|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 20
Pursuing my enquiries, I proceeded to the north front of the building,
which was closely hemmed in by trees, and which as we had observed on
our arrival resembled the entrance to a monastery.
Passing the massive oaken door by which we had entered and which was
now closed again, I walked on through the opening in the box hedge into
a part of the grounds which was not so sprucely groomed as the rest. On
one side were the yews flanking the Tudor garden and before me uprose
the famous tower. As I stared up at the square structure, with its
uncurtained windows, I wondered, as others had wondered before me, what
could have ever possessed any man to build it.
Visible at points for many miles around, it undoubtedly disfigured an
otherwise beautiful landscape.
I pressed on, noting that the windows of the rooms in the east wing
were shuttered and the apartments evidently disused. I came to the base
of the tower, To the south, the country rose up to the highest point in
the crescent of hills, and peeping above the trees at no great distance
away, I detected the red brick chimneys of some old house in the woods.
North and east, velvet sward swept down to the park.
As I stood there admiring the prospect and telling myself that no
Voodoo devilry could find a home in this peaceful English countryside,
I detected a faint sound of voices far above. Someone had evidently
come out upon the gallery of the tower. I looked upward, but I could
not see the speakers. I pursued my stroll, until, near the eastern base
of the tower, I encountered a perfect thicket of rhododendrons. Finding
no path through this shrubbery, I retraced my steps, presently entering
the Tudor garden; and there strolling toward me, a book in her hand,
was Miss Beverley.
"Holloa, Mr. Knox," she called; "I thought you had gone up the tower?"
"No," I replied, laughing, "I lack the energy."
"Do you?" she said, softly, "then sit down and talk to me."
She dropped down upon a grassy bank, looking up at me invitingly, and I
accepted the invitation without demur.
"I love this old garden," she declared, "although of course it is
really no older than the rest of the place. I always think there should
be peacocks, though."
"Yes," I agreed, "peacocks would be appropriate."
"And little pages dressed in yellow velvet."
She met my glance soberly for a moment and then burst into a peal of
merry laughter.
"Do you know, Miss Beverley," I said, watching her, "I find it hard to
place you in the household of the Colonel."
"Yes?" she said simply; "you must."
"Oh, then you realize that you are--"
"Out of place here?"
"Quite."
"Of course I am."
She smiled, shook her head, and changed the subject.
"I am so glad Mr. Paul Harley has come down," she confessed.
"You know my friend by name, then?"
"Yes," she replied, "someone I met in Nice spoke of him, and I know he
is very clever."
"In Nice? Did you live in Nice before you came here?"
Val Beverley nodded slowly, and her glance grew oddly retrospective.
"I lived for over a year with Madame de St�mer in a little villa on the
Promenade des Anglaise," she replied. "That was after Madame was
injured."
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|