At ten o’clock they met in the same room, Paula appearing in a straw hat
having a bent-up brim lined with plaited silk, so that it surrounded
her forehead like a nimbus; and Somerset armed with sketch-book,
measuring-rod, and other apparatus of his craft.
‘And Mr. Havill?’ said the young man.
‘I have not decided to employ him: if I do he shall go round with me
independently of you,’ she replied rather brusquely.
Somerset was by no means sorry to hear this. His duty to Havill was
done.
‘And now,’ she said, as they walked on together through the passages, ‘I
must tell you that I am not a mediaevalist myself; and perhaps that’s a
pity.’
‘What are you?’
‘I am Greek--that’s why I don’t wish to influence your design.’
Somerset, as they proceeded, pointed out where roofs had been and
should be again, where gables had been pulled down, and where floors had
vanished, showing her how to reconstruct their details from marks in the
walls, much as a comparative anatomist reconstructs an antediluvian from
fragmentary bones and teeth. She appeared to be interested, listened
attentively, but said little in reply. They were ultimately in a long
narrow passage, indifferently lighted, when Somerset, treading on a
loose stone, felt a twinge of weakness in one knee, and knew in a moment
that it was the result of the twist given by his yesterday’s fall. He
paused, leaning against the wall.
‘What is it?’ said Paula, with a sudden timidity in her voice.
‘I slipped down yesterday,’ he said. ‘It will be right in a moment.’
‘I--can I help you?’ said Paula. But she did not come near him; indeed,
she withdrew a little. She looked up the passage, and down the passage,
and became conscious that it was long and gloomy, and that nobody was
near. A curious coy uneasiness seemed to take possession of her. Whether
she thought, for the first time, that she had made a mistake--that to
wander about the castle alone with him was compromising, or whether
it was the mere shy instinct of maidenhood, nobody knows; but she said
suddenly, ‘I will get something for you, and return in a few minutes.’
‘Pray don’t--it has quite passed!’ he said, stepping out again.
But Paula had vanished. When she came back it was in the rear of
Charlotte De Stancy. Miss De Stancy had a tumbler in one hand, half full
of wine, which she offered him; Paula remaining in the background.
He took the glass, and, to satisfy his companions, drank a mouthful or
two, though there was really nothing whatever the matter with him beyond
the slight ache above mentioned. Charlotte was going to retire, but
Paula said, quite anxiously, ‘You will stay with me, Charlotte, won’t
you? Surely you are interested in what I am doing?’
‘What is it?’ said Miss De Stancy.
‘Planning how to mend and enlarge the castle. Tell Mr. Somerset what I
want done in the quadrangle--you know quite well--and I will walk on.’
She walked on; but instead of talking on the subject as directed,
Charlotte and Somerset followed chatting on indifferent matters. They
came to an inner court and found Paula standing there.
She met Miss De Stancy with a smile. ‘Did you explain?’ she asked.
‘I have not explained yet.’ Paula seated herself on a stone bench, and
Charlotte went on: ‘Miss Power thought of making a Greek court of this.
But she will not tell you so herself, because it seems such dreadful
anachronism.
‘I said I would not tell any architect myself,’ interposed Paula
correctingly. ‘I did not then know that he would be Mr. Somerset.’
‘It is rather startling,’ said Somerset.
‘A Greek colonnade all round, you said, Paula,’ continued her less
reticent companion. ‘A peristyle you called it--you saw it in a book,
don’t you remember?--and then you were going to have a fountain in the
middle, and statues like those in the British Museum.’
‘I did say so,’ remarked Paula, pulling the leaves from a young
sycamore-tree that had sprung up between the joints of the paving.
From the spot where they sat they could see over the roofs the upper
part of the great tower wherein Somerset had met with his misadventure.
The tower stood boldly up in the sun, and from one of the slits in the
corner something white waved in the breeze.
‘What can that be?’ said Charlotte. ‘Is it the fluff of owls, or a
handkerchief?’
‘It is my handkerchief,’ Somerset answered. ‘I fixed it there with a
stone to attract attention, and forgot to take it away.’
