Part 18 (1/2)
It was full two hours later that Westray came quickly into the organist's room at Bellevue Lodge.
”I beg your pardon, Sharnall,” he said, ”for leaving you so cavalierly.
You must have thought me rude and inappreciative; but the fact is I was so startled that I forgot to tell you why I went. While you were playing I happened to look up at that great crack over the south transept arch, and saw something very like recent movement. I went up at once to the scaffolding, and have been there ever since. I don't like it at all; it seems to me that the crack is opening, and extending.
It may mean very serious mischief, and I have made up my mind to go up to London by the last train to-night. I must get Sir George Farquhar's opinion at once.”
The organist grunted. The wound inflicted on his susceptibility had rankled deeply, and indignation had been tenderly nursed. A piece of his mind was to have been given to Westray, and he regretted the very reasonableness of the explanation that robbed him of his opportunity.
”Pray don't apologise,” he said; ”I never noticed that you had gone. I really quite forgot that you had been there.”
Westray was too full of his discovery to take note of the other's annoyance. He was one of those excitable persons who mistake hurry for decision of action.
”Yes,” he said, ”I must be off to London in half an hour. The matter is far too serious to play fast-and-loose with. It is quite possible that we shall have to stop the organ, or even to forbid the use of the church altogether, till we can sh.o.r.e and strut the arch. I must go and put my things together.”
So, with heroic promptness and determination, he flung himself into the last train, and spent the greater part of the night in stopping at every wayside station, when his purpose would have been equally served by a letter or by taking the express at Cullerne Road the next morning.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN.
The organ was not silenced, nor was the service suspended. Sir George came down to Cullerne, inspected the arch, and rallied his subordinate for an anxiety which was considered to be unjustifiable. Yes, the wall above the arch _had_ moved a little, but not more than was to be expected from the repairs which were being undertaken with the vaulting.
It was only the old wall coming to its proper bearings--he would have been surprised, in fact, if no movement had taken place; it was much safer as it was.
Canon Parkyn was in high good-humour. He rejoiced in seeing the pert and officious young clerk of the works put in his proper place; and Sir George had lunched at the Rectory. There was a repet.i.tion of the facetious proposal that Sir George should wait for payment of his fees until the tower should fall, which acquired fresh point from the circ.u.mstance that all payments were now provided for by Lord Blandamer.
The ha-ha-ing which accompanied this witticism palled at length even upon the robust Sir George, and he winced under a dig in the ribs, which an extra gla.s.s of port had emboldened the Canon to administer.
”Well, well, Mr Rector,” he said, ”we cannot put old heads on young shoulders. Mr Westray was quite justified in referring the matter to me. It _has_ an ugly look; one needs _experience_ to be able to see through things like this.” And he pulled up his collar, and adjusted his tie.
Westray was content to accept his Chief's decision as a matter of faith, though not of conviction. The black lightning-flash was impressed on his mental retina, the restless cry of the arches was continually in his ear; he seldom pa.s.sed the transept-crossing without hearing it. But he bore his rebuke with exemplary resignation--the more so that he was much interested in some visits which Lord Blandamer paid him at this period.
Lord Blandamer called more than once at Bellevue Lodge in the evenings, even as late as nine o'clock, and would sit with Westray for two hours together, turning over plans and discussing the restoration. The architect learnt to appreciate the charm of his manner, and was continually astonished at the architectural knowledge and critical power which he displayed. Mr Sharnall would sometimes join them for a few minutes, but Lord Blandamer never appeared quite at his ease when the organist was present; and Westray could not help thinking that Mr Sharnall was sometimes tactless, and even rude, considering that he was beholden to Lord Blandamer for new pedals and new bellows and a water-engine _in esse_, and for the entire repair of the organ _in posse_.
”I can't help being 'beholden to him,' as you genteelly put it,” Mr Sharnall said one evening, when Lord Blandamer had gone. ”I can't _stop_ his giving new bellows or a new pedal-board. And we do want the new board and the additional pipes. As it is, I can't play German music, can't touch a good deal of Bach's organ work. Who is to say this man nay, if he chooses to alter the organ? But I'm not going to truckle to anyone, and least of all to him. Do you want me to fall flat on my face because he is a lord? Pooh! we could all be lords like him. Give me another week with Martin's papers, and I'll open your eyes. Ay, you may stare and sniff if you please, but you'll open your eyes then. _Ex oriente lux_--that's where the light's coming from, out of Martin's papers. Once this Confirmation over, and you'll see. I can't settle to the papers till that's done with. What do people want to confirm these boys and girls for? It only makes hypocrites of wholesome children. I hate the whole business. If people want to make their views public, let them do it at five-and-twenty; then we should believe that they knew something of what they were about.”
