The country in that district is of park-like aspect, mostly rich pastures with spinneys here and there, and running brooks2; but on that blazing summer’s day, with the road shining white before me, I was glad enough when I got under the shadow of the cottages of Caldecott.
My first impression of the place was that the village was both remote and comfortable. The cottages were mostly well kept and nearly all thatched, with quaint3 little attic4 windows peeping forth5 here and there and strange old gable ends. Every house was built of stone, solidly and well, and every cottage garden seemed to be gay with jasmine, hollyhocks, sunflowers, and other old-world flowers. Not a soul was in the village street, for in that great heat the very dogs were sleeping.
Behind, on a slight eminence6, stood a fine old church of Early English architecture, with narrow, pointed lancet-shaped windows similar to those in the choir7 of Westminster Abbey, and as I passed, the sweet-toned bell from the square ivy8-clad tower struck two o’clock. Walking on a short distance I came to a small open space which in olden days was, I suppose the village green, and seeing an inn called the Plough I entered the little bar parlour and called for some ale. The place seemed scrupulously9 clean and comfortable, very old-fashioned, but well-kept, therefore I decided10 to make it my headquarters, and engaged a room for at least one night.
The young woman who waited upon me having explained that she and her brother kept the place, I at once commenced to make some inquiries11. It was, I knew, most necessary that I should avoid attracting any undue12 attention in the gossiping little place, therefore I had to exercise the greatest caution. I gave her a card and explained my presence there to the fact that I was taking a holiday and photographing.
“By the way,” I said, standing13 at the bow window which gave a view on to the church, “whose house is that away among the trees?”
“The Vicarage, sir. Mr. Pocock lives there, a very-nice gentleman.”
“Has he been vicar long?” I inquired.
“Oh, he’s been here these five years, I think, or perhaps a little more.”
“And is there an old Manor14 House here?”
“Yes, sir. Right up the top end of the village. Mr. and Mrs. Kenway live there. They’re new tenants15, and have only been there about a year.”
“Is it a large house?”
“One of the largest here—a very old-fashioned place.”
“Is it the oldest house?”
“Oh, yes, I think so, but I wouldn’t care to live in it myself,” and the young woman shrugged16 her shoulders.
“Why?” I inquired, at once interested and hoping to learn some local legend.
“Well, they say that all sorts of strange noises are heard there at night. I’m no believer in ghosts, you know, but even rats are not pleasant companions in a house.”
“Who does the place belong to?”
“To a Jew, I think, who lives in Ireland. Years ago, I’ve heard, the place was mortgaged, and the mortgagee foreclosed. But lots of people have rented it since then, and nobody within my recollection has lived there longer than about three years.”
What the young woman told me caused me to jump to the conclusion that the house in question was once the residence of Bartholomew da Schorno, and after finishing my ale I lit a cigarette and sauntered forth to have a look at the place.
I need not tell you how eagerly I walked to the top of the village, but on arrival there I saw no sign of the house in question. I inquired of a lad, who directed me into a farmyard gate, whence I found a short, ill-kept road which ended in a cul-de-sac, leading into a field. On my right was a clump17 of elms, and hidden among them was the quaint and charmingly old-world Manor House.
First sight of the place was sufficient to tell me that it had been allowed to fall into decay, and certainly it was, even in that summer sunshine, a rather dismal18 and depressing place of abode19.
The old cobbled courtyard was overgrown with moss20 and weeds, and some of the outbuildings had ugly holes in the roofs. The house itself was long, low, and rambling21, of Elizabethan architecture, with old mullioned windows, built entirely22 of stone, now, however, grey with lichens23 and green with moss on the parts which the clinging ivy had failed to cover. The outside woodwork, weather-beaten and rotting, had not been painted for a century, while upon one of the high square chimneys stood forth the rusty24 iron angle of a sundial, from which, however, most of the graven numerals had long ago disappeared.
