Various - "Punchinello, Vol. 1, No. 6, May 7, 1870"

Annie Fields - "Authors and Friends"

George du Marier et al - "Peter Ibbetson"

Guy De Maupassant - "A Comedy of Marriage & Other Tales"

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The Cathedral by Hugh Walpole

H >> Hugh Walpole >> The Cathedral




Was that some one moving in the room? Was there some one stealing behind
him, as they had done once, as...? He turned sharply round, rising in his
chair. No one there. He got up and began stealthily to pace the floor. The
worst of it was that however carefully you went you could never be quite
sure that some one was not just behind you, some one very clever,
measuring his steps by yours. You could never be sure. How still the house
was! He stopped by his door, after a moment's hesitation opened it and
looked out. No one there, only the gas whispering.

What was he doing, staring into the hall? He should be working, making
sure of his work. He went back to his table. He began hurriedly to write a
letter:

DEAR FOSTER--I cannot help feeling that I did not make myself quite
clear when I was speaking to you yesterday about Forsyth as the best
incumbent of the Pybus living. When I say best, I mean, of course, most
suitable.

When he said _best_ did he meant _most suitable? Suitable_ was
not perhaps exactly the word for Forsyth. It was something other than a
question of mere suitability. It was a keeping out of the _bad_, as
well as a bringing in of the _good_. _Suitable_ was not the word
that he wanted. What did he want? The words began to jump about on the
paper, and suddenly out of the centre of his table there stretched and
extended the figure of Miss Milton. Yes, there she was in her shabby
clothes and hat, smirking.... He dashed his hand at her and she vanished.
He sprang up. This was too bad. He must not let these fancies get hold of
him. He went into the hall.

He called out loudly, his voice echoing through the house, "Joan! Joan!"

Almost at once she came. Strange the relief that he felt! But he wouldn't
show it. She must notice nothing at all out of the ordinary.

She sat close to him at their evening meal and talked to him about
everything that came into her young head. Sometimes he wished that she
wouldn't talk so much; she hadn't talked so much in earlier days, had she?
But he couldn't remember what she had done in earlier days.

He was very particular now about his food. Always he had eaten whatever
was put in front of him with hearty and eager appreciation; now he seemed
to have very little appetite. He was always complaining about the cooking.
The potatoes were hard, the beef was underdone, the pastry was heavy. And
sometimes he would forget altogether that he was eating, and would sit
staring in front of him, his food neglected on his plate.

It was not easy for Joan. Not easy to choose topics that were not
dangerous. And so often he was not listening to her at all. Perhaps at no
other time did she pity him so much, and love him so much, as when she saw
him staring in front of him, his eyes puzzled, bewildered, piteous, like
those of an animal caught in a trap. All her old fear of him was gone, but
a new fear had come in its place. Sometimes, in quite the old way, he
would rap out suddenly, "Nonsense--stuff and nonsense!...As though
_he_ knew anything about it!" or would once again take the whole
place, town and Cathedral and all of them, into his charge with something
like, "I knew how to manage the thing. What they would have done without--
" But these defiances never lasted.

They would fade away into bewilderment and silence.

He would complain continually of his head, putting his hand suddenly up to
it, and saying, like a little child:

"My head's so bad. Such a headache!" But he would refuse to see Puddifoot;
had seen him once, and had immediately quarrelled with him, and told him
that he was a silly old fool and knew nothing about anything, and this
when Puddifoot had come with the noblest motives, intending to patronise
and condole.

After dinner to-night Joan and he went into the drawing-room. Often, after
dinner, he vanished into the study "to work"--but to-night he was "tired,
very tired--my dear. So much effort in connection with this Pybus
business. What'a come to the town I don't know. A year ago the matter
would have been simple enough...anything so obvious...."

He sat in his old arm-chair, whence for so many years he had delivered his
decisive judgments. No decisive judgments tonight! He was really tired,
lying back, his eyes closed, his hands twitching ever so slightly on his
knees.

Joan sat near to him, struggling to overcome her fear. She felt that if
only she could grasp that fear, like a nettle, and hold it tightly in her
hand it would seem so slight and unimportant. But she could not grasp it.
It was compounded of so many things, of the silence and the dulness, of
the Precincts and the Cathedral, of whispering trees and steps on the
stairs, of her father and something strange that now inhabited him like a
new guest in their house, of her loneliness and of her longing for some
friend with whom she could talk, of her ache for Johnny and his
comforting, loving smile, but most of all, strangely, of her own love for
her father, and her desire, her poignant desire, that he should be happy
again. She scarcely missed her mother, she did not want her to come back;
but she ached and ached to see once again that happy flush return to her
father's cheek, that determined ring to his voice, that buoyant confident
movement to his walk.

