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Title: The Inquisitor. A Novel.
Author: Walpole, Sir Hugh Seymour (1884-1941)
Date of first publication: August 1935
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: Macmillan, October 1935
Date first posted: 27 April 2013
Date last updated: 27 April 2013
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1067

This ebook was produced by
David T. Jones, Paul Ereaut, Al Haines
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net






  BOOKS BY HUGH WALPOLE

  _NOVELS_

  _The London Novels_

  FORTITUDE
  THE DUCHESS OF WREXE
  THE GREEN MIRROR
  THE CAPTIVES
  THE YOUNG ENCHANTED
  WINTERSMOON
  HANS FROST
  CAPTAIN NICHOLAS

  _Scenes from Provincial Life_

  THE CATHEDRAL
  THE OLD LADIES
  HARMER JOHN
  THE INQUISITOR

  _Herries_

  ROGUE HERRIES
  JUDITH PARIS
  THE FORTRESS
  VANESSA

  THE WOODEN HORSE
  MR. PERRIN AND MR. TRAILL
  THE DARK FOREST
  THE SECRET CITY
  *THE PRELUDE TO ADVENTURE
  *MARADICK AT FORTY
  *PORTRAIT OF A MAN WITH RED HAIR
  *ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS

  JEREMY
  JEREMY AND HAMLET
  JEREMY AT CRALE
  THE GOLDEN SCARECROW
  THE THIRTEEN TRAVELLERS
  THE SILVER THORN
  ALL SOULS' NIGHT

  _Omnibus volume_

  FOUR FANTASTIC TALES
  (_including the stories marked with
  an asterisk_)

  _BELLES-LETTRES_

  JOSEPH CONRAD: A Critical Study
  ANTHONY TROLLOPE (_English Men of Letters_)
  THE APPLE TREES (_Golden Cockerel Press_)
  THE CRYSTAL BOX
  THE ENGLISH NOVEL (Rede Lecture)
  READING: An Essay
  THE WAVERLEY PAGEANT

  (With J. B. PRIESTLEY)

  FARTHING HALL: A Novel in Letters



  THE INQUISITOR

  A NOVEL

  BY

  HUGH WALPOLE

  MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED

  ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON

  1935



  COPYRIGHT

  _First Edition August_ 1935
  _Reprinted October_ 1935

  PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY
  R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, EDINBURGH





  FOR

  ROBERT GIBBINGS

  FRIEND AND ARTIST





  . . . State of rest which they call Yin . . . state of action which
  they call Yang. The play opens with a perfect state of Yin. When Yin
  is thus complete it is ready to pass over into Yang. The impulse or
  motive which makes a perfect Yin-state pass over into the new
  Yang-activity comes from an intrusion of the Devil into the universe
  of God.--ARNOLD TOYNBEE, _A Study of History_.

           *       *       *       *       *

  Men in the pressure of their daily business forget the examiner . . .
  This spiritual world may at any moment break in upon the material
  world, causing a general disorder which men, in their blindness,
  attribute to casual accident.--HENRY GALLEON, _Essays Civil and
  Otherwise_.

           *       *       *       *       *

  . . . I was just going to tell Pa if there was any errands he wanted
  run my chum and me was just aching to run them, when a yellow cat
  without any tail was walking over the minister . . .--GEO. W. PECK,
  _Peck's Bad Boy_.





                             PREFATORY LETTER


                                                           LONDON, 1935

  MY DEAR ROBERT,

  Whenever I have in the past written a dedicatory letter to a novel,
  I have been reproached by my friends who tell me that it is a very
  old-fashioned and otiose thing to do. Whether that be so or not, I
  see little harm in it, especially if one wishes, as I do in the
  present instance, to make a certain point clear.

  First I would like to acknowledge with what extreme pleasure I
  dedicate this book to you; modesty forbids my mentioning in public
  the reasons of my gratitude to you. You well know what they are.

  There is something, however, that I have been wanting for many years
  to say, and this is, I feel, a fair opportunity. _The Inquisitor_ is
  the fourth of a series of stories about a cathedral town that I have
  called Polchester. The three that precede it are, _The Cathedral_,
  _Harmer John_ and _The Old Ladies_. The fact that I have written
  these novels about a cathedral city has persuaded a number of
  critics, friendly and otherwise, that I have been attempting to
  rival that wonderful portrayer of Victorian life in a cathedral
  city--Anthony Trollope. I had, you scarcely need to be told, never
  any thought of such absurd rivalry. Had I the genius to create
  characters so masterfully actual as the Bishop, Mr. Slope and Mrs.
  Proudie, I would wear my hat at an angle and challenge with
  confidence all the present realists of the English novel. In truth,
  the aim of my four cathedral novels has been exactly opposite from
  that of the creator of Barchester, and their ancestor, if they have
  one, is the author of _The Scarlet Letter_ and _The House of the
  Seven Gables_.

  These four novels of mine are, of deliberate purpose, novels of
  event. There are in the course of them murders, suicides,
  abductions, riots--not that I would have Polchester supposed to be a
  town of violence, far otherwise, but there have been in its history,
  as in the history of all towns, moments of drama, even of melodrama.
  And these I have deliberately chosen as illustrations of my one
  continuous theme. In fact, I would hold my breath and declare most
  dangerously that I am not afraid of melodrama. I think that possibly
  the contemporary English novel is written too frequently in
  undertones. Many of the cleverer novelists in England at this
  present instant seem to myself to talk in whispers. I do not defend
  melodrama, nor do I think that these cathedral novels of mine are
  melodramatic, but their violences are deliberate and the scenes at
  the close of this present novel are true history.

                                     With every good wish,
                                              Yours, dear Robert,
                                                        HUGH WALPOLE




                             CONTENTS


                              PART I

                            BOANERGES

  CHAP.                                                    PAGE

     I. ANOTHER CITIZEN--THE CATHEDRAL IS FILLED--THE
          CATHEDRAL IS EMPTY                                  3

    II. A HOUSE LIKE A BONE, SET FOR TWO ANTAGONISTS         25

   III. THE MARLOWES, ALTHOUGH NOT AT ALL RICH, GIVE A
          NICE PARTY                                         46

    IV. SOME OF THE THINGS THAT CAN HAPPEN BETWEEN
          THREE AND FOUR ON AN AUTUMN AFTERNOON              69

     V. BEGINNING OF THE BATTLE OF LADY EMILY--ALSO
          SOME HOURS IN THE LIFE OF MR. BIRD                101

    VI. HEART AND SOUL OF AN IDEALIST                       123

   VII. CHRISTMAS EVE: (I) IN THE TOWN                      147

  VIII. CHRISTMAS EVE: (II) IN THE CATHEDRAL                181


                              PART II

                           PERFORMANCE

     I. PENNY'S DAY--FINE WEATHER AND MRS. BRAUND TO
          LUNCHEON--THE BISHOP--MR. LAMPIRON TALKS
          ABOUT OLD AGE                                     209

    II. SOME HOUSES ARE ALWAYS COLD                         234

   III. WHO PASSES?                                         255

    IV. PAGEANT: DURING THE PERFORMANCE ENTER RUMOUR        273

     V. ELIZABETH'S JOURNAL (I)                             300

    VI. PENNY AND THE LAST TOURNAMENT                       318

   VII. IT IS QUEER, THE THINGS THAT CAN HAPPEN TO
          TOWNS--MICHAEL AS SPY--HE IS ALSO SPIED UPON      342

  VIII. THREE VISITORS FOR LAMPIRON                         372

  INTERLUDE: THE BISHOP WRITES A LETTER                     401


                            PART III

                         MICHAEL FURZE

     I. OF THE FAMOUS PARTY MRS. BRAUND GAVE                413

    II. THERE IS NO PRIVATE LIFE HERE NOW                   445

   III. OCTOBER 9TH: BOLE SANDS                             471

    IV. OCTOBER 10TH: ELIZABETH'S JOURNAL (II)              483

     V. OCTOBER 11TH: MARLOWE'S NIGHT JOURNEY               500

    VI. OCTOBER 12TH: DEATH OF ANYONE                       517

   VII. OCTOBER 12TH: TRUE STORY OF AN IRRESISTIBLE
          IMPULSE                                           535

  VIII. OCTOBER 12TH: CLIMAX TO THE CRUCIFIX                567

    IX. OUTSIDE IMPRESSION                                  610

     X. EPILOGUE: RETURN OF THE SAME MUSIC                  611




PART I

BOANERGES




CHAPTER I

ANOTHER CITIZEN--THE CATHEDRAL IS FILLED--THE CATHEDRAL IS EMPTY


The thin papery sky of the early autumn afternoon was torn, and the eye
of the sun, pale but piercing, looked through and down. The eye's gaze
travelled on a shaft of light to the very centre of the town. A little
scornful, very arrogant, it surveyed the scene. The Cathedral had chimed
at three, and at once the bells began with their accustomed melody to
ring for Evensong. The town, bathed in a smoky haze, clustered about and
around the Cathedral, Cathedral Green and Arden Gate, dropping through
the High Street, then lower to the Market-place, then sharply over the
Rock to Seatown that bordered the river. Slowly up, beyond the river,
sloped the quiet autumn fields to the hills that spread, like dun
cloths, to the sea. For the moment, while the sun's eye gazed its last
on that afternoon, the huddled town, the long fields, the wide band of
sea caught a pale glow of light, looking up to the sun with the timidity
of a girl reassured by her lover's unexpected attentions.

Men lolling in Riverside Street said: 'There's the sun!'

At the St. Leath Hotel on Pol Hill beyond the town, windows stole a
glimmering shade. In Canon's Yard the old houses with their twisted
shapes and crooked chimneys grinned, for an instant, like toothless old
men. It was market day and in the Market-place the huddled sheep, the
wide-eyed cows, the barking dogs, the farmers, the old women were
mistily gold-lit as with a divine dust. The frock-coated statue at the
top of Orange Street was illuminated at the nose; in the yard of the old
'Bull' a weary maid rubbed her eyes; Hattaway, the architect, standing
in the door of Bennett's bookshop, looked up to the sky and smiled; two
of the old ladies of 10 Norman Row, starting out for their walk, said
together: 'Why, there's the sun!'; Mr. Stephen Furze, alone in his
cobwebby room, saw the sun strike ladders of light through the air and
shook his head at them; young 'Penny' Marlowe, arranging chrysanthemums
in the drawing-room at St. James's Rectory, smiled mysteriously as
though surprised in a secret.

The King Harry Tower caught the light, then seemed, with a proud gesture
of disdain, to toss it away.

The eye of the sun, having seen everything, withdrew.

Mists were rising from the river.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Reverend Peter Gaselee, young and ardent, was crossing the Cathedral
Green to Evensong. Half-way over he was stopped by a bent figure,
shoulders wrapped in a grey shawl, hat shabby and shapeless, that said
in a sharp and piercing voice: 'Ah, Mr. Gaselee--Sun came out for a
moment but it's gone in again.' Peter Gaselee was annoyed by this
interruption, for he was in a hurry and old Mr. Mordaunt was a fool.
However, it was his policy to be agreeable to everyone--it was also the
obligation of his cloth. So he said brightly:

'Ah, Mr. Mordaunt--been sketching?'

'Yes, I have. I've stopped now because the light's too bad. If the sun
had stayed I'd have had half an hour more.' He drew his grey shawl
closer about his shoulders. 'Like to see what I've been doing?'

'Delighted,' Gaselee said, but thought--'Silly old ass--always must be
showing his mad sketches to everyone.' His fine thin nose twitched as it
always did when he was irritated, but his smile was genial as the old
man, with a trembling hand, drew out a sketch-book.

'There--the light's bad. But you can see it all right, I daresay.' He
opened the book and showed, his fingers tapping against the paper, a
double-page drawing. Gaselee flattered himself that he had a fine
knowledge of the Arts. He and old Ronder, and possibly Hattaway, were
the only men, he told himself, who cared for such things in Polchester.

There was no doubt that old Mordaunt could draw. The Cathedral rose from
the paper like a living thing, the King Harry Tower like the proud head
of a triumphant giant.

'Those lines in King Harry look like teeth,' he said, for he must say
something.

'Well, they do sometimes. In certain lights.'

'And who's that standing in the West Door?'

The old man peered more closely. 'Oh, you see someone there, do you? So
did I. But there wasn't anyone there really. At least I don't think so.'

'He's too large for life anyway.'

'Yes, long and thin and black. That's how I saw him.'

'How do you mean--you saw him--if there wasn't anyone there?'

The old man began eagerly: 'Oh well, light does strange things. But I've
often thought I've seen him. Very thin, in black. He never moves even
when the light changes.'

'Shadows, I suppose.'

'Yes, shadows.'

Gaselee smiled and nodded his head. 'Good afternoon, Mr. Mordaunt. I
must be getting on. Going to Evensong.'

'Good day to you, Mr. Gaselee. I must be getting on too. Yes, I must.
Good day to you.'

Gaselee walked on. He passed in at the West Door.

Old Mordaunt drew his shawl very closely about him indeed and
slip-slopped along, hugging the sketch-book closely to him, the
sketch-book that was more to him than wife or child or any human being.

Gaselee walked rapidly through the nave and up into the choir. He found
his favourite seat, the end one but two on the left towards the altar,
knelt down and prayed, then settled himself with comfort and looked
about him.

The lights were lit because of the duskiness of the afternoon; the
curtains had not been drawn and he could see, beyond the misty
candlelight that hovered, like a benediction, over the choir-seats, into
the dark colours of the nave. A deep, comforting silence, made more
peaceful by the distant rhythm of the bells, brooded at the heart of the
building. A choir-boy was moving in and out of the seats arranging the
service-papers.

Once the place had blazed with crimson and gold, paintings of
extravagant colour on the walls, marble pavements, the windows shining
in the pageantry of coloured glass. Behind him to the left was the Black
Bishop's Tomb, the Tomb itself made of a solid block of dark-blue stone,
the figure of the Bishop carved in black marble. . . . Ah, there is Mrs.
Braund, wife of the Archdeacon, stout, comfortable, and a strange lady
with her. There would be very few people to-day.

A thick-set man came stamping along, head up as though he commanded the
place, Lampiron, the sculptor--but he never would show his work to
anybody--a rude man of whom Gaselee was secretly afraid. . . .

The bells stopped. The organ began. The procession came in. Only Canons
Dale and Moffit to-day--Dale, young, thin, with a face like a hawk, old
Moffit hobbling along on a stick.

'Dearly beloved brethren . . .' The service began.

After a while Gaselee lost himself in reminiscence.

Although he was only twenty-eight he seemed to himself to have led
already a life of surpassing interest and excitement. He was to himself
a figure of quite extraordinary interest. Everything that happened to
him was wonderful, although not so wonderful as the things that were
going to happen to him.

The first thing that astonished him was that he had been able to do so
much for himself. Nothing could have been more ordinary than his
parentage, his birthplace. His father had been rector of a Wiltshire
parish, miles from anywhere, lost in rolling down and country lane. He
had been the only child, and his parents had, from the very first,
thought him exceptional. His mother had adored him and he had for her
all the condescending love of a favoured only child. His father was a
saint, an old stout man now with dishevelled white hair, a passion for
gardening, for cricket, for dogs and the people of his village. Gaselee
felt for him a stern protective affection, the feeling that one has for
someone who knows nothing about life, who may be taken in by anyone or
anything, who is so simple as to be not altogether sane. When people
spoke to Gaselee of his father and said that he was one of God's saints
and a very merry man, adored by his people, Gaselee agreed, but with an
implication that it was kind and generous of them to say so. . . . Dear
old man . . .

From a very early age his parents had been astonished at their son's
ability to express himself, for they themselves had never found words
easy. They wondered, too, at his appetite for reading, at the things
that he knew and, as he grew older, they listened with loving attention
to his opinions about everything. He told them, affectionately, how
old-fashioned they were, and they agreed absolutely with his opinion.

Because they were poor they could not send him to one of the larger
public schools. He went to Taunton.

He did very well there, though not brilliantly. He knew a little of
everything and was popular because he behaved to everybody as they would
wish him to behave. He made no very close relationships because he never
gave himself completely to anybody. He had no time for that because he
was so busy organizing his own progress. This with one exception. Much
to his own surprise and even to his chagrin he developed a passion for a
boy called Radcliffe. He was not accustomed to passion and it made him
uncomfortable. He could not help himself. Charlie Radcliffe was a quiet,
good-natured boy with nothing at all remarkable about him. He could be
of no use to Gaselee in any way. At first he returned Gaselee's
friendship; then he quietly withdrew, giving no reasons. This was the
greatest trouble in Gaselee's school life. He was baffled and bewildered
by it. Everything else went well and he won an Exhibition at Jesus
College, Cambridge. At Cambridge he lived carefully--he never threw
money about. He rowed for his College, was popular exactly as he had
been at school and made no close friends. He went to a Clergy Training
College at Drymouth and did well there too. Then he had a curacy near
Exeter; two years ago he became curate of St. James's, Polchester, whose
Rector was the Reverend Richard Marlowe.

He had come to Polchester because he felt that it was a good
stepping-stone for him. Bishop Kendon was an old man now but famous in
the world for his books, his energy, his strength of character. Many
remarkable men had been at Polchester--Bishop Purcell, Archdeacon
Brandon, Wistons of Pybus St. Anthony. The Pybus living was famous for
its incumbents, the majority of whom had been moved to great preferment.

During his two years in Polchester he had, he was sure, made a real
mark. He was popular, considered intelligent, and as a preacher
increasingly in demand. He was an excellent preacher, modern, easy,
well informed, sometimes eloquent, always sensible. He took part in
many of the town's activities, played golf, sang with an agreeable light
tenor, was considered better-read than anyone in the town save old Canon
Ronder.

With Ronder he had made a strong alliance and here there was something
genuine and real. Although the old man was seventy-five, disgracefully
stout and exceedingly lazy, he had a mind that delighted young
Gaselee's--sharp, cynical, brilliantly instructed, keen as a dagger.
Gaselee's two years had been very happy and successful ones. He had a
right to be pleased.

He realized that the time of the anthem had arrived. He looked at a
printed sheet that had been laid in front of him and murmured, 'Another
of Doggett's experiments.' It was like Doggett to write a new anthem and
perform it for the first time at an ordinary daily Evensong when there
would be no audience.

Some people said Doggett had genius, and Gaselee, who loved music and
knew when it was good, thought that he might have, but the man was so
silent, so retiring, did so little for himself and his future--a little
mousy man with a large round head and a face like an egg, who seemed not
to care whether one liked his music or no. Gaselee had been kind to him,
but Doggett didn't seem to know it.

This was a setting of a poem of Christina Rossetti's.

Gaselee read the poem:

    Love is the key of life and death,
      Of hidden heavenly mystery:
    Of all Christ is, of all He saith,
             Love is the key.

    As three times to His Saint He saith,
      He saith to me, He saith to thee,
    Breathing His Grace-conferring Breath:
            'Lovest thou Me?'

    Ah, Lord, I have such feeble faith,
      Such feeble hope to comfort me:
    But love it is, is strong as death,
             And I love Thee.

The second verse was sung by a boy unaccompanied.

'That's young Klitch, the son of the man with the curiosity shop,'
Gaselee reflected. In the third verse seven bars were repeated,
reminding him a little of the close of the adagio in Mozart's 'Jupiter'
symphony. 'I'll tell Doggett that. I bet he never thought of it. There's
something ridiculous,' he thought, 'in an ugly little boy whispering
into space "Lovest thou Me?" even though----' Then something pulled him
up as sharply as though his face had been struck.

Deep shame held him. They were kneeling and he buried his hands and
prayed. It was his soul that had risen from some deep chasm where too
often it was hid, and clearly, quietly, faced him. For he cared for
beauty and all lovely things, goodness and high conduct and the nobility
of man. He believed in God, but life was for ever offering him
alternatives, pride and wit and self-advancement and the good opinion of
his fellows. Soon, very soon, when he was walking through the lighted
town to his lodgings, the world would surge back again--'Because
Christina was a poet, because a boy sang unaccompanied, because Doggett
is a musician, I was sentimentally moved as old stout Mrs. Braund has
been moved. A boy sang, a poet wrote, a musician played, and I believed
in God. . . .'

But the mood had not quite passed. His eyes were closed behind his
hands, but it seemed to him that the Cathedral slowly filled. The great
empty spaces of the nave had been cold, but through the West Door they
crowded in, hundreds upon hundreds, silently. They formed now a serried
mass, flowing out into St. Margaret's Chapel, into King Henry's Chapel,
under the shields of Henry V. and Warwick the King-Maker, over the
ledger-stones of the Priors, beside the tomb of Henry Quair, the
Franciscan friar, with its trefoil canopy, into the Lady Chapel with its
carvings of angels, into the King's Chapel with the lovely 'Virgin and
Children' windows, into the North-east Transept where is the tomb of the
Saxon bishop Wilfred, along the South Aisle that has the tombs of Prior
Edward of Barpledon and the great Bishop Holcroft, into the Chapel of
All Angels where the famous Emily, daughter of the Earl of Glebeshire,
lover of the poor, heroine of the battle of Drymouth, lies, yes, up into
the King Harry Tower, down into the Norman Crypt, and, at last, behind
him, crowded about the Tomb of the Black Bishop itself, like a mist from
the sea, an invasion, an army, a mighty breathing, watching, waiting
multitude.

The fantasy was so strong that he scarcely dared to raise his eyes, and
when at last he glanced about him, piercing the wavering light of the
candles, he still could not be entirely resolved. In his ears and in his
eyes there was a conviction of a pressing multitude and he felt that
thousands of eyes were bent upon himself.

He was apprehensive; he was suddenly afraid. It was like a nightmare
that he sometimes had of making some fearful blunder before a critical
company. In his dream he realized that pause, that look of wonder and
that awful certainty within himself that he had, in a moment of
incautiousness, made a mistake that nothing now could undo. Slowly his
eyes cleared. The Cathedral was empty save for the little gathering of
human beings about him. Only, as he looked towards the altar he fancied
that one high, thin figure remained, black, motionless, solitary. Then
that illusion also passed. The choir was filing out, Broad the verger
preceded Dale and Moffit--old Moffit, his head bent, tap-tapping with
his stick.

Gaselee was himself again. On the way out he smiled at Mrs. Braund,
nodded to Lampiron, and felt with pleasure the keen evening air blow
about his forehead.

       *       *       *       *       *

Now it so happened that at the moment of the singing for the first time
of Mr. Doggett's setting of Christina Rossetti's poem, Polchester
received a new citizen. The 3.45 from Drymouth steamed into Polchester
Station, gave itself a little shake of appreciation and slumbrously
stopped.

Out of one of the third-class carriages stepped a large stout man. The
first person in Polchester to have a real conversation with this man was
Mr. Herbert Klitch, who had the curiosity shop, No. 11 Norman Row.

Norman Row is a line of small and rather ancient shops and houses that
abuts on Arden Gate, facing the Green and the Cathedral. Just behind
this row of buildings is Canon's Yard. Some of the houses of Norman Row
date back to the sixteenth century. There are a number of shops--the
Cathedral Shop that has all the postcards, the guide-books, Canon
Moffit's book on the Cathedral, cheap imitations of the knocker of the
West Door, the carvings of the angels in the Lady Chapel, little
replicas of Henry Quair, the Black Bishop, Bishops Wilfred and Holcroft,
religious books and, most popular of all, small bronze copies of the
Harmer John Memorial. Next to the Cathedral Shop is the Glebeshire Tea
Shop, and next to that the Woollen Shop which is run by the Association
of Glebeshire Industries. Also in Norman Row live Broad the head verger,
Mr. Doggett the organist, Mrs. Coole who has a lodging-house for old
ladies.

Mrs. Coole's house is No. 10, the Cathedral Shop No. 3, Mr. Doggett's
No. 8, Mr. Klitch's No. 11.

Herbert Klitch was a round, rosy-faced Pickwick sort of man, very jolly,
not a fool, with a great affection for his wife and his boy and girl.
Especially he had a passionate love of his boy, Guy, who, besides having
a fine treble and being head boy in the Choir School, was a nice child
with a real talent for mechanics.

As the Cathedral chimed four o'clock Klitch turned on the electric
light. The shop had been dark for some time now, but Klitch had not
troubled: he had been alone there, sitting in his back room, glancing
out of his back window, which, through a space in the houses of Canon's
Yard, looked away on the left to fields and a thin line of graceful
hills. He always said he had one of the best views in Polchester, for
his back window gave him green fields on one side and the town and the
drop to the Rock on the other, while the front shop commanded the whole
of the Green and the Cathedral in its complete splendour.

'The whole of Life, Nature, Commerce, Religion--and in Canon's Yard
itself the daily humours of the human animal.' His shop, he considered,
was the true centre of the town.

He was, himself, broad-minded, tolerant, looked on everyone with humour
and was an enthusiastic gossip. One of his weaknesses perhaps was that
he could keep nothing to himself. He knew everything about the town,
what the St. Leaths were doing at the Castle, old Ronder's present
pulling of intricate strings, why Lady Mary Bassett had quarrelled with
Mrs. Cronin, what Humphrey Carris had up his sleeve. Especially did all
the life of the Cathedral--clerical, human, musical, official--pass
under his eye. And because he had money enough, a good wife, good
children, a fine digestion, and was able to laugh at his enemies, he was
a happy man.

His shop was crowded with things good, bad and indifferent--furniture,
pictures, suits of armour, a stuffed crocodile, silver, china, rugs and
old books. There were always some valuable things to be found there by
those who knew. He had no conscience at all about cheating anyone who
was ignorant enough to be cheated. His theory was that anyone who wished
to buy old things should learn something about the job. He dealt with an
admirable 'faker' in Drymouth who could provide you with a Chippendale
chair, a piece of Lowestoft, a Girtin water-colour in no time at all. He
made his living, in the main, from the junk that was in his front
window. He was clever at arranging his window, and would have there
some delicate china, an Indian shawl, some Toby jugs, and a piece of
carving from a Spanish cathedral, so tactfully placed that they all gave
lustre to one another.

When someone came to the shop who had true knowledge, he brought out his
real things. This was his happiest time, for he had a great and genuine
love of the true and the beautiful. He would surprisingly lower his
prices for a connoisseur, feeling that here was another artist like
himself. One or two things--a Bonington drawing, a small Chippendale
table, some Waterford glass--he loved so much that he kept them to
himself. He himself painted water-colours and very bad they were.

Not only was his face round and rosy but his skin was very smooth and he
was a pattern of cleanliness. He always wore a rather high wing-collar
and in his tie a gold pin. He liked loose pepper-and-salt tweeds in the
winter time, and on his thick gold watch-chain was a Masonic sign. He
was a high official in the local Lodge. His short thick legs were quick,
impatient, impulsive, and the rest of his body seemed to move with slow
good-nature behind them as though it said: 'Hold on, legs. You'll wear
me out one of these days, but I'm proud of you all the same.' He thought
a pretty girl one of the nicest things in the world and I would not say
that he had been always faithful to Mrs. Klitch. 'In spirit--always,' he
would say, and Mrs. Klitch said, 'What I don't hear about don't worry
me.'

He went into the front shop, and, looking about him, thought that he
would soon close, for it was not likely that there would be any more
customers to-day. He was filled with pride and satisfaction. The front
shop was nice, very nice indeed. He arranged a few things, humming
'Raindrops on the Roof' as he did so. He stopped and patted his Chinese
Warrior on the shoulder. He was very proud of his Warrior, a big figure
in red-and-gold lacquer, carrying a sword. He had a black hat and black
boots and in his eyes there was a stare of cold arrogant brutality which
Klitch greatly appreciated.

Then (Klitch often afterwards remembered the exact circumstances) his
shop-bell rang, the door opened and a man came in. He was tall, broad
and stout. He was wearing an ulster and carried a shabby brown bag. This
last he at once put down on a sham Chippendale chair and said: 'Mr.
Herbert Klitch?' His voice, even as revealed by those few words, was
remarkable. It had a resonance quite unusual, so that you felt that it
was carried on in a series of reverberating echoes. Nevertheless its
tone was tunefully deep and true.

'Yes, that's me,' said Klitch ungrammatically.

'Ah,' said the man. Then he took off his ulster. 'Just as though,'
Klitch said afterwards, 'he meant to stay for the night.' He smiled a
broad and beaming smile. This should have been friendly and yet was not
altogether so. As Klitch very quickly noticed, the man was in many ways
a series of contradictions. He was big and should have given an
impression of great strength, but there was too much flesh on his bones.
His head was finely shaped, but the cheeks were flabby, the mouth too
small. The eyes were large and friendly but also a little sly. His most
remarkable feature was his nose, which was unusually long, fleshy about
the nostrils, and gave the impression, as some noses do, that it had a
life independent of the rest of the face. His colouring was fair and he
had an untidy light-brown moustache.

The moment that Klitch really looked at him he said to himself, 'Now
where have I seen that nose before?'

The stranger stood with his legs apart and began to talk.

'I've just arrived in your town and left my bag at the station,' he
said. 'The fact is that I have only a few shillings in my pocket. Don't
be afraid,' he went on, laughing, 'I'm not going to beg; no, and I'm not
going to hold a pistol at your head either. I was looking all the way
along for a curiosity shop, somewhere to sell a very pretty thing I've
got in my bag here. I thought I was beat and then I came on your shop.'
He smiled in a friendly, intimate way. 'You see, I only landed at
Drymouth this morning and there were one or two things I had to buy
there. I'm staying with relatives here in Polchester, but I don't want
to arrive without a penny to my name. I'll be getting a cheque from
America in a day or two, but that will take a week or more to clear.' He
looked around him. 'You've got some nice things here.'

'Yes,' said Klitch, 'I have--and I don't know that I want any more.
Times as they are, we're all trying to sell things rather than buy
them.'

'Perfectly,' said the stranger. 'I fully appreciate that, but when
you've seen what I've got here I think you'll like it.'

He turned to the shabby bag, opened it and, from the middle of a pair of
not-too-fresh pyjamas, produced something in brown paper. Klitch, who
was a good observer and liked to say, with his head on one side, that
nothing was too small to be important, noticed that the hands were big,
podgy, and the backs of them covered with brown freckles. 'I'd know
those hands again anywhere,' he thought. The man, with great care, his
face puckered with childlike seriousness, unwrapped the paper and then
held up something that made Klitch exclaim, in spite of himself, 'Ah!'

It had been his habit for many years to assume complete indifference if
he was a purchaser and show a friendly eagerness if a seller. He was
disgusted with himself for saying 'Ah!' The man said nothing. He simply
held up his prize against the light and his whole big body was taut with
pride.

He was holding a crucifix of black marble. The Christus was carved in
white ivory. It stood on a pedestal of brilliant green ivory.

'You may well say "Ah,"' he remarked at last. 'You won't see another
like this in a hurry. Spanish--seventeenth century.'

No, Klitch wouldn't. He realized that. Moreover the artist-demon in him
was stirring, gripping his heart with its talons, urging him on,
spiteful vindictive little animal, to perform some egregious commercial
folly.

'Yes. It's fine,' Klitch said. 'I won't deny it.' He examined it more
closely. He took it into his expert hands. The figure was exquisitely
carved and it was no absurd fancy of Klitch's that, with its dignity of
suffering, its abnegation of all pride, its poignant authority, the room
and everything in it should be aware of a new presence.

Klitch placed it on a table. Both men looked at it.

'Of course,' said the man, 'it's worth I don't know how much. If I
waited I could get anything I like for it in London.'

'Perhaps,' said Klitch, 'you could and perhaps you couldn't. It's
amazing these days what low prices fine things are fetching at
Christie's and Sotheby's.'

'Oh, _that's_ not the way,' said the man. 'The thing to do is to find
somebody who wants it, somebody who must have it. But I haven't the
time. That's the damnable part of it. Fact is,' he went on, growing more
confidential, 'I don't want to part with it--if I can see a way out.'

'What's its history?' Klitch asked.

'I got it from a man in New Mexico. He said it came from Toledo. It's
seventeenth-century Spanish all right though.'

'Probably stolen,' Klitch thought, and told himself to be careful.

The man went on: 'Now this is what I thought you might do. Let me have
fifty pounds or so. Give me three months. If I can pay you back with
interest in that time I take it back. If not, at the end of three
months, you keep it. It's worth three or four hundred if it's worth a
penny.'

'Staying in Polchester?' Klitch asked.

'Well, to be honest with you I don't know. Depends how I like my
relations and how they like me. But you're safe enough any way. If I
abscond in the night you've got the thing for keeps. I'll give you a
paper saying that if I'm absent from this town a month without redeeming
it it's yours. Nothing could be fairer than that.'

Yes, Klitch thought, that was fair enough. He knew where he could sell
it to-morrow for a hundred. But he didn't want to sell it. The longer he
looked at it the more he liked it. Fifty pounds was a lot of money, but
he had done well that summer.

'I'm not a pawnbroker, you know,' he said, smiling.

'This is different,' said the man.

Yes, it was. Klitch hadn't seen so beautiful a thing for a long time.

'All right. I'll do it,' he said suddenly.

'Cash,' said the man.

'I think I've got enough. Come into the back room.'

He sat down and wrote out a declaration. Then he jumped up.

'Wait a moment,' he said. 'I'll have a witness if you don't mind.' He
went to the little staircase and called out: 'Maria! You there?'

Someone answered, and presently a little woman with grey hair and a
mottled face like a strawberry came down.

'Here, Maria! I want you to witness this.'

Mrs. Klitch stared at the big man with great interest, but she was a
discreet woman, did her business and retired up the stairs again. Then
the man sat down and, holding the pen very clumsily in his big hand,
signed his name.

'Why!' Klitch cried. 'Furze? Michael Furze? Any relation of Mr. Stephen
Furze?'

'I'm his brother,' said the man.

_That_, thought Klitch, is where I got the nose from!

'His brother!' Klitch said. 'Stephen Furze's brother! Well I never!'

They went back into the front room.

'Yes, my name's Michael Furze. My friends call me Mike.' The man,
smiling, stood swaying slightly on his big legs.

Klitch gave him three ten-pound notes and the rest in ones.

'So you're going to stay with him?'

'I suppose so. I haven't seen him for twenty years. What's he like now?'

'What was he like twenty years ago?'

'Oh, thin as a stick and mean as hell.'

'Well, he's just the same now. He's not liked in the town. Too many
people owe him money.'

'Ah--same old Stephen.' Furze's eyes narrowed. 'He had a girl of ten
when I last saw him. She still with him?'

'Oh yes.'

'And Sarah?'

'Mrs. Furze? Yes, she's still there.'

'They don't know I'm coming,' Furze said, grinning. 'It'll give them a
bit of a surprise.'

'I expect it will.' Then Klitch added: 'I doubt if you'll stay there
long.'

'Why? What's the matter with them?'

'A bit miserly, the old people. You won't get much to eat.'

'Oh, won't I?' Furze smiled again.

'You'll find the town a bit quiet too,' Klitch said.

'Just what I want--some quiet. I've roamed the world over. Moscow,
Tokio, Honolulu, New Zealand, Paraguay, Colombia--anywhere you like. I
could tell you some stories. . . . But I've always fancied a place like
this. I'm a religious man.'

'You're what?' asked Klitch.

'Religious. Does that sound odd to you?'

'No. Not odd,' said Klitch. 'Only precious few people are these days.'

'Well, they ought to be.' The voice began to boom again. 'They'll find
it mighty uncomfortable for themselves one day. The soul--what's more
important than the soul? Here for seventy years or so, then--eternity.
Eternity! Just think of it, man! When I was in Paraguay once . . .'

He then proceeded to tell an amazing story with dragons and
witch-doctors and tortured old women and a large black snake in it. The
story was wonderful and most unconvincing. Furze stopped with a click.

'Well, there--I could talk all night. I must be getting on and give my
dear relations a shock. A miser is he, dear Stephen? Always was. Grown
on him, I expect.'

'I expect it has,' Klitch said gravely.

'I hate to leave that with you. May I come in and look at it sometimes?'

'Why, of course.'

'I'll buy it back from you in no time. You'll see.' He shook hands and
Klitch was astonished at their soft pudginess. 'Good night. Many
thanks.' He picked up his shabby bag and went out.

Klitch looked, from the open door, after him. There was no sign of him.
He had been swallowed up as though he had never been. A thin, vaporous
mist had come up, but above it stars shone out and the Cathedral, like a
black ship, sailed against the pale sky.

'That's a rum bloke,' Klitch thought. 'Never met a rummer.'

He looked at the Cathedral. Empty now and silent. Not a soul there. He
wondered sometimes what it felt at night. Did the spirits of the old
priests and warriors and monks come out from their tombs? He had thought
sometimes that he would invade that silence. What would he discover? A
foolish, fantastic thought, but then he had for so long lived with old,
discarded things, chairs and tables and pictures and suits of armour
that seemed to him to have a life of their own. Well, if chairs and
tables had, why not knights and bishops?

He went back into the shop and looked at the crucifix. Yes, it was
lovely. He hoped fervently that that fellow would not find the money.

He called up the staircase: 'Maria! Come down and see what I've got!'




CHAPTER II

A HOUSE LIKE A BONE, SET FOR TWO ANTAGONISTS


Michael Furze, when he had taken some strides into the thin evening
mist, remembered that he had not asked Klitch where brother Stephen's
house was. But that did not matter. He had the name of the house--The
Scarf--and there must be plenty who knew it.

He was greatly pleased with himself, as, in fact, he very often was. To
call him conceited would be to call him mature: he had the vanity of a
child, of an animal, of anything not old enough to make mature
comparisons. His own idea of himself was that he was a wonderful fellow
for bringing things off. His boastfulness--he was a tremendous
boaster--did not come from the nervousness of self-suspicion nor from
the blindness of a fanatic. He was like a boy who thinks his school the
whole world. He forgot instantly his mistakes, follies, ignorances,
exposures. A varied and adventurous life had taught him nothing. In the
same way he lied continually, because as soon as he said a thing it
became at once for him a truth; because of his physical size, his voice,
his laugh and something attractively _naf_ in his personality people
laughed at him indulgently. He was not mean nor revengeful; desire for
revenge _might_ be stirred in him and it would have then all the
determined purpose of a limited nature; as yet, in his life he had been
treated on the whole well.

And now he was thinking that he was a wonder. Here he was, arriving in a
town altogether unknown to him, without a penny in his pocket, and
behold, within an hour, he had fifty quid! Had fifty quid as he wanted
it too!

Oh yes, Mike, my son, you're a marvel. You go from place to place, all
the world over, and land on your feet and get what you want, have money
and food and friends for the asking! What is there about you, Mike?
Hasn't God got some special purpose for you? Didn't He make you as you
are that you should do some wonderful thing? Then, when the clock
strikes, at the exact moment, there you will be, the world, astonished,
at your feet, all glory to God! Weren't you a marvel in the War, Mike;
never once hit, never ill save for that bit of dysentery in Palestine;
and weren't you a marvel in America and in Constantinople and in China?
Aren't you a marvel with women too? Don't they all fall for you and,
when you're sick of them, don't you just leave them as a real man
should?

And now you've come to the right place, Mike, my son--a cathedral town.
Haven't you always wanted a cathedral? Haven't you in Venice and Toledo
and Paris and Cologne stared open-mouthed at those wonderful places just
as though you had some special right to them, some personal relation
with them? Haven't you said, since you were a baby: 'There's nothing so
wonderful, nothing I, Mike Furze, want so much'? And hasn't it been a
kind of wonderful coincidence that your stinking, parsimonious,
bread-scraping brother should choose, fifteen years ago, of all places
in the world a cathedral town to live in? Choose it _and_ stay in it!
There's a kind of miracle for you!

He had reached the Arden Gate. He turned for a last look, and there it
was, its black mass raised above the mist against the stars. Clutching
his brown bag, his legs apart, he stared at it, wondering whether, in
full light of day, he would be disappointed in it. This wonder came
freshly to him on every fresh occasion, for after all, what could this
passion of his for cathedrals be but an illusion? One day--he expected
it to come at any time--he would say to himself: 'Well, now--think of
that--whatever did I see in the thing?' and he knew that, when that
moment came, he would suffer some loss, the kind of loss that he would
suffer were he never to see his black marble crucifix again. This sense
of what he would lose led him to yet further appreciation: 'No,
indeed--I am no ordinary man. The ordinary man cares nothing for
cathedrals.'

Through Arden Gate he walked and started down the High Street. Now he
must consider the Town, about which of course he knew nothing at all.

He could not, as a visitor returning after several years might
do--Shade, thin bony Shade of Miss Midgeley, are you there?--wonder at
the many improvements and possibly lament them--at the up-to-date
splendours of the St. Leath Hotel; at the fine sprouting of red-brick
villas up the hill above Orange Street; at the renovation of 'The Bull'
with its bathrooms and handsome garage; at the parking-place off the
Market; at the reclamation and renovation of Pennicent Street, that once
abominable heart of Seatown, now Riverside Street; at the excellent and
justly famous eighteen-hole golf course carved from part of the St.
Leath domain--(the St. Leaths, poor things, no longer wealthy as once
they were)--the two splendid cinemas, 'The Arden' and 'The Grand,'
forgetting the little cheap one, 'The Majestic' (vulgarly known as 'The
Dog'), down in Riverside Street.

Yes, so modern are you, might that sparse and bony Shade exclaim, that
you are contemplating (you, James Aldridge, Mayor, and you, Humphrey
Carris, solicitor, and you, Fred Hattaway, architect, and you, Dick
Bellamy, universal provider) a flying-field, on the other side of the
river towards Pybus.

So far in the one direction: and in the other might that
Shade--universally present, for whom time has no meaning--marvel also
that so little is changed, that wildness still runs in Riverside Street
(what of 'The Dog and Pilchard'? Is Hogg's stout shadow not hovering
there yet?), the Market-place has not lost its scented country air, nor
'The Bull' its dark and tallow-candled passages, nor Canon's Yard its
mysteries, nor Norman Row the dignities of its tempestuous Abbot. . . .

And the Cathedral? Here the Shade pauses, waits, and enters to find a
great company in attendance. . . .

Michael Furze asked no questions. He passed down the High Street through
the lighted town. Everything was alive and bustling. Motors pushed and
hooted through the narrow street; the St. Leath motor-bus, having met
the last train of the day, jigged its way up the hill; farmers (for it
had been market day) stood solidly gossiping, moving contemptuously at
the last possible instant from the path of intolerable cars; opposite
Bennett's was the lighted hall-way of W. H. Smith's (and oh! the rivalry
and hatred that this opposition had created) and, two doors below it,
the brilliant flaunting electric-lit windows of Bellamy's main store!
Here surely was promise of life and adventure for Michael Furze. Furze
with his brown bag and his fifty quid!

He stopped.

'Would you mind telling me,' he asked the policeman at the corner,
'where The Scarf is? It's the name of a house. I don't know the street.
Belongs to a Mr. Stephen Furze.'

The policeman directed him.

He turned to the right and down, finding himself then in an unexpected
quiet, passing some railings that guarded a drop of sheer black-fronted
rock. He stayed there a moment and looked downwards, to the life and
lights of Seatown. He knew nothing of Seatown as yet nor of the spirit
that informed it, but he had the sharp sniffing apprehensions of a child
or a puppy and he realized that there was, down there, some world very
different from the High Street just as the High Street was different
again from the Cathedral. So small a place and three distinct worlds in
it--or were they distinct? These speculations, however, were not for
him, whose whole instinct was towards self-preservation and self-glory.
Nevertheless he was apprehensive. The mist came up from the river and
with the mist a sea-tang, a breath of the unknown. He translated this,
as he moved forward, into a new nervousness as to how his brother would
receive him. He was not afraid of his brother. Oh no, not he! They had
never cared for one another--but who _could_ care for Stephen? Michael
had left the home in Hull--their father had been a shipping merchant--at
a very early age, apprentice to the Merchant Service, and after that it
was only at odd moments that they had met. Stephen had moved to London,
had been some sort of broker in the City. Twenty years ago Michael had
spent a week-end with them at Tulse Hill--on his own invitation,
needless to say. And what a week-end! Poor Mike had emerged on the
Monday a starved man: every mouthful had been grudged him. Stephen's
meanness had become a mania--yes, the intensity, the preoccupation, the
watching waiting lust of madness.

Wasn't it crazy, then, after such an experience, to return? The notion
had come to him on the ocean, travelling from America without a penny in
his pocket. He had been idly turning over the pages of some magazine
when he had been confronted with a magnificent photograph of Chartres.
There it was just as he had last seen it, glorious, triumphant,
flattering him with the appeal that it made to him, so that his throat
contracted, his fingers curved. How many others on the boat with him
would feel that delighted pleasure? He remembered then that Stephen, his
wife and child, had gone, fifteen years ago, to live in Polchester in
the South of England. He remembered even the name of the house--The
Scarf, Polchester, Glebeshire, England.

It hit him then like a blow in the stomach. Stephen must be rich by now;
twenty years of miserly saving. There would be results of that. Stephen
was ten years older than himself and, even twenty years ago, had been a
lanky pale-faced skeleton. And there was the Cathedral, one of the most
famous in England. In that moment of time, staring at the pictures of
Chartres, his mind was made up, his destiny settled.

Now the child in him, part roguish, part malicious, part friendly, part
fearful, anticipated the meeting.

He came to a house, isolated, not far from the church of which the
policeman had told him. He could see it very dimly, but he knew it to be
the one, for on either side of the gate were stone pillars surmounted by
misshapen stone animals. What they represented he could not, in that
light, tell. He pushed back the gate that screamed on its hinges; his
feet crunched the gravelled path. Before the door he hesitated. Not a
sound came to him save the rustling at his feet of a few autumn leaves
taunted by the evening wind. Then, most unexpectedly, across the whole
extent of the town, the Cathedral struck the hour. He waited until the
full total of the five strokes that followed the chime had ended. Then,
as though that had decided him, he pushed, with all his force, the bell.
He heard it peal as though through an empty house. He waited and with
every second of pause his impatience grew. It was as though he felt a
personal insult, and he pushed the bell again; he might have been
muttering: 'You'll keep me out, will you? Well, I'll show you.'

He heard someone approaching; light spread behind the fan. The door
opened and an old woman stood there, peering out into the dusk. He knew
that she was Sarah Furze.

'Who's there?' she said.

He stepped forward, but she did not move.

'Don't you know me?' he cried, and his voice boomed into the house. 'I'm
brother Mike!'

She stared at him, pushing her head forward. He could see that she was
very much older than when he had seen her last. Her face was dry,
faintly yellow, seamed with wrinkles, and her eyes dull and strained
with the defeated gaze of someone very short-sighted. Then he realized
with a shock that she was more than short-sighted; she was blind.

The voice must have told her who it was, for she stood aside. He passed
by her into the house.

'Michael!' she said, her voice quavering with astonishment. 'I can't
see. . . .'

'It's myself sure enough,' he shouted at her as though the knowledge of
her blindness made him think that she must also be deaf. 'Turned up
again like a bad penny.' Then he caught her by the shoulder, pulled her
towards him and kissed her. Her cheek was dry and powdery. She was a
little old woman wearing a faded black silk dress, her grey hair plaited
in old fashion but very neatly above her wrinkled forehead.

'There's no one in the house,' she said.

He stood there, staring about him. He realized a number of things--one
that the place was lit by gas, another that the hall, the stairs were
dry and clean like an old yellow bone. Yes, dryness and cleanliness and
a faint, a very faint odour in the air of mortality, as though far away
in the heights or depths of the house someone were lying awaiting
burial. It was not altogether unpleasant, this very faint odour; it was
chemical, perhaps, rather than corporeal. Yes, the odour of a chemist's
shop, many degrees rarefied. He was sharp and observant in any new
place because he had, in his life, travelled so far and encountered so
many adventures. He noticed that once the wallpaper of the hall and
staircase had been a bright yellow with crimson roses. Now the walls
were dim as things are that have been kept underground away from the
light. The only furniture of the hall was an umbrella-stand, very
ancient, leaning a little away from the door as though it feared the
draught; above this a looking-glass and at the side of the glass some
coats hanging like corpses. Only one picture hung on the wall, a
photogravure of Father Christmas arriving in a family of excited,
clapping, laughing children and pouring from his sack a multitude of
gifts. One other thing he noticed, and that was that at the head of the
stair, was a high window, its glass of yellow-and-green lozenges.

Plenty of time for looking at things, he thought, for there he was and
there Sarah was, motionless, staring in front of her with her sightless
eyes. There was no sound at all save the faint hiss of the gas-jet in
the globe above his head. He must be doing something about this. The
silence was twisting his nerves.

'Stephen out, is he?' he cried heartily. (His voice seemed to drive up
to the green-and-yellow window and back again.) 'When will he be back?'

'Soon--very soon--any minute now.'

'I've come to stay the night.'

'You must talk to Stephen,' she said, rubbing her lip with her fingers.

'Aren't you glad to welcome me, old girl, after all this time?' he said,
feeling that something must be done.

'Yes, yes.' Her lips moved in a smile. 'Where have you been all this
while, Michael?'

'The world over, old girl. Places you've never heard of, I'll be bound.
And now I've come home.'

'Yes. Stephen _will_ be surprised.'

'I bet he will.' He wondered whether she were still uncertain of his
identity. She stood there with indecision. And yet she could not be
uncertain. Once you'd met him you'd recognize Michael Furze again
anywhere, in the very confines of the deepest darkness.

However, he could not stand there for ever, so he said:

'What about sitting down, old girl, and waiting a bit? I've been
travelling all day.'

'Yes, of course.'

'I only left the boat this morning.'

'The boat?'

'Yes. I've come from America. Come straight here to see how you were all
getting along.'

It seemed that she had made up her mind, for again with that smile which
came and went as though she herself had nothing to do with it, she moved
down the hall. She moved with the concentrated certainty of the blind
and, coming to a door on the left, opened it.

'You can make yourself comfortable here perhaps. Stephen won't be long,
I'm sure.'

He moved in, taking his brown bag with him. He was at once struck with
the icy coldness of the room.

'My God!' he thought. 'I shan't be able to stay here a week.'

He saw things that he recognized. The old clock on the mantelpiece with
the grumpy face, faint yellow marks of discoloration that gave it a
pouting mouth and a twisted nose. It was not going; the hands pointed to
quarter-past eleven. Two large china ornaments, country girls in
wide-brimmed hats carrying baskets of flowers; two arm-chairs of
horsehair; a white wool rug with black lines on it; a glass-fronted
cabinet containing some very mediocre china, a Swiss cow-bell, a carved
wooden box. All these things he remembered from his childhood. On that
same rug Stephen had, in one of those dry, bitter tempers of his, rubbed
his knuckles in his brother's eyes until he screamed again. His mother
had slapped him for opening the cabinet without permission. The clock
made a noise, when it was going, like an old man in a wheezing hurry. He
had been all the world over and had returned to these same things. He
could fancy that they recognized him and he half expected the old clock
to start off again on its wheezy way to show him that it remembered him.
But no--everything here was frozen into silence.

The gas was already lit. The room was bare in spirit and irreproachably
clean.

Sarah had left him then, so he sat down on one of the horsehair chairs,
his bag at his feet, and wondered what would come next.

He had not long to wonder, for the door opened without a sound and
Stephen stood in the room.

'I believe he was in the house all the time,' Michael thought. But he
went cordially to his brother, shook his hand with almost extravagant
warmth and cried:

'What about this for a surprise, old boy? Delighted to see you.'

Stephen had not altered very greatly in twenty years. He was sparser,
sparer; his body had a _preserved_ look, as though he had been kept all
this time in some kind of spirit. He was as tall as his brother, and his
big white nose, projecting from his gaunt face, suggested a possibility,
like Michael's, that it had a life of its own. It was a peering, active
probing nose with its own knowledge, its own discoveries, its own
conclusions. He had scanty grey hair, wisps of it brushed carefully over
the white domed skull; pale shaggy eyebrows; eyes mild, sleepy; a mouth
uncertain, rather tremulous.

In truth, had it not been for the nose and a curious lithe active
movement of the long thin body, Stephen Furze might seem a gentle,
sluggish, easy man, kindly of intention, non-interfering. He wore a
black frock-coat of ancient cut, a high white collar, a black bow-tie.
His garments were old but scrupulously brushed and neat. When he spoke
all Michael's childhood and youth rushed back to him, for Stephen's
voice had a soft, gentle ring about it that distinguished it from all
others.

When he spoke he gave an impression of great politeness but of firmness
too. There was nothing humble in his tone, and he had a way of suddenly
protruding his eyes from under the heavy white lids so that they looked
at you as a candle shines when the cover is lifted.

He gripped his brother's podgy hand and it was then that his body seemed
to rise, hover and hang forward.

'A surprise! I should think so! We thought you the other end of the
earth. We'd no idea _where_ you were, and naturally, for you haven't
written to us for years.'

Michael removed his hand and stepped back.

'I was always hoping to write and tell you that I was a millionaire,' he
said. 'Thought my luck would change, but it didn't. Then in New York I
was suddenly home-sick, felt I must see old England again. Before I
died, you know.' He laughed.

'Died!' said Stephen. 'We are both far from that, I hope.'

'I only landed at Drymouth this morning and came straight here.'

'Well, sit down, sit down,' Stephen said, with a kind of warm
gentleness. 'You'll stay and have something to eat with us? You can't
refuse us that after all this time. Where are you stopping? "The Bull"?'

(This, thought Michael, with my bag staring at him!)

Michael squared his shoulders.

'I've come straight here,' he said. 'Can you give me a bed for the
night?'

Stephen gave a quick apprehensive look round the room. He looked at the
china ornaments, the cabinet, the table. It was as though he were
guarding these things, protecting them from attack.

He stood by the fireside. He rubbed his nose.

'The fact is, Mike, we're not prepared for you. You should have given us
warning. Poor Sarah--I don't know whether you noticed, but she's blind,
poor thing--a terrible deprivation. And at the moment we have no
maid----'

'Oh, I'm used to roughing it,' Michael broke in heartily. 'I'll sleep
anywhere. If I stay for a bit I can look around----'

At the word 'stay' Stephen Furze straightened his body, then turned with
a gentle twisting movement towards his brother.

'Stay? Well, as to that . . .'

This short conversation had brought his childhood back to Michael with
an amazing vividness--for always, from the very beginning, the relations
of the two brothers had been like this: they had never wasted time over
preliminaries, had been at once in opposition, Michael with the
blustering vehemence of his simple egotism, Stephen with the quiet
resolve of a monomaniac.

Stephen always had his way. But now--and how curious that it should be
so late postponed!--they were meeting for the first time in serious
contact as grown men. Michael had the obstinacy of his _naf_
selfishness, Stephen the driving determination of his monomania. But, as
yet, there was no battle, for Michael said:

'Look here, Stephen. I didn't mean to spring this upon you. Truly I
didn't. I should have written, but I only made up my mind at the last
moment. I'm like that, you know. A rolling stone. Never know where I'll
be to-morrow. I just said to myself: "I must have somewhere quiet in
England for a week or two after rolling round." Then of course I thought
of you. And then the Cathedral--I like cathedrals, I don't know why. . . .
I'll be no trouble to you. I only want a room and my breakfast. And of
course I'll pay for my keep.'

Stephen said gently, 'Yes.'

'Only a room and breakfast. I'd want a fire in my room though. I feel
the cold. . . .'

'Well,' said Stephen, 'what . . .?'

'Oh, about twenty-five bob a week, don't you think?' Then from his
breast-pocket he took his roll of notes and laid them on the table in
front of him. 'I'm in funds just now,' he said.

Stephen looked at the money. His hand moved quietly forward and he
touched them. He murmured, 'There's a lot of money there.'

'Yes. Fifty pounds.'

'What are you going to do with it?'

'Oh, I've got to live on that until I've found something to do.'

He was uneasy, even frightened. The cold dead room seemed suddenly
charged with life as a dark place is filled with light. He had the sense
that his brother was drawing him in with his long arms and holding him
in an embrace; some instinct made him take the money and put it back in
his coat; as he did so he heard Stephen draw a long breath, like a sigh,
something poignant and sad, a deep murmur of regret.

'Yes--I think we could manage that, Michael. We have no servant as I
told you. Only Sarah and my daughter. But I _think_ we could manage. It
will be pleasant to have you after all this time.'

Michael stood up. He knew that they had achieved, in that moment, a
relationship different from any that they had ever known--closer, more
intimate. At the same time he realized that he had a kinship with
Stephen that he had never suspected. He had always liked money, but only
for the things that it bought him. Now he felt that there was something
in money itself, the look of it, the feel of it. When Stephen had
touched those notes he had wanted to cry out 'Now you leave that alone!'
Stephen must have saved a lot, being the miser he was. There must be
plenty hidden away in the house somewhere, he wouldn't wonder. . . .

With this thought he was also uncomfortable. Something said to him: 'Get
out of this. Leave the house, the town. Don't come back. You're not such
a bad fellow. You were safe five minutes ago. Be safe again.'

But of course he liked risks. . . . He liked risks. The two brothers
stood facing one another. They had never been friends, and Stephen,
being ten years older, had always had his way. But now. The ten years
were gone, didn't count. Stephen was thin and worn. He didn't look well.
He mightn't live so very long.

They moved upstairs.

The room that Stephen showed him had an old canopy bed with faded
crimson hangings. On the wall was a text, with painted flowers: 'Thou
God seest me.' The wash-stand, two chairs, a wardrobe were shabby and it
was very cold.

'You won't forget about the fire,' Michael said.

'No, no. It may not burn very well at first. There hasn't been a fire
for some time in here. I'll tell Elizabeth.'

Michael put the bag on the floor.

'Well. . . . That's good. I'm glad we've come to an arrangement. Look
here, I'll pay you in advance for the first week.' He took out the
money. 'Here's a pound. I'll give you the five shillings to-morrow when
I get change.'

'Oh, I think I can change another pound.' Stephen took from his pocket a
strong black purse with a steel clasp. He found ten shillings and then
brought five shillings in silver from his trouser-pocket. Michael gave
him another pound. Stephen put them in his purse; the clasp shut with a
snap.

He stood rubbing his long hands together.

'We live extremely simply here. Very quiet.'

'That's what I want--quiet. I've been bumming around too long.' He bent
down to his bag. Stephen watched every movement with such intentness
that Michael longed for him to go. He wanted him out of the room.

'When's supper?'

'Half-past seven. There'll be a friend of ours, a Major Leggett.'

Oh, so he entertains, does he? Not too mean for that. What's this smell
in the room? As though everything had been washed with some antiseptic
soap. He took out his pyjamas, a small battered case with razors and
brushes. Stephen's eyes never left him.

'I'll be down for supper.'

Then Stephen did an odd thing. Michael's broad stout body was bent over
the bag. He felt his brother's hand rest on his back; then his fingers
touched his neck where the short bristly hairs stood out.

'See you later then,' Stephen said softly and went away.

       *       *       *       *       *

When his watch told him that it was half-past seven he went downstairs.
In the sitting-room he found a man and a girl. The man he disliked
instantly. This antipathy, which, in the end, was to affect a great many
others beside themselves, was at once mutual. It was not odd that
Leggett should dislike Michael, for it was his lot in life to be like an
animal with his back to the wall, frightened and defiant at once,
fawning and snarling, driven almost crazy by fear, distrust, malice,
consciousness of his own brilliance and the injustices under which he
suffered, judging others by himself so that he thought everyone capable
of the mean, false, violent actions that belonged to his own character.

Physically he was a short stocky man who looked as though he had to do
with horses. He was bald, of an unhealthy complexion, streaky, sometimes
grey, sometimes bloody like uncooked beef. His mouth was both hard and
conceited, his eyes small and suspicious, but, in spite of these
disadvantages, there was something pathetic, alone, driven, about him.

Something spiritual in him warned him of inevitable defeat. He had
played, it appeared, many different rles, had once kept horses, had run
a shop in London, had been a journalist, had married a Spanish lady who
had died and left him a small fortune which he had soon spent. He was,
it was understood, quite hopelessly in the hands of the Jews. He
insisted that he should be called Major, although it was one of those
ranks that the War had bestowed and that gentlemen had long discarded.
He was a lively, bitter, spiteful talker with wide knowledge of men and
affairs. He was an enemy of society; there are always one or two of
these in every community. They are the jungle-animals of social life.

The girl was of course Elizabeth Furze, the daughter of Stephen and
Sarah Furze.

Michael's first idea of her was that she was a plain, gaunt woman of no
attraction whatever.

She was tall, thin, pale, with large grey eyes, prominent cheek-bones, a
high pallid forehead. Her clothes were simple, old-fashioned in cut; her
dark hair was dragged back from her forehead as though to accentuate her
plainness. On this first evening she scarcely spoke. She had the
self-eliminating air of a woman who, whether from shyness or a sequence
of unhappy experiences, had decided long ago that she would offer fate
no chance to hurt or shame her. She busied herself during the meal,
handing things, taking plates away, and Michael observed that her
movements were exceedingly quiet and even graceful. By the end of the
evening he thought that she was not so plain, for her eyes were gentle
and she had dignity.

The meal, as he had expected, was very meagre. There was some thin,
tasteless soup, a piece of cold beef which Stephen carved, some potatoes
in their jackets, a blancmange. 'It's a good thing,' Michael thought,
'that I shall be taking my meals elsewhere.' He himself talked much and
loudly. He always did so when the atmosphere around him was silent and
still. It was as though he was conscious of a void which he must fill.
He boasted a lot of the things that he had done and the places that he
had seen. He told many stories, booming away, thinking himself excellent
company. When he talked like this something pleasantly simple appeared
in his character. He trusted those around him because he was pleased
with himself. When he was not attacked he was ready to be kind to
everyone. Leggett said very little and, when the meal was ended,
departed. A little later Michael went up to his room because there was
nothing else to do. He found a fire lighted there and he sat in front of
it, smoking his pipe.

He hadn't done so badly, he reflected. He had established himself in the
house and so in the town. He had an idea that things would happen to him
here. Perhaps he would find a rich wife. He would like to settle down
and have a child or two.

There must be money in this house. He would become Stephen's confidant,
his partner in his affairs perhaps. He had done the right thing; he had
come to the right place. . . .

But in the night he had a dream which, unlike many dreams, he remembered
in every detail on awaking. He was standing outside a cathedral: a
magnificent faade, with a great rose window, carved stone figures, a
glorious pattern of leaves and animals above the vast door. This
cathedral stood at one end of a Market-place which was filled with
people, talking, buying and selling, all busy and happy. As he watched,
thinking how happy they were, the sun disappeared and the air was cold;
the hearty chatter died down to a sound like the twitter of birds.
Everyone gazed about, apprehensively. Then there was a great silence as
though a door closed and shut them off from him. He himself felt a
trembling expectant fear. Then, as the sky darkened, he looked about him
and saw that the market was emptied. The booths were there, the piled
fruit, the gaily coloured flowers, clothes hanging, brass pots and pans,
china--not a human being anywhere. Absolute silence. Something told him
that he ought to run for his life but he could not move.

The leather apron in front of the great door was pushed back and a
little procession came out. First two men in black appeared carrying an
empty stretcher. They were followed by a small group of persons, also in
black and quite silent. Behind these, walking by himself, was a tall
figure. Michael saw, with a shudder, that the head of this man was
twisted on one side as though his neck were broken. The little
procession advanced without a sound and it seemed that the softly shod
feet made no contact with the pavement. The air now was bitterly cold
and the silence held a kind of crowded emptiness as though, near him,
hundreds and hundreds of people were watching and holding their breath.

Michael saw that the procession was making directly for himself, and he
knew that if it reached him something appalling would follow. But he
could not move. The stretcher, the followers, the man with the twisted
neck advanced nearer and nearer. He was in an agony of terror. Then he
heard arise on every side of him, like a wind getting up among trees,
the whisper: 'The Inquisitor! The Inquisitor!'

With a great cry he awoke. He found that his pyjamas were damp with
sweat. He lit a candle. There was still a faint colour in the ashen
fire. The text looked down on him from the wall. He could hear someone
snoring in a distant room.




CHAPTER III

THE MARLOWES, ALTHOUGH NOT AT ALL RICH, GIVE A NICE PARTY


It happened that, on that same evening of Mike Furze's arrival in
Polchester, the Marlowes were at home to their friends only a few doors
away from Stephen Furze's house.

The Rectory of St. James's was one of those houses squeezed together on
the edge of the hill known as the Rock. The house commanded a wonderful
view--below, Seatown, the river, the fields, woods and hills beyond it;
and from its upper windows the Upper Town and the Cathedral. The Rock
itself was full of history: from the river, up the rocky street, across
the Market-place, up the hill again, across the flat beyond Arden Gate,
into the Cathedral, the enemies of the Black Bishop had fought their
way; there is a sharp, jagged piece of rock known as The Tooth, whence,
visitors to the town are told, some of the Bishop's enemies were thrown,
in full armour, down, many feet, into the Pol.

The Rectory was beaten upon by all the heavenly winds, but it was a
strong old house with some dramatic memories. It had had some notable
incumbents: Dr. Burroughs who wrote a book once famous, now forgotten,
_Happy Polchester Days_; Morris who, in 1897, caused such a scandal by
running away with Archdeacon Brandon's wife; and Marlowe's predecessor,
William Rostron, now famous as one of the leaders of the Buchman
movement.

Marlowe had been Rector for ten years now. The queer thing was that,
although he and his family were very good people, they were greatly
liked, and almost everyone who was anyone came to their 'At Home' on
this evening. People liked old Marlowe--he was between fifty and sixty
but looked older because of his white hair and absent-minded untidiness.
He was one of those simple-minded saints who are frequent in novels and
infrequent in real life.

People in fact were able to patronize the whole family, which was one
reason of their popularity. They were not modern at all, and Mrs.
Marlowe said the most comic things at times. Also they were very poor,
another example of the scandalous way in which our clergy are treated.
St. James's Rectory was one of the old, rambling houses, far too big for
anyone with small means, and it was well known that Mrs. Marlowe did
most of the housework herself. It was said that she did not dare to
allow her husband to carry a penny in his pocket because he gave it away
instantly to anyone who begged of him. It was said also that she had to
supervise his exits and entrances, that it was a wonder that he did not
appear naked in the Market-place. This was of course greatly
exaggerated, as most things are apt to be in cathedral towns. Mr.
Marlowe had a good intelligence, preached an excellent sermon, talked
often with much wisdom, but he had a habit of thinking of three things
at once, would lose himself, quite like Dominie Sampson, in his quaint
and curious reading, and lived, often enough, in a world very far from
this one. They had one child, Penelope, known as 'Penny,' now nearly
eighteen years of age and, beyond question, prettier than any other girl
in Polchester. Mrs. Marlowe was broad and stout, with soft untidy brown
hair, a strong sense of humour and a passion for gaiety, hospitality,
any kind of fun. She loved gardening, the 'Pictures,' dances, picnics,
anything that was going. It is obvious that there was nothing unusual,
interesting, modern, exciting about the Marlowes.

A famous novelist declared the other day that it is ridiculous in these
times to pretend that anyone is good or bad. Human beings are so
complicated a mixture of glands, atoms, electrons and the rest that a
neutral scientific grey is the only modern colour.

But you could not call Mr. and Mrs. Marlowe grey. No one denied that
they were good people, that is, if generosity, honesty, courage and love
of one's fellows combine to make goodness. You could patronize them and
pity them and laugh at them but, mysteriously, you could not despise
them.

Everyone went to Mrs. Marlowe's parties, although everything was most
homely. The cakes were baked in the house, the tea and coffee were not
as good as they should be--no one attempted to entertain. Perhaps it was
that people felt safe in this house. The Marlowes thought the best of
everyone, most foolishly. Mrs. Marlowe enjoyed gossip like any other
woman, but she flushed and became embarrassed if you told her a real
scandal. And yet she was not a prude. She knew more about life than you
might suppose. It was amazing, as Lady Mary Bassett often said, that
having such a pure mind she was not more of a bore. But she was not a
bore: she was gay, merry, easily pleased and always, so far as one could
tell, happy.

It was, in fact, a very happy house.

Peter Gaselee explained all this and a good many more things as well to
the Reverend James Bird, the new curate at St. Paul's, Orange Street,
and Mr. Bird listened with his mouth open. James Bird had been in
Polchester a little over a month and this was his first Polchester
party. While dressing for it, in his lodging half-way down Orange
Street, he had been so extremely nervous that, had it not been for his
fear of his Rector, Mr. Porteous, he could not have ventured. But one
fear, as he found was so often the case, was greater than the other.

He was a small man with brown eyes and brown hair; he was very timid,
often said the wrong thing out of nervousness. He had not as good an
opinion of himself as his character demanded.

He was exactly the kind of person whom Gaselee could appreciate and
value on an evening like this. His admiration of Gaselee's cleverness
was extremely obvious; he looked up to Gaselee as a wonderful creature,
and of course Gaselee liked that.

Gaselee at a party always watched and waited. His plan was to sit in the
background until he was sought for. He trusted that his personality
would be noticed soon enough. It was much wiser to be sought for than to
do the seeking.

So he sat in a corner with little Mr. Bird and told him all about
everybody.

'You must be beginning to know people by this time. All the same, I'll
give you my idea of one or two of them. You've made up your mind about
your commander, Porteous, I expect. Do you play games well?'

'No, I'm afraid I don't,' said Mr. Bird.

'Well, that's a pity. To be a friend of Porteous you've _got_ to play
games. Don't be shocked when I tell you that he has an advantage over
the other clergy in Polchester because he was at the same public school
as Jesus Christ--a very fine public school, one of the best. He was in
the same Cricket Eleven. You'll have noticed how, in his sermons and
elsewhere, cricketing terms are those that serve his purpose best. "Play
the game," "Play for your side," "Play with a straight bat," "It's the
team spirit that counts." Christ to him is a good fellow with whom he
has been on intimate terms all his life. That makes him very jolly and
happy and sure of himself. "All that Christ wants," he says to us, "is
for you fellows to be sportsmen, never forget that Christ is Captain of
the team and knows how best to win the match." What he can't bear is for
anyone to be a bad sportsman. Judas was one and there are several in
Polchester just now. The Bolsheviks are bad sportsmen, and the Americans
just now because they want us to pay the War Debt, and all Methodists
and Roman Catholics and Scientists and immoral writers and the Bishop of
Birmingham. "Mens Sana in Corpore Sano." I hope you don't think I'm
unfair. He's an excellent fellow, and when he greets a fellow-sportsman
you can hear him from one end of the town to another. I'm afraid you'll
have to learn some game or other--even ping-pong would be better than
nothing. . . . Do you see that large lady over there with an auburn
permanent wave and a fine firm bosom? That is Mrs. Carris, wife of
Humphrey Carris, solicitor. The Carrises are very important people
here. Mrs. Carris was a Miss Polly Lucas at St. Earth. Good Glebeshire
family. She is very intelligent socially. She knows just who is worthy
and who is not. She gives many parties. She is always giving parties,
tennis parties, cocktail parties, dinner parties--not so much because
she likes parties as because she keeps the social register. It is a
little difficult for her in these democratic days, but she manages to
mark the line. Her daughters help her. You are asked first to luncheon
and if you are all right you move on to dinner. There is a deep and very
eloquent rivalry between herself and Mrs. Braund, the wife of the
Archdeacon, who leads the Cathedral set. They are allies at one time,
enemies at another. Mrs. Carris is an excellent bridge player, which
gives her an advantage, but Mrs. Braund is related--rather distantly but
still related--to the Howards. Mrs. Braund speaks sometimes of the
Duchess of Norfolk with considerable familiarity.

'That's Mrs. Braund--but of course you know her--talking to Lady Mary
Bassett. Lady Mary is the intellectual head of Polchester. She is the
daughter of old Lord Pomeroy who was once the Colonial Secretary. When
she was a little girl in London she was most brilliant. At the age of
ten she startled men like Henry James and Augustine Birrell with her
witticisms and French phrases. She grew even more and more brilliant and
made so many epigrams that people kept notebooks simply to record them.
Then she married a rich young man called Bassett who had a place near
Drymouth. She wrote two novels and then unfortunately he ran away with
an actress and she had to divorce him. People in London got tired of
her because she talked so much and was always scratching her left
ear----'

'Her left ear?' said Mr. Bird, bewildered.

'Well, it wasn't always her left ear. She has restless habits. She came
to live just outside Polchester and is a great addition to our Society.
She's a little eccentric now, but what can you expect when you begin to
be brilliant so young? Now I'll show you someone nice for a change. Do
you see that tall slim woman in black? That's Mrs. Hattaway, wife of
Hattaway the architect. She's one of the kindest, most natural women in
England. Hattaway is very clever and knows more about the Cathedral than
anyone here. Mrs. Hattaway is good and kind and has a fine sense of
humour. If you're ever in trouble she'll be a good friend and give you
excellent advice.

'Do you see that elderly man with the broad shoulders and the big head?
That's Lampiron, the sculptor. He's one of the most interesting men
here.'

'I noticed him at once,' said little Bird. 'A very remarkable-looking
man.'

'Yes, he is, isn't he? If he were a bit taller he'd be very handsome. He
lives here because he loves the Cathedral. Up to five years ago he was
quite a good painter--of the old-fashioned kind, you know. He had
pictures in the Academy that you couldn't tell from coloured
photographs. Then quite suddenly he was converted--like Gauguin.'

'I don't know about Gauguin,' said Bird.

'Gauguin was a business man who gave up everything and went to the South
Seas to paint. In the same way Lampiron gave up his photographs, which
he sold quite well, and took to sculpting. Everyone here thinks that
his sculpting is awful. Worse than Epstein they say, knowing of course
nothing _about_ Epstein. Lampiron struggles along and never finishes
anything and never earns a penny. No one knows how he lives, except that
they say he is deeply in debt to an old usurer in the town called Furze.
He is a man of violent temper and has a most generous nature. He must be
nearly seventy, lives alone, is a fine fellow if a little wild at times.
The town likes him, but looks on him with alarm and wouldn't be
surprised at his murdering someone if the fancy took him.'

Gaselee looked about him. He had seen that Mrs. Marlowe's eye was upon
him and that his time for instructing Mr. Bird was nearly over.

'Then there are your fellow-clergy. I'll leave you to find out about
them for yourself. But we have almost every variety in this room at the
moment. There are two saints, Marlowe and old Moffit in the chair there.
Moffit is over eighty and walks with God. That the Archdeacon can
scarcely be said to do: he thinks too much about ceremonies and
ordinances to have time for anything else. Dale there, the tall fellow
with the black eyes, will be a saint one day, I shouldn't wonder. He is
a modernist and spends his time showing that science has aided and
abetted religion rather than hindered it. That fat fellow there, Cronin,
on the other hand, won't let a miracle go, and is as nearly Roman as not
to matter. Then there is your Porteous, who is a sportsman, and you and
myself. The most remarkable of us all is not here yet. He told me that
he was coming--Ronder. Have you seen Ronder?'

'I've seen him in the distance,' Bird said.

'Yes--well--he's been the dominant Church figure here for thirty-five
years. He and Wistons divided the place between them until Wistons went.
He's old now, and fat and lazy. He thinks of his latter end--but his
brain's as sharp as ever.'

Gaselee paused. Mrs. Marlowe was talking to a new-comer; he had a few
minutes to spare.

'You know, Bird, one thing is very remarkable to me. Here are all these
people in this room, representative of the town; you will meet the same
types in any cathedral city. We are all talking gaily, easily, lightly.
But there is not one here, except little Penny Marlowe perhaps, who has
not known all the terrors and distresses of life, physical, spiritual,
financial. We are all of us in peril every moment of our lives. We live
in a cathedral town--yet nine out of ten of us think of religion
scarcely at all. There is a man I mentioned just now who lives only a
few doors from here. His name is Furze. He lends money at exorbitant
interest; you would be astonished if you knew how many of those here
have had some dealings with him. You'd be amazed if you knew the whole
truth about Humphrey Carris or Hattaway or Lampiron. Once this was a
town where religion mattered. In Brandon's day for instance. You know
about Brandon? No? He was Archdeacon here once--he died in
'ninety-seven--the year Ronder came here. He stood for the old type of
Churchman, powerful, arrogant, God's vice-regent. Then he fell. His wife
ran away with the Rector of this church here, St. James's, and his son
married the daughter of a vulgar publican. He died of it and Ronder took
his place. From that moment, as I see it, religion has mattered less and
less here. I suppose that the years since the War have been the most
godless in the world's history. The heathen themselves believed in
_something_. In the Dark Ages the Church had tremendous power. Now in
every cathedral in England what do you find? A handful of people, empty
ceremonies, persons quarrelling about minute dogmas, mocked by the rest
of the world. Sometimes, when there's an anniversary or something, the
kind of thing we're having here next year, there's a stir because people
like pageantry. And of course there are good devout clergy still and
emotional movements like the Buchman Groups. But the Cathedral itself is
left for dead. All the same it isn't dead.' He got up. 'There's a life
there stronger than any of us. We're a silly, conceited, stupid
lot--missing the only thing that is real, the only thing that matters.
And one day God will come down from the mountain and strike us with
leprosy as he did Miriam, and we shan't have any Moses to plead for us
either. . . . How are you, Mrs. Marlowe? What a delightful party! This
is Mr. Bird of St. Paul's. He's only been here a month or so and I've
been telling him who everybody is.'

       *       *       *       *       *

All who were present in the house that evening afterwards remembered the
occasion because of what shortly occurred. But two persons were
especially concerned, and they were, in all probability, the two
happiest human beings there. Penny Marlowe, who was just beginning life,
and old Canon Moffit, who was just leaving it.

Penny Marlowe had, only last month, left the Polchester High School for
Girls. Now she was to help her mother at home. Not long ago I saw, in
Jamaica, a water-colour by Koren. It showed three negroes worshipping a
lily, or rather the angel in the lily. In the centre of the drawing the
lily rises from its grey roots, snow-white on its green stem. About it,
in obeisance, are the ebony faces of the kneeling negroes. Their bodies
are clad in their smocks of faint rose and the pale colour of young
lilac. It is a drawing of exquisite strength, purity, simplicity,
sincerity. Penny Marlowe was like that. She was not very tall, but slim
and straight, with the natural suppleness of a young green-stemmed
flower. She had dark hair, curly about the nape of the neck, parted like
a boy's. Her colour was delicate in shadow of rose and in the strong
unmarked whiteness of her high forehead. She had no affectedness
anywhere, but was as natural as are all the girls of her generation.

Her skin was not yet spoilt by rouge, and if her nose had shone she
would not be in despair. But her nose did not shine. When she was hot
and excited, little beads of perspiration gathered on her brow; her legs
were slim and strong, her breasts as yet very small and firm. She
laughed a great deal, was scornful and impatient and angry and forgiving
and intolerant and loving, all very quickly.

She was a representative young girl of her age in that she was sure that
she knew everything about life but in reality knew very little. She knew
how to drive a motor-car, how to mix a cocktail, how to play 'Contract'
badly, how to deal with men. About this last she especially prided
herself; she thought that she knew everything about sex, because girls
talk so much at school, and Helen Marsden had lent her _Married Love_
and Katherine Becket possessed a copy of _Lady Chatterley's Lover_ and
they had read pieces from it together. She had never told anybody that
she hated both works and that she never felt the same to either Helen or
Katherine again. She was determined to be shocked by nothing, because
that was the attitude of all the older girls--and now it was not so much
that she was shocked as that something inside herself held itself aloof
from this, would not be touched by it.

But of course she allowed neither Helen nor Katherine to perceive this.
She was as jolly with them as ever but now gave them no confidences. She
felt, however, almost intolerably wise. There was no situation that she
would not be able to meet. She could go out into the world at any moment
and be a nurse or a secretary or even a member of Parliament. Only,
after the things that she now knew, she wanted to have nothing to do
with men. She would go through life a virgin. She would devote herself
to the suffering, the unhappy, perhaps lepers or prisoners.

One evening Anthony Carris, at the end of his first year at Oxford,
tried to kiss her, and she laughed at him so convincingly that he was
greatly surprised. Whatever he might be he was sure that he was not
comic. Penny Marlowe was a very pretty girl, but she was a little
country schoolgirl and should be flattered that he took notice of her.
He resented her behaviour and thought, for a week or two, that he was in
love with her. Then he found to his comfort that Helen Marsden took him
seriously.

The fact that made Penny different from some of her contemporaries was
that she loved her home and her parents. She thought that there was no
place in the world so beautiful as Polchester, no home so charming as
the old St. James's Rectory, no two people as lovable as her father and
mother. She told no one these things, because in her world the one
emotion that you must never show was sentiment. However, she did not
patronize her parents in public, as many of the girls did. It was true
that she found them old-fashioned in their ideas, but she had the wisdom
to suspect that her mother knew almost as much about life as she herself
did, and it wasn't her mother's fault that she had been brought up in
those absurd Victorian days when a girl could go nowhere without a
chaperon and did not dare to mention a baby.

She liked to look nice, was excited over a new dress, loved to drive
Mabel Carris' car when Mabel allowed her, but she was not vain; to be
alive was splendid. She meant to have a magnificent life. . . .

Now she was talking to the two Miss Trenchards, Miss Katey Trenchard and
Miss Dora Trenchard. These two ladies were elderly and had lived in
Polchester all their lives. Their brother, who had been a Canon of the
Cathedral, had died some five years ago. They were both tall, wore
black, and each had a beautiful long necklace of emeralds for her only
ornament. Their hair was white, and they were English ladies of the old
type, quite unselfconscious, with dignity and kindliness,
representatives of a caste that is now almost vanished from the world,
greatly to the world's loss. They seldom left Polchester, were always
together, did not play bridge or drive motor-cars or talk scandal, but
were not dull to their friends, who were quiet people like
themselves--Lady St. Leath, the Marlowes, Mrs. Hattaway, Mrs. Braund.
They did not read modern books very much, but felt that they were in
touch with the literary world because their cousin Millie Trenchard had
married a well-known novelist, Peter Westcott, and Millie's brother
Henry was a considerable dramatist. They thought that there was no
country like England and no cathedral like Polchester Cathedral. No one
knew much about their affairs, and they had lived for so long in the
little house just inside Arden Gate that everyone supposed that they
were comfortably off. This was not true, for, recently, the investments
on which they depended had shrunk in the most alarming manner. Dora,
also, had a weak heart, from which she suffered sadly at times, but they
would have thought it the worst manners in the world to speak to anyone
either of their financial affairs or of their bodily complaints.

They stood now beside Penny and thought what a lovely child she was.

'I hope you're enjoying yourself, dear,' Dora said, looking mildly at
Lady Mary Bassett who was close at hand, declaring to Canon Cronin that
Proust must be taken with caution because intellectual snobbery was bad
for the stomach. Canon Cronin, who thought that Proust was some sort of
food or medicine, began to explain that a cousin of his had recently
become a vegetarian with disastrous results, and Dora, looking at Lady
Mary, decided that she was laughing at the poor Canon, felt sorry for
him and disliked Lady Mary (whom she and her sister privately thought
very common) even more than usual.

Penny said that she was enjoying herself enormously.

'That's right, dear. I'm sure you deserve to. You must come and have
dinner with us one day now you're out. But, dear me,' she went on, 'how
easily girls come out these days! Katey and I were quite twenty before
we went to our first ball at the Castle. What a fine one it was! You
never see balls like that these days. Do you remember, Katey, how
handsome Archdeacon Brandon was and how fast we thought poor Mrs.
Combermere because she smoked a cigarette!'

Both ladies laughed and looked at Penny, their eyes beaming love and
benediction.

'I've another reason for being excited,' Penny went on. 'I'm to act in
the Pageant. I've just heard----'

'How splendid! What are you going to be?'

'I don't quite know. It is being written by Mr. Withers, the poet. He
lives at Boscowell, you know, and he's been over this week and shown the
Committee his scheme, and Mr. Carris has just asked me if I'll take a
part. He says I may have to ride a horse----'

'Dear me, how exciting it will all be!' said Miss Katey. 'I do hope the
weather will be fine. Like the 'Ninety-seven Jubilee. You weren't born
then, dear, of course, but we had the most _beautiful_ weather. . . .'

Mr. Lampiron came up and joined them. Penny knew him only by sight, but
now, as she looked at him, she thought that he was very handsome. His
great head with its jet-black hair, his face so strong and rugged, his
broad shoulders, his air of honesty and not caring what anyone thought,
and independence and courage, all greatly impressed her. Besides, he was
the only artist she had ever met, and she thought that it must be
wonderful to be a sculptor. People said that the things he did were
hideous, that he never finished anything and never sold anything, but
that only made him the more wonderful in her eyes. So, under the
benignant protection of the Misses Trenchard, they met for the first
time.

He, on his part, was surprised at her beauty. He was not conscious that
he had ever seen her before, and for a moment he was puzzled as to who
this lovely child could be. Then he remembered; this must be old
Marlowe's little girl who had just left school.

Almost at once, as though they had some message for one another, they
drew a little apart from the others.

'You are Miss Marlowe, aren't you?' he asked her.

'And you are Mr. Lampiron.'

'Yes, I'm old Lampiron--sixty-eight years of age, who tries to carve
hideous faces in stone, hasn't a penny, loses his temper and is a
scandal to society.' He looked at her fiercely under his black jutting
eyebrows, but laughing at the same time. 'That's the way you've heard me
described, isn't it?'

'I don't know. I don't think I've heard you described. You see, I've
only just left school.' Then she thought that that wasn't quite
truthful, so she added: 'I _have_ heard you mentioned, of course.' Then
she added still further: 'I'd love to see your sculpture.'

'Why?'

'It must be wonderful to _make_ things. To write poetry like Mr.
Withers, to build a chapel in the Cathedral like Mr. Hattaway, or to
carve as you do.'

They were sitting down in a corner behind the piano. He sat forward, his
hands pressing on his broad knees.

'The trouble to-day is that too many people are making things--imitating
other people. Too many books, too many pictures. Too much of everything.
The best of my work is that nobody likes what I do, nobody wants it.'

'Doesn't an artist work for other people?' she asked.

'An artist works for himself,' he snapped at her quite angrily. But she
wasn't in the least afraid of him.

'Oh, I see. . . . But when hundreds of years ago they made the towers
and the pillars and the windows for the Cathedral, that was for other
people, wasn't it?'

'They believed in God,' he said. 'Have you ever seen the Carolus
Missal?' he asked her.

'No, I haven't.'

'You should. It's in the Cathedral library. It's a small book with
twenty pictures on vellum. Every page is illuminated with borders of
birds and flowers in gold and crimson and blue. One monk took
twenty-five years doing it. He didn't care whether anyone ever saw it or
not. He was a happy man.'

'Then you should be happy too,' she said, smiling at him.

'I am sometimes,' he said. 'But I was lying to you just now when I said
that I don't care whether anyone likes what I do or no. I'd be beyond
myself if wise people liked my work and said I was a great sculptor.
I've had pictures in the Academy, you know, and ladies said they were
sweet.'

'Weren't you happy then?'

'I was miserable. The Academy is the abode of the lost, and the ladies
were idiots.'

'It seems very difficult,' she said.

'My dear child, life wasn't meant to be easy. But still there's a
limit. . . . Now tell me about yourself. What do you want to get out
of life--fun, babies, friends?'

They looked at one another. His heart was greatly touched by her
confidence and trust.

'I haven't thought about it yet. I've only just left school and I'm
enjoying every minute.'

'Yes, that's right. I feel as though I were twenty sometimes and could
do _anything_. But I'm not twenty. I'm sixty-eight. I get tired and
people bother me for money. I see visions, but the stone won't do what I
want it to. And then I lose my temper and say things I don't mean.
People are good to me and I want to bite them. People are bad to me and
I want to kill them. I trust people and they deceive me. But I don't
want you to believe these things. It's all my own fault; everything is
always your own fault. Remember that when you get older. Have a grudge
against yourself but not against life.'

'You don't look as though you had a grudge against anything.'

'Don't I? That's very sweet of you.' He looked very proud and pleased.
'The more you say nice things to me the better it is for me. Flattery
never did anyone any harm in spite of what people say. Everyone wants
encouragement, and of all the types in the world the worst is the sort
that goes about telling you truths for your good. Life will do that
without anyone assisting it.'

'You don't look,' she said, 'as though you'd mind in the least what
people think.'

'Ah, don't I? That's all you know. Everyone minds. We all live in glass
houses and we all throw stones. I don't want you to be false to me. If I
ask you for an opinion I want you to give it me honestly. But if I don't
ask it I want the things you say to me to be _nice_ things, so that I
may have a little encouragement.'

'_I_ can't encourage _you_.'

'Oh yes, you can. You have already. Very much indeed.' He held out his
hand. She gave him hers. 'Are we friends?'

'Yes--yes,' she said eagerly.

'Will you come and see me one day?'

'Of course I will.'

'You won't like my sculpture.'

'What does it matter what I like? I don't know anything about anything
yet.'

'Oh, taste begins from the beginning. If you have a little, you can
educate it. If you have none, you'll never know it.'

They seemed like very old friends, and it was a good time for them to
shake hands. The party was at its height and everyone was talking,
laughing, making that loud and insincere party-noise that can cover so
much intense concentration on private affairs. No one saw them. Lady
Mary was scratching her ear and wondering, as she often did, how people
could be so stupid, why she lived in the Provinces, whether a visit to
London wasn't due, whether intelligence wasn't rather a curse after
all--and all this time explaining to Mrs. Braund that in a letter that
she had received last week from our Ambassador in Paris he had said that
France would never leave the League of Nations whatever Germany did, and
Mrs. Braund said what a good thing while her eyes watched Mrs. Carris,
who was surely never at her best in purple, and Mrs. Carris, chaffing
Canon Dale in her deep hearty voice, thought out a nice little
luncheon-party for next Tuesday, a few _real_ friends, when they could
settle a number of details about next year's Pageant to their own
private satisfaction.

She had her eye on Mr. Gaselee, surely a coming man--clever, discreet,
with an eye for the right people--'A kind of Canon Ronder in the
making,' she thought. Would she be able to persuade Humphrey to buy that
new Alvis upon which she had set her heart? And Mrs. Braund giving
herself all those airs just because her great-grandmother's second
cousin had married a Howard. So she smiled on young Canon Dale like a
mother and didn't ask him to luncheon.

She would invite Mr. Gaselee. It was then that Canon Ronder arrived. For
thirty-five years his entrances into Polchester drawing-rooms had made
ever the same impression. No one knew how he did it. He was old now and
remarkably stout, but his black silk waistcoat was as creaseless, his
collar and shoes (the last with silver buckles) as shining, his coat as
perfectly cut now as then. Only now he gave the impression of being a
little sleepy. His round gleaming face was a mask on which the round
gleaming spectacles were an added mystery. He seemed apart now, aloof.
Hattaway said the Chinese god had retired back now into his temple. If
you wanted an answer from the Oracle, you must ring the little golden
bell, beat on the brazen gong and, above all, bring offerings,
peach-blossom, a young kid, a bowl of jade. By that Hattaway meant that
Ronder only went out now to houses where there was a perfect cook, and
appreciated greatly a new addition to his collection of books of the
'nineties--he had an especial interest in the author of _Hadrian
VII_--or his pieces of red amber.

There were certainly no peach-blossom, no red amber, no unpublished
writings of Fr. Rolfe at the Marlowes'. Why had he come then? He had
come partly because he liked the Marlowes and partly because he liked,
once and again, to watch, for a brief moment, the movements of
Polchester society. In spite of his half-closed eyes he was as quick as
ever he had been at seeing what was afoot. His old passion for inserting
his fingers in every pie had not deserted him; only his body sometimes
betrayed him. There was a pain under his heart; there was a dragging
weakness in the left leg. There was never absent from him the haunting
fear of death.

He had also his own unprejudiced unselfish liking for a saint. Whether
he believed in God who could say but God Himself? He was wise enough to
know that men like Wistons, Bishop Kendon, Moffit, Marlowe, Dale had
discovered for themselves the only secret worth discovering. He admired
them, even envied them--the only men on this earth he envied. And his
cynical spirit expected that at the last they might discover that,
after all, they had been deceived.

He made an odd contrast with Marlowe now--old Marlowe whose vest was
sadly wrinkled, whose white hair needed cutting, the cuffs of whose
shirt were frayed. But he liked the old man who beamed at him with his
bright blue eyes, who chattered eagerly about his chess, which he was
for ever playing, in which he would never improve. 'Dale is pretty good,
you know. It was an excellent game. Another move and my knight and queen
would have done the trick. But that pawn of his--I'd overlooked it. If
I'd moved my bishop my king would have been all right, but he brought
his rook down. . . .'

'I expect Canon Ronder would like something to drink, dear. There's iced
coffee, Canon, and tea and lemonade.'

'Where's that pretty girl of yours? She shall give me something----'

'Pretty girl? What pretty girl?'

'Why, your own, you old ass.' He put his hand affectionately on
Marlowe's shoulder. 'Ah, Mrs. Braund. . . . How do you do, Lady Mary?
How about Sainte-Beuve? You remember I told you to look up that bit
about Grimm and Rousseau----'

Lady Mary, giving her high vibrating cackle, said that Sainte-Beuve was
the showman of the mediocre--a Cook's guide to the writing-bureau of
Mme. de Svign, a Napoleon III. Plutarch. . . .

Ronder said: 'You're too clever for me, Lady Mary. My only author now is
Dorothy Sayers----'

He caught sight of little Penny Marlowe and moved towards her. He moved
slowly, pushing his big stomach forward as though he would deceive the
world by his insistence on his grossness. He had heard of Hattaway's
comment. A Chinese god, squatting, brooding on his navel, death in the
shape of a suspended dull-leaved lotus-flower. There was the pain
beneath his heart. He exercised his customary control that he should not
place his hand there. . . .

Penny saw him and came forward. Then it happened. No one, for the last
quarter of an hour, had noticed old Moffit, who, sitting in a chair, his
white beard on his chest, smiling took his last look on the world.

For he half rose. He put out his hand, caught Penny's, fell forward,
then crumpled at her feet, his head against her dress.

He looked up. She heard him say, 'The Cathedral bell. Time----'

She cried out, knelt down, gathering him in her arms.

Old Moffit's death at the Marlowes' party was always afterwards
considered the first of the sequence of events. . . .




CHAPTER IV

SOME OF THE THINGS THAT CAN HAPPEN BETWEEN THREE AND FOUR ON AN AUTUMN
AFTERNOON


Within a fortnight of his arrival in Polchester Mike Furze had made a
friend of almost everyone in the town. Everyone does not, of course,
include the Aristocracy, the Cathedral set, the Upper Ten. They were
not, as yet, the most of them, aware of his existence. But these were
not of the Town. The Town, in fact, resented the airs that the Cathedral
assumed. Even Carris and Hattaway, even James Aldridge, the Mayor, who
considered themselves part of the Aristocracy, fought the Cathedral
whenever there was opportunity of a fight; the lesser men--Bellamy of
the stores, young Mr. Bennett the bookseller, Crispangle the W. H. Smith
manager, Browning of the St. Leath Hotel, Merton Mellock, pastrycook,
Clapton, owner and manager of the Arden and Grand Cinemas--these men,
their wives, children and dependants, considered the Dean, the
Archdeacon and Mrs. Braund, Lady Mary Bassett, their secret enemies,
although they made money out of them whenever possible and bowed,
smiled, conversed in the most friendly fashion on all public occasions.

Below these again were the Outlaws, the dominants of Seatown, the
riff-raff of 'The Dog and Pilchard,' men and women known well to
Leggett, the unemployed, the army of rebels, the descendants of the
sea-rovers, the smugglers, the pirates, constant to Polchester for the
last thousand years.

Lord and Lady St. Leath, simple, unassuming, generous-hearted, were the
only two human beings popular throughout all Polchester.

It was to the Town and not to the Cathedral that Mike Furze became very
soon familiar. It was Klitch, the curiosity man, who nicknamed him
Boanerges, and the word became universal.

Boanerges was a good fellow when people liked him and things went well
with him. His large fat body, his smile and laugh, his loud
reverberating voice, his friendliness with everyone, man, woman, child
and dog, made him welcome, his stories made him popular. And _what_
stories!

It seemed that there was no part of the world that he did not know, no
adventure that had not been his. He had wrestled with lions, strangled
gigantic snakes, taken the lead in revolutions, starved in deserts, been
wrecked in mid-ocean, defied witch-doctors, been left for dead by savage
natives, known Al Capone in Chicago, explored dead cities, navigated
unknown rivers.

He was a fearful liar--that was taken for granted. He admitted himself
that he had a gift for narrative. But behind the exaggerations there
must be truth. To intimates he bared himself and showed the marks of the
tiger on his thigh, the tattoo round his middle with which a priest of a
Chinese temple had decorated him, the scar on his right leg where a lion
had clawed him. All this with the greatest good-nature. You could not
call him a conceited man, although he was certainly a boastful. He
called himself a failure in life. To Crispangle's young boy, sixteen
years of age, a day-boy at Polchester School, he remarked very gravely:
'Take me as a warning, my lad. I've seen the world, but what have I got
from it all? A rolling stone gathers no moss. Stick to your job, Ronald,
and make your father proud.' But young Ronald thought that moss was a
dull uninteresting vegetable and that to be clawed by a lion was worth
all the settled jobs in the world.

In spirit Polchester has not changed very greatly since the days of
Harmer John. In spite of the motor-coaches that come every day up and
down from London, in spite of the garages and the radio and the cinema
it is as provincial to-day as it was in 1897.

Bellamy went often to London; Aldridge and Crispangle and Browning had
their motor-cars. Their children learnt, twice a week at the Arden, all
there was to learn about the splendours of Hollywood, the vice and
wickedness of New York and Chicago, the absent-minded melancholy of
Garbo, the lovely body of Dietrich, the rough humours of Laurel and
Hardy. All these boys could not change the essential _separateness_ of
the town, it was a world apart from other worlds, even as it had been
when the Black Bishop thundered from the Cathedral altar, Colonel Digby
defended its walls against the Roundheads, the young men and maidens
gallantly marched out Somerset-wards to be massacred at Sedgemoor.

Therefore Boanerges was an event even as Harmer John had once been. But
he did not preach at them as Harmer John had once tried to do and been
murdered for his pains. No indeed. Very much the opposite. He had no
gospel of Beauty unless you can call jollity and careless adventure, and
a drink with the man nearest you a gospel of Beauty. Boanerges was no
saint, no hot-gospeller, no preacher of virtue. A liar, a braggart, come
from God-knows-where, but good company, a teller of excellent stories
(especially when the women were not present), a man who knew the world.

There was, moreover, one element in his situation that was most
especially intriguing--that he should be the brother of that miserly,
slave-driving old skinflint, Stephen Furze.

Everyone in the town knew the truth about Furze, that he had half
Polchester in debt to him, that he drove the wickedest bargains, that he
was relentless, that, in his own home, he was so miserly that he was
said to live on potato-parings and bread-crusts and force his wife and
daughter to do the same.

What a situation, then, that a man like Stephen should have a man like
Michael for a brother--the two of them under the same roof!

Further than this, Boanerges himself was a man of an ingenious and
diverting curiosity. In his hearty blustering way he asked questions of
all his friends and, strangely enough, remembered the answers. There is
nothing that man (and woman too) enjoys more thoroughly than a listening
friend to whom no small detail is wearisome.

How unique is our history, how apart from all other experience! How
fearful was that gastric ulcer, how obstinate our daughter's passion for
the worthless young motor expert, how inexplicable the vagaries of
one's wife! The tragedy is that we have, all of us, these unique
experiences, and listeners are rare. We are all eager to tell, so few of
us ready to listen! But Boanerges _was_ ready to listen. He had, as all
the town knew, his own wonderful stories and he could talk, without
drawing rein, for hours at a time. But also he was ready to sit, his
hands on his knees, his pipe in his mouth, his long nose eager and
expectant, his stomach comfortably protruding, eager to insert the
proper note of surprise, the ingenious question, the grunt of sympathy.

