‘And where do your people live?’
‘Better than half a mile from here, sir, and ours is the nearest cottage to Rushmere.’
And then—apprehensive, perhaps, that her information might prove a drawback to the letting of the property—she added, quickly,—
‘Not but what it’s a nice place to live in, is Rushmere, and very convenient, though a bit lonesome.’
I perfectly agreed with her, the ‘lonesomeness’ of the situation proving no detraction in my eyes.
On my return to London I gave my wife so glowing a description of the house and its surroundings, that she urged me to conclude the bargain at once; and, in the course of a few weeks, I and my family were transplanted from the purlieus of Bayswater to the banks of the Wye. It was the middle of May when we took possession, and the country wore its most attractive garb. The children were wild with delight at being let loose in the flower-bespangled fields, and, as I watched the tributaries of the river, and perceived the excellent sport they promised me, I felt scarcely less excited than the children. Only my wife, I thought, became inoculated with some of the absurd fears of the domestics we had brought with us from town, and seemed to consider the locality more lonely and unprotected than she had expected to find it.
‘It’s a charming place, Arthur,’ she acknowledged, ‘and marvellously cheap; but it is certainly a long way from other houses. I find we shall have to send for everything to the town. Not even the country carts, with butter and poultry, seem to call at Rushmere.’
‘My dear Jane, I told you distinctly that it was two and a-half miles from church or station, and you read it for yourself in the paper. But I thought we looked out for a retreat where we should run no risk of being intruded on by strangers.’
‘Oh yes, of course; only there are not even any farmhouses or cottages near Rushmere, you see; and it would be so very easy for anyone to break in at night, and rob us.’