The Nebuly Coat, by John Meade Falkner. 

________________________________________________________________________This extraordinary book was acclaimed on its publication in 1903 as oneof the very best books ever written in the English language. We haveworked for this transcription from the first edition, which was giventwo printings, of which we used the second. 

There are not so many actors in the story that the reader is baffled, and each of them is beautifully drawn, so that their characters standout clearly and consistently. It appears that the action of the storywas set in the 1860s. 

There is a sudden death. Was it a murder? It was recorded as anaccidental death in the inquest. If it was a murder then who did it?There is one possibility, but it is unthinkable. 

Through a very minor accident the whole situation becomes clear: themystery is unravelled; the reasons for various earlier actions becomeknown to us. 

From the very beginning of the book there is sustained tension, and ourinterest is kept with ever increasing intensity until we reach theextraordinary climax in the last words of the book. 

________________________________________________________________________

THE NEBULY COAT, BY JOHN MEADE FALKNER. 

PROLOGUE. 

Sir George Farquhar, Baronet, builder of railway-stations, andinstitutes, and churches, author, antiquarian, and senior partner ofFarquhar and Farquhar, leant back in his office chair and turned itsideways to give more point to his remarks. Before him stood anunderstudy, whom he was sending to superintend the restoration work atCullerne Minster. 

"Well, good-bye, Westray; keep your eyes open, and don't forget that youhave an important job before you. The church is too big to hideits light under a bushel, and thisSociety-for-the-Conservation-of-National-Inheritances has made up itsmind to advertise itself at our expense. Ignoramuses who don't know anaumbry from an abacus, charlatans, amateur faddists, they _will_ abuseour work. Good, bad, or indifferent, it's all one to them; they arepledged to abuse it. "

His voice rang with a fine professional contempt, but he sobered himselfand came back to business. 

"The south transept roof and the choir vaulting will want carefulwatching. There is some old trouble, too, in the central tower; and Ishould like later on to underpin the main crossing piers, but there isno money. For the moment I have said nothing about the tower; it is nouse raising doubts that one can't set at rest; and I don't know how weare going to make ends meet, even with the little that it is proposed todo now. If funds come in, we must tackle the tower; but transept andchoir-vaults are more pressing, and there is no risk from the bells, because the cage is so rotten that they haven't been rung for years. 

"You must do your best. It isn't a very profitable stewardship, so tryto give as good an account of it as you can. We shan't make a penny outof it, but the church is too well known to play fast-and-loose with. Ihave written to the parson--a foolish old fellow, who is no more fitthan a lady's-maid to be trusted with such a church as Cullerne--to sayyou are coming to-morrow, and will put in an appearance at the church inthe afternoon, in case he wishes to see you. The man is an ass, but heis legal guardian of the place, and has not done badly in collectingmoney for the restoration; so we must bear with him. "

CHAPTER ONE. 

Cullerne Wharf of the Ordnance maps, or plain Cullerne as known to thecountryside, lies two miles from the coast to-day; but it was once muchnearer, and figures in history as a seaport of repute, having sent sixships to fight the Armada, and four to withstand the Dutch a centurylater. But in fulness of time the estuary of the Cull silted up, and abar formed at the harbour mouth; so that sea-borne commerce was drivento seek other havens. Then the Cull narrowed its channel, and insteadof spreading itself out prodigally as heretofore on this side or onthat, shrunk to the limits of a well-ordered stream, and this none ofthe greatest. The burghers, seeing that their livelihood in the portwas gone, reflected that they might yet save something by reclaiming thesalt-marshes, and built a stone dyke to keep the sea from getting in, with a sluice in the midst of it to let the Cull out. Thus were formedthe low-lying meadows called Cullerne Flat, where the Freemen have aright to pasture sheep, and where as good-tasting mutton is bred as onany _pre-sale_ on the other side of the Channel. But the sea has notgiven up its rights without a struggle, for with a south-east wind andspring-tide the waves beat sometimes over the top of the dyke; andsometimes the Cull forgets its good behaviour, and after heavy rainfallsinland breaks all bonds, as in the days of yore. Then anyone lookingout from upper windows in Cullerne town would think the little place hadmoved back once more to the seaboard; for the meadows are under water, and the line of the dyke is scarcely broad enough to make a division inthe view, between the inland lake and the open sea beyond. 

The main line of the Great Southern Railway passes seven miles to thenorth of this derelict port, and converse with the outer world was keptup for many years by carriers' carts, which journeyed to and fro betweenthe town and the wayside station of Cullerne Road. But by-and-bydeputations of the Corporation of Cullerne, properly introduced by SirJoseph Carew, the talented and widely-respected member for that ancientborough, persuaded the railway company that better communication wasneeded, and a branch-line was made, on which the service was scarcelyless primitive than that of the carriers in the past. 

The novelty of the railway had not altogether worn off at the time whenthe restorations of the church were entrusted to Messrs. Farquhar andFarquhar; and the arrival of the trains was still attended by Cullerneloungers as a daily ceremonial. But the afternoon on which Westraycame, was so very wet that there were no spectators. He had taken athird-class ticket from London to Cullerne Road to spare his pocket, anda first-class ticket from the junction to Cullerne to support thedignity of his firm. But this forethought was wasted, for, exceptcertain broken-down railway officials, who were drafted to Cullerne asto an asylum, there were no witnesses of his advent. 

He was glad to learn that the enterprise of the Blandamer Arms led thatfamily and commercial hotel to send an omnibus to meet all trains, andhe availed himself the more willingly of this conveyance because hefound that it would set him down at the very door of the church itself. So he put himself and his modest luggage inside--and there was ampleroom to do this, for he was the only passenger--plunged his feet intothe straw which covered the floor, and endured for ten minutes such ashaking and rattling as only an omnibus moving over cobble-stones canproduce. 

With the plans of Cullerne Minster Mr Westray was thoroughly familiar, but the reality was as yet unknown to him; and when the omnibus lumberedinto the market-place, he could not suppress an exclamation as he firstcaught sight of the great church of Saint Sepulchre shutting in thewhole south side of the square. The drenching rain had cleared thestreets of passengers, and save for some peeping-Toms who looked overthe low green blinds as the omnibus passed, the place might indeed havebeen waiting for Lady Godiva's progress, all was so deserted. 

The heavy sheets of rain in the air, the misty water-dust raised by thedrops as they struck the roofs, and the vapour steaming from the earth, drew over everything a veil invisible yet visible, which softenedoutlines like the gauze curtain in a theatre. Through it loomed theMinster, larger and far more mysteriously impressive than Westray had inany moods imagined. A moment later the omnibus drew up before an irongate, from which a flagged pathway led through the churchyard to thenorth porch. 

The conductor opened the carriage-door. 

"This is the church, sir, " he said, somewhat superfluously. "If you getout here, I will drive your bag to the hotel. "

Westray fixed his hat firmly on his head, turned up the collar of hiscoat, and made a dash through the rain for the door. Deep puddles hadformed in the worn places of the gravestones that paved the alley, andhe splashed himself in his hurry before he reached the shelter of theporch. He pulled aside the hanging leather mattress that covered awicket in the great door, and found himself inside the church. 

It was not yet four o'clock, but the day was so overcast that dusk wasalready falling in the building. A little group of men who had beentalking in the choir turned round at the sound of the opening door, andmade towards the architect. The protagonist was a clergyman past middleage, who wore a stock, and stepped forward to greet the young architect. 

"Sir George Farquhar's assistant, I presume. One of Sir GeorgeFarquhar's assistants I should perhaps say, for no doubt Sir George hasmore than one assistant in carrying out his many and varied professionalduties. "

Westray made a motion of assent, and the clergyman went on: "Let meintroduce myself as Canon Parkyn. You will no doubt have heard of mefrom Sir George, with whom I, as rector of this church, have hadexceptional opportunities of associating. On one occasion, indeed, SirGeorge spent the night under my own roof, and I must say that I thinkany young man should be proud of studying under an architect of suchdistinguished ability. I shall be able to explain to you very brieflythe main views which Sir George has conceived with regard to therestoration; but in the meantime let me make you known to my worthyparishioners--and friends, " he added in a tone which implied some doubtas to whether condescension was not being stretched too far, inqualifying as friends persons so manifestly inferior. 

"This is Mr Sharnall, the organist, who under my direction presidesover the musical portion of our services; and this is Dr Ennefer, ourexcellent local practitioner; and this is Mr Joliffe, who, thoughengaged in trade, finds time as churchwarden to assist me in thesupervision of the sacred edifice. "

The doctor and the organist gave effect to the presentation by a nod, and something like a shrug of the shoulders, which deprecated theRector's conceited pomposity, and implied that if such an exceedinglyunlikely contingency as their making friends with Mr Westray shouldever happen, it would certainly not be due to any introduction of CanonParkyn. Mr Joliffe, on the other hand, seemed fully to recognise thedignity to which he was called by being numbered among the Rector'sfriends, and with a gracious bow, and a polite "Your servant, sir, " madeit plain that he understood how to condescend in his turn, and wasprepared to extend his full protection to a young and strugglingarchitect. 

Beside these leading actors, there were present the clerk, and a handfulof walking-gentlemen in the shape of idlers who had strolled in from thestreet, and who were glad enough to find shelter from the rain, and anafternoon's entertainment gratuitously provided. 

"I thought you would like to meet me here, " said the Rector, "so that Imight point out to you at once the more salient features of thebuilding. Sir George Farquhar, on the occasion of his last visit, waspleased to compliment me on the lucidity of the explanations which Iventured to offer. "

There seemed to be no immediate way of escape, so Westray resignedhimself to the inevitable, and the little group moved up the nave, enveloped in an atmosphere of its own, of which wet overcoats andumbrellas were resolvable constituents. The air in the church was rawand cold, and a smell of sodden matting drew Westray's attention to thefact that the roofs were not water-tight, and that there were pools ofrain-water on the floor in many places. 

"The nave is the oldest part, " said the cicerone, "built about 1135 byWalter Le Bec. "

"I am very much afraid our friend is too young and inexperienced for thework here. What do _you_ think?" he put in as a rapid aside to thedoctor. 

"Oh, I dare say if you take him in hand and coach him a little he willdo all right, " replied the doctor, raising his eyebrows for theorganist's delectation. 

"Yes, this is all Le Bec's work, " the Rector went on, turning back toWestray. "So sublime the simplicity of the Norman style, is it not?The nave arcades will repay your close attention; and look at thesewonderful arches in the crossing. Norman, of course, but how light; andyet strong as a rock to bear the enormous weight of the tower whichlater builders reared on them. Wonderful, wonderful!"

Westray recalled his Chief's doubts about the tower, and looking up intothe lantern saw on the north side a seam of old brick filling; and onthe south a thin jagged fissure, that ran down from the sill of thelantern-window like the impress of a lightning-flash. There came intohis head an old architectural saw, "The arch never sleeps"; and as helooked up at the four wide and finely-drawn semicircles they seemed tosay:

"The arch never sleeps, never sleeps. They have bound on us a burdentoo heavy to be borne. We are shifting it. The arch never sleeps. "

"Wonderful, wonderful!" the Rector still murmured. "Daring fellows, these Norman builders. "

"Yes, yes, " Westray was constrained to say; "but they never reckonedthat the present tower would be piled upon their arches. "

"What, _you_ think them a little shaky?" put in the organist. "Well, Ihave fancied so, many a time, myself. "

"Oh, I don't know. I dare say they will last our time, " Westrayanswered in a nonchalant and reassuring tone; for he remembered that, asregards the tower, he had been specially cautioned to let sleeping dogslie, but he thought of the Ossa heaped on Pelion above their heads, andconceived a mistrust of the wide crossing-arches which he never was ableentirely to shake off. 

"No, no, my young friend, " said the Rector with a smile of forbearancefor so mistaken an idea, "do not alarm yourself about these arches. `Mr Rector, ' said Sir George to me the very first time we were heretogether, `you have been at Cullerne forty years; have you ever observedany signs of movement in the tower?' `Sir George, ' I said, `will youwait for your fees until my tower tumbles down?' Ha, ha, ha! He sawthe joke, and we never heard anything more about the tower. Sir Georgehas, no doubt, given you all proper instructions; but as I had theprivilege of personally showing him the church, you must forgive me if Iask you to step into the south transept for a moment, while I point outto you what Sir George considered the most pressing matter. "

They moved into the transept, but the doctor managed to buttonholeWestray for a moment _en route_. 

"You will be bored to death, " he said, "with this man's ignorance andconceit. Don't pay the least attention to him, but there _is_ one thingI want to take the first opportunity of pressing on you. Whatever isdone or not done, however limited the funds may be, let us at least havea sanitary floor. You must have all these stones up, and put a foot ortwo of concrete under them. Can anything be more monstrous than thatthe dead should be allowed to poison the living? There must be hundredsof burials close under the floor, and look at the pools of waterstanding about. Can anything, I say, be more insanitary?"

They were in the south transept, and the Rector had duly pointed out thedilapidations of the roof, which, in truth, wanted but little showing. 

"Some call this the Blandamer aisle, " he said, "from a noble family ofthat name who have for many years been buried here. "

"_Their_ vaults are, no doubt, in a most insanitary condition, "interpolated the doctor. 

"These Blandamers ought to restore the whole place, " the organist saidbitterly. "They would, if they had any sense of decency. They are asrich as Croesus, and would miss pounds less than most people would misspennies. Not that I believe in any of this sanitary talk--things havegone on well enough as they are; and if you go digging up the floors youwill only dig up pestilences. Keep the fabric together, make the roofswater-tight, and spend a hundred or two on the organ. That is all wewant, and these Blandamers would do it, if they weren't curmudgeons andskinflints. "

"You will forgive me, Mr Sharnall, " said the Rector, "if I remark thatan hereditary peerage is so important an institution, that we should bevery careful how we criticise any members of it. At the same time, " hewent on, turning apologetically to Westray, "there is perhaps a modicumof reason in our friend's remarks. I had hoped that Lord Blandamerwould have contributed handsomely to the restoration fund, but he hasnot hitherto done so, though I dare say that his continued absenceabroad accounts for some delay. He only succeeded his grandfather lastyear, and the late lord never showed much interest in this place, andwas indeed in many ways a very strange character. But it's no useraking up these stories; the old man is gone, and we must hope forbetter things from the young one. "

"I don't know why you call him young, " said the doctor. "He's young, maybe, compared to his grandfather, who died at eighty-five; but he mustbe forty, if he's a day. "

"Oh, impossible; and yet I don't know. It was in my first year atCullerne that his father and mother were drowned. You remember that, Mr Sharnall--when the _Corisande_ upset in Pallion Bay?"

"Ay, I mind that well enough, " struck in the clerk; "and I mind theirbeing married, becos' we wor ringing of the bells, when old MasonParmiter run into the church, and says: `Do'ant-'ee, boys--do'ant-'eering 'em any more. These yere old tower'll never stand it. I see himrock, ' he says, `and the dust a-running out of the cracks like rain. 'So out we come, and glad enough to stop it, too, because there wos afeast down in the meadows by the London Road, and drinks and dancing, and we wanted to be there. That were two-and-forty years ago come LadyDay, and there was some shook their heads, and said we never ought tohave stopped the ring, for a broken peal broke life or happiness. Butwhat was we to do?"

"Did they strengthen the tower afterwards?" Westray asked. "Do youfind any excessive motion when the peal is rung now?"

"Lor' bless you, sir; them bells was never rung for thirty years aforethat, and wouldn't a been rung then, only Tom Leech, he says: `The ropesis there, boys; let's have a ring out of these yere tower. He ain'tbeen rung for thirty year. None on us don't recollect the last time he_was_ rung, and if 'er were weak then, 'ers had plenty of time to getstrong again, and there'll be half a crown a man for ringing of a peal. 'So up we got to it, till old Parmiter come in to stop us. And you takemy word for it, they never have been rung since. There's only that ropethere"--and he pointed to a bell-rope that came down from the lanternfar above, and was fastened back against the wall--"wot we tolls thebell with for service, and that ain't the big bell neither. "

"Did Sir George Farquhar know all this?" Westray asked the Rector. 

"No, sir; Sir George did not know it, " said the Rector, with sometartness in his voice, "because it was not material that he should knowit; and Sir George's time, when he was here, was taken up with morepressing matters. I never heard this old wife's tale myself till thepresent moment, and although it is true that we do not ring the bells, this is on account of the supposed weakness of the cage in which theyswing, and has nothing whatever to do with the tower itself. You maytake my word for that. `Sir George, ' I said, when Sir George askedme--`Sir George, I have been here forty years, and if you will agree notto ask for your fees till my tower tumbles down, why, I shall be veryglad. ' Ha, ha, ha! how Sir George enjoyed that joke! Ha, ha, ha!"

Westray turned away with a firm resolve to report to headquarters thestory of the interrupted peal, and to make an early examination of thetower on his own behalf. 

The clerk was nettled that the Rector should treat his story with suchscant respect, but he saw that the others were listening with interest, and he went on:

"Well, 'taint for I to say the old tower's a-going to fall, and I hopeSir Jarge won't ever live to larf the wrong side o' his mouth; butstopping of a ring never brought luck with it yet, and it brought noluck to my lord. First he lost his dear son and his son's wife inCullerne Bay, and I remember as if 'twas yesterday how we grappled for'em all night, and found their bodies lying close together on the sandin three fathoms, when the tide set inshore in the morning. And then hefell out wi' my lady, and she never spoke to him again--no, not to theday of her death. They lived at Fording--that's the great hall overthere, " he said to Westray, jerking his thumb towards the east--"fortwenty years in separate wings, like you mi'd say each in a house tothemselves. And then he fell out wi' Mr Fynes, his grandson, andturned him out of house and lands, though he couldn't leave themanywhere else when he died. 'Tis Mr Fynes as is the young lord now, and half his life he's bin a wandrer in foreign parts, and isn't comehome yet. Maybe he never will come back. It's like enough he's gotkilled out there, or he'd be tied to answer parson's letters. Wouldn'the, Mr Sharnall?" he said, turning abruptly to the organist with awink, which was meant to retaliate for the slight that the Rector hadput on his stories. 

"Come, come; we've had enough of these tales, " said the Rector. "Yourlisteners are getting tired. "

"The man's in love with his own voice, " he added in a lower tone, as hetook Westray by the arm; "when he's once set off there's no stoppinghim. There are still a good many points which Sir George and Idiscussed, and on which I shall hope to give you our conclusions; but weshall have to finish our inspection to-morrow, for this talkative fellowhas sadly interrupted us. It is a great pity the light is failing sofast just now; there is some good painted glass in this end window ofthe transept. "

Westray looked up and saw the great window at the end of the transeptshimmering with a dull lustre; light only in comparison with the shadowsthat were falling inside the church. It was an insertion ofPerpendicular date, reaching from wall to wall, and almost from floor toroof. Its vast breadth, parcelled out into eleven lights, and theinfinite division of the stonework in the head, impressed theimagination; while mullions and tracery stood out in such inky contrastagainst the daylight yet lingering outside, that the architect read thescheme of subarcuation and the tracery as easily as if he had beenstudying a plan. Sundown had brought no gleam to lift the pall of thedying day, but the monotonous grey of the sky was still sufficientlylight to enable a practised eye to make out that the head of the windowwas filled with a broken medley of ancient glass, where translucentblues and yellows and reds mingled like the harmony of an old patchworkquilt. Of the lower divisions of the window, those at the sides had nocolour to clothe their nakedness, and remained in ghostly whiteness; butthe three middle lights were filled with strong browns and purples ofthe seventeenth century. Here and there in the rich colour wereintroduced medallions, representing apparently scriptural scenes, and atthe top of each light, under the cusping, was a coat of arms. The headof the middle division formed the centre of the whole scheme, and seemedto represent a shield of silver-white crossed by waving sea-green bars. Westray's attention was attracted by the unusual colouring, and by thetransparency of the glass, which shone as with some innate radiancewhere all was dim. He turned almost unconsciously to ask whose armswere thus represented, but the Rector had left him for a minute, and heheard an irritating "Ha, ha, ha!" at some distance down the nave, thatconvinced him that the story of Sir George Farquhar and the postponedfees was being retold in the dusk to a new victim. 

Someone, however, had evidently read the architect's thoughts, for asharp voice said:

"That is the coat of the Blandamers--barry nebuly of six, argent andvert. " It was the organist who stood near him in the deepening shadows. "I forgot that such jargon probably conveys no meaning to you, and, indeed, I know no heraldry myself excepting only this one coat of arms, and sometimes wish, " he said with a sigh, "that I knew nothing of thateither. There have been queer tales told of that shield, and maybethere are queerer yet to be told. It has been stamped for good or evilon this church, and on this town, for centuries, and every tavern loaferwill talk to you about the `nebuly coat' as if it was a thing he wore. You will be familiar enough with it before you have been a week atCullerne. "

There was in the voice something of melancholy, and an earnestness thatthe occasion scarcely warranted. It produced a curious effect onWestray, and led him to look closely at the organist; but it was toodark to read any emotion in his companion's face, and at this moment theRector rejoined them. 

"Eh, what? Ah, yes; the nebuly coat. Nebuly, you know, from the Latin_nebulum, nebulus_ I should say, a cloud, referring to the wavy outlineof the bars, which are supposed to represent cumulus clouds. Well, well, it is too dark to pursue our studies further this evening, butto-morrow I can accompany you the whole day, and shall be able to tellyou much that will interest you. "

Westray was not sorry that the darkness had put a stop to furtherinvestigations. The air in the church grew every moment more clammy andchill, and he was tired, hungry, and very cold. He was anxious, ifpossible, to find lodgings at once, and so avoid the expense of anhotel, for his salary was modest, and Farquhar and Farquhar were notmore liberal than other firms in the travelling allowances which theygranted their subordinates. 

He asked if anyone could tell him of suitable rooms. 

"I am sorry, " the Rector said, "not to be able to offer you thehospitality of my own house, but the indisposition of my wifeunfortunately makes that impossible. I have naturally but a very slightacquaintance with lodging-houses or lodging-house keepers; but MrSharnall, I dare say, may be able to give you some advice. Perhapsthere may be a spare room in the house where Mr Sharnall lodges. Ithink your landlady is a relation of our worthy friend Joliffe, is shenot, Mr Sharnall? And no doubt herself a most worthy woman. "

"Pardon, Mr Rector, " said the churchwarden, in as offended a tone as hedared to employ in addressing so superior a dignitary--"pardon, norelation at all, I assure you. A namesake, or, at the nearest, a verydistant connection of whom--I speak with all Christian forbearance--mybranch of the family have no cause to be proud. "

The organist had scowled when the Rector was proposing Westray as afellow-lodger, but Joliffe's disclaimer of the landlady seemed to piquehim. 

"If no branch of your family brings you more discredit than my landlady, you may hold your head high enough. And if all the pork you sell is asgood as her lodgings, your business will thrive. Come along, " he said, taking Westray by the arm; "I have no wife to be indisposed, so I canoffer you the hospitality of my house; and we will stop at Mr Joliffe'sshop on our way, and buy a pound of sausages for tea. "

CHAPTER TWO. 

There was a rush of outer air into the building as they opened the door. The rain still fell heavily, but the wind was rising, and had in it aclean salt smell, that contrasted with the close and moulderingatmosphere of the church. 

The organist drew a deep breath. 

"Ah, " he said, "what a blessed thing to be in the open air again--to bequit of all their niggling and naggling, to be quit of that pompous oldfool the Rector, and of that hypocrite Joliffe, and of that pedant of adoctor! Why does he want to waste money on cementing the vaults? It'sonly digging up pestilences; and they won't spend a farthing on theorgan. Not a penny on the _Father Smith_, clear and sweet-voiced as amountain brook. Oh, " he cried, "it's too bad! The naturals are worndown to the quick, you can see the wood in the gutters of the keys, andthe pedal-board's too short and all to pieces. Ah well! the organ'slike me--old, neglected, worn-out. I wish I was dead. " He had beentalking half to himself, but he turned to Westray and said: "Forgive mefor being peevish; you'll be peevish, too, when you come to my age--atleast, if you're as poor then as I am, and as lonely, and have nothingto look forward to. Come along. "

They stepped out into the dark--for night had fallen--and plashed alongthe flagged path which glimmered like a white streamlet between the darkturves. 

"I will take you a short-cut, if you don't mind some badly-lightedlanes, " said the organist, as they left the churchyard; "it's quicker, and we shall get more shelter. " He turned sharply to the left, andplunged into an alley so narrow and dark that Westray could not keep upwith him, and fumbled anxiously in the obscurity. The little manreached up, and took him by the arm. "Let me pilot you, " he said; "Iknow the way. You can walk straight on; there are no steps. "

There was no sign of life, nor any light in the houses, but it was nottill they reached a corner where an isolated lamp cast a wan anduncertain light that Westray saw that there was no glass in the windows, and that the houses were deserted. 

"It's the old part of the town, " said the organist; "there isn't onehouse in ten with anyone in it now. All we fashionables have movedfurther up. Airs from the river are damp, you know, and wharves so veryvulgar. "

They left the narrow street, and came on to what Westray made out to bea long wharf skirting the river. On the right stood abandonedwarehouses, square-fronted, and huddled together like a row of giganticpacking-cases; on the left they could hear the gurgle of the currentamong the mooring-posts, and the flapping of the water against the quaywall, where the east wind drove the wavelets up the river. The lines ofwhat had once been a horse-tramway still ran along the quay, and thepair had some ado to thread their way without tripping, till a lowbuilding on the right broke the line of lofty warehouses. It seemed tobe a church or chapel, having mullioned windows with stone tracery, anda bell-turret at the west end; but its most marked feature was a row ofheavy buttresses which shored up the side facing the road. They werebuilt of brick, and formed triangles with the ground and the wall whichthey supported. The shadows hung heavy under the building, but whereall else was black the recesses between the buttresses were blackest. Westray felt his companion's hand tighten on his arm. 

"You will think me as great a coward as I am, " said the organist, "if Itell you that I never come this way after dark, and should not have comehere to-night if I had not had you with me. I was always frightened asa boy at the very darkness in the spaces between the buttresses, and Ihave never got over it. I used to think that devils and hobgoblinslurked in those cavernous depths, and now I fancy evil men may be hidingin the blackness, all ready to spring out and strangle one. It is alonely place, this old wharf, and after nightfall--" He broke off, andclutched Westray's arm. "Look, " he said; "do you see nothing in thelast recess?"

His abruptness made Westray shiver involuntarily, and for a moment thearchitect fancied that he discerned the figure of a man standing in theshadow of the end buttress. But, as he took a few steps nearer, he sawthat he had been deceived by a shadow, and that the space was empty. 

"Your nerves are sadly overstrung, " he said to the organist. "There isno one there; it is only some trick of light and shade. What is thebuilding?"

"It was once a chantry of the Grey Friars, " Mr Sharnall answered, "andafterwards was used for excise purposes when Cullerne was a real port. It is still called the Bonding-House, but it has been shut up as long asI remember it. Do you believe in certain things or places being boundup with certain men's destinies? because I have a presentiment that thisbroken-down old chapel will be connected somehow or other with a crisisof my life. "

Westray remembered the organist's manner in the church, and began tosuspect that his mind was turned. The other read his thoughts, and saidrather reproachfully:

"Oh no, I am not mad--only weak and foolish and very cowardly. "

They had reached the end of the wharf, and were evidently returning tocivilisation, for a sound of music reached them. It came from a littlebeer-house, and as they passed they heard a woman singing inside. Itwas a rich contralto, and the organist stopped for a moment to listen. 

"She has a fine voice, " he said, "and would sing well if she had beentaught. I wonder how she comes here. "

The blind was pulled down, but did not quite reach the bottom of thewindow, and they looked in. The rain blurred the pains on the outside, and the moisture had condensed within, so that it was not easy to seeclearly; but they made out that a Creole woman was singing to a group oftopers who sat by the fire in a corner of the room. She wasmiddle-aged, but sang sweetly, and was accompanied on the harp by an oldman:

 "Oh, take me back to those I love! Or bring them here to me! I have no heart to rove, to rove Across the rolling sea. "

"Poor thing!" said the organist; "she has fallen on bad days to have soscurvy a company to sing to. Let us move on. "

They turned to the right, and came in a few minutes to the highroad. Facing them stood a house which had once been of some pretensions, forit had a porch carried on pillars, under which a semicircular flight ofsteps led up to the double door. A street-lamp which stood before ithad been washed so clean in the rain that the light was shed withunusual brilliance, and showed even at night that the house was fallenfrom its high estate. It was not ruinous, but _Ichabod_ was written onthe paintless window-frames and on the rough-cast front, from which theplaster had fallen away in more than one place. The pillars of theporch had been painted to imitate marble, but they were marked withscabrous patches, where the brick core showed through the broken stucco. 

The organist opened the door, and they found themselves in astone-floored hall, out of which dingy doors opened on both sides. Abroad stone staircase, with shallow steps and iron balustrades, led fromthe hall to the next story, and there was a little pathway of wornmatting that threaded its way across the flags, and finally ascended thestairs. 

"Here is my town house, " said Mr Sharnall. "It used to be a coachinginn called The Hand of God, but you must never breathe a word of that, because it is now a private mansion, and Miss Joliffe has christened itBellevue Lodge. "

A door opened while he was speaking, and a girl stepped into the hall. She was about nineteen, and had a tall and graceful figure. Her warmbrown hair was parted in the middle, and its profusion was gatheredloosely up behind in the half-formal, half-natural style of a precedinggeneration. Her face had lost neither the rounded outline nor thedelicate bloom of girlhood, but there was something in it that negativedany impression of inexperience, and suggested that her life had not beenfree from trouble. She wore a close-fitting dress of black, and had astring of pale corals round her neck. 

"Good-evening, Mr Sharnall, " she said. "I hope you are not very wet"--and gave a quick glance of inquiry at Westray. 

The organist did not appear pleased at seeing her. He grunted testily, and, saying "Where is your aunt? Tell her I want to speak to her, " ledWestray into one of the rooms opening out of the hall. 

It was a large room, with an upright piano in one corner, and a greatlitter of books and manuscript music. A table in the middle was set fortea; a bright fire was burning in the grate, and on either side of itstood a rush-bottomed armchair. 

"Sit down, " he said to Westray; "this is my reception-room, and we willsee in a minute what Miss Joliffe can do for _you_. " He glanced at hiscompanion, and added, "That was her niece we met in the passage, " in sounconcerned a tone as to produce an effect opposite to that intended, and to lead Westray to wonder whether there was any reason for hiswishing to keep the girl in the background. 

In a few moments the landlady appeared. She was a woman of sixty, talland spare, with a sweet and even distinguished face. She, too, wasdressed in black, well-worn and shabby, but her appearance suggestedthat her thinness might be attributed to privation or self-denial, rather than to natural habit. 

Preliminaries were easily arranged; indeed, the only point of discussionwas raised by Westray, who was disturbed by scruples lest the termswhich Miss Joliffe offered were too low to be fair to herself. He saidso openly, and suggested a slight increase, which, after some demur, wasgratefully accepted. 

"You are too poor to have so fine a conscience, " said the organistsnappishly. "If you are so scrupulous now, you will be quite unbearablewhen you get rich with battening and fattening on this restoration. "But he was evidently pleased with Westray's consideration for MissJoliffe, and added with more cordiality: "You had better come down andshare my meal; your rooms will be like an ice-house such a night asthis. Don't be long, or the turtle will be cold, and the ortolans bakedto a cinder. I will excuse evening dress, unless you happen to haveyour court suit with you. "

Westray accepted the invitation with some willingness, and an hour laterhe and the organist were sitting in the rush-bottomed armchairs ateither side of the fireplace. Miss Joliffe had herself cleared thetable, and brought two tumblers, wine-glasses, sugar, and a jug ofwater, as if they were natural properties of the organist'ssitting-room. 

"I did Churchwarden Joliffe an injustice, " said Mr Sharnall, with thereflective mood that succeeds a hearty meal; "his sausages are good. Put on some more coal, Mr Westray; it is a sinful luxury, a fire inSeptember, and coal at twenty-five shillings a ton; but we must have_some_ festivity to inaugurate the restoration and your advent. Fill apipe yourself, and then pass me the tobacco. "

"Thank you, I do not smoke, " Westray said; and, indeed, he did not looklike a smoker. He had something of the thin, unsympathetic traits ofthe professional water-drinker in his face, and spoke as if he regardedsmoking as a crime for himself, and an offence for those of less loftyprinciples than his own. 

The organist lighted his pipe, and went on:

"This is an airy house--sanitary enough to suit our friend the doctor;every window carefully ventilated on the crack-and-crevice principle. It was an old inn once, when there were more people hereabouts; and ifthe rain beats on the front, you can still read the name through thecolouring--the Hand of God. There used to be a market held outside, anda century or more ago an apple-woman sold some pippins to a customerjust before this very door. He said he had paid for them, and she saidhe had not; they came to wrangling, and she called Heaven to justifyher. `God strike me dead if I have ever touched your money!' She wastaken at her word, and fell dead on the cobbles. They found clenched inher hand the two coppers for which she had lost her soul, and it wasrecognised at once that nothing less than an inn could properlycommemorate such an exhibition of Divine justice. So the Hand of Godwas built, and flourished while Cullerne flourished, and fell whenCullerne fell. It stood empty ever since I can remember it, till MissJoliffe took it fifteen years ago. She elevated it into Bellevue Lodge, a select boarding-house, and spent what little money that niggardlylandlord old Blandamer would give for repairs, in painting out the Handof God on the front. It was to be a house of resort for Americans whocame to Cullerne. They say in our guide-book that Americans come to seeCullerne Church because some of the Pilgrim Fathers' fathers are buriedin it; but I've never seen any Americans about. They never come to me;I have been here boy and man for sixty years, and never knew an Americando a pennyworth of good to Cullerne Church; and they never did apennyworth of good for Miss Joliffe, for none of them ever came toBellevue Lodge, and the select boarding-house is so select that you andI are the only boarders. " He paused for a minute and went on:"Americans--no, I don't think much of Americans; they're too hard forme--spend a lot of money on their own pleasure, and sometimes cut a dashwith a big donation, where they think it will be properly trumpeted. But they haven't got warm hearts. I don't care for Americans. Still, if you know any about, you can say I am quite venal; and if any one ofthem restores my organ, I am prepared to admire the whole lot. Onlythey must give a little water-engine for blowing it into the bargain. Shutter, the organist of Carisbury Cathedral, has just had awater-engine put in, and, now we've got our own new waterworks atCullerne, we could manage it very well here too. "

The subject did not interest Westray, and he flung back:

"Is Miss Joliffe very badly off?" he asked; "she looks like one of thosepeople who have seen better days. "

"She is worse than badly off--I believe she is half starved. I don'tknow how she lives at all. I wish I could help her, but I haven't acopper myself to jingle on a tombstone, and she is too proud to take itif I had. "

He went to a cupboard in a recess at the back of the room, and took outa squat black bottle. 

"Poverty's a chilly theme, " he said; "let's take something to warm usbefore we go on with the variations. "

He pushed the bottle towards his friend, but, though Westray feltinclined to give way, the principles of severe moderation which he hadrecently adopted restrained him, and he courteously waved away thetemptation. 

"You're hopeless, " said the organist. "What are we to do for you, whoneither smoke nor drink, and yet want to talk about poverty? This issome _eau-de-vie_ old Martelet the solicitor gave me for playing theWedding March at his daughter's marriage. `The Wedding March wasmagnificently rendered by the organist, Mr John Sharnall, ' you know, asif it was the Fourth Organ-Sonata. I misdoubt this ever having paidduty; he's not the man to give away six bottles of anything he'd paidthe excise upon. "

He poured out a portion of spirit far larger than Westray had expected, and then, becoming intuitively aware of his companion's surprise, saidrather sharply: "If you despise good stuff, I must do duty for us both. Up to the top of the church windows is a good maxim. " And he poured inyet more, till the spirit rose to the top of the cuts, which ran higherthan half-way up the sides of the tumbler. There was silence for a fewminutes, while the organist puffed testily at his pipe; but a copiousdraught from the tumbler melted his chagrin, and he spoke again:

"I've had a precious hard life, but Miss Joliffe's had a harder; andI've got myself to thank for my bad luck, while hers is due to otherpeople. First, her father died. He had a farm at Wydcombe, and peoplethought he was well off; but when they came to reckon up, he only leftjust enough to go round among his creditors; so Miss Euphemia gave upthe house, and came into Cullerne. She took this rambling great placebecause it was cheap at twenty pounds a year, and lived, or half lived, from hand to mouth, giving her niece (the girl you saw) all the grains, and keeping the husks for herself. Then a year ago turned up herbrother Martin, penniless and broken, with paralysis upon him. He was aharum-scarum ne'er-do-well. Don't stare at me with thatSaul-among-the-prophets look; _he_ never drank; he would have been abetter man if he had. " And the organist made a further call on thesquat bottle. "He would have given her less bother if he had drunk, buthe was always getting into debt and trouble, and then used to come backto his sister, as to a refuge, because he knew she loved him. He wasclever enough--brilliant they call it now--but unstable as water, withno lasting power. I don't believe he meant to sponge on his sister; Idon't think he knew he did sponge, only he sponged. He would go off onhis travels, no one knew where, though they knew well what he wasseeking. Sometimes he was away two months, and sometimes he was awaytwo years; and then, when Miss Joliffe had kept Anastasia--I mean herniece--all the time, and perhaps got a summer lodger, and seemed to beturning the corner, back would come Martin again to beg money for debts, and eat them out of house and home. I've seen that many a time, andmany a time my heart has ached for them; but what could I do to help? Ihaven't a farthing. Last he came back a year ago, with death written onhis face. I was glad enough to read it there, and think he was come forthe last time to worry them; but it was paralysis, and he a strong man, so that it took that fool Ennefer a long time to kill him. He only diedtwo months ago; here's better luck to him where he's gone. "

The organist drank as deeply as the occasion warranted. 

"Don't look so glum, man, " he said; "I'm not always as bad as this, because I haven't always the means. Old Martelet doesn't give me brandyevery day. "

Westray smoothed away the deprecating expression with which he had feltconstrained to discountenance such excesses, and set Mr Sharnall'stongue going again with a question:

"What did you say Joliffe used to go away for?"

"Oh, it's a long story; it's the nebuly coat again. I spoke of it inthe church--the silver and sea-green that turned his head. He wouldhave it he wasn't a Joliffe at all, but a Blandamer, and rightful heirto Fording. As a boy, he went to Cullerne Grammar School, and did well, and got a scholarship at Oxford. He did still better there, and justwhen he seemed starting strong in the race of life, this nebuly coatcraze seized him and crept over his mind, like the paralysis that creptover his body later on. "

"I don't quite follow you, " Westray said. "Why did he think he was aBlandamer? Did he not know who his father was?"

"He was brought up as a son of old Michael Joliffe, a yeoman who diedfifteen years ago. But Michael married a woman who called herself awidow, and brought a three-year-old son ready-made to his wedding; andthat son was Martin. Old Michael made the boy his own, was proud of hiscleverness, would have him go to college, and left him all he had. There was no talk of Martin being anything but a Joliffe till Oxfordpuffed him up, and then he got this crank, and spent the rest of hislife trying to find out who his father was. It was a forty-years'wandering in the wilderness; he found this clue and that, and thought atlast he had climbed Pisgah and could see the promised land. But he hadto be content with the sight, or mirage I suppose it was, and diedbefore he tasted the milk and honey. "

"What was his connection with the nebuly coat? What made him think hewas a Blandamer?"

"Oh, I can't go into that now, " the organist said; "I have told you toomuch, perhaps, already. You won't let Miss Joliffe guess I have saidanything, will you? She is Michael Joliffe's own child--his onlychild--but she loved her half-brother dearly, and doesn't like hiscranks being talked about. Of course, the Cullerne wags had many a taleto tell of him, and when he came back, greyer each time andwilder-looking, from his wanderings, they called him `Old Nebuly, ' andthe boys would make their bow in the streets, and say `Good-morning, Lord Blandamer. ' You'll hear stories enough about him, and it was abitter thing for his poor sister to bear, to see her brother a butt andlaughing-stock, all the time that he was frittering away her savings. But it's all over now, and Martin's gone where they don't wear nebulycoats. "

"There was nothing in his fancies, I suppose?" Westray asked. 

"You must put that to wiser folk than me, " said the organist lightly;"ask the Rector, or the doctor, or some really clever man. "

He had fallen back into his sneering tone, but there was something inhis words that recalled a previous doubt, and led Westray to wonderwhether Mr Sharnall had not lived so long with the Joliffes as to havebecome himself infected with Martin's delusions. 

His companion was pouring out more brandy, and the architect wished himgood-night. 

Mr Westray's apartment was on the floor above, and he went at once tohis bedroom; for he was very tired with his journey, and with standingso long in the church during the afternoon. He was pleased to find thathis portmanteau had been unpacked, and that his clothes were carefullyarranged in the drawers. This was a luxury to which he was littleaccustomed; there was, moreover, a fire to fling cheerful flickerings onspotlessly white curtains and bedlinen. 

Miss Joliffe and Anastasia had between them carried the portmanteau upthe great well-staircase of stone, which ran from top to bottom of thehouse. It was a task of some difficulty, and there were frequent pausesto take breath, and settings-down of the portmanteau to rest achingarms. But they got it up at last, and when the straps were undone MissEuphemia dismissed her niece. 

"No, my dear, " she said; "let _me_ set the things in order. It is notseemly that a young girl should arrange men's clothes. There was a timewhen I should not have liked to do so myself, but now I am so old itdoes not very much matter. "

She gave a glance at the mirror as she spoke, adjusted a little bit ofgrizzled hair which had strayed from under her cap, and tried to arrangethe bow of ribbon round her neck so that the frayed part should be asfar as possible concealed. Anastasia Joliffe thought, as she left theroom, that there were fewer wrinkles and a sweeter look than usual inthe old face, and wondered that her aunt had never married. Youthlooking at an old maid traces spinsterhood to man's neglect. It is sohard to read in sixty's plainness the beauty of sixteen--to think thatunderneath the placidity of advancing years may lie buried, yetunforgotten, the memory of suits urged ardently, and quenched long agoin tears. 

Miss Euphemia put everything carefully away. The architect's wardrobewas of the most modest proportions, but to her it seemed well furnished, and even costly. She noted, however, with the eye of a sportsmanmarking down a covey, sundry holes, rents, and missing buttons, andresolved to devote her first leisure to their rectification. Suchmending, in anticipation and accomplishment, forms, indeed, awell-defined and important pleasure of all properly constituted womenabove a certain age. 

"Poor young man!" she said to herself. "I am afraid he has had no oneto look after his clothes for a long time. " And in her pity she rushedinto the extravagance of lighting the bedroom fire. 

After things were arranged upstairs, she went down to see that all wasin order in Mr Westray's sitting-room, and, as she moved about there, she heard the organist talking to the architect in the room below. Hisvoice was so deep and raucous that it seemed to jar the soles of herfeet. She dusted lightly a certain structure which, resting in tiersabove the chimney-piece, served to surround a looking-glass withmeaningless little shelves and niches. Miss Joliffe had purchased thispiece-of-resistance when Mrs Cazel, the widow of the ironmonger, hadsold her household effects preparatory to leaving Cullerne. 

"It is an overmantel, my dear, " she had said to dubious Anastasia, whenit was brought home. "I did not really mean to buy it, but I had notbought anything the whole morning, and the auctioneer looked so fiercelyat me that I felt I must make a bid. Then no one else said anything, sohere it is; but I dare say it will serve to smarten the room a little, and perhaps attract lodgers. "

Since then it had been brightened with a coat of blue enamel paint, anda strip of Brusa silk which Martin had brought back from one of hiswanderings was festooned at the side, so as to hide a patch where thequicksilver showed signs of peeling off. Miss Joliffe pulled thefestoon a little forward, and adjusted in one of the side niches apresent-for-a-good-girl cup and saucer which had been bought for herselfat Beacon Hill Fair half a century ago. She wiped the glass dome thatcovered the basket of artificial fruit, she screwed up the"banner-screen" that projected from the mantelpiece, she straightenedout the bead mat on which the stereoscope stood, and at last surveyedthe room with an expression of complete satisfaction on her kindly face. 

An hour later Westray was asleep, and Miss Joliffe was saying herprayers. She added a special thanksgiving for the providentialdirection to her house of so suitable and gentlemanly a lodger, and aspecial request that he might be happy whilst he should be under herroof. But her devotions were disturbed by the sound of Mr Sharnall'spiano. 

"He plays most beautifully, " she said to her niece, as she put out thecandle; "but I wish he would not play so late. I am afraid I have notthought so earnestly as I should at my prayers. "

Anastasia Joliffe said nothing. She was grieved because the organistwas thumping out old waltzes, and she knew by his playing that he hadbeen drinking. 

CHAPTER THREE. 

The Hand of God stood on the highest point in all the borough, and MrWestray's apartments were in the third story. From the window of hissitting-room he could look out over the houses on to Cullerne Flat, thegreat tract of salt-meadows that separated the town from the sea. Inthe foreground was a broad expanse of red-tiled roofs; in the middledistance Saint Sepulchre's Church, with its tower and soaring ridges, stood out so enormous that it seemed as if every house in the placecould have been packed within its walls; in the background was the bluesea. 

In summer the purple haze hangs over the mouth of the estuary, andthrough the shimmer of the heat off the marsh, can be seen the silverwindings of the Cull as it makes its way out to sea, and snow-whiteflocks of geese, and here and there the gleaming sail of apleasure-boat. But in autumn, as Westray saw it for the first time, therank grass is of a deeper green, and the face of the salt-meadows isseamed with irregular clay-brown channels, which at high-tide show outlike crows'-feet on an ancient countenance, but at the ebb dwindle tolittle gullies with greasy-looking banks and a dribble of iridescentwater in the bottom. It is in the autumn that the moles heap upmeanders of miniature barrows, built of the softest brown loam; and inthe turbaries the turf-cutters pile larger and darker stacks of peat. 

Once upon a time there was another feature in the view, for there couldhave been seen the masts and yards of many stately ships, of timbervessels in the Baltic trade, of tea-clippers, and Indiamen, and emigrantships, and now and then the raking spars of a privateer owned byCullerne adventurers. All these had long since sailed for their lastport, and of ships nothing more imposing met the eye than the mast ofDr Ennefer's centre-board laid up for the winter in a backwater. Yetthe scene was striking enough, and those who knew best said that nowherein the town was there so fine an outlook as from the upper windows ofthe Hand of God. 

Many had looked out from those windows upon that scene: the skipper'swife as her eyes followed her husband's barque warping down the riverfor the voyage from which he never came back; honeymoon couples whobroke the posting journey from the West at Cullerne, and sat hand inhand in summer twilight, gazing seaward till the white mists rose overthe meadows and Venus hung brightening in the violet sky; old CaptainFrobisher, who raised the Cullerne Yeomanry, and watched with hisspy-glass for the French vanguard to appear; and, lastly, MartinJoliffe, as he sat dying day by day in his easy-chair, and scheming howhe would spend the money when he should come into the inheritance of allthe Blandamers. 

Westray had finished breakfast, and stood for a time at the open window. The morning was soft and fine, and there was that brilliant clearnessin the air that so often follows heavy autumn rain. His full enjoymentof the scene was, however, marred by an obstruction which impeded freeaccess to the window. It was a case of ferns, which seemed to be formedof an aquarium turned upside down, and supported by a plain woodentable. Westray took a dislike to the dank-looking plants, and to themoisture beaded on the glass inside, and made up his mind that the fernsmust be banished. He would ask Miss Joliffe if she could take themaway, and this determination prompted him to consider whether there wereany other articles of furniture with which it would be advisable todispense. 

He made a mental inventory of his surroundings. There were severalpieces of good mahogany furniture, including some open-backed chairs, and a glass-fronted book-case, which were survivals from the yeoman'sequipment at Wydcombe Farm. They had been put up for auction with therest of Michael Joliffe's effects, but Cullerne taste considered themold-fashioned, and no bidders were found for them. Many things, on theother hand, such as bead mats, and wool-work mats, and fluff mats, acase of wax fruit, a basket of shell flowers, chairs with worsted-workbacks, sofa-cushions with worsted-work fronts, two cheap vases full ofpampas-grass, and two candlesticks with dangling prisms, grated sadly onWestray's taste, which he had long since been convinced was of alltastes the most impeccable. There were a few pictures on the walls--acoloured representation of young Martin Joliffe in Black Forest costume, a faded photograph of a boating crew, and another of a group in front ofsome ruins, which was taken when the Carisbury Field Club made anexpedition to Wydcombe Abbey. Besides these, there were conventionalcopies in oils of a shipwreck, and an avalanche, and a painting ofstill-life representing a bowl full of flowers. 

This last picture weighed on Westray's mind by reason of its size, itsfaulty drawing, and vulgar, flashy colours. It hung full in front ofhim while he sat at breakfast, and though its details amused him for thetime, he felt it would become an eyesore if he should continue to occupythe room. In it was represented the polished top of a mahogany table onwhich stood a blue and white china bowl filled with impossible flowers. The bowl occupied one side of the picture, and the other side was givenup to a meaningless expanse of table-top. The artist had perceived, butapparently too late, the bad balance of the composition, and hadendeavoured to redress this by a few more flowers thrown loose upon thetable. Towards these flowers a bulbous green caterpillar was wriggling, at the very edge of the table, and of the picture. 

The result of Westray's meditations was that the fern-case and theflower-picture stood entirely condemned. He would approach Miss Joliffeat the earliest opportunity about their removal. He anticipated littletrouble in modifying by degrees many other smaller details, but previousexperience in lodgings had taught him that the removal of pictures issometimes a difficult and delicate problem. 

He opened his rolls of plans, and selecting those which he required, prepared to start for the church, where he had to arrange with thebuilder for the erection of scaffolding. He wished to order dinnerbefore he left, and pulled a broad worsted-work bell-pull to summon hislandlady. For some little time he had been aware of the sound of afiddle, and as he listened, waiting for the bell to be answered, theintermittance and reiteration of the music convinced him that theorganist was giving a violin lesson. His first summons remainedunanswered, and when a second attempt met with no better success, hegave several testy pulls in quick succession. This time he heard themusic cease, and made no doubt that his indignant ringing had attractedthe notice of the musicians, and that the organist had gone to tell MissJoliffe that she was wanted. 

He was ruffled by such want of attention, and when there came at last aknock at his door, was quite prepared to expostulate with his landladyon her remissness. As she entered the room, he began, without turningfrom his drawings:

"Never knock, please, when you answer the bell; but I do wish you--"

Here he broke off, for on looking up he found he was speaking, not tothe elder Miss Joliffe, but to her niece Anastasia. The girl wasgraceful, as he had seen the evening before, and again he noticed thepeculiar fineness of her waving brown hair. His annoyance hadinstantaneously vanished, and he experienced to the full theembarrassment natural to a sensitive mind on finding a servant's roleplayed by a lady, for that Anastasia Joliffe was a lady he had no doubtat all. Instead of blaming her, he seemed to be himself in fault forhaving somehow brought about an anomalous position. 

She stood with downcast eyes, but his chiding tone had brought a slightflush to her cheeks, and this flush began a discomfiture for Westray, that was turned into a rout when she spoke. 

"I am very sorry, I am afraid I have kept you waiting. I did not hearyour bell at first, because I was busy in another part of the house, andthen I thought my aunt had answered it. I did not know she was out. "

It was a low, sweet voice, with more of weariness in it than ofhumility. If he chose to blame her, she was ready to take the blame;but it was Westray who now stammered some incoherent apologies. Wouldshe kindly tell Miss Joliffe that he would be in for dinner at oneo'clock, and that he was quite indifferent as to what was provided forhim. The girl showed some relief at his blundering courtesy, and it wasnot till she had left the room that Westray recollected that he hadheard that Cullerne was celebrated for its red mullet; he had meant toorder red mullet for dinner. Now that he was mortifying the flesh bydrinking only water, he was proportionately particular to please hisappetite in eating. Yet he was not sorry that he had forgotten thefish; it would surely have been a bathos to discuss the properties andapplication of red mullet with a young lady who found herself in sotragically lowly a position. 

After Westray had set out for the church, Anastasia Joliffe went back toMr Sharnall's room, for it was she who had been playing the violin. The organist sat at the piano, drumming chords in an impatient andirritated way. 

"Well, " he said, without looking at her as she came in--"well, what doesmy lord want with my lady? What has he made you run up to the top ofthe house for now? I wish I could wring his neck for him. Here we areout of breath, as usual, and our hands shaking; we shan't be able toplay even as well as we did before, and that isn't saying much. Why, "he cried, as he looked at her, "you're as red as a turkey-cock. Ibelieve he's been making love to you. "

"Mr Sharnall, " she retorted quickly, "if you say those things I willnever come to your room again. I hate you when you speak like that, andfancy you are not yourself. "

She took her violin, and putting it under her arm, plucked arpeggisharply. 

"There, " he said, "don't take all I say so seriously; it is only becauseI am out of health and out of temper. Forgive me, child; I know wellenough that there'll be no lovemaking with you till the right man comes, and I hope he never will come, Anastasia--I hope he never will. "

She did not accept or refuse his excuses, but tuned a string that hadgone down. 

"Good heavens!" he said, as she walked to the music-stand to play;"can't you hear the A's as flat as a pancake?"

She tightened the string again without speaking, and began the movementin which they had been interrupted. But her thoughts were not with themusic, and mistake followed mistake. 

"What _are_ you doing?" said the organist. "You're worse than you werewhen we began five years ago. It's mere waste of time for you to go on, and for me, too. "

Then he saw that she was crying in the bitterness of vexation, and swunground on his music-stool without getting up. 

"Anstice, I didn't mean it, dear. I didn't mean to be such a brute. You are getting on well--well; and as for wasting my time, why, Ihaven't got anything to do, nor anyone to teach except you, and you knowI would slave all day and all night, too, if I could give you anypleasure by it. Don't cry. Why are you crying?"

She laid the violin on the table, and sitting down in that rush-bottomedchair in which Westray had sat the night before, put her head betweenher hands and burst into tears. 

"Oh, " she said between her sobs in a strange and uncontrolledvoice--"oh, I am so miserable--_everything_ is so miserable. There arefather's debts not paid, not even the undertaker's bill paid for hisfuneral, and no money for anything, and poor Aunt Euphemia workingherself to death. And now she says she will have to sell the littlethings we have in the house, and then when there is a chance of a decentlodger, a quiet, gentlemanly man, you go and abuse him, and say theserude things to me, because he rings the bell. How does he know aunt isout? how does he know she won't let me answer the bell when she's in?Of course, he thinks we have a servant, and then _you_ make me so sad. I couldn't sleep last night, because I knew you were drinking. I heardyou when we went to bed playing trashy things that you hate except whenyou are not yourself. It makes me ill to think that you have been withus all these years, and been so kind to me, and now are come to this. Oh, do not do it! Surely we all are wretched enough, without youradding this to our wretchedness. "

He got up from the stool and took her hand. 

"Don't, Anstice--don't! I broke myself of it before, and I will breakmyself again. It was a woman drove me to it then, and sent me down thehill, and now I didn't know there was a living soul would care whetherold Sharnall drank himself to death or not. If I could only think therewas someone who cared; if I could only think you cared. "

"Of course I care"--and as she felt his hand tighten she drew her ownlightly away--"of course we care--poor aunt and I--or she would care, ifshe knew, only she is so good she doesn't guess. I hate to see thosehorrid glasses taken in after your supper. It used to be so different, and I loved to hear the `Pastoral' and `Les Adieux' going when the housewas still. "

It is sad when man's unhappiness veils from him the smiling face ofnature. The promise of the early morning was maintained. The sky wasof a translucent blue, broken with islands and continents of clouds, dazzling white like cotton-wool. A soft, warm breeze blew from thewest, the birds sang merrily in every garden bush, and Cullerne was atown of gardens, where men could sit each under his own vine andfig-tree. The bees issued forth from their hives, and hummed withcheery droning chorus in the ivy-berries that covered the wall-tops withdeep purple. The old vanes on the corner pinnacles of Saint Sepulchre'stower shone as if they had been regilt. Great flocks of plovers flewwheeling over Cullerne marsh, and flashed with a blinking silver gleamas they changed their course suddenly. Even through the open window ofthe organist's room fell a shaft of golden sunlight that lit up thepeonies of the faded, threadbare carpet. 

But inside beat two poor human hearts, one unhappy and one hopeless, andsaw nothing of the gold vanes, or the purple ivy-berries, or theplovers, or the sunlight, and heard nothing of the birds or the bees. 

"Yes, I will give it up, " said the organist, though not quite soenthusiastically as before; and as he moved closer to Anastasia Joliffe, she got up and left the room, laughing as she went out. 

"I must get the potatoes peeled, or you will have none for dinner. "

Mr Westray, being afflicted neither with poverty nor age, but having agood digestion and entire confidence both in himself and in hisprospects, could fully enjoy the beauty of the day. He walked thismorning as a child of the light, forsaking the devious back-ways throughwhich the organist had led him on the previous night, and choosing themain streets on his road to the church. He received this time adifferent impression of the town. The heavy rain had washed thepavements and roadway, and as he entered the Market Square he was struckwith the cheerfulness of the prospect, and with the air of quietprosperity which pervaded the place. 

On two sides of the square the houses overhung the pavement, and formedan arcade supported on squat pillars of wood. Here were situated someof the best "establishments, " as their owners delighted to call them. Custance, the grocer; Rose and Storey, the drapers, who occupied thefronts of no less than three houses, and had besides a "department"round the corner "exclusively devoted to tailoring"; Lucy, thebookseller, who printed the _Cullerne Examiner_, and had publishedseveral of Canon Parkyn's sermons, as well as a tractate by Dr Enneferon the means adopted in Cullerne for the suppression of cholera duringthe recent outbreak; Calvin, the saddler; Miss Adcutt, of the toy-shop;and Prior, the chemist, who was also postmaster. In the middle of thethird side stood the Blandamer Arms, with a long front of buff, lowgreen blinds, and window-sashes grained to imitate oak. At the edge ofthe pavement before the inn were some stone mounting steps, and by themstood a tall white pole, on which swung the green and silver of thenebuly coat itself. On either side of the Blandamer Arms clustered afew more modern shops, which, possessing no arcade, had to be contentwith awnings of brown stuff with red stripes. One of these places ofbusiness was occupied by Mr Joliffe, the pork-butcher. He greetedWestray through the open window. 

"Good-morning. About your work betimes, I see, " pointing to the roll ofdrawings which the architect carried under his arm. "It is a greatprivilege, this restoration to which you are called, " and here heshifted a chop into a more attractive position on the show-board--"and Itrust blessing will attend your efforts. I often manage to snatch a fewminutes from the whirl of business about mid-day myself, and seek alittle quiet meditation in the church. If you are there then, I shallbe glad to give you any help in my power. Meanwhile, we must both bebusy with our own duties. "

He began to turn the handle of a sausage-machine, and Westray was gladto be quit of his pious words, and still more of his insufferablepatronage. 

CHAPTER FOUR. 

The north side of Cullerne Church, which faced the square, was still inshadow, but, as Westray stepped inside, he found the sunshine pouringthrough the south windows, and the whole building bathed in a flood ofmost mellow light. There are in England many churches larger than thatof Saint Sepulchre, and fault has been found with its proportions, because the roof is lower than in some other conventual buildings of itssize. Yet, for all this, it is doubtful whether architecture has everproduced a composition more truly dignified and imposing. 

The nave was begun by Walter Le Bec in 1135, and has on either side anarcade of low, round-headed arches. These arches are divided from oneanother by cylindrical pillars, which have no incised ornamentation, asat Durham or Waltham or Lindisfarne, nor are masked with Perpendicularwork, as in the nave of Winchester or in the choir of Gloucester, butrely for effect on severe plainness and great diameter. Above them isseen the dark and cavernous depth of the triforium, and higher yet theclerestory with minute and infrequent openings. Over all broods a stonevault, divided across and diagonally by the chevron-mouldings of heavyvaulting-ribs. 

Westray sat down near the door, and was so engrossed in the study of thebuilding and in the strange play of the shafts of sunlight across themassive stonework, that half an hour passed before he rose to walk upthe church. 

A solid stone screen separates the choir from the nave, making, as itwere, two churches out of one; but as Westray opened the doors betweenthem, he heard four voices calling to him, and, looking up, saw abovehis head the four tower arches. "The arch never sleeps, " cried one. "They have bound on us a burden too heavy to be borne, " answeredanother. "We never sleep, " said the third; and the fourth returned tothe old refrain, "The arch never sleeps, never sleeps. "

As he considered them in the daylight, he wondered still more at theirbreadth and slenderness, and was still more surprised that his Chief hadmade so light of the settlement and of the ominous crack in the southwall. 

The choir is a hundred and forty years later than the nave, ornate EarlyEnglish, with a multiplication of lancet-windows which richhood-mouldings group into twos and threes, and at the east end intoseven. Here are innumerable shafts of dark-grey purbeck marble, elaborate capitals, deeply undercut foliage, and broad-winged angelsbearing up the vaulting shafts on which rests the sharply-pointed roof. 

The spiritual needs of Cullerne were amply served by this portion of thechurch alone, and, except at confirmations or on Militia Sunday, thecongregation never overflowed into the nave. All who came to theminster found there full accommodation, and could indeed worship in muchcomfort; for in front of the canopied stalls erected by Abbot Vinnicombin 1530 were ranged long rows of pews, in which green baize and brassnails, cushions and hassocks, and Prayer-Book boxes ministered to thedevotion of the occupants. Anybody who aspired to social status inCullerne rented one of these pews, but for as many as could not affordsuch luxury in their religion there were provided other seats of deal, which had, indeed, no baize or hassocks, nor any numbers on the doors, but were, for all that, exceedingly appropriate and commodious. 

The clerk was dusting the stalls as the architect entered the choir, andmade for him at once as the hawk swoops on its quarry. Westray did notattempt to escape his fate, and hoped, indeed, that from the old man'sgarrulity he might glean some facts of interest about the building, which was to be the scene of his work for many months to come. But theclerk preferred to talk of people rather than of things, and theconversation drifted by easy stages to the family with whom Westray hadtaken up his abode. 

The doubt as to the Joliffe ancestry, in the discussion of which MrSharnall had shown such commendable reticence, was not so sacred to theclerk. He rushed in where the organist had feared to tread, nor didWestray feel constrained to check him, but rather led the talk to MartinJoliffe and his imaginary claims. 

"Lor' bless you!" said the clerk, "I was a little boy myself whenMartin's mother runned away with the soldier, yet mind well how it wasin everybody's mouth. But folks in Cullerne like novelties; it's allold-world talk now, and there ain't one perhaps, beside me and Rector, could tell you _that_ tale. Sophia Flannery her name was when FarmerJoliffe married her, and where he found her no one knew. He lived up atWydcombe Farm, did Michael Joliffe, where his father lived afore him, and a gay one he was, and dressed in yellow breeches and a bluewaistcoat all his time. Well, one day he gave out he was to be married, and came into Cullerne, and there was Sophia waiting for him at theBlandamer Arms, and they were married in this very church. She had athree-year-old boy with her then, and put about she was a widow, thoughthere were many who thought she couldn't show her marriage lines ifshe'd been asked for them. But p'raps Farmer Joliffe never asked to see'em, or p'raps he knew all about it. A fine upstanding woman she was, with a word and a laugh for everyone, as my father told me many a time;and she had a bit of money beside. Every quarter, up she'd go to Londontown to collect her rents, so she said, and every time she'd come backwith terrible grand new clothes. She dressed that fine, and had such away with her, the people called her Queen of Wydcombe. Wherever shecome from, she had a boarding-school education, and could play and singbeautiful. Many a time of a summer evening we lads would walk up toWydcombe, and sit on the fence near the farm, to hear Sophy a-singingthrough the open window. She'd a pianoforty, too, and would singpowerful long songs about captains and moustachers and broken hearts, till people was nearly fit to cry over it. And when she wasn't singingshe was painting. My old missis had a picture of flowers what shepainted, and there was a lot more sold when they had to give up thefarm. But Miss Joliffe wouldn't part with the biggest of 'em, thoughthere was many would ha' liked to buy it. No, she kep' that one, andhas it by her to this day--a picture so big as a signboard, all coveredwith flowers most beautiful. "

"Yes, I've seen that, " Westray put in; "it's in my room at MissJoliffe's. "

He said nothing about its ugliness, or that he meant to banish it, notwishing to wound the narrator's artistic susceptibilities, or tointerrupt a story which began to interest him in spite of himself. 

"Well, to be sure!" said the clerk, "it used to hang in the best parlourat Wydcombe over the sideboard; I seed'n there when I was a boy, and mymother was helping spring-clean up at the farm. `Look, Tom, ' my mothersaid to me, `did 'ee ever see such flowers? and such a prittycaterpillar a-going to eat them!' You mind, a green caterpillar down inthe corner. "

Westray nodded, and the clerk went on:

"`Well, Mrs Joliffe, ' says my mother to Sophia, `I never want for tosee a more beautiful picture than that. ' And Sophia laughed, and saidmy mother know'd a good picture when she saw one. Some folks 'ud standher out, she said, that 'tweren't worth much, but she knew she could getfifty or a hundred pound or more for't any day she liked to sell, if shetook it to the right people. _Then_ she'd soon have the laugh of thosethat said it were only a daub; and with that she laughed herself, forshe were always laughing and always jolly. 

"Michael were well pleased with his strapping wife, and used to like tosee the people stare when he drove her into Cullerne Market in the highcart, and hear her crack jokes with the farmers what they passed on theway. Very proud he was of her, and prouder still when one Saturday hestood all comers glasses round at the Blandamer, and bid 'em drink to apritty little lass what his wife had given him. Now he'd got a brace of'em, he said; for he'd kep' that other little boy what Sophia broughtwhen she married him, and treated the child for all the world as if hewas his very son. 

"So 'twas for a year or two, till the practice-camp was put up onWydcombe Down. I mind that summer well, for 'twere a fearful hot one, and Joey Garland and me taught ourselves to swim in the sheep-wash downin Mayo's Meads. And there was the white tents all up the hillside, andthe brass band a-playing in the evenings before the officers'dinner-tent. And sometimes they would play Sunday afternoons too; andParson were terrible put about, and wrote to the Colonel to say as howthe music took the folk away from church, and likened it to the worshipof the golden calf, when `the people sat down to eat and drink, and roseup again to play. ' But Colonel never took no notice of it, and when'twas a fine evening there was a mort of people trapesing over theDowns, and some poor lasses wished afterwards they'd never heard nomusic sweeter than the clar'net and bassoon up in the gallery ofWydcombe Church. 

