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Close to the ford, the Manor drive led from the lane—not very nobly yet, for its oak trees were mere saplings, newly planted by Peter Alard. He had married a rich wife—the Lady Elisabeth Burdett, whose father had been given an earldom and abbey lands in Essex by Thomas Cromwell—and he had long been busy spending her money on Conster and its estates.

He had rebuilt the house almost entirely some twenty years ago. Catherine could dimly remember the old place, with its huge raftered hall, which was always full of the smell of wood-smoke and resin, and its kitchen, nearly as large as the hall and shut off from it only by a wooden screen, so that from her seat at table she could see the fire and watch the little yellow dog that turned the roaster. Masters and servants had all sat down to eat together then, but now these things were changed—to the comfort and relief of the Lady Elisabeth, who for long had bitterly complained of their uncouthness.

The new hall was smaller than the old, and lighter, for Squire Alard, to amuse himself and please his wife, had lanced the walls with windows—which window-taxed Alards of the future would curse and brick up. There was a large, modern fireplace, with handsome dogs and andirons, and the walls were mostly panelled in the modern style, though a few pieces of tapestry hung to jewel the remaining shadows. The kitchen and buttery were now completely shut off, and the daïs in the bay window had become the privée parlour, where the family dined and supped.