Raymond went to the stone slab, and Clarke watched him drearily as he
bent over a row of phials and lit the flame under the crucible. The
doctor had a small hand-lamp, shaded as the larger one, on a ledge above
his apparatus, and Clarke, who sat in the shadows, looked down the great
dreary room, wondering at the bizarre effects of brilliant light and
undefined darkness contrasting with one another. Soon he became
conscious of an odd odour, at first the merest suggestion of odour, in
the room; and as it grew more decided he felt surprised that he was not
reminded of the chemist's shop or the surgery. Clarke found himself idly
endeavouring to analyse the sensation, and, half conscious, he began to
think of a day, fifteen years ago, that he had spent in roaming through
the woods and meadows near his old home. It was a burning day at the
beginning of August, the heat had dimmed the outlines of all things and
all distances with a faint mist, and people who observed the thermometer
spoke of an abnormal register, of a temperature that was almost
tropical. Strangely that wonderful hot day of the 'fifties rose up in
Clarke's imagination; the sense of dazzling all-pervading sunlight
seemed to blot out the shadows and the lights of the laboratory, and he
felt again the heated air beating in gusts about his face, saw the
shimmer rising from the turf, and heard the myriad murmur of the summer. 'I hope the smell doesn't annoy you, Clarke; there's nothing unwholesome
about it. It may make you a bit sleepy, that's all.' Clarke heard the words quite distinctly, and knew that Raymond was
speaking to him, but for the life of him he could not rouse himself from
his lethargy. He could only think of the lonely walk he had taken
fifteen years ago; it was his last look at the fields and woods he had
known since he was a child, and now it all stood out in brilliant light,
as a picture, before him. Above all there came to his nostrils the scent
of summer, the smell of flowers mingled, and the odour of the woods, of
cool shaded places, deep in the green depths, drawn forth by the sun's
heat; and the scent of the good earth, lying as it were with arms
stretched forth, and smiling lips, overpowered all. His fancies made him
wander, as he had wandered long ago, from the fields into the wood,
tracking a little path between the shining undergrowth of beech-trees;
and the trickle of water dropping from the limestone rock sounded as a
clear melody in the dream. Thoughts began to go astray and to mingle
with other recollections; the beech alley was transformed to a path
beneath ilex-trees, and here and there a vine climbed from bough to
bough, and sent up waving tendrils and drooped with purple grapes, and
the sparse grey-green leaves of a wild olive-tree stood out against the
dark shadows of the ilex. Clarke, in the deep folds of dream, was
conscious that the path from his father's house had led him into an
undiscovered country, and he was wondering at the strangeness of it all,
when suddenly, in place of the hum and murmur of the summer, an infinite
silence seemed to fall on all things, and the wood was hushed, and for a
moment of time he stood face to face there with a presence, that was
neither man nor beast, neither the living nor the dead, but all things
mingled, the form of all things but devoid of all form. And in that
moment, the sacrament of body and soul was dissolved, and a voice seemed
to cry 'Let us go hence,' and then the darkness of darkness beyond the
stars, the darkness of everlasting. When Clarke woke up with a start he saw Raymond pouring a few drops of
some oily fluid into a green phial, which he stoppered tightly. 'You have been dozing,' he said; 'the journey must have tired you out. It is done now. I am going to fetch Mary; I shall be back in ten
minutes.' Clarke lay back in his chair and wondered. It seemed as if he had but
passed from one dream into another. He half expected to see the walls of
the laboratory melt and disappear, and to awake in London, shuddering at
his own sleeping fancies. But at last the door opened, and the doctor
returned, and behind him came a girl of about seventeen, dressed all in
white. She was so beautiful that Clarke did not wonder at what the
doctor had written to him. She was blushing now over face and neck and
arms, but Raymond seemed unmoved. 'Mary,' he said, 'the time has come. You are quite free. Are you willing
to trust yourself to me entirely?' 'Yes, dear.' 'You hear that, Clarke? You are my witness. Here is the chair, Mary. It
is quite easy. Just sit in it and lean back. Are you ready?' 'Yes, dear, quite ready. Give me a kiss before you begin.' The doctor stooped and kissed her mouth, kindly enough. 'Now shut your
eyes,' he said. The girl closed her eyelids, as if she were tired, and
longed for sleep, and Raymond held the green phial to her nostrils. Her
face grew white, whiter than her dress; she struggled faintly, and then
with the feeling of submission strong within her, crossed her arms upon
her breast as a little child about to say her prayers. The bright light
of the lamp beat full upon her, and Clarke watched changes fleeting over
that face as the changes of the hills when the summer clouds float
across the sun. And then she lay all white and still, and the doctor
turned up one of her eyelids. She was quite unconscious. Raymond pressed
hard on one of the levers and the chair instantly sank back. Clarke saw
him cutting away a circle, like a tonsure, from her hair, and the lamp
was moved nearer. Raymond took a small glittering instrument from a
little case, and Clarke turned away shuddering. When he looked again the
doctor was binding up the wound he had made. 'She will awake in five minutes.' Raymond was still perfectly cool. 'There is nothing more to be done; we can only wait.' The minutes passed slowly; they could hear a slow, heavy ticking. There
was an old clock in the passage. Clarke felt sick and faint; his knees
shook beneath him, he could hardly stand. Suddenly, as they watched, they heard a long-drawn sigh, and suddenly
did the colour that had vanished return to the girl's cheeks, and
suddenly her eyes opened. Clarke quailed before them. They shone with an
awful light, looking far away, and a great wonder fell upon her face,
and her hands stretched out as if to touch what was invisible; but in an
instant the wonder faded, and gave place to the most awful terror. The
muscles of her face were hideously convulsed, she shook from head to
foot; the soul seemed struggling and shuddering within the house of
flesh. It was a horrible sight, and Clarke rushed forward, as she fell
shrieking to the floor. Three days later Raymond took Clarke to Mary's bedside. She was lying
wide-awake, rolling her head from side to side, and grinning vacantly. 'Yes,' said the doctor, still quite cool, 'it is a great pity; she is a
hopeless idiot. However, it could not be helped; and, after all, she has
seen the Great God Pan.'