Читать книгу The Garden of Memories - Henry St. John Cooper - Страница 4

CHAPTER III

A DESIRABLE FAMILY MANSION

DEAR SIR,

"In reply to your advertisement in the Daily Telegraph, I am at the moment in a position to offer you a very fine old historical mansion situated in West Sussex on the Hampshire border. The house has been untenanted for a number of years and will require considerable attention. In the hands of a man of wealth and taste, it could be restored to its original condition and would form one of the most picturesque and desirable mansions in the Country. It is eminently a place that it is necessary to see and a description of it would take too much time now, for as I have previously mentioned, I am only, at the moment, in a position to offer it as it has already been seen and highly approved by a wealthy American gentleman and it is quite probable that he will close at the bargain price at which the house and estate of seven hundred and fifty acres, including part of a small and picturesque village, is being offered. I would urge on you, therefore, if you care to consider the place, to view it without one moment's delay, as obviously it will be sold to the first who makes a good offer. I may add that the Mansion in question, with its many historical associations, would make a country seat fit for any nobleman in the land. May I finally repeat my urgent advice to view the place at once, as the delay of even an hour may be prejudicial to your obtaining it. Believe me, sir,

Yours truly,

DALABEY AND SON."

Over this letter Sir Josiah pondered a little and frowned a little.

"It's rather like having a pistol at one's head! Hanged if it isn't!" he muttered. "But it reads all right, it reads—the goods! Historical Mansion, seven hundred and fifty acres, fit for a nobleman, with part of a village, sounds right—sounds right—" he muttered. He nodded his head. "But this hurry—why it's a confounded nuisance, that's what it is. How can I go? I've got—let me see—har hum—" He muttered to himself and frowned heavily.

He had much important business to see to, that day, a meeting of Directors at twelve, another at two, and there were things to be arranged and discussed that Sir Josiah knew would require his clear brain and intellect. How could, he go journeying down to some remote part of Sussex to view this ancient mansion with its historical associations, desirable as it might be?

Sir Josiah looked up from the letter and glanced across the breakfast table at his son.

Allan was reading. It would have been noteworthy had Allan not been reading. The lad was always reading. His book was propped up against a teacup and he seemed to have forgotten his breakfast.

A good looking, big and broad shouldered young fellow this, with clean cut features and massive jaw and a broad high forehead! Muscle and sinew were there, but there was intelligence and brain power in that noble forehead of his.

Fully six feet stood he in his socks, massive of build, with straight, honest blue eyes and waving hair that was neither dark nor fair. A face that might in its strength seem a little hard, a little fierce, even a little forbidding, but that the mouth atoned for all.

No man with a mouth like this could be other than very human, very tender and kindly, very generous, the mouth of a man who could give much, suffer much and love greatly.

But Sir Josiah saw nothing of all this, he only saw Allan, his son, reading another of those confounded books, for which Sir Josiah had no feeling, except of the deepest disgust.

"Allan!"

"Father?" The young man looked up. "I'm sorry!" he said. "Did you speak to me before?"

"No, I didn't, and breakfast ain't the time, Allan, to be stuffing your head with all that there nonsense!"

Allan smiled. "You had your letters, and as I had my book——"

"You always have your book! I never saw such a fellow for reading—but I'm not saying anything, my boy. No, no, you're a good lad. Few sons please their old fathers as you do me—we're not quarrelling, Allan lad!"

"We never have yet, father, and we never will, I think!"

"I know!" said Sir Josiah. "Ah, Allan, you're doing well, a fine woman, beautiful as a picture, tall and stately, and the daughter of an Earl. Why, boy, you ought to be in the Seventh Heaven of delight and instead you sit there with your nose in a book!"

"She is a fine and a beautiful and I believe a good woman," said Allan, "but her father—" he paused. "I could have wished her a better father!"

"An Earl, an Earl!" cried the old man. "A better father than an Earl! Bless me, Allan—what nonsense! However, you're marrying her not her father; it's all settled, all agreed—" He rubbed his hands, his round red face shone with benevolence and joy. "You're a sensible and dutiful fellow, Allan! You say to yourself, 'My old father wishes it—The girl is good and beautiful and well born, I don't know particularly that I love her—come to that perhaps I don't, but I might go farther and fare worse!' Eh, that's it, isn't it? And you're doing it, boy, because you know it will give pleasure to the old man!"

"I think you have got my reasoning very correctly, father!" Allan said.

"There's no one else?" Sir Josiah said.

