The Cathedral by Hugh Walpole

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The wonderful morning changed to a storm of wind and rain. Such a storm!
Down in the basement Cook could scarcely hear herself speak! As she said
to Gladys, it was what you must expect now. They were slipping into
Autumn, and before you knew, why, there would be Winter! Nothing odder
than the sudden way the Seasons took you! But Cook didn't like storms in
that house. "Them Precincts 'ouses, they're that old, they'd fall on top
of you as soon as whistle Trefusis! For her part she'd always thought this
'ouse queer, and it wasn't any the less queer since all these things had
been going on in it." It was at this point that the grocery "boy" arrived
and supposed they'd 'eard all about it by that time. All about what? Why,
the Archdeacon knocking Samuel 'Ogg down in the 'Igh Street that very
morning! Then, indeed, you could have knocked Cook down, as she said, with
a whisper. Collapsed her so, that she had to sit down and take a cup of
tea, the kettle being luckily on the boil. Gladys had to sit down and take
one too, and there they sat, the grocer's boy dismissed, in the darkening
kitchen, their heads close together, and starting at every hiss of the
rain upon the coals. The house hung heavy and dark above them. Mad, that's
what he must be, and going mad these past ever so many months. And such a
fine man too! But knocking people down in the street, and 'im such a man
for his own dignity! 'Im an Archdeacon too. 'Ad any one ever heard in
their lives of an Archdeacon doing such a thing? Well, that settled Cook.
She'd been in the house ten solid years, but at the end of the month she'd
be off. To sit in the house with a madman! Not she! Adultery and all the
talk had been enough, but she had risked her good name and all, just for
the sake of that poor young thing upstairs, but madness!--no, that was
another pair of shoes.

Now Gladys was peculiar. She'd given her notice, but hearing this, she
suddenly determined to stay. That poor Miss Joan! Poor little worm! So
young and innocent--shut up all alone with her mad father. Gladys would
see her through--

"Why, Gladys," cried Cook, "what will your young feller you're walkin'
with say?"

"If 'e don't like it 'e can lump it," said Gladys. "Lord, 'ow this house
does rattle!"

All the afternoon of that day Brandon sat, never moving from his study-
table. He sat exultant. Some of the shame had been wiped away. He could
feel again the riotous happiness that had surged up in him as he struck
that face, felt it yield before him, saw it fade away into dust and
nothingness. That face that had for all these months been haunting him, at
last he had banished it, and with it had gone those other leering faces
that had for so long kept him company. His room was dark, and it was
always in the dark that they came to him--Hogg's, the drunken painter's,
that old woman's in the dirty dress.

And to-day they did not come. If they came he would treat them as he had
treated Hogg. That was the way to deal with them!

His heart was bad, fluttering, stampeding, pounding and then dying away.
He walked about the room that he might think less of it. Never mind his
heart! Destroy his enemies, that's what he had to do--these men and women
who were the enemies of himself, his town and his Cathedral.

Suddenly he thought that he would go out. He got his hat and his coat and
went into the rain. He crossed the Green and let himself into the
Cathedral by the Saint Margaret Chapel door, as he had so often done
before.

The Cathedral was very dark, and he stumbled about, knocking against
pillars and hassocks. He was strange here. It was as though he didn't know
the place. He got into the middle of the nave, and positively he didn't
know where he was. A faint green light glimmered in the East end. There
were chairs in his way. He stood still, listening.

He was lost. He would never find his way out again. _His_ Cathedral,
and he was lost! Figures were moving everywhere. They jostled him and said
nothing. The air was thick and hard to breathe. Here was the Black
Bishop's Tomb. He let his fingers run along the metal work. How cold it
was! His hand touched the cold icy beard! His hand stayed there. He could
not remove it. His fingers stuck.

He tried to cry out, and he could say nothing. An icy hand, gauntleted,
descended upon his and held it. He tried to scream. He could not.

He shouted. His voice was a whisper. He sank upon his knees. He fainted,
slipping to the ground like a man tired out.

There, half an hour later, Lawrence found him.

