Somerset returned to the top of the great tower with a vague
consciousness that he was going to do something up there--perhaps sketch
a general plan of the structure. But he began to discern that this
Stancy-Castle episode in his studies of Gothic architecture might be
less useful than ornamental to him as a professional man, though it was
too agreeable to be abandoned. Finding after a while that his drawing
progressed but slowly, by reason of infinite joyful thoughts more allied
to his nature than to his art, he relinquished rule and compass, and
entered one of the two turrets opening on the roof. It was not the
staircase by which he had ascended, and he proceeded to explore its
lower part. Entering from the blaze of light without, and imagining the
stairs to descend as usual, he became aware after a few steps that
there was suddenly nothing to tread on, and found himself precipitated
downwards to a distance of several feet.
Arrived at the bottom, he was conscious of the happy fact that he had
not seriously hurt himself, though his leg was twisted awkwardly. Next
he perceived that the stone steps had been removed from the turret, so
that he had dropped into it as into a dry well; that, owing to its being
walled up below, there was no door of exit on either side of him; that
he was, in short, a prisoner.
Placing himself in a more comfortable position he calmly considered
the best means of getting out, or of making his condition known. For
a moment he tried to drag himself up by his arm, but it was a hopeless
attempt, the height to the first step being far too great.
He next looked round at a lower level. Not far from his left elbow, in
the concave of the outer wall, was a slit for the admission of light,
and he perceived at once that through this slit alone lay his chance of
communicating with the outer world. At first it seemed as if it were to
be done by shouting, but when he learnt what little effect was produced
by his voice in the midst of such a mass of masonry, his heart failed
him for a moment. Yet, as either Paula or Miss De Stancy would probably
guess his visit to the top of the tower, there was no cause for terror,
if some for alarm.
He put his handkerchief through the window-slit, so that it fluttered
outside, and, fixing it in its place by a large stone drawn from the
loose ones around him, awaited succour as best he could. To begin this
course of procedure was easy, but to abide in patience till it should
produce fruit was an irksome task. As nearly as he could guess--for his
watch had been stopped by the fall--it was now about four o’clock, and
it would be scarcely possible for evening to approach without some
eye or other noticing the white signal. So Somerset waited, his eyes
lingering on the little world of objects around him, till they all
became quite familiar. Spiders’-webs in plenty were there, and one in
particular just before him was in full use as a snare, stretching across
the arch of the window, with radiating threads as its ribs. Somerset
had plenty of time, and he counted their number--fifteen. He remained
so silent that the owner of this elaborate structure soon forgot the
disturbance which had resulted in the breaking of his diagonal ties,
and crept out from the corner to mend them. In watching the process,
Somerset noticed that on the stonework behind the web sundry names and
initials had been cut by explorers in years gone by. Among these antique
inscriptions he observed two bright and clean ones, consisting of the
words ‘De Stancy’ and ‘W. Dare,’ crossing each other at right angles.
From the state of the stone they could not have been cut more than a
month before this date, and, musing on the circumstance, Somerset passed
the time until the sun reached the slit in that side of the tower,
where, beginning by throwing in a streak of fire as narrow as a
corn-stalk, it enlarged its width till the dusty nook was flooded with
cheerful light. It disclosed something lying in the corner, which on
examination proved to be a dry bone. Whether it was human, or had come
from the castle larder in bygone times, he could not tell. One bone was
not a whole skeleton, but it made him think of Ginevra of Modena, the
heroine of the Mistletoe Bough, and other cribbed and confined wretches,
who had fallen into such traps and been discovered after a cycle of
years.
The sun’s rays had travelled some way round the interior when Somerset’s
waiting ears were at last attracted by footsteps above, each tread being
brought down by the hollow turret with great fidelity. He hoped that
with these sounds would arise that of a soft voice he had begun to like
well. Indeed, during the solitary hour or two of his waiting here he had
pictured Paula straying alone on the terrace of the castle, looking
up, noting his signal, and ascending to deliver him from his painful
position by her own exertions. It seemed that at length his dream had
been verified. The footsteps approached the opening of the turret;
and, attracted by the call which Somerset now raised, began to descend
towards him. In a moment, not Paula’s face, but that of a dreary footman
of her household, looked into the hole.
Somerset mastered his disappointment, and the man speedily fetched a
ladder, by which means the prisoner of two hours ascended to the roof
in safety. During the process he ventured to ask for the ladies of the
house, and learnt that they had gone out for a drive together.
Before he left the castle, however, they had returned, a circumstance
unexpectedly made known to him by his receiving a message from
Miss Power, to the effect that she would be glad to see him at his
convenience. Wondering what it could possibly mean, he followed the
messenger to her room--a small modern library in the Jacobean wing of
the house, adjoining that in which the telegraph stood. She was alone,
sitting behind a table littered with letters and sketches, and looking
fresh from her drive. Perhaps it was because he had been shut up in that
dismal dungeon all the afternoon that he felt something in her presence
which at the same time charmed and refreshed him.
She signified that he was to sit down; but finding that he was going
to place himself on a straight-backed chair some distance off she said,
‘Will you sit nearer to me?’ and then, as if rather oppressed by her
dignity, she left her own chair of business and seated herself at
ease on an ottoman which was among the diversified furniture of the
apartment.
