“The two of you have much to talk about,” she had said with a smile. “I’d only be in the way.”
As she left the room, Stephen’s gaze lingered on her fondly.
“You’re very fortunate in your wife,” Paul said when she had left. “How did you manage to convince her to marry you?”
Stephen laughed. “I don’t know. I must have been her only prospect at the time. I express my gratitude to her constantly, and as far as I know, she hasn’t repented of her decision.”
“Why should she? The two of you are well suited. I’m glad she makes you happy.”
Paul smiled. It had been difficult for him to attend Stephen’s wedding so soon after his own proposal had been rejected, but he had not explained the story to Stephen. He was glad his friend knew nothing of what had happened in Ingleford.
Stephen gave him a searching look. “You look exhausted, old man. I know you want the deanship, but surely you’ll obtain it without having to expend your energy on so many different parish activities.”
“I mean to slow down soon, but if everything I’m doing brings me even one step closer to the deanship, it will be worth the effort.”
The old dean was failing fast, and it was clear that his replacement had to be appointed soon. Paul had taken on additional duties at the cathedral in order to prove to the bishop—and the king himself, for the deanship was a Crown appointment—that he was the best man for the job.
“The old dean might surprise everyone and outlive both you and Cross,” observed Stephen.
Paul smiled and shook his head. “I think not. That doesn’t mean I have any bloodthirsty designs to hasten his end. I can’t say the same for Cross.”
“You’re not serious.”
“No, of course not.” Paul took a sip of his port. “But he is making himself ridiculous with his transparent attempts to impress the bishop and other influential people. He claims he has even begun writing a book about the church fathers, which I won’t believe until I see it. He’s no scholar.”
“I suppose Cross is trying to make up for his weaknesses, just as you are with all these societies you’ve joined.”
Paul’s eyes narrowed. There was something about Stephen’s air of nonchalance that seemed a bit too artful. “Do you think Cross and I have an equal chance of being appointed to the deanship?”
“Do you think the two of you have an equal chance?”
“Only if the people who matter are unable to see past Cross’s polished façade.” Paul went on to list Cross’s faults, giving examples of his rudeness, arrogance, disregard for church tradition, hypocrisy, and lack of intelligence, all of which would make Cross the worst dean in the history of the cathedral, in Paul’s admittedly biased opinion.
Once Paul finished, Stephen was silent for a while, examining the reflections of the firelight on his now-empty glass. It was unusual for Stephen to be silent for any length of time; it made Paul nervous.
“You haven’t answered my question,” Paul prompted.
“I beg your pardon. What was the question?”
“Do you think Cross and I have an equal chance of being appointed dean?”
“I don’t know.” Stephen frowned. “But I can’t help thinking that the bishop has been wrong to encourage this competition between you and Cross. It seems to me it would be better for everyone if an outsider were appointed to the deanship.”
Paul felt betrayed. Stephen had never particularly liked Cross, and Paul had thought he would be able to count on his friend to support him in his hopes for the deanship.
“Don’t mistake me, Harris,” Stephen added. “There’s no doubt in my mind that you’d be an excellent dean. You have intelligence, energy, and love for the church, and you work harder than anyone I know. But if the worst happens and Cross is appointed dean, would you continue at the cathedral as a canon?”
“No. I could never be his subordinate. Can you imagine how he would lord it over me?”
“And if you’re appointed dean, do you think Cross would continue in his canonry?”
“Probably not.”
“All I’m saying is, no matter who gets the deanship, the cathedral will likely lose a good canon in the bargain. If an outsider were appointed, on the other hand …” Stephen shrugged expressively.
“Even if that were to happen, I don’t think Cross and I can continue to work together much longer.”
“Do you suppose Cross thinks about you as much as you think about him?” was Stephen’s next, startling question.
“What’s gotten into you, Elliott? Why are you asking these strange questions?”
“Because you’ve said far more about him than you have about the deanship,” his friend replied. “I’ve never seen you like this before. I’m concerned that you’ll become so consumed by this competition with Cross that you’ll lose yourself in it.”
Paul raised his eyebrows and said dryly, “What am I profited, if I shall gain the deanship and lose my own soul?”
“Exactly.”
“I don’t think there’s any danger of that happening. I probably am too concerned about Cross’s efforts to undermine me, but I am no more inclined to stand in the way of his getting the deanship—assuming he obtains it honestly—than I am to stab the poor old dean in the heart. I would be disappointed, of course, but I would survive … with my soul intact.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
Their conversation turned to the goings-on at Stephen’s parish and the wider world of politics. But late that night, when Paul lay wakeful in bed, Stephen’s concerns about his competition with Cross troubled him. Paul knew he had changed, and perhaps not for the better, but he felt increasingly confident about being appointed to the deanship and didn’t seriously consider the possibility that Cross might be appointed instead. Paul believed that once the decision was finally made, for better or worse, he would be himself again and take an interest in other things. But for now, nothing mattered more than the deanship.
