The Dean's Watch

by Elizabeth Goudge

  Bella dropped the pencil and grabbed the inkpot.

  “Put that down, Bella!” said the Dean with sudden sternness. “And now, my dear, listen to me. Do not spoil this happy time that we have had together by disobedience. If you are a good girl and go now I hope and trust you will be permitted to visit me again. But if you are naughty I fear the pleasure may be denied me. It will be a sorrow to me, Bella, if I do not see you again.”

  Bella withdrew the inky fingers of her left hand from the inkpot and with a queenly gesture held them out to Garland to be wiped upon his spotless handkerchief. Her right hand she laid against the Dean’s cheek. But she was no longer adhering, and her body felt light upon his knee. He remembered having heard or read that small children sometimes had the strange power of levitation. They could take off at the top of a staircase and float down; some echo, surely, of powers possessed in the innocent morning of the world when spirit and not body was the master. For a flashing moment he knew very intimately the bright spirit of this child. Then she slipped off his knee and ran straight out of the room without looking back. She had not given him the kiss he had hoped for but the touch of her hand had seemed to wish him Godspeed more surely and lovingly than a kiss could do. On Christmas Eve, when he always visited Miss Montague, he would take her with him.

  4.

  The following Saturday an expected knock at the back door, at the expected hour, was a pleasure to Garland. Mr. Peabody, to wind the clocks, and not a moment late. During the Dean’s illness Isaac had wound the clocks as usual, in the correct order, not deviating an iota from the accepted procedure, and Garland had followed him around with a chamois leather in one hand and a silver milk jug in the other, feverishly polishing as they whispered anxiously together, and finding in Isaac and routine his one comfort in days of darkness and dismay. The days were not so dark now, but Garland was not yet easy in his mind and had a corresponding queasiness in his stomach whenever he looked at the Dean, and it was still a comfort to him to hear Isaac’s knock. He hurried to the door and opened it, and could have cried with disappointment because it was not Isaac.

  “Good morning, sir,” said the slim dark-eyed boy who stood correct and composed at the door. “I am Mr. Peabody’s apprentice, come to wind the clocks. Mr. Peabody is indisposed.”

  “Peabody now,” said Garland crossly. “What’s the matter with Peabody?” He felt annoyed with Isaac. He had quite enough anxiety with the Dean without Isaac also taking it into his head to fall sick.

  “He has one of his great colds,” said Job.

  “A cold is no reason for a man not doing his duty,” said Garland. “The colds I’ve had, and kept on my feet!”

  “Mr. Peabody dare not run the risk of giving a cold to the Dean,” said Job.

  “I should not have permitted him to see the Dean,” snapped Garland.

  “You might have caught it yourself, sir,” said Job, “and given it to the Dean.” He smiled delightfully at Garland. “I’m quite able to wind the clocks. I’ve been trained by Mr. Peabody.”

  He was in the passage without Garland quite knowing how he’d got there, composed and smiling. The impudence, thought Garland. He was just another as that young hussy who had penetrated into the study with a basket of stinking fish heads. Yet when he looked at the boy again he was standing humbly enough, holding Mr. Peabody’s bag. Yet there was an authority about him, the assurance of a man who is master of his craft and means to practice it. Garland led the way down the passage. On the other side of the green baize door Job looked quickly around the hall, his eyes resting joyously for a moment upon the face of the Richard Vick. “I believe I know my way, sir,” he said. “I have been here once before. I need not trouble you to come with me.”

  “The hall, the drawing room, the dining room, but not the study,” said Garland firmly. “Not the study. That must wait for Mr. Peabody. The Dean is down.”

