The Pointing Man Page 7

  VII

  FINDS THE REV. FRANCIS HEATH READING GEORGE HERBERT'S POEMS, AND LEAVESHIM PLEDGED TO A POSSIBLY COMPROMISING SILENCE

  The Reverend Francis Heath was sitting in his upstairs room, for of latehe had avoided the veranda. It was the leisure hour of the day, the slowhour when the light wanes and it is too early to call for a lamp; thehour when memory or fear can both be poignant in tropical climates.

  The house was very still, Atkins had gone to the Club and the servantshad all returned to their own quarters. Outside, noises were many.Birds, with ugly, tuneless notes that were not songs but cries, flittedin the trees, and the rumble of traffic on the road came up in theevening air, broken occasionally by the shrill persistence of an exhaustwhistle or the clamour of a motor-horn, and above all other sounds thelong-drawn, occasional hoot from a ship anchored in the river highway.There was noise, and to spare, outside, but within everything was still,except for the chittering of a nest of bats in the eaves, and thesudden, relaxing creak of bamboo chairs, that behave sometimes as thoughghosts sat restlessly in their arms.

  The sunlight that fell into the garden and caught its green, turning itinto flaming emerald, climbed in at Mr. Heath's window, and lay acrosshis writing-table; it touched his shoulder and withdrew a little,touched the lines on his forehead for a moment, touched the open bookbefore him, and fell away, followed by a shadow that grew deeper as itpassed. It faded out of the garden like a memory that cannot be heldback by human striving. The distances turned into shadowy blue, and fromblue to purple, until only a few flecks of golden light across thepearl-silver told that it was gone eternally; that its hour was spent,for good or ill, and that Mangadone had come one evening nearer to theend of measureless Time; but the Rev. Francis Heath did not regard itsgoing. His face was sad with a terrible, tragic sadness that is thesadness of life and not death, and yet it was of death and not of lifethat he thought. A little book of George Herbert's poems lay open beforehim and he had been reading it with a scholar's love of quaintphraseology:

  "I made a posy, while the days ran by; Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie My life within this band. But Time did beckon to the flowers, and they, By noon, most cunningly did steal away, And wither'd in my hand."

  He read the lines over and over again, and gave a deep, heart-brokensigh, bending his face between his hands, and bowing his shoulders asthough under a heavy weight. His gaunt frame was thin and spare, hisblack alpaca coat hung on it like a sack, and his whole attitude spokeof sorrow. He might have been the presentment of an unwilling ghost, whostood with the Ferryman's farthing under his palm, waiting to be takenacross the cheerless, dark waters to a limbo of drifting souls. He tookhis hands from before his face and clasped them over the book, lookingout of the window to the evening shadows, as if he tried to find peacein the very act of contemplation.

  The sad things he came in daily contact with had conquered his faith inlife, though they had not succeeded in killing his trust in God'seventual plan of redemption; and his mind wandered in terrible places,places he had forced his way into, places he could never forget. Hesuffered from all a reformer's agony, an agony that is the smallreflection of the great story of the mystic burden heavy as the sins ofthe whole world, and he tried, out of the simple, childlike fancy of thewords he read, to grasp at a better mind.

  Heath was one of those men who could not understand effortless faith; hewas crushed by his own lack of success, and bowed down by his ownfailure. Since he could not rout the enemy single-handed, he believedthat the battle was against the Hosts of the Lord. He knew no leisurefrom the war of his own thoughts, and as he clasped his hands, his facegrew tense and set, and his eyes haggard and terrible. For a moment hesat very still, and his eyes followed the lines written by a man who hadthe faith of a little child:

  "But Time did beckon to the flowers, and they, By noon, most cunningly did steal away."

  Heath had never gathered flowers, either as a lesson to himself or agift for others; they hardly spoke of careless beauty to him, they wereemblems of lightness and thoughtlessness, and Heath had no time to stopand consider the lilies of the field.

  He moved suddenly like a man who is awakened from a thought heavier thansleep, and listened with a hunted look, the look of a man who is afraidof footsteps; he stood up, gathering his loose limbs together andwatching the door. Steps came up the staircase, steps that stumbled alittle, and if Heath had possessed Mhtoon Pah's art of reading the walkof his fellow creatures, he would have known that he might expect awoman and not a man.

  "Mr. Heath," a low voice called in the passage, and Heath's tensionrelaxed, giving place to surprise.

  The voice was strange to him, and he passed his handkerchief over hisface and walked to the door, just as his name was called again, in thesame low, penetrating voice.

  "Who wants me?" he asked, almost roughly, and then he saw a tall, darkwoman standing at the top of the staircase.

  "Mrs. Wilder," he said in surprise, and she made a little imperiousmovement with her hand.

