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nonsense!ā€ Damaris cried.

ā€œā€”and you can stop and meet it if you choose. Or you can come to London for a few daysā€™ grace at least.ā€

ā€œIf this is a jokeā€”ā€ she began.

ā€œIf it is,ā€ he answered, ā€œall your philosophers and schoolmen were mad together. And your lifeā€™s work is no more than the comparison of different scribblings in the cells of a lunatic asylum.ā€

She stood up, staring at him. ā€œIf this is your way of getting back on meā€, she said, ā€œbecause I didnā€™t do what you think I ought to for your insane friendā€”ā€

ā€œWhat I think is of no matter,ā€ he answered. ā€œHave I pretended it was? Itā€™s the thing that matters: the truth is in the thing. Heartā€™s dearest, listenā€”the things you study are true, and the philosophers you read knew it. The universals are abroad in the world, and what are you going to do about it? Besides write about them.ā€

ā€œDo you seriously mean to tell meā€, she said, ā€œthat Power is walking about on the earth? Just Power?ā€

ā€œYes,ā€ he answered, and though she added before she could stop herself, ā€œDonā€™t you even know what a philosophic universal is?ā€ he said no more. For his energy sank within, carrying her, presenting, agonizing for her, holding the Divine Eagle by the wings that its perfect balance might redeem them, holding both her and Quentin and his own thought that they all might live together in the strong and lovely knowledge which was philosophy. So that he did not notice at first that she was saying coldly, ā€œPerhaps youā€™d better go now.ā€

When this penetrated his mind, he made a last effort. ā€œBut the things I just spoke ofā€”at least theyā€™re true,ā€ he said. ā€œYour father has given up butterflies; you were startled; Quentin has been driven almost mad. What do you suppose did it? Come away for a day or two just till we can find out. Ah do! Ifā€”ā€ he hesitatedā€”ā€œif youā€ā€”he compelled himself to go onā€”ā€œif you owe me anything, do this to please me.ā€

Damaris paused. She did not know that one of the crises of her life had arrived, nor did she recognize in its full deceptiveness the temptation that rose in her. But she paused uncertain whether to pretend that in effect she did not owe him anything, or to admit that she did. On the very point of taking hypocritical refuge she paused, and merely answered instead: ā€œI donā€™t see any reason to go to London, thank you.ā€ She was to see that cold angry phrase as the beginning of her salvation.

He shrugged and was silent. He couldnā€™t go on appealing; he could not yet compel. He couldnā€™t think of anything more to do or say, yet he hated to leave her. He wondered what Marcellus Victorinus would have done in this quandary. Rockbotham would be expecting him soonā€¦.

Well, that way was the only one that lay open; he would take that way. He couldnā€™t quite see what was to be gained by looking at the adept, but that possibilityā€”and no otherā€”had been presented to him. He would go. He gave his hand to Damaris.

ā€œGoodbye, then,ā€ he said. ā€œDonā€™t be too angry with meā€”not for a week, anyhow. After thatā€¦.ā€

ā€œI donā€™t understand you a bit,ā€ she said, and then made a handsome concessionā€”after all, she did owe him something, and he was upset over Quentinā€”ā€œbut I think youā€™re trying to be kindā€¦.Iā€™m sorry about your friendā€”perhaps if it hadnā€™t been so suddenā€¦.You see, I was preoccupied with that bothering business of the Divine Perfectionā€¦. Anthony, youā€™re hurting my hand!ā€

ā€œI understand that it can be a trouble,ā€ he said. ā€œO Almighty Christ! Goodbye. We may meet at Philippi yet.ā€ And then he went.

Chapter Ten The Pit In The House

The conversation between Anthony and Dr. Rockbotham in the car on the way to Berringerā€™s house was of the politest and chattiest kind, interspersed with moments of seriousness. They began by discussing the curious meteorological conditions, agreeing that such frequent repetitions of thunder without lightning or rain were very unusual.

ā€œSome kind of electrical nucleus, I suppose,ā€ the doctor said, ā€œthough why the discharge should be audible but not visible, I donā€™t know.ā€

ā€œI noticed it when I was down on Thursday,ā€ Anthony remarked, ā€œand again yesterday. It seems to be louder when we get out of town; inside itā€™s much less.ā€

ā€œDeadened by the ordinary noises, I expect,ā€ the doctor said. ā€œVery upsetting for some of my patientsā€”the nervous ones, you know. Even quite steady people are affected in the funniest way sometimes. Now my wife, for instanceā€”nobody less nervous than she is, youā€™ll agreeā€”yet when she came in this morningā€”thereā€™s an old servant of ours she generally calls on every Sunday morning when itā€™s fine and sheā€™s not busyā€”she had an extraordinary tale of a kind of small earthquake.ā€

ā€œEarthquake!ā€ Anthony exclaimed.

ā€œShe declared the ground shifted under her,ā€ the doctor went on. ā€œShe was crossing the allotments just round by the railway bridge at the time, and she nearly fell on a lot of cabbages; in fact she did stumble among themā€”rather hurt her foot, which was how it cropped up. Of course I wouldnā€™t say there couldnā€™t have been a slight shock, but I was about the town at the time, and I didnā€™t notice anything. You didnā€™t either, I suppose?ā€

ā€œNothing at all,ā€ Anthony said.

