The Coldstone Read Free

timbered cottages.
    The butler, Lane, met him at the door—a pale, stoutish man, just perceptibly nervous. Behind him, Mrs. Hutchins, the housekeeper—large, rubicund, jolly. Behind them, the house—his house. He desired ardently to get rid of them and to make its acquaintance.
    The grey stone front was like a mask; it hid beauty. The eighteenth century had built on to and covered up the original Elizabethan Stonegate. The old hall remained, rising to the height of the second storey, with a stair that swept nobly up to a carved gallery. The great chimney measured ten feet across. On the dark panelling hung pictures almost as dark.
    He went up the stair and along the gallery, Mrs. Hutchins a little in advance, talking about which room he would have, and what a hot day it was—“Though to be sure, sir, you’d make nothing of that, coming from India. And if you please to mind the step. Built everything with steps up and down in the old days, and I’m sure I don’t know why. There’s another one here, sir—up this time—and then just a half step down again.”
    She flung open a door and stood aside for him to enter.
    â€œThis was Sir Jervis’ room, sir.”
    Anthony came into it with a sense of intrusion. It was a fine room with three large windows, and paper, not panelling. The whole room had a surprisingly modern air; the furniture Victorian mahogany, the paper very faded and hideous beyond belief—olive green whorls on a ground of yellow ochre; the bed a plain old-fashioned brass affair of the same period as the huge dark wardrobe on the opposite side of the room. Two of the windows looked upon a green lawn set with cedar trees. The high stone wall lay on the left. It had fruit trees trained against it, and a narrow border at its foot, somewhat empty and neglected.
    Anthony walked to the other window. It looked to the hilly country through which he had come; a patch of dark trees on the right—the wood where he had lost the sun; fields all on the slant; not many trees; hedges; cows grazing. And straight in the line from where he stood something grey that caught his eye.
    He turned quickly to Mrs. Hutchins.
    â€œAre those the Stones?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    He looked round at her quickly. She had been so voluble—and now only two words, and her mouth set as if she didn’t mean to open it again. He had thought her a jolly old thing, but as he looked round she seemed formidable, and her little grey eyes cold; the whole of her big red face was like a slammed door. He looked back at the hillside.
    â€œHow many stones are there? I can see two. Is that all there are?”
    â€œI don’t know, sir.”
    He swung round impatiently.
    â€œWhy? How long have you been here? I thought Mr. Leveridge said—”
    â€œI’ve been here thirty years, sir—housekeeper for fifteen.”
    Her face relaxed a little. Pride in her long service was evident.
    Anthony gave a short, half stifled laugh.
    â€œThirty years! And you don’t know how many stones there are?”
    â€œNo, sir. Will you be having this room, may I ask, sir?”
    â€œNever been up to have a look at them?” He ignored the question of the room. He was puzzled and intrigued.
    â€œNo, sir. About the room, sir—”
    He walked to the window and stared out. Straight maroon curtains framed the green fields that were his—green fields all on the slant of the hill. He wondered if he could farm the land and make it pay. He had always wanted to farm really. He looked at the two grey stones, like grey sheep feeding on the green slope a long way off—two of them. And Mrs. Hutchins didn’t know if there were any more. She had been here thirty years, and she didn’t know.
    He turned, smiling; and when he smiled he looked like a schoolboy.
    â€œAnd how long has Lane been here?”
    â€œForty years. Shall I have this bed made up,