"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 touchin' 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

mountains-high behind him, of a woman's cry, of something trickling 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 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 VII

Tuesday, June 22: III. Torchlight

Joan came home about seven o'clock that evening. Dinner 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 afternoon. 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 engaged 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 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. Combermere 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, 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 fancied 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

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 wanting 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 listened 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 herself

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 Sampsons, 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.

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 listening on the other

side of the door. "No, no. I want no dinner."

She went down again, told Gladys that she would eat something, 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. He was in great trouble, and

she must help him, but she felt desperately her youth, her inexperience,

her inadequacy.

She waited again, when she had finished her meal, wondering 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!

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 dinner--"

"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 persuade 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 shoulders, 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 me and beaten me. They've

kicked me. They've spied on me and mocked me. 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 happened, 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 arrogance,

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 tim, fondled

him, pressing her cheek against his.

"Dear, dear father. I love you so. I love you so. No one shall hurt you.

Father dear, father darling."

Suddenly the room was blazing with light. The Torchlight 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

Chapter I

In Ronder's House: Ronder, Wistons

Every one has, at one time or another, known the experience 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 excitement 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 before, 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 public declaration of their

failings; they remembered their positions, who they were and what they

were.

In one sense there had been no public declaration. Mrs. 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. _He_ was the question, he the centre of the drama.

There were a hundred different stories running around the town as to what

exactly had happened 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 Ronder two black eyes? (The only drawback to this story was that

Ronder 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 abduction? 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 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

significance--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" were out-of-date,

and it was a lucky thing that as modern a man as Ronder 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

determined 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 advocating 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 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, anything 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 magnificently 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

the 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 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

accomplished 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 pictured 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 Ronder, who was no mean observer, at

once perceived, by large and penetrating eyes. The eyes, indeed, were

beautiful, of a wonderful softness and intelligence.

His hair was jet black and thick; his hand, as it gripped Ronder's, strong

and bony.

"I'm very glad to meet you, Canon Ronder," he said. "I've heard so much

about you." His voice, as Mrs. Combermere long afterwards remarked, "has a

twinkle in it." It was a jolly voice, humorous, generous but incisive, and

exceedingly clear. It had a very slight accent, so slight that no one

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?" Ronder 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 talking 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 probabilities 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 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 Ronder. "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

modern 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 Ronder, 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 impertinent--you wished to score a point over

some personal adversary?"

The question _was_ impertinent. There could be no doubt of it. Ronder

ought at once to resent any imputation on his honesty. What right had this

man to dip down into Ronder'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 Ronder, be quite assured in the future if Wistons were

at Pybus? Wouldn't some nincompoop like Forsyth be perhaps, after all, his

best choice?

Ronder suddenly ceased to wish to give pennies to little 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 Ronder, "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 victory 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 shooting up his

shoulders and darting forward his head. "I think all this Cathedral

intrigue disgusting. No, 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. 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," cried Ronder 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

come 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 cannot avoid intrigue and party

feeling among the community of any Cathedral body. That is why I want you

to understand, Canon Ronder, 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 Ronder, 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! Ronder stirred, a little restlessly, 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, Ronder had 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 sky, was shading the sun's rays.

Lovely! Lovely! Lovely like the Hermes downstairs, lovely like the piece

of red amber on his writing-table, like the Blind Homer...like a scallop

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. Ronder 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, Ronder, that I fear. Don't you yourself 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?

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 Cathedral. Tear it down and build it up

again!" He turned restlessly, almost savagely, to Ronder. "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 jealousy? And isn't

its very beauty a contempt?...And now what right have you to help my

appointment to Pybus?"

Ronder 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 Ronder insisted on coming down. They shook hands at his door. The

figure was lost in the evening sun.

Ronder 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 arrival 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.

Chapter II

Two in the House

A letter from Falk to Joan.

Dear Joan--Mother has been here. I could get nothing out of her. I had

only one thing to say--that she must go back to father. That was the one

thing that she asserted, over and over again, that she never would. Joan,

she was tragic. I felt that I had never seen her before, never known her.

She was thinking of nothing but Morris. She seemed to see him all the time

that she was in the room with me. She is going abroad with Morris at the

end of this week--to South America, I believe. Mother doesn't seem now to

care what happens, except that she will not go back to father.

She said an odd thing to me at the end--that she had had her time, her

wonderful time, and that she could never be as unhappy or as lonely as she

was, and that she would love him always (Morris, I suppose), and that he

would love her.

The skunk that Morris is! And yet I don't know. Haven't I been a skunk

too? And yet I don't feel a skunk. If only father would be happy! Then

things would be better than they've ever been. You don't know how good

Annie is, Joan. How fine and simple and true! Why are we all such

mixtures? Why can't you ever do what's right for yourself without hurting

other people? But I'm not going to wait much longer. If things aren't

better soon I'm coming down whether he'll see me or no. 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.

A letter from Joan to Falk.

