Part 7

The Christ was overdue. In the opinion of many, if civilization, if humanity was to continue, there must be a divine intervention. These organized and deepening hatreds were destroying the soul of the world. Even average sensual men had come to realize this vital need. But--the vicar began to gnaw the stump of his pen furiously--an age that had ceased to believe in miracles was now crying out for a miracle to happen.

“O ye of little faith,” wrote the vicar as the first subheading of his great theme. Only a miracle could now save a world that had so long derided them. The vicar wrote the word Nemesis, and then in brackets, “Terrible word--retributive justice.”

Yes, the only hope remaining for a blood-soaked world was to accept the miracle of the Incarnation. And to accept that miracle was to affirm the second advent.

How will He come? The vicar left a space on the slowly filling page, and then wrote his question in the form of a second subheading. How will He appear to us, this Christ of pity, and purity, and peace? Would the heavens open, as the Book of Revelation had foretold; would the King of the World emerge from the clouds to the blowing of trumpets, crowned in a chariot? Or would He come as a spirit on the face of the waters? Who should say? But come He must, because of the promise He had made.

“The duty of faith in this present hour,” wrote the vicar, as a third subheading. It was a man’s duty to reject the carpings of science and the machinations of modern denial. He must believe where he could not prove. The vicar wrote in brackets, “It is very difficult to do that in an age of skepticism.”

“The watchers.” The vicar drew a line under his fourth subheading. All men must stand as upon a tower, their eyes fixed on the far horizon, in the hope that they might see in the eastern sky the herald of a new heaven and a new earth. And by that portent, which was the light of sublime truth, must they learn to know the Master when He came among them. But only the faithful could hope to do that.

“The danger of His coming to a world in which none should know Him,” was the final clause of the vicar’s sermon. That would be the supreme tragedy.

The sudden striking of the clock on the chimneypiece startled the vicar. “Four o’clock!” he said. And he went to bed.

XIV

MR. PERRY-HENNINGTON was troubled by many things, but he was tired out by his long day and fell asleep at once. He was still sleeping when Prince, the parlor maid, brought him a cup of tea at a quarter to seven. Another trying day was upon him. He had to take three services, and to give the children’s address in a neighboring parish in the afternoon. A hard but uninspired worker, he never flinched from his duty, but did the task next him. It pleased him to think that he got things done, and, like all men of his type, never allowed himself to doubt for a moment that they were worth the doing.

At the morning service Mr. Perry-Hennington preached a sermon that had done duty on many occasions. It was his custom to keep the new discourse for the evening, when the congregation was larger as a rule. “He came to His own and His own knew him not,” was the text of the morning homily. It had always been one of his favorites, and every time he rendered it he found some new embroidery to weave upon that poignant theme. And this morning, in the emotional stress of a recent event which lurked a shadow at the back of his thoughts, his mind played upon it with a vigor that surprised even himself. He was at his best. Such a feeling of power came upon him as he had seldom known.

While the last hymn was being sung the vicar’s eyes strayed to the back of the church. He was surprised and a little disconcerted to see John Smith standing there. The young man was singing heartily, and as the bright rays from the window fell upon his face it became a center of light. Yet that unexpected presence cast a shadow across the vicar’s mind. It was as if a cloud had suddenly darkened the sun.

At the end of the service Mr. Perry-Hennington was the last to leave the church. By the time he had taken off his vestments the small congregation had dispersed. But one member of it still lingered near the lich gate, at the end of the churchyard, and as the vicar came down the path this person stopped him. A rather odd-looking man wearing a white hat, he gave the vicar an impression of being overdressed, but his strong face had an individuality that would have commanded notice anywhere.

This man, who had been scanning the tombstones in the churchyard, had evidently stayed behind to speak to the vicar. Yet he was a total stranger to the neighborhood, whose presence among his flock Mr. Perry-Hennington had noted that morning for the first time. At the vicar’s slow approach the man in the white hat came forward with a hearty outstretched hand.

“Delighted to meet you, sir,” he said.

To the conventional mind of the vicar this was a very unconventional greeting on the part of one he had not seen before; and he took the proffered hand with an air of reserve.

“Allow me to congratulate you on your discourse,” said the stranger in an idiom which struck the vicar as rather unusual. “It was first-rate. And I’m a judge. I think I am anyway.” The man in the white hat spoke in such a cool, simple, forthcoming manner, that the vicar was nonplussed. And yet there was such a charm about him that even a spirit in pontificalibus could hardly resent it.

“Ah, I see,” said the stranger, noting the vicar’s stiffening of attitude with an amused eye, “you are waiting for an introduction. Well, I’m a neighbor, the new tenant of Longwood.”

“Oh, really,” said the vicar. The air of constraint lightened a little, but it was too heavy to vanish at once. “I am glad to meet you.”

“Let me give you a card.” The new neighbor suddenly dived into a hidden recess of a light gray frock coat, and whipped out a small case.

