The Cathedral Part 27

"Think so, wouldn't you? But you'd be wrong. A sudden shock, and that man would be nowhere. Given to fits of anger, always tried his system too hard, never learnt control. Might have a stroke any day for all he looks so strong!"

"Really, really! Dear me!" said Ronder.

"Course these are medical secrets in a way. Know it won't go any farther.

But it's curious, isn't it? Appearances are deceptive--d.a.m.ned deceptive.

That's what they are. Brandon's brain's never been his strong point. Might go any moment."

"Dear me, dear me," said Ronder. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Oh, I don't mean," said Puddifoot, puffing and blowing out his cheeks like a cherub in a picture by Sir Joshua Reynolds, "that he'll die to- morrow, you know--or have a stroke either. But he ain't as secure as he looks. And he don't take care of himself as he should."

Outside the Library Ronder paused.

"Going in here for a book, doctor. See you later."

"Yes, yes," said Puddifoot, his eyes staring up and down the street, as though they would burst out of his head. "Very good--very good. See you later then," and so went blowing down the hill.

Ronder pa.s.sed under the gloomy portals of the Library and found his way, through faith rather than vision, up the stone stairs that smelt of mildew and blotting-paper, into the high dingy room. He had had a sudden desire the night before to read an old story by Bage that he had not seen since he was a boy--the violent and melancholy _Hermsp.r.o.ng_.

It had come to him, as it were, in his dreams--a vision of himself rocking in a hammock in his uncle's garden on a wonderful summer afternoon, eating apples and reading _Hermsp.r.o.ng_, the book discovered, he knew not by what chance, in the dusty depths of his uncle's library. He would like to read it again. _Hermsp.r.o.ng_! the very scent of the skin of the apple, the blue-necked tapestry of light between the high boughs came back to him. He was a boy again.... He was brought up sharply by meeting the little red-rimmed eyes of Miss Milton. Red-rimmed to-day, surely, with recent weeping. She sat humped up on her chair, glaring out into the room.

"It's all right, Miss Milton," he said, smiling at her. "It's an old book I want. I won't bother you. I'll look for myself."

He pa.s.sed into the further dim secrecies of the Library, whither so few penetrated. Here was an old ladder, and, mounted upon it, he confronted the vanished masterpieces of Holcroft and Radcliffe, Lewis and Jane Porter, Clara Reeve and MacKenzie, old calf-bound ghosts who threw up little clouds of sighing dust as he touched them with his fingers. He was happily preoccupied with his search, balancing his stout body precariously on the trembling ladder, when he fancied that he heard a sigh.

He stopped and listened; this time there could be no mistake. It was a sigh of prodigious intent and meaning, and it came from Miss Milton.

Impatiently he turned back to his books; he would find his Bage as quickly as possible and go. He was not at all in the mood for lamentations from Miss Milton. Ah! there was _Barham Downs. Hermsp.r.o.ng_ could not be far away. Then suddenly there came to him quite unmistakably a sob, then another, then two more, finally something that horribly resembled hysterics. He came down from his ladder and crossed the room.

"My dear Miss Milton!" he exclaimed. "Is there anything I can do?"

She presented a strange and unpoetic appearance, huddled up in her wooden arm-chair, one fat leg crooked under her, her head sinking into her ample bosom, her whole figure shaking with convulsive grief, the chair creaking sympathetically with her.

Ronder, seeing that she was in real distress, hurried up to her.

"My dear Miss Milton, what is it?"

For a while she could not speak; then raised a face of mottled purple and white, and, dabbing her cheeks with a handkerchief not of the cleanest, choked out between her sobs:

"My last week--Sat.u.r.day--Sat.u.r.day I go--disgrace--ugh, ugh--dismissed-- Archdeacon."

"But I don't understand," said Ronder, "who goes? Who's disgraced?"

"I go!" cried Miss Milton, suddenly uncurling her body and her sobs checked by her anger. "I shouldn't have given way like this, and before you, Canon Ronder. But I'm ruined--ruined!--and for doing my duty!"

Her change from the sobbing, broken woman to the impa.s.sioned avenger of justice was so immediate that Ronder was confused. "I still don't understand, Miss Milton," he said. "Do you say you are dismissed, and, if so, by whom?"

"I _am_ dismissed! I _am_ dismissed!" cried Miss Milton. "I leave here on Sat.u.r.day. I have been librarian to this Library, Canon Ronder, for more than twenty years. Yes, twenty years. And now I'm dismissed like a dog with a month's notice."

