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But neither could he take a stride in the opposite direction. So he was destined to veer round, like some sort of weather-cock, there in the middle of the dark road outside the "Royal Oak." But as he turned, he caught sight of a third exit. Almost opposite was the mouth of Shottle Lane, which led off under trees, at right angles to the highroad, up to New Brunswick Colliery.
Its walls were hung with fine grey canvas, it had a large, silvery grey, silky carpet, and the furniture was covered with dark green silky material. Into this reticence pieces of futurism, Omega cushions and Van-Gogh-like pictures exploded their colours. Such chic would certainly not have been looked for up Shottle Lane. The old man sat in his high grey arm-chair very near an enormous coal fire.
His English was incorrect, his accent, broad Derbyshire, and he was not a gentleman in the snobbish sense of the word. Yet he was well-to-do, and very stuck-up. His wife was dead. Shottle House stood two hundred yards beyond New Brunswick Colliery. The colliery was imbedded in a plantation, whence its burning pit-hill glowed, fumed, and stank sulphur in the nostrils of the Bricknells.
"Do you think so?" he answered. "Yes, I do. It seems so FAR from Shottle House and Christmas Eve. Oh, wasn't it exciting!" cried Julia. Aaron looked at her, but did not answer. "We've heard all about you," said Tanny playfully. "Oh, yes," he replied. "Come!" said Josephine, rather irritated. "We crowd up the gangway." And she led the way inside the box.
"Shall I show you a light to the road you're off your track," he said. "You're in the grounds of Shottle House." "I can find my road," said Aaron. "Thank you." Jim suddenly got up and went to peer at the stranger, poking his face close to Aaron's face. "Right-o," he replied. "You're not half a bad sort of chap Cheery-o! What's your drink?" "Mine whiskey," said Aaron. "Come in and have one.
At one end of the dark tree-covered Shottle Lane stood the "Royal Oak" public house; and Mrs. Houseley was certainly an odd woman. At the other end of the lane was Shottle House, where the Bricknells lived; the Bricknells were odd, also. Alfred Bricknell, the old man, was one of the partners in the Colliery firm.
Even war-time efforts had not put out this refuse fire. Apart from this, Shottle House was a pleasant square house, rather old, with shrubberies and lawns. It ended the lane in a dead end. Only a field-path trekked away to the left. On this particular Christmas Eve Alfred Bricknell had only two of his children at home.
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