by Hugh Walpole
The Lucifer Room was a favourite resort of his, favourite because there was a long bare floor across which he could walk with no furniture to interrupt him, and because, too, no one ever came there. It was a room in the Bishop’s Tower that had once, many hundreds of years ago, been used by the monks as a small refectory. Many years had passed now since it had seen any sort of occupation save that of bats, owls and mice. There was a fireplace at the far end that had long been blocked up, but that still showed curious carving, the heads of monkeys and rabbits, winged birds, a twisting dragon with a long tail, and the figure of a saint holding up a crucifix. Over the door was an old clock that had long ceased to tell the hours; this had a strangely carved wood canopy. Two little windows with faint stained glass gave an obscure light. The subjects of these windows were confused, but the old colours, deep reds and blues, blended with a rich glow that no modern glass could obtain. The ribs and bosses of the vaulting of the room were in faded colours and dull gold. In one corner of the room was an old, dusty, long-neglected harmonium. Against the wall were hanging some wooden figures, large life-sized saints, two male and two female, once outside the building, painted on the wood in faded crimson and yellow and gold. Much of the colour had been worn away with rain and wind, but two of the faces were still bright and stared with a gentle fixed gaze out into the dim air. Two old banners, torn and thin, flapped from one of the vaultings. The floor was worn, and creaked with every step. As Brandon pushed back the heavy door and entered, some bird in a distant corner flew with a frightened stir across to the window. Occasionally some one urged that steps should be taken to renovate the place and make some use of it, but nothing was ever done. Stories connected with it had faded away; no one now could tell why it was called the Lucifer Room — and no one cared.
Its dimness and shadowed coloured light suited Brandon to-day. He wanted to be where no one could see him, where he could gather together the resistance with which to meet the world. He paced up and down, his hands behind his back; he fancied that the old saints looked at him with kindly affection.
And now, for a moment, all his pride and anger were gone, and he could think of nothing but his love for his son. He had an impulse that almost moved him to hurry home, to take the next train up to London, to find Falk, to take him in his arms and forgive him. He saw again and again that last meeting that they had had, when Falk had kissed him. He knew now what that had meant. After all, the boy was right. He had been in the wrong to have kept him here, doing nothing. It was fine of the boy to take things into his own hands, to show his independence and to fight for his own individuality. It was what he himself would have done if — then the thought of Annie Hogg cut across his tenderness and behind Annie her father, that fat, smiling, red-faced scoundrel, the worst villain in the town. At the sudden realisation that there was now a link between himself and that man, and that that link had been forged by his own son, tenderness and affection fled. He could only entertain one emotion at a time, and immediately he was swept into such a fury that he stopped in his walk, lifted his head, and cursed Falk. For that he would never forgive him, for the public shame and disgrace that he had brought upon the Brandon name, upon his mother and his sister, upon the Cathedral, upon all authority and discipline and seemliness in the town.
He suffered then the deepest agony that perhaps in all his life he had ever known. There was no one there to see. He sank down upon the wooden coping that protruded from the old wall and hid his face in his hands as though he were too deeply ashamed to encounter even the dim faces of the old wooden figures.
There was a stir in the room; the little door opened and closed; the bird, with a flutter of wings, flew back to its corner. Brandon looked up and saw a faint shadow of a man. He rose and took some steps towards the door, then he stopped because be saw that the man was Davray the painter.
He had never spoken to this man, but be had hated everything that he had ever heard about him. In the first place, to be an artist was, in the Archdeacon’s mind, synonymous with being a loose liver and an atheist. Then this fellow was, as all the town knew, a drunkard, an idler, a dissolute waster who had brought nothing upon Polchester but disgrace. Had Brandon had his way he would, long ago, have had him publicly expelled and forbidden ever to return. The thought that this man should be in the Cathedral at all was shocking to him and, in his present mood, quite intolerable. He saw, dim though the light was, that the man was drunk now.
