“That’s wrong—all wrong,” he pronounced: “A parson should be married and have children—plenty of them. Last time I was here, couldn’t hear myself speak there was such a racket of children in the hall. Mother sick upstairs, and the kids sliding down the banisters like mad. I left the parson a check; poor devil!”
He appeared to fall into a fit of musing, his eyes on the floor.
“I see you’re wondering who I am, young man,” he said presently. “Well, we’re coming to that, presently. I want some advice; so I shall merely put the case baldly.... I wanted advice, before; but the parson of that day couldn’t give me the right sort. Good Lord! I can see him yet: short man, rather stout and baldish. Meant well, but his religion wasn’t worth a bean to me that day.... Religion is all very well to talk about on a Sunday; broadcloth coat, white tie and that sort of thing; good for funerals, too, when a man’s dead and can’t answer back. Sometimes I’ve amused myself wondering what a dead man would say to a parson, if he could sit up in his coffin and talk five minutes of what’s happened to him since they called him dead. Interesting to think of—eh? ...Had lots of time to think.... Thought of most everything that ever happened; and more that didn’t.”
“You are a stranger in Brookville, sir?” observed Wesley Elliot, politely.
He had already decided that the man was neither a colporteur nor a clerical mendicant; his clothes were too good, for one thing.
The man laughed, a short, unpleasant sound which ended in a fit of coughing.
“A stranger in Brookville?” he echoed. “Well; not precisely.... But never mind that, young man. Now, you’re a clergyman, and on that account supposed to have more than ordinary good judgment: what would you advise a man to do, who had—er—been out of active life for a number of years. In a hospital, we’ll say, incapacitated, very much so. When he comes out, he finds himself quite pleasantly situated, in a way; good home, and all that sort of thing; but not allowed to—to use his judgment in any way. Watched—yes, watched, by a person who ought to know better. It’s intolerable—intolerable! Why, you’ll not believe me when I tell you I’m obliged to sneak out of my own house on the sly—on the sly, you understand, for the purpose of taking needful exercise.”
He stopped short and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, the fineness of which the minister noted mechanically—with other details which had before escaped him; such as the extreme, yellowish pallor of the man’s face and hands and the extraordinary swiftness and brightness of his eyes. He was conscious of growing uneasiness as he said:
“That sounds very unpleasant, sir; but as I am not in possession of the facts—”
“But I just told you,” interrupted the stranger. “Didn’t I say—”