“Come inside, sir, come inside,” piped a high, quavering, old voice. “Come in here and shelter.”
The Dean stepped inside the porch and sat down beside old Mr. Penny, who peered up at him inquisitively and inquired, “Who are you?”
“Adam,” said the Dean.
“Adam,” said Mr. Penny. “Do I know you?”
“We were together once, sir, in another storm. We were Lear and his fool taking shelter together as we are now. I am Lear’s fool.”
“Lear’s fool wasn’t called Adam,” said Mr. Penny decidedly. “Not that I know of. Would you like an apple?”
He had a large basket at his feet filled with apples and oranges and little parcels wrapped in colored paper. “For the children of my parish,” he said importantly. “Ruth wrapped them up. I shall take them around when the rain stops. I’ve had my luncheon. Have you had yours?”
“Not yet,” said the Dean.
“Then have an apple,” said Mr. Penny, and diving into his basket he took out the largest and rosiest.
“Much obliged,” said the Dean and ate it gratefully, for he found he was hungry.
Mr. Penny watched him for a little while with a seraphic smile and then suddenly his soft old face crinkled with childish distress. “I can’t write my sermon for tomorrow,” he said. “I can’t think what to say.”
“Nor can I,” said the Dean.
“Have you to preach tomorrow?”
“I have,” said the Dean.
“Where are you going to preach?”
“At the church of St. Michael and All Angels.”
“Where’s that?”
“At the top of the hill.”
“I don’t know where that is,” said Mr. Penny. “Ruth will know.” Then suddenly a bright idea struck him. “I’ll bring my congregation to hear you preach and then I shan’t have to preach myself. Would that be a sin?”
“I am not sure,” said the Dean slowly. “Ruth will know.”
Mr. Penny took a handkerchief out of his pocket and tied a knot in it. “That’s to ask her,” he said. “People call me forgetful but I’m not forgetful if I’ve tied a knot. The sun’s out again. I must go to the children.” He got up and laid his hand kindly on the Dean’s shoulder. “Stay there and rest, my friend. What did you say your name was? Adam. Remember, Adam, if there’s anything I can do for you at any time, if you’re short of money, or hungry, or anything of that sort, you’ve only to come to the vicarage and I’ll do all in my poor power. God bless you.”
Mr. Penny grasped the handle of his basket and went out into the sunlight. The Dean watched him trotting across the street to the market place and disappearing into Mrs. Martin’s bakery like an ancient rabbit into its burrow. Mrs. Martin must have her grandchildren with her, for there was a Christmas tree in the window. Mr. Penny was changed since the Dean had seen him last. He was not so thin and his eyes were happy. His mode of progression was no longer that sad aimless waver but a fairly brisk trot. Ruth and good food, thought the Dean, and he thanked God.
In spite of all the things he had to do he went on sitting in the porch, for fatigue encased him like lead. He felt too tired to go inside the church and as he sat with his eyes shut, thinking of it, he saw the tombs decorated with holly and the ancient windows with their colors staining the paving stones. And welling up through the broken floor was that spring of water. It refreshed him where he sat in the porch, as though the cracked old paving stones were the crust of his own mortality. After a while he pulled himself to his feet, remembering with joy that the next thing he had to do was to take Bella to call on Miss Montague. But first he must reassure them at home. He got himself back to the Deanery and Garland opened the door.
“I lunched out, Garland,” he said, for he did not want to put the household to the trouble of getting him luncheon now, at two-thirty.
“You did not mention that you were doing so, sir,” said Garland irritably. The last hour had not been a happy one for him.
“I apologize, Garland,” said the Dean humbly. “I trust Mrs. Ayscough has not been anxious?”
“Yes, sir,” said Garland without mercy. “Mrs. Ayscough has suffered considerable anxiety.”
“Much distressed,” murmured the Dean and hurried to the drawing room, past the tall Christmas tree which stood in the hall tastefully decorated by Garland.
