The Mystics

The Mystics, by Katherine Cecil
Thurston

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Thurston
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Title: The Mystics A Novel
Author: Katherine Cecil Thurston

Release Date: April 17, 2007 [eBook #21127]
Language: English
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THE MYSTICS
A Novel
by
KATHERINE CECIL THURSTON
Author of "The Masquerader" "The Gambler"
Illustrated

[Illustration: See Chap. VII "THE PROPHET WITH HIS FIXED
GAZE UPON THE SCITSYM"]

Harper & Brothers Publishers New York and London MCMVII
Copyright, 1904, by Katherine Cecil Thurston. All rights reserved.
Published April, 1907.

To my Cousin Nancy Inez Pollock

ILLUSTRATIONS
"THE PROPHET WITH HIS FIXED GAZE UPON THE SCITSYM"
Frontispiece

"THE FIGURE OF HIS UNCLE ... SHOWED TALL AND
ANGULAR IN THE APERTURE" Facing p. 20
"HE ... GATHERED THE FIRST SHEAF OF LEAVES INTO HIS
FINGERS" " 40
"ACROSS THE PROPHET'S BREAST, IN MARKS OF A CRUEL
LACERATION, RAN THE SYMBOLIC OCTAGONAL FIGURE OF
THE MYSTIC SECT" " 56
"WITH A FRESH BURST OF TEARS, SHE TURNED AND FLUNG
HERSELF UPON THE COUCH" " 116
"HER HAND WAS TREMBLING AS SHE RAISED THE HEAVY
KNOCKER" " 136
"'I AM IN NEED OF HELP ... AND YOU CAN HELP ME'" " 146
"SHE SAW THE FIGURE OF THE PROPHET ... ATTENDED BY
THE PRECURSOR AND THE SIX ARCH-MYSTICS" " 158

THE MYSTICS
CHAPTER I
Of all the sensations to which the human mind is a prey, there is none
so powerful in its finality, so chilling in its sense of an impending event
as the knowledge that Death--grim, implacable Death--has cast his
shadow on a life that custom and circumstance have rendered familiar.
Whatever the personal feeling may be--whether dismay, despair, or
relief--no man or woman can watch that advancing shadow without a
quailing at the heart, an individual shrinking from the terrible, natural
mystery that we must all face in turn--each for himself and each alone.
In a gaunt house on the loneliest point where the Scottish coast
overlooks the Irish Sea, John Henderson was watching his uncle die. In
the plain, whitewashed room where the sick man lay, a fire was burning

and a couple of oil-lamps shed an uncertain glow; but outside, the wind
roared inland from the shore, and the rain splashed in furious showers
against the windows of the house. It was a night of tumult and darkness;
but neither the old man who lay waiting for the end nor the young man
who watched that end approaching gave any heed to the turmoil of the
elements. Each was self-engrossed.
Except for an occasional rasping cough, or a slow, indrawn breath, no
sign came from the small iron bedstead on which the dying man lay.
His hard, emaciated face was set in an impenetrable mask; his glazed
eyes were fixed immovably on a distant portion of the ceiling; and his
hands lay clasped upon his breast, covering some object that depended
from his neck.
He had lain thus since the doctor from the neighboring town had braved
the rising storm and ridden over to see him in the fall of the evening;
and no accentuation of the gale that lashed the house, no increase in the
roar of the ocean three hundred yards away, had power to interrupt his
lethargy.
In curious contrast was the expression that marked his nephew's face.
An extraordinary suppressed energy was visible in every line of John
Henderson's body as he sat crouching over the fire; and a look of
irrepressible excitement smoldered in the eyes that gazed into the
glowing coals. He was barely twenty-three years old, but the
self-control that comes from endurance and privation sat unmistakably
on his knitted brows and closed lips. He was neither handsome of
feature nor graceful of figure, yet there was something more striking
and interesting than either grace or beauty in the strong, youthful form
and the strong, intelligent face. For a long time he retained his
crouching seat on the wooden stool that stood before the hearth; then at
last the activity at work within his mind made further inaction
intolerable. He rose and turned towards the bed.
The dying man lay motionless, awaiting the final summons with that
aloofness that suggests a spirit already partially extricated from its
covering