THE INVOLVING OF CONSTANCE ALLETSON
Constance Alletson looked steadily out of her bedroom window at the
viola border of her own flower patch, while she slowly buttoned on her
gloves. She was going to the Manor with her brother, but did not feel
quite at ease about it.
Philip had told her everything that happened at his interview with Mr.
Brentwood, not even withholding his own weird experience; and after
seriously thinking it over, she had decided—more from a sense of duty
than anything else—to do all she could to assist her brother in his
endeavours to clear up this strange case.
She was somewhat surprised that the Master of Storton should have shown
any interest in it. She knew her brother well enough to believe that
his point of view would hardly interest Mr. Brentwood, and she would
have been quite unmoved if Philip had told her that his friend had
laughed at him. From what she had gathered about scientific people, and
from her experience of the few scientific men she had met, they were
not the kind to look seriously at anything outside cut-and-dried facts,
and she failed to understand why Mr. Brentwood should be an exception.
But it was not that which made her feel uneasy; rather she would have
enjoyed pitting her knowledge and strength against the man. In this she
differed from her brother, who, being extremely sensitive, would have
taken pains to avoid such a measure. The fighting spirit was prominent
in her nature, whereas with her brother it was not readily called into
action.
No, it was a matter which, to her mind, was far more serious. There
was something about Mr. Brentwood to which she was averse. She had no
tangible reason for this dislike; so far as she could make out, it was
just instinctive. But that did not alter the fact of its existence, and
although she would not even admit to herself such a thing, it almost
amounted to fear! It would be useless to explain things to her brother,
because—manlike—he would immediately want to know what reason she had
for it; and she was only too well aware that men generally do not take
account of woman’s intuitive faculties—“fancies” they usually call them.
So it was with mixed feelings that she finished her toilet, and she
half wished that her promise had not been given. But she was no
weakling, and now that the first step had been taken, she would see it
through, whatever the result.
The Master of Storton was sending his car over to fetch them; and the
hoot of the motor horn outside the gate brought her soliloquy to an
abrupt end. Lightly descending the stairs, she met Philip in the hall
and they went out together.
The door of the brougham was being held open by Agar Halfi, who saluted
them respectfully. Constance noticed that he was very good-looking and
had intelligent eyes. Evidently he was a superior type of native, and
she wondered how he came to be in Mr. Brentwood’s service.
As they drove swiftly along she chatted gaily, being determined that
whatever happened she would not give her brother cause to think she was
at all uneasy.
He was very glad to find her in such an excellent humour, and his own
spirits began to rise a little. He had entered on this quest with heavy
misgivings, and the whole-heartedness with which his sister appeared to
be taking the matter up was a great satisfaction.
“Do you know,” she said, “I hardly like being driven by this chauffeur
of Mr. Brentwood’s; he is such a grand, dignified person, and although
he saluted us so very respectfully, I am sure he considers he is our
equal—his manner conveyed it.”
The Vicar looked a little sternly at the back of the dark blue
cushioned seat on the opposite side of the brougham before he replied.
“Do you mean to intimate that because he is dark-skinned he could not
possibly be our equal?”
Constance laughed outright.
“How you do misconstrue my meanings. Of course I didn’t mean to convey
anything of the sort. What I did intimate was that it seems a shame he
should have to act as our servant.”
She paused, then added:
“I should rather like to talk to him; I’m sure he would be interesting.”
Philip glanced at her a little surprised.
“You are not usually so keen about talking to men of your own race.
Why such a sudden fancy?”
“Nothing strange about that at all,” she said. “One thing, he looks so
intelligent, and another, I cannot help feeling that he is a gentleman,
in spite of his dark skin, which I am sorry to say I cannot state about
all men of my own race.”
Philip nodded his head reluctantly.
“Unfortunately, that is true. But it is not by any means easy to get
Hindoos to talk, I understand; they are a mysterious, reticent race,
and very proud.”
“I wonder how he came to get into Mr. Brentwood’s service?” she asked.
Her brother shook his head and smiled, then said:
“Probably he got attached to him during his travels in India.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Constance, surprised, “I had no idea Mr. Brentwood had
been there.”
She sat silently musing over it, and did not speak again until the
slowing down of the car told them that they must be nearly at the Manor.
