The Cathedral Part 39

Hogg was all amiable geniality. "I know it must be against the grain, Archdeacon, having to deal with the likes of me. You've always counted yourself a strike above us country-folk, haven't you, and quite natural too. But, again, in the course of nature we've both of us had children and that, as it turns out, is where we finds our common ground, so to speak-- you a boy and me a lovely girl. _Such_ a lovely girl, Archdeacon, as it's natural enough your son should want to run away with."

Brandon went across to his writing-table and sat down.

"Mr. Hogg," he said, "it is true that I had a letter from my son this morning telling me that he had gone up to London with your daughter and was intending to marry her as soon as possible. You will not expect that I should approve of that step. My first impulse was, naturally enough, to go at once to London and to prevent his action at all costs. On thinking it over, however, I felt that as he had run away with the girl the least that he could now do was to marry her.

"I'm sure you will understand my feeling when I say that in taking this step I consider that he has disgraced himself and his family. He has cut himself off from his family irremediably. I think that really that is all that I have to say."

Behind Hogg's strange little half-closed eyes some gleam of anger and hatred pa.s.sed. There was no sign of it in the geniality of his open smile.

"Why, certainly, Archdeacon, I can understand that you wouldn't care for what he has done. But boys will be boys, won't they? We've both been boys in our time, I daresay. You've looked at it from your point of view, and that's natural enough. But human nature's human nature, and you must forgive me if I look at it from mine. She's my only girl, and a good girl she's been to me, keepin' herself _to_ herself and doing her work and helping me wonderful. Well, your Young spark comes along, likes the look of her and ruins her...."

The Archdeacon made some movement----

"Oh, you may say what you like, Archdeacon, and he may tell you what _he_ likes, but you and I know what happens when two young things with hot blood gets together and there's n.o.body by. They may _mean_ to be straight enough, but before they knows where they are, nature's took hold of them, and there they are.... But even supposin' that 'asn't happened, I don't know as I'm much better off. That girl was the very prop of my business; she's gone, never to return, accordin' to her own account.

As to this marryin' business, that may seem to you, Archdeacon, to improve things, but I'm not so sure that it does after all. You may be all very 'igh and mighty in your way, but I'm thinkin' of myself and the business.

What good does my girl marryin' your son do to me? That's what I want to know."

Brandon's hands were clenched upon the table. Nevertheless he still spoke quietly.

"I don't think, Mr. Hogg," he said, "that there's anything to be gained by our discussing this just now. I have only this morning heard of it. You may be a.s.sured that justice will be done, absolute justice, to your daughter and yourself."

Hogg moved to the door.

"Why, certainly, Archdeacon. It is a bit early to discuss things. I daresay we shall be havin' many a talk about it all before it's over. I'm sure I only want to be friendly in the matter. As I said before, we're in the same box, you and me, so to speak. That ought to make us tender towards one another, oughtn't it? One losing his son and the other his daughter.

"Such a good girl as she was too. Certainly I'll be going, Archdeacon; leave you to think it over a bit. I daresay you'll see my point of view in time."

"I think, Mr. Hogg, there's nothing to be gained by your coming here. You shall hear from me."

"Well, as to that, Archdeacon," Hogg turned from the half-opened door, smiling, "that's as may be. One can get further sometimes in a little talk than in a dozen letters. And I'm really not much of a letter-writer. But we'll see 'ow things go on. Good-evenin'."

The talk had lasted but five minutes, and every piece of furniture in the room, the chairs, the table, the carpet, the pictures, seemed to have upon it some new stain of disfigurement. Even the windows were dimmed.

Brandon sat staring in front of him. The door opened again and his wife came in.

"That was Samuel Hogg who has just left you?"

"Yes," he said.

He looked across the room at her and was instantly surprised by the strangest feeling. He was not, in his daily life, conscious of "feelings"

of any sort--that was not his way. But the events of the past two days seemed to bring him suddenly into a new contact with real life, as though, having lived in a balloon all this time, he had been suddenly b.u.mped out of it with a jerk and found Mother Earth with a terrible bang. He would have told you a week ago that there was nothing about his wife that he did not know and nothing about his own feelings towards her--and yet, after all, the most that he had known was to have no especial feelings towards her of any kind.

