The Bright Messenger

  CHAPTER XXIV

  As upon a former occasion some twenty-four hours before, "N. H." seemedhardly aware that his visitor had left, though this time there wasthe vital difference--that what was of value had not gone at all. Theessence of the girl, it seemed, was still with him. It remained. Thephysical presence was to him apparently the least of all.

  He returned to his place at the open window of the darkening room,while night, with her cooler airs, passed over the world on tiptoe.He drew deep breaths, opened his arms, and seemed to shake himself,as though glad to be free of recent little awkward and unnaturalgestures that had irked him. There was happiness in his face. "She isa builder, though she has forgotten," ran his thought with pleasure,"and I can work with her. Like Fillery, she builds up, constructs; weare all three in the same service, and the gods are glad. I love her... yes ... but she"--his thoughts grew troubled and confused--"shespeaks of another love that is a tight and binding little thing ...that catches and confines. It is for one person only ... one person forone other.... For two ... only for two persons!... What is its meaningthen?"

  Of her words and acts he had understood evidently a small part only;much that she had said and done he had not comprehended, although in itsomewhere there had certainly lain a sweet, faint, troubling pleasurethat was new to him.

  His thought wavered, flickered out and vanished. For a long time heleaned against the window with his images, thinking with his heart,for when alone and not stirred by the thinking of others close tohim, he became of a curious childlike innocence, knowing nothing. His"thinking" with others present seemed but a reflection of _their_thinking. The way he caught up the racial thinking, appearing swiftlyintelligent at the time (as with Fillery's mind), passed the instanthe was alone. He became open, then, to bigger rhythms that the littlebusy thinkers checked and interrupted. But this greater flow of images,of rhythms, this thinking with the heart--what was it, and with whatthings did it deal? He did not know. He had forgotten. To his presentbrain it was alien. He grasped only that it was concerned with therhythms of fire and wind apparently, though hardly, perhaps, of thatcrude form in which men know them, but of an inner, subtler, morevital heat and air which lie in and behind all forms and help to shapethem--and of Intelligences which use these as their vehicles, theirinstruments, their bodies.

  In his "images" he was aware of these Intelligences, perceived themwith his entire being, shared their activities and nature: behind allso-called forms and shapes, whether of people, flowers, minerals,of insects or of stars, of a bird, a butterfly or a nebula, butalso of those _mental_ shapes which are born of thought and moodand heart--this host of Intelligences, great and small, all delvingtogether, building, constructing, involved in a vast impersonal servicewhich was deathless. This seemed the mighty call that thundered throughhim, fire and wind merely the agencies with which he, in particular,knew instinctively his duties lay.

  For his work, these images taught him, was to increase life by makingthe "body" it used as perfect as he could. The more perfect the form,the instrument, the greater the power manifesting through it. A poor,imperfect form stopped the flow of this manifesting life, as thougha current were held up and delayed. For instance, his own form, hispresent body, now irked, delayed and hampered him, although he knewnot how or why or whence he had come to be using it at this moment onthe earth. The instinctive desire to escape from it lay in him, andalso the instinctive recognition that two others, similarly caught andimprisoned, must escape with him....

  The images, the rhythms, poured through him in a mighty flood, as heleaned by the open window, his great figure, his whole nature too,merging in the space, the wind, the darkness of the soft-moving nightbeyond.... Yet darkness troubled him too; it always seemed unfamiliar,new, something he had never been accustomed to. In darkness he becamequiet, very gentle, feeling his way, as it were, uneasily.

  He was aware, however, that Fillery was near, though not, perhaps,that he was actually in the room, seated somewhere among the shadows,watching him. He felt him close in the same way he felt the girl stillclose, whether distance between them in space was actually greator small. The essential in all three was similar, their yearnings,hopes, intentions, purposes were akin; their longing for some service,immense, satisfying, it seemed, connected them. The voice, however, didnot startle when it sounded behind him from an apparently empty room:

  "The love she spoke of you do not understand, of course. Perhaps you donot need it...."

  The voice, as well as the feeling that lay behind, hardly disturbedthe images and rhythms in their wondrous flow. Rather, they seemed apart of them. "N. H." turned. He saw Dr. Fillery distinctly, sittingmotionless among the shadows by the wall.