In this way he discovered very quickly a world of private affairs.
Bellamy, a little shrewd man of business, declared himself. He was doing
all right, very well indeed, but the shop in the High Street was
cramped. There was land behind it that would do the trick, but in these
depressed times it wasn't wise to venture too far. Mrs. Bellamy wished
it, but Mrs. Bellamy was ambitious--socially ambitious. Mrs. Carris made
her restless. She was every bit as good as Mrs. Carris. Who, after all,
_was_ Mrs. Carris, even though she did give parties every minute of the
day and night? He, Bellamy, thought this social business bloody
rot--that's what Bellamy thought it. But these women--well, you know
what women are. Never satisfied. He gave Mrs. Bellamy everything in
reason, but there it was, night after night. . . . She never left him
alone. If they'd had a child things might be different. Mrs. Bellamy
hadn't occupation enough. . . .

With Crispangle it was another path. He was a large, red-faced fellow,
with his secret anxieties. His heart was centred round his boy
Ronald--no anxiety there, for the boy was as jolly and healthy a lad as
you could find. No, _his_ trouble was Mrs. Crispangle, a pretty little
blonde with innocent bright-blue eyes. Mrs. Crispangle, as the whole
town knew, liked men. She _adored_ men. Whether there was really
anything wrong no one exactly knew. Crispangle himself didn't know. He
gave her her liberty. What was a man to do? She would take it just the
same whether he gave it her or no, but she liked such _worthless_
rotters! That scoundrel Leggett, Mellock's young waster of a son (she
was old enough to be his mother), commercial travellers staying at 'The
Bull.' The trouble was that Crispangle loved her, loved her and despised
himself for loving her, than which there is no more miserable state. And
what an example for his boy! Well, there it was; there was danger
hovering over the Crispangle roof, and Crispangle himself, arranging the
latest novels in the centre of his shop, decorating his windows with the
latest Priestleys and Galsworthys (his eye on the classical decoration
of Bennett's bookshop opposite), would wish sometimes that he had the
courage to put his head in a gas-oven, that he did not love Mrs.
Crispangle any more, that he might escape with his boy to the South Sea
Islands and drink his fill to the tinkle of the ukelele.

Yes, Boanerges learnt many things--of the excellent energy but unhappy
sensitiveness of the Dean, of how sadly henpecked the Archdeacon was, of
the greed and wisdom of Ronder, of the goodness and decency of Canon
Dale, of the penniless condition of the Marlowes, the airs and
affectation of Browning of the St. Leath Hotel, the brilliance and
haughtiness of Hattaway, the hideous sculpture of Lampiron, the
learning and wisdom of Bishop Kendon at Carpledon.

He learnt these things and many more. But especially he learnt the
surprising power of his brother Stephen in the town. Rumour, as usual,
exaggerated, no doubt, but in the fifteen years of his residence here
Stephen Furze had become money-lender-in-chief in Polchester. His
clients ranged, it appeared, from poor old dreamers like Marlowe and
gentlemen like Lampiron to any wastrel at the bottom of the town. He did
not care where he fixed his talons, but once he had his grip he did not
let go. Boanerges was surprised at the hatred with which his brother was
regarded. He was almost a legendary figure; it was said that he had been
seen in two different places at the same time. His manner of walking,
quickly, silently, his long nose pointing the way, his soft and gentle
politeness (he was not obsequious), the stories of his wealth (he was
made into the exaggerated villain of the miser legend, boxes of gold
pieces under his bed, stockings of specie up the chimney, and the rest),
the tales of his relentless iron-gloved firmness--all this Boanerges
learnt and wondered at.

For he was compelled to confess that his first fortnight under his
brother's roof had revealed him as anything but a figure of melodrama.
It is true that the food was sparse, the house bare and cold, the
atmosphere far from gay, but Stephen himself was quiet, decorous and, in
his own fashion, friendly. The truth is that Boanerges at first saw but
little of him. After his breakfast he took his walk; he had his midday
meal at 'The Bull'; in the afternoon he often attended Evensong, looked
in for a chat with his friend Mr. Klitch, watched a game of football;
he supped at 'The Bull,' played a game of billiards, talked with his
friends. He knew that it would not always be thus; his fifty pounds
could not last for ever.

He was determined, however, to remain in Polchester. No place had ever
suited him so exactly; he had friends here and the Cathedral: something
in the character of the little place appealed to the childish simplicity
of his character. He would, perhaps, have children, settle down. He
might one day be Town Councillor or even Mayor. Who could tell?

Then he discovered a queer thing. Something drew him back to the house.
He found that he would return to it, during the daytime, for no reason
at all. He would be talking to some friends in 'The Bull,' happy,
contented, telling the tale or listening to some pleasant little urban
scandal, and suddenly he would laugh, nod, say 'Cheerio' and turn
homewards. He would let himself in, stand in the hall and wonder why he
had come. He would listen, sniff the dry antiseptic air. The house would
be as still as the grave. It might be that everyone was out and then he
would walk stealthily, almost on tip-toe, from empty room to empty room.
There was nothing to see, nothing to find. His brother's room was
orderly--a roll-top desk, a green-and-white safe, a table with some
neglected books, a large fern in a blue pot in the window, some chairs.
The roll-top desk was locked. The room was dusty because no one was
permitted to touch anything there. A big cabinet with drawers was also
locked. And yet the room was not dead. Some life haunted it, and Mike
felt that he was watched. One window looked over the Rock down to
Seatown, the other to a confusion of climbing roofs and the Cathedral.
Heavy curtains of a faded brown hung on either side of the windows, and
it was a trick of Michael's, when he had made sure that his brother was
not there, to look behind these curtains. He did not know why he did so.
Sometimes Stephen _was_ there. Mike would knock and enter. His brother
would look up from his desk and smile.

'Yes--what is it?' he would ask gently.

Mike would apologize and withdraw. It was a fact that this room drew him
with increased fascination. It must be here that Stephen kept all his
secrets--in the safe, the roll-top desk, the locked drawers. He did all
the work himself. He possessed no secretary or clerk. 'Perhaps, in a
little while,' Mike thought, 'I can persuade him to let me help him. He
must need someone. He can pay me a small wage.' And at that thought he
would smile angrily to himself, for he realized that Stephen would never
pay anyone anything. Mike was beginning to understand what this lust
might be. He was even himself sharing in it. No one could live in that
house and _not_ share in it. Mike began, out of sheer devilment, to play
a game. When he was sitting talking with his brother he would, as though
absent-mindedly, first jingle the loose coin in his pocket, then he
would take a penny, a sixpence, a two-shilling piece in his hand, shake
them together, look at them, lay them on the table in front of him.
While he did this he would laugh cheerily but look, out of the corner of
his eye, at his brother. He saw the long thin body stiffen. Stephen had
a prominent Adam's-apple, and this now seemed to swell like a live
captured thing in his throat. It was as though it would burst the dry
skin in its efforts to escape. The eyes would brighten, the long nose
deaden at the tip. Then the hands would come out, would move forward,
the fingers spreading, each long bony finger with a life of its own. The
hands would rise, would catch the lapels of his coat, or descend slowly
to the table, or close with spasmodic twitching. Then the whole body
would bend forward and the sharp eyes fasten on the coin. All this would
be subconscious, the inner self rising and dominating the external self
which still smiled and spoke like an automaton.

Mike knew well how men will, without realizing it, watch a woman pass in
the street, will continue their conversation, go about their
business--but their real self is completely driven and dominated by the
desire for this woman's form. The woman vanishes; with a sigh of
frustration the real self sinks, as an animal cheated of its desire,
subsides again into the muddy depths of the stream. That was a lust that
Mike knew and recognized. This was kindred with it as all lusts are
kindred. He would pick up the coins and replace them in his pocket.

But, in playing this game, he himself began to be caught. Sometimes,
when he was alone, he would take coins from his pocket and examine them,
turn them over, study their dates. He parted from them reluctantly. Some
of them were of recent date, fresh and shining and the image of the King
sharp and brilliant. At night, when undressing, he would pile the coins
in a little heap on the table and gaze at them.

What a fortune Stephen must possess! Mike began to share the general
superstition and to fancy that there must somewhere be boxes packed with
bright and shining coin. His curiosity began to stir also around
Stephen's clients. How did he deal with them? How did he behave when
they asked for time or some remission of sentence? How were that smile
and that gentle voice?

On one smoky autumn afternoon he had a brief interesting contact with
one of Stephen's visitors. The Cathedral had struck three. He was
standing in the hall when in great haste Lampiron the sculptor came down
the stairs.

What had occurred?

       *       *       *       *       *

About two-thirty on that afternoon Lampiron had rung the bell and Sarah
Furze had admitted him.

'Is Mr. Furze at home?' he had asked.

'I will find out.'

The blind woman, as always, touched him deeply. He was touched, as he
knew, too easily by pitiful things, doing often enough nothing about
them, for what _can_ an artist do?--and then doing, suddenly, too much,
foolish, extravagant things beyond his means. He followed her into the
house, standing four-square there on his stout legs, his head back, as
though already on his guard against his enemy--for Furze _was_ his enemy
as he well knew.

She moved in darkness but with certainty, and he thought--how awful to
be blind, to see beautiful things no more, the moon rising in a clear
sky, the clean, smooth petal of a flower, the white resilience of a
stone waiting to be carved. She was imprisoned in this horrible house
as in a grave. He never entered it but he wanted instantly to leave it
again, and his impatience which, old as he was, he had not yet learnt to
command, drove him even now although he knew that he must not leave this
place until he had got what he wanted. The thought of how serious things
were made his heart hammer under his double-breasted blue jacket. No one
would know how nervous he was; he looked like a sea-captain standing,
his legs spread, his hands behind his back, as though in command of his
ship and telling anyone to go to hell, but that was not at all how he
felt. He took out a large silk handkerchief and wiped his forehead. His
hat dropped to the floor and he bent to pick it up. How he hated to feel
this fear, but there was something about this man of which he was deeply
afraid. The man had no bowels. He was a devil, and it would be kindness
to everyone to knock him on the head and bury him.

Sarah Furze returned. She came down the stairs with her hand against the
faded yellow wallpaper. At the bottom of the stairs she stopped and
said: 'Please come up, Mr. Lampiron.'

When he was in the room he stared defiantly from under his thick black
eyebrows at the man at his desk. He knew that defiance was the last
thing that he should show. He had come to placate the man, to ask a
great favour, to beg him to be merciful. But he could not beg of any man
nor pretend to be what he was not.

Stephen Furze was most agreeable. He asked Lampiron to sit down near to
him. He looked at him most friendlily--for why should he not? This
broad, strong, thick-set man with the fine black head of hair, the
strong shoulders, the grand body for a man of his age, could crush him,
Stephen Furze, with one hand--and yet it was Stephen Furze, who had no
bodily strength at all, would do the crushing!

'I'm glad to see you, Mr. Lampiron. What can I do for you?'

Lampiron plunged at once into the matter. He would waste no time, but
would get away from this beastly house as soon as might be. He was never
very good at explaining things: he had not at all an orderly mind.
However, what he wanted to say was clear enough. He pulled a rather
shabby little note-book from his deep pocket, found a piece of paper on
which he had made calculations. On January 3rd, 1928, Furze had lent
him, on certain terms, one hundred pounds. On June 5th, 1930, Furze had
lent him two hundred pounds. Three hundred pounds in all. At various
dates he, Lampiron, had paid Furze certain sums. In all he had paid
Furze three hundred and twenty pounds. Nevertheless, as he understood
it, he still owed Furze one hundred and thirty-five pounds, part of
which must be paid at the very latest three weeks from that present
date. He was afraid that, owing to unforeseen circumstances, he would be
unable to pay anything on that date. He wished to point out that he had
already paid Furze more than his original debt. He wondered--and here,
in spite of himself, he stammered a little--whether Furze might not see
his way to excuse him the rest of this debt or, at any rate, to postpone
the payment until times would be better with him. Times, as Furze
undoubtedly knew, had not, during the last few years, been good for
artists. He was finishing a piece of sculpture which he had every hope
of selling in London.

If in three weeks' time Furze insisted on payment he would be forced
into bankruptcy, which would seem to him an intolerable disgrace. He
would have to leave the town, and, at his age, that would be for him a
great tragedy. Indeed, he did not think that he could easily begin life
again anywhere else. He hoped that Furze, in consideration of all the
circumstances . . .

It had been terrible for him to have to say all this--as though he had
been forced to strip himself naked--but, as he spoke, although he knew
the nature of his opponent, he could not help but put himself in the
other man's place. If someone had come to him thus how gladly he would
have said: 'Why, of course, old chap, wait until times are better for
you. . . .' He could hear his own voice uttering these words, and, as he
ended, he looked up with a broad smile and felt as though his cause were
won.

Stephen smiled too and, very genially, said: 'Wait one moment, Mr.
Lampiron. I'll see how we stand.'

And Lampiron said: 'Yes, that's right. I think you'll find the figures
correct, though.'

Furze opened a drawer of his roll-top desk and produced therefrom neat
bundles of papers tied with pink tape. He also found a big black-covered
ledger. He turned his back to Lampiron, bending over his desk and
considering the papers.

Lampiron looked at that back and considered how, were clothes absent,
he would be staring now at a long knotted spine-bone, very prominent
as a cord holding together that thin grey-white body. That spine-bone
would be curved and the curve would suggest that, with strong fingers,
it might be snapped. And Lampiron saw Furze, bending forward as though
he were bare to the waist. The grey-white spine-bone, knobbled and
bent, offered itself to his strong hands. . . . He choked; he coughed;
he put his hands to his throat. He reflected that he had recently read
somewhere that there was such a thing as reality and that it was the
writer's business to deal only with that. As soon as his critical
readers beheld the writer abandoning reality they sighed for him and
were ashamed. They would be ashamed now, thought Lampiron. This is
not real. And yet this _is_ real--this dusty room and Furze's
spine-bone, grey in colour, knobbled and bent, that I wish to snap
with my hands. . . . I do wish it. I should like to see him fall to
the floor, broken, lifeless, nothing. . . .

'You see, Mr. Lampiron,' Furze having swung round in his chair towards
him was saying, 'business is business. I know well how you feel about
it. We all know that artists are not the best business men. No one
sympathizes with them in that more than I do. But looking at my papers I
find that everything is perfectly in order. You wrote your signature to
these arrangements realizing fully what they involved. . . .'

Lampiron stared at Furze as though by so staring he would turn him into
thin grey paper which he then could tear at will. But what he was really
thinking was: How have I got myself into this mess? How is it that I
have any relations with that swine? I was a decent fellow once and safe
and no one could have any power over me.

And he thought of a studio that he had had on the river--Putney--the
water flowing swiftly with little friendly encouraging slaps against his
garden-wall, and the smell of mown hay from some neighbouring field, the
omnibuses going over the bridge, and an old aunt, alive then, having tea
in his studio, saying, 'I never _can_ resist gingerbread.' It had been
all right then. It was all wrong now.

He heard Furze say:

'I'm afraid these things are not altogether in my own hands, Mr.
Lampiron. And on the whole I think you will agree that I have always
tried to meet you. In difficult times like these it is not easy to find
someone as accommodating as I have been----'

Anger was rising in Lampiron's breast and he knew that it must not. But
the same exhalation rising from it dried his throat, and his voice was
hoarse when he said:

'I've paid you my debt and more.'

'Yes, that is perfectly true. But it is I that have been forced to take
the risks. I lent you the money on no security whatever.'

'You had security. You knew that I was here, that I would not run
away----'

'Well--no. Everyone in the town knows that you are a man of honour, Mr.
Lampiron. And that is why--if you will allow me to be perfectly frank--I
am a little surprised that you should be unable to meet the obligation
in three weeks' time. It is a matter of--let me see'--he consulted his
papers--'forty-three pounds, seven and sixpence--and then, after that,
only two more payments.'

Lampiron could beg of no man, but, that he might silence the restive
growling monster--so familiar to him, so dangerous, the creature that,
chain it as he might, seemed, when it wished, to break any chain--he
began to attempt conciliation:

'You see, Mr. Furze,' he said, 'I'm not young any more. It would be
quite different if I were. Rightly or wrongly I've dropped popular art
and am trying to make something that I can believe in. Sculpture takes
time and is expensive. You have to get the material long before you see
any financial return. I don't want much. I live very simply, I assure
you. Give me some time. I can't work properly if I'm harassed by money
worries. Let me work and I'll pay off the whole debt--by God I will--and
I'll take care not to get into the hands of a miserly swine----' He
stopped short. The words had come of themselves. It was not he that had
said them. Again his cursed lack of control! He rose to his feet, his
hands trembling, dismay in his heart, for he knew now that he had ruined
everything.

Furze looked at him.

'Well, Mr. Lampiron,' he said. 'After that----'

And that look from those half-lidded eyes ended the matter.

Lampiron moved forward. His hand shot out and caught Furze's shoulder.
'And that's what you are. Doesn't the whole town know it? Someone will
be ridding the place of you one day, and a fine thing too. . . .' He
turned. He was choking with his cursed temper that was always ruining
his chances. . . . He saw that that beef-faced little stable-jockey,
Leggett, was standing just inside the doorway.

He stormed at both of them: 'Have me up for assault and battery, the
pair of you, and go to hell where you both belong. . . .' He banged the
door behind him, tumbled down the stairs almost into Michael Furze's
arms--and so out of the house.

       *       *       *       *       *

When the hall-door was closed silence settled on the house again. Mike
Furze thought--Fancy that now! Lampiron was in a fine temper about
something! My dear brother has been tiresome. Or perhaps it was that
Leggett, who only five minutes ago had gone upstairs as though he had
known that he would be wanted. There was a mutual dislike between Mike
and Leggett. Leggett behaved as though Mike did not exist, barely spoke
to him. He regarded Mike, naturally enough, as an interloper. Mike could
understand that. But what did he need to be so superior for? He was
nothing to look at with his bald head and unhealthy red-and-white
complexion and thin mouth. He looked as though he should be standing,
sucking a straw, outside a stable. But he talked as though he were the
best-educated man in the world, quoting French books and claiming to be
an authority on everything. . . . No morals either--no woman safe from
him.

Mike, looking up the stairs, wondered what those two would be discussing
now. Planning some devilry no doubt. He'd find out some of their
secrets. He'd have Mr. Leggett at his feet before he was done. Now that
he was in the house they'd find it no easy matter to get him out of it
again! He might make a friend of Lampiron, discover what his trouble
was. There were a thousand things he could do!

Then he heard steps and he saw coming down the stairs his niece
Elizabeth, dressed for going out. He did not understand that girl. He
had, as yet, achieved no relationship with her at all. She was reserved,
that was what she was. Did not seem to want to have anything to do with
anybody. And yet he could not say that he disliked her. She was plain
but she had dignity. It occurred to him suddenly that she must know
about many things. It was certain that she shared some of her father's
secrets and he thought that he would make friends with her. He liked
her; he admired her. She had a dull time of it, poor girl.

'Going out, Elizabeth?' he asked.

'Yes,' she said.

Her clothes were shabby but neat. He thought that she mightn't look so
bad if she were well dressed--a little colour to her cheeks. She had a
fine figure, good eyes. She carried herself well. Her voice was soft in
tone.

'May I come with you a little way? I'm going up into the town myself.
. . . I'll get my hat and coat.'

So they went out together into a town veiled in smoky haze. The sky
above their heads had an undertone of red fire, felt rather than seen.
The Market-place and the High Street were full of life, cars coming and
going, people shopping, dogs barking, and there was a pleasant frosty
nip in the air, a scent of the sea; the Cathedral bells had been ringing
for Evensong. Now they had ceased, but the echo of their tune seemed to
linger in the air. Mike talked, making himself agreeable.

'You know, Elizabeth, I'm a little afraid of you. I fancy you find me
an encumbrance. I'm sorry for that because I would like us to be
friends.'

She looked straight in front of her.

'You mustn't think that,' she said. 'I don't make friends easily.'

'I've noticed that and I think it's a pity. You seem to have an awfully
dull time. You stay in the house too much. Why not come out with me once
and again? I'm not such a bad old stick once you know me.'

'There's a lot to do at home. Mother can't do very much. We can't afford
a servant. Only Mrs. Wilson coming in twice a week.'

'But that's absurd,' he said eagerly. 'Your father's one of the richest
men in the town.'

'We like it better--not to have a stranger in the house living with us.'

'But now that I'm staying with you it means extra work.'

She turned towards him and smiled.

'You don't give us much extra work, Uncle Michael.'

'Well, I'm glad you think so. All the same----'

They were walking up the High Street now and Michael found friends all
the way. He called out to one, waved his hand to another. Mrs. Braund,
in her car, passed slowly up the hill.

'Let's go into the Cathedral for a moment,' he said.

'Service will be going on.'

'We can sit in the back of the nave for a little while.'

She did not dissent and they passed under Arden Gate into the
Precincts.

As he pushed the heavy door with his hand and stepped in he felt his
expected thrill; it did not lessen with custom but rather increased. It
was a thrill both of excited expectation and of some sort of gratified
vanity. He _must_ be an unusual fellow to feel thus about a cathedral.
Bellamy and Aldridge and Crispangle never bothered their heads about the
Cathedral save on state occasions. He had spoken to Crispangle about the
way he felt, and Crispangle had said that he didn't look like a chap who
would go batty, but you never could tell. There'd been a painter chap
once--Davray was his name--before the War, and that Swede, Harmer John,
and there was old Mr. Mordaunt now who was always drawing. You could see
him sitting in the Precincts in every kind of weather. What was there in
the Cathedral after all? Of course it didn't serve _him_ too badly.
Books about the Cathedral were the soundest stock he had. They sold
_all_ the year round. And of course the Cathedral _did_ bring tourists
to the town, but for his part all it did for the people who lived in the
place was to start a lot of snobs turning up their noses at the _real_
people who made the town what it was. What purpose did the Cathedral
serve any more? Nobody went to the services unless perhaps young Canon
Dale was preaching--but the place was dead, anyone could see how dead it
was!

But it wasn't dead for Michael Furze! Now, as he sat down quietly with
Elizabeth on a little chair at the end of the nave, it seemed to him
tingling with life. The nave itself was lit with electric light. The
choir, hidden now from their view, threw up the misted light of its
candles. Dimly the service came through to them. Someone was reading a
lesson. The vast nave was deserted save for two isolated figures, seated
at the very front under the round carved pulpit to the right. Mike knew
by this time much of the Cathedral's history and, leaning forward, his
elbows planted on his knees, it seemed to him that figures were still,
after these many hundred years, busied about their daily work. The monks
were singing: 'Under the shadow of Thy wings, O Lord, protect us,' the
seventh service of the day, Vespers followed by Compline. There were the
Pilgrimages. The pilgrims were crowding there listening to the last
service. Many of them had walked all the way from London, taking weeks
on their journey. They still showed you at 'The Bull' one of the walls
that had belonged to a great Pilgrim Dormitory containing one hundred
and fifty beds. Now they would be looking about them, the painted glass
of the windows glowing in the faint candlelight. They had visited all
the Cathedral sights, but especially the Black Bishop's Tomb. They had
waited. Then the silver bells sounded and the canopy was raised and the
Shrine with the Black Bishop's relics revealed. . . .

He wondered what the girl beside him was thinking. She too was leaning
forward, her long legs drawn up, her head cupped in her hands. He stole
furtive glances at her; he felt kindly, protective. The Cathedral made
him a little mad, heady and irresponsible. Other things in other places
had excited him thus, and when such a mood was on him he wanted to
shout, to throw his body about, to make love, to force a fight on
someone, to make a disturbance--children, when they are excited, feel
like this and their elders rebuke them. When the elders themselves
yield to such a temptation it leads often enough to the lock-up.
Boanerges had been locked up, and more often than once. When he was
excited he could be either murderous or generous. Now he felt generous,
with the pillars rising into darkness like trees in a forest. The choir
was singing the anthem, and the organ beat into the stones, transmuting
them, and the beat changed to a liquid rhythm as though fire ran on the
wall and tongues of flame licked the pillars. The anthem died away. A
voice recited prayers. Then the organ began again, but very slowly, like
a wind that blows petals from the orchard trees, the curtains were drawn
back, and before a shimmering dance of candlelight the choir moved down
the steps and away into the darkness.

Then he was surprised: he looked at his niece and saw that she was
crying. . . .

       *       *       *       *       *

He had always prided himself on his wonderful social tact, and
especially with women. He was in fact not subtle enough to be tactful,
nor had he that natural instinct towards good manners that makes up for
subtlety. His theory about himself was that he knew in every situation
exactly how to behave with women. He believed further that when he
wished to be socially attractive no woman could resist him. When women
did resist him, as was quite often the case, he persuaded himself that
it was because he had not been really interested. Now he felt most
kindly towards Elizabeth, so he thought that he would leave her alone
for a little. He whispered: 'I won't be five minutes. Just going to look
at something.' The nave had sprung to life. Some visitors who had
attended Evensong were moving about. Several had seated themselves to
listen to the last notes of the organ.

Broad, the verger, came majestically down the centre of the nave. Broad
was one of the many friends that Mike Furze had made in Polchester.
White-haired, stout and most majestical, he had been verger here only
ten years, successor to young Lawrence, old Lawrence's son, but you
would suppose that the Cathedral owed its very existence to him. He was
a man whose majesty was only equalled by his self-confidence, his nice
sense of social distinctions, his tyranny towards obsequious persons,
and his real passion for forms and ceremonies.

He was a good man and kind to his small round wife, his girl and his boy
when he had time to attend to them. But the Cathedral was his life; he
existed in only a faint half-hearted way when absent from it.

'Would you let me up into King Harry for a moment, Broad?' Mike asked
him.

'It's after hours, you know, Mr. Furze.'

'I know, but I won't be five minutes.'

'Here's the key, sir. I'll be waiting for you.'

Mike took the key, crossed the nave, passed up a side aisle until he
reached King Henry's Chapel. This was on the right of the choir, and on
the delicate screen that defended its privacy there hung a notice saying
that this chapel was dedicated to private worship and meditation. It was
hoped that no one would disturb any private worshipper. Mike reverently
crossed the flagged floor; he felt the quiet of the little place, the
intimacy of the group of chairs, the dark purple and gold of the
altar-cloth, the two silver vases containing bronze chrysanthemums, and
above the altar the sixteenth-century painting in dark red and green of
the martyrdom of St. Sebastian. All the colours here were faint in the
dusky twilight of the great church.

At the corner of the chapel Mike found a little wooden door. He started
up through black darkness, his fat body having bare room between the
thick stone walls. Half-way up he stopped and listened. He was now in
utter darkness; the silence was part of the darkness. He wondered what
sudden impulse it was that had made him come. When he had seen
Elizabeth's tears he had said to himself: 'I must get away. I'll go up
King Harry.' But why? Now, pausing in that chill and dumb blackness,
some sort of foreboding seized him. That was not unusual. He was full of
forebodings, the child of superstition. He would not walk under ladders,
nor look at the moon through glass, nor sit down thirteen at table. He
counted blocks of pavement as he walked, and lamp-posts and the numbers
of houses. A fortune-teller in Mexico had warned him that the seventh,
the fifteenth, the twenty-ninth and the forty-seventh years of his life
would be his dangerous years.

It was true that he had had scarlet fever when he was seven, been bitten
by a dog when he was fifteen, abominably treated by a Spanish lady when
he was twenty-nine. He would be forty-seven next year. And now he wanted
to go back. He was afraid of something, the dark perhaps. A whisper, as
though from the stone walls, seemed to tell him that this was a bad
place for him. He was so superstitious that he was capable of imagining
that it was the Cathedral itself that was warning him. However, he went
on. There was a glimmer, then a grey shining of light, then, with
relief, he stepped up on to what was known as the Whispering Gallery.

This was a railed platform that ran above the King Henry Chapel and then
on, above the nave, to the opposite tower. Mike went on and up, knocking
his knees against the little winding stone stair, sometimes in darkness,
then benefited by the dim light of a narrow window, then in darkness
again. At last he came to a square, empty little room with a wooden
floor. One side of this room had no wall but was open and strongly
railed in. Here visitors, having paid their shilling, paused on their
long journey to the top of the Tower, leaned on the rail and looked
over--a dizzy sight, down, down, into a great depth that shone mistily,
that was the nave. Out of the nave, up into heaven, soared the
buttresses and pillars. Here you could realize the proud and
contemptuous life of the Cathedral; at such a height man was nought, and
the life of the great building, stirring, never still, was the true life
of undying beauty. The lines and curves, so strong and yet so delicate,
formed a beauty that man could not destroy, for he might pull down stone
upon stone, scatter the fabric into space, and _yet_ the building would
be there, immutable, indestructible, stronger than material man, having
kinship only with the spirit.

Looking down, Mike could see points of light, specks of gold on St.
Margaret's screen, the brass of the Black Bishop's Tomb, the gold of the
figures on the great white reredos.

He turned and walked across to the thin slit of a deeply-bedded window
in the further wall. Through this the cold evening air beat upon his
face. He was now a great height up and, were it full daylight, he would
be able to see Polchester stretched like a pattern in a rug below him,
on all sides of it the chequered shape of fields and, on a clear day,
the sparkling band of sea.

The little room itself was very dark, and he must be careful to avoid
the space where the wooden flooring failed to cover a big drop against
the wall. In the daytime he had noticed this and wondered why no one had
extended the wooden flooring. The drop must be some twelve feet at
least, and, peering over, looking down into dust and fragments of paper,
he had thought that here would be a good place for someone to be hid or
to conceal a treasure. For, even on the brightest day, this corner under
the wall was obscure and you could not see what lay there. The hollow
must be part of the stone pillar that had, for some purpose, once been
cut away.

So now very carefully he avoided the place where he knew it to be, found
the stair and cautiously climbed down. Why had he come? But why did he
do so many things without reason? Perhaps there was a reason after all.
He was not, he complacently reminded himself, like other men.

       *       *       *       *       *

Elizabeth Furze, meanwhile, knew why he had gone. He had seen that she
was crying. She was ashamed and wiped her eyes with her thin glove. It
was not often that she cried, but to-day her loneliness, her ignominy,
her isolation had swept upon her, carried with the music, the majesty of
the dimly-lit building, and the attempts at some sort of clumsy kindness
on the part of her uncle. She was not a weak or a sentimental woman. She
had long ago faced her destiny, which was to be the plain unwanted
daughter of a man detested by all mankind. Had it not been for her
mother she would long ago have left the town where she was so hatefully
conspicuous--but, as she could not leave it, she had set her
countenance, with cold hostile resolution, to show them all that she too
was proud and would surrender her will to no one.

She refused all offers of friendship because she was sure that these
must be prompted by pity. Only sometimes in her lonely walks she would
talk to a child, give it some pennies or ask it questions about its
life, its home, its pleasures. This was one of her two sources of
happiness--she discovered that children were not frightened of her but
liked to be with her. The other was her love of this place, the town,
the Cathedral, the country round it. Especially the country, and when
she was standing on the high ground above the Pol, saw the wind bowing
the corn, or the rich colour of the newly-turned earth upon whose
surface, maybe, the sea-gulls had gathered--then she would draw a deep
breath and smell the soil and the sea, rain in the air, sun-scents in
leaves, and forget, for a time, the imprisoning shame of the house where
she lived.

She had become, in these years, almost fantastically self-conscious. She
imagined that with every step that she took people watched her and
whispered about her father. She could have forgiven him, however, this
and other worse things. One thing she would never forgive him. Because
of his miserliness her mother was blind. An operation would have saved
her, and her father had refused the cost of it. Her mother said nothing.
She did not complain. She showed no emotion of any kind. Whether she
cared for her daughter at all Elizabeth did not know, but, on her side,
Elizabeth loved her passionately, perhaps because she had no one else to
love.

But, above all, the centre of her character was stern. Not only
circumstances had made her so. The tears that she had shed now had been
forced from her by a sudden realization of a beauty, nobler and more
eloquent, than any in which she herself could share. Because of her
isolation she had wept, but at once her pride returned, doubly
fortified, and rebuked her weakness.

She got up from her chair and moved quietly about the great church. She
stopped in front of the window near the King's Chapel--'The Virgin and
the Children.'

It was for these windows that she came most often to the Cathedral. She
knew every figure, every detail by heart.

In one of the Cathedral Guides they are thus described:

'In the window on the extreme right the Virgin Mary in a purple gown
bends down over a field of lilies to watch the infant Christ at play.
Next to it, the Christ and St. John paddle in a stream bordered by thick
grasses, while the Virgin watches them from the window of a crooked
house set in a cup of purple hill. In the centre window children are
running in a crowd after a white kid, and the Virgin Mary holds back her
Son, Who stretches out His arm after His playmates. In the lower half
Joseph is in his workshop. Jesus, seated on the floor, looks up at him
while the Virgin, in a dress of vivid green, stands near Him, guarding
Him. In the third window, on the left, they are walking, father, mother
and Son, up the steps of the Temple, watched by a group of grave old
men. In the lower panel Jesus is playing at His mother's feet, while an
ox, an ass, and three dogs seem to be protecting Him.'

She could see it now only faintly, but knew every aspect of it so well
that light was not necessary for her.

She was startled because someone spoke to her.

'Are not these windows of the Virgin and the Children beautiful?'

She was startled; it was so rare that anyone spoke to her. She turned
and saw that it was a little clergyman. There was something about him so
simple and inoffensive that she could not be offended.

'Yes,' she said. 'But the light is bad now. You should see it in the
daytime.'

'There are so many things in the Cathedral,' he said. 'It will take a
long time to know them all. But even in this light the colours are
lovely. I'm glad I'm living here. I can come often.'

She wanted to move away now that she knew that he lived in Polchester.
It was only because the light was dim that he had spoken to her, not
seeing who she was.

But he could see her clearly. The light above the King's Chapel
illuminated her. He looked at her and thought that she had a fine strong
face. There was something reserved and independent that he admired.

'Do you live here too?' he asked.

'Yes,' she said shortly.

'I hope you won't think me impertinent, but I'm the new curate at St.
Paul's, the church at the top of Orange Street. I have just been
attending Evensong. What a beautiful service, and how strange that there
should be so few people present.'

'Many people in Polchester have never been inside the Cathedral--and
never will be.'

'Really? Is that so?' He looked at her with a smile, and in spite of
herself she smiled back at him.

'Good evening,' he said, and went away.

Directly afterwards her uncle joined her and they went out of the
church.

'Look here,' he said, when they were outside, 'would you like to see
something very beautiful, Elizabeth? It's only a step away.'

She walked beside him across the Green. They went into Klitch's shop.
She drew back as she entered, hating to be looked at by Mr. Klitch. When
they were gone he would say: 'Do you know who I had in my shop this
evening? Furze's daughter The old scoundrel starves her, I'll be bound.
She hasn't a penny to clothe herself with. . . .' Oh, she knew well
enough!

Her uncle was very jolly with Klitch. He talked to him as though he had
known him all his life.

'Come on, Klitch, let's see it! I'll be buying it back from you next
week. Anyone tried to take it from you?'

Then Elizabeth Furze saw something very lovely--a black marble crucifix.

Klitch placed it on a table, and it stood in all its separate dignity
and beauty, remote and apart from the gilt chairs, the carved tables,
the needlework of green and purple, boxes with coloured pictures, and
high mirrors with gold leaves and flowers. It stood apart. The Figure
suffered and was triumphant.

'Come on, Klitch, who's been trying to buy it from you?'

'It's been much admired, Mr. Furze, I can tell you. An American
gentleman was enquiring. I'll be sorry to see it go.'

'If anyone robs me of it I'll break his neck,' Mike said.

He touched it, bade Elizabeth come close to it.

'Ever see anything like that? I'll say you haven't.'

Klitch smiled and was very friendly.

'That's mine,' Mike Furze said as they walked out of the dusk into the
lighted town. 'I wouldn't lose it for a million.'

'It's very beautiful,' said Elizabeth.




CHAPTER V

BEGINNING OF THE BATTLE OF LADY EMILY--ALSO SOME HOURS IN THE LIFE OF
MR. BIRD


Mr. Bird did not forget the lady with whom he spoke in the Cathedral and
very soon he discovered her identity.

He was walking through the Market-place with Gaselee and she passed
them. He took off his hat, and she bowed; he fancied, however, that she
did not recognize him.

'Do you know that lady?' he asked Gaselee.

'That is Miss Furze--the daughter of the world's worst money-lender.'

He was surprised and greatly interested. Poor lady! How terrible for
her! No wonder that she should appear reserved and on her guard. He felt
that he would like to meet her soon again and show her that he was her
friend. How foolish! He had only spoken a few words to her. She did not
even remember him. But he felt a warm sympathy because she was in all
probability lonely, and he was lonely too.

After two months in Polchester he was very lonely indeed. His character
being what it was, it had been unkind of Fate to send him to Mr.
Porteous, who was exactly the wrong person to give him the confidence
that he always so badly needed. Porteous did not understand diffidence,
nor did he know the cure for it. He was a kind man, although not quite
so kind as he thought he was. Mr. Bird's smallness of stature, his
shyness in company, his inability to make the best of himself, seemed to
Porteous something of a joke, a great deal of a pity, and the kind of
thing that Jesus Christ deplored. He talked to Bird as an elder brother,
who is captain of his school eleven, talks to his younger brother who
has ink on his fingers, dust in his hair, and an apprehensive walk.

'We are all Christ's soldiers, my dear friend. We are in His service. He
is our Captain. Nothing must dismay us. With Him at our side we must
have no fear.'

He gave Bird a great deal of work because he was himself busied about so
many public affairs. 'Let us see. There is the Guild of Work at
eleven-thirty. I can't be at that because of the Friends of the
Cathedral meeting. At two-thirty there is the Mission at Polcreath. You
should be back at five for the Young Men's Holiday Fund. Don't let
Botchett have his way over that. He wants us to go to Newly Sands this
time. Quite absurd. We went to Newly three years ago, and there were so
many people that both the cricket and the bathing were spoilt. Stand up
to Botchett.'

This thought of standing up to Botchett was quite enough to spoil Bird's
whole day. Botchett, who was one of the churchwardens at St. Paul's, was
loud-voiced, red-faced and obstinate. A most difficult man.

There was the further trouble of Camilla Porteous. Camilla was the only
one of Porteous' three children still remaining at home. She was over
thirty now, a tall, strong, athletic-looking creature who should be
excellent at hockey and at golf. Unfortunately this was not the case.
Her looks belied her; in spite of her athletic form and jolly masculine
voice she had the nature of an unrepentant sentimentalist. She was all
woman and wanted a husband. It seemed that there was no one in
Polchester destined for that appointment, time was passing, and her
father's last two curates, Mr. Enderby and Mr. Salt, had been, with
feminine wile and intrigue, attacked and invaded. They had both escaped,
for Mr. Enderby detested women and Mr. Salt loved a girl in Lancashire.
So she discovered that she liked Mr. Bird immensely. This was quite
genuine. She cared for all small and defenceless things--all animals;
even leaves and flowers seemed to her to have a life of their own and
need protection.

On Mr. Bird's side there was something so peculiar in the softness and
tenderness that proceeded from that masculine and athletic personality
that he was struck quite dumb by it. She paid him visits in his Orange
Street lodgings and, to his horror, talked to him about his
underclothes.

'Take care of the cold. Wool next the skin is the only thing in this
treacherous climate. I know what you poor bachelors are--no one to look
after you--all your socks in holes. Don't mind asking me, Mr. Bird.
Nothing is too much trouble.'

He murmured his thanks.

'We must all help one another. Oh dear! Doesn't it seem to you, Mr.
Bird, a strange thing that when it should be so easy for us all to love
one another, we don't?'

She stood up, her legs widely planted, her arms extended as though she
were swinging a hockey club.

'This beautiful world! The birds know better how to live in harmony
together than we do! The robins, the wrens----'

Mr. Bird murmured something about the cruelty of Nature.

'Oh no! I can't agree! Of course there's the cuckoo and one or two more,
but that's simply because they don't know better. We _do_ know better.
Life's meant to be all harmony, and what do we make of it? . . . Well, I
must be getting along. Forgive me for talking as I feel. But I know that
you understand. I feel that we are friends. Father's not been fortunate
in his curates lately--Mr. Enderby was so very unsympathetic. I hate to
say anything against anybody, but everyone felt the same. And Mr.
Salt--well, Mr. Salt was always wanting to take the train to Bradford,
if you know what I mean.'

She smiled and moved a step towards him. He felt terror in his heart.
She gave him one long look and departed.

Then came a day when, for the first time, he began to realize some of
the undercurrents that were driving the town's course. It was this
meeting--the first meeting of the Pageant Committee--that did two things
to him. It showed him that he himself, insignificant as he was, belonged
to the whole movement of local events. It showed him also that these
local events involved hostilities, jealousies, drama far beyond his own
personal history. From this afternoon he was included in everything
that afterwards occurred. Porteous had been made Chairman of the Pageant
Committee for two reasons: one that, beyond anyone else in the town, he
was a man who got things done; two, that he held a proper and decent
balance between the interests of the Cathedral and the Town. The
Committee consisted of the Bishop, Lady St. Leath, Mrs. Braund, Canon
Ronder, Gaselee, Mrs. Carris, Mr. Withers, the author of the Pageant
Book, Aldridge the Mayor, and Mr. Nigel Romney. Of Mr. Romney a word
must be said. He was an important member of Polchester society. He was a
bachelor of middle years, wealthy and eccentric. His appearance was odd,
for he was tall and thin with a very long neck and auburn 'waved' hair.
He had a high shrill voice, and did not deny that his nature was
feminine. Indeed, rather than deny it he proclaimed it everywhere: 'My
dear, it was nothing to do with _me_! My mother wanted a girl. She
thought it would be so much nicer for father. And so there you are!' He
was very clever at tapestry and took his work with him when he went out
to tea. He lived in a little house on the hill above Orange Street, had
an Italian man-servant, an excellent cook and some excellent pictures.
His rooms were famous--his dining-room that was entirely in white, white
curtains covered the walls, the tables and chairs were white, and there
was a large bowl of white carved fruit at the table's centre. Then there
was his bedroom in purple and green--an odd combination, you would
think, but rather agreeable in fact. He collected jade and rock crystal.
He had a small white dog called Titania, very hairy and impertinent.

He knew everyone in the town. That was his real importance. Although he
was intimate with the Canons, Lady Mary, Mrs. Carris, he was friendly
also with Aldridge and Bellamy. Even in Seatown he had friends, very
rough ones some of them. He had the kindest and most generous of
natures. He was always giving presents and helping the needy; he
subscribed to everything. The ladies loved him and confided their
dearest secrets to him, and this was natural, for he understood exactly
what they needed. Ordinary men were very selfish, thought only of
themselves, and when they did make a fuss of a woman it was because they
wanted something. They were tactless too, would talk about their silly
business when they should be silent, refused little attentions when
little attentions were requested, and went to sleep with their mouths
open at the very time when they should be courteous. Mr. Romney did none
of these things. He would listen by the hour to the most trivial
nothings, would understand with real kindness how a look, a word, a
movement might hurt. And naturally, because it was just these little
things that hurt himself.

He was, at the same time, very indiscreet. He said so everywhere. 'Oh
no, you _mustn't_ tell me!' he would cry. 'I'm simply not to be trusted.
I can't keep a thing to myself, my dear. It's too awful. I don't know
what reticence means.'

Then he was very changeable, very suspicious, very easily offended, and
he showed that he was offended like a child. He would simply pick up his
tapestry and go. There would begin then a very elaborate correspondence.
The Italian man-servant would arrive with notes. He must be wooed, and
wooed he always was because of the many intimate private things that he
knew.

He had a strong if rather feminine sense of humour and should, people
said, have been an actor. He was excellent at imitating the
idiosyncrasies of his friends--Mrs. Braund at bridge, Lady Mary when she
sneezed, the Misses Trenchard speaking to their cook. He was most
amusing too when he caricatured himself, himself gardening, himself
losing his soap in the bath, himself running for shelter in a shower of
rain.

But his real value was in his social omniscience. He knew _everything_
that was going on in the town, everyone's weakness, when there was a
quarrel, when a reconciliation. His curiosity was insatiable.

But his great _gift_ was for colour. He helped people with their
curtains, their pictures, their furniture. His taste was quite
marvellous. And in all this he was most unselfish. No trouble was too
much for him.

That was the reason of his presence on the Pageant Committee. Mr.
Porteous did not wish it, for Mr. Porteous disliked him extremely. He
knew that Romney mocked him. No one was cleverer than Romney at mocking
you with the completest good-nature. Porteous did not like to be mocked.
Porteous had once said to him: 'You're looking a bit pale, Romney. What
you need is a little healthy exercise. A game of golf once and again.'

That was tactless of Porteous, for Romney was sensitive about his
appearance, which was, he considered, unusual and distinguished.

So after that, when he met Porteous, he always spoke about sport.

'Fine cricket they're having,' he would say, 'at Lord's. I see someone's
been batting for a week, and is sleeping on the ground in a tent so as
to be up and ready in the morning.'

And Porteous would say in his most cheerful manner: 'Not brought your
sewing to-day, Romney?'

No, they did not like one another at all, which was a pity.

On this first meeting of the Pageant Committee, Porteous wished Mr. Bird
to be present to take notes. So present he was. He did not enjoy the
occasion. He was afraid of everyone present. Only Romney took any notice
of him. The Bishop and Lady St. Leath could not be there.

Everyone was given a copy of the Book of Words.

'What I suggest,' said Porteous, 'is that we all take this home and
study it.' (He had a trick of emphasizing certain words, and he said
'study' as though he were ordering them to charge the foe.) 'It is clear
to me from a first cursory reading that the two principal parts are the
Black Bishop and Lady Emily. Indeed the scene when Lady Emily harangues
the citizens is most stirring--very noble and stirring indeed.' (Here he
bowed to the author.) 'I perceive that Lady Emily has to ride a horse.
She was also, at the time of the Battle of Drymouth, some forty-five
years of age, so the part must be taken by someone--well, someone no
longer a child.'

Here, as Mr. Bird noticed, both Mrs. Braund and Mrs. Carris looked up
self-consciously.

'I would make an excellent Lady Emily,' Romney said, and everyone
laughed. But everyone also knew that the matter of casting this part
was going to be no jesting affair.

Romney, looking quickly at the book, saw many fine opportunities for
pageantry. His heart began to beat. His pale cheeks flushed. Whatever
else he was or was not, he was an artist. This was utterly sincere to
him. He would fight to the death for the hang of a curtain, would, in
olden times, have been tortured rather than yield on the principle of
colour or symmetry. And here was this fool Porteous who knew nothing
about anything. He saw battles ahead.

Ronder, seated back in his chair, his hands folded on his belly, watched
them with curiosity.

Once upon a time (and his younger self was so alive, so friendly,
standing now at his side!) how deeply the intrigue, the pulling of
strings, the influencing of events all involved here in this coming
Pageant would have excited him! Even now he could feel, as though
faintly fanning his cheek, the warm breath of that urgent flame!

But now he was spectator--spectator even of himself! His great bulk made
all chairs, save those in his own house, uncomfortable for him. He sat
back now, his hands crossed over his stomach, his thick neck uneasy, his
short legs aching beneath the table. His eyes were half closed. His
clothes were perfect in cut, his high white collar gleamed, his shaven
cheek had an almost Chinese smoothness. He did not move. He had not yet
spoken.

He seemed to see into the very hearts of all those present. How well he
knew the almost boyish eagerness with which Porteous was taking charge
of this affair, his blindness as to the psychology of others, his
complete self-assurance, his real religion, his real confidence in God's
approval of himself. How well he understood Mrs. Braund, her good heart,
her sense of fighting in a vulgar world for the old order of decency and
class, and the pathos that came from that kind of outmoded snobbery; he
knew that she saw in Mrs. Carris with her vulgarity, parties and pushing
daughters, something as ill-smelling as onions, as common-tasting as
tripe.

How well he understood Mrs. Carris and her vitality, her lack of taste,
her social jealousies, her picture of herself as buoyant, brilliantly
coloured, the only alive person in Polchester.

But best of all he understood Romney almost as though that queer
creature were part of himself. For there had always been in himself a
feminine streak. It was that, he thought, that had in reality so fatally
antagonized Brandon all those years ago. And, as he thought of that old
battle, the consequences of which were not ended yet, he wondered
whether he had not been a little in love with Brandon, in love with his
splendid masculinity and vigour and health.

Yes, he understood Romney, and could see how the creative fire was now
burning in him at the thought of the coloured fantasies to be drawn from
the heart of this Pageant; he understood, too, the sensitive antennae
now quiveringly extended; a word, a smile, a gesture, and Romney would
be elaborating intrigues, taking sides, forcing issues just as he had
once done. But not with the same result. Romney was weak as he himself
had never been, weak and passionate in his personal contacts as he had
never been, and standing always on the razor-edge of personal disaster.
Oh yes, he understood it all!

And as he saw these human beings he found them all so touching, so human
and, above all, so small, turning like little toy figures around the
great battlement of the Cathedral.

Soon he must leave this. Soon he would be--where? A curious trembling
seized his body. His fingers tapped on the table. He would go, as old
Moffit the other night had gone before his very eyes. In the face of
that great imminent fact everything faded to nothingness. He sank into
darkness. He felt a horrible decay in every bone of his body.

'Yes,' Porteous was saying, 'this will undoubtedly be a very great event
in the history of the Town and the Cathedral, and what I feel, ladies
and gentlemen, is that we all have an immense _responsibility_ in this
matter. We must not think of ourselves, but must work as a _team_--one
for all and all for one.'

'What I want to know, Mr. Porteous,' said Mrs. Carris, 'is how we come
to final decisions. There will undoubtedly be differences of
opinion----'

'Then of course we vote.'

'Oh, I see. But if we vote about every point it will take a very long
time----'

'About many things we will, I trust, be unanimous.'

'And what about the finances?' (It was clear that Mrs. Carris intended
to take a leading part at these meetings.)

'Well, as to the finances . . .'

It seemed that the Cathedral will contribute, and the Town will
contribute. . . .

'Exactly. If the Town is to contribute, then in my opinion it is not
represented sufficiently on this Committee. The Mayor, myself, Mr.
Romney--we, I suppose, represent the Town. I hope everyone understands
me. I'm the last person to make any trouble, but I know things will be
said and questions asked----'

'We have the right to invite persons especially concerned----'

'The Town seems to me very adequately represented,' Mrs. Braund said in
her deep voice.

'Well, we'll see.' Mrs. Carris tossed her auburn head ever so slightly.
'I _know_ that questions will be asked. . . .'

It was here that Gaselee, very modestly and with a smile that he knew to
be charming, played his tactful part. 'May I say just this? Isn't this a
matter greater than any question of Town or Cathedral? Speaking for
myself I am very proud that I have been asked to be on this Committee. I
think Mrs. Carris is so right in wishing that we should do nothing to
rouse outside criticism, but if we all act together, as one man, as
Porteous says, there _should_ be no criticism. Or if there is any we
will meet it all together. All of us--well, we want this Pageant to be
one of the finest the West of England has ever seen. And it will be, I
know.'

('That young man,' Ronder thought, 'will go far here. Perhaps he will
take my place. But he's more ambitious for himself than for anything
else. Was I? I can't be sure. I have never been sure.')

'Of course there's the weather,' the Mayor said unexpectedly.

'The weather?'

'Well, there's always the weather, isn't there, in England? Everything
will depend on it. A wet week and everything will be ruined.'

Aldridge--who was a tall thin man with purple cheeks and a pale, pointed
nose--was alternately optimist and pessimist. His moods went with his
digestion. His sufferings from dyspepsia seemed to him simply the most
important item in the universe, and he regarded his stomach as a
battleground in which the issue was epochal. His symptoms--the nausea,
the headache, the heartburn and the rest--were personal to him like the
members of his family.

He was not so well to-day, and throughout the meeting he had been
considering whether a small portion of duck, eaten by him on the
previous evening, was responsible. This bird hovered over his head and
blinded his eyes. When he was well he was like Wellington after
Waterloo; he had settled the fate of Europe.

To-day there was little more to do. Next week they would consider the
distribution of the parts. . . .

'Well, well,' said Porteous, rubbing his hands. 'A good beginning, I
think, an _excellent_ beginning.' But he considered the long thin back
of Romney, who was just leaving in the company of Mrs. Braund. He was
telling her a story that amused her very much indeed--about himself
possibly. How he wished that that fellow was not on the Committee! A
ridiculous mistake. He would speak to the Bishop. Perhaps it was not too
late for something to be done. Bird, fearful as always that his lord and
master would seize upon him and give him some new job to do before
morning, nevertheless managed to escape. He would take a little walk in
the evening air. He felt greatly distressed. It seemed to him that
everyone on the Committee hated everyone else. Mrs. Braund and Mrs.
Carris frightened him. They were so large and so self-assured. How was
he ever to do his duty successfully in this town? He formed in his mind
his favourite picture of a quiet country parish where no one alarmed
him, where he would have silence and peace so that he might think about
God and feel God near to him.

Lovely weather! As he walked down Orange Street beauty closed him in.
The sky was softly blue and patterned with rosy cloud. Everyone moved
gently. The street was as it might have been fifty years ago. No
motor-cars. The Georgian houses, each with its neat stone steps and
shining knocker, let the evening light fall quietly on the grey stone.
The air was sharp, fresh, sparkling. At the bottom of the street, where
the river flows under a bridge, a barge, painted a brilliant red, moved
slowly seawards. The water, in grey shadow and then suddenly sparkling
with the evening glow, stirred gently as though a kind hand stroked it.

Standing on the bridge, he saw the Cathedral towers rise above the roofs
in black silhouette. Birds flew, more peaceful than the sky that they
traversed.

'Good evening, Mr. Bird,' a voice said.

He turned and saw the sculptor Lampiron at his side. He was greatly
pleased. He had met the sculptor on one or two occasions of late and he
felt that they were already friends. He was not afraid of Lampiron in
spite of his gruff voice, his independent opinions, and the name that he
had for carving monstrosities.

'Taking a walk?'

'Yes. Five minutes in the air. I've been sitting indoors all the
afternoon.'

'Come in and see my place. It's just round the corner here.'

'Well, really----'

'Oh, nonsense! I'll take no denial.'

Lampiron caught him by the arm and Bird gladly submitted. It would be
interesting to see those abominable sculptures!

Lampiron had a little house looking over the river. He took Bird
upstairs into a room that was in complete disorder, newspapers on the
floor, an empty beer-bottle on the table, books on the chairs. . . .

'Never mind this. Here's where I work.' He led him down some stairs at
the room-end, pushed open a door, and they were in the studio. When
Lampiron switched on the light the first thing that Bird saw was a great
block of stone, and from this stone projected two gigantic female
breasts. He gazed at this, hoping that unexpectedly a face might emerge
from that grey mass--or if not a face, at least a hand or a foot,
something that he might recognize.

Giving a little sigh he raised his eyes timidly to Lampiron's. Then they
both laughed.

'You don't like it, eh? Of course not. But you don't understand it. A
thing like that can't come to you all in a moment. The stone itself is
practically a phallus--and then the breasts. . . . Now don't be shocked.
I won't have you shocked.'

'I'm not shocked,' Bird murmured.

'That's right. People in this town faint if you mention the generative
organs. Anyway this is the grandest thing I've done yet--and it's not
Asiatic like Epstein. My God, no! It's universal. The life of man. But
probably you don't believe in the life of man or think it's important.
No, you believe in God and think that says everything. But it doesn't.
Not by a long chalk. God's all right, but only if you believe in
Creation----'

'I believe in love,' little Mr. Bird said, most unexpectedly to himself.
Then he went on rapidly: 'I know that sounds silly. It's what every
sentimentalist who beats his wife says. No, but I mean it. And I'll tell
you why. Because I've been sitting on a Committee for hours this
afternoon with everyone hating everyone else. It made me very unhappy.
And frightened too. Because if we've learnt nothing after all these
years, perhaps we're worth so little that we'll all be swept up and
thrown into the dust-bin.'

He looked wildly about him, his eyes staring at the obscure shapes--here
a rough head, there gigantic thighs and bending knees, and there again
more female breasts. He was near to tears although he did not know it.

'I can't think why I'm talking like this. As a rule I'm afraid to open
my mouth. But it's coming here, seeing all these terrible things you're
making. . . . I like you so much, and surely these things are
_frightful_----' He raised his hands as though appealing for
forgiveness. Then dropped them. 'I beg your pardon. I've been terribly
rude when I know you so slightly. . . .'

Lampiron saw that his eyes were full of tears. He led him to an old
shabby arm-chair with a large hole in it.

'There you are. Sit down there. Have some tea--or a whisky and
soda--will you?'

'Yes. Thanks. I think I _would_ like some tea.'

Lampiron pushed a bell. 'If only that old bitch isn't out. . . . Here, I
say, I'm sorry. But no, I'm not. We're going to be friends and it will
never do if I have to pull myself up and apologize for my language every
moment. It will do you good anyway--a counter to old Porteous and his
gang. But look here----'

He pulled a chair close to the one in which Bird was sitting.

'This is important. This is hellishly important. We've got to have this
out. You come in here and think these things hideous. So does everyone
else in the town except the Hattaways. Not that that matters. Neither
you nor anyone else here know anything about art. It's a thing you've
got to learn about, you know, like engineering or banking. People look
at a painting or a piece of sculpture and say: "Oh, I don't like
_that_!" and think they have finished with it. Bloody fools! What you've
got to do is to find out what the artist is getting at, and then, when
you're fairly sure, you can say whether you think he's got it or not.
And then there's nothing final in it. You're limited as critic by
everything you've been and are. What _you_ are. What the _artist_ is.
What _art_ is. Three separate things. When for you they coincide, then
for _you_ the creator has done his job. But only for _you_, mind. . . .
Come in. Yes, Bridget. Some tea, please, bread and butter, jam, cake.'

'I don't want any cake,' Bird murmured.

'Oh yes you do. Do you good. Well, look here. I'm nearly seventy; I've
only been working at this thing for five years. I know nothing at all
about it. But when I'm working I'm so happy I wouldn't exchange places
with anyone alive or dead. My health and my work--my two good things.
Everything else is rotten. I've hardly a friend in the place. I haven't
a bean. I owe that swine Furze a hell of a lot and he'll turn me out of
here if I don't do something about it. Take my sculpture too in part
payment. I wouldn't wonder if I murdered him one day. I'd kill him
to-morrow if I could think of a way that wouldn't be detected. Oh yes! I
mean it. Don't look so shocked. I'd be doing a kindness to humanity. He
has most of the town under his thumb.

'And then sex. I'm nearly seventy as I told you, but I'm strong as a
horse. I could sleep with three women a night. I don't, but I walk this
bloody town at two in the morning to cool my passions. Ludicrous, isn't
it? An old man with passions. Disgusting too. I tell you it's neither
ludicrous nor disgusting. It's life--teeming, fructifying, careless,
casual, procreative life. I've energy enough. Look here. Feel that arm.'

Bird felt his arm.

'Muscle there, isn't there? But it's all working up to an explosion. I'm
like a man chained. I don't ask for much. Enough money to do my work in
peace. A nice quiet mistress who wouldn't think of me as an old man.
Peace to work. That's all. And I can't get it. I can't get it. There's
no peace in this town. That's working up for an explosion too because no
one here thinks of what's real. Beauty.'

'God,' said Bird.

'It's the same thing. The thing in the centre. You can't go on
neglecting it for ever. It's damned patient, but it won't wait for
ever.'

He strode off to a corner and returned with two or three pictures that
had been standing with their faces to the wall. He showed them to Bird.
One represented cows in a field grazing, another the moon rising over an
oily sea, a third the street of a village.

'But they're beautiful!' cried Bird.

'No, they're not. They're hideous. Or rather they're nothing at all.
They don't exist.'

'Do you mean to say,' said Bird, 'that when you could paint like that
you gave it up and--and--did _those_?'

Lampiron laughed. He took the paintings and placed them once more with
their faces to the wall.

'Can't you see----?' he began. But he broke off. 'No, I see that you
can't. The difference between life and death. Well, well.'

The tea came in.

'Here. This is a fine cake. It's gingerbread. I'm sure where you are
they don't give you enough to eat. Now I've been doing all the talking.
Tell me a little about yourself.'

'Yes, I will,' Bird said suddenly. 'I haven't talked to anyone about
myself for years. Nobody's asked me. There's nothing much to tell
though, except that I'm a coward. I'm frightened of everyone and
everything, myself included.'

'Why?'

'I don't know. I've no confidence. Only when I'm alone and God seems
very close to me I'm comforted. Sometimes then I feel that I could face
anybody.'

'This business about God.' Lampiron said. 'I don't understand it.
You're a parson, so you have to put up a show, but in your inner self,
when you're alone, do you really believe it? Believe that Christ was
divine, that there's another life after this one and the rest of it?'

'I think I believe in a sixth sense,' Bird said slowly. 'Non-material. I
_know_ that there's another world. Often I'm in touch with it. And when
I leave my physical body I shall understand it more fully. I _could_
understand it more now if I were not so physical, if I loved people
more, thought less of myself.'

'I see,' Lampiron said. 'I don't believe in your spiritual world, but I
do believe in my creative one, and maybe they're the same. Perhaps we're
both right. But your _physical_ self. I shouldn't have thought you were
very physical. Do you mean women?'

Bird blushed.

'Of course I'm like other men,' he said. 'But I've never had relations
with a woman----'

'My God! How old are you?'

'Thirty-two.'

'Thirty-two? And never slept with a woman! Your passions can't be very
strong then.'

'They are--sometimes. But it wouldn't be right--for me. One day I hope I
shall marry.' To his own surprise he thought of the woman whom he had
seen in the Cathedral, Furze's daughter.

He went on: 'I've never spoken to anyone of these things before. I've
been too timid. Of course as a clergyman I've had to warn boys about sex
and I've encountered it many times in my work--very sad it's been
sometimes. But I've always managed. It's only since I've come here that
I've felt everything difficult. There's something about this town . . .
You know, it seems so quiet and ordinary on the outside, but when you
get to know it a little, there's something underneath . . . But I don't
think I shall be quite so nervous now. It's helped me like anything
talking to you.'

'And it's helped me!' Lampiron cried. 'Life isn't all jam for me just
now. I put a bold face on it but, between you and me, I'm frightened
myself sometimes. Waking up at two in the morning, hearing the Cathedral
bells strike, knowing I'm nearly seventy and am in debt to that swine
and am not earning a penny. . . .'

'You could sell those pictures,' Bird said.

'No, I couldn't. Not here. No one in Polchester buys pictures.'

'I--' Bird began shyly, 'I--if you didn't ask too much--I should greatly
like to have one.'

'Bless your heart!' Lampiron cried. 'Would you really? And so you shall.
But you shan't pay me for it. I'll give you one and it shall illuminate
your lodgings. Here--which will you have?'

He dragged them over again.

'Oh no, I couldn't.'

'Of course you can. You shall help me sometime if I'm in a real
hole----'

Bird was dreadfully embarrassed. That wasn't at all what he had
intended. Suppose that Lampiron thought . . . So he chose one--the
picture with the cows in a field.

'Good! That's been making me feel sick for years. You've done me a
service. I'll send it up to your lodgings to-morrow.'

'I'd like to take it with me.'

'Would you? All right. I'll wrap some paper round it.'

When Bird stood up to depart Lampiron put his hand on his shoulder.
'You're right,' he said, 'to be celibate--if you can. Then when you
marry----. Only don't wait too long. To be married, you know. And if
she's the wrong woman I'll strangle her!'

Bird smiled, shook hands, and departed.

It was dark now. A wild wind blew down Orange Street and knocked the
picture against Bird's legs. What a fine man! I've made a new friend!
But how violent! I do hope he won't do anything in a sudden passion. . . .
But whatever he did I'd stand by him. I've made a friend. . . .

He entered his lodgings with a brave heart.




CHAPTER VI

HEART AND SOUL OF AN IDEALIST


No man thinks himself a villain. There is no melodrama about Stephen
Furze: only thus far has he the right trappings for melodrama--that his
voice is gentle and his movements quiet. There is a stillness where he
is, a stillness so profound that violent spirits like Lampiron are
compelled to break it.

Furze's own view of himself was that he was a man of justice, who hated
untidiness. This passion for _bareness_ was a growing passion. There was
dust in his own room because he allowed no one to touch anything there,
but for the rest there was a shining bareness everywhere. A scrap of
paper on the floor was to himself a personal insult. As he bent his long
legs to pick it up, a rage bubbled in him. How _dare_ it lie there? He
had the acquisitiveness that leads to sitting naked in a naked room--a
cell, at last perhaps, padded, for he could not feel so surely a
possessor of great fortune as when there was no detail before his eyes
to insist on his limitations.

The collector with his Aldine, his Fourth Folio, his small Turner
water-colour, his 'Edinburgh' Burns, must be aware of the other Aldines,
the Second Folios, the thousands of Turner water-colours, the
'Kilmarnock'--but, alone, in his hired lodging with his sixpenny
Shelley and mug of beer, he can possess the world.

So Stephen Furze was for ever adding to his riches both in fact and in
imagination. But he did not wish to _see_ his wealth. Looking on a blank
wall he appeared to own the whole world.

This was one edge to his passion and it led to constant paring away of
material and physical things. The weekly bills were examined ever more
closely; in the rooms of the house there were things day by day found to
be superfluous. He moved, blinded by his vision of all the things that
were _not_ there and that were his, and his wife moved at his side
seeing in _her_ darkness all the things that she had loved when she had
sight--tables, chairs, pictures--that were for her still present.

And the other edge to his passion was his almost divine consciousness of
justice. No man alive was more honest than he. When, as Lampiron had
done the other day, someone came to him and accused him of injustice, a
cold abiding hatred of that man stirred in his heart. He was capable of
real hatred, a very rare capacity in man. He hated because he was
wronged. He was a benefactor to the town. Times had been bad these last
years, and there were many he knew who would have been ruined ere now
had it not been for the services he rendered. The interest he asked was
a fair interest. Because he was a man who looked after his own and took
what was his due, was he therefore extortionate? From the world of his
desires, just as from the world of his vision, he had banished
everything that was unnecessary. Sexual passion had never meant anything
to him; he did not care what he ate, nor what he drank, nor where he
slept, nor for friendship. He needed no one in the world but himself.
Every energy, every thought, was concentrated on this purpose of
possession. The love of it had two bases: one the actual fact of
possession so that he would sit in his room and make his calculations
and think, 'This day last year I had so and so much. To-day I have this
much more.' And after that the _power_ of possession. He thought, 'All
these people are in my hand. I, Stephen Furze, who once was nothing.
Bellamy, Marlowe, Lampiron, Browning and many more. When they see me
coming they tremble. I have the town in my hand. I am just, I am
powerful. I am almost like God.' For, like all men who care about the
spin of a coin, he was superstitious.

Until he owned God as he owned these others he would be afraid of Him.
God had escaped his grasp and he had a vague, undefined fear and hatred
of the Cathedral with all its gold and brass and marble and painted
windows. He went there sometimes and wondered how much it had cost to
build the nave and what a fine Tomb with plenty of decoration would
fetch if it were sold. He spoke of the Cathedral with contempt--an old
empty collection of junk. But he did not _feel_ contempt when he was
there. He stood in the nave and knew that the place hated him--another
instance of injustice.

Into this world of his there had come his brother and, whoever else he
might wish to destroy, it was his brother who came first on the list.

He had all his life despised and loathed his brother. Mike stood for
everything that he scorned--noise, riotous living, boastfulness,
rashness and, most of all, dissipation of possessions. Mike had never
kept a thing--wastrel, wanderer, vagabond. When Mike appeared Stephen's
first impulse had been to turn him at once from the house. But then
there had been the money. Fifty pounds dangled before his eyes. After
that had come the desire for power. He would make Mike his slave, keep
him in the house to do his bidding, reduce him gradually to a wretched
subservient dependence. Here, too, there was justice, for the thought of
Mike had, all his life, taunted and mocked him.

He waited for the moment when the fifty pounds would be gone. His moment
arrived. One evening Mike came to him and suggested that he should stay
in the house and, for a weekly wage, perform certain services. Stephen
quietly agreed. He laid his hand on his brother's shoulders, and his
long, cold fingers possessed his brother. He knew that Mike was spying
about the house. He read Mike's purposes as though he saw, through a
glass, into his brain. Mike, his money spent, could no longer be the
jovial boon companion about the town that he had been. Stephen gave him
a pound a week.

'It's only till I've found a job.'

'Quite. Quite. Meanwhile there are things you can do. . . .'

He stopped the fire in Mike's bedroom.

Elizabeth came to him with the weekly bills. He read the items through
one by one.

'Hutton's bill is too large.'

'But Uncle Michael has all his meals with us now.'

'Yes, yes, I know.'

'And he complains that he is not getting enough.'

'Oh, he complains, does he? He need not stay. No one is keeping him
here.'

She surmounted her fear of him as a swimmer surmounts a gigantic wave.

'Father, we are none of us getting enough. I do my best, but now that
there are four of us----'

'Eh, my dear, my dear--so you are complaining too?'

'Yes!' she cried passionately. 'You are mean to us, father. Why? You are
one of the richest men in Polchester. I can't stand it much longer, and
if I go----'

'Leave your mother?'

'Mother would come with me.'

'No, she would not.'

Elizabeth knew that that was true and that while her mother was there
she must be there too.

He took her hand in his.

'Isn't this a lot of trouble about food, Elizabeth? I manage very well,
don't I? I don't complain. But have it your own way. Buy what you like.
Buy what you like.'

But she knew what would happen if she did. Her mother would be made to
suffer. He would pierce her blindness with stabs of pain. He knew so
well how to make his own sense of injustice her distress, for oddly
enough, as Elizabeth thought, her mother loved her father. That, at
least, was how it appeared to Elizabeth.

She would put out her hand in the darkness and touch him, and then, when
she felt the cloth of his sleeve, she would smile, as though she had now
all the happiness that she wanted.

Elizabeth looked at her father, then turned away. But, at the door, she
looked back.

'Uncle Michael has changed everything,' she said. 'Don't forget that.'
Then she came nearer to him. 'Do you know how old I am? I shall be
thirty next month. For years I haven't said a word. You've thought that
I've noticed nothing, minded nothing. But I have my own life that you
can't touch. Mother is blind because you were too mean to have her cared
for. That I'll never forgive you even though mother does. We've been
shut up in this hateful house as though we'd been buried. But someone
has come in now from outside. I've been so deeply ashamed of you that I
couldn't hold my head up in the town, but I'm not responsible for you
any longer. Although I stay here for mother's sake I'm free. I'm a woman
with a life of my own from now on.'

And she went slowly out.

He was greatly surprised. Elizabeth had never spoken to him like this
before and he had not thought her capable of it. He recognized in her
for the first time something of his own character. She, too, felt a
sense of injustice and, although her complaints were absurd, he liked
her independence.

But this was another thing that his dear brother had been
doing--stirring his daughter to rebellion. He sat there, pleased with
his isolation. Nobody understood him and he did not wish that anybody
should. His contempt for the human race was profound. After thousands of
years of civilization they had not learnt how to manage sensibly their
affairs. Less than twenty years after plunging into a war of
unprecedented horror, a war from which no one had gained anything, they
were all busily preparing for another. All men were enemies--all men
were fools. He smiled. All the better for himself. He would not have it
otherwise. He remembered that he had left two shillings and a sixpence
in the trousers that he had been wearing yesterday. With a sudden fear
lest someone--his rascal of a brother maybe--had taken them, he
hastened, quietly, to his bedroom. . . .

Later he walked out. Out of doors he wore at all times of the year,
whatever the weather might be, a bowler hat with a very large brim and a
long overcoat, dusty-grey in colour. This overcoat was now old-fashioned
in shape. It hung straight down from his shoulders to his boots. The
collar was faded. Nevertheless, clothed in this garment he did not
appear shabby. The bowler hat was also out of fashion with its large
soup-plate brim, and on wet days he walked under an umbrella that was
really enormous and quite green with age. So that he was always seen,
when abroad, either as a grey shadow that melted into the walls of the
houses, the sky, the pavement itself, or as a vast green umbrella that
moved above a grey coat, silently, from point to point.

It was not until you were face to face with him that you were aware of
the countenance with the long white nose, the arms that ended in grey
gloves, and the eyes that moved with a gentle but penetrating motion,
taking in the world.

Again and again Polchester citizens, in the half-light, encountered this
figure as abruptly as though it had risen there and then from, the
paving-stones.

'Good evening, Mr. Bellamy.'

'Oh!--good evening, Mr. Furze!'

And the bowler hat and grey coat, or the umbrella and grey coat, as the
weather might dictate, would disappear around the corner, or vanish
into mist as though it had never been.

On this particular afternoon a wet mist blew about the town. It came
from the sea and was raw and penetrating. Therefore Furze had his
umbrella. But his first visit was not far distant. He wished to spend
five minutes--five minutes only, for he had much to do--with Mr. Marlowe
of St. James's. The Rectory was, of course, only a door or two away.

Hidden beneath his umbrella, the wet mist blowing about him, he waited
for the opening of the door. It was opened by young Penny Marlowe, who,
seeing that umbrella and coat so motionless on the step, seeing no face
and hearing no voice, gave a little cry. Then, as the umbrella lifted
and the long white nose appeared, she realized who it was.

'I beg your pardon, Miss Marlowe. May I speak to your father for a
moment?'

'Oh, you gave me quite a fright, Mr. Furze--I didn't see who it was.
Won't you come in? I'll see where father is.'

She always felt sorry for Mr. Furze. She knew that he was very unpopular
in the town, but to her he seemed delicate, uncared-for, wearing shabby
clothes. She blamed that daughter of his because she did not look after
him properly.

Stephen Furze came in and stood in the warm hall that was overcrowded
with things. He stood there, his hat in one hand, his umbrella in the
other.

Her father, as Penny knew, was playing chess with Canon Cronin in the
study. His two great passions in life were reading and chess. He played
chess with anyone whom he could find. The happiest night of the week for
him was the meeting of the Polchester Chess Club at the 'Bull.' Like so
many of the happiest chess players, he would never be any good, but
always hoped that he might. He had brilliant ideas. He read books of
instruction. He played out International Games that were printed in the
newspapers, and often said that he wondered at Tcherzki of
Czechoslovakia for moving his bishop, or that Ellis of Sweden must have
been dreaming to allow that passed pawn. He dreamt often of brilliant
moves with the two knights, arm in arm so to speak, stepping gallantly
up the board together, or of a great occasion when, before assembled
multitudes, his queen and bishop cut diagonally into the very heart of
the enemy, transfixing him with surprised terror; but, in actual fact,
he could not keep his head. He would grow so desperately excited as he
saw his plans maturing, as he moved a pawn here, a bishop there, that he
was utterly unprepared for the sudden dash of the opposing queen on to
his own front line, his king, alas, pinned in by his own bishop and
three attendant pawns.

'Oh! But it's impossible! Another two moves and I would have had you! I
_can't_ understand . . .'

So, alas, it was again and again. Cronin, with whom he mostly played,
was not a good performer, but he was calm and collected. He never did a
brilliant thing nor was he ever transcendently careless.

'If you'd only show a little emotion!' Marlowe would cry.

'What is there to be emotional about? You get too excited, Dick. It's
not only bad for your chess, it's bad for your heart too.'

So they were now engaged when Penny opened the door and said that Mr.
Stephen Furze would like to speak to father for just a minute.

Dick Marlowe's face was distorted. He got up, almost knocking the
chessboard over in his agitation.

'Hullo, Dick--what is it?' Cronin asked.

'It's nothing.' Marlowe, who was stout, rubicund, young-looking in spite
of his white hairs for his years, had suddenly aged. 'Would you go into
the drawing-room, Ned, and wait? It's only five minutes. We'll finish
the game afterwards.'

Cronin went out. He was distressed. He knew, as everyone save his own
family knew, that Dick Marlowe, who was a fool about money if anyone
was, had had dealings with this fellow. Why? What had induced him?

Stephen Furze came in.

He stood there not obsequiously, not sycophantically, in his grey coat
that fell to his boots, with his bony skull under the thin grey hair and
his hands in their grey gloves.

'Oh, Mr. Furze. How are you? Good afternoon. Won't you sit down?'

Marlowe rubbed his hands, smiled, sat down, himself, in one of the
arm-chairs by the fire. But his heart was hammering. What was this man
here for? He had paid him something only a month or two ago. When was
it? How much had it been? He could remember nothing. But it could not be
much that he owed him--only a pound or two now. How had it all begun? By
his overhearing, at a Chess Club meeting, someone say, 'There's always
Furze. He'll lend to anyone--_and_ want it back again with increase.'

The thing had remained in Marlowe's mind. He was always wanting money.
They were so desperately poor, and then there were his own extravagances
about books! His secret vice. Crockett's, the second-hand bookshop in
Myre Street, lured him again and again.

When about to pay one of his visits there he felt all the pride and
excitement of a gay buck about to court a handsome young lady. The
Rectory attics were piled high with dusty volumes. The study walls were
lined with books--and there poor Hester, his wife, was scarcely able to
make ends meet!

He knew how wrong it was. Every night and morning he prayed to be
delivered from Crockett's as a man might pray to be delivered from drugs
or drink. He salved his conscience a little by paying Crockett's cash,
but to obtain the cash--yes, that was why he went to Furze.

Furze came out of his door one day as Marlowe came out of his. Some
words were exchanged, Marlowe spent ten minutes in Furze's room and the
transactions were begun. That was three years ago! Now Marlowe did not
know where he was. How deeply he was ashamed that a clergyman should be
in this position, but behind the shame was growing an almost nightmarish
fear. The sum of his debt seemed ever to grow, pay as he might. He was
always resolving to have the matter bravely out, to demand that Furze
should go with him to Symon, the old lawyer in Bury Street, and have the
thing settled, whatever it cost him.

But he was frightened. He did not wish anyone to know of his folly.
Moreover, he very easily lost consciousness of his troubles. When he was
playing chess or reading one of his beloveds, Jean Paul Richter or
Gibbon or Donne's Sermons or, greatest and best of all, Goethe, who
seemed to him both the priest and king of all mortal men, he would
settle down, and his lips would smile and his gentle mild eyes cloud
with pleasure.

It had been always so, but now his enemy--for so he felt Furze to have
become--was closing in upon him. There were times when even his adored
Siebenkas would fade before that long thin figure. He would wake and
fancy that Furze was standing beside his bed. He would start and cry in
his sleep. . . .

So he looked up now, smiling, and said: 'Won't you sit down, Mr. Furze?'

'Oh no, thank you very much, Mr. Marlowe. I only looked in for a moment.
The fact is that a small sum is due--_was_ due, in fact, on October the
twenty-seventh. I thought that you might have overlooked it.'

'Why, no, Mr. Furze. Of course not. How much is it exactly?'

Furze took from his pocket a small dog-eared pocket-book bound in faded
green cloth. This pocket-book was very famous in the town.

'The amount is eight pounds, five shillings and sixpence.'

His manner was dignified, kindly and reserved, but, as he looked around
the room, he felt disgust in his heart. How crammed with unnecessary
lumber the place was! Those leather arm-chairs would fetch quite a price
and the marble clock on the mantelpiece was worth something. That was a
fine table the old man worked at, with its leather blotter and the
photographs of his wife and daughter in silver frames. As to the books
that reached from ceiling to floor, they made Furze feel quite sick.
There was an extravagance for you! No one could read all those books.
What was the use of them, gathering dust, hiding clean bare walls . . .?

Marlowe cleared his throat. 'Certainly you shall be paid, Mr. Furze. In
a day or two. I don't quite know how I stand at the bank.'

'That's perfectly right, Mr. Marlowe. I know that times aren't easy,
especially for the clergy. Any day within a week or two. I thought you'd
prefer to be reminded.'

'Certainly. Certainly.' Then Marlowe made a great effort. 'I wonder
whether you could tell me what my total debt is to you. I hope to be
able to clear the whole thing off very shortly.'

'Why, of course. With the greatest pleasure. I think I have the total
here.'

He looked at the little green book again. There was a long silence
broken only by the marble clock, which chirruped '_Cheer_-up . . .
_Cheer_-up . . . _Cheer_-up.'

'Yes,' said Furze at last. 'I make it, Mr. Marlowe, just seventy-one
pounds, four shillings and threepence. The total debt deducting the ten
pounds that you paid me in July last.'

Seventy pounds! The room darkened. Marlowe put his hand, for an instant,
to his cheek and pinched it.

'Dear me! That is more than I had supposed. But I have never had
anything approaching that amount from you--and I have paid you----'

Furze consulted the book. 'You have borrowed from me, in the last three
years, eighty-three pounds in all. You have paid me thirty-one pounds
ten shillings. I charge, of course, a slight interest as everyone
does.'

'I quite understand.' Eighty-three pounds? Could it be possible? But
this must be stopped, ended, done with. He would go to Cronin or Braund
or Hattaway, all good friends, and borrow the whole sum. . . . This
thought cheered him.

'I had no idea it was so much. I think I can promise you, Mr. Furze,
that you shall be paid in full very shortly.'

'Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. But pray don't put yourself out. I only wish to
oblige you. . . . Good day. Nasty wet afternoon, isn't it?'

In the hall he found his hat and umbrella and quietly vanished. His
business was in Seatown: thither he departed.

Seatown had never been beautiful. Once upon a time, perhaps, when a few
cottages had clustered under the Rock it had its romance, but the Pol
can never have been a fine river here, and at low tide it must ever have
been the thin grey trickle of a stream that it is to-day. Mud was the
basis of this world, slime oozing to the foot of rock. But who can tell?
There were stories that hundreds of years ago the river had been so deep
and wide that ships sailed along it to the Polchester port and, on its
farther banks, wild forest stretched to the border of the sea.
Thirty-five years ago it had been a shabby place, its streets haunted by
loafer and vagabond, slatternly women at its doors, the children the
worst cared-for in the South of England, and Samuel Hogg doing a
nefarious trade at 'The Dog and Pilchard.' Then in 1906 Harmer John had
come to Polchester, later been murdered in Pennicent Street, and in
1913, as a shamefaced tribute to his memory, all Seatown reformed,
rebuilt. On October 7th, a memorial to Harmer John had been unveiled by
the Mayor, and Pennicent Street had become Riverside Street. The
delighted citizens on that day beheld, instead of disgraceful slum, a
row of houses of a drab, grey stone. Each little house had grey
chimneys, neat windows, bath (h. and c.), indoor sanitation and a square
of garden. A neater, uglier street was not to be found in the whole of
England.

Satisfaction was general. And after that? After that the War. And after
the War a strange return to Seatown of its old inhabitants--if not the
originals, then children of the originals as close to their fathers as
might be. For blood will tell. The spirit of Seatown was stronger than
the spirit of its reformers, and back they came, the scallawags, the
castaways, the wastrels. Sam Hogg was dead, but his true successor,
Lanky Moon, a long cadaverous fellow with a glass eye, ruled 'The Dog'
and Seatown with it.

During the post-War years the citizens of Seatown became a fine
collection of down-and-outs and unemployed. No cathedral town in the
whole country had a finer. Decent enough many of them were, but mingled
with the decent were the indecent, rebels against society, some remnants
of the old gipsy bands, drunkards, pickpockets and loafers. Communist
orators found Seatown a good ground for development, and with justice,
for there was grinding poverty here, hardship, disease and sickness.

It had been, it appeared, nobody's business to keep the new Seatown of
1913 in repair. Bridge Street and Riverside Street soon brought those
smart grey houses into dirt and disorder. Furze himself owned some of
the property. Moon some more. The gentlemen of the Town Council never
visited it. Harmer John's memorial was overgrown with weeds.

Furze himself was at home there. As now he descended Bridge Street he
felt that this was what he liked--no extravagance here, no flummery of
silver photograph frames and leather arm-chairs.

Many of the Seatowners were in his debt as were their grander
fellow-citizens--little debts, a pound here, ten shillings there, but he
knew them all to a penny and the power that the small debts gave him
here was the equal of any power he might have above the Rock.

As the misty rain swirled against his umbrella he noticed everything,
the small shabby Bridge Street shops glowing with their lights through
the murk, M'Canlis the tobacconist, Lugge the old-clothes man, Mrs.
Murphy's sweet-shop (here the street paused, elaborating a little square
in which most incongruously there was a misshapen statue of Queen
Victoria), then, as the street fell downwards again, Ottley's billiard
saloon, Locke's Family Hotel, and, at last, at the corner of Bridge
Street and Riverside Street the 'Majestic' picture-house, scene of many
a scrambling riot.

Round every one of these places and persons hung a family history, every
detail of which was known to him--old M'Canlis and his wastrel of a son;
Mrs. Murphy, whose daughters were no better than they should be;
Ottley's billiard saloon, the principal seat of the wilder Communists;
Locke's Family Hotel, a brothel first and a hotel after--he knew them
all. He looked in for a word with Mr. M'Canlis, paid Ottley a brief
visit, and then, stepping into the rain again, ran full tilt against the
broad stout bosom of Gurney, police-inspector. Gurney started.

'Why, Mr. Furze, is it? I never saw you.'

'Rotten weather, Inspector.'

'Rotten it is. . . . Well, so long then, Mr. Furze.'

Gurney's round red face with its innocent blue eyes, the broad thick
body, the heavy plodding walk--these were perhaps more humorous to Furze
than anything else in Polchester. For Gurney was weak, kindly, devoted
to wife and children, consciously inefficient, amiably tolerant--all
things that Furze despised most deeply. So long as Gurney was Inspector
of Police in Polchester, men like Moon and young M'Canlis and Ottley had
nothing to fear.

(Later that evening Peter Gurney, seated in front of his fire, pipe in
mouth, his youngest child on his knee, confided to Mrs. Gurney: '. . . I
was in Bridge Street and there he was, right upon me as you might say,
hidden by his old umbrella--I never knew a man for making no sound like
that Furze. . . .')

But Furze's business this afternoon was with Moon of 'The Dog and
Pilchard.'

'The Dog' was, and had been for many a year, a place of great importance
in Polchester history. It was now approaching the moment of its greatest
importance. You would not suppose so if you looked at it. You might, in
fact, in this swirl of misty rain, pass it by altogether. The sign,
placed there years ago by Hogg, painted by that mad fellow Davray, who
had haunted the place too much for his good, still swung there, almost
invisible in this dusk, creaking like a crying baby through the
confused chatter of the river, which fell in a kind of waterfall over a
stone ridge just at this point. The sign showed a brown dog gazing
despondently at a heap of silver pilchard, brown and silver faded by
now, and a brave splash of crimson sky almost fallen to darkness.

For hundreds of years there had been some kind of drinking-place on this
very spot. Murder had been committed here, the story ran, in Elizabethan
days, when some poor vagrant had been robbed and his throat cut. But he
was not the only man who had died here. . . . Its life had been thick,
tortuous, dark and sinister. So it was still. No one could bring light
into that main central room. Once there had been candles, then gas, now
electricity, but still the murk and steam and fog hung there, and behind
the bar Lanky Moon watched the world that he governed.

High above the town the Cathedral, at its bottom 'The Dog.' Some power
in common between the two? A power, at least, of history, a force
gathered through time from the passions and furies and prayers of men.
And, at last, the two forces were to meet. . . .

Within the central room there was always the sound of the tumbling river
and the low voices of men. Often the voices would rise, laughter,
quarrelling, a sudden shout, and with the voices the sound of the river
also seemed to rise.

To Furze it was all exceedingly familiar. He entered now, sat down in a
corner and waited for Moon to come over to him. The bar was closed and
the tables cleared, but some of Moon's regular customers were still
keeping him company. He noticed young M'Canlis and a girl, Fanny
Clarke, a wild, loose, good-looking young ne'er-do-well, and Tom Caul.
Caul was a bruiser, over six foot, thick and broad, a boxer of some
Glebeshire and Cornish fame until evil habits had rotted his body. A man
with a brooding sense of injustice, given to passionate tempers, with
some gift of speech. He called himself a Communist, having as his only
desire a general robbing, burning, destruction of all and sundry. Behind
his wildness there was a certain dim philosophy.

Moon came over to Furze and sat down.

'Well, Mr. Furze, how's yourself to-day?'

But Furze wasted no time.

'Look here, Lanky, what about the Foster house in Bridge Street? Is that
woman turning out or isn't she?'

'I don't know. She's very sick.'

'Will she die, do you think?'

'I shouldn't wonder.'

'We could get another family in there with a little squeezing. The
Benches would move in.'

'It's a bit crowded as it is, Mr. Furze.'

'There's that room at the back. There's only old Foster there. If Mrs.
Foster goes the old man would have to go too.'

'Yes, that's right, Mr. Furze.'

'I passed Gurney as I came down.'

'Yes, he's been in here just now. He told us to clear.'

'What was he wanting?'

'Oh, I don't know. Looking around. He's a bloody bastard, he is.'

Furze went on: 'I heard last week that there's talk again in the Upper
Town of looking into things down here.'

'The hell there is!'

'Yes. Once every five years or so they get a fit of it.'

'Who's behind it now?'

'Hattaway chiefly. He's always talking of pulling the whole place down.
He's been talking to Carris and one or two more.'

'What he wants,' said Moon darkly, 'is a knock on the head one
night--interfering bastard.'

They both looked up and gazed, speculatively, at Caul, who lounged his
great bulk over a table, murmuring to the beautiful Fanny, who was
yawning and picking her teeth.

'There's a lot of discontent down here,' Moon said in the tone of a
benevolent philanthropist. 'Things are bad. What the hell? Do they think
their bloody dole makes the world a Paradise? That's what _I_ want to
know. Running about in their Rolls-Royces.' He dropped the philanthropy.
'See here, Mr. Furze, can you let me have ten quid?'

'Yes--on conditions.'

They talked for a while, then Furze got up.

'I'll be moving. Let me know about that house in Bridge Street.' He went
across to Caul. He stood there, his broad-brimmed bowler dominating
them.

'Well, Caul, how is it?'

'Bloody bad, Mr. Furze.'

'Why don't you get something to do? There's some work up at the St.
Leath. They're making a new tennis-court. I could put in a word for
you.'

Caul stretched his huge arms.

'No, thanks, Mr. Furze. None of their bloody tennis-courts for me.'

'I hear you were speaking out at Goston the other night.'

Caul raised himself. A look of pride and almost of nobility came into
his dark stubbly countenance.

'Yes, Mr. Furze--I talked a bit.'

'Good. I must come and hear you some night.'

Furze put out his hand and touched the man's shoulder. Caul remained
passive, submissive.

'Good evening, all. I must be getting on.'

When he came out the rain had ceased. With that cessation everything had
changed. The November afternoon was sinking into dusk, but above the
river and rising fields a pool of pale gold light, cupped like a
mountain tarn between two crags of dark sky, suggested deep upon deep of
colour. Very faintly the reflection from it lay upon the river and
feebly lit the windows of 'The Dog.' The street glittered like steel
from the rain. Trees on the opposite bank were softened at the heart of
their darkness. Behind him the town piled up, undistinguishable in
detail, like a fortress above the Rock.

He had no eyes for beauty, which was a thing beyond price and therefore
worthless. Nor, when he reached the Market-place, did he feel the
contrast between the silent disorder of that Lower Town where he had
just been, and here where all was bustle, noise and business. Lights
were springing up like flowers behind the windows; in the half-dusk,
under this same pool of gold, now fainter, dimmer, gold upon white now,
a huddle of sheep were moving out of the Market, two motor-cars panting
impatiently behind them.

He wished for a word with Crispangle so he turned into the Smith
bookshop. Crispangle mentioned Furze's brother; coming out of the shop
Furze stayed for a moment, and thought of him. It was at this moment
that his austere idealism was more abruptly offended than at any time
during the afternoon. Crispangle had spoken of Michael as a friend, and
this disgusted Furze. And now he must return to find that fellow
lounging about the house, eating his food, spying on him. . . . Mingled
strangely with the disgust was a suggestion of fear. He did not doubt
but that Michael would do him a harm had he a chance, but it was more
that Michael was for ever talking. For years there had been silence in
that house and now it was continually broken with that waster's chatter.

He said things that broke Furze's concentration on his own affairs. For
example, a dream that he had had about a yellow-faced man with a broken
neck emerging from the Cathedral door in silence upon a listening town.
Nothing in it, but for some reason it had remained in Furze's mind.

Another thing had caught his attention. Chatter about a crucifix that he
had sold to Klitch, that he hoped shortly to redeem, something that he
loved most in the world. . . . For some reason this selling of the
crucifix and the yellow-faced man with the twisted neck remained
together, connected uneasily in Furze's mind. He had a mighty brain for
detail--nothing was too small for his retentive memory--he remembered
all that Michael had said about that crucifix. The thing that he loved
most in the world. . . .

A thought struck him. He had started down the High Street homewards,
but now he turned. He would see this crucifix. Something pleased him. A
thin pale smile gave him, for a brief moment, the semblance of a shadow
against the wall brought into solidity by a joke. The bowler hat moved
upwards to Arden Gate.

He paused and looked at the Cathedral before he turned into Klitch's
shop. The Precincts were quite silent; the evening light cast one frail
cloak of pallid glow on the Cathedral walls before darkness swallowed
them. Staring contemptuously--for he despised the Cathedral as an
outworn worthless collection of junk--he was conscious, unexpectedly, of
a discomfort, a dis-ease. In this half-dark you could fancy that a
figure emerged, a small and silent procession. . . .

But imagination of this sort was not his fashion. He dealt in facts,
facts that could be bought and sold.

He knew that Klitch disliked him. He knew, too, that here was a man over
whom he would never have any power, so that his visit was brief. He said
that his brother had told him about a crucifix that he had sold. Might
he see it?

Klitch produced it. Furze studied it. How much would that be now? Klitch
told him. A large sum. But it would keep its value, it was a fine piece?
Klitch reassured him. Even in these poor days it would always fetch a
good sum. A magnificent piece. Furze touched it. Cold to the touch. He
disliked the figure of the Christ--Christ, a lamentable charlatan. . . .
How long before the crucifix passed into Klitch's possession? Not so
long now. And then Klitch might sell it to anyone he pleased? Yes, that
was the bargain.

'I ask because I might myself be the purchaser. It would give my brother
great pleasure. I should be distressed if he lost it.'

The notion that Stephen Furze would be distressed at such a thing seemed
to Klitch very comic, but he gave no sign.

'Will you be so good as to let me know when it comes into your
possession?'

Klitch promised.

'What's the old swine after now?' he thought. 'Surely he will never pay
such a price?'

'Good evening, Mr. Klitch.'

'Evening, Mr. Furze.'




CHAPTER VII

CHRISTMAS EVE: (I) IN THE TOWN


Christmas Eve was on a Saturday this year. The weather was bright,
sharp, with a suggestion of warmth behind it.

Although the sky was a winter's blue and the sun shone through a faint
mist, yet you could be reminded that, not so very far south, palm trees
grew in the open, and that in the Scillies there would be, in a week or
two, a soil covered with flowers.

Everyone, of course, was busied with the last purchases. There was a
kind of Christmas Fair in the Market-place, all according to custom,
and, as the clouds turned to rose above the river, the lights came out
in the shops, flared on the booths, the candles burnt on the high altar.

Polchester, although a staid country town, had often known moments when
it appeared to be driven by some corporate movement--of joy, of fear, of
wonder, of commercial ambition.

A very happy and cheerful spirit drove it now in spite of hard times,
threatening politics, world disorder. It was still able to withdraw
itself and create a life altogether its own, as though it were the
solitary body of living men rolling along on the surface of a dark
naked planet. For an hour or two at least it had its own mood, its
individual life.

Penny Marlowe, working her last on her Christmas gifts alone in her
room, was so happy that a modern cynic would have considered her
thoroughly wicked.

Being very young and having, as yet, travelled abroad but little, she
considered her bedroom simply the most beautiful in the world. It was
lit with candles, the electric light having fused only the evening
before. There were two on the dressing-table, two on the writing-table
and one beside her bed. The room had known little change for many years.
It was furnished with one of the very earliest and one of the most
beautiful of the Morris wallpapers, the 'Daisy' pattern; this was faded
now, but it still had the freshness of early spring flowers. There was
an old dark clothes-press, a screen pasted with pictures from the
illustrated papers, a bookcase that held books very queerly mixed, for
there were the loves of her childhood, _The Pillars of the House_ and
_The Chaplet of Pearls_, Tennyson's _Idylls_ and Dickens and
Scott--these innocents keeping company with _Sons and Lovers_, _Vile
Bodies_ by Mr. Evelyn Waugh, and T. S. Eliot's _Waste Land_. Penny did
not understand a word of _The Waste Land_, but it had been given her
last Christmas by young Stephen Braund, who was in his second year at
Oxford and was himself a poet.

Penny was wearing a frock of bright apple-green and, kneeling on the
floor, made parcels, tied string and sang while she did so. She was
happy because she loved Christmas, because it was enchanting to be given
presents, yet more enchanting to give them, and for one more reason
which will be, in a moment, apparent. She thought that she had chosen
well--a new book on Chess for her father, and a pair of warm gloves; a
piece of old lace for her mother, and a water-colour of the Cathedral
that she had bought at a bazaar; handkerchiefs for the servants; one
thing and another thing for her various friends (these she would shortly
herself leave with her own hands at the doors of her friends)--and one
thing more.

This last was her most serious consideration. It was a small replica of
Donatello's 'David.' She had seen this, a few weeks earlier, in the
window of Klitch's shop and had at once entered and purchased it,
although it was more than she could afford.

It was intended for Mr. Lampiron.

As she knelt, her hair illuminated by the candlelight, she looked very
beautiful and very young. The sleeves of the apple-green dress fell
forward and encumbered her and she shook them back with an impatient
gesture. The flowers on the wall stirred in the shifting candlelight.
The room was chill, for there was no fire, but she was not cold. Bending
forward, working so busily warmed her, but her face was flushed too with
a delicate colour because she was thinking of Mr. Lampiron. Would he be
angry with her for her gift? Would he consider it bold of her? She was a
modern girl and knew that women must feel no inferiority before men,
must say what they think just whenever they please, but she had talked
to him only four times in all; he had been very kind to her. He was the
grandest, most splendid person she had ever met. . . . But . . . _would_
he be offended? Her hands trembled, white against the green of her
dress, as she picked up the 'David.' Then she did something very
unmodern indeed. She kissed it. The flowers trembled on the wall.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the house of the Furze family, only a few doors away, Elizabeth Furze
was dressed for going out. She carried in her hand two small parcels.
She had been looking for something in the bare and chilly dining-room.
She had realized how chilly it was and had stood there, for a moment,
trembling in a great passion of distaste and resentment. Then many years
of training brought her control. She stretched up her arm and, with her
thin grey-gloved hand, turned the gas down to a crimson beady eye.

As she did so she felt her arm touched and saw that her Uncle Michael
was standing at her side. He closed the door behind him and they stood
close together in the cold dark.

'Look here,' her uncle said. 'Have you got any money, Elizabeth?'

'No,' she answered. She was telling a lie--in her own defence. 'I spent
it all in this morning's shopping. At least,' she continued, 'I have a
few shillings. But there's collection at the Cathedral and----'

'Oh, a few shillings! That's not what I mean!' She could feel that he
was breathing furiously. He gripped her arm. 'No, it's pounds I want.
Enough to get away from this bloody hell! Here!' He turned up the gas.
'Do you see how I've changed?'

Words began to pour from him while she stood motionless, her grave pale
face lit with a kind of beauty of patience and consideration.

'Do you remember what I was when I first came here? You do, don't you?
Stout and jolly and red in the face--I was, wasn't I? Didn't everyone
like me? Wasn't I the friend of all the town? And now my clothes hang on
me! The same suit I had when I came. I haven't had any money to get
another. And I haven't had enough to eat. _You_ know that I haven't----'

'That hasn't----' she began.

'Oh, I don't blame _you_! It's not your fault nor your mother's. It's
that foul, bloody miser your father. That's who it is. Haven't I tried
to get jobs everywhere? Haven't I told them all I'm ready to do
anything? But will they have me? Not they! Ready enough to drink with me
when I was in cash. But now . . . They won't help _his_ brother out of a
mess, won't have _his_ brother hanging round--and I don't blame them
either. What did I ever come to this house for? Didn't something warn me
what it would be? And here he's got me, got me right at his feet--so
that he can torture me and mock me and starve me. . . .'

