But Dr. Fillery, his eyes fixed upon the sheaf of papers, had recognized them. His own writing was visible along the uneven edges. They were the description he had set down of his adventure on Flower Hill, of the scenes between "N. H." and Lady Gleeson, between "N. H." and Nayan, the autobiographical description with "N. H." and Nurse Robbins soon after his arrival, when Fillery had so amazingly found his own mind—as he believed—identified with his patient's.
Devonham snapped off the elastic band that held the sheaf together. "Edward, I've read them. We have no secrets, of course. I've read them carefully. Every word—my dear fellow."
"Yes, yes," replied the other, while something in him wavered horribly. "I'm glad. They were meant for you to read, for of course we have no secrets. I—I do not expect you to agree. We have never quite seen eye to eye—have we?" His voice shook. "You terrible iconoclast," he added, betraying thus the nature of the fear that changed his voice, then recognizing with vexation that he had done so. "You believe nothing. You never will believe anything. You cannot understand. With joy you would destroy what I and others believe—wouldn't you, Paul——?"
The deep sadness, the gravity on the face in front of him stopped the tirade.
"I would save you, Edward," came the earnest, gentle words, "from yourself. The powers of auto-suggestion, as we know in our practice—don't we?—are limitless. If you call that destroying——"
From the adjoining room the clatter of knives and forks was audible. Dr. Fillery listened a moment with a smile.
"Paul," he asked, his voice firm and sure again, "is your chief patient in that room," indicating the door with his head, "or—in this?"
"In this," was the reply. "A wise man is always his own patient and 'Physician, heal thyself' his motto." He sat down beside his chief. His manner changed; there was affection, deep solicitude, something of passionate entreaty even in voice and eyes and gestures. "There are features here," he said in lowered tones, "Edward, we have not understood, perhaps even we can never understand; but we have not, I think, sufficiently guarded against one thing—auto-suggestion. The rôle it plays in life is immense, incalculable; it is in everything we do and think, above all in everything we believe. It is peculiarly powerful and active in—er—unusual things——"
"The sound—the sounds—you've heard them yourself," broke in his companion.
Devonham shrugged his thin shoulders. "He sings—in a peculiar way." As an aside, he said it, returning to his main sermon instantly. "Let us leave details out," he cried; "it is the principle that concerns us. Edward, your complex against humanity lies hard and rigid in you still. It has never found that full recognition by yourself which can resolve it. Your work, your noble work, is but a partial expression. The kernel of this old complex in you remains unrelieved, undischarged—because still unrecognized. And, further, you are continually adding to the repression which"—even Devonham paused a second before using such a word to such a man—"is poisoning you, Edward, poisoning you, I repeat."