The Wide House

  Stuart reached him. He stood over the old man. He said, very gently: “Are you praying, Joshua? Or is it that you dare not pray? Are you afraid God might be listening? You foul murderer, you demon, you vicious dog!”

  Joshua did not answer. His arms merely tightened over his head. But a long shuddering ran over his body, so that the night-shirt trembled as if struck by wind.

  Then he felt Stuart grasp him by the back of the neck. He felt himself swung into air. For the last time he screamed frantically, with rabid terror. He saw Stuart lift the shining cane over his head, the golden knob glittering. He closed his eyes. He hung from Stuart’s hand like a gaunt old rabbit, and was still. His mouth fell open. He sagged, his feet aimlessly trailing the floor. He had mercifully become unconscious before a single blow had been struck.

  Stuart looked at the ancient night-shirted skeleton in his grasp. The head lolled over his hand as if the neck had been broken. Saliva drooled from the slack lips. The arms and legs hung lifeless.

  There was a rapid pounding of feet up the stairway, shouts, the stabbing lights of lanterns. Stuart heard and saw.

  He flung Joshua from him violently, and the body of the old man slid over the floor, coming to rest abruptly against the farther wall, a tangled heap of naked bones, obscene and repulsive, and silent.

  CHAPTER 66

  “Here he is, Father,” said the turnkey. He put a heavy iron key into the faceless door, turned it, opened the lock. “Only ten minutes, now, please.”

  Father Houlihan hesitated on the threshold of the dank stone cell. There was a high window, barred, in the moist wall. Thin streamers of sunlight fell into the cell; upon the narrow cot sat Stuart, his head in his hands. He did not lift his head; his thick hair, black and dishevelled, was twisted in his blood-stained fingers. His clothing, rumpled and stained, had not been removed during the night. His neckcloth hung, untied, over his waistcoat. Ironically, the jewelled ring on his right hand glittered in the sunlight.

  Father Houlihan entered the cell. The door clanged after him. He stood and looked at his friend. Stuart did not move, did not even stir. He was not aware that anyone had entered. On a stool near him stood the meal of bread and water and greasy meat, which he had not touched. Nor had he used the pitcher of water and the ragged towel which had been given him. He sat on his cot like a man of stone, and did not appear to breathe.

  The priest sighed deeply, from his heart. He removed the dirty tray from the stool, and he pulled that stool close to his friend. Then he said, in a broken voice: “Stuart. Stuart, my darling lad. Won’t you look at me, Stuart?”

  Stuart did not move. Father Houlihan’s exhausted and red-rimmed eyes filled. The tears fell over his haggard cheeks. He had become an old man. He shivered, over and over. Then he put his hand on Stuart’s shoulder, and cried; “Stuart, you must look at me! Have pity on me, Stuart!”

  A long shudder ran over Stuart’s shoulder; the priest could feel it under his hand. Then Stuart’s hands dropped, but he did not lift his head. Father Houlihan saw his stark, bemused face. Stuart’s eyes stared at the floor, rimmed in black. One of his cheeks was oozing with blood, and there was a horrible purple bruise on his forehead.

  He said, in a far hoarse voice: “Sam is dead. He was murdered. But I did not kill his murderer. He died before I could kill him.” Suddenly his voice rose, and he groaned with desperate hopelessness and rage: “Curse God! Curse everything! He died before I could kill him! I was cheated! Sam was cheated! Curse God!”

  The priest put his hands on his shoulders, and shook him steadily and firmly. “Stuart. Look at me, my lad. Try to hear me. It’s your friend, Grundy.” His voice broke. “Do you hear me, Stuart?”

  Stuart was suddenly silent. Then his expression changed, became contorted, full of hatred. He flung off his friend’s hands.

  “Have you come here to mouth your mawkish words over me, you fool? To whimper your ridiculous and insane aphorisms? To exhort me?”

