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Updated: May 11, 2025
He did not court the society of the local parsons and their wives, nor did he return any of the calls made upon him. His excuse was that he was at Idsworth for rest, and not for social duties. This very independence of his endeared him to the villagers, who always spoke of him as "one of the right sort."
I love the country, and I'm never so happy as when wandering in Idsworth woods." And then he asked her to tell him the village gossip while she waited at his table. After luncheon he put on a rough suit and, taking his stout holly stick, went for a ramble through the great woods he loved so well, where the trees were tinted by autumn and the pheasants were strong upon the wing.
At noon on the day following the dinner at Hill Street, Walter Fetherston known at Idsworth as Mr. Maltwood alighted from the station fly, and was met at the cottage gate by the smiling, pleasant-faced woman in a clean apron who acted as caretaker.
And he commenced his solitary meal. "You haven't been here much this summer, sir," remarked the good woman. "In Idsworth they think you've quite deserted us Mr. Barnes was only saying so last week. They're all so glad to see you down here, sir." "That's very good of them, Mrs. Deacon," he laughed. "I, too, only wish I could spend more time here.
He felt that he had seen it somewhere, but whether in a photograph in his big album down at Idsworth or in the flesh he could not decide. Yet from that moment he had hardly lost sight of them. With that astuteness which was Fetherston's chief characteristic, he had watched vigilantly and patiently, establishing the fact that the pair were in England for some sinister purpose.
John Maltwood, a bachelor, whom Idsworth believed to be in business in London, and who came there at intervals for fresh air and rest. His visits were not very frequent.
Though Walter and Enid live in idyllic happiness in a charming old ivy-grown manor house in Sussex, with level lawns and shady rose arbours, they still retain that old cottage at Idsworth, where a plausible excuse has been given to the country folk for "Mr. Maltwood" having been compelled to change his name. No pair in the whole of England are happier to-day.
ON the rising ground half-way between Wimborne and Poole, in Dorsetshire, up a narrow by-road which leads to the beautiful woods, lies the tiny hamlet of Idsworth, a secluded little place of about forty inhabitants, extremely rural and extremely picturesque.
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