XXXI

He acted his part well, and everything worked out easily--more easily

than one could have dared to hope for.

Not a soul was thinking about him. He had to assert himself, thrust

himself forward, before people in the village would so much as notice

that he had come back among them again. The inquest, as he gathered,

was going to be a matter of form: it seemed doubtful if the

authorities would even make an examination of the ground over there.

All was to be as nice as nice for him.

Yet he was afraid. Fear possed him--this sneaking, torturing,

emasculating passion that he had never known hitherto was now always

with him. He lay alone in the camp-bedstead sweating and funking. The

events of the day made him seem safe, but he felt that he would not be

really safe for ages and ages. Throughout the night he was going over

the list of his idiotic mistakes, upbraiding himself, cursing himself

for a hundred acts of brainless folly. The plan had been sound enough:

it was the accomplishment of the plan that had been so damnably

rotten.

Why had he changed his addresses in that preposterous fashion? Instead

of providing himself with useful materials for an alibi, he had just

made a lot of inexplicable movements. Then the pawning of the

watch--in a false name. How could he ever explain _that_? Anybody

short of money may put his ticker up the spout, but no one has the

right to assume an alias. And the buying of the clothes and hat.

Instead of bargaining, as innocent people do, however small the price

demanded, he just dabbed down the money. He must have appeared to be

in the devil's own hurry to get the things and cut off with them. The

two men at that shop must have noticed his peculiarities as a

customer. They would be able to pick him out in the biggest crowd that

ever assembled in a magistrate's court.

But far worse had been his watchings and prowlings round and about the

house in Grosvenor Place. Could he have blundered upon anything more

full of certain peril? Why, to stand still for ten minutes in London

is to invite the attention of the police. Their very motto or

watchword is "Move on;" and for every policeman in helmet and buttons

there are three policemen in plain clothes to make sure that people

_are_ moving on. While watching that house he had been watched

himself.

Then, again, the insane episode of the eating-house--the wild

hastening of his program, the untimely change of appearance in that

thronged room--and his rudeness to the woman behind the counter. With

anguish he remembered, or fancied he remembered, that she had looked

at him resentfully seeming to say as she studied his face. "I'm sizing

you up. Yes, I won't forget you--you brute."

His bag too--left by him at Waterloo for a solid proof that he was

_not_ in London as he pretended. The bag was at the cloak-room all

right when he came to fetch it, but perhaps in the meantime it had

been to Scotland Yard and back again. Besides, Waterloo was a station

he should never once have showed his nose in; the link between

Waterloo and home was too close--his own line--the railway whose staff

was replenished by people from his own part of the country. While he

was feeling glad that the passengers were strangers, perhaps a porter

was saying to a mate: "There goes the postmaster of Rodchurch. He and

I were boys together. I should know him anywhere, though it's ten

years since I last saw William Dale." He ought to have used Paddington

Station--he could have got to Salisbury that way, and gone into the

woods the way he came out of them.

Last of all, that child in the glade--a child strayed from one of the

cottages, or the child of some woodcutter who had brought her with

him, who was perhaps a very little way off, who listened to the tale

of what the child had seen five minutes after she had seen it. Of

course nothing much would be thought of the child's tale at first; but

it would assume importance directly suspicion had been aroused; it

would link up with other circumstances, it would suggest new ideas and

further researches to the minds of detectives, it might be the clue

that eventually hanged him.

It seemed to Dale as he went over things in this quivering, quaking

manner that, from the little girl weaving flowers back to the two Jews

selling slops, he had recruited an army of witnesses to denounce and

destroy him.

Only in one respect had he not bungled. He got rid of the clothes and

hat all right. Cut and torn into narrow stripes they had gone

comfortably down the drains of the temperance hotel in Stamford

Street. That was a night's wise labor. But the labor and thoughtful

care had come too late, on top of all the previous folly.

And he said to himself, "It's prob'ly all up with me. This quiet is

the usual trick of the p'lice to throw you off the scent. They're

playin' wi' me. They let me sim to run free, because they know they

can 'aarve me when they want me."

