by Nine Tailors
“I see.” Hilary grinned a little. “Hurt theirselves” was a moderate way of expressing the probable result of a hundred-and-twenty-foot fall. She led the way up the second ladder.
By contrast with the brilliance below, the bell-chamber was sombre and almost menacing. The main lights of its eight great windows were darkened throughout their height; only through the slender panelled tracery above the slanting louvers the sunlight dripped rare and chill, striping the heavy beams of the bell-cage with bars and splashes of pallid gold, and making a curious fantastic patterning on the spokes and rims of the wheels. The bells, with mute black mouths gaping downwards, brooded in their ancient places.
Mr. Godfrey, eyeing them with the cheerful familiarity born of long use, fetched a light ladder that stood against the wall, set it up carefully against one of the cross-beams, and prepared to mount.
“Let me go up first, or I shan’t see what you’re doing.”
Mr. Godfrey paused and scratched his head. The proposal did not seem quite safe to him. He voiced an objection.
“I shall be quite all right; I can sit on the beam. I don’t mind heights one bit. I’m very good at gym.”
Sir Henry’s daughter was accustomed to have her own way, and got it—with the stipulation that she should hold on very tightly by the timber of the cage and not let go or “morris about.” The promise being given, she was assisted to her lofty perch. Mr. Godfrey, whistling a lively air between his teeth, arranged his materials methodically about him and proceeded with his task, greasing the gudgeons and trunnions, administering a spot of oil to the pulley-axle, testing the movement of the slider between the blocks and examining the rope for signs of friction where it passed over wheel and pulley.
“I’ve never seen Tailor Paul as close as this before. She’s a big bell, isn’t she?”
“Pretty fair,” said Jack Godfrey, approvingly, giving the bell a friendly pat on her bronze shoulder. A shaft of sunshine touched the soundbow, lighting up a few letters of the inscription, which ran, as Hilary very well knew:
NINE + TAYLERS + MAKE + A + MANNE + IN + CHRIST + IS + DETH + ATT + END + IN + ADAM + YAT + BEGANNE + 1614
“She’ve done her bit in her time, have old Tailor Paul—many a good ring have we had out of her, not to say a sight of funerals and passing-bells. And we rung her with Gaude for them there Zeppelin raids, to give the alarm like. Rector was saying the other day as she did soon ought ter be quarter-turned, but I don’t know. Reckon she’ll go a bit longer yet. She rings out true enough to my thinking.”
“You have to ring the passing-bell for everyone that dies in the parish, don’t you, whoever they are?”
“Yes, dissenter and church alike. That was laid down by old Sir Martin Thorpe, your great-great-grandfather, when he left the money for the bell-fund. ‘Every Christian soul’ was the words in his will. Why, we even had to ring for that woman as lived up the Long Drove, as was a Roman Catholic. Old Hezekiah was rare put out.” Mr. Godfrey chuckled reminiscently. “‘What, ring old Tailor Paul for a Roman?’ he says, ‘you wouldn’t call the like o’ them Christians, would you, Rector?’ he says. ‘Why, Hezekiah,’ says Rector, ‘we was all Romans in this country once; this church was built by Romans,’ he says. But Hezekiah, he wouldn’t see it. He never had much education, you see. Well, now, Miss Hilary, that’ll do for Tailor Paul, I’m thinking, so if you’ll give me your hand I’ll be helping you down.”
Gaude, Sabaoth, John, Jericho, Jubilee and Dimity each in her turn was visited and anointed. When, however, it came to the turn of Batty Thomas, Mr. Godfrey displayed a sudden and unexpected obstinacy.
“I’m not taking you up to Batty Thomas, Miss Hilary. She’s an unlucky bell. What I mean, she’s a bell that has her fancies and I wouldn’t like for to risk it.”
“What do you mean?”
Mr. Godfrey found it difficult to express himself more plainly.
