So Corona was sent to school; but not, as it befell, to Miss Dickinson's.
Brother Copas, indeed, paid a visit to Miss Dickinson, and, warned by some wise instinct, took the child with him.
Miss Dickinson herself opened the front door, and explained with an accent of high refinement that her house-parlourmaid was indisposed that morning, and her cook busy for the moment.
"You have some message for me?" she asked graciously; for the Brethren of St. Hospital pick up a little business as letter-carriers orcommissionaires.
On learning her visitor's errand, of a sudden she stiffened in demeanour. Corona, watching her face intently, noted the change.
"Dear me, what a very unusual application!" said Miss Dickinson, but nevertheless invited them to step inside.
"We can discuss matters more freely without the child," she suggested.
"As you please, ma'am," said Copas, "provided you don't ask her to wait in the street."
Corona was ushered into an apartment at the back—the boudoir, its mistress called it—and was left there amid a din of singing canaries, while Miss Dickinson carried off Brother Copas to the drawing-room.
The boudoir contained some scholastic furniture and a vast number of worthless knick-knacks in poker-work, fret-work, leathernappliqué-work, gummed shell-work, wool-work, tambour-work, with crystoleum paintings and drawings in chalk and water-colour. On a table in front of the window stood a cage with five canaries singing in it. Corona herself felt a sense of imprisonment, but no desire to sing. The window looked upon a walled yard, in which fifteen girls of various ages were walking through some kind of drill under an instructress whose appearance puzzled her until she remembered that Miss Dickinson's cook was "busy for the moment."
Corona watched their movements with an interest begotten of pity. The girls whispered and prinked, and exchanged confidences with self-conscious airs. They paid but a perfunctory attention to the drill. It was clear they despised their instructress. Yet they seemed happy enough in a way.
"I wonder why?" thought Corona. "I don't like Miss Dickinson; first, because she has the nose of a witch, and next because she is afraid of us. I think she is afraid of us because we're poor. Well, I'm not afraid of her—not really; but I'd feel mighty uncomfortable if she had dear old daddy in there alone instead of Uncle Copas."
Meanwhile in the drawing-room—likewise resonant with canaries—Miss Dickinson was carefully helping Brother Copas to understand that as a rule she excluded all but children of the upper classes.
"It is not—if you will do me so much credit—that Ilook downupon the others; but I find that the children themselves are not so happy when called upon to mix with those of a different station. The world, after all, is the world, and we must face facts as they are."
"You mean, ma'am, that your young ladies—or some of them—might twit Corona for having a father who wears the Beauchamp robe."
"I would not saythat.… In fact I have some influence over them, it is to be hoped, and should impress upon them beforehand that the—er—subject is not to be alluded to."
"That would be extremely tactful," said Brother Copas.
He rose.
"Pray be seated.… As I dare say you know, Mr.—"
"Copas."
"—As I dare say you know, Mr. Copas, higher education in England just now is passing through a—er—phase: it is (to use a forcible, if possibly vulgar, expression) in a state of flux. I do not conceal from myself that this must be largely attributed to the Education Act of 1902."
"Ah!"
Brother Copas dived finger and thumb into his waistcoat pocket in search of his snuff-box, but, recollecting himself, withdrew them hastily.
"Mr Balfour, whether he meant it or no, hit the private-venture schools beyond a doubt."
"One may trust that it is but a temporary blow. I have, let me say, the utmost confidence in Mr. Balfour's statesmanship. I believe— far-sighted man that he is, and with his marvellous apprehension of the English character—"
"'Tis a Scotchman's first aptitude," murmured Brother Copas, nodding assent.
"—I believe Mr. Balfour looked beyond the immediate effect of the Act and saw that, after the Municipalities' and County Councils' first success in setting up secondary schools of their own, each with its quota of poor, non-paying children, our sturdy British independence would rise against the—er—contact. The self-respecting parent is bound to say in time, 'No, I willnothave my son, still less my daughter, sitting with Tom, Dick and Harry.' Indeed, I see signs of this already—most encouraging signs. I have two more pupils this term than last, both children of respectable station."
"I congratulate you, ma'am, and I feel sure that Mr. Balfour would congratulate himself, could he hear. But meantime the private-venture schools have been hit, especially those not fortunate enough to be 'recognised' by the Board of Education."
"I seek no such recognition, sir," said Miss Dickinson stiffly.
