in his refusal. He was an elderly man, of few words, but he admitted
that Sir Wilton Gleed had been there that morning. That was enough for
Carlton, who was turning away when something in his visible fatigue and
dejection moved the mason to give him a hint.
"You won't get anybody in the district to work for you against Sir
Wilton," he said. "That stands to reason."
"Then I must go out of the district," said Carlton. And he bought a
county directory at a shop where he had been a regular customer; but
they insisted on the settlement of his current bill first; and even then
he had to help himself to the new book, and leave the money on the
counter, because they scorned to serve him. The directory contained the
names and addresses of the very few builders and master-masons within a
day's journey of Long Stow. And it was all there was to show for the
long day's round of retribution and rebuff when, late in the afternoon,
Carlton returned as he had come, too tired and too dispirited to walk an
inch out of his way; and the school-children who had courtesied in the
morning knew better now, and cried after the bent figure slinking home
at dusk.
The next day was Sunday, and the school-bell tinkled towards eleven
o'clock, and stopped precisely at the hour. Then Carlton knew that his
own idea had been adopted, and that somebody was saying matins in the
parish school-room: he read the service to himself in his study, and
evensong when evening came, with a sermon of Charles Kingsley's after
each: for doctrine could not help him now, but brave humanity could and
did.
The Monday was Bank Holiday; but Carlton only knew it when he had
trudged ten miles to have speech with a builder whose premises were
closed; and so another day was lost. On the Tuesday he tried again, but
with as little avail. Sir Wilton Gleed had been there before him (as
long ago as the Saturday afternoon), and it was the same elsewhere. The
week went in fruitless visits to small contractors and working masons in
this large village or in that little town; the enemy had been first in
every field, with a cunning formula which Carlton reconstructed from the
various answers he received.
"Of course, the church will have to be rebuilt," Sir Wilton had been
saying; "but not by him. He hasn't the money, for one thing; it had
better be an iron church, if he is to pay you for it. Help me to get rid
of him, and you shall hear from me again. We will have a decent church
when we are about it, and a local man shall get the job."
Meanwhile the boycott was nowhere more operative than in Long Stow
itself, and no human being came near the rectory, where the rector
subsisted on a providential store of bacon and the daily deposit of
eggs, and on strange bread of his own baking, for he would risk no more
insults in the shops. But one night a forgotten friend came back into
his life: his collie, Glen, came bounding down the drive to meet him,
and the mad uproar of that welcome was heard through half the village,
and duly became the talk. The dog had been a vagabond and a rogue for
six wild weeks, and it came back gaunt and hard, its brush clotted and
raw underneath with the spray from a farmer's gun. Carlton washed the
wound with warm water, and the two pariahs supped together, and lay that
night upon the same bed, and went abroad together next morning, to try
the last man left.
The day after that they stayed at home, and word reached the hall that
the rector had been seen among the ruins of his church; he was, indeed,
exploring them for the first time, and that both with method and
deliberation. When seen, however (from the lane that runs under the
fine east window of to-day, past the lawn-tennis court which was then a
fowl run, and the glebe that is still the glebe), he was seated on a
sandstone block in front of the little lean-to shed; and, as a matter of
fact, his back was to the ruins. He was contemplating similar blocks and
slabs of the undressed stone that lay where they had been lying on
Midsummer Day: some were still smutty from the fire, all were slightly
stained by the weather, otherwise there was no change that Carlton could
see as he sat thus. At one end of the shed rose a great yellow cairn of
material raw from the quarry--a stack of stones about as much of one
size and shape as so many lumps of sugar; enough to finish the
transepts, as matters had stood; a mere fraction of the amount required
now. Carlton looked on what he had got, and his eyes closed in a
calculation beyond his powers in mental arithmetic; he had to take a
pencil to it, and then a foot-rule to the blackened courses, and
presently a pair of compasses to the plans in the study.
