mustn't be ashamed of that!" the invisible entity told him."That's the beginning of real wisdom--becoming childlike again. One ofyour religious teachers said something like that, long ago, and a longtime before that, there was a Chinaman whom people called VenerableChild, because his wisdom had turned back again to a child'ssimplicity."
"That was Lao Tze," Colonel Hampton said, a little surprised. "Don'ttell me you've been around that long."
"Oh, but I have! Longer than that; oh, for very long." And yet the voicehe seemed to be hearing was the voice of a young girl. "You don't mindmy coming to talk to you?" it continued. "I get so lonely, so dreadfullylonely, you see."
"Urmh! So do I," Colonel Hampton admitted. "I'm probably going bats, butwhat the hell? It's a nice way to go bats, I'll say that.... Stickaround; whoever you are, and let's get acquainted. I sort of like you."
A feeling of warmth suffused him, as though he had been hugged bysomeone young and happy and loving.
"Oh, I'm glad. I like you, too; you're nice!"
* * * * *
"Yes, of course." Doctor Vehrner nodded sagely. "That is a schizoidtendency; the flight from reality into a dream-world peopled bycreatures of the imagination. You understand, there is usually a mixtureof psychotic conditions, in cases like this. We will say that this casebegins with simple senile dementia--physical brain degeneration, aresult of advanced age. Then the paranoid symptoms appear; he imagineshimself surrounded by envious enemies, who are conspiring against him.The patient then withdraws into himself, and in his self-imposedisolation, he conjures up imaginary companionship. I have no doubt...."
In the beginning, he had suspected that this unseen visitor was no morethan a figment of his own lonely imagination, but as the days passed,this suspicion vanished. Whatever this entity might be, an entity itwas, entirely distinct from his own conscious or subconscious mind.
At first she--he had early come to think of the being as feminine--hadseemed timid, fearful lest her intrusions into his mind prove anuisance. It took some time for him to assure her that she was alwayswelcome. With time, too, his impression of her grew stronger and moreconcrete. He found that he was able to visualize her, as he mightvisualize something remembered, or conceived of in imagination--a lovelyyoung girl, slender and clothed in something loose and filmy, withflowers in her honey-colored hair, and clear blue eyes, a pert, cheerfulface, a wide, smiling mouth and an impudently up-tilted nose. Herealized that this image was merely a sort of allegoricalrepresentation, his own private object-abstraction from a reality whichhis senses could never picture as it existed.
It was about this time that he had begun to call her Dearest. She hadgiven him no name, and seemed quite satisfied with that one.
"I've been thinking," she said, "I ought to have a name for you, too. Doyou mind if I call you Popsy?"
"Huh?" He had been really startled at that. If he needed any furtherproof of Dearest's independent existence, that was it. Never, in theuttermost depths of his subconscious, would he have been likely to labelhimself Popsy. "Know what they used to call me in the Army?" he asked."Slaughterhouse Hampton. They claimed I needed a truckload of sawdust tofollow me around and cover up the blood." He chuckled. "Nobody but youwould think of calling me Popsy."
There was a price, he found, that he must pay for Dearest'scompanionship--the price of eternal vigilance. He found that he wasacquiring the habit of opening doors and then needlessly standing asideto allow her to precede him. And, although she insisted that he need notspeak aloud to her, that she could understand any thought which hedirected to her, he could not help actually pronouncing the words, ifonly in a faint whisper. He was glad that he had learned, before the endof his plebe year at West Point, to speak without moving his lips.
Besides himself and the kitten, Smokeball, there was one other at"Greyrock" who was aware, if only faintly, of Dearest's presence. Thatwas old Sergeant Williamson, the Colonel's Negro servant, a retiredfirst sergeant from the regiment he had last commanded. With increasingfrequency, he would notice the old Negro pause in his work, as thoughtrying to identify something too subtle for his senses, and then shakehis head in bewilderment.
