The Marriage of the Living and the Dead
While Inspector Colquhoun had been discussing the Pattison murder with his chief that morning, the Archdeacon of Castra Parvulorum had been working at parish business in his study. He hoped, though he did not much expect, that Mornington would call on him in the course of the day, and he certainly proposed to himself to walk over to the Rackstraws’ cottage and hear how the patient was progressing. The suspicions which Mornington and the Duke had felt on the previous day had not occurred to him, partly because he had accepted the episode as finished for him until some new demand should bring him again into action, but more still because he had been prevented by the Duke’s collision with him from seeing what had happened. He supposed that the new doctor had been able to soothe Barbara either by will-power or drugs, and, though the doctor’s mania for possession of the Graal appeared to him as bad-mannered as Gregory’s, that was not, after all, his affair. The conversation of the previous night he kept and pondered in his heart, but here, again, it was not his business to display activity, but to wait on the Mover of all things. He went on making notes about the Sunday school register; the Sunday school was a burden to him, but the mothers of the village expected it, and the Archdeacon felt bound to supply the need. He occasionally quoted to himself “Feed my lambs,” but a profound doubt of the proper application of the text haunted him; and he was far from certain that the food which was supplied to them even in the Sunday school at Fardles was that which Christ had intended. However, this also, he thought to himself, the Divine Redeemer would purify and make good.
Mrs. Lucksparrow appeared at the door. “Mr. Persimmons has called, sir,” she said, “and would like to see you for a few minutes, if you can spare the time. About the Harvest Festival, I think it is,” she added in a lower tone.
“Really?” the Archdeacon asked in surprise, and then again, in a slightly different voice, “Really!” Mr. Persimmons’s manners, he thought, were becoming almost intolerable. He got up and went to interview his visitor in the hall.
“So sorry to trouble you, Mr. Archdeacon,” Gregory said, smiling, “but I was asked to deliver this note to you personally. To make sure you got it and to see if there is any answer.”
The Archdeacon, glinting rather like a small, frosty pool, took it and opened it. He read it once; he read it twice; he looked up to find Gregory staring out through the front door. He looked down, read it a third time, and stood pondering.
“‘Sihon, King of the Amorites,’” he hummed abstractedly, “‘and Og, the King of Basan: for His mercy endureth for ever.’ You know what is in this note, Mr. Persimmons?”
“I’m afraid I do,” Gregory answered charmingly. “The circumstances . . . ”
“Yes,” the Archdeacon said meditatively, “yes. Naturally.”
“Naturally?” Gregory asked, rather as if making conversation.
“Well, I don’t mean to be rude,” the Archdeacon said, “but, in the first place, if it’s true, you would probably know; in the second, you probably wrote it; and, in the third, you probably and naturally would read other people’s letters anyhow. Yes, well, thank you so much.”
“You don’t want to put any questions?” Gregory asked.
“No.” the Archdeacon answered, “I don’t think so. I’ve no means of checking you, have I? And I should never dream of relying on people who made a practice of defying God? in any real sense. They’d be almost bound to lose all sense of proportion.”
“Well,” Gregory said, “you must do as you will. But I can tell you that what is written there is true. We have them in our power and we can slay them in a moment.”
“That will save them a good deal of trouble, won’t it?” the Archdeacon said. “Are you sure they want me to interfere? ‘To die now. ’Twere now to be most happy.’”
“Ah, you talk,” Gregory said, unreasonably enraged. “But do you think either of those young men wants to die? Or to see the vessel for which they die made into an instrument of power and destruction?”
“I would tell you what I am going to do if I knew,” the Archdeacon answered, “but I do not know. You are forgetting, however, to tell me where I shall come if I come.”
Gregory recovered himself, gave the address, reached the door, remarked on the beauty of the garden, and disappeared. The Archdeacon went back to his study, shut the door, and gave himself up to interior silence and direction.
Gregory went on to Cully. The slight passage at arms with the priest had given him real delight, but as he walked he was conscious of renewed alarms stirring in his being: alarms not so much of fear as of doubt. He found that by chance he was now in touch with two or three persons who found no satisfaction in desire and possession and power. No power of destruction seemed to satisfy Manasseh’s hunger; no richness of treasure to arouse the Archdeacon’s. And as he moved in these unaccustomed regions he felt that what was lacking was delight. It had delighted him in the past to overbear and torment; but Manasseh’s greed had never found content. And delight was far too small a word for the peace in which the Archdeacon moved; a sky of serenity overarched Gregory when he thought of the priest against which his own arrows were shot in vain. He saw it running from the east to the west; he saw below it, in the midst of a flat circle of emptiness, the face of the Greek spewing out venom. Absurdly enough, he felt himself angered by the mere uselessness of this; it was something of the same irritation which he had expressed to his son on the proportion of capital expended on the worst kind of popular novel. Enjoyment was all very well, but enjoyment oughtn’t to be merely wasteful. It annoyed him as his father had annoyed him by wasting emotions and strength in mere stupid, senile worry. Adrian must be taught the uselessness of that — power was the purpose of spiritual things, and Satan the lord of power. He turned in at the gates of Cully, and saw before him the window where he had talked with Adrian’s father. “A clerk in a brothel,” he thought suddenly; but even the clerk desired power. And then, in a sudden desperation, he saw that unchanging serenity of sky, and even the flames of the Sabbath leapt uselessly miles below it. Here he had met the young stranger: “only slaves can trespass, and they only among shadows.” But he was not a slave — that sky mocked him as the boast swelled. Slaves, slaves, it sounded, and his foot in the hall echoed the word again in his ear.
