Forty years ago, lying lost up a narrow lane that joined a track across
a wide green common, this ancient timber-built manor-house could
scarcely have been found but by some one who knew the country and its
by-ways well. Even when quite near, it had to be searched for, so much
was it hidden away behind ricks and farm-buildings; with the closer
overgrowth of old fruit trees, wild thorns and elders, and the tangled
wastes of vegetation that had invaded the outskirts of the neglected, or
at any rate very roughly-kept, garden of the farm-house, which purpose
it then served.
What had been the moat could hardly be traced as a continuous
water-course; the banks were broken down and over-grown, water stood in
pools here and there; tall grass, tussocks of sedge and the rank weeds
that thrive in marshy places had it all to themselves.
But the place was beautiful, for all the neglect and disorder, and to
the mind of a young girl that already harboured some appreciative
perception of the value of the fine old country buildings, and whose
home lay in a valley only three miles away, Tangley was one of the
places within an easy ride that could best minister to that vague
unreasoning delight, so gladly absorbed and so keenly enjoyed by an
eager and still almost childish imagination. For the mysteries of
romantic legend and old tale still clung about the place--stories of an
even more ancient dwelling than this one of the sixteenth century.
There was always a ready welcome from the kindly farmer’s wife, and
complete freedom to roam about; the pony was accommodated in a cowstall,
and many happy summer hours were spent in the delightful
[Illustration: THE PERGOLA, GREAT TANGLEY