We went to a trap and my bags were put in. I scrambled up and the coachman took the reins with an air of disdain.

“Tain’t like me to drive these little things but to oblige your ma…”

“Thank you,” I said. “Mr. er…”

“Jeffers,” he said. “Jeffers is the name.” And we were off.

We drove through leafy lanes that edged the forest where the trees looked darkly mysterious. It was very different country from our mountainous one. This, I reminded myself, was the forest in which William the Conqueror had hunted and his son William Rufus had met his mysterious death.

I said: “It’s odd to call it the New Forest.”

“Eh?” replied Jeffers. “What’s that?”

“The New Forest when it’s been there for eight hundred years.”

“Reckon it were new once like most things,” answered Jeffers.

“They say it was built on the blood of men.”

“You got funny ideas, miss.”

“It’s not my idea. Men were turned out of their homes to make that forest and if anyone trapped a deer or a wild boar his hands were cut off or his eyes put out or he might have been hanged on a tree.”

“There’s no wild boar in there now, miss. And I never heard such talk about the forest.”

“Well, I did. In fact we’re doing Anglo-Saxon England and the Norman invasion at school.”

He nodded gravely. “And you’re spending the holiday with us. Surprised I was when that was allowed. But your mother stuck her foot down and it had to be. Mr. Milner gave way on that, which surprised me.”

“Why did it surprise you?”

“He’s not one to want children in the house.”

“What sort of one is he?”

“Now that is a question, that is. I reckon there’s no one knows what sort of man Mr. Sylvester Milner is.”

“Is he young?”

He looked at me. “Compared with me… he’s not so very old but compared with you he’d be a very old gentleman indeed.”

“Without comparing him with anyone how old would he be?”

“Bless you, miss. You’re one for questions. How would I be knowing how old Mr. Sylvester Milner be.”

“You could guess.”

“’Twouldn’t do to start guessing where he were concerned. You’d sure as eggs come up with the wrong answer.”

I could see that I should get little information about Mr. Sylvester Milner through him, so I studied the countryside.

Dusk of a December afternoon and a forest which my imagination told me must surely be haunted by those whom the Norman kings had dispossessed and tortured! By the time we had reached Roland’s Croft I was in a state of great anticipation.

We turned into a drive on either side of which grew conifers. The drive must have been half a mile in length and it seemed a long time before we reached the lawn beyond which was the house. It was imposing and elegant and must have been built round about the time of the early Georges. It struck me at once as being aloof and austere. Perhaps this was because I had been imagining a castle-like dwelling with battlements, turrets, and oriel windows. These windows were symmetrical, short on the ground floor, tall on the first floor, a little less tall on the next and square on the top. The effect was characteristic of eighteenth-century elegance removed as far as possible from the baroque and gothic of earlier generations. There was a beautiful fanlight over the Adam doorway and two columns supported a portico. Later I was to admire the Greek honeysuckle pattern on these but at the time my attention was caught by the two Chinese stone dogs at the foot of the columns. They looked fierce and alien in comparison with so much which was English.

The door was opened by a maid in a black alpaca dress and a white cap and apron with very stiffly starched frills. She must have heard the trap pull up.

“You be the young lady from school,” she said. “Come in and I’ll tell Madam you’re here.”

Madam! So my mother had assumed that title. I laughed inwardly and that pleasant feeling of security began to wrap itself around me.

I stood in the hall and looked about me. From the ceiling with its discreet plaster decorations hung a chandelier. The staircase was circular and beautifully proportioned. A grandfather clock standing against the wall ticked noisily. I listened to the house. Apart from the clock it was quiet. Strangely, eerily quiet, I told myself.

And then my mother flashed into sight on the staircase. She ran to me and we hugged each other.

“My dear child, so you’ve come. I’ve been counting the days. Where are your bags? I’ll have them taken up to your room. First of all, come to mine. There’s so much to say.”

She looked different; she was in black bombazine which rustled as she moved; she wore a cap on her head and had assumed great dignity. The housekeeper of this rather stately mansion was different from the mother in our little house.

She was a little restrained, I thought, as arm in arm we mounted the staircase. I was not surprised that I had not heard her approach, so thick were the carpets. We followed the staircase up and up. It was constructed so that from every floor it was possible to look down into the hall.

“What a magnificent house,” I whispered.

“It’s pleasant,” she answered.

Her room was on the second floor—a cosy room, heavily curtained; the furniture was elegant and although I knew nothing of these matters at that time I later learned that the cabinet was Hepplewhite as were the beautifully carved chairs and table.

“I’d like to have had my own bits and pieces,” said my mother, following my gaze. She grimaced ruefully. “Mr. Sylvester Milner would have been horrified with my old stuff, but it was cosy.”

It was beautiful and elegant and right for the room, I realized, but it lacked the homeliness of our own rooms. Still, there was a fire in the grate and on it a kettle was singing.

Then she shut the door and burst out laughing. She hugged me once more. She had slipped out of the dignified housekeeper’s role and had become my mother.

“Tell me all about it,” I said.

“The kettle will be boiling in a jiffy,” she answered. “We’ll chat over our tea. I thought you’d never get here.”

