The Dean took a chair from the summerhouse and, carrying it in one hand and his stick in the other, hobbled down the garden path toward the river. The sun was shining, but October was over and a week of November had gone. He thought that there would not be many more days that year for sitting out.
As the grass was still soft, he placed the chair carefully on the flagstones at the very edge of the river. The water had sunk back into its bed and was clear again, a little below its winter level and running sweetly; as sweetly as were the Dean’s thoughts.
He was tolerably certain that all was now well again between his daughter and Dr Scotland. Penny Consett had acted as a go-between, flitting like an industrious bee between the parties. He knew that long conversations had taken place on the school telephone. Lawrence Consett was going to get a shock when his next telephone bill came in.
He did not think that James had suffered any serious injury. A rebuff to his feelings, a touch of not altogether disagreeable sadness. It was what the French poet Alfred de Musset had called a blessed wound, “une sainte blessure; que les noirs séraphins t’ont faite au fond du coeur,” adding, with French cynicism, that nothing made a man feel so big as a sustaining diet of sorrow. The black seraphim had given James no mortal wound.
The Dean smiled gently at the thought. It would suit him very well to have his daughter off his hands. He was already in touch with the secretary of the Church of England Missionary Organisation. Now that Amanda was of marriageable age, it would hardly be suitable for her to accompany him on the assignment he had in mind.
After the death of Chairman Mao, the Chinese Republic had become more willing to accept European missionaries. People had suggested that this was because, if anything went wrong, it would provide them with a useful supply of hostages. The Dean did not disbelieve this, but was prepared to risk it. He was anxious to study the Chinese mind, which had, he thought, many affinities with his own.
For it was time to quit Melchester. He had never intended to stay long and he could now go with the comfortable conviction that he was leaving solid benefits behind him. His two candidates for the vacant canonries seemed certain to be appointed. Solid men both, they would fight to the last ditch against swindlers like Sandeman and his crowd. In any event, that particular gang had gone to earth and were unlikely to show their faces for some time. After the Dean had, with considerable relish, read out the passage in Brookes’ letter which named them, Grant Adey and Sandeman had both been forced to resign from the Council. Driffield’s punishment had been more subtle. Two letters from Elliot Macindoe calling his attention to certain unfortunate expressions in his article on the inquest had been sufficient to extract from him a handsome sum of money in lieu of damages. This was being spent on a set of new copes. They would be ready in time for the great Christian festival of Easter. It would be an appropriate moment for the Dean to announce his resignation.
There had been lesser ripples. Mrs Henn-Christie was contemplating legal proceedings against Gloag to make him repay his ill-gotten gains, but the Dean did not think that she would get very far. Grey, unnerved by the excitements, had decided to retire. This had a happy side to it, since Masters, who was altogether a better man, had withdrawn his resignation and taken the senior post.
Rosa had called on Lady Fallingford and had been rebuffed.
The Dean’s eyes were half closed against the sparkle of the sun off the water. Now he opened them again. Surely there had been a movement in the clump of weeds under the opposite bank?
A long pointed nose emerged from the green fronds. It was his old friend, the cannibal trout. It slid off down stream. The Dean watched it with affection.