Chapter IV

The Last Tournament

On the morning of the Chapter Meeting Ronder went in through the West
door, intending to cross the nave by the Cloisters. Just as he closed the
heavy door behind him there sprang up, close to him, as though from
nowhere at all, that horrible man Davray. Horrible always to Ronder, but
more horrible now because of the dreadful way in which he had, during the
last few months, gone tumbling downhill. There had been, until lately, a
certain austerity and even nobility in the man's face. That was at last
completely swept away. This morning he looked as though he had been
sleeping out all night, his face yellow, his eyes bloodshot, his hair
tangled and unkempt, pieces of grass clinging to his well-worn grey
flannel suit.

"Good morning, Canon Ronder," he said.

"Good morning," Ronder replied severely, and tried to pass on. But the man
stood in his way.

"I'm not going to keep you," he said. "I know what your business is this
morning. I wouldn't keep you from it for a single moment. I know what
you're going to do. You're going to get rid of that damned Archdeacon.
Finish him for once and all. Stamp on him so that he can never raise up
his beautiful head again. I know. It's fine work you've been doing ever
since you came here, Canon Ronder. But it isn't you that's been doing it.
It's the Cathedral."

"Please let me pass," said Ronder. "I haven't any time just now to spare."

"Ah, that hurts your pride. You like to think it's you who's been the
mighty fine fellow all this time. Well, it isn't you at all. It's the
Cathedral. The Cathedral's jealous, you know--don't like its servants
taking all the credit to themselves. Pride's dangerous, Canon Ronder. In a
year or two's time, when you're feeling pretty pleased with yourself, you
just look back on the Archdeacon's history for a moment and consider it.
It may have a lesson for you. Good morning, Canon Ronder. Pleased to have
met you."

The wretched creature went slithering up the aisle, chuckling to himself.
How miserable to be drunk at that early hour of the morning! Ronder
shrugged his shoulders as though he would like to shake off from them
something unpleasant that was sticking to them. He was not in a good mood
this morning. He was assured of victory--he had no doubt about it at all--
and unquestionably when the affair was settled he would feel more tranquil
about it. But ever since his talk with Wistons he had been unsure of the
fellow. Was it altogether wise that he should come here? His perfect
content seemed to be as far away as ever. Was it always to be so?

And then this horrible affair in the High Street three days ago, how
distressing! The Archdeacon's brain was going, and that was the very last
thing that Ronder had desired. What he had originally seen was the
pleasant picture of Brandon retiring with his wife and family to a nice
Rectory in the diocese and ending his days--many years hence it is to be
hoped--in a charming old garden with an oak-tree on the lawn and pigeons
cooing in the sunny air.

But this! Oh, no! not this! Ronder was a practical man of straight common-
sense, but it did seem to him as though there had been through all the
movement of the last six months some spirit far more vindictive than
himself had ever been. He had never, from the first moment to the last,
been vindictive. With his hand on his heart he could say that. He did not
like the Cathedral that morning, it seemed to him cold, hostile, ugly. The
thick stone pillars were scornful, the glass of the East window was dead
and dull. A little wind seemed to whistle in the roof so far, so far above
his head.

He hurried on, his great-coat hugged about him. All that he could say was
that he did hope that Brandon would not be there this morning. His
presence could alter nothing, the voting could go only one way. It would
be very painful were he there. Surely after the High Street affair he
would not come.

Ronder saw with relief when he came into the Chapter House that Brandon
was not present. They were standing about the room, looking out into the
Cloisters, talking in little groups--the Dean, Bentinck-Major, Ryle,
Foster, and Bond, the Clerk, a little apart from the others as social
decency demanded. When Ronder entered, two things at once were plain--one,
how greatly during these last months he had grown in importance with all
of them and, secondly, how nervous they were all feeling. They all turned
towards him.

"Ah, Ronder," said the Dean, "that's right. I was afraid lest something
should keep you."

"No--no--what a cold damp day! Autumn is really upon us."

They discussed the weather, once and again eyeing the door apprehensively.
Bentinck-Major took Ronder aside:

"My wife and I have been wondering whether you'd honour us by dining with
us on the 25th," he said. "A cousin of my wife's, Lady Caroline Holmesby,
is to be staying with us just then. It would give us such great pleasure
if you and Miss Ronder would join us that evening. My wife is, of course,
writing to Miss Ronder."

"So far as I know, my aunt and I are both free and will be delighted to
come," said Ronder.

"Delightful! That will be delightful! As a matter of fact we were thinking
of having that evening a little Shakespeare reading. We thought of _King
Lear_."

