by H. S. Cross
—I see my son hasn’t told you everything.
—He hasn’t told me anything! Morgan spluttered.
—Hasn’t he indeed?
The Bishop burst into a laugh and rang the bell.
—We’ll continue this conversation in the morning, he said to Morgan. Ah, Mrs. Hallows, could you please see young Wilberforce to bed?
Morgan stood, his balance suddenly precarious.
—Good night, Dr. Sebastian. Good night, Your Grace. I’m very sorry, I—
—In the morning, the Bishop rejoined. Just you concentrate on getting a good night’s sleep.
Morgan turned to follow Mrs. Hallows. Behind, he heard the Bishop speaking:
—As for you, we need to have a chat about frightening little boys half to death.
—Chop-chop, Mrs. Hallows said.
Morgan tripped after her.
31
The pleasures which I made haste to seek in my disguise were, as I have said, undignified; I would scarce use a harder term. But in the hands of Edward Hyde, they soon began to turn toward the monstrous. When I would come back from these excursions, I was often plunged into a kind of wonder at my vicarious depravity. This familiar that I called out of my own soul, and sent forth alone to do his good pleasure, was a being inherently malign and villainous; his every act and thought centered on self; drinking pleasure with bestial avidity from any degree of torture to another … The women writhed and twined themselves about the floor, fucking, screaming and shouting in ecstasy—Shut up—my loving mistress partook of the universal excitement with the rest—Shut up!—placing herself in the most lascivious positions, throwing up her legs—SHUT—outstretching her arms, she would invite me, in the most licentious terms, to enter the amorous lists—WAKE UP!—how tight did her cunt clasp my prick—DREAMING, YOU’RE DREAMING—as my piston-rod shoved in—WAKE—and out—MUM—I had gone to bed Henry Jekyll, I had awakened Edward Hyde—MUMMY!
—Wilberforce!
Light. Blinding. Woman above.
—Like waking the dead, she declared.
His heart pounded. His cock pounded. Sweat trickled down his—
—Bath’s drawn, just there.
The woman indicated a door by the window, which admitted a painful light.
—Breakfast, half an hour.
Where was he? When?
—Speak so I know you’re awake.
—Half an hour. M—Mrs.—Matron?
—Mrs. Hallows.
—Mrs. Hallows.
* * *
He washed the sweat, the night, and the last two days from his body. The tepid water regulated his temperature. He drank liberally from the tap. The blue tiles reflected the morning light like the sea, not that he had ever been under the sea, but he imagined it as something like this, a half-remembered softness.
That man, the Bishop, had said in the morning. Morgan sometimes knew when disasters were coming. He’d known it with Spaulding, and he recognized in this morning the unquestionable taint of calamity. Could he not simply slip beneath this sea and …
—Listen, you, it’s time to buck up.
Droit stood before the looking glass, slicking his hair back with brilliantine.
—Leave me alone, Morgan said.
Droit looked at him with a wounded expression and demanded to know why Morgan should treat him thus. Morgan launched into a litany of Droit’s unwelcome utterances, not least the rubbish with which he’d been oppressed all night. Droit took offense. Was he the one who had provided the foul story of Jekyll and Hyde? Was he the supplier of Lydon’s tasteless morsels?
Morgan had to admit that he wasn’t. That was correct, Droit confirmed, he wasn’t. If Morgan had retained the most appalling selections from his reading, he could look elsewhere for someone to blame, for he, Droit, insisted on quality in his amusements and had been slaving all term to reform Morgan’s taste.
The nauseous atmosphere was dispelling. Morgan wished he could have a cigarette. He did have some in his tuck box, but he wasn’t sure he dared smoke them in the bathroom of a Rectory.
Droit parted his hair and bade Morgan finish his bath and listen carefully: Morgan must on no account allow himself to be seduced by the glamour of this house or its inhabitants. That uneasy feeling Morgan had sprang from his rather developed instincts. This was no time for false modesty. They both knew that Morgan often understood things about people that people didn’t understand themselves. The point was this place. Morgan mustn’t let down his guard. They would attempt to seduce him into every kind of nefarious thing, but Morgan must defend himself.
