The Cathedral Part 29

"Good-bye, dear Canon. No, I forbid you to come out. Oh, well, if you will. I hear everywhere of the splendid work you're doing. Don't think it flattery, but I do think we needed you here. What we have wanted is a message--something to lift us all up a little. It's so easy to see nothing but the dreary round, isn't it? And all the time the stars are shining....

At least that's how it seems to me."

The door closed; the room was suddenly silent. Miss Ronder sat without moving, her eyes staring in front of her.

Soon Ronder returned.

Miss Ronder said nothing. She was the one human being who had power to embarra.s.s him. She was embarra.s.sing him now.

"Aren't things strange?" he said. "I've seen four different people this afternoon. They have all of their own accord instantly talked about Brandon, and abused him. Brandon is in the air. He's in danger."

Miss Ronder looked her nephew straight between the eyes.

"Frederick," she said, "how much have you had to do with this?"

"To do with this? To do with what?"

"All this talk about the Brandons."

"I! Nothing at all."

"Nonsense. Don't tell me. Ever since you set foot in this town you've been determined that Brandon should go. Are you playing fair?"

He got up, stood opposite her, legs apart, his hands crossed behind his broad back.

"Fair? Absolutely."

Her eyes were full of distress. "Through all these years," she said, "I've never truly known you. All I know is that you've always got what you wanted. You're going to get what you want now. Do it decently."

"You needn't be afraid," he said.

"I _am_ afraid," she said. "I love you, Fred; I have always loved you. I'd hate to lose that love. It's one of my most precious possessions."

He answered her slowly, as though he were thinking things out. "I've always told you the truth," he said; "I'm telling you the truth now. Of course I want Brandon to go, and of course he's going. But I haven't to move a finger in the matter. It's all advancing without my agency. Brandon is ruining himself. Even if he weren't, I'm quite square with him. I fought him openly at the Chapter Meeting the other day. He hates me for it."

"And you hate _him_."

"_Hate_ him? Not the least in the world. I admire and like him. If only he were in a less powerful position and were not in my way, I'd be his best friend. He's a fine fellow--stupid, blind, conceited, but finer made than I am. I like him better than any man in the town."

"I don't understand you"; she dropped her eyes from his face. "You're extraordinary."

He sat down again as though he recognised that the little contest was closed.

"Is there anything in this, do you think? This chatter about Mrs. Brandon and Morris."

"I don't know. There's a lot of talk beginning. Ellen Stiles is largely responsible, I fancy."

"Mrs. Brandon and Morris! Good Lord! Have you ever heard of a man called Davray?"

"Yes, a drunken painter, isn't he? Why?"

"I talked to him in the Cathedral this afternoon. He has a grudge against Brandon too...Well, I'm going up to the study."

He bent over, kissed her forehead tenderly and left the room.

Throughout that evening he was uncomfortable, and when he was uncomfortable he was a strange being. His impulses, his motives, his intentions were like a sheaf of corn bound tightly about by his sense of comfort and well-being. When that sense was disturbed everything fell apart and he seemed to be facing a new world full of elements that he always denied. His aunt had a greater power of disturbing him than had any other human being. He knew that she spoke what she believed to be the truth; he felt that, in spite of her denials, she knew him. He was often surprised at the eagerness with which he wanted her approval.

As he sat back in his chair that evening in Bentinck-Major's comfortable library and watched the other, this sense of discomfort persisted so strongly that he found it very difficult to let his mind bite into the discussion. And yet this meeting was immensely important to him. It was the first obvious result of the manoeuvring of the last months. This was definitely a meeting of Conspirators, and all of those engaged in it, with one exception, knew that that was so. Bentinck-Major knew it, and Foster and Ryle and Rogers. The exception was Martin, a young Minor Canon, who had the living of St. Joseph's-in-the-Fields, a slum parish in the lower part of the town.

Martin had been invited because he was the best clergyman in Polchester.

Young though he was, every one was already aware of his strength, integrity, power with the men of the town, sense of humour and intelligence. There was, perhaps, no man in the whole of Polchester whom Ronder was so anxious to have on his side.

He was a man with a scorn of any intrigue, deeply religious, but human and impatient of humbug.

Ronder knew that he was the Polchester clergyman beyond all others who would in later years come to great power, although at present he had nothing save his Minor Canonry and small living. He was not perhaps a deeply read man, he was of no especial family nor school and had graduated at Durham University. In appearance he was common-place, thin, tall, with light sandy hair and mild good-tempered eyes. It had been Ronder's intention that he should be invited. Foster, who was more responsible for the meeting than any one, had protested.

