The meal proved quite as excruciating as they had feared: a concoction of half-burnt meats and overdone vegetables served on cracked dishes, the entire menu redolent of frantic poverty and inefficient male cooking. Their host kept up a smooth flow of interesting, curious, and often amusing chatter; he had beyond question a most formidable charm—indeed, had it not been for those strange eyebrows he would have passed for a handsome man; the head well formed, the eyes darkly compulsive. He seemed completely at his ease. Uncle Nicholas, by contrast, appeared to be afflicted by a nervous tick, his speech impediment grew worse when thickened by wine, he seldom joined in the conversation and then only to defer to the rector. It came as a mild surprise when (the ordeal of eating mercifully finished) Alaric Halsey moved across the threadbare carpet, sat himself down at an old upright piano, and declared that his companion would entertain them with a song.
It emerged that Nicholas, in common with others who suffer his disability, could sing with no trace of a stammer; he produced a moderate tenor voice and the company joined in a variety of carols. That done, the pianist changed key and the singer moved on to ballads, folk tunes, old roundelays . . .
The reedy notes echoed curiously in the gloom; only a candle fought against the encroaching night, the rectory had not yet been equipped with gas. Melting wax splashed down onto the piano top.
Paul turned abruptly; the high windows had no curtains and for one second he had an impression—the merest hint—of something peering through the glass.
A mistake of course. Black countryside lay all around the house.
‘Trees’, said the Reverend Alaric, ‘trees figure prominently in the ancient Saxon religion. My dear Mr Bernays, what is the matter?’
For Paul had leapt up: something, yes, positively Something, tapped on the window pane—a faint rattle as of drumming finger tips, a staccato impatient knock. But now he had gained the window and now he stared out and it had gone. He stood there feeling very slightly ridiculous. His mind clutched at the notion of a tree, for there were trees, certainly; a couple of elms etched sharply against the sky. But too far away, surely, to account for the sound and the singular impression he had received of a figure, just beyond the glass, waiting.
‘I thought I heard a noise,’ said Paul foolishly.
‘Has it begun to snow?’
‘I think not.’ And indeed the chill of the previous hours had passed off, not only was there no promise of the traditional Christmas white, but it had most disagreeably begun to rain again.
‘Oh dear, dear, dear.’ The group round the piano broke up; Mr Halsey crossed the room. ‘You heard a noise, you say? I do hope Elliot’s horse hasn’t broken out of the stables again.’
His easy tone, and the natural-sounding explanation, calmed the visitor. We have already noted that Paul Bernays did not possess a remarkably quick mind; it did not strike him as monstrously unlikely that a horse should break out of a warm stable in the middle of a winter’s night to go wandering abroad. He knew the animal in question; it did from time to time escape and had in the past been the subject of irritated complaint from other farmers. He was about to resume his seat, satisfied, when the priest took his arm.
‘Shall we investigate, my dear boy? It might perhaps be prudent. I have no desire to see my fencing knocked down.’
Again the fatal grip of good manners! A young man of sense had only to protest that it grew late, the countryside lay in inky blackness, and the pursuit of somebody else’s horse under such circumstances was mere folly. He did indeed open his mouth to remark on the rain; yet under the steely impact of Alaric Halsey’s gaze, the smile that would not brook refusal, he heard himself answer:
‘Yes, of course.’ And then—clutching once more at straws—‘Will you come with us, George?’
It should have presented no problem. Clearly (given the improbable surmise that a farm animal was running loose outside) the more people to catch it the better. So much should have been self-evident; yet somehow Paul found himself being drawn out into the hall, whilst behind him Uncle Nicholas cried: ‘You must stay with me, Mr Markham! I—I—I feel sure the others can manage! I—I—I must ask you not to leave me alone . . .’
His voice rose to a plaintive yelp; and the door slammed shut. It must have been exasperated nerves which caused Paul to believe that, for a fraction before the door shut, Uncle Nicholas had looked at Alaric Halsey with frightened questioning eyes; and Alaric Halsey had almost imperceptibly nodded.
They passed through the dim hall and, pausing only to snatch up their raincoats, they hurried out of the main porch, into the rainswept night. It really was most horribly dark, an absolute blackness hung over the fields; a blackness so complete the eye could not determine the curve of the downs or see with any certainty where the horizon ended and the sky began. And the silence too held some quality positively unnaturaclass="underline" save for the drumming of rain on sodden grass there was no sound whatsoever.
‘There’s nothing there!’ cried Paul; and as the words left him he knew he lied. Oh, most certainly something was there: within that black void Something waited, holding its breath.
‘Beyond the gate, I imagine’. His companion’s hand fell on his shoulder urging him forward. Paul stumbled against the wet shrubbery, precipitating a shower of cold drops; if only it were possible to see! He fumbled in the pocket of his raincoat for matches; they were not there! They should have been there, for he smoked a pipe and was in the habit of carrying . . .
‘Hurry! Hurry!’ The Reverend Alaric’s voice, sharp with impatience, sounded behind him. ‘Come, come, you’re a young man, I’m relying on you, don’t loiter in the pathway! You’re not, I take it, afraid of the dark?’
‘Of course not!’ yelled Bernays; he leapt forward and caught his foot against a stone. ‘It’s just that—Confound it—Which way are we supposed to be going?’
They were right out of the garden by now. To the left lay a rising hill, to the right a flat stretch of meadow; this much he knew from memory—and memory was all he had to guide him; the land merged into an inky pool without form or definition. The rain appeared to be dropping in straight lines; the entire exercise seemed monstrously disagreeable and utterly pointless for there was no stray animaclass="underline" no creature with a modicum of sense would be abroad in such abominable circumstances. Irritation began to replace alarm. What in the name of wonder were the two of them doing there? His dislike of Alaric Halsey hardened into a positive contempt. Blast the fellow, by what right did he drag a visitor from the house? He opened his mouth to protest, to voice his declared intention of returning indoors.
‘Come,’ said Alaric in his ear. ‘Follow.’
With fingers fastened onto Paul’s wrist, he led the way across a grassy incline, moving forward with a very complete confidence as if perfectly aware of his destination. Walking became more hazardous; rough ground and darkness combined to make each step a risky business; the earth (rendered soft by the downpour) sucked at their shoes and left a coating of mud which smelt of farmyard refuse. Bernays glanced over his shoulder; he could see blurred patches of light behind them, the hazy outline of the rectory windows: as he watched, the lights went out. A curious effect. It must be an optical illusion, caused no doubt by some contour of the landscape. He turned to comment on it, thank goodness the Reverend Halsey had let go of his arm and moved a few paces on into the night.