CHAPTER I
THE HOUSE PARTY
The piers of the main entrance of Chadlands were of red brick, and
upon each reposed a mighty sphere of grey granite. Behind them
stretched away the park, where forest trees, nearly shorn of their leaves at
the edge of winter, still answered the setting sun with fires of thinning
foliage. They sank away through stretches of brake fern, and already
amid their trunks arose a thin, blue haze - breath of earth made visible by
coming cold. There was frost in the air, and the sickle of a new moon hung
where dusk of evening dimmed the green of the western sky.
The guns were returning, and eight men with three women arrived at
the lofty gates. One of the party rode a grey pony, and a woman walked
on each side of him. They chattered together, and the little company of
tweed - clad people passed into Chadlands Park and trudged forward,
where the manor house rose half a mile ahead.
Then an old man emerged from a lodge, hidden behind a grove of
laurel and bay within the entrance, and shut the great gates of scroll iron.
They were of a flamboyant Italian period, and more arrestive than
distinguished. Panelled upon them, and belonging to a later day than
they, had been imposed two iron coats of arms, with crest above and motto
beneath - the heraldic bearings of the present owner of Chadlands.
He set store upon such things, but was not responsible for the work. A
survival himself, and steeped in ancient opinions, his coat, won in a
forgotten age, interested him only less than his Mutiny medal - his sole
personal claim to public honor. He had served in youth as a soldier, but
was still a subaltern when his father died and he came into his kingdom.