'Why,' she said, 'do you stay?'

'Stay? What else can I do? I haven't a penny. He sees to that. I haven't
anything to sell either. I might have gone, all the same, if I'd been
younger. And this house--it does something to you, or rather _he_ does.
He saps your strength, your vitality. He's a bloody vampire, that's what
he is. Doesn't all the town know it? Doesn't he hang over the whole town
like a great shadow? You feel it yourself. I know you do. You wouldn't
stay here a day if it weren't for your mother. You can't kid me.' He
stopped, still gripping her arm. 'There! Don't you hear something? He's
coming downstairs.'

They both listened. No, there was nothing, no sound.

He went on:

'I haven't asked you for money before, have I, Elizabeth? I'm not a bad
sort. I'm not really. But he's got me down. I don't know what I won't be
doing. He starves me and laughs at me with that damned quietness of his
and makes me work. He's _got_ me. He's got his fingers digging into my
very vitals. Oh, God! I shall do him in one of these days, I know I
shall!'

He was trembling. She could feel his hand quivering on her arm. She
looked at him and felt a great pity, for her heart was tender and soft.
Yes, he _had_ changed! His big frame looked weak and unbalanced. His
cheeks that had been round and red were now puffy and streaked. His eyes
were red-rimmed as though he had been weeping. She knew, too, that it
was true what he had said.

They had been speaking with lowered voices. Now it was with little more
than a whisper that she said:

'Go away, Uncle Mike! Go away! Even though you haven't any money. I
could give you a pound or two perhaps. Then take a train to
somewhere--some place where they don't know us. They'll give you work,
I'm sure they will.'

'Yes,' he said eagerly. 'I will. You're right. That's what I'll do.' He
dropped his hand from her arm and patted her shoulder. 'You're a good
woman, Elizabeth--one of the best I've ever known. I'll never
forget----'

But he stopped. He was listening again. He shook his head.

'I don't think that I _can_ get away from this damned house. It seems to
hold you. I don't feel that I've any strength left.' He went on: 'Do you
know what they called me when I first came here? Boanerges. That means
Son of Thunder. Not much like a Son of Thunder now. Not much.'

He shook his head.

'I'll see you again. Where are you going now?'

'I'm leaving a few things. Then I'm going to the Carol Service at the
Cathedral.'

'Oh yes! The Carol Service. I'll see you there.'

       *       *       *       *       *

In St. Paul's Rectory Miss Camilla Porteous and Mr. Bird were hanging
holly over the pictures. That was not at all what Mr. Bird wanted to be
doing. He had presents that he wished to deliver--one present in
especial--and he was in quite a fever of agitation lest the Rector
should give him some work so that he would not be able to be present at
the Carol Service at the Cathedral. He was wondering, as he stood
holding the steps for Miss Porteous, whether _this_ time he might not be
strong enough to defy the Rector. He had been growing bolder during
these last weeks. Two things were strengthening him--one of these his
friendship with Lampiron. While he stood there he was going over the
conversation in his mind:

'I'm very sorry, Rector, but I'm going to the Carol Service. . . .'

'Oh yes. Quite so. But what about DUTY, Bird? DUTY--DUTY--and especially
at this time of the year----'

'I'm extremely sorry, Rector, but I'm going to the Carol Service. . . .'

The last thing that he wished was to make trouble at Christmas.
Nevertheless, Lampiron told him that rebellion must come _some_
time--and why not now?

'I'm extremely sorry, Rector, but I'm going----'

Miss Porteous stood, with firm strength, on the little steps, her grand
legs like towers. She patted the very ugly oil-painting of her
grandfather, an old red-faced gentleman with white whiskers and a blue,
staring eye.

'There! I think that will do!'

She came down from the steps and stood looking at Mr. Bird tenderly.

'There, Birdie!' (How horrible to him was this diminutive that of late,
when they were alone, she had adopted!) 'We're nearly done!' How
supremely unattractive she was, he thought. Like a man in woman's
clothes--and he had a wild notion that she and Romney ought to change
garments!

'What do you say to a moment's pause?' She sat down in an arm-chair,
spreading her legs. 'You know, I like you so much. Do you like me?'

Mr. Bird stammered.

'That's one of your charms--your modesty. I was saying to Mrs. Braund
the other day that you are one of the most modest men I've ever met! But
don't be shy of _me_. I'm the last person to be shy of. Confide in me.
Tell me your secrets. I often wonder--I'm queer that way--wondering, I
mean--I have thoughts that no one would suspect--why we don't trust one
another more, why we're not more tender with one another. I feel
sometimes that I want to put my arms round all the world and give it a
great hug. Do you never feel like that?'

'No, I can't say that I do,' said Mr. Bird.

'And yet I'm sure that you must be full of kindness. We're very alike in
many ways. You're like me. You wouldn't hurt a living thing!'

He felt suddenly in a morose temper.

'I don't know. There are mosquitoes and red ants and slugs.'

She laughed in a tender brooding kind of way. 'Ah, you take me too
literally. Of course there are _some_ things. What I mean is that we
love our fellow human beings. Now tell me. Haven't you felt while you've
been here that we have a great deal in common?'

'I don't know,' he stammered. 'I don't know you, Miss Porteous.'

'Don't _know_ me! 'She stared at him with large reproachful eyes. 'Why,
Birdie--and whose fault is that? I _want_ you to know me. I feel that
you, more than anyone else in Polchester, would understand me. Ask me
anything you like--_any_ question--and I'll answer it. That's what
friendship is. And we _are_ friends, aren't we?'

'Yes, of course.'

_That's_ right. We'll take a long walk one day, Birdie, and talk about
_everything_--the loveliness of nature and _everything_. Tell me,
Birdie----'

But fortunately at that moment Porteous came in--with a rush of energy
as he always did.

'Well, well--oh, THERE you are, Bird. I was wondering where you were.
Not doing anything especial?'

'We are hanging the holly.'

'Ah, fine, splendid! Have you finished, because there's a little
thing--Camilla, my dear, have you taken that parcel to Mrs. Abrahams?
No? Well, if you _wouldn't_ mind. . . . And, Bird, I want you to go
over to the Probyn Schools and tell Axminster. . . . Wait a minute. Come
into my study and I'll give you some papers for him. And while you're
there you might help him out with the Boys' Evening. I know he's
short-handed. . . .'

Now was the time. Bird cleared his throat.

'I thought of going to the Cathedral Carol Service----'

'Cathedral Carol Service? Ah, yes. Of course. Very nice. I'd like to
have gone myself, but DUTY--DUTY comes first----'

Bird looked at Miss Porteous, and her bony affectionate face gave him
courage.

'You'll have to forgive me,' he said. 'I saw Axminster last night and he
really doesn't need any help. He told me so himself. I'll take the
papers over, of course. The Carol Service doesn't begin till eight.'

There was a silence. Porteous was quite bewildered as though, captaining
England against Scotland in the Calcutta Cup, his best wing
three-quarter had suddenly said that he must go home.

'Well, really----' Then he stopped. 'All right. I'm a little surprised,
Bird. It isn't MY idea of work. Very well. Come to the study and I'll
give you the papers.'

He strode off, greatly displeased. Mr. Bird followed. This was his first
victory.

       *       *       *       *       *

As Miss Porteous was hanging the holly, Penny Marlowe leaving her parcel
at Lampiron's door, the carol-singers from St. James's banging the
knocker of old Dr. Montefiore's house, a small boy stealing a sugar pig
from the Market-place stall of Mrs. Plaice who had once had triplets,
young Broad, the verger's boy, trying on long trousers for the first
time, the two Miss Trenchards putting the last touches to their
Christmas-tree (to-night they were having a children's party), Mike
Furze plunged downwards to Seatown, not reckoning whither he went.

Had something told him that that moment when he spoke to his niece under
the gas in that chilly room was his last instant of security? Did he
know that when she said to him 'Leave the town!' and he realized that he
could not, he was thereafter a doomed man?

It seemed to him as he walked down the hill that everything now was
different. He was caught. He was a prisoner. Every direction of escape
was closed to him as though he had been snatched by the scruff of his
neck and shoved into a cell. It had been coming to this for many a week
past, and like a man who has been dreading a doctor's sentence of death
he found some relief in certainty. He had not the will-power. That was
what had left him. It was as though his brother had drawn it from him in
a long bloody thread from the centre of his body. Sitting there in his
chair, spinning this out of Mike's carcase.

'I'm like a rabbit--fascinated by the snake.'

He was filled with self-pity. I'm not a bad fellow. I've never done
anyone much harm. I can be jolly, I've had heaps of friends. I was
cursed the moment I came to this town. The Cathedral--that's what's
responsible. And selling that crucifix. But I can get that back. If I
could get a job and save . . . But if I _did_ get a job my brother
would come after me. He'd draw me back into the house again. Where's his
power? Filthy swine . . . oh, filthy swine! To do him in, to close your
hands round that skinny neck, to press and press, to watch the tongue
protrude, black, they say it is. . . . But then that would be murder.
They hang you for murder. . . . No. Better if someone else would do the
swine in. Plenty of people hated him. Oh, plenty! They'd all murder him
if they were sure of not being found out. It would be doing a kindness.
He was a pest in the town, a sort of Inquisitor like that figure with
the crooked neck he'd dreamt about. He'd read in some book somewhere
that everyone had his or her Familiar, a shadow that accompanied you
everywhere, knew your most secret thoughts, watched and judged your
every movement. So the Cathedral might have an Inquisitor. Ah, but he
would be no ordinary spirit, but something tremendous, God's Inquisitor
judging all men. He would be immortal. But miser Stephen--_he_ was not
immortal! One squeeze of the fingers--one hard, hard, HARD squeeze of
the fingers . . .

He was, in fact, a trifle light-headed because he had not had enough to
eat, poor old Mike. Poor old Mike! Thin tears welled up. He bit his lip
for sorrow. No food, no drink, no women, no one to love. Only his
brother to hate. . . . Yes, if the Inquisitor looked into _his_ soul he
would find nothing but an empty impoverished place, and hatred, like a
starved black cat, lurking. . . .

Yes, he was light-headed. He lurched a little on his feet. He was in
Seatown.

There was M'Canlis' shop. Tobacco. Then he passed Ottley's billiard
saloon; now he paused before Locke's Family Hotel.

He knew this was a bawdy shop. He had been there once or twice in his
wealthier days. Now there were lights in the window; someone was playing
a piano. They were singing. Oh yes, it was Christmas Eve, when everyone
must be jolly! He went in and his fantasy continued, for he could not
tell you what, during the next hour, his speech and his actions were.

There was Fanny Clarke. She was sitting on his knee. He put his hand
inside her dress; she rubbed her cheek against his. Someone gave him
sausage and bread to eat. They were all eating bread and sausages.
Someone gave him whisky to drink. They were all drinking. There was
mistletoe hanging from the lamp in the centre of the room, the room
where the oil-cloth had yellow and black squares, and the big black cat
reared on its hind legs spitting, and Fanny's breasts were warm and firm
and he would kiss her under the mistletoe, but it was Tom Caul's
unshaven cheek that he touched. Tom Caul who, standing in open shirt and
trousers, was spitting out pips from the orange that he was eating, and
they struck the hard shining oil-cloth, and Tom's hairy chest was bare,
sweat gleamed on it, for the room was very hot.

But Mike was sober enough. Oh yes, the Inquisitor with the broken neck
could find nothing to criticize here, so he led Caul aside and, very
seriously, his hand on Caul's shoulder, dropping his voice so that no
one should hear, said: 'The best way to kill him is to press your
fingers into his neck. It wouldn't take much to throttle him.'

'Sure,' said Caul. 'That's a good way.'

'A dam' good way.'

'Sure,' said Caul. 'I was telling you.'

'And no one but you and the Inquisitor knowing anything about it.'

'Who the hell . . .?'

But Caul stank. He can't have washed for a month, and the sweat running
down his body. . . . A big man, with mighty arms. What hands and what
fingers! They say he speaks finely--and the smell of Caul became
familiar to Mike, and friendly, and their arms were about one another's
waists, swaying, their bodies were on the table covered with oil-cloth.
Oil-cloth everywhere. . . .

'It's Christmas Eve,' Mike said.

'A bloody fine Christmas Eve,' Caul said.

So at that Mike knew that he must go to the Cathedral for the Carol
Service. He laid his hand for a moment on Caul's damp thick strong neck
and went out.

       *       *       *       *       *

The little station at Carpledon had been once (when for instance in
Jubilee Year, '97, Archdeacon Brandon had taken the train to have
luncheon with good Bishop Purcell and had quarrelled so unfortunately
with Canon Ronder) nothing more than a wooden shed. Now there is an
important-looking station and a hotel, the 'Carpledon,' and the long
level fields above the Pol will be, they say, very shortly a
flying-ground.

But the Bishop's palace is still guarded by its woods, fronted with its
broad shaven shelving lawns--old, thick-set, the tiled rosy-red roof,
the bell tower, the high doorway with the carved arms and the two shaggy
lions, above all the oaks, the great historic one to the right of the
lawn magnificent and proud as ever--all this is here and will be ever
here, even when outer forms are destroyed, for its spirit is immortal.

At the moment when the oil-cloth of Locke's Family Hotel stirred
Boanerges to bewildered confidences, Bishop Kendon was standing in the
dining-room watching Coniston the butler and Alfred the boy hang the
holly over Driver's 'Knight and the Lady.' The room was little changed
from Bishop Purcell's day, the high-ceiled dining-room, the red-brick
fireplace fronted with black oak beams. There was a glass bowl with
Christmas roses on the long refectory table, and from the white walls
the Bishops, starting with Bishop Sandiford of 1670, ending with Bishop
Rostron who succeeded old Purcell, looked smilingly, austerely,
pompously down on the long spare body of their successor. Kendon was
well over six feet and as thin as a stick. He was seventy-three years of
age, but straight of body and hair still jet-black. He had a thin
hawk-like face, with eyes singularly soft and beautiful. He suffered
from severe cardiac trouble and had been, only last year, in bed for six
long months--a stern discipline for his ardent restless spirit, and he
had borne it with marvellous patience and humour. Dr. Montefiore had
warned him that the days left to him on this earth would be few. He
loved life with a passion, but he was ready to go, for he thought that
his work here was done and that the next world would be a fine place to
labour in.

He was watching Coniston's efforts with a twinkle, for Coniston was
short and fat, breathed through his nose, and made little noises like
'Dash it!' and 'Bother!' when the holly was pugnacious and hostile, as
holly often is. Coniston was a bachelor and had been with the Bishop for
forty years.

The Bishop was his whole life, the beginning and middle and end of it.

'There, Coniston. That will do. You've told Frank to have the car round
at quarter-past seven?'

Coniston came down from the ladder.

'Chut, Alfred,' he said as the ladder wobbled. He turned a round, red,
anxious face to his master. 'You think you ought to go, my lord?'

'Of course I ought to go. When have I missed a Carol Service?'

'Certainly, my lord. But last year it didn't do you any good, and you
_will_ stop talking afterwards, and there are all the services
to-morrow----'

'That's all right, Coniston.'

'Very good, my lord.'

The Bishop knew that the end might come for him at any moment. But why
not? Where could one die better than in the Cathedral? Hadn't dear old
Moffit been lucky the other day, passing over as he did in one instant
of suspended breath? There was an hour before supper and he would enjoy
himself. He crossed over to the library, humming and thinking what a
good time Christmas Eve was, with the smell of holly and the sharp air,
good things cooking in the kitchen, the Christ Child in the manger, the
shepherds watching the Star, the Kings with their gifts. . . .

In the library he put on some records of the _Winterreise_ cycle.
Schubert had been, his whole life through, his intimate devotion. It
was as though he had been his friend and companion. The brilliant
'Biedermeier' world of Vienna he knew as though he had been part of it.
He had been surely present at the first performance of _Sapho_ at the
Burgtheater, had admired Grillparzer's pale honey-coloured curls, had
drawn his breath in astonished delight as Fanny Elssler danced before
him, had laughed at Meisl's farces, shouted applause at Raimund's
_Diamant des Geisterknigs_, marvelled at Nestroy's acting, when, with
the lifting of an eyelid, the humorous, scornful curl of a lip, he
filled with emphasis the empty spoken word, best of all, danced (oh! how
he had danced!) on the Kahlenberg at the Feast of Violets. But Schubert,
with the low forehead, the snub nose, the dark curly hair, the
eyeglasses--he was his brother, his friend, his constant companion. How
often he had watched to catch that sudden genius-fire flash from behind
those glasses! How well he knew the loneliness, the dark despair, the
longing for love, the struggle, the poverty, the passion for friendship!
Yes, with Schwind and Schober, with Joseph von Spaun, with Mayrhofer and
Sauter, with Httenbrenner and Randhartinger, he had been and was
Schubert's friend. Now, as he listened to the Wanderer's 'Gute Nacht,'
tears filled his eyes. Beyond the pain comes consolation. The spring
will follow the winter. The post-horn sounds, the day breaks in storm,
the world is awake again, and the organ-grinder, his empty plate at his
side, grinds out his wheezy melody. . . .

The record ceased. The only sounds in the library were the dim rustle of
the fire and the little friendly 'check-check' of the clock. The past?
The present? We are all in God's hands. God, Who knows nothing of time,
Who holds us in His arms, knowing that our sorrow is only prelude to
deeper knowledge of His love.

The Bishop smiled and, bending forward to the cabinet, found the 'Gloria
in excelsis Deo' from the E flat Major Mass.

'I see God's beauty burning through the veil of outward things.'

       *       *       *       *       *

The hour, seven o'clock, sounded from the Cathedral. Then the chimes
began, softly carrying the town forward with them. The shops were still
open. In Orange Street and Myre Street, up the High Street through the
Precincts, in Canon's Yard, in Pontippy Square, by Tontine Bridge, at
'The Three Feathers' and 'The Bull' and 'The St. Leath,' along Norman
Row, every house was busy with preparation.

Behind many windows the blinds were not yet drawn, and you might see, if
you wished, like sparkling pictures, rooms with fires burning, holly
bristling on the walls, life everywhere moving and stirring to the
event. Flame burning within the stone, stars scattering the sky where
there were no clouds, the air listening and still as though it caught
its breath. . . .

Lampiron stepped into Smith's before going on to the Cathedral. Here
then was quite a gathering--Hattaway the architect, Bellamy, and, of all
people, old Mordaunt, his shawl over his shoulders. Crispangle, the
business duties of the day over, was host, looking as though he had
himself written all the books in his shop and knew that they were good.

'Here's Lampiron,' Hattaway said. 'We'll see what he thinks about it.'

'Thinks about what?' Lampiron said, picking up a book here and a book
there. He could never see a book without wanting to touch it. Then he
went on: 'Look here, Crispangle, I want a book for a girl. I'm glad
you're still open. I thought I'd be too late.'

'It's Christmas Eve. What kind of a girl? What kind of a book?'

'Oh, modern--and not too modern.'

'That's helpful. Do you want a novel?'

'No. Not a novel----'

He found a pocket edition of Norman Douglas' _South Wind_. 'That's good,
isn't it?'

'Very good--but it's a novel--or sort of.'

Lampiron began to read, his broad body rocking a little on its stout
legs. Soon he was lost.

'Here--come out of it, Lampiron,' Hattaway said. 'Crispangle's been
cursing this Pageant. He says that it's a monstrous imposition on the
town, that it's a mockery to give Mrs. Braund the chief part, that the
Committee's ridiculous, that the town has to pay and will get nothing
for it, that the unemployed are going to make a row because of the
expense, that----'

'Well, I don't see why _he_ need worry,' Lampiron said. 'The shop people
are going to benefit more than anybody. Think of the trade it's going to
bring.'

'Oh, will it?' Crispangle said scornfully. 'Supposing it's wet? And
who's going to come and see a Pageant so mismanaged that it will be a
scandal all over the South of England? Anyway why should the Cathedral
people run it? Blasted snobs the lot of them! We're among friends here
and I can tell you that Ma Braund will look a fine sight on a horse! And
there's the Archdeacon, so above himself that he'll scarcely condescend
to speak to you.' He imitated the Archdeacon's rich and solemn tones.
'Ah, Crispangle, how are you? I want Stephens's _On the Creeds_. What!
Not got Stephens? Impossible! I thought you were a bookshop.'

They all laughed.

'No. This won't do,' Lampiron said, putting _South Wind_ down. 'She
wouldn't like this.'

'What about Masefield or Noyes or Barrie or Milne?'

'Nonsense!' Lampiron stood sniffing like a dog at the shelves. 'Ah,
here's a book!' He had found Samuel Butler's _Notebooks_. 'Here's the
very thing, even if he does say Handel's better than Beethoven.'

'If you want to know what I think,' Crispangle went on, 'this damned
Pageant is going to do nothing but make ill-feeling and then be a
financial failure on top of it. This town will never move forward until
the Cathedral people know their place. They stop every improvement. They
belong two generations back, the whole lot of them. There's something
wrong about this town, with Seatown in the state it is and that swine
Furze with half the place in his debt----'

He stopped, as men so often did when Furze's name was mentioned.
Lampiron thought: 'That devil--he keeps me hanging like a fish on a
line. . . . From week to week. . . . It's fiendish. . . .' Crispangle
looked about him. 'Why, that man's a devil! See what he's done to his
brother. He was a cheery, jolly sort of ruffian when he came here. _Now_
look at him! Down at heel, hang-dog----'

'All the same,' said Bellamy, 'I don't see what Furze has to do with the
Pageant.'

'He has to do with everything. It would be the best thing ever happened
if someone wrung his skinny neck. Why, even decent old souls like Mr.
Marlowe, they say----'

Here, to everyone's surprise, Lampiron broke in, violent as he often
was:

'All right, Crispangle. Keep the Marlowes out of it. They're friends of
mine. There's enough gossip without your adding to it. Here--what do I
owe you for the Butler?'

Then old Mordaunt most unexpectedly came forward and, poking his nose
into Hattaway's face, said:

'The Cathedral won't like it, you know.'

'Won't like what?' Hattaway asked.

'All this play-acting. Making fun of them all. They're not so dead as
you think they are.'

'What! The Black Bishop and Lady Emily and the rest? They're not making
fun of them. They're going to glorify them! It's in their honour.'

'Mr. Mordaunt's right,' Crispangle said. 'It's desecration, that's what
it is! Mrs. Braund on a horse pretending to be Lady Emily, and the Boy
Scouts, their heads sticking out of sacks, thinking they're monks. But
that's not what I object to--Lady Emily and the rest can look after
themselves. It's the airs the Cathedral lot give themselves that I
object to--and so will plenty of other people too!'

'I know what it is, Crispangle,' Bellamy said, laughing. 'It's all
because they haven't asked you to play a part.'

'Oh, to hell with them!' Crispangle answered. 'I wouldn't take a part if
they asked me!'

'Oh, wouldn't you! But you needn't worry. They haven't asked any of us
either. And there's Lampiron there, who'd be a perfect Black Bishop----'

'As a matter of fact,' Lampiron said quietly, that's what I'm going to
be.'

'What!' they all cried.

'Yes. I had a note from Aldridge two days ago. I don't mind. Perhaps
someone will buy my sculpture when they see how fine I am in armour!'

'Well, I'm damned!' Bellamy said. 'Can you ride a horse?'

'Of course I can ride a horse!' But he had turned away from them and,
sitting on a chair in a corner behind the popular novels, he took out
his fountain-pen and wrote in the Butler:

                          For PENELOPE MARLOWE
                            from her friend
                             JOHN LAMPIRON.
                               Christmas 1932.

He stared at the book.

'Put that in paper for me, will you, Crispangle?'

'I'm surprised they've asked you, Lampiron,' Crispangle said, taking the
book. 'I should have thought you were too much of a pagan.'

'If you ask me,' Bellamy said, 'the old Bishop was nothing but a pagan
himself.'

'I'll tell you what, Lampiron,' Crispangle said darkly. 'This will bring
you nothing but trouble.'

Hattaway went out, and through the opening door the Cathedral chimes
floated into the shop.

       *       *       *       *       *

From Locke's Family Hotel to 'The Dog and Pilchard' is a short step.
Mike Furze took it. He even sat in that same corner where his brother
had but lately sat.

Lanky gave him a drink for Christmas-time. What he did there, what he
said there, he did not himself know; it would later have its proper
significance. It is probable that he boasted, that he raged, that he
snivelled. It is certain that he danced on the rough uneven floor with
two women from Portoloe, and seeing, through a mist of smoke, drink and
misery, the big body of Caul (who, maybe, had followed him down) once
more, danced with him too.

'Yes,' says Caul, holding him, 'and what was it you was saying about
twisting the old bastard's neck?'

But he knew nothing of what happened at 'The Dog.' Afterwards he found
himself at the riverside in the sharp air, a net of stars that like
silver fish swam in a great inverted bowl above his head. So it seemed
to him. He heard the rush of water tumbling over the weir, a song from
behind a lighted window, smelt tar, dung, drainage, stale
clothing--Seatown's smell. . . .

And then his head cleared. In an instant. Through the chill refreshing
air the Cathedral peal rocked to his feet. He knew where he was. He knew
what time it must be. He knew that he must go to the Carol Service.

He climbed up crooked, stinking Daffodil Street, that was the quickest
way, steep and cobbled though it was, into the Market-place. He had
always had the capacity to clear himself, in a moment, of the fuddle of
a debauch. It was not that in these last hours he had been debauched. He
had been drunk on unhappiness and loneliness more than on any liquor;
but now, as he climbed slowly the dark hill, edging that famous Rock
from whose height once so many mighty men-at-arms had been pushed,
blaspheming, he was sober with a cold intensity of miserable desolation.
Here it was, Christmas Eve, a fine Christmas Eve, the sky packed with
stars and everyone within doors enjoying themselves. And he was in worse
case than having no home at all. He clenched his cold fists and vowed
that he would not return to that house. He would sleep in the street
rather. He would never set eyes on his vile brother again. He would go
to the Cathedral, listen to the singing, pray for safety to that
all-powerful Inquisitor--guardian, tyrant, like that old sea-captain he
had once sailed with who must poke his crooked nose into everyone's
affairs, so that he had seen the ship's cook . . . No, like his beloved
crucifix rather, the patient Figure stretched on the Cross--a Figure at
least, so tall and so dark, watching at the Great Door, or, with broken
neck, issuing forth while the multitude, hidden, waited . . .

He was in the Market-place, where the Fair was ended, most of the booths
were gone. Here the Cathedral bells were very loud, echoing from house
to house, ringing with such gaiety, such kindliness, inviting,
persuading. . . . He all but tumbled into William Caul, the elder blind
brother of that ruffian in Seatown. William Caul had been blind from
birth, and for many years had kept a stall of odds-and-ends in the
Market--second-hand books, cheap pictures, scraps of brass and old
silver. He was a widower and was cared for by his girl, a child of
fourteen or so. He was a thin, grey-faced little man with a pale wispy
beard. The light was still burning above his stall. He was standing
there alone. He heard Mike's step and lifted his face, gazing with
intent watchfulness.

'Evening, Mr. Caul,' Mike said, feeling, he knew not why, a sudden
comfort. The bells cheered him, and this blind man, at least, would
neither know nor care that evil times had fallen on him. 'I'm Mike
Furze,' he said, touching the man's sleeve. He had often enough stopped
at his stall, turning the books over, examining the scraps of silver.
'You're after the rest,' he went on. 'They've gone home, all of them.'

'Why, Mr. Furze, it's you, is it? Mr. _Michael_ Furze?'

'Yes,' Mike said roughly. 'Can't you tell my voice from my brother's?'

Caul put out his hand, touched Mike's sleeve, then caught his hand and
held it.

'Why, of course,' he said. 'But it's by the touch of the hand I can tell
best. There are some hands I would tell among a thousand, and yours is
one of them, Mr. Furze.'

Caul's hand was chill and bony.

'Why, what is there especial about my hand?' Mike asked.

'It's hard in the middle of the palm and soft and warm the rest. Strong
and soft both together. And you have a scar on your thumb. First time I
ever held it I noticed that scar. You have freckles on your hand.'

'Why,' said Mike, 'you ought to be a detective.'

'So I oftentimes think,' Caul said with a chuckle. 'And so I warn my
young brother. He'll get himself into trouble one of these days.'

'Trade been good?'

'Oughtn't to complain, but it's Christmas-time, of course.'

'I must be getting on. I'm going to the Carol Service.'

'And I'm going in to my supper. Ah, here's my girl.' His ears had
detected her step, but to Mike it was as though the child, hidden in a
shabby black overcoat too big for her, had appeared from nowhere at all.
'Ellen, you're late.'

Mike detached his hand.

'I must go on or I shan't get a place. The Carols are very popular, I
hear.'

'Aye, it's a sort of old fashion. Never been myself. My wireless is good
enough for me. They have a fine music-hall show Saturdays.'

'Good night, Mr. Caul. Happy Christmas.'

'And happy Christmas to _you_, Mr. Furze.'

Mike went on, up the High Street.

       *       *       *       *       *

Ronder was entertaining a friend or two to a meal before the Carol
Service. Gaselee, Romney, Cronin were his guests. The drawing-room where
they sat, waiting for the announcement of supper, was exactly as it had
always been. The chair-cushions, the curtains of the mullioned windows,
were of the same warm dark blue. The low bookcases were white, and in
his corner still stood the pure white Hermes on his pedestal, his tiny
wings outspread. Still there was only one picture, the copy of
Rembrandt's 'Mother.'

The difference between now and thirty-five years ago was that the room
to-day was clothed with an old-fashioned charm.

'I'm a trifle excited this evening,' Ronder said; his hands were
comfortably folded over his paunch. 'I received from my London
bookseller the rare postscript to Rolfe's _History of the Borgias_. A
great rarity----'

'Why is it rare?' Cronin, who was fat, good-natured, extremely High
Church, loved to ask questions. He hoped to entrap the interrogated,
having a very high opinion of his own intellectual astuteness.

'Well,' Ronder said, tapping the tips of his fingers together, 'the
publishers wouldn't print it with the book because of its subject--the
rather savage affection some of the Borgias had for their page-boys.'

Gaselee felt uncomfortable. He detested in his secret heart anything
likely to upset the settled order of society. So long as society was
properly ordered, his own career would decently progress. Either
Communism or Fascism was repulsive to him; disorderly morals, also,
perhaps because he remembered Charlie Radcliffe long, long ago at
school.

'It must have been simply _too_ wonderful,' Romney said, picking up a
very perfect copy of John Gray's _Silverpoints_ that lay on a table at
his side. 'The Borgias. All purple, frosted silver, a page painted in
gold-dust from head to feet carrying a crimson macaw. There's to be a
scene in the Pageant when Henry Quair, the Franciscan, interrupts the
Fair on the Cathedral Green. The Knights come out of the West Door,
and I want them to be in gold armour and a page carrying a crimson
macaw. . . .'

'Oh, yes,' said Ronder, lazily. 'What about the Pageant? How do _you_
think it's getting on?'

'Quite well, I think,' Gaselee said. 'But it's a terrible lot of work.
We seem to meet every day, don't we?'

'I hear there's a good deal of feeling in the town. None of the
townspeople appear to have been given good parts. Isn't that rather
tactless?'

'I don't know. Lampiron is to be the Black Bishop.'

'Lampiron is, is he? That's interesting. He's a bit old. And he's
scarcely a townsman.'

'What about that old miser Furze for Henry Quair?' Cronin asked,
laughing.

'Now it's an extraordinary thing,' Ronder said. 'Remind me, Romney, to
show you Lord de Tabley's _Poems_. The cover is really very fine. . . .
What was I saying? . . . Oh yes, it's an extraordinary thing, but I
never go anywhere without hearing about that man. He seems to have cast
a kind of spell over the town. Why?'

'He's hated,' Gaselee said. 'As though he's the devil himself. It does
happen sometimes. I remember when I was at Drymouth for a while there
was a hunchback there who was said to be a sorcerer, used to throw
spells on people and that sort of thing, you know. He was quite
harmless, I believe, but a lot of roughs took him and threw him into the
sea one day. Quite mediaeval. However, this Stephen Furze _isn't_
harmless if all I hear is true. As bad a usurer as they make them.'

'Why doesn't someone catch him out and have him up before a magistrate?'
Ronder asked.

'Oh, he's as clever as can be. The report is he's pretty well a
millionaire, but he starves his wife and daughter and brother quite
shockingly. His wife's blind.'

'Oh, he's got a brother, has he?'

'Yes--arrived from somewhere in September. Quite a noisy, cheerful man
then. Now he moves about as though he had a murder on his conscience.'

'Have I seen the miser? 'Ronder asked. 'I must have, I suppose.'

'I expect so. A thin, cadaverous man, often with a green umbrella. He
steps about like a ghost.'

'I also hear,' said Ronder, 'there's a lot of trouble breeding down in
Seatown. The unemployed think money ought to be spent on _them_ instead
of a Pageant!'

'What nonsense!' Gaselee said. 'Why, the Pageant will be the finest
thing for Polchester there's ever been. The best advertisement the
town's ever had.'

'It's had quite a lot in its time,' Ronder murmured.

For he was suddenly bored, in a way that was common with him these days.
What did pageants and misers and Borgias and rare books and
conversations like these amount to at the end? At the end? He moved in
his chair. He heard the Cathedral bells chiming beyond the window. He
looked at the Hermes. Did _that_ also amount to nothing? There was a
taste, salt and dry, in his mouth.

Supper was announced.

'Ah, come along. Hope you're hungry . . .' He looked at the holly
perched precariously above the Rembrandt. Christmas Eve. What a terrible
number of Christmas Eves he'd seen by now!

       *       *       *       *       *

As Mike Furze started up the High Street his niece Elizabeth had but
just left a small parcel at the door of No. 32 Orange Street. The parcel
contained a pair of warm lined gloves and was addressed to the Reverend
James Bird. On the top of the gloves was lying a card, and on the card
was written:

                       THE REVEREND JAMES BIRD.
             With best Christmas wishes from Elizabeth Furze.

This was the boldest action of all her life. Indeed she had thought that
she would never have the courage to deliver it. It was not that she knew
Mr. Bird very well. Their meetings had been, in the last weeks, frequent
and very brief, always in some public place. She did her meagre shopping
between eleven and twelve of a morning; most of it was at Bellamy's
general store, for Mr. Cutts, one of the assistants, was always kind and
attentive to her; she shrank from entering any place where her desperate
sensitiveness might be alarmed. It happened often that Mr. Bird was
passing up the High Street as she came down it. He would stop and speak
to her; once or twice he turned and walked with her a little way. He was
always very quiet, unobtrusive. He seemed to be glad to speak to her. It
was a fact that she had no friends at all in Polchester and hitherto had
thought that she wished for none. One or two were kind to her when they
met her--that nice Canon, Mr. Dale, the Misses Trenchard, one funny old
lady, Mrs. Dickens, who lodged with that fearful woman, Mrs. Coole--but
she felt always that they must be ashamed to be seen speaking to her.
'That dreadful man's daughter . . .'

Instinctively she knew that Mr. Bird was not ashamed, and after a while
she fancied (although this was of course absurd!) that he was pleased to
be with her, and once he had seen her from the other side of the street
and hurried across to her. She liked him so very much. She had had no
one all her life to love save her mother, and her mother had, within
her, a dumb hard resistance to approach that came from hard experience
and deep-abiding sorrow.

But Elizabeth's heart was as warm and ardent as her independence was
fierce and stubborn. She would _seek_ love from no one. She would go on
to the end alone, as many other women must do, and would ask for help
from no human being. But the point about Mr. Bird was that he himself
wanted help. He told her very little of his circumstances, but she knew
that he was almost as lonely as she, that he was timid and shy and
afraid of women. He told her once that he had made friends with
Lampiron, the sculptor, and what a fine man he was and how many troubles
he had; but this made Elizabeth nervous and frightened, for she knew
whence Lampiron's troubles came and that he was one of her father's most
unhappy debtors. She had wondered then for a moment whether _this_ could
be the reason that Mr. Bird had sought her out; soon he would ask her to
plead with her father on Mr. Lampiron's behalf. But no; he never made
any allusion to her father. He seemed to understand with wonderful tact
and sympathy how not to frighten and alarm her.

She had soon to confess to herself that she looked out for him, and that
it was a happy moment for her when she saw his neat little figure, felt
the touch of his hand, and caught the smiling generosity of his brown
eyes as he greeted her. She was not at all a sentimental woman. She
hated demonstrations. She had a great sensitiveness to being touched by
strangers or anyone for whom she did not care. She thought most novels
foolish and that women were silly to surrender to men, to be
subservient, to ask for favours. She disliked most men and could be
infuriated often by the airs that men gave themselves. But Mr. Bird was
lonely, and she was sure that he must be most unhappy with that noisy
self-confident Mr. Porteous and his long-legged masculine daughter.

Nevertheless, she would never confess to herself how very glad she was
to see him.

As Christmas approached she thought of him very much and of what a
lonely time he would have. Why should she not give him something? It
would do no harm. If he thought it bold of her she did not care, and, in
any case, women in these days were every bit as good as men, if not
better!

She had a very little money of her own, some twenty pounds or so which
she kept hidden away, under her clothes in a drawer. It was one of her
constant fears that one day her father would discover this store! So she
was bold. She bought the gloves, she wrote the card, she left the
parcel!

She stood for a moment before turning on up Hay Street into Green Lane,
which was a short cut to the Cathedral. The street was well lit, and
overhead a fine mesh of stars burned in the sky. She sighed, shook her
head at her daring, then, a grave solitary figure, started up past the
Statue.

Someone passed her and paused.

'Why, Elizabeth, good evening!'

It was her father's jackal, Major Leggett, his bowler hat cocked on one
side of his head, a smart light overcoat and a green silk muffler with
white spots decorating his ugly body. Yes, ugly to her he was and
detested by her!

She said good evening.

'And what are _you_ doing here?'

'I am going to the Carol Service.'

'Leaving Christmas gifts on the way. Who can the happy man be? I shall
have to tell your father of this!'

He was always facetious with her, always spoke to her as though she were
a little girl of ten. One of his chief pleasures was to try to shock her
with indecent stories, and sometimes he would pretend to make love to
her, hating her as she very well knew he did. But she smiled. It amused
her to think that she had a friend unknown to him, unknown to her
father, unknown to all the world.

'Wouldn't you like to know!' she said, and went on.

Only in the dusky silence of Green Lane she was sorry. She would hate
her father to be told. And now he _would_ be. It was Leggett's business
to keep him informed of everything.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Cathedral bells now were pealing loudly. The whole town rang with
them and the whole town responded, for the Carol Service was an
institution; it was the right and proper way to begin Christmas. For
many people it was the one and only occasion of entering a church during
the year.

Up the High Street they all hurried, laughing and talking, greeting to
left and to right. Lampiron and the Crispangles; the Bellamys; Inspector
Gurney and Mrs. Gurney and the little Gurneys; Penny and her father and
mother; Humphrey Carris and Mrs. Carris and Mabel and Gladys; Mr. and
Mrs. Aldridge; Symon the lawyer from Bury Street; Mrs. Porteous and
Camilla; Lady Mary Bassett and Miss Pringle, who was staying with her;
Mrs. Hattaway; even one or two, and perhaps more than one or two, from
Seatown. Across the dark Cathedral Green stepped Klitch and Mrs. Klitch,
proud and eager to hear the singing of their son; Cronin and Romney and
Gaselee with Ronder; the Misses Trenchard, happy because their
children's party had been so delightful; Mrs. Coole's old ladies from
No. 10 Norman Row; Mr. and Mrs. Browning, grand and pompous from the St.
Leath Hotel; Lord and Lady St. Leath and their son Robert arriving in a
high old-fashioned Daimler; lastly, old Mordaunt in his grey shawl,
stepping through the West Door as the bells ceased.

Mike Furze too was there.




CHAPTER VIII

CHRISTMAS EVE: (II) IN THE CATHEDRAL


It happened on this evening that between the hours of six and seven no
living human being was to be seen within the walls of the great church.

Evensong was over; no lingering tourists paced the nave. Broad and his
assistant, Titchett, had gone to their homes to have a bite and a drink
before the evening service. Beyond the Precincts all the town was alive.
Within the Cathedral there was life also.

Outwardly there was a great peace and silence and a half dusk, half
dark, through which fragments of gold, of purple stone, of coloured
glass, shimmered.

Soon Broad would be here to switch on the electric light and a glory of
colour would shine; now the light and colour were of another kind.

No one can tell us what is life and what is death. We are certain of
nothing save of the life of our bodies, which is the least of all our
lives. It _is_ sure, however, that no stone is raised to the glory of
God that has not, because of that glory, life. Much preparation
therefore was going forward now within this building and a great
multitude was at work.

The centres of activity in this Cathedral are the Tomb of the Black
Bishop, the King's Chapel with the 'Virgin and Children' windows,
Harry's Tower that has seen so many great and fearful deeds, Bishop
Wilfred's Tomb in the North-east Transept, the Tomb of Bishop Holcroft,
the Chapel of All Angels where Lady Emily lies, and the War Memorial
Chapel at the end of the South Aisle.

These--Henry Arden the Black Bishop, Gascon Bishop Wilfred, Simon
Holcroft, Emily de Brytte--are the four great human figures of this
church. They are all known, in face and body, by a happy chance, as well
as though on this very day they walked the Polchester streets. Arden
from Clerk Thomas's book: 'He was mighty-chested, a dark hairy man,
short and thick of the leg, with wrathful eyes and a smiling mouth. No
man dare cross him and he was beloved of all men.' In the Hunticombe
Chronicles, preserved from Hunticombe Abbey, there is this picture of
Bishop Wilfred: 'A slender man, very tall, fair-coloured, with a bright
blue eye. He was lame of one leg, but had a fiery spirit.'

In the same Chronicles but, of course, later in date, there is much
mention of Simon Holcroft: '. . . his stoutness hindered him. . . .' 'He
was in stature a bull and could roar like one . . . red-bearded.' Simon
Holcroft was one of the greatest of all mediaeval bishops; he gave all
that he had, money (he was exceedingly wealthy), energy, all his life to
the beautifying and increasing of the Cathedral. He was a
master-craftsman himself and could make anything with his hands. He
loved craft and all craftsmen of whatever kind.

Emily de Brytte was big-boned and fierce; more like a man than a woman.
In the battle of Drymouth (_Temp_: Wars of the Roses. She was an ardent
Lancastrian) she charged on her white horse, herself armoured from head
to foot, turned the battle and lost her right hand in the _mle_. She
had very fair hair that she cut short like a man's, and she loved the
common soldier, drinking and swearing with him and always ready to
listen to his grievances. She in her later years did very much for the
Cathedral with gifts of money and personal attention; the last, if
legend is to be believed, often gave umbrage and she is said to have
smacked the face of the then Bishop, Lancreste.

Those four had ruled this church for many a day, and so will for many a
day to come.

There are many things that Arden must remember--the day that the monks,
angry for some trivial thing, marched round the Church 'widdershins,'
carrying their crosses upside down; or the riot in the infirmary when
the old and sick and those recently bled, all together rebelled, showing
most unexpected energy because of the protest of one of them against his
bleeding, he defying the rule that monks, because they ate so largely,
must be bled five times a year; or the anger that he was in one summer
morning because the 'rere-dorter,' or latrines, stank so abominably; or
the winter morning, a cold wind blowing, when he led the soldiers out to
the hill beyond Arden Gate and turned the enemy back tumbling to the
Rock; or that last blood-red afternoon when the setting sun shone
through the coloured windows and he on one knee before the Altar felt
the sword at his throat. And he would remember, too, the little things
that he loved--the slab of alabaster from Nottingham from the High
Altar (he was proud that day and stroked the alabaster again and again
with his hand), a church-service book whose margins were gay in green
and purple and gold with country dances and children riding
hobby-horses, monkeys at school; or a day in the country when, before a
still and golden sky, he would watch the oxen slowly drag the harrow
with its rows of wooden teeth across the patient field.

And Holcroft--his hands must be itching at the handicrafts
again--ironwork on the doors, fine work on a silver or bronze seal, a
painting on the wall, St. Michael holding a pair of scales on one of
which is a little naked soul, the Devil tugging at the scale to drag it
down, St. Michael in silver armour and the Devil a flaming red--or maybe
something as simple as a lock on an oak chest, not too simple, though,
to have all the beauty that loving hands could give to it.

And Emily de Brytte? She would be thinking of war, of her great white
charger, of her 'basnet,' of her padded doublet of cloth lined with
satin and sewn with diamond-shaped gussets of mail--of the reek and the
heat and the noise of the 'bombards,' of the little miniature cannons on
long wooden stocks, of the cries and the trampling of the horses and the
shout of victory.

Or maybe a softer life, the hall of the great house above the Pol (ten
years after her death destroyed by fire), with the oiled linen stretched
across the windows, the bright painted pictures on the walls, the
display of gold and silver vessels, the solemn ceremony of the
dinner--and the kindly stout body of her Humphrey beside her, cutting
her meat for her because her right hand was gone.

If Time has no place here, Death has none either. What of the men of
the Fabric Rolls--sawyers, smiths, plumbers, bell-founders, painters,
carvers in stone? You can see for yourself how they were in the corbels
of Henry Sainte, above the seats in the Chapel of All Angels, with the
master-painter and his two cats, one black, one white, or the pleasant
picture of the bell-founder seated at his mew beside the great bell.
There is the carved stone of Humphrey Whitten who acted with Burbage in
London, the glorious monument of Henry, 8th Marquis of Brytte, with the
divine laughing babies and the sinister shadow of young Simon Petre
behind him.

But the darkness stirs with figures. This same darkness has no property
more wonderful than the shadowed movement of life within it. A figure,
shadow upon shadow, watches, nay, commands that movement. The armoured
men, the monks in their hodden grey, the common craftsmen have _their_
light so that darkness is unknown to them. A splendour of blazonry!
Colours on stone, gold, purple, violet, stalls of the choir gilded to a
fine light, the battle-flags hanging in procession blazing with the
contrasted shades and grand designs of their armorial bearings. The
flames of the tall candles blow in the wind; the thick smell of incense
clouds the air; trumpets from the great West Door ring out.

Henry Arden, his vestures thick with gold, his giant ring gleaming on
his finger, marches to the High Altar. . . .

'Yes,' says Broad. 'We have plenty of time.'

There is nothing about this church that he does not know, but his
knowledge rouses no sense of wonder in his breast. Facts are always
facts to Broad. One thing has been ever manifest in his world--that
there is one great man in it. He is often in a dream of wonder at
himself, at his handsome figure, at the things that he knows, at his
ability to deal with any kind of situation. He likes proverbs. 'Handsome
is as handsome does' he will say to a mystified tourist who has wanted
to find Henry Sainte's corbels, or 'Least said, soonest mended' when a
visitor enquires the history of Lady Emily. This Cathedral, he created
it. But the wonder is not with this Cathedral--with himself rather whose
work it is.

With him, this evening, under sufferance, is his young son Timothy, to
whom, unlike his father, all the world's a wonder. He must ask endless
questions to which his father seldom gives a reply. Now this evening,
alone save for that fine and pompous figure in the great church, he
draws a great sigh.

'How many is there buried in this place, dad?' he asks, and sticks close
to the great man because figures on tombstones can sometimes
unaccountably move.

Young Titchett appears, hurrying. Seven has struck and the pealing of
the bells has begun. Mr. Doggett comes down from the choir-stalls. The
heavy leather apron of the great door is slowly pushed back and old Mrs.
Dickens from Mrs. Coole's arrives, slip-slopping along, shuffle-shuffle,
the ends of her old boa waggling behind her back. So the two worlds are
encountering, meeting, together making the Festival of Christ in the
Manger. . . .

Broad said to Titchett indignantly: 'Now look at this!' For there,
curled up in a corner of one of the choir-stalls, was a dirty shabby
little girl fast asleep. 'Well, I'm blowed!' Broad exclaimed, and stood
there heaving with indignation, his hands on his hips, while young
Timothy looked on, his eyes wide with interest. And Broad was blowed yet
further when Titchett, twitching Broad's gown, whispered in his ear:

'Do you know 'oo it is? It's the little girl of that loose woman in
Seatown, Fanny Clarke! That's 'oo it is.'

'And how do _you_ know?' Broad asked suspiciously.

'Everyone knows. She's always all over the town, stealing when she's got
a chance----'

Broad leant forward and shook the child's arm. Dirty and dishevelled she
was, her black stockings full of holes and her thin frock torn. She
gazed at them with wild eyes, then slipped like a little eel under
Broad's arm and was down the steps and along the nave before a thing
could be done.

'Well, I'm blowed!' said Broad again. 'How the dickens did she get into
the place?'

'Most mysterious,' said Titchett. 'Must have been in here all alone.'

However, there was no time to waste. People were beginning to arrive
although it was but a quarter-past seven. Mr. Doggett had gone up into
the organ-loft. Titchett stationed himself near the West Door. Broad
moved through the nave, seeing that the carol-sheets were properly
arranged on every chair.

Timothy, less afraid now of being alone, wandered away to the Black
Bishop's Tomb and, as he loved to do, gazed at every detail of it.
Someone had once told his father, he being by, a story about a visitor
who was locked in by mistake one night and had to wait until morning
alone in the Cathedral. This visitor had uncomfortably slept for a
while, and then, waking, had seen the choir blazing with candles and the
Black Bishop officiating at the altar. An old silly story about which
Broad had been properly scornful. Not so Timothy, who had believed every
word of it. He _knew_ that, when all was quiet, they came out of their
tombs and said their prayers. Why should they not? It seemed to him the
most natural thing in the world, for he was an imaginative little boy
and lived a life of dreams and fancies. So now he looked at the delicate
lace-work of the stone screen, the high pinnacles, the dark-blue stone
of the Tomb itself, and, most especially, at the black marble figure of
the Bishop, the fine hands so quietly folded, the robes and mitre and
crozier, the vizor and the gauntlet and the splendid ring of green stone
on the right hand. The Bishop was a friend of his, the best friend he
had in the world. . . .

       *       *       *       *       *

It was half-past seven and people were pouring in. Doggett at the organ
had begun a soft voluntary, an arrangement of 'Gerontius.' An air of
happiness and even of gaiety began to spread through the church.
Titchett, greeting his friends, showing people where to go, was so happy
that he could have burst out singing, for this was one of the occasions
when he _loved_ to be a verger. He was a thin, pale young man who
suffered from indigestion and a very tiresome bullying old mother.

At home he never had any fun at all, but now in a position of authority
he was at his best, forgetting his indigestion and his mother and old
Broad's pompous officialdom and feeling as though it were _he_ who was
welcoming everyone, as though he were giving a party and knew that it
would be a great success. He smiled, he whispered Christmas greetings,
and when Inspector Gurney, with his large wife and three children,
stopped and insisted on shaking hands with him, wishing him a happy
Christmas, his cup was really full.

The Marlowes had a reserved seat in the front of the nave, and Broad,
undoing the cord, tendered them Christmas greetings with great dignity.
Penny knelt down and covered her face with her hands. Her thoughts would
not be controlled. She tried to say the Lord's Prayer, but whether she
said it or no she could not be sure. She was so very happy that prayers
were meaningless. She had left the Donatello figure at Lampiron's house
and now she wondered what he would do. She had never felt about anyone
like this before.

It was a kind of worship, a longing to serve, to give, to surrender. She
had no thought of any physical love. She did not see Lampiron as a man,
but rather as a force, a power composed of all the elements that seemed
to her most beautiful. She did not at all want that he should return any
of her own feeling. She was not even sure that she wished to see him.
All that she needed was that she should know that he was alive and not
far away. And at the same time if she _did_ see him her happiness would
be almost more than she could bear.

She rose from her knees and sat demurely between her father and mother.
Her father was very softly humming to himself, and this, Penny knew,
distressed her mother. But she could think of nothing but that she might
see Lampiron pass up the aisle. Because they were seated so far in
front she could not get a sight of what Broad called the common people.
The Cathedral aristocracy had their reserved seats, and here they were,
with great dignity, wishing Broad a happy Christmas and then being
wished it back again; Mrs. Carris in purple and with a marvellous little
hat on the side of her head swept forward, followed by Mr. Carris and
Mabel and Gladys. The girls smiled at Penny, which was very kind of
them; Mrs. Carris, before she sat down, ever so slightly looked about
her, as much as to say, 'Is there anyone here I might ask to luncheon or
dinner?'

Then Lady Mary Bassett arrived, scratching her nose and biting her lip.
'I wonder if she knows the faces she makes,' Penny thought.

Then the two Miss Trenchards, a little old-fashioned in their black silk
and a suspicion of puffed shoulders, but looking so kind and gentle,
such grand ladies without thinking about it, that Penny was lost in
admiration at such unselfconscious dignity. Then there was Mrs. Braund
with her son, who was, of course, a friend of Penny's and grinned at
her. 'I'm sure he's thinking of the grand poet he's going to be, with
the world at his feet. He thinks too much about himself.'

She was then led to the speculation (as everyone was in Polchester at
the moment)--how will Mrs. Braund look on a horse and in armour? _Will_
she manage it? 'Probably she will, because of her Blood,' thought Penny.
'That's almost the only use left for Blood nowadays--that it helps you
to carry off difficult situations.'

And now a sensation! for here were Lord and Lady St. Leath and their son
Robert. Everyone was interested. How _sweet_ Lady St. Leath looked, so
wonderfully young! A pity Lord St. Leath was so fat and red in the face.
'But he looks so very good-tempered,' Penny thought. 'And they say they
are so _very_ devoted.' And although she had not the least little bit of
snob in her, she could not help thinking (as everyone in Polchester was
always thinking) that Lady St. Leath had been only an Archdeacon's
daughter and that her brother had run away with a disreputable girl from
a public-house and her mother had run away with the Rector of St.
James's. 'What lives people have!' Penny thought.

After this, the Mayor with Mrs. Aldridge and all the little Aldridges.
There were very many of them and they were a plain family and awkward.
Two of the Aldridge small boys had squeaky boots and made a noise like
mice in the wainscot all the way up the nave.

Then the miracle occurred! Lampiron came stamping past! He was carrying
a brown-paper parcel in his hand and seemed to have little idea as to
his immediate destiny, for, on arriving in line with the Marlowes' pew,
he realized that all the seats were cut off from him by thick red
cords--nor did Broad, who was quite as good a judge of social
distinctions as Mrs. Carris, make the slightest effort to assist him. So
there he stood, extremely self-conscious, beginning to be angry, his
body shaking a little, his head turning from side to side.

'Father,' Penny whispered, 'there's Mr. Lampiron. He doesn't know where
to go. Do make room for him.'

So her father obediently drew inwards (there was plenty of room).

'Mr. Lampiron!' Penny whispered.

He heard her voice, saw the space beside Marlowe and, frowning, sat
down, stared in front of him, his hands on his knees.

At last, after a very long time, he looked, past Marlowe, at Penny. She
smiled and he smiled. Then he turned and stared, frowning once again,
into the choir.

The service had, from time unremembered, been in this wise: first some
prayers, then a carol, then after every successive carol the reading of
a lesson. The first lesson was read by a choir-boy, and so up the
ecclesiastical scale until the last of all was read by the Bishop.

The quiet penetrating voice of the Precentor floated through the
Cathedral. Once Penny turned her head and saw that the nave was
completely filled. Beyond her own personal happiness she felt the
happiness of that world within a world. Young though she was, she knew
that the feeling of joy came from something besides the personal actual
lives of this crowd of human beings.

'What is it?' she thought. 'I feel as though this would never end. I
want it never to end. And I feel as though it had always been. They have
been singing like this through all time.'

For the first carol came to them from the candle-lit choir as though it
had no earthly origin.

A boy (young Guy Klitch it was) sang the first verse alone:

    Awake, glad heart! get up, and sing!
    It is the Birth-day of the King.
        Awake! Awake!
        The Sun doth shake
    Light from his locks, and, all the way
    Breathing perfumes, doth spice the day.

The choir sang the second verse:

    Awake, awake! hark how th' wood rings,
    Winds whisper, and the busy springs
        A concert make;
        Awake! Awake!
    Man is their high-priest, and should rise
    To offer up the sacrifice.

Then young Klitch, his voice rising and falling like a bird's cry:

    I would I were some Bird, or Star,
    Flutt'ring in woods, or lifted far
        Above this Inn
        And road of Sin!
    Then either Star or Bird should be
    Shining or singing still to Thee.

As the choir broke in again Penny bent her head. She heard no more, for
it seemed to her that in literal truth the high roof had split its
fastness, that a star shone, in almost intolerable brilliance, from a
dark sky, and that the tune of the bird never ceased. . . .

       *       *       *       *       *

Elizabeth Furze was sitting far back in one corner of the nave. She had
gone there because she did not wish to be seen--and then the most
appalling event! Mr. Bird had come in late (she could see that he was
flustered, his eyes gathered together under his brown eyebrows; yes, he
was nervous, shy, self-conscious when he saw such a mass of people
there!). Titchett had spoken to him, told him, perhaps, that there were
seats in front. For he shook his head, smiled, turned his eyes nervously
from side to side. Then he saw Elizabeth and that there was a chair
empty beside her. He went at once and sat down in it. (Just at this
time Lampiron seated himself beside Canon Marlowe.)

He knelt and prayed. The choir was coming in. Everyone stood, but he was
still kneeling. When there was a pause before the first prayers he rose
from his knees, and then, turning, smiling into her face, said in a low
but happy voice, 'Thank you very much for your present. You pleased me
very much.' And then added, 'I often have chilblains, you know. I hadn't
a pair of really warm gloves.'

She said nothing. She stared in front of her, her hands lightly folded
on her lap. She was aware that she wanted at once to leave the
Cathedral, to go straight home and never to see Mr. Bird again. He had
chosen deliberately before the whole world to come and sit beside her;
there had been that happy look on his face, he was so close to her that
his leg pressed against her dress, his hand, lying on his knee, seemed
to say to her with a human whisper, 'Touch it. Lay your hand for an
instant upon it'--all these things, coming in a shock of active,
positive revelation, struck her into a sudden consciousness of her
position.

It was true. He was closer to her, to her heart and whole body, to her
spirit and her soul, than she had, in her most excited imagination,
supposed. She was a woman of facts. Life had been so bitter that it had
fastened her to reality--and that reality, or _her_ sense of it, told
her that she must have nothing to do with Mr. Bird. She was a woman
apart, the daughter of a shameful man. This was no melodrama.

A sensible observer might certainly say to her: 'Come, my dear, isn't
this absurd? You are acting like someone in an old Victorian novel. Your
father is a miser and usurer and is certainly unpopular. What has that
to do with you? _You_ are no usurer. Your life has been one of
continuous self-abnegation and unselfishness.' Yes, but the observer had
not lived _inside_ that life. The Inquisitor had, but not the observer.
The observer had not experienced that constant day-by-day torture of
slights, deprivations, humilities and (in watching her mother's tragedy)
agony. The observer did not know how the life of that house, The Scarf,
had become, for Elizabeth, the only real life. She did not see the house
from the world, but the world from the house. Inside that house they
were marked-off sanctified creatures, sanctified to a life of isolated
contempt. She believed that everyone alive despised and condemned and
avoided her--all save old things like Mrs. Dickens who did not know what
the world said and thought. This outside contempt had grown into herself
so that she sympathized with what the world felt. It was natural,
inevitable. Only, for herself, like a plant that is nurtured and cared
for in a dark room, she kept her own integrity and purity.

That integrity should not be contaminated by the weakness of drawing a
good, unselfish, unwilling man into her spoilt life. Until this moment
she had thought that an acquaintance (even an acquaintance strong enough
to permit her Christmas present) could do no harm. Now she realized that
for him it was more than an acquaintance.

She moved a little away. She wondered whether she would not leave the
Cathedral. Then young Klitch's voice came to her as though it spoke to
her directly:

    Awake, glad heart! get up, and sing!
    It is the Birth-day of the King.
        Awake! Awake!
        The Sun doth shake
    Light from his locks, and, all the way
    Breathing perfumes, doth spice the day.

A moment later she was tested again, for the reader of the second lesson
was Godfrey Burdon, the leading tenor of the choir. She knew him well,
for he was an assistant in Bellamy's. But she knew him because, as all
the town also knew, he was crazy about horse-racing and dog-racing, was
always in debt and was deep in her father's debt. So now when she saw
his plump, rather babyish face and heard his familiar voice, her father
came to her very side and whispered with his quiet gentleness, 'You see,
I'm everywhere. And you are with me. You will always be with me.'

She did not know that, not far away from her, Uncle Mike was sitting. He
was near the West Door. He was bewildered and he was exhausted. It was
as though he had arrived at his destination after a long journey. He was
so bone-aching weary that he might have walked a hundred miles. His
confusion was partly because he had hoped to find rest here. What he had
wanted was to sit down in the middle of all the people, listen to the
singing, feel, as in other days he had felt, that this was the most
comforting, most beautiful place in the world. But his body ached so
sorely that he was prevented from realizing anything else. There were
lights, colours, music. Someone was reading from the Bible, but the
voice came, as it comes sometimes in dreams, as though from the end of a
long corridor. He moved so restlessly on his little chair that his
neighbours on either side looked at him. From where he sat, he could
see, beyond the Brytte Monument, the little door that led up to King
Harry's Tower, and this little door appeared to obsess him so that his
mind would consider nothing else. The door, the dark stairs, the wall
very cold to the touch, the thin slits of windows; then at a point
complete darkness so that you must be careful lest you knocked your
knees. Then the Whispering Gallery, then up again until you reached the
little room with the gap against the wall that you must not tumble into.
The door held him like a spell.

He felt that there was perspiration on his forehead, and he put up his
hand, but there was no perspiration. His forehead was very cold. His
thighs ached like toothache and his heart was beating as though he had
been running in a race.

'Am I going to be ill?' he thought. 'It's that stuff I drank in
Seatown.'

Then, with a great effort, he forced himself to be still and leaned
forward, looking at the multitude of people in front of him, the patches
of colour, faded blue and red in the old torn flags, the golden angel
over the choir-screen, the dim hazy fluttered light of the candles above
the choir-stalls.

'Now I must attend,' he thought. 'I am here to listen to the music. I
have been looking forward to this for many weeks.'

He looked at the carol-sheet. A chorus of voices (that still seemed to
be removed a great distance from him) rang out with startling
suddenness. He, intently looking at the sheet, followed the words:

    All over were December's rains,
    And grass and herbs renew the plains;
    The shepherds quit the hills, and keep
    A watch around their feeding sheep.

    Oh, happy toil which Abel knew,
    And Moses loved, and David too!
    Oh, happy shepherds, favoured race!
    Who first shall see a Saviour's face.

'How beautifully they are singing,' he thought, and a first sense of
some distant happiness and tranquillity began to steal towards him. It
was interrupted; it was prevented. It was exactly as though someone had
touched him on the shoulder, someone antagonistic to everything that was
being done here.

'Come away out of this nonsense. You are wanted. You have no time to be
wasting here.'

He had been a man all his life of weak decisions and he had always
covered his weakness with self-defending excuses. It was exactly the
same now as so often before in the past. When in America or China
someone had tapped him on the shoulder and said, 'Come on. What are you
hanging about for?' he had gone, often to some silly misfortune. Now he
half turned his head as though he expected to see someone waiting for
him. Everyone was listening to the singing. No one minded him.

Who wanted him? Where was he to go? Then he knew. It was this old
impulse, that with every renewal seemed to be stronger, to drive him
back again to the house that he hated. He had been in 'The Bull,'
drinking with his friends, or watching a football match, or talking to
friends in the High Street, and this urge would come to him. But in
these last weeks when he had no money to drink with his friends, this
sudden insistence had been more powerful and more frequent. He had
thought at first that it was the wish to hunt out his brother's secrets
that drove him back, but when he was in the house he did nothing
there--listened for steps and voices, skulked in his room, read an old
newspaper, shivering because there was no fire.

Well, now he _would_ not go! He sat back against the little chair as
though he were clinging to it for safety. Canon Dale was reading a
lesson.

Mike's eyes wandered from point to point. _That_ was an old-fashioned
hat! He noticed detail as though everything were enlarged in a
magnifying-glass--a purple vein in a cheek, a tie that had risen to the
top of a collar, a thin and gnarled hand holding the back of a chair, a
scarlet ribbon ornamenting a black hat.

'I'm not going,' he muttered.

Then, very quietly, he got up and went.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was towards the end of the service that, from very ancient tradition,
they sang the carol that was the climax of their celebration. Old Ronder
had read his lesson, had walked very slowly back to his stall. There was
a pause and then, with a great joyful rush of sound, the whole world
seemed to be singing triumphantly.

Unaccompanied, the choir, with a shout of magnificent greeting, saluted
God:

    Hark! Hear you not a cheerful noise,
    That makes Heaven's vault ring shrill with joys?
    See! where, like Stars, bright Angels fly,
    And thousand heavenly Echoes cry.
    So loud they chaunt, that down to Earth
    Innocent Children hear their Mirth,
    And sing with them, what, none can say,
    For joy their Prince is born, this day:
    Their Prince, their God, like one of those,
    Is made a Child, and wrapt in clothes.
    All this is in Time's fullness done;
    We have a Saviour, God a son.
    Heaven, Earth; Babes, Shepherds, Angels sing:
    Oh! never was such Carolling.
    Hark! how they all sing at His Birth,
    Glory to God, and Peace on Earth.
    Up then, my Soul, thy part desire,
    And sing, though but a Base, in this sweet choir.

At the words

    For joy their Prince is born, this day:
    Their Prince, their God . . .

the organ comes suddenly in with trumpets and shawms and all the
artillery of salutation. Doggett, seated up there, solitary, isolated,
not knowing what this life was for, save the divine procreation of
music, seemed to himself to rise with this sound. For this one moment in
the year at least he was one of a cloud of witnesses, and as he played,
loving the Cathedral as he did, it was no sentimental nonsense that made
him call his companions: 'Come on, Arden and Wilfred and you, Henry
Sainte who made the corbels, young Petre and old tow-bearded Holcroft.
I'm a shy man, and I hate to say good-morning to my landlady, but here
is a moment when I _do_ understand what life is for. We are creators
together before the Lord!'

Even Lady Mary, who thought the Christian religion a very absurd
sentimental survival, threw for a moment her brains to limbo, and shared
in the triumph. When, in London, Carslake, who wrote so brilliantly
about the Versailles Conference and hates religion for the harm that it
has done to the world, would say to her: 'This sentimental flummery,'
she would say: 'Yes, but, Carslake, you will think me too absurd for
anything, but the Carol Service in Polchester brings out all the
schoolgirl in me.' It was a secret hidden from her, but the schoolgirl
in her was her best part.

There were, in fact, tears in her eyes. Tears in Mrs. Braund's, too. She
was so very happy. Her dear boy was safe at home and delighting everyone
with his cleverness, and the Archdeacon had been ever so much easier
since he had finished his pamphlet on _Modernism and the Nicene Creed_.
Moreover, she was to enact Lady Emily at the Pageant. She had not sought
for this. They had offered it to her quite spontaneously and now the
desire of her life was fulfilled. She had loved to act as a girl. In her
young day, it had been of course impossible for anyone in her rank of
life to think of being an actress. Nevertheless she had had her dreams.
And now they were to come true. Very fortunate, too, that she knew Percy
Dalton, who was to come down and rehearse and produce the Pageant.
Already she was reading everything that she could find about Emily de
Brytte. It was almost as though they had become friends, and even now
there were times when Agnes Braund, middle-aged wife of an Archdeacon
and mother of a grown-up son, found herself lost in a strange world of
cannon-smoke and coarse oaths and flying banners. Someone at the last
Pageant Committee Meeting, Mr. Romney perhaps, had said something about
Lady Emily being no better than she should be, and she, Mrs. Braund, had
felt quite personally insulted!

She was sorry that Mrs. Carris took the whole affair to heart. She had
really been quite rude to her at the last meeting--but what poor Polly
Carris lacked, had _always_ lacked, was _breeding_. That everyone
knew. . . .

    Glory to God, and Peace on Earth,
    Up, then, my Soul!

Up, up, up went Agnes Braund's soul and with her all the others. For an
instant the one great purpose of human life was achieved; self was lost
in worship.

But old Mordaunt alone (and he was crazy) saw and heard the true
assembly, the knights in armour of gold and silver, the monks bearing
the candles, Arden--his vestments stiff with gold--holding the great
cross high in his hands, the snuff of the incense, the snarl of the
silver trumpets. 'Glory to God in the Highest and on Earth Peace . . .'

       *       *       *       *       *

Did this man, Michael Furze, ever in the course of the strange events
that yet remained for him, reflect that this flight from the Cathedral
to The Scarf was the true turning-point in his history? It may be. Once,
on a later occasion, he said to his niece: 'It was then--that time I
allowed him to summon me--when I ran at his bidding--I can see now that
that was the fatal blunder.' To Elizabeth this was meaningless.
Nevertheless it was true. All the later events in the town may be said
to date from that. His flight from the place that, because of its
beauty, had brought him here in the first place was the betrayal, in a
way, of the finest part of him--a small part, something so weak that a
short period of poverty, insufficient food, and terrorism had destroyed
it. But the terrorism was not something of these few months only. It
began when, a child of two or three, he had been ordered by his elder
brother to 'sit still. Don't move till I come back.' And, weighted with
fear, he had sat still. When he had had his fifty pounds he had made an
attempt to fight. He had even, as has been said, played tricks with
money, taunted his brother, pretended to spy on him. But at _that_ game
he had no chance at all.

Now he hurried through the town across the dark Green, down the High
Street, through the Market-place and so to the gate of The Scarf. He
remembered nothing afterwards of the details of that short journey,
spiritually so important to him.

Then at the gate he paused. It was as though someone offered him one
last opportunity of escape. He looked up and saw how brilliantly the sky
was lit with stars. In the next house he could hear a piano being
played. They were dancing perhaps. A Christmas Eve party. The Scarf
itself was the more silent by contrast. There was not a light anywhere.
Only the branches of a tree creaked as though protesting against the
life next door.

He was too tired to think; it was part of the inevitability of his
circumstances that his brain, such as it was, had at that moment no
chance to act. He had his key and he let himself in.

The house was in complete darkness. Stephen Furze might be working in
his own room, but there was no expensive light burning in the passages
or on the stairs. Mike struck a match, stumbled up the stairs and was on
the way to his bedroom. Then Stephen opened his door and, looking out,
said: 'Is that you, Mike? Come in for a moment.'

Mike followed him in. He stood by the door and when Stephen motioned him
to a chair he shook his head.

'I'm tired,' he muttered.

'Service over already? It's early surely.'

Stephen's white nose with its big hollow nostrils was one of the
unpleasant things about him, because it had, it seemed, a life and
personality of its own. Now it was friendly and even kindly. A room,
however, is not so easy a deceiver; it was bare, hard and very cold.

'I'm going to bed,' Mike said. He noticed that, by a trick of light, his
brother's body threw an elongated shadow on the wall. He appeared to see
two men. Possibly there were more. Or, possibly, they were none of them
there at all. He sometimes felt that his brother's body had no substance
and that your hand, if you tried to grasp him, would paw the air. But
that was absurd. He knew the cold hard touch of Stephen's hand.

'Well, good night,' Stephen said.

But Mike didn't move.

'What did you want me for?' he asked.

'Oh, nothing--simply whether you had enjoyed yourself.'

'I? I never enjoy myself. You know that.'

'Why do you stay here, then?' Stephen asked gently.

'Because you've sucked my courage out of me, my manhood--everything.
How you've done it I don't know. I'm not clever enough to know.'

'You've always been free to leave us.'

Then Mike, looking clearly into himself, spoke a truth. 'I've always
done what others told me, all my life. You had that power over me when
we were boys. I was a fool to come back here. My God, what a fool!'

Stephen shook his head, smiling, looking considerately at his brother.

'You exaggerate. That was always a fault of yours.'

'Let me go,' Mike said. 'I'm dead sleepy.'

'Why did you come away before the service was ended? You had been
looking forward to it.'

'Never mind that.'

'No. Of course not. It's none of my business.' He paused. Then, turning
abruptly, he said: 'One moment. There's something I want to show you. A
Christmas present I've given myself.'

He went to the table behind the roll-top desk and Mike saw, for the
first time, that something wrapped in brown paper was standing there.
Stephen quickly removed the paper and stepped aside. 'There! Here's
something that you will be able to look at whenever you like.'

It was the crucifix. In its beautiful and lonely dignity, solitary
against that bare ugliness, it was revealed. Mike drew a deep breath. He
stepped forward, then stopped, his face working with convulsive anger.

'My God----'

'Yes. It's mine now. I saw it in Klitch's shop and liked it. I had to
pay a pretty good price for it, too!'

'It's mine,' Mike said. 'The finest thing I've ever had. The thing I
care for more than anything else in the world.'

'Well--here it is. You can come and look at it when you please. It will
always be here.'

'You dirty swine! You got it to madden me with it----'

'No, no. To please you. You couldn't afford to buy it back and I liked
it. I like it very much. Exceedingly handsome. It's not my custom to buy
such things. But still----'

There was a long silence in the room. Stephen turned his back and sat
down again at his desk. The shadow on the wall, having witnessed the
scene that it had anticipated, disappeared.

Mike said only one thing more:

'You've gone too far. At last you've gone too far. . . . Now--look
out--you!'

He stared at the crucifix for a long moment, then went out.


END OF PART I





PART II


PERFORMANCE




CHAPTER I

PENNY'S DAY--FINE WEATHER AND MRS. BRAUND TO LUNCHEON--THE BISHOP--MR.
LAMPIRON TALKS ABOUT OLD AGE


On a certain spring day late in March, Mrs. Braund came to take luncheon
with the Marlowes.

It must be, over many years, an absurd thing to speak of a spring day in
March, but this year, 1933, will be remembered so long as they live by
all who received its lovely favours. The summer that year began
somewhere about the 10th of March and then continued without let or fall
until November. This also not only over the happy pastures of the South;
the ribs and jagged edges of the North were tickled with a cloud-defying
sun.

It may be--for weather can be responsible for so many things--that the
prolonged heat of this year was in part to blame for the strange fancies
and wonders that overtook Polchester that summer. That most happy of
story-tellers, Giacomo Taquisara, has in one of his volumes an amusing
fable that tells how Pan, having nothing better to do, came on a visit
to a small Italian cathedral town. What he did to the Canons, to the fat
over-fed Bishop, and to the Bishop's bad-tempered mistress, the story
tells. The only similarity perhaps that this charming tale has with
what occurred this summer of '33 in Polchester is in the description
that Taquisara gives of the peculiar light and air that the little
Italian cathedral town enjoyed while Pan was staying there. True, the
disturber of Polchester was someone very different from that
light-hearted human-loving Pan; nevertheless there _was_ that mesh of
sunlight, that glow as of a faint apricot in the lighter washes of the
sky, a stillness, a suggestion of warmth rather than the full perception
of it.

Polchester had something of the quality of a dream during these months.
The golden mist, faintest honey, that permeated everything yet did not
prevent a sharpness of colour in detail. This was commented on by many
persons. It was as though you saw with double vision, through a
magnifying-glass, maybe, as Mike Furze saw for a moment on that evening
in the Cathedral.

Gaselee, who was a sharp observer, said afterwards, looking back: 'I
wonder whether I am imagining it, but it was as though for a time I was
given the faculty of seeing _through_ things, as though houses, trees,
persons even, were made of glass. Of course it wasn't so really, but I
think that the absurd stories that got about that summer and autumn
would never have been believed in ordinary years. And yet how absurd
were they? I know that I'm a great deal less confident about reality
than I was a year ago.'

It is certainly true that, in the March and April spring, it was as
though everything were new painted. Polchester is, in any case, a very
beautiful place in the spring. The woods on the farther banks of the Pol
and below St. Leath and on the heights above Orange Street have a
sharpness of green that almost hurts the eye when the sun is shining--a
green of the most brilliant jade. Violets and primroses are thick in the
hedges, their blue and yellow more intense in colour, it seems, than
elsewhere. The town itself, in these spring days, when the pavements are
warm with the sun, when the coloured jars shine in the chemist's window,
and the sugar on the crystallized ginger in Bellamy's glitters, and some
of the wealthier small dogs have new red leather collars, and the garden
walls are pink like sunset--the town on such days has a gentleness of
ringing bells, clergymen's black hats, the business of innumerable
maiden ladies, the walls of whose drawing-rooms are covered with bright
water-colours, their silver shining with old age. 'Fine day,' someone
says in the High Street, and the shopman touches his hat to the gaiters
of the Dean, and the tourist, staring at the great battlements of the
Cathedral, sees every colour in that old stone--rose and silver, the
green of Chinese lotus-leaves and the grey smoky cloud of all past
history.

It is queer, too, that these modern times have done so little to ruffle
this ancient tranquillity. The Cathedral bells are stronger in spirit
than the motor-horns, and a flying aeroplane throws benison, when it
catches the light, of a strong bird's silver wing. Under its brief
shadow the barge moves slowly down the Pol, in the Cathedral Doggett
practises for Sunday's service, and old Mrs. Dickens has gone to the Pol
woods to pick primroses. . . .

On one of these fine days Mrs. Braund came to luncheon with the
Marlowes. Marlowe himself was one of her very best friends. She was very
happy in the Marlowes' house and lost any pomposities that she might
have elsewhere. She talked a great deal. She was one of those women who,
when happy, have not time enough for all that they have to say. Her rosy
cheeks flush with pleasure and excitement. She loses words and
properties, her grammar, her bag, her handkerchief, her caution.

The Marlowes were of the world of people she liked, her own kind towards
whom she need not demonstrate the necessity for the right people to keep
together. She understood them and they understood her.

From the first moment of Marlowe's coming to Polchester she had taken
him especially under her wing, and that meant that there was nothing
that she would not do for him, and also that she thought Mrs. Marlowe a
little of a pity. No problem is a harder one for loving wives than this,
but Mrs. Marlowe's spirit was equable, and she was so sure of dear
Richard that she achieved what Jane Welsh and other eager souls failed
over--she only wanted everyone to be happy, and when Dick was asked to
the Braund festivities without her, as sometimes happened, she was
content with a little irony on his return. So Mrs. Braund found her 'a
very good creature' and never really knew what Mrs. Marlowe thought of
her.

To-day, Mrs. Braund was so happy that no one could find fault with her.
There were times when she looked very fine indeed, her height and her
bulk all regal and surging--like the figurehead of a ship, Lampiron said
she was, on good occasions. Now she strode into the Marlowe
drawing-room, her head up, her bosom taking the wind, so strong,
vigorous and purposeful that you expected her to sail straight through
the window.

'There's no one else coming. I hope you don't mind,' Mrs. Marlowe said.

'Mind! I'm delighted! . . . There, darling, put that little parcel
somewhere. It's a new kind of soap, for the Archdeacon. . . . How are
you all? What weather! Doris when she called me this morning said, "It's
fine enough for the Archdeacon to start his cold baths," and he did,
which always makes me a little nervous the first week or two because of
his rheumatism. How are you, you darlings? Come here, Penny, and let me
look at you. Why, you're blooming! Lovelier than I've ever seen you! And
you, Richard? A little tired round the eyes? Too much chess?'

'Well, no--not exactly--although I did have a game at the Club last
night which was a little irritating. We exchanged queens in the middle
game, and of course----'

'Don't talk to me about the silly affair. You know I don't understand it
and don't want to understand it. . . . Listen, Penny, dear, it's all
settled. You're to be one of my handmaidens, and I'll see that you have
the quietest kind of horse. You only have to sit still for about a
quarter of an hour. When I raise my sword and shout you'll have to hold
him in because of the trumpets.'

'How's it all getting on?'

'Oh, marvellously. Except--what do you think? That Bolshevik lawyer,
Symon--you know him, lanky-faced, wears glasses--has actually sent a
letter to the Dean saying that there is a strong feeling in the Town
about expenses and that the Town thinks that it ought to have more of
the direction of affairs. The Town indeed--Bellamy and Crispangle and
Carris, of course. And _what_ do you think I heard about Polly
yesterday? She went to call on Mrs. Bellamy and took that beastly little
dog of hers with her. You know, the one that's a cross between a hair
rug and a pen-wiper. Well, the horrid little thing had been in a puddle
or something and was all wet. As soon as it was in the drawing-room it
jumped on to the best cushions and settled down there.

'"Your dog seems very wet," says Mrs. Bellamy.

'"Oh, that's all right," says Polly. "She'll soon dry on your nice
cushions!"'

'I hear,' said Marlowe, 'that the Committee Meetings are enlivened with
many a duel between two famous ladies----'

'Oh, of course none of the Carris family will _ever_ forgive me for
being chosen. But _I_ had nothing to do with it! If they think I'm the
right person, it's my duty to do my best. I'll stand down to-morrow if
anyone thinks I'm not suitable.'

They went into luncheon, and Mrs. Braund resigned herself to the food,
which would be home-cooking, very English, very lukewarm and ending with
quite dreadful coffee.

'The great battle,' she went on, 'has been as to locale. At first
everyone took it for granted that it would be on the St. Leath field.
But Mr. Withers stuck to it that it _must_ be in the Precincts in front
of the Cathedral. Luckily the Green is twice as large as most Cathedral
greens, and there's plenty of room for the stands in front of the Gate
and Norman Row. And they'll have four performances instead of three.
Then the Meadows behind the Cathedral give plenty of space for the
performers when they're not performing. Percy Dalton came down for a
night last week and says it's quite feasible, and _he_ ought to know!'

'What's he like?' Penny asked.

'Oh, _so_ distinguished. Pale and thin with a long nose, and he wears a
stock with a pearl pin, and talks about Royalty all the time. "But I
_told_ the Queen----" he says. All the same he _does_ know his job and
seems most enthusiastic.'

'And Mr. Lampiron is to be the Black Bishop,' Mrs. Marlowe said.

'Oh, he'll be magnificent, I'm sure. The scene of his murder ought to be
superb. He stands at the West Door with the monks, defending them, then
he has a magnificent speech, and when the knights rush at him he fights
like anything. Then he is overborne and carried into the Cathedral.
After that, complete silence. Then you hear a great cry. Then silence
again. The knights rush out and away. Then the monks come, bearing his
body, the bells ring, but the people creep away and his body is left
with only one monk tending it, or something like that. Terribly moving
and not history, because of course he was murdered on the altar
steps. . . .' She broke off. 'There, as usual, I'm talking too much. Do
forgive me. Penny, darling, I've never seen you so lovely. What _have_
you been doing? Are you in love or something?'

'Of course she isn't,' said Mrs. Marlowe indignantly. 'Why, she's only
just left school! Have a little more mutton, dear. Dick, give Mrs.
Braund another piece----'

'No, thank you, dear,' Mrs. Braund said hastily. 'I never eat much in
the middle of the day.'

She was forced to return to the Pageant. 'Romney's being too wonderful,'
she said. 'His sense of colour--_just_ like a woman's! Elizabeth's visit
to the Cathedral--last episode but one--Mary Bassett is to be Elizabeth
by the way----'

'Isn't it a pity,' Marlowe broke in, 'that some of the townspeople
haven't leading parts? It really would be more tactful----'

'Well, now I ask you! What parts _could_ the leading townspeople play?
Aldridge, Bellamy, Browning, Crispangle--they _or_ their ladies?'

'Yes, I know, but----'

'Nonsense, Richard. This fuss the townspeople are making is quite
absurd. And I'll tell you something. Crispangle and Symon are
responsible for the whole of it, and I hear that they are busy stirring
up any amount of trouble in Seatown. Romney knows. He's always going
down to Seatown----'

'What on earth for?' asked Mrs. Marlowe. 'Apple-tart or junket or both?'

'Junket, please. What does he go there for? Oh, well, he likes all
sorts. He's a most democratic man. He says that that horrible Mr. Furze
is behind a lot of it--you know, the money-lender. But what was I
saying? Oh yes, about Romney's sense of colour. He's worked out the
loveliest scheme for Elizabeth's court--and _her_ dress! Simply lovely!
Dull gold, amber, a ruff stiff with pearls, garnets, and Mary's got to
paint her face yellow. Her court will be violent crimson and topaz. One
young man in the brightest green carrying a popinjay or something. All
against the grey walls of the Cathedral.' She flung her head up, her
eyes sparkled, her bosom heaved, and Penny had suddenly an odd
impression as though Emily de Brytte herself were there, sitting with
them at the table. So that it gave her a queer shock to hear Mrs. Braund
say a moment later:

'One funny thing. I sometimes feel as though Lady Emily were alive,
watching me, waiting to see what I'll do----'

'I didn't know that you believed in ghosts,' Mrs. Marlowe said placidly.

'_Of course_ I don't! I'm not the kind of person ghosts appear to!
No--it isn't as though she were a ghost, but a real living person. And
more than that, it's as though she doesn't like me.'

'Doesn't like you!' Penny cried.

'Yes. Of course it's all imagination, but the other afternoon when I was
talking to Canon Dale about the clothes I was going to wear, it was
exactly as though someone took me by the scruff of the neck and shook
me!'

'Now that's very funny,' said Marlowe, 'because old Mordaunt has written
the maddest letter to the Bishop imploring him to stop the whole thing
on the ground that all the Cathedral saints and heroes, Arden and Brytte
and Lady Emily and the others, are furious. They take it as an insult!
Did you ever hear anything so crazy? He says that it's desecrating the
Cathedral and that there will be some awful consequences. Poor old
man'--Marlowe sighed, for he hated that anyone should be sick or poor or
neglected--'I'm afraid he's going altogether queer in the head. He lives
in that room in Pontippy Square with no one to look after him--the very
house where an old woman was murdered once; do you remember? He doesn't
have enough to eat, I'm afraid. It's a shame more people don't buy his
drawings, because they're really very good--very good indeed.'

'But his drawings are so queer,' Mrs. Braund said, feeling guilty
because she had never bought one. 'He's always putting in such strange
figures that aren't really there.'

'He says they _are_ there!' Penny broke in. 'He's a friend of Mr.
Lampiron's, and Mr. Lampiron told me that Mr. Mordaunt says that he sees
someone standing there in the West Door. He says----'

But Mrs. Braund clapped her hands.

'Now I won't have any more of this nonsense, Penny dear. What _are_ you
thinking of? Believing in ghosts? Aren't you a modern girl, full of
science and that sort of thing? Who is it? Freud or Einstein--and
there's that dreadful man Lawrence who died the other day----'

'Lawrence was one of the greatest men who ever lived,' Penny said, her
cheeks flushing. 'He told the truth and people persecuted him for it,
and----'

'What did he write, dear?' Mrs. Marlowe asked, signalling to the maid to
hand the cream cheese round. 'Novels or what?'

'Novels and poetry and essays.' But Penny, her little outburst over,
dropped her voice.

'You must let me read some, darling. _Do_ have a little cream cheese,
Agnes. We get it from the Ervine dairies.'

'No, thank you, dear. I couldn't possibly. Such a delightful lunch.'

Now that the meal was over, Mrs. Braund was wondering what the
Archdeacon was doing. Had Doris seen to _his_ lunch properly? Did he
remember the meeting of the Friends of the Cathedral? Was that touch of
rheumatism in his right knee that had been tiresome at breakfast better
by now? She had a thousand things to do, a thousand things to think of.
Nevertheless she had been observant. Two points. One that her friend
Marlowe was not happy; something was worrying him. She knew him so well.
He was a child and, like a child, could not hide things from her. About
the people she loved she was tender and kind and considerate. She must
discover his trouble and help him.

The other was the radiant happiness of Penny. It was as though the
lovely weather had clothed the child with some of its golden, shining
glow. Could she be in love? Was _that_ what it was?

Then her attention was distracted, for the maid entered and said:

'The Bishop, ma'am. I've put him in the drawing-room.'

'The Bishop!' Mrs. Marlowe cried, starting up.

'Yes. He said he wouldn't be more than a minute. Something he wants to
say to the master.'

       *       *       *       *       *

In the drawing-room the Bishop was waiting. He appeared very tall in
that overcrowded room, and he bore about him, as he always did, an
aristocracy of spirit that set him apart from other men. And yet he was
not apart. Bishop Purcell before him had been a saint, but a saint
removed. There was nothing that happened in Polchester alien to Kendon.
He had reached a sympathy that led him to understand all human frailty.
No one in his company ever felt the aloofness of one who, in discovering
the other world, had learnt not to despise this one. But the quality of
holiness when so rarely it is visible among men seems an answer to all
the questions that mankind so restlessly, so fruitlessly ask. It is so
clearly the only solution, but _how_ is the mystery to be discovered?
Kendon could tell you nothing except that he believed in God. He knew
himself to be a sinner like the rest of his fellow-men. He believed that
sin was a definite loss of vitality--so much life missed--and that it
must, one day, be recovered; be recovered with pain and struggle.
Nevertheless he was no gloomy sinner--his happiness triumphed over his
own failures, his bad health, his bachelorhood (for he had loved
passionately in his earlier life), his distrust of so much that the
modern world about him was doing and thinking.

Dick Marlowe was a very old friend of his, for he had been at St. Albans
when Marlowe was a curate there. He put his hand on Marlowe's shoulder
now and said:

'I came in only for a moment. You must forgive the awkward time, Hester.
I want to speak to Dick for a moment. No, I won't have any coffee, thank
you.'

Mrs. Braund, who worshipped the Bishop, said: 'I can drive you anywhere.
I've got my car outside.'

'Thank you, no. I'd rather walk. It's such a lovely day. As long as I
don't go up steep hills it's all right. I have to go in and see Ronder.
Myers will have the car there.'

He pinched Penny's cheek, smiled on them all and went with Marlowe into
his study.

They made a rather humorous contrast; Marlowe with his rough, thick
white hair, stout body, bewildered blue eyes, the look that he had of a
child who had never matured; Kendon bone-thin, sharp-faced,
black-haired, something of the soldier in his straightness and rod-like
carriage. But they loved one another, and Marlowe knew Kendon better,
perhaps, than anyone else in the world knew him.

'I won't keep you more than a moment, Dick. There's something I want to
ask you.'

'I wish you'd stay all the afternoon--and _then_ all the evening. I
don't see half enough of you.'

Kendon laughed. 'I'm quite a busy man. You mightn't believe it.'

'Henry, what's this I hear about poor old Mordaunt writing to you?'

'Oh yes--a crazy letter. At least half of it was--about all the saints
in the Cathedral rising and stoning us for daring to have a pageant. But
the rest of the letter was rather true abuse.'

'Abuse?'

'Yes; he said that we--Christians in general, and clergy in
particular--had neglected, and were neglecting, our job. That we did
nothing in the War, made no protests against the horror of it, never
lifted a finger to stop it.'

'That's an old charge. And some of us love our country. Did he want us
to sit down and let the Germans do what they pleased?'

'Oh, I know. It's the old, old argument. All the same we _failed_ in the
War. However fine some of them were individually, the Church counted
for nothing, at the beginning, in the middle, at the end. It dealt
itself a blow that it's never recovered from. And then since--as he
says--what have we done? About unemployment, disarmament, housing,
_anything_? Is there a Churchman in the whole of England at this moment
who counts for anything as Mussolini, Roosevelt, Hitler--even Baldwin
and MacDonald--count? Oh, I don't mean in that _kind_ of a way, not
politically or financially. But in _God's_ way. We've been too cowardly,
too muddled, too playing for safety. The old man in his letter says that
the Cathedral is sick of us, despises us. He writes--crazily if you
like--of a figure that has been inspecting us, trying us all out,
investigating us, one by one; a kind of spiritual Inquisitor. I'm going
to see him. I believe he's half starved and neglected. I reproach myself
for not having been to see him before.' Then he shook his head and
laughed. 'Who's mad and who isn't, Dick? It's a hard question to answer.
I expect God's test of sanity is quite different from ours.'

Then he came closer to Marlowe and put his hand on his shoulder.

'Look here, I've got to ask a rather difficult question. Someone has
told me--never mind who--that you're in trouble, financial trouble. Is
that true?'

'Yes--it is.'

'Can I help? We're very old friends, you know. You're the oldest and
best friend I have. I haven't a long life in front of me, and I've more
riches than I need.'

'I know,' Marlowe said. 'You give away every penny you possess.'

'Nonsense. I live a life of the wildest luxury. I get a letter every
week from someone or other telling me so. What's the trouble?'

Marlowe shook his head. 'I'm--in a muddle, Henry--in a fearful muddle.
That's nothing new of course. I'm always in a muddle about something.
But I seem to be in the hands of a man here. I don't quite know why.
I've borrowed from him in the past; more fool me--but I was never any
good about money, and this living is shockingly small and I will buy
books when I shouldn't. Then I like Hester and Penny to have what they
want.'

'Have you told Hester about it?'

'No, I haven't. I'm ashamed to. She sees that something is worrying me.
I don't sleep properly.'

'Poor old Dick! But why haven't you come and told _me_ about it?'

'I haven't told anyone. It seems so shocking that a clergyman should be
in the hands of a man like----'

'Who is it?'

'His name's Furze. Stephen Furze. He lives a few doors from here.'

'Oh yes, I know. Half the town's in debt to him one way or another.
Everyone seems afraid of him. Well, look here--will a hundred help?'

'Yes--it will make all the difference.'

'Right. I'll write a cheque now.' He sat down and wrote it. 'There--not
another word--I must be off.'

Marlowe gripped his hand.

Kendon said: 'That's the least I can do--the friend you've been to me
all these years.'

He went to the door. Marlowe stopped him.

'You know, Henry, I'm dreadfully ashamed. Sometimes I think I don't know
_what_ I'm doing. God's hidden from me so often, and there are days when
I think He's left me altogether--given me up because I'm no good. Let me
see you more often. I'm lonelier than you know--a stupid muddled old man
who buys books and plays chess when he ought to be serving God.'

'Oh, there are plenty of ways of serving God. Chess is one, because it
teaches you to watch your step.' Then putting his arm round Marlowe
again he said: 'We will. We'll see one another more often. God bless you
and keep you now and always.'

       *       *       *       *       *

At a quarter to four on that same afternoon Penny, unknown to her
parents, went to have tea with Mr. Lampiron in his studio. She wore a
dress of apple-green with white cuffs and a white collar. She had on one
wrist a thin gold bracelet, her only ornament, and a bunch of primroses
at her breast, and a small green hat.

The bracelet had been given her by Lampiron on her eighteenth birthday,
March 3rd.

But now she had been to tea with him on a number of occasions and
unknown to everyone save his old servant. To-day was, however, to be
different from all the others, because she was going to tell him that
she loved him, that she would always love him until she died and
probably after that, that all she wanted was to be with him, to defy
the world, to go away with him if he wished, to serve him for ever and
ever. . . .

Night after night, lying on her bed watching the circular glow, like an
illuminated spider-web, reflected on her ceiling from the light of the
street lamp, she had thought of this moment, had said over to herself
the words that she would use, had imagined to herself all the possible
consequences. Among these consequences the physical played the least
part. He had never kissed her; when she had had tea with him they had
shared a delightful intercourse, playful, sometimes serious in
discussion, sometimes reminiscent when he would tell her a little of his
life. But he had never kissed her, had never put his arm around her, had
never stroked her hair. She did not know whether he was aware that she
loved him. When she thought of the consequences of her confession she
knew that he would kiss her (the thought of this filled her with
rapture), and she took it for granted that they would sleep together.
Also she would look after his clothes, help with the cooking, shop for
him and so on. They would probably have to leave the town because of the
scandal, but, at this period, although she adored her mother and father,
she considered very little the catastrophe that this would be to them.
In all the novels that she had read recently--novels by Lawrence and
Aldous Huxley and Richard Aldington--also many by ladies--the parents
submitted with what grace they might; they being old muddlers
responsible for the War and all the other horrors of modern
civilization.

But here was a strange thing--that, although Penny assumed it as certain
and inevitable that she would sleep with Lampiron--all the heroines in
all the novels did that kind of thing only too readily--and although she
knew, from _Lady Chatterley's Lover_ and other works lent her by her
friends, all the details of the affair, she yet did not visualize its
actuality at all. She had a soul as pure and virginal as the soul of the
heroine of _The Daisy Chain_.

Her love for Lampiron was idealistic utterly; her conception of the
actuality of sexual relationship as unreal as a fairy-story. It did not
seem strange to her that she should love a man who was between sixty and
seventy, because he was not a man--he was the Holy Grail, the Happy
Warrior, the Genius, the Perfect Friend.

The great longing of her heart was to defend him, to protect him. She
saw herself standing in front of him, her arms outstretched, scornfully
taunting the mob who wished to destroy him. She had often heard the now
almost legendary story of the Swede, Harmer John, of how he had tried to
bring beauty to Polchester and so they had murdered him down by the
Pol--just as in her own time they had murdered D. H. Lawrence!

How, thus, _she_ would defend her lover! She was on fire with the
injustice in the world, man's disregard of beauty, the sufferings of the
unemployed, the filthy conditions of the slums. Lampiron would show her
how she could help in all these things. . . .

But, with all this, it must be owned her own life was extremely happy.
She was compelled to admit that she enjoyed every minute of it. She had
the capacity of obtaining great pleasure out of small things. The spring
weather, the thought of the coming Pageant, her own radiant health, even
Mrs. Braund telling her that she was beautiful--these, in spite of the
unemployed and the slums, made her heart dance with joy. For--how could
she help it?--she was in love and was ready to give everything that she
had and was to another. . . .

Old Bridget let her in and took her straight through to the studio where
Lampiron in a white overall was working.

'Tea, Bridget,' he said.

She went without a word.

Penny took off her hat, shook her dark cropped head and sat down on the
arm of the chair with a hole in it.

Lampiron went on working. He was chipping away at a small block of
marble, black with white streaks and whorls. He muttered to himself as
he worked, his big body controlled as though by a hair's-breadth,
balancing on the very edge of restraint. She said nothing, looked at him
and at the vast huge-breasted torso that, headless though it was, seemed
to stare back at her. The warm spring sun floated in on thick dusty
lines of light.

At last he stopped; stood back, surveying his work, then said: 'There! I
think that'll do for to-day. Very expensive this marble. I haven't paid
for it and I don't know that I ever shall.'

'What's it going to be?' she asked.

'A woman's head.'

'Don't you want a model?'

'Not this time. It's an ideal head--something more than human.'

She nodded. She meant to understand everything that he did but, at
present, she must confess to herself that she didn't understand. She
would never let him know. She had read the Van Gogh letters. She had
ordered from Crispangle a book of Epstein's conversations with a friend
and read it from cover to cover. In time she would learn, and meanwhile
she would study every word that fell from his lips. With great pleasure
she noticed, at every visit, the little Donatello 'David' which stood on
the dusty mantelpiece all by itself. She could understand the beauty of
_that_.

The old woman brought in the tea.

'There!' Lampiron said. 'Enough for to-day. The light's going.'

He came and sat down, she poured out the tea; he lay stretching out his
legs, wriggling his broad back into a comfortable position, thrusting
his hand through his thick hair.

'Now--tell me all you've been doing.'

'Mrs. Braund came to lunch and talked about nothing but the Pageant.
It's all settled--I'm to be her handmaiden and ride a white horse.'

'Humph! There's a lot of row going on about this Pageant.'

'She says _you'll_ be magnificent.'

'How on earth does she know? But I've got one fine speech that I'm going
to yell at the top of my voice.' He turned and looked at her, then
turned away again. She was, beyond any description, lovely. He closed
his eyes for a moment. Then he went on:

'What do you think _I've_ been doing this morning?'

'Can't think. More tea?'

'No, thanks.'

'Bridget won't be coming back, will she?'

'No.'

She moved over and sat on the edge of his chair, her hand on his knee.

'Tell me what you've been doing.'

'A very odd thing. Bodley, the London architect, is down here. Hattaway
asked me this morning to go up with himself and Bodley to look at the
Harry Tower.'

