The Gloved Hand by Burton Egbert Stevenson (ebook reader web txt) 📖

"I deny it. He was very sane. He found the Way, and he has set her feet upon it."

"What way?" I demanded. "Where does it lead?"

"The Way of life. It leads to peace and happiness."

He uttered the words as with finality; but I shrugged them impatiently away.

"Don't float off into your mysticism," I said. "Let us keep our feet on the earth. You may be sincere, or you may not—it is impossible for me to say. But I know this—it is not fair to that child to take her at her word. She doesn't realise what she is doing. I don't know what it is you plan for her, but before you do anything, she must have a chance to find herself. She must be taken out of this atmosphere into a healthier one, until she has rallied from the shock of her father's death, and emerged from the shadow of his influence. She must have time to get back her self-control. Then, if she chooses to return, well and good."

"To all your 'musts,' Mr. Lester," retorted Silva, "I can only say that I am willing. I have not lifted a finger to detain her. But what if she will not go?"

"Then she must be made to go."

"Another 'must'!" he rejoined lightly. "I would remind you that she is mistress of her own actions. Neither you nor I can compel her to do anything she does not wish to do. It has been a great happiness to me that she has chosen as she has; it would have been a great sorrow to me had she decided differently. But I should have acquiesced. Now it is for you to acquiesce. After all, what claim have you upon her?"

"I admit that I have no claim," I said, more calmly. "But there is one who has a claim, and to whom she is bound to listen."

"You refer, no doubt, to that misguided young man who is now in prison."

"I refer to Frederic Swain, yes," I retorted hotly. "It is true he is in prison. And how did he get there? By coming when she called him; by trying to assist her."

"Was it assisting her to kill her father?" queried Silva, and his lips were curled with scorn.

I paused a moment to make sure of my self-control, for it seemed to be slipping from me.

"Señor Silva," I said, at last, "how her father came to his death I do not know; but I do know that Swain had no hand in it."

"Yet he is in prison," he reminded me.

"Innocent men have been in prison before this. I will get him out."

"By what means?"

"By finding the real murderer!" I said, and looked at him with eyes which I know were bloodshot.

He returned my gaze steadily.

"So you think I am the murderer?" he asked, quietly.

I got a grip of myself—I saw that I had gone too far.

"I do not know what to think," I answered. "I am seeking light. In any event, Swain merits some consideration. Miss Vaughan should, at least, listen to what he has to say. She promised to marry him."

"She has withdrawn that promise."

"She has never said so."

"She has withdrawn it in choosing as she has chosen. They who serve in the temple of Siva turn their backs on marriage."

I put the words away from me with a gesture.

"That means nothing to me," I said. "I know nothing of the temple of Siva. I wish to know nothing, for mysticism repels me. But I do know that she gave her word; I do know that she loved him."

"Earthly love fades and passes," said the yogi, solemnly. "She has given her heart to the Master," and he made his gesture of reverence.

There was anger in my eyes as I looked at him. How was one to reply to such jargon?

"I would point out to you, Señor Silva," I said, "that Miss Vaughan is not yet of legal age, and so not quite her own mistress."

"Does your law interfere in matters of the heart?" he inquired blandly; "or in matters of religion?"

"No," I said, flushing at his irony; "but the law demands that, until she is of age, she have a guardian to protect her interests. I shall ask that one be appointed at once."

"To that," said the yogi, mildly, "I have not the least objection. In fact, Mr. Lester, I do not know why you should tell me your plans. But, for some reason, you seem to regard me as an adversary. I am not—I am no man's adversary. I object to nothing; I have no right to object to anything. I am simply Miss Vaughan's friend and well-wisher, and seek her happiness. I should like to be your friend also."

"And Swain's?" I queried, a little brutally.

"The friend of all men," said the yogi, simply. "They are all my brothers. We are children of the same Great Spirit."

I was silent for a moment. Then I took Swain's letter from my pocket.

"If you are sincere," I said, "you can easily prove it. I have a letter here from Swain. He gave it to me to-day, and I promised to give it to Miss Vaughan to-night."

Without a word, he crossed to the bell and rang it. The maid answered.

"Mr. Lester has a letter which you will give to your mistress," he said.

"And you will wait for an answer," I added.

The girl took the letter and went away. Silva sat down again, and when I glanced at him, I saw that his eyes were closed. Five minutes passed, and the girl appeared again at the door.

"Miss Vaughan says there is no answer, sir," she said, and let the curtain fall into place again.

I made a gesture of despair; I felt that the game was lost.

"After all, Mr. Lester," said Silva, kindly, "what is this fate that you would prepare for her? You seek her marriage with a young man who, when I saw him, appeared to me merely commonplace. Admitting for the moment that he is innocent of this crime, you would nevertheless condemn her to an existence flat and savourless, differing in no essential from that of the beasts of the field."

