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The Cathedral by Hugh Walpole

H >> Hugh Walpole >> The Cathedral




But on "Chapter Days" it was difficult for the newspaper to disturb him.
His mind was filled with thoughts for the plan and policy of the morning.
It was unfortunately impossible for him ever to grasp two things at the
same time, and this made his reasoning and the development of any plan
that he had rather slow. When the Chapter was to be an important one he
would not look at the newspaper at all and would eat scarcely any
breakfast. To-day, because the Chapter was a little one, he allowed
himself to consider the outside world. That really was the beginning of
his misfortune, because the paper this morning contained a very vivid
picture of the loss of the _Drummond Castle_. That was an old story
by this time, but here was some especial account that provided new details
and circumstances, giving a fresh vivid horror to the scene even at this
distance of time.

Brandon tried not to read the thing. He made it a rule that he would not
distress himself with the thought of evils that he could not cure. That is
what he told himself, but indeed his whole life was spent in warding off
and shutting out and refusing to listen.

He had told himself many years ago that it was a perfect world and that
God had made it and that God was good. To maintain this belief it was
necessary that one should not be "Presumptuous." It was "Presumptuous" to
imagine for a moment about any single thing that it was a "mistake." If
anything _were_ evil or painful it was there to "try and test" us....
A kind of spring-board over the waters of salvation.

Once, some years ago, a wicked atheist had written an article in a
magazine manifesting how evil nature was, how the animals preyed upon one
another, how everything from the tiniest insect to the largest elephant
suffered and suffered and suffered. How even the vegetation lived a short
life of agony and frustration, and then fell into foul decay.... Brandon
had read the article against his will, and had then hated the writer of it
with so deep a hatred that he would have had him horse-whipped, had he had
the power. The article upset him for days, and it was only by asserting to
himself again and again that it was untrue, by watching kittens at play
and birds singing on the branches and roses bursting from bud to bloom,
that he could reassure himself.

Now to-day here was the old distress back again. There was no doubt but
that those men and women on the _Drummond Castle_ had suffered in
order to win quite securely for themselves a crown of glory. He ought to
envy them, to regret that he had not been given the same chance, and yet--
and yet----

He pushed the paper impatiently away from him. It was good that there was
nothing important to be discussed at Chapter this morning, because really
he was not in the mood to fight battles. He sighed. Why was it always he
that had to fight battles? He had indeed the burden of the whole town upon
his shoulders. And at that secretly he felt a great joy. He was glad--yes,
he was glad that he had....

As he looked over at Joan and Folk he felt tenderly towards them. His
reading then about the _Drummond Castle_ made him anxious that they
should have a good time and be happy. It might be better for them that
they should suffer; nevertheless, if they _could_ be sure of heaven
and at the same time not suffer too badly he would be glad.

Suddenly then, across the breakfast-table, a picture drove itself in front
of him--a picture of Joan with her baby-face, struggling in the water....
She screamed; she tried to catch on to the side of a boat with her hand.
Some one struck her....

With a shudder of disgust he drove it from him.

"Pah!" he cried aloud, getting up from the table.

"What is it, father?" Joan asked.

"People oughtn't to be allowed to write such things," he said, and went to
his study.

When an hour later he sallied forth to the Chapter Meeting he had
recovered his equanimity. His mind now was nailed to the business on hand.
Most innocently as he crossed the Cathedral Green he strutted, his head
up, his brow stern, his hands crossed behind his back. The choristers
coming in from the choir-school practice in the Cathedral passed him in a
ragged line. They all touched their mortar-boards and he smiled benignly
upon them, reserving a rather stern glance for Brockett, the organist, of
whose musical eccentricities he did not at all approve.

Little remained now of the original Chapter House which had once been a
continuation of Saint Margaret's Chapel. Some extremely fine Early Norman
arches which were once part of the Chapter House are still there and may
be seen at the southern end of the Cloisters. Here, too, are traces of the
dormitory and infirmary which formerly stood there. The present Chapter
House consists of two rooms adjoining the Cloisters, once a hall used by
the monks as a large refectory. There is still a timber roof of late
thirteenth century work, and this is supposed to have been once part of
the old pilgrims' or strangers' hall. The larger of the two rooms is
reserved for the Chapter Meetings, the smaller being used for minor
meetings and informal discussions.