All three looked up at the handkerchief with interest. ‘Why did you want
to attract attention?’ said Paula.
‘O, I fell into the turret; but I got out very easily.’
‘O Paula,’ said Charlotte, turning to her friend, ‘that must be the
place where the man fell in, years ago, and was starved to death!’
‘Starved to death?’ said Paula.
‘They say so. O Mr. Somerset, what an escape!’ And Charlotte De Stancy
walked away to a point from which she could get a better view of the
treacherous turret.
‘Whom did you think to attract?’ asked Paula, after a pause.
‘I thought you might see it.’
‘Me personally?’ And, blushing faintly, her eyes rested upon him.
‘I hoped for anybody. I thought of you,’ said Somerset.
She did not continue. In a moment she arose and went across to Miss
De Stancy. ‘Don’t YOU go falling down and becoming a skeleton,’
she said--Somerset overheard the words, though Paula was unaware of
it--after which she clasped her fingers behind Charlotte’s neck, and
smiled tenderly in her face.
It seemed to be quite unconsciously done, and Somerset thought it a
very beautiful action. Presently Paula returned to him and said, ‘Mr.
Somerset, I think we have had enough architecture for to-day.’
The two women then wished him good-morning and went away. Somerset,
feeling that he had now every reason for prowling about the castle,
remained near the spot, endeavouring to evolve some plan of
procedure for the project entertained by the beautiful owner of those
weather-scathed walls. But for a long time the mental perspective of his
new position so excited the emotional side of his nature that he could
not concentrate it on feet and inches. As Paula’s architect (supposing
Havill not to be admitted as a competitor), he must of necessity be in
constant communication with her for a space of two or three years to
come; and particularly during the next few months. She, doubtless,
cherished far too ambitious views of her career to feel any personal
interest in this enforced relationship with him; but he would be at
liberty to feel what he chose: and to be the victim of an unrequited
passion, while afforded such splendid opportunities of communion with
the one beloved, deprived that passion of its most deplorable features.
Accessibility is a great point in matters of love, and perhaps of the
two there is less misery in loving without return a goddess who is to
be seen and spoken to every day, than in having an affection tenderly
reciprocated by one always hopelessly removed.
With this view of having to spend a considerable time in the
neighbourhood Somerset shifted his quarters that afternoon from the
little inn at Sleeping-Green to a larger one at Markton. He required
more rooms in which to carry out Paula’s instructions than the former
place afforded, and a more central position. Having reached and dined
at Markton he found the evening tedious, and again strolled out in the
direction of the castle.
When he reached it the light was declining, and a solemn stillness
overspread the pile. The great tower was in full view. That spot of
white which looked like a pigeon fluttering from the loophole was his
handkerchief, still hanging in the place where he had left it. His
eyes yet lingered on the walls when he noticed, with surprise, that the
handkerchief suddenly vanished.
Believing that the breezes, though weak below, might have been strong
enough at that height to blow it into the turret, and in no hurry to get
off the premises, he leisurely climbed up to find it, ascending by
the second staircase, crossing the roof, and going to the top of the
treacherous turret. The ladder by which he had escaped still stood
within it, and beside the ladder he beheld the dim outline of a woman,
in a meditative attitude, holding his handkerchief in her hand.
Somerset softly withdrew. When he had reached the ground he looked up.
A girlish form was standing at the top of the tower looking over the
parapet upon him--possibly not seeing him, for it was dark on the lawn.
It was either Miss De Stancy or Paula; one of them had gone there alone
for his handkerchief and had remained awhile, pondering on his escape.
But which? ‘If I were not a faint-heart I should run all risk and wave
my hat or kiss my hand to her, whoever she is,’ he thought. But he did
not do either.
So he lingered about silently in the shades, and then thought of
strolling to his rooms at Markton. Just at leaving, as he passed under
the inhabited wing, whence one or two lights now blinked, he heard a
piano, and a voice singing ‘The Mistletoe Bough.’ The song had probably
been suggested to the romantic fancy of the singer by her visit to the
scene of his captivity.