Gotthold Ephraim Lessing - "Abhandlungen ueber die Fabel"

Aristophanes et al - "The Eleven Comedies"

Ada Leverson - "Love at Second Sight"

John Frederick Schroeder and Benson John Lossing - "Life And Times Of Washington, Volume 2"

A  /  B  /  C  /  D  /  E  /   F  /  G  /  H  /  I  /  J  /   K  /  L  /  M  /  N  /  O   P  /  R  /  S  /  T  /  U  /  V  /  W  /  X  /  Y  /  Z

The Cathedral by Hugh Walpole

H >> Hugh Walpole >> The Cathedral




* * * * *

Brandon was in his study finishing his letters. But behind his application
to the notes that he was writing his brain was moving like an animal
steathily investigating an unlighted house. He was thinking of his wife--
and of himself. Even as he was writing "And therefore it seems to me, my
dear Ryle, that with regard to the actual hour of the service, eight
o'clock----" his inner consciousness was whispering to him. "How you miss
Falk! How lonely the house seems without him! You thought you could get
along without love, didn't you? or, at least, you were not aware that it
played any very great part in your life. But now that the one person whom
you most sincerely loved is gone, you see that it was not to be so simply
taken for granted, do you not? Love must be worked for, sacrificed for,
cared for, nourished and cherished. You want some one to cherish now, and
you are surprised that you should so want...yes, there is your wife--
Amy...Amy.... You had taken her also for granted. But she is still with
you. There is time."

His wife was illuminated with tenderness. He put down his pen and stared
in front of him. What he wanted and what she wanted was a holiday. They
had been too long here in this place. That was what he needed, that was
the explanation of his headaches, of his tempers, of his obsession about
Ronder.

As soon as this Pybus St. Anthony affair was settled he would take his
wife abroad. Just the two of them. Another honeymoon after all these
years. Greece, Italy...and who knows? Perhaps he would see Falk on his
way through London returning...Falk....

He had forgotten his letters, staring in front of him, tapping the table
with his pen.

There was a knock on the door. The maid said, "A lady to see you, sir. She
says it's important"--and, before he could ask her name, some one else was
in the room with him and the door was closed behind her.

He was puzzled for a moment as to her identity, a rather seedy, down-at-
heels-looking woman. She was wearing a rather crumpled white cotton dress.
She carried a pink parasol, and on her head was a large straw hat
overburdened with bright red roses. Ah, yes! Of course! Miss Milton--who
was the Librarian. Shabby she looked. Come down in the world. He had
always disliked her. He resented now the way in which she had almost
forced her way into his room.

She looked across at him through her funny half-closed eyes.

"I beg your pardon, Archdeacon Brandon," she said, "for entering like this
at what must be, I fear, an unseemly time. My only excuse must be the
urgency of my business."

"I am very sorry, Miss Milton," he said sternly; "it is quite impossible
for me to see you just now on any business whatever. If you will make an
appointment with me in writing, I will see what can be done."

At the sound of his voice her eyes closed still further. "I'm very sorry,
Archdeacon," she said. "I think you would do well to listen to what I am
going to tell you."

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 assure 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 assault 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 massive 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 principally 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 pass, 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 Assembly 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
cockatoo 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 nobility;
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 incumbent 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.

The music stopped and, breathless, they stayed for a moment before finding
two chairs. Now was coming the time that she so greatly disliked. Whatever
to say to Mr. Forsyth?

They sat down in the long passage outside the ballroom. The floor ran like
a ribbon from under their feet into dim shining distance. Or rather, Joan
thought, it was like a stream, and on either side the dancers were
sitting, dabbling their toes and looking self-conscious.

"Do you like it where you are?" Joan asked of the shining black silk
waistcoat that gleamed beside her.

"Oh, you know...." neighed Mr. Forsyth. "It's all right, you know. The old
Bishop's kind enough."

"Bishop Clematis?" said Joan.

"Yes. There ain't enough to do, you know. But I don't expect I'll be there
long. No, I don't.... Pity poor Morrison at Pybus dying like that."

Joan of course at once understood the allusion. She also understood that
Mr. Forsyth was begging her to bestow upon him any little piece of news
that she might have obtained. But that seemed to her mean--spying--spying
on her own father. So she only said:

"You're very fond of riding, aren't you?"

"Love it," said Mr. Forsyth, whinnying so exactly like a happy pony that
Joan jumped. "Don't you?"

"I've never been on horseback in my life," said Joan. "I'd like to try."

"Never in your life?" Mr. Forsyth stared. "Why, I was on a pony before I
was three. Fact. Good for a clergyman, riding----"

"I think it's nearly time for the next dance," said Joan. "Would you
kindly take me back to my mother?"

She was conscious, as they plunged down-stream, of all the burning
glances. She held her head high. Her eyes flashed. She was going to dance
with Johnny, and they could look as much as they liked.

