Once out of sight of the church, I pressed forward briskly on my
way to Knowlesbury.
The road was, for the most part, straight and level. Whenever I
looked back over it I saw the two spies steadily following me.
For the greater part of the way they kept at a safe distance
behind. But once or twice they quickened their pace, as if with
the purpose of overtaking me, then stopped, consulted together,
and fell back again to their former position. They had some
special object evidently in view, and they seemed to be hesitating
or differing about the best means of accomplishing it. I could
not guess exactly what their design might be, but I felt serious
doubts of reaching Knowlesbury without some mischance happening to
me on the way. These doubts were realised.
I had just entered on a lonely part of the road, with a sharp turn
at some distance ahead, and had just concluded (calculating by
time) that I must be getting near to the town, when I suddenly
heard the steps of the men close behind me.
Before I could look round, one of them (the man by whom I had been
followed in London) passed rapidly on my left side and hustled me
with his shoulder. I had been more irritated by the manner in
which he and his companion had dogged my steps all the way from
Old Welmingham than I was myself aware of, and I unfortunately
pushed the fellow away smartly with my open hand. He instantly
shouted for help. His companion, the tall man in the gamekeeper's
clothes, sprang to my right side, and the next moment the two
scoundrels held me pinioned between them in the middle of the
road.
The conviction that a trap had been laid for me, and the vexation
of knowing that I had fallen into it, fortunately restrained me
from making my position still worse by an unavailing struggle with
two men, one of whom would, in all probability, have been more
than a match for me single-handed. I repressed the first natural
movement by which I had attempted to shake them off, and looked
about to see if there was any person near to whom I could appeal.
A labourer was at work in an adjoining field who must have
witnessed all that had passed. I called to him to follow us to
the town. He shook his head with stolid obstinacy, and walked
away in the direction of a cottage which stood back from the high-
road. At the same time the men who held me between them declared
their intention of charging me with an assault. I was cool enough
and wise enough now to make no opposition. "Drop your hold of my
arms," I said, "and I will go with you to the town." The man in
the gamekeeper's dress roughly refused. But the shorter man was
sharp enough to look to consequences, and not to let his companion
commit himself by unnecessary violence. He made a sign to the
other, and I walked on between them with my arms free.
We reached the turning in the road, and there, close before us,
were the suburbs of Knowlesbury. One of the local policemen was
walking along the path by the roadside. The men at once appealed
to him. He replied that the magistrate was then sitting at the
town-hall, and recommended that we should appear before him
immediately.
We went on to the town-hall. The clerk made out a formal summons,
and the charge was preferred against me, with the customary
exaggeration and the customary perversion of the truth on such
occasions. The magistrate (an ill-tempered man, with a sour
enjoyment in the exercise of his own power) inquired if any one on
or near the road had witnessed the assault, and, greatly to my
surprise, the complainant admitted the presence of the labourer in
the field. I was enlightened, however, as to the object of the
admission by the magistrate's next words. He remanded me at once
for the production of the witness, expressing, at the same time,
his willingness to take bail for my reappearance if I could
produce one responsible surety to offer it. If I had been known
in the town he would have liberated me on my own recognisances,
but as I was a total stranger it was necessary that I should find
responsible bail.
The whole object of the stratagem was now disclosed to me. It had
been so managed as to make a remand necessary in a town where I
was a perfect stranger, and where I could not hope to get my
liberty on bail. The remand merely extended over three days,
until the next sitting of the magistrate. But in that time, while
I was in confinement, Sir Percival might use any means he pleased
to embarrass my future proceedings--perhaps to screen himself from
detection altogether--without the slightest fear of any hindrance
on my part. At the end of the three days the charge would, no
doubt, be withdrawn, and the attendance of the witness would be
perfectly useless.
