“Te Deum Patrem colimus,
Te laudibus prosequimur,
Qui corpus cibo reficis,
Coelesti mentem gratia.”
In the pauses Taffy heard, faint and far below, the noise of cowhorns blown by the street boys gathered at the foot of the tower and beyond the bridge. Close beside him a small urchin of a chorister was singing away with the face of an ecstatic seraph; whence that ecstasy arose the urchin would have been puzzled to tell. There flashed into Taffy’s brain the vision of the whole earth lauding and adoring— sun-worshippers and Christians, priests and small children; nation after nation prostrating itself and arising to join the chant— “the differing world’s agreeing sacrifice.” Yes, it was Praise that made men brothers; Praise, the creature’s first and last act of homage to his Creator; Praise that made him kin with the angels. Praise had lifted this tower; had expressed itself in its soaring pinnacles; and he for the moment was incorporate with the tower and part of its builder’s purpose. “Lord, make men as towers!”—he remembered his father’s prayer in the field by Tewkesbury, and at last he understood. “All towers carry a lamp of some kind”—why, of course they did. He looked about him. The small chorister’s face was glowing—
“Triune Deus, hominum
Salutis auctor optime,
Immensum hoc mysterium
Ovante lingua canimus!”
Silence—and then with a shout the tunable bells broke forth, rocking the tower. Someone seized Taffy’s college cap and sent it spinning over the battlements. Caps? For a second or two they darkened the sky like a flock of birds. A few gowns followed, expanding as they dropped, like clumsy parachutes. The company—all but a few severe dons and their friends—tumbled laughing down the ladder, down the winding stair, and out into sunshine. The world was pagan after all.
At breakfast Taffy found a letter on his table, addressed in his mother’s hand. As a rule she wrote twice a week, and this was not one of the usual days for hearing from her. But nothing was too good to happen that morning. He snatched up the letter and broke the seal.
“My dearest boy,” it ran, “I want you home at once to consult with me. Something has happened (forgive me, dear, for not preparing you; but the blow fell on me yesterday so suddenly)—something which makes it doubtful, and more than doubtful, that you can continue at Oxford. And something else they say has happened which I will never believe in unless I hear it from my boy’s lips. I have this comfort, at any rate, that he will never tell me a falsehood. This is a matter which cannot be explained by letter, and cannot wait until the end of term. Come home quickly, dear; for until you are here I can have no peace of mind.”
So once again Taffy travelled homewards by the night mail.
“Mother, it’s a lie!”
Taffy’s face was hot, but he looked straight into his mother’s eyes. She too was rosy-red: being ever a shamefast woman. And to speak of these things to her own boy—
“Thank God!” she murmured, and her fingers gripped the arms of her chair.