The Cathedral by Hugh Walpole

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Because the market-place was half-way down the Rock, and because the
Rectory of St. James' was just below the market-place, the upper windows
of that house commanded a wonderful view both of the hill, High Street and
Cathedral above it, and of Seatown, river and woods below it. It was said
that it was up this very rocky street from the river, through the market,
and up the High Street that the armed enemies of the Black Bishop had
fought their way to the Cathedral on that great day when the Bishop had
gone to meet his God, and a piece of rock is still shown to innocent
visitors as the place whence some of his enemies, in full armour, were
flung down, many thousand feet, to the waters of the Pol.

Joan had often longed to see the view from the windows of St. James'
Rectory, but she had not known old Dr. Burroughs, the former Rector, a
cross man with gout and rheumatism. She walked up some steps and found the
house the last of three all squeezed together on the edge of the hill. The
Rectory, because it was the last, stood square to all the winds of heaven,
and Joan fancied what it must be in wild wintry weather. Soon she was in
the drawing-room shaking hands with Miss Burnett, who was Mr. Morris'
sister-in-law, and kept house for him.

Miss Burnett was a stout negative woman, whose whole mind was absorbed in
the business of housekeeping, prices of food, wickedness and ingratitude
of servants, maliciousness of shopkeepers and so on. The house, with all
her managing, was neither tidy nor clean, as Joan quickly saw; Miss
Burnett was not, by temperament, methodical, nor had she ever received any
education. Her mind, so far as a perception of the outside world and its
history went, was some way behind that of a Hottentot or a South Sea
Islander. She had, from the day of her birth, been told by every one
around her that she was stupid, and, after a faint struggle, she had
acquiesced in that judgment. She knew that her younger sister, afterwards
Mrs. Morris, was pretty and accomplished, and that she would never be
either of those things. She was not angry nor jealous at this. The note of
her character was acquiescence, and when Agatha had died of pleurisy it
had seemed the natural thing for her to come and keep house for the
distressed widower. If Mr. Morris had since regretted the arrangement he
had, at any rate, never said so.

Miss Burnett's method of conversation was to say something about the
weather and then to lapse into a surprised and distressed stare. If her
visitor made some statement she crowned it with, "Well, now, that was just
was I was going to say."

Her nose, when she talked, twinkled at the nostrils apprehensively, and
many of her visitors found this fascinating, so that they suddenly, with
hot confusion, realised that they too had been staring in a most offensive
manner. Joan had not been out in the world long enough to enable her to
save a difficult situation by brilliant talk, and she very quickly found
herself staring at Miss Burnett's nose and longing to say something about
it, as, for instance, "What a stronge nose you've got, Miss Burnett--see
how it twitches!" or, "If you'll allow me, Miss Burnett, I'd just like to
study your nose for a minute." When she realised this horrible desire in
herself she blushed crimson and gazed about the untidy and entangled
drawing-room in real desperation. She could see nothing in the room that
was likely to save her. She was about to rise and depart, although she had
only been there five minutes, when Mr. Morris came in.

Joan realised at once that this man was quite different from any one whom
she had ever known. He was a stranger to her Polchester world in body,
soul and spirit, as though, a foreigner from some far-distant country, he
had been shipwrecked and cast upon an inhospitable shore. So strangely did
she feel this that she was quite surprised when he did not speak with a
foreign accent. "Oh, he must be a poet!" was her second thought about Mr.
Morris, not because he dressed oddly or had long hair. She could not tell
whence the impression came, unless it were in his strange, bewildered,
lost blue eyes. Lost, bewildered--yes, that was what he was! With every
movement of his slim, straight body, the impulse with which he brushed
back his untidy fair hair from his forehead, he seemed like a man only
just awake, a man needing care and protection, because he simply would not
be able to look after himself. So ridiculously did she have this
impression that she almost cried "Look out!" when he moved forward, as
though he would certainly knock himself against a chair or a table.

"How strange," she thought, "that this man should live with Miss Burnett!
What does he think of her?" She was excited by her discovery of him, but
that meant very little, because just now she was being excited by
everything. She found at once that talking to him was the easiest thing in
the world. Mr. Morris did not say very much; he smiled gently, and when
Miss Burnett, awaking suddenly from her torpor, said, "You'll have some
tea, Miss Brandon, won't you?" he, smiling, softly repeated the
invitation.