The Archdeacon was a little late as, I am afraid, he liked to be when he
was sure that others would be punctual. Nothing, however, annoyed him more
than to find others late when he himself was in time. There they all were
and how exactly he knew how they would all be!

There was the long oak table, blotting paper and writing materials neatly
placed before each seat, there the fine walls in which he always took so
great a pride, with the portraits of the Polchester Bishops in grand
succession upon them. At the head of the table was the Dean, nervously
with anxious smiles looking about him. On the right was Brandon's seat; on
the left Witheram, seriously approaching the business of the day as though
his very life depended upon it; then Bentinck-Major, his hands looking as
though they had been manicured; next to him Ryle, laughing obsequiously at
some fashionable joke that Bentinck-Major had delivered to him; opposite
to him Foster, looking as though he had not had a meal for a week and
badly shaved with a cut on his chin; and next to _him_ Ronder.

At the bottom of the table was little Bond, the Chapter Clerk, sucking his
pencil.

Brandon took his place with dignified apologies for his late arrival.

"Let us ask God for His blessing on our work to-day," said the Dean.

A prayer followed, then general rustling and shuffling, blowing of noses,
coughing and even, from the surprised and consternated Ryle, a sneeze--
then the business of the day began. The minutes of the last meeting were
read, and there was a little amiable discussion. At once Brandon was
conscious of Ronder. Why? He could not tell and was the more
uncomfortable. The man said nothing. He had not been present at the last
meeting and could therefore have nothing to say to this part of the
business. He sat there, his spectacles catching the light from the
opposite windows so that he seemed to have no eyes. His chubby body, the
position in which he was sitting, hunched up, leaning forward on his arms,
spoke of perfect and almost sleepy content. His round face and fat cheeks
gave him the air of a man to whom business was a tiresome and unnecessary
interference with the pleasures of life.

Nevertheless, Brandon was so deeply aware of Ronder that again and again,
against his will, his eyes wandered in his direction. Once or twice
Brandon said something, not because he had anything really to say, but
because he wanted to impress himself upon Ronder. All agreed with him in
the complacent and contented way that they had always agreed....

Then his consciousness of Ronder extended and gave him a new consciousness
of the other men. He had known for so long exactly how they looked and the
words that they would say, that they were, to him, rather like the stone
images of the Twelve Apostles in the niches round the West Door. Today
they jumped in a moment into new life. Yesterday he could have calculated
to a nicety the attitude that they would have; now they seemed to have
been blown askew with a new wind. Because he noticed these things it does
not mean that he was generally perceptive. He had always been very sharp
to perceive anything that concerned his own position.

Business proceeded and every one displayed his own especial
characteristics. Nothing arose that concerned Ronder. Every one's personal
opinion about every one else was clearly apparent. It was a fine thing,
for instance, to observe Foster's scorn and contempt whilst Bentinck-Major
explained his little idea about certain little improvements that he, as
Chancellor, might naturally suggest, or Ryle's attitude of goodwill to all
and sundry as he apologised for certain of Brockett's voluntaries and
assured Brandon on one side that "something should be done about it," and
agreed with Bentinck-Major on the other that it was indeed agreeable to
hear sometimes music a little more advanced and original than one usually
found in Cathedrals.

Brandon sniffed something of incipient rebellion in Bentinck-Major's
attitude and looked across the table severely. Bentinck-Major blinked and
nervously examined his nails.

"Of course," said the Archdeacon in his most solemn manner, "there may be
people who wish to turn the Cathedral into a music-hall. I don't say there
_are_, but there _may_ be. In these strange times nothing would
astonish me. In my own humble opinion what was good enough for our fathers
is good enough for us. However, don't let my opinion influence any one."

"I assure you, Archdeacon," said Bentinck-Major. Witheram earnestly
assured every one that he was certain there need be no alarm. They could
trust the Precentor to see.... There was a general murmur. Yes, they
_could_ trust the Precentor.

This little matter being settled, the meeting was very near an agreeable
conclusion and the Dean was beginning to congratulate himself on the early
return to his botany--when, unfortunately, there cropped up the question
of the garden-roller.

