Spring in England—and one of those perfect spring days in which all
rural England looks like a garden. The landscape was especially
beautiful to American eyes, after the more rugged views of
Transatlantic scenery. The hedges were closely clipped, the fields of
the deepest green, and the hills far away were blue and hazy in the
distance.
“There is no getting over the fact,” said Morris, “that this is the
prettiest country in the whole world.”
During most of the journey Katherine Earle sat back in her corner of
the first-class compartment, and gazed silently out of the flying
windows. She seemed too deeply impressed with the beauty of the scene
to care for conversation even with the man she was to marry. At last
they stopped at a pretty little rural station, with the name of the
place done in flowers of vivid colour that stood out against the brown
of the earth around, them and the green turf which formed the sloping
bank.
“Now,” said George, as they stood on the platform, “whither away? Which
direction?”
“I want to see,” said she, “a real, genuine, old English country home.”
“A castle?”
“No, not a castle.”
“Oh, I know what you want. Something like Haddon Hall, or that sort of
thing. An old manor house. Well, wait a minute, and I’ll talk to the
station master, and find out all there is about this part of the
country.”
And before she could stop him, he had gone to make his inquiry of that
official. Shortly after he came back with a list of places that were
worth seeing, which he named.
“Holmwood House,” she repeated. “Let us see that. How far is it?”
George again made inquiries, and found that it was about eight miles
away. The station-master assured him that the road thither was one of
the prettiest drives in the whole country.
“Now, what kind of a conveyance will you have? There are four-wheeled
cabs, and there is even a hansom to be had. Will you have two horses or
one, and will you have a coachman?”
“None of these,” she said, “if you can get something you can drive
yourself—I suppose you are a driver?”
“Oh, I have driven a buggy.”
“Well, get some sort of conveyance that we can both sit in while you
drive.”
“But don’t you think we will get lost?”
“We can inquire the way,” she said, “and if we do get lost, it won’t
matter. I want to have a long talk with you before we reach the place.”
They crossed the railway by a bridge over the line, and descended into
a valley along which the road wound.
The outfit which George had secured was a neat little cart made of wood
in the natural colour and varnished, and a trim little pony, which
looked ridiculously small for two grown people, and yet was, as George
afterwards said, “as tough as a pine knot.”
The pony trotted merrily along, and needed no urging. George doubtless
was a good driver, but whatever talents he had in that line were not
brought into play. The pony was a treasure that had apparently no bad
qualities. For a long time the two in the cart rode along the smooth
highway silently, until at last Morris broke out with—
“Oh, see here! This is not according to contract. You said you wanted a
long talk, and now you are complacently saying nothing.”
“I do not know exactly how to begin.”
“Is it so serious as all that?”
“It is not serious exactly—it is merely, as it were, a continuation of
the confession.”
“I thought we were through with that long ago. Are there any more
horrible revelations?”
She looked at him with something like reproach in her eyes.
“If you are going to talk flippantly, I think I will postpone what I
have to say until another time.”
“My dear Kate, give a man a chance. He can’t reform in a moment. I
never had my flippancy checked before. Now then, I am serious again.
What appalling—I mean—you see how difficult it is, Katherine—I mean,
what serious subject shall we discuss?”
“Some other time.”
“No—now. I insist on it. Otherwise I will know I am unforgiven.”
“There is nothing to forgive. I merely wanted to tell you something
more than you know about my own history.”
“I know more now than that man in the story.”
“He did not object to the knowledge, you know. He objected to receiving
it from a third person. Now I am not a third person, am I?”
“Indeed, you are not. You are first person singular—at present—the
first person to me at least. There, I am afraid I have dropped into
flippancy again.”
“That is not flippancy. That is very nice.” The interval shall be
unreported.
At last Katherine said quietly, “My mother came from this part of
England.”
“Ah! That is why you wanted to come here.”
“That is why I wanted to come here. She was her father’s only daughter,
and, strange to say, he was very fond of her, and proud of her.”
“Why strange?”
“Strange from his action for years after. She married against his will.
He never forgave her. My father did not seem to have the knack of
getting along in the world, and he moved to America in the hope of
bettering his condition. He did not better it. My father died ten years
ago, a prematurely broken down man, and my mother and I struggled along
as best we could until she died two years ago. My grandfather returned
her letter unopened when mother wrote to him ten years ago, although
the letter had a black border around it. When I think of her I find it
hard to forgive him, so I suppose some of his nature has been
transmitted to me.”
“Find it hard? Katherine, if you were not an angel you would find it
impossible.”
“Well, there is nothing more to tell, or at least, not much. I thought
you should know this. I intended to tell you that last day on
shipboard, but it seemed to me that here was where it should be
told—among the hills and valleys that she saw when she was my age.”
“Katherine, my dear, do not think about it any more than you can help.
It will only uselessly depress you. Here is a man coming. Let us find
out now whether we have lost our way or not.”
They had.
