GOING home 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 stopped within 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 between his
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 of growing 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 the thing 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.”
“How _could_ Mrs. 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 sinking even 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, imperious will, 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 thought
advisable 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. Brandon _must_ realize 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 he says that if the evidence is to be believed even
Jesus had a trial.”
“Monstrous!” said the vicar. “A perfectly monstrous parallel!”