Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England

The Nebuly Coat, by John Meade Falkner.

This extraordinary book was acclaimed on its publication in 1903 as one
of the very best books ever written in the English language. We have
worked for this transcription from the first edition, which was given
two 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 stand
out clearly and consistently.  It appears that the action of the story
was set in the 1860s.

There is a sudden death.  Was it a murder?  It was recorded as an
accidental 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: the
mystery is unravelled; the reasons for various earlier actions become
known to us.

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

THE NEBULY COAT, BY JOHN MEADE FALKNER.

PROLOGUE.

Sir George Farquhar, Baronet, builder of railway-stations, and
institutes, and churches, author, antiquarian, and senior partner of
Farquhar and Farquhar, leant back in his office chair and turned it
sideways to give more point to his remarks.  Before him stood an
understudy, whom he was sending to superintend the restoration work at
Cullerne Minster.

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

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

"The south transept roof and the choir vaulting will want careful
watching.  There is some old trouble, too, in the central tower; and I
should like later on to underpin the main crossing piers, but there is
no money.  For the moment I have said nothing about the tower; it is no
use raising doubts that one can't set at rest; and I don't know how we
are going to make ends meet, even with the little that it is proposed to
do now.  If funds come in, we must tackle the tower; but transept and
choir-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 try
to give as good an account of it as you can.  We shan't make a penny out
of it, but the church is too well known to play fast-and-loose with.  I
have written to the parson--a foolish old fellow, who is no more fit
than a lady's-maid to be trusted with such a church as Cullerne--to say
you are coming to-morrow, and will put in an appearance at the church in
the afternoon, in case he wishes to see you.  The man is an ass, but he
is legal guardian of the place, and has not done badly in collecting
money for the restoration; so we must bear with him."

CHAPTER ONE.

Cullerne Wharf of the Ordnance maps, or plain Cullerne as known to the
countryside, lies two miles from the coast to-day; but it was once much
nearer, and figures in history as a seaport of repute, having sent six
ships to fight the Armada, and four to withstand the Dutch a century
later.  But in fulness of time the estuary of the Cull silted up, and a
bar formed at the harbour mouth; so that sea-borne commerce was driven
to seek other havens.  Then the Cull narrowed its channel, and instead
of spreading itself out prodigally as heretofore on this side or on
that, shrunk to the limits of a well-ordered stream, and this none of
the greatest.  The burghers, seeing that their livelihood in the port
was gone, reflected that they might yet save something by reclaiming the
salt-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 formed
the low-lying meadows called Cullerne Flat, where the Freemen have a
right to pasture sheep, and where as good-tasting mutton is bred as on
any _pre-sale_ on the other side of the Channel.  But the sea has not
given up its rights without a struggle, for with a south-east wind and
spring-tide the waves beat sometimes over the top of the dyke; and
sometimes the Cull forgets its good behaviour, and after heavy rainfalls
inland breaks all bonds, as in the days of yore.  Then anyone looking
out from upper windows in Cullerne town would think the little place had
moved 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 in
the view, between the inland lake and the open sea beyond.

The main line of the Great Southern Railway passes seven miles to the
north of this derelict port, and converse with the outer world was kept
up for many years by carriers' carts, which journeyed to and fro between
the town and the wayside station of Cullerne Road.  But by-and-by
deputations of the Corporation of Cullerne, properly introduced by Sir
Joseph Carew, the talented and widely-respected member for that ancient
borough, persuaded the railway company that better communication was
needed, and a branch-line was made, on which the service was scarcely
less primitive than that of the carriers in the past.

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

He was glad to learn that the enterprise of the Blandamer Arms led that
family and commercial hotel to send an omnibus to meet all trains, and
he availed himself the more willingly of this conveyance because he
found 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 ample
room to do this, for he was the only passenger--plunged his feet into
the straw which covered the floor, and endured for ten minutes such a
shaking and rattling as only an omnibus moving over cobble-stones can
produce.

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

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

The conductor opened the carriage-door.

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

Westray fixed his hat firmly on his head, turned up the collar of his
coat, and made a dash through the rain for the door.  Deep puddles had
formed in the worn places of the gravestones that paved the alley, and
he splashed himself in his hurry before he reached the shelter of the
porch.  He pulled aside the hanging leather mattress that covered a
wicket 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 was
already falling in the building.  A little group of men who had been
talking in the choir turned round at the sound of the opening door, and
made towards the architect.  The protagonist was a clergyman past middle
age, who wore a stock, and stepped forward to greet the young architect.

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

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

"This is Mr Sharnall, the organist, who under my direction presides
over the musical portion of our services; and this is Dr Ennefer, our
excellent local practitioner; and this is Mr Joliffe, who, though
engaged in trade, finds time as churchwarden to assist me in the
supervision 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 the
Rector's conceited pomposity, and implied that if such an exceedingly
unlikely contingency as their making friends with Mr Westray should
ever happen, it would certainly not be due to any introduction of Canon
Parkyn.  Mr Joliffe, on the other hand, seemed fully to recognise the
dignity to which he was called by being numbered among the Rector's
friends, and with a gracious bow, and a polite "Your servant, sir," made
it plain that he understood how to condescend in his turn, and was
prepared to extend his full protection to a young and struggling
architect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The arch never sleeps, never sleeps.  They have bound on us a burden
too 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 reckoned
that the present tower would be piled upon their arches."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Some call this the Blandamer aisle," he said, "from a noble family of
that 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 said
bitterly.  "They would, if they had any sense of decency.  They are as
rich as Croesus, and would miss pounds less than most people would miss
pennies.  Not that I believe in any of this sanitary talk--things have
gone on well enough as they are; and if you go digging up the floors you
will only dig up pestilences.  Keep the fabric together, make the roofs
water-tight, and spend a hundred or two on the organ.  That is all we
want, and these Blandamers would do it, if they weren't curmudgeons and
skinflints."

"You will forgive me, Mr Sharnall," said the Rector, "if I remark that
an hereditary peerage is so important an institution, that we should be
very careful how we criticise any members of it.  At the same time," he
went on, turning apologetically to Westray, "there is perhaps a modicum
of reason in our friend's remarks.  I had hoped that Lord Blandamer
would have contributed handsomely to the restoration fund, but he has
not hitherto done so, though I dare say that his continued absence
abroad accounts for some delay.  He only succeeded his grandfather last
year, and the late lord never showed much interest in this place, and
was indeed in many ways a very strange character.  But it's no use
raking up these stories; the old man is gone, and we must hope for
better 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 must
be forty, if he's a day."

"Oh, impossible; and yet I don't know.  It was in my first year at
Cullerne 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 their
being married, becos' we wor ringing of the bells, when old Mason
Parmiter run into the church, and says: `Do'ant-'ee, boys--do'ant-'ee
ring 'em any more.  These yere old tower'll never stand it.  I see him
rock,' 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 a
feast 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 Lady
Day, and there was some shook their heads, and said we never ought to
have stopped the ring, for a broken peal broke life or happiness.  But
what was we to do?"

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

"Lor' bless you, sir; them bells was never rung for thirty years afore
that, and wouldn't a been rung then, only Tom Leech, he says: `The ropes
is there, boys; let's have a ring out of these yere tower.  He ain't
been 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 get
strong 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 take
my word for it, they never have been rung since.  There's only that rope
there"--and he pointed to a bell-rope that came down from the lantern
far above, and was fastened back against the wall--"wot we tolls the
bell 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 some
tartness in his voice, "because it was not material that he should know
it; and Sir George's time, when he was here, was taken up with more
pressing matters.  I never heard this old wife's tale myself till the
present 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 they
swing, and has nothing whatever to do with the tower itself.  You may
take my word for that.  `Sir George,' I said, when Sir George asked
me--`Sir George, I have been here forty years, and if you will agree not
to ask for your fees till my tower tumbles down, why, I shall be very
glad.'  Ha, ha, ha! how Sir George enjoyed that joke!  Ha, ha, ha!"

