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Harvey Deacon’s imaginative work in art would prepare any one to findthat he was an ardent lover of everything which was _outré_ andsensational. A certain picturesqueness in the study of the occult hadbeen the quality which had originally attracted him to it, but hisattention was speedily arrested by some of those phenomena to which Ihave referred, and he was coming rapidly to the conclusion that what hehad looked upon as an amusing romance and an after-dinner entertainmentwas really a very formidable reality. He is a man with a remarkablyclear and logical brain—a true descendant of his ancestor, thewell-known Scotch professor—and he represented in our small circle thecritical element, the man who has no prejudices, is prepared to followfacts as far as he can see them, and refuses to theorize in advance ofhis data. His caution annoyed Moir as much as the latter’s robust faithamused Deacon, but each in his own way was equally keen upon the matter.
And I? What am I to say that I represented? I was not the devotee. I wasnot the scientific critic. Perhaps the best that I can claim for myselfis that I was the dilettante man about town, anxious to be in the swimof every fresh movement, thankful for any new sensation which would takeme out of myself and open up fresh possibilities of existence. I am notan enthusiast myself, but I like the company of those who are. Moir’stalk, which made me feel as if we had a private pass-key through thedoor of death, filled me with a vague contentment. The soothingatmosphere of the séance with the darkened lights was delightful to me.In a word, the thing amused me, and so I was there.
It was, as I have said, upon the 14th of April last that the verysingular event which I am about to put upon record took place. I was thefirst of the men to arrive at the studio, but Mrs. Delamere was alreadythere, having had afternoon tea with Mrs. Harvey Deacon. The two ladiesand Deacon himself were standing in front of an unfinished picture ofhis upon the easel. I am not an expert in art, and I have neverprofessed to understand what Harvey Deacon meant by his pictures; but Icould see in this instance that it was all very clever and imaginative,fairies and animals and allegorical figures of all sorts. The ladieswere loud in their praises, and indeed the colour effect was aremarkable one.
“What do you think of it, Markham?” he asked.
“Well, it’s above me,” said I. “These beasts—what are they?”
“Mythical monsters, imaginary creatures, heraldic emblems—a sort ofweird, bizarre procession of them.”
“With a white horse in front!”
“It’s not a horse,” said he, rather testily—which was surprising, for hewas a very good-humoured fellow as a rule, and hardly ever took himselfseriously.
“What is it, then?”
“Can’t you see the horn in front? It’s a unicorn. I told you they wereheraldic beasts. Can’t you recognize one?”
“Very sorry, Deacon,” said I, for he really seemed to be annoyed.
He laughed at his own irritation.
“Excuse me, Markham!” said he; “the fact is that I have had an awful jobover the beast. All day I have been painting him in and painting himout, and trying to imagine what a real live, ramping unicorn would looklike. At last I got him, as I hoped; so when you failed to recognize it,it took me on the raw.”
“Why, of course it’s a unicorn,” said I, for he was evidently depressedat my obtuseness. “I can see the horn quite plainly, but I never saw aunicorn except beside the Royal Arms, and so I never thought of thecreature. And these others are griffins and cockatrices, and dragons ofsorts?”
“Yes, I had no difficulty with them. It was the unicorn which botheredme. However, there’s an end of it until to-morrow.” He turned thepicture round upon the easel, and we all chatted about other subjects.
Moir was late that evening, and when he did arrive he brought with him,rather to our surprise, a small, stout Frenchman, whom he introduced asMonsieur Paul Le Duc. I say to our surprise, for we held a theory thatany intrusion into our spiritual circle deranged the conditions, andintroduced an element of suspicion. We knew that we could trust eachother, but all our results were vitiated by the presence of an outsider.However, Moir soon reconciled us to the innovation. Monsieur Paul Le Ducwas a famous student of occultism, a seer, a medium, and a mystic. Hewas travelling in England with a letter of introduction to Moir from thePresident of the Parisian brothers of the Rosy Cross. What more naturalthan that he should bring him to our little séance, or that we shouldfeel honoured by his presence?
He was, as I have said, a small, stout man, undistinguished inappearance, with a broad, smooth, clean-shaven face, remarkable only fora pair of large, brown, velvety eyes, staring vaguely out in front ofhim. He was well dressed, with the manners of a gentleman, and hiscurious little turns of English speech set the ladies smiling. Mrs.Deacon had a prejudice against our researches and left the room, uponwhich we lowered the lights, as was our custom, and drew up our chairsto the square mahogany table which stood in the centre of the studio.The light was subdued, but sufficient to allow us to see each otherquite plainly. I remember that I could even observe the curious, podgylittle square-topped hands which the Frenchman laid upon the table.
“What a fun!” said he. “It is many years since I have sat in thisfashion, and it is to me amusing. Madame is medium. Does madame make thetrance?”
“Well, hardly that,” said Mrs. Delamere. “But I am always conscious ofextreme sleepiness.”
“It is the first stage. Then you encourage it, and there comes
thetrance. When the trance comes, then out jumps your little spirit and injumps another little spirit, and so you have direct talking or writing.You leave your machine to be worked by another. _Hein?_ But what haveunicorns to do with it?”
Harvey Deacon started in his chair. The Frenchman was moving his headslowly round and staring into the shadows which draped the walls.
“What a fun!” said he. “Always unicorns. Who has been thinking so hardupon a subject so bizarre?”
“This is wonderful!” cried Deacon. “I have been trying to paint one allday. But how could you know it?”
“You have been thinking of them in this room.”
“Certainly.”
“But thoughts are things, my friend. When you imagine a thing you make athing. You did not know it, _hein_? But I can see your unicorns becauseit is not only with my eye that I can see.”
“Do you mean to say that I create a thing which has never existed bymerely thinking of it?”
“But certainly. It is the fact which lies under all other facts. That iswhy an evil thought is also a danger.”
“They are, I suppose, upon the astral plane?” said Moir.