DEAREST FALK--I'm answering you by return because I'm so frightened. If I

send you a telegram, come down at once. Mr. Morris's sister-in-law is

telling everybody that he only went up to London on business. But she's

not going to stay here, I think. But I can't think much even of mother. I

can think of no one but father. Oh, Falk, it's been terrible these last

three days, and I don't 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 appointment. He talks to

himself. (You can see by that how changed he is.) He is hurrying round to

see people and asking them to the house, and he's so odd with them,

looking at them suddenly, suspiciously, as though he expected that they

were laughing at him. There's always something in the back of his mind--

not mother, I'm sure. Something happened to him that last day of the

Jubilee. He's always talking about some one who struck him, and he puts

his hand up to feel his forehead, where there was a bruise. He told me

that day that he had fallen down, but I'm sure now that he had a fight

with somebody.

He's always talking, too, about a "conspiracy" against him--not only Canon

Ronder, but something more general. Poor dear, the worst of it all is, how

bewildered he is. You know how direct he used to be, the way he went

straight to his point and wasn't afraid of anybody. Now he's always

hesitating. He hesitates before he goes out, before he goes upstairs,

before he comes into my room. It's just as though he was for ever

expecting that there's some one behind the door waiting for him with a

hammer. It's so strange how I've changed my feeling about him. I used to

think him so strong that he could beat down anybody, and now I feel he

wants looking after all the time. Perhaps he never was really strong at

all, but it was all on the outside. All the same he's very brave too. He

knows all the town's been talking about him, but I think he'd face a whole

world of Polchesters if he could only beat Canon Ronder over the Pybus

appointment. If Mr. Forsyth isn't appointed to that I think he'll go to

pieces altogether. You see, a year ago there wouldn't have been any

question about it at all. Of course he would have had his way.

But what makes me so frightened, Falk, is of something happening in the

house. Father is so suspicious that it makes me suspicious too. It doesn't

seem like the house it was at all, but as though there were some one

hiding in it, and at night it is awful. I lie awake listening, and I can

hear father walking up and down, his room's next to mine, you know. And

then if I listen hard enough, I can hear footsteps all over the house--

you know how you do in the middle of the night. And there's always some

one coming upstairs. This will sound silly to you up in London, but it

doesn't seem silly here, I assure you. All the servants feel it, and

Gladys is going at the end of the month.

And oh, Falk! I'm so sorry for him! It does seem so strange that

everything should have changed for him as it has. I feel his own

bewilderment. A year ago he seemed so strong and safe and secure as though

he would go on like that for ever, and hadn't an enemy in the world. How

could he have? He's never meant harm to any one. Your going away I can

understand, but mother, I feel as though I never could speak to her again.

To be so cruel to father and to write him such a letter! (Of course I

didn't see the letter, but the effect of it on father was terrible.)

He's so lonely now. He scarcely realises me half the time, and you see he

never did think very much about me before, so it's very difficult for him

to begin now. I'm so inexperienced. It's hard enough running the house

now, and having to get another servant instead of Gladys--and I daresay

the others will go too now, but that's nothing to waiting all the time for

something to happen and watching father every minute. 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 Ronder is so powerful now. I'm so afraid of him. I

do hate him so! The Cathedral, and the town, everything seems to have

changed since he came. A year ago they were like father, settled for ever.

And now every one's talking about new people and being out-of-date, and

changing the Cathedral music and everything! But none of that matters in

comparison with father.

I've written a terribly long letter, but it's done me ever so much good.

I'm sometimes so tempted to telegraph to you at once. I'm almost sure

father would be glad to see you. You were always the one he loved most.

But perhaps we'd better wait a little: if things get worse in any way I'll

telegraph at once.

I'm so glad you're well, and happy. You haven't in your letters told me

anything about the Jubilee in London. Was it very fine? Did you see the

Queen? Did she look very happy? Were the crowds very big? Much love from

your loving sister,

JOAN.

* * * * *

Joan, waiting in the shadowy drawing-room for Johnny St. Leath, wondered

whether her father had come in or no.

It wouldn't matter if he had, he wouldn't come into the drawing-room. He

would go directly into his study. She knew exactly what he would do. He

would shut the door, then a minute later would open it, look into the hall

and listen, then close it again very cautiously. He always now did that.

And in any case if he did come into the drawing-room and saw Johnny it

wouldn't matter. His mind was entirely centred on Pybus, and Johnny had

nothing to do with Pybus. Johnny's mother, yes. Had that stout white-

haired cockatoo suddenly appeared, she would be clutched, absorbed,

utilised to her last white feather. But she didn't appear. She stayed up

in her Castle, serene and supreme.

Joan was very nervous. She stood, a little grey shadow in the grey room,

her hands twisting and untwisting. She was nervous because she was going

to say good-bye to Johnny, perhaps for ever, and she wasn't sure that

she'd have the strength to do it.

Suddenly he was there with her in the room, big and clumsy and cheerful,

quite unaware apparently that he was never, after this, to see Joan again.

He tried to kiss her but she prevented him. "No, you must sit over there,"

she said, "and we must never, at least not probably for years and years,

kiss one another again."

He was aware, as she spoke, of quite a new, a different Joan; he had been

conscious of this new Joan on many occasions during these last weeks. When

he had first known her she had been a child and he had loved her for her

childishness; now he must meet the woman and the child together, and

instinctively he was himself more serious in his attitude to her.

