Anastasia’s cheeks were red, but she said nothing, and her aunt went on: “So I will take him some tea at once. You can make it, my dear, if you like, but put a great deal more in than we use ourselves. The upper classes have no call to practise economy in such matters, and he is no doubt used to take his tea very strong. I think Mr. Sharnall’s teapot is the best, and I will get out the silver sugar-tongs and one of the spoons with the J on them.”
As Miss Joliffe was taking up the tea, she met Westray in the hall. He had just come back from the church, and was not a little concerned at his landlady’s greeting. She put down her tray, and, with a fateful gesture and an “Oh, Mr. Westray, what do you think?” beckoned him aside into Mr. Sharnall’s room. His first impression was that some grave accident had happened, that the organist was dead, or that Anastasia Joliffe had sprained an ankle; and he was relieved to hear the true state of affairs. He waited a few minutes while Miss Joliffe took the visitor his tea, and then went upstairs himself.
Lord Blandamer rose.
“I must apologise,” he said, “for making myself at home in your room; but I hope your landlady may have explained who I am, and how I come to take so great a liberty. I am naturally interested in Cullerne and all that concerns it, and hope ere long to get better acquainted with the place—and the people,” he added as an afterthought. “At present I know disgracefully little about it, but that is due to my having been abroad for many years; I only came back a few months ago. But I need not bother you with all this; what I really wanted was to ask you if you would give me some idea of the scheme of restoration which it is proposed to undertake at the minster. Until last week I had not heard that anything of the kind was in contemplation.”
His tone was measured, and a clear, deep, voice gave weight and sincerity to his words. His clean-shaven face and olive complexion, his regular features and dark eyebrows, suggested a Spaniard to Westray as he spoke, and the impression was strengthened by the decorous and grave courtesy of his manner.
“I shall be delighted to explain anything I can,” said the architect, and took down a bundle of plans and papers from a shelf.
“I fear I shall not be able to do much this evening,” Lord Blandamer said; “for I have to catch the train to London in a short time; but, if you will allow me, I will take an early opportunity of coming over again. We might then, perhaps, go to the church together. The building has a great fascination for me, not only on account of its own magnificence, but also from old associations. When I was a boy, and sometimes a very unhappy boy, I used often to come over from Fording, and spend hours rambling about the minster. Its winding staircases, its dark wall-passages, its mysterious screens and stalls, brought me romantic dreams, from which I think I have never entirely wakened. I am told the building stands in need of extensive restoration, though to the outsider it looks much the same as ever. It always had a dilapidated air.”
Westray gave a short outline of what it was considered should ultimately be done, and of what it was proposed to attack for the present.
“You see, we have our work cut out for us,” he said. “The transept roof is undoubtedly the most urgent matter, but there are lots of other things that cannot be left to themselves for long. I have grave doubts about the stability of the tower, though my Chief doesn’t share them to anything like the same extent: and perhaps that is just as well, for we are hampered on every side by lack of funds. They are going to have a bazaar next week to try to give the thing a lift, but a hundred bazaars would not produce half that is wanted.”
“I gathered that there were difficulties of this kind,” the visitor said reflectively. “As I came out of the church after service today I met the organist. He had no idea who I was, but gave his views very strongly as to Lord Blandamer’s responsibilities for things in general, and for the organ in particular. We are, I suppose, under some sort of moral obligation for the north transept, from having annexed it as a burying-place. It used to be called, I fancy, the Blandamer Aisle.”
“Yes, it is called so still,” Westray answered. He was glad to see the turn the conversation had taken, and hoped that a deus ex machina had appeared. Lord Blandamer’s next question was still more encouraging.
“At what do you estimate the cost of the transept repairs?”
Westray ran through his papers till he found a printed leaflet with a view of Cullerne Minster on the outside.
“Here are Sir George Farquhar’s figures,” he said. “This was a circular that was sent everywhere to invite subscriptions, but it scarcely paid the cost of printing. No one will give a penny to these things nowadays. Here it is, you see—seven thousand eight hundred pounds for the north transept.”
There was a little pause. Westray did not look up, being awkwardly conscious that the sum was larger than Lord Blandamer had anticipated, and fearing that such an abrupt disclosure might have damped the generosity of an intended contributor.
Lord Blandamer changed the subject.
“Who is the organist? I rather liked his manner, for all he took me so sharply, if impersonally, to task. He seems a clever musician, but his instrument is in a shocking state.”
“He is a very clever organist,” Westray answered. It was evident that Lord Blandamer was
