the spreading smoothness; but he was improving, and in the end the plane
was at least as true as it was smooth. The key-marks of the
marbling-hammer were not always parallel or of even length, and the rows
declined from left to right like the hand of a weak writer: "bad
batting," Tom Ivey would have called it, a "bat" being the mark in
question, and long, even bats, "straight along the stone," the mason's
ideal, as the inquisitive amateur had discovered the first day Ivey
worked for him. But knowledge and skill lie a gulf apart, and on the
whole Carlton felt encouraged. He had done but one side of four, but
the one was smooth enough to face the world as coursed rubble; let him
but get and keep his angles, and the other three would matter less. So
now he took the straight-edge, as the lath was called, and the bit of
black slate which Tom had also left behind him; and with these and the
mason's square a rectangular parallelogram with eleven-inch ends was
duly ruled on the satisfactory surface. Hammer and cold-chisel again.
Much use of the square, but no more play with the marbling-hammer. No
need to perfect the parts doomed to mortar and eternal night; rough
criss-cross work with a mason's axe is the thing for them; as Carlton
knew when he rather reluctantly applied himself to the mastery of that
implement, just as he was beginning to acquire some proficiency with the
other. The mason's axe was the most treacherous of them all. It was a
hand pickaxe with a point like a stiletto; a touch, and the steel lay
buried. But it was the right tool to use, and Carlton used it to the
best of his ability, stooping more and more over his work as the light
began to fail him.
He was going to succeed at last! If only he had not lost so much time!
Then he might have mixed some mortar and laid the first stone of his own
cutting--the first stone of the new church! That would have been
something like a day's work; yet he was not dissatisfied with his
progress. Swish, swish, swish; he might have done much worse. He had
pulled down the bad walls--swish--and what was good of them--swish--he
had saved and there they were. He looked up, the perspiration standing
thick upon his white forehead, his eyes all eagerness and
determination. He stood upright to rest a moment in the mellow
light--happy again! Happy because he had not time to think of himself,
but only of what he was doing, and of what he felt certain he could do:
happy in his aching limbs and soaking flannels, and all that with a
happiness he was for once not destined to realise and to check. For,
even as he stood, Glen barked, and Carlton turned in time to see the
village constable tuck his cane under his arm while he stood still to
feel in his pockets. The man was in full uniform--a strange circumstance
in itself.
"Good evening, Frost," said Mr. Carlton.
"Evenin', sir."
The constable was an imposing figure of a man, with a handsome stupid
face, and a stolid deliberation of word and deed which gave an
impression of artless but indefatigable vigilance. In reality the fellow
had few inferiors in the parish.
"For me?" and Carlton held out his hand as the other produced a paper.
"For you an' me," said the constable, winking as he kept the paper to
himself. And in an impressive voice he read out a warrant for the
apprehension of the Reverend Robert Carlton, Clerk in Holy Orders, on a
charge of unlawfully and maliciously setting fire to the parish church
of Long Stow, in the County of Suffolk, on the night of the 24th or the
morning of the 25th June, in the year of grace 1882; the warrant was
signed by two justices--Sir Wilton Gleed of Long Stow Hall, and Canon
Wilders of Lakenhall.
"Like to see it for yourself?" inquired Frost.
"No, thank you; that's quite enough for me. Well, upon my word!"
And Carlton stood staring into space, a glitter in his eyes, a smile
upon his lips, incapable of unmixed indignation: really, Sir Wilton was
a better fighter than he had supposed.
"You will have to come with me to Lakenhall," said the constable's
voice.
Carlton realised the situation.
"To-night?"
"At once, sir, if _you_ please. They've sent a trap for us from
Lakenhall. That's waiting at the gate."
The mason's axe was still in his hand, the unfinished stone at his feet.
Carlton looked wistfully from one to the other, and thence in appeal to
the officer of the law.
"I say, Frost, is there any hurry for a quarter of an hour? I'd--I'd
give a sovereign to finish this stone!"
Virtue blazed in the constable's face.
"You don't bribe _me_, sir!" he cried. "I'm ashamed of you, I am, for
tryin' that on! No, Mr. Carlton, you've got to come straight away."
"But surely I may change first?"