'Why?' asked Penny, wishing that he would make some little movement
towards her. 'What's the matter with it?'

'Oh, there's nothing the matter actually with the Tower as far as its
foundations go, but some of the inside has dry rot. There's a lot of
wood. They've closed it to the public twice already. They'll probably
have to do it again. There'd be a fine scandal if twenty tourists
tumbled through the Whispering Gallery into the nave.'

She laughed.

'Why did they ask you to go?'

'I've no idea. Hattaway's rather a friend of mine. Nice people the
Hattaways. Bodley's a decent chap too. Now tell me some more that you've
been doing.'

'Oh, well . . .' She puckered her brow, thinking. 'They've started
tennis at the Club--three weeks earlier than usual. Lady Mary asked me
to tea.'

'Oh, and what did _she_ talk about?'

'Mr. Romney was there. They talked about poetry and the right colour for
bedroom curtains and bath-salts. Don't you think Mr. Romney a _very_
funny man?'

'In what way funny?'

She took his hand, as though unconsciously, and laid it on hers.

'Oh, he calls everyone "darling," and he brought his tapestry with
him--he does _beautiful_ tapestry--and he said that turbines are to the
poet to-day what the lily was to Oscar Wilde.'

'I daresay he's right--not that he knows much about turbines, I should
fancy.'

She put up her hand and touched his cheek. 'You didn't shave very well
this morning.'

He stayed motionless. She felt that his hand trembled on hers. Then he
got up abruptly. He walked away.

'Penny'--I've got to talk to you. You must listen to me. I've been
meaning to for a long time.'

She was frightened. She stared at him through apprehensive eyes.

'What is it?' she asked.

'Well, it's this. . . . I'm sixty-eight. I could be your grandfather.'

She burst out laughing. 'How terribly silly!'

'No--it isn't silly. It's true.'

She was gathering her courage back again. She got up and faced him.

'But I don't think of you as _any_ age.'

'Exactly. But _I'm forced_ to! You don't get to sixty-eight without
constant reminders. However . . . what I really want to say is that you
mustn't come here like this any more.'

'Oh!' She gave a little cry. Then she went to him, put her arms round
his neck, drew his head down and kissed him on the mouth. For a brief
instant he tightened his clasp round her slender body, holding her close
to him, kissing her fiercely. Then he detached her hands and walked over
to the mantelpiece. For a moment neither of them spoke. At last he did
huskily.

'That's the first time I've ever kissed you, Penny. And it will be the
last. It's not the way grandfathers kiss their granddaughters. In future
they will not kiss them at all.'

Penny looked at him. That kiss and the pressure of his body against hers
had been something quite different from any expectation. With that
instant of emotion had come an entirely fresh experience. She would
never think of men in the same detached way again. She would never again
be quite so virginal as she had been five minutes ago. He was not only
Sir Galahad now; he was a man of flesh and blood as well. She was in
love with him more than she had been, but loved him a little
differently; that is, her love for him now was a degree closer to earth.

She remembered, however, that she was a modern girl.

'Why shouldn't you kiss me? I love you and have done ever since I spoke
to you at our party. I'll go away with you or stay here and work for you
or do anything else you want me to do. I shall love you as long as I
live and never love anyone else.'

'Now you're using words you don't understand,' he said. 'Sit down in
that chair, Penny, and listen to me.'

She sat down, her hands folded in her lap, looking at him almost
ironically.

'I'm sixty-eight,' he said. 'But I haven't lost all human feeling--in
fact I haven't lost nearly as much as I should have done. You're fifty
years younger. Fifty! Just think of it! I'm a friend of your father's
and mother's. They don't actually know you're here at this moment,
perhaps, but all the same they trust me. I've done a lot of dirty things
in my time--shall do some more before I die--but I've never yet
willingly hurt anybody--except an enemy or two, of course. I _have_ hurt
people who have trusted me, because one is always doing it, but not
_intentionally_, you understand.

'Another thing--I've had a life with women that you don't even begin to
conceive the details of. What I mean is that you _think_, as all modern
girls do, that you know _all_ about it. Well, you know nothing. I'm not
a nice old man in any way at all, but I love what seems to me beauty
passionately, and I believe, although I've not had much experience of
it, that there is a spiritual beauty somewhere that beats all the other
kinds. Look at the Bishop, for example. Now I'm not preaching, Penny
dear, but it seems to me that our friendship hitherto has had some of
that spiritual beauty in it. I daresay _that_ beauty has its origin in
physical things. I won't pretend or be a humbug. But I just know enough
to be certain that the moment our friendship goes beyond a certain mark
I'm a ruined old man. It's for my sake, Penny, more than yours, that you
must do what I say. I'm in all sorts of other messes, financial mostly,
but _this_ mess, if I got into it, would simply finish me. I'm violent
sometimes--do crazy things. There's one man in this town now that I
can't trust myself over. But over _you_ I've got to trust myself and you
must help me. If you _don't_ help me, then--well, then, I'll never
willingly see you again. I'm at a kind of crisis just now. I feel as
though the last tussle of my pretty useless life is about to be fought.
What kind of tussle it's going to be I don't know. My life is of no
value or importance to anyone but myself. But to me it is of value.
_You_ might make it valueless. I implore you not to.'

She had listened to this long harangue with deep absorbed attention. It
had been quite different from her expectations of it. She had thought
that he would speak of the risks that _she_ was running, of her own
future, of spoiling her life. Not at all. It was _his_ life that she
mustn't spoil.

'If,' she said, her voice a little broken, 'I don't kiss you or
anything--can I come here just the same?'

It was at that moment that he realized how deeply, deeply he loved
her--passionately, paternally, selflessly and with the greediest
egotism. It was the hardest task of all his life not to go to her and
take her in his arms.

But, without moving, he said:

'Yes. Try it and see.'

She looked him straight in the face as though she were making a vow.

'Very well. I will,' she said.

She asked him no questions. She got up. Then, her hands trembling a
little, she put on her hat. She went to the door, looked back at him,
smiling.

'We'll meet soon again, won't we?'

'Yes, we will,' he said.

'Thank you for the tea.'

Then he went back to his work.




CHAPTER II

SOME HOUSES ARE ALWAYS COLD


'Make me see it, Elizabeth! Make me see it!'

'Well, the stands are all up now. They look very white and naked--new
wood and bare, as though they'd be bare like that for ever. And what's
so strange is to see them staring at the Cathedral and the Cathedral
staring back at them. In sunlight the Cathedral stone looks like silver
and as though it had been there a thousand years. The stands look so
_very_ impertinent!'

'Yes, yes! I can understand that!'

Mrs. Furze was in bed, a shawl about her shoulders. It was the last day
of June and a week before the opening of the Pageant. Mrs. Furze's
bedroom was overcrowded with furniture. These were the things that her
own father and mother had had. They were very large and very ugly, the
wardrobe, the chest of drawers, and a safe, belonging to Stephen, that
stood in the farthest corner of the room. The sun had but recently set
and outside the house the world was bathed in an early summer twilight,
the sky very faintly green with one sharp blazing star, and over the
streets, the orchards, the gardens, the tightly packed town, a haze of
gold-dust.

But in Mrs. Furze's room it was cold. Elizabeth had lit the gas,
although she knew that if her father discovered it burning so early in
the evening he would be quietly furious. But she had a book on her knee
from which she was going to read to her mother and she must have
sufficient light. The book was a novel by Mrs. Henry Wood--_The Shadow
of Ashlydyat_--Mrs. Furze had never forsaken the reading that she had
liked as a girl. One of her favourite books was _Madcap Violet_ by
William Black, and another, _Donovan_, by a lady called Edna Lyall.
Elizabeth was telling her how the preparations for the Pageant were
looking. Mrs. Furze sat up, her lined anxious face insignificant beside
the intensity of her sightless lidded eyes.

'Yes, yes. Go on. So that's where all the people will sit. Will there be
plenty of room for everybody?

'Not as much, of course, as if they had it on the St. Leath field. But
now it will be four days instead of three. They say the tickets have
sold wonderfully.'

'I'm so glad. Tell me again what the scenes will be.'

'Are you sure you are warm enough, mother?' Elizabeth leant over the bed
and drew the shawl closer about the skinny neck. How cold the room was,
although the sun had been beating on the house all day! Some houses are
always cold.

'Yes, dear. I'm quite warm enough. Now tell me. First there are the
Gascons----'

'Yes, first there is the scene of the building of the first
church--Saint Leofranc cures a child of fever and they all become
Christians. Then there's the mission from Pope Gregory--when St.
Augustine was in England and founded a church at Canterbury. The third
episode is the coming of the Pilgrims from London, and the Town
Fair--dancing and all sorts of play. The fourth is the murder of the
Black Bishop--that's Mr. Lampiron, you know. Then there's the chief
episode of all, when Lady Emily drives the enemy back from the Cathedral
walls. That's the one there's been so much quarrelling about, because
Mrs. Carris wanted to be Lady Emily. The sixth is the Miracle Play in
the time of Henry VII. when Abbot Bury died in the middle of the play.
Canon Ronder is to be the Abbot. The seventh is the closing of the
monastery by the officials from Henry VIII. The eighth is the visit of
Queen Elizabeth--that's Lady Mary Bassett, you know--and the last is a
sort of picture of all the history together when the spirits of the
Black Bishop and all the others bless the modern world. There are nearly
six hundred actors altogether, they say.'

'Oh dear!' Mrs. Furze clasped her thin hands together. 'It must be
splendid. I do hope the weather will be fine.'

'Yes. Everything depends on it. People are coming from all
parts--special trains from London. Are you ready for me to read now?'

Mrs. Furze lay down, her head with its scattered grey hair resting on
the pillow. Then, suddenly, she said:

'Elizabeth--I'm sure Michael came into this room last night.'

'Uncle Michael! . . . Oh no, dear. You imagined it.'

'No. Someone came in and bent over the bed. I pretended to be asleep,
but I hear the slightest sound--more than ordinary people. I know it was
Michael. He breathes through his nose. He was carrying a candle. I smelt
it burning.'

'I am sure that you dreamt it, darling.'

'Oh no, I did not. I often _think_ I'm dreaming in the daytime. Such
strange things happen. Michael and Stephen hate one another, don't
they?'

'Hate's a strong word.' Elizabeth was surprised at her mother's calm.
She lay there and her brain seemed to be working directly behind her
lidded eyes as though, because of her blindness, the whole force of her
energy, mental, spiritual, physical, had concentrated where her sight
ought to have been.

'No. Hatred isn't too strong,' she remarked calmly. 'Your father has a
great capacity for it, and after all, Michael is his brother. You know,
Elizabeth, something very dreadful is going to happen shortly.' Then she
added in a kind of whisper: 'Nothing can happen to _me_ any more that I
can mind.'

Elizabeth had never heard her mother talk thus. She had often wondered
what her mother had in her mind--pretty bitter things, she did not
doubt. But nothing was ever said. Her mother kept always the same mild,
rather dry, unemotional contact with daily life, except for Elizabeth
herself, whom she loved.

'Yes,' Mrs. Furze continued very tranquilly. 'Things have been getting
closer and closer to one another for a long while, and when they do that
they meet at last. Your father's a very bad man and deserves all that is
coming to him.'

This, to Elizabeth, was so amazing that she held her breath. She had
lived so long in this house, so intimately and closely with her mother
who, she had supposed, loved her father, was, indeed, the only living
soul in the whole world to do so.

'You see, dear,' Mrs. Furze continued, '--you don't mind not reading for
a moment, do you?--I was really glad when Michael came to stay, because
I knew that he would bring things to a crisis.' Mrs. Furze nodded her
head. 'I shouldn't be blind now if it hadn't been for your father's
meanness. There's never a minute of the day that I don't think of it,
and especially when there's a fine thing like this Pageant they're doing
that it seems such a pity to miss. Such a _great_ pity, because when I
was a girl I always liked shows of every kind. I've got your father to
thank for that, as I have for many other things.'

Elizabeth said, taking her hand and stroking it: 'Mother, let's go away.
Just the two of us. Somewhere--anywhere. I've wanted to suggest it to
you often, but I thought you cared for father. I never dreamt that you
felt all this----'

'Felt it!' Mrs. Furze nodded her head vigorously. 'Oh yes, I've felt it
all right. Go away? Dear me, no. I mean to stay here and see what
happens.' Then holding Elizabeth's hand lightly she went on. 'But _you_
should go, Elizabeth. I'm quite all right. I can manage very well--very
well indeed. Why don't you find a good man who'll marry you and look
after you? You'd make a man such a very good wife. And you ought to have
children. Where would I be now if I hadn't had a good daughter?'

'I marry? I'm plain, mother, a dry old maid. That's what I am.'

'I'm sure you're not plain, dear. No one as good as you are could be
plain. I'm sure there's a man who likes you. I know there is. I've
noticed a hundred little things lately. And you're fond of him too, I'll
be bound.'

Elizabeth said nothing.

'There is, isn't there, dear?'

'Someone has been kind to me,' Elizabeth said. 'But I've told him that
we mustn't meet any more.'

'Oh, why? What a foolish thing to do!'

'How could I bear that anyone who likes me should see what this house is
and what father is----'

'Ah, there you're being sentimental, dear--talking like they do in those
old stories you read to me. If a man cares for you he doesn't mind what
your father is. He won't have to live here. He'll take you away.'

'What will you do then?'

'I tell you I can manage very well. Besides it won't be for very long.
Something is going to happen here and then everything will be all
right.' Then she added, sucking her finger, which was a little trick
that she had: 'Your father made one great mistake. He hasn't given
Michael enough to eat.' She patted the bedclothes. 'Michael is stout.
When I take his arm I can feel how stout he is, and a man like that
needs food. Your father could have managed him quite well if he'd fed
him; but that's like your father has always been. He grudges every
penny.' She moved her head placidly on the pillow. 'And now, dear, I'm
ready. I like Mrs. Wood's books very much. They are so absurd and they
remind me of when I was a girl, when I was gay and had a lot of young
men round me--before I met your father.'

       *       *       *       *       *

In another room Major Leggett was thinking, as he often did, how
intensely he disliked talking to Stephen Furze's back. There the back
was, bent like a hoop. The gas was not yet lit, and Leggett wondered how
it was possible for Furze to see his rows of small figures in that mean
pallid glow. The evening sun did not come into this room which, although
dry and arid in spirit, was cold in body.

'This house is never warm,' Leggett thought. His private tastes were
sadistic; perhaps the French literature that he read--he was quite an
authority on Racine and could never mention the theatre without
murmuring 'Bernhardt'--assisted to make that sadism more intellectually
coloured. In any case, he thought, as Michael and Lampiron had thought
before him, that he would like to break that thin back with a snap of
the fingers. He excused his own morals and unpleasant private habits on
the ground that his brain was a superior one and, above all, that he had
no use for sentiment and gush. He was a vain egoist almost to madness,
so vain that he considered his bald head, his short fat figure, his
raw-beef complexion, his jockey-like garments, all very fascinating
phenomena. But he was, alas, a coward. He was afraid of death, of
physical pain, of social slights, of the Jews, of the police and, most
of all, of Stephen Furze.

'Were you not in the world,' he might have addressed that stooping
figure, 'I might make a brave show. I'd get hold of Symon, and he and I
would have a fine splash. You old devil.'

But in actual fact he was saying:

'I wrote to Marlowe and reminded him that the hundred pounds that he
paid you early in the year did not clear his debt. This I have informed
him twice already. The old fool hasn't the slightest idea of what he
does owe.' Leggett coughed. 'I suppose Symon has arranged it all right
in case Marlowe _should_ get someone to look into the affair.'

'He won't get anyone,' came a quiet voice from the table. 'He's shy of
anyone knowing. Besides, he _has_ borrowed again. March last.
Thirty-five pounds.'

'Yes,' said Leggett. 'Then there's Stephen Burdon. I suggest we close
down on him very shortly. His racing has gone very badly this spring.
He's been drinking too, and they say he may be turned out of the
Cathedral choir. There's old M'Canlis of Bridge Street. What about him?'

'Well--_what_ about him?'

'We could sell him up and take over his shop if you like. We could put
it on to Aldridge. Young M'Canlis is making trouble enough in Seatown as
it is. This would about set him alight, I should fancy----'

'I don't mind. M'Canlis wants his pride taken down.'

'What about Lampiron?'

'_What_ about Lampiron?'

Furze suddenly turned round. His long pale face with the protruding nose
had something the air of a considering philosopher--not at all
unpleasant until you looked at the eyes. But Leggett's reflection, as it
had often been, was that, in certain lights--dim like this one--you
could almost see _through_ the head to the furniture and wall-space
behind it.

'_What_ about Lampiron?'

'Well, what are you going to do? You've been having him at the end of a
rod and line now for over a year. _I_ think he's getting dangerous.'

'How do you mean--dangerous?'

'Well--violent. You remember that night last autumn when he was in here
and caught hold of you? He's a rough old man and you've teased him
pretty thoroughly.'

'Yes, I have.' Furze smiled, 'It's amusing when I'm so frail and he's so
strong. Are _you_ strong, Leggett?'

'Why--how do you mean?'

'Of course you're thickly built, broad in the shoulder and all that. But
you drink too much, don't you?'

'Oh, I don't know.'

'Yes. You drink too much. One day, if you were drunk enough, you might
screw up your courage to do _me_ an ill turn----'

'Look here, Furze----'

'Oh yes, I know all about it. I know all about everything. I can be in
two places at once, you know. Three sometimes. You were talking pretty
violently down at Locke's the other night.'

'I swear to you, Furze----'

'Oh, I don't mind in the least. I think I understand you very well. It
must be humiliating often for a man of your training and culture to
serve me as you do. You ought to be in _quite_ a different position.
However, you're nearly as fond of money as I am. I've never forgotten
what you were like that day I took the box with the gold pieces out of
the safe and showed them to you. I let you handle them, do you remember?
Have you forgotten how cool and hard and round they were and the colour
they had? No one ever sees a gold piece now. You were as excited as
though you were beating one of your lady friends.'

'Look here, Furze----'

'All right. Don't be annoyed. I don't mind how you amuse yourself. Only
remember. If you were to do me in one dark night, you wouldn't be
finished with me. I listened to a rationalist on the wireless up at
Symon's the other night. "We go entirely by our reason," he said. "What
we can't prove we don't believe in. Heaven and hell and all that
nonsense--science has proved the God idea a silly superstition." I
couldn't help laughing. Symon asked me what I was laughing at. But I
didn't tell him--it wasn't worth while. Symon could never see a joke.'

'If you've finished with me,' Leggett said, 'I think I'll be going. I
don't think there's anything more to-night.'

'Oh yes, there's a lot more. Tell me, Leggett, what do you think of my
brother?'

'Your brother? Not much. We're not very friendly, you know.'

'Here, sit down. What are you standing for?' He pointed to a
severe-looking chair whose back had the disapproving austerity of his
own friend, Symon the lawyer.

'All the same, Furze, I have an engagement----'

'Yes, with me. What do you think I pay you for? Not that I pay you much.
And I'll tell you why--because, as I very well know, you make your own
pickings----'

'What about lighting the gas?' Leggett asked, sitting down again. 'The
day's about done.'

Indeed, having all the nervousness of a man who drank too much, slept
too little, and had moments of belief in God and the Devil, he disliked
all the rooms in this house after dusk. He was cold and the place was
more full of shadows than was natural. The crucifix on the table behind
Furze's desk he could dimly see, and the bone-whiteness of the figure
disturbed him. He disliked to be reminded of anything to do with
religion. And, after all, why couldn't Furze forget for a moment his
meanness and indulge in electric light? He would find it cheaper in the
end, no doubt. There was something sordidly old-fashioned about gas--a
kind of Charles Peace atmosphere, with its gurglings and pale glimmers
and suggestion of mean streets.

He said, uneasily resting one stout knee on the other:

'Why not try electric light, Furze? You'd find it cheaper in the end.
This must be the only house in Polchester with gas, I should think.'

'Oh, would you?' Furze was now a shadow against the green-lit
window-pane. 'I like gas--it's a nice, friendly, companionable thing.
Want some light, do you? Afraid to be alone with me in the dark? What
about these?' He pulled towards him two candlesticks painted a shabby
green, struck a match and lit the candles. 'Now to return to my brother.
What's your idea of him?'

'I don't like him and he doesn't like me.'

'Oh, well, I know that. But that isn't what I mean. Have you noticed
anything about him lately?'

'He's a miserable sort of brute--he's been very quiet.'

'Quiet?' Furze sat between the candles, his head and shoulders like a
cobweb on the wall behind him, a cobweb with a gigantic nose. 'Yes.
You're right. And you remember how noisy he was when he first came?'

'Yes. Always shouting at the top of his voice.'

Leggett now was interested. His little sharp eyes were examining Furze
with curiosity and it seemed to him that the man was apprehensive. This
was _really_ of importance, because he had never seen the man uneasy
before. People who surrender themselves, soul and body, to some
consuming passion become like men who walk in their sleep; moving in
this world bodily but dreaming of another. So he had always felt that
Furze was. But now he was _not_ dreaming. He needed to be reassured, and
it gave Leggett great pleasure to think that reassurance should be the
last thing that he would offer.

'Well, I soon quieted him. Once his money was spent he went down like a
child's balloon. There was never anything inside him. He was like that
as a child. Wind and water, that's all my brother was made of.'

'I can't think what he stayed here for,' Leggett said.

'He hadn't the pluck to go. He's not so young as he was. He knew he'd
never find a job in these hard times and he'd sold the only thing he had
that was of any value.'

Furze motioned with his hand towards the crucifix.

'Oh, was that his?'

'Yes, he sold it to Klitch the day of his arrival here. He got fifty
pounds for it. Then he couldn't buy it back, so I got it.'

'Ah, I see. . . .' Leggett drew a little whistling breath. 'Just to
exasperate him.'

'It's valuable, you know,' Furze said sharply. 'It's worth a lot more
than I gave for it. Anyway my having it did irritate him. He came in and
saw it on Christmas Eve after being at the Carol Service and I thought
he would murder me. I did indeed.' Furze giggled. (There was something
feminine in many of his actions and movements.) 'I enjoyed that five
minutes,' he added.

'I've often wondered what it was doing here,' Leggett said, eyeing him
intently.

'It's since then he's been so queer,' Furze went on. 'Before that he was
always ready to explode if he had anything to explode with. He hated me
so much that I was never sure he wouldn't attack me one day. But _since_
that evening he's been as still as though he were dead.'

'Dead!' Leggett exclaimed.

'No, not really dead, because I'm sure he's been plotting something.
More than that--I don't think he's quite right in the head.'

'What does he do?' Leggett asked.

'He walks about the house at night. He talks to himself and he watches
me in a way that, quite frankly, I don't like at all.'

'Why don't you turn him out, then?'

Furze rubbed his hands together. Then he turned and snuffed out one of
the candles. 'We've light enough with one,' he said. 'He's useful. He
saves money. He does plenty of little jobs for me. Then I like to see
him. These fat men run all to seed when they're not well. You've run to
seed yourself, Leggett. There's not a spare piece of flesh on _my_
bones.'

'No, I'm sure there isn't,' Leggett agreed.

'I want you to talk to him a bit. Make up to him. See what he's got on
his mind. I've told him I won't have him walking about the house at
night. He just nods his head and says he's been sleeping badly. He
stands in here staring at that crucifix as though he'd never seen it
before.'

'What I don't understand,' Leggett said, 'is how a man can change so
quickly. Then he was drinking and joking with half the town--now he
never goes out unless it's up to the Cathedral, and he speaks to no
one.'

'He was always moody,' Furze said, 'always moody. Gay one minute, crying
the next.' Then, suddenly, he snuffed the other candle. The room was in
darkness and yet Leggett seemed to see the man, his thin legs stretched
out, his white bony nose like an independent and most unpleasant
creature.

Leggett found his way to the door.

'Good night,' he said, but there was no answer.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Furze dropped off to sleep, and Elizabeth, seeing it, closed _The
Shadow of Ashlydyat_, got up very quietly and went to her own room. It
was early. She thought that she would read. She lit two candles, partly
because she preferred them to gas, partly because her father might poke
his head through the door and ask her why she was sitting in such a
blaze of light. That would anger her and she did not want to be angry
to-night. She did not attempt to read, but sat, a plain calm figure in
that severe room, marvelling at the things that her mother had said to
her. What a woman her mother was! How self-contained and secret and
strong! It was true, of course, that blindness drove you in upon
yourself so that in your world of darkness you created a world of light,
yourself the only observer. Her mother had done that and now she was
safe inside that world. But how could Elizabeth have been so blind as
not to have seen long ago that her mother hated her father? There must
have been many signs. And yet, perhaps not. Her mother had a
self-command that had been built up through years of disappointment,
frustration and rebellion. That was what frustration and disappointment
were for.

What a queer lot they were--she, her father, mother, Uncle Michael! She
looked at the book on her lap. She had almost finished it. It was a
novel that told about a day in the life of many different people--a
grand lady's house with herself and her family, her servants, the
char=woman and _her_ world. It was clever, amusing, and by a woman. It
was a book of tiny detail. The fashionable lady wakes up, has her tea,
her bath. There were many details about bath-salts, powder, scent, silk
underclothes and so on. But the interesting thing to Elizabeth was that
the book never for a moment deserted its detailed realism. It was like a
picture that she had seen when Bellamy had a little art gallery in his
store, of a table with fruit on a dish and a lobster and a loaf of
bread. Every grape was real in this picture and the loaf of bread almost
too real. So in this novel! But what interested Elizabeth was that, in
their house, The Scarf, life began just where the novel left off. Her
father, her mother, Michael, even herself would appear simply untrue in
this novel that she had been reading. Elizabeth put on her clothes in
the morning and took them off at night, but what did her underclothes,
her washing, her brushing her hair, matter beside facts like her
mother's blindness, her father's mad cupidity, Uncle Michael's
unhappiness? Lady Mary Bassett, Mrs. Carris--women of that kind were
occupied in all probability with just the little things that were
important in this novel, and Elizabeth felt a kind of resentment that
they should be--not because she was jealous or wanted the things that
they had, but because actual problems of life and death, of love and
hatred, were present now in this house. She would read in the paper that
Mr. Smith of Manchester had embezzled, made love to a servant-girl,
murdered his wife and run away. In the very next paragraph she would
read that little hats like pen-wipers were now the fashion and that Lady
Shirforth gave her last party in a swimming-bath. Both worlds were real,
then? Where did they join?

She would, she thought, before she went to bed, go down and see whether
there were any letters. There was a late post at nine. She had done this
now for many weeks, and, being an honest woman, she acknowledged to
herself the reason.

'There are lots of women as silly as me, I don't doubt,' she said. She
took a candle and went down into the chilly hall. There was not a sound
and the candlelight jumped on the wall. There were three letters, two
for her father and one for herself. The envelope addressed for her was
in Mr. Bird's handwriting.

She climbed the stairs to her room again, placed the candle on the
dressing-table and, after a shy look round the room as though she
expected to find someone there, read it.

                                                     32 ORANGE STREET.

      DEAR MISS FURZE--I hope you won't think it impertinent of me but I
      have two tickets for the first day of the Pageant and I should be
      very pleased indeed if you would come to it with me. We haven't
      seen very much of one another of late and I have been wondering
      whether I have in any way offended you. If I have I do hope you
      will tell me what it is that I have done. I am often clumsy and
      maladroit I am afraid. I do hope that this beautiful weather will
      last through the Pageant week.--Yours very sincerely,
                                                           JAMES BIRD.

She sat, with the letter on her lap, looking in front of her. How
wonderful of him! After the way that she had behaved (for his sake--yes,
yes, only for his sake), to offer this, to sit with her in the face of
the whole of Polchester, to choose her, out of the whole of Polchester,
for this pleasure! It was, perhaps, the happiest moment of her life, and
had anyone been present at that moment to see her he must have thought
her almost beautiful; the thin lines of her pale face were softened by
the tenderness of her smile, and the attitude of her body as she leaned
forward, staring into the shadows of the half-lit room, gave her grace
and dignity. All lonely women are beautiful when their terror of
loneliness is removed from them. Elizabeth's plainness came chiefly from
the long years of self-restraint and austerity that life had forced upon
her.

Of course she must refuse. How could she sit there with him so publicly?
She could hear the whispers, and jokes and comments: 'What's Bird doing
with the miser's daughter?' Then she remembered what her mother had
said, that this sensitiveness was sentimentality, cowardice even. Colour
came into her cheeks, her eyes softened and were gentle, her hand
trembled against the letter. How good he was! How wonderful of him to
think of her! She repeated it to herself over and over; her eyes filled
with tears so that the room blurred with misty candlelight.

With a shock she heard a tap on the door.

'Come in!' she said, putting the letter on her dressing-table. The door
opened and Uncle Michael entered.

He was dressed only in shirt and trousers and he carried a lighted
candle. He blew it out and closed the door very carefully behind him. He
looked completely exhausted, as though he had been running, his forehead
shining with sweat; his chest, showing through his open shirt,
glistened. He looked at her, sheepishly smiling. Then he drew his shirt
together and held it with one hand.

'What is it?' she asked. 'What's the matter?'

'May I sit down for a moment, Elizabeth? I was sleeping in a chair in
the dining-room and I had a horrible dream----'

'Yes, of course. Here.' She showed him a small shabby easy-chair. 'I was
just going to bed.'

He sat down; she could see that his fat knees were trembling and,
herself in a mood of tenderness, she was filled with kindness,
remembering the loud buoyant man he had been only six months ago.

He became quieter. He wiped his forehead with his hand.

'I dreamt I'd done for him,' he said huskily. 'He was climbing the
stairs, his neck all on one side. I caught him just where the little
room is; he turned just too late and his neck cracked----'

She remembered her thoughts of half an hour before--the novel with the
grand lady, the bath-salts, the silk underclothing--and now here in this
house there was something so real and so dangerous that she laid her
hand on the dressing-table, afraid that he would see that she was
trembling. Then she was filled with pity for him.

'Uncle Michael,' she said, '_what_ is it? You've been ill for months
now. _Why_ don't you go away? I've asked you again and again. Tell me
what it is. You can trust me.'

He seemed to be recovering. His face was white here, streaky there, and
his big loose body overfilled the little chair.

'Phew! I'm better,' he said. 'That was a bad turn.'

'Why do you walk about at night?' she asked him. 'Did you go into
mother's room last night?'

'I don't know. I don't know where I go.'

'But you mustn't. You frighten us.'

Then he smiled, like a child suddenly amused.

'So your father says. It's something for _him_ to say he's frightened.'
Then he went on quietly. 'It's your father ought to go away, Elizabeth.
It's _he_ that's in danger here, not me.'

'Father! But of course he won't go away.'

'Well--he'd better look out. He bought my crucifix just to torment me.
He's gone too far. There are several in this town want to do him an
injury.' Then he went on, quite conversationally: 'I've a kind of idea
he'd be difficult to finish off. Plenty have thought it over, but it
isn't so easy. You wouldn't be sorry to see the end of him
yourself--would you, Elizabeth?'

'Now, enough of this,' she said sharply. 'You're saying monstrous
things.'

She looked at him with a sudden disgust--his long nose, the way that his
forehead was white above his red face like a labourer's, his open shirt,
his awkward ugly knees. Then, because she knew that he was unhappy, she
softened again. 'Please, Uncle Michael, don't stay in this house. It
would be better for all of us if you went. I'm not unkind. It's yourself
I'm thinking of. I want you to be happy again as you were when you first
came here.'

'I shall never be happy again,' he said. His voice grew louder. 'Never,
never, never!' He struck his knee with his hand. 'Remember that. I've
gone the wrong way. _He's_ driven me, and until--until----' His voice
broke off. 'Well, never mind that.' He yawned, covering his mouth
politely with his hand.

'Excuse me,' he said. 'I think I shall go to sleep now.' He got up,
hitching his trousers. He stood, his legs spread, stretching his arms
and yawning.

'You're certainly right,' he said, speaking now gravely as though he
were considering a philosophical case, 'in saying that it would have
been better if I'd never come here. It would have been--_much_ better.
But once I did come here, once I spoke to your mother in the hall, the
rest followed inevitably--inevitably, I being what _I_ am, your father
being what _he_ is. You didn't know us as boys together, did you,
Elizabeth? No, of course you didn't. But we hated one another, we
did--from the very beginning.

'And now we've come to the end. And it's been a long journey.'

'Well, you go to sleep now.' She put her hand on his arm and felt his
flesh damp beneath the shirt. 'You'll feel better in the morning.'

He shook his head. 'Oh no, I shan't. I shall never feel better so long
as he's about. But it's his own fault. He shouldn't have teased me, and
taunted me, and made me work for him and taken my crucifix from me. A
man can stand a good deal, but there _are_ limits.'

To her surprise he put his hands on her shoulders. Then he kissed her
very solemnly on the forehead.

'Good night, my darling,' he said.




CHAPTER III

WHO PASSES?


The day before the Pageant was close and sultry. The sky was darkly
blue, and behind the blue you felt a pressure, as though a giant were
pushing with his fist to burst through the papery sky. The heat in the
High Street was terrible, and Bellamy sat in his shirt-sleeves in one of
the rooms above his shop looking down on a struggling, perspiring world.
At his side was a large mug of shandy. Up and down the hilly street the
crowds moved. Many had come in from the country who would not see the
Pageant but _would_ see and enjoy other things. For example, there was
the Fair down in Seatown filling the whole of the space behind the
river. There was even a booth with two real lions.

'What is it, Burdon?' Bellamy asked, eyeing his assistant distrustfully.
Burdon might have a splendid tenor voice, but he would have to go if he
didn't stop his drinking and horse-racing. Bellamy was wanted, down in
the shop. A kindly impulse (he was very kindly when not thwarted) made
him stop as he was going out and put his hand on the man's shoulder.

'You look rotten, Burdon,' he said. 'What's the matter?'

'It's this heat,' Burdon said, wiping his forehead with the back of his
hand. He added desperately: 'It's more than the heat. It's Furze. He's
driving me terribly, Mr. Bellamy. I'm almost off my head with it. I'd
have lost my choir job by now if Canon Ronder hadn't put in a word for
me. I can't attend to anything.'

'Furze?' Bellamy said. 'Has _he_ got his clutch on you?'

'I don't know where I am with him. I don't seem to be able to get
clear.'

'It would be a charity to the town if someone put a bullet through that
man's brains,' Bellamy said. 'Come and talk to me about it sometime.
You're too good a man to go to pieces.'

After he had gone Burdon looked out down on to the crowd. The sun blazed
down on them. Through the other window a murmuring of voices and a
steady shuffle of feet came up. Motor-cars pressed slowly up the hill,
hooting as they went, an old man was selling balloons and they floated,
red and green and blue, above the people's heads. The Cathedral bells
were jangling, and from the bottom of the street could be heard the
lowing of cows and the bleating of sheep, for it was also market day.
The voices of the crowd were very cheerful, laughter, men calling to one
another, and a woman's voice suddenly raised: 'Come here, Mary Jane, do.
You'll be being run over.'

'They all seem happy enough,' Burdon thought bitterly. 'And here am I in
this mess. By God, the heat's awful.'

Klitch was standing at the door of his shop, watching everything with a
delighted, almost childish interest. He looked very smart and dapper
with his rosy cheeks, his high wing-collar and the gold pin in his tie.
His short legs moved restlessly as though to a tune, and his bright eyes
darted everywhere.

Norman Row had a strange appearance, for the backs of the stands walled
it in. They ran with their clean, naked surface the whole length of the
little street. For a fortnight Miss Bennett of the Cathedral Shop, Mrs.
Fowler of the Glebeshire Tea Shop, old Humphries of the Woollen Shop,
Broad and his family, Mr. Doggett the organist, Mrs. Coole and her old
ladies, the Klitch family, would be shut in by this strange barrier. But
they none of them minded. It wasn't for long and it gave them all a
sense that they had their part in the general excitement. Moreover, it
did not in any way stop custom--quite the contrary, for the crowds
passed up and down, staring at the stands and the shops, getting peeps
into the Precincts, enjoying everything.

During the four days of the Pageant, Evensong was to be at five-thirty
instead of three-fifteen, and it was hoped that many of those who
attended the Pageant would afterwards attend Evensong. Until the Pageant
began, however, the public was allowed to pass through Arden Gate, along
the path into the Cathedral. Many were now doing so, and Broad had a
busy and profitable time conducting parties here, there and everywhere.
Very popular were the Choir, the Black Bishop's Tomb, the King's Chapel,
the Chapel of All Angels, the Harry Tower. About the last he was
emphatic.

'Last time you'll have a chance for many a day,' he said. 'It'll be
closed from to-night on, and no one knows when it will be open to the
public again.'

'Why, what's the matter with it?' the tourists asked.

'Wood rotten. That Whispering Gallery may give any time.'

So the tourists paid their sixpences and tipped Broad lavishly.

       *       *       *       *       *

On many a later occasion Klitch was to recall every detail of that
afternoon. He remembered, for example, that after looking at his watch
he called back to Mrs. Klitch: 'Four o'clock. They'll be just coming out
of Evensong. I'll be going down to the Gate for a minute, my dear, if
you'll watch the shop.' So he strolled down to the Gate just as the
Cathedral gave the hour.

In front of the Gate a small crowd of sightseers watched the Precincts.
There was nothing at that moment to be seen. The grass, green and
smooth, shining in the sun, was deserted. The great pile of the
Cathedral looked benignly on to the stretch of empty stands. He saw that
near to him was standing old Mrs. Dickens.

'It will be different to-morrow, Mrs. Dickens,' he said genially.

'Yes, Mr. Klitch,' she said, smiling, pleased at being spoken to. 'And
I'm going to be there to see it,' she added triumphantly.

'Why, that's fine!'

'Yes. Mr. Hattaway has given all the ladies lodging with Mrs. Coole
tickets. A kind thought, and God will reward him.'

'Very decent of him,' said Klitch. 'Let's hope it will be fine. There's
thunder about.'

It was then that both he and Mrs. Dickens saw Michael Furze. He walked
rapidly past them towards the Cathedral, then turned as though he were
bewildered and did not know where he was going. He saw Klitch.

'Hullo, Mr. Furze!' Klitch said. 'Taking a look at things?'

'Yes,' Michael muttered. Once spoken to, it seemed that he could not
move again but stood there, staring at Klitch as though he had never
seen him before.

'What a shabby-looking man!' Mrs. Dickens thought. 'He _does_ seem as
though he wanted caring for.' She had a maternal interest in all men,
having no one to mother save a ginger cat which Mrs. Coole was for ever
molesting. This was one of the preoccupations and grievances of Mrs.
Dickens's life.

But Klitch was touched. He had never forgotten that day when Furze had
first come into his shop, his boisterous heartiness and self-confidence.
'And now look at him,' Klitch thought. 'All down-at-heel and bewildered,
poor devil.'

On an impulse he said: 'Come along and have a cup of tea, Mr. Furze.
You'll be welcome.'

'Oh no, no, thank you. I must be getting along.'

'Come, now. I haven't seen you for weeks.'

'No. Thank you. I have some business.' He turned and disappeared. Klitch
walked slowly back to the shop. Strange that a man could alter so
completely in so short a time! He told Mrs. Klitch about it, drank some
tea and then stood in his doorway again observing all that passed.

       *       *       *       *       *

At a quarter past four Lampiron left his house, and a little earlier
Stephen Furze had shut The Scarf gate behind him in the company of
Leggett. Furze was paying a visit to the Cathedral. This astonished
Leggett very much.

'I didn't know you ever went near the place.'

'No? Well, you don't know much,' Furze said. He was wearing his old
bowler with the soup-plate brim, and his coat, shabby with age, that
reached nearly to his heels. He carried his umbrella.

'What he wants to wear a coat for on a day as hot as this beats me,'
Leggett thought. 'I bet he's always as cold as ice.'

They walked together as far as the Market and there separated. Tom Caul,
who was moving with the crowd for curiosity's sake, saw them, and
Crispangle, on his way home to tea, saw them.

Furze started slowly up the High Street. His intention was to catch
Godfrey Burdon as he came away from Evensong. He knew that Burdon served
in Bellamy's all the morning and in the afternoons when he was not on
Cathedral duty--so that if he missed him at the Cathedral he would visit
him at Bellamy's. He had a word to say to him.

Nothing gave him pleasure like the little personal conversations with
those who had reason to fear him. This passion for power, whether over
money or men, was his driving motive and, like all other passions, it
thrived with what it fed on. He saw himself as a king among men. One
day, when the right time came, he would gather together the money that
he had made and use it for some grand purpose. He would become, no
doubt, one of the great men of the kingdom. The trouble was that, to
show his power, he must spend the money that he had collected. At the
thought of letting that wealth pass from his own command to that of
others he shivered with apprehension. And then he would comfort himself
with the thought that he had power enough as it was. He would leave
things as they were.

Now, as he started up the High Street, from somewhere or other an
unpleasant discomfort struck him. Why? He liked to mingle with the
crowd, to think that, in this case or that, by a little manipulation, he
could use his power and acquire more money and more authority. As he
walked in a crowd such as this he seemed to himself to exert an
influence over everyone near him, as in that silly dream of his
brother's when the figure had emerged and everyone had vanished.

But this afternoon he was uneasy. He even looked behind him as though
someone were following him. He had half a mind to turn home again, but
curiosity drove him forward. He would see the preparations that they had
made for this ridiculous Pageant, spending money like water. Even the
Cathedral, which he visited more often than Leggett knew, would be
interesting on a day like this. He sometimes went up to the Whispering
Gallery and, looking down, wondered how much all the brass and stone and
carving was worth. . . .

Then he saw Lampiron.

Furze was half-way up the High Street, between Bellamy's and
Crispangle's and exactly opposite Bennett's, when he came upon Lampiron.
It happened that, at the same moment, Canon Ronder and Gaselee came out
of Bennett's and stood, for a minute or two, in the doorway, watching
the happy crowd. Ronder had been wishing to acquire a certain novel, and
old Bennett had been advertising for it and secured a copy. Ronder had
it under his arm now and was looking greatly pleased. The novel was
called _The Nebuly Coat_, by Meade Faulkner. 'It is absolutely the best
novel in English about Cathedral life after _Barchester Towers_,' Ronder
was saying. 'I haven't read it for years, but suddenly the other night I
couldn't sleep and, standing at my window, saw a caterpillar crawling in
the moonlight across the ledge. I can't tell you how beastly the
caterpillar looked. And it reminded me of _The Nebuly Coat_.'

'The caterpillar did?'

'Yes; it's all about a caterpillar--a caterpillar, a picture, and the
tune the Cathedral bells play. The caterpillar reminded me also of that
terror of the neighbourhood, Furze.' Then he caught Gaselee's arm. 'Why,
there he is! What a strange coincidence! And he's talking to Lampiron.'

'Lampiron appears upset,' said Gaselee.

Furze, on seeing Lampiron, had felt an unwonted amiability. The fact was
that it was not at all of Lampiron's physical violence that he was
afraid but of something much more elusive. So he greeted Lampiron almost
as a friend. The sense of insecurity that had been with him for the last
half-hour vanished as he touched Lampiron's arm.

'What a lovely afternoon, Mr. Lampiron,' he said in his gentle, dreaming
voice.

Lampiron turned, and a kind of physical disgust seized him that he
should be touched by Furze. He had been walking slowly, through the
crowds, up the hill, his mind intent on the part that he was to play on
the morrow. These weeks of rehearsal had been a queer experience for him
in that he had encountered, during them, the beauty of the past more
actually than ever before. He himself had been engaged for a long time
now on the most modern aspect of art. He had seen beauty in terms of
lines, angles, cubes, squares, as bare, naked, strong and undecorated as
he could make it. But now this Pageant had thrown him back into the very
citadel of decorated splendour, tapestries, jewels, armour of gold and
silver, rich candlesticks, heavy purple vestments, stained glass,
missals, caparisoned chargers, Romney's flaming servant carrying the
brilliant bird. . . .

More than that. He had been in contact with a personality so strong that
it seemed to him as though he stood at his side, advising him, showing
him his thoughts, his movements. He knew Henry Arden now better than he
knew himself. During rehearsal, once or twice, he had _been_ actually,
for the moment, Henry Arden. As, in front of the Cathedral door, he
withstood the charge of the knights, giving his great cry of defiance,
he thought: 'This is the end. All my life, my hopes, my great ambitions
have come to this. To be murdered by this scrabble of cowardly knaves,'
and he had to hold himself (his temper being what it was) not to give
them back blow for blow. Percy Dalton, the Pageant Master, had come up
to him after rehearsal and said to him: 'That was magnificent, Mr.
Lampiron. Never seen anything better. You _were_ the Bishop himself.'

He was thinking of all this when he felt the touch on his arm, to find,
to his disgust, that it was the loathsome Furze. His temper was up in a
moment as Henry Arden's would have been had he been accosted by some
villainous usurer.

So when he heard 'What a lovely afternoon, Mr. Lampiron,' he nodded his
head and would have moved on. But his progress was interrupted by people
and Furze said:

'I wonder if you could find it convenient, Mr. Lampiron, to come in one
evening and talk over a little bit of business.'

'See here, Furze,' he said. Keep your hands off me. You can sell me up
or do anything else you bloody well please, but in the street at least
I'm free.'

As usual when he was angry he spoke louder than he knew, and several
people turned and looked at the two men.

Furze smiled. 'Very well, Mr. Lampiron,' he said. 'Have it your own way.
You're a rash man.'

'It's you that are rash,' he answered. 'Do your damnedest, but keep out
of my way if you don't want something to happen to you.'

He realized then that it was a crowded street and that people were
passing, so he broke away and, furious with anger, crossed the street,
strode away on the other side, not observing Canon Ronder and Gaselee
whom he almost touched.

'My word!' Gaselee said. '_He's_ in a temper!'

       *       *       *       *       *

At a quarter to five Klitch was trying to sell a pair of paste ear-rings
to an elderly lady who had come, as she informed him, all the way from
Winchester to attend the Pageant.

Afterwards when trying to recall her he could remember nothing of her
appearance but that she had a slight moustache and wore a skirt
remarkably short for current fashion, and white stockings. The short
skirt was three years out of date, the white stockings thirty. She
adored Pageants, she told him, and had seen more than forty. Just then
the thunderstorm that had been threatening all day broke. There was one
great crack of sound directly over the Cathedral. The boards of the
stand opposite the window leapt into white brilliance. Then the rain
came down in sheets.

'These are very beautiful, madam,' Klitch said, caressing the ear-rings,
'and a hundred years old at least.'

'I don't really want jewellery.' She moved about, flicking a light-green
parasol dangerously at this article and that. 'That's pretty, that
mirror, and what a darling chair! Now what does _that_ cost?'

Klitch brought forward the chair, which _was_ a good one, its seat
worked in old tapestry.

'That's very good tapestry, madam. You can't go wrong with a chair like
that. It would find itself at home anywhere--good in any company.'

'Oh, but I don't know that it's a chair that I really want. _How_ the
rain is coming down! And I have only my parasol. Do listen to that
thunder! It seems to be directly overhead.'

'Let's hope it won't be like this to-morrow,' Klitch said. 'Now this
chair is really cheap considering the tapestry, but if it's too
expensive here is a pair . . .'

But the lady was still wandering.

'Oh, what a darling set of chessmen!' she exclaimed. 'My husband
_adores_ chess! I wonder . . .'

It was then that Klitch, turning towards the centre of the shop, saw
Stephen Furze. He was standing looking in, and over his head his big
green umbrella. His face peered forward out of the umbrella as a
tortoise protrudes its little tongue-licking head from its shell. The
rain dripped from the umbrella. There was a fierce thunder-clap and an
intense savage glare of lightning. Klitch saw in that illumination the
bowler hat, the thin line of eyebrow, the eyes, piercing and yet veiled,
the large white nose, the long tight mouth with the sharp chin. The
flash was gone and there was only the sombre rain-sodden light from the
thunderous sky. A moment later Furze also was gone and the lady knocked
over a blue vase with the point of her parasol. . . .

       *       *       *       *       *

By Arden Gate, Ronder, who had felt even that short climb, said,
'Service is over. I am going into the Cathedral for a moment.'

Gaselee said, 'I'll come with you.'

He had been thinking while they were in Bennett's that Ronder was ageing
very fast. Of course we must all die some time, but it seems a pity when
the brain is still so sharp and active that the rest of the body should
not support it.

Ronder took Gaselee's arm across the grass and made the same remark that
Klitch had made a little earlier: 'It will all look very different this
time to-morrow.'

'Yes. I hope it's fine. There's thunder threatening now. Look at that
black cloud over Harry Tower.'

'Yes.' The Cathedral bells rang the half-hour. 'Half-past four. Will you
come and have a cup of tea after I've had a word with Broad in the
Cathedral?'

'Thanks very much.'

'I'm not young any more.' He paused, leaning on Gaselee's arm. 'I'm too
fat, of course--always have been. I remember years ago, soon after I
first came here, chaffing Brandon about our size, his and mine. He
didn't like it at all. He had never any sense of humour about himself,
poor fellow.'

They passed into the Cathedral by a small side-door that led directly to
the choir. Now, in a choir-stall, Ronder sat suddenly down. From where
they were they could see the choir, the Black Bishop's Tomb, the High
Altar. From the rest of the Cathedral they were shut off. There seemed
to be no one about. There was absolute stillness.

'We'll wait here a moment before I hunt out Broad.' He sighed, patted
his stomach, passed his hand over his thinning hair. Gaselee, as often
before, wondered at his shining, meticulous neatness. An old immensely
stout man, but spotless, almost dapper. His eyes shot sharply out behind
his large round spectacles. 'People would nickname me Pickwick if I
didn't sometimes look devilish,' Ronder said about himself.

'Funny how people haven't forgotten Brandon,' Gaselee said. 'After all,
he didn't _do_ anything very special--not in the end, I mean.'

'In the end he died at a Chapter Meeting,' Ronder said. 'He always
thought that I was his enemy, that I was responsible for all his
misfortunes, that it was because of me that his wife and son ran away.
All quite false. But I won't deny that I thought, at that time, that I
was the New Order come, by Divine ordinance, to supersede the Old. Now,
when I look back, there doesn't seem to be any difference between the
two. In fact, my dear Gaselee,' here he laid his plump hand on the
younger man's shoulder, 'you said just now that Brandon hadn't done
anything. Well, I haven't done anything either.'

'Oh, come!' Gaselee said. 'That's absurd. I don't want to flatter you,
but you have been the soul of this place for nearly forty years.'

'No,' Ronder said, taking off his glasses and wiping them. 'Not the
soul. Anything you like, but not the soul.'

Gaselee raised his head.

'There. Did you hear that?'

'No--what?'

'Thunder.'

A faint rumbling, as of heavy feet moving, came from the organ-loft and
the Whispering Gallery. The Cathedral was suspiciously still, as though
holding its breath.

'We'd better wait for the thunder-shower to pass,' Ronder said. Then he
sighed. 'When you get to my age, Gaselee, and are out of condition as I
am, some part or other of your body responds evilly to every kind of
weather. If it's a lovely day and the sun's shining, your eyes ache; if
it's cold, your prostate gives you trouble; if it's close, your head
shuts down on you; if it rains, you have rheumatism. Ah, well, my time's
nearly up--and most of it's been wasted time.'

'What do you mean--wasted?' Gaselee asked.

Ronder looked at him with an affectionate but also cynical smile. 'I
talk to you, Gaselee, more intimately perhaps than anyone else here.
I'll tell you why if it doesn't offend you.'

'Of course it doesn't offend me,' Gaselee replied, but a little
apprehensive all the same.

'You're young and ambitious. You have come here just as I came here,
thirty-six years ago, resolved to run things. And you will, no doubt.
There's no one to stop you. You'll stay here, perhaps, over thirty years
as I have done. And then, as I do now, you'll discover that you've
missed it.'

'Missed what?' Gaselee asked.

'The essential thing--the thing that the Bishop and Purcell before him
and Wistons discovered--that I have not. I went wrong, I think now, over
a Pybus appointment. Oh, it's years ago and stale history. It was a
question of appointing some young ass whom Brandon fancied or Wistons.
Of course I was right to insist on Wistons, and I did insist, and it was
that that broke Brandon up finally. But I insisted for the wrong
reasons. I was proud of my intellectual superiority over the others, and
the victory that my intellect won then confirmed me in my course. I
wasn't malleable after all.'

'Don't you believe in a good brain, then?' Gaselee asked.

'Yes, of course. The problem of Christianity now is just that--how to be
intellectual enough to deal with modern science, higher criticism and
the rest, but not to put the brain so high that you lose the essential
thing. Because religion is faith. Religion is also intelligence. They
can combine--they must combine--but the proper balance is the problem.
There's a mystery, you see. The same mystery there has always been. If
you miss understanding _that_ you miss everything, however clever you
are. I didn't see that then. I can see it now. I've missed it.'

Gaselee felt uncomfortable. The Cathedral was cold and as empty as the
tomb. A great clap of thunder like an explosion in the church's very
heart startled them both.

'You're as spooky,' Gaselee said, 'as old Mordaunt himself with his
watching figure and live knights and the rest.'

'I don't know,' Ronder said, 'whether there isn't something in his idea.
Do you realize what Arden and Leofranc and the others had that we
haven't got? They had intensity. They may have been wrong, but they
_believed_ they were right and fought and sweated and prayed. Don't you
see? Either this whole thing, the spiritual life, is nonsense or it's
real. It must be one or the other. If it's nonsense, what rot this all
is and has been for centuries! But if it's real, what are we doing about
it? Have you attended ordinary Matins or Evensong at a country or town
church lately? What do you find, nine times out of ten? A droning
mechanical office without thought or meaning, an unreal sermon with a
lot of dead symbolic phrases taken for granted. What's the daily
Evensong in this Cathedral or any other? A mumbled repetition with a
lazy choir and a scrap of a congregation. _If_ it's real, don't you
suppose that someone is angry somewhere? Mordaunt's Inquisitor or
another. He examines, perhaps, one after another and throws them away.
"No life here. Nothing worth preserving." So in a little time it may be
with me. When you're near the end, Gaselee, your values alter, and it's
too late to do anything about it. . . .'

'You're not feeling too well,' Gaselee said. 'That's what it is.'

'I daresay. The body has a lot to do with it. Physical things are fine
while they last, but they don't last for ever.'

A great rumble of thunder came like cannon-balls rolling down the nave.
Then there was an intense silence. The two men did not speak.

Ronder said suddenly:

'Did you hear anything?'

'No--what?'

'I thought--a cry.'

Both men listened.

Ronder got up and walked to the end of the choir, looking into the nave.
There was no one to be seen.

He went back.

'Well, I must find Broad--and then we will have some tea.'

       *       *       *       *       *

After ten minutes or so they discovered Broad coming in by a side-door
from the cloisters, wiping his mouth with a large red handkerchief. He
was frightened of Ronder, who had been sharp with him more than once, so
he began to excuse himself. He had but run away home to snatch a cup of
tea, He had had a busy afternoon, for the tourists had been incessant.

Ronder talked to him about some affair and then Broad asked him to
excuse him. He must hurry to lock the Harry Tower door. 'And it will be
a while, gentlemen, before it's open again. I doubt that I did right
having it open for visitors to-day, but the Dean allowed it. The wood of
the Gallery floor is as weak as matchwood, they say.'

With apologies he left them. But some one stopped him, and he left the
locking of the door until later.

       *       *       *       *       *

The thunderstorm had rumbled itself into the distance, and Klitch, Mrs.
Klitch and young Guy strolled down to the Gate to see what the crowd was
doing.

Over the Precincts a lovely sky of the palest blue, without a shred of
cloud, lay like a summer sea. The grass was shining and fragrant after
the rain.

Young Guy caught his father's sleeve. 'There's Mr. Furze,' he said. 'The
old miserly one.'

'Where?' said his father, who had lit his pipe and was about to suggest
a pleasant stroll down the High Street.

'There--crossing the Green.'

But his father saw no one.

'You're seeing things, my boy. There's no one there. Come on. We'll go
down to the Market and see how the town's behaving itself.'




CHAPTER IV

PAGEANT: DURING THE PERFORMANCE ENTER RUMOUR


The sun was pouring down. It was a perfect day.

On the green sward behind the Cathedral the two great tents placed for
the robing and disrobing of the general performers shone like snow. The
grass was covered with the eager members of the Boy Scouts, the Girl
Guides, the Young Men's Christian Association, the Town Guild, the
Polchester Athletic Association, the Women's Institutes, all waiting,
breathlessly and perspiringly, to perform their parts. It was extremely
hot.

With a sudden magnificence there burst upon them the strains of 'God
Save the King.' The Pageant had begun!

Mrs. Cronin and Canon Cronin were fortunate in possessing a house with a
large garden that stretched from the Precincts to the edge of the lawns
behind the Cathedral, overlooking the Pol. They had eagerly offered
their house for the comfort and convenience of the special performers.
This Pageant in fact provided Mrs. Cronin with her ideal opportunity.
She was a lady who had, all her life, suffered from an inferiority
complex. She longed to be loved by everyone and at the same time saw
only too clearly why it must be impossible for anyone to love her. The
Cronins were not wealthy or clever or easy companions. He busied himself
eagerly in Church matters but always failed to create an impression. No
one in Polchester meant better--no one achieved less. And she, loving
not only her husband but all the world, insisted on kindnesses that were
not needed, on anxieties for her friends that they felt to be tiresome,
chattered when she should have been silent, was enthusiastic when a
little sarcasm was the proper thing, defended friends who never
suspected they needed defence, was intimate too quickly and bitterly
disappointed too publicly.

Now, however, for once in a way, she possessed something that everyone
wanted, and oh! how eagerly she gave it! The house had many bedrooms,
bathrooms, large dining-room and drawing-room. There was the garden,
there were summer-houses, food and drink for everyone! All so splendidly
at hand that Mrs. Braund in her armour, Lady Mary in her ruff and
pearls, Lampiron in his cope and mitre, these and the others had but to
take a step and there they were! So Mrs. Cronin--a small woman with
large wet blue eyes, a snub nose and a shrill high-pitched voice--moving
here, there, everywhere, saying: 'Oh, darling, are you sure you have all
that you want?' 'There are _lovely_ cool drinks in the dining-room!'
'Oh, but it's _no_ trouble, it's a joy!'--was happier than she had ever
been since Canon Cronin proposed to her on the steps of the Acropolis,
years ago, in a dust-storm.

Mrs. Braund, Lady Mary, Lampiron had bedrooms to themselves; others, the
Carris girls and Penny for example, shared and chattered and shared
again. The whole house echoed with voices, laughter, cries, calls to
servants. In every bedroom was a card with the time-table of the
succeeding episodes. Every performer must be ready for his or her
entrance ten minutes before public appearance. Through the open windows
could be heard the high voices of the performers in the First Episode:
Withers--the author of the book--was himself playing the part of Saint
Leofranc, and his rather shrill, piping voice came into the room where
Mrs. Braund was:

'_Bring me the child._

'_A fever, say you? At point of death? An it be God's will, sickness is
nought. . . ._'

Mrs. Braund, a crimson wrapper concealing the first layer of her
transformation, stretched on a _chaise longue_, looked at her watch, out
of window, back at her watch again. Her episode was the fifth and she
had still an hour of this intolerable waiting. Her brain was a messy
confusion. She repeated some of her lines to herself:

'_What, men, Englishmen, and afraid?_

'_With this Cathedral here for your support, this fair town that trusts
to you?_

'_Know you how I have loved you and built on you my faith? I, who . . .
I, who . . ._'

What if the words would not come? Then she would invent them. She had
had, at the dress rehearsal, an odd experience, when it seemed to her
that she had poured out a torrent of angry, abusive rhetoric that had,
most certainly, never come from Mr. Withers. But no one had noticed
anything. She had been greatly applauded and praised although she
fancied that there had been an angry whisper in her ear: 'Get off your
horse, you fool! Do you fancy _that's_ the way to ride?'

Oh, well, it was a queer business altogether and she would not be sorry
when it was over. But how was it that she had known that there were
stores of gunpowder laid down in the Cathedral vaults and that new
wheels had been fitted on the guns brought from Drymouth, that her
anxiety was about _these_ things, the gunpowder, the wheels, and not
about her words and the discomfort of her armour and her longing for a
cup of tea?

She moved restlessly. Yes, and that trouble with the Carris girls! What
perverse fate had arranged that they should be at hand when she had said
some light mocking thing about their mother? Why was it that she seemed
now to be surrounded with hostility? Jealousy, of course; her
photograph--she magnificent on her horse with her attendants around
her--in the London papers!

She had looked forward to this tremendously, and now something, someone,
was spoiling it. The whole town was split into parties and factions. It
was this heat, this unbroken succession of fine days. English people
weren't accustomed to it. . . .

There was a knock on the door and Romney came in. He was in a state of
almost hysterical excitement.

'Oh, darling, are you all right? May I come in? Quite respectable?
There, the First Episode's over. The place is packed. Not a seat
anywhere, and it's so hot in the stands that everyone is sitting in
pools of perspiration. Feeling nervous, darling? You shouldn't be. You
were superb at rehearsal yesterday. Simply marvellous. You and
Lampiron--I thought Mary was a _little_ Bloomsbury, didn't you? And she
hasn't got nose enough. The real Elizabeth was _all_ ruff and nose. And
oh, darling, the Carris girls are _so_ angry. They've just been pouring
it all out! What _did_ you say to them?'

'I didn't say anything. They're always eavesdropping.'

Romney saw that tears were not far away. He understood _all_ about
tears, how to produce them, how to prevent them. He consoled her now as
though he were her mother.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the paddocks behind the Cathedral the crowd from the First Episode
was streaming into the tents while the crowd for the Second Episode
arranged itself under Mr. Percy Dalton's Napoleonic command.

'Now-now. Quiet. Quiet. What did I tell you? Group A to the left,
Group C half-right. . . . Now. Remember. Group D--you follow the
Pope. The Monks--all ready? Watch for Mr. Doggett's beat--in front
of the orchestra. I'll give you the beat until you get where you can
see him. . . .'

Many of the crowd who had figured in the First Episode were also in
this, for costume had not changed so greatly from Leofranc to Gregory.
It was afterwards said that it was by means of this confusion that some
of the town roughs--Tom Caul, young M'Canlis, Frank Ottley (Ottley's
good-for-nothing brother)--managed to push their way in. They had no
right to be there at all, and afterwards there was much discussion as to
where they found their costumes. Little Timothy Broad could have told a
tale if he dared. He was one of the smallest and youngest of all the
Boy Scouts and he was in Episode Two. He even had a line to speak when,
running forward with a crowd of children, he shades his eyes with his
hand and cries: 'There is dust on the road. I hear the tramp of horses!'
How wonderful it had all been, all through rehearsal, suddenly to take
the centre of the stage, to cry his sentence, and it seemed to him that
he was not looking into the stands, the roofs and chimneys of Norman
Row, but that he in reality saw a long straight road, poplars bordering
it, the dust spiralling up into a hot blue sky, and a group of horsemen
against the horizon. Some of them were in armour. He could catch the
sparkle of silver and brass. . . .

At the dress rehearsal he had stayed there gazing after his part was
over, and Mr. Dalton, whose temper was very uncertain, had scolded him.
Now, on the actual day, he had felt very safe. He would make no mistake.
He was dressed in a bright blue smock, with a gold belt, bare legs and
sandals. He wanted his handkerchief and he ran back to the tent. It was
filled with Boy Scouts and men from the Athletic Association. He himself
could have dressed at home, but it felt more important to be with all
the others. He knew where his clothes were at the far end of the tent.
When he got there he saw a very terrifying sight. Young Aldridge, the
Mayor's eldest son, a young man of twenty or so, was standing in his
underclothes looking very sheepish and even terrified. Over him, in a
threatening attitude, stood what seemed to little Timothy a gigantic
man, naked save for a pair of very shabby socks and tattered
sock-suspenders. He appeared to Timothy the largest man he had ever
seen, with a red unshaven scowling face, a chest covered with black
hair, and very unclean hands whose dirt stood out clearly against the
bright whiteness of his thighs. This strange giant was speaking to young
Aldridge in no uncertain words. 'I'll break your blasted neck if you say
a word----'

Then, to Timothy's astonishment, he proceeded to cover his nakedness
with young Aldridge's costume, which was sack-like in shape, dark red in
colour. The fierce face, the bare hairy legs, the great breadth of
shoulder, all helped to make of Tom Caul a far finer native Briton than
Aldridge would have made. His costume adjusted, he laughed, gave
Aldridge a push that sent him reeling to the side of the tent. Then he
saw Timothy.

'What the hell are you staring at?' Then his good-nature (for he was
often good-natured) had the better of him and he caught Timothy Broad
up, lifted him on to his shoulder and strode out, shouting as he went.

The fact was that he was pretty drunk during the whole of that week,
which made it afterwards difficult for him to give an accurate account
of his own behaviour. But, like many men who are drunk more often than
sober, he was well able to look after himself in either state. But he
was reckless. He didn't care a damn what happened. He'd set fire to the
Cathedral for tuppence. When the crowd rushed into the arena to welcome
the Pope he still carried young Timothy on his shoulder. He was shouting
and waving his free arm.

'You'll have to let me go,' Timothy whispered in his ear. 'I have to
speak.'

Caul released him, but only just in time. Timothy ran forward with the
other children, said his line, stood staring down the road, under his
hand. How clearly he saw it! It ran straight between poplars, then there
was a small wooden bridge beneath which ran a stream; then a small hill
began and it was on the rise of this hill that he saw the horsemen,
their armour glinting in the sun. . . . But he did not forget this time
to move back with the other children. Now he lost the road but instead
saw the mass of the audience, dark, scattered with pieces of
colour--red, green, blue, and then to the left the solid block of the
choir, more than three hundred of them, all in white.

It was at that moment that the first real trouble occurred. Pope Gregory
(Mr. Bennett of the bookshop) was advancing, followed by the chanting
monks, when, to everyone's consternation, Tom Caul ran out from the
crowd, waving his arms, shouting, crying out some strange words that no
one understood. Then, when he was in the very middle of the arena, he
seemed to realize where he was, for he looked sheepish suddenly, scowled
about him, and, shaking his fist (apparently at poor Bennett, down whose
face sweat was already pouring because the sun was so hot and his
clothes were so heavy), moved back into the crowd and disappeared.

       *       *       *       *       *

Yes, the audience was finding it extremely warm; the cheaper seats were
not under cover and the upper covered seats felt the roof 'heavy like
thunder' on their heads. But there were, at present, no complaints.
Everyone was in excellent temper. The Duchess of Drymouth herself was
present--that large lady like a beetroot in grey silk and a purple
toque, the kind the Queen wears. There was the Bishop, the Archdeacon,
Aldridge and Mrs. Aldridge (Aldridge said, during the Second Episode, to
his wife: 'I don't see Bob anywhere, my dear. I've looked through the
glasses at everyone.' 'Oh dear,' said Mrs. Aldridge, 'I do hope it isn't
his stomach.' Because Bob inherited his faulty digestion from his
father), Lord and Lady St. Leath with a party of friends, all these
grand people sat in fine prominent seats bordered with red cloth. In
front of the Duchess, who was so hot that perspiration dimmed her eyes
and she saw everything through a haze, there was a large bouquet of
carnations. Mrs. Dickens, who was on one of the uncovered stands to the
right of the swells, with three others of Mrs. Coole's old ladies, saw
the carnations and passionately longed that they should be put into
water. There they lay, poor things, sizzling on the hot boards, gasping.
Oh yes, gasping like fish out of water. Her red, hard-worked perspiring
little hands clenched and unclenched. She heard the chanting of the
monks and thought how lovely it was, but old Mrs. Anthony said, wiping
her forehead, 'My, but it's hot! What's the matter with you, Alice?
You're as restless as I don't know----'

'It's those carnations. There in front of the Duchess. Poor things,
they're dying for water.'

Canon Dale and Gaselee were sitting two rows above the dignitaries.
'Good,' said Dale, 'that bit of colour. Do you see it? That crimson book
Gregory is carrying against the white, and the soldier in the crowd with
that apple-green banneret.'

'Yes. Romney's doing,' Gaselee said. 'He's got genius. I've seen dozens
of pageants before, but this is different from any other. I can tell
that already, although these first two episodes are bound to be drab.
Did you notice the stone of sacrifice in the First Episode? Romney had
had an extraordinary devil painted on it in red and gold. I happened to
notice it in the paddocks yesterday with some of the other properties.
Well, no one will know that devil is there except Romney himself and a
few connected with the immediate scenes. Yet, although nobody sees it,
it will help the general atmosphere. It makes a difference. Then in the
episode just finished did you notice that rough-looking fellow rush
forward with a boy on his shoulder? Did you realize that he shouted
gibberish, not English at all? What a touch! I bet that was Romney's
doing--Old Dalton would never have thought of it.'

'Didn't you recognize him?' Dale asked. 'The ruffian, I mean? He's one
of the town villains--a fellow named Caul. He's a Hyde Park orator, a
communist, a spouter of revolt. I cannot think what he's doing in the
Pageant at all. And the child he had on his shoulder was Broad's little
boy--Broad the verger, the most conventional, snobbish old time-server.
A funny conjunction!'

But now they were silent, for the Third Episode was beginning. In the
stand nearest Arden Gate, well to the front on one of the unprotected
seats, was Klitch, and with him his wife and children. The Cathedral
choir was to take part in only one episode--the visit of Queen
Elizabeth--so young Klitch had still plenty of time before he need robe.
He was to sing one verse of the welcoming song as solo, but that did
not perturb nor excite him. He was a very self-composed unemotional boy,
sure of what he wanted. But the Third Episode--the visit of the Pilgrims
and the Town Fair--excited and pleased him. He leant forward, his eyes
shining. This was the first opportunity for both Dalton and Romney.
Dalton, whatever his eccentricities and snobberies may have been, had a
genius for crowds. The Pilgrims had not been, like those of Canterbury
or Winchester, ever greatly noble or distinguished, but Polchester had
been the Cathedral for seamen, fishermen, merchants owning cargoes--and
now Dalton had given his crowd a special seafaring appearance. An appeal
had been made (very rashly it was afterwards thought) for men in Seatown
who had something to do with the sea.

They had responded in considerable numbers, for they were for the most
part unemployed, and now a very lively rough crowd they had made. They
came pouring into the arena, the respectable members singing the
Pilgrims' Hymn, but the good Seatown citizens, many of them happily in
liquor, laughed and shouted and tumbled on to one another like animals.
The Pilgrims were met by the incoming at the other end of the arena of
the Town Fair. Here Romney had excelled himself. His whole passion for
fantastic, abnormal, and morbid creation had been allowed its escape. On
the surface (and with the majority of the audience it was only the
surface that was perceived) you were aware that this was a scene of gay
colour and clever movements, but not on the whole dramatic as the scenes
with Lady Emily and the Black Bishop were to be. Yet for one or two--for
Ronder, for Michael Furze, for Mordaunt, for little Tim Broad, for a
few more--it was the most significant moment of the afternoon.

In all it lasted only ten minutes. The booths were placed. There were
two clowns in cherry-coloured tights, there was a quack doctor with
bottles of coloured liquid and a girl who carried a snake on her arm,
there were sellers of trinkets and laces, there were performers of
tragedy, there was a wrestling match, there was a gilt coach with a
grand lady, there was a man dragged, by the Justices' order, to the
whipping-post, there were children following a piper. . . .

Romney's sense of colour here was allied to Percy Dalton's production.
His sharp reds and sudden greens, his gold cloth and silver tissue,
brilliantly stabbed the dun background of jerkin and woollen hose. But
his spirit was no more in these than you would suspect. It was about the
things that you _didn't_ see that his queer abnormal nature took the
greatest pleasure. Gaselee and a few others suspected this. For
Gaselee--who was not, as it happened, on that day feeling very
well--everything had slightly the air of phantasmagoria. He suspected
(in this scene especially) that behind every figure that he saw there
was another figure. As the Fair people danced to the sharp acid note of
the pipe and drum, it seemed to him that other more shadowy figures
danced also, and as the Pilgrims moved in solemn file, singing, through
the great doors of the Cathedral, he thought that at the very time there
emerged a procession, a long man in black, his head a little on one
side, followed by a kind of trestle carried by four men. As the little
group approached, the Fair died away, the singing and laughter and
music faded. The episode ended.

'That's clever of Romney,' Gaselee said to Dale.

'What is?' Dale asked.

'Why, you know the tale that's been round the town this summer of a man
who comes out of the West Door, followed by a corpse on a trestle. A
ridiculous tale--Heaven knows how it originated--but several people say
they have seen him----'

'No. I hadn't heard it,' said Dale. 'This town seems to be full of
stories just now.'

'Well, Romney had. He used it in this scene.'

'I wondered what that group coming from the Cathedral at the end meant.
I wasn't sure in fact whether I _did_ see it. The crowd of Pilgrims
obscured it. A clever scene that, altogether.'

Gaselee moved restlessly. His stomach was very unsettled and like all
optimistic egoists he felt, when his bodily organs functioned a little
uneasily, that it was an affront to his dignity and a menace to his
security.

'I agree with you. We are a little far away. It's hard to tell what
one's seeing and what one's not.'

Klitch and Mrs. Klitch, in their seats high up, had no doubts about what
they saw and did not see. But then they never did. They had, both of
them, excellently clear sight, physical, moral, and aesthetic.

Klitch, as bright as a painted figure, with his high white collar, his
gleaming tie-pin, his round, ruddy and smiling countenance, was enjoying
himself hugely. He was greatly proud of the whole affair as though he
had himself created it. For weeks he had been pleased with the
world-wide advertisement that Polchester was obtaining, the photographs,
the paragraphs in the London papers. And now all was well. The sun was
shining and the Pageant was proving itself an excellent pageant. There
could not surely be a better anywhere. This last episode, now--the life,
the colour, the movement! As it ended and the noise died, the figures
vanished, leaving only, once more, the great wall of the Cathedral and
the bright glittering greensward, he turned to Mrs. Klitch, beaming.

'I call that first-rate. You might be right back in the Middle Ages, my
dear. That dancing, and the music and the quack doctor and the fellow
ranting the play on the floor of that cart--the Middle Ages, my dear!
You could _smell_ them.'

And it was just then that little Mr. Crockett (whose second-hand
bookshop was poor Marlowe's temptation) leaned forward and, speaking low
in Klitch's ear, said:

'I say, Klitch, have you heard about Furze?'

'No,' said Klitch. 'Which Furze?'

'Stephen Furze.'

'No. What about him? Broken his neck? I wish to God he had.'

'Not so far as I know. But he's disappeared.'

'Disappeared?'

'Yes. Since yesterday afternoon. No one's set eyes on him.'

Klitch was greatly interested.

'You don't say?'

'Yes. He never came home last night. They've been making enquiries this
morning. Nobody's seen him. Nobody----'

But the next episode was beginning. They must pay attention.

       *       *       *       *       *

Bird was not far from them. He had a good seat but he was, as yet, sadly
unable to concentrate. For two reasons. One was that Mr. and Miss
Porteous were, by a fatal chance, in seats just behind him. The other
reason was that the place next to his was empty. Elizabeth had not come.

He had counted on her absolutely. The note that she had written to him
had been simple and brief, but there had been sincerity in every word of
it. He knew now that he loved her. He had never been in love before, but
this had come to him with complete certainty. He was clear-headed and
clear-eyed about it in every way. He knew that she was not beautiful
(although at times she seemed to him to have in her gaze, her figure,
her stature something more beautiful than physical beauty). He made no
pretence to himself that he loved her only for her character, which was,
he thought, finer than that of anyone he had ever known. He loved her in
every way, physical, mental, and spiritual. He did not suppose that she,
as yet, loved him. He believed himself to be entirely unattractive to
women, in spite of Miss Camilla, who was sitting, as though dressed for
golf, so close behind him. He recognized very well the type that he
was--the little, gentle, mouse-like, uncared-for man whom he encountered
so frequently in novels and the pictures. Figuring in such romances the
little man was always passed over by the proud beauty, although his
heart of gold won something worth while before the end. Yes, that was
his _external_ figure, a sentimental and moving type. But _inside_ he
was entirely different. He was not sentimental nor touching nor
appealing. He had often the rudest and most violent wishes and desires.
He frequently disliked people very much and wished to tell them so. He
had not, as such little men in books often had, complete trust in every
human--he did in fact discover that many people were greedy, cruel,
selfish and lustful. Were it not for his trust in God he would have poor
hopes for many of his fellow-creatures.

He had always thought himself a coward, but, since his defiance of
Porteous over the Carol Service, he had found his courage grow. He did
not know that Porteous had, only this last week, said to his daughter:
'I cannot _think_ what is happening to Bird. He seems to have no real
sense of playing the game.' If he had heard, he would have been pleased.
His love for Elizabeth and his friendship with Lampiron were bringing
out of him qualities that had always been there but had received little
encouragement.

Now, when Porteous boomed in his ear: 'Splendid! Quite splendid! The
team-work is magnificent!' he nodded his head but made no other reply.
What would they say, Porteous and his daughter, when they saw Elizabeth
come in and sit beside him? Well, they could say what they liked . . .
it would do them good.

But why didn't she come? The Fourth Episode was beginning, the episode
of the Black Bishop. It was to this that he had chiefly been looking
forward because his friend was to be glorified in it. He had heard from
many sides that Lampiron was most remarkable, that it was as though
Henry Arden himself had come to life. A group of knights came in, a
lonely little group on the empty sward. They dismounted from their
horses and waited. A crowd of people passed into the Cathedral, the
bells pealing. Then a procession of monks singing. Then the Black
Bishop, followed by two monks. The knights started forward; the Bishop
turned and looked at them. The bells ceased and there was a great
silence.

Lampiron looked superb in glittering vestments. But there was much more
in it than clothes and vestments. As he stood there he seemed the
embodiment of law, order, strength. There was defiance, there was
saintliness and, in some curious way, there was also the foreboding of
doom. Then he passed into the church.

Crowds gathered, idly looking on. Then the knights, pushing their way
through the crowd, also passed in. There was silence--and Bird, who for
a moment forgot Elizabeth and everything in the world but the reality of
this scene, held his breath. So with all that crowd. Dale said
afterwards that it was all he could do not to rush forward and help to
defend, or at least to warn, the victim. It was too late for warning.
Through the open door there came a great cry and then the clash of
swords. The crowd moved, calling and shouting.

Then, from the West Door, there came a _mle_ of struggling and
fighting men--knights, monks and the Bishop himself. One knight had him
by the shoulder, his sword uplifted, but Arden tore himself away, stood,
his feet planted, his head up, and called in a voice that rang through
the arena:

'God's servant! Beware of God's servant!'

A divine rage seemed to seize him and, raising his crozier, he shouted
his defiance, not because of their attack on himself but for their
insult to his Church. For an instant he was alone, his strength and
power seemed to dominate not only that scene, but the town, the country,
the world. Then the knights fell upon him. For a moment he was above
them; he had caught two knights by the shoulders and was beating them
off as though they were dolls. Then he fell.

The knights, their work done, ran to their horses. No one in the crowd
stayed them. They rode off furiously. Two monks were slain. The others
gathered about their master and, at last, bore him up into the Cathedral
again. The crowd knelt, the bell began to toll. At length there was no
one there--only a torn cloak on the sward.

Bird drew a deep breath. For a brief moment of time--or had it been an
experience out of time, without beginning or end?--he had watched (and
powerless to help) the death of his friend. It was as though, with
abrupt hands, a rough segment had been torn from a heavy all-embracing
curtain. He had looked through and had seen more, far more, than that
one scene. He had realized fragments of building--crocketed pinnacles,
arch-moulds delicately patterned, an openwork gable flanked by turrets,
windows of burning glowing glass deep-set in thick walls, a strange rank
smell of horse-dung and tar after smoke of incense, and Arden himself in
some small room with black panelling, turning to him with a gentle
smile. . . .

He pressed his hand against his forehead and, as though he awoke from a
dream, was aware of the murmur of voices and the sun striking the
Cathedral windows; he heard the trumpet blow to announce the next
episode.

Then he saw also that Elizabeth Furze was coming in.

How glad he was! As he watched her, moving so quietly and with such
dignity towards him, he felt as though he had known her for ever and
ever. He knew her shyness and diffidence. He saw that people were
noticing her and saying, doubtless, as she always heard them saying:
'There goes old Furze's daughter.' Perhaps the cruel ones were adding:
'I wonder she has the impertinence.'

But he thought to himself: She need never have any fear any more because
I shall always be with her.

As she sat down beside him she said in a low voice:

'I'm sorry I'm late.'

'It doesn't matter a bit now that you've come!'

How he enjoyed that moment when she took her place beside him! What old
Porteous and the others would be thinking! And, maybe, afterwards
Porteous would be saying to him: 'I don't think, my dear fellow. . . .
What I mean is that in a town like this one has to be careful----' And
wouldn't he enjoy replying: 'Well, Rector, if you don't like my friends
. . .'

Then she said an extraordinary thing:

'I am late because we are in great trouble. My father went out yesterday
afternoon and has not come back. We----'

But the episode was beginning. He saw that she turned with a great
effort of will and faced the scene, her lips set, her hands clasped
tightly on her lap.

He was afterwards greatly to regret that, because of his preoccupation
with Elizabeth's trouble, much of the scene that now took place was to
remain dim to him. For it was now that the sense of disturbance that
had, in an undefined way, been growing throughout the afternoon, was for
a moment to become visible to everybody.

Here at least Dalton's famous talent for the mastery of crowds was seen
at its finest. Every actor in the Pageant, great and small, figured in
this scene. A tumultuous mob rushed in, to the discordance of guns,
trumpets, and all the riot of warfare, as though to protect the
Cathedral. A confused mass of soldiers ran back from Arden Gate. The
whole multitude of people was driven huddling and crying against the
very walls of the Cathedral.

Then Emily de Brytte appeared on her white horse, her women behind her,
clad in armour, waving her sword, rallying her soldiers.

The crowd turned, sweeping around her, the soldiers again advancing.
Dalton here gave a marvellous sense of peril and threatening
catastrophe. You must feel that the high climbing street of the town
was crowded with the enemy--you could smell the smoke and feel the
hot tongue of the flame. Before Arden Gate there was _mle_ and
confusion. The crowd hurled itself into the business of shouting,
yelling, screaming with all the joy in the world. The issue hung in
the balance. . . .

It was at this principal moment of the scene that Bird could not clear
his impression. But he was not alone in that. A hundred different
versions were afterwards given of it. The common account was that some
rough fellow laid hands on poor Mrs. Braund's white horse and even on
Mrs. Braund herself. It was said that there was a good deal of general
fighting in the crowd and that the fighting was not imitation Pageant
business either. However that might be, there came unquestionably a
moment when Mrs. Braund seemed in danger of being dragged from her horse
and trampled on the ground. And more than that--there was, behind her
actual personal danger, for a brief time, a consciousness everywhere
that a general riot might break out. Many people rose in their seats.
Someone cried shrilly: it was as though, in that second of time,
everyone were warned of the actual reality of the peril that lies always
beneath the thin crust of conventional conduct.

Then it passed. Order was restored. Mrs. Braund, her helmet a little
askew, rode to the Gate, was cheered by her now victorious soldiers, and
then proceeded forward slowly to behind the scene, her people following
her.

And the audience sat in a vaguely astonished silence, settling back to
conventional safety again.

       *       *       *       *       *

He turned then to Elizabeth.

'What do you mean? Tell me. Your father hasn't returned?'

'No. He was seen last yesterday afternoon. A number of people saw him
going up the High Street. Last night I waited for him. He's sometimes
out late on business. And then, about one o'clock, I went to bed. But I
woke about four. I don't know why. I don't know what disturbed me. It
was a hot night with a full moon. I couldn't rest, and at last I went
downstairs and there in the hall I found my uncle.'

'Your uncle?'

'Yes. He's been very restless lately and has taken to walking about the
house at night. The hall was lit with the moon. He asked me what I was
doing there, and I said that I had left the door unlocked because father
hadn't come in when I went to bed. I said that I came down to lock it.
Then my uncle said that father was still not in. He had been to his room
and he was not there.' She drew a deep breath and lowered her voice as
though she were afraid that people might hear.

'I didn't wonder then what Uncle Michael was doing in father's room,
although now, when I think of it, it seems odd. Father always hates any
of us coming near his room. I said nothing. I went upstairs again. Then
I slept. But when I came down in the morning my uncle was waiting for me
and he told me that father had not returned.' She looked at him as
though to reassure herself. 'You know what everyone thinks of us--how
they hate us. What I've wanted for years is that we--mother and
I--should do nothing that anyone would notice. And now my first thought
was that father _must_ come back or everyone would begin to talk. I went
upstairs to tell my mother--she's blind, you know, and hasn't been very
well. When I told her she seemed to know it already. When I asked her
what we had better do she said we'd better wait. He might return at any
moment. He might be in the house now.'

She stopped.

'But he wasn't?' Bird said.

'No, he wasn't. There's no sign of him. At first I thought that I
wouldn't come this afternoon. And then I thought--yes, I would, just to
show them all that there's nothing the matter.'

He interrupted her. 'Listen. Don't you be frightened.'

'I'm not frightened. There's nothing to be frightened of. Father must
have taken a night train to Drymouth or somewhere without telling us.
That's the only possible thing. I expect he's back at the house now or
he will come to-night.'

'Listen,' he said again. 'Whatever happens you've got me to depend on.
All these months I haven't forced myself on you, have I, or hurt your
feelings?'

'No. You've been very kind.'

'Well, now, I'm not going to wait any more. It may be as you say--quite
all right, nothing wrong at all--but if anything _is_ wrong I'm beside
you, do you see? I'm your friend, the best you have. There's nothing I
won't do for you. There's----'

'Hush,' she said. 'People will hear.'

'I don't care whether they hear or no. I love you, Elizabeth--I----'

'Oh no, no!' she whispered. 'Not now. Not here. And not myself. Nobody
can--nobody must----'

'Somebody does. Wait. You'll see----'

The Pageant had begun again.

They neither of them realized what was happening. Ronder as the Abbot in
the Closing of the Monastery, Lady Mary as Queen Elizabeth, the great
assembly of all the actors at the close. . . .

They spoke no more. Only he realized, at the last, that his hand
touched her glove, that she did not move but suffered the contact.

       *       *       *       *       *

The sun was low and Mrs. Cronin's garden was wrapped in a green shade.
Inside the house everyone was preparing to depart.

Mrs. Cronin ran from place to place. She was exquisitely happy. 'It has
been splendid, hasn't it? Pins, darling? Why, yes--thousands of course.
Oh, of course. They say it got very rough once or twice, but how
delighted everyone was. And the weather! . . . Yes, my pet, there's Cup
and iced coffee. . . . No, wait, I'll arrange it for you. . . .'

She tapped on the door. 'May I come in?'

She entered and found her maid arranging Mrs. Braund's armour. 'So that
you'll find it exactly in the same place to-morrow, madam--all ready to
put on.'

Mrs. Braund, in a little purple hat that suited her none so well, was
sitting in a round arm-chair staring into the long looking-glass. She
must have seen Mrs. Cronin's reflection in the looking-glass but she
said no word, made no movement.

'Well, darling--you were splendid. You were wonderful. You were simply
magnificent. Everyone is admiring you quite wonderfully!'

Mrs. Braund said nothing. She sat there, staring. The maid gave her
mistress a quick intimate glance. Mrs. Braund got up, pulling her big
heavy body together. On her left cheek there was a faint, a very faint
dark bruise the size of a penny.

'Oh, darling, were you hurt? I heard that they were a little rough.'

Mrs. Braund pulled herself together.

'They can't frighten me,' she said. 'I shall go on with it.'

'But of course, darling. . . . Do come and have a drink before you go.
Some Cup or there's iced coffee. . . .'

Mrs. Braund touched her cheek, then picked up her rather ugly
tortoiseshell bag from the bed.

'They can't stop me with threats,' she said. 'See you to-morrow,' and
went.

Lampiron, lastly, in the darkling garden (soon to be drenched with the
pale ivory shadow of the moon) met Penny Marlowe with the two Carris
girls.

'Wasn't it topping?' Mabel Carris cried. 'And isn't it lovely to think
that there are three more days of it?'

'And you _were_ good, Mr. Lampiron,' Gladys cried. 'Better than
anybody.'

'Will you _ever_ forget,' cried Mabel, 'old Mother Braund with her
helmet all on one side clinging to her horse's mane? The old cat! Serve
her right. She'll get it worse before the week's over.'

A figure passed.

'Oh, Lord! I believe that _was_ Mother Braund!'

'Never mind! I'll tell her to her face----'

But Penny had not spoken a word. At the gate that opened on to the
Cathedral Green the Carris girls went ahead.

He turned back.

'Well, Penny, did you enjoy it?'

'Yes, in a way. Our episode suddenly got unpleasant somehow. Some of the
crowd were rough and I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to hold my
horse in.' She added: 'Everyone says you were wonderful. And I can't
see you because our scene comes just after. Isn't it a shame?'

She wore a thin summer frock, white with pink flowers and green leaves.
In that green dusk she was like a Botticelli child. Such a child and of
such lovely unreality that he put his arm round her and kissed her. With
a sharp indrawing of breath as though a miracle had occurred she lay for
a moment against him, her heart beating against his. She put up her hand
and laid the back of it against his cheek.

'Because--in this light,' he whispered, 'you are unreal----'

Then, his head down, he walked across the Green. She did not move from
where he had left her.

Just as he neared his house someone stepped out from the shadow. It was
Leggett.

'Hullo, Lampiron!'

'Good evening.' He loathed the man and did not intend to stop, but the
thick-set body waving a little on the short quivering legs was in his
path.

'Fine show,' Leggett said. 'I was there. And nothing better than your
Bishop. A grand bit of acting. Everyone said so.'

'Thanks.'

Leggett put out his hand and touched Lampiron's shoulder. Lampiron moved
back.

'I say--heard the news?'

'No--what news?'

'Stephen Furze has disappeared.'

'Disappeared? How do you mean?'

'I mean what I say. No one has seen him since yesterday afternoon.'

'My God!'

'Rather! I agree with you.'

'But you--you knew more about him than anyone else. What do you think
has happened to him?'

Leggett sniggered.

'I don't know--no idea. May have gone off for a jaunt somewhere. Or he
may have been murdered.'

'Murdered?'

'Yes; plenty of people disliked him--you for one.'

'I did--and do.'

'Quite so.' Leggett moved close to Lampiron, as though examining his
face, then turned away.

'I told you about it because I knew you'd be interested. You were one of
the last people to see him. So long. Good night.'




CHAPTER V

ELIZABETH'S JOURNAL (I)


I intend to write a brief narrative of the events connected with my
father's disappearance. I know that this is a very old-fashioned thing
to do. All the heroines of Victorian novels did it, including the
dreadful Esther Summerson. But I am going to write with no other
ambition than to tell the truth so far as I can. It is now two days
since my father's disappearance and I know from the things that are
already being said how useful it may be later on if I can have something
to show, can tell some of the things that have been going on in this
house, give evidence in fact that everyone will _have_ to admit is true.

I think also that for a long time I have been terribly repressed and
have done myself much harm. When I considered yesterday doing such a
thing as this I thought that I would keep myself--my feelings,
troubles--entirely outside it. It was to be the plainest, coldest
narrative of events. But I see already that that is impossible. This is
to be (I hope very shortly) the story of my mother, my father and
myself--and afterwards, of my uncle. But more than any of us it must be
the comments from one point of view on the life of this town. It is the
_town_--our town, Polchester--that is really the chief person in the
story.

I have lived in this town a great many years and have loved it and hated
it. How I have hated it! How I hate it now when it is already beginning
to talk about us and spy on us and laugh at us because of father! But
then I cannot criticize it for that. Father has been the most important
and the most hated person in the town. And then, also, how I love it!
How I have envied men like Mr. Bellamy, women like Mrs. Carris, because
of the opportunities they have had of serving the town, of making it
more beautiful, of keeping its old spirit alive!

The last person to see my father, it seems, was Mr. Klitch, the
curiosity-shop man. At a quarter to five on Tuesday afternoon there was
a thunderstorm and Mr. Klitch saw my father, standing in the rain,
staring in at the window. He says that when, later, he was with his wife
and child near Arden Gate his son says that he saw him, but Mr. Klitch
is sure that that was the boy's imagination. I myself saw my father last
at about ten past four. He came downstairs with Major Leggett and,
seeing me through the open door in the dining-room, said: 'You and your
mother can have a good time now, Elizabeth, because I shall be out of
the house for an hour or two.' He often--in fact generally--spoke to me
in that sarcastic way as though he hated me. He has hated me for a long
time, I know. He has always, since I was a little girl, grudged because
he has had to support me.

Yesterday was the opening day of our Pageant and I went to it because I
wished to show everybody that there was nothing the matter with us. Mr.
Bird gave me a ticket. It was a magnificent Pageant.

In the evening my uncle Michael came home about seven-thirty a little
drunk. At least I _think_ he was drunk. He had recovered all his old
noisy shouting ways that he had when he first came to us. He was another
human being from the miserable, silent, frightened creature he has been
during these last months. We had suffered alone, he and I. He was quite
frank about his happiness. 'Do you not feel, Elizabeth,' he said, 'that
a weight is lifted from our heads? Be honest now. You know that you do.
Let's enjoy ourselves for the little time there is before my dear
brother returns.'

'You think he has gone on a journey somewhere?' I asked him.

'Of course. What else?' Then he added, stuffing his mouth with food:
'They're saying in the town that he's been murdered.'

And then I was horrified at myself. I didn't care if someone _had_
killed him. My instantaneous thought was: 'Oh, if that's what's
happened, then I shall never see him again!' I want to make this clear
so that there can be no mistake. Until my uncle said that, I had had no
thought but that for some reason of his own my father had gone secretly
to some place and that very soon, at any moment, he would return.

As soon as my uncle spoke it was as though I entered into some kind of
conspiracy with him.

I lowered my voice, although there was no one in the room but ourselves.

'Of course that can't be.'

'Why not?' my uncle said. 'Hundreds of people hated him.'

They did. That is undoubted. And yet I am sure, in my own mind, that he
is alive. I have even the fantastically ridiculous notion that he may be
hiding somewhere in this house. And my uncle said: 'Don't you _know_
that he is not? Can't you _feel_ that he is out of the house? The house
is different. Everything is.'

Yes. Everything is. Only now I have realized what it meant--that
uncertainty of his appearance, the consciousness of his being everywhere
at once, and then the sneering hateful manner when he spoke. The house
was starved. Which reminds me that we shall have to do something about
money. My uncle is going to see Mr. Symon, father's lawyer, about it
to-day. Symon (whom I cannot abide) and Major Leggett were father's two
confidants--the only two who knew anything about his affairs. Of course
if father returns in the next day or two and discovers that we have been
spending his money freely he will devote a week at least to punishing us
(and myself especially) in all kinds of subtle ways. But we must live,
especially as my uncle has returned to his old large appetite and noisy
extravagance.

       *       *       *       *       *

This morning I had a long talk with mother about everything. It is now
five days since father's disappearance. We have decided to apply to the
police for help. The talk in the town is growing fantastically and
everything is helped by the strange mood in which everyone is--the
extremely hot weather, the disturbances yesterday on the last day of the
Pageant. I hear that there are three opinions as to my father's
disappearance--that he has been murdered, that he has gone away on some
private business and will reappear at any moment, that he is in the
town, that he has been seen by various persons in the last twenty-four
hours. This last seems to me very likely although to any outside person
it must be absurd. My father was a most mysterious person not only by
intention but by temperament. I remember when I was quite a little girl
staring at myself in a looking-glass and seeing, quite unexpectedly, my
father reflected in it. But, when I turned round, he was not in the
room. Of course that is easily explained. He slipped away, probably,
when he saw me start at seeing him, but the little incident is an
example of his unexpectedness, elusiveness, pleasure in giving
unpleasant surprises.

Mother and I have talked over very frankly all these theories of the
people in the town. I should like here to explain a little of my
relationship with my mother.

I have led, in many ways, so lonely a life that I have read a great deal
and thought a great deal too in a silly, confused, unsatisfied way. I am
a virgin--I have never experienced physical love--and I know therefore
that more than half of real life has been shut off from me. Even the
life that I have experienced has, because of this, been bathed in
unreality like a room that is tinged with green because its door has
green glass. I have had desires and they have been continually
repressed. I have not been in the least ashamed of these desires because
they are perfectly right and natural. I have even thought more than once
of going out and offering myself to the first man who would take me so
that I might know exactly what life is. I have not done so because I
have known that what I should gain in experience of life I should lose
in my experience of love. That experience of love my mother has given
me--not physical, not intellectual, not even spiritual or maternal
(although it has perhaps all these elements), but love in its purest,
most perfect essence. If--and when--I love a man who draws out of my
nature love from this same world as my mother's (and I am beginning,
very slowly, now, to believe that perhaps that may be one day my
experience) then I will yield to it completely. When it comes it will
have all the elements--sensual as well as spiritual--but sensual alone,
or spiritual alone, is not enough, is too weak, too worthless and, if I
yielded to it, it would sully that clear knowledge of love that my
mother has given me. I know that this sounds confused, illogical,
perhaps silly. But I am trying, above everything else, to be honest.

My life has taught me that one lives two lives, that they must be
experienced together and valued together. One is real in the
photographic tangible sense as chairs and tables and human bodies and
cancers and foods and drinks and money are real. The other is _more_
real but it is intangible. This second life lies inside the first one.
One knows it is there although one cannot see it. Perhaps it is even not
there, but the thought, belief that it is there is enough. I know that
_full_ experience embraces both these lives and that neither must be
denied. If I had relations with a man whom I did not love I should be
denying the more important life although extending the less important.

Neither my mother's love for me nor my father's hate have been so
important to me in their _physical_ results (although they have been
important) as in the inner life experiences they have given me. Once,
when I was a little girl, my mother was away staying with friends. I was
very hungry. My father knew that and ate in front of me, refusing me
food. He said he was training me, but he really did it because it
pleased him. But he _was_ training me. In order to maintain my pride and
self-reliance and keep myself to myself he forced me into another world
where food had no value. Although he has been so hated here and has made
so many people unhappy, he is perhaps doing the town a great benefit
because he is making it so uneasy, so _nervous_ that it is compelled to
examine itself, to see where it stands, to be an inquisitor of itself.
He prevents it from thinking only of the one world, the less important
world.

In the same way, after mother became permanently blind, I read very
often the Gospels to her, and we both have seen very clearly how the
less important _actual_ world has covered the teaching of Christ with a
great fog so that what He was and taught is hidden away. So the life of
the Cathedral here has become altogether false and perhaps the Cathedral
itself has come to resent this. I have lived with it so long that it
does not seem to me absurd that it should have a spirit and impulse of
its own, but most people would think that unreal. I imagine though that
reality may be quite opposite from what we think it is and that the
lives and thoughts of most people to-day are quite unreal, so unreal as
to be almost non-existent. I have come to feel this perhaps because so
much of my life has been lived _inside_ the blindness of my mother.
Loving one another as we do I have shared her physical blindness and
have shared her sense of values. Nearly everything that is important to
her now belongs to the important inside life and not the less important
outside life. Physical discomfort, food, clothes, money--and yet with
her disregard of these things she still has a childlike love of little
things, pleasures, physical beauty, and it is because my father took
these things from her that she resents him. But not fiercely. Passively.
He is only real to her in what he _is_, not in what he _does_.

I had not intended to write down these nave ideas, but I find that I
have done so because they are behind all the external events that I must
describe. One belongs to another. I will try now to be practical and
definite.

