CHAPTER V
Agar Halfi, the Hindoo, sat on the floor of the living-room of his lodge, with legs crossed in true Eastern fashion. The table on which he usually had his meals had been pushed back against the wall, and he sat on the hearthrug, looking steadily into the fire. In his hand was a piece of paper, upon which were drawn strange hieroglyphics. At intervals he stared at them doubtfully, as though trying to solve some problem, the key of which he had mislaid.
In the right-hand corner of the fireplace, underneath a large cupboard fixed in the wall, a great bull-mastiff sat, winking lazily at the flames. In this he seemed to be at one with his companion, though what was passing through his canine mind is a matter of conjecture. Occasionally he opened his tremendous mouth, and yawned indifferently, as though to show his contempt for the trivial thing that was perplexing the man.
No doubt, to him, men were always funny creatures, but to see one of them—and above all one for whom he had much respect—worrying over strange characters on a bit of paper, was enough to make even a grave dog like Hector smile.
Still, he had had his breakfast, and Agar Halfi’s peculiarities didn’t really matter, so long as he (Hector) could blink at the warm fire, undisturbed. This kind of madness which sometimes came over his friend had its advantages, for so long as the Hindoo wasted his time soliloquising over the fire, Hector knew that he could sit in peace. He preferred Agar Halfi’s sitting-room to his kennel, and the longer his friend brooded, the longer he could stay.
It was a dull, cold morning, and Agar Halfi and the dog, who had both been out since daybreak, were each in his own way enjoying the rest and the warmth of the fire. Hardly a sound broke the stillness, except the monotonous ticking of an old grandfather’s clock, and the occasional dropping of the fire, as it gradually burned away.
The Hindoo might have sat thus for hours; he was almost dead to external things, but that the grandfather’s clock, after giving a warning whirr-r-r-r, slowly struck the hour of ten. This interruption broke his train of thought, for he looked up and noted the time. Then turning his attention to the dog, he gazed at him steadily for about half a minute. The animal was too much absorbed in the fire to be greatly disturbed by that, but the restless movement of his eyes denoted he was well aware of the attention that was being paid to him. At length the man exclaimed:
“Hector!”
The dog pricked up his ears, instinctively, but beyond that did not move.
The Hindoo looked at him, half in sorrow, half in anger.
“Hector, you lazy beast, there is going to be trouble for you and me. What do you think of that?”
Except for a slight movement of his tail, which indicated that he had heard, the dog did not stir; but continued to blink at the fire.
“Do you understand, son of a thief?” continued Agar Halfi impressively. “For all I know, before this moon dies, aye, before it reaches the full, you will only be carrion fit for the crows to pick.”
Even this startling outlook did not appear to upset Hector; he only wagged his tail a little more. What was going to happen in the dim future was no concern of his. What no doubt did trouble him, was the fact that now the Hindoo had roused himself, it would soon be time to go to his kennel; and though clean straw and litter were nice and warm, a fire—well, it was a luxury.
Agar Halfi glowered at him sternly:
“Sometimes you have the soul of a respectable being, but get you near a fire, and you have the soul of a pig. Do you understand—outcast?”
Hector dropped his head a little at the other’s reprimanding tone, but did not move.
“Come here!”
The dog yawned in a bored sort of fashion, and slowly getting on to his legs, shambled rather than walked over to Agar Halfi, and licked his cheek.
The Hindoo put out his arm, and seizing hold of the loose skin of the animal’s neck, pushed him vigorously away.
“Lie down, idiot!” he exclaimed.
In nowise disconcerted by this discourteous treatment, Hector obediently stretched his great length on the hearthrug, close by his friend, and rested his muzzle on his two paws.
Agar Halfi again turned his eyes to the fire, and for a long while he sat thus, motionless, except for the slight heave of his chest, and the occasional movement of his lips as he whispered strange words to himself.
At length he rose, and going over to the cupboard, took from a shelf a roll of papers. Resuming his seat, he began to look them through. The first three he put on the rug after a cursory glance at each, the fourth he stopped to look at a little longer. When he had finished with it, he put it on the dog’s back, and said:
“That’s yours, my friend, and a worse nativity I’ve never seen—at least for some things.” He paused and looked into the animal’s big brown eyes, but the dog only blinked at him unconcernedly, so Agar Halfi continued:
“Do you know, dolt, that you will probably die a violent death?”
Hector wagged his tail as though the idea pleased him. Perhaps he believed in the old saying that a man (or a dog for that matter) can only die once, so it does not matter how, when, or where.
The Hindoo looked at him sardonically. What was the use of talking to a brute, some would say? But ah, what he said to the dog he knew would not be repeated, and he said a good many things to Hector that he would not have trusted to a man.
“If you only had sense enough, I might be able to show you how to avoid it, but you haven’t. Still, the soul of you is better than the souls of most men, for you are honest, and faithful, even if you have weaknesses for a fire, and raw meat; and perhaps I may be able to help you out of that hole, my friend.”
Hector snorted indifferently, as much as to say, “I don’t know what you are talking about, and I don’t much care.”
The Hindoo turned again to the roll of papers, and at last pulled out one that he wanted. It represented the horoscope of the Master of Storton, for in the left-hand top corner was inscribed “H. A. B., 17th January 18—.” Underneath was a square map of the heavens, divided into twelve houses, showing the zodiacal signs, with the places of the planets noted therein for the time of birth. Below this was a list of computations, probably the directions of the horoscope.