"You'll have to be quick, and I'll have to come with you."
"Is that necessary?" asked Carlton with some heat, as he flung his tools
under cover.
"That's left to me, sir, and I don't trust no gentleman in his
dressing-room. My orders are to take you alive, Mr. Carlton."
Carlton was upon him in two strides.
"Very well," said he, "you shall; and you shall come upstairs and see
me change. But address another word to me at your peril!"
A small crowd had collected at the gate; a Lakenhall policeman was
waiting in the trap. Carlton came down the drive with his long coat
flying and his head thrown back. Somehow he was allowed to depart
without a groan.
On the way he never spoke, and something kept the constables from
speaking before him. They had a slow horse; it was nearly an hour before
Carlton saw the inside of a police-station for the first time in his
life. Here he was formally charged by a portly inspector with whom he
had some slight acquaintance; the charge concluded with the usual
warning that anything he said might be given in evidence against him.
"I hear," said Carlton. "And now?"
The inspector shrugged his personal regret.
"I'm afraid there's only one thing for it now, sir."
"The cells, eh?"
"That's it, Mr. Carlton."
"Till when?"
"Monday morning, sir, the magistrates sit."
"Lead the way, then," said Carlton. "I can spend my Sunday in gaol as
well as in my own rectory."
His eye was stern but steady; he was filled with contempt, but without a
fear. He knew who was at the bottom of this charge, and had begun by
quite admiring the man's resource; but his admiration did not survive a
second thought. What a fool the fellow must be! No fool like an old
fool, said the proverb; and none so insanely reckless as your prudent
people, once they lose their head, thought Robert Carlton in his cell.
Of the charge itself he scarcely condescended to think at all; for to
his mind, the more innocent on that score for his guilt upon another,
the thing seemed more preposterous than it really was. He burn the
church! With what object, pray? And what did they suppose he had risked
his life for at the fire? Remorse, or show? He could have laughed; he
was unable to imagine a shred of evidence against himself.
There was a Testament on the table, but he had brought his Bible in his
pocket; and by the gas-jet in its wire guard, that striped the walls
with lean shadows like the bars of some wild beast's cage, Robert
Carlton forgot his own sins, persecution and imprisonment, in those of
his hero St. Paul; and was in another world when the rattle of a key
brought him back to this. It was the fat inspector himself, with good
news on his face, and in his hand the card of Canon Wilders, Rector of
Lakenhall and chairman of the local bench.
"He doesn't want to see me, does he?" said Carlton, in plain alarm.
"If you've no objection to seeing him, sir."
"But he was one of those who signed the warrant! Tell him I can't see
anybody. Thank him very much. Say that I appreciate his kindness, but
would prefer to be alone."
In a few minutes the man returned.
"That's a pity you won't see the canon, sir; he don't half like it. He
couldn't help signing the warrant, not in his position; that seem to me
to be the very reason why he come the minute he heard we had you here;
and it's my opinion he'd like to see you out of custody."
"You mean on bail?"
"Yes, sir."
"Because I'm a clergyman, and it's a disgrace to the cloth!"
This explanation was a sudden idea impulsively expressed; but the
inspector's face was its tacit confirmation.
"Is he here still?" demanded the prisoner.
"Yes, sir, he is."
"You can say I've been taken on a false and abominable charge," cried
Carlton, "and I don't want my liberty till the falsehood's proved! But I
am equally obliged to Canon Wilders," he added with less scorn, "and you
will kindly tell him so with my compliments."
But he paced his cell in a curious twitter for one who had entered it
without a qualm. In all his trouble this was the first word from a
clerical neighbour: to a man they had stood aloof from him in his shame.
His own movements were in part responsible: he had disappeared from
view. Nor had he expected or coveted their sympathy; yet, now that one
of them had come forward, Carlton was conscious of a wound he had not
felt before. There was Preston of Linkworth--but his wife would account
for him. There was Bosanquet of Bedingfield, and there were others. They
might have inquired at the infirmary (Preston had), but he had never
heard of it. As for Wilders, he was a worthy man of local mark, for whom
Carlton had preached upon occasion; one prosperous alike in worldly
welfare and in spiritual satisfaction; the last person to go into
disgrace; and yet, by reason of a certain officiousness of character,
the first to come forward as he had done. Carlton had no wish to be
ungracious or ungrateful, or to make a personal matter of the signing of
the warrant; but he could not face his fellows with this new charge
hanging over him, nor was he going free by the favour of living man. On
the other hand, he pondered more upon his brother clergymen that
Saturday night in gaol than in all these eight weeks past. And the sense
of mere social downfall, the dullest of his aches hitherto, became
suddenly acute, so that for that alone he wished they had not put him in
prison. But for all the rest he cared as little as before, and showed as
little interest in the pending event.
