by Hugh Walpole
Joan felt more her own response to the town than the town’s reassurance to her, but she was a little comforted and she felt a little safer.
She argued as she walked home through the Market Place and up the High Street and under the Arden Gate into the quiet sheltered Precincts, why should she think that Ronder mattered? After all might not he be the good fat clergyman that he appeared? It was more perhaps a kind of jealousy because of her father that she felt. She put aside her own little troubles in a sudden rush of tenderness for her family. She wanted to protect them all and make them happy. But how could she make them happy if they would tell her nothing? They still treated her as a child but she was a woman now. Her love for Johnny. She had admitted that to herself. She stopped on the path outside the decorous strait-laced houses and put her cool gloved hand up to her burning cheek.
She had known for a long time that she loved him, but she had not told herself. She must conquer that, stamp upon it. It was foolish, hopeless.... She ran up the steps of their house as though something pursued her.
She let herself in and found the hall dusky and obscure. The lamp had not yet been lit. She heard a voice:
“Who’s that?”
She looked up and saw her mother, a little, slender figure, standing at the turn of the stairs holding in her hand a lighted candle.
“It’s I, mother, Joan. I’ve just come from Gladys Sampson’s.”
“Oh! I thought it would be Falk. You didn’t pass Falk on your way?”
“No, mother dear.”
She went across to the little cupboard where the coats were hung. As she poked her head into the little, dark, musty place, she could feel that her mother was still standing there, listening.
Chapter IV
The Genial Heart
Ronder was never happier than when he was wishing well to all mankind.
He could neither force nor falsify this emotion. If he did not feel it he did not feel it, and himself was the loser. But it sometimes occurred that the weather was bright, that his digestion was functioning admirably, that he liked his surroundings, that he had agreeable work, that his prospects were happy — then he literally beamed upon mankind and in his fancy showered upon the poor and humble largesse of glittering coin. In such a mood he loved every one, would pat children on the back, help old men along the road, listen to the long winnings of the reluctant poor. Utterly genuine he was; he meant every word that he spoke and every smile that he bestowed.
Now, early in May and in Polchester he was in such a mood. Soon after his arrival he had discovered that he liked the place and that it promised to suit him well, but he had never supposed that it could develop into such perfection. Success already was his, but it was not success of so swift a kind that plots and plans were not needed. They were very much needed. He could remember no time in his past life when he had had so admirable a combination of difficulties to overcome. And they were difficulties of the right kind. They centred around a figure whom he could really like and admire. It would have been very unpleasant had he hated Brandon or despised him. Those were uncomfortable emotions in which he indulged as seldom as possible.
What he liked, above everything, was a fight, when he need have no temptation towards anger or bitterness. Who could be angry with poor Brandon? Nor could he despise him. In his simple blind confidence and self-esteem there was an element of truth, of strength, even of nobility.
Far from despising or hating Brandon, he liked him immensely — and he was on his way utterly to destroy him.
Then, as he approached nearer the centre of his drama, he noticed, as he had often noticed before, how strangely everything played into his hands. Without undue presumption it seemed that so soon as he determined that something ought to occur and began to work in a certain direction, God also decided that it was wise and pushed everything into its right place. This consciousness of Divine partnership gave Ronder a sense that his opponents were the merest pawns in a game whose issue was already decided.
Poor things, they were helpless indeed! This only added to his kindly feelings towards them, his sense of humour, too, was deeply stirred by their own unawareness of their fate — and he always liked any one who stirred his sense of humour.
Never before had he known everything to play so immediately into his hands as in this present case. Brandon, for instance, had just that stupid obstinacy that was required, the town had just that ignorance of the outer world and cleaving to old traditions. And now, how strange that the boy Falk had on several occasions stopped to speak to him and had at last asked whether he might come and see him!
How lucky that Brandon should be making this mistake about the Pybus St. Anthony living!
Finally, although he was completely frank with himself and knew that he was working, first and last, for his own future comfort, it did seem to him that he was also doing real benefit to the town. The times were changing. Men of Brandon’s type were anachronistic; the town had been under Brandon’s domination too long. New life was coming — a new world — a new civilisation.
