The Innocence of Father Brown G. K. Chesterton (dar e dil novel online reading .TXT) đ
- Author: G. K. Chesterton
Book online «The Innocence of Father Brown G. K. Chesterton (dar e dil novel online reading .TXT) đ». Author G. K. Chesterton
âI conceive that all the earthquake events of that catastrophe tumbled on top of each other rather like lumber in the minds of men such as our friend with the diary. With the dazed excitement of a dream, they found themselves fallingâ âliterally fallingâ âinto their ranks, and learned that an attack was to be led at once across the river. The general and the major, it was said, had found out something at the bridge, and there was only just time to strike for life. The major had gone back at once to call up the reserve along the road behind; it was doubtful if even with that prompt appeal help could reach them in time. But they must pass the stream that night, and seize the heights by morning. It is with the very stir and throb of that romantic nocturnal march that the diary suddenly ends.â
Father Brown had mounted ahead; for the woodland path grew smaller, steeper, and more twisted, till they felt as if they were ascending a winding staircase. The priestâs voice came from above out of the darkness.
âThere was one other little and enormous thing. When the general urged them to their chivalric charge he half drew his sword from the scabbard; and then, as if ashamed of such melodrama, thrust it back again. The sword again, you see.â
A half-light broke through the network of boughs above them, flinging the ghost of a net about their feet; for they were mounting again to the faint luminosity of the naked night. Flambeau felt truth all round him as an atmosphere, but not as an idea. He answered with bewildered brain: âWell, whatâs the matter with the sword? Officers generally have swords, donât they?â
âThey are not often mentioned in modern war,â said the other dispassionately; âbut in this affair one falls over the blessed sword everywhere.â
âWell, what is there in that?â growled Flambeau; âit was a twopence coloured sort of incident; the old manâs blade breaking in his last battle. Anyone might bet the papers would get hold of it, as they have. On all these tombs and things itâs shown broken at the point. I hope you havenât dragged me through this Polar expedition merely because two men with an eye for a picture saw St. Clareâs broken sword.â
âNo,â cried Father Brown, with a sharp voice like a pistol shot; âbut who saw his unbroken sword?â
âWhat do you mean?â cried the other, and stood still under the stars. They had come abruptly out of the grey gates of the wood.
âI say, who saw his unbroken sword?â repeated Father Brown obstinately. âNot the writer of the diary, anyhow; the general sheathed it in time.â
Flambeau looked about him in the moonlight, as a man struck blind might look in the sun; and his friend went on, for the first time with eagerness:
âFlambeau,â he cried, âI cannot prove it, even after hunting through the tombs. But I am sure of it. Let me add just one more tiny fact that tips the whole thing over. The colonel, by a strange chance, was one of the first struck by a bullet. He was struck long before the troops came to close quarters. But he saw St. Clareâs sword broken. Why was it broken? How was it broken? My friend, it was broken before the battle.â
âOh!â said his friend, with a sort of forlorn jocularity; âand pray where is the other piece?â
âI can tell you,â said the priest promptly. âIn the northeast corner of the cemetery of the Protestant Cathedral at Belfast.â
âIndeed?â inquired the other. âHave you looked for it?â
âI couldnât,â replied Brown, with frank regret. âThereâs a great marble monument on top of it; a monument to the heroic Major Murray, who fell fighting gloriously at the famous Battle of the Black River.â
Flambeau seemed suddenly galvanised into existence. âYou mean,â he cried hoarsely, âthat General St. Clare hated Murray, and murdered him on the field of battle becauseâ ââ
âYou are still full of good and pure thoughts,â said the other. âIt was worse than that.â
âWell,â said the large man, âmy stock of evil imagination is used up.â
The priest seemed really doubtful where to begin, and at last he said again:
âWhere would a wise man hide a leaf? In the forest.â
The other did not answer.
âIf there were no forest, he would make a forest. And if he wished to hide a dead leaf, he would make a dead forest.â
There was still no reply, and the priest added still more mildly and quietly:
âAnd if a man had to hide a dead body, he would make a field of dead bodies to hide it in.â
Flambeau began to stamp forward with an intolerance of delay in time or space; but Father Brown went on as if he were continuing the last sentence:
âSir Arthur St. Clare, as I have already said, was a man who read his Bible. That was what was the matter with him. When will people understand that it is useless for a man to read his Bible unless he also reads everybody elseâs Bible? A printer reads a Bible for misprints. A Mormon reads his Bible, and finds polygamy; a Christian Scientist reads his, and finds we have no arms and legs. St. Clare was an old Anglo-Indian Protestant soldier. Now, just think what that might mean; and, for Heavenâs sake, donât cant about it. It might mean a man physically formidable living under a tropic sun in an Oriental society, and soaking himself without sense or guidance in an Oriental Book. Of course, he read the Old Testament rather than the New. Of course, he found in the Old Testament anything that he wantedâ âlust, tyranny, treason. Oh, I dare say he was honest, as you call it. But what is the good of a man being honest in his worship of dishonesty?
âIn each of the hot and secret countries to which the man went he kept a harem, he tortured witnesses, he amassed shameful gold; but certainly he would have said with
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