The Mystics | Page 7

It
was the abrupt and unlooked-for justification of his own secret,
treasured hope; the tacit acknowledgment of kinship and obligation
made now by Andrew Henderson after seven unfruitful years. A mist
rose before his sight and his mind swam. What was the mad creed of a
dying man--of a dozen dying men--when the reward of his own long
probation awaited him?
But the old man was set to his purpose. With shaking fingers he
fumbled with two small objects that depended from the chain about his
neck. And as he held them up, John saw by the glow of the lamp that
one was a copy in miniature of the metal symbol that decorated the
little chapel, the other a long, thin key.
As Henderson disentangled and raised these objects to the light, his
eyes turned again upon his nephew.
"John," he said, tremulously, "I want you to swear to me by the Sign
that you will not touch my body--nor anything on my body--till the
Arch-Councillor comes! Swear, as you hope for your own happiness!"
A wild illumination spread over his face; the unpleasant fanatical light
showed again in his eyes.
For a moment John looked at him; then stirred by his own emotions, by
the new pang of self-reproach and gratitude towards this half-crazy
man so near his end, he went forward and touched the small octagonal
symbol that gleamed in the light.
"I swear--by the Sign!" he said, in a low, level voice. And almost as the
words escaped him, the chain slipped from old Henderson's fingers, his
jaw dropped, and his head fell forward on his chest.

* * * * *
The moments that follow an important event are seldom of a nature to
be accurately analyzed. For a long while John remained motionless and
speechless, unable to realize that the huddled figure still warm in his
arms was in reality the vessel of clay from which a spirit had escaped.
Then suddenly the realization of the position came to him; with a sharp
movement he stood upright, and seizing the bell-rope, pulled it
vigorously.
When the old woman who attended to the household appeared, he
pointed to her master's body and explained in a few words how the end
had come; and how in a last urgent command Henderson had forbidden
his body to be touched until the arrival of a member of his religious
sect. The old woman accepted the explanation with the apathy common
to those who have outlived emotion; and with a series of nods and
unintelligible mutterings methodically proceeded to straighten the
already neatly arranged furniture of the room, in the instinctive belief
that order is the first tribute to be paid to Death.
With something of the same feeling John drew the coverlet over the
dead body, then turned to watch the old woman at her work. But as he
looked at her a desire to be alone again swept over him, and with the
desire a corresponding impatience of her slow and measured
movements. Chide himself as he might for his impatience, curb his
natural instinct as he might, it was humanly impossible that his strong
and eager spirit could give thought to Death--while Life was claiming
him with out-stretched hands.
He held himself rigidly in check until the last chair had been arranged
and the last cinder swept from the hearth; then as the old woman slowly
crossed the room and stepped out into the corridor, he sprang with
irrepressible impetuosity and shut and locked the door.
He had no superstitious consciousness of the dead body so close at
hand. The dead body--and with it the dead years and the long
probation--belonged to the past; he with his youth, his strength, his
hope, was bound for the limitless future.

Without a moment's hesitation he crossed to his uncle's bureau, which
stood as he had left it three days before when his last illness had seized
upon him. The papers were all in order; the ink was as yet scarcely
rusted on the pens; the key protruded from the lock of the private
drawer. With a tremor of excitement John extended his hand, turned it
and opened the drawer; then he caught his breath. There lay a square
white envelope addressed to himself in his uncle's fantastic, crooked
handwriting.
As he drew it out and held it for a moment in his hand, his thoughts
centred unerringly round one object. In a moment, the seven years of
waiting--the strange death scene just enacted--even Andrew Henderson
and his mystical creed--were blotted from his mind by a wonderful
rose-colored mist of hope, from which one face looked out--the patient,
tender, pathetic face of the mother he adored. The emotions, so long
suppressed, welled up as they had been wont to do years