When she was gone he went on with the drawing, not calling in Dare,
who remained in the room adjoining. Presently a servant came and laid a
paper on his table, which Miss Power had sent. It was one of the morning
newspapers, and was folded so that his eye fell immediately on a letter
headed ‘Restoration or Demolition.’
The letter was professedly written by a dispassionate person solely in
the interests of art. It drew attention to the circumstance that the
ancient and interesting castle of the De Stancys had unhappily passed
into the hands of an iconoclast by blood, who, without respect for the
tradition of the county, or any feeling whatever for history in stone,
was about to demolish much, if not all, that was interesting in that
ancient pile, and insert in its midst a monstrous travesty of some
Greek temple. In the name of all lovers of mediaeval art, conjured the
simple-minded writer, let something be done to save a building which,
injured and battered in the Civil Wars, was now to be made a complete
ruin by the freaks of an irresponsible owner. Her sending him the paper
seemed to imply that she required his opinion on the case; and in the
afternoon, leaving Dare to measure up a wing according to directions, he
went out in the hope of meeting her, having learnt that she had gone to
the village. On reaching the church he saw her crossing the churchyard
path with her aunt and Miss De Stancy. Somerset entered the enclosure,
and as soon as she saw him she came across.
‘What is to be done?’ she asked.
‘You need not be concerned about such a letter as that.’
‘I am concerned.’
‘I think it dreadful impertinence,’ spoke up Charlotte, who had joined
them. ‘Can you think who wrote it, Mr. Somerset?’
Somerset could not.
‘Well, what am I to do?’ repeated Paula.
‘Just as you would have done before.’
‘That’s what _I_ say,’ observed Mrs. Goodman emphatically.
‘But I have already altered--I have given up the Greek court.’
‘O--you had seen the paper this morning before you looked at my
drawing?’
‘I had,’ she answered.
Somerset thought it a forcible illustration of her natural reticence
that she should have abandoned the design without telling him the
reason; but he was glad she had not done it from mere caprice.
She turned to him and said quietly, ‘I wish YOU would answer that
letter.’
‘It would be ill-advised,’ said Somerset. ‘Still, if, after
consideration, you wish it much, I will. Meanwhile let me impress upon
you again the expediency of calling in Mr. Havill--to whom, as your
father’s architect, expecting this commission, something perhaps is
owed--and getting him to furnish an alternative plan to mine, and
submitting the choice of designs to some members of the Royal Institute
of British Architects. This letter makes it still more advisable than
before.’
‘Very well,’ said Paula reluctantly.
‘Let him have all the particulars you have been good enough to explain
to me--so that we start fair in the competition.’
She looked negligently on the grass. ‘I will tell the building steward
to write them out for him,’ she said.
The party separated and entered the church by different doors. Somerset
went to a nook of the building that he had often intended to visit. It
was called the Stancy aisle; and in it stood the tombs of that family.
Somerset examined them: they were unusually rich and numerous, beginning
with cross-legged knights in hauberks of chain-mail, their ladies beside
them in wimple and cover-chief, all more or less coated with the green
mould and dirt of ages: and continuing with others of later date, in
fine alabaster, gilded and coloured, some of them wearing round their
necks the Yorkist collar of suns and roses, the livery of Edward the
Fourth. In scrutinizing the tallest canopy over these he beheld Paula
behind it, as if in contemplation of the same objects.
‘You came to the church to sketch these monuments, I suppose, Mr.
Somerset?’ she asked, as soon as she saw him.
‘No. I came to speak to you about the letter.’
She sighed. ‘Yes: that letter,’ she said. ‘I am persecuted! If I had
been one of these it would never have been written.’ She tapped the
alabaster effigy of a recumbent lady with her parasol.
‘They are interesting, are they not?’ he said. ‘She is beautifully
preserved. The gilding is nearly gone, but beyond that she is perfect.’
‘She is like Charlotte,’ said Paula. And what was much like another sigh
escaped her lips.
Somerset admitted that there was a resemblance, while Paula drew her
forefinger across the marble face of the effigy, and at length took
out her handkerchief, and began wiping the dust from the hollows of the
features. He looked on, wondering what her sigh had meant, but guessing
that it had been somehow caused by the sight of these sculptures
in connection with the newspaper writer’s denunciation of her as an
irresponsible outsider.
The secret was out when in answer to his question, idly put, if she
wished she were like one of these, she said, with exceptional vehemence
for one of her demeanour--
‘I don’t wish I was like one of them: I wish I WAS one of them.’
‘What--you wish you were a De Stancy?’
‘Yes. It is very dreadful to be denounced as a barbarian. I want to be
romantic and historical.’
‘Miss De Stancy seems not to value the privilege,’ he said, looking
round at another part of the church where Charlotte was innocently
prattling to Mrs. Goodman, quite heedless of the tombs of her
forefathers.