My indignation, I may almost say, my despair, at this mischievous
check to all further progress--so base and trifling in itself, and
yet so disheartening and so serious in its probable results--quite
unfitted me at first to reflect on the best means of extricating
myself from the dilemma in which I now stood. I had the folly to
call for writing materials, and to think of privately
communicating my real position to the magistrate. The
hopelessness and the imprudence of this proceeding failed to
strike me before I had actually written the opening lines of the
letter. It was not till I had pushed the paper away--not till, I
am ashamed to say, I had almost allowed the vexation of my
helpless position to conquer me--that a course of action suddenly
occurred to my mind, which Sir Percival had probably not
anticipated, and which might set me free again in a few hours. I
determined to communicate the situation in which I was placed to
Mr. Dawson, of Oak Lodge.
I had visited this gentleman's house, it may be remembered, at the
time of my first inquiries in the Blackwater Park neighbourhood,
and I had presented to him a letter of introduction from Miss
Halcombe, in which she recommended me to his friendly attention in
the strongest terms. I now wrote, referring to this letter, and
to what I had previously told Mr. Dawson of the delicate and
dangerous nature of my inquiries. I had not revealed to him the
truth about Laura, having merely described my errand as being of
the utmost importance to private family interests with which Miss
Halcombe was concerned. Using the same caution still, I now
accounted for my presence at Knowlesbury in the same manner, and I
put it to the doctor to say whether the trust reposed in me by a
lady whom he well knew, and the hospitality I had myself received
in his house, justified me or not in asking him to come to my
assistance in a place where I was quite friendless.
I obtained permission to hire a messenger to drive away at once
with my letter in a conveyance which might be used to bring the
doctor back immediately. Oak Lodge was on the Knowlesbury side of
Blackwater. The man declared he could drive there in forty
minutes, and could bring Mr. Dawson back in forty more. I
directed him to follow the doctor wherever he might happen to be,
if he was not at home, and then sat down to wait for the result
with all the patience and all the hope that I could summon to help
me.
It was not quite half-past one when the messenger departed.
Before half-past three he returned, and brought the doctor with
him. Mr. Dawson's kindness, and the delicacy with which he
treated his prompt assistance quite as a matter of course, almost
overpowered me. The bail required was offered, and accepted
immediately. Before four o'clock, on that afternoon, I was
shaking hands warmly with the good old doctor--a free man again--
in the streets of Knowlesbury.
Mr. Dawson hospitably invited me to go back with him to Oak Lodge,
and take up my quarters there for the night. I could only reply
that my time was not my own, and I could only ask him to let me
pay my visit in a few days, when I might repeat my thanks, and
offer to him all the explanations which I felt to be only his due,
but which I was not then in a position to make. We parted with
friendly assurances on both sides, and I turned my steps at once
to Mr. Wansborough's office in the High Street.
Time was now of the last importance.
The news of my being free on bail would reach Sir Percival, to an
absolute certainty, before night. If the next few hours did not
put me in a position to justify his worst fears, and to hold him
helpless at my mercy, I might lose every inch of the ground I had
gained, never to recover it again. The unscrupulous nature of the
man, the local influence he possessed, the desperate peril of
exposure with which my blindfold inquiries threatened him--all
warned me to press on to positive discovery, without the useless
waste of a single minute. I had found time to think while I was
waiting for Mr. Dawson's arrival, and I had well employed it.
Certain portions of the conversation of the talkative old clerk,
which had wearied me at the time, now recurred to my memory with a
new significance, and a suspicion crossed my mind darkly which had
not occurred to me while I was in the vestry. On my way to
Knowlesbury, I had only proposed to apply to Mr. Wansborough for
information on the subject of Sir Percival's mother. My object
now was to examine the duplicate register of Old Welmingham
Church.
Mr. Wansborough was in his office when I inquired for him.
He was a jovial, red-faced, easy-looking man--more like a country
squire than a lawyer--and he seemed to be both surprised and
amused by my application. He had heard of his father's copy of
the register, but had not even seen it himself. It had never been
inquired after, and it was no doubt in the strong room among other
papers that had not been disturbed since his father's death. It
was a pity (Mr. Wansborough said) that the old gentleman was not
alive to hear his precious copy asked for at last. He would have
ridden his favourite hobby harder than ever now. How had I come
to hear of the copy? was it through anybody in the town?