Brother Copas bowed.
"Forgive, ma'am, the intrusive ghost of a professional interest. I myself once kept a private school for boys. A precarious venture always, and it required no Education Act to wreck mine."
"Indeed?" Miss Dickinson raised her eyebrows in faint surprise, and anon contracted them. "Had I known that you belonged to the scholastic profession—" she began, but leaving the sentence unfinished, appeared to relapse into thought.
"Believe me, ma'am," put in Brother Copas, "I mentioned it casually, not as hinting at any remission of your fees."
"No, no. But I was thinking that it might considerably soften the—er—objection. You are not the child's parent, you say? Nor grandparent?"
"Her godparent only, and that by adoption. In so much as I make myself responsible for her school fees, you may consider me her guardian. Her father, Brother Bonaday, is a decayed gentleman, sometime of independent means, who married late in life, and, on top of this, was indiscreet enough to confide his affairs to a trusted family solicitor."
"Dear, dear! Why did you not tell me all this to begin with?" demanded Miss Dickinson, rising. "Shall we consider it agreed, then?—the child to come to me as soon as you wish."
"I think we must first discover if she's willing," answered Brother Copas, rubbing his chin.
"We will go to her."
They found Corona at the window of the boudoir. As the door opened she turned, ran to Brother Copas, and clung to him.
"Take me home! Oh, please take me home!"
"Hey?" Brother Copas soothed her, patting the back of her head. "Why, what is the matter, little maid? Who has been frightening you?"
"She turns them all into canaries—I know she does!" the child asserted, still shaking pitiably, but facing Miss Dickinson with accusation in her eyes. "You can tell it by her nose and chin. I—I thought you had gone away and left me with her."
"You did not tell me she was hysterical," said Miss Dickinson.
"It's news to me, ma'am. I'd best get her out into the fresh air at once."
Without waiting for permission, he swept Corona out into the passage, and forth into the street. It is a question which felt the happier when they gained it, and stood drawing long breaths; but, of course, Brother Copas had to put on a severe face.
"All very well, little maid!"
"Oh, I know you're disappointed with me," gasped Corona. "I'm disappointed with myself. But it was all just likeJorinda and Jorindel; and if she's not a witch, and doesn't turn them into canaries, why does she keep all those cages?" She halted suddenly. "I hate to be a coward," she said. "If you'll come with me, Uncle Copas, I'll start back right here, and we'll go in and rescue them. It was the waiting I couldn't stand."
"Canaries?" Brother Copas stood and looked down on her. Some apprehension of the absurd fancy broke on him, and he chuckled. "Now you come to mention it, I dare say shedoesturn 'em into canaries."
"Then we ought to go straight back and set them free," insisted Corona. "If only we had the magic flower!"
"I think I know who has it.… Yes, you may take it from me, little one, that there's someone charged to put an end to Miss Dickinson's enchantments, and we may safely leave it to him."
"Who is he?"
"The deliverer's name is County Council.… But look here, child— if you make a fuss like this whenever I try to find a school for you—"
"I won't make a fuss. And Idowant to go to school," interrupted Corona. "I want to go to the Greycoats."
"The Greycoats?" This was an ancient foundation in the city, in origin a charity-school, but now distinguished from the ordinary Elementary Schools in that its pupils paid twopence a week, and wore a grey uniform providedper contrafrom the funds of the charity. "The Greycoats?" repeated Brother Copas. "But I had a mind for you to fly higher, if you understand—"
Corona nodded.
"And so I shall; that is, uncle, if you'll teach me Latin, as you promised."
She was easy in mind, since Miss Dickinson's canaries would be delivered. The name "County Council" meant nothing to her, but it had affinity with other names and titles of romance—Captain Judgment, for instance, inThe Holy War, and County Guy in the poetry book—
Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh—
Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh—
Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh—
Since Uncle Copas had said it, Miss Dickinson's hour was assuredly nigh.
"This is not the way, though," Corona protested. "We are walking right away from the Greycoats!"
Brother Copas halted.
"I supposed that I was taking you back to St. Hospital."
"But you came out to put me to school, and I want to go to the Greycoats."
He pondered a moment.
"Ah, well, have it your own way!"
They turned back toward the city. The Greycoats inhabited a long, single-storeyed building on the eastern boundary of the Cathedral Close, the boys and girls in separate schools under the same high-pitched roof. As our two friends came in sight of it, Corona— who had been running ahead in her impatience—hesitated of a sudden and turned about.
