TC 1 ,1 PS 
 
 ANNE DILLON 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 Mrs. Helen A. Dillon 
 
 e to be 
 
 ,oned with. He knows , ^e can 
 
 sympathetic without being sentimental. He is afraid neither of 
 sure nor pain nor of seeming to fear the conventionalities. He 
 wsthat man's fiercest battles seldom are fought to the accompaniment 
 innon. He knows that loneliness is one of the hardest, one of the 
 t universal of humanity's tests and sorrows." Chicago Record- Herald. 
 
 definite and notable addition to English literature is made when 
 rw novel by Hugh Walpole is published." Philadelphia North 
 rican. 
 
 r. Walpole is a realist with a wide angle vision. He sees life steadily 
 sees it whole yet keeps his temper and his hopes." Lewellyn 
 
 *! r- ' i\
 
 A NOVEL of rich and delicate detail of many lives, 
 from the all-powerful churchman who is the 
 central portrait to the verger's smallest child. 
 Even as the cathedral rises, symmetrical and massive, 
 out of the infinite detail of each scroll and carving, 
 so Mr. Walpole's study of power and human destiny 
 springs up in strength and beauty from the interlacing 
 lives of the people of his novel. 
 
 A good man spoiled by power; an unscrupulous man 
 who covets authority; a wife and a son through whom 
 one may strike at the good man; a daughter who is 
 her father's staunchest ally these are the central 
 figures of a story which reaches its height in a week 
 of carnival, with its delirium of outdoor mood. 
 
 In no other novel has Hugh Walpole o successfully 
 presented a world in little as in this sharply dramatic 
 tale of the conflict of love and power.
 
 THE CATHEDRAL 
 
 HUGH WALPOLE
 
 Books by HUGH WALPOLE 
 
 Novels 
 
 THE WOODEN HORSE 
 
 THE GODS AND MR. PERRIN 
 
 THE GREEN MIRROR 
 
 THE DARK FOREST 
 
 THE SECRET CITY 
 
 THE CAPTIVES 
 
 THE CATHEDRAL 
 
 Romances 
 
 MARADICK AT FORTY 
 
 THE PRELUDE TO ADVENTURE 
 
 FORTITUDE 
 
 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE 
 
 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 Short Stories 
 
 THE THIRTEEN TRAVELLERS 
 
 Books about Children 
 
 THE GOLDEN SCARECROW 
 
 JEREMY 
 
 JEREMY AND HAMLET 
 
 (In Preparation) 
 
 Belles-Lettres 
 
 JOSEPH CONRAD: A CRITICAL STUDY
 
 THE CATHEDRAL 
 
 A Novel 
 
 BY 
 
 HUGH WALPOLE 
 
 Author of "The Young Enchanted," "The CaptiTCB," 
 
 "Jeremy," "The Secret City," "The 
 
 Green Mirror," etc. 
 
 NEW ^SiT YORK 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1922, 
 BT OEOROE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
 THE CATHEDRAL. I 
 
 FEINTED IN THE UNITED STATKS OF AMERICA
 
 College 
 Library 
 
 PR 
 
 TO 
 
 JESSIE AND JOSEPH CONRAD 
 
 WITH MUCH LOVE
 
 Sonars sans dwelt* 
 
 = 
 
 m 
 
 
 ff ^~-^~ j T" " ~~~--\ 
 
 atf * I rii- eg T i*y J 1 >-
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 BOOK I: PRELUDE 
 
 CHAPTMS FAOB 
 
 I BRANDONS 18 
 
 II RONDERS 29 
 
 III ONE OF JOAN'S DAYS 40 
 
 IV THE IMPERTINENT ELEPHANT 62 
 
 V MRS. BRANDON GOES OUT TO TEA 82 
 
 VI SEATOWN MIST AND CATHEDRAL DUST .... 94 
 
 VII BONDER'S DAY 114 
 
 VIII SON FATHER 134 
 
 BOOK II: THE WHISPERING GALLERY 
 
 I FIVE O'CLOCK THE GREEN CLOUD . . . . 153 
 
 II SOULS ON SUNDAY 159 
 
 III THE MAY-DAY PROLOGUE 172 
 
 IV THE GENIAL HEART 186 
 
 V FALK BY THE RIVER 209 
 
 VI FALK'S FLIGHT 230 
 
 VII BRANDON PUTS ON His ARMOUR 250 
 
 VIII THE WIND FLIES OVER THE HOUSE 269 
 
 IX THE QUARREL 277 
 
 ix
 
 [ CONTENTS 
 
 BOOK III: THE JUBILEE 
 
 CHATTER PACK 
 
 I JUNK 17, THURSDAY: ANTICIPATION . . . . SOI 
 
 II FRIDAY, JUNE 18: SHADOW MEETS SHADOW . . 325 
 
 III SATURDAY, JUNE 19: THE BALL 310 
 
 IV SUNDAY, JUNE 20: IN THE BEDROOM .... 358 
 
 V TUESDAY, JUNE 22: I. THE CATHEDRAL . . . . 372 
 
 VI TUESDAY, JUNE 22: II. THE FAIR 38i 
 
 VII TUESDAY, JUNE 22: III. TORCHLIGHT .... 398 
 
 BOOK IV: THE LAST STAND 
 
 I IN RONDER'S HOUSE: RONDER, WISTONS . . . 409 
 
 II Two IN THE HOUSE 421 
 
 III PRELUDE TO BATTLE 436 
 
 IV THE LAST TOURNAMENT 417
 
 BOOK I 
 PRELUDE
 
 'Thou shalt have none other gods but Me.
 
 THE CATHEDRAL 
 
 CHAPTEK I 
 
 BRANDONS 
 
 ADAM BRANDON was born at Little Empton in Kent 
 in 1839. He was educated at the King's School, 
 Canterbury, and at Pembroke College, Cambridge. Or- 
 dained in 1863, he was first curate at St. Martin's, Ports- 
 mouth, then Chaplain to the Bishop of Worcester; in the 
 year 1875 he accepted the living of Pomfret in Wiltshire and 
 was there for twelve years. It was in 1887 that he came 
 to our town ; he was first Canon and afterwards Archdeacon. 
 Ten years later he had, by personal influence and strength of 
 character, acquired so striking a position amongst us that 
 he was often alluded to as "the King of Polchester." His 
 power was the greater because both our Bishop (Bishop 
 Purcell) and our Dean (Dean Sampson) during that period 
 were men of retiring habits of life. A better man, a greater 
 saint than Bishop Purcell has never lived, but in 1896 he 
 was eighty-six years of age and preferred study and the 
 sanctity of his wonderful library at Carpledon to the publicity 
 and turmoil of a public career; Dean Sampson, gentle and 
 amiable as he was, was not intended by nature for a moulder 
 of men. He was, however, one of the best botanists in the 
 County and his little book on "Glebshire Ferns" is, I be- 
 lieve, an authority in its own line. 
 
 Archdeacon Brandon was, of course, greatly helped by 
 his magnificent physical presence. "Magnificent" is not, I 
 
 13
 
 14 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 think, too strong a word. Six feet two or three in height, 
 he had the figure of an athlete, light blue eyes, and his hair 
 was still, when he was fifty-eight years of age, thick and 
 fair and curly like that of a boy. He looked, indeed, mar- 
 vellously young, and his energy and grace of movement might 
 indeed have belonged to a youth still in his teens. It is not 
 difficult to imagine how startling an effect his first appear- 
 ance in Polchester created. Many of the Polchester ladies 
 thought that he was like "a Greek God" (the fact that they 
 had never seen one gave them the greater confidence), and 
 Miss Dobell, who was the best read of all the ladies in our 
 town, called him "the Viking." This stuck to him, being 
 an easy and emphatic word and pleasantly cultured. 
 
 Indeed, had Brandon come to Polchester as a single man 
 there might have been many broken hearts; however, in 
 1875 he had married Amy Broughton, then a young girl of 
 twenty. He had by her two children, a boy, Falcon, now 
 twenty-one years of age, and a girl, Joan, just eighteen. 
 Brandon therefore was safe from the feminine Polchester 
 world; our town is famous among Cathedral cities for the 
 morality of its upper classes. 
 
 It would not have been possible during all these years for 
 Brandon to have remained unconscious of the remarkable 
 splendour of his good looks. He was very well aware of it, 
 but any one who called him conceited (and every one has his 
 enemies) did him a grave injustice. He was not conceited 
 at all he simply regarded himself as a completely excep- 
 tional person. He was not elated that he was exceptional, 
 he did not flatter himself because it was so; God had seen 
 fit (in a moment of boredom, perhaps, at the number of 
 insignificant and misshaped human beings Ho was forced 
 to create) to fling into the world, for once, a truly Fine 
 Specimen, Fine in Body, Fine in Soul, Fine in Intellect. 
 Brandon had none of the sublime egoism of Sir Willoughby 
 Patterne he thought of others and was kindly and often 
 unselfish but he did, like Sir Willoughby, believe himself
 
 ONE PRELUDE 15 
 
 to be of quite another day from the rest of mankind. He 
 ; was intended to rule, God had put him into the world for 
 that purpose, and rule he would to the glory of God and 
 a little, if it must be so, to the glory of himself. He was 
 a very simple person, as indeed were most of the men 
 and women in the Polchester of 1897. He did not analyse 
 motives, whether his own or any one else's; he was aware 
 that he had "weaknesses" (his ungovernable temper was a 
 source of real distress to him at times at other times he 
 felt that it had its uses). On the whole, however, he was 
 satisfied with himself, his appearance, his abilities, his wife, 
 his family, and, above all, his position in Polchester. This 
 last was very splendid. 
 
 His position in the Cathedral, in the Precincts, in the 
 Chapter, in the Town, was unshakable. 
 
 He trusted in God, of course, but, like a wise man, he 
 trusted also in himself. 
 
 It happened that on a certain wild and stormy afternoon 
 in October 1896 Brandon was filled with a great exultation. 
 As he stood, for a moment, at the door of his house in the 
 Precincts before crossing the Green to the Cathedral, he 
 looked up at the sky obscured with flying wrack of cloud, felt 
 the rain drive across his face, heard the elms in the neigh- 
 bouring garden creaking and groaning, saw the lights of the 
 town far beneath the low wall that bounded the Precincts 
 sway and blink in the storm, his heart beat with such pride 
 and happiness that it threatened to burst the body that con- 
 tained it. There had not been, perhaps, that day anything 
 especially magnificent to elate him; he had won, at the 
 Chapter Meeting that morning, a cheap and easy victory over 
 Canon Foster, the only Canon in Polchester who still showed, 
 at times, a wretched pugnacious resistance to his opinion; 
 he had met Mrs. Combermere afterwards in the High Street 
 and, on the strength of his Chapter victory, had dealt with 
 her haughtily ; he had received an especially kind note from
 
 16 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 Lady St Leath asking him to dinner early next month ; but 
 all these events were of too usual a nature to excite his 
 triumph. 
 
 No, there had descended upon him this afternoon that 
 especial ecstasy that is surrendered once and again by the 
 gods to men to lead them, maybe, into some especial blunder 
 or to sharpen, for Olympian humour, the contrast of some 
 swiftly approaching anguish. 
 
 Brandon stood for a moment, his head raised, his chest 
 out, his soul in flight, feeling the sharp sting of the raindrops 
 upon his cheek; then, with a little breath of pleasure and 
 happiness, he crossed the Green to the little dark door of 
 Saint Margaret's Chapel. 
 
 The Cathedral hung over him, as he stood, feeling in his 
 pocket for his key, a huge black shadow, vast indeed to-day, 
 as it mingled with the grey sky and seemed to be taking part 
 in the directing of the wildness of the storm. Two little 
 gargoyles, perched on the porch of Saint Margaret's door, 
 leered down upon the Archdeacon. The rain trickled down 
 over their naked twisted bodies, running in rivulets behind 
 their outstanding ears, lodging for a moment on the projec- 
 tion of their hideous nether lips. They grinned down upon 
 the Archdeacon, amused that he should have difficulty, there 
 in the rain, in finding his key. "Pah!" they heard him 
 mutter, and then, perhaps, something worse. The key was 
 found, and he had then to bend his great height to squeeze 
 through the little door. Once inside, he was at the corner 
 of the Saint Margaret Chapel and could see, in the faint 
 half-light, the rosy colours of the beautiful Saint Margaret 
 window that glimmered ever so dimly upon the rows of cane- 
 bottomed chairs, the dingy red hassocks, and the brass tablets 
 upon the grey stone walls. He walked through, picking his 
 way carefully in the dusk, saw for an instant the high, vast 
 expanse of the nave with its few twinkling lights that blew 
 in the windy air, then turned to the left into the Vestry, 
 closing the door behind him. Even as he closed the door he
 
 ONE PKELUDE 17 
 
 could hear high, high up above him the ringing of the 
 bell for Evensong. 
 
 In the Vestry he found Canon Dobell and Canon Rogers. 
 Dobell, the Minor Canon who was singing the service, was a 
 short, round, chubby clergyman, thirty-eight years of age, 
 whose great aim in life was to have an easy time and agree 
 with every one. He lived with a sister in a little house in 
 the Precincts and gave excellent dinners. Very different was 
 Canon Rogers, a thin aesthetic man with black bushy eye- 
 brows, a slight stoop and thin brown hair. He took life with 
 grim seriousness. He was a stupid man but obstinate, dog- 
 matic, and given to the condemnation of his fellow-men. 
 He hated innovations as strongly as the Archdeacon himself, 
 but with his clinging to old forms and rituals there went no 
 self-exaltation. He was a cold-blooded man, although his 
 obstinacy seemed sometimes to point to a fiery fanaticism. 
 But he was not a fanatic any more than a mule is one when 
 he plants his feet four-square and refuses to go forward. No 
 compliments nor threats could move him; he would have 
 lived, had he had a spark of asceticism, a hermit far from 
 the haunts of men, but even that withdrawal would have 
 implied devotion. He was devoted to no one, to no cause, 
 to no religion, to no ambition. He spent his days in main- 
 taining things as they were, not because he loved them, 
 simply because he was obstinate. Brandon quite frankly 
 hated him. 
 
 In the farther room the choir-boys were standing in their 
 surplices, whispering and giggling. The sound of the bell 
 was suddenly emphatic. Canon Rogers stood, his hands 
 folded motionless, gazing in front of him. Dobell, smiling 
 so that a dimple appeared in each cheek, said in his chuckling 
 whisper to Brandon: 
 
 "Ronder comes to-day, doesn't he?" 
 
 "Ronder ?" Brandon repeated, coming abruptly out of his 
 secret exultation. 
 
 "Yes . . Hart-Smith's successor."
 
 18 THE CATHEDRAL 
 
 BOOK 
 
 "Oh, yee I believe he does. . . . ' 
 
 Cobbett, the Verger, with his gold staff, appeared in the 
 Vestry door. A tall handsome man, he had been in the 
 service of the Cathedral as man and boy for fifty years. 
 He had his private ambitions, the main one being that old 
 Lawrence, the head Verger, in his opinion a silly old fool, 
 should die and permit his own legitimate succession. Another 
 ambition was that he should save enough money to buy 
 another three cottages down in Seatown. He owned already 
 six there. But no one observing his magnificent impassivity 
 (he was famous for this throughout ecclesiastical Glebeshire) 
 would have supposed that he had any thought other than those 
 connected with ceremony. As he appeared the organ began 
 its voluntary, the music stealing through the thick grey walls, 
 creeping past the stout grey pillars that had listened, with 
 so impervious an immobility, to an endless succession of 
 voluntaries. The Archdeacon prayed, the choir responded 
 with a long Amen, and the procession filed out, the boys with 
 faces pious and wistful, the choir-men moving with non- 
 chalance, their restless eyes wandering over the scene so ab- 
 solutely known to them. Then came Rogers like a martyr; 
 Dobell gaily as though he were enjoying some little joke of 
 his own ; last of all, Brandon, superb in carriage, in dignity, 
 in his magnificent recognition of the value of ceremony. 
 
 Because to-day was simply an ordinary afternoon with an 
 ordinary Anthem and an ordinary service (Martin in F) 
 the congregation was small, the gates of the great screen 
 closed with a clang behind the choir, and the nave, purple 
 grey under the soft light of the candle-lit choir, was shut 
 out into twilight In the high carved seats behind and 
 beyond the choir the congregation was sitting; Miss Dobell, 
 who never missed a service that her brother was singing, 
 with her pinched white face and funny old-fashioned bonnet, 
 lost between the huge arms of her seat; Mrs. Combermere, 
 with a friend, stiff and majestic; Mrs. Cole and her sister- 
 in-law, Amy Cole; a few tourists; a man or two; Major
 
 ONE PRELUDE 19 
 
 Drake, who liked to join in the psalms with his deep bass; 
 and little Mr. Thompson, one of the masters at the School 
 who loved music and always came to Evensong when he 
 could. 
 
 There they were then, and the Archdeacon, looking at 
 them from his stall, could not but feel that they were 
 rather a poor lot. Not that he exactly despised them; he 
 felt kindly towards them and would have done no single 
 cne of them an injury, but he knew them all so well Mrs. 
 Combermere, Miss Dobell, Mrs. Cole, Drake, Thompson. 
 They were shadows before him. If he looked hard at them 
 they seemed to disappear. . . . 
 
 The exultation that he had felt as he stood outside his 
 house-door increased with every moment that passed. It was 
 strange, but he had never, perhaps, in all his life been 
 so happy as he was at that hour. He was driven by the 
 sense of it to that, with him, rarest of all things, introspec- 
 tion. Why should he feel like this ? Why did his heart 
 beat thickly, why were his cheeks flushed with a triumphant 
 heat ? It could not but be that he was realising to-day how 
 everything was well with him. And why should he not 
 realise it ? Looking up to the high vaulted roofs above him, 
 he greeted God, greeted Him as an equal, and thanked Him 
 as a fellow-companion who had helped him through a 
 difficult and dusty journey. He thanked Him for his health, 
 for his bodily vigour and strength, for his beauty, for his 
 good brain, for his successful married life, for his wife (poor 
 Amy), for his house and furniture, for his garden and ten- 
 nis-lawn, for his carriage and horses, for his son, for his po- 
 sition in the town, his dominance in the Chapter, his author- 
 ity on the School Council, his importance in the district. . . . 
 For all these things he thanked God, and he greeted Him with 
 an outstretched hand. 
 
 "As one power to another," his soul cried, "greetings! 
 You have been a true and loyal friend to me. Anything that 
 I can do for You I will do. , ."
 
 20 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 The time came for him to read the First Lesson. He 
 crossed to the Lectern and was conscious that the tourists 
 were whispering together about him. He read aloud, in his 
 splendid voice, something about battles and vengeance, 
 plagues and punishment, God's anger and the trembling Is- 
 raelites. He might himself have been an avenging God as 
 he read. He was uplifted with the glory of power and the 
 exultation of personal dominion. . . . 
 
 He crossed back to his seat, and, as they began the "Mag- 
 nificat," his eye alighted on the tomb of the Black Bishop. In 
 the volume on Polchester in Chimes' Cathedral Series (4th 
 edition, 1910), page 52, you will find this description of the 
 Black Bishop's Tomb : "It stands between the pillars at the 
 far east end of the choir in the eighth bay from the choir 
 screen. The stone screen which surrounds the tomb is of most 
 elaborate workmanship, and it has, in certain lights, the ef- 
 fect of delicate lace ; the canopy over the tomb has pinnacles 
 which rise high above the level of the choir-stalls. The tomb 
 itself is made from a solid block of a dark blue stone. The 
 figure of the bishop, carved in black marble, lies with his 
 hands folded across his breast, clothed in his Episcopal robes 
 and mitre, and crozier on his shoulder. At his feet are a vizor 
 and a pair of gauntlets, these also carved in black marble. 
 On one finger of his right hand is a ring carved from some 
 green stone. His head is raised by angels and at his feet 
 beyond the vizor and gauntlets are tiny figures of four 
 knights fully armed. A small arcade runs round the tomb 
 with a series of shields in the spaces, and these shields have 
 his motto, "God giveth Strength," and the arms of the See 
 of Polchester. His epitaph in brass round the edge of the 
 tomb has thus been translated : 
 
 " 'Here, having surrendered himself back to God, lies 
 Henry of Arden. His life, which was distinguished for its 
 great piety, its unfailing generosity, its noble statesmanship, 
 was rudely taken in the nave of this Cathedral by men who
 
 ONE PKELUDE 21 
 
 feared neither the punishment of their fellows nor the just 
 vengeance of an irate God. 
 
 " 'He died, bravely defending this great house of Prayer, 
 and is now, in eternal happiness, fulfilling the reward of all 
 good and faithful servants, at his Master's side.' ' 
 
 It has been often remarked by visitors to the Cathedral 
 how curiously this tomb catches light from all sides of the 
 building, but this is undoubtedly in the main due to the fact 
 that the blue stone of which it is chiefly composed responds 
 immediately to the purple and violet lights that fall from 
 the great East window. On a summer day the blue of the 
 tomb seems almost opaque as though it were made of blue 
 glass, and the gilt on the background of the screen and the 
 brasses of the groins glitter and sparkle like fire. 
 
 Brandon to-day, wrapped in his strange mood of almost 
 mystical triumph, felt as though he were, indeed, a reincar- 
 nation of the great Bishop. 
 
 As the "Magnificat" proceeded, he seemed to enter into 
 the very tomb and share in the Bishop's dust. "I stood be- 
 side you," he might almost have cried, "when in the last 
 savage encounter you faced them on the very steps of the 
 altar, striking down two of them with your fists, falling at 
 last, bleeding from a hundred wounds, but crying at the 
 very end, 'God is my right !' ' 
 
 As he stared across at the tomb, he seemed to see the great 
 figure, deserted by all his terrified adherents, lying in his 
 blood in the now deserted Cathedral; he saw the coloured 
 dusk creep forward and cover him. And then, in the dark- 
 ness of the night, the two faithful servants who crept in and 
 carried away his body to keep it in safety until his day 
 should come again. 
 
 Born in 1100, Henry of Arden had been the first Bishop 
 to give Polchester dignity and power. What William of 
 Wykeham was to Winchester, that Henry of Arden was to the 
 See of Polchester. Through all the wild days of the quar- 
 rel between Stephen and Matilda he had stood triumphant,
 
 22 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 yielding at last only to the mad overwhelming attacks of his 
 private enemies. Of those he had had many. It had been 
 said- of him that "he thought himself God the proudest 
 prelate on earth." Proud he may have been, but he had 
 loved his Bishopric. It was in his time that the Saint Mar- 
 garet's Chapel had been built, through his energy that the 
 two great Western Towers had risen, because of him that 
 Polchester now could boast one of the richest revenues of 
 any Cathedral in Europe. Men said that he had plundered, 
 stolen the land of powerless men, himself headed forays 
 against neighbouring villages and even castles. He had done 
 it for the greater glory of God. They had been troublous 
 times. It had been every man for himself. . . . 
 
 He had told his people that he was God's chief servant; 
 it was even said that he had once, in the plenitude of his 
 power, cried that he was God Himself. . . . 
 
 His figure remained to this very day dominating Polches- 
 ter, vast in stature, black-bearded, rejoicing in his physical 
 strength. He could kill, they used to say, an ox with his 
 fist . . . 
 
 The "Gloria" rang triumphantly up into the shadows of 
 the nave. Brandon moved once more across to the Lectern. 
 He read of the casting of the money-changers out of the 
 Temple, 
 
 His voice quivered with pride and exultation so that Cob- 
 bett, who had acquired, after many years' practice, the gift 
 of sleeping during the Lessons and Sermon with his eyes 
 open, woke up with a start and wondered what was the 
 matter. 
 
 Brandon's mood, when he was back in his own drawing- 
 room, did not leave him; it was rather intensified by the 
 cosiness and security of his home. Lying back in his large 
 arm-chair in front of the fire, his long legs stretched out 
 before him, he could hear the rain beating on the window-
 
 ONE PKELUDE 23 
 
 panes and beyond that the murmur of the organ (Brockett, 
 the organist, was practising, as he often did after Evensong) . 
 
 The drawing-room was a long narrow one with many win- 
 dows ; it was furnished in excellent taste. The carpet and the 
 curtains and the dark blue coverings to the chairs were all a 
 little faded, but this only gave them an additional dignity 
 and repose. There were two large portraits of himself and 
 Mrs. Brandon painted at the time of their marriage, some 
 low white book-shelves, a large copy of "Christ in the Tem- 
 ple" plenty of space, flowers, light. 
 
 Mrs. Brandon was, at this time, a woman of forty-two, 
 but she looked very much less than that. She was slight, 
 dark, pale, quite undistinguished. She had large grey eyes 
 that looked on to the ground when you spoke to her. She 
 was considered a very shy woman, negative in every way. 
 She agreed with everything that was said to her and seemed 
 to have no opinions of her own. She was simply "the wife 
 of the Archdeacon." Mrs. Combermere considered her a 
 "poor little fool." She had no real friends in Polchester, 
 and it made little difference to any gathering whether she 
 were there or not. She had been only once known to lose 
 her temper in public once in the market-place she had seen- 
 a farmer beat his horse over the eyes. She had actually gone 
 up to him and struck him. Afterwards she had said that 
 "she did not like to see animals ill-treated." The Arch- 
 deacon had apologised for her, and no more had been said 
 about it. The farmer had borne her no grudge. 
 
 She sat now at the little tea-table, her eyes screwed up 
 over the serious question of giving the Archdeacon his tea 
 exactly as he wanted it. Her whole mind was apparently 
 engaged on this problem, and the Archdeacon did not care 
 to-day that she did not answer his questions and support 
 his comments because he was very, very happy, the whole of 
 his being thrilling with security and success and innocent 
 pride. 
 
 Joan Brandon came in. In appearance she was, as Mrs.
 
 24 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 Sampson said, "insignificant." You would not look at her 
 twice any more than you would have looked at her mother 
 twice. Her figure was slight and her legs (she was wearing 
 long skirts this year for the first time) too long. Her hair 
 was dark brown and her eyes dark brown. She had nice rosy 
 cheeks, but they were inclined to freckle. She smiled a good 
 deal and laughed, when in company, more noisily than was 
 proper. "A bit of a tomboy, I'm afraid," was what one 
 used to hear about her. But she was not really a tomboy; 
 she moved quietly, and her own bedroom was always neat and 
 tidy. She had very little pocket-money and only seldom 
 new clothes, not because the Archdeacon was mean, but be- 
 cause Joan was so often forgotten and left out of the scheme 
 of things. It was surprising that the only girl in the house 
 should be so often forgotten, but the Archdeacon did not 
 care for girls, and Mrs. Brandon did not appear to think 
 very often of any one except the Archdeacon. Falk, Joan's 
 brother, now at Oxford, when he was at home had other 
 things to do than consider Joan. She had gone, ever since 
 she was twelve, to the Polchester High School for Girls, and 
 there she was popular, and might have made many friends, 
 had it not been that she could not invite her companions to 
 her home. Her father did not like "noise in the house." 
 She had been Captain of the Hockey team ; the small girls 
 in the school had all adored her. She had left the place 
 six months ago and had come home to "help her mother." 
 She had had, in honest fact, six months' loneliness, although 
 no one knew that except herself. Her mother had not wanted 
 her helr>. There had been nothing for her to do, and she had 
 felt herself too young to venture into the company of older 
 girls in the town. She had been rather "blue" and had 
 looked back on Seafield House, the High School, with long- 
 ing, and then suddenly, one morning, for no very clear rea- 
 son she had taken a new view of life. Everything seemed 
 delightful and even thrilling, commonplace things that she 
 had known all her days, the High Street, keeping her rooms
 
 ONE PKELUDE 25 
 
 tidy, spending or saving the minute monthly allowance, the 
 Cathedral, the river. She was all in a moment aware that 
 something very delightful would shortly occur. What it 
 was she did not know, and she laughed at herself for imagin- 
 ing that anything extraordinary could ever happen to any 
 one so commonplace as herself, but there the strange feeling 
 was and it would not go away. 
 
 To-day, as always when her father was there, she came in 
 very quietly, sat down near her mother, saw that she made 
 no sort of interruption to the Archdeacon's flow of conver- 
 sation. She found that he was in a good humour to-day, 
 and she was glad of that because it would please her mother. 
 She herself had a great interest in all that he said. She 
 thought him a most wonderful man, and secretly was swollen 
 with pride that she was his daughter. It did not hurt her at 
 all that he never took any notice of her. Why should he? 
 Nor did she ever feel jealous of Falk, her father's favour- 
 ite. That seemed to her quite natural. She had the idea, 
 now most thoroughly exploded but then universally held in 
 Polchester, that women were greatly inferior to men. She 
 did not read the more advanced novels written by Mme. 
 Sarah Grand and Mrs. Lynn Linton. I am ashamed to say 
 that her favourite authors were Miss Alcott and Miss Char- 
 lotte Mary Yonge. Moreover, she herself admired Talk ex- 
 tremely. He seemed to her a hero and always right in 
 everything that he did. 
 
 Her father continued to talk, and behind the reverberation 
 of his deep voice the roll of the organ like an approving 
 echo could faintly be heard. 
 
 "There was a moment when I thought Foster was going 
 to interfere. I've been against the garden-roller from the 
 first they've got one and what do they want another for? 
 And, anyway, he thinks I meddle with the School's affairs 
 too much. Who wants to meddle with the School's affairs? 
 I'm sure they're nothing but a nuisance, but some one's 
 got to prevent the place from going to wrack and ruin, and
 
 26 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 if they all leave it to me I can't very well refuse it, can I ? 
 Hey?" 
 
 "No, dear." 
 
 "You see what I mean?" 
 
 "Yes, dear." 
 
 "Well, then " (Aa though Mrs. Brandon had just been 
 
 overcome in an argument in which she'd shown the greatest 
 obstinacy.) "There you are. It would be false modesty 
 to deny that I've got the Chapter more or less in my pocket 
 And why shouldn't I have? Has any one worked harder 
 for this place and the Cathedral than I have?" 
 
 "No, dear." 
 
 "Well, then. . . . There's this new fellow Ronder com- 
 ing to-day. Don't know much about him, but he won't 
 give much trouble, I expect trouble in the way of delaying 
 things, I mean. What we want is work done expeditiously. 
 I've just about got that Chapter moving at last. Ten years' 
 hard work. Deserve a V.C. or something. Hey ?" 
 
 "Yes, dear, I'm sure you do." 
 
 Tfce Archdeacon gave one of his well-known roars of 
 laughter a laugh famous throughout the county, a laugh 
 described by his admirers as "Homeric," by his enemies as 
 "ear-splitting." There was, however, enemies or no ene- 
 mies, something sympathetic in that laugh, something boy- 
 ish and simple and honest 
 
 He suddenly pulled himself up, bringing his long legs 
 close against his broad chest 
 
 "No letter from Falk to-day, was there ?" 
 
 "No, dear." 
 
 "Humph. That's three weeks we haven't heard. Hope 
 there's nothing wrong." 
 
 "What could there be wrong, dear?" 
 
 "Nothing, of course. . . . Well, Joan, and what have 
 you been doing with yourself all day?" 
 
 It was only in his most happy and resplendent moods 
 that the Archdeacon held jocular conversations with his
 
 ONE PKELUDE 27 
 
 daughter. These conversations had been, in the past, mo- 
 ments of agony and terror to her, but since that morning 
 when she had suddenly woken to a realisation of the mar- 
 vellous possibilities in life her terror had left her. There 
 were other people in the word besides her father. . . . 
 
 Nevertheless, a little, her agitation was still with her. She 
 looked up at him, smiling. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know, father. ... I went to the Library 
 this morning to change the books for mother " 
 
 "Novels, I suppose. No one ever reads anything but 
 trash nowadays." 
 
 "They hadn't anything that mother put down. They 
 never have. Miss Milton sits on the new novels and keeps 
 them for Mrs. Sampson and Mrs. Combermere." 
 
 "Sits on them?" 
 
 "Yes really sits on them. I saw her take one from 
 under her skirt the other day when Mrs. Sampson asked 
 for it It was one that mother has wanted a long time." 
 
 The Archdeacon was angry. "I never heard anything so 
 scandalous. I'll just see to that. What's the use of being 
 on the Library Committee if that kind of thing happens? 
 That woman shall go." 
 
 "Oh no! father! . . ." 
 
 "Of course she shall' go. I never heard anything so 
 dishonest in my life! . . ." 
 
 Joan remembered that little conversation until the end 
 of her life. And with reason. 
 
 The door was flung open. Some one came hurriedly in, 
 then stopped, with a sudden arrested impulse, looking at 
 them. It was Falk. 
 
 Falk was a very good-looking man fair hair, light blue 
 eyes like his father's, slim and straight and quite obviously 
 fearless. It was that quality of courage that struck every 
 one who saw him ; it was not only that he feared, it seemed, 
 no one and nothing, but that he went a step further than that, 
 spending his life in defying every one and everything, as a
 
 28 THE CATHEDRAL 
 
 practised dueller might challenge every one he met in or- 
 der to keep his play in practice. "I don't like young Bran- 
 don," Mrs, Sampson said. "He snorts contempt at 
 you. ..." 
 
 He was only twenty-one, a contemptuous age. He looked 
 as though he had been living in that house for weeks, al- 
 though, as a fact, he had just driven up, after a long and 
 tiresome journey, in an ancient cab through the pouring 
 rain. The Archdeacon gazed at his son in a bewildered, 
 confused amaze, as though he, a convinced sceptic, were 
 suddenly confronted, in broad daylight, with an undoubted 
 ghost. 
 
 "What's the matter?" he said at last "Why are you 
 here?" 
 
 "I've been sent down," said Falk. 
 
 It was characteristic of the relationship in that family 
 that, at that statement, Mrs. Brandon and Joan did not 
 look at Falk but at the Archdeacon. 
 
 "Sent down !" 
 
 "Yes, for ragging! They wanted to do it last term." 
 
 "Sent down!" The Archdeacon shot to his feet; his 
 voice suddenly lifted into a cry. "And you have the im- 
 pertinence to come here and tell me ! You walk in as though 
 nothing had happened ! You walk in ! . . ." 
 
 "You're angry," said Falk, smiling. "Of course I knew 
 you would be. You might hear me out first. But I'll 
 come along when I've unpacked and you're a bit cooler. 
 I wanted some tea, but I suppose that will have to wait. 
 You just listen, father, and you'll find it isn't so bad. Ox- 
 ford's a rotten place for any one who wants to be on his 
 own, and, anyway, you won't have to pay my bills any more." 
 
 Falk turned and went. 
 
 The Archdeacon, as he stood there, felt a dim mysterious 
 pain as though an adversary whom he completely despised 
 had found suddenly with his weapon a joint in his armour.
 
 CHAPTER H 
 
 BONDERS 
 
 THE train that brought Falk Brandon back to Polchester 
 brought also the Bonders Frederick Ronder, newly 
 Canon of Polchester, and his aunt, Miss Alice Ronder. 
 About them the station gathered in a black cloud, dirty, 
 obscure, lit by flashes of light and flame, shaken with screams, 
 rumblings, the crashing of carriage against carriage, the rat- 
 tle of cab-wheels on the cobbles outside. To-day also there 
 was the hiss and scatter of the rain upon the glass roof. 
 The Renders stood, not bewildered, for that they never were, 
 but thinking what would be best. The new Canon was a 
 round man, round-shouldered, round-faced, round-stomached, 
 round legged. A fair height, he was not ludicrous, but it 
 seemed that if you laid him down he would roll naturally, 
 still smiling, to the farthest end of the station. He wore 
 large, very round spectacles. His black clerical coat and 
 trousers and hat were scrupulously clean and smartly cut. 
 He was not a dandy, but he was not shabby. He smiled a 
 great deal, not nervously as curates are supposed to smile, not 
 effusively, but simply with geniality. His aunt was a con- 
 trast, thin, straight, stiff white collar, little black bow-tie, 
 coat like a man's, skirt with no nonsense about it. !No non- 
 sense about her anywhere. She was not unamiable, perhaps, 
 but business came first. 
 
 "Well, what do we do ?" he asked. 
 
 "We collect our bags and find the cab," she answered 
 briskly. 
 
 They found their bags, and there were a great many of 
 
 29
 
 30 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 them; Miss Render, having seen that they were all there 
 and that there was no nonsense about the porter, moved off 
 to the barrier followed by her nephew. 
 
 As they came into the station square, all smelling of hay 
 and the rain, the deluge slowly withdrew its forces, recall- 
 ing them gradually so that the drops whispered now, patter- 
 patter pit-pat. A pigeon hovered down and pecked at the 
 cobbles. Faint colour threaded the thick blotting-paper grey. 
 
 Old Fawcett himself had come to the station to meet 
 them. Why had he felt it to be an occasion? God only 
 knows. A new Canon was nothing to him. He very seldom 
 now, being over eighty, with a strange "wormy" pain in his 
 left ear, took his horses out himself. He saved his money 
 and counted it over by his fireside to see that his old woman 
 didn't get any of it. He hated his old woman, and in a 
 vaguely superstitious, thoroughly Glebeshire fashion half- 
 believed that she had cast a spell over him and was really 
 responsible for his "wormy" ear. 
 
 Why had he come? He didn't himself know. Perhaps 
 Render was going to be of importance in the place, he had 
 come from London and thy all had money in London. He 
 licked his purple protruding lips greedily as he saw the 
 generous man. Yes, kindly and generous he looked. . . . 
 
 They got into the musty cab and rattled away over the 
 cobbles. 
 
 "I hope Mrs. Clay got the telegram all right." Miss 
 Render's thin bosom was a little agitated beneath its white 
 waistcoat. "You'll never forgive me if things aren't look- 
 ing as though we'd lived in the place for months." 
 
 Alice Ronder was over sixty and as active as a woman 
 of forty. Ronder looked at her and laughed. 
 
 "Never forgive you! What words! Do I ever cherish 
 grievances? Never . . . but I do like to be comfortable." 
 
 "Well, everything was all right a week ago. I've slaved 
 at the place, as you know, and Mrs. Clay's a jewel but she
 
 ONE 
 
 PRELUDE 31 
 
 complains of the Polchester maids says there isn't one that's 
 any good. Oh, I want my tea, I want my tea !" 
 
 They were climbing up from the market-place into the 
 High Street. Bonder looked about him with genial curiosity. 
 
 "Very nice," he said; "I believe I can be comfortable 
 here." " 
 
 "If you aren't comfortable you certainly won't stay," she 
 answered him sharply. 
 
 "Then I must be comfortable," he replied, laughing. 
 
 He laughed a great deal, but absent-mindedly, as though 
 his thoughts were elsewhere. It would have been interesting 
 to a student of human nature to have been there and watched 
 him as he sat back in the cab, looking through the window, 
 indeed, but seeing apparently nothing. He seemed to be 
 gazing through his round spectacles very short-sightedly, his 
 eyes screwed up and dim. His fat soft hands were planted 
 solidly on his thick knees. 
 
 The observer would have been interested because he would 
 soon have realised that Render saw everything; nothing, 
 however insignificant, escaped him, but he seemed to see 
 with his brain as though he had learnt the trick of forcing 
 it to some new function that did not properly belong to it. 
 The broad white forehead under the soft black clerical hat 
 was smooth, unwrinkled, mild and calm. . . . He had 
 trained it to be so. 
 
 The High Street was like any High Street of a small 
 Cathedral town in the early evening. The pavements were 
 sleek and shiny after the rain; people were walking with 
 the air of being unusually pleased with the world, always 
 the human expression when the storms have withdrawn and 
 there is peace and colour in the sky. There were lights 
 behind the solemn panes of Bennett's the bookseller's, that 
 fine shop whose first master had seen Sir Walter Scott in 
 London and spoken to Byron. In his window were rows 
 of the classics in calf and first editions of the Surtees books 
 and Dr. Syntax. At the very top of the High Street was
 
 32 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 Mellock's the pastry-cook's, gay with its gas, rich with its fa- 
 mous saffron buns, its still more famous ginger-bread cake, 
 and, most famous of all, its lemon biscuits. Even as the 
 Renders' cab paused for a moment before it turned to pass 
 under the dark Arden Gate on to the asphalt of the Precincts, 
 the great Mrs. Mellock herself, round and rubicund, came to 
 the door and looked about her at the weather. An errand-boy 
 passed, whistling, down the hill, a stiff military-looking 
 gentleman with white moustaches mounted majestically the 
 steps of the Conservative Club; then they rattled under the 
 black archway, echoed for a moment on the noisy cobbles, then 
 slipped into the quiet solemnity of the Precincts asphalt. It 
 was Brandon who had insisted on the asphalt. Old residents 
 had complained that to take away the cobbles would be to rid 
 the Precincts of all its atmosphere. 
 
 "I don't care about atmosphere," said the Archdeacon, 
 "I want to sleep at night." 
 
 Very quiet here; not a sound penetrated. The Cathedral 
 was a huge shadow above its darkened lawns; not a human 
 soul was to be seen. 
 
 The cab stopped with a jerk at Number Eight. The bell 
 was rung by old Fawcett, who stood on the top step looking 
 down at Render and wondering how much he dared to ask 
 him. Ask him too much now and perhaps he would not 
 deal with him in the future. Moreover, although the man 
 wore large spectacles and was fat he was probably not 
 a fool. . . . Fawcett could not tell why he was so sure, but 
 there was something. . . . 
 
 Mrs. Clay was at the door, smiling and ordering a small 
 frightened girl to "hurry up now." Miss Render disap- 
 peared into the house. Ronder stood for a moment looking 
 about him as though he were a spy in enemy country and 
 must let nothing escape him. 
 
 "Whose is that big place there ?" he asked Fawcett, point- 
 ing to a house that stood by itself at the farther corner of 
 the Precincts.
 
 ONE PKELUDE 33 
 
 "Archdeacon Brandon's, sir." 
 
 "Oh! . . ." Bonder mounted the steps. "Good night," 
 he said to Fawcett. "Mrs. Clay, pay the cabman, please." 
 
 The Bonders had taken this house a month ago ; for two 
 months before that it had stood desolate, wisps of paper and 
 straw blowing about it, its "To let" notice creaking and 
 screaming in every wind. The Hon. Mrs. Pentecoste, an 
 eccentric old lady, had lived there for many years, and had 
 died in the middle of a game of patience; her worn and 
 tattered furniture had been sold at auction, and the house 
 had remained unlet for a considerable period because peo- 
 ple in the town said that the ghost of Mrs. Pentecoste's cat 
 (a famous blue Persian) walked there. The Bonders cared 
 nothing for ghosts ; the house was exactly what they wanted. 
 It had two panelled rooms, two powder-closets, and a little 
 walled garden at the back with fruit trees. 
 
 It was quite wonderful what Miss Bonder had done in a 
 month ; she had abandoned Eaton Square for a week, worked 
 in the Polchester house like a slave, then retired back to 
 Eaton Square again, leaving Mrs. Clay, her aide-de-camp, to 
 manage the rest. Mrs. Clay had managed very well. She 
 would not have been in the service of the Bonders for nearly 
 fifteen years had she not had a gift for managing. . . . 
 
 Bonder, washed and brushed, came down to tea, looked 
 about him, and saw that all was good. 
 
 "I congratulate you, Aunt Alice," he said "excellent !" 
 
 Miss Bonder very slightly flushed. 
 
 "There are a lot of things still to be done," she said; 
 nevertheless she was immensely pleased. 
 
 The drawing-room was charming. The stencilled walls, 
 the cushions of the chairs, the cover of a gate-legged table, 
 the curtains of the mullioned windows were of a warm dark 
 blue. And whatever in the room was not blue seemed to be 
 white, or wood in its natural colour, or polished brass. Books 
 ran round the room in low white book-cases. In one corner 
 a pure white Hermes stood on a pedestal with tiny wings out-
 
 34 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 spread. There was only one picture, an excellent copy of 
 "Rembrandt's mother." The windows looked out to the 
 garden, now veiled by the dusk of evening. Tea was on a 
 little table close to the white tiled fireplace. A little square 
 brass clock chimed the half-hour as Render came in. 
 
 "I suppose Ellen will be over," Render said. He drank 
 in the details of the room with a quite sensual pleasure. He 
 went over to the Hermes and lifted it, holding it for a mo- 
 ment in his podgy hands. 
 
 "You beauty !" he whispered aloud. He put it back, turned 
 round to his aunt 
 
 "Of course Ellen will be over," he repeated. 
 
 "Of course," Miss Ronder repeated, picking up the old 
 square black lacquer tea-caddy and peering into it. 
 
 He picked up the books on the table two novels, Senti- 
 mental Tommy, by J. M. Barrie, and Sir George Tressady, 
 by Mrs. Humphry Ward, Mr. Swinburne's Tale of Balen, 
 and The Works of Max Beerbohm. Last of all Leslie 
 Stephen's Social Rights and Duties. 
 
 He looked at them all, with their light yellow Mudie la- 
 bels, their fresh bindings, then, slowly and very carefully, 
 put them back on the table. 
 
 He always handled books as though they were human 
 beings. 
 
 He came and sat down by the fire. 
 
 "I won't see over the place until to-morrow," he said. 
 "What have you done about the other books ?" 
 
 "The book-cases are in. It's the best room in the house. 
 Looks over the river and gets most of the light. The books 
 are as you packed them. I haven't dared touch them. In 
 fact, I've left that room entirely for you to arrange." 
 
 "Well," he said, "if you've done the rest of this house as 
 well as this room, you'll do. It's jolly it really is. I'm go- 
 ing to like this place." 
 
 "And you hated the very idea of it." 
 
 "I hated the discomfort there'd be before we settled in.
 
 ONE PKELUDE 35 
 
 But the settling in is going to be easier than I thought. Of 
 course we don't know yet how the land lies. Ellen will 
 tell us." 
 
 They were silent for a little. Then he looked at her with 
 a puzzled, half-humorous, half-ironical glance. 
 
 "It's a bit of a blow to you, Aunt Alice, burying yourself 
 down here. London was the breath of your nostrils. What 
 did you come for ? Love of me ?" 
 
 She looked steadily back at him. 
 
 "Wot love exactly. Curiosity, perhaps. I want to see 
 at first hand what you'll do. You're the most interesting 
 human being I've ever met, and that isn't prejudice. Aunts 
 do not, as a rule, find their nephews interesting. And what 
 have you come here for? I assure you I haven't the least 
 idea." 
 
 The door was opened by Mrs. Clay. 
 
 "Miss Stiles," she said. 
 
 Miss Stiles, who came in, was not handsome. She was 
 large and fat, with a round red face like a sun, and she 
 wore colours too bright for her size. She had a slow soft 
 voice like the melancholy moo of a cow. She was not a bad 
 woman, but, temperamentally, was made unhappy by the 
 success or good fortune of others. Were you in distress, 
 she would love you, cherish you, never abandon you. She 
 would share her last penny with you, run to the end of the 
 world for you, defend you before the whole of humanity. 
 Were you, however, in robust health, she would hint to 
 every one of a possible cancer; were you popular, it would 
 worry her terribly and she would discover a thousand faults 
 in your character; were you successful in your work, she 
 would pray for your approaching failure lest you should be- 
 come arrogant. She gossiped without cessation, and al- 
 ways, as it were, to restore the proper balance of the world, 
 to pull down the mighty from their high places, to lift the 
 humble only that they in their turn might be pulled down.
 
 36 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 She played fluently and execrably on the piano. She spent 
 her day in running from house to house. 
 
 She had independent means, lived four months of the year 
 in Polchester (she had been born there and her family had 
 been known there for many generations before her), four 
 months in London, and the rest of the year abroad. She had 
 met Alice Ronder in London and attached herself to her. 
 She liked the Renders because they never boasted of their 
 successes, because Alice had a weak heart, because Ronder, 
 who knew her character, half-humorously deprecated his 
 talents, which were, as he knew well enough, no mean ones. 
 She bored Alice Ronder, but Ronder found her useful. She 
 told him a great deal that he wanted to know, and although 
 she was never accurate in her information, he could separate 
 the wheat from the chaff. She was a walking mischief- 
 maker, but meant no harm to a living soul. She prided her- 
 self on her honesty, on saying exactly what she thought to 
 every one. She was kindness itself to her servants, who 
 adored her, as did railway-porters, cabmen and newspaper 
 men. She overtipped wherever she went because "she could 
 not bear not to be liked." In our Polchester world she was 
 an important factor. She was always the first to hear any 
 piece of news in our town, and she gave it a wrong twist 
 just as fast as she could. 
 
 She was really delighted to see the Renders, and told them 
 so with many assurances of affection, but she was a little 
 distressed to find the room so neat and settled. She would 
 have preferred them to be "in a thorough mess" and badly 
 in need of her help. 
 
 "My dear Alice, how quick you've been ! How clever 
 you are! At the same time I think you'll find there's a good 
 deal to arrange still. The Polchester girls are so slow and 
 always breaking things. I suppose some things have been 
 smashed in the move nothing very valuable, 1 hope." 
 
 "Lots of things, Ellen," said Ronder, laughing. "We've 
 had the most awful time and badly need your help. It's
 
 ONE PRELUDE 37 
 
 only this room that Aunt Alice got straight just to have 
 something to show, you know. And our journey down! 
 I can't tell you what it was, hardly room to breathe and 
 coming up here in the rain !" 
 
 "Oh, you poor things ! What a welcome to Polchester ! 
 You must simply have hated the look of the whole place. 
 Such a bad introduction, and everything looking as gloomy 
 and depressing as possible. I expect you wished yourselves 
 well out of it. I don't wonder you're depressed. I hope 
 you're not feeling your heart, Alice dear." 
 
 "Well, I am a little," acknowledged Miss Bonder. "But 
 I shall go to bed early and get a good night." 
 
 "You poor dear! I was afraid you'd be absolutely done 
 up. Now, you're not to get up in the morning and I'll run 
 about and do your shopping for you. I insist. How's Mrs. 
 Clay?" 
 
 "A little grumpy at having so much to do," said Render, 
 "but she'll get over it." 
 
 "I'm afraid she's a little ill-tempered at times," said Miss 
 Stiles with satisfaction. "I thought when I came in that 
 she looked out of sorts. Troubles never come singly, of 
 course." 
 
 All was well now and Miss Stiles completely satisfied. 
 She admired the room and the Hermes, and prophesied that, 
 after a week or two, they would probably find things not 
 so bad after all. She drank several cups of tea and passed 
 on to general conversation. It was obvious, very soon, that 
 she was bursting with a piece of news. 
 
 "I can see, Ellen," said Render, humorously observing her, 
 "that you're longing to tell us something." 
 
 "Well, it is interesting. What do you think ? Falk Bran- 
 don has been sent down from Oxford for misbehaviour." 
 
 "And who is Falk Brandon,?" asked Ronder. 
 
 "The Archdeacon's son. His only boy. I've told you 
 about Archdeacon Brandon many times. He thinks he runs 
 the town and has been terribly above himself for a long
 
 38 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 while. This will pull him down a little. I must say, al- 
 though I don't want to bo uncharitable, that I'm glad of it. 
 It's too absurd the way that he's been having everything his 
 own way here. All the Canons are over ninety and simply 
 give in to him about everything." 
 
 "When did this happen ?" 
 
 "Oh, it's only just happened. He arrived by your train. 
 I saw young George Lascelles as I was on my way up to you. 
 He met him at the station Falk, I mean and he didn't 
 pretend to disguise it. George said 'Hullo, Brandon, what 
 are you doing here?' and Falk said 'Oh, I've been sent 
 down' just like that. Didn't pretend to disguise it. He's 
 always been as brazen as anything. He'll give his father 
 a lot of trouble before he's done." 
 
 ''There's nothing very terrible," said Ronder, laughing, 
 "in being sent down from Oxford. I've known plenty of 
 good fellows who were." 
 
 Miss Stiles looked annoyed. "Oh, but you don't know. 
 It will be terrible for his father. He's the proudest man 
 in England. Some people call it conceit, but, however that 
 may be, he thinks there's nothing like his family. Even 
 poor Mrs. Brandon he's proud of when she isn't there. It 
 will be awful for him that every one should know." 
 
 Ronder said nothing. 
 
 "You know," said Miss Stiles, who felt that her news had 
 fallen flat, "you'll have to fight him or give in to him. 
 There's no other way here. I hope you'll fight him." 
 
 "I?" said Ronder. "Why, I never fight anybody. I'm 
 much too lazy." 
 
 "Then you'll never be comfortable here, that's all. He 
 can't bear being crossed. Ho must have his way about 
 everything. If the Bishop weren't so old and the Dean so 
 stupid. . . . What we want here is a little life in the place." 
 
 "You needn't look to us for that, Ellen," said Roiidcr. 
 "We've come here to rest 
 
 "Peace, perfect peace. . . ."
 
 ONE PRELUDE 39 
 
 "I don't believe you," said Miss Stiles, tossing her head. 
 "I'd be disappointed to think it of you." 
 
 Alice Render gave her nephew a curious look, half of 
 amusement, half of expectation. 
 
 "It's quite true, Ellen," she said. "Now, if you've fin- 
 ished your tea, come and look at the rest of the house."
 
 CHAPTER III 
 ONE OF JOAN'S DATS 
 
 I FIND it difficult now to realise how apart from the life 
 of the world Polchestcr was in those days. Even now, 
 when the War has shaken up and jostled together every small 
 village in Great Britain, Polchcster still has some shreds 
 of its isolation left to it ; but then why, it might have been 
 a walled-in fortress of mediaeval times, for all its connection 
 with the outside world I 
 
 This isolation was quite deliberately maintained. I don't 
 mean, of course, that Mrs. Combermere and Brandon and 
 old Bentinck-Major and Mrs. Sampson said to themselves 
 in so many words, "We will keep this to ourselves and 
 defend its walls against every new invader, every new idea, 
 new custom, new impulse. Wo will all be butchered rather 
 than allow one old form, tradition, superstition to go !" It 
 was not as conscious as that, but in effect it was that that 
 it came to. And they were wonderfully assisted by circum- 
 stances. It is true that the main line ran through Polches- 
 ter from Dry mouth, but its travellers were hurrying south, 
 and only a few trippers, a few Americans, a few sentimen- 
 talists stayed to see the Cathedral; and those who stayed 
 found "The Bull" an impossibly inconvenient and uncom- 
 fortable hostelry and did not come again. It is true that even 
 then, in 1897, there were many agitations by sharp business 
 men like Crosbie and .John Allen, Croppet and Fred Barn- 
 staple, to make the place more widely known, more commer- 
 cially attractive. It was not until later that the golf course 
 was laid out and the St. Leath Hotel rose on Pol Hill. Ijut 
 
 40
 
 PKELUDE 41 
 
 other tnings were tried steamers on the Pol, char-a-bancs to 
 various places of local interest, and so on but, at this time, 
 all these efforts failed. The Cathedral was too strong for 
 them, above all Brandon and Mrs. Combermere were too 
 strong for them. Nothing was done to encovirage strangers ; 
 I shouldn't wonder if Mrs. Combermere didn't pay old Jol- 
 liffe of "The Bull" so much a year to keep his hotel incon- 
 venient and insanitary. The men on the Town Council 
 were for the most part like the Canons, aged and conserva- 
 tive. It is true that it was in 1897 that Barnstaple was 
 elected Mayor, but without Bonder I doubt whether even 
 he would have been able to do very much. 
 
 The town then revolved, so to speak, entirely on its own 
 axis; it revolved between the two great events of the year, 
 the summer Polchester Fair, the winter County Ball, and 
 those two great affairs were conducted, in every detail and 
 particular, as they had been conducted a hundred years be- 
 fore. I find it strange, writing from the angle of to-day, to 
 conceive it possible that so short a time ago anything in 
 England could have been so conservative. I myself was 
 only thirteen years of age when Bonder came to our town, 
 and saw all grown figures with the exaggerated colour and 
 romance that local inquisitive age bestows. About my own 
 contemporaries, young Jeremy Cole for instance, there was 
 no colour at all, but the older figures were strange gigan- 
 tic, almost mythological. Mrs. Combermere, the Dean, 
 the Archdeacon, Mrs. Sampson, Canon Bonder, moved about 
 the town, to my young eyes, like gods and goddesses, and 
 it was not until after my return to Polchester at the end of 
 my first Cambridge year that I saw clearly how small a town 
 it was and how tiny the figures in it. 
 
 Joan Brandon thought her father a marvellous man, as 
 I have already said, but she had seen him too often lose his 
 temper, too often snub her mother, too often be upset by 
 trivial and unimportant details, to conceive him roman- 
 tically. Falk, her brother, was romantic to her because
 
 42 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 she had seen so much less of him ; her father she knew too 
 well. For some time after Falk's return from Oxford noth- 
 ing happened. Joan did not know what exactly she had ex- 
 pected to happen, but she had an uneasy sense that more 
 was going on behind the scenes than she knew. 
 
 The Archdeacon did not speak to Falk unless he were 
 compelled, but Falk did not seem to mind this in the least. 
 His handsome defiant face flashed scorn at the whole family. 
 
 He was out of the house most of the day, came down to 
 breakfast when every one else had finished, and often was 
 not present at dinner in the evening. The Archdeacon had 
 said that breakfast was not to be kept for him, but never- 
 theless breakfast was there, on the table, however late he 
 was. The cook and, indeed, all the servants adored him 
 because, I suppose, he had no sense of class-difference at 
 all and laughed and joked with any one if he was in a good 
 temper. All these first days he spoke scarcely one word to 
 Joan; it was as though the whole family were in his black 
 books for some disgraceful act they were the guilty ones 
 and not he. 
 
 Joan blamed herself for feeling so light-hearted and gay 
 during this family crisis, but she could not help it. A very 
 short time ago the knowledge that battle was engaged in the 
 very heart of the house would have made her miserable and 
 apprehensive, but now it seemed to be all outside her and un- 
 connected with her as though she had a life of her own that 
 no one could touch. Her courage seemed to grow with every 
 half-hour of her life. Some months passed, and then one 
 morning she came into the drawing-room and found her 
 mother rather bewildered and distressed. 
 
 "Oh dear, I really don't know what to do!" said her 
 mother. 
 
 It was so seldom that Joan was appealed to for advice 
 that her heart now beat with pride. 
 
 "What's the matter, mother?" she asked, trying to look 
 dignified and unconcerned.
 
 ONE 
 
 PEELUDE 43 
 
 Mrs. Brandon looked at her with a frightened and startled 
 look as though she had been speaking to herself and had not 
 wished to be overheard. 
 
 "Oh, Joan! ... I didn't know that you were there!" 
 
 "What's the matter? Is it anything I can help about?" 
 
 "No, dear, nothing . . . really I didn't know that you 
 were there." 
 
 "No, but you must let me help, mother." Joan marvelled 
 at her own boldness as she spoke. 
 
 "It's nothing you can do, dear." 
 
 "But it's sure to be something I can do. Do you know 
 that I've been home for months and months simply with 
 the idea of helping you, and I'm never allowed to do any- 
 thing?" 
 
 "Really, Joan I don't think that's quite the way to 
 speak." 
 
 "No, but, mother, it's true. I want to help. I'm grown 
 up. I'm going to dinner at the Castle, and I must help you, 
 or or I shall go away and earn my own living !" 
 
 This last was so startling and fantastic that both Joan 
 and her mother stared at one another in a kind of horrified 
 amazement. 
 
 "No, I didn't mean that, of course," Joan said, hurriedly 
 recovering herself. "But you must see that I must have 
 some work to do." 
 
 "I don't know what your father would say," said Mrs. 
 Brandon, still bewildered. 
 
 "Oh, never mind father," said Joan quickly; "this is a 
 matter just between you and me. I'm here to help you, and 
 you must let me do something. Now, what's the trouble 
 to-day ?" 
 
 "I don't know, dear. There's no trouble exactly. Things 
 are so difficult just now. The fact is that I promised to go 
 to tea with Miss Burnett this afternoon and now your 
 father wants me to go with him to the Deanery. So proyok-
 
 44 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 ing! Ifiss Burnett caught me in the street, where it's 
 always so difficult to think of excuses." 
 
 "Let me go to Miss Burnett's instead," said Joan. "It's 
 quite time I took on some of the calling for you. I've never 
 seen Mr. Morris, and I hear he's very nice." 
 
 "Very well, dear," said Mrs. Brandon, suddenly begin- 
 ning, as her way was when there was any real opposition, to 
 capitulate on all sides at once. "Suppose you do go, dear. 
 I'm sure it's very kind of you. And you might take those 
 books back to the Circulating Library as well. It's Market- 
 Day. Are you sure you won't mind the horses and cows 
 and dogs?" 
 
 Joan laughed. "I believe you think I'm still five years 
 old, mother. That's splendid. I'll start off after lunch." 
 
 Joan went up to her room, elated. Truly, this was a great 
 step forward. It occurred to her on further reflection that 
 something very serious indeed must be going on behind the 
 scenes to cause her mother to give in so quickly. She sat 
 on her old faded rocking-chair, her hands crossed behind her 
 head, thinking it all out. Did she once begin calling on her 
 own account she was grown-up indeed. What would these 
 Morrises be like? 
 
 She found now that she was beginning to be a little fright- 
 ened. Mr. Morris was the new Rector of St. James', the 
 little church over by the cattle market. He had not been 
 in Polchester very long and was said to be a shy timid man, 
 but a good preacher. He was a widower, and his sister- 
 in-law kept house for him. Joan considered further on the 
 great importance of these concessions; it made all the dif- 
 ference to everything. She was now to have a life of her 
 own, and every kind of adventure and romance was possible 
 for her. She was suddenly so happy that she sprang up and 
 did a little dance round her room, a sort of polka, that bo- 
 came so vehement that the pictures and the little ricketj 
 table rattled. 
 
 "I'll be o grown-up at the Morrises' this afternoon that
 
 ONE 
 
 PRELUDE 45 
 
 they'll think I've been calling for years/' she said to herself. 
 
 She had need of all her courage and optimism at luncheon, 
 for it was a gloomy meal. Only her father and mother were 
 present. They were all very silent. 
 
 After lunch she went upstairs, put on her hat and coat, 
 picked up the three Library books, and started off. It was 
 a sunny day, with shadows chasing one another across the 
 Cathedral green. There was, as there so often is in Pol- 
 chester, a smell of the sea in the air, cold and invigorating. 
 She paused for a moment and looked across at the Cathedral. 
 She did not know why, but she had been always afraid of 
 the Cathedral. She had never loved it, and had always 
 wished that they could go on Sundays to some little church 
 like St. James'. 
 
 For most of her conscious life the Cathedral had hung 
 over her with its dark menacing shadow, forbidding her, as 
 it seemed to her, to be gay or happy or careless. To-day 
 the thought suddenly came to her, "That place is going to 
 do us harm. I hate it," and for a moment she was depressed 
 and uneasy; but when she came out from the Arden Gate 
 and saw the High Street all shining with the sun, running 
 down the hill into glittering distance, she was gloriously 
 cheerful once more. There the second wonderful thing that 
 day happened to her. She had taken scarcely a step down 
 the hill when she came upon Mrs. Sampson. There was 
 nothing wonderful about that ; Mrs. Sampson, being the wife 
 of a Dean who was much more retiring than he should be, 
 was to be seen in public at all times and seasons, having to do, 
 as it were, the work of two rather than one. No, the won- 
 derful thing was that Joan suddenly realised that her terror 
 of Mrs. Sampson a terror that had always been a real thorn 
 in her flesh was completely gone. It was as though a charm, 
 an Abracadabra, had been whispered over Mrs. Sampson and 
 she had been changed immediately into a rabbit. It had 
 never been Mrs. Sampson's fault that she was alarming to 
 the young. She was a good woman, but she wa cursed with
 
 46 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 two sad burdens a desperate shyness and a series, unre- 
 lenting, unmitigating, mysterious, desperate, of nervous 
 headaches. 
 
 Her headaches were a feature of Polchester life, and 
 those who were old enough to understand pitied her and 
 offered her many remedies. But the young cannot be ex- 
 pected to realise that there can be anything physically wrong 
 with the old, and Mrs. Sampson's sharpness of manner, her 
 terrifying habit of rapping out a "Yes" or a "No," her 
 gloomy view of boisterous habits and healthy appetites, made 
 her one most truly to be avoided. Before to-day Joan would 
 have willingly walked a mile out of her way to escape her; 
 to-day she only saw a nervous, pale-faced little woman in an 
 ill-fitting blue dress, for whom she could not be anything 
 but sorry. 
 
 "Good morning, Mrs. Sampson." 
 
 "Good morning, Joan." 
 
 "Isn't it a nice day ?" 
 
 "It's cold, I think. Is your mother well ?" 
 
 "Very well, thank you." 
 
 "Give her my love." 
 
 "I will, Mrs. Sampson." 
 
 "Good-bye." 
 
 "Good-bye." 
 
 Mrs. Sampson's nose, that would take on a blue colour 
 on a cold day, quivered, her thin mouth shut with a snap, 
 and she was gone. 
 
 "But I wasn't afraid of her!" She was almost fright- 
 ened at this new spirit that had come to her, and, feeling, 
 rather that in another moment she would be punished for her 
 piratical audacity, she turned up the steps into the Circulat- 
 ing Library. 
 
 It was the custom in those days that far away from the 
 dust of the grimy shelves, in the very middle of the room, 
 there was a table with all the latest works of fiction in their 
 gaudy bindings, a few volumes of poetry anJ a few memoirs.
 
 ONE PKELUDE 47 
 
 Close to this table Miss Milton sat, wrapped, in the warm- 
 est weather, in a thick shawl and knitting endless stock- 
 ings. She hated children, myself in particular. She was 
 also a Snob of the Snobs, and thanked God on her knees 
 every night for Lady St. Leath, Mrs. Combermere and Mrs. 
 Sampson, by whose graces she was left in her present position. 
 
 Joan was still too near childhood to be considered very 
 seriously, and it was well known that her father did not 
 take her very seriously either. She was always, therefore, 
 on the rare occasions when she entered the Library, snubbed 
 by Miss Milton. It must be confessed that to-day, in spite 
 of her success with Mrs. Sampson, she was nervous. She 
 was nervous partly because she hated Miss Milton's red 
 rimmed eyes, and never looked at them if she could help it, 
 but, in the main, because she knew that her mother was re- 
 turning the Library books too quickly, and had, moreover, 
 insisted that she should ask for Mr. Barrie's Sentimental 
 Tommy and Mr. Seton Merriman's The Sowers, both of them 
 books that had been asked for for weeks and as steadily and 
 persistently refused. 
 
 Joan knew what Miss Milton would say, "That they might 
 be in next week, but that she couldn't be sure." Was Joan 
 strong enough now, in her new-found glory, to fight for 
 them? She did not know. 
 
 She advanced to the table smiling. Miss Milton did not 
 look up, but continued to knit one of her horrible stockings. 
 
 "Good-morning, Miss Milton. Mother has sent back 
 these books. They were not quite what she wanted." 
 
 "I'm sorry for that." Miss Milton took the books into 
 her chilblained protection. "It's a little difficult, I must say, 
 to know what Mrs. Brandon prefers."- 
 
 "Well, there's Sentimental Tommy/' began Joan. 
 
 But Miss Milton was an old general. 
 
 "Oh, that's out, I'm afraid. Now, here's a sweetly pretty 
 book Roger Varibrugh's Wife, by Adeline Sergeant. It's 
 only just out. . . ."
 
 48 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 "Or there's The Sowers," said Joan, caught against her 
 will by the red-rimmed eyes and staring at them. 
 
 "Oh, that's out, I'm afraid. There are several books 
 here 
 
 "You promised mother," said Joan, "that she should have 
 Sentimental Tommy this week. You promised her a month 
 ago. It's about time that mother had a book that she cares 
 for." 
 
 "Really," said Miss Milton, wide-eyed at Joan's audacity. 
 "You seem to be charging me with some remissness, Miss 
 Brandon. If you have any complaint, I'm sure the Li- 
 brary Committee will attend to it. It's to them I have to 
 answer. When the book is in you shall have it. I can 
 promise no more. I am only human." 
 
 "You have said that now for three months," said Joan, 
 beginning, to her own surprised delight, to be angry. 
 "Surely the last reader hasn't been three months over it. 
 I thought subscribers were only allowed to keep a book a 
 week." 
 
 Miss Milton's crimson colouring turned to a deep purple. 
 
 "The book is out," she said. "Both books are out. They 
 are in great demand. I have no more to say." 
 
 The Library door opened, and a young man came in. 
 Joan was still too young to wish for scenes in public. She 
 must give up the battle for to-day. When, however, she 
 saw who it was she blushed. It was young Lord St. Leath 
 Johnny St. Leath, as he was known to his familiars, who 
 were many and of all sorts and conditions. Joan hated her- 
 self for blushing, especially before the odious Miss Milton, 
 but there was a reason. One day in last October after 
 morning service Joan and her mother had waited in the 
 Cloisters to avoid a shower of rain. St. Leath had also 
 waited and very pleasantly had talked to them both. There 
 was nothing very alarming in this, but as the rain cleared 
 and Mrs. Brandon had moved forward across the Green, 
 he had suddenly, with a confusion that had seemed to her
 
 ONE PEELUDE 49 
 
 charming, asked Joan whether one day they mightn't meet 
 again. He had given her one look straight in the eyes, 
 tried to say something more, failed, and turned away down 
 the Cloisters. 
 
 Joan had never before been asked by any young man to 
 meet him again. She had told herself that this was noth- 
 ing but the merest, most obvious politeness; nevertheless 
 the look that he had given her remained. 
 
 Now, as she saw him advancing towards her, there was 
 the thought, was it not on that very morning that her new 
 courage and self-confidence had come to her ? The thought 
 was so absurd that she flung it at Miss Milton. But the 
 blush remained. 
 
 Johnny was an ungainly young man, with a red face, 
 freckles, a large mouth, and a bull-terrier a conventional 
 British type, I suppose, saved, nevertheless, from conven- 
 tionality by his affection for his three plain sisters, his de- 
 termination to see things as they were, and his sense of 
 humour, the last of these something quite his own, and al- 
 ways appearing in unexpected places. The bull-terrier, in 
 spite of the notice on the Library door that no dogs were 
 admitted, advanced breathlessly and dribbling with excite- 
 ment for Miss Milton's large black felt slippers. 
 
 "Here, Andrew, old man. Heel ! Heel !" said Johnny. 
 Andrew, however, quite naturally concluded that this was 
 only an approval of his intentions, and there might have 
 followed an awkward scene had his master not caught him 
 by the collar and held him suspended in mid-air, to his own 
 indignant surprise and astonishment. 
 
 Joan laughed, and Miss Milton, quivering between in- 
 dignation, fear and snobbery, dropped the stocking that she 
 was knitting. 
 
 Andrew burst from his master's clutches, rushed the 
 stocking into the farthest recesses of the Library, and pro- 
 ceeded there to enjoy it. 
 
 Johnny apologised.
 
 50 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 "Oh, it's quite all right, Lord St Leath," said Miss Mil- 
 ton. "What a fine animal !" 
 
 "Yes, he is," said Johnny, rescuing the stocking. "He's 
 as strong as Lucifer. Here, Andrew, you devil, I'll break 
 every bone in your body." 
 
 During this little scene Johnny had smiled at Joan, and 
 in so pleasant a way that she was compelled to smile back 
 at him. 
 
 "How do you do, Miss Brandon ?" He had recalled An- 
 drew now, and the dog was slobbering happily at his feet. 
 "Jolly day, isn't it?" 
 
 "Yes," said Joan, and stood there awkwardly, feeling 
 that she ought to go but not knowing quite how to do so. 
 He also seemed embarrassed, and turned abruptly to Miss 
 Milton. 
 
 "I say, look here. . . . Mother asked me to come in and 
 get that book you promised her. What's the name of the 
 thing? . . . I've got it written down." 
 
 He fumbled in his pocket and produced a bit of paper. 
 
 "Here, it is. Sentimental Tommy, by a man called Barrie. 
 Silly name, but mother's alwavs reading the most awful 
 stuff." 
 
 Joan turned towards Miss Milton. 
 
 "How funny !" she said. "That's the boojk I've just been 
 asking for. It's out." 
 
 Miss Milton's face was a curious purple. 
 
 "Well, that's odd," said Johnny. "Mother told me that 
 you'd sent her a line to say it was in whenever she sent 
 for it" 
 
 "It's been out three months," said Joan, staring now 
 etraight into Miss Milton's angry eyes. 
 
 "I've been keeping . . ." said Miss Milton. "That is, 
 there's a special copy. . . . Lady St. Leath specially 
 asked " 
 
 "Is it in, or isn't it?" asked Johnny. 
 
 "There is a copy, Lord St. Leath With confused
 
 ONE 
 
 PKELUDE 51 
 
 fingers Miss Milton searched in a drawer. She produced 
 the book. 
 
 "You told me," said Joan, forgetting now in her anger 
 St. Leath and all the world, "that there wouldn't be a copy 
 for weeks. If you'd told me you were keeping one for 
 Lady St. Leath, that would have been different. You 
 shouldn't have told me a lie." 
 
 "Do you mean to say," said Johnny, opening his eyes 
 very widely indeed, "that you refused this copy to Miss 
 Brandon ?" 
 
 "Certainly," said Miss Milton, breathing very hard as 
 though she had been running a long distance. "I was keep- 
 ing it for your mother." 
 
 "Well, I'm damned," said Johnny. "I beg your pardon, 
 Miss Brandon, . . . but I never heard such a thing. Does 
 my mother pay a larger subscription than other people?" 
 
 "Certainly not." 
 
 "Then what right had you to tell Miss Brandon a lie?" 
 
 Miss Milton, in spite of long training in the kind of war- 
 fare attaching, of necessity, to Circulating Libraries, was 
 very near to tears also murder. She would have been de- 
 lighted to pierce Joan's heart with a bright stiletto, had such 
 a weapon been handy. She saw the softest, easiest, idlest job 
 in the world slipping out of her fingers; she saw herself, a 
 desolate and haggard virgin, begging her bread on the Pol- 
 chester streets. She saw . . . but never mind her visions. 
 They were terrible ones. She had recourse to her only 
 defence. 
 
 "If I have misunderstood my duty," she said in a trem- 
 bling voice, "there is the Library Committee." 
 
 "Oh, never mind," said Joan whose anger had disap- 
 peared. "It doesn't matter a bit. We'll have the book 
 after Lady St. Leath." 
 
 "Indeed you won't," said Johnny, seizing the volume and 
 forcing it upon Joan. "Mother can wait. I never heard of 
 such a thing." He turned fiercely upon Miss Milton. "My
 
 52 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 mother shall know exactly what has happened. I'm sure 
 she'd be horrified if she understood that you were keeping 
 books from other subscribers in order that she might have 
 them. . . . Good afternoon." 
 
 He strode from the room. At the door he paused. 
 
 "Can I Shall we Are you going down the 
 
 High Street, Miss Brandon?" 
 
 "Yes," said Joan. They went out of the room and down 
 the Library steps together. 
 
 In the shiny, sunny street they paused. The dark cob- 
 webs of the Library hung behind Joan's consciousness like 
 the sudden breaking of a mischievous spell. 
 
 She was so happy that she could have embraced Andrew, 
 who was, however, already occupied with the distant aura 
 of a white poodle on the other side of the street. 
 
 Johnny was driven by the impulse of his indignation 
 down the hill. Joan, rather breathlessly, followed him. 
 
 "I say!" said Johnny. "Did you ever hear of such a 
 woman ! She ought to be poisoned. She ought indeed. No, 
 poisoning's too good for her. Hung, drawn and quartered. 
 That's what she ought to be. She'll get into trouble over 
 that." 
 
 "Oh no," said Joan. "Please, Lord St. Leath, don't say 
 any more about it. She has a difficult time, I expect, every- 
 body wanting the same books. After all a promise is a 
 promise." 
 
 "But she'd promised your mother 
 
 "No, she never really did. She always said that it would 
 be in in a day or two. She never properly promised. I 
 expect we'd have had it next." 
 
 "The snob, the rotten snob!" Johnny paused and raised 
 his stick. "I hate women like that. No, she's not doing 
 her job properly. She oughtn't to be there." 
 
 So swift had been their descent that they arrived in a 
 moment at the market 
 
 Because to-day was market-day there was a fine noise,
 
 PKELTJDE 53 
 
 confusion and splendour carts rattling in and out, sheep 
 and cows driven hither and thither, the wooden stalls bright 
 with flowers and vegetables, the dim arcades looming be- 
 hind the square filled with mysterious riches. They could 
 not talk very much here, and Joan was glad. She was too 
 deeply excited to talk. At one moment St. Leath took her 
 arm to guide her past a confused mob of bewildered sheep. 
 The Glebeshire peasant on marketing-day has plenty of con- 
 versation. Old wrinkled women, stout red-faced farmers, 
 boys and girls all shouted together, and above the scene the 
 light driving clouds flung their transparent shadows, like 
 weaving shuttles across the sun. 
 
 "Oh, do let's stop here a moment," said Joan, peering into 
 one of the arcades. "I've always loved this one all my life. 
 I've never been able to resist it." 
 
 This was the Toy Arcade, now, I'm afraid, gone the way 
 of so many other romantic things. It had been to all of us 
 the most wonderful spot in Polchester from the very earliest 
 days, this partly because of the toys themselves, partly be- 
 cause it was the densest and darkest of all the Arcades, never 
 utterly to be pierced by our youthful eyes, partly because 
 only two doors away were the sinister rooms of Mr. Daw- 
 son, the dentist. Here not only was there every kind of toy 
 dolls, soldiers, horses, carts, games, tops, hoops, dogs, ele- 
 phants but also sweets chocolates, jujubes, caramels, and 
 the best sweet in the whole world, the Polchester Bull's-eye. 
 
 They went in together. Mrs. Magnet, now with God, an 
 old woman like a berry, always in a bonnet with green 
 flowers, smiled and bobbed. The colours of the toys jumbled 
 against the dark walls were like patterns in a carpet. 
 
 "What do you say, Miss Brandon?" said Johnny. "If I 
 give you a toy will you give me one ?" 
 
 "Yes," said Joan, afraid a little of Mrs. Magnet's piercing 
 black eye. 
 
 "You're not to see what I get. Turn your back a mo- 
 ment."
 
 54 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 Joan turned around. As she waited she could hear the 
 "Hie ! . . . Hie ! Woah I" of the market-cries, the bleating 
 of the sheep, the lowing of a cow. 
 
 "Here you are, then." She turned. He presented her 
 with a Japanese doll, gay in a pink cotton frock, his waist 
 girdled with a sash of gold tissue. 
 
 "Now you turn your back," she said. 
 
 In a kind of happy desperation she seized a nigger with 
 bold red checks, a white jacket and crimson trousers. 
 
 Mrs. Magnet wrapped the presents up. They paid, and 
 walked out into the sun again. 
 
 "I'll keep that doll," said Johnny, "just as long as you 
 keep yours." 
 
 "Good-bye," said Joan hurriedly. "I've got to call at a 
 house on the other side of the market. . . . Good-bye." 
 
 She felt the pressure of his hand on hers, then, clutching 
 her parcel, hurried, almost ran, indeed, through the market- 
 stalls. She did not look back. 
 
 When she had crossed the Square she turned down into 
 a little side street. The plan of Polchester is very simple. 
 It is built, as it were, on the side of a rock, running finally 
 to a flat top, on which is the Cathedral. Down the side of 
 the rock there are broad ledges, and it is on one of these that 
 the market-place is built. At the bottom of the rock lies the 
 jumble of cottages known most erroneously as Seatown, and 
 round the rock runs the river Pol, slipping away at last 
 through woods and hills and valleys into the sea. At high 
 tide you can go all the way by river to the sea, and in the 
 summer, this makes a pleasant and beautiful excursion. It 
 is because 'of this that Seatown has, perhaps, some right to 
 its name, because in one way and another sailors collect in 
 the cottages and at the "Dog and Pilchard," that pleasant 
 and democratic hostelry of which, in 1897, Samuel Hogg was 
 landlord. Many visitors have been known to declare that 
 Seatown was "too sweet for anything," and that "it would 
 be really wicked to knock down the ducks of cottages," but
 
 ONE PKELUDE 55 
 
 "the ducks of cottages" were the foulest and most insanitary 
 dwelling-places in the south of England, and it has always 
 been to me amazing that the Polchester Town Council al- 
 lowed them to stand so long as they did. In 1902, as all 
 the Glebeshire world knows, there was the great battle of 
 Seatown, ending in the cottages' destruction. In 1897 those 
 evil dwelling-places gloried in their full magnificence of 
 sweet corruption, nor did the periodical attacks of typhoid 
 alarm in the least the citizens of the Upper Town. Once 
 and again gentlemen from other parts paid mysterious of- 
 ficial visits, but we had ways, in old times, of dealing with 
 inquisitive meddlers from the outside world. 
 
 Because the market-place was half-way down the Rock, 
 and because the Rectory of St. James' was just below the 
 market-place, the upper windows of that house commanded 
 a wonderful view both of the hill, High Street and Cathe- 
 dral above it, and of Seatown, river and woods below it. It 
 was said that it was up this very rocky street from the river, 
 through the market, and up the High Street that the armed 
 enemies of the Black Bishop had fought their way to the 
 Cathedral on that great day when the Bishop had gone to 
 meet his God, and a piece of rock is still shown to innocent 
 visitors as the place whence some of his enemies, in full 
 armour, were flung down, many thousand feet, to the wa- 
 ters of the Pol. 
 
 Joan had often longed to see the view from the windows 
 of St. James' Rectory, but she had not known old Dr. Bur- 
 roughs, the former Rector, a cross man with gout and rheu- 
 matism. She walked up some steps and found the house 
 the last of three all squeezed together on the edge of the hill. 
 The Rectory, because it was the last, stood square to all the 
 winds of heaven, and Joan fancied what it must be in wild 
 wintry weather. Soon she was in the drawing-room shaking 
 hands with Miss Burnett, who was Mr. Morris' sister-in- 
 law, and kept house for him. 
 
 Miss Burnett was a stout negative woman, whose whole
 
 56 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 mind was absorbed in the business of housekeeping, prices 
 of food, wickedness and ingratitude of servants, malicious- 
 ness of shopkeepers and so on. The house, with all her man- 
 aging, was neither tidy nor clean, as Joan quickly saw ; Misa 
 Burnett was not, by temperament, methodical, nor had she 
 ever received any education. Her mind, so far as a per- 
 ception of the outside world and its history went, was some 
 way behind that of a Hottentot or a South Sea Islander. She 
 had, from the day of her birth, been told by every one around 
 her that she was stupid, and, after a faint struggle, she 
 had acquiesced in that judgment. She knew that her younger 
 sister, afterwards Mrs. Morris, was pretty and accomplished, 
 and that she would never be either of those things. She 
 was not angry nor jealous at this. The note of her charac- 
 ter was acquiescence, and when Agatha had died of pleurisy 
 it had seemed the natural thing for her to come and keep 
 house for the distressed widower. If Mr. Morris had since 
 regretted the arrangement he had, at any rate, never said so. 
 
 Miss Burnett's method of conversation was to say some- 
 thing about the weather and then to lapse into a surprised 
 and distressed stare. If her visitor made some statement 
 she crowned it with, "Well, now, that was just was I was 
 going to say." 
 
 Her nose, when she talked, twinkled at the nostrils ap- 
 prehensively, and many of her visitors found this fascinat- 
 ing, so that they suddenly, with hot confusion, realised that 
 they too had been staring in a most offensive manner. 
 Joan had not been out in the world long enough to enable 
 her to save a difficult situation by brilliant talk, and she 
 very quickly found herself staring at Miss Burnett's nose 
 and longing to say something about it, as, for instance, 
 "What a stronge nose you've got, Miss Burnett see how 
 it twitches!" or, "If you'll allow me, Miss Burnett, I'd just 
 like to study your nose for a minute." When she realised 
 this horrible desire in herself she blushed crimson and gazed 
 about the untidy and entangled drawing-room in real des-
 
 ONE 
 
 PKELTJDE 57 
 
 peration. She could see nothing in the room that was likely 
 to save her. She was about to rise and depart, although she 
 had only been there five minutes, when Mr. Morris came in. 
 
 Joan realised at once that this man was quite different 
 from any one whom she had ever known. He was a stranger 
 to her Polchester world in body, soul and spirit, as though, 
 a foreigner from some far-distant country, he had been 
 shipwrecked and cast upon an inhospitable shore. So 
 strangely did she feel this that she was quite surprised 
 when he did not speak with a foreign accent. "Oh, he must 
 be a poet!" was her second thought about Mr. Morris, not 
 because he dressed oddly or had long hair. She could not 
 tell whence the impression came, unless it were in his strange, 
 bewildered, lost blue eyes. Lost, bewildered yes, that was 
 what he was! With every movement of his slim, straight 
 body, the impulse with which he brushed back his untidy fair 
 hair from his forehead, he seemed like a man only just 
 awake, a man needing care and protection, because he sim- 
 ply would not be able to look after himself. So ridiculously 
 did she have this impression that she almost cried "Look 
 out !" when he moved forward, as though he would certainly 
 knock himself against a chair or a table. 
 
 "How strange," she thought, "that this man should live 
 with Miss Burnett ! What does he think of her ?" She was 
 excited by her discovery of him, but that meant very little, 
 because just now she was being excited by everything. She 
 found at once that talking to him was the easiest thing in 
 the world. Mr. Morris did not say very much; he smiled 
 gently, and when Miss Burnett, awaking suddenly from her 
 torpor, said, "You'll have some tea, Miss Brandon, won't 
 you?" he, smiling, softly repeated the invitation. 
 
 "Thank you," said Joan. "I will. How strange it is," 
 she went on, "that you are so close to the market and, even 
 on market-day, you don't hear a sound !" 
 
 And it was strange! as though the house were bewitched
 
 58 THE CATHEDKAL BOOK 
 
 and had suddenly, even as Joan entered it, gathered around 
 it a dark wood for its protection. 
 
 "Yes," said Mr. Morris. "We found it strange at first. 
 But it's because we are the last house, and the three others 
 protect us. We get the wind and rain, though. You should 
 hear this place in a storm. But the house is strong enough ; 
 it's very stoutly built ; not a board creaks in the wildest 
 weather. Only the windows rattle and the wind comes 
 roaring down the chimneys." 
 
 "How long have you been here?" asked Joan. 
 
 "Nearly a year and we still feel strangers. We were 
 near Ashford in Kent for twelve years, and the Glebeshire 
 people are very different." 
 
 "Well," said Joan, who was a little irritated because she 
 felt that his voice was a little sadder than it ought to be, 
 "I think you'll like Polchester. I'm sure you will. And 
 you've come in a good year, too. There's sure to bo a lot 
 going on this year because of the Jubilee." 
 
 Mr. Morris did not seem to be as thrilled as he should be 
 by the thought of the Jubilee, so Joan went on : 
 
 "It's so lucky for us that it comes just at the Polchester 
 Feast time. We always have a tremendous week at the 
 Feast the Horticultural Show and a Ball in the Assembly 
 Rooms, and all sorts of things. It's going to be my first 
 ball this year, although I've really come out already." She 
 laughed. "Festivities start to-morrow with the arrival of 
 Marquis." 
 
 "Marquis?" repeated Mr. Morris politely. 
 
 "Oh, don't you know Marquis ? His is the greatest Cir- 
 cus in England. He comes to Polchester every year, and 
 they have a procession through the town elephants and 
 camels, and Britannia in her chariot, and sometimes a cage 
 with the lions and the tigers. Last year they had the sweet- 
 est little ponies four of them, no higher than St. Bernards 
 and there are the clowns too, and a band." 
 
 She was suddenly afraid that she was talking too much
 
 ONE PEELUDE 59 
 
 silly too, in her childish enthusiasms. She remembered 
 that she was in reality deputising for her mother, who would 
 never have talked about the Circus. Fortunately at that 
 moment the tea came in; it was brought by a flushed and 
 contemptuous maid, who put the tray down on a little table 
 with a bang, tossed her head as though she despised them all, 
 and slammed the door behind her. 
 
 Miss Burnett was upset by this, and her nose twitched more 
 violently than ever. Joan saw that her hand trembled as 
 she poured out the tea, and she was at once sorry for her. 
 
 Mr. Morris talked about Kent and London, and tea was 
 drunk and the saffron cake praised, and Joan thought it 
 was time to go. At the last, however, she turned to Mr. 
 Morris and said: 
 
 "Do you like the Cathedral?" 
 
 "It's wonderful," he answered. "You should see it from 
 our window upstairs." 
 
 "Oh, I hate it " said Joan. 
 
 "Why?" Morris asked her. 
 
 There was a curious challenge in his voice. They were 
 both standing facing one another. 
 
 "I suppose that's a silly thing to say. Only you don't 
 live as close to it as we do, and you haven't lived here so 
 long as we have. It seems to hang right over you, and it 
 never changes,, and I hate to think it will go on just the 
 same, years after we're dead." 
 
 "Have you seen the view from our window?" Morris 
 asked her. 
 
 "No," said Joan, "I was never in this house before." 
 
 "Come and see it," he said. 
 
 "I'm sure," said Miss Burnett heavily, "Miss Brandon 
 doesn't want to be bothered when she's seen the Cathedral 
 all her life, too." 
 
 "Of course I'd love to see it," said Joan, laughing. "To 
 tell you the truth, that's what I've always wanted. I looked
 
 60 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 at this house again and again when old Canon Burroughs 
 was here, and thought there must be a wonderful view." 
 
 She said good-bye to Miss Burnett. 
 
 "My mother does hope you will soon come and see us," 
 she said. 
 
 "I have just met Mrs. Brandon for a moment at Mrs. 
 Combermere's," said Mr. Morris. "We'll be very glad to 
 come." 
 
 She went out with him. 
 
 "It's up these stairs," he said. "Two nights. I hope 
 you don't mind." 
 
 They climbed on to the second landing. At the end of 
 the passage there was a window. The evening was grey 
 and only little faint wisps of blue still lingered above the 
 dusk, but the white sky threw up the Cathedral towers, 
 now black and sharp-edged in magnificent relief. Truly it 
 was a view! 
 
 The window was in such a position that through it you 
 gazed behind the neighbouring houses, above some low roofs, 
 straight up the twisting High Street to the Cathedral. The 
 great building seemed to be perched on the very edge of the 
 rock, almost, you felt, swinging in mid-air, and that so pre- 
 cariously that with one push of the finger you might send 
 it staggering into space. Joan had never seen it so domi- 
 nating, so commanding, so fierce in its disregard of the tiny 
 clustered world beneath it, so near to the stars, so majestic 
 and alone. 
 
