The Mystics | Page 6

was working out a slow, distasteful probation had advanced. Reluctantly and yet definitely he had realized that his position was not to come and conquer, but to watch and wait; and this consciousness of a tacitly expected end had grown with the years--with the growth of his mind and body. It was not that he was hard-natured. The regularity with which he despatched his yearly money to his mother--reserving the merest fraction for himself--precluded that idea. But he was young and human, and he was youthfully and humanly greedy to possess the good things of life for himself and for the one being he passionately loved. It would, indeed, have been an enthusiast in virtue who could have blamed him for counting upon dead men's shoes.
And now the shoes were all but empty! He stood watching his uncle die!
Having stayed almost motionless for several minutes, he glanced at the clock; then moved to the bed, taking a bottle and a medicine spoon from the dressing-table as he passed.
"Time for your medicine, uncle!" he said, in his quiet, level voice.
But the sick man did not seem to hear.
In a slightly louder tone John repeated his remark. This time the vacant expression faded slowly from the large, pale eyes, and Andrew Henderson moved his head weakly.
Seeing the indication of consciousness, John carefully measured out a dose of medicine, and, stooping over the pillows, passed one arm under his uncle's neck.
Andrew Henderson submitted without objection, but as his head was raised and the medicine held to his lips, he seemed suddenly to realize the position, to comprehend that it was his nephew who leaned over him. With a spasmodic movement he turned towards John, his lips twitching with some inward and newly aroused excitement.
"The Book, John!" he said, sharply--"the Book!"
John remained quite composed. With a steady hand he balanced the spoon of medicine that he still held.
"Your medicine first, uncle," he said, quietly. "We'll talk about the Book after."
But the old man's calm had been disturbed. With unexpected strength he raised one thin hand and pushed the spoon aside, spilling the contents on the bed.
"How can I leave it?" he exclaimed. "How can I go and leave the Book unguarded?" Again his lips twitched and a feverish brightness flickered in his eyes as they searched his nephew's face.
"When I go, John," he added, excitedly, "the Book may be in your keeping for hours--perhaps for a whole night. I know the Arch-Councillor will answer my summons immediately; but it is possible he may be delayed. It may be the ordination of the Unknown that I should Pass before he arrives. If this is so, I want you to guard the Book--but also I want you to guard my dead body. Let no one touch it until he comes. The key of the safe is here--" He fumbled weakly for the thin chain that hung about his neck. "No one must remove it--no one must touch it until he comes--" His voice faltered.
With a calm gesture John forced him back upon the pillows, and quietly wiped up the medicine.
But with a fresh effort the old man lifted himself again.
"John," he cried, suddenly, "do you understand what I am saying? Do you understand that for a whole night you may be alone with the inviolable Scitsym? 'The Hope of the Universe, by whose Light alone the One and Only Prophet shall be made known unto the Watchers!'" He murmured the quotation in a low, rapt voice.
Again the younger man attempted to soothe him.
"Don't distress yourself!" he said, gravely. "I am here. You can trust me. Lie back and rest."
But his uncle's face was still excitedly perturbed; his pale eyes still possessed an unnatural brightness.
"Oh yes!" he said, sharply, "I trust you! I have trusted you. I have left a letter by which you will see that I have trusted you--and that your fidelity has been rewarded. But this is another matter. Can I trust you in this? Can I trust you as myself?" As he put the question a sweat of weakness and excitement broke out over his forehead.
But it was neither his wild appearance nor his question that suddenly sent the blood into John's face and suddenly set his heart bounding. 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