"No one else, no—and I like Lady Kathleen. I admire her and I pity her——"

"Pity—pity—bless my soul, boy, pity. Why should you pity her? Isn't she well born, doesn't she move in the best, the very best society? Isn't she the only daughter, only child come to that, of an Earl? Pity her?"

"Just that, I pity her, I am deeply sorry for her. I think she suffers a good deal and can't you understand why?"

"I—I don't know, lad, how should I know what the feelings of a young Society lady are?"

"She is proud and she is poor, there's suffering in that—She is proud and she knows that her father's name is in bad odour. Do you think a sensitive, highly strung girl as she is doesn't feel a thing like that? Yes, I pity her, and if through me her life may be made a little happier, why not? Last night when you and her father were talking money—she and I had much to say to one another. She was very open and very frank to me and I to her. We made no pretence—we know that we do not love one another. She is desperately poor and she is marrying me chiefly—entirely for the money you are going to give us both. I know that you are lending Lord Gowerhurst money, that he has not the slightest intention of every repaying you—Oh, Kathleen and I have been perfectly open and frank with one another—I understand that she cares for no one else. She has the same assurances from me, so there—" Allan laughed sharply, "you have it, the usual thing, a marriage of convenience! How can I pretend that I like it, Father, when I do not? You—you know that I would sooner not—but it is arranged, it is agreed—I do not love her, but thank God I can and do respect her and I feel sorry for her—and so we shall go through with it, Father!" he concluded.

Josiah nodded. "Yes, boy, you will go through with it and one day you'll thank me that I brought it about. I know a good woman when I see one and I tell you she is that—good—good to the core—I'm not clever and not over well educated, Allan, like you are. I don't set up to be a gentleman, but there's one thing I can do, I can sum up my fellow men and women, too, come to that. You'll find Allan, I'm making no mistake when I say Lady Kathleen is as fine and as true a woman as ever stepped. You'll go through with this marriage, Allan, I count on you!"

"I've never failed you yet, Father."

"You never have, never, and never will!" A look of rare tenderness came into the commonplace, even vulgar face. He rose and went to his son and put a large trembling hand on his shoulder.

"No Allan, you've never failed me, not even when you were a little chap! Do you think I don't think of it? Do you think I don't thank God for it, do you think when I hear other men speaking of their sons and of—of the trouble some of 'em bring? Do you think I don't say to myself—'My boy's above that kind of thing, my boy's an honest man and a gentleman!'" He gripped the shoulder under his hand tightly.

"And now read that, read this letter——" he went on in a changed voice. "Read it, Allan!"

Allan took the letter and read it.

"Well, father?"

"It looks like being just the kind of place I'm after!"

"There are bound to be hundreds of others—hundreds!"

"That's just what there aren't. You know how I've advertised, you know how many places I've seen, twenty at least, and I wouldn't be found dead in any one of 'em. No! places like I want aren't to be found every day, and I've got an idea this might be the place. Besides that, these agents write, it's to be bought cheaply. I'm never above making a bargain, Allan. It's in pretty bad condition evidently and I daresay it'll cost some money to put right, but what's that matter if I get it off the purchase price? Now to-day I can't go and you see that this agent writes to say it's urgent. There's an American out for it and I don't like to be beat, Allan, and especially I don't like to be beat by an American. They are keen buyers and clever buyers and what I say is this—if this place is good enough for a rich American—why it might also be good enough for me!"

Allan nodded. "And you will go and see this place and——"

"That's just what I can't do, I've got two Company meetings and important ones they are, and I can't miss 'em. Time's short, it's a bit like having a pistol pointed at one's head; but there you are, you can't help it and so my boy you've just got to put that book of poems, or whatever it is, away and forget it for to-day—you've got to go down—to——" he paused and looked at the letter, "this place, this Little Stretton, Little Stretton——" he repeated. "I seem to know the name, been there before perhaps—motoring or something, however you'll have to go there to-day instead of—me! You're not a fool, Allan, you've got eyes in your head—After all, the place is to be for you when you are married to her Ladyship, and it's right you should be the one to see it, so go down there, boy, see the place, size it up and find out the price. Use your own judgment because you've got it to use. I'll leave it in your hands. I'll make out a cheque for five hundred and sign it and you can leave it as deposit if you decide to buy. Only make up your mind, don't beat about the bush, remember we're not the only ones—and if it's the right place I don't want to lose it!"

"But father—had you not better see it yourself, surely to-morrow——?"