 "Yes it's wonderful," she said. 
 
 "Oh, but you should see it," he cried, "as it can be. It's 
 dull to-day, the sky's grey and there's no sunset, but when 
 it's naming red with all the windows shining, or when all 
 the stars are out or in moonlight . . . it's like a great ship 
 sometimes, and sometimes like a cloud, and sometimes like a 
 fiery palace. Sometimes it's in mist and you can only seo 
 just the top of the towers. . . ."
 
 ONE PKELTJDE 61 
 
 "I don't like it," said Joan, turning away. "It doesn't 
 care what happens to us." 
 
 "Why should it ?" he answered. "Think of all it's seen 
 the battles and the fights and the plunder and it doesn't 
 care! We can do what we like and it will remain just the 
 same." 
 
 "People could come and knock it down," Joan said. 
 
 "I believe it would still be there if they did. The rock 
 would be there and the spirit of the Cathedral. . . . What 
 do people matter beside a thing like that? Why, we're 
 ants . . . !" 
 
 He stopped suddenly. 
 
 "You'll think me foolish, Miss Brandon," he said. "You 
 
 have known the Cathedral so long " He paused. "I 
 
 think I know what you mean about fearing it " 
 
 He saw her to the door. 
 
 "Good-bye," he said, smiling. "Come again." 
 
 "I like him," she thought as she walked away. What a 
 splendid day she had had!
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE IMPERTINENT ELEPILAJTT 
 
 A RCHDEACON BRANDON had surmounted with sur- 
 **> prising celerity the shock of Falk's unexpected return. 
 He was helped to this firstly by his confident belief in a 
 God who had him especially in His eye and would, on no 
 account, do him any harm. As God had decided that Falk 
 had better leave Oxford, it was foolish to argue that it would 
 have been wiser for him to stay there. Secondly, he waa 
 helped by his own love for, and pride in, his son. The inde- 
 pendence and scorn that were so large a part of Falk's na- 
 ture were after his own heart. He might fight and oppose 
 them (he often did), but always behind the contest there 
 was appreciation and approbation. That was the way for 
 a son of his to treat the world to snap his fingers at it! 
 The natural thing to do, the good old world being as stupid 
 as it was. Thirdly, he was helped by his family pride. It 
 took him only a night's reflection to arrive at the decision 
 that Falk had been entirely right in this affair and Oxford 
 entirely in the wrong. Two days after Falk's return he wrote 
 (without saying anything to the boy) Falk's tutor a very 
 warm letter, pointing out that he was sure the tutor would 
 agree with him that a little more tact and diplomacy might 
 have prevented so unfortunate an issue. It was not for 
 him, Brandon, to suggest that the authorities in Oxford 
 were perhaps a little behind the times, a little out of the 
 world. Nevertheless it was probably tnio that long resi- 
 dence Jn Oxford had hindered the aforesaid authorities from 
 realising the trend of the day, from appreciating the new 
 
 62
 
 PKELUDE 63 
 
 spirit of independence that was growing up in our younger 
 generation. It seemed obvious to him, Archdeacon Brandon, 
 that you could no longer treat men of Falk's age and charac- 
 ter as mere boys and, although he was quite sure that the 
 authorities at Oxford had done their best, he nevertheless 
 hoped that this unfortunate episode would enable them to see 
 that we were not now living in the Middle Ages, but rather 
 in the last years of the nineteenth century. It may seem to 
 some a little ironical that the Archdeacon, who was the most 
 conservative soul alive, should write thus to one of the most 
 conservative of our institutions, but "Before Oxford the 
 Brandons were. . . ." 
 
 What the tutor remarked when he read this letter is not 
 recorded. Brandon said nothing to Falk about all this. In- 
 deed, during the first weeks after Falk's return he preserved 
 a stern and dignified silence. After all, the boy must learn 
 that authority was authority, and he prided himself that he 
 knew, better than any number of Oxford Dons, how to train 
 and educate the young. Nevertheless light broke through. 
 Some of Falk's jokes were so good that his father, who had 
 a real sense of fun if only a slight sense of humour, was 
 bound to laugh. Very soon father and son resumed their 
 old relations of sudden tempers and mutual admiration, 
 and a strange, rather pathetic, quite uneloquent love that 
 was none the less real because it was, on either side, com- 
 pletely selfish. 
 
 But there was a fourth reason why Falk's return caused so 
 slight a storm. That reason was that the Archdeacon was 
 now girding up his loins before he entered upon one of his 
 famous campaigns. There had been many campaigns in 
 the past. Campaigns were indeed as truly the breath of the 
 Archdeacon's nostrils as they had been once of the great 
 Napoleon's and in every one of them had the Archdeacon 
 been victorious. 
 
 This one was to be the greatest of them all, and was to set 
 the sign and seal upon the whole of his career.
 
 64 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 It happened that, three miles out of Polchester, there 
 was a little village known as Pybus St. Anthonj. A very 
 beautiful village it was, with orchards and a stream and 
 old-world cottages and a fine Norman church. But not for 
 its orchards nor its stream nor its church was it famous. It 
 was famous because for many years its living had been re- 
 garded as one of the most important in the whole diocese 
 of Polchester. It was the tradition that the man who went 
 to Pybus St. Anthony had the world in front of him. When 
 likely men for preferment were looked for it was to Pybus 
 St. Anthony that men looked. Heaven alone knows how 
 many Canons and Archdeacons had made their first bow 
 there to the Glebeshire world! Three Deans and a Bishop 
 had, at different times, made it their first stepping-stone to 
 fame. Canon Morrison (Honorary Canon of the Cathedral) 
 was its present incumbent Less intellectual than some of 
 the earlier incumbents, he was nevertheless a fine fellow. He 
 had been there only three years when symptoms of cancer of 
 the throat had appeared. He had been operated on in Lon- 
 don, and at first it had seemed that he would recover. Then 
 the dreaded signs had reappeared ; he had wished, poor man, 
 to surrender the living, but because there was yet hope the 
 Chapter, in whose gift the living was, had insisted on his re- 
 maining. 
 
 A week ago, however, he had collapsed. It was feared 
 now that at any moment he might die. The Archdeacon was 
 very sorry for Morrison. He liked him, and was deeply 
 touched by his tragedy; nevertheless one must face facts; it 
 was probable that at any moment now the Chapter would 
 be forced to make a new appointment. 
 
 He had been awaro ho did not disguise it from himself 
 in the least for some time now of the way that the appoint- 
 ment must go. There was a young man, the Rev. Rex Forsyth 
 by name, who, in his judgment, could be the only possible 
 man. Young Forsyth waa, at the present moment, chaplain 
 to the Bishop of St. Minworth. St. M in worth was only a
 
 ONE PKELUDE 65 
 
 Suffragan Bishopric, and it could not honestly be said that 
 there was a great deal for Mr. Forsyth to do there. But 
 it was not because the Archdeacon thought that the young 
 man ought to have more to do that he wished to move him 
 to Pybus St. Anthony. Far from it ! The Archdeacon, in 
 the deep secrecy of his own heart, could not honestly admit 
 that young Forsyth was a very hard worker he liked hunt- 
 ing and whist and a good bottle of wine ... he was that 
 kind of man. 
 
 Where, then, were his qualifications as Canon Morrison's 
 successor? Well, quite honestly and the Archdeacon was 
 one of the honestest men alive his qualifications belonged 
 more especially to his ancestors rather than to himself. In 
 the Archdeacon's opinion there had been too many clever men 
 of Pybus. Time now for a normal man. Morrison was nor- 
 mal and Forsyth would be more normal still. 
 
 He was in fact first cousin to young Johnny St. Leath 
 and therefore a very near relation of the Countess herself. 
 His father was the fourth son of the Earl of Trewithen, and, 
 as every one knows, the Trewithens and the St. Leaths are, 
 for all practical purposes, one and the same family, and 
 divide Glebeshire between them. No one ever quite knew 
 what young Rex Forsyth became a parson for. Some people 
 said he did it for a wager ; but however true that might be, he 
 was not very happy with dear old Bishop Clematis and very 
 ready for preferment. 
 
 Now the Archdeacon was no snob ; he believed in men and 
 women who had long and elaborate family-trees simply be- 
 cause he believed in institutions and because it had always 
 seemed to him a quite obvious fact that the longer any one 
 or anything remained in a place the more chance there was 
 of things being done as they always had been done. It was 
 not in the least because she was a Countess that he thought 
 the old Lady St. Leath a wonderful woman ; not wonderful 
 for her looks certainly no one could call her a beautiful 
 woman and not wonderful for her intelligence; the Arch-
 
 66 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 deacon had frequently been compelled to admit to himself 
 that she was a little on the stupid side but wonderful for 
 her capacity for staying where she was like a rock and al- 
 lowing nothing whatever to move her. In these dangerous 
 days and what dangerous days they were! the safety of 
 the country simply depended on a few such figures as the 
 Countess. Queen Victoria was another of them, and for 
 her the Archdeacon had a real and very touching devotion. 
 Thank God he would be able to show a little of it in the 
 prominent part he intended to play in the Polchester Jubi- 
 lee festivals this year! 
 
 Any one could see then that to have young Rex Forsyth 
 close at hand at Pybus St. Anthony was the very best possible 
 thing for the good of Polchester. Lady St. Leath saw it, 
 Mrs. Combermere saw it, Mrs. Sampson saw it, and young 
 Forsyth himself saw it The Archdeacon entirely failed to 
 understand how there could be any one who did not see it. 
 However, he was afraid that there were one or two in Pol- 
 chester. . . . People said that young Forsyth was stupid ! 
 Perhaps he was not very bright; all the easier then to direct 
 him in the way that he should go, and throw his forces into 
 the right direction. People said that he cared more for his 
 hunting and his whist than for his work well, he was young 
 and, at any rate, there was none of the canting hypocrite 
 about him. The Archdeacon hated canting hypocrites ! 
 
 There had been signs, once and again, of certain anar- 
 chists and devilish fellows, who crept up and down the streets 
 of Polchestor spreading their wicked mischief, their lying 
 and disintegrating ideas. The Archdeacon was determined 
 to fight them to the very last breath in his body, even as the 
 Black Bishop before him had fought his enemies. And the 
 Archdeacon had no fear of his victory. 
 
 Ilex. Forsyth at Pybus St. Anthony would be a fine step 
 forward. Have one of these irreligious radicals there, and 
 Heaven alone knew what harm he might wreak. No, Pol-
 
 ONE PRELUDE 67 
 
 chester must be saved. Let the rest of the world go to pieces, 
 Polchester would be preserved. 
 
 On how many earlier occasions had the Archdeacon sur- 
 veyed the Chapter, considered it in all its details and weighed 
 up judiciously the elements, good and bad, that composed 
 it. How well he knew them all ! First the Dean, mild and 
 polite and amiable, his mind generally busy with his beloved 
 flora and fauna, his flowers and his butterflies, very easy 
 indeed to deal with. Then Archdeacon Witheram, most nobly 
 conscientious, a really devout man, taking his work with a 
 seriousness that was simply admirable, but glued to the de- 
 tails of his own half of the diocese, so that broader and larger 
 questions did not concern him very closely. Bentinck- 
 Major next. The Archdeacon flattered himself that he knew 
 Bentinck-Major through and through his snobbery, his 
 vanity, his childish pleasure in his position and his cook, 
 his vanity in his own smart appearance! It would be diffi- 
 cult to find words adequate for the scorn with which the 
 Archdeacon regarded that elegant little man. Then Byle, 
 the Precentor. He was, to some extent, an unknown quan- 
 tity. His chief characteristic perhaps was his hatred of 
 quarrels he would say or do anything if only he might not 
 be drawn into a "row." "Peace at any price" was his motto, 
 and this, of course, as with the famous Vicar of Bray, in- 
 volved a good deal of insincerity. The Archdeacon knew 
 that he could not trust him, but a masterful policy of terror- 
 ism had always been very successful. Ryle was frankly 
 frightened by the Archdeacon, and a very good thing too! 
 Might he long remain so ! Lastly there was Foster, the Dio- 
 cesan Missioner. Let it be said at once that the Archdeacon 
 hated Foster. Foster had been a thorn in the Archdeacon's 
 side ever since his arrival in Polchester a thin, shambly- 
 kneed, untidy, pale-faced prig, that was what Foster was! 
 The Archdeacon hated everything about him his grey hair, 
 his large protruding ears, the pimple on the end of his nose,
 
 68 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 the baggy knees to his trousers, his thick heavy hands that 
 never seemed to be properly washed. 
 
 Nevertheless beneath that hatred the Archdeacon was com- 
 pelled to a reluctant admiration. The man was fearless, a 
 fanatic if you please, but devoted to his religion, believing in 
 it with a fervour and sincerity that nothing could shake. An 
 able man too, the best preacher in the diocese, better read 
 in every kind of theology than any clergyman in Glebe- 
 shire. It was especially for his open mind about new re- 
 ligious ideas that the Archdeacon mistrusted him. No opin- 
 ion, however heterodox, shocked him. Ho welcomed new 
 thought and had himself written a book, Christ and the 
 Gospels, that for its learning and broad-mindedness had cre- 
 ated a considerable stir. But he was a dull dog, never 
 laughed, never even smiled, lived by himself and kept to 
 himself. He had, in the past, opposed every plan of die 
 Archdeacon's, and opposed it relentlessly, but he was always, 
 thanks to the Archdeacon's efforts, in a minority. Tho 
 other Canons disliked him ; the old Bishop, safely tucked 
 away in his Palace at Carpledon, was, except for his satellite 
 Rogers, his only friend in Polchester. 
 
 So much for the Chapter. There was now only one un- 
 known element in the situation Konder. lender's position 
 was important because he was Treasurer to the Cathedral. 
 His predecessor, Hart-Smith, now promoted to the Deanery 
 of Norwich, had been an able man, but one of the old school, 
 a great friend of Brandon's, seeing eye to eye with him in 
 everything. The Archdeacon then had had his finger very 
 closely upon the Cathedral purse, and Hart-Smith's depar- 
 ture had been a very serious blow. The appointment of tho 
 new Canon had been in tho hands of the Crown, and Brandon 
 had, of course, had nothing to say to it. However, one glance 
 at Ronder he had seen him and spoken to him at the Dean's 
 a few days after his arrival had reassured him. Here, 
 surely, was a man whom ho need not fear an easy, good- 
 natured, rather stupid fellow by the look of him. Brandon
 
 ONE PRELUDE 69 
 
 hoped to have his finger on the Cathedral purse as tightly in 
 a few weeks' time as he had had it before. 
 
 And all this was in no sort of fashion for the Archdea- 
 con's personal advancement or ambition. He was contented 
 with Polchester, and quite prepared to live there for the rest 
 of his days and be buried, with proper ceremonies, when his 
 end came. With all his soul he loved the Cathedral, and if 
 he regarded himself as the principal factor in its good gov- 
 ernance and order he did so with a sort of divine fatalism 
 no credit to him that it was so. Let credit be given to the 
 Lord God who had seen fit to make him what he was and 
 to place in his hands that great charge. 
 
 His fault in the matter was, perhaps, that he took it all 
 too simply, that he regarded these men and the other fig- 
 ures in Polchester exactly as he saw them, did not believe 
 that they could ever be anything else. As God had created 
 the world, so did Brandon create Polchester as nearly in his 
 own likeness as might be there they 'all were and there, 
 please God, they would all be for ever ! 
 
 Bending his mind then to this new campaign, he thought 
 that he would go and see the Dean. He knew by this time, 
 he fancied, exactly how to prepare the Dean's mind for the 
 proper reception of an idea, although, in truth, he was as 
 simple over his plots and plans as a child brick-building 
 in its nursery. 
 
 About three o'clock one afternoon he prepared to sally 
 forth. The Dean's house was on the other side of the Ca- 
 thedral, and you had to go down the High Street and then 
 to the left up Orange Street to get to it, an irrational round- 
 about proceeding that always irritated the Archdeacon. Very 
 splendid he looked, his top-hat shining, his fine high white 
 collar, his spotless black clothes, his boots shapely and smart. 
 (He and Bentinck-Major were, I suppose, the only two 
 clergymen in Polchester who used boot-trees.) But his 
 smartness was in no way an essential with him. Clothed 
 in rags he would still have the grand air. "I often think
 
 70 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 of him," Miss Dobell once said, "as one of those glorious 
 gondoliers in Venice. How grand he would look !" 
 
 However that might be, it is beyond question that the 
 ridiculous clothes that a clergyman of the Church of Eng- 
 land is compelled to wear did not make him absurd, nor 
 did he look an over-dressed fop like Beutinck-Major. 
 
 Miss Dobell's gondolier was, on this present occasion, in 
 an excellent temper; and meeting his daughter Joan, he felt 
 very genial towards her. Joan had observed, several days 
 before, that the family crisis might be said to be past, and 
 verv thankful she was. 
 
 m 
 
 She had, at this time, her own happy dreams, so that 
 father and daughter, moved by some genial impulse, stopped 
 and kissed. 
 
 "There! my dear!" said the Archdeacon. "And what 
 are you doing this afternoon, Joan?" 
 
 "I'm going with mother," she said, "to see Miss Render. 
 It's time we called, you know." 
 
 "I suppose it is." Brandon patted her cheek. "Every- 
 thing you want ?" 
 
 "Yes, father, thank you," 
 
 "That's right" 
 
 Ho left the house, humming a little tune. On the second 
 step he paused, as he was in the habit of doing, and surveyed 
 the Precincts the houses with their shining knockers, their 
 old-fashioned bow-windows and overhanging portals, the Ca- 
 thedral Green, and the towering front of the Cathedral it- 
 self. He was, for a moment, a kind of presiding deity over 
 all this. Ho loved it and believed in it and trusted it exactly 
 as though it had been the work of his own hands. Half- 
 way towards the Arden Gate ho overtook poor old shambling 
 Canon Morphew, who really ought, in the Archdeacon's 
 opinion, to have died long ago. However, as he hadn't died 
 the Archdeacon felt kindly towards him, and he had, when 
 he talked to the old man, a sense of beneficence and charity 
 very warming to the heart.
 
 ONE PEELUDE 71 
 
 "Well, Morphew, enjoying the sun ?" 
 
 Canon Morphew always started when any one spoke to 
 him, being sunk all day deep in dreams of his own, dreams 
 that had their birth somewhere in the heart of the misty dirty 
 rooms where his books were piled ceiling-high and papers 
 blew about the floor. 
 
 "Good afternoon . . . good afternoon, Archdeacon. Pray 
 forgive me. You came upon me unawares." 
 
 Brandon moderated his manly stride to the other's shuf- 
 fling steps. 
 
 "Hope you've had none of that tiresome rheumatism trou- 
 bling you again." 
 
 "Rheumatism ? Just a twinge just a twinge. ... It be- 
 longs to my time of life." 
 
 "Oh, don't say that !" The Archdeacon laughed his hearty 
 laugh. "You've many years in front of you yet." 
 
 "E"o, I haven't and you don't mean it, Archdeacon you 
 know you don't. A few months perhaps that's all. The 
 Lord's will be done. But there's a piece of work ... a piece 
 of work. . . ." 
 
 He ran off into incoherent mumblings. Suddenly, just 
 as they reached the dark shadows of the Arden Gate, he 
 seemed to wake up. His voice was quite vigorous, his eyes, 
 tired and worn as they were, bravely scanned Brandon's 
 health and vigour. 
 
 "We all come to it, you know. Yes, we do. The very 
 strongest of us. You're a young man, Archdeacon, by my 
 years, and I hope you may long live to continue your good 
 work in this place. All the same, you'll be old yourself one 
 day. ~No one escapes. . . . No one escapes. . . ." 
 
 "Well, good-day to you," said the Archdeacon hurriedly. 
 "Good-day to you. . . . Hope this bright weather continues," 
 and started rather precipitately down the hill, leaving Mor- 
 phew to find his way by himself. 
 
 His impetuosity was soon restrained. He tumbled imme- 
 diately into a crowd, and pulling himself up abruptly and
 
 72 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 looking down the High Street he saw that the pavement on 
 both sides of the street was black with people. He was not 
 a man who liked to be jostled, and he was the more uncom- 
 fortable in that he discovered that his immediate neighbour 
 was Samuel Hogg, the stout and rubicund landlord of the 
 "Dog and Pilchard" of Seatown. With him was his pretty 
 daughter Annie. Near to them were Mr. John Curtis and 
 Mr. Samuel Croppet, two of the Town Councillors. With 
 none of these gentlemen did the Archdeacon wish to begin 
 a conversation. 
 
 And yet it was difficult to know what to do. The High 
 Street pavements were narrow, and the crowd seemed con- 
 tinually to increase. There was a good deal of pushing and 
 laughter and boisterous good-humour. To return up the 
 street again seemed to have something ignominious about it. 
 Brandon decided to satisfy his curiosity, support his dignity 
 and indulge his amiability by staying where he was. 
 
 "Good afternoon, Hogg," he said. "What's the disturb- 
 ance for?" 
 
 "Markisses Circus, sir," Hogg lifted his face like a large 
 round sun. "Surely you'd 'card of it, Archdeacon ?" 
 
 "Well, I didn't know," said Brandon in his most gracious 
 manner, "that it was this afternoon. ... Of course, how 
 stupid of me!" 
 
 Ho smiled round good-naturedly upon them all, and they 
 all smiled back upon him. He was a popular figure in the 
 town; it was felt that his handsome face and splendid pres- 
 ence did the town credit. Also, he always knew his own 
 mind. And he was no coward. 
 
 He nodded to Curtis and Croppet and then stared in front 
 of him, a fixed genial smile on his face, his fine figure tri- 
 umphant in the sun. He looked as though he were enjoy- 
 ing himself and was happy because he liked to see his fellow- 
 creatures happy; in reality he was wondering how ho 
 could have been so foolish as to forget Marquis' Circus.
 
 PKELUDE T3 
 
 Why had not Joan said something to him about it? Very 
 careless of her to place him in this unfortunate position. 
 
 He looked around him, but he could see no other dignitary 
 of the Church close at hand. How tiresome really, how 
 tiresome ! Moreover, as the timed moment of the procession 
 arrived the crowd increased, and he was now most uncom- 
 fortably pressed against other people. He felt a sharp little 
 dig in his stomach, then, turning, found close beside him the 
 flushed anxious, meagre little face of Samuel Bond, the Clerk 
 of the Chapter. Bond's struggle to reach his dignified posi- 
 tion in the town had been a severe one, and had only suc- 
 ceeded because of a multitude of self-submissions and abne- 
 gations, humilities and contempts, flatteries and sycophancies 
 that would have tired and defeated a less determined soul. 
 But, in the background, there were the figures of Mrs. Bond 
 and four little Bonds to spur him forward. He adored his 
 family. "Whatever I am, I'm a family man," was one 
 of his favourite sayings. In so worthy a cause much 
 sycophancy may be forgiven him. To no one, however, was 
 he so completely sycophantic as to the Archdeacon. He was 
 terrified of the Archdeacon; he would wake up in the mid- 
 dle of the night and think of him, then tremble and cower 
 tinder the warm protection of Mrs. Bond until sleep rescued 
 him once more. 
 
 It was natural, therefore, that however numerous the peo- 
 ple in Polchester might be whom the Archdeacon despised, 
 he despised little Bond most of all. And here was little Bond 
 pressed up against him, with the large circumference of the 
 cheerful Mr. Samuel Hogg near by, and the ironical town 
 smartness of Messrs. Curtis and Croppet close at hand. 
 Truly a horrible position. 
 
 "Ah, Archdeacon! I didn't see you indeed I didn't!" 
 The little breathless voice was like a child's penny whistle 
 blown ignorantly. "Just fancy! meeting you like this! 
 Hot, isn't it, although it's only February. Yes. . . . Hot
 
 74 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 indeed. I didn't know you cared for processions, Arch- 
 deacon ' 
 
 "I don't," said Brandon. "I hadn't realised that there 
 was a procession. Stupidly, I had forgotten 
 
 "Well, well," came the good-natured voice of Mr. Hogg. 
 "It'll do us no harm, Archdeacon no harm at all. I forget 
 whether you rightly know my little girl. This is Annie 
 come out to see the procession with her father." 
 
 The Archdeacon was compelled to shake hands. He did 
 it very graciously. She was certainly a fine girl tall, strong, 
 full-breasted, with dark colour and raven hlack hair; curious, 
 her eyes, very large and bright. They stared full at you, 
 but past you, as though they had decided that you were of 
 insufficient interest. 
 
 Annie thus gazed at the Archdeacon and said no word. 
 Any further intimacies were prevented by approach of the 
 procession. To the present generation Marquis' Circus would 
 not appear, I suppose, very wonderful. To many of us, thirty 
 years ago, it seemed the final expression of Oriental splendour 
 and display. 
 
 There were murmurs and cries of "Here they come ! Hero 
 they come! 'Ere they be!" Every one pressed forward; 
 Mr. Bond was nearly thrown off his feet and caught at the 
 lapel of the Archdeacon's coat to save himself. Only the 
 huge black eyes of Annie Hogg displayed no interest. The 
 procession had started_ from the meadows beyond the Cathe- 
 dral and, after discreetly avoiding the Precincts, was to 
 plunge down the High Street, pass through the Market-place 
 and vanish up Orange Street to follow, in fact, the very 
 path that the Archdeacon intended to pursue. 
 
 A band could bo heard, there was an astounded hush (the 
 whole of the High Street holding its broath), then the herald 
 appeared. 
 
 Ho wan, perhaps, a rather shabby fellow, wearing the 
 tarniAhed red and gold of many a procession, but ho walked 
 confidently, holding in his hand a tall wooden truncheon gay
 
 ONE PRELUDE 75 
 
 with paper-gilt, having his round cap of cloth of gold set 
 rakishly on one side of his head. After him came the band, 
 also in tarnished cloth of gold and looking as though they 
 would have been a trifle ashamed of themselves had they 
 not been deeply involved in the intricacies of their music. 
 After the band came four rather shabby riders on horse- 
 back, then some men dressed apparently in admiring imita- 
 tion of Charles II. ; then, to the wonder and whispered in- 
 credulity of the crowd, Britannia on her triumphal car. 
 The car an elaborate cart, with gilt wheels and strange 
 cardboard figures of dolphins and Father Neptune had in 
 its centre a high seat painted white and perched on a kind 
 of box. Seated on this throne was Britannia herself a 
 large, full-bosomed, flaxen-haired lady in white flowing robes, 
 and having a very anxious expression of countenance, as, 
 indeed, poor thing, was natural enough, because the cart 
 rocked the box and the box yet more violently rocked the 
 chair. At any moment, it seemed, might she be precipitated, 
 a fallen goddess, among the crowd, and the fact that the 
 High Street was on a slope of considerable sharpness did not 
 add to her ease and comfort. Two stout gentlemen, perspira- 
 tion bedewing their foreheads, strove to restrain the ponies, 
 and their classic clothing, that turned them into rather 
 tattered Bacchuses, did not make them less incongruous. 
 
 Britannia and her agony, however, were soon forgotten 
 in the ferocious excitements that followed her. Here were 
 two camels, tired and dusty, with that look of bored and 
 indifferent superiority that belongs to their tribe, two ele- 
 phants, two clowns, and last, but of course the climax of the 
 whole affair, a cage in which there could be seen behind the 
 iron bars a lion and a lioness, jolted haplessly from side to 
 side, but too deeply shamed and indignant to do more than 
 reproach the crowd with their burning eyes. Finally, another 
 clown bearing a sandwich-board on which was printed in 
 large red letters "Marquis' Circus the Finest in the
 
 76 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 World Renowned through Europe Come to the Church 
 Meadows and see the Fun" and so on. 
 
 As this glorious procession passed down the High Street 
 the crowd expressed its admiration in silent whispering. 
 There was no loud applause; nevertheless, Mr. Marquis, were 
 he present, must have felt the air electric with praise. It 
 was murmured that Britannia was Mrs. Marquis, and, if 
 that were true, she must have given her spouse afterwards, 
 in the sanctity of their privacy, a very grateful account of 
 her reception. 
 
 When the band had passed a little way down the street 
 and their somewhat raucous notes were modified by distance, 
 the sun came out in especial glory, as though to take his 
 own peep at the show, the gilt and cloth of gold shone and 
 gleamed, the chair of Britannia rocked as though it were 
 bursting with pride, and the Cathedral bells, as though they 
 too wished to lend their dignified blessing to the scene, 
 began to ring for Evensong. A sentimental observer, had 
 he been present, might have imagined that the old town 
 was glad to have once again an excuse for some display, and 
 preened itself and showed forth its richest and warmest 
 colours and wondered, perhaps, whether after all the drab 
 and interesting citizens of to-day were not minded to return 
 to the gayer and happier old times. Quito a noise, too, of 
 chatter and trumpets and bells and laughter. Even the 
 Archdeacon forgot his official smile and laughed, like a 
 boy. 
 
 It was then that the terrible tiling happened. Somewhere 
 at the lower end of the High Street the procession was held 
 up and the chariot had suddenly to pull itself back upon its 
 wheels, and the band were able to breathe freely for a 
 minute, to gaze alxnit them and to wipe the sweat from their 
 brows; even in February blowing and thumping "all round 
 the town" was a warm business. 
 
 Now, just opposite the Archdeacon were the two elephants, 
 checked by the sudden pause. Behind them was the cage
 
 PRELUDE 77 
 
 with the lions, who, now that the jolting had ceased, could 
 collect their scattered indignities and roar a little in ex- 
 asperated protest. The elephants, too, perhaps felt the 
 humility of their position, accustomed though they might 
 be to it by many years of sordid slavery. It may be, too, 
 that the sight of that patronising and ignorant crowd, the 
 crush and pack of the High Street, the silly sniggering, 
 the triumphant jangle of the Cathedral bells, thrust through 
 their slow and heavy brains some vision long faded now, 
 but for an instant revived, of their green jungles, their hot 
 suns, their ancient royalty and might. They realised per- 
 haps a sudden instinct of their power, that they could with 
 one lifting of the hoof crush these midgets that hemmed 
 them in back to the pulp whence they came, and so go 
 roaming and bellowing their freedom through the streets and 
 ways of the city. The larger of the two suddenly raised 
 his head and trumpeted; with his dim uplifted eyes he 
 caught sight of the Archdeacon's rich and gleaming top- 
 hat shining, as an emblem of the city's majesty, above the 
 crowd. It gleamed in the sun, and he hated it. He 
 trumpeted again and yet again, then, with a heavy lurching 
 movement, stumbled towards the pavement, and with little 
 fierce eyes and uplifted trunk heaved towards his enemies. 
 
 The crowd, with screams and cries, fell back in agitated 
 confusion. The Archdeacon, caught by surprise, scarcely 
 realising what had occurred, blinded a little by the sun, stood 
 where he was. In another movement his top-hat was snatched 
 from his head and tossed into air. . . . 
 
 He felt the animal's hot breath upon his face, heard the 
 shouts and cries around him, and, in very natural alarm, 
 started back, caught at anything for safety (he had tumbled 
 upon the broad and protective chest of Samuel Hogg), and' 
 had a general impression of whirling figures, of suns and 
 roofs and shining faces and, finally, the high winds of heaven 
 blowing upon his bare head. 
 
 In another moment the incident was closed. The courtier
 
 78 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 of Charles II. had nished up; the elephant was pulled and 
 hustled and kicked ; for him swiftly the vision of power and 
 ,lory and vengeance was over, and once again he was the 
 tied and governed prisoner of modern civilisation. The 
 top-hat lay, a battered and hapless remnant, beneath the feet 
 of the now advancing procession. 
 
 Once the crowd realised that the danger was over a roar 
 of laughter went up to heaven. There were shouts and 
 cries. The Archdeacon tried to smile. He heard in dim con- 
 fusion the cheery laugh of Samuel Hogg, he caught the com- 
 ment of Croppet and the rest. 
 
 With only one thought that he must hide himself, in- 
 dignation, humiliation, amazement that such a thing could be 
 in his heart, he backed, turned, almost ran, finding at last 
 sudden refuge in Bennett's book-shop. How wonderful was 
 the dark rich security of that enclosure! The shop was 
 always in a half-dusk and the gas burnt in its dim globes 
 during most of the day. All the richer and handsomer 
 gleamed the rows of volumes, the morocco and the leather 
 and the cloth. Old Mr. Bennett himself, the son of the 
 famous man who had known Scott and Byron, was now a 
 prodigious age (in the town his nickname was Methusalem), 
 but he still liked to sit in the shop in a high chair, his white 
 board in bright contrast with the chaste selection of the 
 newest works arranged in front of him. He might himself 
 have been the Spirit of Select Literature summoned out of 
 the vasty deep by the Cultured Spirits of Polchester. 
 
 Into this splendid temple of letters the Archdeacon 
 came, halted, breathless, bewildered, tumbled. He saw at 
 first only dimly. Ho was aware that old Mr. Bennett, with 
 an exclamation of surprise, rose in his chair. Then he 
 perceived that two others were in the shop; finally, that these 
 two were the Dean and Konder, the men of all others in 
 Polcheeter whom he least wished to find there. 
 
 "Archdeacon!" cried the Dean.
 
 ONE 
 
 PRELUDE 79 
 
 "Yes om ah an extraordinary thing has occurred I 
 really oh, thank you, Mr. Wilton. . . ." 
 
 Mr. Frank Wilton, the young assistant, had offered a 
 chair. 
 
 "You'll scarcely believe me really, I can hardly believe 
 myself." Here the Archdeacon tried to laugh. "As a matter 
 of fact, I was coming out to see you ... on my way . . . 
 and the elephant . . ." 
 
 "The elephant ?" repeated the Dean, who, in the way that 
 he had, was nervously rubbing one gaitered leg against the 
 other. 
 
 "Yes I'm a little incoherent, I'm afraid. You must 
 forgive me . . . breathless too. . . . It's too absurd. So 
 many people . . ." 
 
 "A little glass of water, Mr. Archdeacon?" said young 
 Wilton, who had a slight cast in one eye, and therefore 
 gave the impression that he was watching round the corner 
 to see that no one ran off with the books. 
 
 "No, thank you, Wilton. . . . No, thank you. . . . Very 
 good of you, I'm sure. But really it was a monstrous thing. 
 I was coming to see you, as I've just said, Dean, having 
 forgotten all about this ridiculous procession. I was held 
 up by the crowd just below the shop here. Then suddenly, 
 as the animals were passing, the elephant made a lurch 
 towards me positively, I'm not exaggerating seized my 
 hat and ran off with it !" 
 
 The Archdeacon had, as I have already said, a sense of 
 fun. He saw, for the first time, the humour of the thing. 
 He began to laugh; he laughed more loudly; laughter over- 
 took him altogether, and he roared and roared again, sitting 
 there, his hands on his knees, until the tears ran down his 
 cheek. 
 
 "Oh dear . . . my hat ... an elephant . . . Did you 
 ever hear ? My best hat . . . !" The Dean was com- 
 pelled to laugh too, although, being a shy and hesitating man, 
 he was not able to do it very heartily. Young Mr. Wilton
 
 80 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 laughed, but in such a way as to show that he knew his 
 place and was ready to be serious at once if his superiors 
 wished it. Even old Mr. Bennett laughed as distantly and 
 gently as befitted his great age. 
 
 Brandon was conscious of Render. He had, in fact, been 
 conscious of him from the very instant of his first perception 
 of him. He was giving himself away before their new 
 Canon ; he thought that the new Canon, although he was 
 smiling pleasantly and was standing with becoming modesty 
 in the background, looked superior. . . . 
 
 The Archdeacon pulled himself up with a jerk. After 
 all, it was nothing of a joke. A multitude of townspeople 
 had seen him in a most ludicrous position, had seen him 
 start back in terror before a tame elephant, had seen him 
 frightened and hatless. No, there was nothing to laugh 
 about. 
 
 "An elephant?" repeated the Dean, still gently laughing. 
 
 "Yes, an, elephant," answered Brandon rather testily. 
 That was enough of the affair, quite enough. "Well, I must 
 be getting back. See you to-morrow, Dean." 
 
 "Anything important you wanted to see mo about?" asked 
 the Dean, perceiving that he had laughed just a little longer 
 than was truly necessary. 
 
 "No, no ... nothing. Only about poor Morrison. He's 
 very bad, they tell me ... a week at most." 
 
 "Dear, dear is that so?" said the Dean. "Poor fellow, 
 poor fellow !" 
 
 Brandon was now acutely conscious of Render. Why 
 didn't the fellow say something instead of standing silently 
 there with that superior look behind h ; a glasses? In tho 
 ordinary way he would have greeted him with his usual 
 hearty patronage. Now he was irritated. It was really 
 most unfortunate that Itonder should have witnessed his 
 humiliation. He rose, abruptly turning his back upon him. 
 The fellow was laughing at him he was sure of it. 
 
 "Well good-day, good-day." As he advanced to the
 
 ONE PKELTJDE 81 
 
 door and looked out into the street he was aware of the 
 ludicrousness of going even a few steps up the street without 
 a hat. 
 
 Confound Ronder! 
 
 But there was scarcely any one about now. The street 
 was almost deserted. He peered up and down. 
 
 In the middle of the road was a small, shapeless, black 
 object. 
 
 . . . His hat!
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 MRS. BRANDON GOES OUT TO TEA 
 
 MRS. BRANDON hated her husband. No one in Pol- 
 chester had the slightest suspicion of this; certainly 
 her hushaud least of all. She herself had been first aware 
 of it one summer afternoon some five or six years ago when, 
 very pleasantly and in the kindest way, he had told her 
 that she knew nothing about primroses. They had been 
 having tea at the Dean's, and, as was often the case then, 
 the conversation had concerned itself with flowers and ferns. 
 Mrs. Brandon was quite ready to admit that she knew 
 nothing about primroses there were for her yellow ones 
 and other ones, and that was all. The Archdeacon had often 
 before told her that she was ignorant, and she had acquiesced 
 without a murmur. Upon this afternoon, just as Mrs. 
 Sampson was asking her whether she liked sugar, revelation 
 came to her. That little scene was often afterwards vividly 
 in front of her the Archdeacon, with his magnificent legs 
 spread apart in front of the fireplace; Miss Dobell trying to 
 look with wisdom upon a little bundle of primulas that the 
 Dean was showing to her; the sunlight upon the lawn beyond 
 the window; the rooks in the high elms busy with their 
 nests; the May warmth striking through the misty air all 
 was painted for ever afterwards upon her mind. 
 
 "My dear, you may as well admit at once that you know 
 nothing whatever about primroses." 
 
 "No, I'm afraid I don't thank you, Mrs. Sampson. One 
 lump, please." 
 
 She had been coming to it. Of course, a very long time
 
 PKELUDE 83 
 
 before this very, very far away, now an incredible memory, 
 seemed the days when she had loved him so passionately 
 that she almost died with anxiety if he left her for a single 
 night. Almost too passionate it had been, perhaps. He 
 himself was not capable of passionate love, or, at any rate, 
 had been quite satisfied to be not passionately in love with 
 Tier. He pursued other things his career, his religion, his 
 simple beneficence, his health, his vigour. His love for 
 his son was the most passionately personal thing in him, and 
 over that they might have met had he been able to conceive 
 her as a passionate being. Her ignorance of life almost 
 complete when he had met her had been but little dimin- 
 ished by her time with him. She knew now, after all those 
 years, little more of the world and its terrors and blessings 
 than she had known then. But she did know that nothing 
 in her had been satisfied. She knew now of what she was 
 capable, and it was perhaps the thought that he had, by 
 taking her, prevented her fulfilment and complete experience 
 that caused her, more than anything else, to hate him. 
 
 She very quickly discovered that he had married her for 
 certain things to have children, to have a companion. He 
 had soon found that the latter of these he was not to obtain. 
 She had in her none of the qualities that he needed in a 
 companion, and so he had, with complete good-nature and 
 kindliness, ceased to consider her. He should have married 
 a bold ambitious woman who would have wanted the things 
 that he wanted a woman something like Falk, his son. On 
 the rare occasions when he analysed the situation he realised 
 this. He did not in any way vent his disappointment upon 
 her he was only slightly disappointed. He treated her with 
 real kindness save on the occasions of his violent loss of 
 temper, and gave her anything that she wanted. He had, 
 on the whole, a great contempt for women save when, as for 
 instance with Mrs. Combermere, they were really men. 
 
 It was to her most humiliating of all, that nothing in their 
 relations worried him. He was perfectly at ease about it all,
 
 84 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 and fancied that she was the same. Meanwhile her real 
 life was not dead, only dormant. For some years she tried 
 to change the situation; she made little appeals to him, en- 
 deavoured timidly to force him to need her, even on one 
 occasion threatened to sleep in a separate room. The memory 
 of that little episode still terrified her. His incredulity had 
 only been equalled by his anger. It was just as though some 
 one had threatened to deprive him of his morning tub. . . . 
 
 Then, when she saw that this was of no avail, she had 
 concentrated herself upon her children, and especially upon 
 Falk. For a while she had fancied that she was satisfied. 
 Suddenly and the discovery was awful she was aware that 
 Falk's affection all turned towards his father rather than 
 towards her. Her son despised her and disregarded her as 
 his father had done. She did not love Falk the less, but 
 she ceased to expect anything from him and this new loss 
 she put down to her husband's account. 
 
 It was shortly after she made this discovery that the affair 
 of the primroses occurred. 
 
 Many a woman now would have shown her hostility, but 
 Mrs. Brandon was, by nature, a woman who showed nothing. 
 She did not even show anything to herself, but all the deeper, 
 because it found no expression, did her hatred penetrate. She 
 scored now little marks against him for everything that he 
 did. She did not say to herself that a day of vengeance was 
 coming, she did not think of anything so melodramatic, she 
 expected nothing of her future at all but the marks were 
 there. 
 
 The situation was developed by Falk's return from Oxford. 
 Wlien he was away her love for him seemed to her simply 
 all in the world that she possessed. He wrote to her very 
 seldom, but she made her Sunday letters to him the centre 
 of her week, and wrote as though they were a passionately 
 devoted mother and son. She allowed herself this little 
 gentlo deception it was her only one. 
 
 But when ho returned and was in the house it was more
 
 ONE PRELUDE 85 
 
 difficult to cheat herself. She saw at once that he had some- 
 thing on his mind, that he was engaged in some pursuit that 
 he kept from every one. She discovered, too, that she was 
 the one of whom he was afraid, and rightly so, the Arch- 
 deacon being incapable of discovering any one's pursuits 
 BO long as he was engaged on one of his own. Falk's fear 
 of her perception brought about a new situation between 
 them. He was not now oblivious of her presence as he had 
 been. He tried to discover whether she knew anything. 
 She found him often watching her, half in fear and half in 
 defiance. 
 
 The thought that he might be engaged now upon some plan 
 of his own in which she might share excited her and gave 
 her something new to live for. She did not care what his 
 plan might be; however dangerous, however wicked, she 
 would assist him. Her moral sense had never been very 
 deeply developed in her. Her whole character was based 
 on her relations with individuals; for any one she loved 
 she would commit murder, theft or blasphemy. She had 
 never had any one to love except Falk. 
 
 She despised the Archdeacon the more because he now 
 perceived nothing. Under his very nose the thing was, and 
 he was sublimely contented. How she hated that content, 
 and how she despised it! 
 
 About a week after the affair of the elephants, Mrs. 
 Combermere asked her to tea. She disliked Mrs. Comber- 
 mere, but she went to tea there because it was easier than not 
 going. She disliked Mrs. Combermere especially because it 
 was in her house that she heard silly, feminine praise of her 
 husband. It amused her, however, to think of the amazed 
 sensation there would be, did she one day burst out before 
 them all and tell them what she really thought of the Arch- 
 deacon. 
 
 Of course she would never do that, but she had often out- 
 lined the speech in her mind. 
 
 Mrs. Combermere also lived in the Precincts, so that Mrs.
 
 86 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 Brandon had not far to go. Before she arrived there a little 
 conversation took place between the lady of the house, Miss 
 Stiles, Miss Dobell and Dr. Puddifoot, that her presence 
 would most certainly have hindered. Mrs. Combermere was 
 once described by some one as "constructed in concrete" ; 
 and that was not a bad description of her, so solid, so square 
 and so unshakable and unbeatable was she. She wore stiff 
 white collars like a man's, broad thick boots, short skirts 
 and a belt at her waist Her black hair was brushed straight 
 back from her forehead, she had rather small brown eyes, a 
 large nose and a large mouth. Her voice was a deep bass. 
 She had some hair on her upper lip, and thick, strong, very 
 white hands. She liked to walk down the High Street, a 
 silver-topped cane in her hand, a company of barking dogs 
 at her heels, and a hat, with large hat-pins, set a little 
 on one side of her head. She had a hearty laugh, rather 
 like the Archdeacon's. Dr. Puddifoot was our doctor for 
 many years and brought many of my generation into the 
 world. Ho was a tall, broad, loose-set man, who always 
 wore tweeds of a bright colour. 
 
 Mrs. Combermere cared nothing for her surroundings, 
 and her house was never very tidy. She bullied her servants, 
 but they liked her because she gave good wages and fulfilled 
 her promises. She was the first woman in Polchester to 
 smoke cigarettes. It was even said that she smoked cigars, 
 but no one, 1 think, ever saw her do this. 
 
 On this afternoon she subjected Miss Stiles to a magisterial 
 inquiry; Miss Stiles had on the preceding evening given a 
 little supper party, and no one in Polchester did anything 
 of the kind without having to render account to Mrs. Comber- 
 mere afterwards. They all sat round the fire, because it was 
 a cold day. Mrs. Combermere sat on a straight-backed 
 chair, tilting it forward, her skirt drawn up to her knees, 
 her thick-stockinged legs and big boots for all the world to 
 sea 
 
 "Well, Ellen, whom did you have?"
 
 ONE PRELUDE 87 
 
 "Render and his aunt, the Bentinck-Majors, Charlotte 
 Ryle and Major Drake." 
 
 "Sorry I couldn't have been there. What did you give 
 them?" 
 
 "Soup, fish salad, cutlets, chocolate souffle, sardines on 
 toast" 
 
 "What drink?" 
 
 "Sherry, claret, lemonade for Charlotte, whisky." 
 
 "Any catastrophes?" 
 
 "No, I don't think so. Bentinck-Major sang afterwards." 
 
 "Hum not sorry I missed that. When was it over?" 
 
 "About eleven." 
 
 "What did you ask them for?" 
 
 "For the Renders." 
 
 Mrs. Combermere, raising one foot, kicked a coal into 
 blaze. 
 
 "Tea will be in in a minute. . . . Now, I'll tell you for 
 your good, my dear Ellen, that I don't like your Render." 
 
 Miss Stiles laughed. "Oh, you needn't mind me, Betsy. 
 You never have. Why don't you ?" 
 
 "In the first place, he's stupid." 
 
 Miss Stiles laughed again. 
 
 "Never wronger in your life. I thought you were smarter 
 than that" 
 
 Mrs. Combermere smacked her knee. "I may be wrong. 
 I often am. I take prejudices, I know. Secondly, he's 
 fat and soft too like the typical parson." 
 
 "It's an assumed disguise however, go on." 
 
 "Third, I hear he agrees with everything one says." 
 
 "You hear ? You've not talked to him yourself, then ?" 
 
 Mrs. Combermere raised her head as the door opened and 
 the tea came in. 
 
 "No. I've only seen him in Cathedral. But I've called, 
 and he's coming to-day." 
 
 Miss Stiles smiled in her own dark and mysterious way.
 
 88 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 "Well, Betsy, my dear, I leave you to find it all out for 
 yourself. ... I keep my secrets." 
 
 "If you do," said Mrs. Combermere, getting up and going 
 to the tea-table, "it's the first time you ever have. And 
 Ellen," she went on, "I've a bone to pick. I won't have you 
 laughing at my dear Archdeacon." 
 
 "Laughing at your Archdeacon ?" Miss Stiles' voice was 
 softer and slower than any complaining cow's. 
 
 "Yes. I hear you've all been laughing about the elephant. 
 That was a thing that might have happened to any one." 
 
 Puddifoot laughed. "The point is, though, that it hap- 
 pened to Brandon. That's the joke. And his new top hat." 
 
 "Well, I won't have it. Milk, doctor? Miss Dobell and 
 I agree that it's a shame." 
 
 Miss Dobell, who was in appearance like one of those neat 
 silk umbrellas with the head of a parrot for a handle, and 
 whose voice was like the running brook both for melody and 
 monotony, thus suddenly appealed to, blushed, stammered, 
 and finally admitted that the Archdeacon was, in her opinion, 
 a hero. 
 
 "That's not exactly the point, dear Mary," said Miss 
 Stiles. "The point is, surely, that an elephant straight from 
 the desert ate our best Archdeacon's best hat in the High 
 Street. You must admit that that's a laughable circum- 
 stance in this the sixtieth year of our good Queen's reign. 
 I, for one, intend to laugh." 
 
 "Xo, you don't, Ellen," and, to every one's surprise, Mrs. 
 Combcrmere's voice was serious. "I mean what I say. I'm 
 not joking at all. Brandon may have his faults, but this 
 town and everything decent in it hangs by him. Take him 
 away and the place drops to pieces. I suppose you think 
 you're going to introduce your Renders as up-to-date rivals. 
 Wo prefer things as they are, thank you." 
 
 Miss Stiles' already bright colouring was a little brighter. 
 She knew her Betsy Combcrmere, but she resented rebukes 
 before Puddifoot
 
 ONE PEELUDE 89 
 
 "Then," she said, "if lie means all that to the place, he'd 
 better look after his son more efficiently." 
 
 "And exactly what do you mean by that?" asked Mrs. 
 Combermere. 
 
 "Oh, everybody knows," said Miss Stiles, looking round 
 to Miss Dobell and the doctor for support, "that young 
 Brandon is spending the whole of his time down in Sea- 
 town, and that Miss Annie Hogg is not entirely uncon- 
 nected with his visits." 
 
 "Really, Ellen," said Mrs. Combermere, bringing her fist 
 down upon the table, "you're a disgusting woman. Yes, you 
 are, and I won't take it back, however much you ask me to. 
 All the worst scandal in this place comes from you. If it 
 weren't for you we shouldn't be so exactly like every novelist's 
 Cathedral town. But I warn you, I won't have you talking 
 about Brandon. His son's only a boy, and the handsomest 
 male in the place by the way present company, of course, 
 excepted. He's only been home a few months, and you're 
 after him already with your stories. I won't have it " 
 
 Miss Stiles rose, her fingers trembling as she drew on 
 her gloves. 
 
 "Well, I won't stay here to be insulted, anyway. You 
 may have known me a number of years, Betsy, but that 
 doesn't allow you all the privileges. The only matter with 
 me is that I say what I think. You started the business, I 
 believe, by insulting my friends." 
 
 "Sit down, Ellen," said Mrs. Combermere, laughing. 
 "Don't be a fool. Who's insulting your friends? You'd 
 insult them yourself if they were only successful enough. 
 You can have your Ronder." 
 
 The door opened and the maid announced: "Canon 
 Ronder." 
 
 Every one was conscious of the dramatic fitness of this, 
 and no one more so than Mrs. Combermere. Ronder entered 
 the room, however, quite unaware of anything apparently, 
 except that he was feeling very well and expected amuse-
 
 90 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 mont from his company. Ho presented precisely the picture 
 of a nice contented clergyman who might be baffled by a 
 school treat but was thoroughly "up" to afternoon tea. He 
 seemed a little stouter than when he had first come to Pol- 
 chester, and his large spectacles were as round as two young 
 moons. 
 
 "How do you do, Mrs. Combermere ? I do hope you will 
 forgive my aunt, but she has a bad headache. She finds 
 Pol i:h ester a little relaxing." 
 
 Airs. Combermere did not get up, but stared at him from 
 behind her tea-table. That was a stare that has frightened 
 many people in its time, and to-day it was especially challeng- 
 ing. She was annoyed with Ellen Stiles, and here, in front 
 of her, was the cause of her annoyance. 
 
 They faced one another, and the room behind them was 
 aware that Mrs. Combermere, at any rate, had declared 
 battle. Of what Render was aware no one knew. 
 
 "How do you do, Canon Render? I'm delighted that 
 you've honoured my poor little house. I hear that you're a 
 busy man. I'm all the more proud that you can spare me 
 half an hour." 
 
 She kept him standing there, hoping, perhaps, that he 
 would be consciously awkward and embarrassed. He was 
 completely at his ease. 
 
 "Oh, no, I'm not busy. I'm a very lazy man." He looked 
 down at her, smiling, aware, apparently, of no one else 
 in the room. "I'm always meaning to pull myself up. But 
 I'm too old for improvement." 
 
 "We're all busy people here, although you mayn't think 
 it, Canon Render. But I'm afraid you're giving a false 
 account of yourself. I've heard of you." 
 
 "Nothing but good, I hope." 
 
 "Well, I don't know. That depends. I expect you're 
 going to shake us all up and teach us improvement." 
 
 "Dear me, no! I come to you for instruction. I haven't 
 an idea in the world."
 
 ONE PRELUDE 91 
 
 "Too much modesty is a dangerous thing. Nobody's 
 modest in Polchester." 
 
 "Then I shall be Polchester's first modest man. But 
 I'm not modest. I simply speak the truth." 
 
 Mrs. Combermere smiled grimly. "There, too, you will 
 be the exception. We none of us speak the truth here." 
 
 "Really, Mrs. Combermere, you're giving Polchester a 
 dreadful character." He laughed, but did not take his eyes 
 away from her. "I hope that you've been here so long that 
 you've forgotten what the place is like. I believe in first 
 impressions." 
 
 "So do I," she said, very grimly indeed. 
 
 "Well, in a year's time we shall see which of us is right. 
 I'll be quite willing to admit defeat." 
 
 "Oh, a year's time!" She laughed more pleasantly. "A 
 great deal can happen in a year. You may be a bishop by 
 then, Canon Render." 
 
 "Ah, that would be more than I deserve," he answered 
 quite gravely. 
 
 The little duel was over. She turned around, introduced 
 him to Miss Dobell and Puddifoot, both of whom, however, 
 he had already met. He sat down, very happily, near the 
 fire and listened to Miss Dobell's shrill proclamation of her 
 adoration of Browning. Conversation became general, and 
 was concerned first with the Jubilee and the preparations 
 for it, afterwards with the state of South Africa, Lord 
 Penrhyn's quarries, and bicycling. Every one had a good 
 deal to say about this last topic, and the strange costumes 
 which ladies, so the papers said, were wearing in Battersea 
 Park when out on their morning ride. 
 
 Miss Dobell said that "it was too disgraceful," to which 
 Mrs. Combermere replied "Fudge ! As though every one 
 didn't know by this time that women had legs !" 
 
 Everything, in fact, went very well, although Ellen Stiles 
 observed to herself with a certain malicious pleasure that
 
 92 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 their hostess was not entirely at her ease, was "a little ruffled, 
 about something." 
 
 Soon two more visitors arrived first Mr. Morris, then 
 Mrs. Brandon. They came close upon one another's heels, 
 and it was at once evident that they would, neither of them, 
 alter very considerably the room's atmosphere. No one ever 
 paid any attention to Mrs. Brandon in Pol Chester, and 
 although Mr. Morris hud been some time now in the town, 
 he was so shy and retiring and quiet that no one was, as 
 yet, very distinctly aware of him. Mrs. Comberrnere was 
 occupied with her own thoughts and the others were talking 
 very happily beside the fire, so it soon happened that Morris 
 and Mrs. Brandon were sitting by themselves in the window. 
 
 There occurred then a revelation. . . . That is perhaps a 
 portentous word, but what else can one call it? It is a 
 platitude, of course, to say that there is probably no one 
 alive who does not remember some occasion of a sudden com- 
 munion with another human being that was so beautiful, 
 so touching, so transcendentally above human affairs that a 
 revelation was the only definition for it. Afterwards, when 
 analysis plays its part, one may talk about physical attrac- 
 tions, about common intellectual interests, about spiritual 
 bonds, about what you please, but one knows that the essence 
 of that meeting is undefined. 
 
 It may be quite enough to say about Morris and Mrs. 
 Brandon, that they were both very lonely people. You may 
 say, too, that there was in both of them an utterly unsatisfied 
 longing to have some one to protect and care for. Not her 
 husband nor Falk nor Joan needed Mrs. Brandon in the 
 least and the Archdeacon did not approve of dogs in the 
 house. Or you may say, if you like, that these two liked 
 the look of one another, and leave it at that. Still the 
 revelation remains and all the tragedy and unhappiness 
 and bitterness that that revelation involved remains too. . . . 
 
 This was, of course, not the first time that they had met. 
 Onco before at Mrs. Combermero's they had boon introduced
 
 ONE PRELUDE 93 
 
 and talked together for a moment ; but on that occasion there 
 had been no revelation. 
 
 They did not say very much now. Mrs. Brandon asked 
 Morris whether he liked Polchester and he said yes. They 
 talked about the Cathedral and the coming Jubilee. Morris 
 said that he had met Falk. Mrs. Brandon, colouring a little, 
 asked was he not handsome? She said that he was a re- 
 markable boy, very independent, that was why he had not 
 got on very well at Oxford. . . . He was a tremendous 
 comfort to her, she said. When he went away . . . but she 
 stopped suddenly. 
 
 Not looking at him, she said that sometimes one felt 
 lonely even though there was a great deal to do, as there 
 always was in a town like Polchester. 
 
 Yes, Morris said that he knew that. And that was really 
 all. There were long pauses in their conversation, pauses 
 that were like the little wooden hammerings on the stage 
 before the curtain rises. 
 
 Mrs. Brandon said that she hoped that he would come 
 and see her, and he said that he would. Their hands touched, 
 and they both felt as though the room had suddenly closed 
 in upon them and become very dim, blotting the other people 
 out. 
 
 Then Mrs. Brandon got up to go. Afterwards, when she 
 looked back to this, she remembered that she had looked, 
 for some unknown reason, especially at Canon Render, as 
 she stood there saying good-bye. 
 
 She decided that she did not like him. Then she went 
 away, and Mrs. Combermere was glad that she had gone. 
 
 Of all the dull women.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 SEATOWN MIST AND CATHEDRAL DUST 
 
 FALK BRANDON knew quite well that his mother was 
 watching him. 
 
 It was a strange tmth that until this return of his from 
 Oxford ho had never considered his mother at all. It was 
 not that he had grown to disregard her, as do many sons, 
 because of the monotonous regularity of her presence. Nor 
 was it that he despised her because he seemed so vastly to 
 have outgrown her. He had not been unkind nor patronis- 
 ing nor contemptuous he had simply not yet thought about 
 her. The circumstances of his recent return, however, had 
 forced him to consider every one in the house. He had his 
 secret preoccupation that seemed so absorbing and devastat- 
 ing to him that he could not believe that every one around 
 him would not guess it He soon discovered that his father 
 was too cock-sure and his sister too innocent to guess any- 
 thing. Now he was not himself a perceptive man ; he had, 
 after all, seen as yet very little of the world, and he had a 
 great deal of his father's self-confidence; nevertheless, he 
 was just perceptive enough to perceive that his mother was 
 thinking about him, was watching him, was waiting to see 
 what he would do. . . . 
 
 His secret was quite simply that, for the last year, he had 
 been devastated by the consciousness of Annie Hogg, the 
 daughter of the landlord of "The Dog and Pilchard." Yes. 
 devastated was the word. It would not be true to say that he 
 was in love with her or, indeed, had any analysed emotion 
 fur her he was aware of her always, was disturbed by her 
 
 94
 
 PKELTJDE 95 
 
 always, could not keep away from her, wanted something 
 in connection with her far deeper than mere love-making 
 
 What he wanted he did not know. He could not keep 
 away from her, and yet when he was with her nothing 
 occurred. She did not apparently care for him ; he was not 
 even sure that he wanted her to. At Oxford during his last 
 term he had thought of her incessantly, a hot pain at his 
 heart. He had not invited the disturbance that had sent him 
 down, but he had welcomed it. 
 
 Every day he went to "The Dog and Pilchard." He drank 
 but little and talked to no one. He just leaned up against 
 the wall and looked at her. Sometimes he had a word with 
 her. He knew that they must all be speaking of it. Maybe 
 the whole town was chattering. He could not think of that. 
 He had no plans, no determination, no resolve and he was 
 desperately unhappy. . . . 
 
 Into this strange dark confusion the thought of his mother 
 drove itself. He had from the very beginning been aware 
 of his father in this connection. In his own selfish way he 
 loved his father, and he shared in his pride and self-content. 
 He was proud of his father for being what he was, for his 
 good-natured contempt of other people, for his handsome 
 body and his dominance of the town. He could understand 
 that his father should feel as he did, and he did honestly 
 consider him a magnificent man and far above every one else 
 in the place. But that did not mean that he ever listened 
 to anything that his father said. He pleased himself in what 
 he did, and laughed at his father's temper. 
 
 He had perceived from the first that this connection of 
 his with Annie Hogg might do his father very much harm, 
 and he did not want to harm him. The thought of this did 
 not mean that for a moment he contemplated dropping the 
 affair because of his father no, indeed but the thought of 
 the old man, as he termed him, added dimly to his general 
 unhappiness. He appreciated the way that his father had 
 taken his return from Oxford. The old man was a sports-
 
 96 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 man. It was a great pity that he should have to make him 
 unhappy over this business. But there it was you couldn't 
 alter things. 
 
 It was this fatalistic philosophy that finally ruled every- 
 thing with him. "What must be must." If things went 
 wrong he had his courage, and he was helped too by his 
 contempt for the world. . . . 
 
 He knew his father, but he was aware now that he knew 
 nothing at all about his mother. 
 
 "What's she thinking about?" he asked himself. 
 
 One afternoon he was about to go to Seatown when, in 
 the passage outside his bedroom, he met his mother. They 
 both stopped as though they had something to say to one 
 another. He did not look at all like her son, so fair, tall 
 and aloof, as though even in his own house he must be on 
 his guard, prepared to challenge any one who threatened his 
 private plans. 
 
 "She's like a little mouse," he thought to himself, as 
 though he were seeing her for the first time, "preparing to 
 run off into the wainscot." He was conscious, too, of her 
 quiet clothes and shy preoccupied timidity all of it he 
 seemed to see for the first time, a disguise for some purpose 
 as secret, perhaps, as his own. 
 
 "Oh, Falk," she said, and stopped, and then went on with 
 the question that she so often asked him : 
 
 "Is there anything you want?" 
 
 "No, mother, thank you. I'm just sroing out." 
 
 "Oh, yes. . . ." She still stayed there nervously looking 
 up at him. 
 
 "I was wondering Are you going into the town?" 
 
 "Yes, mother. Is there anything I can do for you ?" 
 
 "No, thank you." Still she did not move. 
 
 "Joan's out," she said. Then she went on quickly, "I wish 
 you'd tell me if there were anything 
 
 "Why, of course." He laughed. "What exactly do you 
 mean ?"
 
 ONE PRELUDE 97 
 
 "Nothing, dear. Only I like to know about your plans." 
 
 "Plans ? I haven't any." 
 
 "No, but I always think you may be going away suddenly. 
 Perhaps I could help you. I know it isn't very much that 
 I can do, but anything you told me I think I could help 
 you about. . . . I'd like to help you." 
 
 He could see that she had been resolving for some time 
 to speak to him, and that this little appeal was the result 
 of a desperate determination. He was touched. 
 
 "That's all right, mother. I suppose father and you think 
 I oughtn't to be hanging around here doing nothing." 
 
 "Oh, your father hasn't said anything to me. I don't 
 know what he thinks. But I should miss you if you went. 
 It is nice for us having you, although, of course, it must seem 
 slow to you here." 
 
 He stood back against the wall, looking past her out 
 through the window that showed the grey sky of a misty 
 day. 
 
 "Well, it's true that I've got to settle about doing some- 
 thing soon. I can't be home like this for ever. There's a 
 man I know in London wants me to go in for a thing with 
 him. . . ." 
 
 "What kind of a thing, dear?" 
 
 "It's to do with the export trade. Travelling about. I 
 should like that. I'm a bit restless, I'm afraid. I should 
 want to put some money into it, of course, but the governor 
 will let me have something. . . . He wants me to go into 
 Parliament." 
 
 "Parliament ?" 
 
 "Yes," Falk laughed. "That's his latest idea. He was 
 talking about it the other night. Of course, that's foolish- 
 ness. It's not my line at all. I told him so." 
 
 "I wouldn't like you to go away altogether," she repeated. 
 "It would make a great difference to me." 
 
 "Would it really ?" He had a strange mysterious impulse 
 to speak to her about Annie Hogg. The thought of his
 
 98 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 mother and Annie Hogg together showed him at once how 
 impossible that was. They were in separate worlds. He 
 was suddenly angry at the difficulties that life was making 
 for him without his own wish. "Oh, I'll be here some time 
 jet, mother," he said. "Well, I must get along now. I've 
 got an appointment with a fellow." 
 
 She smiled and disappeared into her room. 
 
 All the way into Sea town he was baffled and irritated by 
 this little conversation. It seemed that you could not dis- 
 regard people by simply determining to disregard them. All 
 the time behind you and them some force was insisting on 
 places being taken, connections being formed. One was 
 simply a bally pawn ... a bally pawn. . . . 
 
 But what was his mother thinking? Had some one been 
 talking to her? Perhaps already she knew about Annie. 
 But what could she know? Girls like Annie were outside 
 her ken. What could his mother know about life ? The 
 day did not help his dissatisfaction. The fog had not 
 descended upon the town, but it had sent as its forerunner 
 a wet sea mist, dim and intangible, depressing because it 
 removed all beauty and did not leave even challenging ugli- 
 ness in its place. 
 
 On the best of days Seatown was not beautiful. I have 
 read in books romantic descriptions of Glebeshire coves, 
 Glebeshire towns with the romantic Inn, the sanded floor, 
 fishermen with gold rings in their ears and strange oaths 
 upon their lips. In one book I remember there was a fine 
 picture of such a place, with beautiful girls dancing and 
 mysterious old men telling mysterious talcs about ghosts and 
 goblins, and, of course, somewhere in the distance some one 
 was singing a chanty, and the moon was rising, and there 
 was a nice little piece of Glebeshirc dialect thrown in. All 
 very pretty. . . . Seatown cannot claim such prettinoss. 
 Perhaps onco long ago, when there were only the Cathedral, 
 the Castle, the Rock, and a few cottages down by the river, 
 when, at night-tide, strange foreign ships came up from the
 
 ONE PKELUDE 99 
 
 sea, when the woods were wild forest and the downs were bare 
 and savage, Seatown had its romance, but that was long ago. 
 Seatown, in these latter days, was a place of bad drainage, 
 bad drinking, bad living and bad dying. The men who 
 haunted its dirty, narrow little streets were loafers and idlers 
 and castaways. The women were, most of them, no better 
 than they should be, and the children were the most slatternly 
 and ill-bred in the whole of Glebeshire. Small credit to the 
 Canons and the Town Councillors and the prosperous farmers 
 that it was so, but in their defence it might be urged that 
 it needed a very valiant Canon and the most fearless of Town 
 Councillors to disturb that little nest. And the time came 
 when it was disturbed. . . . 
 
 Even the Pol, a handsome river enough out beyond the 
 town in the reaches of the woods, was no pretty sight at 
 low tide when there was nothing to see but a thin, sluggish 
 grey stream filtering through banks of mud to its destination, 
 the sea. At high tide the river beat up against the crazy 
 stone wall that bordered Pennicent Street ; and on the further 
 side there were green fields and a rising hill with a feathery 
 wood to crown it. From the river, coming up through the 
 green banks, Seatown looked picturesque, with its disordered 
 cottages scrambling in confusion at the tail of the rock and 
 the Cathedral and Castle nobly dominating it. That distant 
 view is the best thing to be said for Seatown. 
 
 To-day, in the drizzling mist, the place was horribly de- 
 pressing. Falk plunged down into Bridge Street as into a 
 damp stuffy well. Here some of the houses had once been 
 fine; there were porticoes and deep-set doors and bow- 
 windows, making them poor relations of the handsome benev- 
 olent Georgian houses in Orange Street. The street, top- 
 tilting down to the river, was slovenly with dirt and careless- 
 ness. Many of the windows were broken, their panes stuffed 
 with paper; washing hung from house to house. The 
 windows that were not broken were hermetically sealed and 
 filled with grimy plants and ferns, and here and there a
 
 100 THE CATHEDRAL 
 
 BOOK 
 
 photograph of an embarrassed sailor or a smiling married 
 couple or an overdressed young woman placed face outward 
 to the street Bridge Street tumbled with a dirty absent- 
 mindedness into Penuicent Street. This, the main thorough- 
 fare of Seatown, must have been once a handsome cobbled 
 walk by the river-side. The houses, more than in Bridge 
 Street, showed by their pillared doorways and their faded 
 red brick that they had once been gentlemen's residences, 
 with gardens, perhaps, running to the river's edge and a 
 fine view of the meadows and woods beyond. To-day all 
 was shrouded in a mist that was never stationary, that seemed 
 alive in its shifting movement, revealing here a window, 
 there- a door, now a chimney-pot, now steps that seemed to 
 lead into air, and the river, now at full tide and lapping 
 the stone wall, seemed its drunken bewildered voice. 
 
 "Bally pawns, that's what we are," Falk muttered again. 
 It seemed to be the logical conclusion of the thoughts that 
 had worried him, likes flies, during his walk. Some one 
 lurched against him as he stayed for a moment to search for 
 the inn. A hot spasm of anger rose in him, so sudden and 
 fierce that he was frightened by it, as though he had seen 
 his own face in a mirror. But he said nothing. "Sorry," 
 said a voice, and shadow faded into shadow. 
 
 Ho found the "Dog and Pilchard" easily enough. Just 
 beyond it the river was caught into a kind of waterfall by 
 a ridge of stone that projected almost into mid-stream. At 
 high tide it tumbled over this obstruction with an astonished 
 splash and gurgle. Even when the river was at its lowest 
 there was a dim chattering struggle at this point. Falk 
 always connected this noise with the inn and the power or 
 enchantment of the inn that held him "Black Enchant- 
 ment," perhaps. Ho was to hear that struggling chatter 
 of the river until his dying day. 
 
 Ho pushed through the passage and turned to the right 
 into the bar. A damp day like this always served Hogg's 
 trade. The gas was lit and sizzled overhead with a noise as
 
 ONE PKELTJDE 101 
 
 though it commented ironically on the fatuity of the human 
 beings beneath it. The room was full, but most of the men 
 seamen, loafers, a country man or two crowded up to the 
 bar. Falk crossed to a table in the corner near the window, 
 his accustomed seat. ]STo one seemed to notice him, but 
 soon Hogg, stout and smiling, came over to him. No one 
 had ever seen Samuel Hogg out of temper no, never, not 
 even when there had been fighting in the place and he had 
 been compelled to eject men, by force of arms, through the 
 doors and windows. There had not been many fights there. 
 Men were afraid of him, in spite of his imperturbable good 
 temper. Men said of him that he would stick at nothing, 
 although what exactly was meant by that no one knew. 
 
 He had a good word for every one; no crime or human 
 failing could shock him. He laughed at everything. And 
 yet men feared him. Perhaps for that very reason. The 
 worst sinner has some kind of standard of right and wrong. 
 Himself he may not keep it, but he likes to see it there. 
 "Oh, he's deep," was Seatown's verdict on Samuel Hogg, 
 and it is certain that the late Mrs. Hogg had not been, in 
 spite of her husband's good temper, a happy woman. 
 
 He came up to Falk now, smiling, and asked him what 
 he would have. "Nasty day," he said. Falk ordered his 
 drink. Dimly through the mist and thickened air the 
 Cathedral chimes recorded the hour. Funny how you could 
 hear them in every nook and corner of Polchester. 
 
 "Likely turn to rain before night," Hogg said, as he 
 turned back to the bar. Falk sat there watching. Some of 
 the men he knew, some he did not, but to-day they were all 
 shadows to him. Strange how, from the moment that he 
 crossed the threshold of that place, hot, burning excitement 
 and expectation lapped him about, swimming up to him, 
 engulfing him, swamping him body and soul. He sat there 
 drowned in it, not stirring, his eyes fixed upon the door. 
 There was a good deal of noise, laughter, swearing, voices
 
 102 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 raised and dropped, forming a kind of skyline, and above 
 this a voice telling an interminable tale. 
 
 Annie Hogg came in, and at once Falk's throat contracted 
 and his heart hammered in the palms of his hands. She 
 moved about, talking to the men, fetching drinks, uncon- 
 cerned and aloof as she always was. Seen there in the mist 
 of the overcrowded and evil-smelling room, there was nothing 
 very remarkable about her. Stalwart and resolute and self- 
 possessed she looked; sometimes she was beautiful, but not 
 now. She was a woman at whom most men would have 
 looked twice. Her expression was not sullen nor disdainful ; 
 in that, perhaps, there was something fine, because there was 
 life, of its own kind, in her eyes, and independence in the 
 carriage of her head. 
 
 Falk never took his eyes from her. At that moment she 
 came down the room and saw him. She did not come over 
 to him at once, but stopped and talked to some one at another 
 table. At last she w r as beside him, standing up against his 
 table and looking over his head at the window behind him. 
 
 "Nasty weather, Mr. Brandon," she said. Her voice was 
 low and not unpleasant; although she rolled her r's her 
 Glebeshire accent was not very strong, and she spoke slowly, 
 as though she were trying to choose her words. 
 
 "Yes," Falk answered. "Good for your trade, though." 
 
 "Dirty weather always brings them in," she said. 
 
 He did not look at her. 
 
 "Been busy to-day?" 
 
 "Nothing much this morning," she answered. "I've been 
 away at my aunt's, out to Borheddon, these last two days." 
 
 "Yes. I saw you were not here," he said. "Did you have 
 a good time?" 
 
 "Middling," she answered. "My aunt's been terrible bad 
 with bronchitis this winter. Poor soul, it'll carry her off 
 one of these days, I reckon." 
 
 "What's Borheddon like?" he asked. 
 
 "Nothing much. Nothing to do, you know. But I like
 
 ONE PKELUDE 103 
 
 a bit of quiet just for a day or two. HowVe you been 
 keeping, Mr. Brandon?" 
 
 "Oh, I'm all right. I shall be off to London to look for 
 a job one of these days." 
 
 He looked up at her suddenly, sharply, as though he 
 wanted to catch her interest. But she showed no emotion. 
 
 "Well, I expect this is slow for you, a little place like this. 
 Plenty going on in London, I expect." 
 
 "Yes. Do you ever think you'd like to go there?" 
 
 "Daresay I shall one of these days. Never know your 
 luck. But I'm not terrible anxious. . . . Well, I must be 
 getting on." 
 
 He caught her eyes and held them. 
 
 "Come back for a moment when you're less busy. I've 
 got something I want to say to you." 
 
 Very slightly the colour rose in her dark cheek. 
 
 "All right," she said. 
 
 When she had gone he drew a deep breath, as though he 
 had surmounted some great and sudden danger. He felt that 
 if she had refused to come he would have risen and broken 
 everything in the place. Now, as though he had, by that 
 little conversation with her, reassured himself about her, he 
 looked around the room. His attention was at once attracted 
 by a man who was sitting in the further corner, his back 
 against the wall, opposite to him. 
 
 This was a man remarkable for his extreme thinness, for 
 the wild lock of black hair that fell over his forehead and 
 almost into his eyes, and for a certain sort of threadbare and 
 dissolute distinction which hung about him. Falk knew him 
 slightly. His name was Edmund Davray, and he had lived 
 in Polchester now for a considerable number of years. He 
 was an artist, and had arrived in the town one summer on 
 a walking tour through Glebeshire. He had attracted atten- 
 tion at once by the quality of his painting, by the volubility 
 of his manner, and by his general air of being a person of 
 considerable distinction. His surname was French, but no
 
 104 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 one knew anything with any certainty about him. Some- 
 thing attracted him in Polchester, and he stayed. He soon 
 gave it out that it was the Cathedral that fascinated him ; he 
 painted a number of remarkable sketches of the nave, the 
 choir, Saint Margaret's Chapel, the Black Bishop's Tomb. 
 He had a ''show" in London and was supposed to have done 
 very well out of it. He disappeared for a little, but soon 
 returned, and was to be found in the Cathedral most days of 
 the week. 
 
 At h'rst ho had a little studio at the top of Orange Street. 
 At this time he was rather popular in Polchester society. 
 Mrs. Combermere took him up and found him audacious 
 and amusing. His French name gave a kind of piquancy 
 to his audacity; he was unusual; he was striking. It was 
 right for Polchester to have an artist and to stick him up 
 in the very middle of the town as an emblem of taste and 
 culture. Soon, however, he began to decline. It was 
 whispered that he drank, that his morals were "only what 
 you'd expect of an artist," and that he was really "too queer 
 about the Cathedral." One day he told Miss Dobell that 
 the amount that she knew about literature would go inside 
 a very small pea, and he was certainly "the worse for liquor" 
 at one of Mrs. Combermere's tea-parties. He did not, how- 
 ever, give thorn time to drop him; he dropped himself, gave 
 up his Orange Street studio, lived, no one knew where, 
 neglected his appearance, and drank quite freely whenever 
 he could get anything to drink. He now cut everybody, 
 rather than allowed himself to be cut. 
 
 He was in the Cathedral as often as ever, and Lawrence 
 and Cobbett, the Vergers, longed to have an excuse for ex- 
 pelling him, but ho always behaved himself there and was in 
 nobody's way. He was finally regarded as "quite mad," 
 and was seen to talk aloud to himself as he walked about 
 the streets. 
 
 "An unhappy example," Miss Dobell eftid, "of the artistic 
 temperament, that wonderful gift, gone wrong."
 
 ozra PEELUDE 105 
 
 Falk had seen him often before at the "Dog and Pilchard," 
 and had wondered at first whether Annie Hogg was the at- 
 traction. It was soon clear, however, that there was nothing 
 in that. He never looked at the girl nor, indeed, at any one 
 else in the place. He simply sat there moodily staring in 
 front of him and drinking. 
 
 To-day it was clear that Falk had caught his attention. 
 He looked across the room at him with a queer defiant glance, 
 something like Falk's own. Once it seemed that he had 
 made up his mind to come over and speak to him. 
 
 He half rose in his seat, then sank back again. But his 
 eyes came round again and again to the corner where Falk 
 was sitting. 
 
 The Cathedral chimes had whispered twice in the room 
 before Annie returned. 
 
 "What is it you're wanting?" she asked. 
 
 "Come outside and speak to me." 
 
 "No, I can't do that. Father's watching." 
 
 "Well, will you meet me one evening and have a talk ?" 
 
 "What about?" 
 
 "Several things." 
 
 "It isn't right, Mr. Brandon. What's a gentleman like 
 you want with a girl like me?" 
 
 "I only want us to get away a little from all this noise 
 and filth." 
 
 Suddenly she smiled. 
 
 "Well, I don't mind if I do. After supper's a good tima 
 Father goes up the town to play billiards. After eight." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "What about to-morrow evening?" 
 
 "All right. Where?" 
 
 "Up to the Mill. Five minutes up from here." 
 
 "I'll be there," he said. 
 
 "Don't let father catch 'ee that's all," she smiled down 
 at him. "You'm a fule, Mr. Brandon, to bother with such 
 as I." He said nothing and she walked away. Very
 
 106 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 shortly after, Davray got up from his seat and came over 
 to Falk's corner. It was obvious that he had been drinking 
 rather heavily. He was a little unsteady on his feet. 
 
 "You're young Brandon, aren't you ?" he asked. 
 
 In ordinary times Falk would have told him to go to the 
 devil, and there would have been a row, but to-day he was 
 caught away so absolutely into his own world that any one 
 could speak to him, any one laugh at him, any one insult 
 him, and lie would not care. He had been meditating for 
 weeks the advance that he had just taken; always when one 
 meditates for long over a risk it swells into gigantic propor- 
 tions. So this had been ; that simple sentence asking her to 
 come out and talk to him had seemed an impossible challenge 
 to every kind of fate, and now, in a moment, the gulf had 
 been jumped ... so easy, so strangely easy. . . . 
 
 From a great distance Davray's words came to him, and 
 in the dialogue that followed he spoke like a somnambulist. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "my name's Brandon." 
 
 "I knew, of course," said Davray. "I've seen you about." 
 He spoke with great swiftness, the words tumbling over one 
 another, not with eagerness, but rather with a kind of 
 supercilious carelessness. "Beastly hole, isn't this ? Wonder 
 why one comes here. Must do something in this rotten 
 town. I've drunk enough of this filthy beer. What do you 
 say to moving out?" 
 
 Falk looked up at him. 
 
 "What do you say ?" he asked. 
 
 "Let's move out of this. If you're walking up the town 
 I'll go with you." 
 
 Falk was not conscious of the man, but it was quite true 
 that he wanted to get out of the place now that his job 
 in it was done. He got up without a word and began to 
 push through the room. He was met near the door by 
 Hogg. 
 
 "Coin', Mr. Brandon? Like to settle now or leave it to 
 another day ?"
 
 ONE 
 
 PRELUDE 107 
 
 "What's that?" said Falk, stopping as though some one 
 had touched him on the shoulder. He seemed to see the 
 large smiling man suddenly in front of him outlined against 
 a shifting wall of mist. 
 
 "Payin' now or leavin' it? Please yourself, Mr. Bran- 
 don." 
 
 "Oh paying!" He fumbled in his pocket, produced 
 half-a-crown, gave it to Hogg without looking at him and 
 went out. Davray followed, slouching through the room and 
 passage with the conceited over-careful walk of a man a 
 little tipsy. 
 
 Outside, as they went down the street still obscured with 
 the wet mist, Davray poured out a flow of words to which 
 he seemed to want no answer. 
 
 "I hope you didn't mind my speaking to you like that 
 a bit unceremonious. But to tell you the truth I'm lonely 
 sometimes. Also, if you want to know the whole truth and 
 nothing 'but the truth, I'm a bit tipsy too. Generally am. 
 This air makes one feel queer after that stinking hole, 
 doesn't it? if you can call this air. I've seen you there a 
 lot lately and often thought I'd like to talk to you. You're 
 the only decent-looking fellow in the whole of this town, if 
 you'll forgive my saying so. Isn't it a bloody hole ? But of 
 course you think so too. I can see it in your face. I suppose 
 you go to that pub after that girl. I saw you talking to her. 
 Well, each man to his taste. I'd never interfere with any 
 man's pleasure. I loathe women myself, always have. They 
 never appealed to me a little bit. In Paris the men used 
 to wonder what I was after. I was after Ambition in those 
 days. Funny thing, but I thought I was going to be a great 
 painter once. Queer what one can trick oneself into be- 
 lieving so I might have been if I hadn't come to this beastly 
 town. Hope I'm not boring you. . . ." 
 
 He stopped as though he had suddenly realised that his 
 companion had not said a word. They were pushing now 
 up the hill into the market-place and the mist was now so
 
 108 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 thick that they could scarcely see one another's face. Falk 
 was thinking. "To-morrow evening. . . . What do I want! 
 What's going to happen ? What do I want ?" 
 
 The silence made him conscious of his companion. 
 
 "What do you say ?" he asked. 
 
 "Hope I'm not boring you." 
 
 "No, that's all right. Where are we?" 
 
 "Just coming into the market." 
 
 "Oh, yes." 
 
 "If I talk a lot it's because I haven't had any one to talk 
 to for weeks. Not that I want to talk to any one. I despise 
 the lot of them. Conceited set of ignorant parrots. . . . 
 Whole place run by women and what can you expect? 
 You're not staying here, I suppose. I heard you'd had 
 enough of Oxford and I don't wonder. No place for a man, 
 beautiful enough but spoilt by the people. Damn people 
 always coming along and spoiling places. Now there's the 
 Cathedral, most wonderful thing in England, but does any 
 one know it? Not a bit of it. You'd think they fancied 
 that the Cathedral owes them something about as much 
 sense of beauty as a cockroach." 
 
 They were pressing up the High Street now. There was 
 no one about. It was a town of ghosts. By the Arden Gate 
 Falk realised where ho was and halted. 
 
 "Hullo! we're nearly home. . . . Well . . . good after- 
 noon, Mr. Davray." 
 
 "Come into the Cathedral for a moment," Davray seemed 
 to be urgent about this. "Have you ever been up into the 
 King Harry Tower? I bet you haven't." 
 
 "King Harry Tower? . . ." Falk stared at the man. 
 What did the fellow want him to do? Go into the Cathe- 
 dral ? Well, why not ? Stupid to go home just now nothing 
 to do there but think, and people would interrupt . . . 
 Think better out of doors. But what was there to think 
 about? Ho was not thinking, simply going round and 
 round. . . . Who was this fellow anyway ?
 
 PKELUDE 109 
 
 "As you like," he said. 
 
 They crossed the Precincts and went through the West 
 door into the Cathedral. The nave was full of dusky light 
 and very still. Candles glimmered behind the great choir- 
 screen and there were lamps hy the West door. Seen thus, 
 in its half-dark, the nave bore full witness to the fact that 
 Polchester has the largest Cathedral in Northern Europe. It 
 is certainly true that no other building in England gives the 
 same overwhelming sense of length. 
 
 In full daylight the nave perhaps, as is the case with all 
 English Cathedrals, lacks colour and seems cold and deserted. 
 In the dark of this spring evening it was full of mystery, 
 and the great columns of the nave's ten bays, rising un- 
 broken to the roof groining, sprang, it seemed, out of air, 
 superbly, intolerably inhuman. 
 
 The colours from the tombs and the brasses glimmered 
 against the grey, and the great rose-coloured circle of the 
 West window flung pale lights across the cold dark of the 
 flags and pillars. 
 
 The two men were held by the mysterious majesty of the 
 place. Falk was lifted right out of his own preoccupied 
 thoughts. 
 
 He had never considered the Cathedral except as a place 
 to which he was dragged for services against his will, but to- 
 night, perhaps because of his own crisis, he seemed to see it 
 all for the first time. He was conscious now of Davray and 
 was aware that he did not like him and wished to be rid of 
 him "an awful-looking tout" he thought him, "with his 
 greasy long hair and his white long face and his spindle 
 legs." 
 
 "Now we'll go up into King Harry," Davray said. But 
 at that moment old Lawrence came bustling along. Law- 
 rence, over seventy years of age, had grown stout and white- 
 haired in the Cathedral's service. He was a fine figure in 
 his purple gown, broad-shouldered, his chest and stomach of 
 a grand protuberance, his broad white flowing beard a true
 
 110 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 emblem of his ancient dignity. He was the most autocratic 
 of Vergers and had been allowed now for many years to do 
 as he pleased. The only thorn in his flesh was Cobbett, 
 the junior Verger, who, as he very well realised, was long- 
 ing for him to die, that he might step into his shoes. "I 
 do believe," he was accustomed to say to Mrs. Lawrence, a 
 little be-bullied woman, "that that man will poison me one 
 of these fine days." 
 
 His autocracy had grown on him with the size and the 
 whiteness of his beard, and there were many complaints 
 rude to strangers, sycophantic to the aristocracy, greedy of 
 tips, insolent and conceited, he was an excellent example of 
 the proper spirit of the Church Militant. He had, however, 
 his merits. He loved small children and would have al- 
 lowed them to run riot on the Cathedral greens had he not 
 been checked, and he had a pride in the Cathedral that 
 would drive him to any sacrifice in his defence of it. 
 
 It was natural enough that he should hate the very sight 
 of Davray, and when that gentleman appeared he hung about 
 in the background hoping that he might catch him in some 
 crime. At first he thought him alone. 
 
 "Oh, Verger," Davray said, as though he were speaking 
 to a beggar who had asked of him alms. "I want to go up 
 into King Harry. You have the key, I think." 
 
 "Well, you can't, sir," said Lawrence, with considerable 
 satisfaction. " 'Tis after hours." Then he saw Falk. 
 
 "Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Brandon, sir. I didn't 
 realise. Do you want to go up the Tower, sir?" 
 
 "We may as well," said Falk. 
 
 "Of course for you, sir, it's different Strangers have to 
 keep certain hours. This way, sir." 
 
 They followed the pompous old man across the nave, up the 
 side aisle, past "tombs and monuments and gilded knights," 
 until they came to the King Harry Chapel. This was to the 
 right of the choir, and before the screen that railed it off 
 from the rest of the church there was a notice saying that this
 
 ONE PRELUDE 111 
 
 Chapel had been put aside for private prayer and it was 
 hoped that no one would talk or make any noise, were some 
 one meditating or praying there. The little place was in- 
 finitely quiet, with a special air of peace and beauty as though 
 all the prayers and meditations that had been offered there 
 had deeply sanctified it; Lawrence pushed open the door of 
 the screen and they crossed the flagged floor. Suddenly into 
 the heart of the hush there broke the Cathedral chimes, al- 
 most, as it seemed, directly above their heads, booming, 
 echoing, dying with lingering music back into the silence. 
 At the corner of the Chapel there was a little wooden door; 
 Lawrence unlocked it and pushed it open. "Mind how you 
 go, sir," he said, speaking to Falk as though Davray did 
 not exist. " 'Tis a bit difficult with the winding stair." 
 
 The two men went forward into the black darkness, leav- 
 ing the dusky light behind them. Davray led the way 
 and Falk followed, feeling with his arms the black walls 
 on either side of him, knocking with his legs against the 
 steps above him. Here there was utter darkness and no 
 sound. He had suddenly a half-alarmed, half-humorous sus- 
 picion that Davray was suddenly going to turn round upon 
 him and push him down the stair or stick a knife into him 
 the fear of the dark. "After all, what am I doing with this 
 fellow ?" he thought. "I don't know him. I don't like him. 
 I don't want to be with him." 
 
 "That's better," he heard Davray say. There was a glim- 
 mer, then a shadow of grey light, finally they had stepped 
 out into what was known as the Whispering Gallery, a nar- 
 row railed platform that ran the length of the Chapel and 
 beyond to the opposite Tower. They did not stop there. 
 They pushed up again by more winding stairs, black for a 
 space, then lit by a window, then black again. At last, after 
 what had seemed a long journey, they were in a little, spare, 
 empty room with a wooden floor. One side of this little 
 room was open and railed in. Looking down, the floor of 
 the nave seemed a vast distance below. You seemed here
 
 112 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 to be flying in glory. The dim haze of the candles just 
 touched the misty depth with golden colour. Above them 
 the great roof seemed close and menacing. Everywhere pil- 
 lars and buttresses rose out of space. The great architect 
 of the building seemed here to have his true kingdom, so 
 vast was the depth and the height and the grandeur. The 
 walls and the roof and the pillars that supported it were 
 alive with their own greatness, scornful of little men and 
 their little loves. The hush wa3 filled with movement and 
 stir and a vast business. . . . 
 