"We could talk much better, Joan dear," he said, "if we were close

together."

"No," she said; "then I couldn't talk at all. We mustn't meet alone again

after to-day, and we mustn't write, and we mustn't consider ourselves

engaged."

"Why, please?"

"Can't you see that it's all impossible? We've tried it now for weeks and

it becomes more impossible every day. Your mother's absolutely against it

and always will be--and now at home--here--my mother----"

She broke off. He couldn't leave her like that; he sprang up, went across

to her, put his arms around her, and kissed her. She didn't resist him nor

move from him, but when she spoke again her voice was firmer and more

resolved than before.

"No, Johnny, I mean it, I can think of nothing now but father. So long as

he's alive I must stay with him. He's quite alone now, he has nobody. I

can't even think about you so long as he's like this, so unwell and so

unhappy. It isn't as though I were very clever or old or anything. I've

never until lately been allowed to do anything all my life, not the

tiniest bit of housekeeping, and now suddenly it has all come. And if I

were thinking of you, wanting to see you, having letters from you, I

shouldn't attend to this; I shouldn't be able to think of it----"

"Do you still love me?"

"Why, of course. I shall never change."

"And do you think that I still love you?"

"Yes."

"And do you think I'll change?"

"You may. But I don't want to think so."

"Well, then, the main question is settled. It doesn't matter how long we

wait."

"But 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 messengers across the Cathedral Green.

She turned round to him.

"No, Johnny, this time it isn't a joke. I mean absolutely what I say.

We're not to meet alone or to write until--father doesn't need me any

more. I can't think, I mustn't think, of anything but father now. Nothing

that you can say, or any one can say, will make me change my mind about

that now.... And please go, Johnny, because it's so hard while you're

here. And 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."

"There's something funny," he said, still looking about him. "It feels

queer to me--sort of unhappy."

"Never mind that," she said, hurriedly moving towards the door, as though

she had heard footsteps. "You must go, Johnny. Kiss me once, the last

time. And then no letters, no anything, until--until--father's happy

again."

She rested in his arms, suddenly tranquil, safe, at peace. Her hands were

round his neck. She kissed his eyes. They clung together, suddenly two

children, utterly confident in one another and in their mutual faith.

A hand was on the door. They separated. The Archdeacon came in. He peered

into the dusky room.

"Joan! Joan! Are you there?"

She came across to him. "Yes, father, here I am. And this is Lord St.

Leath."

"How do you do, sir?" said Johnny.

"How do you do? I hope your mother is well."

"Very well, thank you, sir."

"That's good, that's good. I have some business to discuss with her.

Rather important business; I may come and see her to-morrow afternoon if

she is disengaged; Will you kindly tell her?"

"Indeed I will, sir."

"Thank you. Thank you. This room is very dark. Why are there no lights?

Joan, you should have lights. There's no one else here, is there?"

"No, father."

Johnny heard their voices echoing in the empty hall as he let himself out.

Brandon shut his study door and looked about him. The lamp on his table

was lit, his study had a warm and pleasant air with the books gleaming in

their shelves and the fire crackling. (You needed a fire on these late

summer evenings.) Nevertheless, although the room looked comfortable, he

did not at once move into it. He stood there beside the door, as though he

was waiting for something. He listened. The house was intensely quiet. He

opened the door and looked into the passage. There was no one there. The

gas hissed ever so slightly, like a whispering importunate voice. He came

back into his room, closing the door very carefully behind him, went

across softly to his writing-table, sat down, and took up his pen. His

eyes were fixed on the door, and then suddenly he would jerk round in his

chair as though he expected to catch some one who was standing just behind

him.

Then began that fight that always now must be waged whenever he sat down

at his desk, the fight to drive his thoughts, like sheep, into the only

pen that they must occupy. He must think now only of one thing; there were

others--pictures, ideas, memories, fears, horrors even--crowding, hovering

close about him, and afterwards--after Pybus--he would attend to them.

Only one thing mattered now. "Yes, you gibbering idiots, do your worst;

knock me down. Come on four to one like the cowards that you are, strike

me in the back, take my wife from me, and ruin my house. I will attend to

all of you shortly, but first--Pybus."

His lips were moving as he turned over the papers. _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 person! Stones and bricks and mortar

and bits of glass, that's what the Cathedral was, and yet lately it had

seemed to move and have a being of its own.

Fancies! Fancies! Really Brandon must attend to his business, this

business of Pybus and Forsyth, which in a week now was to be settled. He

talked to himself as he turned the papers over. He had seen the Bishop,

and Ryle (more or less persuaded), and Bentinck-Major (dark horse, never

could be sure of him), Foster, Rogers...Foster? Foster? Had he seen

Foster? Why did the mention of that name suddenly commence the unveiling

for him of a scene upon which, he must not look? The crossing the bridge,

up the hill, at the turnstile, paying your shilling...no, no, no

farther. And Bentinck-Major! That man laughed at him! Positively he dared,

when a year ago he would have bent down and wiped the dust off his shoes!

Positively!

That man! That worm! That mean, sycophantic...He was beginning to get

angry. He must not get angry. That's what Puddifoot had said, that had

been the one thing that old Puddifoot had said correctly. He must not get

angry, not even with--Ronder.

