In the first moment of astonishment, John stood motionless, his gaze
riveted on the glow of color that poured through the window upon the
rocks and heather of the cleft. Then, as he continued to stand with
widely opened eyes, another surprise was sprung upon him. The door of
the chapel opened and the figure of his uncle--long since supposed to be
sleeping tranquilly in his own room--showed tall and angular in the
aperture.
[Illustration: "THE FIGURE OF HIS UNCLE ... SHOWED TALL AND ANGULAR IN
THE APERTURE"]
From John's position, the open door and the lighted interior of the
little edifice were distinctly visible; and in one glance he saw his
uncle's silhouetted figure and behind it a bare space some dozen feet
square, lined on floor and walls with sections of marble alternately
black and white. From the ceiling of this chamber depended an
octagonal symbol in polished metal, and close by the door eight wax
candles flickered slightly in the faint stir of air. But his astonished
and inquisitive eyes had barely become aware of these details when
Andrew Henderson turned towards the circular sconce in which the candles
were set and began to extinguish them one by one. As the light died, he
stepped forward and John drew back sharply; but at his movement a stone,
loosened by his heel, went rolling down into the hollow. And a moment
later his uncle, glancing up, saw his figure outlined against the
luminous sky.
What the outcome of the incident would have been on any other occasion,
it is difficult to say. As it was, the moment was propitious. Old
Henderson, surprised in an instant of exaltation, was pleased to put his
own narrow, superstitious construction on the boy's appearance. Laboring
under an abnormal excitement, he showed no resentment at the fact of
being spied upon; but calling John to him, ordered him to walk home
beside him across the cliff.
Never was walk so strange--never were companions so ill-matched as the
two who threaded their way back over the headland. Andrew Henderson
walked first, talking all the time in a jargon addressed partly to the
boy, partly to himself, in which mysticism was oddly tangled with a
confusion of crazy theories and beliefs; behind came John, half
fascinated and wholly bewildered by the medley of words that poured out
upon the night.
On reaching the house, the old man became suddenly silent again, falling
back as if by habit into the morose absorption that marked his daily
life; but as he turned to mount the stairs to his own room, he paused
and his curious light-blue eyes travelled over his nephew's face.
"Good-night!" he said. "You make a good listener."
And John--still confused and silent--retired to bed, to lie awake for
many hours, partly thrilled and partly elated by the awesome thought
that there was a madman in the house.
* * * * *
But all that had happened seven years ago, and now Andrew Henderson lay
waiting for his end. In those seven years John had passed through the
mill of deadly monotony that saps even youth, and lulls every instinct
save hope. The first enthusiasm of romance that had wrapped the
discovery of his uncle's secret had faded out with time. By slow degrees
he had learned--partly from his own observation, partly from the old
man's occasional fanatic outbursts--that the strange chapel with its
metal symbol and marble floor was not the outcome of a private whim, but
the manifestation of a creed that boasted a small but ardent band of
followers. He had learned that--to themselves, if not to the
world--these devotees were known as the Mystics; that their articles of
faith were preserved in a secret book designated the Scitsym, which
passed in rotation each year from one to another of the six
Arch-Mystics, remaining in the care of each for two months out of the
twelve. He had discovered that London was the Centre of this sect; and
that its fundamental belief was the anticipation of a mysterious
prophet--human, and yet divinely inspired--by whose coming the light was
to extend from the small and previously unknown band across the whole
benighted world.
He had learned all these things. He had been stirred to a passing awe by
the discovery that his uncle was, in his own person, actually one of the
profound Six who formed the Council of the sect and to whom alone the
secrets of its creed were known; and for three successive years his
interest and curiosity had been kindled when Andrew Henderson travelled
to England and returned with the Arch-Councillor--an old blind man of
seventy--who invariably spent one day and night mysteriously closeted
with his host and then left, having deposited the sacred Scitsym with
his own hands in the tall iron safe that stood in Henderson's study. But
that annual excitement had lessened with time. Even a madman may become
monotonous when we live with him, day in, day out, for seven long years;
and gradually the attitude of John's mind had changed with the passage
of time. The sense of adventure and triumphant enterprise had steadily
receded; the knowledge that he was working out a slow, distasteful
probation had advanced. Reluctantly and yet definitely he had realized
that his position was not to come and conquer, but to watch and wait;
and this consciousness of a tacitly expected end had grown with the
years--with the growth of his mind and body. It was not that he was
hard-natured. The regularity with which he despatched his yearly money
to his mother--reserving the merest fraction for himself--precluded that
idea. But he was young and human, and he was youthfully and humanly
greedy to possess the good things of life for himself and for the one
being he passionately loved. It would, indeed, have been an enthusiast
in virtue who could have blamed him for counting upon dead men's shoes.