"To-morrow won't do—it must be done to-day—I know, worse luck, you're not a good hand at making a bargain, but I've got to make the best of that! Do your best, if you like the place, if you think it's cheap, if there are possibilities in it—why, Allan, boy, snap it up—don't let anyone get ahead of you! Here's the cheque." Sir Josiah tore a cheque out and made it out for five hundred pounds and signed it "Josiah Homewood."

"And now you'd better look out a train to this place, this Little Stretton——" again he seemed to linger over the name. "Unless, of course," he added, "you'll go by the car?"

"I'll go by train——" Allan said. In the train he could read his beloved books. The car allowed no such relaxation. "I'll go by train!" he said.

CHAPTER IV

HOW ALLAN CAME TO THE GARDEN

For May it was a very hot day, almost an unnaturally hot day. It was a day that might well have belonged to August.

Allan stepped it from the station, a sign post told him that Little Stretton was yet a mile to go. He took off his hat and henceforth carried it in his hand. He had read his book all the way down in the train and his mind was still lingering on it, on the book rather than on realities. So when he came to where stood an old, a very, very ancient oak, the mere relic of a once noble tree, he looked at it vaguely, and then looked beyond for the little red tiled barn that some fancy told him would be there. And it was there, but it was a very old barn and the roof had fallen in, in places and lichen was growing on the broken tiles.

Allan stared at it, he felt faintly surprised.

"Strange!" he said aloud. "Strange—why——"

He had an idea that the barn was not so old, why it ought to have been almost a new barn, had he not seen——

"Good Heavens!" he said aloud. "I must be dreaming or something——" Then he walked on rapidly. He breasted a hill and descended on the far side, following the twisting, turning road between the hedgerows all sweet with May flowers, and so came at last to a little village of red houses roofed with slabs of old Sussex stone, all green and yellow with lichen, yellow mostly.

Allan stood still and looked at the village that lay almost at his feet.

"I suppose," he said slowly. "I suppose we must, have motored through here once!"

He seemed to know it all so well, the sleepy sloping street with the quaintly irregular houses, the little shops with curved bow windows thrusting out on to the pavement, and the low pitched doorways one gained by climbing perhaps three or more worn stone steps. The Inn, the sign of which swung from a beam that spanned the street. Yes surely he had seen it all before—on some motoring trip perhaps—and yet—and yet in a way it was strangely different, as the barn had differed from his expectations. For a time with a queer puzzled sensation, he stood, and then he came back to realities. He had journeyed here to see some house agent—what was his name?

Dalabey! yes Dalabey!

"Boy," he called to a dusty white haired urchin playing with a dog. "Boy, which is Mr. Dalabey's, the house agent?"

The boy pointed. "That be Dalabey's up they steps be Dalabey's shop."

So Allan went up the steps and found himself in the office of Dalabey and Son.

Mr. Dalabey, a stout, red haired man, wearing no coat, was talking with a visitor, he looked at Allan.

"My father had a letter about a house, an old house, he asked me——"

"Ah yes, to be sure, the house as Mr. Van Norden be after, well there be nothing settled as yet, sir," Mr. Dalabey said as he reached up for a huge key.

"I'll be ten minutes about," he said, "if you'll wait here while I get finished with this gentleman!"

"Couldn't I go on? If you direct me I might find it."

"Aye, and I'll follow. Well you can't make any mistake, 'tis just beyond the village, you'll see a high red wall, a very old wall it be, follow the wall for maybe a quarter of a mile, then you will come to the gates, well this key don't fit the gates, you'll hev to go a bit further till you come to a green door. This key is the key of the door, if you'll go on I'll get my bicycle and follow you and maybe I'll catch you up before you get there."

"Thanks!" Allan said, he took the key, a ponderous thing and smiled at it for its bigness and clumsiness.

Children in the roadway stared at the young man swinging the ponderous key in his hand, women standing in their doorways nodded to one another.

They knew the key. "Very like he be the rich American who be coming to buy the Manor," they said.

Allan walked on. Yes, certainly they must have motored through this village, he remembered it vaguely, and yet it seemed to him always a little changed. Now was there not, should there not be a Cross standing here where the road widened, in front of the Inn.

He paused and stared about him. There was no Cross, no suggestion of one.

An old man, typically Sussex, grey bearded and bent double by age, clad in a smock and an ancient tall hat, stared at him with rheumy eyes.

"Grandfather," said Allan, "wasn't there a cross here once?"

