BOOK III.
IN UNUM DUO.
CHAPTER XVII.
A VISIT FROM MAURICE.
Ah! with what different sensations one views the mighty events of life after the lapse of years. Happenings which at the time seemed most momentous have dwindled into insignificance; seeming calamities are known to have been blessings; mighty problems, then apparently impossible of solution, are now seen as but trifles to be easily brushed away.
In some such way I look back upon my Thibetan experiences; but the time has not yet come when I can think calmly of the sight upon which my eyes rested as I gazed from the old, grey tower of the lamasery of Psam-dagong, when after that night of terror, the sunlight came at last. We were all there—all but Maurice. Where he was God alone could tell. The Doctor and I stood together looking over the parapet; old Padma paced up and down, grinding his infernal prayer wheel; Ni-fan-lu and his brother lamas were there with other prayer wheels; Ah Schow was there, taking in the situation with all the stoical indifference of his race. Walla Benjow was there also. She stood apart, white and silent, gazing upon the mighty sweep of water which surrounded the lamasery on every side. Thus it will be seen that the worst had happened and nothing remained for us but to bravely face the situation. Then, as never before, I admired the Doctor’s perfect self-possession. Though I knew the man to be utterly selfish, I now leaned upon him as a tower of strength, for he could talk to these strange people and I could not.
“It is right about there the lake is, Wylde,” he said, pointing off at a gap in the mountain range which flanked the lamasery on the north. “There are several of these lakes, Padma tells me, and it is the one nearest, which is also on the lowest level, that has broken away. Into this the upper lakes are pouring their contents steadily, and until they are drained off, the water will continue to rise. A hard frost may save us, but in the event of soft weather for the next forty-eight hours we shall be drowned out to a dead certainty. In fact there don’t seem to be much help for us anyhow, as the temperature has been on the rise since midnight, and if those clouds mean anything it is rain before noon.”
You see the Doctor had been questioning Padma and now drew near to tell me the result.
I saw the waters come.
We were all at the top of the tower within five minutes after the startling cry which burst from the lips of Ni-fan-lu, as he came rushing down the stairs.
When we first reached our point of observation I could see nothing which I had not seen already.
There were the mountains, there at our feet lay the snow-white plains glistening in the moonlight; above us were more stars than I ever imagined the firmament contained previous to my entrance into this desolate land; and there, half way between the zenith and the snowy peaks, was Mars.
Instinctively my gaze became riveted upon the planet. I forgot our danger; I heard not the Doctor’s violent exclamations, I was deaf even to Walla’s weeping; I could think only of Maurice—Maurice and the man Mirrikh—of the mighty mystery in which I had become involved.
Were they there? Were they actually there? Had I been there? Had I seen what I had seen, or was it all the outcome of the fearful strain to which my nervous system had been subjected? Perhaps it was hypnotism. Perhaps Padma to pacify me had made me see it? But no. There was the Doctor. He had seen it too.
Thus I pondered as I gazed, the voices of the lamas sounding like the confused murmur of a distant crowd, when all at once a wild shout went up.
“Look! Look!” roared the Doctor, “there it comes! There it comes at last!”
He caught my arm and pointed to the gap in the snow-clad range, which before had been but a dark blot upon the endless wall of white, and there I saw something flash; something of dazzling brilliancy upon which the moonbeams fell with silvery glare.
Then all at once a mighty roar burst upon the stillness and I saw it rise higher—higher—yet higher! A torrent was rushing through the gap into the valley below.
But the valley was invisible and as yet there was no water and a low range of foothills lay between us and the flood. Would it not be drained off by the valley? Would not the foothills form an effectual barrier of defence? I put these questions to the Doctor, and he put them to Padma, who answered—“No!”
There was no hope, it seemed; and then I learned the story of the lake, whose name, be it understood, was Dshambi; the “nor” being simply the Thibetan word for any large body of fresh water. To my surprise I found that it was not, properly speaking, a lake, but an artificial reservoir; or rather a series of reservoirs, the water being held in check by walls of masonry, the lowest one of which had now given way. These walls were built ages before, Padma said; in fact as near as I could make out he regarded the reservoirs as prehistoric, claiming for them an antiquity of more than ten thousand years. Of course, not being an archæologist I do not pretend to judge of this, and will merely state that Padma further declared that the plains below Psam-dagong were once the seat of a vast population. He told of underground ruins beneath the sand, referred to a buried city whose wants these lakes had supplied; adding that the walls had long been in a highly dangerous condition, and that for this reason Psam-dagong lost its prestige and became practically deserted, for pilgrims from the adjoining valleys feared to visit it, and without the offerings of the pious pilgrim no lamasery could live.
