AT THE BREAK OF DAWN
Clang! clang! clang! clang! clang! The mellow tones of the church clock
of Worlstoke, striking the hour of five, floated slowly and distinctly
upon the still morning air.
As the last chime died away in the distance, Hugo Alexis Brentwood, the
Master of Storton Manor, became suddenly and acutely aware that he was
fully awake, staring blankly into the darkness!
Not a sound, not a movement—everything around was wrapped in absolute
calm. He was the only spark of life there, quite alone, seemingly
suspended in space.
It did not appear to him at all extraordinary, nor did he feel in any
way uneasy. To be quite clear, he had no definite thoughts. He was
simply there, keenly alert, without any of that drowsiness usually
experienced when awaking from slumber.
Physically unconscious, he had no sense of things external, but there
was a far-away vague idea that he was floating in the ether; beyond
that nothing except this very real mental wakefulness, as though his
whole entity was concentrated on something that was going to happen.
He tried to think, to reason, but his efforts failed completely; some
force seemed to have taken control of his mind and was holding it in
check.
There was something oppressive about the silence which enveloped him,
yet he could not bring his thinking powers to analyse it, try as he
would. He knew it, knew that he was in it; further his mind refused to
take him.
Nightmare! Of course, that’s what it was. Mechanically he went to
switch on the electric light by the side of the bed, but his hand
merely passed up and down through the air. In a vague way this startled
him, though he did not for the moment realise that he should have
touched the switch, if he had been in bed.
Oh! well, he must get out and find it—the darkness was irritating, and
nightmare was not agreeable. He made as if to rise, and then something
jolted in his mind and set the currents of thought running. There was
no bed!
A sudden feeling of fear gripped him. Where was he? What had happened?
He had a great desire to stand on something solid, and instinctively
his hands went forth to grasp—anything, just to hold on.
Almost immediately he had a swaying sensation, and felt that he
was being propelled in some curious manner. This was followed by a
feeling that he was being compressed, bound tightly in a small space.
Simultaneously he was conscious of standing in his night attire, at
the east window of his study in the tower, looking intently across the
fields at the approaching dawn.
A puff of cold air blew in his face, making him shiver; and with this
return of physical consciousness, he discovered that he was half
leaning out of the open window, with his hands tightly gripping the
casement on either side.
Even now he did not fully comprehend the situation. Somehow his
faculties were not working in unison; as one manifested itself the
others seemed to become dormant.
Perfectly still, without any visible sign of breathing, he might have
been a statue as he thus stood, while consciousness slowly filtered
into his brain.
He was not yet able to grasp the fact that the last thing he could
remember was getting into bed the previous evening, and that under
ordinary circumstances he should be there now.
To all appearances he looked as if he had gone through an awe-inspiring
ordeal, which had bereft him of power to think or move. His
dark-skinned face, with its ordinarily firmly-set features, was drawn
with pain, while the bloodless lips, tightly set in a straight line,
were those of a man holding back a cry of agony.
Gradually the tension relaxed; he was able to think in a normal manner,
and as he became fully cognisant of the circumstances, he drew in a
sharp, quick breath.
For a few seconds, which seemed hours, the shock of the reaction seemed
to paralyse the heart’s action; then that organ, beating with hammer
strokes, sent the blood pulsing over his body in a rushing stream. This
continued for fully half a minute, until the naturally strong, healthy
body of the man reasserted itself, and shaking off the attack, resumed
its normal state.
He was, however, perspiring freely, and, mentally, he felt anything but
normal. The incident had been extremely unpleasant, and, moreover, this
was the sixth or seventh time it had occurred during the past twelve
months!
Now, as on other occasions, it had left behind a disturbing influence
of something objectionable having happened, though it was but vaguely
conveyed to the mind, being merely a dim impression arising from an
unknown source. To be quite frank, he could not remember anything that
had taken place between the moment of retiring and the moment of waking.
Little by little he gained complete control of himself, and with a
shudder, silently closed and fastened the window; then, with uncertain
gait, he went heavily down the stairs to his bedroom underneath the
study. Hastily donning his dressing-gown and slippers, he returned, and
sinking into a large divan chair, tried to collect his thoughts.
It was some little time before he could settle down to think
consecutively, his mind would go wandering off in various directions;
but eventually he became calmer, and began to sort things out. So
far as he could see, there was nothing at all connected with these
uncomfortable experiences, excepting that every one of them had
happened about dawn. They came at irregular intervals and at various
times of the year.
To the ordinary way of thinking, it looked merely a question of
sleep-walking, and a case for a medical man. That it was a question for
a doctor Mr. Brentwood was fully aware; but what doctor? There he had
come to a full stop, for though not acting professionally, he was a
Bachelor of Medicine himself, and had, from a professional standpoint,
carefully diagnosed his own symptoms, without success. He knew, none
could know better, that it was not a case of somnambulism. He was
perfectly sound in mind and body and had strong nerves. Probably at
this juncture he might have consulted a specialist, but he was not yet
at the end of his own resources.
During his younger days, when a medical student, the enforced close
study of physiology had very soon led him into that of psychology,
which latter science he had tenaciously set himself out to master—at
least all that was known of it.
He had been instinctively drawn toward the subject, partly, perhaps,
owing to the fact that Eastern blood was in his veins. Here, he
thought, he might find a clue to the strange malady which afflicted
him, but he had to admit to himself that the chances were not great,
for knowledge of the science at best was meagre, and its ramifications
were many.
