The Cathedral Part 18

"That's honest at any rate," he said. "It's the first honest thing I've heard here for a long time except from the Bishop. To tell you the truth, I had thought you were going to work in with Brandon. One more of his sheep. If that were to be so the less we saw of one another the better."

"I have not been here long enough," said Ronder, "to think of working in with anybody. And I don't wish to take sides. There's my duty to the Cathedral. I shall work for that and let the rest go."

"There's your duty to G.o.d," said Foster vehemently. "That's the thing that everybody here's forgotten. But you don't sound as though you'd go Brandon's way. That's something in your favour."

"Why should one go Brandon's way?" Ronder asked.

"Why? Why? Why? Why do sheep huddle together when the dog barks at their heels?...But I respect him. Don't you mistake me. He's a man to be respected. He's got courage. He cares for the Cathedral. He's a hundred years behind, that's all. He's read nothing, he knows nothing, he's a child--and does infinite harm...." He looked up at Ronder and said quite mildly, "Is there anything more you want to know?"

"There's talk," said Ronder, "about the living at Pybus St. Anthony. It's apparently an important place, and when there's an appointment I should like to be able to form an opinion about the best man----"

"What! is Morrison dead?" said Foster eagerly.

"No, but very ill, I believe."

"Well, there's only one possible appointment for that place, and that is Wistons."

"Wistons?" repeated Ronder.

"Yes, yes," said Foster impatiently, "the author of _The New Apocalypse_--the rector of St. Edward's, Hawston."

Ronder remembered. "A stranger?" he said. "I thought that it would have to be some one in the diocese."

Foster did not hear him. "I've been waiting for this--to get Wistons here --for years," he said. "A wonderful man--a great man. He'll wake the place up. We _must_ have him. As to local men, the more strangers we let in here the better."

"Brandon said something about a man called Forsyth--Rex Forsyth?"

Foster smiled grimly. "Yes--he would," he said, "that's just his kind of appointment. Well, if he tries to pull that through there'll be such a battle as this place has never seen."

Ronder said slowly. "I like your idea of Wistons. That sounds interesting."

Foster looked at him with a new intensity.

"Would you help me about that?" he asked.

"I don't know quite where I am yet," said Ronder, "but I think you'll find me a friend rather than an enemy, Foster."

"I don't care what you are," said Foster. "So far as my feelings or happiness go, nothing matters. But to have Wistons here--in this place....

Oh, what we could do! What we could do!"

He seemed to be lost in a dream. Five minutes later he roused himself to say good-bye. Ronder once more at the top of the stairs felt about him again the strange stillness of the house.

Chapter VIII

Son--Father

Falk Brandon was still, in reality, a boy. He, of course, did not know this and would have been very indignant had any one told him so; it was nevertheless the truth.

There is a kind of confidence of youth that has great charm, a sort of a.s.sumption of grown-up manners and worldly ways that is accompanied with an ingenuous belief in human nature, a nave trust in human goodness. One sees it sometimes in books, in stories that are like a charade acted by children dressed in their elders' clothes, and although these tales are nothing but fairy stories in their actual relation to life, the sincerity of their belief in life, and a kind of freshness that come from ignorance, give them a power of their own.

Falk had some of this charm and power just as his father had, but whereas his father would keep it all his days, Falk would certainly lose it as he learnt more and went more into the world. But as yet he had not lost it.

This emotion that had now gained such control over him was the first real emotion of his life, and he did not know in the least how to deal with it.

He was like a man caught in a baffling fog. He did not know in the least whether he were in love with this girl, he did not know what he wanted to do with her, he sometimes fancied that he hated her, he could not see her clearly either mentally or physically; he only knew that he could not keep away from her, and that with every meeting he approached more nearly the moment when he would commit some desperate action that he would probably regret for the rest of his life.

But although he could not see her clearly he could see sharply enough the other side of the situation--the practical, home, filial side. It was strange how, as the affair advanced, he was more and more conscious of his father. It was as though he were an outsider, a friend of his father's, but no relation to the family, who watched a calamity approach ever more closely and was powerless to stop it. Although he was only a boy he realised very sufficiently his father's love for him and pride in him. He realized, too, his father's dependence upon his dignity and position in the town, and, last and most important of all, his father's pa.s.sionate devotion to the Cathedral. All these things would be bruised were he, Falk, involved in any local scandal. Here he saw into himself and, with a bitterness and humility that were quite new to him, despised himself. He knew, as though he saw future events pa.s.sing in procession before him, that if such a scandal did break out he would not be able to stay in the place and face it--not because he himself feared any human being alive, but because he could not see his father suffer under it.

Well, then, since he saw so clearly, why not abandon it all? Why not run away, obtain some kind of work in London and leave Polchester until the madness had pa.s.sed away from him?

He could not go.

He would have been one of the first to scorn another man in such a position, to mock his weakness and despise him. Well, let that be so. He despised himself but--he could not go.

He was always telling himself that soon the situation would clear and that he would then know how to act. Until that happened he must see her, must talk to her, must be with her, must watch her. They had had, by now, a number of meetings, always in the evening by the river, when her father was away, up in the town.

He had kissed her twice. She had been quite pa.s.sive on each occasion, watching him ironically with a sort of dry amus.e.m.e.nt. She had given him no sign that she cared for him, and their conversation had always been bare and unsatisfactory. Once she had said to him with sudden pa.s.sion:

"I want to get away out of this." He had asked her where she wanted to go.

"Anywhere--London." He had asked her whether she would go with him.

"I would go with any one," she had said. Afterwards she added: "But you won't take me."

"Why not?" he had asked.

"Because I'm not in love with you."

"You may be--yet."

"I'd be anything to get away," she had replied.

On a lovely evening he went down to see her, determined that this time he would give himself some definite answer. Just before he turned down to the river he pa.s.sed Samuel Hogg. That large and smiling gentleman, a fat cigar between his lips, was sauntering, with a friend, on his way to Murdock's billiard tables.

"Evenin', Mr. Brandon."

"Good evening, Hogg."

"Lovely weather."

"Lovely."

The shadows, faintly pink on the rise of the hill, engulfed his fat body.

Falk wondered as he had before now done many times, How much does he know?