The Alteration

       The Abbot caught Dilke's eye. 'Nobly and piously spoken.'

       'Thank you, my lord.' Tobias gave a deep sigh. 'May I see your document? Most concise, isn't it? Three clauses only, and a... There seems to be space here for a second signature.'

       '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. All you mean is to savour the thrill of defiance without any actual risk. Let me know when you've had enough of your game. You place me in a most uncomfortable posture.'

       Good observation but bad policy, thought the priest, and said, with as much fervour as he could summon, short of sounding ridiculous, 'This is no game, Master Anvil.'

       Tobias raised his eyebrows. 'Bravely spoken, Father Lyall.

       Well, I must be about my business. When you're not praying or meditating or consulting my wife, I ask you to bear in mind who it is that employs you.'

       A more than usually smart express, its walnut panels stained a dark crimson and its front and rear trimmed with placcas that bore the initials CD (Corpus Diplomaticum), was twisting its way along King Stephen II Street in Coverley through the horse-drawn traffic. Its only passenger was Hubert Anvil. He wore chapel dress with the permitted addition-since he was on extramural precept for the afternoon—of a coloured scarf, and was sitting well forward with the window down in order to see and be seen. The foot-passengers, the other vehicles, the great shops and grand public buildings were all a delight to somebody who lived most of his life within the same stone walls, but Hubert also wanted to be the subject of questioning glances, signs that it was being said or thought of him, 'Who's that young boy in the handsome express? How can he be of so much mark? What high mission of Church or State is he upon?'

       Nothing of the sort showed itself. There was little to be seen of the gentry, and that only for moments at a time: the tall old man in the vermilion jacket and pink breeches entering a teahouse, the two ladies with bright bonnets and sashes halted at a jeweller's window-none could have reason to spare him a glance. As for the people, they strolled along by the thousand in their greyish or brownish tunics and trews, their glances moving over him with the same indifference they showed towards everything and everybody, even one another. They betrayed no envy of the attire or adornments of their betters, nor any resentment of the expensive inns and ristorantes they passed and would never enter or of the displays of fine goods they would never own or consume. Well, after all, they were the people, resigned to their God-appointed lot, too coarse of soul and sense to want what their betters enjoyed as a right: offer any one of them a bottle of first-harvest Chichester, say, instead of his usual mug of swipes, and he would not thank you. That, at any rate, was Hubert's father's view. Hubert himself was less sure that that was an end of the matter; and if it was not, he reflected now, there was something unworthy in his presenting himself as though for admiration, something close to a sin of pride. He sat back against the cushions of the express.