The Nebuly Coat

might find it impossible to go on with the restoration at Cullerne, where all was being done at Lord Blandamer’s expense. But why sever his connection with a leading firm? Why not plead ill-health, nervous breakdown, those doctor’s orders which have opened a way of escape from impasses of the mind as well as of the body? An archaeologic tour in Spain, a yachting cruise in the Mediterranean, a winter in Egypt⁠—all these things would be to Westray’s taste; the blameless herb nepenthe might anywhere be found growing by the wayside. He must amuse himself, and forget. He wished he could assure Westray that he would forget, or grow used to remembering; that time heals wounds of conscience as surely as it heals heart-wounds and flesh-wounds; that remorse is the least permanent of sentiments. But then Westray might not yet wish to forget. He had run full counter to his principles. It might be that he was resolved to take the consequences, and wear them like a hair-shirt, as the only means of recovering his self-esteem. No; whatever penance, voluntary or involuntary, Westray might undergo, Lord Blandamer could only look on in silence. His object had been gained. If Westray felt it necessary to pay the price, he must be let pay it. Lord Blandamer could neither inquire nor remonstrate. He could offer no compensation, because no compensation would be accepted.

The little party were nearing the house when a servant met them.

“There is a man come over from Cullerne, my lord,” he said. “He is anxious to see Mr. Westray at once on important business.”

“Show him into my sitting-room, and say that Mr. Westray will be with him immediately.”

Westray met Lord Blandamer in the hall a few minutes later.

“I am sorry to say there is bad news from Cullerne,” the architect said hurriedly. “Last night’s gale has strained and shaken the tower severely. A very serious movement is taking place. I must get back at once.”

“Do, by all means. A carriage is at the door. You can catch the train at Lytchett, and be in Cullerne by midday.”

The episode was a relief to Lord Blandamer. The architect’s attention was evidently absorbed in the tower. It might be that he had already found the blameless herb growing by the wayside.

The nebuly coat shone on the panel of the carriage-door. Lady Blandamer had noticed that her husband had been paying Westray special attention. He was invariably courteous, but he had treated this guest as he treated few others. Yet now, at the last moment, he had fallen silent; he was standing, she fancied, aloof. He held his hands behind him, and the attitude seemed to her to have some significance. But on Lord Blandamer’s part it was a mark of consideration. There had been no shaking of hands up to the present; he was anxious not to force Westray to take his hand by offering it before his wife and the servants.

Lady Blandamer felt that there was something going on which she did not understand, but she took leave of Westray with special kindness. She did not directly mention the picture, but said how much they were obliged to him, and glanced for confirmation at Lord Blandamer. He looked at Westray, and said with deliberation:

“I trust Mr. Westray knows how fully I appreciate his generosity and courtesy.”

There was a moment’s pause, and then Westray offered his hand. Lord Blandamer shook it cordially, and their eyes met for the last time.

XXIII

On the afternoon of the same day Lord Blandamer was himself in Cullerne. He went to the office of Mr. Martelet, solicitor by prescriptive right to the family at Fording, and spent an hour closeted with the principal.

The house which the solicitor used for offices, was a derelict residence at the bottom of the town. It still had in front of it an extinguisher for links, and a lamp-bracket over the door of wasted iron scroll-work. It was a dingy place, but Mr. Martelet had a famous county connection, and rumour said that more important family business was done here even than in Carisbury itself. Lord Blandamer sat behind the dusty windows.

“I think I quite understand the nature of the codicil,” the solicitor said. “I will have a draft forwarded to your lordship tomorrow.”

“No, no; it is short enough. Let us finish with it now,” said his client. “There is no time like the present. It can be witnessed here. Your head clerk is discreet, is he not?”

“Mr. Simpkin has been with me thirty years,” the solicitor said deprecatingly, “and I have had no reason to doubt his discretion hitherto.”

The sun was low when Lord Blandamer left Mr. Martelet’s office. He walked down the winding street that led to the marketplace, with his long shadow going before him on the pavement. Above the houses in the near distance stood up the great tower of Saint Sepulchre’s, pink-red in the sunset rays. What a dying place was Cullerne! How empty were the streets! The streets were certainly strangely empty. He had never seen them so deserted. There was a silence of the grave over all. He took out his watch. The little place is gone to tea, he thought, and walked on with a light heart, and more at his ease than he had ever felt before in his life.

He came round a bend in the street, and suddenly saw a great crowd before him, between him and the marketplace over which the minster church watched, and knew that something must be happening, that had drawn the people from the other parts of the town. As he came nearer it seemed as if the whole population was there collected. Conspicuous was pompous Canon Parkyn, and by him stood Mrs. Parkyn, and tall and sloping-shouldered Mr. Noot. The sleek dissenting minister was there, and the jovial, round-faced Catholic priest. There stood Joliffe, the pork-butcher, in shirtsleeves and white apron in the middle of the road; and there stood Joliffe’s