AGAR HALFI THE MYSTIC
BY
ROLAND FILKIN
LONDON
WILLIAM RIDER & SON, LIMITED
PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.
1915
Printed by +Ballantyne, Hanson & Co.+
at the Ballantyne Press, Edinburgh
CONTENTS
PAGE
PROLOGUE 1
CHAP.
I. INTRODUCTORY 17
II. THE MENACE AT SUNSET 23
III. A WOMAN’S FEARS 36
IV. AT THE BREAK OF DAWN 46
V. STRANGE CONFIDENCES 56
VI. A SAINT AND A SINNER 65
VII. GRAVE SUSPICIONS 79
VIII. THE INVOLVING OF CONSTANCE ALLETSON 87
IX. A LADY’S GLOVE 105
X. “HECTOR” MANIFESTS ANTIPATHY 114
XI. THE DISCOVERY 124
XII. A WARNING 137
XIII. THE POWER OF THE MYSTIC 149
XIV. HERBERT CANNING, LONDON 167
XV. AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER 178
XVI. A PROBLEM TO UNRAVEL 189
XVII. THE ABBESS 199
XVIII. FATE DEFIED 211
XIX. HEART-SEARCHINGS 224
XX. THE DECISION OF THE “COMBINE” 231
XXI. HOW EAST RULES WEST 242
XXII. ALMOST A TRAGEDY! 254
XXIII. “THE WRITING ON THE WALL” 274
XXIV. FAIL NOT, GREAT WIZARD! 288
XXV. “I AM BUT AS THE DUST” 298
XXVI. TILL THE STARS MEET 310
XXVII. AT LAST! OH BELOVED! 316
AGAR HALFI THE MYSTIC
PROLOGUE
Hugo Alexis Brentwood gave his assent to Agar Halfi, his right-hand
man, to pitch their little camp by the side of the stream at the
foot of the mountain. Just for one moment, the Hindoo looked at his
master with half-closed eyes; his consent had been merely a mechanical
inclination of the head, and Agar Halfi was quite sure that the Sahib
was not listening.
Still, it was sufficient; such matters were always left in his hands,
and really it was more a matter of form than anything else that he had
asked. So without more ado he swiftly gave his orders to the half-dozen
servants and carriers, and then busied himself in superintending the
preparations for the evening meal. That, to his mind, was an important
thing, for no man could work unless he were properly fed.
Meanwhile the leader of this small party leaned thoughtfully on his
rifle and continued to gaze absently toward the western horizon, as
though fascinated by the vivid sunset. He was in reality reviewing the
past eight years of his life, spent in rough travel, and contemplating
with some satisfaction the knowledge and experience which he had
acquired thereby.
When he left England, those who knew him best—they were not
many—regarded him as a man who, having given great promise as a
psychologist, had discarded most Western theories, and side-tracked
into occultism; which of course, from a Western scientific point of
view, was mere superstition. His colleagues had put it down to the
Eastern blood in him, concluding that his environment had not been
strong enough to overcome his hereditary traits of mysticism.
But their point of view did not trouble him greatly. He had drawn
his own conclusions, and having plenty of means at his disposal, had
decided to make research, and gather facts for himself. His measure of
success was more than he had hoped for; some of his theories he had
proved up to the hilt; others had not been so satisfactory, but in any
case, he now knew that psychology as understood by Western thought was
a mere drop in the ocean, such a puny feeble creature, that it was a
wonder it had any life at all.
Thus it was that at present he happened to be situated in wild
Afghanistan, a country in which he had experienced many weird and
strange things, not always to be found even by those who seek them.
At the present time he was not many days’ journey from the Persian
border; and when at Herat, he had heard a lot of whispered talk
concerning a cave in the mountains about forty miles further on. From
what could be gathered, the place was stigmatised as haunted; but the
people spoke of it as if half afraid to do so, and the information he
could gather was meagre.
It appeared that at irregular intervals the lifeless bodies of people
had been found there. This in itself was sufficient to give the place
an evil repute, but it could hardly have accounted for the firmly
implanted idea that the cave was under the influence of the Evil One.
