The Black Fox A Novel Of The Seventies (11 page)

"Not at all." The answer was more than genial, it was said from the heart. "At any time ... at any time."

They were out from the mists of speculation and controversy into the bright sun of actuality and future firm hope. Canon Throcton dismissed from his mind the silly boy s talk and the Bishops kindly wish to protect his lamb. The Bishop waved genially to him as he left the spacious Carolingian study in which they had met. With real lightness of step he went down the fine carved stairway with its wide shallow steps. As he made his way across the lawn the high Cathedral clock chimed "Ding, Dong, Bell!" and to his mind set the words "De facto Dean."

"As good as done," he murmured to himself. "And all by keeping one's temper, swallowing one's disappointment and waiting cheerfully for the best which is the real substitute for the good."

When his mind, now fully at ease, ran back over the past highly-satisfactory conversation. He had made a good case for his studies and his standpoint. Not only was he clearly useful to the Bishop, he had now been able to show that he was sound, soundly within Anglicanism's ample bounds. But—his mind ran back onto the silly subject again—how odd young Halliwell had been fostering his father's folk-tales. The mission field—what a strange and indeed presumptuous vocation. They pick up more tares than they sow our own wheat. And what was it that used to be said at Cambridge of the three types of ordinands? Yes, that was it—the picked few who had fine enough intelligence to have succeeded in the lay world never went to parishes—they were given—like himself—dignities either in the Universities or in the Cathedral closes. The large middle lot became the ordinary parish clergy. The simplest of all that could only get a pass degree— they went out as missionaries, yes, to such places as Persia and China. Unteachable, and so unwaveringly convinced they would teach others.

He smiled to himself as he paused before his own door. Quite apart from reason, common sense proved that there was no need for the compensations of superstition in a world where a rational insight, an understanding of men and sound scholarship made a clear path to preferment. As for health of the body—well there, as science went on, increasingly the medical profession could cover such risks and cancel such distresses. Dr. Wilkes was a lively enough mind. He smiled still further—"I wonder whether he is interested in the nice problem of euthanasia? I suppose we 'of the Cloth' would fight him, if he ventured to hint it—-but we have much to gain. When one is hale then one should be in office. Does that poor half-corpse in the Deanery really want to be kept living? Anyhow isn't it clear that my pleasure in the place while I am sound in wind and limb would add more to the sum of happiness than his semi-miserable semi-consciousness?"

The Bishop had scarcely had time to settle himself at his desk before the door opened and Halliwell, his regulation black frock-coat breast-plated with a fan of papers, entered. But for a moment his master saw him as more and other than a messenger of business.

"Halliwell, don't think I'm unaware of what St. Paul calls 'the mystery of Godliness.' Indeed it is the mystery, the profound mystery of it that keeps me, I sometimes think, among the moneychangers and the sellers of doves in the outer courts of the Temple!"

"You think, Sir, there are real, direct experiences that are as authentic, perhaps more so—I mean more convincing than ever authority, by itself, can be?"

"Ah, there's the rub. Mysticism ends in Rome or Rant. Oh, yes, there's something there. One day, if you become a Dean you'll have time to read William Law. He can certainly help our style. But our vision—I'm not so sure. Yes, there's a power of

some sort to be found in, in the non-liturgical, non-verbal forms of prayer. But it's dangerous and we don't know how to handle it. Steam was a wonderful discovery but even when I was young steam-engines were always blowing up and killing people. Even in this Close of ours, look at some of them, the more zealous— queer, very queer. More religion, you say. Yes and no. Yes, if we knew more about it. No, if we only know what we now know. I know we ought to know. The Church of the Via Media is the Church of Knowledge—neither Authority nor Emotionalism. But look "

The Chaplain glanced at the level eyes that questioned him, so clear in what they saw, so puzzled by the beyond which would not come into clear focus. Halliwell dropped his own to the papers he was holding just under his nose, "Yes, Sir, I see. I'd like to think it over. Anyhow," and he raised his eyes to his Lord and the corner of his mouth with a smile, while he fluttered the correspondence, "y ou will instruct me how to soothe the flutterings of some of these dovecots."

