Crusader's Tomb

by A. J. Cronin

  How simple it had all been! Bowed out of the bank, Claire drove home in a glow of accomplishment. Now that the seeds were sown, she could scarcely wait to see if they bore fruit. Ten days passed without result, then, early this very afternoon, Tryng had telephoned her. Everything had gone satisfactorily – the other two members of the sub-committee, Sharp and Cordley, had proved rather difficult, but Sutton and he had carried the day. Desmonde was to have an interview with the committee and, subject to its approval, would receive the appointment.

  Immediately, Claire experienced a surge of triumph at the success of her diplomacy. She must tell Stephen at once. And here, after a wait at Foxcross of almost half an hour, during which she paced back and forth in the crisp, aromatic nightfall, with anticipation sweet as that of a country maid keeping tryst – here she was, walking by his side, unable to speak one word of her momentous news. She had acted from the highest motives, no improper thought had ever entered her mind, yet now, eager and tremulous, she could scarcely move for the softness of her body, the growing languor in her limbs. The beat of her heart almost stifled her. The abrupt appearance of a car, swinging round a bend, headlights flashing full upon them with dazzling intensity, made her gasp absurdly for breath and catch at Stephen’s arm.

  ‘Someone isn’t driving too well,’ he commented.

  In the succeeding darkness they reached the lodge gates which gave entrance to the Court, and here Stephen paused.

  ‘I shan’t come any farther, Claire.’

  ‘Won’t you?’ She hesitated. ‘ Geoffrey’s been in town today … but he should be back quite soon.’ Stephen shook his head.

  ‘We’re early people at the Rectory now. Six-o’clock supper.’

  His excuse, so palpable, intensified the irregularity of her position. She recollected a remark of Geoffrey’s: ‘I won’t have that fellow in my house. And if I meet him I’ll cut him dead. The whole county knows he’s an out-and-out rotter.’ Perhaps because of this she felt that she could stay no longer.

  ‘Good night, then, Stephen,’ she murmured. ‘Remember that I have faith in you. The tide may turn, sooner than you think.’ The next moment she was lost to view in the shadows of the drive.

  An hour later, hurrying lest he be late, Stephen arrived at the Rectory. Unusual lights were showing, and in the hall, impatiently awaiting him, was Caroline.

  ‘At last!’ She greeted him excitedly. ‘I thought you’d never come. Father wants to see you right away.’

  In the library, as Stephen entered, the Rector ceased his restive movements and, advancing with humid eye, took his son by the hand.

  ‘My dear boy, today, in Charminster, I was given great and wholly unexpected news.’ Deeply moved, he almost broke down. ‘You are being considered, and may well be chosen to paint the panels of the new Memorial.’

  Chapter Five

  On the following day at some minutes after three o’clock, the four members of the Memorial sub-committee, Rear-Admiral Tryng, Sutton, Joseph Cordley and Arnold Sharp – the Dean was not present – had assembled in a small office of the Chancellery, and Stephen, waiting in a side room, was summoned before them.

  Tryng, the chairman, cast a quick yet searching glance upon him as he entered and, having feared something worse, was at once appreciably relieved. He did not care much for the close-cropped hair and beard nor that independent air, but the fellow looked a gentleman, was neatly and quietly dressed, and on the whole seemed not half bad. Stephen, in fact, had been induced to shed his nondescript corduroys, and Carrie had laid out for him a white shirt and one of his old dark grey clerical suits which still fitted reasonably well.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Desmonde. Won’t you take a chair?’ At a gesture from Tryng, Stephen sat down, conscious of the united gaze of the committee bent upon him. ‘You know why you’re here, of course, so we needn’t beat about the bush. It’s the Memorial. We want five panels, approximately six feet by four, which will suitably express the feeling, the dignity, the heroic yet tragic purpose for which this building stands. Now I understand that you have been painting for a number of years, have won several international distinctions, exhibited in various important cities and, in short, seem well qualified for the work we have in mind.’

  ‘I should certainly do my best.’

