A letter from Falk to Joan.
Dear Joan--Mother has been here. I could get nothing out of her. I had only one thing to say--that she must go back to father. That was the one thing that she asserted, over and over again, that she never would. Joan, she was tragic. I felt that I had never seen her before, never known her. She was thinking of nothing but Morris. She seemed to see him all the time that she was in the room with me. She is going abroad with Morris at the end of this week--to South America, I believe. Mother doesn't seem now to care what happens, except that she will not go back to father.
She said an odd thing to me at the end--that she had had her time, her wonderful time, and that she could never be as unhappy or as lonely as she was, and that she would love him always (Morris, I suppose), and that he would love her.
The skunk that Morris is! And yet I don't know. Haven't I been a skunk too? And yet I don't feel a skunk. If only father would be happy! Then things would be better than they've ever been. You don't know how good Annie is, Joan. How fine and simple and true! Why are we all such mixtures? Why can't you ever do what's right for yourself without hurting other people? But I'm not going to wait much longer. If things aren't better soon I'm coming down whether he'll see me or no. Wemustmake him happy. We're all that he has now. Once this Pybus thing is settled I'll come down. Write to me. Tell me everything. You're a brick, Joan, to take all this as you do. Why did we go all these years without knowing one another?--Your loving brother,
FALK.
A letter from Joan to Falk.
DEAREST FALK--I'm answering you by return because I'm so frightened. If I send you a telegram, come down at once. Mr. Morris's sister-in-law is telling everybody that he only went up to London on business. But she's not going to stay here, I think. But I can't think much even of mother. I can think of no one but father. Oh, Falk, it's been terrible these last three days, and I don't knowwhat'sgoing to happen.
I'll try and tell you how it's been. It's two months now since mother went away. That night it was dreadful. He walked up and down his room all night. Indeed he's been doing that ever since she went. And yet I don't think it's of her that he's thinking most. I'm not sure even that he's thinking of her at all.
He's concentrating everything now on the Pybus appointment. He talks to himself. (You can see by that how changed he is.) He is hurrying round to see people and asking them to the house, and he's so odd with them, looking at them suddenly, suspiciously, as though he expected that they were laughing at him. There's always something in the back of his mind-- not mother, I'm sure. Something happened to him that last day of the Jubilee. He's always talking about some one who struck him, and he puts his hand up to feel his forehead, where there was a bruise. He told me that day that he had fallen down, but I'm sure now that he had a fight with somebody.
He's always talking, too, about a "conspiracy" against him--not only Canon Ronder, but something more general. Poor dear, the worst of it all is, how bewildered he is. You know how direct he used to be, the way he went straight to his point and wasn't afraid of anybody. Now he's always hesitating. He hesitates before he goes out, before he goes upstairs, before he comes into my room. It's just as though he was for ever expecting that there's some one behind the door waiting for him with a hammer. It's so strange how I've changed my feeling about him. I used to think him so strong that he could beat down anybody, and now I feel he wants looking after all the time. Perhaps he never was really strong at all, but it was all on the outside. All the same he's very brave too. He knows all the town's been talking about him, but I think he'd face a whole world of Polchesters if he could only beat Canon Ronder over the Pybus appointment. If Mr. Forsyth isn't appointed to that I think he'll go to pieces altogether. You see, a year ago there wouldn't have been any question about it at all. Of course he would have had his way.
But what makes me so frightened, Falk, is of something happening in the house. Father is so suspicious that it makes me suspicious too. It doesn't seem like the house it was at all, but as though there were some one hiding in it, and at night it is awful. I lie awake listening, and I can hear father walking up and down, his room's next to mine, you know. And then if I listen hard enough, I can hear footsteps all over the house-- you know how you do in the middle of the night. And there's always some one coming upstairs. This will sound silly to you up in London, but it doesn't seem silly here, I assure you. All the servants feel it, and Gladys is going at the end of the month.
And oh, Falk! I'm so sorry for him! It does seem so strange that everything should have changed for him as it has. I feel his own bewilderment. A year ago he seemed so strong and safe and secure as though he would go on like that for ever, and hadn't an enemy in the world. How could he have? He's never meant harm to any one. Your going away I can understand, but mother, I feel as though I never could speak to her again. To be so cruel to father and to write him such a letter! (Of course I didn't see the letter, but the effect of it on father was terrible.)
He's so lonely now. He scarcely realises me half the time, and you see he never did think very much about me before, so it's very difficult for him to begin now. I'm so inexperienced. It's hard enough running the house now, and having to get another servant instead of Gladys--and I daresay the others will go too now, but that's nothing to waiting all the time for something to happen and watching father every minute. Wemustmake him happy again, Falk. You're quite right. It's the only thing that matters. Everything else is less important than that. If only this Pybus affair were over! Canon Ronder is so powerful now. I'm so afraid of him. I do hate him so! The Cathedral, and the town, everything seems to have changed since he came. A year ago they were like father, settled for ever. And now every one's talking about new people and being out-of-date, and changing the Cathedral music and everything! But none of that matters in comparison with father.