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

The clerk was nettled that the Rector should treat his story with such
scant 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 hope
Sir Jarge won't ever live to larf the wrong side o' his mouth; but
stopping of a ring never brought luck with it yet, and it brought no
luck to my lord.  First he lost his dear son and his son's wife in
Cullerne Bay, and I remember as if 'twas yesterday how we grappled for
'em all night, and found their bodies lying close together on the sand
in three fathoms, when the tide set inshore in the morning.  And then he
fell out wi' my lady, and she never spoke to him again--no, not to the
day of her death.  They lived at Fording--that's the great hall over
there," he said to Westray, jerking his thumb towards the east--"for
twenty years in separate wings, like you mi'd say each in a house to
themselves.  And then he fell out wi' Mr Fynes, his grandson, and
turned him out of house and lands, though he couldn't leave them
anywhere 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 come
home yet.  Maybe he never will come back.  It's like enough he's got
killed out there, or he'd be tied to answer parson's letters.  Wouldn't
he, Mr Sharnall?" he said, turning abruptly to the organist with a
wink, which was meant to retaliate for the slight that the Rector had
put on his stories.

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

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

Westray looked up and saw the great window at the end of the transept
shimmering with a dull lustre; light only in comparison with the shadows
that were falling inside the church.  It was an insertion of
Perpendicular date, reaching from wall to wall, and almost from floor to
roof.  Its vast breadth, parcelled out into eleven lights, and the
infinite division of the stonework in the head, impressed the
imagination; while mullions and tracery stood out in such inky contrast
against the daylight yet lingering outside, that the architect read the
scheme of subarcuation and the tracery as easily as if he had been
studying a plan.  Sundown had brought no gleam to lift the pall of the
dying day, but the monotonous grey of the sky was still sufficiently
light to enable a practised eye to make out that the head of the window
was filled with a broken medley of ancient glass, where translucent
blues and yellows and reds mingled like the harmony of an old patchwork
quilt.  Of the lower divisions of the window, those at the sides had no
colour to clothe their nakedness, and remained in ghostly whiteness; but
the three middle lights were filled with strong browns and purples of
the seventeenth century.  Here and there in the rich colour were
introduced medallions, representing apparently scriptural scenes, and at
the top of each light, under the cusping, was a coat of arms.  The head
of the middle division formed the centre of the whole scheme, and seemed
to represent a shield of silver-white crossed by waving sea-green bars.
Westray's attention was attracted by the unusual colouring, and by the
transparency of the glass, which shone as with some innate radiance
where all was dim.  He turned almost unconsciously to ask whose arms
were thus represented, but the Rector had left him for a minute, and he
heard an irritating "Ha, ha, ha!" at some distance down the nave, that
convinced him that the story of Sir George Farquhar and the postponed
fees was being retold in the dusk to a new victim.

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

"That is the coat of the Blandamers--barry nebuly of six, argent and
vert."  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 that
either.  There have been queer tales told of that shield, and maybe
there are queerer yet to be told.  It has been stamped for good or evil
on this church, and on this town, for centuries, and every tavern loafer
will 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 at
Cullerne."

There was in the voice something of melancholy, and an earnestness that
the occasion scarcely warranted.  It produced a curious effect on
Westray, and led him to look closely at the organist; but it was too
dark to read any emotion in his companion's face, and at this moment the
Rector 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 outline
of the bars, which are supposed to represent cumulus clouds.  Well,
well, it is too dark to pursue our studies further this evening, but
to-morrow I can accompany you the whole day, and shall be able to tell
you much that will interest you."

Westray was not sorry that the darkness had put a stop to further
investigations.  The air in the church grew every moment more clammy and
chill, and he was tired, hungry, and very cold.  He was anxious, if
possible, to find lodgings at once, and so avoid the expense of an
hotel, for his salary was modest, and Farquhar and Farquhar were not
more liberal than other firms in the travelling allowances which they
granted 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 the
hospitality of my own house, but the indisposition of my wife
unfortunately makes that impossible.  I have naturally but a very slight
acquaintance with lodging-houses or lodging-house keepers; but Mr
Sharnall, I dare say, may be able to give you some advice.  Perhaps
there may be a spare room in the house where Mr Sharnall lodges.  I
think your landlady is a relation of our worthy friend Joliffe, is she
not, Mr Sharnall?  And no doubt herself a most worthy woman."

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

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

"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 as
good 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 can
offer you the hospitality of my house; and we will stop at Mr Joliffe's
shop 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 a
clean salt smell, that contrasted with the close and mouldering
atmosphere of the church.

The organist drew a deep breath.

"Ah," he said, "what a blessed thing to be in the open air again--to be
quit of all their niggling and naggling, to be quit of that pompous old
fool the Rector, and of that hypocrite Joliffe, and of that pedant of a
doctor!  Why does he want to waste money on cementing the vaults?  It's
only digging up pestilences; and they won't spend a farthing on the
organ.  Not a penny on the _Father Smith_, clear and sweet-voiced as a
mountain brook.  Oh," he cried, "it's too bad!  The naturals are worn
down to the quick, you can see the wood in the gutters of the keys, and
the pedal-board's too short and all to pieces.  Ah well! the organ's
like me--old, neglected, worn-out.  I wish I was dead."  He had been
talking half to himself, but he turned to Westray and said: "Forgive me
for being peevish; you'll be peevish, too, when you come to my age--at
least, if you're as poor then as I am, and as lonely, and have nothing
to look forward to.  Come along."

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

"I will take you a short-cut, if you don't mind some badly-lighted
lanes," said the organist, as they left the churchyard; "it's quicker,
and we shall get more shelter."  He turned sharply to the left, and
plunged into an alley so narrow and dark that Westray could not keep up
with him, and fumbled anxiously in the obscurity.  The little man
reached up, and took him by the arm.  "Let me pilot you," he said; "I
know 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 not
till they reached a corner where an isolated lamp cast a wan and
uncertain 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 one
house in ten with anyone in it now.  All we fashionables have moved
further up.  Airs from the river are damp, you know, and wharves so very
vulgar."

They left the narrow street, and came on to what Westray made out to be
a long wharf skirting the river.  On the right stood abandoned
warehouses, square-fronted, and huddled together like a row of gigantic
packing-cases; on the left they could hear the gurgle of the current
among the mooring-posts, and the flapping of the water against the quay
wall, where the east wind drove the wavelets up the river.  The lines of
what had once been a horse-tramway still ran along the quay, and the
pair had some ado to thread their way without tripping, till a low
building on the right broke the line of lofty warehouses.  It seemed to
be a church or chapel, having mullioned windows with stone tracery, and
a bell-turret at the west end; but its most marked feature was a row of
heavy buttresses which shored up the side facing the road.  They were
built of brick, and formed triangles with the ground and the wall which
they supported.  The shadows hung heavy under the building, but where
all 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 I
tell you that I never come this way after dark, and should not have come
here to-night if I had not had you with me.  I was always frightened as
a boy at the very darkness in the spaces between the buttresses, and I
have never got over it.  I used to think that devils and hobgoblins
lurked in those cavernous depths, and now I fancy evil men may be hiding
in the blackness, all ready to spring out and strangle one.  It is a
lonely place, this old wharf, and after nightfall--" He broke off, and
clutched Westray's arm.  "Look," he said; "do you see nothing in the
last recess?"

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

"Your nerves are sadly overstrung," he said to the organist.  "There is
no one there; it is only some trick of light and shade.  What is the
building?"