In the afternoon he tidied the shed. Every tool was intact; a little
rust had been the worst intruder; and the feel of the cool sleek handles
quickened Carlton's pulse. Nay, the hammer rang a few strokes on the
cold-chisel, for he could not help it, and the music reminded him of his
poor bells, now cumbering the porch; it was almost as good to hear; and
the way the soft stone peeled, in creamy flakes, thrilled the hand as it
charmed the eye. But a very few minutes served to make the enthusiast
ashamed of his enthusiasm; and though he spent more time in the ruins,
now testing a standing wall, now scraping a charred stone, ardour and
determination had died down in an eye that was looking within; a wistful
irresolution flickered in their place. And that night the lonely man
walked his room once more, from twilight to twilight, with long
intervals spent upon his knees, in agonies of doubt and self-distrust,
in passionate entreaty for a right judgment, and for the strength to
abide by it. Yet his duty had not dawned upon him with the day.
Towards eleven the school-bell tinkled. It was Sunday once more; and
once more he read the prayers upon his knees and the psalms and lessons
standing; but no sermon to-day. No man could help him in his struggle
with himself; he must trust to the strength of his own soul, to the
singleness of his own heart, and to the guidance of the God who was
drawing nearer and nearer to him in these days--with each prayer that
rose from his heart--with each bead that stood upon his brow. And so at
last, when the burden of doubt and darkness became more than the man
could bear, it was as though the heavens had opened, and a beam of
celestial light flooded the narrow room with the low ceiling and the
cross-beams; for the peace of a mind made up had descended upon the
solitary therein. And that night his sleep was sound, so that in the
morning he had to ask himself why; the answer made him catch his breath;
it did not shake his resolve.
"He shall have his chance," said Carlton; "he shall have it fairly to
his face. And he will take it--and that will be the end!"
He hung about the ruins till it was ten o'clock by his watch, and then
went straight to the hall. Sir Wilton was at home; but the footman
hesitated to admit this visitor. Carlton's own hesitation was, however,
at an end, and his eye forbade rebuff. He was shown into the
drawing-room, where a very young girl was at the piano, evidently
practising, and yet playing in a way that made Carlton sorry when she
stopped. The cool room smelling of flowers; the glimpse of garden
through an open window, with the court marked out and chairs under the
trees; the momentary sound of a fine instrument finely touched: it was
all the very breath and essence of the pleasant every-day world from
which he had rightly and richly earned dismissal, and it all was branded
in his brain. Then the young girl rose, and stood in doubt with the sun
upon her plaited hair, and eyes great with innocent distress; but
Carlton barely bowed, and the child hardly knew how she got across the
room.
Sir Wilton entered with jaunty step. His whiskered jaw was set like a
vice, but the light of conscious triumph danced in his fixed eyeballs.
Carlton had come prepared to have his intrusion treated as his latest
crime; a glance convinced him that the other was too sure of victory to
object to an interview with the virtually vanquished.
"So you are quite determined that I shall not rebuild the church?"
It was a point-blank beginning. Sir Wilton shrugged and smiled. "I have
told you to build it if you can," said he.
"But you mean to make that an impossibility?"
"Naturally I don't intend to make it easy."
"Admit that by foul means, since none are fair, you are deliberately
preventing me from doing my duty!" Carlton pressed his point with a
heat he regretted, but could not help.
"I admit nothing," said the other, doggedly--"least of all what you are
pleased to consider your 'duty.' Your real duty I've already told you.
Resign the living. Let us see the last of you."
Carlton met the rigid stare with one as unwavering and more acute. It
was as though he would have seen to the back of the other's brain.
"Very well," he said at length. "You shall!"
"Ah!" cried Sir Wilton, when he had recovered from his surprise. But it
was not the cry of victory; there was an uncharacteristic lack of
finality in the clergyman's tone.
"You shall see the last of me this very morning," he continued swiftly,
nervously, "if you like! But it will rest with you. I am not going
unconditionally. Will you listen to what I have to say?"
Gleed shrugged again, but this time there was no accompanying smile. The
other threw up his head with a sudden decisiveness--a pulpit trick of
his when about to make a primary point--and his right fist fell into his
left palm without his knowing it.
"Very well," said Carlton; "now I'll tell you exactly on what conditions
you shall have your heart's desire, and I will renounce mine. In spite
of what I hear you've been saying, I have a little money of my own--not
much, indeed--but enough for me to have subsisted upon for these next
years. I am not going to touch a penny of it--I shall pick up a living
for myself elsewhere. Meanwhile I have turned my income into capital
which is now lying in the bank at Lakenhall. It is a trifle under two
thousand pounds, and I want the whole of it to go into the new church.
