“Thank you,” said Mr. Deeling.
“I hope that you will take a decision soon, Mr. Deeling,” said Nurse Webster, as she rose from her chair. “You will remember that I’m going away for my holiday tomorrow.
“I’ll let you know this evening,” replied Mr. Deeling.
He rose in front of her, opened the door for her to pass out. He had never done that before, but felt that he owed it to her now.
Nurse Webster and Warder Jones left the room in silence.
Mr. Deeling returned to his desk and sat for a long while staring at the white envelope which the warder had left with him. Then, apparently, he came to a decision. He unlocked the drawer in which he kept his investment book, put away the envelope and locked the drawer again. Then, taking up his pen, he wrote a short note to Doctor Murchison, politely thanking him for his letter, but begging to decline the offer of two months’ leave.
He felt, he said, that it would do him more harm than good to leave Château Landry at the moment. He would, however, undertake to be very careful not to overwork in future.
He signed the letter, put it in an envelope and placed it on his desk. Then, resting his head on his hands, he bent forward and remained thus for a considerable time, staring in front of him.
III
At a quarter past five the following afternoon the bell of the chapel began to toll. It was an old bell, cast in the sixteenth century, and it bore a curious inscription, Paco cruentos, graven on its outer rim. Since the wild ringing in 1792, when the last of the de Landrys had been dragged forth to death by his own peasants, its voice had only rarely been heard. Of late it had hung silent and dusty, only awaking to life on two days in the year—New Year’s Eve, when it solemnly rang out the departing year, and on the seventh of August, when it tolled for a few moments immediately prior to the “ceremony,” which had been performed now for several years, in commemoration of the late wife of Colonel Rickaby.
The inmates of the Castle began to collect at the entrance to the chapel shortly before half-past five. Colonel Rickaby came first, very splendidly dressed in an old faded uniform of scarlet, with blue overalls, strapped underneath his black patent leather boots, and gold spurs. Across his chest was a row of medals, and on the left sleeve of his arm a broad black mourning band. He stood in front of the locked door, fussing with a pair of white gloves and with the hilt of his sword.
Next to him stood Miss Truelow, in severest black, her hands folded across a large prayer book bound in limp morocco.
“I hope,” she was saying, “that Mr. Clearwater will remember to brush his hair. Last time, you will recollect, he came to church without even a collar. It was most embarrassing.”
“Do you think Miss Collett will turn up?” said the Colonel rather nervously. “And will she bring that confounded rubber ball? She’s been playing with it all the afternoon. I tried to take it away about ten minutes ago, and she screamed the place down. We can’t have her bouncing a rubber ball in there. Most indecorous.”
They were joined at that moment by Mr. Curtis. He wore a frock coat and spats, and carried a silk hat in his hand.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “What are we waiting for?”
“Stimson,” he added suddenly over his shoulder, “why haven’t I got a gardenia?”
Miss Collett was the next to appear. She was dressed in a short gray frock, with black cotton stockings and a black bow in her hair. The Colonel was relieved to see that she carried a prayer book, and that the bright rubber ball had been discarded.
There was a rapid step, and Mr. Clearwater stood before them. He was dressed as usual, but he had taken great pains with his hair. It clung to his head, having evidently been dipped in water to keep it in place. He carried a small book under his arm.
“I have never seen you with a prayer book before, Mr. Clearwater,” observed Miss Truelow.
“Good heavens, madam,” said Mr. Clearwater, “it isn’t a prayer book. This is ‘Yellow Spasms,’ my latest work,” and he exhibited with pride a slim volume bound in brown cloth boards with a thin line of golden lettering.
“I’ve tried many poets,” he went on. “In fact, I’ve read them all. But I always come back to my own. They induce in me an exaltation—a species of intoxication—”
“I hope,” interrupted the Colonel, “that you will refrain from showing signs of intoxication in church. I rely on you, Clearwater, to behave yourself.”
“Good evening,” said a voice, and at the sound of it every one turned. Doctor Murchison was among them. He was wearing a short black coat with striped trousers, and a black tie.
“Let us go in,” he said. “Colonel, I think that you, perhaps, should lead the way.”
“Excuse me, sir,” said the Colonel, “but the door is locked.”
“Of course,” said Doctor Murchison. “Mr. Hickett has the key. We shall have to wait until he has finished tolling the bell.”
“The bell it tolls
For dead men’s souls,”
chanted Mr. Clearwater suddenly,
“And who can tell
If heaven or hell
Holds them in thrall.”
“Silence, please, Mr. Clearwater,” said Doctor Murchison.
Mr. Clearwater looked at the doctor rebelliously, as though he expected to be indulged and even commended for his indiscretion. Then he laid a finger on his lips and nodded wisely.
“I quite agree, Doctor,” he said. “I quite agree.”
“Where is Miss Archer?” Miss Truelow abruptly inquired.
“Miss Archer cannot come,” replied the doctor. “She is still hardly well enough to leave her bed.”
“Most unfortunate,” said the Colonel. “This is the first time she has missed the ceremony for years. I always rely on her to lead the hymns.”
“I am sorry, Colonel,” said the doctor gravely, “but we shall have to do without her for this once.”