"Sophia was there, too, a good few times, walking round first on herhusband's arm, and afterwards on other people's; and some of the boyssaid they had seen her sitting with a redcoat up among thejuniper-bushes. 'Twas Michaelmas Eve before they moved the camp, and'twas a sorry goose was eat that Michaelmas Day at Wydcombe Farm; forwhen the soldiers went, Sophia went too, and left Michael and the farmand the children, and never said good-bye to anyone, not even to thebaby in the cot. 'Twas said she ran off with a sergeant, but no onerightly knew; and if Farmer Joliffe made any search and found out, henever told a soul; and she never come back to Wydcombe. 

"She never come back to Wydcombe, " he said under his breath, withsomething that sounded like a sigh. Perhaps the long-forgotten break-upof Farmer Joliffe's home had touched him, but perhaps he was onlythinking of his own loss, for he went on: "Ay, many's the time she wouldgive a poor fellow an ounce of baccy, and many's the pound of tea shesent to a labourer's cottage. If she bought herself fine clothes, she'dgive away the old ones; my missis has a fur tippet yet that her mothergot from Sophy Joliffe. She was free with her money, whatever else shemid have been. There wasn't a labourer on the farm but what had a goodword for her; there wasn't one was glad to see her back turned. 

"Poor Michael took on dreadful at the first, though he wasn't the man tosay much. He wore his yellow breeches and blue waistcoat just the same, but lost heart for business, and didn't go to market so reg'lar as heshould. Only he seemed to stick closer by the children--by Martin thatnever know'd his father, and little Phemie that never know'd her mother. Sophy never come back to visit 'em by what I could learn; but once Iseed her myself twenty years later, when I took the hosses over to sellat Beacon Hill Fair. 

"That was a black day, too, for 'twas the first time Michael had toraise the wind by selling aught of his'n. He'd got powerful thin then, had poor master, and couldn't fill the blue waistcoat and yellowbreeches like he used to, and _they_ weren't nothing so gay by thenthemselves neither. 

"`Tom, ' he said--that's me, you know--`take these here hosses over toBeacon Hill, and sell 'em for as much as 'ee can get, for I want themoney. '

"`What, sell the best team, dad!' says Miss Phemie--for she was standingby--`you'll never sell the best team with White-face and oldStrike-a-light!' And the hosses looked up, for they know'd their namesvery well when she said 'em. 

"`Don't 'ee take on, lass, ' he said; `we'll buy 'em back again come LadyDay. '

"And so I took 'em over, and knew very well why he wanted the money; forMr Martin had come back from Oxford, wi' a nice bit of debt about hisneck, and couldn't turn his hand to the farm, but went about saying hewas a Blandamer, and Fording and all the lands belonged to he by right. 'Quiries he was making, he said, and gadded about here and there, spending a mort of time and money in making 'quiries that never came tonothing. 'Twas a black day, that day, and a thick rain falling atBeacon Hill, and all the turf cut up terrible. The poor beasts was wetthrough, too, and couldn't look their best, because they knowed they wasgoing to be sold; and so the afternoon came, and never a bid for one of'em. `Poor old master!' says I to the horses, `what'll 'ee say when weget back again?' And yet I was glad-like to think me and they weren'tgoing to part. 

"Well, there we was a-standing in the rain, and the farmers and thedealers just give us a glimpse, and passed by without a word, till I seesomeone come along, and that was Sophia Joliffe. She didn't look a yearolder nor when I met her last, and her face was the only cheerful thingwe saw that afternoon, as fresh and jolly as ever. She wore a yellowmackintosh with big buttons, and everybody turned to measure her up asshe passed. There was a horse-dealer walking with her, and when thepeople stared, he looked at her just so proud as Michael used to lookwhen he drove her in to Cullerne Market. She didn't take any heed ofthe hosses, but she looked hard at me, and when she was passed turnedher head to have another look, and then she come back. 

"`Bain't you Tom Janaway, ' says she, `what used to work up to WydcombeFarm?'

"`Ay, that I be, ' says I, but stiff-like, for it galled me to think whatshe'd a-done for master, and yet could look so jolly with it all. 

"She took no note that I were glum, but `Whose hosses is these?' sheasked. 

"`Your husband's, mum, ' I made bold to say, thinking to take her down apeg. But, lor'! she didn't care a rush for that, but `Which o' myhusbands?' says she, and laughed fit to bust, and poked the horse-dealerin the side. He looked as if he'd like to throttle her, but she didn'tmind that neither. `What for does Michael want to sell his hosses?'

"And then I lost my pluck, and didn't think to humble her any more, butjust told her how things was, and how I'd stood the blessed day, andnever got a bid. She never asked no questions, but I see her eyestwinkle when I spoke of Master Martin and Miss Phemie; and then sheturned sharp to the horse-dealer and said:

"`John, these is fine horses; you buy these cheap-like, and we can sell'em again to-morrow. '

"Then he cursed and swore, and said the hosses was old scraws, and he'dbe damned afore he'd buy such hounds'-meat. 

"`John, ' says she, quite quiet, `'tain't polite to swear afore ladies. These here is good hosses, and I want you to buy 'em. '

"Then he swore again, but she'd got his measure, and there was a mightyfirm look in her face, for all she laughed so; and by degrees he quieteddown and let her talk. 

"`How much do you want for the four of 'em, young man?' she says; and Ihad a mind to say eighty pounds, thinking maybe she'd rise to that forold times' sake, but didn't like to say so much for fear of spoiling thebargain. `Come, ' she says, `how much? Art thou dumb? Well, if thouwon't fix the price, I'll do it for 'ee. Here, John, you bid a hundredfor this lot. '

"He stared stupid-like, but didn't speak. 

"Then she look at him hard. 

"`You've got to do it, ' she says, speaking low, but very firm; and outhe comes with, `Here, I'll give 'ee a hundred. ' But before I had timeto say `Done, ' she went on: `No--this young man says no; I can see it inhis face; he don't think 'tis enough; you try him with a hundred andtwenty. '

"'Twas as if he were overlooked, for he says quite mild, `Well, I'llgive 'ee a hundred and twenty. '

"`Ay, that's better, ' says she; `he says that's better. ' And she takesout a little leather wallet from her bosom, holding it under the flap ofher waterproof so that the rain shouldn't get in, and counts out twodozen clean banknotes, and puts 'em into my hand. There was many morewhere they come from, for I could see the book was full of 'em; and whenshe saw my eyes on them, she takes out another, and gives it me, with, `There's one for thee, and good luck to 'ee; take that, and buy afairing for thy sweetheart, Tom Janaway, and never say Sophy Flanneryforgot an old friend. '

"`Thank 'ee kindly, mum, ' says I; `thank 'ee kindly, and may you nevermiss it! I hope your rents do still come in reg'lar, mum. '

"She laughed out loud, and said there was no fear of that; and then shecalled a lad, and he led off White-face and Strike-a-light and Jenny andthe Cutler, and they was all gone, and the horse-dealer and Sophia, afore I had time to say good-night. She never come into these partsagain--at least, I never seed her; but I heard tell she lived a score ofyears more after that, and died of a broken blood-vessel at BeritonRaces. "

He moved a little further down the choir, and went on with his dusting;but Westray followed, and started him again. 

"What happened when you got back? You haven't told me what FarmerJoliffe said, nor how you came to leave farming and turn clerk. "

The old man wiped his forehead. 

"I wasn't going to tell 'ee that, " he said, "for it do fair make I sweatstill to think o' it; but you can have it if you like. Well, when theywas gone, I was nigh dazed with such a stroke o' luck, and said theLord's Prayer to see I wasn't dreaming. But 'twas no such thing, and soI cut a slit in the lining of my waistcoat, and dropped the notes in, all except the one she give me for myself, and that I put in myfob-pocket. 'Twas getting dark, and I felt numb with cold and wet, whatwith standing so long in the rain and not having bite nor sup all day. 

"'Tis a bleak place, Beacon Hill, and 'twas so soft underfoot that daythe water'd got inside my boots, till they fair bubbled if I took astep. The rain was falling steady, and sputtered in the naphtha-lampsthat they was beginning to light up outside the booths. There was onepowerful flare outside a long tent, and from inside there come a smellof fried onions that made my belly cry `Please, master, please!'

"`Yes, my lad, ' I said to un, `I'm darned if I don't humour 'ee; thoushan't go back to Wydcombe empty. ' So in I step, and found the tentmighty warm and well lit, with men smoking and women laughing, and agreat smell of cooking. There were long tables set on trestles down thetent, and long benches beside 'em, and folks eating and drinking, and acounter cross the head of the room, and great tin dishes simmering a-topof it--trotters and sausages and tripe, bacon and beef and colliflowers, cabbage and onions, blood-puddings and plum-duff. It seemed like achance to change my banknote, and see whether 'twere good and notelf-money that folks have found turn to leaves in their pocket. So up Iwalks, and bids 'em gie me a plate of beef and jack-pudding, and holdsout my note for't. The maid--for 'twas a maid behind the counter--tookit, and then she looks at it and then at me, for I were very wet andmuddy; and then she carries it to the gaffer, and he shows it to hiswife, who holds it up to the light, and then they all fall to talking, and showed it to a 'cise-man what was there marking down the casks. 

"The people sitting nigh saw what was up, and fell to staring at me tillI felt hot enough, and lief to leave my note where 'twas, and get outand back to Wydcombe. But the 'cise-man must have said 'twere allright, for the gaffer comes back with four gold sovereigns and nineteenshillings, and makes a bow and says:

"`Your servant, sir; can I give you summat to drink?'

"I looked round to see what liquor there was, being main glad all thewhile to find the note were good; and he says:

"`Rum and milk is very helping, sir; try the rum and milk hot. '

"So I took a pint of rum and milk, and sat down at the nighest table, and the people as were waiting to see me took up, made room now, andstared as if I'd been a lord. I had another plate o' beef, and anotherrum-and-milk, and then smoked a pipe, knowing they wouldn't make nobother of my being late that night at Wydcombe, when I brought back twodozen banknotes. 

"The meat and drink heartened me, and the pipe and the warmth of thetent seemed to dry my clothes and take away the damp, and I didn't feelthe water any longer in my boots. The company was pleasant, too, andsome very genteel dealers sitting near. 

"`My respec's to you, sir, ' says one, holding up his glass to me--`bestrespec's. These pore folk isn't used to the flimsies, and was a bitsurprised at your paper-money; but directly I see you, I says to myfriends, "Mates, that gentleman's one of us; that's a monied man, ifever I see one. " I knew you for a gentleman the minute you come in. '

"So I was flattered like, and thought if they made so much o' onebanknote, what'd they say to know I'd got a pocket full of them? Butdidn't speak nothing, only chuckled a bit to think I could buy up halfthe tent if I had a mind to. After that I stood 'em drinks, and theystood me, and we passed a very pleasant evening--the more so becausewhen we got confidential, and I knew they were men of honour, I provedthat I was worthy to mix with such by showing 'em I had a packet ofbanknotes handy. They drank more respec's, and one of them said as howthe liquor we were swallowing weren't fit for such a gentleman as me; sohe took a flask out o' his pocket, and filled me a glass of his own tap, what his father 'ud bought in the same year as Waterloo. 'Twas powerfulstrong stuff that, and made me blink to get it down; but I took it witha good face, not liking to show I didn't know old liquor when it come myway. 

"So we sat till the tent was very close, and them hissing naphtha-lampsburnt dim with tobacco-smoke. 'Twas still raining outside, for youcould hear the patter heavy on the roof; and where there was a belly inthe canvas, the water began to come through and drip inside. There wassome rough talking and wrangling among folk who had been drinking; and Iknew I'd had as much as I could carry myself, 'cause my voice soundedlike someone's else, and I had to think a good bit before I could getout the words. 'Twas then a bell rang, and the 'size-man called out, `Closing time, ' and the gaffer behind the counter said, `Now, my lads, good-night to 'ee; hope the fleas won't bite 'ee. God save the Queen, and give us a merry meeting to-morrow. ' So all got up, and pulled theircoats over their ears to go out, except half a dozen what was too heavy, and was let lie for the night on the grass under the trestles. 

"I couldn't walk very firm myself, but my friends took me one under eacharm; and very kind of them it was, for when we got into the open air, Iturned sleepy and giddy-like. I told 'em where I lived to, and theysaid never fear, they'd see me home, and knew a cut through the fieldswhat'd take us to Wydcombe much shorter. We started off, and went a bitinto the dark; and then the very next thing I know'd was somethingblowing in my face, and woke up and found a white heifer snuffing at me. 'Twas broad daylight, and me lying under a hedge in among thecuckoo-pints. I was wet through, and muddy (for 'twas a loamy ditch), and a bit dazed still, and sore ashamed; but when I thought of thebargain I'd made for master, and of the money I'd got in my waistcoat, Itook heart, and reached in my hand to take out the notes, and see theyweren't wasted with the wet. 

"But there was no notes there--no, not a bit of paper, for all I turnedmy waistcoat inside out, and ripped up the lining. 'Twas only half amile from Beacon Hill that I was lying, and I soon made my way back tothe fair-ground, but couldn't find my friends of the evening before, andthe gaffer in the drinking-tent said he couldn't remember as he'd everseen any such. I spent the livelong day searching here and there, tillthe folks laughed at me, because I looked so wild with drinking thenight before, and with sleeping out, and with having nothing to eat; forevery penny was took from me. I told the constable, and he took it alldown, but I see him looking at me the while, and at the torn lininghanging out under my waistcoat, and knew he thought 'twas only a lighttale, and that I had the drink still in me. 'Twas dark afore I give itup, and turned to go back. 

"'Tis seven mile good by the nigh way from Beacon Hill to Wydcombe; andI was dog-tired, and hungry, and that shamed I stopped a half-hour onthe bridge over Proud's mill-head, wishing to throw myself in and ha'done with it, but couldn't bring my mind to that, and so went on, andgot to Wydcombe just as they was going to bed. They stared at me, Farmer Michael, and Master Martin, and Miss Phemie, as if I was aspirit, while I told my tale; but I never said as how 'twas SophiaJoliffe as had bought the horses. Old Michael, he said nothing, but hada very blank look on his face, and Miss Phemie was crying; but MasterMartin broke out saying 'twas all make-up, and I'd stole the money, andthey must send for a constable. 

"`'Tis lies, ' he said. `This fellow's a rogue, and too great a fooleven to make up a tale that'll hang together. Who's going to believe awoman 'ud buy the team, and give a hundred and twenty pounds in notesfor hosses that 'ud be dear at seventy pounds? Who was the woman? Did'ee know her? There must be many in the fair 'ud know such a woman. They ain't so common as go about with their pockets full of banknotes, and pay double price for hosses what they buy. '

"I knew well enough who'd bought 'em, but didn't want to give her namefor fear of grieving Farmer Joliffe more nor he was grieved already, sosaid nothing, but held my peace. 

"Then the farmer says: `Tom, I believe 'ee; I've know'd 'ee thirty year, and never know'd 'ee tell a lie, and I believe 'ee now. But if thouknows her name, tell it us, and if thou doesn't know, tell us what shelooked like, and maybe some of us 'll guess her. '

"But still I didn't say aught till Master Martin goes on:

"`Out with her name. He must know her name right enough, if there everwas a woman as did buy the hosses; and don't you be so soft, father, asto trust such fool's tales. We'll get a constable for 'ee. Out withher name, I say. '

"Then I was nettled like, at his speaking so rough, when the man thatsuffered had forgiven me, and said:

"`Yes, I know her name right enough, if 'ee will have it. 'Twas themissis. '

"`Missis?' he says; `what missis?'

"`Your mother, ' says I. `She was with a man, but he weren't the man sherunned away from here with, and she made he buy the team. '

"Master Martin didn't say any more, and Miss Phemie went on crying; butthere was a blanker look come on old master's face, and he said veryquiet:

"`There, that'll do, lad. I believe 'ee, and forgive thee. Don'tmatter much to I now if I have lost a hundred pound. 'Tis only my luck, and if 'tweren't lost there, 'twould just as like be lost somewhereelse. Go in and wash thyself, and get summat to eat; and if I forgive'ee this time, don't 'ee ever touch the drink again. '

"`Master, ' I says, `I thank 'ee, and if I ever get a bit o' money I'llpay thee back what I can; and there's my sacred word I'll never touchthe drink again. '

"I held him out my hand, and he took it, for all 'twas so dirty. 

"`That's right, lad; and to-morrow we'll put the p'leece on to tracethem fellows down. '

"I kep' my promise, Mr--Mr--Mr--"

"Westray, " the architect suggested. 

"I didn't know your name, you see, because Rector never introduced _me_yesterday. I kep' my promise, Mr Westray, and bin teetotal ever since;but he never put the p'leece on the track, for he was took with a strokenext morning early, and died a fortnight later. They laid him up toWydcombe nigh his father and his grandfather, what have green railsround their graves; and give his yellow breeches and blue waistcoat toTimothy Foord the shepherd, and he wore them o' Sundays for many a yearafter that. I left farming the same day as old master was putunderground, and come into Cullerne, and took odd jobs till the sextonfell sick, and then I helped dig graves; and when he died they made Isexton, and that were forty years ago come Whitsun. "

"Did Martin Joliffe keep on the farm after his father's death?" Westrayasked, after an interval of silence. 

They had wandered along the length of the stalls as they talked, andwere passing through the stone screen which divides the minster into twoparts. The floor of the choir at Cullerne is higher by some feet thanthat of the rest of the church, and when they stood on the steps whichled down into the nave, the great length of the transepts opened beforethem on either side. The end of the north transept, on the outside ofwhich once stood the chapter-house and dormitories of the monastery, hasonly three small lancet-windows high up in the wall, but at the southend of the cross-piece there is no wall at all, for the whole space isoccupied by Abbot Vinnicomb's window, with its double transoms andinfinite subdivisions of tracery. Thus is produced a curious contrast, for, while the light in the rest of the church is subdued to sadness bythe smallness of the windows, and while the north transept is the mostsombre part of all the building, the south transept, or Blandamer aisle, is constantly in clear daylight. Moreover, while the nave is of theNorman style, and the transepts and choir of the Early English, thiswindow is of the latest Perpendicular, complicated in its scheme, andmeretricious in the elaboration of its detail. The difference is sogreat as to force itself upon the attention even of those entirelyunacquainted with architecture, and it has naturally more significancefor the professional eye. Westray stood a moment on the steps as herepeated his question:

"Did Martin keep on the farm?"

"Ay, he kep' it on, but he never had his heart in it. Miss Phemie didthe work, and would have been a better farmer than her father, if Martinhad let her be; but he spent a penny for every ha'penny she made, tillall came to the hammer. Oxford puffed him up, and there was no one tocheck him; so he must needs be a gentleman, and give himself all kindsof airs, till people called him `Gentleman Joliffe, ' and later on `OldNeb'ly' when his mind was weaker. 'Twas that turned his brain, " saidthe sexton, pointing to the great window; "'twas the silver and greenwhat done it. "

Westray looked up, and in the head of the centre light saw the nebulycoat shining among the darker painted glass with a luminosity which waseven more striking in daylight than in the dusk of the previous evening. 

CHAPTER FIVE. 

After a week's trial, Westray made up his mind that Miss Joliffe'slodgings would suit him. It was true that the Hand of God was somewhatdistant from the church, but, then, it stood higher than the rest of thetown, and the architect's fads were not confined to matters of eatingand drinking, but attached exaggerated importance to bracing air and theavoidance of low-lying situations. He was pleased also by thescrupulous cleanliness pervading the place, and by Miss Joliffe'scooking, which a long experience had brought to some perfection, so faras plain dishes were concerned. 

He found that no servant was kept, and that Miss Joliffe never allowedher niece to wait at table, so long as she herself was in the house. This occasioned him some little inconvenience, for his naturallyconsiderate disposition made him careful of overtaxing a landlady nolonger young. He rang his bell with reluctance, and when he did so, often went out on to the landing and shouted directions down thewell-staircase, in the hopes of sparing any unnecessary climbing of thegreat nights of stone steps. This consideration was not lost upon MissJoliffe, and Westray was flattered by an evident anxiety which shedisplayed to retain him as a lodger. 

It was, then, with a proper appreciation of the favour which he wasconferring, that he summoned her one evening near teatime, tocommunicate to her his intention of remaining at Bellevue Lodge. As anoutward and visible sign of more permanent tenure, he decided to ask forthe removal of some of those articles which did not meet his taste, andespecially of the great flower-picture that hung over the sideboard. 

Miss Joliffe was sitting in what she called her study. It was a littleapartment at the back of the house (once the still-room of the old inn), to which she retreated when any financial problem had to be grappled. Such problems had presented themselves with unpleasant frequency formany years past, and now her brother's long illness and death broughtabout something like a crisis in the weary struggle to make two and twointo five. She had spared him no luxury that illness is supposed tojustify, nor was Martin himself a man to be over-scrupulous in suchmatters. Bedroom fires, beef-tea, champagne, the thousand and onelittle matters which scarcely come within the cognisance of the rich, but tax so heavily the devotion of the poor, had all left their mark onthe score. That such items should figure in her domestic accounts, seemed to Miss Joliffe so great a violation of the rules which governprudent housekeeping, that all the urgency of the situation was neededto free her conscience from the guilt of extravagance--from that_luxuria_ or wantonness, which leads the van among the seven deadlysins. 

Philpotts the butcher had half smiled, half sighed to see sweetbreadsentered in Miss Joliffe's book, and had, indeed, forgotten to keeprecord of many a similar purchase; using that kindly, quiet charitywhich the recipient is none the less aware of, and values the more fromits very unostentation. So, too, did Custance the grocer tremble inexecuting champagne orders for the thin and wayworn old lady, and gaveher full measure pressed down and running over in teas and sugars, tomake up for the price which he was compelled to charge for suchrefinements in the way of wine. Yet the total had mounted up in spiteof all forbearance, and Miss Joliffe was at this moment reminded ofits gravity by the gold-foil necks of three bottles of theuniversally-appreciated Duc de Bentivoglio brand, which still projectedfrom a shelf above her head. Of Dr Ennefer's account she scarcelydared even to think; and there was perhaps less need of her doing so, for he never sent it in, knowing very well that she would pay it as shecould, and being quite prepared to remit it entirely if she could neverpay it at all. 

She appreciated his consideration, and overlooked with rare tolerance apeculiarly irritating breach of propriety of which he was constantlyguilty. This was nothing less than addressing medicines to her house asif it were still an inn. Before Miss Joliffe moved into the Hand ofGod, she had spent much of the little allowed her for repairs, incovering up the name of the inn painted on the front. But after heavyrains the great black letters stared perversely through their veil, andthe organist made small jokes about it being a difficult thing to thwartthe Hand of God. Silly and indecorous, Miss Joliffe termed suchwitticisms, and had Bellevue House painted in gold upon the fanlightover the door. But the Cullerne painter wrote Bellevue too small, andhad to fill up the space by writing House too large; and the organistsneered again at the disproportion, saying it should have been the otherway, for everyone knew it was a house, but none knew it was Bellevue. 

And then Dr Ennefer addressed his medicine to "Mr Joliffe, The Hand"--not even to The Hand of God, but simply The Hand; and Miss Joliffe eyedthe bottles askance as they lay on the table in the dreary hall, andtore the wrappers off them quickly, holding her breath the while that noexclamation of impatience might escape her. Thus, the kindly doctor, inthe hurry of his workaday life, vexed, without knowing it, the heart ofthe kindly lady, till she was constrained to retire to her study, andread the precepts about turning the other cheek to the smiters, beforeshe could quite recover her serenity. 

Miss Joliffe sat in her study considering how Martin's accounts were tobe met. Her brother, throughout his disorderly and unbusinesslike life, had prided himself on orderly and business habits. It was true thatthese were only manifested in the neat and methodical arrangement of hisbills, but there he certainly excelled. He never paid a bill; it wasbelieved it never occurred to him to pay one; but he folded each accountto exactly the same breadth, using the cover of an old glove-box as agauge, wrote very neatly on the outside the date, the name of thecreditor, and the amount of the debt, and with an indiarubber bandenrolled it in a company of its fellows. Miss Joliffe found drawersfull of such disheartening packets after his death, for Martin had atalent for distributing his favours, and of planting small debts far andwide, which by-and-by grew up into a very upas forest. 

Miss Joliffe's difficulties were increased a thousandfold by a letterwhich had reached her some days before, and which raised a case ofconscience. It lay open on the little table before her:

 "139, New Bond Street. 

 "Madam, "We are entrusted with a commission to purchase several pictures of still-life, and believe that you have a large painting of flowers for the acquiring of which we should be glad to treat. The picture to which we refer was formerly in the possession of the late Michael Joliffe, Esquire, and consists of a basket of flowers on a mahogany table, with a caterpillar in the left-hand corner. We are so sure of our client's taste and of the excellence of the painting that we are prepared to offer for it a sum of fifty pounds, and to dispense with any previous inspection. 

 "We shall be glad to receive a reply at your early convenience, and in the meantime

 "We remain, madam, "Your most obedient servants, "Baunton and Lutterworth. "

Miss Joliffe read this letter for the hundredth time, and dwelt withunabated complacency on the "formerly in the possession of the lateMichael Joliffe, Esquire. " There was about the phrase something ofancestral dignity and importance that gratified her, and dulled thesordid bitterness of her surroundings. "The late Michael Joliffe, Esquire"--it read like a banker's will; and she was once more EuphemiaJoliffe, a romantic girl sitting in Wydcombe church of a summer Sundaymorning, proud of a new sprigged muslin, and proud of many tablets toolder Joliffes on the walls about her; for yeomen in Southavonshire havepedigrees as well as Dukes. 

At first sight it seemed as if Providence had offered her in this lettera special solution of her difficulties, but afterwards scruples hadarisen that barred the way of escape. "A large painting of flowers"--her father had been proud of it--proud of his worthless wife's work; andwhen she herself was a little child, had often held her up in his armsto see the shining table-top and touch the caterpillar. The wound hiswife had given him must still have been raw, for that was only a yearafter Sophia had left him and the children; yet he was proud of hercleverness, and perhaps not without hope of her coming back. And whenhe died he left to poor Euphemia, then half-way through the dark gorgeof middle age, an old writing-desk full of little tokens of her mother--the pair of gloves she wore at her wedding, a flashy brooch, a pair offlashy earrings, and many other unconsidered trifles that he hadcherished. He left her, too, Sophia's long wood paint-box, with itslittle bottles of coloured powders for mixing oil-paints, and this same"basket of flowers on a mahogany table, with a caterpillar in theleft-hand corner. "

There had always been a tradition as to the value of this picture. Herfather had spoken little of his wife to the children, and it was onlypiecemeal, as she grew into womanhood, that Miss Euphemia learnt fromhints and half-told truths the story of her mother's shame. But MichaelJoliffe was known to have considered this painting his wife'smasterpiece, and old Mrs Janaway reported that Sophia had told her manya time it would fetch a hundred pounds. Miss Euphemia herself never hadany doubt as to its worth, and so the offer in this letter occasionedher no surprise. She thought, in fact, that the sum named wasconsiderably less than its market value, but sell it she could not. Itwas a sacred trust, and the last link (except the silver spoons marked"J. ") that bound the squalid present to the comfortable past. It was anheirloom, and she could never bring herself to part with it. 

Then the bell rang, and she slipped the letter into her pocket, smoothedthe front of her dress, and climbed the stone stairs to see what MrWestray wanted. The architect told her that he hoped to remain as herlodger during his stay in Cullerne, and he was pleased at his ownmagnanimity when he saw what pleasure the announcement gave MissJoliffe. She felt it as a great relief, and consented readily enough totake away the ferns, and the mats, and the shell flowers, and the waxfruit, and to make sundry small alterations of the furniture which hedesired. It seemed to her, indeed, that, considering he was anarchitect, Mr Westray's taste was strangely at fault; but she extendedto him all possible forbearance, in view of his kindly manner and of hisintention to remain with her. Then the architect approached the removalof the flower-painting. He hinted delicately that it was perhaps rathertoo large for the room, and that he should be glad of the space to hanga plan of Cullerne Church, to which he would have constantly to refer. The rays of the setting sun fell full on the picture at the time, and, lighting up its vulgar showiness, strengthened him in his resolution tobe free of it at any cost. But the courage of his attack flagged alittle, as he saw the look of dismay which overspread Miss Joliffe'sface. 

"I think, you know, it is a little too bright and distracting for thisroom, which will really be my workshop. "

Miss Joliffe was now convinced that her lodger was devoid of allappreciation, and she could not altogether conceal her surprise andsadness in replying:

"I am sure I want to oblige you in every way, sir, and to make youcomfortable, for I always hope to have gentlefolk for my lodgers, andcould never bring myself to letting the rooms down by taking anyone whowas not a gentleman; but I hope you will not ask me to move the picture. It has hung here ever since I took the house, and my brother, `the lateMartin Joliffe'"--she was unconsciously influenced by the letter whichshe had in her pocket, and almost said "the late Martin Joliffe, Esquire"--"thought very highly of it, and used to sit here for hours inhis last illness studying it. I hope you will not ask me to move thepicture. You may not be aware, perhaps, that, besides being painted bymy mother, it is in itself a very valuable work of art. "

There was a suggestion, however faint, in her words, of condescensionfor her lodger's bad taste, and a desire to enlighten his ignorancewhich nettled Westray; and he contrived in his turn to throw a tone ofsuperciliousness into his reply. 

"Oh, of course, if you wish it to remain from sentimental reasons, Ihave nothing more to say, and I must not criticise your mother's work;but--" And he broke off, seeing that the old lady took the matter somuch to heart, and being sorry that he had been ruffled at a trifle. 

Miss Joliffe gulped down her chagrin. It was the first time she hadheard the picture openly disparaged, though she had thought that on morethan one occasion it had not been appreciated so much as it deserved. But she carried a guarantee of its value in her pocket, and could affordto be magnanimous. 

"It has always been considered very valuable, " she went on, "though Idaresay I do not myself understand all its beauties, because I have notbeen sufficiently trained in art. But I am quite sure that it could besold for a great deal of money, if I could only bring myself to partwith it. "

Westray was irritated by the hint that he knew little of art, and hissympathy for his landlady in her family attachment to the picture wasmuch discounted by what he knew must be wilful exaggeration as to itsselling value. 

Miss Joliffe read his thoughts, and took a piece of paper from herpocket. 

"I have here, " she said, "an offer of fifty pounds for the picture fromsome gentlemen in London. Please read it, that you may see it is not Iwho am mistaken. "

She held him out the dealers' letter, and Westray took it to humour her. He read it carefully, and wondered more and more as he went on. Whatcould be the explanation? Could the offer refer to some other picture?for he knew Baunton and Lutterworth as being most reputable among Londonpicture-dealers; and the idea of the letter being a hoax was precludedby the headed paper and general style of the communication. He glancedat the picture. The sunlight was still on it, and it stood out morehideous than ever; but his tone was altered as he spoke again to MissJoliffe. 

"Do you think, " he said, "that this is the picture mentioned? Have youno other pictures?"

"No, nothing of this sort. It is certainly this one; you see, theyspeak of the caterpillar in the corner. " And she pointed to the bulbousgreen animal that wriggled on the table-top. 

"So they do, " he said; "but how did they know anything about it?"--quiteforgetting the question of its removal in the new problem that waspresented. 

"Oh, I fancy that most really good paintings are well-known to dealers. This is not the first inquiry we have had, for the very day of my dearbrother's death a gentleman called here about it. None of us were athome except my brother, so I did not see him; but I believe he wanted tobuy it, only my dear brother would never have consented to its beingsold. "

"It seems to me a handsome offer, " Westray said; "I should think veryseriously before I refused it. "

"Yes, it is very serious to me in my position, " answered Miss Joliffe;"for I am not rich; but I could not sell this picture. You see, I haveknown it ever since I was a little girl, and my father set such store byit. I hope, Mr Westray, you will not want it moved. I think, if youlet it stop a little, you will get to like it very much yourself. "

Westray did not press the matter further; he saw it was a sore pointwith his landlady, and reflected that he might hang a plan in front ofthe painting, if need be, as a temporary measure. So a concordat wasestablished, and Miss Joliffe put Baunton and Lutterworth's letter backinto her pocket, and returned to her accounts with equanimity at leastpartially restored. 

After she had left the room, Westray examined the picture once more, andmore than ever was he convinced of its worthlessness. It had all thecrude colouring and hard outlines of the worst amateur work, and gavethe impression of being painted with no other object than to cover agiven space. This view was, moreover, supported by the fact that thegilt frame was exceptionally elaborate and well made, and he came to theconclusion that Sophia must somehow have come into possession of theframe, and had painted the flower-piece to fill it. 

The sun was a red ball on the horizon as he flung up the window andlooked out over the roofs towards the sea. The evening was very still, and the town lay steeped in deep repose. The smoke hung blue above itin long, level strata, and there was perceptible in the air a faintsmell of burning weeds. The belfry story of the centre tower glowedwith a pink flush in the sunset, and a cloud of jackdaws wheeled roundthe golden vanes, chattering and fluttering before they went to bed. 

"It is a striking scene, is it not?" said a voice at his elbow; "thereis a curious aromatic scent in this autumn air that makes one catchone's breath. " It was the organist who had slipped in unawares. "Ifeel down on my luck, " he said. "Take your supper in my room to-night, and let us have a talk. "

Westray had not seen much of him for the last few days, and agreedgladly enough that they should spend the evening together; only thevenue was changed, and supper taken in the architect's room. Theytalked over many things that night, and Westray let his companion rambleon to his heart's content about Cullerne men and manners; for he was ofa receptive mind, and anxious to learn what he could about those amongwhom he had taken up his abode. 

He told Mr Sharnall of his conversation with Miss Joliffe, and of theunsuccessful attempt to get the picture removed. The organist knew allabout Baunton and Lutterworth's letter. 

"The poor thing has made the question a matter of conscience for thelast fortnight, " he said, "and worried herself into many a sleeplessnight over that picture. `Shall I sell it, or shall I not?' `Yes, 'says poverty--`sell it, and show a brave front to your creditors. '`Yes, ' say Martin's debts, clamouring about her with open mouths, like anest of young starlings, `sell it, and satisfy us. ' `No, ' says pride, `don't sell it; it is a patent of respectability to have an oil-paintingin the house. ' `No, ' says family affection, and the queer little pipingvoice of her own childhood--`don't sell it. Don't you remember how fondpoor daddy was of it, and how dear Martin treasured it?' `DearMartin'--psh! Martin never did her anything but evil turns all histhreescore years, but women canonise their own folk when they die. Haven't you seen what they call a religious woman damn the whole worldfor evil-doers? and then her husband or her brother dies, and may havelived as ill a life as any other upon earth, but she don't damn him. Love bids her penal code halt; she makes a way of escape for her own, and speaks of dear Dick and dear Tom for all the world as if they hadbeen double Baxter-saints. No, blood is thicker than water; damnationdoesn't hold good for her own. Love is stronger than hell-fire, andworks a miracle for Dick and Tom; only _she_ has to make up the balanceby giving other folks an extra dose of brimstone. 

"Lastly, worldly wisdom, or what Miss Joliffe thinks wisdom, says, `No, don't sell it; you should get more than fifty pounds for such a gem. 'So she is tossed about, and if she'd lived when there were monks inCullerne Church, she would have asked her father confessor, and he wouldhave taken down his `Summa Angelica, ' and looked it out underV. --`_Vendetur? utrum vendetur an non_?'--and set her mind at rest. Youdidn't know I could chaffer Latin with the best of 'em, did you? Ah, but I can, even with the Rector, for all the _nebulus_ and _nebulum_;only I don't trot it out too often. I'll show you a copy of the `Summa'when you come down to my room; but there aren't any confessors now, anddear Protestant Parkyn couldn't read the `Summa' if he had it; so thereis no one to settle the case for her. "

The little man had worked himself into a state of exaltation, and hiseyes twinkled as he spoke of his scholastic attainments. "Latin, " hesaid--"damn it! I can talk Latin against anyone--yes, with Bezahimself--and could tell you tales in it which would make you stop yourears. Ah, well, more fool I--more fool I. `_Contentus esto, Paule mi, lasciva, Paule, pagina_, '" he muttered to himself, and drummed nervouslywith his fingers on the table. 

Westray was apprehensive of these fits of excitement, and led theconversation back to the old theme. 

"It baffles me to understand how _anyone_ with eyes at all could think adaub like this was valuable--that is strange enough; but how come theseLondon people to have made an offer for it? I know the firm quite well;they are first-rate dealers. "

"There are some people, " said the organist, "who can't tell `Pop goesthe weasel' from the `Hallelujah Chorus, ' and others are as bad withpictures. I'm very much that way myself. No doubt all you say isright, and this picture an eyesore to any respectable person, but I'vebeen used to it so long I've got to like it, and should be sorry to seeher sell it. And as for these London buyers, I suppose some otherignoramus has taken a fancy to it, and wants to buy. You see, there_have_ been chance visitors staying in this room a night or two betweenwhiles--perhaps even Americans, for all I said about them--and you cannever reckon what _they'll_ do. The very day Martin Joliffe died therewas a story of someone coming to buy the picture of him. I was atchurch in the afternoon, and Miss Joliffe at the Dorcas meeting, andAnastasia gone out to the chemist. When I got back, I came up to seeMartin in this same room, and found him full of a tale that he had heardthe bell ring, and after that someone walking in the house, and last hisdoor opened, and in walked a stranger. Martin was sitting in the chairI'm using now, and was too weak then to move out of it; so he was forcedto sit until this man came in. The stranger talked kindly to him, so hesaid, and wanted to buy the picture of the flowers, bidding as high astwenty pounds for it; but Martin wouldn't hear him, and said he wouldn'tlet him have it for ten times that, and then the man went away. Thatwas the story, and I thought at the time 'twas all a cock-and-bull tale, and that Martin's mind was wandering; for he was very weak, and seemedflushed too, like one just waken from a dream. But he had a cunninglook in his eye when he told me, and said if he lived another week hewould be Lord Blandamer himself, and wouldn't want then to sell anypictures. He spoke of it again when his sister came back, but couldn'tsay what the man was like, except that his hair reminded him ofAnastasia's. 

"But Martin's time was come; he died that very night, and Miss Joliffewas terribly cast down, because she feared she had given him an overdoseof sleeping-draught; for Ennefer told her he had taken too much, and shedidn't see where he had got it from unless she gave it him by mistake. Ennefer wrote the death certificate, and so there was no inquest; butthat put the stranger out of our thoughts until it was too late to findhim, if, indeed, he ever was anything more than the phantom of a sickman's brain. No one beside had seen him, and all we had to ask for wasa man with wavy hair, because he reminded Martin of Anastasia. But if'twas true, then there was someone else who had a fancy for thepainting, and poor old Michael must have thought a lot of it to frame itin such handsome style. "

"I don't know, " Westray said; "it looks to me as if the picture waspainted to fill the frame. "

"Perhaps so, perhaps so, " answered the organist dryly. "What madeMartin Joliffe think he was so near success?"

"Ah, that I can't tell you. He was always thinking he had squared thecircle, or found the missing bit to fit into the puzzle; but he kept hisschemes very dark. He left boxes full of papers behind him when hedied, and Miss Joliffe handed them to me to look over, instead ofburning them. I shall go through them some day; but no doubt the wholething is moonshine, and if he ever had a clue it died with him. "

There was a little pause; the chimes of Saint Sepulchre's played "MountEphraim, " and the great bell tolled out midnight over Cullerne Flat. 

"It's time to be turning in. You haven't a drop of whisky, I suppose?"he said, with a glance at the kettle which stood on a trivet in front ofthe fire; "I have talked myself thirsty. "

There was a pathos in his appeal that would have melted many a stonyheart, but Westray's principles were unassailable, and he remainedobdurate. 

"No, I am afraid I have not, " he said; "you see, I never take spiritsmyself. Will you not join me in a cup of cocoa? The kettle boils. "

Mr Sharnall's face fell. 

"You ought to have been an old woman, " he said; "only old women drinkcocoa. Well, I don't mind if I do; any port in a storm. "

The organist went to bed that night in a state of exemplary sobriety, for when he got down to his own room he could find no spirit in thecupboard, and remembered that he had finished the last bottle of oldMartelet's _eau-de-vie_ at his tea, and that he had no money to buyanother. 

CHAPTER SIX. 

A month later the restoration work at Saint Sepulchre's was fairlybegun, and in the south transept a wooden platform had been raised onscaffold-poles to such a height as allowed the masons to work at thevault from the inside. This roof was no doubt the portion of the fabricthat called most urgently for repair, but Westray could not disguisefrom himself that delay might prove dangerous in other directions, andhe drew Sir George Farquhar's attention to more than one weak spot whichhad escaped the great architect's cursory inspection. 

But behind all Westray's anxieties lurked that dark misgiving as to thetower arches, and in his fancy the enormous weight of the central towerbrooded like the incubus over the whole building. Sir George Farquharpaid sufficient attention to his deputy's representations to visitCullerne with a special view to examining the tower. He spent an autumnday in making measurements and calculations, he listened to the story ofthe interrupted peal, and probed the cracks in the walls, but saw noreason to reconsider his former verdict or to impugn the stability ofthe tower. He gently rallied Westray on his nervousness, and, whilst heagreed that in other places repair was certainly needed, he pointed outthat lack of funds must unfortunately limit for the present both thescope of operations and the rate of progress. 

Cullerne Abbey was dissolved with the larger religious houses in 1539, when Nicholas Vinnicomb, the last abbot, being recalcitrant, andrefusing to surrender his house, was hanged as a traitor in front of thegreat West Gate-house. The general revenues were impropriated by theKing's Court of Augmentations, and the abbey lands in the immediatevicinity were given to Shearman, the King's Physician. Spellman, in hisbook on sacrilege, cites Cullerne as an instance where church landsbrought ruin to their new owner's family; for Shearman had a spendthriftson who squandered his patrimony, and then, caballing with Spanishintriguants, came to the block in Queen Elizabeth's days. 

 "For evil hands have abbey lands, Such evil fate in store; Such is the heritage that waits Church-robbers evermore. "

Thus, in the next generation the name of Shearman was clean put away;but Sir John Fynes, purchasing the property, founded the Grammar Schooland almshouses as a sin-offering for the misdoings of his predecessors. This measure of atonement succeeded admirably, for Horatio Fynes wasennobled by James the First, and his family, with the title ofBlandamer, endures to this present. 

On the day before the formal dissolution of their house the monks sungthe last service in the abbey church. It was held late in the evening, partly because this time seemed to befit such a farewell, and partlythat less public attention might be attracted; for there was a doubtwhether the King's servants would permit any further ceremonies. Sixtall candles burnt upon the altar, and the usual sconces lit theservice-books that lay before the brothers in the choir-stalls. It wasa sad service, as every good and amiable thing is sad when done for thelast time. There were agonising hearts among the brothers, especiallyamong the older monks, who knew not whither to go on the morrow; and thevoice of the sub-prior was broken with grief, and failed him as he readthe lesson. 

The nave was in darkness except for the warming-braziers, which here andthere cast a ruddy glow on the vast Norman pillars. In the obscuritywere gathered little groups of townsmen. The nave had always been openfor their devotions in happier days, and at the altars of its variouschapels they were accustomed to seek the means of grace. That nightthey met for the last time--some few as curious spectators, but most inbitterness of heart and profound sorrow, that the great church with itssplendid services was lost to them for ever. They clustered between thepillars of the arcades; and, the doors that separated the nave from thechoir being open, they could look through the stone screen, and see theserges twinking far away on the high altar. 

Among all the sad hearts in the abbey church, there was none sadder thanthat of Richard Vinnicomb, merchant and wool-stapler. He was theabbot's elder brother, and to all the bitterness naturally incident tothe occasion was added in his case the grief that his brother was aprisoner in London, and would certainly be tried for his life. 

He stood in the deep shadow of the pier that supported the north-westcorner of the tower, weighed down with sorrow for the abbot and for thefall of the abbey, and uncertain whether his brother's condemnationwould not involve his own ruin. It was December 6, Saint Nicholas' Day, the day of the abbot's patron saint. He was near enough to the choir tohear the collect being read on the other side of the screen:

"_Deus qui beatum Nicolaum pontificem innumeris decorasti miraculis:tribue quaesumus ut ejus mentis, et precibus, a gehennae incendiisliberemur, per Dominum nostrum Jesum Christum. Amen_. "

"Amen, " he said in the shadow of his pillar. "Blessed Nicholas, saveme; blessed Nicholas, save us all; blessed Nicholas, save my brother, and, if he must lose this temporal life, pray to our Lord Christ that Hewill shortly accomplish the number of His elect, and reunite us in Hiseternal Paradise. "

He clenched his hands in his distress, and, as a flicker from thebrazier fell upon him, those standing near saw the tears run down hischeeks. 

"_Nicholas qui omnem terram doctrina replevisti, intercede pro peccatisnostris_, " said the officiant; and the monks gave the antiphon:

"_Iste est qui contempsit vitam mundi et pervenit ad coelestia regna_. "

One by one a server put out the altar-lights, and as the last wasextinguished the monks rose in their places, and walked out inprocession, while the organ played a dirge as sad as the wind in aruined window. 

The abbot was hanged before his abbey gate, but Richard Vinnicomb'sgoods escaped confiscation; and when the great church was sold, as itstood, for building material, he bought it for three hundred pounds, andgave it to the parish. One part of his prayer was granted, for within ayear death reunited him to his brother; and in his pious will hebequeathed his "sowle to Allmyhtie God his Maker and Redemer, to havethe fruition of the Deitie with Our Blessed Ladie and all Saints and theAbbey Churche of Saint Sepulchre with the implements thereof, to theParyshe of Cullerne, so that the said Parishioners shall not sell, alter, or alienate the said Churche, or Implements or anye part orparcell thereof for ever. " Thus it was that the church which Westrayhad to restore was preserved at a critical period of its history. 

Richard Vinnicomb's generosity extended beyond the mere purchase of thebuilding, for he left in addition a sum to support the dignity of adaily service, with a complement of three chaplains, an organist, tensinging-men, and sixteen choristers. But the negligence of trustees andthe zeal of more religious-minded men than poor superstitious Richardhad sadly diminished these funds. Successive rectors of Cullerne becameconvinced that the spiritual interests of the town would be betterserved by placing a larger income at their own disposal for good works, and by devoting less to the mere lip-service of much daily singing. Thus, the stipend of the Rector was gradually augmented, and CanonParkyn found an opportunity soon after his installation to increase theincome of the living to a round two thousand by curtailing extravagancein the payment of an organist, and by reducing the emoluments of thatoffice from two hundred to eighty pounds a year. 

It was true that this scheme of economy included the abolition of theweek-day morning-service, but at three o'clock in the afternoon evensongwas still rehearsed in Cullerne Church. It was the thin and vanishingshadow of a cathedral service, and Canon Parkyn hoped that it mightgradually dwindle away until it was dispersed to nought. Such formalismmust certainly throttle any real devotion, and it was regrettable thatmany of the prayers in which his own fine voice and personal magnetismmust have had a moving effect upon his hearers should be constantlyobscured by vain intonations. It was only by doing violence to his ownhigh principles that he constrained himself to accept the emolumentswhich poor Richard Vinnicomb had provided for a singing foundation, andhe was scrupulous in showing his disapproval of such vanities bypunctilious absence from the week-day service. This ceremony wastherefore entrusted to white-haired Mr Noot, whose zeal in his Master'scause had left him so little opportunity for pushing his own intereststhat at sixty he was stranded as an underpaid curate in the backwater ofCullerne. 

At four o'clock, therefore, on a week-day afternoon, anyone who happenedto be in Saint Sepulchre's Church might see a little surplicedprocession issue from the vestries in the south transept, and wind itsway towards the choir. It was headed by clerk Janaway, who carried asilver-headed mace; then followed eight choristers (for the number fixedby Richard Vinnicomb had been diminished by half); then fivesinging-men, of whom the youngest was fifty, and the rear was brought upby Mr Noot. The procession having once entered the choir, the clerkshut the doors of the screen behind it, that the minds of the officiantsmight be properly removed from contemplation of the outer world, andthat devotion might not be interrupted by any intrusion of profanepersons from the nave. These outside Profane existed rather in theorythan fact, for, except in the height of summer, visitors were rarelyseen in the nave or any other part of the building. Cullerne lay remotefrom large centres, and archaeologic interest was at this time in solanguishing a condition that few, except professed antiquaries, wereaware of the grandeur of the abbey church. If strangers troubled littleabout Cullerne, the interest of the inhabitants in the week-day servicewas still more lukewarm, and the pews in front of the canopied stallsremained constantly empty. 

Thus, Mr Noot read, and Mr Sharnall the organist played, and thechoir-men and choristers sang, day by day, entirely for clerk Janaway'sbenefit, because there was no one else to listen to them. Yet, if astranger given to music ever entered the church at such times, he wasstruck with the service; for, like the Homeric housewife who did thebest with what she had by her, Mr Sharnall made the most of hisdefective organ and inadequate choir. He was a man if much taste andresource, and, as the echoes of the singing rolled round the vaultedroofs, a generous critic thought little of cracked voices and leakybellows and rattling trackers, but took away with him an harmoniousmemory of sunlight and coloured glass and eighteenth-century music; andperhaps of some clear treble voice, for Mr Sharnall was famed fortraining boys and discovering the gift of song. 

Saint Luke's little summer, in the October that followed thecommencement of the restoration, amply justified its name. In themiddle of the month there were several days of such unusual beauty as torecall the real summer, and the air was so still and the sunshine sowarm that anyone looking at the soft haze on Cullerne Flat might wellhave thought that August had returned. 

Cullerne Minster was, as a rule, refreshingly cool in the warmth ofsummer, but something of the heat and oppressiveness of the outside airseemed to have filtered into the church on these unseasonably warmautumn days. On a certain Saturday a more than usual drowsiness markedthe afternoon service. The choir plumped down into their places whenthe Psalms were finished, and abandoned themselves to slumber withlittle attempt at concealment, as Mr Noot began the first lesson. There were, indeed, honourable exceptions to the general somnolence. Onthe cantoris side the worn-out alto held an animated conversation withthe cracked tenor. They were comparing some specially fine onions underthe desk, for both were gardeners and the autumn leek-show was near athand. On the decani side Patrick Ovens, a red-haired little treble, waskept awake by the necessity for altering _Magnificat_ into _MagnifiedCat_ in his copy of Aldrich in G. 

The lesson was a long one. Mr Noot, mildest and most beneficent ofmen, believed that he was at his best in denunciatory passages ofScripture. The Prayer-Book, it was true, had appointed a portion of theBook of Wisdom for the afternoon lesson, but Mr Noot made light ofauthorities, and read instead a chapter from Isaiah. If he had beenquestioned as to this proceeding, he would have excused himself bysaying that he disapproved of the Apocrypha, even for instruction ofmanners (and there was no one at Cullerne at all likely to question thisright of private judgment), but his real, though perhaps unconscious, motive was to find a suitable passage for declamation. He thunderedforth judgments in a manner which combined, he believed, the terrors ofsupreme justice with an infinite commiseration for the blindness oferrant, but long-forgotten peoples. He had, in fact, that "Bible voice"which seeks to communicate additional solemnity to the Scriptures byreciting them in a tone never employed in ordinary life, as thefledgling curate adds gravity to the Litany by whispering "the hour ofdeath and Day of Judgment. "

Mr Noot, being short-sighted, did not see how lightly the punishmentsof these ancient races passed over the heads of his dozing audience, andwas bringing the long lesson to a properly dramatic close when theunexpected happened: the screen-door opened and a stranger entered. Asthe blowing of a horn by the paladin broke the repose of a century, andcalled back to life the spellbound princess and her court, so theseslumbering churchmen were startled from their dreams by the intruder. The choir-boys fell to giggling, the choir-men stared, clerk Janawaygrasped his mace as if he would brain so rash an adventurer, and thegeneral movement made Mr Sharnall glance nervously at his stops; for hethought that he had overslept himself, and that the choir had stood upfor the _Magnificat_. 

The stranger seemed unconscious of the attention which his appearanceprovoked. He was no doubt some casual sightseer, and had possibly beenunaware that any service was in progress until he opened thescreen-door. But once there, he made up his mind to join in thedevotions, and was walking to the steps which led up to the stalls whenclerk Janaway popped out of his place and accosted him, quoting theofficial regulations in something louder than a stage whisper:

"Ye cannot enter the choir during the hours of Divine service. Yecannot come in. "

The stranger was amused at the old man's officiousness. 

"I am in, " he whispered back, "and, being in, will take a seat, if youplease, until the service is over. "

The clerk looked at him doubtfully for a moment, but if there wasamusement to be read in the other's countenance, there was also adecision that did not encourage opposition. So he thought better of thematter, and opened the door of one of the pews that run below the stallsin Cullerne Church. 

But the stranger did not appear to notice that a place was being shownhim, and walked past the pew and up the little steps that led to thestalls on the cantoris side. Directly behind the singing-men were fivestalls, which had canopies richer and more elaborate than those of theothers, with heraldic escutcheons painted on the backs. From theseseats the vulgar herd was excluded by a faded crimson cord, but thestranger lifted the cord from its hook, and sat down in the firstreserved seat, as if the place belonged to him. 

Clerk Janaway was outraged, and bustled up the steps after him like anangry turkey-cock. 

"Come, come!" he said, touching the intruder on the shoulder; "youcannot sit here; these are the Fording seats, and kep' for LordBlandamer's family. "

"I will make room if Lord Blandamer brings his family, " the strangersaid; and, seeing that the old man was returning to the attack, added, "Hush! that is enough. "

The clerk looked at him again, and then turned back to his own place, routed. 

"_And in that day they shall roar against thee like the roaring of thesea, and if one look unto the land behold darkness and sorrow, and thelight is darkened in the heavens thereof_, " said Mr Noot, and shut thebook, with a glance of general fulmination through his great roundspectacles. 

The choir, who had been interested spectators of this conflict oflawlessness as personified in the intruder, and authority as in theclerk, rose to their feet as the organ began the _Magnificat_. 

The singing-men exchanged glances of amusement, for they were notaltogether averse to seeing the clerk worsted. He was an autocrat inhis own church, and ruffled them now and again with what they called hisbumptiousness. Perhaps he did assume a little as he led the procession, for he forgot at times that he was a peaceable servant of the sanctuary, and fancied, as he marched mace in hand to the music of the organ, thathe was a daring officer leading a forlorn hope. That very afternoon hehad had a heated discussion in the vestry with Mr Milligan, the bass, on a question of gardening, and the singer, who still smarted under theclerk's overbearing tongue, was glad to emphasise his adversary's defeatby paying attention to the intruder. 

The tenor on the cantoris side was taking holiday that day, and MrMilligan availed himself of the opportunity to offer the absentee's copyof the service to the intruder, who was sitting immediately behind him. He turned round, and placed the book, open at the _Magnificat_, beforethe stranger with much deference, casting as he faced round again a lookof misprision at Janaway, of which the latter was quick to appreciate, the meaning. 

This by-play was lost upon the stranger, who nodded his acknowledgmentof the civility, and turned to the study of the score which had beenoffered him. 

Mr Sharnall's resources in the way of men's voices were so limited thathe was by no means unused to finding himself short of a voice-part onthe one side or the other. He had done his best to remedy thedeficiency in the Psalms by supplying the missing part with his lefthand, but as he began the _Magnificat_ he was amazed to hear a mellowand fairly strong tenor taking part in the service with feeling andprecision. It was the stranger who stood in the gap, and when the firstsurprise was past, the choir welcomed him as being versed in their ownarts, and Clerk Janaway forgot the presumption of his entrance and eventhe rebellious conduct of Mr Milligan. The men and boys sang with newlife; they wished, in fact, that so knowledgeable a person should befavourably impressed, and the service was rendered in a more creditableway than Cullerne Church had known for many a long day. Only thestranger was perfectly unmoved. He sang as if he had been a lay-vicarall his life, and when the _Magnificat_ was ended, and Mr Sharnallcould look through the curtains of the organ-loft, the organist saw himwith a Bible devoutly following Mr Noot in the second lesson. 

He was a man of forty, rather above the middle height, with darkeyebrows and dark hair, that was beginning to turn grey. His hair, indeed, at once attracted the observer's attention by its thickprofusion and natural wavy curl. He was clean-shaven, his features weresharply cut without being thin, and there was something contemptuousabout the firm mouth. His nose was straight, and a powerful face gavethe impression of a man who was accustomed to be obeyed. To anyonelooking at him from the other side of the choir, he presented aremarkable picture, for which the black oak of Abbot Vinnicomb's stallssupplied a frame. Above his head the canopy went soaring up intocrockets and finials, and on the woodwork at the back was painted ashield which nearer inspection would have shown to be the Blandamercognisance, with its nebuly bars of green and silver. It was, perhaps, so commanding an appearance that made red-haired Patrick Ovens take outan Australian postage-stamp which he had acquired that very day, andpoint out to the boy next to him the effigy of Queen Victoria sittingcrowned in a gothic chair. 

The stranger seemed to enter thoroughly into the spirit of theperformance; he bore his part in the service bravely, and, beingfurnished with another book, lent effective aid with the anthem. Hestood up decorously as the choir filed out after the Grace, and then satdown again in his seat to listen to the voluntary. Mr Sharnalldetermined to play something of quality as a tribute to the unknowntenor, and gave as good a rendering of the Saint Anne's fugue as thestate of the organ would permit. It was true that the trackers rattledterribly, and that a cipher marred the effect of the second subject; butwhen he got to the bottom of the little winding stairs that led downfrom the loft, he found the stranger waiting with a compliment. 

"Thank you very much, " he said; "it is very kind of you to give us sofine a fugue. It is many years since I was last in this church, and Iam fortunate to have chosen so sunny an afternoon, and to have been intime for your service. "

"Not at all, not at all, " said the organist; "it is we who are fortunatein having you to help us. You read well, and have a useful voice, though I caught you tripping a little in the lead of the _Nunc Dimittis_Gloria. " And he sung it over by way of reminder. "You understandchurch music, and have sung many a service before, I am sure, though youdon't look much given that way, " he added, scanning him up and down. 

The stranger was amused rather than offended at these blunt criticisms, and the catechising went on. 

"Are you stopping in Cullerne?"

"No, " the other replied courteously; "I am only here for the day, but Ihope I may find other occasions to visit the place and to hear yourservice. You will have your full complement of voices next time I come, no doubt, and I shall be able to listen more at my ease than to-day?"

"Oh no, you won't. It's ten to one you will find us still worse off. We are a poverty-stricken lot, and no one to come over into Macedonia tohelp us. These cursed priests eat up our substance like canker-worms, and grow sleek on the money that was left to keep the music going. Idon't mean the old woman that read this afternoon; he's got _his_ noseon the grindstone like the rest of us--poor Noot! He has to put brownpaper in his boots because he can't afford to have them resoled. No, it's the Barabbas in the rectory-house, that buys his stocks and shares, and starves the service. "

This tirade fell lightly on the stranger's ears. He looked as if histhoughts were a thousand miles away, and the organist broke off:

"Do you play the organ? Do you understand an organ?" he asked quickly. 

"Alas! I do not play, " the stranger said, bringing his mind back with ajerk for the answer, "and understand little about the instrument. "

"Well, next time you are here come up into the loft, and I will show youwhat a chest of rattletraps I have to work with. We are lucky to getthrough a service without a breakdown; the pedal-board is too short andpast its work, and now the bellows are worn-out. "

"Surely you can get that altered, " the stranger said; "the bellowsshouldn't cost so much to mend. "

"They are patched already past mending. Those who would like to pay fornew ones haven't got the money, and those who have the money won't pay. Why, that very stall you sat in belongs to a man who could give us newbellows, and a new organ, and a new church, if we wanted it. Blandamer, that's his name--Lord Blandamer. If you had looked, you could have seenhis great coat of arms on the back of the seat; and he won't spend ahalfpenny to keep the roofs from falling on our heads. "

"Ah, " said the stranger, "it seems a very sad case. " They had reachedthe north door, and, as they stepped out, he repeated meditatively: "Itseems a very sad case; you must tell me more about it next time wemeet. "

The organist took the hint, and wished his companion good-afternoon, turning down towards the wharves for a constitutional on the riverside. The stranger raised his hat with something of foreign courtesy, andwalked back into the town. 

CHAPTER SEVEN. 

Miss Euphemia Joliffe devoted Saturday afternoons to Saint Sepulchre'sDorcas Society. The meetings were held in a class-room of the Girls'National School, and there a band of devoted females gathered week byweek to make garments for the poor. If there was in Cullerne somethreadbare gentility, and a great deal of middle-class struggling, therewas happily little actual poverty, as it is understood in great towns. Thus the poor, to whom the clothes made by the Dorcas Society wereultimately distributed, could sometimes afford to look the gift-horse inthe mouth, and to lament that good material had been marred in themaking. "They wept, " the organist said, "when they showed the coats andgarments that Dorcas made, because they were so badly cut;" but this wasa libel, for there were many excellent needlewomen in the society, andamong the very best was Miss Euphemia Joliffe. 

She was a staunch supporter of the church, and, had her circumstancespermitted, would have been a Scripture-reader or at least a districtvisitor. But the world was so much with her, in the shape of domesticnecessities at Bellevue Lodge, as to render parish work impossible, andso the Dorcas meeting was the only systematic philanthropy in which shecould venture to indulge. But in the discharge of this duty she wasregularity personified; neither wind nor rain, snow nor heat, sicknessnor amusement, stopped her, and she was to be found each and everySaturday afternoon, from three to five, in the National School. 

If the Dorcas Society was a duty for the little old lady, it was also apleasure--one of her few pleasures, and perhaps the greatest. She likedthe meetings, because on such occasions she felt herself to be the equalof her more prosperous neighbours. It is the same feeling that makesthe half-witted attend funerals and church services. At such times theyfeel themselves to be for once on an equal footing with theirfellow-men: all are reduced to the same level; there are no speeches tobe made, no accounts to be added up, no counsels to be given, nodecisions to be taken; all are as fools in the sight of God. 

At the Dorcas meeting Miss Joliffe wore her "best things" with theexception only of head-gear, for the wearing of her best bonnet was acrowning grace reserved exclusively for the Sabbath. Her wardrobe wastoo straightened to allow her "best" to follow the shifting seasonsclosely. If it was bought as best for winter, it might have to play thesame role also in summer, and thus it fell sometimes to her lot to wearalpaca in December, or, as on this day, to be adorned with a fur neckletwhen the weather asked for muslin. Yet "in her best" she always felt"fit to be seen"; and when it came to cutting out, or sewing, there werenone that excelled her. 

Most of the members greeted her with a kind word, for even in a placewhere envy, hatred and malice walked the streets arm in arm from sunriseto sunset, Miss Euphemia had few enemies. Lying and slandering, andspeaking evil of their fellows, formed a staple occupation of the ladiesof Cullerne, as of many another small town; and to Miss Joliffe, who wasfoolish and old-fashioned enough to think evil of no one, it had seemedat first the only drawback of these delightful meetings that a greatdeal of such highly-spiced talk was to be heard at them. But even thisfly was afterwards removed from the amber; for Mrs Bulteel--thebrewer's lady--who wore London dresses, and was much the mostfashionable person in Cullerne, proposed that some edifying book shouldbe read aloud on Dorcas afternoons to the assembled workers. It wastrue that Mrs Flint said she only did so because she thought she had afine voice; but however that might be, she proposed it, and no one caredto run counter to her. So Mrs Bulteel read properly religious stories, of so touching a nature that an afternoon seldom passed without herbeing herself dissolved in tears, and evoking sympathetic sniffs andsobs from such as wished to stand in her good books. If Miss Joliffewas not herself so easily moved by imaginary sorrow, she set it down tosome lack of loving-kindness in her own disposition, and mentallycongratulated the others on their superior sensitiveness. 

Miss Joliffe was at the Dorcas meeting, Mr Sharnall was walking by theriverside, Mr Westray was with the masons on the roof of the transept;only Anastasia Joliffe was at Bellevue Lodge when the front-door-bellrang. When her aunt was at home, Anastasia was not allowed to "wait onthe gentlemen, " nor to answer the bell; but her aunt being absent, andthere being no one else in the house, she duly opened one leaf of thegreat front-door, and found a gentleman standing on the semicircularflight of steps outside. That he was a gentleman she knew at a glance, for she had a _flair_ for such useless distinctions, though the genuswas not sufficiently common at Cullerne to allow her much practice inits identification near home. It was, in fact, the stranger of thetenor voice, and such is the quickness of woman's wit, that she learntin a moment as much concerning his outward appearance as the organistand the choir-men and the clerk had learnt in an hour; and more besides, for she saw that he was well dressed. There was about him a completeabsence of personal adornment. He wore no rings and no scarf-pin, evenhis watch-chain was only of leather. His clothes were of so dark a greyas to be almost black, but Miss Anastasia Joliffe knew that the clothwas good, and the cut of the best. She had thrust a pencil into thepages of "Northanger Abbey" to keep the place while she answered thebell, and as the stranger stood before her, it seemed to her he might bea Henry Tilney, and she was prepared, like a Catherine Morland, for somemomentous announcement when he opened his lips. Yet there came nothingvery weighty from them; he did not even inquire for lodgings, as shehalf hoped that he would. 

"Does the architect in charge of the works at the church lodge here? IsMr Westray at home?" was all he said. 

"He does live here, " she answered, "but is out just now, and we do notexpect him back till six. I think you will probably find him at thechurch if you desire to see him. "

"I have just come from the minster, but could see nothing of him there. "

It served the stranger right that he should have missed the architect, and been put to the trouble of walking as far as Bellevue Lodge, for hisinquiries must have been very perfunctory. If he had taken the troubleto ask either organist or clerk, he would have learnt at once where MrWestray was. 

"I wonder if you would allow me to write a note. If you could give me asheet of paper I should be glad to leave a message for him. "

Anastasia gave him a glance from head to foot, rapid as an instantaneousexposure. "Tramps" were a permanent bugbear to the ladies of Cullerne, and a proper dread of such miscreants had been instilled into AnastasiaJoliffe by her aunt. It was, moreover, a standing rule of the housethat no strange men were to be admitted on any pretence, unless therewas some man-lodger at home, to grapple with them if occasion arose. But the glance was sufficient to confirm her first verdict--he _was_ agentleman; there surely could not be such things as gentlemen-tramps. So she answered "Oh, certainly, " and showed him into Mr Sharnall'sroom, because that was on the ground-floor. 