Wherever I am I ought to be able to earn a little more, either as a
coach or with my pen; so let the offer stand at a church to cost two
thousand pounds. I long to have the building of it. I make no secret of
that. But I have been trying to read my own heart, and I see the
selfishness of such longings; and I have been trying to read your heart,
Sir Wilton, and I see the naturalness of your opposition. So I come to
you and I say, build the church yourself, and I withdraw. Build a better
church out of your abundance, and I will resign as you wish. Give me
your written undertaking, here and now, and you shall have my written
resignation in exchange."
The words clung to his lips; he alone knew what it cost him to utter
them; he alone, in his absolute freedom from the mercenary instinct,
would have felt certain of the result. But the rich man was touched upon
his tender spot. What return was he offered for his money? Who would
thank him for building a church in the heart of the country? The church
could be built by subscription; bad enough to have to head the list.
Besides, he was flushed with triumph; he saw but a beaten man in the
nervous wretch before him. Fancy bribing a beaten man to fly!
"I like your impudence," said Wilton Gleed. "Upon my word! _My_ written
undertaking--to _you_!"
"Do you refuse to give it?" asked Carlton quickly.
"Certainly--to you."
"Undertakings apart, do you entertain my suggestion, or do you not?"
"That's my business."
Carlton felt his patience slipping.
"Do you mean to say that you don't even yet recognise that it's mine
too, as rector of the parish? Are you still so ignorant of the legal
bearings of the situation? God knows, Sir Wilton, it is not for me to
speak of right and wrong; but I do assure you that you're putting
yourself wilfully in the wrong in this matter. You hinder me from doing
my legal duty, and you refuse to assume any responsibility! Suspended or
not, I am bound to keep my chancel, at all events, 'in good and
substantial repair, restoring _and rebuilding when necessary_.'"
Sir Wilton's eyes, fixed as usual, caught fire suddenly.
"Oh, you're bound, are you?"
"Legally bound."
"You're sure that's the law?"
"The very letter of the law, Sir Wilton."
"Then see that you keep it! You come here blustering about your legal
rights; but you forget that I've got mine. Where there's a law there's a
penalty, and by God I'll enforce it! 'The very letter of the law,' eh?
I'll take you at your word; you shall keep it to the letter. Build away!
Build away! The sooner you begin the better--for you!"
This was probably the boldest move that Sir Wilton Gleed ever made in
his life; it was certainly the least considered. But what satisfaction
sweeter than hoisting the enemy with his own petard? It is the
quintessence of poetic justice, the acme of personal triumph; and the
sudden opportunity of achieving his end by means so neat was more than
even Wilton Gleed could resist. Every builder and mason within reach was
already on his side; not a man of them who would work for dissolute
hypocrisy in defiance of might and right. No need to say another word to
the masons and the builders. They could be trusted on the whole, and the
untrustworthy could be bribed. Gleed had not the smallest scruple in the
matter, and he was characteristically forearmed with a public defence of
his private conduct. He believed that every right-thinking man would
applaud his sharp practice in the cause of religion and of morality; and
his confidence was not to be shaken by the way in which his challenge
was received.
"Are you in earnest?" asked Carlton. "Do you seriously propose to hinder
me with one hand and to compel me with the other?"
"I mean to take you at your word," Gleed repeated. "You are fond of
talking about your duty. Let's see you do it."
"You set the builders against me, and then you tell me to build. May I
ask if you are prepared to defend such clumsy trickery?"
"Any day you like, and glad of the opportunity!" cried Sir Wilton,
cheerfully. "All I have done is to give you your proper character where
it deserves to be known; you have it to thank if you can't get men to
work for you; and it's your look-out. I've heard about enough of you and
your church. Go and build it. Go and build it."
"I will," said Carlton. "You have had your chance." And he bowed and
withdrew with strange serenity.
A parting shot followed him through the hall.
"You will have to do it with your own two hands!"
Carlton made no reply. But in the village he committed a fresh enormity.