  There was a pause during which Stephen took a guarded look at the four men seated behind the long table. So acutely keyed were his sensibilities, he recognised immediately that two were favourable to him and two opposed. Of these latter, one now cleared his throat – such preliminary to speech. He was Arnold Sharp, solicitor of Charminster, a thin, bleak-looking man with an elongated head and small, shrewd eyes set close together. Aware of Tryng’s interest in Stephen, he strongly resented it, mainly because, having risen from the humblest beginnings – his father had been a poor ‘ hedger and ditcher’ on a nearby farm – he hated the gentry, beneath a manner that, from long practice in the County Court, remained always as expressionless as his face. Moreover, he guessed that Stephen was sponsored by some higher source and, while he could not from policy openly dissent, he intended to make things as difficult as possible for him.

  ‘I suppose you have brought samples of your work to show the committee?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘May we ask why?’

  ‘Most of my recent paintings are in the hands of my London agent. I’ll gladly have several sent down if you wish.’

  ‘I think,’ Tryng cut in, ‘I can vouch for Mr Desmonde’s competence. And so will the Dean.’

  ‘But is he competent for this particular task,’ the solicitor demurred, with an air of reasonableness, ‘dealing as it does with the recent war?’

  Sharp’s neighbour, stout Joe Cordley, churchwarden and corn-chandler, bursting the seams of his black-and-white checks, cocked his blunt red face towards Stephen.

  ‘You wasn’t in the war, Mr Desmonde?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Exempted?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not a conchy, I ’ope?’

  ‘I was abroad.’

  ‘Ah!’ Cordley sighed, let his bulk sink back in his chair. ‘Abroad … but not in the trenches.’

  ‘I believe’ – Sharp was speaking again, politely, as though in commendation, with no expression in his ferret eyes – ‘I believe your young brother was in the army, though?’

  ‘Yes. He was not really fit for service but he enlisted in the first month.’

  A pause.

  ‘He was killed, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In action?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ah!’ Cordley, who had doubled his capital selling forage to the forces at Chillingham Camp, drew down the corners of his mouth and turned up his eyeballs. ‘Brave feller! Gave ’is all for ’is country.’

  The pause which followed was more awkward than the first. Stephen compressed his lips. He had come to the interview eager for many reasons to obtain the commission; now, in the face of this hostile interrogation, his determination hardened.

  ‘If I may speak … while I took no part in the war, and was, as you have so accurately pointed out, a mere spectator, I have, perhaps because of this, ideas on the subject which might qualify me for this particular work. It seems to me that, to justify its purpose, your Memorial should stand not only as a tribute to those who gave their lives, but as a deterrent to all future conflicts. These panels which I might do for you should serve to point out the essential tragedy of war, and through stressing the element of sacrifice and suffering, help, perhaps, by influencing those who view them, to prevent another world calamity.’

  ‘Bravo, Mr Desmonde,’ Tryng said heartily. He liked that brief speech and the way Stephen looked straight at Sharp as he made it. Pity the fellow was such a deuced funk! – but there, he’d seen it in the service, once in a while even the best families would turn out a white rabbit. ‘And now about dates.’

  ‘Would you be prepared,’ Sharp interrupted, ‘to s
ubmit designs for our approval, bearing out what you’ve just said?’

  Stephen glanced towards Tryng.

  ‘That is quite contrary to the usual procedure.’

  ‘You mean we have to take you on trust?’ put in Cordley.

  ‘Every artist must be taken on trust,’ Stephen answered warmly. ‘A painter isn’t a travelling salesman touting with a bag-load of samples. He has only himself to offer. I am prepared to submit designs if you insist, but since this represents at least half, and the most difficult half, of the work, only if you commission me beforehand.’

  ‘We’ve no time to waste on that.’ Tryng spoke definitely. ‘Not with the official opening planned for March.’

  ‘March fifteenth,’ Sutton murmured precisely, opening his lips for the first time. ‘Three months from today.’

  A short silence.

  ‘Could you complete the work by then?’

  ‘I think I could.’

  ‘Thinking’s no good,’ Sharp interposed. ‘We must be sure.’

  ‘It isn’t a lot of time for five large paintings. But when I’m interested I work very quickly.’

  ‘Good. And now about payment. The fee we propose is five hundred guineas.’

  ‘’Adn’t we agreed on pounds?’ muttered the corn-chandler.