  Job smiled, turned quickly to the drawing room, opened the door, went in and shut it behind him, leaving Garland much annoyed. The boy should have begun in the hall. He’d got the order wrong. The hall came first. Too sure of himself. They all were, these days. No respect for their elders. And yet Garland felt he could not exactly accuse the young gentleman of disrespect. Gentleman? What was he saying? The boy was Isaac Peabody’s apprentice and no gentleman, though he might give himself the airs of one. Yet the airs, or rather the air, had seemed natural to him. Garland gave it up and went back to the other side of the green baize door. Yet a few minutes later he was back in the hall again, keeping his eye out. Job came out of the drawing room, smiled and moved toward the dining room. Garland looked up at the Richard Vick. “Ten minutes,” he said to Job. “Mr. Peabody takes fifteen, seeing that all is as it should be.”

  “I’m a little quicker than Mr. Peabody, sir,” said Job courteously and shut the dining-room door behind him.

  This time Garland thought it his duty to walk as far as his pantry, but he was back in the hall again as Job opened the Richard Vick clock face. “That is a very valuable clock, young man,” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” said Job. “It is a very beautiful one too. Mr. Peabody thinks the world of this clock.” He wound the clock, looked at the pendulum, gently dusted the clock face and polished the winged cherubs with Isaac’s old silk handkerchief, all with a careful dexterity that Garland could not help admiring.

  “Have you been long with Mr. Peabody?” he asked. “Odd I’ve not heard him speak of having an apprentice.”

  “Not long, sir,” said Job, “but Mr. Peabody likes to teach and I’ve learned quickly.” He closed the clock face and turned around to face Garland. “Sir, may I go in and wind the Jeremiah Hartley? I think the Dean would like me to do so. I will not disturb him.”

  “I have already told you,” said Garland severely, “that the study clock must wait for Mr. Peabody.” He eyed Job with growing anger. “Had I returned a few minutes later, young man, I believe I would have found you knocking at the study door.”

  Job looked him straight in the eye. “No, sir, I would not have done that. I would not have disobeyed you. But if he is well enough I would like to see the Dean. He has been very good to me.”

  There was a short, angry silence in which Garland suddenly remembered something the Dean had said after the visit of the young hussy with the fish heads. He had finished by saying, “You understand, Garland? Much obliged.” He swallowed his anger. “I will inquire,” he said, and advanced majestically upon the study door. He returned in a moment saying coldly, “The Dean would be much obliged if you would wind the Jeremiah Hartley. Come away, young man, as soon as you have done so.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Job. He walked to the study door, knocked and entered.

  The Dean was writing at his littered desk. “Good morning, Job,” he said.

  “Good morning, sir,” said Job, and came up to the desk. “I hope you are better, sir?”

  “I am quite recovered. How are you, Job? How is your ankle?”

  “It has mended, sir. I am very happy working for Mr. Peabody and I like living with Mr. Penny and Ruth.”

  “You like Ruth?”

  “Yes, sir.” He paused. “I would like to thank you, sir.”

  The strong beat of profound happiness was in Job’s quietly spoken words. It seemed to the Dean’s fancy that clear golden wine was filling the room and his own being, too. For a moment he thought that neither of them could stand it. The room was an old man’s room, its walls rigid with antiquity, he himself tired to death, patched like an old kettle. They had lost the power of resilience and would crack at the seams. Then the gold slowly ebbed, drawn back into the depths of Job’s singing spirit, leaving only a ripple of light on the ceiling, as though reflected from a dancing sunbeam, and a gentle warmth about the Dean’s heart. Fancy, all fancy, he told himself, like the fancy that the scent of spring had come into the room with Bella and the green parrot.

  “Shall I wind the clock, sir?”

  “Much obliged,” said
the Dean, thankful to sit back in his chair and adjust himself quietly to this new Job.

  How did the young effect these sudden changes? Did they, in one of those deep dreamless sleeps of youth, lying cheek on hand graceful and enchanted as though Oberon had touched them, know a metamorphosis such as Bottom knew? Or was it just what they ate? Undoubtedly Ruth fed Job well. In just a few weeks he had grown and filled out astonishingly. There was color in his face and the hollows in his cheeks and the dark lines under the eyes had vanished. His hair, cut shorter, grew now with a strong wiry twist, full of vitality. He held his shoulders straight and his head well up, as though he respected himself and his work. He had changed from boy to young man. His hands on the clock were deft and sure and while he was attending to it he took no notice of the Dean. He had forgotten him. The Dean too was respectfully silent. One did not disturb an artist at his work or a saint at his prayers.

