The Cathedral Part 52

He raised his head and looked at her. At those words of hers he had once again the sensation of being pushed down by strong heavy hands into some deep mire where he must have company with filthy crawling animals--Hogg, Davray, and now this woman....

"What do you mean?" he asked, disgust thickening his voice. "What can _you_ have to tell _me_?"

She smiled. She crossed the floor and came close to his desk. Her fingers were on the shabby bag that hung over her arm.

"I was greatly puzzled," she said, "as to what was the right thing to do.

I am a good and honest woman, Archdeacon, although I was ejected from my position most wrongfully by those that ought to have known better. I have come down in the world through no fault of my own, and there are some who should be ashamed in their hearts of the way they've treated me. However, it's not of them I've to speak to-day." She paused.

Brandon drew back into his chair. "Please tell me, Miss Milton, your business as soon as possible. I have much to do."

"I will." She breathed hard and continued. "Certain information was placed in my hands, and I found it very difficult to decide on the justice of my course. After some hesitation I went to Canon Ronder, knowing him to be a just man."

At the name "Ronder" the Archdeacon's lips moved, but he said nothing.

"I showed him the information I had obtained. I asked him what I should do. He gave me advice which I followed."

"He advised you to come to me."

Miss Milton saw at once that a lie here would serve her well. "He advised me to come to you and give you this letter which in the true sense of the word belongs to you."

She fumbled with her bag, opened it, took out a piece of paper.

"I must tell you," she continued, her eyes never for an instant leaving the Archdeacon's face, "that this letter came into my hands by an accident. I was in Mr. Morris's house at the time and the letter was delivered to me by mistake."

"Mr. Morris?" Brandon repeated. "What has he to do with this affair?"

Miss Milton rubbed her gloved hands together. "Mrs. Brandon," she said, "has been very friendly with Mr. Morris for a long time past. The whole town has been talking of it."

The clock suddenly began to strike the hour. No word was spoken.

Then Brandon said very quietly, "Leave this house, Miss Milton, and never enter it again. If I have any further trouble with you, the police will be informed."

"Before I go, Archdeacon," said Miss Milton, also very quietly, "you should see this letter. I can a.s.sure you that I have not come here for mere words. I have my conscience to satisfy like any other person. I am not asking for anything in return for this information, although I should be perfectly justified in such an action, considering how monstrously I have been treated. I give you this letter and you can destroy it at once.

My conscience will be satisfied. If, on the other hand, you don't read it --well, there are others in the town who must see it."

He took the letter from her.

DEAREST--I am sending this by a safe hand to tell you that I cannot possibly get down to-night. I am so sorry and most dreadfully disappointed, but I will explain everything when we meet to-morrow. This is to prevent your waiting on when I'm not coming.

It was in his wife's handwriting.

"Dearest...cannot possibly get down tonight...." In his wife's handwriting. Certainly. Yes. His wife's. And Ronder had seen it.

He looked across at Miss Milton. "This is not my wife's handwriting," he said. "You realise, I hope, in what a serious matter you have become involved--by your hasty action," he added.

"Not hasty," she said, moistening her lips with her tongue. "Not hasty, Archdeacon. I have taken much thought. I don't know if I have already told you that I took the letter myself at the door from the hand of your own maid. She has been to the Library with books. She is well known to me."

He must exercise enormous, superhuman, self-control. That was his only thought. The tide of anger was rising in him so terribly that it pressed against the skin of his forehead, drawn tight, and threatened to split it.

What he wanted to do was to rise and a.s.sault the woman standing in front of him. His hands longed to take her! They seemed to have life and volition of their own and to move across the table of their own accord.

He was aware, too, once more, of some huge plot developing around him, some supernatural plot in which all the elements too were involved--earth, sun and sky, and also every one in the town, down to the smallest child there.

He seemed to see behind him, just out of his sight, a tall ma.s.sive figure directing the plot, a figure something like himself, only with a heavy black beard, cloudy, without form....

They would catch him in their plot as in a net, but he would escape them, and he would escape them by wonderful calm, and self-control, and the absence of all emotion.

So that, although his voice shook a little, it was quietly that he repeated:

"This is not in my wife's handwriting. You know the penalties for forgery." Then, looking her full in the face, he added, "Penal servitude."

She smiled back at him.

"I am sure, Archdeacon, that all I require is a full investigation. These wickednesses are going on in this town, and those princ.i.p.ally concerned should know. I have only done what I consider my duty."