She had not been to Storton House before, and as they went slowly
up the drive, she could not help admiring the well-kept grounds and
beautiful flower-borders. Everything showed taste and care, right down
to the grass edges, which were perfectly trimmed and cut.
Mr. Brentwood appeared almost immediately they crossed the threshold
of his house, and Constance felt that while his greeting to her was
perfectly correct, his manner was slightly awkward and certainly
appeared to be cold. On the other hand she saw that the two men
spoke affably, calling each other by their surnames, which made her
arch her brows a little; she did not know they were on such intimate
terms—Philip had never led her to understand that. Still, it was a
pleasant surprise, for her brother was most unlikely to get very
friendly with any sort of person, he was so reserved.
Once inside the room which their host had had prepared, Constance was
more at ease. It was ideally comfortable, but not luxuriously so,
and although the atmosphere was warm, it was fresh. She was charmed,
too, with the profusion of magnificent flowers which seemed to be
everywhere. It was such a delightful surprise to find them at that time
of the year.
“Really, Mr. Brentwood,” she exclaimed, “these are beautiful. I envy
you.”
Her host smiled quietly in acknowledgment, then answered:
“Flowers are one of my weaknesses; I revel in them. But I have to
thank my gardener for the luxury, he spares no pains to keep me well
supplied.”
Constance looked at him with interest. It was not common for men to
thank their servants in that way for what they did. He seemed to regard
it as a sort of favour from the tone of his voice.
Brentwood noticed her look and added:
“He is an artist in his profession, and I never interfere in his work,
or I doubt if such results as you now see would be forthcoming. I am
not skilled in the art of floriculture.”
“Mr. Brentwood is too modest,” laughed her brother, “I myself have
seen him hard at work in his own conservatory.”
“Quite true,” explained their host, “but only doing things under my
gardener’s supervision.”
He is certainly different to other men, Constance thought—moreover, he
is modest, no doubt about that. Further, it struck her that his remarks
were singularly just.
There was a short silence, and then, turning to Constance and looking
her fully in the face, Mr. Brentwood said:
“I understand, Miss Alletson, your brother has explained that what we
are about to undertake is of serious import?”
It was the first time their eyes had really met, and while he was
speaking she felt that she could not look away; they were such fine
eyes, and there seemed to be no end to their deep brown depths. She was
conscious that a great restful feeling came over her, such as she had
never in her life experienced before.
While she paused to answer, she felt that she was searching for
something in his look, which was concealed, but which she instinctively
knew was there.
“Yes, I understand that.”
She replied almost mechanically, her attention being held by the
involuntary desire to discover what it was that lay hidden in the man.
“But I think you may rest assured that no personal harm will come to
you.”
Constance gave a short derisive laugh! She did not mean to do so, but
the position to her just then was so diametrically opposed to his
assurance, that she could not help it. She was beginning to feel
uneasy. She wanted to avoid finding this strange hidden thing; her
whole being repelled it, and she was aware that her uneasiness was fast
amounting to real fear! With an effort she replied:
“It is very kind of you to be so thoughtful about me, but what of
yourself and my brother?”
“Perhaps I can answer that, Constance,” interposed the Vicar, “if Mr.
Brentwood will allow me to speak for him, as well as for myself?”
Their host looked at him and nodded assent, and the Vicar continued:
“As you already know, Mr. Brentwood and I have decided to get to the
bottom of this matter if at all possible. There are, however, certain
risks, but we are prepared to accept these, while we are both agreed
that you must not run any danger.”
As the Master of Storton turned his eyes from hers, Constance gave a
sigh of relief, for she almost immediately became her normal self again.
“I don’t know whether to thank you for your consideration or not,” she
replied, a little reproachfully. “When I promised that I would help
you, I was then, and am now, fully prepared to take my share of the
responsibility. Moreover, why should I not?”
Brentwood raised his eyes with fresh interest. This woman evidently had
a mind of her own.
“I think,” he said gravely, “there is hardly any need to pursue this
further, Miss Alletson, seeing that you are so willing to do your share
in the work.”
The well-conceived reply pacified Constance somewhat, so she answered:
“Very well, let it rest at that. But before we begin, I wish to make
one stipulation”—here her eyes challenged his—“and that is, that you
inform me of all that happens.”
