The Cathedral Part 69

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 bas.e.m.e.nt 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 ha.s.socks. 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 n.o.bility 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 gra.s.s clinging to his well-worn grey flannel suit.

"Good morning, Canon Ronder," he said.

"Good morning," Ronder replied severely, and tried to pa.s.s 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 d.a.m.ned 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 pa.s.s," 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 a.s.sured 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 gla.s.s 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 b.u.t.tons 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."