Chapter 2

THE TENANT OF THE NEW HALL.

The snow had ceased to fall, but for a week a hard frost had held the
country side in its iron grip. The roads rang under the horses' hoofs,
and every wayside ditch and runlet was a street of ice. Over the long
undulating landscape the red brick houses peeped out warmly against the
spotless background, and the lines of grey smoke streamed straight up
into the windless air. The sky was of the lightest palest blue, and the
morning sun, shining through the distant fog-wreaths of Birmingham,
struck a subdued glow from the broad-spread snow fields which might
have gladdened the eyes of an artist.

It did gladden the heart of one who viewed it that morning from the
summit of the gently-curving Tamfield Hill Robert McIntyre stood with
his elbows upon a gate-rail, his Tam-o'-Shanter hat over his eyes, and a
short briar-root pipe in his mouth, looking slowly about him, with the
absorbed air of one who breathes his fill of Nature. Beneath him to the
north lay the village of Tamfield, red walls, grey roofs, and a
scattered bristle of dark trees, with his own little Elmdene nestling
back from the broad, white winding Birmingham Road. At the other
side, as he slowly faced round, lay a vast stone building, white and
clear-cut, fresh from the builders' hands. A great tower shot up from
one corner of it, and a hundred windows twinkled ruddily in the
light of the morning sun. A little distance from it stood a second
small square low-lying structure, with a tall chimney rising from the
midst of it, rolling out a long plume of smoke into the frosty air.
The whole vast structure stood within its own grounds, enclosed by a
stately park wall, and surrounded by what would in time be an extensive
plantation of fir-trees. By the lodge gates a vast pile of _debris_,
with lines of sheds for workmen, and huge heaps of planks from
scaffoldings, all proclaimed that the work had only just been brought to
an end.

Robert McIntyre looked down with curious eyes at the broad-spread
building. It had long been a mystery and a subject of gossip for the
whole country side. Hardly a year had elapsed since the rumour had
first gone about that a millionaire had bought a tract of land,
and that it was his intention to build a country seat upon it. Since
then the work had been pushed on night and day, until now it was
finished to the last detail in a shorter time than it takes to build
many a six-roomed cottage. Every morning two long special trains had
arrived from Birmingham, carrying down a great army of labourers, who
were relieved in the evening by a fresh gang, who carried on their task
under the rays of twelve enormous electric lights. The number of
workmen appeared to be only limited by the space