  "I did not call your servant, I came up, because I wanted to find youalone. You are alone?"

  "Certainly, I am alone."

  "May I come in?"

  Heath held the door open for her to pass, and she walked in, lookingaround the darkening room with hard, curious eyes.

  She took the chair he gave her, in silence, and sat down near thewriting-table, and, feeling that she would speak after a time, Heathtook his own place again and waited.

  "I hardly know where to begin," she said, always speaking in the samelow, intent voice. "Do you recall the evening of the twenty-ninth?"

  An odd spasm caught Heath's face, and he paused for a moment before heanswered.

  "I do recall it."

  "Perhaps you remember seeing me? I was riding along the road when Ifirst passed you, and you were walking."

  "I remember that I did pass you then, and also that I saw you later."

  Heath's sombre eyes were on her face, and his fingers touched a goldcross that hung from his watch-chain.

  "You passed me, and you passed Absalom, the Christian boy, and you havebeen questioned about Absalom."

  "I have," he said heavily. "Why do you ask?"

  Mrs. Wilder took a quick breath.

  "Because I am afraid that you may be asked again. You understand, Mr.Heath, that I know it was the merest chance that brought you there thatevening, but, as you were there, and as Mr. Hartley has got it into hishead that you know something more than you have told him, I beg of youto bear in mind that if you mention my name you may get me into serioustrouble. You would not do that willingly, I think?"

  "I certainly would not. What motive took you there is a question foryour own conscience. It is not for me to press that question, Mrs.Wilder."

  She pressed her lips together tightly.

  "I went there to see an old friend who was in great trouble."

  "And yet you have to keep it secret?"

  "Haven't we all our secrets, Mr. Heath?" Her voice was raised a little."Will you pledge me your solemn word to keep this knowledge from anyonewho asks?" She put her elbows on the table and drew closer to him.

  "I will respect your confidence," he said slowly. "But is it likely thatHartley will ask me?"

  Mrs. Wilder made a gesture of denial.

  "I _think_ not, but who can tell? This thing has been like lead on mymind and will not let me rest. Oh, Mr. Heath, if you knew what I havealready paid, you would be sorry for me."

  "I am sorry," he said gently. "More sorry for you than you can tell.You, too, saw Absalom, and spoke to him?"

  "He has nothing to do with what I came here about,"--her tone grewimpatient. "I only wanted to make sure that I was safe with you. It wasno little thing that drove me to come. I am a proud woman, Mr. Heath,and I do not usually ask favours, yet I ask you now--"

  "Not a favour," he said, taking her up quickly. "God knows I have everyreason to help you if I can. Does Hartley suspect
you? Does he questionyou? Does he try to wring admissions out of you?"

  In the darkness Heath's voice rang hard and, metallic, like the voice ofa man whose thoughts return upon something that maddens him.

  "He has not done so, but he has asked me questions that made mefrightened. It is a terrible thing to be afraid."

  "And Joicey?" said Heath in a quiet voice. "I saw Joicey, but he did notstop to speak to me. Has he, too, been interrogated?"

  "So far as I know, he has not. But this question presses only on me.What took you there is, I feel sure, easily accounted for, and what tookMr. Joicey there is not likely to be a matter of the smallestimportance; it is _I_ who suffer, it is on me that all this weight lies.If the police begin investigations they come close upon the fact that Iwent there to meet a man whom my husband has forbidden me to meet. Anylittle turn of evidence that involves me, any little accident thatobliges me to admit it, and I am lost,"--her voice thrilled and pleaded.

  "It is you who are lost," he echoed dully. "I can understand how youfeel. If I can ease your burden or lessen the anxiety you suffer from,you may depend upon me, Mrs. Wilder. This matter is a dark road where I,too, walk blind, not knowing the path I follow, but, at least, I cangive you my word that under no circumstances shall I be led to mentionyour name. You can be sure of that, Mrs. Wilder. If I can add yourtrouble to my own burden I shall not feel its weight, but I wouldcounsel you to be honest with your husband. Tell him the truth."

  "I will," said Mrs. Wilder, with an acquiescence that came too quickly."I assure you that I will, but even when I do, you see what a positionthe least publicity places me in?"

  Heath got up and paced the floor with long, restless strides.

  "Publicity. The open avowal of a hidden thing; the knowledge that thewhole world judges and condemns, and does not understand."

  "That is what I feel."

  After all, he was more human than she had expected. Clarice Wilder hadlooked upon the Rev. Francis as a hermit, an ascetic, whosecomprehension was limited; and her eyes grew keen as she watched hisgaunt figure.

