At last we got to an open space, a high-lying piece of common-land,
such as is rare in that ruthlessly utilised country of grazing-grounds and
hop-gardens. Among the low hills of the Weald, it seemed quite
preternaturally high up, giving a sense that its extent of flat heather and
gorse, bound by distant firs, was really on the top of the world. The sun
was setting just opposite, and its lights lay flat on the ground, staining
it with the red and black of the heather, or rather turning it into the
surface of a purple sea, canopied over by a bank of dark-purple clouds--the
jet-like sparkle of the dry ling and gorse tipping the purple like sunlit
wavelets. A cold wind swept in our faces.
"What is the name of this place?" I asked. It was the only bit of
impressive scenery that I had met in the neighbourhood of Okehurst.
"It is called Cotes Common," answered Mrs. Oke, who had slackened the pace
of the horse, and let the reins hang loose about his neck. "It was here
that Christopher Lovelock was killed."
There was a moment's pause; and then she proceeded, tickling the flies from
the horse's ears with the end of her whip, and looking straight into the
sunset, which now rolled, a deep purple stream, across the heath to our
feet--
"Lovelock was riding home one summer evening from Appledore, when, as he
had got half-way across Cotes Common, somewhere about here--for I have
always heard them mention the pond in the old gravel-pits as about the
place--he saw two men riding towards him, in whom he presently recognised
Nicholas Oke of Okehurst accompanied by a groom.
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