All the bodies had been mutilated in the same manner. In each case the
throat had been torn as though with a sharp instrument; but the wound
was a jagged one, such as no known weapon could inflict! No doubt it
was this latter fact that caused the natives to condemn the cave as
under the spell of the supernatural. At any rate, that was all he could
get to know, so he had determined to go a little out of his direct
course and examine the place.
It was the crackling of the fire and the clink of tin pots that brought
him back to his present surroundings. It then immediately occurred to
him that Agar Halfi had asked for orders to pitch camp. Remembering
that, he turned his eyes to see what sort of a spot they were in, and
after a cursory glance, nodded with approval.
The position selected by the Hindoo was a good one, being sheltered on
two sides by the rocky base of the mountain which formed a right-angle,
and flanked on a third side by a stream which bubbled swiftly down to
the plains below in a northerly direction.
Satisfied, he took up his glasses and carefully surveyed the rugged
Afghan landscape. At length his eyes rested on a portion of it which
seemed to be of particular interest, for he looked at it long and
steadily; then dropping his glasses, he gave a low exclamation of
satisfaction. There could not be much doubt that this was the place he
had set out to visit.
He was disturbed in his meditations by Agar Halfi informing him that
supper was ready. Yawning, he slung his rifle on his back and stretched
his tired limbs; then looking keenly at the wiry supple figure of the
Hindoo, said:
“Agar Halfi, to-night we will rest; to-morrow you and I will visit
yonder cave, and if there is a demon there, we will exorcise him.”
He laughed a little grimly as he spoke. He was barely thirty-five
years old, and had not yet reached that age when men do not talk too
confidently about those things which they have to tackle, however
certain they may be of the issue. But there was some excuse for his
confident tone. During his eight years’ sojourn, he had nearly always
been successful in clearing up to his own satisfaction—if not always to
the satisfaction of those concerned—the many weird cases that had come
across his path, and he did not think then that a day would dawn when
he would be baffled, and indeed narrowly escape with his life.
Agar Halfi—forty years if a day—shook his head gravely, and did not
reply immediately. He was a mystic of the Eastern school, and once
had been within the shadow of death, when probing too far into the
mysteries of the underworld. There was a note of warning in his voice
as he answered:
“Maybe, Sahib, we shall exorcise him, maybe not—maybe he will exorcise
us! Who knows?”
A slight smile flitted across the white man’s handsome face at the
Oriental’s quaint way of rebuking him, but it died almost immediately
as on second thoughts he replied:
“True, my friend, you did well to chide me for my self-assurance. It
is time experience of these things had taught me not to speak lightly
of them. Still, let us eat and drink, then rest, or we shall be no
more fit physically to do battle with this evil thing, than these poor
natives are mentally.”
Saying which, he led the way to their rough repast, which they made
mostly in silence, excepting for occasional question and answer
regarding their equipment, their stores, and things in general.
When they had finished, the explorer brought out a pipe, which he
carefully filled, and lying back on his elbow, began to smoke. The
Hindoo, who did not indulge in the narcotic weed, rose and went on his
usual evening mission to see that all was well for the night. When he
returned, he piled fresh fuel on the fire, and squatting down—Eastern
fashion—sat staring at the flames.
Brentwood, smoking retrospectively, watched him lazily for a time. At
last he knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and stifling a yawn remarked:
“The worst of this sort of case is, that one can get so little
information—has to take so much on trust.”
Without moving his eyes from the fire, the Oriental replied:
“That is true, Sahib—the fact is, ignorance strikes terror into the
hearts of these poor devils, and they think that if they speak too
loudly, or say too much, the hobgoblin will lay in wait for them.”
“Unfortunately that is so,” answered his companion. “Also
unfortunately, it has been the means of putting us more than once into
a very tight corner.”
The Hindoo grunted emphatically. “A man can only die once, Sahib, and
he will not die until his time comes.”
“True, my friend, but he can precipitate his end by acting rashly.”
“Also true, Sahib, but then, his time has come,” replied Agar Halfi
with finality.
