HEART-SEARCHINGS
Constance woke with a start. For a time she lay in a slight
perspiration, with that uncomfortable feeling of fear one has when
waking suddenly out of a distasteful dream.
It was dark, so she closed her eyes instinctively, in order to shut out
what might be there for her to see. As she gradually obtained control
of her faculties, she chided herself for being a silly goose! Sitting
up in bed, she reached the matches, and lighted a night lamp which she
kept on a small table close by. That done, she lay back and listened
intently, but no sound caught her ear, all was silent. Satisfied,
she looked at her watch, and noted that it was five minutes to four
o’clock, and very nearly daybreak. Then she turned her attention to her
dream.
It had been a disagreeable one, but she waived that aside. If she were
not very much mistaken, it was an important one! In character, it
corresponded to that which she had before experienced, the one which
resembled the dream Agar Halfi told her he had had. Settling herself
comfortably down, she went over it in detail, so as to commit it
thoroughly to memory.
Once again she had stood in that desolate wild mountainous region,
waiting for she knew not what, and her heart was filled with a strange
fear. At last there appeared before her the same Hindoo priest who had
manifested in her last dream. In his left hand he held a black wand, in
his right a white one. The left half of his flowing robe was black, the
right half white, and in his sombre eyes glowed the deep fire of the
mystic.
Raising both wands above his head, he addressed her thus: “Child, you
are one of the instruments of Fate in a strange tragedy. Upon you falls
a burden, which is really the burden of others. Unless you faithfully
carry out your part thereof, so surely shall you repent too late. I
forewarn you that the secret of your own life will be revealed by
your spirit to your mind, before the moon is on the wane, and if you
take one false step, flinch once from your duty, your doom will be
this”—here he pointed with the black wand to the number eighteen which
appeared in figures of lurid fire—“and many weary cycles shall pass
before once again the opportunity shall occur to enable you to advance
in the mysterious evolution of eternal life. But if you are true to
yourself, if you act fearlessly and unselfishly, all will go well, and
the result will be this”—here he raised the white wand, and pointed to
the number twenty-two, which glowed in figures of pure white light.
“But I warn you, child, that your task is not an easy one. Remember
that no success worth gaining is achieved without severe trials. When
the secret of eternal life is revealed to you, do not hesitate to
choose your path. There is only one right way. All humans are conscious
of it, though not many realise that they should have trodden it
until too late, and then back must they come to the physical plane of
existence, to again toil and struggle, until they shall conquer. This
is the last time I can appear to you; already have I said more than I
judge to be safe. Yet one thing more. In your left hand you will find
imprinted the mystic Cross of St. Andrew, which means that you have the
mystic power, though incipient. It must be developed, but alone you can
accomplish little. A soul at present imprisoned in human clay, with
the mystic Cross on his right hand, shall fulfil your destiny. And now
farewell; when we meet again you will know who I am, for your eyes will
by that time have been opened.”
She watched his figure fade away. When he had almost disappeared,
she heard his voice, warningly clear, “Remember, child, be true to
yourself.”
Satisfied that she had it clearly, Constance blew out the lamp and
turned toward the window. A break in the darkness told her that the
dawn was approaching. Closing her eyes, she tried to settle down, but
it was quite light before she eventually fell asleep. Her active brain,
once thoroughly awake, could not easily be controlled, and in the quiet
darkness was even abnormally alert. First of all her mind drifted on to
the mystery, and when she had successfully dispelled it, she began to
think about the Master of Storton, and that train of thought held for a
long time.
She still felt that he was guilty, yet somewhere deep down she knew she
wished he was not. But why? The man was cold, reserved, and appeared to
be selfish, practically interested in nothing but his work. In spite
of all this, there was one side of him—curiously enough a side she only
dimly understood—which appeared to be noble, indeed, once or twice she
had thought it something more than that. She did know for certain that
it appealed to all that was best in her. What a pity there should be
that other side to him. Ah, it was more than a pity, it was dreadful.
Yes, she was sorry, really sorry. Then she went on to wonder how she
could get at Agar Halfi, so that he could interpret her dream? And
wondering, she slept.