Her eyes lingered on his face. She savoured now during these moments the revenge for which, in all these months, she had ceaselessly longed. He had moved but little, he had not raised his voice, but, watching his face, she had seen the agony pa.s.s, like an entering guest, behind his eyes. That guest would remain. She was satisfied.

"I have done my duty, Archdeacon, and now I will wish you good-evening."

She gave a little bow and retired from the room, softly closing the door behind her.

He sat there, looking at the letter....

The a.s.sembly Rooms seemed to move like a ship on a sunset sea. Hanging from the ceiling were the two great silver candelabra, in some ways the most famous treasure that the town possessed. Fitted now with gas, they were nevertheless so shaded that the light was soft and mellow. Round the room, beneath the portraits of the town's celebrities in their heavy gold frames, the lights were hidden with shields of gold. The walls were ivory white. From the Minstrels' Gallery flags with the arms of the Town, of the Cathedral, of the St. Leath family fluttered once and again faintly. In the Minstrels' Gallery the band was playing just as it had played a hundred years ago. The shining floor was covered with moving figures.

Every one was there. Under the Gallery, surveying the world like Boadicea her faithful Britons, was Lady St. Leath, her white hair piled high above her pink baby face, that had the inquiring haughty expression of a c.o.c.katoo wondering whether it is being offered a lump of sugar or an insult. On either side of her sat two of her daughters, Lady Rose and Lady Mary, plain and patient.

Near her, in a complacent chattering row, were some of the more important of the Cathedral and County set. There were the Marriotts from Maple Durham, fat, sixty, and amiable; old Colonel Wotherston, who had fought in the Crimea; Sir Henry Byles with his large purple nose; little Major Garnet, the kindest bachelor in the County; the Marquesas, who had more pedigree than pennies; Mrs. Sampson in bright lilac, and an especially bad attack of neuralgia; Mrs. Combermere, sheathed in cloth of gold and very jolly; Mrs. Ryle, humble in grey silk; Ellen Stiles in cherry colour; Mrs.

Trudon, Mrs. Forrester and Mrs. D'Arcy, their chins nearly touching over eager confidences; Dr. Puddifoot, still breathless from his last dance; Bentinick-Major, tapping with his patent-leather toe the floor, eager to be at it again; Branston the Mayor and Mrs. Branston, uncomfortable in a kind of dog-collar of diamonds; Mrs. Preston, searching for n.o.bility; Canon Martin; Dennison, the head-master of the School; and many others.

It was just then a Polka, and the tune was so alluring, so entrancing, that the whole world rose and fell with its rhythm.

And where was Joan? Joan was dancing with the Reverend Rex Forsyth, the proposed inc.u.mbent of Pybus St. Anthony. Had any one told her a week ago that she would dance with the elegant Mr. Forsyth before a gathering of all the most notable people of Polchester and Southern Glebeshire, and would so dance without a tremor, she would have derided her informant. But what cannot excitement and happiness do?

She knew that she was looking nice, she knew that she was dancing as well as any one else in the room--and Johnny St. Leath had asked her for two dances and _then_ wanted more, and wanted these with the beautiful Claire Daubeney, all radiant in silver, standing close beside him. What, then, could all the Forsyths in the world matter? Nevertheless he _was_ elegant. Very smart indeed. Rather like a handsome young horse, groomed for a show. His voice had a little neigh in it; as he talked over her shoulder he gave a little whinny of pleasure. She found it very difficult to think of him as a clergyman at all.

You should SEE me DANCE the POLKA, Ta-ram-te-tum-te-TA.

Yes, she should. And _he_ should. And he was very pleasant when he did not talk.

"You dance--very well--Miss Brandon."

"Thank you. This is my first Ball."

"Who would--think that? Ta-ram-te-tum-te-TA.... Jolly tu-une!"

She caught glimpses of every one as they went round. Mrs. Combermere's cloth of gold, Lady St. Leath's white hair. Poor Lady Mary--such a pity that they could not do something for her complexion. Spotty. Joan liked her. She did much good to the poor in Seatown, and it must be agony to her, poor thing, to go down there, because she was so terribly shy. Her next dance was with Johnny. She called him Johnny. And why should she not, secretly to herself? Ah, there was mother, all alone. And there was Mr.

Morris coming up to speak to her. Kind of him. But he _was_ a kind man. She liked him. Very shy, though. All the nicest people seemed to be shy--except Johnny, who wasn't shy at all.