one result of dr. crackenthorpe’s visit was that i determined to then and there push my secret inquiries to a head in the direction of my friend, the sexton of st. john’s.
i had not seen or heard of this man since the day of his seizure in the archway of the close, but i thought his attack must surely by now have yielded and left him sane again.
that very afternoon, leaving my father comfortably established with book and paper, i walked over to the old churchyard under the hill and looked about among the graves for some sign of him who farmed them. the place was empty and deserted; it showed clearly that the hand of order was withdrawn and had not been replaced.
not knowing whither to go to make inquiries, i loitered idly about some little time longer, in the hope that chance might throw some one who could direct me in my way.
within my vision two mounds only stood out stark and sterile from the tangled green of death’s garden, and one was modred’s and the other the grave of the murdered man.
it was only a strange chance, of course, yet a strange chance it was that should smite those two out of all the yard with barrenness.
as i turned i was aware of a bent old man issuing from a side door of the church with a bunch of keys in his hand. to him i walked and addressed my inquiries.
“ah!” he said, struggling out of a violent fit of coughing. “george white, sir? the man’s dismissed for drunkenness. to my sorrer, so it is. i has to do his work till they finds a substitoot. it’ll be the death of me this chill autumn.”
“do you know where he lives?”
“he ain’t app’inted yet.”
“george white, i mean?”
“he lives, if living he is, ower at fullflood yonder. i misremember the number, but it’s either 17 or 27, or mebbe 74. they’ll tell you if you ask. not but what i’d leave him alone, if i was you, for he’ll do you no good.”
“he can’t do me any harm, at least. i think i’ll try.”
“go your courses, then. young men are that bold-blooded. go your courses. you can’t miss if you follers my directions.”
i had my own opinion as to that, but i tramped off to the district indicated, which lay in the western quarter of the town. chance put out a friendly hand to me.
i had paused in indecision, when a woman standing at an open door behind me hailed another who was coming down the pavement with a little basket over her arm.
“good-arternoon, mrs. white,” said the first wife as the other came up. “and how did ye find your marn?”
i pricked up my ears.
“no better and no worse, mrs. catty, and tharnk ye kindly.”
“the horrers has left him, i’m told.”
“ye’re told true, but little recommends the going. his face is the color o’ my apron here—an awesome sight. it’s the music membrim in his stommick, ’tis said that’s out o’ toon.”
“ah, ma dear, i know it. it’s what the doctors call an orgin; and the pain is grinding.”
“god bless ye—it’s naught to what it were. ’tis the colic o’ the mind he suffers, one may say.”
“deary me, deary me! poor mr. white!”
“i left him a-sitting before the infirmary fire in a happythetic state, they names it, though to my mind he looked wretched.”
“and so must you be to harve your marn in the house. well, well—and dismissed from his post, too, come rain or sunshine.”
i hurried off, satisfied with what i had heard. if the woman with the basket was not the sexton’s wife, there was no happy fortuity in fate. for a moment i had thought i would address myself to her, but the reflection that no good purpose could be answered thereby, and that by doing so i might awaken suspicions where none existed, made me think better of it.
expanding her allusions, i writ down in my mind that george white, taken in hand by the police, had been remanded to the workhouse infirmary pending his recovery from an attack of delirium tremens, and such i found to be the case. now the hope of getting anything in the nature of conclusive proof from him seemed remote. at least no harm could be done by me paying him a visit.
fortunately i discovered, upon presenting myself at the “house,” that it was a visitors’ day, and that a margin yet remained of the time limit imposed upon callers.
i was referred to the infirmary doctor—a withered stick of a man, with an unprofessional beard the color and texture of dead grass. this gentleman’s broadcloth, reversing the order of things, seemed to have worn out him, instead of he it, so sleek, imposing and many sizes too large for him were his clothes.
he listened with his teeth, it seemed, for his lip went up, exposing them every time he awaited an answer.
“george white? the man’s in a state of melancholia following alcoholic excess. he is only a responsible creature at moments, and has hallucinations. i doubt his recovery.”
“i might take my chance of one of the moments, sir.”
“you might, if you could recognize your opportunity. is it important?”
“very. that’s no idle assertion, i assure you. he only knows the truth of a certain matter, the solution of which affects many people.”
“well, you can try. i give you little hope. an attendant must be within reach. there’s no calculating the next crazy impulse in such cases.”
an attendant took me in charge and convoyed me to the infirmary—a cleanly bare room, with a row of bedsteads headed against a distempered wall, and nailed to the latter over each patient’s pillow, a diagnosis of his disease and its treatment, like a descriptive label in a museum.
some of the beds were occupied; a convalescent pallid figure or two lingered about the sunny windows at the end of the room, and seated solitary before the fire was the foundering wreck of george white.
the attendant briefly said, “that’s him,” and, retiring a short distance away, leaned against a bedstead rail. i fetched a chair from the wall and sat myself down by the poor shattered ruin.
a hopeless vacuity reigned in his expression at first, and presently he began to maunder and dribble forth a liquid patter of words all unintelligible.
by and by some connectedness was apparent in his wanderings. i stooped my head to listen.
