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Page 32
"I will say nothing at present," he answered. "But, believe me, a
thousand detectives cannot explain my son's death. I shall return
to this subject after the funeral, Sir Walter. But my conviction
grows that the reason of these things will never be revealed to the
eye of science. To the eye of faith alone we must trust the
explanation of what has happened. There are things concealed from
the wise and prudent--to be revealed unto babes."
That night the master of Chadlands, his nephew, and the priest
dined together, and Henry Lennox implored a privilege.
"I feel I owe it to poor Tom in a way," he said. "I beg that you
will let me spend the night in the Grey Room, Uncle Walter. I
would give my soul to clear this."
But his uncle refused with a curt shake of the head, and the
clergyman uttered a reproof.
"Do not speak so lightly," he said. "You use a common phrase and
a very objectionable phrase, young man. Do you rate your soul so
low that you would surrender it for the satisfaction of a morbid
craving? For that is all this amounts to. Not to such an inquirer
will my son's death reveal its secret."
"I have already received half-a-dozen letters from people offering
and wishing to spend a night in that accursed room," said Sir Walter.
"Do not call it 'accursed' until you know more," urged Septimus May.
"You have indeed charity," answered the other.
"Why withhold charity? We must approach the subject in the only
spirit that can disarm the danger. These inquirers who seek to
solve the mystery are not concerned with my son's death, only the
means that brought it about. Not to such as they will any answer
be vouchsafed, and not to the spirit of materialistic inquiry,
either. I speak what I know, and will say more upon the subject
at another time."
"You cannot accept this awful thing without resentment or demur,
Mr. May?" asked Henry Lennox.
"Who shall demur? Did not even the unenlightened men who formed
the coroner's jury declare that Tom passed into another world by
the hand of God? Can we question our Creator? I, too, desire as
much as any human being can an explanation; what is more, I am far
more confident of an explanation than you or any other man. But
that is because I already know the only road by which it will
please God to send an explanation. And that is not the road which
scientists or rationalists are used to travel. It is a road that
I must be allowed to walk alone."
He left them after dinner, and returned to his daughter-in-law.
She had determined not to attend the funeral, but Mr. May argued
with her, examined her reasons, found them, in his opinion, not
sufficient, and prevailed with her to change her mind.
"Drink the cup to the dregs," he said. "This is our grief, our
trial. None feel and know what we feel and know, and your youth
is called to bear a burden heavy to be borne. You must stand
beside his grave as surely as I must commit him to it."
Men will go far to look upon the coffin of one whose end happens
to be mysterious or terrible. The death of Sir Walter's son-in-law
had made much matter for the newspapers, and not only Chadlands,
but the countryside converged upon the naval funeral, lined the
route to the grave, and crowded the little burying ground where
the dead man would lie. Cameras pointed their eyes at the
gun-carriage and the mourners behind it. The photographers worked
for a sort of illustrated paper that tramples with a swine's hoofs
and routs up with a swine's nose the matter its clients best love
to purchase. Mary, supported by her father and her cousin,
preserved a brave composure. Indeed, she was less visibly moved
than they. It seemed that the ascetic parent of the dead had
power to lift the widow to his own stern self-control. The chaplain
of Tom May's ship assisted at the service, but Septimus May
conducted it. Not a few old messmates attended, for the sailor had
been popular, and his unexpected death brought genuine grief to
many men. Under a pile of flowers the coffin was carried to the
grave. Rare and precious blossoms came from Sir Walter's friends,
and H. M. S. Indomitable sent a mighty anchor of purple violets.
Mr. May read the service without a tremor, but his eyes blazed out
of his lean head, and there lacked not other signs to indicate the
depth of emotion he concealed. Then the bluejackets who had drawn
the gun-carriage fired a volley, and the rattle of their musketry
echoed sharply from the church tower.
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