"Aye, a cross there were and a very fine cross it was tu," said the old man. "I du remember her, when I were a lad, seventy years ago; I du remember that Cross, seventy years ago knocked down her were in broad daylight, her were and I see it done, I did wi' my two eyes, see it done, I did!" He nodded his hoary head. "'Twere this a way, the doing of it. Village Street be wunnerful steep it be, they was bringing up two great el'ums on a lurry, three strappin' hosses they were a-pulling of the lurry up the hill, then down all on a sudden goes one o' the hosses, and down goes another. T'other hoss rares up her did and crack goes the chain, lurry wi' they two great el'ums goes running back'ard down the bill it did. I say it, as seen it done seventy years ago, seventy and one to be parfectly correct, and bash goes they el'um trunks into the Cross. Bash goes the Cross, down it falls in little pieces. I picked up a piece, I du remember, the bit I've got to this day, it stands on the chimbley shelf, it du. Seventy and one years ago, and me a lad of turned twelve a fine strapping lad tu."

Allan slipped a coin into the old man's willing palm.

Strange he should have thought that a Cross stood there. And yet, why strange? He had seen some other village street like this one, with a Cross set up in it. One often saw Crosses set up in old world villages.

So he went on, swinging the great key in his hand and presently he came to the end of the village, where was the beginning of the old brick wall, a very high brick wall it was, fully ten feet, and the bricks were of that rare rose tint, the like of which have never been made since Anne was Queen, but these seemed to go back far before the time of Anne and here and there the wall was somewhat broken. But nature had done her best to make good the gaps, filling them up with lichen and moss of brilliant green and vivid yellow, a feast of colour for eyes tired of London's sombre streets.

And he knew, because Mr. Dalabey had told him, that a quarter of a mile on, he would come to the gates, wide gates of iron hung on stone pillars and on each stone pillar was set the head of a deer, also carved in stone.

And presently he came to the gates, and the pillars stood all moss covered, surmounted, as he knew they would be, by the sculptured heads of deer; but one had lost its antlers, and the other had its muzzle broken short off.

Allan looked up at them and smiled, and then his smile vanished. Mr. Dalabey had not told him of the deers' heads, and yet—they were here. Curious! he thought.

It was as though he had come on a place that he had visited in a dream, he could not shake off the feeling of familiarity, the knowledge, the certainty that attended his every step. He knew that the green door would be arched at the top and that it would be studded with great nails and bound with iron in many places.

He knew that it would be and it was! He fitted the heavy key in the lock and it turned at last with much rasping and complaining.

The door gave on a paved yard and in the crevices of the great flat topped cobbles grew weeds of all kind that bloomed and flourished untouched.

And now the feeling of familiarity, the knowledge of the place had grown on him, so that he wondered at it no longer. He accepted it, because it was right, because—he refused to consider it at all. He knew!

To the left stood the kitchen part of the house, he glanced towards it, but turned to the right and picked his way across the weed grown yard and came to a small wicket gate, between two tumble down buildings. The wicket gate had fallen into rottenness and lay all in fragments on the ground, but through the opening that was left he passed and found himself in the wild tangle of the great garden.

Through the garden he walked, a man waking, yet in a strange dream. He followed the flagged pathway past the old sundial that had lost its gnomon, beyond the wild yew hedge and so to the lake, from which rose the slim figure of a stone girl and at her he stared long.

He suddenly realised that, he had come here to see her, he had come on purpose, just to see this stone figure of a girl. He would have been disappointed, almost shocked, if she had not been here—and she was here—but the pitcher on her shoulder was empty and the upflung water flashed no longer in the sunlight.

Slowly, very slowly, he turned away, he went back through the rose garden with bowed head, he came to the great circle of stone in the midst of which was set the old sundial, and on a stone seat, warmed by the sun, he sat down.

"Strange!" he said. He said it aloud. "Strange!" he repeated. "I seem to know——" He stretched his arm out and laid it on the back of the old stone seat, and sat there staring at the moss grown sundial pedestal—staring till it seemed to waver, to become all uncertain before his sight.

And then—then he lifted his head and looked about him.

