“I AM BUT AS THE DUST”
Brentwood was almost certain he heard a familiar voice saying to him,
“Awake! Awake!” He listened intently, and slowly it occurred to him
that he must have been dreaming.
Opening his eyes, he gazed round, and received a slight shock of
surprise. The electric light was on, and seated by a bright fire, was
a nurse reading. He looked at her wonderingly; then his eyes turned to
the window, and he saw that the dawn was breaking, cold and grey.
Had he been ill? He could not tell, though it appeared very much like
it from the look of the room, and the presence of the nurse. He made
as if to move, when a sharp pain ran through his left shoulder. It was
as if the physical sensation caused the natural functions of his body
and mind to start working, for in a flash his memory returned, and he
remembered all; the experiment, the leap of the dog, the pain caused by
the crushing of his shoulder. After that, nothing, until the strange
call of that voice he knew, and he found himself awake.
Ah, he must have been delirious with the fever, which would almost
be sure to have set in. He thought it over for a time, and at last
the details of things pieced themselves together, and he realised
everything.
“Nurse!”
The book the Sister was reading almost fell from her hands at the
sound. Starting up quickly, she went to the bedside, a look of
surprised curiosity on her face.
“Can I have some water?”
She looked doubtful at first, then said:
“Yes, I think you may have a little.”
He drank it with a relish, then inquired:
“How long have I been unconscious?”
“Several days, sir,” she replied.
“Several days?”—He paused, then added: “Where is Mr. Agar Halfi?”
“He has not been in since ten o’clock last night. I expect he will be
here as usual, about eight this morning.”
Mr. Brentwood nodded.
“Could you drink some beef tea?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” he answered uncertainly.
“Well, I will make some, anyway.”
He watched her idly while she prepared it. He was indifferent whether
he had it or not; but after the first spoonful he felt hungry, and
drank it eagerly. The warmth it gave soothed him, and in less than five
minutes he had fallen into a dreamless sleep.
When he awoke, it was past ten o’clock, and a fresh nurse was in the
room. It was not long before her attentive eyes saw that he was not
asleep, and she came over to him immediately.
“Well, sir, do you feel better?”
He smiled oddly as he replied:
“That I can hardly say. I certainly don’t feel ill!” He paused, then
added: “Where is Mr. Agar Halfi?”
She looked a trifle perplexed as she answered:
“He has not yet been in this morning. He usually comes about eight
o’clock.”
“What time is it now?”
“A quarter past ten.”
“What is the matter, nurse?”
She had stood still suddenly, and was looking at him with wonder in her
eyes.
“The scar, sir; it has gone!”
Brentwood instinctively put his hand to his throat, then smiled slowly.
“Are you quite sure?” he queried.
“Quite—there is not a trace of it visible. Let me fetch a glass, then
you can see for yourself.”
The Master of Storton examined his neck very carefully, then silently
put the hand-mirror on the counterpane. What the nurse had said was
true; not a vestige of the scar remained.
“Nurse, I should like to see Mrs. Breton.”
He had hardly spoken, when there was a hurried knock at the door, and
the housekeeper entered, with a perturbed look on her face.
“Nurse,” she exclaimed quickly, “is Mr. Brentwood—” She stopped
abruptly, as her eyes met those of her master.
“Good morning,” he said tranquilly; then seeing the troubled look on
her face, he added, “What is the matter, Mrs. Breton?”
“Oh, sir, I’m so glad you are better. But I cannot understand this—”
here she held up her hand, which contained a letter. “Williams gave
it to me just now, and said that Mr. Agar Halfi handed it to him last
night, with instructions to deliver it to me after ten o’clock this
morning.” She paused, breathing quickly.
“Go on,” he said quietly.
“I will read it, sir:
“+Dear Mrs. Breton+,—I have instructed Williams to hand you this
note after ten o’clock to-morrow morning. Enclosed you will find
a letter addressed to Mr. Brentwood, which please hand to him.
I have no doubt that he will not only be conscious by then, but
practically all right in health.
+Agar Halfi.+”
Brentwood silently held out his hand for the packet. Tearing it open,
he read as follows:
“+My beloved Friend+,—Should you receive this document before
you see me, you will understand that I have passed away from the
physical plane of existence! But let not that disturb you; it is
part of my destiny, as you will learn later on—my time has come.
Know that when you received the wound in your shoulder, the scar
on your throat turned blood-red, and when the fever which set in
had abated, instead of recovering consciousness you passed into a
swoon similar to that which you suffered in Afghanistan. In order
to make quite sure that your trance tallied with Miss Hobson’s, I
immediately sent for Madame Limonaire, with the object of getting
her to confirm the symptoms. But little did I realise what would
be the result of my request. The question of the trance became a
secondary matter, when, on Madame’s appearance, I at once learned
that she held the key to the evil which has been overshadowing
us for so long. I also learned that I was partly the cause, that
through me alone could it be allayed; and further, that there was
only one way to accomplish it. That course I have taken. When you
read this, look to the scar on your throat; if it has entirely
disappeared, you will know that I have succeeded, and you will be
free from the evil which has obsessed you ever since it attacked
you in Afghanistan, five years ago.
