It stood, away in the green fields by the river, the gables showing grey through the foliage of the trees.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE Manor-house was a small gabled building, set deep among orchards and lush grass. It was built of flint and stone in chequers, and was one of those buildings (you see them close to old mills and barns, in the southern counties) that have a face. Yes, a countenance bearing an expression of their character, whereas most houses have merely outsides.
This house, when the moon shone on it, looked mysterious and unreal. The windows gleamed silver green, like old armour, dinted, and the whole fabric appeared as though it had no true context with the earth.
But when the day bathed it in golden sunshine, laying the shadows of its gables sharply black against its roof, then it appeared positively to hold the ground it stood on, and would stand so square at you, as to almost dominate the bright garden that bunched it close. Its walls would give back the sunshine in warm washes of colour, while the pigeons crooned and sidled on the roof. The house-martins built their mud nests against it, more wonderful than the nests of swallows, for they choose the sheer wall for nesting purposes, whereas the swallows must build upon a ledge. To and fro these house-martins would fly, weaving a black-and-white flicker of pointed wings, with sudden encounters, and sweet creedling beneath the eaves. And in front of the house on the lawn there grew a mulberry tree, with a great limb laid down upon the ground, so that it looked as if it felt how old it was, and liked leaning that way, to rest.
The cows wrenched the long grass in a meadow so close to the windows, that any one within doors could easily see them and be rested by their movements of reposeful content. Beyond this paddock again was a church, with a roof orange with lichen-growth, and grey walls, ivy-clad.
So now you may imagine this Manor-house and its surroundings, and call it by any well-loved name you like.
In this house dwelt the man the children were in search of, a man named Miles Coverdale. He was a doctor of learning, not of medicine, and lived a quiet life among his books. He it was who translated the Bible, carrying out the work that William Tyndall began. The people loved him for his charity and neighbourliness, and would often bring their disputes to him, content to abide by his word.
Martin, arriving at the door, pulled with all his might at the bell. A little rusty, buried tinkle sounded grudgingly, far away in the old house. He pulled again—wasn’t every moment of importance? But the bell only gave the same inarticulate reply as if it had just turned round to go to sleep again, and couldn’t be troubled to sound.