The Cathedral Part 68

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 pa.s.sed 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 princ.i.p.al 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 gra.s.s.

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