The high beech25 hedge which formed one of the boundaries was sufficient proof of the antiquity26 of the place, but the trees of the broad pleasure grounds, which had no doubt once extended far away down to the river, had been cut down and the land turned into pastures, so that only a small, neglected kitchen garden now remained. The place, even in its present decay, spoke27 mutely of a departed magnificence. As I stood gazing upon it, I could imagine it as the residence of the lord of the manor in the days when peacocks strutted28 in the grounds, when that moss-grown courtyard had echoed to the hoofs29 of armed horsemen, and the talk was of the prowess of Drake, of Walsingham’s astuteness30, of the martyrdom of Mary at Fotheringhay, and the fickleness31 of the Queen’s favour.
Determined32 to make the acquaintance of the present occupiers, even though it might or might not be the former residence of old Bartholomew, I went up to the blistered33 door and pulled a bell, which clanged dismally34 within, and made such an echo that I wondered if the place were devoid35 of furniture.
My summons was answered by a rather stout36, middle-aged37 woman, who, in response to my inquiry38, informed me that she was Mrs. Kenway. I was somewhat taken aback at this, for I had believed her to be a servant, but the moment she opened her mouth I knew her to be a countrywoman.
I was compelled to make an excuse for my call, so I invented what I conceived to be an ingenious untruth.
“I have called to ask you a favour,” I said, “My mother was born in this house, and being in the neighbourhood I am most anxious to see the old place. Have you any objection?”
“Oh, no, sir,” was the kindly39 woman’s prompt response. “Come in; you’re very welcome to look round, I’m sure. No, keep your hat on, there are so many draughts40.”
“Is it draughty, then?”
“Oh, sir,” she said, shaking her head and sighing; “I don’t know what the place used to be in days gone by, but me and my husband are truly sorry we ever took it. In winter it’s a reg’ler ice-well. We can’t keep ourselves warm anyhow. It’s so lonely, and full of strange noises o’ nights. I’m not nervous, but all the same they’re not nice.”
“Rats, perhaps.”
“Yes, I suppose so.” And she led me along the narrow passage where the stones were worn hollow by the tread of generations, and ushered41 me into a small, low room where black beams ran across the ceiling. But, oh! the incongruity42 of that interior. Over the old panelling was pasted common wall-paper of hideous43 design in green and yellow, while the furniture was of modern description, quite out of keeping with the antiquity of the house. As she led me through room after room I noticed how successive tenants had, by papering and white-washing, endeavoured to turn the place into a kind of modern cottage home. Much of the old woodwork had been removed, and even the oaken doors were actually painted and grained! The staircase was still, however, in its original state of dark oak, and handsomely carved, and the stone balustrade which ran round the landing was a splendid example of Elizabethan construction. Half the rooms were unfurnished, but the good woman took me along the echoing, carpetless corridors and showed me the various chambers44 above as well as below.
Could that ruinous place be the one which the noble adventurer had chosen for the concealment45 of the loot?
The place certainly coincided in date with the written statement, but I had nothing to connect it with the name of da Schorno. Perhaps, however, some of the title-deeds connected with the place might tell me something, so I obtained from Mrs. Kenway the name and address of the landlord, a man named Cohen, living in Dublin.
“This isn’t at all the house me and my husband wanted,” she declared. “Our idea when we took it was to take paying guests, because I’m used to lodgers46. I let apartments for six years in Hunstanton, and our idea in coming here was to take paying guests, as they call ’em nowadays. We advertised in the London papers and got two ladies, but they only stayed a fortnight. It was too quiet for them, they said. Since then several people have been, but I haven’t let once.”
I was certainly not surprised. If I were paying guest in that house I should go melancholy47 mad within a week. Besides, as far as I could see, the place was comfortless. An appearance of freshness was lent it by the new paper in execrable taste in the hall, and a gaudy48 new linoleum49 upon the beautiful old polished stairs, but beyond that the interior was just as dingy50 and cold-looking as the outside.