I parried the question as well as I could. It was impossible at
this stage of the investigation to be too cautious, and it was
just as well not to let Mr. Wansborough know prematurely that I
had already examined the original register. I described myself,
therefore, as pursuing a family inquiry, to the object of which
every possible saving of time was of great importance. I was
anxious to send certain particulars to London by that day's post,
and one look at the duplicate register (paying, of course, the
necessary fees) might supply what I required, and save me a
further journey to Old Welmingham. I added that, in the event of
my subsequently requiring a copy of the original register, I
should make application to Mr. Wansborough's office to furnish me
with the document.
After this explanation no objection was made to producing the
copy. A clerk was sent to the strong room, and after some delay
returned with the volume. It was of exactly the same size as the
volume in the vestry, the only difference being that the copy was
more smartly bound. I took it with me to an unoccupied desk. My
hands were trembling--my head was burning hot--I felt the
necessity of concealing my agitation as well as I could from the
persons about me in the room, before I ventured on opening the
book.
On the blank page at the beginning, to which I first turned, were
traced some lines in faded ink. They contained these words--
"Copy of the Marriage Register of Welmingham Parish Church.
Executed under my orders, and afterwards compared, entry by entry,
with the original, by myself. (Signed) Robert Wansborough,
vestry-clerk." Below this note there was a line added, in another
handwriting, as follows: "Extending from the first of January,
1800, to the thirtieth of June, 1815."
I turned to the month of September, eighteen hundred and three. I
found the marriage of the man whose Christian name was the same as
my own. I found the double register of the marriages of the two
brothers. And between these entries, at the bottom of the page?
Nothing! Not a vestige of the entry which recorded the marriage of
Sir Felix Glyde and Cecilia Jane Elster in the register of the
church!
My heart gave a great bound, and throbbed as if it would stifle
me. I looked again--I was afraid to believe the evidence of my
own eyes. No! not a doubt. The marriage was not there. The
entries on the copy occupied exactly the same places on the page
as the entries in the original. The last entry on one page
recorded the marriage of the man with my Christian name. Below it
there was a blank space--a space evidently left because it was too
narrow to contain the entry of the marriages of the two brothers,
which in the copy, as in the original, occupied the top of the
next page. That space told the whole story! There it must have
remained in the church register from eighteen hundred and three
(when the marriages had been solemnised and the copy had been
made) to eighteen hundred and twenty-seven, when Sir Percival
appeared at Old Welmingham. Here, at Knowlesbury, was the chance
of committing the forgery shown to me in the copy, and there, at
Old Welmingham, was the forgery committed in the register of the
church.
My head turned giddy--I held by the desk to keep myself from
falling. Of all the suspicions which had struck me in relation to
that desperate man, not one had been near the truth.
The idea that he was not Sir Percival Glyde at all, that he had no
more claim to the baronetcy and to Blackwater Park than the
poorest labourer who worked on the estate, had never once occurred
to my mind. At one time I had thought he might be Anne
Catherick's father--at another time I had thought he might have
been Anne Catherick's husband--the offence of which he was really
guilty had been, from first to last, beyond the widest reach of my
imagination.
The paltry means by which the fraud had been effected, the
magnitude and daring of the crime that it represented, the horror
of the consequences involved in its discovery, overwhelmed me.
Who could wonder now at the brute-restlessness of the wretch's
life--at his desperate alternations between abject duplicity and
reckless violence--at the madness of guilty distrust which had
made him imprison Anne Catherick in the Asylum, and had given him
over to the vile conspiracy against his wife, on the bare
suspicion that the one and the other knew his terrible secret? The
disclosure of that secret might, in past years, have hanged him--
might now transport him for life. The disclosure of that secret,
even if the sufferers by his deception spared him the penalties of
the law, would deprive him at one blow of the name, the rank, the
estate, the whole social existence that he had usurped. This was
the Secret, and it was mine! A word from me, and house, lands,
baronetcy, were gone from him for ever--a word from me, and he was
driven out into the world, a nameless, penniless, friendless
outcast! The man's whole future hung on my lips--and he knew it by
this time as certainly as I did!