His indifference quite troubled the inspector, who evinced a desire to
show the prisoner every possible consideration, and was an early visitor
next morning.
"That ain't no business of mine, sir; but you'll be wanting to see a
solicitor during the day?"
"Why so?" asked Carlton.
"Well, sir, your case will come up to-morrow morning."
"But what do I want with a solicitor?"
"Why, sir, every pris--that is, accused----"
The inspector boggled at the word, and stood confounded by the other's
density.
"Oh, I see!" cried Carlton. "So you're thinking of my defence, are you?
Thanks very much, but I don't want a lawyer to defend me. I make your
side a present of the lawyers, Mr. Inspector; they'll want them all.
It's for them to prove me guilty, not for me to prove my innocence."
"And do you really think we have no case against you?" inquired the
inspector, with a change of tone, for he happened to have charge of the
case himself.
"I don't think about it," returned Carlton, with unaffected
indifference. "The thing's too preposterous to be worth a thought."
"I'm glad you find it so," said the other, nettled; "let's hope you
won't change your mind. I only spoke for your own good; there's plenty
would blame me for speaking at all. I won't trouble you no more, sir. I
might have known I'd get no thanks, after the way you served Canon
Wilders last night. Defend yourself, and let's see you do it!"
The door shut with a clang, and Carlton watched the vibrations in some
distress. He was sorry to hurt the feelings of his would-be friends, but
he needed no man's friendship in the present crisis. God would be his
friend; his faith in Him was as profound as his contempt of the false
charge hanging over himself. The latter, he felt convinced, must break
down as it deserved; but if not, then the meaning would be clear. It
would mean that he had not been punished sufficiently for what he had
done, and must accordingly be prepared to suffer something for that
which he had not done, but of which his sin had indubitably caused the
doing. And Robert Carlton was so prepared in his heart of hearts. Yet he
was unable to carry his pious fatalism to its logical conclusion, and to
abate his bitterness against the human instruments of a vengeance he was
willing to think Divine.
On the contrary, he condescended at intervals of the day to give his
mind to the proceedings of the next; and he did recall one or two
circumstances which prejudice and malice might twist against him. To
consider these was to be instantly inspired with a conclusive reply on
every point; but Carlton was not sure whether the law would permit him
to reply at all. So in the afternoon he begged for newspapers, and his
request, though acceded to, was all over Lakenhall by nightfall. A
suspended clergyman who thought so little of his notorious sins that he
could ask for newspapers on a Sunday afternoon! The inference drawn by a
small community, greatly excited about the case, and unconsciously
anxious to believe the worst of one who was bad enough at best, will be
readily imagined. The whole town shook its head.
Meanwhile the object of popular detestation was comparatively happy in
the exercise of his receptive powers. By good luck his bundle of
provincial newspapers contained that which can only be met with in a
local press: a verbatim report of the police-court proceedings in a
painful case of infinitesimal interest to the world at large. The
interest, however, was all-absorbing to Robert Carlton. The accused had
been represented by a solicitor. The solicitor had fought his case
tooth-and-nail. There had been certain "scenes in court"; all were
reported in the local paper, and no point involved was lost upon the
alert brain of the imprisoned clergyman. It was with difficulty that he
dismissed the subject from his mind when the church-bells rang once more
through the quiet country town. It happened, however, that the parish
church was quite near the police-court; and in the morning Carlton had
been enabled to follow the whole service, partly through knowing it by
heart, partly from the strains of hymn or psalm that reached him at due
intervals through the grated window: and ever since then he had been
looking forward to evensong. So now when first the bells ceased, and
then the voluntary, the prisoner presently rehearsed the exhortation (in
silence) on his feet, the general confession (half aloud) upon his
knees; then followed the psalms, also from memory, his lips moving, his
hands folded; then knelt again to pray the prayers. And his eyes were as
earnest, his attitude as reverent, and even certain gestures as
punctilious, as though he were back in his church that had been burnt,
instead of lying in gaol for burning it.
