"Why, please?"
"Can"t you see that it"s all impossible? We"ve tried it now for weeks and it becomes more impossible every day. Your mother"s absolutely against it and always will be--and now at home--here--my mother----"
She broke off. He couldn"t leave her like that; he sprang up, went across to her, put his arms around her, and kissed her. She didn"t resist him nor move from him, but when she spoke again her voice was firmer and more resolved than before.
"No, Johnny, I mean it, I can think of nothing now but father. So long as he"s alive I must stay with him. He"s quite alone now, he has n.o.body. I can"t even think about you so long as he"s like this, so unwell and so unhappy. It isn"t as though I were very clever or old or anything. I"ve never until lately been allowed to do anything all my life, not the tiniest bit of housekeeping, and now suddenly it has all come. And if I were thinking of you, wanting to see you, having letters from you, I shouldn"t attend to this; I shouldn"t be able to think of it----"
"Do you still love me?"
"Why, of course. I shall never change."
"And do you think that I still love you?"
"Yes."
"And do you think I"ll change?"
"You may. But I don"t want to think so."
"Well, then, the main question is settled. It doesn"t matter how long we wait."
"But it _does_ matter. It may be for years and years. You"ve got to marry, you can"t just stay unmarried because one day you may marry me."
"Can"t I? You wait and see whether I can"t."
"But you oughtn"t to, Johnny. Think of your family. Think of your mother.
You"re the only son."
"Mother can just think of me for once. It will be a bit of a change for her. It will do her good. I"ve told her whom I want to marry, and she must just get used to it. She admits herself that she can"t have anything against you personally, except that you"re too young. I asked her whether she wanted me to marry a Dowager of sixty."
Joan moved away. She walked to the window and looked out at the grey mist sweeping like an army of ghostly messengers across the Cathedral Green.
She turned round to him.
"No, Johnny, this time it isn"t a joke. I mean absolutely what I say.
We"re not to meet alone or to write until--father doesn"t need me any more. I can"t think, I mustn"t think, of anything but father now. Nothing that you can say, or any one can say, will make me change my mind about that now.... And please go, Johnny, because it"s so hard while you"re here. And we _must_ do it. I"ll never change, but you"re free to, and you _ought_ to. It"s your duty to find some one more satisfactory than me."
But Johnny appeared not to have heard her last words. He had been looking about him, at the walls, the windows, the ceiling--rather as a young dog sniffs some place new to him.
"Joan, tell me. Are you all right here? You oughtn"t to be all alone here like this, just with your father. Can"t you get some one to come and stay?"
"No," she answered bravely. "Of course it"s all right. I"ve got Gladys, who"s been with us for years."
"There"s something funny," he said, still looking about him. "It feels queer to me--sort of unhappy."
"Never mind that," she said, hurriedly moving towards the door, as though she had heard footsteps. "You must go, Johnny. Kiss me once, the last time. And then no letters, no anything, until--until--father"s happy again."
She rested in his arms, suddenly tranquil, safe, at peace. Her hands were round his neck. She kissed his eyes. They clung together, suddenly two children, utterly confident in one another and in their mutual faith.
A hand was on the door. They separated. The Archdeacon came in. He peered into the dusky room.
"Joan! Joan! Are you there?"
She came across to him. "Yes, father, here I am. And this is Lord St.
Leath."
"How do you do, sir?" said Johnny.
"How do you do? I hope your mother is well."
"Very well, thank you, sir."
"That"s good, that"s good. I have some business to discuss with her.
Rather important business; I may come and see her to-morrow afternoon if she is disengaged; Will you kindly tell her?"
"Indeed I will, sir."
"Thank you. Thank you. This room is very dark. Why are there no lights?
Joan, you should have lights. There"s no one else here, is there?"
"No, father."
Johnny heard their voices echoing in the empty hall as he let himself out.
