always do. Only I wonder where they come
_from_!" He spoke, however, as though he had an inkling.

But the nurse was so dull about it that he gave her up and tried his
father. "Of course," replied this busy but affectionate parent; "it's
either nobody at all, or else it's Sleep coming to carry you away to
the land of dreams." He made the statement kindly but somewhat briskly,
for he was worried just then about the extra taxes on his land, and
the effort to fix his mind on Tim's fanciful world was beyond him at
the moment. He lifted the boy on to his knee, kissed and patted him as
though he were a favourite dog, and planted him on the rug again with a
flying sweep. "Run and ask your mother," he added; "she knows all that
kind of thing. Then come back and tell me all about it--another time."

Tim found his mother in an arm-chair before the fire of another room;
she was knitting and reading at the same time--a wonderful thing the
boy could never understand. She raised her head as he came in, pushed
her glasses on to her forehead, and held her arms out. He told her
everything, ending up with what his father said.

"You see, it's _not_ Jackman, or Thompson, or any one like that," he
exclaimed. "It's some one real."

"But nice," she assured him, "some one who comes to take care of you
and see that you're all safe and cosy."

"Oh, yes, I know that. But----"

"I think your father's right," she added quickly. "It's Sleep, I'm
sure, who pops in round the door like that. Sleep _has_ got wings, I've
always heard."

"Then the other thing--the little ones?" he asked. "Are they just sorts
of dozes, you think?"

Mother did not answer for a moment. She turned down the page of her
book, closed it slowly, put it on the table beside her. More slowly
still she put her knitting away, arranging the wool and needles with
some deliberation.

"Perhaps," she said, drawing the boy closer to her and looking into his
big eyes of wonder, "they're dreams!"

Tim felt a thrill run through him as she said it. He stepped back a
foot or so and clapped his hands softly. "Dreams!" he whispered with
enthusiasm and belief; "of course! I never thought of that."

His mother, having proved her sagacity, then made a mistake. She noted
her success, but instead of leaving it there, she elaborated and
explained. As Tim expressed it she "went on about it." Therefore he did
not listen. He followed his train of thought alone. And presently, he
interrupted her long sentences with a conclusion of his own:

"Then I know where She hides," he announced with a touch of awe. "Where
She lives, I mean." And without waiting to be asked, he imparted the
information: "It's in the Other Wing."

"Ah!" said his mother, taken by surprise. "How clever of you,
Tim!"--and thus confirmed it.

Thenceforward this was established in his life--that Sleep and her
attendant Dreams hid during the daytime in that unused portion of the
great Elizabethan mansion called the Other Wing. This other wing was
unoccupied, its corridors untrodden, its windows shuttered and its
rooms all closed. At various places green baize doors led into it, but
no one ever opened them. For many years this part had been shut up; and
for the children, properly speaking, it was out of bounds. They never
mentioned it as a possible place, at any rate; in hide-and-seek it was
not considered, even; there was a hint of the inaccessible about the
Other Wing. Shadows, dust, and silence had it to themselves.

But Tim, having ideas of his own about everything, possessed special
information about the Other Wing. He believed it _was_ inhabited. Who
occupied the immense series of empty rooms, who trod the spacious
corridors, who passed to and fro behind the shuttered windows, he had
not known exactly. He had called these occupants "they," and the most
important among them was "The Ruler." The Ruler of the Other Wing was a
kind of deity, powerful, far away, ever present yet never seen.

And about this Ruler he had a wonderful conception for a little boy;
he connected her, somehow, with deep thoughts of his own, the deepest
of all. When he made up adventures to the moon, to the stars, or to
the bottom of the sea, adventures that he lived inside himself, as it
were--to reach them he must invariably pass through the chambers of
the Other Wing. Those corridors and halls, the Nightmare Passage among
them, lay along the route; they were the first stage of the journey.
Once the green baize doors swung to behind him and the long dim passage
stretched ahead, he was well on his way into the adventure of the
moment; the Nightmare Passage once passed, he was safe from capture;
but once the shutters of a window had been flung open, he was free of
the gigantic world that lay beyond. For then light poured in and he
could see his way.

The conception, for a child, was curious. It established a
correspondence between the mysterious chambers of the Other Wing and
the occupied, but unguessed chambers of his Inner Being. Through these
chambers, through these darkened corridors, along a passage, sometimes
dangerous, or at least of questionable repute, he must pass to find all
adventures that were _real_. The light--when he pierced far enough to
take the shutters down--was discovery. Tim did not actually think, much
less say, all this. He was aware of it, however. He felt it. The Other
Wing was inside himself as well as through the green baize doors. His
inner map of wonder included both of them.

But now, for the first time in his life, he knew who lived there and
who the Ruler was. A shutter had fallen of its own accord; light poured
in; he made a guess, and Mother had confirmed it. Sleep and her Little
Ones, the host of dreams, were the daylight occupants. They stole out
when the darkness fell. All adventures in life began and ended by a
dream--discoverable by first passing through the Other Wing.


2

And, having settled this, his one desire now was to travel over the map
upon journeys of exploration and discovery. The map inside himself he
knew already, but the map of the Other Wing he had not seen. His mind
knew it, he had a clear mental picture of rooms and halls and passages,
but his feet had never trod the silent floors where dust and shadows
hid the flock of dreams by day. The mighty chambers where Sleep ruled
he longed to stand in, to see the Ruler face to face. He made up his
mind to get into the Other Wing.

To accomplish this was difficult; but Tim was a determined youngster,
and he meant to try; he meant, also, to succeed. He deliberated. At
night he could not possibly manage it; in any case, the Ruler and her
host all left it after dark, to fly about the world; the Wing would
be empty, and the emptiness would frighten him. Therefore he must
make a daylight visit; and it was a daylight visit he decided on.
He deliberated more. There were rules and risks involved: it meant
going out of bounds, the danger of being seen, the certainty of being
questioned by some idle and inquisitive grown-up: "Where in the world
have you been all this time"--and so forth. These things he thought out
carefully, and though he arrived at no solution, he felt satisfied that
it would be all right. That is, he recognised the risks. To be prepared
was half the battle, for nothing then could take him by surprise.

The notion that he might slip in from the garden was soon abandoned;
the red bricks showed no openings; there was no door; from the
courtyard, also, entrance was impracticable; even on tiptoe he could
barely reach the broad window-sills of stone. When playing alone,
or walking with the French governess, he examined every outside
possibility. None offered. The shutters, supposing he could reach them,
were thick and solid.

Meanwhile, when opportunity offered, he stood against the outside walls
and listened, his ear pressed against the tight red bricks; the towers
and gables of the Wing rose overhead; he heard the wind go whispering
along the eaves; he imagined tiptoe movements and a sound of wings
inside. Sleep and her Little Ones were busily preparing for their
journeys after dark; they hid, but they did not sleep; in this unused
Wing, vaster alone than any other country house he had ever seen,
Sleep taught and trained her flock of feathered Dreams. It was very
wonderful. They probably supplied the entire county. But more wonderful
still was the thought that the Ruler herself should take the trouble
to come to his particular room and personally watch over him all
night long. That was amazing. And it flashed across his imaginative,
inquiring mind: "Perhaps they take me with them! The moment I'm asleep!
That's why she comes to see me!"

Yet his chief preoccupation was, how Sleep got out. Through the green
baize doors, of course! By a process of elimination he arrived at a
conclusion: he, too, must enter through a green baize door and risk
detection.

Of late, the lightning visits had ceased. The silent, darting figure
had not peeped in and vanished as it used to do. He fell asleep too
quickly now, almost before Jackman reached the hall, and long before
the fire began to die. Also, the dogs and birds upon the curtains
always matched the trees exactly, and he won the curtain game quite
easily; there was never a dog or bird too many; the curtain never
stirred. It had been thus ever since his talk with Mother and Father.
And so he came to make a second discovery: His parents did not really
believe in his Figure. She kept away on that account. They doubted
her; she hid. Here was still another incentive to go and find her
out. He ached for her, she was so kind, she gave herself so much
trouble--just for his little self in the big and lonely bedroom. Yet
his parents spoke of her as though she were of no account. He longed
to see her, face to face, and tell her that _he_ believed in her and
loved her. For he was positive she would like to hear it. She cared.
Though he had fallen asleep of late too quickly for him to see her
flash in at the door, he had known nicer dreams than ever in his life
before--travelling dreams. And it was she who sent them. More--he was
sure she took him out with her.

One evening, in the dusk of a March day, his opportunity came; and only
just in time, for his brother Jack was expected home from school on the
morrow, and with Jack in the other bed, no Figure would ever care to
show itself. Also it was Easter, and after Easter, though Tim was not
aware of it at the time, he was to say good-bye finally to governesses
and become a day-boarder at a preparatory school for Wellington. The
opportunity offered itself so naturally, moreover, that Tim took it
without hesitation. It never occurred to him to question, much less to
refuse it. The thing was obviously meant to be. For he found himself
unexpectedly in front of a green baize door; and the green baize door
was--swinging! Somebody, therefore, had just passed through it.

It had come about in this wise. Father, away in Scotland, at
Inglemuir, the shooting place, was expected back next morning; Mother
had driven over to the church upon some Easter business or other; and
the governess had been allowed her holiday at home in France. Tim,
therefore, had the run of the house, and in the hour between tea and
bed-time he made good use of it. Fully able to defy such second-rate
obstacles as nurses and butlers, he explored all manner of forbidden
places with ardent thoroughness, arriving finally in the sacred
precincts of his father's study. This wonderful room was the very
heart and centre of the whole big house; he had been birched here long
ago; here, too, his father had told him with a grave yet smiling face:
"You've got a new companion, Tim, a little sister; you must be very
kind to her." Also, it was the place where all the money was kept. What
he called "father's jolly smell" was strong in it--papers, tobacco,
books, flavoured by hunting crops and gunpowder.

At first he felt awed, standing motionless just inside the door;
but presently, recovering equilibrium, he moved cautiously on tiptoe
towards the gigantic desk where important papers were piled in untidy
patches. These he did not touch; but beside them his quick eye noted
the jagged piece of iron shell his father brought home from his Crimean
campaign and now used as a letter-weight. It was difficult to lift,
however. He climbed into the comfortable chair and swung round and
round. It was a swivel-chair, and he sank down among the cushions
in it, staring at the strange things on the great desk before him,
as if fascinated. Next he turned away and saw the stick-rack in the
corner--this, he knew, he was allowed to touch. He had played with
these sticks before. There were twenty, perhaps, all told, with curious
carved handles, brought from every corner of the world; many of them
cut by his father's own hand in queer and distant places. And, among
them, Tim fixed his eye upon a cane with an ivory handle, a slender,
polished cane that he had always coveted tremendously. It was the kind
he meant to use when he was a man. It bent, it quivered, and when he
swished it through the air it trembled like a riding-whip, and made
a whistling noise. Yet it was very strong in spite of its elastic
qualities. A family treasure, it was also an old-fashioned relic; it
had been his grandfather's walking stick. Something of another century
clung visibly about it still. It had dignity and grace and leisure in
its very aspect. And it suddenly occurred to him: "How grandpapa must
miss it! Wouldn't he just love to have it back again!"

How it happened exactly, Tim did not know, but a few minutes later he
found himself walking about the deserted halls and passages of the
house with the air of an elderly gentleman of a hundred years ago,
proud as a courtier, flourishing the stick like an Eighteenth Century
dandy in the Mall. That the cane reached to his shoulder made no
difference; he held it accordingly, swaggering on his way. He was off
upon an adventure. He dived down through the byways of the Other Wing,
inside himself, as though the stick transported him to the days of the
old gentleman who had used it in another century.

It may seem strange to those who dwell in smaller houses, but in this
rambling Elizabethan mansion there were whole sections that, even to
Tim, were strange and unfamiliar. In his mind the map of the Other
Wing was clearer by far than the geography of the part he travelled
daily. He came to passages and dim-lit halls, long corridors of stone
beyond the Picture Gallery; narrow, wainscoted connecting-channels with
four steps down and a little later two steps up; deserted chambers
with arches guarding them--all hung with the soft March twilight and
all bewilderingly unrecognised. With a sense of adventure born of
naughtiness he went carelessly along, farther and farther into the
heart of this unfamiliar country, swinging the cane, one thumb stuck
into the arm-pit of his blue serge suit, whistling softly to himself,
excited yet keenly on the alert--and suddenly found himself opposite a
door that checked all further advance. It was a green baize door. And
it was swinging.

He stopped abruptly, facing it. He stared, he gripped his cane more
tightly, he held his breath. "The Other Wing!" he gasped in a swallowed
whisper. It was an entrance, but an entrance he had never seen before.
He thought he knew every door by heart; but this one was new. He stood
motionless for several minutes, watching it; the door had two halves,
but one half only was swinging, each swing shorter than the one before;
he heard the little puffs of air it made; it settled finally, the last
movements very short and rapid; it stopped. And the boy's heart, after
similar rapid strokes, stopped also--for a moment.

"Some one's just gone through," he gulped. And even as he said it he
knew who the some one was. The conviction just dropped into him. "It's
Grandfather; he knows I've got his stick. He wants it!" On the heels of
this flashed instantly another amazing certainty. "He sleeps in there.
He's having dreams. That's what being dead means."

His first impulse, then, took the form of, "I must let Father know;
it'll make him burst for joy"; but his second was for himself--to
finish his adventure. And it was this, naturally enough, that gained
the day. He could tell his father later. His first duty was plainly to
go through the door into the Other Wing. He must give the stick back to
its owner. He must _hand_ it back.

The test of will and character came now. Tim had imagination, and so
knew the meaning of fear; but there was nothing craven in him. He
could howl and scream and stamp like any other person of his age when
the occasion called for such behaviour, but such occasions were due
to temper roused by a thwarted will, and the histrionics were half
"pretended" to produce a calculated effect. There was no one to thwart
his will at present. He also knew how to be afraid of Nothing, to be
afraid without ostensible cause, that is--which was merely "nerves." He
could have "the shudders" with the best of them.

But, when a real thing faced him, Tim's character emerged to meet it.
He would clench his hands, brace his muscles, set his teeth--and wish
to heaven he was bigger. But he would not flinch. Being imaginative,
he lived the worst a dozen times before it happened, yet in the final
crash he stood up like a man. He had that highest pluck--the courage
of a sensitive temperament. And at this particular juncture, somewhat
ticklish for a boy of eight or nine, it did not fail him. He lifted the
cane and pushed the swinging door wide open. Then he walked through
it--into the Other Wing.


3

The green baize door swung to behind him; he was even sufficiently
master of himself to turn and close it with a steady hand, because he
did not care to hear the series of muffled thuds its lessening swings
would cause. But he realised clearly his position, knew he was doing a
tremendous thing.

Holding the cane between fingers very tightly clenched, he advanced
bravely along the corridor that stretched before him. And all fear left
him from that moment, replaced, it seemed, by a mild and exquisite
surprise. His footsteps made no sound, he walked on air; instead of
darkness, or the twilight he expected, a diffused and gentle light that
seemed like the silver on the lawn when a half-moon sails a cloudless
sky, lay everywhere. He knew his way, moreover, knew exactly where he
was and whither he was going. The corridor was as familiar to him as
the floor of his own bedroom; he recognised the shape and length of
it; it agreed exactly with the map he had constructed long ago. Though
he had never, to the best of his knowledge, entered it before, he knew
with intimacy its every detail.

And thus the surprise he felt was mild and far from disconcerting.
"I'm here again!" was the kind of thought he had. It was _how_ he
got here that caused the faint surprise, apparently. He no longer
swaggered, however, but walked carefully, and half on tiptoe, holding
the ivory handle of the cane with a kind of affectionate respect. And
as he advanced, the light closed softly up behind him, obliterating the
way by which he had come. But this he did not know, because he did not
look behind him. He only looked in front, where the corridor stretched
its silvery length towards the great chamber where he knew the cane
must be surrendered. The person who had preceded him down this ancient
corridor, passing through the green baize door just before he reached
it, this person, his father's father, now stood in that great chamber,
waiting to receive his own. Tim knew it as surely as he knew he
breathed. At the far end he even made out the larger patch of silvery
light which marked its gaping doorway.

There was another thing he knew as well--that this corridor he moved
along between rooms with fast-closed doors, was the Nightmare Corridor;
often and often he had traversed it; each room was occupied. "This
is the Nightmare Passage," he whispered to himself, "but I know the
Ruler--it doesn't matter. None of them can get out or do anything."
He heard them, none the less, inside, as he passed by; he heard them
scratching to get out. The feeling of security made him reckless; he
took unnecessary risks; he brushed the panels as he passed. And the
love of keen sensation for its own sake, the desire to feel "an awful
thrill," tempted him once so sharply that he raised his stick and poked
a fast-shut door with it!

He was not prepared for the result, but he gained the sensation and
the thrill. For the door opened with instant swiftness half an inch, a
hand emerged, caught the stick and tried to draw it in. Tim sprang back
as if he had been struck. He pulled at the ivory handle with all his
strength, but his strength was less than nothing. He tried to shout,
but his voice had gone. A terror of the moon came over him, for he was
unable to loosen his hold of the handle; his fingers had become a part
of it. An appalling weakness turned him helpless. He was dragged inch
by inch towards the fearful door. The end of the stick was already
through the narrow, crack. He could not see the hand that pulled, but
he knew it was terrific. He understood now why the world was strange,
why horses galloped furiously, and why trains whistled as they raced
through stations. All the comedy and terror of nightmare gripped his
heart with pincers made of ice. The disproportion was abominable. The
final collapse rushed over him when, without a sign of warning, the
door slammed silently, and between the jamb and the wall the cane was
crushed as flat as if it were a bulrush. So irresistible was the force
behind the door that the solid stick just went flat as a stalk of a
bulrush.

He looked at it. It _was_ a bulrush.

He did not laugh; the absurdity was so distressingly unnatural. The
horror of finding a bulrush where he had expected a polished cane--this
hideous and appalling detail held the nameless horror of the nightmare.
It betrayed him utterly. Why had he not always known really that the
stick was not a stick, but a thin and hollow reed...?

Then the cane was safely in his hand, unbroken. He stood looking at it.
The Nightmare was in full swing. He heard another door opening behind
his back, a door he had not touched. There was just time to see a hand
thrusting and waving dreadfully, familiarly, at him through the narrow
crack--just time to realise that this was another Nightmare acting
in atrocious concert with the first, when he saw closely beside him,
towering to the ceiling, the protective, kindly Figure that visited his
bedroom. In the turning movement he made to meet the attack, he became
aware of her. And his terror passed. It was a nightmare terror merely.
The infinite horror vanished. Only the comedy remained. He smiled.