 The two men leaned on the rails and looked down. Far 
 below, the white figured altar, the brass of the Black Bish- 
 op's tomb, the glitter of Saint Margaret's screen struck in 
 little points of dull gold like stars upon a grey inverted sky 
 
 Davray turned suddenly upon his companion. "And it's 
 men like your father," he said, "who think that this place 
 is theirs. . . . Theirs ! Presumption ! But they'll get it 
 in the neck for that. This place can bide its time. Just 
 when you think you're its master it turns and stamps you 
 out." 
 
 Falk said nothing. Davray seemed irritated by his silence. 
 "You wait and see," he said. "It amuses me to see your 
 governor walking up the choir on Sundays as though he 
 owned the place. Owned it! Why, he doesn't realise a 
 stone of it! Well, he'll get it. They all have who've tried 
 his game. Owned it !" 
 
 "Look here," said Falk, "don't you say anything about 
 my father that's none of your business. He's all right. I 
 don't know what the devil I came up here for thinking of 
 other things." 
 
 Davray too was thinking of other things. 
 
 "You wonderful place!" he whispered. "You beautiful 
 place! You've ruined me, but I don't care. You can do 
 what you like with me. You wonder! You wonder!" 
 
 Falk looked nt him. The man was mad. He was holding 
 on to the rnil'nsr. loan'ncr forward, staring. . . .
 
 PRELUDE 113 
 
 "Look here, it isn't safe to lean like that. You'll be 
 tumbling over and breaking your neck if you're not careful." 
 
 But Davray did not hear him. He was lost in his own 
 dreams. Falk despised dreams although just now he was 
 himself in the grip of one. Besides the fellow was drunk. 
 
 A sudden disgust of his companion overtook him. 
 
 "Well, so long," he said. "I must be getting home!" 
 
 He wondered for a moment whether it were safe to leave 
 the fellow there. "It's his own look-out," he thought, and as 
 Davray said no more he left him. 
 
 Back once more in the King Harry Chapel, he looked 
 up. But he could see no one and could hear no sound.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 BONDER'S DAT 
 
 RONDER had now spent several months in Polchester 
 and was able to come to an opinion about it, and the 
 opinion that he had come to was that he could be very com- 
 fortable there. His aunt, who, in spite of her sharpness, 
 never was sure how he would take anything, was a little sur- 
 prised when he told her this. But then she was never cer- 
 tain what were the secret springs from which he derived 
 that sense of comfort that was the centre of his life. She 
 should have known by now that he derived it from two 
 things luxury and the possibility of intrigue. 
 
 Polchester could not have appeared to any casual observer 
 a luxurious town, but it had for Render exactly that com- 
 bination of beauty and mystery that obtained for him his 
 sensation. 
 
 He did not analyse it as yet further than that he knew 
 that those two things were there; he might investigate them 
 at his leisure. 
 
 In that easy, smiling fashion that he had developed from 
 his earliest days as the surest protection for his own se- 
 curity and ease, he arranged everything around him to as- 
 sure his tranquillity. Everything was not as yet arranged; 
 it might take him six months, a year, two years for that ar- 
 rangement . . . but he knew now that it would be done. 
 
 The second element in his comfort, his love of intrigue, 
 would be satisfied here simply because everything was not, 
 as yet, as he would have it He would have hated to have 
 tumbled into the place and found it just as ho required it. 
 
 114
 
 PBELUDE 115 
 
 He liked to have things to move, to adjust, to arrange, just 
 as when he entered a room he always, if he had the power, 
 at once altered the chairs, the cushions. It was towards 
 this final adjustment that his power of intrigue always 
 worked. Once everything was adjusted he sank back luxuri- 
 ously and surveyed it and then, in all probability, was 
 quickly tired of it and looked for new fields to conquer. 
 
 He could not remember a time when he had not been im- 
 pelled to alter things for his comfort. He did not wish to 
 be selfish about this, he was quite willing for every one 
 else to do the same indeed, he watched them with genial- 
 ity and wondered why on earth they didn't. As a small boy 
 at Harrow he had, with an imperturbable smile and a sense 
 of humour that, in spite of his rotund youth and a general 
 sense amongst his elders that he was "cheeky," won him 
 popularity, worked always for his own comfort. 
 
 He secured it and, first as fag and afterwards as House- 
 prefect, finally as School-prefect, did exactly what he wanted 
 with everybody. 
 
 He did it by being, quite frankly, all things to all men, 
 although never with sycophancy nor apparent falseness. He 
 amused the bored, was confidential with the wicked, upright 
 with the upright, and sympathetic with the unfortunate. 
 
 He was quite genuine in all these things. He was deeply 
 interested in humanity, not for humanity's sake but his own. 
 He bore no man any grudge, but if any one was in his way 
 he worked hard until they were elsewhere. That removal at- 
 tained, he wished them all the luck in the world. 
 
 He was ordained because he thought he could deal more 
 easily with men as a parson. "Men always take clergymen 
 for fools," he told his aunt, "and so they sometimes are . . . 
 but not always." He knew he was not a fool, but he was 
 not conceited. He simply thought that he had hit upon the 
 one secret of life and could not understand why others had 
 not done the same. Why do people worry so ? was the amused 
 speculation. "Deep emotions are simply not worth while,"
 
 11G THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 be decided on his coming of age. He liked women but bis 
 souse of humour prevented him from falling in love. He 
 really did understand the sensual habits and desires of men 
 and women but watched them from a distance through books 
 and pictures and other men's stories. He was shocked by 
 nothing nor did he despise mankind. He thought that 
 mankind did on the whole very well considering its difficul- 
 ties. He was kind and often generous ; he bore no man alive 
 or dead any grudge. He refused absolutely to quarrel 
 "waste of time and temper." 
 
 His one danger was lest that passion for intrigue should 
 go deeper than he allowed anything to go. Playing chess 
 with mankind was to him, he declared, simply a means to 
 an end. Perhaps once it had been so. But, as he grew 
 older, there was a danger that the end should be swallowed 
 by the means. 
 
 This danger he did not perceive; it was his one blindness. 
 Finally he believed with La Rochefoucauld that "Pity is a 
 passion which is wholly useless to a well-constituted mind." 
 
 At any rate he discovered that there was in Polchestcr 
 a situation exactly suited to his powers. The town, or the 
 Cathedral part of it, was dominated by one man, and that 
 man a stupid, autocratic, retrogressive, good-natured child. 
 He bore that child not the slightest ill-will, but it must go or, 
 at any rate, its authority must be removed. He did, indeed, 
 like Brandon, and through most of this affair he did not 
 cease to like him, but he, Ronder, would never be comfort- 
 able so long as Brandon was there, he would never be free 
 to take the steps that seemed to him good, he would be in- 
 terfered with and patronised. Ho was greatly amused by 
 Brandon's patronage, but it really was not a thing that could 
 be allowed to remain. 
 
 If he saw, as he made his plans, that the man's heart and 
 soul, his life, physical and spiritual, were involved well he. 
 was sorry. It simply proved how foolish it was to allow 
 your heart and soul to be concerned in anything.
 
 ONE PRELUDE 117 
 
 He very quickly perceived that the first thing to be done 
 was to establish relations with the men who composed the 
 Chapter. He watched, he listened, he observed, then, at the 
 end of some months, he began to move. 
 
 Many men would have considered him lazy. He never 
 took exercise if he could avoid it, and it was Polchester's 
 only fault that it had so many hills. He always had break- 
 fast in bed, read the papers there and smoked a cigarette. 
 Every morning he had a bath as hot as he could bear it 
 and he could bear it very hot indeed. Much of his best 
 thinking was done there. 
 
 When he came downstairs he reserved the first hour for 
 his own reading, reading, that is, that had nothing to do 
 with any kind of work, that was purely for his own pleasure. 
 He allowed nothing whatever to interfere with this Gautier 
 and Flaubert, La Bruyere and Montaigne were his favour- 
 ite authors, but he read a great deal of English, Italian, and 
 Spanish, and had a marvelous memory. He enjoyed, too, 
 erotic literature and had a fine collection of erotic books 
 and prints shut away in a cabinet in his study. He found 
 great fascination in theological books: he laughed at many 
 of them, but kept an open mind atheistic and materialistic 
 dogmas seemed to him as absurd as orthodox ones. He read 
 too a great deal of philosophy but, on the whole, he despised 
 men who gave themselves up to philosophy more than any 
 other human beings. He felt that they lost their sense of 
 humour so quickly, and made life unpleasant for themselves. 
 
 After his hour of reading he gave himself up to the work 
 of the day. He was the most methodical of men : the desk in 
 his study was full of little drawers and contrivances for keep- 
 ing things in order. He had a thin vase of blue glass filled 
 with flowers, a small Chinese image of green jade, a photo- 
 graph of the Blind Homer from the Naples Museum in a 
 silver frame, and a little gold clock; all these things had to 
 be in their exactly correct positions. Nothing worried him 
 so much as dust or any kind of disorder. He would some-
 
 118 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 times stop in the middle of his work and cross the room in the 
 soft slippers of brown kid that he always wore in his study, 
 and put some picture straight or move some ornament from 
 one position to another. The books that stretched along one 
 wall from floor to ceiling were arranged most carefully ac- 
 cording to their subjects. He disliked to see some books 
 projecting further from the shelf than others, and, with a lit- 
 tle smile of protest, as though he were giving them a kindly 
 scolding, he would push them into their right places. 
 
 Let is not be supposed, however, that he was idle during 
 these hours. He could accomplish an astonishing amount 
 of work in a short time, and he was never idle except by 
 deliberate intention. 
 
 When luncheon time arrived he was ready to be charming 
 to his aunt, and charming to her he was. Their relations 
 were excellent. She understood him so well that she left 
 his schemes alone. If she did not entirely approve of him 
 and she entirely approved of nobody she loved him for his 
 good company, his humour, and his common-sense. She liked 
 it too that he did not mind when she chose to allow her irony 
 to play upon him. He cared nothing for any irony. 
 
 At luncheon they felt a very agreeable intimacy. There 
 was no need for explanations; half allusions were enough. 
 They could enjoy their joke without emphasising it and 
 sometimes even without expressing it. Miss Render knew 
 that her nephew liked to hear all the gossip. He collected it, 
 tied it into little packets, and put them away in the little 
 mechanical contrivances with which his mind was filled. She 
 told him first what she heard, then her authorities, finally 
 her own opinions. He thoroughly enjoyed his meal. 
 
 He had, by now, very thoroughly mastered the Cathedral 
 finances. They were not complicated and were in good or- 
 der, because Hart-Smith had been a man of an orderly mind. 
 Ronder very quickly discovered that Brandon had had his 
 fingers considerably in the old pie. "And now there'll be 
 a new pie," he said to himself, "baked by me." . . . He
 
 ONE PRELUDE 119 
 
 traced a number of stupid and conservative decisions to 
 Brandon's agency. There was no doubt but that many things 
 needed a new urgency and activity. 
 
 People had had to fight desperately for money when they 
 should have been given it at once; on the other hand, the 
 Cathedral had been well looked after it was rather depend- 
 ent bodies like the School, the Almshouses, and various liv- 
 ings in the Chapter grant that had suffered. 
 
 Anything that could possibly be considered a novelty had 
 been fought and generally defeated. "There will be a lot of 
 novelties before I've finished with them," Render said to 
 himself. 
 
 He started his investigations by paying calls on Bentinck- 
 Major and Canon Foster. Bentinck-Major lived at the top 
 of Orange Street, in a fine house with a garden, and Foster 
 lived in one of four tumble-down buildings behind the Ca- 
 thedral, known from time immemorial as Canon's Yard. 
 
 The afternoon of his visit was about three days after a 
 dinner-party at the Castle. He had seen and heard enough 
 at that dinner to amuse him for many a day ; he considered 
 it to have been one of the most entertaining dinners at which 
 he had ever been present. It had been here that he had heard 
 for the first time of the Pybus St. Anthony living. Brandon 
 had been present, and he observed Brandon's nervousness, 
 and gathered enough to realise that this would be a matter 
 of considerable seriousness. He was to know a great deal 
 more about it before the afternoon was over. 
 
 As he walked through the town on the way to Orange 
 Street he came upon Ryle, the Precentor. Ryle looked the 
 typical clergyman, tall but not too tall, here a smile and there 
 a smile, with his soft black hat, his trousers too baggy at the 
 knees, his boots and his gold watch-chain both too large. 
 
 He cared, with serious devotion, for the Cathedral music 
 and sang the services beautifully, but he would have been 
 able to give more time to his work were he not so continu- 
 ously worrying as to whether people were vexed with him or
 
 120 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 no. His idea of Paradise was a place where he could chant 
 eternal services and where everybody liked him. He was a 
 good man, but weak, and therefore driven again and again 
 into insincerity. It was as though there was for ever in 
 front of him the consciousness of some secret in his past life 
 that must on no account be discovered; but, poor man, he 
 had no secret at all. 
 
 "Well, Precentor, and how are you ?" said Render, beam- 
 ing at him over his spectacles. 
 
 Ryle started. Render had come behind him. He liked 
 the look of Render. He always preferred fat men to thin; 
 they were much less malicious, he thought. 
 
 "Oh, thank you, Canon Ronder very well, thank you. 
 I didn't see you. Quite spring weather. Are you going 
 my way?" 
 
 "I'm off to see Bentinck-Major." 
 
 "Oh, yes, Bentinck-Major. . . ." 
 
 Rylo's first thought was "Now is Bentinck-Major likely 
 to have anything to say against me this afternoon ?" 
 
 "I'm going up Orange Street too. It's the High School 
 Governors' meeting, you know." 
 
 "Oh, yes, of course." 
 
 The two men started up the hill together. Ronder sur- 
 veyed the scene around him with pleasure. Orange Street 
 always satisfied his aesthetic sense. It was the street of the 
 doctors, the solicitors, the dentists, the bankers, and the 
 wealthier old maids of Polchester. The grey stone was of a 
 charming age, the houses with their bow-windows, their pil- 
 lared porches, their deep-set doors, their gleaming old-fash- 
 ioned knockers, spoke eloquently of the day when the great 
 Jane's Elizabeths and D'Arcys, Mrs. Morrises and Misses 
 Bates found the world in a tea-cup, when passions were solved 
 by matrimony and ambitions by the possession of a carriage 
 and a fine ^>air of bays. But more than this was the way 
 that the gardens and lawns and orchards ran unchecked in 
 and out, up and down, here breaking into the street, there
 
 ONE PKELUDE 121 
 
 crowding a church with apple-trees, seeming to speak, at 
 every step, of leisure and sunny days and lives free of care. 
 
 Ronder had never seen anything so pretty; something 
 seemed to tell him that he would never see anything so 
 pretty again. 
 
 Ryle was not a good conversationalist, hecause he had 
 always before him the fear that some one might twist what 
 he said into something really unpleasant, but, indeed, he 
 found Ronder so agreeable that, as he told Mrs. Ryle when 
 he got home, he "never noticed the hill at all." 
 
 "I hope you won't think me impertinent," said Ronder, 
 "but I must tell you how charmed I was with the way that 
 you sang the service on Sunday. You must have been com- 
 plimented often enough before, but a stranger always has 
 the right, I think, to say something. I'm a little critical, 
 too, of that kind of thing, although, of course, an amateur 
 . . . but well, it was delightful." 
 
 Ryle flushed with pleasure to the very tips of his over- 
 large ears. 
 
 "Oh, really, Canon. . . . But indeed I hardly know what 
 to say. You're too good. I do my poor best, but I can't 
 help feeling that there is danger of one's becoming stale, 
 I've been here a great many years now and I think some 
 one fresh . . ." 
 
 "Well, often," said Ronder, "that is a danger. I know 
 several cases where a change would be all for the better, but 
 in your case there wasn't a trace of staleness. I do hope you 
 won't think me presumptuous in saying this. I couldn't 
 help myself. I must congratulate you, too, on the choir. 
 How do you find Brockett as an organist ?" 
 
 "Not quite all one would wish," said Ryle eagerly and 
 then, as though he remembered that some one might repeat 
 this to Brockett, he added hurriedly, "Not that he doesn't 
 do his best. He's an excellent fellow. Every one has their 
 faults. It's only that he's a little too fond of adventures on
 
 122 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 his own account, likes to add things on the spur of the 
 moment ... a little fantastic sometimes." 
 
 "Quite so," said Ronder gravely. "That's rather what 
 I'd thought myself. I noticed it once or twice last Sunday. 
 But that's a fault on the right side. The boys behave ad- 
 mirably. I never saw better behaviour." 
 
 Ryle was now in his element. He let himself go, explain- 
 ing this, defending that, apologising for one thing, hoping 
 for another. Before he knew where he was he found him- 
 self at the turning above the monument that led to the 
 High School. 
 
 "Here we part," he said. 
 
 "Why, so we do," cried Ronder. 
 
 "I do hope," said Ryle nervously, "that you'll come and 
 see us soon. Mrs. Ryle will be delighted. . . ." 
 
 "Why, of course I will," said Ronder. "Any day you 
 like. Good-bye. Good-bye," and he went to Bentinck-Ma- 
 jor's. 
 
 One look at Bentinck-Major's garden told a great deal about 
 Bentinck-Major. The flower-beds, the trim over-green lawn, 
 the neat paths, the trees in their fitting places, all spoke 
 not only of a belief in material things but a desire also to 
 demonstrate that one so believed. . . . 
 
 One expected indeed to see the Bentinck-Major arms over 
 the front-door. They were there in spirit if not in fact. 
 
 "Is the Canon in?" Ronder asked of a small and gaping 
 page-boy. 
 
 He was in, it appeared. Would he see Canon Ronder? 
 The page-boy disappeared and Ronder was able to observe 
 three family-trees framed in oak, a large china bowl with 
 visiting-cards, and a huge round-faced clock that, even as 
 he waited there, pompously announced that half-hour. Pres- 
 ently the Canon, like a shining Ganymede, came flying into 
 the hall. 
 
 "My dear Ronder ! But this is delightful. A little early
 
 ONE PKELUDE 123 
 
 for tea, perhaps. Indeed, my wife is, for the moment, out. 
 What do you say to the library ?" 
 
 Ronder had nothing to say against the library, and into 
 it they went. A fine room with books in leather bindings, 
 high windows, an oil painting of the Canon as a smart 
 young curate, a magnificent writing-table, The Spectator and 
 The Church Times near the fireplace, and two deep leather 
 arm-chairs. Into these last two the clergymen sank. 
 
 Bentinck-Major put his fingers together, crossed his ad- 
 mirable legs, and looked interrogatively at his visitor. 
 
 "I'm lucky to catch you at home," said Render. "This 
 isn't quite the time to call, I'm afraid. But the fact is that 
 I want some advice." 
 
 "Quite so," said his host. 
 
 "I'm not a very modest man," said Ronder, laughing. "In 
 fact, to tell you the truth, I don't believe very much in mod- 
 esty. But there are times when it's just as well to admit 
 one's incompetence. This is one of them " 
 
 "Why, really, Canon," said Bentinck-Major, wishing to 
 give the poor man encouragement. 
 
 "No, but I mean what I say. I don't consider myself 
 a stupid man, but when one comes fresh into a place like 
 this there are many things that one cant know, and that one 
 must learn from some one wiser than oneself if one's to do 
 any good." 
 
 "Oh, really, Canon," Bentinck-Major repeated. "If there's 
 anything I can do " 
 
 "There is. It isn't so much about the actual details of 
 the work that I want your advice. Hart-Smith has left 
 things in excellent condition, and I only hope that I shall 
 be able to keep everything as straight as he has done. What 
 I really want from you is some sort of bird's-eye view as to 
 the whole situation. The Chapter, for instance. Of course, 
 I've been here for some months now and have a little idea 
 as to the people in the place, but you've been here so long 
 that there are many things that you can tell me."
 
 124 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 "Xow, for instance," said Benti nek-Major, looking very 
 wise and serious. "What kind of things?" 
 
 "I don't want you to tell me any secrets," said Ronder. 
 "I only want your opinion, as a man of the world, as to how 
 things stand what really wants doing, who, beside your- 
 self, are the leading men here and in what directions they 
 work. I needn't say that this conversation is confidential." 
 
 "Oh, of course, of course." 
 
 "Now, I don't know if I'm wrong, but it seems from 
 what I've seen during the short time that I've been here 
 that the general point of view is inclined to be a little too 
 local. I believe you rather feel that yourself, although I 
 may be prejudiced, coming straight as I have from Lon- 
 don." 
 
 "It's odd that you should mention that, Canon," said 
 Bentinck-Major. "You've put your finger on the weak spot 
 at once. You're only saying what I've been crying aloud for 
 the last ever so many years. A voice in the wilderness I've 
 been, I'm afraid a voice in the wilderness, although per- 
 haps I have managed to do a little something. But there's 
 no doubt that the men here, excellent though they are, are 
 a little provincial. What else can you expect ? They've been 
 here for years. They have not had, most of them, the ad- 
 vantage of mingling with the great world. That I should 
 have had a little more of that opportunity than my fellows 
 here is nothing to my credit, but it does, beyond question, 
 give one a wider view a wider view. There's our dear 
 Bishop for instance a saint, if ever there was one. A saint, 
 Ronder, I assure you. But there he is, hidden away at Car- 
 pledon out of things, I'm afraid, although of course he does 
 his best Then there's Sampson. Well, I hardly need to 
 tell you that he's not quite the man to make things hum. 
 Not by his own fault I assure you. He docs his best, but 
 we are as we're made . . . yes. We can only use the gifts 
 that God has given us, and God has not, undoubtedly, given 
 the Dean quite the gifts that we need here."
 
 ONE PRELUDE 125 
 
 He paused and waited. He was a cautious man and 
 weighed his words. 
 
 "Then there's Brandon," said Render smiling. "There, 
 if I may say so, is a splendid character, a man who gives 
 his whole life and energy for the good of the place who 
 spares himself nothing." 
 
 There was a little pause. Bentinck-Major took advan- 
 tage of it to look graver than ever. 
 
 "He strikes you like that, does he ?" he said at last. "Well, 
 in many ways I think you're right. Brandon is a good friend 
 of mine I may say that he thoroughly appreciates what 
 I've done for this place. But he is quite between our- 
 selves how shall I put it ? just a little autocratic. Perhaps 
 that's too strong a word, but he is, some think, a little too 
 inclined to fancy that he runs the Cathedral! That, mind 
 you, is only the opinion of some here, and I don't know 
 that I should entirely associate myself with it, but perhaps 
 there is something in it. He is, as you can see, a man of 
 strong will and, again between ourselves, of a considerable 
 temper. - This will not, I'm sure, go further than ourselves ?" 
 
 "Absolutely not," said Ronder. 
 
 "Things have been a little slack here for several years, 
 and although I've done my own little best, what is one 
 against so many, if you understand what I mean?" 
 
 "Quite," said Ronder. 
 
 "Well, nobody could call Branaon an unenergetic man 
 quite the reverse. And, to put it frankly, to oppose him one 
 needs courage. Now I may say that I've opposed him on a 
 number of occasions but have had no backing. Brandon, 
 when he's angry, is no light opponent, and the result has 
 been that he's had, I'm afraid, a great deal of his own way." 
 
 "You're afraid ?" said Ronder. 
 
 Bentinck-Major seemed a little nervous at being caught 
 up so quickly. He looked at Ronder suspiciously. His 
 voice was sharper than it had been. 
 
 "Oh, I like Brandon don't make any mistake about that.
 
 126 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 He and I together have done some excellent things here. 
 In many ways he's admirable. I don't know what I'd have 
 done sometimes without his backing. All I mean is that 
 he is perhaps a little hasty sometimes." 
 
 ''Quite," said Bonder. "I can't tell you how you've 
 helped me by what you've told me. I'm sure you're right 
 in everything you've said. If you were to give me a tip 
 then, you'd say that I couldn't do better than follow Bran- 
 don. I'll remember that." 
 
 "Well, no," said Bentinck-Major rather hastily. "I don't 
 know that I'd quite say that either. Brandon is often 
 wrong. I'm not sure either that he has quite the influence 
 he had. That silly little incident of the elephant the other 
 day you heard that, didn't you? well, a trivial thing, 
 but one saw by the way that the town took it that the Arch- 
 deacon isn't quite where he was. I agree with him entirely 
 in his policy to keep things as they always have been. 
 That's the only way to save our Church, in my opinion. 
 As soon as they tell me an idea's new, that's enough for me 
 . . . I'm down on it at once. But what I do think is that 
 his diplomacy is often faulty. He rushes at things like a 
 bull exactly like a bull. A little too confident always. No, 
 if you won't think me conceited and I believe I'm a mod- 
 est man you couldn't do better than come to me talk things 
 over with me, you know. I'm sure we'll see alike about many 
 things." 
 
 "I'm sure we will," said Render. "Thank you very 
 much. As you've been so kind I'm sure you won't mind my 
 asking you a few questions. I hope I'm not keeping you 
 from anything." 
 
 "Not at all. Not at all," said Bentinck-Major very gra- 
 ciously, and stretching his plump little body back into the 
 arm-chair. "Ask as many questions as you like and I'll do 
 my best to answer them." 
 
 Ronder did then, during the next half-hour, ask a great 
 many questions, and he received a great many answers. The
 
 ONE 
 
 PRELUDE 127 
 
 answers may not have told him overmuch about the things 
 that he wanted to know, but they did tell him a great deal 
 about Bentinck-Major. 
 
 The clock struck four. 
 
 Ronder got up. 
 
 "You don't know -iow you ve helped me," he said. "You've 
 told me exactly what I wanted to know. Thank you so 
 very much." 
 
 Bentinck-Major looked gratified. He had, in fact, thor- 
 oughly enjoyed himself. 
 
 "Oh, but you'll stay and have some tea, won't you?" 
 
 "I'm afraid I can't do that. I've got a pretty busy after- 
 noon still in front of me." 
 
 "My wife will be so disappointed." 
 
 "You'll let me come another day, won t you ?" 
 
 "Of course. Of course." 
 
 The Canon himself accompanied his guest into the hall 
 and opened the front door for him. 
 
 "Any time any time that I can help you." 
 
 "Thank you so very much. Good-bye." 
 
 "Good-bye. Good-bye." 
 
 So far so good, but Ronder was aware that his next 
 visit would be quite another affair and so indeed it proved. 
 
 To reach Canon's Yard from Orange Street, Ronder had 
 to go down through Green Lane past the Orchards, and up 
 by a steep path into Bodger's Street and the small houses 
 that have clustered for many years behind the Cathedral. 
 Here once was Saint Margaret's Monastery utterly swept 
 away, until not a stone remained, by Henry VIII.'s servants. 
 Saint Margaret's only memory lingers in the Saint Margaret's 
 Hostel for Women at the top of Bodger's Street, and even 
 that has now a worn and desolate air as though it also were 
 on the edge of departure. In truth, this part of Polchester 
 is neglected and forgotten; it has not sunk like Seatown 
 into dirt and degradation, it has still an air of romance and 
 colour, but the life is gone from it.
 
 123 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 Canon's Yard is behind the Hostel and is a little square, 
 shut-in, cobbled place with tall thin houses closing it in and 
 the Cathedral towers overhanging it. Rooks and bells and 
 the rattle of carts upon the cobbles make a perpetual clatter 
 here, and its atmosphere is stuffy and begrimed. When the 
 Cathedral chimes ring they echo from house to house, from 
 wall to wall, so that it seems as though the bells of a hundred 
 Cathedrals were ringing here. Nevertheless from the high 
 windows of the Yard there is a fine view of orchards and 
 hills and distant woods a view not to be despised. 
 
 The house in which Canon Foster had his rooms is one of 
 the oldest of all the houses. The house was kept by one 
 Mrs. Maddis, who had "run" rooms for the clergy ever since 
 her first marriage, when she was a pretty blushing girl of 
 twenty. She was now a hideous old woman of eighty, and 
 the house was managed by her married daughter, Mrs. 
 Crumpleton. There were three floors and there should 
 have been three clergymen, but for some time the bottom 
 floor had been empty and the middle apartments were 
 let to transient tenants. They were at this moment inhabited 
 by a retired sea-captain. 
 
 Foster reigned on the top floor and was quite oblivious of 
 neighbours, landladies, tidiness, and the view ho cared, 
 by nature, for none of these things. Render climbed up the 
 dirty dark staircase and knocked on the old oak door that 
 had upon it a dirty visiting card with Foster's name. When 
 he ceased his climb and the noise of his footsteps fell away 
 there was a great silence. Not a sound could be heard. 
 The bells were not chiming, the rooks were not cawing (it 
 was not as yet their time) nor was the voice of Mrs. Crumple* 
 ton to be heard, shrill and defiant, as was too often the casa 
 The house was dead ; the town was dead ; had the world it- 
 self suddenly died, like a candle whose light is put out, 
 Foster would not have cared. 
 
 Ronder knocked three times with tho knob of his walk- 
 ing-stick. The man must be out He was about to turn
 
 ONE PRELUDE 129 
 
 away and go when the door suddenly opened, as though hy 
 a secret life of its own, and the pale face and untidy per- 
 son of the Canon, like the apparition of a surprised and in- 
 dignant revenank, was apparent. 
 
 "May I come in for a moment?" said Render. "I won't 
 keep you long." 
 
 Foster stared at his visitor, said nothing, opened the door 
 a little wider, and stood aside. Ronder accepted this as an in- 
 vitation and came in. 
 
 "You'd better come into the other room," said Foster, 
 looking about him as though he had been just ruthlessly 
 awakened from an important dream. They passed through 
 a little passage and an untidy sitting-room into the study. 
 This was a place piled high with books and its only furni- 
 ture was a deal table and two straw-bottomed chairs. At 
 the table Foster had obviously been working. Books lay 
 about it and papers, and there was also a pile of manuscript. 
 Foster looked around him, caught his large ears in his fingers 
 and cracked them, and then suddenly said : 
 
 "You'd better sit down. What can I do for you ?" 
 
 Ronder sat down. It was at once apparent that, whatever 
 the state of the rooms might be, his reluctant host was 
 suddenly very wide awake indeed. He felt, what he had 
 known from the very first meeting, that he was in contact 
 here with a man of brain, of independence, of character. 
 His capacity for amused admiration that was one of the 
 strongest things in him, was roused to the full. Another 
 thing that he had also by now perceived was that Foster 
 was not that type, by now so familiar to us in the pages of 
 French and English fiction, of the lost and bewildered old 
 clergyman whose long nose has been for so many years 
 buried in dusty books that he is unable to smell the real 
 world. Foster was neither lost nor bewildered. He was 
 very much all there. 
 
 What could he do for Ronder? Ronder was, for a mo- 
 ment, uncertain. Here, he was happy to think, he must go
 
 130 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 with the greatest care. He did not smile as he had smiled 
 upon Bentinck-Major. He spoke to Foster as to an equal. 
 
 "I can see you're busy," he said. "All the same I'm not 
 going to apologise for coming. I'll tell you frankly that I 
 want your help. At the same time I'll tell you that I don't 
 care whether you give it me or no." 
 
 "In what way can I help you ?" asked Foster coldly. 
 
 "There's to be a Chapter Meeting in a few days' time, 
 isn't there ? Honestly I haven't been here quite long enough 
 yet to know how things stand. Questions may come up, al- 
 though there's nothing very important this time, I believe. 
 But there may be important things brewing. Now you've 
 been here a great many years and you have your opinion 
 of how things should go. I want your idea of some of the 
 conditions." 
 
 "You've come to spy out the land, in fact ?" 
 
 "Put it that way if you like," said Render seriously, 
 "although I don't think spying is exactly the word. You're 
 perfectly at liberty, I mean, to tell anybody that I've been 
 to see you and to repeat to anybody what I say. It simply 
 is that I don't care to take on all the work that's being 
 shoved on to my shoulders without getting the views of those 
 who know the place well." 
 
 "Oh, if it's my views you want," cried Foster, suddenly 
 raising his voice and almost shouting, "they're easy enough 
 to discover. They are simply that everything here is abomin- 
 able, going to wrack and ruin. . . . Now you know what 
 7 think." 
 
 He looked down at his manuscript as much as to say, "Well, 
 good afternoon." 
 
 "Going to ruin in what way?" asked Render. 
 
 "In the way that the country is going to ruin because it 
 has turned its back upon God." 
 
 There was a pause. Suddenly Foster flung out, "Do you 
 believe in God, Canon Render?"
 
 ONE PRELUDE 131 
 
 "I think," said Render, "the fact that I'm in the position 
 I'm in- 
 
 "Nonsense," interrupted Foster. "That's anybody's an- 
 swer. You don't look like a spiritual man." 
 
 "I'm fat, if that's what you mean," said Render smiling. 
 "That's my misfortune." 
 
 "If I've been rude," said Foster more mildly, "forgive 
 me. I am rude these days. I've given up trying not to be. 
 The truth is that I'm sick to the heart with all their worldli- 
 ness, shams, lies, selfishness, idleness. You may be better 
 than they. You may not. I don't know. If you've come 
 here determined to wake them all up and improve things, 
 then I wish you God-speed. But you won't do it. You 
 needn't think you will. If you've come like the rest to get 
 what you can out of it, then I don't think you'll find my 
 company good for you." 
 
 "I certainly haven't come to wake them up," said Render. 
 "I don't believe that to be my duty. I'm not made that 
 way. Nor can I honestly believe things to be as bad as you 
 say. But I do intend, with God's help, to do my best. If 
 that's not good enough for you, then you must abandon me 
 to my fate." 
 
 Foster seemed to appreciate that. He nodded his head. 
 
 "That's honest at any rate," he said. "It's the first honest 
 thing I've heard here for a long time except from the Bishop. 
 To tell you the truth, I had thought you were going to work 
 in with Brandon. One more of his sheep. If that were 
 to be so the less we saw of one another the better." 
 
 "I have not been here long enough," said Ronder, "to think 
 of working in with anybody. And I don't wish to take sides. 
 There's my duty to the Cathedral. I shall work for that 
 and let the rest go." 
 
 "There's your duty to God," said Foster vehemently. 
 "That's the thing that everybody here's forgotten. But you 
 don't sound as though you'd go Brandon's way. That's 
 something in your favour."
 
 132 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 "Why should one go Brandon's way?" Ronder asked. 
 
 "Why? Why? Why? Why do sheep huddle together 
 when the dog barks at their heels? . . . But I respect him. 
 Don't you mistake me. He's a man to be respected. He's 
 got courage. He cares for the Cathedral. He's a hundred 
 years behind, that's all. He's read nothing, he knows noth- 
 ing, he's a child and does infinite harm. . . ." He looked 
 up at Ronder and said quite mildly, "Is there anything 
 more you want to know ?" 
 
 "There's talk," said Ronder, "about the living at Pybus 
 St. Anthony. It's apparently an important place, and 
 when there's an appointment I should like to be able to form 
 an opinion about the best man : 
 
 "What! is Morrison dead?" said Foster eagerly. 
 
 "Xo, but very ill, I believe." 
 
 "Well, there's only one possible appointment for that 
 place, and that is Wistons." 
 
 "Wistons?" repeated Ronder. 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Foster impatiently, "the author of The 
 New Apocalypse the rector of St. Edward's, Hawston." 
 
 Ronder remembered. "A stranger?" he said. "I thought 
 that it would have to be some one in the diocese." 
 
 Foster did not hear him. "I've been waiting for this 
 to get Wistons here for years," he said. "A wonderful 
 man a great man. He'll wake the place up. We must have 
 him. As to local men, the more strangers we let in here 
 the better." 
 
 "Brandon said something about a man called Forsyth 
 Rex Forsyth?" 
 
 Foster smiled grimly. "Yes he would," he said, "that's 
 just his kind of appointment. Well, if ho tries to pull that 
 through there'll be such a battle as this place has never seen." 
 
 Ronder said slowly. "I like your idea of Wistons. That 
 sounds interesting." 
 
 Foster looked at him with a new intensity. 
 
 "Would you help mo about that?" he asked.
 
 ONE 
 
 PRELUDE 133 
 
 "I don't know quite where I am yet," said Bonder, "but 
 I think you'll find me a friend rather than an enemy, Fos- 
 ter." 
 
 "I don't care what you are," said Foster. "So far as my 
 feelings or happiness go, nothing matters. But to have 
 Wistons here in this place. . . . Oh, what we could do ! 
 What we could do !" 
 
 He seemed to be lost in a dream. Five minutes later he 
 roused himself to say good-bye. Render once more at the 
 top of the stairs felt about him again the strange stillness of 
 the house.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 SON FATHER 
 
 FALK BRANDON" was still, in reality, a boy. He, of 
 course, did not know this and would have been very 
 indignant had any one told him so; it was nevertheless the 
 truth. 
 
 There is a kind of confidence of youth that has great charm, 
 a sort of assumption of grown-up manners and worldly ways 
 that is accompanied with an ingenuous belief in human na- 
 ture, a naive trust in human goodness. One sees it some- 
 times in books, in stories that are like a charade acted by 
 children dressed in their elders' clothes, and although these 
 tales are nothing but fairy stories in their actual relation 
 to life, the sincerity of their belief in life, and a kind of 
 freshness that come from ignorance, give them a power of 
 their own. 
 
 Falk had some of this charm and power just as his father 
 had, but whereas his father would keep it all his days, Falk 
 would certainly lose it as he learnt more and went more 
 into the world. But as yet he had not lost it. 
 
 This emotion that had now gained such control over him 
 was the first real emotion of his life, and he did not know 
 in the least how to deal with it. He was like a man caught 
 in a baffling fog. He did not know in the least whether he 
 were in love with this girl, he did not know what he wanted 
 to do with her, he sometimes fancied that he hated her, he 
 could not see her clearly either mentally or physically ; he only 
 knew that he could not keep away from her, and that with 
 every meeting he approached more nearly the moment when 
 
 134
 
 PKELTJDE 135 
 
 he would commit some desperate action that he would prob- 
 ably regret for the rest of his life. 
 
 But although he could not see her clearly he could see 
 sharply enough the other side of the situation the prac- 
 tical, home, filial side. It was strange how, as the affair 
 advanced, he was more and more conscious of his father. It 
 was as though he were an outsider, a friend of his father's, 
 but no relation to the family, who watched a calamity ap- 
 proach ever more closely and was powerless to stop it. Al- 
 though he was only a boy he realised very sufficiently his 
 father's love for him and pride in him. He realized, too, 
 his father's dependence upon his dignity and position in the 
 town, and, last and most important of all, his father's pas- 
 sionate devotion to the Cathedral. All these things would 
 be bruised were he, Falk, involved in any local scandal. 
 Here he saw into himself and, with a bitterness and humility 
 that were quite new to him, despised himself. He knew, as 
 though he saw future events passing in procession before 
 him, that if such a scandal did break out he would not 
 be able to stay in the place and face it not because he him- 
 self feared any human being alive, but because he could not 
 see his father suffer under it. 
 
 Well, then, since he saw so clearly, why not abandon ifa 
 all? Why not run away, obtain some kind of work in 
 London and leave Polchester until the madness had passed 
 away from him? 
 
 He could not go. 
 
 He would have been one of the first to scorn another 
 man in such a position, to mock his weakness and despise 
 him. Well, let that be so. He despised himself but he 
 could not go. 
 
 He was always telling himself that soon the situation 
 would clear and that he would then know how to act. Until 
 that happened he must see her, must talk to her, must be 
 with her, must watch her. They had had, by now, a num-
 
 136 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 ber of meetings, always in the evening by the river, when 
 her father was away, up in the town. 
 
 He had kissed her twice. She had been quite passive on 
 each occasion, watching him ironically with a sort of dry 
 amusement. She had given him no sign that she cared for 
 him, and their conversation had always been bare and un- 
 satisfactory. Once she had said to him with sudden passion : 
 
 "I want to get away out of this." He had asked her 
 where she wanted to go. 
 
 "Anywhere London." He had asked her whether she 
 would go with him. 
 
 "I would go with any one," she had said. Afterwards 
 she added: "But you won't take me." 
 
 "Why not ?" he had asked. 
 
 "Because I'm not in love with you." 
 
 "You may be yet." 
 
 "I'd be anything to get away," she had replied. 
 
 On a lovely evening he went down to see her, determined 
 that this time he would give himself some definite answer. 
 Just before he turned down to the river he passed Samuel 
 Hogg. That large and smiling gentleman, a fat cigar be- 
 tween his lips, was sauntering, with a friend, on his way to 
 Murdock's billiard tables. 
 
 "Evenin', Mr. Brandon." 
 
 "Good evening, Hogg." 
 
 "Lovelv weather." 
 
 "Lovely." 
 
 The shadows, faintly pink on the rise of the hill, engulfed 
 his fat body. Falk wondered as he had before now done 
 many times, How much does he know? What's he think- 
 ing? What's ho want? . . . The river, at high tide, very 
 gently lapped the side of the old wall. Its colour to-night 
 was pure crystal green, the banks and the hills smoky grey 
 behind it. Tiny pink clouds ran in little fleets across the 
 sky, chasing one another in and out between the streamers 
 of smoke that rose from the tranquil chimneys. Seatowu
 
 ONE PKELUDE 137 
 
 was at rest this evening, scarcely a sound came from the old 
 houses; the birds could be heard calling from the mead- 
 ows beyond the river. The pink clouds faded into a rosy 
 shadow, then that in its turn gave way to a sky faintly 
 green and pointed with stars. Grey mist enveloped the 
 meadows and the river, and the birds cried no longer. There 
 was a smell of onions and rank seaweed in the air. 
 
 Falk's love-story pursued at first its usual realistic course. 
 She was there near the waterfall waiting for him ; they had 
 very little to say to one another. She was depressed to-night, 
 and he fancied that she had been crying. She was not so 
 attractive to him in such a mood. He liked her best when 
 she was intolerant, scornful, aloof. To-night, although she 
 showed no signs of caring for him, she surrendered herself 
 absolutely. He could do what he liked with her. But he 
 did not want to do anything with her. 
 
 She leaned over the Seatown wall looking desolately in 
 front of her. 
 
 At last she turned round to him and asked him what she 
 had asked him before: 
 
 "What do you come after me for?" 
 
 "I don't know," he said. 
 
 "It isn't because you love me." 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "I know there's no mistakin' it when it's there. I've 
 lain awake a lot o' nights wondering what you're after. You 
 must have your reasons. You take a deal o' trouble." 
 
 Then she put her hand on his. It was the first time that 
 she had ever, of her own accord, touched him. 
 
 "I'm gettin' to like you," she said. "Seein' so much of 
 you, I suppose. You're only a boy when all's said. And 
 then, somehow or another, men don't go after me. You're 
 the only one that ever has. They say I'm stuck up. . . . 
 Oh, man, but I'm unhappy here at home!" 
 
 "Well, then you'd better come away with me to Lon- 
 don."
 
 138 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 Even as he said it he would have caught the words hack. 
 What use for them to go ? Nothing to live on, no true com- 
 panionship . . . there could be only one end to that. 
 
 But she shook her head. 
 
 "No if you cared for me enough, mehbe I'd go. But I 
 don't know that we'd be together long if we did. I want 
 my own life, my own, own, own life! I can look after 
 myself all right. . . . I'll be off by myself alone one day." 
 
 Then suddenly he wanted her as urgently as ho had ever 
 done. 
 
 "No, you must never do that," he said. "If you go it 
 must be with ma You must have some one to look after 
 you. You don't know what London's like." 
 
 He caught her in his arms and kissed her passionately, 
 and she seemed to him a new woman altogether, created by 
 her threat that she would go away alone. 
 
 She passively let him kiss her, then with a little turn in his 
 arms and a little sigh she very gently kissed him of her 
 own will. 
 
 "I believe I could care for 'ee," she said softly. "And 
 I want to care for some one terrible bad." 
 
 They were nearer in spirit than they had ever been be- 
 fore; an emotion of simple human companionship had crept 
 into the unsettled disturbance and quieted it and deepened 
 it. She wore in his eyes a new aspect, something wise and 
 reasonable and comfortable. She would never bo quite so 
 mysterious to him again, but her hold on him now was 
 firmer. He was suddenly sorry for her as well as for him- 
 self. 
 
 For the first time he left her that night with a sense that 
 comradeship might grow between them. 
 
 But as he went back up the hill ho was terribly depressed 
 and humiliated. He hated and despised himself for long- 
 ing after something that he did not really want. He had 
 always, ho fancied, done that, as though there would never be
 
 ONE PRELUDE 139 
 
 time enough in life for all the things that he would wish 
 to test and to reject. 
 
 When he went to bed that night he was in rebellion with 
 all the world, but before he fell asleep Annie Hogg seemed 
 to come to him, a gentler, kinder spirit, and to say to him, 
 "It'll be all right. . . . I'll look after 'ee. . . . I'll look 
 after 'ee," and he seemed to sink to sleep in her arms. 
 
 Next morning Falk and Joan had breakfast alone with 
 their father, a headache having laid Mrs. Brandon low. 
 Falk was often late for breakfast, but to-day had woken 
 very early, had got up and gone out and walked through 
 the grey mist, turning his own particular trouble over and 
 over in his mind. To-day Annie had faded back from him 
 again; that tenderness that he had felt for her last night 
 seemed to have vanished, and he was aware only of a savage 
 longing to shake himself free of his burden. He had visions 
 this morning of going up to London and looking for 
 work. . . . 
 
 Joan saw that to-day was a "Chapter morning" day. 
 She always knew by her father's appearance when there was 
 to be a Chapter Meeting. He had then an extra gloss, an 
 added splendour, and also an added importance. He really 
 was the smartest old thing, she thought, looking at him this 
 morning with affectionate pride. He looked as though he 
 spent his time in springing in and out of cold baths. 
 
 The importance was there too. He had the Glebshire 
 Morning News propped up in front of him, and every now 
 and then he would poke his fine head up over it and look 
 at his children and the breakfast-table and give them a little 
 of the world's news. In former days it had been only at the 
 risk of their little lives that they had spoken to one another. 
 Now, although restrictions had broken down, they would 
 always hear, if their voices were loud : 
 
 "Come, children . . . come, come. Mayn't your father 
 read the newspaper in quiet? Plenty of time to chatter 
 during the rest of the day."
 
 140 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 He would break forth into little sentences and exclama- 
 tions as he read. "Well, that's settled Burnett's hash. 
 Serve him right, too. . . . Dear, dear, five shillings a hun- 
 dred now. Phillpott's going to St. Lummen ! What an ap- 
 pointment ! . . ." and so on. 
 
 Sometimes he would grow so deeply agitated that he 
 would push the paper away from him and wave vaguely about 
 the table with his hands as though he were learning to 
 swim, letting out at the same time little snorts of indignation 
 and wonder: 
 
 "The fools! The idiots! Savage, of all men! Fancy 
 listening to him! Well, they'll only get what they deserve 
 for their weakness. I wrote to Benson, too might as well 
 have written to a rhinoceros. Toast, please, Joan! Toast, 
 toast. Didn't you hear me? Savage! What can they be 
 thinking of? Yes, and butter. ... Of course I said 
 butter." 
 
 But on "Chapter Days" it was difficult for the newspaper 
 to disturb him. His mind was filled with thoughts for the 
 plan and policy of the morning. It was unfortunately im- 
 possible for him ever to grasp two things at the same time, 
 and this made his reasoning and the development of any 
 plan that he had rather slow. When the Chapter was to be 
 an important one he would not look at the newspaper at all 
 and would eat scarcely any breakfast. To-day, because the 
 Chapter was a little one, he allowed himself to consider the 
 outside world. That really was the beginning of his mis- 
 fortune, because the paper this morning contained a very 
 vivid picture of the loss of the Drummond Castle. That was 
 an old story by this time, but here was some especial ac- 
 count that provided new details and circumstances, giving 
 a fresh vivid horror to the scene even at this distance of 
 time. 
 
 Brandon tried not to read the thing. Ho made it a rule 
 that he would not distress himself with the thought of evils 
 that ho could not cure. That is what he told himself, but
 
 ONE PKELUDE 141 
 
 indeed his whole life was spent in warding off and shutting 
 out and refusing to listen. 
 
 He had told himself many years ago that it was a perfect 
 world and that God had made it and that God was good. 
 To maintain this belief it was necessary that one should 
 not be "Presumptuous." It was "Presumptuous" to imag- 
 ine for a moment about any single thing that it was a "mis- 
 take." If anything were evil or painful it was there to "try 
 and test" us. ... A kind of spring-board over the waters 
 of salvation. 
 
 Once, some years ago, a wicked atheist had written an 
 article in a magazine manifesting how evil nature was, how 
 the animals preyed upon one another, how everything from 
 the tiniest insect to the largest elephant suffered and suf- 
 fered and suffered. How even the vegetation lived a short 
 life of agony and frustration, and then fell into foul decay. 
 . . . Brandon had read the article against his will, and 
 had then hated the writer of it with so deep a hatred that 
 he would have had him horse-whipped, had he had the power. 
 The article upset him for days, and it was only by asserting 
 to himself again and again that it was untrue, by watching 
 kittens at play and birds singing on the branches and roses 
 bursting from bud to bloom, that he could reassure himself. 
 
 Now to-day here was the old distress back again. There 
 was no doubt but that those men and women on the Drum- 
 mond Castle had suffered in order to win quite securely for 
 themselves a crown of glory. He ought to envy them, to 
 regret that he had not been given the same chance, and yet 
 and yet 
 
 He pushed the paper impatiently away from him. It was 
 good that there was nothing important to be discussed at 
 Chapter this morning, because really he was not in the mood 
 to fight battles. He sighed. Why was it always he that had 
 to fight battles? He had indeed the burden of the whole 
 town upon his shoulders. And at that secretly he felt a 
 great joy. He was glad yes, he was glad that he had. . . .
 
 142 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 As he looked over at Joan and Falk he felt tenderly 
 towards them. His reading then about the Drummond Castle 
 made him anxious that they should have a good time and 
 be happy. It might be better for them that they should suf- 
 fer ; nevertheless, if they could be sure of heaven and at the 
 Bame time not suffer too badly he would be glad. 
 
 Suddenly then, across the breakfast-table, a picture drove 
 itself in front of him a picture of Joan with her baby-face, 
 struggling in the water. . . . She screamed; she tried to 
 catch on to the side of a boat with her hand. Some one 
 struck her. . . . 
 
 With a shudder of disgust he drove it from him. 
 
 "Pah !" he cried aloud, getting up from the table. 
 
 "What is it, father?" Joan asked. 
 
 "People oughtn't to be allowed to write such things," he 
 said, and went to his study. 
 
 When an hour later he sallied forth to the Chapter Meet- 
 ing he had recovered his equanimity. His mind now was 
 nailed to the business on hand. Most innocently as he crossed 
 the Cathedral Green he strutted, his head up, his brow 
 stern, his hands crossed behind his back. The choristers 
 coming in from the choir-school practice in the Cathedral 
 passed him in a ragged line. They all touched their mortar- 
 boards and he smiled benignly upon them, reserving a rather 
 stern glance for Brockett, the organist, of whose musical 
 eccentricities he did not at all approve. 
 
 Little remained now of the original Chapter House 
 which had once been a continuation of Saint Margaret's 
 Chapel. Some extremely fine Early Norman arches which 
 were once part of the Chapter House are still there and may 
 be seen at the southern end of the Cloisters. Here, too, are 
 traces of the dormitory and infirmary which formerly stood 
 there. The present Chapter House consists of two rooms ad- 
 joining tbj Cloisters, once a hall used by the monks as a 
 large refectory. There is still a timber roof of late thirteenth- 
 century work, and this is supposed to have been once part
 
 PRELUDE 143 
 
 of the old pilgrims' or strangers' hall. The larger of the 
 two rooms is reserved for the Chapter Meetings, the smaller 
 being used for minor meetings and informal discussions. 
 
 The Archdeacon was a little late as, I am afraid, he liked 
 to he when he was sure that others would be punctual. 
 Nothing, however, annoyed him more than to find others late 
 when he himself was in time. There they all were and how 
 exactly he knew how they would all be! 
 
 There was the long oak table, blotting paper and writing 
 materials neatly placed before each seat, there the fine walls 
 in which he always took so great a pride, with the portraits 
 of the Polchester Bishops in grand succession upon them. 
 At the head of the table was the Dean, nervously with anx- 
 ious smiles looking about him. On the right was Brandon's 
 seat; on the left Witheram, seriously approaching the busi- 
 ness of the day as though his very life depended upon it; 
 then Bentinck-Major, his hands looking as though they had 
 been manicured ; next to him Ryle, laughing obsequiously at 
 some fashionable joke that Bentinck-Major had delivered to 
 him; opposite to him Foster, looking as though he had not 
 had a meal for a week and badly shaved with a cut on his 
 chin; and next to him Ronder. 
 
 At the bottom of the table was little Bond, the Chapter 
 Clerk, sucking his pencil. 
 
 Brandon took his place with dignified apologies for his 
 late arrival. 
 
 "Let us ask God for His blessing on our work to-day," 
 said the Dean. 
 
 A prayer followed, then general rustling and shuffling, 
 blowing of noses, coughing and even, from the surprised and 
 consternated Ryle, a sneeze then the business of the day 
 began. The minutes of the last meeting were read, and there 
 was a little amiable discussion. At once Brandon was con- 
 scious of Ronder. Why ? He could not tell and was the more 
 uncomfortable. The man said nothing. He had not been 
 present at the last meeting and could therefore have nothing
 
 144 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 to say to this part of the business. He sat there, his spec- 
 tacles catching the light from the opposite windows so that 
 he seemed to have no eyes. His chubby body, the position 
 in which he was sitting, hunched up, leaning forward on his 
 arms, spoke of perfect and almost sleepy content. His round 
 face and fat cheeks gave him the air of a man to whom 
 business was a tiresome and unnecessary interference with 
 the pleasures of life. 
 
 Nevertheless, Brandon was so deeply aware of Render that 
 again and again, against his will, his eyes wandered in his 
 direction. Once or twice Brandon said something, not be- 
 cause he had anything really to say, but because he wanted 
 to impress himself upon Render. All agreed with him in the 
 complacent and contented way that they had always 
 agreed. . . . 
 
 Then his consciousness of Ronder extended and gave him 
 a new consciousness of the other men. He had known for so 
 long exactly how they looked and the words that they would 
 say, that they were, to him, rather like the stone images of 
 the Twelve Apostles in the niches round the West Door. 
 Today they jumped in a moment into new life. Yesterday 
 he could have calculated to a nicety the attitude that they 
 would have ; now they seemed to have been blown askew with 
 a new wind. Because he noticed these things it does not 
 mean that ho was generally perceptive. He had always been 
 very sharp to perceive anything that concerned his own po- 
 sition. 
 
 Business proceeded and every one displayed his own espe- 
 cial characteristics. Nothing arose that concerned Ronder. 
 Every one's personal opinion about every one else was clearly 
 apparent It was a fine thing, for instance, to observe Fos- 
 ter^ scorn and contempt whilst Bentinck-Major explained 
 his little idea about certain little improvements that he, as 
 Chancellor, might naturally suggest, or Ryle's attitude of 
 goodwill to all and sundry as he apologised for certain of 
 Brockett's voluntaries and assured Brandon on one side that
 
 ONE PRELUDE 145 
 
 "something should be done about it," and agreed with Ben- 
 tinck-Major on the other that it was indeed agreeable to hear 
 sometimes music a little more advanced and original than 
 one usually found in Cathedrals. 
 
 Brandon sniffed something of incipient rebellion in Ben- 
 tinck-Major's attitude and looked across the table severely. 
 Bentinck-Major blinked and nervously examined his nails. 
 
 "Of course," said the Archdeacon in his most solemn 
 manner, "there may be people who wish to turn the Cathe- 
 dral into a music-hall. I don't say there are, but there may 
 be. In these strange times nothing would astonish me. In 
 my own humble opinion what was good enough for our fathers 
 is good enough for us. However, don't let my opinion influ- 
 ence any one." 
 
 "I assure you, Archdeacon," said Bentinck-Major. With- 
 eram earnestly assured every one that he was certain there 
 need be no alarm. They could trust the Precentor to see. 
 . . . There was a general murmur. Yes, they could trust 
 the Precentor. 
 
 This little matter being settled, the meeting was very near 
 an agreeable conclusion and the Dean was beginning to 
 congratulate himself on the early return to his botany when, 
 unfortunately, there cropped up the question of the garden- 
 roller. 
 
 This matter of the garden-roller was a simple one enough. 
 The Cathedral School had some months ago requested the 
 Chapter to allow it to purchase for itself a new garden-roller. 
 Such an article was seriously needed for the new cricket-field. 
 It was true that the School already possessed two garden- 
 rollers, but one of these was very small "quite a baby one," 
 Dennison, the headmaster, explained pathetically and the 
 other could not possibly cover all the work that it had to do. 
 The School grounds were large ones. 
 
 The matter, which was one that mainly concerned the 
 Treasury side of the Chapter, had been discussed at the last 
 meeting, and there had been a good deal of argument about it.
 
 146 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 Brandon had then vetoed it, not because he cared in the 
 least whether or no the School had a garden-roller, but be- 
 cause, Hart-Smith having left and Ronder being not yet 
 with them, he was in charge, for the moment, of the Cathe- 
 dral funds. He liked to feel his power, and so he refused 
 as many things as possible. Had it not been only a tem- 
 porary glory had he been permanent Treasurer he would 
 in all probability have acted in exactly the opposite way 
 and allowed everybody to have everything. 
 
 "There's the question of the garden-roller," said Witheram, 
 just as the Dean was about to propose that they should close 
 with a prayer. 
 
 "I've got it here on the minutes," said the Chapter Clerk 
 severely. 
 
 "Oh, dear, yes," said the Dean, looking about him rather 
 piteously. "Now what shall we do about it?" 
 
 "Let 'em have it," said Foster, glaring across at Brandon 
 and shutting his mouth like a trap. 
 
 This was a direct challenge. Brandon felt his breast 
 charged with the noble anger that always filled it when 
 Foster said anything. 
 
 "I must confess," he said, covering, as he always did when 
 he intended something to be final, the Dean with his eye, 
 "that I thought that this was quite definitely settled at last 
 Chapter; I understood I may of course have been mistaken 
 that we considered that we could not aiford the thing and 
 that the School must wait." 
 
 "Well, Archdeacon," said the Dean nervously (he knew of 
 old the danger-signals in Brandon's flashing eyes), "I must 
 confess that I hadn't thought it quite so -definite as that 
 Certainly wo discussed the expense of the affair." 
 
 "I think the Archdeacon's right," said Bentinck-Major, 
 who wanted to win his way back to favour after the little mis- 
 take about the music. "It was settled, I think" 
 
 "Nothing of the kind," said Foster fiercely. "We settled 
 nothing."
 
 ONE PRELUDE 147 
 
 "How does it read on the minutes?" asked the Dean 
 nervously. 
 
 "Postponed until the next meeting," said the Clerk. 
 
 "At any rate," said Brandon, feeling that this absurd dis- 
 cussion had gone on quite long enough, "the matter is sim- 
 ple enough. It can be settled immediately. Any one who 
 has gone into the matter at all closely will have discovered 
 first that the School doesn't need a roller they've enough 
 already secondly, that the Treasury cannot possibly at the 
 present moment afford to buy a new one." 
 
 "I really must protest, Archdeacon," said Foster, "this 
 is. going too far. In the first place, have you yourself gone 
 into the case?" 
 
 Brandon paused before he answered. He felt that all eyes 
 were upon him. He also felt that Foster had been stirred to 
 a new strength of hostility by some one he fancied he knew 
 by whom. Moreover, had he gone into it? He was aware 
 with a stirring of impatience that he had not. He had in- 
 tended to do so, but time had been short, the matter had not 
 seemed of sufficient importance. . . . 
 
 "I certainly have gone into it," he said, "quite as far as 
 the case deserves. The facts are clear." 
 
 "The facts are not clear," said Foster angrily. "I say 
 that the School should have this roller and that we are be- 
 having with abominable meanness in preventing it"; and 
 he banged his fist upon the table. 
 
 "If that charge of meanness is intended personally, . . . r 
 said Brandon angrily. 
 
 "I assure you, Archdeacon, . . ." said Byle. The Dean 
 raised a hand in protest. 
 
 "I don't think," he said, "that anything here is ever in- 
 tended personally. We must never forget that we are in 
 God's House. Of course, this is an affair that really should 
 be in the hands of the Treasury. But I'm afraid that 
 Canon Render can hardly be expected in the short time 
 that he's been with us to have investigated this little matter."
 
 148 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 Every one looked at Ronder. There was a pleasant sense 
 of drama in the affair. Brandon was gazing at the portraits 
 above the table and pretending to be outside the whole busi- 
 ness; in reality, his heart beat angrily. His word should 
 have been enough, in earlier days would have been. Every- 
 thing now was topsy-turvy. 
 
 "As a matter of fact," said Ronder, "I have gone into 
 the matter. I saw that it was one of the most urgent ques- 
 tions on the Agenda. Unimportant though it may sound, I 
 believe that the School cricket will be entirely held up this 
 summer if they don't secure their roDer. They intend, I 
 believe, to get a roller by private subscription if we refuse 
 it to them, and that, gentlemen, would be, I cannot help 
 feeling, rather ignominious for us. I have been into the 
 question of prices and have examined some catalogues. I 
 find that the expense of a good garden-roller is really not 
 a very great ona One that I think the Treasury could sus- 
 tain without serious inconvenience. . . ." 
 
 "You think then, Canon, that we should allow the roller ?" 
 said the Dean. 
 
 "I certainly do," said Ronder. 
 
 Brandon felt the impression that had been created. He 
 knew that they were all thinking amongst themselves: "Well, 
 here's an efficient man !" 
 
 He burst out : 
 
 "I'm afraid that I cannot agree with Canon Ronder. If 
 he will allow me to say so, he has not been, as yet, long enough 
 in the place to know how things really stand. I have noth- 
 ing to say against Dennison, but he has obviously put his 
 case very plausibly, but those who have known the School 
 and its methods for many years have perhaps a prior right 
 of judgment over Canon Ronder, who's known it for so short 
 a time." 
 
 "Absurd. Absurd," cried Foster. "It isn't a case of 
 knowing the School. It's simply a question of whether the
 
 ONE PRELUDE 149 
 
 Chapter can afford it. Canon Bonder, who is Treasurer, 
 says that it can. That ought to be enough for anybody." 
 
 The atmosphere was now very warm indeed. There was 
 every likelihood of several gentlemen speaking at once. 
 Witheram looked anxious, Bentinck-Major malicious, Byle 
 nervous, Foster triumphant, and Brandon furious. Only 
 Render seemed unconcerned. 
 
 The Dean, distress in his heart, raised his hand. 
 
 "As there seems to be some difference of opinion in this 
 matter," he said, "I think we had better vote upon it. Those 
 in favour of the roller being granted to the School please 
 signify." 
 
 Ronder, Foster and Witheram raised their hands. 
 
 "And those against ?" said the Dean. 
 
 Brandon, Ryle and Bentinck-Major were against. 
 
 "I'm afraid," said the Dean, smiling anxiously, "that it 
 will be for me to give the casting vote." He paused for a 
 moment. Then, looking straight across the table at the 
 Clerk, he said: 
 
 "I think I must decide for the roller. Canon Render 
 seems to me to have proved his ease." 
 
 Every one, except possibly Ronder, was aware that this 
 was the first occasion for many years that any motion of 
 Brandon's had been defeated. . . . 
 
 Without waiting for any further business the Archdeacon 
 gathered together his papers and, looking neither to right 
 nor left, strode from the room.
 
 BOOK II 
 THE WHISPERING GALLERY
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 FIVE O'CLOCK THE GBEEN CLOUD 
 
 THE cloud seemed to creep like smoke from the funnel 
 of the Cathedral tower. The sun was setting in a fiery 
 wreath of bubbling haze, shading in rosy mist the moun- 
 tains of grey stone. The little cloud, at first in the shadowy 
 air light green and shaped like a ring, twisted spirally, then, 
 spreading, washed out and lay like a pool of water against 
 the smoking sunset. 
 
 Green like the Black Bishop's ring. . . . Lying there, af- 
 terwards, until the orange had faded and the sky, deserted 
 by the sun, was milk-white. The mists descended. The 
 Cathedral chimes struck five. February night, cold, smoke- 
 misted, enwrapped the town. 
 
 At a quarter to five Evensong was over and Cobbett was 
 putting out the candles in the choir. Two figures slowly 
 passed down the darkening nave. 
 
 Outside the west door they paused, gazing at the splendour 
 of the fiery sky. 
 
 "It's cold, but there'll be stars," Ronder said. 
 
 Stars. Cold. Brandon shivered. Something was wrong 
 with him. His heart had clap-clapped during the Anthem as 
 though a cart with heavy wheels had rumbled there. He 
 looked suspiciously at Ronder. He did not like the man, 
 confidently standing there addressing the sky as though he 
 owned it. He would have liked the sunset for himself. 
 
 153
 
 154 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 "Well, good-night, Canon," brusquely. He moved away. 
 
 But Render followed him. 
 
 "One moment, Archdeacon. . . . Excuse me. ... I have 
 been wanting an opportunity. . . ." 
 
 Brandon paused. The man was nervous. Brandon liked 
 that 
 
 "Yes?" he said. 
 
 The rosy light was fading. Strange that little green cloud 
 rising like smoke from the tower. . . . 
 
 "At the last Chapter we were on opposite sides. I want 
 to say how greatly I've regretted that. I feel that we don't 
 know one another as we should. I wonder if you would al- 
 low me . . ." 
 
 The light was fading Render's spectacles shone, his 
 body in shadow. 
 
 ". . . to see something more of you to have a real talk 
 with you?" 
 
 Brandon smiled grimly to himself in the dusk. This fool ! 
 He was afraid then. He saw himself hatless in Bennett's 
 shop; outside, the jeering crowd. 
 
 "I'm afraid, Canon Render, that we shall never see eye 
 to eye here about many things. If you will allow me to say 
 so, you have perhaps not been here quite long enough to 
 understand the real needs of this diocese. You must go slowly 
 here more slowly than perhaps you are prepared for. We 
 are not Modernists here." 
 
 The spectacles, alone visible, answered : "Well, let us dis- 
 cuss it then. Let us talk things over. Let me ask you at 
 once, Have you something against me, something that I 
 have done unwittingly? I have fancied lately a personal 
 note. ... I am absurdly sensitive, but if there is anything 
 that I have done, please let me apologise for it I want 
 you to tell me." 
 
 Anything that he had done? The Archdeacon smiled 
 grimly to himself in the dusk.
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 155 
 
 "I really don't think, Canon, that talking things over will 
 help us. There is really nothing to discuss. . . . Good- 
 night." 
 
 The green cloud was gone. Render, invisible now, re- 
 mained in the shadow of the great door. 
 
 n 
 
 Beside the river, above the mill, a woman's body was black 
 against the gold-crested water. She leaned over the little 
 bridge, her body strong, confident in its physical strength, 
 her hands clasped, her eyes meditative. 
 
 No need for secrecy to-night. Her father was in Dry- 
 mouth for two days. Quarter to five. The chimes struck 
 out clear across the town. Hearing them she looked back 
 and saw the sky a flood of red behind the Cathedral. She 
 longed for Falk to-night, a new longing. He was better 
 than she had supposed, far, far better. A good boy, tender 
 and warm-hearted. To be trusted. Her friend. At first 
 he had stood to her only for a means of freedom. Freedom 
 from this horrible place, from this horrible man, her father, 
 more horrible than any others knew. Her mother had 
 known. She shivered, seeing that body, heavy-breasted, dull 
 white, as, stripped to the waist, he bent over the bed to strike. 
 Her mother's cry, a little moan. . . . She shivered again, 
 staring into the sunset for Falk. . . . 
 
 He was with her. They leant over the bridge together, 
 his arm around her. They said very little. 
 
 She looked back. 
 
 "See that strange cloud? Green. Ever seen a green 
 cloud before? Ah, it's peaceful here." 
 
 She turned and looked into his face. As the dusk came 
 down she stroked his hair. He put his arm round her and 
 held her close to him.
 
 156 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 in 
 
 The lamps in the High Street suddenly flaring beat out the 
 aky. There above the street itself the fiery sunset had not 
 extended; the fair watery space was pale egg^blue; as the 
 chimes so near at hand struck a quarter to five the pale colour 
 began slowly to drain away, leaving ashen china shades 
 behind it, and up to these shades the orange street-lights 
 extended, patronising, flaunting. 
 
 But Joan, pausing for a moment under the Arden Gate 
 before she turned home, saw the full glory of the sunset 
 She heard, contending with the chimes, the last roll of the 
 organ playing the worshippers out of that mountain of sacri- 
 ficial stone. 
 
 She looked up and saw a green cloud, faintly green like 
 early spring leafage, curl from the tower smoke-wise; and 
 there, lifting his hat, pausing at her side, was Johnny St. 
 Leath. 
 
 She would have hurried on ; she was not happy. Things 
 were not right at home. Something wrong with father, with 
 mother, with Falk. Something wrong, too, with herself. 
 She had heard in the town the talk about this girl who was 
 coming to the Castle for the Jubilee time, coming to marry 
 Johnny. Coming to marry him because she was rich and 
 handsome. Lovely. Lady St. Leath was determined. . . . 
 
 So she would hurry on, murmuring "Good evening." But 
 he stopped her. His face was flushed. Andrew heaved 
 eagerly, hungrily, at his side. 
 
 "Miss Brandon. Just a moment. I want to speak 
 to you. Lovely evening, isn't it ? ... You cut me the other 
 day. Yes, you did. In Orange Street." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 She tried to speak coldly. 
 
 "We're friends. You know we are. Only in this beastly 
 town no one can be free. ... I only want to tell you if I 
 go away suddenly I'm coming back. Mind that You're
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 157 
 
 not to believe anything they say anything that any one says. 
 I'm coming back. Remember that. We're friends. You 
 must trust me. Do you hear ?" 
 
 And he was gone, striding off towards the Cathedral, An- 
 drew panting at his heels. 
 
 The light was gone too going, going, gone. 
 
 She stayed for a moment. As she reached her door the 
 wind rose, sifting through the grass, rising to her chin. 
 
 IV 
 
 The two figures met, unconsciously, without spoken ar- 
 rangement, pushed towards one another by destiny, as they 
 had been meeting now continuously during the last weeks. 
 
 Almost always at this hour; almost always at this place. 
 On the sandy path in the green hollow below the Cathedral, 
 above the stream, the hollow under the opposite hill, the hill 
 where the field was, the field where they had the Fair. 
 
 Down into this green depth the sunset could not strike, 
 and the chimes, telling over so slowly and so sweetly the 
 three-quarters, "filtered down like a memory, a reiteration of 
 an old promise, a melody almost forgotten. But above her 
 head the woman, looking up, could see the rose change to 
 orange and could watch the cloud, like a pool of green 
 water, extend and rest, lying like a sheet of glass behind 
 which the orange gleamed. 
 
 They met always thus, she coming from the town as though 
 turning upwards through the tangled path to her home in 
 the Precincts, he sauntering slowly, his hands behind his 
 back, as though he had been wandering there to think out 
 some problem. . . . 
 
 Sometimes he did not come, sometimes she could not. 
 They never stayed more than ten minutes there together. No 
 one from month to month at that hour crossed that desolate 
 path. 
 
 To-day he began impetuously. "If you hadn't come to-
 
 158 THE CATHEDRAL 
 
 night, I think I would have gone to find you. I had to see 
 you. No, I had nothing to say. Only to see you. But I am 
 so lonely in that house. I always knew I was lonely never 
 more than when I was married but now. ... If I hadn't 
 these ten minutes most days I'd die, I think. . . ." 
 
 They didn't touch one another, but stood opposite gazing, 
 face into face. 
 
 "What are we to do ?" he said. "It can't be wicked just 
 to meet like this and to talk a little." 
 
 "I'd like you to know," she answered, "that you and my 
 son you are all I have in the world. The two of you. And 
 my son has some secret from me. 
 
 "I have been so lonely too. But I don't feel lonely any 
 more. Your friendship for me . . ." 
 
 "Yes, I am your friend. Think of me like that. Your 
 friend from the first moment I saw you you so quiet and 
 gentle and unhappy. I realized your unhappiness instantly. 
 No one else in this place seemed to notice it. I believe God 
 meant us to be friends, meant me to bring you happiness 
 a little. . . ." 
 
 "Happiness?" she shivered. "Isn't it cold to-night? Do 
 you see that strange green cloud ? Ah, now it is gone. All 
 the light is going. . . . Do you believe in God ?" 
 
 He came closer to her. His hand touched her arm. 
 
 "Yes," he answered fiercely. "And He means me to care 
 for you." His hand, trembling, stroked her arm. She did 
 not move. His hand, shaking, touched her neck. He bent 
 forward and kissed her neck, her mouth, then her eyes. 
 
 She leant her head wearily for an instant on his shoulder, 
 then, whispering good-night, she turned and went quietly 
 up the path.
 
 CHAPTEK II 
 
 SOULS ON SUNDAY 
 
 I MUST have been thirteen or fourteen years of age it 
 may have been indeed in this very year '97 when I 
 first read Stevenson's story of Treasure Island. It is the 
 fashion, I believe, now with the Clever Solemn Ones to 
 despise Stevenson as a writer of romantic Tushery. 
 
 All the same, if it's realism they want I'm still waiting to 
 see something more realistic than Pew or Long John Sil- 
 ver. Realism may depend as truly on a blind man's tap \ 
 with his stick upon the ground as on any number of adul- 
 teries. 
 
 In those young years, thank God, I knew nothing about 
 realism and read the tale for what it was worth. And it 
 was worth three hundred bags of gold. Now, on looking 
 back, it seems to me that the spirit that overtook our town 
 just at this time was very like the spirit that seized upon 
 Dr. Livesey, young Hawkins and the rest when they discov- 
 ered the dead Buccaneer's map. This is no forced parallel. 
 It was with a real sense of adventure that the Whispering 
 began about the Brandons and Bonder and the Pybus St. 
 Anthony living and the rest of it. Where did the Whisper- 
 ing start ? Who can ever tell ? 
 
 Our Polchester Whispering was carried on and fostered 
 very largely by our servants. As in every village and town 
 in Glebeshire, the intermarrying that had been going on 
 for generations was astonishing. Every servant-maid, every 
 errand-boy, every gardener and coachman in Polchester was 
 cousin, brother or sister to every other servant-maid, errand- 
 
 159
 
 160 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 boy, gardener and coachman. They made, these people, a 
 perfect net about our town. 
 
 The things that they carried from house to house, how- 
 ever, were never the actual things ; they were simply the ma- 
 terial from which the actual things were made. Nor was 
 the construction of the actual tale positively malicious ; it 
 was only that our eyes were caught by the drama of life 
 and we could not help but exclaim with little gasps and cries 
 at the wonderful excitement of the history that we saw. 
 Our treasure-hunting was simply for the fun of the thrill 
 of the chase, not at all that we wished harm to a soul 
 in the world. If, on occasion, a slight hint of maliciousness 
 did find its place with us, it was only because in this inse~ 
 cure world it is delightful to reaffirm our own security as 
 we watch our neighbours topple over. We do not wish them 
 to "topple," but if somebody has got to fall we would 
 rather it were not ourselves. 
 
 Brandon had been for so long so remarkable a figure in 
 our world that the slightest stir of the colours in his picture 
 was immediately noticeable. From the moment of Falk's re- 
 turn from Oxford it was expected that something "would 
 happen." 
 
 s It often occurs that a situation between a number of peo- 
 ple is vague and indefinite, until a certain moment, often 
 I quite undramatic and negative in itself, arrives, when the 
 \ situation suddenly fixes itself and stands forward, set full 
 square to the world, as a definite concrete fact. There was 
 a certain Sunday in the April of this year that became for 
 the Archdeacon and a number of other people such a defi- 
 nite crisis and yet it might quite reasonably have been 
 said at the end of it that nothing vorv much had occurred. 
 
 Everything seemed to happen in Polchester on Sundays. 
 For one thing more talking was done on Sundnv thnn on all 
 the other days of the week together. Then the Cnthodral 
 itself came into its full glory on that day. Every one gath- 
 ered there, every one talked to every one else before parting,
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 161 
 
 and the long spaces and silences and pauses of the day allowed 
 the comments and the questions and the surmises to grow and 
 swell and distend into gigantic images before night took every 
 one and stretched them upon their backs to dream. 
 
 What the Archdeacon liked was an "off" Sunday, when 
 he had nothing to do save to walk majestically into his place 
 in the choir stall, to read, perhaps, a Lesson, to talk gravely 
 to people who came to have tea with him after the Sunday 
 Evensong, to reflect lazily, after Sunday supper, his long legs 
 stretched out in front of him, a pipe in his mouth, upon the 
 goodness and happiness and splendour of the Cathedral and 
 the world and his own place in it. Such a Sunday was a 
 perfect thing and such a Sunday April 18 ought to have 
 been . . . alas! it was not so. 
 
 It began very early, somewhere about seven in the morn- 
 ing, with a horrible incident. The rule on Sundays was 
 that the maid knocked at half-past six on the door and gave 
 the Archdeacon and his wife their tea. The Archdeacon 
 lay luxuriously drinking it until exactly a quarter to seven, 
 then he sprang out of bed, had his cold bath, performed his 
 exercises, and shaved in his little dressing-room. At about 
 a quarter past seven, nearly dressed, he returned into the 
 bedroom, to find Mrs. Brandon also nearly dressed. On this 
 particular day while he drank his tea his wife appeared to be 
 sleeping; that did not make him bound out of bed any the 
 less noisily after twenty years of married life you do not 
 worry about such things; moreover it was quite time that 
 his wife bestirred herself. At a quarter past seven he came 
 into the bedroom in his shirt and trousers, numming "On- 
 ward, Christian Soldiers." It was a fine spring morning, 
 so he flung up the window and looked out into the Precinct, 
 fresh and dewy in the morning sun, silent save for the in- 
 quisitive reiteration of an early jackdaw. Then he turned 
 back, and, to his amazement, saw that his wife was lying, 
 her eyes wide open, staring in front of her. 
 
 "My dear !" he cried. "Aren't you well ?"
 
 162 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 "I'm perfectly well," she answered him, her eyes maintain- 
 ing their fixed stare. The tone in which she said these words 
 was quite new it was not submissive, it was not defensive, 
 it was indifferent. 
 
 She must be ill. He came close to the bed. 
 
 "Do you realise the time?" he asked. "Twenty minutes 
 past seven. I'm sure you don't want to keep me waiting." 
 
 She didn't answer him. Certainly she must be ill. There 
 was something strange about her eyes. 
 
 "You must be ill," he repeated. "You look ill. Why 
 didn't you say so ? Have you got a headache ?" 
 
 "I'm not ill. I haven't got a headache, and I'm not com- 
 ing to Early Service." 
 
 "You're not ill, and you're not coming ..." he stam- 
 mered in his amazement. "You've forgotten. There isn't 
 late Celebration." 
 
 She gave him no answer, but turned on her side, closing 
 her eyes. 
 
 He came right up to the bed, frowning down upon her. 
 
 "Amy what does this mean? You're not ill, and yet 
 you're not coming to Celebration? Why? I insist upon 
 an answer." 
 
 She said nothing. 
 
 He felt that anger, of which he had tried now for many 
 years to beware, flooding his throat. 
 
 With tremendous self-control he said quietly: "What is 
 the matter with you, Amy? You must tell me at once." 
 
 She did not open her eyes but said in a voice so low tha* 
 he scarcely caught the words: 
 
 "There is nothing the matter. I am not ill, and I'm no* 
 coming to Early Service." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because I don't wish to go." 
 
 For a moment he thought that he was going to bend down 
 and lift her bodily out of bed. His limbs felt as though 
 they were prepared for such an action.
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 163 
 
 But to his own surprised amazement he did nothing, he 
 said nothing. He looked at the bed, at the hollow where 
 his head had been, at her head with her black hair scattered 
 on the pillow, at her closed eyes, then he went away into 
 his dressing-room. When he had finished dressing he came 
 back into the bedroom, looked across at her, motionless, her 
 eyes still closed, lying on her side, felt the silence of the 
 room, the house, the Precincts broken only by the impertinent 
 jackdaw. 
 
 He went downstairs. 
 
 Throughout the Early Celebration he remained in a condi- 
 tion of amazed bewilderment. From his position just above 
 the altar-rails he could see very clearly the Bishop's Tomb; 
 the morning sun reflected in purple colours from the East 
 window played upon its blue stone. It caught the green 
 ring and flashed splashes of fire from its heart. His mind 
 went back to that day, not so very long ago, when, with 
 triumphant happiness, he had seemed to share in the Bishop's 
 spirit, to be dust of his dust, and bone of his bone. That 
 had been the very day, he remembered, of Falk's return from 
 Oxford. Since that day everything had gone wrong for him 
 Falk, the Elephant, Ronder, Foster, the Chapter. And 
 now his wife! Never in all the years of his married life 
 had she spoken to him as she had done that morning. She 
 must be on the edge of a serious illness, a very serious 
 illness. Strangely a new concern for her, a concern that he 
 had never felt in his life before, arose in his heart. Poor 
 Amy and how tiresome if she were ill, the house all at 
 sixes and sevens! With a shock he realised that his mind 
 was not devotional. He swung himself back to the service, 
 looking down benevolently upon the two rows of people 
 waiting patiently to come in their turn to the altar steps. 
 
 At breakfast, however, there Mrs. Brandon was, looking 
 quite her usual self, in the Sunday dress of grey silk, making 
 the tea, quiet as she always was, answering questions sub- 
 missively, patiently, "as the wife of an Archdeacon should."
 
 164 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 He tried to show her by his manner that he had been deeply 
 shocked, but, unfortunately, he had been shocked, annoyed, 
 indignant on so many occasions when there had been no 
 real need for it, that to-day, when there was the occasion, he 
 felt that he made no impression. 
 
 The bells pealed for morning service, the sun shone; as 
 half-past ten approached, little groups of people crossed 
 the Precincts and vanished into the mouth of the great West 
 door. Now were Lawrence and Cobbett in their true glory 
 Lawrence was in his fine purple robe, the Sunday silk 
 one. He stood at the far end of the nave, just under the 
 choir-screen, waiting for the aristocracy, for whom the front 
 seats were guarded with cords which only he might untie. 
 How deeply pleased he was when some unfortunate stranger, 
 ignorant in the ways of the Cathedral, walked, with startling 
 clatter, up the whole length of the shining nave and en- 
 deavoured to penetrate one of these sacred defences! 
 Majestically staff in hand, he came forward, shook his 
 snow-white head, looking down upon the intrusive one more 
 in sorrow than in anger, spoke no word, but motioned the 
 audacity back down the nave again to the place where 
 Cobbett officiated. Back, clatter, clatter, blushing and con- 
 fused, the stranger retreated, watched, as it seemed to him, by 
 a thousand sarcastic and cynical eyes. The bells slipped from 
 their jangling peal into a solemn single note. The Mere 
 People were in their places at the back of the nave, the 
 Great Ones leaving their entrance until the very last moment. 
 There was a light in the organ-loft; very softly Brockett 
 began his voluntary clatter, clatter, clatter, and the School 
 arrived, the small boys, swallowed by their Eton collars, first, 
 filing into their places to the right of the screen, then the 
 middle boys, a little indifferent and careless, then the Fifth 
 and Sixth in their "stick-up" collars, haughty and indifferent 
 indeed. 
 
 Dimlv, on the other side of the screen, the School boys
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 165 
 
 in their surplices could be seen settling into their places 
 between the choir and the altar. 
 
 A rustling of skirts, and the aristocracy entered in ones 
 and twos from the side doors that opened out of the Cloisters. 
 For some of them for a very few Lawrence had his con- 
 fidential smile. For Mrs. Sampson, for instance for Mrs. 
 Combermere, for Mrs. Ryle and Mrs. Brandon. 
 
 A very special one for Mrs. Brandon because of his high 
 opinion of her husband. She was nothing very much "a 
 mean little woman," he thought her but the Archdeacon had 
 married her. That was enough. 
 
 Joan was with her, conscious that every one must be 
 noticing her the D'Arcy girls and Cynthia Ryle and 
 Gladys Sampson, they would all be looking and criticising. 
 Rustle, rustle, rustle here was an event indeed ! Lady St. 
 Leath was come, and with her in attendance Johnny and 
 Hetty. Lawrence hurried forward, disregarding Mrs. Bran- 
 don, who was compelled to undo her cord for herself. He 
 led Lady St. Leath forward with a ceremony, a dignity, 
 that was marvellous to see. She moved behind him as 
 though she owned the Cathedral, or rather could have owned 
 it had she thought it worth her while. All the little boys in 
 the Upper Third and Lower Fourth turned their necks 
 in their Eton collars and watched. What a bonnet she was 
 wearing! All the colours of the rainbow, odd, indeed, 
 perched there on the top of her untidy white hair ! 
 
 Every one settled down; the voluntary was louder, the 
 single note of the bell suddenly more urgent. Ladies looked 
 about them. Ellen Stiles saw Miss Dobell smile, smile. 
 Joan saw Cynthia Ryle smile, smile. Lawrence, with the 
 expression of the Angel Gabriel waiting to admit into heaven 
 a new troop of repentant sinners, stood expectant. The sun 
 filtered in dusty ladders of coloured light and fell in squares 
 upon the empty spaces of the nave. 
 
 The bell suddenly ceased, a long melodious and melan- 
 choly "Amen" came from somewhere far away in the purple
 
 1G6 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 shadow. Every one moved; a noise like a little uncertain 
 breeze blew through the Cathedral as the congregation rose; 
 then the choir filed through, the boys, the men, the Precentor, 
 old Canon Morphew and older Canon Batholoinew, Canon 
 Rogers, his face bitter and discontented, Canon Foster, 
 Bentinck-Major, last of all, Archdeacon Brandon. They 
 had filed into their places in the choir, they were kneeling, 
 the Precentor's voice rang out. . . . 
 
 The familiar sound of Canon Ryle's voice recalled Mrs. 
 Brandon to time and place. She was kneeling, her gloved 
 hands pressed close to her face. She was looking into thick 
 dense darkness, a darkness penetrated with the strong scent 
 of Russia leather and the faint musty smell that always 
 seemed to rise from the Cathedral hassocks and the woodwork 
 upon which she leant. Until Ryle's voice roused her she had 
 been swimming in space and eternity; behind her, like 
 a little boat bobbing distressfully in her track, was the 
 scene of that early morning with which that day had opened. 
 She saw herself, as it were, the body of some quite other 
 woman, lying in that so familiar bedroom and saying "No" 
 saying it again and again and again. "No. No. No." 
 
 Why had she said "No," and was it not in reality another 
 woman who had said it, and why had he been so quiet? It 
 was not his way. There had been no storm. She shivered 
 a little behind her gloves. 
 
 "Dearly beloved brethren," began the Precentor, plead- 
 ing, impersonal. 
 
 Slowly her brain, like a little dark fish striking up from 
 deep green waters, rose to the surface of her consciousness. 
 What she was then most surely aware of was that she was 
 on the very edge of something; it was a quite physical 
 sensation, as though she had been walking over mist-soaked 
 downs and had suddenly hesitated, to find herself looking 
 down along the precipitances of jagged black rock. It was 
 "jagged black rock" over which she was now peering. 
 
 The two sides of the choir were now rivalling one another
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 167 
 
 over the psalms, hurling verses at one another with breath- 
 less speed, as though they said: "Here's the ball. Catch. 
 Oh, you are slow!" 
 
 In just that way across the field of Amy Brandon's con- 
 sciousness two voices were shouting at one another. 
 
 One cried: "See what she's in for, the foolish woman! 
 She's not up to it. It will finish her." 
 
 And the other answered: "Well, she is in for it! So 
 it's no use warning her any longer. She wants it. She's 
 going to have it." 
 
 And the first repeated : "It never pays ! It never pays ! 
 It never pays!" 
 
 And the second replied: "No, but nothing can stop her 
 now. Nothing !" 
 
 Could nothing stop her ? Behind the intricacies of one of 
 Smart's most elaborate "Te Deums," with clenched hands 
 and little shivers of apprehension, she fought a poor little 
 battle. 
 
 "We praise Thee, O God. We acknowledge Thee to be the 
 Lord. . . ." 
 
 "The goodly fellowship of the prophets praise Thee. . . ." 
 A boy's voice rose, "Thou did'st not abhor the Virgin's 
 womb. . . ." 
 
 Let her step back now while there was yet time. She 
 had her children. She had Falk. Falk ! She looked around 
 her, almost expecting him to be at her side, although she 
 well knew that he had long ago abandoned the Cathedral 
 services. Ah, it wasn't fair ! If only he loved her, if only 
 any one loved her, any one whom she herself could love* 
 If any one wanted her! 
 
 Lawrence was waiting, his back turned to the nave. As> 
 the last words of the "Te Deum" rose into a shout of 
 triumphant confidence he turned and solemnly, his staff 
 raised, advanced, Archdeacon Brandon behind him. Now, 
 as always, a little giggle of appreciation ran down the nave 
 as the Archdeacon marched forward to the Lectern. The
 
 1G8 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 tourists whispered and asked one another who that fine- 
 looking man was. They craned their necks into the aisle. 
 And he did look fine, his head up, his shoulders back, his 
 grave dignity graciously at their service. At their service 
 and God's. 
 
 The sight of her husband inflamed Mrs. Brandon. She 
 stared at him as though she were seeing him for the first 
 time, but in reality she was not seeing him as he was now, 
 but rather as he had been that morning bending over her 
 bed in his shirt and trousers. That movement that he had 
 made as though he would lift her bodily out of the bed. 
 
 She closed her eyes. His fine rich voice came to her 
 from a long way off. Let him boom as loudly as he pleased, 
 he could not touch her any more. She had escaped, and 
 for ever. She saw, then, Morris as she had seen him at 
 that tea-party months ago. She recovered that strange sense 
 that she had had (and that he had had too, as she knew) 
 of being carried out right away from one's body into an 
 atmosphere of fire and heat and sudden cold. They had no 
 more been able to avoid that look that they had exchanged 
 than they had been able to escape being born. Let it then 
 stay at that. She wanted nothing more than that. Only 
 that look must be exchanged again. She was hungry, starv- 
 ing for it. She must see him often, continually. She must 
 be able to look at him, touch the sleeve of his coat, hear his 
 voice. She must be able to do things for him, little simple 
 things that no one else could do. She wanted no more than 
 that. Only to be near to him and to see that he was cared 
 for . . . looked after. Surely that was not wrong. No one 
 could say. . . . 
 
