CHAPTER 1

THE DEVA INITIATE

Shortly after the publication of The Initiate in the New World, I found myselfconstrained to send an S.O.S. in the shape of a letter to my Guru, JustinMoreward Haig. It was not an easy letter to write, because, needless to say, Iknew he was not omniscient; he could not raise the dead, nor, from his house inBoston thousands of miles away, make the unseen perceptible to one who had lostthe power to see. For my wife, owing, we imagine, to a series of operations, hadbeen deprived of the clairvoyance which had made psychic communication with theMaster possible. This deprivation had caused her much unhappiness, which was notalleviated till we came into contact with Chris, who, by means of her owntranscendental gifts, was able to illuminate the path Viola could no longer seefor herself.

And now Chris was dead, and Viola plunged into even greater darkness thanbefore, since to her sense of loss was added the sorrow of being debarred fromusing that very faculty which alone could have bridged the gulf between herselfand her beloved friend.

Chris had been no ordinary friend; she had possessed unique qualities which sether apart from the ruck of average human beings. More of the other world than ofthis, yet ever ready with her amazing insight and sympathy to lessen itssufferings, she had become the pivot round which our lives for several years hadrevolved. Her death left Viola, who had an exceptionally strong link with her,and who has followed the path of love rather than that of wisdom, inwardlyheartbroken. Emotional by temperament more than philosophical, she heroicallytried to suppress her grief as inconsistent with occult ideals, but only endedin making matters worse.

And so in the hope of obtaining some advice wherewith to assuage her suffering,I resolved to send that S.O.S. to my Guru. Little did I think that theconsequences ensuing from so simple a resolve would provide sufficient materialfor a large portion of this third book.

* * *

As I sit writing these first few pages, my memory goes back to that apparentlyinsignificant, middle-aged little woman who, before she passed over, played soimportant a part in our occult lives, and transmitted to those few capable ofreceiving it such a wealth of knowledge from the Masters of Wisdom. I can stillpicture her with her silvery white hair and contrastingly young face, notbeautiful as regards feature, but rendered beautiful none the less by anexpression of spiritual dulcitude. I picture her in her rather dilapidatedguest-house into which drifted human wreckage of all descriptions, derelictsbroken and battered in body and mind—derelicts certain not only of welcome, butin most cases of healing for their particular ill. They clamoured for her at allhours of the day; never had she a moment to herself. I see her always in ahurry, attempting the proverbial impossibility of being everywhere at once,often exhausted and almost ceaselessly tormented by neuralgia, yet always sweet-temperedand equable, now soothing away somebody else's headache with herstrangely magnetic touch, now consoling some girl in the throes of an unhappylove-affair; at one moment solving an abstruse metaphysical problem for apainstaking student of philosophy, the next attempting to adjust the differencesbetween some ill-assorted married couple. Even now I still continue to marvel atthe almost instantaneous adaptations she was able to make to their varied andconflicting claims.

A strange rambling house it was, with its heterogeneous assortment of patients.Christabel Portman and her husband seemed incapable of closing their hospitabledoors to people of whatsoever social type or standing: the measure of their needwas their sole passport for admittance; soap-manufacturers from the North,aristocrats both English and foreign, tired little school-teachers, Indian civilservants, French, Dutch, Syrians—all these and many more at one time or anotherhad assembled and sojourned at "The Pines," that retreat which the Portmans, inconjunction with a doctor, had run for the treatment of baffling psychologicalcomplaints. Chris, with her wonderful powers, not only diagnosed the complaint,but was psychically impressed with the most suitable means to cure it. But theill she was best at curing, as Viola always declared, was that called "heartache."...

A number of the people were theosophists, recommended there by fellowtheosophists; others had come at the suggestion of some unconventionalphysician, only to find themselves puzzled and sometimes not a little shocked atbeing thrown amongst such a peculiarly minded crowd.

Well do I recall the incongruous snatches of conversation I so often heard atthe crowded dinner-table, as the voice of one person or another predominatedover the general clamour, or a sudden piano momentarily brought a fewconsecutive sentences into high relief.

"I suppose you know, Mr. Smith, that all your trouble is Karmic ..." from anearnest and humourless spinster.

"Never 'aving coom across that word in Ma-anchester"— stolidly sarcastic fromMr. Smith — "Ah couldn't say as it wasn't. But Dr. 'Odges says it's constipa-ation."

"No, no, you don't understand—does he, Mrs. Portman?"

"Mais pardon, Madame ..." and the Frenchman's voice pierced the conversationalorchestra, nasally, like a muted trumpet, "ze Absolu' can in no circomstonceevair come into manifestation—voyons, ça n'est pas logique ça!"

"But I've always understood from the books——"

"You can please yourselves, of course," though this Yorkshire woman did not lookas if she meant it, "but give me the good old story of Jesus Christ and theChristian religion."

"None of us are denying the Christian religion, Mrs. Satterthwaite."

"Wonderful man, Sir Thomas—now he really manifests brotherhood."

"How that woman does love a title ..." a whispered remark from my neighbour.

"Is the permanent atom always in the throat-centre, Mrs. Portman?"

"Chris dear, I had such a curious dream—could it have been a memory of a pastincarnation?"

"So queer—my toes always tingle when I meditate; do you think it means—"

"This year, next year, sometime, never——" But this was only someone earnestlycounting her plum-stones.

And there at the head of the table sat Chris, always the final court of appeal,at one moment trying not to be convulsed with laughter, at...