“Isn’t there an inn along the road there, near the village?” he asked. “Just so; then you go and put up your horses at it, and wait there till I send for you. We’ll do the rest on foot,” he went on, turning to us. “There’s a path through the woods a little farther on.”
He led us up the road for another hundred yards, then turned into a bridle-track that wound through a mass of venerable old trees for a good half-mile. We made slow progress, for Madrasia insisted on gathering a bunch of primroses. She was putting the last finishing touches to this when Parslewe, who had got a little ahead, called to us.
“Now then, here you are!” he said. “Here’s the place!”
We went on, and found him at the edge of the wood, leaning over a gate. He pointed before him with his stick.
“Palkeney Manor,” he remarked, drily.
Madrasia let out a sudden, whole-souled exclamation of delighted wonder. I was not surprised; the scene before us was one of that peculiar charm and quiet beauty which no other country than our own can show. We were looking on an undulating park, vividly green, studded with old trees beneath which antlered deer were browsing; there was a tree-shaded stretch of water in one of the miniature valleys, and cattle standing knee-deep in it, and above this, on a rising ground, backed by tall elms and giant chestnuts, stood a beautiful old house, mellowed by centuries of age.
We were all intent for a time, staring. Then Madrasia spoke, softly.
“What a picture of a place!” she said. “Jimmie! even you must think it is!”
But Parslewe gave us one of his queer looks.
“Um!” he answered. “To tell you the truth, my girl, I was wondering if the drains are all right! Picturesqueness is all very well—but, however, we’ll go a bit nearer.”