That last thought steadied me. Interests far more precious than
my own depended on the caution which must now guide my slightest
actions. There was no possible treachery which Sir Percival might
not attempt against me. In the danger and desperation of his
position he would be staggered by no risks, he would recoil at no
crime--he would literally hesitate at nothing to save himself.
I considered for a minute. My first necessity was to secure
positive evidence in writing of the discovery that I had just
made, and in the event of any personal misadventure happening to
me, to place that evidence beyond Sir Percival's reach. The copy
of the register was sure to be safe in Mr. Wansborough's strong
room. But the position of the original in the vestry was, as I
had seen with my own eyes, anything but secure.
In this emergency I resolved to return to the church, to apply
again to the clerk, and to take the necessary extract from the
register before I slept that night. I was not then aware that a
legally-certified copy was necessary, and that no document merely
drawn out by myself could claim the proper importance as a proof.
I was not aware of this, and my determination to keep my present
proceedings a secret prevented me from asking any questions which
might have procured the necessary information. My one anxiety was
the anxiety to get back to Old Welmingham. I made the best
excuses I could for the discomposure in my face and manner which
Mr. Wansborough had already noticed, laid the necessary fee on his
table, arranged that I should write to him in a day or two, and
left the office, with my head in a whirl and my blood throbbing
through my veins at fever heat.
It was just getting dark. The idea occurred to me that I might be
followed again and attacked on the high-road.
My walking-stick was a light one, of little or no use for purposes
of defence. I stopped before leaving Knowlesbury and bought a
stout country cudgel, short, and heavy at the head. With this
homely weapon, if any one man tried to stop me I was a match for
him. If more than one attacked me I could trust to my heels. In
my school-days I had been a noted runner, and I had not wanted for
practice since in the later time of my experience in Central
America.
I started from the town at a brisk pace, and kept the middle of
the road.
A small misty rain was falling, and it was impossible for the
first half of the way to make sure whether I was followed or not.
But at the last half of my journey, when I supposed myself to be
about two miles from the church, I saw a man run by me in the
rain, and then heard the gate of a field by the roadside shut to
sharply. I kept straight on, with my cudgel ready in my hand, my
ears on the alert, and my eyes straining to see through the mist
and the darkness. Before I had advanced a hundred yards there was
a rustling in the hedge on my right, and three men sprang out into
the road.
I drew aside on the instant to the footpath. The two foremost men
were carried beyond me before they could check themselves. The
third was as quick as lightning. He stopped, half turned, and
struck at me with his stick. The blow was aimed at hazard, and
was not a severe one. It fell on my left shoulder. I returned it
heavily on his head. He staggered back and jostled his two
companions just as they were both rushing at me. This
circumstance gave me a moment's start. I slipped by them, and
took to the middle of the road again at the top of my speed.
The two unhurt men pursued me. They were both good runners--the
road was smooth and level, and for the first five minutes or more
I was conscious that I did not gain on them. It was perilous work
to run for long in the darkness. I could barely see the dim black
line of the hedges on either side, and any chance obstacle in the
road would have thrown me down to a certainty. Ere long I felt
the ground changing--it descended from the level at a turn, and
then rose again beyond. Downhill the men rather gained on me, but
uphill I began to distance them. The rapid, regular thump of
their feet grew fainter on my ear, and I calculated by the sound
that I was far enough in advance to take to the fields with a good
chance of their passing me in the darkness. Diverging to the
footpath, I made for the first break that I could guess at, rather
than see, in the hedge. It proved to be a closed gate. I vaulted
over, and finding myself in a field, kept across it steadily with
my back to the road. I heard the men pass the gate, still
running, then in a minute more heard one of them call to the other
to come back. It was no matter what they did now, I was out of
their sight and out of their hearing. I kept straight across the
field, and when I had reached the farther extremity of it, waited
there for a minute to recover my breath.