We continued to watch; the moments creeping slowly on until the grey of dawn began to appear in the east. All this time we could see the water rushing down the awful precipice, foaming and tearing into the valley. In that treeless region there was absolutely nothing to stay it, nothing in the least to interfere with its progress until it should reach Psam-dagong.
And it came!
At last I saw it trickling down the foothills; the valley behind was but a hollow, enclosed on all sides; this we knew must now be full. Faster and faster it came, but it came steadily; the foothills formed a dam of perhaps half a mile in length, over which the water soon began to descend with a continuous flow, filling the ravines on either side of the table upon which the lamasery stood, until now all landmarks had vanished and we were in the midst of water, flowing past us with noiseless but steady rush. Slowly it rose, but the rise was steady; as I gazed down over the parapet of the old tower I could see that it was almost on a level with the base of the lamasery walls.
Meanwhile I had returned several times to the underground chamber to examine the condition of Maurice's body. There was no change in its appearance. I could not think otherwise than that my friend was dead.
“We shall have to make the best of it,” I said, in response to the Doctor’s statement of the facts of the situation. “Did you learn from Padma what we most particularly wanted to know?”
“About the means of escape?”
“Yes.”
“I asked him.”
“Well, what did he say?”
“He said to tell you that you need be under no alarm, that there are secrets connected with Psam-dagong of which Ni-fan-lu and the other lamas know nothing, that there is no danger whatever of our perishing in the flood.”
“Well, upon my word, why couldn’t you say so before! If there is hope why not let me have it? It is not kind, Doctor, to keep me in suspense at a time like this.”
“Why, to tell the truth, I do not altogether believe him,” said the Doctor. “I questioned the old fellow sharply, and it is my belief he’s a blessed falsifier. I could not make head or tail of what he said.”
“But what was the drift of it? Does he expect the water to fall?”
“No; not under any circumstances until the lakes are empty. He says the lamasery will surely be overwhelmed—perhaps swept away.”
“My God! You don’t mean it! Poor Maurice! What is to be done?”
“Poor Maurice! It’s rather poor me, poor you! Maurice is dead. When he committed suicide—and if ever a man in this world committed suicide Maurice did it—I washed my hands of all responsibility concerning him. This mad business has turned out exactly as I predicted.”
“Stop a moment! Confine yourself to facts. Of course you had no more idea than I what turn affairs would take, you could not have had. When you told me you had been to Mars did you mean it, or”
“Or did I lie? Spit it right out, Wylde. No; I did not lie. I meant it at the time, but it was all imagination—hypnotism if you like—infernal black magic, I call it. Of course we have no more been to Mars than we have to the moon, nor has Maurice any such existence as you and I imagined while we were in that strange condition. Maurice is dead—dead beyond recall!”
“But to get back to the subject,” I answered coldly. “There is no use in discussing that matter any further.”
“Returning to our muttons, then, all I’ve got to say is that I don’t believe Padma has any more idea of the way to escape than we have. There is no boat at the lamasery, nor anything to make one out of. Besides these trees in the courtyard, I doubt if there is ten feet of lumber in the whole establishment. Even allowing there was, where could we go? We should be landed on the plains below here and left to freeze or starve to death, for we could not transport mules, of course, and no human being could travel through this country on foot as things are now; so you see—oh, Padma is speaking! He has ground his everlasting prayer to a finish. Let us see what he wants.”
The announcement of the old priest was simply that breakfast would be served in half an hour, and that we should be notified when it was ready if we preferred to remain on the tower and watch the progress of the flood. As I looked I perceived that most of the lamas had left us, and that Walla also had vanished.
“Have no fears. This accident was foreseen long ago and the emergency fully provided for,” the old priest said, as he left us to descend the stairs.