He saw a garden all glowing with flowers, and trim green lawns, the weeds, the desolation and the ruin of centuries had passed as with a breath. The garden was all glowing and blowing as perhaps it had two hundred years ago, and then slowly he turned his head and looked towards the house and saw that doors and windows stood open and that curtains swung from the casements lazily in the breeze. And as he watched a door opened and into the sunshine stepped, somewhat timidly he thought, a little maid, a trim, slim bodied little maid. She wore a flowered cotton gown, short at the ankles and low in the neck, and how the sun seemed to kiss it! And the little face above, a rarely sweet little face, purely oval with ripe red lips and the bluest eyes in the world. So she came hurrying along the wide stone pathway to him, a smile on her red lips and the copper red of her hair all flaming in the sunlight under the dainty mob cap.

But ere she reached him, she stood still suddenly and looked at him with a pretty frown that was yet half a smile on her little face.

"Allan!" she said. "Allan, be you still angry wi' your Betty now, dear? Will 'ee take back the words 'ee did speak in your anger, Allan? For you should know I would not have let a gawky rogue like Tim Burnand buss me, Allan, if I could 'a helped it. Before I could tell what he was at, he did steal a kiss, and I have rubbed my poor face sore to rub it all away for—for I want no kisses but thine Allan, my—my dear!"

Her voice was very soft and sweet and the tears gathered in her wonderful blue eyes, tears that seemed to wring his heart.

"I—I was overharsh and rough wi' thee, my Betty," he said. "I know 'twas not your fault, but all the fault of Tim Burnand whose bones I'll break for him, may——"

"Nay—swear not!" she said. "Oh Allan, I love thee for thy jealousy, I love thee for it!" Her eyes were laughing and joyous now and her face was all smiles and dimples and so she came to him, daintily, and put her two small hands, little brown hands in queer black lace mittens, on his shoulders and rising on her toes, she kissed him on the eyes.

"And never, never more will 'ee be angry and jealous of your Betty?" she said.

"Never again!" he said. "But because I do love thee so, my maid I could not bear to think that other lips——"

"Have never touched mine, 'twas but my cheek he bussed, and I boxed his ears soundly for him—but hush—I hear my lady calling to me—Listen! Betty! Betty! yes—I did but steal away, seeing you here—just to tell thee——" She paused for breath for a moment "to tell thee, my Allan, how I do love thee! Hark, my lady is calling again!"

"Blow me; sir, if I didn't think you'd been and lost yourself or fell down the old well, which I did ought to have reminded you about, or something!" said a voice.

Allan started up, stared up into the round red and over-heated face of Mr. Dalabey. He looked about him with dazed eyes. Weeds were rioting over the old garden, the grass stood knee high on the lawns, dandelions thrust their golden heads between the paving stones at his feet. He stared at the house and saw it all, sombre and lifeless, a house of the dead. Its windows were broken, desolation and ruin were upon it, and then he looked back at the jolly red face of Mr. Dalabey.

"Fell asleep!" Mr. Dalabey said. "And been dreaming!" he added.

"Yes—dreaming——" Allan said quietly. "Dreaming!"

CHAPTER V

IN WHICH ALLAN BUYS THE MANOR HOUSE

In and out and up and down Mr. Dalabey led Allan over the old house. They pried into dark and dusty corners, they ascended narrow and rickety stairs. It was a wonderful, rambling old place, the years had set their mark on it. The old oaken floors, worn and roughened by a thousand feet, took on many a queer pitch; from the pine panelling the paint had come away in great flakes; scarce a window but had its broken pane and through the pane some impertinent creeper thrust into the room and nodded to them familiarly.

Allan followed the stout, red faced, good humoured man up and down the stairs and in and out the old rooms. A great talker was Mr. Dalabey, a born seller of houses.

"This here be the banquetting hall, a very noble room, sir, very noble, fit for the aristocracy, her be, and a good many of the aristocracy it hev seen, sir, and many a bottle hev been drunk here, sir, I'll wager! Look at the ceiling, sir, some of the finest old plaster work to be met with in the kingdom, wonderful fine plaster work it be, as many gents as be connoisseurs, hev remarked. Greatly took with the plaster work was Mr. Van Norden."

"Yes," Allan said, and "Yes!" For his thoughts were far away, he looked through the broken and dusty windows into the garden with its weeds and its broken pathways and overgrown flower beds, and a strange sense of loss came to him. He felt a little ache at his heart, for the girl who had come to him in that same strange dream and had kissed his eyes and called him "her dear."

How real she had been. He marvelled now at the feeling that had been his at the time, that she was a very part of his life. How sweet and musical her voice, how warm and soft the touch of her red lips and yet it had only been a dream!

