Stretton yielded rather than listen to any more of such gross and open flattery. He followed Mr. Heron under the gateway into a paved courtyard, flanked on three sides by out-buildings and a clock tower, and on the fourth by the house itself. Mr. Heron led the way through some dark, cool passages, expatiating as he went upon the architecture of the building; finally they entered a small but pleasant little room, where he offered his guest a seat, and ordered refreshments to be set before him.
"I am afraid that everyone is out," Mr. Heron said, after opening and shutting the doors of two or three rooms in succession, and returning to Stretton with rather a discomfited countenance. "The afternoon is growing cool, you see, and they have gone for a drive. However, you can have a look at the terrace and the banqueting-hall while it's still light, and we shall hope for the pleasure of your company at some other time when my wife is at home, Mr. Stretton, if you are staying near us."
"You are very kind," murmured Stretton. "But I fear that I must proceed with my journey to-morrow. I ought not to stay—I must not——"
He broke off abruptly. Mr. Heron forgot his good manners, and stared at him in surprise. There was something a little odd about this grey-haired young man after all. But, after a pause, the stranger seemed to recover his self-possession, and repeated his excuses more intelligibly. Mr. Heron was sorry to hear of his probable departure.
They wandered round the garden together. It was a pleasant place, with terraced walks and shady alcoves, so quaint and trim that it might well have passed for that fair garden to which Boccaccio's fine ladies and gallant cavaliers fled when the plague raged in Florence, or for the scene on which the hapless Francesca looked when she read the story of Lancelot that led to her own undoing. Some such fancies as these passed through the crannies of Stretton's mind while he seemed to be listening to Mr. Heron's mildly-pedantic allocutions, and absorbed in the consideration of mediæval art. Mr. Heron was in raptures with his listener.
"Oh, by-the-bye," said the artist, suddenly, as they paused beside one of the windows on the terrace, "if I may trouble you to wait here a minute, I will go and fetch the sketch I have made of the garden from this point. You will excuse me for a moment. Won't you go inside the house? The window is open—go in, if you like."
He disappeared into another portion of the house, leaving Stretton somewhat amused by his host's unceremonious demeanour. He did not accept the invitation; he leaned against the wall rather languidly, as though fatigued by his long walk, and tried to make friends with a beautiful peacock which seemed to expect him to feed it, and yet was half-afraid to approach.
As he waited, a gentle sound, of which he had been conscious ever since he halted close to the window, rose more distinctly upon his ear. It was the sound of a voice engaged in some sort of monotonous reading or reciting, and it seemed first to advance to the window near which he stood and then to recede. He soon discovered that it was accompanied by a soft but regular footfall. It was plain that somebody—some woman, evidently—was pacing the floor of the room to which this window belonged, and that she was repeating poetry, either to herself or to some silent listener. As she came near the window, Stretton heard the words of an old ballad with which he was himself familiar—
"I saw the new moon, late yestreen,
Wi' the old moon in her arm:
And if we gang to sea, master,
I fear we'd come to harm."
The voice died away as it travelled down the space of the long room. Presently it came nearer; the verses were still going on—