“It is all very confusing,” she murmured at last, “and I shall be glad when I am out of it.”
The theologian laid his hand—the hand that ought to have belonged to a prince of the church—upon his companion’s.
“You will be out of it soon, child,” he said, “and then you will help us by your prayers. We who are the temporal monks of the great struggle are bound to soil our hands in the dust of the arena. But your prayers, and the prayers of many like you, cleanse them continually from such unhappy stains.”
Even at the moment he was uttering these profound words, Mr. Taxater was wondering in his heart how far his friend’s inclination to a convent depended upon an impulse much more natural and feminine than the desire to avoid the Mr. Romers and Mr. Wones of this poor world. He made a second rather brutal experiment.
“We must renounce,” he said, “all these plausible poetic attempts to be wiser than God’s Holy Church. That is one of the faults into which our worthy Clavering falls.”
Once more the tell-tale scarlet rushed into the cheeks of Nevilton’s little nun.
“Yes,” she answered, stooping to pluck a spray of wild basil, “I know.”
They opened the gate, and very soon found themselves at the entrance to Athelston church. Late summer flowers, planted in rows on each side of the path, met them with a ravishing fragrance. Stocks and sweet-williams grew freely among the graves; and tall standard roses held up the wealth of their second blossoming, like chalices full of red and white wine. Heavy-winged brown butterflies fluttered over the grass, like the earth-drawn spirits, Vennie thought, of such among the dead as were loath to leave the scene of their earthly pleasures. Mounted upon a step-ladder in the porch wars the figure of James Andersen, absorbed in removing the moss and lichen from the carving in the central arch.
He came down at once when he perceived their approach. “Look!” he said, with a wave of his hand, “you can see what it is now.”
Obedient to his words they both gazed curiously at the quaint early Norman relief. It represented a centaur, with a drawn bow and arrow, aiming at a retreating lion, which was sneaking off in humorously depicted terror.
“That is King Stephen,” said the stone-carver, pointing to the centaur. “And the beast he is aiming at is Queen Maud. Stephen’s zodiacal sign was Sagittarius, and the woman’s was Leo. Hence the arrow he is aiming.”
Vennie’s mind, reverting to her fanciful distinction between the two eminences, and woman-like, associating everything she saw with the persons of her own drama, at once began to discern, between the retreating animal and the fair-haired daughter of the owner of Leo’s Hill, a queer and grotesque resemblance.
She heaved a deep sigh. What would she not give to see her poor priest-centaur aim such an arrow of triumph at the heart of his insidious temptress!
“I think you have made them stand out wonderfully clear,” she said gently. “Hasn’t he, Mr. Taxater?”
The stone-carver threw down the instrument he was using, and folded his arms. His dark, foreign-looking countenance wore a very curious expression.
“I wanted to finish this job,” he remarked, in a slow deep voice, “before I turn into stone myself.”
“Come, come, my friend,” said Mr. Taxater, while Vennie stared in speechless alarm at the carver’s face. “You mustn’t talk like that! You people get a wrong perspective in things. Remember, this is no longer the Stone Age. The power of stone was broken once for all, when certain women of Palestine found that stone, which we’ve all heard of, lifted out of its place! Since then it is to wood—the wood out of which His cross was made—not to stone, that we must look.”
The carver raised his long arm and pointed in the direction of Leo’s Hill. “Twenty years,” he said, “have I been working on this stone. I used to despise such work. Then I grew to care for it. Then there came a change. I loved the work! It was the only thing I loved. I loved to feel the stone under my hands, and to watch it yielding to my tools. I think the soul of it must have passed into my soul. It seemed to know me; to respond to me. We became like lovers, the stone and I!” He laughed an uneasy, disconcerting laugh; and went on.
“But that is not all. Another change came. She came into my life. I needn’t tell you, Miss Seldom, who I mean. You know well enough. These things cannot be hidden. Nothing can be hidden that happens here! She came and was kind to me. She is kind to me still. But they have got hold of her. She can’t resist them. Why she can’t, I cannot say; but it seems impossible. She talks to me like a person in a dream. They’re going to marry her to that brute Goring. You’ve heard that I suppose? But of course it’s nothing to you! Why should it be?”