“Mr. Brentwood is quite willing on that point, I’m sure,” answered her
brother.
Their host rose, and moving forward a large divan chair, requested
Constance to make herself as comfortable as possible. This, with the
aid of one or two cushions, she did, and soon found herself reposing
restfully.
She felt at ease, strange to say, in spite of the uncomfortable time
she had experienced when Mr. Brentwood had been looking at her, but so
far as she knew there was no other disturbing element. In any case, she
had made up her mind, and would not retract now.
The Master of Storton was talking to her brother in a low voice, and
she lazily watched them. Casually she compared the two men and smiled
at the idea that they should have anything in common; they were so
entirely different. Still, it appeared that they had, and, after all,
it was not the strangest thing in the world.
At last Brentwood turned to her, and taking out his watch, said:
“I understand from your brother, Miss Alletson, that you have
experienced the trance stage before, and that being so, I propose to
conduct you there straight away. During the trance I shall request
you to do certain things, which, if successful, will have important
results. I would therefore ask you to please give to me the whole of
your attention for the next few minutes, so that I may the better be
enabled to produce the trance stage as nearly perfect as possible.”
Constance inclined her head in assent. One thing she could not help
noticing was, that there was a marked difference in his manner, now
that he was about to proceed to business; and she was conscious there
and then of having to deal with a very strong personality, if not an
extraordinary one.
“Please just look at me for a minute,” he said quietly. That was just
what she did not want. Why should he adopt that method? She was averse
to again looking into his eyes. So instead of doing as he asked, she
looked at the ring on her right hand, which was resting easily on the
arm of the chair, and answered:
“It is not now usual, I believe, to induce the sleep by the power of
the eyes.”
“No,” he replied, “but while other methods are more popular, it is the
best and safest, if properly applied.”
Constance thought his tone a little hard, as though he resented her
query. Still, she could not repudiate what he said, so she answered,
“Very well,” and raising her blue eyes to his, looked steadily into
them. At first she wanted to pit her own strength of mind against
his, but as she continued to gaze, once again that delightful restful
feeling came over her, and she gave a slight sigh of content.
Gradually his eyes seemed to grow larger and yet larger, until she
could see nothing but their dark brown depths, and then it seemed that
she was instinctively warned that she was searching for something in
his eyes—she did not know what—but which, with a feeling of terror,
she knew she would find, and must find. What was it that was forcing
her to seek this unknown mysterious something behind the visible man?
She was not doing it voluntarily. Then came the reverse action, this
unknown, undesirable thing was seeking her. She was conscious of the
fact, also that she was terribly anxious to escape it. Oh!—she must try
to avoid it at any cost, she dare not face it. What could she do? Which
way could she fly? Black despair seemed to enter her breast. Would no
one help her? she thought piteously; was she abandoned in that desolate
dark waste, quite alone with this shadowy horror, helpless?
Ah!—it was there, it had found her, it was clutching her—O God!...
she shrieked the words aloud to the loneliness around her, and then,
with a deafening crash and a roar like mighty rivers suddenly loosing
themselves into empty bottomless caverns, the spell broke!...
She was floating lazily, dreamily, so restfully, amongst the sweetest
scented flowers she had ever known.
• • • • •
Gently closing her eyelids, Brentwood turned his head and looked at
the Vicar, who had been watching with deep interest. One glance was
sufficient to tell him that her brother was quite unaware of the look
of horror that had come into his sister’s eyes just before she lost
consciousness. Besides, he could see from the position which Alletson
had taken up—at right angles to the operator and the medium—that it
was improbable; but he had not been quite sure where her brother was
stationed.
The Vicar nodded his head approvingly and then said in a subdued voice:
“I suppose you will let the sleep settle a little before you proceed to
sub-consciously awaken her?”
Brentwood absently inclined his head. He was thinking of that look
which appeared in Miss Alletson’s eyes, just before she passed into
the trance, and was asking himself whether or not he should inform her
brother of it, there and then.
He must have stood thus—with the first finger and thumb of his right
hand pursing his under lip—for fully four minutes, and might have stood
longer, if his attention had not been arrested by Alletson’s voice
suggesting that probably it would now be safe to arouse the medium.