My mother and I love one another as friends, as sisters, as mother and
child, and then--beyond these relationships--we belong to one another in
a deep, fathomless region where love has no terms, is indefinable and is
eternal. As I know from my own long, tested experience that such a love
is possible, and as my mother and I are in no way exceptional persons
but quite ordinary, therefore it is evident that thousands of other
human beings must know such love, and it follows from that, it seems to
me, that the truest, most real life is spiritual, not physical. I am
afraid that this all sounds as though my mother and I are very dull
non-humorous people, but that also is not true. We enjoy all kinds of
things. Life seems to both of us a very comic affair. But then you must
remember that for years we have been living under a heavy weight of
ostracism and disapproval. Mother has lived for so long an interior life
of her own that people matter to her very little, but I _could_ have
enjoyed everything. I should have loved to be liked, to wear pretty
clothes, to have money and to travel. I enjoy small things so much. A
very little would have contented me. Mother knows this and I think that
is partly why she loves me. But now about father.

This morning, Mr. Gurney the Police Inspector came to see us. It is his
visit that has made me decide to write this. He is a large stout man
with a round rosy face, a kind expression which he tries to make stern
and official. We have all known him for years. When he sat in our bare,
ugly sitting-room he looked so kind and friendly that it was difficult
not to smile. When he talks there is a dimple in his left cheek and
there is a large fat curl that lies benevolently across his forehead. He
is a finely built man and has been a good footballer. He adores his wife
and children. If he had his way there would be no crime, no wickedness.
He would prefer a world of milk and honey. On the other hand he takes
his official position very seriously. In a year or two he will be
retiring, and he is very anxious that the higher authorities shall have
no chance to cut down his pension before his time is up.

He interviewed my uncle and myself, his note-book on his knee, sucking
his pencil. I saw very quickly that he was disturbed and unhappy, more
nervous and even frightened than the head policeman in our town ought to
be. He told us frankly at once that he didn't like the way things were
going. I asked him what had really been the trouble in the Pageant
yesterday, and he said that they hadn't as yet got to the root of the
matter, but that undoubtedly a lot of roughs from Seatown had been
largely responsible. It was true that Mrs. Braund had had her ankle
broken and two people were in hospital with concussion and bruises. He
said that trouble had been brewing for several months, that the
unemployed had objected to the Pageant and the part that the head people
in the town had played in it, that there was a lot of bad feeling
between the townspeople and the Cathedral clergy, and that he thought
that the exceptional unbroken hot weather was getting on everyone's
nerves. I mention all this because I think--and he seemed to think--that
my father's disappearance is mixed up with the general feeling of
uneasiness. He said that the most ridiculous stories were already
current in the town, and that he thought that we ought to know that many
people were saying that my father had been murdered. So--rather like a
distressed child--he begged us to tell him everything that we could. Had
my father said anything about going away? No, I said. He had not. But
Major Leggett and Mr. Symon, the lawyer, knew much more about his
affairs than we did. Had my father seemed restless and uneasy of late?
Had we noticed anything peculiar or different about him? No, I said, he
had been the same as usual. He asked us whether we thought it might be
true that he was somewhere in the town and whether there could be any
reason for his doing such an extraordinary thing. I said that he was a
very unusual man and had many mysterious affairs of which he spoke to no
one. Mr. Gurney said that he knew that that was so. I remember that he
took out his handkerchief at this point. It was a very hot morning and
our house, which is usually so cold, was exceedingly warm. I opened the
window but there was no breeze. He asked us if we knew of any friends
that my father had anywhere--in Drymouth or St. Mary's, or Trelearne or
Bodsworth. I said that he had acquaintances in certain places but that
he was not a man who made friends.

Then Mr. Gurney said that we must consider seriously the possibility
that he had been done away with. He intended to make very strict
enquiries of everyone who had seen him on that last afternoon. It was
clear that he had gone up the High Street towards the Cathedral. But
after that? If anyone had done him a hurt, where could they have found
him so that they would be unobserved? There were so many people about on
that afternoon. . . . The town was packed with strangers. Besides, Mr.
Gurney added, my father was not the kind of man who would be likely to
be lured away to some quiet spot. It was not as though he were a child.
Mr. Gurney got up there, looking very large in our shabby little room.
My uncle had said not a word all this time. Mr. Gurney looked at him and
I noticed at once that he saw what I did--my uncle's air of well-being,
of self-satisfaction. He was sitting back in his chair with his legs
stretched in front of him as though he owned the room and indeed the
whole house.

It flashed through my mind that Mr. Gurney had known my uncle ever since
he had come to this town, must remember how gay and noisy he had been at
first and then how deeply depressed, and that he, Mr. Gurney, must think
it very odd that my uncle should be so cheerful again--as though he were
relieved of a great burden.

He must see, I thought, that everyone in this house was light-hearted. I
realized for the first time how undistressed and free of anxiety I
myself had been in this interview, and a cold shiver caught me. I found
my hand was trembling. Mr. Gurney, always so amiable and good-natured,
appeared sinister and menacing. Suppose that he thought that we, all
three of us . . .?

Soon after that he left--very kind, good-natured, genial. But was it
only my imagination that made me think that he looked at both my uncle
and myself with a sharp inquisitiveness? All he said was: 'You can be
quite sure, Miss Furze, that we will do everything possible to solve the
mystery.'

'What do you think yourself, Mr. Gurney?' I asked him.

He looked at me with his mild, childlike blue eyes.

'I, Miss Furze? I'm altogether at a loss. I should imagine, though, that
he has slipped off somewhere. He'll turn up again at any moment. That's
_my_ idea. Mind you let us know at once if he does.'

After he was gone, my uncle, who was now walking about the room smiling,
turned round to me and said:

'Elizabeth. Come to my room a moment. I want to show you something.'

As we went upstairs he caught my arm, stopping me, and said:

'Isn't this house different? It's warm for the first time. Do you hear
that bird? Look at the sun streaming across the stair----'

I moved away from him.

'Suppose, think----' I began.

'Think what?' he asked.

'Why, that you and I and mother----'

But I stopped. The words were absurd, monstrous. As I remember, I said
something about my father returning--at any moment--and I recollect that
we both turned and looked down into the hall as though we expected to
see the door open and his entry. . . .

I went with my uncle into his room and was ashamed, as I had been many
times before, at its bareness, the shabby iron bed, the poor wardrobe,
the holes in the carpet. But now my uncle was triumphant.

'Look!' he said.

His stout, rather shapeless body (I always think of my uncle as of
someone who was left uncompleted by his Maker. Many people are thus. You
say to yourself: 'Another hour spent on them . . .') was really shaking
with pleasure. On the little stained table beside his bed was standing
the crucifix of black marble that has been in my father's room for so
long.

'That's father's,' I said.

'No,' he answered, laughing. 'It's mine. He paid for it but it was mine
all the time. He only got it to taunt me with it.' Then he added
something that I didn't understand at all. 'That was the biggest mistake
I made--coming back that day from the Carol Service. Everything
afterwards followed from that.'

Then he patted my arm. 'I'm all right again, Elizabeth. Can't you see
that I am? And I'll treat you generously, you and your mother. You see
if I don't. I'll be generous to everyone. I haven't been myself for
months. Well, you could see that I wasn't. I was half starved for one
thing. But now----'

But I interrupted him. There was something dreadful to me in his
exultation, and then shame of myself also.

'When he comes back----' I began.

'But he'll never come back. You know that he won't.'

'How can you be so sure?' I asked him, and I looked him full in the
face. We stood looking at one another, and the beautiful crucifix on the
table looking at both of us.

'I can't be sure,' he said. 'I don't know any more than anyone else. But
is it reasonable? He's been away for days and without a word to anyone.
Even Leggett and Symon haven't heard anything from him--not a word! Has
he ever done anything of this kind before? Has he? Tell me.'

'No,' I said. 'He hasn't.'

'Has he ever been away even for a night without letting you know where
he was?'

'No.'

'Well, then----'

'He may be,' I said, 'staying somewhere in the town. It may suit his
plans to watch privately how some scheme of his is working.'

'If he were wouldn't someone have come forward by this time and said so?
If he's staying somewhere it must be at a hotel or a lodging.'

'He was always unlike anyone else,' I answered. 'You know how mysterious
he's always been.'

'Mysterious! Mysterious!' he muttered, looking away from me, looking, I
remember, at the crucifix. 'Perhaps he has been mysterious just once too
often.'

I cannot be certain that these were the exact words of our conversation,
but here was the gist of it. He himself was a mixture of bravado,
excitement, uneasiness, jauntiness and, finally, a sort of childlike
kindness and eagerness to give pleasure. I am not good at analysing my
fellow-creatures. Although I have watched so much and have, I think,
observed many things and people with accuracy according to my own point
of view, I have never before analysed anyone on paper. But what I want
to emphasize is that there is something very likeable and also very
contemptible about my uncle. He has no character: he is weak and
unstable. He is often oddly hysterical for a man. He is in no way
admirable. Only you often want to protect and defend him, and any woman
must feel kindly towards a man whom she wishes to protect even though
she despises him.

I went in then to see my mother. She had been in bed now for some weeks.
There was nothing very wrong except for a weakness, a weariness of her
limbs.

She was tired so very easily. But it was curious to me, nevertheless,
that of her own wish she had gone to bed and stayed there, for, in spite
of her blindness, she had been a very energetic person always, and was
restless and uneasy if compelled to be inactive. It had seemed to me,
during these last days, as though she had retired to bed in order to
allow something to take place without her presence. She said once: 'You
know, dear, it's nice lying in bed just now. If I were up and about I
should want to see that Pageant and I couldn't.'

And again: 'I used to want to meddle in things. Now you can tell me
instead.'

Indeed, I told her everything that would, I thought, amuse her, and we
had, for so long, lived so closely together that our imagination was one
imagination and our sense of the ridiculous one experience. But now,
when I went in, she called me at once to the bed, put out her hand and
drew me to her, kissed, very gently, my eyes, my cheeks, my mouth, then
rested her head on my breast.

I find it very difficult to give any true sense of her quietness, her
repose. It was as though she had attained such complete control of her
emotions, her desires, her disappointments, that she was able to live
tranquilly in a world of security. She had the quality that belongs to
so few human beings, especially in these restless days--she knew that
she was safe, that nothing could disturb her. Nevertheless there _was_
an additional intensity this morning in her embrace.

'Well?' she asked, stroking my hand as blind people do with a kind of
tenacity because physical contact with those they love means so much to
them.

I told her about Mr. Gurney, and then, my arms around her, her head on
my breast, I made my confession--that the thought of _his_ never
returning again had created a kind of exultation in me, that I was
_glad_--whether it were sinful or no could make no difference. I was
glad. She kissed my cheek. She said:

'Of course you are glad. It will be better for everyone if he is dead.
He should have died long ago.' Then she added, after a pause in which
some kind of inner sight seemed to flood her eyes:

'But he isn't so easily got rid of. He is very-obstinate.'

I told her then of my fear that Mr. Gurney might suspect us of knowing
more than we said. He had looked at my uncle strangely.

'Ah, yes, Michael,' she said. '_He_ knows more. And one day he will tell
everybody all that he knows. He has never been able to keep anything to
himself.'

She pressed my hand then sat up in bed. 'To-morrow I'll get up. I've
been lazy long enough. And there will be things to see to. For one we
must have something to live on.'

I told her of my own conviction that he was staying somewhere in the
town, that many people thought so.

My mother nodded. 'Yes, he might be. It wouldn't be at all unlike him.'

'They say he is in Seatown.'

'Maybe.' She patted my cheek. 'But don't you worry about it, darling. He
can't concern us now. Perhaps we are the two whom he concerns less than
anyone else in the town. And now let us have a little of that silly but
delightful Mrs. Henry Wood.'

Only one thing more I would add at present. This seems to me to belong
to myself and I would write nothing of it here except that one moment of
it has, I feel, a wider significance.

On the afternoon of this same day a friend of mine called very
unexpectedly to see me. I was greatly surprised. I did not wish him to
come into the house for my own private (and possibly absurdly sensitive)
reasons, but I consented to go out with him for a short walk. It was a
summer evening of exquisite beauty. I have no gift for natural
description, but as we sat on the brow of the hill above Orange Street
the town lay below us in a grey mist, and the gentle sky, very quiet
and, I felt, beneficent, changed from rose to a very pale orange--then
to white, faint, almost vanishing white, with silver stars. Before dusk
came the Cathedral was subdued by the mist but, just before the sun set,
for a minute or so it shook off the mist and stood like a rock against
the sky. I have tried to describe this just as I saw it because it was
at this moment of sunset that I realized how deeply I loved this town. I
felt that I would die for it, endure any insult for it. I felt
too--perhaps because I was so preoccupied with the fate of my
father--that it was being threatened with some danger. That peace and
beauty were a blind. My fancy carried me beyond this and I seemed to see
my father coming out, now that dusk was falling, from some hiding-place
and moving, as I have so often seen him, like a shadow, on his business.

I don't know why it was but I began to cry. I was unnerved by the
difficulties, the loneliness, the longing for things that I ought not to
have. And--very wrong perhaps--I let my friend comfort me.




CHAPTER VI

PENNY AND THE LAST TOURNAMENT


To grow up is sometimes a matter of years, sometimes of moments. Often
the brave deed is never accomplished.

Penny Marlowe grew up on the final and most eventful day of the
Polchester Pageant.

The early morning of that day was, unlike its predecessors, cloudy and
overcast. This did not oppress Penny because her happiness was such that
the sun was there however clouds might choose to behave.

After Lampiron had kissed her in Mrs. Cronin's garden her fate was
fixed. She simply waited for him to take the next step. She had not
spoken with him since that evening, although she had seen him. She
remained in a state of perfect and tranquil bliss. This would be the
last moment of that kind of tranquillity. It belongs only to immaturity;
those who remain in it too long lose, alas! reality, as their wives,
husbands, relations and friends discover so unhappily.

Her mother had gone, the night before, to Drymouth to visit a close
friend who had suffered an unexpected and severe operation.

Penny was singing as she came downstairs. Then she saw her father. She
stopped singing.

He stared at her as though he scarcely recognized her. He had been
becoming lately, as she knew, more and more distressed. He spent hours
alone in his church. He had not played chess for many a night. Now,
standing by the dining-room fireplace looking at the breakfast table in
bewilderment, he was like a dog who had lost his home. She kissed him,
and he caught her to him and held her as though he were shielding
himself from some danger. 'I've had a bad night,' he said. 'I always
miss your mother when she's away. Do you ever have bad dreams?'

'Not often,' she said. She put up her hand and stroked his white hair
because it was stiff and strong. She stroked his cheek, which was soft
and warm. 'Have some breakfast. You'll feel better.'

'Yes, I will.' He smiled. 'I'm still half asleep. I dropped off about
six o'clock. I only had about two hours all night. It isn't enough.'

'No, it certainly isn't.' Then, when she had given him his coffee, she
said: 'What's the matter?'

'The matter is, my dear, as I ought to have told you long ago, that I am
badly in debt to someone. The Bishop helped me and I thought I was
clear, but I'm not, it seems. You won't tell your mother about this,
will you?'

'Of course not. Is it a lot of money?'

'I don't know. It oughtn't to be, but I'm in such a state of confusion
about it.'

'Why haven't you been to a proper lawyer about it?'

'Well, that's just the thing,' he said. He was cheering up. His blue
eyes were shining more clearly. 'I've been so ashamed about it. It
seemed to me so disgraceful--a clergyman, someone whom everyone
knows----'

'That's all right,' she said cheerfully. 'No one shall know but you and
me. I'll put it all right.'

'Yes, but that's just it,' he said. 'The man I owe it to has
disappeared.'

'Disappeared?'

'Yes. It's that horrible old usurer, Stephen Furze. He disappeared four
days ago.'

'Poor Mr. Furze--I've always been sorry for him,' she said. 'Anyway if
he goes on disappearing you won't have to pay the money.'

'Of course I shall have to pay. And now all sorts of people will know.
Anyone who has anything to do with his affairs.'

'How do you mean?' she asked slowly. 'How could he disappear? People
_don't_ disappear.'

'Well, _he_ has. Everyone's talking about it. Many people think he's
been murdered. Others think he's hiding in the town somewhere. He's a
horrible old man--capable of anything! I daresay they'll be saying _I_
murdered him!'

'Darling, what nonsense!' She went over to him, got his cup and refilled
it. Then she sat on the edge of his chair, her arm round him.

'Do you know what you are? You're a baby, an infant. You've been keeping
all this to yourself until it's grown into an absolute nightmare.
There's nothing disgraceful about owing money--everyone does. No one
would think the worse of you even if they _did_ know.'

He caught her hand.

'How sweet you are! I really don't deserve a child like you. You're
right about the nightmare. That old man made it so. He would come and
visit me and I'd be upset for hours after. Last night I dreamt of him. I
saw him coming out of the Cathedral door, his head on one side. I
couldn't move out of his way. He caught my hand with his. His hand was
all bones like a skeleton, and he said to me, "My home's in there now,"
twisting his head towards the Cathedral. "But I do my business just the
same." It was during one of the few bits of sleep I had. I woke up and I
could have sworn I saw him just going out of the door.' He drank his
coffee and spread his toast with marmalade. 'I've got him on my nerves,
I expect. And I miss your mother. We've been together so long. I don't
like sleeping alone. I'm a silly old fool, and that's the truth. And
you're right--I've kept all this to myself too long.'

It was then that she felt more strongly than ever before her
responsibility. And this sudden consciousness was accompanied by a
recollection of a word that Lady St. Leath had had with her only the day
before. It had been but a moment. Penny, dressed after her share in the
Pageant, had been coming out of the Cronins' gate on to the Cathedral
Green. They were in the middle of Evensong, which was later on these
Pageant days, and the sonorous undertone of the organ coming from the
Cathedral seemed to tremble from under her very feet. A lovely hazy mesh
of light, like a net of minute sparks of gold, had caught the ivory
Cathedral walls, the long stretch of green, the empty stands. The only
sounds where but an hour before the shouts and music of the Pageant had
triumphed were the cooing of the doves from the Cronins' garden and the
organ undertone. Lady St. Leath had been saying good-bye to some friends
and was at the door of her car. She saw Penny, whom she knew very
slightly, and stopped. They shook hands, Penny blushing, greatly pleased
because she admired Lady St. Leath so tremendously. Lady St. Leath had
something very young, nave almost, still about her. People sometimes
laughed at her for that.

'Isn't it a beautiful evening?' she said. 'I'm so glad the Pageant has
had such lovely weather. Have you been enjoying it?'

Penny said she had.

'Just now,' Lady St. Leath went on, 'I was thinking of evenings like
this in the old days. I grew up here, you know.' She looked at Penny
with a charming, shy, friendly smile, and Penny remembered all the
tragedy of her youth, so that it did not seem incongruous that Lady St.
Leath should then say, 'How is your father?'

'He hasn't been so well lately,' Penny said.

'Oh, I'm sorry. I must call on your mother one day soon. I should like
so much to see her again. And you must come out to us.' She held Penny's
hand. 'Look after your father. You'll never be sorry for any trouble you
take now. But I know how good you are to them both.' Then she smiled her
sudden, shy, lovely smile. 'They are so _very_ proud of you.' Penny
thought that Lady St. Leath looked at her almost longingly, as though
she would like to kiss her. But she did not. She got into her car and
drove away.

Penny remembered this now. It was as though Lady St. Leath had said to
her: 'I can see, now that I am old, that nothing in all my life, not my
love for my husband nor my love for my child, has mattered so much as my
love for my father. Because he was old and in trouble and I was all that
he had.'

At that moment, sitting in the pleasant room with the sun pouring in
upon the china and silver and the crimson roses in the crystal bowl, she
assumed her responsibility.

'I am realizing something,' she said; 'that I haven't been close enough
to you lately. You haven't had anyone to talk to. You don't want to
worry mother. That's all right. But you _ought_ to worry _me_. I'm
grown-up now.'

He stroked her hair. 'Are you grown-up, darling?' He looked at her with
his blue eyes, considering it. 'Yes, I suppose you are. I hadn't taken
it in. Time moves so fast.'

'And therefore,' she went on, 'you must share everything with me. I
wouldn't be shocked at anything you do, especially with regard to money,
where I'm not so very strong myself as a matter of fact.'

'It goes deeper than money, my dear, I'm afraid--I've been a traitor at
my post. I've been tested and found wanting.'

She patted his head cheerfully. She knew his liking for rather childlike
nursery similes.

He munched his toast and marmalade. He was now very much more cheerful.

'The soul. . . . Everyone to-day thinks that a tiresome unnecessary
topic. But it is the root, the origin, the essence. From that seed
everything springs, the lovely lilies, the young musk-roses, the
cabbages and carrots, the nettles and--what is that weed that smells so
unpleasantly . . .? Never mind,' he went on, shaking his head. 'At
intervals the Examiner comes and looks at the soul--at yours, at mine,
at everyone's. He has examined mine. It has withered away--a dried,
musty, decayed nut of a soul. I am no good any more--no good, no good,
no good.'

He began to walk about the room, his hands clasped behind his broad
back.

'And people think this of no importance any more! No importance--then
the spirit is withered for lack of nourishment. No lilies--not even
nettles. Nettles, nettles--they would be better than nothing. Have I not
reason to be unhappy?'

He is enjoying it, she thought, and yet he means it too. He is deeply
unhappy. I can't be near enough to him because I am so happy, because I
am in love, because the sun is shining and these roses burn with an
ecstasy of life.

Meanwhile he, with that funny sense of incongruities that he had, looked
at her, laughed almost like a wicked child and went quickly out of the
room.

       *       *       *       *       *

She remained in the sunlight, for the thunder-clouds had passed,
changing some of the roses in the crystal bowl and thinking--about his
incongruities. She did not know him. He was her father and she loved him
dearly, but she did not know him at all. He was unhappy and she could
not help him. A sudden shame of her inexperience, her inability to help
anyone, whether her father, Mrs. Braund (who was, she knew, badly in
need of help) or Lampiron, attacked her. Standing there, holding in her
hand a rose so red that the secret of its colour was cynical in its
scorn of human knowledge, she learnt in one swift moment of experience a
great lesson--that to help others one must have a long training in
self-forgetfulness. She could not forget herself: she was too happy, too
deeply in love; the scents and burning sharpness of that wonderful
summer seemed too acutely to be provided for her personal joy.

In a dress of faint rose and a small hat of white straw she went out to
enjoy the world. And then, outside, on that burning summer morning, she
discovered (many people in Polchester just then were making such a
discovery) that she did not seem to be altogether a free agent. What was
it? The hot air quivered above the little street and the sky was a sheet
of intense light. There was the apprehension, as one has in hot
countries but so rarely in England, that to cross the sun-blazed road
from shadow to shadow was dangerous.

She walked to the point beyond the church where the street descends to
Seatown, and to her own surprise found herself descending instead of
going, as she had intended, to the Market. She had thought that the
shaded alcoves of the Market would be cool, that she would buy some
flowers for Mrs. Braund, who, with every day of the Pageant, had become
more unhappy and remote.

These streets at the top of the hill were in her father's parish, but as
she dropped downwards and the houses became meaner and older she was in
almost unknown territory.

'It was up here,' she thought, 'that the armed men struggled. There was
no road then. They clung to the rock, fighting from ledge to ledge, and
below, on the river that was wilder and stronger then, their boats
waited. The shining slabs of rock flashed in the sun, or perhaps the
rain poured down or fog crept up from the river--a man lost his
foothold, gave a desperate clutch for safety, then lost his hold, his
arms flung wide and he fell, fell . . .'

She stopped, looking about her, almost as though she were in a dream, so
vivid was it, so dramatically part of it was she.

'It is almost as though I had stood here, screaming for battle, and I
looked up and up and the Cathedral was there, but not the twin northern
towers, only Harry soaring into the sky. And I ran . . .'

She shaded her eyes against the sun. 'That,' she thought, smiling, 'is
what a week of pageants can do for you.'

She had walked a long way down and soon would be level with the river.
She read some of the names above the shops--M'Canlis, Tobacconist; Sandy
Lugge, Old Clothes Purchased--and a sweet-shop with the name 'Mary
Murphy,' its little window decorated with evil-looking sweets of black
and pink and yellow over which flies were crawling.

Under the blazing sun the houses, crooked, misshapen windows tightly
closed, wore a look of shamefaced sullen obstinacy. No one stirred. It
was a dead street lit with the hard brilliancy of a sun on a dead world.

A little girl passed her. This child was shabby to forlorn pity. She
wore a grown woman's torn skirt that caught about her feet, and an
ancient black straw hat, its brim twisted. The heel of one shoe
clop-clopped against the road as she moved.

Then she fell. She lay, a small tangled confusion of thick matted hair,
a woman's torn skirt, a broken shoe--and she did not stir.

Penny ran to her and picked her up. She was as light to hold as the
crystal bowl with the crimson roses, but from her there came an acrid
smell, stale, bitter. On her forehead two flies were crawling. She had
struck her cheek against the kerb and it was bleeding, but she regarded
Penny with an outraged fierceness; her black eyes glared like an
affronted and fearless cat's.

She struggled.

'Tell me where you live,' Penny said.

Then the child fainted. Her head fell forward, and her body with a
shiver as of her very spirit seemed to surrender itself to Penny's care.

Then out of a dark house a woman, a dirty red blouse open at the neck to
the breasts' cleft, came.

'Give her to me,' she said.

'She has fainted--and her cheek is cut----'

The woman gave Penny a long look. She took the child.

'She's soiled your dress,' she said. She tossed her head, but, moving
back to the house, she held the child tenderly.

Penny followed. That little sighing gasp that the child had given, that
surrender against her breast, had touched her with a poignancy that
forbade her to let her go.

So she followed--out of the sun, into the dark house. The room where she
was seemed to be kitchen and bedroom combined, but there was no fire in
the range, and on the bed a man in shirt and trousers lay, his hands
behind his tousled head, and on his lap, sleeping, a large tortoiseshell
cat. Penny saw also a gilt cage with two canaries, a pot in the window
with a brilliantly red geranium, a table with some tumbled bottles and
dirty glasses. The room was close, infested with heat, airless, stinking
of stale drink, geranium, and the soot that fell, once and again, with
gentle patters down the grate.

Penny stood at the door. The woman, who had a broken young beauty and
even grandeur, laid the child on a small broken sofa in the window,
stretching over a patchwork quilt of sharp fragmentary red, green,
orange squares. She leaned over her, went to the shelf and poured a
glass of water, bathed the child's head. There was absolute silence in
the room save for the twittering of the canaries and the falling soot.
The man had not stirred. Only the tortoiseshell cat rose, stretched
itself, dropped with miraculous lightness to the floor, raised first one
leg then another in sleepy indolence, walked over to the sofa to
investigate.

The woman bathed the cut, murmuring, 'Chrissy . . . . Chrissy. . . .
You'll be better now. You'll be better now.'

The child suddenly sat up and, pushing back her hair from her eyes,
stared in front of her.

'She fell--cut her head on the kerb. How did you fall, Chrissy?'

'I don't know?'

'Does your head hurt?'

'No . . .' Then she as suddenly lay down again. 'Yes, it aches.'

Penny came forward.

'Can I do something? I could bring a doctor very quickly.'

'A doctor?' The woman laughed scornfully. Her blouse had slipped,
leaving one breast, white and very firm, exposed. She did not attempt to
cover it. No, thank you. We don't want no doctors here.' Then,
straightening herself, raising her head, she said politely but with a
real and native dignity, 'It was good of you, miss, to trouble. She's my
daughter and she won't stay still any place. She's always hiding down by
the river, in the Market, in the Cathedral. It's so she shan't have to
go to school, we reckon.'

Penny went over to the child. She had persistently the feeling that the
child belonged to her. She laid her hand on the soiled forehead.

'Don't you think really that I should get a doctor?'

'No, miss. She hasn't done herself any real hurt. It will teach her not
to go running off.'

The child opened her eyes and stared at Penny. They were large,
lustrous, and filled with a kind of fierce and audacious wonder. Penny
and the child looked at one another.

'Well, if I can do nothing----' Penny said. She turned and saw that the
man was sitting up. He was young, large in build with massive shoulders,
and where his shirt was open there was a pelt of black hair.

He said: 'Puss, puss--come here, puss.' The cat came to him. Then, as
though he were speaking to himself: 'M'Canlis says he saw Furze last
night--down bottom of Daffodil Street. But he didn't. They've choked
Furze all right.' He stretched his arms, yawning. 'They say that
Lampiron done it.'

'Fetch a bit of that rag, Tom, from the dresser, will you?' the woman
said. 'It'll keep the place on her head clean.'

The man got up, crossed the room, searched for the rag, found it. Then,
whistling, he came over to the sofa and, kneeling, bound the cloth,
after damping it, very gently, holding the child against his chest.

'There, my lass, lie quiet. It's a scratch.'

What had he said? He had mentioned Lampiron's name. . . .

She held out her hand.

'I am Miss Marlowe. I am the daughter of the Rector of St. James's. If I
can do anything, now or at any time----'

The woman touched her hand for an instant.

'My name's Clarke, Fanny Clarke.'

They have both, Penny thought, the woman and the girl, the same eyes.
She went and, bending down, kissed the child, who did not stir.

'It was kind of you, I'm sure,' the woman said. The man was looking up
speaking to the canaries, the tortoiseshell cat was rubbing against his
leg. Abruptly he turned.

'My name's Caul. Tom Caul. I don't think your father's ever paid us a
visit.'

'His parish doesn't include these streets,' Penny said, smiling.

'No. Well, parsons aren't much use in these parts and that's the truth.'
His eyes rested on her. 'You're in this Pageant. I've seen you.'

'Yes, I am.'

'I've got it. You ride a horse. I'll be seeing you this afternoon.'

'Why?' asked Penny. 'Are you in it too?'

'Am I?' He grinned at the woman. 'You look out for me this afternoon.
There'll be thunder, I reckon.'

'Yes.' She wanted to question him but she was afraid, afraid of the
room, the cat, the geranium plant, the whispering soot.

She said good-bye to them and went out.

       *       *       *       *       *

A large greedy cloud like a white billowing apron swallowed up the sun
just as the First Episode concluded. Mrs. Cronin, who was so sorry that
it was all coming to an end--it _had_ been a good time! How charming
everyone had been, appreciating her poor little efforts, because really
she had done nothing--'Oh yes, Clara, you have.' . . . No, no, it had
been no trouble at all, putting her house at her friends' disposal.
What, after all, was one's house _for_? And such a lovely Pageant. Would
anyone _ever_ forget it?

(No, Agnes Braund said, no one ever would.)

Mrs. Cronin, who was so sorry that it was all coming to an end. . . .
Then she realized that something must be done about Agnes.

'What _is_ it, Agnes? We are all so concerned about you. I'm afraid
you've _hated_ the Pageant.'

Mrs. Braund was in a dressing-gown of dark blue silk peppered with
little silver moons. There was still an hour before her episode.

She looked gloomily at Clara Cronin whom she had never liked and now
altogether loathed.

'If Penny Marlowe is in her room, I wish you'd ask her to look in and
speak to me.'

'Of course, darling. She's certain to have arrived. I'll go and tell
her.'

The applause of the audience came like a breaking sea into the room. . . .

'Oh dear, isn't it oppressive! I'm sure there's going to be a
thunderstorm!' She hurried away.

Penny came in. She kissed Mrs. Braund, of whom in these last weeks she
had become very fond.

'Listen, dear.' Mrs. Braund took her hand. 'I'm sure something _awful_
is going to happen this afternoon.'

'Oh!' said Penny. 'What _could_ happen?'

'I don't know.' Mrs. Braund's large bosom heaved convulsively. 'I'm sure
I don't know. I'm altogether bewildered.' She held Penny's hand tightly.
'Quite honestly, dear, I can't stand it any more. Frankly I wanted to be
Lady Emily in the Pageant--I won't disguise it from anybody. You
remember one day when I lunched at your house, when the Bishop called?'

'Yes?'

'That was the last happy moment I knew, positively the last. Ernest'
(Ernest was the Archdeacon) 'is nearly distracted. He has never seen me
like this and I can't explain to him. That's the awful thing--I can't
explain to him----' Her eyes were filled with tears.

Penny, full of concern, held the soft moist hand more tightly.

'Mrs. Braund, dear. _What_ can't you explain?'

'Why I am like this. I'm more terrified every day. I thought I'd _never_
get through yesterday's performance. For one thing everyone hates me.'

'Oh no. Of course they don't. No one hates you.'

'Oh yes, they do. It isn't that I mind the Carris girls or Mrs.
Aldridge being rude, or Mr. Crispangle being odious. After all, I've
done no harm. They are simply jealous. But it's more than that. Every
time we do our scene it gets worse. Didn't you see those horrid men in
the crowd yesterday? I was sure they were going to pull me off my horse.
All those roughs from Seatown. I'm sure they're all Communists and they
_hate_ anyone to do with the Cathedral. But it's worse than that even.
It's Lady Emily herself. I feel as though she were there all the while
wishing me ill. And I haven't been well--I haven't been sleeping. I've
never known the town in such a state, with the unemployed and the shop
people so rude--and now there's this murder----'

All this had come pouring out. It was an appeal for help as real and
moving as any that Penny had ever known.

'Murder? What murder?'

(Although she knew well enough and had been thinking of nothing else all
day. For what was it that man had said . . .?)

'Oh, you must have heard about it. That horrible old man Furze
disappeared four days ago--the afternoon before the Pageant opened.
Nothing has been heard of him since. Some people say they saw him at the
Pageant yesterday. Romney, who always knows everything, says that some
are saying it's only the first of these disappearances, that there'll be
others----' She stopped. She put up a stout bare arm and drew Penny's
face to hers and kissed her. 'Darling, you're so sweet, so kind. Mind
you're very close to me this afternoon. Don't let them do anything to
me.'

'Do anything? But of course not. What could they do?' Then Penny added
slowly: 'Who do they think did this murder--if he _has_ been murdered?'

'Oh, my dear, they say all sorts of things. Romney says the police are
investigating everybody's record. I mean everybody who had anything to
do with the man. They say people all over the town owed him money.'

('Yes,' thought Penny. 'Father--Lampiron----')

'There were plenty of people who hated him, it seems,' Mrs. Braund went
on. 'And threatened him too. Lampiron for one.'

'Oh no!' Penny cried.

'Oh, but he did. On that very afternoon Mr. Gaselee saw Mr. Lampiron
quarrelling with Furze in the High Street. He was with Ronder--Gaselee
was, I mean. Oh dear! Listen to that!'

There was a rumble of thunder. Beyond the window a black thick cloud
with a grey furry edge gave the trees in front of it a metallic
brilliance.

       *       *       *       *       *

Towards the close of the Third Episode there was a fierce thunder
shower. Twice there was a clap as of gigantic hands that seemed to come
from the very heart of the Cathedral. Then the rain poured down, soaking
the Town Fair, which was hurriedly concluded. But, before the opening of
the Fourth Episode, the Death of the Black Bishop, the sun had come
again, a fierce hot sun that beat down upon the grass, sparkling and
shining after the rain. Many people afterwards said that the hour that
followed was the hottest and most oppressive ever known in Polchester.
Against the sun the Cathedral was jet as though encased in black
armour, and beyond the trees little spongy clouds could be seen
stealthily, maliciously moving forward upon the pale stretch of nervous
blue.

Yes, the sky was nervous and the people in the stands were nervous too.
Those in the uncovered stands, wet with the shower, watched the clouds
beyond the Cathedral anxiously. Everyone felt the exhausting oppressive
heat. There was something foreign to the English sense of decency and
order in its fierceness.

Some of the people in the uncovered stands got up and went, and this
added to the general disturbance, because until to-day the attention had
been breathless; no one had conceived of leaving before the end.

Then, too, it had been generally noticed that from the very beginning of
the performance the actors had been restless and uneasy. The crowds in
the first two episodes were noisy and disorderly. Everyone had commented
during the previous days on the easy naturalness of the crowds, the
remarkable way in which the right atmosphere had been caught, but now
the crowds were _too_ natural, noisy, and even, once and again, some of
the men would advance close to the stands and make very audible and rude
remarks about some of the spectators.

After the first day's performance it had been widely admitted that it
was a mistake to allow so many of the roughs from Seatown to take part
in the Town Fair. People blamed Romney for this, and a good many
malicious things were said in whispers about the friends he had in
Seatown, friends very rough and strange for so aesthetic and cultured a
gentleman as Romney. It was now, in fact, that people first began to
gossip about the mischief that Romney was making, encouraging men like
Tom Caul and young M'Canlis to do and say what they liked.

'We might as well be in Russia,' Camilla Porteous, who hated Romney,
said loudly everywhere. 'If we are all murdered in our beds I know where
the blame will lie.'

It was a fortunate thing, perhaps, that the first shower came when it
did, for there is no doubt but that that scene would have ended in a
general riot.

It was at this point that Gurney sent for all the available police in
the town and, as it turned out, this was a fortunate thing.

However, with Lampiron's scene, absolute order was restored. Everyone
listened breathlessly. Throughout the episode the thunder rumbled in the
distance and the light from the sun was thin, opaque, as though seen
through gauze. Lampiron himself was superb. Everyone agreed that he
excelled himself. At the moment when, in his magnificent robes, he made
his first appearance, turned and looked in silence at the group of
knights, it was as though the whole audience drew a deep breath of
wonder and admiration. Afterwards, when he cried out: 'God's servant!
Beware of God's servant!' it was as though he were warning the whole
world. People said afterwards that the Cathedral itself with all its
thousands of inhabitants was listening--and, when he fell, a hush of
awe, voiced by the rumbling of the thunder, held the world. 'This is
what will come to you all if you forget my Law.' 'A God of mercy--yes,
and a God of thunder also,' Dale said to Cronin. Therefore, by the
beginning of the Lady Emily episode, the proper atmosphere had been
restored. No one thought any longer of leaving, although the small
clouds had now banded together and the sun had vanished.

Penny's steed, of which at first she had been much afraid, was by now
her very good friend. It was a small white horse, not very much bigger
than a pony. Penny had taken riding lessons during the last month and
had made up her mind to buy the horse when the Pageant was over.

The first thing that she saw when she rode on to the scene, close behind
Mrs. Braund, was the man whom she had met in Seatown that morning. As
the crowd surged forward he touched her horse's flank, looked up at her,
grinning, and said: 'Hullo, miss! I said I'd look out for you.' She
smiled back at him, for his eyes were friendly and he was a fine rough
figure; he was broader and stronger than the men around him and seemed
to be their leader.

After that first entry, however, she had little time to think of him,
for now everything went wrong. She was never able to give a very
coherent account of what occurred. It seemed to be all over very
quickly. When Mrs. Braund began to speak, confusion was everywhere. The
crowd surged hither and thither. Nothing was in its right order.
Everyone shouted at once. Towards Arden Gate free fights were taking
place. The sky now was black, and the flashes of lightning, the rolling
of thunder, the first drops of heavy rain added to the disturbance.
Penny, remembering Mrs. Braund's appeal, held closely to her, but there
was a quick rush of the crowd; poor Mrs. Braund was tumbled off her
horse, which started off, plunging amongst the crowd. Penny could see
people standing up, many leaving, others calling out incoherently.
Police were advancing over the sward. Then the rain came down in a
deluge, fiercely delighted as though it wanted to drown the world. . . .

And that was the end of the Polchester Pageant.

       *       *       *       *       *

Later, unexpectedly, miraculously, followed the most lovely moment of
her life. As to that, who knows? For Penny has still so much of her life
in front of her. But will there be, _can_ there be any interval of time
packed, like a treasure-box, with so many sweets, so many fragrances? A
glory of the moon, of the peace after storm, of perfect trust and
understanding, of love given and returned?

For peace did follow the storm. Poor Mrs. Braund had broken her ankle;
also on her forehead there was a dark bruise. She had been carried to
her home, and now, in the dark room scented with the roses beyond the
window, the Archdeacon sat beside the bed holding her hand. He felt the
hand shake and heard her whisper: 'Ernest, everyone hates me. They tried
to kill me.'

But at Mrs. Cronin's it had been like the chattering of birds. 'My dear,
_what_ happened? Oh, but _do_ tell us? You were there? Was Mrs. Braund
dragged from her horse? Did someone hit her? What was everyone else
doing? There was a sort of free fight, wasn't there? Do you think
they'll do something to-night, come up and burn people's houses or
something? Anyway, what's it all about? Why is everyone so angry? Is it
the unemployed? Someone said they're going out to Carpledon to burn the
Bishop's palace down.'

'_That_ they won't do, anyway. Everyone loves the Bishop.'

'They don't down in Seatown. They don't love anyone. They say the money
ought to have been spent on the unemployed instead of having a Pageant.'

Out of all this Penny escaped to find a fair evening sky, the air
scented with flowers and the freshness of the rain, swallows, the
symbols of English tranquillity, flying high. She had intended to hurry
home because she was afraid lest her father, who meant something new to
her since this morning, had heard exaggerated tales of the afternoon.

But she did not hurry home, because, at the gate of the Cronins' garden,
Lampiron was waiting for her.

'I had to wait--to make sure that you were all right.' When he saw her
happy face he added: 'Come--we'll walk to the end of the Cathedral and
then I'll see you home.'

She put her arm through his and slowly they crossed the Green.

'You're all right?' he asked.

'Of course I'm all right.'

'I was changing when it all happened. I knew nothing about it until I
heard the rain, looked out of the window and saw everyone running. What
_did_ happen?'

'Oh, very little, I think.' Her hand tightened on his arm. 'I really
don't know. Suddenly everyone seemed to get excited, people rushed about
shouting, Mrs. Braund was thrown off her horse.'

'Is she hurt?'

'I'm afraid she is. They say she's broken her ankle.' Penny looked up
into his face and loved him so much that for a moment she could not
speak. He did not look old at all. Other people felt that about him. She
had heard someone say that he was ageless. She did not know how grand he
had been that afternoon because she had not been there, but,
nevertheless, there was still upon him the effect of that performance
and she realized it.

'Tell me what's the matter,' she said.

'What's the matter?' he repeated. 'With us?'

'Oh no, not with us. We are perfect. With everything else. With the
world. I seem to have grown up to-day, to realize things I never knew
before. What is the matter in the town? Why is everyone so angry with
everyone else? It's never been so before.'

They had reached the great West Door and stood there, looking out across
the darkening Green to the stands.

'Oh yes, it has been so before,' he said. 'Over and over again. It
recurs. All the shapes have to be broken up. They become so set that
people stop thinking, miss the important thing about life. As though
they were asleep. They have to be broken up.'

'Who wakes them?'

'I don't know. The Life Force. Whatever you like to call it.'

'You don't think it's God, then?'

'That word----' he said. 'Who knows what it means?'

The world was now so deeply hushed that they both stopped to listen.

'Isn't it still? Lovely. Beautiful.'

They walked on.

'I suppose this is one of the dozen most interesting crises in the
world's history that we're living in just now. We've had nearly twenty
years of it already, but that's nothing in time. There's plenty more to
come. And what's happening all the world over is happening in miniature
in this town. Men are uneasy, suspicious, and when they're suspicious
they're dangerous.'

She pressed closer to him as though to protect him.

'They are all talking about that man who they say has been murdered.'

'What man? Oh, Furze! Well, if he has been murdered, it's a good
riddance.'

She could have cried out with relief. Of course she had known that he
had nothing to do with it, but now, in the way that he had spoken, she
was reassured for ever.

'You know, don't you,' she said, 'that whatever happens, whatever anyone
said, I would always be with you--nothing could make any difference----'

'Yes, we love one another, don't we?' he said quietly. 'And it will be
like this--always----' Then as they turned away towards Arden Gate:
'Don't you see now how much better it is like this? You're giving me the
one thing I've never had--a better thing than I've ever had. You must
watch over it, you know. See that nothing spoils it. Make me better than
I really am.'

'I can't do that,' she answered. 'But it shall be always as you want it
to be.'

She realized, as they turned into the town, that this was the best and
happiest moment of her life so far.




CHAPTER VII

IT IS QUEER, THE THINGS THAT CAN HAPPEN TO TOWNS--MICHAEL AS SPY--HE IS
ALSO SPIED UPON


It is queer, the things that can happen to towns. Or is it, perhaps, not
so queer? Are towns only the camping-places for human beings on duty, or
do they by means of the battles fought on their territory acquire
independent life because the ground is soaked in blood and the air thick
with the after-smoke of the cannon? When one man, falling with a bird's
scream from the Rock to the stream below, saw in his last plunging
moment that town, slanting roofs, walls, and all in mockery of him, was
that man's small bursting heart an addition to the town's personal
spirit?

Is the Cathedral, as Crispangle selling bibles and prayer-books in his
bookshop calls it, 'the dead palace of a forgotten king,' or are the
palace passages thronged with servants, suppliants, warriors, members of
the Royal Family? At least we can say that we know nothing about either
Death or Time, whether, even, they have any existence or no. . . .

September was as lovely a month as its predecessors had been in this
extraordinary year, but there was mingled with its summer glories the
gold leaf and the still sunshine of autumn. The heat was now less
intense, but it had lasted just too long. The disturbances on the last
day of the Pageant had killed the sense of security in the town.
Citizens went to bed at night wondering whether there would be riot
before morning.

There were ghosts in the Cathedral. Someone had seen the Black Bishop
leaning against a pillar and yawning. People said that there was
something disturbing in the Cathedral. Lady Mary said that sometimes
during service there was a distinct _odour_.

'Do you mean a smell, darling?' Mr. Romney asked her.

'Not a smell exactly. You know. Damp. Decay. As though someone had been
reopening a grave.'

Broad's boy said that he had seen lights behind the Cathedral windows
one morning about three when he had woken up and looked out.

People said that it was quite true that a strange figure emerged from
the West Door. Others, more credulous, said that he was followed by four
men bearing a coffin!

'And this,' said Crispangle, 'is the twentieth century!' and sold with a
kind of pleased vindictiveness to an old lady who asked for a nice novel
a pocket edition of Aldous Huxley's _Antic Hay_.

'But then,' Crispangle went on to Hattaway, who had been talking about
one of his favourite works--Morris's Sigurd--'we haven't moved on one
little bit since _Sigurd_ and his Volsungs. Look at France and Germany,
America and England over the Debt, look at our own town. Haven't they
been behaving to poor Mrs. Braund exactly as they would have behaved to
the village witch two hundred years ago? And they don't like you down
in Seatown either, Hattaway. You'd better look out one of these dark
nights. They say you want to pull the whole place down.'

'And so I do,' said Hattaway, whose rosy face, bright blue eyes and
broad shoulders were among the pleasantest sights in Polchester.

'All very well,' said Crispangle, studying two poetry shelves. 'Miss
Wilkens, where is that new consignment of Noyes? And someone was asking
for the Masefield _Collected Poems_ on Saturday and we hadn't got one.
Yes, you'd better order two. It's always in demand even if it _is_
tripe.'

'How severe you are, Crispangle,' Hattaway said, smiling. 'What kind of
poetry _do_ you read?'

'Can't read poetry. Only poetry I've ever enjoyed was _The Ingoldsby
Legends_. Well, as I was saying, Hattaway, it's no use your trying to
pull down Seatown. People have done that again and again, given them
baths, water-closets, every kind of luxury--always comes back to the
same in the end. Remember Harmer John? Anyway they're out for trouble
down there.'

He gave his nervous (and to some of his friends extremely irritating)
little cough, and drew his big friend into the corner where the
Children's Books were.

'You know what the real trouble is, Hattaway?'

'Yes, of course. The usual. Stupidity. Hatred of beauty. Meanness to
one's fellow-creatures.'

'Pshaw! No, I don't mean that kind of virtuous clap-trap. The real
trouble is Furze. Stephen Furze.'

'Why?' asked Hattaway. 'He's gone. It's a good riddance. What about
it?'

'Well, he isn't gone. That's exactly it. Either his ghost or himself
haunts this town.'

'Why,' cried Hattaway, laughing, 'you're not going to tell me that a
modern atheist and cynic like yourself, Crispangle, believes in ghosts?'

'Believe! Believe!' said Crispangle impatiently. 'I hate that word. How
can you believe or disbelieve in anything? No. Furze was murdered that
afternoon before the Pageant all right. Most people know it. But most
people are childish too. Furze was a great influence in this town and,
in their hearts, most people think he's still around. Anyway they want
to make sure that he was murdered. Where's the body? Who committed the
murder? Gurney's baffled, although that says nothing because the man's a
fool anyway. But what I mean is'--and here he took the lapel of
Hattaway's coat between his finger and thumb--'is that everyone's
apprehensive. They imagine the most ridiculous things. They see Furze
coming out of the Cathedral, slipping about down in Seatown, looking out
of the window of his house. That brother of his knows something, and his
girl, too, I shouldn't wonder. Leggett too. And Lampiron.'

Here Hattaway broke in excitedly. He was often excited.

'That's enough about Lampiron. He's a friend of mine. One of the finest
men ever born.'

'Oh, _I'm_ saying nothing against him. But the town's crawling with
rumours. Why, I've even heard poor old Marlowe mentioned. All I mean is
that Polchester isn't the nice quiet place it used to be.'

'The world,' Hattaway said, 'isn't the nice quiet place it used to be.'
He sighed. 'What we want is Morris's Volsungs back again. They'd soon
put it straight.'

'I don't know,' said Crispangle. 'You've got Morris's Volsungs in Italy
and Germany and a lot of good they've done.'

'What you want,' said Hattaway, 'is a triumphant Christ with an army of
angels behind Him.'

'Yes,' said Crispangle drily. 'That's just what the Nazis think they
are, with Hitler for the Christus. Lord, it's getting dark. I must be
shutting up shop. Look after yourself, Hattaway. Don't let anyone give
you a knock on the head one of these evenings.'

'I'll look after myself,' Hattaway said.

       *       *       *       *       *

Meanwhile Michael Furze was looking after _himself_, and very well
indeed he was doing it. Yes, everything was all right, everything was
splendid. He must say it again. Everything is _splendid_. Who is that?
Did anyone knock? I must open the door and see. Is that someone
disappearing round the corner of the passage? The whisk of a long
overcoat? No. No one. Silence. But the house is warm. Even in this
September weather. It has cherished the summer heats. The house has been
cold for so long.

Two strange events have occurred. One most unexpected and unpleasant?
You never can tell. There are so many people listening and watching.

The first is the opening of the safe--the green-and-white safe that
stands against the farther wall in Stephen's room.

That is the room that Michael has never greatly liked to enter. He has
suffered there so much. It was in that room that Stephen first showed
him the stolen crucifix. Stolen? Of course it was stolen, even though
Stephen had paid money for it. It had always belonged to Michael.

It was in this room, too, that Stephen had shown him one day the
combination that opened the safe. A very remarkable thing for Stephen to
have done--but then, whether you liked him or no, Stephen _was_ a
remarkable man.

And Michael knew well why Stephen had done this. Michael was no fool.
Stephen on that warm sunny afternoon had turned, grinning, to his
brother and had said:

'See here, my dear brother. Would you care to know the combination for
this little safe? A secret between the two of us. It brings us closer
together, doesn't it?' He told him the combination. He opened the safe.

Then he showed him the box with the gold sovereigns. He poured them out
in a glittering stream before him.

'You don't see them often, these days, do you? Aren't they lovely?
Aren't they beautiful?'

Then he closed the safe. Michael remembered the combination.

Yes, he knew why Stephen had told him--because, when he was being
starved, when he hadn't a penny in his pocket, the temptation to open
that safe and take something out of it would be tremendous in its power.
So it had been. It had been one of the things that had broken Michael
down, made him the wretched thing that he became. He was haunted by that
safe, morning and night, worst of all in the evenings when Stephen was
in the town and the house was so still and the safe was waiting there in
that silent empty room. Michael was hungry, almost starving. . . . He
had almost yielded. Almost but not quite. He had resisted with all the
poor force remaining to him only because this was the one thing that
Stephen wanted him to do, to take something from that safe. Once he,
Michael, had yielded he was in Stephen's power for ever.

But now--Stephen was gone. The door locked, Michael had opened the safe,
and what treasures he had found there! Not only one box of sovereigns,
but two! And a box with jewellery, rings, necklaces, bracelets. And
papers with names and addresses, giving Michael, if he wished, and after
a certain time had elapsed, power over the whole town.

Michael had proceeded very cautiously. Real gold sovereigns were not
often seen in these days. People would wonder. He had made an
arrangement with Lanky Moon of 'The Dog and Pilchard,' who himself had
more money than anyone knew, who asked no questions, who gave Michael,
with a reasonable discount, notes for the coins. It was to Lanky's
interest to keep this business to himself.

The only person in this matter of whom Michael was not sure was Leggett.
No one else seemed to take any interest in the safe. Even Symon the
lawyer, who was now making Mrs. Furze and Elizabeth a weekly allowance,
asked no questions. But did Leggett know the combination? He alluded to
the safe on several occasions. He was altogether too familiar, Michael
thought, too often in and about the house. He adopted now to Michael a
laughing, friendly and confidential manner as though they were
conspirators together in some secret. Michael did not like that at all,
and was very stiff and dignified with the beef-faced vulgar little
brute, but the more dignified Michael was the more Leggett laughed. He
would clap Michael on the back. He would appear in Michael's bedroom. He
even lay on Michael's bed one night, his legs stretched out, his hands
behind his head, watching Michael undress. 'I like you, old boy,' he
would say. 'We're pals.'

And then one day quite suddenly he asked:

'You know who did your brother in, don't you?'

'Of course I don't. He'll turn up one day and surprise us all.'

'Oh no, he won't. Never again. Lampiron's the culprit.'

'Lampiron?'

'Of course. All the town knows it, or soon will.'

In fact Michael hated Leggett, detested him. Leggett had better look
out.

The other disturbing person in the house was Elizabeth. What did that
woman know? What was she thinking? No one could tell. She was so very
silent, going about her business without a word. She and her mother.
Better out of the house, both of them. In connection with Elizabeth
there had been this surprising incident. Michael had come into the house
one afternoon and, of all things in the world, had found a little
clergyman in the hall--a neat, tidy, insignificant little clergyman.
Michael knew who he was. His name was Bird, and he was Porteous' curate
up Orange Street.

'Well?' Michael said. 'Is there anything I can do for you?' The house
was his now and he didn't want clerical nobodies spying about there.

But Bird had stood his ground. 'I am calling on Miss Furze,' he said.

'I'm afraid Miss Furze is out,' Michael had said.

'I think not,' Bird had said. 'I have just spoken to her.'

One for Bird!

At that same moment Elizabeth appeared on the staircase, her hat on,
ready to go out.

'You are Mr. Michael Furze?' Bird had said.

'I am.'

'Then I think you ought to know that Miss Furze and I are engaged to be
married.'

Well, there was a thing! But before Michael could reply, Elizabeth
herself, coming down to him, had cried:

'No, no! It isn't true!'

'Of course it's true,' Bird had answered firmly. Then he had taken
Elizabeth's arm. 'Good-day, Mr. Furze,' he had said, and walked
Elizabeth out of the house.

Yes, _there_ was a thing! Michael sat in his room considering it.
Amazing! That someone should want to marry Elizabeth! Amazing that
Elizabeth should deny it! She should be thankful enough to find somebody
at her age and with her looks! He sat and considered it, breathing hard,
his hands on his fat knees. What did this mean? It meant for one thing
that Bird would take her away. But would he? Would he not rather be
coming to the house when he pleased, be looking into everything, asking
questions, telling others what he found there? That must be stopped.
I'll stop him. I'll not have rotten little clergymen spying around,
telling tales. . . .

He found that his forehead was damp with sweat, that he was trembling.
They would be plotting together, those two. Who knows whether it wasn't
a clever plot of that damned fool Gurney--Gurney who was always poking
around, asking questions. Gurney, Bird, Leggett, Elizabeth. He got up,
stripped to the waist, washed in cold water, drank from a bottle of
brandy that he kept in a cupboard. Then he felt better. He passed into a
mood of elation. Let them do what they pleased, Leggett, Elizabeth and
her little clergyman. He had the power, he had the wealth. And with his
power and wealth he would do good. He would not use these things, as his
brother had done, for men's destruction, but for their good. He would
cure the distress in this town, be a great benefactor, make everyone
happy. For he wanted everyone to be happy, he had always wanted it. His
heart was generous and good and kind. Oh yes, that was what he was if he
was only allowed his own way. Any wrong he had done in his life had been
because he was _not_ allowed his own way. What was the matter with the
world, why was there so much distress and misery and hatred? Simply
because there were not enough _good_ men with power. _He_ was good, and
now he was powerful. Give him a little time and he would show them what
he would do. . . .

'Who's there?' he cried. He went to the door and opened it, but there
was nobody there.

       *       *       *       *       *

He went increasingly into Seatown to discover what they were saying.
Leggett was in part responsible for this, because his favourite phrase,
gaily, lightly delivered, was:

'They know all about it in Seatown.'

'About what?'

'Oh--about everything.'

But Michael could never discover what exactly it was that they were
saying down there. He knew that Caul and M'Canlis and Moon and several
more were stirring up all the general trouble that they could. But that
did not interest him. A trivial business, working up unemployed boys to
break shop-windows or throw stones at old women. No, what interested
Michael was the gossip, the chatter about his dear disappeared brother.
For they persisted in saying that Stephen had been seen down there, down
there and around the Cathedral. The story that he was hiding in Seatown
for his own purposes was still prevalent. How absurd! How very absurd!
But supposing--just supposing--that Michael _did_ come upon his brother
in his old bowler hat with his long white nose protruding. . . . What
would he . . .? _How_ would he . . .?

On this particular evening he had an especial purpose, for there was to
be a meeting at Charlie's Hall, a room for dances, meetings, general
gatherings, dilapidated now and shabby, at the bottom of Primrose
Street. The meeting was for the extension of the Communist Fund--that
and other things. Tom Caul would be the principal speaker. Michael would
look in there, pay a visit to Lanky, and perhaps have a drink or two.

One thing he would _not_ do, and that was end up his evening with the
round turn up Primrose Street, through the Market and so to the
Cathedral, so to the great West Door, so to that absurd listening with
his head pressed against the stone, listening for what? A ridiculous
fancy that of late had been almost a habit.

He could not leave that Cathedral alone. Or was it that the Cathedral
. . .? So to-night he started out, rather smartly dressed in a blue
reefer suit that looked well on his broad chest, a dark-blue tie with
white spots, a bowler cocked a little on one side of his head. He had
unfortunately yielded during the last few weeks to some of his old
drinking habits, and his round face with the long nose was again in
danger of some of that old purple blotchy colour that was, he knew,
unbecoming. But his little eyes looked mildly, almost beseechingly, on
to the world, as though they would say: 'Be friends with me. I've done
nothing wrong. I am all for charity. I want to give my fellow-man a
helping hand. Believe me, that is my honest desire.'

And so he set out, but he was not five steps away from the house before
Leggett joined him. Michael jumped almost out of his handsome blue suit.
His eyes that had been so amiable narrowed to fear and anger.

'Don't do that.'

'Do what?'

'Jump out on me from nowhere.'

'I'm sorry, Mike. Indeed I am. Do you mind my coming a few steps of the
way with you? I'm due for the meeting at Charlie's. You're going there
too, aren't you? Don't be hard on me, Mike' (he was laughing all the
time, his hand through the big man's arm); 'after all, we're pals,
aren't we? Or we ought to be after all that's happened.'

'What do you mean--all that's happened?'

'Oh, I don't know. . . . Stephen leaving us all in the lurch like that.
By the way, isn't it awkward about money now? Stephen's been gone more
than a month. What are you doing about it?'

'Oh, I'm all right.'

'Yes, I can see you are. You've got a new suit--very nice one too. But
where's the cash coming from? You don't mind my asking, do you, because
after all I had a good deal to do with your brother's affairs. I know
that Symon is allowing Elizabeth and her mother something a week, but
that isn't enough to allow you a new suit. And you hadn't a bean up to
the moment of Stephen's disappearance. You don't mind my asking, do
you?' He gave Michael's arm a squeeze. 'After all, we're pals.'

Michael stopped. He took his arm away from Leggett's hand. He faced him.
They were standing in the light of a street-lamp, close together.

'No, we're not pals,' Michael said slowly. 'Never were and never will
be. I'll tell you something more, Leggett. It was you who murdered my
brother.'

Leggett laughed.

'Come on,' he said, touching Michael's arm. 'Don't be a fool. I didn't
murder your brother, and we'll be late for the meeting. Anyway, who
cares?'

Michael felt his anger rising and at once he guarded it. For he was
learning. He no longer allowed himself to be boisterous, noisy,
ill-controlled. . . .

All the same, he shook off Leggett's arm.

'Who cares?' he muttered. 'You'll find out who cares----'

They walked on down the street again. Leggett talked.

'What a thing to say casually in the middle of the street! And I
repeat--who cares? Look at the Nazis in Germany. Do you think they
bother about a life or two? What about gangsters in America? But I
repeat--I did _not_ take Stephen for a ride. Lampiron's your man.'

He took Michael's arm again and kept him close to his side. 'Listen to
me. Don't fool with me, you big bum. Don't you like my American
expressions? We are partners--for the present at any rate. _You_ know
who killed Stephen. So do I. Lampiron is our man. I'll tell you why one
day. You leave me alone. I leave you alone. By the way, now you have
money why don't you hire a maid? It's hard on Elizabeth and her mother.
They've been working like slaves for years. Why don't you give them a
holiday?'

'I haven't got money.'

'Sez you!'

'I tell you I haven't.'

'All right. You haven't. By the way, I should keep off the Cathedral.'

'What do you mean?'

'People will begin to think it a bit funny, won't they, your going up
there so often. After all, you are scarcely a religious man.'

'I _am_ a religious man.'

'All right. Have it your own way.'

'I only came to this town because of the Cathedral.'

'Is that so? Very interesting. But why make people talk unnecessarily?
Look here, Mike, don't be such a bloody fool. Ever read Marcel Proust?
No, I suppose not. Ever see Bernhardt act? No, I suppose not. Well,
there are two perfect things. You and I properly united are a third.
You're not a fool--or are you? Anyway you can take it from me that
whether you like it or no we are Siamese twins. Get that?'

Michael stopped again. His chest was heaving with emotion. His eyes had
tears in them.

'Do you know what you are, Leggett? You're bad. Through and through.
You're treacherous, false. What I mean to say is that you'd give your
best friend dud cheques in spite of your fine French and passion for the
theatre. You'd whip your own child and enjoy it. We're not together--we
never could be--because I want to do good, I want to help people. I've
never been given the chance before. There's always been someone
bothering me. But now there isn't going to be. And I warn you. Look out!
You killed Stephen, and everyone shall know it if you don't let me
alone.'

His voice rose hysterically.

'You know that I didn't,' Leggett said quietly. 'But never mind that.
The thing will die down. They'll think Lampiron did it, but they'll
never be able to prove it. The only thing I _do_ want to know--it
puzzles me, I confess--is--whoever _did_ do it--where did he tuck the
body away? Damned clever he was. Have _you_ any idea, Michael?'

'It's for _you_ to tell _me_,' Michael answered almost in a whisper.

Leggett laughed again.

'Well, have it your own way,' he said. 'But that's a poor game you're
playing, Michael. You can't possibly keep it up. I'm much too clever for
you. You'll come to me in the end and my terms may be harder then than
they are now. You and I, and Symon to advise us. When the scare's
passed off----'

'What scare?'

'Can't you see how scared the town is? Haven't you heard? Why, Stephen's
more alive than he was before he was killed! But the thing for us to do
is to give the boys down here a little encouragement. A riot or two.
Some of the Canons tarred and feathered. Some of these swollen-headed
gentry robbed of their pants and a window or two broken.'

They were down by the river now. There was no sound anywhere, save the
faint whispering sound of the water. 'Let them believe in their ghosts
and some Cathedral inspector with a broken neck. And perhaps there is.
Did you ever hear of Rimbaud? No, you never did, but one night he and
Verlaine were drinking in some dirty inn or other when some stranger
came and sat down beside them. He explained that he had been making an
inspection and that nine out of ten of the people he had been examining
were due for Hell.

'"I greatly prefer Hell to Heaven," Rimbaud said.

'"You won't when you get there," the stranger said. He was just a poor
drunk, of course. But there may be something in it. We'll ask Stephen if
we meet him. He's been there by now and can tell us what it's like.'

Michael turned on him once again.

'You're taunting me. You're threatening me. But I tell you you can do
nothing to me. I'm my own master.'

'Your own master!' Leggett answered contemptuously. 'You never were. You
never will be.'

They had arrived at the bottom of Primrose Street where Charlie's Hall
was. A crowd of men and youths surged about the mean and shabby door.
Michael moving forward found to his relief that Leggett was no longer
with him. He felt that his whole body was trembling, and he wished that
he could have a drop of something before he went in. He wished, too, as
he had often wished of late, that he could make himself invisible. They
were staring at him, whispering about him, he wouldn't wonder. How had
Stephen managed that, to go about so secretly, to flit from place to
place without anyone noticing him?

Even at that moment he had a shock, for, as he showed his ticket at the
door, he fancied that he saw that large bowler hat and old shabby
overcoat just in front of him. It was not Stephen, of course, but the
clothes reminded him. . . . And there was the girl, Fanny Clarke. Desire
stirred in him, and with a self-pity as though he were a little
neglected child, he reflected how badly he needed that some woman should
be kind to him, take him and stroke his hair, his cheeks, fold him in
her arms. . . .

'Fanny, sit beside me,' he said, and she nodded her head. He saw that
she was a little drunk. That didn't matter. He wished that he were a
little drunk as well. They sat down in about the eighth row, on the left
near the wall. The hall was not very large and would soon be full; young
boys and girls for the most part. There was already much whistling,
shouting, cat-calling . . . it would be a lively meeting.

'Comfortable, Fanny?' Michael asked. He felt an incredible relief at
being away from Leggett--incredible because until to-night he would
never have believed that he could have taken Leggett so seriously. He
was worried not so much by Leggett's threats as by his erudition. To
look at him you'd think him a racing tout with nothing but racing notes
for his literature. He should be standing, his legs straddled, sucking a
straw. Instead of which he had read all this French and criticized
actresses.

'I wish,' Michael said suddenly to Fanny, 'I'd had a better education.
Don't you, Fanny?'

'Not me,' said Fanny, whose head continued to turn from left to right as
she greeted her friends. 'Hullo, Charlie! Where's Mac to-night? Not
coming? Why, there's Tom's blind brother, the one who has the stall in
the Market-place. They're leading him in. Why, do you know he can tell
who anybody is just by the touch of the hand! My little girl's
educated,' she said, turning towards Michael and considering him. 'You'd
be surprised at what she knows. And I'll tell you another thing she
knows' (here Fanny dropped her voice); 'she knows who did your bleeding
brother in.'

'She--what?'

'Oh yes, she does. She won't say _what_ she knows though. The men were
trying to make her the other night, twisting her arm and all that until
I stopped them. She wouldn't say. But she _knows_ all right.'

'_What_ does she know?'

'I'm telling you. She's always creeping around--skipping school. She was
somewhere around _that_ afternoon and _she_ knows all right.'

'Have the police questioned her?'

'Oh, Gurney's been after her--but she just says she don't know nothing.
Hullo, Eels! That's Eels Braddock what did his aunt in and stole the
cash under the bed. He's quite open about it, but they can't bring it
home to him nor never will. Why, look--there's Mr. Romney.'

Michael looked and there Romney was, very elegant in a dark-blue suit,
very quiet, leaning against the wall, surveying the room. His arm was on
the shoulder of a stocky thick-built young man.

'He's with Eddie Grant. I like him,' she continued reflectively. 'He's
no use for women, but what's that to me? He's always kind and
thoughtful, never rude. Gave me a pearl necklace once--not real pearls,
you know, but pretty.'

'What did he do that for?' Michael asked.

'Oh, I don't know. Someone pinched the pearls. Some stranger when I was
sleeping. Damned shame. I generally keep an eye on them, but that night
I was all in and when I woke he'd pinched everything--even my silk
garters. And I've never had a pair since.'

'I'll give you a pair,' Michael said. He put his hand on Fanny's knee.
'I want someone to be kind to me, Fanny, I do really.'

'Do you really?' She gave him what seemed to him a strange look.

'What are you looking at me like that for?'

'Oh, nothing. You've got some cash again now, haven't you?'

'Cash? No. What do you mean?'

'That's a nice suit you're wearing.' She pinched his arm. 'Nice
material. You hadn't a penny to bless yourself with when your blasted
brother was around. What I say is, whoever done him in has done the
world a good turn. That's what I say.' She patted his arm. 'I've been
kind to you before and I'll be kind to you again. We'll make a night of
it.'

But the meeting was beginning. An old man with a grey beard was on the
platform--Sam Keating, well known in the district for a fiery reckless
agitator. Of course they said that he got money from Russia. But he
didn't. Twenty years ago his wife had been killed by a policeman
accidentally in a raid after coiners in Drymouth. That was all. He
brooded on his wife's death night and day. He would burn the world down
to avenge her. . . .

He spoke, however, very quietly with a soft penetrating voice. He said
the usual things--that there would be no peace for man until the
capitalists were destroyed, that Russia had done it, Germany was going
to do it. When Germany and Russia were a united Communist power, then we
would see what would happen to the world. America was going the same
way. China was going the same way. England would not be far behind. And
so on. And so on.

Old Father Sam was listened to with attention and respect. They knew
just what he had to say. They'd heard it many times before. But they
knew too that he meant what he said, and that when the time came, then
he would be in the front of the battle. He was followed by a woman whom
none of them had seen before. She did not look like a Communist; rather,
with her pince-nez, her short thick grey hair, her plain dark costume,
like a respectable school-teacher.

She too spoke very quietly but she knew her job. She told them that she
was always travelling, moving from place to place, studying conditions.
And conditions were fearful. She then, in a gentle reposeful way, gave
them figures--housing figures, unemployment figures, the sufferings of
children, the tyranny of workhouses. Then, without raising her voice at
all, she described some of the luxuries of the capitalists--gay scenes
in London, Paris, New York. She read from a newspaper the description of
a party at a hotel in London when Lady So-and-so had worn a rope of
pearls that cost . . . and someone else possessed a mink coat that cost
. . . and so on and so on . . . Very quiet she was and very effective.

Then Tom Caul jumped on to the platform. Michael noticed that at this
same moment Romney rose from his seat and advanced to the front of the
hall and stood, leaning against the wall, looking at Caul. The
consciousness of that intense gaze gave Michael, to whom men physically
were precisely one as another, a vicarious sense of Tom Caul's power. He
saw, as it were, for a moment, with Romney's eyes; and Caul, who was
dressed decently for the occasion in a rough dark suit, appeared to
Michael suddenly the most powerful man in Polchester. The strength of
his body--of his voice, his hair, his shoulders, his chest, his
legs--was only a symbol of his iron, savage, even joyful determination
to upset everything, to burn, ruin, destroy, not for personal vengeance
like Old Sam, nor for Socialistic theory like the grey-haired
schoolmistress, but for the releasing of his own energy, the pure,
shining violence of the old mediaeval knight. Here, if Hattaway had
realized it, was his Morris's Sigurd returned to earth--Sigurd with the
baleful blood of Regan in his veins. Hattaway, had he been present,
might also have recognized what Michael was too stupid and uneducated to
perceive--that in Sam, the grey-haired woman and Tom Caul he had the
three-headed dragon that at present was disturbing the world.

Romney, however, gave Michael also another idea--that the Town was now,
in all its different social strata, one and indivisible, just as Europe
was so rapidly becoming. What happened here to-night in Charlie's Hall
would affect, most intimately, the lives of Ronder, of Lady Mary
Bassett, the Crispangles, Mrs. Braund and the rest.

There was Romney, intimate companion of many in that hall, who yet could
call Mrs. Braund 'darling,' offer Lady Mary a liqueur in his white
dining-room, examine Ronder's first editions of the poets. Michael knew
nothing in actual detail of the white dining-room or the first editions,
but he was right nevertheless in this idea--that we are now all bound
together as the man, the ape, the serpent, the dog were enclosed in the
bag in the old Roman torture.

But soon he was carried away in the storm of Tom Caul's eloquence.
Caul's power came partly from the force of his amoral recklessness.
Nothing bound him, nothing held him. He had indeed nothing to lose, and
there was all the thirsting sincerity of the destroyer in his soul as he
saw, through his own words, the grand panorama of towns burning, women
raped and screaming, himself in a position of lordly power ordering men
to execution. _He_ was not hungry nor ill-clothed nor suffering because
of his starving children. He was gaily, gladly, with the happy
superabundance of a healthy schoolboy, the ruthless Destroyer.

Such eloquence caught the room like a fire, for there were many there
who _were_ hungry and ill-clothed, many also like himself longing to
destroy.

'Listen, friends--have you not been cheated long enough? I'll bet you
have. I'll bet you've thought for twenty, thirty, forty years there's a
better time coming soon. We can stick this out because it isn't going to
last. Last! My God, it will bloody well last for ever if you don't up
and do something about it. What about this town you live in? What did
they do only the other day, those blasted priests and their women, but
take the town's money that should have gone to the starving poor and
spend it on a bleeding Pageant? Pageant! I tell you we'll give them a
Pageant! It's our money they've taken, money that should have given us
clothes and food, and with it they dressed themselves in gold and purple
for all the world to see! Do you remember that old woman on the white
horse? We pulled her off that all right, and so we'll do with the rest
of them!' He paused, then he went on, laughing. 'There's Mr. Romney
there! You can all see him. Well, he helped to dress them up, he did,
but all the same he's a friend of mine, he's a friend of all of ours.
And why? Because he knows our poverty and that we haven't enough bread
to eat nor clothes to our back. _He_ comes down and visits us, but what
do the others do? They look on us as dirt and spit on us. But they won't
be spitting for ever! It's they who'll be starving and crying out to us
to pity them. That will be some bloody Pageant, friends, when that day
comes, and may you all be there to see it!'

Much more of the same thing--poor, turgid stuff in words but fired by
his energy, his abandon, his physical gaiety and brutality. He was gay.
He was brutal. He was as ruthless as he was ignorant, and behind his
eyes there was the fire of a superb, a magnificent bonfire.

The room rose to him. Men sprang to their feet and shouted. Women, in
shrill voices, cried: 'Bravo! Bravo!' He could have led them there and
then, had he wished it, to the breaking of windows, the breaking of
heads. But he did not wish it. The time was not yet. With a coarse joke
or two he quieted them, and Old Sam appealed for funds and the meeting
was over. Michael saw that Romney had vanished. What would his grand
friends say, Michael wondered, to Caul's praise of him? What would _he_
say to his Lady Mary and the rest? But the meeting was over. Michael had
Lanky Moon to see. He said good-night to Fanny and went. The soft gentle
air by the river cooled him and he smelt the strong scent of some summer
flowers--sweet-williams, carnations, roses. He watched for a moment the
slow progress of the waters under the moon--the still strong drive and
the sudden unexpected check with the contorted eddy, spinning now in
trembling lines of silver. So he was staring at the river when he
thought he saw his brother. Against the moon, shadowing it, rose an
umbrella and from below the umbrella a long hanging overcoat. This rose
straight from the river, hung for a moment swaying, then sprayed out, as
a fountain touched by the wind sprays, and passed into moon-mist.

Michael shook his shoulders like a dog just out of the water. I'm
beginning to see him everywhere. That umbrella and bowler hat. . . .
Nerves. And all this talk about him. Oh, well, it will die down soon.
I'll get a drink out of Lanky.

He did--but nothing was right this evening. Lanky's little room, up the
stairs and along a passage, then down some stairs, was anything but a
cheerful place. It was in this very room, they always said, that just
two hundred years ago, when 'The Dog and Pilchard' had been an inn with
the worst reputation in all South England, two highwaymen had tortured
an old rich shopkeeper. They had stripped him naked, held flame to his
toes, and pulled his teeth out, finally his tongue. He had been found
there raving mad next morning. They said you could hear him cry at
nights. He was reputed to scream: 'Oh, Nellie, Nellie! They'll have my
tongue!' Who Nellie was no one knew. Anyway, on this warm moonlit
scented night the place was weird enough. The window was open and the
smell of the river, the flowers, the neglected offal, came floating in.
When the Cathedral bells chimed they were as clear as though they were
in the very room. The moonlight lay on the floor scattered like
quivering silver fish-scales. There were pictures of naked women on the
walls--photographs cut from Art Publications, 'Twelve Studies in the
Nude.' There were boxing-gloves hanging on the wall and an enlarged
photograph of a French bulldog that Lanky had possessed and adored.
There was a stink, as always, of stale drink and tobacco.

They came, at once, to business. Michael produced a small packet and in
the packet were gold sovereigns. Lanky took them, counted them, went to
a drawer, found some five-pound notes and gave them to Michael. Some
drunken singing came up to them from the bar.

'What was the meeting like?' Lanky asked.

'All right.'

'Yes? I'm glad. There'll be something doing one of these days.'

He leaned on his thin arms and looked at Michael.

'I don't want anyone to know about these coins of yours.'

'No,' said Michael. 'Nor do I.'

'Can anyone else open that safe?'

'Leggett maybe. I don't know.'

'What does Leggett say to you?'

'Oh, nothing.'

'Doesn't he though?' Lanky spat out of the window. 'Yes, he does,
though. Doesn't he say that Lampiron did your brother in?'

'He pretends to think that.'

'Oh--pretends or not pretends. What the hell! . . . But that's what
_you've_ got to say, Mike. Understand me? We can get the whole town to
believe it.'

'What's the idea?'

'What's the----?' Lanky's face curdled with contempt. This bloody
soft-witted fool! Why, look, all his body all soft fat, trembling and
shaking. And yet he had brains somewhere, sometimes. He must have
courage, determination somewhere too. . . .

'Look here, Mike,' Lanky said, putting his hand on Michael's arm. 'Don't
let this get you down. You look a bit scared to-night----'

'Everybody's talking. Everybody----'

'Oh, Christ! Let them talk! Everybody my foot! Let them get Lampiron
into their heads and they won't ask any more questions. And for all I
know,' Lanky added, laughing, 'perhaps he _did_ do it. What do you say,
Mike?'

'Maybe he did,' said Michael, clearing his throat. He wanted to get out
of here; in spite of the open windows the room was stuffy. There was a
smell of dead geraniums and stinking fish. To-night everyone had behaved
queerly. He wanted to get somewhere by himself, away from eyes, from
voices, from sound. . . .

'I think I'll be getting along,' he said, rising.

'Wait a minute,' said Lanky, looking up at him from his strange narrow
Chinese-like eye. 'There are things we've got to talk about. Not
to-night perhaps. And we'll have Leggett here.'

'Leggett!' Mike cried, with that shrill feminine note that was sometimes
in his voice. 'What's Leggett got to do with it?'

'Everything,' said Lanky slowly. 'Everything. Why, we're like your
Siamese twins, Mike, Leggett and me. You didn't think you'd be going on
alone, Mike, did you?'

That horrible simile! Leggett had also used it.

'By God!' Michael cried, his fat body shaking. 'I did believe it and I
do. What have you got to do with me--or Leggett either?'

Lanky filled his long thin pipe with the stinking coarse tobacco that he
favoured.

'You are no more free from us,' he said slowly, 'than my stomach is free
from my lungs and my liver.'

Michael looked over Lanky's head to the window.

'I'll show you whether I am,' he said. 'I am free the first moment I
want to be,' and he went out and stumbled down the dark twisted stairs,
pushed through the bar, and found his way into the open air again.

He had had only one drink with Lanky and not a one with anyone else, and
yet there he was, confused in the head. He stood, uncertain, while the
moon, like an orange-faced clown with a straw in his mouth, swung just
to the right of the Harry Tower and grinned at himself.

His feet mechanically took him a step or two up Primrose Street. There
he was--on his old round again! His head was just befuddled enough to
slacken his determination. He seemed, as he so often was, only a step
away from a grand state of self-command and world-authority. In bitter
fact he was governed by others as all his life he had been. As he
climbed the street he thought of the splendid man he'd be if it were not
for that little grain of weakness. Always letting others get the better
of you--and you finer, nobler in purpose than any of them. How you care,
Mike Furze, for beautiful things, how you long to be generous, to give
everything to the poor, to make everyone happy. . . .

He stumbled against someone. The town trailed a thin summer mist, and
through it the Polchester moon, like Shelley's once, leaned crazily.
Mike looked to see who it was that he was holding by the hand. It was
Caul, the blind stallkeeper, Tom's brother. His girl had him by the arm.
Caul stroked Mike's hand in the way that was so very unpleasant--'like
spiders crawling.'

'Ah--Mr. Michael Furze. Good evening. My daughter is seeing me home.'

Mike murmured something. The unagreeable thing was that he could not
take his hand away although it was but lightly held. But Caul was very
friendly. It was wonderful, they said, how pluckily he took his
misfortune, what cheery spirits he had!

'I saw you at the meeting. Tom spoke well.'

'Aye. His usual nonsense. He never cares what he says so long as he
hears his own voice. I haven't spoken with you, Mr. Furze, since that
day--let me see--the afternoon before the Pageant--up by the
Cathedral--you and your brother.'

Mike sharply withdrew his hand.

'It wasn't my brother. I was alone.'

Caul sighed. His gentle philosophic smile lit his face with real beauty.
'Maybe. I fancied I touched his hand first, then yours, Mr. Furze. But
I'm often wrong.'

'It's important though,' Mike said, 'because my brother's never been
seen again since that afternoon, as I daresay you've heard. You had
better tell the police about it. But if my brother was there I never saw
him.'

'Yes,' said Caul, with the dreamy self-absorption that blind people
acquire. 'Mr. Gurney did ask me. I told him what I thought: I daresay I
was mistaken. Good night to you, Mr. Furze.'

A moment later, so it seemed to Mike (and such things can be when the
town is queer, when the river runs swiftly to its destiny, when the
orange moon sucks a straw and the Cathedral bells ring for your ears
alone), he was by the great West Door and, as had been the case now so
many times, his cheek was pressed against the cold stone as though he
were listening to all the busy life within those walls.

But if he was listening he did not know it. He was terribly, terribly
unhappy, as he often was when he had taken a drink or two. A strange
sight for anyone passing, this fat flabby man, on his knees now in the
thin mouse-coloured moonlight, the Cathedral towering above him, tears
coursing down his cheeks.

A peculiar sight for a passer-by! Klitch, for example, who would
sometimes walk out to admire the moonlight sleeping on the grass. This
drunken penitent, lover of the beautiful, idealist! But to-night not so
drunken, only bewildered, pursued, spied upon. . . .

The bells rang midnight, and all about him, from under the ground, from
above at the moon's very heart, from the stern Inquisitor himself, the
bells shook and quivered and, obedient to law, pursued their eternal
ceaseless course. He was plain drunk by now or so unhappy that his
common sense betrayed him. For the Great Door opened and, without sound,
the little procession passed out: the Inquisitor continues his
investigation.

Poor Mike! There is nothing and no one there--only Klitch sees, in the
moonlight, a heavy man on his knees, his cheek pressed against the
stone, sobbing.

Klitch will not interfere. He is too cautious a man. Smoking his last
pipe of the day, he returns to his house.




CHAPTER VIII

THREE VISITORS FOR LAMPIRON


On the afternoon of September 3rd, Gurney, the Police Inspector, paid a
call on Lampiron at his house. This astonished Lampiron very much
indeed, just as Lampiron's sculpture astonished Gurney. This was the
first intimation that Lampiron received that he had any connection with
Stephen Furze's disappearance.

Gurney was pleasant and friendly, wiping his forehead with a large
yellow-and-black handkerchief, for it was a warm afternoon--and, between
his remarks, he shot surreptitious glances of wonder at the fearful
bosoms of the gigantic female torsos. But he liked the little statue of
the naked young man on the mantelpiece. He asked Lampiron whether he had
made that.

'No,' said Lampiron, smiling. 'That's a copy of a statue by Donatello,
one of the greatest sculptors who ever lived. It's David who killed
Goliath.'

Gurney nodded his head. He had begun by saying that he hoped Mr.
Lampiron wouldn't think his visit an impertinence. It was all in the way
of his duty. He only wanted to ask a question or two. What he _did_ want
to know was exactly what Lampiron was doing on the afternoon that
preceded the Pageant. Could he throw his mind back?

'Why, good God!' Lampiron burst out. 'You don't mean to say you think
_I_ murdered Furze?'

'He's a fine-looking old man when he's angry,' Gurney thought. 'But he's
got a temper all right.'

Why, no, Gurney explained, laughing, that _was_ silly! Of course not.
Only this was a baffling case. They were making very little progress
with it. And they _did_ understand that Mr. Lampiron had had a few words
with Stephen Furze that same afternoon in the High Street. Several
people had noticed it.

Lampiron, to whom this was all a thundering insult, understood, however,
that he must be calm. So, quietly, he threw his mind back. Yes, he'd
left his house about a quarter-past four. It was quite true that, going
up the High Street, he had encountered Furze; the man had been
impertinent and he told him to go to the devil! He had always hated the
man, had been in debt to him for a long time, as everyone knew.

'And after that?' asked Gurney.

Well, after that he had walked on up the High Street, looked at the
preparations for the Pageant, gone into the Cathedral, where he had
expected to meet Mr. Hattaway. They were to meet in order to discuss the
danger to the Whispering Gallery from wood-rot. The Whispering Gallery,
as a matter of fact, was closed later that same evening. Hattaway had
not turned up. He, Lampiron, had stayed quietly near the West Door for a
while. There had been no one there. Once he thought he heard steps in
the choir, but he had not stayed for long. Five minutes after he left
the Cathedral a thunderstorm had broken out, he remembered, and he had
taken shelter in the cloisters. About a quarter-past five he had gone
home.

'So no one saw you between about four-twenty-five and five-fifteen?'

'No. I suppose not,' Lampiron said.

'The last person who saw Furze alive, so far as we know,' said Gurney,
'was Klitch, the curiosity-shop man, at about a quarter to five. He saw
him, standing in the rain, staring through the window at the shop.'

Lampiron nodded his head.

'Well, Inspector,' he said, 'as I seem to be drawn into this I may as
well tell you what I expect others have already told you. The man you
want is Furze's brother.'

Gurney agreed.

'Well, he _is_ acting a bit funny, Mr. Lampiron. And there _are_ one or
two things.' He looked mysterious and also childlike. Like a baby who
has suddenly thought of a new way to steal jam without being observed.

'I must be off,' he said, rising. 'I'm most grateful to you for your
courtesy, Mr. Lampiron. That certainly _is_ a pretty statue,' he added,
throwing one last glance at the David.

Afterwards Lampiron was both annoyed and puzzled. They surely couldn't
seriously think that he would be such an ass? Of course he had declared
many times that there was nothing that would please him better than to
wring Furze's neck. . . . Had he not, on one or two occasions, been
perilously near the act? There had been that visit to Furze's room. Why
could he not command his temper better? Why, after all these years, had
he learnt just nothing at all?

Then for the first time it occurred to him that there might be people in
this town who really believed that he had murdered Furze. He burst out
laughing--and then was suddenly serious.

       *       *       *       *       *

On the evening of September 8th he received three visitors.

The first visitor was the Reverend James Bird.

Marcel Proust says somewhere in his beautiful tangle of reminiscent
regrets that when society feels itself to be attacked it draws, for
self-confidence, closer together and admits into its ranks those who had
always hitherto been excluded.

Mr. Porteous was experiencing something of that kind at the present.
Ever since the disastrous close to the Pageant, the accident to Mrs.
Braund and the disappearance of Stephen Furze, men of common sense and
obvious good-will had been very welcome--men like Canon Cronin,
Hattaway, and most especially Porteous. Everyone said that it was a real
comfort to be with Porteous in these days, that one knew that _he_
didn't believe in ghosts or care whether old Furze had been murdered or
no--and that if Seatown _were_ to make a little trouble Porteous would
be the first man to send them skulking back to their kennels. Mrs.
Cronin said that he might well turn out to be our Mussolini, and this
name stuck both appreciatively and also, it is to be feared, derisively.
Romney made the most of it and always spoke of Porteous as 'Il Duce.' He
made many people laugh, in the drawing-rooms of Polchester, with his
imitation of Porteous acknowledging the Fascist salute from his
choir-boys. Porteous heard of this; he and Romney were now declared
enemies and cut one another when they met. This delighted Romney, who
had all the feminine love for dramatic situations.

The immediate result of Mr. Porteous' new popularity was the rather
unfortunate change that overcame that gentleman. For, as with all men
who are noisy and dictatorial because of their inferiority complex,
popularity turned his head altogether. It was said afterwards that he
really did at this time begin to fancy himself Mussolini. His voice had
always been loud: it reverberated now like thunder, and when, first
thing in the morning, he rebuked the maid for not dusting the top of the
banisters, he could be heard on the bridge at the bottom of Orange
Street. His intimate acquaintance with God, always remarkable, was now
greatly strengthened.

'Is that what God really wishes of us, Bird? I think not. I can assure
you that God's plan is quite otherwise--so if you don't mind,
eleven-thirty at the Broad Street school. Eleven-thirty sharp.'

Poor Mrs. Porteous, a colourless lady with a harassed eye and short legs
that gave her an odd resemblance to a dachshund, admired him now so
tremendously that he became to her St. Paul and Mussolini rolled into
one. Miss Porteous, Camilla, reserved her opinion. She confessed in a
letter to a friend that she was getting rather tired of papa, and in
that same letter added: 'Once again, dear Agnes, the curate is
disappointing. An insignificant little man, often impertinent and
always evading his duties.' She did not, in fact, call him 'Birdie' any
more,' but 'Mr. Bird,' and for this relief he offered thanks.

It is to be feared that by this time James Bird had grown to detest
Porteous very thoroughly--and this was a pity, for Porteous had many
most excellent qualities which Bird, in other circumstances, would
certainly have recognized. However, much as he disliked Porteous he
disliked Camilla more. Mrs. Porteous was the only member of the family
whom he could endure.

He knew that a climax was approaching, and on this afternoon of
September 8th it advanced a step nearer.

Bird had just left Porteous' study and was about to pay a visit to a
cheerful old lady who was dying uncomplainingly of cancer when he met
Camilla in the hall. She was passing him in silence, and with a kind of
spiritual toss of the head, when she thought better of it. She smiled
and his heart sank, for he had hoped that she would never smile at him
again. She dropped her voice, which meant that she was about to say
something unpleasant.

'Pardon me, Mr. Bird,' she said, 'but you are a friend of Mr.
Lampiron's, are you not?'

'I am.'

'Well--oh, you know what gossip is, especially in a little town like
this.'

'I do.'

'Perhaps you have heard--what everyone is saying.'

'No, I have not.'

'Well--it sounds absurd--but after all you never know. Everyone says
that it's Mr. Lampiron who murdered Stephen Furze.'

'Lampiron!' He turned upon her so fiercely that, as she said afterwards,
she thought that he would strike her.

'Yes, isn't it dreadful? But after all, he's a very strange man. And
they say his house is full of naked statues. And it's shocking the open
way he goes about with Penny Marlowe who's young enough to be his
granddaughter. Anyway that's what everyone is saying.'

'It's a lie, Miss Porteous--a monstrous lie.'

'I daresay it is--people chatter. I'm sure he knows something though.
And that daughter of Furze--she guesses something too.'

Bird's voice trembled. 'You had better be careful, Miss Porteous. There
are libel laws, you know.' Then he added, quietly, 'And in any case you
mustn't say such things to me. Miss Furze and myself are engaged to be
married.'

He walked out of the house. At the same time he knew that he had done
it! Within half an hour it would be common talk in Polchester, and he
had promised Elizabeth that no one should know. That promise was given
after his outbreak to Michael Furze. She had denied that she _was_
engaged to him, had refused to engage herself to anybody until this
mystery concerning her father was cleared.

'Elizabeth,' he had said, 'that's what they do in novels. The heroine
_always_ cries "Clear our family name and I'll marry you."'

But that did not amuse her. She saw nothing funny in novels, because she
had had to read so many bad ones to her mother. Moreover, her life had
been too hard for her to take serious things lightly--and Mr. James
Bird's love for her was certainly serious. It had ended in Bird's saying
that they were engaged and in Elizabeth's saying that they were not
engaged but that if they were no one was to know about it. And now he
had told Camilla! Well--what did he care? He threw up his head defiantly
as he walked down Orange Street. Nothing could separate him from
Elizabeth and he could do his duty to God in any place. _He_ didn't mind
nor did Elizabeth. He would not be sorry to leave Polchester, which now
possessed for him a strange corrupt odour as though Furze's buried body
was on the move somewhere, circulating hither and thither in the town
drainage system. Thinking of Furze made him think of Lampiron. He would
pay him a brief visit before looking in to read the Bible to the old
lady with cancer.

Friendship as understood by the Englishman is both more emotional and
more enduring than with any other peoples in the world. It is also more
silent and less sentimental. The American is too restless, the Slav too
excitedly preoccupied with women, the Scandinavian too hygienic, the
French-man too materialistic, the Italian too egoistic, the Spaniard too
completely male. . . . These nationalities do not trouble to educate the
principle of fidelity sufficiently. It simply is not worth their bother.
But the principal reason why men are more important than women in
England is that men can in that country do without women in every
element of life except the least important, the physical. Of no other
country in the world can this be said.

Friendship among men in England is never expressed, but once the pact is
made it can withstand every attempt to break it--geography, history,
sex, finance, erudition, even sport--none of these can affect it.

So Bird felt for Lampiron. After Elizabeth that old lion-headed man
meant more to him than anyone else in the world. But when he stood with
Lampiron in his studio it was difficult. What he wanted to say was that
if Lampiron was in any kind of trouble anywhere at any time--murder,
adultery or robbing an old blind man of his pennies--he, James Bird, was
there at his side.

But all that he actually said was: 'Thought I'd look in for a moment.'

'Stay and have some supper with me,' Lampiron said.

'No, thanks. I have to read to an old woman.'

Lampiron looked at him with great affection and put a hand on the little
man's shoulder.

'Don't get too religious-minded, Jimmie,' he said.

'Why--what do you mean?'

'Religion drives out friendship and, as a matter of fact, I need a
friend just at the moment. I had the shock of my life once. I had a
friend for five years--the best I ever had, kind, humorous, intelligent,
understanding, unselfish. Then this good man met God and became such
friends with Him that he was always talking to Him. God is Love, he said
morning, noon and night. We must love everybody all the time. But the
result was that he soon came to love nobody. He was so snobbish about
his new splendid divine friendship. When I told him this one day he was
deeply hurt and he never spoke to me again. I've missed him ever since
_and_ thought ill of religion.'

'I expect,' Bird said, 'that it wasn't God he met but his own glorified
idea of himself.'

'Maybe,' Lampiron answered. He sat down wearily, leaning his head on his
arms. He looked up. 'Jimmie, tell me--have you heard any gossip about
me?'

'I never hear gossip.'

'Oh yes, you do. Have you heard, for instance, that I have been busy
seducing Miss Marlowe?'

Bird hesitated. Then he said, 'I've heard that you're very friendly with
her.'

'Disgusting, isn't it? A man old enough to be her grandfather.' Lampiron
looked steadily across into Bird's face. 'What a filthy town this is! Or
no--not filthy. Just like any other town.' He paused. 'Have you heard
something else--that it was I who killed Furze?'

Bird answered at once.

'I heard it just now--half an hour ago--for the first time.'

'From whom?'

'Camilla Porteous.'

'Ah! So it _is_ going around. I'll tell you something else, Jimmie. Five
days ago Gurney, the policeman, came to see me. He wanted to ask me what
my movements were on the fatal day--the day before the Pageant. I told
him.'

Bird said quietly, 'Look here, don't take this too seriously. They're
asking everybody.'

'Have they asked you?'

'No. But----'

'There you are. Of course they're not asking everybody. Gurney was very
kind, very friendly. All the same his large soft eye was heavy with
suspicion. Now, Jimmie, two more questions. First, do _you_ believe
that I have seduced Miss Marlowe?'

'No. Of course not.'

'Good. Second, do you believe that I murdered Furze?'

'No.' Bird laughed.

'Good. Would you believe either or both of those things if I myself told
you I was guilty?'

'Never. I should think you were shielding someone.'

'Right. I haven't done either and I'm not shielding anyone.'

Bird forgot all his own affairs. He was caught into Lampiron's crisis.
For he knew at once, by the innate sympathy that friendship brings, that
there was beginning now the crisis of Lampiron's whole life. The man
looked old and Bird had never seen him look old before, but he had also
a touch of the superhuman, that expression in the eyes, that line in the
mouth that men catch when they have known great suffering or great
triumph. Lampiron's massive shoulders carried some burden but carried it
defiantly. This was a picture of an old man fighting--old in experience,
in ambition, in passion, not in years.

'I'll tell you,' Lampiron said, 'first about Miss Marlowe. You ought to
know. I like you better than any other man anywhere.'

'Do you really?' Bird said, delighted.

'Yes. Now, listen. Miss Marlowe and I love one another. We have kissed
and we shall kiss again--and that is all. Messrs. Crispangle, Bellamy,
and the lads of Seatown would split their sides laughing if they heard
that. Nevertheless it's true. This, Jimmie, is the finest thing I've
ever had, finer than I thought any relationship between the cats and
monkeys could ever be. It will remain so. Do you believe me?'

'I do,' said Bird. 'But people----'

'Oh, people! To hell with people! . . .'

'Yes, but for her sake . . .'

'I tell you, Jimmie, that the finest thing I can do for her is to give
her a grand idea of life--a design for living, full of colour, humour,
irony, beauty, and love when love's worth it. That's the best thing,
just about the only thing that the old can do for the young. And how
often do they? Almost never. And how often do the young listen? Also
almost never. But she loves me and, God forgive me, thinks me wonderful.
So _that_ I can do for her--strengthen everything in her that will help
her to accept life and find it worth while to be alive. What does she
care about people talking? Aren't we cowards if we care? We know what we
are. No one can say worse or better than we must say of ourselves. . . .
So that is that. Do you trust me, Jimmie?'

'I trust you.'

'Good. But now listen. The other is much worse. Because--don't jump--I
warned you--I'm not sure that I didn't kill Furze.'

'What!' Bird half-rose from his chair.

'No, no. Don't be so agitated, Jimmie. Of course I didn't actually kill
him. I think you won't have to look further than his brother for that.
But I _wanted_ to kill him. I suppose I've wanted nothing so much
physically for years as to give him one annihilating blow on his
horrible shining nose. Twice at least I was very near to throttling
him. On that very last afternoon, as I expect you've heard, I met him in
the High Street and quarrelled with him publicly. That's what my cursed
temper does!'

'Wanting to kill him,' said Bird, 'isn't killing him. If I were bigger
and stronger I _might_ hit Porteous one day and that _might_ kill him.
I've always thought murder one of the lesser crimes--in certain cases of
course.'

'Now I'll try to explain what I mean, Jimmie. I've been haunted by
Furze. I was haunted by Furze before he died--if he _is_ dead--but it's
been worse since. To me, during the last weeks, it has been as though
some thin paper wall (like the Japanese room walls) has been torn down
in this place. Two worlds are mingling, and it's nasty because it's
wrong, because it's against Nature. I told you that when I was acting in
that silly Pageant I felt as though Arden were alive--as though _I_ were
the shadow and _he_ the reality! Others felt the same. Perhaps this has
become a haunted town. After all, what do we know about death? Why
shouldn't the two worlds mingle? And I tell you, Jimmie, we've got to
lay these ghosts. They are more powerful than we are, for they have had
experience of both worlds, _we_ only of one. Maybe Furze has joined
them. _He_ knows now more than he did and he's a nasty malicious spirit.
It's as though he whispered to me that I killed him and he'll have his
own back. . . . Is this altogether nonsense, Jimmie? How can I say so
now that the living are beginning to whisper as well as the dead? The
very children are saying that Furze walks out of the Cathedral West Door
with a broken neck. Powerful now he will be. The Inquisitor, as old
Mordaunt says, of this town. Nice for us, isn't it?'

Bird looked at him anxiously. 'Have you been getting your sleep all
right?'

'No, I haven't. I've not slept properly for weeks. I know you think I'm
crazy, Jimmie--but in the Pageant they did something to me. I ought
never to have acted in the damned thing!'

Bird got up to go.

