The Cathedral by Hugh Walpole

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She would perhaps never have such an hour in all her life again. This
thing that he so wildly proposed was impossible--utterly, completely
impossible; but what was _not_ impossible, what was indeed certain
and sure and beyond any sort of question, was that she loved Johnny St.
Leath with all her heart and soul, and would so love him until the day of
her death. Life could never be purposeless nor mean nor empty for her
again, while she had that treasure to carry about with her in her heart.
Meanwhile she could not look at him and doubt but that, for the moment at
any rate, he loved her--and there was something simple and direct about
Johnny as there was about his dog Andrew, that made his words, few and
clumsy though they might be, most strangely convincing.

So, almost dizzy with happiness, she climbed the stair behind the Gallery
and thought that she would escape for a moment into the little room where
Johnny had proposed to her, and sit there and grow calm. She looked in.
Some one was there. A man sitting by himself and staring in front of him.
She saw at once that he was in some great trouble. His hands were
clenched, his face puckered and set with pain. Then she saw that it was
her father.

He did not move; he might have been a block of stone shining in the
dimness. Terrified, she stood, herself not moving. Then she came forward.
She put her hand on his shoulder.

"Oh, father--father, what is it?" She felt his body trembling beneath her
touch--he, the proudest, finest man in the country. She put her arm round
his neck. She kissed him. His forehead was damp with sweat. His body was
shaking from head to foot. She kissed him again and again, kneeling beside
him.

Then she remembered where they were. Some one might come. No one must see
him like that.

She whispered to him, took his hands between hers.

"Let's go home, Joan," he said. "I want to go home."

She put her arm through his, and together they went down the little
stairs.

Chapter IV

Sunday, June 20: In the Bedroom

Brandon had been talking to the Precentor at the far end of the ballroom,
when suddenly Ronder had appeared in their midst. Appeared the only word!
And Brandon, armoured, he had thought, for every terror that that night
might bring to him, had been suddenly seized with the lust of murder. A
lust as dominating as any other, that swept upon him in a hot flaming
tide, lapped him from head to foot. It was no matter, this time, of words,
of senses, of thoughts, but of his possession by some other man who filled
his brain, his eyes, his mouth, his stomach, his heart; one second more
and he would have flung himself upon that smiling face, those rounded
limbs; he would have caught that white throat and squeezed it--
squeezed...squeezed....

The room literally swam in a tide of impulse that carried him against
Ronder's body and left him there, breast beating against breast....

He turned without a word and almost ran from the place. He passed through
the passages, seeing no one, conscious of neither voices nor eyes,
climbing stairs that he did not feel, sheltering in that lonely little
room, sitting there, his hands to his face, shuddering. The lust slowly
withdrew from him, leaving him icy cold. Then he lifted his eyes and saw
his daughter and clung to her--as just then he would have clung to
anybody--for safety.

Had it come to this then, that he was mad? All that night, lying on his
bed, he surveyed himself. That was the way that men murdered. No longer
could he claim control or mastery of his body. God had deserted him and
given him over to devils.

His son, his wife, and now God. His loneliness was terrible. And he could
not think. He must think about this letter and what he should do. He could
not think at all. He was given over to devils.

After Matins in the Cathedral next day one thought came to him. He would
go and see the Bishop. The Bishop had come in from Carpledon for the
Jubilee celebrations and was staying at the Deanery. Brandon spoke to him
for a moment after Matins and asked him whether he might see him for half
an hour in the afternoon on a matter of great urgency. The Bishop asked
him to come at three o'clock.

Seated in the Dean's library, with its old-fashioned cosiness--its book-
shelves and the familiar books, the cases, between the high windows, of
his precious butterflies--Brandon felt, for the first time for many days,
a certain calm descend upon him. The Bishop, looking very frail and small
in the big arm-chair, received him with so warm an affection that he felt,
in spite of his own age, like the old man's son.

"My lord," he began with difficulty, moving his big limbs in his chair
like a restless schoolboy, "it isn't easy for me to come to-day. There's
no one in the world I could speak to except yourself. I find it difficult
even to do that."

"My son," said the Bishop gently, "I am a very, very old man. I cannot
have many more months to live. When one is as near to death as I am, one
loves everything and everybody, because one is going so soon. You needn't
be afraid."

