The Wonder by J. D. Beresford

my instruction, the child, still looking away from me, shook his head and said that what I had told him was not true. I confess that I was staggered. Possibly I lost my temper, somewhat. I may have grown rather warm in my speech. And at last …” Crashaw clenched his hands and spoke in such a low voice that Challis could hardly hear him. “At last he turned to me and said things which I could not possibly repeat, which I pray that I may never hear again from the mouth of any living being.”
    “Profanities, obscenities, er—swear-words,” suggested Challis.
    “Blasphemy, blasphemy ,” cried Crashaw. “Oh! I wonder that I did not injure the child.”
    Challis moved over to the window again. For more than a minute there was silence in that big, neglected-looking room. Then Crashaw’s feelings began to find vent in words, in a long stream of insistent asseverations, pitched on a rising note that swelled into a diapason of indignation. He spoke of the position and power of his Church, of its influence for good among the uneducated, agricultural population among which he worked. He enlarged on the profound necessity for a living religion among the poorer classes; and on the revolutionary tendency towards socialism, which would be encouraged if the great restraining power of a creed that enforced subservience to temporal power was once shaken. And, at last, he brought his arguments to a head by saying that the example of a child of four years old, openly defying a minister of the Church, and repudiating the very conception of the Deity, was an example which might produce a profound effect upon the minds of a slow-thinking people; that such an example might be the leaven which would leaven the whole lump; and that for the welfare of the whole neighbourhood it was an instant necessity that the child should be put under restraint, his tongue bridled, and any opportunity to proclaim his blasphemous doctrines forcibly denied to him. Long before he had concluded, Crashaw was on his feet, pacing the room, declaiming, waving his arms.
    Challis stood, unanswering, by the window. He did not seem to hear; he did not even shrug his shoulders. Not till Crashaw had brought his argument to a culmination, and boomed into a dramatic silence, did Challis turn and look at him.
    “But you cannot confine a child in an asylum on those grounds,” he said; “the law does not permit it.”
    “The Church is above the law,” replied Crashaw.
    “Not in these days,” said Challis; “it is by law established!”
    Crashaw began to speak again, but Challis waved him down. “Quite, quite. I see your point,” he said, “but I must see this child myself. Believe me, I will see what can be done. I will, at least, try to prevent his spreading his opinions among the yokels.” He smiled grimly. “I quite agree with you that that is a consummation which is not to be desired.”
    “You will see him soon?” asked Crashaw.
    “To-day,” returned Challis.
    “And you will let me see you again, afterwards?”
    “Certainly.”
    Crashaw still hesitated for a moment. “I might, perhaps, come with you,” he ventured.
    “On no account,” said Challis.
II
    Gregory Lewes was astonished at the long absence of his chief; he was more astonished when his chief returned.
    “I want you to come up with me to Pym, Lewes,” said Challis; “one of my tenants has been confounding the rector of Stoke. It is a matter that must be attended to.”
    Lewes was a fair-haired, hard-working young man, with a bent for science in general that had not yet crystallised into any special study. He had a curious sense of humour, that proved something of an obstacle in the way of specialisation. He did not take Challis’s speech seriously.
    “Are you going as a magistrate?” he asked; “or is it a matter for scientific investigation?”
    “Both,” said Challis. “Come along!”
    “Are you serious, sir?” Lewes still doubted.
    “Intensely. I’ll explain as we go,”