"This be one o' the guest rooms and you'll notice the wig cupboard, sir," said Mr. Dalabey; "very remarkable this wig cupboard, you'll see 'em in most of the bedrooms where the quality of them days kep' their wigs. Much took Mr. Van Norden was with they wig cupboards!"

"Yes!" said Allan, and all the time his thoughts were with the maiden of the garden, she who had kissed his eyes and had vanished as she had come, leaving him with this strange sense of loneliness and longing and hunger, and above all that deep, deep sense of loss.

"And now I think we've pretty well done it, sir, there's the stables, rare fine stables they was once. Seldom less than twenty hosses did they keep in them stables in the Elmacott's days——"

"Whose days?"

"Elmacott, that were the name o' the folk, dead and gone they be now—Sir Nathaniel were the last, a rare wild devil of a man according to history, my old grandfather, a wonderful man he were, would tell me many a story of Sir Nat, as they called him, when I were a boy. Stories my old granddad had from his father before him—well sir," Mr. Dalabey paused, "well, sir, there it be, I've shewn you all there is to see, hiding nothing, a rare lot of money'll be wanted to be spent on it, sir, and there be no disguising the fact, nor have I attempted to disguise it, as you'll bear witness, sir, but there be this Mr. Van Norden keen set on the place and likely for to make up his mind any moment, considering of it he is at this very time, I daresay!"

"Who are the owners?" Allan asked.

"A gentleman of the name of Stimpson be the owner, a distant relative of the Elmacotts by marriage. I do understand, out in Canada he be, born and bred there and never clapped eyes on the place, nor ever likely to. I've got to get the best price I can for the place, seeing he be my client, and the price I've asked Mr. Van Norden——" Dalabey paused. He looked at Allan, he had no great opinion of Allan. "Queer and dreamy like," Mr. Dalabey thought, "not businesslike, one of they sort who goes through the world mooning——"

"And the price?" Allan asked.

"Er—thirty thousand pounds," said Dalabey.

"It's a great deal of money," Allan said, he said it more for the sake of saying something than for any other reason. Had Dalabey said fifty thousand pounds, he would probably have said the same thing.

"Open to an offer I be, but the offer's got to come quick and soon, or Mr. Van Norden——"

"I know, I know!" Allan stood and stared out over the garden. He wondered at its strange fascination for him. Of course it had only been a dream, yet a dream so strangely real, so clear cut, so logical and why—why should it have come to him here in this old garden—why?

Mr. Dalabey was staring at him.

"Gone to sleep he hev seemingly."

"Thirty thousand, sir, and that be no more than forty pounds an acre for good Sussex land by my reckoning, to say nothing of the old house and the buildings and a dozen cottages in the village wi' the alehouse, the Elmacott Arms."

"Yes, yes!" Allan said. "Yes! I am acting for my father. I have his permission to—to settle—the house will cost a great deal to repair, a great deal!"

"I haven't disguised nothing from you and no one can say——"

"I will offer you twenty-five thousand on my father's behalf!"

"Oh sir, oh consider! A fine house her be and wunnerful good land the best in all Sussex and twenty-five thousand b'ain't no more than about thirty pounds an acre, a terribul little money that, sir, for land so good and the historical association and all!"

"Twenty-seven!" Allan said briefly.

"There be Mr. Van Norden a considering of it at this very moment——"

Allan hated bargaining, hated money. His life had been spent in an atmosphere of money. He knew that above and before all he wanted to be rid of this man, he wanted to go back to the old garden and sit there on the sun warmed stone seat and see if his dream would not come back to him.

"Twenty-eight thousand, then, and no more, I have done, take it or leave it!"

"You'll like to see the cottages and the Inn, a wunnerful old Inn her be with historical interest and——"

"No!" said Allan. "No! do you take my offer, yes or no? Tell me now!"

Mr. Balabey stroked his chin. He did not like to do business in this way. True it was profitable business, for Mr. Van Norden was considering the offer at twenty-five thousand.

"Very well, sir, done and done!" said Mr. Dalabey. "Done with you, sir, and I congratulate you on a rare bargain, I do, sir!" He held out his large and moist hand.

Allan took it.

"Now," he said, "I will ask you to do me a favour! I have purchased the place at twenty-eight thousand pounds. I have a cheque for five hundred pounds as deposit in my pocket, if I had a pen——"

"I've got a fountain pen with me, sir," said Dalabey, "always carry one I du!"

"Very well then, we will sit down here—and if you will lend me your pen——?"

They sat down on the old stone seat and Allan filled in the cheque.