And now the shoes were all but empty! He stood watching his uncle die!
Having stayed almost motionless for several minutes, he glanced at the
clock; then moved to the bed, taking a bottle and a medicine spoon from
the dressing-table as he passed.
"Time for your medicine, uncle!" he said, in his quiet, level voice.
But the sick man did not seem to hear.
In a slightly louder tone John repeated his remark. This time the vacant
expression faded slowly from the large, pale eyes, and Andrew Henderson
moved his head weakly.
Seeing the indication of consciousness, John carefully measured out a
dose of medicine, and, stooping over the pillows, passed one arm under
his uncle's neck.
Andrew Henderson submitted without objection, but as his head was raised
and the medicine held to his lips, he seemed suddenly to realize the
position, to comprehend that it was his nephew who leaned over him. With
a spasmodic movement he turned towards John, his lips twitching with
some inward and newly aroused excitement.
"The Book, John!" he said, sharply--"the Book!"
John remained quite composed. With a steady hand he balanced the spoon
of medicine that he still held.
"Your medicine first, uncle," he said, quietly. "We'll talk about the
Book after."
But the old man's calm had been disturbed. With unexpected strength he
raised one thin hand and pushed the spoon aside, spilling the contents
on the bed.
"How can I leave it?" he exclaimed. "How can I go and leave the Book
unguarded?" Again his lips twitched and a feverish brightness flickered
in his eyes as they searched his nephew's face.
"When I go, John," he added, excitedly, "the Book may be in your keeping
for hours--perhaps for a whole night. I know the Arch-Councillor will
answer my summons immediately; but it is possible he may be delayed. It
may be the ordination of the Unknown that I should Pass before he
arrives. If this is so, I want you to guard the Book--but also I want
you to guard my dead body. Let no one touch it until he comes. The key
of the safe is here--" He fumbled weakly for the thin chain that hung
about his neck. "No one must remove it--no one must touch it until he
comes--" His voice faltered.
With a calm gesture John forced him back upon the pillows, and quietly
wiped up the medicine.
But with a fresh effort the old man lifted himself again.
"John," he cried, suddenly, "do you understand what I am saying? Do you
understand that for a whole night you may be alone with the inviolable
Scitsym? 'The Hope of the Universe, by whose Light alone the One and
Only Prophet shall be made known unto the Watchers!'" He murmured the
quotation in a low, rapt voice.
Again the younger man attempted to soothe him.
"Don't distress yourself!" he said, gravely. "I am here. You can trust
me. Lie back and rest."
But his uncle's face was still excitedly perturbed; his pale eyes still
possessed an unnatural brightness.
"Oh yes!" he said, sharply, "I trust you! I have trusted you. I have
left a letter by which you will see that I have trusted you--and that
your fidelity has been rewarded. But this is another matter. Can I trust
you in this? Can I trust you as myself?" As he put the question a sweat
of weakness and excitement broke out over his forehead.
But it was neither his wild appearance nor his question that suddenly
sent the blood into John's face and suddenly set his heart bounding. It
was the abrupt and unlooked-for justification of his own secret,
treasured hope; the tacit acknowledgment of kinship and obligation made
now by Andrew Henderson after seven unfruitful years. A mist rose before
his sight and his mind swam. What was the mad creed of a dying man--of a
dozen dying men--when the reward of his own long probation awaited him?
But the old man was set to his purpose. With shaking fingers he fumbled
with two small objects that depended from the chain about his neck. And
as he held them up, John saw by the glow of the lamp that one was a copy
in miniature of the metal symbol that decorated the little chapel, the
other a long, thin key.
As Henderson disentangled and raised these objects to the light, his
eyes turned again upon his nephew.