I request you to send without delay for the Abbess—it is her
command—who will explain all.
Seek you my body in my private room at the Lodge, where I now go
to prepare myself to overcome the dread evil of the Legend of the
Mountains. In three hours, at the New Moon, I trust that in death I
shall be triumphant.
Until in the future we meet again, fare you well, my best beloved
friend.
+Agar Halfi.+”
As he mastered its contents, Brentwood’s lips shut in a hard line, and
his features assumed a stony expression. The two women looked at him
with mingled wonder and awe; they instinctively knew that something had
happened, and for a time there was an impressive silence. He broke it
at length, by saying in a cold, level voice:
“Mrs. Breton, I will dress at once. Please send Williams to me.”
So stern was his tone, that the housekeeper—who, under ordinary
circumstances, would have remonstrated with him—without a word went to
do his bidding, and the nurse followed her out.
When they had gone, something like a sob issued from his throat, and a
look of intense grief came over his face. In his weakened state, the
shock of being deprived of the one human being for whom he had ever
felt any real affection acted with double force; it almost prostrated
him. He lay half-helpless, in a dull sort of dream, until Williams
announced his presence by knocking at the door. Rousing himself,
Brentwood told the under-chauffeur to come in.
It took a long while, but with Williams’ aid he at length got dressed,
and finally was seated in a big divan chair, by the fire.
Here, with difficulty, he wrote a short note to Héloïse Limonaire, and
after sending for Mrs. Breton, told Williams to go straight to the
Châlet in the car, and bring the Abbess back with him.
When he had gone, the Master of Storton turned to his housekeeper, and
said:
“Mrs. Breton, I must, I think, prepare you for some bad news. I’m
afraid something has happened to Mr. Agar Halfi, but I cannot say for
certain, until I have seen Madame Limonaire, whom I have sent Williams
to fetch. When she arrives, please ask her to come to my room without
delay.”
“Really, sir, I do hope the trouble is not so very serious. But must
you be out of bed? I feel it is risky for you to be up.”
“Don’t worry about that, Mrs. Breton. Beyond being a little weak, and
just a trifle stiff, I am all right. I would not have got up, had I
not felt that something very grave had happened.
Now I am ready to come under the nurse’s care again. I expect my
shoulder will want dressing and my arm will have to be put in a sling
for the present.”
By the time the Abbess had arrived, the nurse had satisfactorily
attended to the Master of Storton’s shoulder, and his arm was
comfortably suspended by his side.
He rose to meet Madame Limonaire with mingled feelings, but one glance
told him that she was not an ordinary woman. He felt her influence
immediately she crossed the threshold of the room, and in spite of his
own powers, backed by a masterful mind, he was sensible of a presence
greater than his own.
Both remained silent for some time after Mrs. Breton had left the room,
the Abbess standing with one foot on the curb, and one hand on the
mantelpiece, looking sadly into the fire, while Brentwood gazed at her
with growing respect. Instinctively he became aware that she possessed
powers similar to his own, but in a higher and grander degree.
At last he said in a low voice:
“Did you understand, madame, the crude note I sent to you?”
“Perfectly,” she answered, without looking up.
“Then will you please read what my friend, Agar Halfi, has written?”
Slowly extending her hand, she took the letter which he held forth, and
silently perused it. He watched her closely while she read, but only a
slight heave of her breast disturbed her composure, though her mouth
grew unspeakably tender.
When she had finished, he waited patiently, expecting some comment; but
she remained silent, mechanically tapping the fingers of her left hand
with the letter, which she had folded up.
It was he who spoke first:
“Madame Limonaire, during the past fifteen years of my life I have
gone through some strange experiences, and seen things which average
intelligent people would classify as fairy tales, if they were
seriously put forth; yet if the contents of that letter are true, I
fear that the mysterious evil which came into my life some five years
ago is beyond the scope of my knowledge. When I read that letter, I
was, as you may well understand, surprised, and I wondered if it were
possible that any living being, let alone a woman, could unravel this
tangled skein.”
“Why so, Monsieur? why should a woman be less capable of solving it
than anyone else?”
The subtle attraction in her sweet, gentle tones stirred him a little.
He had spoken to her as an intellectual equal; but the sound of her
voice—without dispelling the first idea—forcefully reminded him that
there was a distinct and sharp line between the sexes, of which he had
not hitherto been conscious.
“It is seldom women attain the high development that men reach,” he
answered steadily.
“Why do you think that?”
He hesitated a moment before he replied:
“Probably because they have not had, and do not now have, the same
opportunities.”
“Monsieur Brentwood, what do you know about women?”
She turned her beautiful face toward him, and their eyes met.
