A little while later, the service began, but there was no sign of Mr. Hirst. Paul watched the entrance so intently that he nearly missed his cue when it was time for him to read the gospel. As he turned his attention to the gospel of St. Luke, he read the parable of the prodigal son slowly and sonorously. It had always been one of Paul’s favorite parables, with its vivid contrast between the presumption and recklessness of the younger son and the jealous arrogance of the elder, and the immense love and forgiveness of the father were represented with beautiful simplicity.
When Paul was finished, the words of the prodigal son when reunited with his father rang in his ears—“Father, I have sinned against heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son”—and for a moment Paul imagined hearing Cross say those very words to his father. But such humility seemed beyond Cross’s ability.
As the congregation began to recite the Nicene Creed and Paul began to lose hope that Mr. Hirst would appear, the man did. Because the congregation was standing, nobody but Paul seemed to notice the old man’s entrance. Mr. Hirst looked more disheveled than he had when Paul had first met him—his hair looked as though it hadn’t been combed in days and his jacket was wrinkled. He also seemed to be walking unsteadily, but Paul didn’t have a clear enough view of him to be certain. Paul shifted his attention to Cross, who hadn’t yet noticed the new arrival. But towards the end of the Creed, Paul saw Cross turn and whisper something to Canon Johnson, after which Johnson turned and disappeared into the vestry. A few minutes later, Johnson reappeared in the nave and spoke urgently to the verger. The verger shook his head and said something to make Johnson raise his eyebrows and turn to glance at Paul.
By this time, the recitation of the Creed had ended and Cross rose to take his place in the pulpit. He stood there for a long time in silence, looking down at his notes, then glanced at the canons’ stalls. Johnson, who had returned to his stall, shook his head slightly. Cross made no move in reaction to this, but his face was set and grim. Finally, he began to speak.
The sermon started promisingly, with a few illustrations of the difficulties of family relationships, but Cross was looking over the heads of the congregation as if to avoid eye contact with anyone. He moved on to expound upon the parable, starting with the errors of the younger son, then moving on to those of the elder.
“We must surely see ourselves in one of these sons,” Cross said. “Haven’t we all chosen the route of the dissipated younger son or the proud elder son? Some of us have been both at different times in our lives.”
An audible Amen was heard from the pew in which Mr. Hirst was sitting. A muscle in Cross’s jaw twitched, but he went on.
“Most interpretations of this parable draw parallels between the loving, forgiving father and God. But we can also consider the father’s role as one we ought to take as mature Christians. We must turn from our sinful behavior, whether it resembles that of the younger or the elder son, and offer love and forgiveness to others, as the father did.”
“Hear, hear!” came a loud voice, again from Mr. Hirst’s pew. To Paul’s astonishment, Mr. Hirst stood up and pointed at Cross. “That’sh my son, everybody! Your old father is proud of you, Tommy!” He started to sway and prevented himself from falling only by grasping the back of the pew in front of him. “Love and forgivenesh indeed! That’s exactly what I want from you, Tommy. Will you give me your forgivenesh?”
The man was clearly as drunk as it was possible to be while still standing upright.
For a long, painful moment, everyone froze. Nobody seemed to know what to do. Nothing like this had ever happened during a cathedral service. The verger was particularly confused, looking at Paul from across the nave for guidance. After all, knowing that one of the canons wanted this man present would certainly complicate the standard procedure for dealing with disorderly parishioners.
Cross stood in stunned silence in the pulpit, clearly unable to continue.
This was far worse than anything Paul had imagined. Instead of the satisfaction he had expected to feel at the rare sight of Cross at a loss for words, he felt instantly and deeply ashamed of himself for having engineered the scene. He couldn’t have known Mr. Hirst would arrive in his cups, but he had known that the man’s presence would unnerve Cross. How had he allowed himself to sink so low? A sick feeling settled in the pit of Paul’s stomach, but he didn’t allow himself to consider the matter further at that moment.
He heard Cross hiss in an undertone, “Get him out of here!”
Though Cross’s words were not directed to anyone in particular, Paul rose from his stall and made his way down the chancel steps towards Mr. Hirst, who had now left his pew, mumbling incoherently and stumbling forward in the direction of the pulpit.
Paul beckoned to the verger and between the two of them, they were able to turn Mr. Hirst around and guide him out of the cathedral amid his loud protests. As they made their way out, Paul felt rather than saw the shocked stares of the congregation, and he felt as responsible for the disaster as if he himself had disrupted the service in a drunken fit. He had never felt more exposed, more guilt-ridden, more sinful.
When Paul and the verger had ushered Mr. Hirst outside, the old man turned to Paul in a moment of clarity and said accusingly, “You said you’d help me.”
Paul avoided the verger’s eyes. “I’m trying to help you, Mr. Hirst, but you’re not making it easy.”
It took some time to extricate the name of Mr. Hirst’s hotel from him, but when that was done, Paul called a cab, managed to get the man into it, and paid the driver to convey him there.
