The cottage was certainly large and roomy, and stood in a pretty garden. But its appearance was not prepossessing, for it differed from most of the other little houses in the village inasmuch as it was not, like them, half hidden by roses and creepers climbing over it.
"Yes, it's rough, decidedly rough," Mr. Armstrong said, "still there is a pretty view down the valley. Now I should save nearly fourteen pounds in rent by taking this instead of a twenty pound a year house; and if one were to put up a verandah round it, touch up the windows somehow, and put pretty paper on the walls, I should say that at the end of two years it would stand me in just the same. That and plenty of roses and things would make it a pretty little place. Who is the landlord?"
"The landlord is Mr. Carne, up at The Hold; that's the big house on the hill. But he is away at present. Mr. Kirkland, a lawyer at Plymouth, is his agent, and sees to the letting of his houses and that sort of thing. His clerk comes over once a month to collect the rents. I expect you would have to go to him even if Mr. Carne was at home. Squire was never much down in the village in the best of times, and we have hardly seen his face since his sister's death."
"Yes, they were telling us about that affair at Plymouth," the colonist said, quietly. "It was a bad business. Well, have you got some pretty sociable sort of fellows in the village? I like a chat as well as any man, and I should want some one to talk to."
"Well, I don't know that they would be your sort," the landlord said, doubtfully. "There's the clergyman—and the doctor——"
"Oh, no. I don't want to have to do with clergymen and doctors—we colonists are pretty rough and ready fellows, and it's no odds to us what a man is. A man stops at your door, and in he comes, and he is welcome—though he is only a shepherd on the look-out for work; sometimes one of the Kaffir chiefs with nothing on but a blanket and a leather apron, will stalk in and squat down and make himself at home. Oh, no. It's tradesmen I mean, and perhaps the small farmers round."
"Well, we are pretty well off for that, Mr. Armstrong. There is Hiram Powlett, the miller, and Jacob Carey, the blacksmith—they drop in pretty regular every evening and smoke a pipe with me, in what I call my snuggery; and there's old Reuben Claphurst—he was the clerk at one time, and is a wonderful chap for knowing the history of every family for miles round; and there's some of the farmers often come in for a glass—if you are not too proud for that sort of company."
"Proud! Bless your heart, what is there to be proud about; ain't I been working as a farmer for years and years with no one to talk to but my own hands?—I mean my own men. No, that's just the thing to suit me; anyhow, I think I will try the experiment. If at the end of a couple of years I don't like it, why, there is no harm done."
"Well, I am sure we shall be all glad to have you here, Mr. Armstrong; we like getting some one from outside, it freshens our ideas up a bit and does us good. We are cheerful enough in summer with the artists that come here sketching, and with the gentlemen who sometimes come to fish; but the rest of the year I don't often have a stranger at the 'Carne's Arms.'"
Two days later Mr. Armstrong returned to Carnesford with a builder from Plymouth. The following day, five or six workmen appeared, and in a fortnight a considerable transformation had been made in the cottage. A verandah was run round the front and two sides. Some rustic woodwork appeared round the windows, and the interior of the house was transformed with fresh paper and paint. Nothing could be done in the way of roses and creepers, as these could not be moved at that time of year, for it was now just midsummer.