  He sprang to his feet. He began to hurry up and down the narrow confines of his cell. He was beside himself. He raved. He cursed. He wept. He struck his clenched wounded fists against the walls like a madman. When his starting and disordered eye encountered the priest, he poured filthy maledictions upon him. Where was his God? he stammered, in the loud thick voice of madness. Where was his God, that He had allowed Sam to be murdered so brutally, Sam who had harmed no one? Where was his precious Jesus in that hour when Sam had died? Who had helped him? Who had defended him? There had been no one to hear his last cry, the cry of an innocent man so evilly done to death for money. What had Sam done to inspire such hatred? Nothing. Before God, nothing! Yet God had not intervened, to save him. He had died in his, Stuart’s arms, and this was Sam’s blood on his hands. Stuart thrust out his dirty stained hands into the priest’s very face. But Father Houlihan did not shrink. He did not look at the hands before him. He looked only at Stuart.

  Stuart burst into unhinged laughter. “You don’t like the sight of blood, do you, you bloodless priest? You forgive Sam’s murderers, don’t you? Sam was only a Jew, and the murderers were ‘Christians’! Christians! You remember that, don’t you? It does not matter what a Christian does, whatever crime he commits, whatever innocent he murders, whatever good man he does to death for money! He can be forgiven. He can be washed in the blood of the Lamb, and taken into a nice cozy Heaven to play hymns forever on a golden harp! He has been baptized, in dirty water! His crime against a Jew will be forgiven, for it was not a crime at all! He can rest at the feet of his simpering God, and be congratulated, as he has been congratulated by the stinking creatures that God has created. World without end, the liars, the thieves, the murderers, the ugly foulnesses, the perverts and the dogs will whisper: ‘He only killed a Jew’!”

  He paused. The priest was slowly rising, his large old face white as cloth, his eyes blazing. He stood before Stuart, and looked at him steadfastly.

  Stuart laughed again. “Why don’t you speak? Why don’t you say: ‘You should not have attacked that vile fiend, for he only killed a Jew’!”

  Then the priest raised his hand and struck Stuart full across his convulsed face, not once, but many times, and with calm and steady deliberation. Stuart fell back. He staggered against the wall. And then he stood there, blinking, staring.

  The priest said, and his voice was very quiet, and without emotion: “I shall say only this: If you had not gone to Allstairs, I should have gone. I should have gone, as you did. I owe you gratitude.”

  Stuart stared at him. There was a deep silence in the cell. The two men regarded each other across a space of five feet. The priest stood like a statue, pale, not trembling. He seemed to grow in inexorable stature. His strident blue eyes were full of blinding light.

  “What do you think I have in my breast, you stupid man?” he asked. “A lump of ice? A stone? A piece of suet? Do you not know it is the heart of a human creature, a man like yourself? Do you think these black robes hide a fleshless body? Sam was my friend, more my friend than he was yours. We were men together. We knew each other, as you have never known either of us. We knew each other’s soul. When he was killed, part of me was killed, also. I shall never be whole again.”

  He spoke simply, and without emotion in his voice. He was very calm. Then he sat down again on the stool and looked before him. His lips moved silently, in unspoken and majestic prayer. Then he bent his head and covered his face with his hands.

  “God forgive me,” he whispered, “for there is murder in my heart.”

  Stuart stood motionless, pressed to the wall against which he had fallen. He could not remove his eyes from his old friend. Slowly the anguish, the demented fury, faded from his face. He put his hand to his head. Then, with blind steps he groped towards his cot. He fell on it, his head bent on his knees.

  Again, there was silence in the cell. The priest continued his whispered prayers, as if he were alone. Stuart heard that whispering. It seemed to him that it pierced every cell in his body with unen
durable agony.

  There was a grinding in the lock of the door. The turnkey appeared, and with him two men, Robbie Cauder and Mr. Ezekiel Simon, Joshua Allstairs’ lawyer. He was a dry tight little man, bald, with twinkling blue eyes, a sardonic expression, and an agile carriage.

  “Well, well,” he said in a sprightly voice, as the door clanged behind them. “What have we here, eh? A nasty business, a very nasty business. But not one that can’t be mended! Judge Cauder, sir, I have discovered we have no place to sit. But no matter. Our business will not take long, I trust.”

  He winked at the grave Robbie, who was regarding Stuart with concern, and he made a sprightly moue as he indicated the priest, and tilted his head at the door. But Robbie shook his head sternly, indicating that the priest should remain. Father Houlihan turned slowly on his stool, and looked at Robbie with severe questioning, and then at Stuart.

  Robbie advanced, and held out his hand, and the priest took it. “Father Houlihan, we have some matters to discuss. If you have the time, I beg you to remain. I am glad to find you here. I—I am certain that Stuart needs you.”