  "It is, for you, a new relationship, and seems small, cramping andunnecessary----"

  "What is it?" "N. H." asked. "What is this love she seeks to hold mewith, saying that I need it? Dear Fillery," he added, moving nearer,"will you tell me what it is? I found it sweet and pleasant, yet I fearit."

  "It is," was the reply, "in its best form, the highest quality _we_know----"

  "Ah! I felt the fire in it," interrupted "N. H." smiling. "I smelt theflowers." His smile seemed faintly luminous across the gloom.

  "Because it was the best," replied the other gently. "In its bestform it means, sometimes, the complete sacrifice of one being for thewelfare of another. There is no self in it at all." He felt the eyes ofhis companion fixed upon him in the darkness of the quiet room; he feltlikewise that he was bewildered and perplexed. "As, for instance, themother for her child," he went on. "That is the purest form of it weknow."

  "One being feels it for _one_ other only," "N. H." repeated apparentlyignoring the reference to maternal love. "Each wants the other forhimself _alone_! Each lives for the other only, the rest excluded! Itis always two and two. Is that what she means?"

  "She would not like it if you had the same feeling for another--woman,"Fillery explained. "She would feel jealousy--which means she wouldgrudge sharing you with another. She would resent it, afraid of losingyou."

  "Two and two, and two and two," the words floated through the shadows.The ideal seemed to shock and hurt him; he could not understand it."She asks for the whole of me--all to herself. It is lower thaninsects, flowers even. It is against Nature. So small, so separate----"

  "But Nature," interrupted Dr. Fillery, after an interval of silencebetween them, "is not concerned with what we call love. She isindifferent to it. Her purpose is merely the continuance of the Race,and she accomplishes this by making men and women attractive to oneanother. This, too," he explained, "we call love, though it is love inits weakest, least enduring form."

  "That," replied "N. H.," "I know and understand. She builds the bestform she can."

  "And once the form is built," agreed the other, "and Nature's aimfulfilled, this kind of love usually fades out and dies. It is aphysical thing entirely, like the two atoms we read about together afew days ago which rush together automatically to produce a thirdthing." He lowered his voice suddenly. "There was a great teacheronce," he went on, "who told us that we should love everybody,everybody, and that in the real life there was no marriage, as we callit, nor giving in marriage."

  It seemed that, as he said the words, the darkness lifted, and a faintperfume of flowers floated through the air.

  "N. H." made no comment or reply. He sat still, listening.

  "I love her," he whispered suddenly. "I love her in _that_ way--becauseI want everybody else to love her too--as I do, and as you do. But I donot want her for myself alone. Do you? You do not, of course. I feelyou are as I am. You are happy that I love her."

  "There is morality," said Fillery presently in a low voice, glad atthat moment of the darkness. "There is what we call morality."

  "Tell me, dear Fillery, what that is. Is it bigger than your 'love'?"

  Dr. Fillery explained briefly, while his companion listened intently,making no comment. It was evidently as strange and new to him ashuman love. "We have inv
ented it," he added at the end, "to protectourselves, our mothers, our families, our children. It is, you see,a set of rules devised for the welfare of the Race. For though a fewamong us do not need such rules, the majority do. It is, in a word, theacknowledgment of the rights of others."

  "It had to be invented!" exclaimed "N. H.," with a sigh that seemed totrouble the darkness as with the sadness of something he could scarcelybelieve. "And these rules are needed still! Is the Race at that stageonly? It does not move, then?"

  Into the atmosphere, as the low-spoken words were audible, stoleagain that mysterious sense of the insignificance of earth and allits manifold activities, human and otherwise, and with it, too, aremarkable breath of some larger reality, starry-bright, that layshining just beyond all known horizons. Fillery shivered in spite ofhimself. It seemed to him for an instant that the great figure loomingopposite through the darkness extended, spread, gathering into itsincreased proportions the sky, the trees, the darkened space outside;that it no longer sat there quite alone. He recalled his colleague'sstartling admission--the touch of panic terror.

  "Slowly, if at all," he said louder, though wondering why he raised hisvoice. "Yet there is _some_ progress."

  He had the feeling it would be better to turn on the light, as thoughthis conversation and the strange sensations it produced in him wouldbe impossible in a full blaze. He made a movement, indeed, to find theswitch. It was the sound of his companion's voice that made him pause,for the words came at him as though a wave of heat moved through theair. He knew intuitively that the other's intense inner activity hadincreased. He let his hand drop. He listened. Their thoughts, he wasconvinced, had mingled and been mutually shared again. There was afaint sound like music behind it.

