The Genial Heart
Ronder 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
perfection. 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 uncomfortable emotions in which he indulged as
seldom as possible.
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 immensely--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 strangely everything played into his hands.
Without undue presumption 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 immediately 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
under Brandon's domination too long. New life was coming--a new world--a
new civilisation.
Ronder, 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 Ronder was its agent.
Progress? No, Ronder 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. Crossing 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 consider him as
"broad-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."
"You look as though you'll live for ever," said Ronder, 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 Ronder, 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? Appearances 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 high dingy room. He had had a sudden desire
the night 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_! the very scent of the skin of the apple,
the blue-necked 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, balancing 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 mistake. 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.
"My dear Miss Milton!" he exclaimed. "Is there anything 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
sympathetically with her.
Ronder, 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 impassioned 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 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 appointment? 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 observed 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! Me! 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 I 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 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 Archdeacon who brought up
the affair at a Committee meeting and insisted on my dismissal. Yes, Canon
Ronder, 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 her 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'."
"Very well, I'll remember."
"Thank you, sir, I'm sure. 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 honourable 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. He 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! And this omelette positively must be made!
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 sunlight 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 reputation. 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 approaching closer and closer to him during these last
days, now leered at him, leaning towards him from the other side of the
gilded scrolls of the tomb.
"Yes, it's a very fine thing." He cleared his throat. "You're Canon
Ronder, 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."
Ronder 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 everybody, 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 to-day, I just long to
clear all you officials out of it. I laugh sometimes to think how
important you think yourselves 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 Ronder; "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."
Ronder 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.
Ronder 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
many varieties as there were particles of sand on the seashore.
How impossible to be bored with life. Nevertheless, entering 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 Preston. 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 Ronder, 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!" Mrs. Preston used a laugh that was a favourite
of hers because she had once been told that it was like "a tinkling bell."
"Listen to him! As 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 feel 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. Preston. "Oh, thank
you, Canon Ronder! 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 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 Ronder.
"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
flattery, 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 different 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 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 _am_ 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. Brandon
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."
"Mrs. Brandon and Morris! Good Lord! Have you ever heard of a man called
Davray?"
"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 he
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 eagerness with which he wanted her approval.
As he 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 clergyman 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, perhaps, no man in the whole of Polchester whom
Ronder 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.
Ronder 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 Ronder'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," Ronder had answered.
Now, as Ronder looked round at them all, he moved restlessly 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. Instinctively 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 suggestion that I am
responsible for our talking here. I've 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 sentimentality 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 determination. 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
intellectually. 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 there has
ever been a time when the west of England needed new blood, new thought,
new energy more than it does at this time. 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 anywhere. 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 opportunities 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," Ronder 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 something bigger than
our own likes and dislikes in this."
"Words! Words," said Foster angrily. "I hate Brandon. You hate him,
Ronder, 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 gentleman to the last; Martin sat upright in his chair,
his face puzzled, his gaze fixed upon Ronder; 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.
Ronder 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, cantankerous 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 Archdeacon, 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."
Ronder 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 misapprehension, that I will take
part in nothing that has any 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
persuaded. And then--then there'd be hope once more! God would be served!
His Church would be a fitting Tabernacle!..."
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."
It was not he alone who was stirred. Martin spoke eagerly: "Is that the
Wistons of the _Four Creeds_?--the man who wrote _The New Apocalypse_?"
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!"
"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 Ronder. 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 he would with them. His brain now moved clearly,
smoothly, like a beautiful shining machine. His eyes glowed.
"Now, it's occurred to me----" he said. They all drew their chairs closer.