At the mention of that name something seemed to stir in the room, some one

to move closer. Brandon's heart began to race round like a pony in a

paddock. Very bad. Must keep quiet. Never get excited. Then for a moment

his thoughts did range, roaming over that now so familiar ground of

bewilderment. Why? Why? Why?

Why a year ago _that_, and now _this_? When he had done no one

in the world any harm and had served God so faithfully? Why? Why? Why?

Back, back to Pybus. This wasn't work. He had much to do and no time to

lose. That enemy of his was working, you could be sure of that. Only a

week! Only a week!

Was that some one moving in the room? Was there some one stealing behind

him, as they had done once, as...? He turned sharply round, rising in his

chair. No one there. He got up and began stealthily to pace the floor. The

worst of it was that however carefully you went you could never be quite

sure that some one was not just behind you, some one very clever,

measuring his steps by yours. You could never be sure. How still the house

was! He stopped by his door, after a moment's hesitation opened it and

looked out. No one there, only the gas whispering.

What was he doing, staring into the hall? He should be working, making

sure of his work. He went back to his table. He began hurriedly to write a

letter:

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 mean _most suitable? Suitable_ was

not perhaps exactly the word for Forsyth. It was something 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. Sometimes he wished that she

wouldn't talk so much; she hadn't talked so much in earlier days, had she?

But he couldn't remember what she had done in earlier days.

He was very particular now about his food. Always he had eaten whatever

was put in front of him with hearty and eager appreciation; now he seemed

to have very little appetite. He was always complaining about the cooking.

The potatoes were hard, the beef was underdone, the pastry was heavy. And

sometimes he would forget altogether that he was eating, and would sit

staring in front of him, his food neglected on his plate.

It was not easy for Joan. Not easy to choose topics that were not

dangerous. And so often he was not listening to her at all. Perhaps at no

other time did she pity him so much, and love him so much, as when she saw

him staring in front of him, his eyes puzzled, bewildered, piteous, like

those of an animal caught in a trap. All her old fear of him was gone, but

a new fear had come in its place. Sometimes, in quite the old way, he

would rap out suddenly, "Nonsense--stuff and nonsense!...As 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 refuse to see Puddifoot;

had seen him once, and had immediately quarrelled with him, and told him

that he was a silly old fool and knew nothing about anything, and this

when Puddifoot had come with the noblest motives, intending to patronise

and condole.

After dinner to-night Joan and he went into the drawing-room. Often, after

dinner, he vanished into the study "to work"--but to-night he was "tired,

very tired--my dear. So much effort in connection with this Pybus

business. What'a come to the town I don't know. A year ago the matter

would have been simple enough...anything so obvious...."

He sat in his old arm-chair, whence for so many years he had delivered his

decisive judgments. No decisive judgments tonight! He was really tired,

lying back, his eyes closed, his hands twitching ever so slightly on his

knees.

Joan sat near to him, struggling to overcome her fear. She felt that if

only she could grasp that fear, like a nettle, and hold it tightly in her

hand it would seem so slight and unimportant. But she could not grasp it.

It was compounded of so many things, of the silence and the dulness, of

the Precincts and the Cathedral, of whispering trees and steps on the

stairs, of her father and something strange that now inhabited him like a

new guest in their house, of her loneliness and of her longing for some

friend with whom she could talk, of her ache for Johnny and his

comforting, loving smile, but most of all, strangely, of her own love for

her father, and her desire, her poignant desire, that he should be happy

again. She scarcely missed her mother, she did not want her to come back;

but she ached and ached to see once again that happy flush return to her

father's cheek, that determined ring to his voice, that buoyant confident

movement to his walk.

To-night she could not be sure whether he slept or no. She watched him,

and the whole world seemed to hold its breath. Suddenly an absurd fancy

seized her. She fought against it for a time, sitting there, her hands

tightly clenched. Then suddenly it overcame her. Some one was listening

outside the window; she fancied that she could see him--tall, dark, lean,

his face pressed against the pane.

She rose very softly and stole across the floor, very gently drew back one

of the curtains and looked out. It was dark and she could see nothing--

only the Cathedral like a grey web against a sky black as ink. A lamp,

across the Green, threw a splash of orange in the middle distance--no

other light. The Cathedral seemed to be very close to the house.

She closed the curtain and then heard her father call her.

"Joan! Joan! Where are you?"

She came back and stood by his chair. "I was only looking out to see what

sort of a night it was, father dear," she said.

He suddenly smiled. "I had a pleasant little nap then," he said; "my

head's better. There. Sit down close to me. Bring your chair nearer. We're

all alone here now, you and I. We must make a lot of one another."

He had paid so little attention to her hitherto that she suddenly realised

now that her loneliness had, during these last weeks, been the hardest

thing of all to bear. She drew her chair close to his and he took her

hand.

"Yes, yes, it's quite true. I don't know what I should have done without

you during these last weeks. You've been very good to your poor, stupid,

old father!"

