Of the two men, some might have supposed, considering the circumstances, that it was Mr. Quincunx who was mad, and his interlocutor who was sane. On the other hand, it might be said that only a madman would have received the recluse’s appeal in the calm and serious manner in which Andersen received it. The abysmal cunning of those who have only one object in life, and are in sight of its attainment, actuated the unfortunate stone-carver in his attitude to his rival at this moment.
“If some fairy or some god,” he said, “did lift the stone from her sepulchre and you from your sepulchre, my advice to you and to her would be to go away, to escape, to be free. You would be happy—you would both be happy! And the reason of your happiness would be that you would know the Devil had been conquered. And you would know that, because, by gathering all the stones in the world upon my own head, and being buried beneath them, I should have made a rampart higher than Leo’s Hill to protect you from the Evil One!”
Andersen’s words were eager and hurried, and when he had finished speaking, he surveyed Mr. Quincunx with wild and feverish eyes. It was now borne in for the first time upon that worthy philosopher, that he was engaged in conversation with one whose wits were turned, and a great terror took possession of him. If the cunning of madmen is deep and subtle, it is sometimes surpassed by the cunning of those who are afraid of madmen.
“The most evil heap of stones I know in Nevilton,” remarked Mr. Quincunx, moving towards his gate, and making a slight dismissing gesture with his hand, “is the heap in the Methodist cemetery. You know the one I mean, Andersen? The one up by Seven Ashes, where the four roads meet. It is just inside the entrance, on the left hand. They throw upon it all the larger stones they find when they dig the graves. I have often picked up bits of bones there, and pieces of skulls. It is an interesting place, a very curious place, and quite easy to find. There haven’t been many burials there lately, because most of the Methodists nowadays prefer the churchyard. But there was one last spring. That was the burial of Glory Lintot. I was there myself, and saw her put in. It’s an extraordinary place. Anyone who likes to look at what people can write on tombstones would be delighted with it.”
By this time, by means of a series of vague ushering movements, such as he might have used to get rid of an admirable but dangerous dog, Mr. Quincunx had got his visitor as far as the gate. This he opened, with as easy and natural an air as he could assume, and stood ostentatiously aside, to let the unfortunate man pass out.
James Andersen moved slowly into the road. “Remember!” he said. “You will avoid everything you hate! There’s more in the west-wind than you imagine, these strange days. That’s why the rooks are calling. Listen to them!”
He waved his hand and strode rapidly up the lane.
Mr. Quincunx gazed after the retreating figure till it disappeared, and then returned wearily to his work. He picked up his hoe and leaned heavily upon it, buried in thought. Thus he remained for the space of several minutes.
“He is right,” he muttered, raising his head at last. “The rooks are beginning to gather. That means another summer is over,—and a good thing, too! I suppose I ought to have taken him back to Nevilton. But he is right about the rooks.”