And in his heart he must have wondered at the change in this man who,
through so many years now, had come to him with so much self-confidence
and assurance.

"I have had much trouble lately," Brandon went on. "But I would not have
bothered you with that, knowing as I do all that you have to consider just
now, were it not that for the first time in my life I seem to have lost
control and to be heading toward some great disaster that may bring
scandal not only on myself but on the Church as well."

"Tell me your trouble," said the Bishop.

"Nine months ago I seemed to be at the very height of my powers, my
happiness, my usefulness." Brandon paused. Was it really only nine months
back, that other time? "I had no troubles. I was confident in myself, my
health was good, my family were happy. I seemed to have many friends....
Then suddenly everything changed. I don't want to seem false, my lord, in
anything that I may say, but it was literally as though in the course of a
night all my happiness forsook me.

"It began with my boy being sent down from Oxford. I have only one boy, as
I think your lordship knows. He was--he is, in spite of what has happened
--very dear to me." Brandon paused.

"Yes, I know," said the Bishop.

"After that everything began to go wrong. Little things, little tiny
things--one after another. Some one came to this town who almost at once
seemed to put himself into opposition to me." Brandon paused once more.

The Bishop said again: "Yes, I know."

"At first," Brandon went on, "I didn't realise this. I was preoccupied
with my work. It had never, at any time in my life, seemed to me healthy
to consider about other people's minds, what they were thinking or
imagining. There is quite enough work to do in the world without that. But
soon I was forced to consider this man's opposition to me. It came before
me in a thousand little ways. The attitude of the Chapter changed to me--
especially noticeable at one of the Chapter meetings. I don't want to make
my story so long, my lord, that it will tire you. To cut it short--a day
came when my boy ran off to London with a town girl, the daughter of the
landlord of one of the more disreputable public-houses. That was a
terrible, devastating blow to me. I have quite literally not been the same
man since. I was determined not to allow it to turn me from my proper
work. I still loved the boy; he had not behaved dishonourably to the girl.
He has now married her and is earning his living in London. If that had
been the only blow----" He stopped, cleared his throat, and, turning
excitedly towards the Bishop, almost shouted:

"But it is not! It is not, my lord! My enemy has never ceased his plots
for one instant. It was he who advised my boy to run off with this girl.
He has turned the whole town against me; they laugh at me and mock me! And
now he...now he..." He could not for a moment find breath. He exercised
an impulse of almost superhuman self-control, bringing his body visibly
back into bounds again. He went on more quietly:

"We are in opposite camps over this matter of the Pybus living--we are in
opposition over almost every question that arises here. He is an able man.
I must do him that justice. He can plot...he can scheme...whereas I..."
Brandon beat his hands desperately on his knees.

"It is not only this man!" he cried, "not only this! It is as though there
were some larger conspiracy, something from Heaven itself. God has turned
His face away from me when I have served Him faithfully all my days. No
one has served Him more whole-heartedly than I. He has been my only
thought, His glory my only purpose. Nine months ago I had health, I had
friends, I had honour. I had my family--now my health is going, my friends
have forsaken me, I am mocked at by the lowest men in the town, my son has
left me, my--my..."

He broke off, bending his face in his hands.

The Bishop said: "My dear friend, you are not alone in this. We have all
been tried, like this--tested----"

"Tested!" Brandon broke out. "Why should I be tested? What have I done in
all my life that is not acceptable to God? What sin have I committed! What
disloyalty have I shown? But there is something more that I must tell you,
my lord--the reason why I have come to you to-day. Canon Ronder and I--you
must have known of whom I have been speaking--had a violent quarrel one
afternoon on the way home after luncheon with you at Carpledon. This
quarrel became, in one way or another, the town's property. Ronder
affected to like me, but it was impossible now for him to hide his real
intentions towards me. This thing began to be an obsession with me. I
tried to prevent this. I knew what the danger of such obsessions can be.
But there was something else. My wife--" he paused--went on. "My wife and
I, my lord, have lived together in perfect happiness for twenty years. At
least it had seemed to me to be perfect happiness. She began to behave
strangely. She was not herself. Undoubtedly the affair of our son
disturbed her desperately. She seemed to avoid me, to escape from me when
she could. This, coming with my other troubles, made me feel as though I
were in some horrible dream, as though the very furniture of our home and
the appearance of the streets were changing. I began to be afraid
sometimes that I might be going mad. I have had bad headaches that have
made it difficult for me to think. Then, only last night, a woman brought
me a letter. I wish you most earnestly to believe, my lord, that I believe
my wife to be absolutely loyal to me--loyal in every possible sense of the
word. The letter purported to be in her handwriting. And in this matter
also Canon Ronder had had some hand. The woman admitted that she had been
first to Canon Ronder and that he had advised her to bring it to me."

