But seeking it, as I did,
from Nature, I got much more which I did not seek, but stumbled upon
originally by accident. It is difficult to explain, but I will try. “About three years ago I was sitting one morning in a place I will show
you to-morrow. It is down by the river brink, very green, dappled with
shade and sun, and the river passes there through some little clumps of
reeds. Well, as I sat there, doing nothing, but just looking and
listening, I heard the sound quite distinctly of some flute-like
instrument playing a strange unending melody. I thought at first it was
some musical yokel on the highway and did not pay much attention. But
before long the strangeness and indescribable beauty of the tune struck
me. It never repeated itself, but it never came to an end, phrase after
phrase ran its sweet course, it worked gradually and inevitably up to a
climax, and having attained it, it went on; another climax was reached
and another and another. Then with a sudden gasp of wonder I localised
where it came from. It came from the reeds and from the sky and from the
trees. It was everywhere, it was the sound of life. It was, my dear
Darcy, as the Greeks would have said, it was Pan playing on his pipes,
the voice of Nature. It was the life-melody, the world-melody.”

Darcy was far too interested to interrupt, though there was a question
he would have liked to ask, and Frank went on:

“Well, for the moment I was terrified, terrified with the impotent
horror of nightmare, and I stopped my ears and just ran from the place
and got back to the house panting, trembling, literally in a panic. Unknowingly, for at that time I only pursued joy, I had begun, since I
drew my joy from Nature, to get in touch with Nature. Nature, force,
God, call it what you will, had drawn across my face a little gossamer
web of essential life. I saw that when I emerged from my terror, and I
went very humbly back to where I had heard the Pan-pipes. But it was
nearly six months before I heard them again.”

“Why was that?” asked Darcy. “Surely because I had revolted, rebelled, and worst of all been
frightened. For I believe that just as there is nothing in the world
which so injures one’s body as fear, so there is nothing that so much
shuts up the soul. I was afraid, you see, of the one thing in the world
which has real existence. No wonder its manifestation was withdrawn.”

“And after six months?”

“After six months one blessed morning I heard the piping again. I wasn’t
afraid that time. And since then it has grown louder, it has become more
constant. I now hear it often, and I can put myself into such an
attitude towards Nature that the pipes will almost certainly sound. And
never yet have they played the same tune, it is always something new,
something fuller, richer, more complete than before.”

“What do you mean by ‘such an attitude towards Nature’?” asked Darcy. “I can’t explain that; but by translating it into a bodily attitude it
is this.”

Frank sat up for a moment quite straight in his chair, then slowly sunk
back with arms outspread and head drooped. “That;” he said, “an effortless attitude, but open, resting, receptive. It is just that which you must do with your soul.”

Then he sat up again. “One word more,” he said, “and I will bore you no further. Nor unless
you ask me questions shall I talk about it again. You will find me, in
fact, quite sane in my mode of life. Birds and beasts, you will see
behaving somewhat intimately to me, like that moor-hen, but that is all. I will walk with you, ride with you, play golf with you, and talk with
you on any subject you like. But I wanted you on the threshold to know
what has happened to me. And one thing more will happen.”

He paused again, and a slight look of fear crossed his eyes. “There will be a final revelation,” he said, “a complete and blinding
stroke which will throw open to me, once and for all, the full
knowledge, the full realisation and comprehension that I am one, just as
you are, with life. In reality there is no ‘me,’ no ‘you,’ no ‘it.’
Everything is part of the one and only thing which is life. I know that
that is so, but the realisation of it is not yet mine. But it will be,
and on that day, so I take it, I shall see Pan. It may mean death, the
death of my body, that is, but I don’t care. It may mean immortal,
eternal life lived here and now and for ever. Then having gained that,
ah, my dear Darcy, I shall preach such a gospel of joy, showing myself
as the living proof of the truth, that Puritanism, the dismal religion
of sour faces, shall vanish like a breath of smoke, and be dispersed and
disappear in the sunlit air. But first the full knowledge must be mine.”

Darcy watched his face narrowly. “You are afraid of that moment,” he said. Frank smiled at him. “Quite true; you are quick to have seen that. But when it comes I hope I
shall not be afraid.”

For some little time there was silence; then Darcy rose. “You have bewitched me, you extraordinary boy,” he said. “You have been
telling me a fairy-story, and I find myself saying, ‘Promise me it is
true.’”

“I promise you that,” said the other. “And I know I shan’t sleep,” added Darcy. Frank looked at him with a sort of mild wonder as if he scarcely
understood. “Well, what does that matter?” he said. “I assure you it does. I am wretched unless I sleep.”

“Of course I can make you sleep if I want,” said Frank in a rather bored
voice. “Well do.”

“Very good: go to bed. I’ll come upstairs in ten minutes.”

Frank busied himself for a little after the other had gone, moving the
table back under the awning of the verandah and quenching the lamp. Then
he went with his quick silent tread upstairs and into Darcy’s room. The
latter was already in bed, but very wide-eyed and wakeful, and Frank
with an amused smile of indulgence, as for a fretful child, sat down on
the edge of the bed. “Look at me,” he said, and Darcy looked. “The birds are sleeping in the brake,” said Frank softly, “and the winds
are asleep. The sea sleeps, and the tides are but the heaving of its
breast. The stars swing slow, rocked in the great cradle of the Heavens,
and----”

He stopped suddenly, gently blew out Darcy’s candle, and left him
sleeping. Morning brought to Darcy a flood of hard common-sense, as clear and
crisp as the sunshine that filled his room. Slowly as he woke he
gathered together the broken threads of the memories of the evening
which had ended, so he told himself, in a trick of common hypnotism. That accounted for it all; the whole strange talk he had had was under a
spell of suggestion from the extraordinary vivid boy who had once been a
man; all his own excitement, his acceptance of the incredible had been
merely the effect of a stronger, more potent will imposed on his own. How strong that will was, he guessed from his own instantaneous
obedience to Frank’s suggestion of sleep. And armed with impenetrable
common-sense he came down to breakfast.