Collected Works of Algernon Blackwood

by Algernon Blackwood

  The other took his arm. “Not yet,” he said quietly. “He’s best alone for the moment.” He smiled, and it was the smile that invariably won him the confidence of even the most obstinate and difficult patient. He was completely master of himself again. “Besides, Paul,” he went on gently. “I want to hear what you have to tell me. Some of it — if not all. I want your Report. It is of value. I must have that first, you know.”

  They sat on the bottom stair together, while Devonham told briefly what had happened. He was glad to tell it, too. It was a relief to become the mere accurate observer again.

  “I can summarize it for you in two words,” he said: “light and sound. The sound, at first, seemed wind — wind rising, wind outside. With the light, was perceptible heat. The two seemed correlated. When the sound increased, the heat increased too. Then the sound became methodical, rhythmical — it became almost musical. As it did so the light became coloured. Both” — he looked across at the ghostly hat-rack in the hall— “were produced — by him.”

  “Items, please, Paul. I want an itemized account.”

  Devonham fumbled in the big pockets of his coat and eventually lit a cigarette, though he did not in the least want to smoke. That watchful, penetrating stare persisted, none the less. Amid the anxiety were items of carelessness that almost seemed assumed.

  “Mrs. Soames sent Nurse Robbins to fetch me,” he resumed, his voice harshly, as it seemed, cutting across the waves of pleasant sound that poured down the empty stairs behind them and filled the hall with resonant vibrations. “I went in, turned them both out, and closed the door. The room was filled with a soft, white light, rather pale in tint, that seemed to emanate from nowhere. I could trace it to no source. It was equally diffused, I mean, yet a kind of wave-like vibration ran through it in faint curves and circles. There was a sound, a sound like wind. A wind was in the room, moaning and sighing inside the walls — a perfectly natural and ordinary sound, if it had been outside. The light moved and quivered. It lay in sheets. Its movement, I noticed, was in direct relation to the wind: the louder the volume of sound, the greater the movement of the air — the brighter became the light, and vice versa. I could not take notes at the actual moment, but my memory” — a slight grimace by way of a smile indicated that forgetting was impossible— “is accurate, as you know.”

  Fillery did not interrupt, either by word or gesture.

  “The increase of light was accompanied by colour, and the increase of sound led into a measure — not actual bars, and never melody, but a distinct measure that involved rhythm. It was musical, as I said. The colour — I’m coming to that — then took on a very faint tinge of gold or orange, a little red in it sometimes, flame colour almost. The air was luminous — it was radiant. At one time I half expected to see fire. For there was heat as well. Not an unpleasant heat, but a comforting, stimulating, agreeable heat like — I was going to say, like the heat of a bright coal fire on a winter’s day, but I think the better term is sunlight. I had an impression this heat must burst presently into actual flame. It never did so. The sheets of coloured light rose and fell with the volume of the sound. There were curves and waves and rising columns like spirals, but anything approaching a definite outline, form, or shape” — he broke off for a second— “figures,” he announced abruptly, almost challengingly, staring at the white china bowl in front of him, “I could not swear to.”

  He turned suddenly and stared at his chief with an expression half of question, half of challenge; then seemed to change his mind, shrugging his shoulders a very little. But Fillery made no sign. He did not answer. He laid one hand, however, upon the banisters, as though preliminary to getting to his feet. The sound about them had been gradually growing less, the vibrations were smaller, its waves perceptibly decreasing.