Instinctively the Master of Storton felt all his powers gathering to
combat this extraordinary personality, unconsciously the forces within
him challenged her power, but the pure clear look of her remarkable
eyes met his glance with an easy calm.
For nearly a minute their minds clashed, during which period the man
suffered more than he had ever done in the whole of his life. The
light of her eyes grew in intensity, and he became terribly aware that
he was seeing the faults of his existence. What a distorted, feeble
thing after all! He, who had imagined he had evolved so high—nothing
but a puny, weak mortal. He was being forced to know it, to admit it!
A scorching shame passed over him, he closed his eyes to shut out the
overwhelming power of her gaze, and with the fall of his pride, he gave
a short cry. Sinking back in his chair, he bowed his head, covering his
eyes with his right hand.
During the long silence which ensued, the Master of Storton, crushed
as he was, learned that he was but partially developed, a sort of
lop-sided ego, which, having conquered some things, had carelessly, if
not wilfully, neglected others equally important.
“I am but as the dust!” he exclaimed bitterly.
“Monsieur!”
The deep ring of unselfish sympathy in her voice lifted him out of
the depths into which he had sunk, and a new hope rose in him. Slowly
looking up, he beheld her standing with outstretched arms, tears of
pain in her eyes, and an expression of grief on her spiritual face.
“Think not that I came to punish you; I am but the instrument through
which the lesson you have had to learn has been conveyed. You have
suffered greatly, so also have I in witnessing your agony. But as you
must know, the more a soul develops, the more refined it becomes, the
greater is its suffering—this is the law.
“But that you have striven and struggled toward good, this lesson
could not have been learned by you in this particular way. It is part
of your reward; you have but to profit by it. For some years, your
destiny is here. Seek it in self-sacrifice; go out into the world of
struggling humanity, and, as far as you are able, emulate the Master
Magician—continue his work.”
She paused, and he looked at her wonderingly, but without fear, for he
understood. In the same way that he loved his friend Agar Halfi, so he
loved this strange woman. He knew now that they were both on the same
plane of development, where jealousy and envy have long been conquered
and forgotten.
“Madame, it is good that one’s pride should be humbled. Only too well
do I realise the mistake I have made. By avoiding certain things in the
world, I have remained ignorant of them, thinking that they did not
matter.”
“Seek, and ye shall find,” she replied simply. “And now, Monsieur, if
you are ready, let us go and discover him who has fulfilled his part in
this one of many destinies in the great eternal life.”
Slowly rising, he went up into his study and took a key from his
desk. Returning, with the aid of the Abbess he donned his ulster, and
together they went by the secret stair out of the house, to the lodge.
Here Brentwood, with some trepidation, effected an entrance to the
Hindoo’s private room with the key he had brought, and standing on one
side, allowed the Abbess to precede him.
As they crossed the threshold, that which met their eyes caused the man
to stifle a low cry, but the woman gave no sign.
Lying full length on the carpet, dressed in his ritual robes, lay the
body of Agar Halfi, a look of serene calm on his fine countenance.
In his right hand was a white wand; in his left, and held to his
breast, the large gold cross without which he had never conducted any
experiment. A copper brazier stood at his head, another at his feet.
Just for a moment they stood looking with deep reverence at the solemn
scene, then the Master of Storton stepped quickly to the side of the
silent figure, and bending down on one knee, carefully examined it.
“Dead! Quite dead!” he whispered brokenly. Looking up, he met the quiet
eyes of Héloïse Limonaire, who was standing on the other side of the
body, her hands clasped on her breast.
As she gazed at him, the Master of Storton suddenly felt that he was
in the grip of some mysterious power. Strange scenes passed before his
vision, cries in an unknown tongue rang in his ears. They passed, and
he heard the voice of the Abbess speaking:
“King of a once great race, here lies the body of the Wizard of the
Mountains, who, having fulfilled his destiny here, has departed from
the earth plane. No more exists the evil which I, the Sorceress, in
my wickedness brought forth long ago, to cause his downfall. By his
sacrifice has he destroyed it, and, great King, we are free, the goal
is won. Soon shall I follow, there to join him, and together shall we
evolve onward and upward in the vast eternal scheme.
But you, who were once a monarch, know that your time has not yet
come. As every physical body seeks its mate, so every soul seeks its
counterpart, and every spirit its affinity. Seek you yours on the
earth plane, you shall not labour in vain. Then shall a change of
consciousness carry you onward.”
Her voice died away, and with it the spell. Released from her magnetic
gaze, the Master of Storton’s eyes wandered to the dead man’s face, and
as he stared he almost thought he saw a quiet smile of triumph disturb
the impassive features. He started, and rising to his feet was about
to speak, when he saw that the Abbess was standing with bent head, and
clasped hands, as though in prayer over the clay house that had once
imprisoned the companion of her destiny.
For some time she stood thus, then with a deep sigh she turned, and
said calmly:
“Come, Monsieur, I would depart—my task is accomplished.”