“And where is dear Miss Sedgwick?” said Miss Collett.
“She also must be excused,” said Doctor Murchison. “I have had to send her into the village. There are several people who are sick, and she has gone to help them.”
Miss Truelow smiled with pinched lips, and was about to make some comment, when suddenly the bell was silent, and there were footsteps behind the chapel door. There came the sound of a key in the lock, and a moment later it was thrown open.
The Reverend Mark Hickett stood waiting on the threshold. He was dressed in cassock and surplice, and he held a black book in his hand, against which was pressed the key of the chapel. He stood aside to let his small congregation enter. There was a slight pause, and then the Colonel led the way, closely followed by Miss Truelow and Mr. Curtis. The last to enter was Doctor Murchison.
Within the chapel it was cool and dark, for the sun of the late afternoon did not touch any of the lancet windows. The great rose window was a wheel of dying color.
They filed to right and left, the Colonel and Miss Truelow sitting on one side, Mr. Curtis and Miss Collett on the other, while Mr. Clearwater climbed the small winding stair leading to the organ loft. Doctor Murchison remained at the back of the church.
The Reverend Mark Hickett made his way slowly up the central aisle, paused a moment beneath the chancel arch, and then climbed the three steps leading to the altar. There he turned and faced them.
“We will sing,” he said tonelessly, “hymn one hundred and sixty-eight. The one hundred and sixty-eighth hymn: ‘dark lowers the night above our restless souls.’”
There was a slight pause. Then the Colonel began turning over the pages of his hymn book.
Mr. Clearwater was already playing the preliminary phrase and the four people present rose to their feet.
But something was happening to the Reverend Mark Hickett. He had stood a moment after giving out the hymn, looking over the heads of his congregation towards Doctor Murchison. And now, abruptly, before the hymn could be started, with an uncouth gesture, he raised his hands, gripped the edg
e of his surplice and tore it in two with a sound of rending.
“No,” he said in a voice that cracked, “it is not I that should be standing in this place. I have seen only the shadow of the Master, but there is one here who speaks with the Master himself.”
For a moment no one stirred. The Reverend Mark Hickett, his eyes burning and one hand outstretched, was pointing straight at the doctor.
“If you must pray,” he continued, “go down on your knees to him.”
And now they all turned and looked back towards the doctor, Mr. Clearwater leaning from the loft to get a better view.
“We are all believers here,” went on the Reverend Mark Hickett, and he spoke now to the doctor himself. “What need is there of any further mystery?”
He paused and then sank swiftly to his knees, his hands extended towards the silent figure at the back of the chapel.
The place was now full of shadows. The sun, which a moment before from the rim of the mountain wall had been shining full on the rose window, had gone down behind the valley and the wheel of the saints in their ruby and sapphire was drained of its glory. In the chapel was a glimmer of white made by the torn surplice of the man on the chancel steps, four motionless figures erect in their places, a pale face that gleamed from beneath the serried pipes of the organ, and, in the thickest of the gloom, darkest of all, the figure to whom all eyes were directed.
The figure stirred. It came down the aisle towards the chancel, as though responding to an invocation. The apostate before the altar sank lower and, as the figure approached and stood at last upon the steps, became a heap of crumpled linen and black cloth at its feet.
There was a sigh and a rustle of garments, and now there were four kneeling shadows in the body of the chapel, blind shadows with bowed heads.
They did not see the man who spoke to them. For a moment, with folded arms, he looked down on them, a smile on his lips, triumph in his eyes.
He stood on the altar steps in his striped trousers and his black coat, as conventional a figure as could well be imagined, but the message he had for them had not been uttered since Gil de Rais had mouthed his secret blasphemies before the slashed corpses of his child victims.
The chapel was dark when he had finished, and there was a fifth shadow among those who listened from the pews, for Mr. Clearwater had crept down from the loft and was kneeling with the rest. The man at the altar raised his hand.
“You know now,” he concluded, “why we are here and whom it is we serve. You have now only to wait until I give you the sign.”
The shadows crept to his feet, adoring. He drew back a little as they fawned upon him.
The thin voice of Miss Truelow came from behind her folded hands.
“Master,” she began. But he rebuked her.
“You must not call me that. I am but the voice of the Master.”
“But there is work to do,” and now it was Mr. Curtis who spoke. “Those who do not believe—”
His voice shook, so that he could not continue, but he sprang erect and, trembling with passion, seized a brass candlestick from the altar and brandished it above his head.
At once they were all upon their feet, and there was a sudden gleam where the Colonel’s sword cut the gray air as he tore it madly from its sheath. Mr. Clearwater fell back, sobbing with terror and desire, and the tall form of Mr. Hickett pointed with arm outstretched towards the door.
“The sun shall not see them again,” he cried. “Let none of them escape.”
They were all in motion now, except Doctor Murchison, who stood silent among the demons he had raised.
“Miss Archer first,” shouted Mr. Curtis. “She would not join us here. She is the worst of the unbelievers.”
There was a rush towards the western end of the chapel. A chair fell over with an echoing crash.
“Stop!” cried a voice from the altar steps.
They halted and swung round.