Before he and the verger returned to the cathedral, Paul said, “I’ll be responsible for that man, but I must ask you not to tell anyone I instructed you to let him into the service today.”
“Very well, Canon Harris,” the man replied, with a knowing look that Paul didn’t like.
Paul realized there would be enough cathedral gossip from this day’s events to keep everyone talking for months. Never mind the cathedral—there was enough drama to interest even the local newspapers. He shuddered.
When Paul returned to the cathedral, he saw that Cross had disappeared and the precentor was leading the stunned-looking choir in a hymn. Only then did Paul remember that he was the scheduled celebrant for the Communion. Like an automaton, he put on the green chasuble worn for the occasion and took his place at the altar. Canon Johnson joined him to assist with the sacrament, and Paul began the exhortation: “Dearly beloved in the Lord, ye that mind to come to the holy Communion of the Body and Blood of our Savior Christ, must consider how Saint Paul exhorteth all persons diligently to try and examine themselves, before they presume to eat of that Bread, and drink of that Cup.”
It was only when he reached the sentence about receiving the Communion unworthily that his voice faltered. He continued, with some difficulty, “For then we are guilty of the Body and Blood of Christ our Savior; we eat and drink our own damnation …”
Paul’s heart raced and he found it difficult to breathe, let alone speak. In the silence that followed, he temporarily forgot where he was, as the heaviness of his guilt overwhelmed him.
How had he allowed his hatred of Cross to take over his soul? When had he ceased to struggle against it and to confess it as a sin? How had he been able to celebrate the Communion week after week, sharing the bread and wine with Cross, hearing and sometimes speaking these words that warned him not to do so unworthily? Had he thought the words were meant for the congregation only, that he, as a priest, had the luxury of hating another man with impunity? He had deceived himself to such a degree that he had been prepared to enjoy the spectacle of Cross’s humiliation with the self-satisfied pride befitting the elder son in the parable.
The possibility that Cross could return from wherever he had gone and proceed with the service, that Paul might once again share the bread and wine with a man he had deeply wronged, finally prompted him to act. He turned to Johnson and said in an undertone, “I can
’t go on. Will you take over?”
Bewildered, the other man assented, and an awkward public moment ensued in which Paul removed his chasuble—it seemed to resist his actions and cling to him like a living thing—and thrust it at Johnson, then turned and walked out through the vestry and out of the cathedral without looking back.
When he arrived at his house, he went straight to his bedroom, shut the door, got down on his knees, and wept. Though he spoke no words, either aloud or silently, it was the most sincere prayer he had prayed in months.
That night, he dreamed he had contracted a mysterious disease that was converting all of his internal organs to black bile: he felt a poisonous, heavy, liquid sensation slowly move upwards through his body, choking the movement of his blood. He awoke, gasping for air, just as the black bile reached his head.
Just as Paul had predicted, cathedral gossip ran rampant in the aftermath of the Sunday service. Everyone was talking about Cross and his father. Although the cathedral clergy had tried to prevent the gossip from leaking into the world at large, the dramatic spectacle at the cathedral was indeed reported in the local newspapers. The incident wasn’t likely to create a full-scale public scandal, but Cross’s reputation was tainted. He had told everyone his father was dead and was now forced to admit that Mr. Hirst was his father. While some people were sympathetic—“If I had such a father, I wouldn’t admit it, either!”—most believed that, being a clergyman, he ought to have told the truth from the beginning.
The following week, the old dean died, and Paul was offered the deanship.
When he received the letter of appointment, Paul told no one. After two days, he went to see the bishop, a conversation he dreaded but which went surprisingly well. He confessed fully to his part in the disturbance at the cathedral and came away feeling both forgiven and understood.
Still, there was one more difficult conversation he needed to have before he could tell his family and friends about his decision.
He found Cross in the chapter house, sitting at the large table used for meetings and looking through some papers. The two canons hadn’t spoken more than a few words to each other since the day Cross’s father visited the cathedral. Indeed, since that day, Cross had gone about his work silently, speaking little to anyone. Now, he looked up at Paul’s entrance and said curtly, “What do you want?”
Cross’s greeting, if it could be called that, wasn’t unusual, but it didn’t make what Paul had to say any easier.
“I need to speak with you,” Paul said.
“What about?”
“It’s about what happened when your father—”
“Look, Harris, do you really think I want to listen to your sermon on the subject? Are you here just to gloat? I’ve said all I’m going to say about it, and you can read anything else you want to know in the papers.”
“That’s not what I’m here for.” Paul hesitated.
“What, then?”
Paul sat down at the table and stared at the wall opposite him. It was easier not to meet Cross’s eyes. “Your father came to see me the week before he came to the cathedral service,” he began.
“What are you talking about?”
“He found out I work with you and asked for my help arranging a reconciliation. He told me about the hardships he’d experienced in his past and about your ambitions being beyond his means. I felt sorry for him—”
“Why am I not surprised?” interposed Cross grimly.