However, he quite saw that if he discarded this course there was no
alternative; so slowly and deliberately he decided to probe the mystery
to the bottom—partly because his position was far from comfortable, and
he foresaw that the strain of such a complaint as this was bound to
tell sooner or later on the strongest constitution, and partly because,
being of a masterful, dogged nature, he distinctly disliked to be
baffled by anything.
During the thirty-nine years of his existence, ever since he could
remember, he had stubbornly fought all obstacles that had come across
his path, and in the same way he would fight this one.
Naturally, he desired to cure the complaint if possible, but beyond
that, the mind of the man, trained in science, was keenly anxious to
analyse the problem. Research was second nature to him, and the last
fifteen years of his life had been spent in that direction, nine of
them in the East, the home of his mother.
If there was one point more than another which troubled him, it was
that each time he had undergone the uncanny experience, he had for days
afterwards found himself trying to recollect what had happened during
the period between going to sleep and the rude awakening.
To his cold, calculating mind, this was irrational. He had no knowledge
whatever that he had dreamed about anything, and it was the more
unlikely, as he was a man who rarely dreamt.
He would at once have discarded the thought, if it had not been for the
possibility that he might have dreamed, and failed utterly to remember
anything of his dream on the return to normal consciousness.
Even then, he would not have seriously considered the point, but for
the fact that he intuitively had a strong impression he had dreamed.
Here again he appeared to be getting off the beaten track—there was no
evidence at all that he had dreamed, but why that impression? It was
so very strong, he could not utterly disregard it. He smiled slightly,
as he thought that if he had discarded all such impressions he would
not have been alive at the present time. His experience had taught him
that some things which appeared most unreasonable, were only so because
they were not understood.
One other point occurred to him as rather curious. The tower-room (his
study) had two windows, one facing east and the other west. Now, on
each occasion when he had gone through this strange experience, it had
always been at the east window where he had discovered himself!
There was no apparent reason why such small points as these should be
taken into serious consideration. There was no basis even upon which to
formulate anything with regard to them; only the man had had too broad
an experience of life to be “sure” of things, and he therefore reserved
his decision.
Still thinking, he at last fell into a quiet sleep, and for the time
being ceased to be troubled with the pros and cons of the case. He
breathed easily and regularly, and his strong face showed little, if
any, trace of the strain to which he had been subjected just over an
hour ago.
That was not unnatural, for he had lived a hard life, and, as mentioned
before, nine years of it in parts of the East, where foreigners are apt
to carry their lives in their hands, so to speak, and get accustomed to
shocks and precarious positions.
During that long absence from England, he had become imbued with
Eastern lore, and his knowledge of it was radical and extensive. Being
half an Eastern, channels of learning were open to him which are barred
to the Westerner, and of that he had taken full advantage.
His study of psychology, as understood by the Western schools of
thought, had left him hungry for more knowledge. He had discovered that
there were great gaps in it, and he determined, if it lay in his power,
to fill them. So to that end he gave the best years of his life, making
exhaustive research in the homeland of his mother’s people, often
risking his life in obtaining results upon which he could securely
build. And he had not sought and worked in vain. Later on, the value of
his research was recognised by Europe.
Incidentally, his knowledge was to stand him in good stead before very
long. The time was not far distant when certain human lives, which
seemed to be at the mercy of unknown powers, were saved mainly through
the application of that learning which he had acquired.
When he awoke it was past eight o’clock, and the sunlight was
streaming brightly into the room. Rousing himself, he descended to his
bedchamber, bathed, dressed, and went downstairs to the breakfast-room.
After ordering his morning meal, he proceeded to open the letters.
These he glanced through rapidly, and placed them in a little heap
on his left hand, with the exception of one, which he carefully read
through again. It was that which the Vicar of Worlstoke had written to
him the previous day.
Mr. Brentwood frowned and pinched his under lip with his finger and
thumb. What could it be that would cause Mr. Alletson to come to him
for help? In their different ways, the Vicar and he were fairly good
friends. They had one or two interests in common, and had spent many a
pleasant hour together, after the ice had been broken.
At first he had been inclined to think that the Vicar had ulterior
motives with regard to his parish and church, and had been greatly
surprised to find that he never mentioned them. That was just as he
wished it to be, for he was not a Church-man, and had no desire to take
any part in Church work.
But that letter made him feel a little uneasy; it looked as if Mr.
Alletson were at last going to introduce “business.” The Master of
Storton looked hard at the coffee-pot. If the Vicar did, it was
probable there would be an end to future pleasant hours. Neither by
money nor action would he support the Church of England, or any other
Church; and if the Vicar had any such idea in his mind, well!——
Here he began to attack his breakfast, with unusual vigour. The truth
was not always agreeable, and it was quite within the bounds of
possibility that Mr. Alletson would be offended.
Having finished his repast, he went into the library and wrote the
following note:
“+Storton Manor,
Somersetshire.+
21st _April 19—_.
“+Dear Mr. Alletson+,—I shall be at home to-morrow, Thursday, at
eleven o’clock +a.m.+ If I can be of any assistance, I shall be
happy to help you, so long as it does not clash with my principles.
I shall expect you to stay to lunch.—Yours sincerely,
+H. A. Brentwood+.”
Before sealing the note, he carefully read it over again, and after a
few minutes’ hesitation decided it would do.
He did not wish to give offence in any way, if he could help it, yet he
was quite clear in his mind that he must give a hint to the Vicar that
he would not help in a matter with which he was not in sympathy.
Little did he guess into what strange paths of mystery and evil the
subject about which his friend wanted to consult him would lead them
both! Had he known then, what the next few months were to bring forth,
it is doubtful whether he would have seen the Vicar at all.
But then, the future is seldom revealed, and perhaps (who can tell?) it
is better for humanity that most things are not foreseen.