On an early winter afternoon, clear but not cold, when the vegetable

world was a weird multitude of skeletons through whose ribs the sun shone

freely, a gleaming landau came to a pause on the crest of a hill in

Wessex. The spot was where the old Melchester Road, which the carriage

had hitherto followed, was joined by a drive that led round into a park

at no great distance off.

The footman alighted, and went to the occupant of the carriage, a lady

about eight- or nine-and-twenty. She was looking through the opening

afforded by a field-gate at the undulating stretch of country beyond.

In pursuance of some remark from her the servant looked in the same

direction.

The central feature of the middle distance, as they beheld it, was a

circular isolated hill, of no great elevation, which placed itself in

strong chromatic contrast with a wide acreage of surrounding arable by

being covered with fir-trees. The trees were all of one size and age, so

that their tips assumed the precise curve of the hill they grew upon.

This pine-clad protuberance was yet further marked out from the general

landscape by having on its summit a tower in the form of a classical

column, which, though partly immersed in the plantation, rose above the

tree-tops to a considerable height. Upon this object the eyes of lady

and servant were bent.

'Then there is no road leading near it?' she asked.

'Nothing nearer than where we are now, my lady.' 'Then drive home,' she said after a moment. And the carriage rolled on its way.

A few days later, the same lady, in the same carriage, passed that spot

again. Her eyes, as before, turned to the distant tower.

'Nobbs,' she said to the coachman, 'could you find your way home through

that field, so as to get near the outskirts of the plantation where the

column is?' The coachman regarded the field. 'Well, my lady,' he observed, 'in dry

weather we might drive in there by inching and pinching, and so get

across by Five-and-Twenty Acres, all being well. But the ground is so

heavy after these rains that perhaps it would hardly be safe to try it

now.' 'Perhaps not,' she assented indifferently. 'Remember it, will you, at a

drier time?' And again the carriage sped along the road, the lady's eyes resting on

the segmental hill, the blue trees that muffled it, and the column that

formed its apex, till they were out of sight.

A long time elapsed before that lady drove over the hill again. It was

February; the soil was now unquestionably dry, the weather and scene

being in other respects much as they had been before. The familiar shape

of the column seemed to remind her that at last an opportunity for a

close inspection had arrived. Giving her directions she saw the gate

opened, and after a little manoeuvring the carriage swayed slowly into

the uneven field.




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