Morgan got out of the bath and dried off, not at all sure what Droit meant.
—You know precisely what I mean, Droit retorted. Why else would they have brought you to a soothing little house in the country if not to lull you into a false sense of security? And why else should they haul you clear across the country to see a bishop if they didn’t hope to succeed where S-K failed?
Morgan’s stomach turned at mention of his aborted confirmation. He forced himself to breathe calmly as he put on the clean shirt someone had laid out for him. Did Droit mean to suggest that Burton and Grieves had colluded with Dr. Sebastian to coerce Morgan into the sacrament of confirmation? Wasn’t that rather far-fetched?
Droit did not think it far-fetched, actually, but in any case, that was not what he was saying. Droit was simply saying that these men had taken advantage of Morgan when he was weak. They had humiliated him and abducted him. They were on no account to be trusted, not Sebastian, not the Flea, not Grieves, and certainly and above all not this sickening Bishop person. Whatever they had in mind, he was not a child, and he must not permit himself to be maneuvered. That was all.
32
Mrs. Hallows was waiting at the bottom of the staircase. She adjusted the collar of his jacket, and after informing him that the Bishop took his breakfast in silence, she led him to the dining room.
A large table was set for two. Yesterday the Bishop had expected gardening tasks, today obviously Morgan would serve the silent meal. Was it some pious clerical custom to observe silence before noon? A clock on the sideboard approached nine. Perhaps the Bishop’s voice required resting, or perhaps he habitually meditated on obscure matters in the morning. Presumably Dr. Sebastian would also keep silence.
Dimly, the circumstances unveiled themselves. Dr. Sebastian, Burton-Lee, or both of them must have contacted his father. His father had tried everything over Easter to give Morgan another start, and now to be wired by the Academy before the end of the term and informed of—Morgan couldn’t bear to think it, not without panicking. His father would be so appalled that he would withdraw from the world even more than before. Unsuitable conduct, Droit murmured, that was what they would have said. Unsuitable conduct. His father would accept that. He had lost the habit of inquiry some years before. He never, any longer, wished to know the gruesome details, and there would certainly be no point in it now.
Why did his father not tell them to send Morgan home? He could wait there for other arrangements to be made. Unless they considered his unsuitable conduct too unsuitable for a decent career? Perhaps Dr. Sebastian, out of charity and in appreciation for Morgan’s performance on the cricket pitch, had scrounged a position for him in the Bishop’s household. The Bishop was Dr. Sebastian’s father—had that not been revealed last night? And the Bishop was an elderly Bishop, so presumably he required assistance around his premises. Was Morgan being evaluated as a possible secretary? Something like that, but given his recent conduct, the Bishop would wish to prove him as groundsman or footman before allowing him the run of his correspondence.
—You can shut up, Morgan said to Droit.
—Have I spoken?
—Perhaps you’d quit being clever for a minute and remember what Dr. Sebastian said on the train.
Droit groaned and produced a tin of Altoids.
—This isn’t something I can think my way out of.
—He would say that, wouldn’t h
e? Droit retorted. He doesn’t want you thinking. If you start thinking, you might out-think him, and then where would he be?
—I’m only saying that whatever they want me to do, it’s better than dying of boredom at home.
—You say boredom, you mean shame. When are you going to get it through your head that shame is something imposed by other people. If you refuse to feel ashamed, then they’ve no power over you.
Droit offered a mint. Morgan refused.
—I’m not ashamed of anything.
—Liar.
The Bishop strode briskly into the room. He nodded at Morgan and came to the head of the table. Morgan wished suddenly for an appropriate uniform, but he stood at attention by the sideboard, hands behind his back, eyes forward. The door opened again but admitted Mrs. Hallows, not Dr. Sebastian. She carried in the breakfast tray and set out tea, a rack of toast, and four eggs. The clock chimed a pretty little bell, the kind of clock a lady would wind. If Dr. Sebastian was the Bishop’s son, where was the Bishop’s wife?