  "We have worked such a little time as yet," fell the words into thesilence. "If only--oh! if only I could remember more!"

  "A little time!" thought Fillery to himself, knowing that the othermeant the millions of years Nature had used to evoke her myriad forms."Try to remember," he added in a whisper.

  "What I do remember, I cannot even tell," was the reply, the voicestrangely deepening. "No words come to me." He paused a moment, thenwent on: "I am of the first, the oldest. I know that. The earth was hotand burning--burning, burning still. It was soft with heat when I wassummoned from--from other work just completed. With a vast host I came.Our Service summoned us. We began at the beginning. I am of the oldest.The earth was still hot--burning, burning----"

  The voice failed suddenly.

  "I cannot remember. Dear Fillery, I cannot remember. It hurts me. Myhead pains. Our work--our service--yes, there _is_ progress. The ages,as you call them--but it is such a little time as yet----" The voicetrailed off, the figure lost its suggestion of sudden vastness, thedarkness emptied. "I am of the oldest--_that_ I remember only...." Itceased as though it drifted out upon the passing wind outside.

  "Then you have been working," said Fillery, his voice still almosta whisper, "you and your great host, for thousands of years--in theservice of this planet----" He broke off, unable to find his words, itseemed.

  "Since the beginning," came the steady answer. "Years I do not know.Since the beginning. Yet we have only just begun--oh!" he cried, "Icannot remember! It is impossible! It all goes lost among my words,and in this darkness I am confused and entangled with your own littlethinking. I suffer with it." Then suddenly: "My eyes are hot and wet,dear Fillery. What happens to them?" He stood up, putting both hands tohis face. Fillery stood up too. He trembled.

  "Don't try," he said soothingly; "do not try to remember any more. Itwill come back to you soon, but it won't come back by any deliberateeffort."

  He comforted him as best he could, realizing that the curious dialoguehad lasted long enough. But he did not produce a disconcerting blazeby turning the light on suddenly; he led his companion gently to thedoor, so that the darkness might pass more gradually. The lights in thecorridor were shaded and inoffensive. It was only in the bedroom thathe noticed the bright tears, as "N. H.," examining them with curiousinterest in the mirror, exclaimed more to himself than to Fillery: "Shehad them too. I saw them in her eyes when she spoke to me of love, thelove she will teach me because she said I needed it."

  "Tears," said Fillery, his voice shaking. "They come from feeling pain."

  "It is a little thing," returned "N. H.," smiling at himself, thenturning to his friend, his great blue eyes shining wonderfully throughtheir moisture. "Then she felt what I felt--we felt together. When shecomes to-morrow I will show her these tears and she will be glad Ilove. And she will bring tears of her own, and you will have some too,and we shall all love together. It is not difficult, is it?"

  "Not very," agreed Fillery, smiling in his turn; "it is not verydifficult." He was again trembling.

  "She will be happy that we all love."

  "I--hope so."

  * * * * *

  It was curious how easily tears came to the eyes of this strange being,and for causes so different that they were not easy to explain. He didnot cry; it was merely that the hot tears welled up.

  Even with Devonham once it happened too. The lesson in natural historywas over. Devonham had just sketched the outline of the variouskingdoms, with the animal kingdom and man's position in it, accordingto present evolutionary knowledge, and had then said something aboutthe earth's place in the solar system, and the probable relation ofthis system to the universe at large--an admirable bird's-eye view, asit were, without a hint of speculative imagination in it anywhere--when"N. H.," after intent listening in irresponsive silence, asked abruptly:

  "What does it believe?" Then, as Devonham stared at him, a littlepuzzled at first, he repeated: "That is what the Race _knows_. But whatdoes it _believe_?"

  "Believe," said Devonham, "believe. Ah! you mean what is its religion,its faith, its speculations!"--and proceeded to give the briefestpossible answer he felt consistent with his duty. The less his pupil'smind was troubled with such matters, the better, in his opinion.

  "And their God?" the young man inquired abruptly, as soon as therecital was over. He had listened closely, as he always did, butwithout a sign of interest, merely waiting for the end, much as a childwho is bored by a poor fairy tale, yet wishes to know exactly how itis all going to finish. "They _know_ Him?" He leaned forward.