“Wherever have you been, Adam?” asked Elaine. She was kneeling on the floor surrounded by parcels and piles of tissue paper and colored ribbons, packing up the servants’ presents for Garland to hang on the tree. All their married life Adam had insisted on having a tree and presents for the servants. After tea of Christmas Day they stood ranged in their ranks according to seniority, Cook at one end and the tweeny at the other, and Garland took the gifts from the tree and Adam presented them with heavy, anxious courtesy. He found this a great ordeal, she knew, but it was nothing to what she had to do, buying and packing the gifts. Each Christmas she was freshly exhausted. She rose wearily to her feet, pushing her hair back from her face. “Where have you been? Why didn’t you tell me you were lunching out?”
“My dear, it was unexpected. I lunched with the vicar of St. Peter’s. Forgive me that I did not inform you.”
Her beauty, with her face a little flushed and her hair ruffled, took him freshly by surprise, though it was always surprising him. This shock of surprise was in all real beauty, he thought. If one was not surprised it was only a counterfeit. He took her in his arms and asked her to forgive him and for once she did not hold herself rigid but leaned against him in the relaxation of relief. She had been genuinely anxious. “Oh Adam, I am so tired,” she murmured.
“Why, my dear?”
“All these parcels for the servants! It’s too much for me. And I can’t even ask my maid to help me since you don’t want them to know what presents they are having. I must get them done before tea, for I’ll be far too tired after the carol service.”
“I’ll help you,” said the Dean. “I’ll help you at once. I must just speak to Garland for a moment in my study and then I will be with you. Did you, my dear, get that doll for little Bella?”
“It’s here somewhere,” said Elaine, and stooping she picked up a large cardboard box from the floor. “Though I think you made a great mistake, showering that child with presents. It will only lead to jealousy in other quarters.”
The Dean thought sadly that it was only too likely. He thought of Isaac and the broken clock and his heart was heavy. What harm unpurified and undisciplined human love could do. He believed it must pass through death before it could entirely bless. Then he lifted the lid of the box and forgot his sorrow in pleasure.
In the world of toys he lacked experience but he believed this to be the most wonderful doll ever created. It was rosy-cheeked and blue-eyed with a dimpled chin and hair of yellow as startling as Bella’s own. It was clothed in pink satin and its rosy bonnet was lined with lace. Very shyly he lifted the stiff satin skirt with his forefinger and perceived that its undergarments also were trimmed with lace. He lowered the skirt reverently and saw that it had pink leather shoes and a small gilt reticule hanging from its tiny waist.
“Thank you, Elaine,” he murmured. “Thank you, my dear, with all my heart. You must have gone to great trouble in choosing this beautiful doll.”
“Oh no,” said Elaine airily. “I ordered it from Town with the servants’ things. But it is a pretty doll. I believe it says mama if you stand it upright.”
The Dean stood it gingerly upright and it said mama. He was immensely cheered. “I’ll be back with you in a moment, my dear,” he said, and took it with him to the study in its box.
It was very difficult to write and tell Miss Montague that after all he feared he would not be able to take Bella to see her this afternoon, for this would be the first time for some years that he had not visited her on Christmas Eve. He had to write the same news to Mrs. Havelock but he trusted that Bella’s sanguine spirit would not be cast down if, as he sugge
sted to Mrs. Havelock, the doll were presented to her concurrently with the reception of the news. He sealed the two notes and rang for Garland. “These must go at once,” he said. “The doll for Miss Bella too. Do you like it, Garland?”
“A very fine doll indeed, sir,” said Garland. “Miss Bella cannot fail to be gratified.”
He put the box under his arm and moved rather slowly toward the door. He wished he could take it around himself. Wouldn’t take him more than a few minutes. She might be about and he’d see her face when she took the lid off. The Dean watched him with a smile. “I would be obliged, Garland, if you would yourself be my messenger this afternoon. Have you the leisure?”
“Certainly, sir,” said Garland briskly.
“Much obliged,” said the Dean. “It will be of no consequence if tea is a little late.”
