The Cathedral Part 59

"I beg your pardon," she said nervously.

"I was speaking," said Miss Ronder in her clear incisive voice, "of one of our maids, who has suddenly engaged herself to the most unpleasing-looking butcher's a.s.sistant you can imagine--all spots and stammer. Quite a pretty girl, too. But it's fear of loneliness that does it. Wanting affection."

Dear me! Mrs. Bentinck-Major had never had very much affection from Mr.

Bentinck-Major, and had not very consciously missed it, but then she had a dog, a spaniel, whom she loved most dearly.

"We're all lonely--all of us--to the very end," said Miss Ronder, as though she was thinking of some one in especial. And she was. She was thinking of her nephew. "I shouldn't wonder if the Queen isn't feeling more lonely to-day than she has ever felt in all her life before."

And then they saw that dreadful man, Davray, lurching along. _He_ was lonely, but then he deserved to be, with his _drink_ and all.

_Wicked_ man! Mrs. Bentinck-Major s.h.i.+vered. She didn't know how he dared to go to church. He shouldn't be allowed. On such a day, too. What would the Queen herself think, did she know?

The two ladies and Davray pa.s.sed through the door at the same time.

And now every one was inside. The great bell dropped notes like heavy weights into a liquid well. For the cup of the Cathedral swam in colour, the light pouring through the great Rose window, and that mult.i.tude of persons seeming to sway like shadows beneath a sheet of water from amber to purple, from purple to crimson, from crimson to darkest green.

Individuality was lost. The Cathedral, thinking nothing of Kings and Queens, of history, of movement forward and retrograde, but only of itself and of the life that it had been given, that it now claimed for its own, with haughty confidence a.s.sumed its Power...the Power of its own Immortality that is neither man's nor G.o.d's.

The trumpets began. They rang out the Psalm that had been given them, and transformed it into a cry of exultant triumph. Their notes rose, were caught by the pillars, acclaimed, tossed higher, caught again in the eaves and corners of the great building, swinging backwards and forwards....

"Now listen to My greatness! You created Me for the Wors.h.i.+p of your G.o.d!

"And now I am your G.o.d! Out of your forms and ceremonies you have made a new G.o.d! And I, thy G.o.d, am a jealous G.o.d...."

Ronder read the First Lesson.

"That's Ronder," the town-people whispered, "the new Canon. Oh! he's clever. You should hear him preach!"

"Reads _beautiful!_" Gladys, the Brandons' maid, whispered to Annie, the kitchen-maid. "I do like a bit of fine reading."

By those accustomed to observe it was noticed that Ronder read with very much more a.s.surance than he had done three months ago. It was as though he knew now where he was, as though he were settled down now and had his place--and it would take some very strong people to s.h.i.+ft him from that place. Oh, yes. It would!

And Brandon read the Second Lesson. As usual, when he stepped down from the choir, slowly, impressively, pausing for a moment before he turned to the Lectern, strangers whispered to one another, "That's a handsome parson, that is." He seemed to hesitate again before going up as though he had stumbled over a step. Very slowly he read the opening words; slowly he continued.

Puddifoot, looking up across from his seat in the side aisle, thought, "There's something the matter with him." Suddenly he paused, looked about him, stared over the congregation as though he were searching for somebody, then slowly again went on and finished:

"Here endeth--the Second Lesson."

Then, instead of turning, he leaned forward, gripping the Lectern with both hands, and seemed again to be searching for some one.

"Looks as though he were going to have a stroke," thought Puddifoot. Then very carefully, as though he were moving in darkness, he turned and groped his way downwards. With bent head he walked back into the choir.

Soon they were scattered--every one according to his or her own individuality--the prayers had broken them up, too many of them, too long, and the wooden kneelers so hard. Minds flew like birds about the Cathedral--ideas, gold and silver, black and grey, soapy and soft, hard as iron. The men yawned behind their trumpets, the School played Noughts and Crosses--the Old Lady and her Triumph stepped away into limbo.

And then suddenly it was time for the Bishop's sermon. Every one hoped that it would not be long; pa.s.sing clouds veiled the light behind the East window and the Roses faded to ashes. The organ rumbled in its crotchety voice as the old man slowly disentangled himself from his throne, and slowly, slowly, slowly advanced down the choir. When he appeared above the nave, and paused for an instant to make sure of the step, all the minds in the Cathedral suddenly concentrated again, the birds flew back, the air was still. At the sight of that very old man, that little bag of shaking bones, all the brief history of the world was suddenly apparent. Greater than Alexander, more beautiful than Helen of Troy, wiser than Gamaliel, more powerful than Artaxerxes, he made the secret of immortal life visible to all.

His hair was white, and his face was ashen grey, and his hands were like bird's claws. Like a child finding its way across its nursery floor he climbed to the pulpit, being now so far distant in heaven that earth was dark to him.

"The Lord be with you."

"And with Thy Spirit."

His voice was clear and could be heard by all. He spoke for a very short time. He told them about the Queen, and that she had been good to her people for sixty years, and that she had feared G.o.d; he told them that that goodness was the only secret of happiness; he told them that Jesus Christ came nearer and nearer, and ever more near, did one but ask Him.

He said, "I suppose that I shall never speak to you in this place again. I am very old. Some of you have thought, perhaps, that I was too old to do my work here--others have wanted me to stay. I have loved you all very much, and it is lonely to go away from you. Our great and good Queen also is old now, and perhaps she, too, in the middle of her triumph, is feeling lonely. So pray for her, and then pray for me a little, that when I meet G.o.d He may forgive me my sins and help me to do better work than I have done here. Life is sad sometimes, and often it is dark, but at the end it is beautiful and wonderful, for which we must thank G.o.d."

He knelt down and prayed, and every one, Davray and Mrs. Combermere, Ellen Stiles and Morris, Lady St. Leath and Mrs. Brandon, Joan and Lawrence, Ronder and Foster, prayed too.

And then they all, all for a moment utterly united in soul and body and spirit, knelt down and the old man blessed them from the pulpit.

Then they sang "Now Thank We All Our G.o.d."

Afterwards came the Benediction.

Chapter VI

Tuesday, June 22: II. The Fair

As Brandon left the Cathedral Ronder came up to him. Brandon, with bowed head, had turned into the Cloisters, although that was not the quickest way to his home. The two men were alone in the greyness lit from without by the brilliant sun as though it had been a stage setting.

"I beg your pardon, Archdeacon, I must speak to you."

Brandon raised his head. He stared at Ronder, then said:

"I have nothing to say to you. I do not wish to speak to you."

"I know that you do not." Ronder's face was really troubled; there was an expression in his eyes that his aunt had never seen.

Brandon moved on, looking neither to right nor left.

Ronder continued: "I know how you feel about me. But to-day--somehow--this service--I feel that I can't allow our quarrel to continue without speaking. It isn't easy for me----" He broke off.

Brandon's voice shook.

"I have nothing to say to you. I do not wish to say anything to you. You have been my enemy since you first came to this town. My work--my family----"

"I am not your enemy. Indeed, indeed I am not. I won't deny that when I came here I found that you, who were the most important man in the place, thought differently from myself on every important question. You, yourself, who are an honest man, would not have had me back out from what I believed to be my duty. I could do no other. But this personal quarrel between us was most truly not of my own seeking. I have liked and admired you from the beginning. Such a matter as the Pybus living has forced us into opposition, but I am convinced that there are many views that we have in common, that we could be friends working together--"

Brandon stopped.

"Did my son, or did he not, come to see you before he went up to London?"