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Updated: May 5, 2025
Town-bred, everything seemed to her splendid, and the very digging and shovelling itself seemed romantic. But neither Egbert nor she yet realized the difference between work and romance. Godfrey Marshall, her father, was at first perfectly pleased with the menage down at Crockham Cottage.
And as for him, he loved her in passion with every fibre of him. She was the very warm stuff of life to him. Wonderful then, those days at Crockham Cottage, the first days, all alone save for the woman who came to work in the mornings.
Poor Joyce, stretched out on a bed in the big closed motor-car the mother sitting by her head, the grandfather in his short grey beard and a bowler hat, sitting by her feet, thick, and implacable in his responsibility they rolled slowly away from Crockham, and from Egbert who stood there bareheaded and a little ignominious, left behind.
It is intended for the quiet enjoyment of rustic scenery by the people who live in the densely populated area of mean streets of Merton and Morden, and not for the lovers of the more strenuous forms of recreation. Ide Hill and Crockham Hill, the properties of the Trust, can easily be reached by the dwellers in London streets.
News of the approach reached the King at Oxford and it was decided to stop them and give battle. Essex had led his men out of Hungerford the day before and in the evening he found his way barred by the Royalist cavalry at Newbury Wash. The Parliamentary forces bivouacked on Crockham Heath and next morning opened the attack.
But he had chosen, so he accepted. An ugly little look came on to his face, of a man who has accepted his own degradation. In the early spring Winifred went down to Crockham to be there when primroses were out, and the tassels hanging on the hazel-bushes. She felt something like a reconciliation towards Egbert, now he was a prisoner in camp most of his days.
They too felt that they did not belong to the London world any more. Crockham had changed their blood: the sense of the snakes that lived and slept even in their own garden, in the sun, so that he, going forward with the spade, would see a curious coiled brownish pile on the black soil, which suddenly would start up, hiss, and dazzle rapidly away, hissing.
She looked at the snake, and from its sullen flat head it looked at her, obstinately. She gave a cry, and it released the frog and slid angrily away. That was Crockham. The spear of modern invention had not passed through it, and it lay there secret, primitive, savage as when the Saxons first came. And Egbert and she were caught there, caught out of the world. He was not idle, nor was she.
But as for that other tall, handsome flower of a father of theirs, he was full grown already, so she did not want to spend her life considering him in the flower of his days. No, it was not that he didn't earn money. It was not that he was idle. He was not idle. He was always doing something, always working away, down at Crockham, doing little jobs.
To the man who in London still worked hard to keep steady his modest fortune, the thought of this young couple digging away and loving one another down at Crockham Cottage, buried deep among the commons and marshes, near the pale-showing bulk of the downs, was like a chapter of living romance. And they drew the sustenance for their fire of passion from him, from the old man.
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