“he’s alone and asleep—the only one. time to try—sarftly, now—a fut i’ the toe-hole wi’ caution—and i’m up and out. curse the crumbling clay. ah! a bit’s fell on him! my god, what a grin! one eye’s open! if i cud sweat to moisten it, now! i’m dry wi’ fire and dust! i’m farlin’ back—i’m——”
he half-rose to his feet; i put out a hand to control him, but he sunk down again and into apathy in a moment.
a few minutes and the stream of words was flowing once more.
“not so deep—not so deep, arter all. the tails o’ the warms wriggles on the coffin, while their heads be stuck out i’ the blessed air. two fut, i make it. i cud putt my harnd through, so be as this cruel lid would heist up. it’s breaking—the soil’s coming through the cracks. it’s pouring in and choking me—it’s choking me, i say. isn’t there none to hear? why, i’m sinking! the subsoil’s dropped in! i shall be ten fut down and no chance if——”
again the struggle; again the collapse; and by and by, the monotonous murmur gathering volume as it proceeded.
“sing, says you—and the devil drums i’ the pit if i so much as whisper. look’ee ther—at the white square o’ the sky. thart’s what keeps me going. if you was to blot thart out, he’d have me by the hip wi’ a pinch like a bloodhound’s jaw. there’s summut darkens! who’s thart a-looking down? why, you bloody murderer, i knows you! i found you out, i did, you ugly cutthroat devil. already dead, says you? who kills dead men? there bain’t a thing i’ the warld i’d hold my tongue for but drink—you gie it me, then. what’s this? the bottle’s swarming wi’ maggots—arnts, black arnts. you’re a rare villain! not a doctor, i say. a doctor don’t cut the weasands o’ dead men and let out the worms—millions of them—and there’s some wi’ faces and shining rings and gewgaws. the ungodly shall go down into the pit—help me out o’ it—they’re burying me alive!”
he leaped to his feet, with drawn, ashy face. the watchful attendant was at his side in a moment and had put a restraining hand on him.
“you’ll get nought out of him, sir,” he said. “it’s my belief he’ll never utter sane word again.”
as he spoke the sexton’s eyes lighted on me in their wild roving, steadied, flickered and took a little glint of reason. still gazing at me, he sunk into his chair again.
“leave us alone for a minute,” i said to the man. “he seems to recognize me, i think.”
“as long as his eyes don’t wander, maybe,” he answered. “keep ’em fixed on you”—and he withdrew to his former standpoint.
“george,” i said, in a low, distinct voice, “do you know me?”
i held him with an intense gaze. he seemed struggling in an inward agony to escape it.
“george,” i said again, “do you know who i am?”
“the grave yon, where no grass grows,” he muttered.
“yes, yes. why doesn’t it grow there?”
“ask the——”
“ask whom? i’m listening.”
“it’s he—oh, my god!”
i saw the terror creep and flutter behind the surface of his skin. i saw it leap out and heard a yell, as his eyes escaped their thraldom; and on the instant the attendant was there and struggling with him.
in the shock of it i jumped up and turned—and saw dr. crackenthorpe standing in the doorway.
i ran at him in a sort of frenzy.
“what do you want?” i cried; “what are you here for?”
i think i was about to strike him, when the wizened figure of the doctor who had given me permission to enter thrust itself between us.
“what’s all this?” he said, in a sharp, grating voice. “how dare you make this uproar, sir?”
i fell back, shaking with rage. all down the row of beds pale sick faces had risen, looking on in wonder. beside the fire my escort was still struggling with the madman.
“what right has he to be here—to come and spy upon me?” i cried.
“this is simply outrageous! dr. crackenthorpe” (he glanced at the newcomer with no very flattering expression) “is here to superintend the removal of a patient of his. he must be protected from insult. i rescind my permit. johnson, see this man off the premises.”
a second attendant advanced and took me, police fashion, by the elbow. i offered no resistance. impulse had made a fool of me, and i felt it.
the sound of the scuffle by the fire still continued. as i passed dr. crackenthorpe he made me a mocking bow, hat in hand. then, waving me aside as if i were some troublesome supplicant he desired to ignore, he advanced further into the room.
then came a sudden thud and loud exclamation, at which both i and my attendant turned.
the madman had bested his enemy and dashed him to the floor. a moment then he paused, his gasping mouth and pale eyes indicative of his terror of the man approaching—a moment only, and he turned and fled. i was conscious of a sudden breaking out of voices—of a fearful screech ringing above them—of a hurried rush of shapes—of a bound and crash and shattering snap of glass. it all happened in an instant, and there was a jagged and gaping fissure in a window at the end of the room—and george white was gone.