Brandon shut his study door and looked about him. The lamp on his table was lit, his study had a warm and pleasant air with the books gleaming in their shelves and the fire crackling. (You needed a fire on these late summer evenings.) Nevertheless, although the room looked comfortable, he did not at once move into it. He stood there beside the door, as though he was waiting for something. He listened. The house was intensely quiet. He opened the door and looked into the pa.s.sage. There was no one there. The gas hissed ever so slightly, like a whispering importunate voice. He came back into his room, closing the door very carefully behind him, went across softly to his writing-table, sat down, and took up his pen. His eyes were fixed on the door, and then suddenly he would jerk round in his chair as though he expected to catch some one who was standing just behind him.
Then began that fight that always now must be waged whenever he sat down at his desk, the fight to drive his thoughts, like sheep, into the only pen that they must occupy. He must think now only of one thing; there were others--pictures, ideas, memories, fears, horrors even--crowding, hovering close about him, and afterwards--after Pybus--he would attend to them.
Only one thing mattered now. "Yes, you gibbering idiots, do your worst; knock me down. Come on four to one like the cowards that you are, strike me in the back, take my wife from me, and ruin my house. I will attend to all of you shortly, but first--Pybus."
His lips were moving as he turned over the papers. _Was_ there some one in the room with him? His head was aching so badly that it was difficult to think. And his heart! How strangely that behaved in these days! Five heavy slow beats, then a little skip and jump, then almost as though it had stopped beating altogether.
Another thing that made it difficult to work in that room was that the Cathedral seemed so close. It was not close really, although you could, so often, hear the organ, but now Brandon had the strange fancy that it had drawn closer during these last weeks, and was leaning forward with its ear to his house, listening just as a man might! Funny how Brandon now was always thinking of the Cathedral as a person! Stones and bricks and mortar and bits of gla.s.s, that"s what the Cathedral was, and yet lately it had seemed to move and have a being of its own.
Fancies! Fancies! Really Brandon must attend to his business, this business of Pybus and Forsyth, which in a week now was to be settled. He talked to himself as he turned the papers over. He had seen the Bishop, and Ryle (more or less persuaded), and Bentinck-Major (dark horse, never could be sure of him), Foster, Rogers...Foster? Foster? Had he seen Foster? Why did the mention of that name suddenly commence the unveiling for him of a scene upon which, he must not look? The crossing the bridge, up the hill, at the turnstile, paying your shilling...no, no, no farther. And Bentinck-Major! That man laughed at him! Positively he dared, when a year ago he would have bent down and wiped the dust off his shoes!
Positively!
That man! That worm! That mean, sycophantic...He was beginning to get angry. He must not get angry. That"s what Puddifoot had said, that had been the one thing that old Puddifoot had said correctly. He must not get angry, not even with--Ronder.
At the mention of that name something seemed to stir in the room, some one to move closer. Brandon"s heart began to race round like a pony in a paddock. Very bad. Must keep quiet. Never get excited. Then for a moment his thoughts did range, roaming over that now so familiar ground of bewilderment. Why? Why? Why?
Why a year ago _that_, and now _this_? When he had done no one in the world any harm and had served G.o.d so faithfully? Why? Why? Why?
Back, back to Pybus. This wasn"t work. He had much to do and no time to lose. That enemy of his was working, you could be sure of that. Only a week! Only a week!
Was that some one moving in the room? Was there some one stealing behind him, as they had done once, as...? He turned sharply round, rising in his chair. No one there. He got up and began stealthily to pace the floor. The worst of it was that however carefully you went you could never be quite sure that some one was not just behind you, some one very clever, measuring his steps by yours. You could never be sure. How still the house was! He stopped by his door, after a moment"s hesitation opened it and looked out. No one there, only the gas whispering.
What was he doing, staring into the hall? He should be working, making sure of his work. He went back to his table. He began hurriedly to write a letter:
DEAR FOSTER--I cannot help feeling that I did not make myself quite clear when I was speaking to you yesterday about Forsyth as the best inc.u.mbent of the Pybus living. When I say best, I mean, of course, most suitable.