I've written a terribly long letter, but it's done me ever so much good. I'm sometimes so tempted to telegraph to you at once. I'm almost sure father would be glad to see you. You were always the one he loved most. But perhaps we'd better wait a little: if things get worse in any way I'll telegraph at once.
I'm so glad you're well, and happy. You haven't in your letters told me anything about the Jubilee in London. Was it very fine? Did you see the Queen? Did she look very happy? Were the crowds very big? Much love from your loving sister,
JOAN.
Joan, waiting in the shadowy drawing-room for Johnny St. Leath, wondered whether her father had come in or no.
It wouldn't matter if he had, he wouldn't come into the drawing-room. He would go directly into his study. She knew exactly what he would do. He would shut the door, then a minute later would open it, look into the hall and listen, then close it again very cautiously. He always now did that. And in any case if he did come into the drawing-room and saw Johnny it wouldn't matter. His mind was entirely centred on Pybus, and Johnny had nothing to do with Pybus. Johnny's mother, yes. Had that stout white- haired cockatoo suddenly appeared, she would be clutched, absorbed, utilised to her last white feather. But she didn't appear. She stayed up in her Castle, serene and supreme.
Joan was very nervous. She stood, a little grey shadow in the grey room, her hands twisting and untwisting. She was nervous because she was going to say good-bye to Johnny, perhaps for ever, and she wasn't sure that she'd have the strength to do it.
Suddenly he was there with her in the room, big and clumsy and cheerful, quite unaware apparently that he was never, after this, to see Joan again.
He tried to kiss her but she prevented him. "No, you must sit over there," she said, "and we must never, at least not probably for years and years, kiss one another again."
He was aware, as she spoke, of quite a new, a different Joan; he had been conscious of this new Joan on many occasions during these last weeks. When he had first known her she had been a child and he had loved her for her childishness; now he must meet the woman and the child together, and instinctively he was himself more serious in his attitude to her.
"We could talk much better, Joan dear," he said, "if we were close together."
"No," she said; "then I couldn't talk at all. We mustn't meet alone again after to-day, and we mustn't write, and we mustn't consider ourselves engaged."
"Why, please?"
"Can't you see that it's all impossible? We've tried it now for weeks and it becomes more impossible every day. Your mother's absolutely against it and always will be--and now at home--here--my mother----"
She broke off. He couldn't leave her like that; he sprang up, went across to her, put his arms around her, and kissed her. She didn't resist him nor move from him, but when she spoke again her voice was firmer and more resolved than before.
"No, Johnny, I mean it, I can think of nothing now but father. So long as he's alive I must stay with him. He's quite alone now, he has nobody. I can't even think about you so long as he's like this, so unwell and so unhappy. It isn't as though I were very clever or old or anything. I've never until lately been allowed to do anything all my life, not the tiniest bit of housekeeping, and now suddenly it has all come. And if I were thinking of you, wanting to see you, having letters from you, I shouldn't attend to this; I shouldn't be able to think of it----"
"Do you still love me?"
"Why, of course. I shall never change."
"And do you think that I still love you?"
"Yes."
"And do you think I'll change?"
"You may. But I don't want to think so."
"Well, then, the main question is settled. It doesn't matter how long we wait."
"But itdoesmatter. It may be for years and years. You've got to marry, you can't just stay unmarried because one day you may marry me."
"Can't I? You wait and see whether I can't."
"But you oughtn't to, Johnny. Think of your family. Think of your mother. You're the only son."
"Mother can just think of me for once. It will be a bit of a change for her. It will do her good. I've told her whom I want to marry, and she must just get used to it. She admits herself that she can't have anything against you personally, except that you're too young. I asked her whether she wanted me to marry a Dowager of sixty."
Joan moved away. She walked to the window and looked out at the grey mist sweeping like an army of ghostly messengers across the Cathedral Green. She turned round to him.
"No, Johnny, this time it isn't a joke. I mean absolutely what I say. We're not to meet alone or to write until--father doesn't need me any more. I can't think, I mustn't think, of anything but father now. Nothing that you can say, or any one can say, will make me change my mind about that now.... And please go, Johnny, because it's so hard while you're here. And wemustdo it. I'll never change, but you're free to, and yououghtto. It's your duty to find some one more satisfactory than me."
But Johnny appeared not to have heard her last words. He had been looking about him, at the walls, the windows, the ceiling--rather as a young dog sniffs some place new to him.
"Joan, tell me. Are you all right here? You oughtn't to be all alone here like this, just with your father. Can't you get some one to come and stay?"
"No," she answered bravely. "Of course it's all right. I've got Gladys, who's been with us for years."
"There's something funny," he said, still looking about him. "It feels queer to me--sort of unhappy."
