Bulteel vied with each other in pointing out objects for Marjorie's attention. But neither made any remark about the gray stone house that presently came in sight—a low irregular house under the ridge of the downs, with a belt of firs about it. It was the firs which first caught Marjorie's eye; they were almost the only trees she had seen since Polruan Hill was left behind.
"How beautiful those firs are!" she said; "but the house looks gloomy with all its windows shut up. Whose house is it, Mr. Bulteel?"
"It is the Manor House," he answered, glancing at her father.
And her father said quietly, "It is your Cousin Carew's house, my dear. Some of it goes back to Henry the Eighth's time. The date 1512 is over the front-door."
"You would not think the house was close to the sea—eh, Miss Marjorie? But it is. Blackdown Point is just over the ridge there. And we all believe in St. Mawan that there is a secret passage between the house and the caves under the Point. What do you say to that, Drew?"
"It is probably blocked up by this time, if there ever was one," returned the rector, in a tone that implied, to Marjorie's ears, that he wished not to talk of it.
But Mr. Bulteel did not understand the inflections of the rector's voice as Marjorie did, and he went cheerfully on:
"Oh, there was one! Old Tregony told me only last week that his great-grandfather and half a dozen others once carried a hundred kegs of brandy from a sloop off Blackdown Point right into the kitchen of the Manor House. But they were all sworn to secrecy, and there is nobody now alive who knows how to find the passage."
"There is probably no passage to find now," said the rector quietly. "Damp and decay must have destroyed it, if it ever existed, about which I have always been incredulous. Do you see those mounds overgrown with grass on the downs, Marjorie? That was a mine once. There used to be an open shaft there, Bulteel. Has it been filled up?"
"We talk of doing it, but it hasn't been done," returned Mr. Bulteel, looking at Marjorie with twinkling eyes. "We don't do things in a hurry in St. Mawan—eh, Miss Marjorie?"
Marjorie was bound to laugh at his quizzical look, but her eyes soon went back to the deserted mine on the downs.
The Manor House was out of sight now, though the tops of some firs rose over the hillside, marking its position. The rolling downs stretched gently upwards to the skyline, against which showed those grass grown mounds that her father had pointed out to her.
They gave the scene a desolate look, and Marjorie was glad when the road made a sudden turn, and the valley broadened out before them, cheerful with scattered houses and garden plots. The town was now close at hand, nestling behind a grassy headland, which jutted out into the sea, forming a shelter from the fury of winter tempests.
Marjorie had a glimpse of a little harbour, where a number of fishing-boats lay moored, of a long line of frowning cliffs to the westward with breakers flashing white against them, of a great, dazzling plain of ocean, below a sky ruddy with the sunset. Then the houses closed the prospect out, and she was in the narrow High Street, eagerly wondering at which house they would stop.
CHAPTER 6
treasure-trove
Bulteel’s bank was about half-way up the High Street, on the sunny side. It was a square, double-fronted house, roomy and comfortable, and had a large garden behind it. The front rooms on the lower floor were given up to the business, but there was a long drawing-room upstairs, with three windows looking on the street, that Marjorie thought was the most delightful apartment she had ever seen. The furniture and ornaments in it had nearly all come from France, Mrs. Bulteel told her, brought over by Mr. Bulteel's father in the days before the war; and the inlaid cabinets, and spindle-legged tables, and smiling Dresden shepherdesses took Marjorie's fancy amazingly. But better even than the room
"How beautiful those firs are!" she said; "but the house looks gloomy with all its windows shut up. Whose house is it, Mr. Bulteel?"
"It is the Manor House," he answered, glancing at her father.
And her father said quietly, "It is your Cousin Carew's house, my dear. Some of it goes back to Henry the Eighth's time. The date 1512 is over the front-door."
"You would not think the house was close to the sea—eh, Miss Marjorie? But it is. Blackdown Point is just over the ridge there. And we all believe in St. Mawan that there is a secret passage between the house and the caves under the Point. What do you say to that, Drew?"
"It is probably blocked up by this time, if there ever was one," returned the rector, in a tone that implied, to Marjorie's ears, that he wished not to talk of it.
But Mr. Bulteel did not understand the inflections of the rector's voice as Marjorie did, and he went cheerfully on:
"Oh, there was one! Old Tregony told me only last week that his great-grandfather and half a dozen others once carried a hundred kegs of brandy from a sloop off Blackdown Point right into the kitchen of the Manor House. But they were all sworn to secrecy, and there is nobody now alive who knows how to find the passage."
"There is probably no passage to find now," said the rector quietly. "Damp and decay must have destroyed it, if it ever existed, about which I have always been incredulous. Do you see those mounds overgrown with grass on the downs, Marjorie? That was a mine once. There used to be an open shaft there, Bulteel. Has it been filled up?"
"We talk of doing it, but it hasn't been done," returned Mr. Bulteel, looking at Marjorie with twinkling eyes. "We don't do things in a hurry in St. Mawan—eh, Miss Marjorie?"
Marjorie was bound to laugh at his quizzical look, but her eyes soon went back to the deserted mine on the downs.
The Manor House was out of sight now, though the tops of some firs rose over the hillside, marking its position. The rolling downs stretched gently upwards to the skyline, against which showed those grass grown mounds that her father had pointed out to her.
They gave the scene a desolate look, and Marjorie was glad when the road made a sudden turn, and the valley broadened out before them, cheerful with scattered houses and garden plots. The town was now close at hand, nestling behind a grassy headland, which jutted out into the sea, forming a shelter from the fury of winter tempests.
Marjorie had a glimpse of a little harbour, where a number of fishing-boats lay moored, of a long line of frowning cliffs to the westward with breakers flashing white against them, of a great, dazzling plain of ocean, below a sky ruddy with the sunset. Then the houses closed the prospect out, and she was in the narrow High Street, eagerly wondering at which house they would stop.
CHAPTER 6
treasure-trove
Bulteel’s bank was about half-way up the High Street, on the sunny side. It was a square, double-fronted house, roomy and comfortable, and had a large garden behind it. The front rooms on the lower floor were given up to the business, but there was a long drawing-room upstairs, with three windows looking on the street, that Marjorie thought was the most delightful apartment she had ever seen. The furniture and ornaments in it had nearly all come from France, Mrs. Bulteel told her, brought over by Mr. Bulteel's father in the days before the war; and the inlaid cabinets, and spindle-legged tables, and smiling Dresden shepherdesses took Marjorie's fancy amazingly. But better even than the room
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