The August evening came early to its close; a little while the new moon
glimmered in the cell; then the organ pealed the people out of church,
and a few steps passed that way, and a few voices floated in through the
bars, before all was quiet in the little old town. And Robert Carlton
thought no more that night upon his enemies, and took no further heed
for the morrow.
XV
HIS OWN LAWYER
Canon Wilders was supported by Mr. Preston, of Linkworth, and by a
youthful justice whom Robert Carlton did not know by name, but who sat
like the graven image of Rhadamanthus, encased in the atrocious trousers
and the excruciating collar of the year 1882.
Considering the romantic interest of the case, this was by no means "a
full bench"; there were, however, some conspicuous and deliberate
absentees, including Sir Wilton Gleed and Dr. Marigold. Carlton was less
surprised at his enemy's abstinence than at the position voluntarily
occupied by James Preston, an indolent cleric but genial gentleman, who
had been his friend. His surprise deepened when Preston nodded to him,
hastily enough, and with a change of colour, but yet in a way that
thrilled Carlton with a doubt as to whether he had altogether lost that
friend. He was in no such suspense concerning the stately chairman, who
very properly looked at the prisoner as though he had never seen him
before, and never addressed him without tuning his voice to the proper
pitch of distant disapproval. This was not a question of losing a
friend, but of having made an enemy of the most potent personage in the
court.
The latter was densely crowded when the stout inspector opened the case,
but the familiar faces stood out in quick succession, and they were not
a few. In a doorway apart stood a Long Stow trio--the saddler, the
sexton, and Tom Ivey; all three were in their Sunday clothes, and more
or less visibly ill at ease; but it was only Ivey who reddened and
looked away when the prisoner caught his eye. As for Carlton, he became
so lost in sudden and absorbing speculation that it was some minutes
before he realised that the inspector had finished a bald brief
statement of his case, and that a witness was already in the box and
giving evidence. The witness, however, was only Frost, the village
constable, and his evidence merely that of the arrest on the Saturday at
Long Stow. Carlton nevertheless whipped out his pocket-book, and the
witness waited before standing down.
"May I ask him two or three questions?" said the prisoner, addressing
himself with courtesy to the bench.
"As many as you please," replied the chairman, "provided they are
relevant."
Carlton bowed before turning to the witness.
"How far were you responsible for the warrant on which you arrested me?"
"Re-spon-si-ble!" exclaimed the chairman in separate syllables. "What do
you mean?"
"I wish to ascertain exactly in what measure the witness has been
concerned in trumping up this charge against me."
"That is not the language in which to inquire!"
"Your worships may discover that it is exceedingly mild language, before
the case is over."
"I shall not allow you to cross-examine witnesses unless you do so with
due respect to the bench."
The clerk to the justices, who had examined the witness, was the means
of averting an immediate scene.
"I think, your worship, that he wishes to know whether the witness laid
the information against him."
"I thank you," said Carlton, an incredible twinkle in his eye, as he
again turned to the witness. "I do desire to ask you, with due respect
to the bench, whether you 'laid this information' against me, or whether
you did not?"
"I did," said Frost.
"Before whom did you 'lay' it?"
"The magistrate."
"What magistrate?"
"Sir Wilton Gleed."
"And when?"
"Last Friday."
"The date, please!"
"That would be the 18th."
"The 18th of August! And the church was burnt on the morning of the 25th
of June! How is it that it took you eight weeks all but two days to 'lay
your information' against me?"
The witness looked confused; but the chairman was quick to interpose; he
had been waiting his opportunity.
"That may or may not transpire in the evidence," said he; "it is in
either event an absolutely inadmissible question, and I should strongly
recommend you to employ a solicitor. If you like I will adjourn the
court for half-an-hour while you instruct one; but I will not have the
time of the court wasted by irrelevant and inadmissible questions such
as you seem inclined to put. If you have nothing better to ask the
witness I shall order him to stand down."