Ronder, although no one believed less in Utopias than he, did believe in the Zeitgeist — simply for comfort’s sake if for no stronger reason. Well, the Zeitgeist was descending upon Polchester, and Ronder was its agent. Progress? No, Ronder did not believe in Progress. But in the House of Life there are many rooms; once and again the furniture is changed.
One afternoon early in May he was suddenly aware that everything was moving more swiftly upon its appointed course than he, sharp though he was, had been aware. Crossing the Cathedral Green he encountered Dr. Puddifoot. He knew that the Doctor had at first disliked him but was quickly coming over to his side and was beginning to consider him as “broad-minded for a parson and knowing a lot more about life than you would suppose.” He saw precisely into Puddifoot’s brain and watched the thoughts dart to and fro as though they had been so many goldfish in a glass bowl. He also liked Puddifoot for himself; he always liked stout, big, red-faced men; they were easier to deal with than the thin severe ones. He knew that the time would very shortly arrive when Puddifoot would tell him one of his improper stories. That would sanctify the friendship.
“Ha! Canon!” said Puddifoot, puffing like a seal. “Jolly day!”
They stood and talked, then, as they were both going into the town, they turned and walked towards the Arden Gate. Puddifoot talked about his health; like many doctors he was very timid about himself and eager to reassure himself in public. “How are you, Canon? But I needn’t ask — looking splendid. I’m all right myself — never felt better really. Just a twinge of rheumatics last night, but it’s nothing. Must expect something at my age, you know — getting on for seventy.”
“You look as though you’ll live for ever,” said Ronder, beaming upon him.
“You can’t always tell from us big fellows. There’s Brandon now, for instance — the Archdeacon.”
“Surely there isn’t a healthier man in the kingdom,” said Ronder, pushing his spectacles back into the bridge of his nose.
“Think so, wouldn’t you? But you’d be wrong. A sudden shock, and that man would be nowhere. Given to fits of anger, always tried his system too hard, never learnt control. Might have a stroke any day for all he looks so strong!”
“Really, really! Dear me!” said Ronder.
“Course these are medical secrets in a way. Know it won’t go any farther. But it’s curious, isn’t it? Appearances are deceptive — damned deceptive. That’s what they are. Brandon’s brain’s never been his strong point. Might go any moment.”
“Dear me, dear me,” said Ronder. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Oh, I don’t mean,” said Puddifoot, puffing and blowing out his cheeks like a cherub in a picture by Sir Joshua Reynolds, “that he’ll die to- morrow, you know — or have a stroke either. But he ain’t as secure as he looks. And he don’t take care of himself as he should.”
Outside the Library Ronder paused.
“Going in here
for a book, doctor. See you later.”
“Yes, yes,” said Puddifoot, his eyes staring up and down the street, as though they would burst out of his head. “Very good — very good. See you later then,” and so went blowing down the hill.
Ronder passed under the gloomy portals of the Library and found his way, through faith rather than vision, up the stone stairs that smelt of mildew and blotting-paper, into the high dingy room. He had had a sudden desire the night before to read an old story by Bage that he had not seen since he was a boy — the violent and melancholy Hermsprong.
It had come to him, as it were, in his dreams — a vision of himself rocking in a hammock in his uncle’s garden on a wonderful summer afternoon, eating apples and reading Hermsprong, the book discovered, he knew not by what chance, in the dusty depths of his uncle’s library. He would like to read it again. Hermsprong! the very scent of the skin of the apple, the blue-necked tapestry of light between the high boughs came back to him. He was a boy again.... He was brought up sharply by meeting the little red-rimmed eyes of Miss Milton. Red-rimmed to-day, surely, with recent weeping. She sat humped up on her chair, glaring out into the room.
“It’s all right, Miss Milton,” he said, smiling at her. “It’s an old book I want. I won’t bother you. I’ll look for myself.”