"Uncle Copas, before we go in I want to tell you something.… I was really frightened—yes, really—in that wicked house. But I wanted to be a Greycoat all the time. I want to wear a cloak that means I belong to Merchester, same as you and daddy."
"Lord forgive me, she's proud of us!" murmured Brother Copas. "And I set out this morning to get her taught to despise us!"
Meanwhile certain small events not unconnected with this history were happening at St. Hospital.
At ten o'clock punctually Mr. Colt waited on the Master. This was a part of the daily routine, but ninety-nine times in a hundred the Chaplain's report resolved itself into a chat on the weather, the Master's roses, some recent article in theChurch Timesor theGuardian. The talk was never very strenuous; for whereas Mr. Colt could never learn to distinguish one rose from another, on Church affairs or on politics the Master was hopelessly tolerant, antiquated, incurious even. What could one do with a dear old gentleman who, when informed of the latest, most dangerous promotion to a bishopric, but responded with "Eh? 'So-and-so,' did you say? … Yes, yes. I knew his father… an excellent fellow!"
This morning, however, the Chaplain wore a grave face. After a few words he came to business.
"It concerns a letter I received this morning. The writer, who signs himself 'Well Wisher,' makes a disgusting allegation against old Bonaday—an incredibly disgusting allegation. You will prefer to read it for yourself."
Mr. Colt produced the letter from his pocket-book, and held it out.
"Eh?" exclaimed Master Blanchminster, receding. "Another?"
"I beg your pardon—?"
The Master adjusted his glasses, and bent forward, still without offering to touch the thing or receive it from Mr. Colt's hand.
"Yes, yes. I recognise the handwriting.… To tell the truth, my dear Colt, I received just such a letter one day last week. For the moment it caused me great distress of mind."
Mr. Colt was vexed, a little hurt, that the Master had not consulted him about it.
"You mean to say it contained—"
"—The same sort of thing, no doubt: charges against Brother Bonaday and against one of the nurses: incredibly disgusting, as you say."
"May I be allowed to compare the two letters?… I do not," said Mr. Colt stiffly, "seek more of your confidence than you care to bestow."
"My dear fellow—" protested the Master.
"I merely suggest that, since it concerns the discipline of St. Hospital—for which in the past you have honoured me with some responsibility—"
"My dear fellow, you should see it and welcome; but the fact is—" Here the Master broke off. "I ought, no doubt, to have put it straight into the fire."
"Why?" asked Mr. Colt.
"But the fact is, I gave it away."
"Gave it away!… To whom, may I ask?"
"To Brother Copas, of all people," confessed the Master with a rueful little chuckle. "Yes, I don't wonder that you stare: yet it happened very simply. You remember the day I asked you to send him to me for a talk about the Petition? Well, he found me in distress over this letter, which I had just received, and on an impulse I showed it to him. I really wanted his assurance that the charge was as baseless as it was foul, and that assurance he gave me. So you may with an easy mind put your letter in the fire."
"It would at any rate be a safer course than to give it away," said the Chaplain, frowning.
"A hit—a palpable hit!… I ought to have added that Brother Copas has a notion he can discover the writer, whom he positively asserts to be a woman. So I allowed him to take the thing away with him. I may as well confess," the old man added, "that I live in some dread of his making the discovery. Of course it is horrible to think that St. Hospital harbours anyone capable of such a letter; but to deal adequately with the culprit—especially if she be a woman—will be for the moment yet more horrible."
"Excuse me, Master, if I don't quite follow you," said the Chaplain unsympathetically. "You appear to be exercised rather over the writer than over Brother Bonaday, against whom the charge lies."
"You have hit on the precise word," answered Master Blanchminster, smiling. "Brother Copas assures me—"
"But is Brother Copas an entirely credible witness?"
The Master lifted his eyebrows in astonishment.
"Why, who should know better? He is Brother Bonaday's closest friend. Surely, my dear fellow, I had thought you were aware ofthat!"
In the face of this simplicity the Chaplain could only grind his teeth upon a helpless inward wrath. It took him some seconds to recover speech.
"On my way here," he said at length, "I made some small inquiries, and find that some days ago Nurse Branscome ceased her attendance on Bonaday, handing over the case to our excellent Nurse Turner. This, of course, may mean little."