"Make it payable to me," Dalabey said. "Thomas J. Dalabey," which Allan did.

"And now," Allan said, "I'd like to look about the old place alone, take the cheque and I will call at your office on my way back, you can then give me the receipt."

"To be sure and so I will, and once more congratulate you I do, and if so be you'll honour me, sir, I'll have a cup of tea ready and waiting for you when you come back!"

"Thank you!" Allan said. "And now, one thing more, how is the old place called, Mr. Dalabey?"

"Why 'tis Homewood Manor, I thought as I mentioned the name in my letter——"

"No, you did not, though I remember someone else spoke of it to me—Homewood Manor, that is strange!"

"In the Parish of Homewood it be," said Dalabey, "just within, and the next Parish be Little Stretton, but as this——"

"I understand, I quite understand, but all the same it is curious!"

"I don't see how," said Mr. Dalabey, "curious it 'ud be if it were called anything else, sir!"

"Look at the cheque, at the signature!" Allan said.

Mr. Dalabey looked, he uttered an exclamation as he spelled out Josiah Homewood's crabbed handwriting.

"Very odd it be, I swear!" he said. "And very right and proper too, come to that, nothing could be better! Mr. Homewood of Homewood Manor, it sounds good, sir! And now I'll get back and a cup o' tea'll be ready for you in say an hour's time——"

"Say two——" Allan said, "and thank you!"

So Dalabey hurried off to spread the news through Little Stretton. Beaming with joy he was, as he cycled down the road.

"Ah, Mrs. Hanson, there you be, Ma'am!" he shouted, slowing down by the little cottage. "News I've got for 'ee and for that little gel o' thine!"

"News—hev the American——"

"No, ma'am, he hasn't! Why, my maid, what be the matter wi' 'ee?" Dalabey added, for he had caught sight of Betty's blooming face in the window.

And a pretty picture the girl made, her sweet face framed in the clinging greenery and the roses on the point of breaking into bloom, but the sweetest rose of all was there in the window.

"Fair joyous you do look," said Dalabey, "joyous be the word, all bubbling over wi' delight—and yet—you cannot have heard the news of the selling yet?"

"The—the selling—Mr. Dalabey, not—not the selling of—my—of—oh you said—the American hasn't bought——"

"Homewood Manor be sold, sold by I, this very day, Mrs. Hanson, sold by I within the hour!" He rubbed his big red hands, "and a fair price, yes I'll admit, a fair price as things go—but sold it be, sold and done for, but not to the American gentleman—Why, Mrs. Hanson, what be the matter wi' that gel o' thine?"

For Betty had gone white, white as death, and the joy had gone out of her face and her little red lips dragged down pitifully and into her blue eyes had come tears, tears which all unnoticed trickled down her pale cheeks.

"Fair daft that maid be about that old garden!" said Mrs. Hanson. "And glad I be, Mr. Dalabey, as the place be sold, and put to orders, I hope it'll be, so this maid of mine will go no more roamin' where her haven't no business to be!"

"Ah yes, to be sure, to be sure!" Mr. Dalabey said. "To be sure," he added, "well! sold it be and, strangest of all, to a young gentleman, leastways his father, which be all the same, of the name of Homewood. There, what do 'ee think of that now? Homewood Manor sold to a Homewood, curious, eh? Well, well, I must be getting along!"

"Sold it be and a dratted good job too!" Mrs. Hanson said.

Betty crept away to her attic room under the thatched roof. Sold! Her garden sold and for ever now barred against her! No more rambles in the enchanted garden by moonlight, no more dreams in which she peopled the old garden with all those strange folk, of whom she had seen visions. And He—she would never see Him more, bending over the flower beds at his work. He whose face she had hardly seen, and yet somehow she knew that He meant so much to her. So the little maid crept to her room with bursting heart.

"Sold it be, sold it be," she whispered to herself.

CHAPTER VI

"I HATE HIM—HATE HIM I DU!"

Allan sat on the old stone seat in the warm sunshine. He watched the rioting weeds, the broken sundial, the long pathway of flagged stone leading to the grim desolate house.

He closed his eyes and opened them again, hoping to see that vision he had seen, but it came to him no more. No! there were only the weeds and the decay and the green moss.

So he sat there for a full hour and tried to force that which would not come. He could see her, in fancy, tripping down the flagged path to him, with love and tenderness in her blue eyes, that dainty little figure with the head of flaming gold and the white neck. But it was a vision that could not be forced.

