John Endor knew now that he was on the horns of an inescapable dilemma. The body of fanatics and visionaries whose will he had sworn to do would not be in the least likely to release him from his vows. It was not the way of such a camarilla. Once a member, always a member. Before God he would have to assume full responsibility for its acts. And that knowledge was a viper in his breast. How could he hope to keep every nerve braced for the fight with such a horror eating out his very life!
A little consideration of a state of affairs which hardly bore thinking about brought home to John Endor that there could be only one course for him now. At all costs, he must cut loose from this Vehmgericht. Likely enough it could only be done at the price of life itself. But done it must be.
XLII
MINDS there are of a psychic quality which seem to anticipate events. John Endor had this sort of mind. It hardly surprised him, therefore, when, on the morning after his resolve had been made, he found among his letters one summoning him to a meeting of the Council of Seven. His inner consciousness, it almost seemed, had grown aware that some such ukase was on its way.
The time and place appointed were the Sunday following at an old house in Kent. Roland Holles was the owner of the house. And in the name of the Society, he urged upon Endor in a private note the supreme importance of the occasion. In no circumstances must he fail to appear.
It so happened that Endor had another week-end engagement. But with everything at stake, there was but one thing to do. The prior engagement, of importance in its way, simply had to be broken. Helen, therefore, had to go to Cloudesley alone; she had, moreover, to make the best excuses she could for the eleventh hour default of her eminent husband. And this was the more unfortunate because a number of political and social big-wigs were foregathering at this famous week-end trysting place in the Midlands in the hope of meeting the new Home Secretary.
The odd circumstances of the case forbade any explanation. And in the face of Endor’s general evasiveness, it needed all the clear-headed loyalty of a newly married wife to avert a first rift in the lute. Beyond a few vague reasons which bore no analysis, this sudden and unpardonable desertion had to be left undefended. Not a hint could be given of the tragic coil in which he was involved. It was indeed a test of Helen’s faith to go forth alone among strangers with a hastily improvised excuse for the nonappearance of her husband.
On Sunday morning Endor motored down into Kent. He was in a state of mental darkness as great perhaps as any through which he had yet passed. Bitterly he realized his folly. He was in a terrible morass. Now that he was his true self, he saw that this Society, to which he was bound by a most solemn oath of allegiance, was itself a menace to the world. No matter what the abuses it set out to destroy, to a mind of perfect balance it hardly admitted of question that the nostrum was at least as bad as the disease.
During a two hours’ journey into the Weald of Kent, he gave furious thought to the problem before him. At all hazards he must free himself from the toils of those whom he now felt to be inimical to society itself. But was it possible to get free? From the note of urgency in the summons it was clear that great decisions were about to be taken. And by the oath that bound him he would have to accept a full share of responsibility for those decisions whatever they might be.
Busshe Court was Endor’s destination. A wonderful old house, set in the very heart of “the garden of England,” this first visit must have interested him deeply had it taken place at another time. In the half-light of a winter noon the place had an air of medieval romance and mystery. Before a low stone portico stood the owner of the house, who, without a hat and in a suit of country tweeds, looked a typical and singularly handsome English squire. Common report said that Roland Holles wore more than one large bee in his bonnet. So it might be, yet there was no denying the picturesque force, the rather sinister attraction, of a rare personality.