Mr. Forsyth delivered her to her mother and went cantering off. Joan sat
down, smoothed her dress and stared at the vast shiny lake of amber in
which the silver candelabra were reflected like little islands. She looked
at her mother and was suddenly sorry for her. It must be dull, when you
were as old as mother, coming to these dances--and especially when you had
so few friends. Her mother had never made many friends.

"Wasn't that Mr. Morris who was talking to you just now?"

"Yes, dear."

"I like him. He looks kind."

"Yes, dear."

"And where's father?"

"Over there, talking to Lady St. Leath."

She looked across, and there he was, so big and tall and fine, so splendid
in his grand clothes. Her heart swelled with pride.

"Isn't he splendid, mother, dear?"

"Who?"

"Father!"

"Splendid?"

"Yes; doesn't he look splendid to-night? Better looking than all the rest
of the room put together?" (Johnny wasn't _good-looking_. Better than
_good-looking_.)

"Oh--look splendid. Yes. He's a very handsome man."

Joan felt once again that little chill with which she was so often
familiar when she talked with her mother--a sudden withdrawal of sympathy,
a pushing Joan away with her hand.

But never mind--there was the music again, and here, oh, here, was Johnny!
Someone had once called him Tubby in her hearing, and how indignant she
had been! He was perhaps a little on the fat side, but strong with it....
She went off with him. The waltz began.

She sank into sweet delicious waters--waters that rocked and cradled her,
hugged her and caressed her. She was conscious of his arm. She did not
speak nor did he. Years of utter happiness passed....

He did not take her, as Mr. Forsyth had done, into the public glare of the
passage, but up a crooked staircase behind the Minstrels' Gallery into a
little room, cool and shaded, where, in easy-chairs, they were quite
alone.

He was shy, fingering his gloves. She said (just to make conversation):

"How beautiful Miss Daubeney is looking!"

"Do you think so?" said Johnny. "I don't. I'm sick of that girl. She's the
most awful bore. Mother's always shoving her at my head. She's been
staying with us for months. She wants me to marry her because she's rich.
But we've got plenty, and I wouldn't marry her anyway, not if we hadn't a
penny. Because she's a bore, and because"--his voice became suddenly loud
and commanding--"I'm going to marry you."

Something--some lovely bird of Paradise, some splendid coloured breeze,
some carpet of magic pattern--came and swung Joan up to a high tree loaded
with golden apples. There she swung--singing her heart out. Johnny's voice
came up to her.

"Because I'm going to marry you."

"What?" she called down to him.

"I'm going to marry you. I knew it from the very first second I saw you,
that day after Cathedral--from the very first moment I knew it. I wanted
to ask you right away at once, but I thought I'd do the thing properly, so
I went away, and I've been in Paris and Rome and all over the place, and
I've thought of you the _whole_ time--every minute. Then mother made
a fuss about this Daubeney girl--my not being here and all that--so I
thought I'd come home and tell you I was going to marry you."

"Oh, but you can't." Joan swung down from her appletree. "You and me? Why,
what _would_ your mother say?"

"It isn't a case of _would_ but _will_" Johnny said. "Mother
will be very angry--and for a considerable time. But that makes no
difference. Mother's mother and I'm myself."

"It's impossible," said Joan quickly, "from every point of view. Do you
know what my brother has done? I'm proud of Falk and love him; but you're
Lord St. Leath, and Falk has married the daughter of Hogg, the man who
keeps a public-house down in Seatown."

"I heard of that," said Johnny. "But what does that matter? Do you know
what I did last year? I crossed the Atlantic as a stoker in a Cunard boat.
Mother never knew until I got back, and _wasn't_ she furious! But the
world's changing. There isn't going to be any class difference soon--none
at all. You take my word. Look at the Americans! They're the people! We'll
be like them one day.... But what's all this?" he suddenly said. "I'm
going to marry you and you're going to marry me. You love me, don't you?"

"Yes," said Joan faintly.

"Well, then. I knew you did. I'm going to kiss you." He put his arms
around her and kissed her very gently.

"Oh, how I love you!" he said, "and how good I'll be to you!"

"But we must be practical," said Joan wildly. "How can we marry?
Everything's against it. I've no money. I'm nobody. Your mother----"

"Now you just leave my mother alone. Leave me to manage her--I know all
about that----"

"I won't be engaged to you," Joan said firmly, "not for ages and ages--not
for a year anyway."

"That's all right," said Johnny indifferently. "You can settle it any way
you please--but no one's going to marry you but me, and no one's going to
marry me but you."

He would have kissed her again, but Mrs. Preston and a young man came in.

"Now you shall come and speak to my mother," he said to her as they went
out. "There's nothing to be afraid of. Just say 'Bo' to her as you would
to a goose, and she'll answer all right."

"You won't say anything----" began Joan.

