Then the wind dropped. For a while they waited hopefully, but the calm continued, so Hamilton lowered the empty sail and got out the oars. They were perhaps five miles from Pentock, and he was settling down to what promised to be a long and tiresome job, when the wind began to blow again, in short gusts, from the land.
Shipping the oars, he hoisted the sail once more, but soon found that tacking was well-nigh impossible, to one of his small skill, in such an uncertain and violent wind. After twice going within an ace of capsizing them he gave it up, lowered the sail, and began to row again.
He had his back to the wind, and consequently did not see the great bank of cloud which piled swiftly up, but the girl was watching it intently, and when it finally obscured the sun she voiced the apprehension which had been troubling her.
“Are we in for a storm, John?” she asked in a small voice.
Hamilton gave one swift look over his shoulder and went on pulling harder than ever.
“Afraid so,” he muttered. “If only we weren’t so far out!”
As he spoke great drops of rain began splashing on to the boat, and in the heart of the dark cloud overhead there was a little violet flicker, followed in a few seconds by a distant rumble. The wind increased, and began lashing the grey sea to fury.
Soon Hamilton drew in the oars; it was quite hopeless trying to row in the welter of water upon which the dinghy tossed. He crawled over the thwarts to where Valerie was crouching in the stern, taking the tiller from her, and trying to keep the boat head on to the gale. Even then mountainous waves threatened to overwhelm them every second.
The sky was now like ink, and the shore invisible through the driving rain. The thunder crashed and rolled, while the lightning flickered incessantly.
Hamilton put his free arm round Valerie, and she pressed close against him. He could feel her trembling slightly, but her voice was quite steady as she spoke into his ear above the tumult of the storm.
“Do you think we shall come through, John?”
He nodded vigorously, saying with an assurance he was far from feeling:
“Of course we shall come through. This’ll soon blow over.”
Then he had to leave her and bail out the water, which was rapidly filling the bottom of the boat.
For what seemed like hours they kept up the unequal battle with the elements. They lost all count of time, for Hamilton’s wrist-watch had stopped long ago, but at last the darkness became absolute, save when the lightning lit up the waste of heaving water with its weird blue glare. Night had fallen.
Soaked to the skin, shivering with cold and terror, they huddled together in the bottom of the boat. A cross-wave had carried away the rudder, and they were at the mercy of the wind. Hamilton cursed himself bitterly for ever having allowed her to persuade him to this mad adventure. Unless a miracle happened they were lost.
A deeper roaring rose above the noise of the wind — a crashing, seething sound. Breakers! He pulled himself up to the level of the gunwale and saw, in the brief blue glare, the black bulk of Kestrel, with the Abbey perched atop, hard on the leeward bow. Nothing could save them now, he thought; they were rushing straight to destruction on the cruel rocks. This was the end!
Howling like a demon, the wind caught the boat and lifted it broadside on the crest of a mighty wave. As they turned over he saw the welter of foam and the black rocks beneath.
II
“But, Doctor, you know I don’t like these anthropomorphic ceremonies.”
Anthony Lovell was the speaker. He sat facing Dr. Gaunt in front of the roaring fire in the library. Outside the wind was yelling round the walls of Kestrel, mingling with the ceaseless roar of the surf at the foot of the cliffs. The resultant tumult penetrated the Abbey to such an extent that the speakers had to raise their voices a little, and pause altogether when the thunder shook the building to its foundations.
“No, Tony, I know you don’t,” Gaunt answered, after one of these interruptions. “Neither do I. But Vaughan does. I suppose it’s a survival from the days when he was a priest. He loves ceremonial, and the Black Mass particularly.”
“But it effects nothing; it has no use.”
“Save on the mind of the celebrant and those present. It is true that a great adept can dispense entirely with ceremonial — even I can sometimes; but Vaughan and yourself are not sufficiently advanced yet.”
“But so much of the ritual seems quite childish and fantastic.”
The doctor smiled.
“I know. So does all ritual. Even our little human acts and gestures by which we express our emotions — love, fear, laughter, and so on — are quite absurd if viewed in a detached manner. But ritual is helpful. These time-honoured ceremonies of ours are merely a means by which we focus, and concentrate into action, all the latent powers of the soul.”
“Yes, Doctor, I know all that. It is only against this pointless Black Mass that I am protesting.”
“Well, Tony, Simon believes it to be necessary for you to assist him at it, in order to carry on with our work of banishing the curse-elemental from the island. After all, he is in charge of the job, and we must let him carry it out in his own way. The Mass is merely a rather unpleasant survival of our great rebellion against the soul-destroying bondage of the Catholic religion, and Vaughan likes to use it as a means of reminding himself of his escape from that bondage. We must humour him, Tony.”
“Very well, I’ll do it, but under protest. When does he want to begin?”
“Tonight; now, I fancy. Shall we join him? He’s down below.”
They rose and went out together. As they entered the passage leading to the hall the kitchen door burst open and Lorrimer appeared, clad in oilskins, and dripping wet.
“What on earth’s the matter, Lorrimer?” asked Tony.
Between gasps, for he had just run up the stairway from the harbour, the servant told him.
“Tom and I were just letting down the water-gate, Sir Anthony, when a great wave carried a little boat clean over.”
“Great Scott! Anybody in it?”
“Yes, Sir Anthony, a man and a woman. It took us a long time to fish them out, and they were pretty far gone, sir. Tom’s with them now.”
“Come on, Doctor!” cried Tony. “We must lend a hand.” He followed Lorrimer into the kitchen and struggled into another oilskin. Gaunt shrugged his shoulders and followed also, a little frown of annoyance on his face.
“Bring them up here, gently,” he said. “I’ll wait for you. Mrs. Lorrimer, hot blankets and brandy, please.”
Outside the wind was terrific, and it was all Tony could do to keep his feet as he stumbled down the worn steps after Lorrimer’s torch.
Down on the landing-stage two bedraggled figures were stretched out near a hurricane lamp. Tregellis was kneeling astride one of them, applying artificial respiration. Every few seconds a tremendous wave would burst in the harbour mouth, flinging a shower of spray over the group.
Tregellis greeted Lorrimer with a shout.
“The other’s breathing now; this one isn’t.”
Motioning him to help Lorrimer, Tony took over the seemingly hopeless task. He had set his hands upon her back, and was hard at work, before he realized that it was a girl who lay, apparently lifeless, between his knees. Lorrimer and Tregellis picked up the other castaway and staggered off up the steps.
It seemed to Tony that he knelt over that frail body for hours, pressing and relaxing in the endless effort to restart the water-logged lungs. The noise of the sea was frightful, and the flickering lightning rendered the lamp practically useless, so dazzling was it. Tregellis had returned and had been standing beside him for some time when Tony was at last rewarded by a choking sigh as the girl struggled painfully back to life. He staggered to his feet, numb with cold and almost exhausted, while the other gathered up the slight figure. Together they climbed the stairway, Tony lighting the way.