  "To be dragged down, to be accused, to be cast so low," he continued, inhis sad, heavy voice, "so low that the lowest have cause to deride andto scorn." He stopped before her. "Is it true that I can save you fromthat?"

  "It is true."

  She did not tell him that she had lied to Draycott; it did not appearnecessary; neither did she tell him that Draycott's memory was long andsure and unerring.

  "Then, if there is one man in all God's universe,"--Heath cast out hisarms as he spoke--"one man above all others whom you could appeal to,could trust most entirely, that man is myself. Give me your burden, yourdistress of mind, and I will take them; I cannot say more--"

  "Of course, it may never be necessary for you to--to avoid telling Mr.Hartley," broke in Mrs. Wilder quickly. Heath was getting on her nerves,and she rose to her feet. "I cannot thank you sufficiently, and I fearthat I have upset you, made you feel my own cares too profoundly,"--hervoice grew almost tender. "I have never known such ready sympathy, butyou feel too intensely, Mr. Heath. You make my little trouble your own,and you have made me very grateful. Are you in any trouble yourself?"

  Heath stopped for a moment, an outline against the light of the window.She thought he was going to speak, and she waited with an odd feeling ofexcitement to hear what was coming, when he suddenly retired back intohis usual manner.

  A light was travelling up the staircase, casting great shadows beforeit, and when the boy came to the door of the Padre Sahib's room, he sawhis master saying good-bye to a tall, dark lady who smiled at him andgave him her hand.

  "Good night, Mr. Heath, I hardly know how to thank you sufficiently."

  She hurried down the staircase, and as she walked out, she met Atkinscoming in on his bicycle. He jumped off as he saw her, and spoke insurprise.

  "I have just been calling on the Padre," replied Mrs. Wilder pleasantly,as he commented with ever-ready tactlessness upon her presence in theCompound. "One of my servants is ill; a member of his community. By theway, do you think that Mr. Heath is quite well himself?"

  "Indeed I do not think so. He overworks. I have a great admiration forHeath."

  "He must be rather depressing in the rains," she said, with a carelesslaugh. "He positively gave me the shivers. I can hardly envy you boxedup there with him. I believe he sees ghosts, and I think they must behorrid ghosts or he couldn't look as he does."

  Her car was waiting down the road, and Atkins walked beside her and sawher get in. Mrs. Wilder was very charming to him; she leaned out andsmiled at him again.

  "Do take care of the Padre," she called as she drove off.

  "There goes a sensible, good-looking woman," thought Atkins, and hethought highly of Mrs. Wilder for her visit to Heath. He said so to theRector of St. Jude's as they dined together, remarking on the fact thatvery few women bothered about sick servants, and he was surprised at thecold lack of enthusiasm with which Heath accepted his remark.

  "That was what she said?"

  "Yes, and I call it unusual in a country where servants are treated likemachines. I've never known Mrs. Wilder very well, but she is aninteresting woman; don't you think so, Heath?"

  "I don't know," said Heath absently. "I never form definite opinionsabout people on a slight knowledge of them."

  Atkins felt snubbed, but he only laughed good-naturedly, and Heathrelapsed into silence.

  Mrs. Wilder was dining out that night, and she looked so superblyhandsome and so defiantly well that everyone remarked upon her; and evenDraycott Wilder, who might have been supposed to be used to her beautyand her wit, watched her with his slow, following look. Hartley was notat the dinner-party, but afterwards echoes of its success reached him,and a description of Mrs. Wilder herself that thrilled his romanticsense as he listened.

  Hartley was worried about the Padre, and he had warned the policeman towatch the Compound at night; but all the watching in the world did notexplain the cause of these visits. There was a connection somewhere andsomehow between Heath and the missing Absalom, and Hartley wondered ifhe could venture to speak to Mrs. Wilder again about the night of the29th of July, and implore her to let him know if she had seen Heath withAbsalom.

  It seemed, judging by what Atkins had heard, that Heath was paying forsilence, and Hartley disliked the idea of working up evidence againstthe Padre. The more he thought of it the less he liked it, and yet hisduty and his sense of responsibility would not let him rest. Mrs. Wilderhad said that she had seen Heath and Absalom, and had then refused tosay anything more, but Hartley saw in her reserve a suggestion offurther knowledge that could not be ignored or denied.

  Mhtoon Pah was quieter for the moment. He believed that Leh Shin wasbeing cautiously tracked, and the pointing image had held no furthertraces of bloodshed upon his yellow hands. Hartley had grown to loathethe grinning figure, and to loathe the whole tedious, difficult tragedyof the lost boy. If it had lain in the native quarter he could havefound interest in the excitement of the chase, but if it ramified intothe Cantonment, Hartley had no mind for it. He was a man first, asociable, kindly man, and, later, an officer of the law.