“‘What’s that man doing here?’ she screamed out; ‘where’s the altar and the priest?’ And then at the door, as luck would have had it, she saw that Saint Christopher was gone; and she began bewailing and bemoaning him until you’d have thought he’d have been bound to come down from heaven, as he did once across the dark river, and see what in the world the crying child wanted with him.”
They came about half-way in their ride through the village of Penshurst; and on reaching the Park turned off under the beeches towards the house.
“We have not time to go in,” said Mr. Buxton, “but I hope you will see the house sometime; it is a pattern of what a house should be; and has a pattern master.”
As they came up to the Edwardine Gate-house, a pleasant-faced, quietly-dressed gentleman came riding out alone.
“Why, here he is!” said Mr. Buxton, and greeted him with great warmth, and made Anthony known to him.
“I am delighted to know Mr. Norris,” said Sidney, with that keen friendly look that was so characteristic of him. “I have heard of him from many quarters.”
He entreated them to come in; but Mr. Buxton said they had not time; but would if they might just glance into the great court. So Sidney took them through the gate-house and pointed out one or two things of interest from the entrance, the roof of the Great Hall built by Sir John de Pulteney, the rare tracery in its windows and the fine living-rooms at one side.
“I thank God for it every day,” said Sidney gravely. “I cannot imagine why He should have given it me. I hope I am not fool enough to disparage His gifts, and pretend they are nothing: indeed, I love it with all my heart. I would as soon think of calling my wife ugly or a shrew.”
“That is a good man and a gentleman,” said Mr. Buxton, as they rode away at last in the direction of Leigh after leaving Sidney to branch off towards Charket, “and I do not know why he is not a Catholic. And he is a critic and a poet, men say, too.”