Delphi Collected Works of Hugh Walpole (Illustrated)

by Hugh Walpole

  He went over many of their past years together, and, nodding his head, decided that he had been often to blame. Then the further thought of what she had done, of her adultery, of her last letter, these like foul black water came sweeping up and darkened his mind.... No more. No more. He must do as he had done. Think only of Pybus. Fight that, win his victory, and then turn to what lay behind. But the sunlight no longer danced for him, he closed his eyes, turned on his side, and prayed to God out of his bewilderment.

  After breakfast he started out. A restless urgency drove him forth. The Chapter Meeting at which the new incumbent of Pybus was to be chosen was now only three days distant, and all the work in connection with that was completed — but Brandon could not be still. Some members of the Chapter he had seen over and over again during the last months, and had pressed Rex Forsyth’s claims upon them without ceasing, but this thing had become a symbol to him now — a symbol of his fight with Ronder, of his battle for the Cathedral, of his championship, behind that, of the whole cause of Christ’s Church.

  It seemed to him that if he were defeated now in this thing it would mean that God Himself had deserted him. At the mere thought of defeat his heart began to leap in his breast and the flags of the pavement to run before his eyes. But it could not be. He had been tested; like Job, every plague had been given to him to prove him true, but this last would shout to the world that his power was gone and that the Cathedral that he loved had no longer a place for him. And then — and then ——

  He would not, he must not, look. At the top of the High Street he met Ryle the Precentor. There had been a time when Ryle was terrified by the Archdeacon; that time was not far distant, but it was gone. Nevertheless, even though the Archdeacon were suddenly old and sick and unimportant, you never could tell but that he might say something to somebody that it would be unpleasant to have said. “Politeness all the way round” was Ryle’s motto, and a very safe one too. Moreover, Ryle, when he could rise above his alarm for the safety of his own position, was a kindly man, and it really was sad to see the poor Archdeacon so pale and tired, the scratch on his cheek, even now not healed, giving him a strangely battered appearance.

  And how would Ryle have liked Mrs. Ryle to leave him? And how would he feel if his son, Anthony (aged at present five), ran away with the daughter of a publican? And how, above all, would he feel did he know that the whole town was talking about him and saying “Poor Precentor!”? But perhaps the Archdeacon did not know. Strange the things that people did not know about themselves! — and at that thought the Precentor went goose-fleshy all over, because of the things that at that very moment people might be saying about him and he knowing none of them!

  All this passed very swiftly through Ryle’s mind, and was quickly strangled by hearing Brandon utter in quite his old knock-you-down-if-you- don’t-get-out-of-my-way voice, “Ha! Ryle! Out early this morning! I hope you’re not planning any more new-fangled musical schemes for us!”

  Oh, well! if the Archdeacon were going to take that sort of tone with him, Ryle simply wasn’t going to stand it! Why should he? To-day isn’t six months ago.

  “That’s all right, Archdeacon,” he said stiffly. “Ronder and I go through a good deal of the music together now. He’s very musical, you know. Every one seems quite satisfied.” That ought to get him — my mention of Ronder’s name.... At the same time Ryle didn’t wish to seem to have gone over to the other camp altogether, and he was just about to say something gently deprecatory of Ronder when, to his astonishment, he perceived that Brandon simply hadn’t heard him at all! And then the Archdeacon took his arm and marched with him down the High Street.

  “With regard to this Pybus business, Precentor,” he was saying, “the matter now will be settled in another three days. I hope every one realises the extreme seriousness of this audacious plot to push a heretic like this man Wistons into the place. I’m sure that every one does realise it. There can be no two opinions about it, of course. At the same time — —”

  How very uncomfortable! There had been a time when the Precentor would have been proud indeed to walk down the High Street arm-in-arm with the Archdeacon. But that time was past. The High Street was crowded. Any one might see them. They would take it for granted that the Precentor was of the Archdeacon’s party. And to be seen thus affectionately linked with the Archdeacon just now, when his family affairs were in so strange a disorder, when he himself was behaving so oddly, when, as it was whispered, at the Jubilee Fair he had engaged in a scuffle of a most disreputable kind. The word “Drink” was mentioned.