He went back to the drawing room to help Elaine. His clumsy hands were not very efficient at folding paper and tying ribbon, and the sweat poured off him with the labor and concentration involved, but he managed fairly creditably and Elaine was set free to sit at her escritoire and write out the little labels that were to be attached. After tea he made her put her feet up on the sofa and he read aloud to her to rest her until it was time for the six o’clock carol service. To the pealing of the bells they walked across the garden to the Cathedral together and as they walked she took one gloved hand from her muff and slipped it into his.
17. Christmas
1.
EVERY year, at half past five on Christmas Eve, Michael lifted his great fist and struck the double quarter, and the Cathedral bells rang out. They pealed for half an hour and all over the city, and in all the villages to which the wind carried the sound of the bells, they knew that Christmas has begun. People in the fen wrapped cloaks about them and went out of doors and stood looking toward the city. This year it was bitterly cold but the wind had swept the clouds away and the Cathedral on its hill towered up among the stars, light shining from its windows. Below it the twinkling city lights were like clustering fireflies about its feet. The tremendous bell music that was rocking the tower and pealing through the city was out here as lovely and far away as though it rang out from the stars themselves, and it caught at men’s hearts. “Now ’tis Christmas,” they said to each other, as they forebears had said for centuries past, looking toward the city on the hill and the great fane that was as much a part of their blood and bones as the fen itself. “ ’Tis Christmas,” they said, and went back happy to their homes.
In the city, as soon as the bells started, everyone began to get ready. Then from nearly every house family parties came out and made their way up the steep streets toward the Cathedral. Quite small children were allowed to stay up for the carol service, and they chattered like sparrows as they stumped along buttoned into their thick coats, the boys gaitered and mufflered, the girls with muffs and fur bonnets. It was the custom in the city to put lighted candles in the windows on Christmas Eve and their light, and the light of the street lamps, made of the streets ladders of light leaning against the hill. The grownups found them Jacob’s ladders tonight, easy to climb, for the bells and the children tugged them up.
Nearly everyone entered by the west door. They loved the thrill of crossing the green under the moon and stars, and mounting the steps and gazing up at the west front, and then going in through the Porch of the Angels beneath Michael and the pealing bells. Some of them only came to the Cathedral on this one day in the year, but as they entered the nave they felt the impact of its beauty no less keenly than those who came often. It was always like a blow between the eyes, but especially at night, and especially on Christmas Eve when they had forgotten themselves in awe and expectation. There were lights in the nave but they could do no more than splash pools of gold here and there, they could not illumine the shadows above or the dim unlighted chantries and half-seen tombs. The great pillars soared into darkness and the aisles narrowed to twilight. Candles twinkled in the choir and the high altar with its flowers was ablaze with them, but all the myriad flames were no more than seed pearls embroidered on a dark cloak. The great rood was veiled in shadow. All things alike went out into mystery. The crowd of tiny human creatures flowed up the nave and onto the benches. The sound of their feet, of their whispering voices and rustling garments, was lost in the vastness. The music of the organ flowed over them and they were still.
But a few came in through the south door and Tom Hochicorn gave them greeting as he stood bowing by his brazier. Albert Lee had worked quickly, had come by some charcoal and had it lighted and installed by the time the bells began to ring. He had sat on the bench chatting to old Tom for a while and then, as people began to arrive, he took fright and was all for escaping back to Swithin’s Lane, but old Tom grabbed him and held on with surprising strength. “Go inside, Bert,” he commanded.
“What, me?” gasped Albert Lee. “In there? Not bloody likely!”
“Why not, Bert?”
“Full of toffs,” said Albert Lee. “ ’Ere, Tom, you leggo. I don’t want to ’urt you.”
“You won’t see no toffs,” said old Tom. “Not to notice. Just a lot of spotted ladybirds a-setting on the floor. That’s all they look like in there. You go in, Bert. Not afraid, are you?”
“Afraid?” scoffed Albert Lee. “I ain’t been afraid of nothink not since I was born.”