Even after that they managed to get up some wrong lanes and byways, and
took several wrong turnings; but by means of inquiry from every one
they met, they succeeded at last in reaching the place they were in
search of.
There was an old and grey porter’s lodge, and an old and grey gateway,
with two tall, moss-grown stone pillars, and an iron gate between them.
On the top of the pillars were crumbled stone shields, seemingly held
in place by a lion on each pillar.
“Is this Holmwood House?” asked Morris of the old and grey man who came
out of the porter’s lodge.
“Yes, sir, it be,” replied the man.
“Are visitors permitted to see the house and the grounds?”
“No, they be’ant,” was the answer. “Visitors were allowed on Saturdays
in the old Squire’s time, but since he died they tell me the estate is
in the courts, and we have orders from the London lawyers to let nobody
in.”
“I can make it worth your while,” said George, feeling in his vest
pocket; “this lady would like to see the house.”
The old man shook his head, even although George showed him a gold
piece between his finger and thumb. Morris was astonished at this, for
he had the mistaken belief which all Americans have, that a tip in
Europe, if it is only large enough, will accomplish anything.
“I think perhaps I can get permission,” said Katherine, “if you will
let me talk a while to the old man.”
“All right. Go ahead,” said George. “I believe you could wheedle
anybody into doing what he shouldn’t do.”
“Now, after saying that, I shall not allow you to listen. I shall step
down and talk with him a moment and you can drive on for a little
distance, and come back.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said George, “I know how it is. You don’t want
to give away the secret of your power. Be careful, now, in stepping
down. This is not an American buggy,” but before he had finished the
warning, Katherine had jumped lightly on the gravel, and stood waiting
for him to drive on. When he came back he found the iron gates open.
“I shall not get in again,” she said. “You may leave the pony with this
man, George, he will take care of it. We can walk up the avenue to the
house.”
After a short walk under the spreading old oaks they came in sight of
the house, which was of red brick and of the Elizabethan style of
architecture.
“I am rather disappointed with that,” said George, “I always thought
old English homesteads were of stone.”
“Well, this one at least is of brick, and I imagine you will find a
great many of them are of the same material.”
They met with further opposition from the housekeeper who came to the
door which the servant had opened after the bell was rung.
She would allow nobody in the house, she said. As for Giles, if he
allowed people on the grounds that was his own look-out, but she had
been forbidden by the lawyers to allow anybody in the house, and she
had let nobody in, and she wasn’t going to let anybody in.
“Shall I offer her a tip?” asked George, in a whisper.
“No, don’t do that.”
“You can’t wheedle her like you did the old man, you know. A woman may
do a great deal with a man, but when she meets another woman she meets
her match. You women know each other, you know.”
Meanwhile the housekeeper, who had been about to shut the door, seemed
to pause and regard the young lady with a good deal of curiosity. Her
attention had before that time been taken up with the gentleman.
“Well, I shall walk to the end of the terrace, and give you a chance to
try your wiles. But I am ready to bet ten dollars that you don’t
succeed.”
“I’ll take you,” answered the young lady.
“Yes, you said you would that night on the steamer.”
“Oh, that’s a very good way of getting out of a hopeless bet.”
“I am ready to make the bet all right enough, but I know you haven’t a
ten-dollar bill about you.”
“Well, that is very true, for I have changed all my money to English
currency; but I am willing to bet its equivalent.”
Morris walked to the end of the terrace. When he got back he found that
the door of the house was as wide open as the gates of the park had
been.
“There is something uncanny about all this,” he said. “I am just
beginning to see that you have a most dangerous power of fascination. I
could understand it with old Giles, but I must admit that I thought the
stern housekeeper would—”
“My dear George,” interrupted Katherine, “almost anything can be
accomplished with people, if you only go about it the right way.”
“Now, what is there to be seen in this house?”
“All that there is to be seen about any old English house. I thought,
perhaps, you might be interested in it.”
“Oh, I am. But I mean, isn’t there any notable things? For instance, I
was in Haddon Hall once, and they showed me the back stairway where a
fair lady had eloped with her lover. Have they anything of that kind to
show here?”
Miss Earle was silent for a few moments. “Yes,” she said, “I am afraid
they have.”
“Afraid? Why, that is perfectly delightful. Did the young lady of the
house elope with her lover?”
“Oh, don’t talk in that way, George,” she said. “Please don’t.”
“Well, I won’t, if you say so. I admit those little episodes generally
turn out badly. Still you must acknowledge that they add a great
interest to an old house of the Elizabethan age like this?”
Miss Earle was silent. They had, by this time, gone up the polished
stairway, which was dimly lighted by a large window of stained glass.
“Here we are in the portrait hall,” said Miss Earle. “There is a
picture here that I have never seen, although I have heard of it, and I
want to see it. Where is it?” she asked, turning to the housekeeper,
who had been following them up the stairs.
“This way, my lady,” answered the housekeeper, as she brought them
before a painting completely concealed by a dark covering of cloth.
“Why is it covered in that way? To keep the dust from it?”