  ‘Guineas, my dear sir, is surely the more gentlemanly currency. Would our figure be satisfactory, Mr Desmonde?’

  ‘Quite.’

  Tryng looked at his fellow members. ‘ Then I suggest we pay our artist one hundred guineas down. As a retainer. The balance on completion.’

  ‘I disagree.’ Sharp fixed his gaze on a corner of the ceiling. ‘We should pay on delivery.’

  ‘But Mr Desmonde will have considerable outlay in providing canvases and other material,’ Sutton argued, ‘to say nothing of frames.’

  ‘That’s his look-out,’ Sharp answered sourly. ‘Who’s to say that he won’t fall ill, or walk out on us, or for some reason fail to complete in time? All sorts of contingencies might arise. I say payment on delivery.’

  ‘Ah, that’s sound business, Arnold. I seconds the motion.’

  Before Tryng could speak, Stephen intervened:

  ‘I haven’t always been in a position to get canvas and colours. But now, luckily, I am. I accept your conditions. I should, however, like your permission to work in the hall itself. I have no studio here, at present.’

  ‘I think that can be allowed. You’ll want to have a look at it in any case. We’ll get you the key.’ Tryng paused and, as his remarks encountered no opposition, he concluded: ‘That’s all then, gentlemen. I congratulate you, Mr Desmonde. And I know you will give us a magnificent job of work.’

  With the key in his pocket, Stephen walked directly to the new Institute, which stood on a slight eminence in Church Meadows, backed by a row of elms whose top branches harboured an ancient rookery, not far from the cathedral close. Immediately he saw the building he was favourably impressed, not only by its situation and the admirable manner in which it harmonised with the line and colour of the prevailing fourteenth-century stonework, but by the simplicity and purity of its design. When he entered by the arched doorway he could not repress a shiver of satisfaction. The interior, in shape an exact pentagon, lit by a high clerestory which made no break in the plain, whitewashed walls, was superb for such a sequence as he could plan. How his colours would burn and glow against that dead-white background – he saw them already in his imagination – and how perfect was the spacing, these five identical walls, for panels of precisely similar dimensions. For a long time he remained in the completely empty hall, squatting on one knee, amidst the plaster dust left by the builders, then, rising, he locked up carefully, walked along Church Road to the corner of High Street. From the Blue Boar, he telephoned Maddox in London to send him, immediately, canvas, colours, everything he would require. Then, bare-headed, with hands thrust in the pockets of his narrow parson’s jacket, he strode off towards the Downs, oblivious to everything but the forms that were already swirling into the screen of his sight.

  During several days he refrained, though with difficulty, from starting work. He wanted to reflect deeply on this subject, so painfully near his heart. The loss of his brother, all the arid hardships of his years in Spain undoubtedly shaped his thoughts. At the back of his consciousness, a source of vivid inspiration, were the Desastres de la Guerra which had so profoundly moved him when he stood, entranced, in the long galleries of the Prado. Within him stirred the revolt of a wounded spirit against the eternal tragedy of human violence.

  Towards the end of that week he began to paint. And, as his designs took shape, more and more was he carried away by the fervour of his theme, by the burning desire to express not only the heroism but also the dreadful wastage of war, so that, if the world might only look upon his pictures, it might never yield to such madness again.

  So intense was the flow of his composition, he often did not leave the Institute from his arrival in the early morning until the light failed him in the evening. Every day Caroline placed a packet of sandwiches in his pocket, yet he did not stop for lunch but, standing at the easel, snatching an occasional bite of bread and cheese, would still press on with his work. The quiet and seclusion of the empty hall suited him to perfection, for he could never bear to be watched, and after he had firmly dealt with several interruptions at the outset he was left in peace. At night he returned to the Rectory, exhausted from creative effort, but with a sense of growing accomplishment.

  For the Rector, this sustained and Spartan application by his son was not only a staggering surprise – he had never dreamed that an artist, whom he pictured, mainly from the pages of Murger and du Maurier, as a shiftless and indolent bohemian, could display such unsparing industry – but also a source of satisfaction which, at first uncertain, strengthened as the days went on. Despite the disillusionment, the defeats and disappointments he had suffered, hope, which he had thought dead, was rekindled. His son was at home, leading a regular life, decently dressed, actually working at a project connected with the cathedral. To what might not this lead in the end!