The visitor gave a quick look round the room. If he had ever been inthe house before, Anastasia would have thought he was trying to identifysomething that he remembered; but there was little to be seen except anopen piano, and the usual litter of music-books and manuscript paper. 

"Thank you, " he said; "can I write here? Is this Mr Westray's room?"

"No, another gentleman lodges here, but you can use this room to writein. He is out, and would not mind in any case; he is a friend of MrWestray. "

"I had rather write in Mr Westray's room if I may. You see I havenothing to do with this other gentleman, and it might be awkward if hecame in and found me in his apartment. "

It seemed to Anastasia that the information that the room in which theystood was not Mr Westray's had in some way or other removed an anxietyfrom the stranger's mind. There was a faint and indefinable indicationof relief in his manner, however much he professed to be embarrassed atthe discovery. It might have been, she thought, that he was a greatfriend of Mr Westray, and had been sorry to think that his room shouldbe littered and untidy as Mr Sharnall's certainly was, and so was gladwhen he found out his mistake. 

"Mr Westray's room is at the top of the house, " she said deprecatingly. 

"It is no trouble to me, I assure you, to go up, " he answered. 

Anastasia hesitated again for an instant. If there were nogentlemen-tramps, perhaps there were gentlemen-burglars, and she hastilymade a mental inventory of Mr Westray's belongings, but could think ofnothing among them likely to act as an incentive to crime. Still shewould not venture to show a strange man to the top of the house, whenthere was no one at home but herself. The stranger ought not to haveasked her. He could not be a gentleman after all, or he would have seenhow irregular was such a request, unless he had indeed some particularmotive for wishing to see Mr Westray's room. 

The stranger perceived her hesitation, and read her thoughts easilyenough. 

"I beg your pardon, " he said. "I ought, of course, to have explainedwho it is who has the honour of speaking to you. I am Lord Blandamer, and wish to write a few words to Mr Westray on questions connected withthe restoration of the church. Here is my card. "

There was probably no lady in the town that would have received thisinformation with as great composure as did Anastasia Joliffe. Since thedeath of his grandfather, the new Lord Blandamer had been a constanttheme of local gossip and surmise. He was a territorial magnate, heowned the whole of the town, and the whole of the surrounding country. His stately house of Fording could be seen on a clear day from theminster tower. He was reputed to be a man of great talents anddistinguished appearance; he was not more than forty, and he wasunmarried. Yet no one had seen him since he came to man's estate; itwas said he had not been in Cullerne for twenty years. 

There was a tale of some mysterious quarrel with his grandfather, whichhad banished the young man from his home, and there had been no one totake his part, for both his father and mother were drowned when he was ababy. For a quarter of a century he had been a wanderer abroad: inFrance and Germany, in Russia and Greece, in Italy and Spain. He wasbelieved to have visited the East, to have fought in Egypt, to have runblockades in South America, to have found priceless diamonds in SouthAfrica. He had suffered the awful penances of the Fakirs, he had fastedwith the monks of Mount Athos; he had endured the silence of La Trappe;men said that the Sheik-ul-Islam had himself bound the green turbanround Lord Blandamer's head. He could shoot, he could hunt, he couldfish, he could fight, he could sing, he could play all instruments; hecould speak all languages as fluently as his own; he was the very wisestand the very handsomest, and--some hinted--the very wickedest man thatever lived, yet no one had ever seen him. Here was indeed a conjunctionof romance for Anastasia, to find so mysterious and distinguished astranger face to face with her alone under the same roof; yet she showednone of those hesitations, tremblings, or faintings that the situationcertainly demanded. 

Martin Joliffe, her father, had been a handsome man all his life, andhad known it. In youth he prided himself on his good looks, and in oldage he was careful of his personal appearance. Even when hiscircumstances were at their worst he had managed to obtain well-cutclothes. They were not always of the newest, but they sat well on histall and upright figure; "Gentleman Joliffe" people called him, andlaughed, though perhaps something less ill-naturedly than was often thecase in Cullerne, and wondered whence a farmer's son had gotten suchmanners. To Martin himself an aristocratic bearing was less anaffectation than a duty; his position demanded it, for he was in his owneyes a Blandamer kept out of his rights. 

It was his good appearance, even at five-and-forty, which induced MissHunter of the Grove to run away with him, though Colonel Hunter hadpromised to disown her if she ever married so far beneath her. She didnot, it is true, live long to endure her father's displeasure, but diedin giving birth to her first child. Even this sad result had failed tomelt the Colonel's heart. Contrary to all precedents of fiction, hewould have nothing to do with his little granddaughter, and soughtrefuge from so untenable a position in removing from Cullerne. Nor wasMartin himself a man to feel a parent's obligations too acutely; so thechild was left to be brought up by Miss Joliffe, and to become anaddition to her cares, but much more to her joys. Martin Joliffeconsidered that he had amply fulfilled his responsibilities inchristening his daughter Anastasia, a name which Debrett shows to havebeen borne for generations by ladies of the Blandamer family; and, having given so striking a proof of affection, he started off on one ofthose periodic wanderings which were connected with his genealogicalresearches, and was not seen again in Cullerne for a lustre. 

For many years afterwards Martin showed but little interest in thechild. He came back to Cullerne at intervals; but was always absorbedin his efforts to establish a right to the nebuly coat, and content toleave the education and support of Anastasia entirely to his sister. Itwas not till his daughter was fifteen that he exercised any paternalauthority; but, on his return from a long absence about that period, hepointed out to Miss Joliffe, senior, that she had shamefully neglectedher niece's education, and that so lamentable a state of affairs must beremedied at once. Miss Joliffe most sorrowfully admitted hershortcomings, and asked Martin's forgiveness for her remissness. Nordid it ever occur to her to plead in excuse that the duties of alodging-house, and the necessity of providing sustenance for herself andAnastasia, made serious inroads on the time that ought, no doubt, tohave been devoted to education; or that the lack of means prevented herfrom engaging teachers to supplement her own too limited instruction. She had, in fact, been able to impart to Anastasia little exceptreading, writing and arithmetic, some geography, a slight knowledge ofMiss Magnall's questions, a wonderful proficiency with the needle, anunquenchable love of poetry and fiction, a charity for her neighbourswhich was rare enough in Cullerne, and a fear of God which was sadlyinconsistent with the best Blandamer traditions. 

The girl was not being brought up as became a Blandamer, Martin hadsaid; how was she to fill her position when she became the HonourableAnastasia? She must learn French, not such rudiments as Miss Joliffehad taught her, and he travestied his sister's "Doo, dellah, derlapostrof, day" with a laugh that flushed her withered cheeks withcrimson, and made Anastasia cry as she held her aunt's hand under thetable; not _that_ kind of French, but something that would really passmuster in society. And music, she _must_ study that; and Miss Joliffeblushed again as she thought very humbly of some elementary duets inwhich she had played a bass for Anastasia till household work and goutconspired to rob her knotty fingers of all pliancy. It had been a greatpleasure to her, the playing of these duets with her niece; but theymust, of course, be very poor things, and quite out of date now, for shehad played them when she was a child herself, and on the very same pianoin the parlour at Wydcombe. 

So she listened with attention while Martin revealed his scheme ofreform, and this was nothing less than the sending of Anastasia to MrsHoward's boarding-school at the county town of Carisbury. The projecttook away his sister's breath, for Mrs Howard's was a finishing schoolof repute, to which only Mrs Bulteel among Cullerne ladies could affordto send her daughters. But Martin's high-minded generosity knew nolimits. "It was no use making two bites at a cherry; what had to bedone had better be done quickly. " And he clinched the argument bytaking a canvas bag from his pocket, and pouring out a little heap ofsovereigns on to the table. Miss Joliffe's wonder as to how her brotherhad become possessed of such wealth was lost in admiration of hismagnanimity, and if for an instant she thought wistfully of the reliefthat a small portion of these riches would bring to the poverty-strickenmenage at Bellevue Lodge, she silenced such murmurings in a burst ofgratitude for the means of improvement that Providence had vouchsafed toAnastasia. Martin counted out the sovereigns on the table; it wasbetter to pay in advance, and so make an impression in Anastasia'sfavour, and to this Miss Joliffe agreed with much relief, for she hadfeared that before the end of the term Martin would be off on histravels again, and that she herself would be left to pay. 

So Anastasia went to Carisbury, and Miss Joliffe broke her own rules, and herself incurred a number of small debts because she could not bearto think of her niece going to school with so meagre an equipment as shethen possessed, and yet had no ready money to buy better. Anastasiaremained for two half-years at Carisbury. She made such progress withher music that after much wearisome and lifeless practising she couldstumble through Thalberg's variations on the air of "Home, Sweet Home";but in French she never acquired the true Parisian accent, and wouldrevert at times to the "Doo, dellah, derlapostrof, day, " of her earlierteaching, though there is no record that these shortcomings were ever aserious drawback to her in after-life. Besides such opportunities ofimprovement, she enjoyed the privilege of association with thirty girlsof the upper middle-classes, and ate of the tree of knowledge of goodand evil, the fruits of which had hitherto escaped her notice. At theend of her second term, however, she was forced to forego theseadvantages, for Martin had left Cullerne without making any permanentprovision for his daughter's schooling; and there was in Mrs Howard'sprospectus a law, inexorable as that of gravity, that no pupil shall bepermitted to return to the academy whose account for the previous termremains unsettled. 

Thus Anastasia's schooling came to an end. There was some excuse putforward that the air of Carisbury did not agree with her; and she neverknew the real reason till nearly two years later, by which time MissJoliffe's industry and self-denial had discharged the greater part ofMartin's obligation to Mrs Howard. The girl was glad to remain atCullerne, for she was deeply attached to Miss Joliffe; but she came backmuch older in experience; her horizon had widened, and she was beginningto take a more perspective view of life. These enlarged ideas borefruit both pleasant and unpleasant, for she was led to form a justerestimate of her father's character, and when he next returned she foundit difficult to tolerate his selfishness and abuse of his sister'sdevotion. 

That this should be so was a cause of great grief to Miss Joliffe. Though she herself felt for her niece a love which had in it somethingof adoration, she was at the same time conscientious enough to rememberthat a child's first duty should be towards its parents. Thus sheforced herself to lament that Anastasia should be more closely attachedto her than to Martin, and if there were times when she could not feelproperly dissatisfied that she possessed the first place in her niece'saffections, she tried to atone for this frailty by sacrificingopportunities of being with the girl herself, and using everyopportunity of bringing her into her father's company. It was afruitless endeavour, as every endeavour to cultivate affection where noreal basis for it exists, must eternally remain fruitless. Martin waswearied by his daughter's society, for he preferred to be alone, and setno store by her except as a cooking, house-cleaning, and clothes-mendingmachine; and Anastasia resented this attitude, and could find, moreover, no interest in the torn peerage which was her father's Bible, or in thegenealogical research and jargon about the nebuly coat which formed thestaple of his conversation. Later on, when he came back for the lasttime, her sense of duty enabled her to tend and nurse him with exemplarypatience, and to fulfil all those offices of affection which even themost tender filial devotion could have suggested. She tried to believethat his death brought her sorrow and not relief, and succeeded so wellthat her aunt had no doubts at all upon the subject. 

Martin Joliffe's illness and death had added to Anastasia's experienceof life by bringing her into contact with doctors and clergymen; and itwas no doubt this training, and the association with the superiorclasses afforded by Mrs Howard's academy, that enabled her to stand theshock of Lord Blandamer's announcement without giving any moreperceptible token of embarrassment than a very slight blush. 

"Oh, of course there is no objection, " she said, "to your writing in MrWestray's room. I will show you the way to it. "

She accompanied him to the room, and having provided writing materials, left him comfortably ensconced in Mr Westray's chair. As she pulledthe door to behind her in going out, something prompted her to lookround--perhaps it was merely a girl's light fancy, perhaps it was thatindefinite fascination which the consciousness that we are being lookedat sometimes exercises over us; but as she looked back her eyes metthose of Lord Blandamer, and she shut the door sharply, being annoyed ather own foolishness. 

She went back to the kitchen, for the kitchen of the Hand of God was solarge that Miss Joliffe and Anastasia used part of it for theirsitting-room, took the pencil out of "Northanger Abbey, " and tried totransport herself to Bath. Five minutes ago she had been in the GrandPump Room herself, and knew exactly where Mrs Allen and Isabella Thorpeand Edward Morland were sitting; where Catherine was standing, and whatJohn Thorpe was saying to her when Tilney walked up. But alas!Anastasia found no re-admission; the lights were put out, the Pump Roomwas in darkness. A sad change to have happened in five minutes; but nodoubt the charmed circle had dispersed in a huff on finding that they nolonger occupied the first place in Miss Anastasia Joliffe's interest. And, indeed, she missed them the less because she had discovered thatshe herself possessed a wonderful talent for romance, and had alreadybegun the first chapter of a thrilling story. 

Nearly half an hour passed before her aunt returned, and in the intervalMiss Austen's knights and dames had retired still farther into thebackground, and Miss Anastasia's hero had entirely monopolised thestage. It was twenty minutes past five when Miss Joliffe, senior, returned from the Dorcas meeting; "precisely twenty minutes past five, "as she remarked many times subsequently, with that factitious importancewhich the ordinary mind attaches to the exact moment of any epoch-makingevent. 

"Is the water boiling, my dear?" she asked, sitting down at the kitchentable. "I should like to have tea to-day before the gentlemen come in, if you do not mind. The weather is quite oppressive, and the schoolroomwas very close because we only had one window open. Poor Mrs Bulteelis so subject to take cold from draughts, and I very nearly fell asleepwhile she was reading. "

"I will get tea at once, " Anastasia said; and then added, in a tone offine unconcern: "There is a gentleman waiting upstairs to see MrWestray. "

"My dear, " Miss Joliffe exclaimed deprecatingly, "how could you letanyone in when I was not at home? It is exceedingly dangerous with somany doubtful characters about. There is Mr Westray's presentationinkstand, and the flower-picture for which I have been offered so muchmoney. Valuable paintings are often cut out of their frames; one neverhas an idea what thieves may do. "

There was the faintest trace of a smile about Anastasia's lips. 

"I do not think we need trouble about that, dear Aunt Phemie, because Iam sure he is a gentleman. Here is his card. Look!" She handed MissJoliffe the insignificant little piece of white cardboard that held somomentous a secret, and watched her aunt put on her spectacles to readit. 

Miss Joliffe focussed the card. There were only two words printed onit, only "Lord Blandamer" in the most unpretending and simplecharacters, but their effect was magical. Doubt and suspicion meltedsuddenly away, and a look of radiant surprise overspread hercountenance, such as would have become a Constantine at the vision ofthe Labarum. She was a thoroughly unworldly woman, thinking little ofthe things of this life in general, and keeping her affections on thatwhich is to come, with the constancy and realisation that is so oftendenied to those possessed of larger temporal means. Her views as toright and wrong were defined and inflexible; she would have gone to thestake most cheerfully rather than violate them, and unconsciouslylamented perhaps that civilisation has robbed the faithful of the luxuryof burning. Yet with all this were inextricably bound up certain littleweaknesses among which figured a fondness for great names, and asomewhat exaggerated consideration for the lofty ones of this earth. Had she been privileged to be within the same four walls as a peer at abazaar or missionary meeting, she would have revelled in a greatopportunity; but to find Lord Blandamer under her own roof was a graceso wondrous and surprising as almost to overwhelm her. 

"Lord Blandamer!" she faltered, as soon as she had collected herself alittle. "I hope Mr Westray's room was tidy. I dusted it thoroughlythis morning, but I wish he had given some notice of his intention tocall. I should be so vexed if he found anything dusty. What is hedoing, Anastasia? Did he say he would wait till Mr Westray came back?"

"He said he would write a note for Mr Westray. I found him writingthings. "

"I hope you gave his lordship Mr Westray's presentation inkstand. "

"No, I did not think of that; but there was the little black inkstand, and plenty of ink in it. "

"Dear me, dear me!" Miss Joliffe said, ruminating on so extraordinary aposition, "to think that Lord Blandamer, whom no one has ever seen, should have come to Cullerne at last, and is now in this very house. Iwill just change this bonnet for my Sunday one, " she added, looking atherself in the glass, "and then tell his lordship how very welcome heis, and ask him if I can get anything for him. He will see at once, from my bonnet, that I have only just returned, otherwise it wouldappear to him very remiss of me not to have paid him my respects before. Yes, I think it is undoubtedly more fitting to appear in a bonnet. "

Anastasia was a little perturbed at the idea of her aunt's interviewwith Lord Blandamer. She pictured to herself Miss Joliffe's excess ofzeal, the compliments which she would think it necessary to shower uponhim the marked attention and homage which he might interpret asservility, though it was only intended as a proper deference to exaltedrank. Anastasia was quite unaccountably anxious that the family shouldappear to the distinguished visitor in as favourable a light aspossible, and thought for a moment of trying to persuade Miss Joliffethat there was no need for her to see Lord Blandamer at all, unless hesummoned her. But she was of a philosophic temperament, and in a momenthad rebuked her own folly. What could any impression of LordBlandamer's matter to her? she would probably never see him again unlessshe opened the door when he went out. Why should he think anything atall about a commonplace lodging-house, and its inmates? And if suchtrivial matters did ever enter his thoughts, a man so clever as he wouldmake allowance for those of a different station to himself, and wouldsee what a good woman her aunt was in spite of any little mannerisms. 

So she made no remonstrance, but sat heroically quiet in her chair, andre-opened "Northanger Abbey" with a determination to entirely forgetLord Blandamer, and the foolish excitement which his visit had created. 

CHAPTER EIGHT. 

Miss Joliffe must have had a protracted conversation with LordBlandamer. To Anastasia, waiting in the kitchen, it seemed as if heraunt would never come down. She devoted herself to "Northanger Abbey"with fierce resolution, but though her eyes followed the lines of type, she had no idea what she was reading, and found herself at last turningthe pages so frequently and with so much rustling as to disturb her ownreverie. Then she shut the book with a bang, got up from her chair, andpaced the kitchen till her aunt came back. 

Miss Joliffe was full of the visitor's affability. 

"It is _always_ the way with these really great people, my dear, " shesaid with effusion. "I have _always_ noticed that the nobility arecondescending; they adapt themselves so entirely to their surroundings. "Miss Joliffe fell into a common hyperbole in qualifying an isolatedaction as a habit. She had never before been brought face to face witha peer, yet she represented her first impression of Lord Blandamer'smanner as if it were a mature judgment based upon long experience ofthose of his rank and position. 

"I insisted on his using the presentation inkstand, and took away thatshabby little black thing; and I could see at once that the silver onewas far more like what he had been accustomed to use. He seemed to knowsomething about us, and even asked if the young lady who had shown himin was my niece. That was you; he meant you, Anastasia; he asked if itwas _you_. I think he must have met dear Martin somewhere, but I reallywas so agitated by such a very unexpected visit that I scarcely took inall he said. Yet he was so careful all the time to put me at my easethat at last I ventured to ask him if he would take some lightrefreshment. `My lord, ' I said, `may I be so bold as to offer yourlordship a cup of tea? It would be a great honour if you would partakeof our humble hospitality. ' And what _do_ you think he answered, mydear? `Miss Joliffe'--and he had such a winning look--`there is nothingI should like better. I am very tired with walking about in the church, and have still some little time to wait, for I am going to London by theevening train. ' Poor young man! (for Lord Blandamer was still young inCullerne, which had only known his octogenarian predecessor) he is nodoubt called to London on some public business--the House of Lords, orthe Court, or something like that. I wish he would take as much care ofhimself as he seems to take for others. He looks so very tired, and asad face too, Anastasia, and yet is most considerate. `I should like acup of tea very much'--those were his exact words--`but you must nottrouble to come all the way upstairs again to bring it to me. Let mecome down and take it with you. '

"`Forgive me, my lord, ' was my answer, `but I could not permit that. Our establishment is much too homely, and I shall feel it a privilege towait on you, if you will kindly excuse my walking-clothes, as I havejust come back from an afternoon meeting. My niece often wishes torelieve me, but I tell her my old legs are more active than her youngones even still. '"

Anastasia's cheeks were red, but she said nothing, and her aunt went on:"So I will take him some tea at once. You can make it, my dear, if youlike, but put a great deal more in than we use ourselves. The upperclasses have no call to practise economy in such matters, and he is nodoubt used to take his tea very strong. I think Mr Sharnall's teapotis the best, and I will get out the silver sugar-tongs and one of thespoons with the `J' on them. "

As Miss Joliffe was taking up the tea, she met Westray in the hall. Hehad just come back from the church, and was not a little concerned athis landlady's greeting. She put down her tray, and, with a fatefulgesture and an "Oh, Mr Westray, what do you think?" beckoned him asideinto Mr Sharnall's room. His first impression was that some graveaccident had happened, that the organist was dead, or that AnastasiaJoliffe had sprained an ankle; and he was relieved to hear the truestate of affairs. He waited a few minutes while Miss Joliffe took thevisitor his tea, and then went upstairs himself. 

Lord Blandamer rose. 

"I must apologise, " he said, "for making myself at home in your room;but I hope your landlady may have explained who I am, and how I come totake so great a liberty. I am naturally interested in Cullerne and allthat concerns it, and hope ere long to get better acquainted with theplace--and the people, " he added as an after-thought. "At present Iknow disgracefully little about it, but that is due to my having beenabroad for many years; I only came back a few months ago. But I neednot bother you with all this; what I really wanted was to ask you if youwould give me some idea of the scheme of restoration which it isproposed to undertake at the minster. Until last week I had not heardthat anything of the kind was in contemplation. "

His tone was measured, and a clear, deep, voice gave weight andsincerity to his words. His clean-shaven face and olive complexion, hisregular features and dark eyebrows, suggested a Spaniard to Westray ashe spoke, and the impression was strengthened by the decorous and gravecourtesy of his manner. 

"I shall be delighted to explain anything I can, " said the architect, and took down a bundle of plans and papers from a shelf. 

"I fear I shall not be able to do much this evening, " Lord Blandamersaid; "for I have to catch the train to London in a short time; but, ifyou will allow me, I will take an early opportunity of coming overagain. We might then, perhaps, go to the church together. The buildinghas a great fascination for me, not only on account of its ownmagnificence, but also from old associations. When I was a boy, andsometimes a very unhappy boy, I used often to come over from Fording, and spend hours rambling about the minster. Its winding staircases, itsdark wall-passages, its mysterious screens and stalls, brought meromantic dreams, from which I think I have never entirely wakened. I amtold the building stands in need of extensive restoration, though to theoutsider it looks much the same as ever. It always had a dilapidatedair. "

Westray gave a short outline of what it was considered should ultimatelybe done, and of what it was proposed to attack for the present. 

"You see, we have our work cut out for us, " he said. "The transept roofis undoubtedly the most urgent matter, but there are lots of otherthings that cannot be left to themselves for long. I have grave doubtsabout the stability of the tower, though my Chief doesn't share them toanything like the same extent: and perhaps that is just as well, for weare hampered on every side by lack of funds. They are going to have abazaar next week to try to give the thing a lift, but a hundred bazaarswould not produce half that is wanted. "

"I gathered that there were difficulties of this kind, " the visitor saidreflectively. "As I came out of the church after service to-day I metthe organist. He had no idea who I was, but gave his views verystrongly as to Lord Blandamer's responsibilities for things in general, and for the organ in particular. We are, I suppose, under some sort ofmoral obligation for the north transept, from having annexed it as aburying-place. It used to be called, I fancy, the Blandamer Aisle. "

"Yes, it is called so still, " Westray answered. He was glad to see theturn the conversation had taken, and hoped that a _deus ex machina_ hadappeared. Lord Blandamer's next question was still more encouraging. 

"At what do you estimate the cost of the transept repairs?"

Westray ran through his papers till he found a printed leaflet with aview of Cullerne Minster on the outside. 

"Here are Sir George Farquhar's figures, " he said. "This was a circularthat was sent everywhere to invite subscriptions, but it scarcely paidthe cost of printing. No one will give a penny to these thingsnowadays. Here it is, you see--seven thousand eight hundred pounds forthe north transept. "

There was a little pause. Westray did not look up, being awkwardlyconscious that the sum was larger than Lord Blandamer had anticipated, and fearing that such an abrupt disclosure might have damped thegenerosity of an intended contributor. 

Lord Blandamer changed the subject. 

"Who is the organist? I rather liked his manner, for all he took me sosharply, if impersonally, to task. He seems a clever musician, but hisinstrument is in a shocking state. "

"He _is_ a very clever organist, " Westray answered. It was evident thatLord Blandamer was in a subscribing frame of mind, and if his generositydid not extend to undertaking the cost of the transept, he might atleast give something towards the organ. The architect tried to do hisfriend Mr Sharnall a service. "He is a very clever organist, " herepeated; "his name is Sharnall, and he lodges in this house. Shall Icall him? Would you like to ask him about the organ?"

"Oh no, not now; I have so little time; another day we can have a chat. Surely a very little money--comparatively little money, I mean--wouldput the organ in proper repair. Did they never approach my grandfather, the late Lord Blandamer, on the question of funds for theserestorations?"

Westray's hopes of a contribution were again dashed, and he felt alittle contemptuous at such evasions. They came with an ill grace afterLord Blandamer's needlessly affectionate panegyric of the church. 

"Yes, " he said; "Canon Parkyn, the Rector here, wrote to the late LordBlandamer begging for a subscription to the restoration fund for thechurch, but never got any answer. "

Westray flung something like a sneer into his tone, and was alreadysorry for his ungracious words before he had finished speaking. But theother seemed to take no offence, where some would have been offended. 

"Ah, " he said, "my grandfather was no doubt a very sad old man indeed. I must go now, or I shall miss my train. You shall introduce me to MrSharnall the next time I come to Cullerne; I have your promise, remember, to take me over the church. Is it not so?"

"Yes--oh yes, certainly, " Westray said, though with less cordialityperhaps than he had used on the previous occasion. He was disappointedthat Lord Blandamer had promised no subscription, and accompanied him tothe foot of the stairs with much the same feelings as a shop-assistantentertains for the lady who, having turned over goods for half an hour, retreats with the promise that she will consider the matter and callagain. 

Miss Joliffe had been waiting on the kitchen stairs, and so was able tomeet Lord Blandamer in the hall quite accidentally. She showed him outof the front-door with renewed professions of respect, for she knewnothing of his niggardly evasions of a subscription, and in her eyes alord was still a lord. He added the comble to all his graces andcourtesies by shaking her hand as he left the house, and expressing ahope that she would be so kind as to give him another cup of tea, thevery next time he was in Cullerne. 

The light was failing as Lord Blandamer descended the flight of stepsoutside the door of Bellevue Lodge. The evening must have closed inearlier than usual, for very soon after the visitor had gone upstairsAnastasia found it too dark to read in the kitchen; so she took herbook, and sat in the window-seat of Mr Sharnall's room. 

It was a favourite resort of hers, both when Mr Sharnall was out, andalso when he was at home; for he had known her from childhood, and likedto watch the graceful girlish form as she read quietly while he workedat his music. The deep window-seat was panelled in painted deal, andalong the side of it hung a faded cushion, which could be turned over onto the sill when the sash was thrown up, so as to form a rest for thearms of anyone who desired to look out on a summer evening. 

The window was still open, though it was dusk; but Anastasia's head, which just appeared above the sill, was screened from observation by alow blind. This blind was formed of a number of little green woodenslats, faded and blistered by the suns of many summers, and so arrangedthat, by the turning of a brass, urn-shaped knob, they could be made toopen and afford a prospect of the outer world to anyone sitting inside. 

It had been for some time too dark for Anastasia to read, but she stillsat in the window-seat; and as she heard Lord Blandamer come down thestairs, she turned the brass urn so as to command a view of the street. She felt herself blushing in the dusk, at the reiterated and voluminouscompliments which her aunt was paying in the hall. She blushed becauseWestray's tone was too off-handed and easy towards so important apersonage to please her critical mood; and then she blushed again at herown folly in blushing. The front-door shut at last, and the gaslightfell on Lord Blandamer's active figure and straight, square shoulders ashe went down the steps. Three thousand years before, another maiden hadlooked between the doorpost and the door, at the straight broad back ofanother great stranger as he left her father's palace; but Anastasia wasmore fortunate than Nausicaa, for there is no record that Ulysses castany backward glance as he walked down to the Phaeacian ship, and LordBlandamer did turn and look back. 

He turned and looked back; he seemed to Anastasia to look between thelittle blistered slats into her very eyes. Of course, he could not haveguessed that a very foolish girl, the niece of a very foolish landladyin a very commonplace lodging-house, in a very commonplace country town, was watching him behind a shutter; but he turned and looked, andAnastasia stayed for half an hour after he had gone, thinking of thehard and clean-cut face that she had seen for an instant in theflickering gaslight. 

It was a hard face, and as she sat in the dark with closed eyes, and sawthat face again and again in her mind, she knew that it was hard. Itwas hard--it was almost cruel. No, it was not cruel, but onlyrecklessly resolved, with a resolution that would not swerve fromcruelty, if cruelty were needed to accomplish its purpose. Thus shereasoned in the approved manner of fiction. She knew that suchreasonings were demanded of heroines. A heroine must be sadly unworthyof her lofty role if she could not with a glance unmask even the mostenigmatic countenance, and trace the passions writ in it, clearly as apage of "Reading without Tears. " And was she, Anastasia, to fall shortin such a simple craft? No, she had measured the man's face in amoment; it was resolved, even to cruelty. It was hard, but ah! howhandsome! and she remembered how the grey eyes had met hers and blindedthem with power, when she first saw him on the doorstep. Wondrousmusings, wondrous thought-reading, by a countrified young lady in herteens; but is it not out of the mouths of babes and sucklings thatstrength has been eternally ordained?

She was awakened from her reverie by the door being flung open, and sheleapt from her perch as Mr Sharnall entered the room. 

"Heyday! heyday!" he said, "what have we here? Fire out, and windowopen; missy dreaming of Sir Arthur Bedevere, and catching a cold--a verypoetic cold in the head. "

His words jarred on her mood like the sharpening of a slate-pencil. Shesaid nothing, but brushed by him, shut the door behind her, and left himmuttering in the dark. 

The excitement of Lord Blandamer's visit had overtaxed Miss Joliffe. She took the gentlemen their supper--and Mr Westray was supping in MrSharnall's room that evening--and assured Anastasia that she was not inthe least tired. But ere long she was forced to give up this pretence, and to take refuge in a certain high-backed chair with ears, which stoodin a corner of the kitchen, and was only brought into use in illness orother emergency. The bell rang for supper to be taken away, but MissJoliffe was fast asleep, and did not hear it. Anastasia was not allowedto "wait" under ordinary circumstances, but her aunt must not bedisturbed when she was so tired, and she took the tray herself and wentupstairs. 

"He is a striking-looking man enough, " Westray was saying as she enteredthe room; "but I must say he did not impress me favourably in otherrespects. He spoke too enthusiastically about the church. It wouldhave sat on him with a very good grace if he had afterwards come downwith five hundred pounds, but ecstasies are out of place when a manwon't give a halfpenny to turn them into reality. "

"He is a chip of the old block, " said the organist. 

 "`_Leap year's February twenty-nine days, And on the thirtieth Blandamer pays_. '

"That's a saw about here. Well, I rubbed it into him this afternoon, and all the harder because I hadn't the least idea who he was. "

There was a fierce colour in Anastasia's cheeks as she packed the dirtyplates and supper debris into the tray, and a fiercer feeling in herheart. She tried hard to conceal her confusion, and grew more confusedin the effort. The organist watched her closely, without ever turninghis eyes in her direction. He was a cunning little man, and before thetable was cleared had guessed who was the hero of those dreams, fromwhich he had roused her an hour earlier. 

Westray waved away with his hand a puff of smoke which drifted into hisface from Mr Sharnall's pipe. 

"He asked me whether anyone had ever approached the old lord about therestoration, and I said the Rector had written, and never got ananswer. "

"It wasn't to the _old_ lord he wrote, " Mr Sharnall cut in; "it was tothis very man. Didn't you know it was to this very man? No one everthought it worth ink and paper to write to _old_ Blandamer. I was theonly one, fool enough to do that. I had an appeal for the organ printedonce upon a time, and sent him a copy, and asked him to head the list. After a bit he sent me a cheque for ten shillings and sixpence; and thenI wrote and thanked him, and said it would do very nicely to put a newleg on the organ-stool if one should ever break. But he had the lastword, for when I went to the bank to cash the cheque, I found itstopped. "

Westray laughed with a thin and tinkling merriment that irritatedAnastasia more than an honest guffaw. 

"When he stuck at seven thousand eight hundred pounds for the church, Itried to give _you_ a helping hand with the organ. I told him you livedin the house; would he not like to see you? `Oh no, not _now_, ' hesaid; `some other day. '"

"He is a chip of the old block, " the organist said again bitterly. "Gather figs of thistles, if you will, but don't expect money fromBlandamers. "

Anastasia's thumb went into the curry as she lifted the dish, but shedid not notice it. She was only eager to get away, to place herselfoutside the reach of these slanderous tongues, to hide herself where shecould unburden her heart of its bitterness. Mr Sharnall fired one moreshaft at her as she left the room. 

"He takes after his grandfather in other ways besides close-fistedness. The old man had a bad enough name with women, and this man has a worse. They are a poor lot--lock, stock, and barrel. "

Lord Blandamer had certainly been unhappy in the impression which hecreated at Bellevue Lodge; a young lady had diagnosed his countenance ashard and cruel, an architect had detected niggardliness in hisdisposition, and an organist was resolved to regard him at all hazardsas a personal foe. It was fortunate indeed for his peace of mind thathe was completely unaware of this, but, then, he might not perhaps havetroubled much even if he had known all about it. The only person whohad a good word for him was Miss Euphemia Joliffe. She woke up flushed, but refreshed, after her nap, and found the supper-things washed and putaway in their places. 

"My dear, my dear, " she said deprecatingly, "I am afraid I have beenasleep, and left all the work to you. You should not have done this, Anastasia. You ought to have awakened me. " The flesh was weak, and shewas forced to hold her hand before her mouth for a moment to conceal ayawn; but her mind reverted instinctively to the great doings of theday, and she said with serene reflection: "A very remarkable man, sodignified and yet so affable, and _very_ handsome too, my dear. "

CHAPTER NINE. 

Among the letters which the postman brought to Bellevue Lodge on themorning following these remarkable events was an envelope whichpossessed a dreadful fascination. It bore a little coronet stamped inblack upon the flap, and "Edward Westray, Esquire, Bellevue Lodge, Cullerne, " written on the front in a bold and clear hand. But this wasnot all, for low in the left corner was the inscription "Blandamer. " Asingle word, yet fraught with so mystical an import that it setAnastasia's heart beating fast as she gave it to her aunt, to be takenupstairs with the architect's breakfast. 

"There is a letter for you, sir, from Lord Blandamer, " Miss Joliffesaid, as she put down the tray on the table. 

But the architect only grunted, and went on with ruler and compass atthe plan with which he was busy. Miss Joliffe would have been more thanwoman had she not felt a burning curiosity to know the contents of soimportant a missive; and to leave a nobleman's letter neglected on thetable seemed to her little short of sacrilege. 

Never had breakfast taken longer to lay, and still there was the letterlying by the tin cover, which (so near is grandeur to our dust)concealed a simple bloater. Poor Miss Joliffe made a last effort ereshe left the room to bring Westray to a proper appreciation of thesituation. 

"There is a letter for you, sir; I think it is from Lord Blandamer. "

"Yes, yes, " the architect said sharply; "I will attend to it presently. "

And so she retired, routed. 

Westray's nonchalance had been in part assumed. He was anxious to showthat he, at any rate, could rise superior to artificial distinctions ofrank, and was no more to be impressed by peers than peasants. He keptup this philosophic indifference even after Miss Joliffe left the room;for he took life very seriously, and felt his duty towards himself to beat least as important as that towards his neighbours. Resolution lastedtill the second cup of tea, and then he opened the letter. 

 "Dear Sir" (it began), "I understood from you yesterday that the repairs to the north transept of Cullerne Minster are estimated to cost 7, 800 pounds. This charge I should like to bear myself, and thus release for other purposes of restoration the sum already collected. I am also prepared to undertake whatever additional outlay is required to put the whole building in a state of substantial repair. Will you kindly inform Sir George Farquhar of this, and ask him to review the scheme of restoration as modified by these considerations? I shall be in Cullerne on Saturday next, and hope I may find you at home if I call about five in the afternoon, and that you may then have time to show me the church. 

 "I am, dear sir, "Very truly yours, "Blandamer. "

Westray had scanned the letter so rapidly that he knew its contents byintuition rather than by the more prosaic method of reading. Nor did here-read it several times, as is generally postulated by importantcommunications in fiction; he simply held it in his hand, and crumpledit unconsciously, while he thought. He was surprised, and he waspleased--pleased at the wider vista of activity that Lord Blandamer'soffer opened, and pleased that he should be chosen as the channelthrough which an announcement of such gravity was to be made. He felt, in short, that pleasurable and confused excitement, that mentalinebriation, which unexpected good fortune is apt to produce in anyexcept the strongest minds, and went down to Mr Sharnall's room stillcrumpling the letter in his hand. The bloater was left to waste itssweetness on the morning air. 

"I have just received some extraordinary news, " he said, as he openedthe door. 

Mr Sharnall was not altogether unprepared, for Miss Joliffe had alreadyinformed him that a letter from Lord Blandamer had arrived for MrWestray; so he only said "Ah!" in a tone that implied compassion for thelack of mental balance which allowed Westray to be so easily astonished, and added "Ah, yes?" as a manifesto that no sublunary catastrophe couldpossibly astonish him, Mr Sharnall. But Westray's excitement wascold-waterproof, and he read the letter aloud with much jubilation. 

"Well, " said the organist, "I don't see much in it; seven thousandpounds is nothing to him. When we have done all that we ought to do, weare unprofitable servants. "

"It isn't only seven thousand pounds; don't you see he givescarte-blanche for repairs in general? Why, it may be thirty or fortythousand, or even more. "

"Don't you wish you may get it?" the organist said, raising his eyebrowsand shutting his eyelids. 

Westray was nettled. 

"Oh, I think it's mean to sneer at everything the man does. We abusedhim yesterday as a niggard; let us have the grace to-day to say we weremistaken. " He was afflicted with the over-scrupulosity of a refined, but strictly limited mind, and his conscience smote him. "I, at anyrate, was quite mistaken, " he went on; "I quite misinterpreted hishesitation when I mentioned the cost of the transept repairs. "

"Your chivalrous sentiments do you the greatest credit, " the organistsaid, "and I congratulate you on being able to change your ideas soquickly. As for me, I prefer to stick to my first opinion. It is allhumbug; either he doesn't mean to pay, or else he has some plan of hisown to push. _I_ wouldn't touch his money with a barge-pole. "

"Oh no, of course not, " Westray said, with the exaggerated sarcasm of aschoolboy in his tone. "If he was to offer a thousand pounds to restorethe organ, you wouldn't take a penny of it. "

"He hasn't offered a thousand yet, " rejoined the organist; "and when hedoes, I'll send him away with a flea in his ear. "

"That's a very encouraging announcement for would-be contributors, "Westray sneered; "they ought to come forward very strongly after that. "

"Well, I must get on with some copying, " the organist said dryly; andWestray went back to the bloater. 

If Mr Sharnall was thus pitiably wanting in appreciation of amunificent offer, the rest of Cullerne made no pretence of imitating hisexample. Westray was too elated to keep the good news to himself, nordid there appear, indeed, to be any reason for making a secret of it. So he told the foreman-mason, and Mr Janaway the clerk, and Mr Nootthe curate, and lastly Canon Parkyn the rector, whom he certainly oughtto have told the first of all. Thus, before the carillon of SaintSepulchre's played "New sabbath" [See Appendix at the end of the volume]at three o'clock that afternoon, the whole town was aware that the newLord Blandamer had been among them, and had promised to bear the cost ofrestoring the great minster of which they were all so proud--so verymuch more proud when their pride entailed no sordid considerations ofpersonal subscription. 

Canon Parkyn was ruffled. Mrs Parkyn perceived it when he came in todinner at one o'clock, but, being a prudent woman, she did not alludedirectly to his ill-humour, though she tried to dispel it by leading theconversation to topics which experience had shown her were soothing tohim. Among such the historic visit of Sir George Farquhar, and thedeference which he had paid to the Rector's suggestions, occupied aleading position: but the mention of the great architect's name, was asignal for a fresh exhibition of vexation on her husband's part. 

"I wish, " he said, "that Sir George would pay a little more personalattention to the work at the minster. His representative, this Mr--er--er--this Mr Westray, besides being, I fear, very inexperienced anddeficient in architectural knowledge, is a most conceited young man, andconstantly putting himself forward in an unbecoming way. He came to methis morning with an exceedingly strange communication--a letter fromLord Blandamer. "

Mrs Parkyn laid down her knife and fork. 

"A letter from Lord Blandamer?" she said in unconcealed amazement--"aletter from Lord Blandamer to Mr Westray!"

"Yes, " the Rector went on, losing some of his annoyance in thepleasurable consciousness that his words created a profoundsensation--"a letter in which his lordship offers to bear in the firstplace the cost of the repairs of the north transept, and afterwards tomake good any deficiency in the funds required for the restoration ofthe rest of the fabric. Of course, I am very loth to question anyaction taken by a member of the Upper House, but at the same time I amcompelled to characterise the proceeding as most irregular. That such acommunication should be made to a mere clerk of the works, instead of tothe Rector and duly appointed guardian of the sacred edifice, is sograve a breach of propriety that I am tempted to veto the matterentirely, and to refuse to accept this offer. "

His face wore a look of sublime dignity, and he addressed his wife as ifshe were a public meeting. _Ruat coelum_, Canon Parkyn was not to bemoved a hair's-breadth from the line traced by propriety and rectitude. He knew in his inmost heart that under no possible circumstances wouldhe have refused any gift that was offered him, yet his own words hadabout them so heroic a ring that for a moment he saw himself dashingLord Blandamer's money on the floor, as early Christians had flung tothe wind that pinch of incense that would have saved them from thelions. 

"I think I _must_ refuse this offer, " he repeated. 

Mrs Parkyn knew her husband intimately--more intimately, perhaps, thanhe knew himself--and had an additional guarantee that the discussion wasmerely academic in the certainty that, even were he really purposed torefuse the offer, she would not _allow_ him to do so. Yet she playedthe game, and feigned to take him seriously. 

"I quite appreciate your scruples, my dear; they are just what anyonewho knew you would expect. It is a positive affront that you should betold of such a proposal by this impertinent young man; and LordBlandamer has so strange a reputation himself that one scarcely knowshow far it is right to accept anything from him for sacred purposes. Ihonour your reluctance. Perhaps it _would_ be right for you to declinethis proposal, or, at any rate, to take time for consideration. "

The Rector looked furtively at his wife. He was a little alarmed at hertaking him so readily at his word. He had hoped that she would bedismayed--that she could have brought proper arguments to bear to shakehis high resolve. 

"Ah, your words have unwittingly reminded me of my chief difficulty inrefusing. It is the sacred purpose which makes me doubt my ownjudgment. It would be a painful reflection to think that the templeshould suffer by my refusing this gift. Maybe I should be yielding tomy own petulance or personal motives if I were to decline. I must notlet my pride stand in the way of higher obligations. "

He concluded in his best pulpit manner, and the farce was soon at anend. It was agreed that the gift must be accepted, that proper measuresshould be taken to rebuke Mr Westray's presumption, as _he_ had nodoubt induced Lord Blandamer to select so improper a channel ofcommunication, and that the Rector should himself write direct to thankthe noble donor. So, after dinner, Canon Parkyn retired to his "study, "and composed a properly fulsome letter, in which he attributed all thenoblest possible motives and qualities to Lord Blandamer, and invokedall the most unctuously conceived blessings upon his head. And atteatime the letter was perused and revised by Mrs Parkyn, who addedsome finishing touches of her own, especially a preamble which statedthat Canon Parkyn had been informed by the clerk of the works that LordBlandamer had expressed a desire to write to Canon Parkyn to make acertain offer, but had asked the clerk of the works to find out firstwhether such an offer would be acceptable to Canon Parkyn, and aperoration which hoped that Lord Blandamer would accept the hospitalityof the Rectory on the occasion of his next visit to Cullerne. 

The letter reached Lord Blandamer at Fording the next morning as he satover a late breakfast, with a Virgil open on the table by hiscoffee-cup. He read the Rector's stilted periods without a smile, andmade a mental note that he would at once send a specially civilacknowledgment. Then he put it carefully into his pocket, and turnedback to the _Di patrii indigetes et Romule Vestaque Mater_ of the FirstGeorgic, which he was committing to memory, and banished the invitationso completely from his mind that he never thought of it again till hewas in Cullerne a week later. 

Lord Blandamer's visit, and the offer which he had made for therestoration of the church, formed the staple of Cullerne conversationfor a week. All those who had been fortunate enough to see or to speakto him discussed him with one another, and compared notes. Scarcely adetail of his personal appearance, of his voice or manner escaped them;and so infectious was this interest that some who had never seen him atall were misled by their excitement into narrating how he had stoppedthem in the street to ask the way to the architect's lodgings, and howhe had made so many striking and authentic remarks that it was wonderfulthat he had ever reached Bellevue Lodge at all that night. ClerkJanaway, who was sorely chagrined to think that he should have missed anopportunity of distinguished converse, declared that he had felt thestranger's grey eyes go through and through him like a knife, and hadonly made believe to stop him entering the choir, in order to convincehimself by the other's masterful insistence that his own intuition wascorrect. He had known all the time, he said, that he was speaking tonone other than Lord Blandamer. 

Westray thought the matter important enough to justify him in going toLondon to consult Sir George Farquhar, as to the changes in the schemeof restoration which Lord Blandamer's munificence made possible; but MrSharnall, at any rate, was left to listen to Miss Joliffe'srecollections, surmises, and panegyrics. 

In spite of all the indifference which the organist had affected when hefirst heard the news, he showed a surprising readiness to discuss theaffair with all comers, and exhibited no trace of his usual impatiencewith Miss Joliffe, so long as she was talking of Lord Blandamer. ToAnastasia it seemed as if he could talk of nothing else, and the moreshe tried to check him by her silence or by change of subject, the morebitterly did he return to the attack. 

The only person to exhibit no interest in this unhappy nobleman, who hadoutraged propriety by offering to contribute to the restoration of theminster, was Anastasia herself; and even tolerant Miss Joliffe was movedto chide her niece's apathy in this particular. 

"I do not think it becomes us, love, young or old, to take so littlenotice of great and good deeds. Mr Sharnall is, I fear, discontentedwith the station of life to which it has pleased Providence to call him, and I am less surprised at _his_ not always giving praise where praiseshould be given; but with the young it is different. I am sure ifanyone had offered to restore Wydcombe Church when I was a girl--andspecially a nobleman--I should have been as delighted, or nearly asdelighted, as if he--as if I had been given a new frock. " She alteredthe "as if he had given me" which was upon her tongue because theproposition, even for purposes of illustration, that a nobleman couldever have offered her a new frock seemed to have in itself something ofthe scandalous and unfitting. 

"I should have been delighted, but, dear me! in those days people wereso blind as never to think of restorations. We used to sit in quite_comfortable_ seats every Sunday, with cushions and hassocks, and theaisles were paved with flagstones--simple worn flagstones, and none ofthe caustic tiles which look so much more handsome; though I am alwaysafraid I am going to slip, and glad to be off them, they are so hard andshiny. Church matters were very behindhand then. All round the wallswere tablets that people had put up to their relations, white caskets onblack marble slates, and urns and cherubs' heads, and just oppositewhere I used to sit a poor lady, whose name I have forgotten, weepingunder a willow-tree. No doubt they were very much out of place in thesanctuary, as the young gentleman said in his lecture on `How to makeour Churches Beautiful' in the Town Hall last winter. He called them`mural blisters, ' my dear, but there was no talk of removing them in myyoung days, and that was, I dare say, because there was no one to givethe money for it. But now, here is this good young nobleman, LordBlandamer, come forward so handsomely, and I have no doubt at Cullerneall will be much improved ere long. We are not meant to _loll_ at ourdevotions, as the lecturer told us. That was his word, to `_loll_'; andthey will be sure to take away the baize and hassocks, though I do hopethere will be a little strip of _something_ on the seats; the bare woodis apt to make one ache sometimes. I should not say it to anyone elsein the world but you, but it _does_ make me ache a little sometimes; andwhen the caustic is put down in the aisle, I shall take your arm, mydear, to save me from slipping. Here is Lord Blandamer going to do allthis for us, and you do not show yourself in the least grateful. It isnot becoming in a young girl. "

"Dear aunt, what would you have me do? I cannot go and thank himpublicly in the name of the town. That would be still more unbecoming;and I am sure I hope they will not do all the dreadful things in thechurch that you speak of. I love the old monuments, and like _lolling_much better than bare forms. "

So she would laugh the matter off; but if she could not be induced totalk of Lord Blandamer, she thought of him the more, and rehearsed againand again in day-dreams and in night-dreams every incident of thatmomentous Saturday afternoon, from the first bars of the overture, whenhe had revealed in so easy and simple a way that he was none other thanLord Blandamer, to the ringing down of the curtain, when he turned tolook back--to that glance when his eyes had seemed to meet hers, although she was hidden behind a blind, and he could not have guessedthat she was there. 

Westray came back from London with the scheme of restorationreconsidered and amplified in the light of altered circumstances, andwith a letter for Lord Blandamer in which Sir George Farquhar hoped thatthe munificent donor would fix a day on which Sir George might come downto Cullerne to offer his respects, and to discuss the matter in person. Westray had looked forward all the week to the appointment which he hadwith Lord Blandamer for five o'clock on the Saturday afternoon, and hadcarefully thought out the route which he would pursue in taking himround the church. He returned to Bellevue Lodge at a quarter to five, and found his visitor already awaiting him. Miss Joliffe was, as usual, at her Saturday meeting, but Anastasia told Westray that Lord Blandamerhad been waiting more than half an hour. 

"I must apologise, my lord, for keeping you waiting, " Westray said, ashe went in. "I feared I had made some mistake in the time of ourmeeting, but I see it _was_ five that your note named. " And he held outthe open letter which he had taken from his pocket. 

"The mistake is entirely mine, " Lord Blandamer admitted with a smile, ashe glanced at his own instructions; "I fancied I had said four o'clock;but I have been very glad of a few minutes to write one or two letters. "

"We can post them on our way to the church; they will just catch themail. "

"Ah, then I must wait till to-morrow; there are some enclosures which Ihave not ready at this moment. "

They set out together for the minster, and Lord Blandamer looked back asthey crossed the street. 

"The house has a good deal of character, " he said, "and might be madecomfortable enough with a little repair. I must ask my agent to seewhat can be arranged; it does not do me much credit as landlord in itspresent state. "

"Yes, it has a good many interesting features, " Westray answered; "youknow its history, of course--I mean that it was an old inn. "

He had turned round as his companion turned, and for an instant thoughthe saw something moving behind the blind in Mr Sharnall's room. But hemust have been mistaken; only Anastasia was in the house, and she was inthe kitchen, for he had called to her as they went out to say that hemight be late for tea. 

Westray thoroughly enjoyed the hour and a half which the light allowedhim for showing and explaining the church. Lord Blandamer exhibitedwhat is called, so often by euphemism, an intelligent interest in allthat he saw, and was at no pains either to conceal or display a veryadequate architectural knowledge. Westray wondered where he hadacquired it, though he asked no questions; but before the inspection wasended he found himself unconsciously talking to his companion oftechnical points, as to a professional equal and not to an amateur. They stopped for a moment under the central tower. 

"I feel especially grateful, " Westray said, "for your generosity ingiving us a free hand for all fabric work, because we shall now be ableto tackle the tower. Nothing will ever induce me to believe that all isright up there. The arches are extraordinarily wide and thin for theirdate. You will laugh when I tell you that I sometimes think I hear themcrying for repair, and especially that one on the south with the jaggedcrack in the wall above it. Now and then, when I am alone in the churchor the tower, I seem to catch their very words. `The arch neversleeps, ' they say; `we never sleep. '"

"It is a romantic idea, " Lord Blandamer said. "Architecture is poetryturned into stone, according to the old aphorism, and you, no doubt, have something of the poet in you. "

He glanced at the thin and rather bloodless face, and at the highcheekbones of the water-drinker as he spoke. Lord Blandamer never madejokes, and very seldom was known to laugh, yet if anyone but Westray hadbeen with him, they might have fancied that there was a whimsical tonein his words, and a trace of amusement in the corners of his eyes. Butthe architect did not see it, and coloured slightly as he went on:

"Well, perhaps you are right; I suppose architecture does inspire one. The first verses I ever wrote, or the first, at least, that I ever hadprinted, were on the Apse of Tewkesbury Abbey. They came out in the_Gloucester Herald_, and I dare say I shall scribble something aboutthese arches some day. "

"Do, " said Lord Blandamer, "and send me a copy. This place ought tohave its poet, and it is much safer to write verses to arches than toarched eyebrows. "

Westray coloured again, and put his hand in his breast-pocket. Could hehave been so foolish as to leave those half-finished lines on his deskfor Lord Blandamer or anyone else to see? No, they were quite safe; hecould feel the sharp edge of the paper folded lengthways, whichdifferentiated them from ordinary letters. 

"We shall just have time to go up to the roof-space, if you care to doso, " he suggested, changing the subject. "I should like to show you thetop of the transept groining, and explain what we are busy with atpresent. It is always more or less dark up there, but we shall findlanterns. "

"Certainly, with much pleasure. " And they climbed the newel staircasethat was carried in the north-east pier. 

Clerk Janaway had been hovering within a safe distance of them as theywent their round. He was nominally busy in "putting things straight"for the Sunday, before the church was shut up; and had kept as much outof sight as was possible, remembering how he had withstood LordBlandamer to the face a week before. Yet he was anxious to meet him, asit were, by accident, and explain that he had acted in ignorance of thereal state of affairs; but no favourable opportunity for such anexplanation presented itself. The pair had gone up to the roof, and theclerk was preparing to lock up--for Westray had a key of his own--whenhe heard someone coming up the nave. 

It was Mr Sharnall, who carried a pile of music-books under his arm. 

"Hallo!" he said to the clerk, "what makes _you_ so late? I expected tohave to let myself in. I thought you would have been off an hour ago. "

"Well, things took a bit longer to-night than usual to put away. " Hebroke off, for there was a little noise somewhere above them in thescaffolding, and went on in what was meant for a whisper: "Mr Westray'staking his lordship round; they're up in the roof now. D'ye hear 'em?"

"Lordship! What lordship? D'you mean that fellow Blandamer?"

"Yes, that's just who I do mean. But I don't know as how he's a fellow, and he _is_ a lordship; so that's why I call him a lordship and not afellow. And mid I ask what he's been doing to set _your_ back up? Whydon't you wait here for him, and talk to him about the organ? Maybe, now he's in the giving mood, he'd set it right for 'ee, or anyways give'ee that little blowin'-engine you talk so much about. Why do 'eealways go about showin' your teeth?--metaforally, I mean, for youhaven't that many real ones left to make much show--why ain't you likeother folk sometimes? Shall I tell 'ee? 'Cause you wants to be youngwhen you be old, and rich when you be poor. That's why. That makes 'eemiserable, and then you drinks to drown it. Take my advice, and actlike other folk. I'm nigh a score of years older than you, and take avast more pleasure in my life than when I was twenty. The neighboursand their ways tickle me now, and my pipe's sweeter; and there's many afoolish thing a young man does that age don't give an old one the chanstto. You've spoke straight to me, and now I've spoke straight to you, 'cause I'm a straight-speaking man, and have no call to be afraid ofanyone--lord or fellow or organist. So take an old man's word: cheerup, and wait on my lord, and get him to give 'ee a new organ. "

"Bah!" said Mr Sharnall, who was far too used to Janaway's manner totake umbrage or pay attention to it. "Bah! I hate all Blandamers. Iwish they were as dead and buried as dodos; and I'm not at all sure theyaren't. I'm not at all sure, mind you, that this strutting peacock hasany more right to the name of Blandamer than you or I have. I'm sick ofall this wealth. No one's thought anything of to-day, who can't build achurch or a museum or a hospital. `So long as thou doest well unto_thyself_, men will speak good of thee. ' If you've got the money, you're everything that's wonderful, and if you haven't, you may go rot. I wish all Blandamers were in their graves, " he said, raising his thinand strident voice till it rang again in the vault above, "and wrappedup in their nebuly coat for a shroud. I should like to fling a stonethrough their damned badge. " And he pointed to the sea-green and silvershield high up in the transept window. "Sunlight and moonlight, it isalways there. I used to like to come down and play here to the bats ofa full moon, till I saw _that_ would always look into the loft and hauntme. "

He thumped his pile of books down on a seat, and flung out of thechurch. He had evidently been drinking, and the clerk made his escapeat the same time, being anxious not to be identified with sentimentswhich had been so loudly enunciated that he feared those in the roofmight have overheard them. 

Lord Blandamer wished Westray good-night at the church-door, excusinghimself from an invitation to tea on the ground of business whichnecessitated his return to Fording. 

"We must spend another afternoon in the minster, " he said. "I hope youwill allow me to write to make an appointment. I am afraid that it maypossibly be for a Saturday again, for I am much occupied at presentduring the week. "

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Clerk Janaway lived not far from the church, in Governor's Lane. No oneknew whence its name was derived, though Dr Ennefer thought that theMilitary Governour might have had his quarters thereabouts when Cullernewas held for the Parliament. Serving as a means of communicationbetween two quiet back-streets, it was itself more quiet than either, and yet; for all this, had about it a certain air of comfort andwell-being. The passage of vehicles was barred at either end by oldcannon. Their breeches were buried in the ground, and their muzzlesstood up as sturdy iron posts, while the brown cobbles of the roadwaysloped to a shallow stone gutter which ran down the middle of the lane. Custom ordained that the houses should be coloured with a pink wash; andthe shutters, which were a feature of the place, shone in such brightcolours as to recall a Dutch town. 

Shutter-painting was indeed an event of some importance in Governour'sLane. Not a few of its inhabitants had followed the sea as fishermen orsmack-owners, and when fortune so smiled on them that they could retire, and there were no more boats to be painted, shutters and doors andwindow-frames came in to fill the gap. So, on a fine morning, when theturpentine oozing from cracks, and the warm smell of blistering varnishbrought to Governour's Lane the first tokens of returning summer, mighthave been seen sexagenarians and septuagenarians, and some so strongthat they had come to fourscore years, standing paint-pot andpaint-brush in hand, while they gave a new coat to the woodwork of theirhomes. 

They were a kindly folk, open of face, and fresh-complexioned, broad inthe beam, and vested as to their bodies in dark blue, brass-buttonedpilot coats. Insuperable smokers, inexhaustible yarn-spinners, they hadlong welcomed Janaway as a kindred spirit--the more so that in theirview a clerk and grave-digger was in some measure an expert in thingsunseen, who might anon assist in piloting them on that last cruise forwhich some had already the Blue Peter at the fore. 

A myrtle-bush which grew out of a hole in the cobbles was carefullytrained against the front of a cottage in the middle of the row, and abrass plate on the door informed the wayfarer and ignorant man that "T. Janaway, Sexton, " dwelt within. About eight o'clock on the Saturdayevening, some two hours after Lord Blandamer and Westray had parted, thedoor of the myrtle-fronted cottage was open, and the clerk stood on thethreshold smoking his pipe, while from within came a cheerful, ruddylight and a well-defined smell of cooking; for Mrs Janaway waspreparing supper. 

"Tom, " she called, "shut the door, and come to thy victuals. "

"Ay, " he answered, "I'll be with 'ee directly; but gi'e me a minute. Iwant to see who this is coming up the lane. "

Someone that the clerk knew at once for a stranger had entered thelittle street at the bottom. There was half a moon, and light enough tosee that he was in search of some particular house; for he crossed fromone side of the lane to the other, and peered at the numbers on thedoors. As he came nearer, the clerk saw that he was of spare build, andwore a loose overcoat or cape, which fluttered in the breeze that blewat evening from the sea. A moment later Janaway knew that the strangerwas Lord Blandamer, and stepped back instinctively to let him pass. Butthe open door had caught the attention of the passer-by; he stopped, andgreeted the householder cheerily. 

"A beautiful night, but with a cold touch in the air that makes yourwarm room look very cheerful. " He recognised the clerk's face as hespoke, and went on: "Ah, ha! we are old friends already; we met in theminster a week ago, did we not?"

Mr Janaway was a little disconcerted at the unexpectedness of themeeting, and returned the salutation in a confused way. The attemptwhich he had made to prevent Lord Blandamer from entering the choir wasfresh in his memory, and he stammered some unready excuses. 

Lord Blandamer smiled with much courtesy. 

"You were quite right to stop me; you would have been neglecting yourduty if you had not done so. I had no idea that service was going on, or I should not have come in; you may make your mind quite easy on thatscore. I hope you will have many more opportunities of finding a placefor me in Cullerne Church. "

"No need to find any place for _you_, my Lord. You have your own seatappointed and fixed, as sure as Canon Parkyn, and your own arms paintedup clear on the back of it. Don't you trouble for that. It is all laiddown in the statutes, and I shall make the very same obeisance for yourlordship when you take your seat as for my Lord Bishop. `Twoinclinations of the body, the mace being held in the right hand, andsupported on the left arm. ' I cannot say more fair than that, for onlyroyalties have three inclinations, and none of them has ever been tochurch in my time--no, nor yet a Lord Blandamer neither, since the daythat your dear father and mother, what you never knew, was buried. "

Mrs Janaway drummed with her knuckles on the supper-table, in amazementthat her husband should dare to stand chattering at the door when shehad told him that the meal was ready. But, as the conversation revealedby degrees the stranger's identity, curiosity to see the man whose namewas in all Cullerne mouths got the better of her, and she camecurtseying to the door. 

Lord Blandamer flung the flapping cape of his overcoat over the leftshoulder in a way that made the clerk think of foreigners, and ofwoodcuts of Italian opera in a bound volume of the _Illustrated LondonNews_ which he studied on Sunday evenings. 

"I must be moving on, " said the visitor, with a shiver. "I must notkeep you standing here; there is a very chill air this evening. "

Then Mrs Janaway was seized with a sudden temerity. 

"Will your lordship not step in and warm yourself for a moment?" sheinterposed. "We have a clear fire burning, if you will overlook thesmell of cooking. "

The clerk trembled for a moment at his wife's boldness, but LordBlandamer accepted the invitation with alacrity. 

"Thank you very much, " said he; "I should be very glad to rest a fewminutes before my train leaves. Pray make no apology for the smell ofcookery; it is very appetising, especially at supper-time. "

He spoke as if he took supper every evening, and had never heard of alate dinner in his life; and five minutes later he sat at table with Mrand Mrs Janaway. The cloth was of roughest homespun, but clean; theknives and forks handled in old green horn, and the piece-of-resistancetripe; but the guest made an excellent meal. 

"Some folk think highly of squash tripe or ribband tripe, " the clerksaid meditatively, looking at the empty dish; "but they don't compare, according to my taste, with cushion tripe. " He was emboldened to makethese culinary remarks by that moral elevation which comes to everyproperly-constituted host, when a guest has eaten heartily of the viandsset before him. 

"No, " Lord Blandamer said, "there can be no doubt that cushion tripe isthe best. "

"Quite as much depends upon the cooking as upon the tripe itself, "remarked Mrs Janaway, bridling at the thought that her art had beenleft out of the reckoning; "a bad cook will spoil the best tripe. Thereare many ways of doing it, but a little milk and a leek is the best forme. "

"You cannot beat it, " Lord Blandamer assented--"you cannot beat it"--andthen went on suggestively: "Have you ever tried a sprig of mace withit?"

No, Mrs Janaway had never heard of that; nor, indeed, had LordBlandamer either, if the point had been pushed; but she promised to useit the very next time, and hoped that the august visitor would honourthem again when it was to be tasted. 

"'Tis only Saturday nights that we can get the cushion, " she went on;"and it's well it don't come oftener, for we couldn't afford it. Nowoman ever had a call to have a better husband nor Thomas, who spendslittle enough on hisself. He don't touch nothing but tea, sir, butSaturday nights we treat ourselves to a little tripe, which is all themore convenient in that it is very strengthening, and my husband'sduties on Sunday being that urgent-like. So, if your lordship is fondof tripe, and passing another Saturday night, and will do us the honour, you will always find something ready. "

"Thank you very much for your kind invitation, " Lord Blandamer said; "Ishall certainly take you at your word, the more so that Saturday is theday on which I am oftenest in Cullerne, or, I should say, have happenedto be lately. "

"There's poor and poor, " said the clerk reflectively; "and _we're_ poor, but we're happy; but there's Mr Sharnall poor and unhappy. `MrSharnall, ' says I to him, `many a time have I heard my father say over apot of tenpenny, "Here's to poverty in a plug-hole, and a man with awooden leg to trample it down;" but you never puts your poverty in aplug-hole, much less tramples it down. You always has it out and airsit, and makes yourself sad with thinking of it. 'Tisn't because you'repoor that you're sad; 'tis because you _think_ you're poor, and talk somuch about it. You're not so poor as we, only you have so manygrievances. '"

"Ah, you are speaking of the organist?" Lord Blandamer asked. "I fancyit was he who was talking with you in the minster this afternoon, was itnot?"

The clerk felt embarrassed once more, for he remembered Mr Sharnall'sviolent talk, and how his anathema of all Blandamers had rang out in thechurch. 

"Yes, " he said; "poor organist was talking a little wild; he gets tookthat way sometimes, what with his grievances, and a little drop of theswanky what he takes to drown them. Then he talks loud; but I hope yourlordship didn't hear all his foolishness. "

"Oh dear no; I was engaged at the time with the architect, " LordBlandamer said; but his tone made Janaway think that Mr Sharnall'svoice had carried further than was convenient. "I did not hear what hesaid, but he seemed to be much put out. I chatted with him in thechurch some days ago; he did not know who I was, but I gathered that hebore no very good will to my family. "

Mrs Janaway saw it was a moment for prudent words. "Don't pay nomanner of attention to him, if I may make so bold as to advise yourlordship, " she said; "he talks against my husband just as well. He iscrazy about his organ, and thinks he ought to have a new one, or, atleast, a waterworks to blow it, like what they have at Carisbury. Don'tpay no attention to him; no one minds what Sharnall says in Cullerne. "

The clerk was astonished at his wife's wisdom, yet apprehensive as tohow it might be taken. But Lord Blandamer bowed his head graciously byway of thanks for sage counsel, and went on:

"Was there not some queer man at Cullerne who thought he was kept out ofhis rights, and should be in my place--who thought, I mean, he ought tobe Lord Blandamer?"