After a glance to the Bishop, Mrs. Hallows sighed in exasperation and pointed Morgan to the table. He reached for the teapot to pour, but a smack stopped his hand. She grasped him by both elbows and moved him to the second place setting. The Bishop cleared his throat, pronounced grace, made the embarrassing gesture, and pulled out his chair to sit down. Morgan looked to Mrs. Hallows. She regarded him as one might a half-wit, and then, apparently resigning herself to unpleasantness, she pulled out the chair and shoved him into it. As the Bishop served himself an egg and toast, Mrs. Hallows stalked out of the room, leaving Morgan alone before Dr. Sebastian’s place setting.
The Bishop seemed capable of concentrating on only one thing at a time. Meticulously, he cut the top off his egg and scooped the white from the cap. He buttered his toast as an artist with a palate knife and then cut it into soldiers. After sprinkling a precise portion of salt on the egg, he broke his fast.
They ate in silence, the Bishop contenting himself with one egg and two pieces of toast. After Morgan had eaten two eggs and two toasts, he glanced to the Bishop, who was still finishing his portion. Was the Bishop gauging the extent of his gluttony? He was still hungry. The eggs were perfectly done, and the last wouldn’t be good once it had cooled. The Bishop met his gaze with the expression of a reluctantly indulgent father. Morgan extended his hand towards the egg dish, casually enough that he could pretend to be reaching for the tea if the Bishop frowned. He did not frown. Morgan took the egg. The Bishop still did not frown. Morgan took another piece of toast and put it on his plate with the egg. The Bishop reached for the teapot and poured himself another cup.
* * *
Droit provoked him. Morgan’s hunger was almost assuaged by three eggs and three toasts, but one toast remained. Droit dared him to take it. The Bishop would think it gluttonous, Morgan argued, especially given the lack of egg to dip it in. But surely, Droit replied, waste offended more than appetite? If Morgan didn’t eat it, who would? Besides, Droit continued, what if the toast constituted a kind of test? Morgan had never heard of such an examination. Of course not, Droit replied, because Morgan had never faced a man as sinister as this one, a man determined to intrude into his character in the most cunning manner. Last night he’d tried the old What do you read? Now this. If Morgan did not take the toast, it would not only signal his abject surrender, but it would also substantiate his cowardice.
Morgan didn’t see why highbrow language was necessary, and as it happened, he was no longer hungry.
—Coward. Worm.
He snatched the toast. The Bishop sighed and gazed out the window. Morgan slathered it with butter and crunched as he ate.
The other one wasn’t there, a relief amidst it all; at least it should have been, except that his pointed absence made Morgan suspect something truly awful waiting in the wings.
—Don’t worry, Droit said. I’ve dealt with it.
—What do you mean dealt with it?
—Trust me once, won’t you?
Seated across the table at the Bishop’s left hand, Droit looked imploringly to Morgan. Perhaps he relied on Morgan’s faith and approval more than he revealed. He wasn’t so much older than Morgan. Perhaps he wasn’t older at all. Perhaps he was one of those boys who looked older, a boy thrust into advanced experiences. What if Droit were an orphan or half orphan? What if he had left school early, against his will, and had been forced to get on in the world alone?
The Bishop stood abruptly, jolting Morgan to his feet.
—Benedicto, benedicatur. Amen.
Again the tasteless gesture.
—Follow me, the Bishop said.
33
The Bishop led him through a series of rooms, bursting into each as if he expected to surprise someone doing what he oughtn’t. Finally, they arrived at a door the Bishop opened with a key. He ushered Morgan inside.
Books lined three walls. A heavy desk occupied the space in front of the lead-paned windows, which gave on to the driveway. Islands of papers spotted the surface, as if the Bishop had been interrupted sorting his correspondence. A swivel chair faced the room from behind the desk, a chaise longue skulked by the bookcases, and two spindle chairs stood at right angles to the desk, as if a conversation had taken place against its outer corner. The room smelt thickly of dust, leather bindings, and tobacco.
