XXVI
Goinghome with Edith in his host’s car, the vicar was thoughtful and depressed. He had enjoyed his evening, he had been entertained, even exhilarated by it, yet in a curious, subtle way it had shown him the writing on the wall. His host was a portent. Regard as one would this lean-faced, church-going American, he was a very sinister phenomenon. The vicar had little or no imagination, but he saw that Mr. Murdwell’s conclusions were inescapable.
For the next few days, however, Mr. Perry-Hennington was not able to give much attention to the doom of mankind. There were matters nearer at hand. He led a busy life in his parish, and in the larger parish of his local world. A mighty sitter on committees, a born bureaucrat, it was hardly his fault that he was less a spiritual force than a man of business. He was an extremely conscientious worker, never sparing himself in the service of others, yet that service connoted the common weal rather than the personal life.
In the course of a week a very trying matter came to a head. While it was maturing the vicar kept his own counsel very strictly. He did not go near Hart’s Ghyll, nor did he mention the subject to Edith. But one evening he dined three quarters of an hour earlier than usual, and then as the shadows were deepening upon Ashdown he took his hat and made his way to the common along the familiar path. As he came to Parson’s Corner, the village name for the lane’s debouch to the green, he stopped and looked furtively about. By the priest’s stone, still clearly visible in the evening half-light, a slight, frail, bareheaded figure was kneeling as if in prayer. The vicar took out his watch and consulted it anxiously, and then he scanned all points of the compass with an air of painful expectancy. Careful arrangements had been made with the proper authorities and disagreeable, even repugnant as was the whole matter, he felt it to be his duty to see them carried out.
The shadows grew deeper upon Ashdown. At last there came a distant crunch of gravel, and the vicar perceived a closed motor car creeping up stealthily from the village and past the widow’s cottage. As it came slowly toward him round the bend in the road he hailed it with a wave of the hand. It stoppedwithin a few yards and two burly, sinister-looking men got out.
“Good evening, sir,” said the foremost of these.
Involuntarily the vicar held up a finger.
“He’s there,” he whispered. And he pointed to the figure kneeling by the stone. He then added in a voice of deepening emotion, “I trust you will not use any kind of violence.”
There was no need to do so, for it proved an extremely simple matter. Yet one witness of it was never to forget the scene that followed. Very cautiously the two men crept across the grass, while the vicar, unwilling to be seen by the victim, concealed himself in a thicket near by. From his ambush he saw the man rise to his feet at the approach of his captors, he saw his calm, fixed look, and he heard the singular words proceed from his lips, “Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.”
A feeling of indignant horror swept through Mr. Perry-Hennington. He could only interpret the speech as one more atrocious blasphemy, for he had caught the strange upward look, as if to the God in the sky, which had accompanied the words. Somehow the gesture had revolted him, yet in another in such circumstances it would have been sublime. And the almost beautiful humility of the man walking passively betweenhis captors through the summer twilight to his doom, with such words on his lips, such thoughts in his heart, filled the vicar with an odd conflict of sensations.
The man entered the car with the same curious air of submission. From his ambush the vicar watched it turn and go swiftly away, past the widow’s cottage; and then faint of soul, but sustained by a sense of duty, he walked slowly down the road as far as Mrs. Bent’s. To that simple dame, who opened the door to his knock, he said: “Kindly tell your neighbor, Mrs. Smith, that John may be late for his supper, and that if he is not home by ten o’clock he may not return tonight.”
Anxiously pondering whether he had taken the wisest and gentlest means of breaking the news to an invalid woman, Mr. Perry-Hennington returned to the vicarage. He passed a wakeful and unhappy night, in which he was troubled by many things; and at luncheon next day, in the course of a scene with Edith they gained intensity.
“Did you know, father,” she said in a tone of acute distress, “that John Smith was removed last evening without the slightest warning?”
The vicar admitted that he was aware of the fact.
“And do you know,” said Edith, in a voice ofgrowing emotion, “that the shock killed his mother?”
“Killed his mother!” Mr. Perry-Hennington heard that news for the first time. “The old lady is dead!”
“She died last night.”
The vicar was much upset. He did not speak for some time, but at last he said: “Someone has blundered. I warned her neighbor, Mrs. Bent, to be particularly careful how she broke the news to her. I was at pains to choose Mrs. Bent, a sensible woman whom I thought I could trust. I felt the shock would be less if the news came from a neighbor instead of from me. But I see”—bitterness mingled now with the concern in the vicar’s tone—“that it would have been far wiser had I taken the whole responsibility upon myself.”
