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.