“Not yet,” the voice continued. “You will receive from me the sign when it is necessary. Now leave me and go to your rooms.”
There was a shuffling in the gloom, a door was opened and closed. The man on the altar steps was alone.
“It must be soon now,” he whispered, “quite soon.”
He fell to the ground and lay upon the pavement, his face buried in his hands.
Chapter Ten
I
On the following day Constance was late for tea. Her visit to the village on the previous afternoon had resulted in arrears of work which had made it necessary for her to pass several weary hours in the little office next door to Mr. Deeling’s dispensary, filled with ledgers and a big green safe. For in addition to her other duties she had taken over the accounts of Château Landry.
Tea was served in the rose garden. Most of the inmates of the Château had already finished when she appeared, and were sitting round the large table talking, it seemed, rather more sociably than usual. Miss Collett was the first to catch sight of Constance, and ran to meet her.
“They said you wouldn’t come,” she said. “They said you would be too proud. But I’m not afraid. I’m, not afraid. Will you tell me a story before I go to bed?”
Constance smiled to cover her irritation. She had discovered that Miss Collett got on her nerves more than anybody else. She could scarcely endure the sight of this elderly woman dressed as a small child and talking in the accents of a girl of ten. The worst of it was that she did not appear to have any lucid moments. Her delusion was as fixed and unalterable as the stones of the castle itself.
“Not tonight,” she said gently, “I shall be too busy.”
Miss Collett looked at her sagely and nodded her gray head.
“I ’spose now you won’t ever be able to tell me a story?”
“Why not?” said Constance, falling into step beside her.
“’Cos he wouldn’t let you,” said Miss Collett.
“Who wouldn’t?”
“Why, the great doctor, of course, who is going to save us all.”
They were at the large table, the Reverend Mark Hickett, Colonel Rickaby, who was playing chess with Miss Truelow, and Mr. Curtis, who was still devouring macaroons. Mr. Clearwater was sitting a little apart from the others.
The Reverend Mark Hickett rose as she reached the table.
“Miss Sedgwick,” he said, “let me get you a cup of tea.”
Constance looked at him in surprise. It was the first time he had ever offered to do anything for her; and, as she sat down and he poured out the tea, she found that they were all looking at her with a strange but friendly deference. Even Miss Truelow, from her chessboard, appeared to share it, for, almost timidly, she leaned forward and laid her thin fingers on the sleeve of Constance’s dress.
“You are looking tired, my dear,” she said, with an ingratiating smile, “and that won’t do at all. It’s now you should be looking your best.”
Constance forced a smile.
“I am not really tired,” she answered. “But it is very hot, and I have been working indoors nearly all day.
“Working,” said the Colonel, “that won’t do at all. Curtis, we shall have to organize a fatigue party. We can’t have Miss Sedgwick working herself to a shadow.”
“Stimson,” said Mr. Curtis, “you will please hold yourself at Miss Sedgwick’s disposal until further notice.”
He turned to Constance.
“I quite agree with the Colonel,” he went on, “if there is anything I can do for you personally, please don’t hesitate.”
“We must all do what we can,” pursued Miss Truelow, bending over the chessboard, and reducing Colonel Rickaby to speechless indignation by the removal of one of his bishops, “for he will expect you to be equal to the occasion.”
Constance was about to reply when a soft murmur arose from where Mr. Clearwater was sitting, a little apart from the others:
“Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Leads’t thou that heifer lowing to the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?”
Mr. Clearwater was looking wistfully away towards the forest and reciting under his breath.
“What I like about this place,” said Mr. Curtis suddenly, “is that here we are quite alone. Everything can be done quietly and in order.”
“Hold your tongue,” said the Reverend Mark Hickett sharply, and he laid a finger on his lips.
Mr. Curtis had the air of a man justly rebuked. He gazed for a moment at the Reverend Mark Hickett, and a look of intelligence passed between them.
“Stimson,” he said over his shoulder. “That last observation of mine is not for the minutes.”
Mr. Clearwater, haggard and ill at ease, turned suddenly to Mr. Curtis.
“Are you quite sure?” he asked.
Mr. Curtis looked at him blankly.
“Sure of what?” he inquired.
“The valley may not be as safe as you think. They may get to us yet, and we must be ready. They must not take us by surprise.”
He looked away towards the mountain wall.
“Over the rocks. Over the rocks,” he murmured.
Constance glanced at him in dismay. This was the first time he had referred to his special delusion since the day of her arrival.
“Don’t you worry, Clearwater,” said the Colonel. “We are more than a match for them now. I remember once, against the Wazi Wazi in ’87, or was in ’89, I got cut off with ten men, or was it eight—no, it was six men and a drummer boy. It was Sir Picton-Turnbull’s force, or was it Sir Joshua Elford’s? Back to back we stood in a narrow defile. One hundred and thirty-seven killed and wounded and not a scratch between the six of us.”
“I should feel safe anywhere with the dear Colonel,” simpered Miss Truelow. “He is our chosen warrior, our mighty man of valor.”
The Reverend Mark Hickett stirred uneasily in his chair.
“Madam,” he said, “I would ask you in future to avoid expressions from the Scriptures.”
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