It proved a most embarrassing experience. Clearly the general exodus of its congregation had thrown the parish of St Wilbrod’s into a state of quite desperate poverty; room after room held nothing save a threadbare rug on the floor and two or three dilapidated chairs. It must once have been a living of some importance for the house boasted six bedrooms, three reception rooms, a library, a study, and a positive warren of kitchens and pantries. From these last Paul deduced that his host was in the habit of cooking for himself; various pots and pans lay on the table, uncleaned and smelling slightly of rancid fat. He wondered how in heaven’s name the two men contrived to exist in such a penniless wreck of a home. The contrast between this squalor and the comfort of his own manor house, West Farthing, with its full complement of amiable Sussex maids and kindly gardeners, seemed too much for Paul altogether—he made his excuses and fled out into the wintry afternoon, taking his raincoat with him. Even as he pulled it on it struck him that Uncle Nicholas must have thrown the garment down in that abominable kitchen. It felt sticky.
The day had darkened, a discoloured sky fitted over the hills like a lid. Paul Bernays hurried on, conscious of a most irrational desire to escape.
From what?
The derelict rectory with its learned owner—his uncle, ducking that thin red head, avoiding all direct contact with the eyes? Absurd. His uncle was merely a nervous, unlucky man and the priest—why, the priest must be both charitable and kind to have offered him a home. Paul quickened his pace and nearly fell, the ground being pitted with disused rabbit holes and littered with stones. The strange depression, the mounting unease, could only be the result of bad weather and a bad conscience; he did indeed feel guilty, he must certainly do something to make life more tolerable for the ill-assorted pair he had just left. Meanwhile, home and tea!
He stepped out briskly. Thinking of the couple made him glance back over his shoulder and he noticed a shadow at his heels. A second’s thought made him look again, for there was no sun, how could he be casting . . . Yes, he had not been mistaken, it was there—a shapeless blur on the grass. Quite small; and eight or ten feet away. It moved when he moved, stopped when he stopped; it bore no resemblance to his own shape, so therefore something else must be causing the effect. Paul frowned, studying the landscape. There was nothing visible at all, nothing to account for the mark. Empty fields stretched to the foot of the downs, a most extraordinary silence, not even a bird sang—but it was the middle of winter, why should birds sing! He turned and put the matter from his mind. Yet the thing still puzzled him; after a few hundred yards he turned again. The shadow had moved closer and had grown in size, a formless grey stain wrinkling where it crossed the folds in the ground.
He could not say why it affected him so unpleasantly. Perhaps the scientific absurdity offended his intellect, for there must be some object between the light and the earth to account for . . .
‘This is impossible!’ said Paul out loud.
Close behind him something giggled.
He broke into a run; even as he went he told himself that his behaviour was no more than natural—it was cold, it might rain, he must get to West Farthing. As for the noise, that soft gurgle, some animal must have made it! Paul lengthened his stride. Yet he could not resist the urge, almost against his will, to twist round and glance behind him.
The shadow had swollen to twice its original size: as he watched, one corner elongated itself and slid across the ground in his direction. He let out a yell, and sprinted across the rough grass. Gasping for breath he made for the stile—unable to say what terror, what monstrous premonition of evil, impelled him forward. He clambered frantically over the wooden bar, and as he did so a voice shouted:
‘My dear chap! Where on earth have you been? I’ve been waiting for you for hours.’
George Markham stood in the yard, his face creased with anxiety.
Paul stopped. He forced himself to turn slowly, to look calmly back. The bleak winter fields lay motionless under the sky; barren acres extended to the foot of the downs. There was nothing there. He debated whether to mention the incident to his friend: really, it seemed too unlikely, too fanciful altogether! He muttered something to the effect of having been detained at the rectory; and hurried inside the house.
The temperature dropped during the night; they woke to find the air grown sharp and a thin coating of snow across the paths. From his window Bernays observed one of the farmers going by with a gun; the fellow seemed to be eyeing the ground, he stopped from time to time, peering and prodding at the frozen mud.
‘Morning, Elliot!’
‘Morning, sir’. The man glanced up, ‘you haven’t had any trouble over here, I don’t suppose?’
‘Trouble? Why, no.’
‘Thought you might have been visited by a fox. There’s tracks running right round your house. There, see? And there again. Can’t be a fox, I reckon; no, not a fox. I never did see a fox leave marks the like of that.’
‘What kind of marks?’ asked Paul, refusing to acknowledge the very faint shiver of apprehension, no, not fear: he was cold, no more—he had the window open, and the weather had turned cold.
‘Hanged if I know, sir.’ The farmer sniffed, blew his nose, and went out of sight behind the barn.
The moment passed. Those who live in the country must surely expect to find evidence of wild animals from time to time! Besides, there were preparations to be made, plans to be discussed, an entire Christmas programme to arrange. The owner of West Farthing slammed the shutter down and went in search of George Markham. They were seated in front of what may fairly be called a Dickensian log fire, happily arguing the relative merits of roast turkey and duck à l’orange, when the Reverend Halsey was announced. He had come, he said, to deliver an invitation—the residents at the rectory would count it a most particular blessing if Mr Bernays would take dinner with them on Christmas Eve.
Strange are the complexities of civilization, the pressure exercised by society on even the most rational person. Paul Bernays did not want to dine at the rectory. He disliked the rector, and what he had seen of the kitchen caused him to entertain grave doubts as to the food. An older or more quick-witted man would have pleaded a previous engagement—pressure of work—the imminent arrival of a great many guests. There was, to be frank, no reason on earth why he should accept; save the horrid, the paralysing conviction that it would be bad manners to refuse.
‘You have no other plans, I believe?’ The clergyman smiled. ‘As I recall it, you told your uncle that your own festivities do not begin till Christmas Day.’
Paul shifted miserably; for you see, it was true, his London companions did not arrive before then. If he told a direct lie he might be detected: a circumstance altogether too embarrassing. He toyed briefly with the notion of pleading illness; and that also was quite impracticable—he might be seen galloping across the downs. Before his confused brain could handle the situation Paul heard his lips say:
‘Thank you, sir, that’s very kind of you.’ And then, as a desperate afterthought—‘my friend and I will be happy to accept.’
It became apparent from the clouding of the Reverend Alaric’s face that his invitation had not included Paul’s friend; but here, thankfully, the restraints of polite society worked in reverse. He could not bring himself to say that he had excluded Mr George Markham. So it came about that on Christmas Eve both young men sat down to dinner in St Wilbrod’s rectory.