  “I shall remain, sir, if it is your desire, and I can help my friend,” said the priest with dignity. Stuart had again sunk into his terrible bemused apathy, and showed no indication that he was aware of the presence of the newcomers.

  Robbie hesitated, then sat down beside his kinsman. He studied him with sad, stern gravity. Mr. Simon hummed a little to himself, glanced about the cell with pleased disfavor. Robbie spoke: “Stuart. Pull yourself together, man. This is very serious, you know. We must talk to you.”

  Stuart’s stiff hands slowly dropped from his face. Whitish channels had been worn through the grime on his haggard face. He stared at Robbie blindly. Then he muttered: “Ah, so you are here. To prepare my ‘defense,’ I suppose. To save me from the hangman.” And he smiled.

  “What hangman?” said Robbie impatiently. He pulled out his clean white kerchief, and thrust it into Stuart’s hand. “Wipe your dirty face. Be a man. Listen to me, Stuart. You are a fool. But you aren’t a murderer. Allstairs isn’t dead. He’s very much alive, though he’s nursing a broken arm.”

  Stuart stared at him emptily. “Not dead?” he whispered. “Not dead?” Then his look changed, became distorted and ferocious again. He started to his feet. “Not dead! He’s alive! My God!”

  The priest rose with a cry. He seized Stuart’s arm. “Thank God!” he exclaimed. “Thank God, he is not dead! Not for his loathsome sake, but for Stuart’s! I thank Thee, dear Lord, I thank Thee!”

  “Stuart,” observed Robbie, wryly, and shifting himself with fastidiousness on the dirty blanket, “does not seem to share your exultation, Father Houlihan.”

  Stuart clenched his fists. He muttered: “I shall have to try it again, then.”

  Robbie spoke sharply: “Don’t be a damned fool, man! You always were, you know. Try to use your reason, if you have any. Try to control yourself. You have a family to think of.” He made a disgusted gesture. “I shall see to it that you remain here, safe from yourself, until you come to your senses.”

  He gestured to the priest, who gently forced the trembling Stuart to sit down again. Mr. Simon had watched this scene with happy pleasure and affectionate interest. “Ah, yes, hot blood. It will be better for him to remain here for a few days. I shall recommend it A little sentence of ten days, Judge, for creating a riot, or inflicting assault, or something?”

  Robbie nodded with impatience. “That can be settled later. Let us get down to facts, now.”

  He paused, then spoke firmly and quietly to Stuart: “There were witnesses, half a dozen of them. Neighbors. They are on your side. It is fortunate for you that Allstairs is so universally hated. Now, I have a few questions to ask you, you imbecile, and please try to answer them sensibly. Allstairs fainted in your grasp, before you could strike him?”

  It was some moments before Stuart could gather his faculties together, and then he nodded, dumbly. He was dazed. He kept rubbing his forehead, and whispering to himself.

  “That corroborates the accounts of the witnesses,” said Mr. Simon, pleasantly. “And Mr. Allstairs’ own testimony.”

  “And then you threw him from you, against the wall, so that he broke his arm?” continued the merciless Robbie, who, whatever he privately felt at the sight of Stuart’s face and anguished eyes, discreetly concealed it.

  “I hoped his neck was broken. I hoped I had killed him,” whispered Stuart.

  Robbie frowned. He glanced at Mr. Simon. “What he says need not go beyond this cell?” he suggested.

  “Oh, quite so, quite so. We are only eager for the matter to be settled discreetly,” assented Mr. Simon, happily.

  Robbie said, coldly: “The neighbors, and a policeman, arrived in time to see the last act of this disgraceful affair. Several reached the room just before you seized the old—man. They say you reached him, took him by the neck, and he fainted. Then you threw him from you. They fell on you then, just as you were about to kick him, or beat him with your cane. You fought like the mad dog you are, and then the policeman clouted you with his club and they carried you here. Very fortunate for you, all around.”

  Stuart said nothing. He folded his arms on his knees and Stared before him. Mr. Simon cleared his throat.

  “Let us be brief. Mr. Allstairs has declared that he will bring no charges against you. You are his son-in-law. He has discretion, and I might suggest, taste. No family scandal, you see. Let the matter subside. Very generous of my client, I may add. Very generous indeed. What do you say, Mr. Coleman?”