“—and I suggested he attend the Sunday service. I had no idea he would arrive in a drunken state, nor did I expect him to create a disturbance. I was under the impression he wished so strongly to reconcile with you that he would do nothing untoward.”
“So you were merely acting out of kindness to reconcile me with my father.” Cross’s voice dripped with sarcasm.
“You had told everyone your father was dead and you lied about your name. I thought that seeing your father in the congregation would … improve your character.”
“So you are the person, then, to whom I owe my disgrace,” Cross said coldly. “I suppose you orchestrated the attack on me last year, as well.”
“What attack?”
Cross gave him a wary look. “You must have noticed my long absence from the cathedral.”
“I thought you were ill.”
“I was driven into the country against my will by a hansom cabdriver, then beaten and left for dead by at least two other men. Did you have anything to do with that?”
“What? Of course not. How could such a thing happen? Did you tell the police?”
“It doesn’t matter now.”
“But—”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Paul leaned forward and clasped his hands together on the table. “I don’t like you, Cross, but I would never sanction a physical attack on another human being.”
Cross shrugged and tossed some papers into a box.
“Regarding your father,” Paul continued, clearing his throat. “I was wrong to become involved and wrong to interfere with your personal life, and I’m sorry.”
Cross stared at him. “Well, well. An apology from Canon Harris, of all people. But perhaps you have reason to be magnanimous with the lower orders of clergy these days. Are the rumors that you’ve been offered the deanship correct? It certainly won’t be offered to me now.”
“I have, but that has nothing to do with this. Besides, I’ve declined the offer.”
“Are you mad? Why? Is your father going to buy you a bishopric?”
Paul rose from the table. “There are many complicated reasons for my decision that I don’t wish to discuss at the moment,” he said.
“Suit yourself.” Cross fell silent and stared down at the table.
After a pause, Paul said quietly, “I’ve paid for your father’s passage back to America. He leaves next week.” He turned to leave but hesitated at the door. “I don’t know why you and I seem to bring out the worst in each other,” he said, still facing the door. “I wish it could have been different.”
He left the room before Cross could make another cutting remark.
The conversation had drained him emotionally, and Paul needed to talk to someone who would understand what he had done and why. As soon as his duties were done for the day, he went to see his father, who greeted Paul with his usual warmth, though Paul was again concerned by his haggard appearance.
Before he could ask after his father’s health, Philip said eagerly, “I hope you’ve got good news for me.”
They were in the library. Paul didn’t take the chair his father offered, choosing instead to pace around the room. “I do have news, but it’s not exactly good.”
Philip’s face fell. “After that ugly business with Cross’s father, I was certain the deanship would be offered to you.”
“It was, but I’ve declined it.”
His father stared at him, his face going so gray that Paul rushed to his side. Taking his father’s arm and guiding him into a chair, Paul said, “I’m so sorry, Father. I’ll ring for a glass of water.”
After summoning the maid, Paul drew up a chair beside his father’s and watched him worriedly, consumed with remorse for shocking him with such an abrupt announcement.
When Philip had rested for a few minutes and drank some of the water, he waved away Paul’s concern. “I’m surprised, of course, but I’m fine. Tell me what happened.”
Paul explained his part in Mr. Hirst’s appearance at the cathedral. “I can’t describe how I felt when I couldn’t continue with the Communion,” he admitted, once the story was told. “How could I have gone on for months—years—hating Thomas Cross and preaching love to everyone else without seeing what a hypocrite I was? Can you imagine how I felt?”
“I think so,” Philip said, “but I still don’t understand why you declined the deanship.”
“I wanted it for the wrong reasons. I became so caught up in my own ambitions and in competing with Cross that I didn’t notice how t
ainted I was becoming.”
Philip looked confused. “But you’ve realized your error and confessed to it. Surely it is overscrupulous to do more. What harm could it do to accept the deanship? Surely many men feel as you have and have gone on to do great things in the church.”
“Perhaps, but I can’t go on without taking some time to think about what I’ve allowed myself to become and to pray for guidance.”
“And you can’t do that as dean.”
“No. I should tell you I’ve resigned my canonry, as well. I’ll leave the cathedral at the end of the month.”
“What will you do?”
“I don’t know just yet, but the bishop has assured me he’ll find me a living somewhere, at least temporarily.”
Philip was silent, staring at the floor.
Paul didn’t understand why his news was affecting his father so profoundly. Philip had certainly encouraged Paul’s hopes for the deanship, but he had always thought his father wouldn’t have minded what his vocation was, as long as he was happy.
At last, Philip said, “I’m sorry, Paul, but I really don’t feel very well. I think I must lie down.”
“Of course.”
Paul helped his father rise from his chair and accompanied him to his room. In spite of Philip’s protests, Paul sent for the doctor and waited at his father’s side until the man arrived.
Impossible Saints Page 17
