by Miles Burton
“But how thrilling!” exclaimed Mavis. Then, in a tone of reproof. “Do you mean to say that you were on board that day when I was inquisitive enough to come and look at her?”
“I was,” confessed Merrion. “But, you know, I wasn’t anxious for anybody to know it.”
“And, quite naturally, you couldn’t trust a woman’s tongue. You thought I might tell Laurence Hollesley, I suppose?”
There was a bitterness in her tone that startled Merrion. “Him, and others,” he replied lamely.
Christy had brought in tea by this time, and the two were sitting together over the fire. Mavis sat silently for several minutes, staring straight in front of her. And then suddenly she spoke in a low voice. “Would it surprise you if I told you that I was afraid of Laurence, Mr. Merrion?”
Merrion almost leapt from his chair. “Afraid!” he exclaimed. “Why, what’s he been saying—?”
“Oh, I’m not afraid on my account,” she replied hastily. “But we had a bit of a scene this morning. That’s really why I went out in the speed-boat. I wanted to get away, somewhere I should be alone. I’ll tell you the whole story. It seems that Laurence started in his car for London about half-past nine. Father had business in Gippingford, and he started out in our car about the same time. Laurence saw him and turned in here, knowing that I should be alone.
“Well, to make a long story short, he asked me, for the third time this year, I think, if I would marry him. I told him I wouldn’t, and said that he might just as well make up his mind that I meant what I said and stop worrying me. He was in one of those queer moods of his when he hardly seems to know what he’s doing or saying. He flew into a rage and said that he was tired of this foolish resistance on my part. It didn’t really make any difference whether I said yes or no, for he had power to obtain what he wanted. He could force me into marrying him any time he wanted, and if I wouldn’t do it willingly, I should have to do it unwillingly. Both I and father were entirely in his power, and he would have no difficulty in making us do what he wanted. I never heard anybody go on in such a way in my life. Before I could get a word in, he burst out of the house, jumped into his car and drove away. But I confess he left me with a very uncomfortable feeling. I simply can’t imagine what he meant when he talked of our being in his power.”
“It is popularly supposed, among those who know him, that Hollesley is a trifle mad,” replied Merrion. “I shouldn’t let rantings like that worry you, Miss Owerton. Confound his impudence! I wish I’d been here to have a word with him. I don’t mind telling you, in the strictest confidence, that I fancy I know something about friend Hollesley that would make him sing very small if I were to disclose it.”
“As I say, I’m not worried for myself,” said Mavis. “It’s on father’s account, really. He’s as innocent as a lamb, poor old dear, and any unscrupulous person could easily get a hold over him. I’m perfectly certain that it can’t be anything serious.”
Merrion made no reply. A look of sternness, utterly foreign to him, came upon his face as he pondered Mavis’s words. What could be the clue to Hollesley’s power over Sir William? Did he know of the assemblies in the grove, and of their president? What dark mystery underlay the sinister practices which took place at High Eldersham? Most important of all, how was he to save Mavis from the horror of her father’s exposure and disgrace? He turned towards her abruptly. “Look here, Miss Owerton, will you trust me till to-morrow?” he said. “Something is going to happen to-night, I can’t even hint to you what it is, that will probably place me in possession of facts that I have been seeking for weeks. When I have learnt them, I may be able to tell you what is behind Hollesley’s threats. In any case, I promise to come and see you and Sir William as early as I can to-morrow.”
“I will trust you,” replied Mavis simply. “I won’t even ask you to give me some hint of what your mysterious words may mean. But, in return, will you trust me enough to let me help you, if there is anything I can do?”
“I will, and that gladly. As it happens, you can help me. As I told you, I lost my dinghy this afternoon. Will you lend me yours until midnight?”
“Of course I will, I hoped you would ask something more difficult,” she replied with a smile.
For some while longer they sat talking, deliberately choosing indifferent subjects. Then as the clock struck seven, Mavis rose. “If you do not want father to see you, it is time you were going,” she said. “He will be back very soon now. I will come down to the river with you, in case you lose your way in the fog.”
Side by side they walked down through the park. The fog had descended thicker than ever, and without Mavis’s guidance Merrion would inevitably have taken the wrong path. She led him to where the dinghy was tied up, then suddenly, as he was about to step into it, she laid a hand upon his arm. “You’re not going to do anything—dangerous, are you?” she asked softly.
He swung round and faced her. There was a note of solicitude in her voice which made the blood run madly through his veins. Obeying a sudden impulse he caught her in his arms. She lay there for an instant, then gently disengaged herself.
Breathing one last word, “Mavis!” he stepped into the dinghy and picked up the oars. The girl’s figure faded from his eyes into the surrounding mist.
Chapter XXII
The fog was all in Merrion’s favour. There was no need for him to wait until darkness fell before proceeding to the grove. This was the more convenient, since it was now high water, and there would be no difficulty in landing on the island, an operation which might have been attended with some inconvenience when the tide was out. He started to row steadily up stream, taking care not to make a noise, but satisfied that, if he took due precautions, nobody could see him from the bank.
