Wilberforce (46 page)

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.

Morgan outlined Patron's Day: Dr. Sebastian's visit, Morgan's summons to the First XI, an interlude he labeled unsuitable conduct, his interview with the Headmaster and with Dr. Sebastian, his exile into the corridor for hours, his incarceration in a spare room of the Flea's House, his abduction before breakfast by Dr. Sebastian, an endless train journey to a destination known only as the Rectory, and now his abandonment to Dr. Sebastian's father, a retired bishop who still, as far as Morgan could see, enjoyed putting on the old getups for the purposes of nostalgia. That, he declared, was his testimony.

The Bishop touched the edge of the desk.

—Getups, you say?

This was why it was never a good idea to speak freely with adults.

The Bishop laughed in a burst:

—If the cassock disconcerts you, I'll remove it.

—It doesn't disconcert me. Sir.

—Do you object to clergy in general, or merely to the sacrament of confirmation?

Morgan was having trouble working out the words to use, and the moves to make.

—I object to religion, sir.

—You do, do you? And your parents?

—They don't—they didn't—I mean my father—

—Forgive me, I meant your father.

—You know about my mother, sir?

—My son tells me she died some years ago.

—Yes, sir.

—May she rest in peace.

The Bishop looked directly at him, as if the words were more than formula. He looked as if he believed people continued to exist after death and could thus rest in peace or otherwise. He didn't grow flustered at the revelation. He didn't offer repulsive consolations, such as the notion that God loved her so much that he simply had to have her with him. Or that her death was his mysterious will. Or that she perched even now on a cloud, watching Morgan benevolently and sprinkling raindrops of affection upon him. Or even that the barbaric thing had made him stronger. The Bishop said none of these things.

—When did she die?

—During my first term at St. Stephen's.

—Yes?

—October thirty-first, 1922.

The Bishop absorbed this and then performed the gesture, speaking under his breath:

—May light perpetual shine upon her …

Morgan missed the rest.

—Are you Catholic, sir? Morgan said with more belligerence than he intended.

—I am Anglo-Catholic. And yourself? Or, should I say, your father?

—He—he's ordinary—he doesn't do things like that!

An expression played again at the corner of the Bishop's mouth:

—Does it distress you when I make the sign of the cross?

—It doesn't distress me! It's only so very popish, that's all. I suppose you worship saints and blood and the pope and everything as well.

—I revere the saints, respect the Bishop of Rome, and approach the mystery of the cross with as much humility as I can muster. Any other questions?

—Why do you wear that costume?

He was being impertinent, but he didn't care.

—It's a cassock, ordinary clerical attire for performing clerical functions. I was making a distinction between our conversations last night and our interview in this room.

—Careful, Droit breathed at his ear.

—Sir, Morgan said with as much weariness as he could summon, whatever you're going to do to me, please could you get on with it?

A shadow fell across the Bishop's face, as if something ominous had entered the room. He glanced around and then unfastened the sash of his cassock, unbuttoned the garment, and exchanged it for his summer jacket.

—I can see I'm going to have to be direct, the Bishop said.

—I wish someone would!

—Very well. Two nights ago my son telephoned to say he'd accepted the post of Headmaster at your school. He also asked my help with a project, one he termed urgent. I have been of assistance to many people over the years, many of them in difficulties, but this was the first time my son had made such an appeal. My time is somewhat freer at the moment, and given that my son … it seemed fitting to agree.

The room was airless. Morgan wondered if he would be ill after all the eggs.

—Your arrival last night, as you may have noticed, caught me on the back foot.

Wasn't expecting someone so appalling.

—I wasn't expecting someone so young. But over the evening, my son took me into his confidence: the project was a boy well regarded by those in authority at St. Stephen's, a boy who had attracted my son's notice for his cricket and for his conversation, but a boy who had committed offenses grievous enough to merit expulsion.

—Why not expel him properly? His father wouldn't have him home, I suppose.

—The point that's eluding you is that my son clung to the view that this boy might not be entirely lost. Perhaps, he thought, something could be salvaged.

Morgan stared at the rug, its rusty patterns worn nearly through:

—I shouldn't think so.

The Bishop stirred in a way that indicated the end of the interview. He breezed by the desk, not even pausing as he grasped Morgan's elbow and pulled him to his feet. He conducted him thus back through the warren of rooms to the entry hall. The woman appeared as if summoned by telepathy.

—Mrs. Hallows, will you kindly see that young Wilberforce locates his games attire in that trunk of his? He's off for a run.

She nodded. Morgan managed to free his elbow from the Bishop's grasp:

—The Bishop is mistaken—

—The Bishop is not mistaken.

The Bishop gripped the back of his neck and led him through the front door to the foot of the drive.