Dark Sanctuary

by H. B. Gregory

  He felt a tremendous scorn of all weak things, and all things pitiful: Jesus of Nazareth, and John Hamilton — they passed through his mind together, pale shadows both; he rejected them utterly. This was the way of the strong, into whose hands the lordship over all things was given. Darkness reigned supreme, and he was of the legions of the darkness, and was glad.

  Chapter XII

  I

  The sun was shining gloriously over the sea, and lighting up the moorland road from Portreath to Pentock, along which John Hamilton was striding, swinging his ash-plant. That morning he had come from Otterham by rail, and by the railway motor from Redruth to Portreath.

  The city pallor was gone from his face, for in spite of the heavy rain which had fallen during the greater part of his ten-days’ tramp he had been in the open practically the whole time, and the intervals of sunshine had given him a fair tan. His clothes had suffered a good deal, being badly creased and crumpled from many wettings, and his flannel trousers were liberally splashed with mud. A rent in his jacket testified to an encounter with a furze bush near Camelford, and owing to an early start that morning he had omitted to shave. Altogether he looked a distinctly unconventional figure, but he felt in splendid health and spirits, and whistled cheerfully as he walked.

  When he drew near to the narrow ravine in which the village lay he struck off the road along the path which led to the cliff top and down by the church, for he intended to call on the rector at once. He had conceived a great affection for the old man, and was looking forward to seeing him again with much pleasure.

  Soon he reached the cliffs and had a view of the open sea, with Kestrel in the distance. What had happened there in his absence, he wondered, and how was Tony? These questions would soon be answered. Reaching the steep descent, he shortened his stride.

  On reaching the rectory gate he had something of a shock, for, sitting on a deck-chair on the lawn in front of the house, was a girl, reading.

  He pushed open the gate and approached, rather diffidently, the gravel crunching beneath his heavy shoes. The girl raised her eyes from her book, and he had a swift vision of a sweet oval face surrounded by a mass of short dark curls. Before he could speak she said:

  “You wanted to see my uncle? I’m afraid he’s out just now. But come round to the back, and I’ll see if I can find something for you.”

  She rose lightly, dropping the book on her chair, and he saw that she was very slim, and that her legs were bare. It was evident that she took him for a tramp seeking the rector’s charity. Small wonder, too, he thought, looking ruefully down at his bedraggled appearance. Wondering what to do, he followed her round to the back door.

  Once in the kitchen, she said:

  “Sit down, please, and I’ll make you some tea. I think Mrs. Drew must be upstairs.”

  Obediently he sat down at the bare table, thinking furiously, striving to frame some sort of explanation which would not embarrass her.

  The kettle was singing on the hob, and in a few minutes he had made the tea and poured out a cup, which she set before him, together with a piece of meat pie which she found in the cupboard. Her proximity, as she leaned over the table, made him feel hotter and grimier than ever, for she was dressed all in white, and looked as fresh and cool as a flower.

  Thinking that perhaps after he had finished he could escape before the rector returned, Hamilton began to eat. Indeed the food was welcome, for he had walked several miles in the heat of the day since lunching at Portreath.

  The girl perched herself on the edge of the table, swinging her legs and looking out of the window. Hamilton felt extremely uncomfortable.

  When he had finished she asked if he had had enough, and, receiving a satisfactory answer, offered him a cigarette. Thinking longingly of the pipe reposing in his pocket, Hamilton dutifully accepted one, and, when the girl followed suit, found his matches and gave her a light. As he held the flame for her he saw her eyes fall on his hands, which, though very dirty at present, were well cared for, and she looked up at him curiously.

  Now or never, he told himself, and was just opening his lips to speak when the door opened and the rector came in.

  The old man stopped short, stared for a moment, then asked:

  “Why, Valerie my dear, what’s this?”

  “Oh, uncle, this gentleman came to see you, so I gave him some tea.”

  The rector looked hard at the blushing Hamilton and his lips twitched.