It was impossible to venture back to the road, but I was
determined nevertheless to get to Old Welmingham that evening.
Neither moon nor stars appeared to guide me. I only knew that I
had kept the wind and rain at my back on leaving Knowlesbury, and
if I now kept them at my back still, I might at least be certain
of not advancing altogether in the wrong direction.
Proceeding on this plan, I crossed the country--meeting with no
worse obstacles than hedges, ditches, and thickets, which every
now and then obliged me to alter my course for a little while--
until I found myself on a hillside, with the ground sloping away
steeply before me. I descended to the bottom of the hollow,
squeezed my way through a hedge, and got out into a lane. Having
turned to the right on leaving the road, I now turned to the left,
on the chance of regaining the line from which I had wandered.
After following the muddy windings of the lane for ten minutes or
more, I saw a cottage with a light in one of the windows. The
garden gate was open to the lane, and I went in at once to inquire
my way.
Before I could knock at the door it was suddenly opened, and a man
came running out with a lighted lantern in his hand. He stopped
and held it up at the sight of me. We both started as we saw each
other. My wanderings had led me round the outskirts of the
village, and had brought me out at the lower end of it. I was
back at Old Welmingham, and the man with the lantern was no other
than my acquaintance of the morning, the parish clerk.
His manner appeared to have altered strangely in the interval
since I had last seen him. He looked suspicious and confused--his
ruddy cheeks were deeply flushed--and his first words, when he
spoke, were quite unintelligible to me.
"Where are the keys?" he asked. "Have you taken them?"
"What keys?" I repeated. "I have this moment come from
Knowlesbury. What keys do you mean?"
"The keys of the vestry. Lord save us and help us! what shall I
do? The keys are gone! Do you hear?" cried the old man, shaking
the lantern at me in his agitation, "the keys are gone!"
"How? When? Who can have taken them?"
"I don't know," said the clerk, staring about him wildly in the
darkness. "I've only just got back. I told you I had a long
day's work this morning--I locked the door and shut the window
down--it's open now, the window's open. Look! somebody has got in
there and taken the keys."
He turned to the casement window to show me that it was wide open.
The door of the lantern came loose from its fastening as he swayed
it round, and the wind blew the candle out instantly.
"Get another light," I said, "and let us both go to the vestry
together. Quick! quick!"
I hurried him into the house. The treachery that I had every
reason to expect, the treachery that might deprive me of every
advantage I had gained, was at that moment, perhaps, in process of
accomplishment. My impatience to reach the church was so great
that I could not remain inactive in the cottage while the clerk
lit the lantern again. I walked out, down the garden path, into
the lane.
Before I had advanced ten paces a man approached me from the
direction leading to the church. He spoke respectfully as we met.
I could not see his face, but judging by his voice only, he was a
perfect stranger to me.
"I beg your pardon, Sir Percival----" he began.
I stopped him before he could say more.
"The darkness misleads you," I said. "I am not Sir Percival."
The man drew back directly.
"I thought it was my master," he muttered, in a confused, doubtful
way.
"You expected to meet your master here?"
"I was told to wait in the lane."
With that answer he retraced his steps. I looked back at the
cottage and saw the clerk coming out, with the lantern lighted
once more. I took the old man's arm to help him on the more
quickly. We hastened along the lane, and passed the person who
had accosted me. As well as I could see by the light of the
lantern, he was a servant out of livery.
"Who's that?" whispered the clerk. "Does he know anything about
the keys?"
"We won't wait to ask him," I replied. "We will go on to the
vestry first."
The church was not visible, even by daytime, until the end of the
lane was reached. As we mounted the rising ground which led to
the building from that point, one of the village children--a boy--
came close up to us, attracted by the light we carried, and
recognised the clerk.
"I say, measter," said the boy, pulling officiously at the clerk's
coat, "there be summun up yander in the church. I heerd un lock
the door on hisself--I heerd un strike a loight wi' a match."
