MANY things, however, had to happen in the parish before Mr.
Perry-Hennington could dine at Longwood on Wednesday. And the first of
them in the order of their occurrence was an inquiry of Edith’s at the
Sunday luncheon in regard to their new neighbor.
“A most curious man has just waylaid me,” the vicar said. “An American,
who says he has taken Longwood.”
“Oh, yes,” said Edith, in her precise voice. “The _odd_-looking man in
church this morning, I suppose?”
“He gave me his card.” The vicar produced the card, and requested
Prince, the parlor maid, to hand it to Miss Edith. “He insists on our
dining at Longwood on Wednesday. It seems only neighborly to do so.”
“Immensely rich, I believe,” said Edith, scanning the card at her
leisure, with the aid of a pair of tortoise shell spectacles, which she
wore with considerable effect.
“Who is he? What is he?” There might, or there might not have been a
slight accession of interest to the vicar’s tone.
“Lady Tyrwhitt was talking about him the other day. He is a great
American inventor, the discoverer of Murdwell’s Law.”
“Ah-h,” said the vicar, intelligently. But Murdwell’s Law was a sealed
book to him.
“Immensely important scientific fact, I believe,” Edith explained.
“Lady Tyrwhitt seems to know all about it. I couldn’t grasp it myself.
I only know that Lady Tyrwhitt says it is going to revolutionize
everything.”
“Ah-h!” said the vicar.
“It has something to do with radioactivity I believe, and the
liberation of certain electrons in the ether. That may not be exactly
correct. I only know that it is something extremely scientific. Lady
Tyrwhitt says Mr. Murdwell is tremendously pro-Ally, and that he is
over to help us win the war.”
“Oh-h!” said the vicar. “He seems an uncommonly interesting man.”
“A very wonderful person. Lady Tyrwhitt says he is one of the most
remarkable men living. And she says he is never out of sight of private
detectives, because of the number of attempts that have been made on
his life.”
“I shall look forward to meeting him again on Wednesday.”
Before Wednesday came, however, the vicar had much else to think about.
Ever in the forefront of his mind was the vexatious matter of John
Smith. It had been arranged that on the next day, Monday, Dr. Parker
should come out from Brombridge, lunch at the vicarage, and then, if
possible, interview the young man.
On Monday morning the vicar made a preliminary survey of the ground.
He went down to the village, and had a little talk with Field, the
carpenter. From him he learned that John Smith had downed tools for
a fortnight past, that he had been roaming the countryside at all
hours of the day and night, and that “he wor shapin’ for another of
his attacks.” Field was a sensible man, whom the vicar respected in
spite of the fact that he was not among the most regular of the flock;
therefore at some length he discussed with him a very vexed question.
In reply to a direct canvass of his judgment, Field admitted that “John
might be a bit soft-like.” At the same time he confessed the highest
affection and admiration for him, and somewhat to the vicar’s annoyance
volunteered the opinion that “he went about doing good.”
“How _can_ you think that, Field?” said Mr. Perry-Hennington, sternly.
“Well, sir, they say he keeps the chaps out of the publics.”
“Who says so?”
“At Brombridge, sir. They are getting to think a lot of him there.”
“Are they indeed?”
“He preaches there you know, sir, on Sunday afternoons at the market
cross.”
The vicar was shocked and scandalized. “I hope,” he said, “that he
doesn’t give vent to the sort of opinions he does here.”
“Yes, sir,” said Field, with respectful perplexity. “I know you parsons
think him a bit of a freethinker, but I’m sure he means well. And
begging your pardon, sir, he knows a lot about the Bible too.”
“I take leave to doubt that, Field,” said the vicar, who had
suddenly grown so deeply annoyed that he felt unable to continue the
conversation. He left the shop abruptly. A little more light had been
thrown on the subject, but somehow it increased his sense of worry
and discomfort. He had not thought well to enlighten Field as to
the gravamen of the charge, yet it was hard to repress a feeling of
irritation that so sensible a man should hold such a heterodox view of
his employee.
True to his appointment, Dr. Parker arrived at one o’clock. Before he
came Mr. Perry-Hennington told Edith in a casual way the reason of his
coming to Penfold. To her father’s consternation, something in the
nature of a scene had followed.
“Then you intend to have him removed to an asylum!” she exclaimed in a
tone of horror.
“Undoubtedly. The public interest demands nothing less.”
The girl was greatly upset. And nothing her father could say had any
effect upon her distress. She felt herself responsible for this tragic
pass. Her unhappy intervention in the first place had brought the thing
about, and now she rued it bitterly. She implored her father to let
the matter drop. But her prayer was vain. At all times a singularly
obstinate man, upon a question of conscience and duty he was not likely
to be moved by mere words.
Out of respect for his daughter’s feelings, and also out of regard
for the ears of Prince, the parlor maid, Mr. Perry-Hennington did not
refer to the matter in the course of the meal. But as soon as it was
over he discussed it at length with his visitor. And he presented his
view of the matter with such a cogent energy that, for such a mind as
Dr. Parker’s, whose main concern was “things as they are,” the case
of John Smith was greatly prejudiced. He did not say as much to the
vicar, indeed he did his best to keep an open and impartial mind on the
subject, but he would have been more or less than himself had he not
felt that only the strongest possible justification could have moved
such a man as Mr. Perry-Hennington to his present course of action.
In the privacy of the study the vicar explained the situation to Dr.
Parker at considerable length, giving chapter and verse for the theory
he had formed. And then the two gentlemen set out to find John Smith.
Fate went with them. A slow, solemn climb from the vicarage to the
village green brought a prompt reward. Straight before them a frail,
bareheaded, poorly-clad figure was outlined against a rather wild June
sky.
“Our man,” the vicar whispered.
