The Bright Messenger

tched in too intense, too serious a key. Their patient was so commonplace again, so ordinary. He made himself

new; but an educated, or at least half-educated, countryman. He was so big, yet never gauche. He was neither stupid nor ill-informed; the garden interested him, he knew much about the trees and flowers, birds and i

ngly to Devonham. "But a lot in him he doesn't understand himself, unless I'm wrong. Not mu

ced purposely in his sitting-room, books on simple physics, natural history and as

he great city he now experienced for the first time. He had in his luggage a copy of the Will by which Mason had left him everything, and he was please

He spoke with a slight foreign accent. "There was somebody, of course, who looked after me and lived with

bering his promise

n the meantime, you must make yourself at home here with us, for as long

ings I want to tell you, ask you too." He paused, look

help you always, so far as I can

ntence at the last word, substituting "others" for "you." Had he been aware of a slight uneasy emotion in his listener's heart? It had hardly betrayed itself by any v

y reserve in him. "I feel confused, lost somewhere, as if I didn't belon

the rapid discernment, "after living among woods and mountains, as you have lived,

his eyes betraying an effort to follow thought elsewhere. "Of cours

aily life, in fact. The exchange betrayed nothing of interest, nothing unusual. They mentioned theatres, music, painting, and, beyond the natural curiosity of youth that was ignorant of these, no detail was revealed that need have attracted the attention of anybody, neither of

ting just below the surface. There was no doubt in his mind which was the central self and which its transient projection, the secondary pers

t behind while "N. H." rested, or was active upon other things, things natural to him, elsewhere. LeVallon was an arm, a limb, a feeler that "N. H." thrust out. At Charing Cross, for ins

symbol that always appeared when his deepest, perhaps his subliminal self was stirred. That lost radiant valley in the haunted Caucasus shone close and brimming over ... with light, with flower

came with them, as though inspiration brought its own sound with it that made singing natural. They haunted him, these vague, pleasurable phantasmagoria that were connected, he felt sure, with music, as with childhood's lost imaginings. For a long time he searched in vain for their sour

with a smile that Devonham assuredly never s

, returned upon him, linked on somehow to that old familiar symbol he knew to mean his awakening subconscious being-a flowering Caucasian vale of

skeleton of the boyish notion, though derived in the first instance he certainly knew not whence. The literature and tradition of the East, he recalled, peopled the elements with conscious life,

e Devas, a series of Nature Beings entirely apart from human categories. They included many degrees, from fairies to planetary spirits, the gods, so called; and their duties, work and purposes were concerned, he remembered, with carrying out the Laws of Nature, the busy tending of all forms and structures, from the elaborately marvellous infusoria in a drop of

the rich, ancient notion flit

f the planet's young, fair ignorance!"

power, the great hope of his own reasoned, scientific Dream-that man is

he non-human could unite! Nature must come back into the hearts of men and win them again to simple, natural life with love, with joy, with naked

He glowed and pulsed with its delicious inward fire. Light filled his being for an instant-an instant of intoxicating belief and certainty and vision. The instant inspiration of a dream went lost an

n window or on the balcony. The phases of the moon, too, interested him, and he asked once when the full moon would come and then, when Devonham told him, he corrected the date the latter gave, proving him two hours wrong. But, on the whole, there seemed little to differentiate him from the usual young man whose physique had devel

ied oddly. His critical standard, moreover, was curiously exacting; he demanded the real creative interpretation of a part, and was quick to detect a lack of inspiration, of fine technique, of true co

s outside." Or, "She pretends. She does not feel and know.

and her part, you mea

burn with it,"

the music hardly stirred him. He showed signs of distress at anything classi

stions. He could not define the freedom he referred to, nor could he say where he could go away to. But his face lit up, he smiled his delightful smile, he looked happy. "

e, that music? Tha

eplied, again tapping hi

d to perplex him more than its wonder thrilled him.

h evident surprise. "And I hear nothing. They do

" explained Fillery. "Th

d is natural, isn't it?

companion, "is natura

, who was so attentive to his least response. "Do they only sing when"-Fillery heard it and felt s

eir own accord-not in cities,

, as though he u

ind," he murmured. "Of

rapid, world-embracing, space-and-time destroying pictures on the screen. Concerts did not stimulate him, it seemed, but rather puzzled him. He remained wholly the commonplace LeVallon-with one exception: he drew involved patterns on the edge of his programmes, patterns of a very complicated yet accurate kind, as though

, but, having been educated by one mind only, and in a region of lonely forests and mountains, remote from civilized life, there was nothing inexplicable in the odd words he chose, n

-educated country lad; and this swift aptitude was puzzling until its explanation suddenly was laid bare. He absorbed, his companion realized at

y, made a little later, that he himself could, on occasions, become so identified with his p

thereon that followed, Dr. Fillery had no evidence to contradict the latter's opinion: "LeVallon is the real true self. The

hen 'N. H.' appears and does someth

with sceptical emphasis

t won't?" as

no reason why 'N. H.' should not become happily merged in

and stared at his chief, as

count at all. I believe the whole, real, parent Self is 'N. H.,' and the on

urned his s

right," he added slowly, "you, Paul, wi

I see no reason to believe in anything more than a subconscious mind of unusua

expect-as you said just now. I grant you that

not like the pause. A sense of exasperation rose in

tively to a lower key-almost a touch of awe lay behind it-"you ad

lundering, imperfect system, inadequately organized-if you care to call that intelligence. It's

onceived that machine-and a man repairs and keeps it going. Who-what-keeps the daisy going, the crystal, the creative thought in the imagination? An egg becom

ted Devonham, wiping his glasse

hi

. It seemed the question made him uneasy. Puttin

. "Be careful. We know nothing, remember, nothing of life. Don't jump ahead li

ugh to convey that he

e human section is even negligible; while, compared to the possibility of greater forms--" He broke off abruptly. "As you say, Paul, we know nothing of life

e subconscious never stirred, natures through whom its magical fires cast no faintest upward gleam, intercourse was ever sterile, unproductive.

dice," he repeated quiet

matize themselves-especially," he added significantly, "when aided by imagination. We seek only facts." On his face appeared swiftly, before it vanished