"Martin--what's the point of Martin?"

"You'll see in five years' time," Ronder had answered.

Now, as Ronder looked round at them all, he moved restlessly in his chair.

Was it true that his aunt was changing her opinion of him? Would he have to deal, during the coming months, with persistent disapproval and opposition from her? And it was so unfair. He had meant absolutely what he said, that he liked Brandon and wished him no harm. He _did_ believe that it was for the good of the town that Brandon should go....

He was pulled up by Foster, who was asking him to tell them exactly what it was that they were to discuss. Instinctively he looked at Martin as he spoke. As always, with the first word there came over him a sense of mastery and happiness, a desire to move people like p.a.w.ns, a readiness to twist any principle, moral and ethical, if he might bend it to his purpose. Instinctively he pitched his voice, formed his mouth, spread his hands upon the broad arms of his chair exactly as an actor fills in his part.

"I object a little," he said, laughing, "to Foster's suggestion that I am responsible for our talking here. I've no right to be responsible for anything when I've been in the place so short a time. All the same, I don't want to pretend to any false modesty. I've been in Polchester long enough to be fond of it, and I'm going to be fonder of it still before I've done. I don't want to pretend to any sentimentality either, but there are broader issues than merely the fortunes of this Cathedral in danger.

"Because I feel the danger, I intend to speak out about it, and get any one on my side I can. When I find that Canon Foster who has been here so long and loves the Cathedral so pa.s.sionately and so honestly, if I may say so, feels as I do, then I'm only strengthened in my determination. I don't care who says that I've no right to push myself forward about this. I'm not pushing myself forward.

"As soon as some one else will take the cause in hand I'll step back, but I'm not going to see the battle lost simply because I'm afraid of what people will say of me.... Well, this is all fine words. The point simply is that, as every one knows, poor Morrison is desperately ill and the living of Pybus St. Anthony may fall vacant at any moment. The appointment is a Chapter appointment. The living isn't anything very tremendous in itself, but it has been looked upon for years as _the_ jumping-off place for preferment in the diocese. Time after time the man who has gone there has become the most important influence here. Men are generally chosen, as I understand it, with that in view. These are, of course, all commonplaces to you, but I'm recapitulating them because it makes my point the stronger. Morrison with all his merits was not out of the way intellectually. This time we want an exceptional man.

"I've only been here a few months, but I've noticed many things, and I will definitely say that the Cathedral is at a crisis in its history.

Perhaps the mere fact that this is Jubilee Year makes us all more ready to take stock than we would otherwise have been. But it is not only that. The Church is being attacked from all sides. I don't believe that there has ever been a time when the west of England needed new blood, new thought, new energy more than it does at this time. The vacancy at Pybus will offer a most wonderful opportunity to bring that force among us. I should have thought every one would realise that.

"It happens, however, that I have discovered on first-hand evidence that there is a strong resolve on the part of most important persons in this town (I will mention no names) to fill the living with the most unsatisfactory, worthless and conservative influence that could possibly be found anywhere. If that influence succeeds I don't believe I'm exaggerating when I say that the progress of the religious life here is flung back fifty years. One of the greatest opportunities the Chapter can ever have had will have been missed. I don't think we can regard the crisis as too serious."

Foster broke in: "Why _not_ mention names, Canon? We've no time to waste. It's all humbug pretending we don't know whom you mean. It's Brandon who wants to put young Forsyth into Pybus whom we're fighting.

Let's be honest."

"No. I won't allow that," Ronder said quickly. "We're fighting no personalities. Speaking for myself, there's no one I admire more in this town than Brandon. I think him reactionary and opposed to new ideas, and a dangerous influence here, but there's no personal feeling in any of this.

We've got to keep personalities out of this. There's something bigger than our own likes and dislikes in this."

"Words! Words," said Foster angrily. "I hate Brandon. You hate him, Ronder, for all you're so circ.u.mspect. It's true enough that we don't want young Forsyth at Pybus, but it's truer still that we want to bring the Archdeacon's pride down. And we're going to."

The atmosphere was electric. Rogers' thin and bony features were flushed with pleasure at Foster's denunciation. Bentinck-Major rubbed his soft hands one against the other and closed his eyes as though he were determined to be a gentleman to the last; Martin sat upright in his chair, his face puzzled, his gaze fixed upon Ronder; Ryle, the picture of nervous embarra.s.sment, glanced from one face to another, as though imploring every one not to be angry with him--all these sharp words were certainly not his fault.

Ronder was vexed with himself. He was certainly not at his best to-night.

He had realised the personalities that were around him, and yet had not steered his boat among them with the dexterous skill that was usually his.