  Devonham, not quite liking the form of the question, nor the more eagermanner accompanying it, hesitated a moment, thinking perhaps what heought to say. He did not want this mind, now opening, to be filledwith ideas that could be of no use to it, nor help in its formation;least of all did he desire it to be choked and troubled with the deadtheology of man-made notions concerning a tumbling personal Deity.Creeds, moreover, were a matter of faith, of auto-suggestion as hecalled it, being obviously divorced from any process of reason. Hehad, nevertheless, a question to answer and a duty to perform. Hishesitation passed in compromise. He was, as has been seen, too sincere,too honest, to possess much sense of humour.

  "The Race," he said, "or rather that portion of it into which you havebeen born, believes--on paper"--he emphasized the qualification--"ina paternal god; but its real god, the god it worships, is Knowledge.Not a Knowledge that exists for its own sake," he went on blandly,"but that brings possessions, power, comfort and a million needlessaccessories into life. That god it worships, as you see, with energyand zeal. Knowledge and work that shall result in acquisition, inpleasure, that is the god of the Race on this side of the planet whereyou find yourself."

  "And the God on paper?" asked "N. H.," making no comment, though he hadlistened attentively and had understood. "The God that is written abouton paper, and believed in on paper?"

  "The printed account of this god," replied Devonham, "describes anomnipotent and perfect Being who has existed always. He created theplanet and everything upon it, but created it so imperfectly that hehad to send later a smaller god to show how much better he _might_have created us. In doing this, he offered us an extremely difficultand laborio
us method of improvement, a method of escaping from his ownmistake, but a method so painful and unrealizable that it is contraryto our very natures--as he made them first." He almost smacked his lipsas he said it.

  "The big God, the first one," asked "N. H." at once. "Have they seenand known Him? Have they complained?"

  "No," said Devonham, "they have not. Those who believe in him acceptthings as he made them."

  "And the smaller lesser God--how did He arrive?" came the odd question.

  "He was born like you and me, but without a father. No male had hismother ever known."

  "He was recognized as a god?" The pupil showed interest, but noemotion, much less excitement.

  "By a few. The rest, afraid because he told them their possessions wereworthless, killed him quickly."

  "And the few?"

  "They obeyed his teaching, or tried to, and believed that they wouldlive afterwards for ever and ever in happiness----"

  "And the others? The many?"

  "The others, according to the few, would live afterwards for ever andever--in pain."

  "It is a demon story," said "N. H.," smiling.

  "It is printed, believed, taught," replied Devonham, "by an immenseorganization to millions of people----"

  "Free?" inquired his pupil.

  "The teachers are paid, but very little----"

  "The teachers believe it, though?"

  "Y-yes--at least some of them--probably," replied Devonham, after briefconsideration.

  "And the millions--do they worship this God?"

  "They do, on paper, yes. They worship the first big God. They go onceor twice a week into special buildings, dressed in their best clothesas for a party, and pray and sing and tell him he is wonderful and theythemselves are miserable and worthless, and then ask him in abjecthumility for all sorts of things they want."

  "Do they get them?"

  "They ask for different things, you see. One wants fine weather for hisholidays, another wants rain for his crops. The prayers in which theyask are printed by the Government."

  "They ask for this planet only?"

  "This planet conceives itself alone inhabited. There are no otherliving beings anywhere. The Earth is the centre of the universe, theonly globe worth consideration."

  Although "N. H." asked these quick questions, his interest wasobviously not much engaged, the first sharp attention having passed.Then he looked fixedly at Devonham and said, with a sudden curioussmile: "What you say is always dead. I understand the sounds you use,but the meaning cannot get into me--inside, I mean. But I thank you forthe sound."

  There was a moment's pause, during which Devonham, accustomed tostrange remarks and comments from his pupil, betrayed no sign ofannoyance or displeasure. He waited to see if any further questionswould be forthcoming. He was observing a phenomenon; his attitude wasscientific.

  "But, in sending this lesser God," resumed "N. H." presently, "how didthe big One excuse himself?"

  "He didn't. He told the Race it was so worthless that nothing elsecould save it. He looked on while the lesser God was killed. He is veryproud about it, and claims the thanks and worship of the Race becauseof it."