He paused, and Vennie interrupted him sharply. “It is a great deal to us, Mr. Andersen! Every cruel thing that is done in a place affects everyone who lives in the place. If Mr. Taxater and—and Mr. Clavering—thought that Miss Traffio was being driven into this marriage, I’m sure they would not allow it! They would do something—everything—to stop such an outrage. Wouldn’t you, Mr. Taxater?”
“But surely, Vennie,” said the theologian, “you have heard something of this? You can’t be quite so oblivious, as all that, to the village scandal?”
He spoke with a certain annoyance as people are apt to do, when some disagreeable abuse, which they have sought to forget, is brought vividly before them.
Vennie, too, became irritable. The question of Lacrima’s marriage had more than once given her conscience a sharp stab. “I think it is a shame to us all,” she cried vehemently, “that this should be allowed. It is only lately that I’ve heard rumours of it, and I took them for mere gossip. It’s been on my mind.” She looked almost sternly at the theologian. “I meant to talk to you about it. But other things came between. I haven’t seen Lacrima for several weeks. Surely, if it is as Mr. Andersen says, something ought to be done! It is a horrible, perfectly horrible idea!” She covered her face with her hands as if to shut out some unbearable vision.
James Andersen watched them both intently, leaning against the wood-work of the church-door.
“I thought you all knew of this,” he said presently. “Perhaps you did; but the devil prompted you to say nothing. There are a great many things in this world which are done while people—good people—look on—and nothing said. Do you wonder now that the end of this business will be a curious one; I mean for me? For you know, of course, what is going to happen?. You know why I have been chosen to work at this particular piece of carving? And why, ever since I quarelled with Luke and drank in Hullaway Inn, I have heard voices in my head? The reason of that is, that Leo’s Hill is angry because I have deserted it. Every stone I touch is angry, and keeps talking to me and upbraiding me. The voices I hear are the voices of all the stones I have ever worked with in my life. But they needn’t fret themselves. The end will surprise even them. They do not know,”—here his voice took a lower tone, and he assumed that ghastly air of imparting a piece of surprising, but quite natural, information, which is one of the most sinister tokens of monomania,—” that I shall very soon be, even as they are! Isn’t it funny they don’t know that, Miss Seldom? Isn’t it a curious thing, Mr. Taxater? I thought of that, just now, as I chipped the dirt from King Stephen. Even he didn’t know, the foolish centaur! And yet he has been up there, seeing this sort of thing done, for seven hundred years! I expect he has seen so many girls dragged under this arch, with sick terror in their hearts, that he has grown callous to it. A callous king! A knavish-smiling king! It makes me laugh to think how little he cares!”
The unfortunate man did indeed proceed to laugh; but the sound of it was so ghastly, even to himself, that he quickly became grave.
“Luke will be here soon,” he said. “Luke has always come for me, these last few days, when his work is over. It’ll be over soon now, I think. He may be here any moment; so I’d better finish the job. Don’t you worry about Lacrima, ladies and gentlemen! She’ll fly away with the rooks. This centaur-king will never reach her w
ith his arrows. It’ll be me, not her, he’ll turn into stone!”
He became silent and continued his labour upon the carving. The wonder was that with his head full of such mad fancies he could manage so delicate a piece of work. Mr. Taxater and Vennie watched him in amazement.
“I think,” whispered the latter presently, “we’d better wait in the churchyard till his brother comes. I don’t like leaving him in this state.”
Mr. Taxater nodded, and retreating to the further end of the path, they sat down together upon a flat tombstone.
“I am sorry,” said Mr. Taxater, after a minute or two’s silence, “that I spoke rather crossly to you just now. The truth is, the man’s reference to that Italian girl made me feel ashamed of myself. I have not your excuse of being ignorant of what was going on. I have, in fact, been meaning to talk to you about it for some weeks; but I hesitated, wishing to be quite sure of my ground first.