"It may mean that Brother Copas has taken occasion to warn her."
"It means, anyhow, that—whether prudently or by accident—she has given pause to the scandal. In this pause I can, perhaps, make occasion to get at the truth; always with your leave, of course."
"There can be no question of my giving leave or withholding it. You have received a private letter, which you perceive I have no desire to read. You must act upon it as directed by your own—er— taste. And now shall we talk of something else?"
He said it with a mild dignity which effectively closed the discussion and left Mr. Colt raging. In and about St. Hospital nine observers out of ten would have told you that the Chaplain held this dear, do-nothing old Master in the hollow of his hand, and on nine occasions out of ten the Chaplain felt sure of it. On the tenth he found himself mocked, as a schoolboy believes he has grasped a butterfly and opens his fingers cautiously, to find no prisoner within them. He could never precisely understand how it happened, and it never failed to annoy him heavily.
After bidding the Master good morning he went straight to Brother Bonaday's lodging. Brother Bonaday, now fairly convalescent, was up and dressed and seated in his arm-chair, whiling away the morning with a newspaper. In days of health he had been a diligent reader of dull books; had indeed (according to his friend Copas—but the story may be apocryphal) been known to sit up past midnight with an antiquatedAnnual Report of the Registrar-General, borrowed from the shelf of Brother Inchbald, whose past avocations had included the registering of Births, Deaths and Marriages somewhere in Wiltshire. But of late, as sometimes happens in old age, books had lost their savour for him, and he preferred to let his eyes rest idly on life's passing show as reflected in thecamera obscuraof a halfpenny paper.
He rose respectfully as the Chaplain entered.
"Be seated, please," said Mr. Colt. Declining a chair for himself, he planted his feet astraddle on the worn hearthrug.
Standing so, with his back to the grate, his broad shoulders blocking out the lower half of a picture of the Infant Samuel above the mantel-shelf, he towered over the frail invalid, concerning whose health he asked a few perfunctory questions before plunging into business.
"You're wondering what brings me here. Fact is," he announced, "I've come to ask you a plain question—a question it's my duty to ask; and I think you're strong enough to answer it without any beating about the bush on either side. For six months now I haven't seen you at Holy Communion. Why?"
Brother Bonaday's face twitched sharply. For a moment or two he seemed to be searching for an answer. His lips parted, but still no answer came.
"I know, you know," said the Chaplain, nodding down at him. "I keep a record of these things—names and dates."
Brother Bonaday might have answered—
"Quite so—andthatis why."
Some churchmen—of the type for which Mr. Colt adequately catered— revel in professing their faith, and will parade for its holiest sacrament with an unabashed and hail-fellow sociability; and doubtless for these 'brass-band communicants' (as Brother Copas called them) a great deal may be said. But Brother Bonaday was one of those others who, walking among mysteries, must hush the voice and bow the head; to whom the Elements are awful, and in whom awe begets a sweet and tender shame. To be docketed as having, on such and such a day at such and such an hour, partaken of them was to him an intolerable thought. To quote Brother Copas again, "These Neo-Catholics may well omit to fence the tables, confident in the protection of their own vulgarity."
Yet Brother Bonaday had another reason, on which the Chaplain hit— though brutally and by accident—in his next question.
"Haven't anything on your conscience, hey?"
Brother Bonaday had something on his conscience. His face twitched with the pain of it; but still he made no answer.
"If so," Mr. Colt pursued, "take my advice and have it out." He spoke as one recommending the extraction of a tooth. "You're a Protestant, I know, though you didn't sign that Petition; and I'm not here to argue about first principles. I'm come as a friend. All I suggest is, as between practical men, that you just give the thing a trial. It may be pretty bad," suggested Mr. Colt, dropping his air of authority and picking up his most insinuating voice. "I hear some pretty bad things; but I'll guarantee your feeling all the better for a clean breast. Come, let me make a guess.… It has something to do with this child of yours!"
Mr. Colt, looking down from his great height, saw the invalid's face contracted by a sharp spasm, noted that his thin hands gripped upon the arms of the chair so tightly that the finger-nails whitened, and smiled to himself. Here was plain sailing.
"I know more than you guessed, eh? Well, now, why not tell me the whole truth?"
Brother Bonaday gazed up as if appealing for mercy, but shook his head.