"Ah! That's another matter," said Ronder, laughing. "I'll be delighted to
listen, but as to taking part--"

"But you must! You must!" said Bentinck-Major, catching hold of one of the
buttons on Ronder's waistcoat, a habit that Ronder most especially
disliked. "More culture is what our town needs--several of us have been
thinking so. It is really time, I think, to start a little Shakespeare
reading amongst ourselves--strictly amongst ourselves, of course. The
trouble with Shakespeare is that he is so often a little--a little bold,
for mixed reading--and that restricts us. Nevertheless, we hope...I do
trust that you will join us, Canon Ronder."

"I make no promises," said Ronder. "If you knew how badly I read, you'd
hesitate before asking me."

"We are past our time," said the Dean, looking at his watch. "We are all
here, I think, but Brandon and Witheram. Witheram is away at Drymouth. He
has written to me. How long we should wait----"

"I can hardly believe," said Byle nervously, "that Archdeacon Brandon will
be present. He is extremely unwell. I don't know whether you are aware
that three nights ago he was found by Lawrence the Verger here in the
Cathedral in a fainting fit. He is very unwell, I'm afraid."

The whole group was immensely interested. They had heard.... Fainting?
Here in the Cathedral? Yes, by the Bishop's Tomb. He was better yesterday,
but it is hardly likely that he will come this morning.

"Poor man!" said the Dean, gently distressed. "I heard something...That
was the result, I'm afraid, of his fracas that morning in the High Street;
he must be most seriously unwell."

"Poor man, poor man!" was echoed by everybody; it was evident also that
general relief was felt. He could not now be expected to be present.

The door opened, and he came in. He came hurriedly, a number of papers in
one hand, wearing just the old anxious look of important care that they
knew so well. And yet how changed he was! Instead of moving at once to his
place at the long table he hesitated, looked at Bentinck-Major, at Foster,
then at Bond, half-puzzled, as though he had never seen them before.

"I must apologise, gentlemen," he said, "for being late. My watch, I'm
afraid, was slow."

The Dean then showed quite unexpected qualities.

"Will you sit here on my right, Archdeacon?" he said in a firm and almost
casual voice. "We are a little late, I fear, but no matter--no matter. We
are all present, I think, save Archdeacon Witheram, who is at Drymouth,
and from whom I have received a letter." They all found their places.
Ronder was as usual exactly opposite to Brandon. Foster slouched into his
seat with his customary air of absentmindedness. Ryle tried not to look at
Brandon, but his eyes were fascinated and seemed to swim in their watery
fashion like fish fascinated by a bait.

"Shall we open with a prayer," said the Dean, "and ask God's blessing on
this morning's work?"

They prayed with bent heads. Brandon's head was bent longer than the
others.

When he looked up he stared about him as though completely bewildered.

"As you all know," the Dean said in his softly urgent voice, as though he
were pressing them to give him flowers for his collection, "our meeting
this morning is of the first urgency. I will, with your approval, postpone
general business until the more ordinary meeting of next week. That is if
no one has any objection to such a course?"

No one had any objections.

"Very well, then. As you know, our business this morning is to appoint a
successor to poor Morrison at Pybus St. Anthony. Now in ordinary cases,
such an appointment is not of the first importance, but in the matter of
Pybus, as you all know, there is a difference. Whether rightly or wrongly,
it has been a tradition in the Diocese that the Pybus living should be
given only to exceptional men. It has been fortunate in having a
succession of exceptional men in its service--men who, for the most part,
have come to great position in the Church afterwards. I want you to
remember that, gentlemen, when you are making your decision this morning.
At the same time you must remember that it has been largely tradition that
has given this importance to Pybus, and that the living has been vacant
already too long."

He paused. Then he picked up a piece of paper in front of him.

"There have been several meetings with regard to this living already," he
said, "and certain names have been very thoroughly discussed among us. I
think we were last week agreed that two names stood out from the others.
If to-day we cannot agree on one of those two names, we must then consider
a third. That will not, I hope, be necessary. The two names most
favourably considered by us are those of the Rev. Rex Forsyth, Chaplain to
Bishop Clematis, and the Rev. Ambrose Wistons of St. Edward's Hawston. The
first of these two gentlemen is known to all of us personally, the second
we know chiefly through his writings. We will first, I think, consider Mr.
Wistons. You, Canon Foster, are, I know, a personal friend of his, and can
tell us why, in your opinion, his would be a suitable appointment."