But the Doctor felt no such confidence, nor did I.
“I am going back to Maurice,” I said, after Padma had departed. “I shall never leave him. Either some means must be found of transporting that body, or I remain behind.”
“If you attempt to carry out that resolve you are a bigger fool than I think you,” answered the Doctor. “Upon my word I should rather think you’d be looking after that girl a bit. You have the field all to yourself, now that Maurice is out of the way.”
To this I made no other answer than to leave him abruptly, for aside from the coarseness of the insinuation, the Doctor’s remark grated upon my nerves horribly, for a reason which I must now explain.
I no longer loved Walla—that is if I had ever loved her.
Rather should I say that the girl’s face no longer produced those singular sensations with which I had for days been tormented.
Why was this?
I did not know.
The fact is I had been a puzzle to myself since the first day I met the man Mirrikh.
The change came with the return to consciousness after the real, or imaginary, trip made with Maurice and Mirrikh through the spheres. From that moment the face of Walla Benjow seemed to grow absolutely repulsive to me. I wondered how I ever could have thought it beautiful, I saw it now as I had never seen it, and could see in it nothing more than in the faces of thousands of native women upon whom I had looked since I came to Farther India. I was disgusted with myself beyond measure for having looked at it in any other light.
Was this jealousy?
Was it because Walla in that last awful moment before Maurice took the fatal step declared her love for my friend?
Then I was foolish enough, ignorant enough of the heart’s most holy affection, to believe this?
Ah! I do not think so now.
But a sense of duty prompted me to seek the girl and give her such hopeful assurances as I could. I sought her in vain, however, nor did I see Walla again until after breakfast, which was served to the Doctor and myself alone, as usual, Padma having come for me in the vault to which I had returned, insisting by signs in his gentle way that I must eat.
During the meal I controlled my anxiety as best I could, and we discussed the situation in all its bearings.
We could see no hope outside of Padma.
After breakfast we ascended to the top of the tower again.
The water was now approaching the lamasery walls, with a much higher temperature and every appearance of rain.
Meanwhile the lamas seemed to have recovered from their fright and were hurrying hither and thither with great bags on their backs, popping in at one door and out at another. They were carrying the treasures of the lamasery into an underground vault, with the hope that after the flood subsided they could return and claim them. Already the temple was stripped of its magnificence. I had seen all this going on when last I descended to the chamber where the body of my poor friend lay.
“I think I shall stay here and smoke a pipe,” said the Doctor. “I wish to watch the progress of this affair, beside which I have an appointment with Padma. He promised to return in an hour and fully explain the means by which we are to escape.”
“Stay by all means,” I replied. “I shall descend again and try to find Walla. It is very singular what has become of the girl.”
We had inquired for her, of course, but could get no satisfaction; before ascending the tower stairs I dispatched Ah Schow to look her up, and now, when I came out into the courtyard, I saw her standing beneath the big tree with a face so white that my heart melted. I hurried forward and seized her hand.
“So you have come at last!” I exclaimed. “Where have you been? We have looked everywhere for you.”
She stared dully.
“I have been with him,” she answered. “I saw you, but you did not see me.”
“Do you mean with Maurice? Surely you were not in the underground chamber?”
“Yes.”
“But where?”
“I was on the other side of the altar, upon the floor. Oh, my friend, tell me—what does it all mean?”
“Why, don’t you comprehend it yet?” I said rather testily. “There is a flood; the water”
“Of course I understand that. It is not of that I am speaking, I mean about him.”
“Maurice?”
“Yes. Tell me—why did they kill him? I cannot understand.”
How dull she seemed. How strangely she spoke. As if she did not know! I said as much, and in no very pleasant manner either, but she did not seem to understand even yet.
“Of all that happened in that vault I remember nothing,” she said. “They have done something to me—what is it? My head don’t seem to be right.”
I questioned her further. To me it seemed incredible that she should forget her mad rush toward Maurice, her earnest pleading that he should not take the fatal step.
But she assured me that she did not remember, nor could she account for her time between our arrival at the lamasery and the moment I saw her in the corner of the underground chamber. Her mind seemed to be in a most extraordinary condition. The more I questioned her, the more confused she became.
