"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?"