"I cannot, sir."
"Come, come—as to a friend, if you won't as to a priest?… Hang it all, my good man, you might give me credit forthat, considering the chance I'm holding out! You don't surely suppose that St. Hospital will continue to suffer this scandal in its midst?" Still as Brother Bonaday shook his head, the Chaplain with a sign of impatience enlarged his hint. "Copas knows: I have it on the best authority. Was it he that dropped the hint to Nurse Branscome? or did she herself scent the discovery and give over attending on you?"
"You won't—send her—away!" pleaded Brother Bonaday, thinking only of Corona.
His voice came in a whisper, between gasps for breath.
Mr. Colt stared.
"Well, of all the calm requests—!" he began.
But here the sound of a light running footstep cut him short. The door was pushed open, and on the threshold stood Corona, flushed, excited.
"Daddy, guess! Oh, but you'll never! I'm a real live Greycoat, and if I don't tell Timmy before you ask a single question I shall burst!"
She came to a halt, her eyes on Mr. Colt.
"'Tis the truth," announced Brother Copas, overtaking her as she paused in the doorway. "We shot at a canary, and—Good God!" he exclaimed, catching sight of Brother Bonaday's face. "Slip away and fetch the nurse, child!"
Corona ran. While she ran Brother Copas stepped past Mr. Colt, and slid an arm under his friend's head as it dropped sideways, blue with anguish. He turned on the tall Chaplain fiercely.
"What devil's game have you been playing here?"
Throughout the night Brother Bonaday hovered between life and death, nor until four days later did the doctor pronounce him out of danger—that is to say, for the time, since the trouble in his heart was really incurable, and at best the frail little man's remaining days could not be many. Nurse Turner waited on him assiduously, always with her comfortable smile. No trouble came amiss to her, and certainly Nurse Branscome herself could not have done better.
In a sense, too, Corona's first experiences of school-going befell her most opportunely. They would distract her mind, Brother Copas reflected, and tore up the letter he had written delaying her noviciate on the ground of her father's illness. They did; and, moreover, the head mistress of the Greycoats, old Miss Champernowne, aware that the child's father was ill, possibly dying, took especial pains to be kind to her.
Corona was dreadfully afraid her father would die. But, in the main most mercifully, youth lives for itself, not for the old. At home she could have given little help or none. The Brethren's quarters were narrow—even Brother Bonaday's with its spare chamber—and until the crisis was over she could only be in the way. She gave up her room, therefore, to Nurse Turner for the night watching, and went across to the Nunnery to lodge with Nurse Branscome. This again was no hardship, but rather, under all her cloud of anxiety, a delightful adventure; for Branny had at once engaged with her in a conspiracy.
The subject—for a while the victim—of this conspiracy was her black doll Timothy. As yet Timothy knew nothing, and was supposed to suspect nothing, of her goings to school. She had carefully kept the secret from him, intending to take him aback with it when she brought home the Greycoat uniform—frock and cloak and hood of duffle grey— for which Miss Champernowne had measured her. Meanwhile it was undoubtedly hard on him to lie neglected in a drawer, and be visited but twice in the twenty-four hours, to have his garments changed. Corona, putting him into pyjamas, would (with an aching heart) whisper to him to be patient for a little while yet, and all would come right.
"Itishard, Branny," she sighed, "that I can't even take him to bed with me.… But it's not to be thought of. I'd be sure to talk in my sleep."
"He seems to be a very unselfish person," observed Branny. "At any rate, you treat him as such, making him wait all this while for the delight of seeing you happy."
Corona knit her brow.
"Now you're talking upsi-downly, like Uncle Copas," she said. "You don't mean that Timmy's unselfish, but that I'm selfish. Of course, you don'trealisehow good he is; nobody does but me, and it's not to be es-pected. But all the same, I s'pose I've been thinking too much about myself."
Corona's was a curiously just mind, as has already been said.
Nurse Branscome had a happy inspiration.
"Couldn't we make new clothes for Timmy, and surprise him with them at the same time?"
Corona clapped her hands.
"Oh, Branny, how beautiful! Yes—a Beauchamp gown, just like Daddy's! Why-ever didn't we think of it before?"
"Awhat?"