“Even now, you must remember, we have no certain authority to go upon. But I’m afraid—I’m very much afraid—what Andersen says is true. It is evidently his own certain knowledge of it that has upset his brain. And I’m inclined to take his word for it. I fear the girl must have told him herself; and it was the shock of hearing it from her that had this effect.
“There’s no doubt he’s seriously ill. But if I know anything of these things, it’s rather a case of extreme nervous agitation than actual insanity. In any event, it’s a relief to remember that this kind of mania is, of all forms of brain-trouble, the easiest cured.”
Vennie made an imperious little gesture. “We must cure him!” she cried. “We must! We must! And the only way to do it, as far as I can see, is to stop this abominable marriage. Lacrima can’t be doing it willingly. No girl would marry a man like that, of her own accord.”
Mr. Taxater shook his head. “I’m afraid there are few people,” he remarked, “that some girl or other wouldn’t marry if the motive were strong enough! The question is, what is the motive in this instance?”
“What can Mr. Quincunx be thinking of?” said Vennie. “He hasn’t been up to see mother lately. In fact, I don’t think he has been in our house since he began working in Yeoborough. That’s another abominable shame! It seems to me more and more clear that there’s an evil destiny hanging over this place, driving people on to do wicked things!”
“I’m afraid we shall get small assistance from Mr. Quincunx,” said the theologian. “The relations between him and Lacrima are altogether beyond my power of unravelling. But I cannot imagine his taking any sort of initiative in any kind of difficulty.”
“Then what are we to do?” pleaded Vennie, looking anxiously into the diplomatist’s face.
Mr. Taxater rested his chin upon the handle of his cane and made no reply.
At this moment the gate clicked behind them, and Luke Andersen appeared. He glanced hastily towards the porch; but his brother was absorbed in his work and apparently had heard nothing. Stepping softly along the edge of the path he approached the two friends. He looked very anxious and troubled.
Raising his hat to Vennie, he made a gesture with his hand in his brother’s direction. “Have you seen him?” he enquired. “Has he talked to you?”
The theologian nodded.
“Oh, I think all this is dreadful!” whispered Vennie. “I’m more distressed than I can tell you. I’m afraid he’s very, very ill. And he keeps talking about Miss Traffio. Surely something can be done, Mr. Andersen, to stop that marriage before it’s too late?”
Luke turned upon her with an expression completely different from any she had ever seen him wear before. He seemed to have suddenly grown much older. His mouth was drawn, and a little open; and his cheeks were pale and indented by deep lines.
“I would give my soul,” he said with intense emphasis, “to have this thing otherwise. I have already been to Lacrima—to Miss Traffio, I mean—but she will do nothing. She is mad, too, I think. I hoped to get her to marry my brother, off-hand, anyhow; and leave the place with him. But she won’t hear of it. I can’t understand her! It almost seems as if she wanted to marry that clown. But she can’t really; it’s impossible. I’m afraid that fool Quincunx is at the bottom of it.”
“Something must be done! Something must be done!” wailed Vennie.
“Sustinuit anima mea in verbo ejus!” muttered Mr. Taxater. “Speravit anima mea in Domino.”
“I shouldn’t mind so much the state he’s in,” continued Luke, “if I didn’t remember how my mother went. She got just like this before she died. It’s true my father was a brute to her. But this different kind of blow seems to have just the same effect upon James. Fool that I am, I must needs start a miserable quarrel with him when he was most worried. If anything happens, I tell you I shall feel I’m responsible for the whole thing, and no one else!”
All this while Mr. Taxater had remained silent, his chin on the handle of his cane. At last he lifted up his head.
“I think,” he began softly, “I should rather like a word alone with Mr. Luke, Vennie. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind wandering down the lane a step or two? Then I can follow you; and we’ll leave this young man to get his brother home.”
The girl rose obediently and pressed the youth’s hand. “If anyone can help you,” she said with a look of tender sympathy, “it is Mr. Taxater. He has helped me in my trouble.”
As soon as Vennie was out of hearing the theologian looked straight into Luke’s face.
“I have an idea,” he said, “that if any two people can find a way out of this wretched business, it is you and I together.”