"John," he said, tremulously, "I want you to swear to me by the Sign
that you will not touch my body--nor anything on my body--till the
Arch-Councillor comes! Swear, as you hope for your own happiness!" A
wild illumination spread over his face; the unpleasant fanatical light
showed again in his eyes.
For a moment John looked at him; then stirred by his own emotions, by
the new pang of self-reproach and gratitude towards this half-crazy man
so near his end, he went forward and touched the small octagonal symbol
that gleamed in the light.
"I swear--by the Sign!" he said, in a low, level voice. And almost as
the words escaped him, the chain slipped from old Henderson's fingers,
his jaw dropped, and his head fell forward on his chest.
* * * * *
The moments that follow an important event are seldom of a nature to be
accurately analyzed. For a long while John remained motionless and
speechless, unable to realize that the huddled figure still warm in his
arms was in reality the vessel of clay from which a spirit had escaped.
Then suddenly the realization of the position came to him; with a sharp
movement he stood upright, and seizing the bell-rope, pulled it
vigorously.
When the old woman who attended to the household appeared, he pointed to
her master's body and explained in a few words how the end had come; and
how in a last urgent command Henderson had forbidden his body to be
touched until the arrival of a member of his religious sect. The old
woman accepted the explanation with the apathy common to those who have
outlived emotion; and with a series of nods and unintelligible
mutterings methodically proceeded to straighten the already neatly
arranged furniture of the room, in the instinctive belief that order is
the first tribute to be paid to Death.
With something of the same feeling John drew the coverlet over the dead
body, then turned to watch the old woman at her work. But as he looked
at her a desire to be alone again swept over him, and with the desire a
corresponding impatience of her slow and measured movements. Chide
himself as he might for his impatience, curb his natural instinct as he
might, it was humanly impossible that his strong and eager spirit could
give thought to Death--while Life was claiming him with out-stretched
hands.
He held himself rigidly in check until the last chair had been arranged
and the last cinder swept from the hearth; then as the old woman slowly
crossed the room and stepped out into the corridor, he sprang with
irrepressible impetuosity and shut and locked the door.
He had no superstitious consciousness of the dead body so close at
hand. The dead body--and with it the dead years and the long
probation--belonged to the past; he with his youth, his strength,
his hope, was bound for the limitless future.
Without a moment's hesitation he crossed to his uncle's bureau, which
stood as he had left it three days before when his last illness had
seized upon him. The papers were all in order; the ink was as yet
scarcely rusted on the pens; the key protruded from the lock of the
private drawer. With a tremor of excitement John extended his hand,
turned it and opened the drawer; then he caught his breath. There lay a
square white envelope addressed to himself in his uncle's fantastic,
crooked handwriting.
As he drew it out and held it for a moment in his hand, his thoughts
centred unerringly round one object. In a moment, the seven years of
waiting--the strange death scene just enacted--even Andrew Henderson and
his mystical creed--were blotted from his mind by a wonderful
rose-colored mist of hope, from which one face looked out--the patient,
tender, pathetic face of the mother he adored. The emotions, so long
suppressed, welled up as they had been wont to do years ago in the
sordid London home.
With a throb of confidence and anticipation he inserted his finger under
the flap of the envelope and tore it open. With lightning speed his eyes
skimmed the oddly written lines. Then a short, inarticulate sound
escaped him, and the blood suddenly receded from his face.
"MY DEAR NEPHEW," he read.--"In acknowledgment of your services
during the past seven years--and also because I have no wish to
pass into the Unseen with the stain of vindictiveness on my
Soul--I have obliterated from my mind the remembrance of my
brother's ingratitude to our father, and have placed the sum of
£500 to your credit in the Cleef branch of the Consolidated Bank. I
trust it may assist you to commence an industrious career. For the
rest, it may interest you to know that my capital, which I realized
upon your grandfather's death, is already placed in the treasury of
the sect to which I belong--where it will remain until claimed by
the One in whose ultimate advent I most solemnly believe.
"I make you cognizant of these facts that all disputes and
unnecessary differences may be avoided after my death. The papers
by which my property was made over to the Mystics some five years
ago--together with a doctor's certificate as to my mental soundness
at the time--is in the hands of the Council. Any attempt to unmake
this disposition of my fortune would be fraught with failure.
"With sincere hopes for your future welfare,
"Your uncle,
"ANDREW HENDERSON."
