Read The Chalice for Free Online Page B

And it was getting darker. It was . Not simply because of the time of year; the house itself was
gathering shadows, its beams blackening, its walls going grey like old, sick
skin, its deeper corners becoming well-like and impenetrable.
           It was as if only the Colonel had been able to keep the shadows
at bay, and now the fabric of Meadwell was darkening around her, as if hung
with mourning drapes; And in spite of her faith she was beginning to be ...
       ... afraid?
       But
I do not see.
           Verity Does Not See. It had become like a mantra - and after
all these years in Glastonbury and attendance at hundreds of esoteric lectures
at the Assembly Rooms, there was very little one could tell Verity about
mantras.
           ' I do not see.'
           Whispering it as she opened the door of the oak cupboard in
the corner to the left of the great inglenook and took down the silver
candlestick. It should have been cleaned and polished this morning, but she'd
been putting it off ever since the upsetting telephone call from Major Shepherd.
           'Awfully sorry, my dear. Most awfully sorry.' His wheeze had
been like an old-fashioned vacuum-cleaner starting up, the bag inflating.
           Verity had told him, in her bright, singing way, not to worry in the slightest. Just look after
himself, drink plenty of water, keep warm, leave everything to her.
           Not expecting, for one moment, that the Abbot's Dinner would
be able to proceed without the chairman of the Trust. Without, in fact, any guests
at all, only Verity, who would prepare the meal, and ...
           ... and the Abbot.
           Whom She Did Not See.
           This day was almost invariably a dull day. Subdued. When the
late Colonel Pixhill was here, it was the one day of the year on which he was
never seen to smile. He would mope about the garden, gathering the first dismal
crop of dead leaves, pausing occasionally to sniff thoughtfully at the air like
an old English setter.
           On this day nearly twenty years ago, the Colonel had come into
her kitchen, put a sad hand on her shoulder and solemnly thanked her for all her
years of service. Saying sincerely that he didn't know how- he would have
managed here without her.
           It had occurred to Verity later, with a shiver of sorrow and
unease, that he must have sniffed his own death that morning on the bitter wind
coming down from the Tor.
           Don't think of it.
           Verily pursed her lips, straightened up and glared defiantly
into the gathering dark of the dining hall.
       'At least... at least I ...'
           Although, apparently, it had been the most essential
qualification for a mistress of Meadwell. At her initial interview, some thirty
years ago, the Colonel had broached the issue delicately but with persistence.
       Quite
an old place, this, Miss Endicott. Damned old. Damned cold. Bit grim, really.
Lot of ladies would find that off-putting.
           I suppose
they would.
           Might
be ... how shall I put it?... a trifle timid about living here. If they were
left alone.
           Yes.
           But not
you? Think about it before you answer. Wind howling, timbers creaking sort of
stuff.
           You
mean they might be afraid of... spirit-manifestation, Colonel.
           Well.
Hmm. That sort of thing.
           I... I
am not privileged to see the dead.
           I see.
Consider it a privilege, would you? If you could see the damn things?
           No, I... I suppose I'm
rather a superficial person, that is, I believe in God and have an interest in
the spiritual, as ... as a force for healing. And therefore I should dearly
love to live in Glastonbury. But I don't think it necessary or desirable for us
all to have ... communion. If we believe, then that is enough, and if we do not
wish to see, God will respect that. I am not afraid of old