  Job finished his work and shut the bag. Then he turned back to the Dean, his eyes sparkling with excitement: “Sir! I am reading Mr. Penny’s books.”

  “I thought you would,” said the Dean. “What do you read?”

  “Just what I pick up off the floor, sir. Plato. Shakespeare. Charles Lamb. Wordsworth. It’s all grand stuff, even when I don’t understand it. But Mr. Penny helps me. Polly never learned to read properly at Dobson’s, like I did, so Miss Peabody lets me go up one evening a week after supper and we sit in front of the fire and I teach her.”

  He had come back to the Dean’s desk and the words poured out as he told him of his affairs. Adam Ayscough had thought him changed from boy to man, but now he was back in some childhood he had never had, telling a grownup he loved and trusted the glorious tale of his accomplishments without the slightest doubt that the other would be as thrilled as he was. The Dean could not remember that such a thing had happened to him before. He listened with one hand behind his ear, fearful lest he should miss a word of it.

  Job suddenly caught himself up, aware of some slight sound outside the door, as of a prowling presence there. He flushed scarlet. “Please forgive me, sir. I should have gone away when I had wound the clock. That’s what Mr. Garland told me to do.”

  “Had you done so, Job, you would have deprived me of a very great happiness. I am more obliged to you than you can well know. Before you go tell me of Mr. Peabody. I understand he is indisposed? Is it his asthma?”

  “No, sir, only a cold. He’s well over his asthma.”

  “Had he had asthma previously?”

  “Yes, sir. It was only to be expected, Polly said.”

  “The weather has been very inclement.”

  “It wasn’t the weather, sir, it was you.”

  “Me?” asked the Dean, his hand behind his ear again.

  “Being ill, sir. Mr. Peabody always has asthma when he is miserable.”

  The Dean did not like to ask Job to repeat himself, but he believed he had heard aright. Bella. Job. Isaac. It appeared that they all felt affection for him. He struggled for speech and when it came at last its banality shocked him.

  “My compliments to Mr. Peabody. You will tell him, if you please, that during my illness I have been continuing my study of horology. To the books he lent me I have added others from the library.” He moved the sheets of manuscript and architectural plans that were piled on his desk and showed Job the books that lay under them, calf bound histories of clocks and clockmakers. “Tell Mr. Peabody I am his humble pupil and I shall hope soon to visit you both at the shop to choose the clock for my wife. My compliments to Miss Peabody, Mr. Penny, Polly and Ruth. I hold you all in my heart. There is Garland at the door. Good-by, Job. Much obliged.”

  15. The Celestial Clock

  1.

  CHRISTMAS was less than a fortnight away and already its light shone upon the days. Through all the city there was a quiet hum of preparation. Serious housewives had made their Christmas puddings and mincemeat weeks ago but the giddy ones, those who did not perform their duties until crisis was right upon them, were doing it now and delicious smells of brandy and spice mingled with the smell of ironing, gingerbread and beeswax that floated out into the streets from open windows and doors left ajar. For the weather had turned warm and springlike, violet-scented in the early morning and fragrant with wood smoke at night, and musical with the chatter of astonished birds who could not understand it. People said to each other that it was like the Christmas when Dean Rollard had ridden home from prison. It was proper Dean’s weather. Doctor Jenkins alone regretted the warmth, so passionately had he wanted the Dean to have his white Christmas. The shops were gay and stayed open for an extra half hour every evening, the lamps shining upon books and toys, sweets and apples and nuts and festoons of colored paper. In the market place they were selling Christmas trees and piles of oranges like golden moons. The children and dogs were in a permanent state of overexcitement and every house, and indeed almost every room, had a secret.

