CHAPTER III
The morning following the Rev. Philip Alletson’s extraordinary experience found him rather pale, and in a decidedly nervous state of mind. The shock to his system had been severe, and he had contracted a slight cold through being exposed in the summer arbour.
He got out of bed with difficulty, feeling very seedy, and had to use an effort of will to take his cold bath. He felt a little better after the effect of the water, but he was longer than usual dressing, and once or twice narrowly missed cutting himself whilst shaving.
However, he finished his toilet at last, and went down to breakfast fifteen minutes late—a very unusual occurrence.
Beyond drinking some coffee, he scarcely touched the meal; instead, he sat toying with his knife and looking out of the window.
His sister Constance surveyed him with troubled eyes. She was used to his silent ways, but she could see that this morning he was not his usual self; and the fear immediately arose in her mind that the “old doubts”—which had not manifested themselves since they came to Worlstoke—were again weighing upon him.
“Are you all right, Philip?” she asked doubtfully.
“Hardly; I’m afraid I’ve caught cold, and I feel rather out of sorts.”
She sighed with a sense of relief, feeling glad it was apparently nothing worse.
“Do try and eat something; you have almost regained your normal appetite since we came here, and I don’t want to see any signs of it falling off. It makes me think of those dreadful days after your illness, when I had to beg and entreat of you to take anything.”
Raising his eyes, he looked at her smilingly, and then managed to swallow a few mouthfuls; but it was a poor attempt, and clearly done to please her.
He had a great affection for his sister; indeed, although but twenty-eight, and ten years his junior, she was his closest companion, and had lived with him ever since the death of their mother some eight years ago.
In contrast to her brother, Constance Alletson was rather below than above the medium height, though well-built, with an upright carriage. Her hair was of a fine rich brown, with an auburn tint; and it well matched her fair skin and intelligent dark blue eyes. She was undoubtedly attractive, without being exactly beautiful, though, like her brother, she was reserved and possessed of the same nervous disposition.
She critically watched her brother’s forced attempt to eat, and then exclaimed:
“That’s better, though it doesn’t seem to go down very well, and it is fish too, which I know you like.”
He looked apologetic: “No! I’m afraid I must give it up; I did not sleep at all well last night, Constance.”
“Now that’s strange, Philip, I could not rest. I kept dreaming in a jumbled-up sort of fashion, though now and again quite vividly. Once in particular, I remember it plainly: I had been running away from something, as you do in dreams, though I didn’t know what it was, and had just reached the Vicarage gate, exhausted. I had not even strength to lift the latch to pass through into the house, and all the while this terrible something was approaching nearer and nearer. I had given up all hope and was preparing to be seized, when you suddenly stepped in front of me, between me and the monster. All you seemed to do was to hold up that little gold cross I gave you, which you wear round your neck, and it seemed to be possessed of magical powers. The something gave a horrid cry of baffled rage and fled, and as it went, it turned into Mr. Brentwood!
“Ridiculous, wasn’t it?” she added laughingly.
Philip nodded his head in unconscious assent and eyed her curiously. He was well aware that his sister possessed certain psychic powers—they used to have private sittings together when in London —and he could not help wondering whether she knew anything about his own experience. That reference to the gold cross seemed strange. However, it was unlikely, as she would almost surely have mentioned it before now.
Constance noticed his silence, and misreading it, continued:
“Of course, I know I don’t like Mr. Brentwood, he seems to be such a cold-blooded and unsociable man—and I expect that is why he became the bogey of my nightmare. I apologise, Philip, for maligning him—I know that you and he are good friends.”
She drew herself up in mock dignity, and laughed merrily.
“I think you are rather hard on our neighbour, Constance—I don’t find him unsociable, and I don’t think you would either, if you knew him better. But why should you think he is cold-blooded?”
“Well, do you remember when you told him about the disappearance of Miss Hobson?”
“Yes.”
“He never even altered his countenance—it didn’t affect him a little bit. I know, because I was looking at him.”
“Rather thin evidence upon which to judge him, Constance.”
“Well, not only that, but I always had the impression, from the first time I met him, that there was something wicked at the back of his mind. Really, Philip, I don’t think I could trust him.”
The Vicar laughed in amusement; he had no answer for such reasoning. There was silence for a few minutes, during which Constance finished her breakfast, while her brother watched her.
Then he remarked:
“Ah! dreams are queer things.”
“Yes, Philip, I know some of mine are.”
“I suppose they all arise from stomach troubles?”
“I’m sure they all don’t, and you know they don’t,” she retaliated.
“Well, at least so we are told by our medical advisers.”
Constance laughed. “Now you are teasing.”
Suddenly she became serious:
“Have you heard anything more concerning the mystery?”
Her brother looked graver than usual, and shook his head.
“No. I called at the farm yesterday afternoon to see how Mrs. Hobson was, and then learned that no clue had been alighted upon. I am sorry for them—Hobson seems quite an old man, and his wife is still unable to leave her bed.”
“Do you know, Philip, I think there is something unnatural about this place.” She had lowered her voice, and was bending over the table, her blue eyes gazing steadily into his grey ones.
Just for a second the Vicar’s face betrayed surprise; then he said quietly:
“Well, go on.”
“These two extraordinary disappearances, which up till now have baffled everybody—surely, if they had been——”
Her brother shook his head and frowned:
“You know, Constance, it is the usual thing to fly to the ‘supernatural’ to explain a problem when it baffles the reason.”