  "The lesser God--poor lesser God!" observed "N. H." "He was bigger thanthe other." He thought a moment. "How pitiful," he added.

  "Much bigger," agreed Devonham, pleased with his pupil's acumen, hisvoice, even his manner, changing a little as he continued. "For thencame the wonder of it all. The lesser God's teachings were so new andbeautiful that the position of the other became untenable. The Racedisowned him. It worshipped the lesser one in his place."

  "Tell me, tell me, please," said "N. H.," as though he noticed andunderstood the change of tone at once. "I listen. The dear Filleryspoke to me of a great Teacher. I feel a kind, deep joy move in me.Tell me, please."

  Again Devonham hesitated a moment, for he recognized signs that madehim ill at ease a little, because he did not understand them. Followinga scientific textbook with his pupil was well and good, but he hadno desire to trespass on what he considered as Fillery's territory."N. H." was his pupil, not his patient. He had already gone too far,he realized. After a moment's reflection, however, he decided it waswiser to let the talk run out its natural course, instead of ending itabruptly. He was as thorough as he was sincere, and whatever his owntheories and prejudices might be in this particular case, he would notshirk an issue, nor treat it with the smallest dishonesty. He put theglasses straight on his big nose.

  "The new teachings," he said, "were so beautiful that, if faithfullypractised by everybody, the world would soon become a very differentplace to what it is."

  "Did the Race practise them?" came the question in a voice that held anote of softness, almost of wonder.

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "They were too difficult and painful and uncomfortable. The new God,moreover, only came here 2,000 years ago, whereas men have existed onearth for at least 400,000."

  "N. H." asked abruptly what the teachings were, and Devonham, growingmore and more uneasy as he noted the signs of increasing intensityand disturbance in his pupil, recited, if somewhat imperfectly, themain points of the Sermon on the Mount. As he did so "N. H." beganto murmur quietly to himself, his eyes grew large and bright, hisface lit up, his whole body trembled. He began that deep, rhythmicalbreathing which seemed to affect the atmosphere about him so that hisphysical appearance increased and spread. The skin took on something ofradiance, as though an intense inner happiness shone through it. Then,suddenly, to Devonham's horror, he began to hum.

  Though a normal, ordinary sound enough, it reminded him of that othersound he had once shared with Fillery, when he sat on the stairs,staring at a china bowl filled with visiting cards, while the dawnbroke after a night of exhaustion and bewilderment. That sound,of course, he had long since explained and argued away--it was anauditory hallucination conveyed to his mind by LeVallon, who originatedit. Interesting and curious, it was far from inexplicable. It wasdisquieting, however, for it touched in him a vague sense of alarm, asthough it paved the way for that odd panic terror he had been amazed todiscover hidden away deeply in some unrealized corner of his being.

  This humming he now listened to, though normal and ordinaryenough--there were no big vibrations with it, for one thing--wastoo suggestive of that other sound for him to approve of it. Hismind rapidly sought some way of stopping it. A command, above allan impatient, harsh command, was out of the question, yet a requestseemed equally not the right way. He fumbled in his mind to find thewise, proper words. He stretched his hand out, as though to lay itquietly upon his companion's shoulder--but realized suddenly he couldnot--almost he dared not--touch him.

  The same instant "N. H." rose. He pushed his chair back and stood up.

  Devonham, justly proud of his equable temperament and steady nerves,admits that only a great effort of self-control enabled him to sitquietly and listen. He listened, watched, and made mental notes to thebest of his ability, but he was frightened a little. The outburst wasso sudden. He is not sure that his report of what he heard, made laterto Fillery, was a verbatim, accurate one:

  "Justice we know," cried "N. H." in his half-chanting voice that seemedto boom with resonance, "but this--this mercy, gentle kindness,beauty--this unknown loveliness--we did not know it!" He went to theopen window, and threw his arms wide, as though he invoked the sun."Dimly we heard of it. We strive, we strive, we weave and build andfashion while the whirl of centuries flies on. This lesser God--hecame among us, too, making our service sweeter, though we did notunderstand. Our work grew wiser and more careful, we built lovelierforms, and knew not why we did so. His mighty rhythms touched us withtheir power and happy light. Oh, my great messengers of wind and fire,bring me the memory I have lost! Oh, where, where----?"