"Never mind that," she said, hurriedly moving towards the door, as though she had heard footsteps. "You must go, Johnny. Kiss me once, the last time. And then no letters, no anything, until--until--father's happy again."
She rested in his arms, suddenly tranquil, safe, at peace. Her hands were round his neck. She kissed his eyes. They clung together, suddenly two children, utterly confident in one another and in their mutual faith.
A hand was on the door. They separated. The Archdeacon came in. He peered into the dusky room.
"Joan! Joan! Are you there?"
She came across to him. "Yes, father, here I am. And this is Lord St. Leath."
"How do you do, sir?" said Johnny.
"How do you do? I hope your mother is well."
"Very well, thank you, sir."
"That's good, that's good. I have some business to discuss with her. Rather important business; I may come and see her to-morrow afternoon if she is disengaged; Will you kindly tell her?"
"Indeed I will, sir."
"Thank you. Thank you. This room is very dark. Why are there no lights? Joan, you should have lights. There's no one else here, is there?"
"No, father."
Johnny heard their voices echoing in the empty hall as he let himself out.
Brandon shut his study door and looked about him. The lamp on his table was lit, his study had a warm and pleasant air with the books gleaming in their shelves and the fire crackling. (You needed a fire on these late summer evenings.) Nevertheless, although the room looked comfortable, he did not at once move into it. He stood there beside the door, as though he was waiting for something. He listened. The house was intensely quiet. He opened the door and looked into the passage. There was no one there. The gas hissed ever so slightly, like a whispering importunate voice. He came back into his room, closing the door very carefully behind him, went across softly to his writing-table, sat down, and took up his pen. His eyes were fixed on the door, and then suddenly he would jerk round in his chair as though he expected to catch some one who was standing just behind him.
Then began that fight that always now must be waged whenever he sat down at his desk, the fight to drive his thoughts, like sheep, into the only pen that they must occupy. He must think now only of one thing; there were others--pictures, ideas, memories, fears, horrors even--crowding, hovering close about him, and afterwards--after Pybus--he would attend to them. Only one thing mattered now. "Yes, you gibbering idiots, do your worst; knock me down. Come on four to one like the cowards that you are, strike me in the back, take my wife from me, and ruin my house. I will attend to all of you shortly, but first--Pybus."
His lips were moving as he turned over the papers.Wasthere some one in the room with him? His head was aching so badly that it was difficult to think. And his heart! How strangely that behaved in these days! Five heavy slow beats, then a little skip and jump, then almost as though it had stopped beating altogether.
Another thing that made it difficult to work in that room was that the Cathedral seemed so close. It was not close really, although you could, so often, hear the organ, but now Brandon had the strange fancy that it had drawn closer during these last weeks, and was leaning forward with its ear to his house, listening just as a man might! Funny how Brandon now was always thinking of the Cathedral as a person! Stones and bricks and mortar and bits of glass, that's what the Cathedral was, and yet lately it had seemed to move and have a being of its own.
Fancies! Fancies! Really Brandon must attend to his business, this business of Pybus and Forsyth, which in a week now was to be settled. He talked to himself as he turned the papers over. He had seen the Bishop, and Ryle (more or less persuaded), and Bentinck-Major (dark horse, never could be sure of him), Foster, Rogers...Foster? Foster? Had he seen Foster? Why did the mention of that name suddenly commence the unveiling for him of a scene upon which, he must not look? The crossing the bridge, up the hill, at the turnstile, paying your shilling...no, no, no farther. And Bentinck-Major! That man laughed at him! Positively he dared, when a year ago he would have bent down and wiped the dust off his shoes! Positively!
That man! That worm! That mean, sycophantic...He was beginning to get angry. He must not get angry. That's what Puddifoot had said, that had been the one thing that old Puddifoot had said correctly. He must not get angry, not even with--Ronder.
At the mention of that name something seemed to stir in the room, some one to move closer. Brandon's heart began to race round like a pony in a paddock. Very bad. Must keep quiet. Never get excited. Then for a moment his thoughts did range, roaming over that now so familiar ground of bewilderment. Why? Why? Why?
Why a year agothat, and nowthis? When he had done no one in the world any harm and had served God so faithfully? Why? Why? Why?
Back, back to Pybus. This wasn't work. He had much to do and no time to lose. That enemy of his was working, you could be sure of that. Only a week! Only a week!
Was that some one moving in the room? Was there some one stealing behind him, as they had done once, as...? He turned sharply round, rising in his chair. No one there. He got up and began stealthily to pace the floor. The worst of it was that however carefully you went you could never be quite sure that some one was not just behind you, some one very clever, measuring his steps by yours. You could never be sure. How still the house was! He stopped by his door, after a moment's hesitation opened it and looked out. No one there, only the gas whispering.