Indeed, so depressing was my visit that I was rather glad when it was over. One or two of the upstair rooms were panelled, with oak evidently, but the woodwork had been painted a uniform white, while the floors were rickety and suggestive of dry-rot.
She had another two years’ lease of the place, Mrs. Kenway regretted to say. They were trying to re-let it, for if compelled to keep it on until the end of the term it would swallow up all their slender savings51.
“You see, we are earning nothing, except a little that my husband gets out of canvassing52 for an insurance company. But it takes him out so much, and I am left alone here from morning till night.”
I was secretly glad to hear of this state of things, because if I could prove that the house had belonged to old Bartholomew, it might become necessary for us to rent it and make some investigations53.
Through the lattice window of the long, low room wherein I stood a wide view could be obtained across the neglected garden and the pastures beyond away down to the river, and as I looked forth it occurred to me to ask what rent was required.
“We pay forty-five pounds a year,” was her reply.
“Well,” I said reflectively, “I know some one who wants a quiet house in the country, and I’ll mention it to him if you like.”
“Oh, I’d be most thankful, sir,” she cried, enthusiastically. “The gentleman would be quiet enough here. There are no neighbours, and not even a passer-by, for, as you see, the road leads to nowhere.”
Again I wondered whether, concealed54 in that weird55, tumble-down old place were the gold and jewels from the Spanish galleon56 and the spoils from the Corsairs of Barbary. Behind that panelling upstairs might be concealed treasure worth a fortune. As far as my cursory57 observations went, there was no likely place downstairs, unless, as in many old houses of that character, there was a “priest’s hole” cunningly concealed.
I went forth accompanied by the lady who was waiting in vain for paying guests, and examined the front of the house, which faced south towards the sloping pastures.
Walking a little way back into the wilderness58 of weeds which was once a garden, I looked up to the row of long mullioned windows, and saw in the centre of the dark grey wall a large square sculptured stone bearing the date 1584. Above was a coat-of-arms cut in the crumbling59 stone, a device that was in an instant familiar to me.
As my eyes fell on it I could not repress a cry of satisfaction, for there was the leopard60 rampant61 with the fleur-de-lys, the very same device that was upon the seal of the document with the seven signatures I had found on board the Seahorse!
Thus was it proved most conclusively62 that it was the actual house mentioned by Bartholomew da Schorno, for it bore his arms, with the date of either its construction or restoration.
I talked with Mrs. Kenway for some little time as an excuse to linger there, and when I left I held out strong hopes to her that I might induce my friend to take the remainder of the lease off her hands.
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1
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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brooks
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| n.小溪( brook的名词复数 ) | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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14
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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16
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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21
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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lichens
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| n.地衣( lichen的名词复数 ) | |
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24
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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27
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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28
strutted
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| 趾高气扬地走，高视阔步( strut的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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29
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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astuteness
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| n.敏锐；精明；机敏 | |
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fickleness
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| n.易变；无常；浮躁；变化无常 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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blistered
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| adj.水疮状的，泡状的v.（使）起水泡( blister的过去式和过去分词 )；（使表皮等）涨破，爆裂 | |
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dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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41
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
incongruity
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| n.不协调，不一致 | |
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43
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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46
lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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48
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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49
linoleum
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| n.油布，油毯 | |
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50
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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51
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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52
canvassing
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| v.（在政治方面）游说( canvass的现在分词 )；调查（如选举前选民的）意见；为讨论而提出（意见等）；详细检查 | |
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53
investigations
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| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
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54
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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55
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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56
galleon
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| n.大帆船 | |
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cursory
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| adj.粗略的；草率的；匆促的 | |
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58
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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59
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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60
leopard
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| n.豹 | |
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61
rampant
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| adj.(植物)蔓生的；狂暴的，无约束的 | |
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conclusively
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| adv.令人信服地，确凿地 | |
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