john walked up the flagged path of the churchyard. sounds of work came to him through the little norman doorway—the beating of hammers, the rasping of saws, the jangle of buckets.

arrived at the doorway he paused for a moment to look at the scene before him. it would seem almost incredible that order should ever be abstracted from the present chaos, at all events in the space of time proposed. doorless, windowless,—in the matter of glass,—it was a mere shell of a church, filled with scaffolding, planks, barrows, buckets; echoing with the ceaseless sound of hammering, sawing, chiselling, planing; while, within the shell, the creators of the various noises moved and worked like a handful of restless ants.

john looked towards the scaffolding surrounding the east window. perched high on a narrow [pg 40]planked platform was corin, absorbed in his work, entirely lost to the sounds around him.

john picked his way among the scattered débris made for the chancel. here there was a ladder roped against a lower platform, from whence, by means of a second ladder placed thereon, corin’s eyrie might be gained. john had his foot on a rung of the first ladder in a trice, swarmed up it, and a second or so later was giving corin warning of his approach by:

“behold the little cherub perched aloft.”

corin turned.

“oh, it’s you, is it? well, just come and look.” there was suppressed exultation in his voice.

john scrambled on to the platform, came alongside corin,—corin who pointed with a triumphant chisel.

some half-dozen or so square yards of wall had been cleared of many coats of plaster, and there, on the original groundwork, stood out thin red lines vertical and horizontal, flowers in bold outline.

“masonry, they call it,” announced corin, “and the flower is the herb robert. isn’t it gorgeous?”

[pg 41]

now to the purely uninitiated, to the mere casual observer, the adverb might have appeared unduly extravagant. what, such a one might have demanded, was there in a few crude brush lines to justify this mode of speech? yet john, artist though he was not, understood, and not only understood, but endorsed to the full corin’s rapture. here was the work of age-old centuries, the frank expression of some long-ago-forgotten painter, brought once more to the light of day. fresh as when first limned the simple lines glowed crimson from the cream-coloured surface of the wall.

“it’s—it’s fine,” said john simply.

corin, radiant, beaming, waved his chisel in a comprehensive sweep around the walls.

“and think,” cried he exultant, “what more there may be, there assuredly is, to find. think what further glories this plaster hides. man, it’s hard to restrain one’s impatience and not hack, which would be a truly disastrous proceeding.”

john laughed.

then, “try another spot,” he urged. “here, close by the east window. i’ll not divert the stroke of the chisel by the faintest whisper.”

[pg 42]

pretending to a half-reluctance, though at heart, truly, he was nothing loath to consent, corin let himself be persuaded. he shifted his position. by the outer edge of the window splay he raised his chisel and set himself to work.

the outer coats of plaster fell in thick flakes before that same remorseless chisel; they crumbled on to the platform upon which corin stood. below the plaster was a thin substance lying on the wall like a film. here the chisel came lightly into play; that film must be removed carefully, with touch as delicate as the touch of a butterfly’s wing. it entailed a suspension of breath, an excited prevention of the merest involuntary quivering of a muscle. the film broke and powdered at the lightest stroke, covering corin’s hand and wrist with a soft grey dust. breathless he pursued his work; then, suddenly, he stopped, his eyes gleaming with pleasure.

john bent forward. here assuredly was novelty,—no longer the crimson masonry, but black chevrons set within two narrow black lines showed on the cream-coloured wall, and extending, it was evident, around the whole window.

“ah!” breathed john.

[pg 43]

corin nodded, his chisel again raised.

in places the plaster adhered like glue to the walls; it had to be chipped away inch by inch, and through sheer force. here it was that the work required the greatest skill and dexterity. the pressure of the chisel by an extra hair’s breadth would have meant the cutting through of the film below the plaster, and destroying the painting that lay beneath. it required a fine strength of wrist, the calculation to a nicety of the depth to which to cut, above all, an infinity of patience. yet, again, there were patches where not only the plaster, but the film with it, flaked away at the lightest stroke, and here the painting was at its freshest.

for full twenty minutes john gave close eye to the proceedings. at the end of that time he sighed, a mere tiny sigh. if corin heard, he heeded not. stepping back a pace he regarded his work, head on one side, soul absorbed.

john took him firmly by the arm.

“i vowed i’d not divert the stroke of the chisel by the faintest whisper,” he announced. “at the moment shouting would be harmless. therefore let me tell you in merely normal tones that i’m hungry.”

[pg 44]

“hungry!” corin blinked at him. “what’s the time?”

“long past the luncheon hour,” john assured him. “come!”

corin reluctantly laid down his chisel, turned for a final look at masonry, herb robert, and chevrons.

“and to think,” he ejaculated, “that the plaster hides all this! there must be ten coats of plaster or thereabouts. after the first goth, the first horrible philistine, plastered, no one can have known what was hidden, and they just went on plastering at intervals. i’ve made out six plasters for certain,—grey, green, white adorned with awful scroll-work, purple, green again with more scroll-work, and then this dingy brown,” he waved his hand towards the walls. “there are other plasters so stuck together no one can distinguish them, and underneath it all, this.” he touched a flower in a kind of subdued and dreamy ecstasy.

john took him once more kindly but firmly by the arm.

“it’s extremely beautiful,” he said in a tone conciliatory. “presently you shall rhapsodize [pg 45]again to your heart’s content and i’ll help you. at the moment,” he propelled him gently towards the ladder, “we leave ecstasy for the mundane, the mere sordid occupation of eating.”