  Devonham finished his account in a lower voice, speaking rapidly, as though the words burnt his tongue:

  “The sound, I had already discovered, issued from himself. He was lying on his back, the eyes wide open, the expression peaceful, even happy. The lips were closed. He was humming, continuously humming. Yet the sound came in some way I cannot describe, and could not examine or ascertain, from his whole body. I detected no vibration of the body. It lay half naked, only a corner of the sheet upon it. It lay quite still. The cause of the light and heat, the cause of the movement of air I have called wind — I could not ascertain. They came through him, as it were.” A slight shiver ran across his body, noticed by his companion, but eliciting no comment from him. “I — I took his pulse,” concluded Devonham, sinking his voice now to a whisper, though a very clear one; “it was very rapid and extraordinarily strong. He seemed entirely unconscious of my presence. I also” — again the faint shiver was perceptible— “felt his heart. It was — I have never felt such perfect action, such power — it was beating like an engine, like an engine. And the sense of vitality, of life in the room everywhere was — electrical. I could have sworn it was packed to the walls with — with others.” Devonham never ceased to watch his companion keenly while he spoke.

  Fillery then put his first question.

  “And the effect upon yourself?” he asked quietly. “I mean — any emotional disturbance? Anything, for instance, like what you saw in the Jura forests?” He did not look at his colleague; he stood up; the sound about them had now ceased almost entirely and only faint, dying fragments of it reached them. “Roughly speaking,” he added, making a half movement to go upstairs. He understood the inner struggle going on; he wished to make it easy for him. For the complete account he did not press him.

  Devonham rose too; he walked over to the china bowl, took up a card, read it and let it fall again. The sun was over the horizon now, and a pallid light showed objects clearly. It showed the whiteness of the thin, tired face. He turned and walked slowly back across the hall. The first cart went clattering noisily down the street. At the same moment a final sound from the room upstairs came floating down into the chill early air.

  “My interest, of course,” began Devonham, his hands in his pockets, his body rigid, as he looked up into his companion’s eyes, “was very concentrated, my mind intensely active.” He paused, then added cautiously: “I may confess, however — I must admit, that is, a certain increase of — of — well, a general sense of well-being, let me call it. The heat, you see. A feeling of peace, if you like it better — beyond the — fear,” he blurted out finally, changing his hands from his coat to his trouser pockets, as though the new position protected him better from attack. “Also — I somehow expected — any moment — to see outlines, forms, something new!” He stared frankly into the eyes of the man who, from the step above him, returned his gaze with equal frankness. “And you — Edward?” he asked with great suddenness.

  “Joy? Could you describe it as joy?” His companion ignored the reference to new forms. He also ignored the sudden question. “Any increase of —— ?”

  “Vitality, you want to say. The word joy is meaningless, as you know.”

  “An intensification of consciousness in any way?”

  But Devonham had reached his limit of possible confession. He did not reply for a moment. He took a step forward and stood beside Fillery on the stairs. His manner had abruptly changed. It was as though he had come to a conclusion suddenly. His reply, when it came, was no reply at all:

  “Heat and light are favourable, of course, to life,” he remarked. “You remember Joaquin Mueller: ‘the optic nerve, under the action of light, acts as a stimulus to the organs of the imagination and fancy.’”

  Fillery smiled as he took his arm and they went quietly upstairs together. The quoting was a sign of returning confidence. He said something to himself about the absence of light, but so low it was under his breath almost, and even if his companion heard it, he made no comment: “There was no moon at all to-night till well past three, and even then her light was of the faintest....”

  No sound was now audible. They entered a room that was filled with silence and wi
th peace. A faint ray of morning sunlight showed the form of the patient sleeping calmly, the body entirely uncovered. There was an expression of quiet happiness upon the face whose perfect health suggested perhaps radiance. But there was a change as well, though indescribable — there was power. He did not stir as they approached the bed. The breathing was regular and very deep.

  Standing beside him a moment, Fillery sniffed the air, then smiled. There was a perfume of wild flowers. There was, in spite of the cool morning air, a pleasant warmth.

  “You notice — anything?” he whispered, turning to his colleague.

  Devonham likewise sniffed the air. “The window’s wide open,” was the low rejoinder. “There are conservatories at the back of every house all down the row.”

  And they left the room on tiptoe, closing the door behind them very softly. Upon Devonham’s face lay a curious expression, half anxiety, half pain.