She gave a little gesture of impatience:
“Surely, Philip, you know me better than to think I should——”
“Yes, yes, my dear,” he interrupted. “I am quite sure you would not jump to wild conclusions. I merely wanted to emphasise the point, as it is important.”
“Well, my impressions on more than one occasion lately have been exceedingly queer, and I am quite certain that there is something more than unhealthy in the atmosphere.”
She spoke so forcefully that he could not help being impressed.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, rising, “I hardly know what to think. Still, I must be getting on, I have a heap of work to do this morning.”
As he reached the door, she called him:
“Philip!”
He half turned, and she was by his side with her hand on his arm, looking earnestly into his face.
“Something tells me that you are going to try and probe this mystery!”
He smiled and nodded. It was not the first time she had known things in that way.
“Well, promise you will let me know all that you do. I am not easy about it; I feel—er—that something may happen to you.”
He laughed reassuringly:
“Don’t worry, Constance, I will tell you all I do, and I won’t attempt anything desperate. But I must do what I can to try and help clear the thing up; it is my duty.”
She did not answer him, instead she turned to the table and busied herself with the breakfast things.
He watched her for a few seconds, then opening the door, went to his own little room—where he did his indoor work—and sat down at his desk. His mind was a little easier now; it was a relief to find that Constance had not any knowledge of the fainting fit which overcame him in the garden. That would have needed some explanation, and he was not prepared to say anything at present. Had he been found, there would have been no alternative; for he had a plain, straight way of dealing with things, and never paltered with the truth. He would not have countenanced any idea of misleading anyone with regard to the cause of his swoon, least of all his sister.
But he was very far from being tranquil. He was really obsessed with the uncertainty of the whole matter, and, contrary to his natural reserve, he had a desire to put the details before someone else.
Instinctively he thought of Constance, but immediately shook his head. It might ease him to tell his sister, but it was more likely to upset her, and further, he failed to see how it could help matters.
The only other person he could think of was his neighbour, the Master of Storton. If accounts were true, and to some extent he knew they were, Mr. Brentwood was the very man before whom to put such a case. But there were difficulties in that direction. Although they were on fairly intimate terms, the Vicar was not quite sure that he could trust him with such a personal matter. His neighbour was not a Churchman, of that he had no doubt; in fact, he was fairly sure that Mr. Brentwood, if anything, was opposed to the Church. How then would he be likely to treat such a matter coming from a clergyman?
Mr. Alletson was sensitive, extremely so; and he had no desire to encounter the “sceptic’s smile.” He was quite well aware of the average sceptic’s idea of clergymen, and although he knew it was not true, any suggestion of it was liable to irritate, and he had no wish to cause friction.
But there was the other side to it. His neighbour would perhaps take him seriously, and really, so far as he knew, he was a man of broad mind, and one not likely to dismiss the matter with ridicule.
Then again, why should he ask advice, particularly from a layman? Why not go to the Bishop? The Vicar’s eyes twinkled, and he dismissed his Lordship. No! he would let the thing keep, at any rate for the present. So far as he knew, no actual harm had been done. He would wait and see.
As the morning advanced, he recovered somewhat from his indisposition. His nervous system assumed a more normal state, and the depressed feeling with which he had begun the day evaporated. By lunch time he had almost forgotten the incident, in fact his mind was busily occupied with parish matters.
Taking these things into consideration, it was curious that immediately after lunch he went to his escritoire, opened it, took up pen and paper, and wrote the following letter:
“Dear Mr. Brentwood,—Please excuse my importunity. I am taking the liberty of calling upon you on Thursday morning next, at eleven o’clock, and shall be very glad indeed if you will spare me an hour.
“The notice is exceedingly short, but as you know, my time is much occupied, and I am anxious to see you immediately upon a matter which is of grave importance.
“I feel sure you can help me, and you will do so when I have put the case before you.
“I must add that I would not have troubled you in this abrupt manner, if I did not feel that immediate action should be taken.—Believe me, yours sincerely,
Philip Alletson.”
Every action connected with the writing of it was deliberate, from the putting in of the date to sending the maid to the post. It looked as if he had done it in spite of his recent decision, and this occurred to him shortly after, when it was too late to retract.
He felt annoyed, it was not usual for him to go back on a decision, once he had made up his mind. Why had he done it? He tried to think it out, and failed to satisfy himself.
It was not very comfortable. Could it be that he was losing his grip on things? “Umph.” Passing out into the hall, he put on his hat and cloak. Really, he must dismiss it from his mind for the present. He had a big afternoon’s work before him and time was getting on.
That evening, at the District Visitors’ meeting, the disappearance of Miss Hobson was dwelt upon at some length. During the discussion, something occurred to the Vicar which had not entered his head before. What if his strange experience had any connection with it? At first he rather ridiculed the idea; there seemed to be no link. But before he went to bed that night the thought grew stronger and stronger, until he began to take it seriously. If such were the case, then it no longer remained a personal matter, and it would be his duty to consult someone else.
Finally, he made up his mind to put the whole facts before Mr. Brentwood on Thursday morning, irrespective of his personal feelings. He was bound to do all he knew to try and clear up the extraordinary mystery surrounding Miss Hobson and Mr. Thornton.