With such thoughts, he went down-stairs of a morning to talk jovially

with Ridgett, to chaff Miss Yorke; and with the thoughts unchanged he

came up-stairs to glower at Mavis across the breakfast-table.

His thoughts in regard to Mavis were extraordinarily complicated. At

first he had been horribly afraid of her--dreading their meeting as a

crisis, a turning-point, an awful bit of touch-and-go work. It seemed

that she of all people would be the one to suspect the truth. When she

heard of the man's death, surely the idea _must_ have flashed into her

mind: "This is Will's doing." But then perhaps, when no facts appeared

to support the idea, she might have abandoned it. Nevertheless it

would readily come flashing back again--and again, and again.

To his delight, however, he saw that she did not suspect now, and

there was nothing to show that she ever had suspected. And he thought

in the midst of his great relief: "How stupid she is really. Any other

woman would have put two and two together. But she is a stupid woman.

Stupidity is the key-note to her character--and it furnishes the

explanation of half her wrong-doing."

This reflection was comforting, but he still considered her to be a

source of terrible danger to him. For the moment at least, all his

resentment about her past unchasteness and her recent escapade was

entirely obliterated; it was a closed chapter; he did not seem to care

two pence about it--that is, he did not feel any torment of jealousy.

The offense was expiated. But he must not on any account let her see

this--no, because it might lead her, stupid as she was, to trace the

reason. He knew himself that if Mr. Barradine had died otherwise than

by his blows, he would have felt quite differently toward Mavis. He

would have felt then "The swine has escaped me. We are not quits. That

dirty turn is not paid for." He would have continued to smart under

the affront to his pride as a man, and association with Mavis would

have still been impossible.

Logically, then, he must act out these other feelings; Mavis must see

him as he would have been under those conditions. But it made it all

so difficult--two parts to render adequately instead of one. In the

monstrous egotism produced by his fear, he thought it uncommonly rough

luck that the wife who ought to have been dutifully assisting him

should thus add to his cares and worries. Sometimes he had to struggle

against insane longings to take her into his confidence, and compel

her to do her fair share of the job--to say, slap out, "It's you, my

lady, who've landed me in this tight place; so the least you can do is

to help pull me into open country."

Moreover, as the days and nights passed, instincts that were more

human and natural made him crave for re-union. He yearned to be

friends with her again. He felt that if he could safely make it up,

cuddle her as he used to do, hold her hands and arms when he went to

sleep, he would derive fortitude and support against his fear, even

if he obtained no aid from her in dodging the law.

He thought during the inquest that the fear had reached its climax.

Nothing that could come in the future would be as bad as this. Yet all

the time he was telling himself, "There is no cause for the fear. It

is quite baseless. All is going as nice as nice."

Indeed, if he had conducted the proceedings himself, he could not have

wished to arrange anything differently. The whole affair was more like

a civilian funeral service--a rite supplemental to the church

funeral--than a businesslike inquiry into the circumstances and

occasion of a person's death. A sergeant and constable were present,

but apparently for no reason whatever. Allen talked nonsense, grooms

and servants talked nonsense, everybody paid compliments to the

deceased--and really that was all. At last Mr. Hollis, the coroner,

said the very words that Dale would have liked to put into his

mouth--something to the effect that they had done their melancholy

duty and that it would be useless to ask any more questions.

But Dale, sitting firmly and staring gloomily, felt an internal

paroxysm of terror. Near the lofty doors of the fine state room common

folk stood whispering and nudging one another--cottagers, carters,

woodcutters; and Dale thought "Now I'm in for it. One of those chaps

is going to come forward and tell the coroner that his little girl saw

a strange man in the wood." He imagined it all so strongly that it

almost seemed to happen. "Beg pardon, your honor, I don't rightly know

as, it's wuth mentionin', but my lil' young 'un see'd a scarecrow sort

of a feller not far from they rocks, the mornin' afore."

It did not, however, happen. Nothing happened.

And nothing happened when he came to the Abbey again to attend the

real burial service--except that he found how wrong he had been in

supposing that the fear had reached its highest point. He nearly

fainted when he saw all those policemen--the entire park seeming to be

full of them, a blue helmet under every tree, a glittering line of

buttons that stretched through the courtyards and right round the

church. Inside the church he said to himself, "They've got me now.