He inquired for Jessie and the boy; they were in the grounds, and he went out to find them, looking also for Lionel and Barbara. But these he did not meet, although he eventually discovered the others. Adrian, apparently resting, was telling himself a complicated and interminable story; Jessie was looking into a small stream and pondering her own thoughts — Gregory smiled to think what they probably were. He very nearly addressed her as “Mrs. Persimmons,” remembering that she probably knew nothing of his wife in the asylum, but refrained.
Barbara, it seemed, was as well as ever; she had spent an hour with Adrian before Mr. Rackstraw had made her go away. Then they — Jessie and Adrian — had come out into the grounds, and there had met a strange gentleman who had talked and played with Adrian for a little while. Gregory raised his eyebrows at this, and Jessie explained that she had not approved, but had not been able to prevent it, especially since Adrian had welcomed him so warmly that she had supposed them to be old friends.
“But what was he doing in the grounds?” Gregory asked.
“I don’t know, sir,” Jessie answered; “he seemed to know them, and he told me he knew you.”
Gregory suspected that this was the only cause of her frankness, but it was hardly worth troubling to rebuke her. Within a week Jessie might find herself only too anxious to make friends with strangers in Vienna or Adrianople, or somewhere farther east.
“What was he like?” he said.
“Oh, quite young, sir, and rather foreign-looking, and dressed all in grey. He and the boy seemed to be talking a foreign language half the time.”
Gregory stood still abruptly, and then began to walk on again. What had Sir Giles said about this stranger? And who was it the stranger reminded him of? The Archdeacon, of course; they both had something of that same remote serenity, that provoking, overruling detachment. In the rush of the previous day’s excitement he had forgotten to consult Manasseh; that would be remedied before night. But the talk of a foreign language disturbed him a little, lest Adrian should have a closer and more intimate friend than himself or than he had known. If there were anything in Sir Giles’s babblings . . . He gathered himself together and turned sharply to Jessie.
“We shall go to London,” he said, “I and Adrian and you to look after Adrian, directly after lunch. To-morrow we may go abroad for a little. It’s sudden, but it can’t be helped. And it’s not to be chattered about. See to it.”
It chanced therefore that, by the time Inspector Colquhoun had finished making inquiries of Mrs. Lucksparrow at the Rectory, Gregory, with Adrian and Jessie, had reached Lord Mayor’s Street. The shop was closed, but Manasseh admitted them, and Jessie was shown, first the kitchen and afterwards the small upstairs room where she and Adrian were to sleep.
She was not shown the cellar, where the Duke of the North Ridings lay bound, and she and Adrian were rushed swiftly through the back room, where the Archdeacon was looking pensively out of the window. He glanced at them as they went through, but neither face conveyed anything to his mind. Gregory had provided Adrian with two or three new toys, but it was intimated to Jessie that the sooner he was put to bed the better, and that she had better stay with him, as it was a strange room, lest he woke and was afraid.
The captives thus disposed of, Gregory went back to his friends, who were in the shop. The Archdeacon had left off looking out of the window and was reading the Revelations of Lady Julian close by it.
“He has come, then,” Gregory said.
“He has come,” Manasseh answered; “didn’t you expect him?”
“I didn’t know,” Gregory said. “He didn’t seem at all sure this morning. And I don’t know why he has come.”
“He has come,” the Greek said, “for the same reason that we are here — because in the whole world of Being everything makes haste to its doom. Are you determined and prepared for what you will do?”
Gregory looked back through the half-open door. “I have considered it for many hours,” he said. “I am determined and prepared.”
“Why, then, should we delay?” the Greek said. “I have hidden this house in a cloud and drawn it in to our hearts so that it shall not be entered from without till the work is done.”
Gregory involuntarily looked towards the window, and saw a thick darkness rising above it, a darkness not merely foglike, as it seemed to those without, but shot with all kinds of colour and movement as if some living nature were throbbing about them. The Greek turned and went into the inner room, and the other followed him. There the darkness was already gathering, so that the Archdeacon had ceased to read and was waiting for whatever was to follow. All that day, since he had talked with Gregory in the morning, he had been conscious that the power to which he had slowly taught himself to live in obedience was gradually withdrawing and abandoning him. Steadily and continuously that process went on, till now, as he faced his enemies, he felt the interior loss which had attacked him at other stages of his pilgrimage grow into a final overwhelming desolation. He said to himself again, as he so often said, “This also is Thou,” for desolation as well as abundance was but a means of knowing That which was All. But he felt extraordinarily lonely in the darkness of the small room, with Persimmons and Manasseh and the unknown third gazing at him from the door.
The Greek moved slowly forward, considered for a moment, and then said: “Do you know why you have come here?”
“I have come because God willed it,” the Archdeacon said. “Why did you send for me?”
“For a thing that is to be done,” the Greek said, “and you shall help in the doing.” As he spoke, Manasseh caught the priest’s arm with a little crow of greedy satisfaction, and Gregory laid hold of his other shoulder:
“You shall help in the doing of it,” the Greek said, smiling for the first time since Gregory had known him, with a sudden and swift convulsion. “Take h............