  “All right, my dear, thank you. Run along now.”

  With another quick glance at Hamilton the girl left them, going out through the back door. When she had gone the rector continued:

  “Well, Mr. Hamilton, you nearly took me in for a moment. I am glad to see you.”

  “And I you, Father!” They shook hands heartily. “I’m afraid I got in under false colours. Your niece didn’t give me a chance to explain. I feel an awful fool.”

  “Don’t worry about that, my boy. She’s a dear girl, and generous to a fault. She’d feed every vagabond in the duchy if she got a chance. Would you like a wash?”

  “Very much indeed, Father. But if you don’t mind, I’ll slip along to the inn and change as well.”

  “As you wish. But come back to dinner. I’ve a lot to talk over with you.”

  Hamilton left by the front door, but Valerie was not to be seen. He wondered very much what she would say when next they met.

  An hour later he was back again, and this time the housekeeper, Mrs. Drew, let him in.

  “The Father’s in church, saying his office, sir, but Miss Valerie’s in the study.”

  She led him to the little room overlooking the garden, where Valerie was sitting in one of the big leather-covered chairs in front of a cheerful fire.

  “Come in, Mr. Hamilton,” she cried when he was announced; “Uncle’s told me all about you.”

  “Thank you, Miss Bennett. I’m afraid I made an awful ass of myself this afternoon.”

  “Well, you might have explained yourself a little.” She blushed delightfully. “Do sit down; Uncle won’t be long.”

  As Hamilton sank into the opposite chair she went on:

  “I was very angry with you at first, but I suppose I did take things a little for granted.”

  “The fault was mine entirely; I should never have come as I was, but I expected to find the rector alone.”

  “Naturally. I’ve only been here two days. I always come for my holidays, you see.”

  “I envy you, Miss Bennett. This is only my second visit to Cornwall, and I’m just finding out all I’ve missed in not coming here more often.”

  “You enjoyed your tramp, then?” she asked.

  “Rather! It rained a lot, but I saw all the places I wanted to. But there are lots more left for my next visit.”

  “When will that be?”

  “I really couldn’t say. I have to take my holiday when I can. It’s not always easy to get away.”

  “You’re a writer, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. Journalism and short stories. Nothing much.”

  “But it’s creative work, and that makes all the difference, doesn’t it?” She sighed. “Mine’s not, and so my fortnight is rather precious. I’ve been in an office in Bristol ever since Daddy died, and it’s pretty deadly sometimes. I look forward to staying with Uncle here. There’s no one else, you see.”

  She spoke quite simply, without emotion, but Hamilton could feel the depth of loneliness behind the words. Finding no adequate reply, he remained silent, while she sat staring into the fire, her chin resting on her hands. He noticed that she was now wearing simple dark dress, and that her unruly curls were neatly arranged. If possible, she looked even more lovely than when he had first seen her. Her pale cheeks owed, perhaps, a little of their rose to art, but her delicate brows were natural, he could swear, and her mouth was a thing to set any poet’s heart a-beating. Proud it was, and firm, but with a deceptive firmness, for he knew full well that the chiseled outline of the warm red lips would
vanish at a touch, and become as melting soft as the heart of any rose.

  He was awakened from this delicious reverie by the entrance of the rector.

  “Well, my children, have you explained yourselves now?” he asked. “Good! Let’s go and have dinner.”

  During the meal they talked about Hamilton’s walking tour, and upon a variety of general topics, but when Valerie had left them, the old priest unburdened himself.

  “My boy,” said he, “I am desperately afraid.”

  So earnest was his tone that Hamilton stopped filling his pipe and stared at him. He went on:

  “I saw your friend Tony and his two associates yesterday morning. They were just setting off for London by road. I was introduced to Mr. Simon Vaughan.”

  He stopped abruptly, and Hamilton leaned forward, his heart beating quickly.

  “Yes, Father,” he breathed. “Go on!”