What was he doing, staring into the hall? He should be working, making sure of his work. He went back to his table. He began hurriedly to write a letter:
DEARFOSTER--I cannot help feeling that I did not make myself quite clear when I was speaking to you yesterday about Forsyth as the best incumbent of the Pybus living. When I say best, I mean, of course, most suitable.
DEARFOSTER--I cannot help feeling that I did not make myself quite clear when I was speaking to you yesterday about Forsyth as the best incumbent of the Pybus living. When I say best, I mean, of course, most suitable.
When he saidbestdid he meanmost suitable? Suitablewas not perhaps exactly the word for Forsyth. It was something other than a question of mere suitability. It was a keeping out of thebad, as well as a bringing in of thegood.Suitablewas not the word that he wanted. What did he want? The words began to jump about on the paper, and suddenly out of the centre of his table there stretched and extended the figure of Miss Milton. Yes, there she was in her shabby clothes and hat, smirking.... He dashed his hand at her and she vanished. He sprang up. This was too bad. He must not let these fancies get hold of him. He went into the hall.
He called out loudly, his voice echoing through the house, "Joan! Joan!"
Almost at once she came. Strange the relief that he felt! But he wouldn't show it. She must notice nothing at all out of the ordinary.
She sat close to him at their evening meal and talked to him about everything that came into her young head. Sometimes he wished that she wouldn't talk so much; she hadn't talked so much in earlier days, had she? But he couldn't remember what she had done in earlier days.
He was very particular now about his food. Always he had eaten whatever was put in front of him with hearty and eager appreciation; now he seemed to have very little appetite. He was always complaining about the cooking. The potatoes were hard, the beef was underdone, the pastry was heavy. And sometimes he would forget altogether that he was eating, and would sit staring in front of him, his food neglected on his plate.
It was not easy for Joan. Not easy to choose topics that were not dangerous. And so often he was not listening to her at all. Perhaps at no other time did she pity him so much, and love him so much, as when she saw him staring in front of him, his eyes puzzled, bewildered, piteous, like those of an animal caught in a trap. All her old fear of him was gone, but a new fear had come in its place. Sometimes, in quite the old way, he would rap out suddenly, "Nonsense--stuff and nonsense!...As thoughheknew anything about it!" or would once again take the whole place, town and Cathedral and all of them, into his charge with something like, "I knew how to manage the thing. What they would have done without-- " But these defiances never lasted.
They would fade away into bewilderment and silence.
He would complain continually of his head, putting his hand suddenly up to it, and saying, like a little child:
"My head's so bad. Such a headache!" But he would refuse to see Puddifoot; had seen him once, and had immediately quarrelled with him, and told him that he was a silly old fool and knew nothing about anything, and this when Puddifoot had come with the noblest motives, intending to patronise and condole.
After dinner to-night Joan and he went into the drawing-room. Often, after dinner, he vanished into the study "to work"--but to-night he was "tired, very tired--my dear. So much effort in connection with this Pybus business. What'a come to the town I don't know. A year ago the matter would have been simple enough...anything so obvious...."
He sat in his old arm-chair, whence for so many years he had delivered his decisive judgments. No decisive judgments tonight! He was really tired, lying back, his eyes closed, his hands twitching ever so slightly on his knees.
Joan sat near to him, struggling to overcome her fear. She felt that if only she could grasp that fear, like a nettle, and hold it tightly in her hand it would seem so slight and unimportant. But she could not grasp it. It was compounded of so many things, of the silence and the dulness, of the Precincts and the Cathedral, of whispering trees and steps on the stairs, of her father and something strange that now inhabited him like a new guest in their house, of her loneliness and of her longing for some friend with whom she could talk, of her ache for Johnny and his comforting, loving smile, but most of all, strangely, of her own love for her father, and her desire, her poignant desire, that he should be happy again. She scarcely missed her mother, she did not want her to come back; but she ached and ached to see once again that happy flush return to her father's cheek, that determined ring to his voice, that buoyant confident movement to his walk.
To-night she could not be sure whether he slept or no. She watched him, and the whole world seemed to hold its breath. Suddenly an absurd fancy seized her. She fought against it for a time, sitting there, her hands tightly clenched. Then suddenly it overcame her. Some one was listening outside the window; she fancied that she could see him--tall, dark, lean, his face pressed against the pane.
She rose very softly and stole across the floor, very gently drew back one of the curtains and looked out. It was dark and she could see nothing-- only the Cathedral like a grey web against a sky black as ink. A lamp, across the Green, threw a splash of orange in the middle distance--no other light. The Cathedral seemed to be very close to the house.
She closed the curtain and then heard her father call her.
"Joan! Joan! Where are you?"
She came back and stood by his chair. "I was only looking out to see what sort of a night it was, father dear," she said.
He suddenly smiled. "I had a pleasant little nap then," he said; "my head's better. There. Sit down close to me. Bring your chair nearer. We're all alone here now, you and I. We must make a lot of one another."