He reached the island soon after eight, and landed at the same spot as before. His thoughts were so full of Mavis and of his parting from her that it was not until then that an obvious difficulty presented itself to him. What was he to do with the dinghy? His original scheme had been that Newport should take it back to the yacht. He could not leave it drawn up on the shore of the island; that would be to betray his presence to the first comer. The only alternative was to push it out into the stream, which was running strongly down the river. In all probability it would be carried out to sea, to be picked up, perhaps days later, by some fisherman and hailed as treasure trove.
Well, there was no help for it. It had seen its best days, anyhow, and he could easily buy Mavis a new one in Gippingford. That would be the second dinghy he had lost that day. With a pang of regret he pushed the little boat away from the bank, and watched it until it passed out of his sight downstream. Then he turned to explore the island once more.
The fog was not so thick that he could not make out his whereabouts. He had retained in his mind a knowledge of the topography of the island, and his first action was to proceed to the narrow causeway that joined it to the mainland. Sheltering behind the trees, he peered out cautiously. There was nobody in sight, and however intently he listened, he could hear no sound that might indicate the presence of anybody near him. Having satisfied himself of this, he proceeded to explore the island foot by foot, until he was certain that nobody was hidden upon it.
Then he made for the little patch of undergrowth which he had noticed on his first visit, and settled himself as comfortably as he could in the centre of it, in such a position that he could look out across the grove in the direction of the altar. He could feel a faint air upon his cheek and it seemed to him that the fog was thinning once more. This did not concern him. Darkness was falling rapidly and that would serve to screen him. Automatically he felt in his pockets for a pipe, before he remembered that he had left it with his coat on Vane Sand. Perhaps it was just as well. Nobody was likely to come along yet, but he could not take too many precautions. His thoughts would provide him with plenty of occupation meanwhile.
He lay there, weaving dreams
of Mavis, lost to all sense of time and environment. Then, suddenly, he came back to himself with a start. The distant sound of a human voice had come to him very faintly through the still night.
Merrion’s nerves braced themselves to the coming ordeal. He had no means of telling the time, but he judged that it must be somewhere between ten and eleven. The fog had cleared considerably, but a mist still hung in the branches of the trees above his head, dimly visible as a silver curtain faintly radiant from the moon, not yet at its full. But, on the ground beneath, it was still very dark and in the centre of Merrion’s hiding-place the gloom was impenetrable.
Again he heard the voice, this time much closer. He made out that two men were approaching, and had reached the causeway. They spoke in low tones and Merrion could not hear what they said. They came on steadily and, as they did so, Merrion saw a shaft of light strike upon the surrounding tree trunks.
This was awkward. These men, whoever they were, were obviously equipped with electric torches. He crouched still lower in the undergrowth, like a hare in its forme, motionless, scarcely daring to breathe. The light flashed uncertainly as the men advanced. He could hear the twigs cracking beneath their feet. They came out into the grove itself, and Merrion could see two cloaked and hooded figures, each with a torch in its hand.
They passed within ten yards of him, their torches illuminating the brushwood just above his prone figure. The least impulse of inquisitiveness, and he must infallibly be discovered. But obviously they regarded their duty as merely perfunctory. They walked on to the edge of the island, where they separated, each taking a different direction. Merrion realised that they were making a tour of the bank, and hugged himself for his foresight in sending the dinghy adrift.
The light grew fainter until it finally disappeared, and the footsteps grew fainter in the distance. Merrion guessed that these men were the sentries whom he had seen on the occasion of the last assembly. They would now take up their position on the far side of the causeway, to guard the island from the approach of any unauthorised persons. He was now safe from discovery, and could await in security the events that were to follow.
Half an hour elapsed before Merrion heard anything further. Then there was a sound of rapid footsteps, and a shadowy form, of which he could not see the outline, entered the open space in the centre of the grove. Others followed at intervals, until the turf was covered by a strange, silent multitude. They uttered no word, but Merrion could hear their quick breathing, the rustle of their garments as they swayed rhythmically upon their feet, occasionally an hysterical sob, quickly repressed. They stood there waiting, their eyes within the depths of their hoods staring intently towards the altar, hidden under the shadow of the trees.
Then Merrion became conscious of slow and majestic footsteps advancing through the gloom. They approached the grove, but ceased before they reached the open space. And, as they did so, a queer wailing cry broke from the assembled worshippers. Merrion, staring intently from his hiding-place, could see nothing. But he guessed that the devil, the mysterious president of the ceremonies, had taken up his position in the deep gloom behind the altar.
There was a moment’s silence, as the shadowy figures bowed down to the earth. Then a feeble, flickering light appeared out of the shadow. In its dim radiance Merrion could see that it proceeded from a wick set in a bowl of oil upon the altar. One by one the figures approached, each drawing a tall candle from the folds of its cloak. With a deep reverence each held the end of its candle to the flame, then returned to its place, bearing the lighted candle.
The scene, thus illuminated, was awe-inspiring in its solemnity. The candle shone upon these figures, rigid as statues, round which played gigantic and distorted shadows as the bright flames flickered in the night air. The grove itself was filled with a dim, uncertain light, but the altar, upon which the lamp had been extinguished when the last candle was lighted, could only faintly be discerned, a dark and menacing mass. And, behind it, under the overhanging branches of the trees, all was in utter and profound gloom.