This matter of the garden-roller was a simple one enough. The Cathedral
School had some months ago requested the Chapter to allow it to purchase
for itself a new garden-roller. Such an article was seriously needed for
the new cricket-field. It was true that the School already possessed two
garden-rollers, but one of these was very small--"quite a baby one,"
Dennison, the headmaster, explained pathetically--and the other could not
possibly cover all the work that it had to do. The School grounds were
large ones.

The matter, which was one that mainly concerned the Treasury side of the
Chapter, had been discussed at the last meeting, and there had been a good
deal of argument about it.

Brandon had then vetoed it, not because he cared in the least whether or
no the School had a garden-roller, but because, Hart-Smith having left and
Ronder being not yet with them, he was in charge, for the moment, of the
Cathedral funds. He liked to feel his power, and so he refused as many
things as possible. Had it not been only a temporary glory--had he been
permanent Treasurer--he would in all probability have acted in exactly the
opposite way and allowed everybody to have everything.

"There's the question of the garden-roller," said Witheram, just as the
Dean was about to propose that they should close with a prayer.

"I've got it here on the minutes," said the Chapter Clerk severely.

"Oh, dear, yes," said the Dean, looking about him rather piteously. "Now
what shall we do about it?"

"Let 'em have it," said Foster, glaring across at Brandon and shutting his
mouth like a trap.

This was a direct challenge. Brandon felt his breast charged with the
noble anger that always filled it when Foster said anything.

"I must confess," he said, covering, as he always did when he intended
something to be final, the Dean with his eye, "that I thought that this
was quite definitely settled at last Chapter; I understood--I may of
course have been mistaken--that we considered that we could not afford the
thing and that the School must wait."

"Well, Archdeacon," said the Dean nervously (he knew of old the danger-
signals in Brandon's flashing eyes), "I must confess that I hadn't thought
it _quite_ so definite as that. Certainly we discussed the expense of
the affair."

"I think the Archdeacon's right," said Bentinck-Major, who wanted to win
his way back to favour after the little mistake about the music. "It was
settled, I think."

"Nothing of the kind," said Foster fiercely. "We settled nothing."

"How does it read on the minutes?" asked the Dean nervously.

"Postponed until the next meeting," said the Clerk.

"At any rate," said Brandon, feeling that this absurd discussion had gone
on quite long enough, "the matter is simple enough. It can be settled
immediately. Any one who has gone into the matter at all closely will have
discovered first that the School doesn't _need_ a roller--they've
enough already--secondly, that the Treasury cannot possibly at the present
moment afford to buy a new one."

"I really must protest, Archdeacon," said Foster, "this is going too far.
In the first place, have you yourself gone into the case?"

Brandon paused before he answered. He felt that all eyes were upon him. He
also felt that Foster had been stirred to a new strength of hostility by
some one--he fancied he knew by whom. Moreover, _had_ he gone into
it? He was aware with a stirring of impatience that he had not. He had
intended to do so, but time had been short, the matter had not seemed of
sufficient importance....

"I certainly have gone into it," he said, "quite as far as the case
deserves. The facts are clear."

"The facts are _not_ clear," said Foster angrily. "I say that the
School should have this roller and that we are behaving with abominable
meanness in preventing it"; and he banged his fist upon the table.

"If that charge of meanness is intended personally,..." said Brandon
angrily.

"I assure you, Archdeacon,..." said Ryle. The Dean raised a hand in
protest.

"I don't think," he said, "that anything here is ever intended personally.
We must never forget that we are in God's House. Of course, this is an
affair that really should be in the hands of the Treasury. But I'm afraid
that Canon Ronder can hardly be expected in the short time that he's been
with us to have investigated this little matter."

Every one looked at Ronder. There was a pleasant sense of drama in the
affair. Brandon was gazing at the portraits above the table and pretending
to be outside the whole business; in reality, his heart beat angrily. His
word should have been enough, in earlier days _would_ have been.
Everything now was topsy-turvy.

"As a matter of fact," said Ronder, "I _have_ gone into the matter. I
saw that it was one of the most urgent questions on the Agenda.
Unimportant though it may sound, I believe that the School cricket will be
entirely held up this summer if they don't secure their roller. They
intend, I believe, to get a roller by private subscription if we refuse it
to them, and that, gentlemen, would be, I cannot help feeling, rather
ignominious for us. I have been into the question of prices and have
examined some catalogues. I find that the expense of a good garden-roller
is really _not_ a very great one. One that I think the Treasury could
sustain without serious inconvenience...."