"A Beauchamp gown.… Do you know," said Corona gravely, "it's a most 'stonishing thing I never thought of it, because— I'll tell you why. When I first came to St. Hospital often and often I couldn't get to sleep for thinking how happy I was. Daddy got worried about it, and told me it was a good cure to lie still and fancy I saw a flock of sheep jumping one after another through a hedge.… Well, that didn't answer—at least, not ezactly; for you see I wanted to becoaxedoff, and I never took any partic'lar truck in sheep. But one night—you know that big stone by the gate of the home-park? the one Uncle Copas calls the Hepping-stone, and says the great Cardinal used to climb on to his horse from it when he went hunting?" (Nurse Branscome nodded.) "Well, one night I closed my eyes, and there I saw all the old folks here turned into children, and all out and around the Hepping-stone, playing leap-frog.… The way they went over each other's backs! It beat the band.… Some were in Beauchamp gowns and others in Blanchminster—but all children, you understand? Each child finished up by leap-frogging over the stone; and when he'd done that he'd run away and be lost among the trees. I wanted to follow, but somehow I had to stand there counting.… And that's all there istoit," concluded Corona, "'cept that I'd found the way to go to sleep."
Nurse Branscome laughed, and suggested that no time should be lost in going off to call on Mr. Colling, the tailor, and begging or borrowing a scrap of the claret-coloured Beauchamp cloth. Within ten minutes—for she understood the impatience of children—they had started on this small expedition. They found in Mr. Colling a most human tailor. He not only gave them a square yard of cloth, unsoiled and indeed brand-new, but advised Nurse Branscome learnedly on the cutting-out. There were certain peculiarities of cut in a Beauchamp gown: it was (he could tell them) a unique garment in its way, and he the sole repository of its technical secret. On their way back Corona summarised him as "a truly Christian tradesman."
So the miniature gown was cut out, shaped, and sewn, after the unsuspecting Timothy had been measured for it on a pretence of Corona's that she wanted to discover how much he had grown during his rest-cure. (For I regret to say that, as one subterfuge leads to another, she had by this time descended to feigning a nervous breakdown for him, due to his outgrowing his strength.) Best of all, and when the gown was finished, Nurse Branscome produced from her workbox a lucky threepenny-bit, and sewed it upon the breast to simulate a Beauchamp rose.
When Corona's own garments arrived—when they were indued and she stood up in them, a Greycoat at length from head to heel—to hide her own feelings she had to invent another breakdown (emotional this time) for Timothy as she dangled the gown in front of him.
"Be a man, Timmy!" she exhorted him.
Having clothed him and clasped him to her breast, she turned to Nurse Branscome, who had been permitted, as indeed she deserved, to witness thecoup de théâtre.
"If youdon'tmind, Branny, I think we'll go off somewhere— by ourselves."
She carried the doll off to the one unkempt corner of Mr. Battershall's garden, where in the shadow of a stone dovecot, ruinated and long disused, a rustic bench stood deep in nettles. On this she perched herself, and sat with legs dangling while she discoursed with Timothy of their new promotion.
"Of course," she said, "you have the best of it. Men always have." Nevertheless, she would have him know that to be a Greycoat was good enough for most people. She described the schoolroom. "It's something like a chapel," she said, "and something like a long whitewashed bird-cage, with great beams for perches. You could eat your dinner off the floor most days; and Miss Champernowne has the dearest little mole on the left side of her upper lip, with three white hairs in it. When she looks at you over her glasses it's like a bird getting ready to drink; and when she plays 'Another day is done' on the harmonium and pitches the note, it's just the way a bird lifts his throat to let the water trickle down inside. She has the loveliest way of putting things, too. Only yesterday, speaking of China, she told us that words would fail her to describe one-half the wonders of that enchanted land.… After that there's going to be no rest for me until I've seen China for myself. Such a nice lot of children as they are, if it weren't for Marty Jewell. She sits next to me and copies my sums, and when I remind her of it she puts out her tongue; but she has a sister in the infant class at the end of the room with the same trick, so I s'pose it runs in the family.… I'm forgetting, though," she ran on. "You're Brother Timothy now, a Beauchamp Brother, and the Lord knows how I'm to make you sensible of it! I heard Brother Clerihew taking a party around yesterday, and played around close to hear what he had to tell about the place. All he said was that if these old walls could speak what a tale might they not unfold? And then a lady turned round and supposed that the child (meaning me) was following them on the chance of a copper. So I came away.… I've my belief," announced Corona, "Brother Clerihew was speaking through his hat. There's nobody but Uncle Copas knows anything about this place—him and the Lord Almighty; and as the chief engineer told me aboard theCarnatic, when I kept asking him how soon we should get to England, He won't split under a quart. The trouble is, Uncle Copas won't lay up for visitors. Manby, at the lodge, says he's too proud.… But maybe he'll take me round some day if I ask him nicely, and then you can come on my arm and pretend you're not listening.… No," announced Corona, after musing awhile, "that would be deception. I'll have to go to him and make a clean breast of it."