The clerk trembled and leaned against me heavily.
"Come! come!" I said encouragingly. "We are not too late. We
will catch the man, whoever he is. Keep the lantern, and follow
me as fast as you can."
I mounted the hill rapidly. The dark mass of the church-tower was
the first object I discerned dimly against the night sky. As I
turned aside to get round to the vestry, I heard heavy footsteps
close to me. The servant had ascended to the church after us. "I
don't mean any harm," he said, when I turned round on him, "I'm
only looking for my master." The tones in which he spoke betrayed
unmistakable fear. I took no notice of him and went on.
The instant I turned the corner and came in view of the vestry, I
saw the lantern-skylight on the roof brilliantly lit up from
within. It shone out with dazzling brightness against the murky,
starless sky.
I hurried through the churchyard to the door.
As I got near there was a strange smell stealing out on the damp
night air. I heard a snapping noise inside--I saw the light above
grow brighter and brighter--a pane of the glass cracked--I ran to
the door and put my hand on it. The vestry was on fire!
Before I could move, before I could draw my breath after that
discovery, I was horror-struck by a heavy thump against the door
from the inside. I heard the key worked violently in the lock--I
heard a man's voice behind the door, raised to a dreadful
shrillness, screaming for help.
The servant who had followed me staggered back shuddering, and
dropped to his knees. "Oh, my God!" he said, "it's Sir Percival!"
As the words passed his lips the clerk joined us, and at the same
moment there was another and a last grating turn of the key in the
lock.
"The Lord have mercy on his soul!" said the old man. "He is
doomed and dead. He has hampered the lock."
I rushed to the door. The one absorbing purpose that had filled
all my thoughts, that had controlled all my actions, for weeks and
weeks past, vanished in an instant from my mind. All remembrance
of the heartless injury the man's crimes had inflicted--of the
love, the innocence, the happiness he had pitilessly laid waste--
of the oath I had sworn in my own heart to summon him to the
terrible reckoning that he deserved--passed from my memory like a
dream. I remembered nothing but the horror of his situation. I
felt nothing but the natural human impulse to save him from a
frightful death.
"Try the other door!" I shouted. "Try the door into the church!
The lock's hampered. You're a dead man if you waste another
moment on it."
There had been no renewed cry for help when the key was turned for
the last time. There was no sound now of any kind, to give token
that he was still alive. I heard nothing but the quickening
crackle of the flames, and the sharp snap of the glass in the
skylight above.
I looked round at my two companions. The servant had risen to his
feet--he had taken the lantern, and was holding it up vacantly at
the door. Terror seemed to have struck him with downright idiocy--
he waited at my heels, he followed me about when I moved like a
dog. The clerk sat crouched up on one of the tombstones,
shivering, and moaning to himself. The one moment in which I
looked at them was enough to show me that they were both helpless.
Hardly knowing what I did, acting desperately on the first impulse
that occurred to me, I seized the servant and pushed him against
the vestry wall. "Stoop!" I said, "and hold by the stones. I am
going to climb over you to the roof--I am going to break the
skylight, and give him some air!"
The man trembled from head to foot, but he held firm. I got on
his back, with my cudgel in my mouth, seized the parapet with both
hands, and was instantly on the roof. In the frantic hurry and
agitation of the moment, it never struck me that I might let out
the flame instead of letting in the air. I struck at the
skylight, and battered in the cracked, loosened glass at a blow.
The fire leaped out like a wild beast from its lair. If the wind
had not chanced, in the position I occupied, to set it away from
me, my exertions might have ended then and there. I crouched on
the roof as the smoke poured out above me with the flame. The
gleams and flashes of the light showed me the servant's face
staring up vacantly under the wall--the clerk risen to his feet on
the tombstone, wringing his hands in despair--and the scanty
population of the village, haggard men and terrified women,
clustered beyond in the churchyard--all appearing and
disappearing, in the red of the dreadful glare, in the black of
the choking smoke. And the man beneath my feet!--the man,
suffocating, burning, dying so near us all, so utterly beyond our
reach!