"You think then, Canon, that we should allow the roller?" said the Dean.

"I certainly do," said Ronder.

Brandon felt the impression that had been created. He knew that they were
all thinking amongst themselves: "Well, _here's_ an efficient man!"

He burst out:

"I'm afraid that I cannot agree with Canon Ronder. If he will allow me to
say so, he has not been, as yet, long enough in the place to know how
things really stand. I have nothing to say against Dennison, but he has
obviously put his case very plausibly, but those who have known the School
and its methods for many years have perhaps a prior right of judgment over
Canon Ronder, who's known it for so short a time."

"Absurd. Absurd," cried Foster. "It isn't a case of knowing the School.
It's simply a question of whether the Chapter can afford it. Canon Ronder,
who is Treasurer, says that it can. That ought to be enough for anybody."

The atmosphere was now very warm indeed. There was every likelihood of
several gentlemen speaking at once. Witheram looked anxious, Bentinck-
Major malicious, Ryle nervous, Foster triumphant, and Brandon furious.
Only Ronder seemed unconcerned.

The Dean, distress in his heart, raised his hand.

"As there seems to be some difference of opinion in this matter," he said,
"I think we had better vote upon it. Those in favour of the roller being
granted to the School please signify."

Ronder, Foster and Witheram raised their hands.

"And those against?" said the Dean.

Brandon, Ryle and Bentinck-Major were against.

"I'm afraid," said the Dean, smiling anxiously, "that it will be for me to
give the casting vote." He paused for a moment. Then, looking straight
across the table at the Clerk, he said:

"I think I must decide _for_ the roller. Canon Ronder seems to me to
have proved his case."

Every one, except possibly Ronder, was aware that this was the first
occasion for many years that any motion of Brandon's had been defeated....

Without waiting for any further business the Archdeacon gathered together
his papers and, looking neither to right nor left, strode from the room.





Book II

The Whispering Gallery




Chapter I

Five O'Clock--The Green Cloud



The cloud seemed to creep like smoke from the funnel of the Cathedral
tower. The sun was setting in a fiery wreath of bubbling haze, shading in
rosy mist the mountains of grey stone. The little cloud, at first in the
shadowy air light green and shaped like a ring, twisted spirally, then,
spreading, washed out and lay like a pool of water against the smoking
sunset.

Green like the Black Bishop's ring.... Lying there, afterwards, until the
orange had faded and the sky, deserted by the sun, was milk-white. The
mists descended. The Cathedral chimes struck five. February night, cold,
smoke-misted, enwrapped the town.

* * * * *

At a quarter to five Evensong was over and Cobbett was putting out the
candles in the choir. Two figures slowly passed down the darkening nave.

Outside the west door they paused, gazing at the splendour of the fiery
sky.

"It's cold, but there'll be stars," Ronder said.

Stars. Cold. Brandon shivered. Something was wrong with him. His heart had
clap-clapped during the Anthem as though a cart with heavy wheels had
rumbled there. He looked suspiciously at Ronder. He did not like the man,
confidently standing there addressing the sky as though he owned it. He
would have liked the sunset for himself.

"Well, good-night, Canon," brusquely. He moved away.

But Ronder followed him.

"One moment, Archdeacon.... Excuse me.... I have been wanting an
opportunity...."

Brandon paused. The man was nervous. Brandon liked that.

"Yes?" he said.

The rosy light was fading. Strange that little green cloud rising like
smoke from the tower....

"At the last Chapter we were on opposite sides. I want to say how greatly
I've regretted that. I feel that we don't know one another as we should. I
wonder if you would allow me..."

The light was fading--Ronder's spectacles shone, his body in shadow.

"...to see something more of you--to have a real talk with you?"

Brandon smiled grimly to himself in the dusk. This fool! He was afraid
then. He saw himself hatless in Bennett's shop; outside, the jeering
crowd.

"I'm afraid, Canon Ronder, that we shall never see eye to eye here about
many things. If you will allow me to say so, you have perhaps not been
here quite long enough to understand the real needs of this diocese. You
must go slowly here--more slowly than perhaps you are prepared for. We are
not Modernists here."

The spectacles, alone visible, answered: "Well, let us discuss it then.
Let us talk things over. Let me ask you at once, Have you something
against me, something that I have done unwittingly? I have fancied lately
a personal note.... I am absurdly sensitive, but if there _is_
anything that I have done, please let me apologise for it. I want you to
tell me."