  Ryle tried, every so gently, to disengage his arm. Brandon’s hand was of steel.

  “This seems to me,” the Archdeacon was continuing, “a most critical moment in our Cathedral’s history. If we don’t stand together now we — we—”

  The Archdeacon’s hand relaxed. His eyes wandered. Ryle detached his arm. How strange the man was! Why, there was Samuel Hogg on the other side of the street!

  He had taken his hat off and was smiling. How uncomfortable! How unpleasant to be mixed in this kind of encounter! How Mrs. Ryle, would dislike it if she knew!

  But his mind was speedily taken off his own affairs. He was conscious of the Archdeacon, standing at his full height, his eyes, as he afterwards described it a thousand times, “bursting from his head.” Then, “before you could count two,” the Archdeacon was striding across the street.

  It was a sunny morning, people going about their ordinary business, every one smiling and happy. Suddenly Ryle saw the Archdeacon stop in front of Hogg; himself started across the street, urged he knew not by what impulse, saw Hogg’s ugly sneering face, saw the Archdeacon’s arm shoot out, catch Hogg one, two terrific blows in the face, saw Hogg topple over like a heap of clothes falling from their peg, was in time to hear the Archdeacon crying out, “You dirty spy! You’d set upon me from behind, would you? Afraid to meet me face to face, are you? Take that, then, and that!” And then shout, “It’s daylight! It’s daylight now! Stand up and face me, you coward!”

  The next thing of which the terrified Ryle was conscious was that people were running up from all sides. They seemed to spring from nowhere. He saw, too, how Hogg, the blood streaming from his face, lay there on his back, not attempting to move. Some were bending down behind him, holding his head, others had their hands about Brandon, holding him back. Errand- boys were running, people were hurrying from the shops, voices raised on every side — a Constable slowly crossed the street — Ryle slipped away —

  Joan had gone out at once after breakfast that morning to the little shop, Miss Milligan’s, in the little street behind the Precincts, to see whether she could not get some of that really fresh fruit that only Miss Milligan seemed able to obtain. She was for some little time in the shop, because Miss Milligan always had a great deal to say about her little nephew Benjie, who was at the School as a day-boy and was likely to get a scholarship, and was just now suffering from boils. Joan was a good listener and a patient, so that it was quite late — after ten o’clock — as she hurried back.

  Just by the Arden Gate Ellen Stiles met her.

  “Oh, you poor child!” she cried; “aren’t you at home? I was just hurrying up to see whether I could be of any sort of help to you!”

  “Any help?” echoed Joan, seeing at once, in the nodding blue plume in Ellen’s hat, forebodings of horrible disaster.

  “What, haven’t you heard?” cried Ellen, pitying from the bottom of her heart the child’s white face and terrified eyes.

  “No! What? Oh, tell me quickly! What has happened? To father—”

  “I don’t know exactly myself,” said Ellen. “That’s what I was hurrying up to find out.... Your father...he’s had some sort of fight with that horrible man Hogg in the High Street.... No, I don’t know...But wait a minute....”

  Joan was gone, scurrying through the Precincts, the paper bag with the fruit clutched tightly to her.

  Ellen Stiles stared after her; her eyes were dim w
ith kindness. There was nothing now that she would not do for that girl and her poor father! Knocked down to the ground they were, and Ellen championed them wherever she went. And now this! Drink or madness — perhaps both! Poor man! Poor man! And that child, scarcely out of the cradle, with all this on her shoulders! Ellen would do anything for them! She would go round later in the day and see how she could be useful.

  She turned away. It was Ronder now who was “up”...and a little pulling- down would do him no sort of harm. There were a few little things she was longing, herself, to tell him. A few home-truths. Then, half-way down the High Street, she met Julia Preston, and didn’t they have a lot to say about it all!