For the first time in his life, due to the pressures of the competition for the deanship, Paul had found himself forgetting social engagements, even promises he had made to dine with his father. A week after his return to London after visiting Stephen, Paul realized that it had been an entire month since he had seen his father, and he decided to make an impromptu visit to his office. He also needed to talk about a difficult conversation he had had earlier that day with the bishop.
It was late afternoon, but the clerk at Philip’s office told him his father had gone home for the day. This was unusual. His father worked long hours and stayed at his office well into the evening most days.
Paul took a cab to his father’s house, feeling worried as well as guilty for having neglected him. Once at the house, he was confronted with more strangeness when Kitty, the maid who had known him for years, hesitated at the sight of him.
“What’s the matter, Kitty?” Paul asked. “Is my father unwell?”
“No,” she said slowly. “He’s in the library.”
Paul headed towards the library, but she called after him, “He has a visitor. He said he wasn’t to be interrupted by anyone, no matter what.”
“Oh. That’s fine. I’ll wait.”
He sat in the front hall, wondering why Kitty seemed so flustered and who his father’s visitor might be. A quarter of an hour later, he heard the library door open, and a man he didn’t recognize came into the front hall, accompanied by his father. At first they didn’t notice him.
“As I said, I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise anything,” the stranger was saying. His cheap-looking suit and flat vowels surprised Paul: a man like that couldn’t be his father’s business associate. Was he one of Philip’s employees?
“That’s all I ask,” Philip said. “And keep it to yourself.”
Paul rose from his seat, not wanting to eavesdrop, however unintentionally. The men looked startled by his sudden appearance.
“Paul, I didn’t know you were here,” Philip said. “Kit
ty ought to have told me.”
“I’ll go, then,” the stranger said, his eyes shifting from Paul to Philip, and he left abruptly.
“Kitty said you were not to be interrupted.”
“You may always interrupt me. Come to the library.”
Paul followed, and as soon as he was sitting in one of the comfortable leather chairs in the library, he said, “Father, you don’t look well. What’s the matter?”
“I’m fine, just a little tired.” Philip sat beside him and smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“I was worried when I heard you were at home instead of the office.”
“That’s nothing to worry about. I’ve been conducting some business from the house lately, just as a matter of convenience. How are you, son? It’s been some time since I saw you last.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Everything has been fine, though this morning the bishop called me to the palace and we had a … challenging conversation.”
“What happened?” his father said with a look of concern.
Paul wasn’t sure where to begin. The conversation with the bishop had shaken him more than he wanted to admit. He had been anxious to begin with, because he knew the bishop was meeting privately with Thomas Cross, as well, and there had been murmurs among the cathedral clergy that the bishop was treating these meetings as unofficial interviews for the deanship.
“The meeting began well,” Paul said. “The bishop expressed his approval of the changes I suggested to the Sunday services, and he praised me for the additional work I’ve taken on with the penitentiary and other charities.”
He paused and ran a hand through his hair. His father was listening intently, unmoving, as he waited for Paul to finish.
“Just when I thought our conversation was over,” he went on, “Bishop Chisholm asked me about the status of my faith. I didn’t understand what he was asking, and I told him my beliefs are the same as ever. He catechized me almost as if I were a child, though not in a patronizing way. It was the questions he asked—simple questions about Christianity—that surprised me. I answered every question, of course, but I couldn’t help wondering at his purpose. He even asked me what is meant by sacrament, which comes directly from the catechism.”
Paul swallowed hard and stared at the bookshelf above his father’s head. “By this time, I was concerned enough to ask if he had reason to doubt my faith. He said, ‘Canon Harris, you have done everything correctly. All the outward and visible signs are there, but I am not certain your heart is where it should be with God.’”
Philip frowned.
“You can imagine how I felt, hearing this from him. Have I not dedicated my life to serving God and the church? If the bishop himself doesn’t believe in my sincerity …” Paul’s voice trailed off, and he stared miserably at his feet.
“He must have been testing you,” his father said, “perhaps to find out how you would react to simple questions. I do that with my employees. Even a bishop is a man of business at heart.”
“I don’t know. He seemed to be sincerely questioning my faith. There must be something in what he says, even though I can’t see it.”
“Perhaps the bishop has heard of your former attachment to Miss Brooke. He might not recommend you for the deanship if he knew you had considered marrying a militant suffragette, especially one who is in the public eye as much as she is of late. You might consider telling the bishop that you no longer have any dealings with that movement.”
Paul wondered when he would be able to hear Lilia’s name without feeling a stab of pain. He hadn’t wanted to tell his father about his unsuccessful proposal, but in the weeks following his trip to Ingleford, he hadn’t been able to hide his misery.
He replied, “Few people know of my … attachment to her. Certainly not Bishop Chisholm.”
But the bishop had known about Paul’s involvement with the suffragettes as a result of that anonymous letter. For a moment, Paul wondered if his father could be right.
“It’s something to think about.” Philip sat back in his chair and sighed. “Paul, why don’t you stay? It’s been a long time since you’ve been to one of my musical evenings. Even if you don’t wish to sing, everyone would be happy to see you again.”
“I’d like to, Father, but I can’t. My Thursday evenings are now dedicated to the lecture series at the cathedral.”
