They drove into the park, and here too, even in this autumn season,
Clarissa perceived traces of care and order that were strange to her. The
carriage road was newly gravelled, the chaos of underwood among the old
trees had disappeared, the broad sweeps of grass were smooth and level as
a lawn, and there were men at work in the early morning, planting rare
specimens of the fir tribe in a new enclosure, which filled a space that
had been bared twenty years before by Mr. Lovel's depredations upon the
timber.
All this bewildered Clarissa; but she was still more puzzled, when, instead
of approaching the Court the fly turned sharply into a road leading across
a thickly wooded portion of the park, through which there was a public
right of way leading to the village of Arden.
"The man is going wrong, uncle!" she exclaimed.
"No, no, my dear; the man is right enough."
"But indeed, uncle Oliver, he is driving to the village."
"And he has been told to drive to the village."
"Not to the Court?"
"To the Court! Why, of course not. What should we have to do at the Court
at half-past seven in the morning?"
"But I am going straight home to papa, am I not?"
"Certainly."
And then, after staring at his niece's bewildered countenance for a few
moments, Mr. Oliver exclaimed,----
"Why, surely, Clary, your father told you----"
"Told me what, uncle?"
"That he had sold Arden.
Pages:
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37