Davray lurched forward a step, then said huskily:
“Well, so your fine son’s run away with Hogg’s pretty daughter.”
The sense that he had had already that his son’s action, had suddenly bound him into company with all the powers of evil and destruction rose to its full height at the sound of the man’s voice; but with it rose, too, his self-command. The very disgust with which Davray filled him contributed to his own control and dignity.
“You should feel ashamed, sir,” he said quietly, standing still where be was, “to be in that condition in this building. Or are you too drunk to know where you are?”
“That’s all right, Archdeacon,” Davray said, laughing. “Of course I’m drunk. I generally am — and that’s my affair. But I’m not so drunk as not to know where I am and not to know who you are and what’s happened to you. I know all those things, I’m glad to say. Perhaps I am a little ahead of yourself in that. Perhaps you don’t know yet what your young hopeful has been doing.”
Brandon was as still as one of the old wooden saints.
“Then if you are sober enough to know where you are, leave this place and do not return to it until you are in a fit state.”
“Fit! I like that.” The sense that he was alone now for the first time in his life with the man whom he had so long hated infuriated Davray. “Fit? Let me tell you this, old cock, I’m twice as fit to be here as you’re ever likely to be. Though I have been drinking and letting myself go, I’m fitter to be here than you are, you stuck-up, pompous fool.”
Brandon did not stir.
“Go home!” he said; “go home! Recover your senses and ask God’s forgiveness.”
“God’s forgiveness!” Davray moved a step forward as though he would strike. Brandon made no movement. “That’s like your damned cheek. Who wants forgiveness as you do? Ask this Cathedral — ask it whether I have not loved it, adored it, worshipped it as I’ve worshipped no woman. Ask it whether I have not been faithful, drunkard and sot as I am. And ask it what it thinks of you — of your patronage and pomposity and conceit. When have you thought of the Cathedral and its beauty, and not always of yourself and your grandeur?...Why, man, we’re sick of you, all of us from the top man in the place to the smallest boy. And the Cathedral is sick of you and your damned conceit, and is going to get rid of you, too, if you won’t go of yourself. And this is the first step. Your son’s gone with a whore to London, and all the town’s laughing at you.”
Brandon did not flinch. The man was close to him; he could smell his drunken breath — but behind his words, drunken though they might be, was a hatred so intense, so deep, so real, that it was like a fierce physical blow. Hatred of himself. He had never conceived in all his life that any one hated him — and this man had hated him for years, a man to whom he had never spoken before to-day.
Davray, as was often his manner, seemed suddenly to sober. He stood aside and spoke more quietly, almost without passion.
“I’ve been waiting for this moment for years,” he said; “you don’t know how I’ve watched you Sunday after Sunday strutting about this lovely place, happy in your own conceit. Your very pride has been an insult to the God you pretend to serve. I don’t know whether there’s a God or no — there can’t be, or things wouldn’t happen as they do — but there is this place, alive, wonderful, beautiful, triumphant, and you’ve dared to put yourself above it....
“I could have shouted for joy last night when I heard what your young hopeful had done. ‘That’s right,’ I said; ‘that’ll bring him down a bit. That’ll
teach him modesty.’ I had an extra drink on the strength of it. I’ve been hanging about all the morning to get a chance of speaking to you. I followed you up here. You’re one of us now, Archdeacon. You’re down on the ground at last, but not so low as you will be before the Cathedral has finished with you.”
“Go,” said Brandon, “or, House of God though this is, I’ll throw you out.”
“I’ll go. I’ve said my say for the moment. But we’ll meet again, never fear. You’re one of us now — one of us. Good-night.”
He passed through the door, and the dusky room was still again as though no one had been there....
