A Laodicean. Ð¢Ð¾Ð¼Ð°Ñ Ð¥Ð°Ñ€Ð´Ð¸
a word, as ballast to the management. Beyond her Somerset discerned his new acquaintance Mr. Woodwell, who on sight of Somerset was for hastening up to him and performing a laboured shaking of hands in earnest recognition.
Paula had just come in from the garden, and was carelessly laying down her large shady hat as he entered. Her dress, a figured material in black and white, was short, allowing her feet to appear. There was something in her look, and in the style of her corsage, which reminded him of several of the bygone beauties in the gallery. The thought for a moment crossed his mind that she might have been imitating one of them.
‘Fine old screen, sir!’ said Mr. Havill, in a long-drawn voice across the table when they were seated, pointing in the direction of the traceried oak division between the dining-hall and a vestibule at the end. ‘As good a piece of fourteenth-century work as you shall see in this part of the country.’
‘You mean fifteenth century, of course?’ said Somerset.
Havill was silent. ‘You are one of the profession, perhaps?’ asked the latter, after a while.
‘You mean that I am an architect?’ said Somerset. ‘Yes.’
‘Ah—one of my own honoured vocation.’ Havill’s face had been not unpleasant until this moment, when he smiled; whereupon there instantly gleamed over him a phase of meanness, remaining until the smile died away.
Havill continued, with slow watchfulness:—
‘What enormous sacrileges are committed by the builders every day, I observe! I was driving yesterday to Toneborough where I am erecting a town-hall, and passing through a village on my way I saw the workmen pulling down a chancel-wall in which they found imbedded a unique specimen of Perpendicular work—a capital from some old arcade—the mouldings wonderfully undercut. They were smashing it up as filling-in for the new wall.’
‘It must have been unique,’ said Somerset, in the too-readily controversial tone of the educated young man who has yet to learn diplomacy. ‘I have never seen much undercutting in Perpendicular stone-work; nor anybody else, I think.’
‘O yes—lots of it!’ said Mr. Havill, nettled.
Paula looked from one to the other. ‘Which am I to take as guide?’ she asked. ‘Are Perpendicular capitals undercut, as you call it, Mr. Havill, or no?’
‘It depends upon circumstances,’ said Mr. Havill.
But Somerset had answered at the same time: ‘There is seldom or never any marked undercutting in moulded work later than the middle of the fourteenth century.’
Havill looked keenly at Somerset for a time: then he turned to Paula: ‘As regards that fine Saxon vaulting you did me the honour to consult me about the other day, I should advise taking out some of the old stones and reinstating new ones exactly like them.’
‘But the new ones won’t be Saxon,’ said Paula. ‘And then in time to come, when I have passed away, and those stones have become stained like the rest, people will be deceived. I should prefer an honest patch to any such make-believe of Saxon relics.’
As she concluded she let her eyes rest on Somerset for a moment, as if to ask him to side with her. Much as he liked talking to Paula, he would have preferred not to enter into this discussion with another professional man, even though that man were a spurious article; but he was led on to enthusiasm by a sudden pang of regret at finding that the masterly workmanship in this fine castle was likely to be tinkered and spoilt by such a man as Havill.
‘You will deceive nobody into believing that anything is Saxon here,’ he said warmly. ‘There is not a square inch of Saxon work, as it is called, in the whole castle.’
Paula, in doubt, looked to Mr. Havill.
‘O yes, sir; you are quite mistaken,’ said that gentleman slowly. ‘Every stone of those lower vaults was reared in Saxon times.’
‘I can assure you,’ said Somerset deferentially, but firmly, ‘that there is not an arch or wall in this castle of a date anterior to the year 1100; no one whose attention has ever been given to the study of architectural details of that age can be of a different opinion.’
‘I have studied architecture, and I am of a different opinion. I have the best reason in the world for the difference, for I have history herself on my side. What will you say when I tell you that it is a recorded fact that this was used as a castle by the Romans, and that it is mentioned in Domesday as a building of long standing?’
‘I shall say that has nothing to do with it,’ replied the young man. ‘I don’t deny that there may have been a castle here in the time of the Romans: what I say is, that none of the architecture we now see was standing at that date.’
There was a silence of a minute, disturbed only by a murmured dialogue between Mrs. Goodman and the minister, during which Paula was looking thoughtfully on the table as if framing a question.
‘Can it be,’ she said to Somerset, ‘that such certainty has been reached in the study of architectural dates? Now, would you really risk anything on your belief? Would you agree to be shut up in the vaults and fed upon bread and water for a week if I could prove you wrong?’
‘Willingly,’ said Somerset. ‘The date of those towers and arches is matter of absolute certainty from the details. That they should have been built before the Conquest is as unlikely as, say, that the rustiest old gun with a percussion lock should be older than the date of Waterloo.’
‘How I wish I knew something precise of an art which makes one so independent of written history!’
Mr. Havill had lapsed into a mannerly silence that was only sullenness disguised. Paula turned her conversation to Miss De Stancy, who had simply looked from one to the other during the discussion, though she might have been supposed to have a prescriptive right to a few remarks on the matter. A commonplace talk ensued, till Havill, who had not joined in it, privately began at Somerset again with a mixed manner of cordiality, contempt, and misgiving.
‘You have a practice, I suppose, sir?’
‘I am not in practice just yet.’
‘Just beginning?’
‘I am about to begin.’
‘In London, or near here?’
‘In London probably.’
‘H’m. … I am practising in Markton.’
‘Indeed. Have you been at it long?’
‘Not particularly. I designed the chapel built by this lady’s late father; it was my first undertaking—I owe my start, in fact, to Mr. Power. Ever build a chapel?’
‘Never. I have sketched a good many churches.’
‘Ah—there we differ. I didn’t do much sketching in my youth, nor have I time for it now. Sketching and building are two different things, to my mind. I was not brought up to the profession—got into it through sheer love of it. I began as a landscape gardener, then I became a builder, then I was a road contractor. Every architect might do worse than have some such experience. But nowadays ’tis the men who can draw pretty pictures who get recommended, not the practical men. Young prigs win Institute medals for a pretty design or two which, if anybody tried to build them, would fall down like a house of cards; then they get travelling studentships and what not, and then they start as architects of some new school or other, and think they are the masters of us experienced ones.’
While Somerset was reflecting how far this statement was true, he heard the voice of Paula inquiring, ‘Who can he be?’
Her eyes were bent on the window. Looking out, Somerset saw in the mead beyond the dry ditch, Dare, with his photographic apparatus.
‘He is the young gentleman who called about taking views of the castle,’ said Charlotte.
‘O yes—I remember; it is quite right. He met me in the village and asked me to suggest