"It was once a chantry of the Grey Friars," Mr Sharnall answered, "and
afterwards 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 as
I remember it.  Do you believe in certain things or places being bound
up with certain men's destinies? because I have a presentiment that this
broken-down old chapel will be connected somehow or other with a crisis
of my life."

Westray remembered the organist's manner in the church, and began to
suspect that his mind was turned.  The other read his thoughts, and said
rather 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 to
civilisation, for a sound of music reached them.  It came from a little
beer-house, and as they passed they heard a woman singing inside.  It
was 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 been
taught.  I wonder how she comes here."

The blind was pulled down, but did not quite reach the bottom of the
window, 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 see
clearly; but they made out that a Creole woman was singing to a group of
topers who sat by the fire in a corner of the room.  She was
middle-aged, but sang sweetly, and was accompanied on the harp by an old
man:

  "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 so
scurvy 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, for
it had a porch carried on pillars, under which a semicircular flight of
steps led up to the double door.  A street-lamp which stood before it
had been washed so clean in the rain that the light was shed with
unusual brilliance, and showed even at night that the house was fallen
from its high estate.  It was not ruinous, but _Ichabod_ was written on
the paintless window-frames and on the rough-cast front, from which the
plaster had fallen away in more than one place.  The pillars of the
porch had been painted to imitate marble, but they were marked with
scabrous patches, where the brick core showed through the broken stucco.

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

"Here is my town house," said Mr Sharnall.  "It used to be a coaching
inn 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 it
Bellevue 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 warm
brown hair was parted in the middle, and its profusion was gathered
loosely up behind in the half-formal, half-natural style of a preceding
generation.  Her face had lost neither the rounded outline nor the
delicate bloom of girlhood, but there was something in it that negatived
any impression of inexperience, and suggested that her life had not been
free from trouble.  She wore a close-fitting dress of black, and had a
string 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," led
Westray into one of the rooms opening out of the hall.

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

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

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

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

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

Westray accepted the invitation with some willingness, and an hour later
he and the organist were sitting in the rush-bottomed armchairs at
either side of the fireplace.  Miss Joliffe had herself cleared the
table, and brought two tumblers, wine-glasses, sugar, and a jug of
water, as if they were natural properties of the organist's
sitting-room.

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

"Thank you, I do not smoke," Westray said; and, indeed, he did not look
like a smoker.  He had something of the thin, unsympathetic traits of
the professional water-drinker in his face, and spoke as if he regarded
smoking as a crime for himself, and an offence for those of less lofty
principles 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 if
the rain beats on the front, you can still read the name through the
colouring--the Hand of God.  There used to be a market held outside, and
a century or more ago an apple-woman sold some pippins to a customer
just before this very door.  He said he had paid for them, and she said
he had not; they came to wrangling, and she called Heaven to justify
her.  `God strike me dead if I have ever touched your money!'  She was
taken at her word, and fell dead on the cobbles.  They found clenched in
her hand the two coppers for which she had lost her soul, and it was
recognised at once that nothing less than an inn could properly
commemorate such an exhibition of Divine justice.  So the Hand of God
was built, and flourished while Cullerne flourished, and fell when
Cullerne fell.  It stood empty ever since I can remember it, till Miss
Joliffe took it fifteen years ago.  She elevated it into Bellevue Lodge,
a select boarding-house, and spent what little money that niggardly
landlord old Blandamer would give for repairs, in painting out the Hand
of God on the front.  It was to be a house of resort for Americans who
came to Cullerne.  They say in our guide-book that Americans come to see
Cullerne Church because some of the Pilgrim Fathers' fathers are buried
in 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 American
do a pennyworth of good to Cullerne Church; and they never did a
pennyworth of good for Miss Joliffe, for none of them ever came to
Bellevue Lodge, and the select boarding-house is so select that you and
I 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 for
me--spend a lot of money on their own pleasure, and sometimes cut a dash
with 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 of
them restores my organ, I am prepared to admire the whole lot.  Only
they must give a little water-engine for blowing it into the bargain.
Shutter, the organist of Carisbury Cathedral, has just had a
water-engine put in, and, now we've got our own new waterworks at
Cullerne, 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 those
people who have seen better days."

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

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

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

He pushed the bottle towards his friend, but, though Westray felt
inclined to give way, the principles of severe moderation which he had
recently adopted restrained him, and he courteously waved away the
temptation.

"You're hopeless," said the organist.  "What are we to do for you, who
neither smoke nor drink, and yet want to talk about poverty?  This is
some _eau-de-vie_ old Martelet the solicitor gave me for playing the
Wedding March at his daughter's marriage.  `The Wedding March was
magnificently rendered by the organist, Mr John Sharnall,' you know, as
if it was the Fourth Organ-Sonata.  I misdoubt this ever having paid
duty; he's not the man to give away six bottles of anything he'd paid
the 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, said
rather 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 in
yet more, till the spirit rose to the top of the cuts, which ran higher
than half-way up the sides of the tumbler.  There was silence for a few
minutes, while the organist puffed testily at his pipe; but a copious
draught from the tumbler melted his chagrin, and he spoke again:

"I've had a precious hard life, but Miss Joliffe's had a harder; and
I've got myself to thank for my bad luck, while hers is due to other
people.  First, her father died.  He had a farm at Wydcombe, and people
thought he was well off; but when they came to reckon up, he only left
just enough to go round among his creditors; so Miss Euphemia gave up
the house, and came into Cullerne.  She took this rambling great place
because 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 her
brother Martin, penniless and broken, with paralysis upon him.  He was a
harum-scarum ne'er-do-well.  Don't stare at me with that
Saul-among-the-prophets look; _he_ never drank; he would have been a
better man if he had."  And the organist made a further call on the
squat bottle.  "He would have given her less bother if he had drunk, but
he was always getting into debt and trouble, and then used to come back
to his sister, as to a refuge, because he knew she loved him.  He was
clever enough--brilliant they call it now--but unstable as water, with
no lasting power.  I don't believe he meant to sponge on his sister; I
don't think he knew he did sponge, only he sponged.  He would go off on
his travels, no one knew where, though they knew well what he was
seeking.  Sometimes he was away two months, and sometimes he was away
two years; and then, when Miss Joliffe had kept Anastasia--I mean her
niece--all the time, and perhaps got a summer lodger, and seemed to be
turning 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, and
many a time my heart has ached for them; but what could I do to help?  I
haven't a farthing.  Last he came back a year ago, with death written on
his face.  I was glad enough to read it there, and think he was come for
the 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 died
two 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 brandy
every day."

Westray smoothed away the deprecating expression with which he had felt
constrained to discountenance such excesses, and set Mr Sharnall's
tongue 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 in
the church--the silver and sea-green that turned his head.  He would
have it he wasn't a Joliffe at all, but a Blandamer, and rightful heir
to 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 just
when he seemed starting strong in the race of life, this nebuly coat
craze seized him and crept over his mind, like the paralysis that crept
over his body later on."

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

"He was brought up as a son of old Michael Joliffe, a yeoman who died
fifteen years ago.  But Michael married a woman who called herself a
widow, and brought a three-year-old son ready-made to his wedding; and
that son was Martin.  Old Michael made the boy his own, was proud of his
cleverness, would have him go to college, and left him all he had.
There was no talk of Martin being anything but a Joliffe till Oxford
puffed him up, and then he got this crank, and spent the rest of his
life 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 at
last he had climbed Pisgah and could see the promised land.  But he had
to be content with the sight, or mirage I suppose it was, and died
before he tasted the milk and honey."

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

"Oh, I can't go into that now," the organist said; "I have told you too
much, perhaps, already.  You won't let Miss Joliffe guess I have said
anything, will you?  She is Michael Joliffe's own child--his only
child--but she loved her half-brother dearly, and doesn't like his
cranks being talked about.  Of course, the Cullerne wags had many a tale
to tell of him, and when he came back, greyer each time and
wilder-looking, from his wanderings, they called him `Old Nebuly,' and
the boys would make their bow in the streets, and say `Good-morning,
Lord Blandamer.'  You'll hear stories enough about him, and it was a
bitter thing for his poor sister to bear, to see her brother a butt and
laughing-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 nebuly
coats."

