“Have you been owner of this Inn very long?” asked Mr. Fabian, courteously.
“All my life, and my father and grandfather before me,” was the unexpected reply.
“Then you can tell me if this is an old house, or only modelled after the old style.”
“Ah!” breathed the old man, softly. “It ees so old that my grandfather knew not when it was built. It ees the gate-house of a convent that formerly was famous. When it was abandoned, because of the Order being abolished by law, my grandfather was left to supervise the work.
“He bought the property when it was sold, and since then his descendants have lived here. With the old stone gate-house this garden patch was included, but all the other buildings were razed and the land sold.”
“How interesting,” remarked Mr. Fabian. “Then that old garden was really part of the original convent grounds?”
“Yes, and those niches you see in the wall held statues and holy figures at one time. Some of them were carved by well-known men about here. I found several of them buried in the garden when I turned up the soil for my father. I was but a boy, then, and I remember he took them away and put them in the attic.”
The old host then showed the guests to their various rooms and left them to wash and dress for the evening meal. Polly stood gazing from her window for a time, picturing the life of past days in that garden, when Eleanor exclaimed suddenly and called to her.
“Just look at this heavy walnut bed. It has the most marvellous carvings on its head and foot boards.”
After examining the figures carved on the wood, Polly went to the toilet-stand and poured some water from a heavy ewer into the stoneware basin. As she was about to place the ewer on the tiled floor beside the stand, she saw the carved panels that formed the sides of the stand.