“Go to John Hamilton’s room, walking up the stairs as a man would walk, but softly. Wake him, and speak to him as I shall command. Go!”
Obediently the phantasm turned and went out through the door. The bare feet padded along the gallery floor. Gaunt turned back to the crystal.
Hamilton was sleeping quietly when he felt somebody shaking him violently. Drowsily he opened his eyes, to see, as he thought, Tony Lovell bending over him, clear in the bright moonlight.
“John, wake up! I want to talk to you.”
“What a ghastly hour to choose for a chat!” Hamilton sat up, rubbing his eyes and yawning cavernously. “‘Can’t it wait till morning?”
“No, John, it’s vitally important.” ‘Tony’ sat on the edge of the bed.
“Oh, all right, Tony. But make it snappy!”
“I will. Look, John, you know I’d love to have you here for as long as you like to stay?”
“Yes, I know you would. But not now, is that it?”
“Yes. You see, the job I’m doing now is terribly important. It’s the biggest thing I’ve ever undertaken, and I want to make a go of it.”
“I understand, Tony.”
“I knew you would. And old Gaunt’s put in a tremendous lot of time with me. I can’t let him down. You see, I must finish my preliminary training, and be initiated well before the twenty-fifth of next month, as I told you this afternoon. It means hours of work every day — I couldn’t even entertain you as I’d like to — and do this job as well. I wouldn’t have the time.”
“Yes, I see now, Tony. Of course I’ll clear out tomorrow. We’re old enough pals to be able to be frank with each other, and I’m glad you told me.”
“It’s awfully decent of you, John, but I knew you’d see my point. One other thing: don’t mention this little talk of ours tomorrow. Gaunt’d be furious if he knew I’d asked you not to stay on account of him. He’s an awfully decent blighter.”
“Okay, Tony, mum’s the word. Good luck, old son.”
“Thanks, John. Good night.”
“Good night, Tony.”
And that which was not Tony went quietly out as Hamilton turned over and went to sleep again.
On the floor below the two necromancers were still sitting, staring into their crystal, when the phantasm re-entered and stood motionless by the door. Gaunt addressed it:
“That was well done. Now go back to your abode, silently, as you came.”
The figure lost its sharp outlines, softened, blurred, became a shadow, and suddenly was not. The light in the crystal dwindled and faded. Gaunt stood up.
“I fancy that settles that problem, Simon” he said.
At the breakfast-table, some hours later, Hamilton announced his intention of leaving Kestrel and continuing his walking tour in Cornwall. Since Gaunt was present he did not refer to his supposed talk with Tony during the night, but apologized for changing his plans so suddenly.
Tony, taken quite by surprise, for he was fully expecting his friend to stay at the Abbey for some time, looked quickly across at the doctor, as if for advice. That gentleman nodded almost imperceptibly, and Tony took this to mean that he was to let Hamilton go without argument. Indeed, he was not sorry to do so, for he had been greatly troubled in his mind at the conflict between loyalty to his friend and devotion to his new ideals, though he himself would never have dreamed of precipitating the issue in this manner.
So it came about that, later the same day, Tregellis sat at the tiller of the launch, with Hamilton and his suitcase on board, heading for Pentock. Gaunt had seen to it that Tony had had no opportunity for private conversation with his friend — he was taking no chances — and all three came down to the little harbour to see him off. The farewells were very cheerful and hearty, but Hamilton could not suppress a queer little feeling of remorse as the landing-stage and its waving figures retreated and were lost from view behind the jutting rock. Was he doing right, leaving Tony thus? Time alone would tell.
He lay that night at the Three Fishermen, Pentock.
Chapter X
I
John Hamilton was climbing the steep path leading to the village church. It was only six o’clock, and the morning was delightfully cool and fresh. The sun was shining brightly, but there was still a slight mist on the sea, a presage of the heat to come.
He had not forgotten the rector’s last words to him, and he was going to renew his acquaintance with a faith which the years had dimmed. It was strange, he thought, how quickly one forgot those things which once had seemed so important. As a boy he had been a devoted church-goer, a regular communicant. He had been an altar-server at a famous London Anglo-Catholic church, with all the enthusiasm of youth for ceremonial and the outward side of that particular brand of Christianity. He realized that his faith could not have gone very much beyond the externals, or he would not have lost touch the way he had, engrossed with his work, and the new life he had perforce to adopt when his parents died, both within a period of weeks. Anyhow, he would give the thing a trial, and see if there were really anything in it to awaken the old enthusiasm. At least he could differentiate now between aesthetic appeal and true devotion.
The bell began to peal as he pushed open the lychgate and entered the churchyard. It was not a beautiful bell — indeed, it resembled nothing so much as the beating of a tin can — but the sound seemed oddly fraught with deep significance. The church itself had no pretensions to exterior beauty either, being a long oblong, somewhat flat in the pitch of the roof, with a squat tower at the west end. It was built of the local granite, which does not lend itself to rich sculpture, and the only break in the horizontal lines was a little porch beneath the tower, by which Hamilton entered.
Once inside, he paused uncertainly, for the place was uncommonly dark after the brilliant morning light, but his eyes soon accustomed themselves to the gloom, and he slipped hastily into a near-by pew and knelt down. A prayer came unbidden to his lips, and before he knew it he was making the old familiar preparation for communion, the first time for more years that he liked to remember.
When he had finished he lifted his head and looked about him. Yes, there it all was, just as he had known it in the years gone by: the Stations of the Cross upon the walls; the rood-beam, with its great crucifix and attendant figures; the elaborately decorated sanctuary; the High Altar, surmounted by six tall candles; the statues, with their votive lamps. Even the faint odour of incense was familiar. It was like coming home. Sternly warning himself against sentimentality, Hamilton sat back on his pew and continued his observations.
The plain parallelogram of the exterior was repeated within the building, but it was brought into proportion by the beautiful chancel screen of elvan stone which divided it. There was no east window — a fact which accounted for a good deal of the gloom — but a magnificently carved reredos set off the perfectly proportioned altar. It was evident that no effort had been spared to make the little church a veritable gem of beauty. Hamilton remembered the rector’s admission that he was a poor man, and guessed that his purse had furnished most of the decoration.
On the south side of the nave, against the chancel screen, a little altar had been contrived, on which stood the curtained Tabernacle, with its white lamp. Remembering That which dwelt therein, the young man fell upon his knees once more, overwhelmed by a great wave of devotion which came sweeping up out of the past.
“Adoremus in æternum Sanctissimum Sacramentum.”
The words came trembling to his lips. How could he ever have forgotten, ever doubted? Here, after all, was reality.