The Bishop chuckled. "Perhaps, you know," he threw out as they plunged in, "perhaps humour may not be so far from holiness. It's certainly an ingredient of humility!"

9

THE SPRING WEATHER HAD NOW DECIDED DEFINITELY TO BEGIN—after a number of rather exasperating false starts. The whole Close therefore was far more cheerful—almost at its best. Indeed it was "A lovesome thing, God wot!" Poetry of such a calibre was at this time almost too much quoted by its inhabitants as crocuses took the place of snowdrops, then daffodils that of the crocuses, and hyacinths, narcissi and the first tulips completed the cycle of the bulbs.

Miss Throcton felt the happiness too. She felt, also, that she might have real grounds, based on something more assured than an English spring. Her brother now seemed almost purposely trying to make up for his quick and sharp retreat into estrangement. Now with the brighter days their relationship seemed to have reached a degree of ease—if not of intimacy—that she never remembered before. She sometimes felt that he must almost consider her as his friend and companion. Day after day he would come and sit with her. He would stay on over their tea telling her of his work. And now a couple of times he had gone so far as to hint that the political sky being what it was, the Deanery expectation of life being what it was (and therefore it

must ultimately be limited), and his work promising to be more widely known and appreciated—well, putting the three trends together you might almost extrapolate the line caused by the parallelogram of forces and see the formation of something that soon would be practically inevitable. And what would that mean for her? Well in other words this trajectory might move her out of the house she had so beautifully appointed—but not too far.

To all this she kept a smiling, non-committal, unquestioning face, knowing too well to ask him to explain or enlarge, and feeling for him too deeply to let his hopes take form in actual words. She was really more of a realist than he and she felt that his mind was less armed against disappointment than her own.

Certainly nothing outwardly seemed to point to the issue being decided one way or the other. The Dean seemed once more, with that infinite capacity for shamming death that sometimes characterizes nonagenarians, to have stabilized on a new low. Yet this pause on a still lower rung of life's ladder did not discourage the Canon.

The Archdeacon continued zealous in his outlying work—"A true sheep-dog racing over the outlying pastures." said the Canon to his sister and she noticed that, though satirical, the voice was not ungenial. On his side, since his talk with the Bishop the Canon gave plenty of attention to the Cathedral. By nature commanding and able to manage well enough anything that he thought worth while mastering, he had no difficulty in keeping the queer team under him at the pace and in the step he thought right. Everyone looked upon him now as being virtually in command and, as most people who are routineers like being managed and only give trouble if not controlled, he was on the whole approved.

"If you know your own mind people will save themselves the trouble of consulting their own," he remarked to his sister.

'Well," she consented, "I suppose if anywhere a hierarchy should rule it would te in a Close."

Himself he often counselled, 'It may he a little tedious, hut detail now mustn't he neglected. With the prize at one's fingertips it would be criminal carelessness to neglect any precaution. Every small efficiency goes to build up inevitability. The place has not been so well run for fifty years—perhaps never. And when the end comes to this long hiatus why the transit will hardly be noticed. What has become actual will merely he formalized and the services which I've rendered will merely be given their recognition—after which I in turn will be able to rest in my scholarship and appoint someone else as my vicar!"

Even when the Archdeacon was home he was pleasantly passive and never challenged what was being done. He seemed too tired, or preoccupied, by his extramural work to pay attention to what was taking form in the Precincts themselves.

Nor could Dr. Wilkes, sounding for impatience, be sure that he detected any increase in congestion of temper. He and Throe-ton nearly always stopped and spoke as they passed now-a-days. So the physician on being found coming from the Deanery saw an opportunity for taking, as he put it to himself, that pulse of spirit that can be read in the face. He remarked with a humour meant to appear as a disguised condolence while in reality to provoke a possible reaction, "I have never known such a staunch-less fund of suspended animation! Wherever the Very Reverend soul may now be, the animal vitality now at hay and bed is certainly managing to keep the decanal body still undecomposed."