The thought half maddened me. I lowered myself from the roof, by
my hands, and dropped to the ground.
"The key of the church!" I shouted to the clerk. "We must try it
that way--we may save him yet if we can burst open the inner
door."
"No, no, no!" cried the old man. "No hope! the church key and the
vestry key are on the same ring--both inside there! Oh, sir, he's
past saving--he's dust and ashes by this time!"
"They'll see the fire from the town," said a voice from among the
men behind me. "There's a ingine in the town. They'll save the
church."
I called to that man--HE had his wits about him--I called to him
to come and speak to me. It would be a quarter of an hour at
least before the town engine could reach us. The horror of
remaining inactive all that time was more than I could face. In
defiance of my own reason I persuaded myself that the doomed and
lost wretch in the vestry might still be lying senseless on the
floor, might not be dead yet. If we broke open the door, might we
save him? I knew the strength of the heavy lock--I knew the
thickness of the nailed oak--I knew the hopelessness of assailing
the one and the other by ordinary means. But surely there were
beams still left in the dismantled cottages near the church? What
if we got one, and used it as a battering-ram against the door?
The thought leaped through me like the fire leaping out of the
shattered skylight. I appealed to the man who had spoken first of
the fire-engine in the town. "Have you got your pick-axes handy?"
Yes, they had. "And a hatchet, and a saw, and a bit of rope?"
Yes! yes! yes! I ran down among the villagers, with the lantern in
my hand. "Five shillings apiece to every man who helps me!" They
started into life at the words. That ravenous second hunger of
poverty--the hunger for money--roused them into tumult and
activity in a moment. "Two of you for more lanterns, if you have
them! Two of you for the pickaxes and the tools! The rest after me
to find the beam!" They cheered--with shrill starveling voices
they cheered. The women and the children fled back on either
side. We rushed in a body down the churchyard path to the first
empty cottage. Not a man was left behind but the clerk--the poor
old clerk standing on the flat tombstone sobbing and wailing over
the church. The servant was still at my heels--his white,
helpless, panic-stricken face was close over my shoulder as we
pushed into the cottage. There were rafters from the torn-down
floor above, lying loose on the ground--but they were too light.
A beam ran across over our heads, but not out of reach of our arms
and our pickaxes--a beam fast at each end in the ruined wall, with
ceiling and flooring all ripped away, and a great gap in the roof
above, open to the sky. We attacked the beam at both ends at
once. God! how it held--how the brick and mortar of the wall
resisted us! We struck, and tugged, and tore. The beam gave at
one end--it came down with a lump of brickwork after it. There
was a scream from the women all huddled in the doorway to look at
us--a shout from the men--two of them down but not hurt. Another
tug all together--and the beam was loose at both ends. We raised
it, and gave the word to clear the doorway. Now for the work! now
for the rush at the door! There is the fire streaming into the
sky, streaming brighter than ever to light us! Steady along the
churchyard path--steady with the beam for a rush at the door.
One, two, three--and off. Out rings the cheering again,
irrepressibly. We have shaken it already, the hinges must give if
the lock won't. Another run with the beam! One, two, three--and
off. It's loose! the stealthy fire darts at us through the
crevice all round it. Another, and a last rush! The door falls in
with a crash. A great hush of awe, a stillness of breathless
expectation, possesses every living soul of us. We look for the
body. The scorching heat on our faces drives us back: we see
nothing--above, below, all through the room, we see nothing but a
sheet of living fire.
"Where is he?" whispered the servant, staring vacantly at the
flames.
"He's dust and ashes," said the clerk. "And the books are dust
and ashes--and oh, sirs! the church will be dust and ashes soon."
Those were the only two who spoke. When they were silent again,
nothing stirred in the stillness but the bubble and the crackle of
the flames.
Hark!
A harsh rattling sound in the distance--then the hollow beat of
horses' hoofs at full gallop--then the low roar, the all-
predominant tumult of hundreds of human voices clamouring and
shouting together. The engine at last.
