'That of the habitual confessor of the family in question, the parish priest or, as in the present case, private chaplain. A wise and necessary precaution against fraud or folly. That's not needed between you and me, master, but there is the legal requirement. Your Father Lyall will do the office, which is why I asked for his attendance on us here, do you see.'
Tobias gave a satisfied nod and picked up an ink-stylus from the tray on his desk. 'Well, then...'
'Wait,' said Father Lyall.
'What is it, Father?' asked Tobias, frowning. 'It's all quite clear.'
'I won't sign, sir, and I advise you not to either.'
'Why?' The Abbot sat up from the depths of his chair. 'Why do you give such advice?'
Lyall felt he could not say he was not sure which of two things was harder to put up with, the Abbot's conversational style, with its bland coherence and assumption of severely limited cogitative powers in the hearer, or his recurrent look of pleased surprise as each fresh piece of evidence of his wisdom or moral worth turned up, but between them they were likely to implant in certain minds a hardy seed of revolt. There were other things Lyall felt he could not say: that he intended to enjoy using to the fullTm'sTinexpected gift of a fragment of power, a small weapon against the Church's self-perpetuating hierarchy, and, by way of a footnote, that the look Dame Anvil had sent him at the end of breakfast was an encouragement to any and every sort of assertive behaviour. And he did not say that there might be some sort of natural case against mutilating a child for the greater glory of music or God or His Church or anything else whatever, because no such thought occurred to him. So what he did say was, 'We have in our hands the mortal life of a child of God, my lord. Are we to dispose of so much of it after such little consideration?'
'What further consideration would you have us give, Father?' The Abbot sounded honestly puzzled.
'I don't know, sir. It's not five minutes since I first heard of this proposal—how can I weigh it fairly? I ask for a postponement during which I can consult my conscience.'
'I'm advised that time is pressing.'
'But Hubert isn't yet eleven years old, and surely all of us have heard boy trebles of thirteen or fourteen whose voices were still unimpaired. Must we be so precipitate?'
'Father, be so good as to give me credit for knowing something of this matter, which has arisen before in my experience. Those of thirteen or fourteen have gone beyond the age at which alteration will have the desired effect. By then, it's too late. We haven't years to spare, as you seem to imply.'
'But we must have days to spare, at least.'
'Can I be of help, my lord?' asked Dilke. 'As one in holy orders and—I hope—of good repute, well conversant with the matter in hand...'
The Abbot smiled faintly. 'You are all you say, Father, and more besides, but this provision is quite specifically laid down in the relevant Act of Convocation. The crucial word is 'habitual' attached to 'confessor'. You've never once, I believe, had occasion to confess Master Anvil, and Hubert seldom. We must abide by the letter.'
'Yes, my lord.'
There was silence once more. Twice in quick succession the window-frames shook slightly at the passage of express-omnibuses or other large vehicles: the traffic in Tyburn Road was heavy that day. Tobias looked grim, also apprehensive, no doubt at the prospect of again being asked to sign the document and having to cross either his own spiritual guide or the Abbot. Lyall was already regretting his hardihood, and would have withdrawn his objections on the spot if offered any reasonably dignified means of escape. But the Abbot gave him a cold glance and said, 'Would a week be long enough for you to finish consulting your conscience, Father?'
'Yes, my lord, I'm sure it would.'
'Let it be a week, then.'
Nothing was said of the possibility that at the end of that time Lyail's position would be unchanged, and it might weli have seemed to be ruled out by the making of an arrangement that Hubert should visit his home at the week-end to be told what was in store for him. As soon as they were alone, Tobias said to Lyall, in wonder rather than anger, 'In Christ's name, Father, what do you mean to do?'
'No more than I said, Master Anvil.'
'Your conscience and so on. How will you deal with it?'
'Prayer and meditation are sure to guide me.'
'A week of that?'
'There are other things to be done, master.'
'What things?'
Rather than have nothing to say, Lyall said, 'Naturally I must consult Dame Anvil.'
'My wife? Consult my wife?'
'Yes, sir.'
'But'—Tobias spoke as one stating a seldom-contested fact—'a woman's opinion on a matter of this kind is of no import whatever.'
'Hubert is her son, master.'
'He's my son too: that's what signifies... But again, Father, what do you mean to do? Abbot Thynne is a very eminent man. You can't simply defy him.'
'We shall see.'
'All too clearly, perhaps. But I don't think you mean to continue to defy him. I think this is a sort of game.