One afternoon in early October--just about a year ago--he had beenreclining in a chair on the west veranda, smoking a cigar and trying tore-create, for his companion, a mental picture of an Indian camp as hehad seen it in Wyoming in the middle '90's, when Sergeant Williamsoncame out from the house, carrying a pair of the Colonel's field-bootsand a polishing-kit. Unaware of the Colonel's presence, he set down hisburden, squatted on the floor and began polishing the boots, hummingsoftly to himself. Then he must have caught a whiff of the Colonel'scigar. Raising his head, he saw the Colonel, and made as though to pickup the boots and polishing equipment.
"Oh, that's all right, Sergeant," the Colonel told him. "Carry on withwhat you're doing. There's room enough for both of us here."
"Yessuh; thank yo', suh." The old ex-sergeant resumed his soft humming,keeping time with the brush in his hand.
"You know, Popsy, I think he knows I'm here," Dearest said. "Nothingdefinite, of course; he just feels there's something here that he can'tsee."
"I wonder. I've noticed something like that. Funny, he doesn't seem tomind, either. Colored people are usually scary about ghosts and spiritsand the like.... I'm going to ask him." He raised his voice. "Sergeant,do you seem to notice anything peculiar around here, lately?"
The repetitious little two-tone melody broke off short. Thesoldier-servant lifted his face and looked into the Colonel's. His browwrinkled, as though he were trying to express a thought for which he hadno words.
"Yo' notice dat, too, suh?" he asked. "Why, yessuh, Cunnel; Ah don' know'zackly how t' say hit, but dey is som'n, at dat. Hit seems like ...like a kinda ... a kinda _blessedness_." He chuckled. "Dat's hit,Cunnel; dey's a blessedness. Wondeh iffen Ah's gittin' r'ligion, now?"
* * * * *
"Well, all this is very interesting, I'm sure, Doctor," T. BarnwellPowell was saying, polishing his glasses on a piece of tissue andkeeping one elbow on his briefcase at the same time. "But really, it'snot getting us anywhere, so to say. You know, we must have thatcommitment signed by you. Now, is it or is it not your opinion that thisman is of unsound mind?"
"Now, have patience, Mr. Powell," the psychiatrist soothed him. "Youmust admit that as long as this gentleman refuses to talk, I cannot besaid to have interviewed him."
"What if he won't talk?" Stephen Hampton burst out. "We've told youabout his behavior; how he sits for hours mumbling to this imaginaryperson he thinks is with him, and how he always steps aside when heopens a door, to let somebody who isn't there go through ahead of him,and how.... Oh, hell, what's the use? If he were in his right mind, he'dspeak up and try to prove it, wouldn't he? What do you say, Myra?"
Myra was silent, and Colonel Hampton found himself watching her withinterest. Her mouth had twisted into a wry grimace, and she wasclutching the arms of her chair until her knuckles whitened. She seemedto be in some intense pain. Colonel Hampton hoped she were; preferablywith something slightly fatal.
* * * * *
Sergeant Williamson's suspicion that he might be getting religion becamea reality, for a time, that winter, after The Miracle.
It had been a blustery day in mid-January, with a high wind drivingswirls of snow across the fields, and Colonel Hampton, fretting indoorsfor several days, decided to go out and fill his lungs with fresh air.Bundled warmly, swinging his blackthorn cane, he had set out,accompanied by Dearest, to tramp cross-country to the village, threemiles from "Greyrock." They had enjoyed the walk through the whitewind-swept desolation, the old man and his invisible companion, untilthe accident had happened.
A sheet of glassy ice had lain treacherously hidden under a skift ofsnow; when he stepped upon it, his feet shot from under him, the stickflew from his hand, and he went down. When he tried to rise, he foundthat he could not. Dearest had been almos
t frantic.
"Oh, Popsy, you must get up!" she cried. "You'll freeze if you don't.Come on, Popsy; try again!"
He tried, in vain. His old body would not obey his will.
"It's no use, Dearest; I can't. Maybe it's just as well," he said."Freezing's an easy death, and you say people live on as spirits, afterthey die. Maybe we can always be together, now."
"I don't know. I don't want you to die yet, Popsy. I never was able toget