“She’s my own bell,” he said; “I’ve rung her close on fifteen year now and I’ve looked after her for ten, ever since Hezekiah got too old for these here ladders. Her and me knows one another and she’ve no quarrel with me nor I with her. But she’s queer-tempered. They do say as how old Batty down below, what had her put up here, was a queer sort of man and his bell’s took after him. When they turned out the monks and that—a great many years ago, that’d be—they do say as Batty Thomas tolled a whole night through on her own like, without a hand laid to the rope. And when Cromwell sent his men to break up the images an’ that, there was a soldier come up here into the belfry, I don’t know for what, maybe to damage the bells, but anyhow, up he come; and some of the others, not knowing he was here, began to haul on the ropes, and it seems as how the bells must have been left mouth up. Careless ringers they must have been in those days, but anyhow, that’s how ’twas. And just as this soldier was leaning over to look at the bells, like, Batty Thomas came swinging down and killed him dead. That’s history, that is, and Rector says as how Batty Thomas saved the church, because the soldiers took fright and ran away, thinking it was a judgment, though to my thinking, it was just carelessness, leaving the bell that fashion. Still, there it was. And then, there was a poor lad in old Rector’s time learning to ring, and he tried to raise Batty Thomas and got hisself hanged in the rope. A terrible thing that was, and there again, I say it was carelessness and the lad didn’t ought to have been let practise all alone, and it’s a thing Mr. Venables never will allow. But you see, Miss Hilary, Batty Thomas has killed two men, and while it’s quite understandable as there was carelessness both times or it wouldn’t have happened—well! I wouldn’t like to take any risks, like I said.” And with this as his last word on the subject, Mr. Godfrey mounted aloft to grease the gudgeons of Batty Thomas unassisted. Hilary Thorpe, dissatisfied but recognizing an immovable obstacle when she met one, wandered vaguely about the belfry, scuffing up the dust of ages with her square-toed, regulation-pattern school shoes and peering at the names which bygone rustics had scrawled upon the plastered walls. Suddenly, in a remote corner, something gleamed white in a bar of sunlight. Idly she picked it up. It was a sheet of paper, flimsy and poor in quality and ruled in small, faint squares. It reminded her of the letters she occasionally received from a departed French governess and, when she examined it, she saw that it was covered with writing in the very same purple ink that she associated with “Mad’m’selle,” but the hand was English—very neat, and yet somehow not the hand of a well-educated person. It had been folded in four and its under side was smeared with fine dust from the floor on which it had lain, but it was otherwise fairly clean.
“Mr. Godfrey!”
Hilary’s voice was so sharp and excited that Jack Godfrey was quite startled. He very nearly fell off the ladder, adding thereby one more to Batty Thomas’ tale of victims.
“Yes, Miss Hilary?”
“I’ve found such a funny thing here. Do come and look at it.”
“In one moment, Miss Hilary.”
He finished his task and descended. Hilary was standing in a splash of sunshine that touched the brazen mouth of Tailor Paul and fell all about her like Danaë’s shower. She was holding the paper where the light could catch it.
“I found this on the floor. Do listen to it. It’s absolutely loony. Do you think Potty Peake could have written it?”
Mr. Godfrey shook his head.
“I couldn’t say, I’m sure, Miss Hilary. He’s queer, is Potty, and he did use to come up here one time, before Rector locked up the trap-door chain. But that don’t look to me like his writing.”
“Well, I don’t think anybody but a lunatic could have written it. Do read it. It’s so funny.” Hilary giggled, being of an age to be embarrassed by lunacy.
Mr. Godfrey set down his belongings with deliberation, scratched his head and perused the document aloud, following the lines with a somewhat grimy forefinger.
“I thought to see the fairies in the fields, but I saw only the evil elephants with their black backs. Woe! how that sight
awed me! The elves danced all around and about while I heard voices calling clearly. Ah! how I tried to see—throw off the ugly cloud—but no blind eye of a mortal was permitted to spy them. So then came minstrels, having gold trumpets, harps and drums. These played very loudly beside me, breaking that spell. So the dream vanished, whereat I thanked Heaven. I shed many tears before the thin moon rose up, frail and faint as a sickle of straw. Now though the Enchanter gnash his teeth vainly, yet shall he return as the Spring returns. Oh, wretched man! Hell gapes, Erebus now lies open. The mouths of Death wait on thy end.”
“There, now,” said Mr. Godfrey, astonished. “That’s a funny one, that is. Potty it is, but, if you follow me, it ain’t Potty neither. Potty ain’t no scholar. This here, now, about Ereebus—what do you take that to mean?”
“It’s a kind of an old name for hell,” said Hilary.
