“Then she has no idea,” I said at length, “that we three--you and I and she--have been together before, or that there is any particular purpose in my being here at this moment?”
“In her normal condition--none,” he answered. “For she has no memory.”
“There is a state, however, when she does remember?” I asked. “You have helped her to remember? Is that it, Julius?”
“Yes,” he replied; “I have reached down and touched her soul, so that she remembers for herself.”
“Where all the memories of the past lie accumulated,” he answered, “the subconscious state. Her Self of To-day--with new body and recent brain--she has forgotten; in trance--the subconscious Self where the soul dwells with all its past--she remembers.”
“_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----”