He saw her dimly only, she was so vast, but he saw her, the Ruler of
the Other Wing at last, and knew that he was safe again. He gazed with
a tremendous love and wonder, trying to see her clearly; but the face
was hidden far aloft and seemed to melt into the sky beyond the roof.
He discerned that she was larger than the Night, only far, far softer,
with wings that folded above him more tenderly even than his mother's
arms; that there were points of light like stars among the feathers,
and that she was vast enough to cover millions and millions of people
all at once. Moreover, she did not fade or go, so far as he could see,
but spread herself in such a way that he lost sight of her. She spread
over the entire Wing....

And Tim remembered that this was all quite natural really. He had often
and often been down this corridor before; the Nightmare Corridor was
no new experience; it had to be faced as usual. Once knowing what hid
inside the rooms, he was bound to tempt them out. They drew, enticed,
attracted him; this was their power. It was their special strength that
they could suck him helplessly towards them, and that he was obliged to
go. He understood exactly why he was tempted to tap with the cane upon
their awful doors, but, having done so, he had accepted the challenge
and could now continue his journey quietly and safely. The Ruler of the
Other Wing had taken him in charge.

A delicious sense of carelessness came on him. There was softness as of
water in the solid things about him, nothing that could hurt or bruise.
Holding the cane firmly by its ivory handle, he went forward along the
corridor, walking as on air.

The end was quickly reached: He stood upon the threshold of the
mighty chamber where he knew the owner of the cane was waiting; the
long corridor lay behind him, in front he saw the spacious dimensions
of a lofty hall that gave him the feeling of being in the Crystal
Palace, Euston Station, or St. Paul's. High, narrow windows, cut deeply
into the wall, stood in a row upon the other side; an enormous open
fireplace of burning logs was on his right; thick tapestries hung from
the ceiling to the floor of stone; and in the centre of the chamber
was a massive table of dark, shining wood, great chairs with carved
stiff backs set here and there beside it. And in the biggest of these
throne-like chairs there sat a figure looking at him gravely--the
figure of an old, old man.

Yet there was no surprise in the boy's fast-beating heart; there was
a thrill of pleasure and excitement only, a feeling of satisfaction.
He had known quite well the figure would be there, known also it would
look like this exactly. He stepped forward on to the floor of stone
without a trace of fear or trembling, holding the precious cane in two
hands now before him, as though to present it to its owner. He felt
proud and pleased. He had run risks for this.

And the figure rose quietly to meet him, advancing in a stately
manner over the hard stone floor. The eyes looked gravely, sweetly
down at him, the aquiline nose stood out. Tim knew him perfectly: the
knee-breeches of shining satin, the gleaming buckles on the shoes, the
neat dark stockings, the lace and ruffles about neck and wrists, the
coloured waistcoat opening so widely--all the details of the picture
over father's mantelpiece, where it hung between two Crimean bayonets,
were reproduced in life before his eyes at last. Only the polished cane
with the ivory handle was not there.

Tim went three steps nearer to the advancing figure and held out both
his hands with the cane laid crosswise on them.

"I've brought it, Grandfather," he said, in a faint but clear and
steady tone; "here it is."

And the other stooped a little, put out three fingers half concealed
by falling lace, and took it by the ivory handle. He made a courtly bow
to Tim. He smiled, but though there was pleasure, it was a grave, sad
smile. He spoke then: the voice was slow and very deep. There was a
delicate softness in it, the suave politeness of an older day.

"Thank you," he said; "I value it. It was given to me by my
grandfather. I forgot it when I----" His voice grew indistinct a little.

"Yes?" said Tim.

"When I--left," the old gentleman repeated.

"Oh," said Tim, thinking how beautiful and kind the gracious figure was.

The old man ran his slender fingers carefully along the cane, feeling
the polished surface with satisfaction. He lingered specially over the
smoothness of the ivory handle. He was evidently very pleased.

"I was not quite myself--er--at the moment," he went on gently; "my
memory failed me somewhat." He sighed, as though an immense relief was
in him.

"_I_ forget things, too--sometimes," Tim mentioned sympathetically.
He simply loved his grandfather. He hoped--for a moment--he would
be lifted up and kissed. "I'm _awfully_ glad I brought it," he
faltered--"that you've got it again."

The other turned his kind grey eyes upon him; the smile on his face was
full of gratitude as he looked down.

"Thank you, my boy. I am truly and deeply indebted to you. You courted
danger for my sake. Others have tried before, but the Nightmare
Passage--er----" He broke off. He tapped the stick firmly on the stone
flooring, as though to test it. Bending a trifle, he put his weight
upon it. "Ah!" he exclaimed with a short sigh of relief, "I can now----"

His voice again grew indistinct; Tim did not catch the words.

"Yes?" he asked again, aware for the first time that a touch of awe was
in his heart.

"--get about again," the other continued very low. "Without my cane,"
he added, the voice failing with each word the old lips uttered, "I
could not ... possibly ... allow myself ... to be seen. It was indeed
... deplorable ... unpardonable of me ... to forget in such a way.
Zounds, sir...! I--I ..."

His voice sank away suddenly into a sound of wind. He straightened up,
tapping the iron ferrule of his cane on the stones in a series of loud
knocks. Tim felt a strange sensation creep into his legs. The queer
words frightened him a little.

The old man took a step towards him. He still smiled, but there was
a new meaning in the smile. A sudden earnestness had replaced the
courtly, leisurely manner. The next words seemed to blow down upon the
boy from above, as though a cold wind brought them from the sky outside.

Yet the words, he knew, were kindly meant, and very sensible. It was
only the abrupt change that startled him. Grandfather, after all, was
but a man! The distant sound recalled something in him to that outside
world from which the cold wind blew.

"My eternal thanks to you," he heard, while the voice and face and
figure seemed to withdraw deeper and deeper into the heart of the
mighty chamber. "I shall not forget your kindness and your courage. It
is a debt I can, fortunately, one day repay.... But now you had best
return and with dispatch. For your head and arm lie heavily on the
table, the documents are scattered, there is a cushion fallen ... and
my son is in the house.... Farewell! You had best leave me quickly.
See! _She_ stands behind you, waiting. Go with her! Go now...!"

The entire scene had vanished even before the final words were uttered.
Tim felt empty space about him. A vast, shadowy Figure bore him through
it as with mighty wings. He flew, he rushed, he remembered nothing
more--until he heard another voice and felt a heavy hand upon his
shoulder.

"Tim, you rascal! What are you doing in my study? And in the dark,
like this!"

He looked up into his father's face without a word. He felt dazed. The
next minute his father had caught him up and kissed him.

"Ragamuffin! How did you guess I was coming back to-night?" He shook
him playfully and kissed his tumbling hair. "And you've been asleep,
too, into the bargain. Well--how's everything at home--eh? Jack's
coming back from school to-morrow, you know, and ..."


4

Jack came home, indeed, the following day, and when the Easter holidays
were over, the governess stayed abroad and Tim went off to adventures
of another kind in the preparatory school for Wellington. Life slipped
rapidly along with him; he grew into a man; his mother and his father
died; Jack followed them within a little space; Tim inherited, married,
settled down into his great possessions--and opened up the Other
Wing. The dreams of imaginative boyhood all had faded; perhaps he had
merely put them away, or perhaps he had forgotten them. At any rate,
he never spoke of such things now, and when his Irish wife mentioned
her belief that the old country house possessed a family ghost, even
declaring that she had met an Eighteenth Century figure of a man in
the corridors, "an old, old man who bends down upon a stick"--Tim only
laughed and said:

"That's as it ought to be! And if these awful land-taxes force us to
sell some day, a respectable ghost will increase the market value."

But one night he woke and heard a tapping on the floor. He sat up in
bed and listened. There was a chilly feeling down his back. Belief
had long since gone out of him; he felt uncannily afraid. The sound
came nearer and nearer; there were light footsteps with it. The door
opened--it opened a little wider, that is, for it already stood
ajar--and there upon the threshold stood a figure that it seemed he
knew. He saw the face as with all the vivid sharpness of reality.
There was a smile upon it, but a smile of warning and alarm. The arm
was raised. Tim saw the slender hand, lace falling down upon the long,
thin fingers, and in them, tightly gripped, a polished cane. Shaking
the cane twice to and fro in the air, the face thrust forward, spoke
certain words, and--vanished. But the words were inaudible; for, though
the lips distinctly moved, no sound, apparently, came from them.

And Tim sprang out of bed. The room was full of darkness. He turned the
light on. The door, he saw, was shut as usual. He had, of course, been
dreaming. But he noticed a curious odour in the air. He sniffed it once
or twice--then grasped the truth. It was a smell of burning!

Fortunately, he awoke just in time....

He was acclaimed a hero for his promptitude. After many days, when
the damage was repaired, and nerves had settled down once more into
the calm routine of country life, he told the story to his wife--the
entire story. He told the adventure of his imaginative boyhood with
it. She asked to see the old family cane. And it was this request of
hers that brought back to memory a detail Tim had entirely forgotten
all these years. He remembered it suddenly again--the loss of the cane,
the hubbub his father kicked up about it, the endless, futile search.
For the stick had never been found, and Tim, who was questioned very
closely concerning it, swore with all his might that he had not the
smallest notion where it was. Which was, of course, the truth.




VII

THE OCCUPANT OF THE ROOM


He arrived late at night by the yellow diligence, stiff and cramped
after the toilsome ascent of three slow hours. The village, a single
mass of shadow, was already asleep. Only in front of the little hotel
was there noise and light and bustle--for a moment. The horses, with
tired, slouching gait, crossed the road and disappeared into the stable
of their own accord, their harness trailing in the dust; and the
lumbering diligence stood for the night where they had dragged it--the
body of a great yellow-sided beetle with broken legs.

In spite of his physical weariness the schoolmaster, revelling in the
first hours of his ten-guinea holiday, felt exhilarated. For the high
Alpine valley was marvellously still; stars twinkled over the torn
ridges of the Dent du Midi where spectral snows gleamed against rocks
that looked like solid ink; and the keen air smelt of pine forests,
dew-soaked pastures, and freshly sawn wood. He took it all in with a
kind of bewildered delight for a few minutes, while the other three
passengers gave directions about their luggage and went to their rooms.
Then he turned and walked over the coarse matting into the glare of the
hall, only just able to resist stopping to examine the big mountain map
that hung upon the wall by the door.

And, with a sudden disagreeable shock, he came down from the ideal to
the actual. For at the inn--the only inn--there was no vacant room.
Even the available sofas were occupied....

How stupid he had been not to write! Yet it had been impossible, he
remembered, for he had come to the decision suddenly that morning in
Geneva, enticed by the brilliance of the weather after a week of rain.

They talked endlessly, this gold-braided porter and the hard-faced old
woman--her face was hard, he noticed--gesticulating all the time, and
pointing all about the village with suggestions that he ill understood,
for his French was limited and their _patois_ was fearful.

"_There!_"--he might find a room, "or _there_! But we are, _hélas_
full--more full than we care about. To-morrow, perhaps--if So-and-So
give up their rooms----!" And then, with much shrugging of shoulders,
the hard-faced old woman stared at the gold-braided porter, and the
porter stared sleepily at the schoolmaster.

At length, however, by some process of hope he did not himself
understand, and following directions given by the old woman that were
utterly unintelligible, he went out into the street and walked towards
a dark group of houses she had pointed out to him. He only knew that
he meant to thunder at a door and ask for a room. He was too weary to
think out details. The porter half made to go with him, but turned back
at the last moment to speak with the old woman. The houses sketched
themselves dimly in the general blackness. The air was cold. The whole
valley was filled with the rush and thunder of falling water. He was
thinking vaguely that the dawn could not be very far away, and that
he might even spend the night wandering in the woods, when there was
a sharp noise behind him and he turned to see a figure hurrying after
him. It was the porter--running.

And in the little hall of the inn there began again a confused
three-cornered conversation, with frequent muttered colloquy and
whispered asides in _patois_ between the woman and the porter--the net
result of which was that, "If Monsieur did not object--there _was_ a
room, after all, on the first floor--only it was in a sense 'engaged.'
That is to say----"

But the schoolmaster took the room without inquiring too closely into
the puzzle that had somehow provided it so suddenly. The ethics of
hotel-keeping had nothing to do with him. If the woman offered him
quarters it was not for him to argue with her whether the said quarters
were legitimately hers to offer.

But the porter, evidently a little thrilled, accompanied the guest up
to the room and supplied in a mixture of French and English details
omitted by the landlady--and Minturn, the schoolmaster, soon shared
the thrill with him, and found himself in the atmosphere of a possible
tragedy.

All who know the peculiar excitement that belongs to high mountain
valleys where dangerous climbing is a chief feature of the attractions,
will understand a certain faint element of high alarm that goes with
the picture. One looks up at the desolate, soaring ridges and thinks
involuntarily of the men who find their pleasure for days and nights
together scaling perilous summits among the clouds, and conquering
inch by inch the icy peaks that for ever shake their dark terror in
the sky. The atmosphere of adventure, spiced with the possible horror
of a very grim order of tragedy, is inseparable from any imaginative
contemplation of the scene; and the idea Minturn gleaned from the
half-frightened porter lost nothing by his ignorance of the language.
This Englishwoman, the real occupant of the room, had insisted on going
without a guide. She had left just before daybreak two days before--the
porter had seen her start--and ... she had not returned! The route was
difficult and dangerous, yet not impossible for a skilled climber, even
a solitary one. And the Englishwoman was an experienced mountaineer.
Also, she was self-willed, careless of advice, bored by warnings,
self-confident to a degree. Queer, moreover; for she kept entirely
to herself, and sometimes remained in her room with locked doors,
admitting no one, for days together: a "crank," evidently, of the first
water.

This much Minturn gathered clearly enough from the porter's talk while
his luggage was brought in and the room set to rights; further, too,
that the search party had gone out and _might_, of course, return at
any moment. In which case---- Thus the room was empty, yet still hers.
"If Monsieur did not object--if the risk he ran of having to turn out
suddenly in the night----" It was the loquacious porter who furnished
the details that made the transaction questionable; and Minturn
dismissed the loquacious porter as soon as possible, and prepared to
get into the hastily arranged bed and snatch all the hours of sleep he
could before he was turned out.

At first, it must be admitted, he felt uncomfortable--distinctly
uncomfortable. He was in some one else's room. He had really no right
to be there. It was in the nature of an unwarrantable intrusion; and
while he unpacked he kept looking over his shoulder as though some one
were watching him from the corners. Any moment, it seemed, he would
hear a step in the passage, a knock would come at the door, the door
would open, and there he would see this vigorous Englishwoman looking
him up and down with anger. Worse still--he would hear her voice asking
him what he was doing in her room--her bedroom. Of course, he had an
adequate explanation, but still----!

Then, reflecting that he was already half undressed, the humour of it
flashed for a second across his mind, and he laughed--_quietly_. And at
once, after that laughter, under his breath, came the sudden sense of
tragedy he had felt before. Perhaps, even while he smiled, her body lay
broken and cold upon those awful heights, the wind of snow playing over
her hair, her glazed eyes staring sightless up to the stars.... It
made him shudder. The sense of this woman whom he had never seen, whose
name even he did not know, became extraordinarily real. Almost he could
imagine that she was somewhere in the room with him, hidden, observing
all he did.

He opened the door softly to put his boots outside, and when he closed
it again he turned the key. Then he finished unpacking and distributed
his few things about the room. It was soon done; for, in the first
place, he had only a small Gladstone and a knapsack, and secondly, the
only place where he could spread his clothes was the sofa. There was no
chest of drawers, and the cupboard, an unusually large and solid one,
was locked. The Englishwoman's things had evidently been hastily put
away in it. The only sign of her recent presence was a bunch of faded
_Alpenrosen_ standing in a glass jar upon the washhand stand. This, and
a certain faint perfume, were all that remained. In spite, however, of
these very slight evidences, the whole room was pervaded with a curious
sense of occupancy that he found exceedingly distasteful. One moment
the atmosphere seemed subtly charged with a "just left" feeling; the
next it was a queer awareness of "still here" that made him turn cold
and look hurriedly behind him.

Altogether, the room inspired him with a singular aversion, and the
strength of this aversion seemed the only excuse for his tossing the
faded flowers out of the window, and then hanging his mackintosh upon
the cupboard door in such a way as to screen it as much as possible
from view. For the sight of that big, ugly cupboard, filled with the
clothing of a woman who might then be beyond any further need of
covering--thus his imagination insisted on picturing it--touched in him
a startled sense of the Incongruous that did not stop there, but crept
through his mind gradually till it merged somehow into a sense of a
rather grotesque horror. At any rate, the sight of that cupboard was
offensive, and he covered it almost instinctively. Then, turning out
the electric light, he got into bed.

But the instant the room was dark he realised that it was more than he
could stand; for, with the blackness, there came a sudden rush of cold
that he found it hard to explain. And the odd thing was that, when he
lit the candle beside his bed, he noticed that his hand trembled.

This, of course, was too much. His imagination was taking liberties
and must be called to heel. Yet the way he called it to order was
significant, and its very deliberateness betrayed a mind that has
already admitted fear. And fear, once in, is difficult to dislodge.
He lay there upon his elbow in bed and carefully took note of all the
objects in the room--with the intention, as it were, of taking an
inventory of everything his senses perceived, then drawing a line,
adding them up finally, and saying with decision, "That's all the room
contains! I've counted every single thing. There is nothing more.
_Now_--I may sleep in peace!"

And it was during this absurd process of enumerating the furniture of
the room that the dreadful sense of distressing lassitude came over him
that made it difficult even to finish counting. It came swiftly, yet
with an amazing kind of violence that overwhelmed him softly and easily
with a sensation of enervating weariness hard to describe. And its
first effect was to banish fear. He no longer possessed enough energy
to feel really afraid or nervous. The cold remained, but the alarm
vanished. And into every corner of his usually vigorous personality
crept the insidious poison of a _muscular_ fatigue--at first--that in a
few seconds, it seemed, translated itself into _spiritual_ inertia. A
sudden consciousness of the foolishness, the crass futility, of life,
of effort, of fighting--of all that makes life worth living, shot into
every fibre of his being, and left him utterly weak. A spirit of black
pessimism that was not even vigorous enough to assert itself, invaded
the secret chambers of his heart....

Every picture that presented itself to his mind came dressed in
grey shadows: those bored and sweating horses toiling up the ascent
to--nothing! that hard-faced landlady taking so much trouble to let her
desire for gain conquer her sense of morality--for a few francs! That
gold-braided porter, so talkative, fussy, energetic, and so anxious
to tell all he knew! What was the use of them all? And for himself,
what in the world was the good of all the labour and drudgery he went
through in that preparatory school where he was junior master? What
could it lead to? Wherein lay the value of so much uncertain toil, when
the ultimate secrets of life were hidden and no one knew the final
goal? How foolish was effort, discipline, work! How vain was pleasure!
How trivial the noblest life!...

