Algernon Blackwood (48 page)

'And, similarly, the thought I deemed my own might have come in its
turn from the mind of some one else?'

'Precisely; for thought binds us all together like a network, and to
think of others is to spread oneself about the universe. When we think
thus we get out—as it were—into that medium common to all of us
where spirit meets spirit—'

'Out!' exclaimed Rogers, putting down his pipe and staring keenly,
first into one eye, then into the other. 'Out?'

'Out—yes,' Minks echoed faintly, wondering why that particular word
was chosen. He felt a little startled. This earnest talk, moreover,
stirred the subconsciousness in him, so that he remembered that
unfinished sonnet he had begun weeks ago at Charing Cross. If he were
alone now he could complete it. Lines rose and offered themselves by
the dozen. His master's emotion had communicated itself to him. A
breath of that ecstasy he had already divined passed through the air
between them.

'It's what the Contemplative Orders attempt—' he continued, yet half
to himself, as though a little bemused.

'Out, by George! Out!' Rogers said again.

So emphatic was the tone that Minks half rose from his chair to go.

'No, no,' laughed his chief; 'I don't mean that you're to get out.
Forgive my abruptness. The fact is I was thinking aloud a moment. I
meant—I mean that you've explained a lot to me I didn't understand
before—had never thought about, rather. And it's rather wonderful,
you see. In fact, it's
very
wonderful. Minks,' he added, with the
grave enthusiasm of one who has made a big discovery, 'this world
is
a very wonderful place.'

'It is simply astonishing, Mr. Rogers,' Minks answered with
conviction, 'astonishingly beautiful.'

'That's what I mean,' he went on. 'If I think beauty, that beauty may
materialise—'

'Must, will, does materialise, Mr. Rogers, just as your improvements
in machinery did. You first thought them out!'

'Then put them into words; yes, and afterwards into metal. Strong
thought is bound to realise itself sooner or later, eh? Isn't it all
grand and splendid?'

They stared at one another across the smoky atmosphere of the London
flat at the hour of one in the morning in the twentieth century.

'And when I think of a Scaffolding of Dusk that builds the Night,'
Rogers went on in a lower tone to himself, yet not so low that Minks,
listening in amazement, did not catch every syllable, 'or of a
Dustman, Sweep, and Lamplighter, of a Starlight Express, or a vast
Star Net that binds the world in sympathy together, and when I weave
all these into a story, whose centre somehow is the Pleiades—all this
is real and actual, and—and—'

'May have been projected by another mind before it floated into your
own,' Minks suddenly interposed almost in a whisper, charmed wholly
into the poet's region by these suggestive phrases, yet wondering a
little why he said it, and particularly how he dared to say it.

His chief turned sharply upon him.

'My own thought exactly!' he exclaimed; 'but how the devil did you
guess it?'

Minks returned the stare with triumph.

'Unconscious transference!' he said.

'You really think
that
?' his master asked, yet not mockingly.

Minks turned a shade pinker.

'I do, indeed, sir,' he replied warmly. 'I think it probable that the
thoughts of people you have never seen or heard of drop into your mind
and colour it. They lodge there, or are rejected, according to your
mood and the texture of your longings—what you want to be, that is.
What you want, if I may say so, is emptiness, and that emptiness
invites. The flying thought flits in and makes itself at home. Some
people overflow with thoughts of kindness and beauty that radiate from
them, of love and tenderness and desire to help. These thoughts, it
may be, find no immediate object; but they are not lost. They pour
loose about the world of men and women, and sooner or later find the
empty heart that needs them. I believe, sir, that to sit in a chair
and think such things strongly brings comfort to thousands who have
little idea whence comes the sudden peace and happiness. And any one
who happens to be praying for these things at the moment attracts them
instantly. The comfort, the joy, the relief come—'

'What a good idea, Minks,' said Rogers gently, 'and how helpful if we
all believed it. No one's life need be a failure then. Those who want
love, for instance, need it, crave it, just think what an army they
are!'

He stared thoughtfully a moment at his little secretary.

'You might write a book about it, you know—try and make people
believe it—convince them. Eh? Only, you'd have to give your proofs,
you know. People want proofs.'