They'll tap me on the shoulder as I come out."

Standing in the open air again he wondered at the respite that had

been allowed, and thought, "Yes, but that is always their way. They

never show their hand until they have collected all the evidence. The

detectives, who've been on my track from the word 'go,' prob'ly

advised the relatives to accept the thing as an accident in order to

hoodwink the murderer. The tip was given to that coroner not to probe

deep, because they weren't ready yet with their case;" and it suddenly

occurred to him that he had left deep footsteps in the wood, and that

plaster casts had been made of all these impressions.

He looked across a gravestone in the crowded churchyard and saw a

strange man who was staring at the ground. A detective? He believed

that this man was watching his feet, measuring them, saying to

himself, "Yes, those are the feet that will fit my plaster cast."

After the funeral he began to grow calmer, and soon he was able to

believe during long periods of each day that the most considerable

risks were now over.

Then came news of the legacy to Mavis--the cursed money that he

hated, that threw him back into the earlier distress concerning his

wife's shame, that restored vividness to the thoughts which had faded

in presence of the one overpowering thought of his own imminent peril.

But here again he was governed by what he had set before himself as

his unfailing guide-post--the necessity to conceal any motive for an

act of vengeance. What would people think if he refused the money? It

was a question not easy to answer, and the guide-post seemed to point

in two opposite directions. He was harassed by terrible doubt until he

and Mavis went to see the solicitor at Old Manninglea. During the

conversation over there he assured himself that the solicitor saw

nothing odd in the legacy, and made no guess at there having been an

intrigue between Mavis and the benefactor; and further he ascertained

that this was only one of several similar legacies. All was clear

then: the guide-post pointed one way now: they must take the money.

But this necessity shook Dale badly again. It seemed as if the man so

tightly put away in his lead coffin and stone vault was not done with

yet. It was as if one could never be free from his influence, as if,

dead or alive, he exercised power over one. Dale resisted such

superstitious fancies in vain. They upset him; and the fear returned,

bigger than before.

It was irrational, bone-crumbling fear--something that defied

argument, that nothing could allay. It was like the elemental passion

felt by the hunted animal--not fear of death, but the anguish of the

live thing which must perforce struggle to escape death, although

prolonged flight is worse than that from which it flies.

Dale had no real fear of death--nor even fear of the gallows. If the

worst came, he could face death bravely. He was quite sure of that.

Then, as he told himself thousands of times, it was absurd to be so

shaken by terror. Terror of what? And he thought, "It is because of

the uncertainty. But there too, how absurdly fullish I am; for there

is no _real_ uncertainty. My crime can not and will not be discovered.

If I were to go now and accuse myself, people would not credit me."

He thought also, in intervals between the paroxysms, "I suppose what

I've been feeling is what all murderers feel. It is this that makes

men go and give themselves up to the police after they have got off

scot free. They are safe, but they never can believe they're safe;

they can't stand the strain, and if they didn't stop it, they'd go

mad. So they give themselves up--just go get a bit o' quiet. And that

is what I shall do, if this goes on much longer. I'd sooner be turned

off short and sharp with a broken neck than die of exhaustion in a

padded cell."

Then suddenly chance gave the hateful money an immense value,

converted it into a means of escape from the outer life whose monotony

and narrowness were assisting the cruelly wide inner life to drive him

mad.

He went to Vine-Pits, and the strangeness of his surroundings, the

difficulties, the hard work, produced a salutary effect upon him; but

most of all he drew strength and courage from the renewal of love

between Mavis and himself. That was most wonderful--like a new birth,

rather than a reanimation. They loved each other as a freshly married

couple, as a boy and girl who have just returned from their

honeymoon, and who say, "We shall feel just the same when the time

comes to keep our silver wedding."

So he toiled comfortably, almost happily. Mavis was perfectly happy,

and he found increasing solace in the knowledge of this fact.

Thence onward his busy days were free from fear, except for the

transient panics which, as he surmised, he would be subject to for the

remainder of his life. They did not matter, because he could control

them to the extent of preventing the slightest outward manifestation.