There is an old German tale, by De la Motte Fouqué, I fancy, of a young traveller who asks his way to a certain castle, his destination. He is given his directions, and his guide tells him that the journey will be easy enough until he reaches a small wood through which he must pass. This wood will be dark and tangled and bewildering, but more sinister than those obstacles will be the inhabitants of it who, evil, malign, foul and bestial, devote their lives to the destruction of all travellers who endeavour to reach the castle on the hill beyond. And the tale tells how the young traveller, proud of his youth and strength, confident in the security of his armour, nevertheless, when he crosses the dark border of the wood, feels as though his whole world has changed, as though everything in which he formerly trusted is of no value, as though the very weapons that were his chief defence now made him most defenceless. He has in the heart of that wood many perilous adventures, but worst of them all, when he is almost at the end of his strength, is the sudden conviction that he has himself changed, and is himself become one of the foul, gibbering, half-visioned monsters by whom he is surrounded.
As Brandon left the Cathedral there was something of that strange sense with him, a sense that had come to him first, perhaps, in its dimmest and most distant form, on the day of the circus and the elephant, and that now, in all its horrible vigour and confidence, was there close at his elbow. He had always held himself immaculate; he had come down to his fellow-men, loving them, indeed, but feeling that they were of some other clay than his own, and that through no especial virtue of his, but simply because God has so wished it. And now he had stood, and a drunken wastrel had cursed him and told him that he was detested by all men and that they waited for his downfall.
It was those last words of Davray’s that rang in his ears: “You’re one of us now. You’re one of us.” Drunkard and wastrel though the man was, those words could not be forgotten, would never be forgotten again.
With his head up, his shoulders back, he returned to his house.
The maid met him in the hall. “There’s a man waiting for you in the study, sir.”
“Who is it?”
“Mr. Samuel Hogg, sir.”
Brandon looked at the girl fixedly, but not unkindly.
“Why did you let him in, Gladys?”
“He wouldn’t take no denial, sir. Mrs. Brandon was out and Miss Joan. He said you were expecting him and ’e knew you’d soon be back.”
“You should never let any one wait, Gladys, unless I have told you beforehand.”
“No, sir.”
“Remember that in future, will you?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sure I’m sorry, sir, but — —”
Brandon went into his study.
Hogg was standing beside the window, a faded bowler in his hand. He turned when he heard the opening of the door; he presented to the Archdeacon a face of smiling and genial, if coarsened, amiability.
He was wearing rough country clothes, brown knickerbockers and gaiters, and looked something like a stout and seedy gamekeeper fond of the bottle.
“I’m sure you’ll forgive this liberty I’ve taken, Archdeacon,” he said, opening his mouth very wide as he smiled— “waiting for you like this; but the matter’s a bit urgent.”
“Yes?” said Brandon, not moving from the door.
“I’ve come in a friendly spirit, although there are men who might have come otherwise. You won’t deny that, considering the circumstances of the case.”
“I’ll be grateful to you if you’ll explain,” said Brandon, “as quickly as possibly your business.”
“Why, of course,” said Hogg, coming away from the window. “Why, of course, Archdeacon. Now, whoever would have thought that we, you and me, would be in the same box? And that’s putting it a bit mild considering that it’s my daughter that your son has run away with.”
Brandon said nothing, not, however, removing his eyes from Hogg’s face.
Hogg was all amiable geniality. “I know it must be against the grain, Archdeacon, having to deal with the likes of me. You’ve always counted yourself a strike above us country-folk, haven’t you, and quite natural too. But, again, in the course of nature we’ve both of us had children and that, as it turns out, is where we finds our common ground, so to speak — you a boy and me a lovely girl. Such a lovely girl, Archdeacon, as it’s natural enough your son should want to run away with.”
Brandon went across to his writing-table and sat down.
“Mr. Hogg,” he said, “it is true that I had a letter from my son this morning telling me that he had gone up to London with your daughter and was intending to marry her as soon as possible. You will not expect that I should approve of that step. My first impulse was, naturally enough, to go at once to London and to prevent his action at all costs. On thinking it over, however, I felt that as he had run away with the girl the least that he could now do was to marry her.
