Mr Clifton believed quite orthodoxly in the devil; but he had used his name at the moment more or less metaphorically. He felt as he looked at Guy, as he had never felt before, that “improving” his parish meant literally dragging it away from the power of evil.
“The place won’t answer in that depressing hole,” said Godfrey. “It gives one the shivers to think of it.”
“It’ll answer, if we’re not afraid,” said Guy.
It was not surprising, on any grounds, that he had a bad fit of palpitation and faintness that night, after the long discussion was over.
“I must lie still,” he said in the morning; “but bring Clifton here before he goes. I want to speak to him.”
“I am afraid I over-tired you last night,” said the vicar, penitently, when he obeyed this summons.
Guy was lying back on his pillows, with the winter morning sun shining through his unshaded window, full on his hair and face.
“Thanks—it couldn’t possibly be helped,” he said. “It doesn’t matter. You’re quite right about the Dragon. Don’t give the notion up. You know we have neither of us much money, but we’ll help. And you’re right about the subscription. Every one that lends a hand brings more force to help.”
“We must give a long pull and a strong pull and a pull all together,” said the vicar, cheerily.
“Yes,” said Guy, with a vivid smile. “Now I understand that. And when we have won, you could paint in Michael above the Dragon, beating him down under his feet.”