FATE DEFIED
Mr. Brentwood sat staring indifferently at a lengthy letter that
lay on his study table. It was from a well-known F.R.S., with whom
he had some little time ago witnessed one or two experiments in
trance clairvoyance. The results had been good, and were the more
satisfactory, as the medium was an amateur. Indeed, so strongly had
the professor been impressed that he had written the Master of Storton
the letter which now lay before him, asking if he would be willing
to co-operate in a series of experiments, with a view to obtaining
reliable evidence.
Curiously enough, Brentwood did not feel flattered, he was not keen
upon providing laboriously compiled academic proofs for the academic
use of the privileged few. In his heart he felt that the time would
be largely wasted. Such proofs as might be forthcoming would not be
understood by the general public, because the testimony would not be
what is called scientifically demonstrable.
No, let the learned gentleman experiment and find out for himself. That
was the way in which he had acquired knowledge; in fact, it is the
only way in which anyone can hope to learn any of the inner truths of
existence.
Really, at the moment he did not want to be bothered about such
matters, something else was uppermost in his mind. He thought he had
discovered a weakness in himself, and he wanted to quash it—even the
most well-balanced minds make mistakes.
The fact that Constance Alletson suspected him in regard to the
Worlstoke mystery disturbed him. He did not know why it should do so,
and because he could find no rational reason for it, he was annoyed.
Others suspected him of the crimes, and he was quite indifferent. Why
should one woman’s opinion give him a sensation of being hurt? To his
cold experienced mind it was ridiculous; but the fact was there to be
faced, and he could not brush it aside.
Why? Why? He asked himself the question several times, but no answer
came to his mind.
“Absurd!” he said half aloud, and jumping up, started to pace the
room with slight irritation. Then he thought of the reproach and pain
which had shown in her eyes when he had called that afternoon at the
Vicarage. It was obvious that the feeling of reproach was against the
evil she believed he had wrought; but what caused the pain? Could it
possibly be that she was hurt in a personal way, because she thought he
had committed a crime?
“Rubbish!” he said aloud. Picking up at random a book, he lighted his
pipe, and flung himself on the couch to pass an hour away, reading.
But Fate was paying particular attention to him this morning, and it
was not going to let him rest as he wished.
“Even the dog won’t come near me,” he thought, as he opened the book.
It happened to be a volume of Tennyson’s Poems, and he opened it
haphazard. The poem was “Maud,” and as he glanced at the open page, he
read:
“Oh let the solid ground
Not fail beneath my feet,
Before my life has found
What some have found so sweet;
Then let come what come may,
What matter if I go mad?
I shall have had my day.”
He looked absently out of the window as he thought over the words, and
smiled slightly as it occurred to him that the verse represented a
passionate appeal to the gods of a lad about twenty-five, to let him
know what love was before he died.
At that age he might have held the same sentiment; but he was nearly
forty now, and, so far as he knew, the eternal passion which is talked
about did not exist. To his mind, all manifestations of so-called love
simply sprang from the sex instinct.
He turned one or two pages carelessly, and read again:
“She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet
And blossom in purple and red.”
“Umph!” he exclaimed; “Tennyson seemed to have the idea of the eternal,
as applied to individuals, very deeply implanted. Those lines are
good; their hidden meaning is eternal love. They express a beautiful
ideal—if it were only true.”
He mused abstractedly, and wondered what sort of a difference it would
make to people’s lives, if they could all realise and find such an
ideal? But then, he thought sadly, “Man never lives up to what he truly
believes is right.”
“It is true!”
He opened his half-closed eyes with a jerk, and stared round the room.
The words rang so clearly in his ear that he felt they must have been
spoken by a human voice; then he laughed quietly; of course, no one was
there.
“If it is true, it is true,” he said to himself idly. From that, his
thoughts drifted into a fresh channel. It occurred to him that he was
rather a lonely man; that, with the exception of Agar Halfi, nobody
knew him well; that, outside his work, life was dull and uninteresting;
that——
He paused involuntarily; such a train of imaginings was not healthy, it
might lead to a breakdown, and that would never do.
It was of course natural, he thought, that women should play the most
important part in men’s lives, and vice versa. But that was a general
statement, and there are always exceptions. He had never felt the need
of the opposite sex in the ideal sense expressed by the poets and other
writers, during his existence. True, he had at times been attracted by
women, but cold reason had quickly suggested to him that such fancies
arose from the natural law, and he had rigorously suppressed them.
He was in his fortieth year, and, as he thought, he had not only
mastered such things, but outgrown them. He had no doubt, too, that he
owed his success in psychic research to his clear life. Some of the
experiments he made took a tremendous lot of his strength, and there
had to be a reserve, which in turn had to be built up somehow.
And then he came back to what he had originally been thinking about.
He smiled. “For sure, all things travel in circles, even thoughts,” he
muttered. “Still, I cannot deny it, I really wish Constance Alletson
did not suspect me. It hurts somehow——”
A low knock at the door interrupted him.
“Come in!” he said normally. It was one of the maids.
“The Vicar has called to see you, sir.”
