CHAPTER VIII
THE HEART OF BESSMOOR
"Those house them best who house for secrecy."—THOMAS HARDY.
"There is one distinct advantage in my humble chariot," Isabella said presently, "and that is that you have plenty of time to give your full attention to the scenery as you pass. If we were dashing along in a motor I should not have time to tell you that those two flat stones over there," she pointed in the direction as she spoke, "mark the resting-place of the last highwayman who ever disturbed the peace of these parts. He seems to have been a most mysterious person, by all accounts, and he rode a white horse—surely a very foolish colour for a highwayman to choose—and he kept the countryside in a state of terror. He was caught at last—it would take too long to tell you the story of his final escapade and capture—and hung upon that pine-tree.
"It appears that, within an hour of his execution, while the sheriff and his men were still upon the moor, his body disappeared. It was spirited away. And the country-people will tell you quite plainly that the Old Gentleman came in person to fetch him. That, of course, may, or may not, be true, but the curious part of it is that those two stones—they are a fair size, as you can see—were placed there in that position the same night. By the same agency, of course. Very civil of the Old Gentleman to leave a memento of his visit, wasn't it? And since then, of course, he rides at night upon his white horse on Bessmoor, as every self-respecting highwayman who has swung for his crimes should. I cannot say that I have ever had the pleasure of seeing him, but of course I must believe in him. He is quite the most notorious person on Bessmoor—the 'White Horse Rider' as they call him.
"You ask Mrs. Palling, the ancient lady who is good enough to 'do' for me; she is quite what one might call an intimate friend of his, she seems so well acquainted with his movements.
"Now, here we are at the cross-roads. Here we turn to the left and go down what we call a 'loke' in local parlance—in other words a cul-de-sac. And now, over there, you can see the chimney of my domicile. It only boasts of one. The other belongs to my good friend and neighbour the afore-mentioned Mrs. Palling, a most refreshing person whose acquaintance you should certainly make. She would amuse you. She is great on signs and portents, and won't even make a loaf of bread unless the moment is favourable. Her favourite hobby is 'Bees,' but I shouldn't use the word 'hobby,' I should rather say they are her household deities. She consults them about every detail, and informs them of every occurrence. I only trust they have permitted her to keep my fire burning, and then you shall soon have a cup of tea."
The sandy track along which they were passing—it could hardly be called a road—ended abruptly in a tiny open space with a grove of trees upon one side and a sandpit on the other. In the centre was a pond, shrunken at this season of the year to most diminutive proportions; so much so, indeed, that it barely served for the ablutions of some half-a-dozen ducks, who hustled and jostled one another angrily in their efforts to perform their toilet.
Several stout poles supported a varied assortment of washing, which Isabella pointed out with a smile.
"I will not apologise for the publicity of our domestic arrangements," she said. "It used to distress me at first to see my most intimate garments hanging in such close proximity to the well-worn unmentionables of the redoubtable Mr. Palling, but I have got over that. I did mention it to his wife, who failed to understand my scruples, and replied, 'They meets in the washtub, and why not on the line?' and in truth, why not? But here we are arrived at last."
The donkey pulled up at the gate of one of a pair of cottages which stood at the further end of the little green, and Philippa gave an exclamation of pleasure and surprise. "Oh," she cried, "but this is perfectly charming!"
"Wait until you get inside the gate, and then I do think you will say that my retreat is not ill-chosen," answered Isabella with a smile.
At this moment the door of the next cottage opened, and a woman came running out. "Well now," she cried in a hearty voice, "didn't I say just that same thing to Palling when he comed for his bit o' dinner? Them bees, they've been that excited all day, I knew that couldn't mean nothing but a visitor. They know when a stranger comes about as well as well. Never you think about the dinkie, ma'm, I'll see to he. Jes' you go right in. The kettle, that have been on the boil a-waitin' this hour or more; for them bees, they told me you'd be bringin' a visitor back with you as certain as anythin'. Pallin', he said to I, 'Where's a visitor comin' from, I'd like to know?' But Pallin', he ain't no believer; he wouldn't believe he was dying not unless he woke up an' found himself dead—that he wouldn't."
"I'll promise to believe anything the bees tell you if only you will get us a cup of tea," interrupted Isabella, cutting short the stream of the good woman's volubility. "Now come in," she continued, taking Philippa's arm.
They walked up the narrow flagged pathway, at the end of which two bushes of yew, neatly clipped, stood like sentries on either side of the doorway, where the overhanging thatch hung low, with a patch of golden houseleek glowing like a jewel upon its weather-stained and varied tones.
