The old man stopped short, stared for a moment, then asked:
“Why, Valerie my dear, what’s this?”
“Oh, uncle, this gentleman came to see you, so I gave him some tea.”
The rector looked hard at the blushing Hamilton and his lips twitched.
“All right, my dear, thank you. Run along now.”
With another quick glance at Hamilton the girl left them, going out through the back door. When she had gone the rector continued:
“Well, Mr. Hamilton, you nearly took me in for a moment. I am glad to see you.”
“And I you, Father!” They shook hands heartily. “I’m afraid I got in under false colours. Your niece didn’t give me a chance to explain. I feel an awful fool.”
“Don’t worry about that, my boy. She’s a dear girl, and generous to a fault. She’d feed every vagabond in the duchy if she got a chance. Would you like a wash?”
“Very much indeed, Father. But if you don’t mind, I’ll slip along to the inn and change as well.”
“As you wish. But come back to dinner. I’ve a lot to talk over with you.”
Hamilton left by the front door, but Valerie was not to be seen. He wondered very much what she would say when next they met.
An hour later he was back again, and this time the housekeeper, Mrs. Drew, let him in.
“The Father’s in church, saying his office, sir, but Miss Valerie’s in the study.”
She led him to the little room overlooking the garden, where Valerie was sitting in one of the big leather-covered chairs in front of a cheerful fire.
“Come in, Mr. Hamilton,” she cried when he was announced; “Uncle’s told me all about you.”
“Thank you, Miss Bennett. I’m afraid I made an awful ass of myself this afternoon.”
“Well, you might have explained yourself a little.” She blushed delightfully. “Do sit down; Uncle won’t be long.”
As Hamilton sank into the opposite chair she went on:
“I was very angry with you at first, but I suppose I did take things a little for granted.”
“The fault was mine entirely; I should never have come as I was, but I expected to find the rector alone.”
“Naturally. I’ve only been here two days. I always come for my holidays, you see.”
“I envy you, Miss Bennett. This is only my second visit to Cornwall, and I’m just finding out all I’ve missed in not coming here more often.”
“You enjoyed your tramp, then?” she asked.
“Rather! It rained a lot, but I saw all the places I wanted to. But there are lots more left for my next visit.”
“When will that be?”
“I really couldn’t say. I have to take my holiday when I can. It’s not always easy to get away.”
“You’re a writer, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Journalism and short stories. Nothing much.”
“But it’s creative work, and that makes all the difference, doesn’t it?” She sighed. “Mine’s not, and so my fortnight is rather precious. I’ve been in an office in Bristol ever since Daddy died, and it’s pretty deadly sometimes. I look forward to staying with Uncle here. There’s no one else, you see.”
She spoke quite simply, without emotion, but Hamilton could feel the depth of loneliness behind the words. Finding no adequate reply, he remained silent, while she sat staring into the fire, her chin resting on her hands. He noticed that she was now wearing simple dark dress, and that her unruly curls were neatly arranged. If possible, she looked even more lovely than when he had first seen her. Her pale cheeks owed, perhaps, a little of their rose to art, but her delicate brows were natural, he could swear, and her mouth was a thing to set any poet’s heart a-beating. Proud it was, and firm, but with a deceptive firmness, for he knew full well that the chiseled outline of the warm red lips would vanish at a touch, and become as melting soft as the heart of any rose.
He was awakened from this delicious reverie by the entrance of the rector.
“Well, my children, have you explained yourselves now?” he asked. “Good! Let’s go and have dinner.”
During the meal they talked about Hamilton’s walking tour, and upon a variety of general topics, but when Valerie had left them, the old priest unburdened himself.
“My boy,” said he, “I am desperately afraid.”
So earnest was his tone that Hamilton stopped filling his pipe and stared at him. He went on:
“I saw your friend Tony and his two associates yesterday morning. They were just setting off for London by road. I was introduced to Mr. Simon Vaughan.”
He stopped abruptly, and Hamilton leaned forward, his heart beating quickly.
“Yes, Father,” he breathed. “Go on!”
“It is he! There can be no mistake: that false priest I told you of when last we talked together. It is forty years since I saw him, but he has not changed — those drooping eyelids; that sensuous mouth — I would know them anywhere.”
Hamilton uttered a sharp cry as the match he was holding burned his fingers. Wild thoughts scurried through his brain.
“But, Father,” he stammered, “you said he was sixty then.”
“I know. He was — and is still, by all appearances. John, what does it mean? In God’s name, what does it mean? I tell you, I went straight back to the church and prayed for three hours before the Tabernacle. I have scarcely slept since. My boy — there’s devilry afoot!”
When Hamilton replied he affected a lightness he was far from feeling.
“You must be mistaken, Father — some chance likeness, perhaps. And even if it were the same he may have managed to arrest the natural approach of age somehow. That power was claimed by the adepts, was it not?”
“Oh, yes, I know. I’m not much concerned with his apparent age. Were it anyone else I would agree with you, and attribute it to some miraculous control over nature. Methuselah lived to be nine hundred, we are told. But that’s not the point. What I mean is that I know the man to be wholly evil. I cannot tell you the details of the unspeakable foulness for which he was expelled from the Church, but you can take if from me that such a monster could never change his character. When you told me of your friend’s new faith, I set it down as comparatively harmless transcendental magic, such as was practiced by the Rosicrucians and others; but, believe me, this Vaughan would have no hand in such child’s play, as he would doubtless term it.”
A dreadful suspicion of the other’s meaning began to form in Hamilton’s mind.
“You mean —?” he whispered.
“I mean Satanism — Black Magic — of the most damnable and abominable kind.”
“No, Father, it’s impossible! Even if you are right about Vaughan, Tony would never go in for such a thing.”
“He may not know what he is doing until it is too late. The Serpent is a devilishly subtle beast.”
“We must save him.” Hamilton sprang to his feet.
“How? What can we do?”
“Follow them — go to London — to Gaunt’s home.”
“And then what? Break down the door? Call the police, and tell them that devil-worship is going on? No, John, you would be laughed at. Authority does not recognize these things any more.”
Hamilton sank down again.
“But still they go on,” he muttered, covering his face with his hands.
“Yes, they still go on. In London, Paris, New York — every great city of the world — these abominable cults still persist. We can do nothing for your friend, my son. Only God can save him now. We can but pray to Him. I said a Mass of the Holy Ghost this morning for Anthony Lovell’s soul. There is little else to be done. Even now he is probably initiated.”
Hamilton groaned aloud, twisting his fingers in his hair.
“Can we do nothing, then,” he cried — “not one single mortal thing?”