It occurred to her that Brother Manby was a friend of hers. He didn't know much, to be sure; but he was capable of entering into a joke and introducing Timothy to the Wayfarers' Dole. She tucked the doll under her arm and wended towards the porter's lodge, where, as it happened, she met Brother Copas coming through the gateway in talk with the Chaplain.
The Chaplain in fact had sought out Brother Copas, had found him in his customary haunt, fishing gloomily and alone beside the Mere, and had opened his purpose for once pretty straightly, yet keeping another in reserve.
"The Master has told me he gave you an anonymous letter that reached him concerning Brother Bonaday. I have made up my mind to ask you a question or two quite frankly about it."
"Now what in the world can he want?" thought Copas, continuing to whip the stream. Aloud he said: "You'll excuse me, but I see no frankness in your asking questions before telling me how much you know."
"I intended that. I have received a similar letter."
"I guessed as much.… So you called on him with it and bullied him into another attack ofangina pectoris? That, too, I guessed. Well?"
The Chaplain made no answer for a moment. Then he said with some dignity—
"I might point out to you—might I not?—that both your speech and the manner of it are grossly insubordinate."
"I know it.… I am sorry, sir; but in some way or another—by showing him your letter, I suppose—you have come near to killing my only friend."
"I did not show him the letter."
"Then I beg your pardon." Brother Copas turned and began to wind in his line. "If you wish to talk about it, I recognise that you have the right, sir; but let me beg you to be brief."
"The more willingly because I wish to consult you afterwards on a pleasanter subject.… Now in this matter, I put it to you that— the Master choosing to stand aside—you and I have some responsibility. Try, first, to understand mine. So long as I have to account for the discipline of St. Hospital I can scarcely ignore such a scandal, hey?"
"No," agreed Brother Copas, after a long look at him. "I admit that you would find it difficult." He mused a while. "No," he repeated; "to be quite fair, there's no reason why you—who don't know Bonaday—should assume him to be any better than the rest of us."
"—While you, on your part, will naturally be eager to clear your friend."
"If I thought the accusation serious."
"Do you mean to say that you have simply ignored it?"
Now this happened to be an awkward question; and Brother Copas, seeking to evade it, jumped (as they say) from the frying-pan into the fire.
"Tut, sir! The invention of some poisonous woman!"
"You are sure the letter was written by a woman?"
Brother Copas was sure, but had to admit that he lacked evidence. He did not confess to having laid a small plot which had failed him. He had received no less than eleven tenders for his weekly laundry, but not one of the applicants had written the 'W' in 'Washing List' with that characteristic initial curl of which he was in search.
"Then youhavemade some investigations?… Nay, I don't wish more of your confidence than you choose to give me. So long as I know that you are not treating the business as negligible—"
"I don't promise to inquire one inch farther."
"But you will, nevertheless," concluded Mr. Colt with the patronising laugh of one who knows his man.
"Damn the fellow!" thought Copas. "Why cannot he be always the fool he looks?"
"And now," pursued Mr. Colt blithely, "I want to engage your interest in another matter—I mean the Pageant."
"Oh!" said Brother Copas. "Is that still going forward?"
"Settled, my dear sir! When Mr. Bamberger once puts his hand to the plough.… A General Committee has been formed, with the Lord-Lieutenant himself for President. The guarantee fund already runs to £1,500, and we shall get twice that amount promised before we've done. In short, the thing's to come off some time next June, and I am Chairman of the Performance Committee, which (under Mr. Isidore Bamberger) arranges the actual Pageant, plans out the 'book,' recruits authors, performers,et cetera. There are other committees, of course: Finance Committee, Ground and Grand Stand Committee, Costume Committee, and so on; but ours is the really interesting part of the work, and, sir, I want you to join us."
"You flatter me, sir; or you fish with a narrow mesh indeed."