The sun was shining brightly when, about two hours later, she was
aroused by a loud bark, followed by what sounded like a stifled screech
from Martha. Slipping out of bed, Constance donned her dressing-gown,
and opening the window, looked out, then she laughed. Standing on the
lawn, looking the essence of stubbornness, was Hector, gazing stolidly
at Martha in the kitchen doorway, holding a broom with both hands.
Hearing her mistress laugh, Martha looked up hurriedly and exclaimed:
“Please, Miss, that brute’s here again. He must have jumped the wall
at the bottom of the garden, and when I went to drive him away with
this”—here she held up the broom—“he barked at me.”
Constance laughed again, then said:
“Never mind, Martha; let him alone, and he won’t hurt you. I’ll see to
him when I come down.”
Turning her eyes to the dog, she called him by his name. Hector looked
up quickly, and began to slowly wag his tail.
“Good old dog,” she said coaxingly. He whimpered, and began pawing the
lawn.
“Now lie down, sir!” Hector obediently sat down on all-fours, his tail
still moving to and fro.
“All right, Martha, I’ll be down shortly.” Saying which, she withdrew
from the window and quickly commenced her toilet. When she had
finished, she went to Elsie Hobson’s room, the spare one next her own,
and knocked quietly; receiving no answer, she softly turned the handle,
and opening the door, went in with a light tread. Elsie was sleeping
peacefully, as though nothing in the world had ever troubled her. Poor
girl, thought Constance sympathetically, as she softly withdrew, will
she ever recover?
During breakfast, which meal Constance and her brother took alone,
Philip asked:
“What time is Mr. Shepperton coming?”
“He said he would call about two o’clock with Mr. Canning,” she
replied; then added uneasily, “I hope you have not to go out, Philip?”
“Oh no,” he assured her; “I asked because I am anxious to meet them,
Constance. I have something important to say.”
“Indeed!” she answered, surprised.
“Read this, my dear.” He handed her a letter which had come by the
morning’s post from the Manor.
Constance opened her eyes as she mastered its contents, then looked at
her brother inquiringly.
“He has soon got to hear about Elsie.”
“I will explain,” said the Vicar, with a grave smile. “Yesterday
morning, I went to the Manor and told Mr. Brentwood.” As he was
speaking, he watched her face contract, so he asked:
“Don’t you approve, Constance?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know what to say, Philip. Tell me what
happened.”
“Well, I’m very glad I went, because the result of the visit is, that
I shall be able to clear my friend the Master of Storton from any
suspicions that have been formulated against him in connection with the
Worlstoke Mystery.”
Constance unconsciously drew a deep breath.
“Can you really do that?” she asked eagerly.
Her brother could not help noticing her keen interest.
“Should you be glad if I could?”
For a moment she looked at her brother with a pained expression; she
hardly liked his question; then she answered a little coldly, “Of
course I should, Philip. Need you have asked?”
“I’m sorry, Constance, but I was not sure whether or not you were
hostile toward him.”
“No, indeed; why?”
“Well,” he returned slowly, “to tell the truth, I rather thought you
were, considering what you have experienced and suffered at his hands.”
“Surely, Philip, you must know that I am not at all like that. I don’t
think I’m vindictive, I don’t think I bear malice.”
He did not answer, so she said after a pause:
“Tell me about your visit.”
The Vicar related at length all that occurred, and she listened
restlessly. At the end she exclaimed:
“I don’t think for a moment that Mr. Shepperton would agree to Mr.
Brentwood having anything to do with Elsie, and I am doubtful as
regards Mr. Agar Halfi.”
“Quite so, Constance; but what do you, yourself, think?”
“Oh——” she laughed hopelessly, “after what I experienced, what can I
think? I can only come to one conclusion!”
They finished their meal in silence, then Constance rose to ring the
bell. Having done that, she turned to the window, but had hardly looked
out when she exclaimed:
“Oh, I forgot, Philip, I’ve had a visitor this morning!” and she
laughed.
“Visitor?”
“Yes—come and see.”
He went to the window, and saw Hector basking in the sunshine on the
lawn.
“Very extraordinary he should have taken such a liking to you.”
“Isn’t it!”
They surveyed him for a time, then turning briskly, Constance
exclaimed: “Really, I must go and look after Elsie.”
“And I must go and do some work,” added Philip. “You will find me in my
room, if I am not about when they call.”