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Brandon was on his feet. His body trembled like a tree tottering. He flung out his hands.
"No.... No.... Stop one moment. You must. You--all of you----
"Mr. Dean--all of you.... Oh, G.o.d, help me now!...You have been influenced by your feelings about myself. Forget me, turn me away, send me from the town, anything, anything.... I beseech you to think only of the good of the Cathedral in this affair. If you admit this man it is the beginning of the end. Slowly it will all be undermined. Belief in Christ, belief in G.o.d Himself.... Think of the future and your responsibility to the unborn children when they come to you and say: 'Where is our faith?
Why did you take it from us? Give it back to us!' Oh, stop for a moment!
Postpone this for only a little while. Don't do this thing!...Gentlemen!"
They could see that he was ill. His body swayed as though it were beyond his control. His hands were waving, turning, beseeching....
Suddenly tears were running down his cheeks.
"Not this shame!" he cried. "Not this shame!--kill me--but save the Cathedral!"
They were on their feet. Foster and Ryle had come round to him.
"Archdeacon, sit down." "You're ill." "Rest a moment" With a great heave of his shoulders he flung them off, a chair falling to the ground with the movement.
He saw Ronder.
"You!...my enemy. Are you satisfied now?" he whispered. He held out his quivering hand. "Take my hand. You've done your worst."
He turned round as though he would go from the room. Stumbling, he caught Foster by the shoulder as though he would save himself. He bent forward, staring into Foster's face.
"G.o.d is love, though," he said. "You betray Him again and again, but He comes back."
He gripped Foster's shoulder more tightly. "Don't do this thing, man," he said. "Don't do it. Because Ronder's beaten me is no reason for you to betray your G.o.d.... Give me a chair. I'm ill."
He fell upon his knees.
"This...Death," he whispered. Then, looking up again at Foster, "My heart. That fails me too."
And, bowing his head, he died.