The question was full of indifference, and there was a little smile ofpity on his face; but the clerk remembered how Mr Sharnall had saidsomething about a strutting peacock, and that there were no realBlandamers left, and was particularly ill at ease. 

"Oh yes, " he answered after a moment's pause, "there was a poor doitedbody who, saving your presence, had some cranks of that kind; and, moreby token, Mr Sharnall lived in the same house with him, and so I daresay he has got touched with the same craze. "

Lord Blandamer took out a cigar instinctively, and then, rememberingthat there was a lady present, put it back into his case and went on:

"Oh, he lived in the same house with Mr Sharnall, did he? I shouldlike to hear more of this story; it naturally interests me. What washis name?"

"His name was Martin Joliffe, " said the clerk quickly, being surprisedinto eagerness by the chance of telling a story; and then the whole taleof Martin, and Martin's father and mother and daughter, as he had toldit to Westray, was repeated for Lord Blandamer. 

The night was far advanced before the history came to an end, and thelocal policeman walked several times up and down Governour's Lane, andmade pauses before Mr Janaway's house, being surprised to see a windowlighted so late. Lord Blandamer must have changed his intention ofgoing by train, for the gates of Cullerne station had been locked forhours, and the boiler of the decrepit branch-line engine was cooling inits shed. 

"It is an interesting tale, and you tell tales well, " he said, as he gotup and put on his coat. "All good things must have an end, but I hopeto see you again ere long. " He shook hands with hostess and host, drained the pot of beer that had been fetched from a public-house, witha "Here's to poverty in a plug-hole, and a man with a wooden leg totrample it down, " and was gone. 

A minute later the policeman, coming back for yet another inspection ofthe lighted window, passed a man of middle height, who wore a looseovercoat, with the cape tossed lightly over the left shoulder. Thestranger walked briskly, and hummed an air as he went, turning his faceup to the stars and the wind-swept sky, as if entirely oblivious of allsublunary things. A midnight stranger in Governour's Lane was even moresurprising than a lighted window, and the policeman had it in his mindto stop him and ask his business. But before he could decide on sovigorous a course of action, the moment was past, and the footsteps weredying away in the distance. 

The clerk was pleased with himself, and proud of his success as astory-teller. 

"That's a clever, understanding sort of chap, " he said to his wife, asthey went to bed; "he knows a good tale when he hears one. "

"Don't you be too proud of yourself, my man, " answered she; "there'smore in that tale than your telling, I warrant you, for my lord to thinkabout. "

CHAPTER TEN. 

The extension of the scheme of restoration which Lord Blandamer'sliberality involved, made it necessary that Westray should more thanonce consult Sir George Farquhar in London. On coming back to Cullernefrom one of these visits on a Saturday night, he found his meal laid inMr Sharnall's room. 

"I thought you would not mind our having supper together, " Mr Sharnallsaid. "I don't know how it is, I always feel gloomy just when thewinter begins, and the dark sets in so soon. It is all right later on;I rather enjoy the long evenings and a good fire, when I can afford agood one, but at first it is a little gloomy. So come and have supperwith me. There _is_ a good fire to-night, and a bit of driftwood that Igot specially for your benefit. "

They talked of indifferent subjects during the meal, though once ortwice it seemed to Westray that the organist gave inconsequentialreplies, as though he were thinking of something else. This was nodoubt the case, for, after they had settled before the fire, and thelambent blue flames of the driftwood had been properly admired, MrSharnall began with a hesitating cough:

"A rather curious thing happened this afternoon. When I got back hereafter evening-service, who should I find waiting in my room but thatBlandamer fellow. There was no light and no fire, for I had thought ifwe lit the fire late we could afford a better one. He was sitting atone end of the window-seat, damn him!"--(the expletive was caused by MrSharnall remembering that this was Anastasia's favourite seat, and hisdesire to reprobate the use of it by anyone else)--"but got up, ofcourse, as I came in, and made a vast lot of soft speeches. He mustreally apologise for such an intrusion. He had come to see Mr Westray, but found that Mr Westray had unfortunately been called away. He hadtaken the liberty of waiting a few minutes in Mr Sharnall's room. Hewas anxious to have a few moments' conversation with Mr Sharnall, andso on, and so on. You know how I hate palaver, and how I disliked--howI dislike" (he corrected himself)--"the man; but he took me at adisadvantage, you see, for here he was actually in my room, and onecannot be so rude in one's own room as one can in other people's. Ifelt responsible, too, to some extent for his having had to wait withoutfire or light, though why he shouldn't have lit the gas himself I'm sureI don't know. So I talked more civilly than I meant to, and then, justat the moment that I was hoping to get rid of him, Anastasia, who itseems was the only person at home, must needs come in to ask if I wasready for my tea. You may imagine my disgust, but there was nothing forit but to ask him if he would like a cup of tea. I never dreamt of histaking it, but he did; and so, behold! there we were hobnobbing over thetea-table as if we were cronies. "

Westray was astonished. Mr Sharnall had rebuked him so short a timebefore for not having repulsed Lord Blandamer's advances that he couldscarcely understand such a serious falling away from all the higherprinciples of hatred and malice as were implied in this tea-drinking. His experience of life had been as yet too limited to convince him thatmost enmities and antipathies, being theoretical rather than actual, areapt to become mitigated, or to disappear altogether on personalcontact--that it is, in fact, exceedingly hard to keep hatred atconcert-pitch, or to be consistently rude to a person face to face whohas a pleasant manner and a desire to conciliate. 

Perhaps Mr Sharnall read Westray's surprise in his face, for he went onwith a still more apologetic manner:

"That is not the worst of it; he has put me in a most awkward position. I must admit that I found his conversation amusing enough. We spoke agood deal of music, and he showed a surprising knowledge of the subject, and a correct taste; I do not know where he has got it from. "

"I found exactly the same thing with his architecture, " Westray said. "We started to go round the minster as master and pupil, but before wefinished I had an uncomfortable impression that he knew more about itthan I did--at least, from the archaeologic point of view. "

"Ah!" said the organist, with that indifference with which a person whowishes to recount his own experiences listens to those of someone else, however thrilling they may be. "Well, his taste was singularly refined. He showed a good acquaintance with the contrapuntists of the lastcentury, and knew several of my own works. A very curious thing this. He said he had been in some cathedral--I forget which--heard theservice, and been so struck with it that he went afterwards to look itup on the bill, and found it was Sharnall in D flat. He hadn't theleast idea that it was mine till we began to talk. I haven't had thatservice by me for years; I wrote it at Oxford for the Gibbons' prize; ithas a fugal movement in the _Gloria_, ending with a tonic pedal-pointthat you would like. I must look it up. "

"Yes, I should like to hear it, " Westray said, more to fill the intervalwhile the speaker took breath than from any great interest in thematter. 

"So you shall--so you shall, " went on the organist; "you will find thepedal-point adds immensely to the effect. Well, by degrees we came totalking of the organ. It so happens that we had spoken of it the veryfirst day I met him in the church, though you know I _never_ talk aboutmy instrument, do I? At that time it didn't strike me that he was sowell up in the matter, but now he seemed to know all about it, and so Igave him my ideas as to what ought to be done. Then, before I knewwhere I was, he cut in with, `Mr Sharnall, what you say interests meimmensely; you put things in such a lucid way that even an outsider likemyself can understand them. It would be a thousand pities if neglectwere permanently to injure this sweet-toned instrument that Father Smithmade so long ago. It is no use restoring the church without the organ, so you must draw up a specification of the repairs and additionsrequired, and understand that anything you suggest shall be done. Inthe meantime pray order at once the water-engine and new pedal-board ofwhich you speak, and inform me as to the cost. ' He took me quite aback, and was gone before I had time to say anything. It puts me in a veryequivocal position; I have such an antipathy to the man. I shall refusehis offer point-blank. I will not put myself under any obligation tosuch a man. You would refuse in my position? You would write a strongletter of refusal at once, would you not?"

Westray was of a guileless disposition, and apt to assume that peoplemeant what they said. It seemed to him a matter for much regret thatMr Sharnall's independence, however lofty, should stand in the way ofso handsome a benefaction, and he was at pains to elaborate and presshome all the arguments that he could muster to shake the organist'sresolve. The offer was kindly-meant; he was sure that Mr Sharnall tooka wrong view of Lord Blandamer's character--that Mr Sharnall was wrongin imputing motives to Lord Blandamer. What motives could he haveexcept the best? and however much Mr Sharnall might personally refuse, how was a man to be stopped eventually from repairing an organ whichstood so manifestly in need of repair?

Westray spoke earnestly, and was gratified to see the effect which hiseloquence produced on Mr Sharnall. It is so rarely that argumentprevails to change opinion that the young man was flattered to see thatthe considerations which he was able to marshal were strong enough, atany rate, to influence Mr Sharnall's determination. 

Well, perhaps there was something in what Mr Westray said. MrSharnall would think it over. He would not write the letter of refusalthat night; he could write to refuse the next day quite as well. In themeantime he _would_ see to the new pedal-board, and order thewater-engine. Ever since he had seen the water-engine at Carisbury, hehad been convinced that sooner or later they must have one at Cullerne. It _must_ be ordered; they could decide later on whether it should bepaid for by Lord Blandamer, or should be charged to the generalrestoration fund. 

This conclusion, however inconclusive, was certainly a triumph forWestray's persuasive oratory, but his satisfaction was chastened by somedoubts as to how far he was justified in assailing the scrupulousindependence which had originally prompted Mr Sharnall to refuse tohave anything to do with Lord Blandamer's offer. If Mr Sharnall hadscruples in the matter, ought not he, Westray, to have respected thosescruples? Was it not tampering with rectitude to have overcome them bya too persuasive rhetoric?

His doubts were not allayed by the observation that Mr Sharnall himselfhad severely felt the strain of this mental quandary, for the organistsaid that he was upset by so difficult a question, and filled himself abumper of whisky to steady his nerves. At the same time he took downfrom a shelf two or three notebooks and a mass of loose papers, which hespread open upon the table before him. Westray looked at them with aglance of unconscious inquiry. 

"I must really get to work at these things again, " said the organist; "Ihave been dreadfully negligent of late. They are a lot of papers andnotes that Martin Joliffe left behind him. Poor Miss Euphemia never hadthe heart to go through them. She was going to burn them just as theywere, but I said, `Oh, you mustn't do that; turn them over to me. Iwill look into them, and see whether there is anything worth keeping. 'So I took them, but haven't done nearly as much as I ought, what withone interruption and another. It's always sad going through a deadman's papers, but sadder when they're all that's left of a life'slabour--lost labour, so far as Martin was concerned, for he was takenaway just when he began to see daylight. `We brought nothing into thisworld, and it is certain that we shall carry nothing out. ' When thatcomes into my mind, I think rather of the _little_ things than of goldor lands. Intimate letters that a man treasured more than money; littletokens of which the clue has died with him; the unfinished work to whichhe was coming back, and never came; even the unpaid bills that worriedhim; for death transfigures all, and makes the commonplace pathetic. "

He stopped for a moment. Westray said nothing, being surprised at thismomentary softening of the other's mood. 

"Yes, it's sad enough, " the organist resumed; "all these papers arenebuly coat--the sea-green and silver. "

"He was quite mad, I suppose?" Westray said. 

"Everyone except me will tell you so, " replied the organist; "but I'mnot so very sure after all that there wasn't a good deal more in it thanmadness. That's all that I can say just now, but those of us who livewill see. There is a queer tradition hereabout. I don't know how longago it started, but people say that there _is_ some mystery about theBlandamer descent, and that those in possession have no right to whatthey hold. But there is something else. Many have tried to solve theriddle, and some, you may depend, have been very hot on the track. Butjust as they come to the touch, something takes them off; that's whathappened to Martin. I saw him the very day he died. `Sharnall, ' hesaid to me, `if I can last out forty-eight hours more, you may take offyour hat to me, and say "My lord. "'

"But the nebuly coat was too much for him; he had to die. So don't yoube surprised if I pop off the hooks some of these fine days; if I don't, I'm going to get to the bottom, and you will see some changes herebefore so very long. "

He sat down at the table, and made a show for a minute of looking at thepapers. 

"Poor Martin!" he said, and got up again, opened the cupboard, and tookout the bottle. "You'll have a drop, " he asked Westray, "won't you?"

"No, thanks, not I, " Westray said, with something as near contempt ashis thin voice was capable of expressing. 

"Just a drop--do! I must have just a drop myself; I find it a greatstrain working at these papers; there may be more at stake in thereading than I care to think of. "

He poured out half a tumbler of spirit. Westray hesitated for a moment, and then his conscience and an early puritan training forced him tospeak. 

"Sharnall, " he said, "put it away. That bottle is your evil angel. Play the man, and put it away. You force me to speak. I cannot sit bywith hands folded and see you going down the hill. "

The organist gave him a quick glance; then he filled up the tumbler tothe brim with neat spirit. 

"Look you, " he said: "I was going to drink half a glass; now I'm goingto drink a whole one. That much for your advice! Going down the hillindeed! Go to the devil with your impertinence! If you can't keep acivil tongue in your head, you had better get your supper in someoneelse's room. "

A momentary irritation dragged Westray down from the high podium ofjudicial reproof into the arena of retort. 

"Don't worry yourself, " he said sharply; "you may rely on my nottroubling you with my company again. " And he got up and opened thedoor. As he turned to go out, Anastasia Joliffe passed through thepassage on her way to bed. 

The glimpse of her as she went by seemed still further to aggravate MrSharnall. He signed to Westray to stay where he was, and to shut thedoor again. 

"Damn you!" he said; "that's what I called you back to say. Damn you!Damn Blandamer! Damn everybody! Damn poverty! Damn wealth! I willnot touch a farthing of his money for the organ. Now you can go. "

Westray had been cleanly bred. He had been used neither to thevulgarity of ill-temper nor to the coarser insolence of personal abuse. He shrank by natural habit even from gross adjectives, from the"beastly" and the "filthy" which modern manners too often condone, andstill more from the abomination of swearing. So Mr Sharnall's obloquywounded him to the quick. He went to bed in a flutter of agitation, andlay awake half the night mourning over a friendship so irreparablybroken, bitter with the resentment of an unjustified attack, yetreproaching himself lest through his unwittingness he might have broughtit all upon himself. 

The morning found him unrefreshed and dejected, but, whilst he sat atbreakfast, the sun came out brightly, and he began to take a lessdespondent view of the situation. It was possible that Mr Sharnall'sfriendship might not after all be lost beyond repair; he would be sorryif it were, for he had grown fond of the old man, in spite of all hisfaults of life and manner. It was he, Westray, who had been entirely toblame. In another man's room he had lectured the other man. He, ayoung man, had lectured the other, who was an old man. It was true thathe had done so with the best motives; he had only spoken from a painfulsense of duty. But he had shown no tact, he had spoken much toostrongly; he had imperilled his own good cause by the injudicious mannerin which he had put it forward. At the risk of all rebuffs, he wouldexpress his regret; he would go down and apologise to Mr Sharnall, andoffer, if need be, the other cheek to the smiter. 

Good resolves, if formed with the earnest intention of carrying theminto effect, seldom fail to restore a measure of peace to the troubledmind. It is only when a regular and ghastly see-saw of wrong-doing andrepentance has been established, and when the mind can no longer deceiveeven itself as to the possibility of permanent uprightness of life, thatgood resolves cease to tranquillise. Such a see-saw must gradually loseits regularity; the set towards evil grows more and more preponderant;the return to virtue rarer and more brief. Despair of any continuity ofgodliness follows, and then it is that good resolves, becoming a merereflex action of the mind, fail in their gracious influence, and ceaseto bring quiet. These conditions can scarcely occur before middle age, and Westray, being young and eminently conscientious, was feeling thefull peacefulness of his high-minded intention steal over him, when thedoor opened, and the organist entered. 

An outbreak of temper and a night of hard drinking had left their tokenson Mr Sharnall's face. He looked haggard, and the rings that a weakheart had drawn under his eyes were darker and more puffed. He came inawkwardly, and walked quickly to the architect, holding out his hand. 

"Forgive me, Westray, " he said; "I behaved last night like a fool and acad. You were quite right to speak to me as you did; I honour you forit. I wish to God there had been someone to speak to me like that yearsago. "

His outstretched hand was not so white as it should have been, the nailswere not so well trimmed as a more fastidious mood might have demanded;but Westray did not notice these things. He took the shaky old hand, and gripped it warmly, not saying anything, because he could not speak. 

"We _must_ be friends, " the organist went on, after a moment's pause;"we must be friends, because I can't afford to lose you. I haven'tknown you long, but you are the only friend I have in the world. Is itnot an awful thing to confess?" he said, with a tremulous little laugh. "I have no other friend in the world. Say those things you said lastnight whenever you like; the oftener you say them the better. "

He sat down, and, the situation being too strained to remain longer atso high a pitch, the conversation drifted, however awkwardly, to lesspersonal topics. 

"There is a thing I wanted to speak about last night, " the organistsaid. "Poor old Miss Joliffe is very hard up. She hasn't said a wordto me about it--she never would to anyone--but I happen to know it for afact: she _is_ hard up. She is in a chronic state of hard-up-ishnessalways, and that we all are; but this is an acute attack--she has herback against the wall. It is the fag-end of Martin's debts that botherher; these blood-sucking tradesmen are dunning her, and she hasn't thepluck to tell them go hang, though they know well enough she isn'tresponsible for a farthing. She has got it into her head that shehasn't a right to keep that flower-and-caterpillar picture so long asMartin's debts are unpaid, because she could raise money on it. Youremember those people, Baunton and Lutterworth, offered her fifty poundsfor it. "

"Yes, I remember, " Westray said; "more fools they. "

"More fools, by all means, " rejoined the organist; "but still they offerit, and I believe our poor old landlady will come to selling it. `Allthe better for her, ' you will say, and anyone with an ounce ofcommon-sense would have sold it long ago for fifty pounds or fiftypence. But, then, she has no common-sense, and I do believe it wouldbreak her pride and worry her into a fever to part with it. Well, Ihave been at the pains to find out what sum of money would pull herthrough, and I fancy something like twenty pounds would tide over thecrisis. "

He paused a moment, as if he half expected Westray to speak; but thearchitect making no suggestion, he went on. 

"I didn't know, " he said timidly; "I wasn't quite sure whether you hadbeen here long enough to take much interest in the matter. I had anidea of buying the picture myself, so that we could still keep it here. It would be no good offering Miss Euphemia money as a _gift_; shewouldn't accept it on any condition. I know her quite well enough to besure of that. But if I was to offer her twenty pounds for it, and tellher it must always stop here, and that she could buy it back from mewhen she was able, I think she would feel such an offer to be a godsend, and accept it readily. "

"Yes, " Westray said dubitatively; "I suppose it couldn't be construedinto attempting to outwit her, could it? It seems rather funny at firstsight to get her to sell a picture for twenty pounds for which othershave offered fifty pounds. "

"No, I don't think so, " replied the organist. "It wouldn't be a realsale at all, you know, but only just a colour for helping her. "

"Well, as you have been kind enough to ask my advice, I see no furtherobjection, and think it very good of you to show such thoughtfulness forpoor Miss Joliffe. "

"Thank you, " said the organist hesitatingly--"thank you; I had hoped youwould take that view of the matter. There is a further littledifficulty: I am as poor as a church mouse. I live like an old screw, and never spend a penny, but, then, I haven't got a penny to spend, andso can't save. "

Westray had already wondered how Mr Sharnall could command so large asum as twenty pounds, but thought it more prudent to make no comments. 

Then the organist took the bull by the horns. 

"I didn't know, " he said, "whether you would feel inclined to join me inthe purchase. I have got ten pounds in the savings' bank; if you couldfind the other ten pounds, we could go shares in the picture; and, afterall, that wouldn't much matter, for Miss Euphemia is quite sure to buyit back from us before very long. "

He stopped and looked at Westray. The architect was taken aback. Hewas of a cautious and calculating disposition, and a natural inclinationto save had been reinforced by the conviction that any unnecessaryexpenditure was in itself to be severely reprobated. As the Bible wasto him the foundation of the world to come, so the keeping of meticulousaccounts and the putting by of however trifling sums, were thefoundation of the world that is. He had so carefully governed his lifeas to have been already able, out of a scanty salary, to invest morethan a hundred pounds in Railway Debentures. He set much store by thehalf-yearly receipt of an exiguous interest cheque, and derived acertain dignity and feeling of commercial stability from envelopesheaded the "Great Southern Railway, " which brought him from time to timea proxy form or a notice of shareholders' meetings. A recentexamination of his bankbook had filled him with the hope of being ableere long to invest a second hundred pounds, and he had been turning overin his mind for some days the question of the stocks to be selected; itseemed financially unsound to put so large a sum in any single security. 

This suddenly presented proposal that he should make a serious inroad onhis capital filled him with dismay; it was equivalent to granting a loanof ten pounds without any tangible security. No one in their sensescould regard this miserable picture as a security; and the bulbous greencaterpillar seemed to give a wriggle of derision as he looked at itacross the breakfast-table. He had it on his tongue to refuse MrSharnall's request, with the sympathetic but judicial firmness withwhich all high-minded persons refuse to lend. There is a tone of sadresolution particularly applicable to such occasions, which shouldconvey to the borrower that only motives of great moral altitudeconstrain us for the moment to override an earnest desire to part withour money. If it had not been for considerations of the public weal, wewould most readily have given him ten times as much as was asked. 

Westray was about to express sentiments of this nature when he glancedat the organist's face, and saw written in its folds and wrinkles soparamount and pathetic an anxiety that his resolution was shaken. Heremembered the quarrel of the night before, and how Mr Sharnall, incoming to beg his pardon that morning, had humbled himself before ayounger man. He remembered how they had made up their differences;surely an hour ago he would willingly have paid ten pounds to know thattheir differences could be made up. Perhaps, after all, he might agreeto make this loan as a thank-offering for friendship restored. Perhaps, after all, the picture _was_ a security: someone _had_ offered fiftypounds for it. 

The organist had not followed the change of Westray's mind; he retainedonly the first impression of reluctance, and was very anxious--curiouslyanxious, it might have seemed, if his only motive in the acquiring ofthe picture was to do a kindness to Miss Euphemia. 

"It _is_ a large sum, I know, " he said in a low voice. "I am very sorryto ask you to do this. It is not for myself; I never asked a penny formyself in my life, and never will, till I go to the workhouse. Don'tanswer at once, if you don't see your way. Think it over. Take time tothink it over; but do try, Westray, to help in the matter, if you can. It would be a sad pity to let the picture go out of the house just now. "

The eagerness with which he spoke surprised Westray. Could it be thatMr Sharnall had motives other than mere kindness? Could it be that thepicture _was_ valuable after all? He walked across the room to lookcloser at the tawdry flowers and the caterpillar. No, it could not bethat; the painting was absolutely worthless. Mr Sharnall had followedhim, and they stood side by side looking out of the window. Westray waspassing through a very brief interval of indecision. His emotional andperhaps better feelings told him that he ought to accede to MrSharnall's request; caution and the hoarding instinct reminded him thatten pounds was a large proportion of his whole available capital. 

Bright sunshine had succeeded the rain. The puddles flashed on thepavements; the long rows of raindrops glistened on the ledges whichoverhung the shop-windows, and a warm steam rose from the sandy roadwayas it dried in the sun. The front-door of Bellevue Lodge closed belowthem, and Anastasia, in a broad straw hat and a pink print dress, wentlightly down the steps. On that bright morning she looked the brightestthing of all, as she walked briskly to the market with a basket on herarm, unconscious that two men were watching her from an upper window. 

It was at that minute that thrift was finally elbowed by sentiment outof Westray's mind. 

"Yes, " he said, "by all means let us buy the picture. You negotiate thematter with Miss Joliffe, and I will give you two five-pound notes thisevening. "

"Thank you--thank you, " said the organist, with much relief. "I willtell Miss Euphemia that she can buy it back from us whenever it suitsher to do so; and if she should not buy it back before one of us dies, then it shall remain the sole property of the survivor. "

So that very day the purchase of a rare work of art was concluded byprivate treaty between Miss Euphemia Joliffe of the one part, andMessrs. Nicholas Sharnall and Edward Westray of the other. The hammernever fell upon the showy flowers with the green caterpillar wrigglingin the corner; and Messrs. Baunton and Lutterworth received a politenote from Miss Joliffe to say that the painting late in the possessionof Martin Joliffe, Esquire, deceased, was not for sale. 

CHAPTER ELEVEN. 

The old Bishop of Carisbury was dead, and a new Bishop of Carisburyreigned in his stead. The appointment had caused some chagrin inLow-Church circles, for Dr Willis, the new Bishop, was a High Churchmanof pronounced views. But he had a reputation for deep personal piety, and a very short experience sufficed to show that he was full ofChristian tolerance and tactful loving-kindness. 

One day, as Mr Sharnall was playing a voluntary after the Sundaymorning-service, a chorister stole up the little winding steps, andappeared in the organ-loft just as his master had pulled out a handfulof stops and dashed into the _stretto_. The organist had not heard theboy on the stairs, and gave a violent start as he suddenly caught sightof the white surplice. Hands and feet for an instant lost their place, and the music came perilously near breaking down. It was only for aninstant; he pulled himself together, and played the fugue to its logicalconclusion. 

Then the boy began, "Canon Parkyn's compliments, " but broke off; for theorganist greeted him with a sound cuff and a "How many times have I toldyou, sir, not to come creeping up those stairs when I am in the middleof a voluntary? You startle me out of my senses, coming round thecorner like a ghost. "

"I'm very sorry, sir, " the boy said, whimpering. "I'm sure I nevermeant--I never thought--"

"You never _do_ think, " Mr Sharnall said. "Well, well, don't go onwhining. Old heads don't grow on young shoulders; don't do it again, and there's a sixpence for you. And now let's hear what you have tosay. "

Sixpences were rare things among Cullerne boys, and the gift consoledmore speedily than any balm in Gilead. 

"Canon Parkyn's compliments to you, sir, and he would be glad to have aword with you in the clergy-vestry. "

"All in good time. Tell him I'll be down as soon as I've put my booksaway. "

Mr Sharnall did not hurry. There were the Psalter and the chant-bookto be put open on the desk for the afternoon; there were themorning-service and anthem-book to be put away, and the evening-serviceand anthem-book to be got out. 

The establishment had once been able to afford good music-books, and inthe attenuated list of subscribers to the first-edition Boyce you maysee to this day, "The Rector and Foundation of Cullerne Minster (6copies). " Mr Sharnall loved the great Boyce, with its parchment paperand largest of large margins. He loved the crisp sound of the leaves ashe turned them, and he loved the old-world clefs that he could read ninestaves at a time as easily as a short score. He looked at the weeklylist to check his memory--"Awake up my Glory" (_Wise_). No, it was in

Volume Three instead of Two; he had taken down the wrong volume--astupid mistake for one who knew the copy so well. How the rough calfbacks were crumbling away! The rusty red-leather dust had come off onhis coat-sleeves; he really was not fit to be seen, and he took someminutes more to brush it all off. So it was that Canon Parkyn chafed atbeing kept waiting in the clergy-vestry, and greeted Mr Sharnall on hisappearance with a certain tartness:

"I wish you could be a little quicker when you are sent for. I amparticularly busy just now, and you have kept me waiting a quarter of anhour at least. "

As this was precisely what Mr Sharnall had intended to do, he took noumbrage at the Rector's remarks, but merely said:

"Pardon me; scarcely so long as a quarter of an hour, I think. "

"Well, do not let us waste words. What I wanted to tell you was that ithas been arranged for the Lord Bishop of Carisbury to hold aconfirmation in the minster on the eighteenth of next month, at threeo'clock in the afternoon. We must have a full musical service, and Ishall be glad if you will submit a sketch of what you propose for myapproval. There is one point to which I must call your attentionparticularly. As his lordship walks up the nave, we must have abecoming march on the organ--not any of this old-fashioned stuff ofwhich I have had so often to complain, but something really dignifiedand with tune in it. "

"Oh yes, we can easily arrange that, " Mr Sharnall saidobsequiously--"`See the Conquering Hero comes, ' by Handel, would be veryappropriate; or there is an air out of one of Offenbach's Operas that Ithink I could adapt to the purpose. It is a very sweet thing ifrendered with proper feeling; or I could play a `Danse Maccabre' slowlyon the full organ. "

"Ah, that is from the `Judas Maccabaeus, ' I conclude, " said the Rector, a little mollified at this unexpected acquiescence in his views. "Well, I see that you understand my wishes, so I hope I may leave that matterin your hands. By the way, " he said, turning back as he left thevestry, "what _was_ the piece which you played after the service justnow?"

"Oh, only a fugal movement--just a fugue of Kirnberger's. "

"I _wish_ you would not give us so much of this fugal style. No doubtit is all very fine from a scholastic point of view, but to most itseems merely confused. So far from assisting me and the choir to go outwith dignity, it really fetters our movements. We want something withpathos and dignity, such as befits the end of a solemn service, yet witha marked rhythm, so that it may time our footsteps as we leave thechoir. Forgive these suggestions; the _practical_ utility of the organis so much overlooked in these days. When Mr Noot is taking theservice it does not so much matter, but when I am here myself I beg thatthere may be no more fugue. "

The visit of the Bishop of Carisbury to Cullerne was an importantmatter, and necessitated some forethought and arrangement. 

"The Bishop must, of course, lunch with us, " Mrs Parkyn said to herhusband; "you will ask him, of course, to lunch, my dear. "

"Oh yes, certainly, " replied the Canon; "I wrote yesterday to ask him tolunch. "

He assumed an unconcerned air, but with only indifferent success, forhis heart misgave him that he had been guilty of an unpardonable breachof etiquette in writing on so important a subject without reference tohis wife. 

"Really, my dear!" she rejoined--"really! I hope at least that yournote was couched in proper terms. "

"Psha!" he said, a little nettled in his turn, "do you suppose I havenever written to a Bishop before?"

"That is not the point; _any_ invitation of this kind should always begiven by me. The Bishop, if he has any _breeding_, will be very muchastonished to receive an invitation to lunch that is not given by thelady of the house. This, at least, is the usage that prevails amongpersons of _breeding_. " There was just enough emphasis in therepetition of the last formidable word to have afforded a _casus belli_, if the Rector had been minded for the fray; but he was a man of peace. 

"You are quite right, my dear, " was the soft answer; "it was a slip ofmine, which we must hope the Bishop will overlook. I wrote in a hurryyesterday afternoon, as soon as I received the official information ofhis coming. You were out calling, if you recollect, and I had to catchthe post. One never knows what tuft-hunting may not lead people to do;and if I had not caught the post, some pushing person or other mightquite possibly have asked him sooner. I meant, of course, to havereported the matter to you, but it slipped my memory. "

"Really, " she said, with fine deprecation, being only half pacified, "Ido not see who there _could_ be to ask the Bishop except ourselves. Where should the Bishop of Carisbury lunch in Cullerne except at theRectory?" In this unanswerable conundrum she quenched the smoulderingembers of her wrath. "I have no doubt, dear, that you did it all forthe best, and I hate these vulgar pushing nobodies, who try to get holdof everyone of the least position quite as much as you do. So let usconsider whom we _ought_ to ask to meet him. A small party, I think itshould be; he would take it as a greater compliment if the party weresmall. "

She had that shallow and ungenerous mind which shrinks instinctivelyfrom admitting any beauty or intellect in others, and which grudges anyparticipation in benefits, however amply sufficient they may be for all. Thus, few must be asked to meet the Bishop, that it might the betterappear that few indeed, beside the Rector and Mrs Parkyn, were fit toassociate with so distinguished a man. 

"I quite agree with you, " said the Rector, considerably relieved to findthat his own temerity in asking the Bishop might now be considered ascondoned. "Our party must above all things be select; indeed, I do notknow how we could make it anything but very small; there are so fewpeople whom we _could_ ask to meet the Bishop. "

"Let me see, " his wife said, making a show of reckoning Cullernerespectability with the fingers of one hand on the fingers of the other. "There is--" She broke off as a sudden idea seized her. "Why, ofcourse, we must ask Lord Blandamer. He has shown such marked interestin ecclesiastical matters that he is sure to wish to meet the Bishop. "

"A most fortunate suggestion--admirable in every way. It may strengthenhis interest in the church; and it must certainly be beneficial to himto associate with correct society after his wandering and Bohemian life. I hear all kinds of strange tales of his hobnobbing with this MrWestray, the clerk of the works, and with other persons entirely out ofhis own rank. Mrs Flint, who happened to be visiting a poor woman in aback lane, assures me that she has every reason to believe that he spentan hour or more in the clerk's house, and even ate there. They say hepositively ate tripe. "

"Well, it will certainly do him good to meet the Bishop, " the lady said. "That would make four with ourselves; and we can ask Mrs Bulteel. Weneed not ask her husband; he is painfully rough, and the Bishop mightnot like to meet a brewer. It will not be at all strange to ask heralone; there is always the excuse of not liking to take a businessmanaway from his work in the middle of the day. "

"That would be five; we ought to make it up to six. I suppose it wouldnot do to ask this architect-fellow or Mr Sharnall. "

"My dear! what can you be thinking of? On no account whatever. Suchguests would be _most_ inappropriate. "

The Rector looked so properly humble and cast down at this reproof thathis wife relented a little. 

"Not that there is any _harm_ in asking them, but they would be so veryill at ease themselves, I fear, in such surroundings. If you think thenumber should be even, we might perhaps ask old Noot. He _is_ agentleman, and would pass as your chaplain, and say grace. "

Thus the party was made up, and Lord Blandamer accepted, and MrsBulteel accepted; and there was no need to trouble about the curate'sacceptance--he was merely ordered to come to lunch. But, after all hadgone so well up to this point, the unexpected happened--the Bishop couldnot come. He regretted that he could not accept the hospitality sokindly offered him by Canon Parkyn; he had an engagement which wouldoccupy him for any spare time that he would have in Cullerne; he hadmade other arrangements for lunch; he would call at the Rectory half anhour before the service. 

The Rector and his wife sat in the "study, " a dark room on the northside of the rectory-house, made sinister from without by danklaurestinus, and from within by glass cases of badly-stuffed birds. ABradshaw lay on the table before them. 

"He cannot be _driving_ from Carisbury, " Mrs Parkyn said. "Dr Willisdoes not keep at all the same sort of stables that his predecessor kept. Mrs Flint, when she was attending the annual Christian Endeavourmeeting at Carisbury, was told that Dr Willis thinks it wrong that aBishop should do more in the way of keeping carriages than is absolutelynecessary for church purposes. She said she had passed the Bishop'scarriage herself, and that the coachman was a most unkempt creature, andthe horses two wretched screws. "

"I heard much the same thing, " assented the Rector. "They say he wouldnot have his own coat of arms painted on the carriage, for what wasthere already was quite good enough for him. He cannot possibly bedriving here from Carisbury; it is a good twenty miles. "

"Well, if he does not drive, he must come by the 12:15 train; that wouldgive him two hours and a quarter before the service. What business canhe have in Cullerne? Where can he be lunching? What can he be doingwith himself for two mortal hours and a quarter?"

Here was another conundrum to which probably only one person in Cullernetown could have supplied an answer, and that was Mr Sharnall. A letterhad come for the organist that very day:

 "The Palace, "Carisbury. 

 "My dear Sharnall, "(I had almost written `My dear Nick'; forty years have made my pen a little stiff, but you must give me your official permission to write `My dear Nick' the very next time. ) You may have forgotten my hand, but you will not have forgotten me. Do you know, it is I, Willis, who am your new Bishop? It is only a fortnight since I learnt that you were so near me--

 "`Quam dulce amicitias, Redintegrare nitidas' -

 "and the very first point of it is that I am going to sponge on you, and ask myself to lunch. I am coming to Cullerne at 12:45 to-day fortnight for the Confirmation, and have to be at the Rectory at 2:30, but till then an old friend, Nicholas Sharnall, will give me food and shelter, will he not? Make no excuses, for I shall not accept them; but send me word to say that in this you will not fail of your duty, and believe me always to be

 "Yours, "John Carum. "

There was something that moved strangely inside Mr Sharnall's batteredbody as he read the letter--an upheaval of emotion; the child's heartwithin the man's; his young hopeful self calling to his old hopelessself. He sat back in his armchair, and shut his eyes, and theorgan-loft in a little college chapel came back to him, and long, longpractisings, and Willis content to stand by and listen as long as heshould play. How it pleased Willis to stand by, and pull the stops, andfancy he knew something of music! No, Willis never knew any music, andyet he had a good taste, and loved a fugue. 

There came to him country rambles and country churches and Willis withan "A. B. C. Of Gothic Architecture, " trying to tell an Early English froma Decorated moulding. There came to him inimitably long summerevenings, with the sky clearest yellow in the north, hours after sunset;dusty white roads, with broad galloping-paths at the side, drenched withheavy dew; the dark, mysterious boskage of Stow Wood; the scent of thesyringa in the lane at Beckley; the white mist sheeting the Cherwellvale. And supper when they got home--for memory is so powerful analchemist as to transmute suppers as well as sunsets. What suppers!Cider-cup with borage floating in it, cold lamb and mint sauce, watercress, and a triangular commons of Stilton. Why, he had not tastedStilton for forty years!

No, Willis never knew any music, but he loved a fugue. Ah, the fuguesthey had! And then a voice crossed Mr Sharnall's memory, saying, "WhenI am here myself, I beg that there may be no more fugue. " "No morefugue"--there was a finality in the phrase uncompromising as the "nomore sea" of the Apocalyptic vision. It made Mr Sharnall smilebitterly; he woke from his daydream, and was back in the present. 

Oh yes, he knew very well that it was his old friend when he first sawon whom the choice had fallen for the Bishopric. He was glad Willis wascoming to see him. Willis knew all about the row, and how it was thatSharnall had to leave Oxford. Ay, but the Bishop was too generous andbroad-minded to remember that now. Willis must know very well that hewas only a poor, out-at-elbows old fellow, and yet he was coming tolunch with him; but did Willis know that he still--He did not follow thethought further, but glanced in a mirror, adjusted his tie, fastened thetop button of his coat, and with his uncertain hands brushed the hairback on either side of his head. No, Willis did not know that; he nevershould know; it was _never_ too late to mend. 

He went to the cupboard, and took out a bottle and a tumbler. Only verylittle spirit was left, and he poured it all into the glass. There wasa moment's hesitation, a moment while enfeebled will-power was nervingitself for the effort. He was apparently engaged in making sure thatnot one minim of this most costly liquor was wasted. He held the bottlecarefully inverted, and watched the very last and smallest drop detachitself and fall into the glass. No, his will-power was not yetaltogether paralysed--not yet; and he dashed the contents of the glassinto the fire. There was a great blaze of light-blue flame, and a puffin the air that made the window-panes rattle; but the heroic deed wasdone, and he heard a mental blast of trumpets, and the acclaiming voiceof the _Victor Sui_. Willis should never know that he still--because henever would again. 

He rang the bell, and when Miss Euphemia answered it she found himwalking briskly, almost tripping, to and fro in the room. He stopped asshe entered, drew his heels together, and made her a profound bow. 

"Hail, most fair chastelaine! Bid the varlets lower the draw-bridge andraise the portcullis. Order pasties and souse-fish and a butt ofmalmsey; see the great hall is properly decored for my Lord Bishop ofCarisbury, who will take his _ambigue_ and bait his steeds at thiscastle. "

Miss Joliffe stared; she saw a bottle and an empty tumbler on the table, and smelt a strong smell of whisky; and the mirth faded from MrSharnall's face as he read her thoughts. 

"No, wrong, " he said--"wrong this once; I am as sober as a judge, butexcited. A Bishop is coming to lunch with me. _You_ are excited whenLord Blandamer takes tea with you--a mere trashy temporal peer; am I notto be excited when a real spiritual lord pays me a visit? Hear, Owoman! The Bishop of Carisbury has written to ask, not me to lunch withhim, but him to lunch with me. You will have a Bishop lunching atBellevue Lodge. "

"Oh, Mr Sharnall! pray, sir, speak plainly. I am so old and stupid, Ican never tell whether you are joking or in earnest. "

So he put off his exaltation, and told her the actual facts. 

"I am sure I don't know, sir, what you will give him for lunch, " MissJoliffe said. She was always careful to put in a proper number of"sirs, " for, though she was proud of her descent, and considered that sofar as birth went she need not fear comparison with other Cullernedames, she thought it a Christian duty to accept fully the position oflandlady to which circumstances had led her. "I am sure I don't knowwhat you will give him for lunch; it is always so difficult to arrangemeals for the clergy. If one provides _too_ much of the good things ofthis world, it seems as if one was not considering sufficiently theirsacred calling; it seems like Martha, too cumbered with much serving, too careful and troubled, to gain all the spiritual advantage that mustcome from clergymen's society. But, of course, even the mostspiritually-minded must nourish their _bodies_, or they would not beable to do so much good. But when less provision has been made, I havesometimes seen clergymen eat it all up, and become quite wearied, poorthings! for want of food. It was so, I remember, when Mrs Sharpinvited the parishioners to meet the deputation after the ChurchMissionary Meeting. All the patties were eaten before the deputationcame, and he was so tired, poor man! with his long speech that when hefound there was nothing to eat he got quite annoyed. It was only for amoment, of course, but I heard him say to someone, whose name I forget, that he had much better have trusted to a ham-sandwich in the stationrefreshment-room. 

"And if it is difficult with the food, it is worse still with what theyare to drink. Some clergymen do so dislike wine, and others feel theyneed it before the exertion of speaking. Only last year, when MrsBulteel gave a drawing-room meeting, and champagne with biscuits wasserved before it, Dr Stimey said quite openly that though he did notconsider all who drank to be _reprobate_, yet he must regard alcohol asthe Mark of the Beast, and that people did not come to drawing-roommeetings to drink themselves sleepy before the speaking. With Bishopsit must be much worse; so I don't know what we shall give him. "

"Don't distress yourself too much, " the organist said, having at lastspied a gap in the serried ranks of words; "I have found out whatBishops eat; it is all in a little book. We must give him cold lamb--cold ribs of lamb--and mint sauce, boiled potatoes, and after thatStilton cheese. "

"Stilton?" Miss Joliffe asked with some trepidation. "I am afraid itwill be very expensive. "

As a drowning man in one moment passes in review the events of alifetime, so her mind took an instantaneous conspectus of all cheesesthat had ever stood in the cheese-cradle in the palmy days of Wydcombe, when hams and plum-puddings hung in bags from the rafters, when therewas cream in the dairy and beer in the cellar. Blue Vinny, littleGloucesters, double Besants, even sometimes a cream-cheese with rusheson the bottom, but Stilton never!

"I am afraid it is a _very_ expensive cheese; I do not think anyone inCullerne keeps it. "

"It is a pity, " Mr Sharnall said; "but we cannot help ourselves, forBishops _must_ have Stilton for lunch; the book says so. You must askMr Custance to get you a piece, and I will tell you later how it is tobe cut, for there are rules about that too. "

He laughed to himself with a queer little chuckle. Cold lamb and mintsauce, with a piece of Stilton afterwards--they would have an Oxfordlunch; they would be young again, and undefiled. 

The stimulus that the Bishop's letter had brought Mr Sharnall soon woreoff. He was a man of moods, and in his nervous temperament depressionwalked close at the heels of exaltation. Westray felt sure in thosedays that followed that his friend was drinking to excess, and fearedsomething more serious than a mere nervous breakdown, from the agitationand strangeness that he could not fail to observe in the organist'smanner. 

The door of the architect's room opened one night, as he sat late overhis work, and Mr Sharnall entered. His face was pale, and there was astartled, wide-open look in his eyes that Westray did not like. 

"I wish you would come down to my room for a minute, " the organist said;"I want to change the place of my piano, and can't move it by myself. "

"Isn't it rather late to-night?" Westray said, pulling at his watch, while the deep and slow melodious chimes of Saint Sepulchre told thedreaming town and the silent sea-marshes that it lacked but a quarter ofan hour to midnight. "Wouldn't it be better to do it to-morrowmorning?"

"Couldn't you come down to-night?" the organist asked; "it wouldn't takeyou a minute. "

Westray caught the disappointment in the tone. 

"Very well, " he said, putting his drawing-board aside. "I've worked atthis quite long enough; let us shift your piano. "

They went down to the ground-floor. 

"I want to turn the piano right-about-face, " the organist said, "withits back to the room and the keyboard to the wall--the keyboard quiteclose to the wall, with just room for me to sit. "

"It seems a curious arrangement, " Westray criticised; "is it betteracoustically?"

"Oh, I don't know; but, if I want to rest a bit, I can put my backagainst the wall, you see. "

The change was soon accomplished, and they sat down for a moment beforethe fire. 

"You keep a good fire, " Westray said, "considering it is bed-time. "And, indeed, the coals were piled high, and burning fiercely. 

The organist gave them a poke, and looked round as if to make sure thatthey were alone. 

"You'll think me a fool, " he said; "and I am. You'll think I've beendrinking, and I have. You'll think I'm drunk, but I'm not. Listen tome: I'm not drunk; I'm only a coward. Do you remember the very firstnight you and I walked home to this house together? Do you remember thedarkness and the driving rain, and how scared I was when we passed theOld Bonding-house? Well, it was beginning then, but it's much worsenow. I had a horrible idea even then that there was something alwaysfollowing me--following me close. I didn't know what it was--I onlyknew there was _something_ close behind me. "

His manner and appearance alarmed Westray. The organist's face was verypale, and a curious raising of the eyelids, which showed the whites ofthe eyes above the pupils, gave him the staring appearance of oneconfronted suddenly with some ghastly spectacle. Westray rememberedthat the hallucination of pursuant enemies is one of the most commonsymptoms of incipient madness, and put his hand gently on the organist'sarm. 

"Don't excite yourself, " he said; "this is all nonsense. Don't getexcited so late at night. "

Mr Sharnall brushed the hand aside. 

"I only used to have that feeling when I was out of doors, but now Ihave it often indoors--even in this very room. Before I never knew whatit was following me--I only knew it was something. But now I know whatit is: it is a man--a man with a hammer. Don't laugh. You don't _want_to laugh; you only laugh because you think it will quiet me, but itwon't. I think it is a man with a hammer. I have never seen his faceyet, but I shall some day. Only I know it is an evil face--not hideous, like pictures of devils or anything of that kind, but worse--a dreadful, disguised face, looking all right, but wearing a mask. He walksconstantly behind me, and I feel every moment that the hammer may brainme. "

"Come, come!" Westray said in what is commonly supposed to be asoothing tone, "let us change this subject, or go to bed. I wonder howyou will find the new position of your piano answer. "

The organist smiled. 

"Do you know why I really put it like that?" he said. "It is because Iam such a coward. I like to have my back against the wall, and then Iknow there can be no one behind me. There are many nights, when it getslate, that it is only with a great effort I can sit here. I grow sonervous that I should go to bed at once, only I say to myself, `Nick'--that's what they used to call me at home, you know, when I was aboy--`Nick, you're not going to be beat; you're not going to be scaredout of your own room by ghosts, surely. ' And then I sit tight, and playon, but very often don't think much of what I'm playing. It is a sadstate for a man to get into, is it not?" And Westray could not traversethe statement. 

"Even in the church, " Mr Sharnall went on, "I don't care to practisemuch in the evening by myself. It used to be all right when Cutlow wasthere to blow for me. He is a daft fellow, but still was some sort ofcompany; but now the water-engine is put in, I feel lonely there, anddon't care to go as often as I used. Something made me tell LordBlandamer how his water-engine contrived to make me frightened, and hesaid he should have to come up to the loft himself sometimes to keep mecompany. "

"Well, let me know the first evening you want to practise, " Westraysaid, "and I will come, too, and sit in the loft. Take care ofyourself, and you will soon grow out of all these fancies, and laugh atthem as much as I do. " And he feigned a smile. But it was late atnight; he was high-strung and nervous himself, and the fact that MrSharnall should have been brought to such a pitiable state of mentalinstability depressed him. 

The report that the Bishop was going to lunch with Mr Sharnall on theday of the Confirmation soon spread in Cullerne. Miss Joliffe had toldMr Joliffe the pork-butcher, as her cousin, and Mr Joliffe, aschurchwarden, had told Canon Parkyn. It was the second time within afew weeks that a piece of important news had reached the Rector atsecond-hand. But on this occasion he experienced little of the chagrinthat had possessed him when Lord Blandamer made the great offer to therestoration fund through Westray. He did not feel resentment againstMr Sharnall; the affair was of too solemn an importance for any suchpersonal and petty sentiments to find a place. Any act of any Bishopwas vicariously an act of God, and to chafe at this dispensation wouldhave been as out of place as to be incensed at a shipwreck or anearthquake. The fact of being selected as the entertainer of the Bishopof Carisbury invested Mr Sharnall in the Rector's eyes with adistinction which could not have been possibly attained by mereintellect or technical skill or devoted drudgery. The organist became_ipso facto_ a person to be taken into account. 

The Rectory had divined and discussed, and discussed and divined, how itwas, could, would, should, have been that the Bishop could be lunchingwith Mr Sharnall. Could it be that the Bishop had thought that MrSharnall kept an eating-house, or that the Bishop took some special dietwhich only Mr Sharnall knew how to prepare? Could it be that theBishop had some idea of making Mr Sharnall organist in his privatechapel, for there was no vacancy in the Cathedral? Conjecture chargedthe blank wall of mystery full tilt, and retired broken from theassault. After talking of nothing else for many hours, Mrs Parkyndeclared that the matter had no interest at all for her. 

"For my part, I cannot profess to understand such goings-on, " she saidin that convincing and convicting tone which implies that the speakerknows far more than he cares to state, and that the solution of themystery must in any case be discreditable to all concerned. 

"I wonder, my dear, " the Rector said to his wife, "whether Mr Sharnallhas the means to entertain the Bishop properly. "

"Properly!" said Mrs Parkyn--"properly! I think the whole proceedingentirely improper. Do you mean has Mr Sharnall money enough topurchase a proper repast? I should say certainly not. Or has he properplates or forks or spoons, or a proper room in which to eat? Of coursehe has not. Or do you mean can he get things properly cooked? Who isto do it? There is only feckless old Miss Joliffe and her stuck-upniece. "

The Canon was much perturbed by the vision of discomfort which his wifehad called up. 

"The Bishop ought to be spared as much as _possible_, " he said; "weought to do all we _can_ to save him annoyance. What do you think?Should we not put up with a little inconvenience, and ask Sharnall tobring the Bishop here, and lunch himself? He must know perfectly wellthat entertaining a Bishop in a lodging-house is an unheard-of thing, and he would do to make up the sixth instead of old Noot. We couldeasily tell Noot he was not wanted. "

"Sharnall is such a disreputable creature, " Mrs Parkyn answered; "he isquite as likely as not to come tipsy; and, if he does not, he has no_breeding_ or education, and would scarcely understand politeconversation. "

"You forget, my dear, that the Bishop is already pledged to lunch withMr Sharnall, so that we should not be held responsible for introducinghim. And Sharnall has managed to pick up some sort of an education--Ican't imagine where; but I found on one occasion that he couldunderstand a little Latin. It was the Blandamer motto, `_Aut Fynes, autfinis_. ' He may have been told what it meant, but he certainly seemedto know. Of course, no real knowledge of Latin can be obtained withouta _University_ education"--and the Rector pulled up his tie andcollar--"but still chemists and persons of that sort do manage to get asmattering of it. "

"Well, well, I don't suppose we are going to talk Latin all throughlunch, " interrupted his wife. "You can do precisely as you please aboutasking him. "

The Rector contented himself with the permission, however ungraciouslyaccorded, and found himself a little later in Mr Sharnall's room. 

"Mrs Parkyn was hoping that she might have prevailed on you to lunchwith us on the day of the Confirmation. She was only waiting for theBishop's acceptance to send you an invitation; but we hear now, " he saidin a dubitative and tentative way--"we hear now that it is possible thatthe Bishop may be lunching with you. "

There was a twitch about the corners of Canon Parkyn's mouth. Theposition that a Bishop should be lunching with Mr Sharnall in a commonlodging-house was so exquisitely funny that he could only restrain hislaughter with difficulty. 

Mr Sharnall gave an assenting nod. 

"Mrs Parkyn was not quite sure whether you might have in your lodgingsexactly everything that might be necessary for entertaining hislordship. "

"Oh dear, yes, " Mr Sharnall said. "It looks a little dowdy just thisminute, because the chairs are at the upholsterers to have the gilttouched up; we are putting up new curtains, of _course_, and thehousekeeper has already begun to polish the best silver. "

"It occurred to Mrs Parkyn, " the Rector continued, being too bent onsaying what he had to say to pay much attention to the organist'sremarks--"it occurred to Mrs Parkyn that it might perhaps be moreconvenient to you to bring the Bishop to lunch at the Rectory. It wouldspare you all trouble in preparation, and you would of course lunch withus yourself. It would be putting us to no inconvenience; Mrs Parkynwould be glad that you should lunch with us yourself. "

Mr Sharnall nodded, this time deprecatingly. 

"You are very kind. Mrs Parkyn is very considerate, but the Bishop hassignified his intention of lunching in _this_ house; I could scarcelyventure to contravene his lordship's wishes. "

"The Bishop is a friend of yours?" the Rector asked. 

"You can scarcely say that; I do not think I have set eyes on the manfor forty years. "

The Rector was puzzled. 

"Perhaps the Bishop is under some misconception; perhaps he thinks thatthis house is still an inn--the Hand of God, you know. "

"Perhaps, " said the organist; and there was a little pause. 

"I hope you will consider the matter. May I not tell Mrs Parkyn thatyou will urge the Bishop to lunch at the Rectory--that you both"--and hebrought out the word bravely, though it cost him a pang to yoke theBishop with so unworthy a mate, and to fling the door of selecthospitality open to Mr Sharnall--"that you both will lunch with us?"

"I fear not, " the organist said; "I fear I must say no. I shall be verybusy preparing for the extra service, and if I am to play `See theConquering Hero' as the Bishop enters the church, I shall need time forpractice. A piece like that takes some playing, you know. "

"I hope you will endeavour to render it in the very best manner, " theRector said, and withdrew his forces _re infecta_. 

The story of Mr Sharnall's mental illusions, and particularly of thehallucination as to someone following him, had left an unpleasantimpression on Westray's mind. He was anxious about his fellow-lodger, and endeavoured to keep a kindly supervision over him, as he felt it tobe possible that a person in such a state might do himself a mischief. On most evenings he either went down to Mr Sharnall's room, or askedthe organist to come upstairs to his, considering that the solitudeincident to bachelor life in advancing years was doubtless to blame to alarge extent for these wandering fancies. Mr Sharnall occupied himselfat night in sorting and reading the documents which had once belonged toMartin Joliffe. There was a vast number of them, representing theaccumulation of a lifetime, and consisting of loose memoranda, ofextracts from registers, of manuscript-books full of pedigrees andsimilar material. When he had first begun to examine them, with a viewto their classification or destruction, he showed that the task wasdistinctly uncongenial to him; he was glad enough to make any excuse forinterruption or for invoking Westray's aid. The architect, on the otherhand, was by nature inclined to archaeologic and genealogic studies, andwould not have been displeased if Mr Sharnall had handed over to himthe perusal of these papers entirely. He was curious to trace theorigin of that chimera which had wasted a whole life--to discover whathad led Martin originally to believe that he had a claim to theBlandamer peerage. He found, perhaps, an additional incentive in aninterest which he was beginning unconsciously to take in AnastasiaJoliffe, whose fortunes might be supposed to be affected by theseinvestigations. 

But in a little while Westray noticed a change in the organist'sattitude as touching the papers. Mr Sharnall evinced a dislike to thearchitect examining them further; he began himself to devote a good dealmore time and attention to their study, and he kept them jealously underlock and key. Westray's nature led him to resent anything thatsuggested suspicion; he at once ceased to concern himself with thematter, and took care to show Mr Sharnall that he had no wish whateverto see more of the documents. 

As for Anastasia, she laughed at the idea of there being any foundationunderlying these fancies; she laughed at Mr Sharnall, and ralliedWestray, saying she believed that they both were going to embark on thequest of the nebuly coat. To Miss Euphemia it was no laughing matter. 

"I think, my dear, " she said to her niece, "that all these searchingsafter wealth and fortune are not of God. I believe that trying todiscover things"--and she used "things" with the majesticcomprehensiveness of the female mind--"is generally bad for man. If itis good for us to be noblemen and rich, then Providence will bring us tothat station; but to try to prove one's self a nobleman is likestar-gazing and fortune-telling. Idolatry is as the sin of witchcraft. There can be no _blessing_ on it, and I reproach myself for ever havinggiven dear Martin's papers to Mr Sharnall at all. I only did sobecause I could not bear to go through them myself, and thought perhapsthat there might be cheques or something valuable among them. I wish Ihad burnt everything at first, and now Mr Sharnall says he will nothave the papers destroyed till he has been through them. I am sure theywere no blessing at all to dear Martin. I hope they may not bewitchthese two gentlemen as well. "

CHAPTER TWELVE. 

The scheme of restoration had been duly revised in the light of LordBlandamer's generosity, and the work had now entered on such amethodical progress that Westray was able on occasion to relax somethingof that close personal supervision which had been at first so exacting. Mr Sharnall often played for half an hour or more after theevening-service, and on such occasions Westray found time, now and then, to make his way to the organ-loft. The organist liked to have himthere; he was grateful for the token of interest, however slight, thatwas implied in such visits; and Westray, though without technicalknowledge, found much to interest him in the unfamiliar surroundings ofthe loft. It was a curious little kingdom of itself, situate over thegreat stone screen, which at Cullerne divides the choir from the nave, but as remote and cut off from the outside world as a desert island. Access was gained to it by a narrow, round, stone staircase, which ledup from the nave at the south end of the screen. After the bottom doorof this windowless staircase was opened and shut, anyone ascending wasleft for a moment in bewildering darkness. He had to grope the way byhis feet feeling the stairs, and by his hand laid on the central stoneshaft which had been polished to the smoothness of marble by countlessother hands of past times. 

But, after half a dozen steps, the darkness resolved; there was firstthe dusk of dawn, and soon a burst of mellow light, when he reached thestairhead and stepped out into the loft. Then there were two thingswhich he noticed before any other--the bow of that vast Norman archwhich spanned the opening into the south transept, with its lofty andover-delicate roll and cavetto mouldings; and behind it the head of theBlandamer window, where in the centre of the infinite multiplication ofthe tracery shone the sea-green and silver of the nebuly coat. Afterwards he might remark the long-drawn roof of the nave, and thechevroned ribs of the Norman vault, delimiting bay and bay with asaltire as they crossed; or his eyes might be led up to the lantern ofthe central tower, and follow the lighter ascending lines of AbbotVinnicomb's Perpendicular panelling, till they vanished in the windowsfar above. 

Inside the loft there was room and to spare. It was formed on amplelines, and had space for a stool or two beside the performer's seat, while at the sides ran low bookcases which held the music library. Inthese shelves rested the great folios of Boyce, and Croft, and Arnold, Page and Greene, Battishill and Crotch--all those splendid andungrudging tomes for which the "Rectors and Foundation of Cullerne" hadsubscribed in older and richer days. Yet these were but the children ofa later birth. Round about them stood elder brethren, for CullerneMinster was still left in possession of its seventeenth-centurymusic-books. A famous set they were, a hundred or more bound in theirold black polished calf, with a great gold medallion, and "Tenor:Decani, " or "Contra-tenor: Cantoris", "Basso, " or "Sopra, " stamped inthe middle of every cover. And inside was parchment with red-ruledmargins, and on the parchment were inscribed services and"verse-anthems" and "ffull-anthems, " all in engrossing hand and the mostuncompromising of black ink. Therein was a generous table of contents--Mr Batten and Mr Gibbons, Mr Mundy and Mr Tomkins, Doctor Bull andDoctor Giles, all neatly filed and paged; and Mr Bird would incitesingers long since turned to churchyard mould to "bring forthe yetimbrell, ye pleasant harp and ye violl, " and reinsist with six parts, and a red capital letter, "ye pleasant harp and ye violl. "

It was a great place for dust, the organ-loft--dust that fell, and dustthat rose; dust of wormy wood, dust of crumbling leather, dust oftattered mothy curtains that were dropping to pieces, dust of primevalgreen baize; but Mr Sharnall had breathed the dust for forty years, andfelt more at home in that place than anywhere else. If it was Crusoe'sisland, he was Crusoe, monarch of all he surveyed. 

"Here, you can take this key, " he said one day to Westray; "it unlocksthe staircase-door; but either tell me when to expect you, or make anoise as you come up the steps. I don't like being startled. Be sureyou push the door to after you; it fastens itself. I am alwaysparticular about keeping the door locked, otherwise one doesn't knowwhat stranger may take it into his head to walk up. I can't bear beingstartled. " And he glanced behind him with a strange look in his eyes. 

A few days before the Bishop's visit Westray was with Mr Sharnall inthe organ-loft. He had been there through most of the service, and, ashe sat on his stool in the corner, had watched the curious diamondpattern of light and dark that the clerestory windows made with thevaulting-ribs. Anyone outside would have seen islands of white clouddrifting across the blue sky, and each cloud as it passed threw theheavy chevroned diagonals inside into bold relief, and picked out thatrebus of a carding-comb encircled by a wreath of vine-leaves whichNicholas Vinnicomb had inserted for a vaulting-boss. 

The architect had learned to regard the beetling roof with an almostsuperstitious awe, and was this day so fascinated with the strangeeffect as to be scarcely aware that the service was over till MrSharnall spoke. 

"You said you would like to hear my service in D flat--`Sharnall in Dflat, ' did you not? I will play it through to you now, if you care tolisten. Of course, I can only give you the general effect, withoutvoices, though, after all, I don't know that you won't get quite as goodan idea of it as you could with any voices that we have here. "

Westray woke up from his dreams and put himself into an attitude ofproper attention, while Mr Sharnall played the service from a fadedmanuscript. 

"Now, " he said, as he came towards the end--"now listen. This is thebest part of it--a fugal _Gloria_, ending with a pedal-point. Here youare, you see--a tonic pedal-point, this D flat, the very last raisednote in my new pedal-board, held down right through. " And he set hisleft foot on the pedal. "What do you think of _that_ for a_Magnificat_?" he said, when it was finished; and Westray was ready withall the conventional expressions of admiration. "It is not bad, is it?"Mr Sharnall asked; "but the gem of it is the _Gloria_--not real fugue, but fugal, with a pedal-point. Did you catch the effect of that point?I will keep the note down by itself for a second, so that you may getthoroughly hold of it, and then play the _Gloria_ again. "

He held down the D flat, and the open pipe went booming and throbbingthrough the long nave arcades, and in the dark recesses of thetriforium, and under the beetling vaulting, and quavered away high up inthe lantern, till it seemed like the death-groan of a giant. 

"Take it up, " Westray said; "I can't bear the throbbing. "

"Very well; now listen while I give you the _Gloria_. No, I reallythink I had better go through the whole service again; you see, it leadsup more naturally to the finale. "

He began the service again, and played it with all the conscientiousattention and sympathy that the creative artist must necessarily give tohis own work. He enjoyed, too, that pleasurable surprise which awaitsthe discovery that a composition laid aside for many years and halfforgotten is better and stronger than had been imagined, even as adisused dress brought out of the wardrobe sometimes astonishes us withits freshness and value. 

Westray stood on a foot-pace at the end of the loft which allowed him tolook over the curtain into the church. His eyes roamed through thebuilding as he listened, but he did not appreciate the music the less. Nay, rather, he appreciated it the more, as some writers find literaryperception and power of expression quickened at the influence of musicitself. The great church was empty. Janaway had left for his tea; thedoors were locked, no strangers could intrude; there was no sound, nomurmur, no voice, save only the voices of the organ-pipes. So Westraylistened. Stay, were there no other voices? was there nothing heheard--nothing that spoke within him? At first he was only conscious of_something_--something that drew his attention away from the music, andthen the disturbing influence was resolved into another voice, small, but rising very clear even above "Sharnall in D flat. " "The arch neversleeps, " said that still and ominous voice. "The arch never sleeps;they have bound on us a burden too heavy to be borne. We are shiftingit; we never sleep. " And his eyes turned to the cross arches under thetower. There, above the bow of the south transept, showed the greatcrack, black and writhen as a lightning-flash, just as it had showed anytime for a century--just the same to the ordinary observer, but not tothe architect. He looked at it fixedly for a moment, and then, forgetting Mr Sharnall and the music, left the loft, and made his wayto the wooden platform that the masons had built up under the roof. 

Mr Sharnall did not even perceive that he had gone down, and dashed_con furore_ into the _Gloria_. "Give me the full great, " he called tothe architect, who he thought was behind him; "give me the full great, all but the reed, " and snatched the stops out himself when there was noresponse. "It went better that time--distinctly better, " he said, asthe last note ceased to sound, and then turned round for Westray'scomment; but the loft was empty--he was alone. 

"Curse the fellow!" he said; "he might at least have let me know that hewas going away. Ah, well, it's all poor stuff, no doubt. " And he shutup the manuscript with a lingering and affectionate touch, thatcontrasted with so severe a criticism. "It's poor stuff; why should Iexpect anyone to listen to it?"

It was full two hours later that Westray came quickly into theorganist's room at Bellevue Lodge. 

"I beg your pardon, Sharnall, " he said, "for leaving you so cavalierly. You must have thought me rude and inappreciative; but the fact is I wasso startled that I forgot to tell you why I went. While you wereplaying I happened to look up at that great crack over the southtransept arch, and saw something very like recent movement. I went upat once to the scaffolding, and have been there ever since. I don'tlike it at all; it seems to me that the crack is opening, and extending. It may mean very serious mischief, and I have made up my mind to go upto London by the last train to-night. I must get Sir George Farquhar'sopinion at once. "

The organist grunted. The wound inflicted on his susceptibility hadrankled deeply, and indignation had been tenderly nursed. A piece ofhis mind was to have been given to Westray, and he regretted the veryreasonableness of the explanation that robbed him of his opportunity. 

"Pray don't apologise, " he said; "I never noticed that you had gone. Ireally quite forgot that you had been there. "

Westray was too full of his discovery to take note of the other'sannoyance. He was one of those excitable persons who mistake hurry fordecision of action. 