With a fearful jump that nearly upset the candle Minturn pulled himself
together. Such vicious thoughts were usually so remote from his normal
character that the sudden vile invasion produced a swift reaction. Yet,
only for a moment. Instantly, again, the black depression descended
upon him like a wave. His work--it could lead to nothing but the
dreary labour of a small headmastership after all--seemed as vain
and foolish as his holiday in the Alps. What an idiot he had been,
to be sure, to come out with a knapsack merely to work himself into
a state of exhaustion climbing over toilsome mountains that led to
nowhere--resulted in nothing. A dreariness of the grave possessed him.
Life was a ghastly fraud! Religion childish humbug! Everything was
merely a trap--a trap of death; a coloured toy that Nature used as
a decoy! But a decoy for what? For nothing! There was no meaning in
anything. The only _real_ thing was--DEATH. And the happiest people
were those who found it soonest.

_Then why wait for it to come?_

He sprang out of bed, thoroughly frightened. This was horrible. Surely
mere physical fatigue could not produce a world so black, an outlook so
dismal, a cowardice that struck with such sudden hopelessness at the
very roots of life? For, normally, he was cheerful and strong, full
of the tides of healthy living; and this appalling lassitude swept
the very basis of his personality into Nothingness and the desire for
death. It was like the development of a Secondary Personality. He had
read, of course, how certain persons who suffered shocks developed
thereafter entirely different characteristics, memory, tastes, and
so forth. It had all rather frightened him. Though scientific men
vouched for it, it was hardly to be believed. Yet here was a similar
thing taking place in his own consciousness. He was, beyond question,
experiencing all the mental variations of--_some one else_! It was
un-moral. It was awful. It was--well, after all, at the same time, it
was uncommonly interesting.

And this interest he began to feel was the first sign of his returning
normal Self. For to feel interest is to live, and to love life.

He sprang into the middle of the room--then switched on the electric
light. And the first thing that struck his eye was--the big cupboard.

"Hallo! There's that--beastly cupboard!" he exclaimed to himself,
involuntarily, yet aloud. It held all the clothes, the swinging
skirts and coats and summer blouses of the dead woman. For he knew
now--somehow or other--that she _was_ dead....

At that moment, through the open windows, rushed the sound of falling
water, bringing with it a vivid realisation of the desolate, snow-swept
heights. He saw her--positively _saw_ her!--lying where she had fallen,
the frost upon her cheeks, the snow-dust eddying about her hair and
eyes, her broken limbs pushing against the lumps of ice. For a moment
the sense of spiritual lassitude--of the emptiness of life--vanished
before this picture of broken effort--of a small human force battling
pluckily, yet in vain, against the impersonal and pitiless Potencies of
Inanimate Nature--and he found himself again, his normal self. Then,
instantly, returned again that terrible sense of cold, nothingness,
emptiness....

And he found himself standing opposite the big cupboard where her
clothes were. He wanted to see those clothes--things she had used and
worn. Quite close he stood, almost touching it. The next second he had
touched it. His knuckles struck upon the wood.

Why he knocked is hard to say. It was an instinctive movement probably.
Something in his deepest self dictated it--ordered it. He knocked at
the door. And the dull sound upon the wood into the stillness of that
room brought--horror. Why it should have done so he found it as hard
to explain to himself as why he should have felt impelled to knock.
The fact remains that when he heard the faint reverberation inside the
cupboard, it brought with it so vivid a realisation of the woman's
presence that he stood there shivering upon the floor with a dreadful
sense of anticipation: he almost expected to hear an answering knock
from within--the rustling of the hanging skirts perhaps--or, worse
still, to see the locked door slowly open towards him.

And from that moment, he declares that in some way or other he must
have partially lost control of himself, or at least of his better
judgment; for he became possessed by such an overmastering desire
to tear open that cupboard door and see the clothes within, that he
tried every key in the room in the vain effort to unlock it, and then,
finally, before he quite realised what he was doing--rang the bell!

But, having rung the bell for no obvious or intelligent reason at
two o'clock in the morning, he then stood waiting in the middle of
the floor for the servant to come, conscious for the first time that
something outside his ordinary self had pushed him towards the act. It
was almost like an internal voice that directed him ... and thus, when
at last steps came down the passage and he faced the cross and sleepy
chambermaid, amazed at being summoned at such an hour, he found no
difficulty in the matter of what he should say. For the same power that
insisted he should open the cupboard door also impelled him to utter
words over which he apparently had no control.

"It's not _you_ I rang for!" he said with decision and impatience, "I
want a man. Wake the porter and send him up to me at once--hurry! I
tell you, hurry----!"

And when the girl had gone, frightened at his earnestness, Minturn
realised that the words surprised himself as much as they surprised
her. Until they were out of his mouth he had not known what exactly
he was saying. But now he understood that some force foreign to his
own personality was using his mind and organs. The black depression
that had possessed him a few moments before was also part of it. The
powerful mood of this vanished woman had somehow momentarily taken
possession of him--communicated, possibly, by the atmosphere of things
in the room still belonging to her. But even now, when the porter,
without coat or collar, stood beside him in the room, he did not
understand _why_ he insisted, with a positive fury admitting no denial,
that the key of that cupboard must be found and the door instantly
opened.

The scene was a curious one. After some perplexed whispering with
the chambermaid at the end of the passage, the porter managed to find
and produce the key in question. Neither he nor the girl knew clearly
what this excited Englishman was up to, or why he was so passionately
intent upon opening the cupboard at two o'clock in the morning. They
watched him with an air of wondering what was going to happen next.
But something of his curious earnestness, even of his late fear,
communicated itself to them, and the sound of the key grating in the
lock made them both jump.

They held their breath as the creaking door swung slowly open. All
heard the clatter of that other key as it fell against the wooden
floor--within. The cupboard had been locked _from the inside_. But it
was the scared housemaid, from her position in the corridor, who first
saw--and with a wild scream fell crashing against the bannisters.

The porter made no attempt to save her. The schoolmaster and himself
made a simultaneous rush towards the door, now wide open. They, too,
had seen.

There were no clothes, skirts or blouses on the pegs, but, all by
itself, from an iron hook in the centre, they saw the body of the
Englishwoman hanging by the neck, the head bent horribly forwards, the
tongue protruding. Jarred by the movement of unlocking, the body swung
slowly round to face them.... Pinned upon the inside of the door was a
hotel envelope with the following words pencilled in straggling writing:

"Tired--unhappy--hopelessly depressed.... I cannot face life any
longer.... All is black. I must put an end to it.... I meant to do it
on the mountains, but was afraid. I slipped back to my room unobserved.
This way is easiest and best...."




VIII

CAIN'S ATONEMENT


So many thousands to-day have deliberately put Self aside, and are
ready to yield their lives for an ideal, that it is not surprising a
few of them should have registered experiences of a novel order. For
to step aside from Self is to enter a larger world, to be open to new
impressions. If Powers of Good exist in the universe at all, they can
hardly be inactive at the present time....

The case of two men, who may be called Jones and Smith, occurs to the
mind in this connection. Whether a veil actually was lifted for a
moment, or whether the tension of long and terrible months resulted in
an exaltation of emotion, the experience claims significance. Smith,
to whom the experience came, holds the firm belief that it was real.
Jones, though it involved him too, remained unaware.

It is a somewhat personal story, their peculiar relationship dating
from early youth: a kind of unwilling antipathy was born between them,
yet an antipathy that had no touch of hate or even of dislike. It was
rather in the nature of an instinctive rivalry. Some tie operated that
flung them ever into the same arena with strange persistence, and ever
as opponents. An inevitable fate delighted to throw them together in a
sense that made them rivals; small as well as large affairs betrayed
this malicious tendency of the gods. It showed itself in earliest
days, at school, at Cambridge, in travel, even in house-parties
and the lighter social intercourse. Though distant cousins, their
families were not intimate, and there was no obvious reason why their
paths should fall so persistently together. Yet their paths did so,
crossing and recrossing in the way described. Sooner or later, in
all his undertakings, Smith would note the shadow of Jones darkening
the ground in front of him; and later, when called to the Bar in his
chosen profession, he found most frequently that the learned counsel
in opposition to him was the owner of this shadow, Jones. In another
matter, too, they became rivals, for the same girl, oddly enough,
attracted both, and though she accepted neither offer of marriage
(during Smith's lifetime!), the attitude between them was that of
unwilling rivals. For they were friends as well.

Jones, it appears, was hardly aware that any rivalry existed; he did
not think of Smith as an opponent, and as an adversary, never. He did
notice, however, the constantly recurring meetings, for more than once
he commented on them with good-humoured amusement. Smith, on the other
hand, was conscious of a depth and strength in the tie that certainly
intrigued him; being of a thoughtful, introspective nature, he was
keenly sensible of the strange competition in their lives, and sought
in various ways for its explanation, though without success. The desire
to find out was very strong in him. And this was natural enough, owing
to the singular fact that in all their battles he was the one to lose.
Invariably Jones got the best of every conflict. Smith always paid;
sometimes he paid with interest.

Occasionally, too, he seemed forced to injure himself while
contributing to his cousin's success. It was very curious. He reflected
much upon it; he wondered what the origin of their tie and rivalry
might be, but especially why it was that he invariably lost, and why
he was so often obliged to help his rival to the point even of his own
detriment. Tempted to bitterness sometimes, he did not yield to it,
however; the relationship remained frank and pleasant; if anything, it
deepened.

He remembered once, for instance, giving his cousin a chance
introduction which yet led, a little later, to the third party offering
certain evidence which lost him an important case--Jones, of course,
winning it. The third party, too, angry at being dragged into the case,
turned hostile to him, thwarting various subsequent projects. In no
other way could Jones have procured this particular evidence; he did
not know of its existence even. That chance introduction did it all.
There was nothing the least dishonourable on the part of Jones--it
was just the chance of the dice. The dice were always loaded against
Smith--and there were other instances of similar kind.

About this time, moreover, a singular feeling that had lain vaguely
in his mind for some years past, took more definite form. It suddenly
assumed the character of a conviction, that yet had no evidence to
support it. A voice, long whispering in the depths of him, became
much louder, grew into a statement that he accepted without further
ado: "I'm paying off a debt," he phrased it, "an old, old debt is
being discharged. I owe him this--my help and so forth." He accepted
it, that is, as just; and this certainty of justice kept sweet his
heart and mind, shutting the door on bitterness or envy. The thought,
however, though it recurred persistently with each encounter, brought
no explanation.

When the war broke out both offered their services; as members of the
O.T.C., they got commissions quickly; but it was a chance remark of
Smith's that made his friend join the very regiment he himself was in.
They trained together, were in the same retreats and the same advances
together. Their friendship deepened. Under the stress of circumstances
the tie did not dissolve, but strengthened. It was indubitably real,
therefore. Then, oddly enough, they were both wounded in the same
engagement.

And it was here the remarkable fate that jointly haunted them betrayed
itself more clearly than in any previous incident of their long
relationship--Smith was wounded in the act of protecting his cousin.
How it happened is confusing to a layman, but each apparently was
leading a bombing-party, and the two parties came together. They found
themselves shoulder to shoulder, both brimmed with that pluck which
is complete indifference to Self; they exchanged a word of excited
greeting; and the same second one of those rare opportunities of
advantage presented itself which only the highest courage could make
use of. Neither, certainly, was thinking of personal reward; it was
merely that each saw the chance by which instant heroism might gain a
surprise advantage for their side. The risk was heavy, but there _was_
a chance; and success would mean a decisive result, to say nothing of
high distinction for the man who obtained it--if he survived. Smith,
being a few yards ahead of his cousin, had the moment in his grasp.
He was in the act of dashing forward when something made him pause.
A bomb in mid-air, flung from the opposing trench, was falling; it
seemed immediately above him; he saw that it would just miss himself,
but land full upon his cousin--whose head was turned the other way. By
stretching out his hand, Smith knew he could field it like a cricket
ball. There was an interval of a second and a half, he judged. He
hesitated--perhaps a quarter of a second--then he acted. He caught it.
It was the obvious thing to do. He flung it back into the opposing
trench.

The rapidity of thought is hard to realise. In that second and a
half Smith was aware of many things: He saved his cousin's life
unquestionably; unquestionably also Jones seized the opportunity that
otherwise was his cousin's. But it was neither of these reflections
that filled Smith's mind. The dominant impression was another. It
flashed into actual words inside his excited brain: "I must risk it.
I owe it to him--and more besides!" He was, further, aware of another
impulse than the obvious one. In the first fraction of a second it was
overwhelmingly established. And it was this: that the entire episode
was familiar to him. A subtle familiarity was present. All this had
happened before. He had already--somewhere, somehow--seen death
descending upon his cousin from the air. Yet with a difference. The
"difference" escaped him; the familiarity was vivid. That he missed the
deadly detonators in making the catch, or that the fuse delayed, he
called good luck. He only remembers that he flung the gruesome weapon
back whence it had come, and that its explosion in the opposite trench
materially helped his cousin to find glory in the place of death. The
slight delay, however, resulted in his receiving a bullet through the
chest--a bullet he would not otherwise have received, presumably.

It was some days later, gravely wounded, that he discovered his cousin
in another bed across the darkened floor. They exchanged remarks.
Jones was already "decorated," it seemed, having snatched success
from his cousin's hands, while little aware whose help had made it
easier.... And once again there stole across the inmost mind of Smith
that strange, insistent whisper: "I owed it to him ... but, by God, I
owe more than that ... I mean to pay it too...!"

There was not a trace of bitterness or envy now; only this profound
conviction, of obscurest origin, that it was right and absolutely
just--full, honest repayment of a debt incurred. Some ancient balance
of account was being settled; there was no "chance"; injustice and
caprice played no role at all.... And a deeper understanding of life's
ironies crept into him; for if everything was _just_, there was no room
for whimpering.

And the voice persisted above the sound of busy footsteps in the ward:
"I owe it ... I'll pay it gladly...!"

Through the pain and weakness the whisper died away. He was
exhausted. There were periods of unconsciousness, but there were
periods of half-consciousness as well; then flashes of another kind
of consciousness altogether, when, bathed in high, soft light, he
was aware of things he could not quite account for. He _saw_. It was
absolutely real. Only, the critical faculty was gone. He did not
question what he saw, as he stared across at his cousin's bed. He
knew. Perhaps the beaten, worn-out body let something through at last.
The nerves, over-strained to numbness, lay very still. The physical
system, battered and depleted, made no cry. The clamour of the flesh
was hushed. He was aware, however, of an undeniable exaltation of the
spirit in him, as he lay and gazed towards his cousin's bed....

Across the night of time, it seemed to him, the picture stole before
his inner eye with a certainty that left no room for doubt. It was not
the cells of memory in his brain of To-day that gave up their dead,
it was the eternal Self in him that remembered and understood--the
soul....

With that satisfaction which is born of full comprehension, he
watched the light glow and spread about the little bed. Thick matting
deadened the footsteps of nurses, orderlies, doctors. New cases were
brought in, "old" cases were carried out; he ignored them; he saw
only the light above his cousin's bed grow stronger. He lay still and
stared. It came neither from the ceiling nor the floor; it unfolded
like a cloud of shining smoke. And the little lamp, the sheets, the
figure framed between them--all these slid cleverly away and vanished
utterly. He stood in another place that had lain behind all these
appearances--a landscape with wooded hills, a foaming river, the sun
just sinking below the forest, and dusk creeping from a gorge along
the lonely banks. In the warm air there was a perfume of great flowers
and heavy-scented trees; there were fire-flies, and the taste of spray
from the tumbling river was on his lips. Across the water a large
bird, flapped its heavy wings, as it moved down-stream to find another
fishing place. For he and his companion had disturbed it as they broke
out of the thick foliage and reached the river-bank. The companion,
moreover, was his brother; they ever hunted together; there was a
passionate link between them born of blood and of affection--they were
twins....

It all was as clear as though of Yesterday. In his heart was the lust
of the hunt; in his blood was the lust of woman; and thick behind these
lurked the jealousy and fierce desire of a primitive day. But, though
clear as of Yesterday, he knew that it was of long, long ago.... And
his brother came up close beside him, resting his bloody spear with a
clattering sound against the boulders on the shore. He saw the gleaming
of the metal in the sunset, he saw the shining glitter of the spray
upon the boulders, he saw his brother's eyes look straight into his
own. And in them shone a light that was neither the reflection of the
sunset, nor the excitement of the hunt just over.

"It escaped us," said his brother. "Yet I know my first spear struck."

"It followed the fawn that crossed," was the reply. "Besides, we
came down wind, thus giving it warning. Our flocks, at any rate, are
safer----"

The other laughed significantly.

"It is not the safety of our flocks that troubles me just now,
brother," he interrupted eagerly, while the light burned more deeply in
his eyes. "It is, rather, that _she_ waits for me by the fire across
the river, and that I would get to her. With your help added to my
love," he went on in a trusting voice, "the gods have shown me the
favour of true happiness!" He pointed with his spear to a camp-fire
on the farther bank, turning his head as he strode to plunge into the
stream and swim across.

For an instant, then, the other felt his natural love turn into bitter
hate. His own fierce passion, unconfessed, concealed, burst into
instant flame. That the girl should become his brother's wife sent the
blood surging through his veins in fury. He felt his life and all that
he desired go down in ashes.... He watched his brother stride towards
the water, the deer-skin cast across one naked shoulder--when another
object caught his practised eye. In mid-air it passed suddenly, like
a shining gleam; it seemed to hang a second; then it swept swiftly
forward past his head--and downward. It had leaped with a blazing fury
from the overhanging bank behind; he saw the blood still streaming
from its wounded flank. It must land--he saw it with a secret, awful
pleasure--full upon the striding figure, whose head was turned away!

The swiftness of that leap, however, was not so swift but that he could
easily have used his spear. Indeed, he gripped it strongly. His skill,
his strength, his aim--he knew them well enough. But hate and love,
fastening upon his heart, held all his muscles still. He hesitated. He
was no murderer, yet he paused. He heard the roar, the ugly thud, the
crash, the cry for help--too late ... and when, an instant afterwards,
his steel plunged into the great beast's heart, the human heart and
life he might have saved lay still for ever.... He heard the water
rushing past, an icy wind came down the gorge against his naked back,
he saw the fire shine upon the farther bank ... and the figure of a
girl in skins was wading across, seeking out the shallow places in the
dusk, and calling wildly as she came.... Then darkness hid the entire
landscape, yet a darkness that was deeper, bluer than the velvet of the
night alone....

And he shrieked aloud in his remorseful anguish: "May the gods
forgive me, for I did not mean it! Oh, that I might undo ... that
I might repay...!"

That his cries disturbed the weary occupants in more than one bed is
certain, but he remembers chiefly that a nurse was quickly by his side,
and that something she gave him soothed his violent pain and helped
him into deeper sleep again. There was, he noticed, anyhow, no longer
the soft, clear, blazing light about his cousin's bed. He saw only the
faint glitter of the oil-lamps down the length of the great room....