  He shook himself, as though his clothes, perhaps his body even, irkedhim. It was a curious coincidence, thought Devonham, as he watched andlistened, too surprised and puzzled to interfere either by word or act,that a cloud
, at that very moment, passed from the face of the sun, anda gust of wind shook all the branches of the lime trees in the garden."N. H." stood drenched in the white clear sunshine. His flaming hairwas lifted by the wind.

  "Behind, beyond the Suns He dwells and burns for ever. Oh, the mercy,kindness, the strange beauty of this personal love--what is it? Thesehave been promised to _us_ too----!"

  He broke off abruptly, bowed his great head and shoulders, and sankupon his knees in an attitude of worship. Then, stretching his arms outto the sky, the face raised into the flood of sunlight, while his voicebecame lower, softer, almost hushed, he spoke again:

  "Our faithful service, while the circles swallow the suns, shall liftus too! You, who sent me here to help this little, dying Race, oh, helpme to remember----!"

  His passion was a moving sight; the words, broken through withfragments of his chanting, singing, had the blood of some infinite,intolerable yearning in them.

  Devonham, meanwhile, having heard outbursts of this strange kind beforewith others, had recovered something of his equanimity. He felt moresure of himself again. The touch of fear had left him. He went over tothe window. The attack, as he deemed it, was passing. A thick cloud hidthe sun again. "There, there," he said soothingly, laying both handsupon the other's shoulders, then taking the arms to help him rise. "Itold you His teachings were very beautiful--that the world would becomea kind of heaven if people lived them." His voice seemed not his own;beside the volume and music of the other's it had a thin, rasping, uglysound.

  "N. H." was on his feet, gazing down into his face; to Devonham'samazement there were tears in the eyes that met his own.

  "And many people _do_ live them--try to, rather," he added gently."There are thousands who really worship this lesser God to-day. Youcan't go far wrong yourself if you take Him as your model an----"

  "How He must have suffered!" came the astonishing interruption, thevoice quiet and more natural again. "There was no way of telling whathe knew. He had no words, of course. You are all so difficult, socaged, so--dead!"

  Devonham smiled. "He used parables." He paused a moment, then went on"Men have existed on the planet, science tells us, for at least 400,000years, whereas _He_ came here only 2,000 years ago----"

  "Came _here_," interrupted the pupil, as though the earth were but oneof a thousand places visited, a hint of contempt and pity somewherein his tone and gesture. "We made His way ready then! We prepared, webuilt! It was for that our work went on and on so faithfully."

  He broke off....

  Devonham experienced a curious sensation as he heard. In that instantit seemed to him that he was conscious of the movement of the earththrough space. He was aware that the planet on which he stood wasrushing forward at eighteen miles a second through the sky. He felthimself carried forward with it.

  "What was His name?" he heard "N. H." asking. It was as though he wasaware of the enormous interval in space traversed by the rolling earthbetween the first and last words of the sudden question. It trailedthrough an immense distance towards him, after him, yet at the sametime ever with him.

  "His name--oh--Jesus Christ, we call him," wondering at the same momentwhy he used the pronoun "we."

  "Jesus--Christ!"

  "N. H." repeated the name with such intensity and power that the sound,borne by deep vibrations, seemed to surge and circle forth into spacewhile the earth rushed irresistibly onwards. A faintly imaginative ideaoccurred to Devonham for the first time in his life--it was as thoughthe earth herself had opened her green lips and uttered the greatname. With this came also the amazing and disconcerting convictionthat Nature and humans were expressions of one and the same big simpleenergy, and that while their forms, their bodies, differed, the lifemanifesting through them was identical, though its degree might vary.For an instant this was of such overpowering conviction as to be merelyobvious.

  It passed as quickly as it came, though he still was dimly consciousthat he had travelled with the earth through another huge stretch ofspace. Then this sense of movement also passed. He looked up. "N.H." was in his chair again at the table, reading quietly his bookon natural history. But in his eyes the moisture of tears was stillvisible.

  Devonham adjusted his glasses, blew his nose, went quickly to anotherroom to jot down his notes of the talk, the reactions, the generaldescription, and in doing so dismissed from his mind the slight uneasyeffects of what had been a "curious hallucination," caused evidently byan "unexplained stimulation" of the motor centres in the brain.