 Little shivers ran continually about her body, and her 
 hands, clenched tightly, were damp within her gloves. 
 
 The Precentor gave out the words of the Anthem, "Little 
 children, love one another." 
 
 Every one rose save Lady St. Loath, who settled herself
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 169 
 
 magnificently in her seat and looked about her as though she 
 challenged anybody to tell her that she was wrong to do so. 
 
 Yes, that was all Amy Brandon wanted. Who could say 
 that she was wrong to want it? The little battle was con- 
 cluded. 
 
 Old Canon Foster was preaching to-day. Always at the 
 conclusion of the Anthem certain ruffians, visitors, tourists, 
 clattered out. No sermon for them. They did not matter 
 very greatly because they were far away at the back of the 
 nave, and nobody need look at them ; but on Foster's preach- 
 ing days certain of the aristocracy also retired, and this 
 was disconcerting because their seats were prominent ones 
 and their dresses were of silk. Often Lady St. Leath was 
 one of these, but to-day she was sunk into a kind of stupor 
 and did not move. Mrs. Combermere, Ellen Stiles and 
 Mrs. Sampson were the guilty ones. 
 
 Rustle of their dresses, the heavy flop of the side Cloister 
 door as it closed behind them, and then silence once more and 
 the thin angry voice of Canon Foster, "Let us pray." 
 
 Out in the grey Cloisters it was charming. The mild 
 April sun flooded the square of grass that lay in the middle 
 of the thick rounded pillars like a floor of bright green 
 glass. 
 
 The ladies stood for a moment looking out into the sunny 
 silence. The Cathedral was hushed behind them; Ellen 
 Stiles was looking very gay and very hideous in a large hat 
 stifled with flowers, set sideways on her head, and a bright 
 purple silk dress pulled in tightly at the waist, rising to 
 high puffed shoulders. Her figure was not suited to the 
 fashion of the day. 
 
 Mrs. Sampson explained that she was suffering from one 
 of the worst of her nervous headaches and that she could 
 not have endured the service another moment. Miss Stiles 
 was all eager solicitude. 
 
 "I am so sorry. I know how you are when you get one
 
 170 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 of those things. Nothing does it any good, does it? I 
 know you've tried everything, and it simply goes on for 
 days and days, getting worse and worse. And the really 
 terrible part of them is that, with you, they seem to be 
 constitutional. No doctors can do anything when they're 
 constitutional. There you are for the rest of your days !" 
 
 Mrs. Sampson gave a little shiver. 
 
 "I must say, Dr. Puddifoot seems to be very little use," 
 she moaned. 
 
 "Oh ! Puddifoot !" Miss Stiles was contemptuous. 
 "He's past his work. That's one comfort about this place. 
 If any one's ill he dies. No false hopes. At least, we 
 know whore we are." 
 
 They walked through the Martyr's Passage out into the 
 full sunlight of the Precincts. 
 
 "What a jolly day!" said Mrs. Combermere, "I shall take 
 my dogs for a walk. By the way, Ellen," she turned round 
 to her friend, "how did Miss Burnett's tea-party go ? I 
 haven't seen you since." 
 
 "Oh, it was too funny !" Miss Stiles giggled. "You never 
 saw such a mixture, and I don't think Miss Burnett knew 
 who any one was. Not that she had much time to think, 
 poor dear, she was so worried with the tea. Such a maid 
 as she had you never saw !" 
 
 "A mixture?" asked Mrs. Combermere. "Who were 
 they?" 
 
 "Oh, Canon Ponder and Bentinck-Major and Mrs. Bran- 
 don and Oh, yes! actually Falk Brandon!" 
 
 "Falk Brandon there?" 
 
 "Yes, wasn't it the strangest thing. I shouldn't have 
 
 thought he'd have had time However, you told me 
 
 not to, so I won't 
 
 "Who did you talk to ?" 
 
 "I talked to Miss Burnett most of the time. I tried to 
 cheer her up. No one else paid the least attention to 
 her."
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 171 
 
 "She's a very stupid person, it seems to me," Mrs. Samp- 
 eon murmured. "But of course I know her very slightly." 
 
 "Stupid!" Miss Stiles laughed. "Why, she hasn't an 
 idea in her head. I don't believe that she knows it's Jubilee 
 Year. Positively !" 
 
 A little wind blew sportively around Miss Stiles' large 
 hat. They all moved forward. 
 
 "The funny thing was " Miss Stiles paused and looked 
 
 apprehensively at Mrs. Combermere. "I know you don't 
 like scandal, but of course this isn't scandal there's nothing 
 in it " 
 
 "Come on, Ellen. Out with it," said Mrs. Combermere. 
 
 "Well, Mrs. Brandon and Mr. Morris. I caught the 
 oddest look between them." 
 
 "Look! What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Combermere 
 sharply. Mrs. Sampson stood still, her mouth a little open, 
 forgetting her neuralgia. 
 
 "Of course it was nothing. All the same, they were 
 standing at the window saying something, looking at one 
 another, well, positively as though they had known one 
 another intimately for years. I assure you " 
 
 Mrs. Combermere turned upon her. "Of all the nasty 
 minds in this town, Ellen, you have the nastiest I've told 
 you so before. People can't even look at one another now. 
 Why, you might as well say that I'd been gazing at your 
 Bonder when he came to tea the other day." 
 
 "Perhaps I shall," said Miss Stiles, laughing. "It would 
 be a delightful story to spread. Seriously, why not make a 
 match of it? You'd just suit one another." 
 
 "Once is enough for me in a life-time," said Mrs. Comber- 
 mere grimly. "Now, Ellen, come along. No more mischief. 
 Leave poor little Morris alone." 
 
 "Mrs. Brandon and Mr. Morris!" repeated Mrs. Samp- 
 son, her eyes wide open. "Well, I do declare." 
 
 The ladies separated, and the Precincts was abandoned for 
 a time to its beautiful Sunday peace and calm.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 TUB MAY-DAT PROLOGUE 
 
 MAY is the finest mouth of all the year in Glebeshire, 
 The days are warm but not too hot; the sky is blue 
 but not too blue, the air is soft but with a touch of sharp- 
 ness. The valleys are pressed down and overflowing with 
 flowers; the cuckoo cries across the glassy waters of blue 
 harbours, and the gorse is honey-scented among the rocks. 
 
 May-day in Polchester this year was warm and bright, 
 with a persistent cuckoo somewhere in the Dean's garden, 
 and a very shrill-voiced canary in Miss Dobell's open 
 window. The citizens of Polchester were suddenly aware 
 that summer was close upon them. Doors were flung open 
 and the gardens sinuously watered, summer clothes were 
 dragged from their long confinement and anxiously over- 
 looked, Mr. Martin, the stationer, hung a row of his coloured 
 Polchester views along a string across his window, the 
 dark, covered ways of the market-place quivered and shone 
 with pots of spring flowers, and old Simon's water-cart made 
 its first trembling and shaking appearance down the High 
 Street 
 
 All this was well enough and customary enough, but 
 what marked this spring from any other spring that had 
 ever been was that it was Jubilee Year. It was on this 
 warm May-day that Polchester people realised suddenly that 
 the Jubilee was not far away. The event had not quite 
 the excitement and novelty that the Jubilee of 1887 had 
 had; there was, perhaps, in London and the larger towns, 
 something of a sense of repetition. But Polchester was far 
 
 172
 
 THE WHISPERING GALLERY 173 
 
 from the general highway and, although the picture of the 
 wonderful old lady, now nearly eighty years of age, was 
 strong before every one's vision, there was a deep determina- 
 tion to make this year's celebration a great Polchester affair, 
 to make it the celebration of Polchester men and Polchester 
 history and Polchester progress. 
 
 The programme had been long arranged the great Service 
 in the Cathedral, the Ball in the Assembly Rooms, the Flower 
 Show in the St. Leath Castle grounds, the Torchlight Pro- 
 cession, the Croquet Tournament, the School-children's Tea 
 and the School Cricket-match. A fine programme, and the 
 Jubilee Committee, with the Bishop, the Mayor, and the 
 Countess of St. Leath for its presidents, had already held 
 several meetings. 
 
 Nevertheless, Glebeshire has a rather languishing climate. 
 Polchester has been called by its critics "a lazy town," and 
 it must be confessed that everything in connection with the 
 Jubilee had been jogging along very sleepily until of a sudden 
 this warm May-day arrived, and every one sprang into 
 action. The Mayor called a meeting of the town branch of 
 the Committee, and the Bishop out at Carpledon summoned 
 his ecclesiastics, and Joan found a note from Gladys Samp- 
 son beckoning her to the Sampson house to do her share of 
 the glorious work. It had been decided by the Higher 
 Powers that it would be a charming thing for some of the 
 younger Polchester ladies to have in charge the working 
 of two of the flags that were to decorate the Assembly Room 
 walls on the night of the Ball. Gladys Sampson, who, unlike 
 her mother, never suffered from headaches, and was a strong, 
 determined, rather masculine girl, soon had the affair in 
 hand, and the party was summoned. 
 
 I would not like to say that Polchester had a more 
 snobbish spirit than other Cathedral towns, but there is no 
 doubt that, thirty years ago, the lines were drawn very 
 clearly indeed between the "Cathedral" and the "Others." 
 
 "Cathedral" included not only the daughters of the
 
 174: THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 Canons and what Mr. Martin, in his little town guide-book, 
 called "General Ecclesiastical Phenomena," but also the two 
 daughters of Puddifoot's sister, Grace and Annie Trudon; 
 the three daughters of Roger McKenzie, the town lawyer; 
 little Betty Callender, the only child of old, red-faced Major 
 Callender; Mary and Amy Forrester, daughters of old 
 Admiral Forrester; and, of course, the St. Leath girls. 
 
 When Joan arrived, then, in the Deanery dining-room 
 there was a fine gathering. Very unsophisticated they would 
 all have been considered by the present generation. Lady 
 Rose and Lady Mary, who were both of them nearer forty 
 than thirty, had of course had some experience of London, 
 and had been even to Paris and Rome. Of the "Others," 
 at this time, only Betty Callender, who had been born 
 in India, and the Forresters had been farther, in all their 
 lives, than Drymouth. Their lives were bound, and happily 
 bound, by the Polchester horizon. They lived in and for and 
 by the local excitements, talks, croquet, bicycling (under 
 proper guardianship), Rafiel or Buquay or Clinton in the 
 summer, and the occasional (very, very occasional) per- 
 formances of amateur theatricals in the Assembly Rooms. 
 
 Moreover, they were happy and contented and healthy. 
 For many of them Jane Eyre was still a forbidden book 
 and a railway train a remarkable adventure. 
 
 Polchester was the world and the world was Polchester. 
 They were at least a century nearer to Jane Austen's day 
 than they were to George the Fifth's. 
 
 Joan saw, with relief, so soon as she entered the room, 
 that the St. Leath women were absent. They overawed 
 her and were so much older than the others there that they 
 brought constraint with them and embarrassment. 
 
 Any stranger, coming suddenly into the room, must have 
 felt its light and gaiety and happiness. The high wide 
 dining-room windows were open and looked, over sloping 
 lawns, down to the Pol and up again to the woods beyond. 
 The trees were faintly purple in the spring sun, daffodils
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 175 
 
 were nodding on the lawn and little gossamer clouds of pale 
 orange floated like feathers across the sky. The large dining- 
 room table was cleared for action, and Gladys Sampson, 
 very serious and important, stood at the far end of the 
 room under a very bad oil-painting of her father, directing 
 operations. The girls were dressed for the most part in 
 white muslin frocks, high in the shoulders and pulled in at 
 the waist and tight round the neck only the McKenzie 
 girls, who rode to hounds and played tennis beautifully and 
 had, all three of them, faces of glazed red brick, were clad 
 in the heavy Harris tweeds that were just then beginning 
 to be so fashionable. 
 
 Joan, who only a month or two ago would have been 
 devoured with shyness at penetrating the fastnesses of the 
 Sampson dining-room, now felt no shyness whatever but 
 nodded quite casually to Gladys, smiled at the McKenzies, 
 and found a place between Cynthia Ryle and Jane D'Arcy. 
 
 They all sat, bathed in the sunshine, and looked at Gladys 
 Sampson. She cleared her throat and said in her pounding 
 heavy voice her voice was created for Committees : "Now 
 all of you know what we're here for. We're here to make 
 two banners for the Assembly Rooms and we've got to do 
 our very best. We haven't got a great deal of time between 
 now and June the Twentieth, so we must work, and I propose 
 that we come here every Tuesday and Friday afternoon, 
 and when I say here I mean somebody or other's house, 
 because of course it won't be always here. There's cutting 
 up to do and sewing and plenty of work really for every- 
 body, because when the banners are done there are the flags 
 for the school-children. Now if any one has any suggestions 
 to make I shall be very glad to hear them." 
 
 There was at first no reply to this and every one smiled 
 and looked at the portrait of the Dean. Then one of the 
 McKenzie girls remarked in a deep bass voice: 
 
 "That's all right, Gladys. But who's going to decide
 
 176 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 who does -what? Very decent of you to ask us but we're 
 not much in the sewing line never have been." 
 
 "Oh," said Gladys, "I've got people's names down for 
 the different things they're to do and any one whom it 
 doesn't suit has only got to speak up." 
 
 Soon the material was distributed and groups were formed 
 round the room. A chatter arose like the murmur of bees. 
 The sun as it sank lower behind the woods turned them 
 to dark crimson and the river pale grey. The sun fell now 
 in burning patches and squares across the room and the 
 dim yellow blinds were pulled half-way across the windows. 
 With this the room was shaded into a strong coloured twi- 
 light and the white frocks shone as though seen through 
 glass. The air grew cold beyond the open windows, but the 
 room was warm with the heat that the walls had stolen and 
 stored from the sun. 
 
 Joan sat with Jane D'Arcy and Betty Callender. She 
 was very happy to be at rest there ; she felt secure and safe. 
 Because in truth during these last weeks life had been in- 
 creasingly difficult difficult not only because it had be- 
 come, of late, so new and so strange, but also because she 
 could not tell what was happening. Family life had indeed 
 become of late a mystery, and behind the mystery there was 
 a dim sense of apprehension, apprehension that she had 
 never felt in all her days before. As she sank into the 
 tranquillity of the golden afternoon glow, with the soft white 
 silk passing to and fro in her hands, she tried to realise 
 for herself what had been occurring. Her father was, on the 
 whole, simple enough. He was beginning to suffer yet again 
 from one of his awful obsessions. Since the hour of her 
 earliest childhood she had watched these obsessions and 
 dreaded them. 
 
 There had been so many, big ones and little ones. Now 
 the Government, now the Dean, now the Town Council, now 
 the Chapter, now the Choir, now some rude letter, now some 
 imoertinent article in a paper. Like wild fierce animals
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 177 
 
 these things had from their dark thickets leapt out upon 
 him, and he had proceeded to wrestle with them in the full 
 presence of his family. Always, at last, he had been victori- 
 ous over them, the triumph had been publicly announced, 
 "Te Deums" sung, and for a time there had been peace, 
 It was some while since the last obsession, some ridiculous 
 action about drainage on the part of the Town Council. But 
 the new one threatened to make up in full for the length of 
 that interval. 
 
 Only just before Falk's unexpected return from Oxford 
 Joan had been congratulating herself on her father's happi- 
 ness and peace of mind. She might have known the omens 
 of that dangerous quiet. On the very day of Falk's arrival 
 Canon Render had arrived too. 
 
 Canon Render! How Joan was beginning to detest the 
 very sound of the name! She had hated the man himself 
 as soon as she had set eyes upon him. She had scented, in 
 some instinctive way, the trouble that lay behind those large 
 round glasses and that broad indulgent smile. But now! 
 Now they were having the name "Render" with their break- 
 fast, their dinner, and their tea. Into everything apparently 
 his fat fingers were inserted; her father saw his rounded 
 shadow behind every door, his rosy cheeks at every window. 
 
 And yet it was very difficult to discover what exactly it 
 was that he had done! Now, whatever it might be that 
 went wrong in the Brandon house, in the Cathedral, in the 
 town, her father was certain that Render was responsible, 
 but proof. Well, there wasn't any. And it was precisely 
 this absence of proof that built up the obsession. 
 
 Everywhere that Render went he spoke enthusiastically 
 about the Archdeacon. These compliments came back to 
 Joan again and again. "If there's one man in this town 
 
 I admire " "What would this town be without ' 
 
 "We're lucky, indeed, to have the Archdeacon " And 
 
 yet was there not behind all these things a laugh, a jest, a 
 mocking tone, something that belonged in spirit to that
 
 178 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 horrible day when the elephant had trodden upon her 
 father's hat? 
 
 She loved her father, and she loved him twice as dearly 
 since one night when on driving up to the Castle he had 
 held her hand. But now the obsession had killed the possi- 
 bility of any tenderness between them; she longed to be able 
 to do something that would show him how strongly she was 
 his partisan, to insult Canon Render in the market-place, 
 to turn her back when he spoke to her and, at the same 
 time, intermingled with this hot championship was irritation 
 that her father should allow himself to be obsessed by this. 
 He who was so far greater than a million Ronders ! 
 
 The situation in the Brandon family had not been made 
 any easier by Falk's strange liking for the man. Joan did 
 not pretend that she understood her brother or had ever been 
 in any way close to him. When she had been little he had 
 seemed to be so infinitely above her as to be in another world, 
 and now that they seemed almost of an age he was strange 
 to her like some one of foreign blood. She knew that she 
 did not count in his scheme of life at all, that he never 
 thought of her nor wanted her. She did not mind that, and 
 even now she would have been tranquil about him had it not 
 been for her mother's anxiety. She could not but see how 
 during the last weeks her mother had watched every step that 
 Falk took, her eyes always searching his face as though he 
 were keeping some secret from her. To Joan, who never be- 
 lieved that people could plot and plan and lead double lives, 
 this all seemed unnatural and exaggerated. 
 
 But she knew well enough that her mother had never at- 
 tempted to give her any of her confidence. Everything 
 at home, in short, was difficult and confused. Nobody was 
 happy, nobody was natural. Even her own private history, 
 if she looked into it too closely, did not show her any very 
 optimistic colours. She had not seen Johnny St. Leath now 
 for a fortnight, nor heard from him, and those precious 
 words under the Ardon Gate one evening wore beginning
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 179 
 
 already to appear a dim unsubstantial dream. However, if 
 there was one quality that Joan Brandon possessed in excess 
 of all others, it was a simple fidelity to the cause or person 
 in front of her. 
 
 Her doubts came simply from the wonder as to whether 
 she had not concluded too much from his words and built 
 upon them too fairy-like a castle. 
 
 With a gesture she flung all her wonders and troubles out 
 upon the gold-swept lawn and trained all her attention to 
 the chatter among the girls around her. She admired Jane 
 D'Arcy very much ; she was so "elegant." Everything that 
 Jane wore became her slim straight body, and her pale 
 pointed face was always a little languid in expression, as 
 though daily life were an exhausting affair and not intended 
 for superior persons. She had been told, from a very early 
 day, that her voice was "low and musical," so she always 
 spoke in whispers which gave her thoughts an importance 
 that they might not otherwise have possessed. Very dif- 
 ferent was little Betty Callender, round and rosy like an 
 apple, with freckles on her nose and bright blue eyes. She 
 laughed a great deal and liked to agree with everything 
 that any one said. 
 
 "If you ask me," said Jane in her fascinating whisper, 
 "there's a lot of nonsense about this old Jubilee." 
 
 "Oh, do you think so ?" said Joan. 
 
 "Yes. Old Victoria's been on the throne long enough. 
 'Tis time we had somebody else." 
 
 Joan was very much shocked by this and said so. 
 
 "I don't think we ought to be governed by old people," 
 said Jane. "Every one over seventy ought to be buried 
 whether they wish it or no." 
 
 Joan laughed aloud. 
 
 "Of course they wouldn't wish it," she said. 
 
 Laughter came, now here, now there, from different parts 
 of the room. Every one was very gay from the triple sense
 
 180 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 that they were the elect of Polchester, that they were doing 
 important work, and that summer was coming. 
 
 Jane D'Arcy tossed her head. 
 
 "Father says that perhaps he'll be taking us to London 
 for it," she whispered. 
 
 "I wouldn't go if any one offered me," said Joan. "It's 
 Polchester I want to see it at, not London. Of course I'd 
 love to see the Queen, but it would probably be only for a 
 moment, and all the rest would be horrible crowds with nobodj 
 knowing you. While here ! Oh ! it will be lovely !" 
 
 Jane smiled. "Poor child. Of course you know nothing 
 about London. How should you? Give me a week in 
 London and you can have your old Polchester for ever. 
 What ever happens in Polchester ? Silly old croquet parties 
 and a dance in the Assembly Rooms. And never any one 
 new." 
 
 "Well, there is some one new," said Betty Callender, "I 
 saw her this morning." 
 
 "Her? Who?" asked Jane, with the scorn of one who 
 has already made up her mind to despise. 
 
 "I was with mother going through the market and Lady 
 St. Leath came by in an open carriage. She was with her. 
 Mother says she's a Miss Daubeney from London and oh ! 
 she's perfectly lovely ! and mother says she's to marry Lord 
 St. Leath- 
 
 "Ohl I heard she was coming," said Jane, still scorn- 
 fully. "How silly you are, Betty ! You think any one lovely 
 if she comes from London." 
 
 "No, but she was," insisted Betty, "mother said so too, 
 and she had a blue silk parasol, and she was just sweet. 
 Lord St. Leath was in the carriage with them." 
 
 "Poor Johnny!" said Jane. "He always has to do just 
 what that horrible old mother of his tells him." 
 
 Joan had listened to this little dialogue with what bravery 
 she could. Doom then had been pronounced ? Sentence had 
 fallen ? Miss Daubcnoy had arrived. She could hear the
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 181 
 
 old Countess' voice again. "Claire Daubeney Monteagle's 
 daughter such a nice girl Johnny's friend 
 
 Johnny's friend! Of course she was. Nothing could 
 show to Joan more clearly the difference between Joan's 
 world and the St. Leath world than the arrival of this lovely 
 stranger. Although Mme. Sarah Grand and others were at 
 this very moment forcing that strange figure, the New 
 Woman, upon a reluctant world, Joan belonged most dis- 
 tinctly to the earlier generation. She trembled at the thought 
 of any publicity, of any thrusting herself forward, of any, 
 even momentary, rebellion against her position. Of course 
 Johnny belonged to this beautiful creature; she had always 
 known, in her heart, that her dream was an impossible one. 
 Nevertheless the room, the sunlight, the white dresses, the 
 long shining table, the coloured silks and ribbons, swam 
 in confusion around her. She was suddenly miserable. Her 
 hands shook and her upper lip trembled. She had a strange 
 illogical desire to go out and find Miss Daubeney and snatch 
 her blue parasol from her startled hands and stamp upon it. 
 
 "Well," said Jane, "I don't envy any one who marries 
 Johnny to be shut up in that house with all those old 
 women !" 
 
 Betty shook her head very solemnly and tried to look older 
 than her years. 
 
 The afternoon was drawing on. Gladys came across and 
 closed the windows. 
 
 "I think that's about enough to-day," she said. "Now 
 we'll have tea." 
 
 Joan's great desire was to slip away and go home. She 
 put her work on the table, fetched her coat from the other 
 end of the room. 
 
 Gladys stopped her. "Don't go, Joan. You must have 
 tea." 
 
 "I promised mother " she said. 
 
 The door opened. She turned and found herself close 
 to the Dean and Canon Render.
 
 182 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 The Dean came forward, nervously rubbing his hands 
 together as was his custom. "Well, children," he said, 
 blinking at them. Render stood, smiling, in the doorway. 
 At the sight of him Joan was filled with hatred vehement, 
 indignant hatred; she had never hated any one before, 
 unless possibly it was Miss St. Clair, the French mistress. 
 Now, from what source she did not know, fear and passion 
 flowed into her. Nothing could have been more amiable 
 and genial than the figure that he presented. 
 
 As always, his clothes were beautifully neat and correct, 
 his linen spotless white, his black boots gleaming. 
 
 He beamed upon them all, and Joan felt, behind her, 
 the response that the whole room made to him. They liked 
 him; she knew it He was becoming popular. 
 
 He had towards them all precisely the right attitude; he 
 was not amiable and childish like the Dean, nor pompous 
 like Bentinck-Major, nor sycophantic like Ryle. He did not 
 advance to them but became, as it were, himself one of 
 them, understanding exactly the way that they wanted him. 
 
 And Joan hated him ; she hated his red face and his neat- 
 ness and his broad chest and his stout legs everything, 
 everything! She also feared him. She had never before, 
 although for long now she had been conscious of his power, 
 been so deeply aware of his connection with herself. It was 
 as though his round shadow had, on this lovely afternoon, 
 crept forward a little and touched with its dim grey for 
 the first time the Brandon house. 
 
 "Canon Render," Gladys Sampson cried, "come and see 
 what we've done." 
 
 He moved forward and patted little Betty Callender on 
 the head as he passed. "Are you all right, my dear, and your 
 father?" 
 
 It appeared that Betty was delighted. Suddenly he sa^ 
 Joan. 
 
 "Oh, good evening, Miss Brandon." He altered his tone 
 for her, speaking as though she were an equal.
 
 TWO THE WHISPEKING GALLEKY 183 
 
 Joan looked at him; colour flamed in her cheeks. She 
 did not reply, and then feeling as though in an instant she 
 would do something quite disgraceful, she slipped from the 
 room. 
 
 Soon, after gently smiling at the parlourmaid, who was 
 an old friend of hers because she had once been in service at 
 the Brandons, she found herself standing, a little lost and 
 bewildered, at the corner of Green Lane and Orange Street. 
 Lost and bewildered because one emotion after another 
 seemed suddenly to have seized upon her and taken her cap- 
 tive. Lost and bewildered almost as though she had been 
 bewitched, carried off through the shining skies by her captor 
 and then dropped, deserted, left, in some unknown country. 
 
 Green Lane in the evening light had a fairy air. The 
 stumpy trees on either side with the bright new green of 
 the spring seemed to be concealing lamps within their 
 branches. So thick a glow suffused the air that it was as 
 though strangely coloured fruit, purple and orange and 
 amethyst, hung glittering against the pale yellow sky, and 
 the road running up the hill was like pale wax. 
 
 On the other side Orange Street tumbled pell-mell into 
 the roofs of the town. The monument of the fierce Georgian 
 citizen near which Joan was standing guarded with a 
 benevolent devotion the little city whose lights, stealing now 
 upon the air, sprinkled the evening sky with a jewelled haze. 
 No sound broke the peace; no one came nor went; only the 
 trees of the Lane moved and stirred very faintly as though 
 assuring the girl of their friendly company. 
 
 Never before had she so passionately loved her town. 
 It seemed to-night when she was disturbed by her new love, 
 her new fear, her new worldly knowledge, to be eager to 
 assure her that it was with her in all her troubles, that it 
 understood that she must pass into new experiences, that it 
 knew, none better indeed, how strange and terrifying that 
 first realisation of real life could be, that it had itself suffered 
 when new streets had been thrust upon it and old loved houses
 
 184 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 pulled down and the river choked and the hills despoiled, but 
 that everything passes and love remains and homeliness and 
 friends. 
 
 Joan felt more her own response to the town than the 
 town's reassurance to her, but she was a little comforted 
 and she felt a little safer. 
 
 She argued as she walked home through the Market Place 
 and up the High Street and under the Arden Gate into the 
 quiet sheltered Precincts, why should she think that Ronder 
 mattered? After all might not he be the good fat clergy- 
 man that he appeared? It was more perhaps a kind of 
 jealousy because of her father that she felt. She put aside 
 her own little troubles in a sudden rush of tenderness for 
 her family. She wanted to protect them all and make them 
 happy. But how could she make them happy if they would 
 tell her nothing? They still treated her as a child but she 
 was a woman now. Her love for Johnny. She had admitted 
 that to herself. She stopped on the path outside the decorous 
 strait-laced houses and put her cool gloved hand up to her 
 burning cheek. 
 
 She had known for a long time that she loved him, but 
 she had not told herself. She must conquer that, stamp upon 
 it. It was foolish, hopeless. . . . She ran up the steps of 
 their house as though something pursued her. 
 
 She let herself in and found the hall dusky and obscure. 
 The lamp had not yet been lit She heard a voice : 
 
 "Who's that?" 
 
 She looked lip and saw her mother, a little, slender figure, 
 standing at the turn of the stairs holding in her hand a 
 lighted candle. 
 
 "It's I, mother, Joan. I've just come from Gladys 
 Sampson's." 
 
 "Oh! I thought it would be Falk. You didn't pass 
 Falk on your way ?" 
 
 "No, mother dear."
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 185 
 
 She went across to the little cupboard where the coats 
 were hung. As she poked her head into the little, dark, 
 musty place, she could feel that her mother was still standing 
 there, listening.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE GENIAL HEAET 
 
 ROUNDER was never happier than when he was wishing 
 well to all mankind. 
 
 He could neither force nor falsify this emotion. If he 
 did not feel it he did not feel it, and himself was the loser. 
 But it sometimes occurred that the weather was bright, that 
 his digestion was functioning admirably, that he liked his 
 surroundings, that he had agreeable work, that his prospects 
 were happy then he literally beamed upon mankind and 
 in his fancy showered upon the poor and humble largesse 
 of glittering coin. In such a mood he loved every one, would 
 pat children on the back, help old men along the road, listen 
 to the long winnings of the reluctant poor. Utterly genuine 
 he was ; he meant every word that he spoke and every smile 
 that he bestowed. 
 
 Now, early in May and in Polchester he was in such a 
 mood. Soon after his arrival he had discovered that he 
 liked the place and that it promised to suit him well, but 
 he had never supposed that it could develop into such per- 
 fection. Success already was his, but it was not success of 
 so swift a kind that plots and plans were not needed. They 
 were very much needed. He could remember no time in his 
 past life when he had had so admirable a combination of 
 difficulties to overcome. And they were difficulties of the 
 right kind. They centred around a figure whom he could 
 really like and admire. It would have been very unpleasant 
 had he hated Brandon or despised him. Those were uncom- 
 fortable emotions in which he indulged as seldom as possible. 
 
 186
 
 THE WHISPERING GALLERY 187 
 
 What he liked, above everything, was a fight, when he 
 need have no temptation towards anger or bitterness. Who 
 could be angry with poor Brandon? Nor could he despise 
 him. In his simple blind confidence and self-esteem there 
 was an element of truth, of strength, even of nobility. 
 
 Far from despising or hating Brandon, he liked him im- 
 mensely and he was on his way utterly to destroy him. 
 
 Then, as he approached nearer the centre of his drama, 
 he noticed, as he had often noticed before, how strangelj 
 everything played into his hands. Without undue presump- 
 tion it seemed that so soon as he determined that something 
 ought to occur and began to work in a certain direction, 
 God also decided that it was wise and pushed everything into 
 its right place. This consciousness of Divine partnership 
 gave Ronder a sense that his opponents were the merest 
 pawns in a game whose issue was already decided. 
 
 Poor things, they were helpless indeed ! This only added 
 to his kindly feelings towards them, his sense of humour, 
 too, was deeply stirred by their own unawareness of their 
 fate and he always liked any one who stirred his sense 
 of humour. 
 
 Never before had he known everything to play so immedi- 
 ately into his hands as in this present case. Brandon, for 
 instance, had just that stupid obstinacy that was required, the 
 town had just that ignorance of the outer world and cleaving 
 to old traditions. 
 
 And now, how strange that the boy Falk had on several 
 occasions stopped to speak to him and had at last asked 
 whether he might come and see him! 
 
 How lucky that Brandon should be making this mistake 
 about the Pybus St. Anthony living ! 
 
 Finally, although he was completely frank with himself 
 and knew that he was working, first and last, for his own 
 future comfort, it did seem to him that he was also doing 
 real benefit to the town. The times were changing. Men 
 of Brandon's type were anachronistic; the town had been
 
 188 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 under Brandon's domination too long. New life was coming 
 a new world a new civilisation. 
 
 Render, although no one believed less in Utopias than he, 
 did believe in the Zeitgeist simply for comfort's sake if 
 for no stronger reason. Well, the Zeitgeist was descending 
 upon Polchester, and Render was its agent Progress ? No, 
 Render did not believe in Progress. But in the House of 
 Life there are many rooms; once and again the furniture 
 is changed. 
 
 One afternoon early in May he was suddenly aware that 
 everything was moving more swiftly upon its appointed 
 course than he, sharp though he was, had been aware. Cross- 
 ing the Cathedral Green he encountered Dr. Puddifoot. 
 He knew that the Doctor had at first disliked him but was 
 quickly coming over to his side and was beginning to con- 
 sider him as * Abroad-minded for a parson and knowing a lot 
 more about life than you would suppose." He saw precisely 
 into Puddifoot's brain and watched the thoughts dart to 
 and fro as though they had been so many goldfish in a glass 
 bowl. He also liked Puddifoot for himself; he always liked 
 stout, big, red-faced men ; they were easier to deal with than 
 the thin severe ones. He knew that the time would very 
 shortly arrive when Puddifoot would tell him one of his 
 improper stories. That would sanctify the friendship. 
 
 "Ha ! Canon !" said Puddifoot, puffing like a seal. "Jolly 
 day!" 
 
 They stood and talked, then, as they were both going into 
 the town, they turned and walked towards the Arden Gate. 
 Puddifoot talked about his health ; like many doctors he was 
 very timid about himself and eager to reassure himself in 
 public. "How are you, Canon ? But I needn't ask looking 
 splendid. I'm all right myself never felt better really. 
 Just a twinge of rheumatics last night, but it's nothing. 
 Must expect something at my age, you know getting on for 
 seventy."
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 189 
 
 "You look as though you'll live for ever," said Render, 
 beaming upon him. 
 
 "You can't always tell from us big fellows. There's 
 Brandon now, for instance the Archdeacon." 
 
 "Surely there isn't a healthier man in the kingdom," said 
 Render, pushing his spectacles back into the bridge of his 
 nose. 
 
 "Think so, wouldn't you? But you'd be wrong. A 
 sudden shock, and that man would be nowhere. Given to 
 fits of anger, always tried his system too hard, never learnt 
 control. Might have a stroke any day for all he looks so 
 strong !" 
 
 "Really, really ! Dear me !" said Ronder. 
 
 "Course these are medical secrets in a way. Know it 
 won't go any farther. But it's curious, isn't it ? Appear- 
 ances are deceptive damned deceptive. That's what they 
 are. Brandon's brain's never been his strong point. Might 
 go any moment." 
 
 "Dear me, dear me," said Ronder. "I'm sorry to hear 
 that" 
 
 "Oh, I don't mean," said Puddifoot, puffing and blowing 
 out his cheeks like a cherub in a picture by Sir Joshua 
 Reynolds, "that he'll die to-morrow, you know or have a 
 stroke either. But he ain't as secure as he looks. And he 
 don't take care of himself as he should." 
 
 Outside the Library Ronder paused. 
 
 "Going in here for a book, doctor. See you later." 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Puddifoot, his eyes staring up and down 
 the street, as though they would burst out of his head. 
 "Very good very good. See you later then," and so went 
 blowing down the hill. 
 
 Ronder passed under the gloomy portals of the Library 
 and found his way, through faith rather than vision, up the 
 stone stairs that smelt of mildew and blotting-paper, into 
 the hich dingy room. He had had a sudden desire the night
 
 190 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 before to read an old story by Bage that he had not seen since 
 he was a boy the violent and melancholy Hermsprong. 
 
 It had come to him, as it were, in his dreams a vision of 
 himself rocking in a hammock in his uncle's garden on a 
 wonderful summer afternoon, eating apples and reading 
 Hermsprong, the book discovered, he knew not by what 
 chance, in the dusty depths of his uncle's library. He would 
 like to read it again. Hermsprong I the very scent of the 
 skin of the apple, the blue-flecked tapestry of light between 
 the high boughs came back to him. He was a boy again. 
 . . . He was brought up sharply by meeting the little red- 
 rimmed eyes of Miss Milton. Red-rimmed to-day, surely, 
 with recent weeping. She sat humped up on her chair, 
 glaring out into the room. 
 
 "It's all right, Miss Milton," he said, smiling at her. "It's 
 an old book I want. I won't bother you. I'll look for 
 myself." 
 
 He passed into the further dim secrecies of the Library, 
 whither so few penetrated. Here was an old ladder, and, 
 mounted upon it, he confronted the vanished masterpieces 
 of Holcroft and Radcliffe, Lewis and Jane Porter, Clara 
 Reeve and MacKenzie, old calf-bound ghosts who threw up 
 little clouds of sighing dust as he touched them with his 
 fingers. He was happily preoccupied with his search, bal- 
 ancing his stout body precariously on the trembling ladder, 
 when he fancied that he heard a sigh. 
 
 He stopped and listened ; this time there could be no mis- 
 take. It was a sigh of prodigious intent and meaning, and 
 it came from Miss Milton. Impatiently he turned back to 
 his books ; he would find his Bage as quickly as possible and 
 go. He was not at all in the mood for lamentations from 
 Miss Milton. Ah! there was Barham Downs. Hermsprong 
 could not be far away. Then suddenly there came to him 
 quite unmistakably a sob, then another, then two more, 
 finally something that horribly resembled hysterics. He 
 came down from his ladder and crossed the room.
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 191 
 
 "My dear Miss Milton!" he exclaimed. "Is there any- 
 thing I can do ?" 
 
 She presented a strange and unpoetic appearance, huddled 
 up in her wooden arm-chair, one fat leg crooked under her, 
 her head sinking into her ample bosom, her whole figure 
 shaking with convulsive grief, the chair creaking sym- 
 pathetically with her. 
 
 Render, seeing that she was in real distress, hurried up 
 to her. 
 
 "My dear Miss Milton, what is it?" 
 
 For a while she could not speak; then raised a face of 
 mottled purple and white, and, dabbing her cheeks with a 
 handkerchief not of the cleanest, choked out between her 
 sobs: 
 
 "My last week Saturday Saturday I go disgrace 
 ugh, ugh dismissed Archdeacon." 
 
 "But I don't understand," said Ronder, "who goes ? Who's 
 disgraced ?" 
 
 "I go !" cried Miss Milton, suddenly uncurling her body 
 and her sobs checked by her anger. "I shouldn't have given 
 way like this, and before you, Canon Ronder. But I'm 
 ruined ruined ! and for doing my duty !" 
 
 Her change from the sobbing, broken woman to the im- 
 passioned avenger of justice was so immediate that Ronder 
 was confused. "I still don't understand, Miss Milton," he 
 said. "Do you say you are dismissed, and, if so, by whom ?" 
 
 "I am dismissed! I am dismissed!" cried Miss Milton. 
 "I leave here on Saturday. I have been librarian to this 
 Library, Canon Ronder, for more than twenty years. Yes, 
 twenty years. And now I'm dismissed like a dog with a 
 month's notice." 
 
 She had collected her tears and, with a marvellous rapidity, 
 packed them away. Her eyes, although red, were dry and 
 glittering; her cheeks were of a pasty white marked with 
 small red spots of indignation. Ronder, looking at her and
 
 192 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 her dirty hands, thought that he had never seen a woman 
 whom he disliked more. 
 
 "But, Miss Milton," he said, "if you'll forgive me, I still 
 don't understand. Under whom do you hold this appoint- 
 ment ? Who have the right to dismiss you ? and, whoever it 
 was, they must have given some reason." 
 
 Miss Milton was now the practical woman, speaking 
 calmly, although her bosom still heaved and her fingers 
 plucked confusedly with papers on the table in front of her. 
 She spoke quietly, but behind her words there were so 
 vehement a hatred, bitterness and malice that Ronder ob- 
 served her with a new interest. 
 
 "There is a Library Committee, Canon Ronder," she said. 
 "Lady St. Leath is the president. It has in its hands the 
 appointment of the librarian. It appointed me more than 
 twenty years ago. It has now dismissed me with a month's 
 notice for what it calls what it calls, Canon Ronder 
 'abuse and neglect of my duties.' Abuse! Neglect I Mel 
 about whom there has never been a word of complaint until 
 until- 
 
 Here again Miss Milton's passions seemed to threaten to 
 overwhelm her. She gathered herself together with a great 
 effort. 
 
 "I know my enemy, Canon Ronder. Make no mistake 
 about that. I know my enemy. Although, what / have 
 ever done to him I cannot imagine. A more inoffensive 
 person 
 
 "Yes. But," said Canon Ronder gently, "tell me, if you 
 can, exactly with what they charge you. Perhaps I can help 
 you. Is it Lady St. Leath who ' 
 
 "No, it is not Lady St. Leath," broke in Miss Milton 
 vehemently. "I owe Lady St. Leath much in the past. If 
 she has been a little imperious at times, that after all is her 
 right Lady St. Leath is a perfect lady. What occurred 
 was simply this: Some months ago I was keeping a book for 
 Lady St. Leath that she especially wished to read. Miss
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 193 
 
 Brandon, the daughter of the Archdeacon, came in and tried 
 to take the book from me, saying that her mother wished to 
 read it. I explained to her that it was being kept for Lady 
 St. Leath ; nevertheless, she persisted and complained to Lord 
 St. Leath, who happened to be in the Library at the time ; he, 
 being a perfect gentleman, could of course do nothing but say 
 that she was to have the book. 
 
 "She went home and complained, and it was the Arch- 
 deacon who brought up the affair at a Committee meeting 
 and insisted on my dismissal. Yes, Canon Render, I know 
 my enemy and I shall not forget it." 
 
 "Dear me," said Canon Ronder benevolently, "I'm more 
 than sorry. Certainly it sounds a little hasty, although the 
 Archdeacon is the most honourable of men." 
 
 "Honourable! Honourable!" Miss Milton rose in hei 
 chair. "Honourable! He's so swollen with pride that he 
 doesn't know what he is. Oh ! I don't measure my words^ 
 Canon Ronder, nor do I see any reason why I should. 
 
 "He has ruined my life. What have I now at my age to 
 go to ? A little secretarial work, and less and less of that. 
 But it's not that of which I complain. I am hurt in the very 
 depths of my being, Canon Ronder. In my pride and my 
 honour. Stains, wounds that I can never forget!" 
 
 It was so exactly as though Miss Milton had just been 
 reading Hermsprong and was quoting from it that Ronder 
 looked about him, almost expecting to see the dusty volume. 
 
 "Well, Miss Milton, perhaps I can put a little work in 
 your way." 
 
 "You're very kind, sir," she said. "There's more than 
 I in this town, sir, who're glad that you've come among us, 
 and hope that perhaps your presence may lead to a change 
 some day amongst those in high authority." 
 
 "Where are you living, Miss Milton ?" he asked. 
 
 "Three St. James' Lane," she answered. "Just behind the 
 Market and St. James' Church. Opposite the Rectory. Two 
 little rooms, my windows looking on to Mr. Morris'."
 
 194 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 "Very well, I'll remember." 
 
 "Thank you, sir, I'm sura I'm afraid I've forgotten 
 myself this morning, but there's nothing like a sense of 
 injustice for making you lose your self-control. I don't care 
 who hears me. I shall not forgive the Archdeacon." 
 
 "Come, come, Miss Milton," said Ronder. "We must all 
 forgive and forget." 
 
 Her eyes narrowed until they almost disappeared. 
 
 "I don't wish to be unfair, Canon Ronder," she said. 
 "But I've worked for more than twenty years like an honour- 
 able woman, and to be turned out. Not that I bear Mrs, 
 Brandon any grudge, coming down to see Mr. Morris so 
 often as she does. I daresay she doesn't have too happy a 
 time if all were known." 
 
 "Now, now," said Ronder. "This won't do, Miss Milton. 
 You won't make your case better by talking scandal, you 
 know. I have your address. If I can help you I will. Good 
 afternoon." 
 
 Forgetting Hermsprong, having now more important 
 things to consider, he found his way down the steps and out 
 into the air. 
 
 On every side now it seemed that the Archdeacon was 
 making some blunder. Little unimportant blunders perhaps, 
 but nevertheless cumulative in their effect ! The balance 
 had shifted. The Powers of the Air, bored perhaps with the 
 too-extended spectacle of an Archdeacon successful and 
 triumphant, had made a sign. . . . 
 
 Ronder, as he stood in the spring sunlight, glancing up 
 and down the High .Street, so full of colour and movement, 
 had an impulse as though it were almost a duty to go and 
 warn the Archdeacon. "Look out! Look out! There's a 
 storm coming!" Warn the Archdeacon! He smiled. Ho 
 could imagine to himself the scene and the reception his 
 advice would have. Nevertheless, how sad that undoubtedly 
 you cannot make an omelette without first breaking the eggs I 
 And this omelette positively must be made!
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 195 
 
 He had intended to do a little shopping, an occupation in 
 which he delighted because of the personal victories to be 
 won, but suddenly now, moved by what impulse he could not 
 tell, he turned back towards the Cathedral. He crossed the 
 Green, and almost before he knew it he had pushed back 
 the heavy West door and was in the dark, dimly coloured 
 shadow. The air was chill. The nave was scattered with 
 lozenges of purple and green light. He moved up the side 
 aisle, thinking that now he was here he would exchange a 
 word or two with old Lawrence. No harm would be done by 
 a little casual amiability in that direction. 
 
 Before he realised, he was close to the Black Bishop's 
 Tomb. The dark grim face seemed to-day to wear a 
 triumphant smile beneath the black beard. A shaft of sun- 
 light played upon the marble like a searchlight upon water ; 
 the gold of the ironwork and the green ring and the tracery 
 on the scrolled borders jumped under the sunlight like living 
 things. 
 
 Ronder, moved as always by beauty, smiled as though 
 in answer to the dead Bishop. 
 
 "Why! you're the most alive thing in this Cathedral," 
 he thought to himself. 
 
 "Pretty good bit of work, isn't it ?" he heard at his elbow. 
 He turned and saw Davray, the painter. The man had 
 been pointed out to him in the street; he knew his reputa- 
 tion. He was inclined to be interested in the man, in any 
 one who had a wider, broader view of life than the citizens 
 of the town. Davray had not been drinking for several 
 weeks ; and always towards the end of one of his sober bouts 
 he was gentle, melancholy, the true artist in him rising for 
 one last view of the beauty that there was in the world before 
 the inevitable submerging. 
 
 He had, on this occasion, been sober for a longer period 
 than usual; he felt weak and faint, as though he had been 
 without food, and his favourite vice, that had been approach- 
 ing closer and closer to him during these last days, now leered
 
 196 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 at him, leaning towards him from the other side of the 
 gilded scrolls of the tomb. 
 
 "Yee, it's a very fine thing." He cleared his throat. 
 "You're Canon Render, are you not ?" 
 
 "Yes, I am." 
 
 "My name's Davray. You probably heard of me as a 
 drunkard who hangs about the town doing no good. I'm 
 quite sure you don't want to speak to me or know me, but 
 in here, where it's so quiet and so beautiful, one may know 
 people whom it wouldn't be nice to know outside." 
 
 Render looked at him. The man's face, worn now and 
 pinched and sharp, must once have had its fineness. 
 
 "You do yourself an injustice, Mr. Davray," Ronder 
 said. "I'm very glad indeed to know you." 
 
 "Well, of course, you parsons have got to know every- 
 body, haven't you ? And the sinners especially. That's 
 your job. But I'm not a sinner to-day. I haven't drunk 
 anything for weeks, although don't congratulate me, because 
 I'm certainly not going to hold out much longer. There's 
 no hope of redeeming me, Canon Ronder, even if you have 
 time for the job." 
 
 Ronder smiled. 
 
 "I'm not going to preach to you," he said, "you needn't 
 be afraid." 
 
 "Well, let's forget all that. This Cathedral is the very 
 place, if you clergymen had any sense of proportion, where 
 you should be ashamed to preach. It laughs at you." 
 
 "At any rate the Bishop does," said Ronder, looking down 
 at the tomb. 
 
 "No, but all of it," said Davray. Instinctively they both 
 looked up. High above them, in the very heart of the great 
 Cathedral tower, a mist, reflected above the windows until 
 it was coloured a very faint rose, trembled like a sea about 
 the black rafters and rounded pillars. Even as they looked 
 some bird flew twittering from corner to corner. 
 
 "When I'm worked up," said Davray, "which I'm not
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 197 
 
 to-day, I just long to clear all you officials out of it. I 
 laugh sometimes to think how important you think your- 
 selves and how unimportant you really are. The Cathedral 
 laughs too, and once and again stretches out a great lazy 
 finger and just flicks you away as it would a spider's web. 
 I hope you don't think me impertinent." 
 
 "Not in the least," said Render ; "some of us even may feel 
 just as you do about it." 
 
 "Brandon doesn't." Davray moved away. "I sometimes 
 think that when I'm properly drunk one day I'll murder that 
 man. His self-sufficiency and conceit are an insult to the 
 Cathedral. But the Cathedral knows. It bides its time." 
 
 Render looked gravely at the melancholy, ineffective figure 
 with the pale pointed beard, and the weak hands. "You 
 speak very confidently, Mr. Davray," he said. "As with all 
 of us, you judge others by yourself. When you know what 
 the Cathedral's attitude to yourself is, you'll be able to see 
 more clearly." 
 
 "To myself!" Davray answered excitedly. "It has none! 
 To myself ? Why, I'm nobody, nothing. It doesn't have to 
 begin to consider me. I'm less than the dung the birds drop 
 from the height of the tower. But I'm humble before it. 
 I would let its meanest stone crush the life out of my body, 
 and be glad enough. At least I know its power, its beauty. 
 And I adore it! I adore it!" 
 
 He looked up as he spoke; his eyes seemed to be eagerly 
 searching for some expected face. 
 
 Render disliked both melodrama and sentimentality. Both 
 were here. 
 
 "Take my advice," he said smiling. "Don't think too 
 much about the place. . . . I'm glad that we met. Good 
 afternoon." 
 
 Davray did not seem to have noticed him ; he was staring 
 down again at the Bishop's Tomb. Ronder walked away. 
 A strange man! A strange day! How different people 
 were! Neither better nor worse, but just different As
 
 198 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 many varieties as there were particles of sand on the sea- 
 shore. 
 
 How impossible to be bored with life. Nevertheless, enter- 
 ing his own home he was instantly bored. He found there, 
 having tea with his aunt and sitting beneath the Hermes, 
 so that the contrast made her doubly ridiculous, Julia Pres- 
 ton. Julia Preston was to him the most boring woman in 
 Polchester. To herself she was the most important. She 
 was a widow and lived in a little green house with a little 
 green garden in the Polchester outskirts. She was as pretty 
 as she had been twenty years before, exactly the same, save 
 that what nature had, twenty years ago, done for the asking, 
 it now did under compulsion. She believed the whole world 
 in love with her and was therefore a thoroughly happy 
 woman. She had a healthy interest in the affairs of her 
 neighbours, however small they might be, and believed in 
 "Truth, Beauty, and the Improvement of the Lower Classes." 
 
 "Dear Canon Konder, how nice this is!" she exclaimed. 
 "You've been hard at work all the afternoon, I know, and 
 want your tea. How splendid work is ! I often think what 
 would life be without it !" 
 
 Ronder, who took trouble with everybody, smiled, sat down 
 near to her and looked as though he loved her. 
 
 "Well, to be quite honest, I haven't been working very 
 hard. Just seeing a few people." 
 
 "Just seeing a few people I" Mrs. Preston used a laugh 
 that was a favourite of hers because she had once been told 
 that it waa like "a tinkling bell." "Listen to him ! Aa 
 though that weren't the hardest thing in the world. Giving 
 out! Giving out! What is so exhausting, and yet what so 
 worth while in the end? Unselfishness! I really sometimes 
 jfeel that is the true secret of life." 
 
 "Have one of those little cakes, Julia," said Miss Ronder 
 drily. She, unlike her nephew, bothered about very few 
 people indeed. "Make a good tea." 
 
 "I will, as you want me to, dear Alice," said Mrs. Pros-
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLEKY 199 
 
 ton. "Oh, thank you, Canon Bonder! How good of you; 
 ah, there ! I've dropped my little bag. It's under that table. 
 Thank you a thousand times ! And isn't it strange about Mrs. 
 Brandon and Mr. Morris ?" 
 
 "Isn't what strange?" asked Miss Ronder, regarding her 
 guest with grim cynicism. 
 
 "Oh well nothing really, except that every one's asking 
 what they can find in common. They're always together. 
 Last Monday Aggie Combermere met her coming out of the 
 Rectory, then Ellen Stiles saw them in the Precincts last 
 Sunday afternoon, and I saw them myself this morning in 
 the High Street." 
 
 "My dear Mrs. Preston," said Ronder, "why shouldn't 
 they go about together?" 
 
 "No reason at all," said Mrs. Preston, blushing very 
 prettily, as she always did when she fancied that any one 
 was attacking her. "I'm sure that % I'm only too glad that 
 poor Mrs. Brandon has found a friend. My motto in life is, 
 'Let us all contribute to the happiness of one another to the 
 . best of our strength.' 
 
 \ "Truly, that's a thing we can all do, isn't it? Life isn't 
 too bright for some people, I can't help thinking. And 
 courage is the thing. After all, it isn't life that is important 
 but simply how brave you are. 
 
 "At least that's my poor little idea of it. But it does 
 seem a little odd about Mrs. Brandon. She's always kept 
 so much to herself until now." 
 
 "You worry too much about others, dear Julia," said Miss 
 Ronder. 
 
 "Yes, I really believe I do. Why, there's my bag gone 
 again! Oh, how good of you, Canon! It's under that 
 chair. Yes. I do. But one can't help one's nature, can 
 one? I often tell myself that it's really no credit to me 
 being unselfish. I was simply born that way. Poor Jack 
 used to say that he wished I would think of myself more! 
 I think we were meant to share one another's burdens. I
 
 200 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 really do. And what Mrs. Brandon can see in Mr. Morris 
 is so odd, because really he isn't an interesting man." 
 
 "Let me get you some more tea," said Render. 
 
 "No, thank you. I really must be going. I've been here 
 an unconscionable time. Oh ! there's my handkerchief. How 
 silly of me ! Thank you so much !" 
 
 She got up and prepared to depart, looking so pretty and 
 so helpless that it was really astonishing that the Hermes did 
 not appreciate her. 
 
 "Good-bye, dear Canon. No, I forbid you to come out. 
 Oh, well, if you will. I hear everywhere of the splendid 
 work you're doing. Don't think it flatters', but I do think 
 we needed you here. What we have wanted is a message 
 something to lift us all up a little. It's so easy to see nothing 
 but the dreary round, isn't it? And all the time the stars 
 are shining. ... At least that's how it seems to me." 
 
 The door closed; the room was suddenly silent. Miss 
 Ronder sat without moving, her eyes staring in front of 
 her. 
 
 Soon Ronder returned. 
 
 Miss Ronder said nothing. She was the one human being 
 who had power to embarrass him. She was embarrassing him 
 now. 
 
 "Aren't things strange?" he said. "I've seen four dif- 
 ferent people this afternoon. They have all of their own 
 accord instantly talked about Brandon, and abused him. 
 Brandon is in the air. He's in danger." 
 
 Miss Ronder looked her nephew straight between the 
 eyes. 
 
 "Frederick," she said, "how much have you had to do 
 with this?" 
 
 "To do with this ? To do with what?" 
 
 "All this talk about the Brandons." 
 
 "I! Nothing at all." 
 
 "Nonsense, Don't tell me. Ever since you set foot in
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 201 
 
 this town you've been determined that Brandon should go. 
 Are you playing fair?" 
 
 He got up, stood opposite her, legs apart, his hands crossed 
 behind his broad back. 
 
 "Fair ? Absolutely." 
 
 Her eyes were full of distress. "Through all these years," 
 she said, "I've never truly known you. All I know is that 
 you've always got what you wanted. You're going to get 
 what you want now. Do it decently." 
 
 "You needn't be afraid," he said. 
 
 "I o,m afraid," she said. "I love you, Fred ; I have always 
 loved you. I'd hate to lose that love. It's one of my most 
 precious possessions." 
 
 He answered her slowly, as though he were thinking 
 things out "I've always told you the truth," he said ; "I'm 
 telling you the truth now. Of course I want Brandon to go, 
 and of course he's going. But I haven't to move a finger in 
 the matter. It's all advancing without my agency. Bran- 
 don is ruining himself. Even if he weren't, I'm quite square 
 with him. I fought him openly at the Chapter Meeting the 
 other day. He hates me for it." 
 
 "And you hate him." 
 
 "Hate him? Not the least in the world. I admire and 
 like him. If only he were in a less powerful position 
 and were not in my way, I'd be his best friend. He's a fine 
 fellow stupid, blind, conceited, but finer made than I am. 
 I like him better than any man in the town." 
 
 "I don't understand you" ; she dropped her eyes from his 
 face. "You're extraordinary." 
 
 He sat down again as though he recognised that the little 
 contest was closed. 
 
 "Is there anything in this, do you think? This chatter 
 about Mrs. Brandon and Morris." 
 
 "I don't know. There's a lot of talk beginning. Ellen 
 Stiles is largely responsible, I fancy."
 
 202 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 "Mrs. Brandon and Morris ! Good Lord ! Have you over 
 heard of a man called Davrayl" 
 
 "Yes, a drunken painter, isn't he ? Why ?" 
 
 "I talked to him in the Cathedral this afternoon. He has 
 a grudge against Brandon too. . . . Well, I'm going up to 
 the study." 
 
 He bent over, kissed her forehead tenderly and left the 
 room. 
 
 Throughout that evening he was uncomfortable, and when 
 he was uncomfortable he was a strange being. His impulses, 
 his motives, his intentions were like a sheaf of corn bound 
 tightly about by his sense of comfort and well-being. When 
 that sense was disturbed everything fell apart and he seemed 
 to be facing a new world full of elements that ho always 
 denied. His aunt had a greater power of disturbing him 
 than had any other human being. He knew that she spoke 
 what she believed to be the truth ; he felt that, in spite of her 
 denials, she knew him. He was often surprised at the eager- 
 ness with which he wanted her approval. 
 
 As ho sat back in his chair that evening in Bentinck- 
 Major's comfortable library and watched the other, this 
 sense of discomfort persisted so strongly that he found it very 
 difficult to let his mind bite into the discussion. And yet 
 this meeting was immensely important to him. It was the 
 first obvious result of the manoeuvring of the last months. 
 This was definitely a meeting of Conspirators, and all of 
 those engaged in it, with one exception, knew that that was 
 so. Bentinck-Major knew it, and Foster and Ryle and 
 Rogers. The exception was Martin, a young Minor Canon, 
 who had the living of St. Joseph's-in-the-Fields, a slum parish 
 in the lower part of the town. 
 
 Martin had been invited because he was the best clergy- 
 man in Polchester. Young though he was, every one was 
 already aware of his strength, integrity, power with the men 
 of the town, sense of humour and intelligence. There was,
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 203 
 
 perhaps, no man in the whole of Polchester whom Render 
 was so anxious to have on his side. 
 
 He was a man with a scorn of any intrigue, deeply 
 religious, but human and impatient of humbug. 
 
 Render knew that he was the Polchester clergyman beyond 
 all others who would in later years come to great power, 
 although at present he had nothing save his Minor Canonry 
 and small living. He was not perhaps a deeply read man, 
 he was of no especial family nor school and had graduated 
 at Durham University. In appearance he was common- 
 place, thin, tall, with light sandy hair and mild good- 
 tempered eyes. It had been Render's intention that he 
 should be invited. Foster, who was more responsible for 
 the meeting than any one, had protested. 
 
 "Martin what's the point of Martin?" 
 
 "You'll see in five years' time," Render had answered. 
 
 Now, as Ronder looked round at them all, he moved rest- 
 lessly in his chair. 
 
 Was it true that his aunt was changing her opinion of 
 him? Would he have to deal, during the coming months, 
 with persistent disapproval and opposition from her? And 
 it was so unfair. He had meant absolutely what he said, 
 that he liked Brandon and wished him no harm. He did 
 believe that it was for the good of the town that Brandon 
 should go. ... 
 
 He was pulled up by Foster, who was asking him to tell 
 them exactly what it was that they were to discuss. In- 
 stinctively he looked at Martin as he spoke. As always, with 
 the first word there came over him a sense of mastery and 
 happiness, a desire to move people like pawns, a readiness to 
 twist any principle, moral and ethical, if he might bend it 
 to his purpose. Instinctively he pitched his voice, formed 
 his mouth, spread his hands upon the broad arms of his 
 chair exactly as an actor fills in his part. 
 
 "I object a little," he said, laughing, "to Foster's sug- 
 gestion that I am responsible for our talking hera I've
 
 204 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 no right to be responsible for anything when I've been in 
 the place so short a time. All the same, I don't want to 
 pretend to any false modesty. I've been in Polchester long 
 enough to be fond of it, and I'm going to be fonder of it 
 still before I've done. I don't want to pretend to any senti- 
 mentality either, but there are broader issues than merely 
 the fortunes of this Cathedral in danger. 
 
 "Because I feel the danger, I intend to speak out about 
 it, and get any one on my side I can. When I find that 
 Canon Foster who has been here so long and loves the 
 Cathedral so passionately and so honestly, if I may say so, 
 feels as I do, then I'm only strengthened in my determina- 
 tion. I don't care who says that I've no right to push myself 
 forward about this. I'm not pushing myself forward. 
 
 "As soon as some one else will take the cause in hand I'll 
 step back, but I'm not going to see the battle lost simply 
 because I'm afraid of what people will say of me. . . . Well, 
 this is all fine words. The point simply is that, as every 
 one knows, poor Morrison is desperately ill and the living 
 of Pybus St. Anthony may fall vacant at any moment. The 
 appointment is a Chapter appointment. The living isn't 
 anything very tremendous in itself, but it has been looked 
 upon for years as the jumping-off place for preferment in 
 the diocese. Time after time the man who has gone there 
 has become the most important influence here. Men are 
 generally chosen, as I understand it, with that in view. 
 These are, of course, all commonplaces to you, but I'm 
 recapitulating them because it makes my point the stronger. 
 Morrison with all his merits was not out of the way in- 
 tellectually. This time we want an exceptional man. 
 
 "I've only been here a few months, but I've noticed many 
 things, and I will definitely say that the Cathedral is at a 
 crisis in its history. Perhaps the mere fact that this is 
 Jubilee Year makes us all more ready to take stock than 
 we would otherwise have been. But it is not only that. The 
 Church is being attacked from all sides. I don't believe that
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 205 
 
 there has ever been a time when the west of England needed 
 new blood, new thought, new energy more than it does at 
 this tima The vacancy at Pybus will offer a most wonderful 
 opportunity to bring that force among us. I should have 
 thought every one would realise that. 
 
 "It happens, however, that I have discovered on first-hand 
 evidence that there is a strong resolve on the part of most 
 important persons in this town (I will mention no names) 
 to fill the living with the most unsatisfactory, worthless and 
 conservative influence that could possibly be found any- 
 where. If that influence succeeds I don't believe I'm 
 exaggerating when I say that the progress of the religious life 
 here is flung back fifty years. One of the greatest opportu- 
 nities the Chapter can ever have had will have been missed. 
 I don't think we can regard the crisis as too serious." 
 
 Foster broke in: "Why not mention names, Canon? 
 We've no time to waste. It's all humbug pretending we 
 don't know whom you mean. It's Brandon who wants to 
 put young Forsyth into Pybus whom we're fighting. Let's 
 be honest." 
 
 "No. I won't allow that," Render said quickly. "We're 
 fighting no personalities. Speaking for myself, there's no 
 one I admire more in this town than Brandon. I think him 
 reactionary and opposed to new ideas, and a dangerous 
 influence here, but there's no personal feeling in any of this. 
 We've got to keep personalities out of this. There's some- 
 thing bigger than our own likes and dislikes in this." 
 
 "Words! Words," said Foster angrily. "I hate Bran- 
 don. You hate him, Render, for all you're so circumspect. 
 It's true enough that we don't want young Forsyth at Pybus, 
 but it's truer still that we want to bring the Archdeacon's 
 pride down. And we're going to." 
 
 The atmosphere was electric. Rogers' thin and bony 
 features were flushed with pleasure at Foster's denunciation. 
 Bentinck-Major rubbed his soft hands one against the other 
 and closed his eyes as though he were determined to be a
 
 206 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 gentleman to the last; Martin sat upright in his chair, his 
 face puzzled, his gaze fixed upon Render; Ryle, the picture 
 of nervous embarrassment, glanced from one face to another, 
 as though imploring every one not to be angry with him all 
 these sharp words were certainly not his fault. 
 
 Render was vexed with himself. He was certainly not 
 at his best to-night. He had realised the personalities that 
 were around him, and yet had not steered his boat among 
 them with the dexterous skill that was usually his. 
 
 In his heart he cursed Foster for a meddling, cantanker- 
 ous fanatic, 
 
 Rogers broke in. "I must say," he exclaimed in a strange 
 shrill voice like a peacock's, "that I associate myself with 
 every word of Canon Foster's. Whatever we may pretend 
 in public, the great desire of our hearts is to drive Brandon 
 out of the place. The sooner we do it the better. It should 
 have been done long ago." 
 
 Martin spoke. "I'm sorry," he said. "If I had known 
 that this meeting was to be a personal attack on the Arch- 
 deacon, I never would have come. I don't think the diocese 
 has a finer servant than Archdeacon Brandon. I admire him 
 immensely. He has made mistakes. So do we all of course. 
 But I have the highest opinion of his character, his work 
 and his importance here, and I would like every one in the 
 room to know that before we go any further." 
 
 "That's right. That's right," said Ryle, smiling around 
 nervously upon every one. "Canon Martin is right, don't 
 you think? I hope nobody here will say that I have any 
 ill feeling against the Archdeacon. I haven't, indeed, and 
 I shouldn't like any one to charge me with it." 
 
 Render struck in then, and his voice was so strong, so 
 filled with authority, that every one looked up as though some 
 new figure had entered the room. 
 
 "I should like to emphasise at once," he said, "so that 
 no one here or anywhere else can be under the slightest mis- 
 apprehension, that I will take part in nothing that has any
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 207 
 
 personal animus towards anybody. Surely this is a question 
 of Pybus and Forsyth and of nothing else at all. I have not 
 even anything against Mr. Forsyth; I have never seen him 
 I wish him all the luck in life. But we are fighting a 
 battle for the Pybus living and for nothing more nor less 
 than that. 
 
 "If my own brother wanted that living and was not the 
 right man for it I would fight him. The Archdeacon does 
 not see the thing at present as we do ; it is possible that very 
 shortly he may. As soon as he does I'm behind him." 
 
 Foster shook his head. "Have it your own way," he 
 said. "Everything's the same here always compromise. 
 Compromise ! Compromise ! I'm sick of the cowardly word. 
 We'll say no more of Brandon for the moment then. He'll 
 come up again, never fear. He's not the sort of man to 
 avoid spoiling his own soup." 
 
 "Very good," said Bentinck-Major in his most patronising 
 manner. "Now we are all agreed, I think. You will have 
 noticed that I've been waiting for this moment to suggest that 
 we should come to business. Our business, I believe, is to 
 obtain what support we can against the gift of the living 
 to Mr. Forsyth and to suggest some other candidate . . . 
 hum, haw . . . yes, other candidate." 
 
 "There's only one possible candidate," Foster brought 
 out, banging his lean fist down upon the table near to him. 
 "And that's Wistons of Hawston. It's been the wish of my 
 heart for years back to bring Wistons here. We don't know, 
 of course, if he would come, but I think he could be per- 
 suaded. And then then there'd be hope once more! God 
 would be served! His Church would be a fitting Taber- 
 nacle! . . ." 
 
 He broke off. Amazing to see the rapt devotion that now 
 lighted up his ugly face until it shone with saintly beauty. 
 The harsh lines were softened, the eyes were gentle, the 
 mouth tender. "Then indeed," he almost whispered, "I 
 might say my 'Nunc Dimittis' and go."
 
 208 THE CATHEDRAL 
 
 It was not he alone who was stirred. Martin spoke 
 eagerly: "Is that the Wistons of the Four Creedsl the 
 man who wrote The New Apocalypsel" 
 
 Foster smiled. "There's only one Wistons," he said, pride 
 ringing in his voice as though he were speaking of his 
 favourite son, "for all the world." 
 
 "Why, that would be magnificent," Martin said, "if he'd 
 come. But would he? I should think that very doubtful." 
 
 "I think he would," said Foster softly, still as though he 
 were speaking to himself. 
 
 "Why, that, of course, is wonderful!" Martin looked 
 round upon them all, his eyes glowing. "There isn't a man 
 
 in England ' He broke off. "But surely if there's a 
 
 real chance of getting Wistons nobody on the Chapter would 
 dream of proposing a man like Forsyth. It's incredible!" 
 
 "Incredible !" burst in Foster. "Not a bit of it ! Do you 
 suppose Brandon I beg pardon for mentioning his name, as 
 we're all so particular do you suppose Brandon wouldn't 
 fight just such a man? He regards him as dangerous, 
 modern, subversive, heretical, anything you please. Wistons ! 
 Why, he'd make Brandon's hair stand on end I" 
 
 <r Well," said Martin gravely, "if there's any real chance of 
 getting Wistons into this diocese I'll work for it with my 
 coat off." 
 
 "Good," said Bentinck-Major, tapping with a little gold 
 pencil that he had been fingering, on the table. "Now we 
 are all agreed. The next question is, what steps are we 
 to take?" 
 
 They all looked instinctively at Render. He felt their 
 glances. He was happy, assured, comfortable once more. 
 He was master of them. They lay in his hand for him to 
 do as ho would with them. His brain now moved clearly, 
 smoothly, like a beautiful shining machine. His eyes 
 glowed. 
 
 "Now, it's occurred to mo " ho said. They all drew 
 their chairs closer.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 FALK BY THE EIVBE 
 
 1" TPON that same evening when the conspirators met in 
 ^ Bentinck-Major's handsome study Mrs. Brandon had 
 a ridiculous fit of hysterics. 
 
 She had never had hysterics before; the fit came upon 
 her now when she was sitting in front of her glass brushing 
 her hair. She was dressing for dinner and could see her 
 reflection, white and thin, in the mirror before her. Sud- 
 denly the face in the glass began to smile and it became at 
 that same instant another face that she had never seen 
 before. 
 
 It was a horrid smile and broke suddenly into laughter. 
 It was as though the face had been hit by something and 
 cracked then into a thousand pieces. 
 
 She laughed until the tears poured down her cheeks, but 
 her eyes protested, looking piteously and in dismay from the 
 studied glass. She knew that she was laughing with shrill 
 high cries, and behind her horror at her collapse there was 
 a desperate protesting attempt to calm herself, driven, above 
 all, upon her agitated heart by the fear lest her husband 
 should come in and discover her. 
 
 The laughter ceased quite suddenly and was followed by 
 a rush of tears. She cried as though her heart would break, 
 then, with trembling steps, crossed to her bed and lay down. 
 Very shortly she must control herself because the dinner- 
 bell would ring and she must go. To stay and send the 
 conventional excuse of a headache would bring her husband 
 up to her, and although he was so full of his own affairs 
 
 209
 
 210 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 that the questions that he would ask her would be perfunc- 
 tory and absent-minded, she felt that she could not endure, 
 just now, to be alone with him. 
 
 She lay on her bed shivering and wondering what malign 
 power it was that had seized her. Malign it was, she did not 
 for an instant doubt She had asked, did ask, for so little. 
 Only to see Morris for a moment every day. To see him 
 anywhere in as public a place as you please, but to see him, 
 to hear his voice, to look into his eyes, to touch his hand 
 (soft and gentle like a woman's hand) that had been now 
 for months an absolute necessity. She did not ask more than 
 that, and yet she was aware that there was no pause in the 
 accumulating force of the passion that was seizing her. She 
 was being drawn along by two opposite powers the tender- 
 ness of protective maternal love and the ruthlessness of the 
 lust for possession. 
 
 She wanted to care for him, to watch over him, to guard 
 him, to do everything for him, and also she wanted to feel 
 her hold over him, to see him move, almost as though he 
 were hypnotised, towards her. 
 
 The thought of him, the perpetual incessant thought of 
 him, ruled out the thought of every one else in the world- 
 save only Falk. She scarcely now considered her husband at 
 all ; she never for an instant wondered whether people in the 
 town were talking. She saw only Morris and her future 
 with Morris only that and Falk. 
 
 Upon Falk now everything hung. She had made a kind 
 of bargain. If Falk stayed and loved her and cared for 
 her she would resist the power that was drawing her towards 
 Morris. Now, a million times more than before she had 
 met Morris, she must have some one for whom she could 
 care. It was as though a lamp had been lit and flung a great 
 track of light over those dark, empty earlier years. How 
 could she ever have lived as she did? The hunger, the 
 desperate, eager, greedy hunger was roused in her. Falk
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 211 
 
 could satisfy it, but, if he would not, then she would hesitate 
 no longer. 
 
 She would seize Morris as a tiger seizes its prey. She 
 did not disguise that from herself. As she lay now, 
 trembling, upon her bed, she never hesitated to admit to 
 herself that the thought of her domination over Morris was 
 her great glory. She had never dominated any one before. 
 He followed her like a man in a dream, and she was not 
 young, she was not beautiful, she was not clever. . . . 
 
 It was her own personal, personal, personal triumph. And 
 then, on that, there swept over her the flood of her tender- 
 ness for him, how she longed to be good to him, to care for 
 him, to mend and sew and cook and wash for him, to perform 
 the humblest tasks for him, to nurse him and protect him. 
 She knew that the end of this might be social ruin for both of 
 them! . . . Ah, well, then, he would only need her the 
 more! She was quieter now the trembling ceased. How 
 strange the way that during these months they had been 
 meeting, so often without their own direct agency at all! 
 She recalled every moment, every gesture, every word. He 
 seemed already to be part of herself, moving within her- 
 self. 
 
 She sat up on her bed; moved back to her glass. She 
 bathed her face, slipped on her dress, and went down- 
 stairs. 
 
 They were a family party at dinner, but, of course, with- 
 out Falk. He was always out in the evening now. 
 
 Joan talked, chattered on. The meal was soon over. The 
 Archdeacon went to his study, and the two women sat in 
 the drawing-room, Joan by the window, Mrs. Brandon, 
 hidden in a high arm-chair, near the fireplace. The clock 
 ticked on and the Cathedral bells struck the quarters. Joan's 
 white dress beyond the circle of lamp-light was a dim 
 shadow. Mrs. Brandon turned the pages of her book, her 
 ears straining for the sound of Falk's return. 
 
 As she sat there, so inattentively turning the pages of her
 
 212 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 book, the foreboding sense of some approaching drama flooded 
 the room. For how many years had she lived from day to 
 day and nothing had occurred so long that life had been 
 unconscious, doped, inert. Now it had sprung into vitality 
 again with the sudden frantic impertinence of a Jack-in-the- 
 Box. For twenty years you are dry on the banks, half-asleep, 
 stretching out lazy fingers for food, slumbering, waking, 
 slumbering again. Suddenly a wave comes and you are 
 swept off swept off into what disastrous sea? 
 
 She did not think in pictures, it was not her way, but 
 to-night, half-terrified, half-exultant, in the long dim room 
 she waited, the pressure of her heart beating up into her 
 throat, listening, watching Joan furtively, seeing Morris, 
 his eternal shadow, itching with its long tapering fingers to 
 draw her away with him beyond the house. No, she would 
 be true with herself. It was he who would be drawn away. 
 The power was in her, not in him. . . . 
 
 She looked wearily across at Joan. The child was irritat- 
 ing to her as she had always been. She had never, in any 
 case, cared for her own sex, and now, as so frequently with 
 women who are about to plunge into some passionate situa- 
 tion, she regarded every one she saw as a potential interferer. 
 She despised women as most women in their secret hearts do, 
 and especially she despised Joan. 
 
 "You'd better go up to bed, dear. It's half-past ten." 
 
 Without a word Joan got up, came across the room, kissed 
 her mother, went to the door. Then she paused. 
 
 "Mother," she said, hesitating, and then speaking timidly, 
 "is father all right?" 
 
 "All right, dear?" 
 
 "Yes. He doesn't look well. His forehead is all flushed, 
 and I overheard some one at the Sampsons' say the other 
 day that he wasn't well really, that he must take great care 
 of himself. Ought he to I" 
 
 "Ought he what?" 
 
 "To take great care of himself."
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 213 
 
 "What nonsense !" Mrs. Brandon turned back to her book 
 impatiently. "There never was any one so strong and 
 healthy." 
 
 "He's always worrying about something. It's his nature." 
 
 "Yes, I suppose so." 
 
 Joan vanished. Mrs. Brandon sat, staring before her, 
 her mind running with the clock tick-tick-tick-tick and 
 then suddenly jumping at the mellow liquid gurgle that it 
 sometimes gave. Would her husband come in and say good- 
 night ? 
 
 How she had grown, during these last weeks, to loathe 
 his kiss! He would stand behind her chair, bending his 
 great body over her, his red face would come down, then the 
 whiff of tobacco, then the rough pressure on her cheek, the 
 hard, unmeaning contact of his lips and hers. His beauti- 
 ful eyes would stare beyond her, absently into the room. 
 Beautiful! Why, yes, they were famous eyes, famous the 
 diocese through. How well she remembered those years, 
 long ago, when they had seemed to speak to her of every 
 conceivable tenderness and sweetness, and how, when he thus 
 had bent over her, she had stretched up her hand and found 
 the buttons of his waistcoat and pushed her fingers in, strok- 
 ing his shirt and feeling his heart thump, thump, and so 
 warm beneath her touch. 
 
 Life ! Life ! What a cheat ! What a cheat ! She jumped 
 from her chair, letting the book drop upon the floor, and 
 began to pace the room. And why should not this, too, 
 cheat her once again? With the tenderness, the poignancy 
 with which she now looked upon Morris so once she had 
 looked upon Brandon. Yes, that might be. She would cheat 
 herself no longer. But she was older now. This was the 
 last chance to live definitely, positively the last. It was 
 not the desire to be loved, this time, that drove her forward 
 so urgently as the desire to love. She knew that, because 
 Falk would do. If Falk would stay, would let her care
 
 214 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 for him and mother him and be with him, she would drive 
 Morris from her heart and brain. 
 
 Yes, she almost cried aloud in the dark room. "Give me 
 Falk and I will leave the other. Give me my own son. 
 That's my right every mother's right. If I am refused it, 
 it is just that I should take what I can get instead." 
 
 "Give him to me! Give him to me!" One thing at least 
 was certain. She could never return to the old lethargy. 
 That first meeting with Morris had fired her into life. She 
 could not go back and she was glad that she could not. . . . 
 
 She stopped in the middle of the room to listen. The 
 hall-door closed softly; suddenly the line of light below the 
 door vanished. Some one had turned down the hall-lamp. 
 She went to the drawing-room door, opened it, looked out, 
 crying softly : 
 
 "Falk! Falk!" 
 
 "Yes, mother." He came across to her. He was holding 
 a lighted candle in his hand. "Are you still up ?" 
 
 "Yes, it isn't very late. Barely eleven. Come into the 
 drawing-room." 
 
 They went back into the room. He closed the door behind 
 him, then put the candle down on to a small round table; 
 they sat in the candle-light, one on either side of the table. 
 
 He looked at her and thought how small and fragile she 
 looked and how little, anyway, she meant to him. 
 
 How much most mothers meant to their sons, and how 
 little she had ever meant to him! He had always taken 
 his father's view of her, that it was necessary for her to 
 be there, that she naturally did her best, but that she did 
 not expect you to think about her. 
 
 "You ought to be in bed," he said, wishing that she would 
 release him. 
 
 For the first time in her life she spoke to him spontane- 
 ously, losing entirely the sense that she had always had, that 
 both he and his father would go away and leave her if she 
 were tiresome.
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 215 
 
 To-night he would not go away not until she had struck 
 her bargain with him. 
 
 "What have you been up to all these weeks, Falk?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "Up to ?" he repeated. Her challenge was unexpected. 
 
 "Yes; of course I know you're up to something, and you 
 know that I know. You must tell me. I'm your mother and 
 I ought to be told." 
 
 He knew at once as soon as she spoke that she was the very 
 last person in the world to whom he wished to tell anything. 
 He was tired, dead tired, and wanted to go to bed, but he 
 was arrested by the urgency in her voice. What was the 
 matter with her? So intent had he been, for the past 
 months, on his own affairs that he had not thought of his 
 mother at all. He looked across the table at her a little 
 insignificant woman, colourless, with no personality. And 
 yet to-night something was happening to her. He felt all 
 the impatience of a man who is closely occupied with his 
 own drama but is forced, quite against his will, to consider 
 some one else. 
 
 "There isn't anything to tell you, mother. Really there is 
 not. I've just been kicking my heels round this blasted 
 town for the last few months and I'm restless. I'll be going 
 up to London very shortly." 
 
 "Why need you?" she asked him. The candle flame 
 seemed to jump with the sharpness of her voice. 
 
 "Why need I ? But of course I must. I ask you, is this 
 a place for any one to settle down in ?" 
 
 "I don't know why it shouldn't be. I should have thought 
 you could be very happy here. There are so many things 
 you could do." 
 
 "What, for instance?" 
 
 "You could be a solicitor, or go into business, or or 
 why, you'd soon find something." 
 
 He got up, taking the candle in his hand. 
 
 "Well, if that's your idea, mother, I'm sorry, but you
 
 216 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 can just put it out of your head once and for all. I'd rather 
 be buried alive than stay in this hole. I would be buried 
 alive if I stayed." 
 
 She looked up at him. He was so tall, so handsome, 
 and so distant some one who had no connection with her 
 at all. She too got up, putting her little hand on his 
 arm. 
 
 "Then are we, all of us, to count for nothing at all ?" 
 
 "Of course you count," he answered impatiently, irritated 
 by the pressure of her fingers on his coat. "You'll see 
 plenty of me. But you can't possibly expect me to live here. 
 I've completely wasted my beautiful young life so far now 
 apparently you want me to waste the rest of it." 
 
 "Then," she said, coming nearer to him and dropping her 
 voice, "take me with you." 
 
 "Take you with me!" He stepped back from her. He 
 could not believe that he had heard her correctly. "Take 
 you with me?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Take you with me?" 
 
 "Yes, yes, yes." 
 
 It was the greatest surprise of his life. He stared at her 
 in his amazement, putting the candle back upon the tabla 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 "Why? . . . Why do you think? . . . Because I love 
 you and want to be with you." 
 
 "Be with me? Leave this? Leave Polchester? . . . 
 Leave father?" 
 
 "Yes, why not ? Your father doesn't need me any longer. 
 Nobody wants me here. Why shouldn't I go ?" 
 
 He came close to her, giving her now all his attention, 
 staring at her as though he were seeing her for the first time 
 in his life. 
 
 "Mother, aren't yon well ? . . . Aren't you happy ?" 
 
 She laughed. "Happy? Oh, yes, so happy that I'd 
 drown myself to-night if that would do any good."
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 217 
 
 "Here, sit down." He almost pushed her back into her 
 chair. "We've got to have this out I don't know what 
 you're talking about You're unhappy? Why, what's the 
 matter?" 
 
 "The matter? Oh, nothing!" she answered. "Nothing 
 at all, except for the last ten years I've hated this place, 
 hated this house, hated your father." 
 
 "Hated father?" 
 
 He stared at her as though she had in a moment gone 
 completely mad. 
 
 "Yes, why not ?" she answered quietly. "What has he ever 
 done that I should feel otherwise? What attention has he 
 ever paid to me? When has he ever considered me except 
 as a sort of convenient housekeeper and mistress whom he 
 pays to keep near him ? Why shouldn't I hate him ? You're 
 very young, Falk, and it would probably surprise you to know 
 how many quiet stay-at-home wives there are who hate their 
 good, honest, well-meaning husbands." 
 
 He drew a deep breath. 
 
 "What's father ever done," he said, "to make you hate 
 him?" 
 
 She should have realised then, from the sound in his 
 voice, that she was, in her preoccupation with her own affairs, 
 forgetting one of the principal elements in the whole case, 
 his love for his father. 
 
 "It isn't what he's done," she answered. "It's what he 
 hasn't done. Whom has he ever considered but himself? 
 Isn't his conceit so big that he can't se& any one but himself. 
 Why should we go on pretending that he's so great and won- 
 derful? Do you suppose that any one can live for twenty 
 years and more with your father and not see how small and 
 selfish and mean he is ? How he " 
 
 "You're not to say that," Falk interrupted her angrily. 
 "Father may have his faults so has every one but we've 
 got worse ones. He isn't mean and he isn't small. He may 
 seem conceited, but that's onlj because he cares so for the
 
 218 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 Cathedral and knows what he's done for it. He's the finest 
 man I know anywhere. He doesn't see things as I do I 
 don't suppose that father and sou ever do see alike but that 
 needn't prevent me from admiring him. Why, mother, 
 what's come over you ? You can't be well. Leave father ! 
 Why, it would be terrible! Think of the talk there'd be! 
 Why, it would ruin father here. He'd never get over it." 
 
 She saw then the mistake that she had made. She looked 
 across at him beseechingly. 
 
 "You're right, Falk. I didn't mean that, I don't mean 
 that. But I'm so unhappy that I don't know what I'm 
 saying. All I want is to be with you. It wouldn't hurt father 
 if I went up to London with you for a little. What I really 
 want is a holiday. I could come back after a month or two 
 refreshed. I'm tired." 
 
 Suddenly while she was speaking the ironical contrast 
 hit him. Here was he amazed at his mother for daring 
 to contemplate a step that would do his father harm, while 
 he, he who professed to love his father, was about to do 
 something that would cause the whole town to talk for a year. 
 But that was different. Surely it was different. He was 
 young and must make his own life. He must be allowed to 
 marry whom he would. It was not as though he were intend- 
 ing to ruin the girl. . . . 
 
 Nevertheless, this sudden comparison bewildered and 
 shocked him. 
 
 He leant across the table to her. "You must never leave 
 father never," he said. "You mustn't think of it. He 
 wants you badly. He mayn't show it exactly as you want 
 it Men aren't demonstrative as women are, but he'd be 
 miserable if you went away. He loves you in his own 
 fashion, which is just as good as yours, only different You 
 must never leave him, mother, do you hear ?" 
 
 She saw that she was defeated, entirely and completely. 
 She cried to the Powers : 
 
 "You've refused me what I ask. I go my own way, then."
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 219 
 
 She got up, kissed him on the forehead and said: "I 
 daresay you're right, Falk. Forget what I've said. I 
 didn't mean most of it. Good-night, dear." 
 
 She went out, quietly closing the door behind her. 
 
 Falk did not sleep at all that night. This was only one 
 of many sleepless nights, but it was the worst of them. The 
 night was warm, and a faint dim colour lingered behind the 
 treetops of the garden beyond his open window. First he lay 
 under the clothes, then upon the top of his bed, then stripped, 
 plunging his head into a basin of water, then, naked save 
 for his soft bedroom slippers, paced his room. . . . His head 
 was a flaming fire. The pale light seemed for an instant 
 to vanish, and the world was dark and silent. Then, at 
 the striking of the Cathedral clock, as though it were a 
 signal upon some stage, the light slowly crept back again, 
 growing ever stronger and stronger. The birds began to 
 twitter; a cock crew. A bar of golden light broken by the 
 squares and patterns of the dark trees struck the air. 
 
 The shock of his mother's announcement had been terrific. 
 It was not only the surprise of it, it was the sudden light 
 that it flung upon his own case. He had gone, during these 
 last weeks, so far with Annie Hogg that it was hard indeed 
 to see how there could be any stepping back. They had 
 achieved a strange relationship together : one not of comrade- 
 ship, nor of lust, nor of desire, nor of affection, having a 
 little of all these things but not much of any of them, and 
 finally resembling the case of two strangers, shipwrecked, 
 hanging on to a floating spar of wood that might bring them 
 into safety. 
 
 She was miserable; he was miserable; whether she cared 
 for him he could not tell, nor whether he cared for her. The 
 excitement that she created in him was intense, all-devouring, 
 but it was not an excitement of lust. He had never done 
 more than kiss her, and he was quite ready that it should
 
 220 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 remain so. He intended, perhaps, to marry her, but of that 
 he could not be sure. 
 
 But he could not leave her; he could not keep away from 
 her although he was seldom happy when he was with her. 
 Slowly, gradually, through their meetings there had grown 
 a bond. He was more naturally himself with her than with 
 any other human being. Although she excited him she also 
 tranquillised him. Increasingly he admired and respected 
 her her honesty, independence, reserve, pride. Perhaps it 
 was upon that that their alliance was really based upon 
 mutual respect and admiration. There had been never, from 
 the very first moment, any deception between them. He had 
 never been so honest with any one before certainly not with 
 himself. His desire, beyond everything else in life, was to 
 be honest : to pretend to no emotion that he did not truly feel, 
 to see exactly how he felt about life, and to stand up before 
 it unafraid and uncowed. Honesty seemed to him the 
 greatest quality in life ; that was why he had been attracted 
 to lionder. And yet life seemed to be for ever driving him 
 into false positions. Even now he was contemplating running 
 away with this girl. Until to-night he had fancied that he 
 was only contemplating it, but his conversation with his 
 mother had shown him how near he was to a decision. 
 Nevertheless, he would talk to Ronder and to his father, 
 not, of course, telling them everything, but catching perhaps 
 from them some advice that would seem to him so tme that 
 it would guide him. 
 
 Finally, when the gold bar appeared behind the trees he 
 forced himself into honesty with his father. How could he 
 have meant so sincerely that his mother must not hurt his 
 father when he himself was about to hurt him? 
 
 And this discovery had not lessened his determination to 
 take the step. Was ho, then, utterly hypocritical ? Ho knew 
 ho was not. 
 
 He could look ahead of his own affair and see that in the 
 end his father would admit that it had been best for him.
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 221 
 
 They all knew even his mother must in her heart have 
 known that he was not going to live in Polchester for ever. 
 His departure for London was inevitable, and it simply was 
 that he would take Annie with him. That would be for a 
 moment a blow to his father, but it would not be so for long. 
 And in the town his father would win sympathy ; he, Falk, 
 would be condemned and despised. They would say : "Ah, 
 that young Brandon. He never was any good. His father 
 did all he could, but it was no use. . . ." And then in a little 
 time there would come the news that he was doing well in' 
 London, and all would be right. 
 