  Stuart moved. He looked up. “Ah, I see. He is afraid to have me tried. He is afraid of what I might say. He is afraid I shall accuse him of murder!”

  “Oh, my dear sir, what nonsense!” exclaimed Mr. Simon, lovingly. “What excessive charges to bring against my venerable client! How can you prove them? Who are these ‘murderers’ you speak of? Can you produce them? I am afraid you have a very vivid imagination. The unfortunate Mr. Berkowitz was attacked on his doorstep by anonymous ruffians, who wished to rob him, not kill him. They were a little too—strenuous, shall we say? The fact remains that they did rob him. His purse was not on him, and a certain precious ring he wore was gone.”

  Stuart’s eyes were drained of all expression. His mouth fell open. And then, all at once, he was suddenly seized by a veritable madness of impotent fury and despair.

  “So he will not be punished for his murder! He will go free, as he has always gone free before! There will be no hangman’s rope for him! He will be free to murder and rob again, to do his foulnesses, and to live out his obscene life! No! No, by God! I demand a trial. I demand my opportunity to accuse him! I know what I know! I know what Sam told me, when we walked home together. I know what he told me before he died.” He sprang to his feet again, and confronted the lawyer savagely. He pointed his finger at him.

  “And you know what this will mean! You know what it will mean for Allstairs! Allstairs knows, too. That is why he sent you here!”

  Mr. Simon’s agreeable smile died. His little wizened face was very nasty. He said, coolly: “Where are your witnesses, Mr. Coleman? Who will corroborate your wild accusations? Who will believe you? No, no, my dear sir, you are quite helpless. You can do nothing. Mr. Allstairs knows this, also. Yet, he has magnanimously ordered me to have any charges against you dropped.”

  But Stuart laughed in his face. “‘Magnanimous’! Oh, what benevolence! Look you, if Allstairs were not afraid, he would not have sent you to me, with this loving message! He dares not face my accusations in open court—”

  Mr. Simon thrust his little hands into his pockets, leaned against the wall. He regarded Stuart calmly. “Let us be frank, Mr. Coleman. I will not deceive you. Mr. Allstairs is indeed afraid to face your accusations. I grant you that. You see, I am being very honest with you, against my better judgment. In return for your silence, he will also be silent, and the matter will be settled.

  “On the other hand, M
r. Coleman, let us consider the other alternative. Mr. Allstairs will not withdraw his charges of assault with intent to kill against you. You are an indiscreet man, and you will not deny that you intended to kill him. Moreover, there are witnesses. You will be brought into Court. You will make your accusations. Matters might be quite unpleasant for my old client for a while, and he might even be held in such a cell as this, while efforts were made to substantiate your charges. But—and you must understand this perfectly—no witnesses to your alleged murder will be found. Do you expect the ruffians to appear, and declare themselves, accuse themselves, and Mr. Allstairs? That is ridiculous, as you know. The police are searching for the men. I doubt they will be found. Such audacious criminals have a clever way of disappearing. How will you prove any connection between Mr. Allstairs and the criminals? The words of a dying man? It is true that Mr. Berkowitz has been opposed by Mr. Allstairs, for a reason which Mr. Allstairs genuinely considered important. Mr. Allstairs had planned that River Island be sold in lots to impecunious farmers, on very long and generous terms, and at low interest. Don’t you think that the producing of papers to that effect will have considerable weight with the Court, Mr. Coleman?

  “On the other hand, Mr. Berkowitz wished to bring a horde of foreigners, strange creatures, to that Island, to set them up in homes and on the land. Foreigners are not wanted here, Mr. Coleman, at least not at present, if ever. The general sentiment of the people is strongly against such a project, my dear sir. The Court will remember that, also.

  “You will say, again, that Mr. Berkowitz was opposed by Mr. Allstairs, but Mr. Allstairs will have the sympathy of the community in this position, as he has always had it. So, Mr. Berkowitz tells you of this opposition. Later, you find him dying. You, alone, find him dying. I shall return to that phase of the subject in just a moment, please.

  “You allege that Mr. Berkowitz murmured the name of my client before he died. But what proof of that had Mr. Berkowitz? None. None at all. Moreover, no one heard him murmur that name. Again, you alone, heard him.