He passed into the further dim secrecies of the Library, whither so few penetrated. Here was an old ladder, and, mounted upon it, he confronted the vanished masterpieces of Holcroft and Radcliffe, Lewis and Jane Porter, Clara Reeve and MacKenzie, old calf-bound ghosts who threw up little clouds of sighing dust as he touched them with his fingers. He was happily preoccupied with his search, balancing his stout body precariously on the trembling ladder, when he fancied that he heard a sigh.
He stopped and listened; this time there could be no mistake. It was a sigh of prodigious intent and meaning, and it came from Miss Milton. Impatiently he turned back to his books; he would find his Bage as quickly as possible and go. He was not at all in the mood for lamentations from Miss Milton. Ah! there was Barham Downs. Hermsprong could not be far away. Then suddenly there came to him quite unmistakably a sob, then another, then two more, finally something that horribly resembled hysterics. He came down from his ladder and crossed the room.
“My dear Miss Milton!” he exclaimed. “Is there anything I can do?”
She presented a strange and unpoetic appearance, huddled up in her wooden arm-chair, one fat leg crooked under her, her head sinking into her ample bosom, her whole figure shaking with convulsive grief, the chair creaking sympathetically with her.
Ronder, seeing that she was in real distress, hurried up to her.
“My dear Miss Milton, what is it?”
For a while she could not speak; then raised a face of mottled purple and white, and, dabbing her cheeks with a handkerchief not of the cleanest, choked out between her sobs:
“My last week — Saturday — Saturday I go — disgrace — ugh, ugh — dismissed — Archdeacon.”
“But I don’t understand,” said Ronder, “who goes? Who’s disgraced?”
“I go!” cried Miss Milton, suddenly uncurling her body and her sobs checked by her anger. “I shouldn’t have given way like this, and before you, Canon Ronder. But I’m ruined — ruined! — and for doing my duty!”
Her change from the sobbing, broken woman to the impassioned avenger of justice was so immediate that Ronder was confused. “I still don’t understand, Miss Milton,” he said. “Do you say you are dismissed, and, if so, by whom?”
“I am dismissed! I am dismissed!” cried Miss Milton. “I leave here on Saturday. I have been librarian to this Library, Canon Ronder, for more than twenty years. Yes, twenty years. And now I’m dismissed like a dog with a month’s notice.”
She had collected her tears and, with a marvellous rapidity, packed them away. Her eyes, although red, were dry and glittering; her cheeks were of a pasty white marked with small red spots of indignation. Ronder, looking at her and her dirty hands, thought that he had never seen a woman whom he disliked more.
“But, Miss Milton,” he said, “if you’ll forgive me, I still don’t understand. Under whom do you hold this appointment? Who have the right to dismiss you? and, whoever it was, they must have given some reason.”
Miss Milton, was now the practical woman, speaking calmly, although her bosom still heaved and her fingers plucked confusedly with papers on the table in front of her. She spoke quietly, but behind her words there were so vehement a hatred, bitterness and malice that Ronder observed her with a new interest.
“There is a Library Committee, Canon Ronder,” she said. “Lady St. Leath is the president. It has in its hands the appointment of the librarian. It appointed me more than twenty years ago. It has now dismissed me with a month’s notice for what it calls — what it calls, Canon Ronder— ‘abuse and neglect of my duties.’ Abuse! Neglect! Me! about whom there has never been a word of complaint until — until — —”
Here again Miss Milton’s passions seemed to threaten to overwhelm her. She gathered herself together with a great effort.
“I know my enemy, Canon Ronder. Make no mistake about that. I know my enemy. Although, what I have ever done to him I cannot imagine. A more inoffensive person — —”
“Yes. — But,” said Canon Ronder gently, “tell me, if you can, exactly with what they charge you. Perhaps I can help you. Is it Lady St. Leath who — —”
“No, it is not Lady St. Leath,” broke in Miss Milton vehemently. “I owe Lady St. Leath much in the past. If she has been a little imperious at times, that after all is her right. Lady St. Leath is a perfect lady. What occurred was simply this: Some months ago I was keeping a book for Lady St. Leath that she especially wished to read. Miss Brandon, the daughter of the Archdeacon, came in and tried to take the book from me, saying that her mother wished to read it. I explained to her that it was being kept for Lady St. Leath; nevertheless, she persisted and complained to Lord St. Leath, who happened to be in the Library at the time; he, being a perfect gentleman, could of course do nothing but say that she was to have the book.