To-night she could not be sure whether he slept or no. She watched him,
and the whole world seemed to hold its breath. Suddenly an absurd fancy
seized her. She fought against it for a time, sitting there, her hands
tightly clenched. Then suddenly it overcame her. Some one was listening
outside the window; she fancied that she could see him--tall, dark, lean,
his face pressed against the pane.

She rose very softly and stole across the floor, very gently drew back one
of the curtains and looked out. It was dark and she could see nothing--
only the Cathedral like a grey web against a sky black as ink. A lamp,
across the Green, threw a splash of orange in the middle distance--no
other light. The Cathedral seemed to be very close to the house.

She closed the curtain and then heard her father call her.

"Joan! Joan! Where are you?"

She came back and stood by his chair. "I was only looking out to see what
sort of a night it was, father dear," she said.

He suddenly smiled. "I had a pleasant little nap then," he said; "my
head's better. There. Sit down close to me. Bring your chair nearer. We're
all alone here now, you and I. We must make a lot of one another."

He had paid so little attention to her hitherto that she suddenly realised
now that her loneliness had, during these last weeks, been the hardest
thing of all to bear. She drew her chair close to his and he took her
hand.

"Yes, yes, it's quite true. I don't know what I should have done without
you during these last weeks. You've been very good to your poor, stupid,
old father!"

She murmured something, and he burst out, "Oh, yes, they do! That's what
they say! I know how they talk. They want to get me out of the way and
change the place--put in unbelievers and atheists. But they shan't--not
while I have any breath in my body--" He went on more gently, "Why just
think, my dear, they actually want to have that man Wistons here. An
atheist! A denier of Christ's divinity! Here worshipping in the Cathedral!
And when I try to stop it they say I'm mad. Oh, yes! They do! I've heard
them. Mad. Out-of-date. They've laughed at me--ever since--ever since...
that elephant, you know, dear...that began it...the Circus...."

She leaned over him.

"Father dear, you mustn't pay so much attention to what they say. You
imagine so much just because you aren't very well and have those
headaches--and--and--because of other things. You imagine things that
aren't true. So many people here love you----"

"Love me!" he burst out suddenly, starting up in his chair. "When they set
upon me, five of them, from behind and beat me! There in public with the
lights and the singing." He caught her hand, gripping it. "There's a
conspiracy, Joan. I know it. I've seen it a long time. And I know who
started it and who paid them to follow me. Everywhere I go, there they
are, following me.

"That old woman with her silly hat, she followed me into my own house.
Yes, she did! 'I'll read you a letter,' she said. 'I hate you, and I'll
make you cry out over this.' They're all in it. He's setting them on. But
he shan't have his way. I'll fight him yet. Even my own son----" His voice
broke.

Joan knelt at his feet, looking up into his face. "Father! Falk wants to
come and see you! I've had a letter from him. He wants to come and ask
your forgiveness--he loves you so much."

He got up from his chair, almost pushing her away from him. "Falk! Falk! I
don't know any one called that. I haven't got a son----"

He turned, looking at her. Then suddenly put his arms around her and
kissed her, holding her tight to his breast.

"You're a good girl," he said. "Dear Joan! I'm glad you've not left me
too. I love you, Joan, and I've not been good enough to you. Oh, no, I
haven't! Many things I might have done, and now it's too late...too
late..."

He kissed her again and again, stroking her hair, then he said that he was
tired, very tired--he'd sleep to-night. He went slowly upstairs.

He undressed rapidly, flinging off his clothes as though they hurt him. As
though some one else had unexpectedly come into the room, he saw himself
standing before the long glass in the dressing-room, naked save for his
vest. He looked at himself and laughed.

How funny he looked only in his vest--how funny were he to walk down the
High Street like that! They would say he was mad. And yet he wouldn't be
mad. He would be just as he was now. He pulled the vest off over his head
and continued to stare at himself. It was as though he were looking at
some one else's body. The long toes, the strong legs, the thick thighs,
the broad hairless chest, the stout red neck--and then those eyes, surely
not his, those strange ironical eyes! He passed his hand down his side and
felt the cool strong marble of his flesh. Then suddenly he was cold and he
hurried into his night-shirt and his dressing-gown.