  “It is he! There can be no mistake: that false priest I told you of when last we talked together. It is forty years since I saw him, but he has not changed — those drooping eyelids; that sensuous mouth — I would know them anywhere.”

  Hamilton uttered a sharp cry as the match he was holding burned his fingers. Wild thoughts scurried through his brain.

  “But, Father,” he stammered, “you said he was sixty then.”

  “I know. He was — and is still, by all appearances. John, what does it mean? In God’s name, what does it mean? I tell you, I went straight back to the church and prayed for three hours before the Tabernacle. I have scarcely slept since. My boy — there’s devilry afoot!”

  When Hamilton replied he affected a lightness he was far from feeling.

  “You must be mistaken, Father — some chance likeness, perhaps. And even if it were the same he may have managed to arrest the natural approach of age somehow. That power was claimed by the adepts, was it not?”

  “Oh, yes, I know. I’m not much concerned with his apparent age. Were it anyone else I would agree with you, and attribute it to some miraculous control over nature. Methuselah lived to be nine hundred, we are told. But that’s not the point. What I mean is that I know the man to be wholly evil. I cannot tell you the details of the unspeakable foulness for which he was expelled from the Church, but you can take if from me that such a monster could never change his character. When you told me of your friend’s new faith, I set it down as comparatively harmless transcendental magic, such as was practiced by the Rosicrucians and others; but, believe me, this Vaughan would have no hand in such child’s play, as he would doubtless term it.”

  A dreadful suspicion of the other’s meaning began to form in Hamilton’s mind.

  “You mean — ?” he whispered.

  “I mean Satanism — Black Magic — of the most damnable and abominable kind.”

  “No, Father, it’s impossible! Even if you are right about Vaughan, Tony would never go in for such a thing.”

  “He may not know what he is doing until it is too late. The Serpent is a devilishly subtle beast.”

  “We must save him.” Hamilton sprang to his feet.

  “How? What can we do?”

  “Follow them — go to London — to Gaunt’s home.”

  “And then what? Break down the door? Call the police, and tell them that devil-worship is going on? No, John, you would be laughed at. Authority does not recognize these things any more.”

  Hamilton sank down again.

  “But still they go on,” he muttered, covering his face with his hands.

  “Yes, they still go on. In London, Paris, New York — every great city of the world — these abominable cults still persist. We can do nothing for your friend, my son. Only God can save him now. We can but pray to Him. I said a Mass of the Holy Ghost this morning for Anthony Lovell’s soul. There is little else to be done. Even now he is probably initiated.”

  Hamilton groaned aloud, twisting his fingers in his hair.

  “Can we do nothing, then,” he cried — “not one single mortal thing?”

  “I have one other suggestion, my boy.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Go across to the Abbey, while they are away, and try to find out what is going on there. I feel certain that the focus of the whole foul business lies on Kestrel.”

  Hamilton uncovered his face, fresh hope dawning in his eyes.

  “I’ll go tomorrow,” he said eagerly; “where can I get a boat?”

  “I’ll speak to one of my choirmen. He’ll take you across. Shall I come with you?”

  “No, Father, I’ll go alone, if you don’t mind. I feel, somehow, that it is my responsibility.”

  “Very well. I shall pray most earnestly for you. Come to Mass tomorrow.”

  “I will. May I make my confession tonight?”

  “Of course. We will go into church when you leave here. Now shall we join Valerie? Not a word to her, naturally.”

  Composing their features, and resolutely thrusting aside the black thoughts which crowded their minds, they returned to the study.

  II

  For the third time in five minutes Hamilton ducked to avoid the swinging boom as the little boat changed its course. There was a slight rain falling in the stiff wind, and he sat huddled in his mackintosh, feeling rather miserable. The man at the tiller, his pipe inverted to keep out the wet, hardly spoke at all, but concentrated on the difficult job of tacking against the wind.