The Bishop made a movement.

"You will, of course, say nothing of this, my lord, to Canon Ronder. I
have come privately to ask your prayers for me and to have your counsel. I
am making no complaint against Canon Ronder. I must see this thing through
by myself. But last night, when my mind was filled with this letter, I
found myself suddenly next to Canon Ronder, and I had a murderous impulse
that was so fierce and sudden in its power that I--" he broke off,
shuddering. Then cried, suddenly stretching out his hands:

"Oh, my lord, pray for me, pray for me! Help me! I don't know what I do--I
am given over to the powers of Hell!"

A long silence followed. Then the Bishop said:

"You have asked me to say nothing to Canon Render, and of course I must
respect your confidence. But the first thing that I would say to you is
that I think that what you feared has happened--that you have allowed this
thought of him to become an obsession to you. The ways of God are
mysterious and past our finding out; but all of us, in our lives, have
known that time when everything was suddenly turned against us--our work,
those whom we love, our health, even our belief in God Himself. My dear,
dear friend, I myself have known that several times in my own life. Once,
when I was a young man, I lost an appointment on which my whole heart was
set, and lost it, as it seemed, through an extreme injustice. It turned
out afterwards that my losing that was one of the most fortunate things
for me. Once my dear wife and I seemed to lose all our love for one
another, and I was assailed with most desperate temptation--and the end of
that was that we loved and understood one another as we had never done
before. Once--and this was the most terrible period of my life, and it
continued over a long time--I lost, as it seemed, completely all my faith
in God. I came out of that believing only in the beauty of Christ's life,
clinging to that, and saying to myself, 'Such a friend have I--then life
is not all lost to me'--and slowly, gradually, I came back into touch with
Him and knew Him as I had never known Him before, and, through Him, once
again God the Father. And now, even in my old age, temptation is still
with me. I long to die. I am tempted often to look upon men and women as
shadows that have no longer any connection with me. I am very weak and
feeble and I wish to sleep.... But the love of God continues, and through
Jesus Christ, the love of men. It is the only truth--love of God, love of
man--the rest is fantasy and unreality. Look up, my son, bear this with
patience. God is standing at your shoulder and will be with you to the
end. This is training for you. To show you, perhaps, that all through life
you have missed the most important thing. You are learning through this
trouble your need of others, your need to love them, and that they should
love you--the only lesson worth learning in life...."

The Bishop came over to Brandon and put his hand on his head. Strange
peace come into Brandon's heart, not from the old man's words, but from
the contact with him, the touch of his thin trembling hand. The room was
filled with peace. Ronder was suddenly of little importance. The Cathedral
faded. For a time he rested.

For the rest of that day, until evening, that peace stayed with him. With
it still in his heart he came, late that night, into their bedroom. Mrs.
Brandon was in bed, awake, staring in front of her, not moving. He sat
down in the chair beside the bed, stretched out his hand, and took hers.

"Amy, dear," he said, "I want us to have a little talk."

Her little hand lay still and hot in his large cool one.

"I've been very unhappy," he went on with difficulty, "lately about you--I
have seen that you yourself are not happy. I want you to be. I will do
anything that is in my power to make you so!"

"You would not," she said, without looking at him, "have troubled to think
of me had not your own private affairs gone wrong and--had not Falk left
us!"

The sound of her hostility irritated him against his will; he beat the
irritation down. He felt suddenly very tired, quite exhausted. He had an
almost irresistible temptation to go down into his dressing-room, lie on
his sofa there, and go instantly to sleep.

"That's not quite fair, Amy," he said. "But we won't dispute about that. I
want to know why, after our being happy for twenty years, something now
has come in between us or seems to have done so; I want to clear that away
if I can, so that we can be as we were before."

Be as they were before! At the strange, ludicrous irony of that phrase she
turned on her elbow and looked at him, stared at him as though she could
not see enough of him.

