Читать книгу The Inquisitor - Hugh Walpole - Страница 9

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 Sévigné, 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. . . .