"It is the existence of all normal people," I pointed out, "and the one which they are happiest in."

"But Miss Vaughan would not be happy. She has too great a soul; that young man is not worthy of her. You yourself have felt it!"

I could not deny it.

"Few men are worthy of a good woman," I said lamely.

"Faugh! Good woman!" and he snapped his fingers. "I abhor the words! They are simply cant! But a great woman, a woman of insight, of imagination—ah, for such a woman the Way that I prepare is the only Way. There she will find joy and inspiration; there she will grow in knowledge; there she will breathe the breath of life! Mr. Lester," and he leaned forward suddenly, "have you the courage to consult the sphere?"

"What do you mean?"

"You saw how I spent the White Night of Siva," and he made his gesture of reverence. "Will you gaze for an hour on the crystal?"

"For what purpose?"

"I do not know what may be revealed to you," he answered. "That is in the keeping of the Holy One. Perhaps nothing; perhaps much. Will you make the trial?"

His eyes were distended with excitement, his lips were trembling with eagerness.

"I feel that it will not be in vain!" he added.

There was something compelling in his gaze. After all, why not? I struggled to my feet.

With a strange smile, he held back the curtain, and I passed before him into the hall and up the stairs. As I hesitated at the top, he opened the door into the entry, and again my senses were assaulted by a heavy, numbing odour. In the middle of the room the crystal sphere glowed softly.

"Take your place upon the couch," he said; "sit thus, with your legs crossed, and your hands folded before you. But first, listen to me. There is in this no magic; this sphere is merely a shell of crystal, in which a small lamp burns. It serves only to concentrate the mind, to enable it to forget the world and to turn in upon itself. The visions which will come to you, if any come, will come from within and not from without. They will be such visions as the Holy One may will; and by the Holy One I mean that Spirit which pervades the universe, even to its farthest bound; the Spirit which is in all of us alike; the Spirit which is in good men and in bad, men like you and me, and men like the one who slew my pupil. It is with this Spirit, if the Holy One so wills, that you will commune, so that you will see no longer with the poor eyes of the body, but with eyes from which nothing is concealed, either in the past or in the future. Do you understand?"

"I think so," I murmured, unable to take my eyes from the glowing circle.

"Then to the Holy One I commend thee!" said the yogi, and sat down on the couch opposite me.

I felt that his eyes were upon me, but mine were upon the sphere, and in a moment I was no longer aware of him. I was aware only of the glowing circle, which seemed to widen and widen until the whole universe revolved within it. The sun and the moon and the stars were there, and I gazed at them as from a great distance. I saw stars glow and fade; I saw great nebulæ condense to points of light, and disintegrate to dust; then, slowly, slowly, a single planet swung into view, a million miles away, at first, but growing clearer and more clear, until I was looking down upon its seas and continents; and suddenly, as it turned before me, I recognised the earth. Europe, Asia, the broad Pacific swung below me; then land again—America! I saw great mountains, broad plains, and mighty rivers.

The motion ceased. I was gazing down upon a great city, built upon a narrow spur of land between two rivers, a city of towering buildings and busy streets; then upon a single house, set in the midst of lofty elms; then I was in a room, a room with books against the walls, and a door opening upon a garden. From the garden the light faded, and the darkness came, and a clock somewhere struck twelve. Then, suddenly, at the door appeared two white-robed figures, an old man and a girl. The man was talking violently, but the girl crossed the room without a backward glance, and passed through a door on its farther side. The man stood for a moment looking after her, then flung himself into a chair, and put his hands before his face.

With creeping flesh, I looked again at the outer door, waiting who would enter. And slowly, slowly, the drapery was put aside, and a face peered in. I could see its flashing eyes and working mouth. A hand, in which a knife gleamed, was raised cautiously to the cord, and when it was lowered, it held a piece of the cord within its grasp. I could see the eager fingers fashioning a knot; then, with head bent, the figure crept forward, foot by foot; it was at the chair-back, and even as the old man, conscious at last of the intruder, raised his head, the cord was cast about his throat and drawn tight. There was a moment's struggle, and I saw that the hand which held the cord was red with blood. From the wrist, a stained handkerchief fell softly to the floor.

And then the assassin turned to steal away; but as he went, he cast one awful glance over his shoulder. The light fell full upon his face—and I saw that it was Swain's!

I opened my eyes to find myself extended full length on the divan, with Silva standing over me, a tiny glass of yellow liquid in his hand.

"Drink this," he said, and I swallowed it obediently.

It had a pungent, unpleasant taste, but I could feel it running through my veins, and it cleared my mind and steadied my nerves as though by magic. I sat up and looked at the crystal. The other lights in the room had been switched on, and the sphere lay cold and lifeless. I passed my hand before my eyes, and looked at it again; then my eyes sought Silva's. He was smiling softly.

"The visions came," he said. "Your eyes tell me that the visions came. Is it not so?"

"Yes,"