And some weeks later he went back to fight. The picture, however, never
left his memory. It stayed with him as an actual reality that was
neither delusion nor hallucination. He believed that he understood at
last the meaning of the tie that had fettered him and puzzled him so
long. The memory of those far-off days of shepherding beneath the stars
of long ago remained vividly beside him. He kept his secret, however.
In many a talk with his cousin beneath the nearer stars of Flanders no
word of it ever passed his lips.

The friendship between them, meanwhile, experienced a curious
deepening, though unacknowledged in any spoken words. Smith, at any
rate, on his side, put into it an affection that was a brave man's
love. He watched over his cousin. In the fighting especially, when
possible, he sought to protect and shield him, regardless of his own
personal safety. He delighted secretly in the honours his cousin had
already won. He himself was not yet even mentioned in dispatches, and
no public distinction of any kind had come his way.

His V.C. eventually--well, he was no longer occupying his body when it
was bestowed. He had already "left." ... He was now conscious, possibly,
of other experiences besides that one of ancient, primitive days when
he and his brother were shepherding beneath other stars. But the
reckless heroism which saved his cousin under fire may later enshrine
another memory which, at some far future time, shall reawaken as a
"hallucination" from a Past that to-day is called the Present.... The
notion, at any rate, flashed across his mind before he "left."




IX

AN EGYPTIAN HORNET


The word has an angry, malignant sound that brings the idea of
attack vividly into the mind. There is a vicious sting about it
somewhere--even a foreigner, ignorant of the meaning, must feel it.
A hornet is wicked; it darts and stabs; it pierces, aiming without
provocation for the face and eyes. The name suggests a metallic droning
of evil wings, fierce flight, and poisonous assault. Though black and
yellow, it sounds scarlet. There is blood in it. A striped tiger of the
air in concentrated form! There is no escape--if it attacks.

In Egypt an ordinary bee is the size of an English hornet, but the
Egyptian hornet is enormous. It is truly monstrous--an ominous, dying
terror. It shares that universal quality of the land of the Sphinx and
Pyramids--great size. It is a formidable insect, worse than scorpion
or tarantula. The Rev. James Milligan, meeting one for the first
time, realised the meaning of another word as well, a word he used
prolifically in his eloquent sermons--devil.

One morning in April, when the heat began to bring the insects out,
he rose as usual betimes and went across the wide stone corridor to
his bath. The desert already glared in through the open windows. The
heat would be afflicting later in the day, but at this early hour the
cool north wind blew pleasantly down the hotel passages. It was Sunday,
and at half-past eight o'clock he would appear to conduct the morning
service for the English visitors. The floor of the passage-way was cold
beneath his feet in their thin native slippers of bright yellow. He was
neither young nor old; his salary was comfortable; he had a competency
of his own, without wife or children to absorb it; the dry climate
had been recommended to him; and--the big hotel took him in for next
to nothing. And he was thoroughly pleased with himself, for he was a
sleek, vain, pompous, well-advertised personality, but mean as a rat.
No worries of any kind were on his mind as, carrying sponge and towel,
scented soap and a bottle of Scrubb's ammonia, he travelled amiably
across the deserted, shining corridor to the bathroom. And nothing
went wrong with the Rev. James Milligan until he opened the door, and
his eye fell upon a dark, suspicious-looking object clinging to the
window-pane in front of him.

And even then, at first, he felt no anxiety or alarm, but merely a
natural curiosity to know exactly what it was--this little clot of an
odd-shaped, elongated thing that stuck there on the wooden framework
six feet before his aquiline nose. He went straight up to it to
see--then stopped dead. His heart gave a distinct, unclerical leap. His
lips formed themselves into unregenerate shape. He gasped: "Good God!
What is it?" For something unholy, something wicked as a secret sin,
stuck there before his eyes in the patch of blazing sunshine. He caught
his breath.

For a moment he was unable to move, as though the sight half
fascinated him. Then, cautiously and very slowly--stealthily, in
fact--he withdrew towards the door he had just entered. Fearful of
making the smallest sound, he retraced his steps on tiptoe. His
yellow slippers shuffled. His dry sponge fell, and bounded till it
settled, rolling close beneath the horribly attractive object facing
him. From the safety of the open door, with ample space for retreat
behind him, he paused and stared. His entire being focused itself in
his eyes. It was a hornet that he saw. It hung there, motionless and
threatening, between him and the bathroom door. And at first he merely
exclaimed--below his breath--"Good God! It's an Egyptian hornet!"

Being a man with a reputation for decided action, however, he soon
recovered himself. He was well schooled in self-control. When people
left his church at the beginning of the sermon, no muscle of his face
betrayed the wounded vanity and annoyance that burned deep in his
heart. But a hornet sitting directly in his path was a very different
matter. He realised in a flash that he was poorly clothed--in a word,
that he was practically half naked.

From a distance he examined this intrusion of the devil. It was calm
and very still. It was wonderfully made, both before and behind. Its
wings were folded upon its terrible body. Long, sinuous things, pointed
like temptation, barbed as well, stuck out of it. There was poison, and
yet grace, in its exquisite presentment. Its shiny black was beautiful,
and the yellow stripes upon its sleek, curved abdomen were like the
gleaming ornaments upon some feminine body of the seductive world he
preached against. Almost, he saw an abandoned dancer on the stage.
And then, swiftly in his impressionable soul, the simile changed,
and he saw instead more blunt and aggressive forms of destruction.
The well-filled body, tapering to a horrid point, reminded him of
those perfect engines of death that reduce hundreds to annihilation
unawares--torpedoes, shells, projectiles, crammed with secret,
desolating powers. Its wings, its awful, quiet head, its delicate,
slim waist, its stripes of brilliant saffron--all these seemed the
concentrated prototype of abominations made cleverly by the brain of
man, and beautifully painted to disguise their invisible freight of
cruel death.

"Bah!" he exclaimed, ashamed of his prolific imagination. "It's only a
hornet after all--an insect!" And he contrived a hurried, careful plan.
He aimed a towel at it, rolled up into a ball--but did not throw it. He
might miss. He remembered that his ankles were unprotected. Instead, he
paused again, examining the black and yellow object in safe retirement
near the door, as one day he hoped to watch the world in leisurely
retirement in the country. It did not move. It was fixed and terrible.
It made no sound. Its wings were folded. Not even the black antennae,
blunt at the tips like clubs, showed the least stir or tremble. It
breathed, however. He watched the rise and fall of the evil body; it
breathed air in and out as he himself did. The creature, he realised,
had lungs and heart and organs. It had a brain! Its mind was active all
this time. It knew it was being watched. It merely waited. Any second,
with a whiz of fury, and with perfect accuracy of aim, it might dart at
him and strike. If he threw the towel and missed--it certainly would.

There were other occupants of the corridor, however, and a sound of
steps approaching gave him the decision to act. He would lose his bath
if he hesitated much longer. He felt ashamed of his timidity, though
"pusillanimity" was the word thought selected owing to the pulpit
vocabulary it was his habit to prefer. He went with extreme caution
towards the bathroom door, passing the point of danger so close that
his skin turned hot and cold. With one foot gingerly extended, he
recovered his sponge. The hornet did not move a muscle. But--it had
seen him pass. It merely waited. All dangerous insects had that trick.
It knew quite well he was inside; it knew quite well he must come out a
few minutes later; it also knew quite well that he was--naked.

Once inside the little room, he closed the door with exceeding
gentleness, lest the vibration might stir the fearful insect to attack.
The bath was already filled, and he plunged to his neck with a feeling
of comparative security. A window into the outside passage he also
closed, so that nothing could possibly come in. And steam soon charged
the air and left its blurred deposit on the glass. For ten minutes
he could enjoy himself and pretend that he was safe. For ten minutes
he did so. He behaved carelessly, as though nothing mattered, and as
though all the courage in the world were his. He splashed and soaped
and sponged, making a lot of reckless noise. He got out and dried
himself. Slowly the steam subsided, the air grew clearer, he put on
dressing-gown and slippers. It was time to go out.

Unable to devise any further reason for delay, he opened the door
softly half an inch--peeped out--and instantly closed it again with a
resounding bang. He had heard a drone of wings. The insect had left
its perch and now buzzed upon the floor directly in his path. The air
seemed full of stings; he felt stabs all over him; his unprotected
portions winced with the expectancy of pain. The beast knew he was
coming out, and was waiting for him. In that brief instant he had felt
its sting all over him, on his unprotected ankles, on his back, his
neck, his cheeks, in his eyes, and on the bald clearing that adorned
his Anglican head. Through the closed door he heard the ominous, dull
murmur of his striped adversary as it beat its angry wings. Its oiled
and wicked sting shot in and out with fury. Its deft legs worked. He
saw its tiny waist already writhing with the lust of battle. Ugh! That
tiny waist! A moment's steady nerve and he could have severed that
cunning body from the directing brain with one swift, well-directed
thrust. But his nerve had utterly deserted him.

Human motives, even in the professedly holy, are an involved affair
at any time. Just now, in the Rev. James Milligan, they were quite
inextricably mixed. He claims this explanation, at any rate, in excuse
of his abominable subsequent behaviour. For, exactly at this moment,
when he had decided to admit cowardice by ringing for the Arab servant,
a step was audible in the corridor outside, and courage came with it
into his disreputable heart. It was the step of the man he cordially
"disapproved of," using the pulpit version of "hated and despised." He
had overstayed his time, and the bath was in demand by Mr. Mullins. Mr.
Mullins invariably followed him at seven-thirty; it was now a quarter
to eight. And Mr. Mullins was a wretched drinking man--"a sot."

In a flash the plan was conceived and put into execution. The
temptation, of course, was of the devil. Mr. Milligan hid the motive
from himself, pretending he hardly recognised it. The plan was what men
call a dirty trick; it was also irresistibly seductive. He opened the
door, stepped boldly, nose in the air, right over the hideous insect
on the floor, and fairly pranced into the outer passage. The brief
transit brought a hundred horrible sensations--that the hornet would
rise and sting his leg, that it would cling to his dressing-gown and
stab his spine, that he would step upon it and die, like Achilles, of
a heel exposed. But with these, and conquering them, was one other
stronger emotion that robbed the lesser terrors of their potency--that
Mr. Mullins would run precisely the same risks five seconds later,
unprepared. He heard the gloating insect buzz and scratch the
oil-cloth. But it was behind him. _He_ was safe!

"Good morning to you, Mr. Mullins," he observed with a gracious smile.
"I trust I have not kept you waiting."

"Mornin'!" grunted Mullins sourly in reply, as he passed him with a
distinctly hostile and contemptuous air. For Mullins, though depraved,
perhaps, was an honest man, abhorring parsons and making no secret of
his opinions--whence the bitter feeling.

All men, except those very big ones who are supermen, have something
astonishingly despicable in them. The despicable thing in Milligan
came uppermost now. He fairly chuckled. He met the snub with a calm,
forgiving smile, and continued his shambling gait with what dignity he
could towards his bedroom opposite. Then he turned his head to see. His
enemy would meet an infuriated hornet--an Egyptian hornet!--and might
not notice it. He might step on it. He might not. But he was bound to
disturb it, and rouse it to attack. The chances were enormously on the
clerical side. And its sting meant death.

"May God forgive me!" ran subconsciously through his mind. And side by
side with the repentant prayer ran also a recognition of the tempter's
eternal skill: "I hope the devil it will sting him!"

It happened very quickly. The Rev. James Milligan lingered a moment
by his door to watch. He saw Mullins, the disgusting Mullins, step
blithely into the bathroom passage; he saw him pause, shrink back,
and raise his arm to protect his face. He heard him swear out aloud:
"What's the d----d thing doing here? Have I really got 'em again----?"
And then he heard him laugh--a hearty, guffawing laugh of genuine
relief---- "It's _real_!"

The moment of revulsion was overwhelming. It filled the churchly heart
with anguish and bitter disappointment. For a space he hated the whole
race of men.

For the instant Mr. Mullins realised that the insect was not a fiery
illusion of his disordered nerves, he went forward without the smallest
hesitation. With his towel he knocked down the flying terror. Then he
stooped. He gathered up the venomous thing his well-aimed blow had
stricken so easily to the floor. He advanced with it, held at arm's
length, to the window. He tossed it out carelessly. The Egyptian hornet
flew away uninjured, and Mr. Mullins--the Mr. Mullins who drank,
gave nothing to the church, attended no services, hated parsons, and
proclaimed the fact with enthusiasm--this same detestable Mr. Mullins
went to his unearned bath without a scratch. But first he saw his
enemy standing in the doorway across the passage, watching him--and
understood. That was the awful part of it. Mullins would make a story
of it, and the story would go the round of the hotel.

The Rev. James Milligan, however, proved that his reputation for
self-control was not undeserved. He conducted morning service half
an hour later with an expression of peace upon his handsome face. He
conquered all outward sign of inward spiritual vexation; the wicked, he
consoled himself, ever flourish like green bay trees. It was notorious
that the righteous never have any luck at all! That was bad enough.
But what was worse--and the Rev. James Milligan remembered for very
long--was the superior ease with which Mullins had relegated both
himself and hornet to the same level of comparative insignificance.
Mullins ignored them both--which proved that he felt himself superior.
Infinitely worse than the sting of any hornet in the world: he really
_was_ superior.




X

BY WATER


The night before young Larsen left to take up his new appointment in
Egypt he went to the clairvoyante. He neither believed nor disbelieved.
He felt no interest, for he already knew his past and did not wish
to know his future. "Just to please me, Jim," the girl pleaded. "The
woman is wonderful. Before I had been five minutes with her she told
me your initials, so there _must_ be something in it." "She read your
thought," he smiled indulgently. "Even I can do that!" But the girl was
in earnest. He yielded; and that night at his farewell dinner he came
to give his report of the interview.

The result was meagre and unconvincing: money was coming to him, he was
soon to make a voyage, and--he would never marry. "So you see how silly
it all is," he laughed, for they were to be married when his first
promotion came. He gave the details, however, making a little story of
it in the way he knew she loved.

"But was that all, Jim?" The girl asked it, looking rather hard into
his face. "Aren't you hiding something from me?" He hesitated a moment,
then burst out laughing at her clever discernment. "There _was_ a
little more," he confessed, "but you take it all so seriously; I----"

He had to tell it then, of course. The woman had told him a lot of
gibberish about friendly and unfriendly elements. "She said water was
unfriendly to me; I was to be careful of water, or else I should come
to harm by it. _Fresh_ water only," he hastened to add, seeing that the
idea of shipwreck was in her mind.

"Drowning?" the girl asked quickly.

"Yes," he admitted with reluctance, but still laughing; "she did say
drowning, though drowning in no ordinary way."

The girl's face showed uneasiness a moment. "What does that
mean--drowning in no ordinary way?" she asked, a catch in her breath.

But that he could not tell her, because he did not know himself. He
gave, therefore, the exact words: "You will drown, but will not know
you drown."

It was unwise of him. He wished afterwards he had invented a happier
report, or had kept this detail back. "I'm safe in Egypt, anyhow," he
laughed. "I shall be a clever man if I can find enough water in the
desert to do me harm!" And all the way from Trieste to Alexandria he
remembered the promise she had extracted--that he would never once go
on the Nile unless duty made it imperative for him to do so. He kept
that promise like the literal, faithful soul he was. His love was equal
to the somewhat quixotic sacrifice it occasionally involved. Fresh
water in Egypt there was practically none other, and in any case the
natrum works where his duty lay had their headquarters some distance
out into the desert. The river, with its banks of welcome, refreshing
verdure, was not even visible.

Months passed quickly, and the time for leave came within measurable
distance. In the long interval luck had played the cards kindly for
him, vacancies had occurred, early promotion seemed likely, and his
letters were full of plans to bring her out to share a little house of
their own. His health, however, had not improved; the dryness did not
suit him; even in this short period his blood had thinned, his nervous
system deteriorated, and, contrary to the doctor's prophecy, the
waterless air had told upon his sleep. A damp climate liked him best,
and once the sun had touched him with its fiery finger.

His letters made no mention of this. He described the life to her,
the work, the sport, the pleasant people, and his chances of increased
pay and early marriage. And a week before he sailed he rode out upon
a final act of duty to inspect the latest diggings his company were
making. His course lay some twenty miles into the desert behind
El-Chobak and towards the limestone hills of Guebel Haidi, and he went
alone, carrying lunch and tea, for it was the weekly holiday of Friday,
and the men were not at work.

The accident was ordinary enough. On his way back in the heat of early
afternoon his pony stumbled against a boulder on the treacherous desert
film, threw him heavily, broke the girth, bolted before he could seize
the reins again, and left him stranded some ten or twelve miles from
home. There was a pain in his knee that made walking difficult, a
buzzing in his head that troubled sight and made the landscape swim,
while, worse than either, his provisions, fastened to the saddle, had
vanished with the frightened pony into those blazing leagues of sand.
He was alone in the Desert, beneath the pitiless afternoon sun, twelve
miles of utterly exhausting country between him and safety.

Under normal conditions he could have covered the distance in four
hours, reaching home by dark; but his knee pained him so that a mile
an hour proved the best he could possibly do. He reflected a few
minutes. The wisest course was to sit down and wait till the pony
told its obvious story to the stable, and help should come. And this
was what he did, for the scorching heat and glare were dangerous;
they were terrible; he was shaken and bewildered by his fall, hungry
and weak into the bargain; and an hour's painful scrambling over the
baked and burning little gorges must have speedily caused complete
prostration. He sat down and rubbed his aching knee. It was quite a
little adventure. Yet, though he knew the Desert might not be lightly
trifled with, he felt at the moment nothing more than this--and the
amusing description of it he would give in his letter, or--intoxicating
thought--by word of mouth. In the heat of the sun he began to feel
drowsy. A soft torpor crept over him. He dozed. He fell asleep.

It was a long, a dreamless sleep ... for when he woke at length the
sun had just gone down, the dusk lay awfully upon the enormous desert,
and the air was chilly. The cold had waked him. Quickly, as though on
purpose, the red glow faded from the sky; the first stars shone; it
was dark; the heavens were deep violet. He looked round and realised
that his sense of direction had gone entirely. Great hunger was in
him. The cold already was bitter as the wind rose, but the pain in
his knee having eased, he got up and walked a little--and in a moment
lost sight of the spot where he had been lying. The shadowy desert
swallowed it. "Ah," he realised, "this is not an English field or
moor. I'm in the Desert!" The safe thing to do was to remain exactly
where he was; only thus could the rescuers find him; once he wandered
he was done for. It was strange the search-party had not yet arrived.
To keep warm, however, he was compelled to move, so he made a little
pile of stones to mark the place, and walked round and round it in a
circle of some dozen yards' diameter. He limped badly, and the hunger
gnawed dreadfully; but, after all, the adventure was not so terrible.
The amusing side of it kept uppermost still. Though fragile in body,
his spirit was not unduly timid or imaginative; he _could_ last out
the night, or, if the worst came to the worst, the next day as well.
But when he watched the little group of stones, he saw that there were
dozens of them, scores, hundreds, thousands of these little groups of
stones. The desert's face, of course, is thickly strewn with them. The
original one was lost in the first five minutes. So he sat down again.
But the biting cold, and the wind that licked his very skin beneath the
light clothing, soon forced him up again. It was ominous; and the night
huge and shelterless. The shaft of green zodiacal light that hung so
strangely in the western sky for hours had faded away; the stars were
out in their bright thousands; no guide was anywhere; the wind moaned
and puffed among the sandy mounds; the vast sheet of desert stretched
appallingly upon the world; he heard the jackals cry....