"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 in
his words that recalled a previous doubt, and led Westray to wonder
whether Mr Sharnall had not lived so long with the Joliffes as to have
become himself infected with Martin's delusions.

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

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

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

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

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

Miss Euphemia put everything carefully away.  The architect's wardrobe
was of the most modest proportions, but to her it seemed well furnished,
and even costly.  She noted, however, with the eye of a sportsman
marking down a covey, sundry holes, rents, and missing buttons, and
resolved to devote her first leisure to their rectification.  Such
mending, in anticipation and accomplishment, forms, indeed, a
well-defined and important pleasure of all properly constituted women
above a certain age.

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

After things were arranged upstairs, she went down to see that all was
in 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.  His
voice was so deep and raucous that it seemed to jar the soles of her
feet.  She dusted lightly a certain structure which, resting in tiers
above the chimney-piece, served to surround a looking-glass with
meaningless little shelves and niches.  Miss Joliffe had purchased this
piece-of-resistance when Mrs Cazel, the widow of the ironmonger, had
sold her household effects preparatory to leaving Cullerne.

"It is an overmantel, my dear," she had said to dubious Anastasia, when
it was brought home.  "I did not really mean to buy it, but I had not
bought anything the whole morning, and the auctioneer looked so fiercely
at me that I felt I must make a bid.  Then no one else said anything, so
here 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, and
a strip of Brusa silk which Martin had brought back from one of his
wanderings was festooned at the side, so as to hide a patch where the
quicksilver showed signs of peeling off.  Miss Joliffe pulled the
festoon a little forward, and adjusted in one of the side niches a
present-for-a-good-girl cup and saucer which had been bought for herself
at Beacon Hill Fair half a century ago.  She wiped the glass dome that
covered the basket of artificial fruit, she screwed up the
"banner-screen" that projected from the mantelpiece, she straightened
out the bead mat on which the stereoscope stood, and at last surveyed
the room with an expression of complete satisfaction on her kindly face.

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

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

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

CHAPTER THREE.

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

In summer the purple haze hangs over the mouth of the estuary, and
through the shimmer of the heat off the marsh, can be seen the silver
windings of the Cull as it makes its way out to sea, and snow-white
flocks of geese, and here and there the gleaming sail of a
pleasure-boat.  But in autumn, as Westray saw it for the first time, the
rank grass is of a deeper green, and the face of the salt-meadows is
seamed with irregular clay-brown channels, which at high-tide show out
like crows'-feet on an ancient countenance, but at the ebb dwindle to
little gullies with greasy-looking banks and a dribble of iridescent
water in the bottom.  It is in the autumn that the moles heap up
meanders of miniature barrows, built of the softest brown loam; and in
the turbaries the turf-cutters pile larger and darker stacks of peat.

Once upon a time there was another feature in the view, for there could
have been seen the masts and yards of many stately ships, of timber
vessels in the Baltic trade, of tea-clippers, and Indiamen, and emigrant
ships, and now and then the raking spars of a privateer owned by
Cullerne adventurers.  All these had long since sailed for their last
port, and of ships nothing more imposing met the eye than the mast of
Dr Ennefer's centre-board laid up for the winter in a backwater.  Yet
the scene was striking enough, and those who knew best said that nowhere
in the town was there so fine an outlook as from the upper windows of
the Hand of God.

Many had looked out from those windows upon that scene: the skipper's
wife as her eyes followed her husband's barque warping down the river
for the voyage from which he never came back; honeymoon couples who
broke the posting journey from the West at Cullerne, and sat hand in
hand in summer twilight, gazing seaward till the white mists rose over
the meadows and Venus hung brightening in the violet sky; old Captain
Frobisher, who raised the Cullerne Yeomanry, and watched with his
spy-glass for the French vanguard to appear; and, lastly, Martin
Joliffe, as he sat dying day by day in his easy-chair, and scheming how
he would spend the money when he should come into the inheritance of all
the 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 clearness
in the air that so often follows heavy autumn rain.  His full enjoyment
of the scene was, however, marred by an obstruction which impeded free
access to the window.  It was a case of ferns, which seemed to be formed
of an aquarium turned upside down, and supported by a plain wooden
table.  Westray took a dislike to the dank-looking plants, and to the
moisture beaded on the glass inside, and made up his mind that the ferns
must be banished.  He would ask Miss Joliffe if she could take them
away, and this determination prompted him to consider whether there were
any other articles of furniture with which it would be advisable to
dispense.

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

This last picture weighed on Westray's mind by reason of its size, its
faulty drawing, and vulgar, flashy colours.  It hung full in front of
him while he sat at breakfast, and though its details amused him for the
time, he felt it would become an eyesore if he should continue to occupy
the room.  In it was represented the polished top of a mahogany table on
which stood a blue and white china bowl filled with impossible flowers.
The bowl occupied one side of the picture, and the other side was given
up to a meaningless expanse of table-top.  The artist had perceived, but
apparently too late, the bad balance of the composition, and had
endeavoured to redress this by a few more flowers thrown loose upon the
table.  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 the
flower-picture stood entirely condemned.  He would approach Miss Joliffe
at the earliest opportunity about their removal.  He anticipated little
trouble in modifying by degrees many other smaller details, but previous
experience in lodgings had taught him that the removal of pictures is
sometimes 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 the
builder for the erection of scaffolding.  He wished to order dinner
before he left, and pulled a broad worsted-work bell-pull to summon his
landlady.  For some little time he had been aware of the sound of a
fiddle, and as he listened, waiting for the bell to be answered, the
intermittance and reiteration of the music convinced him that the
organist was giving a violin lesson.  His first summons remained
unanswered, and when a second attempt met with no better success, he
gave several testy pulls in quick succession.  This time he heard the
music cease, and made no doubt that his indignant ringing had attracted
the notice of the musicians, and that the organist had gone to tell Miss
Joliffe that she was wanted.

He was ruffled by such want of attention, and when there came at last a
knock at his door, was quite prepared to expostulate with his landlady
on her remissness.  As she entered the room, he began, without turning
from 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 to
the elder Miss Joliffe, but to her niece Anastasia.  The girl was
graceful, as he had seen the evening before, and again he noticed the
peculiar fineness of her waving brown hair.  His annoyance had
instantaneously vanished, and he experienced to the full the
embarrassment natural to a sensitive mind on finding a servant's role
played by a lady, for that Anastasia Joliffe was a lady he had no doubt
at all.  Instead of blaming her, he seemed to be himself in fault for
having somehow brought about an anomalous position.

She stood with downcast eyes, but his chiding tone had brought a slight
flush 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 hear
your bell at first, because I was busy in another part of the house, and
then 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 of
humility.  If he chose to blame her, she was ready to take the blame;
but it was Westray who now stammered some incoherent apologies.  Would
she kindly tell Miss Joliffe that he would be in for dinner at one
o'clock, and that he was quite indifferent as to what was provided for
him.  The girl showed some relief at his blundering courtesy, and it was
not till she had left the room that Westray recollected that he had
heard that Cullerne was celebrated for its red mullet; he had meant to
order red mullet for dinner.  Now that he was mortifying the flesh by
drinking only water, he was proportionately particular to please his
appetite in eating.  Yet he was not sorry that he had forgotten the
fish; it would surely have been a bathos to discuss the properties and
application of red mullet with a young lady who found herself in so
tragically lowly a position.

