CHAPTER IV
Clang! clang! clang! clang! clang! The mellow tones of the church clock of Worlstoke, striking the hour of five, floated slowly and distinctly upon the still morning air.
As the last chime died away in the distance, Hugo Alexis Brentwood, the Master of Storton Manor, became suddenly and acutely aware that he was fully awake, staring blankly into the darkness!
Not a sound, not a movement—everything around was wrapped in absolute calm. He was the only spark of life there, quite alone, seemingly suspended in space.
It did not appear to him at all extraordinary, nor did he feel in any way uneasy. To be quite clear, he had no definite thoughts. He was simply there, keenly alert, without any of that drowsiness usually experienced when awaking from slumber.
Physically unconscious, he had no sense of things external, but there was a far-away vague idea that he was floating in the ether; beyond that nothing except this very real mental wakefulness, as though his whole entity was concentrated on something that was going to happen.
He tried to think, to reason, but his efforts failed completely; some force seemed to have taken control of his mind and was holding it in check.
There was something oppressive about the silence which enveloped him, yet he could not bring his thinking powers to analyse it, try as he would. He knew it, knew that he was in it; further his mind refused to take him.
Nightmare! Of course, that’s what it was. Mechanically he went to switch on the electric light by the side of the bed, but his hand merely passed up and down through the air. In a vague way this startled him, though he did not for the moment realise that he should have touched the switch, if he had been in bed.
Oh! well, he must get out and find it—the darkness was irritating, and nightmare was not agreeable. He made as if to rise, and then something jolted in his mind and set the currents of thought running. There was no bed!
A sudden feeling of fear gripped him. Where was he? What had happened? He had a great desire to stand on something solid, and instinctively his hands went forth to grasp—anything, just to hold on.
Almost immediately he had a swaying sensation, and felt that he was being propelled in some curious manner. This was followed by a feeling that he was being compressed, bound tightly in a small space. Simultaneously he was conscious of standing in his night attire, at the east window of his study in the tower, looking intently across the fields at the approaching dawn.
A puff of cold air blew in his face, making him shiver; and with this return of physical consciousness, he discovered that he was half leaning out of the open window, with his hands tightly gripping the casement on either side.
Even now he did not fully comprehend the situation. Somehow his faculties were not working in unison; as one manifested itself the others seemed to become dormant.
Perfectly still, without any visible sign of breathing, he might have been a statue as he thus stood, while consciousness slowly filtered into his brain.
He was not yet able to grasp the fact that the last thing he could remember was getting into bed the previous evening, and that under ordinary circumstances he should be there now.
To all appearances he looked as if he had gone through an awe-inspiring ordeal, which had bereft him of power to think or move. His dark-skinned face, with its ordinarily firmly-set features, was drawn with pain, while the bloodless lips, tightly set in a straight line, were those of a man holding back a cry of agony.
Gradually the tension relaxed; he was able to think in a normal manner, and as he became fully cognisant of the circumstances, he drew in a sharp, quick breath.
For a few seconds, which seemed hours, the shock of the reaction seemed to paralyse the heart’s action; then that organ, beating with hammer strokes, sent the blood pulsing over his body in a rushing stream. This continued for fully half a minute, until the naturally strong, healthy body of the man reasserted itself, and shaking off the attack, resumed its normal state.
He was, however, perspiring freely, and, mentally, he felt anything but normal. The incident had been extremely unpleasant, and, moreover, this was the sixth or seventh time it had occurred during the past twelve months!
Now, as on other occasions, it had left behind a disturbing influence of something objectionable having happened, though it was but vaguely conveyed to the mind, being merely a dim impression arising from an unknown source. To be quite frank, he could not remember anything that had taken place between the moment of retiring and the moment of waking.
Little by little he gained complete control of himself, and with a shudder, silently closed and fastened the window; then, with uncertain gait, he went heavily down the stairs to his bedroom underneath the study. Hastily donning his dressing-gown and slippers, he returned, and sinking into a large divan chair, tried to collect his thoughts.
It was some little time before he could settle down to think consecutively, his mind would go wandering off in various directions; but eventually he became calmer, and began to sort things out. So far as he could see, there was nothing at all connected with these uncomfortable experiences, excepting that every one of them had happened about dawn. They came at irregular intervals and at various times of the year.
To the ordinary way of thinking, it looked merely a question of sleep-walking, and a case for a medical man. That it was a question for a doctor Mr. Brentwood was fully aware; but what doctor? There he had come to a full stop, for though not acting professionally, he was a Bachelor of Medicine himself, and had, from a professional standpoint, carefully diagnosed his own symptoms, without success. He knew, none could know better, that it was not a case of somnambulism. He was perfectly sound in mind and body and had strong nerves. Probably at this juncture he might have consulted a specialist, but he was not yet at the end of his own resources.
During his younger days, when a medical student, the enforced close study of physiology had very soon led him into that of psychology, which latter science he had tenaciously set himself out to master—at least all that was known of it.
He had been instinctively drawn toward the subject, partly, perhaps, owing to the fact that Eastern blood was in his veins. Here, he thought, he might find a clue to the strange malady which afflicted him, but he had to admit to himself that the chances were not great, for knowledge of the science at best was meagre, and its ramifications were many.