"It depends on what you want," said Foster, frowning around upon every one
present; and then suddenly selecting little Bond as apparently his most
dangerous enemy and scowling at him with great hostility, "if you want to
let the religious life of this place, nearly dead already, pass right
away, choose a man like Forsyth. But I don't wish to be contentious;
there's been contention enough in this place during these last months, and
I'm sick and ashamed of the share I've had in it. I won't say more than
this--that if you want an honest, God-fearing man here, who lives only for
God and is in his most secret chamber as he is before men, then Wistons is
your man. I understand that some of you are afraid of his books. There'll
be worse books than his you'll have to face before you're much older.
_That_ I can tell you! I said to myself before I came here that I
wouldn't speak this morning. I should not have said even what I have,
because I know that in this last year I have grievously sinned, fighting
against God when I thought that I was fighting for Him. The weapons are
taken out of my hands. I believe that Wistons is the man for this place
and for the religious life here. I believe that you will none of you
regret it if you bring him to this appointment. I can say nothing more."

What had happened to Foster? They had, one and all, expected a fighting
speech. The discomfort and uneasiness that was already in the room was now
greatly increased.

The Dean asked Ronder to say something. Ronder leaned forward, pushing his
spectacles back with his fingers. He leaned forward that he might not see
Brandon's face.

By chance he had not seen Brandon for more than a fortnight. He was
horrified and frightened by the change. The grey-white face, the restless,
beseeching, bewildered eyes belonging apparently to some one else, to whom
they were searching to return, the long white fingers ceaselessly moving
among the papers and tapping the table, were those of a stranger, and in
the eyes of the men in that room it was he who had produced him. Yes, and
in the eyes of how many others in that town? You might say that had
Brandon been a man of real spiritual and moral strength, not Ronder, not
even God Himself, could have brought Brandon to this. But was that so?
Which of us knows until he is tried? His wife, his son, his body, all had
failed him. And now this too.... And if Ronder had not come to that town
would it have been so? Had it not been a duel between them from the moment
that Ronder first set his foot in that place? And had not Ronder
deliberately willed it so? What had Ronder said to Brandon's son and to
the woman who would ruin Brandon's wife?

All this passed in the flash of a dfeam through Ronder's brain, perhaps
never entirely to leave him again. In that long duel there had been
perhaps more than one defeat. He knew that they were waiting for him to
speak, but the thoughts would not come. Wistons? Forsyth?...Forsyth?
Wistons? Who were they? What had they to do with this personal relation of
his with the man opposite?

He flushed. He must say something. He began to speak, and soon his brain,
so beautifully ordered, began to reel out the words in soft and steady
sequence. But his soul watched Brandon's soul.

"My friend, Canon Foster, knows Mr. Wistons so much better than I do," he
said, "that it is absurd for me to try and tell you what he should tell
you.

"I do regard him as the right man for this place, because I think our
Cathedral, that we all so deeply love, is waiting for just such a man.
Against his character no one, I suppose, has anything to say. He is known
before all the world as a God-fearing Christian. He is no youth; he has
had much experience; he is, every one witnesses, lovable and of strong
personal charm. It is not his character, but his ideas, that people have
criticised. He is a modernist, of course, a man of an enquiring,
penetrating mind, who must himself be satisfied of the truth for which he
is searching. Can that do us here any harm? I believe not. I think that
some of us, if I may say so, are too easily frightened of the modern
spirit of enquiry. I believe that we Churchmen should step forward ready
to face any challenge, whether of scientists, psychologists or any one
else--I think that before long, whether we like it or no, we shall have to
do so. Mr. Wistons is, I believe, just the man to help us in such a
crisis. His opinions are not precisely the same as those of some of us in
this diocese, and I've no doubt that if he came here there would be some
disputes from time to time, but I believe those same disputes would do us
a world of good. God did not mean us to sit down twiddling our thumbs and
never using our brains. He gave us our intelligences, and therefore I
presume that He meant us to make some use of them.