He had paid so little attention to her hitherto that she suddenly realised now that her loneliness had, during these last weeks, been the hardest thing of all to bear. She drew her chair close to his and he took her hand.
"Yes, yes, it's quite true. I don't know what I should have done without you during these last weeks. You've been very good to your poor, stupid, old father!"
She murmured something, and he burst out, "Oh, yes, they do! That's what they say! I know how they talk. They want to get me out of the way and change the place--put in unbelievers and atheists. But they shan't--not while I have any breath in my body--" He went on more gently, "Why just think, my dear, they actually want to have that man Wistons here. An atheist! A denier of Christ's divinity! Here worshipping in the Cathedral! And when I try to stop it they say I'm mad. Oh, yes! They do! I've heard them. Mad. Out-of-date. They've laughed at me--ever since--ever since... that elephant, you know, dear...that began it...the Circus...."
She leaned over him.
"Father dear, you mustn't pay so much attention to what they say. You imagine so much just because you aren't very well and have those headaches--and--and--because of other things. You imagine things that aren't true. So many people here love you----"
"Love me!" he burst out suddenly, starting up in his chair. "When they set upon me, five of them, from behind and beat me! There in public with the lights and the singing." He caught her hand, gripping it. "There's a conspiracy, Joan. I know it. I've seen it a long time. And I know who started it and who paid them to follow me. Everywhere I go, there they are, following me.
"That old woman with her silly hat, she followed me into my own house. Yes, she did! 'I'll read you a letter,' she said. 'I hate you, and I'll make you cry out over this.' They're all in it. He's setting them on. But he shan't have his way. I'll fight him yet. Even my own son----" His voice broke.
Joan knelt at his feet, looking up into his face. "Father! Falk wants to come and see you! I've had a letter from him. He wants to come and ask your forgiveness--he loves you so much."
He got up from his chair, almost pushing her away from him. "Falk! Falk! I don't know any one called that. I haven't got a son----"
He turned, looking at her. Then suddenly put his arms around her and kissed her, holding her tight to his breast.
"You're a good girl," he said. "Dear Joan! I'm glad you've not left me too. I love you, Joan, and I've not been good enough to you. Oh, no, I haven't! Many things I might have done, and now it's too late...too late..."
He kissed her again and again, stroking her hair, then he said that he was tired, very tired--he'd sleep to-night. He went slowly upstairs.
He undressed rapidly, flinging off his clothes as though they hurt him. As though some one else had unexpectedly come into the room, he saw himself standing before the long glass in the dressing-room, naked save for his vest. He looked at himself and laughed.
How funny he looked only in his vest--how funny were he to walk down the High Street like that! They would say he was mad. And yet he wouldn't be mad. He would be just as he was now. He pulled the vest off over his head and continued to stare at himself. It was as though he were looking at some one else's body. The long toes, the strong legs, the thick thighs, the broad hairless chest, the stout red neck--and then those eyes, surely not his, those strange ironical eyes! He passed his hand down his side and felt the cool strong marble of his flesh. Then suddenly he was cold and he hurried into his night-shirt and his dressing-gown.
He sat on his bed. Something deep down in him was struggling to come up. Some thought...some feeling...some name. Falk! It was as though a bell were ringing, at a great distance, in the sleeping town--but ringing only for him. Falk! The pain, the urgent pain, crept closer. Falk! He got up from his bed, opened his door, looked out into the dark and silent house, stepped forward, carefully, softly, his old red dressing-gown close about him, stumbling a little on the stairs, feeling the way to his study door.
He sat in his arm-chair huddled up. "Falk! Falk! Oh, my boy, my boy, come back, come back! I want you, I want to be with you, to see you, to touch you, to hear your voice! I want to love you!
"Love--Love! I never wanted love before, but now I want it, desperately, desperately, some one to love me, some one for me to love, some one to be kind to. Falk, my boy. I'm so lonely. It's so dark. I can't see things as I did. It's getting darker.
"Falk, come back and help me...."
That night he slept well and soundly, and in the morning woke tranquil and refreshed. His life seemed suddenly to have taken a new turn. As he lay there and watched the sunlight run through the lattices like strands of pale-coloured silk, it seemed to him that he was through the worst. He did what he had not done for many days, allowed the thought of his wife to come and dwell with him.
He went over many of their past years together, and, nodding his head, decided that he had been often to blame. Then the further thought of what she had done, of her adultery, of her last letter, these like foul black water came sweeping up and darkened his mind.... No more. No more. He must do as he had done. Think only of Pybus. Fight that, win his victory, and then turn to what lay behind. But the sunlight no longer danced for him, he closed his eyes, turned on his side, and prayed to God out of his bewilderment.
After breakfast he started out. A restless urgency drove him forth. The Chapter Meeting at which the new incumbent of Pybus was to be chosen was now only three days distant, and all the work in connection with that was completed--but Brandon could not be still. Some members of the Chapter he had seen over and over again during the last months, and had pressed Rex Forsyth's claims upon them without ceasing, but this thing had become a symbol to him now--a symbol of his fight with Ronder, of his battle for the Cathedral, of his championship, behind that, of the whole cause of Christ's Church.