Brentwood yawned again; he was too tired to argue upon those lines, so
getting his blanket, he rolled himself up, and with a lazy “good-night”
prepared to settle down.
But sleep did not come to his tired eyes; his active brain would not
rest, and try as he would, he could not shake off a dim feeling of
depression. At last he raised himself on his elbow, and looking across
the fire at the set face of his companion, said:
“What do you make of this cave business, Agar Halfi?”
The Hindoo, who had not moved since he sat down, raised his head
mechanically, and looked at the speaker with vacant eyes. He had the
blank expression of the somnambulist, whose mind—occupied with the
internal workings of the brain—is dead to external influences. At
length the light broke into his eyes, just as if his soul—being at a
distance—had heard a call, and returned swiftly to its house of clay.
“Ah, Sahib, the time is inopportune; evil directions of the stars work
against you, and, as I said when at Herat, we should have done well to
have forgotten this place.”
“You are pessimistic,” replied Brentwood, in a tone of slight
irritation. “Even if the stars are against us, it does not follow
that their rays are fatal or that we cannot overcome the trend of
their influence. Surely, Agar Halfi, you are falling back to the old
fatalistic fallacy of your people?”
The Oriental’s eyes flashed a little in the firelight, as he answered
in his grave voice:
“Now for certain the Sahib knows that Agar Halfi is no fatalist; he
eradicated that doctrine from his soul long ago. But although the evil
directions of the stars may be overcome by the wise and the good, does
my friend think that the way to counteract them is deliberately to walk
into the danger zone?”
“Perhaps I am over-confident,” replied the other meditatively; “but
then I think differently to you. My English blood gives me thoughts of
which you are unconscious. It is quite possible that one may enter the
danger zone and still overcome the opposing forces.”
The Hindoo slowly shook his head. “Is it wise to risk the jaws of the
tiger, when you can kill him from a safe distance?”
“Still, Agar Halfi, for better or worse we are here now, and we will
make a bold bid to uproot this mystery. Once again, what is your
opinion about it?”
“That we shall not come to grips with it!” he answered bluntly.
At this retort, Brentwood sat upright and stared surprisedly at his
companion, who returned his look steadily.
“Do you mean that we shall not succeed in this matter?”
“I shall be satisfied if we both escape with our lives!”
The explorer looked at him closely for some time, and his face grew
stern as the thought flashed through his mind that possibly the Hindoo
would like to shirk this task; but he discarded it almost as soon as it
was born, and said quietly:
“Agar Halfi, I have known you ever since I set foot in India over eight
years ago. Since then, we have travelled together constantly, and,
during that period, I have never known you to shrink once. Speak, what
is in your mind?”
“You say, Sahib, that you have never known Agar Halfi to shrink once;
true, neither will he shrink now; but he knows that there are forces
at work here which are more powerful than the Sahib thinks, and—well,
friend Brentwood, we are not Mahatmas.”
A grim smile turned up the corners of the white man’s mouth.
“Well, suppose I take your advice and turn back now?”
“Why waste words, Sahib? You know you will not turn back.”
Brentwood laughed in a low voice.
“That is true, my friend—I shall not turn back.”
“Nor will Agar Halfi,” replied the other stolidly. “Where the Sahib
goes his friend and servant will go also. For he remembers that once,
when fleeing from the wrath of the priests, into whose secrets he
had dared to look too deeply, a white man gave him refuge, food, and
clothing, and saved his life. Some day, perhaps, Agar Halfi will repay
that debt—who knows?”
A long silence followed the Hindoo’s last remarks, and they both looked
at the fire, neither desiring to speak. At length the Oriental raised
his hand, and said gravely:
“Listen, Sahib, and I will tell you a legend of these mountains.”
Brentwood inclined his head in assent, and the Hindoo continued:
“Far away in the bygone past, there once lived a wizard, who practised
his rites under the shadow of one of the great Persian kings. This man
was a very wise and good one, who lived a clean, upright life, and
always strove to do his best to uplift the people of his country. So
great was his power, and so well-beloved was he of the people, that
they said he was the far-famed Zoroaster come back to earth again.