"Thank you," said Joan. "I will. How strange it is," she went on, "that
you are so close to the market and, even on market-day, you don't hear a
sound!"

And it was strange! as though the house were bewitched and had suddenly,
even as Joan entered it, gathered around it a dark wood for its
protection.

"Yes," said Mr. Morris. "We found it strange at first. But it's because we
are the last house, and the three others protect us. We get the wind and
rain, though. You should hear this place in a storm. But the house is
strong enough; it's very stoutly built; not a board creaks in the wildest
weather. Only the windows rattle and the wind comes roaring down the
chimneys."

"How long have you been here?" asked Joan.

"Nearly a year--and we still feel strangers. We were near Ashford in Kent
for twelve years, and the Glebeshire people are very different."

"Well," said Joan, who was a little irritated because she felt that his
voice was a little sadder than it ought to be, "I think you'll like
Polchester. I'm _sure_ you will. And you've come in a good year, too.
There's sure to be a lot going on this year because of the Jubilee."

Mr. Morris did not seem to be as thrilled as he should be by the thought
of the Jubilee, so Joan went on:

"It's so lucky for us that it comes just at the Polchester Feast time. We
always have a tremendous week at the Feast--the Horticultural Show and a
Ball in the Assembly Rooms, and all sorts of things. It's going to be my
first ball this year, although I've really come out already." She laughed.
"Festivities start to-morrow with the arrival of Marquis."

"Marquis?" repeated Mr. Morris politely.

"Oh, don't you know Marquis? His is the greatest Circus in England. He
comes to Polchester every year, and they have a procession through the
town--elephants and camels, and Britannia in her chariot, and sometimes a
cage with the lions and the tigers. Last year they had the sweetest little
ponies--four of them, no higher than St. Bernards--and there are the
clowns too, and a band."

She was suddenly afraid that she was talking too much--silly too, in her
childish enthusiasms. She remembered that she was in reality deputising
for her mother, who would never have talked about the Circus. Fortunately
at that moment the tea came in; it was brought by a flushed and
contemptuous maid, who put the tray down on a little table with a bang,
tossed her head as though she despised them all, and slammed the door
behind her.

Miss Burnett was upset by this, and her nose twitched more violently than
ever. Joan saw that her hand trembled as she poured out the tea, and she
was at once sorry for her.

Mr. Morris talked about Kent and London, and tea was drunk and the saffron
cake praised, and Joan thought it was time to go. At the last, however,
she turned to Mr. Morris and said:

"Do you like the Cathedral?"

"It's wonderful," he answered. "You should see it from our window
upstairs."

"Oh, I hate it--" said Joan.

"Why?" Morris asked her.

There was a curious challenge in his voice. They were both standing facing
one another.

"I suppose that's a silly thing to say. Only you don't live as close to it
as we do, and you haven't lived here so long as we have. It seems to hang
right over you, and it never changes, and I hate to think it will go on
just the same, years after we're dead."

"Have you seen the view from our window?" Morris asked her.

"No," said Joan, "I was never in this house before."

"Come and see it," he said.

"I'm sure," said Miss Burnett heavily, "Miss Brandon doesn't want to be
bothered--when she's seen the Cathedral all her life, too."

"Of course I'd love to see it," said Joan, laughing. "To tell you the
truth, that's what I've always wanted. I looked at this house again and
again when old Canon Burroughs was here, and thought there must be a
wonderful view."

She said good-bye to Miss Burnett.

"My mother does hope you will soon come and see us," she said.

"I have just met Mrs. Brandon for a moment at Mrs. Combermere's," said Mr.
Morris. "We'll be very glad to come."

She went out with him.

"It's up these stairs," he said. "Two flights. I hope you don't mind."

They climbed on to the second landing. At the end of the passage there was
a window. The evening was grey and only little faint wisps of blue still
lingered above the dusk, but the white sky threw up the Cathedral towers,
now black and sharp-edged in magnificent relief. Truly it _was_ a
view!

The window was in such a position that through it you gazed behind the
neighbouring houses, above some low roofs, straight up the twisting High
Street to the Cathedral. The great building seemed to be perched on the
very edge of the rock, almost, you felt, swinging in mid-air, and that so
precariously that with one push of the finger you might send it staggering
into space. Joan had never seen it so dominating, so commanding, so fierce
in its disregard of the tiny clustered world beneath it, so near to the
stars, so majestic and alone.