'I've something to tell _you_,' he said. 'I'm engaged to be married to
Elizabeth Furze.'

Lampiron looked at him as though he were his son. 'I'm proud of you,
Jimmie. This is just the time you _would_ announce it.'

'As a matter of honest truth,' said Bird, 'she refuses to consider
herself engaged until all this business is cleared up. I promised her
that I would keep it dark, but I lost my temper just now with Camilla
and told her--so it will be all over Polchester to-morrow.'

'The plot moves,' Lampiron said, smiling. 'That's a strange house to
marry into, Jimmie.'

'I'm not marrying a house,' Jimmie said, 'but one of the bravest,
truest, warmest-hearted women ever born. She's been starved, mentally,
spiritually, physically. She thinks the hand of the whole world is
against her. She shall find that it is not.'

Lampiron straightened his shoulders and threw back his head.

'Damn the ghosts!' he cried, as though challenging his own fears and
driving them like mist-vapours into sunlight. 'You're real, Jimmie. I've
been living for five days in a fog.'

But when Bird had gone the fog closed in again. Lampiron sat in his
chair, his legs stretched out in front of him, brooding. For five days
he had been able to do no work. That was bad. He felt old and he felt
frightened. That was worse. This was the first time in his life that he
had been afraid and he didn't like the unaccustomed feel of it. He got
up and switched on the electric light. Then he lit a fire, for the room
was cold. He looked at every corner of the room, now clear and defined
in the light. There was no one there--only his work which seemed to him
now without life or savour. Then ashamed of his nervousness he switched
out the light again--only the thin vaporous flames threw little shadows
on the wall.

Of what was he afraid? Not of the gossip. When had he ever bothered
about gossip? Of something intangible. He did not believe in ghosts in
any crude fashion. He did not believe, for example, that dead men with
broken necks walked the town. No. . . . Not that. But he was not at all
sure that this physical world was the only one, nor that it might not be
inter-penetrated with others.

There are times, he thought, when a man feels hemmed in. I'm not young
any more. I haven't the strength I had. Even with Penny it is easier to
be virtuous than it would have been only a few years ago. As my body
grows weaker I realize more actively the reality of non-bodily power.
For it _is_ real. It can be active. Have I enraged someone, disturbed
some settled order with which I had no right to interfere? Have I for
years treated with contemptuous indifference powers of tremendous
importance? Perhaps that happens to all of us and then we blame our
ill-luck. . . . I have been blaming mine. . . . In any case I'm uneasy,
apprehensive. . . . (He shook his head at the firelight.) I'm damned if
I will be. What does it matter? Let them say I murdered Furze if they
like. What do I care _what_ they think?

But it wasn't _they_--the simple citizens of Polchester--of whom he was
apprehensive. He got up and began to pace the studio. This damned thing
was interfering with his food, his sleep, his work.

He longed for Penny then, longed for her as he had never done before.
Only to see her. Not to touch her but to sit near to her and worship her
youth, her courage, her clear-sighted honesty--the things she had that
seemed to be abandoning himself. As one grows old, he wondered, does
this world begin to slip away, long before death comes; does one begin
to realize how empty and false one's sense of value has been, ironically
now when it is too late to do anything about it? I painted pictures once
and into the painting I put all the ardour, the hope, the enthusiasm
that I had. Then one day I saw that they were nothing, worse than
nothing. How could I have been so blind? Have I been blind in the same
way about life?

He had suddenly a dread sensation of disintegration, as though the flesh
were peeling from his bones as he watched it, as though the stone and
plaster of his walls were fading into air. Was this even possibly death?
He placed his hand above his heart. It was beating steadily. He got up
again and went to the female torso and felt on the flesh of his palm the
cold strong stone of which it was made. He stood firmly on the ground.
He opened his shirt, laying his hand on the crisp, curling hair of his
breast.

These were real. His love for Penny was real. But there were shadows
too. Half the room was in shadow and old Furze with his long nose might
be standing there, watching, with cold satisfaction, his unworthy
terrors. . . .

He stared fixedly at that side of the room where the shadows were
thickest, and it was not strange that his disturbed gaze now should
trace for him a shadow against the shadow, the thin outline of a thin
mean old bastard whose throat someone somewhere had so rightly twisted.

Then the door was flung open and the light from the passage streamed in.
The old woman stood there.

'Why, sir, you're all in the dark. There's Canon Ronder outside wonders
if he might have a word with you.'

Ronder! Nothing in the world could have surprised Lampiron more and, as
he moved forward to greet him, he had even more strongly the sense that
events were moving in upon him even as the walls of the room stole in
upon the prisoner in the old story. Ronder! But he scarcely knew him!
They were the merest acquaintances. What did _he_ want here?

Ronder stood in the lighted doorway rather like a Chinese idol,
immobile, stout-bellied, shining. He held his soft clerical hat in his
hand.

'Canon Ronder! Come in! I was dreaming in front of the fire. I'm
delighted to see you.'

'Thank you so much.' Ronder's soft rich voice had exactly the same
cadence as thirty-six years ago, was as resonant and as beautifully
rhythmic. 'A pleasure to listen to Ronder,' Crispangle always remarked,
'even if all he says is, "Pass the butter please."'

'No. I'll keep my hat. I have looked in for the briefest moment. Thanks.
I will sit down. My heart isn't too good and I'm much too fat.'

He sat back in the easy chair, his black shining head, his round plump
face with the gleaming spectacles, his protruding stomach, his round
thick thighs, his immaculate glittering black shoes, all like something
carved; his body, or rather the personality within his body, had the
rounded finish of a completed artistic work. 'This,' God might say,
opening His new art show, 'is one of the finest works in the exhibition.
There is not a flaw--allowing of course for what it is meant to be.'

Nevertheless, Lampiron perceived that Ronder was in pain. A faint bluish
tinge coloured his cheeks. His white plump hand pressed above his heart.

'Have you a glass of water?' he asked. 'My walk has been a little too
much for me.'

Lampiron fetched him a glass of water. He took two pills from a little
bottle.

'There's nothing radically the matter,' he said, quickly recovering.
'I'm too fat, and that gives me wind about the heart. How have you
managed to keep so fit, Mr. Lampiron? You look as though you were made
of steel.'

'Yes, my health's all right,' Lampiron said, smiling. 'Won't you stay
and have some supper with me, Canon?'

'Oh, no, thanks. The fact is I looked in only for a minute. I want to
make an apology.'

'An apology?'

'Yes--although I haven't, I think, done anything wrong. Not in your case
at least--although in plenty of others,' he added, smiling.

An old man, Lampiron thought, wearing a mask. Has worn one for years and
years and it has bitten in and in until now--is it all mask? or is he a
real suffering lonely human being like the rest of us?

Lampiron had never greatly liked him because he had felt a certain
shyness at Ronder's social accomplishments. He had accounted for this
within himself by saying that Ronder was a snob. But he knew well that
if he, Lampiron, had been able to enter a room and greet its occupants
with the grace that Ronder so naturally had, he would not have called
him a snob but would rather have commented on his kindliness of heart.

The other thing about Ronder (and this was felt in greater or lesser
degree by everyone in Polchester) was that the Canon was a trifle out of
date, like last week's newspaper. Had he not been so powerful twenty
years ago he would not now be a little faded. But the battles that he
fought successfully _then_ seemed so unlike the battles that everyone
was engaged in _now_. (As a matter of fact they were the same. Neither
the battlefield nor the combatants ever change--only the fashion in
armour is different.)

Ronder folded his hands across his stomach and said:

'I'm feeling better now. I'm an old man, you know. I forget that
sometimes.'

'I'm no chicken myself,' Lampiron said, smiling.

'No. But how strong you are! You should have known that Swede--or
Dane was it?--who was here years ago. He used to massage me out of
existence. . . . But come. I ramble on, living in the past. A shocking
habit. What I came here to say was this--I'm afraid I may have done
you an injury.'

'In what way?'

'The Police Inspector, Gurney, called on me. He wanted me to tell him
all that I knew of a little scene I witnessed one afternoon in the High
Street between yourself and Furze.'

'Yes. I know. He's been to see me about it.'

'Oh, has he? Well, as a matter of fact I discovered that he had already
spoken to Gaselee--you know, Gaselee of St. James's--who was with me
that afternoon--so that, so to speak, it was of no use my keeping my
mouth shut.'

'There was no reason why you _should_ keep your mouth shut,' Lampiron
said genially.

'No. Quite. I told him all I knew, which was very little--that you _did_
have a row with Furze. And I'm sure I don't wonder! If ever there was an
unpleasant human being he was one. . . . By the way, many people seem to
think that he's not dead at all but is still hiding in the town.'

'Yes,' Lampiron answered, looking at Ronder and wondering what he was
really thinking behind those large shining spectacles. (Did he, perhaps,
suspect . . .?) 'I've heard that theory. And also that he comes out of
the Cathedral every night at twelve with his neck broken.'

Both men laughed.

'Well,' said Ronder very pleasantly, 'it was only that after I told
Gurney this--what a _very_ stupid man to have for our leading policeman
by the way--I wasn't at all comfortable. What right had I to be
interfering in your private affairs?'

'Every right in the world,' said Lampiron heartily. 'If they _were_ my
private affairs. But they seem to be very public ones!' he went on,
laughing. 'I understand that it's very generally supposed in the town
that _I_ did the ruffian in!'

'No! is it really?' said Ronder. 'How absurd!'

'Not altogether absurd. I hated the man. I was in debt to him. And he
hated _me_! More than anyone else in the town, I think. If he is walking
about with a broken neck it's he who is pointing me out with his long
skeleton finger.'

Ronder rose.

'It's very good of you to take it like this. You can be sure that I
resented being questioned. As a matter of fact,' he went on slowly,
'there was one thing I _didn't_ tell Gurney. I was in the Cathedral with
Gaselee that afternoon. We were in the choir and, as far as I know,
quite alone. A thunderstorm broke out and so we stayed. Then, somewhere
about five o'clock, I fancied I heard a cry.'

'From where?' Lampiron asked.

'I don't know. I'm not even sure that I heard one. I didn't give it
another thought until all this disturbance began. And _what_ a
disturbance!' He raised his hands. 'I don't think I ever remember in all
these years here the town to have been so upset. Why, I hear that young
men are going out at night with clubs lest they should be attacked. And
poor Mrs. Braund. They say she is not at all herself. In quite an
hysterical state. That wretched Pageant----'

'Yes, the Pageant,' Lampiron said. 'An unfortunate ending.'

'Unfortunate everything!' Ronder cried. 'Upon my soul I begin to wonder
whether old Mordaunt wasn't right when he said that the Cathedral
resented it. It well might! How we dared risk comparison with those old
people. . . . Well--I must be getting along.'

'You're sure you won't stay and have some supper with me?'

'No, no. I only sit with my feet on the fender and my eyes half closed
and grumble. It's all that life has left to me. Old age!' He shook his
head. 'A horrifying affair! You'll find it so when you get to it,
Lampiron.'

       *       *       *       *       *

After he had gone Lampiron reflected. Lord, he intended that as a
compliment. Why, I'm nearly as old as he! He also thought: He never said
a word about my sculpture. That also was a compliment. And his last
thought was: What did he come here for? To look at me? To see whether I
_seemed_ a murderer?

His supper that night was a melancholy meal. He was in poor spirits. He
suffered from that loneliness, well known to all of us, when we return
to almost nursery terrors of wind-echoes, wall-shadows, and the threat
of impending darkness. He longed for Penny now as though some relentless
piston-rod impelled him forward. For twopence--oh yes, for nothing at
all!--he would hurry from the house, hasten up the dark street, make
some excuse to see her. But that way lay destruction. . . . He put down
his bread and cheese, stared in front of him. Why, now that the town
thought these things of him what would _she_ be thinking? She would
stand by him whatever they might do, but, secretly alone with herself,
where there could be no treachery, what did she think?

He jumped up. This was like madness in his brain. He must _know_ what
she thought. If she suspected him might he not begin to suspect himself?
Already he was wondering what it was he _had_ done! If Arden was more
real, more alive than he, then Furze was alive--alive to all eternity! A
nasty thought that the little quiet streets of this country town would
never again be free of that mean figure, the hat, the coat, the
mushroom-fungus-stained umbrella. . . .

And now it's time, Lampiron thought, for a drink. I'm going dotty in
here to-night. Getting drunk is safer than other things. Ten minutes
later he was saying aloud: They can go to hell, the lot of them! Neat
brandy was what he preferred, and he drank plenty of it. He waved his
glass at the marble-breasted female. He went to her, laid his head on
those breasts, then--his arm around her--defied all the worlds--the
first which is physical, the second which is mist and vapour, the third
where the Sacred River runs, the fourth. . . .

The bell rang. What! _Another_ visitor! I haven't been so popular for
months. He switched off the lights. There was a large fire burning now,
a golden molten cavern out of which little tongues of flames eagerly
licked the air.

Lampiron stood in the firelight sobering himself. He had a mad frantic
hope that it might be Penny.

But the old woman said: 'It's a gentleman, wouldn't give his name--says
he must see you.'

Then Lampiron saw that Leggett was standing there. Leggett came down
the steps into the studio.

'I didn't send my name in because I thought that you wouldn't see me.'

'What do you want?'

Leggett came forward into the firelight.

'I want to talk to you.'

Lampiron turned to the fire.

'Not to-night, I'm afraid. I'm busy.'

Leggett came further into the room.

'See here, Lampiron. I know you hate the sight of me. But you shouldn't.
I'm not your enemy.'

'What the hell do I care,' Lampiron said, 'whether you're my enemy or
not? It doesn't matter to me _what_ you are!'

'Well, it might,' Leggett said. 'There've been funnier things.'

Then he sat down, took a cigarette-case out of his pocket, lit a
cigarette.

Lampiron looked at him as though he would pick him up out of the chair
and throw him into the hall. But he did not. What did the little swine
want? The evening had been already significant. It should end
significantly.

He stood, the firelight throwing gigantic shadows of him on the wall,
and lowering his head, rather like an old bull, said:

'What is it?'

Leggett looked at him with admiration. What strength the old man had!

'It's very simple,' he said. 'I know a thing or two and I want you to
know what I know.'

'I don't care what you know.'

'But listen,' said Leggett very amiably. 'It's important. Mind
you--don't think I take any views in the matter. I daresay you did quite
right. Anyway I've been often tempted myself. And he was one of the
nastiest bits of work in existence.'

'What are you talking about?'

Leggett crossed one knee over the other.

'You killed Furze, didn't you? Oh, don't worry. I'm not going to tell
anyone. People are guessing, of course. But I _know_.'

'Go on,' Lampiron said.

'Well--isn't this the way it happened? You quarrelled with him in the
High Street. Then you went into the Cathedral and waited for Hattaway.
Furze meanwhile was wandering about--I myself had left him only a little
while before. Then a thunderstorm came on and Furze looked in at
Klitch's window. As Hattaway didn't turn up you came out of the
Cathedral and wandered along, beyond the West Door, to Prior's Garden.
There to your surprise you found Furze. You quarrelled again. You gave
him a sock in the jaw and pushed him, over the wall, into Prior's Well.
An excellent spot, I must say, because no one knows how deep the Well
is. It's supposed to go to the river-bed. You hadn't planned it or
intended it. It was simply that you were there, lost your temper and hit
him. But you couldn't have found a better or safer place. The odd thing
is that no one has thought of the Well. But then, Gurney's a fool . . .'
He looked at his cigarette which had gone out. 'Got a match?'

Lampiron came over and gave him a light.

'Thanks.'

Lampiron turned on his heel, wandered meditatively across to the female
torso and slowly stroked the cool substance with his hand.

'You know that I didn't kill Furze,' he said at last. 'But what's your
point in coming here? That puzzles me. Is it blackmail? Because if so,
you know, you're on a hopeless game with a man like me. _That's_ not the
kind of thing I'm afraid of. . . . No,' shaking his head, 'something far
different.'

Leggett said: 'Do you mind if I smoke a pipe? Better than cigarettes.'

'No. Of course not.'

'You're pretty insulting,' said Leggett. 'I'm not a blackmailer. I told
you I came here with no other purpose than to tell you I know what _you_
know.'

'Well, all right. You've told me. What now?'

'I'll be philosophical about it if you like,' Leggett said cheerfully.
'What I want, I suppose, is power. Here am I, stuck in this
twopenny-halfpenny place for years, ordered about by Furze, despised by
men like yourself when in reality I'm cleverer, better read, have better
taste than all the rest of the town put together. I'm being quite frank
with you. It's true what I say. I have my vulgar side of course--who
hasn't?--but my sexual life's my own. It wouldn't do if everyone knew
everything about _everybody_ in this town, would it?

'Well, with Furze's disappearance I seem to have a kind of opportunity.
I can acquire the sort of power that a man of my brains ought to have.
After all, it's power that everyone wants. That was what made Stephen
Furze a miser--it's what makes his silly brother now strut about in a
new blue suit. It's everything to men like Ronder and Crispangle and
Carris and Archdeacon Braund.

'They would all like to be Mussolinis and Hitlers if they could. What's
going on in Polchester at this moment is exactly what is going on in the
world. You can't tell me that Mussolini or Roosevelt, when they lie down
in their beds at night, don't feel a kind of personal elation and pat
their stomachs a bit--and I don't blame them!

'It's time _I_ patted _my_ stomach a bit! Some of you people who have
been looking down your noses. . . . Oh, well--what am I boasting for? I
only want to say that I know your guilty secret and that it's safe
enough with me--that is, as long as we're friends, you know.'

Lampiron had listened to this long harangue with great patience. He had
not spoken. He had not moved.

But now he came forward and stood quite close to Leggett, facing him.

'I'll tell you what I did,' he said. 'I waited in the Cathedral for
Hattaway as you say. Then, as he didn't arrive, five minutes before the
thunderstorm broke I came out. Afterwards I took shelter in the
Cloisters. Then about five-fifteen I went home.'

'I understand,' said Leggett. 'Did anyone see you in the Cloisters?'

'No one--so far as I know.'

'That's a pity.'

'Did anyone see me at Prior's Well?' Lampiron asked.

'It won't be difficult,' Leggett said slowly, 'to find witnesses.'

Lampiron came close to Leggett's chair.

'Now get out. I wanted to see what your dirty lie consisted of. If you
ever dare to come here again, to speak to me anywhere, to hamper or
annoy me in any way, I'll have you arrested instantly.'

'Why,' said Leggett, laughing, 'do you think _I_ murdered Furze?'

'No. You will be arrested for indecent behaviour in Seatown. For tying
naked boys to a bedpost and beating them, for being concerned in company
with Caul and Lanky Moon in procuring girls under age, for conspiring
with Symon and the late Stephen Furze to rob many people in this town of
their savings--there are other things also.'

Leggett got up. He went across to the fire and knocked the ashes out of
his pipe against the fender.

'You know a lot, don't you?' he said quietly. 'And you're a fine fellow
to talk anyway--you hoary old seducer of pretty young girls.'

Lampiron hit him between the eyes. He fell, missing very narrowly the
edge of the arm-chair. He lay there, huddled; a thick trickle of blood
slowly streaked his nose, his cheek, and began to drip from his chin.

'Now I really have killed someone,' Lampiron thought. But was conscious
of no regret. This would be something definite in a world of shadows.
However, Leggett stirred. He opened his eyes, felt the blood on his
cheek.

Lampiron watched him. He would fetch him no water, carry him to no
chair. Only--if the man died--the police should be informed.

The man did not die. He raised his head, took a handkerchief and wiped
his cheek. He sat up, felt his head, looked about him, scrambled to his
feet. Lampiron never moved.

Holding his handkerchief to his face, he found his hat. Then, a little
uncertainly, he walked to the door. He said no word and Lampiron said no
word.

Then he went away.

There was no blood on the floor; no sign of any disturbance. Lampiron
felt a strong relief, even elation.

He had begun to fight. Things were moving. They could do their damnedest
if they would but come into the open enough to be hit.


END OF PART II




INTERLUDE

THE BISHOP WRITES A LETTER


                                          CARPLEDON, _Sept. 10, 1933_.

MY DEAR ANNA--It is two years or more, I think, since I last wrote to
you and it is more than that since I last heard from you. I am not at
all sure that this old Heidelberg address will find you. I only am
certain that you are alive because, according to our pact, I was to hear
if you were ill. In any case I would, I think, know if anything serious
had happened to you.

Something serious has happened to me--or rather something that people
call serious--although I can't pretend that, at the age of
seventy-three, it can seem very terrible. That is why I am now writing
to you--once again according to our pact. If this is a lengthy letter
you must forgive me. It is so long since I have written--that is one
thing. And I am commanded to spend one day of every week in bed. That is
another. So here I am propped up with pillows, a beautiful board covered
with green leather that the ladies of St. Monica's Guild gave me last
Christmas, my blue-and-white dressing-gown and (if you promise not to
tell anyone) a pipe in my mouth. (I have been told that I must smoke
very little!)

From all this you will gather that I am ill. Well, I suppose that I am.
In any case I went up to London last week and was seen by a specialist.
The verdict was that I have some six months more to live. For a moment
it was a shock. He was in two minds whether to tell me--a fine keen face
he had with rather whimsical ironic eyes--young enough to be my
grandson. But he saw that I would prefer to know, that, after all, I was
seventy-three; he realized that I must have many things to settle before
I went. So he told me. Yes, for a moment it was a shock. We were in one
of those rooms in Harley Street that look on to nothing but walls and
chimneys. But I remember that the sun was striking the wall with a blaze
of light, and I remember thinking 'In six months from now I shall not be
able to see that!' Something in me--the Life Force or whatever it
is--shrunk, trembled, went cold. Then, as I have so often noticed
before, at a crisis you are given _extra_ force. It is perhaps rather
that you see values differently. At any rate, in a minute or so I was
myself again--and I'm a coward, you know, Anna. Yet I assure you I
minded this less than a headache. I asked him some questions. He said
that the trouble was internal; that I could have an operation but that
with my heart and at my age it would mean certain death. He was sure of
that. I asked him whether I should have much pain. He said--probably
none at all, but that in any case I would be looked after. It would be
seen that I didn't suffer. He was charming to me--rather like a mother
to her boy who is going off to boarding-school for the first time.

I am telling you all this, Anna, because you are the one person in the
world who will want to know, whom I want to tell.

Had things been otherwise you would now be my wife, would be sitting
here, we would be hand in hand and I would be saying this to you instead
of writing it. But God's will be done!

No one here knows nor will know until near the end. The one who will
feel it most--perhaps the only one here who will _really_ feel it, is
Coniston. I have written about him in other letters. He has been with me
so long now that, apart from any personal affection, his life will, I am
afraid, be aimless and purposeless without me. His feeling for me is one
of those strange, dumb devotions that you sometimes see. Quite honestly,
I have done nothing to deserve it. Often he has irritated and
exasperated me and I have shown, I'm afraid, all my exasperation! But
time, propinquity, and the maternal strain that there is in every man
who is worth anything--what wonders they work!

One of my gravest doubts, since my return here, is whether I have not
done Coniston grievous wrong. When he first came to me he was young and
vigorous. Had he not given up his life to me he would have married, had
children; my death would have been only a passing regret to him. And yet
I don't know. There is something very fine in such unselfish and
grand-hearted service.

After yourself, Anna, he is, I think, the noblest human being I know.
How shy, confused, almost affronted it would make him if he knew that I
was writing such words!

As it is, he is of course disturbed. He knows that something is wrong,
that I went to London for a consultation, and it is sufficiently
startling to him that I should stay in bed one whole day every week!

Then I fancy that he perceives a change in me since my return from
London. For I _am_ changed. It is subtle, underground, only to be
perceived by someone very close, very intimate. Of course I am changed!
So many things have already almost vanished from one's sight. One begins
to go so long before one's actual departure!

I think, in fact, that I knew my sentence nearly a year ago. At an
evening party in Polchester one of my Canons died quite suddenly,
sitting in his chair. A dear old man for whom I had a great
affection--one of the true saints of God.

His death that night seemed to put a period to things. Another of my
Canons, Canon Ronder (I have written of him several times in letters),
has also, I am sure, received his sentence. When Moffit and Ronder and I
are all gone there will be a new clerical world here. Men like Gaselee
and Dale and others are coming along. A period that began with old
Purcell's death thirty years ago will be closed with mine. So in the
bigger world also.

All this will not interest you except that I would like to explain to
you how I feel now about this matter of change. To hear people talk you
would think that there had never been change before, that times were
never disturbed before, that safety and security are so terribly
important, and that once upon a time--before 1914 perhaps--everyone was
safe.

You will say that it is very well for me to talk about safety, I who
have always led a sheltered and comfortable life! It is true that I have
never known what it is to starve, to be without a livelihood, not to
have enough clothes. I thank God for those blessings. But I have lived
in the midst of the direst poverty--you remember those slums in
Liverpool when--ah, how long ago?--we first met. Afterwards in Lambeth.
There was that year in Africa, in the Leper Settlement, too.

Yes, I have seen misery and degradation and suffering, God knows. But I
still say, Anna, and indeed I know it more clearly now than ever before,
that physical suffering, material happiness, are not the last word in a
man's history.

I will never forget (nor I think will you) those weeks in the
Bergstrasse when we used to talk about such things the whole night
through. Do you remember (as of course you do) how we would start off in
the little train--you, I, Franz Burger, Stassen, Marion--for Frankfurt
and there the seats, near the roof, for 'The Ring?' Do you remember the
tenor, Forchhammer the Dane?--and then at midnight back in the train
again? Such happiness until you told me that morning in the wood behind
the hotel that you were going to marry Stassen. You have said since then
that it was the mistake of your life, but I have been sometimes
comforted a little to think that you would not have been happy here, the
German wife of a London Rector, through the War. However dearly you
loved me you would have been irritated by my patriotism--and I would
have suffered with you and been able to help so little. I remember that
at that time you and Goethe and my beloved Schubert were all three in my
heart together--as though I were sheltering you until the storm should
blow over!

And now, dear Anna, so soon to leave it all? Or shall I? When you reach
my age you seem to walk through Time as through a door. I am at this
moment eating the ham and eggs, drinking the beer with you in the
restaurant on the hill above Heidelberg, or walking on a Sunday
afternoon down one of those clean grey German streets, all so silent, so
empty, so metallic, looking at the house numbers for your address.

Coniston has come in with my luncheon. He says that these days in bed
are meant for _rest_. Have I been resting? Obviously no . . . writing
all the morning. . . . 'I have been writing to a very dear friend,
Coniston,' I say, and, at once, I perceive that I have roused in him
that uncomfortable suspicion again. Why should I be writing to a friend
so long a letter? _Is_ something the matter? I can see that he has
almost made up his mind to speak, then decides against it. But he is
watching me and behind his eyes I see a real _maternal_ love. If the
offer were made to him here and now to change places with me, acquiring
my six months' death sentence, he would accept it without a moment's
hesitation. . . .

I have eaten my luncheon. I have even had half an hour's nap. That last
word about Time accompanied me in my sleep. The Past--if you call it
so--is everywhere about us in this corner of England. Within an
afternoon you can find a Saxon battlefield, a cave in a sand-dune near
Portreath where only last year they found the bones of prehistoric man,
a silver-mine worked by the Romans, the field two miles from Polchester
where, in a skirmish, Charles I.'s forces were defeated, and in the
Cathedral the mark in the stone that was the stain of Henry Arden's
blood.

Even as I write, Anna, an aeroplane is passing; its silver wings flash
for a moment in the sun beyond my window.

'A thousand years in Thy sight are but as yesterday'--the truest word
man ever spoke.

I believe most surely that one clue to our riddle is this disregard of
Time. Brush it aside! Forget it! And with Time go the physical bonds.
Forget those too except that they are the conditions binding this term's
schooling. How well I remember at Rugby my dread as I moved up into a
certain form. I had been told of all the restrictions, enforcements,
that the master of this form imposed on his class. And at first I found
them almost unbearable, then submitted to them, finally had a kind of
pride in them!

And so with every hour in my new conditions I feel an increasing
lightness and freedom. I belong to no place any more. It is Love
only--love of people, of place, of God--that is a link--Time,
possessions, pride of position, bodily lust or pain, financial greed or
anxiety, all these are gone or are fleeing like clouds before the sun!

        My home
    The shimmery-bounded glare,
    The blazing fire-hung dome
        Of scorching air.

        My rest
    To wander trembling-weak
    On vague hunger-quest,
        New hope to seek.

        For friend
    The dazzling breathing dream
    The strength at last to find
        Of Glory Supreme.

'The dazzling breathing dream.' . . . Truly, Anna, I am not making (as
you used once to accuse me) the best of a bad business. I don't wish to
pass on. I love my life, my work, my friends, this town and Cathedral,
this lovely tree-shady sea-windy country--I don't _want_ to go, but,
with every new day, I am taken a little further into new country.

One thing, lying thus on my bed and confronting as honestly as I can my
soul (honesty is _so very_ difficult!), surprises me greatly, and that
is that I am not _sure_ of my personal survival after death. Is not that
terrible when I have been preaching it all my life? What I mean is that
I have no conviction as to the _form_ of my survival after my physical
death. I really do, in actual positive fact, leave that to Jesus Christ,
and by _that_ I mean that He has become so real to me through my life, I
have grown to love Him so dearly, that it does not seem more unreal to
leave my next step to Him than to leave, on going to bed, my clothes to
Coniston to brush! The _peace_ that comes to me now as I think of Him is
truly past understanding. This is not because all my life long I have
'practised' religion. There _was_ a time--a long time--when He was to me
little more than a historical figure--a wretched time, Anna, before I
knew you, when I thought seriously of leaving Orders and becoming a
doctor. Those years were strange and sinister indeed. I lived in a kind
of fog, something like the sea-river mist that is creeping over the
fields this afternoon. Indeed this very town that I love so has been in
something of that same state these last months. I won't tire you with
it, but an old usurer was, it seems, murdered here some eight weeks
back; also there was a Pageant that has roused the disorderly elements
in the poorer parts of the town. Absurd stories are abroad
everywhere--ghosts and assassins and Bolsheviks and contemners of idle
canons and good-for-nothing bishops!

Any silly story is believed. People are afraid to go out o' nights. They
say that Mass is celebrated at midnight in the Cathedral and that an
Inquisitor with a broken neck walks about the town condemning folks to
instant execution! Seriously, Anna, you would not believe the things
that can happen to a place when this sort of uneasiness starts. I
remember it in my childhood in the Jack the Ripper time--and again in
Portsmouth when I had a curacy soon after the old Queen died. Some
sailors were robbed and killed, I fancy.

These crises come to persons, to towns, to countries when a little
stirring-up is needed! And anyway, the forces of evil are real enough.
Some fighting has to be done. If life isn't a battle, a perpetual
warfare of good against evil, I don't know what it is!--and it's like
enough the Inquisitor goes on his rounds once and again to see how the
combatants are faring!

I love this town so dearly, Anna, that I would like to see it healthy
and happy again before I go. Let them lay the ghost of the old usurer
before I pass on! You were never here. You have never seen it on a
market-day when the farmers slap the rumps of the cattle, and boys
finger the volumes on the twopenny bookstall and in the shadows of the
arcades buy toffee-balls for their girls! When, in the spring, you can
see through a break in the old grey houses the daffodils blowing on the
high banks of the sloping fields, and in the summer roses scent the
very provision shops, and in the deep shadows of the High Street the
Cathedral bells linger like birds skimming a mountain tarn. And days
when from the hills above Orange Street you can see the thin silver line
of the sea, smell the hay, look down on the huddle of roofs resting
under the evening chimney-smoke and watch the Cathedral towers catch the
last triumphant gestures of the setting sun!

And the Cathedral itself! Every window, every tomb, every brass, every
wooden carving has become dear and personal to me through these years.
Once again it is making itself felt through all the town. People enter
it expecting they know not what, and sometimes remain to pray.

At least I know that a great tide of life eddies between its walls. As
there is no time, so there is no death--Gloria in Excelsis! And one day
on earth there will be Peace.

So, dear Anna, farewell for this little hour. I have loved so many
things, from scents and running water and unexpected music and food and
drink and sleep and rain and the first snow and autumn leaves to the
great things--my love of you, my friends, my consciousness of God and
this preparation for departure.

I touch your hand and wish you God-speed and look to our next meeting.

                                                Always
                                                     Your loving
                                                                HENRY.





PART III


MICHAEL FURZE




CHAPTER I

OF THE FAMOUS PARTY MRS. BRAUND GAVE


On the evening of September 18th poor old Mrs. Dickens, so long a
boarder at Mrs. Coole's, was found dead in Green Lane not far from
Canon's Yard. For twenty-four hours afterwards it was asserted
everywhere that she had been foully done to death. It was said that her
throat was cut from ear to ear, that she was stabbed to the heart, that
she had been strangled, that her face had been knocked in with a hammer.

The plain truth was that she died of heart failure, poor old lady,
hurrying home (if Mrs. Coole's could be called home) to avoid an
oncoming shower.

The case of Caul the stallkeeper was rather more mysterious. Early on
the morning of September 5th, Police-Sergeant Camberlege, one of
Gurney's best men, found the body of poor Caul in the hollow known as
Tam's Cave. This is a small space half-way down the Rock. There is a
path here, and for generation after generation Polchester lovers have
used it for their closest intimacies. This path, known as Tam's Path
(called after a legendary sea-rover Tam Penrool who was said to have
terrorized Polchester with his robber-bands and pirate ship in the
thirteenth century), is bounded at one end by Bridge Street, and at the
other runs finally below the Cathedral and finishes at the Well. It is a
narrow path and the Rock falls from St. James's Church sheer to the
railings that guard its dangerous narrowness. Just beyond St. James's
there is a small square of ground that runs to the Rock's edge. There
was a railing here, but the Town Council had been warned of its age and
rottenness. After the discovery of Caul's body it was found that the
railing was broken in several places. Caul's daughter admitted that on
the evening previous to the discovery of her father's body she had not
gone to fetch him from the Market. He did sometimes find his way home
alone. It was supposed that on this occasion he had gone the longer way
round. In fact, Fanny Clarke's little girl acknowledged that she had, at
his request, taken him to St. James's and then left him. He had told her
that he wanted to _see_ Furze's house. (He often spoke of '_seeing_'
places. Other senses--sound, touch, taste--took the place of his
blindness.) When there he had said to her, 'Put my hand on Furze's gate,
dear,' and she had done so. It had been an afternoon of drifting
sea-fog. She ought not to have left him, but his home was so near and he
was so clever at finding his way that she had done what he told her. She
was a strange little girl, wild, uncouth, sullen. Miss Penny Marlowe
who, it seemed, took an interest in the child, accompanied her to the
inquest, and it was only with Miss Marlowe's encouragement that the
child could be got to answer questions.

There was no reasonable doubt but that, mistaking his way, Caul caught
the railings at the Rock-edge, that it gave way and he fell sheer to
Tam's Cave. His body was horribly broken. There could be no other
possible explanation, for Caul was no man's enemy.

It had happened, however, that these two deaths--of old Mrs. Dickens and
Caul the stallkeeper--occurred at the very time when there was much
uneasiness, and that they certainly added to the general apprehension.
People said that both Mrs. Dickens and the stallkeeper knew something
about Furze's disappearance and that it was certainly to somebody's
advantage that they should be out of the way. Poor Mrs. Dickens was a
rambling rather senile old woman with a passion for her cat and her
hatred of Mrs. Coole as the two leading motives in her life, but after
Furze's disappearance she was full of mysterious hints--as to how on
that very afternoon she had been watching the preparations for the
Pageant, been talking to Mr. Klitch, who had gone in to his tea, but
that she herself had 'mooned' about a bit, and that then--well, then?
But at this point she always became vague and what Klitch called
'muttery.'

As to Caul, it was well known that he could tell, by touching a hand,
the identity of his companion. On that, by now, historic afternoon or
evening just before packing up his traps he had had a brief conversation
with somebody--and here he too became reticent. Nothing was odder in
this whole affair than the reluctance that everyone showed to be dragged
into the case.

Poor Gurney, now the laughing-stock of the town, defended himself by
saying that nobody would tell him anything. 'You'd think,' he said,
'that that old bastard really _was_ alive and they were all afraid of
his twisting _their_ necks, instead of someone having twisted _his_.'

In connection with this it happened that towards the end of this month,
September, there were no less than three definite accounts by people who
said that they had seen Stephen Furze.

Sarah Constable, an old rag-and-bone woman who lived in Daffodil Street,
swore that on the evening of the 27th as she was coming up from the
river Furze passed her, looked her full in the face. As old Sarah was
always the worse for cheap liquor this might be discounted. A more
respectable witness was Mr. Browning of the St. Leath Hotel, who said
that, coming out from the Arden Cinema, he had seen for an instant in
the light from the street-lamp the bowler hat and ugly visage of Furze.
At first he thought he could swear to it. Then he was less sure. Finally
he laughingly discounted the whole story.

The third story came from Broad's boy, who said that he saw Furze one
afternoon in the Cathedral leaning against one of the pillars of the
Brytte Monument--but Broad's boy was always seeing things. Not at all
the common-sense practical son you'd expect a man like Broad to have!

These were all idle tales enough but, quite naturally, they added to the
general discomfort.

Then, in the last week of September, someone broke Hattaway's front
windows. This was the first act of violence to occur. Hattaway himself
took the incident lightly with a laugh, but the town could not do the
same. The incident was considered extremely serious. Two men were
arrested, one a gipsy called Harkness, the other a half-imbecile boy,
Billy Roach, but there was no satisfactory evidence and they were
released. It was known that Tom Caul said everywhere that he was behind
the thing and that it was only a small foretaste of what was coming. He
also said that Lampiron had thrown his brother over the Rock because the
stallkeeper knew that Lampiron had killed Furze.

Altogether the town was in a disturbed state. As always happens when
public events create alarm, private domestic events were also uneasy.
People were nervous, hysterical, ready to pick a quarrel. Some said that
wherever they went they felt that they were watched and spied upon.
Privacy was invaded and, however securely you locked your door or drew
down your blinds, you were not alone. Furze's disappearance had by this
time quite definitely divided the town into three parts. The first was
of the opinion that someone in his own household had finished him
off--his blind wife, his proud, plain daughter, or his crazy brother.
They had, perhaps, all three taken part in it. It was said loudly that
Gurney ought to inspect with the utmost thoroughness the Furze
house--under the kitchen flooring or in the cellar the bones of the old
usurer would certainly be discovered.

The second party in the town accused Lampiron. Lampiron had thrown Furze
into the Well behind the Cathedral. This was very widely believed. And
the third party maintained that Furze was still in the town. It was of
no use to argue with these people that he could not possibly remain
hidden for so long a period. He was, by now, capable of absolutely
anything!

It is quite certain that by the end of September people were everywhere
behaving as though they were guilty of great crimes. If it is true that
everyone alive possesses a closet and that in each closet there dangles
a skeleton, then it would be true to say that, at this time in
Polchester, the autumn air was alive with rattling bones. Good and
faithful wives found themselves hinting to their husbands at
half-suspected infidelities; men resented a sudden uneasiness in
themselves which made them ashamed of everyday trifles--an extra pound
on a horse, a sudden smile and nod at a pretty woman in the street, a
sharp word at home about a badly cooked meal. . . .

Crispangle, the least nervous and the most cynical of Polcastrians,
said: 'This town is becoming one large distorting mirror.' Then, as
usual, he blamed the snobbishness of the Cathedral lot, the monstrous
superstition of religion, and misunderstanding of the proper working of
the colon. Have an _auto-da-f_ for the social snobs, destroy all
religions as the Russians had done, irrigate the colon, and the world
_might_ be something of a place.

And it was at this time of _all_ times that Mrs. Braund decided to give
a big party!

One of the mysteries of the general situation had, for some time now,
been Mrs. Braund's condition. The Carris party, which included most of
the wealthier shop-people, said that her illness (if that was the name
for it) was nothing but an affected pose. Their view of her was that she
must, in one way or another, be the central figure and, as her share in
the Pageant had had so unfortunate a climax, she was trying now to see
what 'a state of nerves' could do.

Her friends asserted (and with a good deal of heat) that she had
suffered a shock to her system from which she would probably never
recover. What kind of a shock? Oh, fits of intense melancholia, general
lack of energy and, worst of all, insomnia. She complained that she was
no sooner asleep than something or somebody would waken her! She
complained that she saw people in her room. And she was haunted by the
ridiculous idea that old Lady Emily de Brytte was 'after' her, haunting
her, driving her into her grave.

The obvious cure for all this nonsense was that she should go away. The
Archdeacon, it was understood ('poor man, what a time he must be
having'), was anxious to take her for a cruise, to the West Indies or
Ceylon or South Africa. . . . No. She would rather stay here. She wanted
to see what was going to happen. . . .

'What do you mean, dear?' Hester Marlowe asked. 'What _could_ happen in
a quiet little place like this?'

'Quiet!' Mrs. Braund laughed bitterly. 'It's stirring with malice and
envy.'

She had changed, in fact, from a stout, rosy-faced, jolly wife of an
Archdeacon to a sallow, nervous, irritable and unhappy hypochondriac.

She expected, she told Mrs. Marlowe, to be murdered in her bed 'any day;
they all hate me. Why, I've never been able to discover.'

And then, of all astonishing things, she decided to give a party. It was
said that the Bishop (who was looking none too well, dear man--people
whispered that they had told him in London . . .) had advised her to
make a great effort, to throw off her nervous fears, to brave the world.
She took his advice. It was to be a tremendous party and everyone was to
be invited to it--Cathedral, gentry, trade--everyone from the Bishop to
Crispangle, from Lady St. Leath to the town Librarian, Miss Merivale.

And everyone accepted. It was rumoured that it would be a _very_
interesting affair. It was hinted that the 'sports' of Seatown might
choose the occasion to break the Braund windows. There was a reaction
too (it had been growing for some time) in favour of Mrs. Braund. After
all, the poor lady had never done anyone any harm. If she had been a bit
grand and a bit patronizing she had always meant well, and most people
liked the centre of the stage if they could get it. Only in the Carris
camp there was no relenting. Nevertheless, the whole of the Carris
family attended the Braund party.

The Braund house was a heavy dark affair on the far side of the
Cathedral, detached, with a high garden wall and guarded by trees. It
was a very silent house, perhaps because its walls were so thick. The
walls were often damp, the kitchen and offices 'crawled with
black-beetles.' What the house wanted, Hattaway said, was central
heating, but the Archdeacon pooh-poohed central heating as an American
effeminacy.

The house was filled with heavy furniture inherited by the
Archdeacon--vast chests, immense arm-chairs, oak bookcases like ancient
monuments--everywhere, on the landings, in the bedrooms, the bathrooms,
these massive pieces of oak. The dark wallpapers were covered with
oil-paintings also inherited by the Archdeacon from his father, who had
collected paintings. Very large pictures they were and every picture
told a story, as had been the Victorian fashion--'Boadicea defying the
Romans,' 'Robin Hood and Little John,' 'Christians refusing the Heathen
Sacrifice,' 'James II. throwing the Great Seal into the Thames.'

Hattaway said that the oil-paintings, the furniture, the silence, the
manner in which the trees shadowed the windows and obscured the
light--these things were quite enough for Mrs. Braund's disorder.

The only answer to that was the fact that she had lived in the house for
a great many years and had been very well and very cheerful.

The night of the party was damp and foggy and the house was very cold.
The drawing-room where the guests were received had been cleared of the
smaller articles of furniture, but no one could escape the menace of the
vast oil over the fireplace--'Early Christians in the Arena,' a really
harrowing picture, for one Christian lady was in the pitiful position of
being devoured by two lions (who had, however, most amiable and
complacent faces), and one gallant Christian boy (naked save for a wisp
of cloth most happily blown by the wind in the right and decent
direction) was in the process of having his face clawed by a rearing
tiger. The Emperor Nero playing on his violin (and bearing a striking
resemblance to Canon Ronder, it was maliciously observed) showed a
sublime but cold-blooded indifference to the proceedings. This picture
('one of the very finest in my father's grand collection,' the
Archdeacon told his friends) is worthy of detailed mention because, from
the very start, it seemed to dominate the party.

Many of the guests had never entered the house before, and standing now
awkwardly on the sombre carpet, trying to appear at their ease, their
gaze wandered again and again to the bloody bosom of the Christian
maiden and the torn fibres of the Christian lad.

The townspeople were inclined to arrive among the earliest, partly
because they didn't wish to miss anything and partly because they
believed it good manners to be punctual.

The Aldridges were, in fact, the very first arrivals, and it was very
fitting that the Mayor of the town should be able to supervise the
entries of all his fellow-townsmen--and supervise them he and Mrs.
Aldridge did; after a time it seemed that it was _they_ who were
receiving the guests and not the Archdeacon and Mrs. Braund. Mr. and
Mrs. Carris and their two girls also arrived in good time. Mrs. Carris,
wearing a grey dress scattered with roses, her auburn hair very
efficiently waved, came into the drawing-room as though she were about
to announce a divine party to which she intended to invite everybody.
Mrs. Braund in dark red, two splendid strings of pearls round her neck
and a diamond spray in her hair, greeted her enemy with a glittering
militant smile.

'How are you, dear? I haven't seen you for quite a time. How are you,
Mabel? How are you, Gladys?'

Mrs. Braund was not related to the Howards and the Herries for nothing.
Mrs. Carris realized it. It was as though she had heard Mrs. Braund say:
'Poor little Polly Lucas! You have, with frantic efforts, managed to
have a success or two, but you have still a long way to go--and time is
passing.' Mrs. Carris in fact, as she moved on into the room, was
suddenly ashamed of her husband and her girls, and the sense of this
shame infuriated her--with herself, with them, with her hostess. She
snapped quite fiercely at Mrs. Browning of the St. Leath Hotel, who in
her turn was rather cold to Miss Merivale the Librarian, who,
remembering this next morning in the Library, behaved like a demon to
the little girl from the Orphanage who came in to dust the books and
arrange the new novels on the centre table.

People now were pouring in. Mrs. Braund and the Archdeacon had shaken
hands with everyone. Miss Consetti, pianist, and her brother Alfred,
violinist, had also arrived. The library had been cleared and there was
to be dancing there. Bridge tables had been arranged in the little
sitting-room on the other side of the hall. The Archdeacon, who
passionately loved bridge, led two sets of players to the tables--Canon
Dale, Lady Mary Bassett, Miss Katherine Trenchard and Mr. Ferris the
lawyer. These were among the dozen best bridge-players in Polchester.
But in arranging the second table he had made a fatal mistake. Wishing
to 'settle' Mrs. Carris as quickly as possible, knowing how dearly she
loved bridge, he had insisted that she play. She was at first flattered
until she discovered that she was set down at the second table with Mr.
Porteous, Mrs. Hattaway and Aldridge. Both Porteous and Aldridge were of
the vilest, most outcast 'untouchables' in the bridge world--that is,
they played an abominable game but were cheerfully unaware of the fact.
Porteous was most especially irritating, for in his booming voice he
told his partner of mistakes and loudly denied his own errors. When
tempers were roused he would cry, 'Now, now, friends, play the game!
Play the game! And what is this after all _but_ a game? . . .' And so
on.

When therefore Mrs. Carris discovered her fate and watched the quiet
determined professionalism at the next table, her anger, already awake,
shook behind her eyes.

This was, on the part of the Braunds, a deliberate arranged insult. She
would not forget it. . . .

By this time most of the clergy had arrived--Ronder, the Cronins,
Gaselee, James Bird, the Marlowes. They were inclined at first to stand
about in little black-coated groups. There were some twenty clergy in
all.

Two of the guests especially performed that useful duty of helping to
'break the ice.' These were Mrs. Cronin and Mr. Romney. Mrs. Cronin had,
ever since the fortunate chance came to her of lending her house during
the Pageant, begun to believe that her luck had come at last. For years
she had been working and working to achieve popularity and for some
obscure mysterious reason she had not achieved it.

The plain fact was that Mrs. Cronin was a 'whisperer.' Wherever she
might be she would find somebody, and then, in order to be liked (for no
_malicious_ reason at all), she would whisper something confidential
about someone else. Her immediate success was magnificent. She aroused
interest, secured intimacy and, apparently, friendship. But the
Whisperers are very quickly suspected by the Whispered-to. Wherever Mrs.
Cronin was, trouble sprang up, and this was the stranger because she
never spoke of anyone with unkindness.

'Don't you think it a pity . . .?' she would begin. 'I'm telling you in
real confidence . . . I like her so much but I do wish that someone
would warn her . . .' And as she whispered her confidences a warm glow
suffused her being. She radiated kindness and good-will. Her friend into
whose ears she was whispering looked at her with so much interest, so
strong and confidential a companionship. 'I will do anything, tell you
anything,' little Mrs. Cronin's heart was urging, 'if you will only like
me.'

To-night she had not been in the room ten minutes before she was
whispering to Camilla Porteous: 'I've just had a peep at the
bridge-players and--what do you think? Polly Carris has been put at the
bad bridge table.'

'I know,' said Camilla sharply. 'The one where my father is playing. . . .'

'Oh, I didn't mean that!' Mrs. Cronin was greatly distressed. 'Your
father is such a fine player. He----'

'He isn't,' said Camilla, swinging a masculine leg. 'He's awful.' She
looked at the door. 'There's that dreadful little curate of ours. He's
got himself engaged to the daughter of old Furze.'

'I hear,' whispered Mrs. Cronin, wishing to recover from her earlier
mistake, 'that they are saying the most terrible things about Lampiron.
Not that I believe a word. He's a splendid man, although I do think it's
a little careless of him to go about so much with dear little Penny. But
they say . . .'

The other guest who put everyone at ease was Romney.

Romney often said of himself that he was the only true democrat in the
whole of Polchester. It was certainly true that 'class' meant absolutely
nothing to him. If he saw a young farmer in corduroys driving some cows
through the street to market, he would very likely speak to him and
entirely charm the young man within two minutes. He was at ease with
simply anyone in the world from one of the Royal Princesses in London to
Tom Caul in Seatown. It was only if his charm did not work that he
became unpleasant, and then he was very unpleasant indeed. No one could
be more destructive of an enemy than he. Or rather a 'supposed' enemy,
because the very smallest imagined slight or neglect would irritate him.
He would then say everything malicious he could think of, suddenly
discover that there had been no slight at all, and at once become the
warmest of friends again. During the hostile interval, however, he was
apt to do a good deal of harm.

Like all real artists he was an egomaniac and altogether regardless of
any harm that he might do with his tongue, and, again like all
egomaniacs, he was infuriated when any other tongue did _himself_ harm.

At this moment in the history of the Furze affair his vanity was
undoubtedly stirred by the part that he was playing. He was the _only_
authority on all sides of the question. He stated everywhere that he
knew precisely who had murdered Furze and exactly when and where he had
committed the crime. He knew everything about the intrigues in Seatown,
and especially he knew every word that was said everywhere by Mrs.
Braund, Mrs. Carris, the Carris girls, Crispangle. His attitude was
that everything was 'too screamingly funny.' When he was attacked to his
face because of the part he played in the Seatown disturbances,
attending meetings there, openly greeted as a friend by Tom Caul and
other violent agitators, he did not for a moment deny it. Lady Mary was
very bitter about it and worked herself into a kind of St. Vitus' dance
of agitation.

'Darling,' he was crying in Mrs. Braund's drawing-room. 'But of
_course_! Come with me to a meeting one day and see for yourself. They
don't mean a thing.'

'They've broken Hattaway's windows all the same.'

'That's only a little playfulness. If _you_ were unemployed you'd find
you had to do something to fill up the time.'

'Do you _really_ know who killed that horrible old man?' Lady Mary
asked, biting her nails.

'Yes, I do. And Gurney knows too. He's only biding his time.'

'Well, I wish he'd hurry up. A few of us will be murdered while we're
waiting.'

'Oh well, darling, _you_ needn't be afraid. You're perfectly safe! Did
you notice Porteous and Mrs. Cronin? Isn't he just like a
dinner-gong?--and she's one of those whispering everlastings that
landladies in seaside towns have on their chimney-pieces.'

Nevertheless, in spite of his fun and good-humour, there is no doubt
that Romney made everyone uncomfortable. He implied beneath his chatter
that something very serious might at any moment occur. He joked about
danger in the streets at night, ghosts in the Cathedral, old Mordaunt's
broken-necked Inquisitor.

Even about the deaths of Mrs. Dickens and poor old Caul he implied that
there was something hidden, something known only to himself and one or
two more. And he undoubtedly encouraged the feuds that were everywhere
breaking out. On this very evening he gaily whispered in Mrs. Carris's
ear: 'Enjoying your bridge?' He spoke to Lampiron as though he shared
some special secret with him and enraged Porteous by congratulating him
on the score he had made for the Orange Street Boys' Club. He was very
busy that evening indeed.

About nine o'clock Lady St. Leath arrived, and shortly afterwards the
Bishop. Everyone realized then what a wonderful party this was. The
whole of Polchester was represented save the denizens of Seatown, and
even they might, for all that anyone knew, be gathering in the dark
garden outside and pressing their noses against the window-pane.

Music had started and there was some dancing. But it could not be said
that everything was going with a swing. This was partly due to Mrs.
Braund herself, who moved among her guests with a very preoccupied air.
She would begin sentences that she did not finish. She would stare at
her guests as though she were wondering who they were. Her stout heavy
figure, her dark gloomy preoccupied eyes--these were evidence enough
that she was not herself.

Ronder, sitting with the Bishop in a corner, said:

'Our hostess doesn't look very well.'

'No,' said the Bishop. 'She should go away for a rest and forget
Polchester for a while.'

'I hear that _you_ have not been too well. I hope there's nothing
seriously the matter?'

The Bishop smiled.

'Well, Ronder, my friend, between you and me this is likely to be one of
my last parties.'

Ronder nodded.

'Yes--and mine.'

The two men, who had never been greatly intimate, felt a sudden bond of
warm and protective affection.

'It's queer, isn't it,' Ronder said, 'when the actual realization comes?
When you say to yourself, "This is September 29th, 1933. By September
29th, 1934, I shall not be here."'

'I don't know,' the Bishop said. 'There's not been a night of one's life
that, on going to bed, one has been sure of waking in the morning. The
only way to treat death is to give it no importance. We've done our
work, Ronder--or tried to. Frankly I'm tired--or have felt so these last
months. I shan't be sorry to go.'

'It's like an approaching cloud,' Ronder said. 'Gradually one is
swallowed up. First a thin mist, then a light darkness, then----'

The Bishop put his hand on Ronder's stout arm.

'Then the cloud passes and there is light again.'

But in his secret self Ronder shivered. It was as though at that very
moment a cold hand of inspection were exploring him and then slowly
withdrawing life from his heart, his veins, his entrails. . . .

He looked at Penny Marlowe who, in a dress of rose-coloured tulle, was
standing near him talking with a great deal of animation to Miss Dora
Trenchard. She looked to-night as though the fire of life were burning
in her at its clearest, brightest, most eternal. 'This lovely thing
cannot die, suffer corruption, be turned to ashes by the furious flame
or crumble earth-deep to be eaten by worms. There is something immortal
here!' But was there? Everything for Ronder to-night was tainted with
corruption. This dark gloomy house was crowded with ghostly occupants.
Beside every living guest the shadow stirred.

He lifted his body ponderously from the chair and walked almost as a man
moves in a dream, waking to the soft happy voice of Mrs. Cronin.

'Ah, Canon. The very man. Can you tell me when we are going to have our
Whispering Gallery back again?'

It had for so long been second nature to him that tactful courtesy
should always come first that although he scarcely saw her he bent
forward benevolently and said in his rich, considering, kindly voice,
'Whispering Gallery, Mrs. Cronin?'

'Yes. You know--the Harry Tower. It has been closed for repairs ever
since the day before the Pageant. But there have _been_ no repairs!
Someone was coming down from London or something, but no one has been
past that door since it was closed. I know it isn't my business,' she
went on, looking into his impassive mask of a face and wondering whether
he liked her, hoping that he did, contemplating some interesting thing
that she could tell him and so win his regard. 'It is only that I have
some friends coming down from London next week and I should like so much
to take them up the Tower.'

'I'm afraid I know nothing about it,' Ronder said, smiling. 'Ah, there's
Lampiron. Perhaps he can tell us. Lampiron, has Hattaway or anyone told
you how long the Whispering Gallery and the Tower are going to be
closed?'

Little Mrs. Cronin watched Lampiron with absorbed, excited attention. He
always looked magnificent in evening clothes, the most socially testing
garment in the world. She wondered how old he was--and what a head with
that great forehead, the piercing eyes, jet-black hair! What shoulders,
what muscular limbs! And so on, and so on. . . . She always romantically
coloured everything up. It made the business of winning people over
twice as exciting. And had he really committed a murder? He looked so
noble, so kindly. And yet everyone said that he had a terrible temper,
carved such indecent statues and had no personal morals whatever!

She could not withhold from her eyes that excited air with which we gaze
at prisoners in the dock, Royalty in a carriage, or a film-star making a
personal appearance.

Lampiron recognized this at once. He had come to the party for two
reasons: the first that everyone should understand that he did not care
in the least what was said of him, the second that he should talk to
Penny.

He was finding, to his own surprise, that he _did_ care what was said of
him. He realized that to-night people could not take their eyes from
him. He felt that the whole room was staring and whispering. He caught
again and again from the people who spoke to him that little, excited
glitter of the eye. . . .

Only Ronder gave him no especial glance, but that, Lampiron reflected,
was because Ronder was deeply preoccupied with himself.

'Why, Mrs. Cronin,' he said, 'I must say I don't know. On the afternoon
before the Pageant I went to the Cathedral to meet Hattaway and an
architect from London about it, but the London man never turned up and
that same evening it was closed. I've heard nothing more.'

Subconsciously he thought: 'There you are! Mrs. Cronin is saying to
herself: "Ah, _that's_ when he did it, _that's_ when he shoved him into
the Well."' And a strange longing came to him to shout at the top of his
voice:

'Ladies and gentlemen, you wonder whether I murdered Furze or not. Well,
you can inspect me. Take my clothes off if you like, feel my heart beat,
ask me any question you please! I _didn't_ kill Furze, but if it pleases
you to think that I did . . .!'

That's what Henry Arden would have done--shouted at the lot of them,
defied them, called God's curse on them! He felt as though Arden's
armour clanked about his body. He, Arden, to murder a petty villainous
little usurer when he had so many greater matters to consider!

All he said was:

'How is your garden, Mrs. Cronin? Are the chrysanthemums coming out
yet?'

Penny Marlowe was watching him. While she was talking to Miss Trenchard
she was watching, for the centre of her life was there. She had worn the
rose-coloured tulle only twice before to-night. She had put it on for
him. Before she had dressed, after her bath, clothed only in the
gold-and-red Japanese kimono that her father's brother had brought her
from Japan, standing at her window she had watched the mists creep about
the garden and the small auburn heads of the first chrysanthemums burn
dimly like little lanterns before the full dark came. She had learnt a
great deal in the last year. She had been a child until that day when
Lampiron had first kissed her, and after that so many experiences had
succeeded--her father's bewildered unhappiness, Furze's disappearance,
the Pageant, Mrs. Braund's illness, the discovery that in her own home
everything depended on _her_ now, the other discovery that people were
talking about Lampiron, the further discovery that people again thought
that she was Lampiron's mistress. . . . A great deal to be crowded into
one year of a very young girl's life, but she took it all, eagerly,
almost rapturously, because her spirit, fiery, ambitious, passionate for
life, told her that it was through this experience that wisdom came.

But, she thought, as she turned and looked at the rose-coloured tulle on
her bed, she had not expected that love would be so wonderful a thing!
She had read of it, been told of it, heard scandalous things of it, but
this inexhaustible desire for self-sacrifice, this constant joy and the
love of every form of life that came from it--she had not known of these
things. What had she had from Lampiron but some kisses, some handclasps,
some talks, some silences? She did not want more. As, looking into the
glass, she raised her arms and brushed her hair, she smiled, eyes
smiling at eyes, because she was so deeply satisfied with all that life
was giving her. Perhaps, even now, she suspected that the character of
this first meeting with love was exactly suited to her nature--a nature
that would always be happier in giving than getting, in loving than in
being loved, in service than in acceptance of love. She was no saint;
she could be fiercely intolerant, she had a fiery temper, she could be
arrogant, but as she was intolerant so she was proudly loyal, as she was
hot-tempered she was courageous, as she was arrogant so she had no vices
of meanness, the fierce bitter jealousies, the hoarding of money or
power.

She was free. Miss Trenchard was attacked by Mrs. Aldridge, Mrs. Cronin
moved away from Lampiron. They advanced, without looking at one another
but in absolute certainty, into the hall and then into a conservatory,
filled with geraniums and dusty palms. Here were two little
white-painted iron chairs and in a stuffy semi-dusk they sat down
together.

'Penny,' he said, 'for a moment I'm going to speak as though I had never
seen you before, as though you were twenty and I twenty, because perhaps
it's one of the last times.'

'What do you mean?' she asked. 'One of the last times?'

'Never mind that. I suppose I only mean that _my_ situation can't go on
like this much longer. The whole town thinks I murdered that wretched
old man and I've got to clear myself of that. That's one thing. My love
for you is going beyond the limit I set for myself. That's another. A
third is that very soon there's going to be an explosion in this town
and some of us perhaps will be blown up by it. This may be one of the
last quiet times we have, that anyone here has.'

'Why, what do you think is going to happen?' she asked, speaking, as
she sometimes did, like a child.

'I don't know. Never mind. What does it matter to us? Listen. I love you
so that the inside of my skull is burnt dry, my throat is dust and
ashes. I want so desperately to have you in my arms and lie thus with
you, all the night through, without moving, without stirring, that all
my bodily movements are connected with that longing. When I walk through
the street I am, in my actual life, curving myself about you, closing
you in, my lips on your hair. . . .' She saw that he was shaking from
head to foot, but he went on:

'All the same I know just as clearly as I knew that first time we talked
at my house that, afterwards, I would be better dead. I would have
broken the only rule worth keeping. Help me now, Penny, as you've never
helped me before.'

He moved his chair further away from hers.

'There's something cowardly, isn't there, in my telling you how I feel
and then asking you to help me. But I have to depend on _your_ strength.
I must. I'm so weak myself. I----'

'Don't you think,' Penny said, after a moment's pause, 'that it might be
better to do what you want? We could go away----' She broke off because
she suddenly realized that she wasn't free as she had been. She could
not just now leave her father and mother. . . . Only last night she had
heard him pacing up and down the floor of his bedroom. After a while she
had knocked on his door, but he had not answered--only the sound of the
pacing had stopped. Going back to bed she had lain there seeming to hear
all over the town this same pacing of floors, half the town pacing, the
other half listening to the pacing. No, she could not go away just
now--it would be like deserting a besieged city when all your
fellow-citizens were fighting for their lives. She knew that Lampiron
also could not go.

Because she was entirely honest she said at once:

'No, I realize. We can't go away. I don't know what's happening here,
but it would seem like desertion to leave the town, wouldn't it?
Besides, father and mother aren't very well.'

'I'll tell you one thing, Penny,' he said quickly. 'I know as certainly
as I'm sitting here that I'm never going to leave this town. My story
finishes exactly here. If there's a war there's a battle, and if there's
a battle men are killed. . . .'

'_Is_ there a war?' she asked.

'Yes. We are what you said, a beleaguered city. The whole business of
living quietly is to make terms with the other Powers. We've grown
arrogant and not bothered to make terms, so they've up and attacked us.
They're not really hostile. All they want is to remind us that they
exist, and _that_ they're doing. As soon as they've reminded us
sufficiently and killed a few of us off, they'll leave us alone again.'
He leant forward and laid his hand on her knee. 'Oh, Penny, I love you
so! Darling, darling, darling. . . . _Morituri te salutant_. . . . And
remember afterwards when perhaps life, in the middle years, seems dull,
to have lost its fragrance, that you have been loved . . . loved . . .
loved.' He bent his head, looking down at the dusty conservatory floor.
'Loved and worshipped.'

She laid her hand on his. Hand gripped hand.

'So many lovers,' she said, 'have sworn that death can't part them, but
I _know_ that nothing can separate us.' She looked at his face and put
up her hand, laying it against his cheek. 'I'll kiss you once,' she
said, 'and then we'll go back.' She kissed his cheek where her hand had
been. 'Don't think we'll ever part--I'm learning that death is nothing.'

They came back into the room together and of course everyone noticed it.
Old Marlowe did not. He was obsessed with his own troubles. He had got
it into his head that all the town now knew about his debt. Someone was
going round telling everybody. Then he had a particular headache, all
his own, he had nearly broken down in his sermon last Sunday. He was
wondering whether he couldn't escape from this town all by himself and
walk and walk till he got to the sea, and then he would sit down, take
the sand out of his shoes and rest.

It was about now--something after ten o'clock--that everyone began to
get very gay.

Mrs. Cronin's account, frequently given to eager friends in the next few
days, was a little confused: 'At first, dear, it was _dreadfully_ dull!
And the house was so cold. I assure you that after half an hour in that
drawing-room--have you ever been to the Braunds'?--oh, it's a great big
room with enormous pieces of furniture and the most dreadful painting of
Christian Martyrs over the mantelpiece--a little while in that
drawing-room and one was simply frozen. I would have sent over to the
house for my furs if it hadn't seemed rude! Well, for a long time
nothing happened. There was certainly something the matter with our dear
hostess. You know how bright and chatty she used to be? Now she just
walked about looking at people as though she wished they'd go. Everyone
was there! Oh, well--you know what I mean. You never have known the
Braunds very well, have you? What I mean was that it was the most
incredible mix-up! You should have seen Mrs. Aldridge with a rope of
sham pearls and Tecla diamonds in her hair! Of course we _are_ a
democracy with Labour Governments and everything, but all the same you
_can't_ get over a kind of social awkwardness. You know what I mean!
Crispangle--the Smith Bookshop, you know--looking and listening, picking
things up to talk ironically about. He's a _really_ bitter man, and if
there's anything spiteful to say you can be sure he'll say it. Then the
Pageant seems to have left so much sore feeling! I certainly had a good
time myself. Everyone was so nice to me, and then I was able to lend my
house. Oh, it was _really_ useful, I'm glad to say! All the same the
Pageant would have been better another year--when there's not so much
unemployment. And there was a good deal of jealousy over little things.
I'm sure I don't know why. Many people said to me, for instance, that
Queen Elizabeth or one of the other parts would have suited me
beautifully, but do you think I felt even a _twinge_ of jealousy? Of
course not. All the same Lady Mary wasn't good, was she? Almost _anyone_
would have been better. She did her very best and she's such an
agreeable woman. I like her so very much. Well--where was I? Oh yes.

'After a time some people got rather rowdy. I didn't see much drink
myself, and the Archdeacon is _supposed_ to be a teetotaller. But drink
there was. Some people said afterwards that people like the Carrises
brought their own. I don't suppose it was true for a moment. Not a
thing you would expect even the Carrises to do. But there was that Irish
cousin of theirs--Mr. Ted O'Hara. Do you know him? He often stays here.
Generally at the St. Leath Hotel. Oh, don't you know him? Long thin
man--always playing practical jokes. He wore a bathing-suit and drove a
pig up the High Street for a bet once. Did you never hear that? He
_says_ he's a cousin of Mrs. Carris, but I've heard that very much
doubted. In any case he soon became very much in evidence. Of course
what I always say is--mix the classes if you like, but you'll probably
regret it. I'm the least snobbish of people, but do you know what
happens? Just what happened at Mrs. Braund's. As the evening went on the
_shop-class_--I don't mean anything derogatory, I assure you--got
noisier and noisier. The dancing became very wild indeed; and that Mr.
O'Hara--a long thin man with a prominent nose--_not_ a gentleman, and
many people say that he's not a cousin of Mrs. Carris at all but
something quite different--he became most obstreperous, and Mr. Bellamy
danced with Mrs. Aldridge in a way--well, really, although I've seen the
strangest things in Paris and Vienna, I felt quite uncomfortable. And
the Carris girls! You know how noisy and vulgar they are when they're a
little bit excited.

'It was about now that the Bishop and Lady St. Leath and one or two
others left. My husband and I--we'll be delighted to come on the
thirteenth by the way--so charming of you to ask us--we also left. I'm
sorry now that we did because, as it was, we missed . . . but you've
heard, haven't you, of what occurred?'

What occurred was really rather terrible. One eye-witness was Jim Bird.
His account of it to Elizabeth was as follows:

'I was thinking of going. I hadn't wanted to stay so long'--I hadn't
enjoyed myself a bit--but I was nervous about Lampiron. I think that,
oddly enough, everyone was nervous about someone. I worried about
Lampiron because he looked pretty desperate. You know, Elizabeth, he's
the best friend I have, but he _has_ got a fearful temper. He nearly
killed Leggett about three weeks ago and I felt somehow that he might do
something on this particular evening. People were looking at him as
though they expected him to, but for the most part he was quiet, sitting
like Landor or Garibaldi or Tennyson--he always makes me think of one of
those massive old men. He _should_ have achieved things as big as
_their_ achievements. He was _meant_ to do something terrific, but all
it has come to is that he sits in a small cathedral town suspected of
murder and seduction. . . . Anyway he was quiet enough. And after the
Bishop and the Marlowes went he went too, with just a nod to me. Then I
noticed that things were becoming lively, in fact livelier than they
ought to be in an Archdeacon's house. _My_ belief is that someone or
other had brought a lot of drink into the house. Dancing was going on,
and people you would never expect, like Mrs. Bellamy and Aldridge, were
quite tipsy. The worst of all were the two Carris girls. I've always
disliked them, but I can't tell you, Elizabeth, how their commonness
came out last evening.

'Their mother, I've heard since, was furious because she had been put
down to play at some inferior bridge table. In any case, whatever it
was that upset her, she was herself a little tipsy and went about the
rooms with that Irish cousin of hers, O'Hara, making insulting remarks.
Honestly, Elizabeth, I had never seen an evening in any decent house in
Polchester like this one. All the better people had left--only Romney
and Gaselee I saw, and the Cronins. They looked as though they were
expecting any moment something to happen, and indeed you might, for you
never saw anything queerer than Mrs. Braund, who walked from room to
room and stared at some of the guests as though she wondered who they
were.

'I don't want to give an impression that things were actually rowdy. I
daresay, if you'd been a stranger and not known anyone, you'd have
thought it a very decorous party. In the room where they were playing
bridge there wasn't a sound and even the dancing wasn't riotous. It was
only if you knew who people were, and above all knew all that had been
happening here during the last months, that you became apprehensive.

'Honestly, Elizabeth, I wouldn't have been surprised if Mrs. Braund,
Archdeacon's wife or no Archdeacon's wife, had slapped Mrs. Carris's
face at any moment. You say that English ladies don't do such things.
No, not if they are normal. We are scarcely any of us here normal just
now. . . . Then--well, it must be all over the town to-day--so I may as
well tell you exactly what I saw. I heard the clock in the drawing-room
strike a quarter to twelve and I thought it was high time for me to be
going. I went into the hall to find Mrs. Braund to say good-night. There
she was, saying good-night to the Cronins. On the left was the room
where they had been dancing. Opposite was the small room where they were
playing bridge, and out of that room, as I came into the hall, stepped
Romney. I noticed that he looked up at the hall clock. I noticed it
because I thought to myself, "Oh, Romney's leaving. We can walk most of
the way home together." But he stood there looking at the hall door, and
that, on thinking back, makes me sure that he knew what was about to
happen.

'Mrs. Cronin was going on--do you know her?--well, she's a sort of
pussy-voiced gossip--"Oh, _dear_ Agnes. We've had such a _lovely_
evening. I don't know when I've ever enjoyed myself----" and so on. Mrs.
Braund was standing there looking at her with a kind of nervous
twitching smile, the Archdeacon at her side. The front-door bell rang.
No one thought that it was more than the announcement of someone's car,
I suppose. But we all turned and looked. The Braunds' butler--a stout,
red-faced, pompous old man with white hair--came forward to open it.
Jokes had been going on all evening about some of the Seatown population
haunting the garden, looking in at the windows, preparing to throw
stones. So when the door opened and a great rush of cold air blew in we
all felt a little jumpy, I imagine.

'Someone was standing there, outlined vividly in the light of the hall
lamp. It was your father, Elizabeth. But absolutely motionless--the
green umbrella, the bowler hat, the long grey overcoat, the grey gloves.
You could see his long white nose. He never moved. There was a piercing
fearful shriek from Mrs. Braund, who fell with a crash to the floor.
The figure vanished. I don't believe in ghosts, Elizabeth, but I tell
you that I was terrified. The sense of the dark, the cold night air, the
nervousness and expectation of something happening that there had been
all the evening--all these things together helped. I know that for a
moment I was altogether taken in. "So there _are_ ghosts!" I remember
thinking. "Now I know!" But a moment later there were other things to
think of. Mrs. Braund was lying motionless on the floor, the Archdeacon
bending over her. People who had been dancing came hurrying. I saw Mrs.
Carris and her two girls. Mrs. Cronin was crying hysterically something
like, "I saw him! I saw him! With my own eyes!" Everyone was shouting
and talking at once.

'It was Romney who compelled attention. He came forward and said, "Don't
be alarmed, anybody. It was O'Hara dressed up. I recognized him at once.
It was a practical joke."

'A pretty idea of a practical joke, with Mrs. Braund probably dead as
the result of it. But everyone realized at once that Romney was right,
and the next thing that happened was that the Archdeacon, out of all
control, shouted to Mrs. Carris that _she_ and her friends had arranged
this, it was _their_ doing--that they had murdered his wife whom they
had been persecuting for months, must leave his house instantly, he
would have them arrested for murderers and so on. . . . It was a
dreadful scene. The poor Archdeacon didn't know what he was saying.
Gaselee then took command of the proceedings. He led the Archdeacon into
the other room, advised everyone to go as quickly as possible. Go we
did, I assure you. Of course Mrs. Carris was eagerly protesting that
she had known nothing about it, and Crispangle and Bellamy loudly
supported her.

'Before I left I heard that Mrs. Braund wasn't dead but had suffered a
stroke.

'I can tell you, Elizabeth, it was queer enough, after all that, walking
home through the quiet little town. The breeze rustled through the
trees, all the houses were dark, the Cathedral was so majestically at
rest. Behind some window you could see someone sitting reading a book.
It was a fresh, chilly evening. You could smell the breeze from the
sea. . . .

'Yes, the whole town's talking of it to-day. Whether Mrs. Braund will
recover no one knows. I hear that most people think that O'Hara and the
Carrises arranged it. O'Hara himself says that it was intended as a mild
little joke. Mild! He had meant, he says, to walk into the house, take
off the bowler hat and reveal himself! In my opinion he was a coward,
let alone anything else, to run away as he did! Anyway there's no end to
the trouble his little joke will cause. They say that the Archdeacon may
bring an action against O'Hara and that Mrs. Carris may bring an action
against the Archdeacon for defamation of character. What's the matter
with this town, Elizabeth? What's happening to us all?'




CHAPTER II

THERE IS NO PRIVATE LIFE HERE NOW . . .


By very many clever persons September is considered the loveliest month
of the year in Glebeshire--_but_, they quickly add, _not_ October. In
the North, where Things (birds, flowers, heather and coloured clouds)
are later, yes, October is divine. But in Glebeshire, after October
1st--' you are never SURE.'

That is very true, Miss Merivale, the queen of the Library at the top
right-hand corner of High Street, thought, reading a novel by Miss E. B.
C. Jones. Thin, alert, dressed always in soft grey with white collars
and cuffs, contemptuous, intelligent, she salved her loneliness by
allying herself with the lady novelists she loved. These ladies allowed
Miss Merivale to despise everyone in Polchester save only Mr. Romney,
who, if he had written novels, would have been made Colonel of the
Regiment without delay.

Not only did these ladies write with brilliance, notice instantly the
tiniest folly committed by a neighbour (male or female, it mattered not,
but female for preference), but they reassured, most gallantly, all the
clever non-writing ladies in England. Miss Merivale was one of these;
having been brought up by an atheistic father (Professor, Manchester
University) to believe in nothing that she couldn't see, her eyes were
of the very sharpest.

Her tongue was sharp too, with the result that she was not very popular
in Polchester. None of this mattered. Seated on her little platform in
the Library (the same for the last fifty years), she dealt with her
clients and customers quite regally. She felt as though Mrs. Virginia
Woolf had given her her benediction, as though _To the Lighthouse_ had
been especially written for her--and, in honest fact, that lovely,
tender and understanding work had done something to ripen her thin
understanding and enrich her rather arid perception. She was arid
because no man had ever loved her. Because no man had ever loved her she
devoted all her energies to seeing life as it really was.

Therefore now, in this first week of October, seated alone in her
Library reading the novel of Miss E. B. C. Jones, she was disturbed,
greatly disturbed. Because she was frightened.

The town was filled with sea-mist. She had turned on the electric light
and drawn down the blinds, but oh, how she wished, how strangely,
disturbingly she wished that someone would come in!

Even Mrs. Cronin, who liked the stories of Mr. Frankau, Mr. Deeping and
Miss Berta Ruck, would be better than nobody. Even Miss Dora Trenchard
who returned a novel by Miss Mary Butts with the comment, 'I understood
almost none of it, and what I did understand was indecent,' would be
better than nobody! Even it might be that these ladies, being stupid,
without perception, without aesthetic taste, might be better than Lady
Mary Bassett, Mr. Romney, or Canon Ronder, more comforting, more
reassuring. What was the matter with her? Why was she constantly looking
over her shoulder as though she expected the high rows of dusty
bookshelves with their long-forgotten Godwins, Bayes, Eugene Sues, G. P.
R. Jameses, to open, and from their depths to emerge--whom?

For some weeks now she had felt this discomfort. She regarded the
Library as the very heart of the town. Here it lay, the centre, and from
it radiated the Cathedral, the Canons' houses, the shops, the Market,
the quiet streets with their old sober houses, the Rock, Seatown, the
river, the sloping hills. And because it was the Centre, here was hidden
the secret of the town's disturbance. But there _was_ no disturbance!
The spirit of Miss Merivale's father reproached her for her foolishness.
'Believe, my dear Anthea, only in what you can see with your good eyes,
touch with your cool firm fingers.' Well, she could see the paralysed
body of Mrs. Braund lying in that cold dark tree-embedded house by the
Cathedral, she could touch hands that might, not so long ago, have been
reddened with a fellow-citizen's blood; that poor old woman from Mrs.
Coole's had died, they said, from heart failure--but who could tell?
That blind stallkeeper had fallen by accident from the Rock. . . .

She jumped up. She could endure it no longer. The dim eyes of those old
books watched her; behind the drawn blinds the fog rolled up the street.
The door opened. She stifled a little terrified scream. It was Lady St.
Leath's chauffeur.

'Her Ladyship understands----'

'Yes, here are the books she asked for.' Then, after a little pause,
because she didn't believe in being familiar with servants, 'It's foggy,
isn't it?'

'Yes, it is. Got to go careful with the car.' He went, closing the door
behind him. She would have wished to have kept him there, to have
thought of some possible conversation. . . .

Miss Truscott and Mrs. Pender met Miss Merivale for a moment
in the rolling manoeuvres of that sea-fog, for they also were
frightened--frightened by the thought of poor old Mrs. Dickens and
by the silly illusion Miss Truscott had that she saw poor Alice
Dickens leaning over her shoulder and looking into her tea-cup. Miss
Truscott and Mrs. Pender had been lodgers with Mrs. Coole for a
longer time than Mrs. Dickens. They were the oldest lodgers there.
Miss Truscott was a mild old lady who liked bright colours and was
afflicted with a constant trembling of the head. This trembling
irritated Mrs. Coole almost to a frenzy and she would cry, '_Can't_
you keep your head still?' and Miss Truscott, brilliant in a magenta
blouse, would answer, 'No, I _can't_!' Mrs. Pender, on the other
hand, was a very slim old party with a heavy black moustache and
beetling eyebrows. She was the only one of the ladies at Mrs.
Coole's who stood up to that tyrant; daily had been their battles
for many years and all the other lodgers enjoyed them.

On this afternoon Miss Truscott was having tea in Mrs. Pender's
bed-sitting-room, and the thing that was really disturbing them was
Alice Dickens's cat. On the night of Alice Dickens's death the cat
disappeared. Mrs. Coole had always detested it and had hinted in no
uncertain fashion of the things that she would do to the cat 'once Mrs.
Dickens was gone.' So the cat was acting wisely in disappearing. The
trouble was that it didn't _completely_ disappear as it should have
done. Every night its plaintive mew was heard and, although it was never
seen, its paws pit-pattered on the oil-cloth, and Miss Truscott declared
that she felt it rub itself against her bare leg as she was stepping
into her bed. Mrs. Coole's house was Number Ten in Norman Row and Mr.
Klitch's shop Number Eleven. Mrs. Coole roundly accused Mr. Klitch, whom
she had always detested (she approved of very few people), of harbouring
the cat. He merely shrugged his shoulders and smiled. . . .

But Miss Truscott, having tea with Mrs. Pender, not only saw Alice
Dickens looking into her tea-cup but heard the cat mew for milk in the
way that it always used to do.

Both ladies stared at the fog that crept in wisps of lawn across the
Cathedral Green and 'wished for company.'

'Nonsense, Millie,' said Mrs. Pender. 'Poor Alice is dead and there's an
end of it.'

'Listen!' said Millie Truscott.

And both old ladies listened: the wash-stand also listened, and the bed
and the three chairs and the photograph of the long-dead Mr. Pender on
the mantelpiece. The Cathedral chimes rang the half-hour but neither
lady stirred. Miss Truscott held her tea-cup in her hand.

'Have another piece of that seed-cake,' said Mrs. Pender, 'and don't be
silly. It's only the trickling of that pipe in the attic.'

But it wasn't. It was Mrs. Coole who opened the door without knocking
and stood, a great mountain of flesh, her vast breasts heaving, her
short thick grey hair, absurdly bobbed, emphasizing the white rolls of
fat on the back of her neck.

She looked at her two lodgers, then--without a word--closed the door
again and could be heard flip-flapping in her slippers down the stairs.

'One day,' Mrs. Pender said slowly, 'there'll be another murder in
Polchester.'

'There, Laura,' Miss Truscott said. 'Didn't you hear it? Most distinctly
a cat's mew.'

       *       *       *       *       *

'There,' said Michael Furze to Elizabeth. 'Don't you wait for me. I
don't know when I'll be back.'

But he did not go out. He went into his bedroom and stood looking from
behind a corner of the blind, which now he kept always drawn. The room
had assumed something of the air of a fortress. The only beautiful thing
in it was the crucifix which stood on a bare table against the naked
wall. For the rest the furniture, ugly and uncompromising, seemed to be
on guard as though it were waiting to be pushed, in defence, against
doors and windows. Now, as Michael stood there looking down to the
shifting wall of sea-fog that broke suddenly in front of him, throwing
into his face walls and chimneys and an old man walking with a tapping
stick down the road, he was wondering whether he could summon up courage
to tell Elizabeth and her mother that they must go. His head had not,
during the last fortnight, been as clear as it ought to be. And with
reason. He was pestered now with so many persons who wished to interfere
with his private life. Standing there, gazing down into the fog, he
shook with anger as he thought of them. Gurney, Caul, Lanky, Klitch,
Leggett, Lampiron--these were only a few. Everywhere now steps followed
him, eyes peered into his, ears listened to the very beating of his
heart. He shook the edge of the blind with his indignant hand. My God!
Was there ever anyone more foully treated--he who wished only good to
the town, who longed for chances to prove its benefactor?

Men, he now noticed, would not hold conversation with him, but spoke a
word or two, then moved away--not disappearing, however, but rather
staying, just out of sight, hiding, watching. And that lazy, fat
policeman, Gurney, why must he be for ever turning up and asking
questions? He'd better look out, he had! And the foul and slimy Leggett
(here Michael's whole body shook with anger), what right had he to put
on these airs, to pretend to be Michael's friend? Friend indeed! Michael
knew _his_ game! It was the money he was after, but money was the last
thing. . . .

Michael turned. What was that? Was not someone turning the handle of the
door? His face was chalky white, blotched with red, as he moved, looking
at the door. Blast these foggy days! The damned stuff crept into the
very room. There was no one there. But he wouldn't wonder if that blind
woman wasn't listening on the other side of the door. That was why she
and her daughter must go. He was master here now. And it would be better
if he were alone in the house--no one to spy on him then. He could draw
the blinds and bolt the doors and so stay, safe against the world.

No one could enter. No one? No privacy any more. . . . That brother of
his was clever enough to push blinds aside and slip through bolted
doors. . . . That damned, cursed, bloody brother of his . . . and,
peering from behind the blind, he thought that he saw, rising from the
thin white mist, like a bound figure from the grave, the umbrella, the
bowler hat, the long shapeless overcoat, the grey gloves. . . .

       *       *       *       *       *

It was about the overcoat that they were speaking, knocking the
billiard-balls about, at the St. Leath Hotel--Browning the proprietor,
Bellamy, Mr. Ironsides from London, and little Mr. Adamson from
Drymouth. Under the electric light the green table shone with a warm and
friendly glow. Browning, who prided himself on his billiards, bent
forward, his white shirt-sleeves gleaming, then suddenly straightened
his stout back and his large comfortable behind and said sharply:

'That's enough, Bellamy--running down the town to outsiders. What do you
call that--business?'

'I'm not running it down,' Bellamy said aggrievedly. He disliked rows,
but what was the matter with Browning? What was the matter with
everyone's temper just now, come to that? . . . 'I was only saying that
everyone's on edge. Why, in the High Street shop you wouldn't
believe--their minds are never on their work, always looking out of
window, and the younger men are all Town Guards, every man jack of
them.'

'What are Town Guards, if I may ask?' little Mr. Adamson enquired. He
looked as though he should always be standing, legs astride and
begaitered, sucking a straw, with his hat on the back of his head. As a
matter of fact, although he travelled in woollens, that was the way he
often was.

'The Town Guard,' Bellamy said solemnly, 'is an organization recently
sprung up in this town for protecting the streets at night.'

'Protecting the streets!' Adamson cried. 'Why, what's threatening them?'

'Nothing at all, if you ask me,' Browning said angrily. 'Damn! I've
missed my shot! Left you an easy one, Mr. Ironsides. The fact is this
town's gone barmy over nothing. People are afraid of their own shadows.'

'Now that's a funny thing,' said Mr. Ironsides, who was thin,
blue-shaven, with a little bunch of black hair on the tip of his nose.
'Something happened to me this morning. I've got a grey overcoat, loose,
easy affair. I was going out in it this morning--Crispangle of Smith's
had called for me. We were going down to the bank together. Crispangle
says: "Wouldn't wear that overcoat, Ironsides," he says.

'"Wouldn't what?" I ask.

'"Wear that overcoat. Foggy day like this people might mistake you, you
being thin and tall as well."

'"Mistake me for what?" I ask. There you are, Mr. Browning, your turn.
"'Tisn't _what_, it's _whom_," Crispangle says. And all I could get
out of him was that some old boy was done in here a month or two back
wearing a grey overcoat, and the whole town's gone potty on the
subject. . . .'

'That's a funny thing,' little Adamson began solemnly. 'Knew the same
thing happen in Brightlington once--you know Brightlington?--smart
little town Gloucester way. I had a business there once and an old woman
was murdered--kept a tobacco shop--murdered for the money in the till.
Well, do what they could, they couldn't find the murderer--hunted high
_and_ low--whole town went creepy. Women wouldn't go out at night.
Everyone lost their nerve, couldn't sleep, took to drink. . . .'

'That's enough,' Browning interrupted. '_That's_ enough! What are we? A
pack of old women? And what's going to happen to the trade of this
place?' He rested his cue against the wall and went up to Bellamy. He
was usually a mild amicable creature, with a fine presence for his
guests, a good business head, and a blind adoration for his large,
tranquil and plain-faced spouse. Now he was angry. 'I wonder at you,
Dick,' he said. 'Helping to spread these jackass stories.'

'I'm not helping,' Bellamy began indignantly. (He didn't want to quarrel
with Browning, but he was damned if he was going to be insulted before
two strangers. Almost as though he had murdered Furze himself!)

'Oh, aren't you? Well, I say you are, and others too----'

The door of the billiard-room very slowly opened. All four men turned
and stared. At first it seemed that there was only a wisp of fog there.
Then they could discern a long thin figure, the head a little bent as
though he were listening. Ironsides dropped his cue. 'My God!' he cried.
But it was all right. It was old Shepperson, the head waiter.

'Might I have a word with you a moment, Mr. Browning. . .?'

Browning went over to him.

       *       *       *       *       *

Then soon after four o'clock in the afternoon the sea-fog cleared for a
brief while. A little wind sailed through the town; the vapour-mists
swung high, and at their very heart there burnt a dim warm glow like the
reflection of a heavenly fire. A ray of sun pierced straight to the
copper weather-vane above the Market roof, and then blue suddenly
flooded the town, reflected in puddles left on the Market cobbles by the
cattle, reflected in the windows of the Town Hall, Bellamy's shop, the
old Georgian houses in Orange Street. All the sky was blue.

The lanes and the thick trees, the fields, the woods beyond the Pol,
were powdered with gold under the new sun, and a scent of spice and
sea-freshness and the prophecy of autumn fires penetrated the town. All
scents, all colours had the fresh joy of things all day imprisoned,
unexpectedly released.

Lady Mary, who was entertaining Mr. Romney and Mrs. Cronin to tea, went
to the window and looked across the huddle of roofs shining in the sun
to the line of hill that hid the sea.

'Dear me! The sun's out!' Mrs. Cronin, who always took the weather as a
personal compliment or insult, smiled at discovering the sun liked her
after all. (She had not been invited by Lady Mary. She had had luncheon
alone to-day and that had depressed her. She wanted to make sure before
night that someone liked her, so she was paying a call or two.) Until
Lady Mary had said that about the sun she had been really depressed.
Lady Mary and Mr. Romney knew one another so very well and, although
they apparently included Mrs. Cronin in their conversation, practically
they excluded her. Mrs. Cronin felt herself an intrusion and this made
her miserable. But when the sun streamed into the room she smiled at Mr.
Romney like a very old friend. At the same time she was making a little
collection of items that would amuse others in days to come--a new ring
with a large green scarab that he was wearing, the shrill laugh that he
gave at mention of his old friend Porteous, and the sharp glance of
investigation that he had thrown at Lady Mary's young footman, who was
new and had very bright blue eyes. All these things Mrs. Cronin noticed
while engaged in what was (although she did not know it) the completely
lost cause of winning Mr. Romney's affections.

Then Mrs. Cronin did a very silly thing. She said: 'Oh, Mr. Romney, do
tell us--in confidence, of course. They all say that you know just who
murdered old Furze--how, why, when, where, everything. . . .'

She looked up at him with what she had come to believe was her most
endearing expression--confidential, intimate, rather young and simple,
human and good. The change in Mr. Romney's expression simply terrified
her.

'The less said about that, Mrs. Cronin, the better.'

Even Lady Mary noticed the change in him, for, turning from the window,
scratching her left thigh, she said:

'What are you cross about?'

'I didn't mean----' Mrs. Cronin began. She was frightened out of her
wits. Romney was like an evil poison-planning spinster. His voice was
shrill and feminine.

'Can't you understand,' he cried, 'that I'm sick to death of this silly
business? Why should I be eternally pestered about the affair? You'd
think I'd murdered the man myself!'

'I'm so dreadfully sorry----' Mrs. Cronin began. Neither of them helped
her. There was silence. She rose. 'I'm afraid I must be getting on now.
I've several calls to pay. Thank you so much for a delightful . . .' She
departed, knowing that the coming hours would now be bitter to her with
the thought that both Lady Mary and Romney detested her.

After she had gone Mary Bassett said, 'What on earth made you----?'

But Romney only shrugged his shoulders. At the door, before he went, he
said: 'There's no private life in this town any more. Everyone knows
everything.'

       *       *       *       *       *

Inside rooms where walls can become surprisingly thin you may perhaps
feel this; it is in the crowded street that the private life is always
safest. So Michael Furze, lured by the unexpected sun from the cold
house, walked slowly up the High Street which was now crowded with
citizens. The sunshine made everyone gay. He was wearing his hat at a
jaunty angle, his blue suit; he had taken a good brave toss of brandy
before leaving the house. He had stroked the crucifix with his hand,
even, clumsily kneeling, had kissed the cold marble mouth, saying: 'You
know that I am not evil--that I wish well to all men. That I do not
deserve to be hunted. That they are following me now and trying to close
me in. Master, protect me. Our Father which art in Heaven . . .'

For he said his prayers now, he was always saying them. He would kneel
on the floor at his bed, as he had done as a little child, and say the
Lord's Prayer over and over. Only the figure on the Cross understood how
they had driven him, denied him freedom, hemmed him in. . . . 'Our
Father, Our Father . . .' he prayed over and over again, the sweat
beading his brow.

And he prayed further that he might be given strength not to go to the
Cathedral whither now his steps were always leading him. He had money
now; there was work he could do--affairs he could attend to. But he
seemed to be unable to work. He was drawn, as once years ago in Havana
he had been drawn to a bad Cuban girl who drained the life out of him
and the money too. So now--but oh! how differently!--he could not stay
away from the Cathedral, but was there twice, even three times a day!

In the sunlight he felt safer, even gay. He jingled money in his pocket.
The crowd passed by him and no one gave him that peculiar, penetrating
stare as though soon they would stop and, crying, 'There he is!' bar his
way. So, because he had money in his pocket, he went into Bellamy's to
buy some collars. The young woman who served him had red hair, for which
he had always a partiality. She was plump, with firm breasts, and wore a
white blouse and had crimson finger-nails. She smiled. 'Can I help you?'
He spoke about collars and his heart began to beat, just as it had done
in the old healthy days when he saw a woman who pleased him. She brought
out the boxes with the collars. Their hands touched. A delicious shiver
of affection and desire and the anticipation of someone comforting him
again (so that his head lay on those firm breasts and those long fingers
with the blood-red nails caressed his hair) ran down his spine. Then,
before he actually saw, he was aware that someone was staring. A male
assistant in a black tail-coat. An elderly female assistant. He looked
in front of him at the glass on the other side of the counter and there
were eyes everywhere. Eyes. Eyes. Eyes.

He dropped the collar-box that he was holding and, almost knocking down
a woman with her child, stumbled into the street.

He turned up the hill towards the Cathedral.

The pale autumn sun, released from its thin provoking bondage, turned
the nave floor into froth and spume of colour, for on these days of
faint sunlight the colours of the window soaked the floor, filling with
purple and dark cherry and oyster-white the hollows where feet had worn
the stone away, the brasses, the pale honey-coloured shadows that a
stiff memorial tomb could throw. Above these bloomy shades the great
church hung airy, cold and empty.

Michael knew how empty it was to-day. He stood staring at the 'Virgin
and Children' window, his ears cocked as though he were an animal hiding
in the brushwood from the hunters. The colours of this window, always
more vividly alive on a day of mild sunshine than in a brilliant flood
of light, caught Michael's heavy fleshy body and transmuted it. The
bright green of the dress of the Virgin, a green of fresh leaves after
rain, the purple of the clothes of the children chasing the white kid, a
colour deeper than the darkest sun-shadow on mountain heather, than the
grape-bloom of a sunset cloud, the snow-white of the field of lilies
where the Holy Child is playing--these stained his cheek, his clothes,
his hair.

He stood there, looking up, and, almost unknown to himself, began to
cry. He was utterly wretched. He was deserted by God and Man. He wiped
the tears with the knuckles of his hand, but, through the misted gaze,
it seemed to him that the Virgin raised Herself from watching the Child,
that the Child stopped in His play and regarded him with serious eyes,
and that, as Father, Mother and Child passed up the steps of the Temple,
they paused and turned and looked.

How cold the church was; how unstirring the air!

He turned and saw that Broad the verger was looking at him. Now _here_
was a man that he hated! How he hated him! Of late this heavy, stupid
creature tracked him from pillar to pillar. Wherever Michael might be in
the church there was Broad watching him. There was something in that
heavy figure draped in its black gown, with its complacent mouth, smooth
rosy cheeks, supercilious brows, that infuriated Michael--so that now,
forgetting all caution, his eyes still bright with his self-pitying
tears, he stumbled over the uneven stones to him and said huskily: 'Look
here. You're always watching me. What's your game?'

They were alone in the church, and the silence was absolute. Old Broad,
very calm, very friendly, it seemed, raised his head and sniffed.

'Why, Mr. Furze, _I'm_ not watching you! What put that into your head?
But tell me--can you smell anything--a sort of odour as you might say?
My imagination maybe.'

But Michael pursued his idea. 'You _were_ watching me. You have been for
weeks. And I ask you not to. I do no harm here.'

Mr. Broad was very dignified. 'Funny, that smell.' He gathered the folds
of his verger's gown in his hands. 'There! It comes and goes! Come now,
Mr. Furze. You're imagining. It's my place to see that order's kept. No
more _and_ no less. . . . You're here pretty often. Seems the place kind
of draws you.'

'That's _my_ business,' Furze angrily answered.

'True enough, Mr. Furze. True enough,' Broad said, moving away, swinging
the tails of his gown. Then, with confidential friendliness: 'They'll be
opening the Tower again next week--long time they've been, not coming
down. Must have their summer holidays, I suppose. But they'll be down
next week for sure.' He looked at the tight-shut wooden door. But Furze
was gone. He had vanished into the shadowed depths of the King's Chapel.

Even as Broad looked for Furze the light went out of the Cathedral. The
windows fell dun and dead; the bloomy colours of purple and green no
longer stained the uneven stones. 'The fog's come up again,' Broad
sniffed, pressing his hands against his buttocks. May be true what they
say, he thought, you can almost _smell_ the dead these damp days. Then,
more wholesomely, he considered his tea and moved towards his home.

       *       *       *       *       *

At that precise moment in _his_ home Inspector Gurney was thinking of
Broad.

'The fog's coming up again,' Mrs. Gurney said, looking out of window. 'I
should wait a bit till it clears.' Mrs. Gurney had the comfortable
stoutness that comes from good temper and no imagination. In spite of
loving Gurney with a real devotion and bearing him three children, she
was never anxious about him.

Mists, fogs, murders and the Town Guard meant nothing to her. Even now
when Gurney was more nervous and anxious about the future than she had
ever, in their twenty years of married life, known him, she was quite
unperturbed and fancied it was his liver.

Gurney said, his legs stretched out, his head back, his hands on his
stomach: 'Broad, the verger, knows a damned sight more than he'll say.
What are they all keeping so silent for?' Then he told off on his
fingers: 'Klitch, Broad, Leggett, Tom Caul, Moon, Fanny's girl, the
Furze mother and daughter, Mr. Romney. . . .'

'I wouldn't worry,' Mrs. Gurney said placidly. They rented one of the
little houses in Clark Street, one of the oldest and most retired
quarters in all the town, up above Canon's Yard, running to the Barham
Fields where the Town Wall used to run and there are still some old
stones to be seen. Mrs. Gurney loved this little house. Here she had
borne all three children, and the dahlia-scattered wallpaper was almost
hidden with the framed photographs. Gurney, a young policeman of
twenty-two, herself and Gurney on their wedding-day, Mrs. Gurney's
father and Mrs. Gurney's mother, the children at all stages from naked
innocence rolling on a horsehair mat to self-conscious Sunday School
fine clothing.

Gurney loved the house too _and_ his wife, children, photographs,
wallpaper, medals presented him for life-saving and runaway-horse
stopping, cups for swimming and running, and, best of all, the
personally presented and personally signed photograph of Lord St. Leath.
There St. Leath was, thick, beefy, kindly-eyed, but, as Gurney loved to
declare, 'a haristocrat every inch of him'--and written on Lord St.
Leath's stomach were the words: 'To Peter Gurney from his friend St.
Leath.' His friend! Well, it was true. There had been a friendship for
many years now between them that Gurney valued more than anything else
in his life--more than his wife, children or career. Many an evening
Gurney had been at the Castle, smoking his pipe in St. Leath's library,
neither man saying over-much, both of them feeling, in an odd undefined
way, a kind of brotherhood. . . .