"Yes, " he said, "I must be off to London in half an hour. The matter isfar too serious to play fast-and-loose with. It is quite possible thatwe shall have to stop the organ, or even to forbid the use of the churchaltogether, till we can shore and strut the arch. I must go and put mythings together. "

So, with heroic promptness and determination, he flung himself into thelast train, and spent the greater part of the night in stopping at everywayside station, when his purpose would have been equally served by aletter or by taking the express at Cullerne Road the next morning. 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN. 

The organ was not silenced, nor was the service suspended. Sir Georgecame down to Cullerne, inspected the arch, and rallied his subordinatefor an anxiety which was considered to be unjustifiable. Yes, the wallabove the arch _had_ moved a little, but not more than was to beexpected from the repairs which were being undertaken with the vaulting. It was only the old wall coming to its proper bearings--he would havebeen surprised, in fact, if no movement had taken place; it was muchsafer as it was. 

Canon Parkyn was in high good-humour. He rejoiced in seeing the pertand officious young clerk of the works put in his proper place; and SirGeorge had lunched at the Rectory. There was a repetition of thefacetious proposal that Sir George should wait for payment of his feesuntil the tower should fall, which acquired fresh point from thecircumstance that all payments were now provided for by Lord Blandamer. The ha-ha-ing which accompanied this witticism palled at length evenupon the robust Sir George, and he winced under a dig in the ribs, whichan extra glass of port had emboldened the Canon to administer. 

"Well, well, Mr Rector, " he said, "we cannot put old heads on youngshoulders. Mr Westray was quite justified in referring the matter tome. It _has_ an ugly look; one needs _experience_ to be able to seethrough things like this. " And he pulled up his collar, and adjustedhis tie. 

Westray was content to accept his Chief's decision as a matter of faith, though not of conviction. The black lightning-flash was impressed onhis mental retina, the restless cry of the arches was continually in hisear; he seldom passed the transept-crossing without hearing it. But hebore his rebuke with exemplary resignation--the more so that he was muchinterested in some visits which Lord Blandamer paid him at this period. Lord Blandamer called more than once at Bellevue Lodge in the evenings, even as late as nine o'clock, and would sit with Westray for two hourstogether, turning over plans and discussing the restoration. Thearchitect learnt to appreciate the charm of his manner, and wascontinually astonished at the architectural knowledge and critical powerwhich he displayed. Mr Sharnall would sometimes join them for a fewminutes, but Lord Blandamer never appeared quite at his ease when theorganist was present; and Westray could not help thinking that MrSharnall was sometimes tactless, and even rude, considering that he wasbeholden to Lord Blandamer for new pedals and new bellows and awater-engine _in esse_, and for the entire repair of the organ _inposse_. 

"I can't help being `beholden to him, ' as you genteelly put it, " MrSharnall said one evening, when Lord Blandamer had gone. "I can't_stop_ his giving new bellows or a new pedal-board. And we do want thenew board and the additional pipes. As it is, I can't play Germanmusic, can't touch a good deal of Bach's organ work. Who is to say thisman nay, if he chooses to alter the organ? But I'm not going to truckleto anyone, and least of all to him. Do you want me to fall flat on myface because he is a lord? Pooh! we could all be lords like him. Giveme another week with Martin's papers, and I'll open your eyes. Ay, youmay stare and sniff if you please, but you'll open your eyes then. _Exoriente lux_--that's where the light's coming from, out of Martin'spapers. Once this Confirmation over, and you'll see. I can't settle tothe papers till that's done with. What do people want to confirm theseboys and girls for? It only makes hypocrites of wholesome children. Ihate the whole business. If people want to make their views public, letthem do it at five-and-twenty; then we should believe that they knewsomething of what they were about. "

The day of the Bishop's visit had arrived; the Bishop had arrivedhimself; he had entered the door of Bellevue Lodge; he had been receivedby Miss Euphemia Joliffe as one who receives an angel awares; he hadlunched in Mr Sharnall's room, and had partaken of the cold lamb, andthe Stilton, and even of the cider-cup, to just such an extent as becamea healthy and good-hearted and host-considering bishop. 

"You have given me a regular Oxford lunch, " he said. "Your landlady hasbeen brought up in the good tradition. " And he smiled, never doubtingthat he was partaking of the ordinary provision of the house, and thatMr Sharnall fared thus sumptuously every day. He knew not that themeal was as much a set piece as a dinner on the stage, and that coldlamb and Stilton and cider-cup were more often represented by the bottomof a tin of potted meat and--a gill of cheap whisky. 

"A regular Oxford lunch. " And then they fell to talking of old days, and the Bishop called Mr Sharnall "Nick, " and Mr Sharnall called theBishop of Carum "John"; and they walked round the room looking atpictures of college groups and college eights, and the Bishop examinedvery tenderly the little water-colour sketch that Mr Sharnall had oncemade of the inner quad; and they identified in it their own old rooms, and the rooms of several other men of their acquaintance. 

The talk did Mr Sharnall good; he felt the better for it every moment. He had meant to be very proud and reserved with the Bishop--to be mostdignified and coldly courteous. He had meant to show that, though JohnWillis might wear the gaiters, Nicholas Sharnall could retain his sturdyindependence, and was not going to fawn or to admit himself to be themental inferior of any man. He had meant to _give_ a tirade againstConfirmation, against the neglect of music, against rectors, withperhaps a back-thrust at the Bench of Bishops itself. But he had donenone of these things, because neither pride nor reserve norassertiveness were possible in John Willis's company. He had merelyeaten a good lunch, and talked with a kindly, broad-minded gentleman, long enough to warm his withered heart, and make him feel that therewere still possibilities in life. 

There is a bell that rings for a few strokes three-quarters of an hourbefore every service at Cullerne. It is called the Burgess Bell--somesay because it was meant to warn such burgesses as dwelt at a distancethat it was time to start for church; whilst others will have it thatBurgess is but a broken-down form of _expergiscere_--"Awake! awake!"--that those who dozed might rise for prayer. The still air of theafternoon was yet vibrating with the Burgess Bell, and the Bishop roseto take his leave. 

If it was the organist of Cullerne who had been ill at ease when theirinterview began, it was the Bishop of Carisbury who was embarrassed atthe end of it. He had asked himself to lunch with Mr Sharnall with adefinite object, and towards the attainment of that object nothing hadbeen done. He had learnt that his old friend had fallen upon eviltimes, and, worse, had fallen into evil courses--that the failing whichhad ruined his Oxford career had broken out again with a fresh fire inadvancing age, that Nicholas Sharnall was in danger of a drunkard'sjudgment. 

There had been lucid intervals in the organist's life; the plague wouldlie dormant for years, and then break out, to cancel all the progressthat had been made. It was like a "race-game" where the little leadenhorse is moved steadily forward, till at last the die falls on the fatalnumber, and the racer must lose a turn, or go back six, or, even in theworst issue, begin his whole course again. It was in the forlorn hopeof doing something, however little, to arrest a man on the downwardslope that the Bishop had come to Bellevue Lodge; he hoped to speak theword in season that should avail. Yet nothing had been said. He feltlike a clerk who has sought an interview with his principal to ask foran increase of salary, and then, fearing to broach the subject, pretendsto have come on other business. He felt like a son longing to ask hisfather's counsel in some grievous scrape, or like an extravagant wifewaiting her opportunity to confess some heavy debt. 

"A quarter past two, " the Bishop said; "I must be going. It has been agreat pleasure to recall the old times. I hope we shall meet againsoon; but remember it is your turn now to come and see me. Carisbury isnot so very far off, so do come. There is always a bed ready for you. Will you walk up the street with me now? I have to go to the Rectory, and I suppose you will be going to the church, will you not?"

"Yes, " said Mr Sharnall; "I'll come with you if you wait one minute. Ithink I'll take just a drop of something before I go, if you'll excuseme. I feel rather run down, and the service is a long one. You won'tjoin me, of course?" And he went to the cupboard. 

The Bishop's opportunity was come. 

"Don't, Sharnall. Don't, Nick, " he said; "don't take that stuff. Forgive me for speaking openly, the time is so short. I am not speakingprofessionally or from the religious standpoint, but only just as oneman of the world to another, just as one friend to another, because Icannot bear to see you going on like this without trying to stop you. Don't take offence, Nick, " he added, as he saw the change of the other'scountenance; "our old friendship gives me a right to speak; the storyyou are writing on your own face gives me a right to speak. Give it up. There is time yet to turn; give it up. Let me help you; is therenothing I can do to help?"

The angry look that crossed Mr Sharnall's face had given way tosadness. 

"It is all very easy for you, " he said; "you've done everything in life, and have a long row of milestones behind you to show how you've movedon. I have done nothing, only gone back, and have all the milestones infront to show how I've failed. It's easy to twit me when you've goteverything you want--position, reputation, fortune, a living faith tokeep you up to it. I am nobody, miserably poor, have no friends, anddon't believe half we say in church. What am I to do? No one cares afig about me; what have I got to live for? To drink is the only chanceI have of feeling a little pleasure in life; of losing for a few momentsthe dreadful consciousness of being an outcast; of losing for a momentthe remembrance of happy days long ago: that's the greatest torment ofall, Willis. Don't blame me if I drink; it's the _elixir vitae_ for mejust as much as for Paracelsus. " And he turned the handle of thecupboard. 

"Don't, " the Bishop said again, putting his hand on the organist's arm;"don't do it; don't touch it. Don't make success any criterion of life;don't talk about `getting on. ' We shan't be judged by how we have goton. Come along with me; show you've got your old resolution, your oldwill-power. "

"I _haven't_ got the power, " Mr Sharnall said; "I can't help it. " Buthe took his hand from the cupboard-door. 

"Then let me help it for you, " said the Bishop; and he opened thecupboard, found a half-used bottle of whisky, drove the cork firmly intoit, and put it under his arm inside the lappet of his coat. "Comealong. "

So the Bishop of Carisbury walked up the High Street of Cullerne with abottle of whisky under his left arm. But no one could see that, becauseit was hid under his coat; they only saw that he had his right arminside Mr Sharnall's. Some thought this an act of Christiancondescension, but others praised the times that were past; bishops werelosing caste, they said, and it was a sad day for the Church when theywere found associating openly with persons so manifestly theirinferiors. 

"We must see more of each other, " the Bishop said, as they walked underthe arcade in front of the shops. "You must get out of this quagsomehow. You can't expect to do it all at once, but we must make abeginning. I have taken away your temptation under my coat, and youmust make a start from this minute; you must make me a promise _now_. Ihave to be in Cullerne again in six days' time, and will come and seeyou. You must promise me not to touch anything for these six days, andyou must drive back with me to Carisbury when I go back then, and spenda few days with me. Promise me this, Nick; the time is pressing, and Imust leave you, but you must promise me this first. "

The organist hesitated for a moment, but the Bishop gripped his arm. 

"Promise me this; I will not go till you promise. "

"Yes, I promise. "

And lying-and-mischief-making Mrs Flint, who was passing, toldafterwards how she had overheard the Bishop discussing with Mr Sharnallthe best means for introducing ritualism into the minster, and how theorganist had promised to do his very best to help him so far as themusical part of the sendee was concerned. 

The Confirmation was concluded without any contretemps, save that two ofthe Grammar School boys incurred an open and well-merited rebuke fromthe master for appearing in gloves of a much lighter slate colour thanwas in any way decorous, and that this circumstance reduced the youngestMiss Bulteel to such a state of hysteric giggling that her mother wasforced to remove her from the church, and thus deprive her of spiritualprivileges for another year. 

Mr Sharnall bore his probation bravely. Three days had passed, and hehad not broken his vow--no, not in one jot or tittle. They had beendays of fine weather, brilliantly clear autumn days of blue sky andexhilarating air. They had been bright days for Mr Sharnall; he washimself exhilarated; he felt a new life coursing in his veins. TheBishop's talk had done him good; from his heart he thanked the Bishopfor it. Giving up drinking had done him no harm; he felt all the betterfor his abstinence. It had not depressed him at all; on the contrary, he was more cheerful than he had been for years. Scales had fallen fromhis eyes since that talk; he had regained his true bearings; he began tosee the verities of life. How he had wasted his time! Why _had_ hebeen so sour? why _had_ he indulged his spleen? why _had_ he taken sucha jaundiced view of life? He would put aside all jealousies; he wouldhave no enmities; he would be broader-minded--oh, so muchbroader-minded; he would embrace all mankind--yes, even Canon Parkyn. Above all, he would recognise that he was well advanced in life; hewould be more sober-thinking, would leave childish things, wouldresolutely renounce his absurd infatuation for Anastasia. What aridiculous idea--a crabbed old sexagenarian harbouring affection for ayoung girl! Henceforth she should be nothing to him--absolutelynothing. No, that would be foolish; it would not be fair to her to cuther off from all friendship; he could feel for her a fatherlyaffection--it should be paternal and nothing more. He would bid adieuto all that folly, and his life should not be a whit the emptier for theloss. He would fill it with interests--all kinds of interests, and hismusic should be the first. He would take up again, and carry out to theend, that oratorio which he had turned over in his mind for years--the"Absalom. " He had several numbers at his fingers' ends; he would workout the bass solo, "Oh, Absalom, my son, my son!" and the double chorusthat followed it, "Make ready, ye mighty; up and bare your swords!"

So he discoursed joyfully with his own heart, and felt above measureelated at the great and sudden change that was wrought in him, notrecognising that the clouds return after the rain, and that the leopardmay change his spots as easily as man may change his habits. To changea habit at fifty-five or forty-five or thirty-five; to ordain thatrivers shall flow uphill; to divert the relentless sequence of cause andeffect--how often dare we say this happens? _Nemo repente_--no man eversuddenly became good. A moment's spiritual agony may blunt ourinstincts and paralyse the evil in us--for a while, even as chloroformmay dull our bodily sense; but for permanence there is no sudden turningof the mind; sudden repentances in life or death are equally impossible. 

Three halcyon days were followed by one of those dark and loweringmornings when the blank life seems blanker, and when the gloom of natureis too accurately reflected in the nervous temperament of man. Onhealthy youth climatic influences have no effect, and robust middle age, if it perceive them, goes on its way steadfast or stolid, with a _celapassera, tout passera_. But on the feeble and the failing such timesfall with a weight of fretful despondency; and so they fell on MrSharnall. 

He was very restless about the time of the mid-day meal. There came upa thick, dark fog from the sea, which went rolling in great masses overCullerne Flat, till its fringe caught the outskirts of the town. Afterthat, it settled in the streets, and took up its special abode inBellevue Lodge; till Miss Euphemia coughed so that she had to take twoipecacuanha lozenges, and Mr Sharnall was forced to ring for a lamp tosee his victuals. He went up to Westray's room to ask if he might eathis dinner upstairs, but he found that the architect had gone to London, and would not be back till the evening train; so he was thrown upon hisown resources. 

He ate little, and by the end of the meal depression had so far got thebetter of him, that he found himself standing before a well-knowncupboard. Perhaps the abstemiousness of the last three days had toldupon him, and drove him for refuge to his usual comforter. It was byinstinct that he went to the cupboard; he was not even conscious ofdoing so till he had the open door in his hand. Then resolutionreturned to him, aided, it may be, by the reflection that the cupboardwas bare (for the Bishop had taken away the whisky), and he shut thedoor sharply. Was it possible that he had so soon forgotten hispromise--had come so perilously near falling back into the mire, afterthe bright prospects of the last days, after so lucid an interval? Hewent to his bureau and buried himself in Martin Joliffe's papers, tillthe Burgess Bell gave warning of the afternoon service. 

The gloom and fog made way by degrees for a drizzling rain, whichresolved itself into a steady downpour as the afternoon wore on. It wasso heavy that Mr Sharnall could hear the indistinct murmur of millionsof raindrops on the long lead roofs, and their more noisy splash andspatter as they struck the windows in the lantern and north transept. He was in a bad humour as he came down from the loft. The boys had sungsleepily and flat; Jaques had murdered the tenor solo with his strainedand raucous voice; and old Janaway remembered afterwards that MrSharnall had never vouchsafed a good-afternoon as he strode angrily downthe aisle. 

Things were no better when he reached Bellevue Lodge. He was wet andchilled, and there was no fire in the grate, because it was too early inthe year for such luxuries to be afforded. He would go to the kitchen, and take his tea there. It was Saturday afternoon. Miss Joliffe wouldbe at the Dorcas meeting, but Anastasia would be in; and this reflectioncame to him as a ray of sunlight in a dark and lowering time. Anastasiawould be in, and alone; he would sit by the fire and drink a cup of hottea, while Anastasia should talk to him and gladden his heart. Hetapped lightly at the kitchen-door, and as he opened it a gusty buffetof damp air smote him on the face; the room was empty. Through ahalf-open sash the wet had driven in, and darkened the top of the dealtable which stood against the window; the fire was but a smoulderingash. He shut the window instinctively while he reflected. Where couldAnastasia be? She must have left the kitchen some time, otherwise thefire would not be so low, and she would have seen that the rain wasbeating in. She must be upstairs; she had no doubt taken advantage ofWestray's absence to set his room in order. He would go up to her;perhaps there was a fire in Westray's room. 

He went up the circular stone staircase, that ran like a wide well fromtop to bottom of the old Hand of God. The stone steps and the stonefloor of the hall, the stuccoed walls, and the coved stucco roof whichheld the skylight at the top, made a whispering-gallery of that gauntstaircase; and before Mr Sharnall had climbed half-way up he heardvoices. 

They were voices in conversation; Anastasia had company. And then heheard that one was a man's voice. What right had any man to be inWestray's room? What man had any right to be talking to Anastasia? Awild suspicion passed through his mind--no, that was quite impossible. He would not play the eavesdropper or creep near them to listen; but, ashe reflected, he had mounted a step or two higher, and the voices werenow more distinct. Anastasia had finished speaking, and the man beganagain. There was one second of uncertainty in Mr Sharnall's mind, while the hope that it was not, balanced the fear that it was; and thendoubt vanished, and he knew the voice to be Lord Blandamer's. 

The organist sprang up two or three steps very quickly. He would gostraight to them--straight into Westray's room; he would--And then hepaused; he would do, what? What right had he to go there at all? Whathad he to do with them? What was there for anyone to do? He paused, then turned and went downstairs again, telling himself that he was afool--that he was making mountains of molehills, that there did notexist, in fact, even a molehill; yet having all the while a sickeningfeeling within him, as if some gripping hand had got hold of his poorphysical and material heart, and was squeezing it. His room looked moregloomy than ever when he got back to it, but it did not matter now, because he was not going to remain there. He only stopped for a minuteto sweep back into the bureau all those loose papers of Martin Joliffe'sthat were lying in a tumble on the open desk-flap. He smiled grimly ashe put them back and locked them in. _Le jour viendra qui tout paiera_. These papers held a vengeance that would atone for all wrongs. 

He took down his heavy and wet-sodden overcoat from the peg in the hall, and reflected with some satisfaction that the bad weather could notseriously damage it, for it had turned green with wear, and must bereplaced as soon as he got his next quarter's salary. The rain stillfell heavily, but he _must_ go out. Four walls were too narrow to holdhis chafing mood, and the sadness of outward nature accorded well with agloomy spirit. So he shut the street-door noiselessly, and went downthe semicircular flight of stone steps in front of the Hand of God, justas Lord Blandamer had gone down them on that historic evening whenAnastasia first saw him. He turned back to look at the house, just asLord Blandamer had turned back then; but was not so fortunate as hisillustrious predecessor, for Westray's window was tight shut, and therewas no one to be seen. 

"I wish I may never look upon the place again, " he said to himself, halfin earnest, and half with that cynicism which men affect because theyknow Fate seldom takes them at their word. 

For an hour or more he wandered aimlessly, and found himself, as nightfell, on the western outskirts of the town, where a small tannerycarries on the last pretence of commercial activity in Cullerne. It ishere that the Cull, which has run for miles under willow and alder, through deep pastures golden with marsh marigolds or scented withmeadow-sweet, past cuckoo-flower and pitcher-plant and iris and noddingbulrush, forsakes better traditions, and becomes a common town-sluicebefore it deepens at the wharves, and meets the sandy churn of thetideway. Mr Sharnall had become aware that he was tired, and he stoodand leant over the iron paling that divides the roadway from the stream. He did not know how tired he was till he stopped walking, nor how therain had wetted him till he bent his head a little forward, and acascade of water fell from the brim of his worn-out hat. 

It was a forlorn and dismal stream at which he looked. The low tannerybuildings of wood projected in part over the water, and were supportedon iron props, to which were attached water-whitened skins and repulsiveportions of entrails, that swung slowly from side to side as the rivertook them. The water here is little more than three feet deep, andbeneath its soiled current can be seen a sandy bottom on which growpatches of coarse duck-weed. To Mr Sharnall these patches of a greenso dark and drain-soiled as to be almost black in the failing light, seemed tresses of drowned hair, and he weaved stories about them forhimself as the stream now swayed them to and fro, and now carried themout at length. 

He observed things with that vacant observation which the body at timesinsists on maintaining, when the mind is busy with some overmasteringpreoccupation. He observed the most trivial details; he made aninventory of the things which he could see lying on the dirty bed of theriver underneath the dirty water. There was a tin bucket with a hole inthe bottom; there was a brown teapot without a spout; there was anearthenware blacking-bottle too strong to be broken; there were othershattered glass bottles and shards of crockery; there was a rim of asilk hat, and more than one toeless boot. He turned away, and lookeddown the road towards the town. They were beginning to light the lamps, and the reflections showed a criss-cross of white lines on the muddyroad, where the water stood in the wheel-tracks. There was a darkvehicle coming down the road now, making a fresh track in the mud, andleaving two shimmering lines behind it as it went. He gave a littlestart when it came nearer, and he saw that it was the undertaker's cartcarrying out a coffin for some pauper at the Union Workhouse. 

He gave a start and a shiver; the wet had come through his overcoat; hecould feel it on his arms; he could feel the cold and clinging wetstriking at his knees. He was stiff with standing so long, and arheumatic pain checked him suddenly as he tried to straighten himself. He would walk quickly to warm himself--would go home at once. Home--what _home_ had he? That great, gaunt Hand of God. He detested it andall that were within its walls. That was no home. Yet he was walkingbriskly towards it, having no other whither to go. 

He was in the mean little streets, he was within five minutes of hisgoal, when he heard singing. He was passing the same little inn whichhe had passed the first night that Westray came. The same voice wassinging inside which had sung the night that Westray came. Westray hadbrought discomfort; Westray had brought Lord Blandamer. Things hadnever been the same since; he wished Westray had never come at all; hewished--oh, how he wished!--that all might be as it was before--that allmight jog along quietly as it had for a generation before. Shecertainly had a fine voice, this woman. It really would be worth whileseeing who she was; he wished he could just look inside the door. Stay, he could easily make an excuse for looking in: he would order a littlehot whisky-and-water. He was so wet, it was prudent to take somethingto drink. It might ward off a bad chill. He would only take a verylittle, and only as a medicine, of course; there could be no harm in_that_--it was mere prudence. 

He took off his hat, shook the rain from it, turned the handle of thedoor very gently, with the consideration of a musician who will donothing to interrupt another who is making music, and went in. 

He found himself in that sanded parlour which he had seen once beforethrough the window. It was a long, low room, with heavy beams crossingthe roof, and at the end was an open fireplace, where a kettle hungabove a smouldering fire. In a corner sat an old man playing on afiddle, and near him the Creole woman stood singing; there were sometables round the room, and behind them benches on which a dozen men weresitting. There was no young man among them, and most had longpassed the meridian of life. Their faces were sun-tanned andmahogany-coloured; some wore earrings in their ears, and strange curlsof grey hair at the side of their heads. They looked as if they mighthave been sitting there for years--as if they might be the crew of somelong-foundered vessel to whom has been accorded a Nirvana of endlesstavern-fellowship. None of them took any notice of Mr Sharnall, formusic was exercising its transporting power, and their thoughts were faraway. Some were with old Cullerne whalers, with the harpoon and theice-floe; some dreamt of square-stemmed timber-brigs, of the Baltic andthe white Memel-logs, of wild nights at sea and wilder nights ashore;and some, remembering violet skies and moonlight through themango-groves, looked on the Creole woman, and tried to recall in herfaded features, sweet, swart faces that had kindled youthful fires ageneration since. 

 "Then the grog, boys--the grog, boys, bring hither, "

sang the Creole. 

 "Fill it up true to the brim. May the mem'ry of Nelson ne'er wither Nor the star of his glory grow dim. "

There were rummers standing on the tables, and now and then adrinking-brother would break the sugar-knobs in his liquor with a glassstirrer, or take a deep draught of the brown jorum that steamed beforehim. No one spoke to Mr Sharnall; only the landlord, without askingwhat he would take, set before him a glass filled with the same hotspirit as the other guests were drinking. 

The organist accepted his fate with less reluctance than he oughtperhaps to have displayed, and a few minutes later was drinking andsmoking with the rest. He found the liquor to his liking, and soonexperienced the restoring influences of the warm room and of the spirit. He hung his coat up on a peg, and in its dripping condition, and in thewet which had penetrated to his skin, found ample justification foraccepting without demur a second bumper with which the landlord replacedhis empty glass. Rummer followed rummer, and still the Creole womansang at intervals, and still the company smoked and drank. 

Mr Sharnall drank too, but by-and-by saw things less clearly, as theroom grew hotter and more clouded with tobacco-smoke. Then he found theCreole woman standing before him, and holding out a shell forcontributions. He had in his pocket only one single coin--a half-crownthat was meant to be a fortnight's pocket-money; but he was excited, andhad no hesitation. 

"There, " he said, with an air of one who gives a kingdom--"there, takethat: you deserve it; but sing me a song that I heard you sing oncebefore, something about the rolling sea. "

She nodded that she understood, and after the collection was finished, gave the money to the blind man, and bade him play for her. 

It was a long ballad, with many verses and a refrain of:

 "Oh, take me back to those I love, Or bring them here to me; I have no heart to rove, to rove Across the rolling sea. "

At the end she came back, and sat down on the bench by Mr Sharnall. 

"Will you not give me something to drink?" she said, speaking in verygood English. "You all drink; why should not I?"

He beckoned to the landlord to bring her a glass, and she drank of it, pledging the organist. 

"You sing well, " he said, "and with a little training should sing verywell indeed. How do you come to be here? You ought to do better thanthis; if I were you, I would not sing in such company. "

She looked at him angrily. 

"How do _I_ come to be here? How do _you_ come to be here? If I had alittle training, I should sing better, and if I had your training, MrSharnall"--and she brought out his name with a sneering emphasis--"Ishould not be here at all, drinking myself silly in a place like this. "

She got up, and went back to the old fiddler, but her words had asobering influence on the organist, and cut him to the quick. So allhis good resolutions had vanished. His promise to the Bishop wasbroken; the Bishop would be back again on Monday, and find him as bad asever--would find him worse; for the devil had returned, and was makingriot in the garnished house. He turned to pay his reckoning, but hishalf-crown had gone to the Creole; he had no money, he was forced toexplain to the landlord, to humiliate himself, to tell his name andaddress. The man grumbled and made demur. Gentlemen who drank in goodcompany, he said, should be prepared to pay their shot like gentlemen. Mr Sharnall had drunk enough to make it a serious thing for a poor mannot to get paid. Mr Sharnall's story might be true, but it was a funnything for an organist to come and drink at the Merrymouth, and have nomoney in his pocket. It had stopped raining; he could leave hisovercoat as a pledge of good faith, and come back and fetch it later. So Mr Sharnall was constrained to leave this part of his equipment, andwas severed from a well-worn overcoat, which had been the companion ofyears. He smiled sadly to himself as he turned at the open door, andsaw his coat still hang dripping on the peg. If it were put up toauction, would it ever fetch enough to pay for what he had drunk?

It was true that it had stopped raining, and though the sky was stillovercast, there was a lightness diffused behind the clouds that spoke ofa rising moon. What should he do? Whither should he turn? He couldnot go back to the Hand of God; there were some there who did not wanthim--whom he did not want. Westray would not be home, or, if he were, Westray would know that he had been drinking; he could not bear thatthey should see that he had been drinking again. 

And then there came into his mind another thought: he would go to thechurch, the water-engine should blow for him, and he would play himselfsober. Stay, _should_ he go to the church--the great church of SaintSepulchre alone? Would he be alone there? If he thought that he wouldbe alone, he would feel more secure; but might there not be someone elsethere, or something else? He gave a little shiver, but the drink was inhis veins; he laughed pot-valiantly, and turned up an alley towards thecentre tower, that loomed dark in the wet, misty whiteness of the cloudscreened moon. 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN. 

Westray returned to Cullerne by the evening train. It was near teno'clock, and he was finishing his supper, when someone tapped at thedoor, and Miss Euphemia Joliffe came in. 

"I beg your pardon for interrupting you, sir, " she said; "I am a littleanxious about Mr Sharnall. He was not in at teatime, and has not comeback since. I thought you might know perhaps where he was. It is yearssince he has been out so late in the evening. "

"I haven't the least idea where he is, " Westray said rather testily, forhe was tired with a long day's work. "I suppose he has gone outsomewhere to supper. "

"No one ever asks Mr Sharnall out. I do not think he can be gone outto supper. "

"Oh, well, I dare say he will turn up in due course; let me hear beforeyou go to bed if he has come back;" and he poured himself out anothercup of tea, for he was one of those thin-blooded and old-womanly men whoelevate the drinking of tea instead of other liquids into a specialmerit. "He could not understand, " he said, "why everybody did not drinktea. It was so much more refreshing--one could work so much betterafter drinking tea. "

He turned to some calculations for the section of a tie-rod, with whichSir George Farquhar had at last consented to strengthen the south sideof the tower, and did not notice how time passed till there came anotherirritating tap, and his landlady reappeared. 

"It is nearly twelve o'clock, " she said, "and we have seen nothing ofMr Sharnall. I am so alarmed! I am sure I am very sorry to troubleyou, Mr Westray, but my niece and I are so alarmed. "

"I don't quite see what I am to do, " Westray said, looking up. "Couldhe have gone out with Lord Blandamer? Do you think Lord Blandamer couldhave asked him to Fording?"

"Lord Blandamer was here this afternoon, " Miss Joliffe answered, "but henever saw Mr Sharnall, because Mr Sharnall was not at home. "

"Oh, Lord Blandamer was here, was he?" asked Westray. "Did he leave nomessage for me?"

"He asked if you were in, but he left no message for you. He drank acup of tea with us. I think he came in merely as a friendly visitor, "Miss Joliffe said with some dignity. "I think he came in to drink a cupof tea with me. I was unfortunately at the Dorcas meeting when he firstarrived, but on my return he drank tea with me. "

"It is curious; he seems generally to come on Saturday afternoons, " saidWestray. "Are you _always_ at the Dorcas meeting on Saturdayafternoons?"

"Yes, " Miss Joliffe said, "I am always at the meeting on Saturdayafternoons. "

There was a minute's pause--Westray and Miss Joliffe were both thinking. 

"Well, well, " Westray said, "I shall be working for some time yet, andwill _let_ Mr Sharnall in if he comes; but I suspect that he has beeninvited to spend the night at Fording. Anyhow, you can go to bed with aclear conscience, Miss Joliffe; you have waited up far beyond your usualtime. "

So Miss Euphemia went to bed, and left Westray alone; and a few minuteslater the four quarter-chimes rang, and the tenor struck twelve, andthen the bells fell to playing a tune, as they did every three hours dayand night. Those who dwell near Saint Sepulchre's take no note of thebells. The ear grows so accustomed to them, that quarter by quarter andhour by hour strike unperceived. If strangers come to stop under theshadow of the church the clangour disturbs their sleep for the firstnight, and after that they, too, hear nothing. So Westray would sitworking late night by night, and could not say whether the bells hadrung or not. It was only when attention was too wide awake that heheard them, but he heard them this night, and listened while they playedthe sober melody of "Mount Ephraim. " [See Appendix at end for tune. ]

He got up, flung his window open, and looked out. The storm had passed;the moon, which was within a few hours of the full, rode serenely in theblue heaven with a long bank of dappled white cloud below, whose edgeshone with an amber iridescence. He looked over the clustered roofs andchimneys of the town; the upward glow from the market-place showed thatthe lamps were still burning, though he could not see them. Then, asthe glow lessened gradually and finally became extinct, he knew that thelights were being put out because midnight was past. The moonlightglittered on the roofs, which were still wet, and above all towered ingigantic sable mass the centre tower of Saint Sepulchre's. 

Westray felt a curious physical tension. He was excited, he could nottell why; he knew that sleep would be impossible if he were to go tobed. It _was_ an odd thing that Sharnall had not come home; Sharnall_must_ have gone to Fording. He had spoken vaguely of an invitation toFording that he had received; but if he had gone there he must havetaken some things with him for the night, and he had not taken anything, or Miss Euphemia would have said so. Stay, he would go down toSharnall's room and see if he could find any trace of his takingluggage; perhaps he had left some message to explain his absence. Helit a candle and went down, down the great well-staircase where thestone steps echoed under his feet. A patch of bright moonshine fell onthe stairs from the skylight at the top, and a noise of someone movingin the attics told him that Miss Joliffe was not yet asleep. There wasnothing in the organist's room to give any explanation of his absence. The light of the candle was reflected on the front of the piano, andWestray shuddered involuntarily as he remembered the conversation whichhe had a few weeks before with this friend, and Mr Sharnall's strangehallucinations as to the man that walked behind him with a hammer. Helooked into the bedroom with a momentary apprehension that his friendmight have been seized with illness, and be lying all this timeunconscious; but there was no one there--the bed was undisturbed. So hewent back to his own room upstairs, but the night had turned so chillthat he could no longer bear the open window. He stood with his handupon the sash looking out for a moment before he pulled it down, andnoticed how the centre tower dominated and prevailed over all the town. It was impossible, surely, that this rock-like mass could be insecure;how puny and insufficient to uphold such a tottering giant seemed thetie-rods whose section he was working out. And then he thought of thecrack above the south transept arch that he had seen from theorgan-loft, and remembered how "Sharnall in D flat" had been interruptedby the discovery. Why, Mr Sharnall might be in the church; perhaps hehad gone down to practise and been shut in. Perhaps his key had broken, and he could not get out; he wondered that he had not thought of thechurch before. 

In a minute he had made up his mind to go to the minster. As residentarchitect he possessed a master key which opened all the doors; he wouldwalk round, and see if he could find anything of the missing organistbefore going to bed. He strode quickly through the deserted streets. The lamps were all put out, for Cullerne economised gas at times of fullmoon. There was nothing moving, his footsteps rang on the pavement, andechoed from wall to wall. He took the short-cut by the wharves, and ina few minutes came to the old Bonding-house. 

The shadows hung like black velvet in the spaces between the brickbuttresses that shored up the wall towards the quay. He smiled tohimself as he thought of the organist's nervousness, of those strangefancies as to someone lurking in the black hiding-holes, and as tobuildings being in some way connected with man's fate. Yet he knew thathis smile was assumed, for he felt all the while the oppression of theloneliness, of the sadness of a half-ruined building, of the gurglingmutter of the river, and instinctively quickened his pace. He was gladwhen he had passed the spot, and again that night, as he looked back, hesaw the strange effect of light and darkness which produced theimpression of someone standing in the shadow of the last buttress space. The illusion was so perfect that he thought he could make out thefigure of a man, in a long loose cape that napped in the wind. 

He had passed the wrought-iron gates now--he was in the churchyard, andit was then that he first became aware of a soft, low, droning, soundwhich seemed to fill the air all about him. He stopped for a moment tolisten; what was it? Where was the noise? It grew more distinct as hepassed along the flagged stone path which led to the north door. Yes, it certainly came from inside the church. What could it be? What couldanyone be doing in the church at this hour of night?

He was in the north porch now, and then he knew what it was. It was alow note of the organ--a pedal-note; he was almost sure it was that verypedal-point which the organist had explained to him with such pride. The sound reassured him nothing had happened to Mr Sharnall--he waspractising in the church; it was only some mad freak of his to beplaying so late; he was practising that service "Sharnall in D flat. "

He took out his key to unlock the wicket, and was surprised to find italready open, because he knew that it was the organist's habit to lockhimself in. He passed into the great church. It was strange, there wasno sound of music; there was no one playing; there was only theintolerably monotonous booming of a single pedal-note, with anoccasional muffled thud when the water-engine turned spasmodically toreplenish the emptying bellows. 

"Sharnall!" he shouted--"Sharnall, what are you doing? Don't you knowhow late it is?"

He paused, and thought at first that someone was answering him--hethought that he heard people muttering in the choir; but it was only theecho of his own voice, his own voice tossed from pillar to pillar andarch to arch, till it faded into a wail of "Sharnall, Sharnall!" in thelantern. 

It was the first time that he had been in the church at night, and hestood for a moment overcome with the mystery of the place, while hegazed at the columns of the nave standing white in the moonlight like arow of vast shrouded figures. He called again to Mr Sharnall, andagain received no answer, and then he made his way up the nave to thelittle doorway that leads to the organ-loft stairs. 

This door also was open, and he felt sure now that Mr Sharnall was notin the organ-loft at all, for had he been he would certainly have lockedhimself in. The pedal-note must be merely ciphering, or something, perhaps a book, might have fallen upon it, and was holding it down. Heneed not go up to the loft now; he would not go up. The throbbing ofthe low note had on him the same unpleasant effect as on a previousoccasion. He tried to reassure himself, yet felt all the while agrowing premonition that something might be wrong, something might beterribly wrong. The lateness of the hour, the isolation from all thingsliving, the spectral moonlight which made the darkness darker--thiscombination of utter silence, with the distressing vibration of thepedal-note, filled him with something akin to panic. It seemed to himas if the place was full of phantoms, as if the monks of SaintSepulchre's were risen from under their gravestones, as if there wereother dire faces among them such as wait continually on deeds of evil. He checked his alarm before it mastered him. Come what might, he wouldgo up to the organ-loft, and he plunged into the staircase that leads upout of the nave. 

It is a circular stair, twisted round a central pillar, of which mentionhas already been made, and though short, is very dark even in brightdaylight. But at night the blackness is inky and impenetrable, andWestray fumbled for an appreciable time before he had climbedsufficiently far up to perceive the glimmer of moonlight at the top. Hestepped out at last into the loft, and saw that the organ seat wasempty. The great window at the end of the south transept shone full infront of him; it seemed as if it must be day and not night--the lightfrom the window was so strong in comparison with the darkness which hehad left. There was a subdued shimmer in the tracery where the stainedglass gleamed diaphanous--amethyst and topaz, chrysoprase and jasper, adozen jewels as in the foundations of the city of God. And in themidst, in the head of the centre light, shone out brighter than all, with an inherent radiance of its own, the cognisance of the Blandamers, the sea-green and silver of the nebuly coat. 

Westray gave a step forward into the loft, and then his foot struckagainst something, and he nearly fell. It was something soft andyielding that he had struck, something of which the mere touch filledhim with horrible surmise. He bent down to see what it was, and a whiteobject met his eyes. It was the white face of a man turned up towardsthe vaulting; he had stumbled over the body of Mr Sharnall, who lay onthe floor with the back of his head on the pedal-note. Westray had bentlow down, and he looked full in the eyes of the organist, but they werefixed and glazing. 

The moonlight that shone on the dead face seemed to fall on it throughthat brighter spot in the head of the middle light; it was as if thenebuly coat had blighted the very life out of the man who lay so stillupon the floor. 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN. 

No evidence of any importance was given at the inquest except Westray'sand the doctor's, and no other evidence was, in fact, required. DrEnnefer had made an autopsy, and found that the immediate cause of deathwas a blow on the back of the head. But the organs showed traces ofalcoholic habit, and the heart was distinctly diseased. It was probablethat Mr Sharnall had been seized with a fainting fit as he left theorgan-stool, and had fallen backwards with his head on the pedal-board. He must have fallen with much violence, and the pedal-note had made abad wound, such as would be produced by a blunt instrument. 

The inquest was nearly finished when, without any warning, Westray foundhimself, as by intuition, asking:

"The wound was such a one, you mean, as might have been produced by theblow of a hammer?"

The doctor seemed surprised, the jury and the little audience stared, but most surprised of all was Westray at his own question. 

"You have no _locus standi_, sir, " the coroner said severely; "such aninterrogation is irregular. You are to esteem it an act of grace if Iallow the medical man to reply. "

"Yes, " said Dr Ennefer, with a reserve in his voice that implied thathe was not there to answer every irrelevant question that it mightplease foolish people to put to him--"yes, such a wound as might havebeen caused by a hammer, or by any other blunt instrument used withviolence. "

"Even by a heavy stick?" Westray suggested. 

The doctor maintained a dignified silence, and the coroner struck in:

"I must say I think you are wasting our time, Mr Westray. I am thelast person to stifle legitimate inquiry, but no inquiry is reallyneeded here; it is quite certain that this poor man came to his end byfalling heavily, and dashing his head against this wooden note in thepedals. "

"_Is_ it quite certain?" Westray asked. "Is Dr Ennefer quite surethat the wound _could_ have been caused by a mere fall; I only want toknow that Dr Ennefer is quite sure. "

The coroner looked at the doctor with a deprecating glance, whichimplied apologies that so much unnecessary trouble should be given, anda hope that he would be graciously pleased to put an end to it by anauthoritative statement. 

"Oh, I am quite sure, " the doctor responded. "Yes"--and he hesitatedfor the fraction of a second--"oh yes, there is no doubt such a woundcould be caused by a fall. "

"I merely wish to point out, " said Westray, "that the pedal-note onwhich he fell is to a certain extent a yielding substance; it wouldyield, you must remember, at the first impact. "

"That is quite true, " the doctor said; "I had taken that into account, and admit that one would scarcely expect so serious an injury to havebeen caused. But, of course, it _was_ so caused, because there is noother explanation; you don't suggest, I presume, that there was any foulplay. It is certainly a case of accident or foul play. "

"Oh no, I don't suggest anything. "

The coroner raised his eyebrows; he was tired, and could not understandsuch waste of time. But the doctor, curiously enough, seemed to havegrown more tolerant of interruption. 

"I have examined the injury very carefully, " he said, "and have come tothe deliberate conclusion that it must have been caused by the woodenkey. We must also recollect that the effect of any blow would beintensified by a weak state of health. I don't wish to rake up anythingagainst the poor fellow's memory, or to say any word that may cause youpain, Mr Westray, as his friend; but an examination of the bodyrevealed traces of chronic alcoholism. We must recollect that. "

"The man was, in fact, a confirmed drunkard, " the coroner said. Helived at Carisbury, and, being a stranger both to Cullerne and itsinhabitants, had no scruple in speaking plainly; and, besides this, hewas nettled at the architect's interference. "You mean the man was aconfirmed drunkard, " he repeated. 

"He was nothing of the kind, " Westray said hotly. "I do not say that henever took more than was good for him, but he was in no sense anhabitual drunkard. "

"I did not ask _your_ opinion, " retorted the coroner; "we do not wantany lay conjectures. What do you say, Mr Ennefer?"

The surgeon was vexed in his turn at not receiving the conventionaltitle of doctor, the more so because he knew that he had no legal rightto it. To be called "Mr" demeaned him, he considered, in the eyes ofpresent or prospective patients, and he passed at once into an attitudeof opposition. 

"Oh no, you quite mistake me, Mr Coroner. I did not mean that our poorfriend was an habitual drunkard. I never remember to have actually seenhim the worse for liquor. "

"Well, what do you mean? You say the body shows traces of alcoholism, but that he was not a drunkard. "

"Have we any evidence as to Mr Sharnall's state on the evening of hisdeath?" a juror asked, with a pleasant consciousness that he was takinga dispassionate view, and making a point of importance. 

"Yes, we have considerable evidence, " said the coroner. "Call CharlesWhite. "

There stepped forward a little man with a red face and blinking eyes. His name was Charles White; he was landlord of the Merrymouth Inn. Thedeceased visited his inn on the evening in question. He did not knowdeceased by sight, but found out afterwards who he was. It was a badnight, deceased was very wet, and took something to drink; he drank afairish amount, but not _that_ much, not more than a gentleman shoulddrink. Deceased was not drunk when he went away. 

"He was drunk enough to leave his top-coat behind him, was he not?" thecoroner asked. "Did you not find this coat after he was gone?" and hepointed to a poor masterless garment, that looked greener and moreoutworn than ever as it hung over the back of a chair. 

"Yes, deceased had certainly left his coat behind him, but he was notdrunk. "

"There are different standards of drunkenness, gentlemen, " said thecoroner, imitating as well as he might the facetious cogency of a realjudge, "and I imagine that the standard of the Merrymouth may be moreadvanced than in some other places. I don't think"--and he lookedsarcastically at Westray--"I do _not_ think we need carry this inquiryfarther. We have a man who drinks, not an habitual drunkard, MrEnnefer says, but one who drinks enough to bring himself into athoroughly diseased state. This man sits fuddling in a low public-houseall the evening, and is so far overtaken by liquor when he goes away, that he leaves his overcoat behind him. He actually leaves his coatbehind him, though we have it that it was a pouring wet night. He goesto the organ-loft in a tipsy state, slips as he is getting on to hisstool, falls heavily with the back of his head on a piece of wood, andis found dead some hours later by an unimpeachable and carefulwitness"--and he gave a little sniff--"with his head still on this pieceof wood. Take note of that--when he was found his head was still onthis very pedal which had caused the fatal injury. Gentlemen, I do notthink we need any further evidence; I think your course is prettyclear. "

All was, indeed, very clear. The jury with a unanimous verdict ofaccidental death put the colophon to the sad history of Mr Sharnall, and ruled that the same failing which had blighted his life, had broughthim at last to a drunkard's end. 

Westray walked back to the Hand of God with the forlorn old top-coatover his arm. The coroner had formally handed it over to him. He wasevidently a close friend of the deceased, he would perhaps take chargeof his wearing apparel. The architect's thoughts were too preoccupiedto allow him to resent the sneer which accompanied these remarks; hewent off full of sorrow and gloomy forebodings. 

Death in so strange a shape formed a topic of tavern discussion inCullerne, second only to a murder itself. Not since Mr Leveritt, thetimber-merchant, shot a barmaid at the Blandamer Arms, a generationsince, had any such dramatic action taken place on Cullerne boards. Theloafers swore over it in all its bearings as they spat upon the pavementat the corner of the market square. Mr Smiles, the shop-walker in Roseand Storey's general drapery mart, discussed it genteelly with theladies who sat before the counter on the high wicker-seated chairs. 

Dr Ennefer was betrayed into ill-advised conversation while beingshaved, and got his chin cut. Mr Joliffe gave away a packet of moralreflections gratis with every pound of sausage, and turned up the whitesof his eyes over the sin of intemperance, which had called away his poorfriend in so terrible a state of unpreparedness. Quite a crowd followedthe coffin to its last resting-place, and the church was unusually fullon the Sunday morning which followed the catastrophe. People expected a"pulpit reference" from Canon Parkyn, and there were the additional, though subordinate, attractions of the playing of the Dead March, andthe possibility of an amateur organist breaking down in the anthem. 

Church-going, which sprung from such unworthy motives, was very properlydisappointed. Canon Parkyn would not, he said, pander to sensationalismby any allusion in his discourse, nor could the Dead March, heconceived, be played with propriety under such very unpleasantcircumstances. The new organist got through the service withprovokingly colourless mediocrity, and the congregation came out ofSaint Sepulchre's in a disappointed mood, as people who had beendefrauded of their rights. 

Then the nine days' wonder ceased, and Mr Sharnall passed into thegreat oblivion of middle-class dead. His successor was not immediatelyappointed. Canon Parkyn arranged that the second master at the NationalSchool, who had a pretty notion of music, and was a pupil of MrSharnall, should be spared to fill the gap. As Queen Elizabeth, ofpious memory, recruited the privy purse by keeping in her own handvacant bishoprics, so the rector farmed the post of organist at CullerneMinster. He thus managed to effect so important a reduction in thesordid emoluments of that office, that he was five pounds in pocketbefore a year was ended. 

But if the public had forgotten Mr Sharnall, Westray had not. Thearchitect was a man of gregarious instinct. As there is a tradition andbonding of common interest about the Universities, and in a less degreeabout army, navy, public schools, and professions, which draws togetherand marks with its impress those who are attached to them, so there is acertain cabala and membership among lodgers which none can understandexcept those who are free of that guild. 

The lodging-house life, call it squalid, mean, dreary if you will, isnot without its alleviations and counterpoises. It is a life of youthfor the most part, for lodgers of Mr Sharnall's age are comparativelyrare; it is a life of simple needs and simple tastes, for lodgings arenot artistic, nor favourable to the development of any undue refinement;it is not a rich life, for men as a rule set up their own houses as soonas they are able to do so; it is a life of work and buoyantanticipation, where men are equipping for the struggle, and laying thefoundations of fortune, or digging the pit of indigence. Suchconditions beget and foster good fellowship, and those who have spenttime in lodgings can look back to whole-hearted and disinterestedfriendships, when all were equal before high heaven, hail-fellows wellmet, who knew no artificial distinctions of rank--when all weretravelling the first stage of life's journey in happy chorus together, and had not reached that point where the high road bifurcates, and thediverging branches of success and failure lead old comrades so very farapart. Ah, what a camaraderie and fellowship, knit close by the urgencyof making both ends meet, strengthened by the necessity of withstandingrapacious, or negligent, or tyrannous landladies, sweetened bykindnesses and courtesies which cost the giver little, but mean much tothe receiver! Did sickness of a transitory sort (for grievous illnessis little known in lodgings) fall on the ground-floor tenant, then didnot the first-floor come down to comfort him in the evenings?First-floor might be tired after a long day's work, and note when hisfrugal meal was done that 'twas a fine evening, or that a good companywas billed for the local theatre; yet he would grudge not his leisure, but go down to sit with ground-floor, and tell him the news of the day, perhaps even would take him a few oranges or a tin of sardines. Andground-floor, who had chafed all the day at being shut in, and had readhimself stupid for want of anything else to do, how glad he was to seefirst-floor, and how the chat did him more good than all the doctor'sstuff!

And later on, when some ladies came to lunch with first-floor on the dayof the flower-show, did not ground-floor go out and place hissitting-room completely at his fellow-lodger's disposal, so that thecompany might find greater convenience and change of air after meat?They were fearful joys, these feminine visits, when ladies who were kindenough to ask a young man to spend a Sunday with them, still furtheradded to their kindness, by accepting with all possible effusion theinvitation which he one day ventured to give. It was a fearful joy, andcost the host more anxious preparation than a state funeral brings toEarl-marshal. As brave a face as might be must be put on everything; somany details were to be thought out, so many little insufficiencies wereto be masked. But did not the result recompense all? Was not the youngman conscious that, though his rooms might be small, there was aboutthem a delicate touch which made up for much, that everything breathedof refinement from the photographs and silver toddy-spoon upon themantelpiece to Rossetti's poems and "Marius the Epicurean, " whichcovered negligently a stain on the green tablecloth? And these kindlyladies came in riant mood, well knowing all his little anxieties andpreparations, yet showing they knew none of them; resolved to praise hisrooms, his puny treasures, even his cookery and perilous wine, andskilful to turn little contretemps into interesting novelties. Householders, yours is a noble lot, ye are the men, and wisdom shall diewith you. Yet pity not too profoundly him that inhabiteth lodgings, lest he turn and rend you, pitying you in turn that have bound on yourshoulders heavy burdens of which he knows nothing; saying to you thatseed time is more profitable than harvest, and the wandering years thanthe practice of the master. Refrain from too much pity, and believethat loneliness is not always lonely. 

Westray was of a gregarious temperament, and missed his fellow-lodger. The cranky little man, with all his soured outlook, must still have hadsome power of evoking sympathy, some attractive element in hiscomposition. He concealed it under sharp words and moody bitterness, but it must still have been there, for Westray felt his loss more thanhe had thought possible. The organist and he had met twice and thrice aday for a year past. They had discussed the minster that both loved sowell, within whose walls both were occupied; they had discussed thenebuly coat, and the Blandamers, and Miss Euphemia. There was only onesubject which they did not discuss--namely, Miss Anastasia Joliffe, though she was very often in the thoughts of both. 

It was all over now, yet every day Westray found himself making a mentalnote to tell this to Mr Sharnall, to ask Mr Sharnall's advice on that, and then remembering that there is no knowledge in the grave. The gauntHand of God was ten times gaunter now that there was no lodger on theground-floor. Footfalls sounded more hollow at night on the stone stepsof the staircase, and Miss Joliffe and Anastasia went early to bed. 

"Let us go upstairs, my dear, " Miss Euphemia would say when the chimessounded a quarter to ten. "These long evenings are so lonely, are theynot? and be sure you see that the windows are properly hasped. " Andthen they hurried through the hall, and went up the staircase togetherside by side, as if they were afraid to be separated by a single step. Even Westray knew something of the same feeling when he returned late atnight to the cavernous great house. He tried to put his hand as quicklyas he might upon the matchbox, which lay ready for him on themarble-topped sideboard in the dark hall; and sometimes when he had litthe candle would instinctively glance at the door of Mr Sharnall'sroom, half expecting to see it open, and the old face look out that hadso often greeted him on such occasions. Miss Joliffe had made noattempt to find a new lodger. No "Apartments to Let" was put in thewindow, and such chattels as Mr Sharnall possessed remained exactly ashe left them. Only one thing was moved--the collection of MartinJoliffe's papers, and these Westray had taken upstairs to his own room. 

When they opened the dead man's bureau with the keys found in his pocketto see whether he had left any will or instructions, there wasdiscovered in one of the drawers a note addressed to Westray. It wasdated a fortnight before his death, and was very short:

"_If I go away and am not heard of, or if anything happens to me, gethold of Martin Joliffe's papers at once. Take them up to your own room, lock them up, and don't let them out of your hands. Tell Miss Joliffeit is my wish, and she will hand them over to you. Be very carefulthere isn't a fire, or lest they should be destroyed in any other way. Read them carefully, and draw your own conclusions; you will find somenotes of mine in the little red pocket-book_. "

The architect had read these words many times. They were no doubt theoutcome of the delusions of which Mr Sharnall had more than oncespoken--of that dread of some enemy pursuing him, which had darkened theorganist's latter days. Yet to read these things set out in black andwhite, after what had happened, might well give rise to curiousthoughts. The coincidence was so strange, so terribly strange. A manfollowing with a hammer--that had been the organist's hallucination; thevision of an assailant creeping up behind, and doing him to death withan awful, stealthy blow. And the reality--an end sudden and unexpected, a blow on the back of the head, which had been caused by a heavy fall. Was it mere coincidence, was it some inexplicable presentiment, or wasit more than either? Had there, in fact, existed a reason why theorganist should think that someone had a grudge against him, that he waslikely to be attacked? Had some dreadful scene been really enacted inthe loneliness of the great church that night? Had the organist beentaken unawares, or heard some movement in the silence, and, turninground, found himself alone with his murderer? And if a murderer, whosewas the face into which the victim looked? And as Westray thought heshuddered; it seemed it might have been no human face at all, but somefearful presence, some visible presentment of the evil that walketh indarkness. 

Then the architect would brush such follies away like cobwebs, and, turning back, consider who could have found his interest in such a deed. Against whom did the dead man urge him to be on guard lest Martin'spapers should be spirited away? Was there some other claimant of thatill-omened peerage of whom he knew nothing, or was it--And Westrayresolutely quenched the thought that had risen a hundred times beforehis mind, and cast it aside as a malign and baseless suspicion. 

If there was any clue it must lie in those same papers, and he followedthe instruction given him, and took them to his own room. He did notshow Miss Joliffe the note; to do so could only have shaken her further, and she had felt the shock too severely already. He only told her ofMr Sharnall's wishes for the temporary disposal of her brother'spapers. She begged him not to take them. 

"Dear Mr Westray, " she said, "do not touch them, do not let us haveanything to do with them. I wanted poor dear Mr Sharnall not to gomeddling with them, and now see what has happened. Perhaps it is ajudgment"--and she uttered the word under her breath, having a medievalfaith in the vengeful irritability of Providence, and seeingmanifestations of it in any untoward event, from the overturning of aninkstand to the death of a lodger. "Perhaps it is a judgment, and hemight have been alive now if he had refrained. What good would it do usif all dear Martin hoped should turn out true? He always said, poorfellow, that he would be `my lord' some day; but now he is gone there isno one except Anastasia, and she would never wish to be `my lady, ' I amsure, poor girl. You would not, darling, wish to be `my lady' even ifyou could, would you?"

Anastasia looked up from her book with a deprecating smile, which lostitself in an air of vexation, when she found that the architect's eyeswere fixed steadfastly upon her, and that a responsive smile spread overhis face. She flushed very slightly, and turned back abruptly to herbook, feeling quite unjustifiably annoyed at the interest in her doingswhich the young man's gaze was meant to imply. What right had he toexpress concern, even with a look, in matters which affected _her_? Shealmost wished she _was_ indeed a peeress, and could slay him with hernoble birth, as did one Lady Clara of old times. It was only latelythat she had become conscious of this interested, would-be interesting, look, which Westray assumed in her presence. Was it possible that _he_was falling in love with her? And at the thought there rose before herfancy the features of someone else, haughty, hard, perhaps malign, butoh, so powerful, and quite eclipsed and blotted out the lifelessamiability of this young man who hung upon her lips. 

Could Mr Westray be thinking of falling in love with her? It wasimpossible, and yet this following her with his eyes, and the mellificmanner which he adopted when speaking to her, insisted on itspossibility. She ran over hastily in her mind, as she had done severaltimes of late, the course of their relations. Was she to blame? Couldanything that she had ever done be wrested into predilection or eveninto appreciation? Could natural kindness or courtesy have been soutterly misunderstood? She was victoriously acquitted by thiscommission of mental inquiry, and left the court without a stain uponher character. She certainly had never given him the very leastencouragement. At the risk of rudeness she _must_ check theseattentions in their beginning. Short of actual discourtesy, she mustshow him that this warm interest in her doings, these sympatheticglances, were exceedingly distasteful. She never would look near himagain, she would keep her eyes rigorously cast down whenever he waspresent, and as she made this prudent resolution she quiteunintentionally looked up, and found his patient gaze again fixed uponher. 

"Oh, you are too severe, Miss Joliffe, " the architect said; "we shouldall be delighted to see a title come to Miss Anastasia, and, " he addedsoftly, "I am sure no one would become it better. "

He longed to drop the formal prefix of Miss, and to speak of her simplyas Anastasia. A few months before he would have done so naturally andwithout reflection, but there was something in the girl's manner whichled him more recently to forego this pleasure. 

Then the potential peeress got up and left the room. 

"I am just going to look after the bread, " she said; "I think it oughtto be baked by this time. "

Miss Joliffe's scruples were at last overborne, and Westray retained thepapers, partly because it was represented to her that if he did notexamine them it would be a flagrant neglect of the wishes of a deadman--wishes that are held sacred above all others in the circles towhich Miss Joliffe belonged--and partly because possession is ninepoints of the law, and the architect already had them safe under lockand key in his own room. But he was not able to devote any immediateattention to them, for a crisis in his life was approaching, whichtended for the present to engross his thoughts. 

He had entertained for some time an attachment to Anastasia Joliffe. When he originally became aware of this feeling he battled vigorouslyagainst it, and his efforts were at first attended with some success. He was profoundly conscious that any connection with the Joliffes wouldbe derogatory to his dignity; he feared that the discrepancy betweentheir relative positions was sufficiently marked to attract attention, if not to provoke hostile criticism. People would certainly say that anarchitect was marrying strangely below him, in choosing a landlady'sniece. If he were to do such a thing, he would no doubt be throwinghimself away socially. His father, who was dead, had been a Wesleyanpastor; and his mother, who survived, entertained so great a respect forthe high position of that ministry that she had impressed upon Westrayfrom boyhood the privileges and responsibilities of his birth. Butapart from this objection, there was the further drawback that an earlymarriage might unduly burden him with domestic cares, and so arrest hisprofessional progress. Such considerations had due weight with anequally-balanced mind, and Westray was soon able to congratulate himselfon having effectually extinguished any dangerous inclinations by sheerstrength of reason. 

This happy and philosophic state of things was not of long duration. His admiration smouldered only, and was not quenched, but it was atotally extraneous influence, rather than the constant contemplation ofAnastasia's beauty and excellencies, which fanned the flame into renewedactivity. This extraneous factor was the entrance of Lord Blandamerinto the little circle of Bellevue Lodge. Westray had lately becomedoubtful as to the real object of Lord Blandamer's visits, and nursed alatent idea that he was using the church, and the restoration, andWestray himself, to gain a _pied-a-terre_ at Bellevue Lodge for theprosecution of other plans. The long conversations in which thearchitect and the munificent donor still indulged, the examination ofplans, the discussion of details, had lost something of their oldsavour. Westray had done his best to convince himself that his ownsuspicions were groundless; he had continually pointed out to himself, and insisted to himself, that the mere fact of Lord Blandamercontributing such sums to the restoration as he either had contributed, or had promised to contribute, showed that the church was indeed hisprimary concern. It was impossible to conceive that any man, howeverwealthy, should spend many thousand pounds to obtain an entree toBellevue Lodge; moreover, it was impossible to conceive that LordBlandamer should ever marry Anastasia--the disparity in such a matchwould, Westray admitted, be still greater than in his own. Yet he wasconvinced that Anastasia was often in Lord Blandamer's thoughts. It wastrue that the Master of Fording gave no definite outward sign of anypredilection when Westray was present. He never singled Anastasia outeither for regard or conversation on such occasions as chance broughther into his company. At times he even made a show of turning away fromher, of studiously neglecting her presence. 

But Westray felt that the fact was there. 

There is some subtle effluence of love which hovers about one whoentertains a strong affection for another. Looks may be carefullyguarded, speech may be framed to mislead, yet that pervading ambient ofaffection is strong to betray where perception is sharpened by jealousy. 

Now and then the architect would persuade himself that he was mistaken;he would reproach himself with his own suspicious disposition, with hisown lack of generosity. But then some little episode would occur, somewholly undemonstrable trifle, which swept his cooler judgment to thewinds, and gave him a quite incommensurate heartburn. He would recall, for instance, the fact that for their interviews Lord Blandamer hadcommonly selected a Saturday afternoon. Lord Blandamer had explainedthis by saying that he was busy through the week; but then a lord wasnot like a schoolboy with a Saturday half-holiday. What business couldhe have to occupy him all the week, and leave him free on Saturdays? Itwas strange enough, and stranger from the fact that Miss EuphemiaJoliffe was invariably occupied on that particular afternoon at theDorcas meeting; stranger from the fact that there had been someunaccountable misunderstandings between Lord Blandamer and Westray as tothe exact hour fixed for their interviews, and that more than once whenthe architect had returned at five, he had found that Lord Blandamer hadtaken four as the time of their meeting, and had been already waiting anhour at Bellevue Lodge. 

Poor Mr Sharnall also must have noticed that something was going on, for he had hinted as much to Westray a fortnight or so before he died. Westray was uncertain as to Lord Blandamer's feelings; he gave thearchitect the idea of a man who had some definite object to pursue inmaking himself interesting to Anastasia, while his own affections werenot compromised. That object could certainly not be marriage, and if itwas not marriage, what was it? In ordinary cases an answer might havebeen easy, yet Westray hesitated to give it. It was hard to think thatthis grave man, of great wealth and great position, who had roamed theworld, and known men and manners, should stoop to common lures. YetWestray came to think it, and his own feelings towards Anastasia wereelevated by the resolve to be her knightly champion against all baseattempts. 

Can man's deepest love be deepened? Then it must surely be by theknowledge that he is protector as well as lover, by the knowledge thathe is rescuing innocence, and rescuing it for--himself. Thoughts suchas these bring exaltation to the humblest-minded, and they quickened theslow-flowing and thin fluid that filled the architect's veins. 

He came back one evening from the church weary with a long day's work, and was sitting by the fire immersed in a medley of sleepy andhalf-conscious consideration, now of the crack in the centre tower, nowof the tragedy of the organ-loft, now of Anastasia, when the elder MissJoliffe entered. 

"Dear me, sir, " she said, "I did not know you were in! I only came tosee your fire was burning. Are you ready for your tea? Would you likeanything special to-night? You do look so very tired. I am sure youare working too hard; all the running about on ladders and scaffoldsmust be very trying. I think indeed, sir, if I may make so bold, thatyou should take a holiday; you have not had a holiday since you came tolive with us. "

"It is not impossible, Miss Joliffe, that I may take your advice beforevery long. It is not impossible that I may before long go for aholiday. "

He spoke with that preternatural gravity which people are accustomed tothrow into their reply, if asked a trivial question when their ownthoughts are secretly occupied with some matter that they consider ofdeep importance. How could this commonplace woman guess that he wasthinking of death and love? He must be gentle with her and forgive herinterruption. Yes, fate might, indeed, drive him to take a holiday. Hehad nearly made up his mind to propose to Anastasia. It was scarcely tobe doubted that she would at once accept him, but there must be nohalf-measures, he would brook no shilly-shallying, he would not beplayed fast and loose with. She must either accept him fully andfreely, and at once, or he would withdraw his offer, and in that case, or still more in the entirely improbable case of refusal, he would leaveBellevue Lodge forthwith. 

"Yes, indeed, I may ere long have to go away for a holiday. "

The conscious forbearance of replying at all gave a quiet dignity to histone, and an involuntary sigh that accompanied his words was not lostupon Miss Joliffe. To her this speech seemed oracular and ominous;there was a sepulchral mystery in so vague an expression. He might_have_ to take a holiday. What could this mean? Was this poor youngman completely broken by the loss of his friend Mr Sharnall, or was heconscious of the seeds of some fell disease that others knew nothing of?He might _have to_ take a holiday. Ah, it was not a mere holiday ofwhich he spoke--he meant something more serious than that; his grave, sad manner could only mean some long absence. Perhaps he was going toleave Cullerne. 

To lose him would be a very serious matter to Miss Joliffe from thematerial point of view; he was her sheet-anchor, the last anchor thatkept Bellevue Lodge from drifting into bankruptcy. Mr Sharnall wasdead, and with him had died the tiny pittance which he contributed tothe upkeep of the place, and lodgers were few and far between inCullerne. Miss Joliffe might well have remembered these things, but shedid not. The only thought that crossed her mind was that if Mr Westraywent away she would lose yet another friend. She did not approach thematter from the material point of view, she looked on him only as afriend; she viewed him as no money-making machine, but only as that mostprecious of all treasures--a last friend. 

"I may have to leave you for awhile, " he said again, with the sameportentous solemnity. 