The Canon was not to be drawn either into theological speculation or human self-pity. His mind, that when unsettled had made him give way to that outbreak with his sister, was now certain of itself because so sure of its prospects, With something like supple geniality he then side-stepped the suggested condolence by turning the conversation on himself.

"I believe I am the one resident of these Precincts who consistently keeps you 'professionally at a distance."

The tone might "be taken for that of easy friendship and certainly caused the Doctor grateful pleasure. But his gratitude did not move him to become unsteadily indiscreet. He was aware that, though he had not been rebuffed but rather welcomed, his probe had met resistance under the genial surface. His counter-move was clear. It would still be well and wise to share every detail of the superslow descent of the Dean to decease. Yes, there was no doubt about that. But it would be wiser not to speak of another's condition which interested and puzzled him far more —that of the Archdeacon. It was a hunch, but of the sort that he had never found at fault. And if the Canon, au fond, was not going to trust him, well it would certainly be wiser to keep this stranger issue to himself,

As he went on his way he too indulged in what he would call a piece of social diagnosis. Rooks were already squabbling in the tops of the lime-trees for favourable nest sites. "Mr. Darwin is right." he remarked aloud alone. "There's not merely the vitality of each individual but there's the struggle between the individuals in the group—the group is a kind of body and generally in poorer shape than its constituents because the members war one with another as St. Paul, isn't it? says. There's still 'an unreduced dislocation between those two important members of this queer Cathedral body, I suppose I ought not have spoken to Canon Throcton first about this. But then I didn't realize this inflammation, and the Bishop was away. Now it would serve no purpose ... do harm. You can only give true inside information if you are giving it to a true insider, not to one alienated by ill will. Yet someone ought to be told. The Bishop is available now."

His steps had taken him out of the Close and by a lane that skirted round the garden walls of the Palace, He had no more patients to see that morning. Why not ask if the Bishop was at

home and would be able to see him for ten minutes. He felt a little shy and even clandestine. Well it would be all the better to get over it. If the Bishop said he could not see him then he would think over further what should be done.

But the answer came down that he should go up. And the interview turned out well, confirming his hope. Bishop Bendwell was gracious, concerned, thanked him for coming and agreed that they should keep the matter "entre nous"

"And what do you think should be done, Dr. Wilkes?"

"Rest, My Lord; when the body is showing signs of hesitancy in its resilience then we must give it more time. Every fatality begins with fatigue."

"But no archdeaconry can be a rest-post, though men have no doubt turned such mobile commissions into sessile wards and even cubicles and not been removed. I cannot have it held again by one who is not strong enough to do the work. I don't understand . . ." he went on, almost to himself, "I don't understand. I picked him because he was still youngish and seemed a man of outstanding energy—a better choice for the hard work of die office than any—that could have been suitable. Then that curious indisposition as soon as he took office. And now again, according to you, he seems to be ailing?"

"I don't know, My Lord, if I would use quite so strong a term as ailing. But certainly not now with his full energy .. . depleted , . . enervated . . ."

"Well what is your diagnosis?"

"I think, My Lord, I would rather not yet define my views to that extent. I am observing, not as yet prescribing. And if I may say so, I have come to you not merely as a possible informant but to ask for your insight. Still I might offer a prognostic. You know that there are preconsumptive, precancerous, preanaemic conditions when a touch may send the organism one way or the other, when some slight shock or strain may suddenly precipitate a manifest morbidity, which rest and peace of mind would have permitted to dissipate. That's the state I hold him to be in. You see it is on the very borders of my field and, if I may say, where it adjoins that of the Church. Alas we are usually called in when the enemy has already taken all but the citadel and then are asked to oust him."

"In brief you mean that prevention is better than cure?"

The Doctor nodded a trifle crest-fallen that the man of the pulpit should have been more succinct than he of the pharmacy. The Bishop was silent. Then he rose. "Thank you again for coming. Please say nothing of this to anyone. I will see what can be done. It is difficult Of course . . ." and now he was again almost talking to himself, "There are others through the diocese; two or three that might fill the post—but, but. -..." Then turning to the door, and giving the Doctor his hand, 'Well, good-bye. We will no doubt have time for another consultation on this matter. There is nothing to be feared at once?"