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."