She murmured something, and he burst out, "Oh, yes, they do! That's what

they say! I know how they talk. They want to get me out of the way and

change the place--put in unbelievers and atheists. But they shan't--not

while I have any breath in my body--" He went on more gently, "Why just

think, my dear, they actually want to have that man Wistons here. An

atheist! A denier of Christ's divinity! Here worshipping in the Cathedral!

And when I try to stop it they say I'm mad. Oh, yes! They do! I've heard

them. Mad. Out-of-date. They've laughed at me--ever since--ever since...

that elephant, you know, dear...that began it...the Circus...."

She leaned over him.

"Father dear, you mustn't pay so much attention to what they say. You

imagine so much just because you aren't very well and have those

headaches--and--and--because of other things. You imagine things that

aren't true. So many people here love you----"

"Love me!" he burst out suddenly, starting up in his chair. "When they set

upon me, five of them, from behind and beat me! There in public with the

lights and the singing." He caught her hand, gripping it. "There's a

conspiracy, Joan. I know it. I've seen it a long time. And I know who

started it and who paid them to follow me. Everywhere I go, there they

are, following me.

"That old woman with her silly hat, she followed me into my own house.

Yes, she did! 'I'll read you a letter,' she said. 'I hate you, and I'll

make you cry out over this.' They're all in it. He's setting them on. But

he shan't have his way. I'll fight him yet. Even my own son----" His voice

broke.

Joan knelt at his feet, looking up into his face. "Father! Falk wants to

come and see you! I've had a letter from him. He wants to come and ask

your forgiveness--he loves you so much."

He got up from his chair, almost pushing her away from him. "Falk! Falk! I

don't know any one called that. I haven't got a son----"

He turned, looking at her. Then suddenly put his arms around her and

kissed her, holding her tight to his breast.

"You're a good girl," he said. "Dear Joan! I'm glad you've not left me

too. I love you, Joan, and I've not been good enough to you. Oh, no, I

haven't! Many things I might have done, and now it's too late...too

late..."

He kissed her again and again, stroking her hair, then he said that he was

tired, very tired--he'd sleep to-night. He went slowly upstairs.

He undressed rapidly, flinging off his clothes as though they hurt him. As

though some one else had unexpectedly come into the room, he saw himself

standing before the long glass in the dressing-room, naked save for his

vest. He looked at himself and laughed.

How funny he looked only in his vest--how funny were he to walk down the

High Street like that! They would say he was mad. And yet he wouldn't be

mad. He would be just as he was now. He pulled the vest off over his head

and continued to stare at himself. It was as though he were looking at

some one else's body. The long toes, the strong legs, the thick thighs,

the broad hairless chest, the stout red neck--and then those eyes, surely

not his, those strange ironical eyes! He passed his hand down his side and

felt the cool strong marble of his flesh. Then suddenly he was cold and he

hurried into his night-shirt and his dressing-gown.

He sat on his bed. Something deep down in him was struggling to come up.

Some thought...some feeling...some name. Falk! It was as though a bell

were ringing, at a great distance, in the sleeping town--but ringing only

for him. Falk! The pain, the urgent pain, crept closer. Falk! He got up

from his bed, opened his door, looked out into the dark and silent house,

stepped forward, carefully, softly, his old red dressing-gown close about

him, stumbling a little on the stairs, feeling the way to his study door.

He sat in his arm-chair huddled up. "Falk! Falk! Oh, my boy, my boy, come

back, come back! I want you, I want to be with you, to see you, to touch

you, to hear your voice! I want to love you!

"Love--Love! I never wanted love before, but now I want it, desperately,

desperately, some one to love me, some one for me to love, some one to be

kind to. Falk, my boy. I'm so lonely. It's so dark. I can't see things as

I did. It's getting darker.

"Falk, come back and help me...."

Chapter III

Prelude to Battle

That night he slept well and soundly, and in the morning woke tranquil and

refreshed. His life seemed suddenly to have taken a new turn. As he lay

there and watched the sunlight run through the lattices like strands of

pale-coloured silk, it seemed to him that he was through the worst. He did

what he had not done for many days, allowed the thought of his wife to

come and dwell with him.

He went over many of their past years together, and, nodding his head,

decided that he had been often to blame. Then the further thought of what

she had done, of her adultery, of her last letter, these like foul black

water came sweeping up and darkened his mind.... No more. No more. He must

do as he had done. Think only of Pybus. Fight that, win his victory, and

then turn to what lay behind. But the sunlight no longer danced for him,

he closed his eyes, turned on his side, and prayed to God out of his

bewilderment.

After breakfast he started out. A restless urgency drove him forth. The

Chapter Meeting at which the new incumbent of Pybus was to be chosen was

now only three days distant, and all the work in connection with that was

completed--but Brandon could not be still. Some members of the Chapter he

had seen over and over again during the last months, and had pressed Rex

Forsyth's claims upon them without ceasing, but this thing had become a

symbol to him now--a symbol of his fight with Ronder, of his battle for

the Cathedral, of his championship, behind that, of the whole cause of

Christ's Church.