And with the jackals' cry came suddenly the unwelcome realisation that
no play was in this adventure any more, but that a bleak reality stared
at him through the surrounding darkness. He faced it--at bay. He was
genuinely lost. Thought blocked in him. "I must be calm and think," he
said aloud. His voice woke no echo; it was small and dead; something
gigantic ate it instantly. He got up and walked again. Why did no
one come? Hours had passed. The pony had long ago found its stable,
or--had it run madly in another direction altogether? He worked out
possibilities, tightening his belt. The cold was searching; he never
had been, never could be warm again; the hot sunshine of a few hours
ago seemed the merest dream. Unfamiliar with hardship, he knew not
what to do, but he took his coat and shirt off, vigorously rubbed his
skin where the dried perspiration of the afternoon still caused clammy
shivers, swung his arms furiously like a London cabman, and quickly
dressed again. Though the wind upon his bare back was fearful, he felt
warmer a little. He lay down exhausted, sheltered by an overhanging
limestone crag, and took snatches of fitful dog's-sleep, while the wind
drove overhead and the dry sand pricked his skin. One face continually
was near him; one pair of tender eyes; two dear hands smoothed him;
he smelt the perfume of light brown hair. It was all natural enough.
His whole thought, in his misery, ran to her in England--England
where there were soft fresh grass, big sheltering trees, hemlock and
honeysuckle in the hedges--while the hard black Desert guarded him,
and consciousness dipped away at little intervals under this dry and
pitiless Egyptian sky....

It was perhaps five in the morning when a voice spoke and he started
up with a horrid jerk--the voice of that clairvoyante woman. The
sentence died away into the darkness, but one word remained: _Water!_
At first he wondered, but at once explanation came. Cause and effect
were obvious. The clue was physical. His body needed water, and so the
thought came up into his mind. He was thirsty.

This was the moment when fear first really touched him. Hunger was
manageable, more or less--for a day or two, certainly. But thirst!
Thirst and the Desert were an evil pair that, by cumulative suggestion
gathering since childhood days, brought terror in. Once in the mind
it could not be dislodged. In spite of his best efforts, the ghastly
thing grew passionately--because his thirst grew too. He had smoked
much; had eaten spiced things at lunch; had breathed in alkali with
the dry, scorched air. He searched for a cool flint pebble to put into
his burning mouth, but found only angular scraps of dusty limestone.
There were no pebbles here. The cold helped a little to counteract, but
already he knew in himself subconsciously the dread of something that
was coming. What was it? He tried to hide the thought and bury it out
of sight. The utter futility of his tiny strength against the power of
the universe appalled him. And then he knew. The merciless sun was on
the way, already rising. Its return was like the presage of execution
to him....

It came. With true horror he watched the marvellous swift dawn break
over the sandy sea. The eastern sky glowed hurriedly as from crimson
fires. Ridges, not noticeable in the starlight, turned black in endless
series, like flat-topped billows of a frozen ocean. Wide streaks of
blue and yellow followed, as the sky dropped sheets of faint light
upon the wind-eaten cliffs and showed their under sides. They did not
advance; they waited till the sun was up--and then they moved; they
rose and sank; they shifted as the sunshine lifted them and the shadows
crept away. But in an hour there would be no shadows any more. There
would be no shade!...

The little groups of stones began to dance. It was horrible. The
unbroken, huge expanse lay round him, warming up, twelve hours of
blazing hell to come. Already the monstrous Desert glared, each bit
familiar, since each bit was a repetition of the bit before, behind, on
either side. It laughed at guidance and direction. He rose and walked;
for miles he walked, though how many, north, south, or west, he knew
not. The frantic thing was in him now, the fury of the Desert; he took
its pace, its endless, tireless stride, the stride of the burning,
murderous Desert that is--waterless. He felt it alive--a blindly heaving
desire in it to reduce him to its conditionless, awful dryness. He
felt--yet knowing this was feverish and _not_ to be believed--that
his own small life lay on its mighty surface, a mere dot in space, a
mere heap of little stones. His emotions, his fears, his hopes, his
ambition, his love--mere bundled group of little unimportant stones
that danced with apparent activity for a moment, then were merged in
the undifferentiated surface underneath. He was included in a purpose
greater than his own.

The will made a plucky effort then. "A night and a day," he laughed,
while his lips cracked smartingly with the stretching of the skin,
"what is it? Many a chap has lasted days and days...!" Yes, only
he was not of that rare company. He was ordinary, unaccustomed
to privation, weak, untrained of spirit, unacquainted with stern
resistance. He knew not how to spare himself. The Desert struck him
where it pleased--all over. It played with him. His tongue was swollen;
the parched throat could not swallow. He sank.... An hour he lay
there, just wit enough in him to choose the top of a mound where he
could be most easily seen. He lay two hours, three, four hours....
The heat blazed down upon him like a furnace.... The sky, when he
opened his eyes once, was empty ... then a speck became visible in the
blue expanse; and presently another speck. They came from nowhere.
They hovered very high, almost out of sight. They appeared, they
disappeared, they--reappeared. Nearer and nearer they swung down, in
sweeping stealthy circles ... little dancing groups of them, miles away
but ever drawing closer--the vultures....

He had strained his ears so long for sounds of feet and voices that
it seemed he could no longer hear at all. Hearing had ceased within
him. Then came the water-dreams, with their agonising torture. He
heard _that_ ... heard it running in silvery streams and rivulets
across green English meadows. It rippled with silvery music. He heard
it splash. He dipped hands and feet and head in it--in deep, clear
pools of generous depth. He drank; with his skin he drank, not with
mouth and throat alone. Ice clinked in effervescent, sparkling water
against a glass. He swam and plunged. Water gushed freely over back and
shoulders, gallons and gallons of it, bathfuls and to spare, a flood of
gushing, crystal, cool, life-giving liquid.... And then he stood in a
beech wood and felt the streaming deluge of delicious summer rain upon
his face; heard it drip luxuriantly upon a million thirsty leaves. The
wet trunks shone, the damp moss spread its perfume, ferns waved heavily
in the moist atmosphere. He was soaked to the skin in it. A mountain
torrent, fresh from fields of snow, foamed boiling past, and the spray
fell in a shower upon his cheeks and hair. He dived--head foremost....
Ah, he was up to the neck ... and _she_ was with him; they were under
water together; he saw her eyes gleaming into his own beneath the
copious flood.

The voice, however, was not hers.... "You will drown, yet you
will not know you drown...!" His swollen tongue called out a name.
But no sound was audible. He closed his eyes. There came sweet
unconsciousness....

A sound in that instant _was_ audible, though. It was a
voice--voices--and the thud of animal hoofs upon the sand. The specks
had vanished from the sky as mysteriously as they came. And, as though
in answer to the sound, he made a movement--an automatic, unconscious
movement. He did not know he moved. And the body, uncontrolled, lost
its precarious balance. He rolled; but he did not know he rolled.
Slowly, over the edge of the sloping mound of sand, he turned sideways.
Like a log of wood he slid gradually, turning over and over, nothing
to stop him--to the bottom. A few feet only, and not even steep; just
steep enough to keep rolling slowly. There was a--splash. But he did
not know there was a splash.

They found him in a pool of water--one of these rare pools the Desert
Bedouin mark preciously for their own. He had lain within three yards
of it for hours. He was drowned ... but he did not know he drowned....




XI

H. S. H.


In the mountain Club Hut, to which he had escaped after weeks of gaiety
in the capital, Delane, young travelling Englishman, sat alone, and
listened to the wind that beat the pines with violence. The firelight
danced over the bare stone floor and raftered ceiling, giving the room
an air of movement, and though the solid walls held steady against the
wild spring hurricane, the cannonading of the wind seemed to threaten
the foundations. For the mountain shook, the forest roared, and the
shadows had a way of running everywhere as though the little building
trembled. Delane watched and listened. He piled the logs on. From time
to time he glanced nervously over his shoulder, restless, half uneasy,
as a burst of spray from the branches dashed against the window, or a
gust of unusual vehemence shook the door. Over-wearied with his long
day's climb among impossible conditions, he now realised, in this
mountain refuge, his utter loneliness; for his mind gave birth to that
unwelcome symptom of true loneliness--that he was not, after all,
alone. Continually he heard steps and voices in the storm. Another
wanderer, another climber out of season like himself, would presently
arrive, and sleep was out of the question until first he heard that
knocking on the door. Almost--he expected some one.

He went for the tenth time to the little window. He peered forth into
the thick darkness of the dropping night, shading his eyes against the
streaming pane to screen the firelight in an attempt to see if another
climber--perhaps a climber in distress--were visible. The surroundings
were desolate and savage, well named the Devil's Saddle. Black-faced
precipices, streaked with melting snow, rose towering to the north,
where the heights were hidden in seas of vapour; waterfalls poured into
abysses on two sides; a wall of impenetrable forest pressed up from the
south; and the dangerous ridge he had climbed all day slid off wickedly
into a sky of surging cloud. But no human figure was, of course,
distinguishable, for both the lateness of the hour and the elemental
fury of the night rendered it most unlikely. He turned away with a
start, as the tempest delivered a blow with massive impact against his
very face. Then, clearing the remnants of his frugal supper from the
table, he hung his soaking clothes at a new angle before the fire,
made sure the door was fastened on the inside, climbed into the bunk
where white pillows and thick Austrian blankets looked so inviting, and
prepared finally for sleep.

"I must be over-tired," he sighed, after half an hour's weary tossing,
and went back to make up the sinking fire. Wood is plentiful in these
climbers' huts; he heaped it on. But this time he lit the little oil
lamp as well, realising--though unwilling to acknowledge it--that it
was not over-fatigue that banished sleep, but this unwelcome sense of
expecting some one, of being not quite alone. For the feeling persisted
and increased. He drew the wooden bench close up to the fire, turned
the lamp as high as it would go, and wished unaccountably for the
morning. Light was a very pleasant thing; and darkness now, for the
first time since childhood, troubled him. It was outside; but it might
so easily come in and swamp, obliterate, extinguish. The darkness
seemed a positive thing. Already, somehow, it was established in his
mind--this sense of enormous, aggressive darkness that veiled an
undesirable hint of personality. Some shadow from the peaks or from
the forest, immense and threatening, pervaded all his thought. "This
can't be entirely nerves," he whispered to himself. "I'm not so tired
as all that!" And he made the fire roar. He shivered and drew closer to
the blaze. "I'm out of condition; that's part of it," he realised, and
remembered with loathing the weeks of luxurious indulgence just behind
him.

For Delane had rather wasted his year of educational travel. Straight
from Oxford, and well supplied with money, he had first saturated
his mind in the latest Continental thought--the science of France,
the metaphysics and philosophy of Germany--and had then been caught
aside by the gaiety of capitals where the lights are not turned out at
midnight by a Sunday School police. He had been surfeited, physically,
emotionally, and intellectually, till his mind and body longed hungrily
for simple living again and simple teaching--above all, the latter. The
Road of Excess leads to the Palace of Wisdom--for certain temperaments
(as Blake forgot to add), of which Delane was one. For there was stuff
in the youth, and the reaction had set in with violent abruptness. His
system rebelled. He cut loose energetically from all soft delights,
and craved for severity, pure air, solitude and hardship. Clean and
simple conditions he must have without delay, and the tonic of physical
battling. It was too early in the year to climb seriously, for the snow
was still dangerous and the weather wild, but he had chosen this most
isolated of all the mountain huts in order to make sure of solitude,
and had come, without guide or companion, for a week's strenuous life
in wild surroundings, and to take stock of himself with a view to full
recovery.

And all day long as he climbed the desolate, unsafe ridge, his
mind--good, wholesome, natural symptom--had reverted to his childhood
days, to the solid worldly wisdom of his church-going father, and
to the early teaching (oh, how sweet and refreshing in its literal
spirit!) at his mother's knee. Now, as he watched the blazing logs,
it came back to him again with redoubled force; the simple, precious,
old-world stories of heaven and hell, of a paternal Deity, and of a
daring, subtle, personal devil----

The interruption to his thoughts came with startling suddenness, as the
roaring night descended against the windows with a thundering violence
that shook the walls and sucked the flame half-way up the wide stone
chimney. The oil lamp flickered and went out. Darkness invaded the
room for a second, and Delane sprang from his bench, thinking the wet
snow had loosened far above and was about to sweep the hut into the
depths. And he was still standing, trembling and uncertain, in the
middle of the room, when a deep and sighing hush followed sharp upon
the elemental outburst, and in the hush, like a whisper after thunder,
he heard a curious steady sound that, at first, he thought must be a
footstep by the door. It was then instantly repeated. But it was not
a step. It was some one knocking on the heavy oaken panels--a firm,
authoritative sound, as though the new arrival had the right to enter
and was already impatient at the delay.

The Englishman recovered himself instantly, realising with keen relief
the new arrival--at last.

"Another climber like myself, of course," he said, "or perhaps the man
who comes to prepare the hut for others. The season has begun." And he
went over quickly, without a further qualm, to unbolt the door.

"Forgive!" he exclaimed in German, as he threw it wide, "I was half
asleep before the fire. It is a terrible night. Come in to food and
shelter, for both are here, and you shall share such supper as I
possess."

And a tall, cloaked figure passed him swiftly with a gust of angry
wind from the impenetrable blackness of the world beyond. On the
threshold, for a second, his outline stood full in the blaze of
firelight with the sheet of darkness behind it, stately, erect,
commanding, his cloak torn fiercely by the wind, but the face hidden by
a low-brimmed hat; and an instant later the door shut with resounding
clamour upon the hurricane, and the two men turned to confront one
another in the little room.

Delane then realised two things sharply, both of them fleeting
impressions, but acutely vivid: First, that the outside darkness seemed
to have entered and established itself between him and the new arrival;
and, secondly, that the stranger's face was difficult to focus for
clear sight, although the covering hat was now removed. There was a
blur upon it somewhere. And this the Englishman ascribed partly to
the flickering effect of firelight, and partly to the lightning glare
of the man's masterful and terrific eyes, which made his own sight
waver in some curious fashion as he gazed upon him. These impressions,
however, were but momentary and passing, due doubtless to the condition
of his nerves and to the semi-shock of the dramatic, even theatrical
entrance. Delane's senses, in this wild setting, were guilty of
exaggeration. For now, while helping the man remove his cloak, speaking
naturally of shelter, food, and the savage weather, he lost this first
distortion and his mind recovered sane proportion. The stranger, after
all, though striking, was not of appearance so uncommon as to cause
alarm; the light and the low doorway had touched his stature with
illusion. He dwindled. And the great eyes, upon calmer subsequent
inspection, lost their original fierce lightning. The entering
darkness, moreover, was but an effect of the upheaving night behind him
as he strode across the threshold. The closed door proved it.

And yet, as Delane continued his quieter examination, there remained,
he saw, the startling quality which had caused that first magnifying in
his mind. His senses, while reporting accurately, insisted upon this
arresting and uncommon touch: there was, about this late wanderer of
the night, some evasive, lofty strangeness that set him utterly apart
from ordinary men.

The Englishman examined him searchingly, surreptitiously, but with a
touch of passionate curiosity he could not in the least account for
nor explain. There were contradictions of perplexing character about
him. For the first presentment had been of splendid youth, while on
the face, though vigorous and gloriously handsome, he now discerned
the stamp of tremendous age. It was worn and tired. While radiant
with strength and health and power, it wore as well this certain
signature of deep exhaustion that great experience rather than physical
experience brings. Moreover, he discovered in it, in some way he could
not hope to describe, man, woman, and child. There was a big, sad
earnestness about it, yet a touch of humour too; patience, tenderness,
and sweetness held the mouth; and behind the high pale forehead
intellect sat enthroned and watchful. In it were both love and hatred,
longing and despair; an expression of being ever on the defensive, yet
hugely mutinous; an air both hunted and beseeching; great knowledge and
great woe.

Delane gave up the search, aware that something unalterably splendid
stood before him. Solemnity and beauty swept him too. His was never
the grotesque assumption that man must be the highest being in the
universe, nor that a thing is a miracle merely because it has never
happened before. He groped, while explanation and analysis both halted.
"A great teacher," thought fluttered through him, "or a mighty rebel!
A distinguished personality beyond all question! Who can he be?" There
was something regal that put respect upon his imagination instantly.
And he remembered the legend of the country-side that Ludwig of Bavaria
was said to be about when nights were very wild. He wondered. Into
his speech and manner crept unawares an attitude of deference that
was almost reverence, and with it--whence came this other quality?--a
searching pity.

"You must be wearied out," he said respectfully, busying himself about
the room, "as well as cold and wet. This fire will dry you, sir, and
meanwhile I will prepare quickly such food as there is, if you will
eat it." For the other carried no knapsack, nor was he clothed for the
severity of mountain travel.

"I have already eaten," said the stranger courteously, "and, with my
thanks to you, I am neither wet nor tired. The afflictions that I bear
are of another kind, though ones that you shall more easily, I am sure,
relieve."

He spoke as a man whose words set troops in action, and Delane glanced
at him, deeply moved by the surprising phrase, yet hardly marvelling
that it should be so. He found no ready answer. But there was evidently
question in his look, for the other continued, and this time with a
smile that betrayed sheer winning beauty as of a tender woman:

"I saw the light and came to it. It is unusual--at this time."

His voice was resonant, yet not deep. There was a ringing quality about
it that the bare room emphasised. It charmed the young Englishman
inexplicably. Also, it woke in him a sense of infinite pathos.

"You are a climber, sir, like myself," Delane resumed, lifting his eyes
a moment uneasily from the coffee he brewed over a corner of the fire.
"You know this neighbourhood, perhaps? Better, at any rate, than I can
know it?" His German halted rather. He chose his words with difficulty.
There was uncommon trouble in his mind.

"I know all wild and desolate places," replied the other, in perfect
English, but with a wintry mournfulness in his voice and eyes, "for I
feel at home in them, and their stern companionship my nature craves as
solace. But, unlike yourself, I am no climber."

