The Unknown Ajax

that he was a person of consequence, but we—Richmond, and Vincent, and I—take leave to doubt that, because the original manor was quite small. That’s why the house lies so close to the northern boundary. It was much later that the family crept over into Sussex. Today, that part of Grandpapa’s lands is the most important, because of the rents, you know; but although Darracott Place has been pulled down, and rebuilt, and enlarged a great many times, no reigning Darracott has ever had the temerity to remove the original site. That would be flying in the face of tradition!—an unpardonable crime!”

So they had ridden towards the Weald, into more wooded country, and then eastward, above the Rother levels, for a little way, before dropping down again to the Marsh, and crossing the Military Canal at Appledore. The Marsh stretched before them, smiling and lush in the September sunshine, yet with a suggestion of eerie loneliness about it which made the Major exclaim, under his breath: “Eh, it’s a queer place!”

Just beyond Fairford, a cluster of alleys round a church, they had reined in their horses, so that the few landmarks could be more easily pointed out. Anthea had directed Hugo’s attention to the tower of Lydd Church, visible some six miles to the south-east, but although he bestowed a cursory glance on it his interest was claimed by the expanse of reclaimed land that lay between Lydd and Rye. Seen from the slight elevation on which Darracott Place had been built, the Marsh had appeared to be quite flat, with nothing but intersecting dykes, and, here and there, a few willows and thornbushes to relieve its tame monotony. His eye had been attracted by Rye, perched so unexpectedly high above the Marsh, and reminding him, in the distance, of the Point of Cassilhas, near Lisbon, where there had been a military hospital (in which he had languished for several painful weeks); and on the top of just such another steep, isolated hill a convent had been built. Now, standing on the edge of the Marsh, he perceived that it was not quite flat, but sloped slightly upwards towards the dunes that hid the sea from his sight. A road meandered erratically across it, but there was no traffic to be seen, and not so much as a shepherd’s cot afforded any sign of human habitation. There seemed to be no living things on the Marsh but sheep, gulls, a moorhen seeking safety in the rushes, and somewhere, sounding its unmistakable note, a peewit. The scene was peaceful, but it was not tame. As Anthea looked enquiringly at Hugo, he spoke the thought that came into his mind: “Do you meet flay-boggards, if you venture out when the light goes?”

“I don’t think so,” replied Anthea cautiously.

He glanced down at her, and laughed. “Where’s our Claud to set me right? Hobgoblins is what I should have said! This is just where I’d look for them.”

To Anthea and Richmond, born and bred on the edge of the Marsh, this was ridiculous. Richmond said: “Hobgoblins? You don’t believe in them, do you, cousin?”

“Nay, I’m not so sure I don’t since I’ve come into these parts,” said Hugo, shaking his head. “I’ll take care to turn my coat inside out, if ever I come here after nightfall, for fear of being pixie-led.”

Richmond laughed; but Anthea said: “Does it seem to you an uncanny place? My Aunt Anne hated it: she used to say it was sullen land, full of evil sea-spirits, but she was very fanciful! It isn’t uncanny—not a bit!—even though it was once at the bottom of the sea! Innings have been made all along this stretch of coast, you know, as far as Saxon times. People say it’s unhealthy—aguish—and I own that those who live on the Marsh are peculiarly subject to fits of ague. That’s why Darracott Place is almost the last of the great houses still remaining here: in general, the lords of the district removed to the uplands. Not the Darracotts, however! You may depend on that!”

“Unless you do so, Cousin Hugo?” interpolated Richmond. “My uncle Granville was used to say that he would leave Darracott Place, and live in one of the manors on the Sussex side. Northiamway.”

“Yes! When he was at outs with Grandpapa!” retorted Anthea. “He would never have done it! Even had he really wished to abandon the Place, only think of the cost!” She smiled at Hugo, dancing lights in her eyes. “Did you fancy, cousin, that you had seen the worst of your family? I assure you, you have seen it at its best! When my uncle was alive, and he lived here, with all his family, brangles and brawls between him and my grandfather were the rule rather than the exception. He was inclined to be sickly, which Grandpapa took as an affront; and no matter what ailed him he always said that it was due to the horrid, marish situation of the house. You may imagine Grandpapa’s wrath!”