He sat on his bed. Something deep down in him was struggling to come up.
Some thought...some feeling...some name. Falk! It was as though a bell
were ringing, at a great distance, in the sleeping town--but ringing only
for him. Falk! The pain, the urgent pain, crept closer. Falk! He got up
from his bed, opened his door, looked out into the dark and silent house,
stepped forward, carefully, softly, his old red dressing-gown close about
him, stumbling a little on the stairs, feeling the way to his study door.

He sat in his arm-chair huddled up. "Falk! Falk! Oh, my boy, my boy, come
back, come back! I want you, I want to be with you, to see you, to touch
you, to hear your voice! I want to love you!

"Love--Love! I never wanted love before, but now I want it, desperately,
desperately, some one to love me, some one for me to love, some one to be
kind to. Falk, my boy. I'm so lonely. It's so dark. I can't see things as
I did. It's getting darker.

"Falk, come back and help me...."




Chapter III

Prelude to Battle



That night he slept well and soundly, and in the morning woke tranquil and
refreshed. His life seemed suddenly to have taken a new turn. As he lay
there and watched the sunlight run through the lattices like strands of
pale-coloured silk, it seemed to him that he was through the worst. He did
what he had not done for many days, allowed the thought of his wife to
come and dwell with him.

He went over many of their past years together, and, nodding his head,
decided that he had been often to blame. Then the further thought of what
she had done, of her adultery, of her last letter, these like foul black
water came sweeping up and darkened his mind.... No more. No more. He must
do as he had done. Think only of Pybus. Fight that, win his victory, and
then turn to what lay behind. But the sunlight no longer danced for him,
he closed his eyes, turned on his side, and prayed to God out of his
bewilderment.

After breakfast he started out. A restless urgency drove him forth. The
Chapter Meeting at which the new incumbent of Pybus was to be chosen was
now only three days distant, and all the work in connection with that was
completed--but Brandon could not be still. Some members of the Chapter he
had seen over and over again during the last months, and had pressed Rex
Forsyth's claims upon them without ceasing, but this thing had become a
symbol to him now--a symbol of his fight with Ronder, of his battle for
the Cathedral, of his championship, behind that, of the whole cause of
Christ's Church.

It seemed to him that if he were defeated now in this thing it would mean
that God Himself had deserted him. At the mere thought of defeat his heart
began to leap in his breast and the flags of the pavement to run before
his eyes. But it could not be. He had been tested; like Job, every plague
had been given to him to prove him true, but this last would shout to the
world that his power was gone and that the Cathedral that he loved had no
longer a place for him. And then--and then-----

He would not, he must not, look. At the top of the High Street he met Ryle
the Precentor. There had been a time when Ryle was terrified by the
Archdeacon; that time was not far distant, but it was gone. Nevertheless,
even though the Archdeacon were suddenly old and sick and unimportant, you
never could tell but that he might say something to somebody that it would
be unpleasant to have said. "Politeness all the way round" was Ryle's
motto, and a very safe one too. Moreover, Ryle, when he could rise above
his alarm for the safety of his own position, was a kindly man, and it
really _was_ sad to see the poor Archdeacon so pale and tired, the
scratch on his cheek, even now not healed, giving him a strangely battered
appearance.

And how would Ryle have liked Mrs. Ryle to leave him? And how would he
feel if his son, Anthony (aged at present five), ran away with the
daughter of a publican? And how, above all, would he feel did he know that
the whole town was talking about him and saying "Poor Precentor!"? But
perhaps the Archdeacon did _not_ know. Strange the things that people
did not know about themselves!--and at that thought the Precentor went
goose-fleshy all over, because of the things that at that very moment
people might be saying about _him_ and he knowing none of them!

All this passed very swiftly through Ryle's mind, and was quickly
strangled by hearing Brandon utter in quite his old knock-you-down-if-you-
don't-get-out-of-my-way voice, "Ha! Ryle! Out early this morning! I hope
you're not planning any more new-fangled musical schemes for us!"

Oh, well! if the Archdeacon were going to take that sort of tone with him,
Ryle simply wasn't going to stand it! Why should he? To-day isn't six
months ago.