"The heights have no attraction for you?" asked Delane, as he mingled
steaming milk and coffee in the wooden bowl, marvelling what brought
him then so high above the valleys. "It is their difficulty and
danger that fascinate me always. I find the loneliness of the summits
intoxicating in a sense."

And, regardless of refusal, he set the bread and meat before him, the
apple and the tiny packet of salt, then turned away to place the coffee
pot beside the fire again. But as he did so a singular gesture of the
other caught his eyes. Before touching bowl or plate, the stranger took
the fruit and brushed his lips with it. He kissed it, then set it on
the ground and crushed it into pulp beneath his heel. And, seeing this,
the young Englishman knew something dreadfully arrested in his mind,
for, as he looked away, pretending the act was unobserved, a thing
of ice and darkness moved past him through the room, so that the pot
trembled in his hand, rattling sharply against the hearthstone where he
stooped. He could only interpret it as an act of madness, and the myth
of the sad, drowned monarch wandering through this enchanted region,
pressed into him again unsought and urgent. It was a full minute before
he had control of his heart and hand again.

The bowl was half emptied, and the man was smiling--this time the smile
of a child who implores the comfort of enveloping and understanding
arms.

"I am a wanderer rather than a climber," he was saying, as though there
had been no interval, "for, though the lonely summits suit me well,
I now find in them only--terror. My feet lose their sureness, and my
head its steady balance. I prefer the hidden gorges of these mountains,
and the shadows of the covering forests. My days"--his voice drew the
loneliness of uttermost space into its piteous accents--"are passed in
darkness. I can never climb again."

He spoke this time, indeed, as a man whose nerve was gone for ever. It
was pitiable almost to tears. And Delane, unable to explain the amazing
contradictions, felt recklessly, furiously drawn to this trapped
wanderer with the mien of a king yet the air and speech sometimes of a
woman and sometimes of an outcast child.

"Ah, then you have known accidents," Delane replied with outer
calmness, as he lit his pipe, trying in vain to keep his hand as steady
as his voice. "You have been in one perhaps. The effect, I have been
told, is----"

The power and sweetness in that resonant voice took his breath away as
he heard it break in upon his own uncertain accents:

"I have--fallen," the stranger replied impressively, as the rain and
wind wailed past the building mournfully, "yet a fall that was no part
of any accident. For it was no common fall," the man added with a
magnificent gesture of disdain, "while yet it broke my heart in two."
He stooped a little as he uttered the next words with a crying pathos
that an outcast woman might have used. "I am," he said, "engulfed in
intolerable loneliness. I can never climb again."

With a shiver impossible to control, half of terror, half of pity,
Delane moved a step nearer to the marvellous stranger. The spirit of
Ludwig, exiled and distraught, had gripped his soul with a weakening
terror; but now sheer beauty lifted him above all personal shrinking.
There seemed some echo of lost divinity, worn, wild yet grandiose,
through which this significant language strained towards a personal
message--for himself.

"In loneliness?" he faltered, sympathy rising in a flood.

"For my Kingdom that is lost to me for ever," met him in deep,
throbbing tones that set the air on fire. "For my imperial ancient
heights that jealousy took from me----"

The stranger paused, with an indescribable air of broken dignity and
pain.

Outside the tempest paused a moment before the awful elemental crash
that followed. A bellowing of many winds descended like artillery
upon the world. A burst of smoke rushed from the fireplace about them
both, shrouding the stranger momentarily in a flying veil. And Delane
stood up, uncomfortable in his very bones. "What can it be?" he asked
himself sharply. "Who is this being that he should use such language?"
He watched alarm chase pity, aware that the conversation held something
beyond experience. But the pity returned in greater and ever greater
flood. And love surged through him too. It was significant, he
remembered afterwards, that he felt it incumbent upon himself to stand.
Curious, too, how the thought of that mad, drowned monarch haunted
memory with such persistence. Some vast emotion that he could not name
drove out his subsequent words. The smoke had cleared, and a strange,
high stillness held the world. The rain streamed down in torrents,
isolating these two somehow from the haunts of men. And the Englishman
stared then into a countenance grown mighty with woe and loneliness.
There stood darkly in it this incommunicable magnificence of pain that
mingled awe with the pity he had felt. The kingly eyes looked clear
into his own, completing his subjugation out of time. "I would follow
you," ran his thought upon its knees, "follow you with obedience for
ever and ever, even into a last damnation. For you are sublime. You
shall come again into your Kingdom, if my own small worship----"

Then blackness sponged the reckless thought away. He spoke in its place
a more guarded, careful thing:

"I am aware," he faltered, yet conscious that he bowed, "of standing
before a Great One of some world unknown to me. Who he may be I have
but the privilege of wondering. He has spoken darkly of a Kingdom that
is lost. Yet he is still, I see, a Monarch." And he lowered his head
and shoulders involuntarily.

For an instant, then, as he said it, the eyes before him flashed their
original terrific lightnings. The darkness of the common world faded
before the entrance of an Outer Darkness. From gulfs of terror at his
feet rose shadows out of the night of time, and a passionate anguish as
of sudden madness seized his heart and shook it.

He listened breathlessly for the words that followed. It seemed some
wind of unutterable despair passed in the breath from those non-human
lips:

"I am still a Monarch, yes; but my Kingdom is taken from me, for I
have no single subject. Lost in a loneliness that lies out of space
and time, I am become a throneless Ruler, and my hopelessness is more
than I can bear." The beseeching pathos of the voice tore him in two.
The Deity himself, it seemed, stood there accused of jealousy, of sin
and cruelty. The stranger rose. The power about him brought the picture
of a planet, throned in mid-heaven and poised beyond assault. "Not
otherwise," boomed the startling words as though an avalanche found
syllables, "could I now show myself to--you."

Delane was trembling horribly. He felt the next words slip off his
tongue unconsciously. The shattering truth had dawned upon his soul at
last.

"Then the light you saw, and came to----?" he whispered.

"Was the light in your heart that guided me," came the answer, sweet,
beguiling as the music in a woman's tones, "the light of your instant,
brief desire that held love in it." He made an opening movement with
his arms as he continued, smiling like stars in summer. "For you
summoned me; summoned me by your dear and precious belief: how dear,
how precious, none can know but I who stand before you."

His figure drew up with an imperial air of proud dominion. His feet
were set among the constellations. The opening movement of his arms
continued slowly. And the music in his tones seemed merged in distant
thunder.

"For your single, brief belief," he smiled with the grandeur of a
condescending Emperor, "shall give my vanished Kingdom back to me."

And with an air of native majesty he held his hand out--to be kissed.

The black hurricane of night, the terror of frozen peaks, the yawning
horror of the great abyss outside--all three crowded into the
Englishman's mind with a slashing impact that blocked delivery of
any word or action. It was not that he refused, it was not that he
withdrew, but that Life stood paralysed and rigid. The flow stopped
dead for the first time since he had left his mother's womb. The God
in him was turned to stone and rendered ineffective. For an appalling
instant God was _not_.

He realised the stupendous moment. Before him, drinking his little soul
out merely by his Presence, stood one whose habit of mind, not alone
his external accidents, was imperial with black prerogative before the
first man drew the breath of life. August procedure was native to his
inner process of existence. The stars and confines of the universe
owned his sway before he fell, to trifle away the dreary little
centuries by haunting the minds of feeble men and women, by hiding
himself in nursery cupboards, and by grinning with stained gargoyles
from the roofs of city churches....

And the lad's life stammered, flickered, threatened to go out before
the enveloping terror of the revelation.

"I called to you ... but called to you in play," thought whispered
somewhere deep below the level of any speech, yet not so low that the
audacious sound of it did not crash above the elements outside; "for
... till now ... you have been to me but a ... coated bogy ... that my
brain disowned with laughter ... and my heart thought picturesque. If
you are here ... _alive_! May God forgive me for my ..."

It seemed as though tears--the tears of love and profound
commiseration--drowned the very seed of thought itself.

A sound stopped him that was like a collapse in heaven. Some crashing,
as of a ruined world, passed splintering through his little timid
heart. He did not yield, but he understood--with an understanding which
seemed the delicate first sign of yielding--the seductiveness of evil,
the sweet delight of surrendering the Will with utter recklessness
to those swelling forces which disintegrate the heroic soul in man.
He remembered. It was true. In the reaction from excess he _had_
definitely called upon his childhood's teaching with a passing moment
of genuine belief. And now that yearning of a fraction of a second bore
its awful fruit. The luscious Capitals where he had rioted passed in
a coloured stream before his eyes; the Wine, the Woman, and the Song
stood there before him, clothed in that Power which lies insinuatingly
disguised behind their little passing show of innocence. Their glamour
donned this domino of regal and virile grandeur. He felt entangled
beyond recovery. The idea of God seemed sterile and without reality.
The one real thing, the one desirable thing, the one possible, strong
and beautiful thing--was to bend his head and kiss those imperial
fingers. He moved noiselessly towards the Hand. He raised his own to
take it and lift it towards his mouth----

When there rose in his mind with startling vividness a small, soft
picture of a child's nursery, a picture of a little boy, kneeling in
scanty night-gown with pink upturned soles, and asking ridiculous,
audacious things of a shining Figure seated on a summer cloud above the
kitchen-garden walnut tree.

The tiny symbol flashed and went its way, yet not before it had lit
the entire world with glory. For there came an absolutely routing
power with it. In that half-forgotten instant's craving for the simple
teaching of his childhood days, Belief had conjured with two immense
traditions. This was the second of them. The appearance of the one had
inevitably produced the passage of its opposite....

And the Hand that floated in the air before him to be kissed sank
slowly down below the possible level of his lips. He shrank away.
Though laughter tempted something in his brain, there still clung
about his heart the first aching, pitying terror. But size retreated,
dwindling somehow as it went. The wind and rain obliterated every other
sound; yet in that bare, unfurnished room of a climber's mountain hut,
there was a silence, above the roar, that drank in everything and broke
the back of speech. In opposition to this masquerading splendour Delane
had set up a personal, paternal Deity.

"I thought of you, perhaps," cried the voice of self-defence, "but I
did not call to you with real belief. And, by the name of God, I did
not summon you. For your sweetness, as your power, sickens me; and your
hand is black with the curses of all the mothers in the world, whose
prayers and tears----"

He stopped dead, overwhelmed by the cruelty of his reckless utterance.

And the Other moved towards him slowly. It was like the summit of some
peaked and terrible height that moved. He spoke. He changed appallingly.

"But _I_ claim," he roared, "your heart. I claim you by that instant of
belief you felt. For by that alone you shall restore to me my vanished
Kingdom. You shall worship me."

In the countenance was a sudden awful power; but behind the stupefying
roar there was weakness in the voice as of an imploring and beseeching
child. Again, deep love and searching pity seared the Englishman's
heart as he replied in the gentlest accents he could find to master:

"And I claim _you_," he said, "by my understanding sympathy, and by my
sorrow for your God-forsaken loneliness, and by my love. For no Kingdom
built on hate can stand against the love you would deny----"

Words failed him then, as he saw the majesty fade slowly from the
face, grown small and shadowy. One last expression of desperate energy
in the eyes struck lightnings from the smoky air, as with an abandoned
movement of the entire figure, he drew back, it seemed, towards the
door behind him.

Delane moved slowly after him, opening his arms. Tenderness and big
compassion flung wide the gates of love within him. He found strange
language, too, although actual, spoken words did not produce them
further than his entrails where they had their birth.

"Toys in the world are plentiful, Sire, and you may have them for your
masterpiece of play. But you must seek them where they still survive;
in the churches, and in isolated lands where thought lies unawakened.
For they are the children's blocks of make-believe whose palaces, like
your once tremendous kingdom, have no true existence for the thinking
mind."

And he stretched his hands towards him with the gesture of one who
sought to help and save, then paused as he realised that his arms
enclosed sheer blackness, with the emptiness of wind and driving rain.

For the door of the hut stood open, and Delane balanced on the
threshold, facing the sheet of night above the abyss. He heard the
waterfalls in the valley far below. The forest flapped and tossed
its myriad branches. Cold draughts swept down from spectral fields
of melting snow above; and the blackness turned momentarily into
the semblance of towers and bastions of thick beaten gloom. Above
one soaring turret, then, a space of sky appeared, swept naked by a
violent, lost wind--an opening of purple into limitless distance. For
one second, amid the vapours, it was visible, empty and untenanted.
The next, there sailed across its small diameter a falling Star. With
an air of slow and endless leisure, yet at the same time with terrific
speed, it dived behind the ragged curtain of the clouds, and the space
closed up again. Blackness returned upon the heavens.

And through this blackness, plunging into that abyss of woe whence
he had momentarily risen, the figure of the marvellous stranger
melted utterly away. Delane, for a fleeting second, was aware of the
earnestness in the sad, imploring countenance; of its sweetness and
its power so strangely mingled; of it mysterious grandeur; and of its
pathetic childishness. But, already, it was sunk into interminable
distance. A star that would be baleful, yet was merely glorious, passed
on its endless wandering among the teeming systems of the universe.
Behind the fixed and steady stars, secure in their appointed places, it
set. It vanished into the pit of unknown emptiness. It was gone.

"God help you!" sighed across the sea of wailing branches, echoing down
the dark abyss below. "God give you rest at last!"

For he saw a princely, nay, an imperial Being, homeless for ever,
and for ever wandering, hunted as by keen remorseless winds about a
universe that held no corner for his feet, his majesty unworshipped,
his reign a mockery, his Court unfurnished, and his courtiers mere
shadows of deep space....

And a thin, grey dawn, stealing up behind clearing summits in the
east, crept then against the windows of the mountain hut. It brought
with it a treacherous, sharp air that made the sleeper draw another
blanket near to shelter him from the sudden cold. For the fire had died
out, and an icy draught sucked steadily beneath the doorway.




XII

A BIT OF WOOD


He found himself in Meran with some cousins who had various slight
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."

"Oh!" cried the other, rubbing his birdlike hands with pleasure, "the
relief it is to be to talk to some one who can understand! Of course
what you say is the utter truth. And you are right that no mere chance
led me to my present condition, but, on the other hand, prolonged and
deliberate study. Yet chance in a sense now governs it. I mean, my
entering the condition of Higher Space seems to depend upon the chance
of this and that circumstance. For instance, the mere sound of that
German band sent me off. Not that all music will do so, but certain
sounds, certain vibrations, at once key me up to the requisite pitch,
and off I go. Wagner's music always does it, and that band must have
been playing a stray bit of Wagner. But I'll come to all that later.
Only, first, I must ask you to send away your man from the spy-hole."

John Silence looked up with a start, for Mr. Mudge's back was to the
door, and there was no mirror. He saw the brown eye of Barker glued to
the little circle of glass, and he crossed the room without a word and
snapped down the black shutter provided for the purpose, and then heard
Barker shuffle away along the passage.

"Now," continued the little man in the chair, "I can begin. You have
managed to put me completely at my ease, and I feel I may tell you my
whole case without shame or reserve. You will understand. But you must
be patient with me if I go into details that are already familiar to
you--details of Higher Space, I mean--and if I seem stupid when I have
to describe things that transcend the power of language and are really
therefore indescribable."

"My dear friend," put in the other calmly, "that goes without saying.
To know Higher Space is an experience that defies description, and one
is obliged to make use of more or less intelligible symbols. But, pray,
proceed. Your vivid thoughts will tell me more than your halting words."

An immense sigh of relief proceeded from the little figure half lost
in the depths of the chair. Such intelligent sympathy meeting him
half-way was a new experience to him, and it touched his heart at once.
He leaned back, relaxing his tight hold of the arms, and began in his
thin, scale-like voice.

"My mother was a Frenchwoman, and my father an Essex bargeman," he
said abruptly. "Hence my name--Racine and Mudge. My father died before
I ever saw him. My mother inherited money from her Bordeaux relations,
and when she died soon after, I was left alone with wealth and a
strange freedom. I had no guardian, trustees, sisters, brothers, or any
connection in the world to look after me. I grew up, therefore, utterly
without education. This much was to my advantage; I learned none of
that deceitful rubbish taught in schools, and so had nothing to unlearn
when I awakened to my true love--mathematics, higher mathematics and
higher geometry. These, however, I seemed to know instinctively. It was
like the memory of what I had deeply studied before; the principles
were in my blood, and I simply raced through the ordinary stages, and
beyond, and then did the same with geometry. Afterwards, when I read
the books on these subjects, I understood how swift and undeviating
the knowledge had come back to me. It was simply memory. It was simply
_re-collecting_ the memories of what I had known before in a previous
existence and required no books to teach me."

In his growing excitement, Mr. Mudge attempted to drag the chair
forward a little nearer to his listener, and then smiled faintly as he
resigned himself instantly again to its immovability, and plunged anew
into the recital of his singular "disease."

"The audacious speculations of Bolyai, the amazing theories of
Gauss--that through a point more than one line could be drawn parallel
to a given line; the possibility that the angles of a triangle are
together _greater_ than two right angles, if drawn upon immense
curvatures-the breathless intuitions of Beltrami and Lobatchewsky--all
these I hurried through, and emerged, panting but unsatisfied, upon the
verge of my--my new world, my Higher Space possibilities--in a word, my
disease!

"How I got there," he resumed after a brief pause, during which he
appeared to be listening intently for an approaching sound, "is more
than I can put intelligibly into words. I can only hope to leave your
mind with an intuitive comprehension of the possibility of what I say.

"Here, however, came a change. At this point I was no longer absorbing
the fruits of studies I had made before; it was the beginning of
new efforts to learn for the first time, and I had to go slowly and
laboriously through terrible work. Here I sought for the theories and
speculations of others. But books were few and far between, and with
the exception of one man--a 'dreamer,' the world called him--whose
audacity and piercing intuition amazed and delighted me beyond
description, I found no one to guide or help.

"You, of course, Dr. Silence, understand something of what I am
driving at with these stammering words, though you cannot perhaps yet
guess what depths of pain my new knowledge brought me to, nor why an
acquaintance with a new development of space should prove a source of
misery and terror."

Mr. Racine Mudge, remembering that the chair would not move, did the
next best thing he could in his desire to draw nearer to the attentive
man facing him, and sat forward upon the very edge of the cushions,
crossing his legs and gesticulating with both hands as though he saw
into this region of new space he was attempting to describe, and
might any moment tumble into it bodily from the edge of the chair and
disappear from view. John Silence, separated from him by three paces,
sat with his eyes fixed upon the thin white face opposite, noting every
word and every gesture with deep attention.

"This room we now sit in, Dr. Silence, has one side open to space--to
Higher Space. A closed box only _seems_ closed. There is a way in and
out of a soap bubble without breaking the skin."

"You tell me no new thing," the doctor interposed gently.

