FAIL NOT, GREAT WIZARD!
Agar Halfi stood with grave eyes, watching the motionless form of the
Master of Storton. The fever caused by the wound in his shoulder had
abated, but the condition of the patient this morning gave the Hindoo
cause for deep concern.
The previous evening Brentwood had been tossing restlessly on his bed,
now he was in a deep swoon. In the ordinary course of things, after
the fever had died down, Agar Halfi knew that his patient should have
regained consciousness.
This strange turn in the sickness perplexed him, and the fear rose in
his mind that the Master of Storton was passing through yet another
phase of this weird mystery. The scar on his throat still retained the
bright colour it had assumed on the evening when he was injured, and
this in itself was sufficient to cause Agar Halfi to judge that they
were not yet clear of this evil influence.
When he used his power to attack that unnatural manifestation in the
study, he not only felt that he had annihilated it entirely, but
that he had also killed his beloved friend. But now he was forced to
conclude that he had done neither.
All day long he scarcely left the bedside, watching ever anxiously for
signs of returning consciousness; but none came, and toward evening the
patient’s condition developed into trance. The Hindoo examined him
closely as he noticed the change, and a look of intelligent surprise
passed over his countenance. There was not much doubt that this trance
was similar to the one which Brentwood had suffered in Afghanistan.
For a space, he stood thinking, then he rang for Mrs. Breton. When she
appeared, Agar Halfi held up a warning hand, and her eyes instinctively
sought the unconscious form of her master. She started slightly, and
turned to Agar Halfi with questioning eyes.
“Complications have set in, Mrs. Breton, and the master must not be
left alone at present. Will you please wire to Westsea at once for two
trained nurses, and tell Williams to get the car ready? I want him to
take a letter.”
“Surely I can nurse him, in fact I would much prefer to do so.”
“Quite so,” replied the Hindoo, “but you have more than you can do at
present, Mrs. Breton, and you cannot stay with him day and night.”
The reasonableness of this was evident, and she inclined her head
reluctantly. Then she asked in a concerned voice:
“Is there any danger?”
Agar Halfi shook his head. “I don’t know at present: all I can say is
that Mr. Brentwood has passed into a strange trance.”
She breathed quickly, and looked at the Hindoo critically. It was a
serious matter to her, for the Master of Storton was a good employer,
well liked by all who were in his service. Still, she had confidence
in this strange man, and beyond attending to the master in a medical
capacity, he had not interfered with her in any way.
“You were up all last night and have hardly left the bedside during the
day; when are you going to rest?”
“Send for the nurses, Mrs. Breton, and then I will take a respite.”
When she had left the room, Agar Halfi went up into the study, and
taking pen and paper wrote the following letter:
“+Storton Manor, Storton+.
“+Madame+,—The Master of Storton, after being ill from an accident,
has fallen into a strange trance, which I believe is similar to the
one which Miss Hobson suffered, when in your hospitable hands.
“If it is the same, I must take immediate action, for there
is grave danger; but before doing so, I should like to have
confirmatory evidence to that effect.
“I cannot leave Mr. Brentwood at present; would you therefore
consent to come over in the car, and give me your opinion as to
whether the two cases are identical?
“I humbly apologise for the liberty I take in asking this, but the
life of the Master of Storton is in the balance.—Yours respectfully,
+Agar Halfi+.”
Carefully sealing it in an envelope, he addressed it to Madame Héloïse
Limonaire, The Châlet, Storton. That done, he went in search of
Williams, and was satisfied to find him ready, waiting with the car.
“I want you to take this letter to the Châlet as quickly as you can.
Wait for an answer, and probably you will bring back a passenger.”
Williams—a solid west-country youth of about twenty—said “Right!” and
started the engine. He had been brought up as under-chauffeur, and knew
his business.
“You should be back in half an hour.”
Williams said “Right!” once more, and drove off.