The cups were already on the tray and she ladled out three spoonfuls of tea and infused it. “We’ll let it stand for a minute or two. Well!” she went on. “Who would have thought it? It’s turned out very well, very well indeed.”

“What about him?”

“Who?”

“Mr. Sylvester Milner.”

“He’s away.”

My face fell and she laughed at me. “That’s a good thing, Janey. Why, we’ll have the house to ourselves.”

“I wanted to see him.”

“And I’d thought you wanted to see me.”

I got up and kissed her.

“You’re settled then, and really happy?” I said.

“It couldn’t have been better. I believe your father arranged it for us.”

She had believed since his death that he was watching over us and for this reason no harm could befall us. She mingled strong occult feelings with strict common sense and although she was firmly convinced that my father would guide us as to the best way we should go, at the same time she put every effort in arranging it.

It was clear that she was happy with her post at Roland’s Croft.

“If I’d planned a place for myself I couldn’t have done better,” she said. “I’ve got a good position here. The maids respect me.”

“They call you Madam, I notice.”

“That was a little courtesy I insisted on. Always remember, Janey, that people take you at your own valuation. So I set mine high.”

“Are there many servants?”

“There are three gardeners, two of them married, and they live in cottages on the estate. There’s Jeffers the coachman and his wife. They live over the stables. The two gardeners’ wives work in the house. Then there’s Jess and Amy, the parlormaid and housemaid; and Mr. Catterwick the butler and Mrs. Couch the cook.”

“And you are in charge of it all.”

“Mr. Catterwick and Mrs. Couch wouldn’t like to hear you say that I was in charge of them I can tell you. Mr. Catterwick’s a very fine gentleman indeed. He tells me at least once a day that he’s worked in more grand households than this one. As for Mrs. Couch, she’s mistress of the kitchen and it would be woe betide anyone who tried to interfere there.”

My mother’s conversation had always been gay and racy. I think that was one of the characteristics which had attracted my father to her. He himself had been quiet and withdrawn, all that she was not. He had been sensitive; she was as he had once said like a little cock sparrow ready to fight the biggest eagle for her rights. I could imagine her ruling the household here… with the exception of the cook and the butler.

“It’s a beautiful house,” I said, “but a little eerie.”

“You and your fancies! It’s because the lamps aren’t lit. I’ll light mine now.”

She took the globe off a lamp on the table and applied a lighted match to the wick.

We drank the tea and ate the biscuits which my mother produced from a tin.

“Did you see Mr. Sylvester Milner when you applied for the post?” I asked.

“Why yes, I did.”

“Tell me about him.”

She was silent for a few seconds, and a faint haze came over her eyes. She was rarely at a loss for words and I thought at once: There is something odd about him.

“He’s… a gentleman,” she said.

“Where is he now?”

“He’s away on business. He’s often away on business.”

“Then why does he keep this big houseful of servants?”

“People do.”

“He must be very rich.”

“He’s a merchant.”

“A merchant! What sort of a merchant?”

“He travels round the world to many places… like China.”

I remembered the Chinese dogs at the porch.

“Tell me what he looks like.”

“He’s not easy to describe.”

“Why not?”

“Well, he’s different from other people.”

“When shall I see him?”

“Sometime, I daresay.”

“This holiday?”

“I should hardly think so. Though we never know. He appears suddenly…”

“Like a ghost,” I said.

She laughed at me. “I mean he doesn’t say when he’ll be coming. He just turns up.”

“Is he handsome?”

“Some might call him so.”

“What sort of things does he sell?”

“Very valuable things.”

This was unlike my mother who was usually the most loquacious of women and my first impression that there was something strange about Mr. Sylvester Milner was confirmed.

“There’s one thing,” said my mother. “You might see a strangelooking man about sometimes.”

“What sort of a man?”

“He’s Chinese. He’s called Ling Fu. He won’t look quite like the other servants. He travels with Mr. Milner and looks after his private treasure room. No one else goes in there.”

My eyes sparkled. It was growing more mysterious every minute.

“Is he hiding something in this treasure room?” I asked.

My mother laughed. “Now don’t you get working up one of your fancies. There’s a simple explanation. Mr. Milner collects rare and costly things—jade, rose quartz, coral, ivory. He buys them and sells them, but he keeps some of them here until he finds a buyer. He’s an authority on them and Ling Fu dusts them and looks after them. Mr. Milner explained to me that he thought it better for Ling Fu to do this and none of the other servants to be involved.”

“Have you ever been in the room. Mother?”

“There’s no reason why I should. I take care of the household. That’s my business.”

I looked into the fire and saw pictures there. There was a face which looked genial at one moment and as the coal burned it changed subtly and was malevolent. Mr. Sylvester Milner! I thought.

My mother showed me my room. It was small, next to her own and it had a window which reached from the ceiling to the floor. It was discreetly but tastefully furnished.

“You can look out on the gardens,” she said. “You can’t see very much now but they are very well kept. The lawns are a picture and the flowers in the spring and summer have to be seen to be believed. You can just see how the house is built—with a wing either side, like a letter E with the middle strut not there. Look, over at that wing. You see those two windows. That’s Mr. Milner’s Treasure Room.”

I looked and was excited.

“You’ll see it clearly in daylight,” said my mother.