"In these matters Mr. Wistons is exactly what we want here. He is a much-
travelled man, widely experienced in affairs, excellent at business. No
one who has ever met him would deny his sweetness and personal charm. I
think myself that we are very fortunate to have a chance of seeing him
here--"

Ronder ceased. He felt as though he had been beating thin air with weak
ineffective hands. They had, none of them, been listening to him or
thinking of him; they had not even been thinking of Wistons. Their minds
had been absorbed, held, dominated by the tall broad figure who sat in
their midst, but was not one of them.

Brandon, in fact, began to speak almost before Ronder had finished. He did
not look up, but stared at his long nervous fingers. He spoke at first
almost in a whisper, so that they did not catch the first few words.
"...Horrified..." they heard him say. "Horrified.... So calmly.... These
present....

"Cannot understand...." Then his words were clearer. He looked up, staring
across at Ronder.

"Horrified at this eager acceptance of a man who is a declared atheist
before God." Then suddenly he flung his head back in his old challenging
way and, looking round upon them all, went on, his voice now clear,
although weak and sometimes faltering:

"Gentlemen, this is perhaps my last appearance at these Chapter Meetings.
I have not been very well of late and, as you all know, I have had
trouble. You will forgive me if I do not, this morning, express myself so
clearly or carefully as I should like.

"But the first thing that I wish to say is that when you are deciding this
question this morning you should do your best, before God, to put my own
personality out of your minds. I have learnt many things, under God's
hand, in the last six months. He has shown me some weaknesses and
failings, and I know now that, because of those weaknesses, there are some
in this town who would act against anything that I proposed, simply
because they would wish me to be defeated. I do implore you this morning
not to think of me, but to think only of what will be best--best--best----
" He looked around him for a moment bewildered, frowning in puzzled
fashion at Ronder, then continued again, "best for God and the work of His
Church.

"I'm not very well, gentlemen; my thoughts are not coming very clearly
this morning, and that is sad, because I've looked forward to this morning
for months past, wishing to fight my very best...." His voice changed.
"Yes, fight!" he cried. "There should be no fight necessary in such a
matter. But what has happened to us all in the last year?

"A year ago there was not one of us who would have considered such an
appointment as I am now disputing. Have you read this man's books? Have
you read in the papers his acknowledged utterances? Do you know that he
questions the Divinity of Christ Himself----"

"No, Archdeacon," Foster broke in, "that is not true. You can have no
evidence of that."

Brandon seemed to be entirely bewildered by the interruption. He looked at
Foster, opened his mouth as though he would speak, then suddenly put his
hand to his head.

"If you will give me time," he said. "Give me time. I will prove
everything, I will indeed. I beg you," he said, suddenly turning to the
Dean, "that you will have this appointment postponed for a month. It is so
serious a matter that to decide hastily----"

"Not hastily," said the Dean very gently. "Morrison died some months ago,
and I'm afraid it is imperative that we should fill the vacancy this
morning."

"Then consider what you do," Brandon cried, now half-rising from his
chair. "This man is breaking in upon the cherished beliefs of our Church.
Give him a little and he will take everything. We must all stand firm upon
the true and Christian ground that the Church has given us, or where shall
we be? This man may be good and devout, but he does not believe what we
believe. Our Church-that we love--that we love----" He broke off again.

"You are against me. Every man's hand now is against me. Nevertheless
what-I say is right and true. What am I? What are you, any of you here in
this room, beside God's truth? I have seen God, I have walked with God, I
shall walk with Him again. He will lead me out of these sore distresses
and take me into green pastures----"

He flushed. "I beg your pardon, gentlemen. I am taking your time. I must
say something for Mr. Forsyth. He is young; he knows this place and loves
it; he cares for and will preserve its most ancient traditions....

"He cares for the things for which we should care. I do commend him to
your attention----"

There was a long silence. The rain that had begun a thick drizzle dripped
on the panes. The room was so dark that the Dean asked Bond to light the
gas. They all waited while this was being done. At last the Dean spoke:

"We are all very grateful to you, Archdeacon, for helping us as you have
done. I think, gentlemen, that unless there is some other name definitely
to be proposed we had better now vote on these two names.

"Is there any further name suggested?"

No one spoke.

"Very well, then. I think this morning, contrary to our usual custom, we
will record our votes on paper. I have Archdeacon Witheram's letter here
advising me of his wishes in this matter."

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