 He looked to his talk with Render. Ronder would advise 
 well. Ronder knew life. He was not provincial like these 
 others. . . . 
 
 Suddenly he was cold. He went back to bed and slept 
 dreamlessly. 
 
 Next evening, as half-past eight was striking, he was at 
 his customary post by the river, above the "Dog and 
 Pilchard." 
 
 A heavy storm was mounting up behind the Cathedral, 
 black clouds being piled tier on tier as though some gigantic 
 shopman were shooting out rolls of carpet for the benefit 
 of some celestial purchaser. The Cathedral shone in the last 
 flash of the fleeing light with a strange phantasmal silver 
 sheen; once more -it was a ship sailing high before the 
 tempest. 
 
 Down by the river the dusk was grey and sodden. The 
 river, flowing sullenly, was a lighter dark between the line of 
 houses and the bending fields. The air was so heavy that 
 men seemed to walk with bending backs as though the burden 
 was more than they could sustain. This section of the river 
 had become now to Falk something that was part of himself. 
 The old mill, the group of trees beside it, the low dam over 
 which the water fell with its own peculiar drunken gurgle, 
 the pathway with its gritty stony surface, so that it seemed
 
 222 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 to grind its teeth in protest at every step that you took, on 
 the left the town piled high behind yon with the Cathedral 
 winged and dominant and supreme, the cool sloping fields 
 beyond the river, the dark bend of the wood cutting the 
 horizon these things were his history and he was theirs. 
 
 There were many other places to which they might have 
 gone, other times that they might have chosen, but circum- 
 stances and accident had found for them always this same 
 background. He had long ago ceased to consider whether any 
 one was watching them or talking about them. They were, 
 neither of them, cowards, although to Annie her father was a 
 figure of sinister power and evil desire. She hated her father, 
 believed him capable of infinite wickedness, but did not fear 
 him enough to hesitate to face him. Nevertheless, it was 
 from him that she was chiefly escaping, and she gave to Falk 
 a curious consciousness of the depths of malice and vice that 
 lay hidden behind that smiling face, in the secret places of 
 that fat jolly body. Falk was certain now that Hogg knew 
 of their meetings; he suspected that he had known of them 
 from the first. Hogg had his faults but they did not frighten 
 Falk, who was, indeed, afraid of no man alive save only 
 himself. 
 
 The other element in the affair that increased as the week 
 passed was Falk's consciousness of the strange spirit of 
 nobility that there was in Annie. Although she stirred him 
 BO deeply she did not blind him as to her character. He saw 
 her exactly for what she was uneducated, ignorant, limited 
 in all her outlook, common in many ways, sometimes surly, 
 often superstitious; but through all these things that strain 
 of nobility ran, showing itself in many unexpected places, 
 calling to him like an echo from some high, far-distant 
 source. Because of it he was beginning to wonder whether 
 after all the alliance that was beginning to spring up between 
 them might not be something more permanent and durable 
 than at first he had ever supposed it could be. He was begin-
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 223 
 
 ning to wonder whether he had not been fortunate far 
 beyond his deserts. . . . 
 
 On this thunder-night they met like old friends who had 
 known one another for many years and between whom there 
 had never been anything but comradeship. They did not kiss, 
 but simply touched hands and moved up through the gather- 
 ing dark to the little bridge below the mill. From here they 
 felt the impact of the chattering water rising to them and 
 falling again like a comment on their talk. 
 
 "It'll not be many more times," Annie said, "we'll be 
 coming here." 
 
 "Why?" Talk asked. 
 
 "Because I'm going up to London whether you come or no 
 and soon I'm going." 
 
 He admired nothing in her more than the clear-cut decision 
 of her mind, which moved quietly from point to point, asking 
 no advice, allowing no regrets when the decision was once 
 made. 
 
 "What has happened since last time ?" 
 
 "Happened? Nothing. Only father and the 'Dog/ and 
 drink. I'm through with it." 
 
 "And what would you do in London if you went up 
 alone?" 
 
 She flung up her head suddenly, laughing. "You think 
 I'm helpless, don't you ? Well, I'm not." 
 
 "No, I don't but you don't know London." 
 
 "A fearsome place, mebbe, but not more disgustin' than 
 father." 
 
 There was irritation in his voice as he said : 
 
 "Then it doesn't matter to you whether I come with you 
 or not ?" 
 
 Her reply was soft. She suddenly put out her hand and 
 took his. 
 
 "Of course it matters. We're friends. The best friend 
 I'm likely to find, I reckon. What would I be meeting you
 
 224 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 for all these months if I didn't care for you? Just to be 
 admiring the scenery ? shouldn't like," 
 
 She laughed softly. 
 
 She went on : "I'm ready to go with you or without you. 
 If we go together I'm independent, just as though I went 
 without you. I'm independent of every one father and you 
 and all. I'll marry you if you want me, or I'll live with you 
 without marrying, or I'll live without you and never see you 
 again. I won't say that leaving you wouldn't hurt. It 
 would, after being with you all these weeks; but I'd rather 
 be hurt than be dependent." 
 
 He held her hand tightly between his two. 
 
 "Folks 'ud say," she went on, "that I had no right to be 
 talkin' of going away with you that I'd be ruining your 
 future and making people look down on you, and all that 
 Well, that's for you to say. If you think it harms your 
 prospects being with me you needn't see me. I've my own 
 prospects to think of. I'm not going to have any man 
 ashamed of me," 
 
 "You're right to speak of it, and we're right to think of 
 it," said Falk. "It isn't my prospects that I've got to think 
 about, but it's my father I wouldn't like to hurt. If we go 
 away together there'll be a great deal of talk here, and it will 
 all fall on my father." 
 
 "Well, then," she said, tossing her head and taking her 
 hand away from his, "don't come. I'm not asking you. As 
 for your father, he's that proud She stopped suddenly. 
 
 "No. I'm saying nothing about that. You care for him, and 
 you're right to. As far as that goes, we needn't go together ; 
 you can come up later and join me." 
 
 When she said that, he knew that he couldn't bear the 
 thought of her going alone, and that ho had all along been 
 determined in his thought that she should not go alone. 
 
 "If you'd say you loved me," he said, suddenly bending 
 towards her, "I'd never let you out of my sight again." 
 
 "Oh, yes, you would," she said ; "you don't know whether
 
 TWO THE WHISPEKING GALLEKY 225 
 
 7011 do love ma Many's the time you think you don't. And 
 I don't know whether I love you. Sometimes I think I do. 
 What's love, anyway? I dunno. I think sometimes I'm 
 not made to feel that way towards any one. But what I really 
 meant to say to-night is, that I'm dead sick of this hanging 
 on. I'm going up to a cousin I've got Blackheath way a week 
 from to-night. If you're coming, I'm glad. If you're not 
 well, I reckon I'll get over it." 
 
 "A week from to-day " He looked out over the water. 
 
 "Aye. That's settled." 
 
 Then, unexpected, as she so often was, she put her arms 
 round his neck and drew his head down to her bosom and let 
 
 % 
 
 her hand rest on his hair. 
 
 "I like to feel you there," she said. "It's more a mother 
 I feel to you than a lover." 
 
 She would not let him kiss her, but suddenly moved away 
 from him, into the dark, leaving him where he stood. 
 
 When he was half-way home the storm that had been 
 slowly, during the last hour and a half, climbing up above 
 the town, broke. As he was crossing the market-place the 
 rain came down in torrents, dancing upon the uneven cobbles 
 with a kind of excited frenzy, and thickening the air with a 
 curtain of mist. He climbed the High Street, his head down, 
 feeling a physical satisfaction in the fierce soaking that the 
 storm was giving him. The town was shining and deserted. 
 Not a soul about. No sound except the hissing, sneering, 
 chattering whisper of the deluge. He went up to his room 
 and changed, putting on a dinner jacket, and came down to 
 his father's study. It was too late for dinner, but he was not 
 hungry; he did not know how long it was since he had felt 
 hungry last. 
 
 He knocked and went in. He felt a desperate urgency 
 that he must somehow reconcile the interests and happiness 
 of the two people who were then filling all his thoughts his 
 father and Annie. There must be a way. He could feel stJH 
 the touch of Annie's hand upon his head; he was more
 
 226 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 deeply bound to her by that evening's conversation than he 
 had ever been before, but he longed to be able to reassure 
 himself by some contact with his father that he was not going 
 to hurt the old man, that he would be able to prove to him that 
 his loyalty was tnie and his affection deep. 
 
 Small causes produce lasting results, and the lives of many 
 people w r ould have been changed had Falk caught his father 
 that night in another mood. 
 
 The Archdeacon did not look up at the sound of the 
 closing door. He was sitting at his big table writing letters, 
 the expression of his face being that of a boy who has been 
 kept in on a fine afternoon to write out the first fifty lines of 
 the Iliad. His curly hair was ruffled, his mouth was twisted 
 with disgust, and he pushed his big body about in his chair, 
 kicked out his legs and drew them in as though beneath his 
 concentration on his letters he was longing to spring up, catch 
 his enemy by the throat, roll him over on to the ground and 
 kick him. 
 
 "Hullo, governor!" Falk said, and settled down into one 
 of the big leather arm-chairs, produced a pipe from his pocket 
 and slowly filled it. 
 
 The Archdeacon went on writing, muttering to himself, 
 biting the end of his quill pen. He had not apparently been 
 aware of his son's entrance, but suddenly he sprang up, 
 pushed back his chair until it nearly fell over, and began to 
 stride up and down the room. He was a fine figure then, 
 throwing up his head, flinging out his arms, apostrophising 
 the world. 
 
 "Gratitude! They don't know what it means. Do you 
 think I'll go on working for them, wearing myself to a 
 shadow, staying up all night getting up at seven in the 
 morning, and then to have this sort of return ? I'll leave the 
 place. I'll let them make their own mistakes and see how 
 they like that. I'll teach them gratitude. Here am I ; for 
 ten years I've done nothing but slave for the town and the 
 Cathedral. Who's worked for them as I have ?"
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 227 
 
 "What's the matter, father?" Falk asked, watching him 
 from the chair. Every one knows the irritation of coming 
 to some one with matters so urgent that they occupy the 
 whole of your mind, and then discovering that your audience 
 has its own determined preoccupation. "Always thinking of 
 himself," Falk continued. "Fusses about nothing." 
 
 "The matter?" His father turned round upon him. 
 "Everything's the matter. Everything ! Here's this Jubilee 
 business coming on and everything going to ruin. Here am 
 I, who know more about the Cathedral and what's been done 
 in the Cathedral for the last ten years than any one, and they 
 are letting Ryle have a free hand over all the Jubilee Week 
 services without another word to anybody." 
 
 "Well, Ryle is the Precentor, isn't he ?" said Falk. 
 
 "Of course he is," the Archdeacon answered angrily. 
 "And what a Precentor ! Every one knows he isn't capable 
 of settling anything by himself. That's been proved again 
 and again. But that's only one thing. It's the same all the 
 way round. Opposition everywhere. It'll soon come to it 
 that I'll have to ask permission from the Chapter to walk 
 down the High Street." 
 
 "All the same, father," Falk said, "you can't be expected 
 to have the whole of the Jubilee on your shoulders. It's more 
 than any one man can possibly do." 
 
 "I know that. Of course I know that. Ryle's case is only 
 one small instance of the way the wind's blowing. Every 
 one's got to do their share, of course. But in the last three 
 months the place is changed the Chapter's disorganised, 
 there's rebellion in the Choir, among the Vergers, everywhere. 
 The Cathedral is in pieces. And why? Who's changed 
 everything ? Why is nothing as it was three months ago ?" 
 
 "Oh, Lord! what a bore the old man is!" thought Falk. 
 He was in the last possible mood to enter into any of his 
 father's complaints. They seemed now, as he looked across 
 at him, to be miles apart. He felt, suddenly, as though he
 
 228 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 did not care what happened to his father, nor whether his 
 feelings were hurt or no 
 
 "Well, tell me!" said the Archdeacon, spreading his legs 
 out, putting his hands behind his back and standing over his 
 eon. "Who's responsible for the change ?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know!" said Falk impatiently. 
 
 "You don't know ? No, of course you don't know, because 
 you've taken no interest in the Cathedral nor in anything to 
 do with it. All the same, I should have thought it impossible 
 for any one to be in this town half an hour and not know 
 who's responsible. There's only one man, and that man is 
 Eonder." 
 
 Unfortunately Falk liked Render. "I think Render's 
 rather a good sort," he said. "A clever fellow, too." 
 
 The Archdeacon stared at him. 
 
 "You like him?" 
 
 "Yes, father, I do." 
 
 "And of course it matters nothing to you that he should 
 by your father's persistent enemy and do his best to hinder 
 him in everything and every way possible." 
 
 Falk smiled, one of those confident, superior smiles that 
 are so justly irritating to any parent. 
 
 "Oh, come, father," he said. "Aren't you rather exag- 
 gerating ?" 
 
 "Exaggerating ? Yes, of course you would take the other 
 side. And what do you know about it? There you are, 
 lolling about in your chair, idling week after week, until all 
 the town talks about it 
 
 Falk sprang up. 
 
 "And whose fault is it if I do idle? What have I been 
 wanting except to go off and make a decent living? Whose 
 fault- -?" 
 
 "Oh, mine, of course !" the Archdeacon shouted. "Put it 
 all down to mel Say that I begged you to leave Oxford, 
 that I want you to laze the rest of your life away. Why
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 229 
 
 shouldn't you, when you have a mother and sister to support 
 you?" 
 
 "Stop that, father." Falk also was shouting. "You'd 
 better look out what you're saying, or I'll take you at your 
 word and leave you altogether." 
 
 "You can, for all I care," the Archdeacon shouted back. 
 They stood there facing one another, both of them red in the 
 face, a curious family likeness suddenly apparent between 
 them. 
 
 "Well, I will then," Falk cried, and rushed from the room, 
 banging the door behind him. 
 
 corn . , no? 
 of bojlrl 
 
 Sll} ,979 
 
 ot 
 d 
 [sh'ih 9H 
 
 7
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 FALK'S FLIGHT 
 
 RONDER sat in his study waiting for young Falk Bran- 
 don. The books smiled down upon him from their 
 white shelves; because the spring evening was chill a fire 
 glittered and sparkled and the deep blue curtains were 
 drawn. Render was wearing brown kid slippers and a dark 
 velvet smoking- jacket. As he lay back in the deep arm-chair, 
 smoking an old and familiar briar, his chubby face was deeply 
 contented. His eyes were almost closed ; he was the very 
 symbol of satisfied happy and kind-hearted prosperity. 
 
 He was really touched by young Falk's approach towards 
 friendship. He had in him a very pleasant and happy vein 
 of sentiment which he was only too delighted to exercise so 
 long as no urgent demands were made upon it. Once or 
 twice women and men younger than himself had made such 
 urgent demands ; with what a hurry, a scurry and a scamper 
 had he then run from them ! 
 
 But the more tranquil, easy and unexacting aspects of 
 sentiment he enjoyed. He liked his heart to be warmed, he 
 liked to feel that the pressure of his hand, the welcome of the 
 eye, the smile of the lip were genuine in him and natural ; he 
 liked to put his hand through the arm of a young cage'' 
 human being who was full of vitality and physical strength. 
 He disliked so deeply sickness and decay ; he despised them. 
 
 Falk was young, handsome and eager, something of a rebel 
 the greater compliment then that he should seek out Ron- 
 der. He was certainly the most attractive young man in 
 Polchester and, although that was not perhaps saying very 
 
 230
 
 THE WHISPERING GALLERY 231 
 
 much, after all Render lived in Polchester and wished to 
 share in the best of every side of its life. 
 
 There were, however, further, more actual reasons that 
 Render should anticipate Falk's visit with deep interest. He 
 had heard, of course, many rumours of Falk's indiscretions, 
 rumours that naturally gained greatly in the telling, of how 
 he had formed some disgraceful attachment for the daughter 
 of a publican down in the river slums, that he drank, that he 
 gambled, that he was the wickedest young man in Polchester, 
 and that he would certainly break his father's heart. 
 
 It was this relation of the boy to his father that interested 
 him most of all. He continued to remark to the little god who 
 looked after his affairs and kept an eye upon him that the last 
 thing that he wanted was to interfere in Brandon's family 
 business, and yet to the same little god he could not but com- 
 ment on the curious persistency with which that same busi- 
 ness would thrust itself upon his interest* "If Brandon's 
 wife, son, and general menage will persist in involving them- 
 selves in absurd situations it's not my fault," he would say. 
 But he was not exactly sorry that they should. 
 
 Indeed, to-night, in the warm security of his room, with 
 all his plans advancing towards fulfillment, and life develop- 
 ing just as he would have it, he felt so kindly a pity towards 
 Brandon that he was warm with the desire to do something 
 for him, make him a present, or flatter his vanity, or give way 
 publicly to him about some contested point that was of no 
 particular importance. 
 
 When young Falk was ushered in by the maid-servant, 
 Ronder, looking up at him, thought him the handsomest boy 
 he'd ever seen. He felt ready to give him all the advice in. 
 the world, and it was with the most genuine warmth of heart 
 that he jumped up, put his hand on his shoulder, found him 
 tobacco, whisky and soda, and the easiest chair -in the room. 
 
 It was apparent at once that the boy was worked up to the 
 extremity of his possible endurance. Ronder felt instantly 
 the drama that he brought with him, filling the room with it,
 
 232 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 charging every word and every movement with the implica- 
 tion of it 
 
 He turned about in his chair, struck many matches, pulled 
 desperately at his pipe, stared at Ronder with a curious mix- 
 ture of shyness and eagerness that betrayed his youth and his 
 sense of Render's importance. Ronder began by talking 
 easily about nothing at all, a diversion for which he had an 
 especial talent. Falk suddenly broke upon him : 
 
 "Look here. You don't care about that stuff nor do I. 
 I didn't come round to you for that. I want you to help me." 
 
 "I'll be very glad to," Ronder said, smiling. "If I can." 
 
 "Perhaps you can perhaps you can't. I don't know you 
 really, of course I only have my idea of you. But you seem 
 to me much older than I am. Do you know what I mean ? 
 Father's as young or younger and so are so many of the 
 others. But you must have made your mind up about life. 
 I want to know 'what you think of it." 
 
 "That's a tall order," said Ronder, smiling. "What one 
 thinks of life! Well, one can't say all in a moment, you 
 know." 
 
 And then, as though he had suddenly decided to take his 
 companion seriously, his face was grave and his round 
 shining eyes wide open. 
 
 Falk coloured. "Perhaps you think me impertinent," he 
 said. "But I don't care a damn if you do. After all, isn't it 
 an absurd thing that there isn't another soul in this town you 
 could ask such a question of? And yet there's nothing else 
 so important. A fellow's thought an impossible prig if he 
 mentions such a thing. I expect I seem in a hurry too, but 
 I can tell you I've been irritated for years by not being able 
 to get at it the truth, you know. Why we're here at all, 
 whether there is some kind of a God somewhere or no. Of 
 course you've got to pretend you think there is, but I want to 
 know what you really think and I promise it shan't go a step 
 farther. But most of all I want to know whether you don't
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 233 
 
 think we're meant all of us to be free, and why being free 
 should be the hardest thing of all." 
 
 "You must tell me one thing," said Bonder. "Is the 
 impulse that brought you in to see me simply a general one, 
 just because you are interested in life, or is there some im- 
 mediate crisis that you have to settle ? I ask that," he added, 
 smiling gently, "because I've noticed that people don't as a 
 rule worry very urgently about life unless they have to make 
 up their minds about which turn in the road they're going 
 to take.^ 
 
 ""Talk hesitated; then he said, speaking slowly, "Yes, there 
 is something. It's what you'd call a crisis in my life, I sup- 
 pose. It's been piling up for months for years if you like. 
 But I don't see why I need bother you with that it's 
 nobody's business but my own. Although I won't deny that 
 things you say may influence me. You see, I felt the first 
 moment I met you that you'd speak the truth, and speaking 
 the truth seems to me more important than anything else in 
 the world." 
 
 "But," said Ronder, "I don't want to influence you blindly. 
 You've no right to ask me to advise you when I don't know 
 what it is I am advising you about." 
 
 "Well, then," said Talk, "it's simply this that I want to 
 go up to London and live my own life. But I love my 
 father it would all be easy enough if I didn't and he 
 doesn't see things as I do. There are other things too it's 
 all very complicated. But I don't want you to tell me about 
 my own affairs ! I just want you to say what you think this 
 is all about, what we're here for anyway. You must have 
 thought it all through and come out the other side. You 
 look as though you had." 
 
 Ronder hesitated. He really wished that this had not 
 occurred. He could defeat Brandon without being given this 
 extra weapon. His impulse was to put the boy off with some 
 evasion and so to dismiss him. But the temptation that was 
 always so strong in him to manipulate the power placed in his
 
 234 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 hands was urging him ; moreover, why should he not say what 
 he thought about life? It was sincere enough. He had no 
 shame of it. ... 
 
 "I couldn't advise you against your father's wishes," he 
 said. "I'm very fond of your father. I have the highest 
 opinion of him." 
 
 Falk moved uneasily in his chair: "You needn't advise 
 me against him," he said ; "you can't have a higher opinion 
 of him than I have. I'm fonder of him than of any one in 
 the world ; I wouldn't be hesitating at all otherwise. And I 
 tell you I don't want you to advise me on my particular case. 
 It just interests me to know whether you believe in a God 
 and whether you think life means anything. As soon as I 
 saw you I said to myself, 'Now I'd like to know what he 
 thinks.' That's all." 
 
 "Of course I believe in a God," said Render, "I wouldn't 
 be a clergyman otherwise." 
 
 "Then if there's a God," said Falk quickly, "why does He 
 let us down, make us feel that we must be free, and then 
 make us feel that it's wrong to be free because, if we are, 
 we hurt the people we're fond of? Do we live for ourselves 
 or for others? Why isn't it easier to see what the right 
 thing is?" 
 
 "If you want to know what I think about life," said 
 Render, "it's just this that we mustn't take ourselves too 
 seriously, that we must work our utmost at the thing we're 
 in, and give as little trouble to others as possible." 
 
 Falk nodded his head. "Yes, that's very simple. If 
 you'll forgive my saying so, that's the sort of thing any one 
 says to cover up what he really feels. That's not what you 
 really feel. Anyway it accounts for simply nothing at all. 
 If that's all there is in life 
 
 "I don't say that's all there is in life," interrupted Render 
 softly, "I only say that that does for a start for one's daily 
 conduct I mean. But you've got to rid your head of illusions. 
 Don't expect poetry and magic for ever round the corner.
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 235 
 
 Don't dream of Utopias they'll never come. Mind your 
 own daily business." 
 
 "Play for safety, in fact," said Talk. 
 
 Render coloured a little. "Not at all. Take every kind of 
 risk if you think your happiness depends upon it. You're 
 going to serve the world best by getting what you want and 
 resting contented in it. It's the discontented and disap- 
 pointed who hang things up." 
 
 Falk smiled. "You're pushing on to me the kind of 
 philosophy that I'd like to follow," he said. "I don't 
 believe in it for a moment nor do I believe it's what you 
 really think, but I think I'm ready to cheat myself if 
 you give me encouragement enough. I don't want to do any 
 one any harm, but I must come to a conclusion about life and 
 then follow it so closely that I can never have any doubt 
 about any course of action again. When I was a small boy 
 the Cathedral used to terrify me and dominate me too. I 
 believed in God then, of course, and I used to creep in and 
 listen, expecting to hear Him speak. That tomb of the Black 
 Bishop seemed to me the place where He'd most likely be, and 
 I used to fancy sometimes that He did speak from the heart 
 of that stone. But I daresay it was the old Bishop himself. 
 
 "Anyway, I determined long ago that the Cathedral has a 
 life of its own, quite apart from any of us. It has more 
 immortality in one stone of its nave than we have in all our 
 bodies." 
 
 "Don't be too sure of that," Render said. "We have our 
 immortality a tiny flame, but I believe that it never dies. 
 Beauty conies from it and dwells in it. We increase it or 
 diminish it as we live." 
 
 "And yet," said Falk eagerly, "you were urging, just now, 
 a doctrine of what, if you'll forgive my saying so, was nothing 
 but selfishness. How do you reconcile that with immor- 
 tality?" 
 
 Ronder laughed. "There have only been four doctrines in 
 the history of the world," he answered, "and they are all
 
 
 236 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 Pursuits. One is the pursuit of Unselfishness. ^Little chil- 
 dren, love one another. He that seeks to save his soul shall 
 lose it. 7 The second is the opposite of the first Individual- 
 ism. 'I am I. That is all I know, and I will seek out my 
 own good always because that at least I can understand.' 
 The third is the pursuit of God and Mysticism. 'Neither I 
 matter nor my neighbour. I give up the world and every one 
 and everything in it to find God.' And the fourth is the 
 pursuit of Beauty. 'Beauty is Truth and Truth Beauty. 
 That is all we need to know.' Every man and woman alive 
 or dead has chosen one of those four or a mixture of them. I 
 would say that there is something in all of them, Charity, 
 Individualism, Worship, Beauty. But finally, when all is 
 said and done, we remain ourselves. It is our own life that 
 we must lead, our own goal for which we are searching. At 
 the end of everything we remain alone, of ourselves, by our- 
 selves, for ourselves. Life is, finally, a lonely journey to a 
 lonely bourne, let us cheat ourselves as we may." 
 
 Ronder sat back in his chair, his eyes half closed. There 
 was nothing that he enjoyed more than delivering his opinions 
 about life to a fit audience and by fit he meant intelligent 
 and responsive. He liked to be truthful without taking risks, 
 and he was always the audience rather than the speaker in 
 company that might be dangerous. He almost loved Falk as 
 he looked across at him and saw the effect that his words had 
 made upon him. There was, Heaven knew, nothing very 
 original in what he had said, but it had been apparently what 
 the boy had wanted to hear. 
 
 He jumped up from his chair: "You're right," he said. 
 "We've got to lead our own lives. I've known it all along. 
 When I've shown them what I can do, then I'll come back to 
 them. I love my father, you know, sir; I suppose some 
 people here think him tiresome and self-opinionated, but he's 
 like a boy, you always know where you are with him. He's 
 no idea what deceit means. Ho looks on this Cathedral as his 
 own idea, as though he'd built it almost, and of course that's
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 237 
 
 dangerous. He'll have a shock one of these days and see that 
 he's gone too far, just as the Black Bishop did. But he's a 
 fine man ; I don't believe any one knows how proud I am of 
 him. And it's much better I should go my own way and 
 earn my own living than hang around him, doing nothing 
 isn't it?" 
 
 At that direct appeal, at the eager gaze that Falk fixed 
 upon him, something deep within Ronder stirred. 
 
 Should he not even now advise the boy to stay ? One word 
 just then might effect much. Falk trusted him. He was the 
 only human being in Polchester to whom the boy perhaps 
 had coma Years afterwards he was to look back to that 
 moment, see it crystallised in memory, see the books, piled 
 row upon row, gleam down upon him, see the blue curtain 
 and hear the crackling fire ... a crisis perhaps to himself 
 as well as to Falk. 
 
 He went across to the boy and put his hands on his 
 shoulders. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "I think it's better for you to go." 
 
 "And about God and Beauty?" Falk said, staring for a 
 moment into Render's eyes, smiling shyly, and then turning 
 away. "It's a long search, isn't it ? But as long as there's *} 
 something there, beyond life, and I know there is, the search. / 
 is worth it." 
 
 He looked rather wistfully at Ronder as though he expected 
 him to confirm him again. But Ronder said nothing. 
 
 Falk went to the door : "Well, I must go. I'll show them 
 that I was right to go my own way. I want father to be 
 proud of me. This will shock him for a moment, but soon 
 he'll see. I think you'll like to know, sir," he said, suddenly 
 turning and holding out his hand, "that this little talk has 
 meant a lot to me. It's just helped me to make up my 
 mind." 
 
 When he had gone Ronder sat in his chair, motionless, for 
 a while; he jumped up, went to the shelves, and found a book.
 
 238 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 Before he sat down again he said aloud, as though he were 
 answering some accuser, "Well, I told him nothing, anyway." 
 
 Falk had, from the moment he left Render's door, his 
 mind made up, and now that it was made up he wished to 
 act as speedily as possible. And instantly there followed an 
 appeal of the Town, so urgent and so poignant that he was 
 taken by surprise. He had lived there most of his days and 
 never seen it until now, but every step that he took soon 
 haunted him. He made his plans decisively, irrevocably, but 
 he found himself lingering at doors and at windows, peering 
 over walls, hanging over the Pol bridge, waiting suddenly as 
 though he expected some message was about to be given to 
 him. 
 
 The town was humming with life those days. The May 
 weather was lovely, softly blue with cool airs and little white 
 clouds like swollen pin-cushions drifting lazily from point to 
 point. The gardens were dazzling with their flowers, the 
 Cathedral Green shone like glass, and every door-knob and 
 brass knocker in the Precincts glittered under the sun. 
 
 The town was humming with the approaching Jubilee. It 
 seemed itself to take an active part in the preparations, the 
 old houses smiling to one another at the plans that they over- 
 heard, and the birds, of whom there were a vast number, 
 flying from wall to wall, from garden to garden, from chim- 
 ney to chimney, with the exciting news that they had gath- 
 ered. 
 
 Every shop in the High Street seemed to whisper to Falk 
 as he passed : "Surely you are not going to leave us. We can 
 offer you such charming things. We've never been so gay 
 in our lives before as we are going to be now." 
 
 Even the human beings in the place seemed to be nicer to 
 him than they had ever been before. They had never, per- 
 haps, been very nice to him, regarding him with a quite 
 definite disapproval even when he was a little boy, because 
 he would go his own way and showed them that he didn't 
 care what they thought of him.
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 239 
 
 Now, suddenly, they were making up to him. Mrs. Com- 
 bermere, surrounded with dogs, stopped him in the High 
 Street and, in a deep bass voice, asked him why it was so long 
 since he had been to see her, and then slapped him on the 
 shoulder with her heavy gloved hand. That silly woman, 
 Julia Preston, met him in Bennett's book shop and asked him 
 to help her to choose a book of poems for a friend. 
 
 "Something that shall be both True and Beautiful, Mr. 
 Brandon," she said. "There's so little real Beauty in our 
 lives, don't you think ?" Little Betty Callender caught him 
 up in Orange Street and chattered to him about her painting, 
 and that pompous Bentinck-Major insisted on his going into 
 the Conservative Club with him, where he met old McKenzie 
 and older Forrester, and had to listen to their golfing 
 achievements. 
 
 It may have been simply that every one in the town was 
 beside and above himself over the Jubilee excitements but it 
 made it very hard for Falk. Nothing to the hardness of 
 everything at home. Here at the last moment, when it was 
 too late to change or alter anything, every room, every old 
 piece of furniture seemed to appeal to him with some especial 
 claim. For ten years he had had the same bedroom, an old 
 low-ceilinged room with queer bulges in the wall, a crooked 
 fireplace and a slanting floor. For years now he had had a 
 wall-paper with an ever-recurrent scene of a church tower, a 
 snowy hill, and a large crimson robin. The robins were 
 faded, and the snowy hill a dingy yellow. There were 
 School groups and Oxford groups on the walls, and the book- 
 case near the door had his old school prizes and Henty and a 
 set of the Waverley Novels with dark red covers and paper 
 labels. 
 
 Hardest of all to leave was the view from the window 
 overlooking the Cathedral Green and the Cathedral. That 
 window had been connected with every incident of his child- 
 hood. He had leant out of it when he had felt sick from 
 eating too much, he had gone to it when his eyes were
 
 240 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 brimming with hot rebellious tears after some scene with his 
 father, he had known ecstatic joys gazing from it on the 
 first day of his return from school, he had thrown things 
 out of it on the heads of unsuspecting strangers, he had 
 gone to it in strange moods of poetry and romance, and 
 watched the moon like a plate of dull and beaten gold sail 
 above the Cathedral towers, he had sat behind it listening 
 to the organ like a muffled giant whispering to be liberated 
 from grey, confining walls, he had looked out of it on a still 
 golden evening when the stars were silver buttons in the sky 
 after a meeting with Annie; he went to it and gazed, heart- 
 sick, across the Green now when he was about to bid fare- 
 well to it for ever. 
 
 Heart-sick but resolved, it seemed strange to him that 
 after months of irresolution his mind should now be so firmly 
 composed. He seemed even, prophetically, to foretell the 
 future. What had reassured him he did not know, but for 
 himself he knew that he was taking the right step. For him- 
 self and for Annie outside that, it was as though a dark 
 cloud was coming up enveloping all that he was leaving 
 behind. He could not tell how he knew, but he felt as 
 though he were fleeing from the city of Polchester, and were 
 being driven forward on his flight by powers far stronger 
 than he could control. 
 
 He fancied, as he looked out of his window, that the 
 Cathedral also was aware and, aloof, immortal, waited the 
 inevitable hour. 
 
 Coming straight upon his final arrangements with Annie, 
 his reconciliation with his father was ironic. So deeply here 
 were his real affections stirred that he could not consider 
 deliberately his approaching treachery; nevertheless he did 
 not for a moment contemplate withdrawal from it. It was 
 as though two personalities were now in active movement 
 within him, the one old, belonging to the town, to his father, 
 to his own youth, the other now, belonging to Annie, to the 
 future, to ambition, to the challenge of life itself. With
 
 rwo THE WHISPERING GALLERY 241 
 
 every hour the first was moving away from him, reluctantly, 
 stirring the other self by his withdrawal but inevitably mov- 
 ing, never, never to return. 
 
 He came, late in the afternoon, into the study and found 
 his father, balanced on the top of a small ladder, putting 
 straight "Christ's Entry into Jerusalem," a rather faded copy 
 of Benjamin Hay don's picture that had irritated Falk since 
 his earliest youth by a kind of false theatricality that in- 
 habited it 
 
 Falk paused at the door, caught up by a sudden admira- 
 tion of his father. He had his coat off, and as he bent for- 
 ward to adjust the cord the vigour and symmetry of his 
 body was magnificently emphasized. The thick strong legs 
 pressed against the black cloth of his trousers, the fine 
 rounded thighs, the broad back almost bursting the shiny 
 stuff of the waistcoat, the fine neck and the round curly 
 head, these denied age and decay. He was growing perhaps 
 a little stout, the neck was a little too thick for the collar, 
 but the balance and energy and strength of the figure be- 
 longed to a man as young as Falk himself. . . . 
 
 At the sound of the door closing he turned, and at once 
 the lined forehead, the mouth a little slack, gave the man 
 his age, but Falk was to remember that first picture for the 
 rest of his life with a strange poignancy and deeply affec- 
 tionate pathos. 
 
 They had not met alone since their quarrel ; their British 
 horror of any scene forbade the slightest allusion to it. Bran- 
 don climbed down from his ladder and came, smiling, across 
 to his son. 
 
 At his happy times, when he was at ease with himself 
 and the world, he had the confident gaiety of a child; he 
 was at ease now. He put his hand through Falk's arm and 
 drew him across to the table by the window. 
 
 "I've had a headache," he said, rather as a child might 
 complain to his elder, "for two days, and now it's suddenly 
 gone. I never used to have headaches. But I've been
 
 242 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 irritated lately by some of the tomfoolery that's been going 
 on. Don't tell your mother; I haven't said a word to her; 
 but what do you take when you have a headache ?" 
 
 "I don't think I ever have them," said Falk. 
 
 "I'm not going to stuff myself up with all their medicines 
 and things. I've never taken medicine in my life if I was 
 strong enough to prevent them giving it to me, and I'm not 
 going to start it now." 
 
 "Father," Falk said very earnestly, "don't let yourself 
 get so easily irritated. You usedn't to be. Everybody finds 
 things go badly sometimes. It's bad for you to allow your- 
 self to be worried. Everything's all right and going to be 
 all right" (The hypocrite that he felt himself as he said 
 this!) 
 
 "You know that every one thinks the world of you here. 
 Don't take things too seriously." 
 
 Brandon nodded his head. 
 
 "You're quite right, Falk. It's very sensible of you to 
 mention it, my boy. I usedn't to lose my temper as I do. 
 I must keep control of myself better. But when a lot of 
 chattering idiots start gabbling about things that they under- 
 stand as much about as " 
 
 "Yes, I know," said Falk, putting his hand upon his 
 father's arm. "But let them talk. They'll soon find their 
 level." 
 
 "Yes, and then there's your mother," went on Brandon. 
 "I'm bothered about her. Have you noticed anything odd 
 about her this last week or two ?" 
 
 That his father should begin to worry about his mother 
 was certainly astonishing enough ! Certainly the first time 
 in all these years that Brandon had spoken of her. 
 
 "Mother? No; in what way?" 
 
 "She's not herself. She's not happy. She's worrying 
 about something." 
 
 "You're worrying, father," Falk said, "that's what's the 
 matter. She's just the same. You've been allowing your-
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 243 
 
 self to worry about everything. Mother's all right." And 
 didn't he know, in his own secret heart, that she wasn't ? 
 
 Brandon shook his head. "You may be right. All the 
 same " 
 
 Falk said slowly: "Father, what would you say if I 
 went up to London?" This was a close approach to the 
 subject of their quarrel of the other evening. 
 
 "When? What for?" 
 
 "Oh, at once to get something to do." 
 
 "No, not now. After the summer we might talk of it." 
 
 He spoke with utter decision, as he had always done to 
 Falk, as though he were five years old and could naturally 
 know nothing about life. 
 
 "But, father don't you think it's bad for me, hanging 
 round here doing nothing ?" 
 
 Brandon got up, went across to the little ladder, hesitated 
 a moment, then climbed up. 
 
 "I've had this picture twenty years," he said, "and it's 
 never hung straight yet." 
 
 "No, but, father," said Falk, coming across to him, "I'm 
 a man now, not a boy. I can't hang about any longer I 
 can't really." 
 
 "We'll talk about it in the autumn," said Brandon, 
 humming "Onward, Christian Soldiers," as he always did, 
 a little out of tune. 
 
 "I've got to earn my own living, haven't I ?" said Falk. 
 
 "There !" said Brandon, stepping back a little, so that he 
 nearly overbalanced. "That's better. But it won't stay 
 like that for five minutes. It never does." 
 
 He climbed down again, his face rosy with his exertions. 
 "You leave it to me, Falk," he said, nodding his head. "I've 
 got plans for you." 
 
 A sudden sense of the contrast between Ronder and his 
 father smote Falk. His father! What an infant! How 
 helpless against that other ! Moved by the strangest mixture 
 of tenderness, regret, pity, he did what he had never in all
 
 244 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 his life before dreamed of doing, what he would have died 
 of shame for doing, had any one else been there put his 
 hands on his father's shoulders and kissed him lightly on his 
 cheek. 
 
 He laughed as he did so, to carry off his embarrassment. 
 
 "I don't hold myself bound, you know, father," he said. 
 "I shall go off just when I want to." 
 
 But Brandon was too deeply confused by his sou's action 
 to hear the words. He felt a strange, most idiotic impulse 
 to hug his sou ; to place himself well out of danger, he moved 
 back to the window, humming ''Onward, Christian Soldiers." 
 
 He looked out upon the Green. "There are two of those 
 choir-boys on the grass again," he said. "If Ryle doesn't 
 keep them in better order, I'll let him know what I think of 
 him. He's always promising and never does anything." 
 
 The last talk of their lives alone together was ended. 
 
 He had made all his plans. He had decided that on the 
 day of escape he would walk over to Salis Coombe station, 
 a matter of some two miles; there he would be joined by 
 Annie, whose aunt lived near there, and to whom she could 
 go on a visit the evening before. They would catch the slow 
 four o'clock train to Drymouth and then meet the express 
 that reached London at midnight. He would go to an 
 Oxford friend who lived in St. John's Wood, and he and 
 Annie would be married as soon as possible. Beyond every- 
 thing else he wanted this marriage to take place quickly; 
 once that was done he was Annie's protector, so long as she 
 should need him. She should be free as she pleased, but she 
 would have some one to whom she might go, some one who 
 could legally provide for her and would see that she came to 
 no harm. 
 
 The thing that he feared most was lest any ill should come 
 to her through the fact of his caring for her; he felt that he 
 could let her go for ever the very day after his marriage, so 
 that he knew that she would never come to harm. A certain
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 245 
 
 defiant courage in her, mingled with her ignorance and 
 simplicity, made his protection of her the first thing in his 
 life. As to living, his Oxford friend was concerned with 
 various literary projects, having a little money of his own, 
 and much self-confidence and ambition. 
 
 He and Falk had already, at Oxford, edited a little paper 
 together, and Falk had been promised some reader's work 
 in connection with one of the younger publishing houses. 
 In after years he looked back in amazement that he should 
 have ventured on the great London attack with so slender a 
 supply of ammunition but now, looking forward in Pol- 
 chester, that question of future livelihood seemed the very 
 smallest of his problems. 
 
 Perhaps, deepest of all, something fiercely democratic in 
 him longed for the moment when he might make his public 
 proclamation of his defiance of class. 
 
 He meant to set off, simply as he was ; they could send his 
 things after him. If he indulged in any pictures of the 
 future, he did, perhaps, see himself returning to Polchester 
 in a year's time or so, as the editor of the most remarkable 
 of London's new periodicals, received by his father with 
 enthusiasm, and even Annie admitted into the family with 
 approval. Of course, they could not return here to live . . . 
 it would be only a visit. ... At that sudden vision of 
 Annie and his father face to face, that vision faded; no, 
 this was the end of the old life. He must face that, set his 
 shoulders square to it, steel his heart to it. ... 
 
 That last luncheon was the strangest meal that he had 
 ever known. So strange because it was so usual so 
 ordinary ! Roast chicken and apple tart ; his mother sitting 
 at the end of the table, watching, as she had watched through 
 so many years, that everything went right, her little, tight, 
 expressionless face, the mouth set to give the right answers 
 to the right questions, her eyes veiled. . . . His mind flew 
 back to that strange talk in the dark room across the candle- 
 lit table. She had been hysterical that night, over-tired, had
 
 246 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 not known what she was saying. Well, she could never leave 
 his father now, now when he was gone. His flight settled 
 that 
 
 "What are you doing this afternoon, Falk ?" 
 
 "Why, mother?" 
 
 "I only wondered. I have to go to the Deanery about this 
 Jubilee committee. I thought you might walk up there with 
 me. About four." 
 
 "I don't think I'll bo back in time, mother; I'm going 
 out Salis Coombe way to see a fellow." 
 
 He saw Joan, looking so pretty, sitting opposite to him. 
 How she had grown lately ! Putting her hair up made her 
 seem almost a woman. But what a child in the grown-up 
 dress with the high puffed sleeves, her baby-face laughing 
 at him over the high stiff collar; a pretty dress, though, that 
 dark blue stuff with the white stripes. . . . Why had he 
 never considered Joan? She had never meant anything to 
 him at all. Now, when he was going, it seemed to him 
 suddenly that he might have made a friend of her during 
 all these years. She was a good girl, kind, good-natured, 
 jolly. 
 
 She, too, was talking about the Jubilee about some com- 
 mittee that she was on and some flags that they were making. 
 How exciting to them all the Jubilee was, and how unim- 
 portant to him ! 
 
 Some book she was talking about, ". . . the new woman 
 at the Library is so nice. She let me have it at once. It's 
 The Massarenes, mother, darling, by Ouida. The girls say 
 it's lovely." 
 
 "I've heard of it, dear. Mrs. Sampson was talking about 
 it. She says it's not a nice book at till. I don't think father 
 would like you to read it." 
 
 "Oh, you don't mind, father, do you ?" 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 The Archdeacon was in a good humour. He loved apple 
 tart
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 247 
 
 "The Massarenes, by Ouida." 
 
 "Trashy novels. Why don't you girls ever read anything 
 but novels?" and so on. 
 
 The little china clock with the blue mandarin on the 
 mantelpiece struck half past two. He must be going. He 
 threw a last look round the room as though he were 
 desperately committing everything to memory the shabby, 
 comfortable chairs, the Landseer "Dignity and Impudence," 
 the warm, blue carpet, the round silver biscuit-tin on the 
 sideboard. 
 
 "Well, I must be getting along." 
 
 "You'll be back to dinner, Falk dear, won't you? It's 
 early to-night. Quarter past seven. Father has a meeting." 
 
 He looked at them all. His father was sitting back in his 
 chair, a satisfied man. 
 
 "Yes, I'll be back," he said, and went out. 
 
 It seemed to him incredible that departure should be so 
 simple. When you are taking the most momentous step 
 of your life, surely there should be dragons in the way I 
 Here were no dragons. As he went down the High Street 
 people smiled at him and waved hands. The town sparkled 
 under the afternoon sun. It was market-day, and the old 
 fruit-woman under the green umbrella, the toy-man with 
 the clockwork monkeys, the flower-stalls and the vegetable- 
 sellers, all these were here ; in the centre of the square, sheep 
 and pigs were penned. Dogs were barking, stout farmers in 
 corduroy breeches walked about arguing and expectorating, 
 and suddenly, above all the clamour and bustle, the Cathedral 
 chimes struck the hour. 
 
 He hastened then, striding up Orange Street, past the 
 church and the monument on the hill, through hedges thick 
 with flowers, until he struck off into the Drymouth Road. 
 With every step that he took he stirred child memories. He 
 reached the signpost that pointed to Drymouth, to Clinton 
 St. Mary, to Polchester. This was the landmark that he 
 used to reach with his nurse on his walks. Further than this
 
 248 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 she, a stout, puffing woman, would never go. He had known 
 that a little way on there was Rocket Wood, a place beloved 
 by him ever since they had driven there for a picnic in the 
 jingle, and he had found it all spotted gold under the fir- 
 trees, thick with moss and yellow with primroses. How 
 many fights with his nurse he had had over that ! he clinging 
 to the signpost and screaming that he would go on to the 
 Wood, she picking him up at last and carrying him back 
 down the road. 
 
 He went on into the wood now and found it again spotted 
 with gold, although it was too late for primroses. It was 
 all soft and dark with pillars of purple light that struck 
 through the fretted blue, and the dark shadows of the leaves. 
 All hushed and no living thing save the hesitating patter 
 of some bird among the fir-cones. He struck through the 
 wood and came out on to the Common. You could smell the 
 sea finely here a true Glebeshire smell, fresh and salt, full 
 of sea-pinks and the westerly gales. On the top of the 
 Common he paused and looked back. He knew that from 
 here you had your last view of the CathedraL 
 
 Often in his school holidays he had walked out here to get 
 that view. He had it now in its full glory. When he was 
 a boy it had seemed to him that the Cathedral was like a 
 giant lying down behind the hill and leaning his face on the 
 hill-side. So it looked now, its towers like ears, the great 
 East window shining, a stupendous eye, out over the bending 
 wind-driven country. The sun flashed upon it, and the 
 towers rose grey and pearl-coloured to heaven. Mightily 
 it looked across the expanse of the moor, staring away and 
 beyond Falk's little body into some vast distance, wrapped 
 in its own great dream, secure in its mighty memories, intent 
 upon its secret purposes. 
 
 Indifferent to man, strong upon its rock, hiding in its 
 heart the answer to all the questions that tortured man's 
 existence and yet, perhaps, aware of man's immortality,
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 249 
 
 scornful of him for making so slight a use of that but 
 admiring him, too, for the tenacity of his courage and the 
 undying resurgence of his hope. 
 
 Falk, a black dot against the sweep of sky and the curve 
 of the dark soil, vanished from the horizon.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 BRANDON PUTS ON HIS AHUOUB 
 
 BRANDON was not surprised when, on the morning 
 after Falk's escape, his son was not present at family 
 prayers. That was not a ceremony that Falk had ever 
 appreciated. Joan was there, of course, and just as the 
 Archdeacon began the second prayer Mrs. Brandon slipped 
 in and took her place. 
 
 After the servants had filed out and the three were alone, 
 Mrs. Brandon, with a curious little catch in her voice, 
 said: 
 
 "Falk has been out all night; his bed has not been slept 
 in." 
 
 Brandon's immediate impulse, before he had even caught 
 the import of his wife's words, was: "There's reason for 
 emotion coming; see that you show nona" 
 
 He sat down at the table, slowly unfolding the Glebeshir* 
 Morning News that always waited, neatly, beside his plate. 
 His hand did not tremble, although his heart was beating 
 with a strange, muffled agitation. 
 
 "I suppose he went off somewhere," he said. "Ho never 
 tells us, of course. He's getting too selfish for anything." 
 
 He put down his newspaper and picked up his letters. 
 For a moment he felt as though he could not look at them 
 in the presence of his wife. He glanced quickly at the 
 envelopes. There was nothing there from Falk. His heart 
 gave a little clap of relief. 
 
 "At any rate, he hasn't written," he said. "He can't be 
 far away." 
 
 250
 
 THE WHISPERING GALLERY 251 
 
 "There's another post at ten-thirty," she answered. 
 
 He was angry with her for that. How like her! Why 
 could she not allow things to be pleasant as long as possible ? 
 
 She went on : "He's taken nothing with him. Not even 
 a hand-bag. He hasn't been back in the house since luncheon 
 yesterday." 
 
 "Oh! hell turn up!" Brandon went back to his paper. 
 "Mustard, Joan, please." Breakfast over, he went into his 
 study and sat at the long writing-table, pretending to be 
 about his morning correspondence. He could not settle to 
 that ; he had never been one to whom it was easy to control 
 his mind, and now his heart and soul were filled with fore- 
 boding. 
 
 It seemed to him that for weeks past he had been dread- 
 ing some catastrophe. What catastrophe? What could 
 occur ? 
 
 He almost spoke aloud. "Never before have I dreaded. 
 
 
 
 Meanwhile he would not think of Falk. He would not. 
 His mind flew round and round that name like a moth round 
 the candle-light. He heard half-past ten strike, first in the 
 dining-room, then slowly on his own mantelpiece. A moment 
 later, through his study door that was ajar, he heard the 
 letters fall with a soft stir into the box, then the sharp ring of 
 the bell. He sat at his table, his hands clenched. 
 
 "Why doesn't that girl bring the letters? Why doesn't 
 that girl bring the letters?" he was repeating to himself 
 unconsciously again and again. 
 
 She knocked on the door, came in and put the letters on his 
 table. There were only three. He saw immediately that one 
 was in Falk's handwriting. He tore the envelope across, 
 pulled out the letter, his fingers trembling now so that he 
 could scarcely hold it, his heart making a noise as of tramp- 
 ing waves in his ears. 
 
 The letter was as follows:
 
 252 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 NORTH ROAD STATION, 
 DRYMOUTH, 
 
 May 23, 1897. 
 
 MY DEAR FATHER I am writing this in the waiting-room 
 at North Road before catching the London train. I suppose 
 that I have done a cowardly thing in writing like this when I 
 am away from you, and I can't hope to make you believe that 
 ifs because I can't bear to hurt you that I'm acting like a 
 coward. You'll say, justly enough, that it looks as though I 
 wanted to hurt you by what I'm doing. But, father, truly, I've 
 looked at it from every point of view, and I can't see that 
 there's anything else for it but this. The first part of this, my 
 going up to London to earn my living, I can't feel guilty about. 
 
 It seems to me, truly, the only thing to do. I have tried to 
 speak to you about it on several occasions, but you have always 
 put me off, and, as far as I can see, you don't feel that there's 
 anything ignominious in my hanging about a little town like 
 Polchester, doing nothing at all for the rest of my life. I think 
 my being sent down from Oxford as I was gave you the idea 
 that I was useless and would never be any good. I'm going to 
 prove to you you're wrong, and I know I'm right to take it into 
 my own hands as I'm doing. Give me a little time and you'll 
 see that I'm right. The other thing is more difficult. I can't 
 expect you to forgive me just yet, but perhaps, later on, you'll 
 see that it isn't too bad. Annie Hogg, the daughter of Hogg 
 down in Seatown, is with me, and next week I shall marry her. 
 
 I have so far done nothing that you need be ashamed of. I 
 love her, but am not her lover, and she will stay with relations 
 away from me until I marry her. I know this will seem hor- 
 rible to you, father, but it is a matter for my own conscience. 
 I have tried to leave her and could not, but even if I could I 
 have made her, through my talk, determined to go to London 
 and try her luck there. She loathes her father and is unhappy 
 at home. I cannot let her go up to London without any pro- 
 tection, and the only way I can protect her is by marrying her. 
 
 She is a fine woman, father, fine and honourable and brave. 
 Try to think of her apart from her father and her surroundings. 
 She does not belong to them, truly she does not. In all these 
 months she has not tried to persuade me to a mean and shabby 
 thing. She is incapable of any meanness. In all this business 
 my chief trouble is the unhappiness that this will bring you. 
 You will think that this is easy to say when it has made no 
 difference to what I have done. But all the same it is true,
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY . 253 
 
 and perhaps later on, when you have got past a little of your 
 anger with me, you will give me a chance to prove it. I have 
 the promise of some literary work that should give me enough 
 to live on. I have taken nothing with me ; perhaps mother will 
 pack up my things and send them to me at 5 Parker Street, 
 St. John's Wood. 
 
 Father, give me a chance to show you that I will make this 
 right. Your loving son, FALK BBANDON. 
 
 In the little morning-room to the right at the top of the 
 stairs Joan and her mother were waiting. Joan was pre- 
 tending to sew, but her fingers scarcely moved. Mrs. Bran- 
 don was sitting at her writing-table ; her ears were straining 
 for every sound. The sun flooded the room with a fierce rush 
 of colour, and through the wide-open windows the noises of 
 the town, cries and children's voices, and the passing of feet 
 on the cobbles came up. As half -past ten struck the Cathedral 
 bells began to ring for morning service. 
 
 "Oh, I can't bear those bells," Mrs. Brandon cried. "Shut 
 the windows, Joan." 
 
 Joan went across and closed them. The bells were sud- 
 denly removed, but seemed to be the more insistent in their 
 urgency because they were shut away. 
 
 The door was suddenly flung open, and Brandon stood 
 there. 
 
 "Oh, what is it?" Mrs. Brandon cried, starting to her 
 feet. 
 
 He was a man convulsed with anger; she had seen him 
 in these rages before, when his blue eyes stared with an 
 emptiness of vision and his whole body seemed to be twisted 
 as though he were trying to climb to some height whence he 
 might hurl himself down and destroy utterly that upon which 
 he fell. 
 
 The letter tumbled from his hand. He caught the handle 
 of the door as though he would tear it from its socket, but 
 his voice, when at last it came, was quiet, almost his ordinary 
 voice.
 
 254 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 "His name is never to be mentioned in this house again." 
 
 "What has he done?" 
 
 "That's enough. What I say. His name is never to be 
 mentioned again." 
 
 The two women stared at him. He seemed to come down 
 from a great height, turned and went, very carefully closing 
 the door behind him. 
 
 He had left the letter on the floor. Mrs. Brandon went 
 and picked it up. 
 
 "Oh, mother, what has Falk done?" Joan asked. 
 
 The bells danced all over the room. 
 
 Brandon went downstairs, back into his study, closing his 
 door, shutting himself in. He stayed in the middle of the 
 room, saying aloud : 
 
 "Never his name again. . . . Never his name again." 
 The actual sound of the words echoing back to him lifted 
 him up as though out of very deep water. Then he was 
 aware, as one is in the first clear moment after a great shock, 
 of a number of things at the same time. He hated his son 
 because his son had disgraced him and his name for ever. 
 He loved his son, never before so deeply and so dearly as 
 now. He was his only son, and there was none other. Hia 
 son had gone off with the daughter of the worst publican 
 in the place, and so had shamed him before them alL Falk 
 (he arrived in his mind suddenly at the name with a little 
 shiver that hurt horribly) would never be there any more, 
 would never be about the house, would never laugh and be 
 angry and be funny any more. (Behind this thought was a 
 long train of pictures of Falk as a boy, as a baby, as a child, 
 pictures that he kept back with a great gesture of the will.) 
 In the town they would all be talking, they were talking 
 already. They must be stopped from talking; they must 
 not know. He must lie; they must all lie. But how could 
 they be stopped from knowing when he had gone off with the 
 publican's daughter! They would all know. . . . They
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 255 
 
 would laugh. . . . They would laugh. He would not be 
 able to go down the street without their laughter. 
 
 Dimly on that came a larger question. What had hap- 
 pened lately so that his whole life had changed? He had 
 been feeling it now for weeks, long before this terrible blow 
 had fallen, as though he were surrounded by enemies and 
 mockers and men who wished him ill. Men who wished him 
 ill! Wished HIM ill! He who had never done any one 
 harm in all his life, who had only wanted the happiness of 
 others and the good of the place in which he was, and the 
 Glory of God ! God ! . . . His thoughts leapt across a vast 
 gulf. What was God about, to allow this disaster to fall 
 upon him ? When he had served God so faithfully and had 
 had no thought but for His grandeur? He was in a new 
 world now, where the rivers, the mountains, the roads, the 
 cities were new. For years everything had gone well with 
 him, and then, suddenly, at the lifting of a finger, all had 
 been ill. . . . 
 
 Through the mist of his thoughts, gradually, like the sun 
 in his strength, his anger had been rising. Now it flamed 
 forth. At the first it had been personal anger because his 
 eon had betrayed and deceived him but now, for a time, 
 Falk was almost forgotten. 
 
 He would show them. They would laugh at him, would 
 they? They would point at him, would they, as the man 
 whose son had run away with an innkeeper's daughter? 
 Well, let them point. They would plot to take the power 
 from his hands, to reduce him to impotence, to make him of 
 no account in the place where he had ruled for years. He 
 had no doubt, now that he saw farther into it, that they had 
 persuaded Falk to run away with that girl. It was the sort 
 of weapon that they would be likely to use, the sort of weapon 
 that that man, Render. . . . 
 
 At the sudden ringing of that now hated name in hia 
 ears he was calm. Yes, to fight that enemy he needed all 
 his control. How that man would rejoice at this that had
 
 256 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 happened! What a victory to him it would seem to be! 
 Well, it should not be a victory. He began to stride up 
 and down his study, his head up, his chest out. It was almost 
 as though he were a great warrior of old, having his armour 
 put on before he went out to the fight the greaves, the breast- 
 plate, the helmet, the sword. . . . 
 
 He would fight to the last drop of blood in his body and 
 beat the pack of them, and if they thought that this would 
 cause him to hang his head or hide or go secretly, they should 
 soon see their mistake. 
 
 He suddenly stopped. The pain that sometimes came to 
 his head attacked him now. For a moment it was so sharp, 
 of so acute an agony, that he almost staggered and fell. Ho 
 stood there, his body taut, his hands clenched. It was like 
 knives driving through his brain ; his eyes were filled with 
 blood so that he could not see. It passed, but he was weak, 
 his knees shook so that he was compelled to sit down, holding 
 his hands on his knees. Now it was gone. He could see 
 clearly again. What was it? Imagination, perhaps. Only 
 the hammering of his heart told him that anything was the 
 matter. He was a long while there. At last he got up, went 
 into the hall, found his hat and went out. Ho crossed the 
 Green and passed through the Cathedral door. 
 
 He went out instinctively, without any deliberate thought, 
 to the Cathedral as to the place that would most readily 
 soothe and comfort him. Always when things went wrong 
 he crossed over to the Cathedral and walked about there. 
 Matins were just concluded and people were coming out of 
 the great West door. He went in by the Saint Margaret 
 door, crossed through the Vestry where Rogers, who had been 
 taking the service, was disrobing, and climbed the little 
 crooked stairs into the Lucifer Room. A glimpse of Rogers' 
 saturnine countenance (he knew well enough that Rogers 
 hated him) stirred some voice to whisper within: "He 
 knows and he's glad." 
 
 The Lucifer Room was a favourite resort of his, favourite
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 257 
 
 because there was a long bare floor across which he could walk 
 with no furniture to interrupt him, and because, too, no one 
 ever came there. It was a room in the Bishop's Tower that 
 had once, many hundreds of years ago, been used by the 
 monks as a small refectory. Many years had passed now 
 since it had seen any sort of occupation save that of bats, 
 owls and mice. There was a fireplace at the far end that had 
 long been blocked up, but that still showed curious carving, 
 the heads of monkeys and rabbits, winged birds, a twisting 
 dragon with a long tail, and the figure of a saint holding 
 up a crucifix. Over the door was an old clock that had 
 long ceased to tell the hours ; this had a strangely carved wood 
 canopy. Two little windows with faint stained glass gave 
 an obscure light. The subjects of these windows were con- 
 fused, but the old colours, deep reds and blues, blended with 
 a rich glow that no modern glass could obtain. The ribs 
 and bosses of the vaulting of the room were in faded colours 
 and dull gold. In one corner of the room was an old, dusty, 
 long-neglected harmonium. Against the wall were hanging 
 some wooden figures, large life-sized saints, two male and 
 two female, once outside the building, painted on the wood 
 in faded crimson and yellow and gold. Much of the colour 
 had been worn away with rain and wind, but two of the 
 faces were still bright and stared with a gentle fixed gaze 
 out into the dim air. Two old banners, torn and thin, flapped 
 from one of the vaultings. The floor was worn, and creaked 
 with every step. As Brandon pushed back the heavy door 
 and entered, some bird in a distant corner flew with a 
 frightened stir across to the window. Occasionally some one 
 urged that steps should be taken to renovate the place and 
 make some use of it, but nothing was ever done. Stories con- 
 nected with it had faded away ; no one now could tell why it 
 was called the Lucifer Room and no one cared. 
 
 Its dimness and shadowed coloured light suited Brandon 
 to-day. He wanted to be where no one could see him, where 
 he could gather together the resistance with which to meet
 
 258 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 the world. He paced up and down, his hands behind his 
 back; he fancied that the old saints looked at him with 
 kindly affection. 
 
 And now, for a moment, all his pride and anger were 
 gone, and he could think of nothing but his love for his son. 
 He had an impulse that almost moved him to hurry home, to 
 take the next train up to London, to find Falk, to take him 
 in his arms and forgive him. He saw again and again that 
 last meeting that they had had, when Falk had kissed him, 
 He knew now what that had meant. After all, the boy was 
 right. He had been in the wrong to have kept him here, 
 doing nothing. It was fine of the boy to take things into his 
 own hands, to show his independence and to fight for his own 
 individuality. It was what he himself would have done if 
 then the thought of Annie Hogg cut across his tenderness 
 and behind Annie her father, that fat, smiling, red-faced 
 scoundrel, the worst villain in the town. At the sudden 
 realisation that there was now a link between himself and 
 that man, and that that link had been forged by his own son, 
 tenderness and affection fled. He could only entertain one 
 emotion at a time, and immediately he was swept into such 
 a fury that he stopped in his walk, lifted his head, and cursed 
 Falk. For that he would never forgive him, for the public 
 shame and disgrace that he had brought upon the Brandon 
 name, upon his mother and his sister, upon the Cathedral, 
 upon all authority and discipline and seemliness in the town. 
 
 He suffered then the deepest agony that perhaps in all his 
 life he had ever known. There was no one there to see. He 
 sank down upon the wooden coping that protruded from the 
 old wall and hid his face in his hands as though he were too 
 deeply ashamed to encounter even the dim faces of the old 
 wooden figures. 
 
 There was a stir in the room ; the little door opened and 
 closed; the bird, with a flutter of wings, flew back to its 
 corner. Brandon looked up and saw a faint shadow of a 
 man. He rose and took some steps towards the door, then
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 259 
 
 he stopped because he saw that the man was Davray the 
 painter. 
 
 He had never spoken to this man, but he had hated every- 
 thing that he had ever heard about him. In the first place, 
 to be an artist was, in the Archdeacon's mind, synonymous 
 with being a loose liver and an atheist. Then this fellow 
 was, as all the town knew, a drunkard, an idler, a dissolute 
 waster who had brought nothing upon Polchester but dis- 
 grace. Had Brandon had his way he would, long ago, have 
 had him publicly expelled and forbidden ever to return. The 
 thought that this man should be in the Cathedral at all was 
 shocking to him and, in his present mood, quite intolerable. 
 He saw, dim though the light was, that the man was drunk 
 now. 
 
 Davray lurched forward a step, then said huskily: 
 
 "Well, so your fine son's run away with Hogg's pretty 
 daughter." 
 
 The sense that he had had already that his son's action 
 had suddenly bound him into company with all the powers 
 of evil and destruction rose to its full height at the sound 
 of the man's voice ; but with it rose, too, his self-command. 
 The very disgust with which Davray filled him contributed to 
 his own control and dignity. 
 
 "You should feel ashamed, sir," he said quietly, standing 
 still where he was, "to be in that condition in this building. 
 Or are you too drunk to know where you are ?" 
 
 "That's all right, Archdeacon," Davray said, laughing. 
 "Of course I'm drunk. I generally am and that's my 
 affair. But I'm not so drunk as not to know where I am and 
 not to know who you are and what's happened to you. I 
 know all those things, I'm glad to say. Perhaps I am a little 
 ahead of yourself in that. Perhaps you don't know yet what 
 your young hopeful has been doing." 
 
 Brandon was as still as one of the old wooden saints. 
 
 "Then if you are sober enough to know where you are,
 
 260 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 leave this place and do not return to it until you are in a fit 
 state." 
 
 "Fit ! I like that." The sense that he was alone now for 
 the first time in his life with the man whom he had so long 
 hated infuriated Davray. "Fit? Let me tell you this, old 
 cock, I'm twice as fit to be here as you're ever likely to be. 
 Though I have been drinking and letting myself go, I'm 
 fitter to be here than you are, you stuck-up, pompous fool." 
 
 Brandon did not stir. 
 
 "Go home !" he said ; "go home ! Recover your senses and 
 ask God's forgiveness." 
 
 "God's forgiveness!" Davray moved a step forward as 
 though he would strike. Brandon made no movement. 
 "That's like your damned cheek. Who wants forgiveness 
 as you do ? Ask this Cathedral ask it whether I have not 
 loved it, adored it, worshipped it as I've worshipped no 
 woman. Ask it whether I have not been faithful, drunkard 
 and sot as I am. And ask it what it thinks of you of 
 your patronage and pomposity and conceit. When have you 
 thought of the Cathedral and its beauty, and not always of 
 yourself and your grandeur ? . . . Why, man, we're sick of 
 you, all of us from the top man in the place to the smallest 
 boy. And the Cathedral is sick of you and your damned 
 conceit, and is going to get rid of you, too, if you won't go 
 of yourself. And this is the first step. Your son's gone with 
 a whore to London, and all the town's laughing at you." 
 
 Brandon did not flinch. The man was close to him; he 
 could smell his drunken breath but behind his words, 
 drunken though they might be, was a hatred so intense, so 
 deep, so real, that it was like a fierce physical blow. Hatred 
 of himself. Ho had never conceived in all his life that any 
 one hated him and this man had hated him for years, a 
 man to whom he had never spoken before to-day. 
 
 Davray, as was often his manner, seemed suddenly to 
 sober. He stood aside and spoke more quietly, almost with- 
 out passion.
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 2G1 
 
 "I've been waiting for this moment for years," he said; 
 "you don't know how I've watched you Sunday after Sunday 
 strutting about this lovely place, happy in your own conceit 
 Your very pride has been an insult to the God you pretend 
 to serve. I don't know whether there's a God or no there 
 can't be, or things wouldn't happen as they do but there is 
 this place, alive, wonderful, beautiful, triumphant, and you've 
 dared to put yourself above it. ... 
 
 "I could have shouted for joy last night when I heard what 
 your young hopeful had done. 'That's right,' I said ; 'that'll 
 bring him down a bit. That'll teach him modesty.' I had 
 an extra drink on the strength of it. I've been hanging about 
 all the morning to get a chance of speaking to you. I followed 
 you up here. You're one of us now, Archdeacon. You're 
 down on the ground at last, but not so low as you will be 
 before the Cathedral has finished with you." 
 
 "Go," said Brandon, "or, House of God though this is, 
 I'll throw you out." 
 
 "I'll go. I've said my say for the moment. But we'll 
 meet again, never fear. You're one of us now one of us. 
 Good-night." 
 
 He passed through the door, and the dusky room was still 
 again as though no one had been there. . . . 
 
 There is an old German tale, by De la Motte Fouque, I 
 fancy, of a young traveller who asks his way to a certain 
 castle, his destination. He is given his directions, and his 
 guide tells him that the journey will be easy enough until 
 he reaches a small wood through which he must pass. This 
 wood will be dark and tangled and bewildering, but more 
 sinister than those obstacles will be the inhabitants of it who, 
 evil, malign, foul and bestial, devote their lives to the destruc- 
 tion of all travellers who endeavour to reach the castle on the 
 hill beyond. And the tale tells how the young traveller, 
 proud of his youth and strength, confident in the security 
 of his armour, nevertheless, when he crosses the dark border 
 of the wood, feels as though his whole world has changed,
 
 262 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 as though everything in which he formerly trusted is of no 
 value, as though the very weapons that were his chief defence 
 now made him most defenceless. He has in the heart of that 
 wood many perilous adventures, but worst of them all, when 
 he is almost at the end of his strength, is the sudden con- 
 viction that he has himself changed, and is himself become 
 one of the foul, gibbering, half-visioned monsters by whom 
 he is surrounded. 
 
 As Brandon left the Cathedral there was something of 
 that strange sense with him, a sense that had come to him 
 first, perhaps, in its dimmest and most distant form, on the 
 day of the circus and the elephant, and that now, in all its 
 horrible vigour and confidence, was there close at his elbow. 
 He had always held himself immaculate ; he had come down 
 to his fellow-men, loving them, indeed, but feeling that they 
 were of some other clay than his own, and that through no 
 especial virtue of his, but simply because God has so wished 
 it. And now he had stood, and a drunken wastrel had cursed 
 him and told him that he was detested by all men and that 
 they waited for his downfall. 
 
 It was those last words of Davray's that rang in his ears : 
 "You're one of us now. You're one of us." Drunkard and 
 wastrel though the man was, those words could not be for- 
 gotten, would never be forgotten again. 
 
 With his head up, his shoulders back, he returned to his 
 house. 
 
 The maid met him in the hall. "There's a man waiting 
 for you in the study, sir." 
 
 "Who is it?" 
 
 "Mr. Samuel Hogg, sir." 
 
 Brandon looked at the girl fixedly, but not unkindly. 
 
 "Why did you let him in, Gladys?" 
 
 "He wouldn't take no denial, sir. Mrs. Brandon was out 
 and Miss Joan. He said you were expecting him and 'e knew 
 vou'd soon be back."
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 263 
 
 "You should never let any one wait, Gladys, unless I have 
 told you beforehand." 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 "Remember that in future, will you?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. I'm sure I'm sorry, sir, but " 
 
 Brandon went into his study. 
 
 Hogg was standing beside the window, a faded bowler in 
 his hand. He turned when he heard the opening of the 
 door; he presented to the Archdeacon a face of smiling and. 
 genial, if coarsened, amiability. 
 
 He was wearing rough country clothes, brown knicker- 
 bockers and gaiters, and looked something like a stout and 
 seedy gamekeeper fond of the bottle. 
 
 "I'm sure you'll forgive this liberty I've taken, Arch- 
 deacon," he said, opening his mouth very wide as he smiled 
 "waiting for you like this ; but the matter's a bit urgent." 
 
 "Yes ?" said Brandon, not moving from the door. 
 
 "I've come in a friendly spirit, although there are men 
 who might have come otherwise. You won't deny that, 
 considering the circumstances of the case." 
 
 "I'll be grateful to you if you'll explain," said Brandon, 
 "as quickly as possibly your business." 
 
 "Why, of course," said Hogg, coming away from the 
 window. "Why, of course, Archdeacon. Now, whoever 
 would have thought that we, you and me, would be in the 
 same box ? And that's putting it a bit mild considering that 
 it's my daughter that your son has run away with." 
 
 Brandon said nothing, not, however, removing his eyes 
 from Hogg's face. 
 
 Hogg was all amiable geniality. "I know it must be 
 against the grain, Archdeacon, having to deal with the likes 
 of me. You've always counted yourself a strike above us 
 country-folk, haven't you, and quite natural too. But, again, 
 in the course of nature we've both of us had children and 
 that, as it turns out, is where we finds our common ground, 
 so to speak you a boy and me a lovely girl. Such a lovely
 
 264 THE CATHEDEAL BOOK 
 
 girl, Archdeacon, as it's natural enough your son should want 
 to run away with." 
 
 Brandon went across to his writing-table and sat down. 
 
 "Mr. Hogg," he said, "it is true that I had a letter from 
 my son this morning telling me that he had gone up to 
 London with your daughter and was intending to marry 
 her as soon as possible. You will not expect that I should 
 approve of that step. My first impulse was, naturally 
 enough, to go at once to London and to prevent his action at 
 all costs. On thinking it over, however, I felt that as he 
 had run away with the girl the least that he could now do 
 was to marry her. 
 
 "I'm sure you will understand my feeling when I say that 
 in taking this step I consider that he has disgraced himself 
 and his family. He has cut himself off from his family 
 irremediably. I think that really that is all that I have 
 to say." 
 
 Behind Hogg's strange little half-closed eyes some gleam 
 of anger and hatred passed. There was no sign of it in the 
 geniality of his open smile. 
 
 "Why, certainly, Archdeacon, I can understand that you 
 wouldn't care for what he has done. But boys will be boys, 
 won't they? We've both been boys in our time, I daresay. 
 You've looked at it from your point of view, and that's 
 natural enough. But human nature's human nature, and 
 you must forgive me if I look at it from mine. She's my 
 only girl, and a good girl she's been to me, keepin' herself to 
 herself and doing her work and helping me wonderful. Well, 
 your young spark comes along, likes the look of her and 
 ruins her. . . ." 
 
 The Archdeacon made some movement 
 
 "Oh, you may say what you like, Archdeacon, and he may 
 tell you what he likes, but you and I know what happens 
 when two young things with hot blood gets together and 
 there's nobody by. They may mean to bo straight enough, 
 but before they knows where they are, nature's took hold
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 265 
 
 of them, and there they are. . . . But even supposin' that 
 J asn't happened, I don't know as I'm much better off. That 
 girl was the very prop of my business; she's gone, never to 
 return, accordin' to her own account. As to this marryin' 
 business, that may seem to you, Archdeacon, to improve 
 things, but I'm not so sure that it does after all. You may 
 be all very 'igh and mighty in your way, but I'm thinkin' 
 of myself and the business. What good does my girl marryin' 
 jour son do to me ? That's what I want to know." 
 
 Brandon's hands were clenched upon the table. Neverthe~ 
 lees he still spoke quietly. 
 
 "I don't think, Mr. Hogg," he said, "that there's anything 
 to be gained by our discussing this just now. I have only 
 this morning heard of it. You may be assured that justice 
 will be done, absolute justice, to your daughter and your- 
 aelf." 
 
 Hogg moved to the door. 
 
 "Why, certainly, Archdeacon. It is a bit early to discuss 
 things. I daresay we shall be havin' many a talk about it 
 all before it's over. I'm sure I only want to be friendly 
 in the matter. As I said before, we're in the same box, you 
 and me, so to speak. That ought to make us tender towards 
 one another, oughtn't it? One losing his son and the other 
 his daughter. 
 
 "Such a good girl as she was too. Certainly I'll be going, 
 Archdeacon; leave you to think it over a bit. I daresay 
 you'll see my point of view in time." 
 
 "I think, Mr. Hogg, there's nothing to be gained by your 
 coming here. You shall hear from me." 
 
 "Well, as to that, Archdeacon," Hogg turned from the 
 half -opened door, smiling, "that's as may be. One can get 
 further sometimes in a little talk than in a dozen letters. 
 And I'm really not much of a letter-writer. But we'll see 
 J ow things go on. Good-evenin'." 
 
 The talk had lasted but five minutes, and every piece of 
 furniture in the room, the chairs, the table, the carpet, the
 
 266 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 pictures, seemed to have upon it gome new stain of dis- 
 figurement. Even the windows were dimmed. 
 
 Brandon sat staring in front of him. The door opened 
 again and his wife came in. 
 
 "That was Samuel Hogg who has just left you ?" 
 
 "Yes," he said. 
 
 He looked across the room at her and was instantly sur- 
 prised by the strangest feeling. He was not, in his daily life, 
 conscious of "feelings" of any sort that was not his way. 
 But the events of the past two days seemed to bring him 
 suddenly into a new contact with real life, as though, having 
 lived in a balloon all this time, he had been suddenly bumped 
 out of it with a jerk and found Mother Earth with a terrible 
 bang. He would have told you a week ago that there was 
 nothing about his wife that he did not know and nothing 
 about his own feelings towards her and yet, after all, the 
 most that he had known was to have no especial feelings 
 towards her of any kind. 
 
 But to-day had been beyond possible question the most 
 horrible day he had ever known, and it might be that the 
 very horror of it was to force him to look upon everything 
 on earth with new eyes. It had at least the immediate effect 
 now of showing his wife to him as part of himself, as some 
 one, therefore, hurt as he was, smirched and soiled and 
 abused as he, needing care and kindness as he had never 
 known her to need it before. It was a new feeling for him, a 
 new tenderness. 
 
 He greeted and welcomed it as a relief after the horror 
 of Hogg's presence. Poor Amy ! She was in as bad a way 
 as he now they were at last in the same box. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "that was Hogg." 
 
 Looking at her now in this new way, he was also able to 
 see that she herself was changed. She figured definitely as 
 an actor now with an odd white intensity in her face, with 
 some mysterious purpose in her eyes, with a resolve in the 
 whole poise of her body that seemed to add to her height.
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 26T 
 
 "Well," she said, "what train are you taking up to 
 London ?" 
 
 "What train?" he repeated after her. 
 
 "Yes, to see Falk." 
 
 "I am not going to see Falk." 
 
 "You're not going up to him?" 
 
 "Why should I go?" 
 
 "Why should you go? You can ask me that? ... To 
 stop this terrible marriage." 
 
 "I don't intend to stop it." 
 
 There was a pause. She seemed to summon every nerve 
 in her body to her control. 
 
 The twitching of her fingers against her dress was her 
 only movement. 
 
 "Would you please tell me what you mean to do ? After 
 all, I am his mother." 
 
 The tenderness that he had felt at first sight of her was 
 increasing so strangely that it was all he could do not to go 
 over to her. But his horror of any demonstration kept him 
 where he was. 
 
 "Amy, dear," he said, "I've had a dreadful day in every 
 way a terrible day. I haven't had time, as things have gone, 
 to think things out. I want to be fair. I want to do the 
 right thing. I do indeed. I don't think there's anything to 
 be gained by going up to London. One thing only now I'm 
 clear about. He's got to marry the girl now he's gone oif 
 with her. To do him justice he intends to do that. He 
 says that he has done her no harm, and we must take his 
 word for that. Falk has been many things careless, reck- 
 less, selfish, but never in all his life dishonourable. If I 
 went up now we should quarrel, and perhaps something 
 irreparable would occur. Even though he was persuaded to 
 return, the mischief is done. He must be just to the girl. 
 Every one in the town knows by now that she went with him 
 her father has been busy proclaiming the news even though 
 there has been no one else."
 
 268 THE CATHEDRAL 
 
 Mrs. Brandon said nothing. She had made in herself 
 the horrible discovery, after reading Falk's letter, that her 
 thoughts were not upon Falk at all, but upon Morris. Falk 
 had flouted her ; not only had he not wanted her, but he had 
 gone off with a common girl of the town. She had suddenlj 
 no tenderness for him, no anger against him, no thought of 
 him except that his action had removed the last link that 
 held her. 
 
 She was gazing now at Morris with all her eyes. Hex 
 brain was fastened upon him with an intensity sufficient 
 almost to draw him, hypnotised, there to her feet. Her 
 husband, her home, Polchester, these things were like dim 
 shadows. 
 
 "So you will do nothing?" she said. 
 
 "I must wait," he said, "I know that when I act hastilj 
 I act badly. . . ." He paused, looked at her doubtfully, 
 then with great hesitation went on: "We are together ID 
 this, Amy. I've been I've been thinking of myself and 
 my work perhaps too much in the past. We've got to aee 
 this through together." 
 
 "Yes," she answered, "together." But she was thinking 
 of Morris.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE WIND FLIES OVER THE HOUSE 
 
 LATER, that day, she went from the house. It was a 
 strange evening. Two different weathers seemed to 
 have met over the Polchester streets. First there was the 
 deep serene beauty of the May day, pale blue faintly fading 
 into the palest yellow, the world lying like an enchanted 
 spirit asleep within a glass bell, reflecting the light from 
 the shining surface that enfolded it. In this light houses, 
 grass, cobbles lay as though stained by a painter's brush, 
 bright colours like the dazzling pigment of a wooden toy, 
 glittering under the shining sky. 
 
 This was a normal enough evening for the Polchester 
 May, but across it, shivering it into fragments, broke a 
 etormy and blustering wind, a wind that belonged to stormy 
 January days, cold and violent, with the hint of rain in its 
 murmuring voice. It tore through the town, sometimes 
 carrying hurried and, as it seemed, terrified clouds with 
 it ; for a while the May light would be hidden, the air would 
 be chill, a few drops like flashes of glass would fall, gleam- 
 ing against the bright colours then suddenly the sky would 
 be again unchallenged blue, there would be no cloud on the 
 horizon, only the pavements would glitter as though reflect- 
 ing a glassy dome. Sometimes it would be more than one 
 cloud that the wind would carry on its track a company 
 of clouds; they would appear suddenly above the horizon, 
 like white-faced giants peering over the world's rim, then in 
 a huddled confusion they would gather together, then start 
 their flight, separating, joining, merging^ dwindling and ex- 
 
 269
 
 270 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 paneling, swallowing up the blue, threatening to encompass 
 the pale saffron of the lower sky, then vanishing with in- 
 credible swiftness, leaving warmth and colour in their 
 train. 
 
 Amy Brandon did not see the enchanted town. She heard, 
 as she left the house, the clocks striking half-past six. Some 
 regular subconscious self, working with its accustomed daily 
 duty, murmured to her that to-night her husband was dining 
 at the Conservative Club and Joan was staying on to supper 
 at the Sampsons' after the opening tennis party of the season. 
 No one would need her as so often in the past no one had 
 needed her. But it was her unconscious self that whispered 
 this to her; in the wild stream into whose current during 
 these last strange months she had flung herself she was carried 
 along she knew not, she cared not, whither. 
 
 Enough for her that she was free now to encompass her 
 desire, the only dominating, devastating desire that she had 
 ever known in all her dead, well-ordered life. But it was 
 not even with so active a consciousness as this that she thought 
 this out. She thought out nothing save that she must see 
 Morris, be with Morris, catch from Morris that sense of 
 appeasement from the torture of hunger unsatisfied that 
 never now left her. 
 
 In the last weeks she had grown so regardless of the town's 
 opinion that she did not care how many people saw her pass 
 Morris' door. She had, perhaps, been always regardless, 
 only in the dull security of her life there had been no need 
 to regard them. She despised them all; she had always 
 despised them, for the deference and admiration that they 
 paid her husband if for no other reason. Despised them too, 
 it might be, because they had not seen more in herself, had 
 thought her the dull, lifeless nonentity in whose soul no fires 
 had ever burned. 
 
 She had never chattered nor gossiped with them, did not 
 consider gossip a factor in any one's day; aho had never
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 271 
 
 had the least curiosity about any one else, whether about life 
 or character or motive. 
 
 There is no egoist in the world so complete as the dis- 
 appointed woman without imagination. 
 
 She hurried through the town as though she were on a 
 business of the utmost urgency; she saw nothing and she 
 heard nothing. She did not even see Miss Milton sitting 
 at her half-opened window enjoying the evening air. 
 
 Morris himself opened the door. He was surprised when 
 he saw her ; when he had closed the door and helped her off 
 with her coat he said as they walked into the drawing-room : 
 
 "Is there anything the matter ?" 
 
 She saw at once that the room was cheerless and deserted. 
 
 "Is Miss Burnett here ?" she asked. 
 
 "No. She went off to Rafiel for a week's holiday. I'm 
 being looked after by the cook." 
 
 "It's cold." She drew her shoulders and arms together, 
 shivering. 
 
 "Yes. It is cold. It's these showers. Shall I light the 
 fire?" 
 
 "Yes, do." 
 
 He bent down, putting a match to the paper; then when 
 the fire blazed he pushed the sofa forwards. 
 
 "Now sit down and tell me what's the matter." 
 
 She could see that he was extremely nervous. 
 
 "Have you heard nothing?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 She laughed bitterly. "I thought all the town knew by 
 this time." 
 
 "Knew what?" 
 
 "Falk has run away to London with the daughter of 
 Samuel Hogg." 
 
 "Samuel Hogg?" 
 
 "Yes, the man of the *Dog and Pilchard' down in 
 Seatown." 
 
 "Run away with her?"
 
 272 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 "Yesterday. He sent us a letter saying that he had gone 
 up to London to earn his own living, had taken this girl 
 with him, and would marry her next week." 
 
 Morris was horrified. 
 
 "Without a word of warning? Without speaking to you? 
 Horrible! The daughter of that man. ... I know some- 
 thing about him . . . the worst man in the place." 
 
 Then followed a long silence. The effect on Morris was 
 as it had been on Mrs. Brandon the actual deed was almost 
 lost sight of in the sudden light that it threw on his passion. 
 From the very first the most appealing element of her atr 
 traction to him had been her loneliness, the neglect from 
 which she suffered, the need she had of comfort. 
 
 He saw her as a woman who, for twenty years, had had 
 no love, although in her very nature she had hungered for 
 it; and if she had not been treated with actual cruelty, at 
 least she had been so basely neglected that cruelty was not far 
 away. It was not true to say that during these months he 
 had grown to hate Brandon, but he had come, more and 
 more, to despise and condemn him. The effeminacy in his 
 own nature had from the first both shrunk from and been 
 attracted by the masculinity in Brandon. 
 
 He could have loved that man, but as the situation had 
 forbidden that, his feeling now was very near to hate. 
 
 Then, as the weeks had gone by, Mrs. Brandon had made 
 it clear enough to him that Falk was all that she had left 
 to her not very much to her even there, perhaps, but some- 
 thing to keep her starved heart from dying. And now Falk 
 was gone, gone in the most brutal, callous way. She had 
 no one in the world left to her but himself. The rush of 
 tenderness and longing to be good to her that now over- 
 whelmed him was so strong and so sudden that it was with 
 the utmost difficulty that he had held himself from going to 
 the sofa beside her. 
 
 She looked so weak there, BO helpless, so gentle.
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 273 
 
 "Amy," he said, "I will do anything in the world that is 
 in my power." 
 
 She was trembling, partly with genuine emotion, partly 
 with cold, partly with the drama of the situation. 
 
 "No," she said, "I don't want to do a thing that's going to 
 involve you. You must be left out of this. It is something 
 that I must carry through by myself. It was wrong of me, 
 I suppose, to come to you, but my first thought was that I 
 must have companionship. I was selfish " 
 
 "No," he broke in, "you were not selfish. I am prouder 
 that you came to me than I can possibly say. That is what 
 I'm here for. I'm your friend. You know, after all these 
 months, that I am. And what is a friend for?" Then, as 
 though he felt that he was advancing too dangerously close 
 to emotion, he went on more quietly : 
 
 "Tell me if it isn't impertinent of me to ask what is 
 your husband doing about it?" 
 
 "Doing? Nothing." 
 
 "Nothing?" 
 
 "No. I thought that he would go up to London and see 
 Falk, but he doesn't feel that that is necessary. He says 
 that, as Falk has run away with the girl, the most decent 
 thing that he can do is to marry her. He seems very little 
 upset by it. He is a most curious man. After all these 
 years, I don't understand him at all." 
 
 Morris went on hesitatingly. "I feel guilty myself. 
 Weeks ago I overheard gossip about your son and some girl. 
 I wondered then whether I ought to say something to you. 
 But it's so difficult in these cases to know what one ought to 
 do. There's so much gossip in these little Cathedral towns. 
 I thought about it a good deal. Finally, I decided that it 
 wasn't my place to meddle." 
 
 "I heard nothing," she answered. "It's always the family 
 that hears the talk last. Perhaps my husband's right. 
 Perhaps there is nothing to be dona I see now that Falk 
 never cared anything for any of us. I cheated myself. I
 
 274 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 had to cheat myself, otherwise I don't know what I'd have 
 done. And now his doing this has made me suspicious of 
 everything and of every one. Yes, even of a friendship like 
 ours the greatest thing in my life now the only thing in 
 my life." 
 
 Her voice trembled and dropped. But still he would not 
 let himself pass on to that other ground. "Is there nothing 
 I can do?" he asked. "I suppose it would do no good if I 
 were to go up to London and see him? I knew him a 
 little " 
 
 Vehemently she shook her head. 
 
 "You're not to be involved in this. At least I can do that 
 much keep you out of it." 
 
 "How is he going to live, then ?" 
 
 "He talks about writing. He's utterly confident, of course. 
 He always has been. Looking back now, I despise myself 
 for ever imagining that 7 was of any use to him. I see now 
 that he never needed me never at all." 
 
 Suddenly she looked across at him sharply. 
 
 "How is your sister-in-law?" His colour rose. 
 
 "My sister-in-law?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "She isn't well." 
 
 "What ?" 
 
 "It's hard to say. The doctor looked at her and said she 
 needed quiet and must go to the sea. It's her nerves." 
 
 "Her nerves ?" 
 
 "Yes, they got very queer. She's been sleeping badly." 
 
 "You quarrelled." 
 
 "She and I ? yes." 
 
 "What about ?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. She's getting a little too much for 
 me, I think." 
 
 She looked him in the face. 
 
 "No, you know it isn't that You quarrelled about me" 
 
 He said nothing.
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 275 
 
 "You quarrelled about me," she repeated. "She always 
 disliked me from the beginning." 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Oh, yes, she did. Of course I saw that. She was jealous 
 of me. She saw, more quickly than any one else, how much 
 how much we were going to mean to one another. Speak 
 the truth. You know that is the best." 
 
 "She didn't understand," Morris answered slowly. "She's 
 stupid in some things." 
 
 "So I've been the cause of your quarrelling, of your losing 
 the only friend you had in your life ?" 
 
 "No, not of my losing it. I haven't lost her. Our rela- 
 tionship has shifted, that's all." 
 
 "No. No. I know it is so. I've taken away the only 
 person near you." 
 
 And suddenly turning from him to the back of the sofa, 
 hiding her face in her hands, she broke into passionate 
 crying. 
 