“I’m not sure that it would,” said Edith. “Mrs. Bent says the poor thing knew what had happened without being told.”
“She couldn’t have known anything of the kind. That’s quite impossible. Every precaution was taken to spare her a shock. I saw to it myself that all the arrangements were properly carried out. Last evening at dusk a car with two attendants from Wellwood Sanatorium drove up to the common, popped the poor fellow inside and took him away without a soul in the village being the wiser. I was there and saw thething done. It went without a hitch. No one was by, that I will swear to. And then I went to Mrs. Bent and I said: ‘Kindly tell Mrs. Smith that John may be late for his supper, and that if he is not home by ten o’clock he may not return tonight.’ Not another word was said. Ever since I got the magistrates’ order I have given the matter anxious consideration. The details of the plan were most carefully thought out in order to spare the poor old woman as much as possible, and to defeat public curiosity. Moreover, I am quite sure that unless Mrs. Bent exceeded her instructions, which is hardly likely to have been the case, the poor old thing could not have died from shock.”
“Mrs. Bent’s own version,” said Edith, “is that as soon as she entered the cottage and before she spoke a word, Mrs. Smith said to her: ‘Neighbor, you’ve come to tell me that they’ve taken my son. I shall never see him again this side the Resurrection. But I am not afraid. The God of Righteousness has promised to take care of me.’ Mrs. Bent was quite astonished. She didn’t know what was meant.”
“HowcouldMrs. Smith have known? Who could have told her?”
“She said to Mrs. Bent that God Himself had appeared to her. Mrs. Bent saw that she was sinkingeven then. Dr. Joliffe was sent for at once, but before he could get there Mrs. Smith was dead.”
The vicar was deeply moved by the tragic story. It was a sequel which he had not been able to foresee. The swiftness of the stroke in a measure softened the terrible sense of direct responsibility; none the less he was much upset.
As for Edith, the sequence of events had filled her with an emotion little short of horror. It was in her voice and her eyes as she now discussed them. A feeling of intolerable pain came upon her as she realized what a very important part in the tragedy she had played. It was her complaint against John Smith which lay at the root of all.
Father and daughter were very unhappy. Edith was inclined to blame herself more than she blamed the vicar. Her loyal nature was capable of great generosity, and it showed itself now in taking the chief share of the catastrophe upon herself. She was bound to believe that her father had taken a greatly exaggerated view of John Smith’s heresies, but his sincerity was beyond question. The vicar’s zeal had wrought irreparable harm, but knowing him for the man he was, it was impossible to blame him.
As soon as luncheon was over the vicar set out for Dr. Joliffe’s. He was a man of strong, imperiouswill, and in this sudden flux of events he felt called to exercise it to the full. Had he done right? In spite of a limited horizon, in spite of a fixed determination not to allow himself a doubt in the matter, he was unable to prevent a sinister little demon leaping into his brain as he crossed the village green, and saw on the one hand a deserted pile of stone, on the other the lowered blinds of the widow’s cottage.
It was futile to ask the question now. He could not call the dead to life. Nor could he revoke the processes of the law. John Smith was under lock and key at Wellwood Asylum for the good of the state. Armed with the opinion of Dr. Parker and Dr. Murfin, a Welbeck Street specialist, it had not been a difficult matter to convince the county bench that the realm would be the safer for a measure so drastic. But was it? All the vicar’s power of will was needed to allay the horrid demon voice. In fact he had not quite succeeded by the time he entered Dr. Joliffe’s gate.
As was to be expected, Joliffe had scant consolation to offer. “Tu l’as voulu, Georges Dandin,” was his attitude. The vicar had shown himself an obstinate, narrow man, and even if absolute sincerity and transparent honesty formed his excuse, somehow it was not an easy one to accept.
“Pity you didn’t take advice,” Joliffe ventured to remark.
“I don’t reproach myself,” said the vicar stiffly. “It had to be done. The public interest called for it. But I wish that old woman could have been spared the shock. Every precaution was taken, the removal was most carefully planned, the whole thing went without a hitch. I can’t think how the news got out.”
Dr. Joliffe confessed that he was equally at a loss. He had questioned Mrs. Bent closely upon the matter, and she had declared that John’s mother had said that God had told her something terrible was going to happen to her son. He had told her also that they were about to be parted, and that she would never see him again in her present life.
“An amazing prepossession,” said the vicar.
Dr. Joliffe was inclined to consider it a remarkable piece of clairvoyance.