Anything that he had done? The Archdeacon smiled grimly to himself in the
dusk.

"I really don't think, Canon, that talking things over will help us. There
is really nothing to discuss.... Good-night."

The green cloud was gone. Ronder, invisible now, remained in the shadow of
the great door.


II

Beside the river, above the mill, a woman's body was black against the
gold-crested water. She leaned over the little bridge, her body strong,
confident in its physical strength, her hands clasped, her eyes
meditative.

No need for secrecy to-night. Her father was in Drymouth for two days.
Quarter to five. The chimes struck out clear across the town. Hearing them
she looked back and saw the sky a flood of red behind the Cathedral. She
longed for Falk to-night, a new longing. He was better than she had
supposed, far, far better. A good boy, tender and warm-hearted. To be
trusted. Her friend. At first he had stood to her only for a means of
freedom. Freedom from this horrible place, from this horrible man, her
father, more horrible than any others knew. Her mother had known. She
shivered, seeing that body, heavy-breasted, dull white, as, stripped to
the waist, he bent over the bed to strike. Her mother's cry, a little
moan.... She shivered again, staring into the sunset for Falk....

He was with her. They leant over the bridge together, his arm around her.
They said very little.

She looked back.

"See that strange cloud? Green. Ever seen a green cloud before? Ah, it's
peaceful here."

She turned and looked into his face. As the dusk came down she stroked his
hair. He put his arm round her and held her close to him.


III

The lamps in the High Street suddenly flaring beat out the sky. There
above the street itself the fiery sunset had not extended; the fair watery
space was pale egg-blue; as the chimes so near at hand struck a quarter to
five the pale colour began slowly to drain away, leaving ashen china
shades behind it, and up to these shades the orange street-lights
extended, patronising, flaunting.

But Joan, pausing for a moment under the Arden Gate before she turned
home, saw the full glory of the sunset. She heard, contending with the
chimes, the last roll of the organ playing the worshippers out of that
mountain of sacrificial stone.

She looked up and saw a green cloud, faintly green like early spring
leafage, curl from the tower smoke-wise; and there, lifting his hat,
pausing at her side, was Johnny St. Leath.

She would have hurried on; she was not happy. Things were _not_ right
at home. Something wrong with father, with mother, with Falk. Something
wrong, too, with herself. She had heard in the town the talk about this
girl who was coming to the Castle for the Jubilee time, coming to marry
Johnny. Coming to marry him because she was rich and handsome. Lovely.
Lady St. Leath was determined....

So she would hurry on, murmuring "Good evening." But he stopped her. His
face was flushed. Andrew heaved eagerly, hungrily, at his side.

"Miss Brandon. Just a moment. I want to speak to you. Lovely evening,
isn't it?...You cut me the other day. Yes, you did. In Orange Street."

"Why?"

She tried to speak coldly.

"We're friends. You know we are. Only in this beastly town no one can be
free.... I only want to tell you if I go away--suddenly--I'm coming back.
Mind that. You're not to believe anything they say--anything that any one
says. I'm coming back. Remember that. We're friends. You must trust me. Do
you hear?"

And he was gone, striding off towards the Cathedral, Andrew panting at his
heels.

The light was gone too--going, going, gone.

She stayed for a moment. As she reached her door the wind rose, sifting
through the grass, rising to her chin.


IV

The two figures met, unconsciously, without spoken arrangement, pushed
towards one another by destiny, as they had been meeting now continuously
during the last weeks.

Almost always at this hour; almost always at this place. On the sandy path
in the green hollow below the Cathedral, above the stream, the hollow
under the opposite hill, the hill where the field was, the field where
they had the Fair.

Down into this green depth the sunset could not strike, and the chimes,
telling over so slowly and so sweetly the three-quarters, filtered down
like a memory, a reiteration of an old promise, a melody almost forgotten.
But above her head the woman, looking up, could see the rose change to
orange and could watch the cloud, like a pool of green water, extend and
rest, lying like a sheet of glass behind which the orange gleamed.

They met always thus, she coming from the town as though turning upwards
through the tangled path to her home in the Precincts, he sauntering
slowly, his hands behind his back, as though he had been wandering there
to think out some problem....

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