“Go in, then,” said Tom. He opened the door and motioned to Albert. “Look there. See that pillar? The one by the stove. There’s a chair behind it. No one won’t see you if you set behind that pillar. If you look around it when you hear the Dean speaking you’ll see him.”
He had hold of Albert by his coat collar. Albert didn’t want to make a scene or own himself afraid. He found himself inside with the door softly closed behind him. Sweating profusely he crept to the chair behind the pillar and sat down on its extreme edge. Cor, what a place! It was like old Tom had said. No one didn’t notice you in here. You were too small. Cor, this was a terrible place! It was like night up there. But the door was near, and so was the homely-looking stove. For a while his eyes clung to the door, and then as the warmth of the stove flowed out to him his terror began to subside. It was nice and warm in his corner. No one couldn’t see him. He’d set for a while. The bells were pretty but he didn’t like that great humming, rumbling music that was sending tremors through his legs. Then it stopped, and the bells too, and there was silence, and then miles away he heard boys singing.
They came nearer and nearer, singing like the birds out in the fen in spring. One by one men’s voices began to join in, and then the multitude of men and women whom he could scarcely see began to sing too. The sound grew, soaring up to the great darkness overhead. It pulled him to his feet. He didn’t know the words and he didn’t know the music but he had sung with the Romany people in his boyhood, sitting around the campfire in the drove, and he’d been quick to pick up a tune. He was now. He dared not use his coarsened voice but the music sang in his blood like sap rising in a tree. When the hymn ended there was a strange rustling sound, like leaves stirring all over a vast forest. It startled him at first until he realized that it was all the toffs kneeling down. He knelt too, his tattered cap in his hands, and the slight stir of his movement was drawn into the music of all the other movements. For the forest rustling was also music and that too moved in his blood. There was silence again and far away he heard the Dean’s voice raised in the bidding prayer. He could not distinguish a word but the familiar voice banished the last of his fear. When the prayer ended he said Amen as loudly as any and was no longer conscious of loneliness. From then until the end he was hardly conscious even of himself.
There were not many who were. It was that which made this particular Christmas Eve carol service memorable above all others in the city’s memory. The form of it was the same as always. The familiar hymns and carols followed each other in the familiar order, the choir sang “Wonderful, Counselor, the Mighty God, the everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace” as gloriousl
y as ever but not more so, for they always put the last ounce into it; the difference was that instead of the congregation enjoying themselves enjoying the carol service they were enjoying the carol service. They were not tonight on the normal plane of human experience. When they had climbed the Jacob’s ladders of the lighted streets from the city to the Cathedral they had climbed up just one rung higher than they usually did.
There was another difference. The form of this service was the same as always but the emphasis was different. Generally the peak of it all was the anthem but tonight it was the Christmas gospel, read as always by the Dean.
Adam Ayscough walked with a firm step to the lectern, put on his eyeglasses and found the place. As he and Elaine had left the Deanery to go to the Cathedral he had been in great fear, for he had not known if he would be able to get through the service. Then as they crossed the garden she had slipped her hand into his and he had known he would do it. “All shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.” He cleared his throat. “The first verse of the first chapter of the gospel according to St. John,” he said. His sight, he found, was worse than usual and the page was misty. But it was no matter; he knew the chapter by heart. He raised his head and looked out over the congregation. “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God.”
His voice was like a raucous trumpet, it had such power behind it. The people listened without movement, but though they had all come filled with thankfulness because he would be here tonight they were not thinking of him as they had thought of him on other Christmas Eves, thinking how ugly he was, how awkward, but yet how in place there in the lectern, looming up above them in his strange rugged strength; they were thinking only of what he was saying. “The Word was made flesh and dwelt among us.” Was it really true? Could it be true? If it was true, then the rood up there was the kingpin that kept all things in perpetual safety and they need never fear again. To many that night Adam Ayscough’s speaking of the Christmas gospel was a bridge between doubt and faith, perhaps because it came to them with such a splendid directness. He stood for a moment looking out over the people, then left the lectern and went back to his stall. His sight had been too dim to see them when he looked at them and he had no knowledge that he had been of service to them.