Laurie interrupted him.
“Yes, yes,” he said. “But there’s another point. What about that fear I had when I tried to—to awaken?”
There passed over the medium’s face a shade of gravity. It was no more than a shade, but it was there. He reached out rather quickly for his pipe which he had laid aside, and blew through it carefully before answering.
“That?” he said, with what seemed to the boy an affected carelessness. “That? Oh, that’s a common experience. Don’t think about that too much, Mr. Baxter. It’s never very healthy—”
“I am sorry,” said Laurie deliberately. “But I must ask you to tell me what you think. I must know what I’m doing.”
The medium filled his pipe again. Twice he began to speak, and checked himself; and in the long silence Laurie felt his fears gather upon him tenfold.
“Please tell me at once, Mr. Vincent,” he said. “Unless I know everything that is to be known, I will not go another step along this road. I really mean that.”
The medium paused in his pipe-filling.
“And what if I do tell you?” he said in his slow virile voice. “Are you sure you will not be turned back?”
“If it is a well-known danger, and can be avoided with prudence, I certainly shall not turn back.”
“Very well, Mr. Baxter, I will take you at your word. … Have you ever heard the phrase, ‘The Watcher on the Threshold’?”
Laurie shook his head.
“No,” he said. “At least I don’t think so.”
“Well,” said the medium quietly, “that is what we call the Fear you spoke of. … No; don’t interrupt. I’ll tell you all we know. It’s not very much.”
He paused again, stretched his hand for the matches, and took one out. Laurie watched him as if fascinated by the action.
Outside roared Oxford Street in one long rolling sound as of the sea; but within here was that quiet retired silence which the boy had noticed before in the same company. Was that fancy, too, he wondered? …
The medium lit his pipe and leaned back.
“I’ll tell you all we know,” he said again quietly. “It’s not very much. Really the phrase I used just now sums it up pretty well. We who have tried to get beyond this world of sense have become aware of certain facts of which the world generally knows nothing at all. One of these facts is that the door between this life and the other is guarded by a certain being of whom we know really nothing at all, except that his presence causes the most appalling fear in those who experience it. He is set there—God only knows why—and his main business seems to be to restrain, if possible, from reentering the body those who have left it. Just occasionally his presence is perceived by those on this side, but not often. But I have been present at deathbeds where he has been seen—”
“Seen?”
“Oh! yes. Seen by the dying person. It is usually only a glimpse; it might be said to be a mistake. For myself I believe that that appalling terror that now and then shows itself, even in people who do not fear death itself, who are perfectly resigned, who have nothing on their conscience—well, personally, I believe the fear comes from a sight of this—this Personage.”
Laurie licked his dry lips. He told himself that he did not believe one word of it.
“And … and he is evil?” he asked.
The other shrugged his shoulders.
“Isn’t that a relative term?” he said. “From one point of view, certainly; but not necessarily from all.”
“And … and what’s the good of it?”
The medium smiled a little.
“That’s a question we soon cease to ask. You must remember that we hardly know anything at all yet. But one thing seems more and more certain the more we investigate, and that is that our point of view is not the only one, nor even the principal one. Christianity, I fancy, says the same thing, does it not? The ‘glory of God,’ whatever that may be, comes before even the ‘salvation of souls.’ ”
Laurie wrenched his attention once more to a focus.
“Then I was in danger?” he said.
“Certainly. We are always in danger—”
“You mean, if I hadn’t prayed—”
“Ah! that is another question. … But, in short, if you hadn’t succeeded in getting past—well, you’d have failed.”
Again there fell a silence.
It seemed to Laurie as if his world were falling about him. Yet he was far from sure whether it were not all an illusion. But the extreme quietness and confidence of this man in enunciating these startling theories had their effect. It was practically impossible for the boy to sit here, still nervous from his experience, and hear, unmoved, this apparently reasonable and connected account of things that were certainly incomprehensible on any other hypothesis. His remembrance of the very startling uniqueness of his dream was still vivid. … Surely it all fitted in … yet. …
“But there is one thing,” broke in the medium’s quiet voice. “Should you ever experience this kind of thing again, I should recommend you not to pray. Just exercise your own individuality; assert yourself; don’t lean on another. You are quite strong enough.”
“You mean—”
“I mean exactly what I say. What is called prayer is really an imaginative concession to weakness. Take the shortcut, rather. Assert your own—your own individuality.”
Laurie changed his attitude. He uncrossed his feet and sat up a little.
“Oh! pray if you want to,” said the medium. “But you must remember, Mr. Baxter, that you are quite an exceptional person. I assure you that you have no conception of your own powers. I must say that I hope you will take the strong line.” (He paused.) “These séances, for instance. Now that you know a little more of the dangers, are you going to turn back?”
His overhung kindly eyes looked out keenly for an instant at the boy’s restless face.
“I don’t know,” said Laurie; “I must think. …”
He got up.
“Look here, Mr. Vincent,” he said, “it seems to me