"Hence, if Higher Space exists and our world borders upon it and lies
partially in it, it follows necessarily that we see only portions
of all objects. We never see their true and complete shape. We see
their three measurements, but not their fourth. The new direction is
concealed from us, and when I hold this book and move my hand all round
it I have not really made a complete circuit. We only perceive those
portions of any object which exist in our three dimensions; the rest
escapes us. But, once we learn to see in Higher Space, and objects will
appear as they actually are. Only they will thus be hardly recognisable!

"Now, you may begin to grasp something of what I am coming to."

"I am beginning to understand something of what you must have
suffered," observed the doctor soothingly, "for I have made similar
experiments myself, and only stopped just in time----"

"You are the one man in all the world who can hear and understand,
_and_ sympathise," exclaimed Mr. Mudge, grasping his hand and holding
it tightly while he spoke. The nailed chair prevented further
excitability.

"Well," he resumed, after a moment's pause, "I procured the implements
and the coloured blocks for practical experiment, and I followed the
instructions carefully till I had arrived at a working conception of
four-dimensional space. The tessaract, the figure whose boundaries are
cubes, I knew by heart. That is to say, I knew it and saw it mentally,
for my eye, of course, could never take in a new measurement, or my
hands and feet handle it.

"So, at least, I thought," he added, making a wry face. "I had reached
the stage, you see, when I could _imagine_ in a new dimension. I was
able to conceive the shape of that new figure which is intrinsically
different to all we know--the shape of the tessaract. I could perceive
in four dimensions. When, therefore, I looked at a cube I could see
all its sides at once. Its top was not foreshortened, nor its farther
side and base invisible. I saw the whole thing out flat, so to speak.
And this tessaract was bounded by cubes! Moreover, I also saw its
content--its insides."

"You were not yourself able to enter this new world," interrupted Dr.
Silence.

"Not then. I was only able to conceive intuitively what it was like
and how exactly it must look. Later, when I slipped in there and
saw objects in their entirety, unlimited by the paucity of our poor
three measurements, I very nearly lost my life. For, you see, space
does not stop at a single new dimension, a fourth. It extends in all
possible new ones, and we must conceive it as containing any number of
new dimensions. In other words, there is no space at all, but only a
spiritual condition. But, meanwhile, I had come to grasp the strange
fact that the objects in our normal world appear to us only partially."

Mr. Mudge moved farther forward till he was balanced dangerously on
the very edge of the chair. "From this starting point," he resumed,
"I began my studies and experiments, and continued them for years.
I had money, and I was without friends. I lived in solitude and
experimented. My intellect, of course, had little part in the work,
for intellectually it was all unthinkable. Never was the limitation of
mere reason more plainly demonstrated. It was mystically, intuitively,
spiritually that I began to advance. And what I learnt, and knew, and
did is all impossible to put into language, since it all describes
experiences transcending the experiences of men. It is only some of the
results--what you would call the symptoms of my disease--that I can
give you, and even these must often appear absurd contradictions and
impossible paradoxes.

"I can only tell you, Dr. Silence"--his manner became exceedingly
impressive--"that I reached sometimes a point of view whence all the
great puzzle of the world became plain to me, and I understood what
they call in the Yoga books 'The Great Heresy of Separateness'; why all
great teachers have urged the necessity of man loving his neighbour as
himself; how men are all really _one_; and why the utter loss of self
is necessary to salvation and the discovery of the true life of the
soul."

He paused a moment and drew breath.

"Your speculations have been my own long ago," the doctor said quietly.
"I fully realise the force of your words. Men are doubtless not
separate at all--in the sense they imagine----"

"All this about the very much Higher Space I only dimly, very dimly,
conceived, of course," the other went on, raising his voice again by
jerks; "but what did happen to me was the humbler accident of--the
simpler disaster--oh, dear, how shall I put it----?"

He stammered and showed visible signs of distress.

"It was simply this," he resumed with a sudden rush of words, "that,
accidentally, as the result of my years of experiment, I one day
slipped bodily into the next world, the world of four dimensions, yet
without knowing precisely how I got there, or how I could get back
again. I discovered, that is, that my ordinary three-dimensional body
was but an expression--a projection--of my higher four-dimensional body!

"Now you understand what I meant much earlier in our talk when I spoke
of chance. I cannot control my entrance or exit. Certain people,
certain human atmospheres, certain wandering forces, thoughts, desires
even--the radiations of certain combinations of colour, and above all,
the vibrations of certain kinds of music, will suddenly throw me into
a state of what I can only describe as an intense and terrific inner
vibration--and behold I am off! Off in the direction at right angles to
all our known directions! Off in the direction the cube takes when it
begins to trace the outlines of the new figure! Off into my breathless
and semi-divine Higher Space! Off, _inside myself_, into the world of
four dimensions!"

He gasped and dropped back into the depths of the immovable chair.

"And there," he whispered, his voice issuing from among the cushions,
"there I have to stay until these vibrations subside, or until they
do something which I cannot find words to describe properly or
intelligibly to you--and then, behold, I am back again. First, that is,
I disappear. Then I reappear."

"Just so," exclaimed Dr. Silence, "and that is why a few----"

"Why a few moments ago," interrupted Mr. Mudge, taking the words out
of his mouth, "you found me gone, and then saw me return. The music
of that wretched German band sent me off. Your intense thinking about
me brought me back--when the band had stopped its Wagner. I saw you
approach the peep-hole and I saw Barker's intention of doing so later.
For me no interiors are hidden. I see inside. When in that state the
content of your mind, as of your body, is open to me as the day. Oh,
dear, oh, dear, oh, dear!"

Mr. Mudge stopped and again mopped his brow. A light trembling ran
over the surface of his small body like wind over grass. He still held
tightly to the arms of the chair.

"At first," he presently resumed, "my new experiences were so vividly
interesting that I felt no alarm. There was no room for it. The alarm
came a little later."

"Then you actually penetrated far enough into that state to experience
yourself as a normal portion of it?" asked the doctor, leaning forward,
deeply interested.

Mr. Mudge nodded a perspiring face in reply.

"I did," he whispered, "undoubtedly I did. I am coming to all that. It
began first at night, when I realised that sleep brought no loss of
consciousness----"

"The spirit, of course, can never sleep. Only the body becomes
unconscious," interposed John Silence.

"Yes, we know that--theoretically. At night, of course, the spirit
is active elsewhere, and we have no memory of where and how, simply
because the brain stays behind and receives no record. But I found
that, while remaining conscious, I also retained memory. I had attained
to the state of continuous consciousness, for at night I regularly,
with the first approaches of drowsiness, entered _nolens volens_ the
four-dimensional world.

"For a time this happened regularly, and I could not control it;
though later I found a way to regulate it better. Apparently sleep is
unnecessary in the higher--the four-dimensional--body. Yes, perhaps.
But I should infinitely have preferred dull sleep to the knowledge.
For, unable to control my movements, I wandered to and fro, attracted,
owing to my partial development and premature arrival, to parts of this
new world that alarmed me more and more. It was the awful waste and
drift of a monstrous world, so utterly different to all we know and see
that I cannot even hint at the nature of the sights and objects and
beings in it. More than that, I cannot even remember them. I cannot now
picture them to myself even, but can recall only the _memory of the
impression_ they made upon me, the horror and devastating terror of it
all. To be in several places at once, for instance----"

"Perfectly," interrupted John Silence, noticing the increase of the
other's excitement, "I understand exactly. But now, please, tell me a
little more of this alarm you experienced, and how it affected you."

"It's not the disappearing and reappearing _per se_ that I mind,"
continued Mr. Mudge, "so much as certain other things. It's seeing
people and objects in their weird entirety, in their true and complete
shapes, that is so distressing. It introduces me to a world of
monsters. Horses, dogs, cats, all of which I loved; people, trees,
children; all that I have considered beautiful in life--everything,
from a human face to a cathedral--appear to me in a different shape
and aspect to all I have known before. I cannot perhaps convince you
why this should be terrible, but I assure you that it is so. To hear
the human voice proceeding from this novel appearance which I scarcely
recognise as a human body is ghastly, simply ghastly. To see inside
everything and everybody is a form of insight peculiarly distressing.
To be so confused in geography as to find myself one moment at the
North Pole, and the next at Clapham Junction--or possibly at both
places simultaneously--is absurdly terrifying. Your imagination will
readily furnish other details without my multiplying my experiences
now. But you have no idea what it all means, and how I suffer."

Mr. Mudge paused in his panting account and lay back in his chair. He
still held tightly to the arms as though they could keep him in the
world of sanity and three measurements, and only now and again released
his left hand in order to mop his face. He looked very thin and white
and oddly unsubstantial, and he stared about him as though he saw into
this other space he had been talking about.

John Silence, too, felt warm. He had listened to every word and had
made many notes. The presence of this man had an exhilarating effect
upon him. It seemed as if Mr. Racine Mudge still carried about with
him something of that breathless Higher-Space condition he had been
describing. At any rate, Dr. Silence had himself advanced sufficiently
far along the legitimate paths of spiritual and psychic transformations
to realise that the visions of this extraordinary little person had a
basis of truth for their origin.

After a pause that prolonged itself into minutes, he crossed the room
and unlocked a drawer in a bookcase, taking out a small book with a red
cover. It had a lock to it, and he produced a key out of his pocket and
proceeded to open the covers. The bright eyes of Mr. Mudge never left
him for a single second.

"It almost seems a pity," he said at length, "to cure you, Mr. Mudge.
You are on the way to discovery of great things. Though you may lose
your life in the process--that is, your life here in the world of
three dimensions--you would lose thereby nothing of great value--you
will pardon my apparent rudeness, I know--and you might gain what is
infinitely greater. Your suffering, of course, lies in the fact that
you alternate between the two worlds and are never wholly in one or the
other. Also, I rather imagine, though I cannot be certain of this from
any personal experiments, that you have here and there penetrated even
into space of more than four dimensions, and have hence experienced the
terror you speak of."

The perspiring son of the Essex bargeman and the woman of Normandy bent
his head several times in assent, but uttered no word in reply.

"Some strange psychic predisposition, dating no doubt from one of your
former lives, has favoured the development of your 'disease'; and the
fact that you had no normal training at school or college, no leading
by the poor intellect into the culs-de-sac falsely called knowledge,
has further caused your exceedingly rapid movement along the lines of
direct inner experience. None of the knowledge you have foreshadowed
has come to you through the senses, of course."

Mr. Mudge, sitting in his immovable chair, began to tremble slightly.
A wind again seemed to pass over his surface and again to set it
curiously in motion like a field of grass.

"You are merely talking to gain time," he said hurriedly, in a shaking
voice. "This thinking aloud delays us. I see ahead what you are coming
to, only please be quick, for something is going to happen. A band is
again coming down the street, and if it plays--if it plays Wagner--I
shall be off in a twinkling."

"Precisely. I will be quick. I was leading up to the point of how to
effect your cure. The way is this: You must simply learn to _block the
entrances_."

"True, true, utterly true!" exclaimed the little man, dodging about
nervously in the depths of the chair. "But how, in the name of space,
is that to be done?"

"By concentration. They are all within you, these entrances, although
outer cases such as colour, music and other things lead you towards
them. These external things you cannot hope to destroy, but once the
entrances are blocked, they will lead you only to bricked walls and
closed channels. You will no longer be able to find the way."

"Quick, quick!" cried the bobbing figure in the chair. "How is this
concentration to be effected?"

"This little book," continued Dr. Silence calmly, "will explain
to you the way." He tapped the cover. "Let me now read out to you
certain simple instructions, composed, as I see you divine, entirely
from my own personal experiences in the same direction. Follow these
instructions and you will no longer enter the state of Higher Space.
The entrances will be blocked effectively."

Mr. Mudge sat bolt upright in his chair to listen, and John Silence
cleared his throat and began to read slowly in a very distinct voice.

But before he had uttered a dozen words, something happened. A sound
of street music entered the room through the open ventilators, for a
band had begun to play in the stable mews at the back of the house--the
March from _Tannhäuser_. Odd as it may seem that a German band should
twice within the space of an hour enter the same mews and play Wagner,
it was nevertheless the fact.

Mr. Racine Mudge heard it. He uttered a sharp, squeaking cry and
twisted his arms with nervous energy round the chair. A piteous look
that was not far from tears spread over his white face. Grey shadows
followed it--the grey of fear. He began to struggle convulsively.

"Hold me fast! Catch me! For God's sake, keep me here! I'm on the rush
already. Oh, it's frightful!" he cried in tones of anguish, his voice
as thin as a reed.

Dr. Silence made a plunge forward to seize him, but in a flash, before
he could cover the space between them, Mr. Racine Mudge, screaming and
struggling, seemed to shoot past him into invisibility. He disappeared
like an arrow from a bow propelled at infinite speed, and his voice
no longer sounded in the external air, but seemed in some curious way
to make itself heard somewhere within the depths of the doctor's own
being. It was almost like a faint singing cry in his head, like a voice
of dream, a voice of vision and unreality.

"Alcohol, alcohol!" it cried, "give me alcohol! It's the quickest way.
Alcohol, before I'm out of reach!"

The doctor, accustomed to rapid decisions and even more rapid action,
remembered that a brandy flask stood upon the mantelpiece, and in less
than a second he had seized it and was holding it out towards the space
above the chair recently occupied by the visible Mudge. Then, before
his very eyes, and long ere he could unscrew the metal stopper, he saw
the contents of the closed glass phial sink and lessen as though some
one were drinking violently and greedily of the liquor within.

"Thanks! Enough! It deadens the vibrations!" cried the faint voice
in his interior, as he withdrew the flask and set it back upon the
mantelpiece. He understood that in Mudge's present condition one side
of the flask was open to space and he could drink without removing the
stopper. He could hardly have had a more interesting proof of what he
had been hearing described at such length.

But the next moment--the very same moment it almost seemed--the German
band stopped midway in its tune--and there was Mr. Mudge back in his
chair again, gasping and panting!

"Quick!" he shrieked, "stop that band! Send it away! Catch hold of me!
Block the entrances! Block the entrances! Give me the red book! Oh, oh,
oh-h-h-h!!!"

The music had begun again. It was merely a temporary interruption. The
_Tannhäuser_ March started again, this time at a tremendous pace that
made it sound like a rapid two-step as though the instruments played
against time.

But the brief interruption gave Dr. Silence a moment in which to
collect his scattering thoughts, and before the band had got through
half a bar, he had flung forward upon the chair and held Mr. Racine
Mudge, the struggling little victim of Higher Space, in a grip of iron.
His arms went all round his diminutive person, taking in a good part
of the chair at the same time. He was not a big man, yet he seemed to
smother Mudge completely.

Yet, even as he did so, and felt the wriggling form underneath him,
it began to melt and slip away like air or water. The wood of the
arm-chair somehow disentangled itself from between his own arms and
those of Mudge. The phenomenon known as the passage of matter through
matter took place. The little man seemed actually to get mixed up in
his own being. Dr. Silence could just see his face beneath him. It
puckered and grew dark as though from some great internal effort. He
heard the thin, reedy voice cry in his ear to "Block the entrances,
block the entrances!" and then--but how in the world describe what is
indescribable?

John Silence half rose up to watch. Racine Mudge, his face distorted
beyond all recognition, was making a marvellous inward movement, as
though doubling back upon himself. He turned funnel-wise like water
in a whirling vortex, and then appeared to break up somewhat as a
reflection breaks up and divides in a distorting convex mirror. He
went neither forward nor backwards, neither to the right nor the left,
neither up nor down. But he went. He went utterly. He simply flashed
away out of sight like a vanishing projectile.

All but one leg! Dr. Silence just had the time and the presence of mind
to seize upon the left ankle and boot as it disappeared, and to this he
held on for several seconds like grim death. Yet all the time he knew
it was a foolish and useless thing to do.

The foot was in his grasp one moment, and the next it seemed--this was
the only way he could describe it--inside his own skin and bones, and
at the same time outside his hand and all round it. It seemed mixed up
in some amazing way with his own flesh and blood. Then it was gone, and
he was tightly grasping a draught of heated air.

"Gone! gone! gone!" cried a thick, whispering voice, somewhere deep
within his own consciousness. "Lost! lost! lost!" it repeated, growing
fainter and fainter till at length it vanished into nothing and the
last signs of Mr. Racine Mudge vanished with it.

John Silence locked his red book and replaced it in the cabinet, which
he fastened with a click, and when Barker answered the bell he inquired
if Mr. Mudge had left a card upon the table. It appeared that he had,
and when the servant returned with it, Dr. Silence read the address and
made a note of it. It was in North London.

"Mr. Mudge has gone," he said quietly to Barker, noticing his
expression of alarm.

"He's not taken his 'at with him, sir."

"Mr. Mudge requires no hat where he is now," continued the doctor,
stooping to poke the fire. "But he may return for it----"

"And the humbrella, sir."

"And the umbrella."

"He didn't go out _my_ way, sir, if you please," stuttered the amazed
servant, his curiosity overcoming his nervousness.

"Mr. Mudge has his own way of coming and going, and prefers it. If he
returns by the door at any time remember to bring him instantly to me,
and be kind and gentle with him and ask no questions. Also, remember,
Barker, to think pleasantly, sympathetically, affectionately of him
while he is away. Mr. Mudge is a very suffering gentleman."

Barker bowed and went out of the room backwards, gasping and feeling
round the inside of his collar with three very hot fingers of one hand.

It was two days later when he brought in a telegram to the study. Dr.
Silence opened it, and read as follows:

  "Bombay. Just slipped out again. All safe. Have blocked
   entrances. Thousand thanks. Address Cooks, London.--MUDGE."

Dr. Silence looked up and saw Barker staring at him bewilderingly. It
occurred to him that somehow he knew the contents of the telegram.

"Make a parcel of Mr. Mudge's things," he said briefly, "and address
them Thomas Cook & Sons, Ludgate Circus. And send them there exactly a
month from to-day and marked 'To be called for.'"

"Yes, sir," said Barker, leaving the room with a deep sigh and a
hurried glance at the waste-paper basket where his master had dropped
the pink paper.




XIV

TRANSITION


John Mudbury was on his way home from the shops, his arms full of
Christmas presents. It was after six o'clock and the streets were
very crowded. He was an ordinary man, lived in an ordinary suburban
flat, with an ordinary wife and four ordinary children. _He_ did not
think them ordinary, but everybody else did. He had ordinary presents
for each one, a cheap blotter for his wife, a cheap air-gun for the
eldest boy, and so forth. He was over fifty, bald, in an office,
decent in mind and habits, of uncertain opinions, uncertain politics,
and uncertain religion. Yet he considered himself a decided, positive
gentleman, quite unaware that the morning newspaper determined his
opinions for the day. He just lived--from day to day. Physically, he
was fit enough, except for a weak heart (which never troubled him);
and his summer holiday was bad golf, while the children bathed and his
wife read "Garvice" on the sands. Like the majority of men, he dreamed
idly of the past, muddled away the present, and guessed vaguely--after
imaginative reading on occasions--at the future.

