A week later at morning service the Chaplain prayed for his soul: the Governor crossed his name off the Body Receipt Book and notified the Home Secretary, the Right Honourable Sir Humphrey Maltravers, that Grimes was dead.
“I’m afraid it was a terrible end,” said the Chaplain to Paul.
“Did they find the body?”
“No, that is the worst thing about it. The hounds followed his scent as far as Egdon Mire; there it ended. A shepherd who knows the paths through the bog found his hat floating on the surface at the most treacherous part. I’m afraid there is no doubt that he died a very horrible death.”
“Poor old Grimes!” said Paul. “And he was an old Harrovian, too.”
But later, thinking things over as he ate peacefully, one by one, the oysters that had been provided as a “relish” for his supper, Paul knew that Grimes was not dead. Lord Tangent was dead; Mr. Prendergast was dead; the time would even come for Paul Pennyfeather; but Grimes, Paul at last realized, was of the immortals. He was a life force. Sentenced to death in Flanders, he popped up in Wales; drowned in Wales, he emerged in South America; engulfed in the dark mystery of Egdon Mire, he would rise again somewhere at some time, shaking from his limbs the musty integuments of the tomb. Surely he had followed in the Bacchic train of distant Arcady, and played on the reeds of myth by forgotten streams, and taught the childish satyrs the art of love? Had he not suffered unscathed the fearful dooms of all the offended gods of all the histories, fire, brimstone, and yawning earthquakes, plague and pestilence? Had he not stood, like the Pompeian sentry, while the Citadels of the Plain fell to ruin about his ears? Had he not, like some grease-caked Channel-swimmer, breasted the waves of the Deluge? Had he not moved unseen when darkness covered the waters?
“I often wonder whether I am blameless in the matter,” said the Chaplain. “It is awful to think of someone under my care having come to so terrible an end. I tried to console him and reconcile him with his life, but things are so difficult; there are so many men to see. Poor fellow! To think of him alone out there in the bog, with no one to help him!”
VI
The Passing of Paul Pennyfeather
A few days later Paul was summoned to the Governor’s room.
“I have an order here from the Home Secretary granting leave for you to go into a private nursing home for the removal of your appendix. You will start under escort, in plain clothes, this morning.”
“But, sir,” said Paul, “I don’t want to have my appendix removed. In fact, it was done years ago when I was still at school.”
“Nonsense!” said the Governor. “I’ve got an order here from the Home Secretary especially requiring that it shall be done. Officer, take this man away and give him his clothes for the journey.”
Paul was led away. The clothes in which he had been tried had been sent with him from Blackstone. The warder took them out of a locker, unfolded them and handed them to Paul. “Shoes, socks, trousers, waistcoat, coat, shirt, collar, tie and hat,” he said. “Will you sign for them? The jewellery stays here.” He collected the watch, links, tiepin, notecase and the other odds and ends that had been in Paul’s pockets and put them back in the locker. “We can’t do anything about your hair,” said the warder, “but you’re allowed a shave.”
Half an hour later Paul emerged from his cell, looking for all the world like a normal civilized man, such as you might see daily in any tube-railway.
“Feels funny, don’t it?” said the warder who let him out. “Here’s your escort.”
Another normal civilized man, such as you might see daily in any tube-railway, confronted Paul.
“Time we started, if you’re quite ready,” he said. Robbed of their uniforms, it seemed natural that they should treat each other with normal consideration. Indeed, Paul thought he detected a certain deference in the man’s tone.
“It’s very odd,” said Paul in the van that took them to the station; “it’s no good arguing with the Governor, but he’s made some ridiculous mistake. I’ve had my appendix out already.”
“Not half,” said the warder with a wink, “but don’t go talking about it so loud. The driver’s not in on this.”
A first-class carriage had been reserved for them in the train. As they drew out of Egdon Station the warder said: “Well, that’s the last you’ll see of the old place for some time. Solemn thought, death, ain’t it?” And he gave another shattering wink.
They had luncheon in their carriage, Paul feeling a little too shy of his closely-cropped head to venture hatless into the restaurant car. After luncheon they smoked cigars. The warder paid from a fat notecase. “Oh, I nearly forgot,” he said. “Here’s your will for you to sign, in case anything should happen.” He produced a long blue paper and handed it to Paul. The Last Will and Testament of Paul Pennyfeather
was handsomely engraved at the top. Below, it was stated, with the usual legal periphrases, that he left all he possessed to Margot Beste-Chetwynde. Two witnesses had already signed below the vacant space. “I’m sure this is all very irregular,” said Paul, signing; “I wish you’d tell me what all this means.”
“I don’t know nothing,” said the warder. “The young gentleman give me the will.”
“What young gentleman?”
“How should I know?” said the warder. “The young gentleman what’s arranged everything. Very sensible to make a will. You never know with an operation what may happen, do you? I had an aunt died having gallstones taken out, and she hadn’t made a will. Very awkward it was, her not being married