He was seen to smile.
XI
LABOUR OF HERCULES
All the church had not been burnt to the ground. West of the porch
(itself not hopelessly destroyed) stood thirteen feet of sound south
wall, blackened on the inside, calcined in the upper courses, but plumb
and firm as far as it went. A corresponding portion of the north wall,
the sixteen-foot strip west of the window almost opposite the porch,
stood equally rigid and erect. And, thus supported on either hand, the
entire west end rose practically intact, without a missing or a ruined
stone; the window was still truly bisected by its single mullion;
neither head nor tracery had given the fraction of an inch; only the
mangled leads, with here and there a fragment of smoked glass adhering,
would have told of a fire to one led blindfold under the west window,
and there given his first view of the church.
But that was the one good wall and real exception to a rule of utter
ruin. The rest of the original building was either razed already or else
unfit to stand. The embryonic transepts were not quite demolished, but
they had never been many feet above ground. Sections of wall still stood
where there were no windows to weaken them, but east of the porch
nothing stood firm. Worst of all was the east end, from which the
chancel walls had been burnt away on either side. It stood as though
balanced, with an alarming outward list. One mullion of the great window
had gone by the sill; the other was cracked and crooked, as if
supporting the entire weight of the gable overhead; and it looked as
though a push would send the tottering fabric flat.
Black ruin lay thick and deep within. To peep in was to see an ashpit
through a microscope. The remnants of the slate and timber roof lay
uppermost. Tie-beams, corbels, king-posts, ridge, struts, wall-plates,
pole-plates, rafters principal and common, joists, battens, laths and
fillets, half-burnt and black as the pit, save where some spilled
sheet-lead shone in the sun, spread a common pall over nave and chancel,
aisle and pews. It was as a midnight sea frozen in mid-storm, the
twisted lectern alone rising salient like a mast. Slates lay in shallow
heaps as though dealt from a pack; and certain pages, brown and brittle
at the edges, which the wind had torn from the burnt Bible before
Carlton rescued the remains, still fluttered in the crannies when the
wind went its rounds. And the hum of bees was in the air; but there had
been great distress among the sparrows, and one heard more of the
rectory cocks and hens.
Upon this desolate and dead spot, in the heart of the warm, live
country, Robert Carlton stood looking within a few minutes of his exit
from the hall. But he did not stand looking long. He had changed into
flannels at top speed, and there was still more change in the man. His
eye glowed with a grim decision which lightened without dispelling the
settled sadness of the face. Passionate aspiration had cooled and
hardened into dogged and defiant resolve; and there was an end to all
compunction and self-questioning suspense. Carlton knew exactly what he
was going to do; he had known where to begin since the day before
yesterday. He wore neither coat nor waistcoat, his sleeves were rolled
up, he had a crowbar in one hand, and a heavy hammer in the other. He
began immediately on the thirteen feet of good wall to the left of the
porch.
He had tested this wall on Saturday. The upper courses were loose and
crumbling; the sooner they went the better. Carlton climbed upon the
wall, and, sitting astride where it was firmest, began working off the
loose stones one by one with the crowbar. Iron would ring on iron twice
or thrice, and then a twist of the bar send the charred stone tumbling.
It was easy work, but the position was awkward, and Carlton soon went
for a ladder; on the way he was surprised to find that he was already
drenched with perspiration, and rather hungry.
But the next hour tired him more, or rather the time that seemed an hour
to him, for it afterwards turned out to be three hours by the watch that
he had left indoors. Only the topmost course, or the stones on which the
red-hot eaves had rested, lent themselves to off-hand treatment; they
had been burnt to cinders--the mortar binding them, to powder; it needed
but a wrench to dislodge each one. But the next few courses were a
different matter. Half the stones were too loose to leave, too good to
chip in the removal. Carlton worked upon them with the cold-chisel
first, the crowbar next, and finally with his naked fingers, removing
the stones with immense care, and very deliberately dropping each into
its own bed in the long grass outside. At last the little strip of wall
was left without an unsound member from serrated crest to plinth: not a
stone that shook or shifted at a conscientious push; and the workman
took his eyes from his work. But he did not peer through the trees in
search of other eyes, for he was not thinking of himself or of his work
from a spectacular point of view. He merely saw that the sun had
travelled the church from end to end while he had been busy. And
suddenly he found himself sinking for want of food, and unable to stand
upright without intolerable pain. But he was back within half-an-hour,
and remained at work upon the sixteen-foot strip opposite till after
sunset.