  Half-way across they sighted the Abbey launch, with Tom Tregellis at the wheel, and the two boatmen exchanged a hail. The mist of rain made observation difficult, but Hamilton fancied he could make out another figure crouched in the bottom of the launch. He was still wondering who it could be when they ran into smooth water in the lee of the island, and the brown sail hung limp. The fisherman got out his oars and began to row strongly for the harbour mouth.

  It was dank and cold within the sheltering rocks, and Hamilton’s spirits sank even lower as he stood up and prepared to jump for the landing-stage.

  When he had accomplished this feat in safety, he gave his instructions to the man who had brought him across:

  “Wait for me. If I’m not back in an hour, go back and tell Father Bennett.”

  The man nodded silently, and began to refill his pipe. Hamilton started on the long climb up to the Abbey.

  The wicket in the outer door was latched, but yielded to pressure, and he stepped through into the courtyard. Here it was very gloomy, and the narrow window-slits of the building frowned at him like so many suspicious eyes. An indefinable chill settled upon his heart, but he took his courage in both hands and crossed resolutely to the inner door. Mounting the steps leading up to it, he pulled the bell. After a little interval there was a sound of bolts being withdrawn, the door opened a crack, and Lorrimer’s frightened face peered out at him. Recognizing the visitor, he brightened remarkably, and, opening the door wide, besought him to enter.

  Once inside, and the door secured again, he spoke to Hamilton in a husky, fearful voice.

  “I’m very glad to see you, sir, and that’s the truth. I didn’t hardly know what to do. Come through into the kitchen, sir, if you don’t mind. The missus’ll be that pleased.”

  Mrs. Lorrimer welcomed Hamilton with no less warmth, taking off his wet coat and giving him a chair beside the fire. When his pipe was going satisfactorily he asked Lorrimer to tell him exactly what was the matter.

  “It’s Mr. Tony, sir — I mean Sir Anthony, and those other two,” the old servant burst out; “I don’t know what they’re up to, but I don’t like it. That Mr. Vaughan stays down in the crypt all day; and Sir Anthony and Dr. Gaunt, cooped up in the library with all them books — it’s not natural, sir. I’ve had a look at some of their books, too, sir, after they’ve gone to bed — I know I shouldn’t have, but I felt I must. And they’re not good books. It’s my belief, sir, that they’re leading Sir Anthony astray somehow.”

  “Is that all you have to tell me, Lorrimer?” asked Hamilton, as the other paused for breath.


  “No, sir, not by half. There’s other things besides — things that Mr. Tony don’t know about. I’m generally up pretty early in the morning, sir, and time and again I’ve seen the doctor and his friend come up out of the crypt, long before Sir Anthony was awake. They came close by me once, and their clothes smelt of that stuff they burn in Popish churches — incense they call it. What have they been up to so early? — that’s what I asks myself, sir. No good, I’ll be bound. And now they’ve gone off, taking the master with them, and leaving us alone. We don’t like it, sir.”

  “You’ve been left here before, surely?”

  “No, sir, not for longer than a day since old Sir Anthony first brought us from London with him. Besides, it’s different now. Can’t you feel it, sir? The place feels different.”

  Hamilton leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, trying to get in touch with the atmosphere of the Abbey, but he could only feel the warmth of the fire, and smell his own tobacco-smoke. Lorrimer watched him, saying:

  “No, sir, you won’t feel anything here. It’s kind of home-like with the missus and me living here, but in the hall it’s terrible sometimes. A sort of nasty feeling, like as if you was in a heathen temple. You’ve noticed it too, haven’t you, my dear?” He addressed the last question to his wife.

  “Yes, Mr. Hamilton, sir, it’s quite right what he says,” she replied; “we daren’t go out of here after dark, not into the hall we daren’t. We hadn’t used to be afraid, not when the old master was alive, in spite of the tales they told, but it’s changed now. Like as if something had woken up.”

  “Hush, my dear,” her husband broke in, “you mustn’t say things like that. There’s a God above who’ll take care of us — we needn’t be afraid. But Sir Anthony don’t think as we do, sir — he’s not a religious man, and some harm might come to him.”