And as he looked there was the very faintest noise heard—a whisper, a mutter, a noise so slight that it might have passed a hundred times unnoticed. But to the architect’s ear it spoke as loudly as a thunderclap. He knew exactly what it was and whence it came; and looking at the crack, saw that the broad paper strip was torn halfway across. It was a small affair; the paper strip was not quite parted, it was only torn halfway through. Though Westray watched for an hour, no further change took place. The ringers had left the tower, the little town had resumed its business. Clerk Janaway was walking across the church, when he saw the architect leaning against a cross-pole of the scaffolding, on the platform high up under the arch of the south transept.
“I’m just a-locking up,” he called out. “You’ve got your own key, sir, no doubt?”
Westray gave an almost imperceptible nod.
“Well, we haven’t brought the tower down this time,” the clerk went on. But Westray made no answer; his eyes were fixed on the little half-torn strip of paper, and he had no thought for anything else. A minute later the old man stood beside him on the platform, puffing after the ladders that he had climbed. “No int’rupted peal this time,” he said; “we’ve fair beat the neb’ly coat at last. Lord Blandamer back, and an heir to keep the family going. Looks as if the neb’ly coat was losing a bit of his sting, don’t it?” But Westray was moody, and said nothing. “Why what’s the matter? You bain’t took bad, be you?”
“Don’t bother me now,” the architect said sharply. “I wish to Heaven the peal had been interrupted. I wish your bells had never been rung. Look there”—and he pointed at the strip of paper.
The clerk went closer to the crack, and looked hard at the silent witness. “Lor’ bless you! that ain’t nothing,” he said; “ ’tis only just the jarring of the bells done that. You don’t expect a mushet of paper to stand as firm as an anvil-stone, when Taylor John’s a-swinging up aloft.”
“Look you,” Westray said; “you were in church this morning. Do you remember the lesson about the prophet sending his servant up to the top of a hill, to look at the sea? The man went up ever so many times and saw nothing. Last he saw a little cloud like a man’s hand rising out of the sea, and after that the heaven grew black, and the storm broke. I’m not sure that bit of torn paper isn’t the man’s hand for this tower.”
“Don’t bother yourself,” rejoined the clerk; “the man’s hand showed the rain was a-coming, and the rain was just what they wanted. I never can make out why folks twist the Scripture round and make the man’s hand into something bad. ’Twas a good thing, so take heart and get home to your victuals; you can’t mend that bit of paper for all your staring at it.”
Westray paid no attention to his remarks, and the old man wished him good night rather stiffly. “Well,” he said, as he turned down the ladder, “I’m off. I’ve got to be in my garden afore dark, for they’re going to seal the leek leaves tonight against the leek-show next week. My grandson took first prize last year, and his old grandad had to put up with eleventh; but I’ve got half a dozen leeks this season as’ll beat any plant that’s growed in Cullerne.”
By the next morning the paper strip was entirely parted. Westray wrote to Sir George, but history only repeated itself; for his Chief again made light of the matter, and gave the young man a strong hint that he was making mountains of molehills, that he was unduly nervous, that his place was to diligently carry out the instructions he had received. Another strip of paper was pasted across the crack, and remained intact. It seemed as if the tower had come to rest again, but Westray’s scruples were not so easily allayed this time, and he took measures for pushing forward the underpinning of the southeast pier with all possible despatch.
XX
That inclination or predilection of Westray’s for Anastasia, which he had been able to persuade himself was love, had passed away. His peace of mind was now completely restored, and he discounted the humiliation of refusal, by reflecting that the girl’s affections must have been already engaged at the time of his proposal. He was ready to admit that Lord Blandamer would in any case have been a formidable competitor, but if they had started for the race at the same time he would have been quite prepared to back his own chances. Against his rival’s position and wealth, might surely have been set his own youth, regularity of life, and professional skill; but it was a mere tilting against windmills to try to win a heart that was already another’s. Thus disturbing influences were gradually composed, and he was able to devote an undivided attention to his professional work.
As the winter evenings set in, he found congenial occupation in an attempt to elucidate the heraldry of the great window at the end of the south transept. He made sketches of the various shields blazoned in it, and with the aid of a county history, and a manual which Dr. Ennefer had lent him, succeeded in tracing most of the alliances represented by the various quarterings. These all related to marriages of the Blandamer family, for Van Linge had filled the window with glass to the order of the third Lord Blandamer, and the sea-green and silver of the nebuly coat was many times repeated, beside figuring in chief at the head of the window. In these studies Westray was glad to have Martin Joliffe’s papers by him. There was in them a mass of information which bore on the subject of the architect’s
