The Hermit of Far End | Page 9

of trees that crowned the opposite hill, with the
grey bulk of the house standing out in sharp relief against their eternal
green. A little smile of pure pleasure flitted across her face; to her there
was something lovable and rather charming about the very architectural
inconsistencies which prevented Barrow Court from being, in any sense
of the word, a show place.
The central portion of the house, was comparatively modern, built of
stone in solid Georgian fashion, but quaintly flanked at either end by a
massive, mediaeval tower, survival of the good old days when the
Lovells of Fallowdene had held their own against all comers, not even
excepting, in the case of one Roderic, his liege lord and master the
King, the latter having conceived a not entirely unprovoked desire to
deprive him of his lands and liberty--a desire destined, however, to be
frustrated by the solid masonry of Barrow.
A flagged terrace ran the whole length of the long, two-storied house,
broadening out into wide wings at the base of either tower, and, below
the terrace, green, shaven lawns, dotted with old yew, sloped down to
the edge of a natural lake which lay in the hollow of the valley,
gleaming like a sheet of silver in the morning sunlight.
Prim walks, bordered by high box hedges, intersected the carefully
tended gardens, and along one of these Sara took her way, quickening
her steps to a run as the booming summons of a gong suddenly
reverberated on the air.
She reached the house, flushed and a little breathless, and, tossing aside
her hat as she sped through the big, oak-beamed hall, hurried into a
pleasant, sunshiny room, where a couple of menservants were moving
quietly about, putting the finishing touches to the breakfast table.
An invalid's wheeled chair stood close to the open window, and in it,
with a rug tucked about his knees, was seated an elderly man of some
sixty-two or three years of age. He was leaning forward, giving
animated instructions to a gardener who listened attentively from the
terrace outside, and his alert, eager, manner contrasted oddly with the

helplessness of limb indicated by the necessity for the wheeled chair.
"That's all, Digby," he said briskly. "I'll go through the hot-houses
myself some time to-day."
As he spoke, he signed to one of the footmen in the room to close the
window, and then propelled his chair with amazing rapidity to the
table.
The instant and careful attention accorded to his commands by both
gardener and servant was characteristic of every one in Patrick Lovell's
employment. Although he had been a more or less helpless invalid for
seven years, he had never lost his grip of things. He was exactly as
much master of Barrow Court, the dominant factor there, as he had
been in the good times that were gone, when no day's shooting had
been too long for him, no run with hounds too fast.
He sat very erect in his wheeled chair, a handsome, well-groomed old
aristocrat. Clean-shaven, except for a short, carefully trimmed
moustache, grizzled like his hair, his skin exhibited the waxen pallor
which so often accompanies chronic ill-health, and his face was
furrowed by deep lines, making him look older than his sixty-odd years.
His vivid blue eyes were extraordinarily keen and penetrating; possibly
they, and the determined, squarish jaw, were answerable for that
unquestioning obedience which was invariably accorded him.
"Good-morning, uncle mine!" Sara bent to kiss him as the door closed
quietly behind the retreating servants.
Patrick Lovell screwed his monocle into his eye and regarded her
dispassionately.
"You look somewhat ruffled," he observed, "both literally and
figuratively."
She laughed, putting up a careless hand to brush back the heavy tress of
dark hair that had fallen forward over her forehead.

"I've had an adventure," she answered, and proceeded to recount her
experience with Black Brady. When she reached the point where the
man had fired off his gun, Patrick interrupted explosively.
"The infernal scoundrel! That fellow will dangle at the end of a rope
one of these days--and deserve it, too. He's a murderous ruffian--a
menace to the countryside."
"He only fired into the air--to frighten me," explained Sara.
Her uncle looked at her curiously.
"And did he succeed?" he asked.
She bestowed a little grin of understanding upon him.
"He did," she averred gravely. Then, as Patrick's bushy eyebrows came
together in a bristling frown, she added: "But he remained in ignorance
of the fact."
The frown was replaced by a twinkle.
"That's all right, then," came the contented answer.
"All the same, I really /was/ frightened," she persisted. "It gave me
quite a nasty turn, as the servants say. I don't think"--meditatively
--"that I enjoy being shot at. Am I a funk, my uncle?"