It seemed to him that if he were defeated now in this thing it would mean that God Himself had deserted him. At the mere thought of defeat his heart began to leap in his breast and the flags of the pavement to run before his eyes. But it could not be. He had been tested; like Job, every plague had been given to him to prove him true, but this last would shout to the world that his power was gone and that the Cathedral that he loved had no longer a place for him. And then--and then-----
He would not, he must not, look. At the top of the High Street he met Ryle the Precentor. There had been a time when Ryle was terrified by the Archdeacon; that time was not far distant, but it was gone. Nevertheless, even though the Archdeacon were suddenly old and sick and unimportant, you never could tell but that he might say something to somebody that it would be unpleasant to have said. "Politeness all the way round" was Ryle's motto, and a very safe one too. Moreover, Ryle, when he could rise above his alarm for the safety of his own position, was a kindly man, and it reallywassad to see the poor Archdeacon so pale and tired, the scratch on his cheek, even now not healed, giving him a strangely battered appearance.
And how would Ryle have liked Mrs. Ryle to leave him? And how would he feel if his son, Anthony (aged at present five), ran away with the daughter of a publican? And how, above all, would he feel did he know that the whole town was talking about him and saying "Poor Precentor!"? But perhaps the Archdeacon didnotknow. Strange the things that people did not know about themselves!--and at that thought the Precentor went goose-fleshy all over, because of the things that at that very moment people might be saying abouthimand he knowing none of them!
All this passed very swiftly through Ryle's mind, and was quickly strangled by hearing Brandon utter in quite his old knock-you-down-if-you- don't-get-out-of-my-way voice, "Ha! Ryle! Out early this morning! I hope you're not planning any more new-fangled musical schemes for us!"
Oh, well! if the Archdeacon were going to take that sort of tone with him, Ryle simply wasn't going to stand it! Why should he? To-day isn't six months ago.
"That's all right, Archdeacon," he said stiffly. "Ronder and I go through a good deal of the music together now. He's very musical, you know. Every one seems quite satisfied."Thatought to get him--my mention of Ronder's name.... At the same time Ryle didn't wish to seem to have gone over to the other camp altogether, and he was just about to say something gently deprecatory of Ronder when, to his astonishment, he perceived that Brandon simply hadn't heard him at all! And then the Archdeacon took his arm and marched with him down the High Street.
"With regard to this Pybus business, Precentor," he was saying, "the matter now will be settled in another three days. I hope every one realises the extreme seriousness of this audacious plot to push a heretic like this man Wistons into the place. I'm sure that every onedoesrealise it. There can be no two opinions about it, of course. At the same time----"
How very uncomfortable! There had been a time when the Precentor would have been proud indeed to walk down the High Street arm-in-arm with the Archdeacon. But that time was past. The High Street was crowded. Any one might see them. They would take it for granted that the Precentor was of the Archdeacon's party. And to be seen thus affectionately linked with the Archdeacon just now, when his family affairs were in so strange a disorder, when he himself was behaving so oddly, when, as it was whispered, at the Jubilee Fair he had engaged in a scuffle of a most disreputable kind. The word "Drink" was mentioned.
Ryle tried, every so gently, to disengage his arm. Brandon's hand was of steel.
"This seems to me," the Archdeacon was continuing, "a most critical moment in our Cathedral's history. If we don't stand together now we--we--"
The Archdeacon's hand relaxed. His eyes wandered. Ryle detached his arm. How strange the man was! Why, there was Samuel Hogg on the other side of the street!
He had taken his hat off and was smiling. How uncomfortable! How unpleasant to be mixed in this kind of encounter! How Mrs. Ryle, would dislike it if she knew!
But his mind was speedily taken off his own affairs. He was conscious of the Archdeacon, standing at his full height, his eyes, as he afterwards described it a thousand times, "bursting from his head." Then, "before you could count two," the Archdeacon was striding across the street.
It was a sunny morning, people going about their ordinary business, every one smiling and happy. Suddenly Ryle saw the Archdeacon stop in front of Hogg; himself started across the street, urged he knew not by what impulse, saw Hogg's ugly sneering face, saw the Archdeacon's arm shoot out, catch Hogg one, two terrific blows in the face, saw Hogg topple over like a heap of clothes falling from their peg, was in time to hear the Archdeacon crying out, "You dirty spy! You'd set upon me from behind, would you? Afraid to meet me face to face, are you? Take that, then, and that!" And then shout, "It's daylight! It's daylight now! Stand up and face me, you coward!"