"I hope not, sir, " she interrupted, as though by her very eagerness shemight avert threatened evil--"I hope not; we should miss you terribly, Mr Westray, with dear Mr Sharnall gone too. I do not know what weshould do having no man in the house. It is so very lonely if you areaway even for a night. I am an old woman now, and it does not mattermuch for me, but Anastasia is so nervous at night since the dreadfulaccident. "

Westray's face brightened a little at the mention of Anastasia's name. Yes, his must certainly be a very deep affection, that the naming of hervery name should bring him such pleasure. It was on _his_ protection, then, that she leant; she looked on _him_ as her defender. The musclesof his not gigantic arms seemed to swell and leap to bursting in hiscoat-sleeves. Those arms should screen his loved one from all evil. Visions of Perseus, and Sir Galahad, and Cophetua, swept before hiseyes; he had almost cried to Miss Euphemia, "You need have no fear, Ilove your niece. I shall bow down and raise her to my throne. Theythat would touch her shall only do so over my dead body, " whenhesitating common-sense plucked him by the sleeve; he must consult hismother before taking this grave step. 

It was well that reason thus restrained him, for such a declarationmight have brought Miss Joliffe to a swoon. As it was, she noticed thecloud lifting on his face, and was pleased to think that herconversation cheered him. A little company was no doubt good for him, and she sought in her mind for some further topic of interest. Yes, ofcourse, she had it. 

"Lord Blandamer was here this afternoon. He came just like anyone elsemight have come, in such a very kind and condescending way to ask afterme. He feared that dear Mr Sharnall's death might have been too severea shock for us both, and, indeed, it has been a terrible blow. He wasso considerate, and sat for nearly an hour--for forty-seven minutes Ishould say by the clock, and took tea with us in the kitchen as if hewere one of the family. I never could have expected such condescension, and when he went away he left a most polite message for you, sir, to saythat he was sorry that you were not in, but he hoped to call againbefore long. "

The cloud had returned to Westray's face. If he had been the hero of anovel his brow would have been black as night; as it was he only lookedrather sulky. 

"I shall have to go to London to-night, " he said stiffly, withoutacknowledging Miss Joliffe's remarks; "I shall not be back to-morrow, and may be away a few days. I will write to let you know when I shallbe back. "

Miss Joliffe started as if she had received an electric shock. 

"To London to-night, " she began--"this very night?"

"Yes, " Westray said, with a dryness that would have suggested of itselfthat the interview was to be terminated, even if he had not added: "Ishall be glad to be left alone now; I have several letters to writebefore I can get away. "

So Miss Euphemia went to impart this strange matter to the maiden whowas _ex hypothesi_ leaning on the architect's strong arm. 

"What _do_ you think, Anastasia?" she said. "Mr Westray is going toLondon to-night, perhaps for some days. "

"Is he?" was all her niece's comment; but there was a languor andindifference in the voice, that might have sent the thermometer of thearchitect's affection from boiling-point to below blood-heat, if hecould have heard her speak. 

Westray sat moodily for a few moments after his landlady had gone. Forthe first time in his life he wished he was a smoker. He wished he hada pipe in his mouth, and could pull in and puff out smoke as he had seenSharnall do when _he_ was moody. He wanted some work for his restlessbody while his restless mind was turning things over. It was the newsof Lord Blandamer's visit, as on this very afternoon, that fannedsmouldering thoughts into flame. This was the first time, so far asWestray knew, that Lord Blandamer had come to Bellevue Lodge without atleast a formal excuse of business. With that painful effort which weuse to convince ourselves of things of which we wish to be convinced inthe face of all difficulties; with that blind, stumbling hope againsthope with which we try to reconcile things irreconcilable, if only by sodoing we can conjure away a haunting spectre, or lull to sleep a bittersuspicion; the architect had hitherto resolved to believe that if LordBlandamer came with some frequency to Bellevue Lodge, he was onlyprompted to do so by a desire to keep in touch with the restoration, tofollow with intelligence the expenditure of money which he was solavishly providing. It had been the easier for Westray to persuadehimself that Lord Blandamer's motives were legitimate, because he feltthat the other must find a natural attraction in the society of atalented young professional man. An occasional conversation with aclever architect on things architectural, or on other affairs of commoninterest (for Westray was careful to avoid harping unduly on any singletopic) must undoubtedly prove a relief to Lord Blandamer from themonotony of bachelor life in the country; and in such considerationsWestray found a subsidiary, and sometimes he was inclined to imagineprimary, interest for these visits to Bellevue Lodge. 

If various circumstances had conspired of late to impugn the sufficiencyof these motives, Westray had not admitted as much in his own mind; ifhe had been disquieted, he had constantly assured himself thatdisquietude was unreasonable. But now disillusion had befallen him. Lord Blandamer had visited Bellevue Lodge as it were in his own right;he had definitely abandoned the pretence of coming to see Westray; hehad been drinking tea with Miss Joliffe; he had spent an hour in thekitchen with Miss Joliffe and--Anastasia. It could only mean one thing, and Westray's resolution was taken. 

An object which had seemed at best but mildly desirable, became ofsingular value when he believed that another was trying to possesshimself of it; jealousy had quickened love, duty and conscience insistedthat he should save the girl from the snare that was being set for her. The great renunciation must be made; he, Westray, must marry beneathhim, but before doing so he would take his mother into his confidence, though there is no record of Perseus doing as much before he cut looseAndromeda. 

Meanwhile, no time must be lost; he would start this very night. Thelast train for London had already left, but he would walk to CullerneRoad Station and catch the night-mail from thence. He liked walking, and need take no luggage, for there were things that he could use at hismother's house. It was seven o'clock when he came to this resolve, andan hour later he had left the last house in Cullerne behind him, andentered upon his night excursion. 

The line of the Roman way which connected Carauna (Carisbury) with itsport Culurnum (Cullerne) is still followed by the modern road, and runsas nearly straight as may be for the sixteen miles which separate thoseplaces. About half-way between them the Great Southern main linecrosses the highway at right angles, and here is Cullerne Road Station. The first half of the way runs across a flat sandy tract called MalloryHeath, where the short greensward encroaches on the road, and where theeye roaming east or west or north can discern nothing except a limitlessexpanse of heather, broken here and there by patches of gorse andbracken, or by clumps of touselled and wind-thinned pines and Scotchfirs. The tawny-coloured, sandy, track is difficult to follow in thedark, and there are posts set up at intervals on the skirts of the wayfor travellers' guidance. These posts show out white against a starlessnight, and dark against the snow which sometimes covers the heath with asilvery sheet. 

On a clear night the traveller can see the far-off lamps of the stationat Cullerne Road a mile after he has left the old seaport town. Theystand out like a thin line of light in the distant darkness, a linecontinuous at first, but afterwards resolvable into individual units oflamps as he walks further along the straight road. Many a wearywayfarer has watched those lamps hang changeless in the distance, andchafed at their immobility. They seem to come no nearer to him for allthe milestones, with the distance from Hyde Park Corner graven in oldfigures on their lichened faces, that he has passed. Only theincreasing sound of the trains tells him that he is nearing his goal, and by degrees the dull rumble becomes a clanking roar as the expressesrush headlong by. On a crisp winter day they leave behind them a trailof whitest wool, and in the night-time a fiery serpent follows them whenthe open furnace-door flings on the cloud a splendid radiance. But inthe dead heats of midsummer the sun dries up the steam, and they speedalong, the more wonderful because there is no trace to tell what powerit is that drives them. 

Of all these things Westray saw nothing. A soft white fog had fallenupon everything. It drifted by in delicate whirling wreaths, thatseemed to have an innate motion of their own where all had been stillbut a minute before. It covered his clothes with a film of the finestpowdery moisture that ran at a touch into heavy drops, it hung indripping dew on his moustache, and hair, and eyebrows, it blinded him, and made him catch his breath. It had come rolling in from the sea ason that night when Mr Sharnall was taken, and Westray could hear thedistant groaning of fog-horns in the Channel; and looking backwardstowards Cullerne, knew from a blurred glare, now green, now red, that avessel in the offing was signalling for a coastwise pilot. He ploddedsteadily forward, stopping now and then when he found his feet on thegrass sward to recover the road, and rejoicing when one of the whiteposts assured him that he was still keeping the right direction. Theblinding fog isolated him in a strange manner; it cut him off fromNature, for he could see nothing of her; it cut him off from man, for hecould not have seen even a legion of soldiers had they surrounded him. This removal of outside influences threw him back upon himself, anddelivered him to introspection; he began for the hundredth time to weighhis position, to consider whether the momentous step that he was takingwas necessary to his ease of mind, was right, was prudent. 

To make a proposal of marriage is a matter that may give thestrongest-minded pause, and Westray's mind was not of the strongest. Hewas clever, imaginative, obstinate, scrupulous to a fault; but had notthat broad outlook on life which comes of experience, nor the power andresolution to readily take a decision under difficult circumstances, andto abide by it once taken. So it was that reason made a shuttlecock ofhis present resolve, and half a dozen times he stopped in the roadmeaning to abandon his purpose, and turn back to Cullerne. Yet half adozen times he went on, though with slow feet, thinking always, Was heright in what he was doing, was he right? And the fog grew thicker; itseemed almost to be stifling him; he could not see his hand if he heldit at arm's length before his face. Was he right, was there any rightor any wrong, was anything real, was not everything subjective--thecreation of his own brain? Did he exist, was he himself, was he in thebody or out of the body? And then a wild dismay, a horror of thedarkness and the fog, seized hold of him. He stretched out his arms, and groped in the mist as if he hoped to lay hold of someone, orsomething, to reassure him as to his own identity, and at last amind-panic got the better of him; he turned and started back toCullerne. 

It was only for a moment, and then reason began to recover her sway; hestopped, and sat down on the heather at the side of the road, carelessthat every spray was wet and dripping, and collected his thoughts. Hisheart was beating madly as in one that wakes from a nightmare, but hewas now ashamed of his weakness and of the mental _debacle_, thoughthere had been none to see it. What could have possessed him, whatmadness was this? After a few minutes he was able to turn round oncemore, and resumed his walk towards the railway with a firm, quick step, which should prove to his own satisfaction that he was master ofhimself. 

For the rest of his journey he dismissed bewildering questions of rightand wrong, of prudence and imprudence, laying it down as an axiom thathis emprise was both right and prudent, and busied himself with the morematerial and homely considerations of ways and means. He amused himselfin attempting to fix the sum for which it would be possible for him andAnastasia to keep house, and by mentally straining to the utmost theresources at his command managed to make them approach his estimate. Another man in similar circumstances might perhaps have given himself toreviewing the chances of success in his proposal, but Westray did nottrouble himself with any doubts on this point. It was a foregoneconclusion that if he once offered himself Anastasia would accept him;she could not be so oblivious to the advantages which such a marriagewould offer, both in material considerations and in the connection witha superior family. He only regarded the matter from his own standpoint;once he was convinced that _he_ cared enough for Anastasia to make heran offer, then he was sure that she would accept him. 

It was true that he could not, on the spur of the moment, recollect manyinstances in which she had openly evinced a predilection for him, but hewas conscious that she thought well of him, and she was no doubt toomodest to make manifest, feelings which she could never under ordinarycircumstances hope to see returned. Yet he certainly _had_ receivedencouragement of a quiet and unobtrusive kind, quite sufficient towarrant the most favourable conclusions. He remembered how many, manytimes their eyes had met when they were in one another's company; shemust certainly have read the tenderness which had inspired his glances, and by answering them she had given perhaps the greatest encouragementthat true modesty would permit. How delicate and infinitely graciousher acknowledgment had been, how often had she looked at him as it werefurtively, and then, finding his passionate gaze upon her, had at oncecast her own eyes shyly to the ground! And in his reveries he took notinto reckoning, the fact that through these later weeks he had scarcelyever taken his gaze off her, so long as she was in the same room withhim. It would have been strange if their eyes had not sometimes met, because she must needs now and then obey that impulse which forces us tolook at those who are looking at us. Certainly, he meditated, her eyeshad given him encouragement, and then she had accepted gratefully abunch of lilies of the valley which he said lightly had been given him, but which he had really bought _ad hoc_ at Carisbury. But, again, heought perhaps to have reflected that it would have been difficult forher to refuse them. How could she have refused them? How could anygirl under the circumstances do less than take with thanks a few liliesof the valley? To decline them would be affectation; by declining shemight attach a false and ridiculous significance to a kindly act. Yes, she had encouraged him in the matter of the lilies, and if she had notworn some of them in her bosom, as he had hoped she might, that, nodoubt, was because she feared to show her preference too markedly. Hehad noticed particularly the interest she had shown when a bad cold hadconfined him for a few days to the house, and this very evening had henot heard that she missed him when he was absent even for a night? Hesmiled at this thought, invisibly in the fog; and has not a man a rightto some complacence, on whose presence in the house hang a fair maiden'speace and security? Miss Joliffe had said that Anastasia felt nervouswhenever he, Westray, was away; it was very possible that Anastasia hadgiven her aunt a hint that she would like him to be told this, and hesmiled again in the fog; he certainly need have no fear of any rejectionof his suit. 

He had been so deeply immersed in these reassuring considerations thathe walked steadily on unconscious of all exterior objects and conditionsuntil he saw the misty lights of the station, and knew that his goal wasreached. His misgivings and tergiversations had so much delayed him bythe way, that it was past midnight, and the train was already due. There were no other travellers on the platform, or in the littlewaiting-room where a paraffin-lamp with blackened chimney struggledfeebly with the fog. It was not a cheery room, and he was glad to becalled back from a contemplation of a roll of texts hanging on the wall, and a bottle of stale water on the table, to human things by the entryof a drowsy official who was discharging the duties of station-master, booking-clerk, and porter all at once. 

"Are you waiting for the London train, sir?" he asked in a surprisedtone, that showed that the night-mail found few passengers at CullerneRoad. "She will be in now in a few minutes; have you your ticket?"

They went together to the booking-office. The station-master handed hima third-class ticket, without even asking how he wished to travel. 

"Ah, thank you, " Westray said, "but I think I will go first-classto-night. I shall be more likely to have a compartment to myself, andshall be less disturbed by people getting in and out. "

"Certainly, sir, " said the station-master, with the marked increase ofrespect due to a first-class passenger--"certainly, sir; please give meback the other ticket. I shall have to write you one--we do not keepthem ready; we are so very seldom asked for first-class at thisstation. "

"No, I suppose not, " Westray said. 

"Things happen funny, " the station-master remarked while he _got_ hispen. "I wrote one by this same train a month ago, and before that Idon't think we have ever sold one since the station was opened. "

"Ah, " Westray said, paying little attention, for he was engaged in a newmental disputation as to whether he was really justified in travellingfirst-class. He had just settled that at such a life-crisis as he hadnow reached, it was necessary that the body should be spared fatigue inorder that the mind might be as vigorous as possible for dealing with adifficult situation, and that the extra expense was therefore justified;when the station-master went on:

"Yes, I wrote a ticket, just as I might for you, for Lord Blandamer nota month ago. Perhaps you know Lord Blandamer?" he added venturously;yet with a suggestion that even the sodality of first-class travellingwas not in itself a passport to so distinguished an acquaintance. Themention of Lord Blandamer's name gave a galvanic shock to Westray'sflagging attention. 

"Oh yes, " he said, "I know Lord Blandamer. "

"Do you, indeed, sir"--and respect had risen by a skip greater than anyallowed in counterpoint. "Well, I wrote a ticket for his lordship bythis very train not a month ago; no, it was not a month ago, for 'twasthe very night the poor organist at Cullerne was took. "

"Yes, " said the would-be indifferent Westray; "where did Lord Blandamercome from?"

"I do not know, " the station-master replied--"I do _not_ know, sir, " herepeated, with the unnecessary emphasis common to the uneducated orunintelligent. 

"Was he driving?"

"No, he walked up to this station just as you might yourself. Excuseme, sir, " he broke off; "here she comes. "

They heard the distant thunder of the approaching train, and were intime to see the gates of the level-crossing at the end of the platformswing silently open as if by ghostly hands, till their red lanternsblocked the Cullerne Road. 

No one got out, and no one but Westray got in; there was someinterchanging of post-office bags in the fog, and then thestation-master-booking-clerk-porter waved a lamp, and the train steamedaway. Westray found himself in a cavernous carriage, of which the clothseats were cold and damp as the lining of a coffin. He turned up thecollar of his coat, folded his arms in a Napoleonic attitude, and threwhimself back into a corner to think. It was curious--it was verycurious. He had been under the impression that Lord Blandamer had leftCullerne early on the night of poor Sharnall's accident; Lord Blandamerhad told them at Bellevue Lodge that he was going away by the afternoontrain when he left them. Yet here he was at Cullerne Road at midnight, and if he had not come from Cullerne, whence had he come? He could nothave come from Fording, for from Fording he would certainly have takenthe train at Lytchett. It was curious, and while he was so thinking hefell asleep. 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN. 

A day or two later Miss Joliffe said to Anastasia:

"I think you had a letter from Mr Westray this morning, my dear, hadyou not? Did he say anything about his return? Did he say when he wascoming back?"

"No, dear aunt, he said nothing about coming back. He only wrote a fewlines on a matter of business. "

"Oh yes, just so, " Miss Joliffe said dryly, feeling a little hurt atwhat seemed like any lack of confidence on her niece's part. 

Miss Joliffe would have said that she knew Anastasia's mind so well thatno secrets were hid from her. Anastasia would have said that her auntknew everything except a few _little_ secrets, and, as a matter of fact, the one perhaps knew as much of the other as it is expedient that ageshould know of youth. "The mind is its own place, and in itself canmake a hell of heaven, a heaven of hell. " Of all earthly consolationsthis is the greatest, that the mind is its own place. The mind is animpregnable fortress which can be held against all comers, the mind is asanctuary open day or night to the pursued, the mind is a flowerypleasance where shade refreshes even in summer droughts. To sometrusted friend we try to give the clue of the labyrinth, but the ball ofsilk is too short to guide any but ourselves along all the way. Thereare sunny mountain-tops, there are innocent green arbours, or closes oftoo highly-perfumed flowers, or dank dungeons of despair, or guilty_mycethmi_ black as night, where we walk alone, whither we may lead noone with us by the hand. 

Miss Euphemia Joliffe would have liked to ignore altogether the matterof Westray's letter, and to have made no further remarks thereon; butcuriosity is in woman a stronger influence than pride, and curiositydrove her to recur to the letter. 

"Thank you, my dear, for explaining about it. I am sure you will tellme if there are any messages for me in it. "

"No, there was no message at all for you, I think, " said Anastasia. "Iwill get it for you by-and-by, and you shall see all he says;" and withthat she left the room as if to fetch the letter. It was only asubterfuge, for she felt Westray's correspondence burning a hole in herpocket all the while; but she was anxious that her aunt should not seethe letter until an answer to it had been posted; and hoped that if sheonce escaped from the room, the matter would drop out of memory. MissJoliffe fired a parting shot to try to bring her niece to her bearingsas she was going out:

"I do not know, my dear, that I should encourage any correspondence fromMr Westray, if I were you. It would be more seemly, perhaps, that heshould write to me on any little matter of business than to you. " ButAnastasia feigned not to hear her, and held on her course. 

She betook herself to the room that had once been Mr Sharnall's, butwas now distressingly empty and forlorn, and there finding writingmaterials, sat down to compose an answer to Westray's letter. She knewits contents thoroughly well, she knew its expressions almost by heart, yet she spread it out on the table before her, and read and re-read itas many times as if it were the most difficult of cryptograms. 

"Dearest Anastasia, " it began, and she found a grievance in the veryfirst word, "Dearest. " What right had he to call her "Dearest"? Shewas one of those unintelligible females who do not shower superlativeson every chance acquaintance. She must, no doubt, have been callous asjudged by modern standards, or at least, singularly unimaginative, foramong her few correspondents she had not one whom she addressed as"dearest. " No, not even her aunt, for at such rare times of absencefrom home as she had occasion to write to Miss Joliffe, "My dear AuntEuphemia" was the invocation. 

It was curious that this same word "Dearest" had occasioned Westray alsoconsiderable thought and dubiety. Should he call her "DearestAnastasia, " or "Dear Miss Joliffe"? The first sounded too forward, thesecond too formal. He had discussed this and other details with hismother, and the die had at last fallen on "Dearest. " At the worst suchan address could only be criticised as proleptic, since it must bejustified almost immediately by Anastasia's acceptance of his proposal. 

 "Dearest Anastasia--for dearest you are and ever will be to me--I feel sure that your heart will go out to meet my heart in what I am saying; that your kindness will support me in the important step which has now to be taken. "

Anastasia shook her head, though there was no one to see her. There wasa suggestion of fate overbearing prudence in Westray's words, asuggestion that he needed sympathy in an unpleasant predicament, thatjarred on her intolerably. 

 "I have known you now a year, and know that my happiness is centred in you; you too have known me a year, and I trust that I have read aright the message that your eyes have been sending to me. 

 "`For I shall happiest be to-night, Or saddest in the town; Heaven send I read their message right, Those eyes of hazel brown. '"

Anastasia found space in the press of her annoyance to laugh. It wasmore than a smile, it was a laugh, a quiet little laugh to herself, which in a man would have been called a buckle. Her eyes were not hazelbrown, they were no brown at all; but then brown rhymed with town, andafter all the verse might perhaps be a quotation, and must so be takenonly to apply to the situation in general. She read the sentence again, "I have known you now a year; you too have known me a year. " Westrayhad thought this poetic insistence gave a touch of romance, and balancedthe sentence; but to Anastasia it seemed the reiteration of a platitude. If he had known her a year, then she had known him a year, and to afemale mind the sequitur was complete. 

 "Have I read the message right, dearest? Is your heart my own?"

Message? What message did he speak of? What message did he imagine shehad wished to give _him_ with her eyes? He had stared at herpersistently for weeks past, and if her eyes sometimes caught his, thatwas only because she could not help it; except when between whiles sheglanced at him of set purpose, because it amused her to see how silly aman in love may look. 

 "Say that it is; tell me that your heart is my own" (and the request seemed to her too preposterous to admit even of comment). 

 "I watch your present, dear Anastasia, with solicitude. Sometimes I think that you are even now exposed to dangers of whose very existence you know nothing; and sometimes I look forward with anxiety to the future, so undecipherable, if misfortune or death should overtake your aunt. Let me help you to decipher this riddle. Let me be your shield now, and your support in the days to come. Be my wife, and give me the right to be your protector. I am detained in London by business for some days more; but I shall await your answer here with overwhelming eagerness, yet, may I say it? not without hope. 

 "Your most loving and devoted

 "Edward Westray. "

She folded the letter up with much deliberation, and put it back intoits envelope. If Westray had sought far and wide for means of damaginghis own cause, he could scarcely have found anything better calculatedfor that purpose than these last paragraphs. They took away much ofthat desire to spare, to make unpleasantness as little unpleasant as maybe, which generally accompanies a refusal. His sententiousness wasunbearable. What right had he to advise before he knew whether shewould listen to him? What were these dangers to which she was even nowexposed, and from which Mr Westray was to shield her? She askedherself the question formally, though she knew the answer all the while. Her own heart had told her enough of late, to remove all difficulty inreading between Mr Westray's lines. A jealous man is, if possible, more contemptible than a jealous woman. Man's greater strengthpostulates a broader mind and wider outlook; and if he fail in these, his failure is more conspicuous than woman's. Anastasia had traced tojealousy the origin of Westray's enigmatic remarks; but if she wasstrong enough to hold him ridiculous for his pains, she was also weakenough to take a woman's pleasure in having excited the interest of theman she ridiculed. 

She laughed again at the proposal that she should join him indeciphering any riddles, still more such as were undecipherable; and theair of patronage involved in his anxiety to provide for her future wasthe more distasteful in that she had great ideas of providing for itherself. She had told herself a hundred times that it was onlyaffection for her aunt that kept her at home. Were "anything to happen"to Miss Joliffe, she would at once seek her own living. She had oftenreckoned up the accomplishments which would aid her in such anendeavour. She had received her education--even if it were somewhatdesultory and discontinuous--at good schools. She had always been avoracious reader, and possessed an extensive knowledge of Englishliterature, particularly of the masters of fiction; she could play thepiano and the violin tolerably, though Mr Sharnall would have qualifiedher estimate. She had an easy touch in oils and water-colour, which herfather said she must have inherited from his mother--from that SophiaJoliffe who painted the great picture of the flowers and caterpillar, and her spirited caricatures had afforded much merriment to herschoolfellows. She made her own clothes, and was sure that she had ataste in matters of dress design and manufacture that would bring herdistinction if she were only given the opportunity of employing it; shebelieved that she had an affection for children, and a natural talentfor training them, though she never saw any at Cullerne. With giftssuch as these, which must be patent to others as well as herself, therewould surely be no difficulty in obtaining an excellent place asgoverness if she should ever determine to adopt that walk of life; andshe was sometimes inclined to gird at Fate, which for the present ledher to deprive the world of these benefits. 

In her inmost heart, however, she doubted whether she would be reallyjustified in devoting herself to teaching; for she was conscious thatshe might be called to fill a higher mission, and to instruct by the penrather than by word of mouth. As every soldier carries in his knapsackthe baton of the Field Marshal, so every girl in her teens knows thatthere lie hidden in the recesses of her _armoire_, the robes and coronetand full insignia of a first-rate novelist. She may not choose to takethem out and air them, the crown may tarnish by disuse, the moth ofindolence may corrupt, but there lies the panoply in which she may onany day appear fully dight, for the astonishment of an awakening world. Jane Austen and Maria Edgworth are heroines, whose aureoles shine in thepainted windows of such airy castles; Charlotte Bronte wrote hermasterpieces in a seclusion as deep as that of Bellevue Lodge; andAnastasia Joliffe thought many a time of that day when, afar off fromher watch-tower in quiet Cullerne, she would follow the triumphantprogress of an epoch-making romance. 

It would be published under a _nom de plume_, of course, she would notuse her own name till she had felt her feet; and the choice of thepseudonym was the only definite step towards this venture that she hadyet made. The period was still uncertain. Sometimes the action was tobe placed in the eighteenth century, with tall silver urns andspindled-legged tables, and breast-waisted dresses; sometimes in thestruggle of the Roses, when barons swam rivers in full armour after abloody bout; sometimes in the Civil War, when Vandyke drew the archedeyebrow and taper hand, and when the shadow of death was over all. 

It was to the Civil War that her fancy turned oftenest, and now andagain, as she sat before her looking-glass, she fancied that she had aVandyke face herself. And so it was indeed; and if the mirror wasfogged and dull and outworn, and if the dress that it reflected was notof plum or amber velvet, one still might fancy that she was a loyalistdaughter whose fortunes were fallen with her master's. The Limner ofthe King would have rejoiced to paint the sweet, young, oval face andlittle mouth; he would have found the space between the eyebrow and theeyelid to his liking. 

If the plot were still shadowy, her characters were always with her, inarmour or sprigged prints; and, the mind being its own place, she tookabout a little court of her own, where dreadful tragedies were enacted, and valorous deeds done; where passionate young love suffered and wept, and where a mere girl of eighteen, by consummate resolution, daring, beauty, genius, and physical strength, always righted the situation, andbrought peace at the last. 

With resources such as these, the future did not present itself in darkcolours to Anastasia; nor did its riddle appear to her nearly soundecipherable as Mr Westray had supposed. She would have resented, with all the confidence of inexperience, _any_ attempt to furnish herwith prospects; and she resented Westray's offer all the more vigorouslybecause it seemed to carry with it a suggestion of her own forlornposition, to insist unduly on her own good fortune in receiving such aproposal, and on his condescension in making it. 

There are women who put marriage in the forefront of life, whosethoughts revolve constantly about it as a centre, and with whom anadvantageous match, or, failing that, a match of some sort, is theprimary object. There are others who regard marriage as an eventuality, to be contemplated without either eagerness or avoidance, to be acceptedor declined according as its circumstances may be favourable orunfavourable. Again, there are some who seem, even from youth, toresolutely eliminate wedlock from their thoughts, to permit themselvesno mental discussion upon this subject. Though a man profess that hewill never marry, experience has shown that his resolve is often subjectto reconsideration. But with unmarrying women the case is different, and unmarried for the most part they remain, for man is often soweak-kneed a creature in matters of the heart, that he refrains frompursuing where an unsympathetic attitude discourages pursuit. It may bethat some of these women, also, would wish to reconsider their verdict, but find that they have reached an age when there is no place forrepentance; yet, for the most part, woman's resolve upon such matters ismore stable than man's, and that because the interests at stake inmarriage are for her more vital than can ever be the case with man. 

It was to the class of indifferentists that Anastasia belonged; sheneither sought nor shunned a change of state, but regarded marriage asan accident that, in befalling her, might substantially change theoutlook. It would render a life of teaching, no doubt, impossible;domestic or maternal cares might to some extent trammel even literaryactivity (for, married or not married, she was determined to fulfil hermission of writing), but in no case was she inclined to regard marriageas an escape from difficulties, as the solution of so trivial a problemas that of existence. 

She read Westray's letter once more from beginning to end. It wasduller than ever. It reflected its writer; she had always thought himunromantic, and now he seemed to her intolerably prosaic, conceited, pettifogging, utilitarian. To be his wife! She had rather slave as anursery-governess all her life! And how could she write fiction withsuch a one for mentor and company? He would expect her to be methodic, to see that eggs were fresh, and beds well aired. So, by thinking, shereasoned herself into such a theoretic reprobation of this attempt uponher, that his offer became a heinous crime. If she answered himshortly, brusquely, nay rudely, it would be but what he deserved formaking her ridiculous to herself by so absurd a proposal, and she openedher writing-case with much firmness and resolution. 

It was a little wooden case covered in imitation leather, with_Papeterie_ stamped in gold upon the top. She had no exaggeratednotions as to its intrinsic worth, but it was valuable in her eyes asbeing a present from her father. It was, in fact, the only gift he everhad bestowed upon her; but on this he had expended at least half acrown, in a fit of unusual generosity when he sent her with a greatflourish of trumpets to Mrs Howard's school at Carisbury. Sheremembered his very words. "Take this, child, " he said; "you are nowgoing to a first-class place of education, and it is right that youshould have a proper equipment, " and so gave her the _papeterie_. Ithad to cover a multitude of deficiencies, and poor Anastasialamented that it had not been a new hair-brush, half a dozenpocket-handkerchiefs, or even a sound pair of shoes. 

Still it had stood in good stead, for with it she had written all herletters ever since, and being the only receptacle with lock and key towhich she had access, she had made it a little ark and coffer forcertain girlish treasures. With such it was stuffed so full that theycame crowding out as she opened it. There were several letters to whichromance attached, relics of that delightful but far too shortschool-time at Carisbury; there was her programme, with rudely-scribblednames of partners, for the splendid dance at the term's end, to which aselection of other girls' brothers were invited; a pressed rose givenher by someone which she had worn in her bosom on that historicoccasion, and many other equally priceless mementoes. Somehow thesethings seemed now neither so romantic nor so precious as on formeroccasions; she was even inclined to smile, and to make light of them, and then a little bit of paper fluttered off the table on to the floor. She stooped and picked up the flap of an envelope with the coronet and"Fording" stamped in black upon it which she had found one day whenWestray's waste-paper basket was emptied. It was a simple deviceenough, but it must have furnished her food for thought, for it layunder her eyes on the table for at least ten minutes before she put itcarefully back into the _papeterie_, and began her letter to Westray. 

She found no difficulty in answering, but the interval of reflection hadsoothed her irritation, and blunted her animosity. Her reply wasneither brusque nor rude, it leant rather to conventionalism than tooriginality, and she used, after all, those phrases which have beencommonplaces in such circumstances, since man first asked and womanfirst refused. She thanked Mr Westray for the kind interest which hehad taken in her, she was deeply conscious of the consideration which hehad shown her. She was grieved--sincerely grieved--to tell him thatthings could not be as he wished. She was so afraid that her letterwould seem unkind; she did not mean it to be unkind. However difficultit was to say it now, she thought it was the truest kindness not todisguise from him that things _never_ could be as he wished. She pauseda little to review this last sentiment, but she allowed it to remain, for she was anxious to avoid any recrudescence of the suppliant'spassion, and to show that her decision was final. She should alwaysfeel the greatest esteem for Mr Westray; she trusted that the presentcircumstances would not interrupt their friendship in any way. Shehoped that their relations might continue as in the past, and in thishope she remained very truly his. 

She gave a sigh of relief when the letter was finished, and read itthrough carefully, putting in commas and semicolons and colons at whatshe thought appropriate places. Such punctilio pleased her; it was, sheconsidered, due from one who aspired to a literary style, and aimed atmaking a living by the pen. Though this was the first answer to aproposal that she had written on her own account, she was not altogetherwithout practice in such matters, as she had composed others for herheroines who had found themselves in like position. Her manner, also, was perhaps unconsciously influenced by a perusal of "The Young Person'sCompleat Correspondent, and Guide to Answers to be given in the VariousCircumstances of Life, " which, in a tattered calf covering, formed anitem in Miss Euphemia's library. 

It was not till the missive was duly sealed up and posted that she toldher aunt of what had happened. "There is Mr Westray's letter, " shesaid, "if you would care to read it, " and passed over to Miss Joliffethe piece of white paper on which a man had staked his fate. 

Miss Joliffe took the letter with an attempt to assume an indifferentmanner, which was unsuccessful, because an offer of marriage has aboutit a certain exhalation and atmosphere that betrays its importance evento the most unsuspicious. She was a slow reader, and, after wiping andadjusting her spectacles, sat down for a steady and patientconsideration of the matter before her. 

But the first word that she deciphered, "Dearest, " startled hercomposure, and she pressed on through the letter with a haste that wasforeign to her disposition. Her mouth grew rounder as she read, and shesighed out "Dear's" and "Dear Anastasia's" and "Dear Child's" atintervals as a relief to her feelings. 

Anastasia stood by her, following the lines of writing that she knew byheart, with all the impatience of one who is reading ten times fasterthan another who turns the page. 

Miss Joliffe's mind was filled with conflicting emotions; she was gladat the prospect of a more assured future that was opening before herniece, she was hurt at not having been taken sooner into confidence, forAnastasia must certainly have known that he was going to propose; shewas chagrined at not having noticed a courtship which had been carriedon under her very eyes; she was troubled at the thought that themarriage would entail the separation from one who was to her as a child. 

How weary she would find it to walk alone down the long paths of oldage! how hard it was to be deprived of a dear arm on whose support shehad reckoned for when "the slow dark hours begin"! But she thrust thisreflection away from her as selfish, and contrition for having harbouredit found expression in a hand wrinkled and roughened by hard wear, whichstole into Anastasia's. 

"My dear, " she said, "I am very glad at your good fortune; this is agreat thing that has befallen you. " A general content that Anastasiashould have received a proposal silenced her misgivings. 

To the recipient, an offer of marriage, be it good, bad, or indifferent, to be accepted or to be refused, brings a certain complacentsatisfaction. She may pretend to make light of it, to be displeased atit, to resent it, as did Anastasia; but in her heart of hearts therelurks the self-appreciating reflection that she has won the completestadmiration of a man. If he be a man that she would not marry under anyconditions, if he be a fool, or a spendthrift, or an evil-liver, he isstill a man, and she has captured him. Her relations share in the samepleasurable reflections. If the offer is accepted, then a future hasbeen provided for one whose future, maybe, was not too certain; if it isdeclined, then they congratulate themselves on the high morale or strongcommon-sense of a kinswoman who refuses to be won by gold, or to linkher destiny with an unsuitable partner. 

"It is a great thing, my dear, that has befallen you, " Miss Jolifferepeated. "I wish you all happiness, dear Anastasia, and may allblessings wait upon you in this engagement. "

"Aunt, " interrupted her niece, "please don't say that. I have refusedhim, _of course_; how could you think that I should marry Mr Westray?I never have thought of any such thing with him. I never had the leastidea of his writing like this. "

"You have refused him?" said the elder lady with a startled emphasis. Again a selfish reflection crossed her mind--they were not to be partedafter all--and again she put it resolutely away. She ran over in hermind all the possible objections that could have influenced her niece inarriving at such a conclusion. Religion was the keynote of MissJoliffe's life; to religion her thought reverted as the needle to thepole, and to it she turned for an explanation now. It must be somereligious consideration that had proved an obstacle to Anastasia. 

"I do not think you need find any difficulty in his having been broughtup as a Wesleyan, " she said, with a profound conviction that she had puther finger on the matter, and with some consciousness of her ownperspicacity. "His father has been dead some time, and though hismother is still alive, you would not have to live with her. I do notthink, dear, she would at all wish you to become a Methodist. As forour Mr Westray, your Mr Westray, I should say now, " and she assumedthat expression of archness which is considered appropriate to suchoccasions, "I am sure he is a sound Churchman. He goes regularly to theminster on Sundays, and I dare say, being an architect, and often inchurch on week-days, he has found out that the order of the Church ofEngland is more satisfactory than that of any other sect. Though I amsure I do not wish to say one word against Wesleyans; they are no doubttrue Protestants, and a bulwark against more serious errors. I rejoicethat your lover's early training will have saved him from anyinclination to ritualism. "

"My dear aunt, " Anastasia broke in, with a stress of earnest deprecationon the "dear" that startled her aunt, "please do _not_ go on like that. Do not call Mr Westray my lover; I have told you that I will havenothing to do with him. "

Miss Joliffe's thoughts had moved through a wide arc. Now that thisoffer of marriage was about to be refused, now that this engagement wasnot to be, the advantages that it offered stood out in high relief. Itseemed too sad that the curtain should be rung down just as the actionof a drama of intense interest was beginning, that the good should slipthrough their fingers just as they were grasping it. She gave nothought now to that fear of a lonely old age which had troubled her afew minutes before; she only saw the provision for the future whichAnastasia was wilfully sacrificing. Her hand tightened automatically, and crumpled a long piece of paper that she was holding. It was only amilkman's bill, and yet it might perhaps have unconsciously given amaterialistic colour to her thoughts. 

"We should not reject any good thing that is put before us, " she said alittle stiffly, "without being very certain that we are right to do so. I do not know what would become of you, Anastasia, if anything were tohappen to me. "

"That is exactly what he says, that is the very argument which he uses. Why should you take such a gloomy view of things? Why should something_happening_ always mean something bad. Let us hope something good willhappen, that someone else will make me a better offer. " She laughed, and went on reflectively: "I wonder whether Mr Westray will come backhere to lodge; I hope he won't. "

Hardly were the words out of her mouth when she was sorry for utteringthem, for she saw the look of sadness which overspread Miss Joliffe'sface. 

"Dear aunt, " she cried, "I am so sorry; I didn't mean to say that. Iknow what a difference it would make; we cannot afford to lose our lastlodger. I hope he _will_ come back, and I will do everything I can tomake things comfortable, short of marrying him. I will earn some moneymyself. I will _write_. "

"How will you write? Who is there to write to?" Miss Joliffe said, andthen the blank look on her face grew blanker, and she took out herhandkerchief. "There is no one to help us. Anyone who ever cared forus is dead long ago; there is no one to write to now. "

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. 

Westray played the role of rejected lover most conscientiously; hetreated the episode of his refusal on strictly conventional lines. Heassured himself and his mother that the light of his life wasextinguished, that he was the most unhappy of mortals. It was at thistime that he wrote some verses called "Autumn, " with a refrain of--

 "For all my hopes are cold and dead, And fallen like the fallen leaves, "

which were published in the _Clapton Methodist_, and afterwards set tomusic by a young lady who wished to bind up another wounded heart. Heattempted to lie awake of nights with indifferent success, and hinted inconversation at the depressing influence which insomnia exerts over itsvictims. For several meals in succession he refused to eat heartily ofsuch dishes as he did not like, and his mother felt serious anxiety asto his general state of health. She inveighed intemperately againstAnastasia for having refused her son, but then she would have inveighedstill more intemperately had Anastasia accepted him. She wearied himwith the portentous gloom which she affected in his presence, and quotedLady Clara Vere de Vere's cruelty in turning honest hearts to gall, tilleven the rejected one was forced to smile bitterly at so inapposite aparallel. 

Though Mrs Westray senior poured out the vials of her wrath onAnastasia for having refused to become Mrs Westray junior, she was atheart devoutly glad at the turn events had taken. At heart Westraycould not have said whether he was glad or sorry. He told himself thathe was deeply in love with Anastasia, and that this love was furtherennobled by a chivalrous desire to shield her from evil; but he couldnot altogether forget that the unfortunate event had at least saved himfrom the unconventionality of marrying his landlady's niece. He toldhimself that his grief was sincere and profound, but it was possiblethat chagrin and wounded pride were after all his predominant feelings. There were other reflections which he thrust aside as indecorous at thisacute stage of the tragedy, but which, nevertheless, were able toexercise a mildly consoling influence in the background. He would bespared the anxieties of early and impecunious marriage, his professionalcareer would not be weighted by family cares, the whole world was oncemore open before him, and the slate clean. These were considerationswhich could not prudently be overlooked, though it would be unseemly toemphasise them too strongly when the poignancy of regret should dominateevery other feeling. 

He wrote to Sir George Farquhar, and obtained ten days' leave of absenceon the score of indisposition; and he wrote to Miss Euphemia Joliffe totell her that he intended to seek other rooms. From the first he haddecided that this latter step was inevitable. He could not bear thedaily renewal of regret, the daily opening of the wound that would becaused by the sight of Anastasia, or by such chance intercourse with heras further residence at Bellevue Lodge must entail. There is no need tospeculate whether his decision was influenced in part by a concession tohumiliated pride; men do not take pleasure in revisiting the scenes of adisastrous rout, and it must be admitted that the possibility ofsummoning a lost love to his presence when he rang for boiling water, had in it something of the grotesque. He had no difficulty in findingother lodgings by correspondence, and he spared himself the necessity ofreturning at all to his former abode by writing to ask Clerk Janaway tomove his belongings. 

One morning, a month later, Miss Joliffe sat in that room which had beenoccupied by the late Mr Sharnall. She was alone, for Anastasia hadgone to the office of the _Cullerne Advertiser_ with an announcement inwhich one A. J. Intimated that she was willing to take a post asnursery-governess. It was a bright morning but cold, and Miss Joliffedrew an old white knitted shawl closer about her, for there was no firein the grate. There was no fire because she could not afford it, yetthe sun pouring in through the windows made the room warmer than thekitchen, where the embers had been allowed to die out since breakfast. She and Anastasia did without fire on these bright autumn days to savecoals; they ate a cold dinner, and went early to bed for the samereason, yet the stock in the cellar grew gradually less. Miss Joliffehad examined it that very morning, and found it terribly small; nor wasthere any money nor any credit left with which to replenish it. 

On the table before her was a pile of papers, some yellow, some pink, some white, some blue, but all neatly folded. They were foldedlengthways and to the same breadth, for they were Martin Joliffe'sbills, and he had been scrupulously neat and orderly in his habits. Itis true that there were among them some few that she had herselfcontracted, but then she had always been careful to follow exactly herbrother's method both of folding and also of docketing them on theexterior. Yes, no doubt she was immediately responsible for some, andshe knew just which they were from the outside without any need to openthem. She took up one of them: "Rose and Storey, importers of Frenchmillinery, flowers, feathers, ribbons, etcetera. Mantle and jacketshow-rooms. " Alas, alas! how frail is human nature! Even in the midstof her misfortunes, even in the eclipse of old age, such words stirredMiss Joliffe's interest--flowers, feathers, ribbons, mantles, andjackets; she saw the delightful show-room 19, 20, 21, and 22, MarketPlace, Cullerne--saw it in the dignified solitude of a summer morningwhen a dress was to be tried on, saw it in the crush and gloriousscramble of a remnant sale. "Family and complimentary mourning, costumes, skirts, etcetera; foreign and British silks, guaranteedmakes. " After that the written entry seemed mere bathos: "Material andtrimming one bonnet, 11 shillings and 9 pence; one hat, 13 shillings 6pence. Total, 1 pound 5 shillings 3 pence. " It really was not worthwhile making a fuss about, and the bunch of cherries and bit of spanglednet were well worth the 1 shilling 9 pence, that Anastasia's had costmore than hers. 

Hole, pharmaceutical chemist: "Drops, 1 shilling 6 pence; liniment, 1shilling; mixture, 1 shilling 9 pence, " repeated many times. "Cod-liveroil, 1 shilling 3 pence, and 2 shillings 6 pence, and 1 shilling 3 penceagain. 2 pounds 13 shillings 2 pence, with 4 shillings 8 penceinterest, " for the bill was four years old. That was for Anastasia at acritical time when nothing seemed to suit her, and Dr Ennefer feared adecline; but all the medicine for poor Martin was entered in DrEnnefer's own account. 

Pilkington, the shoemaker, had his tale to tell: "Miss Joliffe:Semi-pold. Lace boots, treble soles, 1 pound 1 shilling 0 pence. MissA. Jol. : Semi-pold. Lace boots, treble soles, 1 pound 1 shilling 0pence. 6 pair mohair laces, 9 pence. 3 ditto, silk, 1 shilling. " Yes, she was indeed a guilty woman. It was she that had "run up" _these_accounts, and she grew red to think that her own hand should have helpedto build so dismal a pile. 

Debt, like every other habit that runs counter to the common good, brings with it its own punishment, because society protects itself bymaking unpleasant the ways of such as inconvenience their neighbours. It is true that some are born with a special talent and capacity fordebt--they live on it, and live merrily withal, but most debtors feelthe weight of their chains, and suffer greater pangs than those whichthey inflict on any defrauded creditor. If the millstone grinds slowlyit grinds small, and undischarged accounts bring more pain than thegoods to which they relate ever brought pleasure. Among suchbitternesses surely most bitter are the bills for things of which thefruition has ceased--for worn-out finery, for withered flowers, fordrunk wine. Pilkington's boots, were they never so treble soled, couldnot endure for ever, and Miss Joliffe's eyes followed unconsciouslyunder the table to where a vertical fissure showed the lining white atthe side of either boot. Where were new boots to come from now, whencewas to come clothing to wear, and bread to eat?

Nay, more, the day of passive endurance was past; action had begun. TheCullerne Water Company threatened to cut off the water, the Cullerne GasCompany threatened to cut off the gas. Eaves, the milkman, threatened asummons unless that long, long bill of his (all built up of pitifullittle pints) was paid forthwith. The Thing had come to the _Triarii_, Miss Joliffe's front was routed, the last rank was wavering. What wasshe to do, whither was she to turn? She must sell some of thefurniture, but who would buy such old stuff? And if she sold furniture, what lodger would take half-empty rooms? She looked wildly round, shethrust her hands into the pile of papers, she turned them over with afeverish action, till she seemed to be turning hay once more as a littlegirl in the meadows at Wydcombe. Then she heard footsteps on thepavement outside, and thought for a moment that it was Anastasiareturned before she was expected, till a heavy tread told her that a manwas coming, and she saw that it was Mr Joliffe, her cousin, churchwarden and pork-butcher. His bulky and unwieldy form movedlevelly past the windows; he paused and looked up at the house as if tomake sure that he was not mistaken, and then he slowly mounted thesemicircular flight of stone steps and rang the bell. 

In person he was tall, but disproportionately stout for his height. Hisface was broad, and his loose double chin gave it a flabby appearance. A pallid complexion and black-grey hair, brushed straightly down wherehe was not bald, produced an impression of sanctimoniousness which wasincreased by a fawning manner of speech. Mr Sharnall was used to callhim a hypocrite, but the aspersion was false, as such an aspersioncommonly is. 

Hypocrites, in the pure and undiluted sense, rarely exist outside thepages of fiction. Except in the lower classes, where deceit thrivesunder the incentive of clerical patronage, men seldom assumedeliberately the garb of religion to obtain temporal advantages or tofurther their own ends. It is probable that in nine cases out of ten, where practice does not accord sufficiently with profession to pleasethe censorious, the discrepancy is due to inherent weakness of purpose, to the duality of our nature, and not to any conscious deception. If aman leading the lower life should find himself in religious, orhigh-minded, or pure society, and speak or behave as if he werereligious, or high-minded, or pure, he does so in nine cases out of tennot with any definite wish to deceive, but because he is temporarilyinfluenced by better company. For the time he believes what he says, orhas persuaded himself that he believes it. If he is froward with thefroward, so he is just with the just, and the more sympathetic andsusceptible his nature, the more amenable is he to temporary influences. It is this chameleon adaptability that passes for hypocrisy. 

Cousin Joliffe was no hypocrite, he acted up to his light; and even ifthe light be a badly-trimmed, greasy, evil-smelling paraffin-lamp, theman who acts up to it is only the more to be pitied. Cousin Joliffe wasone of those amateur ecclesiastics whose talk is of things religious, whom Church questions interest, and who seem to have missed theirvocation in not having taken Orders. If Canon Parkyn had been a HighChurchman, Cousin Joliffe would have been High Church; but the Canonbeing Low-Church, Cousin Joliffe was an earnest evangelical, as hedelighted to describe himself. He was rector's churchwarden, took aleading part in prayer-meetings, with a keen interest in school-treats, ham teas, and magic lanterns, and was particularly proud of having beenasked more than once to assist in the Mission Room at Carisbury, wherethe Vicar of Christ Church carried on revival work among the somnolentsurroundings of a great cathedral. He was without any sense of humouror any refinement of feeling--self-important, full of the dignity of hisoffice, thrifty to meanness, but he acted up to his light, and was nohypocrite. 

In that petty middle-class, narrow-minded and penuriously pretentious, which was the main factor of Cullerne life, he possessed considerableinfluence and authority. Among his immediate surroundings a word fromChurchwarden Joliffe carried more weight than an outsider would haveimagined, and long usage had credited him with the delicate position of_censor morum_ to the community. Did the wife of a parishioner ventureinto such a place of temptation as the theatre at Carisbury, was sheseen being sculled by young Bulteel in his new skiff of a summerevening, the churchwarden was charged to interview her husband, to pointout to him privately the scandal that was being caused, and to show himhow his duty lay in keeping his belongings in better order. Was a mantrying to carry fire in his bosom by dalliance at the bar of theBlandamer Arms, then a hint was given to his spouse that she should usesuch influence as would ensure evenings being spent at home. Did ayoung man waste the Sabbath afternoon in walking with his dog onCullerne Flat, he would receive "The Tishbite's Warning, a Discourseshowing the Necessity of a Proper Observance of the Lord's Day. " Did apig-tailed hoyden giggle at the Grammar School boys from her pew in theminster, the impropriety was reported by the churchwarden to her mother. 

On such occasions he was scrupulous in assuming a frock-coat and a silkhat. Both were well-worn, and designed in the fashion of another day;but they were in his eyes insignia of office, and as he felt the tailsof the coat about his knees they seemed to him as it were the skirts ofAaron's garment. Miss Joliffe was not slow to notice that he was thusequipped this morning; she knew that he had come to pay her a visit ofcircumstance, and swept her papers hurriedly into a drawer. She felt asif they were guilty things these bills, as if she had been engaged in aguilty action in even "going through" them, as if she had been detectedin doing that which she should not do, and guiltiest of all seemed thevery hurry of concealment with which she hid such compromising papers. 

She tried to perform that feat of mental gymnastics called retainingone's composure, the desperate and forced composure which the coinerassumes when opening the door to the police, the composure which a womanassumes in returning to her husband with the kisses of a lover tinglingon her lips. It _is_ a feat to change the current of the mind, to letthe burning thought that is dearest or bitterest to us go by the board, to answer coherently to the banalities of conversation, to check thethrobbing pulse. The feat was beyond Miss Joliffe's powers; she was buta poor actress, and the churchwarden saw that she was ill at ease as sheopened the door. 

"Good-morning, cousin, " he said with one of those interrogative glanceswhich are often more irritating and more difficult to parry than adirect question; "you are not looking at all the thing this morning. Ihope you are not feeling unwell; I hope I do not intrude. "

"Oh no, " she said, making as good an attempt at continuous speech as thequick beating of her heart allowed; "it is only that your visit is alittle surprise. I am a little flurried; I am not quite so young as Iwas. "

"Ay, " he said, as she showed him into Mr Sharnall's room, "we are allof us growing older; it behoves us to walk circumspectly, for we neverknow when we may be taken. " He looked at her so closely andcompassionately that she felt very old indeed; it really seemed as ifshe ought to be "taken" at once, as if she was neglecting her duty innot dying away incontinently. She drew the knitted shawl more tightlyround her spare and shivering body. 

"I am afraid you will find this room a little cold, " she said; "we arehaving the kitchen chimney cleaned, so I was sitting here. " She gave ahurried glance at the bureau, feeling a suspicion that she might nothave shut the drawer tight, or that one of the bills might have somehowgot left out. No, all was safe, but her excuse had not deceived thechurchwarden. 

"Phemie, " he said, not unkindly, though the word brought tears to hereyes, for it was the first time that anyone had called her by the oldchildhood name since the night that Martin died--"Phemie, you should notstint yourself in fires. It is a false economy; you must let me sendyou a coal ticket. "

"Oh no, thank you very much; we have plenty, " she cried, speakingquickly, for she would rather have starved outright, than that it shouldbe said a member of the Dorcas Society had taken a parish coal ticket. He urged her no more, but took the chair that she offered him, feeling alittle uncomfortable withal, as a well-clothed and overfed man should, in the presence of penury. It was true he had not been to see her forsome time; but, then, Bellevue Lodge was so far off, and he had been sopressed with the cares of the parish and of his business. Besides that, their walks of life were so different, and there was naturally a strongobjection to any kinswoman of his keeping a lodging-house. He feltsorry now that compassion had betrayed him into calling her "cousin" and"Phemie"; she certainly _was_ a distant kinswoman, but _not_, herepeated to himself, a cousin; he hoped she had not noticed hisfamiliarity. He wiped his face with a pocket-handkerchief that had seensome service, and gave an introductory cough. 

"There is a little matter on which I should like to have a few wordswith you, " he said, and Miss Joliffe's heart was in her mouth; he _had_heard, then, of these terrible debts and of the threatened summons. 

"Forgive me if I go direct to business. I am a business man and a plainman, and like plain speaking. "

It is wonderful to what rude remarks, and unkind remarks and untrueremarks such words as these commonly form the prelude, and how very fewof these plain speakers enjoy being plainly spoken to in turn. 

"We were talking just now, " he went on, "of the duty of walkingcircumspectly, but it is our duty, Miss Joliffe, to see that those overwhom we are set in authority walk circumspectly as well. I mean noreproach to you, but others beside me think it would be well that youshould keep closer watch over your niece. There is a nobleman of highstation that visits much too often at this house. I will _not_ name anynames"--and this with a tone of magnanimous forbearance--"but you willguess who I mean, because the nobility is not that frequent hereabout. I am sorry to have to speak of such things which ladies generally seequick enough for themselves, but as churchwarden I can't shut my ears towhat is matter of town talk; and more by token when a namesake of my ownis concerned. "

The composure which Miss Joliffe had been seeking in vain, came back toher at the pork-butcher's words, partly in the relief that he had notbroached the subject of debts which had been foremost in her mind, partly in the surprise and indignation occasioned by his talk ofAnastasia. Her manner and very appearance changed, and none would haverecognised the dispirited and broken-down old lady in the sharpness ofher rejoinder. 

"Mr Joliffe, " she apostrophised with tart dignity, "you must forgive mefor thinking that I know a good deal more about the nobleman in questionthan you do, and I can assure you _he_ is a perfect gentleman. If hehas visited this house, it has been to see Mr Westray about therestoration of the minster. I should have thought one that waschurchwarden would have known better than to go bandying scandals abouthis betters; it is small encouragement for a nobleman to take aninterest in the church if the churchwarden is to backbite him for it. "

She saw that her cousin was a little taken aback, and she carried thewar into the enemy's country, and gave another thrust. 

"Not but what Lord Blandamer has called upon me too, apart from MrWestray. And what have you to say to _that_? If his lordship hasthought fit to honour me by drinking a cup of tea under my roof, thereare many in Cullerne would have been glad to get out their best china ifhe had only asked himself to _their_ houses. And there are some mightwell follow his example, and show themselves a little oftener to theirfriends and relations. "

The churchwarden wiped his face again, and puffed a little. 

"Far be it from me, " he said, dwelling on the expression with all thepleasure that a man of slight education takes in a book phrase that hehas got by heart--"far be it from me to set scandals afloat--'twas _you_that used the word scandal--but I have daughters of my own to consider. I have nothing to say against Anastasia, who, I believe, is a good girlenough"--and his patronising manner grated terribly on MissJoliffe--"though I wish I could see her take more interest in theSunday-school, but I won't hide from you that she has a way of carryingherself and mincing her words which does _not_ befit her station. Itmakes people take notice, and 'twould be more becoming she should dropit, seeing she will have to earn her own living in service. I don'twant to say anything against Lord Blandamer either--he seems to bewell-intentioned to the church--but if tales are true the _old_ lord wasno better than he should be, and things have happened before now on yourside of the family, Miss Joliffe, that make connections feeluncomfortable about Anastasia. We are told that the sins of the fatherswill be visited to the third and fourth generation. "

"Well, " Miss Joliffe said, and made a formidable pause on this adverb, "if it is the manners of your side of the family to come and insultpeople in their own houses, I am glad I belong to the other side. "

She was alive to the profound gravity of such a sentiment, yet wasprepared to take her stand upon it, and awaited another charge from thechurchwarden with a dignity and confidence that would have become theOld Guard. But no fierce passage of arms followed; there was a pause, and if a dignified ending were desired the interview should here haveended. But to ordinary mortals the sound of their own voices is somusical as to deaden any sense of anticlimax; talking is continued fortalking's sake, and heroics tail off into desultory conversation. Bothsides were conscious that they had overstated their sentiments, and werecontent to leave main issues undecided. 

Miss Joliffe did not take the bills out of their drawer again after thechurchwarden had left her. The current of her ideas had been changed, and for the moment she had no thought for anything except the innuendoesof her visitor. She rehearsed to herself without difficulty theoccasions of Lord Blandamer's visits, and although she was fullypersuaded that any suspicions as to his motives were altogether withoutfoundation, she was forced to admit that he _had_ been at Bellevue Lodgemore than once when she had been absent. This was no doubt a purecoincidence, but we were enjoined to be wise as serpents as well asinnocent as doves, and she would take care that no further occasion wasgiven for idle talk. 

Anastasia on her return found her aunt unusually reserved and taciturn. Miss Joliffe had determined to behave exactly as usual to Anastasiabecause her niece was entirely free from fault; but she was vexed atwhat the churchwarden had said, and her manner was so mysterious andcoldly dignified as to convince Anastasia that some cause for seriousannoyance had occurred. Did Anastasia remark that it was a closemorning, her aunt looked frowningly abstracted and gave no reply; didAnastasia declare that she had not been able to get any 14knitting-needles, they were quite out of them, her aunt said, "Oh!" in atone of rebuke and resignation which implied that there were far moreserious matters in the world than knitting-needles. 

This dispensation lasted a full half-hour, but beyond that the kindlyold heart was quite unequal to supporting a proper hauteur. The sweetwarmth of her nature thawed the chilly exterior; she was ashamed of hermoodiness, and tried to "make up" for it to Anastasia by manifestationof special affection. But she evaded her niece's attempts at probingthe matter, and was resolved that the girl should know nothing of CousinJoliffe's suggestions or even of the fact of his visit. 

But if Anastasia knew nothing of these things, she was like to besingular in her ignorance. All Cullerne knew; it was in the air. Thechurchwarden had taken a few of the elders into his confidence, andasked their advice as to the propriety of his visit of remonstrance. The elders, male and female, heartily approved of his action, and had intheir turn taken into confidence a few of their intimate andspecially-to-be-trusted friends. Then ill-natured and tale-bearing MissSharp told lying and mischief-making Mrs Flint, and lying andmischief-making Mrs Flint talked the matter over at great length withthe Rector, who loved all kinds of gossip, especially of thehighly-spiced order. It was speedily matter of common knowledge thatLord Blandamer was at the Hand of God (so ridiculous of a lodging-housekeeper christening a public-house Bellevue Lodge!) at _all_ hours of theday _and_ night, and that Miss Joliffe was content to look at theceiling on such occasions; and worse, to go to meetings so as to leavethe field undisturbed (what intolerable hypocrisy making an excuse ofthe Dorcas meetings!); that Lord Blandamer loaded--simply loaded--thatpert and good-for-nothing girl with presents; that even the youngarchitect was forced to change his lodgings by such disreputablegoings-on. People wondered how Miss Joliffe and her niece had theeffrontery to show themselves at church on Sundays; the youngercreature, at least, must have _some_ sense of shame left, for she neverventured to exhibit in _public_ either the fine dresses or the jewellerythat her lover gave her. 

Such stories came to Westray's ears, and stirred in him the modicum ofchivalry which leavens the lump of most men's being. He was stillsmarting under his repulse, but he would have felt himself disgraced ifhe had allowed the scandal to pass unchallenged, and he rebutted it withsuch ardour that people shrugged their shoulders, and hinted that therehad been something between _him_, too, and Anastasia. 

Clerk Janaway was inclined to take a distressingly opportunist andmatter-of-fact view of the question. He neither reprobated nordefended. In his mind the Divine right of peers was firmly established. So long as they were rich and spent their money freely, we should notbe too particular. They were to be judged by standards other than thoseof common men; for his part, he was glad they had got in place of an oldcurmudgeon a man who would take an interest in the Church, and spendmoney on the place and the people. If he took a fancy to a pretty face, where was the harm? 'Twas nothing to the likes of them, best let wellalone; and then he would cut short the churchwarden's wailings and godlylamentations by "decanting" on the glories of Fording, and the boon itwas to the countryside to have the place kept up once more. 

"Clerk Janaway, your sentiments do you no credit, " said the pork-butcheron one such occasion, for he was given to gossip with the sexton onterms of condescending equality. "I have seen Fording myself, havingdriven there with the Carisbury Field Club, and felt sure it must be asource of temptation if not guarded against. That one man should livein such a house is an impiety; he is led to go about likeNebuchadnezzar, saying: `Is not this great Babylon that I havebuilded?'"

"_He_ never builded it, " said the clerk with some inconsequence; "'twerebuilded centuries ago. I've heard 'tis that old no one don't know _who_builded it. Your parents was Dissenters, Mr Joliffe, and never taughtyou the Catechism when you was young; but as for me, I order myself tomy betters as I should, so long as they orders themselves to me. 'Taintno use to say as how we're all level; you've only got to go to Mothers'Meetings, my old missus says, to see that. 'Tis no use looking for toomuch, nor eating salt with red herrings. "

"Well, well, " the other deprecated, "I'm not blaming his lordship somuch as them that lead him on. "

"Don't go for to blame the girl, neither, too hardly; there's faults onboth sides. His grandfather didn't always toe the line, and there weresome on her side didn't set too good an example, neither. I've seenmany a queer thing in my time, and have got to think blood's blood, andforerunners more to blame than children. If there's drink in fathers, there'll be drink in sons and grandsons till 'tis worked out; and ifthere's wild love in the mothers, daughters 'll likely sell their applestoo. No, no, God-amighty never made us equal, and don't expect us allto be churchwardens. Some on us comes of virtuous forerunners, and areborn with wings at the back of our shoulders like you"--and he gave awhimsical look at his listener's heavy figure--"to lift us up to thevaulting; and some on us our fathers fits out with lead soles to thebottom of our boots to keep us on the floor. "

Saturday afternoon was Lord Blandamer's hour, and for three Saturdaysrunning Miss Joliffe deserted the Dorcas meeting in order to keep guardat home. It rejoiced the moral hearts of ill-natured and tale-bearingMiss Sharp and of lying and mischief-making Mrs Flint that thedisreputable old woman had at least the decency not to show herselfamong her betters, but such defection was a sore trial to Miss Joliffe. She told herself on each occasion that she _could_ not make such asacrifice again, and yet the love of Anastasia constrained her. To herniece she offered the patent excuse of being unwell, but the girlwatched her with wonder and dismay chafe feverishly through the twohours, which had been immemorially consecrated to these meetings. Therecurrence of a weekly pleasure, which seems so limitless in youth andmiddle age, becomes less inexhaustible as life turns towards sunset. Thirty takes lightly enough the foregoing of a Saturday reunion, theuncongenial spending of a Sunday; but seventy can see the end of theseries, and grudges every unit of the total that remains. 

For three Saturdays Miss Joliffe watched, and for three Saturdays nosuspicious visitor appeared. 

"We have seen nothing of Lord Blandamer lately, " she would remark atfrequent intervals with as much indifference as the subject would allow. 

"There is nothing to bring him here now that Mr Westray has gone. Whyshould he come?"

Why, indeed, and what difference would it make to her if he never cameagain? These were questions that Anastasia had discussed with herself, at every hour of every day of those blank three weeks. She had ampletime for such foolish discussions, for such vain imaginings, for she wasleft much to herself, having no mind-companions either of her own age orof any other. She was one of those unfortunate persons whose educationand instincts' unfit them for their position. The diversions of youthhad been denied her, the pleasures of dress or company had never beenwithin her reach. For pastime she was turned back continually to herown thoughts, and an active imagination and much desultory reading hadeducated her in a school of romance, which found no counterpart in thelife of Cullerne. She was proud at heart (and it is curious that thoseare often the proudest who in their neighbours' estimation have leastcause for pride), but not conceited in manner in spite of Mr Joliffe'sanimadversion on the mincing of her words. Yet it was not her pridethat had kept her from making friends, but merely the incompatibility ofmental temperament, which builds the barrier not so much betweeneducation and ignorance, as between refinement and materialism, betweenromance and commonplace. 

That barrier is so insurmountable that any attempt upon it must end infailure that is often pathetic from its very hopelessness; even thewarmth of ardent affection has never yet succeeded in evolving a mentalcompanionship from such discordant material. By kindly dispensation ofnature the breadth of the gulf, indeed, is hidden from those who cannotcross it. They know it is there, they have some inkling of thedifference of view, but they think that love may build a bridge across, or that in time they may find some other access to the further side. Sometimes they fancy that they are nearer to the goal, that they walkstep and step with those they love; but this, alas! is not to be, because the mental sympathy, the touch of illumination that welds mindstogether, is wanting. 

It was so with Miss Joliffe the elder--she longed to be near her niece, and was so very far away; she thought that they went hand in hand, whenall the while a different mental outlook set them poles asunder. Withall her thousand good honest qualities, she was absolutely alien to thegirl; and Anastasia felt as if she was living among people of anothernation, among people who did not understand her language, and she tookrefuge in silence. 