“He was strong and handsome, and though barely forty years of age, he
had guided the councils of the king for many years with his wisdom, and
they were close friends. But his life was not fated to be a smooth one,
indeed it was to end in pitiful tragedy.
“Now there resided in the palace a sister of the king, who was a
sorceress. Through her brother, she wished to rule the kingdom, and no
doubt would have done so but that the power of the wizard barred the
way. Several times had she tried to thwart him, but her arts and spells
were impotent against the white magic which he used. She was evil as
well as beautiful, this sister of the king, and, in her great jealousy,
she determined to encompass the downfall of the one man who stood in
the way of her ambition.
“One day she made excuse to her brother the king, saying that she
wished to retire for a period from the court, in order to seek solitude
to enable her to gain strength in the magical arts. She obtained his
consent, and for a whole month no one saw nor heard of her. What
happened during that period is not written, but when she came back she
had changed. There was more magnetism in her eye, more subtle power in
her voice, and, what was more, she returned not alone! Dwelling in her
private chamber which she used for magical ritual was a familiar demon,
in the form of a huge vulture-like roc, that had evil gleaming eyes,
and followed her about like a shadow. Such, Sahib, had been the fruits
of her sojourn in the wilderness.
“With the aid of the familiar, the sorceress found means to enforce her
wicked will. She caused the wizard to fall in love with her, knowing
that thus she would deprive him of his control of powers which enabled
him to hold his high station. At first, being long estranged from
things of the flesh, he resisted the influence; but gradually the spell
worked into his system, and at last he fell a victim to the passion she
had created in him.
“Now she knew that his doom was sealed, that she had him in her
grasp. Gradually his control left him, he lost his power and fell
into disgrace. Too late he realised that he had been duped. In the
bitterness of his downfall he changed visibly; black evil rose up in
his heart, and he craved for revenge.
“But in the midst of her triumph the sorceress was to taste the bitter
cup. Unwittingly she had wrought her own ruin, for, in making the
wizard fall in love with her, she had discovered too late that she
really and truly loved him. Now she could not undo the spell she had
set in motion, and things must perforce take their course.
“One night, longing to see him, she sent a message asking him to meet
her alone. That was just what the man wanted—an opportunity—and while
he said he would come, he wondered at her rashness. They met, and so
great was her passion for him, that she forgot all else; but revenge
was uppermost in the wizard’s heart, and he strangled her. Then he fled
across the border to these mountains, where he knew he would be safe
from the pursuit and vengeance of her brother the king. Safe indeed was
he on that score, but he reckoned without the power of the Evil One
with whom the sorceress had made the compact in the wilderness. The
Master of Evil had not cast his nets in vain.
“One morning, just before the dawn, the wizard awoke in his cave, with
the uncomfortable feeling that he was not alone, that another presence
was near him. As he opened his eyes, he saw dimly outlined the shape of
a great bird, perched on one of the rocks, staring triumphantly at him
with malignant eyes.
“He trembled with fear, for he realised now that his doom was sealed;
that his time had come. With a hoarse, chuckling shriek the monster
drew near to him. He tried to rise, but the power of the demon embodied
in that dreadful shape held him terror-stricken. Nearer and nearer it
drew, its cruel merciless eyes gloating over the hideous work it was
about to perform.
“At length it reached him. There was a terrible cry as of one in the
death throes, followed by a horrid mocking laugh, and all was silent.”
Agar Halfi paused, then continued:
“Such, Sahib, is the legend of these mountains, that has been handed
down in the mystic schools of the East, and it is said that the soul
of the sorceress haunts the caves, seeking her lover. At these periods
her familiar appears in the form of the roc, and kills human beings who
are unfortunate enough to come within the zone of its evil influence.
And this will go on, until sometime in the dim future—as it is said—the
wizard will again come to earth, and slay the demon which was let
loose from the world of darkness by the sorceress. Then, and not till
then, will these two unfortunates be released from their earth-bound
condition, and be able to unite once more on the higher planes of the
spiritual spheres.”