Then suddenly she broke out with a low, wailing cry and began lamenting Maurice.
She seemed to think they had killed him, that they had offered him up as a sacrifice. In this strange mood she showed an intensity of passion of which I had not believed her capable, and confessed her love for Maurice in the most emphatic terms.
Altogether our interview was a most peculiar one, and decidedly painful for me, for I was utterly at a loss to make her comprehend the situation.
“Kill me! Kill me, Mr. Wylde! Let me go to him!” she wailed. “I loved him! Oh, how I loved him! He did not know it! His eyes were never for me; but you—oh, how I hated you! I—ah God! What is this?”
Suddenly clapping both hands about her head Walla stood before me reeling like a person intoxicated; her eyes closed, the lids began to twitch violently, her face grew whiter still.
Suddenly this paroxysm seemed to pass, and her hands fell to her sides, and for some minutes, she remained as white and rigid as a standing corpse.
Now it need scarcely be said that I was much disturbed by all this, but when I tried to speak, something seemed to have palsied my tongue.
Suddenly the expression of her face changed, and to my amazement I felt rushing upon me all that love for this strange creature which I had previously experienced. I could have caught her in my arms, but she waved me back and spoke in tones wholly unlike her own.
“Not now my beloved; not now mine other self! The veil between the world of matter and the world of spirit still separates us. Have patience, George. Yet a little while and you will have crossed the border. Then to all eternity shall we live as one!”
What was this?
What did it mean?
Every drop of blood in my veins seemed suddenly to have been transformed to liquid fire.
Love!
I swear that no man ever experienced such love as I felt for Walla Benjow then, and yet I could not even bear to think of my former folly ten minutes before.
“Walla! Oh Walla!” I breathed. “What is this? What spell is it that you have the power to cast over me? Tell me—”
“Stay!” she murmured. “It is time that you knew something of the truth. I am not Walla Benjow. This land is not as your land. There the power, yes the very existence of such as I is denied. George Wylde, I am a spirit. I hold this woman in control. It is I you have loved—not Walla. To you she is nothing, but I am your soul’s companion. Have no fear. This trial will pass. Now I must leave you, for your friend would speak.”
It was a hard blow to my scepticism, yet I was not ignorant of the claims of a class of persons whom, until now, I had looked upon as arrant charlatans. I allude, of course, to the trance mediums of modern Spiritualism. I had never seen any of their work, but I had read of it, and now the recollection of what I had read recurred to my mind.
Then I saw Walla’s face change again—saw a shudder pass through her frame—was thanking my stars that the Doctor was not present, when suddenly I was startled by hearing her exclaim in a totally different voice with much more of the masculine about it:
“Hello, George!”
I started back as though stung.
It was not Maurice’s voice, that is certain; yet there was something about it which so strangely resembled his voice as to be positively startling.
I thought of Maurice on the instant, although I positively declare that when “my friend” was alluded to a moment previous it never entered my mind that it bore reference to him.
“Don’t you know me?” asked the voice. “I want you to understand, old fellow, that I still live.”
“Maurice?” I gasped.
“Yes, Maurice.”
“For Heaven’s sake”
“No. Not for heaven’s sake, for your sake! It is an awful bother for me to do this, but I am partly selfish in it, and Mirrikh is helping me out. I want to say two things to you, George, and I want you to understand that it is Maurice De Veber, and no one else, who talks to you—do you hear?”
“Say on! I hear, but I think I’m going mad!”
“Mad! Not a bit of it! You are the same clear headed fellow you always were; you are simply dealing with forces and conditions which you don’t understand—that is all.”
“And you?”
“I am right here with you.”
“I cannot believe it.”
“Believe it or not it is a fact, George; but no more. I cannot hold this medium any longer without injuring her. What I want to say is this: Watch my body, for as sure as there is a God in heaven I shall return to you. Beware of the Doctor. He will play you false.”
“Maurice! “Maurice!” I cried. “You have my promise. So long as your body remains as it is, so long will I guard it. Maurice! Speak again! Tell me”
I stopped abruptly.
Again the shudder passed over Walla; her eyes opened; she stood there blinking stupidly.
“What—what is the matter?” she gasped. “What have you been doing to me, Mr. Wylde?”