 He stood for a moment, taut, controlled, as though he was 
 fighting his last little desperate battle. Then he was beaten. 
 He knelt down on the floor beside the sofa. He touched her 
 hair, then her cheek. She made a little movement towards 
 him. He put his arms around her. 
 
 "Don't cry. Don't cry. I can't bear that. You mustn't 
 say that you've taken anything from me. It isn't true. 
 You've given me everything . . . everything. Why should 
 we struggle any longer? Why shouldn't we take what has 
 been given to us? Your husband doesn't care. I haven't 
 anybody. Has God given me so much that I should miss 
 this? And has He put it in our hearts if He didn't mean 
 us to take it? I love you. I've loved you since first I set 
 eyes on you. I can't keep away from you any longer. It's 
 keeping away from myself. We're one. We are one another 
 not alone, either of us any more. . . ." 
 
 She turned towards him. He drew her closer and closer
 
 276 THE CATHEDRAL 
 
 to him. With a little sigh of happiness and comfort she 
 yielded to him. 
 
 There was only one cloud in the dim green sky, a cloud 
 orange and crimson, shaped like a ship. As the sun was 
 setting, a little wind stirred, the faint aftermath of the storm 
 of the day, and the cloud, now all crimson, passed over the 
 town and died in fading ribbons of gold and orange in the 
 white sky of the far horizon. 
 
 Only Miss Milton, perhaps, among all the citizens of 
 the town, waiting patiently behind her open window, watched 
 its career.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE QUABEEL 
 
 \ 
 
 EVERY one has known, at one time or another in life, 
 that strange unexpected calm that always falls like 
 sudden snow on a storm-tossed country, after some great 
 crisis or upheaval. The blow has seemed so catastrophic that 
 the world must be changed with the force of its fall but the 
 world is not changed; hours pass and days go by, and no 
 one seems to be aware that anything has occurred ... it is 
 only when months have gone, and perhaps years, that one 
 looks back and sees that it was, after all, on such and such 
 a day that life was altered, values shifted, the face of the 
 world turned to a new angle. 
 
 This is platitudinous, but platitudes are not platitudes 
 when we first make our personal experience of them. There 
 seemed nothing platitudinous to Brandon in his present 
 experiences. The day on which he had received Falk's letter 
 had seemed to fling him neck and crop into a new world 
 a world dim and obscure and peopled with new and terrify- 
 ing devils. The morning after, he was clear again, and it 
 was almost as though nothing at all had occurred. He went 
 about the town, and everybody behaved in a normal manner. 
 No sign of those strange menacing figures, the drunken 
 painter, the sinister, smiling Hogg; every one as usual. 
 
 Ryle complacent and obedient; Bentinck-Major officious 
 but subservient ; Mrs. Combermere jolly ; even, as he fancied, 
 Foster a little more amiable than usual. It was for this open, 
 outside world that he had now for many years been living; 
 it was not difficult to tell himself that things here were un- 
 
 277
 
 278 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 changed. Because ho was no psychologist, he took people 
 as he found them; when they smiled they were pleased and 
 when they frowned they were angry. 
 
 Because there was a great deal of pressing business he 
 pushed aside Falk's problem. It was there, it was waiting 
 for him, but perhaps time would solve it 
 
 He concentrated himself with a new energy, a new self- 
 confidence, upon the Cathedral, the Jubilee, the public life 
 of the town. 
 
 Nevertheless, that horrible day had had its effect upon 
 him. Three days after FaLk's escape he was having break- 
 fast alone with Joan. 
 
 "Mother has a headache," Joan said. "She's not coming 
 down." 
 
 He nodded, scarcely looking up from his paper. 
 
 In a little while she said: "What are you doing to-day, 
 daddy ? I'm very sorry to bother you, but I'm housekeeping 
 to-day, and I have to arrange about meals 
 
 "I'm lunching at Carpledon," he said, putting his paper 
 down. 
 
 "With the Bishop ? How nice ! I wish I were. He's an 
 old dear." 
 
 "He wants to consult mo about some of the Jubilee 
 services," Brandon said in his public voice. 
 
 "Won't Canon Ryle mind that?" 
 
 "I don't care if he does. It's his own fault, for not 
 managing things better." 
 
 "I think the Bishop must be very lonely out there. He 
 hardly ever comes into Polchester now. It's because of his 
 rheumatism, I suppose. Why doesn't he resign, daddy ?" 
 
 "He's wanted to, a number of times. But he's very 
 popular. People don't want him to go." 
 
 "I don't wonder." Joan's eyes sparkled. "Even if one 
 never saw him at all it would bo better than somebody else. 
 He's such an old darling." 
 
 "Well, I don't believe myself in men going on when they're
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 279 
 
 past their work. However, I hear he's going to insist on 
 resigning at the end of this year." 
 
 "How old is he, daddy?" 
 
 "Eighty-seven." 
 
 There was always a tinge of patronage in the Archdeacon's 
 voice when he spoke of his Bishop. He knew that he was 
 a saint, a man whose life had been of so absolute a purity, 
 a simplicity, an unfaltering faith and courage, that there 
 were no flaws to be found in him anywhere. It was possibly 
 this very simplicity that stirred Brandon's patronage. 
 After all, we were living in a workaday world, and the 
 Bishop's confidence in every man's word and trust in every 
 man's honour had been at times a little ludicrous. Never- 
 theless, did any one dare to attack the Bishop, he was im- 
 mediately his most ardent and ferocious defender. 
 
 It was only when the Bishop was praised that he felt 
 that a word or two of caution was necessary. 
 
 However, he was just now not thinking of the Bishop; 
 he was thinking of his daughter. As he looked across the 
 table at her he wondered. What had Ealk's betrayal of the 
 family meant to her ? Had she been fond of him ? She had 
 given no sign at all as to how it had affected her. She had 
 her friends and her life in the town, and her family pride 
 like the rest of them. How pretty she looked this morning ! 
 He was suddenly aware of the love and devotion that she had 
 given him for years and the small return that he had made. 
 Not that he had been a bad father he hurriedly reassured 
 himself ; no one could accuse him of that. But he had been 
 busy, preoccupied, had not noticed her as he might have 
 done. She was a woman now, with a new independence and 
 self-assurance! And yet such a child at the same time! 
 He recalled the evening in the cab when she had held his 
 hand. How few demands she ever made upon him; how 
 little she was ever in the way! 
 
 He went back to his paper, but found that he could not 
 fix his attention upon it When he had finished his break-
 
 280 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 fast he went across to her. She looked up at him, smiling. 
 He put his hand on her shoulder. 
 
 "Urn yes. . . . And what are you going to do to-day, 
 dear?" 
 
 "I've heaps to do. There's the Jubilee work-party in the 
 morning. Then there are one or two things in the town to 
 get for mother." She paused. 
 
 Ho hesitated, then said: 
 
 "Has any one have your friends in the town said any- 
 thing about Falk ?" 
 
 She looked up at him. 
 
 "No, daddy not a word." 
 
 Then she added, as though to herself, with a little sigh, 
 "Poor Falk!" 
 
 He took his hand from her shoulder. 
 
 "So you're sorry for him, are you ?" he said angrily. 
 
 "Not sorry, exactly," she answered slowly. "But you 
 will forgive him, won't you ?" 
 
 "You can be sure," Brandon said, "that I shall do what is 
 right." 
 
 She sprang up and faced him. 
 
 "Daddy, now that Falk is gone, it's more necessary than 
 ever for you to realise me." 
 
 "Realise you ?" he said, looking at her. 
 
 "Yes, that I'm a woman now and not a child any longer. 
 You don't realise it a bit. I said it to mother months ago, 
 and told her that now I could do all sorts of things for her. 
 She has let me do a few things, but she hasn't changed to 
 me, not been any different, or wanted me any more than 
 she did before. But you must You must, daddy. I can 
 help you in lots of ways. I can 
 
 "What ways?" he asked her, smiling. 
 
 "I don't know. You must find them out What I mean 
 is that you've got to count on me as an element in the family 
 now. You can't disregard me any more." 
 
 "Have I disregarded you ?"
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 281 
 
 "Of course you have," she answered, laughing. 
 
 "Well, we'll see," he said. He bent down and kissed her, 
 then left the room. 
 
 He left to catch the train to Carpledon in a self-satisfied 
 mind. He was tired, certainly, and had felt ever since the 
 shock of three days back a certain "warning" sensation that 
 hovered over him rather like hot air, suggesting that sudden 
 agonizing pain . . . but so long as the pain did not come 
 . . . He had thought, half derisively, of seeing old Puddi- 
 foot, even of having himself overhauled but Puddifoot was 
 an ass. How could a man who talked the nonsense Puddifoot 
 did in the Conservative Club be anything of a doctor ? Be- 
 sides, the man was old. There was a young man now, New- 
 ton. But Brandon distrusted young men. 
 
 He was amused and pleased at the station. He strode up 
 and down the platform, his hands behind his broad back, his 
 head up, his top-hat shining, his gaiters fitting superbly his 
 splendid calves. The station-master touched his hat, smiled, 
 and stayed for a word or two. Very deferential. Good 
 fellow, Curtis. Knew his business. The little, stout, rosy- 
 faced fellow who guarded the book-stall touched his hat. 
 Brandon stopped and looked at the papers. Advertisements 
 already of special Jubilee supplements "Life of the Good 
 Queen," "History of the Empire, 1 837-189 7." Piles of that 
 trashy novel Joan had been talking about, The Massarenes, 
 by Ouida. Pah ! Stuff and nonsense. How did people have 
 time for such things ? "Yes, Mr. Waller. Fine day. "Very 
 fine May we're having. Ought to be fine for the Jubilee. 
 Hope so, I'm sure. Disappoint many people if it's 
 wet. . . ." 
 
 He bought the Church Times and crossed to the side-line. 
 No one here but a farmer, a country-woman and her little 
 boy. The farmer's side-face reminded him suddenly of some 
 one. Who was it? That fat cheek, the faint sandy hair 
 beneath the shabby bowler. He was struck as though, stand- 
 ing on a tight-rope in mid-air, he felt it quiver beneath him.
 
 282 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 Hogg. . . . He turned abruptly and faced the empty line 
 and the dusty neglected boarding of a railway-shed. He must 
 not think of that man, must not allow him to seize his 
 thoughts. Hogg Davray. Had he dreamt that horrible 
 scene in the Cathedral ? Could that have been ? Ho lifted 
 his hand and, as it were, tore the scene into pieces and 
 scattered it on the line. He had command of his thoughts, 
 shutting down one little tight shutter after another upon the 
 things he did not want to see. That he did not want to see, 
 did not want to know. 
 
 The little train drew in, slowly, regretfully. Brandon got 
 into the solitary first-class carriage and buried himself in his 
 paper. Soon, thanks to his happy gift of attending only to 
 one question at a time, the subjects that that paper brought up 
 for discussion completely absorbed him. Anything more 
 absurd than such an argument! as though the validity of 
 Baptism did not absolutely depend . . . 
 
 He was happily lost; the little train steamed out. He saw 
 nothing of the beautiful country through which they passed 
 country, on this May morning, so beautiful in its rich luxu- 
 riant security, the fields bending and dipping to the tree*- 
 haunted streams, the hedges running in lines of blue and dark 
 purple like ribbons to the sky, that, blue-flecked, caught in 
 light and shadow a myriad pattern as a complement to its own 
 sun-warmed clouds. Rich and English so utterly that it was 
 almost scornful in its resentment of foreign interference. In 
 spite of the clouds the air was now in its mid-day splendour, 
 and the cows, in clusters of brown, dark and clay-red, sought 
 the cool grey shadows of the hedges. 
 
 The peace of centuries lay upon this land, and the sun with 
 loving hands caressed its warm flanks as though here, at least, 
 was some one of whom it might be sure, some one known from 
 old time. 
 
 The little station at Carpledon was merely a wooden shed. 
 Woods running down the hill threatened to overwhelm it; at 
 its very edge beyond the line, thick green fields slipped to the
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 283 
 
 shining level waters of the Pol. Brandon walked up the hill 
 through the wood, past the hedge and on through the Park 
 to the Palace drive. The sight of that old, red, thick-set 
 building with its square comfortable windows, its bell-tower, 
 its dovecots, its graceful, stolid, happy lines, its high old door- 
 way, its tiled roof rosy-red with age, respectability and com- 
 fort, its square solemn chimneys behind and between whose 
 self-possession the broad branches of the oaks, older and wiser 
 than the house itself, uplifted their clustered leaves with the 
 protection of their conscious dignity this house thrilled all 
 that was deepest and most superstitious in his soul. 
 
 To this building he would bow, to this house surrender. 
 Here was something that would command all his reverence, a 
 worthy adjunct to the Cathedral that he loved ; without undue 
 pride he must acknowledge to himself that, had fate so willed 
 it, he would himself have occupied this place with a worthy 
 and fitting appropriateness. It seemed, indeed, as he pulled 
 the iron bell and heard its clang deep within the house, that 
 he understood what it needed so well that it must sigh with a 
 dignified relief when it saw him approach. 
 
 Appleford the butler, who opened the door, was an old 
 friend of his an aged, white-locked man, but dignity itself. 
 
 "His lordship will be down in a moment," he said, showing 
 him into the library. Some one else was there, his back to 
 the door. He turned round ; it was Render. 
 
 When Brandon saw him he had again that sense that came 
 now to him so frequently, that some plot was in process 
 against him and gradually, step by step, hedging him in. 
 That is a dangerous sense for any human being to acquire, 
 but most especially for a man of Brandon's simplicity, 
 almost naivete of character. 
 
 Render ! The very last man whom Brandon could bear to 
 see in that place and at that time! Brandon's visit to-day 
 was not entirely unengineered. To be honest, he had not 
 spoken quite the truth to his daughter when he had said that 
 the Bishop had asked him out there for consultation. Him-
 
 284 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 self had written to the Bishop a very strong letter, empha- 
 sising the inadequacy with which his Jubilee services were 
 being prepared, saying something about the suitability of 
 Forsyth for the Pybus living, and hinting at certain careless- 
 nesses in the Chapter "due to new and regrettable influences." 
 It was in answer to this letter that Ponting, the Resident 
 Chaplain, had written saying that the Bishop would like to 
 give Brandon luncheon. It may be said, therefore, that 
 Brandon wished to consult the Bishop rather than the Bishop 
 Brandon. The Archdeacon had pictured to himself a cosy 
 tete-a-tete with the Bishop lasting for an hour or two, and 
 entirely uninterrupted. He flattered himself that he knew 
 his dear Bishop well enough by this time to deal with him 
 exactly as he ought to be dealt with. But, for that dealing, 
 privacy was absolutely essential. Any third person would 
 have been, to the last extent, provoking. Ronder was disas- 
 trous. He instantly persuaded himself, as he looked at that 
 rubicund and smiling figure, that Ronder had heard of his 
 visit and determined to be one of the party. He could only 
 have heard of it through Ponting. . . . The Archdeacon's 
 fingers twisted within one another as he considered how 
 pleasant it would be to wring Ponting's long, white and 
 ecclesiastical neck. 
 
 And, of course, behind all this immediate situation was his 
 sense of the pleasure and satisfaction that Ronder must be 
 feeling about Folk's scandal. Licking his thick red lips 
 about it, he must be, watching with his little fat eyes for the 
 moment when, with his round fat fingers, he might probe that 
 wound. 
 
 Nevertheless the Archdeacon knew, by this time, Ronder's 
 character and abilities too well not to realise that he must 
 dissemble. Dissembling was the hardest thing of all that a 
 man of the Archdeacon's character could be called upon to 
 perform, but dissemble he must 
 
 His smile was of a grim kind. 
 
 "Ha! Ronder; didn't expect to see you here."
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 285 
 
 "No" said Render, coming forward and smiling with the 
 utmost geniality. "To tell you the truth, I didn't expect 
 to find myself here. It was only last evening that I got a 
 note from the Bishop asking me to come out to luncheon 
 to-day. He said that you would be here." 
 
 Oh, so Ponting was not to blame. It was the Bishop him- 
 self. Poor old man ! Cowardice obviously, afraid of some 
 of the home-truths that Brandon might find it his duty to 
 deliver. A coward in his old age. . . . 
 
 "Very fine day," said Brandon. 
 
 "Beautiful," said Render. "Really, looks as though we 
 are going to have good weather for the Jubilee." 
 
 "Hope we do," said Brandon. "Very hard on thousands 
 of people if it's wet." 
 
 "Very," said Render. "I hope Mrs. Brandon is well." 
 
 "To-day she has a little headache," said Brandon. "But 
 it's really nothing." 
 
 "Well," said Render. "I've been wondering whether 
 there isn't some thunder in the air. I've been feeling it 
 oppressive myself." 
 
 "It does get oppressive," said Brandon, "this time of the 
 year in Glebeshire especially South Glebeshire. I've often 
 noticed it." 
 
 "What we want," said Render, "is a good thunderstorm to 
 clear the air." 
 
 "Just what we're not likely to get," said Brandon. "It 
 hangs on for days and days without breaking." 
 
 "I wonder why that is," said Render; "there are no hills 
 round about to keep it There's hardly a hill of any size in 
 the whole of South Glebeshire." 
 
 "Of course, Polchester's in a hollow," said Brandon. 
 "Except for the Cathedral, of course. I always envy Lady 
 St. Leath her elevation." 
 
 "A fine site, the Castle," said Render. "They must get a 
 continual breeze up there."
 
 286 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 "They do," said Brandon. "Whenever I'm up there there's 
 a wind." 
 
 This moat edifying conversation was interrupted by the 
 entrance of the Reverend Charles Ponting. Mr. Ponting was 
 very long, very thin and very black, his cadaverous cheeks 
 resembling in their colour nothing so much as good fountain- 
 pen ink. He spoke always in a high, melancholy and chant- 
 ing voice. He was undoubtedly effeminate in his movements, 
 and he had an air of superior secrecy about the affairs of the 
 Bishop that people sometimes found very trying. But he was 
 a good man and a zealous, and entirely devoted to his lord 
 and master. 
 
 "Ha! Archdeacon. . . . Ha! Canon. His lordship will 
 be down in one moment. He has asked me to make his 
 apologies for not being here to receive you. He is just finish- 
 ing something of rather especial importance." 
 
 The Bishop, however, entered a moment later. He was a 
 little, frail man, walking with the aid of a stick. He had 
 snow-white hair, rather thick and long, pale cheeks and eyes 
 of a bright china-blue. He had that quality, given to only a 
 few in this world of happy mediocrities, of filling, at once, 
 any room into which he entered with the strength and fra- 
 grance of his spirit. So strong, fearless and beautiful was 
 his soul that it shone through the frail compass of his body 
 with an unfaltering light. No one had ever doubted the 
 goodness and splendour of the man's character. Men might 
 call his body old and feeble and past the work that it was still 
 called upon to perform. They might speak of him as guile- 
 less, as too innocent of this world's slippery ways, as trusting 
 where no child of six years of age would have trusted ; these 
 things might have been, and were, said, but no man, woman, 
 nor child, looking upon him, hesitated to realise that here was 
 some one who had walked and talked with God and in whom 
 there was no shadow of deceit nor evil thought. Old Glasgow 
 Parmiter, the lawyer, the wickedest old man Polchester had 
 ever known, said once of him, "If there's a hell, I suppose
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 287 
 
 I'm going to it, and I'm sure I don't care. There may be one 
 and there may not. I know there's a heaven. Purcell lives 
 there." 
 
 His voice, which was soft and strong, had at its heart a tiny 
 stammer which came out now and then with a hesitating, 
 almost childish, charm. As he stood there, leaning on his 
 stick, smiling at them, there did seem a great deal of the 
 child about him, and Brandon, Ponting and Ronder suddenly 
 seemed old, wicked and soiled in the world's ways. 
 
 "Please forgive me," he said, "for not being down when 
 you came. I move slowly now. . . . Luncheon is ready, I 
 know. Shall we go in ?" 
 
 The four men crossed the stone-flagged hall into the dining- 
 room where Appleford stood, devoutly, as one about to per- 
 form a solemn rite. The dining-room was high-ceilinged with 
 a fireplace of old red brick fronted with black oak beams. 
 The walls were plain whitewash, and they carried only one 
 picture, a large copy of Diirer's "Knight and the Devil." 
 The high, broad windows looked out on to the sloping lawn 
 whose green now danced and sparkled under the sun. The 
 trees that closed it in were purple shadowed. 
 
 They sat, clustered together, at the end of a long oak 
 refectory table. The Bishop himself was a teetotaler, but 
 there was good claret and, at the end, excellent port. The 
 only piece of colour on the table was a bowl of dark-blue glass 
 piled with fruit. The only ornament in the room was a 
 beautifully carved silver crucifix on the black oak mantel- 
 piece. The sun danced across the stained floor with every 
 pattern and form of light. 
 
 Brandon could not remember a more unpleasant meal in 
 that room; he could not, indeed, remember ever having had 
 an unpleasant meal there before. The Bishop talked, as he 
 always did, in a most pleasant and easy fashion. He talked 
 about the nectarines and plums that were soon to glorify 
 his garden walls, about the pears and apples in his orchard, 
 about the jokes that old Puddifoot made when he came over
 
 288 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 and examined his rheumatic limbs. He gently chaffed Pont- 
 ing about his punctuality, neatness and general dislike of 
 violent noises, and he bade Appleford to tell the house- 
 keeper, Mrs. Brenton, how especially good to-day was the 
 fish souffle. All this was all it had ever been ; nothing could 
 have been easier and more happy. But on other days it had 
 always been Brandon who had thrown back the ball for the 
 Bishop to catch. Whoever the other guest might be, it was 
 always Brandon who took the lead, and although he might 
 be a little ponderous and slow in movement, he supplied the 
 Bishop's conversational needs quite adequately. 
 
 And to-day it was Render; from the first, without any 
 ostentation or presumption, with the utmost naturalness, he 
 led the field. To understand the full truth of this occasion 
 it must be known that Mr. Ponting had, for a considerable 
 number of years past, cherished a deep but private detesta- 
 tion of the Archdeacon. It was hard to say wherein that 
 hatred had had it inception probably in some old, long- 
 forgotten piece of cheerful patronage on Brandon's part; 
 Mr. Ponting was of those who consider and dwell and dwell 
 again, and he had, by this time, dwelt upon the Archdeacon 
 BO long and so thoroughly that he knew and resented the 
 colour of every one of the Archdeacon's waistcoat buttons. 
 He was, perhaps, quick to perceive to-day that a mightier than 
 the Archdeacon was here; or it may have been that he was 
 well aware of what had been happening in Polchester during 
 the last weeks, and was even informed of the incidents of 
 the last three days. 
 
 However that may be, he did from the first pay an almost 
 exaggerated deference to Render's opinion, drew him into 
 the conversation at every possible opportunity, with such 
 interjections as "How true! How very true! Don't you 
 think so, Canon Render?" or "What has been your experi- 
 ence in such a case, Canon Render?" or "I think, my lord, 
 that Canon Render told me that he knows that place well,"
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 289 
 
 and disregarding entirely any remarks that Brandon might 
 happen to make. 
 
 No one could have responded more brilliantly to this 
 opportunity than did Ronder; indeed the Bishop, who was 
 his host at the Palace to-day for the first time, said after his 
 departure, "That's a most able man, most able. Lucky 
 indeed for the diocese that it has secured him ... a delight- 
 ful fellow." 
 
 No one in the world could have been richer in anecdotes 
 than Ronder, anecdotes of precisely the kind for the Bishop's 
 taste, not too worldly, not too clerical, amusing without being 
 broad, light and airy, but showing often a fine scholarship 
 and a wise and thoughtful experience of foreign countries. 
 The Bishop had not laughed so heartily for many a day. 
 "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" he cried at the anecdote of the two 
 American ladies in Siena. "That's good, indeed . . . that's 
 very good. Did you get that, Ponting? Dear me, that's 
 perfectly delightful!" A little tear of shining pleasure 
 trickled down his cheek. "Really, Canon, I've never heard 
 anything better." 
 
 Brandon thought Render's manners outrageous. Poor 
 Bishop ! He was indeed failing that he could laugh so heart- 
 ily at such pitiful humour. He tried to show his sense of it 
 all by grimly pursuing his food and refusing even the ghost 
 of a chuckle, but no one was perceiving him, as he very 
 bitterly saw. The Bishop, it may be, saw it too, for at last 
 he turned to Brandon and said : 
 
 "But come, Archdeacon. I was forgetting. You wrote to 
 me s-something about that Jubilee-music in the Cathedral. 
 You find that Ryle is making rather a m-mess of things, 
 don't you ?" 
 
 Brandon was deeply offended. Of what was the Bishop 
 thinking that he could so idly drag forward the substance 
 of an entirely private letter, without asking permission, into 
 the public air ? Moreover, the last thing that he wanted was 
 that Ronder should know that he had been working behind
 
 290 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 Kyle's back. Not that he was in the least ashamed of what 
 he had done, but here was precisely the thing that Render 
 would like to use and make something of. In any case, it was 
 the principle of the thing. Was Ronder henceforth to be 
 privy to everything that passed between himself and the 
 Bishop ? 
 
 He never found it easy to veil his feelings, and he looked 
 now, as Pontiug delightedly perceived, like an overgrown, 
 sulky schoolboy. 
 
 "No, no, my lord," he said, looking across at Ponting, as 
 though he would love to set his heel upon that pale but eager 
 visage. "You have me wrong there. I was making no com- 
 plaint. The Precentor knows his own business best." 
 
 "You certainly said something in your letter," said the 
 Bishop vaguely. "There was s-something, Ponting, was 
 there not?" 
 
 "Yes, my lord," said Ponting. "There was. But I expect 
 the Archdeacon did not mean it very seriously." 
 
 "Do you mean that you find the Precentor inefficient?" 
 said the Bishop, looking at the coffee with longing and then 
 shaking his head. "Not to-day, Appleford, alas not to- 
 day." 
 
 "Oh, no," said Brandon, colouring. "Of course not. Our 
 tastes differ a little as to the choice of music, that's all. I've 
 no doubt that I am old-fashioned." 
 
 "How do you find the Cathedral music, Canon ?" he asked, 
 turning to Ronder. 
 
 "Oh, I know very little about it," said Ronder, smiling. 
 "Nothing in comparison with the Archdeacon. I'm sure he's 
 right in liking the old music that people have grown used to 
 and are fond of. At the same time, I must confess that I 
 haven't thought Ryle too venturesome. But then I'm very 
 ignorant, having been here so short a time." 
 
 "That's right, then," said the Bishop comfortably. "There 
 doesn't seem much wrong." 
 
 At that moment Appleford, who had been absent from the
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 291 
 
 room for a minute, returned with a note which he gave to 
 the Bishop. 
 
 "From Pybus, my lord," he said; "some one has ridden 
 over with it." 
 
 At the word "Pybus" there was an electric silence in the 
 room. The Bishop tore open the letter and read it. He half 
 started from his chair with a little exclamation of distress 
 and grief. 
 
 "Please excuse me," he said, turning to them. "I must 
 leave you for a moment and speak to the bearer of this note. 
 Poor Morrison ... at last . . . he's gone ! Pybus ! . . ." 
 
 The Archdeacon, in spite of himself, half rose and stared 
 across at Render. Pybus! The living at last was vacant. 
 
 A moment later he felt deeply ashamed. In that sunlit 
 room the bright green of the outside world quivering in pools 
 of colour upon the pure space of the white walls spoke of life 
 and beauty and the immortality of beauty. 
 
 It was hard to think of death there in such a place, but one 
 must think of it and consider, too, Morrison, who had been so 
 good a fellow and loved the world, and all the things in it, and 
 had thought of heaven also in the spare moments that his 
 energy left him. 
 
 A great sportsman he had been, with a famous breed of 
 bull-terrier, and anxious to revive the South Glebeshire 
 Hunt; very fine, too, in that last terrible year when the 
 worst of all mortal diseases had leapt upon his throat and 
 shaken him with agony and the imminent prospect of death 
 shaken him but never terrified him. Brandon summoned 
 before him that broad, jolly, laughing figure, summoned it, 
 bowed to its fortitude and optimism, then, as all men must, 
 at such a moment, considered his own end ; then, having paid 
 his due to Morrison, returned to the great business of the 
 Living. 
 
 They were gathered together in the hall now. The Bishop 
 had known Morrison well and greatly liked him, and he 
 could think of nothing but the man himself. The question of
 
 292 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 the succession could not come near him that day, and as he 
 stood, a little white-haired figure, tottering on his stick in the 
 flagged hall, he seemed already to be far from the others, to 
 be caught already half-way along the road that Morrison was 
 now travelling. 
 
 Both Brandon and Render felt that it was right for them 
 to go, although on a normal day they would have stayed 
 walking in the garden and talking for another three-quarters 
 of an hour until it was time to catch the three-thirty train 
 from Carpledon. Mr. Pouting settled the situation. 
 
 "His lordship," he said, "hopes that you will let Bassett 
 drive you into Polchester. There is the little wagonette; 
 Bassett must go, in any case, to get some things. It is no 
 trouble, no trouble at all." 
 
 They, of course, agreed, although for Brandon at any rate 
 there would be many things in the world pleasanter than sit- 
 ting with Render in a small wagonette for more than an 
 hour. He also had no liking for Bassett, the Bishop's coach- 
 man for the last twenty years, a native of South Glebeshire, 
 with all the obstinacy, pride and independence that that 
 definition includes. 
 
 There was, however, no other course, and, a quarter of an 
 hour later, the two clergymen found themselves opposite one 
 another in a wagonette that \vas indeed so small that it seemed 
 inevitable that Render's knees must meet Brandon's and 
 Brandon's ankles glide against Render's. 
 
 The Archdeacon's temper was, by this time, at its worst. 
 Everything had been ruined by Render's presence. The 
 original grievances were bad enough the way in which his 
 letter had been flouted, the fashion in which his conversation 
 had been disregarded at luncheon, the sanctified pleasure that 
 Ponting's angular countenance had expressed at every check 
 that he had received; but all these things mattered nothing 
 compared with the fact that Render was present at the news 
 of Morrison's death. 
 
 Had he been alone with the Bishop then, what an oppor-
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 293 
 
 tunity he would have had ! How exactly he would have 
 known how to comfort the Bishop, how tactful and right he 
 would have been in the words that he used, and what an 
 opportunity finally for turning the Bishop's mind in the way 
 it should go, namely, towards Rex Forsyth I 
 
 As his knees, place them where he would, bumped against 
 Render's, wrath bubbled in his heart like boiling water in a 
 kettle. The very immobility of Bassett's broad back added to 
 the irritation. 
 
 "It's remarkably small for a wagonette," said Render at 
 last, when some minutes had passed in silence. "Further 
 north this would not, I should think, be called a wagonette 
 at all, but in Glebeshire there are special names for every- 
 thing. And then, of course, we are both big men." 
 
 This comparison was most unfortunate. Render's body 
 was soft and plump, most unmistakably fat. Brandon's was 
 apparently in magnificent condition. It is well known that a 
 large man in good athletic condition has a deep, overwhelming 
 contempt for men who are fat and soft. Brandon made no 
 reply. Render was determined to be pleasant. 
 
 "Very difficult to keep thin in this part of the world, isn't 
 it ? Every morning when I look at myself in the glass I find 
 myself fatter than I was the day before. Then I say to my- 
 self, 'I'll give up bread and potatoes and drink hot water/ 
 Hot water ! Loathsome stuff. Moreover, have you noticed, 
 Archdeacon, that a man who diets himself is a perfect 
 nuisance to all his friends and neighbours? The moment 
 he refuses potatoes his hostess says to him, 'Why, Mr. Smith, 
 not one of our potatoes! Out of our own garden!' And 
 then he explains to her that he is dieting, whereupon every 
 one at the table hurriedly recites long and dreary histories of 
 how they have dieted at one time or another with this or that 
 success. The meal is ruined for yourself and every one else. 
 Now, isn't it so? What do you do for yourself when you 
 are putting on flesh ?"
 
 294 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 "I am not aware," said Brandon in his most haughty 
 manner, "that I am putting on flesh." 
 
 "Of course I don't mean just now," answered Render, 
 smiling. "In any case, the jolting of this wagonette is 
 certain to reduce one. Anyway, I agree with you. It's a 
 tiresome subject. There's no escaping fata We stout men 
 are doomed, I fancy." 
 
 There was a long silence. After Brandon had moved his 
 legs about in every possible direction and found it impossible 
 to escape Render's knees, he said : 
 
 "Excuse my knocking into you so often, Canon." 
 
 "Oh, that's all right," said Ronder, laughing. "This 
 drive comes worse on you than myself, I fancy. You're 
 bonier. . . . What a splendid figure the Bishop is! A great 
 man really, a great man. There's something about a man 
 of that simplicity and purity of character that we lesser men 
 lack. Something out of our grasp altogether." 
 
 "You haven't know him very long, I think," said Brandon, 
 who considered himself in no way a lesser man than the 
 Bishop. 
 
 "No, I have not," said Ronder, pleasantly amused at the 
 incredible case with which he was able to make the Arch- 
 deacon rise. "I've never been to Carpledon before to-day. I 
 especially appreciated his inviting me when he was having 
 so old a friend as yourself." 
 
 Another silence. Ronder looked about him ; the afternoon 
 was hot, and little beads of perspiration formed on his fore- 
 head. One trickled down his forehead, another into his eye. 
 The road, early in the year though it was, was already dusty, 
 and the high Glebeshire hedges hid the view. The irritation 
 of the heat, the dust and the sense that they were enclosed and 
 would for the rest of their lives jog along, thus, knee to knee, 
 down an eternal road, made Ronder uncomfortable; when he 
 waa uncomfortable he was dangerous. He looked at the fixed 
 obstinacy of the Archdeacon's face and said : 
 
 "Poor Morrison ! So he's gone. I never knew him, but
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 295 
 
 he must have been a fine fellow. And the Pybus living is 
 vacant." 
 
 Brandon said nothing. 
 
 "An important decision that will be I beg your pardon. 
 That's my knee again. 
 
 "It's to be hoped that they will find a good man." 
 
 "There can be only one possible choice," said Brandon, 
 planting his hands flat on his knees. 
 
 "Really !" said Render, looking at the Archdeacon with an 
 air of innocent interest. "Do tell me, if it isn't a secret, who 
 that is." 
 
 "It's no secret," said Brandon in a voice of level defiance. 
 "Rex Forsyth is the obvious man." 
 
 "Really!" said Render. "That is interesting. I haven't 
 heard him mentioned. I'm afraid I know very little about 
 him." 
 
 "Know very little about him!" said Brandon indignantly. 
 "Why, his name has been in every one's mouth for months !" 
 
 "Indeed !" said Ronder mildly. "But then I am, in many 
 ways, sadly out of things. Do tell me about him." 
 
 "It's not for me to tell you," said Brandon, looking at 
 Ronder with great severity. "You can find out anything you 
 like from the smallest boy in the town." This was not polite, 
 but Ronder did not mind. There was a little pause, then he 
 said very amiably: 
 
 "I have heard some mention of that man Wistons." 
 
 "What!" cried Brandon in a voice not very far from a 
 shout. "The fellow who wrote that abnominable book, The 
 Four Creeds?" 
 
 "I suppose it's the same," said Ronder gently, rubbing his 
 knee a little. 
 
 "That man!" The Archdeacon bounced in his seat. 
 "That atheist ! The leading enemy of the Church, the man 
 above any who would destroy every institution that the 
 Church possesses!" 
 
 "Come, come ! Is it as bad as that ?"
 
 296 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 "As bad as that? Worse! Much worse! I take it that 
 you have not read any of his books." 
 
 "Well, I have read one or two !" 
 
 "You have read them and you can mention his name with 
 patience ?" 
 
 "There are several ways of looking at these things " 
 
 "Several ways of looking at atheism ? Thank you, Canon. 
 Thank you very much indeed. I am delighted to have your 
 opinion given so frankly." 
 
 ("What an ass the man is !" thought Render. "He's going 
 to lose his temper here in the middle of the road with that 
 coachman listening to every word.") 
 
 "You must not take me too literally, Archdeacon," said 
 Render. "What I meant was that the question whether Wis- 
 tons is an atheist can be argued from many points of view." 
 
 "It can not ! It can not !" cried Brandon, now shaking 
 with anger. "There can be no two points of view. 'He that 
 is not with me is against me' " 
 
 "Very well, then," said Ronder. "It can not There ia 
 no more to be said." 
 
 "There is more to be said. There is indeed. I am glad, 
 Canon, that at last you have come out into the open. I have 
 been wondering for a long time past when that happy event 
 was to take place. Ever since you came into this town, you 
 have been subverting doctrine, upsetting institutions, destroy- 
 ing the good work that the Cathedral has been doing for 
 many years past. I feel it my duty to tell you this, a dutj 
 that no one else is courageous enough to perform 
 
 "Really, is this quite the place?" said Ronder, motioning 
 with his hand towards Bassett's broad back, and the massive 
 sterns of the two horses that rose and fell, like tubs on a 
 rocking sea. 
 
 But Brandon was past caution, past wisdom, past disci- 
 pline. He could see nothing now but Render's two rosy 
 cheeks and the round gleaming spectacles that seemed to catch 
 his words disdainfully and suspend them there in indifler-
 
 TWO THE WHISPERING GALLERY 297 
 
 ence. <{ Excuse me. It is time indeed. It is long past the 
 time. If you think that you can come here, a complete 
 stranger, and do what you like with the institutions here, 
 you are mistaken, and thoroughly mistaken. There are those 
 here who have the interests of the place at heart and guard 
 and protect them. Your conceit has blinded you, allow me 
 to tell you, and it's time that you had a more modest estimate 
 of yourself and doings." 
 
 "This really isn't the place," murmured Render, struggling 
 to avoid Brandon's knees. 
 
 "Yes, atheism is nothing to you !" shouted the Archdeacon. 
 "Nothing at all ! You had better be careful ! I warn you !" 
 
 "You had better be careful," said Ronder, smiling in spite 
 of himself, "or you will be out of the carriage." 
 
 That smile was the final insult. Brandon jumped up, 
 rocking on his feet. "Very well, then. You may laugh as 
 you pleasa You may think it all a very good joke. I tell you 
 it is not We are enemies, enemies from this moment. You 
 have never been anything but my enemy." 
 
 "Do take care, Archdeacon, or you really will be out of 
 the carriage." 
 
 "Very well. I will get out of it. I refuse to drive with 
 you another step. I refuse. I refuse." 
 
 "But you can't walk. It's six miles." 
 
 "I will walk! I will walk! Stop and let me get out! 
 Stop, I say !" 
 
 But Bassett who, according to his back, was as innocent of 
 any dispute as the small birds on the neighbouring tree, drove 
 on. 
 
 "Stop, I say. Can't you hear ?" The Archdeacon plunged 
 forward and pulled Bassett by the collar. "Stop! Stop!" 
 The wagonette abruptly stopped. 
 
 Bassett's amazed face, two wide eyes in a creased and 
 crumpled surface, peered round. 
 
 "It's war, I tell you. War !" Brandon climbed out. 
 
 "But listen, Archdeacon! You can't!"
 
 298 THE CATHEDRAL 
 
 "Drive on! Drive on!" cried Brandon, standing in the 
 road and shaking his umbrella. 
 
 The wagonette drove on. It disappeared over the ledge 
 of the hill 
 
 There was a sudden silence. Brandon's anger pounded up 
 into his head in great waves of constricting passion. These 
 gradually faded. His knees were trembling beneath him. 
 There were new sounds birds singing, a tiny breeze rustling 
 the hedges. No living soul in sight. He had suddenly a 
 strange impulse to shed tears. What had he been saying! 
 What had he been doing? He did not know what he had 
 said. Another of his tempers. . . . 
 
 The pain attacked his head like a sword, like a sword. 
 
 He found a stone and sat down upon it. The pain invaded 
 him like an active personal enemy. Down the road it seemed 
 to him figures were moving Hogg, Davray that other 
 world the dust rose in little clouds. 
 
 What had he been doing? His head! Where did this 
 pain come from ? 
 
 He felt old and sick and weak. He wanted to be at homa 
 Slowly he began to climb the hill. An enemy, silent and 
 triumphant, seemed to step behind him.
 
 BOOK III 
 JUBILEE
 
 CHAPTER I 
 JUNE 17, THURSDAY: ANTICIPATION 
 
 IT must certainly be difficult for chroniclers of contempo- 
 rary history to determine significant dates to define the 
 beginning and end of succeeding periods. But I fancy that 
 any fellow-citizen of mine, if he thinks for a moment, will 
 agree with me that that Jubilee Summer of 1897 was the last 
 manifestation in our town of the separate individual Pol- 
 Chester spirit, of the old spirit that had dwelt in its streets 
 and informed its walls and roofs for hundreds of years past, 
 something as separate and distinct as the smells of Seatown, 
 the chime of the Cathedral bells, the cawing of the Cathedral 
 rooks in the Precinct Elms. 
 
 An interesting and, to one reader at least, a pathetic his- 
 tory might be written of the decline and death of that same 
 spirit not in Polchester alone, but in many another smalt 
 English town. From the Boer War of 1899 to the Great 
 War of 1914 stretches that destructive period; the agents of 
 that destruction, the new moneyed classes, the telephone, the 
 telegram, the motor, and last of all, the cinema. 
 
 Destruction? That is, perhaps, too strong a word. We 
 know that that is simply the stepping from one stage to 
 another of the eternal, the immortal cycle. The little hamlet 
 embowered in its protecting trees, defended by its beloved 
 hills, the Rock rising gaunt and naked in its midst ; then the 
 Cathedral, the Monks, the Baron's Castle, the feudal rule; 
 then the mighty Bishops and the vast all-encircling power 
 of the Church ; then the new merchant age, the Elizabethan 
 salt of adventure; then the cosy seventeenth and eighteenth 
 
 3J1
 
 302 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 centuries, with their domesticities, their little cultures, their 
 comfortable religion, their stay-at-home unimaginative fes- 
 tivities. 
 
 Throughout the nineteenth century that spirit lingers, 
 gently repulsing the outside world, reproving new doctrine, 
 repressing new movement . . . and the Rock and the Cathe- 
 dral wait their hours, watching the great sea that, far on the 
 horizon, is bathing its dykes and flooding the distant fields, 
 knowing that the waves are rising higher and higher, and 
 will at last, with full volume, leap upon these little pastures, 
 these green-clad valleys, these tiny hills. And in that day 
 only the Cathedral and the Rock will stand out above the 
 flood. 
 
 And this was a Polchester Jubilee. There may have been 
 some consciousness of that little old woman driving in her 
 carriage through the London streets, but in the main the 
 Town suddenly took possession, cried aloud that these festivi- 
 ties were for Herself, that for a week at least the Town 
 would assert Herself, bringing into Her celebration the 
 Cathedral that was her chief glory, but of whom, neverthe- 
 less, she was afraid ; the Rock upon which she was built, that 
 never changed, the country that surrounded and supported 
 her, the wild men who had belonged to her from time im- 
 memorial, the River that encircled her. 
 
 That week seemed to many, on looking back, a strangely 
 mad time, days informed with a wildness for which there was 
 no discernible reason men and women and children were 
 seized that week with some licence that they loved while it 
 lasted, but that they looked back upon with fear when it waa 
 over. What had come over them ? Who had been grinning 
 at them ? 
 
 The strange things that occurred that week seemed to 
 have no individual agent. No one was responsible. But life, 
 after that week, was for many people in the town never quite 
 the same again. 
 
 On the afternoon of Thursday, June 17, Render stood at
 
 THREE JUBILEE 303 
 
 the window of his study and looked down upon the little 
 orchard, the blazing flowers, the red garden-wall, and the 
 tree-tops on the descending hill, all glazed and sparkling 
 under the hot afternoon sun. As he looked down, seeing 
 nothing, sunk deeply in his own thoughts, he was aware of 
 extreme moral and spiritual discomfort. He moved back 
 from the window, making with his fingers a little gesture of 
 discontent and irritation. He paced his room, stopping 
 absent-mindedly once and again to push in a book that pro- 
 truded from the shelves, staying to finger things on his writ- 
 ing-table, jolting against a chair with his foot as he moved. 
 At last he flung himself into his deep leather chair and 
 stared fixedly at an old faded silk fire-guard, with its shadowy 
 flowers and dim purple silk, seeing it not at all. 
 
 He was angry, and of all things in the world that he hated, 
 he hated most to be that. He had been angry now for several 
 weeks, and, as though it had been a heavy cold that had 
 descended upon him, he woke up every morning expecting to 
 find that his anger had departed but it had not departed ; it 
 showed no signs whatever of departing. 
 
 As he sat there he was not thinking of the Jubilee, the one 
 thought at that time of every living soul in Polchester, man, 
 woman and child he was thinking of no one but Brandon, 
 with whom, to his own deep disgust, he was at last impla- 
 cably, remorselessly, angry. How many years ago now he had 
 decided that anger and hatred were emotions that every wise 
 man, at all cost to his pride, his impatience, his self-confi- 
 dence, avoided. Everything could be better achieved without 
 these weaknesses, and for many years he had tutored and 
 trained himself until, at last, he had reached this fine height 
 of superiority. From that height he had suddenly fallen. 
 
 It was now three weeks since that luncheon at Carpledon, 
 and in one way or another the quarrel on the road home 
 the absurd and ludicrous quarrel had become known to the 
 whole town. Had Brandon revealed it? Or possibly the 
 coachman? Whoever it was, every one now knew and
 
 304 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 laughed. Laughed! It was that for which Render would 
 never forgive Brandon. The man with his childish temper 
 and monstrous conceit had made him into a ludicrous figure. 
 It was true that they were laughing, it seemed, more at 
 Brandon than at himself, but the whole scene was farcical. 
 But beyond this, that incident, trivial though it might be in 
 itself, had thrown the relationship of the two men into 
 dazzling prominence. It was as though they had been 
 publicly announced as antagonists, and now, stripped and 
 prepared, ringed in by the breathless Town, must vulgarly 
 afford the roughs of the place the fistic exhibition of their 
 lives. It was the publicity that Render detested. He had 
 not disliked Brandon he had merely despised him, and he 
 had taken an infinite pleasure in furthering schemes and am- 
 bitions, a little underground maybe, but all for the final 
 benefit of the Town. 
 
 And now the blundering fool had brought this blaze down 
 upon them, was indeed rushing round and screaming at his 
 antagonist, shouting to any one who would hear that Render 
 was a blackguard and a public menace. It had been whis- 
 pered from what source again Render did not know that it 
 was through Render's influence that young Falk Brandon 
 had run off to Town with Hogg's daughter. The boy thought 
 the world of Render, it was said, and had been to see him and 
 ask his advice. Render knew that Brandon had heard this 
 story and was publicly declaring that Render had ruined his 
 son. 
 
 Finally the two men were brought into sharp rivalry over 
 the Pybus living. Over that, too, the town, or at any rate 
 the Cathedral section of it, was in two camps. Here, too, 
 Brandon's vociferous publicity had made privacy impossible. 
 
 Render was ashamed, as though his rotund body had been 
 suddenly exposed in all its obese nakedness before the 
 assembled citizens of Polchester. In this public quarrel he 
 was not in his element; forces were rising in him that he 
 distrusted and feared.
 
 TIIREE 
 
 JUBILEE 305 
 
 People were laughing . . . for that he would never forgive 
 Brandon so long as he lived. 
 
 On this particular afternoon he was about to close the 
 window and try to work at his sermon when some one 
 knocked at his door. 
 
 "Come in," he said impatiently. The maid appeared. 
 
 "Please, sir, there's some one would like to speak to you." 
 
 "Who is it?" 
 
 "She gave her name as Miss Milton, sir." 
 
 He paused, looking down at his papers. "She said she 
 wouldn't keep you more than a moment, sir." 
 
 "Very well. I'll see her." 
 
 Fate pushing him again. Why should this woman come to 
 him ? How could any one say that any of the steps that he 
 had taken in this affair had been his fault? Why, he had 
 had nothing whatever to do with them! 
 
 The sight of Miss Milton in his doorway filled him with 
 the same vague disgust that he had known on the earlier 
 occasions at the Library. To-day she was wearing a white 
 cotton dress, rather faded and crumpled, and grey silk gloves ; 
 in one of the fingers there was a hole. She carried a pink 
 parasol, and wore a large straw hat overtrimmed with roses. 
 Her face with its little red-rimmed eyes, freckled and flushed 
 complexion, her clumsy thick-set figure, fitted ill with her 
 youthful dress. 
 
 It was obvious enough that fate had not treated her well 
 since her departure from the Library; she was running to 
 seed very swiftly, and was herself bitterly conscious of the 
 fact. 
 
 Render, looking at her, was aware that it was her own 
 fault that it was so. She was incompetent, utterly incompe- 
 tent. He had, as he had promised, given her some work to do 
 during these last weeks, come copying, some arranging of 
 letters, and she had mismanaged it all. She was a muddle- 
 headed, ill-educated, careless, conceited and self-opinionated 
 woman, and it did not make it any the pleasanter for Bonder
 
 306 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 to be aware, as he now was, that Brandon had been quite right 
 to dismiss her from her Library post which she had retained 
 far too long. 
 
 She looked across the room at him with an expression of 
 mingled obstinacy and false humility. Her eyes were nearly 
 closed. 
 
 "Good-afternoon, Canon Ronder," she said. "It is very 
 good of you to see me. I shall not detain you very long." 
 
 "Well, what is it, Miss Milton ?" he said, looking over hia 
 shoulder at her. "I am very busy, as a matter of fact All 
 these Jubilee affairs however, if I can help you." 
 
 "You can help me, sir. It is a most serious matter, and I 
 need your advice." 
 
 "Well, sit down there and tell me about it." 
 
 The sun was beating into the room. He went across and 
 pulled down the blind, partly because it was hot and partly 
 because Miss Milton was less unpleasant in shadow. 
 
 Miss Milton seemed to find it hard to begin. She gulped 
 in her throat and rubbed her silk gloves nervously against one 
 another. 
 
 "I daresay I've done wrong in this matter," she began 
 "many would think so. But I haven't come here to excuse 
 myself. If I've done wrong, there are others who have done 
 more wrong yes, indeed." 
 
 "Please come to the point," said Ronder impatiently. 
 
 "I will, sir. That is my desire. Well, you must know, sir, 
 that after my most unjust dismissal from the Library I took a 
 couple of rooms with Mrs. Bassett who lets rooms, as perhaps 
 you know, sir, just opposite St. James' Rectory, Mr. 
 Morris's." 
 
 "Well?" said Ronder. 
 
 "Well, sir, I had not been there very long before Mrs. 
 Bassett herself, who is the least interfering and muddling of 
 women, drew my attention to a curious fact, a most curious 
 fact."
 
 THREE JUBILEE 307 
 
 Miss Milton paused, looking down at her lap and at a little 
 shabby black bag that lay upon it. 
 
 "Well ?" said Render again. 
 
 "This fact was that Mrs. Brandon, the wife of Archdeacon 
 Brandon, was in the habit of coming every day to see Mr. 
 Morris !" 
 
 Render got up from his chair. 
 
 "Now, Miss Milton," he said, "let me make myself per- 
 fectly clear. If you have come here to give me a lot of 
 scandal about some person, or persons, in this town, I do 
 not wish to hear it. You have come to the wrong place. I 
 wonder, indeed, that you should care to acknowledge to any 
 one that you have been spying at your window on the move- 
 ments of some people here. That is a disgraceful action. I 
 do not think there is any need for this conversation to 
 continue." 
 
 "Excuse me, Canon Ronder, there is need." Miss Milton 
 showed no intention whatever of moving from her chair. "I 
 was aware that you would, in all probability, rebuke me for 
 what I have done. I expected that. At the same time I 
 may say that I was not spying in any sense of the word. I 
 could not help it if the windows of my sitting-room looked 
 down upon Mr. Morris's house. You could not expect me, 
 in this summer weather, not to sit at my window. 
 
 "At the same time, if these visits of Mrs. Brandon's were 
 all that had occurred I should certainly not have come and 
 taken up your valuable time with an account of them ; I hope 
 that I know what is due to a gentleman of your position better 
 than that. It is on a matter of real importance that I have 
 come to you to ask your advice. Some one's advice I must 
 have, and if you feel that you cannot give it me, I must go 
 elsewhere. I cannot but feel that it is better for every one 
 concerned that you should have this piece of information 
 rather than any one else." 
 
 He noticed how she had grown in firmness and resolve since 
 she had begun to speak. She now saw her way to the carry-
 
 308 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 ing out of her plan. There was a definite threat in the words 
 of her last sentence, and as she looked at him across the 
 shadowy light he felt as though he saw down into her mean 
 little soul, filled now with hatred and obstinacy and jealous 
 determination. 
 
 "Of course," he said severely, "I cannot refuse your confi- 
 dence if you are determined to give it me." 
 
 "Yes," she said, nodding her head. "You have always 
 been very kind to me, Canon Render, as you have been to 
 many others in this place. Thank you." She looked at him 
 almost as severely as he had looked at her. "I will be as brief 
 as possible. I will not hide from you that I have never for- 
 given Archdeacon Brandon for his cruel treatment of me. 
 That, I think, is natural. When your livelihood is taken 
 away from you for no reason at all, you are not likely to for- 
 get it if you are human. And I do not pretend to be more 
 nor less than human. I will not deny that I saw these visits 
 of Mrs. Brandon's with considerable curiosity. There was 
 something hurried and secret in Mrs. Brandon's manner that 
 seemed to me odd. I became then, quite by chance, the friend 
 of Mr. Morris's cook-housekeeper, Mrs. Baker, a very nice 
 woman. That, I think, was quite natural as we were neigh- 
 bours, so to speak, and Mrs. Baker was herself a friend of 
 Mrs. Bassett's. 
 
 "I asked no indiscreet questions, but at last Mrs. Baker 
 confessed to both Mrs. Bassett and myself that she did not 
 like what was going on in Mr. Morris's house, and that she 
 thought of giving notice. When we asked her what she meant 
 she said that Mrs. Brandon was the trouble, that she was 
 always coming to the house, and that she and the reverend 
 gentleman were shut up for hours together by themselves. 
 She told us, too, that Mr. Morris's sister-in-law, Miss Burnett, 
 had also made objections. We advised Mrs. Baker that it waa 
 her duty to stay, at any rate for the present" 
 
 Miss Milton paused. Render said nothing. 
 
 "Well, sir, things got so bad that Miss Burnett wont away
 
 THBEB JUBILEE 309 
 
 to the sea. During her absence Mrs. Brandon came to the 
 house quite regularly, and Mrs. Baker told us that they 
 scarcely seemed to mind who saw them." 
 
 As Render looked at her he realised how little he knew 
 ahout women. He hated to realise this, as he hated to realise 
 any ignorance or weakness in himself, but in the face of the 
 woman opposite to him there was a mixture of motives of 
 greed, revenge, yes, and strangely enough, of a virgin's out- 
 raged propriety that was utterly alien to his experience. 
 He felt his essential, his almost inhuman, celibacy more at 
 that moment, perhaps, than he had ever felt it before. 
 
 "Well, sir, this went on for some weeks. Miss Burnett 
 returned, but, as Mrs. Baker said, the situation remained very 
 strained. To come to my point, four days ago I was in one 
 evening paying Mrs. Baker a visit. Every one was out, 
 although Mr. Morris was expected home for his dinner. 
 There was a ring at the bell and Mrs. Baker said, 'You go, 
 my dear.' She was busy at the moment with the cooking. 
 I went and opened the hall-door and there was Mrs. Bran- 
 don's parlourmaid that I knew by sight. 'I have a note for 
 Mr. Morris,' she said. 'You can give it to me,' I said. 
 She seemed to hesitate, but I told her if she didn't give it to 
 me she might as well take it away again, because there was no 
 one else in the house. That seemed to settle her, so telling 
 me it was something special, and was to be given to Mr. 
 Morris as soon as possible, she left it with me and went. 
 She'd never seen me before, I daresay, and didn't know I 
 didn't belong to the house." She paused, then opening her 
 little eyes wide and staring at Render as though she were 
 seeing him for the first time in her life she said softly, "I 
 have the note here." 
 
 She opened her black bag slowly, peered into it, produced 
 a piece'of paper out of it, and shut it with a sharp little click. 
 
 "You've kept it?" asked Ronder. 
 
 "I've kept it," she repeated, nodding her head. "I know 
 many would say I was wrong. But was I? That's the
 
 310 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 question. In any case that is another matter between myself 
 and my Maker." 
 
 "Please read this, sir?" She held out the paper to him. 
 He took it and after a moment's hesitation read it It had 
 neither date nor address. It ran as follows : 
 
 DEAREST I am sending this by a safe hand to tell you that 
 I cannot possibly get down to-night. I am so sorry and most 
 dreadfully disappointed, but I will explain everything when we 
 meet to-morrow. This is to prevent your waiting on when I'm 
 not coming. 
 
 There was no signature. 
 
 "You had no right to keep this," he said to her angrily. 
 As he spoke he looked at the piece of paper and felt again 
 how strange and foreign to him the whole nature of woman 
 was. The risks that they would take! The foolish mad 
 things that they would do to satisfy some caprice or whim ! 
 
 "How do you know that this was written by Mrs. Bran- 
 don ?" he asked. 
 
 "Of course I know her handwriting very well," Miss Mil- 
 ton answered. "She often wrote to me when I was at the 
 Library." 
 
 He was silent. He was seeing those two in the new light 
 of this letter. So they were really lovers, the drab, unroman- 
 tic, plain, dull, middle-aged souls! What had they seen in 
 one another ? What had they felt, to drive them to deeds so 
 desperate, yes, and so absurd ? Was there then a world right 
 outside his ken, a world from which he had been since his 
 birth excluded ? 
 
 Absent-mindedly he had put the letter down on his table. 
 Quickly she stretched out her gloved hand and took it. The 
 bag clicked over it. 
 
 "Why have you brought this to me ?" ho asked, looking at 
 her with a disgust that he did not attempt to conceal. 
 
 "You are the first person to whom I have spoken about the
 
 THREE JUBILEE 311 
 
 matter," she answered. "I have not said anything even to 
 Mrs. Baker. I have had the letter for several days and have 
 not known what is right to do about it." 
 
 "There is only one thing that is right to do about it," he 
 answered sharply. "Burn it." 
 
 "And say nothing to anybody about it ? Oh, Canon Ren- 
 der, surely that would not be right. I should not like people 
 to think that you had given me such advice. To allow the 
 Rector of St. James' to continue in his position, with so many 
 looking up to him, and he committing such sins. Oh, no, sir, 
 I cannot feel that to be right !" 
 
 "It is not our business," he answered angrily. "It is not 
 our affair." 
 
 "Very well, sir." She got up. "It's good of you to give 
 me your opinion. It is not our affair. Quite so. But it is 
 Archdeacon Brandon's affair. He should see this letter. I 
 thought that perhaps you yourself might like to speak to 
 him " she paused. 
 
 "I will have nothing to do with it," he answered, getting 
 up and standing over her. "You did very wrong to keep the 
 letter. You are cherishing evil passions in your heart, Miss 
 Milton, that will bring you nothing but harm and sorrow in 
 the end. You have come to me for advice, you say. Well, I 
 give it to you. Burn that letter and forget what you know." 
 
 Her complexion had changed to a strange muddy grey as 
 he spoke. 
 
 "There are others in this town, Canon Render," she said, 
 "who are cherishing much the same passions as myself, 
 although they may not realise it. I thought it wise to tell you 
 what I know. As you will not help me, I know now what to 
 do. I am grateful for your advice which, however, I do not 
 think you wish me to follow." 
 
 With one last look at him she moved softly to the door 
 and was gone. She seemed to him to leave some muddy im- 
 pression of her personality upon the walls and furniture of 
 the room. He flung up the window, walked about rubbing
 
 312 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 his hands against one another behind his back, hating every- 
 thing around him. 
 
 The words of the note repeated themselves again and again 
 in his head. 
 
 "Dearest . . . safe hand . . . dreadfully disappointed. 
 . . . Dearest" 
 
 Those two ! He saw Morris, with his weak face, his mild 
 eyes, his rather shabby clothes, his hesitating manner, his 
 thinning hair and Mrs. Brandon, so mediocre that no one 
 ever noticed her, never noticed anything about her what she 
 wore, what she said, what she did, anything ! 
 
 Those two 1 Ghosts ! and in love so that they would risk 
 loss of everything reputation, possessions, family that 
 they might obtain their desire! In love as he had never been 
 in all his life! 
 
 His thoughts turned, with a little shudder, to Miss Milton. 
 She had come to him because she thought that he would like 
 to share in her revenge. That, more than anything, hurt him, 
 bringing him down to her base, sordid level, making him 
 fellow-conspirator with her, plotting . . . ugh 1 How cruelly 
 unfair that he, upright, generous, should be involved like 
 this so meanly. 
 
 Ke washed his hands in the little dressing-room near the 
 study, scrubbing them as though the contact with Miss Milton 
 still lingered there. Hating his own company, he went down- 
 stairs, where he found Ellen Stiles, having had a very happy 
 tea with his aunt, preparing to depart. 
 
 "Going, Ellen ?" he asked. 
 
 She was in the highest spirits and a hat of vivid green. 
 
 "Yes, I must go. I've been here ever so long. We've had 
 a perfectly lovely time, talking all about poor Mrs. Maynard 
 and her consumption. There's simply no hope for her, I'm 
 afraid ; it's such a shame when she has four small children ; 
 but as I told her yesterday, it's really best to make up one's 
 mind to the worst, and there'll be no money for the poor little 
 things after she's gone. I don't know what they'll do."
 
 THBEB JUBILEE 313 
 
 "You must have cheered her up," said Render. 
 
 'Well, I don't know about that. Like all consumptives she 
 will persist in thinking that she's going to get well. Of 
 course, if she had money enough to go to Davos or somewhere 
 . . . but she hasn't, so there's simply no hope at all." 
 
 "If you are going along I'll walk part of the way with 
 you," said Ronder. 
 
 "That will Be nice." Ellen kissed Miss Ronder very 
 affectionately. "Good-bye, you darling. I have had a nice 
 time. Won't it be awful if it's wet next week? Simply 
 everything will be ruined. I don't see much chance of its 
 being fine myself. Still you never can tell." 
 
 They went out together. The Precincts was quiet and 
 deserted; a bell, below in the sunny town, was ringing for 
 Evensong. "Morris's church, perhaps," thought Ronder. 
 The light was stretched like a screen of coloured silk across 
 the bright green of the Cathedral square ; the great Church 
 itself was in shadow, misty behind the sun, and shifting from 
 shade to shade as though it were under water. 
 
 When they had walked a little way Ellen said: <r What's 
 the matter ?" 
 
 "The matter ?" Ronder echoed. 
 
 "Yes. You're looking worried, and that's so rare with you 
 that when it happens one's interested." 
 
 He hesitated, looking at her and almost stopping in his 
 walk. An infernal nuisance if Ellen Stiles were to choose 
 this moment for the exercise of her unfortunate curiosity 1 
 He had intended to go down High Street with her and then to 
 go by way of Orange Street to Foster's rooms ; but one could 
 reach Foster more easily by the little crooked street behind 
 the Cathedral. He would say good-bye to her here. . . . 
 Then another thought struck him. He would go on with her. 
 
 "Isn't your curiosity terrible, Ellen!" he said, laughing. 
 "If you didn't happen to have a kind heart hidden some- 
 where about you, you'd be a perfectly impossible woman. Aa 
 it is, I'm not sure that you're not."
 
 314 THE CATHEDRAL 
 
 BOOK 
 
 "I think perhaps I am," Ellen answered, laughing. "I do 
 take a great interest in other people's affairs. Well, why not ? 
 It prevents me from being bored." 
 
 "But not from being a bore," said Render. "I hate to be 
 unpleasant, but there's nothing more tiresome than being 
 asked why one's in a certain mood. However, leave me alone 
 and I will repay your curiosity by some of my own. Tell 
 me, how much are people talking about Mrs. Brandon and 
 Morris?" 
 
 This time she was genuinely surprised. On so many 
 occasions he had checked her love of gossip and scandal and 
 now he was deliberately provoking it. It was as though he 
 had often lectured her about drinking too much and then had 
 been discovered by her, secretly tippling. 
 
 "Oh, everybody's talking, of course," she said. "Although 
 you pretend never to talk scandal you must know enough 
 about the town to know that. They happen to be talking less 
 just at the moment because nobody's thinking of anything 
 but the Jubilee." 
 
 "What I want to know," said Render, "is how much Bran- 
 don is supposed to be aware of and does he mind ?" 
 
 "He's aware of nothing," said Ellen decisively. "Nothing 
 at all. He's always looked upon his wife as a piece of furni- 
 ture, neither very ornamental nor very useful, but still his 
 property, and therefore to be reckoned on as stable and sub- 
 missive. I don't think that in any case he would ever dream 
 that she could disobey him in anything, but, as it happens, 
 his son's flight to London and his own quarrel with you en- 
 tirely possess his mind. He talks, eats, thinks, dreams noth- 
 ing else." 
 
 "What would he do, do you think," pursued Render, "if he 
 were to discover that there really was something wrong, that 
 she had been unfaithful ?" 
 
 "Why, is there proof ?" asked Ellen Stiles, eagerly, pausing 
 for a moment in her excitement. 
 
 The sharp note of eagerness in her voice checked him.
 
 THREE JUBILEE 315 
 
 "No nothing," he said. "Nothing at all. Of course not. 
 And how should I know if there were ?" 
 
 "You're just the person who would know," answered Ellen 
 decisively. "However many other people you've hoodwinked, 
 you haven't taken me in all these years. But I'll tell you 
 this as from one friend to another, that you've made the first 
 mistake in your life by allowing this quarrel with Brandon 
 to become so public." 
 
 He marvelled again, as he had often marvelled before, at 
 her unerring genius for discovering just the thing to say to 
 her friends that would hurt them most. And yet with that 
 she had a kind heart, as he had had reason often enough to 
 know. Queer things, women ! 
 
 "It's not my fault if the quarrel's become public," he said. 
 They were turning down the High Street now and he could 
 not show all the vexation that he felt. "It's Brandon's own 
 idiotic character and the love of gossip displayed by this 
 town." 
 
 "Well, then," she said, delighted that she had annoyed him 
 and that he was showing his annoyance, "that simply means 
 that you've been defeated by circumstances. For once they've 
 been too strong for you. If you like that explanation you'd 
 better take it," 
 
 "Now, Ellen," he said, "you're trying to make me lose my 
 temper in revenge for my not satisfying your curiosity ; give 
 up. You've tried before and you've always failed." 
 
 She laughed, putting her hand through his arm. 
 
 "Yes, don't let's quarrel," she said. "Isn't it delightful 
 to-night with the sunlight and the excitement and every one 
 out enjoying themselves? I love to see them happy, poor 
 things. It's only the successful and the self-important and 
 the patronising that I want to pull down a little. As soon as 
 I find myself wanting to dig at somebody, I know it's because 
 they're getting above themselves. You'd better be careful. 
 I'm not at all sure that success isn't going to your head." 
 
 "Success ?" he asked.
 
 316 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 "Yes. Don't look so innocent. You've been here only a 
 few months and already you're the only man here who counts. 
 You've beaten Brandon in the very first round, and it's absurd 
 of you to pretend to an old friend like myself that you don't 
 know that you have. But be careful." 
 
 The street was shining, wine-coloured, against the black 
 walls that hemmed it in, black walls scattered with sheets 
 of glass, absurd curtains of muslin, brown, shabby, self- 
 ashamed backs of looking-glasses, door-knobs, flower-pots, and 
 collections of furniture, books and haberdashery. 
 
 "Suppose you leave me alone for a moment, Ellen," said 
 Render, "and think of somebody else. What I really want to 
 know is, how intimate are you with Mrs. Brandon ?" 
 
 "Intimate?" 
 
 "Yes. I mean could you speak to her? Tell her, in 
 some way, to be more careful, that she's in danger. Women 
 know how to do these things. I want to find somebody." 
 
 He paused. Did he want to find somebody? Why this 
 strange tenderness towards Mrs. Brandon of which he was 
 quite suddenly conscious ? Was it his disgust of Miss Milton, 
 so that he could not bear to think of any one in the power of 
 such a woman ? 
 
 "Warn her?" said Ellen. "Then she ts in danger." 
 
 "Only if, as you say, every one is talking. I'm sorry for 
 her." 
 
 They had come to the parting of their ways. "No. 1 
 don't know her well enough for that. She wouldn't take it 
 from me. She wouldn't take it from anybody. She's 
 prouder than you'd think. And it's my belief she doesn't 
 care if she is in danger. She'd rather welcome it That's 
 my belief." 
 
 "Good-bye then. I won't ask you to keep our talk quiet 
 I don't suppose you could if you wanted to. But I will ask 
 you to be kind." 
 
 "Why should I be kind ? And you know you don't want 
 me to be, really."
 
 THREE JUBILEE 317 
 
 "I do want you to ba" 
 
 "No, it's part of the game you're playing. Or if it isn't, 
 you're changing more than you've ever changed before. Look 
 out ! Perhaps it's you that's in danger !" 
 
 As he turned up Orange Street he wondered again what 
 impulse it was that was making him sorry for Mrs. Brandon. 
 He always wished people to be happy life was easier so 
 but had he, even yesterday, been told that he would ever feel 
 concern for Mrs. Brandon, that supreme symbol of feminine 
 colourless mediocrity, he would have laughed derisively. 
 
 Then the beauty of the hour drove everything else from 
 him. The street climbed straight into the sky, a broad flat 
 sheet of gold, and on its height the monument, perched against 
 the quivering air, was a purple shaft, its gesture proud, 
 haughty, exultant. Suddenly he saw in front of him, moving 
 with quick, excited steps, Mrs. Brandon, an absurdly insigni- 
 ficant figure against that splendour. 
 
 He felt as though his thoughts had evoked her out of space, 
 and as though she was there against her will. Then he felt 
 that he, too, was there against his will, and that he had 
 nothing to do with either the time or the place. 
 
 He caught her up. She started nervously when he said, 
 "Good evening, Mrs. Brandon," and raised her little mouse- 
 face with its mild, hesitating, grey eyes to his. He knew her 
 only slightly and was conscious that she did not like him. 
 That was not his affair ; she had become something quite new 
 to him since he had gained this knowledge of her she was 
 provocative, suggestive, even romantic. 
 
 "Good evening, Canon Render." She did not smile nor 
 slacken her steps. 
 
 "Isn't this a lovely evening?" he said. "If we have this 
 weather next week we shall be lucky indeed." 
 
 "Yes, shan't we shan't we ?" she said nervously, not con- 
 sidering him, but staring straight at the street in front of 
 her. 
 
 "I think all the preparations are made," Ronder went on
 
 318 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 in the genial easy voice that he always adopted with children 
 and nervous women. "There should be a tremendous crowd 
 if the weather's fina People already are pouring in from 
 every part of the country, they tell me sleeping anywhere, 
 in the fields and the hedges. This old town will be proud of 
 herself." 
 
 "Yes, yes," Mrs. Brandon looked about her as though she 
 were trying to find a way of escape. "I'm so glad you think 
 that the weather will be fine. I'm so glad. I think it will 
 myself. I hope Miss Render is well." 
 
 "Very well, thank you." What could Morris see in her, 
 with her ill-fitting clothes, her skirt trailing a little in the 
 dust, her hat too big and heavy for her head, her hair escap- 
 ing in little untidy wisps from under it? She looked hot, 
 too, and her nose was shiny. 
 
 "You're coming to the Ball of course," he went on, 
 relieved that now they were near the top of the little hill. 
 "It's to be the best Ball the Assembly Rooms have seen since 
 since Jane Austen." 
 
 "Jane Austen ?" asked Mrs. Brandon vaguely. 
 
 "Well, her time, you know, when dancing was all the rage. 
 We ought to have more dances here, I think, now that there 
 are so many young people about." 
 
 "Yes, I agree with you. My daughter is coming out at the 
 Ball." 
 
 "Oh, is she? I'm sure she'll have a good time. She's so 
 pretty. Every one's fond of her." 
 
 He waited, but apparently Mrs. Brandon had nothing 
 more to say. There was a pause, then Mrs, Brandon, as 
 though she had been suddenly pushed to it by some one 
 behind her, held out her hand. . . . 
 
 "Good evening, Canon Render." 
 
 He said good-bye and watched her for a moment as she 
 went up past the neat little villas, her dress trailing behind 
 her, her hat bobbing with every step. He looked up at the 
 absurd figure on the top of the monument, the gentleman in
 
 THEEE JUBILEE 319 
 
 frock-coat and tall hat commemorated there. The light had 
 left him. He was not purple now but a dull grey. He, too, 
 had doubtless had his romance, blood and tears, anger and 
 agony for somebody. How hard to keep out of such things, 
 and yet one must if one is to achieve anything. Keep out of 
 it, detached, observant, comfortable. Strange that in life 
 comfort should be so difficult to attain ! 
 
 Climbing Green Lane he was surprised to feel how hot it 
 was. The trees that clustered over his head seemed to have 
 gathered together all the heat of the day. Everything con- 
 spired to annoy him ! Bodger's Street, when he turned into 
 it, was, from his point of view, at its very worst, crowded and 
 smelly and rocking with noise. The fields behind Bodger's 
 Street and Canon's Yard sloped down the hill then up again 
 out into the country beyond. 
 
 It was here on this farther hill that the gipsies had been 
 allowed to pitch their caravans, and that the Fair was already 
 preparing its splendours. It was through these gates that 
 the countrymen would penetrate the town's defences, just as 
 on the other side, low down in Seatown on the Pol's banks, 
 the seafaring men, fishermen and sailors and merchantmen, 
 were gathering. Bodger's Street was already alive with the 
 anticipation of the coming week's festivities. Gas-jets were 
 flaming behind hucksters' booths, all the population of the 
 place was out on the street enjoying the fine summer evening, 
 shouting, laughing, singing, quarrelling. The effect of the 
 street illumined by these uncertain flares that leapt unnatur- 
 ally against the white shadow of the summer sky was of some- 
 thing mediaeval, and that impression was deepened by the 
 overhanging structure of the Cathedral that covered the faint 
 blue and its little pink clouds like a swinging spider's web. 
 
 Ronder, however, was not now thinking of the town. His 
 mind was fixed upon his approaching interview with Foster. 
 Foster had just paid a visit, quite unofficial and on a private 
 personal basis, to Wistons, to sound him about the Pybus 
 living and his action if he were offered it.
 
 320 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 Render understood men very much better than he under- 
 stood women. He understood Foster so long as ambition and 
 religion were his motives, but there was something else in play 
 that he did not understand. It was not only that Foster did 
 not like him he doubted whether Foster liked anybody ex- 
 cept the Bishop it was rather perhaps that Foster did not 
 like himself. Now it is the first rule of fanaticism that you 
 should be so lost in the impulse of your inspiration that you 
 should have no power left with which to consider yourself at 
 all. Foster was undoubtedly a fanatic, but he did consider 
 himself and even despised himself. Render distrusted self- 
 contempt in a man simply because nothing made him so un- 
 comfortable as those moments of his own when he wondered 
 whether he were all that he thought himself. Those moments 
 did not last long, but he hated them so bitterly that he could 
 not bear to see them at work in other people. Foster was the 
 kind of fanatic who might at any minute decide to put peas in 
 his shoes and walk to Jerusalem ; did he so decide, he would 
 abandon, for that decision, all the purposes for which he 
 might at the time be working. Render would certainly never 
 walk to Jerusalem. 
 
 The silence and peace of Canon's Yard when he left 
 Bodger's Street was almost dramatic. All that penetrated 
 there was a subdued buzz with an occasional shrill note as it 
 might be on a penny whistle. The Yard was dark, lit only by 
 a single lamp, and the cobbles uneven. Lights here and there 
 set in the crooked old windows were secret and uncommunica- 
 tive: the Cathedral towers seemed immensely tall against the 
 dusk. It would not be dark for another hour and a half, but 
 in those old rooms with their email casements light was thin 
 and uncertain. 
 
 He climbed the rickety stairs to Foster's rooms. As al- 
 ways, something made him pause outside Foster's door and 
 listen. All the sounds of the old building seemed to come up 
 to him; not human voices and movements, but the life of the 
 old house itself, the- creaking protests of stairways, the sighs
 
 THREE JUBILEE 321 
 
 of reluctant doors, the harping groans of ill-mannered win- 
 dow-frames, the coughs and wheezes of trembling walls, the 
 shudders of ill-boding banisters. 
 
 "This house will collapse, the first gale," he thought, and 
 suddenly the Cathedral chimes, striking the half -hour, crashed 
 through the wall, knocking and echoing as though their clatter 
 belonged to that very house. 
 
 The echo died, and the old place recommenced its mur- 
 muring. 
 
 Foster, blinking like an old owl, came to the door and, 
 without a word, led the way into his untidy room. He cleared 
 a chair of papers and books and Bonder sat down. 
 
 "Well ?" said Bonder. 
 
 Foster was in a state of overpowering excitement, but he 
 looked to Bonder older and more worn than a week ago. 
 There were dark pouches under his eyes, his cheeks were 
 drawn, and his untidy grey hair seemed thin and ragged 
 here too long, there showing the skull guant and white beneath 
 it. His eyes burnt with a splendid flame ; in them there was 
 the light of eternal life. 
 
 "Well ?" said Bonder again, as Foster did not answer his 
 first question. 
 
 "He's coming," Foster cried, striding about the room, his 
 shabby slippers giving a ghostly tip-tap behind him. "He's 
 coming! Of course I had never doubted it, but I hadn't 
 expected that he would be so eager as he is. He let himself 
 go to me at once. Of course he knew that I wasn't official, 
 that I had no backing at all. He's quite prepared for things 
 to go the other way, although I told him that I thought there 
 would be little chance of that if we all worked together. He 
 didn't ask many questions. He knows all the conditions well. 
 Since I saw him last he's gained in every way wiser, better 
 disciplined, more sure of himself everything that I have 
 never been. ..." Foster paused, then went on. "I think 
 never in all my life have I felt affection so go out to another
 
 322 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 human being. He is a man after my own heart a child of 
 God, an inheritor of Eternal Life, a leader of men " 
 
 Render interrupted him. 
 
 "Yes, but as to detail. Did you discuss that ? He knew 
 of the opposition ?" 
 
 Foster waved his hand contemptuously. "Brandon? 
 What does that amount to? Why, even in the week that I 
 have been away his power has lessened. The hand of God 
 is against him. Everything is going wrong with him. I 
 loathe scandal, but there is actually talk going on in the town 
 about his wife. I could feel pity for the man were he not so 
 dangerous." 
 
 "You are wrong there, Foster," Render said eagerly. 
 "Brandon isn't finished yet by no manner of means. He 
 still has most of the town behind him and a big majority 
 with the Cathedral people. He stands for what they think 
 or don't think old ideas, conservatism, every established 
 dogma you can put your hand on, bad music, traditionalism, 
 superstition and carelessness. It is not Brandon himself we 
 are fighting, but what he stands for." 
 
 Foster stopped and looked down at Render. "You'll for- 
 give me if I speak my mind," he said. "I'm an older man 
 than you are, and in any case it's my way to say what I think. 
 You know that by this time. You've made a mistake in allow- 
 ing this quarrel with Brandon to become so personal a 
 matter." 
 
 Render flushed angrily. 
 
 "Allowing!" he retorted. "As though that were not the 
 very thing that I've tried to prevent it from becoming. But 
 the old fool has rushed out and shouted his grievances to 
 everybody. I suppose you've hoard of the ridiculous quarrel 
 we had coming away from Carpledon. The whole town 
 knows of it. There never was a more ridiculous scene. He 
 stood in the middle of the road and screamed like a madman. 
 It's my belief he is going mad I A precious lot I had to do 
 with that I was as amiable as possible. But you can't deal
 
 THREE JUBILEE 323 
 
 with him. His conceit and his obstinacy are monstrous." 
 
 Nothing was more irritating in Foster than the way that 
 he had of not listening to excuses; he always brushed them 
 aside as though they were beneath notice. 
 
 "You shouldn't have made it a personal thing," he repeated. 
 "People will take sides are already doing so. It oughtn't 
 to be between you two at all." 
 
 "I tell you it is not !" Render answered angrily. Then with 
 a great effort he pulled himself in. "I don't know what has 
 been happening to me lately," he said with a smile. "I've 
 always prided myself on keeping out of quarrels, and in any 
 case I'm not going to quarrel with you. I'm sure you're right. 
 It is a pity that the thing's become personal. I'll see what 
 I can do." 
 
 But Foster paid as little attention to apologies as to excuses. 
 
 "That's been a mistake," he said; "and there have been 
 other mistakes. You are too personally ambitious, Bonder. 
 We are working for the glory of God and for no private in- 
 terests whatever." 
 
 Bonder smiled. "You're hard on me," he said ; "but you 
 shall think what you like. I won't allow that I've been per- 
 sonally ambitious, but it's difficult sometimes when you're 
 putting all your energies into a certain direction not to seem 
 to be serving your own ends. I like power who doesn't? 
 But I would gladly sacrifice any personal success if that were 
 needed to win the main battle." 
 
 "Win!" Foster cried. "Win! But we've got to win! 
 There's never been such a chance for us ! If Brandon wins 
 now our opportunity is gone for another generation. What 
 Wistons can do here if he comes ! The power that he will be !" 
 
 Suddenly there came into Bonder's mind for the first time 
 the thought that was to recur to him very often in the future. 
 Was it wise of him to work for the coming of a man who might 
 threaten his own power? He shook that from him. He 
 would deal with that when the time came. For the present 
 Brandon was enough. . . .
 
 324 THE CATHEDRAL 
 
 "Now as to detail ..." Render said. 
 
 They sat down at the paper-littered table. For another 
 hour and a half they stayed there, and it would have been 
 curious for an observer to see how, in this business, Ronder 
 obtained an absolute mastery. Foster, the fire dead in his 
 eyes, the light gone, followed him blindly, agreeing to every- 
 thing, wondering at the clearness, order and discipline of his 
 plans. An hour ago, treading the soil of his own country, he 
 had feared no man, and his feeling for Ronder had been one 
 half-contempt, half-suspicion. Now he was in the other's 
 hands. This was a world into which he had never won right 
 of entry. 
 
 The Cathedral chimes struck nina Ronder got up and 
 put his papers away with a little sigh of satisfaction. Ho 
 knew that his work had been good. 
 
 "There's nothing that we've forgotten. Bentinck-Major 
 will be caught before he knows where he is. Ryle too. Let 
 us get through this next week safely and the battle's won," 
 
 Foster blinked. 
 
 "Yes, yes," he said hurriedly. "Yes, yes. Good-night, 
 good-night," and almost pushed Ronder from the room. 
 
 "I don't believe he's taken in a word of it," Ronder thought, 
 as he went down the creaking stairs. 
 
 At the top of Bodger's Street he paused. The street was 
 Btill ; the sky was pale green on the horizon, purple overhead. 
 The light was still strong, but, to the left beyond the sloping 
 fields, the woods were banked black and sombre. From the 
 meadow in front of the woods came the sounds of an encamp- 
 ment women shouting, horses neighing, dogs barking. A 
 few lights gleamed like red eyes. The dusky forms of cara- 
 vans with their thick-set chimneys, ebony-coloured against the 
 green sky, crouched like animals barking. A woman was 
 singing, men's voices took her up, and the song came rippling 
 across the little valley. 
 
 All the stir of an inrading world was there.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 FRIDAY, JUNE 18 1 SHADOW MEETS SHADOW 
 
 O"N that Friday evening, about half-past six o'clock, Arch- 
 deacon Brandon, just as he reached the top of the High 
 Street, saw God. 
 
 There was nothing either strange or unusual about this. 
 Having had all his life the conviction that he and God were 
 on the most intimate of terms, that God knew and understood 
 himself and his wants better than any other friend that he 
 had, that just as God had definitely deputed him to work out 
 certain plans on this earth, so, at times, He needed his own 
 help and advice, having never wavered for an instant in the 
 very simplest tenets of his creed, and believing in every word 
 of the New Testament as though the events there recorded had 
 only a week ago happened in his own town under his own 
 eyes all this being so, it was not strange that he should some- 
 times come into close and actual contact with his Master. 
 
 It may be said that it was this very sense of contact, con- 
 tinued through long years of labour and success, that was the 
 original foundation of the Archdeacon's pride. If of late 
 years that pride had grown from the seeds of the Archdeacon's 
 own self-confidence and appreciation, who can blame him ? 
 
 We translate more easily than we know our gratitude to 
 God into our admiration of ourselves. 
 
 Over and over again in the past, when he had been labour- 
 ing with especial fervour, he was aware that, in the simplest 
 sense of the word, God was "walking with him." He was con- 
 scious of a new light and heat, of a fresh companionship ; he 
 
 325
 
 326 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 could almost translate into physical form that comradeship of 
 which he was so tenderly aware. How could it be but that 
 after such an hour he should look down from those glorious 
 heights upon his other less favoured fellow-companions? Xo 
 merit of his own that he had been chosen, but the choice had 
 been made. 
 
 On this evening he was in sad need of comfort. Never in 
 all his past years had life gone so hardly with him as it was 
 going now. It was as though, about three or four months 
 back, he had, without knowing it, stepped into some new and 
 terrible country. One feature after another had changed, old 
 familiar faces wore new unfamiliar disguises, every step that 
 he took now seemed to be dangerous, misfortune after mis- 
 fortune had come to him, at first slight and even ludicrous, 
 at last with Falk's escape, serious and bewildering. Bewilder- 
 ing! That was the true word to describe his case! He was 
 like a man moving through familiar country and overtaken 
 suddenly by a dense fog. Through it all, examine it as 
 minutely as he might, he could not see that he had committed 
 the slightest fault. 
 
 He had been as ho had always been, and yet the very face 
 of the town was changed to him, his son had left him, even his 
 wife, to whom he had been married for twenty years, was 
 altered. Was it not natural, therefore, that he should attribute 
 all of this to the only new element that had been introduced 
 into his life during these last months, to the one human 
 being alive who was his declared enemy, to the one man who 
 had openly, in the public road, before witnesses, insulted him, 
 to the man who, from the first moment of his coming to Pol- 
 chester, had laughed at him and mocked and derided him? 
 
 To Ronder ! To Render ! The name was never out of his 
 brain now, lying there, stirring, twisting in his very sleep, 
 sneering, laughing even in the heart of his private prayers. 
 
 He was truly in need of God that evening, and there, at the 
 top of the High Street, he saw Him framed in all the colour 
 and glow and sparkling sunlight of the summer evening, fill-
 
 THEEB JUBILEE 327 
 
 ing him with warmth and new courage, surrounding him, en- 
 veloping him in love and tenderness. 
 
 Cynics might say that it was because the Archdeacon, no 
 longer so young as he had been, was blown by his climb of the 
 High Street and stood, breathing hard for a moment before 
 he passed into the Precincts, lights dancing before his eyes as 
 they will when one is out of breath, the ground swaying a 
 little under the pressure of the heart, the noise of the town 
 rocking in the ears. 
 
 That is for the cynics to say. Brandon knew ; his experi- 
 ences had been in the past too frequent for him, even now, to 
 make a mistake. 
 
 Running down the hill went the High Street, decorated 
 now with flags and banners in honour of the great event; 
 cutting the sky, stretching from Brent's the haberdasher's 
 across to Adams' the hairdresser's, was a vast banner of bright 
 yellow silk stamped in red letters with "Sixty Years Our 
 Queen. God Bless Her!" 
 
 Just beside the Archdeacon, above the door of the book- 
 shop where he had once so ignominiously taken refuge, was 
 a flag of red, white and blue, and opposite the bookseller's, at 
 Gummridge's the stationer's, was a little festoon of flags and 
 a blue message stamped on a white ground : "God Bless Our 
 Queen : Long May She Reign !" 
 
 All down the street flags and streamers were fluttering in 
 the little summer breeze that stole about the houses and win- 
 dows and doors as though anxiously enquiring whether people 
 were not finding the evening just a little too warm. 
 
 People were not finding it at all too warm. Every one was 
 out and strolling up and down, laughing and whistling and 
 chattering, dressed, although it was only Friday, in nearly 
 their Sunday best. The shops were closing, one by one, and 
 the throng was growing thicker and thicker. So little traffic 
 was passing that young men and women were already march- 
 ing four abreast, arm-in-arm, along the middle of the street.
 
 328 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 It was a long time ten years, in fact since Polchester had 
 Been such gaiety. 
 
 This was behind the Archdeacon ; in front of him was the 
 dark archway in which the grass of the Cathedral square was 
 framed like the mirrored reflection of evening light where the 
 pale blue and pearl white are shadowed with slanting green. 
 The peace was profound nothing stirred. There in the arch- 
 way God stood, smiling upon His faithful servant, only as 
 Brandon approached Him passing into shadow and sunlight 
 and the intense blue of the overhanging sky. 
 
 Brandon tried then, as he had often tried before, to keep 
 that contact close to himself, but the ecstatic moment had 
 passed; it had lasted, it seemed, on this occasion a shorter 
 time than ever before. He bowed his head, stood for a mo- 
 ment under the arch offering a prayer as simple and innocent 
 as a child offers at its mother's knee, then with an instanta- 
 neous change that in a more complex nature could have meant 
 only hypocrisy, but that with him was perfectly sincere, he 
 was in a moment the hot, angry, mundane priest again, doing 
 battle with his enemies and defying them to destroy him. 
 
 Nevertheless the transition to-night was not quite so com- 
 plete as usual. He was unhappy, lonely, and in spite of him- 
 self afraid, afraid of he knew not what, as a child might be 
 when its candle is blown out. And with this unhappiness his 
 thoughts turned to home. Falk's departure had caused him 
 to consider his wife more seriously than he had ever done in 
 all their married life before. She had loved Falk ; she must 
 be lonely without him, and during these weeks he had been 
 groping in a clumsy baffled kind of way towards some expres- 
 sion to her of the kindness and sympathy that he was feeling. 
 
 But those emotions do not come easily after many years 
 of disuse; ho was always embarrassed and self-conscious when 
 he expressed affection. He was afraid of her, too, thought 
 that if ho showed too much kindness she might suddenly be- 
 come emotional, fling her arms around him and cover his face 
 with kisses something of that kind.
 
 JUBILEE 329 
 
 Then of late she had been very strange; eyer since that 
 Sunday morning when she had refused to go to Communion. 
 . . . Strange! Women are strange! As different from 
 men as Frenchmen are from Englishmen! 
 
