They drove through with difficulty, because there was a fair that filled the market and overflowed into the crooked streets up and down the hill. They only caught a passing glimpse as they bumped and stumbled through: a merry-go-round and rows of booths and shouting crowds of men and girls, and a strange toothless old woman in a peaked hat seated on a barrel and selling sweets.
“How they can allow it I don’t know!” Mrs. Maradick leant back from the window. “One might as well—Whitechapel, you know, and all that sort of thing.”
The last turn of the road to the hotel was very steep indeed, and the weight of the boxes seemed to accumulate with every step; the horses strained and tugged, and for a moment they hesitated and half slid backward, then with a hoarse shout from the driver, a gigantic straining of limb and muscle, they were through the hotel gates. For the hotel stands in its own grounds, and, as you approach it up a drive of larch and birch, its privacy is startling and unusual.
One hundred years before it had been the manor of the estate, the feudal castle of a feudal town, ruling, like some Italian despot, the country at its feet. Then its masters had fallen at the feet of the Juggernaut of modern civilisation and improvement, and their tyranny had passed into the hands of others. For some years the house had lain desolate and threatened to fall into utter ruin and decay; its gardens had been transformed into a wilderness, and its rooms had gathered dust and mildew into their quarters. Then in 1850 or thereabouts young Mr. Bannister of Manchester had seen his chance. Treliss, at that time, was an obscure and minute village of no fame whatever; but it had fishing, colour and bathing, so Mr. Bannister seized his opportunity.
He had large resources at his back and a very original brain at his service, so he set to work and was immediately successful. He had no intention of turning it into a modern watering-place—there was enough of that (speaking now of 1860) to be done elsewhere—he had Pendragon and Port Looth in his mind. No, he would let it keep its character—indeed, he would force it to keep its character. For some years there were other things to do and his plans were still in embryo; then in 1870 (no longer young Mr. Bannister, but stout and prosperous Mr. Bannister) he took the house in hand.
He interfered in no way with its original character. There were a great many alterations, of course, but, through it all, it retained that seventeenth-century charm and spaciousness—that air of surprise and unexpected corners, the sudden visions of hidden gardens bordered by close-clipped box and the broad depths of wide stone staircases and dark oak panelling—a charm that was to be found in no other hotel in England, a delicious survival that gave you seventeenth-century England without any of its discomforts and drawbacks, sanitary or otherwise.
For now, in 1908, it had all the very latest improvements. There were lifts, and the very best methods of ventilation; the electric light was of a delicious softness, and carpets and chairs were so luxurious that it was difficult to force oneself outside. But then, when you were outside, you wondered how you could ever stay in; for there were lawns with the most wonderful views of the sea and tennis and croquet and badminton and—and now the Maradicks were at the door.
There were several people scattered about the grounds who watched them with curiosity; but it was nearly dressing-time, and already the shadows were lengthening over the lawns and the yews flung long fantastic shapes over the roses and pinks. There was a little breeze in the tops of the trees, and very faintly, like some distant solemn music, came the roll of the sea.
The doors closed on the Maradicks.