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 gray 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 behavior 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 program 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 a 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 paralyzing 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 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.
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…
“Come, follow follow—follow follow—follow
follow me!
Whither shall I follow—follow—follow,
follow thee?”
The reedy notes echoed curiously in the gloom; only candles fought against the encroaching night, the rectory had not yet been equipped with gas. Melting wax splashed down onto the piano top.
“Come, follow follow—follow follow”
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.
“Whither shall I follow—follow”
A mistake of course. Black countryside lay all around the house.
