He waited till the last dose had worn off and then he spent an hour with Dad, alone. I’ve no idea what he did, but when he fetched me, there was the old chap, sitting up in bed, still very weak, of course, but as sane as you or I, drinking beef-tea like a two-year-old, and as happy as can be.
He’s getting up for a while tomorrow, and we expect he’ll be quite fit in another week at the outside.
Of course, he doesn’t remember what happened to him; that’s part of Gaunt’s treatment — he’s washed out the memory somehow. But personally I don’t think that anything did happen, outside his own imagination.
Lorrimer found him beside the entrance to the crypt, and I fancy he’d been poking round down there and lost his lamp or something, and then got the wind up and bolted. Gaunt thinks so too. We went down there the other night, and there’s nothing alarming at all. Bit creepy, of course, and I can well imagine Dad having a fit of the horrors, without a light.
As for me, I’m feeling awfully fit, and seriously thinking of taking your advice and staying here. It’s a delightful spot, and in the summer it will be superb. You must come down for a week or two, John, or as long as you like. We could get as much bathing and fishing as you want.
Gaunt’s staying on for a while until Dad’s quite fit.
Do write and let me know if you can come, and when. How’s London looking? Pretty grim, I guess.
Hamilton folded the letter with a smile. Dear old Tony! Never the same for two consecutive minutes. Now he’d forgotten all his fears, and was in love with his old nightmare!
Not a bad idea, though, to go down and see him when the summer came. He sat down and wrote to his friend, telling him he’d come in a couple of months’ time. Holiday jaunts at a moment’s notice were not for hard-working fellows like himself, he thought. But he was glad Tony was happy again.
Chapter V
The weeks passed by, and life on Kestrel pursued its even tenor. Sir Anthony, restored to his former health and vigour, with all recollection of his terrible experience erased from the tablets of his memory, was very happy in the newly discovered companionship of his son, who found his own life beginning anew in the ancient home of his family.
Dr. Gaunt was still with them, for Sir Anthony had taken a great fancy to the man who had saved his reason, if not his very life, and insisted that he must stay with him as a sort of resident physician. Tony was only too pleased with this arrangement, for the two were firm friends.
They spent much of their time in the open, clambering about the island, bathing from the sheltered beach, fishing in the launch, and making occasional trips across to the mainland. And when outdoor activities began to pall they ransacked the library, and, in company with Sir Anthony, spent many an hour delving into that treasury of ancient learning. Gaunt’s knowledge of all subjects was profound, and in this, as in every occupation, he proved a delightful companion.
Tony’s manservant, Johnston, had come down from London at his master’s bidding, and with this addition to their staff, as well as Tom Tregellis, the Lorrimers found they could serve the little party right royally.
The Abbey itself seemed to respond to the happiness within its walls, whose very outlines appeared to soften their ancient grimness and put on a new coat of mellow beauty under the glorious sunshine of that early Cornish summer. The gulls flashed white about the rugged towers, dark against the flawless blue above, and the waves lapped gently at the foot of the tremendous cliffs.
It was a happy time, and when stark tragedy came bursting in upon it the shock was all the greater.
Gaunt and Tony had been out on a fishing expedition, and as they climbed the long stairway to the Abbey they were talking breathlessly of their day’s sport. Tony was just saying, “You should have seen the one that got away!” and the doctor was laughing at him, when Tom Tregellis burst out of the wicket in the great gate above him and came running headlong down the worn steps, shouting as he came:
“Mr. Tony! Doctor! Come quick! The master…”
He reached them babbling something incoherent about the library. Without waiting for further explanation they both began to run, Gaunt easily outstripping the younger man.
When Tony came to the library, a long, low room beyond the great hall, he found the doctor bending over the crumpled figure of his father. Lorrimer was standing by the table, a blood-stained cloth in his hand, and his wife was near by, wringing her hands and weeping silently. An overturned step-ladder, and a heap of books, fallen from a gap in one of the upper shelves, told their own story.
“Is he badly hurt, Doctor?” Tony gasped.
Gaunt’s delicate fingers were exploring the dreadful bloody patch on the back of the grey head. He did not look up.
“The skull is fractured; badly, I fear,” he said gravely. “He must have hit the table in falling. Come, help me get him upstairs.”
Gently they carried the limp figure up the great staircase and laid him on his bed. Then the doctor asked for hot water, and, when it was brought, sent them all away while he worked.
Tony went sadly down the stairs and back to the library, where he found Lorrimer gathering up the fallen books. The servant turned a piteous face to the young man.
“I heard the crash, Mr. Tony, and came running, and there he lay, quite still, his poor head all bleeding and a book in his hand.”
“What book?” Almost unconsciously the question came.
Lorrimer took from the table a small volume, bound in decayed, tattered leather, and handed it to him. Tony opened it and saw a title-page, written in manuscript, the ink faded and brown with age: The Curse of the Lovels.
He looked sharply at Lorrimer.
“I’ve never seen this before,” he said.
“No more have I, Mr. Tony.”
Tony turned the stiff, mildewed pages. A passage caught his eye:
then the abbott, raising his hands aloft, cried in a loud voice, saying: “Anthony Lovel, ere we leave this island home of ours for ever, we have a word for thee. At the bidding of thy profligate master, thou didst come hither to seize our treasures for the Crown, and, casting us out, to hold this island for thine own. If that were all, we yet might leave thee to the sure justice of high heaven, but that is not all, by far. Not content with forcing an entrance here, thou, and thy men-at-arms, didst slay remorselessly those brethren who did valiantly oppose their naked hands to thy keen swords and mail of proof. Their blood crieth out for vengeance, nor shall it cry it vain.
“Nor is that the greatest of thine iniquities, for, finding the sub-prior before the altar, celebrating the Holy Mysteries, since he would not heed thine importunities, thou didst cut him down, and his blood floweth darkly in the sanctuary, mingling with the Most Precious Blood of Christ, spilled from the chalice in his nerveless grasp.
“For this most awful sacrilege, hear then the doom of Holy Church, for we yet have power to bind, and loose, though Henry sits on England’s throne:
“I, Stephen, mitred abbott of Kestrel Isle, do pronounce thee, Anthony Lovel, excommunicate and accursed, and this island under interdict.
“Not thou alone, Anthony Lovel, shalt suffer for this day, but all thy cursed seed that follow after thee as lord of Kestrel shall feel the weight of our just vengeance, and see hell-gate yawn for them at the last.