  Meanwhile Joan, in another moment, was at her door. What had happened? Oh, what had happened? Had he been brought back dying and bleeding? Had that horrible man set upon him, there in the High Street, while every one was about? Was the doctor there, Mr. Puddifoot? Would there perhaps have to be an operation? This would kill her father. The disgrace.... She let herself in with her latch-key and stood in the familiar hall. Everything was just as it had always been, the clocks ticking. She could hear the Cathedral organ faintly through the wall. The drawing-room windows were open, and she could hear the birds, singing at the sun, out there in the Precincts. Everything as it always was. She could not understand. Gladys appeared from the kitchen.

  “Oh, Gladys, here is the fruit.... Has father come in?”

  “I don’t know, miss.”

  “You haven’t heard him?”

  “No, miss. I’ve been upstairs, ‘elping with the beds.”

  “Oh — thank you, Gladys.”

  The terror slipped away from her. Then it was all right. Ellen Stiles had, as usual, exaggerated. After all, she had not been there. She had heard it only at second-hand. She hesitated for a moment, then went to the study door. Outside she hesitated again, then she went in.

  To her amazement her father was sitting, just as he had always sat, at his table. He looked up when she entered, there was no sign upon him of any trouble. His face was very white, stone-white, and it seemed to her that for months past the colour had been draining from it, and now at last all colour was gone. A man wearing a mask. She could fancy that he would put up his hands and suddenly slip it from him and lay it down upon the table. The eyes stared through it, alive, coloured, restless.

  “Well, Joan, what is it?”

  She stammered, “Nothing, father. I only wanted to see — whether — that—”

  “Yes? Is any one wanting to see me?”

  “No — only some one told me that you...I thought—”

  “You heard that I chastised a ruffian in the town? You heard correctly. I did. He deserved what I gave him.”

  A little shiver shook her.

  “Is that all you want to know?”

  “Isn’t there anything, father, I can do?”

  “Nothing — except leave me just now. I’m very busy. I have letters to write.”

  She went out. She stood in the hall, her hands clasped together. What was she to do? The worst that she had ever feared had occurred. He was mad.

  She went into the drawing-room, where the sun was blazing as though it would set the carpet on fire. What was she to do? What ought she to do? Should she fetch Puddifoot or some older woman like Mrs. Combermere, who would be able to advise her? Oh, no. She wanted no one there who would pity him. She felt a longing, urgent desire to keep him always with her now, away from the world, in some corner where she could cherish and love him and allow no one to insult and hurt him. But madness! To her girlish inexperience this morning’s acts could be nothing but madness. There in the middle of the High Street, with every one about, to do such a thing! The disgrace of it! Why, now, they could never stay in Polchester.... This was worse than everything that had gone before. How they would all talk, Canon Ronder and all of them, and how pleased they would be!

  At that she clenched her hands and drew herself up as though she were defying the whole of Polchester. They should not laugh at him, they should not dare!...

  But meanwhile what immediately was she to do? It wasn’t safe to leave him alone. Now that he had gone so far as to knock some one down in the principal street, what might he not do? What would happen if he met Canon Ronder? Oh! why had this come? What had they done to deserve this?

  What had he done when he had always been so good?

  She seemed for a little distracted. She could not think. Her thoughts would not come clearly. She waited, staring into the sun and the colour. Quietness came to her. Her life was now his. Nothing counted in her life but that. If they must leave Polchester she would go with him wherever he must go, and care for him. Johnny! For one terrible instant he seemed to stand, a figure of flame, outside there on the sun-drenched grass.

  Outside! Yes, always outside, until her father did not need her any more. Then, suddenly she wanted Johnny so badly that she crumpled up into one of the old arm-chairs and cried and cried and cried. She was very young. Life ahead of her seemed very long. Yes, she cried her heart out, and then she went upstairs and washed her face and wrote to Falk. She would not telegraph until she was quite sure that she could not manage it by herself.