Dispositions of approach were made automatically. The two gentlemen
stepped on to the common sedately enough. As they did so, the vicar
ostentatiously pointed out the grandeur of the scene, and its wide,
sweeping outlook on two counties, while the doctor lingered in
examination of the heath and the plucking of a flower.
As usual the young man was leaning against the priest’s stone. Near by
was a delicate flower which Dr. Parker stooped to gather.
“Tell me, what’s the name of this little thing?” he said to the vicar,
in a loud bluff voice.
“You’re overtaxing my knowledge,” said the vicar, with a similar bluff
heartiness. “I don’t think I’ve ever noticed it before. But here is a
man who can help us, no doubt.”
With a courteous, disarming smile, the vicar suddenly brought his eyes
to bear on John Smith. And then he added in a voice full of kindness
and encouragement: “I am sure _you_ can tell us the name of this
flower.”
“Yes, I should very much like to know.” As the doctor gave John Smith
the flower, he seized the moment for the closest possible scrutiny
of the man before him. Not a detail was lost of the extraordinarily
sensitive face, with its gaunt but beautiful lines, the luminous
eyes, whose pupils were distended to an abnormal width, the look of
fastidious cleanliness, which the poor clothes and the rough boots
seemed to accentuate.
“It is a kind of wild orchis,” said the young man in a gentle tone,
which to the doctor’s ear had a rather curious sound. “It is not common
hereabouts, but you will find a few in Mr. Whymper’s copse over at
Grayfield.”
“You seem well up in the subject of flowers,” said Dr. Parker.
“I study them,” said the young man with a quick intensity which caused
the doctor to purse his lips. “I love them so.” He pressed the slender,
tiny petals to his lips. “What a wonderful, wonderful thing is that
little flower! I weep when I look at it.”
Involuntarily the doctor and the vicar looked at the young man’s face.
His eyes had filled with tears.
“Why do you let a harmless little flower affect you in that way?” said
Dr. Parker.
“I suppose it’s the joy I feel in its beauty. I love it, I love it!”
And he gave back the little flower to the doctor with a kind of rapture.
“Do you feel like that about everything?”
“Oh, yes. I worship the Father in all created things.” The
too-sensitive face changed suddenly. A light broke over it. “I am
intoxicated with the wonders around me, I am enchanted with the glories
of the things I see.”
“It certainly is a very wonderful world that we live in,” said the
vicar, who sometimes fell unconsciously into his pulpit voice.
“Think of the continents of divine energy in the very air we breathe.”
There was a hush of awe in the voice of John Smith. “Think of the
miracles happening under that tiny leaf.”
“They are not visible to me.” Dr. Parker impressively removed
his gold-rimmed eyeglasses and rubbed them slowly on a red silk
handkerchief.
The young man drew aside a frond of bracken, and disclosed a colony of
black ants.
“Does the sight of that move you also?” said Dr. Parker.
“They are part of the mystery. I see the Father there.”
“I presume you mean God?” said the vicar.
“Male and female created He them,” said the young man in a hushed tone.
“I hardly dare look at the wonders around me, now the scales have
fallen from my eyes and the heavens have opened.”
“The heavens have opened!” said Dr. Parker.
“Oh, yes. I can read them now. I gaze upon the portals. I see the
chariots. There are the strong souls of the saints riding in glory
across the sky. Look! look!”
The doctor and the vicar followed the lines of the young man’s hand,
which pointed straight into a brilliant, but storm-shot sun. They had
instantly to lower their eyes.
“It would blind one to look at that,” said Dr. Parker.
“Nothing can blind you if you have learned to see,” said the young man.
It astonished them to observe that his gaze was fixed upon the flaming
disc of light. Suddenly he placed a finger on his lips, entreating them
to listen.
The doctor and the vicar listened intently.
“Do you hear the music?”
“I am afraid I hear nothing,” said Dr. Parker.
“Nor I,” said the vicar.
“There are harps in the air.”
“I don’t hear a sound,” said Dr. Parker.
“Nor I,” said the vicar, straining his ears; “or if I do it is the
water of the mill by Burkett’s farm.”
“The longer I listen, the more wonderful the music grows.”
The vicar and the doctor shook their heads gravely.
“There are also times, I believe, when you hear voices?” said the vicar.
“Yes, a voice speaks to me continually.”
“Would you say it belonged to any particular person,” said the doctor,
“or that it came from any particular source?”
“It is the voice of the Father.”
“The voice of God, I presume?”
“Yes--the voice of God.”
“Does it lay a charge upon you?” the vicar asked.
“It tells me to save the world.”
The complete simplicity of the statement took the vicar and the doctor
aback. They looked solemnly at each other, and then at him who had made
it.
“And you intend to obey it?” The doctor managed to put the question in
a tone of plain matter-of-course.
The young man’s face took a strange pallor. “I must, I must,” he said.
And as he spoke his questioners noticed that he had begun to shake
violently.
“Are we to understand,” said the vicar, speaking very slowly, “that you
expect supernatural powers to be given you?”
“I don’t know. I cannot say.” A light broke over the gentle face. “But
a way will be found.”
“How do you know that?” said the vicar.
“It has been communicated to me.”
“Is that to say,” the vicar sternly demanded, “that you are about to
claim plenary powers?”
Before the young man answered the question he covered his eyes with his
hands. Again he stood in an attitude of curious listening intensity.
The doctor thought he could hear a wind, very faint and gentle,
stirring in the upper air, but to the vicar it was the sound of water
flowing by Burkett’s farm.
The vicar repeated his question.
“I am to claim nothing,” said the young man at last.
“You do not claim to be a Buddha or a Messiah, or anything of that
kind?” said the vicar, compressing stern lips.
Again there was silence. Again the young man closed his eyes.
“I am to claim nothing,” he said.