The people about me all turned from the fire, and ran eagerly to
the brow of the hill. The old clerk tried to go with the rest,
but his strength was exhausted. I saw him holding by one of the
tombstones. "Save the church!" he cried out faintly, as if the
firemen could hear him already.
Save the church!
The only man who never moved was the servant. There he stood, his
eyes still fastened on the flames in a changeless, vacant stare.
I spoke to him, I shook him by the arm. He was past rousing. He
only whispered once more, "Where is he?"
In ten minutes the engine was in position, the well at the back of
the church was feeding it, and the hose was carried to the doorway
of the vestry. If help had been wanted from me I could not have
afforded it now. My energy of will was gone--my strength was
exhausted--the turmoil of my thoughts was fearfully and suddenly
stilled, now I knew that he was dead.
I stood useless and helpless--looking, looking, looking into the
burning room.
I saw the fire slowly conquered. The brightness of the glare
faded--the steam rose in white clouds, and the smouldering heaps
of embers showed red and black through it on the floor. There was
a pause--then an advance all together of the firemen and the
police which blocked up the doorway--then a consultation in low
voices--and then two men were detached from the rest, and sent out
of the churchyard through the crowd. The crowd drew back on
either side in dead silence to let them pass.
After a while a great shudder ran through the people, and the
living lane widened slowly. The men came back along it with a
door from one of the empty houses. They carried it to the vestry
and went in. The police closed again round the doorway, and men
stole out from among the crowd by twos and threes and stood behind
them to be the first to see. Others waited near to be the first
to hear. Women and children were among these last.
The tidings from the vestry began to flow out among the crowd--
they dropped slowly from mouth to mouth till they reached the
place where I was standing. I heard the questions and answers
repeated again and again in low, eager tones all round me.
"Have they found him?" "Yes."--"Where?" "Against the door, on his
face."--"Which door?" "The door that goes into the church. His
head was against it--he was down on his face."--"Is his face
burnt?" "No." "Yes, it is." "No, scorched, not burnt--he lay on
his face, I tell you."--"Who was he? A lord, they say." "No, not a
lord. SIR Something; Sir means Knight." "And Baronight, too."
"No." "Yes, it does."--"What did he want in there?" "No good, you
may depend on it."--"Did he do it on purpose?"--"Burn himself on
purpose!"--"I don't mean himself, I mean the vestry."--"Is he
dreadful to look at?" "Dreadful!"--"Not about the face, though?"
"No, no, not so much about the face. Don't anybody know him?"
"There's a man says he does."--"Who?" "A servant, they say. But
he's struck stupid-like, and the police don't believe him."--
"Don't anybody else know who it is?" "Hush----!"
The loud, clear voice of a man in authority silenced the low hum
of talking all round me in an instant.
"Where is the gentleman who tried to save him?" said the voice.
"Here, sir--here he is!" Dozens of eager faces pressed about me--
dozens of eager arms parted the crowd. The man in authority came
up to me with a lantern in his hand.
"This way, sir, if you please," he said quietly.
I was unable to speak to him, I was unable to resist him when he
took my arm. I tried to say that I had never seen the dead man in
his lifetime--that there was no hope of identifying him by means
of a stranger like me. But the words failed on my lips. I was
faint, and silent, and helpless.
"Do you know him, sir?"
I was standing inside a circle of men. Three of them opposite to
me were holding lanterns low down to the ground. Their eyes, and
the eyes of all the rest, were fixed silently and expectantly on
my face. I knew what was at my feet--I knew why they were holding
the lanterns so low to the ground.
"Can you identify him, sir?"
My eyes dropped slowly. At first I saw nothing under them but a
coarse canvas cloth. The dripping of the rain on it was audible
in the dreadful silence. I looked up, along the cloth, and there
at the end, stark and grim and black, in the yellow light--there
was his dead face.
So, for the first and last time, I saw him. So the Visitation of
God ruled it that he and I should meet.