It seemed to him that if he were defeated now in this thing it would mean

that God Himself had deserted him. At the mere thought of defeat his heart

began to leap in his breast and the flags of the pavement to run before

his eyes. But it could not be. He had been tested; like Job, every plague

had been given to him to prove him true, but this last would shout to the

world that his power was gone and that the Cathedral that he loved had no

longer a place for him. And then--and then-----

He would not, he must not, look. At the top of the High Street he met Ryle

the Precentor. There had been a time when Ryle was terrified by the

Archdeacon; that time was not far distant, but it was gone. Nevertheless,

even though the Archdeacon were suddenly old and sick and unimportant, you

never could tell but that he might say something to somebody that it would

be unpleasant to have said. "Politeness all the way round" was Ryle's

motto, and a very safe one too. Moreover, Ryle, when he could rise above

his alarm for the safety of his own position, was a kindly man, and it

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 was talking about him and saying "Poor Precentor!"? But

perhaps 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!

All this passed very swiftly through Ryle's mind, and was quickly

strangled by hearing Brandon utter in quite his old knock-you-down-if-you-

don't-get-out-of-my-way voice, "Ha! Ryle! Out early this morning! I hope

you're not planning any more new-fangled musical schemes for us!"

Oh, well! if the Archdeacon were going to take that sort of tone with him,

Ryle simply wasn't going to stand it! Why should he? To-day isn't six

months ago.

"That's all right, Archdeacon," he said stiffly. "Ronder and I go through

a good deal of the music together now. He's very musical, you know. Every

one seems quite satisfied." _That_ ought to get him--my mention of

Ronder's name.... At the same time Ryle didn't wish to seem to have gone

over to the other camp altogether, and he was just about to say something

gently deprecatory of Ronder when, to his astonishment, he perceived that

Brandon simply hadn't heard him at all! And then the Archdeacon took his

arm and marched with him down the High Street.

"With regard to this Pybus business, Precentor," he was saying, "the

matter now will be settled in another three days. I hope every one

realises the extreme seriousness of this audacious plot to push a heretic

like this man Wistons into the place. I'm sure that every 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 Precentor was of

the Archdeacon's party. And to be seen thus affectionately linked with the

Archdeacon just now, when his family affairs were in so strange a

disorder, when he himself was behaving so oddly, when, as it was

whispered, at the Jubilee Fair he had engaged in a scuffle of a most

disreputable kind. The word "Drink" was mentioned.

Ryle tried, every so gently, to disengage his arm. Brandon's hand was of

steel.

"This seems to me," the Archdeacon was continuing, "a most critical moment

in our Cathedral's history. If we don't stand together now we--we--"

The Archdeacon's hand relaxed. His eyes wandered. Ryle detached his arm.

How strange the man was! Why, there was Samuel Hogg on the other side of

the street!

He had taken his hat off and was smiling. How uncomfortable! How

unpleasant to be mixed in this kind of encounter! How Mrs. Ryle, would

dislike it if she knew!

But his mind was speedily taken off his own affairs. He was conscious of

the Archdeacon, standing at his full height, his eyes, as he afterwards

described it a thousand times, "bursting from his head." Then, "before you

could count two," the Archdeacon was striding across the street.

It was a sunny morning, people going about their ordinary business, every

one smiling and happy. Suddenly Ryle saw the Archdeacon stop in front of

Hogg; himself started across the street, urged he knew not by what

impulse, saw Hogg's ugly sneering face, saw the Archdeacon's arm shoot

out, catch Hogg one, two terrific blows in the face, saw Hogg topple over

like a heap of clothes falling from their peg, was in time to hear the

Archdeacon crying out, "You dirty spy! You'd set upon me from behind,

would you? Afraid to meet me face to face, are you? Take that, then, and

that!" And then shout, "It's daylight! It's daylight now! Stand up and

face me, you coward!"

The next thing of which the terrified Ryle was conscious was that people

were running up from all sides. They seemed to spring from nowhere. He

saw, too, how Hogg, the blood streaming from his face, lay there on his

back, not attempting to move. Some were bending down behind him, holding

his head, others had their hands about Brandon, holding him back. Errand-

boys were running, people were hurrying from the shops, voices raised on

every side--a Constable slowly crossed the street--Ryle slipped away--

Joan had gone out at once after breakfast that morning to the little shop,

Miss Milligan's, in the little street behind the Precincts, to see whether

she could not get some of that really fresh fruit that only Miss Milligan

seemed able to obtain. She was for some little time in the shop, because

Miss Milligan always had a great deal to say about her little nephew

Benjie, who was at the School as a day-boy and was likely to get a

scholarship, and was just now suffering from boils. Joan was a good

listener and a patient, so that it was quite late--after ten o'clock--as

she hurried back.

Just by the Arden Gate Ellen Stiles met her.

"Oh, you poor child!" she cried; "aren't you at home? I was just hurrying

up to see whether I could be of any sort of help to you!"

"Any help?" echoed Joan, seeing at once, in the nodding blue plume in

Ellen's hat, forebodings of horrible disaster.

"What, haven't you heard?" cried Ellen, pitying from the bottom of her

heart the child's white face and terrified eyes.

"No! What? Oh, tell me quickly! What has happened? To father--"

"I don't know exactly myself," said Ellen. "That's what I was hurrying up

to find out.... Your father...he's had some sort of fight with that

horrible man Hogg in the High Street.... No, I don't know...But wait a

minute...."