 But he would like to-night to come closer to her. Dimly, 
 far within him, something was stirring that told him that it 
 had been his own fault that during all these years she had 
 drifted away from him. He must win her back ! A thing 
 easily done. In the Archdeacon's view of life any man had 
 only got to whistle and fast the woman came running ! 
 
 But to-night he wanted some one to care for him and to tell 
 him that all was well and that the many troubles that seemed 
 to be crowding about him were but imaginary after all. 
 
 When he reached the house he found that he had only just 
 time to dress for dinner. He ran upstairs, and then, when 
 his door was closed and he was safely inside his bedroom, he 
 had to pause and stand, his hand upon his heart. How it was 
 hammering! like a beast struggling to escape its cage. His 
 knees, too, were trembling. He was forced to sit down. After 
 all, he was not so young as he had been. 
 
 These recent months had been trying for him. But how 
 humiliating ! He was glad that there had been no one there 
 to see him. He would need all his strength for the battle 
 that was in front of him. Yes, he was glad that there had 
 been no o/ae to see him. He would ask old Puddifoot to look 
 at him, although the man was an ass. He drank a glass of 
 water, then slowly dressed. 
 
 He came downstairs and went into the drawing-room. His 
 wife was there, standing in the shadow by the window, staring 
 out into the Precincts. He came across the room softly to her, 
 then gently put his hand on her shoulder. 
 
 She had not heard his approach. She turned round with 
 a sharp cry and then faced him, staring, her eyes terrified. 
 He, on his side, was so deeply startled by her alarm that he 
 could only stare back at her, himself frightened and feeling a 
 strange clumsy foolishness at her alarm.
 
 330 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 Broken sentences came from her: ''What did you t 
 Who ? You shouldn't have done that You frightened 
 me." 
 
 Her voice was sharply angry, and in all their long married 
 life together he had never before felt her so completely a 
 stranger; ho felt as though he had accosted some unknown 
 woman in the street and been attacked by her for his famil- 
 iarity. He took refuge, as he always did when he was con- 
 fused, in pomposity. 
 
 "Really, my dear, you'd think I was a burglar. Hum yea. 
 You shouldn't be so easily startled." 
 
 She was still staring at him as though even now she did not 
 realise his identity. Her hands were clenched and her breath 
 came in little hurried gasps as though she had been running. 
 
 "No you shouldn't . . . silly . . . coming across the 
 room like that" 
 
 "Very well, very well," he answered testily. "Why isn't 
 dinner ready ? It's ten minutes past the time." 
 
 She moved across the room, not answering him. 
 
 Suddenly his pomposity was gone. He moved over to her, 
 standing before her like an overgrown schoolboy, looking at 
 her and smiling uneasily. 
 
 "The truth is, my dear," he said, "that I can't conceive 
 my entering a room without everybody hearing it No, I can't 
 indeed," he laughed boisterously. "You tell anybody that I 
 crossed a room without your hearing it, and they won't believe 
 you. No, they wont." 
 
 He bent down and kissed her. His touch tickled her cheek, 
 but she made no movement. Ho felt, as his hand rested on her 
 shoulder, that she was still trembling. 
 
 "Your nerves must be in a bad way," ho said. "Why, 
 you're trembling still I Why don't you see Puddifoot?" 
 
 "No no," she answered hurriedly. "It was silly of 
 me Making a great effort, she smiled up at him. 
 
 "Well, how's everything going?" 
 
 "Going?"
 
 THREE JUBILEE 331 
 
 "Yes, for the great day. Is everything settled?" 
 
 He began to tell her in the old familiar, so boring way, 
 every detail of the events of the last few hours. 
 
 "I was just by Sharps' when I remembered that I'd said 
 nothing to Nixon about those extra seats at the back off the 
 nave, so I had to go all the way round " 
 
 Joan came in. His especial need of some one that night, 
 rejected as it had been at once by his wife, turned to his 
 daughter. How pretty she was, he thought, as she came 
 across the room sunlit with the deep evening gold that struck 
 in long paths of light into the darkest shadows and corners. 
 
 That moment seemed suddenly the culmination of the ad- 
 vance that they had been making towards one another during 
 the last six months. When she came close to him, he, usually 
 BO unobservant, noticed that she, too, was in distress. 
 
 She was smiling but she was unhappy, and he suddenly 
 felt that he had been neglecting her and letting her fight her 
 battles alone, and that she needed his love as urgently as he 
 needed hers. He put his arm around her and drew her to him. 
 The movement was so unlike him and so unexpected that she 
 hesitated a little, then happily came closer to him, resting her 
 head on his shoulder. They had both, for a moment, for- 
 gotten Mrs. Brandon. 
 
 "Tired ?" he asked Joan. 
 
 "Yes. I've been working at those silly old flags all the 
 afternoon. Two of them are not finished now. We've got to 
 go again to-morrow morning." 
 
 "Everything ready for the Ball ?" 
 
 "Yes, my dress is lovely. Oh, mnmmy, Mrs. Sampson 
 says will you let two relations of theirs sit in our seat on Sun- 
 day morning ? She hadn't known that they were coming, and 
 she's very bothered about it, and I'll tell her whether they can 
 in the morning." 
 
 They both turned and saw Mrs. Brandon, who had gone 
 back to the window and again was looking at the Cathedral, 
 now in deep black shadow.
 
 332 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 "Yes, dear. There'll be room. There's only you and 
 
 I- 
 
 Joan had in the pocket of her dress a letter. As they 
 went in to dinner she could hear its paper very faintly crackle 
 against her hand. It was from Falk and was as follows : 
 
 DEAR JOAN I have written to father but he hasn't answered. 
 Would you find out what he thought about my letter and what 
 he inteuds to do? I don't mind owning to you that I iniss him 
 terribly, and I would give anything just to see him for five 
 minutes. I believe that if he saw me I could win him over. 
 Otherwise I am very happy indeed. We are married and live 
 in two little rooms just of! Baker Street. You don't know 
 where that is, do you ? Well, it's a very good place to be, near 
 the park, and lots of good shops and not very expensive. Our 
 landlady is a jolly woman, as kind as anything, and I'm getting 
 quite enough work to keep the wolf from the door. I know 
 more than ever now that I've done the right thing, and father 
 will recognise it, too, one day. How is he? Of course my 
 going like that was a great shock to him, but it was the only 
 way to do it. When you write tell me about his health. He 
 didn't seem so well just before I left. Now, Joan, write and 
 tell me everything. One thing is that he's got so much to do 
 that he won t have much time to think about me. Your affec- 
 tionate brother, FAJLK. 
 
 This letter, which had arrived that morning, had given 
 Joan a great deal to think about. It had touched her very 
 deeply. Until now Falk had never shown that he had thought 
 about her at all, and now here he was depending on her and 
 needing her help. At the same time, she had not the slightest 
 guide as to her father's attitude. Falk's name had not been 
 mentioned in the house during these last weeks, and, although 
 she realised that a new relationship was springing up between 
 herself and her father, she was still shy of him and conscious 
 of a deep gulf between them. She had, too, her own troubles, 
 and, try as she might to beat them under, they came up again 
 and again, confronting her and demanding that she should 
 answer them. 
 
 Now she put the whole of that aside and concentrated on
 
 THREE JUBILEE 333 
 
 her father. Watching him during dinner, he seemed to her 
 suddenly to have become older; there was a glow in her 
 heart as she thought that at last he really needed her. After 
 all, if through life she were destined to he an old maid and 
 that, in the tragic moment of her youth that was now upon 
 her, seemed her inevitable destiny her was some one for 
 whom at last she could care. 
 
 She had felt before she came down to dinner that she was 
 old and ugly and desperately unattractive. Across the dinner- 
 table she flung away, as she imagined for ever, all hopes for 
 beauty and charm ; she would love her father and he should 
 love her, and every other man in the world might vanish for 
 all that she cared. And had she only known it, she had never 
 before looked so pretty as she did that night. This also she 
 did not know, that her mother, catching a sudden picture of 
 her under the candle-light, felt a deep pang of almost agonis- 
 ing envy. She, making her last desperate bid for love, was 
 old and haggard ; the years for her could only add to that age. 
 Her gambler's throw was foredoomed before she had made it. 
 
 After dinner, Brandon, as always, retired into the deepest 
 chair in the drawing-room and buried himself in yesterday's 
 Times. He read a little, but the words meant nothing to 
 him. Jubilee ! Jubilee ! Jubilee ! He was sick of the word. 
 Surely they were overdoing it. When the great day itself 
 came every one would be so tired. . . . 
 
 He pushed the paper aside and picked up Punch. Here, 
 again, that eternal word "How to see the Procession. By 
 one who has thought it out. Of course you must be out early. 
 As the traffic. ..." 
 
 JOKE Jinks: Don't meet you 'ere so often as we used to, 
 Binks, eh? 
 
 Binks : Well no. It don't run to Hopera Box this Season, 
 because, you see, we've took a Window for this 'ere Jubilee. 
 
 Then, on one page, "The Walrus and the Carpenter : Jubilee 
 Version." "In Anticipation of the Naval Review." "Two
 
 334 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 Jubilees ?" On the next page an illustration of the Jubilee 
 Walrus. On the next "Oh, the Jubilee!" On the next, 
 Toby M.P.'s "Essence of Parliament," with a "Reed" draw- 
 ing of "A Naval Field Battery for the Jubilee." 
 
 The paper fell from his hand. During these last days ho 
 had had no time to read the paper, and he had fancied, as per- 
 haps every Polcastrian was just then fancying, that the Jubi- 
 lee was a private affair for Polchester's own private benefit. 
 He felt suddenly that Polchester was a small out-of-the-way 
 place of no account ; was there any one in the world who cared 
 whether Polchester celebrated the Jubilee or not? No- 
 body. . . . 
 
 He got up and walked across to the window, pulling the 
 curtains aside and looking out at the deep purple dusk that 
 stained the air like wine. The clock behind him struck a 
 quarter past nine. Two tiny stars, like inquisitive mocking 
 eyes, winked at him above the high Western tower. Moved by 
 an impulse that was too immediate and peremptory to be 
 investigated, he went into the hall, found his hat and stick, 
 opened softly the door as though he were afraid that some one 
 would try to stop him, and was soon on the grass in front 
 of the Cathedral, staring about him as though he had awak- 
 ened from a bewildering dream. 
 
 He went across to the little side-door, found his key, and 
 entered the Cathedral, leaving the gargoyle to grin after him, 
 growing more alive, and more malicious too, with every fad- 
 ing moment of the light. 
 
 Within the Cathedral there was a strange shadowy glow as 
 though behind the thick cold pillars lights were burning. Ho 
 found his way, stumbling over the cane-bottomed chairs that 
 were piled in measured heaps in the side aisle, into the nave. 
 Even he, used to it as he had been for so many years, was 
 thrilled to-night. There was a movement of preparation 
 abroad; through all the stillness there was the stir of life. 
 It seemed to him that the armoured knights and the high- 
 bosomed ladies, and the little cupids with their pursed lips
 
 THBEE JUBILEE 335 
 
 and puffing cheeks, and the angels with their too solid wings 
 were watching him and breathing round him as he passed. 
 Late though it was, a dim light from the great East window 
 fell in broad slabs of purple and green shadow across the grey ; 
 everything was indistinct ; only the white marble of the Rere- 
 dos was like a figured sheet hanging from wall to wall, and 
 the gilded trumpets of the angels on the choir-screen stood 
 out dimly like spider pattern. He felt a longing that the 
 place should return his love and tenderness. The passion of 
 his life was here ; he knew to-night, as he had never before, 
 the life of its own that this place had, and as he stayed 
 there, motionless in the centre of the nave, some doubt stole 
 into his heart as to whether, after all, he and it were one and 
 indivisible, as for so long he had believed. Take this away, 
 and what was left to him ? His son had gone, his wife and 
 daughter were strange to him ; if this, too, went. . . . 
 
 The sudden chill sense of loneliness was awful to him. All 
 those naked and sightless eyes staring from those embossed 
 tombs were menacing, scornful, deriding. 
 
 He had never known such a mood, and he wondered sud- 
 denly whether these last months had affected his brain. 
 
 He had never doubted during the last ten years his power 
 over this and its gratitude to him for what he had done : now, 
 in this chill and green-hued air, it seemed not to care for 
 him at all. 
 
 He moved up into the choir and sat down in his familiar 
 stall; all that he could see his eyes seemed to be drawn by 
 some will stronger than his own was the Black Bishop's 
 Tomb. The blue stone was black behind the gilded grating, 
 the figure was like a moulded shell holding some hidden form. 
 The light died ; the purple and green faded from the nave 
 the East window was dark only the white altar and the 
 whiter shadows above it hovered, thinner light against deeper 
 grey. As the light was withdrawn the Cathedral seemed to 
 grow in height until Brandon felt himself minute, and the 
 pillars sprang from the floor beneath him into unseen cano*
 
 336 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 pied distance. He was cold; he longed suddenly, with a 
 strange terror quite new to him, for human company, and 
 stumbled up and hurried down the choir, almost falling over 
 the stone steps, almost running through the long, dark, de- 
 serted nava He fancied that other steps echoed his own, that 
 voices whispered, and that figures thronged beneath the pillars 
 to watch him go. It was as though he were expelled. 
 
 Out in the evening air he was in his own world again. He 
 was almost tempted to return into the Cathedral to rid him- 
 self of the strange fancies that he had had, so that they might 
 not linger with him. He found himself now on the farther 
 side of the Cathedral, and after walking a little way he was 
 on the little narrow path that curved down through the green 
 banks to the river. Behind him was the Cathedral, to his 
 right Bodger's Street and Canon's Yard, in front of him the 
 bending hill, the river, and then the farther slips where the 
 lights of the gipsy encampment sparkled and shone. Here 
 the air was lovely, cool and soft, and the stars were crowding 
 into the summer sky in their myriads. But his depression did 
 not leave him, nor his loneliness. He longed for Falk with a 
 great longing. He could not hold out against the boy for 
 very much longer; but even then, were the quarrel made up, 
 things would not now be the same. Falk did not need him 
 any more. He had new life, new friends, new work. 
 
 "It's my nerves," thought Brandon. "I will go and see 
 Puddifoot." It seemed to him that some one, and perhaps 
 more than one, had followed him from the Cathedral. He 
 turned sharply round as though he would catch somebody 
 creeping upon him. He turned round and saw Samuel Hogg 
 standing there. 
 
 "Evening, Archdeacon," said Hogg. 
 
 Brardon said, his voice shaking with anger: "What are 
 you following me for?" 
 
 "Following yon, Archdeacon ?" 
 
 "Yes, following me. I have noticed it often lately. If 
 you have anything to say to me write to me."
 
 THREE JUBILEE 337 
 
 "Following you? Lord, no! What makes yon think of 
 such a thing, Archdeacon ? Can't a feller enjoy the evenin* 
 air on such a lovely night as this without being accused of 
 following a gentleman ?" 
 
 "You know that you are trying to annoy me." Brandon 
 had pulled himself up, but his hatred of that grinning face 
 with its purple veins, its piercing eyes, was working strongly 
 upon his nerves, so that his hands seemed to move towards 
 it without his own impulsion. "You have been trying to 
 annoy me for weeks now. I'll stand you no longer. If I have 
 any more of this nuisance I'll put it into the hands of the 
 police." 
 
 Hogg spat out complacently over the grass. "Now, that is 
 an absurd thing," he said, smiling. "Because a man's tired 
 and wants some air after his day's work he's accused of be- 
 ing a nuisance. It's a bit thick, that's what it is. Now, tell, 
 Archdeacon, do you happen to have bought this 'ere town, be- 
 cause if so I should be glad to know it and so would a num- 
 ber of others too." 
 
 "Very well, then," said Brandon, moving away. "If you 
 won't go, I will." 
 
 "There's no need for temper that I can see," said Hogg. 
 "No call for it at all, especially that we're a sort of relation 
 now. Almost brothers, seeing as how your son has married 
 my daughter." 
 
 Lower and lower ! Lower and lower ! 
 
 He was moving in a world now where figures, horrible, 
 obscene and foul, could claim him, could touch him, had their 
 right to follow him. 
 
 "You will get nothing from me," Brandon answered. "You 1 
 are wasting your time." 
 
 "Wasting my time ?" Hogg laughed. "Not me ! I'm en- 
 joying myself. I don't want anything from you except just 
 to see you sometimes and have a little chat. That's quite 
 enough for me ! I've taken quite a liking to you, Archdeacon, 
 which is as it should be between relations, and, often enough,
 
 338 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 it isn't so. I like to see a proud gentleman like yourself 
 mixing with such as me. It's good for both of us, as you 
 might say." 
 
 Brandon's anger always dangerously uncontrolled rose 
 until it seemed to have the whole of his body in his grasp, 
 swaying it, ebbing and flowing with swift powerful current 
 through his heart into his brain. Now he could only see the 
 flushed, taunting face, the little eyes. . . . 
 
 But Hogg's hour was not yet. He suddenly touched his 
 cap, smiling. 
 
 "Well, good evening, Archdeacon. We'll be meeting 
 again," and he was gone. 
 
 As swiftly as the anger had flowed now it ebbed, leaving 
 him trembling, shaking, that strange sharp pain cutting his 
 brain, his heart seeming to leap into his head, to beat there 
 like a drum, and to fall back with heavy thud into his chest 
 again. He stood waiting for calm. He was humiliated, des- 
 perately, shamefully. He could not go on here ; he must leave 
 the place. Leave it ? Be driven away by that scoundrel ? 
 Never ! He would face them all and show them that he was 
 above and beyond their power. 
 
 But the peace of the evening and the glory of the stars 
 gradually stole into his heart. He had been wrong, terribly 
 wrong. His pride, his conceit, had been destroying him. 
 With a sudden flash of revelation he saw it. He had trusted 
 in his own power, put himself on a level with the God whom 
 he served. A rush of deep and sincere humility overwhelmed 
 him. He bowed his head and prayed. 
 
 Some while later he turned up the path towards home. The 
 whole sky now burnt with stars; fires were a dull glow across 
 the soft gulf of grey, the gipsy fires. Once and again a dis- 
 tant voice could be heard Hinging. As he reached the corner 
 of the Cathedral, and was about to turn up towards the Pre- 
 cincts, a strange sound reached his ears. He stood where he 
 was and listened. At first he could not define what he heard
 
 THREE JUBILEE 33& 
 
 then suddenly he realised. Quite close to him a man was 
 sobbing. 
 
 There is something about the sounds of a man's grief that 
 is almost indecent. This sobbing was pitiful in its abandon- 
 ment and in its effort to control and stifle. 
 
 Brandon, looking more closely, saw the dark shadow of a 
 man's body pressed against the inside buttress of the corner 
 of the Cathedral wall. The shadow crouched, the body all 
 drawn together as though folding in upon itself to hide its own 
 agony. 
 
 Brandon endeavoured to move softly up the path, but his 
 step crunched on some twigs, and at the sharp noise the sob- 
 bing suddenly ceased. The figure turned. 
 
 It was Morris. The two men looked at one another for an 
 instant, then Morris, still like a shadow, vanished swiftly into 
 the dusk.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 SATURDAY, JUNK 19 : THE BALL 
 
 JOAN was in her bedroom preparing for the Ball. It was 
 now only half-past six and the Ball was not until half- 
 past nine, but Mr. Mumphit, the be-curled, the be-scented 
 young assistant from the hairdresser's in the High Street had 
 paid his visit very early because he had so many other heads 
 of so many other young ladies to dress in Polchester that eve- 
 ning. So Joan sat in front of the long looking-glass, a towel 
 still over her shoulders, looking at herself in a state of ecstasy 
 and delight. 
 
 It was wrong of her, perhaps, to feel so happy she felt 
 that deep in her consciousness ; wrong, with all the trouble in 
 the house, Falk gone in disgrace, her father unhappy, her 
 mother so strange; but to-night she could not help herself. 
 The excitement was spluttering and crackling all over the 
 town, the wonderful week upon which the whole country was 
 entering, the Ball, her own coming-out Ball, and the conscious- 
 ness that He would be there, and, even though He did love 
 another, would be sure to give her at least one dance; these 
 things were all too strong for her she was happy, happy, 
 happy her eyes danced, her toes danced, her very soul 
 danced for sheer delirious joy. Had any one been behind her 
 to look over her shoulder into the glass, he would have seen the 
 reflection in that mirror of one of the prettiest children the 
 wide world could show ; especially childish she looked to-night 
 with her dark hair piled high on her head, her eyes wide with 
 wonder, her neck and shoulders so delicately white and soft 
 Behind her, on the bed, was the dress, on the dingy carpet a 
 
 340
 
 JUBILEE 341 
 
 pair of shoes of silver tissue, the loveliest things she had ever 
 had. They were reflected in the mirror, little blobs of silver, 
 and as she saw them the colour mounted still higher in her 
 cheeks. She had no right to them ; she had not paid for them. 
 They were the first things that she had ever, in all her life, 
 bought on credit. Neither her father nor her mother knew 
 anything about them, but she had seen them in Harriott's 
 shop-window and had simply not been able to resist them. 
 
 If, after all, she was to dance with Him, that made any- 
 thing right. Were she sent to prison because she could not pay 
 for them it would not matter. She had done the only possible 
 thing. 
 
 And so she looked into the mirror and saw the dark glitter 
 in her hair and the red in her cheeks and the whiteness of her 
 shoulders and the silver blobs of the little shoes, and she was 
 happy happy with an almost fearful ecstasy. 
 
 Mrs. Brandon also was in her bedroom. She was sitting on 
 a high stiff-backed chair, staring in front of her. She had 
 been sitting there now for a long time without making any 
 movement at all. She might have been a dead woman. Her 
 thin hands, with the sharply marked blue veins, were clasped 
 tightly on her lap. She was feeding, feverishly, eagerly feed- 
 ing upon the thought of Morris. 
 
 She would see him that evening, they would talk together, 
 dance together, their hands would burn as they touched ; they 
 would say very little to one another ; they would long, agonize 
 for one another, to be alone together, to be far, far away 
 from everybody, and they would be desperately unhappy. 
 
 She wondered, in her strange kind of mouse-in-the-trap 
 trance, about that unhappiness. Was there to be no happiness 
 for her anywhere ? Was she always to want more than she 
 got, was all this passion now too late? Was it real at all! 
 Was it not a fever, a phantom, a hallucination ? Did she see 
 Morris? Did she not rather see something that she must 
 seize to slake her burning feverish thirst ? For one moment
 
 342 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 she had known happiness, when her arms had gone around him 
 and she had been able to console and comfort him. But com- 
 fort him for how long ? Was he not as unhappy as she, and 
 would they not always be unhappy? Was he not weighed 
 down by the sin that he had committed, that he, as he thought, 
 had caused her to commit ? ... At that she sprang up from 
 the chair and paced the room, murmuring aloud : "No, no, I 
 did it. My sin, not his. I will care for him, watch over him 
 watch over him, care for him. He must be glad." . . . 
 She sank down by the bed, burying her face in her hands. 
 
 Brandon was in his study finishing his letters. But be- 
 hind his application to the notes that he was writing his brain 
 was moving like an animal steathily investigating an un- 
 lighted house. He was thinking of his wife and of himself. 
 Even as he was writing "And therefore it seems to me, my 
 dear Ryle, that with regard to the actual hour of the service, 
 
 eight o'clock " his inner consciousness was whispering to 
 
 him. "How you miss Falk ! How lonely the house seems 
 without him ! You thought you could get along without love, 
 didn't you ? or, at least, you were not aware that it played any 
 very great part in your life. But now that the one person 
 whom you most sincerely loved is gone, you see that it was not 
 to be so simply taken for granted, do you not ? Love must be 
 worked for, sacrificed for, cared for, nourished and cherished. 
 You want some one to cherish now, and you are surprised 
 that you should so want . . . yes, there is your wife Amy 
 . . . Amy. . . . You had taken her also for granted. But 
 she is still with you. There is time." 
 
 His wife was illuminated with tenderness. He put down 
 his pen and stared in front of him. What he wanted and 
 what she wanted was a holiday. They had been too long here 
 in this place. That was what he needed, that was the expla- 
 nation of his headaches, of his tempers, of his obsession about 
 Render. 
 
 As soon as this Pybus St Anthony affair was settled he
 
 THREE JUBILEE 343 
 
 would take his wife abroad. Just the two of them. Another 
 honeymoon after all these years. Greece, Italy . . . and 
 who knows ? Perhaps he would see Falk on his way through 
 London returning . . . Talk. . . . 
 
 He had forgotten his letters, staring in front of him, tap- 
 ping the table with his pen. 
 
 There was a knock on the door. The maid said, "A lady 
 to see you, sir. She says it's important" and, before he 
 could ask her name, some one else was in the room with him 
 and the door was closed behind her. 
 
 He was puzzled for a moment as to her identity, a rather 
 eeedy, down-at-heels-looking woman. She was wearing a 
 rather crumpled white cotton dress. She carried a pink para- 
 sol, and on her head was a large straw hat overburdened with 
 bright red roses. Ah, yes ! Of course ! Miss Milton who 
 was the Librarian. Shabby she looked. Come down in the 
 world. He had always disliked her. He resented now the 
 way in which she had almost forced her way into his room. 
 
 She looked across at him through her funny half-closed 
 eyes. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Archdeacon Brandon," she said, "for 
 entering like this at what must be, I fear, an unseemly time. 
 My only excuse must be the urgency of my business." 
 
 "I am very sorry, Miss Milton," he said sternly; "it is 
 quite impossible for me to see you just now on any business 
 whatever. If you will make an appointment with me in 
 writing, I will see what can be done." 
 
 At the sound of his voice her eyes closed still further. 
 "I'm very sorry, Archdeacon," she said. "I think you would 
 do well to listen to what I am going to tell you." 
 
 He raised his head and looked at her. At those words of 
 hers he had once again the sensation of being pushed down 
 by strong heavy hands into some deep mire where he must 
 have company with filthy crawling animals Hogg, Davray, 
 and now this woman. . . .
 
 344 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 "What do you mean?" he asked, disgust thickening his 
 voice. "What can you have to tell me ?" 
 
 She smiled. She crossed the floor and came close to his 
 desk. Her fingers were on the shabby bag that hung over her 
 arm. 
 
 "I was greatly puzzled," she said, "as* to what was the 
 right thing to do. I am a good and honest woman, Archdea- 
 con, although I was ejected from my position most wrong- 
 fully by those that ought to have known better. I have come 
 down in the world through no fault of my own, and there are 
 some who should be ashamed in their hearts of the way 
 they've treated me. However, it's not of them I've to speak 
 to-day." She paused. 
 
 Brandon drew back into his chair. "Please tell me, Miss 
 Milton, your business as soon as possibla I have much to 
 do." 
 
 "I will." She breathed hard and continued. "Certain 
 information was placed in my hands, and I found it very 
 difficult to decide on the justice of my course. After some 
 hesitation I went to Canon Bonder, knowing him to be a just 
 man." 
 
 At the name "Render" the Archdeacon's lips moved, but 
 he said nothing. 
 
 "I showed him the information I had obtained. I asked 
 him what I should do. He gave me advice which I followed." 
 
 "He advised you to come to me." 
 
 Miss Milton saw at once that a lie here would serve her 
 well. "He advised me to come to you and give you this letter 
 which in the true sense of the word belongs to you." 
 
 She fumbled with her bag, opened it, took out a piece of 
 paper. 
 
 "I must tell you," she continued, her eyes never for an 
 instant leaving the Archdeacon's face, "that this letter came 
 into my hands by an accident. I was in Mr. Morris's house 
 at the time and the letter was delivered to me by mistake."
 
 THREE JUBILEE 345 
 
 "Mr. Morris?" Brandon repeated. "What has he to do 
 with this affair?" 
 
 Miss Milton rubbed her gloved hands together. "Mrs. 
 Brandon," she said, "has been very friendly with Mr. 
 Morris for a long time past. The whole town has been talking 
 of it." 
 
 The clock suddenly began to strike the hour. No word 
 was spoken. 
 
 Then Brandon said very quietly, "Leave this house, Miss 
 Milton, and never enter it again. If I have any further 
 trouble with you, the police will be informed." 
 
 "Before I go, Archdeacon," said Miss Milton, also very 
 quietly, "you should see this letter. I can assure you that I 
 have not come here for mere words. I have my conscience to 
 satisfy like any other person. I am not asking for anything 
 in return for this information, although I should be perfectly 
 justified in such an action, considering how monstrously 
 I have been treated. I give you this letter and you can 
 destroy it at once. My conscience will be satisfied. If, 
 on the other hand, you don't read it well, there are others in 
 the town who must see it." 
 
 He took the letter from her. 
 
 DEAREST I am sending this by a safe hand to tell you that 
 I cannot possibly get down to-night. I am so sorry and most 
 dreadfully disappointed, but I will explain everything when we 
 meet to-morrow. This is to prevent your waiting on when I'm 
 not coming. 
 
 It was in his wife's handwriting. 
 
 "Dearest . . . cannot possibly get down tonight. . . ." 
 In his wife's handwriting. Certainly. Yes. His wife's. 
 And Render had seen it. 
 
 He looked across at Miss Milton. "This is not my wife's 
 handwriting," he said. "You realise, I hope, in what a 
 serious matter you have become involved by your hastj 
 action," he added.
 
 346 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 "Not hasty," she said, moistening her lips with her tongue. 
 "Not hasty, Archdeacon. I have taken much thought. I 
 don't know if I have already told you that I took the letter 
 myself at the door from the hand of your own maid. She has 
 been to the Library with books. She is well known to me." 
 
 He must exercise enormous, superhuman, self-control. 
 That was his only thought. The tide of anger was rising in 
 him so terribly that it pressed against the skin of his forehead, 
 drawn tight, and threatened to split it. What he wanted to 
 do was to rise and assault the woman standing in front of 
 him. His hands longed to take her ! They seemed to have 
 life and volition of their own and to move across the table of 
 their own accord. 
 
 He was aware, too, once more, of some huge plot developing 
 around him, some supernatural plot in which all the elements 
 too were involved earth, sun and sky, and also every one in 
 the town, down to the smallest child there. 
 
 He seemed to see behind him, just out of his sight, a tall 
 massive figure directing the plot, a figure something like him- 
 self, only with a heavy black beard, cloudy, without 
 form. . . . 
 
 They would catch him in their plot as in a net, but he 
 would escape them, and he would escape them by wonderful 
 calm, and self-control, and the absence of all emotion. 
 
 So that, although his voice shook a little, it was quietly 
 that he repeated : 
 
 "This is not in my wife's handwriting. You know the 
 penalties for forgery." Then, looking her full in the face, he 
 added, "Penal servitude." 
 
 She smiled back at him, 
 
 "I am sure, Archdeacon, that all I require is a full investi- 
 gation. These wickednesses are going on in this town, and 
 those principally concerned should know. I have only done 
 what I consider my duty." 
 
 Her eyes lingered on his face. She savoured now during 
 these moments the revenge for which, in all these months, she
 
 THREE 
 
 JUBILEE 347 
 
 had ceaselessly longed. He had moved but little, he had not 
 raised his voice, but, watching his face, she had seen the 
 agony pass, like an entering guest, behind his eyes. That 
 guest would remain. She was satisfied. 
 
 "1 have done my duty, Archdeacon, and now I will wish 
 you good-evening." 
 
 She gave a little bow and retired from the room, softly 
 closing the door behind her. 
 
 He sat there, looking at the letter. . . . 
 
 The Assembly Rooms seemed to move like a ship on a sun- 
 set sea. Hanging from the ceiling were the two great silver 
 candelabra, in some ways the most famous treasure that the 
 town possessed. Fitted now with gas, they were nevertheless 
 so shaded that the light was soft and mellow. Round the 
 room, beneath the portraits of the town's celebrities in their 
 heavy gold frames, the lights were hidden with shields of 
 gold. The walls were ivory white. From the Minstrels' 
 Gallery flags with the arms of the Town, of the Cathedral, of 
 the St. Leath family fluttered once and again faintly. In the 
 Minstrels' Gallery the band was playing just as it had played 
 a hundred years ago. The shining floor was covered with 
 moving figures. Every one was there. Under the Gallery, 
 surveying the world like Boadicea her faithful Britons, was 
 Lady St. Leath, her white hair piled high above her pink 
 baby face, that had the inquiring haughty expression of 
 a cockatoo wondering whether it is being offered a lump of 
 sugar or an insult. On either side of her sat two of her 
 daughters, Lady Rose and Lady Mary, plain and patient. 
 
 Near her, in a complacent chattering row, were some of the 
 more important of the Cathedral and County set There 
 were the Marriotts from Maple Durham, fat, sixty, and 
 amiable; old Colonel Wotherston, who had fought in the 
 Crimea ; Sir Henry Byles with his large purple nose ; little 
 Major Garnet, the kindest bachelor in the County; the 
 Marquesas, who had more pedigree than pennies ; Mrs. Samp-
 
 348 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 son in bright lilac, and an especially bad attack of neuralgia ; 
 Mrs. Combermere, sheathed in cloth of gold and very jolly ; 
 Mrs. Ryle, humble in grey silk; Ellen Stiles in cherry colour; 
 Mrs. Trudon, Mrs. Forrester and Mrs. D'Arcy, their chins 
 nearly touching over eager confidences; Dr. Puddifoot, still 
 breathless from his last dance ; Bentinick-Major, tapping with 
 his patent-leather toe the floor, eager to be at it again ; Bran- 
 ston the Mayor and Mrs. Branston, uncomfortable in a kind 
 of dog-collar of diamonds ; Mrs. Preston, searching for nobil- 
 ity ; Canon Martin ; Dennison, the head-master of the School ; 
 and many others. 
 
 It was just then a Polka, and the tune was so alluring, so 
 entrancing, that the whole world rose and fell with its 
 rhythm. 
 
 And where was Joan? Joan was dancing with the Rev- 
 erend Rex Forsyth, the proposed incumbent of Pybus St 
 Anthony. Had any one told her a week ago that she would 
 dance with the elegant Mr. Forsyth before a gathering of all 
 the most notable people of Polchester and Southern Glebe- 
 shire, and would so dance without a tremor, she would have 
 derided her informant. But what cannot excitement and 
 happiness do ? 
 
 She knew that she was looking nice, she knew that she was 
 dancing as well as any one else in the room and Johnny St. 
 Leath had asked her for two dances and then wanted more, 
 and wanted these with the beautiful Claire Daubeney, all 
 radiant in silver, standing close beside him. What, then, 
 could all the Forsyths in the world matter ? Nevertheless he 
 was elegant. Very smart indeed. Rather like a handsome 
 young horse, groomed for a show. His voice had a little neigh 
 in it; as he talked over her shoulder he gave a little whinny 
 of pleasure. She found it very difficult to think of him as a 
 clergyman at all. 
 
 You should SEE me DANCE the POLKA, 
 Ta-ram-te-tum-te-TA.
 
 THREE 
 
 JUBILEE 349 
 
 Yes, she should. And he should. And he was very pleas- 
 ant when he did not talk. 
 
 "You dance very well Miss Brandon." 
 
 "Thank you. This is my first Ball." 
 
 "Who would think that? Ta-ram-te-tum-te-TA. . . . 
 Jolly tu-une !" 
 
 She caught glimpses of every one as they went round. Mrs. 
 Combermere's cloth of gold, Lady St. Leath's white hair. 
 Poor Lady Mary such a pity that they could not do some- 
 thing for her complexion. Spotty. Joan liked her. She did 
 much good to the poor in Seatown, and it must be agony to 
 her, poor thing, to go down there, because she was so terribly 
 shy. Her next dance was with Johnny. She called him 
 Johnny. And why should she not, secretly to herself ? Ah, 
 there was mother, all alone. And there was Mr. Morris com- 
 ing up to speak to her. Kind of him. But he was a kind 
 man. She liked him. Very shy, though. All the nicest 
 people seemed to be shy except Johnny, who wasn't shy at 
 all. 
 
 The music stopped and, breathless, they stayed for a 
 moment before finding two chairs. Now was coming the 
 time that she so greatly disliked. Whatever to say to Mr. 
 Forsyth ? 
 
 They sat down in the long passage outside the ballroom. 
 The floor ran like a ribbon from under their feet into dim 
 shining distance. Or rather, Joan thought, it was like a 
 stream, and on either side the dancers were sitting, dabbling 
 their toes and looking self-conscious. 
 
 "Do you like it where you are ?" Joan asked of the shining 
 black silk waistcoat that gleamed beside her. 
 
 "Oh, you know . . ." neighed Mr. Forsyth. "It's all 
 right, you know. The old Bishop's kind enough." 
 
 "Bishop Clematis?" said Joan. 
 
 "Yes. There ain't enough to do, you know. But I don't 
 expect I'll be there long. No, I don't. . . . Pity poor Mor- 
 rison at Pybus dying like that"
 
 350 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 Joan of course at once understood the allusion. She also 
 understood that Mr. Forsyth was begging her to bestow upon 
 him any little piece of news that she might have obtained. 
 But that seemed to her mean spying spying on her own 
 father. So she only said : 
 
 "You're very fond of riding, aren't you ?" 
 
 "Love it," said Mr. Forsyth, whinnying so exactly like a 
 happy pony that Joan jumped. "Don't you ?" 
 
 "I've never been on horseback in my life," said Joan. "I'd 
 like to try." 
 
 "Never in your life?" Mr. Forsyth stared. "Why, I was 
 on a pony before I was three. Fact. Good for a clergyman, 
 riding 
 
 "I think it's nearly time for the next dance," said Joan. 
 "Would you kindly take me back to my mother?" 
 
 She was conscious, as they plunged down-stream, of all the 
 burning glances. She held her head high. Her eyes flashed. 
 She was going to dance with Johnny, and they could look as 
 much as they liked. 
 
 Mr. Forsyth delivered her to her mother and went canter- 
 ing off. Joan sat down, smoothed her dress and stared at the 
 vast shiny lake of amber in which the silver candelabra were 
 reflected like little islands. She looked at her mother and 
 was suddenly sorry for her. It must be dull, when you were 
 as old as mother, coming to these dances and especially when 
 you had so few friends. Her mother had never made many 
 friends. 
 
 "Wasn't that Mr. Morris who was talking to you just 
 now?" 
 
 "Yes, dear." 
 
 "I like him. He looks kind." 
 
 "Yes, dear." 
 
 "And where's father?" 
 
 "Over there, talking to Lady St. Leath." 
 
 She looked across, and there ho was, so big and tall and
 
 THEEE JUBILEE 351 
 
 fine, so splendid in his grand clothes. Her heart swelled with 
 pride. 
 
 "Isn't he splendid, mother, dear?" 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "Father !" 
 
 "Splendid?" 
 
 "Yes; doesn't he look splendid to-night? Better looking 
 than all the rest of the room put together ?" (Johnny wasn't 
 good-looking. Better than good-looking.) 
 
 "Oh look splendid. Yes. He's a very handsome man." 
 
 Joan felt once again that little chill with which she was so 
 often familiar when she talked with her mother a sudden 
 withdrawal of sympathy, a pushing Joan away with her 
 hand. 
 
 But never mind there was the music again, and here, oh, 
 here, was Johnny ! Someone had once called him Tubby in 
 her hearing, and how indignant she had been ! He was per- 
 haps a little on the fat side, but strong with it. ... She went 
 off with him. The waltz began. 
 
 She sank into sweet delicious waters waters that rocked 
 and cradled her, hugged her and caressed her. She was con- 
 scious of his arm. She did not speak nor did he. Years of 
 utter happiness passed. . . . 
 
 He did not take her, as Mr. Forsyth had done, into the 
 public glare of the passage, but up a crooked staircase behind 
 the Minstrels' Gallery into a little room, cool and shaded, 
 where, in easy-chairs, they were quite alone. 
 
 He was shy, fingering his gloves. She said (just to make 
 conversation) : 
 
 "How beautiful Miss Daubeney is looking !" 
 
 "Do you think so ?" said Johnny. "I don't. I'm sick of 
 that girl. She's the most awful bore. Mother's always shov- 
 ing her at my head. She's been staying with us for months. 
 She wants me to marry her because she's rich. But we've got 
 plenty, and I wouldn't marry her anyway, not if we hadn't 
 a penny. Because she's a bore, and because" his voice be-
 
 352 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 came suddenly loud and commanding "I'm going to marry 
 you." 
 
 Something some lovely bird of Paradise, some splendid 
 coloured breeze, some carpet of magic pattern came and 
 swung Joan up to a high tree loaded with golden apples. 
 There she swung singing her heart out. Johnny's voice 
 came up to her. 
 
 "Because I'm going to marry you." 
 
 "What?" she called down to him. 
 
 "I'm going to marry you. I knew it from the very first 
 second I saw you, that day after Cathedral from the very 
 first moment I knew it I wanted to ask you right away at 
 once, but I thought I'd do the thing properly, so I went away, 
 and I've been in Paris and Rome and all over the place, and 
 I've thought of you the whole time every minute. Then 
 mother made a fuss about this Daubeney girl my not being 
 here and all that so I thought I'd come home and tell you 
 I was going to marry you." 
 
 "Oh, but you can't" Joan swung down from her apple- 
 tree. "You and me? Why, what would your mother say?" 
 
 "It isn't a case of would but will" Johnny said. "Mother 
 will be very angry and for a considerable time. But that 
 makes no difference. Mother's mother and I'm myself." 
 
 "It's impossible,"said Joan quickly, "from every point of 
 view. Do you know what my brother has done? I'm proud 
 of Falk and love him ; but you're Lord St. Leath, and Falk 
 has married the daughter of Hogg, the man who keeps a 
 public-house down in Seatown." 
 
 "I heard of that," said Johnny. "But what does that 
 matter? Do you know what I did last year? I crossed the 
 Atlantic as a stoker in a Cunard boat Mother never knew 
 until I got back, and wasn't she furious! But the world's 
 changing. There isn't going to be any class difference soon 
 none at all. You take my word. Ix>ok at the Americans 1 
 They're the people! We'll be like them one day. . . . But 
 what's all this?" he suddenly said. "I'm going to marry you
 
 THREE JUBILEE 853 
 
 and you're going to marry me. You love me, don't you?" 
 
 "Yes," said Joan faintly. 
 
 "Well, then. I knew you did. I'm going to kiss you." 
 He put his arms around her and kissed her very gently. 
 
 "Oh, how I love you !" he said, "and how good I'll be to 
 you!" 
 
 "But we must be practical," said Joan wildly. "How can 
 we marry? Everything's against it. I've no money. I'm 
 nobody. Your mother ' 
 
 "Now you just leave my mother alone. Leave me to 
 mr.nage her I know all about that " 
 
 "I won't be engaged to you," Joan said firmly, "not for 
 ages and ages not for a year anyway." 
 
 "That's all right," said Johnny indifferently. "You can 
 settle it any way you please but no one's going to marry you 
 but me, and no one's going to marry me but you." 
 
 He would have kissed her again, but Mrs. Preston and a 
 young man came in. 
 
 "Now you shall come and speak to my mother," he said 
 to her as they went out. "There's nothing to be afraid of. 
 Just say 'Bo' to her as you would to a goose, and she'll 
 answer all right." 
 
 "You won't say anything " began Joan. 
 
 "About us ? All right. That's a secret for the present ; 
 but we shall meet every day, and if there's a day we don't 
 meet you've got to write. Do you agree?" 
 
 Whether she agreed or no was uncertain, because they were 
 now in a cloud of people, and, a moment later, were face to 
 face with the old Countess. 
 
 She was pleased, it at once appeared. She was in a gra- 
 cious mood ; people had been pleasant enough that is, they 
 had been obsequious and flattering. Also her digestion was 
 behaving properly; those new pills that old Puddifoot had 
 given her were excellent. She therefore received Joan very 
 graciously, congratulated her on her appearance, and asked 
 her where her elder sister was. When Joan explained that
 
 354 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 she had no sister Lady St Leath appeared vexed with her, as 
 though it had been a piece of obvious impertinence on her 
 part not to produce a sister instantly when she had asked for 
 one. However, Lady Mary was kind and friendly and made 
 Joan sit beside her for a little. Joan thought, "I'd like to 
 have you for a sister one day, if if ever " and allowed 
 her thoughts to go no farther. 
 
 Thence she passed into the company of Mrs. Combermere 
 and Ellen Stiles. It seemd to her but it was probably her 
 fancy that as she came to them they were discussing some- 
 thing that was not for her ears. It seemed to her that they 
 swiftly changed the conversation and greeted her with quite 
 an unusual warmth of affection. For the first time that eve- 
 ning a sudden little chill of foreboding, whence she knew not, 
 seemed to touch her and shade, for an instant, her marvellous 
 happiness. 
 
 Mrs. Combermere was very sweet to her indeed, quite as 
 though she had been, but now, recovering from an alarming 
 illness. Her bass voice, strong thick hands and stiff wiry hair 
 went so incongruously with her cloth of gold that Joan could 
 not help smiling. 
 
 "You look very happy, my dear," Mrs. Combermere said. 
 
 "Of course I am," said Joan. "How can I help it, my 
 first Ball ?" 
 
 Mrs. Combermere kicked her trailing garments with her 
 foot, just like a dame in a pantomima "Well, enjoy yourself 
 as long as you can. You're looking very pretty. The pret- 
 tiest girl in the room. I've just been saying so to Ellen 
 haven't I, Ellen?" 
 
 Ellen Stiles was at that moment making herself agreeable 
 to the Mayoress, who was sitting lonely and uncomfortable 
 (weighed down with longing for sleep) on a little gilt chair. 
 
 "I was just saying to Mrs. Branston," Miss Stiles said, 
 turning round, "that the time one has to be careful with 
 children after whooping-cough is when they seem practically 
 'well. Her little boy has just been ill with it, and she says
 
 THEEE JUBILEE 355 
 
 he's recovered ; but that's the time, as I tell her, when nine 
 out of ten children die just when you think you're safe." 
 
 "Oh dear," said Mrs. Branston, turning towards them her 
 full anxious eyes. "You do alarm me, Miss Stiles ! And I've 
 been letting Tommy quite loose, as you may say, these last 
 few days with his appetite back and all, there seemed no 
 danger." 
 
 "Well, if you find him feverish when you get home to- 
 night," said Ellen, "don't be surprised. All the excitement 
 of the Jubilee too will be very bad for him." 
 
 At that moment Canon Render came up. Joan looked and 
 at once, at the sight of the round gleaming spectacles, the 
 smiling mouth, the full cheeks puffed out as though he were 
 blowing perpetual bubbles for his own amusement, felt her 
 old instinct of repulsion. This man was her father's enemy, 
 and so hers. All the town knew now that he was trying to 
 ruin her father so that he might take his place, that he 
 laughed at him and mocked him. 
 
 So fierce did she feel that she could have scratched his 
 cheeks. He was smiling at them all, and at once was engaged 
 in a wordy duel with Mrs. Combermere and Miss Stiles, 
 They liked him ; every one in the town liked him. She heard 
 his praises sung by every one. Well, she would never sing 
 them. She hated him. 
 
 And now he was actually speaking to her. He had the 
 impertinence to ask her for a dance. 
 
 "I'm afraid I'm engaged for the next and for the one after 
 that, Canon Render," she said. 
 
 "Well, later on then," he said, smiling. "What about an 
 extra ?" 
 
 Her dark eyes scorned him. 
 
 "We are going home early," she said. She pretended to 
 examine her programme. "I'm afraid I have not one before 
 we go." 
 
 She spoke as coldly as she dared. She felt the eyes of 
 Mrs. Combermere and Ellen Stiles upon her. How stupid of
 
 356 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 her I She had shown them what her feelings were, and now 
 they would chatter the more and laugh about her fighting her 
 father's battles. Why had she not shown her indifference, 
 her complete indifference? 
 
 He was smiling still not discomfited by her rudeness. 
 He said something something polite and outrageously kind 
 and then young Charles D'Arcy came up to carry her off 
 for the Lancers. 
 
 An hour later her cup of happiness was completely filled. 
 She had danced, during that hour, four times with Johnny ; 
 every one must be talking. Lady St. Leath must be furious 
 (she did not know that Boadicea had been playing whist with 
 old Colonel Wotherston and Sir Henry Byles for the last ever 
 so long). 
 
 She would perhaps never have such an hour in all her life 
 again. This thing that he so wildly proposed was impossible 
 utterly, completely impossible; but what was not impos- 
 sible, what was indeed certain and sure and beyond any sort 
 of question, was that she loved Johnny St. Leath with all her 
 heart and soul, and would so love him until the day of her 
 death. Life could never be purposeless nor mean nor empty 
 for her again, while she had that treasure to carry about with 
 her in her heart. Meanwhile she could not look at him and 
 doubt but that, for the moment at any rate, he loved her 
 and there was something simple and direct about Johnny as 
 there was about his dog Andrew, that made his words, few 
 and clumsy though they might be, most strangely convincing. 
 
 So, almost dizzy with happiness, she climbed the stair 
 behind the Gallery and thought that she would escape for a 
 moment into the little room where Johnny had proposed to 
 her, and sit there and grow calm. She looked in. Some one 
 was there. A man sitting by himself and staring in front of 
 him. She saw at once that he was in some great trouble* 
 His hands were clenched, his face puckered and set with pain. 
 Then she saw that it was her father.
 
 THKEB JUBILEE 357 
 
 He did not move; he might have been a block of stone 
 shining in the dimness. Terrified, she stood, herself not 
 moving. Then she came forward. She put her hand on his 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Oh, father father, what is it ?" She felt his body trem- 
 bling beneath her touch he, the proudest, finest man in the 
 country. She put her arm round his neck. She kissed him. 
 His forehead was damp with sweat. His body was shaking 
 from head to foot. She kissed him again and again, kneeling 
 beside him. 
 
 Then she remembered where they were. Some one might 
 come. No one must see him like that 
 
 She whispered to him, took his hands between hers. 
 
 "Let's go home, Joan," he said. "I want to go home." 
 
 She put her arm through his, and together they went 
 down the little stairs.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 SUNDAY, JUNE 20 : IN THE BEDROOM 
 
 BRANDON had been talking to the Precentor at the far 
 end of the ballroom, when suddenly Ronder had ap- 
 peared in their midst. Appeared the only word ! And Bran- 
 don, armoured, he had thought, for every terror that that 
 night might bring to him, had been suddenly seized with the 
 lust of murder. A lust as dominating as any other, that 
 swept upon him in a hot flaming tide, lapped him from head 
 to foot. It was no matter, this time, of words, of senses, of 
 thoughts, but of his possession by some other man who filled 
 his brain, his eyes, his mouth, his stomach, his heart; one 
 second more and he would have flung himself upon that smil- 
 ing face, those rounded limbs; he would have caught that 
 white throat and squeezed it squeezed . . . squeezed. . . . 
 
 The room literally swam in a tide of impulse that carried 
 him against Render's body and left him there, breast beating 
 against breast. . . . 
 
 He turned without a word and almost ran from the place. 
 He passed through the passages, seeing no one, conscious of 
 neither voices nor eyes, climbing stairs that he did not feel, 
 sheltering in that lonely little room, sitting there, his hands 
 to his face, shuddering. The lust slowly withdrew from him, 
 leaving him icy cold. Then he lifted his eyes and saw his 
 daughter and clung to her as just then he would have clung 
 to anybody for safety. 
 
 Had it come to this then, that he was mad ? All that night, 
 lying on his bed, he surveyed himself. That was the way that 
 men murdered. No longer could ho claim control or mastery 
 
 358
 
 JUBILEE 359 
 
 of his body. God had deserted him and given him over to 
 devils. 
 
 His son, his wife, and now God. His loneliness was ter- 
 rible. And he could not think. He must think about this 
 letter and what he should do. He could not think at all. He 
 was given over to devils. 
 
 After Matins in the Cathedral next day one thought came 
 to him. He would go and see the Bishop. The Bishop had 
 come in from Carpledon for the Jubilee celebrations and was 
 staying at the Deanery. Brandon spoke to him for a moment 
 after Matins and asked him whether he might see him for 
 half an hour in the afternoon on a matter of great urgency. 
 The Bishop asked him to come at three o'clock. 
 
 Seated in the Dean's library, with its old-fashioned cosiness 
 its book-shelves and the familiar books, the cases, between 
 the high windows, of his precious butterflies Brandon felt, 
 for the first time for many days, a certain calm descend upon 
 him. The Bishop, looking very frail and small in the big 
 arm-chair, received him with so warm an affection that he 
 felt, in spite of his own age, like the old man's son. 
 
 "My lord," he began with difficulty, moving his big limbs 
 in his chair like a restless schoolboy, "it isn't easy for me to 
 come to-day. There's no one in the world I could speak to 
 except yourself. I find it difficult even to do that" 
 
 "My son," said the Bishop gently, "I am a very, very old 
 man. I cannot have many more months to live. When one is 
 as near to death as I am, one loves everything and everybody, 
 because one is going so soon. You needn't be afraid." 
 
 And in his heart he must have wondered at the change in 
 this man who, through so many years now, had come to him 
 with so much self-confidence and assurance. 
 
 "I have had much trouble lately," Brandon went on. "But 
 I would not have bothered you with that, knowing as I do 
 all that you have to consider just now, were it not that for 
 the first time in my life I seem to have lost control and to be
 
 360 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 heading toward some great disaster that may bring scandal 
 not only on myself but on the Church as well." 
 
 "Tell me your trouble," said the Bishop. 
 
 "Nine months ago I seemed to be at the very height of mj 
 powers, my happiness, my usefulness." Brandon paused. 
 Was it really only nine months back, that other time? "I 
 had no troubles. I was confident in myself, my health was 
 good, my family were happy. I seemed to have many friends. 
 . . . Then suddenly everything changed. I don't want to 
 seem false, my lord, in anything that I may say, but it was 
 literally as though in the course of a night all my happiness 
 forsook me. 
 
 "It began with my boy being sent down from Oxford. I 
 have only one boy, as I think your lordship knows. He was 
 he is, in spite of what has happened very dear to ma" 
 Brandon paused. 
 
 "Yes, I know," said the Bishop. 
 
 "After that everything began to go wrong. Little things, 
 little tiny things one after another. Some one came to this 
 town who almost at once seemed to put himself into opposi- 
 tion to me." Brandon paused once more. 
 
 The Bishop said again : "Yes, I know." 
 
 "At first," Brandon went on, "I didn't realise this. I was 
 preoccupied with my work. It had never, at any time in my 
 life, seemed to me healthy to consider about other people's 
 minds, what they were thinking or imagining. There is quite 
 enough work to do in the world without that. But soon I 
 was forced to consider this man's opposition to me. It came 
 before me in a thousand little ways. The attitude of the 
 Chapter changed to me especially noticeable at one of the 
 Chapter meetings. I don't want to make my story so long, 
 my lord, that it will tire you. To cut it short a day came 
 when my boy ran off to London with a town girl, the daughter 
 of the landlord of one of the more disreputable public-houses. 
 That was a terrible, devastating blow to me. I have quite 
 literally not been the same man since. I was determined not
 
 THKEB JUBILEE 361 
 
 to allow it to turn me from my proper work. I still loved the 
 boy ; he had not behaved dishonourably to the girl. He has 
 now married her and is earning his living in London. If that 
 
 had been the only blow " He stopped, cleared his throat, 
 
 and, turning excitedly towards the Bishop, almost shouted: 
 
 "But it is not ! It is not, my lord ! My enemy has never 
 ceased his plots for one instant. It was he who advised my 
 boy to run off with this girl. He has turned the whole town 
 against me; they laugh at me and mock me! And now he 
 . . . now he . . ." He could not for a moment find breath. 
 He exercised an impulse of almost superhuman self-control, 
 bringing his body visibly back into bounds again. He went 
 on more quietly : 
 
 "We are in opposite camps over this matter of the Pybus 
 living we are in opposition over almost every question that 
 arises here. He is an able man. I must do him that justice. 
 He can plot . . . he can scheme . . . whereas I ..." 
 Brandon beat his hands desperately on his knees. 
 
 "It is not only this man !" he cried, "not only this ! It is 
 as though there were some larger conspiracy, something from 
 Heaven itself. God has turned His face away from me when 
 I have served Him faithfully all my days. No one has 
 served Him more whole-heartedly than I. He has been my 
 only thought, His glory my only purpose. Nine months ago I 
 had health, I had friends, I had honour. I had my family 
 now my health is going, my friends have forsaken me, I am 
 mocked at by the lowest men in the town, my son has left me, 
 my my . . ." 
 
 He broke off, bending his face in his hands. 
 
 The Bishop said: "My dear friend, you are not alone in 
 this. We have all been tried, like this tested 
 
 "Tested !" Brandon broke out. "Why should I be tested ? 
 What have I done in all my life that is not acceptable to 
 God ? What sin have I committed ! What disloyalty have I 
 shown? But there is something more that I must tell you, 
 my lord the reason why I have come to you to-day. Canon
 
 362 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 Render and I you must have known of whom I have been 
 speaking had a violent quarrel one afternoon on the way 
 home after luncheon with you at Carpledon, This quarrel 
 became, in one way or another, the town's property. Render 
 affected to like me, but it was impossible now for him to hide 
 his real intentions towards me. This thing began to be an 
 obsession with me. I tried to prevent this. I knew what the 
 danger of such obsessions can be. But there was something. 
 
 else. My wife " he paused went on. "My wife and 1, 
 
 my lord, have lived together in perfect happiness for twenty 
 years. At least it had seemed to me to be perfect happiness. 
 She began to behave strangely. She was not herself. Un- 
 doubtedly the affair of our son disturbed her desperately. 
 She seemed to avoid me, to escape from me when she could. 
 This, coming with my other troubles, made me feel as though 
 I were in some horrible dream, as though the very furniture 
 of our home and the appearance of the streets were changing. 
 I began to be afraid sometimes that I might be going mad. 
 I have had bad headaches that have made it difficult for me to 
 think. Then, only last night, a woman brought me a letter. 
 I wish you most earnestly to believe, my lord, that I believe 
 my wife to be absolutely loyal to me loyal in every possible 
 sense of the word. The letter purported to bo in her hand- 
 writing. And in this matter also Canon Render had had some 
 hand. The woman admitted that she had been first to Canon 
 Render and that he had advised her to bring it to me." 
 
 The Bishop made a movement 
 
 "You will, of course, say nothing of this, my lord, to 
 Canon Render. I have come privately to ask your prayers 
 for mo and to have your counsel. I am making no complaint 
 against Canon Render. I must see this thing through by 
 myself. But last night, when my mind was filled with this 
 letter, I found myself suddenly next to Canon Render, and I 
 had a murderous impulse that was so fierce and sudden in ita 
 power that I ' he broke off, shuddering. Then crie<l, 
 suddenly stretching out his hands:
 
 THREE JUBILEE 363 
 
 "Oh, my lord, pray for me, pray for me I Help me I I 
 don't know what I do I am given over to the powers of 
 Hell!" 
 
 A long silence followed. Then the Bishop said : 
 "You have asked me to say nothing to Canon Render, and 
 of course I must respect your confidence. But the first thing 
 that I would say to you is that I think that what you feared 
 has happened that you have allowed this thought of him to 
 become an obsession to you. The ways of God are mysterious 
 and past our finding out; but all of us, in our lives, have 
 known that time when everything was suddenly turned 
 against us our work, those whom we love, our health, even ; 
 our belief in God Himself. My dear, dear friend, I myself 
 have known that several times in my own life. Once, when I 
 was a young man, I lost an appointment on which my whole 
 heart was set, and lost it, as it seemed, through an extreme , 
 injustice. It turned out afterwards that my losing that 
 was one of the most fortunate things for me. Once my 
 dear wife and I seemed to lose all our love for one another, 
 and I was assailed with most desperate temptation and the 
 end of that was that we loved and understood one another as 
 we had never done before. Once and this was the most ter- 
 rible period of my life, and it continued over a long time I 
 lost, as it seemed, completely all my faith in God. I came out 
 of that believing only in the beauty of Christ's life, clinging 
 to that, and saying to myself, 'Such a friend have I then life 
 is not all lost to me' and slowly, gradually, I came back 
 into touch with Him and knew Him as I had never known 
 Him before, and, through Him, once again God the Father. 
 And now, even in my old age, temptation is still with me. I 
 long to die. I am tempted often to look upon men and women 
 as shadows that have no longer any connection with me. I 
 am very weak and feeble and I wish to sleep. . . . But the 
 love of God continues, and through Jesus Christ, the love of 
 men. It is the only truth love of God, love of man the 
 rest is fantasy and unreality. Look up, my son, bear this
 
 364 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 with patience. God is standing at your shoulder and will be 
 with you to the end. This is training for you. To show you, 
 perhaps, that all through life you have missed the most 
 important thing. You are learning through this trouble your 
 need of others, your need to love them, and that they should 
 . love you the only lesson worth learning in life. . . ." 
 
 The Bishop came over to Brandon and put his hand on his 
 head. Strange peace come into Brandon's heart, not from the 
 old man's words, but from the contact with him, the touch of 
 his thin trembling hand. The room was filled with peace. 
 Bonder was suddenly of little importance. The Cathedral 
 faded. For a time he rested. 
 
 For the rest of that day, until evening, that peace stayed 
 with him. With it still in his heart he came, late that night, 
 into their bedroom. Mrs. Brandon was in bed, awake, staring 
 in front of her, not moving. He sat down in the chair beside 
 the bed, stretched out his hand, and took hers. 
 
 "Amy, dear," he said, "I want us to have a little talk." 
 
 Her little hand lay still and hot in his large cool ona 
 
 "I've been very unhappy," he went on with difficulty, 
 "lately about you I have seen that you yourself are not 
 happy. I want you to be. I will do anything that is in my 
 power to make you so !" 
 
 "You would not," she said, without looking at him, "have 
 troubled to think of me had not your own private affairs gone 
 wrong and had not Falk left us !" 
 
 The sound of her hostility irritated him against his will ; he 
 beat the irritation down. He felt suddenly very tired, quite 
 exhausted. He had an almost irresistible temptation to go 
 down into his dressing-room, lie on his sofa there, and go in- 
 stantly to sleep. 
 
 "That's not quit fair, Amy," he said. "But wo won't 
 dispute about that. I want to know why, after our being 
 happy for twenty years, something now has come in between
 
 THBEE JUBILEE 365 
 
 us or seems to have done so ; I want to clear that away if I 
 can, so that we can be as we were before." 
 
 Be as they were before ! At the strange, ludicrous irony of 
 that phrase she turned on her elbow and looked at him, stared 
 at him as though she could not see enough of him. 
 
 "Why do you think that there is anything the matter?" 
 she asked softly, almost gently. 
 
 "Why, of course I can see," he said, holding her hand more 
 tightly as though the sudden gentleness in her voice had 
 touched him. "When one has lived with some one a long 
 time," he went on rather awkwardly, "one notices things. Of 
 course I've seen that you were not happy. And Falk leaving 
 us in that way must have made you very miserable. It made 
 me miserable too," he added, suddenly stroking her hand a 
 little. 
 
 She could not bear that and very quietly withdrew her 
 hand. 
 
 "Did it really hurt you, Falk's going?" she asked, still 
 staring at him. 
 
 "Hurt me ?" he cried, staring back at her in utter aston- 
 ishment. "Hurt me? Why why " 
 
 "Then why," she went on, "didn't you go up to London 
 after him?" 
 
 The question was so entirely unexpected that he could only 
 repeat : 
 
 "Why? . . ." 
 
 "Oh, well, it doesn't matter now," she said, wearily turn- 
 ing away. 
 
 "Perhaps I did wrong. I think perhaps I've done wrong 
 in many ways during these last years. I am seeing many 
 things for the first time. The truth is I have been so absorbed 
 in my work that I've thought of nothing else. I took it too 
 much for grants} that you were happy because I was happy. 
 And now I want to make it right. I do indeed, Amy. Tell 
 me what's the matter." 
 
 She said nothing. He waited for a long time. Her im-
 
 366 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 mobility always angered him. He said at last more im- 
 patiently. 
 
 "Please tell me, Amy, what you have against me." 
 
 "I have nothing against you." 
 
 "Then why are things wrong between us ?" 
 
 "Are things wrong?" 
 
 "You know they are ever since that morning when you 
 wouldn't come to Holy Communion." 
 
 "I was tired that morning." 
 
 "It is more than tiredness," he said, with sudden impa- 
 tience, beating upon the counterpane with his fist. "Amy 
 you're not behaving fairly. You must talk to me. I insist 
 on it." 
 
 She turned once more towards him. 
 
 "What is it you want me to say I" 
 
 "Why you're unhappy." 
 
 "But if I am not unhappy ?" 
 
 "You are." 
 
 "But suppose I say that I am not ?" 
 
 "You are. You are. You are !" he shouted at her. 
 
 "Very well, then, I am." 
 
 "Why are you ?" 
 
 "Who ts happy really? At any rate for more than a 
 moment. Only very thoughtless and silly peopla" 
 
 "You're putting me off." He took her hand again. "I'm 
 to blame, Amy to blame in many ways. But people are 
 talking." 
 
 She snatched her hand away. 
 
 "People talking? Who? . . . But as though that mat- 
 tered." 
 
 "It does matter. It has gone far much farther than I 
 thought." 
 
 She looked at him then, quickly, and turned her face away 
 again. 
 
 "Who's talking? And what are they saying?" 
 
 "They are saying " He broke off. What were they
 
 THEEB 
 
 JUBILEE 367 
 
 saying ? Until the arrival of that horrible letter he had not 
 realised that they were saying anything at all. 
 
 "Don't think for a single moment, Amy, that I pay the 
 slightest attention to any of their talk. I would not have 
 bothered you with any of this had it not been for something 
 else of which I'll speak in a moment. If everything is right 
 between us between you and me then it doesn't matter if 
 the whole world talks until it's blue in the face." 
 
 "Leave it alone, then," she said. "Let them talk." 
 
 Her indifference stung him. She didn't care, then, whether 
 things were right between himself and her or no ? It was the 
 same to her. She cared so little for him. . . . That sudden 
 realisation struck him so sharply that it was as though some 
 one had hit him in the back. For so many years he had 
 taken it for granted . . . taken something for granted that 
 was not to be so taken. Very dimly some one was approach- 
 ing him that dark, misty, gigantic figure blotting out the 
 light from the windows. That figure was becoming day by 
 day more closely his companion. 
 
 Looking at her now more intently, and with a new urgency, 
 he said : 
 
 "Some one brought me a letter, Amy. They said it was a 
 letter of yours." 
 
 She did not move nor stir. Then, after a long silence, she 
 said, "Let me see it." 
 
 He felt in his pocket and produced it. She stretched out 
 her hand and took it. She read it through slowly. "You 
 think that I wrote this ?" she asked. 
 
 "No, I know that you did not." 
 
 "To whom was it supposed to be written ?" 
 
 "To Morris of St. James'." 
 
 She nodded her head. "Ah, yes. We're friends. That's 
 why they chose him. Of course it's a forgery," she added 
 "a very clever one." 
 
 "What I don't understand," he said eagerly, at his heart 
 the strangest relief that he did not dare to stop to analyse, "is
 
 368 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 why any one should have troubled to do this the risk, the 
 danger " 
 
 "You have enemies," she said. "Of course you know that. 
 People who are jealous." 
 
 "One enemy," he answered fiercely. "Ronder. The 
 woman had been to him with this letter before she came to 
 ma" 
 
 "The woman ! What woman ? 
 
 "The woman who brought it to me was a Miss Milton a 
 wretched creature who was once at the Library." 
 
 "And she had been with this to Canon Ronder before she 
 came to you 1" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Ah !" 
 
 Then she said very quietly: 
 
 "And what do you mean to do about the letter ?" 
 
 "I will do whatever you wish me to do. What I would like 
 to do is to leave no step untaken to bring the authors of this 
 forgery to justice. No step. I will 
 
 "No," she broke in quickly. "It is much better to leave it 
 alone. What good can it do to follow it up ? It only tells 
 every one about it. We should despise it. The thing is so 
 obviously false. Why you can see," suddenly holding the 
 letter towards him, "it isn't even like my writing. My s's, 
 my m's they're not like that 
 
 "No, no," he said eagerly. "I see that they are not. I saw 
 that at once." 
 
 "You knew at once that it was a forgery ?" 
 
 "I knew at once. I never doubted for an instant." 
 
 She sighed ; then settled back into the pillow with a little 
 shudder. 
 
 "This town," she said; "the things they do. Oh! to get 
 away from it, to get away !" 
 
 "And we will !" he cried eagerly. "That's what we need, 
 both of us a holiday. I've been thinking it over. We're 
 both tired. When this Jubilee ia over we'll go abroad Italy,
 
 THREE JUBILEE 369 
 
 Greece. We'll have a second honeymoon. Oh, Amy, we'll 
 begin life again. I've been much to blame much to blame. 
 Give me that letter. I'll destroy it. I know my enemy, but 
 I'll not think of him or of any one but our two selves. I'll 
 be good to you now if you'll let me." 
 
 She gave him the letter. 
 
 "Look at it before you tear it up," she said, staring at him 
 as though she would not miss any change in his features* 
 "You're sure that it is a. forgery ?" 
 
 "Why, of course." 
 
 "It's nothing like my handwriting?" 
 
 "Nothing at all." 
 
 "You know that I am devoted to you, that I would never 
 be untrue to you in thought, word or deed ?" 
 
 "Why, of course, of course. As though I didn't 
 know " 
 
 "And that I'll love to come abroad with you ?" 
 
 "Yes, yes." 
 
 "And that we'll have a second honeymoon?" 
 
 "Yes, yes. Indeed, Amy, we will." 
 
 "Look well at that letter. You are wrong. It is not a 
 forgery. I did write it." 
 
 He did not answer her, but stayed staring at the letter like 
 a boy detected in a theft. She repeated : 
 
 "The woman was quite right. I did write that letter." 
 
 Brandon said, staring at her, "Don't laugh at me. This is 
 too serious." 
 
 "I'm not laughing. I wrote it. I sent it down by Gladys. 
 If you recall the day to her she'll remember." 
 
 She watched his face. It had turned suddenly grey, as 
 though some one had slipped a grey mask over the original 
 features. 
 
 She thought, "Now perhaps he'll kill me. I'm not sorry." 
 
 He whispered, leaning quite close to her as though he were 
 afraid she would not hear. 
 
 "You wrote that letter to Morris ?"
 
 370 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 "I did." Then suddenly springing up, half out of bed, she 
 cried, "You're not to touch him. Do you hear? You're not 
 to touch him! It's not his fault. He's had nothing to do 
 with this. He's only my friend. I love him, but he doesn't 
 love me. Do you hear ? He's had nothing to do with this 1" 
 
 "You love him !" whispered Brandon. 
 
 "I've loved him since the first moment I saw him. I've 
 wanted some one to love for years years and years and 
 years. You didn't love me, so then I hoped Falk would, and 
 Falk didn't, so then I found the first person any one who 
 would be kind to ma And he was kind he is kind the 
 kindest man in the world. And he saw that I was lonely, so 
 he let me talk to him and go to him but none of this is his 
 doing. He's only been kind. He " 
 
 "Your letter says 'Dearest'," said Brandon. "If you wrote 
 that letter it says 'Dearest'." 
 
 "That was my foolishness. It was wrong of me. He told 
 me that I mustn't say anything affectionate. He's good and 
 I'm bad. And I'm bad because you've made me," 
 
 Brandon took the letter and tore it into little pieces ; they 
 scattered upon the counterpane. 
 
 "You've been unfaithful to me?" he said, bending over 
 her. 
 
 She did not shrink back, although that strange, unknown, 
 grey face was very close to her. "Yes. At first he wouldn't. 
 He refused anything. But I would. ... I wanted to be. 
 I hate you. I've hated you for years." 
 
 "Why ?" His hand closed on her shoulder. 
 
 "Because of your conceit and pride. Because you've never 
 thought of me. Because I've always been a piece of furniture 
 to you less than that. Because you've been so pleased with 
 yourself and well-satisfied and stupid. Yes. Yes. Most 
 because you're so stupid. So stupid. Never seeing anything, 
 never knowing anything and always so satisfied. And when 
 the town was pleased with you and said you were so fine I've 
 laughed, knowing what you were, and I thought to myself,
 
 THREE JUBILEE 371 
 
 'There'll come a time when they'll find him out' and now 
 they have. They know what you are at last. And I'm 
 glad ! I'm glad ! I'm glad !" She stopped, her breast rising 
 and falling beneath her nightdress, her voice shrill, almost 
 a scream. 
 
 He put his hands on her thin bony shoulders and pushed 
 her back into the bed. His hands moved to her throat. His 
 whole weight, he now kneeling on the bed, was on top of 
 her. 
 
 "Kill me ! Kill me !" she whispered. "I'll be glad." 
 
 All the while their eyes stared at one another inquisitively, 
 as though they were strangers meeting for the first time. 
 
 His hands met round her throat. His knees were over her. 
 He felt her thin throat between his hands and a voice in 
 his ear whispered, "That's right, squeeze tighter. Splendid ! 
 Splendid !" 
 
 Suddenly his eyes recognised hers. His hands dropped. 
 He crawled from the bed. Then he felt his way, blindly, out 
 of the room.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 TUESDAY, JUNK 22: I. THE CATHEDRAL 
 
 THE Great Day arrived, escorted sumptuously with skies 
 of burning blue. How many heads looked out of how 
 many windows, the country over, that morning! In Pol- 
 chester it was considered as only another proof of the esteem 
 in which that city was held by the Almighty. The Old 
 Lady might deserve and did unquestionably obtain divinely 
 condescending weather for her various excursions, but it was 
 nothing to that which the Old Town got and deserved. 
 
 Deserved or no, the town rose to the occasion. The High 
 Street was swimming in flags and bunting; even in Seatown 
 most of the grimy windows showed those little cheap flags that 
 during the past week hawkers had been so industriously 
 selling. From quite early in the morning the squeak and 
 scream of the roundabouts in the Fair could be heard dimly 
 penetrating the sanctities and privacies of the Precincts. But 
 it was the Cathedral bells, pealing, crashing, echoing, rocking, 
 as early as nine o'clock in the morning, that first awoke the 
 consciousness of most of the Polcastrians to the glories of the 
 day. 
 
 I suppose that nearly all souls that morning subconsciously 
 divided the order of the festival into three periods; in the 
 morning the Cathedral and its service, in the afternoon the 
 social, friendly, man-to-man celebration, and in the evening, 
 torch-light, bonfire, skies ablaze, drink and love. 
 
 Certain it is that many eyes turned towards the Cathedral 
 accustomed for many years to look in quite other directions. 
 There was to be a grand service, they said, with "trumpets 
 
 372
 
 JUBILEE 373 
 
 and shawms" and the big drum, and the old Bishop preaching, 
 making, in all probability, his very last public appearance. 
 Up from the dark mysteries of Seatown, down from the 
 chaste proprieties of the villas above Orange Street, from the 
 purlieus of the market, from the shops of the High Street, 
 sailors and merchantmen, traders and sea-captains and, from 
 the wild fastness of the Fair, gipsies with silver rings in 
 their ears and, perhaps, who can tell? bells on their dusky 
 toes. 
 
 Very early were Lawrence and Cobbett about their duties. 
 This was, in all probability, Lawrence's last Great Day before 
 the final and all- judging one, and well both he and Cobbett 
 were aware of it. Cobbett could see himself that morning 
 almost stepping into the old man's shoes, and the old man 
 himself was not well this morning not well at all. Rheuma- 
 tism, gout, what hadn't he got ? and, above all, that strange, 
 mysterious pain somewhere in his very vitals, a pain that was 
 not precisely a pain, too dull and homely for that, but a warn- 
 ing, a foreboding. 
 
 On an ordinary day, in spite of his dislike of allowing Cob- 
 bett any of those duties that were so properly his own, he 
 would have stayed in bed, but to-day ? no, thank you ! On 
 such a day as this he would defy the Devil himself and all 
 his red-hot pincers ! So there he was in his long purple gown, 
 with his lovely snow-white beard, and his gold-topped staff, 
 patronising Mrs. Muffit (who superintended the cleaning) 
 and her ancient servitors, seeing that the places for the Band 
 (just under the choir-screen) and for the extra members of 
 the choir were all in order, and, above all, that the Bishop's 
 Throne up by the altar was guiltless of a speck of dust, of a 
 shadow of a shadow of disorder. Cobbett saw, beyond any 
 question or doubt, death in the old man's face, and suddenly, 
 to his own amazement, was sorry. For years now he had been 
 waiting for the day when he should succeed the tiresome old 
 fool, for years he had cursed him for a thousand pomposities, 
 blunders, tedious garrulities, and now, suddenly, he was
 
 374 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 sorry. What had come over him ? But he wasn't a bad old 
 man ; plucky, too ; you could see how he was suffering. They 
 had, after all, been companions together for so many 
 years. . . . 
 
 Quite early in the morning arrivals began visitors from 
 the country most likely, sitting there at the back of the nave, 
 bathed in the great silence and the dim light, just looking and 
 wondering and expecting. Some of them wanted to move 
 about and examine the brasses and the tombs and the windows 
 yes, move about with their families, and their bags of sand- 
 wiches, and their oranges. But not this morning, oh, dear, 
 no ! They could come in or go out, but if they came in they 
 must stay quiet. Did they but subterraneously giggle, Cob- 
 bet was on their tracks in no time. 
 
 The light flooded in, throwing great splashes and lakes of 
 blue and gold and purple on to flag and pillar. Great in its 
 strength, magnificent in its beauty, the Cathedral pre- 
 pared. . . . 
 
 Mrs. Combennere walked rather solemnly that morning 
 from her house to the Cathedral. In spite of the lovely morn- 
 ing she was feeling suddenly old. Things like Jubilees do 
 date you no doubt about it. Nearly fifty. Three-quarters 
 of life behind her and what had she to show for it ? An un- 
 lucky marriage, much physical health and fun, some friends 
 but, at the last, lonely lonely as perhaps every human 
 being in this queer world was. That old woman now prepar- 
 ing to ride in fantastic procession before her worshipping 
 subjects, she was lonely too. Poor, little, lonely, old woman I 
 Well, then, Charity to all and sundry Charity, kindliness, 
 the one and only thing. Aggie Combermere was not a senti- 
 mental woman, nor did she see life falsely, but she was 
 suddenly aware, walking under the blazing blue sky, that she 
 had been unkind, for amusement's sake, more often than she 
 need. . . . Well, why not ? She was ready to allow people to 
 have a shy at herself any one who liked. . . . " 'Ere you
 
 THREE JUBILEE 375 
 
 are I Old Aunt Sally ! Three shies a penny !" And she was 
 an Aunt Sally, a ludicrous creature, caring for her dogs more 
 than for any living creature, shovelling food into her mouth 
 for no particular purpose, doing physical exercises in the 
 morning, and nearly fifty ! 
 
 She found then, just as she reached the Arden Gate, that, 
 to her own immense surprise, it was not of herself that, all 
 this time, she had been thinking, but rather of Brandon and 
 the Brandon family. The Brandons! What an extraordi- 
 nary affair ! The Town was now bursting its fat sides with 
 excitement over it all ! The Town was now generally aware 
 (but how it was aware no one quite knew) that there was a 
 mysterious letter that Mrs. Brandon had written to Morris, 
 and that Miss Milton, librarian who was, had obtained this 
 letter and had taken it to Render. And the next move, the 
 next ! the next ! Oh, tell us ! Tell us ! The Town stands on 
 tiptoe ; its hair on end. Let us see ! Let us see ! Let us not 
 miss the tiniest detail of this extraordinary affair ! 
 
 And really how extraordinary ! First the boy runs off with 
 that girl ; then Mrs. Brandon, the quietest, dullest woman for 
 years and years, throws her cap over the mill and behaves like 
 a madwoman ; and Johnny St. Leath, they say, is in love with 
 the daughter, and his old mother is furious; and Brandon, 
 they say, wants to cut Render's throat. Render ! Mrs. Com- 
 bermere paused, partly to get her breath, partly to enjoy for 
 an instant the shining, glittering grass, dotted with figures, 
 stretching like a carpet from the vast greyness of the Cathe- 
 dral. Render ! There was a remarkable man ! Mrs. Com- 
 bermere was conquered by him, in spite of herself. How, in 
 seven short months, he had conquered everybody ! What an 
 amusing talker, what a good preacher, what a clever business 
 head ! And yet she did not really like him. His praises now 
 were in every one's mouth, but she did not really like him. 
 Old Brandon was still her favourite, her old friend of ten 
 years ; but there was no doubt that he was behind the times, 
 Render had shown them that ! No use living in the 'Eighties
 
 376 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 any longer. But she was fond of him, she did not want him 
 to be unhappy and unhappy he was, that any one could see. 
 Most of all, she did not want him to do anything foolish and 
 he might, his temper was strange, he was not so strong as he 
 looked ; he had felt his son's escapade terribly and now hia 
 wife! 
 
 "Well, if I had a wife like that," was Mrs. Combermere's 
 conclusion before she joined Ellen Stiles and Julia Preston, 
 "I'd let her go off with any one ! Pay any one to take her !" 
 
 Ellen was, of course, full of it all. "My dear, what do you 
 think is the latest ! They say that the Archdeacon threatens 
 to poison the whole of the Chapter if they don't let Forsyth 
 have Pybus, and that Boadicea has ordered Johnny to take a 
 voyage to the Canary Islands for his health, and that he says 
 he'll see her shot first ! And Miss Milton is selling the letter 
 for a thousand pounds to the first comer !" 
 
 Mrs. Combermere stopped her sharply "Mind your own 
 business, Ellen. The whole thing now is past a joke. And 
 as to Johnny St. Leath, he shows his good taste. There isn't 
 a sweeter, prettier girl in England than Joan Brandon, and 
 he's lucky if he gets her." 
 
 "I don't want to be ill-natured," said Ellen Stiles rather 
 plaintively, "but that family would test anybody's reticence. 
 We'd better go in or old Lawrence will be letting some one 
 have our seats." 
 
 Joan came with her mother slowly across the grass. In 
 her dress was this letter: 
 
 DEAREST, DEAREST, dearest JOAN The first thing you have 
 thoroughly to realise is that it doesn't matter what you say or 
 what mother says or what any one says. Mother's angry. Of 
 course she is. She's been angry a thousand million times before 
 and will be a thousand million times again. But it doesn't 
 mean anything. Mother likes to be angry, it does her good, and 
 the longer she's angry with you the better she'll like you, if you 
 understand what I mean. What I want to get into your head 
 is that you can't alter anything. Of course if you didn't love
 
 THBEB JUBILEE 377 
 
 me it would be another matter, and yon tried to tell me you 
 didn't love me yesterday just for my good, but you did it so 
 badly that you had to admit yourself that it was a failure. 
 Don't talk about your brother ; he's a fine fellow, and I'm going 
 to look him up when I'm in London next month. Don't talk 
 about not seeing me, because you can't help seeing me if I'm 
 right in front of you. I'm no silph. (The way he spelt it.) 
 I'm quite ready to wait for a certain time anyway. But marry 
 we will, and happy we'll be for ever and ever! Your adoring 
 
 JOHNNY. 
 
 And what was she to do about it? She was certainly 
 rery unmodern and inexperienced by the standards of to-day 
 on the other hand, she was a very long way indeed from the 
 Lily Dales and Eleanor Hardings of Mr. Trollope. She had 
 not told her father that she was resolved to do so soon as he 
 seemed a little less worried by his affairs ; but say that she did 
 not love Johnny she had found that she could not, and as to 
 damaging him by marrying him, his love for her had 
 strengthened her own pride in herself. She did not under- 
 stand his love, it was astounding to her after the indifference 
 with which her own family had always treated her. But 
 there it was: he, with all his experience of life, loved her 
 more than any one else in the world, so there must be some- 
 thing in her. And she knew there was; privately she had 
 always known it. As to his mother well, so long as Johnny 
 loved her she could face anybody. 
 
 So this wonderful morning she was radiantly happy. Child 
 as she was, she adored this excitement. It was splendid of it 
 to be this glorious time just when she was having her own 
 glorious time ! Splendid of the weather to be so beautiful, of 
 the bells to clash, of every one to wear their best clothes, of 
 the Jubilee to arrange itself so exactly at the right moment ! 
 And could it be only last Saturday that he had spoken to her ? 
 And it seemed centuries, centuries ago ! 
 
 She chattered eagerly, smiling at Betty Callender, and then 
 at the D'Arcy girls, and then at Mrs. Bentinck-Major. She 
 supposed that they were all talking about her. Well, let them.
 
 378 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 There was nothing to be ashamed of. Quite the contrary. 
 She did not notice her mother's silence. But she had noticed, 
 before they left the house, how ill her mother was looking. 
 A very bad night another of her dreadful headaches. Her 
 father had not come in to breakfast at all. Everything had 
 been wrong at home since that day when Falk had been sent 
 down from Oxford. She longed to put her arms around her 
 father's neck and hug him. Behind her own happiness, ever 
 since the night of the Ball, there had been a longing, an aching 
 urgent longing to pet him, comfort him, make love to him. 
 And she would, too as soon as all these festivities were over. 
 
 And then suddenly there were Johnny and his mother and 
 his sisters walking towards the West door! What a situa- 
 tion! And then there was Johnny breaking away from his 
 own family and hurrying towards them, lifting his hat, 
 smiling! 
 
 How splendid he looked and how happy I And how happy 
 she also was looking had she only known it! 
 
 "Good morning, Mrs. Brandon." 
 
 Mrs. Brandon didn't appear to remember him at all. Then 
 suddenly, as though she had picked her conscience out of her 
 pocket: 
 
 "Oh, good morning, Lord St. Leath." 
 
 Joan, out of the corner, saw Boadicea, her head with its 
 absurd bonnet high, striding indignantly ahead. 
 
 "What lovely weather, is it not ?" 
 
 "Yes, aren't we lucky ? Good morning, Joan," 
 
 "Good morning." 
 
 "Isn't it a lovely day I" 
 
 "Oh, yes, it is." 
 
 "Are you going to see the Torchlight Procession to-night?" 
 
 "They come through the Precincts, you know." 
 
 "Of course they do. We're going to have five bonfires all 
 around us. Mother's afraid they'll set the Castle on fire." 
 
 They both laughed much too happy to know what they 
 were laughing at.
 
 THREE 
 
 JUBILEE 379 
 
 Mrs. Sampson joined them. Johnny and Joan walked 
 ahead. Only two steps and they would be in the Cathedral. 
 
 "Did you get my letter?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I love you, I love you, I love you." This in a hoarse 
 whisper. 
 
 "Johnny you mustn't you know we can't you know 
 I oughtn't " 
 
 They passed through into the Cathedral. 
 
 Mrs. Bentinck-Major came with Miss Ronder, slowly, 
 across the grass. It was not necessary for them to hurry be- 
 cause they knew that their seats were reserved for them. Mrs. 
 Bentinck-Major thought Miss Ronder "queer" because of the 
 clever things that she said and of the odd fashion in which 
 she always dressed. To say anything clever was, with Mrs. 
 Bentinck-Major, at once to be classed as "queer." 
 
 "It is hot 1" 
 
 Miss Ronder, thin and piky above her stiff white collar, 
 looked immaculately cool. "A lovely day," she said, sniffing 
 the colour and the warmth, and loving it. 
 
 Mrs. Bentinck-Major was thinking of the Brandon scandal, 
 but it was one of her habits never to let her left-hand voice 
 know what her right-hand brain was doing. Secretly she 
 often wondered about sexual things what people really did, 
 whether they enjoyed what they did, and whether she would 
 have enjoyed the same things had life gone that way with her 
 instead of leading her to Bentinck-Major. 
 
 But she never, never spoke of such things. She was think- 
 ing now of Mrs. Brandon and Morris. They said that some 
 one had found a letter, a disgraceful letter. How extraor- 
 dinary/ 
 
 "It's loneliness," suddenly said Miss Ronder, "that drives 
 people to do the things they do." 
 
 Mrs. Bentinck-Major started as though some one had struck 
 her in the small of her back. Was the woman a witch ? How 
 amazing I
 
 380 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 "I beg your pardon," she said nervously. 
 
 "I was speaking," said Miss Render in her clear incisive 
 voice, "of one of our maids, who has suddenly engaged herself 
 to the most unpleasing-looking butcher's assistant you can 
 imagine all spots and stammer. Quite a pretty girl, too. 
 But it's fear of loneliness that does it. Wanting affection." 
 
 Dear me! Mrs. Bentinck-Major had never had very much 
 affection from Mr. Bentinck-Major, and had not very con- 
 sciously missed it, but then she had a dog, a spaniel, whom she 
 loved most dearly. 
 
 "We're all lonely all of us to the very end," said Miss 
 Render, as though she was thinking of some one in especial. 
 And she was. She was thinking of her nephew. "I shouldn't 
 wonder if the Queen isn't feeling more lonely to-day than she 
 has ever felt in all her life before." 
 
 And then they saw that dreadful man, Davray, lurching 
 along. He was lonely, but then he deserved to be, with his 
 drink and all. Wicked man ! Mrs. Bentinck-Major shivered. 
 She didn't know how he dared to go to church. He shouldn't 
 be allowed. On such a day, too. What would the Queen her- 
 self think, did she know ? 
 
 The two ladies and Davray passed through the door at the 
 same time, 
 
 And now every one was inside. The great bell dropped 
 notes like heavy weights into a liquid well. For the cup of 
 the Cathedral swam in colour, the light pouring through the 
 great Rose window, and that multitude of persons seeming to 
 sway like shadows beneath a sheet of water from amber to 
 purple, from purple to crimson, from crimson to darkest 
 green. 
 
 Individuality was lost. The Cathedral, thinking nothing 
 of Kings and Queens, of history, of movement forward and 
 retrograde, but only of itself and of the life that it had been 
 given, that it now claimed for its own, with haughty confi-
 
 THKEB JUBILEE 381 
 
 dence assumed its Power . . . the Power of its own Immor- 
 tality that is neither man's nor God's. 
 
 The trumpets began. They rang out the Psalm that had 
 been given them, and transformed it into a cry of exultant 
 triumph. Their notes rose, were caught by the pillars, ac- 
 claimed, tossed higher, caught again in the eaves and corners 
 of the great building, swinging backwards and forwards. . . . 
 
 "Now listen to My greatness! You created Me for the 
 Worship of your Godl 
 
 "And now I am your God ! Out of your forms and cere- 
 monies you have made a new God ! And I, thy God, am a 
 jealous God. ..." 
 
 Render read the First Lesson. 
 
 "That's Ronder," the town-people whispered, "the new 
 Canon. Oh ! he's clever. You should hear him preach !" 
 