"I'd like to survive all right," he said, "provided it's better than
this," surveying his wife and children, and thinking of his daily toil.
"Otherwise----!" and he shrugged his shoulders as a brave man should.

He went to church regularly. But nothing in church _convinced_ him
that he did survive, just as nothing in church enticed him into hoping
that he would. On the other hand, nothing in life persuaded him that he
didn't, wouldn't, couldn't. "I'm an Evolutionist," he loved to say to
thoughtful cronies (over a glass), having never heard that Darwinism
had been questioned....

And so he came home gaily, happily, with his bunch of Christmas
presents "for the wife and little ones," stroking himself upon their
keen enjoyment and excitement. The night before he had taken "the wife"
to see _Magic_ at a select London theatre where the Intellectuals
went--and had been extraordinarily stirred. He had gone questioningly,
yet expecting something out of the common. "It's _not_ musical," he
warned her, "nor farce, nor comedy, so to speak"; and in answer to her
question as to what the Critics had said, he had wriggled, sighed, and
put his gaudy necktie straight four times in quick succession. For no
"Man in the Street," with any claim to self-respect, could be expected
to understand what the Critics had said, even if he understood the
Play. And John had answered truthfully: "Oh, they just said things. But
the theatre's always full--and that's the only test."

And just now, as he crossed the crowded Circus to catch his 'bus, it
chanced that his mind (having glimpsed an advertisement) was full of
this particular Play, or, rather, of the effect it had produced upon
him at the time. For it had _thrilled_ him--inexplicably: with its
marvellous speculative hint, its big audacity, its alert and spiritual
beauty.... Thought plunged to find something--plunged after this
bizarre suggestion of a bigger universe, after this quasi-jocular
suggestion that man is not the only--then dashed full-tilt against
a sentence that memory thrust beneath his nose: "Science does _not_
exhaust the Universe"--and at the same time dashed full-tilt against
destruction of another kind as well...!

How it happened, he never exactly knew. He saw a Monster glaring
at him with eyes of blazing fire. It was horrible! It rushed upon
him. He dodged.... Another Monster met him round the corner. Both
came at him simultaneously.... He dodged again--a leap that might
have cleared a hurdle easily, but was too late. Between the pair of
them--his heart literally in his gullet--he was mercilessly caught....
Bones crunched.... There was a soft sensation, icy cold and hot as
fire. Horns and voices roared. Battering-rams he saw, and a carapace
of iron.... Then dazzling light.... "Always _face_ the traffic!" he
remembered with a frantic yell--and, by some extraordinary luck,
escaped miraculously on to the opposite pavement....

There was no doubt about it. By the skin of his teeth he had dodged
a rather ugly death. First ... he felt for his presents--all were
safe. And then, instead of congratulating himself and taking breath,
he hurried homewards--_on foot_, which proved that his mind had lost
control a bit!--thinking only how disappointed the wife and children
would have been if--if anything had happened.... Another thing he
realised, oddly enough, was that he no longer really _loved_ his wife,
but had only great affection for her. What made him think of that,
Heaven only knows, but he _did_ think of it. He was an honest man
without pretence. This came as a discovery somehow. He turned a moment,
and saw the crowd gathered about the entangled taxicabs, policemen's
helmets gleaming in the lights of the shop windows ... then hurried on
again, his thoughts full of the joy his presents would give ... of the
scampering children ... and of his wife--bless her silly heart!--eyeing
the mysterious parcels....

And, though he never could explain _how_, he presently stood at the
door of the jail-like building that contained his flat, having walked
the whole three miles! His thoughts had been so busy and absorbed that
he had hardly noticed the length of weary trudge.... "Besides," he
reflected, thinking of the narrow escape, "I've had a nasty shock.
It was a d----d near thing, now I come to think of it...." He did
feel a bit shaky and bewildered.... Yet, at the same time, he felt
extraordinarily jolly and light-hearted....

He counted his Christmas parcels ... hugged himself in anticipatory
joy ... and let himself in swiftly with his latchkey. "I'm late," he
realised, "but when she sees the brown-paper parcels, she'll forget
to say a word. God bless the old faithful soul." And he softly used
the key a second time and entered his flat on tiptoe.... In his mind
was the master impulse of that afternoon--the pleasure these Christmas
presents would give his wife and children....

He heard a noise. He hung up hat and coat in the pokey vestibule (they
never called it "hall") and moved softly towards the parlour door,
holding the packages behind him. Only of them he thought, not of
himself--of his family, that is, not of the packages. Pushing the door
cunningly ajar, he peeped in slyly. To his amazement, the room was full
of people! He withdrew quickly, wondering what it meant. A party? And
without his knowing about it! Extraordinary!... Keen disappointment
came over him. But, as he stepped back, the vestibule, he saw, was full
of people too.

He was uncommonly surprised, yet somehow not surprised at all. People
were congratulating him. There was a perfect mob of them. Moreover, he
knew them all--vaguely remembered them, at least. And they all knew him.

"Isn't it a game?" laughed some one, patting him on the back. "_They_
haven't the least idea...!"

And the speaker--it was old John Palmer, the bookkeeper at the
office--emphasised the "they."

"Not the least idea," he answered with a smile, saying something he
didn't understand, yet knew was right.

His face, apparently, showed the utter bewilderment he felt. The shock
of the collision had been greater than he realised evidently. His mind
was wandering.... Possibly! Only the odd thing was--he had never felt
so clear-headed in his life. Ten thousand things grew simple suddenly.
But, how thickly these people pressed about him, and how--familiarly!

"My parcels," he said, joyously pushing his way across the throng.
"These are Christmas presents I've bought for them." He nodded toward
the room. "I've saved for weeks--stopped cigars and billiards and--and
several other good things--to buy them."

"Good man!" said Palmer with a happy laugh. "It's the heart that
counts."

Mudbury looked at him. Palmer had said an amazing truth, only--people
would hardly understand and believe him.... Would they?

"Eh?" he asked, feeling stuffed and stupid, muddled somewhere between
two meanings, one of which was gorgeous and the other stupid beyond
belief.

"If you _please_, Mr. Mudbury, step inside. They are expecting you,"
said a kindly, pompous voice. And, turning sharply, he met the gentle,
foolish eyes of Sir James Epiphany, a director of the Bank where he
worked.

The effect of the voice was instantaneous from long habit.

"They are?" he smiled from his heart, and advanced as from the custom
of many years. Oh, how happy and gay he felt! His affection for his
wife was real. Romance, indeed, had gone, but he needed her--and she
needed him. And the children--Milly, Bill, and Jean--he deeply loved
them. Life _was_ worth living indeed!

In the room was a crowd, but--an astounding silence. John Mudbury
looked round him. He advanced towards his wife, who sat in the corner
arm-chair with Milly on her knee. A lot of people talked and moved
about. Momentarily the crowd increased. He stood in front of them--in
front of Milly and his wife. And he spoke--holding out his packages.
"It's Christmas Eve," he whispered shyly, "and I've--brought you
something--something for everybody. Look!" He held the packages before
their eyes.

"Of course, of course," said a voice behind him, "but you may hold them
out like that for a century. They'll _never_ see them!"

"Of course they won't. But I love to do the old, sweet thing," replied
John Mudbury--then wondered with a gasp of stark amazement why he said
it.

"_I_ think----" whispered Milly, staring round her.

"Well, _what_ do you think?" her mother asked sharply. "You're always
thinking something queer."

"I think," the child continued dreamily, "that Daddy's already here."
She paused, then added with a child's impossible conviction, "I'm sure
he is. I _feel_ him."

There was an extraordinary laugh. Sir James Epiphany laughed. The
others--the whole crowd of them--also turned their heads and smiled.
But the mother, thrusting the child away from her, rose up suddenly
with a violent start. Her face had turned to chalk. She stretched her
arms out--into the air before her. She gasped and shivered. There was
an awful anguish in her eyes.

"Look!" repeated John, "these are the presents that I brought."

But his voice apparently was soundless. And, with a spasm of icy pain,
he remembered that Palmer and Sir James--some years ago--had died.

"It's magic," he cried, "but--I love you, Jinny--I love you--and--and I
have always been true to you--as true as steel. We need each other--oh,
can't you see--we go on together--you and I--for ever and ever----"

"_Think_," interrupted an exquisitely tender voice, "don't shout!
_They_ can't hear you--now." And, turning, John Mudbury met the eyes of
Everard Minturn, their President of the year before. Minturn had gone
down with the _Titanic_.

He dropped his parcels then. His heart gave an enormous leap of joy.

He saw her face--the face of his wife--look through him.

But the child gazed straight into his eyes. She _saw_ him.

The next thing he knew was that he heard something tinkling ... far,
far away. It sounded miles below him--inside him--he was sounding
himself--all utterly bewildering--like a bell. It _was_ a bell.

Milly stooped down and picked the parcels up. Her face shone with
happiness and laughter....

But a man came in soon after, a man with a ridiculous, solemn face, a
pencil, and a notebook. He wore a dark blue helmet. Behind him came a
string of other men. They carried something ... something ... he could
not see exactly what it was. But when he pressed forward through the
laughing throng to gaze upon it, he dimly made out two eyes, a nose, a
chin, a deep red smear, and a pair of folded hands upon an overcoat. A
woman's form fell down upon them then, and ... he heard ... soft sounds
of children weeping strangely ... and other sounds ... sounds as of
familiar voices ... laughing ... laughing gaily.

"They'll join us presently. It goes like a flash...."

And, turning with great happiness in his heart, he saw that Sir James
had said it, holding Palmer by the arm as with some natural yet
unexpected love of sympathetic friendship.

"Come on," said Palmer, smiling like a man who accepts a gift in
universal fellowship, "let's help 'em. They'll never understand....
Still, we can always try."

The entire throng moved up with laughter and amusement. It was a
moment of hearty, genuine life at last. Delight and Joy and Peace were
everywhere.

Then John Mudbury realised the truth--that he was _dead_.




XV

THE TRADITION


The noises outside the little flat at first were very disconcerting
after living in the country. They made sleep difficult. At the
cottage in Sussex where the family had lived, night brought deep,
comfortable silence, unless the wind was high, when the pine trees
round the duck-pond made a sound like surf, or if the gale was from the
south-west, the orchard roared a bit unpleasantly.

But in London it was very different; sleep was easier in the daytime
than at night. For after nightfall the rumble of the traffic became
spasmodic instead of continuous; the motor-horns startled like warnings
of alarm; after comparative silence the furious rushing of a taxi-cab
touched the nerves. From dinner till eleven o'clock the streets
subsided gradually; then came the army from theatres, parties, and late
dinners, hurrying home to bed. The motor-horns during this hour were
lively and incessant, like bugles of a regiment moving into battle.
The parents rarely retired until this attack was over. If quick about
it, sleep was possible then before the flying of the night-birds--an
uncertain squadron--screamed half the street awake again. But,
these finally disposed of, a delightful hush settled down upon the
neighbourhood, profounder far than any peace of the countryside. The
deep rumble of the produce wagons, coming in to the big London markets
from the farms--generally about three A.M.--held no disturbing quality.

But sometimes in the stillness of very early morning, when streets
were empty and pavements all deserted, there was a sound of another
kind that was startling and unwelcome. For it was ominous. It came with
a clattering violence that made nerves quiver and forced the heart to
pause and listen. A strange resonance was in it, a volume of sound,
moreover, that was hardly justified by its cause. For it was hoofs. A
horse swept hurrying up the deserted street, and was close upon the
building in a moment. It was audible suddenly, no gradual approach from
a distance, but as though it turned a corner from soft ground that
muffled the hoofs, on to the echoing, hard paving that emphasised the
dreadful clatter. Nor did it die away again when once the house was
reached. It ceased as abruptly as it came. The hoofs did not go away.

It was the mother who heard them first, and drew her husband's
attention to their disagreeable quality.

"It is the mail-vans, dear," he answered. "They go at four A. M. to
catch the early trains into the country."

She looked up sharply, as though something in his tone surprised her.

"But there's no sound of wheels," she said. And then, as he did not
reply, she added gravely, "You have heard it too, John. I can tell."

"I have," he said. "I have heard it--twice."

And they looked at one another searchingly, each trying to read the
other's mind. She did not question him; he did not propose writing to
complain in a newspaper; both understood something that neither of them
understood.

"I heard it first," she then said softly, "the night before Jack got
the fever. And as I listened, I heard him crying. But when I went in to
see he was asleep. The noise stopped just outside the building." There
was a shadow in her eyes as she said this, and a hush crept in between
her words. "I did not hear it _go_." She said this almost beneath her
breath.

He looked a moment at the ground; then, coming towards her, he took
her in his arms and kissed her. And she clung very tightly to him.

"Sometimes," he said in a quiet voice, "a mounted policeman passes down
the street, I think."

"It is a horse," she answered. But whether it was a question or mere
corroboration he did not ask, for at that moment the doctor arrived,
and the question of little Jack's health became the paramount matter of
immediate interest. The great man's verdict was uncommonly disquieting.

All that night they sat up in the sick room. It was strangely still, as
though by one accord the traffic avoided the house where a little boy
hung between life and death. The motor-horns even had a muffled sound,
and heavy drays and wagons used the wide streets; there were fewer
taxicabs about, or else they flew by noiselessly. Yet no straw was
down; the expense prohibited that. And towards morning, very early, the
mother decided to watch alone. She had been a trained nurse before her
marriage, accustomed when she was younger to long vigils. "You go down,
dear, and get a little sleep," she urged in a whisper. "He's quiet now.
At five o'clock I'll come for you to take my place."

"You'll fetch me at once," he whispered, "if----" then hesitated as
though breath failed him. A moment he stood there staring from her
face to the bed. "If you hear anything," he finished. She nodded, and
he went downstairs to his study, not to his bedroom. He left the door
ajar. He sat in darkness, listening. Mother, he knew, was listening,
too, beside the bed. His heart was very full, for he did not believe
the boy could live till morning. The picture of the room was all the
time before his eyes--the shaded lamp, the table with the medicines,
the little wasted figure beneath the blankets, and mother close beside
it, listening. He sat alert, ready to fly upstairs at the smallest cry.

But no sound broke the stillness; the entire neighbourhood was silent;
all London slept. He heard the clock strike three in the dining-room at
the end of the corridor. It was still enough for that. There was not
even the heavy rumble of a single produce wagon, though usually they
passed about this time on their way to Smithfield and Covent Garden
markets. He waited, far too anxious to close his eyes.... At four
o'clock he would go up and relieve her vigil. Four, he knew, was the
time when life sinks to its lowest ebb.... Then, in the middle of his
reflections, thought stopped dead, and it seemed his heart stopped too.

Far away, but coming nearer with extraordinary rapidity, a sharp,
clear sound broke out of the surrounding stillness--a horse's hoofs.
At first it was so distant that it might have been almost on the high
roads of the country, but the amazing speed with which it came closer,
and the sudden increase of the beating sound, was such, that by the
time he turned his head it seemed to have entered the street outside.
It was within a hundred yards of the building. The next second it was
before the very door. And something in him blenched. He knew a moment's
complete paralysis. The abrupt cessation of the heavy clatter was
strangest of all. It came like lightning, it struck, it paused. It did
not go away again. Yet the sound of it was still beating in his ears
as he dashed upstairs three steps at a time. It seemed in the house as
well, on the stairs behind him, in the little passage-way, _inside the
very bedroom_. It was an appalling sound. Yet he entered a room that
was quiet, orderly, and calm. It was silent. Beside the bed his wife
sat, holding Jack's hand and stroking it. She was soothing him; her
face was very peaceful. No sound but her gentle whisper was audible.

He controlled himself by a tremendous effort, but his face betrayed
his consternation and distress. "Hush," she said beneath her breath;
"he's sleeping much more calmly now. The crisis, bless God, is over, I
do believe. I dared not leave him."

He saw in a moment that she was right, and an untenable relief passed
over him. He sat down beside her, very cold, yet perspiring with heat.

"You heard----?" he asked after a pause.

"Nothing," she replied quickly, "except his pitiful, wild words when
the delirium was on him. It's passed. It lasted but a moment, or I'd
have called you."

He stared closely into her tired eyes. "And his words?" he asked in a
whisper. Whereupon she told him quietly that the little chap had sat up
with wide-opened eyes and talked excitedly about a "great, great horse"
he heard, but that was not "coming for him." "He laughed and said he
would not go with it because he 'was not ready yet.' Some scrap of talk
he had overheard from us," she added, "when we discussed the traffic
once...."

"But you heard nothing?" he repeated almost impatiently.

No, she had heard nothing. After all, then, he _had_ dozed a moment in
his chair....

Four weeks later Jack, entirely convalescent, was playing a restricted
game of hide-and-seek with his sister in the flat. It was really a
forbidden joy, owing to noise and risk of breakages, but he had unusual
privileges after his grave illness. It was dusk. The lamps in the
street were being lit. "Quietly, remember; your mother's resting in her
room," were the father's orders. She had just returned from a week by
the sea, recuperating from the strain of nursing for so many nights.
The traffic rolled and boomed along the streets below.

"Jack! Do come on and hide. It's your turn. I hid last."

But the boy was standing spellbound by the window, staring hard at
something on the pavement. Sybil called and tugged in vain. Tears
threatened. Jack would not budge. He declared he saw something.

"Oh, you're always seeing something. I wish you'd go and hide. It's
only because you can't think of a good place, really."

"Look!" he cried in a voice of wonder. And as he said it his father
rose quickly from his chair before the fire.

"Look!" the child repeated with delight and excitement. "It's a great
big horse. And it's perfectly white all over." His sister joined him at
the window. "Where? Where? I can't see it. Oh, _do_ show me!"

Their father was standing close behind them now. "I heard it," he was
whispering, but so low the children did not notice him. His face was
the colour of chalk.

"Straight in front of our door, stupid! Can't you see it? Oh, I do wish
it had come for me. It's _such_ a beauty!" And he clapped his hands
with pleasure and excitement. "Quick, quick! It's going away again!"

But while the children stood half-squabbling by the window, their
father leaned over a sofa in the adjoining room above a figure whose
heart in sleep had quietly stopped its beating. The great white horse
had come. But this time he had not only heard its wonderful arrival. He
had also heard it go. It seemed he heard the awful hoofs beat down the
sky, far, far away, and very swiftly, dying into silence, finally up
among the stars.


THE END.




Transcriber's Note

Spelling, hyphenation and punctuation have been retained as in the
original publication except as follows:

  Page 1
  in the familar scenery _changed to_
  in the familiar scenery

  Page 137
  that the search partly had gone _changed to_
  that the search party had gone

  Page 183
  which disintegrate the herioc soul _changed to_
  which disintegrate the heroic soul

  Page 185
  where they had their birth: _changed to_
  where they had their birth.

  Page 204
  this Tessaract was bounded _changed to_
  this tessaract was bounded





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