Agar Halfi returned at once to the sick-room, and telling Mrs. Breton
that he would stay with Mr. Brentwood until the nurses came, composed
himself to await the return of Williams. As he sat in the silence, his
eyes, heavy with sleep, began to close, and almost against his will he
dozed. When he awoke, it was with an acute feeling that something out
of the ordinary was going to happen. It must be the after-effects of a
dream, he thought; people usually dream when they doze; yet he could
not remember having dreamed anything. However, the matter passed from
his mind, for just then Mrs. Breton entered the room to inform him that
Madame Limonaire was in the library.
Rising, he went downstairs to meet her. Héloïse Limonaire was standing
by the fireplace, looking out of the window. She turned as he entered
the room, and they looked at each other. Then there happened one of
those mysterious, inexplicable episodes which have baffled all man’s
science and all man’s reason, ever since the beginning of time.
So far as they knew, neither of these two people had ever seen the
other, and yet no sooner did their eyes meet, than it seemed as if some
long-forgotten memory were awakened. The woman started visibly, and
suppressed a low cry of wonder. The man came to a sudden halt, and drew
in a deep breath.
Perhaps for half a minute they stood, then Héloïse Limonaire
involuntarily put her hand to her throat, as if to protect it, while
Agar Halfi turned colour under his dark skin, and his great frame
trembled, as though with nervous shock. Neither spoke nor moved, and
it seemed as if they were silently trying to understand what the
mysterious unknown something was, that each held for the other.
At length the Abbess’ hand slowly fell again to her side, and her lips
moved.
“You?” she said absently.
“Yes, it is I!” the man answered mechanically, as though without
control over what he said, while his dark eyes never left her deep
spiritual face, which commanded him with an unknown power. With an
effort, she turned her gaze to the window, and the Hindoo found himself
looking at her beautiful face in profile. Then, the magic of her eyes
no longer holding him, he recovered his normal self-possession.
With a low bow he said:
“Madame Limonaire, I am Agar Halfi, the body servant of the Master of
Storton.”
“Yes, monsieur; you wish to see me respecting Mr. Brentwood, I
understand.”
The sound of her voice affected him in a strange manner. It was as if
some long-dormant chord deep down in his inner self had been delicately
struck, and vibrating in sympathetic response to the touch, had called
back out of the dust of the past a memory of mingled ecstasy and
suffering.
So sweet, so gentle her tone, yet so dignified and expressive of
strength her manner, that Agar Halfi for a moment wondered whether or
not he was talking to a mortal woman.
“True, madame; my beloved master is in danger, and believe me, I deeply
thank you for troubling to come.”
When he first wrote the letter, he meant to question the lady
concerning Elsie Hobson’s trance, but now he altered his mind.
“I think the best thing would be for you to come and see Mr. Brentwood,
and then tell me what you think.”
Just a second she hesitated, and then, with a graceful inclination of
her head, she replied:
“Yes, monsieur, I will see him.”
Agar Halfi conducted her to Mr. Brentwood’s room, and after introducing
her to Mrs. Breton, he escorted her to the side of the unconscious
man’s couch. The Abbess looked at him meditatively, while the Hindoo
watched her curiously. Then without a word she silently pointed to the
jagged scar on the Master of Storton’s throat. Agar Halfi’s curiosity
increased, but he did not show it by look or gesture; and it was
not until Mrs. Breton, in reply to a knock at the door, asked to be
excused, saying the nurses had arrived, that he replied:
“Do you know what it is?”
By way of answer, Héloïse Limonaire looked fully at him and made a
secret sign. The Hindoo uttered an exclamation of surprise and made a
corresponding one. It had not occurred to him that a woman would be an
initiate of the mystic arts.
She smiled a rare smile in acknowledgment and again their eyes met.
Once more that mysterious spell enveloped them, but this time she
seemed not to be looking at him, but beyond.
Who was this woman, whose remarkable personality held him? He watched
her, fascinated, then he felt he was in the grasp of an influence, the
strength of which made him feel as weak as water; so pure, so soft, so
absorbing, yet a master power.
A strange trembling passed through his frame, and subconsciously he
became aware that words were coming from his mouth, as though another
intelligence were using his physical organs.