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

"Well," he said, without looking at her as she came in--"well, what does
my lord want with my lady?  What has he made you run up to the top of
the house for now?  I wish I could wring his neck for him.  Here we are
out of breath, as usual, and our hands shaking; we shan't be able to
play 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.  I
believe he's been making love to you."

"Mr Sharnall," she retorted quickly, "if you say those things I will
never come to your room again.  I hate you when you speak like that, and
fancy you are not yourself."

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

"There," he said, "don't take all I say so seriously; it is only because
I am out of health and out of temper.  Forgive me, child; I know well
enough 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 had
gone 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 movement
in which they had been interrupted.  But her thoughts were not with the
music, and mistake followed mistake.

"What _are_ you doing?" said the organist.  "You're worse than you were
when 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 swung
round 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, I
haven't got anything to do, nor anyone to teach except you, and you know
I would slave all day and all night, too, if I could give you any
pleasure by it.  Don't cry.  Why are you crying?"

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

"Oh," she said between her sobs in a strange and uncontrolled
voice--"oh, I am so miserable--_everything_ is so miserable.  There are
father's debts not paid, not even the undertaker's bill paid for his
funeral, and no money for anything, and poor Aunt Euphemia working
herself to death.  And now she says she will have to sell the little
things we have in the house, and then when there is a chance of a decent
lodger, a quiet, gentlemanly man, you go and abuse him, and say these
rude things to me, because he rings the bell.  How does he know aunt is
out? 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 heard
you when we went to bed playing trashy things that you hate except when
you are not yourself.  It makes me ill to think that you have been with
us 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 your
adding 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 break
myself again.  It was a woman drove me to it then, and sent me down the
hill, and now I didn't know there was a living soul would care whether
old Sharnall drank himself to death or not.  If I could only think there
was someone who cared; if I could only think you cared."

"Of course I care"--and as she felt his hand tighten she drew her own
lightly away--"of course we care--poor aunt and I--or she would care, if
she knew, only she is so good she doesn't guess.  I hate to see those
horrid 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 house
was still."

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

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

"Yes, I will give it up," said the organist, though not quite so
enthusiastically 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 a
good digestion and entire confidence both in himself and in his
prospects, could fully enjoy the beauty of the day.  He walked this
morning as a child of the light, forsaking the devious back-ways through
which the organist had led him on the previous night, and choosing the
main streets on his road to the church.  He received this time a
different impression of the town.  The heavy rain had washed the
pavements and roadway, and as he entered the Market Square he was struck
with the cheerfulness of the prospect, and with the air of quiet
prosperity which pervaded the place.

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

"Good-morning.  About your work betimes, I see," pointing to the roll of
drawings which the architect carried under his arm.  "It is a great
privilege, this restoration to which you are called," and here he
shifted a chop into a more attractive position on the show-board--"and I
trust blessing will attend your efforts.  I often manage to snatch a few
minutes from the whirl of business about mid-day myself, and seek a
little quiet meditation in the church.  If you are there then, I shall
be glad to give you any help in my power.  Meanwhile, we must both be
busy with our own duties."

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

CHAPTER FOUR.

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

The nave was begun by Walter Le Bec in 1135, and has on either side an
arcade of low, round-headed arches.  These arches are divided from one
another by cylindrical pillars, which have no incised ornamentation, as
at Durham or Waltham or Lindisfarne, nor are masked with Perpendicular
work, as in the nave of Winchester or in the choir of Gloucester, but
rely for effect on severe plainness and great diameter.  Above them is
seen the dark and cavernous depth of the triforium, and higher yet the
clerestory with minute and infrequent openings.  Over all broods a stone
vault, divided across and diagonally by the chevron-mouldings of heavy
vaulting-ribs.

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

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

As he considered them in the daylight, he wondered still more at their
breadth and slenderness, and was still more surprised that his Chief had
made so light of the settlement and of the ominous crack in the south
wall.

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

The spiritual needs of Cullerne were amply served by this portion of the
church alone, and, except at confirmations or on Militia Sunday, the
congregation never overflowed into the nave.  All who came to the
minster found there full accommodation, and could indeed worship in much
comfort; for in front of the canopied stalls erected by Abbot Vinnicomb
in 1530 were ranged long rows of pews, in which green baize and brass
nails, cushions and hassocks, and Prayer-Book boxes ministered to the
devotion of the occupants.  Anybody who aspired to social status in
Cullerne rented one of these pews, but for as many as could not afford
such 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, and
made for him at once as the hawk swoops on its quarry.  Westray did not
attempt to escape his fate, and hoped, indeed, that from the old man's
garrulity 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 the
clerk preferred to talk of people rather than of things, and the
conversation drifted by easy stages to the family with whom Westray had
taken up his abode.

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

"Lor' bless you!" said the clerk, "I was a little boy myself when
Martin's mother runned away with the soldier, yet mind well how it was
in everybody's mouth.  But folks in Cullerne like novelties; it's all
old-world talk now, and there ain't one perhaps, beside me and Rector,
could tell you _that_ tale.  Sophia Flannery her name was when Farmer
Joliffe married her, and where he found her no one knew.  He lived up at
Wydcombe Farm, did Michael Joliffe, where his father lived afore him,
and a gay one he was, and dressed in yellow breeches and a blue
waistcoat 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 the
Blandamer Arms, and they were married in this very church.  She had a
three-year-old boy with her then, and put about she was a widow, though
there were many who thought she couldn't show her marriage lines if
she'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 London
town to collect her rents, so she said, and every time she'd come back
with terrible grand new clothes.  She dressed that fine, and had such a
way with her, the people called her Queen of Wydcombe.  Wherever she
come from, she had a boarding-school education, and could play and sing
beautiful.  Many a time of a summer evening we lads would walk up to
Wydcombe, and sit on the fence near the farm, to hear Sophy a-singing
through the open window.  She'd a pianoforty, too, and would sing
powerful long songs about captains and moustachers and broken hearts,
till people was nearly fit to cry over it.  And when she wasn't singing
she was painting.  My old missis had a picture of flowers what she
painted, and there was a lot more sold when they had to give up the
farm.  But Miss Joliffe wouldn't part with the biggest of 'em, though
there was many would ha' liked to buy it.  No, she kep' that one, and
has it by her to this day--a picture so big as a signboard, all covered
with flowers most beautiful."

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

He said nothing about its ugliness, or that he meant to banish it, not
wishing to wound the narrator's artistic susceptibilities, or to
interrupt 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 parlour
at Wydcombe over the sideboard; I seed'n there when I was a boy, and my
mother was helping spring-clean up at the farm.  `Look, Tom,' my mother
said to me, `did 'ee ever see such flowers? and such a pritty
caterpillar a-going to eat them!'  You mind, a green caterpillar down in
the corner."

Westray nodded, and the clerk went on:

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

"Michael were well pleased with his strapping wife, and used to like to
see the people stare when he drove her into Cullerne Market in the high
cart, and hear her crack jokes with the farmers what they passed on the
way.  Very proud he was of her, and prouder still when one Saturday he
stood all comers glasses round at the Blandamer, and bid 'em drink to a
pritty 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 brought
when she married him, and treated the child for all the world as if he
was his very son.

"So 'twas for a year or two, till the practice-camp was put up on
Wydcombe 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 down
in Mayo's Meads.  And there was the white tents all up the hillside, and
the brass band a-playing in the evenings before the officers'
dinner-tent.  And sometimes they would play Sunday afternoons too; and
Parson were terrible put about, and wrote to the Colonel to say as how
the music took the folk away from church, and likened it to the worship
of the golden calf, when `the people sat down to eat and drink, and rose
up 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 the
Downs, and some poor lasses wished afterwards they'd never heard no
music sweeter than the clar'net and bassoon up in the gallery of
Wydcombe Church.

