He flung the beam of his torch on to the paintings, as far as they had been revealed. They were in a sad state still, with dust, dirt, cobwebs and the slime of slugs upon them. He could make out some big figures, with one bigger figure with a crown, probably King Stubba, wielding a sword. Up above the figures was a conventional design in dull red. He tried to get a good view from all the sides of the chapel, but could not make out much more. He determined to go again on Monday; nay, he would find out the vicar of the church and see to it that these old works were tenderly cared for. Nobody in England to-day could do things so vivid. Why, even the pattern above the figures was better than anyone could do to-day. And who had done these things? He sat down in a pew in the church to stare into the side chapel at the shadowy figures on the wall. Who had done the things in that little fourteenth or early fifteenth century England? He supposed that it was some local chap, for the church could never have been rich, and could not have afforded a man specially down from London to do the work. As he thought of it, he decided that probably King Stubba lay buried in that chapel, and that perhaps the shrine had been great and famous, visited by hundreds from all over England. It may not have been poor, but very rich.
He sat on there, wondering about who had done the design. “It was probably somebody here,” he thought. Somebody here had the knack and guts. Such chaps are in the town here still, perhaps. Those chaps at Hordiestraw’s, playing darts, could have done it if they had wanted to draw, instead of to ride on motor-bikes.
He was very lonely suddenly, longing unbearably for Margaret. She would have said:
“Of course, it’s the same race still; we must find those talents again and set them free and see that they can grow.”
His grief for her, which was sometimes numb, now gnawed unbearably.
“My God,” he muttered, “I wish to God I had died with you, instead of living on for this.”
He thought of what the old painter of the designs had probably believed about death and punishment after death.
“Life is punishment enough for most sinners,” he thought; “no more punishment than life is necessary.”
He thought that he would go on to speak to the vicar; he asked the woman, who was now shaking out the mats, where he could find him.
“You won’t find him on a Saturday,” she said. “He always goes out to Tatchester almshouses of a Saturday; but a letter would find him. She thought that she ought to say something about the paintings. “Very strange old things, the paintings, sir,” she said. “Still,” she added cheerfully, “it shows you what they thought was decoration, years ago.”
“Yes,” he said, “they show you that.”
Something made him think of