“Oh, that’s what it is, is it? Chap that wrote this seems to have got that there place on his mind, like. Fairies, too, and elephants. Well, I don’t know. Looks like a bit of a joke, don’t it now? Perhaps” (his eye brightened with an idea), “perhaps somebody’s been copying out something out of a book. Yes, I wouldn’t wonder if that’s what that is. One of them old-fashioned books. But it’s a funny thing how it got up here. I’d show it to Rector, Miss Hilary, that’s what I’d do. He knows a lot of books, and maybe he’d know where it come from.”
“That’s a good idea. I will. But it’s awfully mysterious, isn’t it? Quite creepy. Can we go up the tower now, Mr. Godfrey?”
Mr. Godfrey was quite willing, and together they climbed the last long ladder, stretching high over the bells and leading them out by way of a little shelter like a dog-kennel on to the leaded roof of the tower. Leaning against the wind was like leaning against a wall. Hilary pulled off her hat and let her thick bobbed hair blow out behind her, so that she looked like one of the floating singing angels in the church below. Mr. Godfrey had no eyes for this resemblance; he thought Miss Hilary’s angular face and straight hair rather unattractive, if the truth were known. He contented himself with advising her to hold tight by the iron stays of the weathercock. Hilary paid no attention to him, but advanced to the parapet, leaning over between the pierced battlements to stare out southward over the Fen. Far away beneath her lay the churchyard, and, while she looked, a little figure, quaintly foreshortened, crawled beetle-like from the porch and went jogging down the path. Mrs. Venables, going home to lunch. Hilary watched her struggle with the wind at the gate, cross the road and enter the Rectory garden. Then she turned and moved to the east side of the tower, and looked out along the ridged roofs of the nave and chancel. A brown spot in the green churchyard caught her eye and her heart seemed to turn over in her body. Here, at the north-east angle of the church, her mother lay buried, her grave not yet turfed over; and now it looked as though, before long, the earth would have to be opened up again to let the husband join his wife. “Oh, God!” said Hilary, desperately, “don’t let Dad die—You can’t—You simply can’t.” Beyond the churchyard wall lay a green field, and in the middle of the field there was a slight hollow. She knew that hollow well. It had been there now for over three hundred years. Time had made it shallower, and in three hundred years more it might disappear altogether, but there it still was—the mark left by the great pit dug for the founding of Tailor Paul.
Jack Godfrey spoke close beside her.
“Time I was getting along now, Miss Hilary.”
“Oh, yes. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Are you ringing a peal tomorrow?”
“Yes, Miss Hilary. We’re going to have a try at Stedman’s. They’re difficult to ring, are Stedman’s, but very fine music when you get them going proper. Mind your head, Miss Hilary. A full peal of 5,040 we’re going to give them—that’s three hours. It’s a fortnit thing as Will Thoday’s all right again, because neither Tom Tebbutt nor young George Wilderspin is what you might call reliable in Stedman’s, and of course, Wally Pratt’s no good at all. Excuse me one minute, Miss Hilary, while I gathers up my traps. But to my mind, there’s more interest, as you might say, in Stedman’s than in any other method, though it takes a bit of thinking about to keep it all clear in one’s head. Old Hezekiah don’t so much care about it, of course, because he likes the tenor rung in. Triples ain’t much fun for him, he says, and it ain’t to be wondered at. Still, he’s an old man now, and you couldn’t hardly expect him to learn Stedman’s at his age, and what’s more, if he could, you’d never get him to leave Tailor Paul. Just a moment, Miss Hilary, while I lock up this here counterpoise. But give me a nice peal of Stedman’s and I ask no better. We never had no Stedman’s till Rector come, and it took him a powerful long time to learn us to ring them. Well I mind the trouble we had with them. Old John Thoday—that’s Will’s father, he’s dead and gone now—he used to say, ‘Boys,’ he said, ‘it’s my belief the Devil himself couldn’t get no sense out of this dratted method.’ And Rector fined him sixpence for swearing, like it says in they old rules. Mind you don’t slip on the stair, Miss Hilary, it’s terrible worn. But we learned Stedman to rights, none the more for that, and to my mind it’s a very pretty method of ringing. Well, good morning to you, Miss Hilary.”
The peal of 5,040 Stedman’s Triples was duly rung on Easter Sunday morning. Hilary Thorpe heard it from the Red House, sitting beside the great old four-poster bed, as she had sat on New Year’s morning to hear the peal of Treble Bob Major. Then the noise of the bells had come full and clear; today, it reached her only in distant bursts, when the wind, rollicking away with it eastward, bated for a moment or veered round a little to the south.