The next thing of which the terrified Ryle was conscious was that people were running up from all sides. They seemed to spring from nowhere. He saw, too, how Hogg, the blood streaming from his face, lay there on his back, not attempting to move. Some were bending down behind him, holding his head, others had their hands about Brandon, holding him back. Errand- boys were running, people were hurrying from the shops, voices raised on every side--a Constable slowly crossed the street--Ryle slipped away--
Joan had gone out at once after breakfast that morning to the little shop, Miss Milligan's, in the little street behind the Precincts, to see whether she could not get some of that really fresh fruit that only Miss Milligan seemed able to obtain. She was for some little time in the shop, because Miss Milligan always had a great deal to say about her little nephew Benjie, who was at the School as a day-boy and was likely to get a scholarship, and was just now suffering from boils. Joan was a good listener and a patient, so that it was quite late--after ten o'clock--as she hurried back.
Just by the Arden Gate Ellen Stiles met her.
"Oh, you poor child!" she cried; "aren't you at home? I was just hurrying up to see whether I could be of any sort of help to you!"
"Any help?" echoed Joan, seeing at once, in the nodding blue plume in Ellen's hat, forebodings of horrible disaster.
"What, haven't you heard?" cried Ellen, pitying from the bottom of her heart the child's white face and terrified eyes.
"No! What? Oh, tell me quickly! What has happened? To father--"
"I don't know exactly myself," said Ellen. "That's what I was hurrying up to find out.... Your father...he's had some sort of fight with that horrible man Hogg in the High Street.... No, I don't know...But wait a minute...."
Joan was gone, scurrying through the Precincts, the paper bag with the fruit clutched tightly to her.
Ellen Stiles stared after her; her eyes were dim with kindness. There was nothing now that she would not do for that girl and her poor father! Knocked down to the ground they were, and Ellen championed them wherever she went. And now this! Drink or madness--perhaps both! Poor man! Poor man! And that child, scarcely out of the cradle, with all this on her shoulders! Ellen would do anything for them! She would go round later in the day and see how she could be useful.
She turned away. It was Ronder now who was "up"...and a little pulling- down would do him no sort of harm. There were a few little things she was longing, herself, to tell him. A few home-truths. Then, half-way down the High Street, she met Julia Preston, and didn't they have a lot to say about it all!
Meanwhile Joan, in another moment, was at her door. What had happened? Oh, what had happened? Had he been brought back dying and bleeding? Had that horrible man set upon him, there in the High Street, while every one was about? Was the doctor there, Mr. Puddifoot? Would there perhaps have to be an operation? This would kill her father. The disgrace.... She let herself in with her latch-key and stood in the familiar hall. Everything was just as it had always been, the clocks ticking. She could hear the Cathedral organ faintly through the wall. The drawing-room windows were open, and she could hear the birds, singing at the sun, out there in the Precincts. Everything as it always was. She could not understand. Gladys appeared from the kitchen.
"Oh, Gladys, here is the fruit.... Has father come in?"
"I don't know, miss."
"You haven't heard him?"
"No, miss. I've been upstairs, 'elping with the beds."
"Oh--thank you, Gladys."
The terror slipped away from her. Then it was all right. Ellen Stiles had, as usual, exaggerated. After all, she had not been there. She had heard it only at second-hand. She hesitated for a moment, then went to the study door. Outside she hesitated again, then she went in.
To her amazement her father was sitting, just as he had always sat, at his table. He looked up when she entered, there was no sign upon him of any trouble. His face was very white, stone-white, and it seemed to her that for months past the colour had been draining from it, and now at last all colour was gone. A man wearing a mask. She could fancy that he would put up his hands and suddenly slip it from him and lay it down upon the table. The eyes stared through it, alive, coloured, restless.
"Well, Joan, what is it?"
She stammered, "Nothing, father. I only wanted to see--whether--that--"
"Yes? Is any one wanting to see me?"
"No--only some one told me that you...I thought--"
"You heard that I chastised a ruffian in the town? You heard correctly. I did. He deserved what I gave him."
A little shiver shook her.
"Is that all you want to know?"
"Isn't there anything, father, I can do?"
"Nothing--except leave me just now. I'm very busy. I have letters to write."
She went out. She stood in the hall, her hands clasped together. What was she to do? The worst that she had ever feared had occurred. He was mad.
She went into the drawing-room, where the sun was blazing as though it would set the carpet on fire. Whatwasshe to do? Whatoughtshe to do? Should she fetch Puddifoot or some older woman like Mrs. Combermere, who would be able to advise her? Oh, no. She wanted no one there who would pity him. She felt a longing, urgent desire to keep him always with her now, away from the world, in some corner where she could cherish and love him and allow no one to insult and hurt him. But madness! To her girlish inexperience this morning's acts could be nothing but madness. There in the middle of the High Street, with every one about, to do such a thing! The disgrace of it! Why, now, they could never stay in Polchester.... This was worse than everything that had gone before. How they would all talk, Canon Ronder and all of them, and how pleased they would be!
