Agar Halfi the mystic

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.