“She went home and complained, and it was the Archdeacon who brought up the affair at a Committee meeting and insisted on my dismissal. Yes, Canon Ronder, I know my enemy and I shall not forget it.”
“Dear me,” said Canon Ronder benevolently, “I’m more than sorry. Certainly it sounds a little hasty, although the Archdeacon is the most honourable of men.”
“Honourable! Honourable!” Miss Milton rose in her chair. “Honourable! He’s so swollen with pride that he doesn’t know what he is. Oh! I don’t measure my words. Canon Ronder, nor do I see any reason why I should.
“He has ruined my life. What have I now at my age to go to? A little secretarial work, and less and less of that. But it’s not that of which I complain. I am hurt in the very depths of my being, Canon Ronder. In my pride and my honour. Stains, wounds that I can never forget!”
It was so exactly as though Miss Milton had just been reading Hermsprong and was quoting from it that Ronder looked about him, almost expecting to see the dusty volume.
“Well, Miss Milton, perhaps I can put a little work in your way.”
“You’re very kind, sir,” she said. “There’s more than I in this town, sir, who’re glad that you’ve come among us, and hope that perhaps your presence may lead to a change some day amongst those in high authority.”
“Where are you living, Miss Milton?” he asked.
“Three St. James’ Lane,” she answered. “Just behind the Market and St. James’ Church. Opposite the Rectory. Two little rooms, my windows looking on to Mr. Morris’.”
“Very well, I’ll remember.”
“Thank you, sir, I’m sure. I’m afraid I’ve forgotten myself this morning, but there’s nothing like a sense of injustice for making you lose your self-control. I don’t care who hears me. I shall not forgive the Archdeacon.”
“Come, come, Miss Milton,” said Ronder. “We must all f
orgive and forget.”
Her eyes narrowed until they almost disappeared.
“I don’t wish to be unfair, Canon Ronder,” she said. “But I’ve worked for more than twenty years like an honourable woman, and to be turned out. — Not that I bear Mrs. Brandon any grudge, coming down to see Mr. Morris so often as she does. I daresay she doesn’t have too happy a time if all were known.”
“Now, now,” said Ronder. “This won’t do, Miss Milton. You won’t make your case better by talking scandal, you know. I have your address. If I can help you I will. Good afternoon.”
Forgetting Hermsprong, having now more important things to consider, he found his way down the steps and out into the air.
On every side now it seemed that the Archdeacon was making some blunder. Little unimportant blunders perhaps, but nevertheless cumulative in their effect! The balance had shifted. The Powers of the Air, bored perhaps with the too-extended spectacle of an Archdeacon successful and triumphant, had made a sign....
Ronder, as he stood in the spring sunlight, glancing up and down the High Street, so full of colour and movement, had an impulse as though it were almost a duty to go and warn the Archdeacon. “Look out! Look out! There’s a storm coming!” Warn the Archdeacon! He smiled. He could imagine to himself the scene and the reception his advice would have. Nevertheless, how sad that undoubtedly you cannot make an omelette without first breaking the eggs! And this omelette positively must be made!
He had intended to do a little shopping, an occupation in which he delighted because of the personal victories to be won, but suddenly now, moved by what impulse he could not tell, he turned back towards the Cathedral. He crossed the Green, and almost before he knew it he had pushed back the heavy West door and was in the dark, dimly coloured shadow. The air was chill. The nave was scattered with lozenges of purple and green light. He moved up the side aisle, thinking that now he was here he would exchange a word or two with old Lawrence. No harm would be done by a little casual amiability in that direction.