Brentwood’s eyes expressed interest.
“Show him in, please.”
“Phew! It is some time since he called; I am glad he has looked in.”
When Alletson entered the room, Brentwood saw at once that something
out of the ordinary had happened. His usually kind face was grave, and
his eyes shone with suppressed excitement.
Rising, he extended his hand, and said—cordially for him—“I’m glad to
see you, Alletson.”
Beyond thanking him, the Vicar did not reply, but taking a chair,
looked meditatively out of the window.
Brentwood looked at him curiously, then remarked:
“Well, what’s happened? anything serious?”
An expression of surprise passed over the other’s face, and he glanced
keenly at his host before he replied:
“I have some news which may be pleasing to you.”
“Why may be?” was the query.
The Vicar laughed a short, spiritless laugh, then said:
“I will tell you. Elsie Hobson has been found! She is now at the
Vicarage.” The Master of Storton looked at him blankly, and the Vicar
met his gaze steadily. Like most men of his temperament, he was not a
coward, and when his sense of justice caused him to do an unpleasant
thing, he never hesitated. However, nothing in the features of his host
gave any sign of dismay. He did not even start perceptibly, and it
would have been hard for any man to have quite hidden his emotions at
such news, if he happened to be guilty.
“That’s satisfactory, even to me, Alletson. Tell me all about it.”
The Vicar related in detail how she had been traced, then added:
“Constance went and brought her away, poor girl, and for the present
she is going to stay at the Vicarage, if her parents agree. She will
want someone to look after her, and Constance has offered to do it.”
“It is generous of your sister. By the way, Alletson, cannot I be of
any use here? I have dealt successfully with one or two similar cases,
and, if I may say so, where ordinary medical advice has completely
failed. I should be happy to help if I could.”
A troubled look entered the other’s eyes, as he answered:
“I am sorry to say so, Brentwood, but it is not possible!”
“Indeed!” was the rejoinder. “How is that?”
The Vicar breathed deeply, and was silent for a time. When he answered,
it was as if he had to force the words:
“They suspect you, Brentwood!”
The Master of Storton’s face assumed a hard expression, but it was
transient. He laughed ironically, and replied:
“I’m aware of that, Alletson—at least that your sister does.”
The Vicar winced a little.
“They all do, Brentwood.”
The Master of Storton slowly filled his pipe, while the other watched
him. When he had finished, he turned his dark eyes fully on Alletson,
and said coldly:
“Well?”
The Vicar half rose in his chair.
“There is no ‘well’ about it, Brentwood,” he returned with emotion.
“Whatever others may think, I don’t suspect you; never did; never
shall. I cannot think you capable of such things.”
Brentwood turned his eyes away, and his face softened.
“It is nice to hear you say that, Alletson. I—I thought I only had one
friend, and that he was a Hindoo, named Agar Halfi.”
“Well, it is not so, you can depend on that,” rejoined the other.
“I thank you for your confidence in me, Alletson. You are quite right,
I could not perpetrate such crimes as those of which I am suspected.”
There was a slight pause, and then he continued:
“I suppose Miss Alletson has told you why she suspects me?”
“Yes.”
“Do others suspect me for the same reason?”
“No, they have other grounds!”
Brentwood, who was half lying on the couch, sat up and stared at his
guest with a surprised smile.
“Other grounds!” he repeated. “I must confess I am a little astonished.
I am quite at a loss to understand what other tangible reasons there
could be. Do you?”
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to tell you, Brentwood. You see, the
others have confided in me, and I am almost bound in honour not to
speak.”
“Do not distress yourself, Alletson,” replied the other quickly, “I
quite understand. By the way, now you are here, and as things have
turned out so curiously, I will show you something which may be of
interest.”
Rising, he went to his desk, and unlocking it, took out a photograph of
the footprints, the copy of which he had lost. Handing it to the Vicar,
he said:
“Have you seen anything like that before?”
Alletson gave one glance at it, and a troubled look spread over his
face.
“Brentwood!” he exclaimed eagerly. “Why have you shown me this?”
Intuitively, the Master of Storton noticed immediately that the
photograph caused his friend undue excitement, but avoiding the
question asked him, he replied:
“Five years ago, when in Afghanistan, I heard of a strange, mysterious
death, that at certain periods terrorized the populace of a particular
district; so I set forth to investigate it. The place where it was
supposed to be was not many miles out of my way—I was then journeying
toward the Persian border—and I easily found it. We camped overnight,
not far from the cave which it was said to haunt, with the intention of
commencing operations the next day. However, we were not fated to go
and seek this evil, it sought us. It attacked me, just before the dawn,
and I narrowly escaped with my life. For nearly six weeks I lay in a
deep trance, during which time I remembered nothing. When I recovered,
which was quite suddenly, Agar Halfi told me what had happened,
and produced a photograph of those footmarks, which he had had the
forethought to take. That which you have in your hands is the original,
the copy I lost a few weeks ago.”
The Vicar, who had not missed a single word of his host’s narrative,
gazed at him with astonished eyes for some little time, while Brentwood
smiled back at him amusedly. At last, finding his tongue, he exclaimed:
“Why, that trance seems to tally with what Elsie Hobson experienced.”