"Yes--it's wonderful," she said.

"Oh, but you should see it," he cried, "as it can be. It's dull to-day,
the sky's grey and there's no sunset,--but when it's flaming red with all
the windows shining, or when all the stars are out or in moonlight...
it's like a great ship sometimes, and sometimes like a cloud, and
sometimes like a fiery palace. Sometimes it's in mist and you can only see
just the top of the towers...."

"I don't like it," said Joan, turning away. "It doesn't care what happens
to us."

"Why should it?" he answered. "Think of all it's seen--the battles and the
fights and the plunder--and it doesn't care! We can do what we like and it
will remain just the same."

"People could come and knock it down," Joan said.

"I believe it would still be there if they did. The rock would be there
and the spirit of the Cathedral.... What do people matter beside a thing
like that? Why, we're ants...!"

He stopped suddenly.

"You'll think me foolish, Miss Brandon," he said. "You have known the
Cathedral so long----" He paused. "I think I know what you mean about
fearing it----"

He saw her to the door.

"Good-bye," he said, smiling. "Come again."

"I like him," she thought as she walked away. What a splendid day she had
had!

Chapter IV

The Impertinent Elephant

Archdeacon Brandon had surmounted with surprising celerity the shock of
Falk's unexpected return. He was helped to this firstly by his confident
belief in a God who had him especially in His eye and would, on no
account, do him any harm. As God had decided that Falk had better leave
Oxford, it was foolish to argue that it would have been wiser for him to
stay there. Secondly, he was helped by his own love for, and pride in, his
son. The independence and scorn that were so large a part of Falk's nature
were after his own heart. He might fight and oppose them (he often did),
but always behind the contest there was appreciation and approbation. That
was the way for a son of his to treat the world--to snap his fingers at
it! The natural thing to do, the good old world being as stupid as it was.
Thirdly, he was helped by his family pride. It took him only a night's
reflection to arrive at the decision that Falk had been entirely right in
this affair and Oxford entirely in the wrong. Two days after Falk's return
he wrote (without saying anything to the boy) Falk's tutor a very warm
letter, pointing out that he was sure the tutor would agree with him that
a little more tact and diplomacy might have prevented so unfortunate an
issue. It was not for him, Brandon, to suggest that the authorities in
Oxford were perhaps a little behind the times, a little out of the world.
Nevertheless it was probably true that long residence in Oxford had
hindered the aforesaid authorities from realising the trend of the day,
from appreciating the new spirit of independence that was growing up in
our younger generation. It seemed obvious to him, Archdeacon Brandon, that
you could no longer treat men of Falk's age and character as mere boys
and, although he was quite sure that the authorities at Oxford had done
their best, he nevertheless hoped that this unfortunate episode would
enable them to see that we were not now living in the Middle Ages, but
rather in the last years of the nineteenth century. It may seem to some a
little ironical that the Archdeacon, who was the most conservative soul
alive, should write thus to one of the most conservative of our
institutions, but--"Before Oxford the Brandons were...."

What the tutor remarked when he read this letter is not recorded. Brandon
said nothing to Falk about all this. Indeed, during the first weeks after
Falk's return he preserved a stern and dignified silence. After all, the
boy must learn that authority was authority, and he prided himself that he
knew, better than any number of Oxford Dons, how to train and educate the
young. Nevertheless light broke through. Some of Falk's jokes were so good
that his father, who had a real sense of fun if only a slight sense of
humour, was bound to laugh. Very soon father and son resumed their old
relations of sudden tempers and mutual admiration, and a strange, rather
pathetic, quite uneloquent love that was none the less real because it
was, on either side, completely selfish.

But there was a fourth reason why Falk's return caused so slight a storm.
That reason was that the Archdeacon was now girding up his loins before he
entered upon one of his famous campaigns. There had been many campaigns in
the past. Campaigns were indeed as truly the breath of the Archdeacon's
nostrils as they had been once of the great Napoleon's--and in every one
of them had the Archdeacon been victorious.

This one was to be the greatest of them all, and was to set the sign and
seal upon the whole of his career.

It happened that, three miles out of Polchester, there was a little
village known as Pybus St. Anthony. A very beautiful village it was, with
orchards and a stream and old-world cottages and a fine Norman church. But
not for its orchards nor its stream nor its church was it famous. It was
famous because for many years its listing had been regarded as one of the
most important in the whole diocese of Polchester. It was the tradition
that the man who went to Pybus St. Anthony had the world in front of him.
When likely men for preferment were looked for it was to Pybus St. Anthony
that men looked. Heaven alone knows how many Canons and Archdeacons had
made their first bow there to the Glebeshire world! Three Deans and a
Bishop had, at different times, made it their first stepping-stone to
fame. Canon Morrison (Honorary Canon of the Cathedral) was its present
incumbent. Less intellectual than some of the earlier incumbents, he was
nevertheless a fine fellow. He had been there only three years when
symptoms of cancer of the throat had appeared. He had been operated on in
London, and at first it had seemed that he would recover. Then the dreaded
signs had reappeared; he had wished, poor man, to surrender the living,
but because there was yet hope the Chapter, in whose gift the living was,
had insisted on his remaining.

A week ago, however, he had collapsed. It was feared now that at any
moment he might die. The Archdeacon was very sorry for Morrison. He liked
him, and was deeply touched by his tragedy; nevertheless one must face
facts; it was probable that at any moment now the Chapter would be forced
to make a new appointment.

He had been aware--he did not disguise it from himself in the least--for
some time now of the way that the appointment must go. There was a young
man, the Rev. Rex Forsyth by name, who, in his judgment, could be the only
possible man. Young Forsyth was, at the present moment, chaplain to the
Bishop of St. Minworth. St. Minworth was only a Suffragan Bishopric, and
it could not honestly be said that there was a great deal for Mr. Forsyth
to do there. But it was not because the Archdeacon thought that the young
man ought to have more to do that he wished to move him to Pybus St.
Anthony. Far from it! The Archdeacon, in the deep secrecy of his own
heart, could not honestly admit that young Forsyth was a very hard worker
--he liked hunting and whist and a good bottle of wine...he was that
kind of man.

Where, then, were his qualifications as Canon Morrison's successor? Well,
quite honestly--and the Archdeacon was one of the honestest men alive--his
qualifications belonged more especially to his ancestors rather than to
himself. In the Archdeacon's opinion there had been too many _clever_
men of Pybus. Time now for a _normal_ man. Morrison was normal and
Forsyth would be more normal still.

He was in fact first cousin to young Johnny St. Leath and therefore a very
near relation of the Countess herself. His father was the fourth son of
the Earl of Trewithen, and, as every one knows, the Trewithens and the St.
Leaths are, for all practical purposes, one and the same family, and
divide Glebeshire between them. No one ever quite knew what young Rex
Forsyth became a parson for. Some people said he did it for a wager; but
however true that might be, he was not very happy with dear old Bishop
Clematis and very ready for preferment.

Now the Archdeacon was no snob; he believed in men and women who had long
and elaborate family-trees simply because he believed in institutions and
because it had always seemed to him a quite obvious fact that the longer
any one or anything remained in a place the more chance there was of
things being done as they always had been done. It was not in the least
because she was a Countess that he thought the old Lady St. Leath a
wonderful woman; not wonderful for her looks certainly--no one could call
her a beautiful woman--and not wonderful for her intelligence; the
Archdeacon had frequently been compelled to admit to himself that she was
a little on the stupid side--but wonderful for her capacity for staying
where she was like a rock and allowing nothing whatever to move her. In
these dangerous days--and what dangerous days they were!--the safety of
the country simply depended on a few such figures as the Countess. Queen
Victoria was another of them, and for her the Archdeacon had a real and
very touching devotion. Thank God he would be able to show a little of it
in the prominent part he intended to play in the Polchester Jubilee
festivals this year!

Any one could see then that to have young Rex Forsyth close at hand at
Pybus St. Anthony was the very best possible thing for the good of
Polchester. Lady St. Leath saw it, Mrs. Combermere saw it, Mrs. Sampson
saw it, and young Forsyth himself saw it. The Archdeacon entirely failed
to understand how there could be any one who did not see it. However, he
was afraid that there were one or two in Polchester.... People said that
young Forsyth was stupid! Perhaps he was not very bright; all the easier
then to direct him in the way that he should go, and throw his forces into
the right direction. People said that he cared more for his hunting and
his whist than for his work--well, he was young and, at any rate, there
was none of the canting hypocrite about him. The Archdeacon hated canting
hypocrites!

There had been signs, once and again, of certain anarchists and devilish
fellows, who crept up and down the streets of Polchester spreading their
wicked mischief, their lying and disintegrating ideas. The Archdeacon was
determined to fight them to the very last breath in his body, even as the
Black Bishop before him had fought _his_ enemies. And the Archdeacon
had no fear of his victory.

Rex Forsyth at Pybus St. Anthony would be a fine step forward. Have one of
these irreligious radicals there, and Heaven alone knew what harm he might
wreak. No, Polchester must be saved. Let the rest of the world go to
pieces, Polchester would be preserved.

On how many earlier occasions had the Archdeacon surveyed the Chapter,
considered it in all its details and weighed up judiciously the elements,
good and bad, that composed it. How well he knew them all! First the Dean,
mild and polite and amiable, his mind generally busy with his beloved
flora and fauna, his flowers and his butterflies, very easy indeed to deal
with. Then Archdeacon Witheram, most nobly conscientious, a really devout
man, taking his work with a seriousness that was simply admirable, but
glued to the details of his own half of the diocese, so that broader and
larger questions did not concern him very closely. Bentinck-Major next.
The Archdeacon flattered himself that he knew Bentinck-Major through and
through--his snobbery, his vanity, his childish pleasure in his position
and his cook, his vanity in his own smart appearance! It would be
difficult to find words adequate for the scorn with which the Archdeacon
regarded that elegant little man. Then Byle, the Precentor. He was, to
some extent, an unknown quantity. His chief characteristic perhaps was his
hatred of quarrels--he would say or do anything if only he might not be
drawn into a "row." "Peace at any price" was his motto, and this, of
course, as with the famous Vicar of Bray, involved a good deal of
insincerity. The Archdeacon knew that he could not trust him, but a
masterful policy of terrorism had always been very successful. Kyle was
frankly frightened by the Archdeacon, and a very good thing too! Might he
long remain so! Lastly there was Foster, the Diocesan Missioner. Let it be
said at once that the Archdeacon hated Foster. Foster had been a thorn in
the Archdeacon's side ever since his arrival in Polchester--a thin,
shambly-kneed, untidy, pale-faced prig, that was what Foster was! The
Archdeacon hated everything about him--his grey hair, his large protruding
ears, the pimple on the end of his nose, the baggy knees to his trousers,
his thick heavy hands that never seemed to be properly washed.

Nevertheless beneath that hatred the Archdeacon was compelled to a
reluctant admiration. The man was fearless, a fanatic if you please, but
devoted to his religion, believing in it with a fervour and sincerity that
nothing could shake. An able man too, the best preacher in the diocese,
better read in every kind of theology than any clergyman in Glebeshire. It
was especially for his open mind about new religious ideas that the
Archdeacon mistrusted him. No opinion, however heterodox, shocked him. He
welcomed new thought and had himself written a book, _Christ and the
Gospels_, that for its learning and broad-mindedness had created a
considerable stir. But he was a dull dog, never laughed, never even
smiled, lived by himself and kept to himself. He had, in the past, opposed
every plan of the Archdeacon's, and opposed it relentlessly, but he was
always, thanks to the Archdeacon's efforts, in a minority. The other
Canons disliked him; the old Bishop, safely tucked away in his Palace at
Carpledon, was, except for his satellite Rogers, his only friend in
Polchester.

So much for the Chapter. There was now only one unknown element in the
situation--Ronder. Ronder's position was important because he was
Treasurer to the Cathedral. His predecessor, Hart-Smith, now promoted to
the Deanery of Norwich, had been an able man, but one of the old school, a
great friend of Brandon's, seeing eye to eye with him in everything. The
Archdeacon then had had his finger very closely upon the Cathedral purse,
and Hart-Smith's departure had been a very serious blow. The appointment
of the new Canon had been in the hands of the Crown, and Brandon had, of
course, had nothing to say to it. However, one glance at Ronder--he had
seen him and spoken to him at the Dean's a few days after his arrival--had
reassured him. Here, surely, was a man whom he need not fear--an easy,
good-natured, rather stupid fellow by the look of him. Brandon hoped to
have his finger on the Cathedral purse as tightly in a few weeks' time as
he had had it before.

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