  The Cathedral towered over it all, benignly great in this quiet weather, the sound of the bells falling gently from the height of the Rollo tower. At evening, when dusk fell, men looked up and saw light shining from the windows of the choir and heard music as the choristers practiced for the carol service. Michael seemed dreaming. So many Christmases had come and gone since he had stood here looking out to the edge of the world, looking down at the city, looking up to heaven. So many Christmas Eves he had stood waiting through hours of snow and storm, of wind and rain or of rapt stillness bright with moon and stars, waiting for the mid-course of the night when he should lift his fist and strike out on the great bell the hour of man’s redemption. Then when the boom of the last echo had died away over the plain to the sea he would veil his face with his wings, for love was running down the steps of the sky, running fast from cloud to cloud, from star to star, leaping and laughing. He dared not look upon the face of love but he would hear the laughter in that moment of profound quietness between the last echo of midnight and the pealing out of the Christmas bells.

  “Last Christmas,” said Job, “I did not know what Christmas was.” When he had first come to Mr. Peabody he had not wanted to look back. He had felt like someone just awake after a nightmare, and afraid to think about it lest it catch him again, but now the evil had receded so far that he liked to set it as a backcloth to the procession of his shining days. “I did not know what it was,” he repeated. “Shall I put the shutters up?”

  “Another five minutes,” said Isaac. “I don’t like to close too soon before Christmas.”

  “Thirty minutes late now,” said Job, but he laughed and leaned his arms on the counter, content to wait. He was tired, and so was Isaac. It had been a busy day with people in and out buying Christmas presents, but they had enjoyed it to the full and their tiredness was of the pleasant sort that invests the thought of supper and bed with haloed glory.

  Isaac did not call himself a jeweler but he did in his odd moments make pinchbeck brooches, heart-shaped lockets and earrings whorled or delicately pointed like shells or stars. He also made eternity rings set with imitation jewels whose first letters spelt words like regard, dearest, and adored, adjectives nicely graded to express the degree of feeling which ravaged the breast of the enamored male at the moment of purchase, and these as well as his clocks had a great sale before Christmas. Job had proved as expert as Isaac at making these trifles, but one of the rings that he had made was not for sale. It was in a leather heart-shaped box in his pocket, burning a hole there until such time as he could give it to Polly for her Christmas present. As well as jewelry he had created flights of little birds, angels and stars, and silver reindeers with golden antlers to hang upon the Christmas trees that were sold in the market.

  There had been moments during the past week when it had scarcely been possible to move in the shop for excited children, papas, mammas, uncles, aunts and nannies, but now most of the pretty trifles had been sold and the ticking of the clocks, which for days had been drowned by the babel of voices and laughter, had come back
into the silence as the singing of birds comes back when the wind dies at dusk. It was dark now beyond the bow windows of the shop, the sky clear after a passing shower and spangled with stars above the crooked roofs of Cockspur Street. The windows of the houses were small squares of orange and gold, reflected in the shining cobbles. The lamplighter had passed down the street and the muffin man had passed up it, but now there was no one about, not even a cat. Yet they waited in the lamplight, leaning on the counter, and listened to the voices of their clocks as other men listen to a harpsichord or the slap of small waves against the hull of a boat. It was to them the music of their hearts that pulsed in time to the heartbeat of the celestial clock.

  It was there in the window, finished five days ago, the best clock that Isaac had ever made. He had thought that he would not be able to put it in the window, so much did it seem to be a part of himself, yet suddenly he had put it there, in the center, the other clocks grouped about it like lesser stars about the moon. He had put it there because it was Christmas. To him it was only a fairy tale that love had leaped from heaven on fire for the manger and the cross, but tales are potent things and this one was in his blood, and so he had had to give his best to the city. The celestial clock, his masterpiece, must shine in the window for the city to see. And the city had seen and liked it. For five days rows of faces had been pressed against the window, rejoicing in his Christmas clock that chimed as sweetly as the singing stars.

  But he would not sell it. It would kill him to part with that clock. When anyone asked the price he named one so exorbitant that the questioner backed laughing from the shop. His clock had become something of a joke in the city. Everyone knew he did not mean to sell it, yet they would ask the price for fun, and every time they asked it soared higher.