Mr. Perry-Hennington with a leisureliness half reluctant, and in almost comic contrast to the stranger’s freedom of gesture, accepted the card, disentangled his eyeglasses from his pectoral cross, and read it carefully. It bore the inscription: Mr. Gazelee Payne Murdwell, 94 Fifth Avenue, New York.

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Murdwell,” said the vicar, with a note of reassurance coming into his tone. “Allow me to welcome you among us.” The voice, in its grave sonority, rose almost to a point. It didn’t quite achieve it, but the fact that the man was an American and also the new tenant of Longwood accounted for much. For the vicar was already quite sure that he didn’t belong to the island. The native article could not have had that particular manner, nor could it have dressed in that particular way, nor could it have shown that extraordinary, half quizzical self-security. A new man from the city might have achieved the white hat (with modifications), the gray frock coat, the white waistcoat, the white spats, the wonderful checked cravat, but he could not have delivered a frontal attack on an obviously reverend and honorable gentleman, for long generations indigenous to the soil of the county, on the threshold of his own parish church.

“Now look here, vicar,” said Gazelee Payne Murdwell, with an easy note of intimacy, “you and I have got to know one another. And it has got to be soon. This is all new to me.” Mr. Murdwell waved a jeweled and romantic hand, a fine gesture, which included a part of Kent, a part of Sussex, a suggestion of Surrey, and even a suspicion of Hampshire. “And I’m new to you. As I figure you out at the moment, even allowing a liberal discount for the state of Europe, you are rather like a comic opera”--the vicar drew in his lips primly--“and as you figure me out, if looks mean anything, I’m fit for a Mappin Terrace at the Zoo. But that’s a wrong attitude. We’ve got to come together. And the sooner the better, because you are going to find me a pretty good neighbor.”

“I have not the least doubt of that, Mr.--er--Murdwell,” said the vicar, glancing deliberately and augustly at the card in his hand.

“Well, as a guaranty of good intentions on both sides, suppose you and your daughter dine at Longwood on Wednesday? I am a bachelor at the moment, but Juley--my wife--and Bud--my daughter--will be down by then.”

“Wednesday!” The vicar’s left eyebrow was mobilized in the form of a slight frown. But the invitation had come so entirely unawares that unless he pleaded an engagement which didn’t exist, and his conscience therefore would not have sanctioned, there really seemed no way of escape.

“You will? Wednesday. A quarter to eight. That’s bully.” And in order to clinch the matter, Mr. Murdwell slipped an arm through the vicar’s, and slowly accompanied him as far as the vicarage gate.

XV

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.

XVI

INVOLUNTARILY, as it seemed, and without an attempt to carry the matter further, the vicar and the doctor turned abruptly on their heels and left the common.

“A case of possession,” said the doctor, by the time they had reached the top of the village street. “And quite the most curious in my experience.”

“At any rate,” said the vicar, “now you have seen the man for yourself, you will have not the slightest difficulty in certifying him!”

“You really feel it to be wise and necessary?”

“I do.” The vicar spoke with his habitual air of decision. “I feel very strongly that it will be in the public interest. In fact, I go further. I feel very strongly that it will be in the national interest to have this man certified as a lunatic.”

“He seems a singularly harmless creature.”

“There is always the fear that he may get worse. But apart from that, he is having a bad effect on weak, uneducated minds. He already pretends to powers he doesn’t possess, and has taken lately to faith-healing, and mischievous nonsense of that kind.”

The rubicund visage of Dr. Parker assumed a grave, professional look. “There can be no doubt,” he said, “that he is on the verge of, if he is not already suffering from, mania.”

“In a word,” said the vicar, “you fully agree that it will be wise to have him taken care of?”

“From what you have told me,” said Dr. Parker, with professional caution, “I am inclined to think that, in a time like the present, it may be the right course to adopt.”

“Very well,” said the vicar gravely. “Let us now go and see Joliffe, and get him to indorse your opinion as the law requires. And then tomorrow morning I will run over to Grayfield and get Whymper to move in the matter without delay.”

XVII

THE vicar and Dr. Parker slowly descended the long, straggling village street, until they came to Dr. Joliffe’s gate. They found their man at home. In shirt sleeves and pipe in mouth he was mowing the back lawn with a very creditable display of energy for a householder of fifty-five, on an extremely oppressive afternoon.

The perspiring Dr. Joliffe donned a light alpaca coat, and then led his visitors to the summerhouse at the bottom of the garden, where they could talk without fear of being overheard.

The vicar began at once in a concise, businesslike way.

“Dr. Parker has seen John Smith. And he is quite ready to certify him.”

“Hopelessly mad, poor fellow, I’m afraid,” said Dr. Parker.

A quick frown passed across the face of Dr. Joliffe.

“Dangerously?” The tone was curt.

Dr. Parker slowly weighed out a careful reply.