  The wonderful morning changed to a storm of wind and rain. Such a storm! Down in the basement Cook could scarcely hear herself speak! As she said to Gladys, it was what you must expect now. They were slipping into Autumn, and before you knew, why, there would be Winter! Nothing odder than the sudden way the Seasons took you! But Cook didn’t like storms in that house. “Them Precincts ‘ouses, they’re that old, they’d fall on top of you as soon as whistle Trefusis! For her part she’d always thought this ‘ouse queer, and it wasn’t any the less queer since all these things had been going on in it.” It was at this point that the grocery “boy” arrived and supposed they’d ‘eard all about it by that time. All about what? Why, the Archdeacon knocking Samuel ‘Ogg down in the ‘Igh Street that very morning! Then, indeed, you could have knocked Cook down, as she said, with a whisper. Collapsed her so, that she had to sit down and take a cup of tea, the kettle being luckily on the boil. Gladys had to sit down and take one too, and there they sat, the grocer’s boy dismissed, in the darkening kitchen, their heads close together, and starting at every hiss of the rain upon the coals. The house hung heavy and dark above them. Mad, that’s what he must be, and going mad these past ever so many months. And such a fine man too! But knocking people down in the street, and ’im such a man for his own dignity! ’Im an Archdeacon too. ‘Ad any one ever heard in their lives of an Archdeacon doing such a thing? Well, that settled Cook. She’d been in the house ten solid years, but at the end of the month she’d be off. To sit in the house with a madman! Not she! Adultery and all the talk had been enough, but she had risked her good name and all, just for the sake of that poor young thing upstairs, but madness! — no, that was another pair of shoes.

  Now Gladys was peculiar. She’d given her notice, but hearing this, she suddenly determined to stay. That poor Miss Joan! Poor little worm! So young and innocent — shut up all alone with her mad father. Gladys would see her through —

  “Why, Gladys,” cried Cook, “what will your young feller you’re walkin’ with say?”

  “If ’e don’t like it ’e can lump it,” said Gladys. “Lord, ‘ow this house does rattle!”

  All the afternoon of that day Brandon sat, never moving from his study- table. He sat exultant. Some of the shame had been wiped away. He could feel again the riotous happiness that had surged up in him as he struck that face, felt it yield before him, saw it fade away into dust and nothingness. That face that had for all these months been haunting him, at last he had banished it, and with it had gone those other leering faces that had for so long kept him company. His room was dark, and it was always in the dark that they came to him — Hogg’s, the drunken painter’s, that old woman’s in the dirty dress.

  And to-day they did not come. If they came he would treat them as he had treated Hogg. That was t
he way to deal with them!

  His heart was bad, fluttering, stampeding, pounding and then dying away. He walked about the room that he might think less of it. Never mind his heart! Destroy his enemies, that’s what he had to do — these men and women who were the enemies of himself, his town and his Cathedral.

  Suddenly he thought that he would go out. He got his hat and his coat and went into the rain. He crossed the Green and let himself into the Cathedral by the Saint Margaret Chapel door, as he had so often done before.

  The Cathedral was very dark, and he stumbled about, knocking against pillars and hassocks. He was strange here. It was as though he didn’t know the place. He got into the middle of the nave, and positively he didn’t know where he was. A faint green light glimmered in the East end. There were chairs in his way. He stood still, listening.

  He was lost. He would never find his way out again. His Cathedral, and he was lost! Figures were moving everywhere. They jostled him and said nothing. The air was thick and hard to breathe. Here was the Black Bishop’s Tomb. He let his fingers run along the metal work. How cold it was! His hand touched the cold icy beard! His hand stayed there. He could not remove it. His fingers stuck.

  He tried to cry out, and he could say nothing. An icy hand, gauntleted, descended upon his and held it. He tried to scream. He could not.

  He shouted. His voice was a whisper. He sank upon his knees. He fainted, slipping to the ground like a man tired out.

  There, half an hour later, Lawrence found him.

  Chapter IV

  The Last Tournament

  On the morning of the Chapter Meeting Ronder went in through the West door, intending to cross the nave by the Cloisters. Just as he closed the heavy door behind him there sprang up, close to him, as though from nowhere at all, that horrible man Davray. Horrible always to Ronder, but more horrible now because of the dreadful way in which he had, during the last few months, gone tumbling downhill. There had been, until lately, a certain austerity and even nobility in the man’s face. That was at last completely swept away. This morning he looked as though he had been sleeping out all night, his face yellow, his eyes bloodshot, his hair tangled and unkempt, pieces of grass clinging to his well-worn grey flannel suit.