The Cathedral Part 21

"As there seems to be some difference of opinion in this matter," he said, "I think we had better vote upon it. Those in favour of the roller being granted to the School please signify."

Ronder, Foster and Witheram raised their hands.

"And those against?" said the Dean.

Brandon, Ryle and Bentinck-Major were against.

"I'm afraid," said the Dean, smiling anxiously, "that it will be for me to give the casting vote." He paused for a moment. Then, looking straight across the table at the Clerk, he said:

"I think I must decide _for_ the roller. Canon Ronder seems to me to have proved his case."

Every one, except possibly Ronder, was aware that this was the first occasion for many years that any motion of Brandon's had been defeated....

Without waiting for any further business the Archdeacon gathered together his papers and, looking neither to right nor left, strode from the room.

Book II

The Whispering Gallery

Chapter I

Five O'Clock--The Green Cloud

The cloud seemed to creep like smoke from the funnel of the Cathedral tower. The sun was setting in a fiery wreath of bubbling haze, shading in rosy mist the mountains of grey stone. The little cloud, at first in the shadowy air light green and shaped like a ring, twisted spirally, then, spreading, washed out and lay like a pool of water against the smoking sunset.

Green like the Black Bishop's ring.... Lying there, afterwards, until the orange had faded and the sky, deserted by the sun, was milk-white. The mists descended. The Cathedral chimes struck five. February night, cold, smoke-misted, enwrapped the town.

At a quarter to five Evensong was over and Cobbett was putting out the candles in the choir. Two figures slowly pa.s.sed down the darkening nave.

Outside the west door they paused, gazing at the splendour of the fiery sky.

"It's cold, but there'll be stars," Ronder said.

Stars. Cold. Brandon s.h.i.+vered. Something was wrong with him. His heart had clap-clapped during the Anthem as though a cart with heavy wheels had rumbled there. He looked suspiciously at Ronder. He did not like the man, confidently standing there addressing the sky as though he owned it. He would have liked the sunset for himself.

"Well, good-night, Canon," brusquely. He moved away.

But Ronder followed him.

"One moment, Archdeacon.... Excuse me.... I have been wanting an opportunity...."

Brandon paused. The man was nervous. Brandon liked that.

"Yes?" he said.

The rosy light was fading. Strange that little green cloud rising like smoke from the tower....

"At the last Chapter we were on opposite sides. I want to say how greatly I've regretted that. I feel that we don't know one another as we should. I wonder if you would allow me..."

The light was fading--Ronder's spectacles shone, his body in shadow.

"...to see something more of you--to have a real talk with you?"

Brandon smiled grimly to himself in the dusk. This fool! He was afraid then. He saw himself hatless in Bennett's shop; outside, the jeering crowd.

"I'm afraid, Canon Ronder, that we shall never see eye to eye here about many things. If you will allow me to say so, you have perhaps not been here quite long enough to understand the real needs of this diocese. You must go slowly here--more slowly than perhaps you are prepared for. We are not Modernists here."

The spectacles, alone visible, answered: "Well, let us discuss it then.

Let us talk things over. Let me ask you at once, Have you something against me, something that I have done unwittingly? I have fancied lately a personal note.... I am absurdly sensitive, but if there _is_ anything that I have done, please let me apologise for it. I want you to tell me."

Anything that he had done? The Archdeacon smiled grimly to himself in the dusk.

"I really don't think, Canon, that talking things over will help us. There is really nothing to discuss.... Good-night."

The green cloud was gone. Ronder, invisible now, remained in the shadow of the great door.

II

Beside the river, above the mill, a woman's body was black against the gold-crested water. She leaned over the little bridge, her body strong, confident in its physical strength, her hands clasped, her eyes meditative.

No need for secrecy to-night. Her father was in Drymouth for two days.

Quarter to five. The chimes struck out clear across the town. Hearing them she looked back and saw the sky a flood of red behind the Cathedral. She longed for Falk to-night, a new longing. He was better than she had supposed, far, far better. A good boy, tender and warm-hearted. To be trusted. Her friend. At first he had stood to her only for a means of freedom. Freedom from this horrible place, from this horrible man, her father, more horrible than any others knew. Her mother had known. She s.h.i.+vered, seeing that body, heavy-breasted, dull white, as, stripped to the waist, he bent over the bed to strike. Her mother's cry, a little moan.... She s.h.i.+vered again, staring into the sunset for Falk....

He was with her. They leant over the bridge together, his arm around her.

They said very little.

She looked back.

"See that strange cloud? Green. Ever seen a green cloud before? Ah, it's peaceful here."

She turned and looked into his face. As the dusk came down she stroked his hair. He put his arm round her and held her close to him.

III

The lamps in the High Street suddenly flaring beat out the sky. There above the street itself the fiery sunset had not extended; the fair watery s.p.a.ce was pale egg-blue; as the chimes so near at hand struck a quarter to five the pale colour began slowly to drain away, leaving ashen china shades behind it, and up to these shades the orange street-lights extended, patronising, flaunting.