But to-day had been beyond possible question the most horrible day he had ever known, and it might be that the very horror of it was to force him to look upon everything on earth with new eyes. It had at least the immediate effect now of showing his wife to him as part of himself, as some one, therefore, hurt as he was, smirched and soiled and abused as he, needing care and kindness as he had never known her to need it before. It was a new feeling for him, a new tenderness.

He greeted and welcomed it as a relief after the horror of Hogg's presence. Poor Amy! She was in as bad a way as he now--they were at last in the same box.

"Yes," he said, "that was Hogg."

Looking at her now in this new way, he was also able to see that she herself was changed. She figured definitely as an actor now with an odd white intensity in her face, with some mysterious purpose in her eyes, with a resolve in the whole poise of her body that seemed to add to her height.

"Well," she said, "what train are you taking up to London?"

"What train?" he repeated after her.

"Yes, to see Falk."

"I am not going to see Falk."

"You're not going up to him?"

"Why should I go?"

"Why should you go? _You_ can ask me that?...To stop this terrible marriage."

"I don't intend to stop it."

There was a pause. She seemed to summon every nerve in her body to her control.

The twitching of her fingers against her dress was her only movement.

"Would you please tell me what you mean to do? After all, I am his mother."

The tenderness that he had felt at first sight of her was increasing so strangely that it was all he could do not to go over to her. But his horror of any demonstration kept him where he was.

"Amy, dear," he said, "I've had a dreadful day--in every way a terrible day. I haven't had time, as things have gone, to think things out. I want to be fair. I want to do the right thing. I do indeed. I don't think there's anything to be gained by going up to London. One thing only now I'm clear about. He's got to marry the girl now he's gone off with her. To do him justice he intends to do that. He says that he has done her no harm, and we must take his word for that. Falk has been many things-- careless, reckless, selfish, but never in all his life dishonourable. If I went up now we should quarrel, and perhaps something irreparable would occur. Even though he was persuaded to return, the mischief is done. He must be just to the girl. Every one in the town knows by now that she went with him--her father has been busy proclaiming the news even though there has been no one else."

Mrs. Brandon said nothing. She had made in herself the horrible discovery, after reading Falk's letter, that her thoughts were not upon Falk at all, but upon Morris. Falk had flouted her; not only had he not wanted her, but he had gone off with a common girl of the town. She had suddenly no tenderness for him, no anger against him, no thought of him except that his action had removed the last link that held her.

She was gazing now at Morris with all her eyes. Her brain was fastened upon him with an intensity sufficient almost to draw him, hypnotised, there to her feet. Her husband, her home, Polchester, these things were like dim shadows.

"So you will do nothing?" she said.

"I must wait," he said, "I know that when I act hastily I act badly...."

He paused, looked at her doubtfully, then with great hesitation went on: "We are together in this, Amy. I've been--I've been--thinking of myself and my work perhaps too much in the past. We've got to see this through together."

"Yes," she answered, "together." But she was thinking of Morris.

Chapter VIII

The Wind Flies Over the House

Later, that day, she went from the house. It was a strange evening. Two different weathers seemed to have met over the Polchester streets. First there was the deep serene beauty of the May day, pale blue faintly fading into the palest yellow, the world lying like an enchanted spirit asleep within a gla.s.s bell, reflecting the light from the s.h.i.+ning surface that enfolded it. In this light houses, gra.s.s, cobbles lay as though stained by a painter's brush, bright colours like the dazzling pigment of a wooden toy, glittering under the s.h.i.+ning sky.

This was a normal enough evening for the Polchester May, but across it, s.h.i.+vering it into fragments, broke a stormy and bl.u.s.tering wind, a wind that belonged to stormy January days, cold and violent, with the hint of rain in its murmuring voice. It tore through the town, sometimes carrying hurried and, as it seemed, terrified clouds with it; for a while the May light would be hidden, the air would be chill, a few drops like flashes of gla.s.s would fall, gleaming against the bright colours--then suddenly the sky would be again unchallenged blue, there would be no cloud on the horizon, only the pavements would glitter as though reflecting a gla.s.sy dome. Sometimes it would be more than one cloud that the wind would carry on its track--a company of clouds; they would appear suddenly above the horizon, like white-faced giants peering over the world's rim, then in a huddled confusion they would gather together, then start their flight, separating, joining, merging, dwindling and expanding, swallowing up the blue, threatening to encompa.s.s the pale saffron of the lower sky, then vanis.h.i.+ng with incredible swiftness, leaving warmth and colour in their train.