Hamlet was now quivering all over, and Jeremy was afraid lest he should make a dash for the boulders. He therefore climbed on to his feet, holding Hamlet’s collar with his hand, and, smiling, answered:
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’ve only just come.”
“Well, get out, then,” was the only reply.
What fascinated him like a dream was the way that the faces did not move nor more body reveal itself. Painted against the blue sky, they might have been, ferocious stares and all. There was nothing more to be done. He beat an inglorious retreat, not, indeed, running, but walking with what dignity he could summon, Hamlet at his side uttering noises like a kettle on the boil.
He had not to wait long for some explanation of the vision. At breakfast (and it was a wonderful breakfast, with more eggs and bacon, cream and strawberry jam than he had ever known) his father said:
“Now, children, there’s one thing here that you must remember. Jeremy, are you listening?”
“Don’t speak with your mouth full. There’s a farm near the church on the sand. You can’t mistake it.”
“Is the farm on the sand, father?” asked Mary, her eyes wide open.
“No, of course not. How could a farm be on the sand? The farm-house stands back at the end of the path that runs by the church. It’s a grey farm with a high stone wall. You can’t mistake it. Well, none of you children are to go near that farm—on no account whatever, _on no account whatever_, to go near it.”
“Why not, father?” asked Jeremy. “Is there scarlet fever there?”
“Because I say so is quite enough,” said Mr. Cole. “There’s a family staying there you must have _nothing at all_ to do with. Perhaps you will see them in the distance. You must avoid them and _never_ speak to them.”
“Are they _very_ wicked?” asked Mary, her voice vibrating low with the drama of the situation.
“Never mind what they are. They are not fit companions for you children. It is most unfortunate that they are here so close to us. Had I known it I would not, I think, have come here.”
Jeremy said nothing; these were, of course, his friends of the morning. He could see now straight across the breakfast-table those eight burning, staring eyes.
Later, from the slope of the green hill above the rectory, he looked across the gleaming beach at the church, the road, and then, in the distance, the forbidden farm. Strange how the forbidding of anything made one from the very bottom of one’s soul long for it! Yesterday, staring across the green slopes and hollows, the farm would have been but a grey patch sewn into the purple hill that hung behind it.