“Proof of the reality of a personal sovereign of the universe will not be obtained. But proof of the reality of a power or powers, not unworthy of the title of gods, in respect of our corner of the cosmos, may be feasible.”—“The Individual and Reality” (E. D. Fawcett).
I shrank. Certain memories of our Edinburgh days revived unpleasantly. They seemed to have happened yesterday instead of years ago. A shadowy hand from those distant skies he spoke of, from those dim avenues of thickly written Time, reached down and touched my heart, leaving the chill of an indescribable uneasiness. The change in me since my arrival only a few hours before was too rapid not to bring reaction. Yet on the whole the older, deeper consciousness gained power.
Possibilities my imagination had unwisely played with now seemed stealing slowly toward probabilities. I felt as a man might feel who, having never known fire, and disbelieved in its existence, becomes aware of the warmth of its approach—a strange and revolutionary discomfort. For Julius was winning me back into his world again, and not with mere imaginative, half-playful acceptance, but with practical action and belief. Yet the change in me was somehow welcome. No feeling of resentment kept it in check, and certainly neither scorn nor ridicule. Incredulity glanced invitingly at faith. They would presently shake hands.
I made, perhaps, an effort to hold back, to define the position, my position, at any rate.
“Julius,” I said gravely, yet with a sympathy I could not quite conceal, “as boys together, and even later at the University, we talked of various curious things, remarkable, even amazing things. You even showed me certain extraordinary things which, at the time, convinced me possibly. I ought to tell you now—and before we go any further, since you take it for granted that my feelings and—er—beliefs are still the same as yours—that I can no longer subscribe to all the articles of your wild conviction. I have been living in the world, you see, these many years, and—well, my imagination has collapsed or dried up or whatever you like to call it. I don’t really see, or remember—anything—quite in the way you mean——”
“The ‘world’ has smothered it—temporarily,” he put in gently.
“And what is more,” I continued, ignoring his interruption, “I must confess that I have no stomach now for any ‘great experiment’ such as you think our coming together in this valley must involve. Your idea of reincarnation may be true—why not? It’s a most logical conception. And we three may have been together before—granted! I admit I rather like the notion. It may even be conceivable that the elemental powers of Nature are intelligent, that men and women could use them to their advantage, and that worship and feeling-with is the means to acquire them—it’s just as likely as that some day we shall send telegrams without wires, thoughts and pictures too!”
I drew breath a moment, while he waited patiently, linking his arm in mine and listening silently.
“It may even be possible, too,” I went on, finding some boyish relief in all these words, “that we three together in earlier days did—in some kind of primitive Nature Worship—make wrong use of an unconscious human body to evoke those particular Powers you say exist behind Wind and Fire, and that, having thus upset the balance of material forces, we must readjust that balance or suffer accordingly—you in particular, since you were the prime mover——”
“How well you state it,” he murmured. “How excellent your memory is after all.”