‘If I were one,’ she continued, ‘I should come here when I feel alone in
the world, as I do to-day; and I would defy people, and say, “You cannot
spoil what has been!”’
They walked on till they reached the old black pew attached to the
castle--a vast square enclosure of oak panelling occupying half the
aisle, and surmounted with a little balustrade above the framework.
Within, the baize lining that had once been green, now faded to the
colour of a common in August, was torn, kicked and scraped to rags by
the feet and hands of the ploughboys who had appropriated the pew as
their own special place of worship since it had ceased to be used by any
resident at the castle, because its height afforded convenient shelter
for playing at marbles and pricking with pins.
Charlotte and Mrs. Goodman had by this time left the building, and could
be seen looking at the headstones outside.
‘If you were a De Stancy,’ said Somerset, who had pondered more deeply
upon that new wish of hers than he had seemed to do, ‘you would be a
churchwoman, and sit here.’
‘And I should have the pew done up,’ she said readily, as she rested
her pretty chin on the top rail and looked at the interior, her cheeks
pressed into deep dimples. Her quick reply told him that the idea was no
new one with her, and he thought of poor Mr. Woodwell’s shrewd prophecy
as he perceived that her days as a separatist were numbered.
‘Well, why can’t you have it done up, and sit here?’ he said warily.
Paula shook her head.
‘You are not at enmity with Anglicanism, I am sure?’
‘I want not to be. I want to be--what--’
‘What the De Stancys were, and are,’ he said insidiously; and her
silenced bearing told him that he had hit the nail.
It was a strange idea to get possession of such a nature as hers, and
for a minute he felt himself on the side of the minister. So strong was
Somerset’s feeling of wishing her to show the quality of fidelity to
paternal dogma and party, that he could not help adding--
‘But have you forgotten that other nobility--the nobility of talent and
enterprise?’
‘No. But I wish I had a well-known line of ancestors.’
‘You have. Archimedes, Newcomen, Watt, Telford, Stephenson, those
are your father’s direct ancestors. Have you forgotten them? Have you
forgotten your father, and the railways he made over half Europe, and
his great energy and skill, and all connected with him as if he had
never lived?’
She did not answer for some time. ‘No, I have not forgotten it,’ she
said, still looking into the pew. ‘But, I have a predilection d’artiste
for ancestors of the other sort, like the De Stancys.’
Her hand was resting on the low pew next the high one of the De Stancys.
Somerset looked at the hand, or rather at the glove which covered it,
then at her averted cheek, then beyond it into the pew, then at her hand
again, until by an indescribable consciousness that he was not going too
far he laid his own upon it.
‘No, no,’ said Paula quickly, withdrawing her hand. But there was
nothing resentful or haughty in her tone--nothing, in short, which makes
a man in such circumstances feel that he has done a particularly foolish
action.
The flower on her bosom rose and fell somewhat more than usual as she
added, ‘I am going away now--I will leave you here.’ Without waiting for
a reply she adroitly swept back her skirts to free her feet and went out
of the church blushing.
Somerset took her hint and did not follow; and when he knew that she had
rejoined her friends, and heard the carriage roll away, he made towards
the opposite door. Pausing to glance once more at the alabaster effigies
before leaving them to their silence and neglect, he beheld Dare bending
over them, to all appearance intently occupied.
He must have been in the church some time--certainly during the tender
episode between Somerset and Paula, and could not have failed to
perceive it. Somerset blushed: it was unpleasant that Dare should have
seen the interior of his heart so plainly. He went across and said, ‘I
think I left you to finish the drawing of the north wing, Mr. Dare?’
‘Three hours ago, sir,’ said Dare. ‘Having finished that, I came to look
at the church--fine building--fine monuments--two interesting people
looking at them.’
‘What?’
‘I stand corrected. Pensa molto, parla poco, as the Italians have it.’
‘Well, now, Mr. Dare, suppose you get back to the castle?’
‘Which history dubs Castle Stancy.... Certainly.’
‘How do you get on with the measuring?’
Dare sighed whimsically. ‘Badly in the morning, when I have been tempted
to indulge overnight, and worse in the afternoon, when I have been
tempted in the morning!’
Somerset looked at the youth, and said, ‘I fear I shall have to dispense
with your services, Dare, for I think you have been tempted to-day.’
‘On my honour no. My manner is a little against me, Mr. Somerset. But
you need not fear for my ability to do your work. I am a young man
wasted, and am thought of slight account: it is the true men who get
snubbed, while traitors are allowed to thrive!’
‘Hang sentiment, Dare, and off with you!’ A little ruffled, Somerset had
turned his back upon the interesting speaker, so that he did not observe
the sly twist Dare threw into his right eye as he spoke. The latter went
off in one direction and Somerset in the other, pursuing his pensive way
towards Markton with thoughts not difficult to divine.
From one point in her nature he went to another, till he again recurred
to her romantic interest in the De Stancy family. To wish she was one
of them: how very inconsistent of her. That she really did wish it was
unquestionable.