The room in the tower, and other storiesBenson, E. F. (Edward Frederic)
General
The room in the tower, and other stories
Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic)
English fiction -- 20th century; Ghost stories, English; Horror tales, English; Short stories, English
The hamlet of Trevor Major lies very lonely and sequestered in a hollow
below the north side of the south downs that stretch westward from
Lewes, and run parallel with the coast. It is a hamlet of some three or
four dozen inconsiderable houses and cottages much girt about with
trees, but the big Norman church and the manor house which stands a
little outside the village are evidence of a more conspicuous past. This
latter, except for a tenancy of rather less than three weeks, now four
years ago, has stood unoccupied since the summer of 1896, and though it
could be taken at a rent almost comically small, it is highly improbable
that either of its last tenants, even if times were very bad, would
think of passing a night in it again. For myself--I was one of the
tenants--I would far prefer living in a workhouse to inhabiting those
low-pitched oak-panelled rooms, and I would sooner look from my garret
windows on to the squalor and grime of Whitechapel than from the
diamond-shaped and leaded panes of the Manor of Trevor Major on to the
boskage of its cool thickets, and the glimmering of its clear
chalk-streams where the quick trout glance among the waving water-weeds
and over the chalk and gravel of its sliding rapids.
It was the news of these trout that led Jack Singleton and myself to
take the house for the month between mid-May and mid-June, but as I have
already mentioned a short three weeks was all the time we passed there,
and we had more than a week of our tenancy yet unexpired when we left
the place, though on the very last afternoon we enjoyed the finest
dry-fly fishing that has ever fallen to my lot. Singleton had originally
seen the advertisement of the house in a Sussex paper, with the
statement that there was good dry-fly fishing belonging to it, but it
was with but faint hopes of the reality of the dry-fly fishing that we
went down to look at the place, since we had before this so often
inspected depopulated ditches which were offered to the unwary under
high-sounding titles. Yet after a half-hour’s stroll by the stream, we
went straight back to the agent, and before nightfall had taken it for a
month with option of renewal.
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Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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