“Well, sir,” said Luke, seating himself by Mr. Taxater’s side and glancing apprehensively towards the church-porch; “I have tried what I can do with Miss Romer, but she maintains that nothing she can say will make any difference to Miss Traffio.”
“I fancy there is one thing, however, that would make a difference to Mr. Quincunx,” remarked the theologian significantly. “I am taking for granted,” he added, “that it is this particular marriage which weighs so heavily on your brother. He would not suffer if he saw her wedded to a man she loved?”
“Ah!” exclaimed Luke, “your idea is to appeal to Quincunx. I’ve thought of that, too. But I’m afraid it’s hopeless. He’s such an inconceivably helpless person. Besides, he’s got no money.”
“Suppose we secured him the money?” said Mr. Taxater.
Luke’s countenance momentarily brightened; but the cloud soon settled on it again.
“We couldn’t get enough,” he said with a sigh. “Unless,” he added, with a glimmer of humour, “you or some other noble person has more cash to dispose of than I fancy is at all likely! To persuade Quincunx into any bold activity we should have to guarantee him a comfortable annuity for the rest of his life, and an assurance of his absolute security from Romer’s vengeance. It would have to be enough for Lacrima, too, you understand!”
The theologian shook the dew-drops from a large crimson rose which hung within his reach.
“What precise sum would you suggest,” he asked, “as likely to be a sufficient inducement?”
The stone-carver meditated. “Those two could live quite happily,” he remarked at last, “on two hundred a year.”
“It is a large amount to raise,” said Mr. Taxater. “I fear it is quite beyond my power and the power of the Seldoms, even if we combined our efforts. How right Napoleon was, when he said that in any campaign, the first, second, and third requisite was money!
“It only shows how foolish those critics of the Catholic Church are, who blame her for laying stress upon the temporal side of our great struggle against evil. In this world, as things go, one always strikes sooner or later against the barrier of money. The money-question lies at the bottom of every subterranean abuse and every hidden iniquity that we unmask. It’s a wretched thing that it should be so, but we have to accept it; until one of Vennie’s angels”—he added in an under-tone—“descends to help us! Your poor brother began talking just now
about the power of stone. I referred him to the Cross of our Lord—which is made of another material!
“But unfortunately in the stress of this actual struggle, you and I, my dear Andersen, find ourselves, as you see, compelled to call in the help, not of wood, but of gold. Gold, and gold alone, can furnish us with the means of undermining these evil powers!”
The texture of Mr. Taxater’s mind was so nicely inter-threaded with the opposite strands of metaphysical and Machiavellian wisdom, that this discourse, fantastic as it may sound to us, fell from him as naturally as rain from a heavy cloud. Luke Andersen’s face settled into an expression of hopeless gloom.
“The thing is beyond us, then,” he said. “I certainly can’t provide an enormous sum like that. James’ and my savings together only amount to a few hundreds. And if no quixotic person can be discovered to help us, we are bound hand and foot.
“Oh I should like,” he cried, “to make this place ring and ting with our triumph over that damned Romer!”
“Quis est iste Rex gloriœ?” muttered the Theologian. “Dominus fortis et potens; Dominus potens in prœlio.”
“I shall never dare,” went on the stone-carver, “to get my brother away into a home. The least thought of such a thing would drive him absolutely out of his mind. He’ll have to be left to drift about like this, talking madly to everyone he meets, till something terrible happens to him. God! I could howl with rage, to think how it all might be saved if only that ass Quincunx had a little gall!”
Mr. Taxater tapped the young man’s wrist with his white fingers. “I think we can put gall into him between us,” he said. “I think so, Andersen.”
“You’ve got some idea, sir!” cried Luke, looking at the theologian. “For Heaven’s sake, let’s have it! I am completely at the end of my tether.”
“This American who is engaged to Gladys is immensely rich, isn’t he?” enquired Mr. Taxater.
“Rich?” answered Luke. “That’s not the word for it! The fellow could buy the whole of Leo’s Hill and not know the difference.”
Wood and Stone Page 37
