n into the space of
paneling below the stone window-sill--placed there long ago, when he
was a little lad, to serve him in such case as the present--Richard
drew himself up on to the cushioned bench. He unfastened one of the
narrow, curved, iron-framed casements, and, leaning his elbows on the
sill, looked out. The air was mild. The smell of the earth was sweet,
with a cleanly, wholesome sweetness. The sunshine covered him. And
somehow, whether he would or no, hope reasserted its dominion, and that
exaltation of feeling entered into possession of him once again, as he
rested, gazing away over the familiar home scene, over this land,
which, as far as sight carried, had belonged to his people these many
generations, and was now his own.

Directly below, at the foot of the descending steps of the main
entrance, lay the square, red-walled space of gravel and of turf. He
looked at it curiously, for there, with the maiming and death of Thomas
Calmady's bastard, if legend said truly, all this tragic history of
disaster had begun. There, too, the Clown, race-horse of merry name and
mournful memory, had paid the penalty of wholly involuntary
transgression just thirty years ago. That last was a rather horrible
incident, of which Richard never cared to think. Chifney had told him
about it once, in connection with the parentage of Verdigris--had told
him just by chance. To think of it, even now, made a lump rise in his
throat. Across the turf--offering quaint contrast to those somewhat
bloody memories--the peacocks, in all their bravery of royal
blue-purple, living green and gold, led forth their sober-clad mates.
They had come out from the pepper-pot summer-houses to sun themselves.
They stepped mincingly, with a worldly and disdainful grace, and,
reaching the gravel, their resplendent trains swept the rounded
pebbles, making a small, dry, rattling sound, which, so deep was the
surrounding quiet, asserted itself to the extent of saluting Dickie's
ears. Beyond the red wall the parallel lines of the elm avenue swept
down to the blue and silver levels of the Long Water, the alder copses
bordering which showed black-purple, and the reed-beds rusty as a fox,
against thin stretches of still unmelted snow. The avenue climbed the
farther ascent to the wide archway of the red and gray gate-house, just
short of the top of the long ridge of bare moorland. The grass slopes
of the park, to the left, were backed by the dark, sawlike edge of the