For a space John stood pale and rigid, making no attempt to reread the
letter; then all at once one of those rare and curious upheavals of
feeling that shake men to their souls seized upon him. The blood rushed
back into his face in a dark wave; the rose-colored mist that had
floated before his vision flamed suddenly to red; the same implacable
rage that, years ago, had impelled his grandfather to disinherit his
favorite son swelled in his heart. All ideas, all considerations, save
one, became blurred and indistinct; but this one idea rode him, spurred
him to a frenzy of desire. It was the blind, instinctive, human wish to
wreak his loss and disappointment upon some tangible, visible object.
With a dazed movement he turned to the bed; but only the huddled,
impassive figure beneath the coverlet met his gaze. For more than a
minute he stared at it helplessly; then a new thought shot across his
mind and his lips drew together in a thin, hard line. The road to
revenge lay open before him! With an abrupt gesture he stepped forward
and pulled back the counterpane.
In the yellow lamp-light the thin face of the dead man had an ashen hue;
the half-opened eyes and the prominent teeth, from which the lips had
partly receded, confronted him grewsomely. But the force of his
disappointment and rage was something before which mere human horror was
swept aside. With another rapid movement, he stooped over the bed and
unclasped the thin gold chain that hung round the dead man's neck,
letting the metal symbol and the long, thin key slip from it into his
hand. Turning to the dressing-table, he caught up a lamp; hurried from
the room; and, descending the stairs, passed into the study.
To his excited glance the place looked strangely undisturbed. Though the
frames of the windows rattled in the gale, the interior arrangements
were as precise and bare as usual; the fireless grate stared at him
coldly, and against the whitewashed wall the heavy iron safe stood out
like an accentuated blot of shadow. Impelled by his one dominating idea,
he crossed without an instant's hesitation to the door of this hitherto
inviolable repository of his uncle's secrets, and, inserting the key he
carried, threw back the massive door.
One glance showed him the thing he sought. Lying in solitary state upon
the highest shelf was a heavy book bound in white leather. The edges of
the cover were worn yellow with time and use, and from the centre of the
binding gleamed the familiar octagonal symbol exquisitely wrought in
gold and jewels. With hands that trembled slightly he lifted the book
from its place, closed and locked the door of the safe, and,
extinguishing the lamp, left the room.
In the flood of unreasoning rage and thwarted hope that surged about
him, he had no definite plan regarding the object in his hand. He only
knew, by the medium of instinct, that through it he could strike a blow
at the uncle who had excluded him from his just inheritance--at the
crazy scheme by which he had been defrauded of his due.
With hasty steps he mounted the stairs and re-entered the bedroom. To
his agitated mind it seemed but just that, whatever his vengeance, it
should be accomplished in the grim, unconscious presence of the dead
man.
Stepping into the room, he paused and looked about him, seeking some
suggestion. As he stood there, his eyes, by a natural process of
inspiration, fell upon the fire that glowed and crackled in the grate;
and with a sharp, inarticulate sound of satisfaction he strode forward
to the hearth, knelt down, and prepared for his work of destruction.
[Illustration: "HE ... GATHERED THE FIRST SHEAF OF LEAVES INTO HIS
FINGERS"]
As he crouched over the flames a fresh gale swept inland from the sea,
seizing the house in its fierce embrace; and the red tongues of fire
leaped up the chimney in the instant answer of element to element.
Instinctively he bent forward, opened the book and gathered the first
sheaf of leaves into his fingers. Then, involuntarily, he paused, as the
bold characters of the printed words shot up black and clear in the
fierce glow.
Almost without volition he read the opening lines:
"Out of obscurity will He come. And--having proved Himself--no man
will question Him. For the Past lies in the Great Unknown. By the
Scitsym--from which none but the Chosen may read--will ye know Him;
and, knowing Him, ye will bow down--Mystics, Arch-Mystics, and
Arch-Councillor alike. And the World will be His. For He will be
Power made absolute!"
"For he will be Power made absolute!" Something in the six simple words
arrested Henderson, suspended his thoughts and checked his hand. By an
odd psychological process his rage became chilled, his mind veered from
its point of view. With a curious stiffness of motion he drew away from
the fire--the book held uninjured in his hand.
"He will be Power made absolute!" he repeated, mechanically, as he rose
slowly to his feet.