The interior was small and low, but it was evident from its look of comfort that affectionate care and good taste had been lavished upon its simple furnishing. On the walls, which were plainly distempered a light colour, hung a few photographs of well-known pictures. A sofa and one or two easy-chairs covered with a pretty chintz, an oak table shining with age and the results of Mrs. Palling's energetic polishing, a few pieces of cottage china and various trifles which spoke of travel in far lands—these and a number of books formed all the furniture of the simple apartment.
In the wall, opposite to the one by which they had entered, was a door hung with a curtain of Chinese embroidery, its once brilliant hues now faded to tender purples and greys, and Isabella stepped forward and pulled it aside.
"Ah," she said, in reply to Philippa's murmur of admiration, "this is nothing. Wait until you see what I am going to show you."
She opened the door and Philippa passed through it, and then stood quite still, struck dumb by the beauty of the scene before her. She found herself standing in a low space—it could not exactly be called a verandah, for it was evidently a part of the original building, perhaps a shed of some kind, and it was under the shelter of the thatch, but the outer wall had been entirely removed and replaced by two stout oaken pillars, which in no way impeded the view. Before her stretched the wide expanse of Bessmoor, glimmering and gorgeous with heather, while far away in the distance was the blue line of the sea.
Immediately in front of the building was a small garden where lilies, blue delphiniums, lupins and other old-fashioned flowers were in bloom, but no fence or hedge divided it from the moorland, which ran like a purple wave right up to the flower border.
"Sit down," said Isabella. "Sit down and gloat over the wonder of it, as I do. I am very rich, am I not, with a vision like this ever before my eyes? Now you see why I told you that I spent my life on the moor. It was literally true, for I live in the very heart of it, don't I?"
"However did you manage to discover such a wonderful spot?" asked Philippa at last.
"Quite by accident. I had a longing to re-visit scenes which I had known very well many years ago, and I planned a solitary tour, and rode my bicycle all over this part of the country. One day I just happened to see in the distance the smoke curling out of a chimney, and some impulse made me turn off the road to explore. I found these two cottages and Mrs. Palling, and it ended in my coming to live here. At first for a year or more I lodged with her next door. This side was occupied by some people who moved away later on, and about the same time the little property was put up for sale, and I bought it. It is my very own, and you cannot wonder that I am proud of it. Then I altered this side to suit myself, and Mrs. Palling continued to look after me; the cooking is all done next door, and she saves me all trouble."
"It was a stroke of genius—this arrangement, I mean. How did you think of it?"
"We are sitting in what corresponds to Mrs. Palling's wash-house," returned Isabella, laughing. "Only, I knocked the outside wall down, much to the dismay of the good lady and of the local carpenter whom I employed. I am sure they thought I was a little mad. What sane person would think of living in a room without a wall? Mrs. Palling did not express her opinion quite in those words, but that was what she meant. I live out here, and have all my meals here, and sometimes, to tell you the truth, I sleep here."
"But what about the winter?"
"If it is too desperately cold I retire into the parlour, but there really is hardly a day in the whole year that I do not spend some hours here. But here comes the tea."
"Well, well," said Mrs. Palling, as she set down the tray on a table in front of Isabella. "That means it's gone, for sure."
"Means what?" asked Isabella in surprise.
"I was just a-liftin' the kettle off," said the good lady, speaking quite cheerfully, "when a little coffin that jumped out of the fire—just as plain as plain—a little small thing that were. And that means, for sure, that Mrs. Milsom's eighth is gone. I did hear as how that were wonderful sickly, and no doubt but what that's all for the best. 'Tisn't as if she hadn't plenty more."
"You are a heartless woman," cried Isabella. "What grudge do you bear Mrs. Milsom's eighth that you speak so cheerfully of its early demise? It can't be more than ten days old at the most, for it certainly seems no time since a cradle jumping out of the fire announced its undesired arrival. Think of the poor mother's feelings. Mothers as a race have an unfortunate tendency to value their offspring, even when, as in this case, the supply exceeds the demand."
Mrs. Palling seemed rather doubtful as to whether Isabella was not, in her own phraseology, making game of her, for she was silent for a moment, and then repeated positively—
"That were a coffin, sure enough. Wonderful small that were. I'll be goin' over presently. But if some folks won't believe I don't feel no manner of doubt but what that's true," and so saying she departed.
Isabella laughed. "You must forgive Mrs. Palling," she said. "She is an excellent, hard-working woman, and most kind-hearted, although perhaps she hasn't given you that impression. Now let us have our tea comfortably."