Brentwood sat silent for a while, thinking, and the Hindoo relapsed
into himself again, his eyes fixed absently on the fire.
When the explorer spoke it was in a subdued tone:
“That sounds very much like the antics of the hobgoblin we have come to
lay, Agar Halfi?”
The Hindoo shrugged his shoulders, which was characteristic of him;
beyond that he gave no reply.
At length the explorer settled himself down once more, and this time he
slept. Little did he know what would transpire before the sun rose over
the eastern rim. Far less did he guess that he would never set foot in
the cave he had come to explore, or of the manner in which they would
meet the hobgoblin they had set forth to lay.
For a time Agar Halfi sat motionless, staring into the flames. He
was far from easy. He knew that his companion was liable to a violent
end from weird and unnatural causes, under the influence of the evil
directions from the planet Neptune, which were now beginning to operate
in his life. Particularly was this so at the periods of the conjunction
and opposition of the lights in the angles, and this very midnight they
would be conjoined in the north angle, below the earth!
What could have possessed the Sahib that he should court danger at such
a period? He shook his head gloomily. It would have been well, as he
had said, if the explorer had forgotten the existence of this place.
Moreover, he felt that a powerful influence was around, over which he
had no control, and there was something sinister in the atmosphere,
like the deadly silence that foreshadows the tropical storm.
The Hindoo had determined that sleep should not close his eyes that
night. He knew instinctively, as well as from experience, that evils
of this kind struck at the moment when least expected, and that, when
the world was wrapped heaviest in sleep, just before the dawn. Yes, he
would remain on guard through the night, and prepare for an attack, as
far as he was able. To his mind there was no question that instead of
being hunted, the evil—whatever it was, and he had made a good guess as
to that—was going to hunt them! How far in his judgment he was wrong,
subsequent events will show.
Moving quietly, he deftly drew the signet ring from the little finger
of the sleeper’s right hand, and, resuming his seat, began to slowly
roll it between his palms, while, in a subdued voice, he chanted
strange words. With his eyes staring fixedly at the fire, he continued
this curious ritual for nearly fifteen minutes, and then, extracting a
small packet from the bosom of his garment, he carefully emptied some
of the contents into the fire.
For some seconds a thin, straight column of dark green smoke ascended
into the air. Then it burst into lurid flame, the tongues of which
darted fiercely outward, enveloping the man in a blaze of light. Agar
Halfi never moved, but continued to chant in a monotonous tone, still
rolling the ring in his hands. Gradually the flames sank back, and the
fire resumed its normal proportions. Then, and not till then, did he
cease his ritual.
For a moment he glanced at his sleeping companion, then stealthily
replaced the ring without disturbing him. Building up the fire afresh,
he had one look around to see that all was right, and settled down to
his night watch.
How long Agar Halfi sat thus he did not know; for the very thing
happened which he had determined to prevent—he slept. The next thing he
remembered was being wide awake, staring into the darkness. The fire
had sunk low, and it must have been somewhere near the dawn.
He had a dim idea that some sound had awakened him, and while he sat
trying to recollect it, his eyes rested on the sleeping form of the
explorer. He looked at him mechanically for a moment, then suddenly he
noticed that his face was not a natural colour; it had a pale, greyish
hue, and the features were drawn as though in suffering.
The Hindoo moved, with the intention of rising and going over to
examine him; there was something which was not quite as it should be.
He had, however, hardly reached his feet when a horrible chuckling
sound, which made his flesh creep, caused him to turn quickly, his
hand on his yataghan. Nothing? He could have sworn that he saw a huge
dark shadow receding into the night. He looked keenly into the gloom,
trying to follow it, when once more that uncanny sound caught his ear,
causing his gorge to rise, and this time it subconsciously awoke some
dim memory in his mind. But that had no time to come to the surface,
for immediate action was required. The cry came again as if from behind
him. He faced around, and this time there could not be any doubt about
it; a monstrous shape was hovering over the sleeping white man, who lay
with his left arm outstretched, as if to ward something off, and his
right hand firmly grasping his throat, while a look of intense horror
transfixed his countenance.