So presently, disheartened and hopeless, he rose and went to the lake and stared hard at the broken stone nymph and watched the great idle fish and the sense of loss grew stronger and yet stronger on him.

Who was she who had come out of the past to kiss his eyes and to tell him that she loved him? Why should such dreams come to him? He had never dreamed in all his life before, but she had been so real, even to the little black lace mittens, black lace mittens such he had never seen on a girl's hands before. Yet he had dreamed of her and the sweet voice of her and the sweet Sussex speech and strangely enough, had he not answered her in that same speech? He remembered it now with a sudden start of surprise.

Yes, he with Eton and Oxford behind him, had spoken as she had spoken, as the old man who had told him about the broken Cross in Little Stretton had spoken.

He turned away, he made his way back through the garden. He wondered at his seeming previous knowledge of it now, for that knowledge was gone, it took him some time to find the gap where the broken wicket gate had been, but he found it and went, blundering and uncertain, across the grass grown stable yard.

He locked the battered green door behind him and thrust the great key into his coat pocket and went along the road, and on the way to the village he passed a little thatched roofed cottage and under that thatched roof a maid was lying on her little bed, face downward, weeping her heart out for the thing that he had done, yet he could not know that. How could he? He saw an old dame standing by the little gate, an upright severe old dame, with white hair and a wrinkled face, and she bobbed him a country curtsey.

To her Allan lifted his hat politely.

"A beautiful day!" he said.

"And that it be, a wunnerful fine day and hot like for May her be, sir and might—might I make bold——" she hesitated.

Allan stopped and looked at her with kindly eyes.

"You were going to ask me something?"

"Cur-us I be, which be a besetting sin!" she admitted. "But Mr. Dalabey he hev passed by just now when my maid and I—my granddarter her be, were here and he told we as he hev sold the old Manor House and I were thinking, sir, seeing the key was sticking out, of your pocket——"

Allan laughed. "Yes," he said, "you are right, I have bought it, for my father, that is——"

"A wunnerful fine place it be!" she said.

"And we shall be near neighbours, eh?"

Again she dropped a curtsey.

"'Tisn't for the like of we to be a neighbour to the like of gentry," she added, "but if any little thing I can du——"

"Be sure I will come and ask you Mrs.——"

"Hanson be my name, sir, as anyone can tell 'ee. Old this cottage be, but there never yet lived in it one whose name was not Hanson. 'Twere Hansons lived here in the days when the Elmacotts lived at the Manor, Hansons hev been servants there, always served the Elmacotts, they did, and if, sir, there be any little thing that we can du——"

"You are very good!" Allan said.

"A dear talkative old soul," he thought; he held out a friendly hand to her and she blushed at the honour and bobbed him a dozen curtseys as he went his way.

"Betty, Betty, my maid, Betty, come 'ee here, Betty, where be 'ee? Come here!" cried Mrs. Hanson, when Allan had gone.

"Here I be, Grandmother!" Betty came, a pale sorrowful faced little maiden.

"And crying 'ee've been, shame on 'ee my maid for to cry because that dirty old place hev been sold and who do 'ee think I have been talkin' wi'? Why bless 'ee wi' the young gentleman as hev bought her and a proper young gentleman he be, not above shaking hands wi' an old body like me and lifting of his hat to I, for all the world like I were a fine lady! Bless 'ee my maid, a fine, upstanding, smart, young gentleman he be, one of the quality too, aye of the quality, my maid, for mark 'ee the real quality are never above shaking hands wi' a poor body and talking pleasant to the likes o' we! 'Tis they upstarts and nobodys as looks down on poor folks! When 'ee sees him Betty, 'ee'll——"

"I never want to see him, never!" the girl cried, "Never, never, I hope I never shall see him!"

"Bless me what nonsense are 'ee talking now?"

"I never want to see him, for—for if I du, I shall hate him, hate him, aye, I hate him now, I du—hate him terribul bad, I du——"

"For shame and to your room wi' 'ee till you du come to your senses—I be ashamed o' you, Betty Hanson, that I be! Hate him indeed, hate him, a fine upstanding——"

"I hate him, I hate him, I hate him!" Betty said, and then once again, with defiance and anger and sorrow too in her blue eyes, "I hate him, I du, Grandmother!"

Mrs. Hanson lifted a rigid arm, she pointed at the door.

"To your room wi' 'ee, Betty Hanson," she said, "I be ashamed of 'ee, I be, to your room, you perilous bad maid!"