Minks, pinker than before, hesitated a moment. He was not sure how far
he ought to, indulge his private theories in words. The expression in
his chief's blue eyes apparently encouraged him.

'But, indeed, Mr. Rogers, the proofs are there. Those moments of
sudden strength and joy that visit a man, catching him unawares and
unexplained—every solitary man and woman knows them, for every
solitary man and woman in the world craves first of all—to
be
loved. To love another, others, an impersonal Cause, is not enough. It
is only half of life; to
be
loved is the other half. If every single
person—I trust, sir, I do not tire you?—was loved by some one, the
happiness of life would be enormously greater than it is, for each one
loved would automatically then give out from his own store, and to
receive love makes one overflow with love for every one else. It is
so, is it not, sir?'

Rogers, an odd thrill catching him unawares, nodded. 'It is, Minks, it
is,' he agreed. 'To love one person makes one half prepared to love
all, and to be loved in turn may have a similar effect. It is nice to
think so anyhow.'

'It is true, sir—' and Minks sat up, ready with another deluge.

'But you were saying something just now,' interrupted the other,
'about these sudden glimpses of joy and beauty that—er—come to one—
er—inexplicably. What d'ye mean by that precisely?'

Minks glowed. He was being listened to, and understood by his honoured
chief, too!

'Simply that some one, perhaps far away—some sweet woman probably—
has been thinking love,' he replied with enthusiasm, yet in a low and
measured voice, 'and that the burning thoughts have rushed into the
emptiness of a heart that needs them. Like water, thought finds its
level. The sudden gush—all feel it more or less at times, surely!—
may rise first from her mind as she walks lonely upon the shore,
pacing the decks at sea, or in her hillside rambles, thinking,
dreaming, hoping, yearning—to pour out and find the heart that needs
these very things, perhaps far across the world. Who knows? Heart
thrills in response to heart secretly in every corner of the globe,
and when these tides flood unexplained into your soul—'

'Into
my
soul—!' exclaimed his chief.

'I beg your pardon, sir,' Minks hurried to explain; 'I mean to any
lonely soul that happens to crave such comfort with real longing—it
implies, to my mind at least, that these two are destined to give and
take from one another, and that, should they happen to meet in actual
life, they will rush together instantly like a pair of flames—'

'And if they never—meet?' asked Rogers slowly, turning to the mantel-
piece for the matches.

'They will continue to feed each other in this delicious spiritual way
from a distance, sir. Only—the chances are—that they will meet, for
their thought already connects them vitally, though as yet
unrealised.'

There was a considerable pause. Rogers lit his pipe. Minks, feeling he
ought to stand while his master did so, also rose from his chair. The
older man turned; they faced each other for a moment, Rogers putting
smoke violently into the air between them.

'Minks, my dear fellow,' he observed, 'you are, as I have always
thought, a poet. You have ideas, and, whether true or not, they are
rather lovely. Write them out for others to read. Use your spare time
writing them out. I'll see to it that you have more leisure.'

With a laugh the big man moved abruptly past his chair and knocked his
pipe on the edge of the ash-bowl. His eye, as he did so, fell upon the
pile of letters and papers arranged so neatly on the table. He
remembered the lateness of the hour—and other things besides.

'Well, well,' he said vaguely with a sigh; 'so here we are again back
at work in London.'

Minks had turned, too, realising that the surprising conversation was
over. A great excitement was in him. He did not feel in the least
tired. An unusual sense of anticipation was in the air. He could not
make it out at all. Reviewing a dozen possibilities at once, he
finally rejected the romantic one he had first suspected, and decided
that the right moment had at last come to say something of the Scheme.
He had worked so hard to collect data. All was in perfect order. His
chief could not feel otherwise than pleased.

'Then I'll be saying good-night, Mr. Rogers,' he began, 'for you must
be very tired, and I trust you will enjoy a long night's rest. Perhaps
you would like me to come a little later in the morning than usual.'