Joan was gone, scurrying through the Precincts, the paper bag with the

fruit clutched tightly to her.

Ellen Stiles stared after her; her eyes were dim with kindness. There was

nothing now that she would not do for that girl and her poor father!

Knocked down to the ground they were, and Ellen championed them wherever

she went. And now this! Drink or madness--perhaps both! Poor man! Poor

man! And that child, scarcely out of the cradle, with all this on her

shoulders! Ellen would do anything for them! She would go round later in

the day and see how she could be useful.

She turned away. It was Ronder now who was "up"...and a little pulling-

down would do him no sort of harm. There were a few little things she was

longing, herself, to tell him. A few home-truths. Then, half-way down the

High Street, she met Julia Preston, and didn't they have a lot to say

about it all!

Meanwhile Joan, in another moment, was at her door. What had happened? Oh,

what had happened? Had he been brought back dying and bleeding? Had that

horrible man set upon him, there in the High Street, while every one was

about? Was the doctor there, Mr. Puddifoot? Would there perhaps have to be

an operation? This would kill her father. The disgrace.... She let herself

in with her latch-key and stood in the familiar hall. Everything was just

as it had always been, the clocks ticking. She could hear the Cathedral

organ faintly through the wall. The drawing-room windows were open, and

she could hear the birds, singing at the sun, out there in the Precincts.

Everything as it always was. She could not understand. Gladys appeared

from the kitchen.

"Oh, Gladys, here is the fruit.... Has father come in?"

"I don't know, miss."

"You haven't heard him?"

"No, miss. I've been upstairs, 'elping with the beds."

"Oh--thank you, Gladys."

The terror slipped away from her. Then it was all right. Ellen Stiles had,

as usual, exaggerated. After all, she had not been there. She had heard it

only at second-hand. She hesitated for a moment, then went to the study

door. Outside she hesitated again, then she went in.

To her amazement her father was sitting, just as he had always sat, at his

table. He looked up when she entered, there was no sign upon him of any

trouble. His face was very white, stone-white, and it seemed to her that

for months past the colour had been draining from it, and now at last all

colour was gone. A man wearing a mask. She could fancy that he would put

up his hands and suddenly slip it from him and lay it down upon the table.

The eyes stared through it, alive, coloured, restless.

"Well, Joan, what is it?"

She stammered, "Nothing, father. I only wanted to see--whether--that--"

"Yes? Is any one wanting to see me?"

"No--only some one told me that you...I thought--"

"You heard that I chastised a ruffian in the town? You heard correctly. I

did. He deserved what I gave him."

A little shiver shook her.

"Is that all you want to know?"

"Isn't there anything, father, I can do?"

"Nothing--except leave me just now. I'm very busy. I have letters to

write."

She went out. She stood in the hall, her hands clasped together. What was

she to do? The worst that she had ever feared had occurred. He was mad.

She went into the drawing-room, where the sun was blazing as though it

would set the carpet on fire. 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 inexperience this morning's acts could be nothing but

madness. There in the middle of the High Street, with every one about, to

do such a thing! The disgrace of it! Why, now, they could never stay in

Polchester.... This was worse than everything that had gone before. How

they would all talk, Canon Ronder and all of them, and how pleased they

would be!

At that she clenched her hands and drew herself up as though she were

defying the whole of Polchester. They should not laugh at him, they should

not dare!...

But meanwhile what immediately was she to do? It wasn't safe to leave him

alone. Now that he had gone so far as to knock some one down in the

principal street, what might he not do? What would happen if he met Canon

Ronder? Oh! why had this come? What had they done to deserve this?

What 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 instant he seemed to

stand, a figure of flame, outside there on the sun-drenched grass.

Outside! Yes, always outside, until her father did not need her any more.

Then, suddenly she wanted Johnny so badly that she crumpled up into one of

the old arm-chairs and cried and cried and cried. She was very young. Life

ahead of her seemed very long. Yes, she cried her heart out, and then she

went upstairs and washed her face and wrote to Falk. She would not

telegraph until she was quite sure that she could not manage it by

herself.

The wonderful morning changed to a storm of wind and rain. Such a storm!

Down in the basement Cook could scarcely hear herself speak! As she said

to Gladys, it was what you must expect now. They were slipping into

Autumn, and before you knew, why, there would be Winter! Nothing odder

than the sudden way the Seasons took you! But Cook didn't like storms in

that house. "Them Precincts 'ouses, they're that old, they'd fall on top

of you as soon as whistle Trefusis! For her part she'd always thought this

'ouse queer, and it wasn't any the less queer since all these things had

been going on in it." It was at this point that the grocery "boy" arrived

and supposed they'd 'eard all about it by that time. All about what? Why,

the Archdeacon knocking Samuel 'Ogg down in the 'Igh Street that very

morning! Then, indeed, you could have knocked Cook down, as she said, with

a whisper. Collapsed her so, that she had to sit down and take a cup of

tea, the kettle being luckily on the boil. Gladys had to sit down and take

one too, and there they sat, the grocer's boy dismissed, in the darkening

kitchen, their heads close together, and starting at every hiss of the

rain upon the coals. The house hung heavy and dark above them. Mad, that's

what he must be, and going mad these past ever so many months. And such a

fine man too! But knocking people down in the street, and 'im such a man

for his own dignity! 'Im an Archdeacon too. 'Ad any one ever heard in

their lives of an Archdeacon doing such a thing? Well, that settled Cook.