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

"She never come back to Wydcombe," he said under his breath, with
something that sounded like a sigh.  Perhaps the long-forgotten break-up
of Farmer Joliffe's home had touched him, but perhaps he was only
thinking of his own loss, for he went on: "Ay, many's the time she would
give a poor fellow an ounce of baccy, and many's the pound of tea she
sent to a labourer's cottage.  If she bought herself fine clothes, she'd
give away the old ones; my missis has a fur tippet yet that her mother
got from Sophy Joliffe.  She was free with her money, whatever else she
mid have been.  There wasn't a labourer on the farm but what had a good
word 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 to
say 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 he
should.  Only he seemed to stick closer by the children--by Martin that
never 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 I
seed her myself twenty years later, when I took the hosses over to sell
at Beacon Hill Fair.

"That was a black day, too, for 'twas the first time Michael had to
raise 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 yellow
breeches like he used to, and _they_ weren't nothing so gay by then
themselves neither.

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

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

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

"And so I took 'em over, and knew very well why he wanted the money; for
Mr Martin had come back from Oxford, wi' a nice bit of debt about his
neck, and couldn't turn his hand to the farm, but went about saying he
was 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 to
nothing.  'Twas a black day, that day, and a thick rain falling at
Beacon Hill, and all the turf cut up terrible.  The poor beasts was wet
through, too, and couldn't look their best, because they knowed they was
going 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 we
get back again?'  And yet I was glad-like to think me and they weren't
going to part.

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

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

"`Ay, that I be,' says I, but stiff-like, for it galled me to think what
she'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?' she
asked.

"`Your husband's, mum,' I made bold to say, thinking to take her down a
peg.  But, lor'! she didn't care a rush for that, but `Which o' my
husbands?' says she, and laughed fit to bust, and poked the horse-dealer
in the side.  He looked as if he'd like to throttle her, but she didn't
mind 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, but
just told her how things was, and how I'd stood the blessed day, and
never got a bid.  She never asked no questions, but I see her eyes
twinkle when I spoke of Master Martin and Miss Phemie; and then she
turned 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'd
be 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 mighty
firm look in her face, for all she laughed so; and by degrees he quieted
down and let her talk.

"`How much do you want for the four of 'em, young man?' she says; and I
had a mind to say eighty pounds, thinking maybe she'd rise to that for
old times' sake, but didn't like to say so much for fear of spoiling the
bargain.  `Come,' she says, `how much?  Art thou dumb?  Well, if thou
won't fix the price, I'll do it for 'ee.  Here, John, you bid a hundred
for 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 out
he comes with, `Here, I'll give 'ee a hundred.'  But before I had time
to say `Done,' she went on: `No--this young man says no; I can see it in
his face; he don't think 'tis enough; you try him with a hundred and
twenty.'

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

"`Ay, that's better,' says she; `he says that's better.'  And she takes
out a little leather wallet from her bosom, holding it under the flap of
her waterproof so that the rain shouldn't get in, and counts out two
dozen clean banknotes, and puts 'em into my hand.  There was many more
where they come from, for I could see the book was full of 'em; and when
she 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 a
fairing for thy sweetheart, Tom Janaway, and never say Sophy Flannery
forgot an old friend.'

"`Thank 'ee kindly, mum,' says I; `thank 'ee kindly, and may you never
miss 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 she
called a lad, and he led off White-face and Strike-a-light and Jenny and
the 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 parts
again--at least, I never seed her; but I heard tell she lived a score of
years more after that, and died of a broken blood-vessel at Beriton
Races."

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 Farmer
Joliffe 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 sweat
still to think o' it; but you can have it if you like.  Well, when they
was gone, I was nigh dazed with such a stroke o' luck, and said the
Lord's Prayer to see I wasn't dreaming.  But 'twas no such thing, and so
I 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 my
fob-pocket.  'Twas getting dark, and I felt numb with cold and wet, what
with 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 day
the water'd got inside my boots, till they fair bubbled if I took a
step.  The rain was falling steady, and sputtered in the naphtha-lamps
that they was beginning to light up outside the booths.  There was one
powerful flare outside a long tent, and from inside there come a smell
of 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; thou
shan't go back to Wydcombe empty.'  So in I step, and found the tent
mighty warm and well lit, with men smoking and women laughing, and a
great smell of cooking.  There were long tables set on trestles down the
tent, and long benches beside 'em, and folks eating and drinking, and a
counter cross the head of the room, and great tin dishes simmering a-top
of it--trotters and sausages and tripe, bacon and beef and colliflowers,
cabbage and onions, blood-puddings and plum-duff.  It seemed like a
chance to change my banknote, and see whether 'twere good and not
elf-money that folks have found turn to leaves in their pocket.  So up I
walks, and bids 'em gie me a plate of beef and jack-pudding, and holds
out my note for't.  The maid--for 'twas a maid behind the counter--took
it, and then she looks at it and then at me, for I were very wet and
muddy; and then she carries it to the gaffer, and he shows it to his
wife, 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 till
I felt hot enough, and lief to leave my note where 'twas, and get out
and back to Wydcombe.  But the 'cise-man must have said 'twere all
right, for the gaffer comes back with four gold sovereigns and nineteen
shillings, 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 the
while 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, and
stared as if I'd been a lord.  I had another plate o' beef, and another
rum-and-milk, and then smoked a pipe, knowing they wouldn't make no
bother of my being late that night at Wydcombe, when I brought back two
dozen banknotes.

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

"`My respec's to you, sir,' says one, holding up his glass to me--`best
respec's.  These pore folk isn't used to the flimsies, and was a bit
surprised at your paper-money; but directly I see you, I says to my
friends, "Mates, that gentleman's one of us; that's a monied man, if
ever 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' one
banknote, what'd they say to know I'd got a pocket full of them?  But
didn't speak nothing, only chuckled a bit to think I could buy up half
the tent if I had a mind to.  After that I stood 'em drinks, and they
stood me, and we passed a very pleasant evening--the more so because
when we got confidential, and I knew they were men of honour, I proved
that I was worthy to mix with such by showing 'em I had a packet of
banknotes handy.  They drank more respec's, and one of them said as how
the liquor we were swallowing weren't fit for such a gentleman as me; so
he 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 powerful
strong stuff that, and made me blink to get it down; but I took it with
a good face, not liking to show I didn't know old liquor when it come my
way.

"So we sat till the tent was very close, and them hissing naphtha-lamps
burnt dim with tobacco-smoke.  'Twas still raining outside, for you
could hear the patter heavy on the roof; and where there was a belly in
the canvas, the water began to come through and drip inside.  There was
some rough talking and wrangling among folk who had been drinking; and I
knew I'd had as much as I could carry myself, 'cause my voice sounded
like someone's else, and I had to think a good bit before I could get
out 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 their
coats 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 each
arm; and very kind of them it was, for when we got into the open air, I
turned sleepy and giddy-like.  I told 'em where I lived to, and they
said never fear, they'd see me home, and knew a cut through the fields
what'd take us to Wydcombe much shorter.  We started off, and went a bit
into the dark; and then the very next thing I know'd was something
blowing 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 the
cuckoo-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 the
bargain I'd made for master, and of the money I'd got in my waistcoat, I
took heart, and reached in my hand to take out the notes, and see they
weren't wasted with the wet.

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

"'Tis seven mile good by the nigh way from Beacon Hill to Wydcombe; and
I was dog-tired, and hungry, and that shamed I stopped a half-hour on
the 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, and
got 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 a
spirit, while I told my tale; but I never said as how 'twas Sophia
Joliffe as had bought the horses.  Old Michael, he said nothing, but had
a very blank look on his face, and Miss Phemie was crying; but Master
Martin broke out saying 'twas all make-up, and I'd stole the money, and
they must send for a constable.