"Why do you think that there is anything the matter?" she asked softly,
almost gently.

"Why, of course I can see," he said, holding her hand more tightly as
though the sudden gentleness in her voice had touched him. "When one has
lived with some one a long time," he went on rather awkwardly, "one
notices things. Of course I've seen that you were not happy. And Falk
leaving us in that way must have made you very miserable. It made me
miserable too," he added, suddenly stroking her hand a little.

She could not bear that and very quietly withdrew her hand.

"Did it really hurt you, Falk's going?" she asked, still staring at him.

"Hurt me?" he cried, staring back at her in utter astonishment. "Hurt me?
Why--why----"

"Then why," she went on, "didn't you go up to London after him?"

The question was so entirely unexpected that he could only repeat:

"Why?..."

"Oh, well, it doesn't matter now," she said, wearily turning away.

"Perhaps I did wrong. I think perhaps I've done wrong in many ways during
these last years. I am seeing many things for the first time. The truth is
I have been so absorbed in my work that I've thought of nothing else. I
took it too much for granted that you were happy because I was happy. And
now I want to make it right. I do indeed, Amy. Tell me what's the matter."

She said nothing. He waited for a long time. Her immobility always angered
him. He said at last more impatiently.

"Please tell me, Amy, what you have against me."

"I have nothing against you."

"Then why are things wrong between us?"

"Are things wrong?"

"You know they are--ever since that morning when you wouldn't come to Holy
Communion."

"I was tired that morning."

"It is more than tiredness," he said, with sudden impatience, beating upon
the counterpane with his fist. "Amy--you're not behaving fairly. You must
talk to me. I insist on it."

She turned once more towards him.

"What is it you want me to say?"

"Why you're unhappy."

"But if I am not unhappy?"

"You are."

"But suppose I say that I am not?"

"You are. You are. You are!" he shouted at her.

"Very well, then, I am."

"Why are you?"

"Who _is_ happy really? At any rate for more than a moment. Only very
thoughtless and silly people."

"You're putting me off." He took her hand again. "I'm to blame, Amy--to
blame in many ways. But people are talking."

She snatched her hand away.

"People talking? Who?...But as though that mattered."

"It _does_ matter. It has gone far--much farther than I thought."

She looked at him then, quickly, and turned her face away again.

"Who's talking? And what are they saying?"

"They are saying----" He broke off. What _were_ they saying? Until
the arrival of that horrible letter he had not realised that they were
saying anything at all.

"Don't think for a single moment, Amy, that I pay the slightest attention
to any of their talk. I would not have bothered you with any of this had
it not been for something else--of which I'll speak in a moment. If
everything is right between us--between you and me--then it doesn't matter
if the whole world talks until it's blue in the face."

"Leave it alone, then," she said. "Let them talk."

Her indifference stung him. She didn't care, then, whether things were
right between himself and her or no? It was the same to her. She cared so
little for him.... That sudden realisation struck him so sharply that it
was as though some one had hit him in the back. For so many years he had
taken it for granted...taken something for granted that was not to be so
taken. Very dimly some one was approaching him--that dark, misty, gigantic
figure--blotting out the light from the windows. That figure was becoming
day by day more closely his companion.

Looking at her now more intently, and with a new urgency, he said:

"Some one brought me a letter, Amy. They said it was a letter of yours."

She did not move nor stir. Then, after a long silence, she said, "Let me
see it."

He felt in his pocket and produced it. She stretched out her hand and took
it. She read it through slowly. "You think that I wrote this?" she asked.

"No, I know that you did not."

"To whom was it supposed to be written?"

"To 'Morris of St. James'."

She nodded her head. "Ah, yes. We're friends. That's why they chose him.
Of course it's a forgery," she added--"a very clever one."

"What I don't understand," he said eagerly, at his heart the strangest
relief that he did not dare to stop to analyse, "is why any one should
have troubled to do this--the risk, the danger----"

"You have enemies," she said. "Of course you know that. People who are
jealous."

"One enemy," he answered fiercely. "Ronder. The woman had been to him with
this letter before she came to me."

"The woman! What woman?

"The woman who brought it to me was a Miss Milton--a wretched creature who
was once at the Library."

"And she had been with this to Canon Ronder before she came to you?"

"Yes."

"Ah!"