  CHAPTER XXI

  DR. FILLERY, lying on a couch in his patient’s bedroom, snatched some four to five hours’ sleep, though, if “snatched,” it was certainly enjoyed — a deep, dreamless, reposeful slumber. He woke, refreshed in mind and body, and the first thing he saw, even before he had time to stretch a limb or move his head, was two great blue eyes gazing into his own across the room. They belonged, it first struck him, to some strange being that had followed him out of sleep — he had not yet recovered full consciousness and the effects of sleep still hovered; then an earlier phrase recurred: to some divine great animal.

  “N. H.,” in his bed in the opposite corner, lay gazing at him. He returned the gaze. Into the blue eyes came at once a look of happy recognition, of contentment, almost a smile. Then they closed again in sleep.

  The room was full of morning sunshine. Fillery rose quietly, and performed his toilet in his own quarters, but on returning after a hurried breakfast, the patient still slept soundly. He slept on for hours, he slept the morning through; but for the obvious evidences of perfect normal health, it might have been a state of coma. The body did not even change its position once.

  He left Devonham in charge, and was on his way to visit some of the other cases, when Nurse Robbins stood before him. Miss Khilkoff had “called to inquire after Mr. LeVallon,” and was waiting downstairs in case Dr. Fillery could also see her.

  He glanced at her pretty slim figure and delicate complexion, her hair, fine, plentiful and shiny, her dark eyes with a twinkle in them. She was an attractive, intelligent, experienced, young woman, tactful too, and of great use with extra sensitive patients. She was, of course, already hopelessly in love with her present “case.” His “singing,” so she called it to Mrs. Soames, had excited her “like a glass of wine — some music makes you feel like that — so that you could love everybody in the world.” She already called him Master.

  “Please say I will be down at once,” said Dr. Fillery, watching her for the first time with interest as he remembered these details Paul had told him. The girl, it now struck him, was intensely alive. There was a gain, an increase, in her appearance somewhere. He recalled also the matron’s remark — she was not usually loquacious with her nurses — that “he’s no ordinary case, and I’ve seen a good few, haven’t I? The way he understands animals and flowers alone proves that!”

  Dr. Fillery went downstairs.

  His first rapid survey of the girl, exhaustive for all its quickness — he knew her so well — showed him that no outward signs of excitement were visible. Calm, poised, gentle as ever, the same generous tenderness in the eyes, the same sweet firmness in the mouth, the familiar steadiness that was the result of an inner surety — all were there as though the wild scene of the night before had never been. Yet all those were heightened. Her beauty had curiously increased.

  “Come into my study,” he said, taking her hand and leading the way. “We shan’t be disturbed there. Besides, it’s ours, isn’t it? We mustn’t forget that you are a member of the Firm.”

  He was aware of her soft beauty invading, penetrating him, aware, too, somehow, that she was in her most impersonal mood. But for all that, her nature could not hide itself, nor could signs of a certain, subtle change she had undergone fail to obtrude themselves. In a single night, it seemed, she had blossomed into a wondrous ripe maturity; like some strange flower that opens to the darkness, the bud had burst suddenly into full, sweet bloom, whose coming only moon and stars had witnessed. There was moonlight now in her dark mysterious eyes as she glanced at him; there was the gold of stars in her tender, yet curious smile, as she answered in her low voice— “Of course, I always was a partner in the Firm” — there was the grace and rhythm of a wild flower swaying in the wind, as she passed before him into the quiet room and sank into his own swinging armchair at the desk. But there was something else as well.

  A detail of his recent Vision slid past his inner sight again while he watched her.... “I thought — I felt sure — you would come,” he said. He looked at her admiringly, but peace strong in his heart. “The ordeal,” he went on in a curious voice, “would have been too much for most women, but you” — he smiled, and the sympathy in his voice increased— “you, I see, have only gained from it. You’ve mastered, conquered it. I wonder” — looking away from her almost as if speaking to himself— “have you wholly understood it?”