"Why, I dare swear you would know more of the past history of Merchester than any man you met at the committee-table."
Brother Copas eyed him shrewdly.
"H'm! ... To be sure, I have been specialising of late on the Reformation period."
"I—er—don't think we shall include any episode dealing specially with that period."
"Too serious, perhaps?"
"Our—er—object is to sweep broadly down the stream of time, embodying the great part our city played for hundreds of years in the history of our nation—I may say of the Anglo-Saxon race."
"I shouldn't, if I were you," said Brother Copas, "not even to please Mr. Bamberger.… As a matter of fact, Ihadguessed your object to be something of the sort," he added dryly.
"As you may suppose—and as, indeed, is but proper in Merchester— special stress will be laid throughout on the ecclesiastical side of the story: the influence of Mother Church, permeating and at every turn informing our national life."
"But you said a moment ago that you were leaving out the Reformation."
"We seek rather to illustrate thecontinuityof her influence."
Brother Copas took snuff.
"You must not think, however," pursued the Chaplain, "that we are giving the thing a sectarian trend. On the contrary, we are taking great care to avoid it. Our appeal is to one and all: to the unifying civic sense and, through that, to the patriotic. Several prominent Nonconformists have already joined the Committee; indeed, Alderman Chope—who, as you know, is a Baptist, but has a remarkably fine presence—has more than half consented to impersonate Alfred the Great. If further proof be needed, I may tell you that, in view of the coming Pan-Anglican Conference, the Committee has provisionally resolved to divide the proceeds (if any) between the British and Foreign Bible Society and the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel."
"Ah!" murmured Brother Copas, maliciously quoting Falstaff. "'It was alway yet the trick of our English nation, if they have a good thing, to make it too common.'"
The Chaplain did not hear.
"I earnestly hope," said he, "you will let me propose you for my Committee."
"I would not miss it for worlds," said Brother Copas gravely.
He had disjointed and packed up his rod by this time, and the two were walking back towards St. Hospital.
"You relieve me more than I can say. Your help will be invaluable."
Brother Copas was apparently deaf to this compliment.
"You'll excuse me," he said after a moment, "but I gather that the whole scheme must be well under weigh, since you have arrived at allocating the proceeds. Experience tells me that all amateurs start with wanting to act something; when they see that desire near to realisation, and not before, they cast about for the charity which is to deserve their efforts.… May I ask what part you have chosen?"
"I had thoughts of Alberic de Blanchminster, in an Episode of the 'Founding of St. Hospital.'"
"Alberic de Blanchminster?"
They had reached the outer court of the hospital, and Brother Copas, halting to take snuff, eyed the Chaplain as if taking his measure.
"But the Committee, in compliment to my inches, are pressing me to take William the Conqueror," said Mr. Colt almost bashfully.
"I, too, should advise it, if we are to adhere to history; though, to be sure, from the sole mention of him in the chronicle, our founder Alberic appears to have been a sportsman. 'Nam, quodam die, quia perdiderat accipitrem suum cum erat sub divo, detrexit sibi bracas et posteriora nuda ostendit caelo in signum opprobrii et convitii atque derisionis.'—You remember the passage?"
He paused mischievously, knowing well enough that the Chaplain would laugh, pretending to have followed the Latin. Sure enough, Mr. Colt laughed heartily.
"About William the Conqueror, though—"
But at this moment Corona came skipping through the archway.
"Uncle Copas!" she hailed, the vault echoing to her childish treble. "You look as though you had mistaken Mr. Colt for a visitor, and were telling him all about the history of the place. Oh! I know that you never go the round with visitors; but seeing it's only me and Timmy— look at him, please! He's been made a Beauchamp Brother, not half an hour ago. If only you'd be guide to us for once, and make himfeelhis privileges.… I dare say Mr. Colt won't mind coming too," she wound up tactfully.
"Shall we?" suggested the Chaplain, after asking and receiving permission to inspect the doll.
"Confound it!" muttered Brother Copas to himself. "I cannot even begin to enjoy a fool nowadays but that blessed child happens along to rebuke me."
Aloud he said—
"If you command, little one.… But where do we begin?"
"At the beginning." Corona took charge of him with a nod at the Chaplain. "We're pilgrims, all four of us, home from the Holy Land; and we start by knocking up Brother Manby and just perishing for a drink."