I
Calthorpe and Mr. Medhurst had entered into a conspiracy to spare Silas
from attending the inquest.
As they walked away from the Denes’ cottage together, in the fog, they
did not speak for some time. They were turning the same thoughts over in
their minds as they paced side by side down the village street, seeing
the lights in the windows on either hand very dimly through the fog. The
lantern which Calthorpe carried, swaying, lit up a pale milky circle but
cast no forward ray. They were chilled; little drops of moisture
gathered on the clergyman’s eyebrows and on Calthorpe’s brown beard;
their very footfalls seemed to be muffled by the fog.
“It was warmer in Dene’s kitchen, Calthorpe!” said the clergyman at
last, handling his chilblained fingers tenderly, and then beating his
hands together in their thick woollen gloves.
“Yes, sir, but I’d sooner be out here than in that unhealthy sort of
atmosphere,—like that poor little woman. I think, if you ask me, the fog
was thicker in that room than it is out here. I scarcely liked to come
away leaving her there. I never saw any one look more out of place. And
so resigned, too; never a thought of revolt. But not glum, not pulling a
long face; that’s what touched me.”
“No doubt she enjoys sufficient philosophy and religion to accept with a
brave fortitude the lot she has herself chosen,” said Mr. Medhurst.
Calthorpe, who had been feeling slightly exalted and full of a
chivalrous emotion, the novelty of which surprised him agreeably,
thought that Mr. Medhurst laid hands of lead upon a butterfly.
“Well, I thought there was something _lighter_ about her than that,
somehow,” he said, struggling; but as the clergyman remained rigid, with
a compassionate murmur of “Poor soul!” he turned to another subject.
“Silas Dene seemed more excitable than usual, sir; they are strange
fellows, those two, and you never know how they are going to take
things. Silas’s readings work upon his mind; he’s full of queer
theories. No doubt you’ve noticed, Mr. Medhurst. First he’s off on one
hobby-horse, and then another. Politics, death, women, fate, science,
even poetry—he’s got his views on them all; not lukewarm views, or ready
to listen to argument, as you or I might be, but loud, aggressive views,
and contradiction only makes him angry. He fairly bullies the village; I
don’t know how he does it, but all the chaps are too much afraid of him
to turn upon him.” Calthorpe came at last with a rush to the real point
he had in sight, and said, “I thought his manner more than usually queer
to-night; queerer, I mean, even than the circumstances warranted?”
“Yes; his irreverence—I might almost say his blasphemy—was very painful
to hear; but we must remember, he is sorely tried.”
Calthorpe grunted.
“I wasn’t considering it, sir, only from the point of view of the
church,” he suggested.
They had reached the little gate leading to the Rectory, and Mr.
Medhurst stood with his hand on the latch. The breath of the two men
eddied like smoke in the fog above the pallid light of Calthorpe’s
lantern. Mr. Medhurst repressed his desire for the shelter of his own
study, inhospitable as it was; so faint a stirring could scarcely be
dignified by the name of desire, but such as it was he repressed it,
recognising an enemy; personal inclinations were allowed no place in a
life of monotonous mortification; his conscience ordered him to remain
out in the raw evening until Calthorpe had finished saying whatever he
might have to say, so he remained. Suavity, patience, tolerance,
impartiality; above all, no self-indulgence.
“Yes, Calthorpe?” he prompted.
“That man’s not in a fit state to attend an inquest,” the overseer
brought out.
“Ah. No, perhaps not,” said Mr. Medhurst, and then, startled, “You don’t
mean....”
“Good gracious, sir, I don’t mean anything,—only to spare the man. It’s
a clear enough case of accident,” muttered Calthorpe. “I’m only afraid
he’ll lose his head if he’s brought to the inquest; begin to rant on all
his pet topics, do himself harm very likely; be talked about; give a bad
name to the factory; perhaps lose his job. The Board is very particular.
And I can’t help having a liking for Silas Dene; he’s a sound worker,
he’s full of pluck, he doesn’t drink as many men would under his
circumstances. I can’t help having a respect for the man. He’s something
out of the ordinary. Can’t we keep him away from the inquest, Mr.
Medhurst?”
“Unfortunately, he was the last person to see his wife alive.”
“I think I can get round the coroner, sir, if you’ll back me up.”
Calthorpe was quite eager.
“I will certainly lend you my support,” said the clergyman rather
dubiously. “After all, it is a clear case of accident, as you say, and
the inquest will only be a formal affair. I suppose it is really a clear
case,” he added, “but his manner was very peculiar.”
“There now, sir,” said Calthorpe, pouncing on him, delighted to have
proved his point, “you know Silas Dene as well as I do, and we both
trust him, yet, having seen him in this state, you’re aware of the
beginnings of doubt; what about the coroner, who comes out from Lincoln,
and has never heard of Dene or his record before? I tell you, we must
keep the man away. It’s only decent, only Christian. The man’s blind in
more ways than one; we must see for him, and keep him from hitting his
head against a wall.”
“No doubt you are right; I’ll help you. Send for me when you want me,
Calthorpe; good-night.”
“Good-night, sir; thank you.”
Calthorpe hurried away with his lantern into the fog; Mr. Medhurst let
himself in at his front door. He wondered whether he had been too hasty
in leaving Calthorpe, whether he ought not to have inquired more
thoroughly into the overseer’s exact meanings. Had his wish for creature
comfort relaxed the vigilance he kept over his conscience? In any case,
it was too late now for regrets. With a sigh he laid his coat, his
clerical hat, his muffler and his gloves on the sideboard in his narrow
hall, and, passing into his study, held a match to the gas-jet above his
table. A small pop of explosion resulted in a thin blue flame. No fire
burnt in the grate; Mr. Medhurst never permitted himself a fire until
seven o’clock in the evening, and by the clock he saw that it was only
half-past six. He blew upon his fingers, trying to warm them. For a few
moments he knelt in prayer for guidance at his black horsehair sofa,
then, rising, he drew his chair up to the writing-table and began to
deal, methodically, with a pile of his papers. He had pigeon-holed Silas
Dene already in the files of his mind.