The chief dairy-woman lived at an old-fashioned cottage on the premises, with her husband, the cowkeeper; and their garden, which lay at the back of the cowhouses and dairy, was the ideal old English garden, in which flowers and fruit strive for the mastery. In a corner of this garden, close to the outer offices of the cottage, among rows of peas, and summer cabbages, and great overgrown lavender-bushes and moss-roses, stood the old well, with its crumbling brick border and ancient spindle, a well that had been dug when the old manor-house was new.
There were other water arrangements for Mrs. Greswold’s dairy, a new artesian well, on a hill a quarter of a mile from the kitchen-garden, a well that went deep down into the chalk, and was famous for the purity of its water. All the drinking-water of the house was supplied from this well, and the water was laid on in iron pipes to dairy and cowhouses. All the vessels used for milk or cream were washed in this water; at least, such were Mr. Greswold’s strict orders—orders supposed to be carried out under the supervision of his bailiff and housekeeper.
Mr. Porter looked at a reeking heap of stable manure that sprawled within twenty feet of the old well with suspicion in his eye, and from the manure-heap he looked at the back premises of the old cob-walled cottage.
“I’m afraid there may have been soakage from that manure-heap into the well,” he said; “and if your dairy vessels are washed in that water—”
“But they never are,” interrupted Mr. Greswold; “that water is used only for the garden—eh, Mrs. Wadman?”
The dairy-woman was standing on the threshold of her neat little kitchen, curtseying to her master, resplendent in her Sunday gown of bright blue merino, and her Sunday brooch, containing her husband’s photograph, coloured out of knowledge.
“No, of course not, sir; leastways, never except when there was something wrong with the pipes from the artesian.”
“Something wrong; when was that? I never heard of anything wrong.”
“Well, sir, my husband didn’t want to be troublesome, and Mr. Thomas he gave the order for the men from Romsey, that was on the Saturday after working-hours, and they was to come as it might be on the Monday morning, and they never come near; and Mr. Thomas he wrote and wrote, and my husband he says it ain’t no use writing, and he takes the pony and rides over to Romsey in his overtime, and he complains about the men not coming, and they tells him there’s a big job on at Broadlands and not a plumber to be had for love or money; but the pipes is all right now, sir.”
“Now? Since when have they been in working order?”