"`'Tis lies,' he said.  `This fellow's a rogue, and too great a fool
even to make up a tale that'll hang together.  Who's going to believe a
woman 'ud buy the team, and give a hundred and twenty pounds in notes
for 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 name
for fear of grieving Farmer Joliffe more nor he was grieved already, so
said 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 thou
knows her name, tell it us, and if thou doesn't know, tell us what she
looked 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 ever
was a woman as did buy the hosses; and don't you be so soft, father, as
to trust such fool's tales.  We'll get a constable for 'ee.  Out with
her name, I say.'

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

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

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

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

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

"`There, that'll do, lad.  I believe 'ee, and forgive thee.  Don't
matter 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 somewhere
else.  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'll
pay thee back what I can; and there's my sacred word I'll never touch
the 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 trace
them 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 stroke
next morning early, and died a fortnight later.  They laid him up to
Wydcombe nigh his father and his grandfather, what have green rails
round their graves; and give his yellow breeches and blue waistcoat to
Timothy Foord the shepherd, and he wore them o' Sundays for many a year
after that.  I left farming the same day as old master was put
underground, and come into Cullerne, and took odd jobs till the sexton
fell sick, and then I helped dig graves; and when he died they made I
sexton, and that were forty years ago come Whitsun."

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

They had wandered along the length of the stalls as they talked, and
were passing through the stone screen which divides the minster into two
parts.  The floor of the choir at Cullerne is higher by some feet than
that of the rest of the church, and when they stood on the steps which
led down into the nave, the great length of the transepts opened before
them on either side.  The end of the north transept, on the outside of
which once stood the chapter-house and dormitories of the monastery, has
only three small lancet-windows high up in the wall, but at the south
end of the cross-piece there is no wall at all, for the whole space is
occupied by Abbot Vinnicomb's window, with its double transoms and
infinite subdivisions of tracery.  Thus is produced a curious contrast,
for, while the light in the rest of the church is subdued to sadness by
the smallness of the windows, and while the north transept is the most
sombre part of all the building, the south transept, or Blandamer aisle,
is constantly in clear daylight.  Moreover, while the nave is of the
Norman style, and the transepts and choir of the Early English, this
window is of the latest Perpendicular, complicated in its scheme, and
meretricious in the elaboration of its detail.  The difference is so
great as to force itself upon the attention even of those entirely
unacquainted with architecture, and it has naturally more significance
for the professional eye.  Westray stood a moment on the steps as he
repeated his question:

"Did Martin keep on the farm?"

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

Westray looked up, and in the head of the centre light saw the nebuly
coat shining among the darker painted glass with a luminosity which was
even 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's
lodgings would suit him.  It was true that the Hand of God was somewhat
distant from the church, but, then, it stood higher than the rest of the
town, and the architect's fads were not confined to matters of eating
and drinking, but attached exaggerated importance to bracing air and the
avoidance of low-lying situations.  He was pleased also by the
scrupulous cleanliness pervading the place, and by Miss Joliffe's
cooking, which a long experience had brought to some perfection, so far
as plain dishes were concerned.

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

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

Miss Joliffe was sitting in what she called her study.  It was a little
apartment 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 for
many years past, and now her brother's long illness and death brought
about something like a crisis in the weary struggle to make two and two
into five.  She had spared him no luxury that illness is supposed to
justify, nor was Martin himself a man to be over-scrupulous in such
matters.  Bedroom fires, beef-tea, champagne, the thousand and one
little matters which scarcely come within the cognisance of the rich,
but tax so heavily the devotion of the poor, had all left their mark on
the score.  That such items should figure in her domestic accounts,
seemed to Miss Joliffe so great a violation of the rules which govern
prudent housekeeping, that all the urgency of the situation was needed
to free her conscience from the guilt of extravagance--from that
_luxuria_ or wantonness, which leads the van among the seven deadly
sins.

Philpotts the butcher had half smiled, half sighed to see sweetbreads
entered in Miss Joliffe's book, and had, indeed, forgotten to keep
record of many a similar purchase; using that kindly, quiet charity
which the recipient is none the less aware of, and values the more from
its very unostentation.  So, too, did Custance the grocer tremble in
executing champagne orders for the thin and wayworn old lady, and gave
her full measure pressed down and running over in teas and sugars, to
make up for the price which he was compelled to charge for such
refinements in the way of wine.  Yet the total had mounted up in spite
of all forbearance, and Miss Joliffe was at this moment reminded of
its gravity by the gold-foil necks of three bottles of the
universally-appreciated Duc de Bentivoglio brand, which still projected
from a shelf above her head.  Of Dr Ennefer's account she scarcely
dared 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 she
could, and being quite prepared to remit it entirely if she could never
pay it at all.

She appreciated his consideration, and overlooked with rare tolerance a
peculiarly irritating breach of propriety of which he was constantly
guilty.  This was nothing less than addressing medicines to her house as
if it were still an inn.  Before Miss Joliffe moved into the Hand of
God, she had spent much of the little allowed her for repairs, in
covering up the name of the inn painted on the front.  But after heavy
rains the great black letters stared perversely through their veil, and
the organist made small jokes about it being a difficult thing to thwart
the Hand of God.  Silly and indecorous, Miss Joliffe termed such
witticisms, and had Bellevue House painted in gold upon the fanlight
over the door.  But the Cullerne painter wrote Bellevue too small, and
had to fill up the space by writing House too large; and the organist
sneered again at the disproportion, saying it should have been the other
way, 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 eyed
the bottles askance as they lay on the table in the dreary hall, and
tore the wrappers off them quickly, holding her breath the while that no
exclamation of impatience might escape her.  Thus, the kindly doctor, in
the hurry of his workaday life, vexed, without knowing it, the heart of
the kindly lady, till she was constrained to retire to her study, and
read the precepts about turning the other cheek to the smiters, before
she could quite recover her serenity.

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

Miss Joliffe's difficulties were increased a thousandfold by a letter
which had reached her some days before, and which raised a case of
conscience.  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 with
unabated complacency on the "formerly in the possession of the late
Michael Joliffe, Esquire."  There was about the phrase something of
ancestral dignity and importance that gratified her, and dulled the
sordid bitterness of her surroundings.  "The late Michael Joliffe,
Esquire"--it read like a banker's will; and she was once more Euphemia
Joliffe, a romantic girl sitting in Wydcombe church of a summer Sunday
morning, proud of a new sprigged muslin, and proud of many tablets to
older Joliffes on the walls about her; for yeomen in Southavonshire have
pedigrees as well as Dukes.

At first sight it seemed as if Providence had offered her in this letter
a special solution of her difficulties, but afterwards scruples had
arisen 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; and
when she herself was a little child, had often held her up in his arms
to see the shining table-top and touch the caterpillar.  The wound his
wife had given him must still have been raw, for that was only a year
after Sophia had left him and the children; yet he was proud of her
cleverness, and perhaps not without hope of her coming back.  And when
he died he left to poor Euphemia, then half-way through the dark gorge
of 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 of
flashy earrings, and many other unconsidered trifles that he had
cherished.  He left her, too, Sophia's long wood paint-box, with its
little bottles of coloured powders for mixing oil-paints, and this same
"basket of flowers on a mahogany table, with a caterpillar in the
left-hand corner."

There had always been a tradition as to the value of this picture.  Her
father had spoken little of his wife to the children, and it was only
piecemeal, as she grew into womanhood, that Miss Euphemia learnt from
hints and half-told truths the story of her mother's shame.  But Michael
Joliffe was known to have considered this painting his wife's
masterpiece, and old Mrs Janaway reported that Sophia had told her many
a time it would fetch a hundred pounds.  Miss Euphemia herself never had
any doubt as to its worth, and so the offer in this letter occasioned
her no surprise.  She thought, in fact, that the sum named was
considerably less than its market value, but sell it she could not.  It
was a sacred trust, and the last link (except the silver spoons marked
"J.") that bound the squalid present to the comfortable past.  It was an
heirloom, and she could never bring herself to part with it.