“I was not aware that she laid claim to powers of that kind,” said the vicar.
“Nor I,” said the doctor. “Of course she was always an unusual sort of woman, and deeply religious.”
“Evidently there was a great bond of sympathy between her and her son.”
Dr. Joliffe agreed. There was reason, also, to believe that the son was a man of unusual powers.
“Why do you think that?” said the vicar sharply.
“It is Brandon’s opinion.”
The vicar shook a grave head. “I’m sorry to say that Brandon’s opinion is not conclusive, poor fellow. He is very far from being the man he was. Between ourselves I fear his mind is going.”
The doctor was loth to admit so much. He greatly feared for Brandon, it was true; moreover John Smith had gained such an intellectual ascendancy over him that it seemed to point to the vicar’s conclusion; at the same time Joliffe was unwilling to believe that Brandon’s estimate of the man’s genius was wholly the fruit of aberration.
“But,” rejoined the vicar, “Brandon is a very highly educated man. And a highly educated man has no right to such an opinion.”
“Well, you know, when I was in Brombridge the other day I met old Dunn, the high master of the grammar school where John Smith got his education. I asked him if he remembered him.”
“Well?”
“Not only did he remember him, but he said that John Smith was by far the most remarkable boy who had ever passed through his hands.”
“Then why didn’t Dunn make something of him?”
“Because the lad’s health forbade hard regular study. Otherwise he must have gone far.”
“That is more than one can believe.”
“I can only say that Dunn is reckoned a first-rate judge of a boy’s possibilities.”
“Unduly partial to his own pupils I believe. It was on his advice and due to his interference that my gardener’s eldest boy took his law final and became a solicitor, and I felt obliged to part with a good servant in consequence.”
“This poor fellow is hardly a pupil to be proud of. Dunn says he looks upon it as the tragedy of his own scholastic life that such powers as John Smith’s have borne no fruit. He had the most original mind of any boy he has known.”
“In other words the most cranky mind,” said the vicar impatiently. “I believe he has suffered all his life from hallucinations.”
“Dunn didn’t say that.”
“Had he heard of the course we were taking?”
“He didn’t mention the matter and I was careful not to refer to it. But I won’t answer for Parker.”
“Parker promised not to speak of it to anyone. It is known to Whymper and Jekyll and one other magistrate, and I believe was mentioned to General Clarke at the Depot, but in the public interest it was thoughtadvisable not to let it go farther. Not that it really matters. The man is of no importance anyway, and he is far better off where he now is. One will always regret the old mother, but the man himself will be extremely well cared for at a place like Wellwood.”
“No doubt,” said Dr. Joliffe rather drily.
“There again Brandon has behaved quixotically. After all, this man belongs to the working class. He would have been quite well looked after at the county asylum at Broad Hill, where such people are taken care of at the public charge. Still, that was done on your authority, Joliffe.”
“Brandon insisted that it should be done.”
“Well, it all goes to show that the dear fellow is not the man he was. Of course he’s rich, but it will cost him at least five hundred a year for an indefinite period to keep this man at Wellwood.”
“I pointed that out to him. But he had fully made up his mind. And he was so upset by the whole affair that it seemed wise not to raise difficulties.”
“All very well. But I think my niece should have been consulted. However—there it is! But it’s pure quixotism to say the least. By the way, does Brandon know what happened yesterday?”
“He knew nothing when I saw him this morning.”
“How is he?”
“Still confined to his room with lingering traces of a temperature.”
“Had he heard that Murfin’s report was unfavorable?”
“He takes it for granted.”
“Takes it for granted! Pray why should he? I hope he doesn’t think that Murfin is not entirely impartial and dependable.”
“He has nothing against Murfin personally.” There was a gleam of malice in Joliffe’s eye. “But he says it is too much to hope for fair play for John Smith in such a world as the present.”
“There speaks a disordered mind.” Heat was in the vicar’s tone. “We have taken every possible precaution. Brandonmustrealize that. Every consideration has been shown, and I am bound to say, speaking from first-hand knowledge, that our local bench has behaved in a most humane and enlightened manner.”
“Brandon will not agree with you there, I fancy.”
“Would he have had us send the man to jail?” Mr. Perry-Hennington’s temperature was still going up steadily.
“He says John Smith has been condemned without a trial.” For a reason Joliffe could not explain he was beginning to dislike the vicar intensely. “And hesays that if the evidence is to be believed even Jesus had a trial.”
“Monstrous!” said the vicar. “A perfectly monstrous parallel!”