Hugh | Page 5

with dormers
and leaning walls; one or two of these are bedrooms. One, very large
and long, runs along most of the front, and has a curious leaden channel
in it a foot above the floor to take the rain-water off the leads of the
roof. Out of another comes a sweet smell of stored apples, which
revives the memory of childish visits to farm storerooms--and here
stands a pretty and quaint old pipe-organ awaiting renovation.
We must retrace our steps to the building at the back to which the
cloister leads. We enter a little sacristy and vestry, and beyond is a dark
chapel, with a side-chapel opening out of it. It was originally an old
brew-house, with a timbered roof. The sanctuary is now divided off by
a high open screen, of old oak, reaching nearly to the roof. The whole

place is full of statues, carved and painted, embroidered hangings,
stained glass, pendent lamps, emblems; there is a gallery over the
sacristy, with an organ, and a fine piece of old embroidery displayed on
the gallery front.
This is the house in which for seven years my brother Hugh lived. Let
me recall how he first came to see it. He was at Cambridge then,
working as an assistant priest. He became aware that his work lay
rather in the direction of speaking, preaching, and writing, and resolved
to establish himself in some quiet country retreat. One summer I visited
several houses in Hertfordshire with him, but they proved unsuitable.
One of these possessed an extraordinary attraction for him. It was in a
bleak remote village, and it was a fine old house which had fallen from
its high estate. It stood on the road and was used as a grocer's shop. It
was much dilapidated, and there was little ground about it, but inside
there were old frescoes and pictures, strange plaster friezes and
moulded ceilings, which had once been brightly coloured. But nothing
would have made it a really attractive house, in spite of the curious
beauty of its adornment.
One day I was returning alone from an excursion, and passed by what
we call accident through Hare Street, the village which I have described.
I caught a glimpse of the house through the iron gates, and saw that
there was a board up saying it was for sale. A few days later I went
there with Hugh. It was all extremely desolate, but we found a friendly
caretaker who led us round. The shrubberies had grown into dense
plantations, the orchard was a tangled waste of grass, the garden was
covered with weeds. I remember Hugh's exclamation of regret that we
had visited the place. "It is exactly what I want," he said, "but it is far
too expensive. I wish I had never set eyes on it!" However, he found
that it had long been unlet, and that no one would buy it. He might have
had the pasture-land and the farm-buildings as well, and he afterwards
regretted that he had not bought them, but his income from writing was
still small. However, he offered what seems to me now an
extraordinarily low sum for the house and garden; it was to his
astonishment at once accepted. It was all going to ruin, and the owner
was glad to get rid of it on any terms. He established himself there with

great expedition, and set to work to renovate the place. At a later date
he bought the adjacent cottage, and the paddock in which he built the
other house, and he also purchased some outlying fields, one a
charming spot on the road to Buntingford, with some fine old trees,
where he had an idea of building a church.
Everything in the little domain took shape under his skilful hand and
ingenious brain. He made most of the tapestries in the house with his
own fingers, working with his friend Mr. Gabriel Pippet the artist. He
carved much of the panelling--he was extraordinarily clever with his
hands. He painted many of the pictures which hang on the walls, he
catalogued the library; he worked day after day in the garden, weeding,
rowing, and planting. In all this he had the advantage of the skill,
capacity, and invention of his factotum and friend, Mr. Joseph Reeman,
who could turn his hand to anything and everything with equal energy
and taste; and so the whole place grew and expanded in his hands, until
there is hardly a detail, indoors or out-of-doors, which does not show
some trace of his fancy and his touch.
There were some strange old traditions about the house; it was said to
be haunted, and more than one of his guests had inexplicable
experiences there. It was also said that there was