And now the awful thing had happened! For only yesterday, passing
through Canon's Yard on his way home to Clark Street, Gurney had met St.
Leath. And St. Leath had said, quite sternly: 'Well, Peter, when are you
going to clear this mess up? Quite time you did.'

And Gurney, his heart hammering in his big chest, as though he himself
had been accused of the murder, answered, Very soon, he hoped; in strict
confidence he knew who'd done it; it was only a matter of putting two
and two together.

'Isn't right, you know,' St. Leath had said, 'state this town's getting
in. Just been visiting Mrs. Braund, poor lady. Shocking thing.'

'Yes, it is,' said Gurney.

'Well, why don't you arrest the fellow and have done with it?'

'Can't find the body for one thing,' said Gurney. 'For another, people
won't speak. There's plenty in the town knows.'

'It's your job to make them speak, isn't it?' said St. Leath quite
angrily. 'Town's getting into a regular upset, breaking Hattaway's
windows and all. Don't know what the world's coming to--all this damned
Communism.' And he had started off with that clumsy gait peculiar to
him, but without one word, not even a 'good night' to Gurney. Oh! Gurney
had felt it terribly! It was only a climax to all the troubles of the
last weeks. He had come home late, sat there without a word to his wife,
and then, in bed, tossed heavily from side to side. He was not good at
expressing his feelings; he was by nature lazy, too amiable by half, apt
to let things slide. But over this affair he had worked, worked hard.
And now what? Reprimanded by St. Leath, mocked at by the town, haunted
by the figure of that miser, Furze, who seemed, with every step that he
took, to hang along at his side!

There was for him, too, the further ignominy of the Town Guard, this
indiscriminate, unauthorized body of young oafs and idlers, who, simply
to give themselves pleasure, threw themselves with their cudgels and
earnest sense of self-importance upon the innocent town. He was waiting
for the first sign of disorder and he would be down upon them, but he
was compelled to admit that up to now they had been orderly enough. Only
let the Seatown Communists emerge in their bands and then there would be
trouble!

'Well, Hannah, I'm off!' Without another word to her, without looking at
her or the children, he was gone.

After a visit to the police-station and finding there was nothing new
except a drunk and a pickpocket, he lumbered through the sea-mist down
Daffodil Street. Lazy and comfort-loving though he was, he was no
coward. There had been a time when his physical strength had been famous
throughout Glebeshire. He was too fat now, but yet he could hit a man
hard and true if the need came. All the same he felt soft to-night. That
reprimand of St. Leath's had wounded his very heart. He did not know why
he cared for St. Leath so much, save that he was a proper English
gentleman, believed in the right things, did his duty by his position
and country. But there was more than that to it. Gurney had always been
a sentimentalist rather than a sensualist--he liked babies and dogs and
always remembered the anniversary of his wedding-day. After a drink or
two Johnny St. Leath seemed to stand for everything that he valued--old
England with her green pastures and the thin bright line of sea beyond
and this little town huddled in the hollow of the hill, the low of the
oxen, and the still stream under the bridge, the first colour of the
dawn behind the Harry Tower, and the scent of the roses and carnations
in Mrs. Cronin's garden. . . . St. Leath stood for these and for
England, all now threatened by forces that Gurney only dimly
comprehended. But he felt that St. Leath and himself, two big men,
standing side by side, could face all the dirty Communists and murderers
the world over. But if St. Leath deserted him, was his friend no
longer. . . . He stopped in his steps. He was by the river now and here
the fog was thick. He could not see his hand before his face. But he
heard breathing. Quite close to him. Someone was standing there. And
more than one.

An instant later three men had thrown themselves on to him. In that
moment of contact he felt a wave of satisfaction surge at his heart. He
had been moving for weeks in mists and shadows--now he had something
tangible to deal with. One man's arms were about his neck, another was
dragging at his knees, trying to pull him down. At once he had luck with
the third, for he struck out and felt his fist crash into a face, heard
a cry and a fall. But the man at his neck had arms like snakes. He must
be a little man, for he was hanging off the ground on to Gurney's broad
back, his knees in Gurney's posterior.

In the elation of having, at last, something practical to do, much of
his old strength had come back to him. He was out of condition, but he
hadn't boxed and wrestled through years of his youth for nothing. He
kicked back viciously with one foot and felt the man at his knees give.
Then he swung his body round, the little man on his back swinging with
him. Meanwhile he was wondering how many more there might be. Was this
perhaps the beginning of that outbreak that had been threatening now
ever since the Pageant? They would choose just such a night of fog as
this. . . . The thin fingers were digging into his neck. His collar and
tie were gone, his shirt torn, and he could feel the damp air blowing on
his flesh. The other man had him now about the thighs, and his hands
were digging into his groin.

He kicked again, then, as his right trouser-leg tore, he swung forward
and down, and threw, with a great effort that seemed to burst his heart,
the small ruffian over his head. The clutch at his neck was broken. The
hold on his naked thigh was released. He knew that he was master of the
field. He straightened himself, pulled up his torn trousers, wiped some
blood from his face, and then through the mist was aware that the little
fellow was lying at his feet motionless. No one else was there but they
two. He blew his whistle. Then, bending down, he caught the little man
by the collar and dragged the body along the ground to a distant lamp.
He had killed him, perhaps, and no harm if he had. In the lamp's opaque
light he saw that this was young M'Canlis, the tobacconist's son, one of
the worst wasters in Seatown. He was not dead, but stirred, raising his
arms. His forehead was badly cut.

So Gurney stood there, blowing his whistle and waiting. He breathed deep
with a very genuine satisfaction. Not only had he proved himself _to_
himself, always a satisfactory thing to do, but now they would have
young M'Canlis in jail and it would be their fault if they didn't get
from him something worth having. He was a coward, a sneak, a tell-all
when in trouble, and what he knew Gurney would know before many hours
were over.

Out of the fog the long thin body of one of his men emerged.

'Good God, sir!' he remarked when he saw his Inspector bleeding in the
face and half-naked.

'That's all right, Merry. Three of the bastards set on me. I've got one,
young M'Canlis, and we'll keep him. Just what we've been wanting.'

They set off up Daffodil Street, M'Canlis tenderly borne between them.
And Gurney was happy. Lord St. Leath would approve of this. It was the
kind of job that he'd like to have shared in. . . .

       *       *       *       *       *

When the Cathedral chimed nine of the clock the sky was nearly clean. A
film, of mist like a spider's web revealed rather than hid a moon like a
copper filing and a mesh of stars. The air was sharp and cold.

The town was very quiet. An occasional motor-car, rushing through, shook
the silence which swiftly resettled as though, finger to lip, it gave an
added warning. Old Mordaunt, in his room, empty save for two
packing-cases, a table and a chair, sat, a shawl about his shoulders,
finishing a drawing by the light of a candle. On the walls the paper was
peeling. Only one picture hung there--a copy of Drer's _Melancolia_. He
sneezed, shook his head, and continued, a smile of pleasure on his old
dried lips, his drawing.

Klitch looked at the moon and turned to his spouse, who was mending a
hole in her son's shirt, seated at the table, threading a needle,
humming through the thread. Klitch turned from the table. 'Do you know
one thing?' he said. 'I'll make you a prophecy. Within a month from now
that crucifix I sold Furze will be back in the shop.' He jingled his
money in his pocket. 'I'll be glad to see it here again.'

       *       *       *       *       *

Aldridge switched off the lights of his extremely ugly sitting-room. He
called out: 'Going for a bit of a walk, love. Help the digestion.'

'Don't be long,' she called back.

He went along to see Bellamy.

'Look here, Dick,' he began. 'We've got to do something about this
situation. . . .'

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Braund tried to say something and the nurse bent down to hear. She
could speak only with the left corner of the mouth.

'Want to see the moon?' the nurse said brightly. 'Why, of course.' She
let the blind swing up. 'There it is. Just above the Cathedral roof.
Quite new. Pretty, isn't it?'

A tear rolled out of Mrs. Braund's eye and rested on her cheek. But the
nurse was used to tears. She sat down and said briskly, 'Now, where was
I? Oh, here we are,' and began to read from her novel.

       *       *       *       *       *

'I feel as though all the houses were made of paper to-night,' Elizabeth
said to her mother. 'There's a sweet little moon. The fog's nearly gone.
It's as though I could see into every room in the town.'

Her mother smiled. Then began, as she sometimes did, softly to move
about the room. She moved with a wonderful assurance. She stopped beside
Elizabeth and, putting her thin hands on her shoulders, kissed her
forehead. 'Everything will soon be settled, dear,' she said. 'In another
week or two. Is that Michael?'

The two women stood there listening. There were stumbling steps on the
stair. They waited to see whether he would come into their room, but he
went on. They heard a door close.

'And now I think I'll go to bed,' Mrs. Furze said.

       *       *       *       *       *

At nine-thirty the Town Guard assembled in the Market-place. They were
all young men, wearing no uniform, carrying sticks and cudgels. They
divided into bands of four: without a word spoken they marched off to
their respective districts.

When they were gone a cat crept out from under the arcades and passed
slowly through the square, sniffing for garbage. Once it stopped, its
body stiffened, it raised its head and stared. But what it saw no one
but itself could tell.




CHAPTER III

OCTOBER: BOLE SANDS


The week of October 9th to October 16th, which will be undoubtedly
remembered by everyone who lived in Polchester at that time, opened with
a day of beautiful post-summer splendour. On that Monday a miracle was
presented to Lampiron.

Like all miracles it was exceedingly simple. At 9.15 A.M. he walked into
the Smith Bookshop to order a copy of _The Diary of a Nobody_. He told
Crispangle that in future there must be always a copy in stock.
Crispangle, who was in a bad temper, was short, and added that he
understood that there had been a clash on the previous evening between a
number of the Town Guard and a number of the Seatown lads. Lampiron
grinned and came out into the sunlight. As the Cathedral chimed the
half-hour he met Penny Marlowe. He knew that he was moving now by
destiny, that time was short, that he must take his chances, so he said
at once: 'Penny--you're coming with me for the day to Bole Sands,' and
she, as though she also recognized destiny, said, 'Yes--wait while I
telephone to the house.'

She went into Smith's and telephoned. When she rejoined him he asked
her, 'What did you say?'

'I said that I was going to Bole Sands for the day and would be back for
dinner. It was father who answered. All he said was: "The sea will be
beautiful to-day. Enjoy yourself, darling."' As they went down the hill
she went on: 'I've got to take him away. Once he's out of this town
he'll be all right. And I've got a plan. Mother goes at the beginning of
next week to Solton Tracey, to some friends there for a fortnight. The
moment she's gone I shall smuggle father into the train and carry him
off to the place he loves best in the world, Lyme Regis. _Why_ he loves
Lyme Regis better than anywhere I don't know, but he does. Mother hasn't
been any use to him these last weeks. She's full of common sense. She
thinks ghosts are nonsense. But they aren't nonsense so long as you
believe in them. Father's going mad because he thinks God has looked
into his case and thinks him despicable. So he told me last night. It
began with the money he owed that wretched old man, it went on with his
death. There was a horrible person came to see him yesterday--called
Leggett.'

'Yes,' said Lampiron.

'I don't know what he said to him, but father's all broken up. And it's
all about nothing. Father is about the best man who ever lived. So I'm
going to rescue him. He likes Lyme Regis so much, because of Jane
Austen, I think,' she added incongruously. Then she caught Lampiron's
arm. 'I think your asking me like this is the best thing that ever
happened.'

They arrived at the little Bole Street station. Bole Street is the
oldest station in Polchester and has been practically left alone since,
somewhere about 1850, it seemed a bold and glorious enterprise. Now it
is a little dark place save for the garden beyond it. Black, smoky,
decrepit, it huddles down at the edge of the station-master's blazing
mob of flowers. All through the summer the carnations, tulips, roses,
sweet-williams had flung their colours and scents into the bare
waiting-room, the windy melancholy platform. Now, as Lampiron and Penny
walked there, they could see the sun blazing down on the late summer
roses, pink as coral and deeply crimson and ivory-white.

The train came in, and there was no one with them in the grimy
hard-seated carriage with its sun-and-dust-worn red backs, hot and
hostile like iron, its dirty floor, its cold photographs of Rafiel and
St. Mary Moor and Bole Sands. Penny's hand was curled in Lampiron's, but
they did not talk. The train wandered out of Polchester almost, as it
were, by accident. As they crossed the high bridge Lampiron looked out
and down to the river and Seatown.

'There was some trouble, I hear, last night,' he said, 'between the Town
Guard boys and the Seatown roughs.'

But she did not make any answer. She had taken off her blue hat and
leaned her head against his shoulder. Her eyes were closed. The train
threw the last villas behind it and ran now between sloping fields
drenched with sun and guarded by plum-dark woods.

The air was warm with the sun and fresh-salted by the sea. In pools of
shadow under hedge and tree cows lay, their mouths lazily moving, their
tails flicking the flies, while the sun soaked and soaked the ground as
though this were a divine preparation of the soil for some miraculous
sowing. The light was so intense, the air, as winnowed by the train, so
fresh and salt, that Lampiron thought: It is as though I were escaping
from some doomed city. For weeks and weeks now I have not left
Polchester. I have never even walked up the hill towards Carpledon where
I used to go to get that view of the thin line of sea from the Four
Trees. I have been thinking of it as a beleaguered city and I feel now a
kind of surprise that Penny and I can escape from it so easily, that no
one has challenged us, no guard at the gate. I should be moving now into
the enemy's camp. But the town is beleaguered inside itself. It is there
at its very heart that the enemy is hiding, that that old bad decaying
corpse is somewhere lying. It may be that it is really down at the
bottom of that well where they say I shoved it away, and if that's so it
will never be found. Will the nasty old man haunt the town for ever
then? Will the Inquisitor with a broken neck come every night from the
Cathedral door and disturb the people with his tiresome questions?
(Lampiron was nearly asleep now. His arm was around Penny's slim
childlike body. She was sleeping.) He has disturbed me too. And old
Marlowe. And poor Mrs. Braund. Mrs. Braund and I committed an
impertinence when we called up spirits before a cheap public. Even the
Witch of Endor selected her audience. But that's what it is. . . . You
must keep the balance. If you neglect their world altogether they punish
you. If you enter it too intimately, forgetting your manners, then they
punish you too. Mrs. Braund and I forgot our manners. . . . How do I
know so clearly that everything here is over, that I shall never see
these sun-drenched fields again, never hear these slow country voices at
these stations, never smell this salty tang?

There was one thing that he hadn't told Crispangle, that he hadn't told
Penny--namely that the disturbances last evening between the Town Guard
and the Seatown roughs had been caused by himself. He had been up to see
Ronder, who wasn't so well. (His heart was tiresome, worn out with all
that flesh that it must support.) Making a short cut above Canon's Yard
to Orange Street, in a narrow lane with high walls, he had met Caul and
two others. Caul barred his way and said something about Lampiron's
murdering his brother. They were going, they said, to give him the
hiding of his life. Meanwhile Caul insulted him as foully as might be,
calling him double-dyed murderer, seducer of young girls, rotten maker
of images or some other high-flown stuff. Then they were going for him.
It showed what the town was coming to for this to follow so quickly on
the assault on Gurney. Lampiron would have been in a bad way, but four
young men turned up. Aldridge's son was one of them. It was dark: there
was a kind of scrimmage. Someone went for Lampiron with a knife. One of
the Seatown fellows had his eye closed up. Then the Seatown men ran. It
might have been an ugly business. Lampiron himself was sure that it was
Leggett's doing and that Leggett was now busy directing all the Seatown
energies against himself, Lampiron. Children in the street now called
after him. Lady Mary and Mrs. Cronin had both cut him dead. Mrs.
Porteous had paid a visit to Mrs. Marlowe especially to tell her that
if she did not forbid her daughter, Penny, to see Lampiron any more she
would be considered a ruined girl. Yes, himself and Mrs. Braund had gone
too far. He knew as surely as that he was now sitting, his back against
the hard red dusty carriage, his arm around Penny, that his time was
short.

Well . . . he would enjoy this day. So he bent and kissed her cheek and,
a moment later, they jerked their way into Bole Sands Station.

'Wake up, darling. We're there.'

She woke up, looked about her, stretched her arms, smiled. Then they
were happy. Any care, any fear, any thought of the future, left them
altogether. They had never, from the beginning of their friendship,
known any awkwardness. That sympathy and ease sprang from a perfect
unanalysed understanding, something very rare and quite independent of
age, sex, nationality. So many lovers watch every step taken with fear,
but Lampiron and Penny loved one another so instinctively that they
could be no more afraid of their relationship, once they had made their
rules, than they could of breathing or sleeping.

Bole Sands Station stands on the very edge of the sands that run, when
the tide is out, to a great distance beyond Condall Rock. This morning
the sea was far away, a glittering dazzling curtain of sun and light,
swinging above the hot sparkling pale amber sand. To the left were the
Torle Rocks and Hunter's Cave and Pollen Cave. The tide would turn about
midday. First they bought some papers from the station bookstall.
Lampiron bought the _Weekly Telegraph_ and a detective story. Then they
bought provisions--pork-pies, pears and apples, apple-pasties, toffee
and bottles of ginger-ale.

They walked slowly across the great floor of sand to the Torle Rocks. It
was only twelve o'clock and they were alone, two tiny figures on that
vast expanse. Penny had bought a bathing-dress and Lampiron a pair of
trunks. They walked slowly along and the sand, the sea, the horizon
danced in a blinding haze in front of them, as though a great wall of
glass had been splintered.

Hunter's Cave, when they reached it, was cool like velvet. Away from the
sun a breeze caressed their faces as though with cold pale fingers. They
sat with their backs to the rocks and, hand in hand, like spectators in
a box, watched from their security the dancing blazing spectacle of sun
on sand, sky on water. Faintly, like the rhythm in a dream of the
advancing drums of an army, the sea thrummed.

They took off shoes and stockings, he opened his shirt and she lay with
her head on the hollow between shoulder and breast. He talked to her,
half sleepily, brokenly.

'When I've gone, Penny my darling, I want to have left you a belief in
life. . . . I think you've got it now, but a time's sure to come when
you're tempted to lose it. Bad things happen, you're frightened of the
future, you've made some bad mistakes, you're lonely, ill. . . . Don't
think then that yours is a unique experience. There's something terrible
in life. Fear is at the back of every man's experience. He's meant to be
afraid and then conquer it. But that isn't an insult to you personally.
So many people have a kind of notion that life owes them something--that
it's life's duty to be kind to them and look after them. Life doesn't
give a damn. No one's going to protect you or pity you or be sorry for
you. You meet your own dragons, ride your own tigers. . . . I'm telling
you these things and they're platitudes, but you love me and perhaps
you'll remember that this has been my kind of experience and I'm wanting
you to have a fine life as I've never wanted anything. . . . I've tried
everything and failed in everything, and now, at the last, in a place
where I was very happy, they accuse me of murder, rape, everything short
of sodomy. All the same these last months I've had new experience. I've
been in touch with things I never knew existed. I see that death is
unimportant and that every moment of beauty is eternal. I thought it was
all copy-book. There's a letter of Charles Lamb's I used to be very fond
of. I can't quote it exactly, but one sentence I remember because I had
it written above the fireplace in the house I had at Mount Newcombe:
"The sun and moon yet reign in heaven, and the lesser lights keep up
their pretty twinklings. Meat and drinks, sweet sights and sweet smells,
a country walk, spring and autumn, follies and repentance, quarrels and
reconciliations, have all a sweetness by turn." Have all a sweetness! By
God, they have.

'And there's one verse of Blake's over your Donatello in the studio:

    Abstinence sows sand all over
    The ruddy limbs and flaming hair,
    But Desire gratified
    Plants fruits of life and beauty there.

Desire gratified! I've never known it--never! But to have the desire, to
love you, to see this light and glory--oh, God! I'm an old man by years
but my heart is not tamed. . . . I love life and all the lives to come,
and if, after this, there's only silence, I accept that too. . . . Don't
laugh at life, Penny, or sneer at it, or take offence at it, or say it's
a cheat. Rebel when you suffer and curse and kick. Don't be resigned or
meek. But never patronize life or despise it. That's a small poor thing
to do. . . . God, but I'm thirsty. Shall we have a bottle of ginger-ale
each or shall we wait till we've bathed? Shall we bathe now or wait till
the sea's nearer in?'

Penny said: 'You're talking as though you were leaving me a kind of last
testament. That's nonsense. Our lives together are only just beginning.'

He felt her fear, her heart beating wildly against his breast. This day
at least should be perfect happiness. . . .

'Yes, Penny darling. Our lives will go on together for ever and ever.
Nothing can separate us. This isn't a last testament--it's because I'm
happy, and when I'm happy I talk. I've no original matter in me, I can't
say a thing that hasn't been said again and again before, but you won't
mind that. You won't mind anything I say or do because we love one
another.' (And this, he added to himself, is our last day together. And
it's going to be perfect. She shall remember it as long as she lives. I
see with a clarity I've never known before. It's as though the sand and
sea and sky were transparent. I can almost see through--through into
what?) 'Penny dear, tell me what you're thinking. _You_ talk now. I'm
finished. And what you say will be ten thousand times wiser than
anything I could say, because you're young and all life's in front of
you. . . . Penny darling, tell me what you're thinking.'

'I'll tell you what I'm thinking,' Penny said. 'While you were talking I
was planning things out. I don't mean I wasn't listening to what you
said, but you were talking like a book, darling, as you sometimes do.
You do love to talk about Life with a capital L like the mottoes you
tear off in calendars.'

She put her hand above his heart. His skin was warm and dry. She could
feel his heart pounding with a grand scornful indifferent steadiness.

She suddenly felt that he didn't belong to her--that in reality he was
quite indifferent to her, and the fear that she had five minutes before
returned, menacing. . . . So she went on talking.

'I've been planning it all. As I told you, I'm going to take father to
Lyme Regis and make him all right again. I'll read silly novels to him
and pretend to enjoy chess, which I _never_ can understand, and we'll go
to the cinema in the evening where I _hope_ there'll be a picture with
Marie Dressier and Beery because he likes them better than anyone.
_Then_--we'll come home. We won't come back till everything's right
again, until they've discovered old Furze's skeleton or ceased to
bother. Until they aren't afraid to go out at night and don't think
ghosts walk out of the Cathedral. Then'--she paused--'we'll go away, you
and I----'

'Go away--where?' he asked.

'Oh, the South Seas, or Australia, or China even.'

She caught his hand and held it so tightly that he knew she was
frightened. As the pulse of his hand hammered against hers the last
remnant of any physical feeling that he had ever had for her vanished.
His love moved, like a traveller, into the country where it truly
belonged. She was a child and frightened and he was her protector for
ever and ever.

'Why the South Seas?' he asked. 'They're greatly over-rated.'

'China then.'

'That's over-rated too.' Should he tell her yet once again how, in a few
years, he would be an old man, physically weak, flabby, a nest of
tiresome ailments, unable to go where she wished, insisting that he must
have his nap, snoring with his mouth open? No. Why should he when there
was to be no old age for him? No old age? He could have risen, stretched
his arms and shouted--No old age! No old age!

'Wherever we are,' he said, 'we'll be happy.' (My going will save us, he
thought. There's no other possible solution to this.)

She sat up and looked out to sea. As he stared at her he thought that he
had never seen her so lovely as now, so filled with the certainty of
life, glowing with colour, energy, confidence. And so it should be. It
would be best if he should never see her again after to-day, for now all
physical desire for her was gone and soon she would be aware of that and
disappointed, she knew not why. She was too young as yet to realize that
because physical desire was gone, he loved her more dearly, more truly
than ever before.

'I was only a child,' she said, 'until these last months. I grew up in a
moment that first time you held me against you and kissed me.

'Now I feel I can do anything--look after father and mother and love you
and tell the town what I think of it. When we go away together I must
work--I can write a little, I think.'

'There are far too many writers in the world already,' he murmured.
'_Far_ too many.'

'Yes, perhaps there are. Well, it doesn't matter. I can do something
else. And anyway I'll have babies. They'll keep me busy.'

'I'll be a _very_ old father,' he said, cupping her face in his hand,
looking into her eyes. 'The children will scream when they see me.'

Was she frightened again? Her eyes stared into his. She said almost
breathlessly:

'If I lost you--if anything happened to you----'

'Nothing shall happen to me,' he said, kissing her. He thought--so it
will be for six months after I'm gone. And then she will begin to
forget. Then she'll begin to lead her life without me. Then I'll be a
memory. Then in her middle age she'll tell her husband, at some art
gallery perhaps, 'I knew a sculptor once----'

'Now let's bathe,' he said.




CHAPTER IV

OCTOBER 10TH: ELIZABETH'S JOURNAL (II)


                                                    _October 10, 1933._

I am writing in my bedroom 2 A.M., October 11th. I have headed my paper
the 10th because it is of the events of the 10th that I am writing. I am
putting down as quickly as I can the happenings of the last twenty-four
hours, partly because I want them to be accurately recorded, partly
because the writing is a relief and a safeguard. I also believe that
matters here, in this town, are reaching a crisis and that in this house
in any case everything will shortly be changed. I am not a practised
writer, as I have discovered very often in this Journal, but I shall try
to state exactly what occurred and to remember things said and done in
this house since yesterday morning as accurately as may be.

I am not, I think, as women go, a coward, but at the same time I don't
despise myself for being afraid. Fear is part of everyone's experience.
I am as badly afraid at this moment as I have ever been. I fancy that if
I get this fear down on paper I may dissipate some of it. I have been, I
can see now clearly, far too repressed, cautious, self-accusing in the
past. I intend to be so no longer.

At about half-past ten, yesterday morning, the 10th, Leggett honoured me
with a visit.

I have hated Leggett as long as I can remember. I can see nothing wrong
in hating some people so long as you love some others. My feelings have
always been extremely strong with regard to people. When I read a modern
novel it nearly always disappoints me because the characters are so
colourless. Of course nobody is wholly good or wholly evil. I suppose I
believe rather in the _powers_ of good and evil than in good and evil
people. My father and Leggett are examples of what I mean. If there is
anything in words at all, then they have increased the evil in the
world--lust, greed, cruelty, selfishness, arrogance--and if that is so,
then I think that the modern indifference to their activities is all
wrong. I'm not a prig and I _hate_ prigs, but I think that men like my
father and Leggett ought to be put away where they could do no more
harm. The harm they have both done under my eyes in this town is
incalculable.

Since my father's disappearance Leggett has been absorbing all that
remains of his personality--and that is quite a lot! It has been very
curious and mysterious to watch Leggett becoming more and more greedy of
money and power in a cheap second-hand way. My father had a kind of
power--everyone felt it--but the essence of him, so to speak, has
reached Leggett a stage removed, with the result that it is thinned,
vulgarized, cheapened. My father really cared for nobody and was afraid
of nobody. (I am not sure that he was not a little apprehensive of Uncle
Mike after he had bullied him and tortured him and drained him.) But he
had a kind of grand loneliness--he simply hated and despised us all.

Leggett is daring and terrified, a bully and a sycophant. He feels that
he's got some grand chance here but doesn't know how to seize it. He's
as frightened as is most of the town, although he's got, so to speak,
inside knowledge. The horrible thing about Leggett has always been his
cowardice. He's frightened of his friends because he's betrayed them, of
his talents because he's prostituted them, of the money-lenders because
he won't pay them, of his vices because they're against society (and
he's _terrified_ of the law). All the time he defies his friends, his
enemies, his talents, his money-lenders, his vices, public opinion,
_and_ all the time he cringes to all of them. He's terrified of living,
terrified of dying, greedy of fame and repute, but his character has
destroyed his chance of being more than an ephemeral commentator. He's
like a mangy dog skulking against the wall, baring his yellow teeth,
slinking his head from side to side to avoid the stones, and nipping out
at a trouser-leg or fleshy bit of arm if he gets a chance. He's petty
and despicable, dangerous and worthless, and yet I feel a kind of pity
for him, almost a kind of tenderness because he's finally so miserable,
so frightened, so bewildered.

There! That's enough about Leggett. I feel a lot better.

       *       *       *       *       *

He arrived at ten-thirty and asked for a special interview on a matter
of great importance. We shut ourselves into the dining-room and as I
looked at his streaky, cold-beef countenance, his reddening nose, his
horrid bald head, his little paunch and his slightly bandy legs I
wondered how I could ever have feared him. How these last six months
have altered and, I think, strengthened me, taught me at least never to
fear men like Leggett.

He realizes this difference in me. He knows that I've grown. What he
wanted to propose to me was an alliance.

He told me at once that my father's murderer was now known. All they
were waiting for was the discovery of the body, and this might happen at
any moment. They had obtained some very important information from young
M'Canlis, who had attacked Gurney in Seatown and been arrested. He said
that the moment my father's murderer was taken up everything would
change--the town would settle down and be as it used to be.

He said my father had left a good deal of money and, in the absence of a
will (there was no sign of a will and Symon was sure that none had been
made), everything would go to my mother. He proposed that we should make
a triple alliance--my mother, myself and himself. What about Uncle
Michael, I asked? Well--Uncle Michael would be elsewhere. He looked at
me and I at him. I needn't worry about Uncle Michael. Why, I asked him,
had he been making it his duty to put about everywhere that Mr. Lampiron
was concerned in this business when, as he very well knew, Mr. Lampiron
had had nothing whatever to do with it? He shrugged his shoulders and
said that his quarrel with Lampiron was his own affair. He continued,
very seriously, and plainly trying to be as attractive to me as he
could, to explain that my mother and myself, under his direction, could
do extremely well with our money and need never have an anxious moment
again. He asked me whether it was true that I was engaged to marry Mr.
Bird? I said it was. He said that, in his opinion, it was a pity but it
was my affair and not his. I said that was so. He then came to the heart
of the subject, which was that it would be very easy for him to make
things unpleasant for my mother and myself by hinting that we had been
concerned, one way and another, in my father's disappearance. He had not
the least wish to be unfriendly, quite the opposite, but he thought I
ought to know this.

I answered very simply and directly. I said that my mother's affairs
were, as far as I could see, no affair of his--in any case, my mother
and I had always detested him and now I detested him more than I ever
had before. I told him I had once been frightened of him but was so no
longer--he, in fact, was the more frightened of the two. I advised him
to get out of Polchester as fast as he could, and I said that he knew I
was right.

Something very queer happened then. We both became very nervous and our
mutual nervousness drew us in some strange way together. The dining-room
where we were sitting has always been a very ugly room with hideous
furniture. Like every other room in the house except my mother's, to
which she gives something of her own vitality, it is dead and has always
been dead.

When I told Leggett he had better leave Polchester I, too, felt that I
must get away, and Jim and my mother and everyone for whom I cared. It
was a sunny morning and while I was speaking a butcher-boy rode on his
bicycle down the road beyond the little dry garden and I could see that
he was whistling cheerfully. I knew that all the morning bustle of the
town was going on, people shopping with baskets on their arms in the
Arcade, motor-cars drawing up near the Gate and tourists getting out of
them to visit the Cathedral, ladies exercising their dogs, and a Canon
or so walking up the High Street, sunshine everywhere, chrysanthemums
banked together in Anderson's window--all this normal daily life--and
yet suddenly I pleaded with Leggett to leave the place almost as though
he were the best friend I had in the world. I told him that it was not
because either my mother or I cared in the slightest whether he went or
stayed. Curiously enough I at once convinced him of that. He looked out
of window, at the door, half rose from his chair, sat down again, then
asked me why I said that. What did I think was going to happen to him? I
told him that he had enemies, the town was in a disturbed state, and I
was sure he would do better for himself elsewhere.

Then, for the time, he got the better of his fears. He got up and
strutted about the room. He said that he intended to be the most
important man in the town, and already he was taking over the affairs of
many of my father's debtors (did I know old Canon Marlowe for instance?
He was making that old boy wince!). He had a better business head than
my father, and more talent than any other man in the place, and if my
mother and I would not come in with him he would find ways to make us.
He ended by standing over me, shaking his fist at me and, in a voice
trembling with anger, telling me that at any moment now the whole thing
would blow up and my mother and I would be blown up too. He was, he
ended melodramatically, the only person in the world who could save us.
And then he went, banging the door behind him.

After he had gone I found that the chief impression he had left with me
was that he was right in one thing--namely, something was about to occur
and the suspense of the last weeks would be ended. I went straight to my
mother and told her everything Leggett had said.

It is difficult not to imagine that the blind see so much further than
the rest of us do. Second-sight in their case is often a reality,
although there is nothing spooky about it. My mother had certainly
through all the strange story of this year known more than the rest of
us, more, I fancy, than anyone else in the town.

I think now that, from the very beginning, she has known exactly what
has happened to my father. She will have nothing to do with Gurney,
however, or anyone else. She would not take a step herself but has
simply waited for events to evolve. When I went to her and told her what
Leggett had said, she sighed and murmured, 'This week will see the end
of it.' She sat close to me, her thin dry hand on my lap, looking in
front of her. Her pale drawn face had always a great beauty for me--such
self-command, such concentration on an inner life, also such suffering,
mental, physical, spiritual--all this growing over a very long
period--gave her a power that no one else I have ever known possessed. I
am no philosopher, but simply for myself the necessity for pain and
struggle in this world has always seemed to me clear when I look at my
mother. She had used it all for her own strength--no easy life could
ever have given her the power or the tranquillity she now has. She might
be called a mystic, I suppose, in that she has conquered all physical
experience and subdued it. I now know that those early years with my
father were for her a most terrible agony, but she took them and used
them and even deceived me over many years about her attitude to my
father.

She is no soft weak sentimentalist. She felt about my father, I think,
what any Saint felt about his or her own particular devil--nothing very
sweet or edifying.

If she is a mystic she is of the militant kind--the kind I personally
prefer. Leggett had never interested her very much, I fancy, being a
pale, common reflection of an evil power that she had shared most of her
life with.

The next event was that, at about three in the afternoon, I was
preparing to go out when the bell rang. I myself opened the door. My
mother was asleep in her room; Uncle Michael had left the house after
breakfast and had not returned.

On the doorstep stood a lady to whom I had never spoken, whom I knew
well by sight--Miss Camilla Porteous. She was wearing a severe
sports-costume of grey tweed and had on her head a hard, ugly little hat
with a green feather in it. She said:

'You're Miss Furze, I think?'

I said that I was. Very stiffly, trying, I could see, to be very
important and authoritative, she said that she would like to have a word
with me. I was quite as capable of authority and stiffness as she was.
Besides I had always greatly disliked her because of Jim.

In she came and into the sitting-room we went. The sitting-room is quite
as repellent as the dining-room. It is not, I think, that I have no gift
for making my surroundings pleasant. One day I shall have, I hope, a
house of my own, and it shall be as bright and fresh and gaily coloured
as this damnable house has been dead and cold and inhuman. Miss Porteous
did not add to the splendour of the room. She sat on the edge of the
faded sofa, her thick legs wide spread, looking, as Jim has so often
described her to me, about to enter for some athletic contest. I did not
sit down but stood, leaning against the mantelpiece, looking at her.

'You may think,' she said, 'that this visit is an impertinence. I don't
intend to be impertinent.'

I said that I was sure she did not. The only thing was that I was on the
point of going out and had an appointment in town to keep. (My
appointment was with Jim, but I did not need to tell her that.)

She said stiffly that she would not keep me for more than a moment.

'It is simply this,' she went on, rather as though she were the captain
of a hockey team and was giving me directions as to the tactics of my
play. 'It is said in the town that you and Mr. James Bird are engaged to
be married. Is that correct?'

I said it was correct. My temper is not, I am afraid, all it should be,
although circumstances have taught me to control it.

She then explained that Mr. Bird had for a considerable time been a
curate of her father's, and therefore she and her father took a friendly
interest in his affairs. She hoped I would forgive her saying that he
was a man ignorant of the ways of the world, liable to hasty and
sentimental actions, and just now his whole future was at stake. An
injudicious marriage would certainly altogether ruin that future.

Then I knew, God forgive me, a rage beyond my common experience. It was
an odd irony, and also shows, I suppose, the strain that the events of
the last months have been on my nerves, that this ridiculous interfering
female could upset me as not my father nor Leggett nor Gurney had been
able to do. I discovered that I was trembling from head to foot, but I
hope and believe I showed her no emotion. I would have died before I let
her know that she could disturb me.

'Would you mind telling me,' I asked her, 'two things--first why Mr.
Bird's marriage to me should disgrace him, and secondly why _you_, to
whom I have never spoken in my life, should interfere in the matter?'

She answered my first question very readily. She repeated that she had
no wish to appear impertinent, and she hoped I would not take it so.
This was a very unpleasant thing to do, and she was only doing it
because she thought it her duty. She was sure that I knew quite as well
as she did why my marriage to Mr. Bird would be at the moment most
unfortunate for him. Owing to no fault of my own I was closely involved
in a very unpleasant case of murder that was greatly upsetting the town.

'Please,' I broke in, 'if you wish to accuse me, Miss Porteous, of
murdering my own father, do so.' (Childish on my part, I fear.)

She said that was absurd (but quite as though she did not think it
altogether absurd). The point was that this would be a ruinous step for
Mr. Bird to take. She was sure I could not realise fully _how_ ruinous
it would be and she implored me to release him.

I hope that in my reply I was brief and to the point. I told her that
although she did not wish to be impertinent, she _had_ been so. She was
not, I understood, so close and personal a friend of Mr. Bird's that she
could take his affairs on herself (I saw her wince at this). We had
every intention of being married, and she must try and bear it as best
she might.

There was nothing for her then but to get up and go. At the door of the
sitting-room she turned and told me what she thought of my action. She
said that perhaps I didn't realize what public opinion felt about me.
She was very sorry to say it, but this horrible affair of my father's
disappearance would hang about me for the rest of my days, and therefore
it was a shame to ask a good honest man to share my life.

I don't know then what I might not have done. I was, I'm afraid, not far
from slapping her face, an action of which I should afterwards have been
greatly ashamed. I was saved by the ringing of the bell. I went to the
door, opened it, and saw Jim standing there.

Miss Porteous gave him one look, coloured, and murmuring 'I might have
guessed as much,' strode out through the door and vanished down the
street.

In the cold and horrible sitting-room I told Jim that he could marry me
to-morrow if he wished. I cared nothing for anything that anybody said,
nor whether I ruined his career or no. I told him I loved him, heart,
soul, body and mind. I said all this quite fiercely, standing by the
fireplace and looking at him as I had looked at Camilla Porteous. But
with a different expression. Oh yes, a very different expression indeed.
And Jim laughed. He was so happy that it gave me great pleasure to look
at him. Then to have him in my arms--I had been starved for a long time.
We never troubled to discuss Miss Porteous. This was the happiest hour
of my life so far.

       *       *       *       *       *

Uncle Michael came in between half-past ten and eleven. I am very
anxious to make my account of everything that follows as honest as
possible. I shall write down nothing I did not see and hear with my own
eyes and ears. When Uncle Mike came in I had said good-night to mother
after reading to her for half an hour. She was tired and thought she
would drop off to sleep. I went to my own room and began my first
love-letter to Jim. I wanted him to realize what a strange and
unexpected thing that hour in the afternoon had been to me. That anyone
should care so much for _me_, plain, awkward, silent as I am! And that
I, with so many years' inhibitions, fears, self-contempts, pride, scorn
of others, longing for the affection of others and never daring to ask
for it, after the terrified years with my father and the suspicions and
alarms that have followed my father's death, that such a one as I should
be able to be suddenly liberated, should throw away fears and
repressions! And yet all I could write was, 'Dearest Jim, thank you,
thank you, thank you. . . .' And I couldn't help thinking, so
self-conscious have all these years made me, how sentimental and silly
I would think it if a woman as unattractive as myself told me of writing
such a letter. I should think: 'Poor man! He can't be in love with her.
He must be doing it out of pity'--and yet Jim is in love with me--in
love with me and loves me. If I serve him for the rest of my life I can
never repay him for what he has done for me!

Well, I was sitting writing my letter and I heard Uncle Mike come in. I
looked at the old brown marble clock on my mantelpiece and saw that it
was 10.46. I listened, as I had grown into the habit of doing, to his
stumbling uncertain walk past my door. Sometimes he is drunk; most times
he is not, but he always stumbles as though he can't quite see his way.
I stopped writing and strained my ears for every sound. I am always
afraid that he may go into my mother's room. He is afraid of my mother
and resents his own fear. You can never be sure what Uncle Mike will do.
I got up and went to the door. I knew suddenly the alertness that comes
often before danger. I knew that I was caught by more apprehension than
usual. I did not hear Uncle Mike's door shut, and very soon I knew that
he was walking back down the passage again. He stopped outside my door
and there we were, the two of us on either side of the door listening.
Then he knocked, a timid uncertain half-knock. I opened the door.

'May I come in for a moment, Lizzie?' he asked. He had been calling me
Lizzie lately.

He had grown fond of me, I think, and yet I knew quite well that nothing
would please him better than that I should go away and he never see me
again. I told him to come in. He really looked terrible. He had gone
into his room to take off his tie and collar, and through his open shirt
I could see that his breast was shining with sweat. He had not shaved
for several days and under his eyes were heavy dark pouches of
sleeplessness. His long white nose also was covered with perspiration,
and the backs of his freckled hands.

He sat down and, looking up at me, said:

'Lizzie, I can't stand much more of this. They're hunting me
everywhere.' Then he added: 'This is the first cool place I've been. How
nice your room is, how tidy. How cool and neat you are yourself.' He
touched my grey dress with his hand.

There was a white bowl with some chrysanthemums in it on my
dressing-table. He went up and fingered them as though he had not
thought they were real.

I asked him who were hunting him.

'Look here, Uncle Michael,' I said. 'If there's something you ought to
tell them, something on your conscience, go and tell them. It's much
better.'

'There's nothing on my conscience,' he said fiercely. Then he went on:
'If they'd left everything alone it would have been much better. Only,
of course, they couldn't,' he added. 'They weren't allowed to.'

I said that what he needed was sleep and that I had some tablets. I went
to my dressing-table. But he stopped me. No, it wasn't sleep he needed.
If he did sleep it would only be worse when he woke. Then he said, would
I come with him into the study? (That was what we called the room where
father used to do his business.) He said that there was someone there.
He knew there was. Did I think him mad? Well, he wasn't. This had been
going on for weeks and weeks. . . . Someone was there. . . . He'd seen
him a number of times. If I went with him I would realize that it wasn't
nonsense what he was saying.

My father's room had been locked for a considerable time. In the weeks
immediately following his disappearance Mr. Symon and Leggett had been
there, looking through papers and so on. But, after they had finished
with it, no one had been there except Uncle Michael.

To reassure him I said I'd go with him. Down the passage we went. He
unlocked the door and we went in. I stood there in the dark while he
fumbled for a match. He lit the gas. The globe was dusty and the light
dim.

There was now very little furniture in the room: the roll-top desk, the
green safe, a table, two chairs. The blinds were up, which always gives
a room a desolate and abandoned air at night. The place was very dusty
and there was a sheet of newspaper on the floor falling and lifting a
little in the draught. Uncle Michael stood, without moving, looking in
front of him. I was suddenly very frightened; I wanted to turn and run.
I had always hated this room, but now I was aware that Uncle Michael's
terrors were not groundless. This room was evil and loathsome. It was
not only the stale smell natural to a room that had, for many weeks,
been closed, nor was it only the kind of cellar-chill which some rooms
have. Nor was it only the dim and uncertain light and the slight hiss of
the gas-jet. All these things and something more. . . .

The room was papered with a pattern that always looked to me like grey
lizards running between brown toadstools. My father had chosen the paper
himself. I was staring at the empty wall opposite me and some of the
wallpaper there was torn.

I fancied that I saw a shadow against the wallpaper. (I want to allow
for every possible explanation of what followed. I was tired, I was
impressed by the exhaustion and unhappiness of my uncle, the gas-light
was very dim, the air of the room musty and oppressive, the torn
wallpaper might easily have provided an illusion. I am simply writing
what I saw.)

Against the wall there was a shadow. As I stared I looked into the empty
blind eyes of a man--first the eyes, sightless, dead, then the whole
drawn parchment face, a _dead_ face, then a long thin body in a grey
overcoat, hands in grey gloves, hanging down. The whole figure was grey
save for the yellow-white face and the long white nose.

It was the face of my father.

I heard Uncle Michael draw in his breath with a hiss. I cannot precisely
define my own impressions. I remember that I heard the noise of the gas,
the rattle of the newspaper on the floor. I remember that the room was
intensely cold with the cold of mould and damp brick and sprouting
fungi.

I remember thinking that if the figure moved I would die of terror, then
and there. My whole mind was concentrated, I think, into the
determination that it should not move.

'Don't move! Don't move!' my frightened spirit murmured. The shadow
seemed to look at us, through its sightless eyes, with bitter
malevolence. Then the wallpaper was as it had been. No one, nothing,
was there.

Michael had stumbled, half on to his knees. Then he slid on to the
floor, and lay there, huddled. He was crying. I could do only one thing.
Whatever he had been, whatever he had done, only pity was possible here.
I knelt down on the floor, put my arms around him, held him against my
breast, kissing his forehead, stroking his hair--tried to comfort him. . . .




CHAPTER V

OCTOBER 11TH: MARLOW'S NIGHT JOURNEY


On the afternoon of October 11th at 2.30 they held in the Cathedral the
annual festival of St. Clare. This was a service attended by the
children of all the girls' schools in Glebeshire. The girls filled the
nave, and their white dresses, seen from the steps of the altar by the
Bishop as he pronounced the Blessing, made the church brilliant as
though with freshly fallen snow. The October sun, slanting through the
great rose window, lighted the Bishop's Tomb, the delicate lace-work of
the stone screen, the shining black-marble recumbent figure; the green
stone of the ring on the finger burned with a personal fiery glow.
Kendon looked at the tomb: he looked far away to the hundreds upon
hundreds of children. He had already preached to them from the pulpit in
the nave. He was not feeling well to-day--nothing more than weakness,
weariness, a general feebleness of head and limb.

But, as he looked down on those many upturned faces, thought of all that
was in store for those children, how, even now, their minds were filled,
not with what he was saying to them but rather with a dress, a
friendship, a game, a schoolmistress, a social snobbery, he felt for
them an infinite tenderness and compassion. His own time was now
drawing so very short: they had so much to bear and suffer and endure,
were advancing so lightheartedly forward. Behind him, to the left, was
Henry Arden. All history was in that place. He felt now, as he had felt
once before when, on a visit to California, he had looked through the
great hundred-inch telescope at Mount Wilson and seen Saturn, ringed, a
blazing globe of silver, so near, so lovely, so superb in its certain
grandeur; and now this little earth, this strife and agony, this
unawareness, this false sense of security. . . .

'. . . Children, as you grow older you will hear God questioned by very
clever men. Don't let that disturb you. However clever those men, they
cannot answer the questions. Your own answer, however simple, is as good
as theirs. Now abideth these three--Faith, Hope, Love. And the greatest
of these is Love.'

They knelt for the Blessing. A fluttering as of birds, or a soft wind
through grass, broke the silence as they all knelt down.

'The Blessing of God the Father . . .'

When he had ended and was kneeling in front of the Altar, he wondered
whether he were going to faint. A great weakness swept over him. He
seemed to hear, rising from all over the Cathedral, voices: 'We are
here. We are waiting. Have no fear . . .' and within his closed eyes he
seemed to see a dark figure at his side, tall, erect, its hand raised as
though to touch him on the shoulder.

But life surged back. He was aware of aches and pains, sharp as knives,
in his back, his thighs. He had an almost irresistible impulse to cry
out for Coniston. Where was Coniston? He would never reach safety
without him. . . . But he was a courageous man, and with a fearful
effort he pulled himself up from his knees.

He followed the Cross back to his throne and there he waited while the
children filed out of the church. Now he could see directly across to
the Black Bishop's Tomb.

'That was a near thing that time, my friend,' he thought. 'I nearly
joined you.'

The verger, standing there, waiting to precede him out of the choir,
thought to himself: 'How white the old boy looks! They say he's pretty
bad.'

The Bishop moved on to the vestry, still thinking of Saturn. At the
vestry door he saw Coniston waiting.

'Yes--it's all right, Coniston. I'm a bit tired.' Then he murmured a
line from Coleridge: 'The alien shine of unconvincing stars.'

'I beg your pardon, sir?' said Coniston, helping him on with his
overcoat.

'It's nothing. Only poetry, which you don't appreciate. Tell Frank to
drive slowly--it's such a lovely day. . . .'

       *       *       *       *       *

Marlowe had been present at the service, and when he returned home he
was told that someone was waiting to speak to him.

Going into the study he found Leggett waiting there.

'Excuse me, Mr. Marlowe,' Leggett said pleasantly. 'I thought I'd just
like a word with you.'

It is one of the strangest features of this sequence of events in
Polchester that casual and apparently most unimportant incidents were of
the first importance. Had Mr. O'Hara not gone to Mrs. Braund's party,
had Mrs. Cronin not lived in the Precincts, had Mrs. Dickens not
possessed a cat, had Romney not preferred a white dining-room. . . .

In any case nothing was, and remains, more mysterious than the behaviour
and personality of Leggett. In this world there are no villains. Leggett
was not one. He had simply allowed himself a surrender to certain tastes
and indulgences that he had not strength enough to control. The most
probable explanation of his behaviour on the 10th and 11th of October is
perhaps hidden in this very interview with Marlowe. He came with the
intention of terrifying the old man and glorifying himself. He saw
himself, as Michael Furze had seen himself, as carrying on Stephen
Furze's power. Now, in this short interview with Marlowe, he made the
appalling discovery that he wasn't 'up' to it--that he wasn't big enough
or strong enough. He realized now perhaps for the first time what a
really great man Stephen Furze had been, and that a really bad man or
woman is one of the rarest of God's creatures because greatness is so
rare. . . .

In any case he began with an attempt at bullying.

'Now, Mr. Marlowe, this has gone on long enough. What I've come here to
know is--are you going to pay up or aren't you? I must say that it
doesn't seem to me quite an honourable position for a clergyman----'

Marlowe blinked at him. He had had no proper sleep for months; he had
reached so bewildered a state that he was clear about nothing except
that God was ashamed of him. This conviction had grown, through these
months, so strong that now at last neither Leggett nor Furze's ghost nor
any other possible persecutor had any power over him any longer. He was
face to face with his God.

So all that he said was, very simply:

'I don't owe you anything, Mr. Leggett. You know that as well as I do. I
paid Mr. Furze far more than I ever borrowed from him. Moreover, I have
no reason to suppose that you have any right over Mr. Furze's affairs.
In the first place there is no evidence as yet that he is dead. In the
second I have no reason to suppose that he has left you as his
executor.'

'Now look here----' Leggett began.

Marlowe's head was clear as it had not been for months. He had an odd
notion that if he could play the Allgaier opening with Cronin this
afternoon he would be certain to beat him. It was as though God were
standing there with him in the room; he was concerned only with Him and
had scarcely a moment to bother with Leggett. You may decide (and a
great many intelligent people have apparently so decided) that God is
all nonsense, but for those who believe that He exists no word of yours
can have any weight. So Marlowe went on:

'So, Mr. Leggett, it's really of no use your coming here again. In fact
I shall, from now on, give orders that you are not to be admitted. You
can go to law or take any steps that you please. If you continue to
disturb me I shall ask the police to interfere.' He, subconsciously, was
recalling the opening moves of the Allgaier:

                          _White_        _Black_
                        1. P - K4         P - K4
                        2. P - KB4        P  P
                        3. Kt - KB3       P - KKt4
                        4. P - KR4        P - Kt5

'Do you play chess, Mr. Leggett?' he asked.

'No, I don't,' Leggett answered fiercely. The old fellow was crazy and
ought to be locked up. 'Look here,' he said, 'do you realize what this
means? Nice thing it would be, wouldn't it, if the Rector of St. James's
appeared in the police court arrested for debt--a pretty scandal! What
would your parishioners think?'

'The point is,' Marlowe said, rubbing his hand through his hair, 'what
would God think? I don't suppose you believe in God. So many people
don't--or think they don't. But I do, and after many months of distress
I have discovered that this money matter is nothing compared with my own
neglect of Him. . . . So you'd better go, Mr. Leggett. You can't do
anything to me--nothing whatever. If Mr. Furze is not dead and returns
and manages his own affairs--then I will talk with him. But to you I
have nothing more to say, either now or at any other time.'

It was then that Leggett discovered his impotence. This discovery
involved very much more than old Marlowe and was simply overwhelming.

It was as though he could see Stephen Furze there in the room, over by
the window, standing there and grinning at him. He was no use; he had
never been any use. He couldn't frighten a fly. That swine, Lampiron,
had knocked him down and he had left without a word. Even Michael Furze
wasn't afraid of him--and now this flabby old clergyman with his blue
eyes and untidy white hair ordered him to leave his house.

A desperate sensation of having reached the end of everything seized
him. That old beast, Furze, was laughing at him, the old clergyman was
laughing at him, everyone was laughing at him. What was he going to do?
What would become of him if nobody was afraid of him any more?

'It's all very fine,' he blustered. 'You wait and see. If you don't pay
what you owe within a week----' But he couldn't go on. Marlowe simply
wasn't listening to him.

He went to the door. He thought of saying something shameful about
Marlowe's daughter. But he couldn't. The words wouldn't come. He hadn't
the spirit of a louse. He went, banging the door after him. In the
street he paused. He felt a dreadful emptiness, uncertainty, discomfort.
Rather as though he were standing on a platform in mid-air and the
platform were beginning dangerously to shake--rather as though someone
had whispered in his ear that he was condemned--condemned for
ineffectiveness.

       *       *       *       *       *

Marlowe, after Leggett had gone, got his hat and started out of the
house. It was dusk now and a pale-violet colour soaked houses and
streets. The chrysanthemums in the garden were a dull dusty gold and
seemed to dissipate very faintly the prophetic odour of smokily burning
leaves. Marlowe took out his key and let himself into his church. It was
not a beautiful church, St. James's. The glass was violently crude and
there was a very ugly reredos supplied by the Ladies' Guild of St.
James's 'in memory of Emma Jane Courtois, a Worker Before the Lord.' The
church smelt a little stale, as though somewhere damp hay was stored, as
though near the very ugly stone font a great cheese were secreted and
mice busily occupied there.

Nevertheless Marlowe loved this church and it was his home. He knelt in
his own seat in the choir and prayed to God to forgive him. He thanked
God for sending His servant in the shape of a mean and vindictive usurer
to wake him to a proper sense of his own backslidings. He had wickedly
neglected the service of God, but it should be neglected no longer. His
mind was not entirely clear as he prayed. It had been in a state of
confusion, distress and unhappiness too long to be suddenly now sharp
and accurate. As he knelt there he felt in close touch with God, but he
was also pursuing the Allgaier with its breath-taking chances, its
surrender of a knight, its exposure of the king, and he was thinking of
Penny, her sweetness and beauty, he was thinking of his headaches and
how suddenly they had left him.

His mind was cleared. He was in close contact with God. He had the
sensation of resting in His arms, of encirclement and protection. There
was no longer the presence of the stern Inquisitor. That was over. 'Save
my children. Go forth, my son, and do your duty. . . .' Very clearly, as
though actually he heard a voice, he remembered how Penny had told him
that she had been to Seatown and helped some child and how they had
told her that no parson came down there.

'And why don't they?' she had asked fiercely. 'Is it no one's parish?'

He rose from his knees, went out of the church and started down the
hill.

       *       *       *       *       *

On that same evening Gurney and his men made two arrests in
Seatown--Lanky Moon and Fred Ottley, the fat lazy son of the man who
kept the billiard-saloon.

It was said afterwards that they were really after Tom Caul, but he was
not to be found that evening. The arrest of Lanky caused some trouble.
He was serving drinks in 'The Dog and Pilchard.' There were some five
men in the place at the time, fat Fred Ottley being one. Gurney and his
men entered and, almost at once, Moon hit Gurney in the face. A scuffle
then began and Ottley kicked one of the policemen. There was a fine
scene in 'The Dog and Pilchard.' Men and women crowded the doors. The
end of it was that both Lanky and fat Fred went their way to justice.

This happened about six-thirty. By seven an ominous and total silence
had fallen on Seatown. Not a human soul was anywhere to be seen. The
public bar of 'The Dog and Pilchard' was deserted. The river flowed on
its way, the mist came up as it often did on these autumn evenings. The
chimes of the Cathedral came softly and gently from behind walls and
windows.

There is no doubt but that the arrest of Lanky Moon was the decisive
moment in this crisis of the town's history.

Gurney was slow and Gurney was placid, but he knew his duty. It was
generally understood that night throughout the town, in the mysterious
fashion of these things, that the problem of Stephen Furze's murder was
at length completely solved. More arrests would follow. It was also
understood that this Furze affair would be made the occasion for a
clearing-up of the Seatown situation. Once more the decent citizens of
Polchester would wash Seatown white!

It is apparent enough now that Seatown was aware of this and was
gallantly resolved on its own protection. The best method of defence is
attack. Lanky's arrest gave Tom Caul and his friends what they needed.

       *       *       *       *       *

At about eight o'clock on that evening Mrs. Murphy of the sweet-shop in
Bridge Street, coming down with Mrs. M'Canlis to the river to gather
gossip, saw a strange sight.

Mrs. M'Canlis was a very thin woman of a fierce temper, and the arrest
of her son ('poor lad, no one's enemy but his own, and a better son
never drew breath'), after his attack on Gurney, had made of her a kind
of prophetess virago. With all the easy mounting of passion that comes
from continued ill-fortune and constant drinking, Mrs. M'Canlis was in a
raging temper and longing to get her nails into somebody. Even Mrs.
Murphy, who was a stout soft-bosomed body with a face like a crimson
nutmeg-grater, was angered, she scarcely knew why. She had never liked
young M'Canlis, who had been a terror to the neighbourhood for a very
long while and thoroughly deserved imprisonment--nevertheless weeks and
weeks of propaganda had made her indignant. Indignant about what? She
was herself comfortable. She had four trades--the sweet-shop,
fortune-telling, sale of indecent pictures and postcards, and the use of
her upstairs bedroom by lovers who wanted privacy and security. She was
jolly, good-natured, let-live-and-ask-no-questions by temperament. She
still, herself, had a lover or two, stout though she was: 'I've a loving
'eart, damned sight too loving,' and she would laugh and roll her
shoulders. Nevertheless, although she had not a grievance against anyone
in the world, she was worked up now to a fine frenzy of feeling towards
the 'uppermost' of people in Polchester--them and their pageants and fat
clergy and fine ladies. Things were wrong all the world over. Look at
the Unemployed and the way they worried the poor fellows who were given
the dole. Look at Russia! (In her imagination Russia was a cold place,
north of Scotland, where it always snowed.) They managed things better
in Russia--no unemployed there. So, if the lads wanted to break the
windows of a shop or two and light a bonfire on the Cathedral Green
_she'd_ no objection!

So she was saying to Mrs. M'Canlis when, reaching the riverside, they
came on a very strange sight. A fat little clergyman, without a hat, his
white hair ruffled by the evening breeze, was standing on the old stone
step below the broken-down mill, and talking at the top of his voice. It
is probable that, as he was a clergyman, he was preaching. The very
curious thing was that, at the moment when Mrs. Murphy and Mrs. M'Canlis
arrived, he was talking to empty air. There was no one present. The
river behind him made at this point, as it tumbled over the old
millstones, a considerable noise, but Mrs. Murphy noticed at once that
the old man had an excellent voice, sweet and piercing.

'Why, it's the parson from St. James's!' Mrs. M'Canlis said.

The two ladies stood there listening, and, very shortly, they were
joined by one or two more. Two young men stopped; two boys with a puppy
on the end of a string; an old woman with a paper bag; two old men.

It seemed to be a matter of indifference to Marlowe whether he had an
audience or no. The street lamp outside the little row of houses known
as Canute's Row threw a light on him that was beneficent and kindly.
Even the puppy sat down on its haunches and stared around as though it
were settled there for the evening. The air was cold and damp, and Mrs.
Murphy murmured, ''E'll be catching his death if 'e isn't careful.'

'And it doesn't matter, dear friends, whether we wish it or no. We can
no more change the conditions than we can alter the course of the stars.
God's there, however we behave. I have myself been struggling against
Him for the last year and more, and you really wouldn't believe how
patient He's been. Struggling's no good. You may do without Him till you
die, but that won't help you.' He shook his head, thrust his hand
through his hair and went on very confidentially. 'All this hatred is no
good. People have gone on fighting for hundreds of years, and really
it's very childish. It's quite time we grew up and realized that we had
better love one another. Because that's what it will come to in the end.
God won't do it for us. We have to do it ourselves, of our own free
will, and we'd better make up our minds to it.'

''E's balmy,' Mrs. M'Canlis said. 'All this talk about love. Parsons are
all the same. They don't recognize facts. What about my boy? Lots of
love they've shown _him_.'

The crowd was increasing. The news that the St. James's parson had gone
mad and was preaching down by the Mill soon spread.

'I can tell you,' Marlowe went on, smiling on everybody with great
friendliness, 'that I've had a miserable time myself lately hating
someone--and all of us in the town have been letting our tempers go and
quarrelling with one another.'

A man interrupted, calling out: 'Stow it, can't you, you old preaching
windbag?'

That seemed to please old Marlowe. He threw up his head and called out:
'I'm not a windbag--I've never talked in this place before, more shame
on me. At home I do sometimes talk too much, but my wife's been married
to me so long she's learnt not to listen. There's a fruit-tree in our
garden that has the most beautiful mulberries. Every year. It never
fails. How old it is I don't know, but every year it's better. That
tree----'

'To hell with you and your mulberries,' a young man called out. 'As you
_are_ here let's hear how much they pay you for preaching to people who
don't want to hear you. It's you blasted parsons----'

Old Marlowe began to grow very excited. 'No, no! You're wrong. Truly,
you're wrong. It's not preaching that's my business but helping----'

At that moment someone pushed him from behind. He stumbled, waved his
hands in the air and would have fallen had not a young man caught him.
He rested his hand on the young man's shoulder.

'Thank you, friend----'

But the crowd came in closer, laughing, shouting, bent on mischief.

       *       *       *       *       *

Penny Marlowe was finishing her supper. She was alone. She had asked
about her father, been told that he went out about six. Had not said
where he was going. The front-door bell rang. The maid said: 'There's a
little girl, miss.' Standing in the hall was Fanny Clarke's child. She
was wearing an old straw hat, a shawl over her shoulders.

She said: 'You must come at once, miss. They're 'aving a game with your
father.' In the street she said: 'Oh, miss, I do love you so. I do
really. I 'ates everyone else.'

'Hush,' Penny said, hurrying along. 'You mustn't say that. What were
they doing to my father? Where is he?'

'Down by the Mill, miss. They're kiyiking and callin' 'im names and
throwin' things. I thought you'd want to know.'

Penny hurried on. The little girl (whose name was Christabel--her
mother, very drunk one night, thought of the name: she'd seen it outside
a pub somewhere, 'The Christabel Arms' or something) said:

'I been in the police-station, Miss Marlowe. They ask me questions. I
know 'oo did it. I was there that afternoon 'iding and I see them both
come in and----'

'Tell me,' Penny said. 'What are they _doing_ to my father? What are
they _doing_? Why isn't someone there? Hurry! Let's hurry!'

And the child, running along, her hat on one side, continued in a kind
of chant:

'Oh, miss, I do love you so! I don't care _what_ they does to me, I'll
never love no one but you, and if you was to die I'd kill myself, so
'elp me God. And I 'ates all the others. Mr. Caul, I 'ates 'im the most,
and Ratty Brown and Sally Beal and Mrs. Murphy and Ma M'Canlis and Dirty
Mary and----'

Penny was running now. The child ran beside her.

'Oh, hurry! . . . Let's hurry! Let's hurry!'

And Christabel, running, chanted: 'I know 'oo did it. I see them come in
and it was thunder and lightenin' and I saw 'im take 'im by the throat
and shake 'im. And there weren't nobody there but me, and I 'aven't said
a word because I wouldn't, and then they said your gentleman done it,
Miss Penny, so I told Mr. Gurney because I love you, Miss Penny, and I
'ates all the rest----'

'Oh, there! 'Penny cried. 'There! I see them. They're shouting.'

She had arrived at the moment when the young man had put out his arm and
supported her father.

She saw that he was neither unhappy nor dismayed. He stood there,
bareheaded, smiling. He put up his hand and began to talk again. Then
someone threw a stone. She ran across the street, crying out. In that
moment she cared for nothing in the world--no, not for Lampiron
himself--in comparison with her father. There was something in both his
defencelessness and his happiness that stirred her very bowels of
memory. Deeper than any other impulse was this stirring of love and pity
springing from the old roots--a child ill and he softly opening her door
lest he should wake her, she (small, in pigtails) stealing up to him as
he played chess, nestling up against him but not speaking because, when
he played chess, she must not. His childlike pleasure as they started
out together to walk towards Carpledon or to the fields above Orange
Street or to the Market. She was truly beside herself as she pushed
through the crowd, ready to die with him, to be crucified with him, to
be burnt at the stake with him.

But there was no melodrama. Everything ended very quietly.

Tom Caul had appeared from nowhere and as soon as he began to speak no
one thought of the silly old parson any more.

'Come, leave the old man be,' Caul said. 'He's done no harm. There's
others than him we're after.' He spoke very quietly. There was great
quietness everywhere. No sound but the distant hoot of a taxi and the
chuckle-and-run of the river.

'It was me they wanted to-night, friends. Well, they didn't find me. I'm
not one to skulk. To-morrow night they shan't have no trouble. And
you'll be with me. We'll all go together. We'll go and find _them_ this
time. Now quietly, friends. Go home and sleep a bit. To-morrow you'll be
up most of the night.'

Everyone dispersed. Caul said to Marlowe: 'Go home, parson. Come and
preach to us another time. When we're ready to hear you.'

He walked away, striding down the street, his head up, shoulders back.
Mussolini at the very least.

       *       *       *       *       *

Marlowe was trembling. He put his arm through his daughter's. They
started up the hill.

The old man said very little, only that he was happy because now
everything was clear. He saw where his work lay.

'It was very kind of you to come, Penny. We must stay together in
future. I think we have work to do. Everything is quite clear to me.'

'Your head's bleeding, darling.' She stopped under a lamp and took out
her handkerchief.

'No, it's nothing. Someone threw a stone. It shows they were
interested.' She could see that he was as excited and pleased as Daniel
must have been when he found himself in the lions' den and that the
lions were real.

At that moment she was granted a vision. This was the second step in her
journey to maturity. Her love for Lampiron would not die but it would
never be fruitful. That was not the road that she would go. But rather
this. . . . Her father, her mother, Fanny's child, the endless claims. . . .

She felt his hand tighten on her arm, and for a swift rebellious moment
knew a fierce, bitter antagonism. Then, very tenderly, under the lamp's
light, she tidied him, putting his hat straight on his head, dusting his
coat. She kissed his cheek.

'Yes, father . . . and I'll tell you what. First we'll have a little
holiday. We'll go to Lyme Regis.'

'Oh, Lyme Regis! . . . Why, Penny, what a grand idea! I like Lyme Regis
better than anywhere!'




CHAPTER VI

OCTOBER 12TH: DEATH OF ANYONE


The town woke, on the morning of October 12th, to a deluge of rain. The
storm lasted from some early morning hour to eleven or eleven-thirty.
The rain just thundered down, and Polchester, accustomed to wet mists
and drizzles and short sun-shed showers, was frightened by all the new
sounds, the gurgling of gutters, the garrulous chatter of water-pipes,
and the thunder, as of horses' hoofs, stamping on the roofs. The sky
was, for those hours, ebony black with little streakings of china-white
clouds.

The Cathedral was grey, almost sulphurous. The water rushed down High
Street. With the rain was a cold under-chill. It was the pared nail of
the advancing finger of winter. It was not the lovely aggressive cold
carrying in its arms chestnuts at brazier-corners and snow drifting up
the window-panes, nor a roaring wind that's tactless with its careless
youth--this was a niggardly, sly, and give-your-best-friend-away cold.
The town knew the kind of cold it was and bent its back to the slashing
rain with apprehension in its heart. No one moved about the town that
morning. It was like a town that had been cleared for its next tenants.
Mrs. Code's old ladies huddled over the fire, and in Bellamy's the girls
stood behind the counters waiting, and Godfrey Burdon took a secret nip
at a brandy flask that he kept in a drawer among the socks and
underwear. He looked shabby and unwell.

'You need a holiday, Mr. Burdon. That's what you need,' Alice Coste, who
had once thought of marrying him but now was glad she hadn't, said to
him.

'What I want,' Burdon said, 'is to get away from this blasted place.
They were at it again last night in Seatown. They say----' His voice
sank into a whisper as his uneasy eyes wandered down the long passage
between the departments.

Everyone was uneasy that morning. When the rain stopped about
eleven-thirty everyone sighed with relief and then thought how still the
place was. The nurse turned Mrs. Braund in her bed and made her more
comfortable.

'There! That's better. . . . Why, I declare the rain's stopped!'

Mrs. Braund, out of one corner of her mouth, murmured something.

'Why, certainly, dearie. . . .' The nurse was very motherly. Mrs. Braund
hated her more than any poison.

Mr. O'Hara was calling for Mrs. Carris to take her for a round of golf
on the St. Leath Hotel course.

But Mrs. Carris declined. 'No, Edward, thank you. I'm not going out.'

He blustered a little. 'No, it's no use your swearing. I don't like the
look of things. It's cold. I'll stay in. What did you quarrel with
Hattaway for last evening?'

The tall thin Irishman coloured angrily. 'He was damned insulting. I'm
clearing out. I loathe this town. Ever since that silly joke at the
Braunds' I've been insulted right and left. You know I only stay here
for you.'

'Yes, I wish you hadn't done that.' Mrs. Carris patted her hair. 'I
can't get the poor thing out of my head. . . . I shall never be
comfortable again. _Was_ it _really_ you, Ted?'

'What do you mean?'

'You know what I mean. If it was you standing in the doorway it was the
most wonderful impersonation I ever----'

_Of course_ it was me. . . .' But he moved about the room uneasily. 'I'm
clearing out though. I can't get that old man they murdered out of my
head. I see him at every corner. I'm Irish, you know.'

'Yes, I know you are,' Mrs. Carris said drily. 'Perhaps you _are_ better
away. People here don't seem to like you much. Try London, and I'll come
and visit you.'

'_What_ a foul sky!' O'Hara said, staring out of the window. 'Looks as
though it were struck with leprosy.'

       *       *       *       *       *

About midday a pale watery sun came out, and Canon Ronder walked across
the Cathedral Green and into the Cathedral. There he found Gaselee
showing two friends, a fat clergyman and an exhausted spouse, the
sights.

'Now,' Gaselee was saying, 'we come to the Brytte Monument--Henry,
Eighth Marquis. Lovely babies--like Mino da Fiesole. Ever heard of Simon
Petre? . . . Ha, Ronder! We came in from the rain. May I introduce you?
Canon Ronder, Mrs. Bateson. Bateson, this is Canon Ronder.'

('He is certainly stepping into my shoes,' Ronder thought. 'That is just
the way I showed off both myself and the Cathedral thirty years ago.')

He had wakened that morning feeling not at all well--apprehensive,
depressed, very old. His mind was swept, as a beach is threatened by a
high tide, with the surge and thunder of the past. Now, as he stood
listening to Gaselee and old Broad who had joined them, Gaselee became
his own young self and Broad a little older now than the pompous and
conceited Lawrence. He could hear Lawrence saying to Davray the painter:
'No, you can't go up the Tower. It's forbidden.' Then how polite
Lawrence had been at sight of himself, Ronder! So now Broad was saying
to Gaselee: 'Afraid you can't go up the Tower to-day, sir. Been closed
for some time. It's to be opened again this afternoon. Mr. Hattaway and
the London gentlemen are to examine the woodwork to-morrow morning.'

So, just as himself thirty years ago, Gaselee now answered: 'Thanks,
Broad. Another time will do. My friends are here for several weeks.'
Gaselee's manner was perfect. He patronized the Cathedral without
offence, for he was clever enough to patronize himself at the same time.
So--exactly--Ronder thirty years back!

Gaselee and his friends moved away. Broad and Ronder were left
together.

'Cold this morning, sir,' Broad said. '_Very_ cold.'

'Yes,' Ronder said. 'That was heavy rain we had.'

The Cathedral indeed had an icy chill that struck upwards from the
flagstones, clung to the vast pillars, had some being in the cold
aloofness of the purple and green of the glass that was not friendly
to-day nor comfortable.

Broad sniffed. 'Excuse me, sir,' he said. 'Do you smell anything?'

Ronder sniffed.

'No, I can't say that I do.'

'My imagination. But I know this place so well that I imagine things, I
daresay. Only my boy--he thinks the same. No one else can detect
anything. A kind of fishy tinned-food-gone-bad sort of smell, if you
understand me.'

'Your imagination, Broad, I expect,' Ronder said.

'Very likely, sir.'

But when he had left the Cathedral some kind of odour did seem to
persist in the Canon's nostrils--an odour (very, very faint) of dried
blood, corruption.

He was very conscious too of that threatening constriction about the
heart--not actual pain as yet but something approaching, stealthily, on
padded feet. His eyes too were a little dimmed. The sun still shed a
watery light, but the wet, shining vigour of the grass after the rain
seemed to pass into the lowering sky and be translated there into an
unhealthy green shade.

As though he would stay the approaching enemy, Ronder, half-way across
the Green, stopped and looked back.

'My eyesight's going,' he thought. He had known this for some time but
had not expected to find so dim a view as now when the very walls of the
Cathedral seemed to spread like the wings of a bird, when he could
scarcely distinguish King Harry against the grey-white sky, when there
was, he would have sworn, some figure standing motionless in the West
Door, watching him.

Would he never see the Cathedral clearly again? Was he really going
blind? Or was this some kind of spiritual recedence, as though the
Cathedral were indeed only what you made of it, as though it slipped
from your fingers at the very moment when you thought you had it firmly?
His whole life had been spent in the effort to catch it, hold it,
present it as his great prize, and now, that silent figure ironically
watching, it turned into mist before his eyes!

'I must go up to London and see that oculist Dale was telling me about,'
he thought.

But there was that smell of dried blood in his nostrils. He would not go
down to the town as he intended, but rather home, be warm by the fire
and look at the new additions to his 'Nineties collection that had
arrived from London.

But, strangely enough, within his room he did not feel any safer. Here
in this house, Number 8 the Precincts, he had been for over thirty-six
years. He remembered, as though it had been yesterday, how he had been
driven up in the smelly cab (he remembered even the name of the cabman,
old Fawcett, long, long since dead), polite Mrs. Clay at the door. . . .

The house itself had been his friend from the beginning. It had been
owned, he remembered, by an eccentric old lady, the Hon. Mrs.
Pentecoste, and it had been empty for a while because the ghost of Mrs.
Pentecoste's cat (a famous blue Persian) was supposed to walk there. And
was it not strange that even to this day, after all these years, he
would pause for a moment at an unexpected sound and murmur, 'Mrs.
Pentecoste's cat!'? How pleased he had been with the drawing-room, its
dark-blue curtains, the white furniture and white bookcases--the white
Hermes, ready for flight, on his pedestal.

So it had been then: so it was now! There was the copy of 'Rembrandt's
Mother,' there on the round mahogany table the books of the moment. He
remembered even what they had been, some of them, in those first
days--Mrs. Humphry Ward's _Sir George Tressady_, Barrie's _Sentimental
Tommy_, the _Works_ of Max Beerbohm. Now they were Stella Gibbons' _Cold
Comfort Farm_, Stephen Spender's _Poems_, Virginia Woolf's _Flush_,
Trevelyan's _Blenheim_. . . . Better or worse? It did not matter. Art
was sure: the only passion that life could not conquer, the only lust
that knew no satiety.

He moved into his study, but even there his discomfort did not leave
him. He thought of ringing for his housekeeper, Mrs. Hepburn. She was
always multiplied with comforts. But no. . . . He liked better to be
alone. It must be near luncheon-time. Had he been wise to live for so
long alone? Why had he not married? Would it not be pleasant now to have
someone to comfort him, to stroke his forehead, to . . .? No, it would
be odious!

He slowly undid the parcel on the table and looked at his new treasures.
Where would he put them? No room, no room. Oh, Lord!

_Poems by John Tabb_, the American first edition of _The Green
Carnation_, a fine first of _Cashel Byron_. . . . He turned away. For
the first time in his life books seemed to have no interest for him.

Leaning over to his desk he picked up the letter from an American friend
who was visiting Hollywood . . . an amusing, intelligent letter, not
abusing Hollywood as is the fashion, but talking of the pale-green skies
before sunset, the open-fronted fruit markets, brilliant with colour,
fruit like jewels in Aladdin's cave, and the Censor saying to the
producer of some picture that he hoped that he would take care that the
baby's diaper was decently changed. . . . But he didn't care about
America either. Still that scent of dried blood in his nostrils and,
beyond the window, the tawny chrysanthemums quite unreal, bunches of
ragged tissue-paper.

'Mr. Romney would like to see you for a moment, sir.' The maid (nice
girl, Maude) stood a little timidly in the doorway.

Romney! Oh yes, he would see Romney. Romney might perhaps be real.

       *       *       *       *       *

Romney came in, immaculate, bloodless, intelligent.

'Only a moment, Ronder. . . . I want your advice.'

'Sit down. Have a cigarette. My advice? If this were the last piece of
advice allowed me ever I'd give it, gratis and for nothing.' (Why had he
said that?)

Romney sat down, very elaborately selecting one of his own cigarettes
out of a blue enamel cigarette-case.

'It's only--that I'm a little nervous.'

'Nervous--you? I thought you were imperturbable.'

'Oh, well--in a sense I am. What does it matter _what_ happens? It is
only that they are about to lay Furze's murderer by the heels, and
Seatown, I am afraid, means to celebrate the event.'

'Oh, are they? Who's the murderer?'

'Does it matter? _That_ isn't the important thing. What _is_ important,
Ronder, is the inartisticness of coming events. They might even try to
burn the Cathedral down. That would distress me very much. What should I
do to prevent them? Some of them are my friends. I feel a certain
responsibility. What ought I to do?'

Ronder laughed. He could not see Romney very clearly. As he sat there he
seemed to merge into the books behind him. This visit might be
imaginary. Romney might not be real at all.

'What a strange fellow you are!' Ronder said. 'I've known you all these
years and yet to this day and hour I'm not sure whether you're real or
no. In any case it's right that you should be worried. You are more
responsible for the trouble in this town than any other.'

'Yes, I suppose I am,' Romney said, laughing. 'Myself and the late
Stephen Furze. The two trouble-makers of the present world--selfishness
and the lust for power. I suppose that's what the moralist would say. I
don't, in fact, know why I've come in to see you, Ronder. Nothing that
you can say will make the slightest difference. Nothing that anyone can
say. You're right, Ronder. I'm as much a ghost as Furze is. I have no
sex, no passions, only taste. I'm absorbed in myself as all ghosts are,
I must be continually meddling in what is not my business as all ghosts
do. I love beauty as ghosts must. I'm ruthless and conscienceless as
ghosts are. I and Furze between us have created the apprehension in this
town as ghosts do. One fine morning I shall be gone--there will be a
white rose in a crystal vase on a white table in my white dining-room.
The rose will die. It will be swept away. A faint, humorous sigh will be
heard in the wainscot. "Do you believe in ghosts, Mr. Humpty-Dumpty?"
"Why, of course not, Miss Shakespeare." Curling like smoke from a
chimney above their heads I shall laugh and fade into eternity. . . .
Well . . . I must go, like Puck, and put a girdle around the world. I
don't know why I came in to see you, Ronder. Except possibly to make my
apology to you. You are the most intelligent man in Polchester. You
alone, when all the fuss is over, when the spirits have sunk into their
graves again, when everyone has learnt their lesson and forgotten it,
you only will understand how responsible I am, how dangerous I am, how,
if they had their wits about them, all the justices of the world would
order my instant execution. Do I flatter myself? I think not. For
wherever I am there is trouble. . . . Good-bye, Ronder. Look after
yourself. You are more like me than you know.'

Romney rose, took Ronder's hand, looked at him with great affection and
departed.

       *       *       *       *       *

When luncheon came Ronder did not want it. He told Mrs. Hepburn that he
was not hungry.

She looked at him with anxiety. He knew that she was a motherly soul, so
motherly that people were to her not individuals but babies in a
maternity home. He suddenly disliked very much to be a baby in a
maternity home, so, rather irritably, he bade her go her way. When she
was gone he wished he had not been irritable.

That showed well enough how old he was getting, for, in earlier days, it
had been one of his first rules that he must never be irritable. He sat
now at his desk, the desk that he had brought with him to Polchester.

On it were arranged with meticulous care the objects that had always
been arranged there--a thin vase of blue glass now filled with two red
roses, a Chinese figure of green jade, a small gold clock, a photograph
in a silver frame of the Blind Homer from the Naples Museum. These had
been here, exactly in their present places, since his first arrival in
Polchester. The only addition to them was a photograph of his aunt, now
dead, who had too many years kept him company. She understood me, he
thought, better than anyone else has ever done, and she spoilt me
because she allowed me to be as she wished me to be. But Aunt Alice! A
fine observer. Like nations that have no history, a happy woman!

But here, too, distaste caught him. He disliked these things. They
reminded him of a life that seemed to him now one long, lost and wasted
effort. He remembered how he had taken orders because that career would
give him, he thought, great power over men. He remembered how Aunt Alice
had said to him that men thought clergymen fools and that this gave a
man who was not a fool a great advantage as a clergyman. That had been
his first mistake. His second had been to fight Brandon. He should have
left Brandon alone because, whatever follies that man might have, he
possessed a virtue that Ronder had not, he believed. Ronder had believed
in nothing except his own cleverness and now he was clever enough to
perceive that cleverness was not sufficient. As he had warned Gaselee
that day in the Cathedral, he, Ronder, had missed it--and by a hair's
breadth.

He had never known more clearly and surely that he had missed it than
during these last months. Something had been astir in the town that was
the very expression of the thing that he had missed. Forces had been
moving before his eyes, the very forces that all his life he had been
denying--the mystery of the survival of the spirit, its strength, even
its fury, its determination _not_ to be denied.

'God is a Spirit--and they that worship Him must worship Him in spirit
and in truth.'

He shivered, walked to the fire, just straightening, by an old
mechanical habit, the books in the shelves--he had always disliked to
see one book projecting in front of the others. Then he put on soft
slippers of brown kid, slippers of the kind that he had worn his life
long. He lay back in the big comfortable arm-chair of red leather, a
chair made especially to suit his bulk. He looked out of the corner of
his left eye at the drawer, locked, of course, where he kept his erotic
books and prints. Had he better destroy these? It would not be a very
fine thing if they were discovered after he was gone! A few
intimates--Gaselee, Romney, Hattaway--knew of them and had seen them.
Gaselee enjoyed looking at them. Himself, he had wearied of them long
ago. He remained now, at this old age, a virgin as he had been at
twenty. To think that he had reached the end without any experience of
that deep intimacy that comes from the physical expression of spiritual
love! He had never desired it. He had never wished to surrender himself
to anybody. In his vigorous physical years he had been absorbed by his
passion for power over men, and when that passion had weakened his
bodily passions had weakened too. Moreover, he had long felt a deep
disgust of his own body. It was an idea horrible to him beyond any other
that any human being should see him naked. No human being, since his
maturity, save his doctor, had ever done so. He was ironically disgusted
with his own obesity, ironically because he had not the strength of mind
to diet or take physical exercise.

He remembered how that Dane, Harmer John (ah yes! _he_ had seen him
naked, a reason for his dislike of him!), how Harmer John had pommelled
and smacked him with a sort of angry vindictive scorn! And now he was
twice as fat as he had been in Harmer John's day! How revolting the
body, how minute in scope the human brain, how meanly animal the bodily
functions, how ugly and shabby nine humans out of ten after forty! He
recalled a lithograph by George Bellows that he had seen
somewhere--'Business Men's Bath'--a brilliant, savage impression of
middle-aged men in a bath. His lip curled: nausea rose in his throat;
there was again that scent of dried blood in his nostrils. . . .

What time was it? Had he been sleeping? He got up, padded across the
thick, soft carpet and looked out of window. A grey, lowering sky, the
Cathedral, the Green with no figure on it, the smug houses of the
Precincts with their gardens, the Arden Gate. Three birds, in triangle
pattern, flew across the sky. He heard, from the far distance, murmurs
which might be men shouting at a football game. How still the town was!
How still and how unpleasant! What in the world was more unagreeable
than an English provincial town on a dead humid autumn afternoon?

So they'd caught the murderer, had they? Not that it mattered very much.
He did not even speculate very actively--old Furze's brother, perhaps,
or one of the riff-raff from Seatown. A usurer like that must have many
enemies. A usurer! And suddenly he saw how closely allied in their
passions Furze and himself had been.

Power over men! With both of them the same. Power simply for itself, not
for anything grander or larger. Mussolini cared for Italy, Hitler for
Germany, Einstein for knowledge. He, Ronder, hated despots, but at least
these men were patriots. But all the others, the greedy snatchers at
money, business tyranny, power over women, power _only_ for the greedy
pride in power--they were all lost men and he was among them.

He was back in his red-leather arm-chair. He snoozed. His head fell
forward on his chest. He woke with a start and then snoozed again.

Where was he? Still in his room, but Miss Stiles, that ancient gossiping
virgin, had entered. She was saying, 'I suppose things have been smashed
in the move; nothing valuable, I trust.' But hoping, nevertheless, that
something valuable had been broken--not because she was malicious or
unkind but simply because she liked people better when they were
unfortunate.

How well he knew her! But even while he told her that all was well she
changed as they change in _Alice in Wonderland_ into stout, dog-loving
Mrs. Combermere, who was saying, in her hearty, masculine voice: 'A
great deal can happen in a year, Canon Ronder. You may be a bishop by
then!'

A bishop! He woke to see the study filled, as it seemed, with smoke. It
was only the autumn day that already was darkening beyond the window. A
bishop! No, he had never become a bishop--not even an archdeacon or a
dean.

'You are a worldling, Ronder--only a worldling.' This was the voice of
Canon Foster, a man he had always disliked. They were arguing as to
whether the school should have a new garden roller. That had been his
first victory. He heard the soft, gentle voice of the Dean:

'I fear that it is I who must give the casting vote. I think I decide
_for_ the roller. Ronder has satisfied me that it is necessary.'

His first victory! That he should remember it after all these years! He
was awake enough now to see the anxious face of Mrs. Hepburn in the
doorway.

'Shall I bring you some tea now, sir?'

The woman irritated him; she was so very solicitous.

'No, thanks. I think not.'

'But you had no luncheon.'

'No. . . . I'm not hungry.'

'Are you quite well? Is there anything I can do?'

'I'm perfectly well.' Damn the woman!

'Very good, sir.'

She had withdrawn. He was snoozing again and now he was back in
Brandon's house, drinking tea. Mrs. Brandon was there and Morris, the
man she ran away with, and the nice girl, Brandon's daughter, now Lady
St. Leath. The door opened and there was Brandon's son, sent down from
Oxford, and Brandon was in a rage and Ellen Stiles pricking up her ears
with pleasure. They vanished into air. Only Brandon remained. They were
riding together in a small wagonette. It was a very hot day and there
was not room for their knees. They were quarrelling, ludicrously
quarrelling, there in the open before the astonished driver!

Brandon was crying, 'I refuse to drive with you another step. I refuse!
I refuse!'

And out of the wagonette he got and there he stood in the hot, dusty
road, looking ludicrous while the wagonette drove on.

And now they were in the Chapter House. Brandon was appealing to them
all: 'Don't do this thing! If you do, it will mean the beginning of the
end!' ('The beginning of the end'--what a ridiculous phrase!) 'Not this
shame! Save the Cathedral!'

And there he was, poor old man, falling down before them all, falling
. . . falling . . . falling . . . dying . . . dying . . . dead. Looking
on Ronder to the last as his enemy. He lay there, poor old man, at
Ronder's feet, and Ronder bent to pick him up and it seemed to him that
he himself was lying there and Brandon standing over him.

'All waste, Ronder,' Brandon said. 'This hatred. Gets us nowhere. We
had better all be friends and see if we can't build something together.'
But now he and Brandon _were_ together, huddled on the ground. The
Cathedral loomed over them. Someone came out of the Cathedral and Ronder
waited in a frenzy of apprehension. The figure came to him, bent down,
examined him. He felt that his innermost being was inspected. He was
opened up and everything that he was and had been was laid bare. And the
figure shook his head.

'Nothing here, I'm afraid. Nothing at all.'

At those words Ronder shrivelled away. Only a little dust on the ground
that the wind blew idly. . . .

He awoke with a start. Someone was knocking on the door. 'Come in,' he
said testily, and at the same time raised himself in the chair. As he
raised himself he felt a sharp pain attack him as though a sword had
been driven into his stomach. The pain went as quickly as it came.

It was Mrs. Hepburn at the door again.

'It's past eight o'clock, sir, and I was really getting anxious.'

Now the pain was in his arm. He bit his lip to keep back a cry. Then he
heard a distant shouting and crying. He thought of the footballers. But
it was past eight. They would not be playing football now. The shouts
grew louder.

'What's that, Mrs. Hepburn? That shouting?'

He saw now that she was in a state of great alarm.

'Oh, sir. We don't know what to do! They say that it's a rising of the
unemployed. They say they're coming here to the Precincts. They're
throwing stones and breaking windows.'

He stood up. He found it very difficult to move and the room was not
clear before his eyes. He was by the window. It was very dark, but in
the direction of the town he could see a flickering glow. Now he could
hear very clearly the shouts of many men. He saw figures running across
the Green.

'What----' he began.

Then the pain struck him. He was stabbed by the unseen enemy again and
again and again.

'Oh! Oh! Oh!' he cried. There was a great roar of voices in his ears.
The world was up in rebellion. They were coming to seize and destroy
him, but he did not care, for already he was stabbed, he was killed, he
was slain. . . .

'Oh! Oh!' he cried.

He screamed, flung up his arms, fell to the ground with a crash.

He lay there, dead, his mouth open, a dreadfully obese old man.




CHAPTER VII

OCTOBER 12TH: TRUE STORY OF AN IRRESISTIBLE IMPULSE


Elizabeth Furze was wakened that morning of October 12th by the furious
beating of the rain against her windows. She got up and stood in her
nightdress, looking out. She shivered. How cold it was and with what
relentless power the rain was coming down!

She dressed and went in to her mother.

'Did the rain wake you?'

'To tell the truth, darling, I don't think I've slept at all. . . . I
was listening for Michael.'

'Michael?'

'Yes. I went into his room. He was sleeping like a child. I want to get
up now.'

'Oh, mother, why don't you stay in bed this morning? It's such a wet day
and cold and horrible.'

Mrs. Furze smiled. 'No. I must be up and about to-day. I think perhaps
if it clears later on I might go for a little walk.' She looked about
the room, her eyes seeming to take in everything as though her blindness
saw further into her surroundings than did ordinary sight. 'We shan't be
here much longer. That's one good thing,' she said, nodding her head.

       *       *       *       *       *

Elizabeth, having made breakfast, knocked on her uncle's door. There was
no answer. When she looked in there was no one there. She came
downstairs to find her mother waiting.

'He's gone out--in all this rain,' she said.

'He had a good night's sleep, anyhow,' Mrs. Furze said.

Elizabeth, seeing that she had everything she needed, perceived how,
with every day, her mother seemed to gain strength and vigour. Only a
year ago what a shadow she had been, how pale and, apparently,
submissive!

This morning she seemed to shine with some inner light and even
happiness, as though she had had some excellent news. She asked for more
bacon and then said, very quietly:

'When you marry Mr. Bird, Elizabeth, I hope his work will be in some
nice place and as far away from here as possible. . . . I would like,'
she went on, 'somewhere very bright so that I can feel the sun on my
cheeks. A real garden and plenty of birds. . . . I know we're going to
be very happy.'

'And Uncle Michael?' Elizabeth asked. 'What about Uncle Michael?'

Mrs. Furze shook her head. 'Poor Michael. . . . Is that the marmalade,
darling? No. I think after all I'll have some honey this morning.'

       *       *       *       *       *

Elizabeth had arranged to meet Mr. Bird at eleven o'clock inside St.
James's Church. They had made that their meeting-place quite frequently
of late. It was close at hand, there was seldom anyone there of a
morning, and if someone did come they were not noticed, sitting in a
corner and talking.

To-day their conversation was to be of great importance, for on the
previous evening Bird was to have handed in his resignation to Porteous.
As she hurried along the few yards to the church she worried as a mother
might worry about her child. Jim was so gentle and small and Porteous
was such a bully. She thought of Miss Camilla Porteous and her visit.

She saw herself standing at her Jim's side and joining in a by no means
dignified battle. She could hold her own with Camilla very thoroughly if
it came to it.

The rain had ceased and a gauzy sun gave an azure light to houses and
trees. No one was about. She entered the ugly little church and found
Jim Bird waiting for her. She saw at once that he had some very serious
news.

They went to their accustomed place in the corner of the side-aisle
behind the pulpit. An old woman was kneeling on the altar-steps
scrubbing.

'What is it, Jim?' Elizabeth asked. 'What's happened?'

'Terrible things. Elizabeth, you've got to be brave.'

Her hand trembled in his.

'No. Not about us. Except that we must be married as soon as ever we
can.'

'You spoke to Mr. Porteous?'

'Oh yes, of course.'

'What did he say?'

'What _could_ he say? I think he's glad to be rid of me. He lectured for
almost an hour--but listen, Elizabeth. That isn't an important thing.
It's what I've heard this morning. Just now. The organist at St. Paul's
told me. The whole town knows.'

'Knows? Knows what?'

He put his arm around her. The old char-woman straightened herself with
a groan, wiped her nose with the back of her hand, gave them a look,
knelt down again and went on with her scrubbing, making a soft hissing
noise.

'They know who murdered your father. They have all the evidence at
last.'

'Yes,' said Elizabeth.

'It seems that there was some little girl--the daughter of a woman,
Fanny Clarke, who lives in Seatown. She saw it all. She was in the
Cathedral at the time.'

'The Cathedral?'

'Yes. It happened there. She saw your father struck down. Then she
slipped away. She doesn't know what happened after that, but she saw
enough. She wouldn't speak for a long time, but it seems that Penny
Marlowe had been kind to her and she got it into her head that Penny's
friend, Mr. Lampiron, was suspected, so when she heard this, she told
Gurney.

'They had been pretty sure for a long time but couldn't get the least
bit of evidence.' He held her a little closer to him. 'They will arrest
your uncle at any moment.'

Elizabeth said quietly: 'I think I've known for weeks.'

He scarcely heard her.

'What a lucky thing that we're engaged. I have the right to stand by
you. You mustn't mind what they say. You'll have to give evidence.
You'll be before everyone's eyes. They may say that you and your mother
knew of it, encouraged him or something dreadful. You mustn't care, you
mustn't mind. We shall be married and go away----'

'Why, Jim,' she said. 'You don't know. I've been ostracized all my life
long. You've no idea what it's been, for years and years. I've had no
friend but mother. Until you came no one spoke to me, no one asked me
anywhere. And when I first knew that you cared for me I was so ashamed.
I thought it horrible that anyone should join his life to a spoilt one
like mine. I remember the shame that I felt at the Carol Service last
Christmas when you came and sat beside me. Do you remember? But love
changes everything. I came to understand that you loved me and that it
was better for you to have me, whatever anyone thought or said. Besides,
I couldn't help it. I belong to you and you to me.

'So for mother and me this is nothing. But Michael. . . . Oh, where is
he? He went out in all this rain. Father drove him to it. Father
persecuted him and starved him. . . .' Her face quivered. Her eyes were
blurred with tears. 'Have they found father? Do they know what
happened?'

Bird shook his head.

'It's only what they say in the town--that they haven't found the body.
I don't know. The whole town's in a ferment. Last night old Mr. Marlowe
went down to the river and began to preach in the street. They threw
stones at him, and this morning they say Seatown's humming--they've
forbidden the Town Guard to come out to-night lest it should lead to
riots.' He held her yet more closely to him. 'They might come to your
house, Elizabeth. The Seatown people, I mean. There's no knowing what
they'll do.'

They both stopped and listened. The old woman moved away from the
altar-steps and, picking up her brush and pail, went clop-clop down the
aisle. The sun faintly shone in through an open window and they could
hear two birds twittering on a tree in the graveyard.

Elizabeth got up.

'Michael. Uncle Michael. I must go and find him.'

Bird drew her down again beside him.

'Listen, Elizabeth,' he said. 'Before you go there's one thing I want
you to remember. The time will come--perhaps very soon--when we shall be
away from here. All your life here will be forgotten. For months this
town has been unreal. People have believed absurd things. You yourself
in that horrible house have seen ghosts. To myself it's as though the
town has been invaded by an invisible army. Haven't you felt that
yourself? As though behind every person you met there was a shadow. Even
in Porteous' house, which heaven knows is real enough, it's so ugly it
_has_ to be real--even there, even in that hideous drawing-room, I've
fancied absurd things, haven't wanted to be alone in there. . . . Soon
the town will be normal again--bright sunshine, no ghosts, no ridiculous
yellow-faced men with broken necks. And we'll be safe, happy in some
place far away from here. You'll have children and I--I----' His voice
broke. He bent down and kissed her hand. 'I worship you next to God. You
_are_ part of God to me. You say that you have been alone all your
life--so have I been. I didn't think anyone would ever love a
commonplace scrap of a man like me. I'd determined _not_ to want it, not
to think about it, to make my life of other things, my duty and so on.
But duty's never enough. It oughtn't to be. I longed for love. I prayed
to God for it. For love and a home and children. . . . And you love me.
I can't ever do enough for you to thank you--to show you what you've
done. . . . So remember--if in these next weeks it all seems horrible
and people seem cruel . . . you will remember, won't you, that _this_
isn't our life? Real life is coming and it's going to be wonderful--both
of us together. . . .'

       *       *       *       *       *

In the early afternoon she began her search. The black clouds had come
up again. The sun had gone. Even in certain shops the electric light was
shining. People were walking about shivering.

Elizabeth went into one shop after another. No one told her anything.
Everyone was busy on his or her daily affairs and yet it seemed too that
everyone was listening.

At the bottom of the High Street was Miss Creed's shop. Miss Creed sold
Irish linen. She was a little fat round jolly woman and had always been
pleasant to Elizabeth.

'Good afternoon, Miss Furze.'

'Good afternoon, Miss Creed. I wanted to see some table-cloths--small
ones----'

'Certainly, Miss Furze. A horrible day, is it not? Only three o'clock
and we've been forced to have the light. . . . Now I wonder if _this_ is
the kind of size . . .'

Through the window Elizabeth could see a piece of black cloud and the
front of the Glebeshire Bank, which shone, under the cloud, with a dull
dead light. She could see some leaves and a piece of newspaper blown
along by the wind. At any moment Michael might pass down the street. . . .

'I beg your pardon, Miss Furze. . . .'

She recalled herself with an effort.

'Oh, thank you. . . . That's the kind of size. . . . I wonder whether I
might look in to-morrow when I've spoken to my mother. . . .'

'Why, of course. . . .'

She hurried out. She knew that Miss Creed stood there, staring after
her.

In Bellamy's it seemed to her that there was a large crowd of completely
silent people. Everyone moved about as though in a dream, and this
dream-like effect was increased by the electric light, which has always
an unreal dead glitter in the afternoon. The passages between the
counters were narrow, and women, stout and thin, children, a solitary
man or two, walked slowly as though obeying some order from a director
of ceremonies. It resembled a ceremony or one of those modern ballets
satirizing daily affairs. The women hesitated, looking at things as they
passed, stopping for an instant, then moving on again. But no voices
could be heard. It had the effect of a cinematograph picture when the
sound apparatus fails, when lips part and there is a ghastly, almost
maniacal silence.