"About us? All right. That's a secret for the present; but we shall meet
_every_ day, and if there's a day we don't meet you've got to write.
Do you agree?"

Whether she agreed or no was uncertain, because they were now in a cloud
of people, and, a moment later, were face to face with the old Countess.

She was pleased, it at once appeared. She was in a gracious mood; people
had been pleasant enough--that is, they had been obsequious and
flattering. Also her digestion was behaving properly; those new pills that
old Puddifoot had given her were excellent. She therefore received Joan
very graciously, congratulated her on her appearance, and asked her where
her elder sister was. When Joan explained that she had no sister Lady St.
Leath appeared vexed with her, as though it had been a piece of obvious
impertinence on her part not to produce a sister instantly when she had
asked for one. However, Lady Mary was kind and friendly and made Joan sit
beside her for a little. Joan thought, "I'd like to have you for a sister
one day, if--if--ever----" and allowed her thoughts to go no farther.

Thence she passed into the company of Mrs. Combermere and Ellen Stiles. It
seemd to her--but it was probably her fancy--that as she came to them they
were discussing something that was not for her ears. It seemed to her that
they swiftly changed the conversation and greeted her with quite an
unusual warmth of affection. For the first time that evening a sudden
little chill of foreboding, whence she knew not, seemed to touch her and
shade, for an instant, her marvellous happiness.

Mrs. Combermere was very sweet to her indeed, quite as though she had
been, but now, recovering from an alarming illness. Her bass voice, strong
thick hands and stiff wiry hair went so incongruously with her cloth of
gold that Joan could not help smiling.

"You look very happy, my dear," Mrs. Combermere said.

"Of course I am," said Joan. "How can I help it, my first Ball?"

Mrs. Combermere kicked her trailing garments with her foot, just like a
dame in a pantomime. "Well, enjoy yourself as long as you can. You're
looking very pretty. The prettiest girl in the room. I've just been saying
so to Ellen--haven't I, Ellen?"

Ellen Stiles was at that moment making herself agreeable to the Mayoress,
who was sitting lonely and uncomfortable (weighed down with longing for
sleep) on a little gilt chair.

"I was just saying to Mrs. Branston," Miss Stiles said, turning round,
"that the time one has to be careful with children after whooping-cough is
when they seem practically well. Her little boy has just been ill with it,
and she says he's recovered; but that's the time, as I tell her, when nine
out of ten children die--just when you think you're safe."

"Oh dear," said Mrs. Branston, turning towards them her full anxious eyes.
"You _do_ alarm me, Miss Stiles! And I've been letting Tommy quite
loose, as you may say, these last few days--with his appetite back and
all, there seemed no danger."

"Well, if you find him feverish when you get home tonight," said Ellen,
"don't he surprised. All the excitement of the Jubilee too will be very
bad for him."

At that moment Canon Ronder came up. Joan looked and at once, at the sight
of the round gleaming spectacles, the smiling mouth, the full cheeks
puffed out as though he were blowing perpetual bubbles for his own
amusement, felt her old instinct of repulsion. This man was her father's
enemy, and so hers. All the town knew now that he was trying to ruin her
father so that he might take his place, that he laughed at him and mocked
him.

So fierce did she feel that she could have scratched his cheeks. He was
smiling at them all, and at once was engaged in a wordy duel with Mrs.
Combermere and Miss Stiles. _They_ liked him; every one in the town
liked him. She heard his praises sung by every one. Well, she would never
sing them. She hated him.

And now he was actually speaking to her. He had the impertinence to ask
her for a dance.

"I'm afraid I'm engaged for the next and for the one after that, Canon
Ronder," she said.

"Well, later on then," he said, smiling. "What about an extra?"

Her dark eyes scorned him.

"We are going home early," she said. She pretended to examine her
programme. "I'm afraid I have not one before we go."

She spoke as coldly as she dared. She felt the eyes of Mrs. Combermere and
Ellen Stiles upon her. How stupid of her! She had shown them what her
feelings were, and now they would chatter the more and laugh about her
fighting her father's battles. Why had she not shown her indifference, her
complete indifference?

He was smiling still--not discomfited by her rudeness. He said something--
something polite and outrageously kind--and then young Charles D'Arcy came
up to carry her off for the Lancers.

* * * * *

An hour later her cup of happiness was completely filled. She had danced,
during that hour, four times with Johnny; every one must be talking. Lady
St. Leath must be furious (she did not know that Boadicea had been playing
whist with old Colonel Wotherston and Sir Henry Byles for the last ever so
long).

Review: Hang the DJ edited by Angus Cargill
Review: The Dying Game: A Curious History of Death by Melanie King

Review: The Phantom of Rue Royale by Jean-François Parot
Review: Bait by Nick Brownlee

Owen Matthews talks about his first book Stalin's Children
Review: The Phantom of Rue Royale by Jean-François Parot