All at once while transacting business he would feel the inward

collapse, deadly cold, a sensation that his intestines had been

changed from close-knitted substance to water; and he would think

"This person"--a farmer, a servant, old Mr. Bates, anybody--"suspects

my secret. He guessed it a long while ago. Or he has just discovered

the proofs of guilt." Nevertheless he went on talking in exactly the

same tone of voice, without a contraction of a single facial muscle,

with nothing at all shown unless perhaps a bead of perspiration on his

forehead.

"Good morning, sir. Many thanks, sir.... Yes, Mr. Envill, the stuff

shall be at your stables by one P.M. sharp. I'm making it my pride to

obey all orders punctually, whether big or small."

Thus he got on comfortably enough during the daylight waking hours.

But the fear that had gone out of the days had made its home in the

night. Sleep was now its stronghold.

His dreams were terrible. They were like immense highly-colored

fabrics reeling off the vast gray thought-loom--that dreadful thought

machine that worked as well when the workshop was darkened as when

all the lamps were burning. Their pattern displayed infinite variety

of detail, but a constant similarity in the main design.

They began by his being happy and light-hearted, that is, he was

_innocent_; and then gradually the horrible fact returned to his

memory. Recently, or a long time ago, he had killed a man. That was

always the end of the dream; his lightness and gaiety of spirits

vanished, and he felt again the load that he was eternally forced to

carry on his conscience.

The details of one form in which the dream worked itself out were

repeated hundreds of times. There was a strange man who at first made

himself extremely agreeable, and yet in spite of all his amiability

Dale did not like him. Nevertheless there was some mysterious

necessity to keep friends with him, even to kow-tow to him. And Dale

gradually felt sure that he and this man had met before, and that the

man knew it, but for some sinister purpose concealed his knowledge.

They went about together in gay and lively scenes, and the man grew

more and more hateful to Dale--becoming insolent, making disparaging

remarks, sneering openly; and laughing when Dale only tittered in a

nervous way and swallowed all insults. And Dale could not do

otherwise, because he was afraid of the man.

And finally this false friend disclosed his true hostile character in

some strikingly painful manner.

For instance, the man would make Dale take off his boots for him in

some public place. They were together in a place like the lounge of

some grand music-hall; the electric light shone brilliantly, a band

played at a distance, the gaily dressed crowd gathered round

them--young London swells with white waistcoats, pretty painted women,

old men and young girls, and all of them watching, all contemptuously

amused, all grinning because they understood that, though so big and

strong, he was at heart a pitiful sort of poltroon, and that his

companion was showing him up publicly. "Yes, you shall take my boots

off for me. That's all you're fit for." And in spite of his anguish of

resentment, Dale dared not refuse. The man had moved to a divan, he

reclined upon his back, lifted his feet; and Dale, pretending to laugh

it off as a bit of fun, took him by the heels.

Then he uttered a terrified cry--because he saw it was Barradine,

dead, battered, with glassy staring eyes. All the people rushed away

screaming, the lights went out, the music ceased: Dale was alone, at

dusk, in a rocky wilderness, still dragging the dead man by the heels.

And then he would wake--to find Mavis bending over him, to hear her

saying, "My dearest, you are sleeping on your back, and it is making

you dream." He clung to her desperately, muttering, "Quite right, Mav.

Don't let me dream. It's a fullish trick--dreaming."

Then he would settle himself to sleep again, thinking, "It is all no

use. I love my wife; I bless her for the generous way in which she has

risked all that money to give me a fresh start; I enjoy the work; I

believe I may succeed with the business--but I shall never know real

peace of mind. And sooner or later my crime will be brought home to

me. It is always so. I've read it in the papers a dozen times.

Murderers never get off altogether. Years and years pass; but at last

justice overtakes them."

Already, although he did not recognize it, had come remorse for the

wickedness of his deed. He had no regret for the fact itself, and not

the slightest pity for the victim. Mr. Barradine had got no more than

he deserved, the only proper adequate punishment for his offenses; but

Dale knew that, according to the tenets of all religions, God does not

allow private individuals to mete out punishment, however well

deserved--especially not the death penalty.