Agar Halfi stood as though paralysed, his eyes riveted on the scene,
and great drops of perspiration broke out all over him. Surely, he
thought, the evil death is upon us? Then a faint hope began to filter
into his mind—the Fire Charm which he had wrought! Ah, but would it
avail? He could only wait in mute agony and see, some unknown force
held him impotent; he could not move.
Look! A great shadowy beak, beneath two awful orbs, was slowly
drawing near to the explorer’s throat. The Hindoo shook in his fear,
as he helplessly waited for the end. He had resigned himself to the
inevitable, when once again that horrible chuckle smote his ear, this
time swelling into a hideous screech, half-laugh, of baffled rage,
dying away into a plaintive wail.
Then the spell broke; the shadowy shape seemed to melt into thin air.
With shaking limbs Agar Halfi stepped across the dying fire, and,
dropping on his knees, gazed into the death-like features of his
companion. He moved the right hand from the unconscious man’s throat,
and started back in amazement. Across it was a jagged blood-red line,
but no blood flowed from it. Surely, thought the Hindoo, this is the
evil of the legend! And as he gazed horror-stricken, the first faint
shafts of sunlight heralded the coming dawn.
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCTORY
There are villages like flowers in the combes of Somerset,
There life moves in ordered measure like an old-world minuet,
Life replete with scented blossoms, honest work and well-earned rest,
With the inn where you may tarry when the sun sinks to the west.
And there’s one where I would linger, near the pilgrim path to Wells,
For its name is like a poem set to song—the “Ring of Bells.”
On a bench near the doorway you may watch the dreamy dusk
Fall on gardens sweet with roses, lady-lilies, stocks and musk,
You can hear the cows’ home-coming and the dogs far down the lane,
And the evensong of thrushes, or the lisping speech of rain,
While the cider laughs alluring with its piquant apple smells,
As you drink to teeming orchards clustering round the “Ring of Bells.”
In a valley fair as this is ’twere no hardship to grow old,
Mellowing as an apple mellows, homing like the sheep to fold,
With the deep peace of the valley like balm upon the soul,
With the faith that earth awakens ripening as the seasons roll.
For ’mid beauty Death comes softly, like the tale that autumn tells,
Like a song with finished cadence, like the last soft Ring of Bells.
+Rose E. Sharland+,
_At the Sign of the “Ring of Bells.”_
Far away down the Bristol Channel, lying snugly under the north-west
wing of an ever-growing seaside resort, is an ancient rustic village,
which for centuries has slept, deep in the valley between the hills
and the western sea.
Cut off from the inland by a fine range of hills, which, sweeping round
from the north almost in a semicircle, also encloses the great town
of Westsea, this quiet village of Worlstoke dreams on in its rural
simplicity.
Although so near such a busy centre—it is only separated from Westsea
by three miles of hilly woods—Worlstoke would lie practically
undisturbed, but for the few visitors who, deserting the more exciting
pleasures of a seaside town, walk to it through the shady paths of the
Westsea Woods.
And there, after partaking of tea at one of the cottages, nearly all
who wander that way visit the tiny, picturesque church, with its
squarely-built, eleventh-century Norman tower; and, if so inclined—and
the door is open—climb up the narrow stone steps to the belfry, thence
to the roof, and revel in the glorious view to be obtained there.
To the west lies the mysterious sea, stretching across to Cardiff
and Barry, while south-west it rolls away down the channel in an
ever-increasing flood to the Atlantic Ocean. To the south, over the
tops of the trees which form the great woods, the church spires of
Westsea are just discernible, and to the north stands out the little
headland which, running down to the sea, forms the northern portion of
the bay in which the village lies.
About a stone’s-throw further down the main road, and on the opposite
side to the church, are some broad steps, rough-hewn out of the rock.
These ascend to the brow of that portion of the hill forming the end
of the woods, and are continued by a path which leads down the other
side, to the hamlet of Storton.
They are known as the “Monks’ Steps,” and it is said that in the years
gone by the fathers used this rough road from Storton to Worlstoke to
bring their dead for burial.