"That's all right, Archdeacon," he said stiffly. "Ronder and I go through
a good deal of the music together now. He's very musical, you know. Every
one seems quite satisfied." _That_ ought to get him--my mention of
Ronder's name.... At the same time Ryle didn't wish to seem to have gone
over to the other camp altogether, and he was just about to say something
gently deprecatory of Ronder when, to his astonishment, he perceived that
Brandon simply hadn't heard him at all! And then the Archdeacon took his
arm and marched with him down the High Street.

"With regard to this Pybus business, Precentor," he was saying, "the
matter now will be settled in another three days. I hope every one
realises the extreme seriousness of this audacious plot to push a heretic
like this man Wistons into the place. I'm sure that every one _does_
realise it. There can be no two opinions about it, of course. At the same
time----"

How very uncomfortable! There had been a time when the Precentor would
have been proud indeed to walk down the High Street arm-in-arm with the
Archdeacon. But that time was past. The High Street was crowded. Any one
might see them. They would take it for granted that the Precentor was of
the Archdeacon's party. And to be seen thus affectionately linked with the
Archdeacon just now, when his family affairs were in so strange a
disorder, when he himself was behaving so oddly, when, as it was
whispered, at the Jubilee Fair he had engaged in a scuffle of a most
disreputable kind. The word "Drink" was mentioned.

Ryle tried, every so gently, to disengage his arm. Brandon's hand was of
steel.

"This seems to me," the Archdeacon was continuing, "a most critical moment
in our Cathedral's history. If we don't stand together now we--we--"

The Archdeacon's hand relaxed. His eyes wandered. Ryle detached his arm.
How strange the man was! Why, there was Samuel Hogg on the other side of
the street!

He had taken his hat off and was smiling. How uncomfortable! How
unpleasant to be mixed in this kind of encounter! How Mrs. Ryle, would
dislike it if she knew!

But his mind was speedily taken off his own affairs. He was conscious of
the Archdeacon, standing at his full height, his eyes, as he afterwards
described it a thousand times, "bursting from his head." Then, "before you
could count two," the Archdeacon was striding across the street.

It was a sunny morning, people going about their ordinary business, every
one smiling and happy. Suddenly Ryle saw the Archdeacon stop in front of
Hogg; himself started across the street, urged he knew not by what
impulse, saw Hogg's ugly sneering face, saw the Archdeacon's arm shoot
out, catch Hogg one, two terrific blows in the face, saw Hogg topple over
like a heap of clothes falling from their peg, was in time to hear the
Archdeacon crying out, "You dirty spy! You'd set upon me from behind,
would you? Afraid to meet me face to face, are you? Take that, then, and
that!" And then shout, "It's daylight! It's daylight now! Stand up and
face me, you coward!"

The next thing of which the terrified Ryle was conscious was that people
were running up from all sides. They seemed to spring from nowhere. He
saw, too, how Hogg, the blood streaming from his face, lay there on his
back, not attempting to move. Some were bending down behind him, holding
his head, others had their hands about Brandon, holding him back. Errand-
boys were running, people were hurrying from the shops, voices raised on
every side--a Constable slowly crossed the street--Ryle slipped away--

Joan had gone out at once after breakfast that morning to the little shop,
Miss Milligan's, in the little street behind the Precincts, to see whether
she could not get some of that really fresh fruit that only Miss Milligan
seemed able to obtain. She was for some little time in the shop, because
Miss Milligan always had a great deal to say about her little nephew
Benjie, who was at the School as a day-boy and was likely to get a
scholarship, and was just now suffering from boils. Joan was a good
listener and a patient, so that it was quite late--after ten o'clock--as
she hurried back.

Just by the Arden Gate Ellen Stiles met her.

"Oh, you poor child!" she cried; "aren't you at home? I was just hurrying
up to see whether I could be of any sort of help to you!"

"Any help?" echoed Joan, seeing at once, in the nodding blue plume in
Ellen's hat, forebodings of horrible disaster.

"What, haven't you heard?" cried Ellen, pitying from the bottom of her
heart the child's white face and terrified eyes.

"No! What? Oh, tell me quickly! What has happened? To father--"

"I don't know exactly myself," said Ellen. "That's what I was hurrying up
to find out.... Your father...he's had some sort of fight with that
horrible man Hogg in the High Street.... No, I don't know...But wait a
minute...."