At that she clenched her hands and drew herself up as though she were defying the whole of Polchester. They should not laugh at him, they should not dare!...
But meanwhile what immediately was she to do? It wasn't safe to leave him alone. Now that he had gone so far as to knock some one down in the principal street, what might he not do? What would happen if he met Canon Ronder? Oh! why had this come? What had they done to deserve this?
What hadhedone when he had always been so good?
She seemed for a little distracted. She could not think. Her thoughts would not come clearly. She waited, staring into the sun and the colour. Quietness came to her. Her life was now his. Nothing counted in her life but that. If they must leave Polchester she would go with him wherever he must go, and care for him. Johnny! For one terrible instant he seemed to stand, a figure of flame, outside there on the sun-drenched grass.
Outside! Yes, always outside, until her father did not need her any more. Then, suddenly she wanted Johnny so badly that she crumpled up into one of the old arm-chairs and cried and cried and cried. She was very young. Life ahead of her seemed very long. Yes, she cried her heart out, and then she went upstairs and washed her face and wrote to Falk. She would not telegraph until she was quite sure that she could not manage it by herself.
The wonderful morning changed to a storm of wind and rain. Such a storm! Down in the basement Cook could scarcely hear herself speak! As she said to Gladys, it was what you must expect now. They were slipping into Autumn, and before you knew, why, there would be Winter! Nothing odder than the sudden way the Seasons took you! But Cook didn't like storms in that house. "Them Precincts 'ouses, they're that old, they'd fall on top of you as soon as whistle Trefusis! For her part she'd always thought this 'ouse queer, and it wasn't any the less queer since all these things had been going on in it." It was at this point that the grocery "boy" arrived and supposed they'd 'eard all about it by that time. All about what? Why, the Archdeacon knocking Samuel 'Ogg down in the 'Igh Street that very morning! Then, indeed, you could have knocked Cook down, as she said, with a whisper. Collapsed her so, that she had to sit down and take a cup of tea, the kettle being luckily on the boil. Gladys had to sit down and take one too, and there they sat, the grocer's boy dismissed, in the darkening kitchen, their heads close together, and starting at every hiss of the rain upon the coals. The house hung heavy and dark above them. Mad, that's what he must be, and going mad these past ever so many months. And such a fine man too! But knocking people down in the street, and 'im such a man for his own dignity! 'Im an Archdeacon too. 'Ad any one ever heard in their lives of an Archdeacon doing such a thing? Well, that settled Cook. She'd been in the house ten solid years, but at the end of the month she'd be off. To sit in the house with a madman! Not she! Adultery and all the talk had been enough, but she had risked her good name and all, just for the sake of that poor young thing upstairs, but madness!--no, that was another pair of shoes.
Now Gladys was peculiar. She'd given her notice, but hearing this, she suddenly determined to stay. That poor Miss Joan! Poor little worm! So young and innocent--shut up all alone with her mad father. Gladys would see her through--
"Why, Gladys," cried Cook, "what will your young feller you're walkin' with say?"
"If 'e don't like it 'e can lump it," said Gladys. "Lord, 'ow this house does rattle!"
All the afternoon of that day Brandon sat, never moving from his study- table. He sat exultant. Some of the shame had been wiped away. He could feel again the riotous happiness that had surged up in him as he struck that face, felt it yield before him, saw it fade away into dust and nothingness. That face that had for all these months been haunting him, at last he had banished it, and with it had gone those other leering faces that had for so long kept him company. His room was dark, and it was always in the dark that they came to him--Hogg's, the drunken painter's, that old woman's in the dirty dress.
And to-day they did not come. If they came he would treat them as he had treated Hogg. That was the way to deal with them!
His heart was bad, fluttering, stampeding, pounding and then dying away. He walked about the room that he might think less of it. Never mind his heart! Destroy his enemies, that's what he had to do--these men and women who were the enemies of himself, his town and his Cathedral.
Suddenly he thought that he would go out. He got his hat and his coat and went into the rain. He crossed the Green and let himself into the Cathedral by the Saint Margaret Chapel door, as he had so often done before.
The Cathedral was very dark, and he stumbled about, knocking against pillars and hassocks. He was strange here. It was as though he didn't know the place. He got into the middle of the nave, and positively he didn't know where he was. A faint green light glimmered in the East end. There were chairs in his way. He stood still, listening.
He was lost. He would never find his way out again.HisCathedral, and he was lost! Figures were moving everywhere. They jostled him and said nothing. The air was thick and hard to breathe. Here was the Black Bishop's Tomb. He let his fingers run along the metal work. How cold it was! His hand touched the cold icy beard! His hand stayed there. He could not remove it. His fingers stuck.
He tried to cry out, and he could say nothing. An icy hand, gauntleted, descended upon his and held it. He tried to scream. He could not.
He shouted. His voice was a whisper. He sank upon his knees. He fainted, slipping to the ground like a man tired out.
There, half an hour later, Lawrence found him.