“My father has a yacht too, hasn’t he?”
“Aye, an a pretty seeght too, to see it scoodding along. But it goes by steam, it isn’t one of yer white booterflies. That sort doan’t go fast enough for t’ Capt’n.”
Freda was no longer listening. They were on the level ground now at the top of the hill. To the right, the fields ran to the edge of the cliff, and there was no building in sight but a poor sort of farm-house, with a pond in front of it, and a few rather dilapidated outhouses round about. But on the left hand hedged off from the road by a high stone wall, and standing in the middle of a field, was the ruined Abbey church, now near enough for Freda to see the tracery left in the windows, and the still perfect turrets of the East end, and of the North transept pointing to heaven, unmindful of the decay of the old altars, and of the old faith that raised them.
Barnabas looked at her intent young face, the great burning eyes, which seemed to be overwhelmed with a strange sorrow.
“Pretty pleace, this owd abbey of ours, isn’t it?” said he with all the pride of ownership.
“It’s beautiful,” said Freda hoarsely, “it makes me want to cry.”
Now the rough farmer could understand sentiment about the old ruin; considering as he did that the many generations of Protestant excursionists who had picknicked in it had purged it pretty clear of the curse of popery, he loved it himself with a free conscience.
“Aye,” said he, “there’s teales aboot it too, for them as loikes to believe ’em. Ah’ve heard as there were another Abbey here, afore this one, an’ not near so fine, wheer there was a leady, an Abbess, Ah think they called her. An’ she was a good leady, kind to t’ poor, an’ not so much to be bleamed for being a Papist, seeing those were dreadful toimes when there was no Protestants. An’ they do seay (mahnd, Ah’m not seaying Ah believe it, not being inclined to them soart o’ superstitious notions myself) they say how on an afternoon when t’ soon shines you can see this Saint Hilda, as they call her, standing in one of t’ windows over wheer t’ Communion table used for to be.” Perceiving, however, that Freda was looking more reverently interested than was quite seemly in a mere legend with a somewhat unorthodox flavour about it, Barnabas, who was going to tell her some more stories of the same sort, changed his mind and ended simply: “An’ theer’s lots more sooch silly feables which sensible fowk doan’t trouble their heads with. Whoa then, Prince!”
The cart drew up suddenly in a sort of inclosure of stone walls. To the right was an ancient and broken stone cross, on a circular flight of rude and worn steps; to the left, a stone-built lodge, a pseudo-Tudor but modern erection, was built over a gateway, the wrought-iron gates of which were shut. In front, a turnstile led into a churchyard. Barnabas got down and pulled the lodge-bell, which gave a startingly loud peal.
“That yonder,” said he, pointing over the wall towards the churchyard, in which Freda could dimly see a shapeless mass of building and a squat, battlemented tower, “is Presterby Choorch. An’ this,” he continued, as an old woman came out of the lodge and unlocked the gate, “is owd Mary Sarbutt, an she’s as deaf as a poast. Now, hark ye, missie,” and he held out his hand to help Freda down, “Ah can’t go no further with ye, but ye’re all reeght now. Joost go oop along t’ wall to t’ left, streight till ye coom to t’ house, an’ pull t’ bell o’ t’ gate an’ Mrs. Bean, or happen Crispin himself will coom an’ open to ye.”