However, he quite saw that if he discarded this course there was no alternative; so slowly and deliberately he decided to probe the mystery to the bottom—partly because his position was far from comfortable, and he foresaw that the strain of such a complaint as this was bound to tell sooner or later on the strongest constitution, and partly because, being of a masterful, dogged nature, he distinctly disliked to be baffled by anything.
During the thirty-nine years of his existence, ever since he could remember, he had stubbornly fought all obstacles that had come across his path, and in the same way he would fight this one.
Naturally, he desired to cure the complaint if possible, but beyond that, the mind of the man, trained in science, was keenly anxious to analyse the problem. Research was second nature to him, and the last fifteen years of his life had been spent in that direction, nine of them in the East, the home of his mother.
If there was one point more than another which troubled him, it was that each time he had undergone the uncanny experience, he had for days afterwards found himself trying to recollect what had happened during the period between going to sleep and the rude awakening.
To his cold, calculating mind, this was irrational. He had no knowledge whatever that he had dreamed about anything, and it was the more unlikely, as he was a man who rarely dreamt.
He would at once have discarded the thought, if it had not been for the possibility that he might have dreamed, and failed utterly to remember anything of his dream on the return to normal consciousness.
Even then, he would not have seriously considered the point, but for the fact that he intuitively had a strong impression he had dreamed. Here again he appeared to be getting off the beaten track—there was no evidence at all that he had dreamed, but why that impression? It was so very strong, he could not utterly disregard it. He smiled slightly, as he thought that if he had discarded all such impressions he would not have been alive at the present time. His experience had taught him that some things which appeared most unreasonable, were only so because they were not understood.
One other point occurred to him as rather curious. The tower-room (his study) had two windows, one facing east and the other west. Now, on each occasion when he had gone through this strange experience, it had always been at the east window where he had discovered himself!
There was no apparent reason why such small points as these should be taken into serious consideration. There was no basis even upon which to formulate anything with regard to them; only the man had had too broad an experience of life to be “sure” of things, and he therefore reserved his decision.
Still thinking, he at last fell into a quiet sleep, and for the time being ceased to be troubled with the pros and cons of the case. He breathed easily and regularly, and his strong face showed little, if any, trace of the strain to which he had been subjected just over an hour ago.
That was not unnatural, for he had lived a hard life, and, as mentioned before, nine years of it in parts of the East, where foreigners are apt to carry their lives in their hands, so to speak, and get accustomed to shocks and precarious positions.
During that long absence from England, he had become imbued with Eastern lore, and his knowledge of it was radical and extensive. Being half an Eastern, channels of learning were open to him which are barred to the Westerner, and of that he had taken full advantage.
His study of psychology, as understood by the Western schools of thought, had left him hungry for more knowledge. He had discovered that there were great gaps in it, and he determined, if it lay in his power, to fill them. So to that end he gave the best years of his life, making exhaustive research in the homeland of his mother’s people, often risking his life in obtaining results upon which he could securely build. And he had not sought and worked in vain. Later on, the value of his research was recognised by Europe.
Incidentally, his knowledge was to stand him in good stead before very long. The time was not far distant when certain human lives, which seemed to be at the mercy of unknown powers, were saved mainly through the application of that learning which he had acquired.
When he awoke it was past eight o’clock, and the sunlight was streaming brightly into the room. Rousing himself, he descended to his bedchamber, bathed, dressed, and went downstairs to the breakfast-room.
After ordering his morning meal, he proceeded to open the letters. These he glanced through rapidly, and placed them in a little heap on his left hand, with the exception of one, which he carefully read through again. It was that which the Vicar of Worlstoke had written to him the previous day.
Mr. Brentwood frowned and pinched his under lip with his finger and thumb. What could it be that would cause Mr. Alletson to come to him for help? In their different ways, the Vicar and he were fairly good friends. They had one or two interests in common, and had spent many a pleasant hour together, after the ice had been broken.
At first he had been inclined to think that the Vicar had ulterior motives with regard to his parish and church, and had been greatly surprised to find that he never mentioned them. That was just as he wished it to be, for he was not a Church-man, and had no desire to take any part in Church work.
But that letter made him feel a little uneasy; it looked as if Mr. Alletson were at last going to introduce “business.” The Master of Storton looked hard at the coffee-pot. If the Vicar did, it was probable there would be an end to future pleasant hours. Neither by money nor action would he support the Church of England, or any other Church; and if the Vicar had any such idea in his mind, well!——
Here he began to attack his breakfast, with unusual vigour. The truth was not always agreeable, and it was quite within the bounds of possibility that Mr. Alletson would be offended.
Having finished his repast, he went into the library and wrote the following note:
“Storton Manor,
Somersetshire.
21st April 19—.“Dear Mr. Alletson,—I shall be at home to-morrow, Thursday, at eleven o’clock a.m. If I can be of any assistance, I shall be happy to help you, so long as it does not clash with my principles. I shall expect you to stay to lunch.—Yours sincerely,
H. A. Brentwood.”
Before sealing the note, he carefully read it over again, and after a few minutes’ hesitation decided it would do.
He did not wish to give offence in any way, if he could help it, yet he was quite clear in his mind that he must give a hint to the Vicar that he would not help in a matter with which he was not in sympathy.
Little did he guess into what strange paths of mystery and evil the subject about which his friend wanted to consult him would lead them both! Had he known then, what the next few months were to bring forth, it is doubtful whether he would have seen the Vicar at all.
But then, the future is seldom revealed, and perhaps (who can tell?) it is better for humanity that most things are not foreseen.