He resolutely revived his idea of the dead man as a thing unfit to

live--just a brute, without a man's healthy instincts--a foul

debauchee, ruining sweet and comely innocence whenever he could get at

it. Such a wretch would be executed by any sensible community. In new

countries they would lynch him as soon as they caught him--"A lot of

chaps like myself would ride off their farms, heft him up on the

nearest tree, and empty their revolvers into him. And it wouldn't be a

murder: it would be a rough and ready execution. Well, I did the job

by myself, without sharing the responsibility with my pals; and I

consider myself an executioner, not a murderer."

He could now always make the hate and horror return and be as strong

as they had ever been, and thus solidify the argument whereby he found

his justification; no mercy is possible for such brutes.

Subconsciously he was always striving to reinforce it; as if the voice

of that logical faculty which he admired as his highest attribute were

always whispering advice, reminding him: "This is your strong point.

It is the only firm ground you stand on. You can't possibly hope to

justify yourself to other people; but if you don't justify yourself to

yourself, then you are truly done for."

And he used to think: "I have justified myself to myself all along. I

was never one who considered human life so sacred as some try to make

out. Why should it be? Aren't we proved to be animals--along with the

rest? The parsons own it nowadays themselves, allowing a man's soul to

be what God counts most important, but not going so far as to say any

animal's soul isn't immortal too. Then where's the sacredness? If it's

right to kill a vicious dog or a poisonous snake, how is it so wrong

to out a man that won't behave himself?"

Insensibly this consideration had the greatest possible effect on his

conduct. Without advancing step by step in a reasoned progress, he

understood that any one holding his views on human life generally

should not attach an excessive value to his own individual life. He

must carry his life lightly, and be ready to lay it down without a lot

of fuss. Sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. He acted on the

maxim, risking his life freely, courting dangers that he would have

avoided in the days before the day on which he executed Mr. Barradine.

Executed--yes. But God would not have authorized him, although Judge

Lynch would. God would say: "It must be left to Me. I will attend to

it in My own good time. From My point of view perhaps, keeping the man

alive is in truth his punishment, and to kill him is to let him off.

You have come blundering with your finite intelligence into the

department of omniscient wisdom. Instead of interpreting My laws, you

have set up a law of your own invention."

And Dale sometimes thought: "But there isn't any God. All that is my

eye and my elbow. I believed it once, but I shall never believe it

again."

His thoughts about God's laws were curious, and baffling to himself.

They had been always there, always active, but in a manner secondary

and faint when compared with his thoughts about his infringement of

men's laws. Faith in God had seemed to be quite gone. It used to

permeate his entire mind; and yet it dropped out as though it had been

only in one corner of his mind, and a hole had been made under that

corner for it to fall through. Now he sometimes had the notion that it

went out through many holes, as if it had been forcibly ejected, and

that his whole mind was left in a shattered and unstable condition.

Then it began to seem that the faith had not truly been altogether got

rid of. Fragments of it remained.

Rapidly then he reached the certainty that he wished to have the faith

back again. His was an orderly solid mind that could not do with

cracks and holes in it, trimness, neatness, and firmness of outer wall

were necessary to its well-being; openness to windy doubts ruined it.

He felt that an accidental universe was the wrong box for it. He

wanted to believe in the God who created order out of chaos, the God

who settled cut-and-dried plans for the whole of creation--yes, the

God made in man's image, and yet the Maker and Ruler of man.

And some days he did believe, and some days he couldn't. But all at

once an idea came, first soothing then cheering him. He thought:

"Whether I believe or not, I'll take it for granted. I'll act as if

God is real."

He did so, acting as if God were believed in as truly by him as by the

most stanch believers. He clung to the idea. It seemed to be the way

out of all his troubles. He would make peace with God--then there

would be no need to bother about men, or offer any confession of his

guilt to _them_.

He grew calmer now. Doing things had always suited him better than

brooding over things. His new determination illuminated the reason for

reckless adventures, and lifted their purpose to a higher plane. He

thought now that he held his life at God's will--to be given back to

God at a moment's notice.

This thought made him calmer still, made him strong, almost made him

happy. A life for a life. He would expiate his offense in God's good

time. So no danger was too big for William Dale to face; his courage

became a byword; gentlefolk and peasants alike admired and wondered.