“What is the meaning of this riddle, Sorceress?”
As if expecting the question, she answered slowly:
“Here lies the King, Wizard of the Mountains, under the evil spell
which I in my wickedness wrought in the distant past!”
A slight perspiration broke out over his body as she spoke. Dimly
it came to his understanding that she was reading the riddle of his
existence, and so stupefied was he with wonder that he could not have
answered just then, had he wanted to.
Her marvellous eyes searched his countenance as she continued:
“When are you going to accomplish your task, Wizard? Not till then will
the King recover!”
Again the words seemed forced from his mouth:
“At the appointed time, Sorceress, will I slay.”
She clasped her white hands on her breast, and went on in her gentle,
dreamy way:
“The hour draws near; at the New Moon must you carry out the decree.
Fail, and once more will you traverse that endless plane of woe to
which you are at present bound, and each time the period increases in
length.”
Agar Halfi humbly bowed his head and there was awe in his voice as he
replied:
“Sorceress, you are higher than I; tell me, how many times have I
failed?”
“Twice have you failed at the critical juncture, thrice have you
traversed the earth plane.”
“And you?” he asked.
“I have conquered. I am but held here until you have slain the evil
which I created. Our destinies are inseparably bound together, Wizard;
long have I waited for you to win the way.”
“And if I fail not this time?”
“Then you will release us both from bondage, and together shall we pass
unto the higher spheres.”
As she spoke, she suddenly stretched forth her hands and there was a
great appeal in her eyes.
Something like a moan came from his lips as he answered:
“I will not fail, Sorceress—yet—yet, I feel there is only one way.”
Her expression was one of mingled tenderness and anguish, as she
answered softly:
“Only one way, Wizard, and that is death!”
“Death!” he repeated mechanically, and then with his hands to his brow
he staggered back, overwhelmed, cognisant that his end was near. The
veil had been torn, and in the great spiritual eyes of the woman before
him he saw his destiny.
“Courage,” she whispered. “In death shall you find life and love.”
As though ashamed at the weakness he had shown, Agar Halfi drew himself
up, and folding his arms across his chest said:
“Enough! I shall not fail. I could not now that I fully know all.”
“And yet remember, that twice before did you fail when I appealed.”
“Ah, Sorceress, but you know that I had not heard your appeal. Tell me,
why have I not known at those other times?”
“Tell me, Wizard, how it is that you know now?” she replied.
But he shook his head.
She smiled as she continued:
“By the powers that you have fought with and conquered, by the
self-sacrifices you have had to make to become a master in the
mysterious arts. This is the reward, Wizard, that you are allowed to
become self-conscious of your task; but for that, I could not have
recognised you, nor you me.”
He looked at her in wonderment; what she said was truth, and he
marvelled at it all. Then he slowly turned his head toward the
unconscious man.
“And the King?”
“The King will live; his destiny at present is here,” she answered
quietly. “Yet, leave you a note signed and sealed for him when he
awakes, so that he may come to me to know of this. And now I must
depart.”
Mechanically Agar Halfi opened the door, and she preceded him down the
stairs. As they reached the great main entrance, he turned to her
saying:
“And you, when shall we meet again?”
“Soon,” she sighed, “but not on the earth plane.”
“Wherever I am I shall seek you,” he whispered.
“And wherever I am I shall wait for you,” she answered.
“And now for a brief period, good-bye. Forty-eight hours brings the New
Moon!”
Saying which, she went down the grey stone steps to the motor car which
Williams had in readiness.
“Take Madame Limonaire back to the Châlet, Williams,” he called in a
clear voice.
The whirr of the engine fell on his ears, the car started slowly, and
he heard it roll off into the night. Until the sound of the brougham
had died away he stood, and then a great passionate convulsion gripped
the man, and stretching out his arms he uttered an inarticulate, deeply
smothered cry. It was the deathless call of one soul to another, which
just for a moment had seen behind the veil, and in a flash had realised
that now, and always, through eternity, the unquenchable fire of love
is the mysterious power that rules the universe, and through it guides
the destiny of every human soul.