All at once a strange, hollow voice, inhuman in its ghostly intonation, rang out from the heart of the shadow. Merrion could not catch the words, but he recognised it as a command. As it ceased, three figures advanced, two of them supporting the third between them. The centre figure was small and slight, as that of a young girl. Merrion felt a thrill of anticipation. This was undoubtedly the figure that Newport had seen on the previous night, standing on the newly-made grave. This girl was a neophyte, about to be admitted to the coven. The ceremony which Newport had witnessed had been one of preparation. Now the rite of initiation was to take place.
The three figures advanced until they stood before the altar, the girl in the centre swaying as though she would have fallen had she not been supported. Again the inhuman voice rang out, muffled and indistinct, but obviously questioning. The worshippers replied in a strange wailing chant. “We present her to thee, Master.” Then another question, and the chanted reply, “She comes of her own free will, Master!” A third question, and again the reply, “Body and soul, to work thy will, Master!”
One of the supporting figures bent down and whispered something in the girl’s ear. She shuddered violently, as though awaking from a trance, and stretched out one trembling arm above the altar. Her supporters drew back the fold of the cloak which covered it, so that the flickering light of the candles fell on the bare white flesh. Then something moved in the gloom, and Merrion, with a thrill of horror, saw a gigantic hairy arm, terminating in a cloven hoof and holding a bowl, stretched out of the darkness. It laid the bowl on the altar, and drew back, to appear again holding a shining knife. With a swift movement it descended, severing one of the smaller veins in the girl’s arm.
Once more she shuddered violently, but made no sound. It seemed to Merrion that she was insensible to pain. The bright blood spurted into the bowl, a few crimson drops splashing upon the stone itself. More and more slowly it came, until at last the ghostly arm shot out once more and applied some kind of salve to the bleeding arm. Then, as the figures on either side of her withdrew their support, the girl swayed for an instant and, with a shrill strangled cry, fell senseless at the foot of the altar.
The arm appeared once more, holding a vase in the shape of the naked and distorted body of a woman, from which it poured some clear and sparkling liquid in the bowl. The contents bubbled up for an instant in a pink froth, and then subsided. Then the figures which had supported the girl picked up the bowl and carried it round the assembly, holding it to the lips of each in turn. Then, when all had drunk, they drained the dregs themselves and replaced the bowl on the altar.
The draught seemed to mount like fire into the brains of the worshippers. Clasping one another at random, they broke into a mad formless dance, whirling in intricate confusion through the whole width of the glade, holding their candles above their heads. This wild pandemonium lasted for several minutes, and then ceased, at a word of command from the figure behind the altar, as suddenly as it had begun. The spectral figures resumed their attitudes of rigid expectancy.
Once more the hollow voice began to speak, this time in tones so low that Merrion could not at first make out the purport of the words. But very soon the voice became broken with passion, and grew louder. It seemed to Merrion that it was invoking some curse on all those who interfered with the actions of the assembly. It broke into a kind of diabolical litany, to the sentences of which the worshippers replied with muttered responses. It ended with a name which came clearly to Merrion’s ears, that of Viney.
As the voice ceased, one of the figures advanced towards the altar and drew something from beneath its cloak. The light of the candle carried by the figure fell on the object, and Merrion recognised it as a roughly moulded doll, with a needle plunged into its head. The doll was laid upon the altar, upon which the lamp had been relighted. The unseen president muttered a few words over it, and then taking a needle held it i
n the flame until it grew red. This he plunged into the heart of the doll. A drop of molten wax oozed like blood from the stab and fell upon the cold stone.
Merrion felt a cold shudder as he watched this symbolic deed. The needle plunged into the head had typified the pains that Viney had already complained of. This second needle, plunged into the heart, must be his death warrant. So absorbed was Merrion by what he saw, so deeply had the sense of mystery entered his mind, that he did not pause to consider how the symptoms were transmitted from the effigy to the individual. He felt that he was in the presence of some-thing devilish and inexplicable, that here before his eyes he saw the operation of a power beyond man’s understanding. Every sense told him that he was surrounded by horror; the impression of satanic power was too strong to be combated.
The figure which had produced the doll received it back from the ghastly limb to which he had delivered it. That it had been a man, Merrion was sure from his gait. But any further recognition was impossible beneath the garments that veiled him as a shroud. Merrion began to grow anxious. The proceedings had already lasted a considerable time, and as yet he had seen nothing of the figure hidden in the darkness behind the altar but that awful arm. Would he remain hidden throughout the ceremony, and then disappear as furtively as he had come? If so, Merrion’s vigil would have been wasted, and he would be no nearer the solution of the mystery than before.
A sudden summons from the hollow, unearthly voice recalled his attention to the scene before him. Twelve figures detached themselves from the rest and approached the altar. As they reached it, they drew from under their cloaks half-burnt candles, which they laid upon the stone. The hidden president received them and began to break them in pieces.