The dulness of Cullerne had grown more oppressive to her in the lastyear. She longed for a life something wider, she longed for sympathy. She longed for what a tall and well-favoured maiden of her years mostnaturally desires, however much she may be ignorant of her desire; shelonged for someone to admire her and to love her; she longed for someoneabout whom she could weave a romance. 

The junior partner in Rose and Storey perhaps discerned her need, andtried to supply it. He paid her such odious compliments on the "hang ofher things, " that she would never have entered the shop again, were itnot that Bellevue Lodge was bound hand and foot to Rose and Storey, forthey were undertakers as well as milliners; and, besides, the littleaffair of the bonnets, the expenses of Martin's funeral, were stillunsatisfied. There was a young dairy farmer, with a face like a redharvest moon, who stopped at her aunt's door on his way to market. Hewould sell Miss Joliffe eggs and butter at wholesale prices, and grinnedin a most tiresome way whenever he caught sight of Anastasia. TheRector patronised her insufferably; and though old Mr Noot was kind, hetreated her like a small child, and sometimes patted her cheek, whichshe felt to be disconcerting at eighteen. 

And then the Prince of Romance appeared in Lord Blandamer. The momentthat she first saw him on the doorstep that windy autumn afternoon, whenyellow leaves were flying, she recognised him for a prince. The momentthat he spoke to her she knew that he recognised her for a lady, and forthis she felt unspeakably glad and grateful. Since then the wonder hadgrown. It grew all the faster from the hero's restraint. He had seenAnastasia but little, he spoke but little to her, he never gave her evena glance of interest, still less such glances as Westray launched at herso lavishly. And yet the wonder grew. He was so different from othermen she had seen, so different from all the other people she had evermet. She could not have told how she knew this, and yet she knew. Itmust have been an atmosphere which followed him wherever he went--thatpenumbra with which the gods wrap heroes--which told her he wasdifferent. 

The gambits of the great game of love are strangely limited, and thereis little variation in the after-play. If it were not for the personalshare we take, such doings would lack interest by reason of theirmonotony, by their too close resemblance to the primeval type. This iswhy the game seems dull enough to onlookers; they shock us with thecallousness with which they are apt to regard our ecstasies. This iswhy the straightforward game palls sometimes on the players themselvesafter a while; and why they are led to take refuge from dulness insolving problems, in the tangled irregularities of the knight's move. 

Anastasia would have smiled if she had been told that she had fallen inlove; it might have been a thin smile, pale as winter's sunshine, butshe would have smiled. It was _impossible_ for her to fall in love, because she knew that kings no longer marry beggar-maids, and she wasfar too well brought up to fall in love, except as a preliminary tomarriage. No heroine of Miss Austen would permit herself even to feelattraction to a quarter from which no offer of marriage was possible;therefore Anastasia could not have fallen in love. She certainly wasnot in the least in love, but it was true Lord Blandamer interested her. He interested her so much, in fact, as to be in her thoughts at allhours of the day; it was strange that no matter with what things hermind was occupied, his image should continually present itself. Shewondered why this was; perhaps it was his power--she thought it was thefeeling of his power, a very insolence of power that dominated all theselittle folk, and yet was most powerful in its restraint. She liked tothink of the compact, close-knit body, of the curling, crisp, iron-greyhair, of the grey eyes, and of the hard, clear-cut face. Yes, she likedthe face because it _was_ hard, because it had a resolute look in itthat said he meant to go whither he wished to go. 

There was no doubt she must have taken considerable interest in him, forshe found herself dreading to pronounce his name even in the mostordinary conversation, because she felt it difficult to keep her voiceat the dead level of indifference. She dreaded when others spoke ofhim, and yet there was no other subject that occupied her so much. Andsometimes when they talked of him she had a curious feeling of jealousy, a feeling that no one had a right even to talk of him except herself;and she would smile to herself with a little scornful smile, because shethought that she knew more about him, could understand him better thanthem all. It was fortunate, perhaps, that the arbitrament of Cullerneconversation did not rest with Anastasia, or there would have been butlittle talking at this time; for if it seemed preposterous that othersshould dare to discuss Lord Blandamer, it seemed equally preposterousthat they should take an interest in discussing anything else. 

She certainly was _not_ in love; it was only the natural interest, shetold herself, that anyone--anyone with education and refinement--musttake in a strange and powerful character. Every detail about himinterested her. There was a fascination in his voice, there was amelody in his low, clear voice that charmed, and made even triflingremarks seem important. Did he but say it was a rainy afternoon, did hebut ask if Mr Westray were at home, there was such mystery in his tonethat no rabbinical cabalist ever read more between the lines than didMiss Anastasia Joliffe. Even in her devotions thought wandered far fromthe pew where she and her aunt sat in Cullerne Church; she found hereyes looking for the sea-green and silver, for the nebuly coat in AbbotVinnicomb's window; and from the clear light yellow of the aureole roundJohn Baptist's head, fancy called up a whirl of faded lemon-colouredacacia leaves, that were in the air that day the hero first appeared. 

Yet, if heart wavered, head stood firm. He should never know herinterest in him; no word, no changing colour should ever betray her; heshould never guess that agitation sometimes scarcely left her breath tomake so short a rejoinder as "Good-night. "

For three Saturdays, then, Miss Joliffe the elder sat on guard atBellevue Lodge; for three Saturday afternoons in succession, she sat andchafed as the hours of the Dorcas meeting came and went. But nothinghappened; the heavens remained in their accustomed place, the minstertower stood firm, and then she knew that the churchwarden had beenduped, that her own judgment had been right, that Lord Blandamer's onlymotive for coming to her house had been to see Mr Westray, and that nowMr Westray was gone Lord Blandamer would come no more. The fourthSaturday arrived; Miss Joliffe was brighter than her niece had seen herfor a calendar month. 

"I feel a good deal better, my dear, this afternoon, " she said; "I thinkI shall be able to go to the Dorcas meeting. The room gets so closethat I have avoided going of late, but I think I shall not feel it toomuch to-day. I will just change, and put on my bonnet; you will notmind staying at home while I am away, will you?" And so she went. 

Anastasia sat in the window-seat of the lower room. The sash was open, for the spring days were lengthening, and a soft, sweet air was movingabout sundown. She told herself that she was making a bodice; an openworkbox stood beside her, and there was spread around just such a medleyof patterns, linings, scissors, cotton-reels, and buttons as is requiredfor the proper and ceremonious carrying on of "work. " But she was notworking. The bodice itself, the very cause and spring of all thesepreparations, lay on her lap, and there, too, had fallen her hands. Shehalf sat, half lay back on the window-seat, roaming in fancy far away, while she drank in the breath of the spring, and watched a little patchof transparent yellow sky between the houses grow pinker and moregolden, as the sunset went on. 

Then a man came down the street and mounted the steps in front ofBellevue Lodge; but she did not see him, because he was walking in fromthe country, and so did not pass her window. It was the door-bell thatfirst broke her dreams. She slid down from her perch, and hastened tolet her aunt in, for she had no doubt that it was Miss Joliffe who hadcome back from the meeting. The opening of the front-door was not athing to be hurried through, for though there was little indeed inBellevue Lodge to attract burglars, and though if burglars came theywould surely select some approach other than the main entrance, yet MissJoliffe insisted that when she was from home the door should be securedas if to stand a siege. So Anastasia drew the top bolt, and slipped thechain, and unlocked the lock. There was a little difficulty with thebottom bolt, and she had to cry out: "I am sorry for keeping youwaiting; this fastening _will_ stick. " But it gave at last; she swungthe heavy door back, and found herself face to face with Lord Blandamer. 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. 

They stood face to face, and looked at one another for a second. Anyoneseeing those two figures silhouetted against the yellow sunset sky mighthave taken them for cousins, or even for brother and sister. They wereboth dressed in black, were both dark, and of nearly the same height, for though the man was not short, the girl was very tall. 

The pause that Anastasia made was due to surprise. A little while agoit would have been a natural thing enough to open the door and find LordBlandamer, but the month that had elapsed since last he came to BellevueLodge had changed the position. It seemed to her that she stood beforehim confessed, that he must know that all these weeks she had beenthinking of him, had been wondering why he did not come, had beenlonging for him to come, that he must know the pleasure which filled hernow because he was come back again. And if he knew all this, she, too, had learnt to know something, had learnt to know how great a portion ofher thoughts he filled. This eating of the tree of knowledge hadabashed her, for now her soul stood before her naked. Did it so standnaked before him too? She was shocked that she should feel thisattraction where there could be no thought of marriage; she thought thatshe should die if he should ever guess that one so lowly had gazed uponthe sun and been dazzled. 

The pause that Lord Blandamer made was not due to surprise, for he knewquite well that it would be Anastasia who opened the door. It wasrather that pause which a man makes who has undertaken a difficultbusiness, and hesitates for a moment when it comes to the touch. Shecast her eyes down to the ground; he looked full at her, looked at herfrom head to foot, and knew that his resolution was strong enough tocarry to a conclusion the affair on which he had come. She spoke first. 

"I am sorry my aunt is not at home, " and kept her right hand on the edgeof the open door, feeling grateful for any support. As the words cameout she was relieved to find that it was indeed she herself who wasspeaking, that it was her own voice, and that her voice sounded much asusual. 

"I am sorry she is not in, " he said, and he, too, spoke after all injust those same low, clear tones to which she was accustomed--"I amsorry she is not in, but it was _you_ that I came to see. "

She said nothing; her heart beat so fast that she could not have spokeneven in monosyllables. She did not move, but kept her hand still on theedge of the door, feeling afraid lest she should fall if she let it go. 

"I have something I should like to say to you; may I come in?"

She hesitated for a moment, as he knew that she would hesitate, and thenlet him in, as he knew that she would let him in. He shut the heavyfront-door behind them, and there was no talk now of turning locks orshooting bolts; the house was left at the mercy of any burglars whomight happen to be thereabout. 

Anastasia led the way. She did not take him into Mr Sharnall's oldroom, partly because she had left half-finished clothes lying there, andpartly from the more romantic reflection that it was in Westray's roomthat they had met before. They walked through the hall and up thestairs, she going first and he following, and she was glad of thetemporary respite which the long flights secured her. They entered theroom, and again he shut the door behind them. There was no fire, andthe window was open, but she felt as if she were in a fiery furnace. Hesaw her distress, but made as if he saw nothing, and pitied her for theagitation which he caused. For the past six months Anastasia hadconcealed her feelings so very well that he had read them like a book. He had watched the development of the plot without pride, or pleasure ofsuccess, without sardonic amusement, without remorse; with some dislikefor a role which force of circumstances imposed on him, but with anunwavering resolve to walk the way which he had set before him. He knewthe exact point which the action of the play had reached, he knew thatAnastasia would grant whatever he asked of her. 

They were standing face to face again. To the girl it all seemed adream; she did not know whether she was waking or sleeping; she did notknow whether she was in the body or out of the body. It was all adream, but it was a delightful dream; there was no bitterness ofreflection now, no anxiety, no regard for past or future, only utterabsorption in the present moment. She was with the man who hadpossessed her thoughts for a month past; he had come back to her. Shehad not to consider whether she should ever see him again; he was withher now. She had not to think whether he was there for good or evil, she had lost all volition in the will of the man who stood before her;she was the slave of his ring, rejoicing in her slavery, and ready to dohis bidding as all the other slaves of that ring. 

He was sorry for the feelings which he had aroused, sorry for theaffection he had stirred, sorry for the very love of himself that he sawwritten in her face. He took her hand in his, and his touch filled herwith an exquisite content; her hand lay in his neither lifelessly norentirely passively, yet only lightly returning the light pressure of hisfingers. To her the situation was the supreme moment of a life; to himit was passionless as the betrothal piece in a Flemish window. 

"Anastasia, " he said, "you guess what it is I have to tell you; youguess what it is that I have to ask you. "

She heard him speaking, and his voice was as delightful music in herdelightful dream; she knew that he was going to ask something of her, and she knew that she would give him anything and all that he asked. 

"I know that you love me, " he went on, with an inversion of the dueorder of the proposition, and an assumption that would have beenintolerable in anyone else, "and you know that I love you dearly. " Itwas a proper compliment to her perspicuity that she should know alreadythat he loved her, but his mind smiled as he thought how insufficientsometimes are the bases of knowledge. "I love you dearly, and am cometo ask you to be my wife. "

She heard what he said, and understood it; she had been prepared for hisasking anything save this one thing that he had asked. The surprise ofit overwhelmed her, the joy of it stunned her; she could neither speaknor move. He saw that she was powerless and speechless, and drew hercloser to him. There was none of the impetuous eagerness of a lover inthe action; he drew her gently towards him because it seemed appropriateto the occasion that he should do so. She lay for a minute in his arms, her head bent down, and her face hidden, while he looked not so much ather as above her. His eyes wandered over the mass of her dark-brownwavy hair that Mrs Flint said was not wavy by nature, but crimped tomake her look like a Blandamer, and so bolster up her father'snonsensical pretensions. His eyes took full account of that wave andthe silken fineness of her dark-brown hair, and then looked vaguely outbeyond till they fell on the great flower-picture that hung on theopposite wall. 

The painting had devolved upon Westray on Mr Sharnall's death, but hehad not yet removed it, and Lord Blandamer's eyes rested on it now sofixedly, that he seemed to be thinking more of the trashy flowers and ofthe wriggling caterpillar, than of the girl in his arms. His mind cameback to the exigencies of the situation. 

"Will you marry me, Anastasia--will you marry me, dear Anstice?" Thehome name seemed to add a touch of endearment, and he used it advisedly. "Anstice, will you let me make you my wife?"

She said nothing, but threw her arms about his neck, and raised her facea little for the first time. It was an assent that would have contentedany man, and to Lord Blandamer it came as a matter of course; he hadnever for a moment doubted her acceptance of his offer. If she hadraised her face to be kissed, her expectation was gratified; he kissedher indeed, but only lightly on the brow, as actor may kiss actress onthe stage. If anyone had been there to see, they would have known fromhis eyes that his thoughts were far from his body, that they were busiedwith somebody or something, that seemed to him of more importance thanthe particular action in which he was now engaged. But Anastasia sawnothing; she only knew that he had asked her to marry him, and that shewas in his arms. 

He waited a moment, as if wondering how long the present position wouldcontinue, and what was the next step to take; but the girl was the firstto relieve the tension. The wildest intoxication of the first surprisewas passing off, and with returning capacity for reflection a doubt hadarisen that flung a shadow like a cloud upon her joy. She disengagedherself from his arms that strove in orthodox manner to retain her. 

"Don't, " she said--"don't. We have been too rash. I know what you haveasked me. I shall remember it always, and love you for it to my dyingday, but it cannot be. There are things you must know before you askme. I do not think you would ask me if you knew all. "

For the first time he seemed a little more in earnest, a little morelike a man living life, a little less like a man rehearsing a part thathe had got by heart. This was an unexpected piece of action, an episodethat was not in his acting edition, that put him for the moment at aloss; though he knew it could not in any way affect the main issues ofthe play. He expostulated, he tried to take her hand again. 

"Tell me what it is, child, that is troubling you, " he said; "there canbe nothing, nothing under heaven that could make me wish to unsay what Ihave said, nothing that could make us wish to undo what we have done. Nothing can rob me now of the knowledge that you love me. Tell me whatit is. "

"I cannot tell you, " she answered him. "It is something I cannot tell;don't ask me. I will write it. Leave me now--please leave me; no oneshall know that you have been here, no one must know what has passedbetween us. "

Miss Joliffe came back from the Dorcas meeting a little downhearted andout of humour. Things had not gone so smoothly as usual. No one hadinquired after her health, though she had missed three meetings insuccession; people had received her little compliments and cheerysmall-talk with the driest of negatives or affirmatives; she had anuncomfortable feeling that she was being cold-shouldered. That highmoralist, Mrs Flint, edged her chair away from the poor lady of setpurpose, and Miss Joliffe found herself at last left isolated from all, except Mrs Purlin, the builder's wife, who was far too fat andlethargic to be anything but ignorantly good-natured. Then, in a fit ofpained abstraction, Miss Joliffe had made such a bad calculation asentirely to spoil a flannel petticoat with a rheumatic belt and camphorpockets, which she had looked upon as something of a _chef d'oeuvre_. 

But when she got back to Bellevue Lodge her vexation vanished, and wasentirely absorbed in solicitude for her niece. 

Anstice was unwell, Anstice was quite ill, quite flushed, andcomplaining of headache. If Miss Joliffe had feigned indisposition forthree Saturdays as an excuse for not leaving the house, Anastasia hadlittle need for simulation on this the fourth Saturday. She was, ineffect, so dazed by the event which had happened, and so preoccupied byher own thoughts, that she could scarcely return coherent replies to heraunt's questions. Miss Joliffe had rung and received no answer, haddiscovered that the front-door was unlocked, and had at last foundAnastasia sitting forlorn in Mr Westray's room with the window open. Achill was indicated, and Miss Joliffe put her to bed at once. 

Bed is a first aid that even ambulance classes have not entirely taughtus to dispense with; it is, moreover, a poor man's remedy, beingexceedingly cheap, if, indeed, the poor man is rich enough to have a bedat all. Had Anastasia been Miss Bulteel, or even Mrs Parkyn, or lyingand mischief-making Mrs Flint, Dr Ennefer would have been summonedforthwith; but being only Anastasia, and having the vision of debtbefore her eyes, she prevailed on her aunt to wait to see what the nightbrought forth, before sending for the doctor. Meanwhile Dr Bed, infinitely cleverest and infinitely safest of physicians, was called in, and with him was associated that excellent general practitioner DrWait. Hot flannels, hot bottles, hot possets, and a bedroom fire wereexhibited, and when at nine o'clock Miss Joliffe kissed her niece andretired for the night, she by no means despaired of the patient's speedyrecovery from so sudden and unaccountable an attack. 

Anastasia was alone; what a relief to be alone again, though she feltthat such a thought was treasonable and unkind to the warm old heartthat had just left her, to that warm old heart which yearned so deeplyto her, but with which she had not shared her story! She was alone, andshe lay a little while in quiet content looking at the fire through theiron bars at the foot of her bedstead. It was the first bedroom fireshe had had for two years, and she enjoyed the luxury with a pleasureproportionate to its rarity. She was not sleepy, but grew graduallymore composed, and was able to reflect on the letter which she hadpromised to write. It would be difficult, and she assured herself withmuch vigour that it must raise insurmountable obstacles, that they wereobstacles which one in Lord Blandamer's position must admit to be quiteinsurmountable. Yes, in this letter she would write the colophon of sowondrous a romance, the epilogue of so amazing a tragedy. But it washer conscience that demanded the sacrifice, and she took the morepleasure in making it, because she felt at heart that the pound of fleshmight never really after all be cut. 

How thoroughly do we enjoy these sacrifices to conscience, thesefollowings of honour's code severe, when we know that none will be meanenough to take us at our word! To what easily-gained heights ofmorality does it raise us to protest that we never could accept the giftthat will eventually be forced into our reluctant hands, to insist thatwe regard as the shortest of loans the money which we never shall becalled upon to repay. It was something of the same sort with Anastasia. She told herself that by her letter she would give the death-blow toher love, and perhaps believed what she told, yet all the while kepthope hidden at the bottom of the box, even as in the most real perils ofa dream we sometimes are supported by the sub-waking sense that we _are_dreaming. 

A little later Anastasia was sitting before her bedroom fire writing. It has a magic of its own--the bedroom fire. Not such a one as night bynight warms hothouse bedrooms of the rich, but that which burns but onceor twice a year. How the coals glow between the bars, how the red lightshimmers on the black-lead bricks, how the posset steams upon the hob!Milk or tea, cocoa or coffee, poor commonplace liquids, are they nottransmuted in the alembic of a bedroom fire, till they become nepenthefor a heartache or a philtre for romance? Ah, the romance of it, whenyouth forestalls to-morrow's conquest, when middle life forgets thatyesterday is past for ever, when even querulous old age thinks it maystill have its "honour and its toil"!

An old blue cloak, which served the turn of dressing-gown, had fallenapart in the exigencies of composition, and showed underlying tracts ofwhite nightgown. Below, the firelight fell on bare feet resting on theedge of the brass fender till the heat made her curl up her toes, andabove, the firelight contoured certain generous curves. The roundnessand the bloom of maidenhood was upon her, that bloom so transient, soirreplaceable, that renders any attempt to simulate it soprofoundly ludicrous. The mass of dark hair, which turnedlying-and-mischief-making Mrs Flint so envious, was gathered behindwith a bow of black ribbon, and hung loosely over the back of her chair. She sat there writing and rewriting, erasing, blotting, tearing up, till the night was far spent, till she feared that the modest resourcesof the _papeterie_ would be exhausted before toil came to fruition. 

It was finished at last, and if it was a little formal or high-flown, orstilted, is not a certain formality postulated on momentous occasions?Who would write that he was "delighted" to accept a bishopric? Whowould go to a levee in a straw hat?

 "Dear Lord Blandamer" (the letter ran), "I do not know how I ought to write to you, for I have little experience of life to guide me. I thank you with all my heart for what you have told me. I am glad to think of it, and I always shall be. I believe there must be many strong reasons why you should not think of marrying me, yet if there are, you must know them far better than I, and you have disregarded them. But there is one reason that you cannot know, for it is known to very few; I hope it is known only to some of our own relations. Perhaps I ought not to write of it at all, but I have no one to advise me. I mean what is right, and if I am doing wrong you will forgive me, will you not? and burn this letter when you have read it. 

 "I have no right to the name I am called by; my cousins in the Market Place think we should use some other, but we do not even know what our real name would be. When my grandmother married old Mr Joliffe, she had already a son two or three years old. This son was my father, and Mr Joliffe adopted him; but my grandmother had no right to any but her maiden name. We never knew what that was, though my father tried all his life to find it out, and thought he was very near finding out when he fell into his last illness. We think his head must have been affected, for he used to say strange things about his parentage. Perhaps the thought of this disgrace troubled him, as it has often troubled me, though I never thought it would trouble me so much as now. 

 "I have not told my aunt about what you have said to me, and no one else shall ever know it, but it will be the sweetest memory to me of all my life. 

 "Your very sincere friend, "Anastasia Joliffe. "

It was finished at last; she had slain all her hopes, she had slain herlove. He would never marry her, he would never come near her again; butshe had unburdened herself of her secret, and she could not have marriedhim with that secret untold. It was three o'clock when she crept backagain to bed. The fire had gone out, she was very cold, and she wasglad to get back to her bed. Then Nature came to her aid and sent herkindly sleep, and if her sleep was not dreamless, she dreamt of dresses, and horses, and carriages, of men-servants, and maid-servants, of LadyBlandamer's great house of Fording, and of Lady Blandamer's husband. 

Lord Blandamer also sat up very late that night. As he read beforeanother bedroom fire he turned the pages of his book with the utmostregularity; his cigar never once went out. There was nothing to showthat his thoughts wandered, nothing to show that his mind was in any waypreoccupied. He was reading Eugenid's "Aristeia" of the pagans martyredunder Honorius; and weighed the pros and cons of the argument asdispassionately as if the events of the afternoon had never taken place, as if there had been no such person as Anastasia Joliffe in the world. 

Anastasia's letter reached him the next day at lunch, but he finishedhis meal before opening it. Yet he must have known whence it came, forthere was a bold "Bellevue Lodge" embossed in red on the flap of theenvelope. Martin Joliffe had ordered stamped paper and envelopes yearsago, because he said that people of whom he made genealogical inquiriespaid more attention to stamped than to plain paper--it was a credentialof respectability. In Cullerne this had been looked upon as a grossinstance of his extravagance; Mrs Bulteel and Canon Parkyn alone coulduse headed paper with propriety, and even the rectory only printed, anddid not emboss. Martin had exhausted his supply years ago, and neverordered a second batch, because the first was still unpaid for; butAnastasia kept by her half a dozen of these fateful envelopes. She hadpurloined them when she was a girl at school, and to her they were stilla cherished remnant of gentility, that pallium under which so many of uswould fain hide our rags. She had used one on this momentous occasion;it seemed a fitting cover for despatches to Fording, and might divertattention from the straw paper on which her letter was written. 

Lord Blandamer had seen the Bellevue Lodge, had divined the genesis ofthe embossed inscription, had unravelled all Anastasia's thoughts inusing it, yet let the letter lie till he had finished lunch. When heread it afterwards he criticised it as he might the composition of astranger, as a document with which he had no very close concern. Yet heappreciated the effort which it must have cost the girl to write it, wastouched by her words, and felt a certain grave compassion for her. Butit was the strange juggle of circumstance, the Sophoclean irony of aposition of which he alone held the key, that most impressed themselvesupon his mood. 

He ordered his horse, and took the road to Cullerne, but his agent methim before he had passed the first lodge, and asked some furtherinstructions for the planting at the top of the park. So he turned androde up to the great belt of beeches which was then being planted, andwas so long engaged there that dusk forced him to abandon his journey tothe town. He rode back to Fording at a foot-pace, choosing deviouspaths, and enjoying the sunset in the autumn woods. He would write toAnastasia, and put off his visit till the next day. 

With him there was no such wholesale destruction of writing-paper as hadattended Anastasia's efforts on the previous night. One single sheetsaw his letter begun and ended, a quarter of an hour sufficed forcommitting his sentiments very neatly to writing; he flung off hissentences easily, as easily as Odysseus tossed his heavy stone beyondall the marks of the Phaeacians:

 "My dearest Child, "I need not speak now of the weary hours of suspense which I passed in waiting for your letter. They are over, and all is sunshine after the clouds. I need not tell you how my heart beat when I saw an envelope with your address, nor how eagerly my fingers tore it open, for now all is happiness. Thank you, a thousand times thank you for your letter; it is like you, all candour, all kindness, and all truth. Put aside your scruples; everything that you say is not a featherweight in the balance; do not trouble about your name in the past, for you will have a new name in the future. It is not I, but you, who overlook obstacles, for have you not overlooked all the years that lie between your age and mine? I have but a moment to scribble these lines; you must forgive their weakness, and take for said all that should be said. I shall be with you to-morrow morning, and till then am, in all love and devotion, "Yours, "Blandamer. "

He did not even read it through before he sealed it up, for he was in ahurry to get back to Eugenid and to the "Aristeia" of the heathensmartyred under Honorius. 

Two days later, Miss Joliffe put on her Sunday mantle and bonnet in themiddle of the week, and went down to the Market Place to call on hercousin the pork-butcher. Her attire at once attracted attention. Theonly justification for such extravagance would be some parish functionor festivity, and nothing of that sort could be going on without theknowledge of the churchwarden's family. Nor was it only the thingswhich she wore, but the manner in which she wore them, that was soremarkable. As she entered the parlour at the back of the shop, wherethe pork-butcher's lady and daughters were sitting, they thought thatthey had never seen their cousin look so well dressed. She had lost thepinched, perplexed, down-trodden air which had overcast her later years;there was in her face a serenity and content which communicated itselfin some mysterious way even to her apparel. 

"Cousin Euphemia looks quite respectable this morning, " whispered theyounger to the elder daughter; and they had to examine her closelybefore they convinced themselves that only a piece of mauve ribbon inher bonnet was new, and that the coat and dress were just the same asthey had seen every Sunday for two years past. 

With "nods and becks and wreathed smiles" Miss Euphemia seated herself. "I have just popped in, " she began, and the very phrase had something init so light and flippant that her listeners started--"I have just poppedin for a minute to tell you some news. You have always been particular, my dears, that no one except your branch had a right to the name ofJoliffe in this town. You can't deny, Maria, " she said deprecatingly tothe churchwarden's wife, "that you have always held out that you werethe real Joliffes, and been a little sore with me and Anstice forcalling ourselves by what we thought we had a right to. Well, now therewill be one less outside your family to use the name of Joliffe, forAnstice is going to give it up. Somebody has offered to find anothername for her. "

The real Joliffes exchanged glances, and thought of the junior partnerin the drapery shop, who had affirmed with an oath that AnastasiaJoliffe did as much justice to his goods as any girl in Cullerne; andthought again of the young farmer who was known for certain to let MissEuphemia have eggs at a penny cheaper than anyone else. 

"Yes, Anstice is going to change her name, so that will be one grievancethe less. And another thing that will make matters straighter betweenus, Maria: I can promise the little bit of silver shall never go out ofthe family. You know what I mean--the teapot and the spoons marked with`J' that you've always claimed for yours by right. I shall leave themall back to you when my time comes; Anstice will never want such oddsand ends in the station to which she's called now. "

The real Joliffes looked at each other again, and thought of youngBulteel, who had helped Anastasia with the gas-standards when theminster was decorated at Christmas. Or was it possible that heraffected voice and fine lady airs had after all caught Mr Westray, thatrather good-looking and interesting young man, on whom both thechurchwarden's daughters were not without hopes of making an impression?

Miss Joliffe enjoyed their curiosity; she was in a teasing andmischievous mood, to which she had been a stranger for thirty years. 

"Yes, " she said, "I am one that like to own up to it when I make amistake, and I will state I _have_ made a mistake. I suppose I musttake to spectacles; it seems I cannot see things that are going on undermy very eyes--no, not even when they are pointed out to me. I've comeround to tell you, Maria, one and all, that I was completely mistakenwhen I told the churchwarden that it was not on Anstice's account thatLord Blandamer has been visiting at Bellevue Lodge. It seems it wasjust for that he came, and the proof of it is he's going to marry her. In three weeks' time she will be Lady Blandamer, and if you want to saygoodbye to her you'd better come back and have tea with me now, forshe's packed her box, and is off to London to-morrow. Mrs Howard, whokeeps the school in Carisbury where Anstice went in dear Martin'slifetime, will meet her and take charge of her, and get her trousseau. Lord Blandamer has arranged it all, and he is going to marry Anstice andtake her for a long tour on the Continent, and I'm sure I don't knowwhere else. "

It was all true. Lord Blandamer made no secret of the matter, and hisengagement to Anastasia, only child of the late Martin Joliffe, Esquire, of Cullerne, was duly announced in the London papers. It was naturalthat Westray should have known vacillation and misgiving before he madeup his mind to offer marriage. It is with a man whose family orposition are not strong enough to bear any extra strain, that publicopinion plays so large a part in such circumstances. If he marriesbeneath him he falls to the wife's level, because he has no margin ofresource to raise her to his own. With Lord Blandamer it was different:his reliance upon himself was so great, that he seemed to enjoy ratherthan not, the flinging down of a gauntlet to the public in thismarriage. 

Bellevue Lodge became a centre of attraction. The ladies who hadcontemned a lodging-house keeper's daughter courted the betrothed of apeer. From themselves they did not disguise the motive for this change, they did not even attempt to find an excuse in public. They simplyexecuted their _volte face_ simultaneously and with most commendableregularity, and felt no more reluctance or shame in the process than acat feels in following the man who carries its meat. If they weredisappointed in not seeing Anastasia herself (for she left for Londonalmost immediately after the engagement was made public), they were insome measure compensated by the extreme readiness of Miss Euphemia todiscuss the matter in all its bearings. Each and every detail wasconscientiously considered and enlarged upon, from the buttons on LordBlandamer's boots to the engagement-ring on Anastasia's finger; and MissJoliffe was never tired of explaining that this last had an emerald--"Avery large emerald, my dear, surrounded by diamonds, green and whitebeing the colours of his lordship's shield, what they call the nebulycoat, you know. "

A variety of wedding gifts found their way to Bellevue Lodge. "Greatevents, such as marriages and deaths, certainly do call forth thesympathy of our neighbours in a wonderful way, " Miss Joliffe said, withall the seriousness of an innocent belief in the general goodness ofmankind. "Till Anstice was engaged, I never knew, I am sure, how manyfriends I had in Cullerne. " She showed "the presents" to successivecallers, who examined them with the more interest because they hadalready seen most of them in the shop-windows of Cullerne, and so wereable to appreciate the exact monetary outlay with which theiracquaintances thought it prudent to conciliate the Fording interest. Every form of useless ugliness was amply represented among them--vulgarity masqueraded as taste, niggardliness figured as generosity--andif Miss Joliffe was proud of them as she forwarded them from Cullerne, Anastasia was heartily ashamed of them when they reached her in London. 

"We must let bygones be bygones, " said Mrs Parkyn to her husband withtruly Christian forbearance, "and if this young man's choice has notfallen exactly where we could have wished, we must remember, after all, that he _is_ Lord Blandamer, and make the best of the lady for his sake. We must give her a present; in your position as Rector you could notafford to be left out. Everyone, I hear, is giving something. "

"Well, don't let it be anything extravagant, " he said, laying down hispaper, for his interest was aroused by any question of expense. "A toocostly gift would be quite out of place under the circumstances. Itshould be rather an expression of goodwill to Lord Blandamer thananything of much intrinsic value. "

"Of course, of course. You may trust me not to do anything foolish. Ihave my eye on just the thing. There is a beautiful set of foursalt-cellars with their spoons at Laverick's, in a case lined withpuffed satin. They only cost thirty-three shillings, and look worth atleast three pounds. "

CHAPTER NINETEEN. 

The wedding was quiet, and there being no newspapers at that time totake such matters for their province, Cullerne curiosity had to becontented with the bare announcement: "At Saint Agatha's-at-Bow, HoratioSebastian Fynes, Lord Blandamer, to Anastasia, only child of the lateMichael Joliffe, of Cullerne Wharfe. " Mrs Bulteel had been heard tosay that she could not allow dear Lord Blandamer to be married withouther being there. Canon Parkyn and Mrs Parkyn felt that their presencealso was required _ex-officio_, and Clerk Janaway averred with someredundancies of expletive that he, too, "must see 'em turned off. " Hehadn't been to London for twenty year. If 'twere to cost a sovereign, why, 'twas a poor heart that never made merry, and he would never liveto see another Lord Blandamer married. Yet none of them went, for timeand place were not revealed. 

But Miss Joliffe was there, and on her return to Cullerne she heldseveral receptions at Bellevue Lodge, at which only the wedding and theevents connected with it were discussed. She was vested for thesefunctions in a new dress of coffee-coloured silk, and what with atea-urn hissing in Mr Sharnall's room, and muffins, toast, andsweet-cakes, there were such goings-on in the house, as had not beenseen since the last coach rolled away from the old Hand of God thirtyyears before. The company were very gracious and even affectionate, andMiss Joliffe, in the exhilaration of the occasion, forgot all thosecold-shoulderings and askance looks which had grieved her at a certainDorcas meeting only a few weeks before. 

At these reunions many important particulars transpired. The weddinghad been celebrated early in the morning at the special instance of thebride; only Mrs Howard and Miss Euphemia herself were present. Ansticehad worn a travelling dress of dark-green cloth, so that she might gostraight from the church to the station. "And, my dears, " she said, with a glance of all-embracing benevolence, "she looked a perfect youngpeeress. "

The kind and appreciative audience, who had all been expecting andhoping for the past six weeks, that some bolt might fall from the blueto rob Anastasia of her triumph, were so astonished at the weddinghaving finally taken place that they could not muster a sneer amongthem. Only lying-and-mischief-making Mrs Flint found courage for asniff, and muttered something to her next neighbour about there beingsuch things as mock marriages. 

The honeymoon was much extended. Lord and Lady Blandamer went first tothe Italian lakes, and thence, working their way home by Munich, Nuremburg, and the Rhine, travelled by such easy stages that autumn hadset in when they reached Paris. There they wintered, and there in thespring was born a son and heir to all the Blandamer estates. The newscaused much rejoicing in the domain; and when it was announced that thefamily were returning to Cullerne, it was decided to celebrate the eventby ringing a peal from the tower of Saint Sepulchre's. The proposaloriginated with Canon Parkyn. 

"It is a graceful compliment, " he said, "to the nobleman to whosemunificence the restoration is so largely due. We must show him howmuch stronger we have made our old tower, eh, Mr Westray? We must getthe Carisbury ringers over to teach Cullerne people how such thingsshould be done. Sir George will have to stand out of his fees longerthan ever, if he is to wait till the tower tumbles down now. Eh, eh?"

"Ah, I do so dote on these old customs, " assented his wife. "It is sodelightful, a merry peal. I do think these good old customs shouldalways be kept up. " It was the cheapness of the entertainment thatparticularly appealed to her. "But is it necessary, my dear, " shedemurred, "to bring the ringers over from Carisbury? They are a saddrunken lot. I am sure there must be plenty of young men in Cullerne, who would delight to help ring the bells on such an occasion. "

But Westray would have none of it. It was true, he said, that thetie-rods were fixed, and the tower that much the stronger; but he couldcountenance no ringing till the great south-east pier had been properlyunder-pinned. 

His remonstrances found little favour. Lord Blandamer would think it soungracious. Lady Blandamer, to be sure, counted for very little; it wasridiculous, in fact, to think of ringing the minster bells for alandlady's niece, but Lord Blandamer would certainly be offended. 

"I call that clerk of the works a vain young upstart, " Mrs Parkyn saidto her husband. "I cannot think how you keep your temper with such apopinjay. I hope you will not allow yourself to be put upon again. Youare so sweet-tempered and forbearing, that _everyone_ takes advantage ofyou. "

So she stirred him up till he assured her with considerable boldnessthat he was _not_ a man to be dictated to; the bells _should_ be rung, and he would get Sir George's views to fortify his own. Then Sir Georgewrote one of those cheery little notes for which he was famous, with aproper admixture of indifferent puns and a classic conceit: that whenGratitude was climbing the temple steps to lay an offering on Hymen'saltar, Prudence must wait silent at the base till she came down. 

Sir George should have been a doctor, his friends said; his manner wasalways so genial and reassuring. So having turned these happy phrases, and being overwhelmed with the grinding pressure of a great practice, hedismissed the tower of Saint Sepulchre from his mind, and left Rectorand ringers to their own devices. 

Thus on an autumn afternoon there was a sound in Cullerne that few ofthe inhabitants had ever heard, and the little town stopped its businessto listen to the sweetest peal in all the West Country. How they swungand rung and sung together, the little bells and the great bells, fromBeata Maria, the sweet, silver-voiced treble, to Taylor John, thedeep-voiced tenor, that the Guild of Merchant Taylors had given threehundred years ago. There was a charm in the air like the singing ofinnumerable birds; people flung up their windows to listen, people stoodin the shop-doors to listen, and the melody went floating away over thesalt-marshes, till the fishermen taking up their lobster-pots paused insheer wonder at a music that they had never heard before. 

It seemed as if the very bells were glad to break their long repose;they sang together like the morning stars, they shouted together likethe sons of God for joy. They remembered the times that were gone, andhow they had rung when Abbot Harpingdon was given his red hat, and rungagain when Henry defended the Faith by suppressing the Abbey, and againwhen Mary defended the Faith by restoring the Mass, and again when QueenBess was given a pair of embroidered gloves as she passed through theMarket Place on her way to Fording. They remembered the longcounter-change of life and death that had passed under the red roofs attheir feet, they remembered innumerable births and marriages andfunerals of old time; they sang together like the morning stars, theyshouted together like the sons of God for joy, they shouted for joy. 

The Carisbury ringers came over after all; and Mrs Parkyn bore theiradvent with less misgiving, in the hope that directly Lord Blandamerheard of the honour that was done him, he would send a handsome donationfor the ringers as he had already sent to the workhouse, and the oldfolk, and the school-children of Cullerne. The ropes and the cage, andthe pins and the wheels, had all been carefully overhauled; and when theday came, the ringers stood to their work like men, and rang a full pealof grandsire triples in two hours and fifty-nine minutes. 

There was a little cask of Bulteel's brightest tenpenny that somemagician's arm had conjured up through the well-hole in the belfryfloor: and Clerk Janaway, for all he was teetotaler, eyed the foamingpots wistfully as he passed them round after the work was done. 

"Well, " he said, "there weren't no int'rupted peal this time, werethere? These here old bells never had a finer set of ringing-men underthem, and I lay you never had a finer set of bells above your heads, mylads; now did 'ee? I've heard the bells swung many a time in Carisburytower, and heard 'em when the Queen was set upon her throne, but, lor'!they arn't so deep-like nor yet so sweet as this here old ring. Perhapsthey've grow'd the sweeter for lying by a bit, like port in the cellarsof the Blandamer Arms, though I've heard Dr Ennefer say some of it wasturned so like sherry, that no man living couldn't tell the difference. "

Westray had bowed like loyal subaltern to the verdict of his Chief. SirGeorge's decision that the bells might safely be rung lifted theresponsibility from the young man's shoulders, but not the anxiety fromhis mind. He never left the church while the peal was ringing. Firsthe was in the bell-chamber steadying himself by the beams of the cage, while he marked the wide-mouthed bells now open heavenwards, now turnback with a rush into the darkness below. Then he crept deafened withthe clangour down the stairs into the belfry, and sat on the sill of awindow watching the ringers rise and fall at their work. He felt thetower sway restlessly under the stress of the swinging metal, but therewas nothing unusual in the motion; there was no falling of mortar, nothing to attract any special attention. Then he went down into thechurch, and up again into the organ-loft, whence he could see the widebow of that late Norman arch which spanned the south transept. 

Above the arch ran up into the lantern the old fissure, zigzag like abaleful lightning-flash, that had given him so much anxiety. The daywas overcast, and heavy masses of cloud drifting across the sky darkenedthe church. But where the shadows hung heaviest, under a stone gallerypassage that ran round the inside of the lantern, could be traced one ofthose heavy tie-rods with which the tower had recently beenstrengthened. Westray was glad to think that the ties were there; hehoped that they might indeed support the strain which this bell-ringingwas bringing on the tower; he hoped that Sir George was right, and thathe, Westray, was wrong. Yet he had pasted a strip of paper across thecrack, so that by tearing it might give warning if any serious movementwere taking place. 

As he leant over the screen of the organ-loft, he thought of thatafternoon when he had first seen signs of the arch moving, of thatafternoon when the organist was playing "Sharnall in D flat. " How muchhad happened since then! He thought of that scene which had happened inthis very loft, of Sharnall's end, of the strange accident that hadterminated a sad life on that wild night. What a strange accident itwas, what a strange thing that Sharnall should have been haunted by thatwandering fancy of a man following him with a hammer, and then have beenfound in this very loft, with the desperate wound on him that thepedal-note had dealt! How much had happened--his own proposal toAnastasia, his refusal, and now that event for which the bells wereringing! How quickly the scenes changed! What a creature of an hourwas he, was every man, in face of these grim walls that had stoodenduring, immutable, for generation after generation, for age after age!And then he smiled as he thought that these eternal realities of stonewere all created by ephemeral man; that he, ephemeral man, was even nowbusied with schemes for their support, with anxieties lest they shouldfall and grind to powder all below. 

The bells sounded fainter and far off inside the church. As theyreached his ears through the heavy stone roof they were more harmonious, all harshness was softened; the _sordino_ of the vaulting produced theeffect of a muffled peal. He could hear deep-voiced Taylor John gostriding through his singing comrades in the intricacies of the TrebleBob Triples, and yet there was another voice in Westray's ears that madeitself heard even above the booming of the tenor bell. It was the cryof the tower arches, the small still voice that had haunted him eversince he had been at Cullerne. "The arch never sleeps, " they said--"thearch never sleeps;" and again, "They have bound on us a burden too heavyto be borne; but we are shifting it. The arch never sleeps. "

The ringers were approaching the end; they had been at their work fornear three hours, the 5, 040 changes were almost finished. Westray wentdown from the organ-loft, and as he walked through the church the verylast change was rung. Before the hum and mutter had died out of theair, and while the red-faced ringers in the belfry were quaffing theirtankards, the architect had made his way to the scaffolding, and stoodface to face with the zigzag crack. He looked at it carefully, as adoctor might examine a wound; he thrust his hand like Thomas into thedark fissure. No, there was no change; the paper strip was unbroken, the tie-rods had done their work nobly. Sir George had been quite rightafter all. 

And as he looked there was the very faintest noise heard--a whisper, amutter, a noise so slight that it might have passed a hundred timesunnoticed. But to the architect's ear it spoke as loudly as athunderclap. He knew exactly what it was and whence it came; andlooking at the crack, saw that the broad paper strip was torn half-wayacross. It was a small affair; the paper strip was not quite parted, itwas only torn half-way through. Though Westray watched for an hour, nofurther change took place. The ringers had left the tower, the littletown had resumed its business. Clerk Janaway was walking across thechurch, when he saw the architect leaning against a cross-pole of thescaffolding, on the platform high up under the arch of the southtransept. 

"I'm just a-locking up, " he called out. "You've got your own key, sir, no doubt?"

Westray gave an almost imperceptible nod. 

"Well, we haven't brought the tower down this time, " the clerk went on. But Westray made no answer; his eyes were fixed on the little half-tornstrip of paper, and he had no thought for anything else. A minute laterthe old man stood beside him on the platform, puffing after the laddersthat he had climbed. "No int'rupted peal this time, " he said; "we'vefair beat the neb'ly coat at last. Lord Blandamer back, and an heir tokeep the family going. Looks as if the neb'ly coat was losing a bit ofhis sting, don't it?" But Westray was moody, and said nothing. "Whywhat's the matter? You bain't took bad, be you?"

"Don't bother me now, " the architect said sharply. "I wish to Heaventhe peal _had_ been interrupted. I wish your bells had never been rung. Look there"--and he pointed at the strip of paper. 

The clerk went closer to the crack, and looked hard at the silentwitness. "Lor' bless you! that ain't nothing, " he said; "'tis only justthe jarring of the bells done that. You don't expect a mushet of paperto stand as firm as an anvil-stone, when Taylor John's a-swinging upaloft. "

"Look you, " Westray said; "you were in church this morning. Do youremember the lesson about the prophet sending his servant up to the topof a hill, to look at the sea? The man went up ever so many times andsaw nothing. Last he saw a little cloud like a man's hand rising out ofthe sea, and after that the heaven grew black, and the storm broke. I'mnot sure that bit of torn paper isn't the man's hand for this tower. "

"Don't bother yourself, " rejoined the clerk; "the man's hand showed therain was a-coming, and the rain was just what they wanted. I never canmake out why folks twist the Scripture round and make the man's handinto something bad. 'Twas a _good_ thing, so take heart and get home toyour victuals; you can't mend that bit of paper for all your staring atit. "

Westray paid no attention to his remarks, and the old man wished himgood-night rather stiffly. "Well, " he said, as he turned down theladder, "I'm off. I've got to be in my garden afore dark, for they'regoing to seal the leek leaves to-night against the leek-show next week. My grandson took first prize last year, and his old grandad had to putup with eleventh; but I've got half a dozen leeks this season as'll beatany plant that's growed in Cullerne. "

By the next morning the paper strip was entirely parted. Westray wroteto Sir George, but history only repeated itself; for his Chief againmade light of the matter, and gave the young man a strong hint that hewas making mountains of molehills, that he was unduly nervous, that hisplace was to diligently carry out the instructions he had received. Another strip of paper was pasted across the crack, and remained intact. It seemed as if the tower had come to rest again, but Westray'sscruples were not so easily allayed this time, and he took measures forpushing forward the under-pinning of the south-east pier with allpossible despatch. 

CHAPTER TWENTY. 

That inclination or predilection of Westray's for Anastasia, which hehad been able to persuade himself was love, had passed away. His peaceof mind was now completely restored, and he discounted the humiliationof refusal, by reflecting that the girl's affections must have beenalready engaged at the time of his proposal. He was ready to admit thatLord Blandamer would in any case have been a formidable competitor, butif they had started for the race at the same time he would have beenquite prepared to back his own chances. Against his rival's positionand wealth, might surely have been set his own youth, regularity oflife, and professional skill; but it was a mere tilting againstwindmills to try to win a heart that was already another's. Thusdisturbing influences were gradually composed, and he was able to devotean undivided attention to his professional work. 

As the winter evenings set in, he found congenial occupation in anattempt to elucidate the heraldry of the great window at the end of thesouth transept. He made sketches of the various shields blazoned in it, and with the aid of a county history, and a manual which Dr Ennefer hadlent him, succeeded in tracing most of the alliances represented by thevarious quarterings. These all related to marriages of the Blandamerfamily, for Van Linge had filled the window with glass to the order ofthe third Lord Blandamer, and the sea-green and silver of the nebulycoat was many times repeated, beside figuring in chief at the head ofthe window. In these studies Westray was glad to have Martin Joliffe'spapers by him. There was in them a mass of information which bore onthe subject of the architect's inquiries, for Martin had taken thepublished genealogy of the Blandamer family, and elaborated andcorrected it by all kinds of investigation as to marriages andcollaterals. 

The story of Martin's delusion, the idea of the doited grey-beard whomthe boys called "Old Nebuly, " had been so firmly impressed on Westray'smind, that when he first turned over the papers he expected to find inthem little more than the hallucinations of a madman. But by degrees hebecame aware that however disconnected many of Martin's notes mightappear, they possessed a good deal of interest, and the coherence whichresults from a particular object being kept more or less continuously inview. Besides endless genealogies and bits of family history extractedfrom books, there were recorded all kinds of personal impressions andexperiences, which Martin had met with in his journeyings. But in allhis researches and expeditions he professed to have but one object--thediscovery of his father's name; though what record he hoped to find, orwhere or how he hoped to find it, whether in document or register orinscription, was nowhere set out. 

It was evident that the old fancy that he was the rightful owner ofFording, which had been suggested to him in his Oxford days, had takensuch hold of his mind that no subsequent experience had been able todislodge it. Of half his parentage there was no doubt. His mother wasthat Sophia Flannery who had married Yeoman Joliffe, had painted thefamous picture of the flowers and caterpillar, and done many otherthings less reputable; but over his father hung a veil of obscuritywhich Martin had tried all his life to lift. Westray had heard thoseearly stories from Clerk Janaway a dozen times, how that when YeomanJoliffe took Sophia to church she brought him a four-year-old son by aformer marriage. By a former _marriage_ Martin had always stoutlymaintained, as in duty bound, for any other theory would havedishonoured himself. With his mother's honour he had little concern, for where was the use of defending the memory of a mother who had madeshipwreck of her own reputation with soldiers and horse-copers? It wasthis previous marriage that Martin had tried so hard to establish, triedall the harder because other folk had wagged their heads and said therewas no marriage to discover, that Sophia was neither wife nor widow. 

Towards the end of his notes it seemed as if he had found some clue--hadfound some clue, or thought that he had found it. In this game of huntthe slipper he had imagined that he was growing "hotter" and "hotter"till death balked him at the finish. Westray recollected Mr Sharnallsaying more than once that Martin had been on the brink of solving theriddle when the end overtook him. And Sharnall, too, had he not almostgrasped the Will-of-the-wisp when fate tripped _him_ on that windynight? Many thoughts came to Westray's mind as he turned these papers, many memories of others who had turned them before him. He thought ofclever, worthless Martin, who had wasted his days on their writing, whohad neglected home and family for their sake; he thought of the littleorganist who had held them in his feverish hands, who had hoped by somedramatic discovery to illumine the dark setting of his own life. And asWestray read, the interest grew with him too, till it absorbed theheraldry of the Blandamer window from which the whole matter hadstarted. He began to comprehend the vision that had possessed Martin, that had so stirred the organist's feelings; he began to think that itwas reserved for himself to make the long-sought discovery, and that hehad in his own hand the clue to the strangest of romances. 

One evening as he sat by the fire, with a plan in his hands and a litterof Martin's papers lying on a table at his side, there was a tap at thedoor, and Miss Joliffe entered. They were still close friends in spiteof his leaving Bellevue Lodge. However sorry she had been at the timeto lose her lodger, she recognised that the course he had taken wascorrect, and, indeed, obligatory. She was glad that he had seen hisduty in this matter; it would have been quite impossible for any man ofordinary human feelings, to continue to live on in the same house undersuch circumstances. To have made a bid for Anstice's hand, and to havebeen refused, was a blow that moved her deepest pity, and sheendeavoured in many ways to show her consideration for the victim. Providence had no doubt overruled everything for the best in ordainingthat Anstice should refuse Mr Westray, but Miss Joliffe had favouredhis suit, and had been sorry at the time that it was not successful. Sothere existed between them that curious sympathy, which generally existsbetween a rejected lover and a woman who has done her best to furtherhis proposal. They had since met not unfrequently, and the year whichhad elapsed had sufficiently blunted the edge of Westray'sdisappointment, to enable him to talk of the matter with equanimity. Hetook a sad pleasure in discussing with Miss Joliffe the motives whichmight have conduced to so inexplicable a refusal, and in consideringwhether his offer would have been accepted if it had been made a littlesooner or in another manner. Nor was the subject in any way distastefulto her, for she felt a reflected glory in the fact of her niece havingfirst refused a thoroughly eligible proposal, and having afterwardsaccepted one transcendently better. 

"Forgive me, sir--forgive me, Mr Westray, " she corrected herself, remembering that their relation was no longer one of landlady andlodger. "I am sorry to intrude on you so late, but it is difficult tofind you in during the day. There is a matter that has been weighinglately on my mind. You have never taken away the picture of theflowers, which you and dear Mr Sharnall purchased of me. I have nothurried in the matter, feeling I should like to see you nicely settledin before it was moved, but now it is time all was set right, so I havebrought it over to-night. "

If her dress was no longer threadbare, it was still of the neatestblack, and if she had taken to wearing every day the moss-agate broochwhich had formerly been reserved for Sundays, she was still the verysame old sweet-tempered, spontaneous, Miss Joliffe as in time past. Westray looked at her with something like affection. 

"Sit down, " he said, offering her a chair; "did you say you had broughtthe picture with you?" and he scanned her as if he expected to see itproduced from her pocket. 

"Yes, " she said; "my maid is bringing it upstairs"--and there was just asuspicion of hesitation on the word "maid, " that showed that she wasstill unaccustomed to the luxury of being waited on. 

It was with great difficulty that she had been persuaded to accept suchan allowance at Anastasia's hands, as would enable her to live on atBellevue Lodge and keep a single servant; and if it brought her infiniterelief to find that Lord Blandamer had paid all Martin's bills within aweek of his engagement, such generosity filled her at the same time witha multitude of scruples. Lord Blandamer had wished her to live withthem at Fording, but he was far too considerate and appreciative of thesituation to insist on this proposal when he saw that such a changewould be uncongenial to her. So she remained at Cullerne, and spent hertime in receiving with dignity visits from the innumerable friends thatshe found she now possessed, and in the fullest enjoyment of churchservices, meetings, parish work, and other privileges. 

"It is very good of you, Miss Joliffe, " Westray said; "it is very kindof you to think of the picture. But, " he went on, with a too vividrecollection of the painting, "I know how much you have always prizedit, and I could not bear to take it away from Bellevue Lodge. You see, Mr Sharnall, who was part owner with me, is dead; I am only making youa present of half of it, so you must accept that from me as a littletoken of gratitude for all the kindness you have shown me. You _have_been very kind to me, you know, " he said with a sigh, which was meant torecall Miss Joliffe's friendliness, and his own grief, in the affair ofthe proposal. 

Miss Joliffe was quick to take the cue, and her voice was full ofsympathy. "Dear Mr Westray, you know how glad I should have been ifall could have happened as you wished. Yet we should try to recognisethe ordering of Providence in these things, and bear sorrow withmeekness. But about the picture, you must let me have my own way thisonce. There may come a time, and that before very long, when I shall beable to buy it back from you just as we arranged, and then I am sure youwill let me have it. But for the present it must be with you, and ifanything should happen to me I should wish you to keep it altogether. "

Westray had meant to insist on her retaining the picture; he would notfor a second time submit to be haunted with the gaudy flowers and thegreen caterpillar. But while she spoke, there fell upon him one ofthose gusty changes of purpose to which he was peculiarly liable. Therecame into his mind that strange insistence with which Sharnall hadbegged him at all hazards to retain possession of the picture. Itseemed as if there might be some mysterious influence which had broughtMiss Joliffe with it just now, and that he might be playing false to histrust with Sharnall if he sent it back again. So he did not remainobdurate, but said: "Well, if you really wish it, I will keep thepicture for a time, and whenever you want it you can take it backagain. " While he was speaking there was a sound of stumbling on thestairs outside, and a bang as if something heavy had been let drop. 

"It is that stupid girl again, " Miss Joliffe said; "she is alwaystumbling about. I am sure she has broken more china in the six monthsshe has been with me than was broken before in six years. "

They went to the door, and as Westray opened it great red-faced andsmiling Anne Janaway walked in, bearing the glorious picture of theflowers and caterpillar. 

"What have you been doing now?" her mistress asked sharply. 

"Very sorry, mum, " said the maid, mingling some indignation with herapology, "this here gurt paint tripped I up. I'm sure I hope I haven'thurt un"--and she planted the picture on the floor against the table. 

Miss Joliffe scanned the picture with an eye which was trained to detectthe very flakiest chip on a saucer, the very faintest scratch upon ateapot. 

"Dear me, dear me!" she said, "the beautiful frame is ruined; the bottompiece is broken almost clean off. "

"Oh, come, " Westray said in a pacifying tone, while he lifted thepicture and laid it flat on the table, "things are not so bad as allthat. "

He saw that the piece which formed the bottom of the frame was indeeddetached at both corners and ready to fall away, but he pushed it backinto position with his hand till it stuck in its place, and left littledamage apparent to a casual observer. 

"See, " he said, "it looks nearly all right. A little glue will quiterepair the mischief to-morrow I am sure I wonder how your servantmanaged to get it up here at all--it is such a weight and size. "

As a matter of fact, Miss Joliffe herself had helped Ann to carry thepicture as far as the Grands Mulets of the last landing. The finalascent she thought could be accomplished in safety by the girl alone, while it would have been derogatory to her new position of anindependent lady to appear before Westray carrying the picture herself. 

"Do not vex yourself, " Westray begged; "look, there is a nail in thewall here under the ceiling which will do capitally for hanging it tillI can find a better place; the old cord is just the right length. " Heclimbed on a chair and adjusted the picture, standing back as if toadmire it, till Miss Joliffe's complacency was fairly restored. 

Westray was busied that night long after Miss Joliffe had left him, andthe hands of the loud-ticking clock on the mantelpiece showed thatmidnight was near before he had finished his work. Then he sat a littlewhile before the dying fire, thinking much of Mr Sharnall, whom thepicture had recalled to his mind, until the blackening embers warned himthat it was time to go to bed. He was rising from his chair, when heheard behind him a noise as of something falling, and looking round, sawthat the bottom of the picture-frame, which he had temporarily pushedinto position, had broken away again of its own weight, and was fallenon the floor. The frame was handsomely wrought with a peculiarinterlacing fillet, as he had noticed many times before. It was curiousthat so poor a picture should have obtained a rich setting, andsometimes he thought that Sophia Flannery must have bought the frame ata sale, and had afterwards daubed the flower-piece to fill it. 

The room had grown suddenly cold with the chill which dogs the heels ofa dying fire on an early winter's night. An icy breath blew in underthe door, and made something flutter that lay on the floor close to thebroken frame. Westray stooped to pick it up, and found that he had inhis hand a piece of folded paper. 

He felt a curious reluctance in handling it. Those fantastic scruplesto which he was so often a prey assailed him. He asked himself had heany right to examine this piece of paper? It might be a letter; he didnot know whence it had come, nor whose it was, and he certainly did notwish to be guilty of opening someone else's letter. He even went so faras to put it solemnly on the table, like a skipper on whose deck thephantom whale-boat of the _Flying Dutchman_ has deposited a packet ofmails. After a few minutes, however, he appreciated the absurdity ofthe situation, and with an effort unfolded the mysterious missive. 

It was a long narrow piece of paper, yellowed with years, and lined withthe creases of a generation; and had on it both printed and writtencharacters. He recognised it instantly for a certificate of marriage--those "marriage lines" on which so often hang both the law and theprophets. There it was with all the little pigeon-holes duly filled in, and set forth how that on "March 15, 1800, at the Church of Saint MedardWithin, one Horatio Sebastian Fynes, bachelor, aged twenty-one, son ofHoratio Sebastian Fynes, gentleman, was married to one Sophia Flannery, spinster, aged twenty-one, daughter of James Flannery, merchant, " withwitnesses duly attesting. And underneath an ill-formed straggling handhad added a superscription in ink that was now brown and wasted: "Martinborn January 2, 1801, at ten minutes past twelve, night. " He laid it onthe table and folded it out flat, and knew that he had under his eyesthat certificate of the first marriage (of the only true marriage) ofMartin's mother, which Martin had longed all his life to see, and hadnot seen; that patent of legitimacy which Martin thought he had withinhis grasp when death overtook him, that clue which Sharnall thought thathe had within his grasp when death overtook him also. 

On March 15, 1800, Sophia Flannery was married by special licence toHoratio Sebastian Fynes, gentleman, and on January 2, 1801, at tenminutes past twelve, night, Martin was born. Horatio Sebastian--thenames were familiar enough to Westray. Who was this Horatio SebastianFynes, son of Horatio Sebastian Fynes, gentleman? It was only a formalquestion that he asked himself, for he knew the answer very well. Thisdocument that he had before him might be no legal proof, but not all thelawyers in Christendom could change his conviction, his intuition, thatthe "gentleman" Sophia Flannery had married was none other than theoctogenarian Lord Blandamer deceased three years ago. There was to hiseyes an air of authenticity about that yellowed strip of paper thatnothing could upset, and the date of Martin's birth given in thestraggling hand at the bottom coincided exactly with his owninformation. He sat down again in the cold with his elbows on the tableand his head between his hands while he took in some of the corollariesof the position. If the old Lord Blandamer had married Sophia Flanneryon March 15, 1800, then his second marriage was no marriage at all, forSophia was living long after that, and there had been no divorce. Butif his second marriage was no marriage, then his son, Lord Blandamer, who was drowned in Cullerne Bay, had been illegitimate, and hisgrandson, Lord Blandamer, who now sat on the throne of Fording, wasillegitimate too. And Martin's dream had been true. Selfish, thriftless, idle Martin, whom the boys called "Old Nebuly, " had not beenmad after all, but had been Lord Blandamer. 

It all hung on this strip of paper, this bolt fallen from the blue, thismessage that had come from no one knew where. Whence _had_ it come?Could Miss Joliffe have dropped it? No, that was impossible; she wouldcertainly have told him if she had any information of this kind, for sheknew that he had been trying for months to unravel the tangle ofMartin's papers. It must have been hidden behind the picture, and havefallen out when the bottom piece of the frame fell. 

He went to the picture. There was the vase of flaunting, ill-drawnflowers, there was the green caterpillar wriggling on the table-top, butat the bottom was something that he had never seen before. A longnarrow margin of another painting was now visible where the frame wasbroken away; it seemed as if the flower-piece had been painted over someother subject, as if Sophia Flannery had not even been at the pains totake the canvas out, and had only carried her daub up to the edge of theframe. There was no question that the flowers masked some betterpainting, some portrait, no doubt, for enough was shown at the bottom toenable him to make out a strip of a brown velvet coat, and even onemother-of-pearl button of a brown velvet waistcoat. He stared at theflowers, he held a candle close to them in the hope of being able totrace some outline, to discover something of what lay behind. But thecolour had been laid on with no sparing hand, the veil was impenetrable. Even the green caterpillar seemed to mock him, for as he looked at itclosely, he saw that Sophia in her wantonness had put some minutetouches of colour, which gave its head two eyes and a grinning mouth. 

He sat down again at the table where the certificate still lay openbefore him. That entry of Martin's birth must be in the handwriting ofSophia Flannery, of faithless, irresponsible Sophia Flannery, flauntingas her own flowers, mocking as the face of her own caterpillar. 

There was a dead silence over all, the utter blank silence that fallsupon a country town in the early morning hours. Only the loud-tickingclock on the mantelpiece kept telling of time's passage till thecarillon of Saint Sepulchre's woke the silence with New Sabbath. It wasthree o'clock, and the room was deadly cold, but that chill was nothingto the chill that was rising to his own heart. He knew it all now, hesaid to himself--he knew the secret of Anastasia's marriage, and ofSharnall's death, and of Martin's death. 

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. 

The foreman of the masons at work in the under-pinning of the south-eastpier came to see Westray at nine o'clock the next morning. He wasanxious that the architect should go down to the church at once, for theworkmen, on reaching the tower shortly after daybreak, found traces of afresh movement which had taken place during the night. But Westray wasfrom home, having left Cullerne for London by the first train. 

About ten of the same forenoon, the architect was in the shop of a smallpicture-dealer in Westminster. The canvas of the flowers andcaterpillar picture lay on the counter, for the man had just taken itout of the frame. 

"No, " said the dealer, "there is no paper or any kind of lining in theframe--just a simple wood backing, you see. It is unusual to back atall, but it _is_ done now and again"--and he tapped the loose frame allround. "It is an expensive frame, well made, and with good gilding. Ishouldn't be surprised if the painting underneath this daub turned outto be quite respectable; they would never put a frame like this onanything that wasn't pretty good. "

"Do you think you can clean off the top part without damaging thepainting underneath?"

"Oh dear, yes, " the man said; "I've had many harder jobs. You leave itwith me for a couple of days, and we'll see what we can make of it. "

"Couldn't it be done quicker than that?" Westray said. "I'm in rathera hurry. It is difficult for me to get up to London, and I shouldrather like to be by, when you begin to clean it. "

"Don't make yourself anxious, " the other said; "you can leave it in myhands with perfect confidence. We're quite used to this business. "

Westray still looked unsatisfied. The dealer gave a glance round theshop. "Well, " he said, "things don't seem very busy this morning; ifyou're in such a hurry, I don't mind just trying a little bit of it now. We'll put it on the table in the back-room. I can see if anyone comesinto the shop. "

"Begin where the face ought to be, " Westray said; "let us see whoseportrait it is. "

"No, no, " said the dealer; "we won't risk the face yet. Let us trysomething that doesn't matter much. We shall see how this stuff peelsoff; that'll give us a guide for the more important part. Here, I'llstart with the table-top and caterpillar. There's something queer aboutthat caterpillar, beside the face some joker's fitted it up with. I'mrather shy about the caterpillar. Looks to me as if it was a bit of thereal picture left showing through, though I don't very well see how acaterpillar would fit in with a portrait. " The dealer passed the nailof his forefinger lightly over the surface of the picture. "It seems asif 'twas sunk. You can feel the edges of this heavy daubing rough allround it. "

It was as he pointed out; the green caterpillar certainly appeared toform some part of the underlying picture. The man took out a bottle, and with a brush laid some solution on the painting. "You must wait forit to dry. It will blister and frizzle up the surface, then we can ruboff the top gently with a cloth, and you'll see what you will see. "

"The fellow who painted this table-top didn't spare his colours, " saidthe dealer half an hour later, "and that's all the better for us. See, it comes off like a skin"--and he worked away tenderly with a softflannel. "Well, I'm jiggered, " he went on, "if here isn't anothercaterpillar higher up! No, it ain't a caterpillar; but if it ain't acaterpillar, what is it?"