“Well, what slum it was!” said Richmond scornfully. “Grandpapa knew he only got the notion out of an old book my aunt found, and was for ever quoting! It was enough to put anyone out of temper, for there wasn’t a word of truth in it! Something about the Marsh being grievous in winter—”

“Evil in winter, grievous in summer, and never good,” Anthea amended. “Also that Kent has three steps, Wealth without health—that’s our part! Wealth and health—which is the Weald; and the third which affordeth health only, and no Wealth.”

“Which proves it was a fudge!” said Richmond. “We haven’t wealth!”

“Ay, but there’s wealth here right enough,” said Hugo, his gaze roving over the scene before him. “The land’s carrying more sheep to the acre than I ever saw. How many do you reckon on?”

“From six to twelve—but that’s over Romney Marsh too,” Anthea replied. “The farmers think it a bad year if the Marshes don’t yield four thousand packs. I believe it’s good wool, but I don’t know much about it, because we don’t keep sheep ourselves, of course. The pasturage and the arable lands are leased.”

“I don’t know much about it either,” said Hugo, “but I’ve seen the fleeces in grease, in the market, and listened to a deal of talk. It’s short-staple wool, isn’t it? Carding wool, that is?”

“I haven’t the least notion,” replied Anthea frankly. “In fact, I don’t know what carding wool is. Tell me!”

“Nay, I’d likely tell you wrong, for I was never very sure in my own mind between wools and worsteds. Long- staple makes the worsteds: combing wool, they call it. Lincoln and Leicestershire is where it mostly comes from. The Southdown is the best of the carding wools: it mills well. I know that much, but when it comes to qualities I’m at a stand. Pitlock’s the first of the wools, and Fine of the worsteds, and Abb’s pretty well the last of ’em both, but I’d be done up if you were to ask me what comes betwixt the first and the last. As for stapling, if I pored over the lot for a sennight as like as not I’d mistake Breech for Prime at the back-end of the week!”

She was interested, and would have questioned him further, but Richmond, attending with only half an ear, interrupted her to say: “Oh, never mind the sheep! I’ll tell you what’s to be had in abundance here besides those silly creatures, and that’s hares! Only wait until January—from then until March is when they run strongest—and we’ll show you some famous sport! There’s excellent duck-shooting, too, if you care for it.”

“Do you course your hares?” Hugo asked. “I’ve done a lot of that in the Peninsula.”

“No, we hunt them with harriers. You’ll soon see! The young hounds will be entered in a week or two. They hunt leverets at this season, of course: it teaches them their business,, but the real sport is after Christmas. Do you know, an old Jack will give you almost as good a run as a fox? The doe doubles and turns shorter, but a Jack will very likely travel a four or even five mile point.”

There was no more talk of wool or agriculture after that. As they rode gently along the track, Anthea let her mare drop behind a little, well aware that once two gentlemen were fairly launched into sporting-talk neither would have a word to spare for a mere female. She occasionally rode to hounds herself, but she was by no means hunting-mad, and descriptions of great runs, of the wiles by which hares would baffle hounds, of the rival merits of the big Sussex-bred hound, and the fast, rough-coated harrier, very soon bored her. She preferred to follow the gentlemen at her leisure, and to occupy herself with her own thoughts.

These were largely concerned with her new cousin. She found him baffling. At first sight, he had appeared to her to be stupid: an overgrown gapeseed, slow of speech, and short of wit; either too woodheaded to understand the malicious shafts that had been aimed at him, or too meek to resent them. When she had first taken up the cudgels in his defence, she had yielded to the promptings, not of pity for a humble creature unable to defend himself, but of exasperation. High-spirited herself, and never afraid to answer a challenge, it had vexed her that Hugo should allow Vincent to make a butt of him. Her swift retort had been intended to furnish him with an example; it had won no response from him: he had merely looked surprised; but just as she had decided that he was too blockish to be worth a thought, she had seen the twinkle in his eye, and had realized that however meek and yielding his disposition might be he was not lacking in intelligence. Her curiosity roused, she had been covertly studying him ever since. By the time she had conducted him through the picture-gallery she had revised her first opinion of his character, and given free room in her brain to the suspicion that her ox-like cousin had a strong (and possibly reprehensible) sense of humour. Final judgment was suspended, but of one thing there was no doubt: