by Hugh Walpole
People had had to fight desperately for money when they should have been given it at once; on the other hand, the Cathedral had been well looked after — it was rather dependent bodies like the School, the Almshouses, and various livings in the Chapter grant that had suffered.
Anything that could possibly be considered a novelty had been fought and generally defeated. “There will be a lot of novelties before I’ve finished with them,” Ronder said to himself.
He started his investigations by paying calls on Bentinck-Major and Canon Foster. Bentinck-Major lived at the top of Orange Street, in a fine house with a garden, and Foster lived in one of four tumble-down buildings behind the Cathedral, known from time immemorial as Canon’s Yard.
The afternoon of his visit was about three days after a dinner-party at the Castle. He had seen and heard enough at that dinner to amuse him for many a day; he considered it to have been one of the most entertaining dinners at which he had ever been present. It had been here that he had heard for the first time of the Pybus St. Anthony living. Brandon had been present, and he observed Brandon’s nervousness, and gathered enough to realise that this would be a matter of considerable seriousness. He was to know a great deal more about it before the afternoon was over.
As he walked through the town on the way to Orange Street he came upon Ryle, the Precentor. Ryle looked the typical clergyman, tall but not too tall, here a smile and there a smile, with his soft black hat, his trousers too baggy at the knees, his boots and his gold watch-chain both too large.
He cared, with serious devotion, for the Cathedral music and sang the services beautifully, but he would have been able to give more time to his work were he not so continuously worrying as to whether people were vexed with him or no. His idea of Paradise was a place where he could chant eternal services and where everybody liked him. He was a good man, but weak, and therefore driven again and again into insincerity. It was as though there was for ever in front of him the consciousness of some secret in his past life that must on no account be discovered; but, poor man, he had no secret at all.
“Well, Precentor, and how are you?” said Ronder, beaming at him over his spectacles.
Ryle started. Ronder had come behind him. He liked the look of Ronder. He always preferred fat men to thin; they were much less malicious, he thought.
“Oh, thank you, Canon Ronder — very well, thank you. I didn’t see you. Quite spring weather. Are you going my way?”
“I’m off to see Bentinck-Major.”
“Oh, yes, Bentinck-Major....”
Ryle’s first thought was— “Now is Bentinck-Major likely to have anything to say against me this afternoon?”
“I’m going up Orange Street too. It’s the High School Governors’ meeting, you know.”
“Oh, yes, of course.”
The two men started up the hill together. Ronder surveyed the scene around him with pleasure. Orange Street always satisfied his aesthetic sense. It was the street of the doctors, the solicitors, the dentists, the bankers, and the wealthier old maids of Polchester. The grey stone was of a charming age, the houses with their bow-windows, their pillared porches, their deep-set doors, their gleaming old-fashioned knockers, spoke eloquently of the day when the great Jane’s Elizabeths and D’Arcys, Mrs. Morrises and Misses Bates found the world in a tea-cup, when passions were solved by matrimony and ambitions by the possession of a carriage and a fine pair of bays. But more than this was the way that the gardens and lawns and orchards ran unchecked in and out, up and down, here breaking into the street, there crowding a church with apple-trees, seeming to speak, at every step, of leisure and sunny days and lives free of care.
Ronder had never seen anything so pretty; something seemed to tell him that he would never see anything so pretty again.
Ryle was not a good conversationalist, because he had always before him the fear that some one might twist what he said into something really unpleasant, but, indeed, he found Ronder so agreeable that, as he told Mrs. Ryle when he got home, he “never noticed the hill at all.”
“I hope you won’t think me impertinent,” said Ronder, “but I must tell you how charmed I was with the way that you sang the service on Sunday. You must have been complimented often enough before, but a stranger always has the right, I think, to say something. I’m a little critical, too, of that kind of thing, although, of course, an amateur...but — well, it was delightful.”
Ryle flushed with pleasure to the very tips of his over-large ears.
“Oh, really, Canon...But indeed I hardly know what to say. You’re too good. I do my poor best, but I can’t help feeling that there is danger of one’s becoming stale. I’ve been here a great many years now and I think some one fresh....”
“Well, often,” said Ronder, “that is a danger. I know several cases where a change would be all for the better, but in your case there wasn’t a trace of staleness. I do hope you won’t think me presumptuous in saying this. I couldn’t help myself. I must congratulate you, too, on the choir. How do you find Brockett as an organist?”
“Not quite all one would wish,” said Ryle eagerly — and then, as though he remembered that some one might repeat this to Brockett, he added hurriedly, “Not that he doesn’t do his best. He’s an excellent fellow. Every one has their faults. It’s only that he’s a little too fond of adventures on his own account, likes to add things on the spur of the moment...a little fantastic sometimes.”
“Quite so,” said Ronder gravely. “That’s rather what I’d thought myself. I noticed it once or twice last Sunday. But that’s a fault on the right side. The boys behave admirably. I never saw better behaviour.”
Ryle was now in his element. He let himself go, explaining this, defending that, apologising for one thing, hoping for another. Before he knew where he was he found himself at the turning above the monument that led to the High School.
“Here we part,” he said.
“Why, so we do,” cried Ronder.
“I do hope,” said Ryle nervously, “that you’ll come and see us soon. Mrs. Ryle will be delighted....”
“Why, of course I will,” said Ronder. “Any day you like. Good-bye. Good- bye,” and he went to Bentinck-Major’s.
One look at Bentinck-Major’s garden told a great deal about Bentinck- Major. The flower-beds, the trim over-green lawn, the neat paths, the trees in their fitting places, all spoke not only of a belief in material things but a desire also to demonstrate that one so believed....
One expected indeed to see the Bentinck-Major arms over the front-door. They were there in spirit if not in fact.
“Is the Canon in?” Ronder asked of a small and gaping page-boy.
He was in, it appeared. Would he see Canon Ronder? The page-boy disappeared and Ronder was able to observe three family trees framed in oak, a large china bowl with visiting-cards, and a huge round-faced clock that, even as he waited there, pompously announced that half-hour. Presently the Canon, like a shining Ganymede, came flying into the hall.
“My dear Ronder! But this is delightful. A little early for tea, perhaps. Indeed, my wife is, for the moment, out. What do you say to the library?”
Ronder had nothing to say against the library, and into it they went. A fine room with books in leather bindings, high windows, an oil painting of the Canon as a smart young curate, a magnificent writing-table, The Spectator and The Church Times near the fireplace, and two deep leather arm-chairs. Into these last two the clergymen sank.
Bentinck-Major put his fingers together, crossed his admirable legs, and looked interrogatively at his visitor.
“I’m lucky to catch you at home,” said Ronder. “This isn’t quite the time to call, I’m afraid. But the fact is that I want some advice.”
“Quite so,” said his host.
“I’m not a very modest man,” said Ronder, laughing. “In fact, to tell you the truth, I don’t believe very much in modesty. But there are times when it’s just as well to admit one’s incompetence. This is one
of them—”
“Why, really, Canon,” said Bentinck-Major, wishing to give the poor man encouragement.
“No, but I mean what I say. I don’t consider myself a stupid man, but when one comes fresh into a place like this there are many things that one can’t know, and that one must learn from some one wiser than oneself if one’s to do any good.”
“Oh, really, Canon,” Bentinck-Major repeated. “If there’s anything I can do—”.
“There is. It isn’t so much about the actual details of the work that I want your advice. Hart-Smith has left things in excellent condition, and I only hope that I shall be able to keep everything as straight as he has done. What I really want from you is some sort of bird’s-eye view as to the whole situation. The Chapter, for instance. Of course, I’ve been here for some months now and have a little idea as to the people in the place, but you’ve been here so long that there are many things that you can tell me.”
“Now, for instance,” said Bentinck-Major, looking very wise and serious. “What kind of things?”
“I don’t want you to tell me any secrets,” said Ronder. “I only want your opinion, as a man of the world, as to how things stand — what really wants doing, who, Beside yourself, are the leading men here and in what directions they work. I needn’t say that this conversation is confidential.”
“Oh, of course, of course.”
“Now, I don’t know if I’m wrong, but it seems from what I’ve seen during the short time that I’ve been here that the general point of view is inclined to be a little too local. I believe you rather feel that yourself, although I may be prejudiced, coming straight as I have from London.”
“It’s odd that you should mention that, Canon,” said Bentinck-Major. “You’ve put your finger on the weak spot at once. You’re only saying what I’ve been crying aloud for the last ever so many years. A voice in the wilderness I’ve been, I’m afraid — a voice in the wilderness, although perhaps I have managed to do a little something. But there’s no doubt that the men here, excellent though they are, are a little provincial. What else can you expect? They’ve been here for years. They have not had, most of them, the advantage of mingling with the great world. That I should have had a little more of that opportunity than my fellows here is nothing to my credit, but it does, beyond question, give one a wider view — a wider view. There’s our dear Bishop for instance — a saint, if ever there was one. A saint, Ronder, I assure you. But there he is, hidden away at Carpledon — out of things, I’m afraid, although of course he does his best. Then there’s Sampson. Well, I hardly need to tell you that he’s not quite the man to make things hum. Not by his own fault I assure you. He does his best, but we are as we’re made...yes. We can only use the gifts that God has given us, and God has not, undoubtedly, given the Dean quite the gifts that we need here.”
He paused and waited. He was a cautious man and weighed his words.
“Then there’s Brandon,” said Ronder smiling. “There, if I may say so, is a splendid character, a man who gives his whole life and energy for the good of the place — who spares himself nothing.”
There was a little pause. Bentinck-Major took advantage of it to look graver than ever.
“He strikes you like that, does he?” he said at last. “Well, in many ways I think you’re right. Brandon is a good friend of mine — I may say that he thoroughly appreciates what I’ve done for this place. But he is — quite between ourselves — how shall I put it? — just a little autocratic. Perhaps that’s too strong a word, but he is, some think, a little too inclined to fancy that he runs the Cathedral! That, mind you, is only the opinion of some here, and I don’t know that I should entirely associate myself with it, but perhaps there is something in it. He is, as you can see, a man of strong will and, again between ourselves, of a considerable temper. This will not, I’m sure, go further than ourselves?”
“Absolutely not,” said Ronder.
“Things have been a little slack here for several years, and although I’ve done my own little best, what is one against so many, if you understand what I mean?”
“Quite,” said Ronder.
“Well, nobody could call Brandon an unenergetic man — quite the reverse. And, to put it frankly, to oppose him one needs courage. Now I may say that I’ve opposed him on a number of occasions but have had no backing. Brandon, when he’s angry, is no light opponent, and the result has been that he’s had, I’m afraid, a great deal of his own way.”
“You’re afraid?” said Ronder.
Bentinck-Major seemed a little nervous at being caught up so quickly. He looked at Ronder suspiciously. His voice was sharper than it had been.
“Oh, I like Brandon — don’t make any mistake about that. He and I together have done some excellent things here. In many ways he’s admirable. I don’t know what I’d have done sometimes without his backing. All I mean is that he is perhaps a little hasty sometimes.”
“Quite,” said Ronder. “I can’t tell you how you’ve helped me by what you’ve told me. I’m sure you’re right in everything you’ve said. If you were to give me a tip then, you’d say that I couldn’t do better than follow Brandon. I’ll remember that.”
“Well, no,” said Bentinck-Major rather hastily. “I don’t know that I’d quite say that either. Brandon is often wrong. I’m not sure either that he has quite the influence he had. That silly little incident of the elephant the other day — you heard that, didn’t you? — well, a trivial thing, but one saw by the way that the town took it that the Archdeacon isn’t quite where he was. I agree with him entirely in his policy — to keep things as they always have been. That’s the only way to save our Church, in my opinion. As soon as they tell me an idea’s new, that’s enough for me...I’m down on it at once. But what I do think is that his diplomacy is often faulty. He rushes at things like a bull — exactly like a bull. A little too confident always. No, if you won’t think me conceited — and I believe I’m a modest man — you couldn’t do better than come to me — talk things over with me, you know. I’m sure we’ll see alike about many things.”
“I’m sure we will,” said Ronder. “Thank you very much. As you’ve been so kind I’m sure you won’t mind my asking you a few questions. I hope I’m not keeping you from anything.”
“Not at all. Not at all,” said Bentinck-Major very graciously, and stretching his plump little body back into the arm-chair. “Ask as many questions as you like and I’ll do my best to answer them.”
Ronder did then, during the next half-hour, ask a great many questions, and he received a great many answers. The answers may not have told him overmuch about the things that he wanted to know, but they did tell him a great deal about Bentinck-Major.
The clock struck four.
Ronder got up.
“You don’t know how you’ve helped me,” he said. “You’ve told me exactly what I wanted to know. Thank you so very much.”
Bentinck-Major looked gratified. He had, in fact, thoroughly enjoyed himself.
“Oh, but you’ll stay and have some tea, won’t you?”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that. I’ve got a pretty busy afternoon still in front of me.”
“My wife will be so disappointed.”
“You’ll let me come another day, won’t you?”
“Of course. Of course.”
The Canon himself accompanied his guest into the hall and opened the front door for him.
“Any time — any time — that I can help you.”
“Thank you so very much. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye. Good-bye.”
So far so good, but Ronder was aware that his next visit would be quite another affair — and so indeed it proved.
To reach Canon’s Yard from Orange Street, Ronder had to go down through Green Lane past the Orchards, and up by a steep path into Bodger’s Street and the small houses that have clustered for many years behind the Cathedral. Here once was Saint Margaret’s Monastery utterly swept away, until not a stone
remained, by Henry VIII.’s servants. Saint Margaret’s only memory lingers in the Saint Margaret’s Hostel for Women at the top of Bodger’s Street, and even that has now a worn and desolate air as though it also were on the edge of departure. In truth, this part of Polchester is neglected and forgotten; it has not sunk like Seatown into dirt and degradation, it has still an air of romance and colour, but the life is gone from it.
Canon’s Yard is behind the Hostel and is a little square, shut-in, cobbled place with tall thin houses closing it in and the Cathedral towers overhanging it. Rooks and bells and the rattle of carts upon the cobbles make a perpetual clatter here, and its atmosphere is stuffy and begrimed. When the Cathedral chimes ring they echo from house to house, from wall to wall, so that it seems as though the bells of a hundred Cathedrals were ringing here. Nevertheless from the high windows of the Yard there is a fine view of orchards and hills and distant woods — a view not to be despised.
The house in which Canon Foster had his rooms is one of the oldest of all the houses. The house was kept by one Mrs. Maddis, who had “run” rooms for the clergy ever since her first marriage, when she was a pretty blushing girl of twenty. She was now a hideous old woman of eighty, and the house was managed by her married daughter, Mrs. Crumpleton. There were three floors and there should have been three clergymen, but for some time the bottom floor had been empty and the middle apartments were let to transient tenants. They were at this moment inhabited by a retired sea- captain.
Foster reigned on the top floor and was quite oblivious of neighbours, landladies, tidiness, and the view — he cared, by nature, for none of these things. Ronder climbed up the dirty dark staircase and knocked on the old oak door that had upon it a dirty visiting card with Foster’s name. When he ceased his climb and the noise of his footsteps fell away there was a great silence. Not a sound could be heard. The bells were not chiming, the rooks were not cawing (it was not as yet their time) nor was the voice of Mrs. Crumpleton to be heard, shrill and defiant, as was too often the case. The house was dead; the town was dead; had the world itself suddenly died, like a candle whose light is put out, Foster would not have cared.