"Let him stand down," returned the prisoner, indifferently. "I have done
with him."
Robert Carlton had surprised himself. He had come into court with the
most admirable intentions that it was possible to entertain: he was to
have kept cool but humble, to have curbed his contempt of proceedings
conducted (if not instituted) in the best of good faith, and never for
an instant to have forgotten his guilt of sin in his innocence of crime.
In this spirit he had risen from his knees that morning, and with this
resolve he had left his cell and been ushered into court; but the very
atmosphere of the place had made the blood sing in his veins; and it
needed but the chairman's voice to make it boil. He had sinned, and
chosen to suffer for his sin: so no crime was too dastardly to lay at
his door. He was down, and deservedly down, so friends and acquaintances
alike must gather and conspire to trample him. Carlton's point of view
went round like a weathercock in the wind; flesh and blood flew to the
front, in despite of spirit; and all the man in him rebelled at man's
injustice, in despite of his prayers.
So when the next witness was being sworn (it was his own sexton), and
James Preston whispered to Canon Wilders, the man who had preached for
both of them looked on grimly.
"As you seem bent upon conducting your own case," said Wilders, leaning
back, "you may possibly prefer a chair at the table; if so, there is one
at your disposal." And he pointed into the well of the court.
Carlton thanked him in the voice that all his will could not purge of
all its scorn; he was perfectly comfortable where he was. Then he looked
pointedly at Preston, and his face and tone softened together. "But I
shall not forget the suggestion," he said; and again his friend changed
colour.
The decrepit hero of the overweening hallucination had hobbled into the
witness-box meanwhile. Carlton had not come in contact with him since
the morning before the fire, and he little thought that his last
conversation with the sexton was about to come up in evidence against
him. Yet such was the case.
Old Busby had been responsible for the lighting of the church. He had
kept the paraffin and filled the lamps. But in the month of June the
lamps were rarely needed. They had not been lighted on the Sunday before
the fire. There would have been even less occasion for them--by one
minute--the following Sunday. And yet, on the Saturday morning, the
prisoner had ordered the witness to see that the lamps were full!
So Busby deposed; and the point seemed of sinister significance. It took
the prisoner plainly by surprise: the circumstance had escaped his
memory. In a minute, however, he had recalled it in detail; and his
cross-examination, though provocative of some mirth, and curtailed in
consequence, was by no means ineffectual.
"You remember when the lamps went out, through your neglect, in the
middle of even-song?"
"I'm like to remember it. That was when I swallowed the frog."
The court laughed, but not the prisoner, who was too much in earnest
even to smile.
"I reminded you pretty often about the lamps after that?"
"Ay, you were for ever at me about 'em."
"Now, on the morning you mention, where was I when I told you to go and
fill the lamps?"
The sexton thought.
"In your study, sir."
"And what were you doing there? Do you remember?"
"I do that! I was telling you about the frog."
This time the prisoner smiled himself.
"And did I listen to you?" he demanded, a sudden change upon his face,
as though the act of smiling had put him in pain.
"No, that you didn't," the old man grumbled; "you fared as though you
didn't hear."
"So I told you to go away and fill your lamps," said Carlton, sadly,
"even though it was Midsummer Day! I have finished with the witness."
He was as one who had brilliantly parried a deadly thrust, and yet
received a secret wound in the onset. He rested his head upon his hand
to hide his pain, and only raised it at the sound of James Preston's
voice putting the first question from the bench:
"As sexton, did you keep the key of the church?"
"In the old days I did, sir; but that's been open church ever since Mr.
Carlton come."
"You mean that the church was open day and night?"
"To be sure it was."
"Thank you," said Preston hastily, as though glad to relapse into
silence. Carlton did not add to his embarrassment by a glance, but his
heart throbbed with gratitude for the goodwill he could no longer
question.
"_Did_ you fill the lamps?" asked the chairman as the witness was
preparing to hobble from the box.
"Yes, sir, I did."
And, watching the chairman's face, Carlton was still more thankful to
have one friend upon the bench; for it seemed to him that the young
gentleman in the tall collar and the tight trousers was alone in
preserving a Rhadamanthine impartiality.