As she turned the corner, the figure she expected was waiting there; and she could see in the deep twilight that he lifted his hat to her. She went straight up to him.
“Yes,” she said, “I have seen for myself. You are right so far. Now tell me what to do.”
It was no time for conventionality. She did not ask why the solicitor was there. It was enough that he had come.
“Walk this way then with me,” he said. “Now tell me what you have seen.”
“I have seen a change I cannot describe at all. It’s just someone else—not Laurie at all. I don’t understand it in the least. But I just want to know what to do. I have written to Father Mahon to come.”
He was silent for a step or two.
“I cannot tell you what to do. I must leave that to yourself. I can only tell you what not to do.”
“Very well.”
“Miss Deronnais, you are magnificent! … There, it is said. Now then. You must not get excited or frightened whatever happens. I do not believe that you are in any danger—not of the ordinary kind, I mean. But if you want me, I shall be at the inn. I have taken rooms there for a night or so. And you must not yield to him interiorly. I wonder if you understand.”
“I think I shall understand soon. At present I understand nothing. I have said I cannot dine with him.”
“But—”
“I cannot … before the servants. One of them at least suspects something. But I will sit with him afterwards, if that is right.”
“Very good. You must be with him as much as you can. Remember, it is not the worst yet. It is to prevent that worst happening that you must use all the power you’ve got.”
“Am I to speak to him straight out? And what shall I tell Father Mahon?”
“You must use your judgment. Your object is to fight on his side, remember, against this thing that is obsessing him. Miss Deronnais, I must give you another warning.”
She bowed. She did not wish to use more words than were necessary. The strain was frightful.
“It is this: whatever you may see—little tricks of speech or movement—you must not for one instant yield to the thought that the creature that is obsessing him is what he thinks it is. Remember the thing is wholly evil, wholly evil; but it may, perhaps, do its utmost to hide that, and to keep up the illusion. It is intelligent, but not brilliant; it has the intelligence only of some venomous brute in the slime. Or it may try to frighten you. You must not be frightened.”
(She understood hints here and there of what the old man said—enough, at any rate, to act.)
“And you must keep up to the utmost pitch your sympathy with him himself. You must remember that he is somewhere there, underneath, in chains; and that, probably, he is struggling too, and needs you. It is not possession yet: he is still partly conscious. … Did he know you?”
“Yes; he just knew me. He was puzzled, I think.”
“Has he seen anyone else he knows?”
“His mother … yes. He just knew her too. He did not speak to her. I would not let him.”
“Miss Deronnais, you have acted admirably. … What is he doing now?”
“I don’t know. I left him in his room. He was quite quiet.”
“You must go back directly. … Shall we turn? I don’t think there’s much more to say just now.”
Then she noticed that he had said nothing about the priest.
“And what about Father Mahon?” she said.
The old man was silent a moment.
“Well?” she said again.
“Miss Deronnais, I wouldn’t rely on Father Mahon. I’ve hardly ever met a priest who takes these things seriously. In theory—yes, of course; but not in concrete instances. However, Father Mahon may be an exception. And the worst of it is that the priesthood has enormous power, if they only knew it.”
The tinkle of a bicycle bell sounded down the road behind them. Maggie wheeled on the instant, and caught the profile she was expecting.
“Is that you?” she said, as the rider passed.
The man jumped off, touched his hat, and handed her a note. She tore it open, and glanced through it in the light of the bicycle lamp. Then she crumpled it up and threw it into the ditch with a quick, impatient movement.
“All right,” she said. “Good night.”
The gardener mounted his bicycle again and moved off.
“Well?” said the old man.
“Father Mahon’s called away suddenly. It’s from his housekeeper. He’ll only be back in time for the first Mass tomorrow.”
The other nodded, three or four times, as if in assent.
“Why do you do that?” asked the girl suddenly.
“It is what I should have expected to happen.”
“What! Father Mahon?—Do you mean it … it is arranged?”
“I know nothing. It may be coincidence. Speak no more of it. You have the facts to think of.”
About them as they walked back in silence lay the quiet spring night. From the direction of the hamlet came the banging of a door, then voices wishing good night, and the sound of footsteps. The steps passed the end of the lane and died away again. Over the trees to the right were visible the high twisted chimney of the old house where the terror dwelt.
“Two points then to remember,” said the voice in the darkness—“courage and love. Can you remember?”
Maggie bowed her head again in answer.
“I will call and ask to see you as soon as the household is up. If you can’t see me, I shall understand that things are going well—or you can send out a note to me. As for Mrs. Baxter—”
“I shall not say one word to her until it becomes absolutely necessary.
