The Cathedral by Hugh Walpole

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Paper and pens were before every one. The votes were recorded and sent up
to the Dean. He opened the little pieces of paper slowly.

At last he said:

"One vote has been recorded in favour of Mr. Forsyth, the rest for Mr.
Wistons. Mr. Wistons is therefore appointed to the living of Pybus St.
Anthony."

Brandon was on his feet. His body trembled like a tree tottering. He flung
out his hands.

"No.... No.... Stop one moment. You must. You--all of you----

"Mr. Dean--all of you.... Oh, God, help me now!...You have been
influenced by your feelings about myself. Forget me, turn me away, send me
from the town, anything, anything.... I beseech you to think only of the
good of the Cathedral in this affair. If you admit this man it is the
beginning of the end. Slowly it will all be undermined. Belief in Christ,
belief in God Himself.... Think of the future and your responsibility to
the unborn children when they come to you and say: 'Where is our faith?
Why did you take it from us? Give it back to us!' Oh, stop for a moment!
Postpone this for only a little while. Don't do this thing!...Gentlemen!"

They could see that he was ill. His body swayed as though it were beyond
his control. His hands were waving, turning, beseeching....

Suddenly tears were running down his cheeks.

"Not this shame!" he cried. "Not this shame!--kill me--but save the
Cathedral!"

They were on their feet. Foster and Ryle had come round to him.
"Archdeacon, sit down." "You're ill." "Rest a moment" With a great heave
of his shoulders he flung them off, a chair falling to the ground with the
movement.

He saw Ronder.

"You!...my enemy. Are you satisfied now?" he whispered. He held out his
quivering hand. "Take my hand. You've done your worst."

He turned round as though he would go from the room. Stumbling, he caught
Foster by the shoulder as though he would save himself. He bent forward,
staring into Foster's face.

"God is love, though," he said. "You betray Him again and again, but He
comes back."

He gripped Foster's shoulder more tightly. "Don't do this thing, man," he
said. "Don't do it. Because Ronder's beaten me is no reason for you to
betray your God.... Give me a chair. I'm ill."

He fell upon his knees.

"This...Death," he whispered. Then, looking up again at Foster, "My
heart. That fails me too."

And, bowing his head, he died.

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