He stood looking affectionately at the formidable pile of
correspondence, and, as his chief made no immediate reply, he went on,
with more decision in his voice:

'Here,' he said, touching the papers he had carefully set on one side,
'are all the facts you wanted referring to your great Scheme—'

He jumped. His master's fist had come down with a bang upon the table.
He stepped back a pace. They stared at one another.

'Damn the Scheme!' cried Rogers. 'have done and finished with it. Tear
up the papers. Cancel any arrangements already made. And never mention
the thing again in my hearing. It's all unreal and wrong and
unnecessary!'

Minks gasped. The man was so in earnest. What could it mean?

'Wrong—unnecessary—done with!' he faltered. Then, noticing the
flashing eyes that yet betrayed a hint of merriment in their fire, he
added quickly, 'Quite so, Mr. Rogers; I understand. You've got an
improvement, you mean?'

It was not his place to ask questions, but he could not contain
himself. Curiosity and disappointment rushed over him.

'A bigger and a better one altogether, Minks,' was the vehement reply.
He pushed the heap of papers towards the secretary. Minks took them
gingerly, reluctantly.

'Burn 'em up,' Rogers went on, 'and never speak to me again about the
blessed thing. I've got a far bigger Scheme than that.'

Minks slowly gathered the papers together and put them in his biggest
pocket. He knew not what to think. The suddenness of the affair dazed
him. Thought-transference failed this time; he was too perturbed,
indeed, to be in a receptive state at all. It seemed a catastrophe, a
most undesirable and unexpected climax. The romantic solution revived
in him—but only for a passing moment. He rejected it. Some big
discovery was in the air. He felt that extraordinary sense of
anticipation once again.

'Look here, my dear fellow, Minks,' said Rogers, who had been watching
his discomfiture with amusement, 'you may be surprised, but you need
not be alarmed. The fact is, this has been coming for a long time;
it's not an impulsive decision. You must have felt it—from my
letters. That Scheme was all right enough, only I am not the right man
for it. See? And our work,' he added laughingly, 'won't go for nothing
either, because our thought will drop into another mind somewhere that
will accomplish the thing far better than I could have accomplished
it.'

Minks made an odd gesture, as who should say this might not be true.
He did not venture upon speech, however. This new plan must be very
wonderful, was all he thought just then. His faith in his employer's
genius was complete.

'And in due time you shall hear all about it. Have a little patience.
Perhaps you'll get it out of my thoughts before I tell it to you,' he
smiled, 'but perhaps you won't. I can only tell you just now that it
has beauty in it—a beauty of the stars.'

Yet what his bigger Scheme was he really had no clear idea. He felt it
coming-that was all!

And with that Minks had to be content. This was dismissal. Good-nights
were said, and the secretary went out into the street.

'Go to a comfortable hotel,' was the last thing he heard, 'and put it
down to me, of course. Sleep well, sleep well. To-morrow at two
o'clock will do.'

Minks strolled home, walking upon air. The sky was brilliant with its
gorgeous constellations—the beauty of the stars. Poems blazed upon
him. But he was too excited to compose. Even first lines evaded
capture. 'Stars,' besides, was a dreadful word to rhyme with, for all
its charm and loveliness. He knew of old that the only word was
'wars,' most difficult to bring in naturally and spontaneously, and
with the wrong sound in any case.

'He must have been writing poetry out there,' he reflected finally,
'or else living it. Living it, probably. He's a grand fellow anyhow,
grand as a king.' Stars, wars, kings, thrones-=the words flew in and
out among a maze of unaccomplished lines.

But the last thing in his mind as he curled up to sleep in the strange
bed was that he had delivered his wife's message, but that he could
not tell her about this sudden collapse of the great, long-talked-of
Scheme. Albinia would hardly understand. She might think less of his
chief. He would wait until the new one dawned upon the horizon with
its beauty of the stars. Then he would simply overwhelm her with it,
as his temperament loved to do.

Lo, every yearning thought that holds a tear,
Yet finds no mission
And lies untold,
Waits, guarded in that labyrinth of gold,—
To reappear
Upon some perfect night,
Deathless—not old—
But sweet with time and distance,
And clothed as in a vision
Of starry brilliance
For the world's delight.