Agar Halfi ran his eye down the latter, until he came to the following: “Zod. D.D. 39 years 5 months. ☽ ☌ ♆ □ ♂!”
He studied the symbols closely. He had no doubt about the calculations, he had compiled them himself, and checked them twice. This was the fortieth year of Mr. Brentwood’s life, and these aspects, especially the evil aspect of the moon to Mars, had been active since the beginning of the year.
Slowly he read the rest of the directions, until he came to the bottom of the page, and there his eye was arrested by a note, which was as follows:
“At the time of the new, or full Moon, should the Sun enter the fifth house of the heavens, you will be in danger of your life from four-footed beasts. In your 40th year, when at that time the planet Neptune throws its evil rays to the lesser luminary, you will be subject to strange and weird experiences; and should the planet Mars cast an adverse ray, a violent death will encompass you.”
The Hindoo drew in a long breath. “That is Fate,” he muttered. “It is what is written.” Then he smiled a grim smile. “Strong men can overcome Fate!”
He turned suddenly, and eyed the dog intently, at the same time exclaiming:
“And your master also will probably die a violent death!”
Hector received this piece of information quite undisturbed, looking calmly at the man with his big soft eyes. Agar Halfi returned the dog’s gaze mechanically, his mind being engrossed with the paragraph at the bottom of Mr. Brentwood’s horoscope.
Suddenly Hector pricked his ears, jumped up, and went over to the door. He sniffed loudly at the bottom of it, as though uncertain, and then wagged his tail. The next moment footsteps sounded outside, there was a low knock, and Agar Halfi rose to face the Master of Storton.
For some moments the two men looked at each other in silence, the Hindoo with solemn eyes, the other with half-smiling sarcastic ones.
At last Brentwood said easily:
“Well, is there anything that is not quite as it should be?”
Agar Halfi shrugged his shoulders as he replied:
“I feel that the Sahib has been subjected to a severe mental strain.”
The Master of Storton laughed oddly as he seated himself on the edge of the table, and nodded his head by way of acquiescence.
“That is true, but surely I don’t show it in my countenance?”
The Hindoo smiled at the remark.
“No,” he retorted. “The Master of Storton seldom shows anything by his face.”
Brentwood looked amused, as he replied questioningly: “If my face did not show it, how did you know?”
“Surely the Sahib knows that as well as I do,” was the solemn answer. “You came here to tell me something. When we met, that something was dominating your mind. We looked at each other, my mind became attuned to yours—ascended or descended to the same plane of consciousness. What you wanted to say was being projected from your mind along this particular plane, and my mind being on the same plane, the thought naturally came to my understanding.”
“Not only that, Agar Halfi, but the thought returned from your mind to mine, and I became aware that you were cognisant of that which I wanted to convey to you. It is what we in England call telepathy, and it has recently been fairly well established as a scientific truth.”
The Hindoo laughed sarcastically. “Surely, Sahib, the ancients used it long ago!”
“I don’t doubt that,” returned the other; “at any rate, it would be difficult to explain some things that they accomplished, without the medium of telepathy. I was merely saying that Western thought had only just discovered it.”
“And,” added Agar Halfi, “will go on discovering other things which are not new.”
The Master of Storton acquiesced with a sigh. “I’m afraid that Western civilisation is too much absorbed in amassing worldly wealth at present to get much more forward in things that really matter; consequently, the higher faculties of the race can only develop very slowly. Still, what I came to tell you is, that last night I had another of those queer experiences.”
Here the Master of Storton related, as far as he could remember, what took place.
“What do you make of it?”
The Hindoo slowly shook his head. “I cannot grasp it, except that it seems to bear out that which is foretold in your nativity.”
“You mean, I take it, that concerning my being in danger of a violent death about this period of my life?” remarked Brentwood coolly.
“Quite so,” answered Agar Halfi. “Those experiences of yours are psychic ones, which are all traceable to the influence of the rays from the planet Neptune, and it is that planet which is at the present time evilly active in your life.”
A silence followed the Hindoo’s last remark. At length, rising from the table with a grim sort of “umph,” the Master of Storton took from his pocket the letter which he had that morning received from the Vicar of Worlstoke, and handed it to his companion. Agar Halfi read it through carefully, then handed it back. “You will see him, I suppose, Sahib?”
“Yes, I have written saying I will. I am rather curious to know what he wants to consult me about so particularly. What do you make of it?”
“When I held the letter in my hands I had an impression, but it may not be of any consequence,” remarked the Hindoo indifferently.
“One never knows,” replied Brentwood. “Tell me what it was?”
Agar Halfi characteristically shrugged his shoulders, as he replied:
“Simply that it indirectly concerned you!”
“Me!” exclaimed the other. He looked thoughtfully at the wall, then continued: “Maybe, but it is hardly possible.”
“Do you require the car to-day?”
“No; I have to go to Westsea, but I shall walk, and,” glancing at the dog, “Hector may as well come with me.” Saying which, he called the animal to him and went out.
For some minutes Agar Halfi stood looking solemnly after his retreating figure, then once more shrugging his shoulders, he resumed his examination of the Master of Storton’s horoscope.