Having paid a visit to the graves of his relatives, the sailor next day went along the straight road which, then a 138 lane, now a highway, conducted to the curious little inland town named by the Havenpool man. It is unnecessary to describe Oozewood on the South-Avon. It has a railway at the present day, but thirty years of steam traffic past its precincts have hardly modified its original features. Surrounded by a sort of fresh-water lagoon, dividing it from meadows and coppice, its ancient thatch and timber houses have barely made way even in the front street for the ubiquitous modern brick and slate. It neither increases nor diminishes in size; it is difficult to say what the inhabitants find to do, for, though trades in wood-ware are still carried on, there cannot be enough of this class of work now-a-days to maintain all the house-holders, the forests around having been so greatly thinned and curtailed. At the time of this tradition the forests were dense, artificers in wood abounded, and the timber trade was brisk. Every house in the town, without exception, was of oak framework, filled in with plaster, and covered with thatch, the chimney being the only brick portion of the structure. Inquiry soon brought Roger the sailor to the door of Wall, the timber-dealer referred to, but it was some time before he was able to gain admission to the lodging of his sister, the people having plainly received directions not to welcome strangers.
She was sitting in an upper room, on one of the lath-backed, willow-bottomed “shepherd’s” chairs, made on the spot then as to this day, and as they were probably made there in the days of the Heptarchy. In her lap was an infant, which she had been suckling, though now it had fallen asleep; so had the young mother herself for a few minutes, under the drowsing effects of solitude. Hearing footsteps on the stairs, she awoke, started up with a glad cry, and ran to the door, opening which she met her brother on the threshold.
“Oh, this is merry! I didn’t expect ’ee!” she said. “Ah, Roger—I thought it was John.” Her tones fell to disappointment.
The sailor kissed her, looked at her sternly for a few moments, and pointing to the infant, said: “You mean the father of this?”
“Yes, my husband,” said Edith.
“I hope so,” he answered.
“Why, Roger, I’m married—of a truth am I!” she cried.
“Shame upon ’ee, if true! If not true, worse. Master Stocker was an honest man, and ye should have respected his memory longer. Where is thy husband?”