“Curse or no, he went from bad to worse, and some pretty unpleasant tales are told of the orgies which took place on Kestrel when he gathered his friends together.”
At this point Hamilton, who had been following the narrative with close interest, interjected:
“And how did he die?”
Tony looked at him oddly.
“No one knows,” he said slowly. “He disappeared one day, after a particularly violent drinking bout. It was thought that he must have gone on to the western battlements, which are sheer above the sea, and fallen off; still stupid with drink, and unable to save himself. Naturally, there are other legends, but they are too fantastic to take seriously.”
“What sort of legends?” Hamilton insisted.
“Oh, some rot about the curse materializing in the shape of a ghastly monster, and carrying him away.”
“I see. Who succeeded him?”
“His son, James Lovell. Quite a different type: no hearty, hard-living, hard-drinking bully like his father, but a lean, cruel-lipped ferret of a man. Just what he did on Kestrel no one really knows, but there are dark hints of black magic, pacts with the devil, and that sort of bilge. They even go so far as to accuse him of stealing children from the mainland, for use at his satanic rites. I believe the country people would have burnt him at the stake if they could have got hold of him, but the island was too well fortified.
“Finally, even his bosom friends deserted him, and he spent several weeks alone. Here again the legends go off the rails with their tale of the lurid glare that shone from the Abbey turrets in those days.
“When his friends plucked up courage, and went back, they found him dead. He’d been dead quite a while, too, or else the natural process of decay had been unusually rapid…”
Hamilton relit his pipe, which he had let go out in his absorption, and pushed the cigarette-box towards Tony. The younger man took one absently and lit it at Hamilton’s match. Then he went on:
“James left no son, and the estate and title passed to one Thomas Lovell, his nephew, an undistinguished man, who slept — or failed to sleep — one night on the island, and then retired hurriedly to London. However, a few weeks before his death he went back, and died, quite quietly, in his bed.
“Since then nothing of any great note has happened. There have been one or two bad hats, but no one really distinguished, either bad or good. Just nonentities; and yet the line still goes on. It’s amazing, really. Every one of us has died on Kestrel, I believe; either spending our last years there or just going back to die. My father has been there now for five years; he went after Mother died. I expect he’ll die there too, and so shall I, and so on…
“It’s heart-breaking — a family so old. We should be great, and yet we do nothing, nothing at all, except keep Kestrel going. The shadow of that blasted island is always upon us, from the cradle to the grave.”
He drank deeply, and lapsed into silence. Hamilton sat still, his lean, strong face very grave, his eyes closed. He seemed to see, as in a picture, that unhappy family passing like pale shadows through the unchanging halls of Kestrel; meek, bowing their necks beneath the yoke, living only that the dark and secret life of that great pile of stone might go on eternally — drawing its sustenance from them, and leaving empty husks of no account.
His reverie was interrupted by a strangled cry from Tony, and he opened his eyes to see that the other had jumped up, and now stood grinding out the stub of his cigarette in the ash-tray.
“No, by God, it shan’t go on!” he cried. “I am the last, and there shall be no more. I’ll never marry; there shall be no heir this time.” With something very like a sob he turned abruptly and strode to the window, pulling aside the curtains and staring into the dark.
His friend did not move; he knew these moods. Gently he said:
“There is a better way, Tony. Not by annihilation, and the ending of the line, but by a clean break. Take something up — politics, art, any mortal thing. When your father dies, sell Kestrel, or burn it to the ground. You could be great.”
The other turned slowly.
“Do you think so, John? Do you really think so? If only I could! If we could start again, here in London, among people, at the heart of the world, away from that damned rock!”
For a moment his blue eyes blazed with enthusiasm, and the light from a neighbouring street lamp caught his hair, turning it to gold. Then the glory faded, his shoulders drooped, and his face took on its former dejected look.
“No, John,” he said sadly, “it’s not possible. We’ve tried before; we’re done for now. Oh, give me another drink, I feel like hell!”
He came slowly back to the fireside, his feet dragging, and slumped heavily into his chair. Hamilton poured out the requested drink, and returned to the charge with: “That seems to have been the attitude of all your people: defeatism, Tony. Be a man, lad; I know you’ve mettle in you. Show the world that all the Lovells aren’t quitters.”
“God knows I’ve tried. But if you’ll help me, John, I’ll try again. What shall I do? I know nothing of art; politics bore me stiff.”
“Then get a job. You’ve plenty of capital; get interested in some business.” Hamilton considered for a moment, then went on: “Wait — I’ve got it! The very thing — I’ve an uncle in Birmingham who wants a partner; he’s getting too old to carry on by himself. He’d be glad to have you — engineering. He has a branch in South Africa. Go out there, get away, make a career for yourself.”
“But I don’t know anything about the job,” objected Tony.
Hamilton laughed shortly.
“You’ll learn,” said he, “if you’ve got any guts. You can manage men, that’s the big thing. You were house-captain at school, weren’t you?”
“D’you think I could do it, John?”
“You’ve got to do it. I’ll write him tonight — better still, let’s go down and see the old bird tomorrow. He’ll like you, Tony, I know it.”
“If I can do this,” said Tony slowly, “it’ll be the end of Kestrel.”
“Then the sooner the better. And when you’re a captain of industry, marry some nice girl, settle down out there, and forget the whole blasted business.”
“By Jove, I believe you’re right, John. I’ll do it!”
Tony was on his feet again, his dejection forgotten; and now Hamilton rose too. They gripped hands, and for an instant Tony’s excitement was stilled.
“I’ll never forget this, John,” he whispered, “not so long as I live.”
Hamilton looked deep into the resolute blue eyes, and his heart went out to his friend.
Tony picked up his glass.
“A toast,” he cried, “to Big Business, and to hell with Kestrel!”
As their glasses clinked, like an echo came the trilling of a bell in the little hall outside.
Hamilton put down his drink untasted, and with a muttered query went to the door. Tony stood waiting, an inexplicable shiver of apprehension running down his spine. From outside came a murmur of voices; then Hamilton reappeared, a buff envelope in his hand.
“It’s your man, Johnston, Tony. A wire for you.”
Tony took the telegram with fingers that refused to keep steady, and tore it open. As he read his mouth twisted a little, and he crumpled the form savagely.
“From Kestrel,” he said, in a colourless voice; “my father is desperately ill and I must go down at once.”
Chapter II
It was close on 10:30 the next morning, and John Hamilton stood on the departure platform at Paddington taking leave of his friend through the window of a reserved compartment in the Cornish Express. For the tenth time he implored Tony to let him go with him, but the young man was adamant.