Then the bell rang, and she slipped the letter into her pocket, smoothed
the front of her dress, and climbed the stone stairs to see what Mr
Westray wanted.  The architect told her that he hoped to remain as her
lodger during his stay in Cullerne, and he was pleased at his own
magnanimity when he saw what pleasure the announcement gave Miss
Joliffe.  She felt it as a great relief, and consented readily enough to
take away the ferns, and the mats, and the shell flowers, and the wax
fruit, and to make sundry small alterations of the furniture which he
desired.  It seemed to her, indeed, that, considering he was an
architect, Mr Westray's taste was strangely at fault; but she extended
to him all possible forbearance, in view of his kindly manner and of his
intention to remain with her.  Then the architect approached the removal
of the flower-painting.  He hinted delicately that it was perhaps rather
too large for the room, and that he should be glad of the space to hang
a 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 to
be free of it at any cost.  But the courage of his attack flagged a
little, as he saw the look of dismay which overspread Miss Joliffe's
face.

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

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

"I am sure I want to oblige you in every way, sir, and to make you
comfortable, for I always hope to have gentlefolk for my lodgers, and
could never bring myself to letting the rooms down by taking anyone who
was 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 late
Martin Joliffe'"--she was unconsciously influenced by the letter which
she had in her pocket, and almost said "the late Martin Joliffe,
Esquire"--"thought very highly of it, and used to sit here for hours in
his last illness studying it.  I hope you will not ask me to move the
picture.  You may not be aware, perhaps, that, besides being painted by
my mother, it is in itself a very valuable work of art."

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

"Oh, of course, if you wish it to remain from sentimental reasons, I
have 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 so
much 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 had
heard the picture openly disparaged, though she had thought that on more
than 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 afford
to be magnanimous.

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

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

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

"I have here," she said, "an offer of fifty pounds for the picture from
some gentlemen in London.  Please read it, that you may see it is not I
who 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.  What
could be the explanation?  Could the offer refer to some other picture?
for he knew Baunton and Lutterworth as being most reputable among London
picture-dealers; and the idea of the letter being a hoax was precluded
by the headed paper and general style of the communication.  He glanced
at the picture.  The sunlight was still on it, and it stood out more
hideous than ever; but his tone was altered as he spoke again to Miss
Joliffe.

"Do you think," he said, "that this is the picture mentioned?  Have you
no other pictures?"

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

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

"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 dear
brother's death a gentleman called here about it.  None of us were at
home except my brother, so I did not see him; but I believe he wanted to
buy it, only my dear brother would never have consented to its being
sold."

"It seems to me a handsome offer," Westray said; "I should think very
seriously 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 have
known it ever since I was a little girl, and my father set such store by
it.  I hope, Mr Westray, you will not want it moved.  I think, if you
let 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 point
with his landlady, and reflected that he might hang a plan in front of
the painting, if need be, as a temporary measure.  So a concordat was
established, and Miss Joliffe put Baunton and Lutterworth's letter back
into her pocket, and returned to her accounts with equanimity at least
partially restored.

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

The sun was a red ball on the horizon as he flung up the window and
looked 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 it
in long, level strata, and there was perceptible in the air a faint
smell of burning weeds.  The belfry story of the centre tower glowed
with a pink flush in the sunset, and a cloud of jackdaws wheeled round
the golden vanes, chattering and fluttering before they went to bed.

"It is a striking scene, is it not?" said a voice at his elbow; "there
is a curious aromatic scent in this autumn air that makes one catch
one's breath."  It was the organist who had slipped in unawares.  "I
feel 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 agreed
gladly enough that they should spend the evening together; only the
venue was changed, and supper taken in the architect's room.  They
talked over many things that night, and Westray let his companion ramble
on to his heart's content about Cullerne men and manners; for he was of
a receptive mind, and anxious to learn what he could about those among
whom he had taken up his abode.

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

"The poor thing has made the question a matter of conscience for the
last fortnight," he said, "and worried herself into many a sleepless
night 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 a
nest 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-painting
in the house.'  `No,' says family affection, and the queer little piping
voice of her own childhood--`don't sell it.  Don't you remember how fond
poor daddy was of it, and how dear Martin treasured it?'  `Dear
Martin'--psh!  Martin never did her anything but evil turns all his
threescore years, but women canonise their own folk when they die.
Haven't you seen what they call a religious woman damn the whole world
for evil-doers? and then her husband or her brother dies, and may have
lived 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 had
been double Baxter-saints.  No, blood is thicker than water; damnation
doesn't hold good for her own.  Love is stronger than hell-fire, and
works a miracle for Dick and Tom; only _she_ has to make up the balance
by 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 in
Cullerne Church, she would have asked her father confessor, and he would
have taken down his `Summa Angelica,' and looked it out under
V.--`_Vendetur? utrum vendetur an non_?'--and set her mind at rest.  You
didn'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, and
dear Protestant Parkyn couldn't read the `Summa' if he had it; so there
is no one to settle the case for her."

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

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

"It baffles me to understand how _anyone_ with eyes at all could think a
daub like this was valuable--that is strange enough; but how come these
London 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 goes
the weasel' from the `Hallelujah Chorus,' and others are as bad with
pictures.  I'm very much that way myself.  No doubt all you say is
right, and this picture an eyesore to any respectable person, but I've
been used to it so long I've got to like it, and should be sorry to see
her sell it.  And as for these London buyers, I suppose some other
ignoramus 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 between
whiles--perhaps even Americans, for all I said about them--and you can
never reckon what _they'll_ do.  The very day Martin Joliffe died there
was a story of someone coming to buy the picture of him.  I was at
church in the afternoon, and Miss Joliffe at the Dorcas meeting, and
Anastasia gone out to the chemist.  When I got back, I came up to see
Martin in this same room, and found him full of a tale that he had heard
the bell ring, and after that someone walking in the house, and last his
door opened, and in walked a stranger.  Martin was sitting in the chair
I'm using now, and was too weak then to move out of it; so he was forced
to sit until this man came in.  The stranger talked kindly to him, so he
said, and wanted to buy the picture of the flowers, bidding as high as
twenty pounds for it; but Martin wouldn't hear him, and said he wouldn't
let him have it for ten times that, and then the man went away.  That
was 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 seemed
flushed too, like one just waken from a dream.  But he had a cunning
look in his eye when he told me, and said if he lived another week he
would be Lord Blandamer himself, and wouldn't want then to sell any
pictures.  He spoke of it again when his sister came back, but couldn't
say what the man was like, except that his hair reminded him of
Anastasia's.

"But Martin's time was come; he died that very night, and Miss Joliffe
was terribly cast down, because she feared she had given him an overdose
of sleeping-draught; for Ennefer told her he had taken too much, and she
didn'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; but
that put the stranger out of our thoughts until it was too late to find
him, if, indeed, he ever was anything more than the phantom of a sick
man's brain.  No one beside had seen him, and all we had to ask for was
a man with wavy hair, because he reminded Martin of Anastasia.  But if
'twas true, then there was someone else who had a fancy for the
painting, and poor old Michael must have thought a lot of it to frame it
in such handsome style."

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

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

"Ah, that I can't tell you.  He was always thinking he had squared the
circle, or found the missing bit to fit into the puzzle; but he kept his
schemes very dark.  He left boxes full of papers behind him when he
died, and Miss Joliffe handed them to me to look over, instead of
burning them.  I shall go through them some day; but no doubt the whole
thing 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 "Mount
Ephraim," 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 of
the fire; "I have talked myself thirsty."

There was a pathos in his appeal that would have melted many a stony
heart, but Westray's principles were unassailable, and he remained
obdurate.

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

Mr Sharnall's face fell.