“From Mr. Lorrimer, sir.”
The message was brief, and ran as follows:
Mr. Hamilton, sir,
Sir Anthony and the others returned yesterday, just after you left. They did not ask if you had been, so I suppose they did not know that you are in the village. They all went down to the crypt last night, and were there a long time. Sir Anthony is much changed; you would scarcely know him, sir. I will communicate any further developments at once.
Hamilton folded the note thoughtfully and put it in his pocket, telling Tregellis that there would be no answer, and made his way to the rectory. He could see no other course than to wait from something to turn up, but he hated the inaction, and Tony might be inextricably involved while he sat still and did nothing.
He found the rector digging in the front garden and gave him the note. The old man read it through carefully and then tore it into small fragments.
“It tells us very little,” said he. “You will observe that ‘Sir Anthony is much changed’. I have no doubt that he is now initiated, and realizes to what he has committed himself. He could hardly be otherwise than changed, poor boy. I don’t think we can rely upon their not knowing you are here. If they are as clever as I think they will be perfectly well aware of our movements. No, we can do nothing at present. The next move is theirs.”
Hamilton was forced to agree, and the rector continued:
“I think you had better go and speak to Valerie. You will find her round at the back somewhere. She made me tell her the whole story last night after you had gone. It was careless of you to leave that pistol in your pocket, but perhaps it is as well that she should know.”
“How did she take it?” Hamilton asked anxiously.
“Rather badly at first, I’m sorry to say. It was an unpleasant shock for her — she did not suspect that such things happened at all; but she is better now. She wants to see you.”
Hamilton left him and walked round the side of the house. When he came to the lawn at the back he saw the girl sitting on a garden seat, apparently deep in thought, for she did not look up as he approached. Without saying anything he sat down beside her and began to fill his pipe. Presently she spoke, not looking at him, but staring straight in front of her.
“Uncle told me everything last night.”
“Yes, I know.” Hamilton struck a match.
“Oh, how can you sit still, smoking your pipe, while out there a soul is being ruined for ever?” she burst out with surprising vehemence. “You’re as bad as Uncle. ‘Pray’, he says. What good will that do? It’s — its’ damnable!” She finished with a half-sob, and suddenly burst into tears, burying her face in her hands. Hamilton felt an almost uncontrollable desire to take her in his arms and comfort her, but he merely bit his pipe-stem hard and said quietly:
“Your uncle is right, Miss Bennett. Things are rather out of our hands now. They are so much more powerful than we are; we can do nothing against them in our own strength. But God will help us, if we trust Him.”
“Then why does He let such things go on at all? I never knew that there were such people as these — these Satanists.”
“It’s very hard, I know,” he answered, “but don’t you see that it explains a good deal of the misery and horror of this world, that such people as these deliberately take sides against God, and help to bring about the Devil’s plans?”
“But why should only they have this awful power? Why shouldn’t decent people be able to fight them with their own weapons?”
“I suppose because it’s easier to gain this power by submitting to the Devil,” said Hamilton slowly. He was not very sure of his ground, being almost as new to this as she was, but the rector had tried to explain to him also, and he desperately wanted to help her in her trouble.
“Great saints have had material power,” he went on, “but we ordinary people would probably only misuse it if we had it, so God doesn’t let us have the chance. The Devil is only too ready to help his own.”
“I suppose that must be it” — she spoke more calmly now — “but I can’t bear to think of that poor boy all alone at the mercy of such monsters.”
“Do you think it is any easier for me?” he asked. “Tony was my friend — you have not yet even met him — and since it was I who was responsible in the first place for Gaunt’s coming down here, I feel partly to blame for the whole affair.”
She was instantly contrite.
“I’m so sorry — of course it’s much worse for you. I’d no idea you felt like that about it. It was beastly of me to turn and rend you. Please forgive me!”
“With all my heart, Valerie.”
“Thank you — John.” She glanced sideways at him, half-shyly, as she used his name, and he felt a sudden glow of warmth about his heart.
“Shall we try and forget all about it for the present?” he asked. “Worrying won’t do any good at all; we’ve done all we can; the rest lies with God.”
“I’ll do my best,” she answered, “but you must help me, John.”
“We’ll help each other, Valerie,” said he.
So began a very happy companionship, born not only of their mutual physical attraction, but of a very real spiritual need which both felt.
The weather had taken a turn for the better, and during the next week they spent most of their time together, out of doors.
They went for long walks over the bleak moors, peering fearfully down the abandoned mine-shafts which scarred them, and exploring the ruined engine-houses. They climbed the gaunt granite tors, and scrambled over the weird-shaped masses of rock, finding sheltered crannies in which to unpack their picnic basket. They bathed from a secluded cove a mile or so north of Pentock, where there was a beach of firm, golden sand, and the sea was free from rocks. Here they would splash about in the clear, shallow water, warm as milk, or swim together out to sea when the tide was favourable. Then, pleasantly tired with the exertion, they would dry in the hot sun, talking sometimes, but more often silent in their perfect comradeship. At such times Valerie looked more intoxicatingly lovely than ever, with her dark curls lying damp about her face, and her lithe body and slim legs, delicately tanned, set off to perfection by the white costume which she wore.
Hamilton knew he was fast falling in love with her, and he was content that it should be so. Whether his feelings were reciprocated he did not know, but the light in her eyes and the look on her face sometimes gave him much cause for hope. And so the days passed.
One morning Valerie said she would like to go for a sail. Hamilton doubted the wisdom of this, since his boating experience was limited to yachting on the Broads, but he was long past denying her anything; so, without consulting the rector, they packed a luncheon-basket and crept out like two naughty children. They managed to hire a dinghy down at the harbour, and after lengthy instructions from the boatman about the tides they set sail. The harbour mouth was negotiated successfully, and in a few minutes they were out in the open sea. There was a fresh breeze, and the sea was rather choppy, but by avoiding the shore and keeping well out Hamilton thought they would be safe enough.
He set his course for the north, giving Kestrel a wide berth, and for a couple of hours they glided along happily. The only other boat in sight was a coal-barge — from Cardiff he guessed, making for Portreath. Presently that disappeared, and they had the sea to themselves; the distant rocky coast on their right and Kestrel behind them.
Shortly after noon they opened the basket and had lunch. Then Hamilton lay down in the bottom of the boat, one hand on the tiller, smoking his pipe and lazily watching Valerie, who was perched in the bows; a delightful picture in her white sweater and short blue skirt. Overhead two seagulls sailed in the deep blue, their wings flashing in the sun. It was very peaceful.