Part 14 (2/2)

”It's a shame,” he said indignantly.

”No,” she answered, ”it isn't really. It's one's own fault--only sometimes I hate it all. Why couldn't we have stayed in London? We had friends there, and father's clothes didn't matter. Here such little things make such a big difference”--which was, Harry reflected, a complete epitome of the life of Pendragon.

”I'm not whining,” she went on. ”We all have things that we don't like, but when you're without a friend----”

”Not quite,” he said; ”you must count me.” He stopped for a moment.

”You _will_ count me, won't you?”

”You realise what you are doing,” she said. ”You are entering into alliance with outcasts.”

”You forget,” he answered, ”that I, also, am an outcast. We can at least be outcasts together.”

”It is good of you,” she said gravely; ”I am selfish enough to accept it. If I was really worth anything, I would never let you see us again. It means ostracism.”

”We will fight them,” he answered gaily. ”We will storm the camp”; but in his heart he knew that their stronghold, with ”The Flutes” as the heart of the defence, would be hard to overcome.

They climbed up the hill to the little church with the sea roaring at their feet. A strong wind was blowing, and, for a moment, at a steep turn of the hill, she laid her hand on his arm; at the touch his heart beat furiously--in that moment he knew that he loved her, that he had loved her from the first moment that he had seen her, and he pa.s.sed on into the church.

It was, as Bethel had said, almost in ruins--the little nave was complete, but ivy clambered in the aisles and birds had built their nests in the pillars. Three misty candles flickered on the altar, and some lights burnt over the pulpit, but there were strange half-lights and shadows so that it seemed a place of ghosts. Through the open door the night air blew, bringing with it the beating of the sea, and the breath of gra.s.s and flowers. The congregation was scanty; some fishermen and their wives, two or three old women, and a baby that made no sound but listened wonderingly with its finger in its mouth. The clergyman was a tall man with a long white beard and he did everything, even playing the little wheezy harmonium. His sermon was short and simple, but was listened to with rapt attention. There was something strangely intense about it all, and the hymns were sung with an eagerness that Harry had never heard elsewhere. This was a contrast with the church of the morning, just as the Cove was a contrast with Pendragon; the parting of the ways seemed to face Harry at every moment of his day--his choice was being urgently demanded and he had no longer any hesitation.

Newsome was there, and he spoke to him for a moment on coming out.

”You'll be lonely 'up-along,'” he said; ”you belong to us.”

They all four walked back together.

”How do you like our ancient Britons?” said Bethel.

”It was wonderful,” said Harry. ”Thank you for taking me.”

They were all very silent, but when they parted at the turning of the road Bethel laughed. ”Now you are one of us, Trojan. We have claimed you.”

As he shook Mary's hand he whispered, ”This has been a great evening for me.”

”I was wrong to grumble to you,” she answered. ”You have worries enough of your own. I release you from your pledge.”

”I will not be released,” he said.

That night Clare Trojan, before going to bed, went into Garrett's room.

He was working at his book, and, as usual, hinted that to take such advantage of his good-nature by her interruption was unfair.

”I suppose to-morrow morning wouldn't do instead, Clare--it's a bit late.”

”No, it wouldn't--I want you to listen to me. It's important.”

”Well?” He seated himself in the most comfortable chair and sighed.

”Don't be too long.”

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