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"A Letter will not do," said Elsie to her counsellor. "If Mrs. Tryon is a cross person she won't take the trouble to answer a letter. So I shall go to Winchfield." "Well, it isn't a long journey," Miss Saxon replied, "and the weather is lovely. A glimpse of the country won't do you any harm." The glimpse of the country did not do any harm, but it awakened a host of sleeping memories.
And the only other thing in the world I know about him is that he's a great friend of that clever gossip Margaret Winchfield which goes to show that however obscure he may be as a scribbler of fiction, he must possess some redeeming virtues as a social being for Mrs. Winchfield is by no means the sort that falls in love with bores.
Elsie asked. "Oh, yes; she was living at Winchfield," the girl answered. But she was deaf and rather cross, and it was a hard matter to make her understand anything. "Mrs. Tryon, Stone Cottage, Winchfield, near the railway station." Elsie wrote the address in her note-book, and left Dashwood Street with hope renewed. "We are getting nearer to the goal," she said brightly. "You see now that Mrs.
What swept away all but a thin cap of them on the upper part of Dogmersfield Park, another under Winchfield House; another at Bearwood, and so forth? The convulsions of a third world; more fertile in animal life than those which preceded it: but also, more terrible and rapid, if possible, in its changes. Its changes are so complicated that geologists have as yet hardly arranged them.
And now, I cannot help seeing a certain strange appropriateness in the fact that the image of that mouthing and gesticulating half-witted creature should be connected in my mind with the house to which, with pomp of six-horse coaches and scarlet outriders, Charles Edward Stuart conducted his bride. Now in the possession of Mrs. Horace Walpole, of Heckfield Place, Winchfield, Hants.
I knew a Virginian lady who had a piebald horse that frequently appeared simultaneously in two places. She lived in an old country house near Winchfield, and one morning when she went into the breakfast-room, she was surprised to see the piebald horse standing on the gravel path, outside the window, looking in at her. When she called it by name, it immediately melted into fine air.
A most kind invitation had come from him, offering me "a bed and all hospitality in their plain country fashion." At four in the afternoon of a hot July day I started for Winchfield, which is the station on the London and Southampton Railway nearest to Eversley a journey of an hour and a half. I took a fly at Winchfield for Eversley, a distance of six miles.
The name is not an oncommon one. There's Mattie Kent? Tho. Nay; it's noan o' her. James. Then there's Mattie Winchfield? Tho. Nay; it's noan o' her. James. Then there's Mattie Pearson? Tho. Yigh, that's hoo! That's hoo! Wheer? Wheer? James. Well, it's too far for a man of your age to walk. But I'll call a cab, and we'll go comfortable. Tho. But aw connot affoord to peigh for a cab as yo co it.
As a proof some of you may recollect, when the South-Western Railway was in making, seeing shells some of them large and handsome ones Nautili, taken out of the London clay cutting near Winchfield. Throughout this great bed of London clay, the shells, the remains of plants and animals, are altogether a new creation.
But I had now to say good-bye to these new friends, who had come to seem old friends, so full and cordial had been their hospitality, and so much had we found to talk of in the quickly-passing hours of my visit. Mr. Kingsley drove me three miles on my way to Winchfield. His talk with me was interspersed with cheery and friendly words to his horse, with whom he seemed to be on very intimate terms.
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