“She died last night.”
The vicar was much upset. He did not speak for some time, but at last he said: “Someone has blundered. I warned her neighbor, Mrs. Bent, to be particularly careful how she broke the news to her. I was at pains to choose Mrs. Bent, a sensible woman whom I thought I could trust. I felt the shock would be less if the news came from a neighbor instead of from me. But I see”—bitterness mingled now with the concern in the vicar’s tone—“that it would have been far wiser had I taken the whole responsibility upon myself.”
“I’m not sure that it would,” said Edith. “Mrs. Bent says the poor thing knew what had happened without being told.”
“She couldn’t have known anything of the kind. That’s quite impossible. Every precaution was taken to spare her a shock. I saw to it myself that all the arrangements were properly carried out. Last evening at dusk a car with two attendants from Wellwood Sanatorium drove up to the common, popped the poor fellow inside and took him away without a soul in the village being the wiser. I was there and saw the thing done. It went without a hitch. No one was by, that I will swear to. And then I went to Mrs. Bent and I said: ‘Kindly tell Mrs. Smith that John may be late for his supper, and that if he is not home by ten o’clock he may not return tonight.’ Not another word was said. Ever since I got the magistrates’ order I have given the matter anxious consideration. The details of the plan were most carefully thought out in order to spare the poor old woman as much as possible, and to defeat public curiosity. Moreover, I am quite sure that unless Mrs. Bent exceeded her instructions, which is hardly likely to have been the case, the poor old thing could not have died from shock.”
“Mrs. Bent’s own version,” said Edith, “is that as soon as she entered the cottage and before she spoke a word, Mrs. Smith said to her: ‘Neighbor, you’ve come to tell me that they’ve taken my son. I shall never see him again this side the Resurrection. But I am not afraid. The God of Righteousness has promised to take care of me.’ Mrs. Bent was quite astonished. She didn’t know what was meant.”
“How could Mrs. Smith have known? Who could have told her?”
“She said to Mrs. Bent that God Himself had appeared to her. Mrs. Bent saw that she was sinking even then. Dr. Joliffe was sent for at once, but before he could get there Mrs. Smith was dead.”
The vicar was deeply moved by the tragic story. It was a sequel which he had not been able to foresee. The swiftness of the stroke in a measure softened the terrible sense of direct responsibility; none the less he was much upset.
As for Edith, the sequence of events had filled her with an emotion little short of horror. It was in her voice and her eyes as she now discussed them. A feeling of intolerable pain came upon her as she realized what a very important part in the tragedy she had played. It was her complaint against John Smith which lay at the root of all.
Father and daughter were very unhappy. Edith was inclined to blame herself more than she blamed the vicar. Her loyal nature was capable of great generosity, and it showed itself now in taking the chief share of the catastrophe upon herself. She was bound to believe that her father had taken a greatly exaggerated view of John Smith’s heresies, but his sincerity was beyond question. The vicar’s zeal had wrought irreparable harm, but knowing him for the man he was, it was impossible to blame him.