“With the exception that I did not suffer from loss of memory, and—”
here the Master of Storton loosened his collar, and exposed to his
friend a jagged white seam on his throat, about two and a half inches
long. “Elsie Hobson hasn’t that.”
The Vicar uttered an exclamation.
“Why, that scar is the same as the one which was found on poor
Thornton’s body!”
Brentwood nodded grimly. Then said:
“Now what do you think of this. The night we were encamped outside that
cave in Afghanistan, and before we settled down to sleep, Agar Halfi
told me the following.”
Here he related to the Vicar the Legend of the Mountains.
“It is all very strange, Brentwood, yet I should be more inclined to
believe that the Legend was invented to tally with the deaths. Still,
what you have told me confirms what I fully believed in my heart,
that——”
“That the others who found the copy of that photograph, and on it based
their suspicions that I am the culprit, made a slight mistake, eh?”
interrupted the Master of Storton.
For a moment Alletson looked confused, then the frank generous nature
of the man asserting itself, he said:
“You have hit it; that is so.”
“It was to get at that point I showed you the photograph. When you
told me that others suspected me as well as your sister, but on quite
different grounds, it occurred to me at once that the lost photograph
must be the cause. You see, the initials “H. A. B.” endorsed, would
inform the finder to whom it belonged.”
The Vicar laughed cheerfully, as if a weight had been taken off his
mind.
“I’m so glad I came,” he said, rising. “Now I will go and put matters
right.”
“Not quite right,” returned his host, looking at him steadily. “What
you now know will not prove me innocent to Miss Alletson.”
The Vicar’s face dropped. “Ah, I had forgotten. Still, that will no
doubt clear itself all right,” he said encouragingly. “Good-bye for the
present.”
Brentwood smiled doubtfully, as he shook hands.
“Let me know if I can be of any assistance with regard to Miss Hobson,”
he said finally as they parted at the door.
Going back to his study, Brentwood thrust his hands into his coat
pockets, and stared hard at the table. “I suppose it is satisfactory,”
he thought, then he shook his head slowly, “but it won’t affect her
suspicions, and I’m afraid it is not in my power to dispose of them.”
A knock at the door disturbed him, and the next moment Agar Halfi
entered.
“Good!” exclaimed the Master of Storton; “I wanted to see you.”
He related what had transpired at the Vicar’s visit. The Hindoo smiled
and nodded, but did not speak. Brentwood looked at him with a dry
smile, the Oriental’s quaint ways interested him.
“You see, I am in disgrace with the district, Agar Halfi.”
The Hindoo shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, as though the matter
were hardly worth discussing.
“Did you want me for anything?” asked Brentwood, after a pause.
“Yes, Sahib, Hector has disappeared again!”
The other laughed curiously. “Gone to the Vicarage?” he queried.
“Probably—shall I go and see?”
The Master of Storton knitted his brows for a moment, then replied:
“No! If he is there, let him stay, unless they ask for him to be
fetched away. If he is anywhere else, he will turn up all right.”
“Good,” answered the Hindoo indifferently.
“Anything else?”
Agar Halfi folded his arms, and for a space stood in solemn silence,
then he answered:
“To-day week the Sahib is forty years old.”
“That is true, my friend. What of it? Do you want to buy me a present?”
“The Sahib does not need material presents,” returned the other,
without losing his dignified manner.
“Go on,” said Brentwood, smiling.
“Do you know the aspects of your progressed horoscope on that date?”
“Yes, I think I do,” was the careless reply.
“Sahib, they are evil, more evil than any I have seen in your nativity.
I warn you to be careful. Neptune culminates, and the moon is at the
full!”
Brentwood thought for a few minutes, then said:
“Thank you, Agar Halfi. I will be on my guard, and I take it that you
have the matter in mind?”
The Hindoo nodded gravely as he replied, “I am keeping watch now,
Sahib.”
“And I will report my movements to you each day,” said Brentwood, “so
that you will know exactly where to find me.”
“Ah,” exclaimed the other approvingly, then said to himself—as though
continuing the other’s sentence—“all that you are aware of!”
“Now to return to the Worlstoke Mystery, Agar Halfi. What do you think
of Miss Hobson’s case? Don’t you think we could restore her memory?”
The Hindoo’s black eyes flashed as he replied:
“Maybe, Sahib, but Agar Halfi feels that until the evil which has
caused the trouble is run to earth, the young lady’s memory will not
return.”
“Still, it might be tried,” continued Brentwood stubbornly.
“From what Mr. Alletson told you, there are difficulties in the way,
Sahib.”
“Yes, I know, but I thought perhaps you would take the matter in hand,
if they were willing.”
The Hindoo shook his head doubtfully.
“That is speculative; still, it could be suggested.”
“Well then, I will write to the Vicar to-day, stating that I shall be
pleased to take Miss Hobson’s case in hand, and that if there is any
objection, you will be willing to do so. If they refuse, well, no more
can be said; we shall have done our best.”
“Very good, Sahib.”