ā€œNo, I thought not,ā€ the doctor said. ā€œThe heat tooā€”do you feel it? Itā€™s going to be a very trying summer.ā€

Anthony, lying back in the car, with a grim look on his face, said, ā€œIt is going to be a very trying summer.ā€

ā€œYou donā€™t like this heat?ā€ the doctor asked. And ā€œI donā€™t like this heat,ā€ Anthony with perfect truth replied.

ā€œWell, we donā€™t all of us. I donā€™t mind it myself,ā€ the doctor said. ā€œItā€™s the winter I donā€™t care for. A doctorā€™s life, you know; all sorts of weather and all sorts of people. Especially the people; I sometimes say Iā€™d as soon be doctor to a zoo.ā€

ā€œTalking of zoos, did they ever catch the lioness that got loose round here the other day?ā€ Anthony asked.

ā€œNow that was a funny thing,ā€ the other answered. ā€œWe heard all sorts of rumours on the Tuesday night, but thereā€™s been no more news. They think it must have gone in the other direction and theyā€™ve been following it that way, I believe. Of course people are a bit shy of coming out of the town by night, but thatā€™s sheer funk. These imprisoned creatures are very timorous, you know. Supposing there ever was a lioness at all. The show itself moved on the next day, and when I saw the Chief Inspector on Friday he was inclined to laugh at the idea.ā€

ā€œWas he?ā€ Anthony said. ā€œHe must be a brave man.ā€

ā€œAs I said to him,ā€ the doctor went on, ā€œIā€™d rather laugh at the idea than the thing. So would anybody, I expect.ā€

He paused, but Anthony had no wish to answer. He felt a constriction at his heart as he listened; ā€œthe ideaā€ meant to him a spasm of fear, and he was aware that he existed unhappily between two states of knowledge, between the world around him, the pleasant ordinary world in which one laughed at or discussed ideas, and a looming unseen world where ideasā€”or something, something living and terrible, passed on its own business, overthrowing minds, wrecking lives, and scattering destruction as it went. There already was the house, silent and secret, in which perhaps potentialities beyond all knowledge waited or shaped themselves. Need he get out of the carā€”as he was doing? open the gateā€”enter the garden? Couldnā€™t he get back now, on some excuse or none, before the door opened and they had to go in to where that old man, as he remembered him, lay in his terrible passivity? What new monstrosity, what beast of indescribable might or beauty, was even now perhaps dragging itself down the stairs? What behemoth would come lumbering through the hall?

Actually the only behemoth, and though she was fat she was hardly that, was the housekeeper. She let them in, she conversed with the doctor; she ushered them up the stair to where at the top the male nurse waited. Anthony followed, and, his heart full of Quentin and Damaris, aspired to the knowledge which should give them both security and peace. He remembered the sentences over which he had brooded half the night. ā€œThe first circle is of the lion; the second circle is of the serpent; the third circleā€”ā€ O what, what was the third? what sinister fate centuries ago had so mutilated that volume of angelical lore as to forbid his discovery now? ā€œThe wings of an eagleā€ well, if that was what was needed, then, so far as he could, he would enter into that circle of the eagle which was the-what had the sentence said?ā€”ā€œThe knowledge of the Celestials in the place of the Celestials.ā€

ā€œAnd God help us all,ā€ he added to himself, as he came into the bedroom.

He stood aside while the doctor, leaning over the bed, made his examination. There had, the nurseā€™s report told them, been no change; still silent and motionless the adept lay before them. Anthony walked over to the bed while the doctor spoke to the nurse, and looked at the body. The eyes were open but unseeing; he gazed into them, and went on gazing. Here perhaps, could he reach it, the secret lay; he leaned closer, seeking, half-unconsciously, to penetrate it. For a moment he could have fancied that they flicked into life, but not common life; that a dangerous vitality threatened him. Threaten? he leaned nearer againā€”ā€œthe knowledge of the Celestials in the place of the Celestials.ā€ Quentinā€”Damaris. He could not avoid the challenge that had momently gleamed from those eyes; it had vanished, but he intensely expected its return. He forgot the doctor; he forgot Berringer; he forgot everything but those open unresponsive eyes in which lurked the presage of defeat or victory. What moved, what gleam ed, what shone at him there? What was opening?

ā€œQuite comatose, poor fellow!ā€ a voice close by him gibbered suddenly.

ā€œErā€”yes,ā€ said Anthony, and pulled himself upright. He could have sworn that the slightest film passed over the eyes, and reluctantly he turned his own away. But they were dazzled with the strain; he could not see the room very clearly; there seemed to be dark openings everywhereā€”the top of the jug on the wash stand, the mirror of the dressing-table, the black handle of the grey painted door, all these were holes in things, entrances and exits perhaps, like rabbit holes in a bank from which something might rapidly issue. He heard the dull voice say again: ā€œShall we go downstairs?ā€ and found himself walking cautiously across the room. As he came near the door he couldnā€™t resist a backward glanceā€”and the head had turned surely, and the eyes were watching him? Noā€”it was still quiet on the pillow, but over beyond it the dressing-table mirror showed an oval blackness. He looked at it steadily, then he became aware that he was standing by the door right in the doctorā€™s way; with a murmur of apology he seize d the handle and opened it.

ā€œIt makes it so awkward,ā€ Dr. Rockbotham said, passing through, with a little bow of acknowledgement, ā€œwhen there is no easy way ofā€”ā€

Anthony followed, shutting the door after him, and as he turned to step along the landing, found that he stood on a landing indeed but no more that of the simple house into which he had so recently come. It was a ledge rather than a landing, and though below him he saw the shadowy

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