"But it hasn't been anything like a full day, old dog," said Carlton, as
they crept up to bed between eight and nine. And he set his
seven-and-six-penny alarum at four o'clock.
Next forenoon the sixteen-foot strip was done with in its turn; no
infirm stone left standing upon another. Scraped and repointed, with the
uninjured pieces replaced in fresh mortar, and an entirely new top
course, these two short walls would be worthy of the gallant west end to
which they acted as buttresses. Its wounds were not skin-deep, thanks to
the west wind which had driven the flames the other way. It looked as
though a sponge would cleanse it, and Carlton sighed as he turned his
back upon the one good wall.
Elsewhere, as has been said, there were fragments fit to use again, but
not to remain as they were. It cost Carlton a couple of days to take
these to pieces, laying the good stones carefully in the grass, as his
practice had been hitherto. The fourth day, however, he tried a change
of labour to ease his aching limbs, and went round and round with a
barrow, picking the sound stones from the grass, and stacking them near
the shed. Next morning he fought his way into the chancel, and stood
chin-deep in the wreckage, contemplating the leaning east end. And all
this time no soul had come near him; through the trees he had indeed
heard whispers that were not of the trees, but he had never thrown more
than a glance in their direction, and the green screen was still
charitably thick.
The east end must come down sooner or later--therefore sooner. Carlton
was no engineer, but he was a man with a distinct turn for mechanics;
had used a lathe as a lad, and taught his Boys' Friendly how to use it
in their turn; had picked up much from Tom Ivey, and was himself blessed
with sound instincts concerning application and control of power. Here
was a tottering wall to come down altogether. It was too insecure to
pull to pieces. The problem was to get it down with as little damage and
as little danger as possible. One man could do it, Carlton thought, but
not without considerable risk of a broken head at least. If he could but
make sure of the whole wall falling in the one outward direction! He
revolved about it, mentally and on his feet, till he became angry with
himself for the loss of time, ceased to speculate, and went to work in
desperation. He would trust to luck; he despised himself for having
studied a risk so small. He had done so out of no absurd consideration
for his own skin, but entirely from the depth and strength of his
artistic impulse to do a thing properly or not at all. Even now he had
to prepare the ground: he had to clear the chancel enough to give
himself free play.
Then he found a scaffolding-pole which had not been used, and tilted at
a tree for practice. The pole was unmanageable from its length. He sawed
it shorter. It was still too unwieldy to use amid the _débris_. He
shortened it until he had a battering-ram some eighteen feet long. But
all these preliminaries had taken unimagined hours, and again Carlton
felt sick with hunger before he thought of food, and unequal to further
effort until he had some. So he turned a breaking but reluctant back
upon the church, and went indoors; remembering everything on the way,
and loathing himself afresh: at his work he was beginning to forget!
Thus far this outcast had subsisted chiefly on eggs; he beat up a couple
now, and tossed the stuff off with a little wine and water. Then he fell
upon a box of biscuits, but threw the dog as many as he munched himself,
striding up and down the while, and for all his fatigue. The room was
the one in which he had studied his own physiognomy. It might have been
any other. He had no eyes for himself to-day, and not many thoughts,
for, in the midst of his contrition for forgetting, he had forgotten
again. His mind had escaped to the chancel; the flesh followed in a few
minutes, having eaten and rested on its legs.
The dog bounded ahead, and presently announced an intruder at the top of
its voice. Carlton quickened his pace, frowning at the thought of
interruption; he was on the spot before curiosity had tempered his
annoyance; and there among the ruins stood Sir Wilton Gleed, not
frowning at all, but forcing a smile behind his cigar.
"How long is this tomfoolery to go on?" said he.
Carlton stood looking at him for some seconds; then he picked up his
pole without replying. "You'd better stand to one side," was all he
said. "Kennel up, Glen!"
"Going to do something desperate?"