There was indeed another wavy green line, but Westray knew what it wasdirectly he saw it. "Be careful, " he said; "they aren't caterpillars atall, but just part of a coat of arms--a kind of bars in an heraldicshield, you know. There will be another shorter green line lower down. "

It was as he said, and in a minute more there shone out the silver fieldand the three sea-green bars of the nebuly coat, and below it the motto_Aut Fynes aut finis_, just as it shone in the top light of theBlandamer window. It was the middle bar that Sophia had turned into acaterpillar, and in pure wantonness left showing through, when for herown purposes she had painted out the rest of the picture. Westray'sexcitement was getting the better of him--he could not keep still; hestood first on one leg and then on another, and drummed on the tablewith his fingers. 

The dealer put his hand on the architect's arm. "For God's sake keepquiet!" he said; "don't excite yourself. You needn't think you havefound a gold mine. It ain't a ten thousand-guinea Vandyke. We can'tsee enough yet to say what it is, but I'll bet my life you never get atwenty-pound note for it. "

But for all Westray's impatience, the afternoon was well advanced beforethe head of the portrait was approached. There had been so fewinterruptions, that the dealer felt called upon to extenuate the absenceof custom by explaining more than once that it was a very dull season. He was evidently interested in his task, for he worked with a will tillthe light began to fail. "Never mind, " he said; "I will get a lamp; nowwe have got so far we may as well go a bit further. "

It was a full-face picture, as they saw a few minutes afterwards. Westray held the lamp, and felt a strange thrill go through him, as hebegan to make out the youthful and unwrinkled brow. Surely he knew thathigh forehead--it was Anastasia's, and there was Anastasia's dark wavyhair above it. "Why, it's a woman after all, " the dealer said. "No, itisn't; of course, how could it be with a brown velvet coat andwaistcoat? It's a young man with curly hair. "

Westray said nothing; he was too much excited, too much interested tosay a word, for two eyes were peering at him through the mist. Then themist lifted under the dealer's cloth, and the eyes gleamed with astartling brightness. They were light-grey eyes, clear and piercing, that transfixed him and read the very thoughts that he was thinking. Anastasia had vanished. It was Lord Blandamer that looked at him out ofthe picture. 

They were Lord Blandamer's eyes, impenetrable and observant as to-day, but with the brightness of youth still in them; and the face, untarnished by middle age, showed that the picture had been painted someyears ago. Westray put his elbows on the table and his head between hishands, while he gazed at the face which had thus come back to life. Theeyes pursued him, he could not escape from them, he could scarcely sparea glance even for the nebuly coat that was blazoned in the corner. There were questions revolving in his mind for which he found as yet noanswer. There was some mystery to which this portrait might be theclue. He was on the eve of some terrible explanation; he remembered allkinds of incidents that seemed connected with this picture, and yetcould find no thread on which to string them. Of course, this head musthave been painted when Lord Blandamer was young, but how could SophiaFlannery have ever seen it? The picture had only been the flowers andthe table-top and caterpillar all through Miss Euphemia's memory, andthat covered sixty years. But Lord Blandamer was not more than forty;and as Westray looked at the face he found little differences for whichno change from youth to middle age could altogether account. Then heguessed that this was not the Lord Blandamer whom he knew, but an olderone--that octogenarian who had died three years ago, that HoratioSebastian Fynes, gentleman, who had married Sophia Flannery. 

"It ain't a real first-rater, " the dealer said, "but it ain't bad. Ishouldn't be surprised if 'twas a Lawrence, and, anyway, it's a sightbetter than the flowers. Beats me to know how anyone ever came to paintsuch stuff as them on top of this respectable young man. "

Westray was back in Cullerne the next evening. In the press of manythoughts he had forgotten to tell his landlady that he was coming, andhe stood charing while a maid-of-all-work tried to light therecalcitrant fire. The sticks were few and damp, the newspaper belowthem was damp, and the damp coal weighed heavily down on top of all, till the thick yellow smoke shied at the chimney, and came curling outunder the worsted fringe of the mantelpiece into the chilly room. Westray took this discomfort the more impatiently, in that it was due tohis own forgetfulness in having sent no word of his return. 

"Why in the world isn't the fire lit?" he said sharply. "You must haveknown I couldn't sit without a fire on a cold evening like this;" andthe wind sang dismally in the joints of the windows to emphasise thedreariness of the situation. 

"It ain't nothing to do with me, " answered the red-armed, coal-besmearedhoyden, looking up from her knees; "it's the missus. `He was put outwith the coal bill last time, ' she says, `and I ain't going to risklighting up his fire with coal at sixpence a scuttle, and me not knowingwhether he's coming back to-night. '"

"Well, you might see at any rate that the fire was properly laid, " thearchitect said, as the lighting process gave evident indications offailing for the third time. 

"I do my best, " she said in a larmoyant tone, "but I can't doeverything, what with having to cook, and clean, and run up and downstairs with notes, and answer the bell every other minute to lords. "

"Has Lord Blandamer been here?" asked Westray. 

"Yes, he came yesterday and twice to-day to see you, " she said, "andthen he left a note. There 'tis"--and she pointed to the end of themantelpiece. 

Westray looked round, and saw an envelope edged in black. He knew thestrong, bold hand of the superscription well enough, and in his presentmood it sent something like a thrill of horror through him. 

"You needn't wait, " he said quickly to the servant; "it isn't your faultat all about the fire. I'm sure it's going to burn now. "

The girl rose quickly to her feet, gave an astonished glance at thegrate, which was once more enveloped in impotent blackness, and left theroom. 

An hour later, when the light outside was failing, Westray sat in thecold and darkening room. On the table lay open before him LordBlandamer's letter:

 "Dear Mr Westray, "I called to see you yesterday, but was unfortunate in finding you absent from home, and so write these lines. There used to hang in your sitting-room at Bellevue Lodge an old picture of flowers which has some interest for my wife. Her affection for it is based on early associations, and not, of course, on any merits of the painting itself. I thought that it belonged to Miss Joliffe, but I find on inquiry from her that she sold it to you some little time ago, and that it is with you now. I do not suppose that you can attach any great value to it, and, indeed, I suspect that you bought it of Miss Joliffe as an act of charity. If this is so, I should be obliged if you would let me know if you are disposed to part with it again, as my wife would like to have it here. 

 "I am sorry to hear of fresh movement in the tower. It would be a bitter thought to me, if the peal that welcomed us back were found to have caused damage to the structure, but I am sure you will know that no expense should be spared to make all really secure as soon as possible. 

 "Very faithfully yours, "Blandamer. "

Westray was eager, impressionable, still subject to all the exaltationsand depressions of youth. Thoughts crowded into his mind withbewildering rapidity; they trod so close upon each other's heels thatthere was no time to marshal them in order; excitement had dizzied him. Was he called to be the minister of justice? Was he chosen for thescourge of God? Was his the hand that must launch the bolt against theguilty? Discovery had come directly to him. What a piece ofcircumstantial evidence were these very lines that lay open on thetable, dim and illegible in the darkness that filled the room! Yetclear and damning to one who had the clue. 

This man that ruled at Fording was a pretender, enjoying goods thatbelonged to others, a shameless evil-doer, who had not stuck at marryinginnocent Anastasia Joliffe, if by so stooping he might cover up thetraces of his imposture. There was no Lord Blandamer, there was notitle; with a breath he could sweep it all away like a house of cards. And was that all? Was there nothing else?

Night had fallen. Westray sat alone in the dark, his elbows on thetable, his head still between his hands. There was no fire, there wasno light, only the faint shimmer of a far-off street lamp brought aperception of the darkness. It was that pale uncertain luminosity thatrecalled to his mind another night, when the misty moon shone throughthe clerestory windows of Saint Sepulchre's. He seemed once more to bemaking his way up the ghostly nave, on past the pillars that stood likegigantic figures in white winding-sheets, on under the great towerarches. Once more he was groping in the utter darkness of the newelstair, once more he came out into the organ-loft, and saw the balefulsilver and sea-green of the nebuly coat gleaming in the transept window. And in the corners of the room lurked presences of evil, and a thinpale shadow of Sharnall wrung its hands, and cried to be saved from theman with the hammer. Then the horrible suspicion that had haunted himthese last days stared out of the darkness as a fact, and he sprung tohis feet in a shiver of cold and lit a candle. 

An hour, two hours, three hours passed before he had written an answerto the letter that lay before him, and in the interval a freshvicissitude of mind had befallen him. He, Westray, had been singled outas the instrument of vengeance; the clue was in his hands; his was themouth that must condemn. Yet he would do nothing underhand, he wouldtake no man unawares; he would tell Lord Blandamer of his discovery, andgive him warning before he took any further steps. So he wrote:

"My lord, " and of the many sheets that were begun and flung away beforethe letter was finished, two were spoiled because the familiar address"Dear Lord Blandamer" came as it were automatically from Westray's pen. He could no longer bring himself to use those words now, even as aformality, and so he began:

 "My Lord, "I have just received your note about the picture bought by me of Miss Joliffe. I cannot say whether I should have been willing to part with it under ordinary circumstances. It had no apparent intrinsic value, but for me it was associated with my friend the late Mr Sharnall, organist of Saint Sepulchre's. We shared in its purchase, and it was only on his death that I came into sole possession of it. You will not have forgotten the strange circumstances of his end, and I have not forgotten them either. My friend Mr Sharnall was well-known among his acquaintances to be much interested in this picture. He believed it to be of more importance than appeared, and he expressed himself strongly to that effect in my presence, and once also, I remember, in yours. 

 "But for his untimely death I think he would have long ago made the discovery to which chance has now led me. The flowers prove to be a mere surface painting which concealed what is undoubtedly a portrait of the late Lord Blandamer, and at the back of the canvas were found copies of certain entries in parish registers relating to him. I most earnestly wish that I could end here by making over these things to you, but they seem to me to throw so strange a light on certain past events that I must hold myself responsible for them, and can give them up to no private person. At the same time, I do not feel justified in refusing to let you see picture and papers, if you should wish to do so, and to judge yourself of their importance. I am at the above address, and shall be ready to make an appointment at any time before Monday next, after which date I shall feel compelled to take further steps in this matter. "

Westray's letter reached Lord Blandamer the next morning. It lay at thebottom of a little heap of correspondence on the breakfast-table, likethe last evil lot to leap out of the shaken urn, an Ephedrus, like thatAdulterer who at the finish tripped the Conqueror of Troy. He read itat a glance, catching its import rather by intuition than by any slavishfollowing of the written characters. If earth was darkness at the core, and dust and ashes all that is, there was no trace of it in his face. He talked gaily, he fulfilled the duties of a host with all his charm ofmanner, he sped two guests who were leaving that morning with all hisusual courtesy. After that he ordered his horse, and telling LadyBlandamer that he might not be back to lunch, he set out for one ofthose slow solitary rides on the estate that often seemed congenial tohis mood. He rode along by narrow lanes and bridle-paths, notforgetting a kindly greeting to men who touched their hats, or women whodropped a curtsey, but all the while he thought. 

The letter had sent his memory back to another black day, more thantwenty years before, when he had quarrelled with his grandfather. Itwas in his second year at Oxford, when as an undergraduate he first feltit his duty to set the whole world in order. He held strong views as tothe mismanagement of the Fording estates; and as a scholar and man ofthe world, had thought it weakness to shirk the expression of them. Thetimber was being neglected, there was no thinning and no planting. Theold-fashioned farmhouses were being let fall into disrepair, and thenreplaced by parsimonious eaveless buildings; the very grazing in thepark was let, and fallow-deer and red-deer were jostled by sheep andcommon mongrel cows. The question of the cows had galled him till hewas driven to remonstrate strongly with his grandfather. There hadnever been much love lost between the pair, and on this occasion theyoung man found the old man strangely out of sympathy with suggestionsof reform. 

"Thank you, " old Lord Blandamer had said; "I have heard all you have tosay. You have eased your mind, and now you can go back to Oxford inpeace. I have managed Fording for forty years, and feel myselfperfectly competent to manage it for forty years more. I don't quitesee what concern you have in the matter. What business is it of yours?"

"You don't see what concern I have in it, " said the reformerimpetuously; "you don't know what business it is of mine? Why, damageis being done here that will take a lifetime to repair. "

A man must be on good terms with his heir not to dislike the idea ofmaking way for him, and the old lord flew into one of those paroxysms ofrage which fell upon him more frequently in his later years. 

"Now, look you, " he said; "you need not trouble yourself any more aboutFording, nor think you will be so great a sufferer by my mismanagement. It is by no means certain that I shall ever burden you with the place atall. "

Then the young man was angry in his turn. "Don't threaten me, sir, " hesaid sharply; "I am not a boy any longer to be cowed by rough words, sokeep your threats for others. You would disgrace the family anddisgrace yourself, if you left the property away from the title. "

"Make your mind easy, " said the other; "the property shall follow thetitle. Get away, and let me hear no more, or you may find both leftaway from you. "

The words were lightly spoken, perhaps in mere petulance at being takento task by a boy, perhaps in the exasperating pangs of gout; but theyhad a bitter sound, and sank deep into the heart of youth. The threatof the other possible heirs was new, and yet was not new to him. Itseemed as if he had heard something of this before, though he could notremember where; it seemed as if there had always been some ill-defined, intangible suspicion in the air of Fording to make him doubt, since hecame to thinking years, whether the title ever really would be his. 

Lord Blandamer remembered these things well, as he walked his horsethrough the beech-leaves with Westray's letter in his breast-pocket. Heremembered how his grandfather's words had sent him about with a sadface, and how his grandmother had guessed the reason. He wondered howshe had guessed it; but she too, perhaps, had heard these threatsbefore, and so came at the cause more easily. Yet when she had forcedhis confidence she had little comfort to give. 

He could see her now, a stately woman with cold blue eyes, stillhandsome, though she was near sixty. 

"Since we are speaking of this matter, " she said with chillingcomposure, "let us speak openly. I will tell you everything I know, which is nothing. Your grandfather threatened me once, many years ago, as he has threatened you now, and we have never forgotten nor forgiven. "She moved herself in her chair, and there came a little flush of red toher cheek. "It was about the time of your father's birth; we hadquarrelled before, but this was our first serious quarrel, and the last. Your father was different from me, you know, and from you; he neverquarrelled, and he never knew this story. So far as I was concerned Itook the responsibility of silence, and it was wisest so. " She lookedsterner than ever as she went on. "I have never heard or discoveredanything more. I am not afraid of your grandfather's intentions. Hehas a regard for the name, and he means to leave all to you, who haveevery right, unless, indeed, it may be, a legal right. There is onemore thing about which I was anxious long ago. You have heard about aportrait of your grandfather that was stolen from the gallery soon afteryour father's birth? Suspicion fell upon no one in particular. Ofcourse, the stable door was locked after the horse was gone, and we hada night-watchman at Fording for some time; but little stir was made, andI do not believe your grandfather ever put the matter in the hands ofthe police. It was a spiteful trick, he said; he would not pay whoeverhad done it the compliment of taking any trouble to recover theportrait. The picture was of himself; he could have another painted anyday. 

"By whatever means that picture was removed, I have little doubt thatyour grandfather guessed what had become of it. Does it still exist?Was it stolen? Or did he have it taken away to prevent its beingstolen? We must remember that, though we are quite in the dark aboutthese people, there is nothing to prevent their being shown over thehouse like any other strangers. " Then she drew herself up, and foldedher hands in her lap, and he saw the great rings flashing on her whitefingers. "That is all I know, " she finished, "and now let us agree notto mention the subject again, unless one of us should discover anythingmore. The claim may have lapsed, or may have been compounded, or maynever have existed; I think, anyhow, we may feel sure now that no movewill be made in your grandfather's lifetime. My advice to you is not toquarrel with him; you had better spend your long vacations away fromFording, and when you leave Oxford you can travel. "

So the young man went out from Fording, for a wandering that was toprove half as long as that of Israel in the wilderness. He came homefor a flying visit at wide intervals, but he kept up a steadycorrespondence with his grandmother as long as she lived. Only once, and that in the last letter which he ever received from her, did sheallude to the old distasteful discussion. "Up to this very day, " shewrote, "I have found out nothing; we may still hope that there isnothing to find out. "

In all those long years he consoled himself by the thought that he wasbearing expatriation for the honour of the family, that he was absentinghimself so that his grandfather might find the less temptation to dragthe nebuly coat in the mire. To make a fetish of family was a traditionwith Blandamers, and the heir as he set out on his travels, with theromance of early youth about him, dedicated himself to the nebuly coat, with a vow to "serve and preserve" as faithfully as any ever taken byTemplar. 

Last of all the old lord passed away. He never carried out his threatof disinheritance, but died intestate, and thus the grandson came to hisown. The new Lord Blandamer was no longer young when he returned; yearsof wild travel had hardened his face, and made his heart self-reliant, but he came back as romantic as he went away. For Nature, if she onceendows man or woman with romance, gives them so rich a store of it asshall last them, life through, unto the end. In sickness or health, inpoverty or riches, through middle age and old age, through loss of hairand loss of teeth, under wrinkled face and gouty limbs, undercrow's-feet and double chins, under all the least romantic and mostsordid malaisances of life, romance endures to the end. Its price isaltogether above rubies; it can never be taken away from those that haveit, and those that have it not, can never acquire it for money, nor bythe most utter toil--no, nor ever arrive at the very faintestcomprehension of it. 

The new lord had come back to Fording full of splendid purpose. He wastired of wandering; he would marry; he would settle down and enjoy hisown; he would seek the good of the people, and make his great estates anexample among landowners. And then within three weeks he had learnedthat there was a pretender to the throne, that in Cullerne there was avisionary who claimed to be the very Lord Blandamer. He had had thiswretched man pointed out to him once in the street--a broken-down fellowwho was trailing the cognisance of all the Blandamers in the mud, tillthe very boys called him Old Nebuly. Was he to fight for land, andhouse, and title, to fight for everything, with a man like that? Andyet it might come to fighting, for within a little time he knew thatthis was the heir who had been the intangible shadow of hisgrandmother's life and of his own; and that Martin might stumble any dayupon the proof that was lacking. And then death set a term to Martin'shopes, and Lord Blandamer was free again. 

But not for long, for in a little while he heard of an old organist whohad taken up Martin's role--a meddlesome busybody who fished in troubledwaters, for the trouble's sake. What had such a mean man as this to dowith lands, and titles, and coats of arms? And yet this man was talkingunder his breath in Cullerne of crimes, and clues, and retribution nearat hand. And then death put a term to Sharnall's talk, and LordBlandamer was free again. 

Free for a longer space, free this time finally for ever; and hemarried, and marriage set the seal on his security, and the heir wasborn, and the nebuly coat was safe. But now a new confuter had risen tobalk him. Was he fighting with dragon's spawn? Were fresh enemies tospring up from the--The simile did not suit his mood, and he truncatedit. Was this young architect, whose very food and wages in Cullernewere being paid for by the money that he, Lord Blandamer, saw fit tospend upon the church, indeed to be the avenger? Was his own creatureto turn and rend him? He smiled at the very irony of the thing, andthen he brushed aside reflections on the past, and stifled even thebeginnings of regret, if, indeed, any existed. He would look at thepresent, he would understand exactly how matters stood. 

Lord Blandamer came back to Fording at nightfall, and spent the hourbefore dinner in his library. He wrote some business letters whichcould not be postponed, but after dinner read aloud to his wife. He hada pleasant and well-trained voice, and amused Lady Blandamer by readingfrom the "Ingoldsby Legends, " a new series of which had recentlyappeared. 

Whilst he read Anastasia worked at some hangings, which had been leftunfinished by the last Lady Blandamer. The old lord's wife had gone outvery little, but passed her time for the most part with her gardens, andwith curious needlework. For years she had been copying some moth-eatenfragments of Stuart tapestry, and at her death left the work stilluncompleted. The housekeeper had shown these half-finished things andexplained what they were, and Anastasia had asked Lord Blandamer whetherit would be agreeable to him that she should go on with them. The ideapleased him, and so she plodded away evening by evening, very carefullyand slowly, thinking often of the lonely old lady whose hands had lastbeen busied with the same task. This grandmother of her husband seemedto have been the only relation with whom he had ever been on intimateterms, and Anastasia's interest was quickened by an excellent portraitof her as a young girl by Lawrence, which hung in the long gallery. Could the old lady have revisited for once the scene of her labours, shewould have had no reason to be dissatisfied with her successor. Anastasia looked distinguished enough as she sat at her work-frame, withthe skeins of coloured silks in her lap and the dark-brown hair waved onher high forehead; and a dress of a rich yellow velvet might havesupported the illusion that a portrait of some bygone lady of theBlandamers had stepped down out of its frame. 

That evening her instinct told her that something was amiss, in spite ofall her husband's self-command. Something very annoying must havehappened among the grooms, gardeners, gamekeepers, or other dependents;he had been riding about to set the matter straight, and it was no doubtof a nature that he did not care to mention to her. 

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. 

Westray passed a day of painful restlessness. He had laid his hand to arepugnant business, and the burden of it was too heavy for him to bear. He felt the same gnawing anxiety, that is experienced by one whomdoctors have sentenced to a lethal operation. One man may bear himselfmore bravely in such circumstances than another, but by nature every manis a coward; and the knowledge that the hour is approaching, when thesurgeon's knife shall introduce him to a final struggle of life anddeath cannot be done away. So it was with Westray; he had undertaken atask for which he was not strong enough, and only high principle, and asense of moral responsibility, kept him from panic and flight. He wentto the church in the morning, and endeavoured to concentrate attentionon his work, but the consciousness of what was before him would not bethrust aside. The foreman-mason saw that his master's thoughts werewandering, and noticed the drawn expression on his face. 

In the afternoon his restlessness increased, and he wandered listlesslythrough the streets and narrow entries of the town, till he foundhimself near nightfall at that place by the banks of the Cull, where theorganist had halted on the last evening of his life. He stood leaningover the iron railing, and looked at the soiled river, just as MrSharnall had looked. There were the dark-green tresses of duck-weedswaying to and fro in the shallow eddies, there was the sordidcollection of broken and worthless objects that lay on the bottom, andhe stared at them till the darkness covered them one by one, and onlythe whiteness of a broken dish still flickered under the water. 

Then he crept back to his room as if he were a felon, and though he wentearly to bed, sleep refused to visit him till the day began to break. With daylight he fell into a troubled doze, and dreamt that he was in awitness-box before a crowded court. In the dock stood Lord Blandamerdressed in full peer's robes, and with a coronet on his head. The eyesof all were turned upon him, Westray, with fierce enmity and contempt, and it was he, Westray, that a stern-faced judge was sentencing, as atraducer and lying informer. Then the people in the galleries stampedwith their feet and howled against him in their rage; and waking with astart, he knew that it was the postman's sharp knock on the street-door, that had broken his slumber. 

The letter which he dreaded lay on the table when he came down. He feltan intense reluctance in opening it. He almost wondered that thehandwriting was still the same; it was as if he had expected that thecharacters should be tremulous, or the ink itself blood-red. LordBlandamer acknowledged Mr Westray's letter with thanks. He shouldcertainly like to see the picture and the family papers of which MrWestray spoke; would Mr Westray do him the favour of bringing thepicture to Fording? He apologised for putting him to so much trouble, but there was another picture in the gallery at Fording, with which itmight be interesting to compare the one recently discovered. He wouldsend a carriage to meet any train; Mr Westray would no doubt find itmore convenient to spend the night at Fording. 

There was no expression of surprise, curiosity, indignation or alarm;nothing, in fact, except the utmost courtesy, a little more distantperhaps than usual, but not markedly so. 

Westray had been unable to conjecture what would be the nature of LordBlandamer's answer. He had thought of many possibilities, of theimpostor's flight, of lavish offers of hush-money, of passionate appealsfor mercy, of scornful and indignant denial. But in all his imaginingshe had never imagined this. Ever since he had sent his own letter, hehad been doubtful of its wisdom, and yet he had not been able to thinkof any other course that he would have preferred. He knew that the stephe had taken in warning the criminal was quixotic, and yet it seemed tohim that Lord Blandamer had a certain right to see his own familyportrait and papers, before they were used against him. He could notfeel sorry that he had given the opportunity, though he had certainlyhoped that Lord Blandamer would not avail himself of it. 

But go to Fording he would not. That, at any rate, no fantasticrefinement of fair play could demand of him. He knew his mind at leaston this point; he would answer at once, and he got out a sheet of paperfor his refusal. It was easy to write the number of his house, and thestreet, and Cullerne, and the formal "My lord, " which he used again forthe address. But what then? What reason was he to give for hisrefusal? He could allege no business appointment or other seriousengagement as an obstacle, for he himself had said that he was free fora week, and had offered Lord Blandamer to make an appointment on anyday. He himself had offered an interview; to draw back now would bemean and paltry in the extreme. It was true that the more he thought ofthis meeting the more he shrank from it. But it could not be evadednow. It was, after all, only the easiest part of the task that he hadset before him, only a prolusion to the tragedy that he would have toplay to a finish. Lord Blandamer deserved, no doubt, all the evil thatwas to fall on him; but in the meanwhile he, Westray, was incapable ofrefusing this small favour, asked by a man who was entirely at hismercy. 

Then he wrote with a shrinking heart, but with yet another fixedpurpose, that he would bring the picture to Fording the next day. Hepreferred not to be met at the station; he would arrive some time duringthe afternoon, but could only stay an hour at the most, as he hadbusiness which would take him on to London the same evening. 

It was a fine Autumn day on the morrow, and when the morning mists hadcleared away, the sun came out with surprising warmth, and dried the dewon the lawns of many-gardened Cullerne. Towards mid-day Westray setforth from his lodgings to go to the station, carrying under his arm thepicture, lightly packed in lath, and having in his pocket those paperswhich had fallen out from the frame. He chose a route throughback-streets, and walked quickly, but as he passed Quandrill's, thelocal maker of guns and fishing-rods, a thought struck him. He stoppedand entered the shop. 

"Good-morning, " he said to the gunsmith, who stood behind the counter;"have you any pistols? I want one small enough to carry in the pocket, but yet something more powerful than a toy. "

Mr Quandrill took off his spectacles. 

"Ah, " he said, tapping the counter with them meditatively. "Let me see. Mr Westray, is it not, the architect at the minster?"

"Yes, " Westray answered. "I require a pistol for some experiments. Itshould carry a fairly heavy bullet. "

"Oh, just so, " the man said, with an air of some relief, as Westray'scoolness convinced him that he was not contemplating suicide. "Just so, I see; some experiments. Well, in that case, I suppose, you would notrequire any special facilities for loading again quickly, otherwise Ishould have recommended one of these, " and he took up a weapon from thecounter. "They are new-fangled things from America, revolving pistolsthey call them. You can fire them four times running, you see, as quickas you like, " and he snapped the piece to show how well it worked. 

Westray handled the pistol, and looked at the barrels. 

"Yes, " he said, "that will suit my purpose very well, though it israther large to carry in the pocket. "

"Oh, you want it for the pocket, " the gunmaker said with renewedsurprise in his tone. 

"Yes; I told you that already. I may have to carry it about with me. Still, I think this will do. Could you kindly load it for me now?"

"You are sure it's quite safe, " said the gunmaker. 

"I ought to ask _you_ that, " Westray rejoined with a smile. "Do youmean it may go off accidentally in my pocket?"

"Oh no, it's safe enough that way, " said the gunmaker. "It won't go offunless you pull the trigger. " And he loaded the four barrels, measuringout the powder and shot carefully, and ramming in the wads. "You'll bewanting more powder and shot than this, I suppose, " he said. 

"Very likely, " rejoined the architect, "but I can call for that later. "

He found a heavy country fly waiting for him at Lytchett, the littlewayside station which was sometimes used by people going to Fording. Itis a seven-mile drive from the station to the house, but he was sooccupied in his own reflections, that he was conscious of nothing tillthe carriage pulled up at the entrance of the park. Here he stopped fora moment while the lodge-keeper was unfastening the bolt, and rememberedafterwards that he had noticed the elaborate iron-work, and the nebulycoat which was set over the great gates. He was in the long avenue now, and he wished it had been longer, he wished that it might never end; andthen the fly stopped again, and Lord Blandamer on horseback was speakingto him through the carriage window. 

There was a second's pause, while the two men looked each other directlyin the eyes, and in that look all doubt on either side was ended. Westray felt as if he had received a staggering blow as he came face toface with naked truth, and Lord Blandamer read Westray's thoughts, andknew the extent of his discovery. 

Lord Blandamer was the first to speak. 

"I am glad to see you again, " he said with perfect courtesy, "and amvery much obliged to you for taking this trouble in bringing thepicture. " And he glanced at the crate that Westray was steadying withhis hand on the opposite seat. "I only regret that you would not let mesend a carriage to Lytchett. "

"Thank you, " said the architect; "on the present occasion I preferred tobe entirely independent. " His words were cold, and were meant to becold, and yet as he looked at the other's gentle bearing, and the graveface in which sadness was a charm; he felt constrained to abate in partthe effect of his own remark, and added somewhat awkwardly: "You see, Iwas uncertain about the trains. "

"I am riding back across the grass, " Lord Blandamer said, "but shall beat the house before you;" and as he galloped off, Westray knew that herode exceedingly well. 

This meeting, he guessed, had been contrived to avoid the embarrassmentof a more formal beginning. It was obvious that their terms of formerfriendship could no longer be maintained. Nothing would have inducedhim to have shaken hands, and this Lord Blandamer must have known. 

As Westray stepped into the hall through Inigo Jones' Ionic portico, Lord Blandamer entered from a side-door. 

"You must be cold after your long drive. Will you not take a biscuitand a glass of wine?"

Westray motioned away the refreshment which a footman offered him. 

"No, thank you, " he said; "I will not take anything. " It was impossiblefor him to eat or drink in this house, and yet again he softened hiswords by adding: "I had something to eat on the way. "

The architect's refusal was not lost upon Lord Blandamer. He had knownbefore he spoke that his offer would not be accepted. 

"I am afraid it is useless to ask you to stop the night with us, " hesaid; and Westray had his rejoinder ready:

"No; I must leave Lytchett by the seven five train. I have ordered thefly to wait. "

He had named the last train available for London, and Lord Blandamer sawthat his visitor had so arranged matters, that the interview could notbe prolonged for more than an hour. 

"Of course, you _could_ catch the night-mail at Cullerne Road, " he said. "It is a very long drive, but I sometimes go that way to Londonmyself. "

His words called suddenly to Westray's recollection that night walk whenthe station lights of Cullerne Road were seen dimly through the fog, andthe station-master's story that Lord Blandamer had travelled by the mailon the night of poor Sharnall's death. He said nothing, but felt hisresolution strengthened. 

"The gallery will be the most convenient place, perhaps, to unpack thepicture, " Lord Blandamer said; and Westray at once assented, gatheringfrom the other's manner that this would be a spot where no interruptionneed be feared. 

They went up some wide and shallow stairs, preceded by a footman, whocarried the picture. 

"You need not wait, " Lord Blandamer said to the man; "we can unpack itourselves. "

When the wrappings were taken off, they stood the painting on the narrowshelf formed by the top of the wainscot which lined the gallery, andfrom the canvas the old lord surveyed them with penetrating light-greyeyes, exactly like the eyes of the grandson who stood before him. 

Lord Blandamer stepped back a little, and took a long look at the faceof this man, who had been the terror of his childhood, who had darkenedhis middle life, who seemed now to have returned from the grave to ruinhim. He knew himself to be in a desperate pass. Here he must make thelast stand, for the issue lay between him and Westray. No one else hadlearned the secret. He understood and relied implicitly on Westray'sfantastic sense of honour. Westray had written that he would "take nosteps" till the ensuing Monday, and Lord Blandamer was sure that no onewould be told before that day, and that no one had been told yet. IfWestray could be silenced all was saved; if Westray spoke, all was lost. If it had been a question of weapons, or of bodily strength, there wasno doubt which way the struggle would have ended. Westray knew thiswell now, and felt heartily ashamed of the pistol that was bulging thebreast-pocket on the inside of his coat. If it had been a question ofphysical attack, he knew now that he would have never been given time, or opportunity for making use of his weapon. 

Lord Blandamer had travelled north and south, east and west; he had seenand done strange things; he had stood for his life in struggles whenceonly one could come out alive; but here was no question of flesh andblood--he had to face principles, those very principles on which herelied for respite; he had to face that integrity of Westray which madepersuasion or bribery alike impossible. He had never seen this picturebefore, and he looked at it intently for some minutes; but his attentionwas all the while concentrated on the man who stood beside him. Thiswas his last chance--he could afford to make no mistake; and his soul, or whatever that thing may be called which is certainly not the body, was closing with Westray's soul in a desperate struggle for mastery. 

Westray was not seeing the picture for the first time, and after oneglance he stood aloof. The interview was becoming even more painfulthan he had expected. He avoided looking Lord Blandamer in the face, yet presently, at a slight movement, turned and met his eye. 

"Yes, it is my grandfather, " said the other. 

There was nothing in the words, and yet it seemed to Westray as if someterrible confidence was being thrust upon him against his will; as ifLord Blandamer had abandoned any attempt to mislead, and was tacitlyavowing all that might be charged against him. The architect began tofeel that he was now regarded as a personal enemy, though he had neverso considered himself. It was true that picture and papers had falleninto his hands, but he knew that a sense of duty was the only motive ofany action that he might be taking. 

"You promised, I think, to show me some papers, " Lord Blandamer said. 

Most painfully Westray handed them over; his knowledge of their contentsmade it seem that he was offering a deliberate insult. He wishedfervently that he never had made any proposal for this meeting; he oughtto have given everything to the proper authorities, and have let theblow fall as it would. Such an interview could only end in bitterness:its present result was that here in Lord Blandamer's own house, he, Westray, was presenting him with proofs of his father's illegitimacy, with proofs that he had no right to this house--no, nor to anythingelse. 

It was a bitter moment for Lord Blandamer to find such information inthe possession of a younger man; but, if there was more colour in hisface than usual, his self-command stood the test, and he thrustresentment aside. There was no time to say or do useless things, therewas no time for feeling; all his attention must be concentrated on theman before him. He stood still, seeming to examine the papers closely, and, as a matter of fact, he did take note of the name, the place, andthe date, that so many careful searchings had failed ever to find. Butall the while he was resolutely considering the next move, and givingWestray time to think and feel. When he looked up, their eyes metagain, and this time it was Westray that coloured. 

"I suppose you have verified these certificates?" Lord Blandamer askedvery quietly. 

"Yes, " Westray said, and Lord Blandamer gave them back to him without aword, and walked slowly away down the gallery. 

Westray crushed the papers into his pocket where most of the room wastaken up by the pistol; he was glad to get them out of his sight; hecould not bear to hold them. It was as if a beaten fighter had given uphis sword. With these papers Lord Blandamer seemed to resign into hisadversary's hands everything of which he stood possessed, his lands, hislife, the honour of his house. He made no defence, no denial, noresistance, least of all any appeal. Westray was left master of thesituation, and must do whatever he thought fit. This fact was clearerto him now than it had ever been before, the secret was his alone; withhim rested the responsibility of making it public. He stood dumb beforethe picture, from which the old lord looked at him with penetratingeyes. He had nothing to say; he could not go after Lord Blandamer; hewondered whether this was indeed to be the end of the interview, andturned sick at the thought of the next step that must be taken. 

At the distance of a few yards Lord Blandamer paused, and looked round, and Westray understood that he was being invited, or commanded, tofollow. They stopped opposite the portrait of a lady, but it was theframe to which Lord Blandamer called attention by laying his hand on it. 

"This was my grandmother, " he said; "they were companion pictures. Theyare the same size, the moulding on the frame is the same, an interlacingfillet, and the coat of arms is in the same place. You see?" he added, finding Westray still silent. 

Westray was obliged to meet his look once more. 

"I see, " he said, most reluctantly. He knew now, that the unusualmoulding and the size of the picture that hung in Miss Joliffe's house, must have revealed its identity long ago to the man who stood beforehim; that during all those visits in which plans for the church had beenexamined and discussed, Lord Blandamer must have known what lay hidunder the flowers, must have known that the green wriggling caterpillarwas but a bar of the nebuly coat. Confidences were being forced uponWestray that he could not forget, and could not reveal. He longed tocry out, "For God's sake, do not tell me these things; do not give methis evidence against yourself!"

There was another short pause, and then Lord Blandamer turned. Heseemed to expect Westray to turn with him, and they walked back over thesoft carpet down the gallery in a silence that might be heard. The airwas thick with doom; Westray felt as if he were stifling. He had lostmental control, his thoughts were swallowed up in a terrible chaos. Only one reflection stood out, the sense of undivided responsibility. It was not as if he were adding a link, as in duty bound, to a longchain of other evidence: the whole matter was at rest; to set it inmotion again would be his sole act, his act alone. There was a refrainringing in his ears, a verse that he had heard read a few Sundays beforein Cullerne Church, "Am I God, to kill and make alive? Am I God, tokill and make alive?" Yet duty commanded him to go forward, and goforward he must, though the result was certain: he would be playing thepart of executioner. 

The man whose fate he must seal was keeping pace with him quietly, stepby step. If he could only have a few moments to himself, he might clearhis distracted thoughts. He paused before some other picture, feigningto examine it, but Lord Blandamer paused also, and looked at him. Heknew Lord Blandamer's eye was upon him, though he refused to return thelook. It seemed a mere act of courtesy on Lord Blandamer's part tostop. Mr Westray might be specially interested in some of thepictures, and, if any information was required, it was the part of thehost to see that it was forthcoming. Westray stopped again once ortwice, but always with the same result. He did not know whether he waslooking at portraits or landscapes, though he was vaguely aware thathalf-way down the gallery, there stood on the floor what seemed to be anunfinished picture, with its face turned to the wall. 

Except when Westray stopped, Lord Blandamer looked neither to the rightnor to the left; he walked with his hands folded lightly behind him, andwith his eyes upon the ground, yet did not feign to have his thoughtsdisengaged. His companion shrank from any attempt to understand orfathom what those thoughts could be, but admired, against his will, thecontained and resolute bearing. Westray felt as a child beside a giant, yet had no doubt as to his own duty, or that he was going to do it. Buthow hard it was! Why had he been so foolish as to meddle with thepicture? Why had he read papers that did not belong to him? Why, aboveall, had he come down to Fording to have his suspicions confirmed? Whatbusiness was it of his to ferret out these things? He felt all theunutterable aversion of an upright mind for playing the part of adetective; all the sovereign contempt even for such petty meanness asallows one person to examine the handwriting or postmark of lettersaddressed to another. Yet he knew this thing, and he alone; he couldnot do away with this horrible knowledge. 

The end of the gallery was reached; they turned with one accord andpaced slowly, silently back, and the time was slipping away fast. Itwas impossible for Westray to consider anything _now_, but he had takenhis decision before he came to Fording; he must go through with it;there was no escape for _him_ any more than for Lord Blandamer. Hewould keep his word. On Monday, the day he had mentioned, he wouldspeak, and once begun, the matter would pass out of his hands. But howwas he to tell this to the man who was walking beside him, and silentlywaiting for his sentence? He could not leave him in suspense; to do sowould be cowardice and cruelty. He must make his intention clear, buthow? in what form of words? There was no time to think; already theywere repassing that canvas which stood with its face to the wall. 

The suspense, the impenetrable silence, was telling upon Westray; hetried again to rearrange his thoughts, but they were centred only onLord Blandamer. How calm he seemed, with his hands folded behind him, and never a finger twitching! What did _he_ mean to do--to fly, or killhimself, or stand his ground and take his trial on a last chance? Itwould be a celebrated trial. Hateful and inevitable details occurred toWestray's imagination: the crowded, curious court as he saw it in hisdream, with Lord Blandamer in the dock, and this last thought sickenedhim. His own place would be in the witness-box. Incidents that hewished to forget would be recalled, discussed, dwelt on; he would haveto search his memory for them, narrate them, swear to them. But thiswas not all. He would have to give an account of this very afternoon'swork. It could not be hushed up. Every servant in the house would knowhow he had come to Fording with a picture. He heard himselfcross-examined as to "this very remarkable interview. " What account washe to give of it? What a betrayal of confidence it would be to give_any_ account. Yet he must, and his evidence would be given under theeyes of Lord Blandamer in the dock. Lord Blandamer would be in the dockwatching him. It was unbearable, impossible; rather than this he wouldfly himself, he would use the pistol that bulged his pocket against hisown life. 

Lord Blandamer had noted Westray's nervous movements, his glances toright and left, as though seeking some way of escape; he saw theclenched hands, and the look of distress as they paced to and fro. Heknew that each pause before a picture was an attempt to shake him off, but he would not be shaken off; Westray was feeling the grip, and mustnot have a moment's breathing space. He could tell exactly how theminutes were passing, he knew what to listen for, and could catch thedistant sound of the stable clock striking the quarters. They were backat the end of the gallery. There was no time to pace it again; Westraymust go now if he was to catch his train. 

They stopped opposite the old lord's portrait; the silence wrappedWestray round, as the white fog had wrapped him round that night on hisway to Cullerne Road. He wanted to speak, but his brain was confused, his throat was dry; he dreaded the sound of his own voice. 

Lord Blandamer took out his watch. 

"I have no wish to hurry you, Mr Westray, " he said, "but your trainleaves Lytchett in little over an hour. It will take you nearly thattime to drive to the station. May I help you to repack this picture?"

His voice was clear, level, and courteous, as on the day when Westrayhad first met him at Bellevue Lodge. The silence was broken, andWestray found himself speaking quickly in answer:

"You invited me to stay here for the night. I have changed my mind, andwill accept your offer, if I may. " He hesitated for a moment, and thenwent on: "I shall be thankful if you will keep the picture and thesedocuments. I see now that I have no business with them. "

He took the crumpled papers from his pocket, and held them out withoutlooking up. 

Then silence fell on them again, and Westray's heart stood still; tillafter a second that seemed an eternity Lord Blandamer took the paperswith a short "I thank you, " and walked a little way further, to the endof the gallery. The architect leant against the side of a windowopposite which he found himself, and, looking out without seeinganything, presently heard Lord Blandamer tell a servant that Mr Westraywould stop the night, and that wine was to be brought them in thegallery. In a few minutes the man came back with a decanter on asalver, and Lord Blandamer filled glasses for Westray, and himself. Hefelt probably that both needed something of the kind, but to the othermore was implied. Westray remembered that an hour ago he had refused toeat or drink under this roof. An hour ago--how his mood had changed inthat short time! How he had flung duty and principle to the winds!Surely this glass of red wine was a very sacrament of the devil, whichmade him a partner of iniquity. 

As he raised the glass to his lips a slanting sunbeam shot through thewindow, and made the wine glow red as blood. The drinkers paused glassin hand, and glancing up saw the red sun setting behind the trees in thepark. Then the old lord's picture caught the evening light, the greenbars of the nebuly coat danced before Westray's eyes, till they seemedto live, to be again three wriggling caterpillars, and the penetratinggrey eyes looked out from the canvas as if they were watching theenactment of this final scene. Lord Blandamer pledged him in a bumper, and Westray answered without hesitation, for he had given hisallegiance, and would have drunk poison in token that there was to be noturning back now. 

An engagement kept Lady Blandamer from home that evening. LordBlandamer had intended to accompany her, but afterwards told her thatMr Westray was coming on important business, and so she went alone. Only Lord Blandamer and Westray sat down to dinner, and some subtlechange of manner made the architect conscious that for the first timesince their acquaintance, his host was treating him as a real equal. Lord Blandamer maintained a flow of easy and interesting conversation, yet never approached the subject of architecture even near enough toseem to be avoiding it. After dinner he took Westray to the library, where he showed him some old books, and used all his art to entertainhim and set him at his ease. Westray was soothed for a moment by theother's manner, and did his best to respond to the courtesy shown him;but everything had lost its savour, and he knew that black Care was onlywaiting for him to be alone, to make herself once more mistress of hisbeing. 

A wind which had risen after sunset began to blow near bed-time withunusual violence. The sudden gusts struck the library windows till theyrattled again, and puffs of smoke came out from the fireplace into theroom. 

"I shall sit up for Lady Blandamer, " said the host, "but I dare say youwill not be sorry to turn in;" and Westray, looking at his watch, sawthat it wanted but ten minutes of midnight. 

In the hall, and on the staircase, as they went up, the wind blowingwith cold rushes made itself felt still more strongly. 

"It is a wild night, " Lord Blandamer said, as he stopped for a momentbefore a barometer, "but I suspect that there is yet worse to come; theglass has fallen in an extraordinary way. I hope you have left all snugwith the tower at Cullerne; this wind will not spare any weak places. "

"I don't think it should do any mischief at Saint Sepulchre's, " Westrayanswered, half unconsciously. It seemed as though he could notconcentrate his thought even upon his work. 

His bedroom was large, and chilly in spite of a bright fire. He lockedthe door, and drawing an easy-chair before the hearth, sat a long whilein thought. It was the first time in his life that he had withdeliberation acted against his convictions, and there followed thereaction and remorse inseparable from such conditions. 

Is there any depression so deep as this? is there any night so dark asthis first eclipse of the soul, this _first_ conscious stilling of theinstinct for right? He had conspired to obscure truth, he had madehimself partaker in another man's wrong-doing, and, as the result, hehad lost his moral foothold, his self-respect, his self-reliance. Itwas true that, even if he could, he would not have changed his decisionnow, yet the weight of a guilty secret, that he must keep all his lifelong, pressed heavily upon him. Something must be done to lighten thisweight; he must take some action that would ease the galling of histhoughts. He was in that broken mood for which the Middle Ages offeredthe cloister as a remedy; he felt the urgent need of sacrifice andabnegation to purge him. And then he knew the sacrifice that he mustmake: he must give up his work at Cullerne. He was thankful to findthat there was still enough of conscience left to him to tell him this. He could not any longer be occupied on work for which the money wasbeing found by this man. He would give up his post at Cullerne, even ifit meant giving up his connection with his employers, even if it meantthe giving up of his livelihood. He felt as if England itself were notlarge enough to hold him and Lord Blandamer. He must never more see theassociate of his guilt; he dreaded meeting his eyes again, lest theother's will should constrain his will to further wrong. He would writeto resign his work the very next day; that would be an active sacrifice, a definite mark from which he might begin a painful retracing of theway, a turning-point from which he might hope in time to recover somemeasure of self-respect and peace of mind. He would resign his work atCullerne the very next day; and then a wilder gust of wind buffeted thewindows of his room, and he thought of the scaffolding on SaintSepulchre's tower. What a terrible night it was! Would the thin bowsof the tower arches live through such a night, with the weight of thegreat tower rocking over them? No, he could not resign to-morrow. Itwould be deserting his post. He must stand by till the tower was safe, _that_ was his first duty. After that he would give up his post atonce. 

Later on he went to bed, and in those dark watches of the night, thatare not kept by reason, there swept over him thoughts wilder than thewind outside. He had made himself sponsor for Lord Blandamer, he hadassumed the burden of the other's crime. It was he that was brandedwith the mark of Cain, and he must hide it in silence from the eyes ofall men. He must fly from Cullerne, and walk alone with his burden forthe rest of his life, a scapegoat in the isolation of the wilderness. 

In sleep the terror that walketh in darkness brooded heavily on him. Hewas in the church of Saint Sepulchre, and blood dripped on him from theorgan-loft. Then as he looked up to find out whence it came he saw thefour tower arches falling to grind him to powder, and leapt up in hisbed, and struck a light to make sure that there were no red patches onhim. With daylight he grew calmer. The wild visions vanished, but thecold facts remained: he was sunk in his own esteem, he had forcedhimself into an evil secret which was no concern of his, and now he mustkeep it for ever. 

Westray found Lady Blandamer in the breakfast-room. Lord Blandamer hadmet her in the hall on her return the night before, and though he waspale, she knew before he had spoken half a dozen words, that the cloudof anxiety which had hung heavily on him for the last few days was past. He told her that Mr Westray had come over on business, and, in view ofthe storm that was raging, had been persuaded to remain for the night. The architect had brought with him a picture which he had accidentallycome across, a portrait of the old Lord Blandamer which had been missingfor many years from Fording. It was very satisfactory that it had beenrecovered; they were under a great obligation to Mr Westray for thetrouble which he had taken in the matter. 

In the events of the preceding days Westray had almost forgotten LadyBlandamer's existence, and since the discovery of the picture, if herimage presented itself to his mind, it had been as that of a deeplywronged and suffering woman. But this morning she appeared with a lookof radiant content that amazed him, and made him shudder as he thoughthow near he had been only a day before to plunging her into the abyss. The more careful nurture of the year that had passed since her marriage, had added softness to her face and figure, without detracting from therefinement of expression that had always marked her. He knew that shewas in her own place, and wondered now that the distinction of hermanner had not led him sooner to the truth of her birth. She lookedpleased to meet him, and shook hands with a frank smile thatacknowledged their former relations, without any trace of embarrassment. It seemed incredible that she should ever have brought him up his mealsand letters. 

She made a polite reference to his having restored to them aninteresting family picture, and finding him unexpectedly embarrassed, changed the subject by asking him what he thought of her own portrait. 

"I think you must have seen it yesterday, " she went on, as he appearednot to understand. "It has only just come home, and is standing on thefloor in the long gallery. "

Lord Blandamer glanced at the architect, and answered for him that MrWestray had not seen it. Then he explained with a composure that shed acalm through the room:

"It was turned to the wall. It is a pity to show it unhung, and withouta frame. We must get it framed at once, and decide on a position forit. I think we shall have to shift several paintings in the gallery. "

He talked of Snyders and Wouverman, and Westray made some show ofattention, but could only think of the unframed picture standing on theground, which had helped to measure the passing of time in the terribleinterview of yesterday. He guessed now that Lord Blandamer had himselfturned the picture with its face to the wall, and in doing so haddeliberately abandoned a weapon that might have served him well in thestruggle. Lord Blandamer must have deliberately foregone the aid ofrecollections such as Anastasia's portrait would have called up in hisantagonist's mind. "Non tali auxilio nec defensoribus istis. "

Westray's haggard air had not escaped his host's notice. The architectlooked as if he had spent the night in a haunted room, and LordBlandamer was not surprised, knowing that the other's scruples had diedhard, and were not likely to lie quiet in their graves. He thought itbetter that the short time which remained before Westray's departureshould be spent out of the house, and proposed a stroll in the grounds. The gardener reported, he said, that last night's gale had doneconsiderable damage to the trees. The top of the cedar on the southlawn had been broken short off. Lady Blandamer begged that she mightaccompany them, and as they walked down the terrace steps into thegarden a nurse brought to her the baby heir. 

"The gale must have been a cyclone, " Lord Blandamer said. "It haspassed away as suddenly as it arose. "

The morning was indeed still and sunshiny, and seemed more beautiful bycontrast with the turmoil of the previous night. The air was clear andcold after the rain, but paths and lawns were strewn with broken sticksand boughs, and carpeted with prematurely fallen leaves. 

Lord Blandamer described the improvements that he was making orprojecting, and pointed out the old fishponds which were to berestocked, the bowling-green and the ladies' garden arranged on anold-world plan by his grandmother, and maintained unchanged since herdeath. He had received an immense service from Westray, and he wouldnot accept it ungraciously or make little of it. In taking thearchitect round the place, in showing this place that his ancestors hadpossessed for so many generations, in talking of his plans for a futurethat had only so recently become assured, he was in a manner conveyinghis thanks, and Westray knew it. 

Lady Blandamer was concerned for Westray. She saw that he was downcast, and ill at ease, and in her happiness that the cloud had passed from herhusband, she wanted everyone to be happy with her. So, as they werereturning to the house, she began, in the kindness of her heart, to talkof Cullerne Minster. She had a great longing, she said, to see the oldchurch again. She should so much enjoy it if Mr Westray would some dayshow her over it. Would he take much longer in the restorations?

They were in an alley too narrow for three to walk abreast. LordBlandamer had fallen behind, but was within earshot. 

Westray answered quickly, without knowing what he was going to say. Hewas not sure about the restorations--that was, they certainly were notfinished; in fact, they would take some time longer, but he would not bethere, he believed, to superintend them. That was to say, he was givingup his present appointment. 

He broke off, and Lady Blandamer knew that she had again selected anunfortunate subject. She dropped it, and hoped he would let them knowwhen he was next at leisure, and come for a longer visit. 

"I am afraid it will not be in my power to do so, " Westray said; andthen, feeling that he had given a curt and ungracious answer to akindly-meant invitation, turned to her and explained with unmistakablesincerity that he was giving up his connection with Farquhar andFarquhar. This subject also was not to be pursued, so she only saidthat she was sorry, and her eyes confirmed her words. 

Lord Blandamer was pained at what he had heard. He knew Farquhar andFarquhar, and knew something of Westray's position and prospects--thathe had a reasonable income, and a promising future with the firm. Thisresolve must be quite sudden, a result of yesterday's interview. Westray was being driven out into the wilderness like a scapegoat withanother man's guilt on his head. The architect was young andinexperienced. Lord Blandamer wished he could talk with him quietly. He understood that Westray might find it impossible to go on with therestoration at Cullerne, where all was being done at Lord Blandamer'sexpense. But why sever his connection with a leading firm? Why notplead ill-health, nervous breakdown, those doctor's orders which haveopened a way of escape from impasses of the mind as well as of the body?An archaeologic tour in Spain, a yachting cruise in the Mediterranean, a winter in Egypt--all these things would be to Westray's taste; theblameless herb nepenthe might anywhere be found growing by the wayside. He must amuse himself, and forget. He wished he could _assure_ Westraythat he would forget, or grow used to remembering; that time healswounds of conscience as surely as it heals heart-wounds andflesh-wounds; that remorse is the least permanent of sentiments. Butthen Westray might not yet wish to forget. He had run full counter tohis principles. It might be that he was resolved to take theconsequences, and wear them like a hair-shirt, as the only means ofrecovering his self-esteem. No; whatever penance, voluntary orinvoluntary, Westray might undergo, Lord Blandamer could only look on insilence. His object had been gained. If Westray felt it necessary topay the price, he must be let pay it. Lord Blandamer could neitherinquire nor remonstrate. He could offer no compensation, because nocompensation would be accepted. 

The little party were nearing the house when a servant met them. 

"There is a man come over from Cullerne, my lord, " he said. "He isanxious to see Mr Westray at once on important business. "

"Show him into my sitting-room, and say that Mr Westray will be withhim immediately. "

Westray met Lord Blandamer in the hall a few minutes later. 

"I am sorry to say there is bad news from Cullerne, " the architect saidhurriedly. "Last night's gale has strained and shaken the towerseverely. A very serious movement is taking place. I must get back atonce. "

"Do, by all means. A carriage is at the door. You can catch the trainat Lytchett, and be in Cullerne by mid-day. "

The episode was a relief to Lord Blandamer. The architect's attentionwas evidently absorbed in the tower. It might be that he had alreadyfound the blameless herb growing by the wayside. 

The nebuly coat shone on the panel of the carriage-door. Lady Blandamerhad noticed that her husband had been paying Westray special attention. He was invariably courteous, but he had treated this guest as he treatedfew others. Yet now, at the last moment, he had fallen silent; he wasstanding, she fancied, aloof. He held his hands behind him, and theattitude seemed to her to have some significance. But on LordBlandamer's part it was a mark of consideration. There had been noshaking of hands up to the present; he was anxious not to force Westrayto take his hand by offering it before his wife and the servants. 

Lady Blandamer felt that there was something going on which she did notunderstand, but she took leave of Westray with special kindness. Shedid not directly mention the picture, but said how much they wereobliged to him, and glanced for confirmation at Lord Blandamer. Helooked at Westray, and said with deliberation:

"I trust Mr Westray knows how fully I appreciate his generosity andcourtesy. "

There was a moment's pause, and then Westray offered his hand. LordBlandamer shook it cordially, and their eyes met for the last time. 

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. 

On the afternoon of the same day Lord Blandamer was himself in Cullerne. He went to the office of Mr Martelet, solicitor by prescriptive rightto the family at Fording, and spent an hour closeted with the principal. 

The house which the solicitor used for offices, was a derelict residenceat the bottom of the town. It still had in front of it an extinguisherfor links, and a lamp-bracket over the door of wasted iron scroll-work. It was a dingy place, but Mr Martelet had a famous county connection, and rumour said that more important family business was done here eventhan in Carisbury itself. Lord Blandamer sat behind the dusty windows. 

"I think I quite understand the nature of the codicil, " the solicitorsaid. "I will have a draft forwarded to your lordship to-morrow. "

"No, no; it is short enough. Let us finish with it now, " said hisclient. "There is no time like the present. It can be witnessed here. Your head clerk is discreet, is he not?"

"Mr Simpkin has been with me thirty years, " the solicitor saiddeprecatingly, "and I have had no reason to doubt his discretionhitherto. "

The sun was low when Lord Blandamer left Mr Martelet's office. Hewalked down the winding street that led to the market-place, with hislong shadow going before him on the pavement. Above the houses in thenear distance stood up the great tower of Saint Sepulchre's, pink-red inthe sunset rays. What a dying place was Cullerne! How empty were thestreets! The streets were certainly strangely empty. He had never seenthem so deserted. There was a silence of the grave over all. He tookout his watch. The little place is gone to tea, he thought, and walkedon with a light heart, and more at his ease than he had ever felt beforein his life. 

He came round a bend in the street, and suddenly saw a great crowdbefore him, between him and the market-place over which the minsterchurch watched, and knew that something must be happening, that haddrawn the people from the other parts of the town. As he came nearer itseemed as if the whole population was there collected. Conspicuous waspompous Canon Parkyn, and by him stood Mrs Parkyn, and tall andsloping-shouldered Mr Noot. The sleek dissenting minister was there, and the jovial, round-faced Catholic priest. There stood Joliffe, thepork-butcher, in shirt-sleeves and white apron in the middle of theroad; and there stood Joliffe's wife and daughters, piled up on thesteps of the shop, and craning their necks towards the market-place. The postmaster and his clerk and two letter-carriers had come out fromthe post-office. All the young ladies and young gentlemen from Rose andStorey's establishment were herded in front of their great glitteringshop-window, and among them shone the fair curls of Mr Storey, thejunior partner, himself. A little lower down was a group of masons andmen employed on the restorations, and near them Clerk Janaway leant onhis stick. 

Many of these people Lord Blandamer knew well by sight, and there wasbeside a great throng of common folk, but none took any notice of him. 

There was something very strange about the crowd. Everyone was lookingtowards the market-place, and everyone's face was upturned as if theywere watching a flight of birds. The square was empty, and no oneattempted to advance further into it; nay, most stood in an alertattitude, as if prepared to run the other way. Yet all remainedspellbound, looking up, with their heads turned towards themarket-place, over which watched the minster church. There was noshouting, nor laughter, nor chatter; only the agitated murmur of amultitude of people speaking under their breath. 

The single person that moved was a waggoner. He was trying to get histeam and cart up the street, away from the market-place, but made slowprogress, for the crowd was too absorbed to give him room. LordBlandamer spoke to the man, and asked him what was happening. Thewaggoner stared for a moment as if dazed; then recognised hisquestioner, and said quickly:

"Don't go on, my lord! For God's sake, don't go on; the tower's comingdown. "

Then the spell that bound all the others fell on Lord Blandamer too. His eyes were drawn by an awful attraction to the great tower thatwatched over the market-place. The buttresses with their broadset-offs, the double belfry windows with their pierced screens andstately Perpendicular tracery, the open battlemented parapet, andclustered groups of soaring pinnacles, shone pink and mellow in theevening sun. They were as fair and wonderful as on that day when AbbotVinnicomb first looked upon his finished work, and praised God that itwas good. 

But on this still autumn evening there was something terribly amiss withthe tower, in spite of all brave appearances. The jackdaws knew it, andwhirled in a mad chattering cloud round their old home, with wingsflashing and changing in the low sunlight. And on the west side, theside nearest the market-place, there oozed out from a hundred joints athin white dust that fell down into the churchyard like the spray ofsome lofty Swiss cascade. It was the very death-sweat of a giant in hisagony, the mortar that was being ground out in powder from the coursesof collapsing masonry. To Lord Blandamer it seemed like the sandrunning through an hour-glass. 

Then the crowd gave a groan like a single man. One of the gargoyles atthe corner, under the parapet, a demon figure that had jutted grinningover the churchyard for three centuries, broke loose and fell crashingon to the gravestones below. There was silence for a minute, and thenthe murmurings of the onlookers began again. Everyone spoke in short, breathless sentences, as though they feared the final crash might comebefore they could finish. Churchwarden Joliffe, with pauses ofexpectation, muttered about a "judgment in our midst. " The Rector, inJoliffe's pauses, seemed trying to confute him by some reference to"those thirteen upon whom the tower of Siloam fell and slew them. " Anold charwoman whom Miss Joliffe sometimes employed wrung her hands withan "Ah! poor dear--poor dear!" The Catholic priest was recitingsomething in a low tone, and crossing himself at intervals. LordBlandamer, who stood near, caught a word or two of the commendatoryprayer for the dying, the "_Proficiscere_, " and "_liliata rutilantium_, "that showed how Abbot Vinnicomb's tower lived in the hearts of thosethat abode under its shadow. 

And all the while the white dust kept pouring out of the side of thewounded fabric; the sands of the hour-glass were running down apace. 

The foreman of the masons saw Lord Blandamer, and made his way to him. 

"Last night's gale did it, my lord, " he said; "we knew 'twas touch andgo when we came this morning. Mr Westray's been up the tower sincemid-day to see if there was anything that could be done, but twentyminutes ago he came sharp into the belfry and called to us, `Get out ofit, lads--get out quick for your lives; it's all over now. ' It'swidening out at bottom; you can see how the base wall's moved and forcedup the graves on the north side. " And he pointed to a shapeless heap ofturf and gravestones and churchyard mould against the base of the tower. 

"Where is Mr Westray?" Lord Blandamer said. "Ask him to speak to mefor a minute. "

He looked round about for the architect; he wondered now that he had notseen him among the crowd. The people standing near had listened to LordBlandamer's words. They of Cullerne looked on the master of Fording asbeing almost omnipotent. If he could not command the tower, likeJoshua's sun in Ajalon, to stand still forthwith and not fall down, yethe had no doubt some sage scheme to suggest to the architect whereby thegreat disaster might be averted. Where was the architect? theyquestioned impatiently. Why was he not at hand when Lord Blandamerwanted him? Where was he? And in a moment Westray's name was on alllips. 

And just then was heard a voice from the tower, calling out through thelouvres of the belfry windows, very clear and distinct for all it was sohigh up, and for all the chatter of the jackdaws. It was Westray'svoice:

"I am shut up in the belfry, " it called; "the door is jammed. For God'ssake! someone bring a crowbar, and break in the door!"

There was despair in the words, that sent a thrill of horror throughthose that heard them. The crowd stared at one another. Theforeman-mason wiped the sweat off his brow; he was thinking of his wifeand children. Then the Catholic priest stepped out. 

"I will go, " he said; "I have no one depending on me. "

Lord Blandamer's thoughts had been elsewhere; he woke from his reverieat the priest's words. 

"Nonsense!" said he; "I am younger than you, and know the staircase. Give me a lever. " One of the builder's men handed him a lever with asheepish air. Lord Blandamer took it, and ran quickly towards theminster. 

The foreman-mason called after him:

"There is only one door open, my lord--a little door by the organ. "

"Yes, I know the door, " Lord Blandamer shouted, as he disappeared roundthe church. 

A few minutes later he had forced open the belfry door. He pulled itback towards him, and stood behind it on the steps higher up, leavingthe staircase below clear for Westray's escape. The eyes of the two mendid not meet, for Lord Blandamer was hidden by the door; but Westray wasmuch overcome as he thanked the other for rescuing him. 

"Run for your life!" was all Lord Blandamer said; "you are not savedyet. "

The younger man dashed headlong down the steps, and then Lord Blandamerpushed the door to, and followed with as little haste or excitement asif he had been coming down from one of his many inspections of therestoration work. 

As Westray ran through the great church, he had to make his way througha heap of mortar and debris that lay upon the pavement. The face of thewall over the south transept arch had come away, and in its fall hadbroken through the floor into the vaults below. Above his head thatbaleful old crack, like a black lightning-flash, had widened into acavernous fissure. The church was full of dread voices, of strangemoanings and groanings, as if the spirits of all the monks departed werewailing for the destruction of Abbot Vinnicomb's tower. There was adull rumbling of rending stone and crashing timbers, but over all thearchitect heard the cry of the crossing-arches: "The arch never sleeps, never sleeps. They have bound upon us a burden too heavy to be borne;we are shifting it. The arch never sleeps. "

Outside, the people in the market-place held their breath, and thestream of white dust still poured out of the side of the wounded tower. It was six o'clock; the four quarters sounded, and the hour struck. Before the last stroke had died away Westray ran out across the square, but the people waited to cheer until Lord Blandamer should be safe too. The chimes began "Bermondsey" as clearly and cheerfully as on a thousandother bright and sunny evenings. 

And then the melody was broken. There was a jangle of sound, a deepgroan from Taylor John, and a shrill cry from Beata Maria, a roar as ofcannon, a shock as of an earthquake, and a cloud of white dust hid fromthe spectators the ruin of the fallen tower:

EPILOGUE. 

On the same evening Lieutenant Ennefer, R. N. , sailed down Channel in thecorvette _Solebay_, bound for the China Station. He was engaged to thesecond Miss Bulteel, and turned his glass on the old town where his ladydwelt as he passed by. It was then he logged that Cullerne Tower wasnot to be seen, though the air was clear and the ship but six miles fromshore. He rubbed his glass, and called some other officers to verifythe absence of the ancient seamark, but all they could make out was awhite cloud, that might be smoke or dust or mist hanging over the town. It must be mist, they said; some unusual atmospheric condition must haverendered the tower invisible. 

It was not for many months afterwards that Lieutenant Ennefer heard ofthe catastrophe, and when he came up Channel again on his return fouryears later, there was the old seamark clear once more, whiter a little, but still the same old tower. It had been rebuilt at the sole charge ofLady Blandamer, and in the basement of it was a brass plate to thememory of Horatio Sebastian Fynes, Lord Blandamer, who had lost his ownlife in that place whilst engaged in the rescue of others. 

The rebuilding was entrusted to Mr Edward Westray, whom Lord Blandamer, by codicil dictated only a few hours before his death, had leftco-trustee with Lady Blandamer, and guardian of the infant heir.