“O God! God!” moaned Santley, hiding his face in horror.
“It is too late to call on God. If that is true,” pursued the other, “this; also is true—that you have lost her eternally. Your God is a God of justice. He does not, either in hell or heaven, bring the murderer and his victim together. You murdered her soul first; then, since you made it inevitable, I destroyed its mortal dwelling. Since you believe in hell, surely this is enough to damn you. Say she is innocent. The better for her; the worse for you. She is among the angels your place is elsewhere, eternally; there you may wail and gnash your teeth in vain. You see, reverend sir, I am comforting you with your own beautiful creed. Your faith in it was great; through your faith in it, you are lost for ever.”
With a cry, almost an imprecation, Santley staggered to his feet, unable to listen any longer. Sorrow, shame, terror, horror, contended within him. Already it seemed as if the earth was opened to swallow him, the forked tongues of fire-shooting up to envelop and consume him.
He rushed towards the door. This time the other did not interpose.
“Where are you going, pray?” he demanded quietly.
Santley turned round upon him, livid, glaring like a madman.
“To fetch the police,” he answered.
“I shall denounce you. Whatever becomes of me, you shall die, upon the gallows.”
“Permit me to light you to the door,” answered the philosopher, smiling. “You could not go upon a better errand.. Sound the alarm, fetch the police hither; the sooner the better. When they come, they shall be acquainted with the truth. They shall know, all the world shall know, that I killed my wife; and why? Because a clergyman, a man of God, honoured by many, respected by all, had come to my house like a satyr, and made it a nest of pollution. I shall stand in the dock, and the chief witness, against me will be yourself—the Rev.. Charles Santley, Vicar of Omberley, a living light, a pillar of the Church, self-convicted as hypocrite, liar, adulterer, seducer, satyr—filthy from the soul to the finger-tips. How the sweet maids of your congregation will stare! It will be a cause célébré—a nine-days’ wonder. And on the next Sabbath, perhaps, you will preach the gospel of love and purity, as usual!”
Santley clung to the doorway, limp and crushed, a picture of mingled fury and desolation.