“Hilary!”
“Yes, Dad.”
“I’m afraid—if I go west this time—I’ll be leaving you rottenly badly off, old girl.”
“I don’t care a dash about that, old thing. Not that you are going west. But if you did, I should be quite all right.”
“There’ll be enough to send you to Oxford, I dare say. Girls don’t seem to cost much there—your uncle will see to it.”
“Yes—and I’m going to get a scholarship, anyway. And I don’t want money. I’d rather make my own living. Miss Bowler says she doesn’t think anything of a woman who can’t be independent.” (Miss Bowler was the English mistress and the idol of the moment.) “I’m going to be a writer, Dad. Miss Bowler says she wouldn’t wonder if I’d got it in me.”
“Oh? What are you going to write? Poetry?”
“Well, perhaps. But I don’t suppose that pays very well. I’ll write novels. Best-sellers. The sort that everybody goes potty over. Not just bosh ones, but like The Constant Nymph.”
“You’ll want a bit of experience before you can write novels, old girl.”
“Rot, Daddy. You don’t want experience for writing novels. People write them at Oxford and they sell like billy-ho. All about how awful everything was at school.”
“I see. And when you leave Oxford, you write one about how awful everything was at college.”
“That’s the idea. I can do that on my head.”
“Well, dear, I hope it’ll work. But all the same, I feel a damned failure, leaving you so little. If only that rotten necklace had turned up! I was a fool to pay that Wilbraham woman for it, but she as good as accused the old Governor of being an accessory, and I——”
“Oh, Dad, please—please don’t go on about that silly necklace. Of course you couldn’t do anything else about it. And I don’t want the beastly money. And anyhow, you’re not going to peg out yet.”
But the specialist, arriving on Tuesday, looked grave and, taking Dr. Baines aside, said to him kindly:
“You have done all you could. Even if you had called me in earlier, it could have made no possible difference.”
And to Hilary, still kindly:
“We must never give up hope, you know, Miss Thorpe. I can’t disguise from you that your father’s condition is serious, but Nature has marvellous powers of recuperation. …”
Which is the medical
man’s way of saying that, short of miraculous intervention, you may as well order the coffin.
On the following Monday afternoon, Mr. Venables was just leaving the cottage of a cantankerous and venomous-tongued old lady on the extreme outskirts of the parish, when a deep, booming sound smote his ear from afar. He stood still with his hand upon the gate.
“That’s Tailor Paul,” said the Rector to himself.
Three solemn notes, and a pause.
“Man or woman?”
Three notes, and then three more.
“Man,” said the Rector. He still stood listening. “I wonder if poor old Merryweather has gone at last. I hope it isn’t that boy of Hensman’s.” He counted twelve strokes, and waited. But the bell tolled on, and the Rector breathed a sigh of relief. Hensman’s boy, at least, was safe. He hastily reckoned up the weaklings of his flock. Twenty strokes, thirty strokes—a man of full age. “Heaven send,” thought the Rector, “it isn’t Sir Henry. He seemed better when I saw him yesterday.” Forty strokes, forty-one, forty-two. Surely it must be old Merryweather—a happy release for him, poor old man. Forty-three, forty-four, forty-five, forty-six. Now it must go on—it could not stop at that fatal number. Old Merryweather was eighty-four. The Rector strained his ears. He must have missed the next stroke—the wind was pretty strong, and his hearing was perhaps not as good as it had been.
But he waited full thirty seconds before Tailor Paul spoke again; and after that there was silence for another thirty seconds.
The cantankerous old lady, astonished to see the Rector stand so long bare-headed at her gate, came hobbling down the garden path to know what it was all about.
“It’s the passing-bell,” said Mr. Venables, “they have rung the nine tailors and forty-six strokes, and I’m afraid it must be for Sir Henry.”
“Oh, dear,” said the cantankerous old woman, “that’s bad. Terrible bad, that is.” A peevish kind of pity came into her eyes. “What’s to become of Miss Hilary now, with her mother and father gone so quick, and her only fifteen, and nobody to keep her in check? I don’t hold with girls being left to look arter themselves. They’re troublesome at the best and they didn’t ought to have their parents took away from them.”
