The Nebuly Coat | Page 3

the sacred edifice."
The doctor and the organist gave effect to the presentation by a nod,
and something like a shrug of the shoulders, which deprecated the
Rector's conceited pomposity, and implied that if such an exceedingly
unlikely contingency as their making friends with Mr Westray should
ever happen, it would certainly not be due to any introduction of Canon
Parkyn. Mr Joliffe, on the other hand, seemed fully to recognise the
dignity to which he was called by being numbered among the Rector's
friends, and with a gracious bow, and a polite "Your servant, sir," made
it plain that he understood how to condescend in his turn, and was
prepared to extend his full protection to a young and struggling
architect.
Beside these leading actors, there were present the clerk, and a handful
of walking-gentlemen in the shape of idlers who had strolled in from
the street, and who were glad enough to find shelter from the rain, and
an afternoon's entertainment gratuitously provided.
"I thought you would like to meet me here," said the Rector, "so that I
might point out to you at once the more salient features of the building.
Sir George Farquhar, on the occasion of his last visit, was pleased to

compliment me on the lucidity of the explanations which I ventured to
offer."
There seemed to be no immediate way of escape, so Westray resigned
himself to the inevitable, and the little group moved up the nave,
enveloped in an atmosphere of its own, of which wet overcoats and
umbrellas were resolvable constituents. The air in the church was raw
and cold, and a smell of sodden matting drew Westray's attention to the
fact that the roofs were not water-tight, and that there were pools of
rain-water on the floor in many places.
"The nave is the oldest part," said the cicerone, "built about 1135 by
Walter Le Bec."
"I am very much afraid our friend is too young and inexperienced for
the work here. What do you think?" he put in as a rapid aside to the
doctor.
"Oh, I dare say if you take him in hand and coach him a little he will do
all right," replied the doctor, raising his eyebrows for the organist's
delectation.
"Yes, this is all Le Bec's work," the Rector went on, turning back to
Westray. "So sublime the simplicity of the Norman style, is it not? The
nave arcades will repay your close attention; and look at these
wonderful arches in the crossing. Norman, of course, but how light; and
yet strong as a rock to bear the enormous weight of the tower which
later builders reared on them. Wonderful, wonderful!"
Westray recalled his Chief's doubts about the tower, and looking up
into the lantern saw on the north side a seam of old brick filling; and on
the south a thin jagged fissure, that ran down from the sill of the
lantern-window like the impress of a lightning-flash. There came into
his head an old architectural saw, "The arch never sleeps"; and as he
looked up at the four wide and finely-drawn semicircles they seemed to
say:
"The arch never sleeps, never sleeps. They have bound on us a burden

too heavy to be borne. We are shifting it. The arch never sleeps."
"Wonderful, wonderful!" the Rector still murmured. "Daring fellows,
these Norman builders."
"Yes, yes," Westray was constrained to say; "but they never reckoned
that the present tower would be piled upon their arches."
"What, you think them a little shaky?" put in the organist. "Well, I have
fancied so, many a time, myself."
"Oh, I don't know. I dare say they will last our time," Westray
answered in a nonchalant and reassuring tone; for he remembered that,
as regards the tower, he had been specially cautioned to let sleeping
dogs lie, but he thought of the Ossa heaped on Pelion above their heads,
and conceived a mistrust of the wide crossing-arches which he never
was able entirely to shake off.
"No, no, my young friend," said the Rector with a smile of forbearance
for so mistaken an idea, "do not alarm yourself about these arches. `Mr
Rector,' said Sir George to me the very first time we were here together,
`you have been at Cullerne forty years; have you ever observed any
signs of movement in the tower?' `Sir George,' I said, `will you wait for
your fees until my tower tumbles down?' Ha, ha, ha! He saw the joke,
and we never heard anything more about the tower. Sir George has, no
doubt, given you all proper instructions; but as I had the privilege of
personally showing him the church, you must forgive me if I ask you to
step into the south transept for a moment, while I point out to