 "Reads beautiful!" Gladys, the Brandons' maid, whis- 
 pered to Annie, the kitchen-maid. "I do like a bit of fine 
 reading." 
 
 By those accustomed to observe it was noticed that Ronder 
 read with very much more assurance than he had done three 
 months ago. It was as though he knew now where he was, as 
 though he were settled down now and had his place and it 
 would take some very strong people to shift him from that 
 place. Oh, yes. It would ! 
 
 And Brandon read the Second Lesson. As usual, when he 
 stepped down from the choir, slowly, impressively, pausing 
 for a moment before he turned to the Lectern, strangers whis- 
 pered to one another, "That's a handsome parson, that is." 
 He seemed to hesitate again before going up as though he had 
 stumbled over a step. Very slowly he read the opening words ; 
 slowly he continued. 
 
 Puddifoot, looking up across from his seat in the side aisle, 
 thought, "There's something the matter with him." Suddenly 
 he paused, looked about him, stared over the congregation as 
 though he were searching for somebody, then slowly again 
 went on and finished:
 
 382 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 "Here endeth the Second Lesson." 
 
 Then, instead of turning, he leaned forward, gripping the 
 Lectern with both hands, and seemed again to be searching 
 for some one. 
 
 "Looks as though he were going to have a stroke," thought 
 Puddifoot Then very carefully, as though he were moving 
 in darkness, he turned and groped his way downwards. With 
 bent head he walked back into the choir. 
 
 Soon they were scattered every one according to his or her 
 own individuality the prayers had broken them up, too many 
 of them, too long, and the wooden kneelers so hard. Minds 
 flew like birds about the Cathedral ideas, gold and silver, 
 black and grey, soapy and soft, hard as iron. The men 
 yawned behind their trumpets, the School played Noughts 
 and Crosses the Old Lady and her Triumph stepped away 
 into limbo. 
 
 And then suddenly it was time for the Bishop's sermon. 
 Every one hoped that it would not be long; passing clouds 
 veiled the light behind the East window and the Roses faded 
 to ashes. The organ rumbled in its crotchety voice as the old 
 man slowly disentangled himself from his throne, and slowly, 
 slowly, slowly advanced down the choir. When he appeared 
 above the nave, and paused for an instant to make sure of the 
 step, all the minds in the Cathedral suddenly concentrated 
 again, the birds flew back, the air was still. At the sight of 
 that very old man, that little bag of shaking bones, all the 
 brief history of the world was suddenly apparent. Greater 
 than Alexander, more beautiful than Helen of Troy, wiser 
 than Gamaliel, more powerful than Artaxerxes, he made the 
 secret of immortal life visible to all. 
 
 . His hair was white, and his face was ashen prey, and his 
 hands were like bird's claws. Like a child finding its way 
 across its nursery floor he climbed to the pulpit, being now so 
 far distant in heaven that earth was dark to him. 
 
 "The Lord bo with you."
 
 THEEE JUBILEE 383 
 
 "And with Thy Spirit." 
 
 His voice was clear and could be heard by all. He spoke 
 for a very short time. He told them about the Queen, and 
 that she had been good to her people for sixty years, and that 
 ehe had feared God ; he told them that that goodness was the 
 only secret of happiness; he told them that Jesus Christ 
 came nearer and nearer, and ever more near, did one but ask 
 Him. 
 
 He said, "I suppose that I shall never speak to you in this 
 place again. I am very old. Some of you have thought, 
 perhaps, that I was too old to do my work here others have 
 wanted me to stay. I have loved you all very much, and it is 
 lonely to go away from you. Our great and good Queen also 
 is old now, and perhaps she, too, in the middle of her triumph, 
 is feeling lonely. So pray for her, and then pray for me a 
 little, that when I meet God He may forgive me my sins and 
 help me to do better work than I have done here. Life is sad 
 sometimes, and often it is dark, but at the end it is beautiful 
 and wonderful, for which we must thank God." 
 
 He knelt down and prayed, and every one, Davray and Mrs. 
 Combermere, Ellen Stiles and Morris, Lady St. Leath and 
 Mrs. Brandon, Joan and Lawrence, Render and Foster, 
 prayed too. 
 
 And then they all, all for a moment utterly united in soul 
 and body and spirit, knelt down and the old man blessed them 
 from the pulpit. 
 
 Then they sang "Now Thank We All Our God." 
 
 Afterwards came the Benediction.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 TUESDAY, JUNE 22 I II. THE FAIB 
 
 AS Brandon left the Cathedral Render came up to him. 
 Brandon, with bowed head, had turned into the Clois- 
 ters, although that was not the quickest way to his home. The 
 two men were alone in the greyness lit from without by the 
 brilliant sun as though it had been a stage setting. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Archdeacon, I must speak to you." 
 
 Brandon raised his head. He stared at Ronder, then said : 
 
 "I have nothing to say to you. I do not wish to speak to 
 you." 
 
 "I know that you do not." Render's face was really 
 troubled; there was an expression in his eyes that his aunt 
 had never seen. 
 
 Brandon moved on, looking neither to right nor left. 
 
 Ronder continued : "I know how you feel about me. But 
 to-day somehow this service I feel that I can't allow our 
 quarrel to continue without speaking. It isn't easy for 
 me ' He broke off. 
 
 Brandon's voice shook. 
 
 "I have nothing to say to you. I do not wish to say any- 
 thing to you. You have been my enemy since you first came 
 to this town. My work my family 
 
 "I am not your enemy. Indeed, indeed I am not. I won't 
 deny that when I came here I found that you, who were tho 
 most important man in the place, thought differently from 
 myself on every important question. You, yourself, who are 
 an honest man, would not have had me back out from what I 
 believed to be my duty. I could do no other. But this per- 
 
 384
 
 JUBILEE . 385 
 
 sonal quarrel between us was most truly not of my own seek- 
 ing. I have liked and admired you from the beginning. Such 
 a matter as the Pybus living has forced us into opposition, 
 but I am convinced that there are many views that we have in 
 common, that we could be friends working together " 
 
 Brandon stopped. 
 
 "Did my son, or did he not, come to see you before he went 
 up to London?" 
 
 Render hesitated. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "he did. But 
 
 "Did he, or did he not, ask your advice ?" 
 
 "Yes, he did. But 
 
 "Did you advise him to take the course which he after- 
 wards followed ?" 
 
 "No, on my honour, Archdeacon, I did not. I did not 
 know what his personal trouble was. I did not ask him and 
 he did not tell me. We talked of generalities ' 
 
 "Had you heard, before he came to you, gossip about my 
 son?" 
 
 "I had heard some silly talk " 
 
 "Very well, then." 
 
 "But you shall listen to me, Archdeacon. I scarcely knew 
 your son. I had met him only once before, at some one's 
 house, and talked to him then only for five minutes. He him- 
 self asked to come and see me. I could not refuse him when 
 he asked me. I did not, of course, wish to refuse him. I 
 liked the look of him, and simply for his own sake wished 
 to know him better. When he came he was not with me for 
 very long and our talk was entirely about religion, belief, 
 faith in God, the meaning of life, nothing more particular 
 than such things." 
 
 "Did he say, when he left you, that what you had told him 
 had helped him to make up his mind ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Were you, when he talked to you, quite unconscious that
 
 386 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 he was my son, and that any action that he took would at once 
 affect my life, my happiness?" 
 
 "Of course I was aware that he was your son. But " 
 
 ''There is another question that I wish to ask you, Canon 
 Render. Did some one come to you not long ago with a 
 letter that purported to be written by my wife ?" 
 
 Again Render hesitated. 
 
 "Yes," he said. 
 
 "Did she show you that letter?" 
 
 "She did." 
 
 "Did she ask your advice as to what she should do with it?" 
 
 "She did I told her- 
 
 "Did you tell her to come with it to me ?" 
 
 "No. On my life, Archdeacon, no. I told her to destroy 
 it and that she was behaving with the utmost wickedness." 
 
 "Did you believe that that letter was written by my wife." 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Then why, if you believed that this woman was going 
 about the town with a forged letter directed against my happi- 
 ness and my family's happiness, did you not come to me and 
 tell me of it ?" 
 
 "You must remember, Archdeacon, that we were not on 
 good terms. We had had a ridiculous quarrel that had, by 
 some means or another, become public property throughout 
 the whole town. I will not deny that I felt sore about that. 
 I did not know what sort of reception I might get if I came 
 to you." 
 
 "Very well. There is a further question that I wish to ask 
 you. Will you deny that from the moment that you set foot 
 in this town you have been plotting against rne in respect to 
 the Pybus living? You found out on which side I was stand- 
 ing and at once took the other. From that moment you went 
 about the town, having secret interviews with every sort of 
 person, working them by flattery and suggestion round to 
 your side. Will you deny that ?" 
 
 Against his will and his absolute determination Render's
 
 THEEE 
 
 JUBILEE 387 
 
 anger began to rise: "That I have been plotting as you call 
 it," he said, "I absolutely and utterly deny. That is an in- 
 Bulting word. That I have been against you in the matter 
 of Pybus from the first has, of course, been known to every 
 one here. I have been against you because of what I believe 
 to be the future good of our Church and of our work here. 
 There has been nothing personal in that matter at all." 
 
 "You lie," said Brandon, suddenly raising his voice. 
 "Every word that you have spoken to me this morning has 
 been a lie. You are an enemy of myself and of my Church, 
 and with God's help your plots and falsehoods shall yet be 
 defeated. You may take from me my wife and my children, 
 you may ruin my career here that has been built up through 
 ten years of unfaltering loyalty and work, but God Himself 
 is stronger than your inventions and God will see to it. I 
 am your enemy, Canon Render, to the end, as you are mine. 
 You had better look to yourself. You have been concerned 
 in certain things that the Law may have something to say 
 about. Look to yourself ! Look to yourself !" 
 
 He strode off down the Cloisters. 
 
 People came to luncheon ; there had been an invitation of 
 some weeks before. He scarcely recognised them; one was 
 Mr. Martin, another Dr. Trudon, an old Mrs. Purley, a well- 
 established widow, an ancient resident, a Miss Barrester. 
 He scarcely recognised them although he talked so exactly in 
 his accustomed way that no one noticed anything at all. Mrs. 
 Brandon also talked in her accustomed way; that is, she 
 scarcely spoke. Only that afternoon, at tea at the Dean's, Dr. 
 Trudon confided to Julia Preston that he could assure her 
 that all the rumours were false; the Archdeacon had never 
 seemed better . . . funny for him afterwards to remember ! 
 
 Shadows of a shade! When they left Brandon it was as 
 though they had never been; the echo of their voices died 
 away into the ticking of the clock, the movement of plates, the 
 shifting of chairs.
 
 388 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 He shut himself into his study. Here was his stronghold, 
 his fortress. He settled into his chair and the things in the 
 room gathered around him with friendly consoling gestures. 
 
 "We are still here, we are your old friends. We know you 
 for what you truly are. We do not change like the world." 
 
 He fell into a deep sleep ; he was desperately tired ; he had 
 not slept at all last night. He was sunk into deep fathomless 
 unconsciousness. Then he rose from that, climbing up, up, 
 seeing before him a high, black, snow-tipped mountain. The 
 ascent of this he must achieve, his life depended upon it. He 
 seemed to be naked, the wind lashing his body, icy cold, so 
 cold that his breath stabbed him. He climbed, the rocks cut 
 his knees and hands ; then, on every side his enemies appeared, 
 Bentinck-Major and Foster, the Bishop's Chaplain, women, 
 even children, laughing, and behind them Hogg and that 
 drunken painter. Their hands were on him, they pulled at 
 his flesh, they beat on his face then, suddenly, rising like a 
 full moon behind the hill Render ! 
 
 He woke with a cry ; the sun was flooding the room, and 
 at the joy of that great light and of finding himself alone he 
 could have burst into tears of relief. 
 
 His thoughts came to him quickly, his brain had been clari- 
 fied by that sleep, horrible though it had been. He thought 
 steadily now, the facts all arranged before him. His wife 
 had told him, almost with vindictive pride, that she had been 
 guilty of adultery. He did not at present think of Morris 
 at all 
 
 To him adultery was an awful, a terrible sin. He himself 
 had been physically faithful to his wife, although he had per- 
 haps never, in the true sense of the word, loved her. Because 
 he had been a man of splendid physique and great animal 
 spirits he had, of course, and especially in his earlier days, 
 known what physical temptation was, but the extreme preoccu- 
 pation of his time with every kind of business had saved him 
 from that acutest lure that idleness brings. Nevertheless, it 
 may confidently be said that, had temptation been of the
 
 THBEE JUBILEE 389 
 
 sharpest and the most aggravating, he would never have, even 
 for a moment, dwelt upon the possibility of yielding to it. 
 To him this was the "sin against the Holy Ghost." 
 
 He had not indeed the purity of the Saint to whom these 
 sins are simply not realisable; he had the confidence of one 
 who had made his vows to God and, having made them, could 
 not conceive that they should be broken. 
 
 And yet, strangely enough, with all the horror that his 
 wife's confession had raised in him there was mingled, against 
 his will, the strangest fear for her. She had lived with him 
 during all these years, he had been her guard, protector, hus- 
 band. 
 
 Her immortal soul now was lost unless in some way he 
 could save it for her. And it was he who should save it. She 
 had suddenly a new poignant importance for him that she 
 had never had before. Her danger was as deadly and as 
 imminent to him as though she had been in peril from wild 
 beasts. 
 
 In peril? But she had fallen. He could not save her. 
 Nothing that he could do now could prevent her sin. At that 
 realisation utter despair seized him ; he moaned aloud, shut- 
 ting out the light from his eyes with his hands. 
 
 There followed then wild disbelief ; what she had told him 
 was untrue, she had said it to anger him, to spite him. He 
 sprang from his chair and moved towards the door. He would 
 find her and tell her that he knew that she had been lying to 
 him, that he did not believe 
 
 Mid-way he stopped. He knew that she had spoken the 
 truth, that last moment when they had looked at one another 
 had been compounded, built up, of truth. Both a glass and 
 a wall a glass to reveal absolutely, a wall to divide them, the 
 one from the other, for ever. 
 
 His brain, active now like a snake coiling and uncoiling 
 within the flaming spaces of his mind, darted upon Morris. 
 He must find Morris at once no delay at once at once. 
 What to do ? He did not know. But he must be face to face
 
 390 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 with him and deal with him that wretched, miserable, whin- 
 ing, crying fool. That he ! HE ! . . . But the pic- 
 ture stopped there. He saw now neither Morris nor his wife. 
 Only a clerical hat, a high white collar like a wall, a snigger- 
 ing laugh, a door closing. 
 
 And his headache was upon him again, his heart pounding 
 and leaping. No matter. He must find Morris. Nothing 
 else. He went to the door, opened it, and walked cautiously 
 into the hall as though he had intruded into some one else's 
 house and was there to rob. 
 
 As he came into the hall Mrs. Brandon was crossing it, 
 also furtively. They saw one another and stood staring. She 
 would have spoken, but something in his face terrified her, 
 terrified her so desperately that she suddenly turned and 
 stumbled upstairs, repeating some words over and over to 
 herself. He did not move, but stayed there watching until she 
 had gone. 
 
 Something made him change his clothes. He put on 
 trousers and an old overcoat and a shabby old clerical hat. He 
 was a long time in his dressing-room, and he was a while 
 before his looking-glass in his shirt and drawers, staring as 
 though he were trying to find himself. 
 
 While he looked he fancied that some one was behind him, 
 and he searched for his shadow in the glass, but could find 
 nothing. He moved cautiously out of the house, closing the 
 heavy hall-door very softly behind him; the afternoon was 
 advanced, and the faint fair shadows of the summer evening 
 were stealing from place to place. 
 
 He had intended to go at once to Morris's house, but his 
 head was now aching so violently that he thought he would 
 walk a little first so that he might have more control. That 
 was what ho wanted, self-control ! self-control ! That was 
 their plot, to make him lose command of himself, so that 
 he should show to every one that he was unfit to hold his posi- 
 tion. He must have perfect control of everything his voice, 
 his body, his thoughts. And that was why, just now, he must
 
 THREE JUBILEE 391 
 
 walk in the darker places, in the smaller streets, until soon he 
 would be, outwardly, himself again. So he chose for his walk 
 the little dark winding path that runs steeply from the 
 Cathedral, along behind Canon's Yard and Bodger's Street, 
 down to the Pol. It was dark here, even on this lovely sum- 
 mer evening, and no one was about, but sounds broke through, 
 cries and bells and the distant bray of bands, and from the 
 hill opposite the clash of the Pair. 
 
 At the bottom of the path he stood for a while looking down 
 the bank to the river; here the Pol runs very quietly and 
 sweetly, like a little country river. He crossed it and, still 
 moving like a man in a dream, started up the hill on the other 
 side. He was not, now, consciously thinking of anything at 
 all ; he was aware only of a great pain at his heart and a ter- 
 rible loneliness. Loneliness ! What an agony ! ITo one near 
 him, no one to speak to him, every eye mocking him God as 
 well, far, far away from him, hidden by walls and hills. 
 
 As he climbed upward the Fair came nearer to him. He 
 did not notice it. He crossed a path and was at a turnstile. 
 A man asked him for money. He paid a shilling and moved 
 forward. He liked crowds ; he wanted crowds now. Either 
 crowds or no one. Crowds where he w^uld be lost and not 
 noticed. 
 
 So many thousands were there, but nevertheless he waa 
 noticed. That was the Archdeacon. Who would have thought 
 that he would come to the Fair ? Too grand. But there he 
 was. Yes, that was the Archdeacon. That tall man in the 
 soft black hat. Yes, some noticed him. But many thousands 
 did not. The Fair was packed ; strangers from all the county 
 over, sailors and gipsies and farmers and tramps, women no 
 better than they should be, and shop-girls and decent farmers' 
 wives, and village girls all sorts ! Thousands, of course, to 
 whom the Archdeacon meant nothing. 
 
 And that was a Fair, the most wonderful our town had ever 
 seen, the most wonderful it ever was to see I As with many 
 other things, that Jubilee Fair marked a period. No Fairs
 
 392 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 again like the good old Fairs general education has seen to 
 that 
 
 It was a Fair, as there are still some to remember, that had 
 in it a strange element of fantasy. All the accustomed accom- 
 paniments of Fairs were there The Two Fat Sisters (out- 
 side whose booth a notice was posted begging the public not to 
 prod with umbrellas to discover whether the Fat were Fat or 
 Wadding) ; Trixie, the little lady with neither arms nor legs, 
 sews and writes with her teeth ; the Great Albert, the strongest 
 man in Europe, who will lift weights against all comers; 
 Battling Edwardes, the Champion Boxer of the Southern 
 Counties; Hippo's World Circus, with six monkeys, two 
 lions, three tigers and a rhino; all the pistol-firing, ball- 
 throwing, coconut contrivances conceivable, and roundabouts 
 at every turn. 
 
 All these were there, but behind them, on the outskirts of 
 them and yet in the very heart of them, there were other un- 
 accustomed things. 
 
 Some said that a ship from the East had arrived at Dry- 
 mouth, and that certain jugglers and Chinese and foreign mer- 
 chants, instead of going on to London as they had intended, 
 turned to Polchester. How do I know at this time of day ? 
 How do we, any of us, know how anything gets here, and 
 what does it matter ? But there is at this very moment, liv- 
 ing in the magnificently renovated Seatown, an old China- 
 man, who came in Jubilee Year, and has been there ever 
 since, doing washing and behaving with admirable propriety, 
 no sign of opium about him anywhere. One element that they 
 introduced was Colour. Our modern Fairs are not very 
 strong in the element of Colour. It is true that one of the 
 roundabouts was ablaze with gilt and tinsel, and in the centre 
 of it, whence comes the music, there were women with brazen 
 faces and bosoms of gold. It is true also that outside the 
 Circus and the Fat Sisters and Battling Edwardes there were 
 flaming pictures with reds and yellows thrown about like tem- 
 perance tracts, but the modern figures in these pictures spoilt
 
 THREE JUBILEE 393 
 
 the colour, the photography spoilt it too much reality where 
 there should have been mystery, too much mystery where 
 realism was needed. 
 
 But here, only two yards from the Circus, was a booth 
 hung with strange cloths, purple and yellow and crimson, and 
 behind the wooden boards a man and a woman with brown 
 faces and busy, twirling, twisting, brown hands, were making 
 strange sweets which they wrapped into coloured packets, and 
 on the other side of the Fat Sisters there was a tent with Li 
 Hung above it in letters of gold and red, and inside the tents, 
 boards on trestles, and on the boards a long purple cloth, and 
 on the cloth little toys and figures and images, all of the gay- 
 est colours and the strangest shapes, and all as cheap as 
 nothing. 
 
 Farther down the lane of booths was the tent of Hayakawa 
 the Juggler. A little boy in primrose-coloured tights turned, 
 on a board outside the tent, round and round and round on 
 his head like a teetotum, and inside, once every half-hour, 
 Hayakawa, in a lovely jacket of gold and silver, gave his en- 
 tertainment, eating fire, piercing himself with silver swords, 
 finding white mice in his toes, and pulling ribbons of crimson 
 and scarlet out of his ears. 
 
 Farther away again there were the Brothers Gomez, Span- 
 iards perhaps, dark, magnificent in figure, running on one 
 wire across the air, balancing sunshades on their noses, leap- 
 ing, jumping, standing pyramid-high, their muscles gleaming 
 like billiard-balls. 
 
 And behind and before and in and out there were strange 
 figures moving through the Fair, strange voices raised against 
 the evening sky, strange smells of cooking, strange songs sud- 
 denly rising, dying as soon as heard. 
 
 Only a breath away the English fields were quietly 
 lying safe behind their hedges and the English sky changed 
 from blue to green and from green to mother-of-pearl, and 
 from mother-of-pearl to ivory, and stars stabbed, like silver
 
 394 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 nails, the great canopy of heaven, and the Cathedral bells 
 rang peal after peal above the slowly lighting town. 
 
 Brandon was conscious of little of this as he moved on. 
 Even the thought of Morris had faded from him. He could 
 not think consecutively. His mind was broken up like a mir- 
 ror that had been smashed into a thousand pieces. He was 
 most truly in a dream. Soon he would wake up, out of this 
 noise, away from these cries and lights, and would find it all 
 as he had for so many years known it. He would be sitting in 
 his drawing-room, his legs stretched out, his wife and daugh- 
 ter near to him, the rumble of the organ coming through the 
 wall to them, thinking perhaps of to-morrow's duties, the 
 town quiet all around them, friends and well-wishers every- 
 where, no terrible pain in his head, happily arranging how 
 everything should be ... happy . . . happy. . . . Ah ! 
 how happy that real life was! When he awoke from his 
 dream he would realise that and thank God for it. When 
 he awoke, . . . He stumbled over something, and looking 
 up realised that he was in a very crowded part of the Fair, 
 a fire was blazing somewhere near, gas-jets, although the eve- 
 ning was bright and clear, were flaming, screams and cries 
 seemed to make the very sky rock above his head. 
 
 Where was he? What was he doing here? Why had he 
 come ? He would go home. He turned. 
 
 Ho turned to face the fire that leapt close at his heel. It 
 was burning at the back of a caravan, in a dark cul-de-sac 
 away from the main thoroughfare; to its blazing light the 
 bare boards and ugly plankings of the booth, splashed hero 
 and there with torn paper that rustled a little in the evening 
 breeze, were all that offered themselves. Near by a horse, 
 untethered, was quietly nosing at the trodden soil. 
 
 Behind the caravan the field ran down to a ditch and thick 
 hedging. 
 
 Brandon stared at the fire as though absorbed by its light. 
 What did he see there? Visions perhaps? Did he see tho 
 Cathedral, the Precincts, the quiet circle of demure old houses,
 
 THREE JUBILEE 395 
 
 his own door, his own bedroom ? Did he see his wife moving 
 hurriedly about the room, opening drawers and shutting them, 
 pausing for a moment to listen, then coming out, closing the 
 door, listening again, then stepping downstairs, pausing for 
 a moment in the hall to lay something on the table, then step- 
 ping out into the green wavering evening light ? Or did the 
 flames make pictures for him of the deserted railway-station, 
 the long platform, lit only by one lamp, two figures meeting, 
 exchanging almost no word, pacing for a little in silence the 
 dreary spaces, stepping back as the London express rolled 
 in such a safe night to choose for escape then burying 
 themselves in it like rabbits in their burrow ? 
 
 Did his vision lead him back to the deserted house, silent 
 eave for its ticking clocks, black in that ring of lights and 
 bells and shouting voices ? 
 
 Or was he conscious only of the warmth and the life of the 
 fire, of some sudden companionship with the woman bending 
 over it to stir the sticks and lift some pot from the heart of 
 the flame ? He was feeling, perhaps, a sudden peace here and 
 a silence, and was aware of the stars breaking into beauty one 
 by one above his head. 
 
 But his peace, if for a moment he had found it, was soon 
 interrupted. A voice that he knew came across to him from 
 the other side of the fire. 
 
 "Why, Archdeacon, who would have thought to find you 
 here?" 
 
 He looked up and saw, through the fire, the face of Davray 
 the painter. 
 
 He turned to go, and at once Davray was at his side. 
 
 "ISTo. Don't go. You're in my country now, Archdeacon, 
 not your own. You're not cock of this walk, you know. Last 
 time we met you thought you owned the place. Well, you 
 can't think you own this. Fight it out, Mr. Archdeacon, 
 fight it out." 
 
 Brandon answered:
 
 396 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 "I have no quarrel with you, Mr. Davray. Nor have I 
 anything to say to you." 
 
 "No quarrel ? I like that. I'd knock your face in for two- 
 pence, you blasted hypocrite. And I will too. All free 
 ground here." 
 
 Davray's voice was shrill. He was swaying on his legs. 
 The woman looked up from the fire and watched them. 
 
 Brandon turned his back to him and saw, facing him, 
 Samuel Hogg and some men behind him. 
 
 "Why, good evening, Mr. Archdeacon," said Hogg, taking 
 off his hat and bowing. "What a delightful place for a 
 meeting!" 
 
 Brandon said quietly, "Is there anything you want with 
 me?" He realised at once that Hogg was drunk. 
 
 "Nothing," said Hogg, "except to give you a damned good 
 hiding. I've been waiting for that these many weeks. See 
 him, boys," he continued, turning to the men behind him. 
 " 'Ere's this parson who ruined my daughter as fine a girl 
 as ever you've seen ruined 'er, he did him and his blasted 
 son. What d'you say, boys? Is it right for him to be 
 paradin' round here as proud as a peacock and nobody touch- 
 in' him? What d'you say to givin' him a damned good 
 hiding?" 
 
 The men smiled and pressed forward. Davray from the 
 other side suddenly lurched into Brandon. Brandon struck 
 out, and Davray fell and lay where he fell. 
 
 Hogg cried, "Now for 'im, boys -", and at once they 
 were upon him. Hogg's face rose before Brandon's, extended, 
 magnified in all its details. Brandon hit out and then was 
 conscious of blows upon his face, of some one kicking him in 
 the back, of himself hitting wildly, of the fire leaping moun- 
 tains-high behind him, of a woman's cry, of something trick- 
 ling down into his eye, of sudden contact with warm, naked, 
 sweating flesh, of a small pinched face, the eyes almost closed, 
 rising before him and falling again, of a shout, then sudden 
 silence and himself on his knees groping in darkness for his
 
 THKEB JUBILEE 397 
 
 hat, of his voice far from him murmuring to him, "It's all 
 right. . . . It's my hat . . . it's my hat I must find." 
 
 He wiped his forehead. The back of his hand was covered 
 with blood. 
 
 He saw once again the fire, low now and darkly illumined 
 by some more distant light, heard the scream of the merry-go- 
 round, stared about him and saw no living soul, climbed to 
 his feet and saw the stars, then very slowly, like a blind man 
 in the dark, felt his way to the field's edge, found a gate, 
 passed through and collapsed, shuddering in the hedge's 
 darkness.
 
 CHAPTER VH 
 
 TUESDAY, JUNE 22: III. TORCHLIGHT 
 
 JOAN came home about seven o'clock that evening. Din- 
 ner was at half-past seven, and after dinner she was going 
 to the Deanery to watch the Torchlight Procession from the 
 Deanery garden. She had had the most wonderful after- 
 noon. Mrs. Combermere, who had been very kind to her 
 lately, had taken her up to the Flower Show in the Castle 
 grounds, and there she had had the most marvellous and 
 beautiful talk with Johnny. They had talked right under 
 his mother's nose, so to speak, and had settled everything. 
 Yes simply everything! They had told one another that 
 their love was immortal, that nothing could touch it, nor 
 lessen it, nor twist it nothing! 
 
 Joan, on her side, had stated that she would never be en- 
 gaged to Johnny until his mother consented, and that until 
 they were engaged they must behave exactly as though they 
 were not engaged, that is, never see one another alone, never 
 write letters that might not be read by any one ; but she had 
 also asserted that no representations on the part of anybody 
 that she was ruining Johnny, or that she was a nasty little 
 intriguer, or that nice girls didn't behave "so," would make 
 the slightest difference to her ; that she knew what she was and 
 Johnny knew what he was, and that was enough for both of 
 them. 
 
 Johnny on his side had said that he would be patient for a 
 time under this arrangement, but that the time would not be 
 a very long one, and that she couldn't object to accepting a 
 
 398
 
 JUBILEE 399 
 
 little ring that he had bought for her, that she needn't wear 
 it, but just keep it beside her to remind her of him. 
 
 But Joan had said that to take the ring would be as good 
 as to be engaged, and that therefore she would not take it, 
 but that he could keep it ready for the day of their betrothal. 
 
 She had come home, through the lovely evening, in such a 
 state of happiness that she was forced to tell Mrs. Comber- 
 mere all about it, and Mrs. Combermere had been a darling 
 and assured her that she was quite right in all that she had 
 done, and that it made her, Mrs. Combermere, feel quite 
 young again, and that she would help them in every way that 
 she could, and parting at the Arden Gate, she had kissed Joan 
 just as though she were her very own daughter. 
 
 So Joan, shining with happiness, came back to the house. 
 It seemed very quiet after the sun and glitter and laughter of 
 the Flower Show. She went straight up to her room at the 
 top of the house, washed her face and hands, brushed her 
 hair and put on her white frock. 
 
 As she came downstairs the clock struck half-past seven. 
 In the hall she met Gladys. 
 
 "Please, miss," said Gladys, "is dinner to be kept back ?" 
 
 "Why," said Joan, "isn't mother in ?" 
 
 "No, miss, she went out about six o'clock and she hasn't 
 come in." 
 
 "Isn't father in?" 
 
 "No, miss." 
 
 "Did she say that she'd be late?" 
 
 "No, miss." 
 
 "Oh, well we must wait until mother comes in." 
 
 "Yes, miss." 
 
 She saw then a letter on the hall-table. She picked it up. 
 It was addressed to her father, a note left by somebody. She 
 thought nothing of that notes were so often left ; the hand- 
 writing was exactly like her mother's, but of course it could 
 not be hers. She went into the drawing-room. 
 
 Here the silence was oppressive. She walked up and down,
 
 400 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 looking out of the long windows at the violet dusk. Gladys 
 came in to draw the blinds. 
 
 "Didn't mother say anything about when she'd be in ?" 
 
 "No, miss." 
 
 "She left no message for me ?" 
 
 "No, miss. Your mother seemed in a hurry like." 
 
 "She didn't ask where I was ?" 
 
 "No, miss." 
 
 "Did she go out with father?" 
 
 "No, miss your father went out a quarter of an hour 
 earlier." 
 
 Gladys coughed. "Please, miss, Cook and me's wanting to 
 go out and see the Procession." 
 
 "Oh, of course you must. But that won't be until half- 
 past nine. They come past here, you know." 
 
 "Yes, miss." 
 
 Joan picked up the new number of the Cornhill Magazine 
 and tried to settle down. But she was restless. Her own 
 happiness made her so. And then the house was "queer." 
 It had the sense of itself waiting for some effort, and holding 
 its breath in expectation. 
 
 As Joan sat there trying to read the Cornhill serial, and 
 most sadly failing, it seemed to her stranger and stranger that 
 her mother was not in. She had not been well lately ; Joan 
 had noticed how white she had looked ; she had always a 
 "headache" when you asked her how she was. Joan had fan- 
 cied that she had never been the same since Falk had been 
 away. She had a letter in her dress now from Falk. She 
 took it out and read it over again. As to himself it had only 
 good news; he was well and happy, Annie was "splendid." 
 His work went on finely. His only sadness was his breach 
 with his father; again and again he broke out about this, and 
 begged, implored Joan to do something. If she did not, he 
 said, he would soon come down himself and risk a row. There 
 was one sentence towards the end of the letter which read 
 oddly to Joan just now. "I suppose the old man's in his
 
 THREE JUBILEE 401 
 
 proper element over all the Jubilee celebrations. I can see 
 him strutting up and down the Cathedral as though he owned 
 every stone in it, bless his old heart ! I tell you, Joan, I just 
 ache to see him. I do really. Annie's father hasn't been 
 near us since we came up here. Funny ! I'd have thought 
 he'd have bothered me long before this. I'm ready for him 
 if he comes. By the way, if mother shows any signs of want- 
 ing to come up to town just now, do your best to prevent her. 
 Father needs her, and it's her place to look after him. I've 
 special reasons for saying this. ..." 
 
 What a funny thing for Falk to say ! and the only allusion 
 to his mother in the whole of the letter. 
 
 Joan smiled to herself as she read it. What did Falk think 
 her power was ? Why, her mother and father had never list- 
 ened to her for a single moment, nor had he, Falk, when he 
 had been at home. She had never counted at all to any one 
 save Johnny. She put down the letter and tried to lose her- 
 self in the happy country of her own love, but she could not. 
 Her honesty prevented her; its silence was now oppressive 
 and heavy-weighted. Where could her mother be ? And dinner 
 already half an hour late in that so utterly punctual house! 
 What had Falk meant about mother going to London ? Of 
 course she would not go to London at any rate without 
 father. How could Falk imagine such a thing ? More than 
 an hour passed. 
 
 She began to walk about the room, wondering what she 
 should do about the dinner. She must give up the Samp- 
 sons, and she was very hungry. She had had no tea at the 
 Flower Show and very little luncheon. 
 
 She was about to go and speak to Gladys when she heard 
 the hall door open. It closed. Something some unexpressed 
 fear or foreboding kept her where she was. Steps were in 
 the hall, but they were not her father's; he always moved 
 with determined stride to his study or the stairs. These steps 
 hesitated and faltered as though some one were there who 
 did not know the house.
 
 402 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 At last she went into the hall and saw that it was indeed 
 her father now going slowly upstairs. 
 
 "Father!" she cried; "I'm so glad you're in. Dinner's 
 been waiting for hours. Shall I tell them to send it up ?" 
 
 He did not answer nor look back. She went to the bottom 
 of the stairs and said again: 
 
 "Shall I, father?" 
 
 But still he did not answer. She heard him close his door 
 behind him. 
 
 She went back into the drawing-room terribly frightened. 
 There was something in the bowed head and slow steps that 
 terrified her, and suddenly she was aware that she had been 
 frightened for many weeks past, but that she had never owned 
 to herself that it was so. 
 
 She waited for a long time wondering what she should do. 
 At last, calling her courage, she climbed the stairs, waited, 
 and then, as though compelled by the overhanging silence of 
 the house, knocked on his dressing-room door. 
 
 "Father, what shall we do about dinner? Mother hasn't 
 come in yet." There was no answer. 
 
 "Will you have dinner now?" she asked again. 
 
 A voice suddenly answered her as though he were listen- 
 ing on the other side of the door. "No, no. I want no 
 dinner." 
 
 She went down again, told Gladys that she would eat some- 
 thing, then sat in the lonely dining-room swallowing her soup 
 and cutlet in the utmost haste. 
 
 Something was terribly wrong. Her father was covering 
 all the rest of her view the Jubilee, her mother, even 
 Johnny. Ho was in great trouble, and she must help him, 
 but she felt desperately her youth, her inexperience, her in- 
 adequacy. 
 
 She waited again, when she had finished her meal, wonder- 
 ing what she had better do. Oh ! how stupid not to know 
 instantly the right thing and to feel this fear when it was her 
 own father!
 
 THEEE JUBILEE 403 
 
 She went half-way upstairs, and then stood listening. "No 
 sound. Again she waited outside his door. With trembling 
 hand she turned the handle. He faced her, staring at her. 
 On his left temple was a big black bruise, on his forehead a 
 cut, and on his left cheek a thin red mark that looked like a 
 scratch. 
 
 "Father, you're hurt !" 
 
 "Yes, I fell down stumbled over something, coming up 
 from the river." He looked at her impatiently. "Well, well, 
 what is it ?" 
 
 "Nothing, father only they're still keeping some din- 
 ner " 
 
 "I don't want anything. Where is your mother ?" 
 
 "She hasn't come back." 
 
 "Not come back ? Why, where did she go to ?" 
 
 "I don't know. Gladys says she went out about six." 
 
 He pushed past her into the passage. He went down into 
 the hall ; she followed him timidly. From the bottom of the 
 stairs he saw the letter on the table, and he went straight to it. 
 He tore open the envelope and read : 
 
 I have left you for ever. All that I told you on Sunday night 
 was true, and you may use that information as you please. 
 Whatever may come to me, at least I know that I am never to 
 live under the same roof with you again, and that is happiness 
 enough for me, whatever other misery there may be in store 
 for me. Now, at last, perhaps, you will realise that loneliness 
 is worse than any other hell, and that's the hell you've made me 
 suffer for twenty years. Look around you and see what your 
 selfishness has done for you. It will be useless to try to per- 
 miade me to return to you. I hope to God that I shall never 
 see you again. AMY. 
 
 He turned and said in his ordinary voice, "Your mother 
 has left me." 
 
 He came across to her, suddenly caught her by the shoul- 
 ders, and said : "Now, you'd better go, do you hear ? They've 
 all left me, your mother, Falk, all of them. They've fallen on
 
 404 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 me and beaten ma They've kicked me. They've spied on me 
 and mocked ma Well, then, you join them. Do you hear? 
 What do you stay for ? Why do you remain with me ? Do 
 you hear? Do you hear?" 
 
 She understood nothing. Her terror caught her like the 
 wind. She crouched back against the bannisters, covering 
 her face with her hand. 
 
 "Don't hit me, father. Please, please don't hit me." 
 
 He stood over her, staring down at her. 
 
 "It's a plot, and you must be in it with the others. . . . 
 Well, go and tell them they've won. Tell them to come and 
 kick me again. I'm down now. I'm beaten ; go and tell them 
 to come in to come and take my house and my clothes. Your 
 mother's gone follow her to London, then." 
 
 He turned. She heard him go into the drawing-room. 
 Suddenly, although she still did not understand what had hap- 
 pened, she knew that she must follow him and care for him. 
 He had pulled the curtains aside and thrown up the windows.' 
 
 "Let them come in ! Let them come in ! I I 
 
 Suddenly he turned towards her and held out his arms. 
 
 "I can't I can't bear any more." He fell on his knees, 
 burying his face in the shoulder of the chair. Then he cried : 
 
 "Oh, God, spare me now, spare me! I cannot bear any 
 more. Thou hast chastised me enough. Oh, God, don't take 
 my sanity from me leave me that. Oh, God, leave me that ! 
 Thou hast taken everything else. I have been beaten and 
 betrayed and deserted. I confess my wickedness, my arro- 
 gance, my pride, but it was in Thy service. Leave me my 
 mind. Oh, God, spare me, spare me, and forgive her who has 
 sinned so grievously against Thy laws. Oh, God, God, save 
 me from madness, save me from madness." 
 
 In that moment Joan became a woman. Her love, her own 
 life, she threw everything away. 
 
 She went over to him, put her arms around his neck, kissed 
 him, fondled him, pressing her check against his.
 
 THREE JUBILEE 405 
 
 "Dear, dear father. I love you so. I love you SO. !No one 
 ghall hurt you. Father dear, father darling." 
 
 Suddenly the room was blazing with light. The Torch- 
 light Procession tumbled into the Precincts. The Cathedral 
 sprang into light ; on all the hills the bonfires were blazing. 
 
 Black figures scattered like dwarfs, pigmies, giants about 
 the grass. The torches tossed and whirled and danced. 
 
 The Cathedral rose from the darkness, triumphant in gold 
 and fire.
 
 BOOK IV 
 THE LAST STAND
 
 E 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 nr BONDER'S HOUSE: EONDEE. WISTONS 
 
 VTRY one has, at one time or another, known the experi- \ 
 ence of watching some friend or acquaintance moved 
 
 suddenly from the ordinary atmosphere of every day into 
 some dramatic region of crisis where he becomes, for a 
 moment, far more than life-size in his struggle against the 
 elements; he is lifted, like Siegmund in The Valkyrie, into 
 the clouds for his last and most desperate duel. 
 
 There was something of this feeling in the attitude taken 
 in our town after the Jubilee towards Archdeacon Brandon. 
 As Miss Stiles said (not meaning it at all unkindly), it really 
 was very fortunate for everybody that the town had the excite- 
 ment of the Pybus appointment to follow immediately the 
 Jubilee drama ; had it not been so, how flat would every one 
 have been! And by the Pybus appointment she meant, of 
 course, the Decline and Fall of Archdeacon Brandon, and the 
 issue of his contest with delightful, clever Canon Ronder. 
 
 The disappearance of Mrs. Brandon and Mr. Morris would 
 have been excitement enough quite by itself for any one year. 
 As every one said, the wives of Archdeacons simply did not 
 run away with the clergymen of their town. It was not done. 
 It had never, within any one's living memory, been done be- 
 fore, whether in Polchester or anywhere else. 
 
 Clergymen were, of course, only human like any one else, 
 and so were their wives, but at least they did not make a pub- 
 lic declaration of their failings ; they remembered their posi- 
 tions, who they were and what they were. 
 
 In one sense there had been no public declaration. Mrs. 
 
 409
 
 410 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 Brandon had gone up to London to see about some business, 
 and Mr. Morris also happened to be away, and his sister-in- 
 law was living on in the Rectory exactly as though nothing 
 had occurred. However, that disguise could not hold for long, 
 and every one knew exactly what had happened well, if not 
 exactly, every one had a very good individual version of the 
 whole story. 
 
 And through it all, above it, behind it and beyond it, 
 towered the figure of the Archdeacon. lie was the question, 
 he the centre of the drama. There were a hundred different 
 stories running around the town as to what exactly had hap- 
 pened to him during those Jubilee days. Was it true that he 
 had taken Miss Milton by the scruff of her long neck and 
 thrown her out of the house ? Was it true that he had taken 
 his coat off in the Cloisters and given Render two black eyes ? 
 (The only drawback to this story was that Render showed no 
 sign of bruises.) Had he and Mrs. Brandon fought up and 
 down the house for the whole of a night, Joan assisting? 
 And, above all, what occurred at the Jubilee Fair? Had 
 Brandon been set upon by a lot of ruffians ? Was it true that 
 Samuel Hogg had revenged himself for his daughter's abduc- 
 tion ? No one knew. No one knew anything at all. The 
 only certain thing was that the Archdeacon had a bruise on 
 his temple and a scratch on his cheek, and that he was "queer," 
 oh, yes, very queer indeed ! 
 
 It was finally about this "queerness" that the gossip of the 
 town most persistently clung. Many people said that they 
 had watched him "going queer" for a long while back, entirely 
 forgetting that only a year ago he had been the most vigorous, 
 healthiest, sanest man in the place. Old Puddifoot, with 
 all sorts of nods, winks and murmurs, alluded to mysterious 
 medical secrets, and "how much he could tell an' he would," 
 and that "he had said years ago about Brandon. ..." 
 Well, never mind what he had said, but it was all turning out 
 exactly as, for years, he had expected. 
 
 Nothing is stranger (and perhaps more fortunate) than the
 
 FOUR 
 
 THE LAST STAND 411 
 
 speed with which the past is forgotten. Brandon might have 
 been all his days the odd, muttering, eye-wandering figure 
 that he now appeared. Where was the Viking now ? Where 
 the finest specimen of physical health in all Glebeshire? 
 Where the King and Crowned Monarch of Polchester ? 
 
 In the dust and debris of the broken past. "Poor old 
 Archdeacon." "A bit queer in the upper storey." "Not to 
 be wondered at after all the trouble he's had." "They 
 break up quickly, those strong-looking men." "Bit too 
 pleased with himself, he was." "Ah, well, he's served his 
 time ; what we need are more modern men. You can't deny 
 that he was old-fashioned." 
 
 People were not altogether to be blamed for this sudden 
 sense that they were stepping into a new period, out of one 
 room into another, so to speak. The Jubilee was responsible 
 for that. It did mark a period, and looking back now after 
 all these years one can see that that impression was a true 
 one. The Jubilee of '97, the Boer War, the death of Queen 
 Victoria the end of the Victorian Era for Church as 
 well as for State. 
 
 And there were other places beside Polchester that could 
 show their typical figures doomed, as it were, to die for their 
 Period no mean nor unworthy death after all. 
 
 But no Polcastrian in '97 knew that that service in the 
 Cathedral, that scratch on the Archdeacon's cheek, that visit 
 of Mrs. Brandon to London that these things were for them 
 the Writing on the Wall. June 1897 and August 1914 were 
 not, happily for them, linked together in immortal signifi- 
 cance their eyes were set on the personal history of the men 
 and women who were moving before them. Had Brandon in 
 the pride of his heart not claimed God as his ally, would men 
 have died at Ypres ? Can any bounds be placed to one act of 
 love and unselfishness, to a single deed of mean heart and 
 malicious tongue? 
 
 It was enough for our town that "Brandon and his ways"
 
 412 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 were out-of-date, and it was a lucky thing that as modern 
 a man as Render had come amongst us. 
 
 And yet not altogether. Brandon in prosperity was one 
 thing, Brandon in misfortune quite another. He had been 
 abominably treated. What had he ever done that was not 
 actuated absolutely by zeal for the town and the Cathedral ? 
 
 And, after all, had that man Ronder acted straight ? He 
 was fair and genial enough outwardly, but who could tell 
 what went on behind those round spectacles? There were 
 strange stories of intrigue about. Had he not detennined to 
 push Brandon out of the place from the first moment of his 
 arrival ? And as far as this Pybus living went, it was all 
 very well to be modern and advanced, but wasn't Ronder advo- 
 cating for the appointment a man who laughed at the Gospels 
 and said that there were no such things as snakes and apples 
 in the Garden of Eden ? After all, he was a foreigner, and 
 Brandon belonged to them. Poor old Brandon ! 
 
 Ronder was in his study, waiting for Wistons. Wistons 
 had come to Polchester for a night to see his friend Foster. 
 It was an entirely private visit, unknown to anybody save 
 two or three of his friends among the clergy. He had asked 
 whether Ronder could spare him half an hour. Ronder was 
 delighted to spare it. ... 
 
 Ronder was in the liveliest spirits. He hummed a little 
 chant to himself as he paced his study, stopping, as was his 
 habit, to touch something on his table, to push back a book 
 more neatly into its row on the shelf, to stare for an instant 
 out of the window into the green garden drenched with the 
 afternoon sun. 
 
 Yes, he was in admirable spirits. He had known some 
 weeks of acute discomfort. That phase was over, his talk 
 with Brandon in the Cloisters after the Cathedral service had 
 closed it. On that occasion he had put himself entirely in the 
 right, having been before that, under the eye of his aunt and 
 certain critics in the town, ever so slightly in the wrong. Now
 
 FOUB THE LAST STAND 413 
 
 he was justified. He had humbled himself before Brandon 
 (when really there was no reason to do so), apologised (when 
 truly there was not the slightest need for it) Brandon had 
 utterly rejected his apology, turned on him as though he were 
 a thief and a robber he had done all that he could, more, 
 far more, than his case demanded. 
 
 So his comfort, his dear consoling comfort, had returned to 
 him completely. And with it had returned all his affection, 
 his tenderness for Brandon. Poor man, deserted by his wife, 
 past his work, showing as he so obviously did in the Jubilee 
 week that his brain (never very agile) was now quite inert, 
 poor man, poor, poor man ! Ronder, as he walked his study, 
 simply longed to do something for Brandon to give him 
 something, make him a generous present, to go to London and 
 persuade his poor weak wife to return to him, anything, any- 
 thing to make him happy again. 
 
 Too sad to see the poor man's pale face, restless eyes, to 
 watch his hurried, uneasy walk, as though he were suspicious 
 of every man. Everywhere now Ronder sang Brandon's 
 praises what fine work he had done in the past, how much 
 the Church owed him ; where would Polchester have been in 
 the past without him ? 
 
 "I assure you," Ronder said to Mrs. Preston, meeting her 
 in the High Street, "the Archdeacon's work may be over, but 
 when I think of what the Church owes him " 
 
 To which Mrs. Preston had said: "Ah, Canon, how you 
 search for the Beauty in human life ! You are a lesson to all 
 of us. After all, to find Beauty in even the meanest and most 
 disappointing, that is our task !" 
 
 There was no doubt but that Ronder had come magnifi- 
 cently through the Jubilee week. It had in every way 
 strengthened and confirmed his already strong position. He 
 had been everywhere; had added gaiety and sunshine to tho 
 Flower Show ; had preached a most wonderful sermon at the 
 evening service on the Tuesday ; had addressed, from the steps 
 of his house, the Torchlight Procession in exactly the right
 
 414 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 words ; had patted all the children on the head at the Mayor's 
 tea for the townspeople ; had enchanted everywhere. That for 
 which he had worked had been accomplished, and accom- 
 plished with wonderful speed. 
 
 He was firmly established as the leading Churchman in 
 Polchester; only now let the Pybus living go in the right 
 direction (as it must do), and he would have nothing more to 
 wish for. 
 
 He loved the place. As he looked down into the garden 
 and thought of the years of pleasant comfort and happiness 
 now stretching in front of him, his heart swelled with love of 
 his fellow human beings. He longed, here and now, to do 
 something for some one, to give some children pennies, some 
 poor old men a good meal, to lend some one his pounds, to 
 speak a good word in public for some one maligned, to 
 
 "Mr. Wistons, sir," said the maid. When he turned round 
 only his exceeding politeness prevented him from a whistle of 
 astonishment. He had never seen a photograph of Wistons, 
 and the man had never been described to him. 
 
 From all that he had heard and read of him, he had pic- 
 tured him a tall, lean ascetic, a kind of Dante and Savonarola 
 in one, a magnificent figure of protest and abjuration. This 
 man who now came towards him was little, thin, indeed, but 
 almost deformed, seeming to have one shoulder higher than 
 the other, and to halt ever so slightly on one foot. His face 
 was positively ugly, redeemed only, as Render, who was no 
 mean observer, at once perceived, by large and penetrating 
 eyes. The eyes, indeed, were beautiful, of a wonderful soft- 
 ness and intelligence. 
 
 His hair was jet black and thick ; his hand, as it gripped 
 Render's, strong and bony. 
 
 "I'm very glad to meet you, Canon Render," he said. 
 "I've heard so much about you." His voice, as Mrs. Comber- 
 mere long afterwards remarked, "has a twinkle in it." It was 
 a jolly voice, humorous, generous but incisive, and exceed- 
 ingly clear. It had a very slight accent, so slight that no one
 
 FOUR THE LAST STAND 415 
 
 could ever decide on its origin. The books said that Wistons 
 had been born in London, and that his father had been Rector 
 of Lambeth for many years ; it was also quickly discovered by 
 penetrating Polcastrians that he had a not very distant French 
 ancestry. Was it Cockney? "I expect," said Miss Stiles, 
 "that he played with the little Lambeth children when he was 
 small" but no one really knew. . . . 
 
 The two men sat down facing one another, and Wistons 
 looked strange indeed with his shoulders hunched up, his thin 
 little legs like two cross-bones, one over the other, his black 
 hair and pale face. 
 
 "I feel rather like a thief in the night," he said, "stealing 
 down here. But Foster wanted me to come, and I confess 
 to a certain curiosity myself." 
 
 "You would like to come to Pybus if things go that way ?" 
 Render asked him. 
 
 "I shall be quite glad to come. On the other hand, I shall 
 not be at all sorry to stay where I am. Does it matter very 
 much where one is ?" 
 
 "Except that the Pybus living is generally considered a very 
 important step in Church preferment. It leads, as a rule, to 
 great things." 
 
 "Great things ? Yes. ..." Wistons seemed to be talk- 
 ing to himself. "One thing is much like another. The more 
 power one seems to have outwardly, the less very often one has 
 in reality. However, if I'm called I'll come. But I wanted 
 to see you, Canon Ronder, for a special purpose." 
 
 "Yes ?" asked Ronder. 
 
 "Of course I haven't enquired in any way into the proba- 
 bilities of the Pybus appointment. But I understand that 
 there is very strong opposition to myself; naturally there 
 would be. I also understand that, with the exception of my 
 friend Foster, you are my strongest supporter in this matter. 
 May I ask you why ?" 
 
 "Why ?" repeated Ronder. 
 
 "Yes, why ? You may say, and quite justly, that I have
 
 416 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 no right at all to ask you that question. It should be enough 
 for me, I know, to realise that there are certain people here 
 who want me to come. It ought to be enough. But it isn't 
 It isn't. I won't I can't come here under false pretences." 
 
 "False pretences !" cried Render. "I assure you, dear Mr. 
 Wistons 
 
 "Oh, yes, I know. I know what you will naturally tell 
 me. But I have caught enough of the talk here Foster in 
 his impetuosity has been perhaps indiscreet to realise that 
 there has been, that there still is, a battle here between the 
 older, more conservative body of opinion and the more mod- 
 ern school. It seems to me that I have been made the figure- 
 head of this battle. To that I have no objection. It is not for 
 the first time. But what I want to ask you, Canon Render, 
 with the utmost seriousness, is just this: 
 
 "Have you supported my appointment because you honestly 
 felt that I was the best man for this particular job, or because 
 I know you will forgive me if this question sounds imperti- 
 nent you wished to score a point over some personal ad- 
 versary ?" 
 
 The question was impertinent. There could be no doubt of 
 it. Render ought at once to resent any imputation on his 
 honesty. What right had this man to dip down into Render's 
 motives? The Canon stared from behind his glasses into 
 those very bright and insistent eyes, and even as he stared 
 there came once again that cold little wind of discomfort, that 
 questioning, irritating wind, that had been laid so effectively, 
 he thought, for ever to rest. What was this man about, 
 attacking him like this, attacking him before, even, he had 
 been appointed ? Was it, after all, quite wise that Wistons 
 should come here? Would that same comfort, so rightly 
 valued by Render, be quite assured in the future if Wistons 
 were at Pybus ? Wouldn't some nincompoop like Forsyth be 
 perhaps, after all, his host choice? 
 
 Render suddenly censed to wish to give pennies to little
 
 FOUR THE LAST STAND 417 
 
 children or a present to Brandon. He was, very justly, 
 irritated. 
 
 "Do forgive me if I am impertinent," said Wistons quietly, 
 "but I have to know this." 
 
 "But of course," said Render, "I consider you the best 
 man for this appointment. I should not have stirred a finger 
 in your support otherwise." (Why, something murmured to 
 him, are people always attributing to you unworthy motives, 
 first your aunt, then Foster, now this man ?) "You are quite 
 correct in saying that there is strong opposition to your 
 appointment here. But that is quite natural ; you have only 
 to consider some of your published works to understand that. 
 A battle is being fought with the more conservative elements 
 in the place. You have heard probably that the Archdeacon 
 is their principal leader, but I think I may say that our vic- 
 tory is already assured. There was never any real doubt of 
 the issue. Archdeacon Brandon is a splendid fellow, and has 
 done great work for the Church here, but he is behind the 
 times, out-of-date, and too obstinate to change. Then certain 
 family misfortunes have hit him hard lately, and his health 
 is not, I fear, what it was. His opposition is as good as over." 
 
 "That's a swift decline," said Wistons. "I remember only 
 some six months ago hearing of him as by far the strongest 
 man in this place." 
 
 "Yes, it has been swift," said Ronder, shaking his head 
 regretfully, "but I think that his position here was largely 
 based on the fact that there was no one else here strong enough 
 to take the lead against him. 
 
 "My coming into the diocese some one, however feeble, 
 you understand, coming in from outside made an already 
 strong modern feeling yet stronger." 
 
 "I will tell you one thing," said Wistons, suddenly shoot- 
 ing up his shoulders and darting forward his head. "I think 
 all this Cathedral intrigue disgusting. ISTo, I don't blame you. 
 You came into the middle of it, and were doubtless forced to 
 take the part you did. But I'll have no lot or hold in it
 
 418 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 If I am to understand that I gain the Pybus appointment only 
 through a lot of backstairs intrigue and cabal, I'll let it be 
 known at once that I would not accept that living though it 
 were offered me a thousand times." 
 
 "No, no," t-ied Render eagerly. "I assure you that that 
 is not so. There has been intrigue here owing to the old 
 politics of the party who governed the Cathedral. But that 
 is, I hope and pray, over and done with. It is because so 
 many of us want to have no more of it that we are asking 
 you to corne here. Believe me, believe me, that is so." 
 
 "I should not have said what I did," continued Wistons 
 quietly. "It was arrogant and conceited. Perhaps you can- 
 not avoid intrigue and party feeling among the community of 
 any Cathedral body. That is why I want you to understand, 
 Canon Render, the kind of man I am, before you propose me 
 for this post. I am afraid that you may afterwards regret 
 your advocacy. If I were invited to a Canonry, or any post 
 immediately connected with the Cathedral, I would not accept 
 it for an instant. I come, if I come at all, to fight the 
 Cathedral that is to fight everything in it, round and about 
 it, that prevents men from seeing clearly the figure of Christ. 
 
 "I believe, Canon Render, that before many years are out 
 it will become clear to the whole world that there are now 
 two religions the religion of authority, and the religion of 
 the spirit and if in such a division I must choose, I am for 
 the religion of the spirit every time." 
 
 The religion of the spirit! Render stirred, a little rest- 
 lessly, his fat thighs. What had that to do with it? They 
 were discussing the Pybus appointment. The religion of the 
 spirit! Well, who wasn't for that? As to dogma, Render 
 Lad never laid very great stress upon it. A matter of words 
 very largely. He looked out to the garden, where a tree, 
 scooped now like a great green fan against the blue-white 
 eky, was shading the sun's rays. lively ! Lovely I Lovely 
 like the Hermes downstairs, lovely like the piece of red amber 
 on his writing-table, like the Blind Homer . . . like a seal-
 
 FOUK THE LAST STAND 419 
 
 lop of green glass holding water that washed a little from side 
 to side, the sheen on its surface changing from dark shadow to 
 faintest dusk. Lovely ! He stared, transported, his comfort 
 flowing full-tide now into his soul. 
 
 "Exactly!" he said, suddenly turning his eyes full on 
 Wistons. "The Christian Church has made a golden calf of 
 its dogmas. The Calf is worshipped, the Cathedral enshrines 
 it." 
 
 Wistons gave a swift curious stab of a glance. Bonder 
 caught it; he flushed. "You think it strange of me to say 
 that ?" he asked. "I can see that you do. Let me be frank 
 with you. It has been my trouble all my life that I can see 
 every side of a question. I am with the modernists, but at the 
 same time I can understand how dangerous it must seem to 
 the dogmatists to abandon even an inch of the country that 
 Paul conquered for them. I'm afraid, Wistons, that I see 
 life in terms of men and women rather than of creeds. I 
 want men to be happy and at peace with one another. And if 
 to form a new creed or to abandon an old one leads to men's 
 deeper religious happiness, well, then . . ." He waved his 
 hands. 
 
 Wistons, speaking again as it were to himself, answered, 
 "I care only for Jesus Christ. He is overshadowed now by 
 all the great buildings that men have raised for Him. He is 
 lost to our view ; we must recover Him. Him ! Him ! Only 
 Him! To serve Him, to be near Him, almost to feel the 
 touch of His hand on one's head, that is the whole of life to 
 me. And now He is hard to come to, harder every year. 
 . . ." He got up. "I didn't come to say more than that. 
 
 "It's the Cathedral, Render, that I fear. Don't you your- 
 self sometimes feel that it has, by now, a spirit of its own, a 
 life, a force that all the past years and all the worship that it 
 has had have given it ? Don't you even feel that ? That it 
 has become a god demanding his own rites and worshippers ? 
 That it uses men for its own purposes, and not for Christ's 2
 
 420 THE CATHEDRAL 
 
 That almost it hates Christ ? It is so beautiful, so lovely, so 
 haughty, so jealous! 
 
 " 'For I, thy God, am a jealous God.' . . ." He broke off. 
 "I could love Christ better in that garden than in the Cathe- 
 dral. Tear it down and build it up again !" He turned rest- 
 lessly, almost savagely, to Render. "Can you be happy and 
 comfortable and at ease, when you see what Christ might be 
 to human beings and what He is ? Who thinks of Him, who 
 cares for Him, who loves His sweetness and charity and 
 tenderness? Why is something always in the way, always, 
 always, always ? Love ! Charity ! Doesn't such a place as 
 this Cathedral breed hatred and malice and pride and jeal- 
 ousy ? And isn't its very beauty a contempt ? . . . And now 
 what right have you to help my appointment to Pybus ?" 
 
 Render smiled. 
 
 "You are what we need here," he said. "You shall shake 
 some of our comfort from us make a new life here for us." 
 
 Wistons was suddenly almost timid. He spoke as though 
 he were waking from some dream. 
 
 "Good-bye. . . . Good-bye. No, don't come down. Thank 
 you so much. Thank you. Very kind of you. Good-bye." 
 
 But Render insisted on coming down. They shook hands 
 at his door. The figure was lost in the evening sun. 
 
 Render stood there for a moment gazing at the bright 
 grass, the little houses with their shining knockers, the purple 
 shadow of the Cathedral. 
 
 Had he done right? Was Wistons the man? Might he 
 not be more dangerous than . . . ? No, no, too late now. 
 The fight with Brandon must move to its appointed end. 
 Poor Brandon ! Poor dear Brandon ! 
 
 He looked across at the house as on the evening of his aj> 
 rival from that same step he had looked. 
 
 Poor Brandon! He would like to do something for him, 
 some little kindly unexpected act! 
 
 He closed the door and softly padded upstairs, humming 
 happily to himself that little chant
 
 A 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 TWO IN THE HOUSE 
 
 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 be- 
 lieve. 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. We must make 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. 
 
 421
 
 422 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 A letter from Joan to Falk. 
 
 DEAREST FALK I'm answering you by retnrn 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 know what's going 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 appoint- 
 ment. 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 Render, 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 Konder over the Pybus appointment. If Mr. Forsyth 
 isn't appointed to that I think he'll go to pieces altogether.
 
 FOUR THE LAST STAND 423 
 
 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 csta 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. We 
 must make 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 Bonder 
 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. 
 
 Fve 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
 
 424 THE CATHEDRAL 
 
 BOOK 
 
 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. 
 
 Ho 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
 
 FOUB THE LAST STAND 425 
 
 her she had been a child and he had loved her for her childish- 
 ness; 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."
 
 426 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 "Well, then, the main question is settled. It doesn't mat- 
 ter how long we wait." 
 
 "But it does matter. 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 mes- 
 sengers 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 we must do it. I'll never change, but 
 you're free to, and you ought to. 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."
 
 FOUB THE LAST STAND 427 
 
 "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 Arch- 
 deacon 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 eve- 
 nings. ) Nevertheless, although the room looked comfortable, 
 he did not at once move into it. He stood there beside the
 
 428 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 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. Was 
 there 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 per- 
 son ! 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.
 
 FOUB THE LAST STAND 429 
 
 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 sud- 
 denly 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 Render. 
 
 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 ago that, and now thisl When he had done 
 no one in the world any harm and had served God so faith- 
 fully? 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
 
 430 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 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 : 
 
 DEAR FOSTER 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 said best did he meant most suitable? Suitable 
 was not perhaps exactly the word for Forsyth. It was some- 
 thing other than a question of mere suitability. It was a 
 keeping out of the bad, as well as a bringing in of the good. 
 Suitable was 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. Some- 
 times 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
 
 FOUB THE LAST STAND 
 
 had eaten whatever was put in front of him with hearty and 
 eager appreciation; now he seemed to have very little appe- 
 tite. 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 sho 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 1 ... As though he knew 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 re- 
 fuse to see Puddifoot; had seen him once, and had immedi- 
 ately quarrelled with him, and told him that he was a silly old 
 fool and knew nothing about anything, and this when Puddi- 
 foot 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's 
 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
 
 432 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 had delivered his decisive judgments. No decisive judgments 
 to-night ! 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 unim- 
 portant But she could not grasp it. It was compounded of 
 BO many things, of the silence and the dulness, of the Pre- 
 cincts 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 happj 
 flush return to her father's check, that determined ring to hia 
 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 gentlj 
 drew back one of the curtains and looked out. It was dark 
 and she could see nothing only the Cathedral like a grej 
 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 I Where are you ?" 
 
 She came back and stood by his chair. "I was only looking 
 out to seo what sort of a night it was, father dear/' she said.
 
 FOUB THE LAST STAJSTD 433 
 
 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 di- 
 vinity ! 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 ma
 
 434 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 "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 I Many things I 
 might have done, and now it's too late . . . too late . . ." 
 
 Ho 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 ho 
 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 contin- 
 ued 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
 
 FOUE THE LAST STAND 435 
 
 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 hed. Something deep down in him was 
 struggling to come up. Some thought . . . some feeling 
 . . . some name. Falk ! It was as though a bell were ring- 
 ing, 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. . . ."
 
 CHAPTER rn 
 
 PRELUDB TO BATTLE 
 
 ^ 1 ^HAT 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, nod- 
 ding 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 sun- 
 light 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 incum- 
 bent of Pybus was to be chosen was now only three days 
 distant, and all the work in connection with that was com- 
 pleted 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. 
 
 430
 
 THE LAST STAND 437 
 
 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 some- 
 body 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 really 
 was sad 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 wa9 
 talking about him and saying "Poor Precentor !" ? But per- 
 haps the Archdeacon did not know. 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 about 
 him and he knowing none of them 1 
 
 All this passed very swiftly through Ryle's mind, and waa 
 quickly strangled by hearing Brandon utter in quite his old 
 knock-you-down-if-you-don't-get-out-of-my-way voice, "Ha I
 
 438 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 Ryle ! Out early this morning ! I hope you're not planning 
 any more new-fangled musical schemes for us !" 
 
 Oh, well I 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. "Render 
 and I go through a good deal of the music together now. He's 
 very musical, you know. Every one seems quite satisfied." 
 That ought to get him my mention of Render'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 Render when, to his aston- 
 ishment, 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 one does realise 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 Pre- 
 centor was of the Archdeacon's party. And to bo 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 Jubi- 
 lee 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. Bran- 
 don's hand was of steel.
 
 E-OUB THE LAST STAND 439 
 
 "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. 
 Kyle 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 uncom- 
 fortable! How unpleasant to be mixed in this kind of en- 
 counter ! 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 Kyle 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
 
 440 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 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 ob- 
 tain. 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 kind- 
 ness. 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 1 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 I 
 She would go round later in the day and see how she could 
 be usefuL
 
 FOUR THE LAST STAND 
 
 She turned away. It was Render now who was 'Sip" . . . 
 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, sing- 
 ing 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 hesi- 
 tated 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 gona A man wearing a mask. She could fancy
 
 442 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 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 blaz- 
 ing as though it would set the carpet on fire. What was she 
 to do ? What ought she 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 inex- 
 perience 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 Render and all of them, and how pleased they would 
 be! 
 
 At that she clenched her hands and drew herself up as
 
 FOUB THE LAST STAND 443 
 
 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 had he done 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 in- 
 stant 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
 
 444 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 going on in it." It was at this point that the grocery "boy" 
 arrived and supposed they'd 'card all about it by that time. 
 All about \vhat? Why, the Archdeacon knocking Samuel 
 J 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 ! 
 I'm 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 ! Xot 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, 
 J 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 shamo 
 had been wiped away. He could feel again the riotous hap- 
 piness that had surged up in him as he struck that face, felt 
 it yield before him, saw it fade away into dust and nothing-
 
 FOU* THE LAST STAND 445 
 
 ness. 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 ene- 
 mies, 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 Mar- 
 garet 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. His 
 Cathedral, and he was lost ! Figures were moving every- 
 where. They jostled him and said nothing. The air was 
 thick and hard to breatha 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.
 
 446 THE CATHEDRAL 
 
 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.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE LAST TOURNAMENT 
 
 O~N the morning of the Chapter Meeting Ronder went in 
 through the West door, intending to cross the nave by 
 the Cloisters. Just as he closed the heavy door behind him 
 there sprang up, close to him, as though from nowhere at all, 
 that horrible man Davray. Horrible always to Ronder, but 
 more horrible now because of the dreadful way in which he 
 had, during the last few months, gone tumbling downhill. 
 There had been, until lately, a certain austerity and even 
 nobility in the man's face. That was at last completely swept 
 away. This morning he looked as though he had been sleep- 
 ing out all night, his face yellow, his eyes bloodshot, his hair 
 tangled and unkempt, pieces of grass clinging to his well-worn 
 grey flannel suit. 
 
 "Good morning, Canon Ronder," he said. 
 
 "Good morning," Ronder replied severely, and tried to 
 pass on. But the man stood in his way. 
 
 "I'm not going to keep you," he said. "I know what your 
 business is this morning. I wouldn't keep you from it for a 
 single moment. I know what you're going to do. You're 
 going to get rid of that damned Archdeacon. Finish him for 
 once and all. Stamp on him so that he can never raise up 
 his beautiful head again. I know. It's fine work you've been 
 doing ever since you came here, Canon Ronder. But it isn't 
 you that's been doing it. It's the Cathedral." 
 
 "Please let me pass," said Ronder. "I haven't any time 
 just now to spare." 
 
 "Ah, that hurts your pride. You like to think it's you 
 
 447
 
 448 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 who's been the mighty fine fellow all this time. Well, it isn't 
 you at all. It's the Cathedral. The Cathedral's jealous, you 
 know don't like its servants taking all the credit to them- 
 selves. Pride's dangerous, Canon Render. In a year or 
 two's time, when you're feeling pretty pleased with yourself, 
 you just look back on the Archdeacon's history for a moment 
 and consider it It may have a lesson for you. Good morn- 
 ing, Canon Render. Pleased to have met you." 
 
 The wretched creature went slithering up the aisle, chuck- 
 ling to himself. How miserable to be drunk at that early hour 
 of the morning! Render shrugged his shoulders as though he 
 would like to shake off from them something unpleasant that 
 was sticking to them. He was not in a good mood this morn- 
 ing. He was assured of victory he had no doubt about it at 
 all and unquestionably when the affair was settled he would 
 feel more tranquil about it. But ever since his talk with 
 Wistons he had been unsure of the fellow. Was it altogether 
 wise that he should come here ? His perfect content seemed 
 to be as far away as ever. Was it always to be so ? 
 
 And then this horrible affair in the High Street three days 
 ago, how distressing ! The Archdeacon's brain was going, and 
 that was the very last thing that Render had desired. What 
 he had originally seen was the pleasant picture of Brandon re- 
 tiring with his wife and family to a nice Rectory in the 
 diocese and ending his days many years hence it is to be 
 hoped in a charming old garden with an oak-tree on the 
 lawn and pigeons cooing in the sunny air. 
 
 But this! Oh, no ! not this ! Render was a practical man 
 of straight common-sense, but it did seem to him as though 
 there had been through all the movement of the last six 
 months some spirit far more vindictive than himself had ever 
 been. He had never, from the first moment to the last, been 
 vindictive. With his hand on his heart he could say that. 
 He did not like the Cathedral that morning, it seemed to him 
 cold, hostile, ugly. The thick stone pillars were scornful, the
 
 FOTJE THE LAST STAND 449 
 
 glass of the East window was dead and dull. A little wind 
 seemed to whistle in the roof so far, so far above his head. 
 
 He hurried on, his great-coat hugged about him. All that 
 he could say was that he did hope that Brandon would not be 
 there this morning. His presence could alter nothing, the 
 voting could go only one way. It would be very painful were 
 he there. Surely after the High Street affair he would not 
 come. 
 
 Ronder saw with relief when he came into the Chapter 
 House that Brandon was not present. They were standing 
 about the room, looking out into the Cloisters, talking in little 
 groups the Dean, Bentinck-Major, Ryle, Foster, and Bond, 
 the Clerk, a little apart from the others as social decency de- 
 manded. When Ronder entered, two things at once were plain 
 one, how greatly during these last months he had grown in 
 importance with all of them and, secondly, how nervous they 
 were all feeling. They all turned towards him. 
 
 "Ah, Ronder," said the Dean, "that's right. I was afraid 
 lest something should keep you." 
 
 "No no what a cold damp day ! Autumn is really upon 
 us." 
 
 They discussed the weather, once and again eyeing the door 
 apprehensively. Bentinck-Major took Ronder aside: 
 
 "My wife and I have been wondering whether you'd honour 
 us by dining with us on the 25th," he said. "A cousin of my 
 wife's, Lady Caroline Holmesby, is to be staying with us just 
 then. It would give us such great pleasure if you and Miss 
 Ronder would join us that evening. My wife is, of course, 
 writing to Miss Ronder." 
 
 "So far as I know, my aunt and I are both free and will 
 be delighted to come," said Ronder. 
 
 "Delightful ! That will be delightful ! As a matter of fact 
 we were thinking of having that evening a little Shake- 
 speare reading. We thought of King Lear." 
 
 "Ah! That's another matter," said Ronder, laughing. 
 "I'll be delighted to listen, but as to taking part "
 
 450 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 "But you must! You must!" said Bentinck-Major, catch- 
 ing hold of one of the buttons on Render's waistcoat, a habit 
 that Ronder most especially disliked. "More culture is what 
 our town needs several of us have been thinking so. It is 
 really time, I think, to start a little Shakespeare reading 
 amongst ourselves strictly amongst ourselves, of course. 
 The trouble with Shakespeare is that he is so often a little 
 a little bold, for mixed reading and that restricts us. Never- 
 theless, we hope. . . . I do trust that you will join us, 
 Canon Ronder." 
 
 "I make no promises," said Ronder. "If you knew how 
 badly I read, you'd hesitate before asking me." 
 
 "We are past our time," said the Dean, looking at his 
 watch. "We are all here, I think, but Brandon and Witheram. 
 Witheram is away at Drymouth. He has written to me. 
 How long we should wait ' 
 
 "I can hardly believe," said Ryle nervously, "that Arch- 
 deacon Brandon will be present. He is extremely unwell. 
 I don't know whether you are aware that three nights ago he 
 was found by Lawrence the Verger here in the Cathedral in 
 a fainting fit. He is very unwell, I'm afraid." 
 
 The whole group was immensely interested. They had 
 heard. . . . Fainting? Here in the Cathedral? Yes, by 
 the Bishop's Tomb. He was better yesterday, but it is hardly 
 likely that he will come this morning. 
 
 "Poor man!" said the Dean, gently distressed. "I heard 
 something. . . . That was the result, I'm afraid, of his 
 fracas that morning in the High Street; he must be most 
 seriously unwell." 
 
 "Poor man, poor man !" was echoed by everybody ; it was 
 evident also that general relief was felt. He could not now 
 be expected to be present. 
 
 The door opened, and he came in. Ho came hurriedly, a 
 number of papers in one hand, wearing just the old anxious 
 look of important care that they know so well. And yet how 
 changed he was! Instead of moving at once to his place at
 
 FOUR THE LAST STAND 451 
 
 the long table he hesitated, looked at Bentinck-Major, at 
 Foster, then at Bond, half-puzzled, as though he had never 
 seen them before. 
 
 "I must apologise, gentlemen," he said, "for being late. 
 My watch, I'm afraid, was slow." 
 
 The Dean then showed quite unexpected qualities. 
 
 "Will you sit here on my right, Archdeacon ?" he said in a 
 firm and almost casual voice. "We are a little late, I fear, 
 but no matter no matter. We are all present, I think, save 
 Archdeacon Witheram, who is at Drymouth, and from whom 
 I have received a letter." They all found their places. Ren- 
 der was as usual exactly opposite to Brandon. Foster slouched 
 into his seat with his customary air of absentmindedness. 
 Ryle tried not to look at Brandon, but his eyes were fasci- 
 nated and seemed to swim in their watery fashion like fish fas- 
 cinated by a bait. 
 
 "Shall we open with a prayer," said the Dean, "and ask 
 God's blessing on this morning's work ?" 
 
 They prayed with bent heads. Brandon's head was bent 
 longer than the others. 
 
 When he looked up he stared about him as though com- 
 pletely bewildered. 
 
 "As you all know," the Dean said in his softly urgent 
 voice, as though he were pressing them to give him flowers for 
 his collection, "our meeting this morning is of the first 
 urgency. I will, with your approval, postpone general busi- 
 ness until the more ordinary meeting of next week. That is 
 if no one has any objection to such a course?" 
 
 No one had any objections. 
 
 "Very well, then. As you know, our business this morn- 
 ing is to appoint a successor to poor Morrison at Pybus St. 
 Anthony. Now in ordinary cases, such an appointment is 
 not of the first importance, but in the matter of Pybus, as you 
 all know, there is a difference. Whether rightly or wrongly, 
 it has been a tradition in the Diocese that the Pybus living 
 should be given only to exceptional men. It has been fortu-
 
 452 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 nate in having a succession of exceptional men in its 
 men who, for the most part, have come to great position in the 
 Church afterwards. I want you to remember that, gentle- 
 men, when you are making your decision this morning. At 
 the same time you must remember that it has been largely tra- 
 dition that has given this importance to Pybus, and that the 
 living has been vacant already too long." 
 
 He paused. Then he picked up a piece of paper in front 
 of him. 
 
 "There have been several meetings with regard to this 
 living already," he said, "and certain names have been very 
 thoroughly discussed among us. I think we were last week 
 agreed that two names stood out from the others. If to-day 
 we cannot agree on one of those two names, we must then 
 consider a third. That will not, I hope, be necessary. The 
 two names most favourably considered by us are those of the 
 Rev. Rex Forsyth, Chaplain to Bishop Clematis, and thr 
 Rev. Ambrose Wistons of St. Edward's Hawston. The first 
 of these two gentlemen is known to all of us personally, the 
 second we know chiefly through his writings. We will first, 
 I think, consider Mr. Wistons. You, Canon Foster, are, I 
 know, a personal friend of his, and can tell us why, in your 
 opinion, his would be a suitable appointment." 
 
 "It depends on what you want," said Foster, frowning 
 around upon every one present ; and then suddenly selecting 
 little Bond as apparently his most dangerous enemy and 
 scowling at him with great hostility, "if you want to let the 
 religious life of this place, nearly dead already, pass right 
 away, choose a man like Forsyth. But I don't wish to be con- 
 tentious ; there's been contention enough in this place during 
 these last months, and I'm sick and ashamed of the share I've 
 had in it. I won't say more than this that if you want an 
 honest, God-fearing man here, who lives only for God and ia 
 in his most secret chamber as he is before men, then Wistona 
 is your man. I understand that some of you are afraid of his 
 books. There'll be worse books than his you'll have to face
 
 FOUK THE LAST STAND 453 
 
 before you're much older. That I can tell you! I said to 
 myself before I came here that I wouldn't speak this morn- 
 ing. I should not have said even what I have, because I know 
 that in this last year I have grievously sinned, fighting 
 against God when I thought that I was fighting for Him. 
 The weapons are taken out of my hands. I believe that 
 Wistons is the man for this place and for the religious life 
 here. I believe that you will none of you regret it if you 
 bring him to this appointment. I can say nothing more." 
 
 What had happened to Foster? They had, one and all, 
 expected a fighting speech. The discomfort and uneasiness 
 that was already in the room was now greatly increased. 
 
 The Dean asked Ronder to say something. Ronder leaned 
 forward, pushing his spectacles back with his fingers. He 
 leaned forward that he might not see Brandon's face. 
 
 By chance he had not seen Brandon for more than a fort- 
 night. He was horrified and frightened by the change. The 
 grey-white face, the restless, beseeching, bewildered eyes be- 
 longing apparently to some one else, to whom they were 
 searching to return, the long white fingers ceaselessly moving 
 among the papers and tapping the table, were those of a 
 stranger, and in the eyes of the men in that room it was he 
 who had produced him. Yes, and in the eyes of how many 
 others in that town ? You might say that had Brandon been 
 a man of real spiritual and moral strength, not Ronder, not 
 even God Himself, could have brought Brandon to this. But 
 was that so ? Which of us knows until he is tried ? His wife, 
 his son, his body, all had failed him. And now this too. 
 . . . And if Ronder had not come to that town would it 
 have been so ? Had it not been a duel between them from the 
 moment that Ronder first set his foot in that place ? And had 
 not Ronder deliberately willed it so ? What had Ronder said 
 to Brandon's son and to the woman who would ruin Bran- 
 don's wife? 
 
 All this passed in the flash of a deam through Ronder's- 
 brain, perhaps never entirely to leave him again. In that
 
 454 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 long duel there had been perhaps more than one defeat. He 
 knew that they were waiting for him to speak, but the 
 thoughts would not come. Wistons? Forsyth? . . . 
 Forsyth? Wistons? Who were they? What had they to 
 do with this personal relation of his with the man opposite ? 
 
 He flushed. He must say something. He began to speak, 
 and soon his brain, so beautifully ordered, began to reel out 
 the words in soft and steady sequence. But his soul watched 
 Brandon's soul. 
 
 "My friend, Canon Foster, knows Mr. Wistons so much 
 better than I do," he said, "that it is absurd for me to try 
 and tell you what he should tell you. 
 
 "I do regard him as the right man for this place, because 
 I think our Cathedral, that we all so deeply love, is waiting 
 for just such a man. Against his character no one, I sup- 
 pose, has anything to say. He is known before all the world 
 as a God-fearing Christian. He is no youth ; he has had 
 much experience; he is, every one witnesses, lovable and of 
 strong personal charm. It is not his character, but his ideas, 
 that people have criticised. He is a modernist, of course, a 
 man of an enquiring, penetrating mind, who must himself 
 be satisfied of the truth for which he is searching. Can that 
 do us here any harm ? I believe not. I think that some of us, 
 if I may say so, are too easily frightened of the modern spirit 
 of enquiry. I believe that we Churchmen should step for- 
 ward ready to face any challenge, whether of scientists, psy- 
 chologists or any one else I think that before long, whether 
 we like it or no, we shall have to do so. Mr. Wistons is, I 
 believe, just the man to help us in such a crisis. His opinions 
 are not precisely the same as those of some of us in this dio- 
 cese, and I've no doubt that if he came here there would be 
 some disputes from time to time, but I believe those same dis- 
 putes would do us a world of good. God did not mean us to 
 sit down twiddling our thumbs and never using our brains. 
 He gave us our intelligences, and therefore I presume that He 
 meant us to make some use of them.
 
 FOUK THE LAST STAND 455 
 
 "In these matters Mr. Wistons is exactly what we want 
 here. He is a much-travelled man, widely experienced in 
 affairs, excellent at business. No one who has ever met him 
 would deny his sweetness and personal charm. I think my- 
 self that we are very fortunate to have a chance of seeing him 
 here " 
 
 Ronder ceased. He felt as though he had been beating thin 
 air with weak ineffective hands. They had, none of them, 
 been listening to him or thinking of him; they had not even 
 been thinking of Wistons. Their minds had been absorbed, 
 held, dominated by the tall broad figure who sat in their 
 midst, but was not one of them. 
 
 Brandon, in fact, began to speak almost before Ronder 
 had finished. He did not look up, but stared at his long 
 nervous fingers. He spoke at first almost in a whisper, so 
 that they did not catch the first few words. "... Horri- 
 fied ..." they heard him say. "Horrified. ... So 
 calmly. . . . These present. . . . 
 
 "Cannot understand. ..." Then his words were 
 clearer. He looked up, staring across at Ronder. 
 
 "Horrified at this eager acceptance of a man who is a 
 declared atheist before God." Then suddenly he flung his 
 head back in his old challenging way and, looking round upon 
 them all, went on, his voice now clear, although weak and 
 sometimes faltering : 
 
 "Gentlemen, this is perhaps my last appearance at these 
 Chapter Meetings. I have not been very well of late and, as 
 you all know, I have had trouble. You will forgive me if I 
 do not, this morning, express myself so clearly or carefully 
 as I should like. 
 
 "But the first thing that I wish to say is that when you 
 are deciding this question this morning you should do your 
 best, before God, to put my own personality out of your 
 minds. I have learnt many things, under God's hand, in the 
 last six months. He has shown me some weaknesses and 
 failings, and I know now that, because of those weaknesses,
 
 456 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 there are some in this town who would act against any- 
 thing that I proposed, simply because they would wish me 
 to be defeated. I do implore you this morning not to think of 
 me, but to think only of what will be best best best 
 He looked around him for a moment bewildered, frowning in 
 puzzled fashion at Render, then continued again, "best for 
 God and the work of His Church. 
 
 "I'm not very well, gentlemen ; my thoughts are not coming 
 very clearly this morning, and that is sad, because I've 
 looked forward to this morning for months past, wishing to 
 fight my very best. ..." His voice changed. "Yes, 
 fight !" he cried. "There should be no fight necessary in such 
 a matter. But what has happened to us all in the last year ? 
 
 "A year ago there was not one of us who would have con- 
 sidered such an appointment as I am now disputing. Have 
 you read this man's books ? Have you read in the papers his 
 acknowledged utterances? Do you know that he questions 
 the Divinity of Christ Himself " 
 
 "No, Archdeacon," Foster broke in, "that is not true. You 
 can have no evidence of that." 
 
 Brandon seemed to be entirely bewildered by the interrup- 
 tion. He looked at Foster, opened his mouth as though he 
 would speak, then suddenly put his hand to his head. 
 
 "If you will give me time," he said. "Give me time. I 
 will prove everything, I will indeed. I beg you," he said, 
 suddenly turning to the Dean, "that you will have this 
 appointment postponed for a month. It is so serious a matter 
 that to decide hastily " 
 
 "Not hastily," said the Dean very gently. "Morrison died 
 some months ago, and I'm afraid it is imperative that we 
 should fill the vacancy this morning." 
 
 "Then consider what you do," Brandon cried, now half- 
 rising from his chair. "This man is breaking in upon the 
 cherished beliefs of our Church. Give him a little and he 
 will take everything. We must all stand firm upon the true 
 and Christian ground that the Church has given us, or where
 
 FOUK 
 
 THE LAST STAND 457 
 
 shall we be ? This man may be good and devout, but he does 
 not believe what we believe. Our Church that we love 
 that we love ' He broke off again. 
 
 "You are against me. Every man's hand now is against 
 rtte. Nevertheless what I say is right and true. What am I ? 
 What are you, any of you here in this room, beside God's 
 truth ? I have seen God, I have walked with God, I shall walk 
 with Him again. He will lead me out of these sore distresses 
 and take me into green pastures : 
 
 He flushed. "I beg your pardon, gentlemen. I am taking 
 your time. I must say something for Mr. Forsyth. He is 
 young; he knows this place and loves it; he cares for and 
 will preserve its most ancient traditions. . . . 
 
 "He cares for the things for which we should care. I do 
 commend him to your attention " 
 
 There was a long silence. The rain that had begun a thick 
 drizzle dripped on the panes. The room was so dark that the- 
 Dean asked Bond to light the gas. They all waited while this 
 was being done. At last the Dean spoke : 
 
 "We are all very grateful to you, Archdeacon, for helping 
 us as you have done. I think, gentlemen, that unless there 
 is some other name definitely to be proposed we had better 
 now vote on these two names. 
 
 "Is there any further name suggested ?" 
 
 No one spoke. 
 
 "Very well, then. I think this morning, contrary to our 
 usual custom, we will record our votes on paper. I have 
 Archdeacon Witheram's letter here advising me of his wishes 
 in this matter." 
 
 Paper and pens were before every one. The votes were 
 recorded and sent up to the Dean. He opened the little 
 pieces of paper slowly. 
 
 At last he said : 
 
 "One vote has been recorded in favour of Mr. Forsyth, the 
 rest for Mr. Wistons. Mr. Wistons is therefore appointed to 
 the living of Pybus St. Anthony."
 
 458 THE CATHEDRAL BOOK 
 
 Brandon was on his feet. His body trembled like a tree 
 tottering. He flung out his hands. 
 
 "No. . . . No. . . . Stop one moment. You must. You 
 all of you 
 
 "Mr. Dean all of you. . . . Oh, God, help me now ! . . . 
 You have been influenced by your feelings about myself. For- 
 get me, turn me away, send me from the town, anything, any- 
 thing. ... I beseech you to think only of the good of the 
 Cathedral in this affair. If you admit this man it is the 
 beginning of the end. Slowly it will all be undermined. 
 Belief in Christ, belief in God Himself. . . . Think of the 
 future and your responsibility to the unborn children when 
 they come to you and say: 'Where is our faith? Why did 
 you take it from us? Give it back to us!' Oh, stop for a 
 moment! Postpone this for only a little while. Don't do 
 this thing ! . . . Gentlemen !" 
 
 They could see that he was ill. His body swayed as though 
 it were beyond his control. His hands were waving, turning, 
 beseeching. . . . 
 
 Suddenly tears were running down his cheeks. 
 
 "Not this shame !" he cried. "Not this shame ! kill me 
 but save the Cathedral I" 
 
 They were on their feet. Foster and Ryle had come round 
 to him. "Archdeacon, sit down." "You're ill." "Rest a 
 moment." With a great heave of his shoulders he flung them 
 off, a chair falling to the ground with the movement. 
 
 He saw Ronder. 
 
 "You ! . . . my enemy. Are you satisfied now ?" he whis- 
 pered. He held out his quivering hand. "Take my hand. 
 You've done your worst." 
 
 He turned round as though he would go from the room. 
 Stumbling, he caught Foster by the shoulder as though he 
 would save himself. He bent forward, staring into Foster's 
 face. 
 
 "God is love, though," he said. "You betray Him again 
 and again, but He comes back."
 
 FOUK THE LAST STAND 459 
 
 He gripped Foster's shoulder more tightly. "Don't do 
 this thing, man," he said. "Don't do it. Because Render's 
 beaten me is no reason for you to betray your God. . . . Give 
 me a chair. I'm ill." 
 
 He fell upon his knees. 
 
 "This . . . Death," he whispered. Then, looking up again 
 at Foster, "My heart. That fails me too." 
 
 And, bowing his head, he died. 
 
 THE END
 
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