Drawing a deep breath, he quietly took up his watch and put it in his
pocket; then turning to his friend he said:
“Quite so, the sleep should now be sufficiently deep.” He then
proceeded to arouse the sleeper after applying one or two tests to
satisfy himself that the trance stage was in evidence.
He had to call her name three or four times before she showed any signs
of mental activity; then, slightly puckering her smooth brow, she
heaved a deep sigh and answered in a slow voice:
“Yes, I am here; why do you call me back? I am happy amongst the
flowers.”
They both watched her face intently, while Brentwood proceeded to
question her.
“Are you free?”
“No! You hold me, otherwise I am—let me go.”
“That I cannot do,” he answered softly but firmly.
“Listen! I want you to go to Worlstoke Vicarage.”
The Vicar looked at him inquiringly.
“I am there,” she answered listlessly.
Brentwood turned to his friend and whispered quickly:
“On which night did the Rev. Henry Thornton disappear?”
Alletson knitted his brows for a moment, then replied:
“Saturday evening, twenty-first February last, seven +p.m.+”
The Master of Storton thought rapidly, then, turning to the medium,
said:
“Go back to seven +p.m.+, Saturday, twenty-first February in this year.”
For a time the medium’s face looked troubled, as though there were some
difficulty, but eventually her countenance cleared and she responded:
“Yes, I am there.”
“Is the Rev. Henry Thornton in the Vicarage?”
“No,” came the prompt reply.
“Go back to six-thirty +p.m.+”
“Yes.”
“Is he there now?”
“Yes, in the study.”
“What is he doing?”
“Writing.”
“Watch, and say what he does.”
A long silence followed, and at last the Vicar made as if to speak,
but his friend stopped him with a warning hand. The Vicar was keenly
excited; he could not understand how Brentwood had so easily obtained
the conditions. But that was unimportant compared with the revelations
which appeared imminent.
He looked at the operator’s cold, composed features with fresh
interest. He had never met a personality like this one, although he had
come in contact with many types. This man’s intellect was far above the
average, and his will power was abnormal.
Evilly disposed, such a character would be a real danger to humanity.
What a blessing his tendencies were for good! He looked at Brentwood
again, just to satisfy himself that he had made no mistake, when he
had, not long ago, decided that the Master of Storton was an upright
man; and his scrutiny confirmed that opinion. The features were
refined, and the firm mouth and delicate nostrils showed high taste and
strong control over the physical propensities.
His attention was recalled by his sister’s voice speaking slowly:
“He has finished writing—he rises and goes into the hall—he puts on his
hat—he is now speaking to his housekeeper. Now he goes out of the front
door—he is standing by the gate hesitating—he turns and walks down the
road—he is now approaching a ruined building——”
The Vicar gave a short gasp as he thought of the priory.
“—he looks at it hesitatingly—now he walks towards it—he stops
again—and there is a strange look on his face—now he goes on again—he
has reached the wall....”
The voice stopped abruptly, and a troubled look passed over the
sleeper’s face. The two men waited eagerly, the one trembling with
excitement, the other with set mouth and alert eyes. At last in a
pained voice she continued:
“I cannot go any further, something prevents me; there is something
guarding the wall—it is all round it.”
Then she added in quick staccato tones:
“I do not want to go. No! no! let me return!!”
Her voice swelled louder, and the Vicar half rose out of his chair in
response to the appeal, but his host quietly and firmly put his hand on
his shoulder, and at the same time said in a clear voice:
“Come back to the present. Do not be afraid, no harm can come to you.”
Then he began to speak slowly and firmly in a strange tongue. This he
continued to do for fully half a minute, and gradually the troubled
look disappeared from the medium’s countenance and once more she
breathed easily and regularly.
The operator studied her face carefully before he again spoke, and
then, being apparently satisfied that things were in order, he resumed:
“Now go into the ruins.”
“I am there,” she responded listlessly.
“Can you see the Rev. Henry Thornton?”
“No.”
“Tell me what you see.”
After a pause she replied:
“Crumbling walls; broken flagstones; ivy; old rubbish heaps covered
with weeds ... nothing but ruins.”
“Have you been all over the priory?”
“Yes.”
“Are there not any vaults or chambers underground?”
“Yes”—after hesitation.
“Where?”
“I am in a large vault now, under the refectory.”
“Describe it.”
“It is quite empty, except for dust and rubbish.”
