Abington Abbey: A Novel

by Archibald Marshall

"Doesn't it smell good," said Caroline. "Rather like graves; but the nicest sort of graves. It's rather dull, though. I suppose this furniture is very valuable. It looks as if it ought to be."

Grafton looked a little doubtful. "I suppose we'd better have it, if they don't want a terrific price," he said. "It's the right sort of thing, no doubt; but I'd rather have a little less of it. Let's go and see if there's another room big enough to get some fun out of. What about the long gallery? I wonder where that is."

They found it on the side of the house opposite to that from which they had first approached it—a delightful oak-panelled oak-floored room with a long row of latticed windows looking out on to a delicious old-world garden, all clipped yews and shaven turf and ordered beds, with a backing of trees and an invitation to more delights beyond, in the lie of the grass and flagged paths, and the arched and arcaded yews. It was big enough to take the furniture of three or four good-sized rooms and make separate groupings of it, although what furniture there was, was disposed stiffly, as in the case of the hall.

"Oh, what a heavenly room!" Caroline exclaimed. "I can see it at a glance, George darling. We'll keep nearly all this furniture, and add to it chintzy sofas and easy chairs. A grand piano up at that end. Won't it be jolly to have all the flowers we want? I suppose there are hot-houses for the winter. You won't have any excuse for accusing me of extravagance about flowers any longer, darling."

She babbled on delightedly. The sun threw the patterns of the latticed windows on the dark and polished oak floor. She opened one of the casements, and let in the soft sweet spring air. The birds were singing gaily in the garden. "It's all heavenly," she said. "This room sums it up. Oh, why does anybody live in a town?"

Her father was hardly less pleased than she. Except for the blow dealt him fifteen years before by the death of his wife, the fates had been very kind to him. The acuteness of that sorrow had long since passed away, and the tenderness in his nature had diffused itself over the children that her love had given him. The satisfaction of his life—his successful work, his friendships, his pastimes, the numerous interests which no lack of money or opportunity ever prevented his following up—were all sweetened to him by the affection and devotion that was his in his home. And his home was the best of all the good things in his life. It came to him now, as he stood by the window with his daughter,—the beautiful spacious room which they would adapt to their happy life on one side of him, the peaceful sunlit bird-haunted charm of the garden on the other,—that this new setting would heighten and centralise the sweet intimacies of their home life. Abington Abbey would be much more to them than an increase of opportunities for enjoyment. It would be the warm nest of their love for one another, as no house in a city could be. He was not a particularly demonstrative man, though he had caresses for his children, and would greatly have missed their pretty demonstrations of affection for him; but he loved them dearly, and found no society as pleasant as theirs. There would be a great deal of entertaining at Abington Abbey, but the happiest hours spent there would be those of family life.

They lunched in the big hall, with the door wide open, the sun coming in and the stillness of the country and the empty house all about them. Then they made their detailed investigations. It was all just what they wanted—some big rooms and many fascinating small ones. The furniture was the usual mixture to be found in old-established, long-inhabited houses. Some of it was very fine, some of it very ordinary. But there was an air about the whole house that could not have been created by new furnishing, however carefully it might be done. Caroline saw it. "I think we'd better leave it alone as much as possible," she said. "We can get what we want extra for comfort, and add to the good things here and there. We don't want to make it look new, do we?"

"Just as you like, darling," said her father. "It's your show. We can string it up a bit where it's shabby, and make it comfortable and convenient. Otherwise it will do all right. I don't want it too smart. We're going to be country people here, not Londoners in the country."

They wandered about the gardens. It was just that time of year, and just the day, in which spring seems most visibly and blessedly coming. The crocuses were in masses of purple and gold, violets and primroses and hepaticas bloomed shyly in sheltered corners, daffodils were beginning to lower their buds and show yellow at their tips. They took as much interest in the garden as in the house. It was to be one of their delights. They had the garden taste, and some knowledge, as many Londoners of their sort have. They made plans, walking along the garden paths, Caroline's arm slipped affectionately into her father's. This was to be their garden to play with, which is a very different thing from admiring other people's gardens, however beautiful and interesting they may be.

"George darling, I don't think we can miss all this in the spring and early summer," said Caroline. "Let's get into the house as soon as we can, and cut all the tiresome London parties altogether."