She'd been in the house ten solid years, but at the end of the month she'd

be off. To sit in the house with a madman! Not she! Adultery and all the

talk had been enough, but she had risked her good name and all, just for

the sake of that poor young thing upstairs, but madness!--no, that was

another pair of shoes.

Now Gladys was peculiar. She'd given her notice, but hearing this, she

suddenly determined to stay. That poor Miss Joan! Poor little worm! So

young and innocent--shut up all alone with her mad father. Gladys would

see her through--

"Why, Gladys," cried Cook, "what will your young feller you're walkin'

with say?"

"If 'e don't like it 'e can lump it," said Gladys. "Lord, 'ow this house

does rattle!"

All the afternoon of that day Brandon sat, never moving from his study-

table. He sat exultant. Some of the shame had been wiped away. He could

feel again the riotous happiness that had surged up in him as he struck

that face, felt it yield before him, saw it fade away into dust and

nothingness. That face that had for all these months been haunting him, at

last he had banished it, and with it had gone those other leering faces

that had for so long kept him company. His room was dark, and it was

always in the dark that they came to him--Hogg's, the drunken painter's,

that old woman's in the dirty dress.

And to-day they did not come. If they came he would treat them as he had

treated Hogg. That was the way to deal with them!

His heart was bad, fluttering, stampeding, pounding and then dying away.

He walked about the room that he might think less of it. Never mind his

heart! Destroy his enemies, that's what he had to do--these men and women

who were the enemies of himself, his town and his Cathedral.

Suddenly he thought that he would go out. He got his hat and his coat and

went into the rain. He crossed the Green and let himself into the

Cathedral by the Saint Margaret Chapel door, as he had so often done

before.

The Cathedral was very dark, and he stumbled about, knocking against

pillars and hassocks. He was strange here. It was as though he didn't know

the place. He got into the middle of the nave, and positively he didn't

know where he was. A faint green light glimmered in the East end. There

were chairs in his way. He stood still, listening.

He was lost. He would never find his way out again. _His_ Cathedral,

and he was lost! Figures were moving everywhere. They jostled him and said

nothing. The air was thick and hard to breathe. Here was the Black

Bishop's Tomb. He let his fingers run along the metal work. How cold it

was! His hand touched the cold icy beard! His hand stayed there. He could

not remove it. His fingers stuck.

He tried to cry out, and he could say nothing. An icy hand, gauntleted,

descended upon his and held it. He tried to scream. He could not.

He shouted. His voice was a whisper. He sank upon his knees. He fainted,

slipping to the ground like a man tired out.

There, half an hour later, Lawrence found him.

Chapter IV

The Last Tournament

On 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

sleeping 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 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 themselves. Pride's dangerous, Canon Ronder. 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 morning, Canon Ronder. Pleased to have

met you."

The wretched creature went slithering up the aisle, chuckling to himself.

How miserable to be drunk at that early hour of the morning! Ronder

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 morning. 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 Ronder had desired. What he had originally seen was the

pleasant picture of Brandon retiring 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! Ronder 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 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 demanded. 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 Shakespeare 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--"

"But you must! You must!" said Bentinck-Major, catching hold of one of the

buttons on Ronder'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. Nevertheless, 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 Byle nervously, "that Archdeacon 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. He came hurriedly, a number of papers in

one hand, wearing just the old anxious look of important care that they

knew so well. And yet how changed he was! Instead of moving at once to his

place at 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.

Ronder 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 fascinated and seemed to swim in their watery

fashion like fish fascinated 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 completely 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 business 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 morning 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 fortunate in having a

succession of exceptional men in its service--men who, for the most part,

have come to great position in the Church afterwards. I want you to

remember that, gentlemen, when you are making your decision this morning.

At the same time you must remember that it has been largely tradition 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 the 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 contentious;

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 is in his most secret chamber as he is before men, then Wistons 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 before you're much older.

_That_ I can tell you! I said to myself before I came here that I

wouldn't speak this morning. 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 fortnight. He was

horrified and frightened by the change. The grey-white face, the restless,

beseeching, bewildered eyes belonging 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 Brandon's wife?

All this passed in the flash of a dream through Ronder's brain, perhaps

never entirely to leave him again. In that 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 suppose, 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 forward ready

to face any challenge, whether of scientists, psychologists 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 diocese, and I've no doubt that if he came here there would be some

disputes from time to time, but I believe those same disputes 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.

"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 myself 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.

"...Horrified..." 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, there are some

in this town who would act against anything 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 Ronder, 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 considered 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 interruption. 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 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 me. 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."

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. Forget me, turn me away, send me

from the town, anything, anything.... 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!"

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 whispered. 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."

He gripped Foster's shoulder more tightly. "Don't do this thing, man," he

said. "Don't do it. Because Ronder'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.