“Can you find the entrance?”
“Yes, there are some steps leading up to a trapdoor in the floor of the
refectory, but it is covered by a large flagstone.”
“Is there no other underground chamber?”
“I think so ... ’er—I’m in a passage.”
“Where?”
“About underneath the chapel.”
“Can you find the entrance?”
There was a long pause, during which the medium looked much perplexed.
At last the words came:
“I have come to a wall, about twenty paces from where I started, but I
cannot pass it.”
“Is there anything the other side of it?”
“Yes.”
“What do you think it is?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why cannot you pass the wall?”
“Some force prevents me.”
“Follow the passage the other way.”
“Yes, it is long, very long.... Oh! Let me get out of this dreadful
place, there is something evil and weird about it. I feel the presence
of death in some form all around. But that I am guarded by your power,
I should be lost.”
She spoke in a voice agitated with fear, and lifted her hands
appealingly. Brentwood took hold of them in his own, and spoke in a low
firm voice:
“Peace, forget, and awake in ten minutes.”
He released her hands, and with a long drawn-out sigh her head fell
back, and to all appearances she was just peacefully asleep.
When Constance awoke, it was to find the two men looking steadily at
her. As soon as she opened her eyes, the Master of Storton immediately
arose, and going to a chiffonier poured into a glass out of a decanter
a liquid which looked like water, excepting that it effervesced at
intervals, as it came into contact with the air.
“Drink this,” he said gently. His face was grave, but his eyes
smiled kindly, and she was just thinking how nice he was, when that
instinctive dislike for him, which she had before experienced, entered
her mind. She took the proffered glass hesitatingly, and he noticed it.
“Drink it straight away, Miss Alletson, it will stimulate you without
any after ill-effects.”
She drank it slowly, and felt a faint tingling sensation, as though the
heart’s action had been slightly increased. It refreshed her, however,
and feeling better, she said:
“Well! have you been successful?”
The Master of Storton avoided her eyes as he replied:
“I think we have learned of something which may lead to success, Miss
Alletson.”
He then briefly told her all that had happened during the experiment,
while she listened eagerly.
“There is one thing certain,” exclaimed the Vicar, when Brentwood
had finished. “We shall have to closely inspect the ruins of the old
priory.”
“Yes,” replied the Master of Storton, “and the sooner we do it, the
better.”
They there and then arranged that the Vicar should let Brentwood know
by messenger, if he could manage to go in the morning. All being well,
they would meet at the priory about 10 +a.m.+
“Of course you will go back in my car,” said their host. “I’ve given
instructions for it to be ready.”
They thanked him for his thoughtfulness and rose to depart.
“I must say before you go,” remarked Brentwood as they passed into the
hall, “that you are an excellent medium, Miss Alletson; much better, in
fact, than many professional ones I have met.”
To her own vexation, Constance blushed a little at the compliment; and
she replied rather hurriedly:
“Really I’m very glad I have proved satisfactory, but perhaps it was
more due to the skill of the operator that I proved so.”
The Master of Storton actually frowned as he replied:
“You flatter me mistakenly, Miss Alletson. No matter how good an
operator may be, without a first-class medium no experiments would be
of much use. It would simply be like a musician trying to get harmony
out of an instrument that was out of tune.”
Before they got into the brougham, Brentwood did what appeared to be a
strange thing. He introduced his visitors to Agar Halfi, his chauffeur.
If either of them thought it curious, neither of them, of course,
showed it. As to Agar Halfi, he—not at all embarrassed—murmured his
pleasure at the honour conferred upon him. He at least did not think it
curious.
When they arrived at the Vicarage, the Hindoo jumped down to hold open
the door. As they alighted, Constance turned to him with a smile and
thanked him for bringing them home.
Agar Halfi’s face lighted up, and bowing low, he said in his dignified
way:
“I am always pleased to serve the friends of my beloved master.”
Which remark set Constance wondering what it was that made her dislike
the Master of Storton, when everybody else (except Arthur Shepperton)
had such a good opinion of him.
Agar Halfi watched them with his dark eyes, until they disappeared
through the doorway. Then he slowly turned round and studied the near
front wheel of the car. Eventually he gave voice to an emphatic “umph,”
and shaking his head doubtfully, mounted the car, muttering in his own
language, and drove away.