The day of the Bishop's visit had arrived; the Bishop had arrived himself; he had entered the door of Bellevue Lodge; he had been received by Miss Euphemia Joliffe as one who receives an angel awares; he had lunched in Mr Sharnall's room, and had partaken of the cold lamb, and the Stilton, and even of the cider-cup, to just such an extent as became a healthy and good-hearted and host-considering bishop.
”You have given me a regular Oxford lunch,” he said. ”Your landlady has been brought up in the good tradition.” And he smiled, never doubting that he was partaking of the ordinary provision of the house, and that Mr Sharnall fared thus sumptuously every day. He knew not that the meal was as much a set piece as a dinner on the stage, and that cold lamb and Stilton and cider-cup were more often represented by the bottom of a tin of potted meat and--a gill of cheap whisky.
”A regular Oxford lunch.” And then they fell to talking of old days, and the Bishop called Mr Sharnall ”Nick,” and Mr Sharnall called the Bishop of Carum ”John”; and they walked round the room looking at pictures of college groups and college eights, and the Bishop examined very tenderly the little water-colour sketch that Mr Sharnall had once made of the inner quad; and they identified in it their own old rooms, and the rooms of several other men of their acquaintance.
The talk did Mr Sharnall good; he felt the better for it every moment.
He had meant to be very proud and reserved with the Bishop--to be most dignified and coldly courteous. He had meant to show that, though John Willis might wear the gaiters, Nicholas Sharnall could retain his st.u.r.dy independence, and was not going to fawn or to admit himself to be the mental inferior of any man. He had meant to _give_ a tirade against Confirmation, against the neglect of music, against rectors, with perhaps a back-thrust at the Bench of Bishops itself. But he had done none of these things, because neither pride nor reserve nor a.s.sertiveness were possible in John Willis's company. He had merely eaten a good lunch, and talked with a kindly, broad-minded gentleman, long enough to warm his withered heart, and make him feel that there were still possibilities in life.
There is a bell that rings for a few strokes three-quarters of an hour before every service at Cullerne. It is called the Burgess Bell--some say because it was meant to warn such burgesses as dwelt at a distance that it was time to start for church; whilst others will have it that Burgess is but a broken-down form of _expergiscere_--”Awake! awake!”-- that those who dozed might rise for prayer. The still air of the afternoon was yet vibrating with the Burgess Bell, and the Bishop rose to take his leave.
If it was the organist of Cullerne who had been ill at ease when their interview began, it was the Bishop of Carisbury who was embarra.s.sed at the end of it. He had asked himself to lunch with Mr Sharnall with a definite object, and towards the attainment of that object nothing had been done. He had learnt that his old friend had fallen upon evil times, and, worse, had fallen into evil courses--that the failing which had ruined his Oxford career had broken out again with a fresh fire in advancing age, that Nicholas Sharnall was in danger of a drunkard's judgment.
There had been lucid intervals in the organist's life; the plague would lie dormant for years, and then break out, to cancel all the progress that had been made. It was like a ”race-game” where the little leaden horse is moved steadily forward, till at last the die falls on the fatal number, and the racer must lose a turn, or go back six, or, even in the worst issue, begin his whole course again. It was in the forlorn hope of doing something, however little, to arrest a man on the downward slope that the Bishop had come to Bellevue Lodge; he hoped to speak the word in season that should avail. Yet nothing had been said. He felt like a clerk who has sought an interview with his princ.i.p.al to ask for an increase of salary, and then, fearing to broach the subject, pretends to have come on other business. He felt like a son longing to ask his father's counsel in some grievous sc.r.a.pe, or like an extravagant wife waiting her opportunity to confess some heavy debt.
”A quarter past two,” the Bishop said; ”I must be going. It has been a great pleasure to recall the old times. I hope we shall meet again soon; but remember it is your turn now to come and see me. Carisbury is not so very far off, so do come. There is always a bed ready for you.
Will you walk up the street with me now? I have to go to the Rectory, and I suppose you will be going to the church, will you not?”