“I’m sure you will understand my feeling when I say that in taking this step I consider that he has disgraced himself and his family. He has cut himself off from his family irremediably. I think that really that is all that I have to say.”
Behind Hogg’s strange little half-closed eyes some gleam of anger and hatred passed. There was no sign of it in the geniality of his open smile.
“Why, certainly, Archdeacon, I can understand that you wouldn’t care for what he has done. But boys will be boys, won’t they? We’ve both been boys in our time, I daresay. You’ve looked at it from your point of view, and that’s natural enough. But human nature’s human nature, and you must forgive me if I look at it from mine. She’s my only girl, and a good girl she’s been to me, keepin’ herself to herself and doing her work and helping me wonderful. Well, your Young spark comes along, likes the look of her and ruins her....”
The Archdeacon made some movement ——
“Oh, you may say what you like, Archdeacon, and he may tell you what he likes, but you and I know what happens when two young things with hot blood gets together and there’s nobody by. They may mean to be straight enough, but before they knows where they are, nature’s took hold of them, and there they are.... But even supposin’ that ‘asn’t happened, I don’t know as I’m much better off. That girl was the very prop of my business; she’s gone, never to return, accordin’ to her own account. As to this marryin’ business, that may seem to you, Archdeacon, to improve things, but I’m not so sure that it does after all. You may be all very ‘igh and mighty in your way, but I’m thinkin’ of myself and the business. What good does my girl marryin’ your son do to me? That’s what I want to know.”
Brandon’s hands were clenched upon the table. Nevertheless he still spoke quietly.
“I don’t think, Mr. Hogg,” he said, “that there’s anything to be gained by our discussing this just now. I have only this morning heard of it. You may be assured that justice will be done, absolute justice, to your daughter and yourself.”
Hogg moved to the door.
“Why, certainly, Archdeacon. It is a bit early to discuss things. I daresay we shall be havin’ many a talk about it all before it’s over. I’m sure I only want to be friendly in the matter. As I said before, we’re in the same box, you and me, so to speak. That ought to make us tender towards one another, oughtn’t it? One losing his son and the other his daughter.
“Such a good girl as she was too. Certainly I�
��ll be going, Archdeacon; leave you to think it over a bit. I daresay you’ll see my point of view in time.”
“I think, Mr. Hogg, there’s nothing to be gained by your coming here. You shall hear from me.”
“Well, as to that, Archdeacon,” Hogg turned from the half-opened door, smiling, “that’s as may be. One can get further sometimes in a little talk than in a dozen letters. And I’m really not much of a letter-writer. But we’ll see ‘ow things go on. Good-evenin’.”
The talk had lasted but five minutes, and every piece of furniture in the room, the chairs, the table, the carpet, the pictures, seemed to have upon it some new stain of disfigurement. Even the windows were dimmed.
Brandon sat staring in front of him. The door opened again and his wife came in.
“That was Samuel Hogg who has just left you?”
“Yes,” he said.
He looked across the room at her and was instantly surprised by the strangest feeling. He was not, in his daily life, conscious of “feelings” of any sort — that was not his way. But the events of the past two days seemed to bring him suddenly into a new contact with real life, as though, having lived in a balloon all this time, he had been suddenly bumped out of it with a jerk and found Mother Earth with a terrible bang. He would have told you a week ago that there was nothing about his wife that he did not know and nothing about his own feelings towards her — and yet, after all, the most that he had known was to have no especial feelings towards her of any kind.
But to-day had been beyond possible question the most horrible day he had ever known, and it might be that the very horror of it was to force him to look upon everything on earth with new eyes. It had at least the immediate effect now of showing his wife to him as part of himself, as some one, therefore, hurt as he was, smirched and soiled and abused as he, needing care and kindness as he had never known her to need it before. It was a new feeling for him, a new tenderness.