CHAPTER IV

Mr. Bellamy's farm of Westchapel--Chapel Farm it was usually called--lay
about half a mile from Lampson's Ford, and about five miles from
Eastthorpe. The road from Eastthorpe running westerly and parallel with
the river at a distance of about a mile from it sends out at the fourth
milestone a byroad to the south, which crosses the river by a stone
bridge, and there is no doubt that before the bridge existed there was a
ford, and that there was also a chapel hard by where people probably
commended their souls to God before taking the water. In the angle
formed by the main road, the lane, and the river, lay Chapel Farm. The
house stood on a gentle slope, just enough to lift it above the range of
the worst of winter floods, and faced the south. It was not in the lane,
but on a kind of private road or cart-track which issued from it; went
through a gate and under a hedge; expanded itself in an open space of
carefully weeded gravel just opposite the front door, and became a more
insignificant and much rougher track on the other side, passing by the
stacks into the field, and finally disappearing altogether. From the
hand-post on the main road to the gate was half a mile, and from the gate
to the farm nearly another half-mile. In driving from Chapel Farm you
feel, when you reach the gate, you are in the busy world again, and when
you reach the hand-post and turn to Eastthorpe you are in the full tide
of life, although not a soul is to be seen. Opposite the house were the
farm-buildings and the farmyard. The gate to the right of the
farm-buildings led into the meadow, and thus anybody sitting in the front
rooms could see the barges slowly and silently towed from the sea to the
uplands and back again, the rising ground beyond, and so on to Thingleby,
whose little spire just emerged above the horizon. The river, deep and
sluggish for the most part, was fringed with willows on the side opposite
the towing-path. At the bridge, just where the ford used to be, it was
broken into shallows, over which the stream slipped faster, and here and
there there were not above two or three feet of water, so that sometimes
the barges were almost aground. The farmhouse was not quite ideal. It
was plain red brick, now grey and lichen-covered, about a hundred years
old; the windows were white-painted, with heavy frames, and the only
attempt at ornament was a kind of porch over the front door, supported by
brackets, but wi