‘I want to consult you professionally,’ she went on. ‘I have been much
impressed by your great knowledge of castellated architecture. Will you
sit in that leather chair at the table, as you may have to take notes?’
The young man assented, expressed his gratification, and went to the
chair she designated.
‘But, Mr. Somerset,’ she continued, from the ottoman--the width of the
table only dividing them--‘I first should just like to know, and I trust
you will excuse my inquiry, if you are an architect in practice, or only
as yet studying for the profession?’
‘I am just going to practise. I open my office on the first of January
next,’ he answered.
‘You would not mind having me as a client--your first client?’ She
looked curiously from her sideway face across the table as she said
this.
‘Can you ask it!’ said Somerset warmly. ‘What are you going to build?’
‘I am going to restore the castle.’
‘What, all of it?’ said Somerset, astonished at the audacity of such an
undertaking.
‘Not the parts that are absolutely ruinous: the walls battered by the
Parliament artillery had better remain as they are, I suppose. But we
have begun wrong; it is I who should ask you, not you me.... I fear,’
she went on, in that low note which was somewhat difficult to catch at
a distance, ‘I fear what the antiquarians will say if I am not very
careful. They come here a great deal in summer and if I were to do the
work wrong they would put my name in the papers as a dreadful person.
But I must live here, as I have no other house, except the one in
London, and hence I must make the place habitable. I do hope I can trust
to your judgment?’
‘I hope so,’ he said, with diffidence, for, far from having much
professional confidence, he often mistrusted himself. ‘I am a Fellow
of the Society of Antiquaries, and a Member of the Institute of British
Architects--not a Fellow of that body yet, though I soon shall be.’
‘Then I am sure you must be trustworthy,’ she said, with enthusiasm.
‘Well, what am I to do?--How do we begin?’
Somerset began to feel more professional, what with the business
chair and the table, and the writing-paper, notwithstanding that these
articles, and the room they were in, were hers instead of his; and an
evenness of manner which he had momentarily lost returned to him. ‘The
very first step,’ he said, ‘is to decide upon the outlay--what is it to
cost?’
He faltered a little, for it seemed to disturb the softness of their
relationship to talk thus of hard cash. But her sympathy with his
feeling was apparently not great, and she said, ‘The expenditure shall
be what you advise.’
‘What a heavenly client!’ he thought. ‘But you must just give some
idea,’ he said gently. ‘For the fact is, any sum almost may be spent
on such a building: five thousand, ten thousand, twenty thousand, fifty
thousand, a hundred thousand.’
‘I want it done well; so suppose we say a hundred thousand? My father’s
solicitor--my solicitor now--says I may go to a hundred thousand without
extravagance, if the expenditure is scattered over two or three years.’
Somerset looked round for a pen. With quickness of insight she knew
what he wanted, and signified where one could be found. He wrote down in
large figures--
100,000.
It was more than he had expected; and for a young man just beginning
practice, the opportunity of playing with another person’s money to that
extent would afford an exceptionally handsome opening, not so much
from the commission it represented, as from the attention that would be
bestowed by the art-world on such an undertaking.
Paula had sunk into a reverie. ‘I was intending to intrust the work
to Mr. Havill, a local architect,’ she said. ‘But I gathered from
his conversation with you to-day that his ignorance of styles might
compromise me very seriously. In short, though my father employed him
in one or two little matters, it would not be right--even a morally
culpable thing--to place such an historically valuable building in his
hands.’
‘Has Mr. Havill ever been led to expect the commission?’ he asked.
‘He may have guessed that he would have it. I have spoken of my
intention to him more than once.’
Somerset thought over his conversation with Havill. Well, he did not
like Havill personally; and he had strong reasons for suspecting that in
the matter of architecture Havill was a quack. But was it quite generous
to step in thus, and take away what would be a golden opportunity to
such a man of making both ends meet comfortably for some years to come,
without giving him at least one chance? He reflected a little longer,
and then spoke out his feeling.
‘I venture to propose a slightly modified arrangement,’ he said.
‘Instead of committing the whole undertaking to my hands without better
proof of my ability to carry it out than you have at present, let there
be a competition between Mr. Havill and myself--let our rival plans for
the restoration and enlargement be submitted to a committee of the Royal
Institute of British Architects--and let the choice rest with them,
subject of course to your approval.’
‘It is indeed generous of you to suggest it.’ She looked thoughtfully
at him; he appeared to strike her in a new light. ‘You really recommend
it?’ The fairness which had prompted his words seemed to incline her
still more than before to resign herself entirely to him in the matter.
‘I do,’ said Somerset deliberately.
‘I will think of it, since you wish it. And now, what general idea have
you of the plan to adopt? I do not positively agree to your suggestion
as yet, so I may perhaps ask the question.’
Somerset, being by this time familiar with the general plan of the
castle, took out his pencil and made a rough sketch. While he was doing
it she rose, and coming to the back of his chair, bent over him in
silence.
‘Ah, I begin to see your conception,’ she murmured; and the breath of
her words fanned his ear. He finished the sketch, and held it up to her,
saying--
‘I would suggest that you walk over the building with Mr. Havill and
myself, and detail your ideas to us on each portion.’
‘Is it necessary?’
‘Clients mostly do it.’
‘I will, then. But it is too late for me this evening. Please meet me
to-morrow at ten.’