  He realized vividly in that moment what she, as a young, unmarried girl, had suffered before the eyes of all those prying eyes and gossiping tongues. His admiration deepened.

  She did not take up his words, however. “I’ve come to inquire,” she said simply in an even voice, “for father and myself. He wanted to know if you got home all right, and how Julian LeVallon is.” The tone, the heightened colour in the cheek, as she spoke the name no one had yet used, explained, partly at least, to the experienced man who listened, the secret of her sudden blossoming. Also she used her father, though unconsciously, perhaps. “He was afraid the electricity — the lightning even — had” — she hesitated, smiled a little, then added, as though she herself knew otherwise— “done something to him.”

  Fillery laughed with her then. “As it has done to you,” he thought, but did not speak the words. The need of formula was past. He thanked her, adding that it was sweet yet right that she had come herself, instead of writing or telephoning. “And you may set your — your father’s mind at rest, for all goes well. The electricity, of course,” he added, on his own behalf as well as hers, “was — more than most of us could manage. Electricity explains everything except itself, doesn’t it?”

  He was inwardly examining her with an intense and accurate observation. She seemed the same, yet different. The sudden flowering into beauty was simply enough explained. It was another change he now became more and more aware of. In this way a ship, grown familiar during the long voyage, changes on coming into port. The decks and staircases look different when the vessel lies motionless at the dock. It becomes half recognizable, half strange. Gone is the old familiarity, gone also one’s own former angle of vision. It is difficult to find one’s way about her. Soon she will set sail again, but in another direction, and with new passengers using her decks, her corners, hatchways ... telling their secrets of love and hate with that recklessness the open sea and sky make easy.... And now with the girl before him — he couldn’t quite find his way about her as of old ... it was the same familiar ship, yet it was otherwise, and he, a new passenger, acknowledged the freedom of sea and sky.

  “And you — Iraida?” he asked. “It was brave of you to come.”

  She liked evidently the use of her real name, for she smiled, aware all the time of his intent observation, aware probably also of his hidden pain, yet no sign of awkwardness in her; to this man she could talk openly, or, on the contrary, conceal her thoughts, sure of his tact and judgment. He would never intrude unwisely.

  “It was natural, Edward,” she observed frankly in return.

  “Yes, I suppose it was. Natural is exactly the right word. You have perhaps found yourself at last,” an
d again he used her real name, “Iraida.”

  “It feels like that,” she replied slowly. She paused. “I have found, at least, something definite that I have to do. I feel that I — must care for him.” Her eyes, as she said it, were untroubled.

  The well-known Nayan flashed back a moment in the words; he recognized — to use his simile — a familiar corner of the deck where he had sat and talked for hours beneath the quiet stars — to someone who understood, yet remained ever impersonal. And the person he talked with came over suddenly and stood beside him and took his hand between her own soft gloved ones:

  “You told me, Edward, he would need a woman to help him. That’s what you mean by ‘natural’ — isn’t it? And I am she, perhaps.”

  “I think you are,” came in a level tone.

  “I know it,” she said suddenly, both her eyes looking down upon his face. “Yes, I suppose I know it.”

  “Because you — need him,” his voice, equally secure, made answer.

  Still keeping his hand tight between her own, her dark eyes still searching his, she made no sign that his blunt statement was accepted, much less admitted. Instead she asked a question he was not prepared for: “You would like that, Edward? You wish it?”

  She was so close against his chair that her fur-trimmed coat brushed his shoulder; yet, though with eyes and touch and physical presence she was so near, he felt that she herself had gone far, far away into some other place. He drew his hand free. “Iraida,” he said quietly, “I wish the best — for him — and for you. And I believe this is the best — for him and you.” He put his patient first. He was aware that the girl, for all her outer calmness, trembled.

  “It is,” she said, her voice as quiet as his own; and after a moment’s hesitation, she went back to her seat again. “If you think I can be of use,” she added. “I’m ready.”