“Not even to see Miss Cavendish? She’s been asking about you.” His father’s voice was deceptively casual.
“Not even to see her,” Paul said. The mention of Grace Cavendish and his father’s musical evenings only brought up another painful memory. Though Lilia had attended only one of those evenings, he couldn’t forget how she had looked in that stunning blue dress and how he hadn’t been able to resist touching her.
He cleared his throat and added, “I’ve been thinking of taking a vow of celibacy.”
“Have you, now?” Philip regarded him quizzically. “That seems sudden.”
“Not really. It’s been on my mind for a while.” It had been on his mind for six months, to be exact.
To his credit, his father didn’t try to talk him out of it. The conversation turned to other matters, and Paul took his leave soon afterwards.
He hadn’t told his father everything about his conversation with Bishop Chisholm. One comment that rankled was about Paul’s prayers: “Your public prayers are eloquent, Canon Harris,” the bishop had said, “but I hope your private ones are not.”
It was a strange thing to say. What did the eloquence of his private prayers matter, as long as he meant what he said? But that must have been the bishop’s point. Perhaps Paul had honed his public speaking skills too much, so much so that his words no longer sounded sincere, but surely any priest could be accused of an artificiality of expression at times. Knowing the words from the Book of Common Prayer by memory was bound to lead to set phrases in one’s prayers, private or public. And Paul was a High Churchman—did the bishop expect him to extemporize like a Methodist, or some other dissenting preacher? It was preposterous.
It also disturbed Paul that the bishop had echoed some of the doubts Lilia had expressed about Paul’s faith, those words that had cut him so deeply when he’d proposed to her. How was it possible that similar criticism could come from two such different people with opposing beliefs? It seemed that perhaps there was something lacking in his faith, but he didn’t know what it was. The only course of action, however unsatisfying, was to continue to insist on his commitment and to work harder. What proof could he give of his sincerity if others were determined to believe him insincere?
Paul found it difficult to concentrate on his work that week. The deanship seemed less certain than ever. He only hoped the bishop had questioned Cross as intensively as he had Paul. But Cross was better at hiding his true self than Paul was, and Paul had no doubt that his nemesis had passed the bishop’s test with flying colors. He tried not to think about it and to stay out of Cross’s path that week, knowing that if Cross’s interview had gone well, he would be certain to gloat about it.
Later that week, a stranger came to see Paul at home. It was late afternoon, and he was in his study working on the book that he sometimes thought he would never finish. Mrs. Rigby interrupted him to announce that a Mr. John Hirst was there to see him. Paul had never heard of the man.
“What is his business with me?” Paul asked his housekeeper.
“He wouldn’t say, Canon Harris, only that it was something urgent and private.”
“Very well. Show him in.”
The man who entered Paul’s study was clearly poor, but he was respectable-looking. His heavily lined face, combined with his upright, strong frame, made it difficult to guess his age: he could have been anywhere from five-and-fifty to seventy. His black hair, streaked with gray, and his dark skin hinted at the possibility of foreign blood, but his eyes were light gray, a surprising contrast. He was wearing a coarse brown jacket, worn at the elbows.
Paul invited Mr. Hirst
to sit down and asked, “What can I do for you?”
The man lowered himself heavily into a chair in front of Paul’s desk and said, “You don’t know me, Canon Harris, but I’m here to ask for your help with my son.”
“I don’t understand. Who is your son?”
“It’s a long story, Canon Harris, and painful to tell. Could I tell you a little about my past first?”
Paul agreed, and the man began his story. He had worked as a blacksmith for many years in Sheffield. His eldest son, an uncommonly clever boy, was ashamed of his father’s low position and wanted to go to university so he could become someone important. The boy criticized his father’s rough manners and way of speaking, and instead of helping his father in the smithy, he would disappear with friends who lent him books. Young Tom would read anything he could get his hands on. He soon began to imitate the polished manners of his friends, at least in public. In private, he spoke harshly to his parents, berating them for not having the means to send him to university. Finally, Mr. Hirst, desperate to give his son what he wanted, stole money to pay for his son to attend university.
“I know it was wrong, Canon Harris,” Mr. Hirst said sorrowfully, “but I didn’t think about right and wrong then—I just wanted my son to be a gentleman. That’s what he wanted, and I thought he’d be happy if I gave it to him.”
“Did he know how you obtained the money?”
“No, not ’til years later. But nothing I could do would make him respect me. I was still just John Hirst the blacksmith, with no education and no fancy speech. He thanked me for the money, but didn’t ask where I got it. He wasn’t saying much at all to me by then.
“I’m sorry to say I didn’t stop stealing. It got into my blood, I guess you could say. After a while I wasn’t careful anymore, because I didn’t think I’d get caught. When my son was at university, I was caught and arrested, then sent to prison. When I got out, none of my family would have anything to do with me.
“I’ve been working hard since then to make a respectable life for myself. I’ve been living in America for the last ten years. I’m here now because I want to make up with my son, and that’s how I hope you can help. He won’t agree to see me. All I want is to tell him I’m sorry for the embarrassment I’ve caused him.”
Impossible Saints Page 15