The Bishop was wearing a clerical collar as he had the night before. Now, he removed his jacket and exchanged it for a black garment, the robe-like thing vicars wore during services. He buttoned it up and fastened a wide black sash around his waist. Then, straightening his sleeves, he came to stand at the window. He indicated one of the spindle chairs:
—Sit.
If they were going to savage you or torment you by inquisition, they always sat and made you stand. The Bishop, then, was taking pains to differentiate this interview from others and to make Morgan feel at ease. A trap, naturally. He’d put on a clerical costume, so the moral suasion was about to begin. Morgan took a deep breath and sat as far back as the spindles allowed. The Bishop fixed his attention fully upon him:
—I’ve made my decision. It’s time for you to make yours.
Having delivered himself of this, the Bishop crossed his arms behind his back and stood entirely still. An unwavering stare, keen as sunlight focused through a glass, deep and throbbing as the inside of a heart.
—Sir …
Morgan’s voice sounded small once he used it, barely penetrating the room.
—What’s happened to Dr. Sebastian?
—Dr. Sebastian departed last night.
The Bishop pronounced the name as if he were indulging a preposterous nickname. Morgan felt a pulse of alarm.
—Where did he go?
—My son returned to Marlborough. He didn’t tell you?
Morgan swallowed. The Bishop exhaled in annoyance.
—I’m afraid my son can be economical with detail, results as we see before us.
He gestured to Morgan.
—Sir? I mean, Your Grace?
—Either will do, in camera. Stop tying yourself in knots.
Morgan felt a sudden and unexpected relief.
—Yes, sir.
—Well? the Bishop persisted. Have you made your decision?
He was not to be taken in by the glamour of these people. He was not to be seduced by their invitations to speak in camera. He was not to let down his guard because of one critical remark about Dr. Sebastian even if it left him feeling vaguely understood.
—My decision, sir, is the same today as it was three years ago.
The Bishop raised his brow but otherwise remained motionless.
—I reject confirmation. I won’t go through with it. It’s my right, and no one can make me.
The Bishop waited as if he expected Morgan to say more. Morgan closed his mouth and crossed his arms.
—I see, the Bishop said. You’re speaking, I presume, of the sacrament of confirmation?
Morgan nodded curtly.
> —And have you a reason for this refusal?
—I don’t believe in it.
—You doubt its essence or you find it insupportable?
—The latter, sir.
Rather than anger, the Bishop’s voice betrayed fascination.
—Are you able to say which aspects you can’t abide? Is it the rite itself? The articles of religion?
—I don’t believe they’re true, sir. It would have been a lie to say them.
—I see. Well …
Here was the assault, the admonition, the barrage of persuasion both blunt and sinuous.
—If that is how you feel, you were entirely right to abstain.
Morgan tried to parse the Bishop’s declaration.
—Sir?
—It would have been a sacrilege to receive the laying on of hands if you were dishonest about your beliefs. No, the Bishop continued, I fully support your decision.
Morgan thought he might be mishearing.
—But that was in the past, you say? Three years ago?
—Yes, sir.
—Good. And what about the decision facing you today?
Morgan searched the man’s face. The Bishop was probing to see how much he knew of the snare they had planned for him. If he could detect its edges, the punishment would lose some of its wallop. Usually when they tried to get you to make a choice—say between a beating and an imposition, or between one kind of beating now and another kind later—the choice was illusory. Whatever you chose, they made sure you regretted it.
—Wilberforce, the Bishop said.
His voice softened, and the new tone, combined with the use of his name, sent an ache through Morgan’s frame.
—Do you know what your options are?
—Don’t be absurd! Morgan protested. Your Grace.
A twitch at the Bishop’s lips.
—Why don’t you start by telling me how you find yourself in my study?
Morgan bristled. He did not intend to subject himself to what they’d subjected him to the other night. Précis. He needed to summarize.