Out of the consistent course of action came the consistency of the

thought that was governing the action. Assumption of the reality of

God as a working hypothesis led to conviction of the existence of God.

Yet strangely and unexpectedly the attempt to formalize his faith

almost shook his faith out of him again. Although throughout the

episode of his acceptance by the Baptists he seemed so stolid and

matter-of-fact, he was truly suffering storms of emotion. He fell a

prey to old illusions; that unreasoning fear returned; he was thrown

back into the state of terrified egoism which rendered lofty

impersonal meditation beyond attainment.

That evening when for the first time he went to the Baptist Chapel,

the illusion was strong upon him that every man, woman, and child in

the congregation had discovered his secret. When they all stood up to

sing, it seemed that he was naked, defenseless, utterly at their

mercy. With every word of their carefully selected hymn they were

telling him that they knew all about him. When they began their third

verse, they simply roared a denunciation straight at him:

"But thus th' eternal counsel ran:

'Almighty love, _arrest that man_.'"

And the second and third hymns were just as bad, shaking him to

pieces, tumbling him headlong into the terror he had felt when his

crime was no more than a week old. The rest of the service entranced

and delighted him, made him think: "These people are in touch with

God, and their God is full of love and mercy. If He would accept me, I

should feel safe." At the end of the service he knelt, praying for

this to happen. Then he went home and doubted.

The fear was on him again in the beginning of his interview with Mr.

Osborn the pastor. He thought: "This man has seen through me. He

knows. Perhaps his past experiences have taught him to be quick in

spotting criminals. He may have been a prison chaplain some time or

other. Anyhow, he knows; and he'll try to get a confession out of me,

as sure as I sit here." But the beauty of the conception of God as

unfolded by Mr. Osborn banished the fear. He thought: "If I had been

told these things before, I should have never ceased to believe. I

feel it through and through me. This is God; and if I am not too

late, if He will still accept me, I shall be saved. Christ, the

friend, the brother of man--same as described by Mr. Osborn two

minutes ago--can do it for me if He will. He can take me home to

Father." A verse of one of those hymns echoed in his ears:

"None less than God's Almighty Son

Can move such loads of sin;

The water from His side must run,

To wash this dungeon clean."

And once more he prayed to the God of the Baptists; and then once more

doubted.

While he was walking home, he thought: "It is too good to be true.

Perhaps I'm fullish to pin my trust to it. Do I believe in it all, or

do I not?" He wanted a sign; and when the storm of thunder and

lightning burst like the most tremendous sign one could ask for, he

seized this opportunity of risking his life, and said: "Now I stand

here for God to take me or leave me."

He was left, not taken. The fear vanished, the doubt passed, and he

made his way into the Baptist Church exactly as if, as Mr. Osborn had

said, there was an irresistible pressure behind him, and he could not

make his way anywhere else.

It was all right after his baptism. He knew then that he would never

doubt again. The faith was permanent now: it would last as long as he

himself lasted. He had no more evil dreams. He slept soundly, as a man

sleeps when he has got home late after a tiring journey. And in the

morning and the evening of each day he thanked God for having

accepted him.

Then came the years of tranquillity, the respite from pain, his golden

time. He was prosperous, respected; he had a loved and loving wife,

and lovely lovable children; he had grain in his barns, money in his

bank, peace in his mind. He felt too all the better part in him

growing bigger and bigger; religion, in simplifying his ideas, had

increased their value; his intellectual power seemed wider and more

comprehensive when exercised with regard to all things that can be

learned, now that he had entirely ceased to exercise it with regard to

things that must not be questioned.

And then there had happened something that was like the knocking down

of a house of cards, the blowing out of a paper lantern, or the

obliteration of a picture scratched on sand when the inrushing tide

sweeps over it.

His soul turned sick at the thought that God had not accepted, but

rejected him. God refused his offer of humble homage, had seen the

latent wickedness in him, had kept him alive until he also could see

and loathe himself for what he really was--a wretch who in wishes and

cravings, if not in accomplished facts, was as vile as the man he had

slain.