  There had been – he was forced to admit – a markedly unfavourable reaction when the news of Stephen’s appointment was made public – much of it malicious gossip in the village and surrounding country – but also a genuine note of protest which Bertram could sense in his daily contacts, even in the faces of his little congregation at Sunday service. Several letters had appeared in the local press, most damaging of all a communication signed ‘Pro Patria’, prominently featured in the County Gazette. Worried, the Rector and Caroline consulted over it in low voices.

  ‘It’s a cruel attack.’ Bertram’s brows were drawn in a harassed frown. ‘Most vicious. And unfortunately true.’

  ‘But quite unfair, Father. Why should it bring in all this about Stephen’s not being in the army? He should be judged on his merits as an artist.’

  ‘I daresay, Caroline. At the same time, for a war memorial … there’s justice in the idea that they might have chosen an ex-service man.’

  ‘Who might have been a very poor painter.’

  ‘Yes … yes, that’s so. Caroline, who do you think sent in this letter?’

  ‘Can’t you guess, Father?’

  ‘Not Albert Mould?’

  ‘Who else? You haven’t an enemy in the world … except him.’

  ‘But my dear, he’s not sufficiently educated to have composed such a letter. And the signature, “ Pro Patria”.’

  ‘Someone has written it for him. He’s in with lots of people who could.’

  The Rector shook his head, as if bewildered by such a possibility of conspiracy.

  ‘To think that dear old Mould, who worked here faithfully, man and boy, for over fifty years, should have … God forgive me … such an upstart boy.’

  ‘It’s the age of upstarts, Father. Even old Mould is starting up. He has his own wireless, gets better heating and more hot water than we have, he goes to the cin
ema twice a week and when I asked him in the village the other day if he’d like his usual Christmas leg of pork he said: “No thankee, miss. Albert just ’ad a whole side of venison gave ’im.” Then he looked at me slyly. “Shall us send ’ee a bit?”’

  There was a brief silence.

  ‘Well,’ said the Rector, ‘we must keep this letter from Stephen. He deserves all the encouragement we can give him.’

  ‘He was greatly encouraged the other day, Father. You remember his friend Richard Glyn … oh, I know you never quite approved of him but he has shown at the Royal Academy … anyway, he came down to Charminster the other day, Stephen and he had lunch at the Blue Boar …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well … Stephen outlined the entire plan of his work, showed what he had already done … he’d completely blocked out his panels. And Glyn was quite carried away.’

  The Rector, a little lost, nevertheless looked pleased. A pause followed, while he meditated. Then, looking up at his daughter:

  ‘Caroline, don’t you feel that, if he makes a success of this, it might reopen for him a true spiritual field … church decoration … stained-glass windows … and the like? He would be much at home in the sphere of ecclesiastic art. He is still young. Who knows but that one day … under such influence … he might yet … even take orders?’ He broke off, rose and reached for his hat. ‘ I shall be back in a little while, my dear.’

  From the window she watched him go up the lane, slowly, slightly bowed, hands clasped behind his back, a long black figure under the flat shovel hat. She knew he was going to the church to pray.

  Chapter Six

  Amongst the many excellent and decided qualities which characterised General Desmonde’s wife, that milder virtue, sweetness of temper, was less obvious than the rest. Brought up in a military atmosphere, toasted in her maidenhood as the daughter of the regiment, the blood of many pukka-sahibs flowed in her veins, and during her years of marriage, her long sojourn in India had intensified this natural firmness, strengthened – perhaps through some action on the liver – her capacity to rule. And this January morning there was about her a certain aura of asperity – a tightness of the lips, an imperceptible dilation and pinkish coloration of the well-bred nostrils, which boded little good for anyone who might cross her. To her staff her orders for the day were more than usually curt. She rated the country maid who – admittedly with noise – was filling the wood-box. Seated at her walnut bureau, her admirable figure taut in tweed and jumper, her still graceful neck clasped by a single string of pearls, she gave attention to her mail, which dealt mainly with her functions as patroness of the Red Cross, Girl Guides, and the local hospital. Then, immobile, gazed at the Benares brass-bound blotter before her.