Among just such a crowd Michael might be moving, avoiding his pursuers.
He would press from room to room, upstairs and downstairs, his hat
crushed over his eyes, and perhaps when night came he would slip behind
a counter and hide; then, after the doors were locked, he would be alone
in the building, with the shoes and the ribbons and the hats and the
costumes all waiting for him to surrender himself.

Elizabeth felt that she must break the silence. She stopped at a
counter. A pale-faced, weary-looking woman with pince-nez attended on
her.

'Excuse me' (and Elizabeth found that she too was lowering her voice),
'I wanted some cherry-coloured ribbon----'

The woman produced spools of ribbons.

'What a horrible day, is it not? I am sure I don't know what our climate
is coming to. . . .'

'Yes, isn't it dreadful?'

A man with a broad back, his head bent, was walking up the stairs to the
next floor.

'I think,' she said, 'I'd better bring a piece of the stuff to match the
ribbon with. If I may--to-morrow----'

She hurried towards the staircase. She knew that the woman with the
pince-nez was watching her. But when she reached the next floor there
was no man there but only the costume department, models with waxen
faces, fur coats, sports costumes. Against the black sky that lowered
beyond the high windows two models of young women with jet-black hair
and ghastly faces of shining wax stared at one another relentlessly.
There was no one there. Nothing moved. Not a sound to be heard save the
stealthy footsteps of those passing up the stairs beyond.

The models stared at her like the images of the dead. She thought that
one yellow head bent ever so slightly. The neck twisted and the lips
moved.

Anything was safer than this. Even home.

Then she heard the Cathedral bells begin to ring for Evensong, and at
the same time rain began to fall again, spattering the windows with
little sharp spiteful flicks. The bells sounded very loud in that long
room inhabited only by the wax models. She knew the chimes by heart, of
course, and very often she had thought them friendly, reassuring. But
now the very idea of the Cathedral was horrible to her, and alone there
with those electric-shining waxen faces she seemed to see for the first
time that the Cathedral had been responsible for all these events--for
Uncle Michael's coming to Polchester, her father's death, the
misfortunes of the Pageant, the recent 'nerves' of the whole town.

She saw her uncle as someone pursued relentlessly, driven on to a
certain course of action from the moment of his arrival in Polchester,
and the wish that she had had before to protect him was now doubly
strong.

She hurried down the stairs, through the shop (and here she had the
impression that it was full of ghosts who all, turning their yellow
necks, stared after her, while the Cathedral bells rang from counter to
counter as though summoning everyone present to an urgent examination).
Down the hill, through the Market, into the quiet of the little streets
that border the Rock, she still heard through the rain that pattered on
her umbrella the urgent clatter of the bells. '_Come_ along--we want
you. _Come_ along--we want you. _Come_ along--we want you,' and then,
as she went up the little gritty garden-path, they fell into a more
dangerous, menacing monotone, 'Come--Come--Come--Come . . .
You--had--better--You--had--Better.' When she was inside the house she
sighed with relief as though she were safe from some danger.

For the next hour she read from Wilkie Collins's _Armadale_ to her
mother. She sat there, reading on, and subconsciously she was living in
a world strangely compounded of love and fear. She thought of James
Bird's words over and over again. 'You are part of God to me. . . . I
never thought that anyone could love me. . . . We shall be away from
here and life will be real again. . . .' And although she was in
actuality leaning forward, holding the book in one hand, her other
resting on the table-edge, her arms were around him, her lips caressed
his eyes, she heard the little sigh of contentment with which he laid
his head against her heart. Love was not a light thing for someone who
had longed for it but never hoped for it, whose very act of resignation
had so deeply redoubled its strength and truth. They were neither of
them spoilt people. Because they had been poor so long they knew that
gifts, when they come, are not lightly to be regarded. So she knew what
it was to be loved, as she sat reading _Armadale_. She knew what it was
to be afraid also. Now that James Bird was not with her, fear of things
inside the house and out of it increased with every beat of the clock.
What might they not do to her mother and herself? Mobs were terrifying
things. Justice too was terrible. No two human beings anywhere could
have been more innocent of any crime than her mother and herself, but
for years they had been hated, and now the town would want to be
revenged on someone for the weeks of fear and silly apprehension.

The escape with her mother and the life with Jim, far away from here,
now seemed so heavenly desirable that it must therefore be unrealizable.
She would never, God helping her, see a cathedral town again. How quiet
and peaceful they appeared with their chiming bells, their walled
gardens, their kind old ladies like the Miss Trenchards, their sweet old
clergymen; but the past was alive in them, not dead as people
supposed--and it was restless, jealous, and could be roused to fury if
it were neglected.

'That's the end of the chapter, mother darling.'

'Well, begin the next, dear. It's so very exciting. It will be tea-time
in half an hour.'

Later on they had tea. Darkness had come in, blinds and curtains were
drawn, the room had even now a certain life and cosiness. Her mother
sipped her tea.

'Mother,' Elizabeth said suddenly, 'they are going to arrest Uncle
Michael. Perhaps they've done so already.'

Mrs. Furze said: 'Yes, poor Michael!'

'They may come here. We shall have to give evidence.'

'We've already told them all we know,' Mrs. Furze said. 'But we can tell
them all of it again certainly. How did they discover about Michael?'

'It appears a little girl saw them quarrelling in the Cathedral.'

'Have they found Stephen's body?' Mrs. Furze asked.

'No. I don't know. Perhaps by now--I haven't heard anything since this
morning. I went into the town thinking I might see Michael or hear
something about him. No one told me a word. It was horrible. Everyone
seemed to be looking and listening.'

'It will be all quiet again,' Mrs. Furze said, 'when they have found
Stephen's body. Although,' she went on, 'it will take more than that to
put an end to Stephen. Ghosts aren't easy to settle with. I settled with
him years ago. And he knew it. But evil spirits live long.'

Then she asked for another cup of tea and half an hour more of
_Armadale_ if Elizabeth wasn't too tired.

She went to bed very early, feeling her way up the stairs; her door
closed with that soft gentle firmness especially hers.

'Good night, darling. I will see myself to bed. Now don't be anxious.
Everything will be for the best.'

In the passage Elizabeth listened, and as though at that very moment she
had been expecting it, there was the sound of the hall door opening.
Elizabeth stood at the top of the stair. Michael Furze stood in the
hall. Behind him the door was open and Elizabeth saw the dark arms of a
tree wildly waving and could hear the garden-gate creaking. A motor-horn
blew in the distance.

'Shut the door,' she said. She came down to him. 'Are you wet?'

'Soaking.' He was very calm. 'Wait here. In the dining-room. I'll change
my clothes and come down to you.'

'Are you hungry?'

'Ravenous. I've had nothing to eat all day.'

When he came she had arranged for him a cold ham, some fried eggs, a
cheese, tea. He sat down (he was in his shirt-sleeves). He had put on a
clean shirt and his hair was wet as though he had been plunging his head
in water. He had also shaved and had nicked himself just under the wing
of the nose. This cut annoyed him. He put up his handkerchief to staunch
it, but the blood always started to flow again and marked his cheek with
a crimson line--a sharp contrast in colour with the damp pallor of his
nose.

Elizabeth sat looking at him. She noticed the almost mad eagerness with
which he ate and how he stopped between bites to turn his head and
listen.

'They may come any time,' he said suddenly, his mouth full of ham and
bread.

'I know,' Elizabeth said.

'And I'm going to tell you everything if they let me. By God, this
cheese is good. Do you know where I've been all day, Elizabeth?'

'No.'

'Up in the Harry Tower. It's open again. I expected they'd be up there
this afternoon but they weren't. No one was there. It's the first time
it's been open for weeks and they've had the door unlocked since three.
That's why I expected they'd be there.'

'Why have _you_ been there, Uncle Michael?' Elizabeth asked.

He stared at her as though he couldn't conceive that she should ask so
silly a question.

'Why, of course, because----' Then he nodded. 'Ah, but you don't know.
I've got to tell you. . . . Can you listen? . . . a long time maybe.'

Elizabeth nodded. 'Yes--as long as you like.'

'All afternoon I've been up there. The bells roar in your ears, the dust
gets up your nose. And then I would go out to the gallery and look down.
Then I would go back to him and talk to him, and tell him what I think
of him and ask him how he likes it----' He broke off. 'Haven't you any
jam, Elizabeth?'

'Yes, of course.' She got up and soon returned with it.

'Blackberry and apple--that's good.'

He spread a chunk of the loaf thickly. He smacked his lips as he ate. He
stroked the side of his nose, which gleamed now with sweat. Then he saw
on his finger the blood from the cut, and he licked his finger like a
child or a wounded animal. He had had enough. He leaned back in his
chair, his hands in his trousers-pockets, his paunch protruding, and his
round face glistening with the sweat that the meal had created. His eyes
were sharp and restless, but the face, Elizabeth thought, was pathetic.
The lines of the mouth were kind and weak--a misfortune for a man, from
the very beginning of his life, to have so prominent a nose and no chin!
Yes, he was kindly, amiable, asking to be liked. Also weak, furtive,
shiftless.

And then she saw (for she was concentrated now entirely upon him) that
he was in a rage--a fury of suppressed anger. His lips twitched, his
eyes were angry, one hand on the table was clenched. Now that his hunger
and thirst were satiated, this rage--a trembling, agitated weak man's
rage--was uppermost again. Words poured from him as bubbles quiver on
the surface of boiling mud. But between the words his mouth was slackly
open, and continually he picked his teeth with his fingers and put up
his hand to feel the thin dried streak of blood on his cheek.

'How long have you known, Elizabeth? It doesn't matter. Everyone's
known, perhaps, and just hasn't spoken--not until now. Now they're all
going to speak at once--only they're too late. Just a day too late.'

She saw that with his rage and apprehension there was also a
vainglorious boastfulness. These things were strange, all springing
together in the heart of a weak, amiable man.

'Listen, Elizabeth. I want you to know everything--all--everything, from
the beginning. You're the only one who's been kind to me. I'm afraid of
your mother, always was. The others are only fair-weather friends--round
you while you've dough in your pocket--then, no use for you! You're the
only one who's been kind--so listen.'

He stopped for a moment, staring at her.

'You know, when I first came, I thought you were downright ugly. "That's
a plain girl," I thought. You don't mind, do you? But as time's gone on
you've grown beautiful to me--you have, really. It's in your eyes.
You're softer somehow than you used to be. When I first came you were
like a woman policeman. Know what I mean? "Get out of here. No loitering
here." Now, if you did your hair a bit differently you'd be mighty
attractive. And _I_ know. I've seen plenty of women the world over.'

Elizabeth smiled. 'That's all right, Uncle Michael. Don't mind me.
Perhaps we haven't much time.'

'No. You're right. Perhaps we haven't.'

She was thinking: 'This man murdered my father. He's a hunted criminal.
At any moment they'll be coming for him. But I'm calmer, quieter than
I've been for weeks. Perhaps it will be the same with everybody now.'

He leaned across the table and touched her hand with his.

'Listen, Elizabeth. You've got to get this right. I'm not a bad man. You
don't think I am, do you?'

'No, I don't think you are,' she said.

'It's religion has been the undoing of me. If I hadn't been a religious
man I wouldn't be in the spot I am. I've always wanted to do good to my
fellows. That's been my great idea. And I've believed in God. Churches
and cathedrals--you can't _fancy_ the appeal they've had for me.
Stronger than women. Really. That doesn't sound natural, does it? But
it's true.

'Where I did wrong was to come here at all. I ought never to have come
to this town. And then to sell the crucifix. That was the other wrong
thing I did.' He paused and listened. They both listened.

'It's nothing,' Elizabeth said.

'Is it raining?'

'No. I don't think so.'

'That's good.'

He went on:

'I want you to understand me, Elizabeth. I'm weak, I guess. Weak because
I'm religious and want people to like me. As soon as you care whether
people like you or no you're weak.

'And I came to this town thinking I was going to be liked. I'd been
wandering around for years with no home and now I thought, "I'll have a
home--and maybe I'll marry and I'll have children and we'll all go to
the Cathedral on a Sunday." That's the picture I had in my mind. Then I
recollected that Stephen lived here, and although we hadn't loved one
another when we were kids, still I thought: "Sure, it will be all right
now."

'The mistake I made, Elizabeth, was having no money. You ought never to
go to relations when you haven't any money. They don't respect you. And
to get some money I sold the crucifix in the first hour I was in the
town. That was the only wrong thing I did. Everything followed from
that. Way I figure it is I was Judas-like, betraying the thing I cared
for most in the world. Better I'd sold the shirt off my back than that
crucifix, and there was the Cathedral just over the grass watching me as
I did it. Nothing was right from that moment. . . . The way I look at it
is that if you haven't any sense of religion inside you, why, you're not
insulting anybody if you pay no attention to it, but if you _have_ some
of it, why, then you've got to act straight by it. Having it as I've
always had it makes you different--different from ordinary people, I
mean. _I_ was different, and I ought to have behaved up to it. But I
didn't. That was where I had to suffer. . . .'

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed.

'Quarter to eight,' Michael said. 'I'll be going out again later.'

The house was so still about them that the tap of a branch against the
window half-way up the stairs was very clear.

They had left the door of the dining-room ajar so that they might know
if anyone was at the hall door. Elizabeth went to the door and listened
for her mother. Sometimes when her mother couldn't sleep she called to
her to come up to her. There was something slightly ludicrous, slightly
menacing about her mother's calm. Or was it only that the real world
seemed so unreal to her now that she didn't think about it any more? She
put out her hand and touched her uncle's, which was cold with damp
perspiration.

'Don't go out again,' she said. 'Finish telling me and then go to bed.
Don't go out again.'

His rage with something or somebody (not herself) surged up again.

'Of course I'm going out. There are things to be done. You wait and see,
Elizabeth. They shan't have it all their own way. So . . . listen. . . .
You know what happened. I sold the crucifix, or rather I rented it to
that man Klitch for fifty pounds. I had the money; if I'd got a job all
would have been well. I'd have had the crucifix back, gone to live on my
own, married a nice girl.

'But your father saw to that. He saw I didn't get a job. That was the
second mistake I made--coming here to live. What I did it for I can't
imagine. That first sight of your father told me everything--that we
hated one another just as we did when we were kids--more--much more. I'm
different from your father. I can't bear to be hated. I'm too
soft-hearted altogether, I guess. There was a Norwegian captain I served
under. He hated me. He was thin and brown with a cast in his eye. How
he did hate me, that man! And how miserable I was! I used to cry in my
bunk just because he hated me so. And I used to dream of killing him,
strangling him, knocking him on the head, not because I hated him but
because _he_ hated _me_! To get him out of the way so I wouldn't be
hated any more. Anyone who hates me has got a kind of power over me. I
go weak inside. It was different with your father, though. I hated him
as much as he hated me--the mean, lousy, son of a bitch. But then he
_liked_ to be hated. It made him proud thinking I hated him. He'd rather
I hated him than not. Then you know what he did. He waited till my money
was gone. Then he caught me as a spider catches a fly. I hadn't any
energy any more. I was ashamed to go about looking for jobs now, when
only a week or two before I was treating everyone to drinks. And he kept
me, starved me, possessed me. I couldn't get him out of my mind,
Elizabeth. I reckon you don't know what it is to have someone on your
mind, morning and night, never to be clear of them. I ought to have gone
away. You told me to and offered me money. You were the only one who was
kind to me. But I hadn't the pluck. I hadn't been eating enough and I
wasn't sleeping and I couldn't get your father out of my head, and I
knew, wherever I was, he'd _still_ be in my head. So long as he was
alive. If he was dead it would be better. That was the first time I
began to think of how much better it would be if he was dead. There were
plenty of others thinking the same thing.

'Then came the night of the service in the Cathedral. You know,
Elizabeth, the carols. That was the third mistake I made. I was sitting
there, listening to the carols, thinking how swell the Cathedral was,
all the history that had gone into it, the artists and the saints and
the soldiers--yes, and feeling pretty miserable too because I was hungry
and knew none of them would lend me any money, although they'd been glad
enough to be friendly when _I_ had some.' (This, Elizabeth thought,
constantly irritates him. He returns to it again and again.) 'So I sat
there, loving the Cathedral and hating everything else, when I _knew_
that he was telling me to come back to the house. That's when I ought to
have fought him, Elizabeth! That's the mistake I made!'

He was shaking with excitement. He banged the table with his fat fist.
The sweat stood out in beads on his nose.

'If I'd fought him then I'd never have had to fight him again. It would
have been easy. I'd have known I could master him--I wouldn't have been
frightened any more.

'But I couldn't manage it--it was too much. I left the Cathedral. I
almost ran to the house, came in, went up to his room. He was waiting
for me. He sneered, he baited me--then he showed me the crucifix. He had
bought it from Klitch. I hadn't the money to redeem it. He bought it to
tease me, to drive me mad, just to show me the power he had. It must
have hurt him to pay so much for it. He can't have liked that, but that
just shows how he enjoyed seeing me squirm.

'All the same, it was that evening, Christmas Eve, when he first began
to be afraid of me. Oh, not very much. He was too conceited for
anything, Stephen was, and he used to boast he wasn't afraid of anyone
in the world. That was right. He wasn't. All the same, after that
evening he began to wonder whether he wasn't driving me too far. I could
see him wondering. Knowing that made me want to do something to him. He
had all that power over me--at the same time I could see him speculating
about me and that stirred me a bit. "I'll give you something to wonder
about!" I'd say over and over in my own room, because I'd got the habit
by that time of talking aloud to myself. . . . Yes, I had, Elizabeth,
and a bad habit it is too.'

'Yes, I know,' Elizabeth said. 'Mother and I often heard you.'

'It's a kind of relief when you're shut off from other people as I was.
I was shut off by _him_. I couldn't get into touch with anybody--he was
always there, in between. That's why it's a relief to be talking like
this now. I haven't really spoken to anyone for months. And there's
plenty of time this evening. They won't be needing me yet.

'Well, the idea grew in me--of being rid of him. There was nothing
wicked in that. Everyone in the town would be glad. I'd be doing a
public service. Anyone would. I'd think about it and think about it,
walking up and down my room. I guess my health was a bit undermined by
this time. I used to wonder at first how you and your mother could live
on eating so little. But now I understood. After a while you don't
_want_ it although you still _need_ it.

'And then I couldn't sleep. That was the worst. I'd lock my door but all
the same he'd be in my room--or I'd fancy he was. I got into the way of
thinking that bars and locks and bolted doors meant nothing to him, and
I still think it. Not till he's been properly buried . . . but that's
for later. I'd talk to myself by the hour as to how I could get the
crucifix back. It was driving me mad, just as he intended, because you
see I'd thought all the time that I'd committed a kind of sacrilege
selling it to Klitch, and now it was a sacrilege, a far worse sacrilege,
Stephen having it, insulting it, mocking at it, and the crucifix there
in his room, patiently suffering it all because _I'd_ sold it. I tell
you I felt like Judas, Elizabeth. I'd betrayed everything I believed in.
As I said, it's nothing if you don't--it's everything if you do. If I
did sleep I had terrible dreams. I'm not trying to make excuses for
myself, but bad dreams pull a man down worse than anything. There was
one dream I had that went all over the town after, about a yellow-faced
man with a broken neck coming out of the Cathedral. It doesn't mean much
as you say it--dreams don't mean anything anyway. But I had the feeling
that someone _had_ come out of the Cathedral to punish me for selling
that crucifix. I've imagined things all my life. I remember once in
Monte Video--but never mind that now.'

He stopped, clearing his throat. They both listened, but there was no
sound save the ticking of the clock and the tapping, through the open
door, of the branch on the window. That was louder now and Michael said:
'The wind's getting up.' He was much quieter now than when he had
started and he was taking great pleasure in telling his story.

'Then there came all the talk about the Pageant. That seemed to me a
worse kind of sacrilege than selling the crucifix. Most pageants don't
matter. They're silly things at the best, from the Flurry Dance to
crowning a king in Westminster. But I tell you, Elizabeth' (here he
banged the table with his fist), 'it's dangerous fooling with the past.
I've never had many brains nor _any_ education, but I know that much.
You can't be sure enough whether anyone's really dead or not. There's
plenty thought to be alive far more dead than those _supposed_ to be
dead! Anyway the Pageant stirred me up and, strangely enough, it stirred
Stephen up too! It offended his pride. He wanted to boss the town.
There's no doubt he wanted that more than anything else in the world.
And here was something with which he had nothing to do, had no power
over. He had no power over the Cathedral if it came to that, and I think
he was just beginning to realize that. That was why he liked to put the
screw on poor old Mr. Marlowe and that assistant at Bellamy's who sings
in the choir. While he was bullying them he could feel he was putting
the Cathedral in its place, if you get me.

'He had a grandeur mania. It was growing stronger all the time. He knew
that everyone hated him and that everyone feared him. That pleased him
to death. But he knew too that one day, driven by an irresistible
impulse, someone like Leggett or Lampiron or myself might do him in.
That gave him pleasure too, but at the same time he didn't want to die.
I know just how he felt. He liked people to hate him enough to want to
kill him, but all the same he didn't want to be killed. At the same time
I think his grandeur mania had come to this--that he didn't think he
_could_ be killed, and that even if he _was_ done in he would still be
there. And perhaps he's right. Who knows? . . . In any case nothing
could have pleased him more than to dominate the town the way he _has_
done these last months. I have done him _that_ service!'

'Wait!' Elizabeth said. She got up and went to the window and opened it.
Very clearly could be heard, brought up on the rising wind, the sound of
human voices.

'Something is happening in Seatown,' she said.

Michael jumped to his feet.

'Yes. Yes. . . . They've started. . . . It's as I planned----'

His fat body shook with excitement. He caught Elizabeth's arm.

'Here. Sit down beside me. There's not much time. I must tell you what
happened. That day--it was the day before the Pageant opened--he did
everything as I wanted it. And yet I hadn't planned a single thing. You
must believe me in that, Elizabeth. I hadn't planned a single thing.
That afternoon about four o'clock I was at Arden Gate: I was there
watching the preparations, feeling bloody miserable, hungry; I saw
Klitch there and one of the old women from Mrs. Coole's. Klitch asked me
in to have a cup of tea, and I can't tell you, Elizabeth, how I wanted
to go. Toast, crumpets, seed-cake. I tell you my mouth just dribbled.
But because he sold Stephen the crucifix I wouldn't have anything to do
with him. I hung around, went into the Cathedral, saw Broad the verger
and his boy. They were just finishing Evensong. When they'd finished I
came out with the crowd. It must have been about a quarter to five then
and thunder-showers came on. It poured like the deluge. So I went into
the Cathedral again to wait till it was over. There was no one there by
that time--no one _I_ could see--although I now know that that child,
Fanny Clarke's little girl, was there and Ronder up in the choir. I
thought I was alone--until suddenly Stephen was there. Right there in
front of me, his grey overcoat dripping with rain--soaked to the skin he
must have been!

'He must have been as surprised to see me as I was him! He just stared.
He'd come in for shelter I suppose--anyway everyone knows that the last
person who'd seen him was Klitch, seen him standing in the rain, staring
in at his window.

'And there we were, quite alone as we thought in that Cathedral, staring
at one another, and the thunder banging on the roof as though they were
dropping cartloads of bricks.

'I tell you, Elizabeth, I hadn't had a thought in my head but just that
I was miserable and lonely. All the same, as soon as I saw him I shook
all over. It was an irresistible impulse. That was what it was, an
irresistible impulse! His lip curled; he said, "Praying again, Michael?"
And those were the last words he ever uttered. We were in the side-aisle
near the King Harry door. No one could see us, not from the choir nor
the nave. That little girl must have been so close to us we could have
heard her breathing. Not that I'd have cared just then if there'd have
been a thousand people. I just saw the figure of my dream, for Stephen's
face was a kind of shiny yellow, wet with the rain, and his head was on
one side, him sneering at me. I only saw that neck. I only knew that I
hated him more than anything that ever was, alive or dead. I caught his
neck in my hands. He gave one cry--and then I'd twisted it. . . . I can
feel the hard thin bones yet and the skin dry but damp with the rain.
His eyes went round in his head, showing the whites. His mouth opened
and his tongue came out, a furry grey it was. I had my knee in his
stomach and I squeezed and I twisted and I squeezed. His head lolled
over just as it did in the dream, and his tongue stuck out, and his body
was as limp as though all the bones had turned to putty. He crumpled to
the floor and his old bowler hat was lying there. He was as dead,
Elizabeth, as a dead dog.'

Elizabeth said nothing. She sat as though she were listening for
somebody or something.

'Do you hear anything?' he asked.

'Yes.' The window was open and the air very cold. Neither of them felt
it. To Elizabeth it was as though she were sitting in blazing heat.

'Well--there I was,' he went on. 'I'd no time to lose. My chief feeling
was pride. He'd bullied and tortured me for months and now I'd wrung his
yellow neck. That's all I felt, and a very pleasant feeling it was. But
something had to be done. I saw the door of the Harry Tower right in
front of me. I went and tried the handle. By a miracle the handle turned
and the door opened. I say a miracle because it was always locked and
Broad the verger kept the key. Perhaps he'd been taking some visitors up
the Tower, gone home for his tea, forgetting to lock it. Or maybe they'd
been having a last survey before they shut it up altogether--that very
evening they closed it because of the dry-rot and it's never been open
since till to-day. No one's been up there yet though--or not until I
left it this afternoon.

'I hadn't time to think of reasons. I just pulled dear brother Stephen
through the door and up those stairs. _That_ was a job, I can tell you!
They're narrow and twisty and dark. But I bumped his head on the stone,
Elizabeth! With every bump I paid him out a bit. I dragged him with one
hand and carried his old bowler in the other. I was sort of drunk or
mad. I fancy I was singing. I don't know, but I fancy I was. I dragged
him past the Whispering Gallery up into the little room above. That's a
strange little room, Elizabeth. I know because I've been living there
ever since. It's small and empty, smelling of straw and mice. It's
smelling of other things now too. I know, because I've been there all
afternoon. Don't mind what I say, Elizabeth. Don't shrink from me.
You've always been so kind. I'm not mad--only excited because the end's
come at last--the end to me and Stephen and everything and everybody.
It's time it did, because it's a rotten world--should be wiped out and
started all over again. Well, it's a funny little room. No one ever in
it till Stephen and I came there. One side is open and railed in so that
you shan't fall over. A fine fall that would be! You can look down and
see the nave--miles below you, it seems, with the people like ants.
Makes you think poorly of human nature seeing them so small. Fine when
the lights are on and the pillars and buttresses rising out of the gold
haze. Oh! the Cathedral's a grand place, Elizabeth, and proud too. It
knows what to do if it's neglected or insulted. That's what I kept on
telling Stephen to-day. "Come and look, Stephen," I said. "Come and
lean over and see the lights." We could hear the organ and the choir
singing, Stephen and I, although he can't hear as much as three months
ago because there are ants now crawling in his ear, yellow ants--and
worms in his eye. Don't you move, Elizabeth. You'd better not move
because although you've been always kind to me you've got to do what I
tell you.'

She didn't move, but her hands gripped the edge of the table. He never
took his eyes from her face and yet he seemed not to see her. His eyes
had a stare of pitiful appeal, but his face now was brutal and cruel. He
looked at her as though he might, at any moment, spring at her throat.
He seemed also as though he were now beyond brain-control and knew it,
and was in despair--also as though he were triumphantly, madly exultant.

'And now I must hurry--there's no time, no time at all. On the other
side of the little room, up against the wall, there's a drop. The wooden
floor doesn't come to the wall. There's a drop there. Down there I
dumped Stephen. Yes. He piled up there like a sack of rubbish, his head
where I'd twisted it all on one side. What I thought I'd do was, the
next night I'd come along and pick him up and take him out and drop him
into that well there is on the other side of the Cathedral. No one ever
would have found him--no, sir--never and never. How was I to know they
were going to shut the place up that very night, shut it up, too,
without ever going up to see whether anyone had left anything? If I'd
stayed there any longer I'd have been locked up there myself. A fine
figure I'd have been, shouting down from the Whispering Gallery, asking
them to come up and find me and Stephen. It was old Broad's mistake. I
guess he was excited about the Pageant next day and forgot.

'So I just went home. I saw two people on the way, though. When I was in
the nave again, there was an old woman lodged at Mrs. Coole's--Mrs.
Dickens I found out her name was afterwards. Well, she gave me a look.
Don't worry, Elizabeth--I'm not going to move unless _you_ move. Here we
are, the two of us, and old Mrs. Dickens in Paradise. Don't be afraid.
_She_ won't come back.

'There was only one other thing. In the Market I stopped by the old man,
Caul, that had a stall there. He was blind, you know, like your mother.
But I wanted to stop. I was gay. I was happy, Elizabeth. Because now the
crucifix was mine again and Stephen was dead, or I thought he was. So I
stopped and spoke to the old man. So he touched my hand and he said:
"Where's your brother? What have you done to your brother? He was
talking to me this afternoon."

'That would give you a turn, wouldn't it, Elizabeth? Just after you'd
killed a man. It happens that way sometimes. When you've killed one man
you've got to kill another, just to keep him quiet. So, weeks later, I
had to push him down the Rock--an irresistible impulse. Passing, seeing
him standing there. . . . Because what right had they to hunt me down? I
hadn't done any wrong. They all hated Stephen. You know they did. If I'd
known that little girl was going to talk . . .'

He rubbed his hands together.

'It's all logical if you look at it. One thing follows another.'

It was very clear now, carried to them on the wind--the confused
shouting of voices. Elizabeth half rose.

'Don't move, Elizabeth. I told you not to move. It's nearly ended.
There's very little more to tell. What _is_ there to tell? Stephen drove
them on to hunt me--Lampiron, Leggett, Gurney, that fat Canon Ronder,
Caul, young M'Canlis, Lanky Moon . . .'

He seemed to fall for a moment into a kind of trance, reciting the
names.

'Lanky, Leggett, Lampiron. . . . No. It wasn't Stephen. He was used. The
Cathedral used him to destroy me because I sold the crucifix. Do you
understand that, Elizabeth? Do you understand that? That I'm not my own
master, that we none of us are when the Cathedral takes a hand--that I
must do what it says, when he comes out of the Cathedral door with his
neck broken--_I_ broke it, Elizabeth--_I_ broke it--then we all run away
and hide. We listen with bated breath. We dare not speak above a
whisper. But he catches us just the same, and he strikes us down one by
one--Stephen and the Braund woman and old Caul, and soon it will be my
turn, and yours perhaps, Elizabeth--yours, my dear. . . .'

He had got up and come over to her side of the table. He knelt down,
laying his head on her lap.

'I've been hunted. . . . They've never left me alone and I'm tired and
worn out. I give it up. I'll show them where Stephen is. They're coming
for him. Listen!'

They both moved to the open window, and as they did so the crowd turned
the corner by St. James's Church. There was a thin watery moon,
green-coloured. The clouds had cleared from the sky, leaving it a smoky
grey with a silver star or two. This faint opalescent light made it seem
as though all the movement, which was sharp and active in the wind, were
under water.

They were marching in some kind of order. At the procession's head men
walked four abreast, but as they passed they became more ragged, wilder,
and soon the air was filled with shouts, fragments of 'The Red Flag.'
There were many women, a number of children.

Suddenly Michael climbed the window-sill and dropped into the little
garden. He stood there, swaying on his feet. He rocked like a drunken
man, as though he might pitch over and lie prone. But he steadied
himself.

He turned towards the room and very quietly said, 'Good-bye, Elizabeth.'
Then he went to the gate, unlatched it, and was lost in the crowd,
making towards the town.

That was the last glimpse of him she was ever to have.




CHAPTER VIII

OCTOBER 12TH: CLIMAX TO THE CRUCIFIX


There was no meeting of any public kind that evening in Seatown as
Gurney and his men had been expecting! They had been waiting for
something all the last week. Extra police had been drafted into the
town, the 'Specials' had been warned; even the Town Guard, which Gurney
had forbidden to meet, had been told that they might, in a crisis, be
needed.

On that day, October 12th, Gurney felt that the crisis to everything had
arrived. The murderer of Stephen Furze would have been arrested on the
afternoon of that day were it not that there were still a few
investigations to be made in the Cathedral and elsewhere. The body of
Stephen Furze had not yet been discovered. Nevertheless for himself,
Gurney, the damnable weeks of suspense were over. He would be able to
speak to Lord St. Leath on friendly terms again.

He was a slow man but sure, and, as he told Mrs. Gurney, 'Let them try
their games. I only wish they would. This thing's like a boil. It's got
to burst'--which Mrs. Gurney thought a very handsome parable.

It did burst, but not at all as Gurney expected. At seven o'clock that
evening there was not a soul stirring either in Riverside or Daffodil
Street. By 7.45 the whole of the Seatown district was crowded with
people.

The moon was out by then, the sky was clear, and there was a boisterous
wind. The policemen on duty in Seatown reported that there was a big
silent crowd of men, women and children in Riverside Street, most of
them armed with sticks and rough weapons. These policemen were ordered
to report at once at headquarters, which they did.

It was as though the Pol had overflowed into Riverside Street
transforming itself into human beings, so closely packed, so silent was
that crowd. Presently Tom Caul and a number of his friends appeared. He
addressed the crowd from the front of 'The Dog and Pilchard.' He spoke
very much more quietly than was his custom. He said that for a long time
past the real citizens of Polchester had received great injustice. Who
were the real citizens? Not the parsons nor the society swells nor the
shopkeepers in the High Street, but the men and women who lived in
humble homes and did the drudgery and bore the burden and heat of the
day. What was their lot? They searched for work and found none. They had
a bare subsistence thrown at them like dogs and were expected to go on
their knees for it. Meanwhile the clergy spent thousands of pounds on a
show which ended by their being the mock of the whole of England.

If the money that had been wasted on that blasted Pageant had been spent
on the Polchester unemployed, how many women and children might now have
enough to eat, a comfortable place to sleep?

They had been very patient and what had they received in return? Some
among them had been arrested for no rhyme or reason. On the other hand,
there had been two, possibly three, murders in the town within a few
weeks and no arrests made. One of the victims had been his own brother,
but he would say nothing about that here. He could deal with that little
matter himself. They all knew that the town was in a bad way, everyone
at loggerheads, the Cathedral people old and doddery, police obsolete,
townsmen squabbling, that no one knew who would be murdered next, and of
course all the disorder was charged on Seatown. What had Seatown to do
with it? Exactly nothing. Seatown sat quietly, obediently waiting while
its most respectable citizens, like the landlord of the public-house in
front of which he was standing, were ruthlessly seized and carried off.
Well, they had been patient long enough. It was time that they made a
protest, and to-night they would show that in one town at least in
England men and women refused to be enslaved, beaten, imprisoned,
starved without a struggle.

They were law-abiding, decent people. All they wished was to state their
case, and that they now would do on the steps of the Town Hall, at the
door of the Cathedral itself if need be.

They would dig out old Stephen Furze's ghost and get it to show some of
the swells in Polchester where they got off. Anyway, they were tired of
all the nonsense of the last months. They would show the people of
Polchester that Seatown meant something and that in future the wishes
and needs and sufferings of Seatown people must be attended to. . . .

       *       *       *       *       *

No one apparently knew it at the time, but it became clear after that
Romney was present in the crowd. Some weeks later he described it to
Mary Bassett.

'What were you doing there?' she asked him suspiciously. 'How did you
know that anything was going to happen?'

'Darling, it's my business to know. My only use in this world is to be a
kind of news-carrier.'

'Not a very honourable job.'

'Oh, honourable, darling! What an old-fashioned word! I'm surprised at
you. Nevertheless I _was_ there. It was a strange enough sight too. They
were all so quiet. There was scarcely a murmur while Tom Caul was
speaking. I've seen him drive them into a frenzy, but on that night they
didn't want to waste their breath. The moon looked sick and the river
looked sicker, and there they all were, packed as tight as sardines.'

Where did they all come from? No one knew--not even Romney. The last
riot in Polchester--the only other one within anyone's living
memory--had been on that night nearly thirty years before when Harmer
John had been killed. That had been a small affair compared with this
present one, but on that occasion as on this men and women had appeared
from nowhere.

Under that opalescent moon it did not seem too unreal to suppose that
old long-dead ruffians of the past Seatown life were mingling in that
crowd--restless, rebellious ghosts, always ready for a tussle again, so
that it seemed to them only a moment of time since the river-battle of
the pirate ships, the fight for the Rock, the smugglers' battles in King
George's day, the riots of the Reform Bill.

Once the margin of the river had run with blood and the bodies had been
piled so high where the old mill is now that the stench from them had
reached the none-too-fastidious nostrils of the Cathedral monks.

Over and over again it had been the battle between the Seatown outlaws
and the Cathedral priests. To-night once more that old warfare was
renewed. When Tom Caul had finished speaking, the crowd slowly began to
move. Very definite arrangements must have been made, for soon they were
marching in pretty good order, four abreast, up Bridge Street. Another
proof of the power that Tom Caul exercised was the wonderful silence.
Coming up from the river, in that faint moonlight, it was as though a
big scale-backed mastodon raised its head from the marshy banks and
began to coil up the hill towards the Rock. The Cathedral bells chimed
eight o'clock just as the head of the procession reached the small
square with the Queen Victoria monument. This was apparently their first
work of destruction. The Queen was represented, as she so often was,
seated on a stone chair wearing her crown and carrying a sceptre. It was
a very ugly and misshapen statue. In a very short time Victoria's head
was in the road, her squat but dignified body tumbled to pieces. It was
at this moment that the crowd began to express a kind of indignant life,
and it was at this moment that the town awoke to what was occurring.

At eight o'clock most citizens were in their own homes. Queues had
formed outside the 'Arden' and the 'Grand' cinemas for the programme
that began at 8.15. At the 'Arden' they were showing _Henry VIII._ with
Charles Laughton; at the 'Grand' _Tugboat Annie_ with Marie Dressier
and Wallace Beery. At the Old Philharmonic in Queen Anne Street the
Polchester Choral Society were giving a performance of _Iolanthe_. At
the Y.M.C.A. in Pontippy Square there was a concert for the Young
Women's Friendly, and Porteous was in the chair. The only other
gathering of any note was the meeting of the Shakespeare Society at
Canon Cronin's. They were to read _Julius Caesar_. Gaselee was to be
Brutus, the Archdeacon Mark Antony, Dale Caesar. They were all gathered
together in the Cronin drawing-room, standing about, chatting and
looking at their parts once again to make sure that no tiresome
indecencies had escaped their attention, when Mrs. Cronin's maid,
Bertha, forgetting for once her careful training, ran into the
drawing-room exclaiming: 'Oh, mum! . . . we're all to be murdered!
They're rioting down at the Market something fearful!'

       *       *       *       *       *

Up at the Castle, Lord and Lady St. Leath had been at dinner some
quarter of an hour--a very quiet and domestic meal, the two of them
alone in the great dining-room, the candles on their small table
illuminating one patch of polished floor and panelled wall.

It happened that at that moment when eight struck on the chiming clock
in the hall, St. Leath was speaking of Gurney.

'I don't know what's come to the feller. I always knew he was slow, of
course, but then I'm slow myself. But the months have gone by and the
murderer's still at large. It's damned uncomfortable having somebody
hangin' around ready to cut your throat. I don't know what's _happened_
to Gurney. A good bird this, Joan--and cooked to a T.'

'I'm sure Gurney's doing his best, Johnny. They can't find the body,
that's the trouble.'

The telephone rang. The butler went, and returning murmured:

'Inspector Gurney on the telephone, my lord.'

'Well, I'm damned,' St. Leath said.

He was away for some time.

'Your food's getting cold, darling.'

'Never mind the food! What do you think? It's come at last!'

'What's come?'

'Russian Revolution. Stalin is in the Market-place surrounded by a
yelling mob. The ghost of old Furze is hanging from a lamp-post! 'He
bent down and kissed her cheek. 'Seriously, dearest, I must go. The
Seatowners have broken out, as everyone expected they would. We'll have
that fellow Caul in jail in an hour's time.'

'A riot! Here! In Polchester!'

'Yes--it's happened before, you know, and will happen again--so long as
we leave Seatown standing. I must be off! Old Gurney sounds quite
elated. I'll ring up from the Town Hall.'

After he was gone Joan St. Leath sat--waiting and listening. So before
she had waited, all those years ago, on Jubilee night. She was thinking
of her husband, not her father--seeing, in the Town Library, an
indignant young man with a bulldog and he was crying out: 'But this is
scandalous, Miss Milton! If Miss Brandon ordered the book she must have
it! My mother can wait!'

She smiled. What a wonderful success their marriage had been! What a
lot she had to be thankful for! She went to the window, opened it, and
stood there listening.

       *       *       *       *       *

At the St. Leath Hotel, as the gong sounded for the eight o'clock
dinner, Bellamy, Aldridge (completing his second year as Mayor),
Crispangle and Carris were sitting down to a men's four at bridge. They
had played bridge together at the St. Leath once a week for years.

'So it's Mike Furze,' Bellamy said, lighting his pipe.

'I always knew it,' Crispangle said.

'Well, it clears poor old Lampiron. That was always fantastic anyway!
The only thing is, they haven't found the body yet. You can't try a man
for murder without the body, can you?'

'No.' Crispangle stretched his arms and yawned. 'The damnable part of
all this nonsense is that it's bad for business. I've never had a worse
beginning of a season, what with these twopenny libraries springing up
in March Street and Denver Street, and the foul Book Societies, and
novelists writing a million words a day! Books have gone to the devil.'

Aldridge, who looked very green about the gills, said: 'What I say is
that all this nervousness murders the digestion! There's my boy goes out
every night with the Town Guard, and his mother not sleeping because
she's expecting him to be killed every minute. And I'm weak, weak as
butter. There I was last night knowing pork plays the devil with me. And
what do I go and do?'

Someone was standing in the doorway. 'You're wanted on the 'phone, Mr.
Aldridge.'

The Mayor got up and left the room.

Carris said: 'I'm taking the wife and girls for a cruise. I'm sick of
the way things have gone here this summer. That trick of O'Hara's--well,
I don't mind confessing to you boys that I'd have cut off my right hand
. . .' He stopped and began to shuffle the cards.

Carris is not the man he was, Crispangle thought--got Mrs. Braund on his
conscience. I bet he had a few words to say to his lady wife on the
subject.

Aldridge was in the room again. He was breathless with his news. 'I've
got to go. They're rioting down in the Market. . . .'

Bellamy and Carris jumped up.

'Rioting? . . . Who are?'

'Who do you think? A mob come up from Seatown. I've got to be at the
Town Hall.'

'My God!' Crispangle said. 'So it's come.'

Carris laughed. 'Something definite at last, thank the Lord. We'll go
with you and support you, James.'

They all hurried out together, leaving the cards deserted on the green
cloth.

       *       *       *       *       *

The town was stirring.

From the dignified houses in the Precincts, Orange Street, Arden Square,
to the old survivals of Pontippy Square, Canon's Yard, Norman Row,
through the now dark empty shops of Bellamy's, Smith's, Polrudden's the
genteel hairdresser's, Mellock's the pastrycook's, Cooper's Art Gallery,
the Library, to the slums and degradations of Bridge Street and Tontine
Bridge, Daffodil Street, Myre Street, the brick and mortar, the
worm-eaten boards, the flaky plasters, the iron and steel door-knobs,
and window-ledges, old brick chimneys and the fine panelled walls of
eighteenth-century elegances--everywhere the whisper ran:

'We are in danger again. There is trouble once more. Fire and smoke are
abroad. Hold on. Hold fast. We are in danger--in danger.'

If you listened you could hear strange murmurs carried by the rising
wind. For example, it was remembered afterwards by many people that the
bells of St. James's began to ring at eight o'clock. St. James's had a
very musical peal, and this was simply the weekly evening practice of
the bellringers; but it was known that old Marlowe had been found
preaching like a madman in Riverside Street, so it was supposed at once
that he had ordered the peal as a kind of crazy danger-signal to the
town. The wind rose to almost gale force on this particular night. This
was the night when the _Vesper_ was wrecked off Hester Point and nine
lives lost.

A romantic imagination might suppose that many of the old houses in
Pontippy Square and Canon's Yard were creaking and groaning in fear, but
in actual fact two chimney-pots came down in Pontippy Square and a
number of tiles were blown off the roof of Miss Bennett's 'Cathedral
Shop,' Number 3 Norman Row. Klitch himself afterwards said that never in
the whole of his life before had he known houses quiver and shake in the
wind as the Norman Row buildings on that stormy night. They were very
ancient, some of them going back to the sixteenth century. It may well
be believed that the old ladies in Mrs. Code's, Number 10, were
frightened, especially when the mob reached the Cathedral Green. Mrs.
Coole herself, very far from terror, played a marked part in the last
stages of the affair.

       *       *       *       *       *

When the crowd reached the Market-place it was clearly astonished at
meeting no opposition. There was not a sign of a policeman anywhere. The
mob, which had now the concerted emotions and passions of one person,
had to make up its mind as to what it was there to do. One impulse had
been an appeal to the Mayor at the Town Hall, another to release Lanky
Moon and young M'Canlis from the gaol, yet another to burn down
Hattaway's house as a warning to him to leave Seatown alone, yet another
was to be some kind of assault on the clergy, and it was here, in the
Market-place, that two effigies were produced, one a clumsy and
insulting attempt at Mrs. Braund riding a stuffed clothes-horse, the
other the image of a clergyman in a white stiff collar and gaiters.

But it was here also that three men suddenly stood up on a board raised
on trestles and held aloft an image of Stephen Furze. Seen there in the
moonlight the resemblance was almost horrible. The usurer had been thin
enough in real life, and there he was, his head on one side under his
soup-plate bowler, his long grey overcoat flapping against the stake on
which the head was stuck. The effigy was blown hither and thither by the
wind and seemed to have a ghastly life of its own. Against this was
fastened a board on which was printed in capital letters:

     WE DEMAND THE MURDERER

The unexpected sight of this effigy seemed to rouse the crowd, which
now filled the whole of the Market-place, to riotous energy.

Tom Caul jumped on to the board beside the other men and cried out:

'Friends! In this Market-place my brother for many years quietly carried
out his peaceful business. He was foully murdered. No steps have been
taken to avenge him. They threaten to pull down our homes, to destroy
our livelihoods. They take our savings to fill the paunches of the lazy
greedy parsons up there on the hill. You know that old man in front of
whose image I'm standing. He was the wickedest and greediest old swine
this town has ever known. He tried to bleed many of us to death. Well,
someone has done him in, but until his murderer is caught and hanged his
ghost refuses to be laid. As the police are incompetent I suggest we go
and catch the murderer for them. It's time we stood up for our rights,
and old Furze shall see that we get 'em!'

A great roar of laughter went up at this, and then shouts and cries of
rage. The crowd was quite suddenly violently alive. It had gone so far
that it must now go further.

It also now became clear for the first time that much liquor had been
distributed. Several old women were dancing about, quite shamelessly
drunk, and the leader of them, the noisiest and most violent, was Mrs.
M'Canlis, the mother of young M'Canlis--a very unpleasant sight, an old
skinny woman, holding up her skirts, a bonnet on one side of her head,
dancing about, singing and shouting about her son and screaming for
murder.

It was now beyond question that the more serious men in the affair saw
that they must go the whole way. Whither that would lead them they could
not know, and it is probable that one or two of the fanatics, Ottley of
the billiard-saloon, and Sandy Lugge, a half-crazed old-clothes man who
had once been a local Methodist preacher, really fancied that this might
be the beginning of a rising all over England. Why not? Stranger things
had happened. One thing led to another. What could Gurney and his
policemen do against numbers like these? Once fire the Town Hall and one
or two other important buildings and they would frighten everyone into
some sort of surrender.

There is no doubt that the effigy of Furze had a great effect on the
crowd. They had hated that figure so violently when he was alive that
hatred roused again by the sight of him passed on, wave after wave, to
other objects--Hattaway, Mrs. Braund, Lampiron, Gurney--anyone you
pleased.

The destruction of that night actually began with the breaking of the
windows of Cooper's Art Gallery, and it was here that Leggett, of all
people in the town, was the first unexpected victim.

In many later summaries of these events--the entire sequence from the
arrival of Michael Furze in Polchester to the climax of the riots--a
quite disproportionate amount of importance was given to Leggett. Had he
but known it his vanity would most certainly have been flattered! This
little ugly bald-headed vicious rat of a coward! The theory was that
first he had been behind Stephen Furze in everything, and secondly, he
was, afterwards, the principal inspirer of Lanky Moon and Caul. This all
unquestionably ranks him too high.

Leggett was an important element in this story, not because he was
himself effective, but because, in his vanity, eagerness for power,
jealousy, meanness and viciousness he stirred up everywhere the passions
of his neighbours.

It is not the strong who are dangerous in this world but the weak. It is
the weak who inspire strong men to attempt what the weak have not
strength to accomplish. Had Leggett lived in Russia he would have been a
useful member of the Ogpu. As it was, Stephen and Michael Furze, Tom
Caul and Lanky Moon, Marlowe, Elizabeth--many another--behaved as they
did partly because Leggett failed to behave as he wanted to. In any case
his hope of cutting an important figure in the world ended abruptly,
there and then, in front of Cooper's Art Gallery.

There is no doubt, from what he said to Caul on the afternoon of that
same day, but that he had lived in a considerable state of terror during
that last week. It seemed that he had for some obscure reason suddenly
become convinced that Stephen Furze had not been murdered but was almost
at once returning from a hiding-place in the country. This thought of
Furze's return convulsed him with terror. He would have left Polchester
that same afternoon were it not that Symon, Furze's lawyer, kept him
there with some threat or another. There was no dirty work of Leggett's
of which Symon was not aware. Or it may have been that Leggett could not
bear to leave Polchester without bringing off some kind of revenge
against Lampiron. That moment when Lampiron had knocked him down had
done something final to Leggett--the beginning of a finality which his
conversation with Marlowe completed. He knew that any man now might, if
he had only the spirit to venture it, stamp on him, spit on him, drive
him at the cart-tail.

At any rate he certainly went to Tom Caul on that last afternoon and did
his best to prove to him that Lampiron had pushed Caul's brother over
the Rock. Tom Caul believed it all right. He didn't need proofs, he
said.

And then it may be that Leggett sniffed death. Fear of death had been
his companion his life long. Those who have an extravagant fear of death
savour it in their nostrils. In any case Leggett was seen by Fanny
Clarke and another woman hurrying up Bridge Street, after his visit to
Caul, panting, his hand at his side, his face white-streaked, just as
though old Furze were really behind him.

If one dignifies this Polchester episode with the name of history, any
observant chronicler of it might remark that there are Leggetts and
Romneys in every revolution. They are perhaps two of the most important
figures--the ambitious coward and the sexless diplomat--the despot's two
forerunners.

Again, speaking historically, it was about 8.15 when the mob smashed the
Art Gallery windows. The glow here was very uncertain. There was one
lamp-post outside the Gallery, and to the left could be seen the lights
of High Street, but it was at this point that a number of lighted tarred
stakes and sticks appeared blazing above the heads of the crowd. The mob
was now for the first time really vocal.

Being now one entity it spoke with one voice, an animal voice, the low
thunderous growl that rises sharply to a scream but is more menacing in
its undertones. It was Leggett who provoked the next move. The Art
Gallery was once one of Polchester's most beautiful eighteenth-century
houses, standing alone, with gardens at the back of it, and there is
still a stone mounting-block to the left of the fine carved doorway.
Leggett was suddenly seen standing on the mounting-block, gesticulating
and shaking his gloved fist at the swaying effigy of Furze.

In the high wind his words were lost. No one will ever know what
Leggett's last words on this planet were--not, in all probability, words
of wisdom. It may be that, confronted unexpectedly by that image of his
ancient enemy, maddened by the thought of the injustices, frustrations,
tyrannies that he had suffered at that old devil's hands, he attempted
some kind of last futile defiance.

He looked in any case sufficiently ludicrous there, his bald head
gleaming in the lamp-light, his ugly distorted visage, his gesture of
frustration and failure as he shook his fist at a scarecrow.

What followed may have been also his own doing--he may, so to speak,
have ordered his own funeral or chosen his manner of suicide.

Some fools in the crowd may have felt his gesticulations as a kind of
order to action. In any case it was then and there that the first stones
were thrown--a whole volley of them. The glass went crashing and one of
the stones caught Leggett on the side of the head. He fell and the crowd
surged forward, already forgetting him, for he was one of those men who,
once their needful act is committed, are at once forgotten.

The crowd surged forward and he was trampled to shapelessness. He was
stamped to death without any living soul realizing that he was there. At
that moment when, half stunned, he struggled to rise and a boot kicked
his eyes, he must have known one instant of frantic horror--a sudden cry
of his soul: 'It has come. It is as terrible as I feared!' When,
afterwards, he was found, his eyeballs were crushed, his nose stamped
flat, his chest ripped open. On his right hand there was still a dirty
lavender-coloured glove.

       *       *       *       *       *

At Carpledon, Bishop Kendon was just finishing his dinner--drinking with
great satisfaction his glass of hot water which was all the stimulating
beverage he was allowed.

'It is strange, Coniston, what the imagination can do. Hot water can
become . . .' He broke off. 'Isn't that the telephone?'

'Yes, my lord. Walter is answering it.'

'And now for a few records.' He raised his long thin arms above his
head and smiled. 'There is something very satisfying about that roaring
wind. I hope those two birches near the orchard gate stand it, though.
It's a real gale. . . . We'll have a little music. Come and put on the
records, Coniston. I'm lazy--and then in bed a few chapters of that new
book on Hans Andersen. Where is it? I hope I didn't lend it to Miss
Merdstone when she came about the Women's Guild this afternoon. I'm so
weak when someone wants to borrow a book. And Miss Merdstone, Coniston.
Such an unfortunate name. Whenever we meet I want to talk to her about
donkeys. . . .'

He walked into the study where the gramophone was, his long thin body
moving slowly, as though keeping guard on itself quite apart from its
owner.

At the door of the study young Walter appeared:

'You're wanted on the telephone, my lord. . . .' Then he added
breathlessly: 'There's rioting in the town.'

A minute later Kendon called out to Coniston:

'The car . . . I must go at once.'

Coniston said: 'What is it, my lord? . . . But you shouldn't. Really you
should not . . . You know what . . .'

But the Bishop was in the hall, wrapping his muffler round his throat.
He listened to the wind.

'Perhaps it will happen this way,' he said to himself.

       *       *       *       *       *

The blowing torches thrust their faces into the black abysses left by
the broken windows. The lower rooms of the Art Gallery suddenly flared
into life and you could see plaster casts of Julius Caesar, the blind
Homer and Aeschylus, while, lonely in his splendid endurance and
symmetry, in the middle of the floor, was a bad reproduction of 'The
Dying Gladiator.' There were drawings pinned on the wall--drawings of
the nude, of the Cathedral and a number of baskets of flowers. The mob
peered in but it did not stay. The breaking of those windows had done
something to its spirit--acted as a kind of fire-water. Someone, without
knowing it, gave Leggett's muddied cheek a last kick and passed on. They
all passed on.

The Town Hall was not far distant, facing St. Leath Square above the
Market and to the left of the High Street. This is a charming old square
with cobblestones, a fountain presented to the town by the widow of Sam
Hooker, Mayor of Polchester in 1882-7. There are some trees, a bench or
two; the Town Hall itself is one of the best architectural things in
Polchester, with a broad flight of stone steps, a simple dignified
faade, and, in the hall, an enormous oil-painting of 'Dido forsaken by
Aeneas.' All these minutiae had on this occasion their importance, for
the benches were destroyed, the fountain lost its charming figure of
'Boy with Flute,' and before the mob moved on, the famous 'Dido' picture
had been stoned, Dido herself torn asunder.

The mob filled the Square, and on the steps to meet them were Aldridge
and a number of town officials, Lord St. Leath and Gurney.

One of the things that will never be truly known was the amount of
liquor distributed among the rioters--also by whom distributed? It is
certain that in the crowd outside the Town Hall many were drunk, but at
the same time it was here and now that the more serious element in the
movement became manifest. And a very serious element it was! Lord St.
Leath said afterwards that it was only when he looked down on the mob
from the steps of the Town Hall that he knew that these people meant
murder. _Why_ they meant murder he will never be able to understand.
Johnny St. Leath had no imagination and has been the happier for not
having it, but he loved, and loves, this town like his own child. The
angers, mistrusts, fears of the last months had altogether bewildered
him; his final state of exasperation was reached by the trick played on
Mrs. Braund and now he was a very angry man. He said afterwards the very
sight of that ridiculous image of Furze swaying in the smoky light
'turned his stomach'--and the first thing he shouted at them was:
'What's that damned scarecrow doing here? I won't talk to you until you
throw it away.' He was Lord-Lieutenant of the County, and that was often
quite a lot--it was nothing to-night. He knew at once that it was not.
He knew that he and Aldridge and the rest of them, his beloved town as
well, were in very real and actual danger. Later he told Joan, his wife,
that you'd have thought Furze was waving them on. He seemed to
gesticulate in the wind. 'If I'd had anything to throw I'd have had a
pot at the thing.'

They had, however, determined--he and Aldridge and Gurney--that nothing
provocative should be done on their side until the Riot Act had been
read. First the mob would be asked to disperse. This St. Leath now did.

He was immensely popular in Polchester. He had been born there; they had
known him as a chubby snub-nosed boy home from Eton, as a thick-set
bulldog-attended undergraduate; they had watched the tenacious patient
love for Joan Brandon and approved, to a woman and a man, when he had
married her in spite of all the family scandal and the protests of a
cockatoo of a mama; they had admired and loved and trusted him, his
honour, his fidelity, his courage, his love for his king, country, town
and family through all these years of war and change and uncertainty.
They knew that he was not very clever, Johnny St. Leath, but they liked
him all the better for that. They were not very clever either. He had no
side: he and Lady St. Leath were generous and tactful in their
charities. Everyone in Polchester knew that Johnny St. Leath stood for
something very valuable to England, a type, often mocked and derided,
not to be found anywhere else in the world. . . .

       *       *       *       *       *

And now he did not know them! As he stood on the Town Hall steps looking
at them, he felt a kind of confirmation of all his bewilderment of the
last months. There _was_ some evil influence abroad in this, his town.
He was simple enough to believe in evil. He had known 'fellers' at
school, college, in the War, who were 'damned rotters, you know--had a
sort of stink.' Well, now in this town there was 'a sort of stink.' And
it must be got rid of.

He looked at them and his indignation grew. There were many faces that
he did not know. Tom Caul, standing over there on the bench near the
fountain, was their leader--but there were many worse than Caul. Where
had they come from? Well, no matter, he would tell them where they could
go to! . . . And he did. He asked them what they wanted, why they were
there, what they were after. Then he warned them that they were breaking
the law. He told them that if they dispersed now no further action would
be taken, but that if they remained after the Riot Act had been read,
their blood would be on their own heads. Then he became their own
familiar colloquial Johnny St. Leath. What the hell were they doing,
behaving in this absurd manner? Who had told them to? What did they hope
to get from it? What after all _were_ their grievances? These were hard
times, as he himself knew, but that was not the fault of the Polchester
authorities. He himself . . .

And at this moment someone threw a stone and caught him on the forehead
above the left eye. Being hit by that stone was perhaps the very worst,
most wounding thing that ever happened to Johnny St. Leath. That in his
own beloved town where he had lived for years surrounded by friends he
should be stoned! should be hissed and struck on the very steps of the
Town Hall. . . . He put up his hand and felt the blood dripping into his
eye. His rage convulsed him.

'By God!' he said, turning to Aldridge. 'Give me the Riot Act.'

He read it to them.

       *       *       *       *       *

Riots and revolutions, like pestilence, wars and love, must, when
started, run to their climax. In front of the Town Hall members of that
mob began to discover themselves. Some wished to go home: many wanted to
remain what they had been at the beginning, observers. Very many
translated their own personal grievances--an ulcer, a debt, a rent
unpaid, a quarrel, a headache, a general malaise, a bad wife, a
frustrated lust, hunger--into a determination on revenge. Men throw
stones in riots because their wives think poorly of them.

There were some who followed a definite plan. Tom Caul had been waiting
for this moment his life long, ever since he and his blind brother had,
as children, been beaten within an inch of their lives by a sadistic
coal-heaver whose mistress their mother was. Caul was part fanatic, part
swollen with pride, part enraged at his brother's death. He did not see
to the end of this, but, whichever way it went, there would be, he
thought, glory and self-justification for himself in it.
Self-justification! He wanted that, perhaps, more than anything else in
life. At certain times when the world was silent and he alone in it he
mocked, with bitter contempt, at himself and all that had made him.

Lastly, there were the fanatics who saw stars and thrones and crowned
martyrs blazing through the sky. There were only a few of them.

While St. Leath read the Riot Act at the Town Hall these separate
elements became one element. When more than twelve persons are gathered
together there is seldom sense talked. Twelve persons become one person
obeying the lowest denominator.

And now this mob was suddenly one person, a shrill, screaming, brainless
maniac carrying a torch in one hand and a scarecrow in the other. This
imbecile, directed by a cold, determined power, wished to destroy. It
brandished the torch, it followed the scarecrow. St. Leath, Aldridge,
Gurney, seen through smoke, were puppets, and before the eyes of this
screaming silly creature were wood and plaster to be burned, walls of
glass to be broken and whirling circles of human faces to be hammered.

'All right--they shall have it,' Johnny St. Leath said to Gurney.

A moment later the Square was surrounded by the police. But they were
not fast enough at Abbot's Lane. Gurney said afterwards that Abbot's
Lane, which led straight through Kirk Street to the High Street, was to
have been the first to be blocked, but in surrounding the Square the
policemen had filed in from the east end instead of the west. Caul had
seen this at once--he had many of the qualities of a true leader. He
had waved his arm, and a second later they were pouring through Abbot's
Lane to the High Street.

'Bloody fool, Gurney,' St. Leath murmured. There was nothing to be done.
There in the St. Leath Square the police were moving slowly forward,
marshalling what remained of the mob towards the Market. What remained,
however, were simply those pacific elements who thought they would like
to go home. Quite a number but not an important number.

'Quick, Gurney,' St. Leath shouted. 'Get your men up to the Cathedral.'
But Gurney, poor Gurney, whose life's tragedy this night was to be, was
not born to be quick. This was his first experience of a riot and, as
unkind fate in the shape of higher authorities afterwards decided, his
last.

Tom Caul and his friends had, for an appreciable five minutes, the High
Street altogether to themselves.

A number of citizens--the Bennett family, the Mellocks, Crispangle's
wife, the assistants at Bellamy's who lived in--will, as long as life
lasts, take pleasure in describing that mad rush up the High Street, as,
terror in their souls, they watched it from behind window-blinds.

The very heart of the town was now invaded as it had never been since
the Middle Ages. Once again from the very face of the Rock, from the
heart of the river, the Goths, the Huns, the gipsies, the Heathen,
assaulted the Cathedral, not knowing that it was the Cathedral itself
that had, for its own purposes, roused them up.

'God help us,' said old Mrs. Mellock, whose plump body seemed always to
smell faintly of flour.

Mrs. Crispangle, whose heart must be filled with men or it scarcely
beat, knew suddenly that she loved her large cynical husband. Where was
he? Out in the town somewhere. He had gone to play bridge at the St.
Leath. He might be there still. She moved into the back office and
telephoned. No. He'd left for the Town Hall with Mr. Aldridge.

Scarcely knowing what she was doing, she put on her hat and coat. She
must go out and find him.

The mob roared up the street, shouting it knew not what. Behind the
windows they all whispered: 'The Cathedral! They'll go for the
Cathedral.'

The mob itself was aware that the climax of the affair was approaching
it. At the top of the hill, in front of Arden Gate, it paused. Behind it
were the police, in front of it the Cathedral. Up here the wind was
raging. The lighted stakes flourished in the wind, but across the
Cathedral Green all was dark. Only the mass of the Cathedral was black
against the oyster-pale sky, the thin moon behind swathes of tenuous
cloud. The Cathedral waited. The mob waited.

The mob waited, in fact, for it knew not what. It knew only that it
wished to show that it was an important mob with a character of its own,
and to do that thoroughly it must destroy something.

So it set fire to the Library. No one will ever know how, or by whom
that was done. Nor will anyone ever understand why, on that night of
raging wind, the whole of the High Street was not burnt down and much
else with it. The police and the fire-brigade together did some noble
work, but later when the mob was scrambling on the Cathedral Green,
why, in that first ten minutes, had the whole of Polchester not started
to blaze?

Enough for the moment that that old room, historic in the lives of so
many of us, blazed to the heavens, and Clara Reeve, Bage, Godwin,
Cooper, and all the others with it! Never again would a young Jeremy
Cole slip in and borrow a new Haggard, the most recent Pemberton! Is the
skeleton of Miss Milton there crackling in the flame? Where now is that
untidy schoolboy, his black cap with its yellow lettering sideways, dust
in his cheeks and nose, astride the ladder, his begrimed fingers turning
the pages of _The Wandering Jew_?

The ghosts, broomstick-riding, fly with the flames into the vaporous
sky. . . . The mob is aware for the first time that it has done
something. The noise now is the echo of the sea through trees. Men and
women scream like gulls. The wild unsteady glare of the burning Library
lights up the whole High Street; the sky is glittering with sparks and
jets of gold. The Cathedral now sails forward, all its windows
glowing. . . . Then someone started the cry of 'The soldiers!' and no
one ever knew where _that_ call came from. It was enough in any case to
bring to a point of madness the panic, confusion and uncertainty of that
rebellion.

'By God!' said Caul. 'If it's the soldiers we'll fight them'--but that
was absurd because they had nothing to fight real soldiers with! They
had, however, their sticks, knives, hatchets and a pistol or two, and
now, with the thought that the soldiers were at the bottom of the street
pressing up on them, with the fierce independent life of the Library
burning in their eyes, they rushed forward to Arden Gate, under it and
on to the Green.

It was here and now that the first real battle occurred, for Gurney had
managed at last to bring some of his men up through Green Lane and out
to the top of the High Street along Norman Row. And a fine sight it was
for Mrs. Coole's old ladies, for the Fowlers, father, mother and son, of
the Glebeshire Teashop, for Broad the verger, his wife, his son Timothy,
for Mr. Doggett the organist, above all for the Klitch family, from
behind their window-curtains, to see the marching policemen, the sky
illuminated with the Library fire, and to hear the roaring shout of the
mob, to look across the Green and admire the Cathedral so calmly facing
its enemy.

'I'm going out,' said Mrs. Coole.

'I'm going out,' said Klitch.

But the first actual fighting occurred just inside the Arden Gate. Caul,
followed by some of the more desperate spirits, started in the direction
of Mrs. Braund's house.

(Mrs. Braund, lying flat on her bed, sees the sky flare, hears shouts,
sees the trees rock in the wind.

'It's all right,' says the nurse consolingly. 'They won't be coming
here, the ruffians.'

But Mrs. Braund moves not a muscle. She had known that this would occur.
Perhaps after this Lady Emily will be satisfied.

'Go on with your book, please,' she murmurs out of the corner of her
crooked mouth.)

Caul and his friends may have vaguely thought they would have at some of
the 'blasted clergy.' By this time the plan of campaign had fallen into
an untidy wantonness.

Caul lifted his stick and a policeman's eye was laid open. 'Take that
for a bastard,' Caul, suddenly berserk, shouted. Soon everywhere the
Green, chequered with the dancing reflection of flame, was thick with
fighters. Fighters for what? By this time no one knew. . . .

It was now that Lampiron appeared.

His legs stretched in front of him, the studio dark behind him, he had
been reading Santayana's _Character and Opinions in the United States_
when Bridget, his old servant, cried from the doorway: 'They are
murdering and burning all over the town.'

He finished what he was reading. It was a key for him for the remainder
of the evening. He read:

'Veritable lovers of life, like Saint Francis or like Dickens, know that
in every tenement of clay, with no matter what endowment or station,
happiness and perfection are possible to the soul. There must be no
brow-beating, with shouts of work or progress or revolution, any more
than with threats of hell-fire. What does it profit a man to free the
whole world if his soul is not free? Moral freedom is not an artificial
condition, because the ideal is the mother tongue of both the heart and
the senses. All that is requisite is that we should pause in living to
enjoy life, and should lift up our hearts to things that are pure good
in themselves, so that once to have found and loved them, whatever else
may betide, may remain a happiness that nothing can sully. . . .'

'Veritable lovers of life. . . .' Yes, he was that. Indeed, he was
that!

He looked up. 'What do you say, Bridget?'

'They're burning the town down. Killing and slaying. Something awful.'

'Who are?'

'Seatown roughs--and foreigners.'

He smiled at her. Oh, he was a handsome old man, she thought, with his
black hair and shoulders like an ox, his face so brown, his eyes so
blue--a clean strong old man whatever they might say! _He'd_ never
murdered anybody, not he! And now as like as not they were coming to do
him a harm.

'Sir . . . .' she repeated it. He appeared not to be listening.
'Sir . . . maybe they'll be coming this way.'

'Veritable lovers of life. . . . What does it profit a man to free the
whole world if his soul is not free?' _There_ was something for the
propagandists, the lecturers, the preachers! But his own soul was free
at last, for the first time. He got up and stretched his arms, yawning.

'All right, Bridget. I'll go out and have a look at them. More words
than deeds, I expect.'

He looked about the room. He was quite radiantly at peace. After all the
turmoil, passionate lusts and temptations, futile effort to conquer some
kind of beauty, this last love for a child, this last tournament against
his fellow-men's abuse, now these words . . . '. . . We should pause in
living to enjoy life.' Ah, but he had enjoyed life if anyone had and now
he was ready to go. Someone had shown him in these last months where
true values lay--in that inner, secure, vitalizing life of the spirit.
Who had shown him? What company had he been keeping? Had he come close
in some way to the spirit of Arden? Or was there even now in the room
with him a dark companion? . . . No matter.

'Thanks,' he said aloud.

He went out.

The first thing that, standing in the street, he noticed was the
reflection of the fire in the sky. About him everything was quiet save
for the rushing of the wind, the bending and creaking of the boughs, the
running of the river under the bridge.

He decided to make for the Cathedral and, moving very quickly, he
climbed Orange Street, cut through into Green Lane and then by Canon's
Yard and Norman Row reached the Green. Here for a moment he stayed
amazed. There is nothing more astonishing to the observer than the
instant's transformation of a well-known tranquil street or town into
destruction and danger. It is as though some old pipe-smoking
book-collecting bachelor friend produced from his pocket a rattlesnake.

And yet, Lampiron thought, this scene is familiar to me. It is even more
familiar than it is in its ordinary tranquillity. He had seen it once
when all the buildings to the west of it were blazing and the sky was a
sheet of trembling gold. He had ridden under the Gate and stood at the
hill-rise shouting. . . . But this was absurd. There was more immediate
business than romantic dreams. He was at the edge of the Green not far
from the trees that bordered the Braund house, and the next thing of
which he was really aware was that Gaselee was at his elbow.

'Why, Gaselee!'

Gaselee peered.

'Oh, it's you, Lampiron! I say, isn't this awful? They're crazy.
They'll be doing the Cathedral damage.'

'What's it all about?'

'I don't know. No one knows. It's been brewing for months.'

'Well, what are _we_ going to do?' Lampiron was impatient. He had never
cared for Gaselee very much anyway. 'We can't leave them to burn the
Cathedral down.'

'There! . . . The police are moving forward.'

'Time they did.'

Gaselee made no reply. This old man, Lampiron, was a bore and, in any
case, he felt uncomfortable, a kind of sickness in his stomach. This was
not _his_ world. _His_ world must be ordered, with planks across the
ditches and walls above the precipices . . . and Ronder was dead.

'Do you know,' he said, 'Ronder's dead----'

But Lampiron was gone.

Black figures, like puppets, began to run across the grass. There was a
pistol-shot. Mounted police came sweeping over the Green. Gaselee
hurried, then he trotted, then he began to run. . . .

Lampiron also was running, but he was running towards the fighters, not
away from them.

As he ran he waved his arms and shouted. He knew only one thing, a pagan
overmastering impulse to fight. The shadowy troubles of the last months
were over. While it was his own private history that was attacked he was
too proud to move, but now he was urged to defend something beyond
himself.

The mob was frenzied with panic and rage. It was frightened of the
soldiers in the rear (there _were_ no soldiers) and frightened of the
Cathedral in front of it.

For now that they were face to face with the Cathedral what could they
do about it? For months they had been threatening but they had not
expected such a demand for an answer. There it was, couched and brooding
in the darkness, only its long windows flaming in answer to the fire.
What were they to do? It was stronger than they!

Some of them turned back, but with a great number that worst rage of
all, the rage born of helplessness, leapt beside them like a wild
unthinking animal. They'd have their money's worth! They'd destroy
something before they went to gaol for it! Someone had passed the word
that a man had been killed, his face stamped out by the crowd, and the
Library was burning. They'd have to pay for these things. Let them give
something in return.

But one of them afterwards described the fighting on that Green as the
most terrifying experience. Only for one brief period or so, ten minutes
at the most, did the crowd and the police come into real conflict. Then
heads were broken and arms smashed. For the rest, young Eddie Callender
told Cronin a week or two later:

'You'd have thought the Green was crowded with people. Believe me or
believe me not, it was as though you couldn't move for people pressing
in on you. I was feeling pretty angry myself by that time although I
can't rightly say why. I don't know what I ever joined in the silly
thing at all for if you ask me. Anyway, they said the soldiers was
coming up the High Street, and there was the Library burning and we'd
been cursing the clergy for months down in Seatown, _and_ the police,
and here we were, so I just wanted to hit someone. But I couldn't. I
give you my word, I could hardly breathe for the crowd, and yet there
wasn't a crowd. There wasn't a lot of us left by that time. Plenty of
the boys was running away down the High Street. All the same that Green
was full of people that night, I give you _my_ word, and I ain't telling
lies either.'

Tom Caul and his friends got almost to the West Door before the mounted
police rounded on them. It wasn't more than fifteen yards from the West
Door that Lampiron met them. He charged right into the middle of them,
shouting, waving his arms, and at once he had caught two men, one after
another, with his fists and down they went. That in fact was
glorious--he had been thirsting for it for years; he achieved with it
something his bad sculpture could never do. He was calm enough to
realize, all the same, that he'd need a weapon of some sort, and as the
second man fell (he himself nearly falling over him) he bent and took a
rough nailed stake from his hand.

He shouted something like 'Get back! Get back! . . . The Cathedral isn't
for _you_,' or some nonsense of that kind, or were they the old words:
'God's servant! Beware of God's servant!'?

It mattered nothing. He felt that he was equal to a world of enemies and
rebels. The whole affair can have lasted no more than two or three
minutes and yet he felt as though all his life had been intended only
for this--not so much for the joy of fighting as for the good clear
common sense of his purpose. Life had so often been clouded in its
purpose. So much frustration, disappointment of the flesh, blindness of
the spirit, but at last he was defending something well worthy of
defence. He could hear singing in his ears, the chanting of some old
psalm, and in his nostrils there was the sweet stench of incense, armour
clashed, and against flame-light he saw a sword raised. No; rather what
he saw was young Dawlish who drove round crying vegetables and boxed a
bit in his spare time; Lampiron had taken an interest in him once until
he stole some suits and shirts and tried to seduce a little kitchen-maid
Lampiron had at the time. So now Lampiron (the sweat was pouring down
his face, his heart was pounding, his belly was cold and pressed by the
shirt of mail he wore under his vestments) cried to young Dawlish, 'Look
out, Dawlish! . . . Get back, you young fool.' But young Dawlish aimed a
kick at his sensitive places, so he raised his nailed stake and brought
it down on young Dawlish's head.

They were beginning to give way then. The mounted police were no joke.
Men were running across the Green for their lives. But Tom Caul wasn't.
He wasn't running away for anyone.

And suddenly he saw Lampiron. This was a rich moment for him. It was the
thing he'd prayed for. 'Here's for my brother.' Filth poured from him.
Every obscenity at his command obeyed. His cheek was cut, blood trickled
into his mouth, cold like a slug, he was bare to the belt round his
waist. But he dropped his stick. He went for Lampiron with his fist. A
second later they were locked in one another's arms. Lampiron hadn't a
chance. He was sixty-eight years of age. Caul was the strongest man in
Glebeshire. Nevertheless those shoulders worked one last time for their
master. Lampiron broke Caul's arm-lock, slowly heaved himself up, stood
with Caul's arms about his thighs. With a kick he was free for a moment
of eternal time, and in that moment, remembering all the glory of love
and creation and the day when he watched the sunlit sea spread like a
fan over the hot earth, he cried, his arm raised (he felt his ringed
mail press against the nipples of his breasts and the cold edge of the
fine steel at the point where it met the bare thigh):

'God's servant! . . . God's servant!'

Then they fell on him; Caul had him round the waist, and it was Eels
Braddock, they said afterwards (but it was never proved), who brought
the iron spike down on his head. Someone or other leapt at his head and
he fell to the ground with him; Lampiron's blood blinded him.

That was the way Lampiron died. Leggett one way, Lampiron quite
another. . . .

       *       *       *       *       *

That was the moment, just when the mounted police turned the skirts of
the mob, that the Cathedral blazed and Kendon stood in the West Door.

Kendon's orders. When he reached the Cathedral (this was about the time
when the mob rushed up the High Street) he sent for Dale, Cronin,
Doggett, poor old Broad. He put on his vestments and himself switched on
the electric light. Then he stood in the West Door with Dale and Cronin
beside him.

That sudden illumination of the Cathedral was a stroke of genius. It
sprang to life. The Green, the town, the little puppet-figures of men,
sank to shadow-dimness. There was no reality save one.

But Kendon (old Mordaunt, sleeping in front of the empty fire-grate, his
drawings scattered on the floor, might see now in plain fact his
watching, guarding figure) had no need for action. The riot was not
ended, but its true climax was not as he could have expected it.

       *       *       *       *       *

Caul had turned to run. The sudden burst of light, the springing into
life of that building above him, around him, inside him, the huddled
figure at his feet with the blaze from the door on the bloody shoulders,
a fear of something more desperate than man (he saw the horses riding
his way and never cared), started his running. He did not know where he
was going, but the pressure here, crowding in on him, choking him,
blinding him, catching at his knees--he must break that as you break a
spider-mesh!--this turned him and, as he turned, his arm was caught and
held. It was Michael Furze.

'Let go, you fool!'

Michael let go. But he ran to the Cathedral. He ran like a madman, as
though he had not a minute to lose. He ran as though he were blind, his
hand before his face.

He was through the West Door and inside the church as the police horses
cleared the Green from end to end. Lampiron lay quite alone, his arm
broken about his head.

But Michael stopped and gasped. This blazing church was the last thing
that he had expected. He had been with his friends and brothers (for he
loved all living things) all night, marching with them, cheering them
on, laughing and singing, seeing the pretty places burn, talking,
talking, talking, leading them all with him (friends and brothers: they
had been unkind to him a week or two, but now they were all comrades
again) to show them where all the trouble lay. The only thing that
puzzled him was that dear brother Stephen, broken and mangled, yellow
flies crawling out of his nose, up there in the Cathedral, was also here
in this happy procession (all friends and brothers together marching to
freedom) waving and bending and bowing, there in his bowler hat and old
grey coat. Nothing odd in that, though. Had not brother Stephen a genius
for being in two places at once? But he told them all, he told them
again and again, anyone who would listen he told, that they would soon
behold the sight of their lives, such a pretty sight, such a handsome
sight. There they were, all marching together, and soon . . .

But they stopped, they paused. What was the matter with them? He urged
them on, he implored, he beseeched. But they wouldn't listen. They ran.
They ran as though Stephen himself were after them. So he went on by
himself. There was nothing else to be done. He called to people as he
ran. They wouldn't listen. So he ran on alone--out of darkness into this
blaze of light.

For the account of what followed, Dale was the best witness. He saw and
heard everything from Michael's first entrance to the last terrible
moment. Young Dale was one of the best clergymen who ever served
Polchester. He was fearless, a fanatic about his beliefs, but otherwise
humorous, tolerant and wise. About this whole episode in Polchester he
spoke, a few months later, the truest of all summaries.

He was the last man in the world to exaggerate in his account of
anything. He did not rule out the possibility of miracles; he knew that
insanity is as common as sanity, that the words are often
interchangeable, that there are a thousand worlds and all of them true.
Then he adored Kendon. Of anyone else he might have said that lighting
the Cathedral was melodrama. (He did not object to melodrama. He knew
that it was often the truest poetry for the occasion.) But whatever the
Bishop did was right. So now he stood at his side, looking out on to the
dark Green, seeing the glare fade above the Library; he went out and
bent down over Lampiron's body. He looked up and saw the horses charging
the Green, figures flying through the Arden Gate. A dog was howling. The
wind was falling and a thin fine rain began to spatter the grass. He
helped to carry Lampiron into the Cathedral. He was dead of course.

It was then that he heard Michael Furze shouting.

'Honestly that was as queer a sight as I shall ever see. The Cathedral
was blazing with light and you could feel a stir everywhere. This wasn't
an exaggeration, a kind of poetic licence. You people' (it was in
Cronin's drawing-room a week later) 'can laugh if you like, and of
course all our nerves were on edge by that time, but I wasn't the only
one to notice it. It was like a mist when light should be clear, like
faint music when there oughtn't to be a sound, like a dream when you're
alone but know that you are surrounded by a thousand unseen listeners.

'All I can tell you is that the Cathedral seemed to be packed although,
save for the little crowd of us by the West Door, there wasn't a soul to
be seen.

'Lampiron, poor old boy, was lying there dead, his head smashed in. I
was going over to him when this man Furze ran through the door,
shouting something. I'd heard a lot about that old man's murder. Like
everyone else in the town I'd been made uneasy by it, restless,
disturbed. But so far as I know I'd never set eyes on this brother of
his before. For any of you who hadn't seen him he was a fat, flabby,
red-faced, sweaty fellow with a long protuberant nose. That was the only
time I ever saw him and I can best describe him by saying that he seemed
to me jointless, fat and loose, with sweat running down his nose.

'I hadn't of course at first the slightest notion of what he was saying.
I didn't even know who he was. He seemed simply a lunatic.

'For a moment he had me by the arm. I'm thin and bony, not very
muscular. I can only tell you I thought he'd break my arm. He seemed
tremendously strong, flabby though he looked. There was something rather
touching and pathetic about him. Well, a crazy man is always pathetic
anyway.

'As he shook my arm he shouted in my ear, as the young man shouted to
Father William. I can't tell you exactly what he said. It was to the
effect that I must come with him and see what he had to show, that this
was the end, the conclusion, the finale. He kept shouting: "This is the
end . . . We'll finish with him! We'll finish with him! . . ." Naturally
I hadn't the slightest idea what he meant.

'Then he left me--as suddenly as he had come to me--and went for poor
old Broad. Broad was almost off his head with fear and terror. He
couldn't keep his eyes from Lampiron. I doubt whether he'd ever seen a
dead man before and he'd known Lampiron very well. He was simply an
aguish jelly from head to foot. His little boy was there, far less
disturbed than his father was. He seemed to have a kind of protective
eye on him.

'This all happened in a very few minutes, you must understand. I am
trying to remember every detail.

'At any other time it might have been comic to see these two stout men,
one of them shaking the other who was already shivering like a jelly.
Poor Broad saw nothing to laugh at. Furze shouted: "Open that door! Open
that door! . . . Give me the key!"

'I didn't know what he meant until I saw Broad with a trembling hand
unlock the little door of the Harry Tower. I learnt afterwards that this
was the first day it had been opened. It had been closed, as you know,
for repairs. Furze started through the door and up the stone steps like
a madman. I didn't know what he was after, but I had an idea, I think,
that he meant some mischief to himself. In any case I followed. Doggett
was close behind me. By this time, I heard afterwards, numbers of people
were pressing in through the West Door. The whole town was bordering the
Green very shortly after this, the mounted police guarding it. The riot
was over. The fire-brigade held the High Street. Caul and a number of
others were already in the lock-up.

'Those King Harry stairs are narrow and twisty and dark. Furze was
talking at the top of his voice all the way up. I was now persuaded that
he was as mad as could be, and my great idea was to get to him before he
could throw himself from the Gallery. But when Doggett and I reached the
light and air again there was Furze standing there as quietly as could
be, his finger on his lip. I don't know why, but for a minute or so both
Doggett and I were dominated by him. Doggett will tell you the same. It
was as though he had something very important to say to us, like the
Ancient Mariner.

'What he _had_ to say was really nonsense as far as I remember it. It
was something about a crucifix--all the trouble had come from a
crucifix. He'd offended the Cathedral in some way or another. It didn't
do to play tricks with God. God was always stronger than you were.
Sacrilege was the worst crime of all. He caught hold of Doggett's
shoulder. Doggett said his eyes were full of tears. He was like a fat
overgrown baby about to cry. What he wanted to say was that things would
be all right now . . . once he and his brother were out of the way . . .
but let it be a warning, a warning to everybody . . . not to commit
sacrilege . . . and then something about the crucifix again. It was to
Doggett he was speaking and I daresay I'm reporting him wrong. He _did_,
however, use the words "sacrilege" and "crucifix" many times. The
strange thing was that we should be standing there so quietly talking,
the Cathedral fiery below us with the pillars and the arches, and
someone calling up to us from the bottom of the stairs. I must tell you
again--it all happened very quickly, not more than a few minutes in all.

'He broke away from us and ran up the stairs to the little room above
the Gallery. We followed him quickly and, just as we got there, he
turned to us, smiling excitedly, and cried, "Look! Look! Here he is!
Here he is!"

'He bent down over a hollow against the wall. He dragged something up.
He pulled something across the floor. Then he bent down again and,
turning to us (he was on his knees), threw something into the air with a
cry like a triumphant child. It was an old dusty bowler hat. The heap on
the floor looked like a pile of dirty clothes. It was a mass of
corruption.

'He dragged this after him; the old dirty boots bumped against the
wooden floor. I'm ashamed to say that, for that moment, neither Doggett
nor I could move. We heard him bumping the thing down the stairs. We saw
the tail of a shabby grey overcoat move round the corner as though it
were alive. All the time Furze was shouting, talking to himself--"Come
along, you old swine. Come along, you dirty old swine," and worse
things. We heard the boots bump, bump against the stairs. Then we
followed him. We must sound as though we were pretty useless. I can only
say that it was like a dream--as though we were _forced_ to be
spectators. But then, too, you must remember that it all happened with
very great speed.

'When we got to the Gallery he was standing by the rail. I had only a
moment in which to look over, to see, as it seemed to me, a great crowd
gathered in the nave, all looking up. Then, a second later, he had
gathered that filthy corpse up in his arms, raised it and flung it out,
away, down into the light and haze and the waiting crowd. It spun, it
circled, it fell.

'Furze, as you know, himself followed it. I remember that Doggett ran to
him, caught him, I think, by the coat, but he had clambered on to the
rail-edge, kicked with his foot at Doggett, shouted once, twice. I hear
his cry often still. It was triumphant as though he were bringing off
the coup of his life. Then he fell. His legs bent, his arms stretched. I
saw his nose shine. Funny the things that you notice at a crisis like
that.

'I don't know, I can't tell you what happened afterwards. There were
plenty of people there. I've not asked any of them. I felt very sick. I
was standing in the West Door breathing the air. One thing I remember
was the rain. It was coming down, softly, steadily, determinedly as
though, like a word from Heaven, it were falling blessedly to wash from
the earth all the stains, all the fear and blood and confusion. You know
the hiss that rain gives as it falls, the gentle, beautiful, rhythmic
sound. That was all. Everywhere there was quiet. I put my hand before my
face and prayed.'




CHAPTER IX

OUTSIDE IMPRESSION


                                              _The Times_ (London),
                                                   _October 13th, 1933_.

                             UNEMPLOYED IN POLCHESTER

      _A number of unemployed caused a disturbance in the cathedral town
      of Polchester last evening. They advanced in considerable force to
      the Town Hall, where they demanded to see the Mayor. The Town
      Library was set on fire and the windows of several buildings were
      broken. A conflict with the police occurred on the Cathedral
      Green. The rioters were quickly subdued. Three persons were killed
      and nineteen injured, eight of whom are in the local infirmary._

      _It is reported to-day that everything in the town is quiet._




CHAPTER X

EPILOGUE: RETURN OF THE SAME MUSIC


It was on an afternoon late in January 1934 that Bishop Kendon preached
his last sermon. The occasion was the Festival of St. Margaret--one of
the oldest of all the Cathedral ceremonies.

The weather on that day was halcyon; the town lay soaked in that
honey-fragrance of a too precipitate southern warmth; to-morrow the
gales will blow in across the shivering fields and hail will rattle the
farm windows, but to-day the sun lies like a warm hand on the stones of
the High Street; the lanes above Orange Street are scented with almost
the flower and leaf fragrance of May. Peace and stillness are iridescent
in the haze of shadow and sun-shot chimney smoke. As the bells ring for
the St. Margaret service Crispangle finds a purple leather prayer-book
for two old ladies; Bellamy stands, legs straddleways, talking to
Aldridge on the sunny pavement; the bright red-brick building rising on
the ruins of the old Library catches the sun and blushes perhaps for its
newness; two clergymen, their hands behind their backs, walk slowly up
the street, very seriously discussing their golf handicaps.

Here is Gaselee walking now a little as though the town were at his
command, raising his hat to Mrs. Cronin and hoping that she won't stop
him, reaching Arden Gate and pausing an instant to look down the hill of
the busy street, savouring it with his nostrils, feeling the warm sun on
his cheeks, sniffing that scent so especially Polcastrian, of cakes
newly baked, primroses washed with rain, the salt of waves purling over
crystal-shining sand, the warm brick walls of gardens, tang of
market-day dung and straw, the sudden chill of stone and brass on first
entering the Cathedral--all these merging into that deep eternal odour
of flowers, of rose and carnation, sweet-william and dark scented musk.

Yes, he loved this place that was to be now his home, loved it as it was
to-day--so safe, so tranquilly merging past and present into one lovely
security.

The bells pealed as though they were summoning all the countryside to
the festival of that good saint who washed the feet of the beggars,
cared for little children, and died, at the time of the first Church, at
the hands of the marauding Danes.

This would be, he reflected, one of the last sermons that the old Bishop
would preach.

A pity, a pity that good men must die! But then, he happily reflected,
there were always other good men coming on.

Then, half-way across the Green he encountered old Mordaunt, bent and
shrivelled, almost invisible beneath his grey shawl.

'Well, Mr. Mordaunt.' (There was developing in him quite naturally an
agreeable and hearty manner to everyone. You never know who might, after
all, be important.) 'How's the drawing?'

Mordaunt looked up and showed him a grey, wizened face like a monkey's.
He said something about being always 'at home.'

'At home? Don't you draw the Cathedral any more?'

He shook his head. 'Nothing to draw. . . .' Then muttered something
about 'No activity . . . gone to sleep.' But, whether he meant himself
or the Cathedral, Gaselee could not be sure. The old man shuffled away.

Near the West Door Gaselee encountered Porteous.

'Ha! Gaselee! Good-day. Good-day to you! Glorious day! Superb!'

'It is indeed,' Gaselee said, smiling. He detested Porteous, but why not
be amiable? They stood for a moment, watching the people passing in.

'Very probably the last time we shall hear the Bishop preach. Oughtn't
to be out. Lucky it's a fine day.'

'By the way,' said Gaselee, 'I heard, oddly enough, of your erstwhile
curate, Bird, yesterday.'

'Indeed!' said Porteous, stiffening.

Porteous, thought Gaselee, can never hide his feelings.

'Yes. It was Hornblower. You remember? He was a curate at St. James's.
He's got a church quite near Bird's--somewhere Eastbourne way. He was
lunching with him only last week. Likes him extremely--and his wife.
Such an intelligent woman he thought her. Says they are a devoted
couple, never saw two people so happy.'

'Really!' said Porteous. 'Very interesting.' Then added: 'We'd better go
in. Time's getting on.'

'Now why,' thought Gaselee, as he walked up the nave towards the choir,
'did I do that? Why did I have pleasure in annoying Porteous by telling
him that Bird is happy? Not a very pleasant trait in me. But I did. I
enjoyed it extremely. Porteous is such a fool. . . . All the same these
private pleasures are expensive. Porteous would make a bad enemy.'

He found his seat in the choir. He knelt down and prayed. Then, seated
again, he looked at the 'Service,' the Anthem--'Love is the key of life
and death'--Doggett.

Why, when had he heard that last? And then he clearly remembered. That
afternoon, his own confused thoughts about himself, his childhood, his
ambitions, his odd sense of shame, of shyness at the things he might
discover in himself if he went deep enough. . . . Then! How long ago in
experience if not in time! On that day, he remembered, although it was
but an ordinary afternoon service with a small gathering in the choir
alone, he had felt that the Cathedral was thronged with unseen
presences. Now to-day the Cathedral was thronged indeed with a human
congregation and yet he felt it to be empty--still sleeping, tombs and
chapels, brasses and stained glass, all unstirring. The Great Church
asleep.

And himself? The strange events of last year had done much for him.
Ronder, Moffit, soon the Bishop, going, gone. Poor old Braund so deeply
changed by his wife's illness that he was good for little more. Dale, in
reality, his only rival. And Dale did not want the things that he,
Gaselee, wanted. It might be that soon he would be the most powerful
Churchman in Polchester. . . .

He remained, throughout the service, in a kind of dream of power.
Ronder had warned him . . . of what? He could not remember.

He had felt like everyone else, last year, danger in the air. But that
was over, that episode closed. On the night of the riot he had run
away. . . . Foolish. His nerves had been unstrung. And how fortunate!
For he might otherwise have taken his place with the Bishop and seen
what Dale saw . . . the spinning corpse. . . . He turned his mind away.
These were nightmares. He was a man for daylight, common sense. That new
Committee. . . . He would ask Romney to serve and possibly Cronin. . . .
Who would be the new Bishop? . . . He was almost asleep--so still, so
quiet. . . . There, in the choir-stall opposite him, was Penny Marlowe
with her mother. Pretty girl. He himself must marry one day. Every man
ought to marry. She looked older. They say she was greatly upset at
Lampiron's death, a man old enough to be her grandfather . . . a good
girl . . . a good girl . . . good to her parents.

Across the spider-web of his misted consciousness came the anthem:

    Love is the key of life and death,
      Of hidden heavenly mystery:
    Of all Christ is, of all He saith,
        Love is the key.

And then the boy's voice (young Klitch, wasn't it?):

    As three times to His Saint He saith,
      He saith to me, He saith to thee,
    Breathing His Grace-conferring Breath:
        Lovest thou Me?

Then (very distant it seemed, as across a lighted gulf) the choir:

    Ah, Lord, I have such feeble faith,
      Such feeble hope to comfort me:
    But love it is, is strong as death,
        And I love Thee.

'Love is strong as death'--that wasn't true. That was nonsense. One
mustn't allow oneself to be cheated, to be sentimental. . . . One
mustn't be cheated. . . .

And, as though in answer, came the frail bell-clear voice of the Bishop.

Had he been asleep, thought Gaselee? Had anyone seen him? He sincerely
trusted not. He sat up in his stall very straight and looked sternly
about him, as though calling the others to order. He heard the Bishop
very plainly:

'My friends, I may not be here with you very much longer. I cannot have
anything at this time of day very new to say to you. Only to give you
all my love and beg you to believe in God's love and go to Him when you
are in trouble. . . .'

('Sentimental,' thought Gaselee, 'but that's always been the Bishop's
weakness.')

'. . . One thing I would say, however. I preached to you, some of you
may remember, on Christmas Day and spoke of the year just passing as one
of the most troubled in all Polchester's modern history. I need not
remind you of those events. On this beautiful sunny day we are all at
peace. Those incidents of last year must seem to us now unreal,
incredible. And yet they were not unreal. They were very real indeed.
You may remember how we all felt a disturbance, a disquiet, an
apprehension. That apprehension is gone now, but I hope that you will
not forget it. I believe, as you know well, that man is a spirit. I
believe that he may be tempted to forget his spiritual self and, when
that forgetfulness has hardened in him, it may be necessary for the
spiritual powers to be active, to call him to consciousness of what is
his only true reality. So I think they were active in this town last
year and even used the powers of evil to stir our sleeping consciences.

'Now that we are all at peace again, do not let us sink back into
security again. We are never secure. We shall never, in the conditions
of this world, _be_ secure. Our power is nothing against those other
powers. We have only one weapon and that is love.

'Last year, as you all know, there was hatred, distrust, jealousy, even
murder in this town. And now that we can look back and reflect, let us
take courage. So not despair of the world. Out of this confusion I
believe in all sincerity that a great new brotherhood of man may come.'

The old man seemed to be growing very feeble.

'Platitudes,' Gaselee thought. 'Platitudes. . . . It's of little use to
most of us, I'm afraid, to talk about those vague things'--vague . . .
vague . . .' His head nodded. He was almost gone. . . . He thought that
he saw the recumbent Black Bishop put up his mailed fist and hide a
yawn. . . . He woke with a start to see the old man walking, Broad
carrying the Cross in front of him, back to his throne. He still carried
himself superbly, his shoulders were scarcely bent. His face, as he
looked forwards at the High Altar, had the beautiful serenity and happy
calm of one of the saints.

He stood on the steps of the Altar to bless the people.

       *       *       *       *       *

Half-way across the Green in a misty purple twilight through which
silver stars were already burning, Gaselee encountered Klitch.

'Ah! Klitch! Happy to see you!'

'And you, Mr. Gaselee.'

'Been at the service?'

'Why, yes. I always like to hear the boy, you know. His voice will be
breaking soon.'

'He sang well. That's a nice anthem of Doggett's.'

'Very tuneful, very tuneful. . . . And the Bishop, bless him. He doesn't
say anything new, but I always like to hear him. And he won't be long
with us, I fear.'

'No, I fear not.'

They were in Norman Row. Klitch said:

'Excuse me, Mr. Gaselee. There's a thing in my shop I'd like to show
you. It won't take you a minute.'

'Why, certainly.'

They went into Klitch's shop. There was a fine smell of frying onions.

Klitch apologized. 'She's a good cook, my old woman. I look forward to
tea, I can tell you. But this was what I wanted to show you.'

He made a proud gesture towards a crucifix of black marble on a small
table by itself.

'That's magnificent,' said Gaselee.

'Yes, isn't it?' Klitch was beaming. 'And that's not for sale--not
whatever was offered for it. Funny story connected with that. I won't
bore you with it now, but the fact is it was sold to me by Michael
Furze. Then his brother Stephen bought it. Then, after all the trouble,
the widow sold it back to me again.'

'Dear me--what an extraordinary story!'

'Yes, isn't it?'

Gaselee stroked the marble. A beautiful piece--but he too was hungry. He
was dining with Lady Mary, Romney, and a young poet friend of Romney's
from London.

'Fine indeed! Fine indeed!' he said, with a friendly heartiness that
had, although he did not know it, an echo of Porteous' good-fellowship.

He gave the crucifix another pat, said good-night and went.

Klitch stood there, sniffing the onions, admiring the crucifix.

He was about to switch off the lights and go upstairs to his tea when he
suffered a strange hallucination.

In the shine of the shop illumination he thought he saw, staring in at
him from the street, a figure. He saw a bowler hat, a long white nose,
thin mean lips, a shapeless overcoat. The oddest thing was that he could
swear there was the dim vapour of human breath on the window-pane.

Klitch stared. There was nothing and no one there.

He turned away, switched off the lights, started up the stairs. Half-way
up the stairs he paused, shook his head. Then went on again.

Cheerfully he called up:

'Well, old lady, what have you got for us to-night? I'm famished!'




_Printed in Great Britain by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_.






[End of The Inquisitor, by Hugh Walpole]
