Abington Abbey - Archibald Marshall

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it chintzy sofas and easy chairs. A grand piano up at that end. Won't it be jolly to have all the flowers we want? I suppose there are hot-houses for the winter. You won't have any excuse for accusing me of extravagance about flowers any longer, darling."

      She babbled on delightedly. The sun threw the patterns of the latticed windows on the dark and polished oak floor. She opened one of the casements, and let in the soft sweet spring air. The birds were singing gaily in the garden. "It's all heavenly," she said. "This room sums it up. Oh, why does anybody live in a town?"

      Her father was hardly less pleased than she. Except for the blow dealt him fifteen years before by the death of his wife, the fates had been very kind to him. The acuteness of that sorrow had long since passed away, and the tenderness in his nature had diffused itself over the children that her love had given him. The satisfaction of his life—his successful work, his friendships, his pastimes, the numerous interests which no lack of money or opportunity ever prevented his following up—were all sweetened to him by the affection and devotion that was his in his home. And his home was the best of all the good things in his life. It came to him now, as he stood by the window with his daughter—the beautiful spacious room which they would adapt to their happy life on one side of him, the peaceful sunlit bird-haunted charm of the garden on the other—that this new setting would heighten and centralise the sweet intimacies of their home life. Abington Abbey would be much more to them than an increase of opportunities for enjoyment. It would be the warm nest of their love for one another, as no house in a city could be. He was not a particularly demonstrative man, though he had caresses for his children, and would greatly have missed their pretty demonstrations of affection for him; but he loved them dearly, and found no society as pleasant as theirs. There would be a great deal of entertaining at Abington Abbey, but the happiest hours spent there would be those of family life.

      They lunched in the big hall, with the door wide open, the sun coming in and the stillness of the country and the empty house all about them. Then they made their detailed investigations. It was all just what they wanted—some big rooms and many fascinating small ones. The furniture was the usual mixture to be found in old-established, long-inhabited houses. Some of it was very fine, some of it very ordinary. But there was an air about the whole house that could not have been created by new furnishing, however carefully it might be done. Caroline saw it. "I think we'd better leave it alone as much as possible," she said. "We can get what we want extra for comfort, and add to the good things here and there. We don't want to make it look new, do we?"

      "Just as you like, darling," said her father. "It's your show. We can string it up a bit where it's shabby, and make it comfortable and convenient. Otherwise it will do all right. I don't want it too smart. We're going to be country people here, not Londoners in the country."

      They wandered about the gardens. It was just that time of year, and just the day, in which spring seems most visibly and blessedly coming. The crocuses were in masses of purple and gold, violets and primroses and hepaticas bloomed shyly in sheltered corners, daffodils were beginning to lower their buds and show yellow at their tips. They took as much interest in the garden as in the house. It was to be one of their delights. They had the garden taste, and some knowledge, as many Londoners of their sort have. They made plans, walking along the garden paths, Caroline's arm slipped affectionately into her father's. This was to be their garden to play with, which is a very different thing from admiring other people's gardens, however beautiful and interesting they may be.

      "George darling, I don't think we can miss all this in the spring and early summer," said Caroline. "Let's get into the house as soon as we can, and cut all the tiresome London parties altogether."

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      They were standing by one of the old monks' fish stews, which made such a charming feature of the yew-set formal garden, when a step was heard on the path and they turned to see a cheerful-looking gentleman approaching them, with a smile of welcome on his handsome features. He was a tall man of middle-age, dressed in almost exaggerated country fashion, in rough home-spun, very neat about the gaitered legs, and was followed by a bull-dog of ferocious but endearing aspect. "Ah!" he exclaimed, in a loud and breezy voice as he approached them, "I thought it must be you when I saw your name on the order. If you've forgotten me I shall never forgive you."

      Grafton was at a loss for a moment. Then his face cleared. "Jimmy Worthing," he said. "Of course. They did mention your name. Cara, this is Mr. Worthing. We were at school together a hundred years or so ago. My eldest daughter, Caroline."

      Worthing was enchanted, and said so. He was one of those cheerful voluble men who never do have any difficulty in saying so. With his full but active figure and fresh clean-shaven face he was a pleasant object of the countryside, and Caroline's heart warmed to him as he smiled his commonplaces and showed himself so abundantly friendly. It appeared from the conversation that followed that he had been a small boy in George Grafton's house at Eton when Grafton had been a big one, that they had not met since, except once, years before at Lord's, but were quite pleased to meet now. Also that Worthing had been agent to the Abington property for the past twelve years, and to the Wilborough property adjoining it for about half that time. A good deal of this information was addressed to Caroline with friendly familiarity. She was used to the tone from well-preserved middle-aged men. It was frankly accepted in the family that all three of the girls were particularly attractive to the mature and even the over-ripe male, and the reason given was that they made such a pal of their father that they knew the technique of making themselves so. Caroline had even succeeded in making herself too attractive to a widowed Admiral during her first season, and had had the shock of her life in being asked to step up a generation and a half at the end of it. She was inclined to be a trifle wary of the 'my dears' of elderly gentlemen, but she had narrowly watched Worthing during the process of his explanations and would not have objected if he had called her 'my dear.' He did not do so, however, though his tone to her implied it, and she answered him, where it was necessary, in the frank and friendly fashion that was so attractive in her and her sisters.

      They all went over the stables and outhouses together, and then Worthing suggested a run round the estate in the car, with reference chiefly to the rearing and eventual killing of game.

      "We promised to go to tea at the Vicarage," said Caroline, as her father warmly adopted the suggestion. "I suppose we ought to keep in with the Vicar. I don't know his name, but he seems a very important person here."

      She had her eye on Worthing. She wanted an opinion of the Vicar, by word or by sign.

      She got none. "Oh, you've seen him already, have you?" he said. "I was going to suggest you should come and have tea with me. We should be at my house by about half-past three, and it's a mile further on your road."

      "We might look in on the Vicar—what's his name, by the by?—and excuse ourselves,"—said Grafton, "I want to see the coverts, and we haven't too much time. I don't suppose he'll object, will he?"

      "Oh, no, we'll go and put it right with him," said Worthing. "He won't mind. His name is Mercer—a very decent fellow; does a lot of work and reads a lot of books."

      "What kind of books?" asked Caroline, who also read a good many of them. She was a little disappointed that Worthing had not expressed himself with more salt on the subject of the Vicar. She had that slight touch of malice which relieves the female mind from insipidity, and she was quite sure that a more critical attitude towards the Vicar would have been justified, and might have provided amusement. But she thought that Mr. Worthing must be either a person of no discrimination, or else one of those rather tiresome people, a peacemaker. She reserved to herself full right of criticism towards the Vicar, but would not be averse from the discovery of alleviating points about him, as they would be living so close together, and must meet occasionally.

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