man!’ He mused over it. ‘Over three hundred years of tenure—directly down through my branch of the family alone. Can you think what that must mean to a man? To say that I love it—well, that is to say nothing: it is a part of me, part of my blood and my bones, it’s at my very heart.’ He had reined in his horse and together they sat their saddles, looking out over the manor house and the lands that stretched for a thousand acres beyond it. ‘If I could be translated into this great estate, Miss Tettyman there would I be! Spread out before you, across the stream bricks and mortar for my bones and for my flesh and my blood the woods and the meadow-land, the little river, the wheatfields and cornfields and springs and wells; and the very beasts that graze the green grass and the men that work there and through generations of their families have worked for generations of mine. All part of me! All part of the Hilbourne family, all part of me !’ He stood up in his stirrups gazing out over it all, with uplifted head, grey eyes brilliant—for a brief moment handsome and strong and eager, and young again; and let his shoulders droop and sat back slackly in the saddle and, moving slowly onward up the slope, said hopelessly: ‘And already I feel it too great a burden, trying to care for it.’
Seen from this spot, the extent of the manor and its demesne indeed was vast. Into the steeper slope of the opposite hillside, it was as though a giant hand had scooped out an arc, into which had been folded the straight, blunt line of the house itself. To either side of it, hidden from view by banks and trees, strung along the length of the stream were its out-buildings. To its right, the domestic offices, the bakehouse, the laundries, the dairies, and so on to the garden sheds and stores, the glassed green-houses and the big, square, walled kitchen garden; to the left, the stable yard exactly balancing it and, between yard and house, the kennels, the tack rooms, the coach house, the smithy.
Beyond these again, curving the slope of the hill, the coachman’s lodge and so on to the Home Farm, with its storehouses, hay barns and byres—all running in their orderly pattern for perhaps a quarter of a mile along the twisting river bank. And beyond the hill-top, the endless acres of field and meadow, woodland and forest, dotted about with the tenant farms, the cottage homes of the workers. On the brow of the hill stood one larger than the rest, two cottages thrown together, considerably enlarged and embellished. The Squire pointed it out: ‘I daresay you have noticed it? Hil lives there.’ He said again: ‘God knows how I should manage if he were not with me!’
It brought her back to the subject of her anxieties. ‘I’m sure, sir, he is the most loyal and reliable of servants. It’s only—’
‘Hil is more than a servant,’ he said. He repeated it with a note of—almost of pride?—in his voice. ‘More than a servant. Hil is not a servant at Aberdar Manor.’
It was early December now: the light snowfall had ridged the bare branches meeting above their heads and crisped the curling rims of the fallen leaves. The path sloped gently up through the woods, opening at last into a little glade where the children had reined in their ponies and were amicably squabbling as to which first had reached the log, and there dismounted and stood again, all four of them now, looking across to where the old house lay so dark and bleak against the snow-bright hollowing-out of the hill. She saw how for a moment the children looked startled and clapped together their little gloved hands against the cold. It was indeed very cold up here. She felt it herself… So cold …
Just here—here on this spot, on a day far, far into the future, a woman would stand, erect, severe, in her brown stuff dress with its smoothly rounded bustle, watching in anxious disapproval as a girl took her lover’s hand and said, ‘Only a born Hilbourne could
Seen from this spot, the extent of the manor and its demesne indeed was vast. Into the steeper slope of the opposite hillside, it was as though a giant hand had scooped out an arc, into which had been folded the straight, blunt line of the house itself. To either side of it, hidden from view by banks and trees, strung along the length of the stream were its out-buildings. To its right, the domestic offices, the bakehouse, the laundries, the dairies, and so on to the garden sheds and stores, the glassed green-houses and the big, square, walled kitchen garden; to the left, the stable yard exactly balancing it and, between yard and house, the kennels, the tack rooms, the coach house, the smithy.
Beyond these again, curving the slope of the hill, the coachman’s lodge and so on to the Home Farm, with its storehouses, hay barns and byres—all running in their orderly pattern for perhaps a quarter of a mile along the twisting river bank. And beyond the hill-top, the endless acres of field and meadow, woodland and forest, dotted about with the tenant farms, the cottage homes of the workers. On the brow of the hill stood one larger than the rest, two cottages thrown together, considerably enlarged and embellished. The Squire pointed it out: ‘I daresay you have noticed it? Hil lives there.’ He said again: ‘God knows how I should manage if he were not with me!’
It brought her back to the subject of her anxieties. ‘I’m sure, sir, he is the most loyal and reliable of servants. It’s only—’
‘Hil is more than a servant,’ he said. He repeated it with a note of—almost of pride?—in his voice. ‘More than a servant. Hil is not a servant at Aberdar Manor.’
It was early December now: the light snowfall had ridged the bare branches meeting above their heads and crisped the curling rims of the fallen leaves. The path sloped gently up through the woods, opening at last into a little glade where the children had reined in their ponies and were amicably squabbling as to which first had reached the log, and there dismounted and stood again, all four of them now, looking across to where the old house lay so dark and bleak against the snow-bright hollowing-out of the hill. She saw how for a moment the children looked startled and clapped together their little gloved hands against the cold. It was indeed very cold up here. She felt it herself… So cold …
Just here—here on this spot, on a day far, far into the future, a woman would stand, erect, severe, in her brown stuff dress with its smoothly rounded bustle, watching in anxious disapproval as a girl took her lover’s hand and said, ‘Only a born Hilbourne could
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