It was several degrees better than the obtrusively smart villas, though, very possibly, less materially convenient and complete. It was nothing more nor less than an enlarged and transmogrified cottage. The gable end and deep-eaved roof were still to be seen at one side; the faithful, clinging, all-the-year-round ivy; the more fitful summer friends – old-fashioned climbing roses, honeysuckle, and the like – would reappear again in due season, one felt instinctively. And the additions had not been badly managed; there was no glaring incongruity between the new and the old, and already the busy, patient ivy was doing its utmost to soften with its veiling green all offensive contrasts.
“A nice little place of its kind,” the boyish-looking clerk ventured to remark to the three strangers, gazing before them in silence. “What you call ‘quaint;’ but some admire that style. It’s not up to the mark of the other houses on the green, but that’s not to be expected. You see it was the first start here, and the owner added on to the two old cottages, instead of pulling them down and building all new, like the rest;” and he jerked his thumb in the direction of the villas.
“Thank Heaven he did nothing of the sort,” ejaculated Mrs Derwent. And the clerk stared at her so, that she checked herself with a smile. “I like it just as it is,” she said by way of explanation. “It is a picturesque-looking house; but it seems very small, I fear. From the rent named, I expected a larger place.”
“Rents have gone up about Blissmore quite astonishing,” said the young man. “And these odd houses are sometimes roomier than you’d think. You’d like to see through it, no doubt. I have all the keys.”
He moved forward, as he spoke, to the front of the house.
“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind waiting in the porch for a minute or two,” he said. “The quickest way for me to get in is by the back door; the front one is barred inside.”
The porch was charming. Deep and shady, and with tiny lattice-windows high up at each side, through which the wintry sun was sending a few rays. There were seats and a red-tiled floor. The two girls gave a quick exclamation of pleasure.
“It is like a little room,” said Stasy. The clerk’s face brightened. He seemed to feel a personal interest in the matter.
“There is no one living in the house, then, to take care of it?” inquired Mrs Derwent. “Is that not necessary?”
“Not in the fine season,” was the reply. “We were just thinking of putting some one in against the winter, if nothing came of the advertisement. But in the summer it’s very dry – very dry, indeed.”
He turned away towards the back premises, and soon they heard his footsteps returning through the passages. Then some unbolting and unbarring ensued, and the door was thrown open.
They all entered eagerly. It was rather dark, but this their guide explained was partly the result of unnecessarily closed shutters and untrimmed ivy round some of the upper windows, though partly owing, no doubt, to the oak wainscoting of the small square hall itself.
“It would look much cheerfuller with a nice paper – picked out with a little gold, perhaps. But the woodwork has a style of its own; the late owner was all for the antique.”
“The late owner,” repeated Mrs Derwent. “Is he dead, then? Has the house been long uninhabited?”
“Only since last spring. Mr Bartleman scarce lived in it himself. He found the winters too cold. Then it was let to Major Frederic, and he and his family lived here five years, till the young gentlemen had finished their schooling. There were several after it in the summer, but they mostly objected to the distance from the school.”
“But how is it, then, that the villas are all let?” asked Blanche. “At least, I suppose they are.”
“They’re not let, Miss. They’re mostly lived in by their owners – parties from the town, who have moved out, finding they could get a good rent for their houses near the school. There’s Mr Belton, the principal draper at Blissmore, lives next door; and Mr Wandle, junior partner in Luckworth and Wandle’s brewery. The neighbours are highly respectable.”
Mrs Derwent did not speak. Stasy was smothering a laugh. Blanche led the way into the rooms opening on to the hall.
They were nice – decidedly tempting, though not large. But they were depressingly out of repair. The Frederic schoolboys had evidently bestowed upon the house more than the legitimate “wear and tear” during their five years’ occupancy. The drawing-room, especially, was scarcely deserving of the name: it looked as if it had been a playroom pur et simple. The attentive clerk was ready with his explanations.
“Major Frederic never furnished this room,” he said. “It was kept empty for the young gentlemen.”
“It might be a very pretty room,” said Blanche, “but it needs everything doing to it.”
The dining-room, though it had been furnished and used in a nominally orthodox way, was in not much better case. Still, a dining-room never, to ladies especially, seems such a serious matter. The library was the best-cared-for room, and it opened into a small boudoir or study, which was really charming. There were great capabilities about the house, though hitherto these had but scantily been made available. Up-stairs it was brighter. There was a sufficient number of rooms, though everywhere the same story of needful repair and embellishment.
Outside, to somewhat inexperienced eyes, it looked in fair order, for it needs the full luxuriance of summer vegetation to show how, in a neglected or semi-neglected garden, the weeds grow apace with or outrun the orthodox inhabitants of the soil.
The clerk was very patient. The minute attention bestowed by the visitors upon the little place seemed to him to savour of hope, and it was in his own interests, poor fellow, to secure a “let,” as it would increase his chances of promotion in the office. But at last Mrs Derwent and her daughters seemed satisfied.
“We shall miss our train to London,” said the former, “if we stay any longer; for I must see Mr Otterson on our way through the town.”
So saying, she led the way out, turning, as she stepped on to the drive, to give a last look at the house, with already a slight sense of prospective proprietorship. But she said nothing, and the two girls were quick-witted enough to follow her lead.
The flyman, for reasons best known to himself, had seen fit to drive out into the road again, and was waiting, more than half asleep, at the gate.
Blanche glanced round, and an idea struck her.
“Mamma,” she said, “if you are not tired, might we walk on a little way? I should like to have some idea of the neighbourhood, and to look in at the church for a moment.”
“Certainly,” said Mrs Derwent; “it cannot make five minutes’ difference. And, after all, even if it did, we could wait for a later train.”
“You won’t find the church open, madam, I’m afraid,” said the clerk. “But you might like to walk round it. From the other side there’s a nice view, Alderwood way. On a clear day you can see right across. And at the other end of the lane there’s one of the lodges of East Moddersham, Sir Conway Marth’s place – one of the places. You can see it any Thursday. The avenue is half a mile long by this approach.”
Chapter Five
The Girl with the Happy Face
As Derwent did not seem to feel any very lively interest in East Moddersham, and proud little Stasy reared her head at the very idea of going to see a show, like tourists, when, of course, they would there as guests!
But the mention of Alderwood had a different effect.
“Alderwood,” repeated Stasy’s mother, ignoring the young man’s last words. “Do you mean Sir Adam Nigel’s place? Why, it is quite at the other side of Blissmore, unless there are two Alderwoods. But that could scarcely be.”
“Sir Adam Nigel,” repeated the clerk in his turn, shaking his head. “I don’t