Agar Halfi the mystic

They buried the body of Agar Halfi quietly and without ceremony in the village churchyard, and when the Rev. Philip Alletson read the burial service it was a characteristic group that stood in silent reverence over the Hindoo mystic’s earthly remains.

Elsie Hobson and Arthur Shepperton were there, in acknowledgment of all that that strange man had done for them; also Herbert Canning, who had come to pay his last respects to the man who had saved his life.

Close to the grave stood the Master of Storton, pale and set, a look of stern sorrow on his handsome face. Not far away, deeply veiled, was the Abbess, silent and still. By her side stood Constance, with trembling lips and wet eyes.

They all knew what had transpired—omitting certain details, and with Madame Limonaire’s permission, Brentwood had frankly explained to the rest, the final act in this mysterious drama. At that meeting, whatever resentment the young solicitor may have had against the Master of Storton vanished. He was not ungenerous, and when—to the surprise of everyone except the Abbess—Brentwood had offered his hand, Shepperton had gripped it genuinely, and the Master of Storton turned a one-time enemy into a friend.

As for Constance, the words she had once spoken to Philip, i.e. that if he were innocent she would never be able to look him in the face again for very shame, came home to her forcefully now, and while she stood listening to her brother’s voice by the graveside, she cast one or two nervous glances at the motionless figure of the man she loved. “When it was over, would he speak to her?” she thought. If he did, she felt she would have to apologise, and she was afraid—not of having to apologise, but of herself!

However, beyond the usual formalities, he did not address her, and when his carriage had departed, the reaction of the strain she had put upon herself made her tremble. It was then that a gentle pressure on her arm made her turn, to find herself looking into the calm, beautiful eyes of Héloïse Limonaire.

The trembling stopped almost immediately, and she was aware of a restful feeling, similar to that which she had experienced when she first met Agar Halfi.

“Peace, child,” she whispered in her sweet voice, “do not distress yourself. There is sunshine with the rain, and that which you were told, by him whose body lies yonder, will soon come to pass!”

The next moment the Abbess had stepped into her carriage, and before Constance could reply it had rolled away, leaving the Vicar’s sister to reproach herself for being selfish. Surely, if any person wanted sympathy just then, it was Madame Limonaire, and yet the great generous spirit of that remarkable woman had swept on one side her own trouble, just to give comfort to a sister, whom she had realised was suffering quietly, when they stood side by side at the grave of Agar Halfi the Mystic.

About a week later, one beautiful sunny morning, Mr. Brentwood was sitting on an old rustic seat beneath a great oak, somewhere in one of the corners of his immense garden.

Since the death of his friend he had changed visibly. For one thing, the hard stern lines of his face, which had been so characteristic of the man and made people avoid him, had vanished; while the cold look of his deep brown eyes was no longer discernible. But his countenance bore traces of suffering, and a close inspection would have revealed a distinct touch of grey in his dark hair.

Not until Agar Halfi had passed over did the Master of Storton realise how much he was attached to him, and there was a lonely feeling in his heart when at times he unconsciously listened, expecting to hear the familiar voice, and then suddenly remembered the loss he had sustained.

But as there is no “cloud without a silver lining,” so the grief of this reserved, proud man was slowly but surely being superseded by a new and mysterious power.

Ever since his memorable interview with the Abbess, the Master of Storton had realised that the loneliness he had sometimes experienced during his life was due to the fact that man is not meant to live in a solitary state, neither physically, mentally, nor spiritually. As he had become convinced of this, his eyes seemed to be opened, and one day he suddenly understood why he had been troubled because a certain individual had suspected him of being the perpetrator of the Worlstoke Mystery.

Now it happened that this particular morning he sat deeply thinking about these things, when all at once he started up, and calling Hector, who lay lazily asleep at his feet, he put on his hat and went out.

Half an hour later he stood in the Vicarage drawing-room, whither Martha had shown him, when he had asked for Miss Alletson.

A minute later the door opened, and the Vicar entered.

“Really, Brentwood, I am glad to see you again,” he said warmly. “Of course you will now stop to lunch?”

“Well, I hardly know,” he replied uncertainly. “Did you understand why I called?”

The Vicar looked at him mystified, then replied:

“No, I’m afraid I don’t quite grasp what you mean.”

“Well, I will tell you, Alletson—I called to see your sister.”

“Sister!” echoed the other.

“Yes, Alletson. Listen: I’m going to ask her to marry me,” he said coolly.

For some time the two men looked at each other steadily. The Vicar was a little startled, yet in his heart he rejoiced. Like certain other people, he knew his sister’s secret, and the fact that a happy ending to what even an hour ago seemed to be a tragedy, unnerved him for the moment. At length he took the Master of Storton’s hand in his, and said, in a voice deep with emotion:

“Brentwood, it is a surprise to me; I had no idea, but for my sister’s sake I could not wish anything better. Constance went out about an hour ago, and I think she went for a walk in the woods. Go and find her, Brentwood, and God speed you.”

It was Hector who first found her. She was standing at the end of the path that overlooks the village of Worlstoke, and was evidently on the way home.

She turned in surprise as the dog came bounding up to her, then her heart fluttered, for she found herself face to face with the man who held all the world for her.

Just for a few seconds they looked at each other, and she could not help noticing that his face was cold and hard.

Then she recovered her self-possession, and said almost normally:

“Mr. Brentwood, how can I satisfactorily apologise to you?”

“For what?” he asked, although he knew all the while what she meant.

She paused uncertainly—didn’t he understand?

“My—my suspicions of you.”

He laughed oddly, and answered indifferently:

“I don’t need any apology!”

She grew proud in an instant. Why had she spoken? The man seemed made of marble.

“If I have offended too deeply, I regret it; I cannot do more.”

“You can!”

The colour went from her cheeks; his tone did not assure her, and she could not understand his attitude.

“Mr. Brentwood, what do you mean?”

“Constance!”

The intense feeling in his voice caused her to draw in a deep breath. During the pause which followed, their eyes met, and as in her dream she saw the cold brown eyes grow warm, then unspeakably tender. Her lips quivered, her breast heaved, and as she realised what it all meant, she gave a smothered cry and dropped her gaze.

He took her hand, and she felt his grasp warm and strong. It thrilled her, and as in a dream she heard his voice:

“Constance, I came to find you, with the hope that I may never leave you again. Can I hope so much?”

As she understood his words the woman, who at the touch of his hand had felt helpless, realised her power.

She raised her eyes, with a light in them which made the blood rush to his heart.

“Hugo Brentwood, I loved you long ago,” she said simply.

She looked into his eyes, this time quite without fear, for not a trace could she discern of the dread evil which, the last time their eyes met, had held her in a grip of horror. All she saw was her own fair face reflected in the dark pupils, and she was restfully conscious that the cry which had come from her soul that dreadful night at the Manor had at last been answered.

Their lips met—and Hector, who was standing a dumb witness to this plighting of their troth, slowly wagged his tail as if with approval.