Then she said very quietly:

"And what do you mean to do about the letter?"

"I will do whatever you wish me to do. What I would like to do is to leave
no step untaken to bring the authors of this forgery to justice. No step.
I will----"

"No," she broke in quickly. "It is much better to leave it alone. What
good can it do to follow it up? It only tells every one about it. We
should despise it. The thing is so obviously false. Why you can see,"
suddenly holding the letter towards him, "it isn't even like my writing.
My s's, my m's--they're not like that----"

"No, no," he said eagerly. "I see that they are not. I saw that at once."

"You knew at once that it was a forgery?"

"I knew at once. I never doubted for an instant."

She sighed; then settled back into the pillow with a little shudder.

"This town," she said; "the things they do. Oh! to get away from it, to
get away!"

"And we will!" he cried eagerly. "That's what we need, both of us--a
holiday. I've been thinking it over. We're both tired. When this Jubilee
is over we'll go abroad--Italy, Greece. We'll have a second honeymoon. Oh,
Amy, we'll begin life again. I've been much to blame--much to blame. Give
me that letter. I'll destroy it. I know my enemy, but I'll not think of
him or of any one but our two selves. I'll be good to you now if you'll
let me."

She gave him the letter.

"Look at it before you tear it up," she said, staring at him as though she
would not miss any change in his features. "You're sure that it is a
forgery?"

"Why, of course."

"It's nothing like my handwriting?"

"Nothing at all."

"You know that I am devoted to you, that I would never be untrue to you in
thought, word or deed?"

"Why, of course, of course. As though I didn't know----"

"And that I'll love to come abroad with you?"

"Yes, yes."

"And that we'll have a second honeymoon?"

"Yes, yes. Indeed, Amy, we will."

"Look well at that letter. You are wrong. It is not a forgery. I did write
it."

He did not answer her, but stayed staring at the letter like a boy
detected in a theft. She repeated:

"The woman was quite right. I did write that letter."

Brandon said, staring at her, "Don't laugh at me. This is too serious."

"I'm not laughing. I wrote it. I sent it down by Gladys. If you recall the
day to her she'll remember."

She watched his face. It had turned suddenly grey, as though some one had
slipped a grey mask over the original features.

She thought, "Now perhaps he'll kill me. I'm not sorry."

He whispered, leaning quite close to her as though he were afraid she
would not hear.

"You wrote that letter to Morris?"

"I did." Then suddenly springing up, half out of bed, she cried, "You're
not to touch him. Do you hear? You're not to touch him! It's not his
fault. He's had nothing to do with this. He's only my friend. I love him,
but he doesn't love me. Do you hear? He's had nothing to do with this!"

"You love him!" whispered Brandon.

"I've loved him since the first moment I saw him. I've wanted some one to
love for years--years and years and years. You didn't love me, so then I
hoped Falk would, and Falk didn't, so then I found the first person--any
one who would be kind to me. And he was kind--he _is_ kind--the
kindest man in the world. And he saw that I was lonely, so he let me talk
to him and go to him--but none of this is his doing. He's only been kind.
He--"

"Your letter says 'Dearest'," said Brandon. "If you wrote that letter it
says 'Dearest'."

"That was my foolishness. It was wrong of me. He told me that I mustn't
say anything affectionate. He's good and I'm bad. And I'm bad because
you've made me."

Brandon took the letter and tore it into little pieces; they scattered
upon the counterpane.

"You've been unfaithful to me?" he said, bending over her.

She did not shrink back, although that strange, unknown, grey face was
very close to her. "Yes. At first he wouldn't. He refused anything. But I
would.... I wanted to be. I hate you. I've hated you for years."

"Why?" His hand closed on her shoulder.

"Because of your conceit and pride. Because you've never thought of me.
Because I've always been a piece of furniture to you--less than that.
Because you've been so pleased with yourself and well-satisfied and
stupid. Yes. Yes. Most because you're so stupid. So stupid. Never seeing
anything, never knowing anything and always--so satisfied. And when the
town was pleased with you and said you were so fine I've laughed, knowing
what you were, and I thought to myself, 'There'll come a time when they'll
find him out'--and now they have. They know what you are at last. And I'm
glad! I'm glad! I'm glad!" She stopped, her breast rising and falling
beneath her nightdress, her voice shrill, almost a scream.

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