The steps are many in number and uneven; but the climb up them, though
toilsome, is worth the trouble, if only for the truly magnificent view
of the surrounding country which is obtainable at the top.
To the north, directly at one’s feet, is a green and fertile valley,
stretching right up to the base of the barricading hills, the one end
of which fades away in a misty blue, not far from a great seaport town
about twenty miles away.
For miles and miles this range of hills runs in a great semicircle,
and at last sweeps down to the sea by a small bay, just below Westsea.
And there, looking white and beautiful, lies, in panoramic view, this
popular seaside resort, as though in the grasp of a giant hand.
But the church and the “Monks’ Steps” are not the only items of
interest at Worlstoke. If visitors care to take the north road running
on a level with the seashore, half an hour’s walk will bring them to
all that remains of the old priory of Melsea.
The tower is the only part now left of the original priory, but it will
well repay those who take the trouble to inspect it.
Other parts of the building are now modernised, and used as a farm, but
there is sufficient interest in the surroundings to justify the walk.
It was in this priory that the monks mentioned above used to flourish,
from about the eleventh to the fifteenth century. Rumour has it that
they had communication with Worlstoke church by means of an underground
passage, though no trace of such a thing has ever been brought to light.
Now it happened that one sunny Sunday morning, in the spring of 19—,
the population of this almost hidden village received a shock, so
sudden and so unexpected, that it not only for some time afterwards
awoke the inhabitants out of their lethargic dreamings, but brought the
eyes of the surrounding districts to bear upon the place.
The shock was caused by the disappearance of the Vicar, the Rev. Henry
Thornton! It was “Jarge” Wride, the milkman, who brought the first news
on his way from the Vicarage. As he said to the next customer he called
on:
“Mrs. Galsby” (Mr. Thornton’s housekeeper) “she be in a fine way. The
Vicar he been an’ went oot for a walk las’ night, about seven o’clock,
an’ he idn’t come back!”
Such important news, and through such a good medium as the milkman’s
customer happened to be, spread quickly; and the whole village was very
soon discussing the pros and cons of the matter, forming all sorts of
conjectures—mostly irrelevant. When, toward evening, there was no sign
of the missing man, the excitement grew, and eventually a search party
was formed, which sought fruitlessly far into the night.
On the Monday the police were called in, but days passed without so
much as a single clue to the mysterious disappearance; not a trace of
Mr. Thornton could be found. So things went on, until, a month after
the catastrophe, and after the police had retired baffled, the Rev.
Henry Thornton was given up for lost.
The Powers-that-Be appointed a new vicar, and the village began to
settle down once more to its ordinary humdrum life.
But the people were not to be left in peace—there was worse in
store for Worlstoke. Things went well for a fortnight, and then the
inhabitants had a further shock. A second disappearance occurred!
This time it was the twenty-four-year-old daughter of the people’s
churchwarden, and although every effort was made, no clue could be
obtained. The Westsea Woods were scoured from end to end, but all to
no purpose. She had, like Mr. Thornton, seemingly de-materialised, and
vanished completely.
The minds of most of the people now bordered upon consternation. What
did it mean? Who was going to be the next victim? Having no explanation
of the mystery, several almost instinctively flew to the conclusion
that it was something supernatural. People refused to go about after
dark, unless they were in twos or threes. Anxious mothers breathed
sighs of relief when their children returned home safely from the
village school, and even the bolder spirits of the men were affected.
All sorts of weird tales were raked up, told and re-told, and it is
quite possible that if an earthquake had swallowed up London Town, the
inhabitants of Worlstoke would have made little comment, so centered
were they all upon their own particular trouble. To them, one thing
only really mattered, and that was what had come to be known locally as
the Worlstoke Mystery.
But that by some strange chance, the new vicar became entangled in the
trouble, it is difficult to say what would have happened. His presence
brought others into it, and upon them rests this story.
What actually did occur constitutes a strange drama, as the following
pages will reveal, if the reader has by now found sufficient interest
to seek a little further.