Joan was gone, scurrying through the Precincts, the paper bag with the
fruit clutched tightly to her.

Ellen Stiles stared after her; her eyes were dim with kindness. There was
nothing now that she would not do for that girl and her poor father!
Knocked down to the ground they were, and Ellen championed them wherever
she went. And now this! Drink or madness--perhaps both! Poor man! Poor
man! And that child, scarcely out of the cradle, with all this on her
shoulders! Ellen would do anything for them! She would go round later in
the day and see how she could be useful.

She turned away. It was Ronder now who was "up"...and a little pulling-
down would do him no sort of harm. There were a few little things she was
longing, herself, to tell him. A few home-truths. Then, half-way down the
High Street, she met Julia Preston, and didn't they have a lot to say
about it all!

Meanwhile Joan, in another moment, was at her door. What had happened? Oh,
what had happened? Had he been brought back dying and bleeding? Had that
horrible man set upon him, there in the High Street, while every one was
about? Was the doctor there, Mr. Puddifoot? Would there perhaps have to be
an operation? This would kill her father. The disgrace.... She let herself
in with her latch-key and stood in the familiar hall. Everything was just
as it had always been, the clocks ticking. She could hear the Cathedral
organ faintly through the wall. The drawing-room windows were open, and
she could hear the birds, singing at the sun, out there in the Precincts.
Everything as it always was. She could not understand. Gladys appeared
from the kitchen.

"Oh, Gladys, here is the fruit.... Has father come in?"

"I don't know, miss."

"You haven't heard him?"

"No, miss. I've been upstairs, 'elping with the beds."

"Oh--thank you, Gladys."

The terror slipped away from her. Then it was all right. Ellen Stiles had,
as usual, exaggerated. After all, she had not been there. She had heard it
only at second-hand. She hesitated for a moment, then went to the study
door. Outside she hesitated again, then she went in.

To her amazement her father was sitting, just as he had always sat, at his
table. He looked up when she entered, there was no sign upon him of any
trouble. His face was very white, stone-white, and it seemed to her that
for months past the colour had been draining from it, and now at last all
colour was gone. A man wearing a mask. She could fancy that he would put
up his hands and suddenly slip it from him and lay it down upon the table.
The eyes stared through it, alive, coloured, restless.

"Well, Joan, what is it?"

She stammered, "Nothing, father. I only wanted to see--whether--that--"

"Yes? Is any one wanting to see me?"

"No--only some one told me that you...I thought--"

"You heard that I chastised a ruffian in the town? You heard correctly. I
did. He deserved what I gave him."

A little shiver shook her.

"Is that all you want to know?"

"Isn't there anything, father, I can do?"

"Nothing--except leave me just now. I'm very busy. I have letters to
write."

She went out. She stood in the hall, her hands clasped together. What was
she to do? The worst that she had ever feared had occurred. He was mad.

She went into the drawing-room, where the sun was blazing as though it
would set the carpet on fire. What _was_ she to do? What _ought_
she to do? Should she fetch Puddifoot or some older woman like Mrs.
Combermere, who would be able to advise her? Oh, no. She wanted no one
there who would pity him. She felt a longing, urgent desire to keep him
always with her now, away from the world, in some corner where she could
cherish and love him and allow no one to insult and hurt him. But madness!
To her girlish inexperience this morning's acts could be nothing but
madness. There in the middle of the High Street, with every one about, to
do such a thing! The disgrace of it! Why, now, they could never stay in
Polchester.... This was worse than everything that had gone before. How
they would all talk, Canon Ronder and all of them, and how pleased they
would be!

At that she clenched her hands and drew herself up as though she were
defying the whole of Polchester. They should not laugh at him, they should
not dare!...

But meanwhile what immediately was she to do? It wasn't safe to leave him
alone. Now that he had gone so far as to knock some one down in the
principal street, what might he not do? What would happen if he met Canon
Ronder? Oh! why had this come? What had they done to deserve this?

What had _he_ done when he had always been so good?

She seemed for a little distracted. She could not think. Her thoughts
would not come clearly. She waited, staring into the sun and the colour.
Quietness came to her. Her life was now his. Nothing counted in her life
but that. If they must leave Polchester she would go with him wherever he
must go, and care for him. Johnny! For one terrible instant he seemed to
stand, a figure of flame, outside there on the sun-drenched grass.

Outside! Yes, always outside, until her father did not need her any more.
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.

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