A Laodicean

Chapter 9

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.'