She had collected her tears and, with a marvellous rapidity, packed them away. Her eyes, although red, were dry and glittering; her cheeks were of a pasty white marked with small red spots of indignation. Ronder, looking at her and her dirty hands, thought that he had never seen a woman whom he disliked more.

"But, Miss Milton," he said, "if you'll forgive me, I still don't understand. Under whom do you hold this appointment? Who have the right to dismiss you? and, whoever it was, they must have given some reason."

Miss Milton, was now the practical woman, speaking calmly, although her bosom still heaved and her fingers plucked confusedly with papers on the table in front of her. She spoke quietly, but behind her words there were so vehement a hatred, bitterness and malice that Ronder observed her with a new interest.

"There is a Library Committee, Canon Ronder," she said. "Lady St. Leath is the president. It has in its hands the appointment of the librarian. It appointed me more than twenty years ago. It has now dismissed me with a month's notice for what it calls--what it _calls_, Canon Ronder-- 'abuse and neglect of my duties.' Abuse! Neglect! Me! about whom there has never been a word of complaint until--until----"

Here again Miss Milton's pa.s.sions seemed to threaten to overwhelm her. She gathered herself together with a great effort.

"I know my enemy, Canon Ronder. Make no mistake about that. I know my enemy. Although, what I have ever done to him I cannot imagine. A more inoffensive person----"

"Yes.--But," said Canon Ronder gently, "tell me, if you can, exactly with what they charge you. Perhaps I can help you. Is it Lady St. Leath who----"

"No, it is _not_ Lady St. Leath," broke in Miss Milton vehemently. "I owe Lady St. Leath much in the past. If she has been a little imperious at times, that after all is her right. Lady St. Leath is a perfect lady. What occurred was simply this: Some months ago I was keeping a book for Lady St. Leath that she especially wished to read. Miss Brandon, the daughter of the Archdeacon, came in and tried to take the book from me, saying that her mother wished to read it. I explained to her that it was being kept for Lady St. Leath; nevertheless, she persisted and complained to Lord St.

Leath, who happened to be in the Library at the time; he, being a perfect gentleman, could of course do nothing but say that she was to have the book.

"She went home and complained, and it was the Archdeacon who brought up the affair at a Committee meeting and insisted on my dismissal. Yes, Canon Ronder, I know my enemy and I shall not forget it."

"Dear me," said Canon Ronder benevolently, "I'm more than sorry. Certainly it sounds a little hasty, although the Archdeacon is the most honourable of men."

"Honourable! Honourable!" Miss Milton rose in her chair. "Honourable! He's so swollen with pride that he doesn't know what he is. Oh! I don't measure my words. Canon Ronder, nor do I see any reason why I should.

"He has ruined my life. What have I now at my age to go to? A little secretarial work, and less and less of that. But it's not _that_ of which I complain. I am hurt in the very depths of my being, Canon Ronder.

In my pride and my honour. Stains, wounds that I can never forget!"

It was so exactly as though Miss Milton had just been reading _Hermsp.r.o.ng_ and was quoting from it that Ronder looked about him, almost expecting to see the dusty volume.

"Well, Miss Milton, perhaps I can put a little work in your way."

"You're very kind, sir," she said. "There's more than I in this town, sir, who're glad that you've come among us, and hope that perhaps your presence may lead to a change some day amongst those in high authority."

"Where are you living, Miss Milton?" he asked.

"Three St. James' Lane," she answered. "Just behind the Market and St.

James' Church. Opposite the Rectory. Two little rooms, my windows looking on to Mr. Morris'."

"Very well, I'll remember."

"Thank you, sir, I'm sure. I'm afraid I've forgotten myself this morning, but there's nothing like a sense of injustice for making you lose your self-control. I don't care who hears me. I shall not forgive the Archdeacon."

"Come, come, Miss Milton," said Ronder. "We must all forgive and forget."

Her eyes narrowed until they almost disappeared.

"I don't wish to be unfair, Canon Ronder," she said. "But I've worked for more than twenty years like an honourable woman, and to be turned out.-- Not that I bear Mrs. Brandon any grudge, coming down to see Mr. Morris so often as she does. I daresay she doesn't have too happy a time if all were known."

"Now, now," said Ronder. "This won't do, Miss Milton. You won't make your case better by talking scandal, you know. I have your address. If I can help you I will. Good afternoon."

Forgetting _Hermsp.r.o.ng_, having now more important things to consider, he found his way down the steps and out into the air.